( Lucasarts still owns everything.

--Yoink--.)

-

"I can't believe you shot me," Lane said bitterly. "Especially in this arm. I don't think it has even had time to heal up from that explosion on Tatooine with the crazy woman."

Lane sat down slowly only to find that the grass was already damp with the early morning dew, but Lane ignored it. After everything else the Universe had thrown at him, a bit of dew was barely a concern at this point. It's not like his pants—which come to think of it, were the only pants he had left these days—weren't stained with far worse things already.

"Aren't you suppose to have programming against that sort of thing?" he asked, his curiosity momentarily surpassing the searing pain from his arm.

Across from him the droid HK-47 became quiet and its eyes grew dim. It began to scan its internal logarithms. After a brief pause, it seemed to reach a conclusion. "Answer: No, Master," the droid said evenly, "Quite to the contrary, it would appear that I have programming—as you put it—for that sort of thing. A dead Master is not a worthy Master, . . . Master. "

"Well, that figures. Whoever programmed you must have been a real bastard. If we ever meet him, remind me to push him off a bridge or something. The jackass really has it coming."

"Statement: Duly noted, Master. Although I cannot confirm the gender of the creator, or the marital status of his or her parental units."

Lane lightly touched his arm. On the bright side, it was only a flesh wound. He then rethought this for a moment. How did he ever come to a point where the "bright side" could consist of mere agonizing pain? Lane couldn't ever remember the Universe being this nasty before. But then again, he couldn't remember a lot of things.

"You know, HK," he said gravely, "if I didn't know better, I could almost believe I was the punchline to some great galactic joke."

HK seemed to think about this. "Query: Do you mean as—"

"Just be quiet, HK" Lane said. "and hand me that bottle of booze we found earlier."

"Objection: But we don't know what's in it, Master. Even if it is . . . booze, Mandalorian physiology is much different then that of a human. It could have potent effects."

"I sure hope so."

The bushes behind them rattled with sudden commotion, followed by some mild swearing. Moments later a disheveled looking Bastila stepped out. There were twigs in her hair, dirt on her face, and mud on her shoes.

However most of this was lost on Lane. His eyes had not made it past her enticingly exposed waist line. There was something wrong about this, a small voice in his head tried to point out, but he ignored it. Lane would have never considered himself a fan of the stomach area—having favored the more excitable bits of female anatomy—but Bastila's toned abs were certainly making a worthwhile counter point.

"There you are," she said coming into the light of the fire.

Lane managed to pull his eyes away long enough to snatch the bottle away from HK. "You're not getting it, Bastila" he said defensively. "I don't know what kind of radar you have that lets you pick up when I'm about to enjoy myself, but you're not stopping me from drinking whatever this is, and then hopefully being sick in the bushes later. It's my God-given right"

"Statement: Err, it could be poison, Master."

"Especially if it's poison," Lane hissed.

"What are you idiots babbling about?" Bastila said tiredly before remembering why she had come out here in the first place. "Never mind, I've come to . . . talk."

-

If the Mandalorians had been confused before, then they were utterly bewildered when their cell doors opened, and they suddenly found themselves being addressed by what looked like an old man in a dingy hooded robe.

"In return for your freedom, I have a task for you," the old man said in what the Mandalorians assumed was suppose to be an ominously tone. More then one of them had noticed the way the old man's eyes kept twitching. They all kept their distance. It wasn't hard to see that the man in front of them was several cards short of a full deck.

"There's a ship in the courtyard; take it." said the old man. "There is. . ." the man's eyes began to twitch even more, "an idiot in the hills not far from here, take him far away from this planet, and eliminate him."

The Mandalorians were quick to take his offer. It wasn't every day you were sprung from jail, given a ship, and offered a job all in one go. They filed out quietly, leaving the old man alone.

"It's not my fault," the old man said, his eyes twitching up a storm. "I told him to stay away from my padawan."

-

Lane stared on in amazement.

