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MillionNovel > Stranded in a Magical World with my Lightsaber > Chapter I Part I

Chapter I Part I

    A long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away...


    Since the fall of the Republic, the galaxy has darkened under the reign of the Galactic Empire. Year after year, worlds have fallen to the Empire''s grip, and where freedom once flourished, fear now reigns. Entire systems lie subdued and lifeless, stripped of resources and spirit, while Imperial patrols enforce brutal control, hunting down those who resist and silencing any who remember what was lost.


    In the galaxy''s lawless fringes, outlaws and smugglers find shelter from Imperial eyes. Relics of the Clone Wars—rare droid processors, weapons, and priceless artifacts—have become a thriving trade, highly sought after by the daring and the desperate alike. August Sinclair is one such smuggler, a dealer of Clone Wars salvage who makes his living selling droid components and stolen tech.


    After narrowly escaping a pirate ambush, Sinclair''s latest prize—a coveted set of droid processors—comes at a high cost. His ship, the Crucible, limps through hyperspace, its hull battered and barely holding together, as he speeds toward the next port, each jump a race against the dangers that shadow him in the lawless depths of the Outer Rim.


    I can barely feel my arms. The pain was once sharp, but now it''s a dull ache, replaced by a numbness that spreads down to my fingertips. My throat is parched, my lips cracked and dry. The stench of the room is overwhelming—rotting food, sweat, and something else, something sickly sweet that turns my stomach. It''s pitch black; I can''t see my own hand in front of my face, even if I had the strength to lift it.


    Suddenly, a door hisses and slides open, flooding the room with blinding light. I squint against the brightness, trying to make out the shapes that stand in the doorway. Two figures obscure the light: one tall and reptilian, the other cloaked and human-like.


    "Is this the child?" Echoes the figure on the right, his voice calm and authoritative.


    "Yesss, thisss is the child," the reptilian hisses, stepping forward. Even in silhouette, I can see his scales glinting in the light. He is dressed in fine robes, adorned with jewelry, his appearance a stark contrast to the filth of the room. His eyes are a piercing yellow, filled with a cruel intelligence.


    "Thisss one isss quite the catch. He''ssss no ordinary ssslave. He hasss the ability to move objectsss with hisss mind. I sssawsss it. Broke itsss chainsss. Tried to essscape, he did. Caussseed quite the commotion, incapacitating many of my guardsss. Moved large rocksss with hisss mind. He even freed a group of child ssslaves... none of them made it."


    "Interesting," the cloaked figure muses, his voice carrying a hint of amusement.


    The reptilian hisses again. "Are you sssure you want to buy thisss one? He''sss been in here for four daysss without food or water. I have far healthier ssslaves."


    "No need," the cloaked figure replies calmly.


    Before I can comprehend what''s happening, a red blade of light pierces the reptilian''s chest. The room fills with the smell of burning flesh. It gasps, his yellow eyes widening in shock and pain. The aristocratic poise is gone, replaced by a look of utter betrayal. He collapses, revealing his full form: a Trandoshan whose scales shimmer in the dim light, his fine robes now scorched and stained.


    The hooded figure steps forward, the red lightsaber still lit. He pulls back his hood, revealing a man with a finely trimmed beard and a head of meticulously styled hair. His eyes, dark and calculating, bore into mine as he approaches. He reaches out with the lightsaber, cutting away my chains effortlessly. I fall to the ground, too weak to stand, my limbs heavy and unresponsive.


    The man kneels beside me, turning off his lightsaber and extending a hand. His gaze softens just a fraction. With what little strength I have left, I grasp his hand. His grip is strong, steadying me as he helps me to my feet. My legs tremble, but the promise in his eyes gives me the strength to stand.


    "Come," he says, his voice firm but with a hint of encouragement. "Your training has begun, my new Acolyte."


    ?????


    A young human male stirs in his sleep, tangled in the dark thermal sheets of his bed. His eyes snap open, and he sits up abruptly, cold sweat clinging to his skin. The remnants of his dream linger, vivid and haunting. He rubs his arms, half expecting to feel the bruises and cuts that were so real moments ago, but his skin is smooth, unmarked. His throat, not parched as it was in the dream, allows him to swallow easily.


    This human male is August Sinclair, a smuggler who doesn''t work for any high-ranking crime organization and instead takes jobs wherever he can find them. His only rule is no living cargo. His ship, the Crucible, is currently on the way to a client with valuable cargo. The Crucible is a Corellian YT-2400 Light Freighter that, like most Corellian manufactured ships, exhibits a distinctive saucer-shaped hull with a heavily offset cylindrical cockpit extending from the starboard side. Behind the cockpit lies the escape pod. The Crucible has seen better days though. Its once sleek profile now marred by the rigors of countless journeys and skirmishes.


    The freighter''s durasteel hull is pockmarked with scorch marks, dents, and patches of mismatched plating. The original white and gray paint job has faded and chipped, revealing the bare metal underneath in several places. Rust streaks run down from various seams and bolts, adding to the ship''s weathered appearance. The cockpit''s transparisteel canopy is scratched and clouded and the hull around the cockpit bears deep scoring from blaster marks, with some areas hastily repaired using metal patches and welds.


    The Crucible''s most striking feature is its quartet of cylindrical engines, mounted in pairs on either side of the rear section. These engines, essential for the ship''s speed and maneuverability, have taken significant damage. That damage came from an ion torpedo during a pirate attack and the aftermath is evident. The engines'' casing are scorched and blackened, with some panels blown open to reveal fried circuitry and exposed wiring. Blue sparks intermittently flicker from the damaged components. The port-side engines show signs of catastrophic failure, with one engine completely offline and the other sputtering erratically. The damage has left a trail of singed metal along the hull, and various panels have been removed or hang loosely as makeshift repairs have been made.


