Mike’s shop was like nothing I’d ever worked in before. The sheer number of tools and resources at my disposal was staggering. Combined with my Force abilities, there seemed to be little I couldn’t create. Every project was a chance to push boundaries, to see how far my skills—and the Force—could take me.

Custom-fitting parts became second nature. Components that didn’t quite fit could be reshaped or refined in moments. Fine-tuning electronics was even easier. I could solder and resolder micro-components with the precision of a master artisan. Every request that came through the shop was something I could handle.

But there was one problem: secrecy.

If anyone saw how I was completing the work, my cover would be blown. Gossip spreads fast, and even a harmless observation could snowball into danger if the wrong person overheard. Mike, resourceful as ever, had a solution. He converted his office into a private workspace for me, moving his desk into the main hangar and securing the office’s door and windows. Whenever I worked in the hangar itself, he locked the entrance and put up a sign: “On Break—Back in 30 Minutes.”

It worked. Most Force-assisted projects were completed within that window, and any lingering risks were mitigated by Mike’s clever precautions. With our quick turnover, Mike could afford to pay me daily, combining a lead technician’s salary with hefty commissions for each project. In just two weeks, I’d earned more than I made in a year on Jedha.

Meanwhile, Teya and Retra stayed busy stocking the ship. They’d loaded it with extra fuel, a stockpile of preserved food, and even a food synthesizer. It was an essential addition, turning simple sugars and carbohydrates into a variety of meals. Teya had been uncharacteristically giddy about the purchase. The sight of her enthusiasm was a rare—and welcome—moment of levity.

As for spare parts and components, those were my responsibility. With Mike’s connections, I bought them at near-cost prices. It was a mutually beneficial relationship: Mike’s shop thrived with my help, and I got what I needed for the ship.

But smooth operations rarely lasted. About a week into my work, a Geonosian named Sallos began snooping around the shop. Mike explained that Sallos had once applied for the lead technician position. He’d promised experience he didn’t have and caused a disaster that destroyed an expensive cruiser. Mike had demoted him, offering a lower-level position, but Sallos had arrogantly refused. Now, with the shop flourishing under my expertise, he seemed intent on causing trouble.

Even if Sallos wasn’t loyal to the Empire, he’d happily report me just to settle a grudge. He was exactly the kind of sleemo who could ruin everything.

For now, though, we had a week left. The ship was stocked, and the girls spent their time training. Watching Teya and Retra saber-train was almost amusing. Their boredom had apparently done more to bridge their differences than anything I’d said. Teya still resented Retra’s connection to the dark side, but she needed a sparring partner—and Retra was happy to oblige.

One evening, Teya, panting and frustrated, called out, “How?”

“It’s a blade, not a club,” Retra replied, her strikes graceful and fluid. “Swing it like what it is.”

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“What’s the difference?” Teya asked, her tone almost childish.

Retra scoffed. “Are you blind? These sabers are nearly weightless. Swinging harder doesn’t make the strike stronger. Keep the blade close. Your movements should be like circles, your strikes like waves. Lash out only when it counts. And keep your eyes on your opponent’s torso. It’s where all movement begins.”

Teya’s eyes lingered on Retra’s torso—sweaty and clad in tight training gear—before quickly looking away, her face flushing purple. “Anything else?” she asked, her voice unsteady.

“Yes. You’re doing a good job,” Retra said, smirking.

“Pretty nice… for a Sith,” Teya quipped.

The thought of their unlikely truce brought a grin to my face. For now, things were coming together. The girls were prepared, and my focus shifted to building a stockpile of credits.

One afternoon, while sifting through Mike’s scrap pile, I found something unusual: a set of droid parts with pristine housings. They looked too well-preserved to be scrap.

“Hey, Mike,” I called, holding up a piece. “What’s this?”

He glanced over and waved dismissively. “Low-purity Phrik alloy.”

My eyes widened. Phrik was legendary—an indestructible alloy made from Electrum and Aurodium. But once cast, it couldn’t be reshaped. The heat required to melt it again rivaled the core of a star.

“Why are there so many droid parts made of this stuff?” I asked.

Mike scratched his beard. “During the Clone Wars, the Separatists experimented with Phrik alloys for their droids. Made them damn near invulnerable. But the designs were so convoluted, you couldn’t access the internals without destroying the whole unit.”

“That’s… stupid,” I said, coughing to hide a laugh.

Mike nodded. “Yeah, but you know the saying—the weakest part of a fortress is the door. These droids were designed to be indestructible. The engineers just didn’t think past the first layer.”

I held up an assortment of the Phrik parts, the wheels in my mind turning. “How much would you want for these?”

Mike laughed. “Kid, if you wanna experiment, be my guest. I dove at the chance myself when I was younger. Kept them out of nostalgia. They’re worthless in value, but with your gifts and that sharp head of yours, who knows? Maybe you’ll figure something out.”

I couldn’t help but smile. “Thanks, Mike. I’ll see what I can do.”

The thought of using Phrik for my “Firefly” lightsaber casing sent a shiver down my spine. If I could separate the metals, it would be perfect. The Force could heat the alloy without needing a container, but could I rival the core of a star? I doubted it. Still, I couldn’t shake the idea that there might be another way.

Mike slapped me on the back, nearly knocking the air out of me. “Don’t mention it. Wish I had a son—or a son-in-law—like you.”

Pretending to wince, I straightened up, grinning. “There’s still time, Mike. You could find yourself a wife tomorrow and father the galaxy’s greatest technician.”

The old man threw an arm around my neck, ruffling my hair as he laughed. For a moment, it was easy to forget the shadows chasing us.

But the moment didn’t last. A sharp crash broke the calm, glass scattering across the workbench. I turned to see a Geonosian arm shove a Cam through the broken window, its red light blinking as it recorded.

“Frakking Sallos,” I muttered, already moving. But before I could reach the door, Mike was outside, his booming voice echoing through the shop.

“Get the hell outta here, bug-face!” Mike roared, chasing the Geonosian off. Sallos buzzed into the sky, his wings whirring in retreat.

Mike stormed back inside, muttering curses under his breath. “Persistent little sleemo,” he growled. “He’s not gonna let this go, kid.”

I nodded grimly. Sallos wouldn’t give up until he found something to use against us. He’d start rumors, plant false accusations—maybe even call the Empire. It was only a matter of time before things escalated, and when they did, we’d need to be long gone.

For now, though, I had one week left. One week to make these Phrik scraps into something extraordinary—and then we’d be off again, running from the shadows.