Nar Shaddaa, the Smuggler’s Moon, never truly slept. Even in its quieter moments, the city hummed with life, its neon glow slicing through the ever-present haze of pollution. The upper levels basked in opulence, where gamblers tossed credits like confetti and wealthy crime lords reveled in luxury. The lower levels, however, told a different story. There, survival was the currency, and desperation was the language.
The streets were alive with noise—a symphony of speeder engines, overlapping alien languages, and the occasional blaster shot that echoed like a sharp punctuation mark. Merchants in the overcrowded markets barked deals at passersby, their voices competing with the hum of outdated machinery and the persistent buzz of flickering signs.
For the staff at the Nar Shaddaa Free Clinic, it was just another chaotic day. The clinic wasn’t much—a haphazard collection of salvaged equipment and overworked medics—but it was a lifeline for the downtrodden. Inside, the waiting room was a cramped, humid space filled with people nursing injuries or illnesses that couldn’t wait. An Aqualish clutched a fractured tusk, groaning loudly, while a human mother cradled her feverish child, muttering soft reassurances as she waited for help.
Doctor Velran leaned against the counter, nursing his fifth cup of caf. His eyes were heavy with exhaustion, but his hands moved with practiced precision as he scanned through his datapad. The list of patients grew longer by the hour, and he hadn’t seen the bottom of it in weeks.
“Nurse! Who’s next?” he barked without looking up.
The nurse, a Zabrak with one broken horn and a permanent scowl, barely had time to respond when the clinic doors burst open. A gust of cold air swept through the room, silencing the usual din of complaints and chatter. Everyone turned toward the entrance, their expressions ranging from curiosity to alarm.
A figure stumbled inside, dragging a trail of frost and water across the filthy floor. She was tall, her frame lean but visibly battered, and her golden hair clung to her face in frozen strands. Her skin was pale, almost blue in places, and the jagged shards of glowing ice protruding from her chest shimmered unnaturally, casting faint reflections on the walls. Her armor—what was left of it—flickered like a broken holoprojection. The black and green plating appeared in fragmented bursts, only to vanish and leave her in torn, frost-covered underclothes.
The figure swayed on her feet, her amber eyes half-lidded, and then collapsed to the floor with a heavy thud. The room erupted in murmurs as Doctor Velran sprang into action.
“Get her on a stretcher! Now!” he barked, already pulling a scanner from his coat pocket.
Two orderlies rushed forward, carefully rolling the unconscious woman onto a repulsor stretcher. Velran followed closely, scanning her vitals as they moved toward the trauma bay. The device in his hand beeped erratically, its readouts flashing numbers he’d never seen before. Her heart rate was unstable, her body temperature dangerously low, and her blood chemistry was… alien.
“She’s crashing!” the nurse shouted.
“Damn it,” Velran muttered. “Prep the thermal stabilizer and clear the bay! I want that ice off her, but don’t touch it directly—it’s… it’s not normal.”
As they wheeled her inside, the lights in the clinic flickered, casting strange shadows on the walls. The ice shards embedded in her chest seemed to pulse faintly, as though alive. For a moment, the broken armor reappeared, its jagged edges glowing with an otherworldly light, before fading again. The room fell silent, save for the frantic beeping of monitors.
Velran stood over her, sweat beading on his forehead despite the chill in the air. He didn’t know who—or what—this woman was, but one thing was certain: this was no ordinary patient, and this was no ordinary day.
The trauma bay was a dimly lit, sterile room that hummed with the sound of outdated medical equipment. The walls were scratched and dented, a testament to the years of patchwork repairs and the constant influx of emergencies. But even with all the chaos Nar Shaddaa could throw at it, nothing had prepared the staff for this.
Doctor Velran moved with the precision of someone too tired to panic. He directed the nurses and orderlies like a conductor commanding a symphony of barely functioning instruments.
“Get the thermal stabilizer online!” he barked. “And someone find me a clean set of tools, for stars’ sake.”
The patient—if she could even be called that—lay on the gurney, her pale, frostbitten skin mottled with strange, glowing scars that seemed to pulse faintly in rhythm with the ice shards embedded in her chest. Velran hovered over her, a surgical laser in one hand and a scanner in the other, trying to make sense of the readouts.
“This… isn’t possible,” he muttered under his breath. The scanner flashed wildly, struggling to identify anything it recognized. Her vitals were erratic, her blood chemistry was unlike anything he’d seen before, and her body temperature was low enough to kill anyone else. “She’s alive, but barely. What the hell is she?”
“Doctor,” a nurse said, her voice trembling, “the ice. It’s not melting. Even with the thermal stabilizer at full power.”
Velran turned to look. The shards protruding from her chest shimmered with an unnatural light, resisting the heat like they were carved from pure energy rather than frozen water. He stepped closer, his gloved hand hesitating before hovering over the ice.
“Get me a containment field,” he ordered. “If this stuff is putting out energy, I don’t want it spreading.”
A nearby droid whirred to life, projecting a small containment field around the shards. Velran leaned in, examining the jagged edges. His eyes caught faint etchings on the surface—runes or symbols that pulsed with a faint blue glow. He frowned, shaking his head. This wasn’t something he could cut out without risking more damage.
“She’s stable for now,” Velran said, though he wasn’t sure how much longer that would last. “We need to deal with the frostbite next. Prep her for the bacta tank.”
As the nurses worked to stabilize her, the air in the room grew colder. Frost began to form on the edges of the gurney, creeping up the metal legs and onto the monitors. Velran stepped back as a faint hum filled the room. The armor flickered into existence again, its jagged black plates glowing faintly with green veins of energy. It materialized in pieces, first her shoulders, then her arms, and finally the battered mask that clung to her face, its broken visor glowing with a fiery orange light.
The room froze. The staff stared in stunned silence as the armor seemed to writhe, its broken form shifting as though alive. And then, just as suddenly as it had appeared, it vanished again, leaving her exposed in her underclothes.
“What the hell was that?” one of the orderlies whispered.
Velran didn’t answer. His hands clenched into fists as he stared at the patient. “Get her into the bacta tank now,” he snapped. “I don’t care what that thing is—if it shows up again, we’ll deal with it. Right now, she needs to live.”
The team moved quickly, wheeling the gurney toward the tank at the far end of the room. As they lowered her into the thick, viscous liquid, the ice shards hissed faintly, releasing a cloud of steam as they made contact with the warm bacta.
Velran watched from the control panel, his mind racing. This wasn’t just a medical emergency—it was something far bigger. The ice, the armor, the glowing scars… it all pointed to a world far beyond anything Nar Shaddaa had ever seen.
“She’s stable,” the nurse said after a moment, her voice shaking. “For now.”
Velran let out a slow breath, his shoulders sagging. “Good. Let’s hope she stays that way.”
But deep down, he knew this was only the beginning.
The hum of the bacta tank filled the room, steady and rhythmic, like a mechanical heartbeat. The liquid glowed softly, casting faint, shifting patterns of light on the walls. Doctor Velran stood by the control panel, monitoring the stranger’s vitals. They were stabilizing—slowly—but her condition was still precarious.
Then, the monitors emitted a soft beep. A faint movement rippled through the bacta, and the woman’s amber eyes fluttered open.
“Doctor, she’s waking up,” the Twi’lek nurse said, her voice a mix of caution and curiosity.
Velran stepped closer, peering into the tank as the woman’s gaze shifted, unfocused and confused. Her eyes were sharp, but there was a haze behind them, as though she were trying to piece together fragments of a broken puzzle.
“Careful,” Velran said. “Lower the tank and drain it slowly. Let’s not shock her system.”
The bacta began to drain, the thick liquid receding from the tank. As the fluid lowered past her face, the woman coughed weakly, her breaths shallow but growing steadier. The tank hissed open, and the medical staff moved to wrap her in a thermal blanket, careful not to disturb the ice shards still protruding from her chest.
“Easy,” Velran said, his voice steady but firm. “You’ve been through a lot. Do you know where you are?”
The woman blinked, her brows knitting together in confusion. Her voice came out raspy, barely above a whisper. “Cold… It was so cold…”
Velran exchanged a glance with the Twi’lek nurse. “It’s okay,” he said, trying to sound reassuring. “You’re safe now. You’re in a medical clinic. Can you tell me your name?”
She paused, her expression tightening as if the answer were on the tip of her tongue but just out of reach. “I… I don’t know,” she murmured, frustration creeping into her voice. “I don’t… remember.”
The Rodian orderly, standing nearby, leaned closer. “Do you remember anything? Where you came from? What happened to you?”
The woman’s eyes darted around the room, taking in the strange figures, the bright lights, and the unfamiliar equipment. Her hand instinctively moved to her chest, brushing against the thermal blanket. She froze, her fingers hovering over the edges of the glowing ice shards.
“These…” she whispered, her voice trembling. “What… are they?”
Velran crouched beside her, his expression softening. “We were hoping you could tell us,” he said. “They’re… not normal ice. They’re embedded deep, and we can’t remove them yet. Do you remember how you got them?”
She shook her head, wincing as the motion sent a jolt of pain through her body. “No. I just… remember the cold. And falling.”
The Twi’lek nurse chimed in gently. “What about your ears? Have they always been… like that?”
Her hand moved to her head, her fingers brushing against her long, pointed ears. She frowned, her confusion deepening before her gaze sharpened with clarity. “Of course,” she said softly. “I’m an elf.”
The Rodian raised an eyebrow. “An elf?” he said with a half-smirk. “Well, there’s a first for everything.”
The woman’s frown deepened. “Why would you ask that? What else would I be?”
The room fell into an awkward silence, the staff exchanging glances. Finally, the Twi’lek nurse broke it. “Elves aren’t exactly a… common species,” she said, choosing her words carefully. “I mean, you’re the first anyone here’s seen. And most people think elves are just characters in old holovids or myths.”
The woman blinked, her brows furrowing. “Myths? What do you mean? Elves aren’t myths. I—” Her words faltered as she reached again for memories that weren’t there. Her frustration grew, but so did her confusion. “This doesn’t make sense.”
Velran stepped in, his tone steady. “It’s all right. We’ll figure this out together. Right now, your memory is fractured. It might take time for it to return, but it will.”
The Rodian, leaning against the wall with crossed arms, muttered, “Still weird that out of all the species we see in this galaxy—ones with tails, scales, and mouths where they shouldn’t be—a human with long ears feels the strangest.”
The woman stared at him, her amber eyes narrowing slightly. “I’m not human.”
“No offense,” the Rodian replied, “but you’re pretty close.”
Velran cut him off with a sharp look. “Enough. We’re not here to debate her species. She’s alive, and that’s what matters. Let her rest. The rest can wait.”
The woman sat back against the gurney, her fingers still brushing over the tips of her ears. She felt a pang of unease—something about their questions didn’t sit right. But the exhaustion weighed heavy, and her thoughts, fractured as they were, began to fade into the haze again.