    August takes in his surroundings, grounding himself in the present. His quarters aboard the Crucible are small but well-appointed for a smuggler captain. The room is shaped like a pentagon, with five distinct corners. In the far right corner rests his bed, larger and more comfortable than one would expect on such a shabby ship. The sheets are rumpled, evidence of his restless sleep.


    Across from the bed, in the far left corner, is a small bathroom. August checks the time on the wall-mounted chronometer—it reads that the equivalent of four hours have passed since he last laid down, but the intensity of the dream has left him more restless than before.


    He swings his legs over the side of the bed and pads over to the bathroom. The space is compact, just large enough to contain a sink with a small mirror above it, a toilet, and a narrow shower stall. The mirror is slightly fogged, the remnants of condensation from his last use.


    August turns the tap on the sink, splashing cold water on his face. The shock of it helps to clear the lingering haze of the dream. He stares at his reflection, droplets of water sliding down his cheeks. The dream was a memory, he realizes—a piece of his past, brought to the surface with startling clarity. Why does it keep coming back? Why does it feel so real?


    August pauses before the mirror, taking in his reflection. The man staring back at him is in his mid to late twenties, with features hardened by years of combat and survival. His short chestnut-colored hair is neatly trimmed, matching the short beard that frames his strong jawline. The beard adds a touch of ruggedness to his otherwise youthful face.


    His eyes are a striking gray, reflecting a depth of experience and a hint of weariness. They are eyes that have seen too much, that have witnessed the horrors of battle and the darker sides of the galaxy. Despite this, there is a spark of determination in them, a fire that refuses to be extinguished.


    His skin bears the marks of his lifestyle—small scars and faint bruises, the remnants of countless skirmishes. There''s a small, barely noticeable scar cutting through his left eyebrow, a souvenir from a close call years ago. A large, jagged scar runs across his chest, the result of a more severe encounter, while a single, deep stabbing scar marks the point of entry from a blade that nearly claimed his life. His physique is lean and muscular, a testament to his rigorous training and the constant demands of his dangerous profession.


    Deciding to shake off the unease, he strips off his thermals and steps into the shower. The water is cold, as it often is aboard the Crucible, but he''s used to it. The icy stream invigorates him, washing away the sweat and lingering tendrils of the dream. As he soaps up and rinses off, his mind drifts back to the dream. He wonders why these memories persist, haunting him in his sleep.


    After his shower, August dries off and dresses in a clean set of thermals. He approaches a section of the wall near his bed and presses a concealed button on a panel. With a quiet hum, the wall slides open, revealing a hidden armory. The small room is outfitted with clothes, gear, weapons, and armor—all meticulously organized.


    He steps inside, surveying his collection. Here, everything has its place: blasters and vibroblades neatly arranged on racks, armor suits hanging in a row, various gadgets and tools stored in compartments. This is where he prepares for the dangerous life of a smuggler, and today will be no different.


    August dresses with practiced efficiency, sliding into his black pants and securing his heavy-duty boots. He takes a moment to inspect his Shore Trooper chest plate. It has been heavily reinforced, painted black to match the rest of his gear. It''s no beskar, but it offers far better protection than the standard issue, a crucial advantage in his line of work. The black Shore Trooper chest plate adds to his imposing presence, reinforced to withstand more than its standard issue counterpart. It complements his black pants and heavy-duty boots, creating a silhouette that is both formidable and agile.


    Next, he straps a holster onto his right leg, ensuring it''s snug and secure, and another holster behind his lower back. He grabs a vibroblade and slides it into his boot, the familiar weight a comforting presence. He then holsters his Malorian Arms 3516 by his right leg, its sleek design a blend of functionality and power. The Glie-44 fits perfectly into the holster at his lower back, balanced and ready for quick access.


    His gauntlets are the last pieces of gear he dons, and they are something special. Inspired by Mandalorian design, they offer a range of functionalities:


    Blaster: Integrated into the right gauntlet, the blaster is compact yet powerful, capable of delivering precision shots.


    Tiny Rocket Launcher: Built into the left gauntlet, this miniaturized launcher can fire different kinds of rockets. He has a selection of explosive, smoke, and EMP rockets.


    Built-in Communicator: Embedded in both gauntlets, allowing for seamless communication with the ship''s systems and his crew.


    Computer with Touchscreen and Hologram Display: A multi-functional tool on the left gauntlet that can display schematics, star charts, and tactical readouts. The touchscreen is responsive, and the hologram display can project detailed images.


    Energy Shield: Activated by a quick tap on the right gauntlet, this shield can withstand medium-sized blaster shots, providing crucial cover in a firefight.


    August flexes his hands, testing the fit and responsiveness of the gauntlets. Satisfied, he steps back into his quarters, taking a final look around to ensure he hasn''t forgotten anything. The dream still lingers in the back of his mind, but he pushes it aside. He has a job to do, and he needs to be focused. As he inspects himself, August adjusts the position of his holsters, ensuring his weapons are securely fastened and easily accessible. He flexes his fingers, feeling the subtle hum of power from the advanced gauntlets. He finishes by strapping on a brown leather satchel over his shoulders and a dark leather jacket that covers his arms and more importantly, the Glie-44 blaster. Geared up he steps out, closes the hidden armory, and steps out of his quarters.


    As August leaves his quarters and steps into a corridor, his attention is drawn to the slightly open door beside him. Pausing, he peers inside, taking in the scene with a mixture of curiosity and respect. The room is small and utilitarian yet filled with a palpable sense of curiosity and passion for technology. The first thing that catches his eye is the meticulously organized workbench that dominates one side of the room. Tools of various shapes and sizes are neatly arranged on a pegboard above the bench, each tool carefully labeled and positioned.


