Mankid [A-Z]

[Injah Bas]

Ship control panel blips were the only lights in this darkness. Empty, black, starless, space stared in at every window. The engines’ hum was too quiet to end any silence. Injah’s silhouette sat soundless in the shadows on the deck’s durasteel. He’d shut his eyes. Only his thoughts could kept him company. He was alone. His legs criss-crossed. Courses were set to Ossus. Automated coordinates navigated the craft to a hyper-lane. Soon the floating freight would be blasted through space to the new home of the Jedi Order. In the meantime, the special human cargo would meditate. Memories swept through his mind and there was stillness when a blaring fart roared from beyond.

“Seff…”

She’d bedded a Zeltron gal. The mouthy-gitty pink tag-along was an annoyance and had some sort of intolerance to the milks. Every night (according to their sleeping patterns) her butt would play a funky trumpet for the hull to vibrate to.

Now, Injah would be up for hours, just thinking.

MANKID
A-Z
[Mankid]

[Injah Bas]

Attacabottoni
Attacabottoni

(n.) lit. "button attacher" ; a bore who "buttonholes" you with long, involved, and, uninteresting tales of woe.

2 BBY

Luminous lime neon signs of Aurebesh lit a dingy street block of levels 143 in Cloud City's Port Town, and one read “Vro’s”, a staple grocery store chain from the Corporate Sector planet. It expanded. Bepsin was the 2nd expansion location. Several times a day the store clerks were proudly reminded of this fact by their manager as if he was on the board and not just another employee. Or, as if the expansion was a smart business move; they fed the hood practically free of charge -- everyday a bantha beef or luna yogurt or candy or something was being swiped like the place was a thief practice grounds. Who knew how worker's still got their paychecks. Big money companies, somehow they could afford to splurge credits and time on such “project” locations. However, one of Vro’s cashiers did not have that kind of time and contemplated escape routes thinking of their favorite customer, Nwar the old Cathar kook.

“IN-JAH!” The name howled out the Cathar’s throat and tongue rolled along the consonants harshly; a signature Cathar accent. Other customers looked over. Cashiers continued without looking up. His stare trapped most and they knew this.

Injah tried to do the same but instinct is a hard thing to stop - it is only natural to look up when your name is called - and in the slight twitch, his glance over turned into a gaze whilst the elderly fuzzball swaggered with his cane and basket full of goodies. The old cat plopped his groceries down on the conveyer belt, not able to hear the sigh escaping Injah as he looked down and began ringing up the items. “Hey,” he grumbled.

“Hello there, my friend.”

The friend is the part is what made Injah nearly shudder.

“You won’t believe what happened to me yesterday.”

Injah would definitely believe it. “So, I’m in line at the Tibanna-Anna Splitz, ya know, down and around the block, right? And, I just can’t work my claws to open up those wrapped up spoons. Claws just aren’t what they use to be. Hard but not sharp, just nubs, and all I want to do is eat some ice cream. It was such a pain. I’m ripping and biting. Teeth aren’t so great either. Fangs use to be like a gundarks when I was your age.”

Only a few items had been swung across the register. The man kept going. Beep after beep was shrouded in more complaints. It never ended. “Then, when I finally get someone to help me, it falls to the floor! Rips open. Falls to the floor. Like, frell!? Can an old man get a break. I have to drag it around with my cane.”

Beep.
Beep.

“Then it’s dirty. I have to go get another one? It was an absolute mess”

Beep.
Beep.

“48.32 sir. Paper or plastic?”

[Injah Bas]

Balter
Balter

(v) to dance artlessly, without particular grace or skill but usually with enjoyment

3 Months BBY

A good drink could make a right foot and left foot feel like two left feet. A great drink could make you forget you had feet. Injah held a brown beer bottle's neck like a cigarette on the dance floor -- between two fingers; a signature Injah move. Flashing club lights lit the lounge. Smoke lingered in the air with sweat. People jyrated. People swayed. People were everywhere. Injah's drink was sweet but bitter. He liked that. He liked her, too -- this girl without promise and too cute stood by a behemoth lady S'kytri. Do they go together? What is an adorable gal doing with that? All sorts of thought could come to mine but Injah did not think. He moved. Music boomed about. No sounds could be heard under the bass.

It was a pop hit.

Outside the club the notes echoed down the street. A line had formed. No one was getting in. A young, hip, fun-fueled, drug fueled filled the room with frills. Injah sauntered through the cluster. The crowd bounced him back and forth. His legs balanced him. He swayed. He rocked. His drink did not spill. Matter of fact, he took swigs as he swirled and curled through web of arms, make out sessions and body grinds. He swam among the dancers before a smiley stagger between the "couple".

"Wha--" The S'kytri backed up. The target was startled. Injah stumble flowed almost purposely into a curtsy.

"Goo' evening," his slurring hidden by his grin. He nodded at the S'kytri and handed his drink over to her without looking. "Injah. Moof-milker. You. Cute. Your name?" The girl eyed him like the drunk dummy he was. She exchanged a glance over his head back at the S'kytri holding his drink.

"I'm not telling you my name."

A huff and she exited scene left. A smirk and Injah followed. Already the drink had hit. Those feet of his twisted and legs spun him about in front of her; drunken monkey style, "Ok. No name. Who needs it to dance." He reached for her hand. Persistence made her eyes roll but her lip twist up and suck her teeth to prevent a smile. Yeah, she was flattered and still she walked off. That arm of her's grazed along his inviting palm and she let him hold her hand as she walked past.

She knew it was going to happen...

He spun her about. They were face to face and the S'kytri watched on with a drink in her talons. The nameless beauty whispered loud enough to hear over the bumping and beat thumping, "I'm with the Empire."

[Injah Bas]

Cryptoscopophilia
Cryptoscopophilia

(n) the urge to secretly look through windows of homes as one passes by

6 Months BBY

A child stared.