Velran watched her closely, his curiosity battling his professionalism. Whoever—or whatever—she was, she wasn’t from here. And that, he knew, was only the beginning of the mystery.
The hum of the clinic’s equipment was interrupted by the steady beep of monitors as the team gathered around the gurney. The woman sat quietly, wrapped in a thermal blanket, her amber eyes fixed on the glowing ice shards protruding from her chest. Each shard pulsed faintly, emitting a chill that seemed to bite into the very air around it.
Doctor Velran stood nearby, studying the holographic scans projected above his datapad. The shards were embedded deep, dangerously close to major organs. Every reading screamed unknown, the shards defying classification by the clinic’s equipment.
“These things are like nothing I’ve ever seen,” Velran muttered, mostly to himself. “Not a mineral, not a crystal… the energy signature alone is off the charts.”
The Twi’lek nurse hovered by his side, her lekku twitching nervously. “Can we even remove them without killing her?”
Velran’s jaw tightened. “We don’t have a choice. If we leave them in, the frost spreading from the wounds could cause systemic failure. But removing them… it’s risky.”
The woman on the gurney shifted slightly, her fingers brushing against the edges of the shards through the blanket. “I can feel them,” she said softly, her voice carrying a mix of fear and wonder. “They’re… alive. Or something close to it.”
Velran exchanged a glance with the nurse. “Alive,” he repeated. “Great. Just what we needed—sentient ice.”
The Rodian orderly, standing in the corner, chuckled nervously. “Well, at least it’s not exploding. Yet.”
“Let’s keep it that way,” Velran snapped. He turned back to the woman. “Listen, this is going to be difficult. We need to remove the shards surgically. If we don’t, they’ll kill you. Do you understand?”
She nodded slowly, though her eyes betrayed her unease. “Will… will it hurt?”
Velran hesitated. “We’ll use every tool we have to make sure you’re comfortable. But I won’t lie—this is uncharted territory. We’re going to do everything we can to save you.”
The Twi’lek nurse stepped closer, her voice softer. “You’re strong,” she said. “You’ve made it this far. You can do this.”
The woman looked down at the shards, their faint glow casting patterns on her pale skin. “Do it,” she said finally, her voice steady despite the tremble in her hands. “I don’t want them inside me anymore.”
The operating room was a sterile chamber, its dim lights casting sharp reflections on the surgical tools neatly arranged on the tray. The air was heavy with tension as Velran prepared his team.
“We’ll need to stabilize her vitals throughout the procedure,” he said, his voice steady but firm. “The shards are giving off an energy signature that could interfere with the equipment. Be ready for anything.”
The woman lay on the operating table, her body wrapped in thermal blankets except for the exposed area around the shards. She glanced around the room, her gaze catching on the bright lights above and the strange machines surrounding her.
“Will I… be awake?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
“No,” Velran replied, adjusting the settings on a nearby console. “We’ll sedate you. You won’t feel a thing.”
The Twi’lek nurse stepped to her side, placing a reassuring hand on her shoulder. “We’ll take good care of you,” she said. “Just breathe.”
As the sedation began to take hold, the woman’s amber eyes grew heavy. Her last thought before slipping into unconsciousness was of the cold, of falling, and of something—or someone—just out of reach.
Velran leaned over the operating table, his hands steady as he studied the first shard. It pulsed faintly, the energy growing more erratic as he prepared the extraction tool.
“Scalpel,” he ordered, and the nurse handed it to him without hesitation.
Carefully, he made the first incision, working around the edges of the shard. A faint hiss filled the room as the ice resisted, the temperature around it dropping noticeably.
“Damn thing’s putting up a fight,” the Rodian muttered, watching from the side.
“Hold it steady,” Velran snapped. “I don’t want it breaking inside her.”
As he worked, the shard began to glow brighter, its pulsing rhythm quickening. Velran paused, his hand hovering over the strange ice.
“It’s reacting,” he said, his voice tense. “Almost like it knows.”
The Twi’lek nurse frowned. “Knows? Doctor, it’s ice.”
Velran shook his head. “It’s more than that. Just… keep her stable.”
Finally, with a careful twist, he extracted the first shard. The room filled with a sharp, high-pitched hum as the shard came free, its glow fading slightly. Velran placed it into a containment unit, which immediately sealed with a hiss.
“One down,” he said, his voice tight. “Let’s move to the next.”
The second shard came out more easily, though the air around it remained bitterly cold. As it was placed into the containment unit beside the first, the monitors tracking the woman’s vitals stabilized, the erratic beeping calming into a steady rhythm.
Velran stepped back, his hands shaking slightly as he removed his gloves. “It’s done,” he said, his voice heavy with relief. “She’s stable. For now.”
In the observation room, the staff gathered around the containment unit, staring at the two shards. They pulsed faintly, their glow casting eerie shadows on the walls.
“What the hell are these things?” the Rodian asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
Velran shook his head. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “But whatever they are, they didn’t belong inside her.”
“And what about her?” the Twi’lek nurse asked. “What happens now?”
Velran glanced back at the operating table, where the woman lay under the watchful eyes of the monitors. “Now,” he said, “we wait. And hope she can tell us what the hell just happened.”
The containment unit holding the ice shards sat in the center of the observation room, its reinforced walls glowing faintly as they struggled to contain the residual energy. The shards pulsed intermittently, casting cold blue light across the walls. The medical staff stood around the unit, their expressions a mix of awe and confusion.
Velran ran a hand through his hair as he stared at the readouts on the containment field. “I’ve seen strange things come through this clinic, but this… this is something else.”
The Twi’lek nurse leaned closer, her lekku twitching nervously. “What kind of energy is that? The scanners can’t pin it down. It’s like the readings are… alive.”
Velran nodded grimly. “It’s putting out a field similar to the Force. Look at this—” He pointed to a monitor displaying fluctuating energy waves. “It’s reacting to its surroundings. But that doesn’t make sense.”
The Rodian orderly scoffed. “Doesn’t make sense? Try this—no Force user can create ice. They can push, pull, throw lightning, even choke someone, but making something out of thin air? That’s impossible.”
“Exactly,” Velran said, gesturing toward the shards. “But these things weren’t just created. Look at their structure.” He tapped another display, showing a microscopic view of the ice’s crystalline composition. “It’s ice, but not like any we’ve seen. The molecules are perfectly aligned, as if they were constructed deliberately. This wasn’t just frozen water—it’s something engineered.”
The Bothan medic, who had been quiet until now, leaned over the unit, his sharp eyes narrowing. “If it’s similar to the Force, but not the Force as we know it, then what could it be? Could it be an entirely different… energy?”
Velran sighed. “It’s not just the energy. It’s the fact that these shards were embedded in her chest, not melting, not causing frostbite directly at the site of entry. It’s almost like they were… sustained by her. Like they needed her to exist.”
The Twi’lek frowned. “So, you’re saying she’s connected to these things? That they’re alive because of her?”
“Possibly,” Velran admitted. “But the bigger question is how. If these are some kind of Force-adjacent energy, then where did they come from? No Jedi or Sith we know of can create physical matter like this. It defies every law of physics we understand.”
The Rodian gestured toward the operating room, where the woman still lay unconscious. “Maybe she can tell us. Assuming she remembers anything.”
Velran’s shoulders sagged slightly. “We’ll find out soon enough. For now, keep the containment unit on full lockdown. I don’t want those things destabilizing—or worse, reacting to something we don’t understand.”
The Bothan glanced at the shards, his fur bristling. “If these things are similar to the Force, you know who’s going to come sniffing around. Jedi, Sith—hell, even bounty hunters if they think this is valuable.”
Velran nodded. “Which is why we need to keep this quiet until we know more. No one outside this room knows what we’ve found. Understood?”
The staff murmured their agreement, though their gazes lingered on the pulsing shards.
The woman stirred, her breaths uneven as the sedation began to wear off. Her chest ached where the shards had been, and her body felt heavy, as though it had been frozen solid and only just thawed. Her amber eyes fluttered open, unfocused, and she took in her surroundings with a groggy confusion.
The Twi’lek nurse entered quietly, carrying a datapad. “You’re awake,” she said gently, moving to the woman’s side. “How do you feel?”
The woman’s hand instinctively moved to her chest, finding only bandages where the ice shards had been. Her brow furrowed, and her voice came out as a raspy whisper. “They’re gone?”
The nurse nodded. “We removed them. You’re safe now.”
Safe. The word felt distant, almost meaningless. She blinked slowly, trying to piece together fragments of memory that refused to align. The cold, the falling, the sharp pain—those she remembered. But everything else was a blur.
The nurse hesitated before asking, “Do you remember anything? About how you got here, or… those shards?”
The woman shook her head weakly. “No. Just… cold. And falling.” Her fingers brushed against the tips of her ears, and she frowned. “You… asked about these before. Why?”
The nurse smiled awkwardly. “Because they’re not exactly common around here. Most people on this moon would think you’re some kind of cosplayer or holovid character. But… they’re real, aren’t they?”
The woman stared at her, confused. “Of course they’re real. I’m an elf.” Her tone was matter-of-fact, as though stating something obvious.
The nurse blinked, caught off guard. “An… elf?”
“Yes.” She frowned deeper, her exhaustion briefly overridden by confusion. “Why would you even ask that?”
The nurse glanced toward the doorway, unsure of how to respond. “Well, I guess we don’t see… elves… much around here.”
The woman’s gaze hardened slightly. “You’ve never seen one before?”
“No,” the nurse admitted, her voice soft. “Not outside of stories.”
The elf—because that’s what she knew she was, even if nothing else made sense—looked away, her thoughts swirling in an endless fog. “Stories,” she murmured. The word lingered in her mind, heavy and strange.
The room fell silent again, leaving her alone with the weight of questions she couldn’t yet answer.
Scene: Healing Instincts
The room was quiet, save for the faint hum of monitors and the muffled buzz of activity from the rest of the clinic. The woman sat upright now, her golden hair damp and disheveled, her amber eyes fixed on the thick bandages wrapped around her chest. Her fingers moved instinctively, tracing the fabric before finding the slight ridge of stitches beneath it.
She frowned, her confusion deepening as she pressed against the stitches. The sensation of the thread tugging faintly at her skin made her uneasy. “Did they… sew me up with thread?” she muttered under her breath.
Her hands moved of their own accord, pulling at the edges of the bandages. The sterile material peeled away slowly, revealing the pale skin beneath, crisscrossed with stitches holding her wounds closed. Her frown deepened as her fingers traced the lines, each one feeling foreign and wrong.
The Twi’lek nurse walked in, holding a small tray of instruments. She froze when she saw the woman picking at her stitches. “Hey! Stop that!” she said, hurrying over. “You can’t remove those yet—you’re still healing!”
The woman barely glanced at her, her fingers already pulling at one of the stitches. “Leave me alone,” she said firmly, though her tone carried a faint edge of confusion.
