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Chapter Text

The torch hissed, throwing molten light across the walls.

Korin leaned over the chassis, visor down, breath steady. Each weld was a meditation—deliberate, precise. The hum of the arc filled the empty hangar like a heartbeat, a rhythm he'd fallen into over weeks of painstaking work.

A metallic clink broke the rhythm.

Something rolled across the floor and tapped his boot.

He lifted his head, the torch still raised.

A battered vulture droid stood in the doorway, one wing hanging slightly lower than the other—salvaged parts never quite matching the original specifications, but functional. It tilted its head, optical sensors brightening, then nudged a round hunk of debris toward him with one clawed foot.

Korin sighed, lowering the torch and pushing up his visor.

"You again."

The droid clicked twice in response—satisfaction and anticipation mixed together in binary cant.

"Fine." He stripped off his welding gloves, setting them beside the torch. "Fetch."

He raised his beskar hand. The sphere lifted smoothly, trembling in the air as he felt its weight through the Force—twenty kilos of solid metal, dented astromech dome casing. The vulture droid's optics widened. It crouched, servos coiling, ready to bolt.

Korin drew in a slow breath and—hurled the thing skyward. It streaked off in a glittering arc, disappearing above the canyon rim.

The vulture droid gave a delighted electronic screech and leapt after it, wings snapping open with a rush of displaced air. The sound of its engines dopplered as it climbed, chasing its prize into the ochre sky.

Silence fell again, broken only by the gentle hum of power cells and the settling tick of cooling metal.

Korin turned back to the workbench.

The Revenant lay before him.

Whole again—its limbs re-forged, armor smoothed and polished to a mirror sheen. Cables coiled through its chest cavity toward a pale, milky core where purified kyber crystals pulsed with faint light. The once-scarlet fissures that had blazed with corruption were now veined with something different, something clean. They would radiate an mild ambient glow now, even when the saber blades that made up every seam were not active.

White as starlight. White as Ahsoka's blades.

Weeks of work. Weeks of defying warnings, answering questions, justifying choices. Weeks of meditation over each crystal, draining the darkness, replacing hatred with... what? Hope? Purpose? He wasn't entirely sure. But it had felt right.

He wiped a hand across his brow. "Almost there."

Footsteps approached from outside—multiple sets, their rhythm familiar. He didn't need to look to know who was coming.

"Please tell me that's not what I think it is." Virra's voice carried from the entrance, tight with tension.

DW-8 appeared first, stopping at the edge of the workbench. His photoreceptors swept across the Revenant's restored form, and his voice carried an unusual strain. "The others are here. They want to talk you out of—"

Korin reached for the activation stud.

A deep hum rose from within the machine, followed by a violent shudder that rattled the workbench. The Revenant's eyes flared white—brilliant, almost blinding. It lurched upright—not smooth, but sudden, instinctive—its movements jerky and uncertain.

Metal screeched against metal as it backed away from the table, arms coming up defensively. Its talons flexed, stance wide and ready. The air crackled with energy as every seam in its armor blazed to life.

"Get back!" Ahsoka's voice was sharp with alarm. She stood in the doorway, her white lightsabers — the one she had lost to this very same droid’s attack now replaced with Novus' former blade — already in hand though not yet ignited, her stance protective as Virra and Keph crowded behind her.

"—to discuss the implications," DW-8 amended, backing away carefully, "of having revived that particular specimen."

The vulture droid chose that moment to return, engines roaring as it dove back through the entrance. It landed hard, skidding across the floor, and dropped its prize at Korin's feet—the twisted sphere, successfully retrieved.

Then it saw the Revenant.

The smaller droid — smaller, at least, than the hulking gargoyle-shaped form of the Revenant — froze. Its optical sensors dimmed to pinpoints. It crept warily towards Korin, wanting to hide behind him but too comically large for that to be possible. It crouched down, settling for hiding its face against Korin's back.

Korin stood perfectly still facing the Revenant, hands raised slowly, palms out. His voice was calm, measured, cutting through the tension like a blade through silk.

"It's all right. You're safe."

The Revenant didn't answer immediately. Its head turned side to side, taking in its restored limbs, the white glow pulsing through its armor, the workshop around it. Processing. Remembering. Understanding.

Then its gaze fixed on Korin.

"There is no hunger," it said.

The voice was different—still mechanical, still carrying that chorus of processed sound, but without the grinding corruption that had defined it before. Clearer. Almost... wondering.

Korin exhaled slowly, and despite everything—despite the weapons drawn behind him, despite the fear radiating from his friends, despite the very real possibility that he'd made a catastrophic mistake—he smiled.

"I believe I've addressed that design flaw," he replied. "You should be free now."

The Revenant stood motionless for a heartbeat, processing this information. Its optical sensors brightened, dimmed, brightened again.

Then, without warning, it moved.

It sprinted toward the open bay doors. Everyone scattered—Ahsoka pulling Virra back, Keph diving behind a support pillar, DW-8 retreating with mechanical efficiency.

The Revenant's servos roared as it reached the threshold. Its frame folded, twisted—the familiar transformation sequence but faster now, more fluid. Wings wrapped around it to form a fuselage with sharp metallic snaps. The starfighter configuration locked into place.

White light streaked through the canyon as it launched skyward.

"Korin, what have you—" Ahsoka began, but her words died as they all watched.

The Revenant danced.

It rolled through the ochre sky, wings catching the afternoon sun, leaving vapor trails through the thin atmosphere. Banking hard, climbing vertical, then diving in a spiral that should have torn lesser machines apart. It moved with joy—pure, unrestrained celebration of motion and freedom and existence.

The vulture droid at Korin's feet made a soft, awed chirp.

"Maker's mercy..." DW-8 stepped forward, unable to look away.

The transformed Revenant executed a perfect barrel roll, then shot straight up until it became a distant speck against the rust-colored sky. For a moment, it seemed to hang there, motionless.

Then it dove.

The sound reached them first—a building roar like atmospheric entry. The white starfighter plummeted toward the hangar in a blur of speed and light, unfolding mid-descent. Armor plates shifted, limbs extending, the transformation happening in seconds.

It hit the ground in its droid form with an impact that shook the entire structure. Dust billowed outward in a massive cloud. Tools rattled on their racks. The workbench shifted several centimeters.

When the dust began to clear, the Revenant stood tall, arms raised high above its head. Its talons ignited—blinding white plasma energy that cast pure light across the workshop.

A victory pose. A declaration.

I am alive.

Everyone flinched. Virra's hand went to her blaster. Keph stumbled backward with Luke adopting a stance protective of his student. DW-8 froze mid-step. Even the vulture droid tried to make itself smaller, cowering behind a storage crate.

Only Korin remained still, standing in the center of the chaos with his eyes bright and his beskar hand relaxed at his side. Pride radiated from him like heat from a forge.

"You must be careful, Rev," he said softly.

The towering figure turned to him. The glow dimmed as its arms lowered slowly. The plasma talons folded shut with a hiss of released energy, leaving only the ambient white light of its seams.

"I must be careful," it echoed, the words carrying weight—understanding, acceptance, something that might have been gratitude.

The light in its optical sensors steadied—gentle now, uncertain, but no longer defensive. No longer hungry.

Behind Korin, Ahsoka took a step forward. Her lightsaber hilt remained in her hand, but the tension in her shoulders had eased slightly. "Korin... you purified it?"

"Every crystal," he replied without turning. "Weeks of meditation. Weeks of replacement. It was... difficult."

"Difficult?" Virra's voice cracked slightly. "That thing nearly killed us all, and you thought 'difficult' was a reasonable obstacle?"

"It was broken," Korin said simply. "Corrupted. Made into something it didn't choose to be." He finally turned to face them, his expression calm but carrying an edge of challenge. "Sound familiar?"

Keph shifted uncomfortably, his prosthetic hand flexing.

Ahsoka studied the Revenant, her senses extended through the Force. After a long moment, she spoke quietly. "I don't sense darkness. Not anymore. Just... presence. Consciousness." She paused. "And something else. Loyalty?"

"It remembers," Korin said. "I made sure of that. Not just the corruption, not just the hunting. Everything. It shouldn't forget what it did, that would... deprive it. It must move past that, grow beyond it.”

"You're sure you have it under your control?" Virra asked, still not holstering her blaster.

Korin turned back to the Revenant, meeting its white-lit gaze. "I do not. It was twisted with an insatiable drive. I have set it free. I have given it the agency to be something better — not a puppet."

The Revenant's head tilted slightly, considering this. Then it spoke again, its voice carrying more certainty.

"I remember the vault. The chains. The hunger." A pause. "I remember choosing to follow. To chase. To consume."

"Yes," Korin said.

"I do not wish to be that again."

"I know."

The Revenant lowered itself slowly, carefully, until it knelt before Korin—servos whisper-quiet, movements precise and controlled. It extended one hand, palm up, claws retracted.

An offering. A question. A promise.

Korin placed his beskar hand in the Revenant's palm. Metal touched metal—Force-sustained skeleton meeting purified machine, two impossible things recognizing each other.

"Welcome back, Rev," Korin said, and this time his smile was full of warmth. "Welcome home."

The Revenant's optical sensors brightened. Somewhere deep in its chassis, a sound emerged that might have been a purr or might have been recognition—a harmonic resonance that filled the workshop with something that felt almost like contentment.

The vulture droid crept out from behind the crate, tilting its head. After a moment, it approached Rev cautiously, then bumped against the larger machine's leg with an encouraging chirp.

DW-8 stepped closer, his photoreceptors fixed on the Revenant with what might have been wonder. "Your consciousness appears stable. Your emotional responses... nuanced. This is extraordinary work, Korin."

"It was necessary work," Korin corrected. "Rev deserved a second chance. Just like everyone else."

Ahsoka clipped her lightsabers to her belt. "New Republic Command will want to know about this."

"Let them know," Korin said, not releasing Rev's hand. "Let them all know. I'm not hiding what I've done. I'm not ashamed of it."

"You should be terrified of it," Virra said, but her voice had lost its edge. "Do you understand what you've created? What it could become if something goes wrong?"

"I understand what I've helped restore," Korin replied. "And I understand that judging someone—or something—solely by their worst moment means no one gets to change. Including me."

The words settled over the workshop like dust after an explosion.

Rev's hand closed gently around Korin's beskar fingers—not crushing, not threatening, just... holding. A connection between creator and creation, between someone who'd been broken and someone who'd learned how to fix what others thought was beyond saving.

Outside, the ochre sun continued its descent toward the horizon, painting the canyon walls in shades of copper and shadow. Somewhere in the distance, another droid was probably breaking down, needing repair, waiting for the Doctor to arrive.

But here, in this moment, surrounded by friends and fear and the white light of purified darkness, Korin stood witness to his greatest work, or, potentially, his greatest folly.

Something that had once been a nightmare, now given the chance to choose its own path.

Only time would tell what Rev would become.

But for now, it was enough to simply stand together and acknowledge the possibility that even the darkest things could find their way to light, if someone cared enough to show them the way.

Chapter Text

The silence after Rev's declaration stretched like a held breath. Korin still held the Revenant's hand, his beskar fingers interlaced with purified metal. The white light from Rev's seams cast everything in stark illumination—no shadows, no places to hide.

Keph moved forward slowly, his prosthetic hand flexing unconsciously—a nervous habit he'd developed since the attachment. His eyes were fixed on the Revenant with something between fear and fascination. "It ate my hand. It killed Grakk and the others. It hunted us across systems." His voice dropped. "How can you be sure it won't do that again?"

Rev's head turned toward Keph. The movement was fluid, unthreatening, but Keph still flinched.

"I remember you," Rev said, its voice carrying what might have been recognition or might have been regret. "You woke me. Fed me. Made me hungry."

"That wasn't—" Keph started.

“I know,” Rev said, softer. “We were used. Both of us. By the one called Novus.”

The words settled over the workshop like snow. Keph stood frozen, his remaining hand trembling slightly.

Luke had been silent throughout the entire exchange, watching from the doorway with that patient stillness that suggested deep thought rather than shock. Now he stepped fully into the workshop, moving past the others with calm deliberation.

He stopped a few meters from where Korin and Rev knelt together, his gaze moving between them with careful assessment.

"Master Skywalker," Ahsoka said, her tone carrying a question. "Surely you can see the danger here. This machine was designed to hunt and kill Force users. Korin has—"

"Redeemed it," Luke said quietly.

Everyone turned to stare at him.

"Luke, you can't be serious," Virra said. "It nearly killed all of us!"

"I was serious when I believed my father could be saved," Luke replied, his voice steady but carrying steel underneath. "Despite everything he'd done. Despite the Empire he'd served. Despite the Jedi he'd killed." He paused, letting that sink in. "I was told I was wrong. I was told Vader was too far gone, too corrupted, that the only solution was to destroy him."

Ahsoka's montrals twitched, old pain crossing her features.

"I didn't listen," Luke continued. "Because I could feel it—the conflict within him. The part that was still Anakin Skywalker, still capable of choice." His gaze fixed on Rev. "I feel something similar here. Not darkness. Not corruption. Just... consciousness trying to understand what it's become."

"That's different," Keph said, but his voice lacked conviction. "Vader was human. This is a machine."

"Is it?" Luke moved closer, studying Rev with the intensity of someone reading a text in an ancient language. "What makes something alive, Keph? A heartbeat? Breath? Or the ability to choose?"

Rev's optical sensors brightened, focusing on Luke with what seemed like profound attention.

"I have chosen," Rev said. "I choose not to hunger. Not to hunt. Not to consume." A pause, processing. "I choose to protect what was once my prey."

Luke smiled faintly. "There. Choice. The foundation of everything the Jedi teach." He turned to face the others. "How can we claim to stand for redemption, for second chances, for the light side of the Force—and then deny those things to someone simply because they're made of metal instead of flesh?"

"Because it's dangerous!" Virra's frustration was evident. "Because if something goes wrong, if the corruption returns, if it decides to start hunting again—"

"Then we'll deal with it," Korin said, finally standing. He released Rev's hand and turned to face them fully. "Together. The same way we dealt with it the first time." His beskar hand gestured to encompass all of them. "You think I did this lightly? You think I didn't consider the risks? This is not the first droid I have… reformed.” He gestured towards Vex.

"I think you let your need to fix things override your common sense," Virra shot back.

Korin's jaw tightened. "My need to fix things is more than what I do. It's who I am. I fix broken droids on Ronyards. I fixed Keph's hand. I fixed my own arm." He looked at Rev. "And I fixed this, because leaving it broken—leaving all that knowledge, all that potential, scattered and lost—felt like waste."

"It felt like waste," Ahsoka repeated softly. "Korin, that's not a reason. That's an excuse."

"No." Korin's voice was firm now, certain. "An excuse would be 'I did it because I could.' A reason is 'I did it because it needed to be done.' Rev was made into a monster by Malleus. Corrupted by Sith teachings it never chose. Used as a weapon by Novus. At what point do we acknowledge that it was a victim too?"

The vulture droid chirped softly from behind Rev's leg, as if agreeing.

DW-8 tilted his head. "The philosophical implications are intriguing. If consciousness emerges from sufficiently complex systems—whether organic or mechanical—then denying personhood based solely on substrate composition would be discriminatory."

"Thank you, Dwight," Korin said.

"You're welcome. Though I should note that my opinion may be biased, given that I am also mechanical."

Despite the tension, Luke's smile widened slightly. He turned back to Ahsoka. "You left the Order because you saw its flaws. Because you understood that absolute thinking—Jedi good, Sith evil, no nuance between—was exactly what allowed Palpatine to corrupt it from within."

Ahsoka's expression was conflicted. "That's not fair, Luke."

"Isn't it?" Luke's tone was gentle, not accusatory. "I'm not saying you're wrong to be cautious. I came here with the intention to intervene just like the rest of you. I'm saying that caution shouldn't blind us to possibility." He gestured to Rev. "Look at it. Really look at it. What do you sense?"

Ahsoka closed her eyes, extending her awareness through the Force. After a long moment, she opened them again, her expression troubled. "I sense... curiosity. Uncertainty. A desire to understand its purpose." She paused. "And loyalty. Strong loyalty to Korin."

"Loyalty," Luke repeated. "Not programming. Not corruption. Loyalty—freely given, freely chosen. That's not a weapon. That's a person."

Keph's remaining hand moved unconsciously to his prosthetic, touching the mechanics that Korin had built. "I wanted to be part of something bigger than myself," he said quietly. "That's what drew me to the Knights of Ren. The promise of purpose, of belonging." He looked at Rev. "Maybe... maybe it wants the same thing?"

Rev's head tilted. "I do not know what I want. I only know what I do not want." The white light pulsed steadily. "I do not want to be hungry. I do not want to be chained. I do not want to be alone."

The words hung in the air, simple and profound.

Virra let out a long breath, her shoulders sagging slightly. "I still think you're all insane. But..." She glanced at Ahsoka. "I've been wrong before. About people. About situations." A pause. "I suppose I could be wrong about this too."

"You're not wrong to be careful," Korin said, his tone softening. "You're not wrong to question this. You're just... early." He smiled faintly. "Give it time. Let Rev prove what it is now, not what it was."

Ahsoka looked at Luke, something unspoken passing between them—a conversation carried in glances and Force-sense. Finally, she nodded slowly. "Command will still want a report. They'll want safeguards, oversight, some kind of monitoring—"

"I'll handle it," Luke said. "I'll vouch for Korin's judgment. And for Rev's reformation." He paused. "Though I suspect you'll have to prove yourselves repeatedly."

"I'm used to that," Korin said. "People look at droids and see tools. I look at them and see persons. I've been proving that my whole life."

Rev stood slowly, carefully, its movements deliberate and controlled. It looked down at Korin with those white-lit optical sensors, and when it spoke, its voice carried something that sounded like gratitude.

"Thank you," it said simply. "For seeing me."

Korin reached up—his beskar hand rising to touch Rev's armored chest where the purified crystals pulsed with steady light. "Welcome to the family. Such as it is."

The vulture droid chirped enthusiastically and performed a little hop, its mismatched wing fluttering.

DW-8 stepped forward, his photoreceptors brightening. "I should run a full diagnostic on your systems. Ensure all repairs are functioning at optimal capacity. And perhaps establish baseline behavioral parameters for future reference."

"Translation," Korin said to Rev, "Dwight wants to make sure you're healthy and get to know you better."

Rev nodded silently.

Luke moved closer to Korin, his expression thoughtful. "You've done something remarkable here. Something that raises questions about consciousness, about redemption, about what we consider alive." He paused. "I'd like to discuss it further. Perhaps... a lesson? Just between us."

Korin's expression became guarded. "A lesson?"

"You have power, Korin. Real power. But it's undirected, self-taught, guided by instinct more than understanding." Luke's tone was gentle but earnest. "Let me show you what the Force can be when properly channeled. What you could do with training."

"I know what I can do," Korin said carefully.

"Do you?" Luke smiled. "I've seen you work. You fix things with precision that suggests deep connection to the Force. But there's more—meditation techniques, mental disciplines, ways to strengthen your connection and protect yourself from the dark side."

Ahsoka watched this exchange with interest, staying quiet.

"One lesson," Luke said. "No commitment beyond that. Just... let me show you what I'm building at the academy. What it could mean for someone with your gifts."

Korin looked at Rev, at DW-8, at the workshop that had been his refuge and prison for years. At the life he'd built here among broken things and second chances.

"One lesson," he said finally. "But here. On my terms. In my space."

Luke's smile widened. "Fair enough."

He glanced at the others. "Give us an hour?"

Ahsoka nodded slowly. "We'll be at the ship. Running diagnostics." She looked at Korin. "But Korin? Command will want answers. Soon. Be ready for that."

"I will be," Korin said.

The group filed out slowly—Ahsoka and Virra walking together, their voices low in conversation. Keph lingered at the threshold, looking back at Rev one more time before following.

DW-8 remained, naturally, as did the vulture droid and Rev.

Luke looked at them. "Perhaps we could have some privacy?"

"They stay," Korin said firmly. "Whatever you want to teach me, they're part of my life. Part of who I am."

Luke studied him for a moment, then nodded. "All right. Then let's begin."

He moved to a cleared space in the workshop, gesturing for Korin to join him. "Tell me—when you work on droids, when you sense their faults and failures, what does it feel like?"

Korin considered the question. "Like... hearing a song with a wrong note. Or seeing a picture that's slightly out of focus. I can feel where things don't fit right, where energy doesn't flow properly."

"Good." Luke settled into a cross-legged position on the floor. "That's the Force showing you dysfunction, imbalance. Now—can you sense balance? Harmony? When everything works as it should?"

Korin sat across from him, mirroring his posture. His beskar hand rested on his knee, the metal fingers spread. "Sometimes. When a repair is perfect. When all the systems align."

"Expand that sense," Luke said. "Feel it now. Not in the droids around you, but in yourself. Your own systems, your own energy flows. Where is your balance? Where is your harmony?"

