Chapter Twenty-One

Jorel, lightsaber in hand wanted to leave. He’d managed to, with Sergeant Hisku’s help, escape his cell, right before he was going to be killed, sneak through a factory/gang headquarters, and make his way to the leader’s office. A leader who was now. . . preoccupied, but Jorel had a feeling that trying to take advantage of that to cut the head off this metaphorical snake would only end badly for him, so he was perfectly fine to cut and run.

However, the slight, insistent suggestion he was coming to realize was the Force had a different idea.

“Trust in the Force, Jorel. It will never lead you astray as long as you follow it’s Will, Jorel,” he muttered to himself as, instead of going the way they came, he was directed down a different hallway.

“Is that really necessary,” his attaché asked, red eyes darting around as she followed him near soundlessly.

Jorel had thrown up another veil around them, something to tell others ‘nothing’s out of place here’, but it was draining, and while he’d mostly recovered from doing so earlier, the faint sense of tiredness that had nothing to do with his body told him it hadn’t been enough.

They moved carefully, not darting by doorways, but walking as if they belonged, the better to not draw the eyes of others. Even then the padawan could feel pressing on them, pushing him to have to hold up the Veil, which was tiring, to make the gaze of others slide off them as they continued. Down one hallway, then another, then up a set of stairs and down a third corridor, they walked past a pair of gang members that looked more like mercenaries, with how much weaponry was on them.

The Veil nearly broke, Jorel’s disguise as a worker hurting more than helping where they weren’t supposed to be, but Hisku’s heavy cloak and unholstered blaster held in his direction balanced it out, and other than a curious look, the pair moved on, Jorel having to fight to keep his breathing even as he felt like he’d run a marathon.

Their destination couldn’t come too soon, and they stopped in front of an unremarkable door in a hallway of seemingly unremarkable doors. “Is this where you use your lightsaber to cut your way in,” the Chiss behind him asked, trepidatious, but with the tiniest hint of anticipation.

“No, I shall use an even more powerful Jedi technique,” Jorel replied, with grave seriousness, taking out the key-card he’d pulled off the corpse of the man who’d captured him in the first place. Sliding it through the lock, the door unlatched, and he held it open. “It’s a secret whose origins have been lost to the annals of history,” he informed her, smiling, trying to find the humor of the situation where he could.

“. . . You’re an idiot,” the Sergeant replied, deadpan, though the corner of her mouth quirked upwards before she forced it back down. He just grinned at her, and she walked inside the room, letting his shoulders drop and allow him to suck in large, silent lungful’s of air when she wasn’t looking.

Following her, recovering slightly the two of them found themselves in a bedroom, a terminal on a desk to the side, and a door leading to a fresher in the back. Looking around, he asked, “Do you know how to slice? I’ve had a little training, but it’s not my thing.” She shook her head, and he winced. “Okay, I guess it’s me. Can you check the room while I do this?”

When Hisku nodded, Jorel took a seat at the desk, activating the terminal, and not looking forward to his task. Without a way in, it was very hard to get into a secure terminal, and, as a criminal, this was guaranteed to be one. When the screen flickered to life, Jorel sighed, the prompt indeed locked, and, trying the basic methods, he got nowhere.

He needed to find a way through the first layer, but the Force was silent, having brought him here, and no farther. Looking around the desk, he looked for clues that would help him figure out. A picture of a loved one, a sports affiliation, even a preferred model of ship, anything. Spotting a model of an old Kandosii-class dreadnaught, the kind the Mandalorians used in the Mandalorian wars of conquest, Jorel tried using the name of the ship type as a password.

It was incorrect, and he was told he only had two more attempts.

Closing his eyes he tried to reach out with the Force, trying to find something with a hint of meaning. He couldn’t read the history of objects, no Jedi without the innate talent for Psychometry could, but things that people paid attention to, things they cared for, picked up a little bit of their Force Presence.

The model did have a touch of the now dead man’s Presence, but so did a few other things, no one item more than the others, but the fact that the Jumat wasn’t a Force user made the traces much, much harder to spot. The glop grenade in the corner, in a display, had received some more attention than the others, but not enough to stand out starkly, and that didn’t really help him. Jorel only had two tries left and he needed to make them count.

“Found his passwords,” Hisku called from over his shoulder, almost causing Jorel to jump.