The nurse reached out, trying to stop her. “Listen, you’ll hurt yourself—just stop—”
The woman pulled back, her movements swift despite her weakened state. “I said leave me alone!” she snapped, her voice sharper now, as though driven by instinct more than intent.
The nurse hesitated, her hands raised in a placating gesture. “You’ve just had surgery,” she said, her tone softening. “Those stitches are keeping you together. If you pull them out, you’ll reopen the wounds.”
But the woman wasn’t listening. Her mind was a haze of half-formed thoughts and sensations, all of them screaming that the stitches didn’t belong. Her fingers moved quickly, pulling at the thread and unraveling it one line at a time. Blood began to well faintly along the edges of the wounds, but she didn’t stop.
“Please,” the nurse tried again, her voice almost pleading. “You’re going to—”
The last stitch came free, and the woman’s chest heaved with a sharp breath. Her hands hovered over the wounds, and for a moment, she seemed unsure of what to do next. Then, something shifted. A warmth blossomed in her chest, spreading outward like a slow-burning fire. Her hands began to glow faintly, a soft, golden light emanating from her palms.
The nurse stepped back, her eyes wide. “What are you—?”
The glow intensified, and the air in the room seemed to grow heavier, charged with a strange energy. The woman’s hands moved instinctively, pressing gently against the wounds. The golden light seeped into her skin, and the nurse watched in stunned silence as the torn flesh knitted itself back together, the blood fading away as though it had never been there.
Scene: The Marks of the Curse
Within moments, the wounds were gone. Her chest was unmarked, save for faint lines where the ice shards had once pierced her. The woman let out a slow breath, her hands dropping to her lap as the glow faded.
The nurse stared, her mouth opening and closing as she struggled to find words. “How… how did you do that?” she finally managed.
The woman blinked, looking down at her now-healed chest. Her expression was a mix of relief and confusion. “I don’t know,” she admitted softly. “I just… did.”
The nurse shook her head, stepping back again. “That… that wasn’t just healing. That was—” She stopped herself, taking a deep breath. “Okay. You need to lie back down. I need to tell the doctor—”
The woman nodded faintly and eased herself back onto the gurney, wincing slightly at the lingering ache in her muscles. As she adjusted the blanket over her body, her amber eyes caught something unusual on her arms. She pushed the blanket aside, her breath hitching as she saw the dark, branching marks creeping along her pale skin. They looked almost alive, twisting and spreading faintly like ink spilled in water.
“What… what are these?” she whispered, her voice trembling as her fingers hovered over the blackened patterns. “They weren’t here before.”
The nurse paused, her expression softening as she leaned closer to look. “Those… were already there when you arrived,” she admitted quietly. “We thought it might have been from the shards, or maybe frostbite, but they’re… different.”
The woman’s fingers brushed against the marks lightly, though she recoiled as they sent a faint tingle up her arm. They didn’t hurt exactly, but there was a weight to them—a presence that made her skin crawl. She stared at the twisting shapes, her mind flashing with a feeling she couldn’t quite name. It was as though she had seen this before but couldn’t remember when or how.
She looked up at the nurse, her voice unsteady but desperate. “Do you… do you know how to fix this?”
The nurse frowned, shaking her head. “I don’t even know what it is,” she said honestly. “The doctor might have some ideas, but… I’ve never seen anything like it. It almost looks like—” She hesitated, searching for the right words. “Like it’s alive.”
The woman’s chest tightened as her gaze returned to the marks. “It’s not supposed to be there,” she said softly, more to herself than the nurse. “It feels… wrong.”
The nurse placed a tentative hand on her shoulder, her tone gentler now. “We’ll figure it out,” she said. “You’ve already survived so much. This? We’ll find a way.”
The woman nodded absently, though her eyes remained fixed on the marks. The twisting patterns seemed to mock her, a lingering reminder of everything she couldn’t remember. She clenched her hands into fists, her resolve hardening. Whatever this was—whatever it meant—she wasn’t going to let it consume her.
The Twi’lek nurse hurried out of the recovery room, her mind racing. She clutched her datapad tightly, her lekku twitching with nervous energy as she made her way toward Doctor Velran’s office. When she entered, the doctor was hunched over a console, examining the strange readings from the ice shards, his face etched with concentration.
“Doctor,” she said, her voice strained.
Velran looked up, his brow furrowing. “What is it now?”
The nurse hesitated, glancing over her shoulder as though checking to ensure no one was eavesdropping. “It’s about… her,” she said, lowering her voice. “The elf.”
Velran set his datapad down, gesturing for her to continue. “What happened? Is she stable?”
“She’s stable,” the nurse said quickly, but her words came tumbling out in a rush. “But you’re not going to believe this. She removed her own stitches.”
Velran groaned, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Of course, she did. I knew she’d be difficult—”
“No, Doctor,” the nurse interrupted, her voice rising slightly. “You don’t understand. She removed the stitches and… she healed herself. Completely.”
Velran froze, his hand still on his face. He slowly lowered it, staring at the nurse. “Healed herself? How?”
The nurse exhaled sharply. “I don’t know! Her hands started glowing—this golden light—and the wounds just closed right in front of me. It wasn’t like anything I’ve ever seen. It wasn’t tech. It wasn’t bacta. It was… something else.”
Velran leaned back in his chair, his mind racing as he processed her words. “You’re saying she healed herself using… what? Magic?”
“I don’t know what else to call it,” the nurse admitted, her voice edged with frustration. “And that’s not all. After she healed, she noticed those blackened marks on her skin. You know, the ones that look like they’re spreading?”
Velran nodded grimly. “What about them?”
“She asked me if I knew how to fix them,” the nurse said, her voice softening. “She didn’t seem scared, exactly, but… Doctor, there was something about the way she looked at those marks. Like she knew they weren’t supposed to be there, but she didn’t know why.”
Velran let out a long breath, leaning forward to rest his elbows on the desk. “So, let me get this straight. She’s not only survived injuries that should have killed her, but she can heal herself in a way that defies everything we know about medicine. And on top of that, she’s carrying scars that seem… alive?”
The nurse nodded. “That’s about the size of it.”
Velran shook his head, muttering under his breath. “Perfect. Just perfect.”
Scene: Remembering Her Name
In the recovery room, the woman lay back on the gurney, her gaze fixed on the ceiling. Her fingers absently traced the edges of the blanket, her mind swirling with fragments of thought that refused to take shape. She closed her eyes, trying to focus, trying to pull something—anything—from the void in her memory.
Through the door, she heard muffled voices. The nurse’s voice rose slightly, the words indistinct but filled with urgency. Then came the doctor’s reply, his tone dripping with exasperation.
“Perfect. Just perfect.”
The word echoed in her mind, sharp and clear. Perfect. Something about it tugged at her, pulled at a thread deep within her consciousness. Her eyes snapped open, and she sat up slowly, her chest tightening as the pieces began to click into place.
“Perfectia,” she whispered, the name spilling from her lips like a revelation. She blinked, her breath hitching as the sound of it settled into her mind. “My name is Perfectia.”
She repeated it, louder this time, her voice steadier. It felt right. It felt like hers.
The door creaked open, and the nurse stepped back inside, stopping short when she saw the woman sitting up. “You’re supposed to be resting,” she said, but her voice faltered as she noticed the woman’s expression.
Perfectia looked up, her amber eyes sharper now. “I remember my name,” she said simply. “It’s Perfectia.”
The nurse blinked, then gave a hesitant smile. “Well, that’s… a start.”
Perfectia nodded, her hands clenching slightly in her lap. It wasn’t much, but it was something—a piece of herself she could hold onto in the midst of the chaos. And she wasn’t letting it go.
Perfectia sat upright on the gurney, her amber eyes sharp but guarded. The nurse stood nearby, fidgeting slightly with her datapad, unsure of how to continue the conversation.
“You said your name is Perfectia,” the nurse began cautiously, breaking the silence. “Do you remember anything else? Anything about where you came from or how you ended up here?”
Perfectia frowned, her gaze lowering to her hands. “No,” she admitted. “I don’t remember much of anything. Just… fragments. Falling. Cold. And then I woke up here.”
The nurse nodded slowly, taking a step closer. “It’s a start,” she said. “Sometimes memory loss after hypothermia takes a while to resolve. You’re lucky you’re alive at all.”
Perfectia glanced up, her expression softening slightly. “Lucky,” she echoed, her tone laced with doubt. Her gaze drifted to her arms, the blackened marks twisting across her pale skin like living shadows. She traced them lightly with her fingers, her brows knitting together. “But these… they don’t feel lucky.”
The nurse hesitated, her gaze flickering to the marks. “I… don’t know what they are,” she admitted. “But the doctor might. He’s seen a lot.”
As if summoned, the door slid open, and Doctor Velran strode into the room, his datapad tucked under one arm. His expression was a mixture of exhaustion and determination. He paused at the sight of Perfectia sitting up, her alertness catching him off guard.
“You’re awake,” he said, his tone neutral. “Good. How are you feeling?”
Perfectia tilted her head slightly, her gaze steady. “Confused,” she replied. “And sore. But alive, I guess.”
Velran nodded, stepping closer to the gurney. His eyes fell on the dark marks twisting along her skin, and he froze, his brows furrowing deeply. “Those…” he murmured, gesturing to her arms. “May I?”
Perfectia hesitated, then extended her arms slightly, letting him take a closer look. Velran crouched, his fingers hovering just above the marks without touching them. His expression grew darker as he examined the patterns, the twisting shapes branching out in uneven lines.
“I’ve seen something like this before,” he said, his voice low. “It looks like… radiation poisoning. But not like any I’ve ever treated.”
The nurse blinked, stepping closer. “Radiation? But… how?”
Velran shook his head, standing straight again. “That’s the part I can’t explain. Radiation poisoning doesn’t usually present like this. The spread is too controlled, almost deliberate. But the symptoms—the discoloration, the patterning—are unmistakable.”
Perfectia’s eyes narrowed as she stared at the marks. “Radiation,” she repeated, the word foreign on her tongue. “What does that mean? Can it be… fixed?”
Velran’s expression softened slightly. “Yes,” he said. “Radiation poisoning can be treated, and the treatment should help those marks fade. But it’s a process, and it’s not always easy.”
Perfectia nodded slowly, her gaze dropping back to her arms. “Then do it,” she said firmly. “Whatever it takes.”
Velran gestured for the nurse to retrieve the necessary equipment, then turned back to Perfectia. “This is going to take some time,” he warned. “You’ll need to stay here for regular treatments, and I’ll need to monitor your progress. But we’ll make sure you recover.”
Perfectia met his gaze, her resolve unshaken. “I’m not going anywhere,” she said. “Not until this is gone.”
Velran nodded, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “Good. Then let’s get started.”
Scene: Beginning the Treatment
Doctor Velran returned with the necessary equipment, a mix of medical devices common in the galaxy and some advanced tech rarely seen outside elite clinics. The nurse followed, carrying a tray with a small vial of glowing, blue liquid and an injector.