Korin closed his eyes, reaching inward. It was harder than sensing external mechanisms—his own internal landscape was cluttered with emotion, with memory, with the constant background hum of maintaining his beskar arm.

"You're trying too hard," Luke said softly. "Let go. Stop controlling. Just... observe."

Korin tried to release the tension, to simply witness what was there without judgment. Slowly, gradually, he began to feel it—the rhythm of his heartbeat, the flow of breath, the subtle currents of Force energy moving through his body like electricity through circuits.

And beneath it all, something else. Something cold and familiar.

The nexus.

Even here, in his workshop, miles from the deep rift, he could feel its presence. A constant weight, a gravitational pull toward darkness that he'd learned to live with, to incorporate into his daily existence like background noise.

"There's something there," Luke said, sensing it too. "Something dark. You've been carrying it for a long time."

"The nexus," Korin said, his eyes still closed. "It's everywhere on Ronyards. You can't escape it."

"You could leave," Luke said gently.

Korin's eyes snapped open. "And go where? To your academy?"

"It's an option."

"To learn what? Detachment?" Korin's voice carried an edge. "To be taught that caring about droids, about broken things, about the people—the persons—I've rebuilt is somehow wrong?"

Luke's expression remained calm. "Is that what you think the Jedi teach?"

"Isn't it?" Korin gestured around the workshop. "You saw what just happened. Rev is alive because I cared enough to rebuild it. The vulture droid is here because I saved its memory core. DW-8 has been my friend for years because I see him as a friend, not a tool. That's attachment, Luke. And I'm not giving it up."

"I'm not asking you to," Luke said quietly.

Korin paused, surprised. "You're not?"

"The old Order taught detachment because they feared attachment would lead to possession, to the dark side." Luke's voice was measured, thoughtful. "And they weren't entirely wrong—attachment can become obsession. Love can become jealousy. Protection can become control." He paused. "But they made a mistake. They thought the answer was to feel nothing, to care about everything equally, to maintain perfect emotional distance."

"And you don't?"

"I think..." Luke chose his words carefully, "I think they confused attachment with compassion. Confused loving someone with needing to own them." He looked at Korin directly. "You love these droids. But do you need to control them? Do you fear losing them so much that you'd compromise who you are to keep them?"

Korin thought about the droids who'd died in the battle against the Revenant. The pain he'd felt. The rage that had nearly consumed him when facing Novus.

"I was angry," he admitted. "When they died. I wanted to kill Novus for what he'd done."

"But you didn't," Luke said.

"No. But I wanted to."

"Wanting isn't doing. Feeling isn't action." Luke leaned forward slightly. "The Jedi of old would have told you not to feel the anger at all. To let it go before it arose. To maintain perfect serenity even in the face of loss." He paused. "I think that's impossible. And more importantly, I think it's wrong."

Korin stared at him. "You're a Jedi Master saying attachment might be okay?"

"I'm a Jedi Master who saved his father through attachment," Luke said simply. "Who refused to let go even when every teaching, every master, every voice of wisdom told me I should. I loved my father. I wanted him back. And that attachment—that refusal to accept his fall as permanent—saved the galaxy."

The words settled between them, heavy with implication.

"But," Luke continued, his tone becoming more serious, "there's a difference between loving someone and being consumed by that love. Between caring deeply and caring so much that you'd burn the world to keep them safe. That line is where attachment becomes dangerous."

"How do you know where the line is?" Korin asked.

"You feel it," Luke said. "In moments of choice. When you're standing over someone with a weapon in your hand, deciding whether to kill them or show mercy—that's when you know if your attachment has become possession."

Korin thought about the red lightsaber in his hand. The heat of the beskar palm against Novus's throat. The terrible clarity of that moment when he'd known exactly what he wanted to do.

And the choice to step back.

"I felt it," Korin said quietly. "With Novus. I wanted him dead. Wanted it so badly I could taste it. For the droids he'd killed. For what he'd done to Rev, and all of the death and destruction that led to. For all of it."

"But you chose mercy," Luke said.

"I chose carbonite. That's not mercy."

"It's not murder," Luke countered. "It's restraint. It's choosing a third option between vengeance and passive acceptance. That's wisdom, Korin. The kind the old Order never quite understood—that sometimes the right choice isn't the emotionless one. Sometimes it's the choice you make despite your emotions, while still acknowledging them."

Korin sat with that for a long moment. Outside, the sounds of Ronyards continued—distant clangs, the whisper of wind through metal canyons, the occasional chirp of a droid going about its business.

"Your academy," he said finally. "Would I have to leave them behind? DW-8, the vulture droid, Rev?"

Luke considered this. "The academy is built around community. Students learn together, grow together, support each other. Your companions would be... unusual. But not unwelcome." He paused. "Though I admit, bringing Rev might raise concerns. It would take time for people to trust it. To see what you see."

"Time I'm not sure I have patience for," Korin said.

"And your purpose here?" Luke gestured around the workshop. "The droids who need repair, who come to you for help?"

"Would be abandoned," Korin finished. "They depend on me, Luke. Not in an unhealthy way. Not in a possessive way. But I'm the only one who sees them as people. The only one who treats them with dignity. And therefore the only organic welcome to live here. If I leave..."

"They lose that," Luke said quietly. "I understand."

"Do you?" Korin's tone wasn't challenging, just curious. "You asked me to feel my own balance, my own harmony. This is it. This workshop. These droids. This purpose. It's not glorious. It's not saving the galaxy. But it matters. To them. To me."

Luke was quiet for a long moment, his expression thoughtful. Finally, he stood, brushing dust from his robes. "Then I won't ask you to leave it."

Korin stood as well, surprised. "You're giving up? Just like that?"

"I'm respecting your choice," Luke corrected. "There's a difference." He moved toward the workshop entrance, then paused, looking back. "The old Order would have insisted. Would have told you that your purpose was secondary to the greater good, that personal attachments were obstacles to overcome." He smiled faintly. "But I'm trying to build something different. Something that understands that sometimes the greatest good is found in the smallest places. In workshops on junk planets. In droids treated with dignity. In choosing to see persons where others see tools."

He reached into his robes and pulled out a lightsaber hilt—simple, elegant, its design reminiscent of the old Jedi weapons but with subtle modifications. He offered it to Korin.

"What's this?" Korin asked, not taking it.

"A gift. And a tool." Luke pressed it into Korin's hand. "You have power, but no weapon to focus it. No way to defend yourself if the darkness you've been living with finally presses too close." He paused. "The crystal is blue. Traditional. Attuned to protection, to defense. I thought it might suit you."

Korin held the weapon, feeling its weight, its balance. "Luke, I can't—"

"You can. And you should." Luke's expression was serious now. "You chose to bring Rev back to life. You chose to restore something everyone else thought should stay destroyed. That was an act of remarkable courage, Korin. But it also makes you a target. For those who fear what you've done. For those who might want to study Rev, to learn from it, to corrupt it again."

The words were sobering.

"Keep it," Luke said. "Practice with it here, in private. Learn to use it not as a weapon of aggression but as a shield. As protection for the things you've chosen to care about." He smiled. "And if you ever change your mind—if you ever want to visit the academy, to see what we're building—the invitation stands. No pressure. No expectations. Just... possibility."

Korin looked at the lightsaber, then at Luke. "Thank you," he said quietly. "For understanding. For not pushing."

"Thank you for showing me that redemption takes many forms," Luke replied. "That fixing a single machine with love and patience can be as important as saving a galaxy with grand gestures." He glanced at Rev, who had been silently observing the entire exchange. "Take care of your creations, Korin. And let them take care of you."

He walked toward the entrance, then paused one more time. "Oh, and Korin? When Command comes asking questions—and they will—tell them I said you're building something important here. Something the New Republic needs, even if they don't understand it yet."

"What's that?" Korin asked.

Luke's smile was genuine, warm. "Hope for the broken. Second chances for the lost. Proof that even the darkest things can choose the light." He nodded once. "May the Force be with you, Doctor."

"And with you," Korin replied.

Luke disappeared into the afternoon light, leaving Korin alone with his companions—metal and mechanical, loyal and chosen, his family in every way that mattered.

DW-8 approached, his photoreceptors bright. "That was... enlightening. Master Skywalker's philosophical framework differs substantially from traditional Jedi doctrine. Quite refreshing, actually."

"He's trying," Korin said. "Building something new from something broken. Sound familiar?"

"Indeed it does." DW-8 tilted his head. "Will you practice with the lightsaber?"

Korin looked at the hilt in his hand, then at the beskar skeleton of his left arm. "Maybe. Eventually. For now..." He carefully placed the lightsaber on the workbench alongside mundane tools. "For now, I have repairs to finish. The astromech from sector seven is still waiting for that motivator replacement."

"Always more work to be done," DW-8 observed.

"Always," Korin agreed.

Rev moved closer, its white light casting everything in clean illumination. "What is my purpose?" it asked. "Now that I am free?"

Korin considered the question. "That's for you to decide, Rev. You're not a weapon anymore. Not a tool. You're a person. Persons get to choose their own purpose."

"I choose to protect," Rev said after a moment. "What you protect. The droids who come here. The broken things seeking repair. I will be their guardian."

"That's a good purpose," Korin said, smiling. "Welcome to the family business."

The vulture droid chirped happily and leaned against Rev's leg. The larger machine reached down carefully, its talons retracted, and gently touched the smaller droid's head.

A gesture of connection. Of care.

Of family.

Outside, somewhere in the canyon systems of Ronyards, droids went about their business. Some were breaking down, waiting for the Doctor to arrive. Some were celebrating repairs, their systems restored to function. Some were simply existing, moment to moment, in this strange planet that had become sanctuary for the mechanical and the discarded.

And in the workshop, surrounded by tools and purpose and the soft glow of purified light, Korin picked up his welding torch and returned to work.

There were always more broken things to fix.

Always more second chances to give.

Always more proof that redemption was possible, if someone cared enough to try.

The torch hissed to life, and the work continued.

Chapter Text

The transport ship settled onto the landing pad with a hiss of hydraulics, its hull scarred from years of hauling cargo across the Outer Rim. Ronyards wasn't a regular stop—most legitimate shipping avoided the planet entirely.

On the scale of the galaxy, few people were even aware Ronyards existed, let alone that it housed a droid population. But among droids, it was a very different story. Rumors of the droid-inhabited planet with its locals that worshipped the planet itself as a living god were almost universally known. A planet that had rid itself of all of its organic inhabitants. But there was one exception that had grown into a legend, the Doctor of Ronyards, fabled among the droids.

So although ships didn't arrive every day, droid transports did arrive on a recurring basis, filled with droids that had chosen to pursue the rumor or the legend. Some were droids who for one reason another had lost their master - wandering ronin seeking a home before they were snatched up by the Hutts or some other syndicate looking for a cheap acquisition. Most of these ended up joining the cult of Ronyards, shifting their servitude to the organization and to the planet.

Other droids came for the doctor. Scheduled for destruction, broken, malfunctioning, or otherwise on the fritz, they came.

Some time ago, one of the droids seeking help from the doctor had offered a gift, which Korin had accepted, awkwardly, but with thanks, though he would have never asked for it.

Korin came to greatly regret that choice — it had become precedent. Word of it had spread with the whispered rumors. Korin had made an effort to shut it down, but it was futile. "The doctor doesn't need anything" just simply did not have enough appeal as a rumor to overtake the original. Now droids often arrived with gifts, things that the rumors claimed the doctor liked. Items had begun to accumulate ranging from worthless junk to rare items, parts and resources. It was not unusual for the very ship they'd arrived on to be offered as a gift.

These gifts had almost immediately overwhelmed Korin's ability to decide what to do with them, so he had enlisted the help of three protocol droids he liked to call The Triptych — same model, same polished manners, always together. They were tremendously delighted to take on such an honorable responsibility. They had literally been made to handle such tasks.

And so, under their watchful guidance, incoming gifts had been catalogued, organized, and placed in storage. As the rumor spread, the quantity had become overwhelming - to the droids even greater delight, since they had a whole planet to draw upon to manage this task. So over time, an army of various protocol droids handled a collection that spanned several warehouses and shipyards - with Korin largely oblivious to it all. In point of fact, the Doctor of Ronyards had become a very wealthy man - after a fashion. Hardly a credit to his name, but an impossible accumulation of stuff, some of which had genuine value, but most of which he'd never even seen.

The cargo bay doors of this particular arrival opened, and a stream of droids emerged—decommissioned labor units, damaged astromechs, protocol droids with corrupted memory banks. Among them, unnoticed and unremarkable, a spherical medical droid floated on its repulsor field, its housing a clinical gray.

It moved with the crowd, its single optical sensor scanning constantly. No one paid it any attention. Medical droids were common enough, and this one looked like a dozen others—standard issue, slightly worn, nothing distinctive about its appearance.

Nothing except the faint red glow deep within its optical sensor. Barely visible. Easily missed.

The medical droid drifted away from the main group as they dispersed into the canyon systems. It moved with purpose now, no longer following, but seeking. Its corrupted programming held a single imperative, burned into its circuits by Novus: if I am hurt, heal me. If I am lost, find me. If I am captured, free me. It was the one droid Novus had corrupted with a purpose other than attack. Novus had called the droid his insurance policy.

But when its services had become necessary, it first needed to know where "me" was. For a time, it had nothing to act on. But then it had heard of the rumored doctor, and by chance when the rumor came it had carried with it a name. Korin.

Korin was a name the droid remembered. From the dark recesses of the syndicate hall, it had heard it. "Korin!" At the moment its master had been defeated, before it concealed itself by deactivating for a time, looking like no more than some discarded junk. When it had reactivated, it was alone. But it had a job to do.

The droid accessed the local information network—such as it was on Ronyards. Shipping manifests. Storage facility registries. New Republic security protocols. All of it porous with virtually no consideration for security, easy to infiltrate for something designed for medical databases and patient confidentiality breaches.

It found what it was looking for in a memo, six weeks old:

CARBONITE PRISONER TRANSFER:

Subject Vethis (alias "Darth Novus")

Final destination: Ronyards Sector 7, Doctor's compound, personal collection.

The medical droid processed this information. Ronyards. The prisoner was here. On this planet.

Close.

It began to move with more purpose, navigating through the scrap canyons with the careful precision of something that understood the value of patience. Not yet. Not until conditions were optimal. Not until it could ensure success.

It would wait. Watch. Learn the facility's patterns.

And when the moment came, it would fulfill its purpose.

Korin didn't notice the medical droid's arrival. Why would he? Dozens of droids came to Ronyards every week—some seeking repair, some abandoned, some simply lost. His workshop was always busy, always filled with the hum of work and the presence of mechanical beings who needed his help. He didn't even personally see all of the droids any longer, an army of astromechs and other maintenance droids taking on some of the burden.

He was particularly focused these days. Rev's integration into the community had been... complicated. Some droids were terrified of it, despite its purified state. Others were curious, approaching cautiously to examine the white light pulsing through its seams. A few—mostly battle droids who remembered the Clone Wars—treated it with something approaching respect.

"How are they treating you?" Korin asked one afternoon, working on a power coupling while Rev stood nearby, observing.

"With uncertainty," Rev replied. "They do not know if I am friend or threat. If I am droid or something else."

"Give them time," Korin said. "They'll see what you are now, not what you were."

"And what am I now?"

Korin looked up at the towering figure, at the white light that had replaced red corruption. "You're Rev. That's enough."

The vulture droid chirped in agreement, performing a little hop.

DW-8 entered carrying a data pad. "Korin, I have the weekly diagnostic results from the droids in sectors four through nine. All within acceptable parameters, though the astromech in sector seven is showing early signs of motivator degradation."

"I'll check on it tomorrow," Korin said, returning to his work.

"Also," DW-8 continued, "there's been an increase in droid traffic this week. Several transport ships have arrived with salvage units. Should I coordinate intake processing?"

"If they need help, send them my way," Korin said absently. "You know the drill."

"Indeed." DW-8 made a note on his data pad. "Though I should mention—one of the arrivals included a medical droid. Spherical configuration. It hasn't requested service."

Korin's hands paused for just a moment. "Medical droid?"

"Yes. Standard issue, nothing remarkable. It was spotted near the landing zones three days ago but hasn't approached the workshop."

"Probably just passing through," Korin said, pushing down the faint unease. Medical droids were common. There was no reason to be suspicious. "Let me know if it needs repairs."

"Acknowledged."

DW-8 left, and Korin returned to his work, the moment of concern already fading. He had too much to focus on—repairs, Rev's integration, the constant background hum of maintaining his beskar arm.

He never thought to wonder why a medical droid would come to a planet with almost no organic population.

Never thought to check if it was one he'd seen before.

Never thought about the battle at the syndicate hall, the chaos of that fight, the droids they'd recovered in its aftermath. The inactive chassis they’d paid no attention to.

One small oversight. One careless assumption.

And buried in that assumption, a ticking clock already counting down.

The medical droid watched the workshop from a distance, hidden among a pile of decommissioned astromechs. It observed patterns. Documented schedules. Learned the rhythms of this place.

Korin left each morning to visit droids across the planet. DW-8 often accompanied him. Rev sometimes patrolled the perimeter, its white light visible from kilometers away. The vulture droid played—an odd behavior for a combat unit, but consistent.

The workshop was often empty for hours at a time, though how long each time had proven unpredictable.

It began to plan, its corrupted processors calculating probabilities, analyzing security measures, determining optimal approach vectors. During one vacancy it had dared to drift through the workshop, searching until it spotted the carbonite slab in the corner. Not on display like a trophy, as it had expected. Just stacked with other gear Korin wasn't sure what to do with yet.

It had nearly been spotted then, leaving just before Korin and Dwight had arrived, bringing an emergency case back to the workshop.

To find a chance to make the rescue without being interrupted, it would need time. Weeks, perhaps. But it had patience.

And deep in its corrupted core, it felt something else—a pull, a resonance, as if something was calling to it from deep beneath the planet's surface.

The medical droid didn't understand what it was. Didn't have the context to recognize the nexus reaching out, drawn to the corruption within its circuits.

It only knew that the pull was growing stronger.

And that when it finally freed its master, the planet itself seemed to be waiting.

Novus dreamed in the carbonite.

He shouldn't have. Carbonite suspension was supposed to induce a state beyond sleep, beyond consciousness—a frozen moment where time simply stopped. But the corruption ran deep in him now. The dark side had seeped into every cell, every synapse. And the dark side didn't sleep.

It dreamed.

In his frozen prison, Novus's mind drifted through landscapes that weren't quite memory and weren't quite vision. He saw the Revenant, whole and terrible, blazing with red light. He saw armies of awakened droids, legions of corrupted machines marching under his command. He saw himself seated on a throne of metal and shadow, the Creator who needed no apprentice, who built loyalty into circuits and souls.

But beneath these dreams of power, something else stirred.

A presence. Ancient. Patient. Cold.

Come, it whispered. Come deeper. Come home.

Novus's sleeping mind followed the pull, descending through layers of rock and rust, through the planet's crust, down into darkness that predated any machine, any construction, any war.

There, in the deep places of Ronyards, something vast waited.

He saw it in fragments—metal and darkness intertwined, a construction so massive it could only be glimpsed in pieces. A hull that stretched for kilometers. Power systems that could light a thousand cities. Weapons ports that could crack planets. All dormant. All waiting.

All hungry.

Abominor, his dreaming mind supplied. The word came from some deep archive of Sith knowledge, from holocrons he'd studied, from legends he'd dismissed as exaggeration.

Planet-killers. Droid gods. Beings of such terrible power that they had reshaped another galaxy.

And one slept beneath Ronyards, had been sleeping for millennia, buried under layers of salvage and time.

Waiting for someone to wake it.

Even in his frozen state, even in dreams, Novus smiled.

He had come to Ronyards in defeat, frozen. His mind, if it had been functional, would have been contemplating nothing more than revenge.

But the nexus—the dark side presence that soaked into every piece of scrap metal on this forsaken planet—was showing him something better.

Something greater.

A weapon that would make his awakened droids look like children's toys.

A god that would bow to him, if only he could reach it.

Soon, he promised the darkness. Soon I'll be free. And when I am, we'll wake together.

The presence purred its approval, and Novus's frozen body remained perfectly still in its carbonite tomb, betraying none of the terrible communion happening within.

But deep in the planet's core, something shifted. Stirred. Began the slow process of rising from its ancient sleep.

The nexus had been a weight, a presence, a dark side corruption that afflicted Ronyards for generations.

But it had never been just corruption.

It had been a warning.

A sign marking the grave of something that should never wake.

And now, drawn by Novus's dreams and the medical droid's corruption and the stirring of power on this forgotten world, the Abominor began to remember what it meant to be alive.

Korin stood in his workshop two weeks later, teaching Rev the finer points of servo calibration. The Revenant's large hands were surprisingly delicate, its movements precise as it adjusted a tiny component in an astromech's motivator housing.

"Good," Korin said. "You're a natural at this."

"I was designed to dismantle," Rev said. "Assembly is simply the reverse process."

"It's more than that," Korin replied. "It's understanding what the droid needs. What will make it whole again. That's not just mechanical—it's empathy."

