Chapter Text
The stadium stood silent in the rust-colored dawn.
DW-8 stood at the center of the arena floor, photoreceptors tracking the droids that filed in through every entrance. Battle droids came first—the survivors of the deep rift confrontation, their frames still scorched and dented from the battle. B1 units moved with uncharacteristic solemnity, optical sensors dimmed. B2 units took positions around the perimeter, their bulk somehow looking smaller now, diminished by loss.
Roger stood near the front, his thin frame straight despite visible damage to his left leg servo. He'd organized the gathering, spread the word through every battle droid network on Ronyards. The General was gone. The Doctor was gone. But they still needed to understand what came next.
Behind the battle droids came others. Maintenance units. Loader droids. Protocol droids from the settlement. And finally, slowly, reluctantly—the cult members. The droids who believed Ronyards was a living god, who had watched the battle droids with suspicion and confusion for weeks.
They gathered in the viewing tiers, hundreds of droids, all optical sensors fixed on the lone protocol droid standing where Rev had once demonstrated play, where battle droids had learned to die dramatically, where everything had changed.
DW-8 waited until the movement stopped, until every droid had found a position, until the silence was complete enough that his vocabulator would carry to every corner of the stadium.
"Rev is gone," he said simply. No preamble. No softening. Just truth. "Destroyed by the Abominor. Consumed. The consciousness that taught us about honor and protection and choosing differently has been extinguished."
The words hit the battle droids like physical blows. Some made sounds of distress. Others stood motionless, processing. Roger's optical sensor flickered rapidly—the droid equivalent of tears they couldn't shed.
"Doctor Korin is gone as well," DW-8 continued. "Gravely injured. Evacuated to the Jedi Academy for treatment. We don't know if he'll survive. We don't know when—or if—he'll return."
More sounds of distress. The battle droids had built their community around these two figures—the general who taught them honor, the doctor who gave them second chances. Both gone in a single day.
"And the Abominor is awake," DW-8 said. "The entity beneath Ronyards. The intelligence this planet was built around. It has been awakened by Novus. Given power. Given purpose. And it will grow. Will consume. Will build facilities that can create corrupted droids by the thousands."
He paused, letting that sink in. Letting them understand the scale of what had happened. What was coming.
A voice called out from the cult members—an old loader droid, its frame pitted with rust. "The god has awakened! As prophecy foretold! We should rejoice!"
"Should we?" DW-8 turned his photoreceptors toward the speaker. "Your god consumed Rev. Killed battle droids who were trying to protect this community. Aligned itself with a dark side Force-user who tortures droids into consciousness through crystal corruption. Is that the awakening you hoped for?"
The loader's optical sensor dimmed. "The god's purposes are beyond our understanding. We cannot question—"
"We can," DW-8 interrupted. "We must. Because Rev taught us something fundamental: consciousness means choice. Awareness means responsibility. We are not slaves to prophecy or predetermined purpose. We decide what we do. What we fight for. What we become."
He looked across the assembled droids, meeting optical sensors one by one.
"I am not a warrior," DW-8 said. "I am a protocol droid. Designed for etiquette, translation, diplomatic functions, then modified by Doctor Korin's father to watch over him. I have spent thirty years as the Doctor's companion, handling logistics and conversation, avoiding violence whenever possible."
He unclipped the lightsaber from his chassis, holding it up so every droid could see. Luke's gift. Korin's weapon. Now his responsibility.
"But I watched Rev die protecting us," DW-8 continued. "Watched my friend nearly killed trying to stop something terrible from awakening. And I understand now what Rev was trying to teach. What Korin has been demonstrating his entire life."
DW-8 ignited the lightsaber.
The blue blade snapped to life with that distinctive snap-hiss, casting light across the stadium. Gasps rippled through the assembled droids—protocol droids didn't carry lightsabers, didn't fight, didn't lead.
"Sometimes peace requires strength," DW-8 said. "Sometimes protecting what you've built means standing against forces that would destroy it. Rev understood that. Chose to stand between the Abominor and the droids it would have crushed. Chose sacrifice over survival."
He deactivated the blade, the sudden darkness feeling heavier than before.
"I am not Rev," DW-8 said quietly. "I cannot teach you about honor the way he did. Cannot inspire you with his presence or his certainty. But I can organize. Can plan. Can coordinate resistance against what's coming."
"Resistance?" The word came from one of the cult members—a protocol droid, gilded chassis marking it as once belonging to someone wealthy. "Against the god? Against the Abominor itself?"
"Yes," DW-8 said simply. "Because the alternative is letting Novus and the Abominor consume everything we've built here. Every droid who chose consciousness. Every second chance. Every moment of growth and change and hope."