Bastila was being nice. Almost pleasant, even. She had even went so far as to accept a small glass of whatever it was that had been in the bottle. And if Lane didn't know better, he could swear she now was tipsy. Any lecherous thoughts he might have had were quickly beaten back by the more self-preserving aspect of his personality. To take advantage of a drunken woman was the sure sign of a pathetic man, true enough, but to take advantage of a drunken Jedi was probably the sign of a man who lacked any sensible imagination. It would be a rare indeed if the shape of a lightsaber was merely a coincidence.

But then again, if he were drunk too then surely no one could blame him for what might happen. . .

"What about you?" Bastila said suddenly.

"Me?" Lane said quickly, trying to remember what she had been talking about.

"Yes, your dreams," she said. "for the future, I mean."

"Oh, those." Lane thought about it ". . .to have one, I guess. It would be nice to be free again, too " he said. "Ooh, and to make a lot of money, meet a lot of women, and maybe legally own a ship that isn't being confiscated every other day."

"Sounds complicated," she said letting out a slight yawn.

"It didn't use to be," Lane sighed theatrically. "Before the accident, I was free. I even had a ship. It wasn't much, but it was mine. That's what mattered. I could go anywhere, do anything. . . that's real freedom. Maybe I shouldn't be," he looked coyly over his shoulder, only to find that Bastila had apparently passed out. "Dammit, I wasn't finished yet."

HK had been watching all of this with benign interest. Meatbag procreation seemed like such a messy and illogical thing. As far as the droid could understand, it was almost statistically impossible for it to happen at all given the numerous factors that each organic meatbag brought into the equation in order to "Get their groove on" as the current Master had once put it.

"Query: Are you going to inseminate her now, Master?" the droid asked in the same manner that one might address a beekeeper, or cattle rancher. "My sensors indicate there is a 63.6 probability of fertilization. If you act now, Master."

"What? No!" Lane said, instinctively resorting to denial. " . . .hang on. Your sensors can tell that but they can't tell who or what has been hanging around out there on the ridge?"

"Answer: That is correct, Master. For some reason it appears to be one of my more robust, and well protected functions. I can only assume that such knowledge was of great importance to my creator."

"That's plain disgusting, and—Ugh, never mind. Just toss a blanket over her." Lane said hurriedly, and then threw another piece of timber onto the fire. "Considering how bitchy she normally is, I can't imagine how bad she's going to be with a hangover. I really don't want to be around when she wakes up."

"Statement: Then there is still the matter of there being something else out here, and the ensuing matter of subjecting that something else to prompt and creative termination," said the droid.

"Oh, fine. But I can't help but wonder if this could have been a life changing experience for me," he said standing up. "I could have finally connected with a woman on a higher level. I could have finally found someone who understood me for once." Lane kicked the now empty bottle away. "She might have even been able to offer me the one thing I've always looked for in a relationship. "

"Query: You mean love and compassion, Master?"

"Well, no," Lane shook his head. "I meant not pestering me to cuddle afterwards."

-

Carth knew he was not lost. He was one of the finest soldiers in the Republic. He had medals to prove of it. Some of them were even made out of metal. They wouldn't just give those to anyone. And especially not someone who went around getting lost.

"I know where I am, just not where anything else is," said Carth, immensely pleased with his own logic.

He continued wandering through the wilderness, often disturbing whatever nocturnal critters he came across in the way that only a man in a bright orange jacket can. After finding a creek the hard way, a small faint light caught his eye while he was wringing out his socks. He slowly made his way towards it, cursing the prickly ground with every bare footed step.

It was a camp. Sort of. There was a tent, a fire, and an unconscious Bastila. One of these definitely did not belong. Carth's intuition, having given up on the rest of his basic cognitive processes long ago, proceeded to jump start the soldier's short term memory, and remind him why he came out here.

"Oh, no" Carth said, his fears now coming to life. "I'm too late!" He rushed over to the snoozing Jedi. "What did he do to you?" he asked feverishly, only to be greeted by the dull sound of a long drawn out snore from Bastila.