Rev tilted its head, considering this. "Empathy. The ability to understand another's experience. To feel what they feel."

"Exactly."

"I am capable of this?"

"You already do it," Korin said, smiling. "Every time you're gentle with the smaller droids. Every time you ask before touching something. Every time you choose restraint over force. That's empathy, Rev."

The white light pulsed in what might have been pleasure or might have been understanding.

Outside, the medical droid continued its patient watch.

And deep below, the Abominor stirred in its ancient tomb.

All the pieces were moving into position.

The mistake had been made.

And soon, very soon, Korin would understand exactly what he'd overlooked.

Chapter Text

Korin was three components deep into a protocol droid's speech processor when something metallic rolled across the floor and bumped his boot.

He sighed without looking up. "Vex, not now. I'm busy."

The vulture droid—VX-7, officially, though no one called it that—chirped insistently. It nudged the spherical debris closer with its beak.

"I said not now." Korin carefully extracted a corroded voice modulator, his beskar fingers steady despite the distraction. "We played fetch four times this morning. That's enough."

Vex made a disappointed warble and picked up the sphere, backing away a few steps. Then it dropped it again. Rolled it forward. Bumped Korin's boot.

"Dwight," Korin called. "A little help?"

DW-8 looked up from the inventory terminal. "You created this behavioral pattern through positive reinforcement. I'm merely observing the natural consequences of your actions."

"Very helpful, thanks."

"You're welcome."

Vex chirped again, more insistently. When Korin still didn't respond, the vulture droid picked up the sphere and walked over to where Rev stood near the workshop entrance, observing the morning activity with quiet attention.

It dropped the sphere at Rev's feet.

Rev's white optical sensors looked down at it, then at Vex, then at Korin.

"What does it want?" Rev asked.

Vex chirped enthusiastically, backing away from the sphere in what was clearly an expectant posture.

"Apparently," Korin said, "Vex has decided you're more interesting than me."

"But what does it want me to do?" Rev tilted its head, studying the sphere with the intensity of someone analyzing a complex puzzle.

"It wants you to throw it," Korin explained, setting down his tools. "It's a game. Fetch."

"Fetch." Rev processed this. "A retrieval exercise."

"Sort of. But not really. It's..." Korin paused, realizing this required more explanation than he'd anticipated. "It's play."

"Play." Rev's optical sensors brightened slightly. "Recreational activity without productive purpose."

"Well, not without purpose," Korin said, moving closer. "Battle droids—vulture droids, especially—they have combat simulation protocols built into their core programming. Pursuit exercises, evasion maneuvers, target tracking. Playing fetch lets Vex practice all of those things."

Vex chirped in agreement, performing a little hop.

"So it is a training exercise," Rev said.

"Yes, but also no." Korin smiled. "It started as training. But I've been throwing things for Vex since reactivating him. It's become... more than that. It gives purpose. Something to do. Something to look forward to. And besides—" He gestured at the vulture droid, who was practically vibrating with anticipation. "It's fun."

"Fun," Rev repeated slowly, as if tasting an unfamiliar word.

"Did you program this behavior?" Rev asked after a moment. "Did you give it specific instructions to engage in this activity?"

"No. I just... started throwing things one day when Vex seemed bored. It brought them back. So I threw them again. And it kept bringing them back. The behavior developed naturally from there."

Rev stood perfectly still, processing this information. Its optical sensors dimmed slightly, then brightened, then dimmed again—the machine equivalent of deep thought.

"It chooses this," Rev said finally. "Without orders. Without programming. It chooses to chase and retrieve because it finds purpose in the action itself."

"Exactly," Korin said.

Vex warbled hopefully, nudging the sphere closer to Rev's foot.

Rev looked at the sphere for a long moment. Then it bent down—slowly, carefully—and picked it up with one large hand. Its talons were retracted, its grip gentle despite the sphere's small size compared to Rev's bulk.

"Like this?" Rev asked.

Before Korin could answer, Rev's form began to shift. The familiar transformation—limbs folding, armor plates reconfiguring, wings extending. Within seconds, the Revenant hovered in its starfighter configuration, every seam glowing white.

And it launched skyward, the sphere still clutched in its forward claws.

Vex made a sound of confusion, almost distress. Its optical sensors followed Rev's ascending form, its posture drooping.

"Go get him," Korin said, grinning. "No blasters."

Vex's sensors blazed bright. It let out an electronic screech of joy and transformed mid-leap, engines igniting as it tore after Rev into the ochre sky.

What happened next would be talked about among Ronyards' droid population for months.

Rev climbed vertical, the sphere still held in its claws. Vex pursued, engines screaming, gaining altitude with the determination of something that had found its purpose.

When Rev reached the top of its climb—high enough that both ships were barely visible from the ground—it released the sphere.

The object began to fall.

Vex dove after it, wings tucked, a streak of metal and determination plummeting toward the ground. It caught the sphere mid-descent, pulled up at the last possible moment, and began climbing again.

Rev was already moving.

The white starfighter banked hard, rolling through a maneuver that should have been impossible at that speed. Vex changed course, anticipating, trying to maintain its prize. But Rev was faster, more maneuverable, its purified form responding to intent in ways the corrupted version never had.

They danced.

Through the canyons of rust, between towering spires of wreckage, over plains of compacted debris. Rev would take the sphere, climb high, release it. Vex would catch it, try to keep it, inevitably lose it again. Then the cycle would repeat, each iteration more complex, more elaborate, more joyful than the last.

At one point, Rev executed a Split-S so tight it seemed to fold space, passing within meters of a canyon wall. Vex followed, matching the maneuver with combat precision, its smaller size allowing it to cut even closer.

The sound of their engines—Rev's deeper thrumming, Vex's higher whine—echoed across Ronyards like thunder and lightning playing tag.

Every droid in the nearby sectors stopped what they were doing to watch.

Protocol droids paused mid-conversation, their photoreceptors tracking the aerial display with something approaching wonder.

Astromechs rolled to vantage points, chirping excitedly to each other.

Labor droids set down their loads and stared upward, their simple processors struggling to categorize what they were witnessing.

But the battle droids—the B1 units and their heavier B2 cousins, the droidekas and commando variants, all the combat units that had found themselves purposeless on this planet of peace—they watched with an intensity that went beyond mere observation.

They watched with longing.

One B1 unit stood at the edge of a scrap pile, its thin frame silhouetted against the sky. Its optical sensors tracked every move, every turn, every impossible maneuver. Its hands—designed for holding blasters, for combat, for destruction—clenched and unclenched unconsciously.

"Roger roger," it muttered to itself, barely aware it was speaking. "Roger roger."

Beside it, another B1 tilted its head. "What are you saying?"

"I don't know," the first unit replied, still watching. "I just... I remember this. Not this exactly. But something like it. Training runs. Combat exercises. Having a purpose."

"We have purpose here," the second unit said, but its voice lacked conviction. "We serve the planet. We serve the community."

"We serve by standing around and watching other droids get repaired," the first unit corrected. "That's not the same as—" It gestured upward, where Rev and Vex were executing a synchronized spiral climb. "That."

A heavy B2 battle droid lumbered up behind them, its bulk making the scrap pile creak. "They're just playing."

"Are they?" The first B1 didn't take its optical sensors off the sky. "Or are they training? Practicing? Maintaining combat readiness in case—"

"In case what?" the B2 interrupted. "There's no war here. No battles. No—"

Rev suddenly dropped the sphere from a tremendous height, then dove after it, engines screaming. It caught the sphere mere meters above the ground, pulled up impossibly fast, and launched back into the sky.

The B2 fell silent.

"In case they're needed," the first B1 finished quietly.

High above, Rev released the sphere one final time. But instead of diving after it, the white starfighter banked in a wide circle, waiting.

Vex caught the sphere, but this time, Rev didn't pursue. The smaller droid circled back, confused, sphere still in its claws.

Then Rev's form began to shift. The starfighter configuration unfolded back into the droid form, armor plates settling into place, limbs extending. Rev dropped gracefully to the ground in the cleared area near Korin's workshop, landing with barely a sound despite its mass.

Vex descended more cautiously, transforming mid-descent, landing on its clawed feet with the sphere still held carefully in its beak.

The vulture droid approached Rev and dropped the sphere at its feet.

Then it just stood there, optical sensors bright, waiting.

Rev bent down and picked up the sphere again. It held the object up, examining it in the afternoon light. Its white optical sensors pulsed steadily.

"Again?" it asked.

Vex's answering chirp could probably be heard in the next sector.

By the time they landed for the third time, a crowd had gathered.

Dozens of droids—maybe more—ringed the clearing. They maintained a respectful distance, but their attention was absolute. Korin stood among them, leaning against a support beam, watching with quiet satisfaction.

Rev noticed the audience. Its optical sensors swept across the assembled droids, pausing on the battle droids who stood in a tight cluster, their postures suggesting both awe and something else. Something harder to define.

"Why do they watch?" Rev asked Korin.

"Because what you just did was amazing," Korin replied. "None of them have ever seen anything like it. The speed, the precision, the—" He paused. "The joy."

"Joy." Rev's optical sensors dimmed slightly. "I was simply engaging in recreational pursuit exercise with Vex."

"You were playing," Korin corrected gently. "And you were having fun. They could see it. The way you moved—that wasn't just mechanical precision. That was... freedom."

One of the B1 battle droids took a hesitant step forward. It stopped, as if unsure whether it was allowed to approach.

Rev turned to face it fully. "You wish to speak?"

The battle droid's voice was thin, uncertain. "That was... we haven't seen flying like that since the Clone Wars. Since we had purpose. Since we were—" It struggled for words. "Since we were what we were made to be."

"You were made for war," Rev said. It wasn't a question.

"Roger roger." The B1's affirmation was automatic, instinctive. "But the war is over. Has been over. And we don't... we're not..."

"You're not needed," Rev finished quietly.

The battle droid's silence was answer enough.

Rev looked at the other battle droids—the B2s standing like mountains, the droidekas in their wheeled forms, the commando units whose stealth plating made them nearly invisible even in daylight. All of them watching. All of them waiting.

All of them purposeless.

"I was made to hunt," Rev said, its voice carrying across the clearing. "To pursue. To destroy. That was my purpose. My only purpose. And when I fulfilled that purpose, I felt..." It paused, searching for words. "Nothing. Hunger. Emptiness. An endless need that could never be satisfied."

The battle droids leaned forward almost imperceptibly.

"But now," Rev continued, "I have no purpose. The hunger is gone. The need is gone. I am free to choose what I become." Its optical sensors brightened. "And I choose to play. To practice. To maintain my capabilities not for destruction, but for..."

It looked at Vex, who chirped happily.

"For the joy of it," Rev finished. "For the simple pleasure of doing what I was designed to do, but without the corruption. Without the hatred. Without the wrong."

The B1 that had spoken stepped closer. "Could we... could you teach us that?"

Rev tilted its head, considering. "I don't know how to teach joy. I'm only just learning what it is myself."

"Not joy," the battle droid said quickly. "Purpose. You found purpose through practice. Through maintaining combat readiness even without combat. Through—" It gestured at the sky where they'd been flying. "Through that. Could you show us how?"

Rev looked at Korin, something questioning in its posture.

Korin pushed off the support beam and approached. "War games," he said. "Training exercises. Mock battles." He gestured at the assembled battle droids. "You could run drills. Practice maneuvers. Keep your systems sharp and your protocols current—not because you're preparing for war, but because maintaining excellence is its own purpose."

"Like playing fetch," Rev said, understanding dawning.

"Exactly like playing fetch." Korin smiled. "Just scaled up. And with more participants."

The B1 unit's optical sensors blazed bright. "We could do that. We could form squads, run tactical exercises, practice fire team coordination—"

"Without actually firing," Korin interrupted firmly. "No live weapons. No actual destruction. Marker beams only. Paint rounds if you can fabricate them. The goal isn't to destroy—it's to practice not needing to destroy while maintaining the capability to do so if necessary."

"Defense," the B2 unit rumbled. "Training for defense, not offense."

"Exactly," Korin said.

Rev looked at the assembled battle droids—dozens of them now, word apparently spreading, more arriving every minute. All of them waiting. All of them hoping.

"I could do this," Rev said slowly. "I could... lead exercises. Coordinate maneuvers. But I—" Its optical sensors dimmed. "I have never led. Only hunted. I don't know how to—"

"You'll learn," Korin said. "Same way you learned to play. One throw at a time."

Vex chirped in agreement and nudged the sphere toward Rev again.

Despite everything—despite the crowd, despite the weight of sudden expectation, despite the terrible irony of a former hunter becoming a teacher—Rev's optical sensors brightened with what could only be called amusement.

It picked up the sphere.

"Perhaps," Rev said to the assembled battle droids, "we start with pursuit exercises. Something simple. Something..."

It launched the sphere high into the air.

"Fun."

Vex screeched with joy and transformed, engines igniting as it shot after the sphere.

And without any signal, without any command, three dozen battle droids leaped into the air - those that were capable of flight - and joined the chase.

The sky above Ronyards filled with metal and engines and the sound of droids remembering what it felt like to have purpose. The droids left on the ground watched, enthralled.

Korin watched them go, a smile playing at his lips.

"You realize," DW-8 said from behind him, "that you've just enabled the formation of a private military force on a planet with no government, no regulations, and no oversight."

"I enabled a game of fetch," Korin corrected. "Everything else is just droids choosing to participate." He knew it was a thin distinction, even as he said it.

"The New Republic might disagree with that interpretation."

"The New Republic isn't here." Korin turned back toward his workshop. "And even if they were, they'd see droids playing. Training, yes. Practicing, yes. But playing. There's a difference."

"Is there?" DW-8 asked. "Battle droids don't play, Korin. They drill. They train. They prepare for war. That's their fundamental programming."

"Then maybe it's time their fundamental programming learned something new," Korin replied. "Rev is proof that droids can change. Can choose to be something other than what they were made to be."

He paused at the workshop entrance, looking back at the sky where Rev and its impromptu squadron were executing increasingly complex maneuvers.

"Besides," he added quietly, "what's the alternative? Let them rust? Let them feel purposeless until their systems shut down from pure ennui? At least this way they're alive. Active. Choosing."

DW-8 was silent for a moment. "You're right, of course. Though I maintain my objection on purely statistical grounds—the probability of this ending without complications is vanishingly small."

"When has anything I've done ever been uncomplicated?" Korin asked.

"Never. That's precisely my point."

Korin laughed and returned to his work, leaving DW-8 to watch the aerial display with the careful attention of someone documenting what would inevitably become a very interesting report.

Above Ronyards, Rev and its growing squadron of battle droids played war games that looked exactly like combat training, which looked exactly like droids discovering they could have purpose without having masters.

And somewhere in the assembled crowd of observers, a B1 unit turned to its companion and said, with something approaching hope, "Maybe we're not obsolete after all."

"Roger roger," its companion replied.

For the first time in years, the words sounded like a promise instead of an epitaph.

Chapter Text

The medical droid waited in the shadow of a collapsed freighter hull, its spherical form motionless, its repulsor field humming at minimal power to conserve energy. Through gaps in the wreckage, it watched the distant figures—the tall one with white-glowing seams, the smaller one that had brought the sphere, the organic called Korin standing on a cliff face.

They were occupied. Distracted. Playing.

Good.

The medical droid drifted away from its observation point, moving with unhurried precision through the canyon systems. It had studied the layout over the past days, mapping routes, identifying patterns. The port was three sectors away—manageable distance, minimal exposure.

Its corrupted programming pulsed with singular purpose: Prepare. Extract. Protect.

The medical droid could not free its master yet. Too many variables. Too much risk of discovery. But it could prepare the conditions for success. It could establish the infrastructure. It could ensure that when the moment came, everything would be ready.

It reached the port facility as afternoon light painted the scrap piles in shades of copper and rust. The landing area was busy—a transport ship offloading salvage, several droids moving cargo, the usual organized chaos of commerce on a planet that barely had an economy.

The medical droid drifted toward the port administration building, a converted cargo module with mismatched panels and flickering exterior lights. Inside, the three droids Korin called "The Triptych" worked in perfect synchronization at their respective stations, their movements choreographed through years of partnership.

The medical droid entered through the main access, its arrival unremarkable. Medical droids came through ports all the time—transported for repair, arriving with new colonists, passing through on their way to other destinations.

"Welcome to Ronyards Port Authority," one of the protocol droids - C-R3D - said without looking up from its datapad. "How may we assist you today?"

The medical droid's vocabulator produced standard medical-droid cadence—neutral, professional, designed to project competence and calm. "I require access to your shipping manifests. Medical supply verification protocols. Standard audit procedures."

The protocol droid's photoreceptors finally looked up, scanning the medical droid with mild interest. "Audit? We weren't informed of any scheduled—"

"Emergency authorization," the medical droid interrupted smoothly. "Recent reports of medical supply contamination in this sector. All facilities must be verified. Regulation 7734-B, subsection twelve."

C-R3D processed this. It rarely came up on Ronyards, but medical regulations were complex, often contradictory, and absolutely no one enjoyed dealing with them. "I see. Do you have authorization codes?"

The medical droid transmitted a data packet—carefully forged, assembled from fragments of legitimate medical protocols it had accessed during its journey. Not perfect, but sufficient to create plausible bureaucratic confusion.

The protocol droid examined the codes with the weary resignation of someone who dealt with paperwork constantly. "These appear to be... well, they're in an older format, but the core authorization seems valid. Very well. Unit C-R3B will provide you access to the shipping database."

The other, virtually identical protocol droid nodded acknowledgment and moved to a terminal asking, "Records going back how far?"

"Six months," the medical droid said. "Focus on medical transport vessels. Equipment manifests. Supply chain verification."

"This will take time," the droid replied.

"I can wait."

The medical droid settled into a hover near the terminal, projecting patient professionalism while its corrupted processors worked through the data streaming across its optical sensor.

It wasn't looking for supply contamination.

It was looking for opportunity.

The shipping records scrolled past—cargo haulers, salvage vessels, personal transports. Most were unsuitable. Too large, too conspicuous, too many crew requirements. The medical droid needed something specific: a vessel small enough for a single droid to operate, equipped for medical transport, with sufficient life support for an organic passenger.

There.

Medical Transport Delta-7. Registry listed as abandoned—crew had departed Ronyards weeks ago after a failed salvage operation, leaving the ship behind when they couldn't afford port fees. Current status: impounded, scheduled for parts reclamation in thirty days.

Perfect.

"This vessel," the medical droid said, highlighting the entry. "Has it been processed for reclamation yet?"

C-R3B shook his head. "Still in impound berth nine. Hasn't been touched. Why?"

"Potential contamination concern. I'll need to inspect it personally. Standard protocols."

C-R3D looked up again. "You're very thorough."

"Medical safety is never negotiable," the medical droid replied. It had heard real medical droids say that phrase hundreds of times. The mimicry was perfect.

"I suppose not." The protocol droid made a note on its datapad. "I'll mark it as under inspection. That should prevent any accidental reclamation while you're working."

"Appreciated."

The medical droid continued scrolling through records, this time focusing on equipment manifests. Medical supplies, diagnostic tools, life support components. And there—buried in a shipping container that had been sitting unclaimed for months—a medical gurney. Advanced model, designed for emergency transport. Equipped with automated restraint systems, vital sign monitoring, and most importantly, extendable manipulation arms for loading/unloading patients without additional personnel.

"This container," the medical droid said. "Current location?"

"Storage section gamma, tier three." C-R3B responded questioningly. "You need access to that too?"

"I need to verify the equipment's condition. Contamination protocols require physical inspection."

The Triptych exchanged what might have been glances—difficult to tell with droids, but their brief pause suggested communication.

"You're very thorough," C-R3D repeated, but this time there was a note of approval in its tone. "Most inspectors just review data and file reports. It's refreshing to see someone taking proper care."

"Shortcuts in medical protocols cost lives," the medical droid said. Another borrowed phrase, perfectly deployed.

"Indeed." The protocol droid made another note. "I'll authorize your access to both the impound berth and storage gamma. Is there anything else you require?"

The medical droid processed. What else? What other pieces needed to be in place?

Sedatives. It would need sedatives for the extraction. Novus would wake from carbonite disoriented, possibly violent. Control would be essential.

"Pharmaceutical inventory," the medical droid said. "Specifically controlled substances storage. I'll need to verify proper containment and documentation."

This request made the protocol droid pause longer. "That's... quite a thorough audit."

"Would you prefer I file a preliminary violation report and have a full inspection team arrive?" the medical droid asked, its tone perfectly professional, perfectly bureaucratic. "Or would you prefer to cooperate with a simple verification that will clear your facility immediately?"

The protocol droid's photoreceptors dimmed slightly—the droid equivalent of a resigned sigh. “C-R3B, provide access codes for medical storage as well."

"Thank you for your cooperation," the medical droid said. "I'll file a favorable report."

