The Moisture Farm

Posted on Sun Mar 1st, 2026 @ 2:55pm by Kalen "Rex" Vickers & Mentis

3,770 words; about a 19 minute read

Chapter: Chapter VIII: Broken Chains
Location: The Moisture Farm Cantina, Mos Entha, Tatooine
Timeline: High Sun, After "Empty Entha"

OLD

"I can sense..." he began before a shriek tore through the street behind them, so close it rattled the skylight’s fractured edge.

"Never mind."

He slipped through the opening in one fluid motion, Rex heard his boots hitting the floor below with a muted thud and he followed suit, dropping down into the unknown below.

For a split second there was only darkness, barely lit by faint lighting dotted around, and the distant thud of bodies striking the outer doors.

Then came sharp mechanical whirr. Servos spooled to life and metal feet struck the tile with disciplined precision.

Rex rolled instinctively, reaching for Cindra before remembering it was overheated and useless. He froze as twin red targeting beams cut through the gloom and settled squarely on his chest and Mentis’ brow, and two GalactaWerks droids appeared from the darkness, their rifles trained on the two intruders.

NEW

He was smaller than Rex remembered.

The Bothan who dragged himself into the low light of the cantina looked as though something had hollowed him out from the inside. His fur, once thick and kept in Marine trim, hung in damp, uneven clumps. One side of his muzzle was slick with drying blood. His ears twitched weakly, not in alertness but in fever. Beneath the thinning fur along his neck and shoulder, the skin had gone corpse-grey, veins dark and branching beneath it. A strip of fabric had been knotted tight above a bite wound on his upper arm, but the flesh below it had blackened and split, thick grey fluid shining wetly in the cracks. He braced himself against an overturned table and managed something that might once have been a grin.

Rex forgot the rifles and droids.

"Brisck."

The name came out low and disbelieving.

"You always did like a dramatic entrance," the Bothan rasped, voice raw and shredded by thirst. "Roof this time. Thought you'd try the front like an idiot."

"We did," Rex replied. "You look awful."

"Feel worse."

Outside, something slammed into the reinforced doors again, followed by a ragged chorus of shrieks. Then, gradually, the noise began to thin. The blows lost force. Scraping replaced pounding. A shadow passed across the slit of the shutters and then withdrew.

Brisck tilted his head faintly towards the sound. "Heat," he muttered. "They slow in it. This strain does. Suns cook them. They'll pull back to shade until dusk."

Rex let out a slow breath.

"Strain?"

Brisck's good eye sharpened for a moment, the Marine still there beneath the fever. "Modified virus from before the Dark Age. 'Blackwing', they call it. GalactaWerks trimmed the madness off it... Apparently. Less shared mind. Less spread. More 'controllable'." He coughed and dark fluid flecked the tiles between his boots. "I couldn't keep running," he went on after a beat. "After Rakele. After what they did to us all... To everyone. We deserted and I told myself that was enough. That walking away was brave." His ears flattened weakly. "It wasn't."

Rex said nothing, just appraising his old friend sadly.

"I linked up with some of the old Outer Rim lot," Brisck continued. "Not the ones who signed papers and called it peace. The ones who remembered what they were fighting for. We dug into GW records, raided ships and other kark. This place came up. I came ahead of the others to pull data - quietly, was the plan." He swallowed with effort. "It went bad faster than I thought."

Rex's jaw tightened. "You always were bad at timing."

A faint huff escaped the Bothan, then turned into a tremor.

"My files aren't here," he said quickly. "Vickers shop. Back room. Under your father's old workbench. Loose panel in the floor. I figured if anyone came looking, it'd be you."

Rex's expression shifted at that, something old and unwanted surfacing behind his eyes.

Outside, the last of the infected sounds faded into distant, restless murmurs. The heat had reclaimed the streets.

Inside, Brisck began to shake. It started in his hands. A tremor he tried to control by clenching his fists. His breathing grew uneven. The bandage at his arm darkened as the necrosis crept past it, skin splitting with soft, wet sounds.

"Rex," he said, voice thinning. "When it happens, don't hesitate."

Mentis had not strayed far this whole time but had been shuffling about, eyes darting across the dim cantina. The GalactaWerks droids tracked every thud outside with tiny servo‑reflexes, rifles twitching at each scrape against the doors. He slipped behind the bar, peering into the shadowed storage alcove, then moved toward a narrow service corridor, checking each corner with quick, nervous glances.

All seemingly quiet.

He returned to Rex and Brisck, clearly listening to every word.

"Rex," he said quietly, but with a stern tone, "It’s in him. That Blackwing thing. I can feel it crawling through his mind and he knows it. He’s right. You can’t let him turn into another one of those things."

He didn’t cushion the words or give any thought to how it might come across to his companion. He simply stated them, as if discussing a broken repulsorlift.

