Chapter 15: Into the City - Part 1
POV: Oliver
Nevarro's capital spreads below them like a cancer on the volcanic landscape—empty streets that should be bustling with commerce, silent cantinas that once echoed with laughter and dealmaking. From their rooftop vantage point, Oliver can see Imperial patrols moving through the thoroughfares with mechanical precision, their white armor stark against the city's industrial grays.
[MP: 80/106]
[HP: 215/230]
[DANGER SENSE: ACTIVE - LOW-LEVEL THREAT MONITORING]
Oliver extends his enhanced senses through the urban ecosystem, reaching out to the voorpaks that scavenge in abandoned buildings and the flying creatures that nest in communication towers. Through dozens of tiny eyes, he maps patrol routes, identifies chokepoints, and catalogs the positions of heavy weapons emplacements.
[SENSORY SHARING ACTIVATED]
[MP: 65/106]
[TARGETS: URBAN WILDLIFE - MULTIPLE SPECIES]
The information flows through his consciousness like digital intelligence reports—patrol frequency every twelve minutes along the main thoroughfare, sniper nests on buildings seven and fourteen, mobile command post in the central square that coordinates all security operations.
"Fifteen targets visible from elevation," Oliver murmurs to Din, who crouches beside him with macrobinoculars pressed to his visor. "Main patrol routes avoid the industrial sector. Service tunnels under the brewery should be clear."
Din lowers his equipment and turns toward him. "How precise is your intelligence?"
Oliver hesitates. Through a voorpak's eyes, he watches a scout trooper kick a civilian who isn't moving fast enough. The casual brutality makes his stomach clench.
"Precise enough," he says finally. "But I need to conserve energy. Using the wildlife network is draining me faster than expected."
Cara adjusts the straps on her equipment pack, her movements sharp with controlled aggression. "Then we move fast and quiet. No extended reconnaissance."
In his floating pram, Grogu sleeps with the peaceful oblivion that only children can achieve in dangerous situations. Oliver watches the rise and fall of the child's chest and feels something fierce and protective surge through his enhanced nervous system.
"Whatever happens in there, I'm getting you out alive," he promises silently.
POV: Cara Dune
The stolen Imperial uniforms feel like wearing the skin of their enemies—appropriate, given the circumstances. Cara adjusts her borrowed helmet, grateful that its communications suite allows her to maintain contact with the team while providing some psychological distance from the role she's playing.
"Remember," Greef says as they prepare to descend into the city proper, "confidence is everything. Imperial officers don't skulk or hesitate. They move like they own the galaxy."
Cara studies Oliver's posture and notes the way he unconsciously straightens his shoulders, adopting the arrogant bearing that comes naturally to those who've never questioned their authority. For someone who claims to have no memory of his Imperial past, he wears the uniform with disturbing authenticity.
"Muscle memory," she realizes with a chill. "His body remembers even if his mind doesn't."
They move through the city's industrial sector with calculated boldness, their footsteps echoing off empty duracrete walls. Oliver's [Danger Sense] keeps them ahead of patrol schedules, his enhanced awareness providing early warning when they need to duck into alcoves or take alternate routes.
But it's not until they reach the first checkpoint that Cara truly understands what Oliver is capable of.
The Imperial officer manning the security station is young, probably fresh out of the academy, with the nervous energy of someone trying to prove himself worthy of his rank. He studies their forged credentials with more attention than Cara would like.
"Purpose of visit to Sector Seven?" he asks, his voice carrying the crisp accent of Core World education.
Oliver steps forward with the fluid confidence of someone accustomed to command. When he speaks, his words carry subtle harmonics that seem to resonate directly with the officer's nervous system.
[SENTIENT INFLUENCE ACTIVATED]
[MP: 15/106]
[TARGET: IMPERIAL CHECKPOINT OFFICER]
"There's an urgent situation developing in Sector Four," Oliver says, his voice carrying absolute conviction. "You're needed there immediately to coordinate emergency response."
The officer's pupils dilate slightly. His breathing pattern shifts from nervous to urgent. Without questioning the logic of abandoning his post, he waves them through and begins securing his station for departure.
