Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

19 years before the battle of Yavin

2 years before the beginning of Arcane 

???:

FOR THE REPUBLIC!

“This can’t be happening!”

“Master!”

“Good soldiers follow orders”

Run Hari-!

“Hide!”

Warning! Warning ! Autopilot disabled

T-trust in the force…

“It’s just you and me huh Samil?”

“Idiot! Don’t be a hero!”

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…How could this happen?!

Vander

Vander and Benzo had finished their rounds, the weight of collections lining their pockets as they trudged back to the Last Drop. It was supposed to be a simple return, a chance to unwind over drinks and perhaps an argument or two over the merits of Benzo’s infamous storytelling.

Vi and the others were off somewhere, no doubt stirring up trouble. Vander’s mind flicked to Claggor’s arms, laden with paint cans, and he could already imagine the streaks of chaos they’d inevitably leave behind. Yet for all their mischief, the kids were careful. And careful was what kept them alive in the lanes.

Benzo was mid-joke—some nonsense about a topsider—and Vander allowed himself a rare chuckle. That was when the boy stumbled out of the alley.

He couldn’t have been more than sixteen, clutching his arm like it was a fragile twig threatening to snap again. His nose was bent at an impossible angle, blood painting his face and dripping in jagged streaks onto his shirt. A fight. This close to the Last Drop? Vander frowned. Few dared to disturb the fragile peace near his pub, fewer still risked crossing him outright.

Benzo had noticed too, his laughter cut short as they approached the alley. “Looks like someone tried to play tough,” Benzo muttered, though there was a flicker of unease in his voice.

They didn’t expect what they saw.

Six boys sprawled across the dirty ground, moaning or unmoving. And sitting atop one of them was another figure, hooded and furious, fists crashing down on his victim with unrelenting precision. He wasn’t just fighting; he was dismantling his opponent.

“Oi!” Vander barked, storming forward to haul the boy off. The kid struggled, landing a kick to Vander’s shin that had Benzo doubled over in laughter. But the moment Vander caught sight of the kid’s face, his breath hitched.

The hood had fallen back during the scuffle, revealing a pale, gaunt face streaked with tears. Olive-toned skin, ink-black hair with, single thin braid hanging over his shoulder. The haunting hue of dull purple eyes—all trembling with a fear that pierced deeper than anger. Vander had seen that look before. He’d seen it in Vi, on the night he pulled her out of the chaos of the bridge riots.

The kid didn’t trust him, his gaze darting between Vander and Benzo like a cornered animal. Then, with a flick of his wrist, a discarded pipe rose into the air and hurled itself at Benzo. Only barely dodging it had saved Benzo from a direct hit.

Vander froze. Magic. The stories of mages and their powers flooded his mind, but the trembling boy before him wasn’t a mage. He was a child. A frightened, desperate child.

“Easy,” Vander said, lowering his voice to a calming rumble. “I’m not going to hurt you.” He raised his hands, palms out, and took a cautious step forward.

The boy’s response was to pull a strange, cylindrical object from his belt. A button clicked, and a blade of glowing blue energy sprang to life. Its hum was low and menacing, a sound that made Vander’s stomach knot.

The kid swung it, testing its edge on a nearby trash can. The metal sliced clean through without a whisper of resistance. Vander held his ground, even as the blade wavered toward him, trembling in the boy’s unsteady grip.

Vander reached for his water bottle, his movements slow, deliberate. He rolled it across the ground. “It’s just water,” he said softly.

The kid’s eyes narrowed. He didn’t reach for the bottle; instead, the liquid inside lifted itself, hovering as if held by unseen hands. A small bubble of water floated toward Vander, testing him.

Without hesitation, Vander drank.

The boy’s shoulders sagged, the blade retracting with a hiss as he grabbed the rest of the water and gulped it down greedily. Up close, Vander could see it now—the hollowness in the kid’s cheeks, the cracked lips, the exhaustion that clung to him like a second skin. His clothes, once fine, were tattered and filthy. Whoever he was, he didn’t belong here, and he was running from something far worse than a few alley thugs.

The boy’s cloak shifted, revealing more of his tattered attire. Beneath the grime, Vander could make out fabric of fine quality, soft leather and sturdy stitching. Yet, as expensive as the materials looked, the design was simple, unadorned—practical. It was a strange contradiction, and one that immediately ruled out the possibility of him being a topsider.

‘Where had he come from?’ Vander wondered. ‘ And how did he end up here?’

The questions weighed heavy in his mind but felt unimportant in the moment. What mattered now was the boy in front of him—the fear in those dull purple eyes, the exhaustion written in every line of his posture. Vander crouched down slowly, bringing himself to the kid’s eye level.

“If you’re hungry,” he said, his voice calm and warm, “I can get you more food. I own a pub, so you’d have your pick.”

The boy hesitated, his grip tightening around the hilt of his strange weapon. For a moment, Vander thought he might refuse. But then, with a soft click, the glowing blade disappeared, leaving only the cylindrical handle in his hand. He slipped it back onto his belt, though his fingers never strayed far from it.

Vander extended a hand, his movements careful and unthreatening. “Name’s Vander,” he said gently. “What’s yours?”

The boy eyed him warily, then reached out and grasped Vander’s hand with a grip that was firm but hesitant. “Harik,” he said quietly, his voice barely above a whisper.

Harik

The young padawan sat perched on a barstool, idly twisting his braid between his fingers. The familiar motion brought a bittersweet ache—memories of Master Fexis and Samil surfacing with each turn. Even now, in hiding, the thought of cutting it off was unbearable. It wasn’t just tradition; it was a reminder to a life that felt impossibly distant.

This world was strange. The Force coursed through it, but differently than anywhere he’d been before. It felt vibrant, almost wild, as though the planet itself pulsed with life. He didn’t know how best to explain it, like the force was present here but it was as if it was in another language. He hadn’t intended to come here initially. After barely navigating the labyrinth of spatial anomalies, he’d felt inexplicably drawn to this world, this place. Piltover’s undercity, to be precise.

At first glance, it reminded him of Coruscant’s lower levels—the same grime, the same suffocating desperation. He could not help but wonder how it got this bad, these people were not running a planet, it was just one city barely visible from orbit. He couldn’t understand how the ruling class allowed half their population to languish. In comparison to the republic's homeworld, it should have been simple to fix. Perhaps they were just too lazy, Force knows the senate was most of the time.

Still, there was something hauntingly nostalgic about the narrow streets and shadowed alleys. They tugged at memories of simpler days, when he and the others—Samil, Kaleb, and Cal—had snuck out for adventures from the temple on coruscant. He could almost hear their laughter, feel the sting of Master Windu’s scolding when they’d been caught. Those moments weren’t even a year behind him, yet they felt like fragments of another lifetime.

Good days, now gone.
Good friend, now dead.

Harik hadn’t noticed Vander approach until the man leaned against the bar in front of him. Large and steady, Vander’s presence was as solid as Master Fexis had been. That thought twisted like a blade in his chest.

“How would you feel about living here, Harik?” Vander asked.

The question startled him, sparking a flicker of hope that felt almost foreign. He glanced around the Last Drop. It wasn’t just a pub—it was a haven by the feel of it. The air carried a warmth that wasn’t merely temperature but something deeper. Through the wood of the floor and the well-worn furniture, he could sense joy etched into the very fabric of the place. His psychometry—his Force echo—made it easy to feel the life rooted here. It reminded him of Cal, of the bond they’d shared through their shared gift.

He could see the joy that was had here, most of the people that came around this bar had a feeling of peace, something he could tell was rare, and at the center of it was the massive man in front of him. Maybe he can find that peace as well.

“Yes,” Harik said before he could stop himself. Then, catching the desperation in his own voice, he shrank back. He hated how weak he sounded. A strong person wouldn’t have watched their friends fall. A strong person wouldn’t have survived when so many others didn’t.

Vander smiled, his tone casual. “Yeah, the more, the merrier. I already have four kids living here. What’s one more? Just pull your weight and keep your head down.”

Harik didn’t miss the subtle warning: ‘ No Force tricks. Got it’

“Can we not… tell them about me?” Harik muttered, his voice low. He avoided Vander’s eyes, focusing on the grain of the bar. “You and Benzo know and that is more than enough.”

