9

He entered the racer's pit, which was not unlike the fighter's arena at the Jaded Ackley. Every racer's eyes watched him as he weaved through the mechanics and pit crews toward his bike stationed at the back of the raceway's landing. They were taking stock of who he was or at least trying to puzzle out why he was here. His bike was not the sleekest amongst the many packed onto the landing, but what it lacked in looks, it made up for in power. Stooped over the condensers was an aging Ithorian, his back hunched from his many years, gray skin wrinkled like aged paper. He was methodically tightening the screws around the framing of his engine block, working with practiced ease.

The mechanic glanced up at him but didn't stop working. "So you're the unlucky bastard Gadon got to ride this bike, huh?"

Avner nodded and paced around the swoop, eyeing it up and down. "Name's Avner, you are?"

"Nes, I'll be your mechanic and pit crew."

"A crew is normally more than one person."

Nes shrugged and stood. "Yeah, I told Gadon that, but he couldn't spring for anyone else to help. He's gotta make sure his own racers are covered."

Avner rubbed his head. This deal just kept getting better and better.

"Tch, not that you'll need anyone else. I've worked out most of the kinks with the accelerator and prepped the bike. All that's left is to get it into position."

"Most?"

Again, Nes shrugged before wiping his oil-stained hands off with an equally stained rag. "I only had one night to modify and install it, so it's anyone's guess how stable it is. Have you ever ridden a swoop before, kid?"

"Yeah, I've raced a few times. Nothing serious, but I know what I'm doing."

A harsh barking noise echoed from the Ithorian's vocoder, and it took Avner a second to realize that the mechanic was laughing. "So you're a rookie rider racing in the biggest race on Taris with a bike that could explode at any time. Gadon must hate you, or perhaps the universe does."

Better and better all the time.

"Well then, I guess I'll just have to rely on my luck to get me through," Avner said. No use sweating over the mounting odds that were being meticulously stacked against him. He could do this; he's been in far worse situations before with much less to work with. Still, he could feel a bead of perspiration forming at the top of his neck and following the pathway of his spine.

"That's right," Nes thumped him solidly on the shoulder. "A positive attitude! That will get you through. Hope it's enough to ward off spontaneous combustion, heh."

"So, what's this race like? Timed, team, or all for one?"

"It's pretty straightforward. All the racers gather on the track for the main event, an all-or-nothing race to the finish. Complete the two circuits first, and you win."

"Sounds simple enough," Avner said. This seemed no different than his races on Hast, just a simple race to the finish, a test of who was the fastest and most precise in handling their machine.

Nes shook his head. "It's anything but. The track is littered with pitfalls and traps that can take a rider out like that." He snapped his long fingers to emphasize his point. "Also, the track shifts on the second circuit."

"What do you mean?"

"The track changes every year, the location stays the same, but the length, obstacles, and the course is engineered differently for each opener. It's to provide racers with new challenges and prevent any one team from gaining a leg up over another. After completing the first lap, the track will shift and open up a new circuit with new traps, obstacles, and surprises. Heh, not that it matters, most racers don't even make it through the first lap, and only the most seasoned have even a hope of finishing," Nes explained, twirling his finger in the air to demonstrate the numerous changes.

"Damn, Taris really takes its swoop racing seriously," Avner muttered. Never had he heard of a course track that shifted and transformed as the race went on. To think of the engineering feats it must have taken to complete such a task and to change it every year… he would be lying if he said he wasn't impressed.

"Racing's in every Tarisian's blood. It's been a part of our lives since the day we could walk, especially here in the Lower City, it defines who we are, or at least it did." The mechanic's tone was almost reverent as he ran a hand fondly over the bike before him. "Takes guts doing what you're doing, kid, something most people don't have these days."

"I'm not just doing this for me," Avner revealed, standing across from the Ithorian and placing his hand on the machine's control bars. "I can't afford to lose; someone's life is at stake."

"Your Republic officer," Nes said, carefully watching Avner's expression. No point in lying to the old mechanic; he would see through any lie or half-truth he came up with, a discernment that came with age and experience. So he only nodded. "Yeah, Gadon told me. At least your reasons for winning are far more respectable than most of the scuzz racing today. Wish I could give you a better bike…" He turned and spit at his feet.

Avner shrugged and slid onto the seat, straddling the idling engines and getting himself acclimated with the controls. "We'll just have to make do with what we've got. Besides, Gadon at least promised this is the fastest bike here."