“Radiation poisoning is a nasty business,” Velran began, pulling up a holographic display from his datapad. “We’re going to start with a detoxifier serum. It binds to the radiation particles in your body and helps flush them out.”
Perfectia watched as he prepared the injector, her gaze flickering between the devices and the glowing liquid. “And this will… make the marks go away?”
Velran glanced at her, his expression careful. “Over time, yes. The serum will stop the progression, and the marks should fade as your body heals. But depending on how long you’ve been exposed, there could be lasting damage.”
She frowned, flexing her fingers as her gaze dropped to the twisting patterns on her arms. “Lasting damage?”
“Fatigue, sensitivity, potential scarring,” he explained. “But considering how you healed yourself earlier, I’m not sure the usual rules apply to you.”
Perfectia looked up sharply. “What do you mean?”
Velran hesitated, choosing his words carefully. “That ability you used—it’s not something we can explain medically. It’s… beyond what we know. If you can do that again, it might help speed things along.”
She nodded slowly, though the uncertainty in her eyes remained. “Let’s just… start with what you know.”
Velran attached the vial to the injector, pressing a few buttons to calibrate the dose. He stepped closer, gesturing for her to extend her arm. “This might sting a bit,” he warned.
Perfectia rolled up the sleeve of her thermal gown, exposing the pale skin beneath, still marred by the blackened marks. She held her arm steady, her amber eyes fixed on the device as Velran pressed it against her skin.
The injector hissed softly as it delivered the serum. A cold sensation spread through her arm, followed by a faint warmth that seemed to seep into her muscles. Perfectia winced slightly but didn’t pull away.
“Good,” Velran said, stepping back. “The serum will take a few hours to start working. You might feel some side effects—nausea, dizziness, maybe a headache—but it’s normal.”
Perfectia flexed her fingers, testing the sensation in her arm. “And the marks?”
“They won’t disappear immediately,” Velran said. “But you might notice them starting to fade after a few treatments. We’ll keep a close eye on your vitals to make sure everything’s progressing.”
Next, Velran directed her toward a nearby chamber where a small bacta pod stood ready. Unlike the full immersion tanks, this one was designed for localized treatments, its interior lined with advanced emitters.
“This is a bacta enrichment pod,” he explained. “The serum is working internally, but this will help repair the tissue externally and speed up the fading process for the marks. You’ll sit in here for about twenty minutes while the pod targets the affected areas.”
Perfectia stepped into the pod, settling onto the padded seat as the nurse closed the hatch. The interior filled with a faint blue glow, the bacta mist swirling gently around her. She felt a tingling sensation along her arms, not unpleasant but strange, as if the mist were reaching into her skin.
“Let us know if you feel uncomfortable,” the nurse said through the intercom.
Perfectia nodded, though her attention was fixed on the glowing marks. The bacta seemed to interact with them, the dark tendrils pulsing faintly as the mist worked its way into the patterns. She closed her eyes, letting the process take over.
Monitoring and Adjustments
When the session ended, Perfectia stepped out of the pod, her arms damp with the bacta residue. The nurse handed her a towel, watching closely as she dried off.
“Any changes?” Velran asked, scanning her arms with a handheld device.
Perfectia turned her hands over, studying the marks. “They’re… not as dark,” she said slowly. “But they’re still there.”
“That’s expected,” Velran replied. “This is just the first session. We’ll repeat the treatment every day until the marks are gone.”
He paused, lowering the scanner. “I have to admit, this is uncharted territory for us. Radiation poisoning doesn’t usually respond this quickly. I don’t know if it’s the treatments or… something about you.”
Perfectia’s gaze was steady. “Whatever it is, I’ll do what I have to. Just tell me what’s next.”
Velran smiled faintly, his respect for her growing. “For now, rest. We’ll continue tomorrow.”
As Perfectia returned to her room, the weight of the day settled over her. The treatments were working, but the lingering marks on her arms served as a reminder of the questions she couldn’t answer. She traced the faintly fading patterns, her resolve hardening.
Whatever had brought her here—whatever she was—she would find out. And she would fight to reclaim what she had lost.
The nurse returned to the recovery room, her datapad tucked under one arm as she stepped quietly inside. She paused when she saw Perfectia sitting upright, the blanket pulled back to expose her arms. The elf’s amber eyes were fixed on the blackened marks twisting across her skin, her expression distant but intense.
“Can’t sleep?” the nurse asked gently, stepping closer.
Perfectia glanced up, her lips twitching into a faint smirk. “Not with these tribal tattoos from hell staring back at me,” she said. “I don’t even remember getting drunk enough to let someone do this.”
The nurse chuckled softly, taking a seat nearby. “Well, if it makes you feel better, they’re fading. Slowly, but they’re fading.”
Perfectia tilted her head, studying the marks. “Oh, good. I was worried I’d have to start charging admission for this avant-garde art piece. People love ‘mysterious curses.’”
The nurse laughed, shaking her head. “You know, you didn’t have this sense of humor when you first got here.”
Perfectia smirked, leaning back slightly. “Yeah, well, waking up impaled by ice shards tends to kill the mood. I figured I’d ease into the comedy routine once I wasn’t actively dying.”
The nurse smiled warmly. “I’d say you’re doing a decent job. Gallows humor suits you.”
“Thanks,” Perfectia said with a wry grin. “I aim to entertain. If I can’t figure out how to survive, at least I’ll go out making someone laugh.”
The nurse’s expression softened, and she placed her datapad on the table. “You said earlier that these marks weren’t supposed to be here. Do you… remember how you got them?”
Perfectia’s humor faded slightly as her gaze returned to the marks. “I don’t remember everything,” she admitted, tracing one of the dark tendrils with her fingers. “But I know what they mean. They’re a death sentence.”
The nurse’s smile faltered. “A death sentence?”
Perfectia nodded, her voice quieter now. “Where I’m from, no one survives them. They spread, slowly but surely, until… there’s nothing left to save. I had months, maybe weeks. I tried everything. But nothing stopped them.”
The nurse leaned forward, her tone more cautious. “And the ice shards? Do you remember how those happened?”
Perfectia frowned, her brows knitting together. “I was fighting someone,” she said, her voice gaining an edge. “Someone dangerous. Don’t ask me who, though—I think I blacked out before the gold rolled on that fight.”
The nurse chuckled softly, though her eyes remained thoughtful. “You don’t remember their face?”
“Nope,” Perfectia replied, her smirk returning faintly. “But I’m pretty sure they didn’t win any ‘most improved’ awards at villain school. Whoever it was, they made sure I didn’t leave unscathed.”
The nurse’s smile lingered for a moment before fading into a more serious expression. “You know, you’re pretty good at this.”
Perfectia tilted her head. “At what? Villain critiques? I’m a natural.”
“No,” the nurse said, leaning closer. “At deflecting. Turning everything into a joke to avoid the hard stuff. Did you do that back home too?”
Perfectia blinked, caught off guard. Her smirk faltered, and for a moment, she seemed uncertain. “I…” She hesitated, her fingers brushing against the marks on her arm. “Maybe. It’s easier to laugh when the alternative is… worse.”
The nurse nodded gently. “Makes sense,” she said. “But you don’t always have to do that, you know. It’s okay to just… feel.”
Perfectia’s lips pressed into a thin line as she glanced away, her gaze fixed on the wall. “Yeah, well,” she muttered, her tone softening, “feeling doesn’t change anything. Jokes keep me moving.”
The nurse offered a small smile, standing and picking up her datapad. “Just don’t forget to let someone in once in a while,” she said as she headed toward the door. “Even the best jokes need an audience.”
Perfectia let out a dry laugh, though it lacked its usual bite. “Careful,” she called after her. “You might be angling for a co-host position.”
The nurse chuckled as the door slid shut behind her, leaving Perfectia alone with her thoughts. She glanced down at the marks on her arms again, her fingers tracing their faintly fading lines. The humor, the walls, the deflection—it was a reflex, one she wasn’t sure she could stop. But maybe, just maybe, she could let someone in. Someday.
As the door slid shut behind the nurse, Perfectia leaned back on the gurney, staring at the ceiling. Her fingers absently traced the blanket draped over her lap as her mind wandered, circling around the nurse’s comment about humor.
Deflecting. That’s what she’d called it. Maybe she was right. But the jokes—they were something more. They felt like pieces of her, fragments of a puzzle she couldn’t quite fit together.
A faint smile tugged at her lips as a memory surfaced. I tried therapy once. The therapist said I was avoiding reality. I told them, “You’re going back to being my imaginary friend.” She chuckled softly to herself, shaking her head. “Guess that didn’t make me their favorite patient.”
Another joke bubbled up, unbidden. My mom told me I’d never find love because I’m too sarcastic. I said, “Thanks, Mom. That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said.” She laughed a little louder this time, the sound filling the quiet room. “That one sounds like it hit too close to home.”
Her thoughts shifted, and she recalled another quip. A kid asked me where babies come from. I said, “From bad decisions, mostly.” She smirked, muttering, “And some very regrettable evenings, I’m guessing.”
Perfectia tilted her head, staring at the blackened marks on her arms. Even as they faded, they seemed to mock her, a lingering reminder of everything she didn’t know. But the jokes—they were clear. They were hers.
Another surfaced, lighter but no less sharp. I don’t trust people who say they love mornings. They probably lie about other things too, like being happy. She snorted. “I must’ve been a riot at breakfast.”
Her amber eyes flickered with thought as the pieces began to align. The timing, the humor, the instinct to find the punchline—it all felt too natural to be anything but deliberate.
“Maybe I was a comedian,” she said aloud, her voice tinged with curiosity. It wasn’t an absurd thought. The humor, the deflection, the sharp wit—it was all there. And if she wasn’t a comedian, well, she definitely missed her calling.
She leaned back further, her smirk softening into a contemplative expression. The jokes didn’t answer the bigger questions, but they gave her something to hold onto. For now, that was enough.
Scene: Perfectia’s Dream in Alterac Valley
The hum of the medical equipment faded into silence as Perfectia drifted into unconsciousness. Her breathing slowed, and the sharp edges of reality softened, giving way to something… else.
She stood on a snow-covered battlefield, the air biting and cold. Jagged peaks surrounded her, their white-capped edges cutting into a gray, overcast sky. The crunch of boots on snow echoed faintly, mingling with the distant clash of steel and the guttural roars of battle.
Perfectia blinked, looking down at her hands. She was clad in armor—heavy, intricately carved, and worn as if it had seen countless battles. A strange weight rested in her palm, and she turned it over to reveal a blade gleaming with unnatural light.
“Where am I?” she muttered, her voice carried away by the icy wind.
A shout broke through the haze, and she turned toward the sound. Figures clashed in the distance—armored warriors wielding swords, axes, and bows. Bright bursts of magic lit up the battlefield, frost and fire colliding in a chaotic symphony. She squinted, trying to make sense of the scene, but it all felt… wrong. Familiar yet ungraspable, like a melody she couldn’t quite hum.