Instead, the padawan turned around in his chair, asking, “Passwords?”

“Yep,” the woman nodded. Holding open a flimsiplast notebook, and snorted. “For the terminal it’s ‘Mando4ever’,” she instructed, spelling it out.

Sure enough, it worked.

Staring in disbelief at the now unlocked terminal, Jorel turned back to the Chiss. “What, did he have it under his pillow or something?” he demanded. She returned with a flat look. “Seriously?”

“Under the bottom sheet, but, yeah,” she shrugged, motioning over to the now disassembled bed. “Here, for the rest,” she directed, tossing the notebook at him.

Catching it, he turned back to the terminal, and, poking around with passwords in hand, found a wealth of data. Accounts, evidence, rosters, details of crimes committed by other gang members, everything you’d need to take down the criminal organization. For a few moments Jorel thought Julmat might have been working for the local law enforcement, gathering what was needed, until he stumbled across the man’s ‘grand plan’, which had been written out in a bulleted list. Jorel found that the dead criminal wasn’t a good man, caught in over his had and trying to do the right thing, but having made the wrong moves while attracting too much attention.

No, Julmat was an idiot.

He was planning on ‘turning in’ his boss, giving just enough evidence to put her away and prune the parts of the organization that he didn’t like, which, as it turned out, were just the parts that happened to be legitimate businesses. Jorel hadn’t planned to be a Sentinel like Anaïs, but he’d sat in on some of the lectures she had, and even he knew a criminal organization needed some mostly clean business to hide behind, like the factory they were in right now.

But Julmat thought it was noisy. And messy. And below him. And he’d thought they could do better by replacing them all with more criminal enterprises, which, as the leader, he’d obviously take a bigger cut of.

No wonder she killed him, Jorel thought darkly, before shaking himself out of those thoughts. Refocused, and shaking off the tiredness his consistent use of the Force had resulted in, he plugged the mem-stik he found on the desk into the terminal, downloading everything. Once they were out, they’d give it to Er’isma, who’d know what to do with it, and hopefully the Jedi Knight wouldn’t be too mad at his apprentice for getting jumped by slavers.

Twice.

In two months.

He’s gonna kill me, the apprentice thought morosely, still transferring every datafile he could.

“Found the rest of our gear,” his partner announced, walking to Jorel and looking over his shoulder. “This is. . . records? How did you know this’d be here?” she asked, glancing down at him.

Jorel just shrugged. “Didn’t.”

Handing him his utility belt, which he quickly slipped on, the soldier shook her head. “You know, you’re nothing like the holodramas say Jedi are,” she commented with a sigh, and the padawan realized this was the first time the two of them had been planetside since he’d joined. More than that, though. . .

“You watch holodramas?” Jorel asked, trying to picture the severe young woman curled up with a bowl of popped grain and watching ‘Stars of our Lives’. It didn’t compute. At her glare, she wasn’t going to admit to it, which was probably better for his sanity anyways, and he just shrugged. “Is Master Er’isma? ‘Sides, I’ve been a real Jedi for a couple of months. Before that I was just an Initiate.”

From her look, she didn’t get the difference, and Jorel almost started to explain before a ripple of something set his teeth on edge. “It’s time to leave,” he announced, getting the last of the files and pulling out the mem-stik, stowing it in a protective case on his belt, and, on a whim, grabbing the grenade.

Moving to the door, he felt the on-edge feeling get worse, and activated his lightsaber. “Jorel?” Hisku asked, both pistols out and ready. “Aren’t we sneaking out?”

“Might not be an option,” he replied, opening the door with a wave of the hand holding the grenade.

As it swung open on its own, and someone in the hall shot the door, in a way that might’ve caught him if he’d just stepped out after opening it. An angry voice could be heard, kept low, but the tone of ‘you idiot’ came through clearly, even if it was in huttese.

Oh sithspit, Jorel swore to himself, realizing what the Force was trying to warn him about. They’d taken too long, and someone had found either the two sent to kill them in the jail, or the random thug he’d left in the boss’ waiting room. He hoped their leader had only ordered a few to Julmat’s quarters ‘just in case’, or this was going to get a lot harder.

Taking a deep breath, letting the Force infuse his body, he primed the glop grenade in his hand and leapt out into the hallway, dodging as more blasters shot were he would’ve been if he stepped out, taking in the five thugs who’d come to stop them. Five? He thought. I can handle five.