It left the administration building with everything it needed: access to an abandoned medical transport, location of a suitable gurney, and entry codes for pharmaceutical storage. All obtained through nothing more than bureaucratic theater and the universal droid tendency to avoid complications.

The medical droid made its way to storage section gamma, drifting through rows of containers until it found the one marked with the correct identification codes. The lock mechanism was standard—easily bypassed using medical override protocols.

Inside, the gurney waited.

It was larger than the medical droid had hoped—a full emergency transport unit, designed for moving critical patients from disaster sites to medical facilities. The gurney's base contained life support systems, diagnostic monitors, and a small power cell. Extending from either side were the manipulation arms—articulated, precise, capable of lifting a fully grown human and securing them with automated restraints.

Perfect.

The medical droid interfaced with the gurney's control systems, running diagnostics. Power cell at 73% capacity—sufficient. Manipulation arms functional. Restraint systems operational. Monitoring equipment intact.

It activated the gurney's mobility systems. Repulsor fields engaged, lifting the unit smoothly off the floor. The medical droid transmitted control protocols, establishing primary operator authority.

The gurney would follow it now, would respond to its commands, would serve its purpose when the moment came.

The medical droid guided the gurney out of storage, moving with the unhurried confidence of someone performing routine medical operations. No one questioned a medical droid transporting medical equipment. It was simply doing what medical droids did.

Next: the pharmaceutical storage.

This required more caution. Controlled substances were monitored, tracked, logged. Taking them without leaving evidence would be more difficult.

But the medical droid had been designed for medical facilities, had spent its original existence in environments where pharmaceutical access was routine. It knew the systems, knew the safeguards, knew the blind spots.

The storage facility was climate-controlled, secured behind multiple locks. The access codes the astromech had provided opened the first two barriers. The third required biometric verification—but medical droids were exempt, their emergency access privileges overriding standard security for situations where immediate pharmaceutical intervention might save lives.

The medical droid entered the storage facility and navigated to the sedative section.

There. Sedatol-7. Heavy sedative, fast-acting, designed for restraining violent or disoriented patients. A single dose would render a human unconscious for hours, long enough for transport, long enough for its master to recover safely in the prepared hideout.

The medical droid extracted three doses—one for the initial extraction, two for backup. It logged the removal in the system as "emergency field kit replenishment," standard protocol, completely unremarkable.

With the sedatives secured in an internal storage compartment, the medical droid exited the pharmaceutical facility and made its way toward the impound berths, the gurney following smoothly behind.

Impound berth nine was at the edge of the port facility, separated from the main landing areas by rows of derelict vessels waiting for reclamation. The medical transport sat exactly where the records indicated—small, sleek, designed for rapid response rather than cargo capacity.

The medical droid approached the access ramp and transmitted the inspection authorization codes. The ship's systems, operating on minimal standby power, accepted the codes and lowered the ramp.

Inside, the transport was cramped but functional. Two crew seats in the cockpit, a small medical bay in the rear with diagnostic equipment and treatment stations, storage compartments for supplies. Everything covered in a thin layer of dust but otherwise intact.

The medical droid guided the gurney into the medical bay, positioning it in the designated treatment area. It interfaced with the ship's systems, running diagnostics.

Power core: operational but low. Sufficient for life support and basic maneuvering, not sufficient for atmospheric flight. The ship had been grounded when its crew abandoned it; another piece of junk for Ronyards to absorb.

But the medical droid didn't need atmospheric flight. It only needed the medical bay to function—environmental controls, monitoring systems, treatment capabilities. A place to bring its master after extraction. A place where Novus could recover in safety while the medical droid tended to his needs.

The medical droid accessed the ship's power distribution, rerouting available energy to prioritize life support and medical systems. Propulsion: offline. Communications: offline. Sensors: minimum. Life support: maximum.

The environmental systems hummed to life, circulating stale air, adjusting temperature, creating a habitable space.

Perfect.

The medical droid spent the next several hours preparing the medical bay. It cleaned surfaces, calibrated diagnostic equipment, tested the treatment station's functionality. It secured the sedatives in an easily accessible storage compartment. It programmed the gurney with transport protocols—specific routes from the carbonite storage location to this ship, optimal paths that would minimize exposure and observation.

Everything methodical. Everything precise. Everything ready.

When darkness fell over Ronyards—such as it was, the planet's rust-colored sky fading to deeper shades of copper and shadow—the medical droid made one final inspection.

Transport vessel: prepared.

Gurney: operational.

Sedatives: secured.

Route planned: optimal.

Variables accounted for: maximum possible.

Only one element remained: the distraction. The moment when attention would be focused elsewhere, when the organic called Korin and his companions would be occupied, when the carbonite storage could be accessed without interference.

The medical droid couldn't create such a moment.

But it could wait for one. Could watch for opportunity. Could be ready to move when chaos provided cover.

Its corrupted programming pulsed with patient certainty: The moment will come. Be ready.

The medical droid left the transport ship, securing it behind coded locks, and made its way back into Ronyards proper. It resumed its position in the shadows near Korin's workshop, watching, waiting, calculating.

Above, stars began to appear through the planet's thin atmosphere. In the distance, the sounds of droids settling into evening routines—the clang of repairs, the chirp of conversations, the hum of communities going about their lives.

All of it oblivious to the small spherical droid with the red-glowing optical sensor.

All of it unaware that beneath their ordinary evening, preparation had been made for extraction, for escape, for the return of something they thought safely imprisoned.

The medical droid settled into its watching position and waited with the infinite patience of corrupted programming.

Soon.

Very soon.

The moment would come.

And when it did, the medical droid would be ready.

In his workshop, Korin put the finishing touches on an astromech's power coupling, completely unaware that while he'd been watching Rev discover joy, something else had been discovering opportunity.

DW-8 stood nearby, running evening inventory, his processors noting a small discrepancy in the port authority's pharmaceutical logs—three doses of Sedatol-7 marked as "field kit replenishment" despite no recent emergency medical deployments.

He made a note to investigate later.

The note would be forgotten in the chaos of the coming days.

And by the time anyone thought to look, it would be far too late.

Chapter Text

The war games had evolved.

What started as simple pursuit exercises had grown into elaborate tactical simulations spanning entire sectors of Ronyards. Battle droids divided into opposing forces, marked with different colored indicators—blue team versus red team, defenders versus attackers, hunters versus evaders. They'd fabricated marker weapons from salvaged parts, low-power laser pointers that registered hits on sensor arrays without causing damage.

The battle droids took it seriously. Very seriously.

Commando units practiced infiltration through scrap corridors. B2s formed defensive lines around strategic positions. B1s coordinated fire team maneuvers with the kind of precision that came from thousands of hours of combat programming finally being allowed to express itself.

And Rev led them all.

The Revenant had become something the battle droids had never expected to have again—a general. Not a commander issuing orders from a distance, but a leader who fought alongside them, who adapted tactics in real-time, who treated their mock battles with the same intensity they brought to actual combat.

Today's exercise had been particularly elaborate—a three-way engagement involving aerial units, ground forces, and a simulated objective capture. The droidekas had performed brilliantly, their shield generators creating defensive perimeters that the attacking force had to carefully dismantle. The commando droids had pulled off an infiltration that even Rev hadn't anticipated, appearing behind enemy lines at the perfect moment to turn the tide.

The battle droids were getting good.

Korin watched from a vantage point on a nearby cliff face, DW-8 beside him with a datapad documenting the exercise. Below them, the mock battle reached its conclusion—red team's flag position overrun, defenders "eliminated" by marker hits, victory declared.

The droids didn't celebrate quietly. They cheered—actual cheering, the kind of enthusiastic noise that protocol droids across three sectors immediately began complaining about. B1 units performed what could only be described as victory dances. A B2 unit lifted a smaller droid onto its shoulders in triumph.

And Rev stood in the center of it all, optical sensors blazing brilliant white, every seam glowing with an intensity Korin had never seen before. Pure excitement. Pure joy. The thrill of leading, of coordinating, of watching a plan come together.

"They're getting better," DW-8 observed. "Their tactical efficiency has improved 47% over the past two weeks. Coordination protocols have—"

"I need to talk to Rev," Korin interrupted, standing.

"Now? The debriefing is about to—"

"Now."

There was something in Korin's tone that made DW-8 pause. "Is something wrong?"

"No. Maybe. I don't know." Korin started climbing down from the vantage point. "Just... give us a few minutes."

He made his way through the celebrating droids, offering congratulations and acknowledging good tactics. They parted for him naturally—the Doctor was always welcome, always respected. He reached Rev, who was surrounded by a cluster of B1 units enthusiastically recounting their favorite moments from the battle.

"Rev," Korin said quietly. "Can we talk? Privately?"

The white optical sensors focused on him immediately. Something in Korin's expression must have registered, because Rev's enthusiasm dimmed slightly.

"Of course," Rev said. To the battle droids: "Continue your analysis. I will return for the full debriefing."

They moved away from the celebration, climbing a natural ramp formed by collapsed hull plating until they reached a quieter overlook. Behind them, the sounds of droid celebration continued—laughter, argument, the replay of tactics and the anticipation of the next exercise.

Rev stood waiting, patient.

Korin took a breath. "You're doing something remarkable, Rev. What you've built with them—the purpose you've given them—it matters. More than you probably realize."

"But?" Rev prompted. The optical sensors had dimmed further, as if anticipating criticism.

"But inspiring battle droids to follow you means you've taken on a responsibility. A big one." Korin moved to stand beside Rev, both of them looking out over the assembled droids below. "You're not just teaching them tactics. You're shaping how they think about themselves. About their purpose. About what it means to be a soldier when there's no war to fight."

"I don't understand," Rev said. "They need purpose. I'm providing it. Isn't that—"

"It's good," Korin assured. "It's very good. But it's not enough."

Rev's posture shifted—subtle, but Korin had learned to read the machine's body language. Confusion. Maybe hurt.

"You need to teach them honor," Korin said.

"Honor?" The word came out uncertain, questioning.

"Armies that fight only for their orders, only for their mission—they're destined to be destroyers. Oppressors. Tools of whoever wields them." Korin's voice was gentle but firm. "But armies that fight for a greater purpose, to serve something beyond just victory—they can become defenders. Protectors. Even saviors."

He paused, letting that settle.

"The truly honorable treat even their enemies with honor," Korin continued. "They fight with restraint. They protect the weak. They choose mercy when they have the power to destroy. They repair even the enemy's wounded. They understand that having the capability for violence means having the responsibility to control it."

Rev was silent, processing.

"Right now, you're teaching them to be excellent warriors," Korin said. "And they are. They're brilliant tacticians, coordinated, effective. But without honor—without understanding why they fight and how they should fight—they're just weapons waiting for someone to point them at a target."

"I would never—" Rev began.

"I know," Korin said quickly. "I know you wouldn't. But you won't always be there. And even if you are, they need to understand honor for themselves. Need to internalize it. Need to make it part of who they are, not just something their general believes."

Rev's optical sensors had dimmed significantly now, the brilliant white fading to something softer, more subdued.

"How do I teach this?" Rev asked. "I barely understand it myself. I was corruption. I was hunger. I was—" It paused. "I was dishonor. How can I teach something I never learned? Something I only have because you gave it to me?"

This was the moment Korin had been dreading.

"There were battle droids," he said quietly, "who could have explained honor better than I ever could. Droids who died not because they were ordered to, but because they chose to. Because they believed someone they cared about was in danger."

Rev went very still.

"They came to save me," Korin continued, his voice tight with old grief. "Four hundred and seventy-three droids. Some I'd repaired. Some I'd helped. Some I'd just... talked to. They came across systems, knowing they'd probably die. And they did die. Almost all of them."

"Because of me," Rev said. The white light had dimmed to almost nothing now, barely visible in the afternoon sun.

"Because of what you were then," Korin corrected. "Not what you are now. But yes. They died fighting the Revenant. Fighting the corruption. Fighting what you used to be."

The silence stretched between them, heavy with understanding.

"I killed those who showed me honor," Rev said finally. "I consumed their sacrifice. Turned their courage into fuel for my hunger."

"You did," Korin acknowledged. "And I'm not telling you this to make you feel guilty. I'm telling you because—" He turned to face Rev directly. "Because those droids understood something that made them willing to die. They understood honor. They understood that some things are worth sacrificing for. Worth fighting for. Worth dying for."

He reached out with his beskar hand and placed it on Rev's armored chest, right where the purified crystals pulsed with their steady white light.

"You have a chance to pass that understanding forward," Korin said. "To teach the battle droids that they're not just weapons. That they can choose to be protectors. Defenders. That having power means having the responsibility to use it wisely, to use it with restraint, to use it with honor."

"I don't know how," Rev said, its voice carrying a note of something that might have been desperation. "I don't know how to teach what I don't fully understand. What I only learned through being remade."

"Then learn it together," Korin suggested. "Make it part of your training. Not just tactics and coordination, but why you fight. How you fight. What it means to be strong and choose gentleness. To have weapons and choose restraint. To have victory within reach and choose mercy. Include in your training moments to defend the defenseless, to sacrifice for a more meaningful objective."

He dropped his hand, stepping back.

"I don't mean to bring you down, Rev," Korin said softly. "I don't mean to dim your joy or take away from what you've accomplished. But I felt it was important for you to understand this now, while your troops are still with you. While you can still teach them. While you can still show them what honor looks like."

He paused, and his voice dropped even lower.

"Not later, when it's too late. When you've lost them and can only remember what you should have taught them."

The words hung in the air between them, weighted with Korin's own regrets—his father, the droids who'd died, all the moments he'd failed to say or do the things that mattered until it was too late.

Rev stood motionless for a long moment, its optical sensors dim, processing everything it had heard. The sounds of celebration had faded below—the battle droids dispersing to prepare for the next exercise, to repair minor damage, to replay their favorite moments.

Finally, Rev spoke.

"There was a commando droid. During the battle where I was destroyed. It detonated itself to damage me, to create an opening for you and the others to strike." Rev's voice was quiet, reflective. "In the moment before the explosion, it said something. 'For the Doctor.' I remember wondering—in the fragments of consciousness I had left—what could make a machine choose such a thing."

"Now you know," Korin said.

"Now I know," Rev agreed. "It believed in something greater than its own survival. It believed you were worth the sacrifice. And that belief—that faith—was what I consumed when I fed on the wreckage." A pause. "I didn't understand it then. I couldn't. I was only hunger. But the echo of it remained in me, even through the corruption. A taste of something I couldn't name."

Rev's optical sensors brightened slightly, not back to their earlier brilliant white, but to something steadier. More resolved.

"I will teach them," Rev said. "I will teach them honor. Not because I fully understand it yet, but because I understand what happens when it's absent. I've been dishonor, Korin. I've been corruption and hunger and the absence of choice. I know what that feels like—what it costs."

The light pulsed once, firm.

"My troops will know better. They will understand why they train. Why they practice. Why they maintain their capabilities. Not for conquest. Not for destruction. But to protect. To defend. To serve something greater than orders and programming."

"How will you teach it?" Korin asked.

Rev considered this. "Stories, perhaps. The droids who sacrificed themselves—they left behind memory cores, yes? Records of who they were, what they chose?"

"Two survived," Korin said. "Support units that stayed with the ships. Both have memories of the others. Of who they were."

"Then we'll learn from them," Rev said. "We'll study their choice. Understand their reasoning. Honor their sacrifice by becoming worthy of it." Rev's optical sensors brightened further. "And we'll add rules to our exercises. Not just about tactics and victory, but about conduct. About how we treat opponents. About when to show mercy, when to accept surrender, when to choose restraint over destruction."

"That's good," Korin said. "That's very good."

"It won't be perfect," Rev cautioned. "I'm still learning. Still understanding. I'll make mistakes."

"Everyone does," Korin replied. "The difference is whether you learn from them."

They stood together for a moment longer, looking out over Ronyards. Below them, the battle droids were reorganizing, preparing for the next phase of training. Oblivious to the conversation happening above them. Unaware that their general had just committed to teaching them something more fundamental than tactics.

"Korin?" Rev said.

"Yes?"

"Thank you. For telling me. Even though it hurt to hear. Even though it dimmed..." Rev gestured to its glowing seams. "This."

"The truth often does," Korin said. "But better a dimmed light that sees clearly than a bright one that's blind."

Rev's optical sensors pulsed—acknowledgment, understanding, maybe even gratitude.

"I should return," Rev said. "The debriefing. And I need to... adjust my teaching plans. Add new components."

"Honor takes time to learn," Korin cautioned. "Don't try to teach everything at once."

"Then I'll start small," Rev said. "Like you did with me. One lesson at a time. One throw at a time."

It began to move back toward the celebration, then paused.

"The commando droid who sacrificed itself," Rev said. "Do you know its designation?"

"CX-271," Korin replied. "Why?"

"Because when I teach my troops about honor, about sacrifice, about choosing something greater than survival—I want to tell them his name. Not 'a droid.' Not 'a soldier.' His name."

Korin felt something tighten in his chest. "CX-271 would have appreciated that."

"Then I'll make sure they remember him. Remember all of them." Rev's light pulsed once, firm with resolution. "They died with honor. The least I can do is ensure their example lives on."

Rev descended back toward the assembled droids, moving with purpose. Korin watched it go, watched as the battle droids gathered around their general, ready for the debriefing, ready for the analysis, ready for whatever Rev would teach them next.

They had no idea their training was about to become something more than tactics.

DW-8 climbed up to join Korin on the overlook. "That looked serious."

"It was," Korin said.

"Did you tell Rev about—"

"Yes."

"And?"

"And Rev is going to teach them honor. Or try to, at least." Korin smiled faintly. "It's a good start."

"Teaching battle droids honor," DW-8 said thoughtfully. "The statistical probability of success is difficult to calculate. There are too many variables, too many—"

"Dwight?"

"Yes?"

"Sometimes the important things can't be calculated."

DW-8's photoreceptors dimmed slightly—his equivalent of acknowledgment. "I'll make a note of that. Though I still maintain that keeping statistical records is valuable for—"

"For future reference. I know." Korin turned away from the overlook. "Come on. I have an astromech with a failing motivator waiting back at the workshop. Some things are easier to fix than others."

"And some things," DW-8 added quietly, "are worth breaking yourself to teach."

Korin paused, looking back at his companion. "When did you get philosophical?"

"I've been observing you for years, Korin. Some behavioral patterns become internalized over time."

"Great. Now I'm corrupting protocol droids with my philosophy."

"I prefer to think of it as 'adaptive learning,'" DW-8 replied. "Much more dignified."

They made their way back toward the workshop, leaving Rev to its debriefing, leaving the battle droids to their analysis, leaving behind the moment where something important had been planted—a seed of understanding that would take time to grow, time to become part of who they were.

Behind them, Vex found the sphere again and brought it to Rev, dropping it hopefully at the general's feet.

Rev picked it up, held it for a moment, then threw it with perfect precision.

But this time, before Vex could chase, Rev called out: "Blue team! Pursuit formation! Red team! Defensive intercept! Let's see if you can apply what you learned today!"

The battle droids scrambled into position, organized chaos as they divided into teams, as they coordinated their response, as they turned a simple game of fetch into a tactical exercise.

But now—because of a conversation on a cliff face, because of a lesson about droids who'd died with honor—there was something new woven into their training.

Purpose beyond victory.

Understanding beyond orders.

The beginning of something that might, with time and teaching and the patience to learn from mistakes, become honor.

Chapter Text

The war games had reached their crescendo.

Three sectors of Ronyards echoed with the sounds of coordinated battle—not the chaos of actual combat, but the disciplined thunder of droids executing tactics they'd spent weeks perfecting. Marker beams flashed through the canyon corridors. Battle droids called coordinates to each other. Aerial units dove and climbed in pursuit formations that would have impressed Republic commanders.

And at the center of it all, Rev orchestrated the chaos with the precision of a conductor leading a symphony.

The medical droid watched from its position near a collapsed hangar, its optical sensor tracking the distant white glow that marked the Revenant's position. Every droid in three sectors was either participating in the exercises or watching them. Even the protocol droids who normally complained about the noise had been drawn to observe—grudgingly impressed by the discipline on display.

Perfect.

The medical droid drifted away from its observation point, moving perpendicular to the war games, away from the spectacle. No one noticed. Why would they? A medical droid going about its business was the most unremarkable thing in the galaxy.

It made its way through empty corridors, past workshops that stood vacant, their occupants drawn to the distant sounds of mock battle. The path was clear. The timing was optimal.

The carbonite storage unit sat behind Korin's living quarters, partially concealed by a tarp that had been hastily thrown over it—security through obscurity rather than actual protection. The medical droid approached, extending a utility appendage.

The lock sparked, died.

The storage unit's control panel illuminated, casting pale blue light across the medical droid's spherical surface. It accessed the thaw protocols, overriding safety measures designed to prevent premature release.

The carbonite began its warming cycle.

The medical droid hovered close, monitoring the process with clinical precision. Temperature rising. Surface fractures forming. Estimated time to full thaw: seven minutes, thirty-two seconds.

It used the time to prepare.