    Parts of dismantled droids and machinery are laid out on the surface, mid-repair or modification, as if their owner had been interrupted and never returned. Shelves line the walls, filled with an assortment of mechanical components, spare parts, and data pads containing schematics and technical manuals. Old, faded posters of classic starships and iconic droids adorn the walls. A small collection of model starships and droids, painstakingly assembled and painted, sits on a narrow shelf above the workbench.


    The bed, a simple bunk built into the wall, is neatly made, but a thin layer of dust on the blanket suggest it hasn''t been used in quite some time. Beside the bed, a nightstand holds a few personal items: a holo-picture frame displaying a rotating series of images: friends, possibly family, and various mechanical creations-frozen in time. A small, well-worn journal lies closed on the nightstand, its cover decorated with sketches of droids and starships. The lighting in the room is soft and warm, casting gentle shadows that emphasize the absence of its occupant. The air has a faint metallic scent, mixed with the subtle mustiness of disuse. A vent near the ceiling occasionally hums to life, circulating the stale air and making the small models on the shelf wobble slightly.


    August steps away and continues walking down the corridor. The walls of the corridor are lined with conduits and maintenance panels, some of which bear the marks of hasty repairs. The dim lighting casts long shadows, creating a sense of enclosed space. Ahead of him lies the med-bay, its door open, revealing sterile white interiors and the occasional glint of medical instrument. To his right, the corridor leads toward the cockpit and escape pod, where the hum of the ship''s systems is more pronounced. To his left is the door leading to the galley, a place of relaxation amidst the ship''s utilitarian design.


    August turns left and steps through the door into the galley. The galley is a cozy and welcoming space, designed for comfort despite the freighter''s rugged exterior. A well-worn couch sits against one wall, its fabric slightly faded from years of use but still providing a soft place to rest. In front of the couch, a gaming table stands, equipped with a holographic game board that flickers to life with the press of a button, ready for a round of Dejarik.


    The galley is currently empty, and August notes the stillness with a slight furrow of his brow. "She must still be working on the engines," he says to himself, a hint of concern flashing across his face. The engines had taken a hit recently, and their repair was crucial for their next journey.


    In one corner of the galley is the tiny kitchen, a compact but efficient area with everything needed to prepare a meal. The countertops are clutter-free, and a small sink sits beneath a cupboard filled with mismatched mugs and utensils. A compact stove and a food prep unit are neatly arranged, with various containers of spices and preserved foods lining a shelf above. A small, round table with a bench seat is tucked against the wall, a perfect spot for a quiet meal.


    August approaches the kitchen, the familiar scent of the ship''s interior mixing with the faint, comforting aroma of the galley''s residual smells. He reaches for a clean mug from the cupboard and places it beneath the beverage dispenser. With a press of a button, the machine hums to life, dispensing a steaming, dark liquid known as caf, a staple among star farers.


    As the mug fills, August glances toward the corridor leading to the engine room, the cargo hold, and the turret access point. The door to the engine room is slightly ajar, a soft blue glow emanating from within, accompanied by the occasional sound of tools clanking and the distant murmur of focused conversation.


    With his mug of hot caf in hand, August walks over to the small table and sits down on the bench. He takes a sip, savoring the warmth and the rich, earthy flavor. His thoughts drift to the repairs being made, and he can''t help but feel a pang of worry. The Crucible had seen them through many scrapes, and the engines were its beating heart. He trusted her, but the recent damage had been severe.


    He takes another sip, letting the heat of the caf calm his nerves. The galley, usually a place of camaraderie and relaxation, feels unusually quiet. August''s gaze lingers on the door to the engine room, and he silently wills the repairs to go smoothly, knowing that their survival depended on it.


    With a deep breath, he stands up, ready to check on the progress and leaving the galley behind. The Crucible needed to be in top shape for their next mission, and he needed to ensure everything was on track. The empty galley behind him, August heads toward the corridor, his steps purposeful and his mind focused on the task ahead.


    August steps through the slightly ajar door into the engine room, where the blue glow from the hyperdrive and the hum of machinery create an almost otherworldly atmosphere. The room is a tight, confined space filled with conduits, power cells, and various control panels. The air is tinged with the smell of coolant and burnt metal, remnants of the recent ion torpedo strike.


    At the heart of this mechanical labyrinth, kneeling beside an open panel with a set of tools spread out around her, is a young woman with vibrant red hair tied back in a messy bun. Her jumpsuit is smeared with grease and grime, evidence of her non-stop work on the engines. Despite the dirt and exhaustion visible on her face, her green eyes sparkle with an undiminished love for her work.


    This is Lyra, the ship''s mechanic, and the only other living crew member aboard the Crucible. Her bubbly personality and infectious enthusiasm for droids and machines are well-known to August; though today, she seems worn down by the continuous effort to keep the engines functional.


    As August approaches, Lyra glances up and, with a bright smile, she springs to her feet. "August!" she exclaims, her eyes catching sight of the steaming mug of caf in his hand.


    Before he can react, Lyra reaches out and snatches the mug from his grasp. "Thanks for bringing this to me!" she says cheerfully, taking a grateful sip. "I really needed this!"


    August hides his distaste at the action, keeping his expression calm. "Uh, sure, you''re welcome," he says, his voice even. He had intended the drink for himself, but he could see Lyra needed it more.


    They exchange greetings, and August takes a moment to observe the state of the engines. The damage is evident: exposed wiring, patched-up panels, and parts strewn about indicate the severity of the repairs.


    "How''s it looking, Lyra?" August asks, concern lacing his tone.


    Lyra sets the mug down and wipes her forehead with the back of her hand, leaving a smudge of grease. "The engines are holding up, but just barely. The ion torpedo did a number on them. We''ve been in hyperspace for 12 hours, and the trip would have been faster if we didn''t have to travel so slowly to avoid stressing the engines too much."


    August frowns, his worry deepening. "You''ve been working on them the entire time, haven''t you?"