An orc charged past her, roaring as he swung a massive axe at a group of humans. Perfectia flinched but didn’t move to stop him. Her feet felt rooted to the ground, her mind a storm of confusion. What am I doing here?
A sharp crack jolted her attention—a bolt of ice piercing through the air and striking an elf just meters away. He fell with a thud, his weapon slipping from his grasp as frost spread across his body. Perfectia gasped, the cold seeping into her skin as if the bolt had struck her too.
The battle raged on, but she couldn’t bring herself to move. The faces blurred together, their cries melding into an overwhelming cacophony. She clutched the blade in her hand, the weight of it growing heavier with each passing moment.
Then, through the chaos, a voice called her name.
“Perfectia.”
She froze, her breath hitching. The voice was faint, almost drowned out by the battle, but it was there. Familiar and haunting.
“Perfectia.”
She turned toward the sound, her amber eyes searching the battlefield. But there was nothing. Only snow, blood, and the endless din of war.
The ground beneath her feet began to shift, the snow turning to slush and then to darkness. The cold receded, replaced by a suffocating warmth. The battlefield dissolved, and she was falling, the voice fading into silence as the dream slipped away.
Scene: Perfectia Awakens
Perfectia’s eyes snapped open, her chest heaving as she pulled in a sharp breath. The cold, biting air of the battlefield was gone, replaced by the sterile hum of the hospital room. The warmth of the blanket around her was suffocating, a stark contrast to the frigid winds that had seemed so real only moments ago.
She sat upright, her hands clutching the sides of the gurney as she tried to steady herself. Her mind swirled with fragments of the dream—the snow, the battle, the icy air. It had felt so vivid, so real. But why?
The door slid open, and the Twi’lek nurse stepped in, her datapad tucked under one arm. She paused, taking in Perfectia’s wide-eyed expression. “Hey, you’re awake,” she said gently. “Are you okay?”
Perfectia blinked, her gaze darting to the nurse. “I… I think so,” she said, her voice shaky. “But I had this dream… or maybe it wasn’t a dream. I don’t know.”
The nurse pulled up a chair, sitting down beside her. “Why don’t you tell me about it?”
Perfectia hesitated, then took a deep breath. “I was on this battlefield,” she began. “There was snow everywhere, and these mountains, sharp and jagged. People were fighting—humans, orcs, trolls… It was chaos. And I was there, holding a sword. But I didn’t know why.”
The nurse raised an eyebrow, her expression thoughtful but calm. “Go on.”
“There was magic, too,” Perfectia continued, her words tumbling out faster now. “Ice and fire clashing in the air, lighting up the sky. And then I heard someone call my name. It felt so real, like I was actually there.”
The nurse tapped her datapad lightly, a faint smile playing on her lips. “Sounds like you’ve got quite the imagination. Ever play a lot of video games?”
Perfectia frowned, her amber eyes narrowing. “I don’t think so,” she said slowly. “This didn’t feel like something I made up. It felt… like a memory.”
The nurse tilted her head, studying her. “A memory? Of a battlefield with orcs and trolls? Come on,” she said lightly, though there was no malice in her tone. “That sounds like something out of a holo-game. But hey, if it’s important to you, I’ll pretend to believe it.”
Perfectia’s jaw tightened, but she didn’t argue. She knew what she’d seen, even if it didn’t make sense.
The nurse leaned forward slightly, her tone softening. “Look, when more of your memories come back, we might want to have you talk to someone—a psychologist, maybe. It’s not uncommon for people to, well, mix up reality and imagination when they’re dealing with trauma or memory loss.”
Perfectia looked away, her hands gripping the edge of the blanket. “You think I’m crazy.”
“I think you’ve been through a lot,” the nurse said kindly. “And sometimes, the brain needs a little help sorting through it all. It’s nothing to be ashamed of.”
Perfectia sighed, her gaze dropping to her hands. The dream—or memory—was still vivid in her mind, but there was no point in arguing. Let them think what they wanted. She knew what she’d felt.
“All right,” she said finally, her tone flat. “Whatever helps you sleep at night.”
The nurse smiled faintly. “Thanks for humoring me. Get some rest, okay? We’ll figure this out.”
“Hey,” he said, stopping a few steps from the door. “Mind if I come in?”
Perfectia looked up from the strange device the nurse had left for her earlier—a handheld monitor she was supposed to press against her arm to check her vitals. “Depends,” she said dryly, raising an eyebrow. “You here to poke me with something, or is this a social call?”
The man chuckled, holding up his hands. “Definitely social. I’m Kel, by the way. I’m part of the maintenance crew here. The nurse said you might be up for some company.”
Perfectia tilted her head, her amber eyes narrowing slightly. “Kel… what?”
Kel blinked, his grin faltering for a moment. “Just Kel,” he said with a shrug.
Perfectia frowned, leaning forward slightly. “Just Kel?” she repeated, her tone skeptical. Her gaze drifted as if searching her fragmented thoughts. “That’s… odd.”
Kel raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “Odd how?”
She hesitated, brushing her fingers absently along the edge of the blanket. “It’s hard to explain,” she said slowly. “Where I’m from… names like that usually meant something. Titles. Nobility, maybe. ‘Kel’ wasn’t just a name—it was the start of one. No one was just… Kel.”
Kel tilted his head, a grin tugging at his lips. “Well, sorry to disappoint. I’m not exactly nobility. No fancy title here. Just Kel. Maintenance guy. Fixer of broken things.”
Perfectia smirked faintly, though her eyes lingered on him, as if his presence alone was an anomaly. “It’s strange,” she said softly, her tone still skeptical. “You’re saying that’s your full name?”
“Afraid so,” he said, shrugging. “Small name, big heart, though.”
She shook her head, leaning back. “Still doesn’t sit right with me,” she muttered. “Feels… incomplete.”
“Well, that makes two of us,” Kel said lightly. “Maybe when your memory comes back, you’ll remember what it’s supposed to mean.”
“Maybe,” Perfectia replied, though her tone lacked conviction. Her fingers tightened slightly on the monitor, the name lingering in her mind like a splinter she couldn’t quite dislodge.
The three of them—Perfectia, Kel, and the nurse, who had insisted on coming along to “keep an eye on things”—stepped out into the crowded streets of Nar Shaddaa. Perfectia paused, her amber eyes wide as they darted from one neon sign to the next, to the towering spires overhead, and then down to the bustling activity at street level.
“Whoa,” she murmured, taking a few steps forward, her head tilted back to take in the glowing cityscape. “It’s… alive.”
Kel grinned, his hands stuffed in his pockets. “That’s one word for it.”
The nurse, standing beside Perfectia, looked concerned as a group of shady-looking Rodians brushed past them. She stepped closer, her voice firm but gentle. “Stay near us, all right? This isn’t exactly the safest place.”
Perfectia barely seemed to hear her, her gaze fixed on a droid wheeling by with a stack of crates. Its mechanical arms adjusted the load with precision, and a faint whirring sound accompanied its every move. “What is that?” she asked, pointing.
“A labor droid,” Kel explained. “Built to move heavy stuff. Pretty common around here.”
Perfectia tilted her head. “It looks… alive.”
The nurse chuckled softly. “Not quite. Droids aren’t alive, but some of them are programmed with personalities. They can be convincing.”
Perfectia nodded slowly, her expression thoughtful. “Weird. Where I’m from, if something moved like that, it was probably cursed.”
Kel raised an eyebrow, but before he could ask, Perfectia’s attention shifted again. Her gaze landed on a towering holo-advertisement featuring a Twi’lek woman holding a shimmering bottle. The text flashed in bright blue letters: “Taste the Stars with Galacta Cola!”
“What’s that?” Perfectia asked, her voice filled with curiosity.
The nurse followed her gaze, smiling. “Just an ad for a soda. The companies here like to go all out with their marketing.”
Perfectia squinted. “It’s… floating. How?”
“Projectors,” Kel said with a smirk. “I take it you don’t have holo-tech where you’re from?”
“No,” Perfectia said, shaking her head. “We barely have soap.”
Both Kel and the nurse blinked, unsure if she was joking. Before they could ask, Perfectia was already moving again, her eyes fixed on a vendor grilling skewers over an open flame. The smell of sizzling meat wafted through the air, making her stomach growl.
“Can we try that?” she asked, pointing.
Kel exchanged a glance with the nurse, who sighed but nodded. “Fine,” she said. “But we’re sticking together.”
As they approached the stall, the vendor—a burly Trandoshan—grinned, his sharp teeth gleaming. “Fresh gorg meat skewers! Best on the moon!” he growled.
Perfectia leaned in, examining the skewers with a mix of fascination and caution. “What’s gorg?” she asked.
Kel chuckled. “You probably don’t want to know. Just try it.”
Perfectia grabbed a skewer, taking a tentative bite. Her eyes widened as the smoky, savory flavor hit her tongue. “Okay,” she said, nodding. “This? This is good.”
The nurse smiled faintly, though her gaze remained watchful as she scanned the crowd. “Glad you like it. Now stay close. This place isn’t exactly known for its hospitality.”
Perfectia glanced back at her companions, her smirk playful. “Relax. I’m not going anywhere.”
Kel laughed, though he moved a little closer to her. “You say that, but with the way you’re looking at everything, it’s like watching a kid in a toy store. Try not to wander off.”
Perfectia raised an eyebrow. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”
“A little,” Kel admitted with a grin. “It’s not every day someone sees Nar Shaddaa for the first time and doesn’t run screaming.”
Perfectia shook her head, taking another bite of her skewer. “It’s messy, loud, and weird,” she said, looking around again. “But it’s alive. I like that.”
The nurse sighed, her expression softening. “Just stay safe. That’s all I ask.”
Perfectia nodded, her curiosity undimmed as she took in the chaotic beauty of the Smuggler’s Moon. For the first time in a long time, the unfamiliar didn’t feel threatening—it felt like the start of something new.
Scene: Nar Shaddaa Explained
As they wandered deeper into the bustling streets, Kel gestured to the towering skyline, the spires glowing with vibrant neon against the endless night.
“Welcome to Nar Shaddaa,” he began, his tone slightly more serious. “The Smuggler’s Moon. This place? It’s chaos in a bottle. No government, no laws—just the Hutts at the top and everyone else trying to survive.”
Perfectia tilted her head, watching as a group of Twi’leks hurried by, their arms full of packages. “And the Hutts… they run everything?”
Kel nodded. “Pretty much. Nar Shaddaa used to be a colony of the Republic, but the Hutts took it over centuries ago. Turned it into a free-for-all for criminals, smugglers, and anyone who didn’t want to play by Republic rules. It’s a hub for illegal trade, gambling, spice—you name it.”
The nurse glanced at Perfectia. “It’s dangerous, yes, but it’s also a lifeline for people with nowhere else to go. For better or worse, Nar Shaddaa has room for everyone.”