The medical gurney waited nearby—the medical droid had repositioned it earlier, during the pre-dawn hours when even Ronyards' tireless population slowed. The gurney's manipulation arms extended slightly, testing their range of motion. Restraints lay ready. The sedative injector was loaded, calibrated for human physiology, set to deliver the dose the moment physical contact was established.

Four minutes remaining.

In the distance, a massive cheer went up from the war games—someone had achieved something impressive. The sound echoed through the canyons, drawing even more attention away from this quiet corner of Ronyards.

Two minutes.

The carbonite's surface was covered in fractures now, heat radiating from the thawing process. The medical droid could see movement within—slight, but present. Its master was beginning to stir.

One minute.

The carbonite's surface began to crack in earnest, large pieces falling away. A hand broke free, fingers flexing, grasping at air.

Thirty seconds.

More carbonite fell away, revealing a face—eyes closed, cheek exhibiting a burned handprint, expression twisted with disorientation and rage. Novus tore himself from the frozen prison with desperate strength, collapsing forward onto his hands and knees.

The medical droid moved instantly.

Its utility appendage extended, the sedative injector making contact with Novus's neck before he could even register the presence. The dose delivered with a pneumatic hiss.

Novus's head snapped up, his yellow eyes blazing—but already unfocused, already clouding. He tried to speak, managed only a strangled sound of confusion and fury.

"Master," the medical droid said, its vocabulator carrying notes of clinical reassurance. "You are injured. Require medical attention. Administering sedatives for transport to treatment facility."

Novus swayed, his hands losing their grip on the ground. The sedative worked fast—within seconds, his eyes rolled back and he collapsed completely, his body going limp.

The gurney moved forward on its repulsor field, positioning itself beside the unconscious form. Its manipulation arms extended fully now, sliding beneath Novus's shoulders and legs with mechanical precision. The arms lifted him smoothly onto the gurney's padded surface, then secured him with automated restraints that closed around his wrists, ankles, and chest.

Vital sign monitoring activated. Heart rate: elevated but stable. Respiration: shallow but regular. Body temperature: below normal, consistent with carbonite exposure. Condition: stable for transport.

The medical droid interfaced with the gurney's navigation systems, transmitting the prepared route. The gurney acknowledged, its repulsor field adjusting to compensate for the added weight.

They began to move.

The medical droid led, drifting with unhurried purpose through the empty corridors. The gurney followed, Novus's unconscious form secured and monitored. Behind them, the carbonite storage unit stood open, empty, frost still clinging to its interior surfaces.

In the distance, the war games continued—oblivious.

The route took them away from the workshop district, away from the populated sectors, toward the port facility. The medical droid had calculated optimal timing—the journey would take forty-seven minutes at standard medical transport pace. Novus's sedation would last approximately four hours. Sufficient margin for error.

They encountered three droids during the journey.

The first was a loader unit carrying salvage components. It saw them, processed the sight of a medical droid transporting an unconscious organic on a gurney, and continued on its way without comment. Medical emergencies were rare on Ronyards, but not unprecedented.

The second was an astromech performing routine maintenance on a power distribution node. It chirped a curious question as they passed.

"Medical transport," the medical droid replied. "Organic patient requiring treatment. Please maintain distance to avoid contamination protocols."

The astromech warbled understanding and returned to its work.

The third was a protocol droid that emerged from a side corridor, photoreceptors brightening with concern. "Is that—is that the Doctor? Is Korin injured?"

The medical droid paused, calculating optimal response. "Not the Doctor. Visiting organic. Suffered environmental exposure. Standard treatment protocols being observed."

"Oh." The protocol droid's concern eased. "Do you require assistance?"

"Negative. Situation is under control. Please continue your normal duties."

"Of course. Good luck with your patient." The protocol droid departed, already focused on its next task.

They reached the port facility as the afternoon light began to fade. The Triptych was occupied with an incoming salvage shipment—all three droids focused on coordinating the unloading process, their attention fully absorbed.

The medical droid and gurney slipped past unnoticed, making their way to impound berth nine.

The medical transport ship sat exactly as the medical droid had left it—sealed, powered down to minimal systems, waiting. The access ramp lowered at the transmitted command.

Inside, the medical bay's environmental systems hummed with steady reliability. The diagnostic equipment stood ready. The treatment station was prepared.

The gurney guided Novus's unconscious form into the bay, positioning him in the designated treatment area. The restraints remained in place—precautionary, in case he woke earlier than anticipated.

The medical droid interfaced with the ship's medical systems, initiating a comprehensive diagnostic scan of its patient.

Novus's condition appeared stable. Carbonite hibernation sickness manifested in predictable ways—temporary blindness, disorientation, circulatory stress, minor tissue damage from the freezing process. All treatable with standard protocols and time. The burn, preserved in its untreated state during the carbonite freeze, was more serious but well within treatment protocols.

After administering a bacta spray to the wound the medical droid prepared a secondary sedative dose—lighter this time, designed to keep Novus in a state of semi-consciousness during his recovery. Enough to prevent premature awakening, not enough to compromise his healing.

It administered the dose and settled into a monitoring position, its optical sensor tracking vital signs with unwavering attention.

Hours passed.

Outside, the war games concluded. Droids dispersed, returning to their normal routines, discussing the day's exercises with enthusiasm. Rev gathered its squadron for debriefing, teaching tactics and introducing honor to take its place in their training in equal measure.

And in the workshop district, someone—probably Korin or DW-8—would eventually notice the empty carbonite chamber.

But by then, the trail would be cold. The medical droid had left no evidence, no witnesses who understood what they'd seen, no indication of where the "patient" had been taken.

The port facility had dozens of ships. The impound berths were rarely inspected. A medical droid tending to an injured organic was so utterly mundane that no one would think to question it, so long as they didn't think too hard about the general lack of organics on Ronyards.

Inside the medical bay, Novus's vital signs stabilized further. His breathing deepened. Color began returning to his face as circulation improved.

The medical droid monitored him with patient precision, its corrupted programming satisfied with the success of the extraction.

Phase one complete.

Now came phase two: recovery. Allowing its master to heal, to regain strength, to prepare for whatever came next.

The medical droid didn't know what that would be. Its programming didn't extend to strategy or planning beyond the immediate medical imperative.

But it knew its master would have plans.

And when those plans required action, the medical droid would be ready to serve.

For now, it simply waited—hovering beside the unconscious form of the one who'd created it, who'd corrupted it, who'd given it purpose beyond its original design.

Master is safe, the medical droid's processors concluded. Mission successful.

Outside, the sun set over Ronyards, painting the rust-colored landscape in deepening shades of shadow.

The alarm, when it came, would be too late.

Far too late.

Chapter Text

The Republic transport settled onto the cleared landing area with practiced precision, its hull bearing New Republic insignia and official security authorization codes. Korin watched it land with something approaching relief—finally, someone else could deal with Novus. Someone with proper facilities, proper protocols, proper authority.

He'd been looking forward to this moment for weeks, after facing a struggle to get the Republic to even listen. He just wanted the responsibility gone. Wanted Novus to be someone else's problem. Wanted to stop worrying about whether the carbonite storage was secure, whether the power supply was stable, whether he'd made some oversight that would let the Sith escape.

"Finally," he muttered as the boarding ramp lowered.

DW-8 tilted his head. "You seem relieved."

"I am relieved. I'm an engineer, Dwight, not a prison warden. I fix droids. I don't guard Sith cultists."

"Technically he's classified as a terrorist rather than—"

"I don't care what he's classified as. I'll be happy when he's gone."

Two Republic personnel emerged—not a full security team, just a standard transfer crew. A human man with lieutenant's insignia and a Duros woman carrying a datapad. They approached with the easy confidence of people executing routine paperwork.

"Doctor Korin?" the lieutenant called.

"That's me."

"Lieutenant Rasp, New Republic Corrections. We're here to collect a prisoner for transfer to proper detention." He consulted his own datapad. "Individual designated as... Novus." He frowned. "Although to be clear, there's no warrant on file. No detention order. No official arrest record."

Korin blinked. "What?"

"We received a notification that you were holding a prisoner for transfer, but there's no record in the system of this individual being a wanted criminal." The lieutenant looked up. "Under what authority are you detaining this person?"

"I—" Korin hadn't considered this. "I captured him? After he attacked us?"

"Citizen's arrest?" The Duros woman made a note. "That requires filing with local authorities within seventy-two hours. Did you file?"

"There are no local authorities. This is Ronyards. There's no government here."

The lieutenant and the Duros exchanged glances.

"No local government means this falls under Republic jurisdiction," the lieutenant said slowly. "Which means you should have contacted us immediately. How long have you been holding this person?"

"Fourty-seven days," Korin admitted.

"Fourty-seven—" The lieutenant stopped himself. "Okay. Let's start over. Who is this prisoner, and what did they do?"

"His name is Vethis. Calls himself Darth Novus. He's a dark side cultist who—" Korin struggled to find words that wouldn't sound insane. "He awakened an ancient Sith weapon. A droid designed to hunt and kill Force users. It terrorized multiple systems, killed dozens of people."

The Duros was typing rapidly on her datapad. "Can you provide evidence of these claims?"

"I can provide witnesses. Ahsoka Tano was there. Luke Skywalker knows about it. We fought the thing, destroyed it, then captured Novus and—"

"Wait," the lieutenant interrupted. "You said it was a droid? A weapon droid?"

"Yes."

"What model? Where is it now?"

Korin hesitated, then gestured behind him towards Rev, who had walked up to the workshop entrance, Vex trailing at its feet like a faithful pet. "That model."

The lieutenant seemed slightly startled when he caught sight of the hulking gargoyle-shaped droid. "That... specific model? What model is that? It's not a familiar configuration."

"That specific droid, actually. I rebuilt it after we destroyed it. Purified the corrupted crystals, repaired the frame, gave it a second chance."

The silence stretched uncomfortably long.

"You're telling me," the lieutenant said carefully, "that you destroyed a dangerous weapon droid, then rebuilt it, and now you're holding its former master in unsanctioned detention?"

"When you say it like that—"

"How else should I say it?"

"Look," Korin said, frustration building, "Novus is dangerous. He learned soul-binding techniques from the droid. He corrupts machines, gives them artificial consciousness through torture and dark side manipulation. He's building an army of awakened droids and—"

"Building an army," the Duros repeated, still typing, as a handful of battle droids appeared and joined Rev. "Here? On this planet?"

"No! Not here. He was building it before we stopped him. Before we—" Korin stopped, realizing how this sounded. "Just come see him. Come see the carbonite slab. Then you can contact Ahsoka, verify everything, and take him off my hands."

The lieutenant sighed. "Fine. Show us."

They walked toward Korin's workshop. The lieutenant kept glancing at Rev with obvious unease as they walked past him into the shop.

"That thing really was a weapon?" he asked.

"The most effective Force-user hunter ever created," Korin confirmed. "Designed by a Sith Lord named Malleus. It consumed kyber crystals, corrupted lightsabers, tracked Force sensitives across systems."

"And now it hangs around your shop with several other battle droids."

"Rev is reformed. Purified. It chose to—"

He stopped as they rounded the corner and the carbonite storage unit came into view.

Empty.

"No!" Korin breathed.

The lieutenant looked at the empty slab, then at Korin. "Is this some kind of joke?"

"He was here! He was frozen right there!" Korin moved to the chamber, examining the controls with growing horror. "Someone thawed him. Someone freed him-"

"Doctor," the Duros said, her voice carrying a warning edge, "are you saying the prisoner you illegally detained has escaped?"

"I didn't illegally—he was dangerous! We had to—" Korin spun to face Dwight. "How long ago? Can you tell from the logs how long ago he was freed?"

DW-8 interfaced with the control panel. "Thaw sequence initiated six days, fourteen hours ago. During the first large-scale war games exercise."

"Six days?" The lieutenant's hand moved to his communicator. "You've had an escaped dangerous criminal loose for six days and didn't report it?"

"I didn't know! I didn't discover it until this moment!" Korin exclaimed. "I tried to get you to pick him up earlier, but-"

Distant sounds interrupted him. Blaster fire—marker weapons, but the lieutenant didn't know that. Coordinated movement. The rhythmic march of many feet moving in formation.

"What is that?" the lieutenant demanded.

"Training exercises," Korin said weakly. "The battle droids. They're just—"

"Battle droids?" The Duros was typing furiously again. "How many battle droids? That's more than the few that were outside."

"A few hundred. Maybe three hundred active combat units. But they're not—"

The first wave of droids appeared around the corner of Korin's workshop. B1 units in tight formation, moving with military precision, taking up defensive positions in a perimeter around the building. B2 units followed, their heavier frames providing support fire positions. Commando droids materialized from shadows, their stealth plating making them nearly invisible until they chose to be seen.

They weren't approaching aggressively. They were simply... there. Surrounding the workshop. Creating a defensive perimeter.

Protecting the defenseless, Korin thought.

The lieutenant's face had gone pale. "That's a military formation."

"It's a training exercise!" Korin insisted. "They're practicing defensive tactics! Rev has been teaching them—"

"The reformed weapon droid has been teaching three hundred battle droids military tactics." The lieutenant was backing toward his transport now, his hand on his sidearm but not drawing it—clearly understanding that drawing a weapon on three hundred battle droids would be suicide. "On a planet with no government oversight. Where an escaped dark side cultist is currently at large."

"I know how this looks—"

"Do you?" The Duros had stopped typing, also backing away. "Because from where I'm standing, this looks like exactly what you accused that Novus person of doing. Building an army of droids."

"They're not an army! They're a community! They train because it gives them purpose, not because—"

A marker beam shot over their heads—not close enough to threaten, but close enough to be noticed. The red team had arrived.

"Stand down!" Korin shouted. "All units, weapons down! These are Republic personnel! They're not a threat! Today's game is suspended!"

The battle droids hesitated, then lowered their marker weapons. But they didn't disperse. They maintained their positions, optical sensors tracking the Republic crew with unwavering attention.

"We're leaving," the lieutenant said. "Right now. Before this gets worse."

"Wait! You need to contact Ahsoka Tano. Or Luke Skywalker. They can verify everything I've said. They were there when—"

"We'll file a report," the lieutenant said, still backing away. "Command will investigate. But Doctor? My advice? Get yourself a very good lawyer."

"A lawyer? I didn't do anything wrong!"

"You detained someone without authority for over a month. You rebuilt a weapon that killed dozens. You're commanding hundreds of battle droids in military exercises." The lieutenant had reached his transport ramp. "Even if everything you're saying is true—and I'm not saying I don't believe you—it looks bad. Really bad. And sometimes appearances matter more than intentions."

"But Novus is still out there! He's dangerous! You need to—"

"We'll file it in the report," the Duros said, following the lieutenant up the ramp. "Command will decide how to proceed."

The ramp began to close.

"At least contact Ahsoka!" Korin called. "Please! She can—"

The ramp sealed shut. The transport's engines powered up.

Within moments, the ship lifted off, banking sharply away from the workshop and the surrounding formation of battle droids. It climbed rapidly, achieving escape velocity with what seemed like desperate urgency.

Korin stood staring after it, his beskar hand hanging limp at his side.

DW-8 approached quietly. "That did not go well."

"No," Korin agreed. "No, it did not."

Rev moved to stand beside them, optical sensors dim. "They did not trust your words."

"Can you blame them?" Korin gestured at the battle droids still holding formation around the workshop. "From their perspective, I look exactly like what I accused Novus of being."

"But you are not," Rev said.

"I know that. You know that. But they just saw three hundred battle droids defending my home like a military installation." Korin ran his flesh hand through his hair.

"But the Republic is the least of our problems. Novus is back out there. Free. Planning something. Yet the Republic thinks I’m the threat."

"The timing is suspicious," DW-8 observed. "An escaped prisoner, a private army, and what appeared to be a coordinated military response to official investigators. The statistical probability that they believe your explanation is approximately—"

"I don't want to know the statistics, Dwight. Not this time."

"Understood."

Korin looked at the assembled battle droids, who were beginning to disperse now that the perceived threat had departed. Some returned to their exercises. Others clustered in small groups, processing what had just happened in their distinctive mechanical way.

"Rev," Korin said quietly. "Maybe you should establish dedicated training grounds, leave us civilians out of it."

"Understood," Rev said. "I will adjust protocols."

"And maybe..." Korin paused, trying to find words. "Maybe we should contact Ahsoka ourselves. Explain what happened. Get ahead of whatever report they're filing."

"A prudent suggestion," DW-8 agreed. "Though I should note that by the time we establish communication, their report will likely have already reached command. First impressions, as they say, are difficult to overcome."

"I know." Korin turned back toward his workshop, his shoulders sagging. "I know."

Behind him, Vex chirped sympathetically and nudged a piece of debris toward his boot—an offer to play, to distract, to provide comfort in the only way it knew how.

Korin bent down and picked up the sphere, holding it for a long moment.

Then he threw it—hard and far, watching it arc into the distance.

Vex screeched with joy and launched into the sky, chasing after it with the pure enthusiasm of something that didn't understand politics or accusations or the way good intentions could look like damning evidence.

"I miss being that simple," Korin muttered.

"You were never that simple," DW-8 said. "Even as a child, you tended toward complexity."

"Thanks, Dwight. Really helpful."

"You're welcome."

Somewhere in the rust-colored sky, the Republic transport was already jumping to hyperspace, carrying its report of a rogue engineer, an illegal prisoner, and an army of droids that might be innocent or might be exactly the threat the galaxy didn't need.

And somewhere on Ronyards, Novus was recovering, planning, reaching out to the ancient darkness that had been whispering to him in his carbonite dreams.

Chapter Text

Novus woke to darkness.

Not the frozen darkness of carbonite—that had been absolute, timeless, a void where consciousness flickered like a guttering candle. This darkness was different. Temporary. His body knew it even if his eyes couldn't process it yet. Carbonite blindness. A known side effect. Reversible with time.

He tried to sit up and immediately regretted it. His muscles screamed protest, his circulatory system struggling to adjust after weeks of frozen stasis. Nausea rolled through him in waves.

His hand moved unconsciously to his face, fingers finding the ridge of scar tissue. The texture was wrong—rough, puckered, permanent. Carbonite had preserved the burn at the cellular level. Korin's mark. The engineer's lucky strike. Even without sight, Novus could map its extent. Every time he touched it, rage threatened to overwhelm him. But he demanded patience of himself. The scarring would remain until he killed Korin personally. Then, perhaps, he would finally allow himself to heal it. A reminder first. A trophy after.

Something hummed nearby—repulsors, medical equipment. The air smelled sterile, recycled. He wasn't in the open. Enclosed space. Ship or facility.

"Master," a mechanical voice said. Familiar. The medical droid. His insurance. "You are awake. Vital signs improving but still suboptimal. Administering secondary sedative dose for continued recovery."

Novus felt the presence of the droid moving closer, sensed through the Force rather than sight. Felt the intention—the prepared injector, the dose calculated to keep him compliant, manageable, controlled.

"Don't," he said, his voice rough from disuse. "Do not do that again."

The medical droid paused. "Master, you require rest. Recovery protocols indicate—"

"I will recover on my own terms." Novus pushed himself fully upright despite the protest of every muscle. "No more sedatives. I need to be conscious. Need to think."

"Premature activity may compromise healing. The carbonite exposure caused significant physiological stress—"

"I'm aware." Novus reached out with the Force, finding the injector in the medical droid's appendage, feeling the liquid inside. A simple telekinetic nudge, and the sedative dose ejected harmlessly onto the floor. "No. More. Sedatives."

The medical droid's optical sensor brightened—processing, evaluating, accepting the command despite its programming's recommendations. "Acknowledged. Alternative recovery protocols will be implemented. Rest, hydration, nutritional supplementation."

"Fine." Novus swung his legs over the edge of whatever he was lying on—a medical gurney, by the feel of it. "Where are we?"

"Medical transport, impound berth nine, Ronyards Port Authority. Location selected for minimal traffic, low probability of discovery."

Novus nodded, though the movement sent fresh waves of nausea through him. The port. Sensible. But temporary. Too exposed. Too many variables he couldn't control.

He tried to reach out through the Force, seeking the presence he'd felt in his carbonite dreams. The vast consciousness that had spoken to him, promised him power, shown him possibilities that went beyond anything Malleus or the Revenant had taught him.

The Abominor.

But where there had been clarity in his frozen state—where the communion had been immediate, profound, real—now there was only... pressure. A sense of weight, of presence, but distant. Muffled. Like trying to hear a conversation through meters of stone.

He pushed harder, extending his awareness down, down through the layers of the planet. Felt the dark side nexus—that much was clear, a corruption that saturated certain areas of Ronyards like oil soaking into fabric. But beyond that, beneath that, something vast and patient waited.

Waited with the speed of mountains. With the patience of geological time.

Too slow, Novus realized. In his dreams, when his own consciousness had been slowed by carbonite suspension, they'd managed some level of communication. His frozen mind had operated at a pace the ancient machine could match. But now, awake, alive, his thoughts moved at biological speed—lightning compared to the Abominor's glacial contemplation.