    Lyra nods, her usual energy dimmed by fatigue. "Yeah, couldn''t risk them failing mid-trip. I had to make sure everything was stable."


    "Why didn''t you ask for help?" August''s voice softens, a mix of concern and frustration. "You can''t do everything on your own, Lyra."


    She looks up at him, her smile returning, though it doesn''t quite reach her eyes. "I know, but I figured you had enough on your plate. If it weren''t for you and AP-4, we''d be floating particles in the vacuum of space. I figured you could use some sleep. Besides, you know I love this stuff. I couldn''t just sit and do nothing."


    August places a hand on her shoulder, squeezing gently. "You need to take care of yourself too. We''re a team. Next time, let me help."


    Lyra nods, finally allowing herself to lean back against the bulkhead, her exhaustion catching up with her. "Okay, I promise. But we''re almost there. Just a few more tweaks, and the engines should hold until we reach our destination."


    August gives her a reassuring smile. "Alright. Let''s finish this together. You get some rest after we''re done, and I''ll keep an eye on things."


    Together, they turn their attention back to the engines, working side by side. The hum of the machinery continues, but with both of them focused on the task, the burden feels a little lighter.


    After several hours of intense work, August and Lyra manage to stabilize the engines. The room is still cluttered with tools and spare parts, but the immediate crisis has been averted. Lyra wipes her greasy hands on a rag, a look of relief mixed with lingering concern on her face.


    "This fix is only temporary," she says, her voice serious. "We''ll need to get the necessary parts to make a permanent repair. Otherwise, we risk another failure."


    August nods, appreciating her expertise and dedication. "Understood. Let''s hope we can find what we need at our destination."


    Just then, a chime echoes through the ship''s intercom. August is called to the bridge. "Looks like we''re arriving," he says, giving Lyra a reassuring smile before heading out of the engine room.


    ?????


    The bridge of the Crucible is a compact, functional space filled with various consoles and displays. The primary viewport stretches across the front, offering a mesmerizing view of hyperspace travel. Brilliant blue and white streaks of light stretch out infinitely, creating a tunnel-like effect as the ship hurtles through the void at faster-than-light speeds.


    At the helm is a pilot droid, designated AP-4. The droid has a sleek, humanoid form with four limbs, allowing it to manage multiple controls simultaneously. Its metal body is painted a dull silver, with joints and servos that move with precise efficiency. AP-4''s head swivels slightly as it monitors the ship''s systems, its optical sensors glowing a steady blue.Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.


    "Approaching exit point," AP-4 announces in a smooth, modulated voice.


    Beside AP-4 is a C1-series astromech droid, designated C1-B4. The droid is a compact, cylindrical unit with a dome-shaped head featuring a single photoreceptor that blinks rhythmically. Its white and blue casing is scuffed from years of service, but it remains a reliable companion. C1-B4 is busy interfacing with the ship''s navigation systems, its various appendages and tools extending and retracting as it performs calculations and adjustments.


    Hovering near the back of the bridge is a dwarf probe droid, designated DP-7. This small, spherical droid is equipped with multiple sensor arrays and a few manipulator arms. It floats silently, its red photoreceptors scanning the surroundings and relaying information to the main console.


    As August steps onto the bridge, he feels a slight shift in the ship''s vibrations. AP-4 begins the countdown to exit hyperspace. "Three... two... one..."


    With a sudden lurch, the blue-white tunnel of hyperspace collapses into pinpoints of starlight, and the Crucible reenters normal space. The viewport now reveals their destination: an old Lucrehulk-class battleship, known as the Providence, floating silently in the void. The massive, circular hull of the battleship, with its distinct central sphere and sprawling docking arms, is illuminated by the distant light of a nearby star.


    The Providence is an imposing sight, its weathered hull bearing the scars of countless battles. Once a proud warship, it now serves as a makeshift spaceport, its hangars repurposed for trade and repair. Various smaller vessels flit around the hulking structure, docking and departing with practiced efficiency. The Providence is a hulking relic from the Clone Wars era, a testament to the grandeur and might of that long-past conflict. The Lucrehulk-class battleship, once the backbone of the Trade Federation''s fleet, now serves a different purpose. Hidden well from the prying eyes of the Empire, it has become a sanctuary for those seeking refuge, parts, or a hidden sanctuary. The ship''s massive circular structure, with its central sphere and vast docking arms, is bathed in the soft glow of a distant star, giving it an eerie yet majestic appearance.


    August moves to stand beside AP-4, his eyes scanning the scene before them. "Good work, AP-4. B4, keep an eye on the systems. We need to make sure everything stays stable until we can get those parts."


    C1-B4 beeps affirmatively, its photoreceptor swiveling to focus on the relevant data. DP-7 floats closer, ready to assist with any tasks that might arise.


    August taps into the comm system. "Lyra, we''re approaching the Providence. We''ll be docking shortly. Let''s get ready to find those parts."


    The Crucible maneuvers gracefully toward the massive battleship, the old but reliable freighter now guided by the skilled hands of its pilot droid and the diligent work of its astromech and probe droids. As the Crucible approaches the Providence, a communication signal crackles to life on the bridge. A voice, filtered and slightly distorted, fills the cockpit.


    "This is the Providence. Identify yourself and state your business."


    August steps forward, his expression calm and confident. "This is the Crucible. We''re here to acquire parts for emergency engine repairs."


    He then turns to C1-B4. "B4, send the authorization code."


    The astromech droid beeps affirmatively, extending a small appendage to interface with the ship''s communication system. A moment passes, the tension thick in the air, before the response comes through.


    "Authorization code accepted. You are cleared for entry. Proceed to landing bay three."