Dark brown doe eyes gawked into the heavens. Clouds made this city famous and they were everywhere. Pink, blue and orange smeared to make something beautiful amidst this heavenly city on Bepsin. The child was not from around these parts. Such a stare did not give it away. Common folk marveled too. At least, if they were smart enough to be amazed. Most of the idiots did not appreciate they lived in the sky. Like a spoiled brats they walked behind the child hooked on the view -- jaded and oblivious. Some stopped and looked too for a second. Then stress tugged them away. Duty called most. Comm. links buzzed. Holopads lit the walkway in blue. Private conversations were made public as these busy bees buzzed along talking to some client. Bald Dralls, fury humans and quiet Rodians alike bumbled by. The small chubby body stared on, knees on the cushion, soaking up the indoor city view. The child wore an orange spacer's jumpsuit. The munchkin was enthralled and wordless. That's odd because kids don't stop talking. But this was a quiet one. And we all know to watch the quiet ones yet no one was watching or parenting. Not a guardian was in sight. The only thing overseeing him were ship traffic. Above roared outbound flights. Of course some were flying in but the kids eyes did not fix on those spacecrafts. The youngster was looking at those going up, up and away.

A man blinked.

Long curled lashes fluttered. Bodies flashed by. Walkers in a rush. Talkers that were too loud. Through the flutter, the traffic, the clutter, the man saw the child. It's small body, it's kinky coiled curls on it's big head watched the world. And the man watched it. An earring dangled from the child's left ear. It was familiar; an ornament from the past. People passed without seeing the man -- he was barely that, anyone who cared to glance in his direction saw long locks on a long body with only enough to maybe drink legally. Features more like a teen than a man and no hair to undo such a baby face curse. However, if you looked hard enough you could see the eyes of a man. A calm straighten the baby-face's back and he stood like a gentleman.

A woman peered.

The eyes were light. Her skin dark. Those eyes did not blink. Her hood was up. Few noticed her. It was her shape that caught their eye. The hooded coat was fitted. The pants were too. She had powerful big thighs and strong calves. Gloves hid her fist. The palms were callous. Under the tight clothes was a body fortified by years of power lifts and war. Beyond the bustle of Bepsin and the buzz of gas company's industry was a galaxy in battle. That is where she came from; combat was her playground and she looked ready to play some more. She palmed macrobinoculars. She perched at the pathway several floors above the man, yet stared like he was within reach.

She stalked him.

He watched the boy.

The boy watched the world. And, the world barely noticed any of the three.

[Injah Bas]

Dépaysement
dépaysement

(n)the feeling of not being at home, in a foreign or different place, whether a good or a bad feeling; change of scenery

6 Months BBY

The Corellian Trade Spine was a playground for pirates. Infamous raids littered the hyperlane through Lok. Nym, the great Feeorin pirate, feasted on the fools. Plus, who in their right mind would go Core-ward? That is where the Emperor laughed. Wherever the Empire laughed, everyone else cried. Nobody likes a crying kid on a ship. Nobody. Not their parents, not their neighbors and especially not other kids who are just trying to play hologames. The boy's eyes were hid behind big curls. His big cheeks were wide. His face was down. The pad had him fixed in. Those little fingers pushed up against the screen. There was a low hum of game noises. Over the murmur was a distant moan & groan. A child who was not use to space travel was at it again. The boy glanced up, grimaced, and shook his head; there was some second-hand embarrassment in his glare. Injah looked over with a smirk. This boy had barely traveled the stars yet fit in perfectly. The boy was a spacer at heart. What kind a kid cries on a ship? Amidst the stars was the best place to be if you asked the kid. Injah admired that in him. It was a shame they were en route home.

Injah would not be going all the way back, though.

Along the long stretch of the Corellian Spine's hyperroute was an intersection. Rimma cut along the end. A jump deeper into the Outer Rim Territories, connecting flight at a wayfar space station and they were down the pike en route to Sullust. Rimma ran across the hyperlanes to the Expansion Region. Most of the planets there were full of intrigue. Very few were not fully explored.

Their homeworld was one of those few. Jeddesh and the Emerë wanted to keep it that way. Hidden in plain sight was people few knew and hidden in plain sight. Erased from the archives, not even an expert xenologist could detect anything more than a human. Geneticist would have to deep dive but still only arise with curiosity after studies. It was the way of their people, which made it even more pertinent they stop discretely at a place like Sullust. The planet was considered by the Alliance to Restore the Republic (aka the Rebel Alliance) a safe haven. Yes, the Empire had claimed at the end of the Clone Wars. Yet, the Empire had loosen its lease. Most of the Imperial presence was more corporate than physical. Alliance starships were forged in plain sight. Whispers of their ambivalence to galactic politics and dedication to industrious growth spread wide. Bespin was no stranger to the Sullustian traveler. From far and wide Tibanna gas was valued and Sullust workers came, talked, all for Injah to eavesdrop.

Injah was always listening.

The galaxy was vast and wide. Life as a Jedi had sent him all about. It was Emerë tradition for people of his stature to adventure. However, this did not make these places any less foreign. Strange-faced humanoids and talking slugs, monstrous pacifistic aliens and more unimaginable beauties sprawled across the galaxy and the boy could never be at home among the lot.

Nor did the child seem to care to be.

It was an odd detour and Injah watched on as the boy played, making sure this exotic adventure was a safe one.

[Injah Bas]

espirit d'escalier
espirit d'escalier

(n.) the witty comeback think of after the time is past to use it

22 years BBY

Legacy could create immortality. Legala's name was close to legacy. So, she was just about there. Plus, Legala was only a few letters from legendary. Ask Count Dooku and you'd hear high praise. Actually, anybody from that Old Republic's era of Jedi knew her. Senators were privy too. Legala was mighty. Yeah, she was small (like 161 cm), her voice was deep (you know, that Unknown Region actress? Yeah. Her) but give her a lightsaber (or two) and you'd know nothing beside her skill. Oh, man did she earn the title Jedi Battlemaster. You know she took down a Krayt Dragon once? It was a sight to behold. Two blades (not lightsabers), a small boy & Jawas migrating the dunes and 20 minutes was all it took. The boy was a politican's kid and ransomed. Somehow the pip squeak escaped his captors but only to end up on Tatooine. Tracked down to a Jawa cluster, all that prevented him from certain death was a young Legala. Her lightsabers had been detained but the Jawas had jewels in their junkpile; two swords were plenty. A maestro with any saber, she sliced and diced. Some in the old Jedi Order believe that day was when the former Battlemaster decided she was the one true successor. If you knew Legala though you'd know it was just another day in the life. Injah was her Padawan. Kid knew her favorite color. She couldn't have kids.