"Tch, it is so long as you don't push the engines past their heat index. The accelerator will maximize the engine's output, nearly doubling it, but will also drastically raise the heat generated within the cylinders. The only way to combat this is to downshift to a lower gear setting and hope you don't lose control."

"So what I gain in speed, I lose in handling." Not exactly something he would want to be sacrificing on a track jampacked with booby traps and surprises.

Nes nodded, and a loud horn echoed over the platform. "Well, kid, time to get lined up. Remember what I said about the downshift? Focus on the track in front of you, and don't get caught up in what the other racers are doing. Trust your instincts."

"You're starting to sound like a Jedi, Ness."

"Heh, well, when I was a kid…" he stared off momentarily, then pointed to his blaster holstered at his side. "One more thing, you'll have to leave your gun with me."

Avner pulled his weapon free and handed it over, albeit a bit reluctantly.

"Don't worry, hotshot, you'll get this back after the race. All racers must be unarmed to prevent any… accidents from happening," Nes clarified and then pointed up to the sloping platform. "Pull up the ramp and line up with the others."

Avner kicked the bike into first gear and directed it up the ramp. It handled with ease, gliding forward as if weightless, all the while the powerful twin engines beneath him hummed with untapped power. He broke from the underground racer's pit and emerged into the warm sunlight and the thunderous cheers of hundreds of spectators. He stopped at his designated starting point, surrounded by nearly a dozen other racers all astride a plethora of different swoop bikes. Some were lean and small, built for cutting tight corners and slipping between race lanes, while others were akin to tanks, heavily plated with large combust engines strapped to their sides designed to ram through obstacles and other riders if needed. No one paid him any mind, each too busy performing last-minute preps or system checks, except for one gangly-looking Weequay to his far right. He was leaning over his control bars, dark beady eyes watching him intently as he adjusted his engine parameters. The Weequay pointed two fingers at the Kiffar, mimicking a gun, and jerked his hand back once. The message was clear.

"RACERS! PRIME YOUR ENGINES!"

The cheers grew even louder, if that was even possible. They nearly drown out the sound of the swoop engines and the announcer going over the terms of the opener and those participating. Avner pulled his helmet on and slapped the visor down firmly, leaning forward and grasping the control bars of his bike. He pulled the throttle back a hair but planted his foot firmly on the clutch. The engine roared to life beneath him, the entire frame vibrating with untapped power. Several lights were strung across the track ahead of him: blue, yellow, and red. They slowly ticked down, blue flickering out first, followed closely by yellow. The last two lights blinked. He steadied his breathing, gaze focusing straight ahead, heart nearly syncing with the thumping of his engine's hydraulics. The final red light extinguished, and every swoop bike roared to life, shooting forward and down the twisting track.

He throttled his engine and slipped between two other riders in front of him. Two swoops with the colors of the Vulkars weaved through several wire traps in front of him, and he followed their path. A fellow Bek pulled up on his right and passed him while another rider wearing marks he didn't recognize whipped past his left. He pulled back and cut a hard right, just narrowly avoiding two riders slamming into each other and spinning out of control. Avner pitched his clutch, causing his swoop's nose to dip forward as he descended into the belly of a massive, abandoned warehouse. It was dark, the track nearly invisible except for a few spare flares lighting the way. It was a straight shot, but the entire path was littered with pitfalls and stacks of twisted metal fused to the floor.

A flash of light and a massive boom shook the entire building as a rider clipped one of the obstacles tearing open his fuselage. Fire billowed out into his path, and the heat was enough to make his skin feel like it was boiling. He swerved, shifting his gears higher, and rocketed past the only Bek left in front of him. Behind him, explosions continued to rock the warehouse's very foundations, the screech of twisting metal following. Avner quieted his racing heart; it was something that he had instilled in himself at a young age, the ability to close off the chaos around him and focus on what was before him. It's what made him a good soldier and an even better racer.

He was catching up with the lead racers now, but his heat index was also rising. The bike's displays were flashing yellow, and a low beep whined over his helmet's comm systems drawing him to the bike's rear stabilizer screen; they were operating below standard, most likely caused by taking damage in the warehouse. Kriff, smooth handling was already rough enough, juggling between shifting into lower gears and pushing his accelerator as much as he safely could. The shaking continued to grow, and the steering started pulling further to the left as he rounded the final corner and approached the starting point. Four racers were ahead of him when they suddenly vanished from sight. A new ramp had opened up where the beginning line used to be, forcing Avner to pull his throttle back and kick the clutch forward. The entire bike pulled back and took the sudden drop with ease.