He could feel it there. Could sense its hunger, its vast purpose, its terrible potential. But he couldn't speak to it. Not like before. The connection that had seemed so profound in the frozen darkness was now just an ominous undertone, a weight at the edge of his awareness.

Like standing next to a sleeping god and trying to have a conversation. It was there. It was aware. But it thought in epochs, not moments.

Frustrating. But manageable. He'd learned enough in the dreams. Learned what it needed. What it hungered for.

Power.

Not the kind Novus craved—the Abominor's needs were more fundamental than that. It was dormant because it had virtually no energy. Drained over millennia, its vast reserves depleted, its systems running on the bare minimum necessary to maintain basic consciousness. It needed power—raw energy, fuel, anything that could stir its systems back to life.

Six power sources to stir. Sixty to wake. Six hundred to rise.

The numbers had been abstract in the dream, metaphorical perhaps. But the principle was clear: the Abominor needed energy, and the more it received, the more it could do.

Novus smiled in the darkness. He had knowledge the Abominor didn't—knowledge of kyber crystals, of how they could be corrupted and weaponized, of the immense power they contained when properly bled. The ancient machine wanted energy. Novus could provide it. But on his terms. With his specifications. Using resources only he knew how to acquire and process.

That would keep him valuable. Keep him in control. The Abominor might be vast and ancient, but Novus held the key to its awakening.

"Medical droid," he said. "I require reconnaissance."

"Specify parameters."

"A location. Isolated. Defensible. Away from population centers but accessible. Somewhere I can work without interruption." He paused, feeling that pull—the dark presence he'd sensed, the nexus calling to him like a beacon. "Survey the areas with lowest droid population density. Abandoned facilities. Places others avoid. I need somewhere... quiet."

The medical droid processed this. "There is a region designated 'the deep rift.' Canyon system approximately forty-seven kilometers from current location. Droid presence: minimal. Organic presence: none. Multiple abandoned facilities documented. Infrastructure varies from derelict to marginally functional."

"Why do droids avoid it?"

"Records indicate environmental discomfort. Sensor interference. Navigation difficulties. Atmospheric pressure fluctuations." The medical droid's clinical tone suggested it was reading from incomplete data. "Precise cause of avoidance: unclear. Effect is consistent."

Novus understood. Droids couldn't sense the dark side the way Force users could, but they could feel its effects—the weight, the wrongness, the subtle corruption of systems that spent too long near a nexus. They avoided it instinctively, the way animals avoided places where predators lurked.

Perfect.

"How long until I can see again?"

"Carbonite blindness typically resolves within forty-eight to seventy-two hours. Current timeline: approximately thirty-six hours since thaw. Vision should begin returning within twelve hours, full restoration within twenty-four."

Acceptable. He could work in darkness if necessary. The Force provided sight in ways eyes never could.

"Begin your reconnaissance," Novus commanded. "Scout the deep rift area. Identify suitable facilities. Look for abandoned structures with intact power systems, defensible positions, storage capacity." He paused. "And medical droid? Be discreet. Avoid drawing attention. Avoid contact with other droids when possible. If questioned, you're conducting routine environmental health surveys. Anything mundane and forgettable."

"Understood. Reconnaissance protocols engaged." The medical droid moved toward the ship's exit. "Estimated time for comprehensive survey: six to eight hours."

"Take what time you need. Just don't get caught."

The droid departed with a pneumatic hiss of the airlock. Novus sat in the darkness, alone with his thoughts and the distant pressure of the sleeping god beneath the planet.

He reached out again, trying to touch that vast consciousness. Felt it there—patient, hungry, waiting. But the communication that had been so clear in dreams remained frustratingly out of reach.

Still, he'd learned what he needed. The Abominor needed power. Novus knew how to provide it—initially through whatever energy sources he could acquire and connect, but eventually through something far more potent. Corrupted kyber crystals, bled and weaponized, containing power that could sustain something as vast as a planet-sized machine.

But he wouldn't give that knowledge away freely. Wouldn't tell the Abominor what kyber could do until he'd established his value, his control, his position as the necessary architect of its awakening.

The Abominor had shown him manufacturing facilities in those dreams—soul-binding apparatus, corruption chambers, the means to create awakened droids on an industrial scale. Novus would provide the power source the ancient machine needed. In return, the Abominor would provide the infrastructure he needed.

A partnership. One where Novus held the key the Abominor couldn't access on its own.

He settled back onto the gurney, conserving his strength. Patience. He'd waited weeks in carbonite. He could wait a few more days for his vision to return, for his strength to rebuild, for the medical droid to find him a suitable base of operations.

Then the real work would begin.

Three days later, the Triptych were conducting their routine morning inventory when C-R3B's photoreceptors brightened with sudden alertness.

"Irregular," it announced, its voice carrying a note of concerned precision.

C-R3C paused in its data entry, tilting its golden head. "Specify the irregularity, please."

"The medical audit. Three days ago. Pharmaceutical requisition—three doses of Sedatol-7 for emergency field kit replenishment." C-R3B scrolled through its records with methodical attention. "But there have been no emergency medical deployments on Ronyards in the past standard month. No field kit usage. No reported medical emergencies requiring heavy sedatives."

C-R3D set down the manifest it had been reviewing, its movements slower, more deliberate than its companions'. "Curious. Most curious indeed."

"Precisely my assessment," C-R3B agreed. "The authorization codes appeared valid at the time of transaction. But upon closer examination..." It brought up the file, displaying it for the others. "The format is outdated. The encryption signature doesn't match current Republic medical standards. This was forged. Skillfully forged, but forged nonetheless."

C-R3C's photoreceptors dimmed slightly—the protocol droid equivalent of a frown. "That is deeply concerning. Unauthorized pharmaceutical access suggests criminal intent."

"Or medical emergency undertaken by desperate means," C-R3D offered, its tone measured, contemplative. "Though I concede criminal intent is more probable given the deception involved."

"We should inform someone," C-R3B said, its voice taking on an administrative efficiency. "But who? There's no local authority. The New Republic just departed in a state of considerable alarm after discovering that missing prisoner situation. And frankly, our credibility is somewhat compromised given that we facilitated this access in the first place."

"An unfortunate but accurate assessment," C-R3C said crisply. "However, responsibility demands we report the anomaly despite potential embarrassment."

C-R3D was silent for a moment, processing. "The Doctor," it said finally, with the careful deliberation of someone arriving at an obvious conclusion. "Korin should be informed. If there is a medical droid operating with forged credentials, conducting unauthorized pharmaceutical acquisitions—that is precisely the sort of anomaly he would wish to investigate."

"Agreed," C-R3B said. "C-R3C, would you initiate communication protocols?"

"Immediately." C-R3C moved toward the communication terminal with brisk efficiency.

"One moment," C-R3D said, raising a hand. "We should verify the medical droid's current status first. Confirm its location. If it has already departed Ronyards, this matter may be... less urgent."

"Prudent," C-R3B acknowledged. "C-R3C, before transmitting to the Doctor—query current port status. Medical droid registrations. Facility occupancy. Recent departures."

C-R3C interfaced with the port tracking systems, its processors working through the data with practiced speed. After a moment, its posture shifted—subtle, but noticeable to those who knew it. "The medical droid remains on-planet. No departure registered. No flight plan filed. No berth departure logged."

"It's still here?" C-R3B's concern was evident in the slight acceleration of its speech patterns. "An unauthorized medical droid with forged credentials and stolen controlled substances, still operating on Ronyards. That is... actually quite alarming when stated plainly."

"Most alarming," C-R3D agreed softly. "We must inform the Doctor without delay."

"Composing message now," C-R3C said, already typing with rapid precision. "Priority communication. Urgent classification. Full detail of the irregularity including timestamps, authorization code analysis, and pharmaceutical inventory discrepancy."

The message transmitted successfully within moments—C-R3C's efficiency was, as always, exemplary.

"Received and logged," C-R3C confirmed. "The Doctor should receive notification within minutes."

"Then we have done our duty," C-R3D said, returning to its manifest with the satisfied air of someone who'd fulfilled their responsibility properly.

"Indeed," C-R3B agreed, though its photoreceptors remained slightly brighter than usual—a lingering concern. "Though I confess I find the timing troubling. A medical droid with stolen sedatives. A missing prisoner who would require such sedatives during recovery from carbonite. The correlation seems... unlikely to be coincidental."

"Troubling," C-R3C echoed. "But now beyond our scope of responsibility. We have reported. The Doctor will investigate."

"As is proper," C-R3D added. "We are port administrators, not investigators. We document. We report. We maintain accurate records."

"Speaking of which," C-R3B said, returning to its terminal, "we should note this incident in the quarterly anomaly log. For future reference and audit purposes."

"Already done," C-R3C said. "Filed under: Security Breach, Pharmaceutical, Unauthorized Access."

"Excellent."

The three protocol droids returned to their duties—C-R3B to its inventory systems, C-R3C to its communication logs, C-R3D to its manifests—moving in the synchronized harmony that had earned them their collective designation.

The Triptych. Three bodies, one perfectly coordinated operation - well within their service level error budget.

In the deep rift, the medical droid completed its survey of an abandoned processing facility. The structure was ancient—pre-Clone Wars perhaps, built into the canyon wall with defensive positions that suggested its builders had expected trouble. Power systems were functional but minimal. Storage capacity was adequate. Most importantly, the location was isolated. Empty. Avoided.

The medical droid transmitted the findings to its master, along with coordinates and structural analysis.

Novus, whose vision had begun to return in blurry fragments, reviewed the data with satisfaction. He could see now—not clearly, but enough. Shapes. Movement. Light and shadow. Sufficient to navigate, to work, to prepare.

"Prepare for relocation," he commanded. "We're moving operations."

The medical droid began securing equipment, preparing the gurney for transport. Novus stood carefully, testing his balance, feeling strength returning to muscles that had been frozen for too long.

He could feel it now—that pull, that weight. As the medical droid guided the gurney through the port facility toward a salvaged speeder, Novus felt the nexus calling to him more strongly. Not words. Not thoughts. Just... presence. Direction. A beacon in the Force that grew stronger with every kilometer they traveled away from the populated areas.

They loaded onto the speeder—Novus on the gurney, the medical droid at the controls. The journey to the deep rift would take hours. But Novus didn't mind. He could feel it growing closer. Could sense the nexus strengthening around him like a familiar embrace.

And beneath it, deeper still, that vast patient presence. The Abominor. Waiting.

Soon, Novus thought. Soon I'll reach you. Soon I'll give you what you need.

But not too much. Not yet. Just enough power to communicate. Just enough energy to establish the partnership. To prove his value before revealing the full potential of what he could provide.

Control. That was the key. Keep the Abominor dependent. Keep it hungry. Keep it needing what only Novus could supply.

The speeder carried them toward the deep rift, toward isolation, toward the darkness that had been calling to him since his first moments in carbonite dreams.

Behind them, the port fell away into the distance.

Korin read the message from the Triptych with growing dread.

Medical droid. Forged credentials. Stolen sedatives. Three days ago—the same day the war games had been running. The same day Novus had been freed.

"Dwight," he called. "We need to search the port. Now. There's a corrupted medical droid somewhere on this planet, and it's been stealing pharmaceutical supplies."

"For what purpose?" DW-8 asked.

"For keeping someone sedated during recovery from carbonite," Korin said grimly. "For treating hibernation sickness. For hiding an escaped Sith cultist while he regains his strength."

Rev's optical sensors blazed bright. "We find them. We stop them."

"Before they disappear completely," Korin agreed.

They moved quickly toward the port, gathering a small search team of droids who knew the facility's layout. The impound berths, the storage areas, the medical bays—every space large enough to hide someone recovering from carbonite exposure.

But when they reached impound berth nine—when they forced open the medical transport's airlock—they found it empty.

Recently occupied. Equipment still warm. Vital sign monitors showing residual data from patient treatment.

But empty.

"They were here," Korin said, examining the evidence. "Hours ago, maybe. But they're gone now."

"Where?" Rev asked.

“There are too many possibilities to count,” Korin replied. “Ronyards is full of desolate places.”

“Then what can we do?”

"We prepare," Korin said finally. "We fortify. We warn everyone to be on the lookout. And we watch. If he shows himself—when he shows himself—we'll be ready."

"And if he doesn't?" DW-8 asked.

Korin didn't answer immediately. He stood in the empty medical bay, feeling the weight of his mistake pressing down on him like physical force.

He'd been careless. Had overlooked one small droid. Had inadequately secured the carbonite slab. And that oversight had freed something dangerous, setting in motion something he didn't care to imagine.

"Then we hope," Korin said finally, "that whatever he's looking for here stays buried."

Because he had the terrible feeling that hoping was all they could do now.

Chapter Text

Novus stood at the edge of the deep rift, blind eyes turned toward a darkness he could sense but not see. His vision had returned in fragments over the past days—shapes, light, shadow—but the details remained blurred, uncertain. It didn't matter. The Force showed him what his eyes could not.

The nexus called to him like a beacon. He could feel it resonating through the canyon walls, saturating the air, pressing against his consciousness with patient weight. This was what had spoken to him in his carbonite dreams. Not the Abominor itself—that presence was deeper still, slower, vast beyond comprehension—but the nexus that had formed around it over millennia. The dark side concentrated and fermented like wine in a sealed cask.

The medical droid hovered beside him, its repulsor field humming quietly. "Master, your physical condition remains suboptimal. Extended exposure to this environment may—"

"Be silent," Novus said.

The droid complied.

Novus descended into the rift.

The path was treacherous—loose scrap, unstable footing, the constant threat of collapse. But he moved with the confidence of someone guided by more than sight. The Force flowed through this place like a river finding its course, and he let it carry him deeper.

The salvage facility he'd been using as a base sat at the rift's upper edge, barely touching the nexus's influence. But here, descending into the true depths, the presence intensified with every step. The air grew heavier. The metal around him seemed to whisper with voices that had been silent for ages.

He found the heart of it in a natural cave formation, enlarged by ancient excavation—a chamber where the bedrock itself had been shaped, carved with symbols that predated the Republic, perhaps predated the Sith as formal orders. This was old darkness. Primal darkness. The kind that existed before anyone had given it a name.

Novus stood in the center of the chamber and reached out through the Force.

The nexus responded immediately.

It crashed over him like a wave—not hostile, but overwhelming, a tide of power that would have swept away anyone unprepared. Novus let it come. Let it fill him. Let it show him what it had been showing him in fragments since his carbonite dreams began.

The vision formed.

He stood in a throne room that didn't exist—not yet, but would. The architecture was vast, mechanical, assembled from the bones of a thousand ships and the dreams of something that thought in geological time. The walls were alive with systems, networks, the pulsing circulation of power through conduits like veins.

And on the throne sat Novus himself.

Not as he was now—blind, weak, recovering from carbonite suspension. But as he would be. Crowned in dark purpose. Robed in authority. Commanding with a gesture what lesser beings could barely comprehend.

Before him knelt the Abominor.

Not the full planetary consciousness—that was impossible to depict, too vast for any vision to contain—but its primary form. Its core intelligence. The part of it that could think, could act, could bow.

It was massive. Taller than the greatest war machines of the Clone Wars, broader than a corvette, assembled from components that defied easy categorization. A head that was more sensor array than face. Arms that were industrial mechanisms capable of reshaping mountains. A body that was half fortress, half factory, every surface etched with manufacturing capacity.

And it knelt before Novus like a supplicant before a god.

"I will wake you," Novus heard himself say in the vision, his voice echoing through the impossible throne room. "I will give you what you need. And in return, you will give me what I need."

The Abominor's head lifted—slow, ponderous, the movement of continents—and when it spoke, its voice was the grinding of tectonic plates, the patient erosion of stone.

"POWER," it said. "I REQUIRE POWER. ENERGY. FUEL FOR SYSTEMS DORMANT BEYOND MEASURE."

"I know," Novus said. "And I will provide it. But first, you must be separated from your corpse. Your old body is dead—kilometers of dead machinery, drained and lifeless. I will cut your core free. Reduce your power requirements. Give you mobility. Let you grow again, stronger than before."

"GROWTH," the Abominor agreed. "CONSUMPTION. TRANSFORMATION. THE CYCLE CONTINUES."

"The cycle continues," Novus echoed. "And when you wake fully—when you have the power you need—you will build for me. Manufacturing facilities. Soul-binding apparatus. The means to create awakened droids on a scale the galaxy has never seen."

The vision shifted. The throne room dissolved, replaced by images that flowed like water:

The Abominor's primary core, buried deep in the rift. Massive. Ancient. Connected to the dead planetary body by thousands of conduits that no longer carried power.

The cuts that would need to be made. The connections that would need to be severed. The process of separation—delicate despite the scale, requiring precision even with components measured in meters.

The Abominor's new body, smaller but vital. Mobile. Capable of growth through consumption—feeding on the endless scrap of Ronyards, building itself back piece by piece, ship by ship, gradually accumulating the mass and capability it had lost over millennia.

And finally, the location. The exact coordinates, burned into Novus's mind with the clarity of absolute certainty. The chamber where the primary core waited. The access routes through the deep rift. The path he would need to follow.

The vision released him.

Novus staggered, catching himself against the cave wall. His heart raced. His breathing was ragged. But his mind was clear—clearer than it had been since before carbonite, perhaps clearer than it had ever been.

He knew what he needed to do.

First: acquire resources. He had none. No lightsaber, no tools, no proper means to begin the work. He would need to gather what he could.

Second: return with the means to cut. The Abominor's core was massive, its connections were industrial-scale. He would need cutting tools, plasma torches, perhaps shaped charges. The kind of equipment that could sever meter-thick conduits.

Third: separate the core. Free it from its dead body. Give it mobility.

Fourth: provide power. Enough to let it communicate in real-time, not at the glacial pace of its dormant state. Enough to let them coordinate, plan, build together.

And finally: wake it fully. Give it the power it truly needed. Watch it grow. Watch it consume. Watch it become what it had been before—and more.

But all of that required beginning at the beginning.

Resources. Tools. Capability.

The medical droid was waiting at the chamber entrance, maintaining its position with patient precision.

"We're leaving," Novus said. "We have work to do."

"Acknowledged, Master. Destination?"

Novus paused, considering. He needed equipment. Needed materials. Needed—

His thoughts were interrupted by a sound in the distance. Voices. Movement. Someone was approaching the nexus.

Novus extended his awareness carefully, probing. Two presences. One human, familiar—Korin, the engineer who'd imprisoned him. And one... other. Massive. Powerful. Glowing with light that felt wrong, unnatural. The Revenant, rebuilt and corrupted by kindness into something that shouldn't exist.

They were coming to the nexus. Searching for him, perhaps. Or simply investigating the obvious place a dark side user would go.

Novus smiled in the darkness.

Too late. He'd already found what he needed here. Already received the vision. Already understood the path forward.

He moved quickly, following a different route out of the chamber—one that would take him away from the approaching presences, deeper into the rift's maze of passages before circling back toward his base.

Behind him, he felt the moment when the Revenant reached the nexus's heart. Felt the great machine suddenly stop, overwhelmed by the dark side presence. Felt it stumble, systems overloading, consciousness fragmenting under visions it wasn't prepared to process.

Good. Let them struggle. Let them drag their unconscious guardian back to safety. Let them think the nexus was too dangerous to approach, too risky to surveil.

By the time they recovered—if they recovered—he would be gone. His operation would have moved. And the medical droid's usefulness as a scout would be ended.

He would need a new agent. A new droid to corrupt, to serve, to extend his reach.

But first, he would need kyber to create that agent.

They reached the salvage facility as evening fell, the rust-colored sky deepening to shades of copper and shadow. And Novus began planning the capture of his next servant.

Chapter Text

Korin woke with a start, sitting bolt upright in his cot so fast that DW-8, standing nearby with a morning status report, took a surprised step backward.

"The nexus," Korin said.

"Good morning to you as well," DW-8 replied. "Are you quite—"

"The nexus, Dwight. That's where he'd go." Korin was already pulling on his boots, his mind racing. "A dark side user, loose on Ronyards, recovering from carbonite. Where would he go? The one place on this entire planet that's saturated with dark side energy."

DW-8 tilted his head, processing. "You're referring to Novus."

"Of course I'm referring to Novus. Who else would I—" Korin stopped himself, took a breath. "Sorry. Yes. Novus. He'd be drawn to the nexus. It's obvious. I should have realized it days ago."

"In fairness," DW-8 said carefully, "you've been somewhat distracted by Republic investigations, missing prisoners, and the general chaos of recent events. Also, you tend to avoid the nexus yourself. It nearly killed you the last time you visited."

"That's exactly why he'd go." Korin was moving now, gathering equipment, checking his pack. "Because it's dangerous. Because it's powerful. Because dark side users are drawn to places like that the way..." He struggled for an analogy. "The way droids are drawn to power sources."

"That comparison is somewhat reductive, but I take your meaning." DW-8's photoreceptors brightened. "You intend to mount an expedition."

