Lekku. LOG-019. Targets Of Opportunity.

LOG-019. Targets Of Opportunity.

The contract’s clean.

Separatist aligned, but routed through a third party broker who doesn’t ask questions unless someone’s late paying. Target’s a Republic forward listening post, small, modular and largely automated. There’s a few mid orbit relay dishes with a marine garrison and a reinforced signal tower.

No civvies. No unwanted casualties. No doubt.

We’re not here for hearts and flags.

We’re here for cold hard credits.

As a result, the Teeth hit atmosphere fast. Mercy comes in on a minimal signature. Bite loops around the far side of the ridge. Fang plays ghost off the horizon, weapons cold.

We deploy under cover of an ion storm. Most of the clones are hunkered inside, trying to stay dry. Bad luck for them.

Worse luck for the tower.

I hit the comms node first.

Kedo and Hex (garbed in an old set of beskar generously loaned from clan Ordo) flank wide, laying demo packs under the satellite arms. They work quickly enough that you’d think they were droids.

Hex doesn’t say much, just hums low through his teeth like the charges are part of the music. The fact he’s working against his brothers doesn’t seem to bother him all that much.

Torren and Vorna handle overwatch. Lira’s already up the hill, rifle scoping the main door.

Trix? She’s in the guts of the system already, feeding us ghost pings and spoofed thermal reads to keep the clone scans chasing shadows.

It’s surgical.

Almost too clean.

We breach just a short while later.

Three clone troopers in the entry hall. They never get a shot off.

I stun the first. Hex drops the second. Kedo pins the last with a hard tackle and leaves him breathing, unconscious, weapon kicked aside.

I don’t call the kill order.

Nobody questions it.

—

We hit the tower’s base mid cycle. Half the Republic team is already pulling out, evac initiated from upper orbit. Clean, fast, smart.

And then I feel her.

She steps through the smoke like it parts for her.

Light armour. Lightsaber hilt at her hip, not drawn. Hair tied back. One of those calmly focused faces you’d see in a holo meant to reassure refugees before the next shelling. She’s not surprised to see us.

Not at all.

Her eyes settle on me.

Not the armour. Me.

And I know she sees it.

The Force in me, curled tight like a fist behind the beskar. The edges I keep dull unless I want them sharp.

She doesn’t reach for her saber.

Doesn’t raise her voice.

Just mutters at me, quiet enough that only I can hear her.

“You don’t have to fight for them.”

I don’t answer.

Because the job’s already in motion.

Because Hex is locking down the final relay.

Because Kedo’s got eyes on two Republic runners sprinting for the ridge.

Because Trix is counting down in my ear, and when she gets to two, the structure hums like it’s going to scream.

The Jedi backs away and doesn’t follow.

She just looks like she expected a different answer.

From there, the signal core’s down within minutes.

Charges set. Timing tight. We pull out through the ventilation conduit and exfil under the next lightning sweep.

We’re two klicks clear when the tower buckles and folds in on itself. Metal screams. Sparks paint the clouds.

The Republic won’t hear this system for weeks.

—

Back aboard Mercy, the crew runs silent.

Not guilty, of course.

Just quiet.

This wasn’t a massacre. Wasn’t personal, even if we technically paved the way for who knows how many droids.

But to me at least, it still feels close.

Trix doesn’t crack a joke.

Hex double checks the detonator logs three times and doesn’t comment on his own efficiency.

Kedo stays in his bunk longer than usual.

Lira doesn’t touch her rations.

I sit on the bridge, helmet in my lap, and watch the smoke spiral through low orbit like it’s reaching for something that won’t reach back.

War fundamentally pays better than peace.

But it never pays clean.

—

Everyone’s on Mercy tonight.

The other ships drift nearby, lights dimmed, systems humming low on standby. We’re floating deep in the black in a mostly uncharted stretch, no lanes, no flags. Took a good bit to get here using just the sublight drives.

It’s quiet.

Which is rare.

And maybe a little dangerous.

The hold’s crowded. Two folding chairs short, so Hex sits on a crate of blaster cells and Trix lounges across the diagnostics table with her boots up and a half eaten ration bar stuck to the console. Lira’s perched in the corner like a sniper nest, unreadable. Kedo stands, arms crossed, like sitting would be an admission of weakness.

Torren brings the heat coil online, starts the kettle. Nobody talks about the last job.

But they’re all thinking about it.

Vorna breaks the silence first.

“Storms’ll clear by next cycle. Could hit Lantiri Prime. Word is their security network’s soft.”

“Too soft.” Kedo shakes his head. “Too clean. That stinks of a setup.”

Hex grunts. “Could do a salvage run. Less politics.”

Trix snorts. “Less pay, too.”

Lira shrugs. “Better than watching you rewire nav lights for three days.”

I listen.

Let it ride a minute.

Then I speak.

“Let’s go quiet.”

Everyone looks over. I shrug.

“We’ve got credits in the tank. No deadlines pressing. We take a stretch. Refuel. Re-arm. Breathe.”

Trix raises a brow. “Breathe? I thought we stopped doing that.”

I give her a look. She bites her ration bar in surrender.

Hex leans back on the crate, fingers interlocked behind his head.

“So. No clients. No targets. Just us?”

“Just us.” I nod.

Torren pours the first cup, passes it without a word.

Nobody cheers.

But nobody objects.

That’s as close to a vote as we ever get.

I lean back, arms resting on my knees, helmet at my side. The hum of the ship wraps around us like an old blanket, fraying, maybe, but still warm.

For now.