Lekku. LOG-015. Hard Lines, Soft Targets.

LOG-015. Hard Lines, Soft Targets.

The job’s clean on paper.

Local militia. Republic aligned. Small outpost. They’ve got sensitive tech, tracking arrays, encrypted relay beacons, a few crates the local sergeant won’t talk about. They need protection for seventy two hours while the engineers run calibration.

They hire us because their soldiers are green, their command’s understaffed, and they’re worried about potential raids.

I take the contract because it pays well and the Separatists aren’t supposed to be in the sector yet.

Supposed to be.

The first explosion takes out the perimeter scanner.

No warning. Just a crack of heat and metal. A sensor tower shears in half. Smoke pours into the sky. Screams follow.

Then the droids come.

They drop from orbit in scatter pods, old tech repurposed by the CIS, fast and cheap. Craters around the ridge. Twelve of them. Three squads per pod. It’s a solid mix of B1s and B2s, plus one spider droid stomping through the north wall like it owns the place.

The militia gus panic.

We don’t.

My Teeth move like a knife through a gut.

A particularly clever demolition expert that’s been hired out from some other group triggers his wall charges, collapses the southern breach, then sets fire to their fallback line with a shaped cluster of detonite, just in case.

Torren and Kedo flank the western incline, pick off B1s in pairs, rip apart the rear column.

Trix ghosts the spider droid’s IFF with some fancy override, reroutes it, and sends it firing on its own second wave for thirty full seconds before the override fails.

That’s long enough for me to move straight up the central trench.

Smoke blinds most of it, but I’ve already memorized the terrain. Two elevation points. Three droid patrol lanes. Four fallback zones.

I don’t need to see to kill. So I hit the B2s first.

Close range. Twin pistols. Lekku wrapped tight behind my neckplate in their sheathes. A blaster bolt clips my shoulder, sparks off the beskar. I slide behind a downed vehicle and wait.

Let one droid get curious.

Then I slit its throat, even though it doesn’t have one.

—

By the time the last droid hits the dirt, it’s just noise.

And I’m already on cleanup.

The Jedi appears like they always do, after the worst is over.

Cloak ash dusted, saber sheathed, boots scuffed but polished underneath. Human. Mid thirties. Hair bound back in a single braid. Republic crest stamped on the arm. Calm face, calm voice.

He surveys the wreckage like he just finished painting it.

“You handled that well.” He notes.

I don’t answer, and ponder whether the first one I met blabbed.

Well…no, of course he did. The question is how far said blabbing reached.

Eventually, the Jedi nods toward the militia still scrambling to pull bodies from rubble.

“Could’ve been a slaughter without your team.”

Still no reply.

His smile flickers. “Thank you, Captain.”

That one’s too sincere.

I meet his eyes just long enough for him to feel the weight of it.

Then I turn and walk away.

Let the Jedi clean up the mess.

We got paid.

—

I watch the feed in silence.

Bridge lights low. Helmet off. One boot up on the console. The viewport shows the planet shrinking behind us, a sunburnt sphere getting smaller by the second. Good riddance.

Trix has already decrypted the militia’s internal surveillance logs. No protest. They knew what they were hiring.

I cycle to the Jedi.

He comes in clean.

Tall. Calm. Walks like he’s not armed even with the saber swinging at his hip. Doesn’t speak much. When he does, the audio spike registers just above a whisper.

No name drop. No unit number.

Just “thank you, Captain.”

I pause the frame.

Zoom in.

The face isn’t familiar. Not from the holos. Not from the war reels. Not from my memories.

But something under my skin shifts, just watching him move.

The Force reacts. Quiet. Subtle. Like someone else in the room takes a breath with me. It doesn't press. Doesn't warn.

Just reminds.

I’m not the only one out here with sharp edges.

I rewind. Play it again.

His posture. His expression. That microsecond when he glances at me like he hears something I didn’t say.

Then I close the file.

I don’t pursue it.

I just log it.

Unnamed Jedi. Mid thirties. Republic aligned. Outer Rim deployment. Feels like static.

No immediate threat.

Not yet.

I transfer the file to an isolated node and scrub the rest of the data. I don't like leaving threads lying around for someone else to follow.

And that includes me.

Outside, the stars thicken.

Inside, the silence stays.

—

The crew gathers in the hold.

No armour. Just ship clothes, boots half laced, a few plates still clipped to belts like habits that don’t die easy. Trix leans against the nav console. Torren paces. Kedo stands still, which is how you know he’s annoyed.

Lira's cleaning a blaster she didn’t fire today. She only half listens. That’s by design.

“You didn’t say we’d be working with Jedi.” Torren breaks the silence.

I don’t look up from the console. “We weren’t.”

“Could’ve fooled me. Showed up mid fight, left standing like we were old friends.”

“We’re not.”

Trix whistles low. “He did say thank you. That’s almost flirting by their standards, I think.”

Kedo cuts in, flat. “It’s not funny.”

Trix shrugs. “Didn’t say it was.”

I stand.

That shuts everyone up.

“You want to question the job, question the payout. Not the politics.”

Torren frowns. “You don’t think they’re starting to see us as an asset? Like a dependable one?”

“Let them.”

“And when they start offering chain of command with the next paycheck?”

I stare at him.

Then speak slow.

“We pick sides per job.”

Pause.

“Never for good.”

That seemingly lands.

Kedo gives a short nod. Lira doesn’t speak, but she holsters the blaster and finally makes eye contact. Torren exhales through his nose and mutters something that sounds like acceptance, even if it's not agreement.

Trix, as usual, grins.

“Good. Because I already pissed off both of them with our invoice markup.”

I lean against the bulkhead.

Let the tension settle, not vanish. Let it live in the room just long enough to remind us why we survive.

Not because we trust.

Because we’re careful.

I like to think it sticks.