    The massive hangar bays of the Providence is a remarkable sight. The cavernous space has been transformed into a bustling makeshift town, with stalls and workshops lining the walls. The once pristine military hangar now hosts a variety of traders, mechanics, and travelers. Deactivated vulture droids and tri-fighters hang from the ceiling, relics from the Clone Wars ready to be activated if trouble arises.


    The Crucible maneuvers toward the left hangar, navigating through the maze of ships and structures. As they approach, dozens of landing pads come into view, each one bustling with activity. Small freighters, shuttles, and various transports are docked near the hangar''s entrance, creating a hive of mechanical and humanoid movement. The Crucible steers toward landing bay three, a designated area within the expansive hangar. The makeshift town, further back, comes into view with its stalls, workshops, and temporary living quarters.


    The Crucible''s landing is less than perfect. The ship shudders and jolts as it touches down, but AP-4 manages to bring it safely to a halt. August braces himself, then offers a nod of approval to the pilot droid.


    "Good work, AP-4. A bit rough, but safe. That''s what matters."


    August taps his communicator. "Lyra, meet me at the cargo bay. We''re down."


    August makes his way to the cargo bay, the heart of the Crucible''s storage and maintenance operations. The space is organized with military precision, thanks to Lyra''s meticulous nature. Two speeder bikes are parked neatly against one wall, ready for quick reconnaissance or transport. Crates of spare parts are stacked and labeled, each containing essential components for various ship systems.


    As August enters, he finds Lyra waiting for him, a mixture of exhaustion and determination in her eyes. Beside her stands an IG unit, designated IG-22. The droid, tall and imposing, has a sleek, gunmetal-gray chassis. Its red photoreceptors glow menacingly, and its arms are equipped with wrist blasters—a modification courtesy of Lyra. However, Lyra''s reprogramming efforts have had an unintended side effect: IG-22 now vocalizes every thought that passes through its circuits, regardless of context or relevance.


    "August," Lyra greets him with a weary smile. "We''re ready."


    IG-22 immediately chimes in, its voice a mechanical monotone. "The probability of imminent danger is low. Current thoughts include: the temperature of the hangar bay, the configuration of the speeder bikes, and the likelihood of finding suitable parts quickly."


    August raises an eyebrow but decides to focus on the task at hand. "Good to see you, Lyra. Let''s get those parts and make sure the engines are back in top shape."


    "We''ve got a few hours before we meet the client," August adds, his tone firm but encouraging. "Let''s get what we need and be back in time for a quick rest."


    IG-22, ever vigilant, interjects. "Accompanying you on this mission is statistically unnecessary. Probability of attack aboard the Providence is low."


    August shakes his head, a hint of a smile playing at his lips. "I know the chances are low, but your presence will deter any potential troublemakers. You''re coming with us, IG-22."


    "Affirmative," IG-22 replies, its sensors scanning the area. "Current task: monitoring surroundings. Additional thoughts: the structural integrity of the cargo bay, the efficiency of Lyra''s organizational skills, and the need for further reprogramming to reduce extraneous commentary."


    Lyra suppresses a chuckle, her exhaustion momentarily forgotten. "Let''s get to work, August. The sooner we find those parts, the sooner we can get the Crucible running smoothly again."


    As they prepare to leave, August turns to Lyra. "Stay focused, Lyra. We can''t afford any distractions. Remember, IG-22 nearly bankrupted us, and we have just enough credits for the parts and maybe a warm meal."


    Lyra bristles slightly, her green eyes flashing with indignation. "August, I know why we''re here. My only intention is to get the parts we need. I''m not going to get distracted."


    August softens his tone, placing a reassuring hand on her shoulder. "I know you are, but we''ve got to be careful. Once we get the parts, you need to rest. You''ve been working non-stop."


    Lyra''s expression shifts from offended to determined, her bubbly personality shining through. "I promise, August. Once we get back, I''ll take a break."


    With their resolve set, the trio makes their way to the landing bay at the end of the cargo bay.


    As the Crucible settles onto landing bay three, the ship''s landing ramp extends downward with a mechanical whirr. The floor panels split and lower, forming a set of stairs. Steam hisses out from the hydraulic systems, and the ship creaks under its own weight, adding to the atmosphere of an old yet reliable vessel.


    "IG-22, retrieve the package," August instructs.


    The IG unit steps forward, its movements precise and efficient. It reaches into a secured compartment and retrieves a small pouch.


    Lyra, curiosity piqued, asks, "What''s in the pouch?"


    August glances at her, his expression neutral. "Memory chips from the Clone Wars era."


    "Why does the client want them?" Lyra persists.


    August''s face hardens slightly. "First rule of smuggling Lyra; never ask for the client''s intentions," he says as he puts the pouch into his satchel.


    They proceed down the ramp, the steam dissipating around them. At the base of the ramp, they are greeted by a male Ardennian named Willo. With his four arms and quick, lively movements, Willo cuts an impressive figure. His eyes twinkle with warmth and familiarity as he approaches.


    "August! Lyra! It''s good to see you both," Willo exclaims, his multiple hands clapping together in joy.


    "Willo, it''s been too long," August responds, shaking one of Willo''s hands warmly. Lyra follows suit, sharing a quick embrace.


    Willo is an old friend and a reliable contact in this part of space. He''s known for his resourcefulness and has helped August and Lyra out of tight spots more than once. He owns a shop where he sells all sorts of parts and machinery, though his organization pales compared to Lyra.


    "Look at the state of the Crucible! What happened?" Willo asks, concern etching his features.


    August sighs. "We got jumped by pirates near the Ryloth system. We-"


    Lyra jumps in, her eyes lighting up with the excitement of recounting the tale. "They were flying old Z-95 Headhunters. We dodged and weaved through their fire, and I managed to take out a few with some quick shots. We came across their main ship, an old Consular-class frigate retrofitted for battle. They called it the Black Talon. Just as we were about to jump to hyperspace, they hit us with an ion torpedo."