Vander’s broad hand rested on his shoulder, warm and reassuring and looked him in the eyes, ‘Seriously how can such an imposing man have such kind eyes?’ It reminded Harik too much of Master Fexis, and he fought to shove the thought aside. The dead had no place here.

“Whatever you want,” Vander said, his voice steady. “But just so you know, they’re good kids. Loyal.”

Harik wanted to believe him. He felt Vander’s sincerity through the Force, the man’s intentions radiating calm and trust. Still, caution weighed heavier than trust.

“I’ll stay,” Harik said at last, his voice firmer. “If it won’t cause trouble.” He hesitated, then added, “But… Can I have my own room?”

Vander raised a brow. “Why?” Harik had noted that all the others bunked together so the confusion was understandable.

“Nightmares,” Harik whispered, barely audible. “I don’t want to hurt someone by accident.”

The understanding in Vander’s expression came as a surprise. “There’s some space in the attic,” he said. “Might be a bit cluttered, but it’s yours if you want it.”

Harik managed a small smile as Vander slid a glass of water toward him. This life, it was enough.

‘more than enough for a craven like me…’ he thought bitterly as he drank from his  glass.

Powder

The group was making their way back to the Last Drop, laughter echoing through the dim streets of the undercity. Vi and Claggor couldn’t stop cracking up, recounting every detail of Mylo’s unfortunate tumble into an open garbage heap after falling off a scaffold. Powder had laughed too—how could she not? Mylo had been insufferable all day, constantly running his mouth. But her mind wasn’t on his misstep anymore.

She was still riding the thrill of their small heist. It wasn’t a grand score, nothing that would make waves in Piltover or even the lanes. But they’d snagged a few valuable trinkets—enough to fetch a decent price. And for the first time in what felt like forever, Powder hadn’t messed anything up.

The day had started simply, vandalizing one of the enforcers’ shiny new billboards, but it quickly escalated when Claggor spotted something in the back of an unguarded crate. A manifest confirmed it—spare parts bound for the Piltover Academy. A goldmine of opportunity just sitting there, waiting.

Stuffing sacks with as much as they could carry, the four of them had made their getaway before the enforcer returned. Mylo, of course, had nearly ruined it with a poorly timed laugh, earning a swift smack upside the head from Vi. But in the end, they made it back with their prize. It wasn’t much, but it was a start. Powder felt giddy with the realization—she’d actually been useful.

“-and the best part is, Powder didn’t jinx us this time!” Mylo crowed, his voice tinged with smugness.

Vi shot him a sharp glare. “She’s not a jinx, Mylo. If she was, this wouldn’t have gone as smoothly as it did.”

“Yeah, but it’s not like she had to do much,” Mylo retorted. “She just stuffed a sack and ran. It’s when we actually need her to do something important that she screws it up.”

Claggor chuckled, cutting in before Vi could snap. “You’re just mad she beat you at the shooting game again.”

“That’s completely unrelated!” Mylo protested, his flustered tone betraying the truth.

Powder stifled a giggle, but not well enough. Mylo shot her a glare but didn’t dare say more with Vi looming nearby. Powder allowed herself a small smirk. Maybe if he held the gun properly, he’d hit something once in a while, she thought with satisfaction. Shooting was one thing she could do better than anyone, and she relished every chance to prove it.

They reached the Last Drop with their haul, bracing themselves for Vander’s inevitable lecture about being late for curfew. But instead of scolding them, Vander was behind the bar, calmly polishing glasses. He gave them a measured look, his gaze lingering on the sacks they carried before locking with Vi’s.

“No, Vander, nobody saw us,” she said with a dramatic roll of her eyes.

“Good.” He nodded, but something in his expression shifted. “Listen up. I’ve got some news for you all—nothing bad, but… it’s a change.”

The group exchanged curious glances. Nothing ever happened in the Last Drop without reason, so what could this be about?

Vander stepped out from behind the bar and gestured for them to sit. As they settled into their seats, the sound of movement above caught their attention. Powder perked up, wondering if Benzo and Ekko were here. She hoped Ekko could help her disassemble some of the shiny gadgets they’d swiped.

“Up in the attic,” Vander began, “is your new housemate. You’ll meet him in a minute, but don’t overwhelm him. Remember how you all were when I first took you in? He’s in that same state now.”

Mylo muttered something under his breath about another mouth to feed, earning a warning glance from Vi. Claggor looked intrigued, while Vi’s gaze drifted to the ceiling, her expression distant in a way Powder didn’t understand.

Powder’s excitement, however, was laced with worry. What if he’s good at fighting? she thought. What if he’s better at jobs than me? Better at shooting? Better at gadgets? Her mind buzzed with static.

You’ll be even more useless…

No! I won’t! I won’t!

“—That’s why I think Powder should introduce herself first,” Vander said, his voice cutting through her spiraling thoughts.

“S-sorry, what?” she stammered, cursing the tremor in her voice.

Vander crouched slightly, meeting her gaze. “He’s about your age. I figure he might feel more comfortable if you go first.” He smiled reassuringly. “You’ve got a few things in common. I think you’ll get along.”

With a gentle pat on her back, Vander urged her toward the attic stairs. Powder hesitated but caught Vi’s encouraging smile and thumbs-up. That was all she needed.

She climbed the stairs and knocked softly on the attic door.

“It’s open!” a voice called from within.

The room was cluttered, half-rearranged, with boxes and spare furniture scattered about. At a workbench sat a boy, his dark hair tousled as he bent over a disassembled device. Powder’s eyes darted to the glowing blue crystal on the table, suspended in wire and strung on a simple necklace.

The boy looked up, startled for a moment before standing awkwardly. He rubbed his arm nervously but managed to extend his hand. “I’m Harik,” he said, his attempt at a smile betraying his unease.

Powder took his hand, shaking it gently. “I’m Powder.”

For a moment, they stood in awkward silence, Powder rocking on the balls of her feet. Then her gaze landed on something else on the workbench—a half-finished wind-up toy, its gears exposed.

“Do you like making gadgets?” she asked hesitantly, bracing for a dismissive reply.

Instead, his eyes lit up. “Yes! Do you?”

Her grin was instant and wide. Without a word, she dashed back downstairs, leaving Harik bewildered. Moments later, she returned with a box overflowing with her creations. Sitting cross-legged on the floor, she pulled out one of her prized devices.

“This is Meowzer,” she announced, holding it up proudly. “He’s a smoke grenade.”

Harik leaned in, curiosity gleaming in his eyes. “How does it work?”

Hours passed unnoticed as they poured over her gadgets, their laughter and chatter filling the attic. Vander and Vi watched from the doorway, a quiet smile on Vander’s face as Powder promised to introduce her new friend to Ekko the next day.

Chapter Text

“The ship is this way!” Master Fexis exclaimed, spinning her lightsabers to deflect the oncoming blaster bolts. 

The marching got louder and louder, the number of footsteps increasing with each second. The Venator ships alarm blaring in Hariks ears making him more frantic. 

They closed all the doors and activated  the blast door settings behind them, destroying the door controls as they proceeded towards the landing bay.

“Why are they attacking us?!” Samil exclaimed in fear and confusion, holding his green coloured saber tightly.

“They aren’t themselves, I can sense it!” Harik's voice was flooded with concern, holding his double bladed lightsaber at the ready in case there were more of the clones ahead. 

“Focus up, both of you!” Save it for when they're in the clear” Master Fexis ordered as she opened the final door and there rested our ship. Without hesitation we all ran to get to it but as we did the doors on the second level of the landing bay shot open with dozens of clones flooding out in their white armour with brown paint.

Everything went black, a faint voice whispered with a kind voice in his ears but its words did not match its tone

“Too impulsive”

“Too arrogant”

“Too easily distracted”

“And they paid the price”

The voice distorted 

.all your fault

All yOUr faULT!

ALL YOUR FAULT!

Harik shot up from his bed frantically, looking around, sweating intensely. He looked at his hands, shaking as if he were on Hoth. He sighed heavily before putting his face in hands and silently sobbing.

Today is just another day

Harik

Vander had asked the group to run a quick errand for him which gave Harik a better chance to examine the city he would be calling home. Harik didn’t know what to make of the undercity, it was so different.

Since he was a Jedi growing up in the temple on Coruscant he seldom left the grounds unless he snuck out which was rare. He hardly ventured so low beneath the planet's many levels but imagined that the undercity was much like the lowest levels. 

