In the days that followed the attack, DRN-5571 expanded the outpost slowly.
Two Photon Cannons. One Shield Battery. A rudimentary energy silo built from repurposed Jawa tech and crystallized psionic lattice.
The Jawas had become bolder. They no longer ran at her approach — instead they watched, studied. One of them even tried to copy her hand gestures, as if hoping to summon a Pylon.
She did not discourage them.
They offered her parts now without bartering — pieces of droids, ancient circuit boards, even something they called a "moisture converter." She did not fully understand the purpose of this last item, but it stored water, and so she kept it.
It was the first time she realized how limited her knowledge had become.
In the Koprulu sector, there had been three kinds of intelligence: Terrans. Zerg. Protoss.
That was the universe.
Here... it was madness.
---
She first saw the moisture farmers at a distance.
Two bipeds in tan robes, dragging equipment behind a repulsor sled. Their skin was pale, burned red by the twin suns. One had mechanical implants around his eye and jaw. The other was shorter — possibly a juvenile? Gender… unknown.
She tried to observe quietly.
But the taller one noticed her — raised a hand in a wave.
A greeting?
She hesitated, then mimicked the motion.
They called something to her — a rough, garbled language, but not Jawa. Not Zerg. Not even Terran Standard.
She stepped forward.
The shorter one stepped back.
The tall one kept talking. His voice was calm, cautious.
She scanned them.
Species: Humanoid. Subtype: Unknown. Not genetically Terran. Partial cybernetic.
Her internal logic stuttered.
How many types of bipeds existed here?
She'd seen Jawas — short, shrill, hooded. These farmers were tall, sunburnt, weary. And then there were the Tusken Raiders — savage, tribal, wrapped in layers.
All humanoid.
All different.
All intelligent.
She stepped back, overwhelmed.
In the Koprulu Sector, war had been simple. You recognized the enemy. You calculated the path to victory. You adapted.
Here, adaptation was... interpretation. A chaos of form and speech and unknown intent.
She returned to the outpost in silence.
---
That night, under the light of the moons, she sat beside the humming Pylon.
A Jawa approached — the small one, with the finger necklace.
It handed her something.
A crude slate with pictures scratched into it — two stick figures trading items. One had her silver hair.
The other had a hood.
She looked at it.
Then at the Jawa.
"Trade," she said softly.
The Jawa nodded vigorously.
Understanding began to bloom.
So did a new subroutine.
Diplomacy: Early stage. Non-hostile species detected. Initiate knowledge protocol.
She tapped the slate gently.
"More," she whispered.
And for the first time since her arrival, she felt... not alone.