"The hunt is a quiet whisper; the kill, a loud truth."

C334's eyes, sharp and predatory, locked onto the woman as she stepped into the shuttle. The world around him seemed to still, as though time itself had been momentarily suspended. His entire being tensed with a quiet ferocity, muscles coiled, ready to spring. His hands gripped the spear, the metal shaft cold and unyielding in his calloused palms. His knuckles turned bone-white, a stark contrast against the dark, worn leather of his gloves. The weapon was an extension of him now—his fury, his aggression—barely contained by his own resolve.

His mission, his purpose, was clear. The weight of his alpha's command pressed down on him like an unrelenting storm. Complete the mission, the order had come, and failure was an outcome too horrific to imagine. The consequences of failure were brutal, swift, and unforgiving—he would be gutted, discarded like refuse. The thought made his insides twist, but there was no room for hesitation. His resolve, hardened by years of ruthless obedience, allowed no weakness.

A heavy sigh escaped him, though it was muffled by the mask that concealed the lower half of his face. The metal covering offered little comfort, only the reminder of what he had become—an instrument of violence, a tool to execute the will of his master. Exhaustion washed over him like a cold wave, but it was a feeling he had long ago learned to ignore. His eyes flicked to the heat signatures in his visor, glowing bright and distinct, picking out Nyx, Anakin, and a white-robed figure. The identification of the Jedi Master was not yet clear, but the patterns were unmistakable. They were boarding the shuttle, preparing to depart. His prey, slipping away from his reach, but not for long.

The vessel began to lift, its engines thrumming, the low hum resonating through the air. C334's gaze remained fixed, unwavering, as he watched the shuttle ascend, every movement calculated, measured. His body itched to act, to follow. With slow, deliberate movements, he adjusted the mask on his face, a quiet gesture that spoke volumes. The adjustment was not just to better see, but a small act of self-control, of maintaining composure in the face of overwhelming urgency.

His hands gripped the spear tighter, the spearhead gleaming in the dim light of his cockpit, reflecting his burning determination. Gotta get this going. The thought was a murmur in his mind, but it reverberated with the weight of necessity. It was not just a thought, but an imperative.

In one smooth motion, C334 turned, his movements practiced, precise. The engines of his ship roared to life, their deafening growl slicing through the dense jungle air. The foliage below seemed to recoil as the ship rose above it, the air thrumming with the power of the engines. The Indoraptor's ship, sleek and dark, cut through the canopy like a predator in pursuit, gliding upward into the sky with ruthless grace.

Naboo was his destination, its coordinates etched into the ship's system, a path set with unwavering precision. The hunt had begun, and there was no turning back.

SCENEBREAK

The gleaming halls of the Naboo royal palace greeted us with their quiet, majestic beauty. The polished marble floors gleamed beneath our footsteps, the intricate gold filigree adorning the walls catching the light in a dance of soft reflections. The grandeur of the palace was softened by the graceful, almost ethereal atmosphere, as if the building itself breathed in harmony with the tranquil world outside. Every corner whispered of Naboo's long history, of its art, culture, and unwavering commitment to peace.

Queen Jamilla approached us, and her presence was like a force of nature—calm yet commanding. Her elegant gown of soft lavender and gold shimmered slightly as she moved, her posture straight but fluid, exuding the grace of someone who had been born to rule. Her warm smile, as natural as it was regal, filled the space around her, instantly putting those in her presence at ease. Despite the formal attire and the political weight she carried, there was a softness in her eyes that spoke of a queen deeply connected to her people.

"Ah, Jedi, welcome," she greeted us, her voice melodic and inviting, the words flowing like a gentle stream. There was something about her, something that made it easy to trust her, to feel welcomed.

Anakin, Obi Wan, and I stood before her, the tension of our recent travels melting away in the warmth of her greeting. Nearby, Padmé stood, as resplendent as ever in her senatorial outfit. The deep burgundy and gold fabric swirled around her like a cascade of silk, her dark hair pinned perfectly beneath an elegant headdress. A subtle smile graced her lips, but I could sense a quiet edge to her demeanor, a complexity beneath the composed exterior that didn't escape me.