The undercity was in a miserable state that much was certain, as he walked alongside Powder and the others he couldn’t help but notice its sorry state. The buildings while sturdy looked mismanaged and poorly maintained, there were all matters of businesses that were not legal in the slightest just conducting business in open view, and the air, by the force the air was insufferable. He had learned the undercity’s main legal businesses were in the mines or related to the mines that were owned by Piltover. 

‘You’d think the people doing the lion's share of the labor would live better than this’ he silently lamented. During the Clone Wars Harik's worldview was altered irreparably after witnessing the unfair and negligible treatment some worlds received by the republic senate.

He couldn’t help but compare Piltover to the republic, on the outside a shining beacon of all that is good but the inside was ugly and corrupt if the undercity’s poor state was any indication. 

Harik was finding it harder to breathe with how thick the gas got. “This is normal?” he had whispered to Powder, trying not to sound as alarmed as he felt.

She shrugged casually. “Mines. It gets worse the deeper you go.” Worse? Harik couldn’t believe it. He had compared the undercity to Coruscant’s lower levels, but this was far worse. At least in Coruscant, you could breathe.

The others seemed to have no problem, Vi seemed to have noted his struggle but said nothing thankfully, he did NOT want Mylo on his case, the lanky teen seemed to go after Powder whenever she didn’t perform as expected.

He felt out of place now, especially amongst the group, they were older than him with the exception of Powder, and unlike his previous life, he did not feel he had any common ground with them.

He had yet to develop a genuine relationship with the older ones, Mylo was just pretentious the majority of the time with his petty attitude towards Powder. He was so full of unwarranted confidence 'Then again, can't say I was much better a year ago' Harik silently thought. He thought being a Jedi made him all that. It didn't as he soon learned.

Claggor was nice, if a bit quiet. Calm and grounded, he was the group’s gentle giant, even if his size and personality made Harik briefly mistake him for Vander’s son. He’d even slipped Harik a cupcake earlier, a fact Harik would never admit influenced his opinion.

He was the most level-headed of the group, a real peace-keeping sort. He was rather considerate towards Powder and himself but to Harik it felt weird being spoken to as a young child again when just a year ago he was commanding military operations.

'This is what a childhood should be like, right?' Harik felt robbed of a childhood now that he looked back at it all. But a near-silent voice whispered in the back of his mind 'A lot of less lucky kids got robbed as well. So stop complaining' the voice whispered to him.

Harik shook the voice off as he considered Vi next. Vi, as he quickly learned, was the de facto leader. Headstrong and confident, she kept everyone in line. Harik admired her determination, though her impulsive streak concerned him. It was easy to see she was desperate to prove herself. He had felt much the same way under Master Fexis.

He and Vi had yet to have a real conversation without the others around, it was mostly awkward small talk on his side. He knew she was a good person, Powder was constantly singing her praises after all, Harik just didn't know what to say to her. That and she sorta scared him.

And then there was Powder. Harik couldn’t help but smile thinking about her. She was an endless well of curiosity, bursting with ideas and energy. They’d spent hours together the previous day, making gadgets that served no purpose other than to make them laugh.

Despite her lack of formal education, she was brilliant with machinery. True, most of her bombs didn’t work—but that wasn’t surprising given her limited resources and understanding of chemistry. Even so, Harik saw her for what she was: a prodigy in a world that hadn’t earned her.

As they walked, Harik tried to suppress his connection to the emotions swirling around him. The despair, fear, and resentment of the undercity’s people pressed against his senses, threatening to overwhelm him.

It was too familiar, too much like the raw emotions he had felt among civilians during the Clone Wars.

Meanwhile, Mylo was grumbling loudly about the monotony of their errand, earning collective eye rolls. It wasn’t glamorous work—just picking up fruit for the bar.

They arrived at a small stand run by a Vastayan woman, her feline ears twitching as she stood upright at the sight of them. Vi handed her a slip of paper with Vander’s signature, and without a word, the woman retrieved a box from the back and passed it to Claggor.

'Well, that was simple enough', Harik thought, shooting Mylo a side-eye as if daring him to complain.

The walk back to the Last Drop began uneventfully. Vi, Claggor, and Mylo fell into conversation, their animated chatter leaving Powder quietly trailing behind. Noticing this, Harik struck up a conversation about their plans to visit Benzo’s shop.

Her eyes brightened instantly, and a spring returned to her step. “You’ll love it! Benzo’s shop is full of stuff we can tinker with. Ekko promised to set some parts aside for us!”

They talked the rest of the way, Powder’s excitement washing over Harik like a warm breeze. He caught Vi glancing back at them, her expression soft with approval. Harik could feel her relief, probably happy that Powder had another friend her age.

The peace shattered when a group of boys, five of them, blocked their path. They looked to be Vi’s age, but their hostility was sharp, and their attention was fixed squarely on Harik.

Mylo raised a brow and sauntered forward, his tone dripping with mockery. “And why the hell aren’t you guys moving out of the way?”

The leader stepped forward—a tall boy with a broken nose and a pipe clutched in his uninjured hand.

His glare burned as he pointed the pipe at Harik. “That little shit is why,” he snarled. “You think you can get away with what you pulled yesterday? Think again.”

Harik tilted his head, confused until realization dawned. These were the boys he had fought yesterday—the ones Vander had found him pummeling in the alley. His confusion gave way to an easy grin.

“Oh, hey!” he said brightly, raising a hand in greeting. “How’s the nose?”

There was a brief silence but soon gave way to the group's understanding of what was happening. Mylo doubled over laughing. “No fucking way! You guys got your asses kicked by him ?!” His laughter grew louder, bordering on hysterical. “That’s priceless! What, you here for revenge or something?”

He draped an arm over Harik’s head like a trophy, much to Harik’s irritation. “Is this your fearsome enemy?” He mockingly waved his hands as he spoke.

The leader’s face darkened further, his knuckles tightening around the pipe as his fury turned from Harik to Mylo.

Vi chuckled at Mylo’s antics, the corners of her lips quirking upward as if to humor him. But the laughter didn’t last long. Her face turned sharp, her stance shifting as she stepped forward.

“Listen,” she said, her voice low and cutting, “how about you all screw off? You’re not laying a finger on him.”

Her eyes locked with the leader’s, daring him to try. Claggor quietly set down the box of fruit, his expression unchanged, but his gaze sharp and calculating.

Powder stood frozen at the back of their group, her small frame stiff with anxiety. Harik didn’t need to sense her fear to know how unsettled she was; it was written in her wide eyes and the way her fingers nervously twisted the hem of her shirt. Without a word, he shifted to stand in front of her, his presence acting as a quiet shield.

Tension thickened the air like smoke. There was going to be a fight—he could feel it in the simmering anger rolling off the other boys.

The leader made the first move, lunging for Harik with a clumsy swing. The boy’s movements were slow and telegraphed, nothing compared to the commando droids Harik had sparred against during the war. By the time the blond had committed to his attack, Harik was already crouched beneath him, driving an elbow into his gut.

The leader staggered backward, gasping as he dropped the pipe. Before Harik could reposition, another boy, this one brown-haired and broad-faced, charged in with fists swinging. His strikes were wild, fueled by rage rather than skill. Harik sidestepped effortlessly, blocking when necessary before delivering a sharp kick to the boy’s knee. The larger teen dropped to the ground with a grunt, only for Harik to finish him with a spinning kick to the jaw. The boy crumpled, groaning as he hit the dirt.

The rest of the gang surged forward, but by then, Vi, Claggor, and Mylo were already in motion.

Claggor tackled one of the boys like a battering ram, slamming him into a wall with a thud that left him gasping. Mylo engaged another, weaving around sloppy punches while throwing in the occasional jab with a smirk.

Vi, however, was on a whole different level. She moved with precision, ducking under strikes and countering with hard, deliberate punches that sent her opponents reeling. She was a natural brawler, quick on her feet and unrelenting in her attacks.

The leader recovered enough to make another move, sneaking behind Vi as she focused on one of his lackeys. His pipe rose in a wide arc, aiming for the back of her head.

Harik reacted instantly. He let the Force flow through him, enhancing his speed just enough to close the distance. With a sharp strike, he drove a fist into the boy’s gut. The leader collapsed to his knees, clutching his stomach, and Vi finished the job with a brutal uppercut that sent teeth flying.