Nes wasn't kidding when he said the entire track shifted on the second lap. Instead of racing in the open air up top with numerous twisted barriers and traps, the track had morphed into an underground raceway through retrofitted sewer tunnels. It was tight, the space barely fitting two swoops racing side by side, the tunnel walls smooth, and no obstacles dotted the path. Instead, it was an all-out race based on speed, racer against racer, swoop against swoop. He pushed his engine hard, gripping his control bars tight, muscles straining to keep the bike from straying. He slipped past two more racers and pressed harder. The alarms were blaring through his comm set now, and his engine display was flashing red, but Avner ignored it. He could push harder, go faster, somehow… he just knew.

He passed another swoop and pulled up alongside the final racer in his way, the Weequay from earlier. His swoop was unmarked, a sleek black bike with powerful V4 engines strapped beneath the stabilizers. He handled it skillfully, maintaining the same pace and even managing to edge out in front by a hair. Cold sweat dripped down Avner's spine, but it was not from the race or his bike's ever-increasing heat index; no it's…

STOP!

He downshifted and pulled back hard as a blaster bolt cut across his path. The Weequay in front of him had a small holdout blaster grasped in his hand; he fired behind him blindly, and Avner ducked to avoid being hit. Kriff, weren't blasters against the rules?

"BREJIK SENDS HIS-."

Avner rammed his bike into the Weequays, forcing the other rider to brake hard to regain control. He pulled alongside and smashed his bike into his opponents, the screech of metal grinding up against the sewer walls echoed down the tunnel. The rider's blaster was knocked free from his hand, and sparks flew off his bike. Avner gunned his throttle, pushing his swoop to the breaking point as he sped forward. Ahead of him, he could see the bright light of the surface. Almost there, just a bit further. The rattling was all-encompassing now, and the bike was nearly uncontrollable. Every display was in the red, and steam was pouring off his engine block, the heat scalding his skin. He couldn't stop, not now! The end was in sight! He needed to downshift to prevent the engine from blowing, but he couldn't. The Weequay was on his heels and bearing down quickly; he just needed to make it a few more meters. The steam was thickening now, gray smoke choking the air around him, the engine shrieking, and the air hot.

A smart rider would have immediately downshifted and decreased speed to preserve engine function, and a sane person would have just gotten off altogether, but Avner was neither smart nor very sane, it seemed. He pulled the throttle back as far as it could go and fully released the clutch; the bike screamed, and for a brief second, it was as if Avner could feel the swell of kinetic energy that built before an explosion. He focused on it, saw the swirling untamed energy in his mind's eye, and yanked it into the exhaust cylinders. The bike rocketed past the finish line, and Avner braked hard, muscles screaming as he wrenched the control bars back. His swoop swung left and spun to a harsh stop into the solid ferrocrete wall. Kriff, he would feel that one in the morning.

"I DON'T BELIEVE IT! THE BEKS HAVE WON! I REPEAT THE BEKS HAVE WON!"

He was unaware of Nes pulling him from his still-smoking bike, away from the cheering crowds, and back into the racer's pit. The Ithorian had a firm grasp on his shoulder and was shaking him back and forth.

"I've never seen racing like that! When Jallo pulled that stunt with the blaster… I honestly thought you wouldn't make it past the finish line when those flames shot out of your compressors!" Nes exclaimed, still keeping a strong hold on him.

Avner pulled off his helmet and ran a single hand over his head. Best to make sure everything was still attached and nothing had melted off. "I told you I was lucky."

The older mechanic shook his head. "Kid, what you just pulled off goes beyond lucky."

"AVNER!"

Gadon was pushing his way through the crowds of racers all gathered around him, with Zaerdra trailing close behind, shooting glares at anyone who got too close. Gadon clapped him on the back, leading him away from the pit to a set of stairs at the back.

"I didn't think it was possible, but damn, you did it!" Gadon shouted, the excitement clear in his voice. "Everything's about to change for us, Avner, thanks to you!"

"Glad to have helped," Avner grunted, rubbing his neck. "What happens now?"

