Fugitive

She had more important things to do than waste precious time on scavengers. The galaxy’s fate might have been at stake. Her fellow Jedi were being either slaughtered or their bodies violated by men who once swore to protect them. Aayla reached for the pilot’s seat, her fingers brushing over the cold metal of the controls. The freighter’s systems were crude, its design haphazard, yet they felt familiar enough. She had piloted worse in some covert missions. This was a necessity, not a choice.

“Forgive me,” she whispered more to herself than the absent scavengers, her voice barely above a breath. Her hands moved with practiced precision, activating the engines. The ship groaned, reluctant, but responded. As it lifted from the ground, she caught sight of the scavengers below. Three figures scrambling toward the ship, shouting. The human woman raised her blaster, firing a few wild shots that missed by meters. The Twi’lek male raged, his one good eye flashing with fury as he gestured wildly, his lekku twitching in agitation. But Aayla didn’t look back. She had no time for guilt.

The freighter broke through the atmosphere, and the stars stretched into infinite blackness. For a moment, she allowed herself to breathe. Then the comms crackled. A Venator-class Star Destroyer floated ahead, its hull massive in orbit around Felucia. Recognizing its markings made her stomach tighten. 327th Star Corps. Her men. No, they weren’t hers anymore. Not after what they’d done… what they had done to her body. Bly... What was Bly doing? Had he watched as they... Had he participated? Was he the first one?

Her thoughts spiraled further. She imagined herself being unconscious, her body left vulnerable, her mind trapped in darkness, while those clones did whatever they wanted. She imagined their hands on her, their cocks in her, their brutal acts fueled by some twisted whim.

As if to pull her out of the internal turmoil, the comms buzzed. “Unidentified freighter. You are departing a restricted military zone. Transmit clearance codes immediately or be fired upon.”

Aayla’s heart raced, her lekku trembled slightly against her shoulders. She couldn’t let them catch her again. She wouldn’t survive another violation... she felt that she would fall in the darkness.. The thought of those hands, so familiar yet utterly alien in their intent, made her palms sweat against the controls.

She activated the nav computer, fingers flying across holographic panels. Hyperspace coordinates flashed - anywhere but here. Anywhere where she could find safety, answers, allies. But where?

In the viewport, the star destroyer loomed. Fear clawed at her chest once again. With each passing second, dread mounted. Capture would mean… No. She banished the thought. She needed to focus.

The comms crackled again. “This is your final warning. Power down engines and prepare to be boarded.”

Naturally, the Jedi didn't comply. Instead, Aayla pushed the engines harder, angling away from the Star Destroyer. The ship groaned under this abuse but obeyed. Then came the first laserfire. Green bolts flashed past the viewport, too close for comfort. The sensors showed incoming fighters: ARC-170s, piloted by the same elite clone pilots who knew her tactics all too well.

Her grip tightened on the controls, knuckles white. She executed a series of evasive maneuvers that sent the freighter into a controlled spin. Years of Jedi training had honed her reflexes to perfection, allowing her to anticipate attacks through the Force before they occurred. Yet, the freighter was ungainly compared to her usual starfighter. It danced awkwardly between incoming fire, its bulkier frame responding sluggishly to her commands.

A bolt grazed the ship’s starboard side, sending vibrations through the hull. Warning lights flashed across the console as shields weakened. Two ARC-170s moved into pursuit position, their weapons charging again. Sweat trickled down her neck, tight jumpsuit was clinging to her skin as she tried to perform on the top of her piloting abilities

“Not today,” she hissed, executing a sharp turn. The maneuver caught one pursuer off guard, causing him to overshoot. The second stayed locked on her tail, firing continuously. The nav computer chimed – hyperspace coordinates calculated.

As she reached for the hyperdrive lever, another bolt struck the rear deflectors. The impact rocked the vessel violently, throwing Aayla forward. “Come on,” she urged the damaged ship, pulling back on the lever. Engines whined, protesting, then with a groan, the stars elongated into blue-white streaks as the freighter leapt into hyperspace.

She sagged against the pilot’s seat, the thrill sipping away. She had escaped, but at what cost? Everything was gone: her men, her mission, her confidence in the universe she thought she knew. All that remained were questions and an unsettling emptiness inside her.

The swirl of hyperspace enveloped the viewport, its endless dance mocking her turmoil. Aayla Secura knew only one thing with certainty - nothing would ever be the same again. She was a Jedi of a betrayed order, a general without an army, adrift in a galaxy that had suddenly turned hostile. But she was alive, and where there was life, there was hope. Master Vos had taught her that much. And her chosen hyperspace destination should provide some safety.