Lekku. LOG-005. Cage Of Bone.

LOG-005. Cage Of Bone.

I turn twelve today.

The jungle breathes. 

That’s not a metaphor. The whole moon exhales in wet, heavy lungfuls. Every few minutes, the fog rolls in like a tide, and all the plants start dripping like they’re sweating out the last hour’s humidity. The air tastes like green rot and thunder.

Perfect place for a training op, apparently.

We’re five foundlings, two adults. Recon sweep. No live ammo, just blades and training charges. Mission objective is a scav run, locate old tech, secure the area, and don’t die stupid.

I’m point.

Because I’m the smallest. Lightest. Quietest.

Also because I haven’t screwed up in weeks, and apparently that puts a target on your back.

The ruins rise out of the overgrowth like the planet tried to forget them and failed. Stone stacked in spirals, black moss crawling over carvings that don’t match any Mandalorian code I’ve seen.

They look older. Smoother. Jedi, maybe.

Not that anyone says it out loud.

We clear the outer walls. Vines like veins. Roots swallowing what used to be doors. I scan the layout in my head, three structures, two intact, one collapsed. We split.

I volunteer for the central spire.

Varin doesn’t stop me.

—

The stairs wind up and in. No light but the cracks in the stone, glowing with green tinted sunbeams filtered through a thousand leaves.

It’s quiet. But not empty.

There’s a pressure in the air. Like the moment before a storm. Like the second before a blade hits skin.

It’s not a sound. Or a voice.

It’s a pull.

I feel it behind my teeth.

Like something calling to me from just around the next bend, and if I ignore it, I’ll regret it for the rest of my life.

Which is stupid. Which is crazy.

But I follow it anyway.

The room at the top is half collapsed. Birds nesting in rafters. Cracked tiles beneath my boots. A stone pedestal covered in dust.

And something sitting on it.

Cube shaped. Gold filigree. Glowing faintly from inside, like someone left a fire burning under glass. It hums. Not with sound. With presence.

I step closer.

My heartbeat is loud. Too loud. I kneel. Reach out.

The second my fingers brush the edge-

Light.

Not the warm kind. Not sun. Not fire.

Blades.

Dozens of them. Blue. Green. Red. Spinning, flashing, slicing through dark shapes. Shouts. Screams. The ground shaking. Ships overhead. Robes twisting in smoke.

I see faces. Jedi. Children. One girl with freckles and a yellow saber, eyes wide in horror. A boy with horns. A man missing an arm.

I feel their fear.

And then…

“Enough.”

A hand grabs my wrist.

Yanks me back.

The vision dies like someone crushed it in their palm.

I stumble, gasping.

Varin.

He’s already pushing me behind him, rifle up, scanning the room like I just stepped on a landmine. Helmet on. Voice cold.

“You alone?”

I nod. Fast. Too fast.

He lowers the rifle. Doesn’t ask what happened.

Good.

Because I’m not telling.

Not yet.

—

It’s late.

Not late like bedtime. Late like post squad debrief, post ration chow, post nobody wants to talk anymore. The kind of quiet where even the power conduits seem tired.

I sit just outside the hangar, watching a storm curl around the treeline a few clicks off. You can’t hear it yet. Just see the flicker behind the clouds like the jungle’s trying to blink itself out.

My vambrace still smells like burnt metal from the op. It’s not even real beskar, but I treat it like it is. I keep polishing anyway, mostly because my hands don’t know what else to do.

Varin drops into a crouch nearby. Doesn’t announce himself. Doesn’t need to.

He just exists, like gravity.

I glance over. He’s helmetless, as usual when it’s just us. Jaw tense. Eyes scanning the storm.

I watch him for a second. Then, because I’m tired of being alone in my own skull, I muster up a question.

“Do you believe in the Force?”

It’s dumb. The Jedi are real. Of course the Force is too.

He doesn’t look at me. Doesn’t even twitch.

“Believe in blasters.” He says. “Believe in loyalty.”

I nod slowly. Pretend that’s an answer. Maybe it is.

I look down at my vambrace. The reflection off the plating shows half my face and none of my thoughts.

“I think something’s wrong with me.” I murmur, playing dumb. “Not, like…broken wrong. Just…off. Tilted. Like I can feel something moving when nothing’s there.”

He doesn’t interrupt.

“It’s not voices or visions or...whatever Jedi get.” I add. “It’s just this...feeling. Like I’m full of static. Like I’m a receiver tuned to the wrong frequency and every once in a while I catch something I shouldn’t.”

Still no reply.

So I say it.

I think I’m Force sensitive.

“I think I might be cursed.”

…That sounds more appropriate for a twelve year old who shouldn’t know as much as she does.

Still, it comes out smaller than I meant it to. Not scared. Not dramatic. Just...ironically honest. Like I pulled a splinter out and showed it to him, expecting him to laugh or tell me I’m being stupid.

He doesn’t.

He looks at me.

And shrugs.

“Then make the curse fear you.”

Just like that.

No flare. No poetry.

Just truth, delivered like a punch to the ribs.

I don’t know what to say to that, so I don’t say anything at all.

The storm starts getting louder in the distance.

I don't flinch.

—

We weren’t supposed to be in a fight.

Standard patrol. Perimeter recon. The jungle’s too thick for anything big to move through unnoticed, and we were on the far end of the zone. Quiet sector. Clean op.

Then the bolt hit the tree two meters from my face.

Everything went loud after that.

They came out of the vines like rot, ragged armor, swamp camo cloaks, cheap blasters and home cut blades. Locals, probably. Bandits. Smugglers. Warlord trash picking the bones of the Outer Rim.

They weren’t good.

But they were hungry.

We scattered. Return fire snapped through the air. Varin dropped two of them in the first five seconds. Rok took a blade to the side and screamed. I lost sight of the others.

I didn’t think.

I ran.

Right into the teeth of the jungle.

I heard one behind me. Crashing through the brush, faster than he should’ve been. Heavy footfalls. Ragged breath. He was laughing.

I turned to shoot.

Blaster jammed.

Absolute fucking classic.

I had maybe two seconds. Maybe less.

He lunged. Filthy jacket. Rusted knife. One eye. Teeth like smashed durasteel.

I don’t remember grabbing the dagger.

I just remember using it.

Right hand, upward arc. Into the neck.

Soft give. Wet noise.

Then he stopped laughing.

He collapsed. Gurgled. Twitched. Stopped.

I stood there.

Breathing.

Listening to the blood hit the leaves like rain.

—

I didn’t cry.

Not then.

Just kept moving.

Found the others. Rejoined the group. Gave my report. Got a nod. Rok limped back with help. One of the older foundlings got a bolt through the knee. We’ll see if he keeps his leg.

The mission wasn’t a failure.

That’s what they said, anyway.

…I threw up later.

Behind the barracks. Knees in the mud, bile in my throat, hands shaking.

I didn’t make a sound. Just retched until my ribs hurt.

Then I heard him.

Boots in dirt.

Didn’t even need to look.

Varin crouched beside me. Not close. Just near enough to be there.

“You don’t have to like killing.” He lectured. “But you better do it right.”

That was it.

He stood and walked off.

I wiped my mouth. Didn’t look up.

—

That night, I lay in my bunk. Everyone else asleep or pretending to be.

I stared at the ceiling.

Couldn’t see his face anymore.

The one I killed.

Couldn’t remember his voice.

Couldn’t remember even if I wanted to.

I whispered into the dark, not expecting anyone to hear.

“I will survive everything.”

Not a promise.

A warning.

I was gonna live well damn it.