Tomb Spyder
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Lekku. LOG-020. Breath Between Wars.
🕑 Added 2025-05-16 04:32:49 +0000 UTCLOG-020. Breath Between Wars.
The station’s called Uvio’s Spine, though no one seems to know who Uvio actually was.
Nonetheless, the whole place spans out across a broken ring platform barely held together by old repulsors and greed. Trade lanes thin out this far, so it’s Wild Space proper, not mapped and most certainly not wanted.
Which makes it perfect.
No war here. Just commerce.
We dock under the pretense of fuel and filter swaps. Standard. No flags flown, no questions asked.
The hangar manager waves us in with a spanner instead of a datapad. Kedo checks the seals twice. Lira does a slow scan from the hull gunport.
Trix disappears before we’re even finished powering down.
“Don’t buy anything alive.” I call after her.
“Not on purpose!” She calls back.
—
The market is chaos.
Good chaos.
Civilians and smugglers and traders packed elbow to rifle through open stalls. Food steam mixing with power cell residue. Kids trying to sell knockoff protocol droids. Scavvers yelling over price tags.
It smells like independence. Like everything has a price and none of it’s fixed.
I drift slow. Let the crew fan out.
Vorna sticks close, not clingy, just methodical. Her head moves on a swivel, never resting on anything too long. Old habits.
I stop for caf.
Not because I need it.
Because sometimes standing still is better bait than running fast.
Trix finds me twenty minutes later.
She doesn’t sit. Just stands across the table and drops a battered encrypted disc onto the tray like it’s a used credit chit.
“Found something.”
I raise a brow. She tilts her head.
“Not a job. Not yet.”
“Then what?”
The slicer leans in a little, voice low.
“Ever heard of Project Gamma?”
I shake my head once.
“You have now.” She smirks. “Black lab series. Droid AI. Supposed to improve tactical autonomy. Separatist project, but it went...wrong. Escaped before they could wipe it.”
“Escaped?”
“Built itself a new rig. Started freelancing. Still exists. Still sells strategy, encryption, troop coordination, to whoever pays.”
I stare at the disk.
“Intel?”
“Just whispers. But real enough that three slicers tried to verify it. None of them talk much anymore.”
I pick up the disc.
No ceremony.
Just weight.
“I’ll file it.”
Trix nods. “Didn’t think you’d let it rot.”
Then she’s gone again.
Vorna watches her leave. Then looks at me.
“You thinking about chasing that?”
“Not yet.”
“But eventually.”
I sip the caf. Bitter. Burnt.
“Eventually.”
—
The bar is nice. Has this weird, almost senatorial floor plan that really lets you see everything.
Lira’s halfway through her second drink, her voice pitched low and just warm enough to be dangerous.
The Zeltron barmaid’s leaning across the counter now, brushing her hand when she sets the glass down, smiling like she means it. Lira mirrors it. Almost.
I don’t move.
Just lean against the wall, helmet on, arms crossed, visor turned slightly in their direction.
Nobody notices, but that’s the point.
Hex is a level below, trying to start a fight with a vendor selling what he calls ‘civilian grade garbage.’
“You call this detcord?” He barks, jabbing a finger at the display. “You couldn’t breach a privacy door with this!”
The vendor shrugs. “It’s not meant for military use.”
Hex scoffs. “It’s not meant for anything!”
I tune him out.
Instead, my eyes drift back to Lira. She laughs. Genuine, maybe. Or maybe not.
Her hand’s on the barmaid’s now. That part’s real enough.
There’s no sting in it.
Not really.
We were never anything.
No promises. No bonds. No time for that kind of weight.
Still.
I turn away before I have to watch them leave together.
—
A few hours later, I don’t give my name to the woman who takes me upstairs.
She’s got sharp nails and a bored smile, the kind that makes it clear she’s not selling intimacy, just motion.
We don’t talk much.
I keep my gloves on.
After, I sit on the edge of the bed while she smokes something slow and sweet beside me.
She doesn’t ask questions.
Neither do I.
When I leave, I don’t look back.
No reason to.
I had my armour on the whole time.
—
The walk back to the hangar’s quiet.
Station crowds are thin at this hour. Night cycle is ticking over. You can hear the air systems hum under the floor if you focus.
I don’t.
Lira’s a few steps ahead, datapad in hand, still smelling faintly of someone else’s perfume.
Trix is already plugged back into local comms, mapping outbound pings from the Teeth’s ships just in case someone got curious while we were away.
Kedo and Hex trail behind, mid argument about the optimal fusion ratio for detonator core dampening. Neither of them is wrong. Both are too tired to win.
It’s peaceful.
Almost.
We’re halfway to the Mercy when a public newsfeed lights up above the promenade.
Grainy footage.
Clone troopers. Dust choked canyons. A Jedi leading the charge, saber flaring green through a droid tank formation.
The overlay continues.
VICTORY ON RYLOTH: JEDI KNIGHT HALEN DARRA SPEARHEADS FINAL PUSH BEGUN BY GENERAL ANAKIN SKYWALKER.
The names freeze me mid step.
Not because I know them, but because I remember them, so very vividly.
From a couch. From a screen. From a life ago, curled under a blanket with cheetos on my fingers and a laptop humming too hot.
Halen Darra.
Not a major name. Not one of the stars. But there. One of the minor arcs. Brief episodes. The kind of Jedi who fights hard, dies young, and never sees what’s coming.
And then there’s the man who would eventually become Darth Vader, of course.
I stare too long.
Lira notices. Doesn’t say anything. Maybe she assumes it’s a Twi’lek thing on my end. She certainly seems interested, considering Ryloth is involved.
I exhale slowly.
It’s just another reminder.
The war’s still moving.
And I’m still not sure whether I want to just keep drifting forever.
Eventually, I look at the crew, glance back at the screen.
Then turn forward.
“Alright. Time to get back to work.”
