Jedi Artisan 023

AN: The theme of this chapter:

https://youtu.be/PoT1bDYHQ_s?is=mq9dbgTVnjxzj5PP

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Departing the Jedi Temple, Zane was greeted by a downpour of cold rain. 

The night sky of Coruscant flickered as the steady droplets fell upon hover cars, neon signs, and brightly lit holo-ads. 

Vast holographic women smiled down from the sides of towers, promising beauty, pleasure, and effortless success to anyone who could afford the monthly installments of their products. Corporate mascots danced above miserable commuters, and political slogans flickered between advertisements for stimulant patches and sleep suppressants. The depression and burnout was palatable in the Force. 

Tucking his arms in his robes, Zane took an elevator down to a middle floor, and began to walk. Foot traffic tonight was lighter than usual.

Those who did venture outside hurried beneath umbrellas and cheap plastic coverings, heads lowered against the rain. Zane, meanwhile, walked without an umbrella. He very easily could have moved without letting a single drop stain his garb, yet this night, he was determined to share in the city's woes. 

The rain darkened his robes and slicked his hair against his forehead, but he did not mind, for water was the ultimate cleanser. Yet despite the nature of water, there was a coldness in the city that wasn't related to the storm. 

It was not the Darkside no. There was no malignant intelligence behind this cold, nor was there some predator in the Force baring its fangs. There need not be some insidious plot or lurking Sith for Coruscant to emit such a foreboding feeling.

Yes, this coldness was in fact the bone-deep weariness of several trillion souls who woke early, worked late, slept poorly, and repeated the process until the days all blended into one. Nine in the morning until nine at night, working six days out of seven, this was the reality of the ‘greatest planet in the galaxy.’ 

The exhaustion of so many people pressed against Zane through the Force. He could easily ignore it, any puritan Jedi could…and yet, he would not. Jedi ignored so much, and doing anything any small thing on Coruscant to help others felt about as useful as pissing in the wind. But Zane didn't care. On a night such as this, he had to come out. 

Zane’s steps slowed as he watched the passerby, and thanked the Force for his privileged position. Reminding him to humble himself. The Jedi Temple rose somewhere far above him, golden and warm upon its mountain of stone. The Senate occupied another district of immaculate towers, where committees debated productivity figures beneath chandeliers worth more than some neighborhoods.

Down here, a woman in a food-service uniform slept standing against the wall of a tram station. Gangsters preyed upon the weak, and the Coruscant Security Force or other judicial forces were easily bribed. Such a place. No one should have to call it home. 

The further down Zane walked the more he passed by those polished upper avenues into the middle levels. Here, apartment towers crowded close around narrow streets, packed tighter than a million Tokyo's placed within a square mile. Their old ferrocrete shells were patched with rusting durasteel braces, pornographic neon signs, and buzzing unsafe electrical lines. The rainwater that reached these levels had already washed across hundreds of roofs, landing platforms, ventilation grates, and industrial exhaust ducts.

It came down gray, and in some places, it came down brown.

Sighing to himself, he turned his collar up and continued along a familiar route. Beneath the rusted awning of a closed noodle stall, a small Tooka crouched beside an overturned refuse bin. The fox/cat alien the size of a house pet had her fur soaked nearly. One triangular ear had a piece missing, and her whiskers twitched at his approach. 

Zane stopped at the noodle stand, and waved his hand, instantly shedding all the excess moisture from the animal's fur. With another wave, the ground around her warmed up slightly. He then crouched and reached into a pouch at his belt. Pulling out some roasted Nuna-a type of alien turkey-the Tooka sniffed then took the food, ravenously devouring it. 

“Good fortune to you, my little friend.” Zane said with a small smile, patting her fluffy head before departing. 

The animal wasn't very intelligent, but she was smarter than a dog, and whined at his departure, afraid to run into the murky water. 

Zane’s figure disappeared into the mist and fog as he continued his journey. Three streets later, he found an old Duros sprawled beside a public stairway.

Commuters stepped around him, whilst a few looked down, but none stopped. Their faces carried no cruelty or malice, they simply didn't have the time or money to care about yet another poor unfortunate soul. 

The Duros wore the reflective vest of a loading-dock worker. One leg had twisted beneath him, and his ankle had already swollen inside a torn boot.

