Caamas.

A world like thousand others. It sat, a piece of a struggle that, essentially, had nothing to do with it. On this world beings lived, uncaring about galactic politics. They knew, but none worked actively to change them.

All except one.

He walked, hunched as if his spine were old and ailed by the rigors of time. He walked softly, not in a rush but not leisurely strolling either. He did have somewhere to go, but the time it took to arrive was really irrelevant.

In orbit, a small New Republic fleet left this planet... moving forward to counter insurgeance by the New Order, attacking anew. After months, perhaps years... the time was really irrelevant... of amnesty, the New Order captured the Republic's capitol and attacked them on several fronts. The Republic scrambled to defend itself, even, at the same time, preparing for conflict internal. Once again, the struggle between politica and millitary reared it's ugly head, and much like the conflict between the Jedi Order and Gash Jiren's pupils in the Rogue Jedi, it seemed as if no glue could meand the seams that were ripping in the New Republic again. Oblivious or indifferent, the angry Empire pressed forward, widening the rips, and driving it closer and close to non-existence.

But none of it really mattered. At the end of the day, the people of Caamas would go to sleep and wake up alive. There would be tax changes, more police perhaps... but life would fundamentally remain stable.

As stable as it could, with the apocalypse rising.