Jeir slammed down on the ground with nothing resembling grace, awkwardly bouncing on his tail bone before rolling onto his back in the mossy clearing.  The moisture soaked through the back of his sleeveless shirt, three pats on his chest from his right hand sending up small clouds of dust from the day’s work.
    As discussed earlier, the base camp’s security detail–seventy four men and a few dozen war droids–had marched off just before lunch to the staging point for the northern assault group.  The Citadel no longer had anything beyond basic speeders for air transport, which turned the battle into an old-fashioned ground fight.  Nearly all of the outlying security checkpoints had been taken out by the main assault group, which left just the last line of defense–the city walls–for them to deal with.
    Jeir spent the rest of the day mixing manual labor with Force-assisted labor, packing up the base’s gear by hand with the medical team’s help and then going into a meditative state to pack the massive pal-cons onto the transport.  It was an old Trandoshan transport, primarily used to haul their Wookiee slave trade around during the final years of the Empire.  Ironic it now carried the life blood of a resistance effort for freedom.
    The meditative state was just as taxing on him as the physical labor though, and as he lay there looking at the orange sky push aside the blues and melt together into purples he could feel the day’s work slipping away from his old muscles.  He would be turning fifty-nine this year, which was hard to believe even for him.  His cloned body seemed to be in working order as it should be, thankfully, which once again brought his mind back to a spinning funnel of thoughts.
    “Layin’ around on the job, eh?” Kal’or called out, coming up south of Jeir’s resting place.  The old man had a habit of making sure he announced himself as he approached allies, which made him wonder what it was like for those on the other end of the spectrum with Kal’or.  Jeir had heard plenty of stories about Boba Fett and a handful of others, he could only imagine one as salty as Kal’or and what he would have to say.
    Jeir could sense a small amount of hesitation in Kal’or’s mind, which could only mean his reason for coming out here wasn’t a good one.  
    “I’ll take the bad news first.”
    “Ha!  I ever tell you how creepy that is?  You Jedi, pickin’ around in people’s heads without an invitation.”
    “Not like that,” Jeir sighed, rolling onto his stomach and pushing himself up to his feet.  “I’m particularly sensitive to…I dunno…emotions, intentions, something like that…in people around me.”
    “Huh,” Kal’or grunted.
    Jeir patted his knees as if it would clean them of the caked mud on the cuffs, then stretching.  “I’ve not once gone into your mind.”
    “Eh, wouldn’t much matter if ya did,” Kal’or huffed.  “I wouldn’t know it anyway.  Look…we’ve got a pickup we have to go make.  I figured I’d come along with ya, leave the base camp’s transport to the Medics to worry about.”
    “A pickup?” Jeir laughed.  “Let me guess…Kiiara?”
    “Yup,” Kal’or replied.  He wet his lips, tongue staying at the corner for a moment longer as he lost himself in thought.
    Jeir nodded, looking off at the setting sun and finally breaking the silence with a heavy sigh.  “You’re going to rub it in, aren’t you?”

    Kal’or looked Jeir in the eyes, the corner of his mouth twitching ever so slightly.  “Yup.”

“:)
–Jinx