Moments spiraling through space, through time.


The past, the present, the future.


Infinite variables, shifting back and forth.


The Force.



How could it have come to this?

The dismal thought drifted through his head as the Force-cuffs chafed painfully against his wrists. He felt weak, almost on the verge of falling back into unconsciousness. He had struggled when he had come to several minutes ago, trying in vain to break free from his bonds by augmenting his strength. Instead, the cuffs had only glowed brightly as they leeched the energy right out of him. It was useless, he was caught. It was over.

Urik Ekan was on his way to a Temple.

Struggling through the dizziness, he found himself consciously holding back his own instinctual urge to use the Force to push himself back into an alert state. The effort would only serve to knock him back out, and he needed his wits if he were to have any hope of escape. Rationally, he knew there was no hope. Once they caught you, that was it.

Centuries of procedure had refined Jedi Relocation to a fine science. Safeguard after safeguard had been put in place to ensure that once the Force-cuffs snapped around your wrists, you were as good as in a Temple already. But Urik had beaten long odds before, and if nothing else he was determined to go down swinging.

As the blurs surrounding him slowly came to some semblance of focus, a cold dread swept over him. His captors had come at him from behind, they always did, and for a few moments he had been clinging to the possibility that some local security or even vigilantes with some old cuffs left over from the aftermath of the Force War had just gotten lucky, but the visor helmets he could barely make out left no doubt in his mind. These guys were the real deal.

Mando’ade.

How had they found him? Elrood was about as far as you could get away from the capital, and Urik had had it on good authority that the closest Mando patrol was days out. Even if someone had tipped them off, there was no way they could have gotten to the sector in time, unless…

Had those bastards really been crazy enough to risk the Rim? There were rumors that Mandalorian patrols sometimes braved the Coreward routes, but nobody really believed it. Nobody had been that close to the Core since…well, since the Armistice, and that had been over four hundred years ago.

Those stupid bastards, did they want to get us all killed?

Urik tried to laugh, but it came out only as a muffled groan. Here he was, his greatest fears finally realized, and all he could think of was the fate of the galaxy. Dimly, he felt a pressure on his arms as the two Mando’ade dragging him through the dingy streets became aware of his conscious state. He cursed himself silently for giving up the only advantage he had, but it was halfhearted. He had mostly resigned himself to his fate. Mostly.

Their ship must be nearby, which meant he didn’t have much time. Once he was aboard and in containment, that would truly be it. Terror suddenly gripped him, a paralyzing fear unlike anything he had ever felt before. He had known fear his entire life, constantly on the run, barely a step ahead of Relocation. And yet for all his bluster, he realized that he had never truly been prepared for that inevitable moment, that brick wall.

He found himself wondering with a dim sort of despair if he was the last of his kind. Urik had no doubt that there were others on the run still; other sensitives living in the same constant fear that had dominated his life, but the same qualities that made them hunt him so fervently were the ones that made him unique. The others knew little of their sensitivity, only that it made them a target.

But Urik…Urik was different. He was, quite possibly, the last of the Rogue Jedi.

He had no way of knowing for sure, of course. The Rogues had not met in any large numbers for over a hundred years. They had voluntarily shunned each other, knowing it made them easier to hunt. The Mando’ade had ways of making even Jedi talk, and such knowledge could only put others at risk.

For all the good that has done me.

Another wave of fear washed over him, crashing against the fog of his mind and sending a shot of adrenaline coursing through him. What was he doing? Moments away from containment and he was reliving lessons in ancient history.

Feeling the nausea and lightheadedness begin to recede, Urik took the opportunity to assess himself, noting with considerable relief that the Mando’ade had at least not gone to the trouble of breaking any bones. That meant they must think that he was just a sensitive. If the Mandos had suspected for one moment that he had training, his arms, legs, and likely fingers would have all been broken the moment he was cuffed. Not to mention his tongue…

That was what he heard, anyway.

If the Mandos didn’t know he was a Rogue, that meant they probably didn’t know much else. Whoever had tipped them off had either been unaware or had ‘forgotten’ to mention it. For the first time since he had come to, Urik felt the faintest glimmer of hope. If he could somehow convince them that they had gotten the wrong guy…it was a long shot, Mandos didn’t make mistakes, but it was all he had.

He licked his cracked lips, steeling himself for the stress that speaking would put on his already spent system. He wouldn’t do anyone much good if the only thing that came out of his mouth were moans.

“Wrong…” he whispered, barely audibly, and felt the urge to vomit. Furrowing his brow, he tried again, “Wrong guy…you’ve got the wrong guy. This is a mistake. He went…”

“Force trick!” the scream emitted from the Mando’ade’s vocal emitter sounded strangely distorted as the communicator struggled to pick up the resonance.

Before he even had time to comprehend what the Mandalorian had said, Urik was falling. The feeling of the rough arms that had been dragging him through the streets tensed suddenly, then faded away completely, and for a moment he felt a sense of vertigo almost like weightlessness. He hit the duracrete face first, pain coursing through his body like lightning, and the world slowly began to fade to black.

The rifle butt that came crashing into the back of his head seconds later hurried the process along, and Urik didn’t even have time to lose hope all over again before unconsciousness gripped him once more.


---


“Where did you receive your training?”

Seconds pass, the press of a button. Nerves overload with pain. Scream.

“How many more of there are you?”

Seconds pass, the press of a button. Nerves overload with pain. Scream again.

“Where is your base of operations?”

Seconds pass, the press of a button. Nerves overload with pain. Scream again.