"Now we collect our winnings." They emerged onto a raised platform encased within a ferrocrete dome completely secluded from the cheering crowds outside. The spacious circular room was filled with crates and several cages situated at the back, with guards stationed in front. A well-dressed Duros stood in the center of the room, surrounded by an array of monitors and terminals, furiously tapping away at the displays. Standing nearby were several groups of beings, two wearing the colors of gangs Avner was unfamiliar with, but the third, and the largest, was dressed in the red and blacks of the Black Vulkars. A tall man with skin darkened by hours spent in the sun and hair colored black like spilled oil stood at their front. His nose was sharply hooked, lips thin, and pulled into an ugly sneer that only grew when he caught sight of them.

"Gadon, Brejik's here," Zaerdra whispered, hand coming to rest on her blaster. She glared at the man with the hooked nose as he stalked up to them.

"Gadon, I see you've been able to scrape some boot scum out of the gutters and get him to win for you. Do what you couldn't," Brejik jeered, looking none too impressed as he eyed Avner up and down.

"Back off, schutta," Zaerdra hissed, stepping up to the Vulkar leader. Gadon jerked her back before she could do anything, and Brejik laughed.

"Keep your bitch in line, Thek. Wouldn't want someone getting hurt, now would we?"

"Gentlemen, ladies, please, save the fighting for later," the Duros Racemaster chastised them, then directed their attention to his monitors above. Numbers flashed across the screens, averaging in the thousands, and it took Avner a second to realize that it was credits. Bets, payoffs, and winning tributes exchanged hands, and suddenly, he realized why this opener meant so much to Gadon. The amount of money the Beks had won from this race alone would be enough to bolster their forces and give them a chance to fight back against the Vulkars. He glanced over at Brejik, the anger on his face poorly concealed, the muscles in his jaw jumping at each lost deal.

"Ladies and gentlemen, while we wait for the transactions to finish, I want to raise a hand to the winner of this year's swoop opener!" The Racemaster pointed to him, and healthy applause broke out, all clapping out of respect for his well-earned win. All except Brejik.

The Racemaster continued. "Your skill and daring have brought great glory to the Hidden Beks and won you the premiere prizes put forward by every gang on Taris!"

"This cheating bastard does not deserve our prize!"

All eyes landed on Brejik, who stood defiantly before the Racemaster, chin raised, and arms crossed over his chest.

"Brejik, don't do this," Gadon started, but Brejik turned on him.

"Keep out of this old man! His swoop bike," Brejik jabbed a finger at the Kiffar. "Was modified with a prototype accelerator – an unfair advantage! Because of this treachery, I'm withdrawing the Black Vulkar's share of the victory prize!" The gang leader didn't mention how he stole that same accelerator originally from the Beks or how he had stolen it back, but Brejik's eyes burned with barely suppressed loathing. He knew, knew that Avner was the one who had invaded his base, killed his men, and taken back the prototype, making him look weak.

A ripple of shocked whispers broke out, and the Racemaster raised his hands to silence the noise. "You can't do this, Brejik. Our traditions do not forbid racers from using upgraded parts on their bikes, but our rules do forbid a group from withdrawing their prize after the race and using concealed weapons against other riders! You risk a lifetime ban if you continue with this insult!"

Brejik laughed in the Duros' face. "Tradition?! Your traditions and rules mean nothing to me! If I want to withdraw and sell this woman, this Jedi-!" Brejik pulled a long slim cylindrical object from behind his belt, sleek gray metal notched at both ends. A lightsaber! "On the slave market! Then no one is going to stop me. Least of all you."

More than a handful of armed Black Vulkars suddenly melted out of the background, pulling free blasters and knives while surrounding their small group. Zaerdra pulled her gun free, and Avner's hand shot to his holster, grabbing at nothing but air. Nes… the mechanic, still had his blaster. Fuck.

"Brejik, it doesn't have to be this way," Gadon pleaded, reaching out to the man who was once his son.

"No, Gadon, it does," Brejik asserted, pointing his blaster straight at the older man's head. No one else was moving; the other gangs were clearly caught off guard and afraid of drawing the Vulkar's ire. Avner cast his eyes around, looking for anything he could use as a weapon, anything to protect himself and Gadon.

"Goodbye." A volatile bang ripped through the air, twisted metal shredding through the Vulkars standing behind them. Screaming erupted, and chaos ensued as people ran for the exits while Brejik and his Vulkars fired blindly into the fray. Avner tackled Gadon to the floor as Zaerdra strafed the room peppering the stampeding mob with burning bolts.