The blond crumpled, groaning as blood dripped from his mouth. Vi turned to Harik, her breathing steady despite the fight.

“Nice save,” she said, clapping him on the shoulder. There was a spark of respect in her eyes as she nodded at him before turning to scan the area.

Powder.

Vi’s expression softened with concern when she realized Powder hadn’t been involved in the fight. She moved toward where her sister had been standing, leaving Harik to glance back at the chaos. The gang lay scattered on the ground, groaning and defeated, their would-be revenge a complete failure.

While waiting for the others, Harik wandered toward the railing, his eyes drifting to the river cutting through the Undercity. Children played in the water, splashing each other and swimming against the current. Their laughter rang out, light and carefree, a sound that felt at odds with the gray, industrial world around them.

But then Harik looked closer.

The water wasn’t clear. Swirling in its currents were ribbons of pollutants, shimmering with unnatural hues—oily rainbows, streaks of sickly green, and clumps of murky gray. Chemicals. Waste. This wasn’t just a polluted stream; it was a flowing waste dump. And the children were playing in it, blissfully unaware or simply too accustomed to care.

Harik didn’t know which of the two disturbed him more.

‘Didn’t Vander say most of the water we use comes from these rivers?’ Harik thought, his stomach churning at the realization.

“Sad, isn’t it?”

The voice startled him. He turned to see Claggor leaning against the railing beside him, his broad frame sagging slightly as he looked out over the water.

“Piltover’s runoff,” Claggor explained, his voice uncharacteristically bitter. “It’s cheaper for them to dump their waste in our water than to dispose of it properly.”

Harik glanced back at the swirling, contaminated river. “Didn’t take you for an environmentalist,” he remarked, trying to lighten the mood.

Claggor let out a short laugh, but it lacked his usual warmth. “The Undercity’s all iron and concrete,” he said, his eyes fixed on the water. “After a while, you start to appreciate the things that grow.” He lifted his goggles to rub his eyes, and Harik caught the faintest flicker of longing in his expression.

“Maybe,” Claggor continued, “if the river wasn’t so polluted, we could grow something by the banks. Imagine it—flowers, crops… something green for a change.” He paused, and a small, wistful smile tugged at his lips, small and fleeting, but there.

For a moment, Harik just watched him. He could feel it—Claggor’s quiet, unfiltered hope, radiating like a gentle warmth. It reminded him of Powder’s joy whenever one of her gadgets worked. Of the quiet pride he’d felt after a successful mission. Of his Master and Samil’s shared triumph when their ship finally broke through the anomalies into the unknown regions.

He swallowed hard, forcing the memory back.

“Claggor! Harik! C’mon, we’re going now!”

Vi’s voice broke the moment. Claggor patted Harik on the shoulder and turned to rejoin the group, but Harik lingered, his gaze trailing back to the river. He followed its stream past the laughing children, past the swirling colors, until it ended at a rusting, broken machine sitting on the riverbank, half-submerged and lifeless, the water filter.

Something sparked in his mind. With one last look at the river, he turned and jogged back to the group, the plan forming rapidly in his head.

Later, after they’d delivered the crate to Vander, Harik and Powder made their way straight to Benzo’s shop. Powder practically skipped down the path, her excitement spilling over.

“Think he’s found anything good for us this time?” she asked, her voice lilting with hope.

Harik grinned. “If not, we’ll make something good out of whatever he’s got.”

In truth, Harik was just as eager. Tinkering had been his only outlet since arriving in this strange world. The machines here were simple, not primitive per say, but compared to the intricate technology of the wider galaxy Piltover’s technology wouldn’t be anywhere near impressive. But that simplicity had its own charm—it was straightforward, tactile, easy to understand. 

He’d learned quickly how to work with them, how to strip them down and rebuild them, how to make them better.

Powder shot him a grin as they reached the shop. “Bet I’ll find something cooler than you,” she teased.

“Only if I let you,” he shot back, his tone light.

Powder’s enthusiasm was contagious, and by the time they pushed open the door to Benzo’s shop, Harik’s mind was brimming with ideas. He glanced back, his thoughts flickering again to the river. To the machine. To the possibility of fixing what others had left broken.

Ekko spotted them the moment they stepped inside and ran up, his face alight with excitement. “Guys, I finished it!”

Powder’s eyes widened, and she immediately sprang into action. “Wait, Ekko! We’ve gotta present it properly —with the respect it deserves!”

Ekko grinned, clearly on board, as they dragged Harik into a chair. Powder held up an imaginary microphone, adopting the most exaggerated announcer voice she could muster.

“Ladies and gentlemen, we here at Benzo’s proudly present the fastest , bestest , most mind-boggling vehicle this side of Runeterra! Behold… Dizzy-Whiz 2.0!”

Ekko ducked into the storage room, making comical trumpet noises as Powder tossed confetti—likely scraps from their projects. With a triumphant flourish, Ekko wheeled out a contraption that made Harik raise a brow. It was a circular machine with handlebars and a seat in the middle, clearly a monocycle but unlike anything he’d seen before.

Harik sat there for a moment, amused by their theatrics. A bit dramatic, these two, he thought, suppressing a smile. Then his gaze settled on the Dizzy-Whiz.

“Nice design—wait. 2.0? What happened to 1.0?”

He already had a feeling, but the chance to watch them squirm was too tempting to pass up.

Ekko straightened awkwardly, and Powder bashfully rubbed her arm, suddenly very interested in the floor.

Ekko muttered something under his breath.

“What was that?” Harik asked playfully, leaning forward.

Ekko groaned and spoke louder this time. “We may have, accidentally, launched it off a ramp into the river.”

Laughter erupted from Harik, and even Benzo couldn’t hold back a chuckle from behind the counter. Ekko and Powder grimaced, their faces glowing red with embarrassment.

“No, but seriously, this is impressive !” Harik said, gesturing at the machine. And he meant it. Back at the temple, he could barely get away with building anything beyond basics—his one attempt at a hoverboard had earned him a week cleaning the kitchens, courtesy of Masters Windu and Ki-Adi-Mundi.

“Wanna give it a test drive?” Ekko offered, hopeful.

Harik shook his head. “You guys go ahead. I’ve got my own project to finish.” He motioned toward the mechanical arm he’d been working on, its design inspired by super battle droids.

Powder and Ekko barely paused before racing off, their excitement bubbling over as they wheeled the Dizzy-Whiz outside. Harik chuckled to himself, turning back to his workspace. But as his mind returned to the river and its sorry state, he set the arm aside and began searching through the shop for parts.

Benzo leaned forward on the counter, one brow raised. “Looking for something, spaceman?”

Harik didn’t glance up, rummaging through a pile of gears and pipes. “The river,” he said plainly. “I think I can fix its filtration system. Just need the right parts. Got anything I can use?”

Benzo frowned, tilting his head. “You sure about that? Don’t mean any disrespect—you’re smart, kid—but fixing filters sounds a bit above your level.”

Harik snorted softly, pulling a basket closer to toss in pieces as he worked. “All due respect, Benzo, but your tech isn’t exactly cutting edge. I can handle it.”

Without warning, Harik opened his canteen and flicked a splash of water at Benzo using the Force.

“Bloody hell!” Benzo exclaimed, wiping his face. His eyes narrowed, but the amusement in his voice betrayed him. “What was that for?”

Harik grinned, taking a long sip from the canteen. “That was for calling me ‘spaceman.’”

Benzo laughed, shaking his head. But then his expression sobered. “Listen, kid… I don’t have what you need. Not for something like that. Vander and someone else asked me years ago, but the kind of parts you’re after? They’re topside, firmly under Piltover’s control.”

Harik scowled for a moment, then crossed his arms, his voice turning sharp. “So why not steal them? It’s not like anyone here is unfamiliar with the concept. I doubt anyone would object to having at least one clean river.”

“No.” Benzo’s voice was firm, his gaze hard. “Vander’s rules. The northside’s off-limits. We don’t touch Piltover’s business.”

Harik stared at him, baffled. “So we steal from our own people—people who can barely afford it—but not from the people who can replace whatever we take without breaking a sweat? That makes so much sense.”

Benzo gave him a look, pleading silently for him to drop it.