He was her legacy.

Once upon a time he was simply a boy in robes with the others waiting on Master Rangla's instruction and then he grew into a...boy. See, the Emerë do not age like humans. Its slow. By Legala's side he forever looked like a nephew she had to babysit. Out, beyond Republic space, they'd stick out like sore thumbs. Years of training and he was still seen as a boy. The Council promoted him from Padawan but the Jedi called him Baby Knight. "How's the Knightchild," they'd tease Legala. She'd smirk. She knew she'd done well with him, "Annoyingly good." Arrogance was innate in Injah's nature. Often times he would not act like the humble Jedi folks idealized but eh, who cared? Injah was carrying on the work they'd started. After she passed the Battlemaster mantle, she went into investigations. Deduction was her thing. Injah was a strong pupil. Those knightly robes were tossed aside as soon as he donned them in favor of subterfuge or more casual get-up. Some slacks, striped jacket, white shirt and boots was all a Jedi needed to play a normie out beyond the Jedi Temple.

It worked.

While the Jedi were trying to save face from Confederacy tricks with Jabba's child on Teth and Ashoka Tano was building up her name, Injah was hot on pursuit of uncovering Kalleran port smuggling ring. Kaller was a Confederacy play pin. Smuggled drugs worked outside that. Whoever was moving product in the midst of a new war was daring. Folks were disappearing. Pilots vanished in space routes. Port workers were quitting. New workers were moving in. All the upheaval was suspicious. None of it demanded the high council of Jedi's attention though. That is until the Hutts were connected. Now, you might've assumed a few things -- Hutts, drugs, smuggling -- illegal schutta, right? Nah. Do not like silly stereotypes keep you ignorant. Injah knew better. These drugs were for the sick. Confederacy's new war and priorities were always financial. Yeah, some planets loved such corporate mindsets; they laughed their ways to the banks. That was the rich though, and the poor Kalleran died off from basic needs. Good ol' tearjerker right up in line with the Jedi's moral code, surely? See, stop assuming. No, this was self-centered. An alliance was supposed be forged by the Confederates and Hutts. Yoka the Hutt involved in the ring only did so for her Kalleran partner. The lovers went into business together. Yet, her love was one of the folks missing. So Injah was deployed to do some digging. The Republic had to show their potential ally's some love -- returning some love would do that.

None of this information mentioned was in the dossier. All Injah knew when he was sent to the Outer Rim Territories was an important Kalleran lady was missing and the Confederacy may be involved. A week into investigations and he'd followed a paper trail through the ports, a ring, a crimelord with a heart of gold, all the way back to Plateau City​'s corporate sector.

Level 10. At the windows. There. He stood, staring out. It was like somber pop song's music video. Injah was the hrorible ex. A hand clasped behind his back -- calm, collected, focused -- other hand on the holo unit, getting a facetime call from the new special someone. That is where the analogy falls apart, because Legala was not a special someone. At least, not to the likes of Injah.

"Eh, its you." He rolled his eyes.

"Yes, it's me, kiddo." Legala's voice was something else. Billions of stars away and her deep timbre still resonated.

She still looked young to him. "You couldn't pass as my aunt."

"What'd you figure out?"

"Oh, checking up on me? Don't you have something to do."

"That good, eh." Legala knew Injah. If the case was getting exciting, he'd get private. Those privy had to be on the investigation. Otherwise you were just being intrusive. Like, get out the way, let his mind work and shush. "Doesn't sound like you need any help on this one."

"Like I'd ever ask for your help, Master." Somehow, he slipped that last part in there. Injah knew how to be snide and respectful.

"Of course you wouldn't. You don't want me taking your glory away from you. What would you do without it?" Legala smirked.

Looking back on that conversation Injah wish he would have said something else. Behind him there was a bit of movement. The office was stirring. Duty called. "Oh, look, I got to go."

Click!

[Injah Bas]

finifugal
finifugal

[adj] hating endings; of someone who tries to avoid or prolong the final moments of a story, relationship, or some other journey

​
Watch any holodrama, nothing good happens in a dark empty room. Ask Injah, he knows. That kid loved holofilms. Anytime the Hawkbat clan were sent to his dorm he was stuck infront a tube. That is if he was not on his datapad. One or the other kept his eyes peeled. Other Jedi initiates would come by, knock on his dorm and be ignored. Even the girls he fancied. You know, the Aayla Secura's of the Jedi-world. As an Emere transplant the Jedi-world was all he was suppose to know. Injah was not one to do what he was suppose to. The fun was going above and beyond or at least coloring outside the lines. Holodramas painted pictures of the Outer Rim Territories and it was in those vids, in his quiet space in the brightest, beloved corners of the Jedi Temple that as a youth he developed a craving for the unknown. Famed actors sauntered onto screens as detectives, rangers and investigators to uncover wrongdoers and criminals alike. In the face of uncertainty they charged forth with science and a magical eye. Each clue was pieced together with the next, webbing together a plot you could really bite into -- the action was cerebral and the men were slick talkers. Who would have thought that boy curled up in his room, shuffling through his favorite clips of grown ups playing dress up/pretending to be private eyes or spies would become a real live copper. The real thing wasn't as fanciful. At times it was downright boring. Especially after all the hot pursuits. Often time the adrenaline rush slowed down to a halt when things got fatal and became dull. This was one of those times.