Perfectia frowned, looking up at the towering buildings. “How high do these go?”
Kel followed her gaze. “Miles. Literally. Most of the city is built on platforms stacked on top of each other. The higher you go, the wealthier it gets. Down below?” He shrugged. “They call it the Undercity. That’s where you don’t want to end up.”
Perfectia raised an eyebrow. “Why not?”
“Because down there,” Kel said, his tone grim, “you’re lucky if you see sunlight. It’s dark, dangerous, and full of people who’d gut you for a handful of credits. The air down there’s barely breathable. People live in the scraps the rest of the city throws away.”
She was silent for a moment, taking it in. “And up here? It doesn’t exactly scream luxury.”
Kel smirked. “This is mid-tier. Not quite the slums, not quite the penthouses. You’d be surprised, though. Life here’s not so bad if you know how to navigate it.”
Perfectia gestured to the sky, the endless neon lights reflecting off the low-hanging smog. “And the weather? Does it ever rain here?”
Kel shook his head. “Nope. Nar Shaddaa’s atmosphere is so polluted that any water vapor gets trapped way up above the skyline. Down here, we rely on water shipments or condensation collectors. Most of what you drink is recycled.”
Perfectia wrinkled her nose. “Recycled water? That’s… not comforting.”
The nurse chuckled. “You get used to it. Better than dehydration.”
Perfectia’s gaze shifted to the streets, where droids zipped by on repulsorlifts, carrying crates and cleaning debris. “And all of this—food, water, power—how does it work? Who keeps it running?”
Kel gestured to one of the droids. “The infrastructure is held together by people like me and droids like that. Nar Shaddaa doesn’t have a central government, so everything’s run by private contractors—or gangs, depending on where you are. We fix what breaks, patch what we can, and hope it holds.”
Perfectia raised an eyebrow. “Sounds… precarious.”
“It is,” Kel admitted. “But that’s the thing about Nar Shaddaa—it’s a city that survives despite everything. No matter how bad it gets, people find a way.”
Perfectia nodded slowly, her gaze drifting upward again. “It’s… a lot,” she admitted. “Loud, chaotic, and filthy. But it’s alive.”
Kel grinned. “That’s the spirit. Stick with me, and you’ll figure it out.”
The nurse, who had been quietly watching the exchange, chimed in. “Just don’t forget—this place can be just as deadly as it is alive. Keep your head down, and don’t trust anyone too quickly.”
Perfectia smirked. “Except for you two, of course.”
“Of course,” Kel said with a wink. “We’re your official Nar Shaddaa survival guides. No charge. For now.”
Perfectia shook her head, the faintest smile tugging at her lips. For all its strangeness, Nar Shaddaa was starting to feel less overwhelming. Maybe, just maybe, there was a place for her here.
As they wandered further into the neon-lit streets of Nar Shaddaa, a massive holographic screen flickered to life above them. Perfectia stopped mid-step, her eyes narrowing as the image on the screen caught her attention.
Two figures stood on a barren, rocky terrain illuminated by the eerie glow of twin moons. One wielded a blazing red blade, the other a vibrant blue. Their movements were fluid yet precise, every strike and parry charged with deadly intent. Sparks flew as the lightsabers clashed, the sound of humming energy reverberating through the air.
“What… is that?” Perfectia asked, her voice sharper than usual.
Kel followed her gaze and grinned. “Oh, that? It’s a reenactment. They love this stuff here—Jedi versus Sith, the eternal struggle. It’s entertainment.”
Perfectia tilted her head, watching as the combatants launched into a series of intricate moves, their blades spinning and slicing through the air. “Entertainment?” she repeated, her tone skeptical. “That’s not how swords are used. Those flourishes would get you killed.”
The nurse chuckled softly. “It’s dramatized. No one’s actually fighting like that—at least, not anymore. It’s all about putting on a show.”
Perfectia frowned, her gaze fixed on the screen. The precision of the strikes, the way the combatants danced around each other—it was mesmerizing and frustrating all at once. “So these Jedi and Sith,” she said, her voice softer now. “They’re… what? Warriors? Mages?”
Kel shrugged. “Depends on who you ask. Jedi see themselves as peacekeepers, defenders of balance. The Sith? They’re all about power, passion, and domination. Both use the Force, but their philosophies couldn’t be more different.”
Perfectia folded her arms, her eyes narrowing as the Jedi on-screen executed a spinning move that sent the Sith reeling. “Force or not, a blade’s a blade. It demands respect. What they’re doing—it’s a mockery.”
Kel raised an eyebrow. “Strong opinion for someone who’s new to all this.”
She didn’t respond immediately, her gaze still locked on the duel. The choreography was impressive, but there was something off about it, something that irked her. Finally, she said, “I’ve used a blade my entire life. You don’t waste movement like that. You don’t show off. You fight to survive.”
Kel exchanged a glance with the nurse, who looked equally curious. “Sounds like you’ve got some stories of your own,” he said lightly.
Perfectia shook her head, breaking her gaze from the screen. “Maybe,” she said, her tone clipped. “But not like that.”
As the reenactment ended with the Jedi standing victorious, the crowd around the screen erupted into applause and cheers. Perfectia didn’t join them. Instead, she turned away, her expression thoughtful.
“What’s wrong?” the nurse asked gently.
Perfectia hesitated, then shook her head. “Nothing. Just… thinking.”
Kel nudged her lightly. “Careful. That’s how trouble starts around here.”
Perfectia smirked faintly, though her eyes lingered on the now-dimmed screen. For the first time since arriving in this strange galaxy, she felt a spark of something familiar—something she couldn’t quite name. But it was there, waiting to be unearthed.
The smell of grilled meats lingered in the air as Perfectia bit into another skewer, savoring the smoky, tangy flavor. Kel and the nurse walked on either side of her, chatting casually, though their watchful eyes scanned the bustling crowd for any signs of trouble.
Suddenly, a faint, pitiful whimper caught Perfectia’s attention. She stopped, looking down to see a small, scruffy creature huddled in the shadows near a vendor’s stall. It was a Nexu pup, its lean body trembling, one of its legs bent at an unnatural angle. Its four glowing eyes blinked up at her, pleading, as it sniffed the air toward her food.
“Kel,” Perfectia said softly, nudging him. “What’s this?”
Kel followed her gaze and frowned. “That? That’s a Nexu pup. Probably got separated from its litter. Don’t get too close—they can be mean little things.”
“This one doesn’t look mean,” Perfectia said, crouching down slowly. The pup flinched but didn’t move away, its gaze fixed on the skewer in her hand. “It’s hurt.”
The nurse hesitated, her tone cautious. “Perfectia, I wouldn’t—”
Ignoring the warning, Perfectia tore off a piece of meat and extended it toward the Nexu. The pup sniffed it hesitantly before snapping it up, chewing quickly. It let out a soft, grateful whimper, leaning slightly toward her.
“Poor thing,” Perfectia murmured, her eyes narrowing at the pup’s injured leg. Without thinking, she placed her hand gently over the wound.
The warmth began to spread almost instinctively, her palm glowing faintly with golden light. The Nexu whimpered again, this time with relief, as the glow enveloped its leg. The twisted angle straightened, the wound knitting itself closed under Perfectia’s touch.
“Perfectia!” Kel hissed, his voice panicked. “What are you doing?”
The nurse glanced around, her eyes wide. A few people in the crowd had paused, staring as the bright light caught their attention. “Perfectia, stop! People are looking!”
Perfectia blinked, pulling her hand back as the glow faded. The Nexu pup took a tentative step forward, its leg now fully healed. It nuzzled her hand before scurrying off into the crowd, its small form disappearing among the legs of passing pedestrians.
Kel grabbed her arm, his voice low but urgent. “What was that? What did you do?”
Perfectia stood, brushing off her hands. “I healed it. What’s the problem?”
“The problem,” the nurse said, her tone sharp, “is that you just lit up like a glow rod in the middle of a crowd. People don’t do that here, Perfectia!”
Kel glanced nervously at the onlookers, forcing a laugh. “It’s fine! Just a malfunction with her health monitor,” he called out, waving a hand dismissively. “Nothing to see here.”
A few people muttered and moved on, though some lingered, their expressions curious. The nurse tugged at Perfectia’s arm, steering her into a quieter alley. “You can’t do that in public,” she said firmly. “This isn’t… wherever you’re from. People here don’t understand that kind of thing.”
Perfectia crossed her arms, her amber eyes narrowing. “So what? I’m supposed to let it suffer?”
Kel sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “No, but you’ve got to be careful. Nar Shaddaa isn’t exactly full of open-minded folks. If the wrong people see you doing… whatever that was, it could mean trouble.”
Perfectia frowned but didn’t argue. Her gaze drifted to the spot where the Nexu pup had disappeared. “It’s fine now,” she said quietly. “That’s what matters.”
The nurse softened slightly, her voice gentler. “Just… be careful, okay? You’re drawing enough attention as it is.”
Perfectia nodded reluctantly, glancing back at the bustling street. The lights, the noise, the chaos—it all felt like a world apart from the small, quiet moment she’d just shared with the injured creature. But for now, she’d keep her powers in check. At least until she understood the rules of this strange new place.
Perfectia stopped in front of the glowing bounty board again, her amber eyes scanning the flickering holograms. She crossed her arms, tilting her head as another face appeared, accompanied by a hefty credit reward.
“Why does this feel normal to you?” she asked, glancing at the nurse. “These posters—or whatever you call them—they’re just… out here. Like it’s second nature.”
The nurse paused, her expression thoughtful. “It is second nature. This is Nar Shaddaa. Bounty hunting is part of how this place works. It’s like… a job board, but one with very high stakes.”
Perfectia frowned. “And people just accept this? No guilds? No contracts? Just… anyone can put a price on someone’s head?”
The nurse nodded. “Pretty much. There are some unofficial rules, depending on who’s putting up the credits, but most people don’t ask questions as long as they get paid. The Hutts make sure everything stays messy enough that no one can challenge their control.”
Perfectia gestured to the holoboard, her voice sharper now. “And this is how people make money?”
“Some of them,” the nurse said. “Others run businesses, work in maintenance like Kel, or… do less legal things.”
Perfectia turned away from the board, shaking her head. “It’s… strange. So many people, so many ways to survive, but it all feels so disconnected.”
The nurse walked beside her, watching her carefully. “You seem to be taking it in stride, though. Most people would be overwhelmed.”
Perfectia smirked faintly. “I’ve seen worse. I think.”
As they continued down the street, Perfectia glanced at the nurse, her brow furrowing. “By the way… do you have a name?”
The nurse blinked, caught off guard. “What?”
“A name,” Perfectia repeated. “I can’t keep calling you ‘nurse’ while we’re out here. It’s weird.”
The nurse smiled, a faint blush coloring her cheeks. “Oh. Right. It’s Mira.”