"We should do it sooner rather than later."

A beat passed, Rex did not reply immediately but his shoulders were arched and tense, as though they were about to collapse from an unseen strain. Mentis did not seem to notice, instead allowing his gaze again to flick towards the dark corners of the cantina again, eyes narrow.

"Are there any others in here, Brisck?" he added, almost as an afterthought, "We don’t want any more surprises."

Brisck just shook his head, words seeming too much to manage in that moment.

Rex did not look at Mentis. At the mention of the Vickers shop, his hand drifted almost unconsciously to the inside pocket of his jacket. He pressed his thumb against the small, familiar shape there for a second, grounding himself, then let his hand fall again as if nothing had happened. His eyes remained on Brisck.

"He’s not dead yet," Rex said quietly, the words controlled rather than heated. "And while he’s not dead, he gets a say."

Brisck managed a dry, rasping chuckle. "Still... Still arguing in bars as the place burns down." He groaned in between some of the syllables. "Good to see... to see some things don’t change."

"You want something?" Rex asked, throwing a thumb toward the bar.

"Drink," Brisck breathed. "If I’m about to die twice, I’d rather not do it sober."

Rex gave a thin smile, barely concealing his fear and sadness, and moved behind the bar. Glass crunched beneath his boots. The place smelled of stale ale and coolant. He found a bottle that had not been smashed and tipped it experimentally, watching the amber liquid catch what little light there was.

"House special still on tap," he called back. "Dust, despair, and a hint of regret. Pairs well with poor life choices."

Brisck huffed again, weaker this time. "Still talk too much."

"Yeah... Keeps me from thinking."

He poured the drink into a chipped tumbler and carried it back carefully, kneeling to press it into Brisck’s shaking hand. For a moment their fingers brushed. Rex pretended not to notice how cold his old friend’s skin felt.

Behind them, one of the droids lowered its rifle fully and began a slow, awkward patrol of the cantina’s perimeter. Its gait was uneven where damage had warped the knee joint, but it moved with stubborn persistence, scanning doorways and the rear corridor. The second unit kept position near Brisck, optics steady but no longer hostile.

Rex glanced towards the reinforced entrance as the last of the outside scraping faded to nothing.

"Anyone else alive in town?" he asked.

Brisck took a small, careful sip. Most of it spilled down his chin. "Last I heard was blaster fire late last night. 'Til yours, of course." He swallowed with effort, wincing in pain. "Company couldn’t manage it. They tried remote shutdown when it got out... Might have been automation. They like automation. Locked the grid. Locked the transports. Even local execs got stranded."

A faint, humourless smile tugged at his muzzle at that, but he carried on. "Some of the smarter folks, made peace with the doom... They stripped the remaining ships and speeders early. No easy way off-world or out of town. Not that it would’ve mattered. These things aren’t as clever as the old reports they had. No tactics. No tools. Just hunger."

Rex absorbed that in silence. "So that’s it," he said at last. "No cavalry. Not that I expected any. Another dead town in the Dune Sea."

The cantina settled into an uneasy stillness. Outside, the twin suns pressed heat against the walls, driving the infected deeper into shadow for now.

Rex rose slowly, eyes moving to Mentis at last. There was something tight behind them, something bruised, and then looked back down at Brisck.

"Get the data, Rex," the Bothan then mumbled, his voice slurring more than before. "Show the galaxy the truth."

Mentis kept looking at Rex's eyes, his own eyes flashing back confusion.

"We..." the Rattataki flashed a glance at the fading Bothan before looking back at Rex to answer, "We can do that. We'll make sure people know."

He seemed to be looking for permission or approval. For such a strong warrior, he looked like a lost little Shaak.

"Rex," he spoke a little softer, cutting Brisck out for a moment, "If we keep going, what happens if..."

He hesitated, eyes still locked on Rex’s face, searching for something.

"I mean, we could end up like this too."

Mentis swallowed, glancing toward the rear corridor again as one of the droids snapped its rifle toward a distant thud outside.

"I'm not saying we shouldn't go," he added, voice low, "I'm just...Well, we should be sure."

Behind them, Brisck’s breath hitched: a wet, rattling sound that sounded somewhere between a gasp and a cough. His fingers spasmed around the tumbler, clawed nails scraping the glass. The tremor in his arm spread up through his shoulder, jerking the limb once, twice, as the veins along his neck darkened further.

Mentis’ eyes flicked back sharply.

"Rex…" he murmured, fear threading into his voice now, "It’s starting."

Rex saw it before Mentis finished speaking and was watching his old friend with a mix of sadness and fear.

Brisck’s breath was no longer a breath. It was a wet, mechanical drag through a throat that did not want to work. His fingers clenched so hard around the tumbler that the glass cracked, amber liquid spilling across his fur and onto the tiles. The tremor in his arm spread up into his shoulder and down into his chest, muscles twitching beneath matted fur in sharp, violent spasms.