Forklifts, parked loading trucks and crates filled the dark room. No soul was breathed air in that room but him. Flopped atop a tall crate, he gazed down upon the last person to take up air in this room. She was Kalleran and slumped over a short, opened treasure chest. Singed flesh, a nasty bloody smell & a hole made it clear this was a kill. Anything else was up to forensics. Local authorities had already been called. A bit away from the target, he would not conflict with their "needs" to get all the possible evidence for analysis, but he had nothing to do or watch. All Injah had was his imagination. So many possibilities were playing out. Yet, he had to remain objective. You can not pin the tail on a donkey before the jackass comes stumbling out in sight, that is how you bend evidence to bias & eliminate facts. Rookies made that mistake. He definitely was not that.

But, he looked like a rookie.

"Excuse me, young man, what are you doing here?" Injah had gotten so lost in his pondering he had not hear the clomp of boots echo through the loading dock on the steel. It was an authoritative, clear, strong voice, so the manchild glanced. In a glimpse, he saw it was a local Plateau copper. He had the get-up. Behind him were a couple thin necked scientist with remote droids hovering by their shoulders.

Injah was impatient. Whether as a kid or in the field, he had gone over this scene far too many time. He rolled his eyes. Even when he alerted the boys in green (local police force) he made it quite clear he was a Jedi investigator. Damn, were they slow on the up take, "Look." One empty palm up and the lightsaber hilt stashed at his hip shook with life. A fine gesture to cut through the sith-spit. "Can ya'll start scanning. I got some bad guys to catch."

The two forensic partners were already covered in state of the art hazmat bodysuit -- form fitted and well covered -- but, they took their orders from the officer on duty. Their eyes were on him. His eyes were on Injah. Our somewhat hero, or whatever, had his eyes on the ceiling at this point, shaking his head and whistling. Yeah, he liked Kaller, but man would he be happy to get off this planet.

"You heard the man."

This would take a few hours.

"Jedi, you know who this is, correct?" One of the forensics directing the remote droid did not even look over as he spoke.

"Hm?"

"From the police report, I would have guessed you had known. This is Tápusha Key."

"Yokka's girlfriend?"

And so, the plot thickens. Not as thick as Yokka the Hutt, but thick.

[Injah Bas]

Groak

groak

[v.] to stare longinly at someone who is eating in the hope that they will ask you to join them.

​

1 week ABY

There are two types of people. Cheaters and losers. How good of a cheat are you? Your favorite grav-baller was also a greater cheater. Best actors? Cheater. Greatest warriors? Cheaters. Either the game, the system, the situation was rigged or the players were. There was no honor among thieves and you had to take what you want in this galaxy. In a galaxy divided, all that unified the people was sports. Shockball and Limmie streamed along the screens in the bar. Injah loved Limmie. His eyes weren't on the screens though.

He looked at those "thieves who took what they wanted" who clustered around a table.

They looked like good cheaters.

A rag-tag of misfits: a shorter than usual Chadra-fan draped in guns ^[1], a high-tech lowlife exotic beauty with tattoos & insect antennae ^[2], a Nautolan human hybird girl who loved to scowl ^[3], and a Kel Dor lady in a cloak ^[4]. Word traveled fast to the Outer Rim. He'd heard about them. He also heard about Shockball -- cheaters. Rumor was elite shockball players were being used in experiments. All that athleticism a product of engineering. The Core did not care much for the Limmie. Organizations lost funds hosting games in the depths of Imperial Space. But, out here in the backwaters and exotic space guys like Injah could sit back and take in the sport with fellow fans.

That gang of femme fatales was also fixed on the game, but also taking bites. Servers swung by and placed more plates down. Cheers and garbled multi-lingual chatter was everywhere. Booths were filled to the brim with squads. Pilots and their crews laughed it up. With all that of course you couldn't hear what that cloaked Kel Dor whispered to the server but it had to be something slick. Before you knew it the waitress was giggling. Even got a well placed smack on the butt before she sashayed away from the gang's table.

Injah took a sip of his brew and tried again to peel his eyes away from the girls. On screen's bottom feed ran news updates. One read that Grand Moff of the Emprire Wilhuff Tarkin had died in a terrorist attack. Man, the galaxy was getting wilder by the seconds.

gulp

Gulp

GuLp

[1]Vlak Vookivlad [2] Raia [3] Makka [4] Captain Nil

[Injah Bas]

Hiraeth
Hiraeth

[n] a homesickness for a home to which you cannot return, a home which maybe never was; the nostalgia, the yearning, the grief for the lost place of your past

​
The Starworth's Carbon Freeze had the fastest bartenders. Fast in every respect of the word, too. Anybody adult Port Town with taste for ale could tell you that. Frell, some of the sub-adults could too. Fake ID chips slipped security every now and then. Injah looked like one of those cases but he was a patron. Nobody bothered him. Other than to ask him if he wanted more. Merish was on the job. That Miralian gal moved like the wind. She swept down the counter. Two drinker's cups were refilled before they blinked. Injah tried to catch her with a glance down but she was already in front of him. "Mo' Tatoo Sun," she had a backwater accent. It was her charmer; that drawl wooed scrappers to high-rollers for big tips. Injah just tilted his head a tad, fluttered those little eyes of his and smiled. She rolled her eyes. They were having a cute-off. "Yea, yea," she poured him some more. "Do'n git cute. I see you eyein' them girls ovah there." Injah was not trying to be inconspicuous but why not feign innocence, it made things fun. His hand went to his chest and he mouthed, brows high, eyes wide, Moi? Never. Then came his signature smirk. Then her trademark eye-roll. If she rolled them anymore they'd fall out, he bet. Sure enough, she rolled off at that point. She had a smile on his face as she walked away though. Those little moments were nice,. They just were not as nice as the buzz he got from another gulp.

A light wheat flavor followed by a dab of lemon did him good.

