“There’s…” Tamar closed his eyes and focused, “…so much more of this creature below the ground. It’s…” he shook his head, “…it’s huge—I never realized lifeforms could be this big.”

Shen nodded acknowledgement, before asking, “You’ve had some success reaching out with your senses to feel the emotions of other creatures—what about this one?”

After a long moment of trying, the youth shook his head again, saying, “Nothing. I can tell that it’s alive, but if it has thoughts and feelings, they’re either too primitive or too alien for me to detect. It just seems like it’s… there, but it doesn’t really feel like it wants or thinks anything, at all. I can’t even pick up anything about the creature it just grabbed.”

“That makes sense,” Shen observed with a wry little chuckle. “Sarlaacs aren’t exactly known for being deep thinkers.” He shrugged. “Oh, well. Looks like we might need to move on from here.”

“What if…” Tamar ventured, hesitating briefly before elaborating on his idea, “…what if we used the Force to toss enough halfway heavy debris on there to occupy however many tentacles the creature has, as it tries to figure out what’s food and what isn’t? That might give us enough time to sprint to the ship and get it open, right?” He regarded the elder, his fellow youths, and the droid. “As far as we know, we’re still being hunted, and we might not find another ship before the people who brought us down manage to catch up with us.” His jaw set with conviction. “I think we can do it. I think we can trick this creature and get the ship running before it realizes what’s going on. Like you said,” he noted to Shen, “it’s not very smart.”

The massive, gaping maw of the Sarlaac loomed before them, its jagged, root-like tentacles writhing in search of prey. Curan stood frozen for a heartbeat, the presence of the ancient predator pressing on him like a weight. The creature was primal, almost indifferent, yet vast and consuming.

Shen’s voice cut through the tension like a blade. “Curan, focus! Feel its movements, its intent. You must act, not react.”

Curan closed his eyes and reached out. The Sarlaac’s presence was alien, a void of thought, driven only by a mindless instinct to feed. He exhaled sharply, grounding himself in the living Force. The ground trembled beneath him as another tentacle lashed out, sweeping toward him with blinding speed.

He sidestepped and flung out his hand. The Force surged through him, gripping the loose debris that surrounded the pit. He flung it forward, a cloud of rocks and broken branches striking the tendrils and momentarily halting their advance.

The Sarlaac recoiled, and Curan seized the moment. Drawing deeper into the Force, he reached not for the predator’s mind—it was too primitive—but for the tangled root network anchoring its massive form. The earth itself seemed to whisper to him, a lattice of pressure points beneath the soil.

With a fierce cry, he sent a powerful pulse into the ground, severing several key supports. The beast roared as the soil collapsed inward, its movements becoming sluggish as it struggled to adjust to the sudden shift in its environment.

“Now!” Shen called, his voice sharp.

Curan then utilized his spearstaff. He sliced through an encroaching tentacle with precision. Curan whirled, narrowly dodging another strike. He reached out once more, gripping one of the Sarlaac’s thrashing tendrils with the Force. With a sharp pull, he forced it to knot around another, tangling the creature in its own limbs.

The Sarlaac let out a guttural roar, its maw thrashing wildly. It wasn’t defeated, but it was momentarily contained. Breathing hard, Curan backed away, keeping his focus on the predator.

“You’ve done well,” the elder called out.

Phabb rubbed the back of his neck, his brows furrowed as he considered both ideas. “Trick it with debris and move the ship subtly… maybe there’s a way to do both.” He stepped forward, nodding at Tamar first, then Shen, his tone even but deliberate.

“I like Tamar’s plan—it’s got guts,” Phabb said. “But Shen’s right too. If this thing notices something’s happening, it might come after us, and we’ll just be right back where we started, only more tired.” He glanced at the others. “We’ve stretched ourselves a lot already today. Let’s use what we’ve learned and take this step by step.”

He inhaled deeply, closing his eyes briefly as if centering himself, then turned back toward the others, his expression serious again. “I’ll start moving the debris—just a little bit at a time. Not throwing it, not slamming it down. Just shifting it, like a breeze carrying leaves.” He gestured toward the others. “That should give you all time to get ready, whether that’s focusing on pulling the ship or preparing for when we have to sprint.”

Phabb crouched low, his hand hovering over a pile of scattered branches, rocks, and debris around the edge of the clearing. Slowly, he reached out with the Force. His touch was tentative at first—he didn’t want to yank or shove anything. Instead, he imagined himself as part of the breeze Tamar had stirred earlier, the same natural flow that carried leaves or dust without a second thought. He nudged a handful of twigs upward, watching them drift almost lazily into the air.