Harik rolled his eyes and muttered, “Sure, that makes as much sense as a Bantha swimming.”

Harik swore to himself when he landed here that he would never do something like this. He should have known better—he was always terrible at keeping promises, especially to himself.

The streets were silent, the world shrouded in the stillness of night. He slipped out of his window, moving quietly through the twisting alleys until he reached an isolated point in the Undercity, away from prying eyes. Pressing a button on his wrist, he watched as his ship blinked to life, lights flickering softly in the darkness of the cave where it lay hidden. The ramp lowered, inviting him inside.

This ship was his sanctuary. His home away from the chaos above. It had been his, Samil’s, and Master Fexis’s passion project—a vessel built not just to travel but to explore, to survive the unknown. Now it was all he had left of them. Harik couldn’t linger here any longer than necessary; the memories threatened to swallow him.

The interior was cluttered but functional. Trophies and tools from the Clone Wars lined the walls alongside inventions they’d tinkered with for years. But his focus tonight wasn’t on nostalgia. It was on a set of probe droids.

These weren’t ordinary droids. They had been modified to map vast cityscapes quickly and efficiently. Harik programmed them to scan for specific materials used in the Undercity’s busted river filter, which he had painstakingly analyzed earlier. He sent the droids out, their sleek forms disappearing into the night as they silently infiltrated factories and storage facilities across Piltover and the Lanes.

It was a long process. Hours stretched into more hours as Harik monitored their progress, careful not to raise alarms or draw attention. Eventually, the droids pinpointed the factory he needed—one that not only had the materials for his improved filter design but plenty of extra components he could repurpose.

Harik let out a deep breath. The hard part was still ahead.

Harik swore to himself when he landed here that he would never do something like this. He should have known better—he was always terrible at keeping promises, especially to himself.

The streets were shrouded by the night, only neon signs lighting the nearby paths. He slipped out of his window, moving quietly through the twisting alleys until he reached an isolated point in the Undercity, away from prying eyes, an isolated cave. He pressed a button on his wrist gauntlet.

From the depths of the hidden cave, his ship awakened. Lights flickered along its hull, and the ramp descended with a low, mechanical hum. The sight of it filled Harik with a bittersweet ache. This ship was more than a vessel; it was a piece of home. He, Samil, and Master Fexis had poured their hearts into it, a passion project born of countless hours of work. Now it was all he had left of them, it felt more like a tomb now. 

Harik pushed the thought aside and stepped inside.

The ship was large, large enough to be considered a cargo or smuggling ship. its interior filled with remnants of the Clone Wars, trophy’s mainly but it also housed inventions of their own design. He made his way to the back, where a row of probe droids sat idle.They weren’t ordinary; he and Samil had modified them for precision mapping of sprawling landscapes. Harik reached for the damaged piece of the river filter he’d brought along and set it on the scanner. He programmed the droids to search for its components.

It was common material, found in factories all over the city, but he refined their parameters. They would search every factory, every warehouse, until they pinpointed the exact source of the parts he needed. The droids buzzed to life, their sleek forms vanishing into the night.

Hours passed as Harik monitored their progress. By dawn, they had found what he was looking for—a factory near the bridge in Piltover. It wasn’t heavily guarded, and its proximity to the water made it an ideal target. He spent the following day resting and planning, knowing the risk he was about to take.

‘Vander is going to kill me’ he thought, slightly anxious, the man had taken him in and now Harik was breaking his rules. His thoughts turned back to that river, to the children playing in it, to Claggor’s sad face as he looked on at the stream. ‘But it’s worth it’ he continued with his resolve steeled. 

The second night came, and Harik set out under the cover of darkness.

The factory loomed ahead, its angular structure cast in the pale glow of streetlamps. He’d “borrowed” a small boat earlier, a rickety thing that barely floated, and docked it nearby to transport his cargo back.

ported that the guards were lax, and what he saw confirmed it. A lone sentry sat at a small table, tapping his fingers in boredom.

Harik took a deep breath, reached out with the Force, and gently nudged the man’s mind. The guard’s eyelids grew heavy, and within moments, he was slumped over, snoring softly.

“Sweet dreams,” Harik muttered as he slipped through the shadows all too naturally, he had done so many stealth operations like this before but unlike battle droids, the guards got tired and didn’t have night vision.

With the guard’s keys, he unlocked the factory doors and began his search. The space was massive, filled with shelves and crates brimming with supplies. Harik moved quickly but methodically, collecting the parts he needed and wrapping them tightly in a tarp. He wasn’t here just to fix the filter—he wanted to ensure the design would hold, long-term.

When he was done, he paused by the main power source. With a small tug of the Force, he pulled the plug. The factory plunged into darkness.

The confusion outside was instant. Voices called out, footsteps shuffled, but Harik was already moving. He carried his cargo through the air, the tarp floating silently above him as he slipped out and over the fence. By the time the lights flickered back on, he was long gone.

Back at his ship, Harik secured the parts in his hidden cave and began the painstaking work of rebuilding the river filter. Night after night, he returned to the polluted water, working piece by piece. He hid the new components under a shell of older, rusted metal to keep them inconspicuous.

Two weeks later, morning broke with whispers of disbelief. People gathered along the riverbanks, staring into water so clear they could see the bottom. People gathered along the banks, staring in disbelief at the crystal-clear stream. For the first time in years, they could see the bottom. Children splashed and played, their laughter echoing through the alleys, while families filled jugs to carry the fresh water home.

Harik sat on the railing, watching quietly. Through the Force, he could feel the joy radiating from the crowd—their disbelief, their relief, their fragile hope. He closed his eyes, letting it wash over him.

“You did this, didn’t you?”

Harik opened his eyes to see Claggor standing nearby, a knowing smile on his face. Before Harik could respond, Claggor stepped forward and pulled him into a brief hug. Then, with a laugh, he ran down to the river, his childlike excitement impossible to miss.

Harik smiled faintly, but the moment was interrupted by a presence. Across the street, a tall, muscular woman leaned against the wall, watching him with sharp eyes. He had seen her at the last drop before, Sevika.

She held his gaze for a moment, then gave him a small nod and a faint smile before disappearing into the crowd.

Harik exhaled, running a hand through his hair. It was only a matter of time before Vander confronted him. He could already picture the lecture, but he found he didn’t care.

The river was clean. People were happy. For the first time since he’d landed here, Harik felt like he was doing what he was meant to do. Being a Jedi.

Being a Jedi wasn’t about orders, or temples, or wars. It was about helping those who needed it, however you could. His master had knocked any of those delusions out of his head as soon as they had formed.

And this? This was just the beginning. Doing this good deed gave him the taste to do more. 

He just needed to survive the angry Vander that was definitely waiting in the last drop.

Chapter Text

Vander

Vander was pissed.

As he locked up the Last Drop for the night, he couldn’t shake the frustration rolling through him. He’d given Harik the lecture of a lifetime for his reckless decision. Sure, the river was clean now, and people were already collecting fresh water, but Vander couldn’t bring himself to celebrate. Not when he knew what came next.

Harik’s theft wasn’t much in the grand scheme of things—a few parts no one would miss. But the problem wasn’t what he stole. It was who he stole from.

Councillor Bolbok.

A man known for his pride, his paranoia, and his deep-seated resentment toward the Undercity. To someone like Bolbok, a robbery wasn’t just a crime—it was an insult. And men like him didn’t let insults go unanswered.

Vander took a steadying breath and pushed through the door to Benzo’s shop. His old friend had just sent Ekko home and was in the middle of closing up for the night.

Leaning on the counter, Vander stroked his beard. “I can’t believe the kid pulled this without even mentioning it to me. Not a word. I only found out a week after the fact.”

Benzo sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Shit, Vander. I’m sorry. He came by asking about parts for the filter, and I might’ve let it slip that they’re only found in Piltover. Should’ve clocked it when I saw that scheming look in his eye.” He exhaled through his nose. “Same look you and Silco used to get before a job.”

At the mention of Silco, Vander’s jaw tightened. He gave Benzo a sharp look, and his friend quickly glanced away. They had an unspoken rule: don’t bring up Silco. Not after what happened on the bridge.