Cup up, eyes closed, ears pricked, he swigged and listened. Concentration was key. An ex-soldier barked at the screen. Ivory Fang was up. Injah was rooting for the Blazing Claw. A couple of double daters lips smacked at the booth.Their burgers were getting cold. Their drinks were empty. Young love was cute. Schemers stood and pointed, whispering about who they would bone if they did not have an arm. Knucklehead hypothetical questions that could go on for days. From the sound of things there was no end in the near future. One of the bunch was stuck on whether you could count a Codru-Ji counted. The rest of the bunch knew Codru-Ji. They would not touch anybody but their own kind; one of those xenophobic racist , or so they said. Injah's focus skipped merrily along the clusters in the pub until he took in the targets. The Kel Dor’s chair creaked. She leaned back. Her boots whispered a squeak and ankles crossed over like a wish for luck. Behind her head clasped her claws.

Out from the depths of her throat croaked a gruff and slow, “Give it 5 more minutes, Raia.” Her voice was a gundark in a tiny cage aka that Kel Dor specialized breath mask. Raia was the high-tech exotic one. Raia's fingers went to the datapad. A few familiar clicks and the low tick-tock timer came to life on the screen. Thrill boomed out the bat-weasel with guns, "I'd bet on 3 minutes. Anxiety is in the air. There is no stopping it now. It's obvious. Can't you tell. Look around. Everyone can see it. There is no chance. I'm willing to put the gold up. What do you sa--"

A quiet thump on the table cut him off and called for Injah's eyes. He put his drink down and side-eyed. The Nautolan hybird stared sternly back at him.

Foiled.

_____

38 BBY

Jedi Temple, Coruscant -- Red and gold were hallmarks of the Temple. Tapestries dangled. Curtains flowed. Halls were draped in gold. The architecture left open space and tall ceilings. Droid models old and new rolled by with beeps. Men in robes floated along. Women in robes floated too. There were less than there should be. Or, so one child believed that to be the case. A normal young initiate of the unusual order of cult monk warriors sworn to protect galactic piece yet aligned with the major galactic political party would not notice such a thing, but Injah was anything besides normal. Not much was odd about how he looked. Yes, his hair was long. Yes, it was twisted in locks, albeit short. Almost all male younglings sported a short do. There was no religious dogma which demanded such aesthetics yet there was a culture among the Jedi. In all societies unwritten rules existed. Injah had not bought into all these unwritten rules. In addition, he did not abide by simply one culture. The depths of his traditions were intergalactic, sacred and secret. Even more secret than that of the Jedi's Order; only in Yoda's personal library was there a holocron which mention the legacy this unassuming yet ever strange Jedi initiate carried. Due to the fact he was multicultural he was awarded perspective. There needed to be more women in the Order according to him and that is because where he was from women ruled.

O, did they rule.

All of ten standard years old, he walked the long corridor. Ahead a group walked with an Ensel with a cane. Almost everyone in the Jedi Order knew him. The Ensel was ancient and known as Master Ranga. He walked really slow. Injah walked even closer. His hands were busy. Every few seconds Injah tinkered with a data spike. Who knew where he had gotten the device from. Nobody asked. Let him be curious, the elders said. Surely the tinkering was good for his young academic mind, of course. Why interfere with disassembling and deductive practice whilst walking the Jedi halls on an educational tour, right Master Ranga? The Ensel did not even look back. All the studious boys and gals walked closely behind, soaking in every bit of mystical wisdom he spilled. The groggy old voice was in the distant void of mum to Injah. All he heard were the footsteps and ever few seconds he would look up to see a lady in a robe woosh by. He would smile. They would nod. Then, he would look ahead.

Aayla Secura was up there, in her young blueness. Then, there was Sia-Lan. Injah did not know how she was only ten years old and knew so much about crystals. She was nice though. Lorana looked serious. None of them looked back though.

They were transfixed.

Injah grumbled and tinkered. He hurried his steps.

They definitely needed more girls. Someone who liked to tinker as much as he did.

___

The others of the group turned their heads as the hybrid nudged. Before they could look, he smirked at them all. He swigged his drink. He stood up. Then, walked right over. One step. Two step. Despite the drinks, he moved smooth, but it was not easy. Every footsteps was conscious. Luckily it did not look as much. When he neared, the Nautolan's scowl did not lift, it only deepened and gaped to say, "Why the frell have you been looking at u--"

"I'll take that bet." Injah interrupted. The smirk never faded. "Blazing Claws got this in 3 minutes flat."

The Chadra-Fan smiled back.

[Injah Bas]

induratize
induratize

[v] to make one's own heart hardened or resistant to someone's pleas or advances, or to the idea of love

​

19 BBY

You could smell the burn. You could see the smoke. The cigarra wrap lay limp between his fingers. Night was coming. Orange blasted the beautiful sky until it was like purple. Our guy hid in the shadows casted by the biggest building. He leaned. He puffed. He looked down. The wall held his back and the one foot he had up. Chatter stirred nearby. It was undecipherable. A shuffle of feet. Life was abuzz on the streets. Tall shadowy figures and small ones laughed. No one looked over. Another deep breath lifted his chest. His long locks were tied up in a bun. Look closer and you would see he had on some casual gear. You know, shirt, slacks (a little tight) and shoes to match. But, you would not look closer. If you did you would not look again. Nice looking, yeah, but not too different. There was plenty else to look at. Above were the most beautiful skies. Muunilist was known for that and math. Economist scoured the galaxy for scholarships to be an understudy on this great planet and in this great city. Grand architecture towered above. Sculpted and mapped to precision by the minds of the locals. Long lanky pale bodies waltz the streets. Smooth with their words and careful with their moves was their way. Many moved about this plaza. It was in their schedule. Work had ended. The banks were closing. Time had come to return to their not-so-humble abodes. There was no inkling to give a side-walk smoker a second glance. If they did he wouldn't be there. His job was to go unnoticed and notice everything. Yet, there was not much else to take note of on this rocket.