“Focus on subtlety,” Phabb murmured under his breath, half to himself and half as a lesson to the others. He shifted the pieces in small bursts, layering them over one another as if mimicking natural settling. Slowly but steadily, debris began to pile near the edge of the creature’s massive maw, far enough to avoid immediate detection but close enough to be noticeable to its probing limbs. His presence in the Force was like a ripple in a pond—deliberate but faint.

After a few moments, he stood back up. “It’s starting. It’s distracted… at least a little.” He looked over at Shen and Tamar. “Shen—if you’re pulling the ship closer, I’ll keep feeding it more debris. I’ll move heavier stuff next if it works.”

Then he turned to Curan. “And if this thing decides to get curious, you’ll have to whip up some of your battle magic you’re good at.”

He stepped back, his eyes sharp and ready, falling into a supportive stance—positioning himself between the others and the creature’s reach. His focus wasn’t on winning the fight or finishing this plan alone. Instead, Phabb created the opportunity, balancing between Tamar’s instinctive creativity and Shen’s calm control, pulling their strategies together like threads of the same cloth. The others could pick up where he left off—whether that meant moving the ship, protecting their retreat, or adding their strength to his.

It was gratifying to see the team working together in harmony toward a convergent goal - this was how it was meant to be. Meanwhile, Flaps had circumvented the dangerous area and snapped off a sapling, using his collimated beam to cut off the ends and then stripped the smaller branches.

When he was on the opposite side from the rest of the team, he reached out with the long piece of tree trunk and pushed the scout craft toward them while they had combined wills to pull it in. The sarlacc was apparently overloaded with sensation and confused about how it should react and, out of self-preservation did very little.

The craft moved away from the pit region and finally settled in a small glade at the feet of the rest of the team. Flaps then made his way back around the zone and rejoined the rest to see what they could find of the craft that remained.

Curan stood over the Mandalorian’s remains, his jaw tight as he studied the pristine armor and weapons. The faint scent of decay hung in the cockpit, but his focus was unshaken. This was more than salvage—it was a piece of history, a relic of a warrior culture he deeply respected.

He turned to the others, his voice steady but resolute. “I’ll take the armor and weapons. I don’t think any of you need them, but they’re valuable to me—tools and symbols of strength. I’ll honor them.”

Shen’s calm gaze lingered for a moment before he stepped back, silently granting his approval.

With a sense of purpose, Curan carefully collected the Mandalorian gear, his mind already racing with possibilities. The craftsmanship of the vibrosword alone was inspiring—a testament to the Mandalorian dedication to warcraft. He strapped the gear onto his pack, the weight grounding him.

Turning to the ship, he glanced at the others. “This craft will get us out of here. It’s functional, and we’ve done enough. This planet… it’s dangerous, but it’s also a survivor. Like us.” He paused, his voice firm. “I’ll report back to my people. This could be a new haven—one worth fighting for if it comes to that.”

Curan’s rage simmered beneath the surface, fueling his determination. The thought of his people struggling, exposed and vulnerable, pushed him forward. The galaxy was vast and brutal, but he had to carve out a place for them—no matter the cost.

His mission was now clear: leave, report, and secure his people’s future. The galaxy would not defeat him, not now, not ever.

“Those of you who will join me, let’s go,” he said, his tone brooking no argument. Curan’s focus shifted to the horizon. His path was set and clear to him.

“You did not find or secure this ship alone,” Tamar observed, calmly and without any hint of threat or malice. “We will collectively decide when we depart and where we go first. That would be the fair thing to do. Further,” he noted, “that is clearly Mandalorian gear. If it belongs to anyone here, it belongs with the only Mandalorian left among us—I’m told they regard their armor, especially, as being sacred, and it would be wrong for an outsider to claim it.”

He glanced meaningfully at Phabb, and then back at Curan.

“I recommend we make for a Jedi outpost, if we can find one on this ship’s astrogation maps,” he suggested. “Everything I know about the Order tells me they’ll make certain everyone gets where they’re going. I expect they’ll want to ask us each a few questions about this planet and how we crash-landed here, but anyone we’d reach out to for help would do at least that much before they sent us on our way. If nothing else, they’ll want to mark this system on their charts and maybe go after the raiders targeting ships out here.”

Tamar considered his own words, reflecting that they seemed like the right thing to say. Perhaps this was the will of the Force… or, at least, the will of the Force mixed with practical considerations about the safety of the space-lanes and the matter of getting everybody to their respective destinations. It seemed like the sort of balanced response a Jedi should offer.

He idly inspected a nearby locker, noting that it contained (among other things) a small stash of unpalatable but technically edible ration bars, saying as he did so, “That’s my vote, anyway.”

