Chapter 7: Sorgan's Peace
POV: Oliver
Sorgan breathes green life into Oliver's borrowed lungs—humid air thick with the scent of growing things, morning mist rising from forest pools, the rich loam of a world that has never known the taste of blaster fire or the weight of Imperial boots.
It's the opposite of Arvala-7's wasteland in every way that matters.
[ENVIRONMENT DETECTED: LUSH FOREST BIOME]
[MP REGENERATION INCREASED BY 25%]
[ECOSYSTEM DENSITY: OPTIMAL]
[THREAT LEVEL: MINIMAL]
The notifications scroll across Oliver's vision as the Razor Crest settles into a clearing beside a crystalline lake. For the first time since waking in the desert, the warnings are green instead of amber or red. No immediate danger. No hostile entities. Just life in all its chaotic abundance.
Grogu coos with delight as Oliver lifts him from the ship, the child's eyes wide as he takes in the alien forest. A small amphibian—something like a frog but with too many legs and eyes that shimmer like jewels—hops near the landing ramp.
Grogu makes excited grabbing motions toward the creature, his intentions clear even without words.
"Absolutely not," Oliver says, pulling the child away from what might be his next meal. "We're guests here. No eating the locals."
Grogu's response is a disappointed coo that somehow manages to convey existential tragedy at being denied this simple pleasure.
POV: Din Djarin
The village appears through the trees like something from a child's story—thatched roofs, cultivated fields, smoke rising from chimneys in lazy spirals. It's peaceful in a way that makes Din's trigger finger itch, because in his experience, places this quiet are usually about to become very loud.
But the threat assessment is genuine. No military installations, no Imperial presence, no bounty hunters or Guild representatives. Just farmers living simple lives on a world the galaxy has forgotten.
Maybe that's what they need right now. A place to disappear, at least until the heat from Nevarro dies down.
The villagers who greet them are curious but welcoming, their faces open and honest in a way Din hasn't seen in years. A woman approaches their small group—middle-aged, with kind eyes and calloused hands that speak of honest work.
"I'm Omera," she says, offering a slight bow. "Welcome to our village."
Before Din can respond, Oliver makes a sound of surprise. Din turns to see the man standing perfectly still, his eyes wide with wonder.
They're being mobbed.
POV: Oliver
It starts with a single bird—something like a sparrow but with feathers that shift color in the dappled sunlight. It lands on Oliver's shoulder with the casual confidence of a creature that has never learned to fear predators.
Then another bird joins it. And another.
Within moments, Oliver is the center of a living constellation. Birds perch on his shoulders and arms, their tiny claws gripping gently. A small mammal—furry, long-tailed, with enormous curious eyes—emerges from the underbrush and winds itself around his boots like an affectionate cat.
Even insects seem drawn to him, brilliant butterflies settling on his jacket and hair like living jewels.
"Well," Omera says, her voice warm with amusement. "That's unusual."
Oliver tries to stay perfectly still, afraid that any sudden movement will send his impromptu menagerie fleeing. The sensation is overwhelming—not the controlled connection of his abilities, but something organic and natural, as if the forest itself has decided to welcome him home.
[PASSIVE ATTRACTION: FOREST FAUNA]
[ECOSYSTEM RECOGNITION: BENEVOLENT PRESENCE]
[NATURAL AFFINITY ACTIVATED]
"I'm sorry," Oliver says quietly, not wanting to startle the creatures. "I don't know why they—"
"Don't apologize," Omera interrupts, her smile widening. "It's beautiful."
A child appears at Omera's side—a girl perhaps eight or nine, with her mother's kind eyes and an expression of barely contained excitement.
"Mom, can I touch them?"
"Gently, Winta. They're wild creatures."
But Winta is already focused on something else. Her gaze has found Grogu, and the wonder on her face mirrors the child's own curiosity.
"Is he a baby?" Winta asks, approaching Grogu's pram with careful steps.
Grogu tilts his head, studying this new person with ancient eyes. Then he coos softly and reaches out with one tiny hand.
Winta giggles and extends her own finger, letting Grogu grasp it with surprising strength.
"He likes you," Oliver observes, and for the first time in days, his words come out exactly as intended.
POV: Omera
Omera watches the interaction between her daughter and the strange green child with a mother's careful attention. But what strikes her more is the expression on the scarred man's face—protective, gentle, touched with wonder at something as simple as children making friends.
There's pain there too, old and deep, but not the kind that speaks of cruelty. This is the pain of someone who has lost things, not someone who takes them.
"You're welcome to stay," she says, making the decision instinctively. "We have room, and it's been too long since we've had visitors with interesting stories."
The Mandalorian—Din, he'd introduced himself—nods his thanks. "We can pay for food and shelter."
"We'll discuss that later. For now, why don't you help me set up lodging? The common house has space, and the children would love the company."
As they work to prepare bedding and organize their few possessions, Oliver attempts to help arrange furniture. He reaches for a support beam and pauses, his hand resting against the wood.
Omera watches, fascinated, as a vine begins spiraling up the barn wall with impossible speed. Green tendrils spread and bloom, tiny flowers opening in fast-forward until the entire side of the building is covered in living beauty.
Oliver jerks his hand back as if burned, panic flashing across his features.
"I'm sorry! I didn't mean—I can make it stop—"
"Stop?" Omera laughs, delighted. "Why would you stop something so lovely?"
She approaches the vine-covered wall, running her fingers over leaves that seem to shimmer with their own inner light.
"You have a gift with growing things."
Oliver's panic fades into something like relief. "Something like that."