Brejik was pointing and screaming over their heads. "THIS ISN'T POSSIBLE! You were restrained by a neural disruptor!"

"You underestimate the power of a Jedi's mind."

The lightsaber was torn from Brejik's hand so violently that it yanked him forward several feet and down onto his face. It flew through the air and found its home in the hand of a beautiful young woman with eyes the color of rain swept sky. Avner blinked in shock, and his jaw hung open; it was her… the girl with thunder in her eyes, the woman he had dueled countless times in his dreams… Bastila Shan, the Republic's Last Hope.

She removed a heavy metal collar from around her neck and tossed it aside with an air of almost indifference. Then she ignited her saber, twin blades of golden light blazing to life instantly, drawing every eye to her.

"KILL HER!" Brejik all but screamed, voice nearly cracking with barely restrained panic. The Jedi leaped forward into the middle of the fray, her blades spinning in tight, concise circles so fast that it was nearly impossible to track. She was simultaneously deflecting every shot aimed at her and gaining ground on her attackers, her lightsaber easily cleaving through blasters, knives, and organics. Avner wasted no time rolling to his feet and snagging an abandoned blaster, taking aim at any Vulkar hiding on the fringes of the room. He turned, felling two Vulkars to Bastila's left, and she whipped around abruptly, fire in her eyes. She was in front of him in the blink of an eye, and the Kiffar threw himself backward, ducking beneath her swinging blow. Burning pain exploded across the right side of his face, his knees buckling as he nearly collapsed from the fire spreading within his skin.

He threw out a hand while the other cradled his blazing injury. "Bastila, wait!"

She stopped but did not lower her weapon. Her eyes were wide, staring down at him in growing horror, mouth opening as if in a silent scream. He saw Brejik out of the corner of his eye, rising from the madness, gun aimed at the Jedi's unprotected back. She wasn't moving, her shocked gaze still locked onto his face.

"MOVE!" He wrapped his arms around her waist and tackled her to the ground, Brejik's shot glancing off his shoulder as he landed on top of Bastila, shielding her body with his. The sloppy fire was peppering the floor around them, forcing the Kiffar to curl himself tighter around the small woman in his arms. It suddenly stopped. Avner slowly lifted his head; Brejik was lying a few meters away on his side, several burning holes scattered across his chest, and beyond him was Gadon. A blaster was clenched in one hand, the barrel still smoking from the recent discharge, and his teeth were clenched in a hard line.

"GADON!" Zaerdra was at his side in an instant, the Twi'lek laying a hand on the older man's shoulder and seeming to wake him. He glanced down once at the blaster in his hand before it slipped from his grip, and he ran to Brejik's side. He crumpled to his knees while his shaking hands came to cradle the fallen Vulkar with deep care.

"Will you get off me!"

Bastila was pushing on his shoulders, struggling to escape from beneath him. He stood and offered her a hand, but she ignored it, instead snatching up her saber and holding it out in front of her like she expected him to hurt her. Not an unreasonable reaction from a woman who had just spent the last few days held captive by a violent gang. Her neck was red, skin burned raw from the disruptor, and she favored her right leg heavily, the left severely swollen and bruised, just like how much of her body was. Avner was shocked she was able to move, let alone fight. She was shaken, clearly still running off of adrenaline, and maybe a little scared.

He slowly raised his hands, trying to appear non-threatening. "I'm Sergeant Avner Marek, a Republic soldier sent here to rescue you."

She still hasn't lowered her guard, eyes instead studying his face with startling familiarity like she was reacquainting herself with his visage.

"Bastila," he said, stepping towards her.

"Don't," she snapped back, pointing her saber at his chest. He stopped and pulled back, and she tried to move away also but stumbled. He reached out and took a firm hold of her waist, pulling her body to his. Even half-starved and beaten, she was absolutely stunning; she was slender yet formed like a goddess. Her skin was smooth with a healthy glow like it had been kissed by the sun, hair a deep auburn that framed a gently sloping jaw and high cheekbones. She was beautiful and fierce and… very underdressed. It was the first time he had noticed that her slinky shirt showed off the generous swell of her breasts and the tight leather leggings wrapped snugly around her shapely legs. Brejik clearly meant to sell her to a particular clientele.

