When the storm is over

Trilla doesn't fit into the crew of the Stinger Mantis. At some point, every crew member comes to this realization, yet none of them can bring themselves to leave behind a broken girl who’s only just beginning to recover. Greez keeps his distance from the former Inquisitor, especially when it's her turn to help in the galley. Trilla never complains. She just shoots the Latero sharp, pale green glares, as if trying to incinerate him on the spot. Merrin offers sympathy for the first couple of days, until she crashes headlong into a wall of contempt. It’s hard to be kind when you’re being treated like you don’t exist. The young Dathomirian knows her worth — so begins a drawn-out game of ‘Who will be pissed off first?’. Paradoxically, Trilla gets along best with her former mentor. She feeds off Cere’s guilt like it’s an expensive delicacy. Cal tries to talk his mentor out of it, only to get a lengthy lecture on duty, honor, and redemption. He’s the last to give up. Trilla is a foreign gear in a well-oiled machine. And she knows it. “I need to go to Ontoto,” Suduri appears like a ghost in the common room. Her voice cuts through the air, sharp and unexpected. Cal flinches. The easygoing atmosphere vanishes in an instant, replaced by something tight and suffocating. “Where?” Greez groans, raising his upper arms while planting his lower ones on his hips. “Look, I’m not some kind of taxi service, and—” The pilot falters, eyeing Trilla warily from the corner of his eye. “Oh, come on, Greez, don’t be dramatic,” Cere cuts in quickly, only succeeding in further irritating Suduri. The timid Latero would’ve likely agreed to the trip without a peep — Junda’s intervention just rubs salt in the wound. “The planet’s almost deserted,” Cere adds, her face now colorless, as if she’s becoming one with the ship’s dull plating. “Yeah,” Trilla’s lip curls in a bitter smile. “Whatever the plague didn’t wipe out, the Empire finished.” “Fine,” Greez jumps to his feet. “I’ll set a course. It’s only a parsec and a half.” All he wants is to escape to the bridge as fast as possible.  