POV: Oliver
That evening, the common house fills with warmth and laughter—things Oliver is learning to recognize as precious rarities in a galaxy that seems determined to crush anything beautiful. Villagers share stories and simple food while children play underfoot, their voices a counterpoint to the adult conversations.
Oliver sits in a corner, trying to make himself small and unobtrusive. The attention from earlier still makes him uncomfortable. He's used to being overlooked, dismissed, forgotten. Being noticed feels dangerous.
"You're brooding."
The voice is unfamiliar—crisp, professional, with an accent that speaks of military training. Oliver looks up to see a woman approaching his table, moving with the controlled grace of someone who knows how to fight and isn't afraid to prove it.
She's human, dark-skinned, with muscles that come from real work rather than vanity. Her clothes are practical, well-maintained, and there's something about the way she carries herself that makes Oliver's danger sense hum quietly.
"I'm Cara Dune," she says, settling into the chair across from him without invitation.
"Oliver." He pauses, then adds, "So, you punch people professionally?"
Cara's expression doesn't change. "Try me and find out."
Oliver blinks, suddenly realizing how that sounded. "Is that an invitation or a threat?"
"Both."
The woman studies him with the intensity of someone taking measurements for a coffin. Her gaze lingers on his hands—soft, she's right about that—then moves to the faded marks on his wrists where restraints once chafed.
"Din vouches for you," Cara says finally. "Says you helped him save a kid from some Imperial facility."
"Something like that."
"You've got soft hands for someone who claims to live rough. And those scars on your arms? Restraint marks. Fresh ones, too, by the look of them." Her voice drops, becoming more serious. "Who were you running from?"
The question hits Oliver like cold water. His attempt at humor dies in his throat, replaced by the familiar weight of mysteries he can't solve and a past he can't remember.
"I don't remember."
It's the truth, but he can see in Cara's eyes that she doesn't believe him. In her experience, people who "don't remember" usually remember just fine—they just don't want to share.
POV: Cara Dune
Cara has interrogated enough prisoners to recognize evasion when she sees it. But there's something different about Oliver's denial—not the slick deflection of a practiced liar, but the desperate confusion of someone genuinely lost.
Still, she's learned not to trust first impressions. The galaxy is full of people who seem harmless right up until they put a blaster bolt through your chest.
"The nature trick is interesting," she says, watching his reaction. "Seen Force-users do similar things, but you don't have that feel about you."
Oliver's face goes carefully blank. "I don't know what you mean."
"Sure you don't."
Before the conversation can continue, Omera approaches their table with worry creasing her features.
"We need to talk," she says quietly. "All of us. There's something you need to know about our situation here."
POV: Oliver
The village's problem unfolds like a familiar nightmare—raiders with superior firepower extorting tribute from people who can't fight back. An AT-ST walker, stolen or salvaged from some forgotten Imperial depot. Demands for food, supplies, credits the villagers don't have.
"They'll be back in a few days," Omera explains, her voice steady despite the fear Oliver can sense underneath. "And when they come..."
She doesn't need to finish. Everyone in the room understands what happens to farming communities that can't pay their protection money.
Cara and Din exchange glances, the kind of wordless communication that speaks of shared military experience.
"We could help," Din says carefully.
"Could," Cara agrees. "Question is whether we should. This isn't our fight."
Oliver watches Winta and Grogu playing together in the corner—the little girl teaching the Force-sensitive child some clapping game that makes them both giggle with delight. The sound is pure and sweet and everything worth protecting in the galaxy.
"We're staying," Oliver says quietly.
Both warriors turn to look at him.
"This isn't a vote," Cara says. "You ever been in real combat, nature boy?"
The question brings back flashes of memory—the sterile corridors of the Client's facility, the taste of blood and fear, the sound of blaster fire echoing off white walls.
"Enough to know I don't want these kids to see it."
Something shifts in Cara's expression. Not trust, exactly, but recognition. She's seen that look before—on the faces of soldiers who've learned that the worst thing about war isn't dying, it's surviving to remember what you've done.
"All right then," she says. "Let's talk strategy."
POV: Oliver
That night, Oliver lies awake in his borrowed bedroll, listening to the forest breathe around them. Grogu sleeps peacefully nearby, one tiny fist clutched around the metal ball that seems to be his favorite toy.
Through his enhanced senses, Oliver can feel the vast network of life that surrounds the village—nocturnal hunters stalking through the trees, insects humming their ancient songs, the slow pulse of growing things reaching toward starlight.
But there's something wrong. A hollow space in the network, a patch of silence where there should be sound and movement.
[SENSORY SHARING ACTIVATED]
[TARGET: NOCTURNAL AVIAN - LONG RANGE SCOUT]
[MP: 70/92]
Through the bird's night vision, Oliver sees them—scout speeders moving through the forest in coordinated patterns. Not the raiders' main force, but advance reconnaissance. They're being watched, evaluated, measured for weaknesses.
The attack will come soon.
Oliver's datapad vibrates against his chest, another encrypted message decrypting itself in the digital shadows. He pulls it out quietly, not wanting to wake Grogu.
"Voss Project Log 47: Subject refuses weaponization protocols. Recommendation: Termination."
The words blur as Oliver's hands begin to shake. Even here, in this place of peace and growing things, the ghost of Voss's sins reaches out to remind him that he can never truly escape what he is.
Or what he was meant to become.
[DANGER SENSE ACTIVATED]
[LONG-RANGE HOSTILES DETECTED]
[ESTIMATED TIME TO CONTACT: 12-16 HOURS]
[THREAT ASSESSMENT: SEVERE]
Tomorrow, violence returns to this green paradise. And Oliver will have to choose whether to be the weapon Voss designed or something else entirely.
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