"Here." He pulled off his heavy leather jacket and offered it up. Bastila hesitated for a second before swiftly taking the jacket and pulling it over her shoulders tightly. "Are you okay?"

She looked up at him, completely mystified, then shook her head. "I'm fine." She tried to take a step, and her left leg folded completely beneath her. Avner swiftly scooped her up in his arms with ease. She flustered as her arms landed around his neck, and her cheeks flamed red. "What are you doing?!"

"Getting you out of here, Princess."

"Princess?!"

"Avner." He turned to find Zaerdra standing wearily behind him; for once, she didn't appear angry but rather… grieved. She tilted her head towards the doors behind them. "My bike is outside. Take it and get out of here."

"What about Gadon?"

"Don't worry, I've got him," she assured and then turned away. He could do nothing more for them; Gadon needed time, and he needed to leave before more trouble showed up. He pushed through the doors at the room's far end and came out onto a high-rise speeder pad. Several speeders and one bike were scattered about the pad, the crowd's cheers still echoing along with the roar of swoop bikes, the general public none the wiser to the tragedy that had just occurred. He stopped before a powerful red swoop bike angled away at the far end of the pad; intricate black detailing lined the rims and exhaust ports, clearly Zaerdra's bike. He settled Bastila on the back of the bike and slipped onto the front, thumbing the bike's throttle and reversing the stabilizers.

"Hang on!"

Bastila wrapped her arms around his midsection, her chest pressing up against his back as she slumped against him wearily. He pushed the bike into the air and took off, weaving around buildings and down narrow lanes, leaving the swoop opener well behind them in the dust. The streets of the Lower City were nearly empty, everyone clearly at the races, making them easy to navigate. The bike handled remarkably well, a hundred times better than the last one he rode, and he has to appreciate Zaerdra's good taste in swoop models. He cut right, following the well-known path to Forn's clinic, speeding through vacant intersections and around closed shops.

He pulled to a stop outside of the small medcenter, cutting power to the engines and slipping off the bike. He moved to pick Bastila up again, but she shifted away from him, eyeing the old building with unease. "What is this place?"

"Don't worry, it's just a friend's clinic."

She glanced back at the doors skeptically but slid onto the edge of the bike, looping her arms over his neck. He entered the tiny medcenter, pushing past the familiar double doors that led to the clinic's treatment rooms. He was relieved to find it empty. Clearly, Carth had taken his suggestion and spirited Mission and Zaalbar out of here and to safety in the Upper City.

"Avner? What are you doing here? Your friends left yesterday." Zelka Forn emerged from the back, arms stacked high with medical supplies. He took one look at his and Bastila's haggard appearances and only shook his head. "Let me guess, you found yourself in the wrong place again."

He could only nod and offer the doctor a crooked grin.

Zelka carefully checked over them both. Bastila's saber had left a deep laceration that cut above his right brow and disappeared at his hairline. It would scar, most likely. His right shoulder was wrapped snuggly with bacta and bandages, and a warm compress rested on his head, soothing away his thumping headache. Bastila was a bit worse for wear; Zelka spent several hours stitching up several cuts along her arms and injecting her left leg with kolto. She had torn several of her ligaments and hyperextended the tendon running the length of her calf, which Forn tightly wrapped and fitted with a temporary brace.

"I'm actually surprised she's still alive," Forn whispered to him while Bastila changed into less revealing clothes in another room. "Her wounds were infected, and she's severely dehydrated. Any longer…"

He adjusted the compress and sighed as it slipped over his eyes. Jedi powers, that's what Carth would chalk Bastila's miraculous survival up to. Strange wizard sorcery… he snorted, imagining the serious girl across from him in a large pointy sorcerer's hat.

"You said you're a soldier?"

He cracked an eye open but didn't sit up from his cot. "Yup."

"How exactly does a soldier of the Republic end up racing for a gang?"

He shrugged. He was tired and not exactly in the mood to recount everything he had done to get her back. "Was the only way I could win you."

"Win me?!" He heard a scuffle of steps, and then a weight dipped down on the right side of his cot. This time he did open his eyes, and Bastila sat at the edge of his bed, hands grasping the sides and gray eyes blazing with indignation. "I am not a prize to be won!"

He held up his hands. "Sorry, poor choice of words; it was the only way I could save you."