    Willo''s eyes widen. "And the Crucible is still in one piece after that?"


    August smiles, placing a hand on Lyra''s shoulder. "All because of Lyra''s amazing work. She''s the reason the Crucible is still in one piece. We''d be goners if it weren''t for her."


    Lyra blushes at the compliment, looking down at her feet.


    "Can you assist us in acquiring the necessary parts, Willo?" August asks, turning the conversation back to their immediate need.


    "Of course," Willo replies. "My shop just got a shipment of brand-new parts straight from Corellia. Won''t be cheap but for you I''ll sell them for reasonable prices."


    Lyra''s eyes light up with excitement, but August stops her with a raised hand. "Willo and I will fetch the parts ourselves. You need to stay and get some rest."


    Lyra opens her mouth to protest but notices the worried look in August''s eyes. She sighs, her shoulders drooping slightly. "Fine, I''ll rest. But you better get everything we need."


    "IG-22, stay with Lyra," August instructs.


    "Affirmative," IG-22 replies. "Current task: remain at Lyra''s side. Additional thoughts: ensure her safety, monitor surroundings, and evaluate the need for further repairs."


    "Thank you, IG-22," August says, grateful for the droid''s unwavering loyalty.


    With a final nod to Lyra and IG-22, August and Willo navigate through the bustling makeshift town within the vast hangar of the Providence. The air is filled with a cacophony of sounds: the chatter of merchants hawking their wares, the hum of machinery, and the occasional clank of metal as workers go about their tasks. B1 battle droids, relics from the Clone Wars, stand guard and patrol the area, their skeletal frames a stark reminder of a bygone era.


    The crowds are a diverse mix of species and professions. Twi''lek merchants haggling with customers over the price of spices, Rodian mechanics tinkering with speeder bikes, and even a few Gamorrean enforcers keeping a watchful eye on the proceedings. The scent of exotic foods wafts through the air from various food stalls, mixing with the smell of oil and metal from the many workshops.


    August follows Willo through the throngs of people, occasionally nodding to familiar faces. The atmosphere is lively but carries an undercurrent of tension, as is typical in Hutt-controlled space.


    ?????


    Finally, they arrive at Willo''s shop, a modest establishment marked by a cheesy, hand-painted sign swinging above the entrance: "Willo''s Wonders: Droid and Machine Parts". The sign is adorned with a cartoonish image of a happy droid holding a wrench, adding to its charm. Willo opens the door, and they step inside. The interior is a stark contrast to the organized chaos of the town outside. The shop is a mess—parts and tools are strewn everywhere, shelves are haphazardly filled with droid limbs, circuit boards, and various mechanical components. The floor is littered with wires and scraps, making it difficult to navigate.


    August glances around, raising an eyebrow at the disarray. It''s a wonder how Willo manages to live and work in such a disorganized space, especially compared to the meticulous organization Lyra maintains on the Crucible.


    Willo seems unfazed by the mess, moving through the clutter with practiced ease. "Welcome back to my humble abode," he says with a grin, gesturing to the chaotic scene around them.


    August chuckles, shaking his head. "Humble is one way to put it, Willo. How do you find anything in here?"


    Willo laughs, waving a hand dismissively. "It''s organized chaos, my friend. I know exactly where everything is, even if it doesn''t look like it."


    August smirks, but there''s a touch of genuine admiration in his expression. Despite the mess, Willo has always been reliable, his shop a treasure trove of rare and useful parts.


    "Let''s get started," Willo says, heading towards the back of the shop where he keeps his more valuable inventory. "I think I have just what you need."


    As they delve deeper into the clutter, August can''t help but think of Lyra and how she would react to this place. He imagines her making quick work of organizing everything, and the thought brings a small smile to his face.


    Willo rifles through the disorganized shelves and bins, eventually producing a collection of engine parts precisely suited for the Crucible''s needs. He sets them on the counter with a triumphant grin. "Here we are, August. Everything you need to get that old bird flying right."


    August inspects the parts, nodding in approval. "These look perfect, Willo. What''s the damage?"


    "Two thousand credits and that''s with the discount. These parts normally go for three thousand credits."


    August''s eyes widen slightly. "That''s a bit steep, don''t you think? How about we knock it down by a couple hundred credits?"


    Willo crosses his arms, shaking his head with a smile. "I can''t go that low, August. These parts are top-notch and I am running a business here. How about I reduce it by one hundred credits?"


    August sighs, leaning on the counter. "Come on, Willo, you can do better than that. Another fifty credits off and you''ve got a deal."


    Willo chuckles, countering with a firm voice. "I''ll take off another 50, but that''s as low as I can go. These parts aren''t easy to come by. How about I throw in my services to help with the repairs? I''ve worked on the Crucible before, remember?"


    August considers the offer. The prospect of getting the engines fixed more quickly, allowing Lyra to rest, is appealing. "Alright, you''ve got a deal," he says reaching into his messenger back and retrieving the agreed upon amount of credits from a leather pouch.


    Willo grips August''s hand firmly, sealing the agreement with a handshake before pocketing the credits. "Pleasure doing business with you, my friend. Let''s get these parts packed up."


    Willo then approaches a mound of clutter, tapping a button on the gauntlet strapped to his arm. With a whirr and a clank, three pit droids spring up from the chaos, their eyes blinking to life.


    "Alright, you lot," Willo says, pointing to the pile of parts on the counter. "Gather these into a crate and make it quick."


    The pit droids chirp in acknowledgment, scrambling to obey. They work with surprising efficiency, sorting and packing the necessary pieces into a sturdy crate. August watches them work, impressed by their speed and coordination despite the mess around them.


    With the crate packed, August and Willo, accompanied by the pit droids, make their way back through the bustling town towards the Crucible. The crowd parts for them as they pass, the presence of the pit droids drawing curious glances.