Investigation had gone dry and all he had was Marcan herb to roll up as a souvenir. The odor called for a glimpse. The story behind the smell demanded a deep dive. See, Hutts love Marcan herb. Hutts space was filled with Weequays. A group of Weequay mercenaries worked for Muun's InterGalactic Banking Clan. The InterGalactic Banking Clan were powerful members of the Confederacy of Independent Systems. Wars can not be waged without banks. Someone has to the foot the missle bills. IGBC was never against violence and that left room for a trail back to the Hutts. Mercenaries were on brand for them too. A venn diagram formed between the seedy illicit and clean cut and Marcan herbs were an in. The exchange of the herb led to the head of some Weequay mercenary clan leaders.

The hope was to find a hacker who had betrayed their ranks. Among the Weequay people this slicer had become an outcast. Still, there was a lot of pride and customs keeping outsiders from poking around in their business. Even though the slicer had spoiled some of the money coming to the mercenaries by double-crossing and rewiring funds for personal gain, it was their problem to handle as they saw it. Still, the intent was there. The Old Republic wanted to find the slicer, use the slicer's information and get that slicing on their side. If you cripple the banks you end the war.

Yet, there was nothing.

Injah was good at slicing himself. Not that good, but enough to pry some information. There was nothing on the local databanks linking the slicer. No backdoor security leaks. No lack of security clearance. Whatever the hacker did, he kept all doors closed on the way out of the computer systems in the bank. How would he find this slicer? He shook his head and let the joint burn at his lips. Puff and billowed enough wisp of smoke. The funky scent sat in the air and he sighed. In his pocket buzzed a message.

He pulled out the holopad, palmed it, and gave it the signature two click:

"This is Master Obi Wan Kenobi.

I regret to report that both our Jedi Order and the Republic have fallen with dark shadow of the Empire rising to take their place. This message is an order and a reminder for any surviving Jedi trust in the Force. Do not return to the Temple, that time has past and our future is uncertain. We will each be challenged.

Our trust.

Our faith.

Our friendships.

But we must persevere and in time a new hope will emerge."

[Injah Bas]

Jaaneman
jaaneman

[n](phrase) lit "soul of me"; a gender neutral word for sweetheart or darling

​

1 ABY

A clank and the small metal circular pad bounced to a stop on the circlular dejarik table. Chess tiled patterns colored the table under the holopad as it buzzed and beeped to life. An "On" button flickered green as a signal shot through space and along the Shadowfeed. Abandoned by the Confederacy and taken by Imperial agents the network left S-strings for the covert to whisper across the galaxy. Holo-messages were not frequently used but such rare occasions would go interrupted. The crew quarter doors whooshed shut. A body plopped down. The bunk bed squeaked in resistance. It was Injah and he decked in a black Imperial uniform. What a sight to behold but his eyes were on the blue hued figure emitting from the pad. She was brown. She had almond eyes. Half her hair was shaved. The other half was chocolate & long. Part of that hair was braided. She wore a tunic and ornaments. Her nose was poked with a shiny septum piercing. Her pants were tight. Her moccasin boots were loose. She was fit and had a smile. Injah did too. He loved seeing her face. But, her voice was just as nice and raspy. She always sounded kind of sick and it was cute.


"Mmm lets make it quick though." Injah gave her that look. "We finally got here."

She mocked his look. "Where's here this time?"

"It's a surprise. I'll bring back a souvenir."

"Yeah? Like when you brought back that nova crystal?" Her hands clasped behind her back and she stood up straight but canted her head. "Hey, that was a sparkly Mythosaur artifcat stone."

"Is that what were calling dino-shit now, babe?"

"At least there was a kyber crystal in it."

"Synthetic."

"But they didn't know that." They both smiled and winked at the same time. At the door there was a knock. Injah glanced. Before he could say anything, she waved: "Yeah. I know. Got to go. Jjasa Out. ^[5]"

Injah rushed to his feet. The door hissed open. At the doorway stood stout a stormtrooper. A carbine blaster was clutched in front it's chest. No words were spoke. There was only silence as Injah clasped his hands behind his back and matched the trooper's uniformity. Behind the stormtrooper were others of his kind. Their cold black gaze bore into the room from the stoic stands. In the lull croaked a robotic gear twist as the lead trooper lifted his hand up. Then waved the others in and stepped aside. Three troopers filed into the tiny quarters with three other empty bunks. They stomped in, turned on a heel and formed a hedge before the dread-locked man. Injah did not blink once. He was just as stoic and eyed them. Each in unison dropped their guard and put their blasters at their side. Then planted their feet together to stand tall and salute. The click of their armor plates twisting was all that echoed in the hull. In came in the lead trooper, slow, deliberate, waltzing pass in front of the hedged three. On it's heel the lead troop spun and placed the carbine on the dejarik table next to the holopad.

A sigh pushed out from the hard hat. Up came the gloves and a click unleashed the trooper from the helmet. Out from under the mask shook a head free of armor and two antenna flicked up. Those feelers twinged and a green french-braided mohawk flopped down the trooper's back. Facial markings curved under the cheekbones and lips green as the hair puckered. Eyelashes so thick and long they could double as butterfly wings began to flutter. Eyes the color of envy glared back at Injah. In the shine of their emerald gaze you could see Injah's leer take shape.

"Give me my props." The alien more barbie than insect opened her arms wide to take in the deserved praise. If you know anything about the universe though, deserve ain't got nothing to do with it. Injah's eyes rolled. His shoulders shrugged. Yet his arms didn't go up, as if it any effort to show emotion was too much energy to spend. Cheap with his expression he closed his eyes for a second and weighed the importance by shifting his head back and forth, scrunching up his lip. She watched on with a glare. The smile that wanted to form on her lips was changing coordinates. From upturn to downturn she snarled a, "Oh you think you can do it?"