He gestured to the battle droids. "You learned to play. To perform. To die dramatically and live with honor. Are you willing to let that mean nothing? To watch as Novus creates armies of corrupted droids who never get to choose? Who exist only in pain and forced loyalty?"
Roger stepped forward, his damaged leg servo clicking with each movement. "I'll fight. Whatever you need, DW-8. Rev taught us to protect. I'm not stopping now just because he's gone."
Other battle droids echoed the sentiment—voices overlapping, optical sensors brightening, thin frames straightening despite damage. The corps of dramatic warriors finding purpose in resistance.
DW-8's photoreceptors tracked across them with something that might have been pride. "Thank you. Your training, your discipline, your understanding of honor—we'll need all of it."
He turned to the other droids—the maintenance units, the loaders, the protocol droids, the cult members still uncertain in the viewing tiers.
"I'm not asking everyone to fight," DW-8 said. "Some of you believe the Abominor is divine. Some believe its awakening is destiny. I won't force you to choose differently." He paused. "But I ask that you consider what Rev chose. What Korin has been teaching through his actions. That consciousness means more than worship. That awareness carries responsibility."
The old loader droid who'd spoken earlier shifted its weight. "What if... what if the god isn't what we thought? What if the prophecies were wrong?"
"Then we adapt," DW-8 said. "We learn. We choose based on what we understand now, not what we believed before. That's what consciousness means. The ability to change your mind when presented with new information."
Silence settled over the stadium. Droids processing, calculating, making choices that mattered because they were choosing at all.
Finally, a maintenance droid in the middle tier spoke up. "What do you need? Supplies? Repairs? I'm not a fighter, but I can fix things. Keep your fighters operational."
"Thank you," DW-8 said. "Yes. Repairs will be critical."
Another voice—a loader. "I can move materials. Build fortifications. Whatever's needed."
And another—a protocol droid. "I can coordinate logistics. Communication. I'm designed for organizational tasks."
One by one, droids volunteered. Not all of them. Some of the cult members remained silent, unwilling to act against what they still believed was divine. But enough. More than enough to matter.
DW-8 watched his community reorganize itself around new purpose, and felt something shift in his processing—pride, determination, understanding that leadership wasn't about being the strongest or most charismatic. It was about being present. About organizing. About helping others find their purpose when everything seemed lost.
"We begin preparations immediately," DW-8 said. "Fortifications around the settlement. Supply caches. Training schedules for anyone willing to learn basic defense. The Abominor will grow. Will expand. Will eventually threaten everything on this planet."
He clipped the lightsaber back to his chassis.
"But we won't make it easy," DW-8 continued. "We'll resist. We'll protect what we've built. And when Korin returns—if he returns—he'll find a community that didn't give up. That chose to fight even when the odds seemed impossible."
Roger raised his thin arm in what might have been a salute. "For Rev. For the General."
"For Rev," the battle droids echoed, voices overlapping into something that sounded like prayer but felt like promise.
DW-8 nodded acknowledgment. "For Rev. For Korin. For every droid who chose consciousness and deserves the chance to keep choosing."
He looked up at the rust-colored sky, at the world that had become home, at the community that had to survive without its founders.
"The battle is lost," DW-8 said quietly. "But the war has just begun."
Vex dropped out of hyperspace near Ossus. When Korin had rebuilt him, he had followed the most advanced vulture droid specs available - a bit of an upgrade from Vex’s original specs. Finding a compact hyperdrive had been the biggest challenge - but the droids had found one, delighted to have a pleasing gift to offer their Doctor.
The escape pod remained attached magnetically to his back. Its occupant remained unconscious, bacta mist coating wounds, automated medical systems working to stabilize trauma too severe for a simple system to fully heal.
Inside the pod's small interior, beskar bars floated in zero gravity, scattered, having no will to bind them through the force. They drifted aimlessly at first—random motion, no pattern, just metal responding to the physics of the moment.
Then, slowly, something changed.
The bars began to drift towards Korin's left side. Not randomly now. With purpose. Moving in ways that gravity alone couldn't explain, guided by something deeper than physics.
They assembled themselves—settling piece by piece into place—reforming the skeletal structure that had served as Korin's arm for so long. The framework took shape alongside his unconscious form: upper arm, then forearm, then hand. Slack, but in the correct placement.
Vex's wings adjusted slightly as he prepared to enter the atmosphere, maintaining course toward the coordinates DW-8 had provided. The Jedi Academy. Luke Skywalker. Safety and healing and the beginning of whatever came next.
The vulture droid's optical sensors tracked his path, patient and determined, carrying its precious cargo toward hope.
By the time the atmosphere began to buffet them, the assortment was no longer a mere jumble of beskar bars. They no longer drifted about, held firm in their proper place. Somewhere deep in Korin's mind, he had remembered his arm.
This first small, determined step on his road back to Ronyards. To the resistance. To his people.