Tossing the grenade, it slammed into the chestplate of a Tradoshan in the middle, the lizard-man’s eyes going wide in surprise before the nozzles in the sphere started spewing liquid that hardened into foam in less than a second, trapping them and sealing that end of the hallway.

Hisku followed him out, took in the captured goons, and seeing the front one was only half-trapped, trying to force his arm up to shoot the, put three blaster bolts in his chest, killing him. “Now what?” she demanded, an alarm starting to sound.

“Now, we get out of here,” he replied, running off in the other direction with Force-assisted speed, the woman trailing behind him, giving him enough time to check the corner of the T intersection instead of barreling around it.

Sure enough, there were a few thugs waiting, but, knowing where they were, he was able to spring out, hitting the other wall and, kicking off it, his lightsaber flashed out, knocking aside the bolt that would’ve struck him as he closed.

With two swings, they fell, dead, and Hisku rounded the corner at a full sprint, just trying to keep up. He nodded to her, charging forward himself, no longer trying to keep his footsteps silent. Running down the hall, he got the faintest hint of danger, like his Master’s feint, hiding his true strike, and a door opened, a woman with a vibroblade lunging out to stab, only to have her blade severed by his own, then her head, as he didn’t stop, following his instincts.

Three more hallways, and two more ambushes, later they were at the entrance of the reinforced section, where a dozen armed gunman stood, and the same Weequay door guard who’d sneered at him stared at Jorel’s saber with widened eyes.

Five, he could take, but this many he wasn’t so sure about, but as far as he could tell this was the only way in or out, at least the only way he knew of. Rather than hesitate, which would get him killed, Jorel attacked. The padawan did let the feeling of vindictive pleasure at this turnabout pass him by, as he thrust a hand out at the door-guard, the Weequay trying to slam the portal shut.

It wasn’t up to Er’izma’s level, but the alien was blasted backwards, his grip on the door wrenched free and slamming it open, as the other gunman staggered back, the shove unfocused and catching them in its passage, which worked just fine for Jorel. Pushing past what the Force Push had taken out of him, leaping forward, the Jedi slashed almost wildly, trying not to let his fear corrupt his focus, cutting down his foes as they recovered.

Three dropped in an instant, but he’d been right, there were too many, and, unlike the pirates, they knew what they were doing. Pulling backwards, they all drew down on him, and fired their blasters.

Jorel ducked behind one gunman as he sent the thug’s aim wide, and let the other man absorb the shots, but a bolt grazed his thigh. It burned with pain, but it wasn’t enough to stop Jorel, who moved to the next group, cutting down too more, and trying to block the shots from the others. He could sense where the shots were going to go, more a feeling than any actual second sight, and tried his best to mitigate the damage, when two bolts flew down the hall, hitting two of the gunmen, giving Jorel enough of a window to avoid being hit.

More fell, as Hisku charged, sending a stream of bolts at the attackers, even as three of the remaining gunman turned to fire at her.

No! Jorel thought, knowing she couldn’t see the shots coming like he could. He shoved himself forward, cutting down two before they could fire, one of the ones that’d been aiming for him grazing his arm, and the third shooter pulling his trigger before Jorel could stop him.

The man died the next instant, but his shot sped towards the padawan’s partner, who, twisting, barely dodged out of the way, but kept focus downrange as she shot the one who’d shot Jorel.

The Jedi cut down the ones left, even as the soldier fired past him, dropping the Weequay who’d been staggering to his feet, pulling a blaster of his own. “You’re hurt,” she stated, looking at his burned flesh.

“I’ll heal, we need to keep going,” he shot back, feeling danger coming for them.

She hesitated, then nodded, and he lead the way, a claxon going off as more people ran about. A few thugs stopped, spotting his lightsaber, and tried to shoot him, only to be put down either with the blade that drew their attention, or by Hisku’s blasters.

Shutting it off, hoping it was the right thing to do, he tried to join the chaos, and slip out along with the other workers. Jorel was tired, having pushed himself with the Force, from the energy intensive process of healing himself, to the even more tiring act of using the Veil, to those minutes of combat, farther than he had in training, but they were almost done.

Not having to fake his worried expression, they followed the workers, who were heading for some large loading bay, shepherded by the gang-members who were themselves looking around nervously.