“Where is Atris Jiren?”

Seconds pass, the press of a button. Nerves overload with pain. Scream one more time. Loss of consciousness. Black.


---


Urik groaned.

“Thank the Maker, you’re finally awake.”

The voice was faint, as if it came from a parsec away. Letting out another soft groan, he struggled to open his eyes. Pain washed over him. It took a few moments for him to realize that his left socket was too swollen to be of much use, so he focused on the right. Slowly, light filtered through and instead of darkness he saw several blurs.

“You alright over there?” he heard the voice again, much louder this time. Urik realized that its owner must be no more than ten meters away, “Please don’t tell me they cut off your tongue. That would be just my luck.”

“Where…” the captured Rogue began, and then a spasm of coughing overwhelmed him. He would have doubled over, but to his mild surprise he found his wrists shackled, forcing him to either stand or hang painfully. As the coughs subsided, he steadied himself and tried again, “Where…am I?”

“Still got a tongue on you, thank the Force for small miracles!” the voice replied, its chipper sound a stark contrast to the dismal environment he found himself in as his vision began to clear slightly, “As for where you are, I haven’t the faintest idea. A cell somewhere, but that’s obvious. Anyway, it doesn’t really matter. The real question is: what’s your name and, far more importantly, do you know any good jokes?”

For a long moment, Urik didn’t say anything. As things came into a modicum of focus, he realized that the stranger was right. He was no stranger to cells, the smell should have given it away instantly, particularly because this was the dirtiest, most hopeless looking cell he had ever found himself in.

He could faintly make out the impression of another humanoid, a man, by the sound of his voice. The details were still not clear, but he ventured an educated guess that he was speaking with a fellow prisoner, in a cell across from his.

“That’s…two questions,” Urik said, finally.

The humanoid male laughed, an unnerving sound in such an otherwise depressing place.

“So it is! So it is!” his inmate admitted after the laughter had subsided, “That hardly seems fair, does it? Well, as we have no pressing appointments anytime soon, let’s make a game out of it! Answer either question you’d like, and whichever one you choose not to, I’ll answer. Sound fun? Of course it does! Take your time.”

Sithspit, they’ve locked me away with a lunatic, Urik thought to himself, shaking his head. As he did so, he noticed the pressure two nodes attached to either of his temple, Neural dampeners, stang! I really am screwed. Might as well humor him, he might be my only source of conversation for quite some time.

He opened his mouth, and closed it again. Eyes widening, he realized that he had been about to blurt out his name. His mind raced, and the dampeners throbbed slightly as they adjusted for the increased neural activity. Could he really trust this man? He couldn’t even see what he looked like. Was this a Mando interrogation technique? He shook his head, almost sure that the Mandalorians weren’t nearly this creative. Still…

“Yes,” he said, simply.

“Yes?” the lunatic repeated, clucking his tongue, “That’s an odd name. You from Sinsang or something?”

“Yes, I know a good joke,” Urik sighed, clarifying.

“Oh…oh. Oh!” although his vision still betrayed him, he could almost feel the ridiculous grin that must be plastered upon the other man’s face, “By all means! I am hanging on your every word! Get it? Sorry, go on!”

“You never said anything about telling it,” the rogue muttered sheepishly.

“Semantics, you knew what I meant, and don’t act like you didn’t. Go on!”

“Uhm…” he struggled. When was the last time he had even heard a joke? Urik began to feel a peculiar sense of desperation, frantically trying to remember something, anything, “Uhm…an Ithorian walks into a cantina, and the bartender says, ‘why the long face?’”

There was a moment of silence. Wincing, he braced himself for the inevitable angry rebuke, but to his amazement the stranger laughed louder and longer than he had even thought possible, By the Force, how long has he been locked up in here?

“Oh…oh…oh dear. Oh my, that was good,” the inmate managed after quite a while, still giggling and snorting, “Yes, very good. I like you, Yes.”

“Your turn,” Urik replied, ignoring the misnomer.

“My turn? Oh, right! The other question. Hrm…what was it again? Oh yes, who are you!” there was a short pause, as if the man was thinking, “Well, according to our chums in the helmets, I’m Sensitive 34258, but I was raised to believe that my name is, in fact, Irtar Mal’Gro V. You can call me Gro, all my friends do. Which is, well, nobody, until you, that is.”

Mal’Gro…the name sounded vaguely familiar.

“Gro?” Urik asked, curious, “Why not Irtar?”

“Trust me, Yes,” Gro replied, his tone indicating that this was a question he hated answering, “When as many people in your family have had the same name, you learn to love the parts that haven’t been done to death.”

Mal’Gro…something from his lessons, he remembered. Jedi family, fairly prominent during the Force War, among the first to go to ground after the Relocation Program’s inception. There was no way the Mandalorians would have gone to this amount of trouble just for a name. Besides, what did it matter anyway?

“Urik,” he said at last, quietly.

“Sorry?” Gro called out.

“My name is Urik,” the rogue repeated, a little louder, “Urik Ekan.”

Faintly, he could make out shaggy black hair on a distinctly human face. Gro was chained, just like him, only he hung limply from his bonds like a ragdoll. Urik could even make out the impression of the other man’s brow furrowing as he struggled to process this new information.

“Not Yes? Just as well, I like Urik loads better!” he beamed, bobbing enthusiastically in his chains, and began to enunciate each word carefully, “Nice. To. Meet. You. Urik. Ekaaan. I didn’t even have to ask again! Ooh, this means it’s my turn to tell a joke!”

“Please don’t.”