"Move," Oliver says quietly, but Cara can see the way his hands shake as they walk away from the checkpoint.
POV: Oliver
The moment they're out of sight, Oliver stumbles against a wall and retches. The sensation of reaching into another person's mind, even for something as simple as suggestion, feels like violation on a cellular level.
[MP: 15/106 - CRITICALLY LOW]
[PSYCHOLOGICAL STRAIN: MODERATE]
[ETHICAL PARAMETERS: COMPROMISED]
"You okay?" Cara asks, her voice carrying genuine concern despite their precarious situation.
Oliver wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, tasting bile and shame in equal measure. "That ability... it's not right. I reached into his head and changed what he was thinking."
"But it saved us," Cara points out pragmatically.
"Doesn't make it less wrong." Oliver meets her gaze, needing her to understand the distinction. "Just because I can do something doesn't mean I should."
He watches her expression shift—not to judgment or disappointment, but to something that might be respect. In her experience, people with power rarely question whether they should use it.
"Fair enough," she says quietly. "But keep it available. We might need wrong things before this is over."
They rejoin Din and Greef near the fortified cantina that serves as the Imperial command post. Through the reinforced windows, Oliver can see the glow of holographic displays and the movement of uniformed figures coordinating planetary security.
"Greef creates the distraction," Din says, reviewing their plan one final time. "Cara and I breach and secure. Oliver maintains overwatch with Grogu."
Oliver nods, though every instinct screams against staying outside while his friends walk into danger. His enhanced hearing picks up fragments of conversation from inside the command post—references to "the asset," discussions of medical procedures, and the clinical terminology that always accompanies Imperial experimentation.
"They're talking about Grogu like he's a laboratory specimen," Oliver realizes with growing horror.
POV: Greef Karga
Greef initiates the distraction with the theatrical flair of someone who's survived forty years in the Outer Rim through careful application of misdirection and selective truth-telling. He approaches the cantina's main entrance with the confident stride of someone delivering important intelligence.
"Imperial command!" he calls out, his voice carrying across the square. "Rebel activity detected in Sector Nine! Immediate response required!"
The response is exactly what he expected—controlled chaos as Imperial forces redeploy to address a threat that exists only in his imagination. Through the cantina's windows, he can see officers abandoning their stations to coordinate the security response.
Behind him, Din and Cara move with the fluid precision of trained killers. The breach is swift and silent—shaped charges on the rear entrance, followed by systematic room clearing that speaks of countless similar operations.
Greef counts seconds on his chronometer. They have perhaps three minutes before Imperial forces realize the Sector Nine alert is false, another two before reinforcements arrive in overwhelming numbers.
"Five minutes to change the galaxy," he thinks with grim humor. "Or five minutes to get us all killed."
POV: Oliver
While Din and Cara conduct their breach, Oliver extends his awareness through the creatures that make their homes in the city's forgotten spaces. Through a voorpak's eyes pressed against a ventilation grate, he watches Imperial officers clustered around a holographic display.
The conversation he overhears freezes his blood:
"—midi-chlorian concentration remains stable in the subject's blood samples—"
"—cloning trials proceeding ahead of schedule—"
"—Dr. Pershing believes we can achieve artificial Force-sensitivity within six months—"
They're not just hunting Grogu. They're harvesting his blood to create an army of Force-sensitive soldiers.
Oliver's enhanced knowledge fills in the horrifying context: Palpatine's return, the First Order's eventual rise, decades of experimentation that will culminate in Snoke's creation and Rey's father's genetic manipulation. He knows the future these experiments will enable, but his speech curse prevents him from warning anyone.
Through another creature's eyes, he spots movement in the alley behind their position—scout troopers advancing with military precision, their weapons ready and their movements coordinated.
He tries to warn Din through their comm system: "Bad guys incoming!"
What emerges from his mouth is: "Angry metal friends arriving!"
"Close enough," Oliver thinks desperately, hoping context will make his meaning clear.
POV: Din Djarin
Din receives Oliver's garbled warning just as he secures the command post's central console. The tactical data streams across his HUD—garrison strength, patrol schedules, and most importantly, the location where Grogu is being held.