Vander exhaled heavily. “I should’ve seen it coming. From the little he’s said about his people, they sound like the type to do whatever they think is right—consequences be damned. But unlike Silco…” Vander trailed off, rubbing his eyes. “Harik realized what he’d done. When he saw the danger, the risk, the way it could blow back on the Lanes—he went pale. ”

Benzo hummed, pouring a drink. “He’s a good kid, Vander. Still adjusting to a different world, but he’s got his heart in the right place.” He took a sip, then smirked. “In all honesty, I wouldn’t mind if he kept fixing things down here. Just needs to learn how to cover his tracks better.”

The corner of Vander’s mouth twitched. “Yeah, well, he won’t get the chance.”

He glanced toward the door. “Any word on our guest?”

Benzo set out three glasses and pulled the closest thing they had to whiskey from beneath the counter. “She’ll be here soon, I think.” He sighed, shaking his head. “Not that I’m looking forward to it.”

As if on cue, the door creaked open. Five enforcers entered—four lingering outside, one stepping in.

Sheriff Grayson.

Vander slid the third glass across the table, and it landed in her hands. “I think I know why you’re here,” he said, masking his irritation with a mock-friendly tone.

Grayson exhaled sharply. “Yeah, you do.” She took a sip of the whiskey, barely hiding her distaste for the taste. “Factory robbery. Near the bridge. What do you know?”

Vander raised a brow, playing dumb. “Anybody hurt?”

She shook her head. “No. Just some stolen parts—trinkets, really.”

Vander feigned relief. “That so? You got a description of the perp?”

“Again, no.”

He let out a low whistle, shaking his head. “Then why are you bringing this to me? Do you even know if they came through the Lanes? Because I can only help if they did.”

Grayson narrowed her eyes. “That’s a question only you can answer, Vander.” She reached into her coat and handed him a list. “Anyone come through here trying to trade these?”

Vander took a quick glance before handing it off to Benzo. It was his job to know what was being traded in the Lanes.

Benzo studied the paper, taking his time. “Nope. Sorry, Sheriff. Nothing like this passed through. And if it had , people would talk.”

Grayson sighed, rubbing her temple. “Councillor Bolbok is hounding me for results. He’s pissed and pushing for my men to be… more convincing during interrogations.”

Vander fought the urge to snarl. He knew what that meant.

When she finally left, he sat down heavily, staring at the glass in front of him.

Benzo gave him a wary look. “Something wrong?”

Vander exhaled sharply. “Someone should’ve talked by now. Harik wasn’t exactly subtle when he was working on the filter. Why hasn’t anyone given him up?”

Benzo poured another drink. “Sevika, from what I heard.”

Vander blinked. “Sevika?”

Benzo nodded. “Word is she’s been telling folks that Harik was acting on your orders. That he’s planning to fix more of the Undercity’s infrastructure. People are eating it up—even the lowest of the low want clean water and air. And since the kid did it for free , they want him to keep doing it.”

Vander felt a heavy weight settle in his gut.

Sevika hadn’t said a word about this to him earlier. That worried him.

She was loyal—Vander had no doubts about that. But throwing his name around? Making promises he couldn’t keep? That was dangerous.

Because if Harik kept this up, if he kept stealing from Piltover to fix the Lanes, then Bolbok would take action. And worse—Vander’s agreement with Grayson would be broken.

And that would mean Piltover’s wrath coming down on them.

He rubbed his temples. He’d have to talk to her. She wouldn’t like what he had to say, but she’d understand. She had to. Because if she didn’t, things were about to spiral out of control. Even if she didn’t like it she’d understand, she was nothing if not loyal after all.

Harik

Harik dragged the broom across the scuffed-up floors of The Last Drop, grumbling under his breath as he worked. This was just one of the many new rules Vander had slapped on him after that factory job. He couldn’t go anywhere without either Vander or Vi tagging along, wasn’t allowed out of his room after sundown, and now, on top of everything else, he had to help around the bar. Vander said it was to keep him occupied and in sight so he didn’t pull any more “reckless stunts,”

Not that sweeping was the worst punishment. Harik had done plenty of it during the Clone Wars—Master Fexis had insisted on it as part of his routine whenever they were between missions. Back then, it had been a way to focus his thoughts. Now, it just felt like a slap on the wrist. He kept his mouth shut, though. Vander’s lecture from last night still played in his head, and he wasn’t in a hurry to hear it again.

What really got under his skin was that Vander seemed to think he’d done something wrong. Harik didn’t see it that way. Sure, he’d broken the rules—but only once! And it had been for a good reason. He could feel Vander’s mixed emotions whenever he was around—pride, frustration, and this thick layer of worry that Harik didn’t understand. He’d tried to get Vander to explain what he was so afraid of, but the man had shut him down every time.

Still, it wasn’t all bad. When Vander told Vi to keep a closer eye on him, he’d had to explain why, which meant everyone else found out what Harik had done. Claggor already knew, of course, but Mylo and Powder’s reactions were… entertaining. Mylo had actually said something nice to him—Harik thought Powder might pass out from the shock. She wasn’t as amused when she realized Harik hadn’t let her in on the plan, but he’d managed to smooth things over by pointing out it was all spur-of-the-moment. Vi, though—Vi had been impressed. She didn’t say it outright, but Harik could tell. She even said she wished she’d been there to stick it to Piltover herself. That one small moment of approval made Harik grin like an idiot.

But even with the others warming up to him, Harik couldn’t shake the feeling that something was off with Vander. The way he acted—it wasn’t just about the factory job. There was something else going on, something Vander wasn’t telling him. Harik was sure of it. And sooner or later, he was going to figure out what it was.

The Last Drop was pretty dead today. Harik moved his broom across the floor, barely paying attention to what he was doing. Instead, his ears tuned in to the low murmur of conversations around the room. A bit of gossip here, a plan for a heist there—just the usual undercity stuff he’d come to expect.

He shuffled over to the pool table, where a group of guys stood talking, the clack of pool balls mixing with their voices. He didn’t mean to listen in—it just kind of happened.

“—and then the damned enforcer hit him with the butt of his rifle, even though he was cooperating!” one of the men growled, slamming his pool cue against the floor for emphasis. Tattoos covered his arms, and a pair of lip piercings glinted in the dim light. “Now my brother’s got cracked ribs. And as if that’s not bad enough, Progress Day’s coming up. They’re making him pull double shifts in the mines.”

“Yeah, things have been rough,” muttered another guy, this one wearing a dusty miner’s uniform. He looked like he hadn’t slept in a week. “Enforcers have been way harsher lately. You think it’s ‘cause of that robbery?”

That last comment hit Harik like a brick to the chest. His broom slowed as the words sank in. During Vander’s lecture, the old man had warned him this would happen—how his actions could have consequences for other people. At the time, Harik hadn’t really believed him. But hearing it spelled out like this, from people who were living it? It felt different. More real.

It wasn’t a new feeling for Harik. Back during the Clone Wars, he’d made choices that left men under his command dead. Even when they’d won the fight, there’d always been casualties. He remembered the way it felt to watch them carried away, knowing it was his orders that had put them there. That guilt had been with him for a long time, but after what the clones pulled at the end of the war? He’d buried it. Or at least, he thought he had.

He shook his head, trying to push the memories away. When he glanced up, Vander was watching him from behind the bar. Harik must’ve had some kind of look on his face, because Vander’s expression shifted. It wasn’t angry, not even disappointed—just this quiet, knowing look, like he understood exactly what was running through Harik’s head.

Harik quickly looked away, focusing on the floor like it might swallow him whole. He didn’t want sympathy, and he definitely didn’t want Vander thinking he was cracking. So, he tightened his grip on the broom and kept sweeping, pretending the knot in his stomach didn’t exist.

“It’s not the robbery that’s got the topsiders so riled up,” a woman’s voice called from the corner booth. Sevika. She was sprawled in her usual spot, cigarette in hand, exhaling a cloud of smoke as she spoke. “Like you said, Progress Day’s coming up, and every year those blue-and-gold bastards come down here to make sure we don’t get any ideas about going topside.”

She rose from her seat with the slow grace of someone who owned whatever space they were in, her empty glass dangling from her fingers. As she strolled past the pool table toward the bar, she kept talking, her voice carrying easily over the low murmurs in the pub. “They like to make sure us sump rats don’t taint their pristine image for all the foreign visitors. Wouldn’t want the undercity making them look bad.”