Queen Jamilla gestured for us to follow, her movement smooth, her every step measured and purposeful. "This way, you three," she instructed, the gentle command leaving no room for question. Her aides flanked her like attentive shadows, but their presence was subtle, barely noticed as the queen led the way through the halls. Anakin and I walked in step behind her, the silence between us filled with a mixture of anticipation and curiosity.

I glanced back to see Obi-Wan hanging back, engaging in a quiet but no less significant conversation with the queen. Their words were soft, their gestures diplomatic, and though I couldn't hear their exchange, I could sense that it was important, something that held significance for the future of Naboo.

Turning my attention back to Padmé, I noted the slight tension in her posture, the way her shoulders seemed just a bit too rigid for someone so accustomed to diplomacy. Her expression was serene, but I could feel the undercurrent of something more, something that troubled her. I took a step closer and lowered my voice, speaking softly so only she could hear. "So, what is it that troubles you?"

For a moment, she didn't answer, her gaze briefly drifting to the polished stone beneath our feet. Then she turned to me, her smile still delicate, but there was something in her eyes—something that hinted at deeper worries. "It is the Gungans," she said quietly, her voice carrying the weight of her concern. "Their leader has declared war on us."

The words hung in the air, heavy and unsettling. A potential war between the Gungans and the Naboo. It seemed almost impossible to believe, given their shared history and the harmony that once existed between the two populations. But there it was—an official declaration of war, the kind of thing that could tear apart the fragile peace that had been maintained for so long.

The tension was palpable now, as though the very air between us had thickened. The Gungans—once a people who had fought alongside the Naboo in the past—had long been misunderstood by the more "civilized" citizens of Naboo, a rift that had persisted for generations. Yet, war? That seemed like an impossibility, a devastating turn of events that no one had anticipated.

Padmé's gaze hardened, the quiet concern now fully visible in her expression. She had always been a symbol of hope and resolve, yet even she could not hide the uncertainty in her eyes. "We have to understand why," she continued, her voice a mix of determination and sorrow. "What has driven them to this? What has changed?"

Her question lingered in the air, unanswered, as the weight of the situation pressed down on us. As we walked through the palace, I couldn't help but wonder how this conflict would unfold. Could the Gungans and the Naboo find a way to resolve their differences? Or was war truly inevitable? And what role would the Jedi play in this? Only time would tell.

SCENEBREAK

The predator's sharp gaze lingered over the lifeless form of the Gungan's pet. The once-joyful creature lay still, its eyes wide in shock, and the dark red stain that spread from the wound painted a grim tableau. A satisfied hiss escaped from the predator's throat, the sound low and feral, a celebration of his skill, his viciousness. He smeared the blood across his chest, the streaks becoming a grotesque, yet somehow ritualistic display of his triumph. At least the bloodshed had brought him something new to mark his dedication. There was beauty in brutality for those who understood it.

With a sharp whistle, the predator summoned his companion. From the edge of the thick, humid jungle, a dark shape emerged—an equine creature, strong and swift, its coat gleaming with a sleek, dark luster. The horse approached, its eyes flicking nervously around, sensing its rider's intent. But it was accustomed to the violence that trailed in its master's wake. Without hesitation, the predator mounted, his movements fluid and practiced, a man at home in his element.

As the animal's hooves struck the earth, the predator spurred it forward, the rhythmic sound of its gallop breaking the heavy silence of the jungle. The tall trees and thick underbrush blurred as they sped toward their destination—a small, inconspicuous outpost where the informant awaited. He had heard whispers of her—a woman who knew too much, a loose end that would soon be tied up. His instructions were clear. He was to hunt her down. She had but days left to live, and within a fortnight, her life would be extinguished.

The predator's mind worked like a machine, calculating every step, every movement, a perfect plan set in motion. There would be no room for error. The informant was expendable, a tool to be discarded once her usefulness had ended. But as the thought of her death loomed, he couldn't help but feel the thrill of the hunt settle in his bones. Another task, another victim to erase from the world, and then onto the next.

His focus was razor-sharp as he rode into the distance, the sun casting long shadows across the land. The sense of inevitability hung in the air, the journey ahead a mere formality. The predator would claim his prize.