The Birth of Rebellion

Chapter IV - The Outpost

Anaxes, once a jewel of the Core Worlds, now teetered on the edge of the Outer Rim. Here, under the watchful gaze of a single, skeletal comm tower, Krieger scraped out a meagre existence. The town, a smattering of rusted prefab buildings, pulsed with a nervous energy despite its isolation. The war, a constant thrum in the Force, felt closer here than it should. Still, it was a semblance of peace, a luxury he hadn't known since Order 66.

Krieger's days were spent hunched over speeders, his once-elegant lightsaber techniques a distant memory. He wasn't a mechanic - not really. But repairs were a necessary evil, a way to blend in. He charged a pittance, the quiet desperation in the locals' eyes a constant mirror to his own.

Nights found him cloaked in shadows at the dimly lit cantina. Strangers were his quarry, their every word scrutinised. Were they just weary travellers, or something more sinister? His past, a tightly compartmentalised nightmare, remained buried deep within him, along with his lightsaber now in a lock box, hidden in his hut.

The K19 Bryar pistol, a relic of a bygone era, was his sole companion. Blasters were the currency of the Outer Rim, lightsabers a beacon of unwanted attention. But the Force, a dull ache within him, never truly quieted. Every scavenging run to the abandoned Republic base, a desolate graveyard of starships, was a stark reminder of his fallen world.

Helping those in need, a sliver of his former Jedi compassion, was the one indulgence he allowed himself. It was a small rebellion against the crushing weight of his exile, a flicker of light in the encroaching darkness.

The whine of a speeder engine shattered the afternoon stillness as a small figure tore through the workshop door. "Krieger!" the boy gasped, his voice ragged with panic. "Not Ketu," Krieger sighed, a tired smile flickering beneath his respirator. "What's wrong, Ketu?"

"It's Nutu," Ketu blurted, his eyes wide with terror. "He went exploring at the old Republic base and... he fell down one of those lift shafts!" Krieger's smile vanished. The abandoned base, once a bustling symbol of the Republic, was a treacherous maze of broken machinery and bottomless pits. Even for a seasoned Jedi Knight, it held dangers. For a curious child...

Without a word, Krieger was out the door, a whirlwind of motion as he threw himself onto his speeder. The engine roared to life, dust swirling behind him as he tore towards the desolate base. The familiar ache in his mechanical hand, a constant reminder of Order 66, throbbed a frantic counterpoint to the pounding in his chest.

The base loomed, a skeletal silhouette against the harsh sunlight. "Nutu!" Krieger's voice echoed through the cavernous opening, swallowed by the silence. He plunged into the gaping maw, the stale air thick with the smell of rust and decay. Darkness pressed in, broken only by the faint glow emanating from his speeder. Claustrophobia, a long-dormant fear, threatened to suffocate him.

"Nutu!" he called again, his voice hoarse. The only answer was the mournful creak of settling metal. But Krieger wouldn't give up. He remembered a backup generator, a flicker of hope in the oppressive darkness. With a surge of adrenaline, he sprinted towards the reactor core, his mechanical hand flying over control panels, logic battling against desperation.

A low hum filled the air, followed by a hiss and groan as a nearby turbine coughed back to life. Emergency lights flickered on, casting long, skeletal shadows that danced across the walls. It wasn't much, but it was enough. Krieger raced towards the security station, his heart hammering against his ribs.

Feverishly, he cycled through camera feeds. There! Shaft C. Nutu lay crumpled in the corner, a still form against the cold metal floor. A wave of nausea washed over Krieger. He sprinted towards the shaft, despair a bitter taste in his mouth.

The heavy blast door wouldn't budge. Panic clawed at Krieger's throat. He slammed his fist against the metal, a futile gesture. Then, a desperate plea escaped his lips, a word he hadn't spoken in years. "Please," he rasped, reaching out with the Force. The groan of straining metal echoed his silent prayer.

The door lurched open, a sliver of light cutting through the gloom. Relief flooded Krieger as he scrambled inside. Nutu was alive, but unconscious. Scooping the boy into his arms, Krieger bolted back to his speeder, pushing the machine to its limits.

The town came into view, a beacon of hope in the fading light. He skidded to a stop outside the healer's hut, Nutu limp in his arms. Nutu's parents rushed out, their faces etched with fear. The healer, a wizened woman with eyes that held the wisdom of a thousand suns, examined Nutu briefly.

"He'll be alright," she announced, her voice gruff but kind. Nutu's mother enveloped Krieger in a fierce hug, tears streaming down her face. The father, his voice thick with emotion, grasped Krieger's hand. "Anything you need," he rasped, "you'll have it."

Krieger simply nodded, the weight of their gratitude a heavy but welcome burden. He may have buried his past, his lightsaber a silent promise in a forgotten case, but in that moment, a flicker of his old purpose, of the Jedi Knight he once was, flickered back to life.

Back at the base, a lone security monitor flickered to life, casting an eerie red glow on the deserted control room. On the screen, a single image froze: Krieger, bathed in the dim emergency lighting, his hand outstretched towards the unyielding blast door. A tiny red light blinked insistently beside the recording feed, a silent observer to the impossible feat just performed. The implications hung heavy in the stale air, a silent question mark scrawled across the empty room.