*****

The planet Ontoto is as empty as promised. Or wants to seem so. The desolation of Zeffo crossed with the jungle of Kashyyyk, Cal thinks, observing the landscape. The landing pad’s concrete is cracked, with defiant green grass sprouting through the splits. Hangar roofs have collapsed, sealing the way to the city beneath rubble. But Trilla says she has no interest in the city. “I’m going with you,” Cal says firmly. The press of his lips betrays his resolve to argue if she says no. “Fine,” Trilla agrees. Too easily. She’s wearing Cere’s old saber on her belt. Cal finds himself wondering if she plans to use it — on him. When Cere first broaches the subject of giving Trilla a weapon, Cal doesn’t understand. And when he does, he refuses outright — until Cere appeals to his practicality: "Two Jedi are better than one." The ship corridors are not the best places for practice: Greez is worried about the integrity of his transport, so Cere’s students cross swords only during rare landings. Despite the recent injury Trilla wins the first sparring. She is weak, and fake winning only hurts her already damaged pride. Janda's sword flies into the grass. Later, she finds it in her quarters. She picks it up, grips it hard until pain shoots through her half-healed shoulder and forces her to let go. She doesn’t cry — her tears were sacrificed long ago to the Inquisitorium long ago. She only bites her lower lip until it bleeds. Cal doesn't give in anymore. Now guilt gnaws at him. He knows he can’t be good for everyone. Knows it, and yet still tries. The crew is his family now, his top priority—even above himself. That’s why the thought of being alone terrifies him. He’ll take any company. Even Trilla. “Where are we going?” Cal is the first to break the tense silence. “I have business. You’re just tagging along,” Trilla’s voice is steady, but it costs her effort. She’s breathing hard — not from exertion. The farther they get from the ship, the more unsettled she looks. “You just ruined your friends’ chance to ditch me while I was gone. You think I don’t hear you whispering behind my back?” Her voice drips with accusation. Paranoia is one of many scars the Empire left on her. “You’re my friend too,” Cal replies gently, opting to turn her barbs into a joke. “That’s actually the only reason I came.” “How strategic,” Suduri mutters. “No, just good improv,” Cal shrugs. Thick underbrush forms a tunnel-like path barely wide enough for two. Trilla insists on going first, thorns clawing at her clothes and scratching her skin. Cal follows, driven by curiosity about her true destination. Soon, vines block their way—some thick, some rotted, weaving a treacherous mat over the forest floor. Trilla loses her footing first. A rotten vine snaps under her weight, trapping her leg. Cal tries to help, but stumbles — and lands on her. The softest fall of his life. Her scent is forest and sweat. His ears burn red. Trilla winces in pain. She’s been putting on a brave face for the crew, pretending to be fully recovered, but she’s far from it. “Get off,” she snaps, pushing him away. Her anger crackles with the Force. She sits up slowly, disgusted by her own weakness — and even more by the sympathy on Cal’s face. She frees her leg, checks for injury, and stands. Her boot squelches with trapped water. They emerge onto a wide meadow. Northern wind tousles their hair; wet clothes chill overheated skin. At the foot of a mountain lies a ruined structure. “We’re almost there,” Trilla says curtly. She almost adds something more, but stops. Her urge to be rid of Cal is eclipsed by the dread of facing this place alone, a place haunted by her own ghosts. The building turns out to be an old Jedi temple. The entrance still stands, barely — stones poised to fall at any moment. Cal gestures politely for Trilla to go first. He’s done arguing. “Clown,” she mutters loud enough for him to hear as she slips inside. The place is bright where the roof is missing — its remnants lie moss-covered in the main hall. Nature rules here now. It’s both beautiful and tragic. Trilla shivers at an eerie draft and veers left, toward a surviving corridor. “You hid here. With the younglings,” Cal deduces, catching glimpses of her between tall pillars. “Bravo, Kestis. Ten points for observation,” she sneers. “There used to be a cave system. Hopefully it’s still intact.” She stops only to ignite her saber, then walks into her personal nightmare. “Why come back here?” Cal wonders aloud. In the saber’s light, Trilla seems to tremble. She breathes steadily but fights hard to stay composed. She suddenly turns to him and says: “To understand the point of it all.” Cal has never seen a violent lunatic, but he has no doubt that Trilla Suduri is an excellent example. Her saber flickers wildly in her eyes. Their pilgrimage is cut short — a massive boulder blocks their path. Trilla tries to move it with the Force. Stones begin to rain from above. “Stop! You’ll kill us—” Cal grabs her arm — and earns a punch to the gut. Whether she meant it or not, it hurts just the same. “Is there even a point to this life?!” she screams. Her saber clatters to the floor. She sinks down, covers her face. Cal thinks she’s crying. “Trilla…” he starts, but doesn’t touch her. His hand freezes midair. “Answer the question,” she whispers. When she lowers her hands, her eyes are dry. Her smile is a tormented grimace. “Answer me.” “There is,” Cal says, steady. He’s a terrible liar, but this time he tries with everything he’s got. And Trilla tries just as hard to believe him. The walk back is quiet. Cal only exhales when they reach the temple’s main hall. It’s long past sunset, and now a storm rolls in. Trilla says nothing—she’s retreated inside herself, the key left behind in the cave. “We should wait here,” Cal says with fake cheer. “I’ll start a fire.” For the first time, he regrets not bringing BD-1 or even a comlink to reach the ship.  While he’s busy, Trilla disappears into the only accessible room. She returns with a bottle. “What’s that?” Cal asks, rubbing his hands together. “Kirsch,” she sniffs it and offers. “Want some?” He shakes his head. “I knew you’d say no. Just trying to be polite,” she mutters, then drinks. The liquor burns down her throat, leaving a cherry aftertaste. A small warmth flares in her chest. She doesn’t grimace — but sets the bottle aside. Worst drink she’s ever had. The storm eases to a soft rain. Trilla wants to fall asleep. Or finally wake up— in this temple, with the younglings, with Cere. She wants to hear laughter, offer guidance, be needed again. To matter again. She closes her eyes, then opens them to find Cal standing before her, hand extended. “Dance with me.” Her skeptical expression says it all. “Dance with me and I’ll tell you the point of it all,” he grins. It’s stupid. Childish. But either the kirsch is kicking in—or she’s just tired of fighting, ready to let herself be swept along. Cal leads her out under the warm drizzle. The small clearing is cleared of rocks — he’s obviously been busy. But placing his hand on her waist proves much harder than lifting stones. He hesitates. She does it for him. “Don’t bother if you don’t know how,” she teases, hands settling confidently on his shoulders. Dancing without music feels strange. Everyone moves to a different rhythm. Trilla steps on his foot almost immediately. “Sorry,” she says with mock concern. Teasing Cal boosts her mood. In the firelight, he really does look like a boy. He could easily call her bluff, but instead, he closes the gap and holds her tighter. The boy wants to be a man. Trilla plays along. She even lets him lead, resting her head on his shoulder. The closeness soothes her. For the first time in ages, she feels… a fragile peace inside. “The point is not about waiting for the storm to pass,” Cal murmurs, “It’s about learning to dance in the rain.” “You take that quote way too literally,” Trilla replies, seeing through him. “Maybe,” Cal gently strokes her back and hopes she’s shaking from laughter. For the first time, he’s sure—Trilla Suduri will fit in.