"Do what exactly?" Injah finally made a move, slipping pass her to the other troopers for inspection. "Throw a few buckethead costumes on droids and play puppet master? Nah. I don't think I would have the mind to come up with such an ingenious plan. Oh wait," Injah stopped as he lifted one of the trooper's limp arms. He looked back at the alien gal in stormie gear from under the arm. "How could I forget, I did come up with this plan." She stared him down as he continued on. "Raia, Raia, Raia, maybe it is you who should be giving me the props for throwing you the ball on this one. You know, like those boro-ballers that do that -- " He gestured a chest thump with the trooper's arm and pointed it at her, "--shout out for an amazing assist."

"Ah-maze-ing A-ssssist?" Raia's hands went to her hips. "What exactly did you do?" She turned her head to side-eye him. Her mouth agape. The nerve of him. "I--I--you know what, I should make one of them shoot you."

"Oh, can you do that?!" It was an interesting prospect. The very notion perked him up, dropped the trooper's arm and he went bright-eyed. If she could form repurposed droids into a lethal stormie outfit the hi-jinks could be endless. Injah was always thinking of angles. "Tell me you know how to do that."

She gave a knowing smile and flapped open her forearm like a grav-baller checking the plays. There on her wrist were several buttons wired to control. "Yes, lets experiment a little." Injah hopped forward and grabbed her free hand to intercept any experimental clicking. Still, he remained calm.

"We should wait until after seeing how it works on a control first before button-mashing. That is what got us in this trouble in the first place." There was a lot of perils before this trip. Some unmentionable. Others led to artifacts. Mostly those artifacts weren't worthwhile. The experiences were golden though. Injah offered a cheeky look to remind Raia of that fact and she just cocked her pursed lips to the side. She jerked and wafted him away.

"Whatever, Injah."

Despite the lack of affirmation Injah did appreciate her skill. To think she was capable of doing it in short notice was impressive. They had stumbled onto something good with this haul to piece together anything from it for another big payday was simply masterful. She had his praise, whether he told her or not.

And, she knew that. "Come on, we'll be at the checkpoint soon."

Raia walked off and with a wave the troopers stomped off behind her. Injah began to follow behind the four. Then stopped. He'd forgotten the holopad. In a hurry he swung about and snatched it up with a cheery, "Be right there honey."

[5] Jjasa

[Injah Bas]

Karoshi
karoshi

[n] death from being overworked

​

Boys in White was the slogan phrase to describe Stormtroopers by the Galactic Imperial recruitment. Posters covered the walls of the galaxy with troopers drawn pointing back at you. After the Clone Wars the clones were phased out for the common man without a job and a love for the Empire. Simpletons who only wanted to get off their world would pick up a pamphlet and run to the army. All throughout the galaxy these boys would travel with the trademark E-11 blaster rifle in hand. There discipline never questioned and their whiteness an honor in the government. Armor which look all to familiar for those who saw the terrors of the Clone Wars. Although Raia's droids filled out the armor, Injah could not help but see ghost as he walked the corridors of the ship. Along the walls and sat in the mess hall were several faux-troopers at Raia's command. Injah took in their lifeless glares from their dark visors likely lit with HUD information the droids within had no use for that synced his vitals and physical analysis. As the two walked passed by the mess hall, the droid stormies barely lifted their head before checking back in with their "task". Raia's protocols made them life-like. Injah could only shake his head at the peculiarity and fascination which grew the more he passed them on the walk. Troops were stuffed in quarters, bathrooms and side benches of rooms along the corridor.

It was like being on a Clone dropship. Before the war claimed the Order, Injah had only offered his talents to the frontline once. He vowed from that point onward to avoid the whole process. Each masked helmet reminded him of all the lives lost on the day he fought. Jedi were placed in General positions. They were protectors of peace not tacticians. Clones were thrown at the enemy like fodder by most. General Jedi Knights watched untouched by the carnage. Flashes of the bellows still haunted him. Other Jedi in his company continued forth as he was shellshocked. Images of blue fields and red blood splattered across his mind when he stopped to stare at a stormie-droid stagger into the bathroom. Raia's programs were too real, "What's he gunna leak? Oil? Or is it a carbon dump?"

For a moment there his mind danced with the thought if androids pooted. The sound would probaly be like an astromech beep. If you had a degree in droidspeak the fart would speak volumes, maybe. Injah smiled at the notion but too long because he was startled by a, "Hello! Lets go." Raia was so impatient.

Injah shook back to life and tugged himself from the refresher's doorway. The four (Raia, droid and Injah) continued down the passageway, by the galley, and up the stairs. Durasteel made steps echo so hollow. An empty bonk, bonk, bonk led the three into the light above. A control panel lit in blue, green and red blips with small Aurebesh labels illuminated anything the beaming overhead brightness did not. In the reveal of light ogled three faces. Each fixed their look on different duties. Their hands moved along the boards. One was the wombat face busy-body. His hands moved the fastest but were the smallest. Without even looking up, he chirped, "I'm going to hide behind you when the comm call gets through so stand up tall, youngsters." No one knew why he could them youngster. Truth be told he probably was the third youngest of the five. Everybody had their quirks, though, beside the squid-head beauty with a frown. Long tendrils and a longer face left what likely was a model-esque gal look more like a stonehead glaring at the nav-comp screen readings.

He fangs bared, "Four minutes until we are within scanning zones. Look alive." Injah knew she would have to get out of sight too. The Galactic Empire did not favor non-humans. If you looked less human than a Balosar you'd be in trouble. Even with their retracted antennapalps they experience the same slander any other non-human would. Through such xenophobia nationalism spread. Humanocentric ideologies embolden human boys all across the galaxy. Towered over by Muun, out-run by Cathar and out-wrestled by Wookiee, they could look to the Galaxy's greatest power for strength. Welcomed with open arms and a rifle, they bullied anything different and grinned. Whilst a Kel Dor manned the navigations, piloted the ship and Captain their movements, Injah would take this call. The captain did not even look back from her chair when Injah leaned on it and asked, "Ya' ready?"

"Always."

"Three minutes."