"Contact in thirty seconds," he says into his comm, then begins the systematic destruction of Imperial intelligence assets. Every hard drive, every data crystal, every piece of equipment that might contain information about their operations goes into his demolition charges.
Through his helmet's external pickups, he can hear blaster fire erupting in the alley behind the cantina. Oliver's voice carries over the combat noise—strained, desperate, but determined.
The sound of a child crying cuts through everything else like a vibroblade through flesh.
Grogu.
Din's finger hovers over the detonator trigger. The intelligence he could gather here might be invaluable for future operations, but Grogu needs him now.
The choice isn't really a choice at all.
Din triggers the charges and runs toward the sound of his foundling's distress.
POV: Oliver
The scout troopers corner Oliver and Grogu in an alley that smells of industrial waste and volcanic sulfur. His blaster skills remain nonexistent—three shots fired in desperation, all of them missing their targets by embarrassing margins.
[MP: 15/106 - CRITICALLY LOW]
[COMBAT EFFECTIVENESS: MINIMAL]
[PROTECTION INSTINCTS: MAXIMUM]
A pack of massiffs—Nevarro's native predators—prowls the alley's far end, drawn by the scent of fear and the sound of combat. Oliver reaches out with his last reserves of power, his consciousness touching minds that operate on pure predatory instinct.
[BASIC CREATURE CONTROL ACTIVATED]
[MP: 0/106]
[TARGET: MASSIFF PACK - MULTIPLE PREDATORS]
The creatures respond like weapons seeking targets. Six meters of scaled muscle and razor teeth launched themselves at the scout troopers with coordinated precision. Armored figures disappear under a wave of claws and fangs.
But one trooper breaks through the chaos, his hands closing around Grogu's pram with mechanical determination.
Oliver doesn't think. He just moves.
The tackle is clumsy, desperate, driven by panic rather than skill. Oliver and the trooper crash into the alley wall with bone-jarring impact, Grogu's pram spinning away from grasping hands.
They struggle in the volcanic dust—the trooper's training against Oliver's desperate strength. The trooper's blaster discharges into the air, the energy bolt scorching the wall inches from Grogu's position.
Oliver's hand closes around a piece of volcanic rock the size of his fist.
The first blow cracks the trooper's helmet visor.
The second creates spider-web fractures across the transparisteel.
The third and fourth and fifth land with the mechanical repetition of someone who's crossed a line and can't find their way back.
When the trooper stops moving, Oliver sits back on his heels, shaking hands stained with blood that shows dark against his stolen Imperial uniform.
Grogu watches with those impossibly large eyes, the child's Force-sensitivity picking up on emotions too complex for his young mind to process.
"I'm sorry you had to see that," Oliver whispers, gathering the child close to his chest.
Din and Cara emerge from the cantina's smoking interior just as Oliver cradles Grogu against his shoulder. Din's visor settles on the dead trooper, then on Oliver's blood-stained hands.
He doesn't speak. He just nods—a warrior's acknowledgment of a line crossed in defense of family.
[SYSTEM CRITICAL: MP DEPLETION CAUSING NEUROLOGICAL INSTABILITY]
[HP: 215/230]
[MENTAL TRAUMA: FIRST KILL - PSYCHOLOGICAL IMPACT SIGNIFICANT]
[XP GAINED: +1,200 - TOTAL: 3,000/15,000 TOWARD LEVEL 5]
[WARNING: REPEATED CRITICAL MP DEPLETION MAY CAUSE PERMANENT DAMAGE]
Oliver's vision grays at the edges as his enhanced nervous system struggles to maintain basic functions without the energy it requires. In the distance, he can hear the mechanical thunder of approaching Imperial reinforcements.
They run for the cantina to make their stand, but Oliver knows with crystalline certainty that they're outgunned, outnumbered, and out of options.
His datapad chimes with one final message: "Gideon's vessel inbound. Syndicate assets standing by. Timing is critical."
"We're all pawns," Oliver realizes as consciousness begins to fade. "Every single one of us is dancing to someone else's tune."
But as Grogu's tiny hand touches his cheek, Oliver finds he doesn't care whose game they're playing.
He only cares about protecting the people who've become his family.
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