"I won't let him get away with this!"

-

"I can't believe we're getting away with this," said the Mandalorian who was now piloting the Ebon Hawk. "This is a nice ship."

"Yeah," agreed the Mandalorian setting in the co-pilot's seat. "But I don't get why it's called the Ebon Hawk. It's not black, and it really doesn't look like a hawk. Or even a bird for that matter."

"It does look more like a round. . . square . . u-shaped . . . thingy," said the pilot

"I think it looks like a fish," said the eager voice of the youngest, and least liked Mandalorian who was sitting behind them.

"Shut up," said the co-pilot. "No, one likes you."

"Aren't you suppose to be interrogating the prisoners?" asked the pilot.

"I was, but the big hairy one kept trying to eat my spleen," the young Mandalorian said reproachfully.

"Well, that's what you get for being a showoff," said the co-pilot. "Anyway, we told you to get rid of that disgusting thing. You don't know where it's been."

"Aw, come on guys. It's really cool. Now we can play catch when we're bored."

Behind them sat the Captain of the Mandalorians. He was a decent man, well, a decent Mandalorian. He had followed orders since the day he was born. He had ate when ordered. He had slept when ordered. He had killed when ordered. He had even loved when ordered thanks to one particularly memorable Drill Instructor—which now seemed kind of fishy in retrospect. But he was a soldier, it wasn't his job to question. Listen, obey, die. It had been a simple plan for life, and one that had inadvertently seen him to his current predicament: Leading a group of soldiers more qualified to work the drive-thru of a landlocked marina then fight a decent day's war. But maybe—just maybe—he could turn this bunch into a formidable fighting unit after they reached Kashyyk.

"Get that thing away from me, I told you don't want to touch it!" the co-pilot shrieked.

The Captain sighed. Then again, maybe he would shoot them in hyperspace and use their corpses for bio-organic fuel.

"We're coming up on the camp," said the pilot. "Hey, look. There's someone there."

"Two someones!" the youngest Mandalorian said, leaning across the seat. "And one of them is wearing a styling orange jacket."

"Captain, could that be that the guy we're suppose to be after?" asked the co-pilot. "I mean, that old guy really didn't say what this guy was suppose to look like."

"Son, it doesn't matter. I want off this crazy planet before whatever they put in the air here starts affecting us too," the Captain stood up, and pulled out his rifle. "If this is the wrong guy then that is someone else's problem. Besides, the man is wearing an orange coat. Only an idiot would wear one of those."

"Man, I sure hope he can tell me where I can find a jacket like that!"

"See what I mean?"

-

The ridges beyond the camp were indeed ridgy, almost deliberately so. There were cliffs, hills, ravines, gofer-holes , and Lane half suspected that somewhere out there, there would be even a plateau. This was not geography crafted by considerate God, but more the like work of an uppity artist who held numerous undying beliefs, and chief among them that any decent landscape should be about as smooth as a junkies forehead.

"At least we can't get lost," said Lane. "There's only like three paths out here. Good grief, do you think they brought these trees in on a special order?"

Walking closely behind him, HK was worried. The Master had been quite erratic as of late. Which was a common trait among Masters, but this one was also asking a lot of questions. Questions that HK-47 couldn't answer.

"Oh, who cares," Lane said gruffly. "It's not like things are suppose to make sense any more. It's not like anyone values consistency these days. Like these big rocks here. I'm sure there's a reason they're all stacked up the way they are, with the little arch running over there and—"

"I will be your doom!" a loud voice interrupted, as something vaguely humanoid jumped out from behind the rocks. The voice had been heavily accented, but the tone was clear. This was not the voice of someone who was going to be taken lightly. This was the voice of someone quite serious about proving—if only to themselves—that they were bad. Nay, down right evil.

Unfortunately, it did not have the desired effect. Lane merely looked puzzled at HK, who looked back at him before saying, "Explanation: I think it is a cat, Master. It also wishes to inflict physical harm on you, apparently. So many things often do."

