Under revisions & rewrites
Book 1
" My only order to you is to not follow orders "
Dakota Ky. General of the 501st, Jedi of the Galactic Republic. The Perfect Warrior.
~
The Clone War is in full force across the galaxy. Jedi Knights of the Galact...
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The government transport glided back through hyperspace to Coruscant, the blue-white tunnel of light stretching infinitely across the viewport. Somewhere deeper in the ship, senators murmured over datapads and aides hurried along polished corridors bypassing tottering droids. A stream of unending energy and conversation. However in the maroon parlor alcove near the stern, Dakota sat alone.
The room was lavish. Velvet-lined chairs in a deep wine-red. Gilt paneling tracing elegant curves along the walls. A chandelier of floating crystals hovering overhead, shedding soft, warm light over everything. It looked more like a diplomatic salon than a starship chamber.
Dakota didn't care for any of it.
She sat slouched in one of the window-side chairs, one leg pulled up, arm draped over the back of the seat in a posture far too casual for the aristocratic décor. Her temple rested against her knuckles, eyes fixed on the streaming chaos of hyperspace beyond the window.
Her reflection glimmered faintly in the glass—lips pressed into a frustrated pout, brows tight, exhaustion darkening the edges of her eyes.
She blew out yet another lengthy sigh, the kind that deflated her whole posture.
Satine's voice clung to her mind like static: Ending someone's life does not justify anything. I stand by my values. Now you know how it feels.
Dakota shifted sharply in her seat, jaw flexing. She dug her thumb into her forehead as if she could massage away the memory.
"Like she's a saint," she muttered to herself, though the room swallowed her voice easily.
Outside the window, hyperspace roared onward, painting a vast, indifferent painting, blinding in its beauty. The kind of view that usually calmed her.
"You okay?" A voice asked from the threshold of the maroon parlor.
Dakota exhaled again, long and slow. Still brooding. Although the question sent her irises shifting, gliding across the carpet floor until they settled on Padmé.
"I'm great. Can't you tell?" Dakota slouched deeper into the chair, glaring at hyperspace as though it had personally wronged her.
"You certainly wear your emotions on your sleeve." Padmé crossed the carpet, the sarcasm present in her tone. When the Jedi didn't react, she paused, eyeing her demeanor. It'd been this way since she saw her storming off down the hall, leaving the Duchess and her guards to the rubble of the guest room in Theed palace.