Her words struck a chord. The patrons around the room began muttering their agreement, their stories tumbling out one after another. Tales of rough treatment during Progress Days past—beatings, arrests, broken homes—spilled into the open. Harik listened, the bitterness in their voices setting his own nerves on edge. He hated how much it all sounded familiar. Every story, every injustice, reminded him of the Republic’s darker days and the Empire’s iron grip. Even after fleeing to the unknown regions after the Empire rose, he’d still heard the whispers of its brutality.

Sevika returned from the bar, a fresh drink in hand, and deliberately knocked over a tray of food as she passed. She barely paused, just waved Harik over with a flick of her fingers. Vander, watching from his spot at the bar, gave Harik a pointed look that said everything without a word. Harik sighed and moved to clean up the mess, broom and tray in hand.

“You did good work with the river filter, kid,” Sevika said casually as he swept the food into the tray. The comment caught him off guard, and for a split second, he froze before quickly masking it with indifference.

“How’d you figure it out?” he asked, not bothering to deny it. What was the point?

“One of my guys saw you out there in the middle of the night,” she said, taking another drag from her cigarette and exhaling the smoke in a slow, deliberate plume. “I take it the old man didn’t take it well?” She nodded toward the broom in his hand.

“To put it mildly,” Harik replied, keeping his tone neutral. His mind worked overtime, trying to figure out what she wanted from him.

“It was a good thing you did,” she said, and to his surprise, she sounded sincere. Harik’s senses stretched out, testing the edges of her emotions. Nothing malicious. No blackmail, no manipulation—just genuine approval. “It’s been a long time since anything good come to this side of the river.”

Harik didn’t know what to say, so he didn’t. He kept sweeping, waiting for her to get to her point.

“Are you thinking about doing stuff like that more often?” she asked, her tone curious but not pushy.

“I was,” he admitted, glancing at her. “But Vander’s got me under watch now. Besides, I’m not sure I want to keep going if it means more enforcers coming down here.”

She opened her mouth, probably to repeat the same argument she’d made to the guys at the pool table, but Harik raised a hand to stop her. “We both know what you said back there was only partly true.”

There was a moment of silence between them, heavy but not tense. Then Sevika shrugged. “Y’know, this kind of thing happens all the time, kid. Pilties get all bent out of shape over something small, send the enforcers down to crack heads, and eventually, it blows over.” She paused, her gaze turning thoughtful. “But ruffling a few feathers topside? If it means clean water and air for people down here? That’s worth it. In the end, you’ll help more people than you hurt.”

Those words hit Harik like a punch to the gut. For a moment, he wasn’t in The Last Drop anymore. He was back aboard his master’s Venator, standing in the aftermath of another battle. It wasn’t Sevika speaking to him—it was someone else. Someone with a helmet painted in fire markings and a thermal detonator sketched on the side. Corporal Payload. Traitor.

“Help more people than you hurt,” Payload had said, finding Harik brooding over the bodies of the men they’d lost. Those words had been meant as comfort, but now they just twisted in Harik’s chest.

He shook himself out of it, forcing the memory away. Sevika was watching him, waiting for something, and he turned to her with a sharp question that had been eating at him since this conversation started. “Why are you so interested in what I do with myself?”

The question came out more biting than he’d intended, but he didn’t care. He barely knew Sevika—he’d only ever seen her during poker nights at The Last Drop, blending in with the smoke and laughter. So why the sudden interest?

“It’s rare to see someone actually doing something good for the undercity,” Sevika said, leaning back in her chair with her cigarette smoldering between her fingers. Her eyes flicked toward the hazy ceiling as she spoke, the words laced with a quiet frustration. “We’ve been on a steep decline for years. The undercity’s started cannibalizing itself, and no one does anything but watch it burn.”

Harik didn’t respond right away, but her words stuck with him. They made sense. Too much sense. He could feel her sincerity—it seeped through her usual tough exterior, carried by a quiet edge of worry. She wasn’t just buttering him up; she was worried for the city and desperate for anything that could slow its decay.

That thought lingered in Harik’s mind. She wasn’t wrong. Maybe the city did need more people doing the kind of work he’d done, no matter how risky. Sure, Vander would be upset, but Vander didn’t need to know. He just needed to cover his tracks better next time—make it look like there was no robbery at all. The real problem was Vander keeping him on such a short leash. That was an issue Harik would have to figure out, but he was confident he could pull it off.

He sighed, meeting Sevika’s gaze with a serious expression. “Meet me back here in ten days. We’ll talk about it more then.”

Sevika’s eyes widened slightly in surprise, but she nodded in confirmation. She opened her mouth to say something else, but Harik had already turned away, heading back to finish his mundane task of sweeping floors.

Harik watched from the sidelines as the usual chaos unfolded in the Last Drop’s living space. Mylo and Claggor were bickering—again—over something neither of them would remember by morning. Vi was shadowboxing in the corner, fists moving with sharp, practiced precision. Powder was hunched over her workbench, tongue slightly sticking out as she tinkered with her latest attempt at a bomb.

She’d let him help with plenty of her inventions—mechanical toys, traps, even smoke grenades—but never the bombs. Those were hers and hers alone. Her passion projects. She wanted to perfect them on her own.

Harik sat apart from the group, absently sketching in his worn notebook, half-listening to the banter while his mind wandered. His pencil traced the outlines of creatures from far beyond this world—Wampas, Loth-cats, Banthas—his thoughts elsewhere.

Should I really go through with this?

His mind was elsewhere.

Sevika’s offer still sat heavy in his thoughts.

Was this really the right move?

His pencil hesitated over the page. The question gnawed at him. He’d spent years being taught that action carried weight, that every decision had ripples—consequences. He could still hear his master’s voice, low and patient, warning him of how easily good intentions could lead to ruin.

But then another voice whispered through his mind, bitter and sharp.

"Doing nothing has consequences too."

That thought quieted his mind for a few moments. It got him to think, to reflect on everytime he asked a senator or general why they were not stepping in on certain conflicts.

How many times had he heard it? “It’s not our place.” “We can’t afford to get involved.”

How many times had those words left people to suffer?

But that voice— that voice—he couldn’t stand.

"Sure, things aren’t great down here, but they could be worse." it whispered as if it were try to tempt him into surrendering to a life of accepting these injustices.

“Could be worse” he spat out quietly  like a venom on his tongue. That thought sounded like a bad joke.

Because he had seen worse.

He shut his eyes. Memories came unbidden—cities left to burn because the Republic debated instead of acting, entire planets abandoned because someone decided the risk was too high. He had seen what happened when people refused to step in, when they turned a blind eye for the sake of stability.

What helped stop all that madness? Was it the senate? The republic? No it was the Jedi

He had watched the Jedi step in when no one else would—on Ryloth, where they liberated an entire people from Separatist rule. On Mandalore, when they overthrew Darth Maul’s tyranny. On Kiros, when they stopped the Zygerians from turning Togruta colonists into slaves.

The Republic hesitated. The Senate debated. The Jedi acted.

They were always there so why shouldn’t he be the Jedi that steps in to help now?

His pencil shifted to the familiar shape of a Purrgil, the great space-faring beasts he’d seen only in temple archives. He barely noticed when Vander came back from wherever he’d been.

“Lights out,” Vander called gruffly, as he always did.

The others groaned but didn’t argue and neither did he trudging up the steps and closing the door behind him.

He waited. Listened.

Once he was certain Vander had turned in for the night, he moved.

Sliding a loose floorboard aside, he pulled out a bundle of schematics and unfolded them on the floor, tracing each blueprint with careful fingers.

His probe droids had done well. Mapping an entire city, especially one as vast and layered as this, had been a challenge, but the droids were designed for urban warfare. They had tracked every underground pipeline, every service tunnel, every forgotten system buried beneath the weight of Piltover’s negligence.

Most people didn’t know about these systems.

They had been built years ago—designed by some counselor he forgot the name of in an apparent act of charity, meant to filter out the worst of the toxic mining gases. But like everything meant for the Undercity, they had been neglected. Left to rot.

Harik traced the routes with his fingertips, mapping out potential targets. The places he would need to hit. The parts he would have to steal.

He paused.

What if I make things worse?

The thought clung to him, wrapping tight around his chest. What if, by trying to help, he ended up making things harder for everyone? What if this wasn’t the right move?