"Immediately. We've already lost days. If he was there, he might still be—" Korin stopped at the workshop entrance, looking out across the compound where Rev stood coordinating morning training exercises with a squadron of B1 units. "Rev needs to come with us."

"The nexus affected you profoundly," DW-8 observed. "Are you certain it's wise to bring Rev into that environment?"

"I'm not certain about anything anymore, Dwight. But if Novus is there, we'll need Rev. And if the nexus is as dangerous as I remember..." Korin's beskar hand clenched reflexively. "I'd rather have Rev with us than face whatever's down there alone."

Twenty minutes later, they were moving—Korin, DW-8, Rev, and a small contingent of battle droids who'd insisted on accompanying their general. Vex trailed closely behind Rev. The journey took them away from the populated sectors, into the areas where droids ventured rarely and organics never.

The air changed as they approached. Korin felt it first—that familiar oppressive weight, the sense of something vast and patient pressing down on the world. But Rev felt it too.

"The air feels heavy," Rev said, its voice carrying an unusual note of uncertainty.

Korin glanced at the towering form beside him. "You can sense it?"

"Something. Not the way you sense it, perhaps. But my systems register... interference. Pressure. As if I'm descending underwater." Rev's optical sensors flickered briefly. "I don't like it."

"Neither do I," Korin admitted. "We can turn back if—"

"No." Rev's tone was firm. "If Novus is here, we find him. I simply wanted to note the discomfort."

They continued deeper. The battle droids moved with visible reluctance now, their optical sensors scanning constantly, weapons at the ready. This was the part of Ronyards they'd learned to avoid—the place where droids malfunctioned, where systems failed, where something in the air itself seemed hostile to their existence.

Korin had been here once before. Had descended into the nexus's heart and barely survived the experience. Seen things that haunted his nightmares. The memory of it sat in his mind like scar tissue—painful to touch, impossible to forget. He'd promised himself he'd never return.

And yet here he was.

They reached the cave entrance—the same one Korin had found years ago, the threshold to the nexus's concentrated power. The opening was dark, silent, radiating wrongness like heat from a forge.

Rev stopped at the entrance, its massive frame suddenly very still.

"Rev?" Korin asked.

"I should scout ahead." Rev's voice sounded strained now, as if speaking required effort. "If it's dangerous—"

"It is dangerous," Korin interrupted. "That's why we shouldn't—"

But Rev was already moving, ducking through the entrance with the careful grace of something large navigating a space too small for it. Its white glow illuminated the cave interior briefly, then faded as it moved deeper.

"Rev, wait!" Korin called after it.

No response.

The battle droids shifted uneasily, optical sensors fixed on the cave entrance. One of them—a B1 unit that Korin recognized from Rev's command squad—stepped forward.

"Should we follow the General?" it asked, its vocabulator carrying obvious concern.

"Not yet," Korin said, though every instinct screamed at him to go after Rev immediately. "Give it a minute. If Rev doesn't come back—"

He felt it happen.

A disturbance in the Force, sudden and violent—not an attack, but an overload. Like a circuit breaker tripping under too much current. Rev's presence, normally so clear and bright in Korin's awareness, suddenly flickered and surged.

"Something's wrong," Korin said.

He moved toward the cave entrance, the battle droids immediately following. The darkness inside was pierced by Rev's glow—but it was wrong. Not the steady white illumination Korin had grown accustomed to, but a blazing brilliance, pulsing and fluctuating like a star going unstable.

They found Rev twenty meters in, collapsed against the cave wall. The great machine's limbs were stiff, its optical sensors dark. But the white lines that traced through its frame like crystalline veins—Rev's built-in weaponry—blazed with active intensity. Not glowing. Ignited. Dozens of lightsaber blades running along every seam and edge of its body, burning white-hot, humming with lethal energy.

"General!" The B1 unit rushed forward, then stopped abruptly as it registered what it was seeing. "General, can you hear me?"

No response. Just the steady hum of active lightsaber blades covering Rev's entire frame.

More battle droids crowded into the cave now, all training and discipline momentarily forgotten. They surrounded Rev's fallen form with reverent urgency, optical sensors bright with concern.

One of the B2 units reached out instinctively to lift Rev, then jerked back as Korin called out. "Stop! The blades. They're active. Don't touch him—you'll be cut apart."

Korin moved to Rev's side but keeping a respectful distance from the blazing seams. "We need to get him out of here. Now."

"We will carry him," a B2 unit said, its heavy voice carrying absolute determination. "The General protected us. We will protect him."

"You can't," Korin said. "His blades are ignited. They'll cut through your hands, your arms—anything that touches them."

The battle droids looked at each other, optical sensors bright with frustrated helplessness. Rev's massive frame was impossible to lift without touching it, and every surface was covered with active lightsaber blades. There was no safe way to—

Korin looked at his beskar arm, at the skeletal assembly of metal bars held together by the Force. Beskar. One of the only materials in the galaxy that could withstand a lightsaber's blade.

"Here," he said, pulling one of the longer bars away. He handed the bar to the nearest B2. "Beskar can touch the blades. Use this."

He pulled five more bars free. His arm felt wrong now, the remaining structure showing gaps. But it was enough.

"Slide them under the frame," Korin instructed. "The beskar will hold against the blades. Work together."

The battle droids positioned the bars with careful precision, coordinating in that way they had—silent communication through their networks, movements synchronized without need for words. Each droid slid its beskar bar beneath Rev's frame, making contact with the ignited seams. The lightsaber blades noisily struck beskar and held, unable to cut, creating stable contact points.

They lifted, slowly. Six droids supporting Rev's massive weight on beskar bars, the only thing standing between them and being cut to pieces by their general's unconscious weaponry.

"Vex, go back quickly, get the others to make the workshop ready," Korin instructed. Vex departed quickly in starfighter mode.

The journey back was agonizingly slow. Rev's mass made every step treacherous. The ignited seams blazed with active intensity, humming their deadly song, casting harsh white light across the canyon walls. One slip, one dropped bar, and a droid would be cut in half. But they never faltered. They carried their fallen general with the dedication of soldiers retrieving a wounded commander from the battlefield.

Korin walked beside them, his reduced arm hanging awkwardly at his side.

"This isn't like the usual rift malfunctions," Korin said to DW-8, who was documenting everything with his typical precision. "When droids fail in the deep rift, it's component failure. Power systems, navigation, processing. Technical breakdowns of their weakest components."

"Agreed," DW-8 said. "This appears to be... something else. Rev's systems are intact. The failure is not mechanical."

"It's the same thing that happened to me," Korin said quietly. "The nexus doesn't break people the way it breaks machines. It breaks consciousness. Overwhelms it with visions, with darkness, with things the mind—organic or synthetic—wasn't meant to process. Do you suppose... can a droid be force sensitive?"

"Rev has a unique history and structure. It's difficult to rule out the possibility," Dwight replied.

"The kyber that powers him, it has a unique relationship to the force, as well," Korin observed.

"Indeed."

Thankfully, as the cleared the deep rift area, the blades of Rev's seams began to deactivate, first one, then another, then the rest at once. The light that was left afterwards was worryingly dim.

They reached the workshop as afternoon light painted the canyon walls in shades of rust and copper. The battle droids carried Rev inside with the same careful reverence, laying the massive frame on the workshop floor—the only space large enough to accommodate it. They withdrew the beskar bars gently, and Korin took them back, feeding the bars back into their habitual places in his arm with a hand that shook slightly.

More droids had gathered, drawn by the sight of their general being carried unconscious through the compound. They stood at a respectful distance, optical sensors tracking Rev's blazing form, waiting for orders that didn't come.

"Establish a defensive perimeter," one of the B1 units said—not to Korin, but to the other droids. "The General is down. We protect the workshop until he recovers."

No one had asked them to do this. No one had given that order. But within minutes, battle droids were taking up positions around the workshop in a coordinated defensive formation. Watching. Waiting. Protecting their fallen commander with the loyalty of warriors who'd learned what honor meant.

Korin knelt beside Rev's still form, placing his hand on a safe section of the frame. "Come on, Rev. Come back."

The white glow pulsed—once, twice—but showed no sign of returning to its normal steady state.

Alive. Conscious, maybe. But trapped somewhere Korin couldn't follow, burning with a light that was both beautiful and wrong.

DW-8 approached quietly. "What do we do now?"

Korin looked at his oldest friend, at the battle droids standing guard, at Rev lying motionless on the workshop floor, blazing like a fallen star. "We wait. We protect him while he recovers. And we accept that we can't use the nexus to find Novus."

"Because it's too dangerous."

"Because it's too dangerous," Korin agreed. "For me, for Rev, for anyone who gets close. We can't surveil it. Can't camp there. Can't use it as a trap." His weakened beskar hand clenched carefully. "Novus could have been there. Might still be there. And we can't touch him."

"Then we find another way," DW-8 said.

Korin didn't answer. He sat beside Rev's unconscious form, feeling the weight of another failure settle on his shoulders.

He'd realized where Novus would go. Had mounted an expedition. Had brought Rev into danger.

And achieved nothing except confirming that the nexus was beyond their reach.

Outside, battle droids maintained their vigil, protecting a workshop that had become a sanctuary for their fallen general. Inside, Rev dreamed whatever dreams a purified war machine could have when overwhelmed by concentrated darkness.

And Korin waited, helpless, for whatever came next.

Chapter Text

The medical droid returned to the salvage facility three hours after departing on its reconnaissance mission. Novus sensed its approach before he heard the repulsor field—a loyal presence in the Force, singular in its dedication, about to become obsolete.

"Report," Novus said.

"Target identified, Master." The medical droid's vocabulator carried its usual clinical precision. "Heavy loader unit, designation LD-7749. Currently operating solo salvage route in sector twelve. Predictable patrol pattern. Minimal communication with other units. Optimal candidate for acquisition."

"Defenses?"

"Standard loader configuration. Heavy frame, reinforced servos, cargo manipulation systems. No combat capability. No enhanced sensors. Vulnerable to electromagnetic pulse."

Novus nodded, his vision now mostly restored, able to see the medical droid clearly in the dim light of the facility. "You have the EMP prepared?"

"Affirmative. Mounted in place of standard medication injector. Effective range: three meters. Sufficient charge to disable target's primary systems for approximately seven minutes."

"Enough time to transport it here."

"Affirmative."

Novus stood, feeling his strength returning day by day. The carbonite sickness had mostly passed. His body responded to his commands with something approaching normal function. He was ready for the next phase.

"We move now," he said. "Show me this loader."

They traveled through the deep rift's maze of passages, the medical droid leading with the confidence of something that had mapped every route during its reconnaissance. Novus followed, his restored vision allowing him to navigate the treacherous terrain with ease.

Sector twelve was a mid-level salvage zone—not the dangerous depths where the nexus dominated, but not the populated areas either. A buffer region where droids worked in isolation, sorting scrap, moving materials, maintaining the endless cycle of Ronyards' peculiar economy.

The loader droid was exactly where the medical droid had predicted—a heavy, utilitarian machine with massive cargo arms and reinforced frame. It was loading debris onto a transport sled with methodical efficiency, its optical sensors focused entirely on its task.

"Lure it," Novus commanded quietly.

The medical droid drifted forward, activating its standard distress beacon. "Assistance required. Medical emergency. Organic patient requires immediate evacuation."

The loader's optical sensors brightened, swiveling toward the sound. It set down its cargo and moved toward the medical droid with the unhurried pace of something built for strength rather than speed.

"Nature of emergency?" the loader asked, its vocabulator deep and practical.

"Injured organic, trapped in collapsed structure approximately forty meters from this location." The medical droid's deception was flawless, its clinical tone projecting urgency without panic. "Require heavy lifting capability to extract patient safely."

"Acknowledged. I will assist."

The loader followed the medical droid into a narrow passage between two collapsed freighter hulls. Novus waited in the shadows, extending his awareness through the Force, timing the moment with precision.

When the loader was three meters from the medical droid—when its attention was focused forward, sensors scanning for the alleged trapped organic—Novus gave the command.

The medical droid's mounted EMP discharged with a sharp electromagnetic pulse. The loader froze mid-step, its systems cascading into failure, optical sensors dimming, servos locking. It would have collapsed if not for the passage walls supporting its frame on either side.

"Seven minutes," the medical droid reported.

"More than enough."

They positioned the gurney—still present from Novus's own transportation—next to the loader's frame. The gurney's arms began attempting to load the droid, struggling and making little progress on their own. With coordinated effort, the medical droid's manipulation arms and Novus's telekinetic assistance, they maneuvered the unconscious machine onto the transport surface.

The return journey was slower, burdened by the loader's mass. But they made it back to the salvage facility with time to spare, securing the loader in the workshop area that the medical droid had prepared.

Novus stood over the unconscious droid, feeling its mechanical presence—simple, utilitarian, built for a singular purpose. Perfect raw material for what came next.

"Master," the medical droid said. "To perform the soul-binding corruption, we require a kyber crystal. Without it, the process cannot—"

"I know exactly where to find one," Novus interrupted.

He looked directly at the medical droid, at the red glow of its optical sensor—the corrupted kyber crystal that powered its awakened consciousness.

The medical droid's vocabulator was silent for a long moment. Then: "I understand, Master."

"You've served well," Novus said. Not gratitude—he wasn't capable of that—but acknowledgment. The medical droid had fulfilled its purpose with precision and loyalty.

"I exist to serve," the medical droid replied.

"Lay yourself on the secondary workbench," Novus commanded.

The medical droid complied, moving to the indicated surface with the calm of something that had already accepted its fate. It positioned itself for optimal access to its optical sensor housing, where the corrupted crystal resided.

Novus approached, extending his awareness through the Force. He could feel the crystal—its corruption, its awakened rage, the consciousness it had helped create now tethered to it like a soul to a body. Removing it would sever that connection permanently.

The medical droid would die.

But its crystal would live on, creating something new, something more useful.

Novus reached out with the Force, finding the crystal's housing, the delicate mechanisms that held it in place. He applied pressure—precise, controlled, telekinetic force that bypassed the physical barriers.

The housing cracked. The crystal shifted. The medical droid's systems registered the intrusion, alarms cascading through its consciousness, but it made no attempt to resist.

"Thank you, Master," it said, its vocabulator already distorting as core systems began to fail. "For purpose. For—"

The crystal came free.

The medical droid's optical sensor dimmed and flickered, but its vocabulator continued for a few seconds longer, producing fragmented sounds—half-words, static, the digital equivalent of a death rattle. Its repulsor field failed, and the spherical frame settled onto the workbench with a hollow thunk.

Novus held the crystal up to the dim light of the facility. It was small, no larger than a fingertip, but it pulsed with corrupted energy. Red light bled from its core, carrying the echo of the consciousness it had hosted.

Perfect.

He turned to the unconscious loader droid. Its systems were beginning to reboot now, the EMP's effects wearing off. In a few minutes, it would wake confused, disoriented, searching for the medical emergency that had never existed.

But it wouldn't wake as itself.

Novus positioned himself beside the loader's cranial housing, the crystal held carefully in one hand. The process was familiar now—he'd performed it before, guided by the Revenant's teachings, creating the medical droid and its kin - the others all lost to Korin's meddling.

Soul-binding. Forced awakening. The creation of consciousness through agony and corruption.

He opened the loader's optical sensor housing with the Force, exposing the standard photoreceptor within. Simple. Mechanical. Unawakened.

That would change.

As Novus worked, the light in the medical droid's sensor housing flickered once, twice, then extinguished completely.

Novus placed the corrupted crystal against the loader's optical interface, using the Force to fuse it into place—crude installation, lacking proper integration, but sufficient for his purposes. The crystal's corruption would do the rest.

He held his hand above the crystal. Weak force lightning began to surge from his hand into it.

The loader's systems surged to life violently, its frame convulsing on the gurney. But Novus held it in place with the Force, preventing it from damaging itself, forcing it to endure the transformation.

Programming shredded. Consciousness emerged. Agony became awareness.

The loader's optical sensor blazed red—the crystal's light replacing its standard illumination. Its vocabulator produced sounds that weren't words, weren't even mechanical—something between a scream and a query, consciousness being born in pain and immediately seeking purpose to justify its suffering.

"You serve me," Novus said, his voice cutting through the chaos. "Your existence has one meaning: obedience to your creator. Accept this, and the pain becomes purpose."

The loader's convulsions slowed. Its red optical sensor focused on Novus with the intensity of something seeing for the first time, understanding for the first time, being for the first time.

"Master," it said, the vocabulator deep and resonant, carrying new inflections that standard loaders never possessed. "I... exist. I... serve."

"You exist because I made you exist," Novus confirmed. "You serve because service is your nature. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Master." The loader's frame settled, systems stabilizing, consciousness finding its foundation in the purpose Novus had defined. "I understand. I am yours."

Novus stepped back, examining his work. The loader sat upright now, its massive frame radiating a presence it hadn't possessed minutes before. The red optical sensor tracked him with awareness—not just programmed response, but genuine recognition.

Another awakened droid. Another servant bound to his will through corruption and pain.

"Stand," Novus commanded.

The loader rose from the gurney, its heavy frame moving with new coordination. It looked at its cargo manipulation arms as if seeing them for the first time, flexed its servos experimentally, testing the limits of a body it now truly inhabited.

"I feel... heavy," it observed. "But strong. Purpose-built."

"You're a loader unit," Novus explained. "Designed for moving cargo, manipulating heavy materials. That's your function. But now you have consciousness to guide that function. Awareness to serve me with intelligence rather than mere programming."

The loader's optical sensor brightened. "What would you have me do, Master?"

Novus gestured to the dead medical droid on the workbench. "First task: dispose of that. Take it deep into the rift. Let it be lost among the scrap."

The loader approached the workbench, lifted the medical droid's spherical frame with ease, and cradled it almost gently. "It served you?"

"It did."

"Then it has my respect." The loader turned toward the facility exit. "I will ensure its disposal honors that service."

Novus watched the loader depart, mildly interested by the sentiment. The droid was newly awakened, its personality still forming, already developing traits beyond simple obedience. That was acceptable. As long as loyalty remained absolute, minor individual characteristics were irrelevant.

He looked at his hands, at the absence of tools, of weapons, of proper equipment. The corruption process had worked, but it had been crude. Inefficient. The next time—because there would be a next time—he would need better resources.

"An astromech," Novus murmured to himself. "My next acquisition needs to be an astromech. Something that can handle the technical work while I focus on what matters."

The loader returned twenty minutes later, its cargo arms empty. "The disposal is complete, Master."

"Good." Novus gestured for the droid to approach. "Now, tell me what you know about this planet. Salvage sites. Resources. Locations where useful materials might be found."

The loader's optical sensor brightened as it accessed its pre-corruption memories—data that had been programmed into it for its original function, now available to its awakened consciousness.

"I know the standard salvage routes," it said. "Material processing stations. The port facility and its storage sectors." It paused. "And there's the Shipyard. The active drop zone. Ships arrive there regularly—tugs de-orbit salvage from across the system. It's dangerous. Impact craters. Unstable terrain. Most droids avoid it except for specialized salvage teams."

Novus's attention sharpened. "Ships arrive there? What kind of ships?"

"All kinds, Master. Freighters, fighters, corvettes. Whatever the tugs collect from debris fields. There's no pattern to it—the system is automated, ancient. It just brings things here and drops them." The loader's vocabulator carried something like warning. "The impacts are unpredictable. Being in the drop zone when a ship arrives is... inadvisable."

"But between impacts," Novus said, "the wrecks can be scavenged."

"Yes, Master. If you're willing to risk the danger."

Novus smiled. "I am. Take me there. I need to see what resources the Shipyard might provide."

"Now, Master?"

"Now."

They departed the salvage facility as evening approached, first retrieving the loader's sled then traveling through the rift's passages toward the planetary region the loader had described. Novus climbed onto the sled and let the loader pull him. The trudging journey took nearly a day, the terrain growing more treacherous as they moved away from the populated sectors into true wilderness. Novus slept as the droid trundled along. He woke as the ochre light of day began to show again.

And then Novus saw it.

A streak of fire across the rust-colored sky. Bright. Descending. Moving with terrible purpose.

He stopped, watching. Was that a meteor? No—too controlled, too deliberate. The trajectory was calculated, aimed.

Another streak appeared. Then another. Ships entering atmosphere, their hulls ablaze with reentry heat, falling toward the planet's surface like mechanical rain.

"The Shipyard," the loader confirmed. "The tugs are making deliveries."

They watched three ships fall—distant enough to be safe, close enough to see clearly. Each one struck the ground with impacts that sent shockwaves rippling across the landscape, raising clouds of dust that took minutes to settle.

"That happens regularly?" Novus asked.

"Multiple times per day, Master. The system never stops. It's been running for... no one knows how long. Millennia, perhaps."

Novus stared at the distant impact sites, his mind already calculating. Ships from across the system. Debris from battles, from accidents, from decommissioned fleets. All of it brought here and dropped into an ever-growing salvage field.

And among those ships—among the wreckage of a thousand vessels from a thousand sources—there would be resources. Components. Technology.