They made it past the entrance, spotting repulsortrucks half loaded with goods, red, yellow, grey, and blue, before they were outed. One of the workers looked past Jorel at Sergeant Hisku and called out, “Who are you!?” The gunmen turned, her distinctive appearance making her easily visible, and one stepped forward yelling, “Get on the ground!”

Their cover blown, she glanced at Jorel, who activated his saber, drawing attention like a loadstone, even as he shouted, “The yellow one!” He cut down the first gunman, which was started the others into motion, shooting in his general direction, many of them hitting the other workers, who in turn stampeded in every direction in a blind panic.

Hisku bolted, threading through the others to secure their escape, while Jorel leapt over the heads of the gang members, the shots from the thugs going wild as they tried to sight in on a target that moved far faster than they were obviously used to. Falling down on another pair of shooters, he dispatched them, barely ducking out of the way of a bolt that would’ve taken his head, and turning for the dozen or so that still remained, scattered about the hanger, the initial shock wearing off as their blaster-fire starting to get more precise.

Blaster bolts were fired across the space, the Sergeant taking a few pot-shots as she reached the truck, trying to take the pressure off him. Taking advantage of hit, he dashed forward with Force fueled steps, cutting down another half dozen, only a few attackers remaining. However, more reinforcements ran in, and Jorel wished he still had his grenade, clumped up as the new arrivals were.

The area was rapidly clearing of workers and, as much as he hated getting non-combatants involved, they had served as cover. Jorel also realized just how little the Temple had trained him for this situation. You’d think, given the Jedi fought criminals, dealing with mass-fire would be on the syllabus, but all of his combat lessons had either been fighting a couple of gunmen, a single shooter, or other Jedi, and he was paying for it now.

Cutting down one of the last of the original gunmen, the others poured fire wherever he ran, forcing him to run, and he dodged around the space, trying to give Hisku time, as the new arrivals didn’t know about her. He took another couple shots in the process, the painful burns eating away at his focus, but he did not let himself be slowed down. Thankfully all were glancing blows, hot lances of pain that didn’t slow him down, and as even more attackers arrived the repulsortruck sputtered to life, the Chiss woman called out, “Come on!”

Gathering the last of his strength, Jorel used half of it to send one more Push at the now twenty-odd gunmen, sending them falling like cut grass, the other half spent for one last infusion of speed as he streaked across the hanger, vision narrowing, leaping for the truck’s open door.

One of the gunmen, still on the ground fired, and he twisted mid-air knocking it away with his saber even as an enormous Catar charged through the door and raised a bowcaster, firing the Wookie-sized weapon right at Jorel.

Out of position to block the blow, and without the strength left to try to make a barrier, the Jedi saw death coming for him as the plasma-covered metal quarrel streaked straight for his chest.

However, it did not hit him.

The Force twisted, as Hisku, arm outstreached, yelled, “No!” Jorel felt a crushing pressure seize him and pull, cracking ribs as he was yanked towards the truck. The bolt missed him by inches as he slammed into the vehicle, hard, and out of position, his left arm breaking even as his training pushed him to swing into the door, closing it behind him, shutting off his saber.

Hisku, eyes wide, hands shaking, panting as if she’d run a marathon, stared at him. The sound of blasterfire, as well as the louder noise of the bowcaster striking the durasteel, snapped her out of her haze, and she, almost drunkenly, tried to use the controls, lifting the repulsortruck and sending it hurtling for the exit. As they passed the gunmen, who were still firing, the Catar reached back and pulled out a concussion missile launcher of all things, sighting it on their ship, preparing it to blast it to pieces.

They’d come all this way, gone this far, and they were going to die, because he was too weak to protect his partner. If it was just Jorel that would’ve died, he still would’ve been mad, but that was the Jedi way. But his stupidity had dragged her into this, and because of him she was going to die.

Something in Jorel snapped.

Snarling, the Force-user reached out to the tumultuous blackness around him. It welcomed him back, the pure Darkness that only a sudden, violent death could give thick in the air, most of which he’d put there himself. As before, it filled him, embraced him, willing to serve him, if he but asked.

The pain he felt deadened, though Jorel knew it wasn’t gone, and was careful to wave his good arm, palm out as he focused. The missile fired, and made it only a foot before it froze, firm in his grip. It’s thruster tried to push it forward, but against his might it was nothing.