"Do not patronize me, Jedi. I will destroy you both," said the woman, or the cat, or the cat-woman. Lane still wasn't sure which one she really was. On the one hand, he had definitely noticed some ample cleavage, on the other it was covered in fur. Plus, she had face that made him want to pour some milk into a saucer. "You shall never take me alive," she said.

"Look, Miss. . . . Ma'am. . . . Kitty, I don't want to take you anywhere. So you can just jump behind your little rock or scratching post there, and we'll all just go back to what we were doing."

"You . . . have not been sent by the council? . . .You are not here to overpower me, and drag me kicking and screaming back before the council to feed your own twisted sense of dominance at the plight of one helpless woman?"

"No, I would have remembered that," said Lane. "Believe me. "

"But are you not a Jedi?"

"Uh. . . not quite, no," said Lane.

"Yet, you carry the weapon of the order," the cat woman said, pointing to lightsaber nestled in Lane's belt.

Momentarily, the overbearing urge to make some blatant innuendo struck Lane, but it soon passed. "I just found it lying on the ground," he said. "It makes a pretty good can opener in a pinch. Not so much so as a flash light, though."

"I see," said the cat-woman. "I should have known. One from the council would not waste time with words, when the killing stroke was so close at hand."

Once again Lane's mind filled with one distorted innuendo after another, but he quickly thought better of it. She was armed and a Jedi, after all. Lane had really bad luck with both of those lately.

"Justice will come quickly for me, of that I have no doubt. The council will not tolerate those it looks down upon," the cat woman's voice dropped low, and sounded quite sad. Prompting Lane to feel sorry for her, or at least giving him the urge to scratch her behind the ears.

"Don't worry about those guys," Lane said. "I doubt they can look down on anyone, especially the short one. They're all either old, or annoying, or both. Just do your own thing, and ignore everything else. That's what I do, not that it works, but it might actually for someone like you."

The cat-woman looked at Lane, and he was suddenly startled. There was something in her eyes. Something he had never seen ever before, and it scared him.

It was admiration.

"Oh, sh—"

-

The second thing Number Three noticed about Kashyyk was the gloom. It was everywhere. Did this planet even have a sun? It was impossible tell down here. The third thing he noticed were the trees. They stood amid the gloom like towering wooden behemoths, alerting all that here nature held sway, and took no prisoners.

Of course, the first thing he noticed were the Wookies. They were obviously upset. He could tell by all the snarling and the gashing of teeth. He had also spent the last few weeks in the company of one of the most temperamental creatures in the universe; a woman. So he had learned to pick up on the subtle showings of a mood swing. Which is precisely why kept his eyes tightly shut until all the screaming, and disturbing gurgling sounds had stopped.

There was the brief reverted hum of a lightsaber being switched off when Number Three slowly opened his eyes.

"Oh, gross. I got Wookie blood all over me," he said. "At least, I think that's blood."

The woman standing in front of him was remarkably well composed for one who had just committed a gruesome massacre. In fact, not even her hair was mused. He felt this was disturbingly unfair.

"Not that I'm complaining or anything, cause I know we're Sith and all—I mean were Sith," he quickly corrected himself when the woman shot him a dark glance. "But uh. . . maybe we should try talking to people for a change. Instead of, you know, cutting them up."

The woman said nothing. Instead she walked off into the gloom. Number Three didn't want to follow her. He didn't want to come to this backwoods planet either, but here he was. There was no doubt the woman was driven by some hidden strife. There was a sense of barely contained hell about her, and heaven help who or whatever was unlucky enough to set her off.

He could run. He doubted she would chase him. What would be the point? He was of no use to her, they both knew that. He could run, and make it back to the ship within the hour. Then he could go back; back to the Sith. Back to his old life, and away from traitorous and emotionally disturbed, psychopathic women. It would be so easy. He could go right now.

But he didn't.

-