"Easy," Rex muttered, though he knew it was already beyond that.

Brisck’s spine bowed suddenly, vertebrae standing out beneath thinning flesh. A sound tore from him that began as a groan and ended as something feral and broken. The bandage at his arm snapped loose as the necrosis surged, skin splitting wider with a slick, tearing sound. Thick grey fluid pulsed from the wound and ran down his side in slow, obscene trails.

His good eye rolled back, showing white, then snapped forward again. For one heartbeat, there was recognition there. Pain. Shame, maybe.

"R-Rex...," he tried, the name barely formed.

Then, the fever, if it could be called as such, took him. His jaw clenched and unhinged with a crack that echoed in the small space. Teeth ground against each other, blood bubbling at the corners of his mouth. Veins darkened across his neck and temples, spreading like ink through parchment. His ears flattened tight to his skull. His chest convulsed once, twice, ribs shifting under the strain as if something inside him were trying to claw its way free.

Rex did not move. His throat tightened. His eyes burned in a way that had nothing to do with the heat outside, tears welling.

He had seen men die on Rakele and since. He had watched friends fall and told himself that was the cost of being free, or for the work they chose. This was different. This was rot wearing the shape of someone he had laughed with, bled with, run with across a battlefield under a sky that had burned just as mercilessly as this one.

Brisck’s head then tilted forward at an unnatural angle. When his eye lifted again, it was empty. There was no recognition. No former Marine. No friend.

Just hunger.

He staggered to his feet with jerking, puppet-like motion, one foot dragging before finding purchase. The broken tumbler fell from his claws and shattered on the floor. His dead gaze fixed on Rex and his mouth worked in small, compulsive motions as if tasting the air.

He took one step and the nearest droid reacted without hesitation. Its rifle snapped up and discharged at point-blank range. The bolt struck Brisck square in the chest, punching through fur and bone and hurling him backward into the barricade. He spasmed once more, trying to rise even with half his torso charred open.

The second shot took his head cleanly.

Brisck’s body collapsed in a heap of fur and smoke and did not move again.

For a long second, the only sound was the faint crackle of cooling scorch marks and the distant whisper of sand against the outer walls, the occasional howl from a distant infected reacting to something, maybe this or something further off.

Rex stood very still.

Something slipped loose in his chest and he did not bother to hide it. His jaw tightened hard enough to ache, and he blinked once, sharply, before any moisture could gather properly in his eyes.

Behind him, the droids lowered their rifles. Then, both units froze. Their optics flickered and a low internal tone sounded from somewhere deep within their chassis, followed by a brief cascade of system acknowledgements in distorted Basic.

"Authorised personnel… not detected." The first unit’s head twitched to one side. The second’s servos whined softly. "GalactaWerks command authority… unavailable... Entering fail-safe state."

Both rifles powered down. The red optics dimmed to a dull amber and then to black. One droid locked mid-turn, knee joint stiffening as its systems disengaged. The other simply sagged where it stood, servos going slack, its weight settling heavily onto the tile.

The cantina was still again, whilst, outside, the suns burned on - for now.

Rex finally exhaled.

"He couldn't..." Rex began, but the words thinned out and died before they reached the air. He was still holding the tumbler, and had not even realised it.

The glass felt absurdly solid in his hand, warm from his grip, sticky with spilled liquor and someone else's blood. His eyes remained fixed on the shape of Brisck’s body, fur matted and smoking faintly where the bolts had struck.

Mentis’ hand settled on his shoulder.

“Rex… I’m sorry,” he said quietly, the words sounding unfamiliar in his mouth, “He didn't deserve that but he was already gone. Whatever this infection is… your friend wasn’t in there anymore.”

He hesitated, searching for something else; something that might matter. Rex did not answer.

“At least you were here,” he added, softer still, “He didn’t… he didn’t die alone.”

Rex let out a short, humourless breath that almost passed for a laugh.

"We all die alone, Mentis."

His jaw tightened and something sharp and ugly flickered across his face. Without warning, he hurled the tumbler across the cantina. It smashed against the inert chassis of the nearest droid, glass exploding into fragments that scattered across the floor. The sound cracked through the stillness like a shot.

"And now we ain't even got the clankers to help us," he snapped, voice rough with anger that had nowhere sensible to go.

He took two uneven steps back, then another, until his legs struck the bar. The fight drained out of him all at once. He slid down the bar, back scraping against it, and dropped heavily to the floor. His hand came up to his face, covering his eyes.

Mentis stood frozen, eyes on Rex, fingers feeling at the empty air at his side.

"So, is that it then?" he cautiously ventured, "We're not going? I mean, you didn't actually promise anything before he... changed. I'm with you whatever you want to do."