Phabb stood silently near the hatch, staring at the armour and the ship’s interior. As Tamar and Curan spoke, their words mingled with the low thrum of the ship’s auxiliary power, creating a moment that felt suspended in time.

When Tamar suggested the armour belonged with him, Phabb blinked, his gaze shifting to the Mandalorian gear. The realisation hit him like a blast wave—not just the significance of the armour, but the fact that the others saw him as its rightful heir. It wasn’t just a piece of equipment. It was a legacy, a symbol of a way of life he was still learning to embody. His heart swelled with gratitude, but also with the weight of responsibility.

He looked at Curan first, his voice calm but firm. “I appreciate your respect for what this gear can do. It’s not just tools or protection—it’s part of who we are. Mandalorians believe that our armour is more than metal. It carries the history of the ones who wore it before, and it binds us to the future we fight for.” He stepped forward, his hands resting briefly on the edge of the cockpit seat, his tone softening. “If you let me take it, I promise I’ll honour it—and the one who fell here.”

Phabb’s fingers brushed against the gauntlet of the deceased Mandalorian as he knelt, bowing his head briefly. He murmured something quietly in Mando’a, a prayer of thanks and respect, before standing again, turning back to the others.

He took a deep breath and addressed the group. “As for staying or going…” He trailed off, glancing toward the open hatch and the landscape beyond. Part of him did want to stay. The wildness of this place called to him—the challenge, the freedom, the untamed nature of it all. But when he turned back to the others, the sight of their faces grounded him. Shen’s calm wisdom, Tamar’s thoughtful plans, even Curan’s determination—all of it reminded him of something he hadn’t had in a long time. Companionship. A clan, in a way, even if they were mismatched and temporary.

Phabb finally spoke, his voice quiet but steady. “I’d like to stay here, to learn more about this place and what it has to teach. But…” He paused, his gaze flickering between the others, “…I think there’s something to be said for not walking this path alone. You’ve all stood by me, fought with me, trusted me.” His eyes softened as he looked at Tamar. “And you’ve reminded me that I can always return. This planet isn’t going anywhere.”

He nodded firmly. “I’ll go with you. But wherever we go, I’ll carry this place with me—and I’ll carry the lessons I’ve learned here. This armor, this ship, this moment… it’s all a beginning, not an ending.”

Phabb stepped aside, giving Tamar and Shen space to explore the cockpit’s controls. He glanced at Curan, his expression a mix of gratitude and determination. “Thank you, for understanding. And Tamar…” he added with a faint smirk, “I think your Jedi outpost idea sounds good—though I’m not sure how they’ll feel about this Mandalorian walking through their doors.”

The faint hum of the ship’s systems seemed to grow steadier, as if echoing the unity forming among the group. Phabb adjusted the straps of his gear, and thought of the path ahead. It wasn’t just a journey to leave the planet—it was a journey toward something greater. He didn’t know where it would lead, but for the first time in a long while, he didn’t feel alone.

Flaps was at an impasse - on one hand, he had the duty to protect the biologicals but if they split up - some staying and some going, he would have a decision to make that was not a pre-established outcome. Ultimately, he would have to calculate the possible outcomes and determine his choice from there. He would have to wait for all the others to decide before he could commit to a course of action. The old man might be the deciding factor.

In the end, the decision was made. He would go and see to the safety of whomever accompanied him. The expectation was that any who stayed would have Shen to look out for them and help them come to understand and live with the various dangers of this planet. Meanwhile, if there was even a chance that Malasi was still alive, that would be second priority and third would be the completion of his trip and briefing to his superiors.

To that end, he took a seat and began preflight checks and running diagnostics on all systems. It didn’t matter to Flaps if they let him fly, set automated systems or accomplished it themselves but he would at least make sure everything was functioning to his satisfaction before they even engaged flight. The landing gear was damaged but a careful touch down and skid plates would make up for that.

By his recollection, the nearest Jedi Temple was that on Starlight Beacon, a space station over Ord Mantell where Shen had wanted a message delivered anyway. Flaps would see to it and make sure that his charges all arrived safely provided they could circumvent the corsair ship, if it was still waiting for them. It was Shen who provided a possible solution.

“If that structure is what I think it is, it may be the culmination of my reason for being here and may also be able to provide anyone wishing to waylay you some difficulty. I will set out immediately.” He opened a gear locker and extracted a communications device, aligned it with ship comms, tested and then put it in his belt. “Let me know when you’re preparing to take off and I’ll see what I can do.”

