A Search within the Force and Flame

VIII

The sounds of birds and wind spread across the clearing. The former camp, now ransacked and picked through by Azula and Logan, lies in ruins. As they leave, Logan suddenly stops and kneels. Azula turns her head, raising an eyebrow.

"What are you doing, Jedi?" she asks curtly.

"Erasing these sleemos from this planet, hopefully," Logan replies, extending an open palm to the ground.

Closing his eyes, he takes a deep breath. The Force rushes through him like a blast of springtime air. The ground trembles, shifting as the planet itself opens up and swallows the New Imperial Remnant camp, along with the bodies of the fallen stormtroopers. Within moments, the earth seals back together, leaving behind only faint blaster marks on trees and a barely visible explosion crater, now filled in by resettled soil and rock.

Logan exhales and opens his eyes to the now-empty clearing.

"Where did you learn that?" Azula's voice cuts through the silence.

"Toph," Logan answers, glancing at her. "She got bored one day and asked if I was interested in learning any earthbending techniques." He gestures toward the cleared ground. "Hence, this."

For a brief moment, amazement flickers across Azula's face before she quickly schools her expression back into her usual steely gaze. "We should get moving," she says.

Logan nods in agreement.

They walk down the clearing in silence. Azula replays the moment she struck down the stormtrooper commander over and over. Absentmindedly, she rubs the two fingers that unleashed the lightning bolt. Logan notices and clears his throat.

"Thank you," he says awkwardly. "For saving my life."

"Think nothing of it, Jedi," Azula replies coldly. "You're useful. That's why I did it."

"I'll take that as a compliment, Your Highness," Logan says, smirking. "I think you're finally warming up to me."

Azula rolls her eyes and shoots him a withering look. "Don't get cute."

They continue until they come across a large metal object. As they draw closer, its full shape becomes apparent—a massive CR90 corvette resting on its landing struts. The ship's weathered hull is streaked with rust and mismatched welded panels. Azula tilts her head, scanning it critically.

"I take it this isn't standard."

Logan snorts, brushing aside a hanging vine as he steps closer. "Not even close."

The corvette's original sleek design has been disrupted by obvious grafts and modifications. A docking bay bulges awkwardly from the ship's spine, reinforced with thick struts and patchwork plating cobbled together from various sources. Welded seams and uneven panels give the vessel a rugged, battle-worn look—less a precision warship, more a survivor that refuses to die.

As they approach the docking bay, their eyes land on a flickering neon sign hanging crookedly above the open hatch. It sparks faintly against the dull metal backdrop.

"Dugg's Ship of Stuf"

The final f barely hangs on, flickering and buzzing weakly.

Azula folds her arms, raising an eyebrow. "Ship of... 'Stuf?'"

Logan exhales through his nose, half amused, half wary. "I'd say it's a safe bet Dugg's not much of a speller."

Azula steps closer, peering into the dimly lit interior. Shelves and crates clutter the entrance, and a warbled melody, distorted by static, leaks into the clearing.