“Mira,” Perfectia said, testing the name. “Good. That’s easier. Thanks, Mira.”
Mira chuckled. “You’re welcome. And for what it’s worth, I think you’re handling this new world better than most people would.”
Perfectia gave a small shrug. “Maybe. Or maybe I’m just good at pretending.” She glanced around, her eyes scanning the endless spires and bustling streets. “So, Mira, how does someone like you make money here?”
Mira tilted her head, her smile fading slightly. “I work at the clinic. My credits come from fixing people up—or trying to, at least.”
“And that’s enough?” Perfectia asked, her tone genuinely curious. “To live in a place like this?”
Mira hesitated, then sighed. “Sometimes it is. Sometimes it’s not. But you learn to make do. Nar Shaddaa isn’t about thriving—it’s about surviving.”
Perfectia nodded slowly, her gaze distant. “Surviving,” she murmured. “That part, I understand.”
Mira softened, her voice gentle. “Well, you’ve got us now. Kel and I will make sure you’re okay. At least while you figure things out.”
Perfectia smirked faintly. “That almost sounds like a promise.”
“It is,” Mira said firmly. “You’ve been through enough. You don’t have to do this alone.”
Perfectia glanced at her, her expression unreadable. For a moment, she didn’t respond, but then she gave a small nod. “Thanks,” she said quietly. “I’ll try not to make it too hard on you.”
The trio continued weaving through the chaotic streets of Nar Shaddaa, the din of the city rising and falling like waves around them. Perfectia’s eyes darted from one neon sign to the next, her curiosity insatiable. Every corner seemed to hold something new, something strange.
As they turned a corner, Perfectia’s gaze caught on a vendor with a display of glittering trinkets. Brightly colored objects spun and shimmered in the harsh light, their designs intricate and alien.
“Those look interesting,” Perfectia said, veering toward the stall.
“Wait—” Mira began, but it was too late.
Perfectia reached out and picked up a small, glowing sphere, turning it over in her hand. The surface pulsed faintly, a mesmerizing rhythm of light and energy.
“Hey!” barked a gruff voice.
Perfectia looked up to see a large, heavily armored figure stalking toward them. The enforcer towered over her, his helmeted head gleaming under the neon lights. A weapon—a heavy blaster—hung at his side, and the symbol of a local syndicate was emblazoned on his chest plate.
“Hands off the merchandise,” the enforcer growled, his voice amplified by his helmet’s speakers.
Perfectia blinked, her hand still holding the sphere. “I was just looking—”
“You don’t touch anything unless you’re buying,” the enforcer snapped. “You don’t buy? You don’t touch.”
Kel stepped forward quickly, his hands raised in a placating gesture. “Easy there. She’s new. Doesn’t know how things work around here.”
The enforcer’s visor tilted slightly, as though scrutinizing Perfectia. “New or not, rules are rules. You’re lucky I’m in a good mood. Next time, you pay.”
Perfectia frowned, her grip tightening on the sphere. “Pay for what? I didn’t take anything.”
Mira grabbed her arm, her voice low and urgent. “Perfectia, don’t.”
The enforcer took a deliberate step closer, his presence looming. “You think I’m joking, outsider? You don’t want to make trouble here.”
Perfectia’s amber eyes locked onto his visor, her frustration simmering just beneath the surface. “I didn’t—”
Kel quickly stepped between them, laughing nervously. “No trouble here, boss. We’re just leaving. Right, Perfectia?”
Perfectia hesitated, her jaw tightening, but Mira’s gentle tug on her arm pulled her back. “Right,” she muttered, placing the sphere back on the vendor’s table.
The enforcer lingered for a moment, his silence heavy and threatening. Then he stepped back, gesturing dismissively. “Get out of here. And stay out of trouble.”
The trio moved away quickly, Kel letting out a low breath as they turned down another alley.
“Well, that was fun,” he said, his voice tinged with sarcasm. “You’ve got a real knack for making friends.”
Perfectia scowled. “I didn’t do anything wrong.”
“Doesn’t matter,” Mira said firmly. “Here, perception is everything. You don’t argue with people like him. Not unless you’re looking for a fight you can’t win.”
Perfectia folded her arms, her gaze dark. “So, what, I’m supposed to just bow my head and take it?”
“Sometimes, yes,” Mira said. “Because walking away is the only way you live to see tomorrow.”
Perfectia didn’t respond, her frustration evident, but she didn’t push further. The encounter had left her with a sour taste, a bitter reminder of just how precarious this world was.
Kel patted her shoulder lightly. “Hey, look at it this way: you’re learning fast. Nar Shaddaa’s full of rules like that—unspoken, stupid rules. You’ll get the hang of it.”
Perfectia smirked faintly, though her eyes still burned with defiance. “Yeah. Sure.”
As the trio walked away, the enforcer’s voice carried after them, low and gruff but loud enough for her sharp ears to catch. “Big hips on that one,” he muttered to the vendor, his tone dripping with amusement. “Never seen a human built like that. Gotta admit, though—I don’t mind watching her walk away.”
Perfectia’s step faltered slightly, her pointed ears twitching at the remark. She glanced back, her amber eyes narrowing, but not in anger at the comment about her figure. Instead, her voice rang out, cutting through the crowd with sharp precision.
“I’m not human,” she said, her tone icy.
The enforcer turned his helmeted head, clearly surprised she’d heard him. The vendor chuckled awkwardly, shifting uncomfortably under her glare.
“Didn’t mean to offend,” the enforcer said, raising his hands mockingly. “Just calling it like I see it.”
Perfectia’s gaze lingered on him for a moment longer, her expression unreadable. Then she turned on her heel and walked on, her posture stiff but composed.
Kel leaned toward her, whispering, “You okay?”
Perfectia’s smirk returned, though it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Fine. Just not in the mood to educate idiots today.”
Mira shot her a sidelong glance. “For what it’s worth, he’s not worth your time.”
“None of them are,” Perfectia replied, her tone sharper than before.
As they continued down the bustling street, Kel tried to lighten the mood. “On the bright side, at least you’re leaving an impression.”
Perfectia rolled her eyes but didn’t respond. The chaotic energy of the city pressed around her once more, but her thoughts were elsewhere, fixating on how little she understood this world—and how much she wanted to stop feeling like a target in it.
—-
The trio walked back toward the clinic, the crowded streets of Nar Shaddaa still buzzing with activity. Perfectia seemed quieter now, her sharp eyes scanning her surroundings as though trying to piece together an invisible puzzle.
Kel broke the silence, his tone casual but curious. “So… not to be weird or anything, but I’ve gotta ask—what’s the deal with your hips?”
Perfectia blinked, turning her head sharply to look at him. “What?”
“I mean,” Kel continued, gesturing vaguely, “they’re just… really wide. Like, way more than your shoulders. I’ve never seen anyone—any species, I mean—with proportions like that.”
Mira groaned, rubbing her temples. “Kel, seriously? That’s what you’re asking? That’s completely unprofessional.”
“What?” Kel said defensively, holding up his hands. “It’s an honest question!”
Perfectia smirked faintly, though there was a shadow in her eyes. “It’s fine, Mira,” she said softly. “He’s not the first to ask.”
Mira hesitated, glancing at Perfectia with a mix of concern and apology. “Still, it’s—”
“I remember being crippled,” Perfectia interrupted, her voice calm but distant. Both Kel and Mira froze, their eyes widening.
“What?” Kel asked, his tone softer now. “Crippled?”
Perfectia nodded, her gaze dropping to the ground. “Yeah. I think it was a long time ago. I was confined to a wheelchair for… a long time. Because of a fight… A big one. My body—” She paused, her hands gesturing vaguely. “I had to be fixed. My hips… they had to carry more weight than they were supposed to. And now…” She shrugged, the faintest hint of a bitter smile on her lips. “Well, here I am. I don’t think it was normal so people asked me all the time and I hated it.”
Kel frowned, his earlier curiosity replaced with a mix of guilt and awkwardness. “I didn’t mean to—”
“It’s fine,” Perfectia said again, cutting him off. “Really. It’s just how things are. Not much use getting upset about it.”
Mira placed a gentle hand on Perfectia’s arm, her voice soft. “I’m sorry you went through that. But you’re not there anymore. You’re strong now.”
Perfectia glanced at her, her smirk returning, though it was softer this time. “Yeah,” she said quietly. “I am.”
The rest of the walk was quieter, the weight of the conversation lingering in the air. The streets of Nar Shaddaa bustled around them, but for a moment, the chaos seemed muted. Perfectia’s gaze drifted downward, her thoughts heavy.
As they approached the clinic, Kel cleared his throat, his tone more subdued. “For what it’s worth,” he said, “I wasn’t trying to be rude. I just… didn’t know.”
Perfectia nodded, her expression unreadable. After a pause, she added, “Now you do.” She hesitated, then continued, her voice quieter. “I don’t think people liked me. I think… I tried too hard to be funny because I wanted people to like me. And they didn’t. I was annoying, rude, and weird.”
Kel blinked, caught off guard by her candor. “Hey, we all do stuff like that sometimes. Doesn’t mean you were… whatever you think you were.”
Perfectia shook her head, a faint, rueful smile tugging at her lips. “You weren’t there. I think I made people uncomfortable. I used humor as a shield, but it didn’t work the way I thought it would. I think… it just pushed people away.”
Mira stepped in gently, her tone firm but kind. “Maybe you felt that way then, but that doesn’t mean it’s who you are now. People change. And the fact that you care enough to think about this says a lot about you.”
Perfectia looked at her, her smirk growing slightly more genuine. “You’re awfully good at this whole ‘being supportive’ thing.”
Mira smiled. “It’s part of the job.”
Kel chimed in, his grin returning. “And for what it’s worth, I don’t think you’re annoying, rude, or weird. Well… maybe a little weird, but in a good way.”
Perfectia rolled her eyes, but the corners of her mouth twitched upward. “Thanks, Kel. I think.”
The conversation lingered in the air as they stepped into the clinic, the hum of its machinery greeting them. Perfectia’s mind felt lighter, if only slightly, as she realized something she hadn’t expected: these people—however strange and new they were—might actually care.
Perfectia sat in the corner of the clinic, one leg crossed over the other, her fingers drumming idly on the armrest of her chair. A datapad lay on the small table beside her, but she hadn’t touched it. She had tried earlier, but the glowing screen and endless options only made her feel more out of place. Back home, a book or a guild noticeboard would’ve done the trick. Here? Everything was… different.
She sighed, her amber eyes drifting around the room. Boredom gnawed at her as the low hum of medical equipment filled the space.
The door burst open, jolting her from her thoughts. A man staggered in, clutching a severed arm wrapped hastily in a cloth. Blood stained his shirt, and his face was pale but resolute.
“Doc!” he called, his voice strained. “I need help!”
Doctor Velran emerged from an adjacent room, his sharp gaze instantly assessing the situation. “Set him down!” he barked, motioning to a nearby bed.