Rex remained where he was on the floor, staring at nothing in particular as the cantina settled around them, not yet answering. The heat pressed in through stone and metal alike, and the only movement came from the faint ticking of cooling droid chassis and the distant, intermittent scrape of something shifting beyond the reinforced doors. After a few seconds he drew a slow breath, dragged a hand down his face, and pushed himself upright without ceremony.

He crossed to the narrow slit between shutter and frame and leaned in, squinting against the glare. The suns were no longer vertical. Their light had shifted from hard white to a burnished gold, and the shadows in the street had lengthened into proper shapes beneath awnings and balconies. In those pockets of shade, figures lingered. They did not sprint as before. They hovered, testing the edges of light, heads twitching, shoulders rolling in small, impatient motions. They looked like they were waiting.

"We got a window," Rex finally said quietly, his voice unsettled. "Not a wide one."

He stepped back from the shutter and looked at Brisck’s body. Whatever had cracked in him moments earlier had compressed into something leaner. "He knew I'd come. Believed I'd help. That I'd find it," he said, voice steady but tight. "I’m not proving him wrong." His jaw set. "And I’m done letting GalactaWerks decide."

He crouched beside the nearest inert droid and forced open the neck seam with a sharp twist of his vibroknife. The plating gave way with a metallic snap. Inside, cabling hung loose where something had torn through it, but the core module remained intact. He reached in, fingers blackening with grease and scoring, and triggered a manual override.

For a moment, nothing happened, but thej a cracked internal display flickered, weak amber light stuttering across fragmented lines of text in Aurebesh.

"Containment Protocol I71-Besh… activated," Rex read under his breath. "Local grid lockdown confirmed. Command channel lost. Executive authority… unresponsive." The display glitched and died. "So... no accident," he muttered. "They deployed it, or expected it'd get out. And, when it slipped, they sealed the town and called it acceptable loss."

He closed the panel and stood. His hand drifted, almost unconsciously, to the inside pocket of his jacket. His thumb pressed briefly against that same item again, then dropped away as if nothing had happened.

"Can’t pull the rest here," he said, sighing and throwing his head back. His eyes had become redder again."Encryption's layered and the uplink’s dead. If we haul one of these things' cores to the workshop, too, I might be able to crack more out of it."

He moved back to the shutter gap and checked the light again. The gold was deepening and the shadows were thickening. In the far end of the street, one infected shifted fully into shade and moved with more certainty than it had minutes earlier.

" Three, maybe four blocks," Rex went on, resigned. "Denser housing. We'd obviously need stay off the main road. Rooftops where we can - try to cross in full sun only." He glanced once toward the rear service ladder that led back up to the roof and then toward the inert droids again and around the room. "Doubt we will find much here and we ain't got much time. Take a look if you want, but I reckon we need to make crawler tracks sooner rather than later, yeah?"

Mentis had been watching Rex as he worked on the droid and checked the window - he stood still with a closed fist pressing into his lips, interested but reserved.

At the Human's call for affirmation, he released his fist from his lips and flicked up a thumb into simple agreement before returning both hands to his sides.

"Definitely a fan of the rooftop approach," he nodded, eyes flicking down as he thought about it some more, "I can help you make some of the longer jumps, too... I probably should have said that before."

He walked over and crouched by the droid, "It might be a bit harder if we have to lug a whole droid along though. Would just the head do? I might not have my sabre, but I can probably still break it off if I can sense the shatterpoint."

Rex was kneeling down again, popping the side of his blaster Cindra open with practised fingers and checking the charge pack with a glance that was more habit than hope. The weapon had cooled - indicator lights were steady again in the dim of the cantina.

"The head’ll do," he said at last, voice even, attention still on the gun. "Core’s seated behind the optics. You shear it clean and don’t fry the board, we can pull what’s left."

He snapped the panel back into place and rose in one smooth motion, finally glancing toward Mentis and the inert droid. He reached to his belt, drew the vibroknife again without ceremony and, without really looking, lazily flicked it through the air toward Mentis in a short, controlled arc, knowing the other man would catch it with ease. He slipped the blaster back in its holster.

Outside, the light shifted again. The gold deepened further and the shadows in the street thickened into proper cover. One of the distant monsters stepped fully into shade and moved with more confidence than before, head tilting as though scenting something on the air.

Rex watched it through the shutter gap for a second, jaw tightening almost imperceptibly. "Soon as that’s done," he said, voice cracking again, "we’re back to working on your tan."

The words carried the shape of humour, but there was no warmth in them. The smuggler’s cadence was intact while something behind it remained shuttered and cold, seeming quite unlike the Tatooinian. He stepped toward the service ladder, ready to move the moment Mentis finished.

"See ya, Brisck."

TBC

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