Zane floated the man out of the rain to the side with one hand, and calmed him down with the other. 

“Do not touch me.” The Duros gasped in pain. “I cannot afford a medcenter, nor the skills of a Jedi.”

“Jedi do not charge credits.” Zane said. 

He then slowly peeled away the boot with the Force revealing a broken foot. 

“This will hurt,” he warned.

“How much?”

“Probably a thousand creds.” Zane conversationally said in an uncaring manner to distract the patient. 

“That wasn't what I was ask-wait HOW MUCH-AHH!” The Duros began calm, swiftly panicked, and then shouted in pain all within three seconds. 

Working his magic as a chiropractor-Jedi did have the best education in the galaxy-he set the bones straight, then using his Endless Thread, made the red-eyed, big headed, blue alien a sturdy water proof cast. 

Lastly, Zane steadied the bone through the Force, aligning it until the fractured edges met cleanly, and waved his hand once more, dispelling the alien's pain. 

‘Ah, how I wish I were a healer. Yet for all my talents that eludes me.’ Zane moped to himself, feeling the coldness of the city briefly get to his heart. 

“What do I owe you?” The Duros said, hobbling to one foot. 

Zane regarded him silently.

The weariness in the Duros was soul crushing. 

Zane reached beneath the man’s vest, found the identity badge clipped there, and read the name of the loading company. He committed it to memory.

“Your supervisor will discover tomorrow morning that dismissing you would constitute an extremely expensive violation of seventeen Republic labor codes. You owe me a day of rest. I am a Jedi. I will know if this does not occur.” 

Then, before the alien's stunned eyes, Zane disappeared. Of course, he didn't turn invisible or anything. Zane merely [Mind Tricked] the man into seeing nothing. 

Over the next hour, Zane started to hand out waterproof coats wherever they were needed. 

A Rodian mother found three neatly folded rain cloaks in the doorway outside her apartment: one for herself and two smaller ones for her children. Meanwhile, a pair of elderly Ithorians discovered insulated ponchos tucked inside the supply cart from which they sold flowers. Elsewhere, a young Twi’lek courier returned to her speeder to find waterproof gloves, new boots, and a hooded jacket resting on the seat. Several Sullustan maintenance workers found sealed packages inside their lockers, each labeled in their own language and sized exactly to each of their individual needs. Not only were these clothes water proof, but they carried a small, nearly miniscule amount of Artisanry, but it was there. 

Stitched on the inside of these clothes was the symbol of the Jedi Order, and next to it, was a small smiling sunflower. The sunflower carried with it one of the concepts Zane most admired, and wished to spread: hope. 

Zane walked on through the dirty rain, feeling the smallest changes ripple outward behind him. Surprise, suspicion, relief. Those who received the raincoats and blankets were those who needed them most. Zane did not use the detective skills or his powers of observation to determine this. Instead he had acted as an avatar of the Lightside, and followed its will. 

Life would continue to be hard, there was no mistake in that, but for a few people, tomorrow would be just that little bit warmer.

Near midnight, Zane arrived at a familiar sign.

Two red neon spheres hung beneath the silhouette of a roaring Rancor. It was his favorite speakeasy and night club, The Rancor's Balls. 

Walking inside, the club was the same as the last time he had been there. Unlike most modern type dance clubs, this one was more classy. Its walls were made of a dark wood, with private booths and deliberately dim lighting. Music here wasn't the high paced type, things were a little more sedate. 

Species from more than two dozen worlds sat beneath shaded lamps enjoying a moment of peace away from the doldrums of life. Humans drank beside Bothans, a Devaronian couple argued quietly over cards, and three Weequay gangsters occupied a rear booth, pretending not to watch everyone else. Near the bar, a spice addict stared into an empty glass with trembling hands, swearing to himself this would be his last. 

The owner, a broad-shouldered Besalisk-the same type of alien as Dexter from Dexter's Diner or  Master Prong Kell-named Mogo, spotted Zane and lifted two of his four hands.

“It's good to see you, Frank.” Mongo said, addressing Zane by one of his alternate identities. 

Several regulars turned, and applauded upon his arrival.