The man stumbled over, dropping into the bed’s edge and unwrapping the limb with trembling hands. Perfectia’s eyes narrowed as she leaned forward, catching sight of the wound—a cauterized stump just below the shoulder—and the severed arm, the edges burned but surprisingly intact.
“What happened?” Velran asked, snapping on a pair of gloves.
“Some psycho with a lightsaber,” the man hissed through clenched teeth. “Don’t know if he was Sith, Jedi, or just crazy, but he cut through a few people before I managed to run. I grabbed my arm on the way out.”
Velran inspected the stump and the severed limb, his expression darkening. “This wasn’t a lightsaber,” he muttered, more to himself than the patient.
“What do you mean?” the man asked, his brow furrowing.
Velran gestured to the burns around the wound. “A real lightsaber would’ve severed this cleanly. Instantaneous. This? This took a few seconds to burn through. Whatever he used, it was a crude imitation. Something battery-powered.”
The man swore under his breath, his hand tightening into a fist. “What does that mean for me?”
Velran straightened, pulling off his gloves. “It means you’re going to need a prosthetic.”
The man’s face twisted in dismay. “No. No way. I can’t afford one of those. The maintenance alone would ruin me.”
Scene: A Risky Healing
“Public insurance will cover a basic model,” Velran offered, though his tone was less than reassuring. “It’ll get the job done.”
“I don’t want ‘basic,’” the man snapped. “I want my arm—my real arm. That’s why I grabbed it. You can put it back on, right?”
Velran sighed, shaking his head. “I admire your bravery, but no. The burns are too severe. There’s no way to graft it back.”
The man’s face fell, his expression crumpling with frustration and despair. “There has to be a way. I can’t… I need it back.”
Before Velran could respond, Perfectia stood, her movements fluid and purposeful. All eyes turned to her as she approached, her amber gaze steady.
“I can help,” she said simply.
The man blinked, confusion and hope warring in his expression. “You? How?”
Velran frowned deeply, his mind racing. “No…” He trailed off, recalling what little he’d been told about Perfectia’s unusual abilities. The memory of the Nexu pup flashed in his mind, and he rubbed his temple, weighing his words carefully. “…Sir, we need to sedate you first.”
The man nodded fervently, his desperation outweighing any concern. “That’s fine, just fix it. I don’t care what it takes.”
Velran exhaled heavily and turned to Perfectia, lowering his voice so only she could hear. “If you can fix him,” he began, his tone measured, “I’ll be grateful. But listen to me carefully—you can’t keep healing people like this. Not in the open. If anyone finds out what you can do… it wouldn’t end well. For you or for any of us.”
Perfectia’s gaze flicked to the unconscious man, then back to Velran. “You think people would try to use me?” she asked softly, her voice carrying a weight of understanding.
Velran nodded. “Exactly. They’d see you as a resource. Something to exploit. Not as a person.”
Perfectia’s jaw tightened, and she gave a small nod. “I… I think I understand.”
Velran glanced back at the man on the table. “Good. I’ll sedate him and keep the staff away while you work. But you can’t let him remember being fixed like that. It’ll raise too many questions.”
Perfectia hesitated but nodded again. “I’ll handle it.”
Velran stepped to the patient’s side, quickly administering a sedative. The man’s breathing slowed, his body relaxing into stillness. Velran straightened, his expression grim but resolved. “It’s on you now,” he said quietly.
Perfectia stepped forward, placing one hand on the severed arm and the other on the man’s stump. The faint golden glow began to emanate from her palms, growing brighter with each passing second. Velran closed the blinds, ensuring no one could see the room from the hall, and stood silently by the door, watching.
As the light intensified, Perfectia’s focus sharpened, her breathing steady. The burns on both the arm and the stump began to fade, the edges knitting together with remarkable precision. The process was slow but deliberate, the glowing energy pulsating like a heartbeat.
Velran watched in awe, his medical instincts warring with his disbelief. He had never seen anything like this—healing beyond anything modern science or technology could achieve.
When the golden glow finally faded, the room fell silent. Perfectia stepped back, her breathing slightly labored. The man’s arm was whole again, as though it had never been severed. The skin was smooth, the muscles perfectly aligned, and even the faintest scars were gone.
Velran approached cautiously, examining the man’s arm. “Incredible…” he murmured under his breath. Then he turned to Perfectia, his expression unreadable. “You did it. But now we need to ensure he doesn’t remember.”
Perfectia nodded, her voice quiet. “I can… manage that.”
Velran sighed, his shoulders relaxing slightly. “Good. Then let’s finish this before anyone starts asking questions.”
The golden glow from Perfectia’s hands faded, leaving the room in a hushed stillness. The man’s arm was whole again, his breathing steady and peaceful under the sedation. Dr. Velran inspected the limb with a critical eye, marveling at the flawless reattachment.
“Incredible,” he murmured, more to himself than anyone else.
Perfectia took a step back, swaying slightly as she wiped her brow. A faint sheen of sweat glistened on her forehead, and her breathing was uneven.
Velran turned to her, his brows knitting with concern. “Perfectia, are you—”
“I don’t feel so good,” she said quietly, her voice weak.
Before Velran could move, her knees buckled, and she crumpled to the floor.
“Perfectia!” Velran rushed forward, catching her before her head hit the hard tiles. He lowered her carefully to the ground, checking her pulse and vitals. Her skin was clammy, and her breathing was shallow, but steady.
Mira burst into the room, her eyes widening at the sight. “What happened?”
“She passed out,” Velran said sharply, motioning for Mira to grab a scanner. “The strain must’ve been too much.”
Mira hurried to the medical cabinet, pulling out a handheld scanner and bringing it to Velran. He activated the device, running it over Perfectia’s body. The readings flickered across the screen, erratic but not life-threatening.
“Her energy levels are severely depleted,” Velran muttered, his tone more curious than alarmed. “Whatever she’s doing… it’s not just physical. It’s draining something else entirely.”
“Should we move her to a bacta tank?” Mira asked.
Velran shook his head. “No. She doesn’t need that. She needs rest—and to stop overexerting herself like this.”
Perfectia stirred slightly, her eyelids fluttering but not opening. Velran leaned closer, his tone soft but firm. “Perfectia, can you hear me? You’re okay. You just need to rest.”
Her lips moved faintly, her voice barely a whisper. “I’m fine… just… tired.”
Velran exchanged a glance with Mira, his expression grim. “Let’s get her to a bed. She can’t keep doing this. It’s going to kill her.”
Mira nodded, and together they carefully lifted Perfectia onto a stretcher, wheeling her into a quiet room. As they settled her onto a bed, Velran adjusted the monitors to keep an eye on her vitals.
“Stay with her,” he told Mira. “If she wakes up, don’t let her move. I’ll be back once I’ve handled the patient.”
Mira nodded, taking a seat beside Perfectia, her gaze filled with concern. As Velran left, the room fell silent except for the steady beeping of the monitors and Perfectia’s quiet, shallow breaths.
Scene: Perfectia’s Decline
Perfectia remained unconscious, her breaths shallow and uneven as the days passed. The monitors in her room beeped softly, tracking her vitals, which grew weaker with every passing hour. Dr. Velran stood by her bedside, his expression dark as he reviewed the latest test results.
“She’s not improving,” Mira said softly, standing beside him. “We’ve given her fluids, nutrients… everything we can. But it’s like her body’s rejecting it.”
Velran rubbed his temples, frustration evident in his every movement. “She’s not just losing physical energy. Whatever she’s been doing—it’s draining something deeper. Something we don’t understand.”
Mira hesitated, glancing at Perfectia’s still form. “Do you think… it’s related to her healing abilities?”
Velran nodded grimly. “It has to be. She’s burning through something beyond what our medicine can measure. If we don’t find a way to stabilize her soon…”
He didn’t finish the sentence, but Mira didn’t need him to. They both knew what was at stake.
By the second day, Perfectia’s condition had worsened. Her vitals were faint, her skin pale and clammy. Velran paced the clinic’s main office, his mind racing as he went through every possible option.
“We’re missing something,” he muttered to himself. “Something fundamental.”
Mira entered, her expression tight. “Her vitals just dropped again. If we don’t figure this out soon…”
Velran slammed his hand on the desk, the sound echoing in the room. “I know!” he snapped, before exhaling sharply. “Sorry. I just… I need to think.”
Mira hesitated, then spoke cautiously. “What about… unconventional options?”
Velran frowned. “Unconventional?”
“You said it yourself. Whatever’s happening to her, it’s not something we can explain with our tools. Maybe it’s time to bring in someone who works outside our understanding.”
Velran stared at her for a moment, then his expression shifted. His eyes narrowed, a spark of realization dawning. “A Jedi,” he murmured.
Mira blinked. “What?”
“A Jedi,” Velran repeated, his voice growing steadier. “They work with… the Force. If anyone can understand what’s happening to her, it’s them.”
Mira folded her arms, skeptical. “You’re serious? You think you can just find a Jedi on Nar Shaddaa? They’re not exactly common.”
Velran smirked faintly. “You’d be surprised. There’s a few who pass through here from time to time. And if they’re not here, someone in the underworld will know where to find one. I’ll start asking around.”
“And if you can’t find one?” Mira asked, her voice laced with doubt.
Velran’s smirk faded, replaced by grim determination. “Then I’ll find someone who can fake it well enough.”
Velran stepped out of the clinic later that evening, his coat pulled tightly around him as he ventured into the chaotic streets of Nar Shaddaa. The neon lights reflected off puddles in the cracked pavement, and the air buzzed with the murmur of countless voices.
He didn’t know exactly where to start, but he knew the kind of people to ask. His first stop was a seedy cantina frequented by smugglers, bounty hunters, and information brokers—people who always had their ear to the ground.
As Velran pushed open the cantina door, the smell of spice and sweat hit him like a wall. He scanned the room, his gaze landing on a grizzled Duros sitting at the bar. The Duros glanced up, his red eyes narrowing slightly.
“You look lost,” the Duros said, his voice low and gravelly.
“I’m looking for information,” Velran replied, pulling a credit chip from his pocket and sliding it onto the bar. “About Jedi.”
The Duros raised an eyebrow, his fingers tapping the bar thoughtfully. “Jedi, huh? Bold question for a place like this.”
Velran leaned in, his tone serious. “I don’t have time for games. Do you know where I can find one or not?”
The Duros stared at him for a long moment, then nodded slowly. “There’s a rumor about a Jedi in the lower levels. Doesn’t stick around long, but he’s been seen helping folks. Might be your best shot.”
Velran straightened, hope flickering in his chest. “Where exactly?”
The Duros smirked faintly, sliding the credit chip into his pocket. “Level 132. Near the old speeder repair shop. If he’s still around, you’ll find him there.”
Velran nodded and turned to leave, his pace quickening as he headed for the lower levels. He didn’t know if this Jedi would be able to help, but it was the best chance he had to save Perfectia—and he wasn’t going to waste it.