Another memory surfaced—his master’s voice, warning him to think before he acted, to weigh the risks. He had spent his whole life hearing that restraint was the path of the Jedi.

But then he thought of the Clone Wars.

He thought of the planets left to burn, the people the Republic abandoned, the atrocities that were allowed to happen because no one wanted to make things worse.

Harik closed his eyes, exhaling through his nose.

No. Doing nothing isn’t an option.

The Jedi had always been at their best when they acted, when they stood for something. 

The Republic hesitated. The Senate debated. The Jedi acted.

He remembered hearing the stories as a youngling, the way his masters spoke of their duty—not to power , not to politics , but to people.

This was no different.

Yes, it was a gamble. But it always has been.

And if there was one thing Harik knew with absolute certainty, it was this. It was a gamble worth taking.

10 Day's later

The decision was made.

A quiet exchange—nothing more than a subtle nod and a hushed “I’m in” —was all it took. Harik slipped Sevika an address before turning on his heel and walking off, disappearing into the shadows of the Undercity.

Sneaking out from under Vander’s eye was easy, the man didn’t put bars on his windows and Harik was no stranger to dropping off from high places.

 He’d made sure to pick a meeting spot well out of Vander’s usual haunts, somewhere forgotten and unimportant.An abandoned factory at the edge of the Fissures. It was massive—vaulted ceilings, rusted catwalks, a forest of empty crates and broken machinery. The kind of place that should’ve been crawling with squatters or a gang running smuggling routes. But no one had claimed it. Too out of the way.Too far gone. The perfect hiding place.

Harik sat on a decrepit wooden stool, knee bouncing as he listened to the slow echo of footsteps. Sevika and seven of her crew entered, their figures silhouetted in the dim light spilling through shattered windows. Without a word, they gathered around a battered wooden table, its uneven leg forcing it into a slight wobble.

Harik didn’t bother with pleasantries.

Harik took a steadying breath and moved to the board he had set up, a map of Piltover and the Undercity pinned to a rusted metal sheet. A single factory was marked in red.

“We start small,” he said, skipping any formality. No greetings. No wasted words.

He slid a binder across the table. “These are the parts I need. With them, I can build a localized air filter. Small scale—two, maybe three blocks—but enough to test if it works. See what we can get away with.”

Sevika flipped through the pages, barely skimming before arching a brow at him. “Why not just steal the parts to repair the old filtration system? That’d do more good.”

Harik had already thought about that. He had agonized over that.

“Because that’s too big of a move,” he explained, keeping his voice even. “We don’t want enforcer attention, not yet. They expect the air down here to be toxic. If it suddenly isn’t , they’ll notice. They’ll investigate. And they’ll shut it down.”

Sevika studied him for a moment, then smirked—just slightly. She already knew the answer. She had been testing him.

Harik didn’t let it bother him. He had worked under a commander who challenged everything—Master Fexis never let a plan go forward without scrutiny.

You get those parts and those parts only, understand?” Harik’s tone was firm as he met the crew’s eyes. “We’re not in the business of accumulating personal wealth. I’m sure you all have your own ways of going about that.”

He didn’t need the Force to tell that none of them had an issue with his rule. Not yet, at least.

Harik laid out a map of the service tunnels, jabbing his finger at two circled spots. “These will get you to the factory unseen. They’re off the books, no one’s watching them. Stay low, stay quiet, and no one will know you were ever there.”

He flipped to another set of documents and handed them over. “Follow the highlighted path. No guards along the route. And do not engage with anyone. We do this clean.”

Sevika smirked but didn’t argue. She took the documents and gave a curt nod. “We hit it tomorrow night.”

With that, she turned on her heel and left, her crew following.

Harik exhaled. The factory was quiet again, but his thoughts weren’t.

He knew Vander would see this as a betrayal. And maybe, in some way, it was. But was he supposed to just stand by and let the Undercity rot? Vander wanted peace, but peace didn’t fix poisoned rivers or choking air.

He needed to be a good Jedi.

Or else… What had Master Fexis died for?

2 days later

The next 2 days were good ones.

Harik, Ekko, and Powder had played some chaotic, nonsense game that didn’t seem to have actual rules. Ekko had painted an hourglass on his face, wore makeshift cardboard armor, and carried a fake sword. Powder had drawn war paint across her cheeks and stuck a pot on her head for some reason.

And Harik?

Somehow, he got roped into having a thick yellow streak of paint smeared across his nose and cheeks.

It mostly involved them chasing each other around, swinging sticks—except for Powder, who cheated and used her paint gun.

It was strange, playing like this.

Foreign.

Like wearing a memory that didn’t quite fit.

By the time they’d tired themselves out, they collapsed in a tangled heap, using him as a pillow since he was the tallest of the three. Eventually, they drifted off, but Harik stayed awake, eyes trained on the room.

He didn’t sleep unless his back was against a wall. 

Vi must’ve noticed and taken pity on him because, after a while, she quietly carried Powder and Ekko to the couches.

Harik gave her a silent nod of thanks before heading out to the bar.

The Last Drop was alive with noise.

Progress Day was coming soon, which meant the trenchers were drinking, celebrating in their own way. The music, the laughter—it was all loud and reckless, the kind of joy that burned hot before it flickered out.

He spotted Sevika across the room. She saw him too, tapping the table in silent invitation.

Problem was, Vander was right next to her.

Harik needed a distraction.

His eyes scanned the room before settling on the drunkest man he could find. A subtle nudge of the Force to his stomach—nothing too aggressive, just enough—

The man lurched forward and vomited spectacularly.

Not the most elegant solution, but it worked.

Vander, grimacing, immediately moved to help him outside. Harik took his chance, weaving through the crowd and dropping into the seat across from Sevika.

“We’ve got maybe a minute before he comes back,” he said quickly. “Spit it out.”

Sevika chuckled, lighting a cigarette. “Job went smooth. Route was clear, no trouble. Parts are at the warehouse, waiting for you.” she puffed the smoke before  continuing “You’re surprisingly good at planning for a brat” she complimented?

Harik nodded. “Great work. I’ll let you know when the filter’s done. Until then, do… whatever it is you do.”

Sevika snorted as Harik clapped her shoulder awkwardly and hurried back to his spot at the counter, just as Vander reentered—shoes ruined, face unimpressed.

Harik almost felt guilty.

Until he remembered he was still grounded.

Harik had worked through the night, surrounded by the dim glow of oil lamps and the ever-present hum of the warehouse’s leaking pipes.

The technology on this planet was infuriating.

Everything was gears, steam, and crude chemical reactions. Nothing was efficient. Nothing was simple. A basic power cell would have done the job of half the machines he had to tear apart and rewire. Instead, he had to wrestle with archaic mechanisms just to build something as basic as an air filter.

At one point, he had seen a nose hair trimmer the size of his lightsaber. Absolutely ridiculous.

He let out a sigh, rolling his shoulders before examining the half-finished air filter in front of him.He wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his sleeve and leaned back, surveying his work. 

It was ugly. Clunky. A mess of metal and piping.but it was coming together. It was halfway finished—an ugly patchwork of stolen parts and improvised mechanics—but it worked. Or at least, it would work once it was fully operational.

It wouldn’t change the entire Undercity overnight, but it would clean the air for some. Two or three blocks, maybe. That was something.

And something was enough—for now.

Harik felt something spark in his chest.

Excitement.

This was going to help people.

Still, his mind raced ahead.

Water purification. Structural repairs. Hell, even power grids.

So much to fix. So little time. So few resources.

For the first time in a long time, Harik wanted something. Wanted to build, wanted to fix. The Jedi had always spoken of peace, but they had spent most of their time putting out fires. He had seen them act as warriors, as generals. But what if they had been builders instead?

What if peace wasn’t something fought for, but created? Built?  

What if, instead of being warriors, they had been healers?

Harik curled his fingers into a fist.

Maybe he couldn’t heal the galaxy.

But maybe he could heal this place.

Sevika had started calling their group the Thieves guild, it had a nice ring to it he supposed.

The Thieves’ Guild didn’t have to be just criminals.

Maybe, in time, they could be something more.

Harik exhaled, running a hand over the filter’s casing.

He had no idea if Vander would ever understand. Maybe, in some ways, he was betraying the man’s trust. But standing still had never been an option.

Not for a Jedi.