Curling his fist closed, the missile exploded, the Cathar already running, but it wouldn’t be enough. Pushing his Will into the Flames, Jorel shoved the blast backwards, multiplying it until it was an inferno that incinerated all in his path, their deaths sweet to him as they paid for attacking their betters. The Cathar coward dove through a door, shoving another in the way of Jorel’s crimson flames, and the Force-User felt a deep desire to order his subordinate to turn around, so none would escape his judgement.

They flew out of sight of the hanger, though, rising high and fast, one of the repulsors smoking, and Jorel resisted the urge to pick up the truck to move it by the force of his will, might, and power alone.

Because that was dumb.

With a shuddering breath, the factory starting to disappear and Jorel let go of the darkness, even as it whispered that it didn’t need to go. That he was stronger with it. That if he used it, he could make these slavers pay in a way his master never would.

Thankfully, but unfortunately, Jorel knew what he was doing, and even though it felt like he was tearing off his own arm, he let the power go, though he knew bits of it had stained him in the process, never truly gone.

Everything hurt but he knew it would. Part of him was tempted to reach for the Dark again. It was thinner here, though enough still wafted up from the city they flew over it would be enough. Even out in nature, the Dark existed, if one knew how to look, and all he needed to do was to be strong enough to get to safety. It’d been stupid to release it as quickly as he had, he thought, and if he just-

No.

Taking a deep, shuddering, but still calming breath, he tried to turn to the Force, though, as if knowing what he’d done, it stubbornly resisted his call.

Stomping on the thought to make it come to him, Jorel tried again, not demanding, but asking for help. Not for himself, but for Hisku, as she was looking little better than he was. If she passed out, he needed to be strong enough to get her to safety.

He put himself in the Force’s hands. Being killed by those soaked in Darkness? That was one thing. To die because they were too tired and passed out? That, in a way, seemed much more in line with the will of the Force, causing Jorel to laugh, then wheeze, his ribs shot through with pain even as Hisku tiredly glanced over at him, before, with a start, she focused forward as they tried to figure out where they were.

A hint of a thought, almost beyond perception, a whisper in a storm, said, that way.

“That way,” the Jedi repeated, pointing with his right hand, and the soldier complied without a single word.

Thank you, he thought, trying to stay awake, and, barely, felt the Force. Where it would normally be a stream, it was a trickle, but it was enough for him to work with, and he was grateful for that much.

On his good hand, the barest blue condensation formed, a whisper of water, and he reached over to work it into his broken arm, his training the only reason he didn’t black out from the pain. It was going to be slow, but it gave him something to do, and he already felt the edges of his vision, which had started to blur, clear ever so slightly.

“So, about what happened-” he started to say, trying to make conversation, surprised as she interrupted him.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” she snapped, and he paused in his healing, surprised.

Starting the process again, the Force maybe a fraction clearer to feel now, he tried again. “But, you used the For-”

“What part of ‘I don’t want to talk about it’ don’t you understand?” she practically yelled, and while he wasn’t as surprised, the vehemence of her reaction still shocked him.

“But,” he countered, “It’s amazing!” The fact that she, out of all people, was a Force User like him, even if she was untrained was incredib-

“It’s cheating,” she hissed, as if it were a curse, and her hands started to shake again.

Deciding that maybe now wasn’t the time, Jorel instead replied, “Are you injured? I could heal you. A little. I’m kinda tapped, but if you’re hurt. . .”

The Sergeant was silent for a long moment, before she let out a tense sigh. “I am uninjured, Padawan Jorel. I am only tired,” she stated with icy formality, even as her voice shook with fatigue. “I apologize for my outburst. It was unprofessional. Please see to your own injuries while I return us to our Rally Point.”

Not knowing what he’d done wrong, but also knowing he couldn’t force her to tell him, even as part of him suggested he could, he sat back in the repulsortruck’s seat and focused on healing himself. It was almost ten minutes later that the city below them started to look familiar, and the flashing blue and white of Law enforcement could be seen on hover cars en-route to them. A lot of them. They flew up and surrounded the repulsortruck, a speaker blaring their demanding that Hisku land immediately.