Bastila snorted in amusement. "Save me? Is that what you were trying to accomplish in that swoop race? Pretty poor excuse for a rescue."

"Poor excuse?"

She ignored his offended question and carried on. "Besides, I had the situation well in control before I escaped the neural disruptor and stopped the Vulkars; you were nearly gunned down. In fact, it's more accurate to say that I saved you." She said this matter-of-factly like it was a well-known truth. It was not arrogance in her words per se, but rather stubborn pride or perhaps deluded self-confidence in her own magical powers. "Brejik would have killed you if I hadn't stepped in. You're lucky I was there to get you out of that mess."

Avner rolled his eyes and sat up, bringing himself nose to nose with the girl, who blinked in surprise at their sudden close proximity. "I think the dehydration has left you confused, Princess. You were a helpless prisoner until I came along."

She leaned away from him and shook her head. "I may have been a prisoner, but a Jedi is never helpless. Maybe you've heard of a little thing called 'the Force'?"

"Right, your mystical 'Force'."

She sighed in resignation. "Look, I don't want to argue with you, I do thank you for trying to save me and for getting me proper medical help, but we're far from being out of danger yet." He had to agree with her there. He may have rescued her from the Vulkars, despite what she wanted to believe, but there was still the matter of getting off Taris altogether without getting caught by the Sith. "If I'm going to figure out a way for us to get off this planet, then I need to know what kind of resources we have available. First, are we the only survivors left from the Endar Spire?"

He felt the muscles in his jaw twitch in annoyance. He was generally easygoing, able to roll with the punches, but this… Jedi was assuming control of a situation she knew very little about. "Carth and I are already working on an escape plan." They weren't; in fact, they had no way thus far of getting off this planet, but he wasn't going to tell her that.

Bastila's face lit up at the mention of his fellow soldier's name. "Carth Onasi is alive? Finally, some good news! He's one of the best soldiers in the Republic and has proved himself a hero on multiple occasions!" Avner felt his mood sour further at Bastila's unabashed gushing over Carth. What was he, chopped liver?

"He sent you to save me?"

Her quiet question caught him off guard. It was not demanding nor laced with thinly veiled judgment but rather soft and searching like her deep gray eyes, which were now carefully studying his face. He coughed and nodded, unsure of what more he should say.

She smiled and dipped her head a little. "Perhaps… perhaps I was a bit rash and misjudged you. Carth wouldn't have sent you if he didn't trust in your abilities."

Trust? Carth didn't trust him; rather, he had no one else left to do the job and was stuck with just him… but… maybe, just maybe, the other man was starting to believe in him. Wasn't that evidenced in his agreeing to look after Mission and Zaalbar? "Don't worry about it."

"No, I…" she sighed in frustration, but not at him. "Forgive me; despite my Jedi training, I still tend to act a bit rashly sometimes. Let's start over, please." She held out her hand. "I'm Jedi Knight Bastila Shan."

He quirked a brow but took her hand in his, offering her a crooked grin. "Sergeant Avner Marek."

As soon as their skin touched, the room melted away, and he was thrown back into the smoke and fire of his dreams. Only this time, he was not asleep. Bastila stood before him, her saber deactivated and held in a reverse defensive grip, her other hand outstretched towards him.

"Revan," she begged, her voice filled with hope and pleading, a flurry of emotions dancing through her eyes: sadness, righteous fury, and promise... "Come back."

He stared at her extended hand and wondered how he had even gotten here, in this world choked with fire and ash, filled with only hate and anger. Her hand meant change, he knew that much, but it was change he did not want. It was change that would weaken him. So he readied his own blade. Her resolve did not waver, though, in the face of his threatening stance, she stood upright, stubbornly holding her position as he slowly advanced. She would raise her blade in defense, or she will be destroyed. No being was stupid enough to resist the primal urge to fight. The scene was warped, though, time seeming to speed up and reverse in a maddening blur that left Avner completely confused. At one point, he was raising his saber to strike the woman down, but at another, she's cradled in his arms while fire surrounded them both. Before he could figure out what was real and what was fake, though, a searing heat exploded across his back, white-hot shrapnel piercing his body and forcing him to his knees. A second blast laid him low and violently catapulted him from his waking nightmare back into reality.

Bastila jumped back from his touch as if she had been physically scalded, and held her hand to her chest, the same one she had offered him amidst the flames. Her horrified expression told him everything he needed to know. She had seen his nightmare, too.