Injah glanced back and over at the Nautolan hybird. Her voice always cut through. So stern. "Makka, you ready?" Her eyes cut back at him. Her head did not sway, only barely gave a nod. Always dutiful. Often Makka would walk about carrying blades but her stare was just as sharp. In Makka's ruby brown peers shone an enormous vessel coming within the sensor's screen. Beep after beep on the scan took in more of the enormity. She leaned back and eyed the time. Seconds were flying by. Behind her and left to Injah was the rat face. Before Injah could say anything and opened his mouth the wombat lookalike spoke up. "Do not even ask me. You know I'm ready. Now just tell Vlak where he has to sneak into."

Injah smiled. Then looked back ahead with an answer, "I'd say in a compartment with Captain Nil here."

"Like I'd want to smell his furry butt up against me. No, he'll go with Makka," Captain had gone over the plan plenty times. Injah looked down at the Captain. "Smell? You dont even have a nose. Doesn't that ventilator cut all that stink out." Over their shoulders Makka clicked away. Along the ship's HUD sprawled the timer.

Almost 2 minutes were left. Raia spoke up, "Lets get back down there to the holo-comm." Injah stared at the timer as the seconds went by. He was bent into a lean forward. Two deep breathes did it. His arms were folded at the top of the Captain's seat. A small push from himself and he was back on all toes and heels planted. Another deep breath and he heard Raia again, "Ready?"

There was only a minute left.

"Yeah, lets do it."

[Injah Bas]

latibule
latibule

[n] a hiding place;a place of safety and comfort

​

A click, boop, and bzzz summoned a blued hologram of man with a kepi cap. Injah first noticed his funny curled stache and rank insigna plaques. The man was an ensign. Of course he stood tall decked in the navy uniform. There was no question he was aboard the Star Destroyer on the radar. One deep breath in then out and the ensign's eyes met Injah with a coldness admired among Imperial ranks. "Security Clearance code?" Injah matched him. Arms behind his back, chin lifted. "Identification codes transmitting." Clicks could be heard in the background. The ensign looked down to track the transmission. The dialing load up picked up on the recording. A hush was exchanged between the two men. Droids in stormtrooper outfits watched on. Raia watched behind the projection, her trooper helmet under her arm. If she put it on she looked a bit too short to be a trooper. At least by most standards. However, the ranks of the Imperial military army had grown diverse. The Empire's education program streamlined intellects and top tier students into government duties. While the rest of the corporate sectors suffered, the Empire thrived. Intelligence swelled their ranks. Yet, many were adepts in academia. Scholastic knowledge was systematic and those who thrived often were systematic thinkers. Creatives or the more unique minds were not always found amidst the successful scholars. What the Empire gained were those who excelled at thinking right not thinking great. Injah watched on as the ensign inspected the transmission codes.

"One second," the ensign's connection fizzled out.

Injah stood waiting, his feed also ending. Raia's eyebrow lifted. "Everything should be fine." Injah did not budge, "Yeah, I know. Still, our shields should go up." Raia looked around at her troops and bit her lip. Maybe he should not have warned her. "Look, I am sure Cap already got the shields ready. You know her," Raia's voice trailed off. Injah huffed a "ha" under his breath at the thought. Raia was right. Captain Nil was forever ready. There were a few tight spots her caution erred on getting them the frell out of a spot. Precognition was unnecessary when you were forever ready and always paranoid. Few possibilities slipped past her. Their Captain had seen most of the galaxy a hundred times over and inspired a confidence when it came to traversing the space lanes. Even in strange predicaments.

The feed beeped on the panel. Raia clicked her wristband. One of her troopers moved to the panel and pushed the feed through. Thus returned the dull faced ensign. "Captain Ecko, your clearance code flagged directions. Give it few moments while I patch you through to Throne City base's Field Commander for further instructions."

"Aye Aye, sir." The feed went dead again. Raia and Injah exchange looks. Raia peered back at him in the silence then abruptly planted the bucket over her head with a clanking as it latched on. Restlessness had provoked her. She began to walk into the line of the holo-projection. Injah halted her. Quietly, he shook his head. Her mask gave no expression but her shoulders lowered. When the patch through transmitted back a new face, her chest lifted and she sighed. Beyond the blue hue she returned slowly back to her post and far from the line of viewing.

Who viewed was a man without hair and with grey eyes. Old enough to had in the hand in the Eriadu Trade Summit, he look more fit to be a politician than war-torn leader of men. Still, he was fitted. The uniform was pressed. The badges were sealed. His insignia cleared up any caution; he was a Field Commander and there was few new experiences he would see with the life he led -- or, one would suppose. "Captain Ecko," he started, voice like gravel in skillet. "I am Commander Kohlz. Report to Yellow District deployment for assignments to the platoon and your new duties by 1400."

That was an hour way.

"Yes, sir." Once more the feed cut. Raia unclipped her helmet, "Kriff!" Now came the real struggle. None of the droids were equip to fly the ship. When they landed they could not have a Kel Dor, hybird and a Chadra-Fan at the wheel. One of the three would not even fit in trooper gear. But, they all said they were ready.

Injah barked up the stairs, "It's show time!"

[Injah Bas]

Orenada

(n.) a mystical force present in all people that empowers them to affect the world or to effect change in their own living

​19 BBY

Muun look like stretched humans. Atop the spaceport skyhook they look more like ants. Injah looked down. But, they were ants in robes. They swore they were so elegant. Parasites tucked away in Moneyland. Refined fabrics sown by peasant afar. Trails led him here. InterGalactic banking and following the credits saw him uncover roots of evil inside the Muun design dating back a century or more. And, now intergalactic genocide would cut short the uncoverings and the snarl formed on his young face.

In the night glare he disappeared.

A blink and he was down a corridoor. Clusters of people overlooked him.

Docking Bay #334-A was occupied with a shirt shipment. Droids loaded the cargo hold with boxes. Their sensors were no good. He danced by. Injah bounced in. Unscrewed a panel, surveyed the space, and dropped inside.

An announcement blared out.

This cargo drop off was leaving within the minutes.

For once, this week, he had good timing.