Hisku ignored them, only holding out a hand and requesting, “Comm unit.” He pulled it out from his belt and handed it to her, and, not looking anywhere but straight ahead, announced, “This is Sergeant Hisku’biatha’pusi, attaché to Padawan Jorel Drettz, driving a yellow damaged repulsortruck. We have exfiltrated from the stronghold of a local criminal element that captured us. Priority personnel is wounded, though. . . self-repairing,” she paused, glancing over to him, just for a minute, “but is mission killed. Local law has been compromised, and are demanding we surrender to them. Please advise.”

“Sergeant,” an older male voice replied immedietly. “We were starting to wonder where you were. Make for the hotel. We’ll call them off, and send an escort to avoid any misunderstandings. You aren’t the only ones to have some trouble last night.”

The speeders on either side of their truck threatened to shoot them down if they didn’t comply, and Jorel glanced nervously at Hisku, who stared straight ahead, flying towards the hotel. Three of the now nine speeders turned away, but the other half dozen, if anything pulled in tighter. One of the speeders pulled back behind them after a few seconds, and Hisku, before Jorel could even warn her, pulled the truck up, the ion-bolt from the speeder passing under them.

With the howl of engines, three Cranes, hulls glowing slightly from the speed of reentry, descended on the gathered speeders, some of whom scattered, though most stayed in firing range. One turned and shot the incoming starfighters, but its shields tanked the blow, and the Crane returned in kind, destroying the Law Enforcement speeder in an instant as the other two turned towards the other law enforcement vehicles.

The other speeders fled.

“Hey Hissy,” a familiar man’s voice called over the Comms. “Thought you said you were gonna be careful. Heard you were injured.”

The blue skinned woman twitched, the repulsortruck dipping for a moment, before she took several calming breaths and murmured, “not now,” under her breath. “Sergeant Zisk’tiashi’logha,” she replied. “I am uninjured, though Padawan Jorel Drettz has been shot. Repeatedly.”

“Oh, well that’s okay then,” Zisk, who was almost certainly flying one of the Cranes, replied easily.

“Agreed,” Jorel couldn’t help but add, getting a laugh out of the pilot, starting to relax for the first time, instead of just pretending to. They had a fighter escort, and he could see the hotel. They’d made it.

“boys,” Hisku hissed, before they were at the landing pad, where she carefully put down the ship. A dozen soldiers, in full kit, waited for them, and Jorel waved jauntily, dizzy with relief.

Or blood loss and tiredness.

Probably relief.

Pushing the slow trickle of Force into reinforcing his body instead of healing it, Jorel carefully opened the door and clambered out, two soldiers quickly moving forward to help him, which he appreciated, as, even enhanced, he wasn’t exactly stable.

Glancing back, he smiled broadly, head swimming slightly, as he another soldier move to help Hisku, who, after a moment of hesitation, allowed them to support her. They were ferried indoors, carried really, then down an elevator, and into a very large room, far larger than Jorel’s own, not that he’d been in it for more than a few minutes. He wondered how comfy the bed would be in his room.

Inside, at a desk, and sipping something from a glass, Knight Er’izma sat, looking very, very displeased. The two of them were deposited into very comfortable chairs, and a cup of water was pressed into Jorel’s hand, which he smiled at, and greedily drank down, not realizing how thirsty he’d been until just then. And had they added something to it? The water tasted really good.

Er’izma waited, before looking at the two of them. “You were on your first shore leave Padawan, with instructions to relax. I awoke to find you and your attaché missing, reports of a Jedi fighting a dozen criminals before storming a burning building, and I was about to instate a full deployment. Then you arrive, beaten, blasted, burned, with a squadron’s worth of corrupt law enforcement trying to corner you to kill you, and. . .” Er’izma sniffed, “reeking of the Dark Side. I hope you have a good explanation for all of this.”

The Padawan thought about it, and shrugged. The chair was really comfortable, and Hisku was safe, even if she was mad at him for some reason, and she could use the Force! What was he doing? Oh, right.

“I have an explanation. Not sure if it’s good,” he offered, having proven not to be a good judge. Or good. Or a judge.

“And that explanation would be?” his Master pressed, and Jorel blinked as his Master seemed to suddenly be one person, then several hundred, then several thousand, then more, and then one again, with thousands of branches reaching around and up into the sky, like a really really weird tree made out of souls.

Jorel shrugged again. “The Force told me to.”

And then he passed out.