    Back at the Crucible, the landing ramp extends downward, releasing a hiss of steam and a creak of metal. The pit droids march up the ramp with the crate, followed by August and Willo.


    The landing ramp of the ship lowers with a soft whir, and August and Willo step inside the dimly lit engine room, accompanied by several pit droids. The small droids, efficient and purposeful, move in behind them, each pushing a hovering crate filled with tools and parts. The crates float silently, guided by the droids'' precise movements, until they reach the center of the room. With a synchronized hiss, the crates gently lower to the ground, their sudden contact with the metal floor sending a soft, resonant thud through the quiet space.


    The air is thick with the scent of oil and metal, the subtle hum of the ship''s systems providing a low, constant background noise. Their boots click softly against the metal floor as their eyes adjust to the shadowed interior. In the far corner, illuminated by the faint glow of a hanging lamp, Lyra is slumped against a large crate, fast asleep. She leans back against the wall, her arms folded across her chest, with her head tilted slightly to the side. Her hair falls in loose strands across her face, and the tools she had been using lie scattered around her, abandoned when exhaustion finally claimed her.


    Standing idly by, just a few feet away, is IG-22; the droid''s tall, imposing frame partially obscured by shadows. The droid stands motionless, its photoreceptors dim as it seems to be in standby mode, awaiting any further orders. The presence of IG-22, with its sleek and battle-worn exterior, adds an eerie stillness to the room.


    The soft thud of their footsteps rouses Lyra from her sleep. Her eyelids flutter open, and she squints groggily at the figures standing before her. It takes a moment for her to fully wake up, her mind slowly registering the familiar faces of August and Willo.


    "Willo?" she mumbles, her voice thick with sleep as she sits up straighter, blinking away the lingering drowsiness. She glances around, her brows furrowing in confusion. "What are you doing here? Did you come to drop off the parts?"


    Willo grins and crouches down to her level, his tone light but carrying a gentle firmness. "Nope, I''m not just here to drop off the parts. I''m here to help with the repairs. August and I made a deal—I''m giving you a break."


    Lyra''s eyes widen slightly as she looks up at August, who stands with his arms crossed, leaning casually against the bulkhead. He nods in agreement, a small smile playing on his lips.


    "You need the rest, Lyra," August says, his voice steady and caring. "Willo''s got this. You''ve been at it for too long."


    Lyra glances between the two of them, her tired brain processing their words. She opens her mouth to protest, but the weariness weighing down her body convinces her otherwise. Letting out a long sigh, she finally gives in, a reluctant smile tugging at the corners of her mouth.


    "Alright, alright," she concedes, shaking her head slightly as she runs a hand through her tousled hair. "But if anything goes wrong, you''re both getting an earful from me."


    Willo chuckles, standing back up as he grabs a tool from the nearby workbench. "Deal," he says with a wink. "Now, let''s get to work."


    With a final glance at the new parts, Lyra slowly rises from the crate, stretching her stiff muscles. She steps aside, watching as Willo reaches into one of the crates and pulling out various parts, already assessing the work that needs to be done. Despite her fatigue, she feels a wave of relief knowing that the repairs are in good hands.


    As she heads toward the exit, she can''t resist calling over her shoulder, "Just don''t break anything, Willo."


    Willo shoots her a confident grin, his hands already working. "Not a chance, Lyra. You just focus on getting some sleep."


    With a grateful smile, Lyra exits the engine room, leaving the repairs in Willo''s capable hands. As she walks down the corridor toward her quarters, she feels the exhaustion pulling at her again, but this time it''s accompanied by a sense of peace. She knows she can finally get the rest she desperately needs.


    August and Willo begin unpacking the crate, preparing to install the new parts. With Willo''s expertise and the assistance of the pit droids, they make quick progress, ensuring the Crucible will be back in top shape in no time.


    ?????


    Two hours pass, and thanks to the assistance of Willo and his pit droids, the engines of the Crucible are now in tip-top shape. August and Willo are making the final tweaks when August''s communicator buzzes. He glances at the message—it''s from the client, and it''s time to make the trade.


    "Looks like it''s time," August says, tucking the communicator back into his belt. "Willo, I need to go meet the client. Can you finish up here?"


    Willo nods, wiping his hands on a rag. "No problem, August. We''re almost done anyway. Just a few more tweaks and she''ll be running smoother than ever."


    "Thanks, Willo. I owe you one," August replies, clapping his friend on the shoulder before heading to the cargo room.


    In the cargo room, IG-22 stands at attention, its photoreceptors focusing on August as he approaches. "IG-22, I need you to tag along for this one."


    The droid''s mechanical voice buzzes. "Understood. May I inquire why my presence is required?"


    August hesitates, then explains, "The meeting point is in a storage room, which is unusual. We usually meet in the cantina. I don''t like it."


    IG-22''s processors whir as it considers this information. "The change in location is indeed suspicious. Are you certain Willo can be trusted to remain here unsupervised?"


    August nods confidently. "Willo''s been a trusted friend for years. He''s helped Lyra and me out more times than I can count. He can handle the rest of the repairs."


    With IG-22 by his side, August makes his way through the corridors of the Providence. The vast hangar''s makeshift town bustles with activity as they pass by, but August''s mind is focused on the impending meeting. The storage room location gnaws at him, a deviation from their standard protocol that sets his instincts on edge.


    They reach the storage room, a dimly lit and quiet section of the ship. August scans the area, his senses on high alert. "Stay sharp, IG22. This doesn''t feel right."


    IG-22''s photoreceptors narrow as it scans the surroundings. "Acknowledged. I will be prepared for any contingency."