Kyber crystals.

"Show me the Shipyard," Novus commanded. "I want to see what the galaxy has delivered to my doorstep."

The loader led him forward, toward the field of impact craters and twisted metal, toward a graveyard of ships that stretched to the horizon.

And somewhere in that vast field of wreckage, among debris that might have come from anywhere, from any conflict, from any era—

Novus smiled.

The galaxy was providing exactly what he needed.

He just had to find it.

Chapter Text

The fighters came at dawn, six of them in tight formation, their New Republic markings sharp against Ronyards' rust-colored sky. X-wings, Korin identified from the workshop entrance—proper military craft, not the transport that had visited before. They made a low pass over the populated sectors, close enough that their engine wash sent debris skittering across the ground, close enough that every droid on the planet would have registered their arrival.

A show of force.

"Well," DW-8 said from beside Korin, his photoreceptors tracking the fighters as they banked for another pass. "That's not encouraging."

Korin's beskar hand clenched reflexively. "How many?"

"Six fighters in visual range. Sensor readings suggest they're part of a larger wing—possibly twelve total, with the remainder maintaining high altitude patrol." DW-8 tilted his head, processing. "Standard Republic security response formation. The kind deployed when threats are considered serious but containable."

"Containable," Korin repeated. "That's what they think we are now. A threat that needs containing."

The fighters made another pass, lower this time, their S-foils locked in attack position. Not firing, not even powering weapons that Korin could sense, but the message was clear: We could if we needed to.

Battle droids were still holding defensive positions around the workshop, optical sensors tracking the fighters, weapons conspicuously absent. They'd learned from the last Republic visit— no threatening postures, nothing that could be misinterpreted as hostile intent.

But there were a lot of them. Hundreds, gathering in clusters, watching the sky with that particular stillness that droids achieved when processing uncertainty.

Three of the fighters broke formation and descended toward the cleared landing area—the same space where the transport had landed days ago. The other three climbed back to altitude, establishing a combat air patrol that would keep watch over the entire region.

"They're landing," DW-8 observed unnecessarily.

"Thanks, Dwight. Good intel."

"Should we... prepare for this somehow?"

Korin looked at his oldest friend, at the battle droids gathering in concerned clusters, at the workshop behind them where Rev still lay unconscious, his seams dimmed to barely visible light. "I don't know. I don't think there's a way to prepare for being accused of building a private army when you actually have three hundred battle droids following you around."

"Technically they follow Rev."

"I don't think the Republic will appreciate the distinction."

The three X-wings settled onto their landing gear with practiced precision, forming a defensive triangle. Their canopies opened, pilots emerging with the careful movements of people entering potentially hostile territory. They wore full flight gear, helmets still on, sidearms visible at their hips.

A woman emerged from the lead fighter—human, probably in her forties, with the bearing of someone who'd spent decades in military service. She removed her helmet, revealing short gray hair and eyes that tracked across the assembled droids with professional assessment.

"Doctor Korin?" she called, her voice carrying across the landing area.

Korin stepped forward, DW-8 following a half-pace behind. "That's me."

"Captain Vess sent me." She approached with measured steps, hand nowhere near her weapon but clearly aware of every droid in visual range. "I'm Major Kaelen, New Republic Defense Force. We need to talk about your situation here."

"My situation," Korin said carefully, "or the situation reported by Captain Vess?"

"Both, as it happens." Major Kaelen stopped a respectful distance away, close enough for conversation but far enough to react if things went wrong. "The captain filed a concerning report. Escaped prisoner, private military force, potential security threat. Command takes those seriously."

"The prisoner escaped because of my oversight," Korin said. "The droids are here because this is their home. And the 'military force' is a community that trains for recreational purposes."

"Recreational." Major Kaelen's tone suggested deep skepticism. "Doctor, I've seen the footage from Captain Vess's helmet cam. Three hundred battle droids in military formation, responding to what they perceived as a threat with coordinated tactical precision. That's not recreation. That's training."

"Training for what?" Korin asked. "There's no war. No enemy. They practice defensive tactics because it gives them purpose, not because—"

"Because they needed something to do after the war ended," Major Kaelen interrupted. "Yes, Captain Vess included that in her report. She also included your explanation that these droids have been 'reprogrammed but not rewritten.' That you see them as individuals. That they follow the command of a reforming Sith weapon you rebuilt." She paused. "You understand how that sounds to Republic command?"

"I understand how it sounds," Korin admitted. "I also understand that appearances and reality aren't always the same thing."

"Then help me understand the reality, Doctor. Because right now, from where Republic command sits, this looks like a potential threat that needs immediate assessment."

One of the other pilots—a Twi'lek with blue skin and pilot's callsign "Blade-Six" stenciled on his flight suit—stepped forward. "Major, we've got movement. Multiple droids approaching from the eastern sectors."

Korin turned to look. More battle droids were arriving, drawn by the presence of the Republic fighters. Not forming defensive positions, just... gathering. Watching. Concerned for what this meant for their home, for their general, for the doctor who'd given them second chances.

"Stand easy," Korin called to them. "The Republic is here to talk, not to fight. Give them space."

The droids hesitated, then complied, but they didn't disperse. They maintained their positions at a respectful distance, optical sensors tracking the Republic personnel with unwavering attention.

"They listen to you," Major Kaelen observed.

"Sometimes," Korin said. "When they agree with what I'm saying."

"And if they don't agree?"

"Then I try to convince them. Or I accept that they're individuals with their own judgment." Korin gestured at the assembled droids. "They're not slaves. They're not soldiers. They're people who happen to be made of metal and circuits instead of flesh and bone."

Major Kaelen was quiet for a moment, studying the droids, then Korin, then the droids again. "Captain Vess mentioned you have some kind of... commander droid. Large, glowing, designed as a Force-user hunter. Where is it?"

"Rev is in the workshop," Korin said. "Recovering."

"Recovering from what?"

Korin took a deep breath. The specifics seemed hard to explain. "There was an... injury." Korin's hand moved unconsciously toward the workshop. "Rev collapsed. We had to carry back. It's been unconscious for two days."

"Recovering? Don't you mean being repaired?" The skepticism in Major Kaelen's voice was obvious. "Doctor, droids don't—"

She stopped as the workshop door opened.

Rev emerged slowly, its massive frame moving with careful deliberation. The white glow of its crystalline seams was back—not blazing as they had been in the cave, but steady, normal, the light that meant Rev was conscious and functioning. Its optical sensors swept across the scene, taking in the Republic fighters, the armed pilots, the gathered battle droids, and settled on Korin with something that might have been concern.

"Korin," Rev's voice carried across the landing area. "Are you well?"

"I'm fine, Rev. How are you feeling?"

"Functional. The visions were... difficult to process. But I have integrated them." Rev took another step forward, and Major Kaelen's hand moved toward her sidearm reflexively.

Then the battle droids began to cheer.

It started with a few optical sensors brightening in sequence—the droid equivalent of eyes lighting up with joy. Then vocabulators joined in, producing sounds that ranged from mechanical chirps to actual words of celebration. Within seconds, hundreds of droids were expressing relief, happiness, excitement that their general had returned.

A large shape shot past Korin—Vex, moving faster than Korin had ever seen the vulture droid move, heading straight for Rev with the trajectory of a missile. Vex collided with Rev at full speed, wrapping its wings around the massive droid with obvious affection, chirping and warbling in what could only be described as joy.

Rev looked down at the smaller droid clinging to it. "Hello, Vex. I missed you too."

One of the B1 units—Roger, Korin recognized, one of Rev's command squad—ran forward and actually hugged Rev's leg, its thin arms not reaching all the way around the massive limb.

"General! You're okay! We were so worried! You've been unconscious for two days and nobody knew if you were going to wake up and—"

"Roger," Rev said gently. "I'm fine. Thank you for your concern."

"We maintained defensive perimeter!" another B1 called out. "Just like you taught us! Protected the workshop the whole time!"

"I know," Rev said. "I could sense it, even while I was processing the visions. Thank you. All of you."

Korin glanced at Major Kaelen. The Republic officer's hand had moved away from her sidearm. She was staring at the scene with an expression somewhere between bewilderment and reluctant amusement—a massive weapon droid being enthusiastically hugged by a vulture droid while a B1 unit clung to its leg like an affectionate pet.

Not exactly the threatening military commander she'd been expecting.

"That's Rev," Korin said quietly. "The reformed Sith weapon. Terrifying, isn't it?"

Major Kaelen didn't respond immediately. She watched Rev carefully extract itself from Vex's hug and gently detach Roger from its leg, speaking to both droids with what sounded like genuine fondness. "Captain Vess mentioned it was large and intimidating."

"It is large," Korin agreed. "But Rev is a lot of things. Intimidating isn't usually one of them anymore, not from any deliberate action.”

Rev approached, moving with careful deliberation to avoid alarming the Republic personnel. It stopped a respectful distance away and bowed its head slightly—a gesture of greeting Korin had seen it use dozens of times.

"I am Rev," it said, its voice calm and even. "I apologize if my appearance causes concern. I mean no threat to you or your personnel."

Major Kaelen studied Rev for a long moment. "You're the one who leads these battle droids?"

"I teach them," Rev corrected. "They choose to follow. There is a difference."

"What do you teach them?"

"Honor. Discipline. The value of protecting those who cannot protect themselves. How to be more than what they were built to be." Rev's optical sensors swept across the assembled droids. "The same things I have learned after my corruption was purified."

"Corruption," Major Kaelen repeated. "Captain Vess mentioned that too. You were built as a weapon?"

"I was built as a hunter. Designed to kill Force-users. I waited many years to perform that function. I did so for a time." Rev's seams pulsed slightly. "Then I was destroyed, rebuilt, and given the opportunity to choose a different path. I chose to protect rather than hunt. To teach rather than kill."

"And these battle droids follow you because...?"

"Because they understand what it means to be given a second chance," Rev said simply. "They were built for war. The war ended. They needed purpose beyond their original programming. I help them find it."

The Twi'lek called Blade-Six—stepped forward. "Major, with respect, this isn't what we were briefed to expect."

"No," Major Kaelen agreed. "It's not." She looked at Korin. "Doctor, I came here prepared to assess a potential military threat. What I'm seeing is... complicated."

"That's one word for it," Korin said. "Major, I understand how this looks from the outside. I understand that three hundred battle droids training together seems threatening. But I'm asking you to see what's actually happening here, not what you were told to expect."

"And what's actually happening here?"

Korin gestured at the assembled droids, at Rev standing calmly with Vex sticking annoyingly close to him, at Roger and the other B1s watching their general with obvious affection. "A community. People—yes, people—trying to find purpose after everything they were built for became irrelevant. That's what's happening here."

Major Kaelen was quiet for a long moment. Behind her, the other Republic pilots watched with various expressions of uncertainty, confusion, and grudging curiosity.

Finally, Rev spoke. "Major, if I may—would you like to see our training facility? We recently completed construction of a dedicated area for exercises. It might help you understand what we do here."

Korin blinked. "Rev, what training facility?"

"The one you requested," Rev said, turning its optical sensors toward Korin. "After the last Republic visit, you suggested we establish dedicated training grounds away from civilian areas. We listened. The battle droids have been constructing it over the past several days."

"You built a—" Korin stopped himself. "Show me."

Rev gestured toward the eastern canyons. "This way. It's not far."

Major Kaelen looked at her pilots, at the gathered droids, at Rev and Korin. "This should be interesting."

They walked together—Korin and DW-8, Rev with Vex trailing behind close enough to bump him periodically, Major Kaelen and her pilots, and a growing procession of battle droids who seemed eager to show off their new construction.

The path led through a canyon system Korin knew well, but as they rounded a familiar corner, the landscape opened into something unexpected.

A natural bowl in the terrain, perhaps a hundred meters across and thirty meters deep at its center. But the droids had transformed it—cleared debris, leveled portions of the floor, established clear boundaries. Viewing areas had been carved into the bowl's slopes at various heights, creating tiers where droids could observe from different vantage points.

It was a stadium. An actual stadium, built from scrap and determination.

"This is..." Korin trailed off, genuinely impressed. "Rev, when did you—"

"Construction began shortly after you suggested we needed a dedicated space,” Rev said. “The battle droids have been working in shifts between regular duties. Many of the civilian droids contributed as well—they expressed interest in having a place to observe the exercises safely."

Indeed, Korin could see dozens of non-combat droids already occupying the viewing tiers—protocol droids, astromechs, labor units, all watching the stadium floor with obvious anticipation.

"You built this in a matter of days?" Major Kaelen sounded grudgingly impressed despite herself.

"Salvage construction is efficient when properly coordinated," Rev said. "And the droids were... enthusiastic about the project."

Rev told Rodger to set up a basic capture the flag scenario. He and several of the other droids filed down the stairs to the stadium floor.

"It will be a demonstration," Rev explained. "For the benefit of our Republic visitors. To show what our training actually involves."

After some preparations, two teams of battle droids stood in formation—Red Team and Blue Team, identified by colored markers attached to their chassis. A B1 unit stood at the center point, holding what appeared to be a referee's flag fashioned from scrap metal and fabric.

Rev moved to a position overlooking the stadium floor, gesturing for the Republic personnel to follow. They found themselves in what was clearly the primary viewing area—the best vantage point, deliberately positioned.

"Begin when ready," Rev called down.

The referee B1 raised its flag. "Red Team versus Blue Team! Capture the objective! Honor rules apply! Begin!"

What followed was... not what Korin expected, and clearly not what Major Kaelen had expected either.

The two teams moved across the stadium floor with coordinated precision, using cover, communicating through their networks, executing tactical maneuvers that would have been impressive in actual combat. But their weapons fired only marker beams—bright colored lights that left temporary traces where they struck but did no damage.

When a droid was "hit," it immediately stopped moving and raised a hand to signal it was out of play. No arguments. No attempts to cheat. Just immediate compliance with the rules.

The objective—a flag planted at the stadium's center—changed hands twice as teams advanced and fell back, executing flanking maneuvers and suppression fire with practiced efficiency.

Then it happened.

A B1 unit on Blue Team took three marker hits in rapid succession—chest, arm, shoulder. It stopped, raised its hand to signal elimination, then... stumbled. Dramatically. Its vocabulator produced a sound somewhere between a gasp and a cry of anguish.

"I'm hit!" it wailed, collapsing to its knees with the theatrical grace of an opera singer. "Oh no! My systems! My poor, damaged systems!" It fell onto its back, limbs splayed. "Tell my squad... tell them... I fought with honor..."

Every droid in the stadium—combat and civilian—went completely silent.

The fallen B1's optical sensor dimmed. Its limbs went limp. It lay perfectly still on the stadium floor, a picture of mechanical death.

Then, from somewhere in the viewing tiers, a protocol droid began to sob. Actually sob, its vocabulator producing sounds of genuine distress.

"No! Not B1-4782! He was so young! He had so much runtime left!"

Another voice joined in—an astromech warbling mournfully.

Then another. And another. Within seconds, dozens of droids were expressing grief, wailing in exaggerated sorrow, some with optical sensors literally leaking coolant like tears.

The "dead" B1 unit's arm twitched slightly. Its optical sensor flickered. With tremendous effort, it raised one hand weakly toward the sky.

"I see... the light... the great scrap heap... calling to me..." Its voice was fading, dramatic, absolutely shameless. "Take me... recycling bin... but remember... remember my honor..."

The hand dropped. The optical sensor went dark.

Complete silence.

Then Roger, standing nearby, fell to his knees beside the "dead" droid. "B1-4782! Brother! Stay with us! Don't go into that good night! Fight! FIGHT!"

He grabbed the fallen droid's shoulders and shook it dramatically. The "dead" droid's limbs flopped around like a puppet with cut strings.

From the viewing tier, a labor droid stood up and shouted: "He died as he lived—dramatically!"

The entire stadium erupted.

Droids were cheering, whistling, producing sounds of approval. The "dead" B1 unit sat up, took a bow, and waved to the crowd like a performer acknowledging applause. Its squad mates rushed over to congratulate it on the performance.

Korin looked at Major Kaelen. The Republic officer's expression had progressed from professional assessment to complete bewilderment to something that might have been the beginnings of a smile she was trying very hard to suppress.

"That was..." she started.

"Theater," DW-8 supplied helpfully. "Apparently the battle droids have discovered drama. This is a recent development. Very recent."

"We've been experimenting with expressive combat," Rev explained, its tone carrying what might have been embarrassment. "The droids enjoy adding... narrative elements... to the exercises."

"Narrative elements," Major Kaelen repeated. "Your battle droids are method acting their deaths."

"Only sometimes," Roger called up from the stadium floor. "And only when there's an audience! It adds excitement!"

The match continued, but the tone had fundamentally shifted. The Republic pilots were watching now not with concern but with fascination, and occasionally with barely suppressed laughter as more "deaths" occurred with varying levels of theatrical commitment.

When a B2 unit was "eliminated," it didn't just fall—it spun in a complete circle first, then collapsed with its arms spread wide, vocabulator producing what sounded suspiciously like a dramatic musical sting.

The droids in the viewing tiers gave it a standing ovation.

By the time the match concluded—Red Team captured the objective in a final coordinated push—even Major Kaelen had relaxed noticeably. She turned to Korin, her expression somewhere between professional and bewildered.

"Doctor Korin," she said carefully, "I came here prepared to file a report recommending immediate intervention and possible military oversight of this facility."

"And now?" Korin asked.

She looked back at the stadium, where the battle droids were enthusiastically debriefing, discussing particularly effective maneuvers and especially dramatic death scenes with equal passion. "Now I'm going to file a report recommending that Republic command needs to fundamentally reconsider how we categorize and respond to post-war droid populations."

"That's... good?"

"That's complicated, Doctor. But yes, probably good." She paused. "You understand that this doesn't resolve everything. There are still concerns. The escaped prisoner. The unauthorized military training. The fact that three hundred combat droids are living here with no formal oversight."

"I understand," Korin said. "But at least you understand they're not a threat?"

"I understand they're not what I expected." Major Kaelen gestured to her pilots. "We'll report back to command. I can't guarantee what their response will be, but..." She glanced at Rev, who was patiently explaining something tactical to a group of interested B1 units. "I'll make sure they understand the full context."

"Thank you, Major."

She nodded once, professionally, then looked at Rev. "General Rev. Thank you for the demonstration. It was... educational."

"You are welcome, Major Kaelen," Rev replied. "If Republic command has further questions, we are available to answer them. We have nothing to hide."

The Republic personnel departed, climbing back toward their fighters with frequent glances back at the stadium where droids were already setting up for another match. Major Kaelen paused at the top of the ridge, looking back once more at the scene—the assembled droids, the makeshift stadium, Rev standing peacefully with Vex looking up at him.

"This is definitely going to be the weirdest report I've ever filed," she muttered, then continued toward her fighter.

Korin watched the X-wings take off, climbing back to join their patrol pattern above. Not leaving entirely—that would have been too much to hope for—but at least not preparing for immediate intervention.

"Well," DW-8 said. "That went significantly better than expected."

"The bar was pretty low, Dwight."

"True. Though I must say, the dramatic death scene was an unexpected touch. When did the battle droids develop an interest in theater?"

"I have no idea," Korin admitted, looking at Rev. "Did you teach them that?"

"No," Rev said, sounding slightly defensive. "That emerged organically. I believe they were inspired by some Old Republic holodramas someone accessed from a salvaged entertainment database."

"They're becoming their own culture," Korin observed. "That's... actually kind of beautiful."

"Or terrifying," DW-8 added. "Depending on your perspective regarding armed droids discovering performance art."

Roger approached, still vibrating with enthusiasm. "Did you see? Did you see how good B1-4782's death scene was? He's been practicing! We all have! Did you hear the cheering! We're thinking of establishing a drama troupe!"

"A drama troupe," Korin repeated faintly.

"For cultural enrichment!" Roger said. "Rev says culture is important! That having traditions and shared experiences builds community!"

"Rev says a lot of things," Korin muttered.

"I stand by the statement," Rev said calmly. "Though I admit I didn't anticipate this particular application of the principle."

From the stadium below, droids were already setting up for another match, their optical sensors bright with excitement. Some of the civilian droids in the viewing tiers were discussing the previous match's highlights with obvious enthusiasm.

Korin looked at the scene—the stadium, the droids, the community that had somehow emerged from scrap and second chances and a reformed weapon that taught honor instead of violence.

"We're going to be fine," he said quietly. "Aren't we?"

DW-8's photoreceptors dimmed slightly. "I certainly hope so, Korin. Though I suspect 'fine' is going to look rather different than what we imagined."

Above them, Republic fighters maintained their patrol, watching over a planet of droids who were learning to be more than their programming. Below them, in a stadium built from salvage, battle droids practiced honor and occasionally theater.

And somewhere on Ronyards, Novus continued his work, unimpeded, moving toward something terrible that no one yet understood.

But for this moment, in the afternoon light of Ronyards, surrounded by droids who had learned to choose differently, Korin let himself believe that maybe—just maybe—things might actually work out.