The freighter's engines murmured through the hull like a restless beast, filling the silence between two survivors with mechanical breath. The stars outside blurred into threads of white, hyperspace stretching them like glass smeared with light. It was peaceful in a way Eli had learned not to trust. Quiet didn't mean safety. Stillness only gave thoughts room to grow teeth.
Eli sat curled into the co-pilot's chair, arms wrapped loosely around his knees. He stared out the viewport, not at the stars, but beyond them — to the weight behind them. Every loop, every death, every failure lingered in that space between systems, a galaxy's worth of memories squeezed into a boy's frame.
"You ever been out this far?" Ryen's voice cut the silence, not unkind, but cautious.
"No," Eli answered without looking away. "Not really."
"Aleru's not much to look at. Dusty. Quiet. The kind of place no one bothers to scan twice."
"Perfect," Eli murmured.
Ryen didn't respond. He leaned over the nav terminal, watching the drift markers cycle past. Bral's route was outdated but effective — narrow backlanes and smuggler corridors hidden from major patrols. It wasn't elegant, but it would work.
For now.
Eventually, he turned to look at Eli again. He'd been watching since lift-off, silently tracking the boy's movements. The way he handled himself — calm, calculated, always aware of exits. Not fear. Not panic. Control. It unsettled him.
"You were calm back there," Ryen said finally. "When the clones breached the tunnel. When Bral turned. You moved like you'd done it before."
Eli blinked slowly, then turned toward him, voice measured. "Because I have."
Ryen frowned. "You were in the Temple when it fell."
"I was in it fourteen times."
That stopped him cold.
Eli stood and crossed to the small galley cabinet, fingers moving with practiced ease over a cracked water dispenser. He took a slow sip, then leaned against the bulkhead. The hum of the ship filled the void his words left behind.
"Fourteen?" Ryen asked, low.
"I've died. A lot," Eli said, voice without inflection. "Sometimes fast. Sometimes slow. Sometimes screaming. But I always wake up again. The same day. The same Temple. The same ending."
Ryen just stared confused.
"Every time I try something different. Warn someone new. Take a different corridor. Fight. Hide. Run. But it never works. Not for long."
"You… can't be serious."
"I'm not sure I am anymore." Eli set the water capsule down with a soft thud. "But I remember. Every time. Even if no one else does."
Ryen moved around the console slowly, carefully. "That's not possible."
Eli looked up. His eyes were tired. Older than they should be. "Neither is a clone army turning on their generals overnight. But that happened."
Silence fell again, heavy now. Tension coiled in the narrow space like smoke without fire.
"I don't know what you are," Ryen said finally. "But you're not just a scared youngling."
"I was," Eli said. "The first time. That version of me is gone now."
Ryen crossed his arms, leaning against the cockpit frame. "So what are you now?"
"I'm someone who's failed more times than I can count. Someone who's starting to wonder if he was meant to."
Ryen's brow furrowed. "That sounds a lot like giving up."
"No." Eli's eyes flashed. "That's surviving."
A pause.
"You were going to kill Bral," Ryen said quietly. "Before he even drew his blaster."
"He was going to turn us in."
"You didn't hesitate."
"I've learned what hesitation costs."
Ryen turned away, jaw tense. "You say that like it's strength."
"It's not," Eli said. "It's math."
The words hung there, cold and blunt. Ryen hated how right they sounded.
They drifted in silence for several minutes. The ship creaked around them, the aging systems holding steady as it followed its plotted course.
Eventually, they both ended up in the cockpit. Neither said anything as they settled into their seats, the empty vastness of hyperspace stretching before them.
"You think I'm dangerous," Eli said finally.
Ryen didn't deny it. "I think I don't understand you. And that makes you dangerous."
Eli nodded slowly. "Good."
That wasn't the answer Ryen had expected. He turned slightly in his seat. "You want me to be afraid of you?"
"I want you to be ready. Because this doesn't end when we land on some Outer Rim farmworld and play pretend. The Empire doesn't stop. The Jedi are gone. And I'm the only one left trying to fix it."
"You think you can fix it?" Ryen asked, voice sharp now. "You think you can outwit a war machine? Fix what the Council couldn't?"
"I have to try."
"You said you've tried. And failed."
Eli's jaw clenched. "Then I'll fail better next time."
Ryen stared at him, really looked at the boy who wasn't a boy, the survivor who shouldn't still be alive.
"You've changed," he said.
"I had to," Eli whispered.
They sat like that — two Jedi, or something like them — surrounded by the stars that neither of them trusted anymore.
Ryen shifted in his chair, then spoke, softer this time. "When do you stop? If every loop ends the same way… when do you stop?"
"When it changes," Eli said.
"And if it never does?"
Eli didn't answer.
The silence returned, but now it felt charged, alive with things unsaid. The Force stirred faintly in the background — like wind through unseen branches.
And far away, something felt them.
Watched them.
Waited.
The stars outside didn't care.
But something else did.