    As they approach the door to the storage room, August takes a deep breath, steeling himself for whatever awaits inside. The memory of his dream, the sense of danger and uncertainty, lingers in the back of his mind. But with IG-22 at his side he pushes those thoughts aside, ready to face whatever comes next.


    The storage room is vast, dimly lit by flickering overhead lights. Stacks of crates and containers create narrow pathways, casting long shadows that add to the oppressive atmosphere. The air is thick with the scent of old metal and engine oil, mingling with the faint mustiness of long-unmoved cargo.


    At the far end of the room, six figures stand waiting, their presence exuding menace. A human male stands in the center, tall and broad-shouldered. He has a rugged, scarred face with a cold, calculating gaze. His dark hair is cropped short, and he wears a tactical vest loaded with weapons and gear. Flanking the human are four Weequay thugs. Their leathery, weathered faces and braided tendrils give them a fearsome look. Each is heavily armed with blasters and vibroblades strapped to their belts, and their eyes glint with aggression. To the human''s left stands a Quarren, his tentacle-like facial appendages twitching slightly. His beady eyes are almost hidden under a heavy brow, and his hands rest on the hilts of twin blaster pistols. His posture is relaxed but ready for action.


    As August and IG-22 approach, the group shifts slightly, weapons subtly coming to the ready. The human steps forward, a sinister smile on his lips. "Are you the smuggler August?"


    August sidesteps the question, his eyes narrowing. "Who are you, and why are we meeting here?"


    The human''s smile widens. "Name''s Marcian. We''re here to check the package, make sure it''s in one piece."


    August''s hand instinctively grips the handle of his Malorian 3516, his body tensing. "I don''t think so. I''ve never conducted business with you, Marcian and I sure as hell don''t trust you. Unless you want your chest full of smoldering holes, you and your men walk away. Now."


    Marcian throws back his head and laughs, the sound echoing ominously in the cavernous room. "There are six of us and only two of you. You sure you want to make threats, smuggler?"


    August''s grip tightens on his blaster, his eyes flicking to IG-22, whose photoreceptors are fixed on the group, ready to spring into action at a moment''s notice. "Numbers don''t mean a thing if you''re all dead before you can fire," August retorts, his voice low and dangerous.


    The tension in the room is palpable, a hairsbreadth from snapping into violence. Marcian''s laughter fades, his eyes narrowing as he assesses the resolve in August''s stance. The room falls into an uneasy silence, the only sound the faint hum of the ship''s systems in the background. In this charged atmosphere, the next move could mean life or death. August remains unwavering, his confidence in his skills and IG-22''s capabilities clear in his steady gaze. The fate of this encounter hinges on a single misstep, and both sides know it.


    A blaster shot rings out from behind August, and his reflexes kick in. He swiftly dodges to the right, the red bolt zipping past his head and slamming into the chest of one of the Weequay thugs. The alien crumples to the ground, smoke curling from the wound. IG-22 immediately opens fire with its wrist blasters, sending a barrage of red bolts towards the remaining group. The rest of the bandits scramble for cover behind stacks of crates, the once orderly storage room now a chaotic battlefield.


    August dives behind a nearby stack of crates, feeling the heat of blaster shots flying past him. Red blaster fire from the thugs pings off the crates, splintering wood and sending shards into the air. In return, August pulls out his Malorian 3516 and starts firing, yellow bolts cutting through the haze of battle. He quickly turns around as another bolt zips by him and fires. As the blaster shot hits its mark, a Weequay holding a sniper blaster collapses dead in the far corner of the storage room. August turns back and focuses on the rest of the bandits. Amidst the exchange of fire, August catches IG-22''s attention. Using quick, precise hand signals, he instructs the droid to flank the enemy while he provides covering fire. IG-22''s photoreceptors nod in acknowledgment before it begins to move stealthily around the perimeter.


    August continues to fire, his shots deliberate and measured, each bolt finding its mark or forcing the bandits deeper into cover. As IG-22 moves, August aims his gauntlet and fires a smoke rocket into the center of the enemy''s position. The rocket explodes with a hiss, and thick smoke billows out, filling the room and obscuring vision. Despite the dense smoke, August moves through it with practiced ease. The sounds of panicked voices and blaster fire guide him. He emerges behind the remaining bandits, their backs turned and their confusion evident as they cough and try to peer through the smoke.


    With his Malorian 3516 at the ready, August opens fire. Yellow bolts sear through the smoke, striking down the disoriented bandits. IG-22, moving in perfect synchrony, emerges from the other side, its wrist blasters blazing. The combination of precise shots and overwhelming firepower quickly takes down the remaining threats.


    As the smoke begins to clear, the storage room is littered with the bodies of Marcian''s men. Only Marcian himself remains, slumped against a crate, clutching a blaster wound in his chest. His breath comes in ragged gasps, and blood seeps through his fingers.


    August approaches cautiously, his blaster trained on Marcian as he kicks away Marcian''s blaster lying close to his sprawling hand. IG-22 stands at his side, its sensors sweeping for any remaining threats. Marcian''s eyes, filled with pain and anger, lock onto August.


    "Looks like your numbers didn''t mean much after all," August says coldly, his finger resting lightly on the trigger. The tension that had built to a breaking point now begins to dissipate, replaced by the stark reality of the aftermath.


    Marcian glares up at him, struggling to speak. "You''re... making a mistake," he wheezes, his voice weak and strained.


    August lowers his blaster slightly, but keeps it ready. "The only mistake was trying to cross me," he replies, his tone leaving no room for doubt. "Now, tell me why you really wanted to meet here."


    Marcian''s eyes flicker with a mix of defiance and resignation. "You''re too late... the client... they''re already there, waiting for you," he manages to gasp out before collapsing back, dead from his injuries.


    August exchanges a look with IG22. "We need to get back to Lyra now!" he says, turning to leave the storage room. As they move, August can''t shake the feeling that the real danger is just beginning.
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