By this point, he had already changed out of his rain-darkened Jedi clothing for: a sharp, charcoal three-piece suit, with a pale shirt, dark tie, and long overcoat. The style was old-fashioned by Coruscant standards, based on fashions salvaged from the archives of some forgotten world. The trousers sat high at the waist, and a silver pocket watch rested in his chest pocket. He finished the ensemble with a wide-brimmed hat that cast his eyes into shadow. To everyone present, his name was Frank Marigold, just another sad soul in the city that never sleeps. 

Using a small trick of the Force on himself, his own face appeared different. It truly was like he was another person, no one at the venue would ever associate him with the Jedi. 

On the stage, the house band had begun a slow number.

A dark-skinned blind Human man sat behind the drums, beside him, an elderly Bith held a saxophone against his narrow chest, and a blue-skinned Ortolan-an elephant humanoid alien-leaned over an upright bass, coaxing deep notes from its strings.

Waiting under a spotlight was Zane’s instrument: a piano. 

Zane approached it beneath a haze of amber light. He sat upon the bench, removed his hat, and placed it beside him. For a moment, his hands rested over the keys as he breathed in the room. 

He sensed workers drinking away the ache in their backs. Single lonely men occupying booths meant for four. Lovers frightened by the expenses of an unplanned pregnancy. Gangsters hiding the pain of lost childhoods, compensating with expensive coats, hover cars, jewelry,  and pretty women. Then there were the addicts who were almost completely lost. Almost. 

Beyond them lay the city.

Cold.

Wet.

Endless.

Zane took a breath, then pressed the first key. The note entered the room like a drop of black ink falling into still water. The drummer answered with a soft breath of cymbal. The bass followed, low and patient. Then the saxophone entered with a mournful, worn, and smoky texture. 

Zane played a round of smooth jazz noir. The melody moved slowly, winding through minor chords like a solitary speeder navigating deserted streets. His right hand carried a fragile tune while his left gave it weight, every low note echoing with the burden of another day survived.

The Force gathered around his fingertips. Not of his own bidding, but as if he were acting as its avatar. It flowed through him and into the piano, passing from hammer to string, from vibration to air, from air into listening souls. It carried no trick of domination. No compulsion. Zane forced no one to be happy, sad, angry or anything else. 

He merely gave shape to what they already carried with them. What they could be. 

The music told them that they were tired, and lonely. That they had lost things that could never be again. Money. Fame. Innocence. Here and gone, like smoke on the evening wind. 

And, most mercifully, the Force filled them with a sort of comfort. That none of these losses made them weak. For at the end of the journey, all would be at peace. The mighty current of the Force would sweep them up in its embrace. All was one. One was all. 

Conversations faded into the background as the music consumed them, relieving them of their burdens. 

A human couple in a corner booth moved closer. The woman rested her head against her partner’s shoulder, and after a moment he lowered his cheek against her hair.

At the bar, an addict in a factory uniform began to cry. He did so silently at first, staring down at his clenched hands as though they belonged to someone else. Then his shoulders shook. The bartender placed a glass of water before him and said nothing. When the man finally lifted it, his hands were steadier.

In the rear booth, one of the Weequay gangsters glanced toward a trembling spice addict seated alone nearby. Ordinarily, he would have mocked the man. Instead, after an irritated grimace at his own inexplicable softness, the Weequay signaled a server and paid for a hot meal to be placed before him.

A scarred Nikto enforcer quietly slid his blaster farther inside his coat, deciding mercy upon this day. A Devaronian woman forgave a debt she had intended to collect violently. Two estranged brothers at opposite ends of the bar looked at one another for the first time that evening.

Zane played on.

He felt all of it passing through him: the city’s weariness, the rain, the years spent beneath artificial lights without ever once standing before true sunlight in a lifetime. For a little while, the piano made him a conduit for several hundred quiet heartbreaks.

It hurt.

It was beautiful.

For those few hours upon this cold rainy night, a single brighter chord appeared within the darkness.

Hope had entered the building. 

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AN:...a Jedi is more than his laser sword and acrobatics. You guys know I am an action junkie fight addict. But power does not mean violence. The power of a Jedi does not come from the heat of his weapon…but from the depths of his heart. 

And yes, Prong Krell's name was misspelled on purpose~