Curan stood silently for a long moment after Shen’s departure, staring at the jungle beyond the ship’s ramp. The elder’s words lingered in his mind, weaving through the tempest of thoughts and emotions stirred by the day’s events. His fists clenched, then relaxed, as he processed everything that had unfolded—the discovery of the ship, the Mandalorian armor, the choice to leave or stay, and the elder’s parting wisdom.

He drew a slow, steadying breath, forcing himself to examine the storm within. Rage, his ever-present companion, flared briefly—its familiar heat tempting him to rail against Shen’s suggestion of peace. What did Shen know of his people’s suffering? What did Shen know of the Empire’s iron fist, of oppressors who stripped away lives, homes, and dignity without remorse?

But then, Curan caught himself. Rage was a weapon, but one that cut both ways. Shen had warned him, not unkindly, that there might come a time to put down the blade. Yet, for Curan, that time felt impossibly distant. He flexed his hand, staring at his calloused palm. The elder’s words weren’t a dismissal of the warrior he was. They were a challenge to become something more.

He turned toward Phabb and Tamar, his voice calm but heavy with meaning. “Shen thinks I can put down the blade one day,” he said, half to himself, half to them. “Maybe he’s right. But not today.” His gaze hardened, fierce and resolute. “My people are counting on me to protect them, to find them a place where they won’t have to fight to survive every single day. And if I have to carve that place out with a weapon, I will.”

Curan stepped forward, placing a firm hand on Phabb’s shoulder. “That armor was meant for you. Honor it, and let it guide you toward what your people need. The Mandalorians understand the balance between strength and purpose. Learn from them, and maybe… maybe I’ll learn from you.”

He turned to Tamar next, his tone softening. “You’ve got the patience I lack. You see angles I miss because my first instinct is to strike. Don’t let that patience turn into hesitation, though. I’ve seen what happens when good people wait too long to act.”

Finally, Curan looked to the ship, then to the jungle, where Shen had disappeared. “The Force…” he murmured, almost reverently. “I don’t know if I’ll ever understand it like he does, but I’ve felt it. Not just in combat, but here—on this planet, in all of you. Maybe that’s what I need to take with me: not just rage, but connection. Not just the blade, but what it’s protecting.”

Curan took a step up the ramp, then paused to look back at the others. “We’ll leave this place behind, but it won’t leave us. And when I report back to my people, I’ll tell them about all of you—about what we did here. Maybe one day, when this galaxy isn’t so broken, I’ll find the strength to lay down my blade.” His hand brushed his spearstaff. “Until then, I’ll keep it sharp. For all of us.”

He nodded to the others, his expression resolute, then stepped inside the ship. His mission wasn’t over. But for the first time, the fire that drove him felt tempered. The rage he carried would always be part of him, but now it was focused, honed, and guided by something greater than himself.

For the first time since being waylaid by those raiders, Tamar felt certain he was on his way to his destination, to receive the training he required. He couldn’t be sure what that would look like in a galaxy under Imperial rule, but he had to believe it could lead to something good in later days, when things inevitably got better.

He turned to regard the planet where he’d learned so much about himself and the Force so quickly, and where he’d—he dared to venture—made some new friends. He took in the sight of it, wondering if he would ever see the place again. Would he meet with Shen to tell the old man about the training he’d received since they last saw each other on this very spot? Would he find Quelth here, living off the land in comfort? Would he stay a while, this time on purpose?

It was hard to say. The future was always in motion, after all.

Tamar ascended the ramp, once more and found himself a seat. He hoped Malasi had survived and that she, too, could be brought back to her people. She might not have been the friendliest person, but it wasn’t his place to judge, and she deserved life as much as any of them.

Engrossed in his thoughts, Tamar was surprised when the Akk dog who had bonded with him padded up along the gangway and stared expectantly at him.

“Are you sure you want to come with me?” the youth asked.

In response, the Akk dog sat down.

Tamar smiled. “All right. I’d tell you it’s going to be hard, but I somehow think you already know that.” As he settled in, he idly mused, “We’re going to have to figure out a name for you, aren’t we?”

Flaps could neither confirm nor deny Shen’s last statement but checked its data files for all protocols and found quite a few strange and various mission sets. There were extensive directives for it that would keep it occupied for many years to come.

It also had a secured data core that could not be altered or wiped by any process. It would never be diverted from its tasks unless it was utterly destroyed. It also had a self-preservation protocol that most droids did not. In this respect, it was almost alive.

In fact, it could be said that Flaps was alive in some way. There was a personality at the core of its function although buffered by the droid parts that calculated and made decisions. Flaps would continue on its path to its inevitable conclusion. There was still much to do.