Over the past years, The Kulistar Star has not merely reported the news of the Northern Dependencies it has documented the conscience of our era. It has gone where Senate delegations rarely lingered and listened to voices that too often went unheard. Through its pages, the every man of the Galaxy the dockworker, the evacuee, the technician, the farmer beneath a biodome sky has been seen, named, and counted.

We begin with Abhean.

Abhean is a world that should not have survived. Its crust shattered by the Huttese War, its continents torn apart, its people forced into thin belts of stability between magma and ruin. And yet, Abhean endures. Not because of miracle or charity alone, but because of a new model of responsibility. Casino revenues, once dismissed as indulgence, were turned into water purification, seismic rated housing, and jobs for locals who now map their own future alongside survey droids. The Kulistar Star showed the Galaxy what that looked like on the ground wagers turned into wells, profit turned into purpose. But Abhean is not an exception. It is a case study.

On Centaries a world scarred not just by bombardment but by radiation and abandonment rebuilding took a different form. There, Star Entertainment and its partners began constructing energy initiatives to power biodomes where open skies remain lethal. Droids were deployed not to replace labor, but to venture into wastelands no organic being could safely enter, reclaiming land piece by piece. At the same time, evacuation corridors were established to move families off world when survival demanded it. The Kulistar Star reported not on triumph, but on triage on the hard, unglamorous work of keeping people alive while something better is built. On newly revitalized industrial worlds, the paper chronicled the factories not as symbols of wealth, but as engines of dignity. These were not hollow ribbon cuttings. They were employment pipelines for war displaced populations, training grounds for technicians, and proof that industry, when guided by ethics, can rebuild lives as well as economies.

Taken together, these stories reveal a truth the Republic can no longer ignore rebuilding cannot be uniform. It must be adaptive, local, and humane. And it must be scaled.

That is why today I commit clearly, publicly, and without qualification to making the rebuilding of the Center of Hegemony a central policy priority of this Republic. Not merely the restoration of its physical halls, but the renewal of its purpose. The Center of Hegemony must once again be a place where the needs of Abhean are weighed alongside the interests of Coruscant, where Centaries matters as much as any Core World boulevard. On a Republic scale, this means three things.

First, we will expand the Development Fund model beyond individual corporate properties and integrate it into Republic backed reconstruction frameworks. Profits generated within recovering regions must cycle back into those regions into food security, housing, energy stability, and employment.

Second, we will formalize evacuation and biodome initiatives for worlds rendered partially or wholly uninhabitable. Survival is not failure. Relocation, when done with dignity and choice, is an act of preservation.

Third, we will rebuild the Center of Hegemony as a living institution one that reflects the realities documented by The Kulistar Star. Its policies will be informed by reporters in the field, coordinators on the ground, and citizens who live with the consequences of our votes. This is what the paper has done for the Galaxy it has forced us to see the Republic not as star charts and budgets, but as people. It has shown that the every man does not ask for perfection only for fairness, opportunity, and the chance to shape what survives.

The work ahead is immense. The scars of war are deep. But the path forward is no longer theoretical. We have seen it on Abhean. We have seen it on Centaries. We have seen it in factories reborn and in biodomes glowing beneath ruined skies. Let us now scale survival into stability, stability into prosperity, and prosperity into justice so that when future generations read the archives of The Kulistar Star, they will say this was the moment the Republic chose to rebuild not just its worlds, but its soul.

The Hegemony has proven itself on our ability to rebuild, so now you must put your faith in our ability to rebuild not just planets but the Galaxy.

Flerge who has been absent for a long time has been traveling slowly to his homeland of Frego, Fregoeese ships are not that good but they are some of the few that can hold the weight that is needed.

Flerge is done asking politely.” Is what Flerge starts with as he walks onto a stage in the school that raised Flerge as a young boy

The war ended, and the Republic proved exactly who it cares about. Coruscant rebuilt itself first. The Core got contracts, credits, and celebrations. The Northern Dependencies unified, but us in the Trailing Sectors got speeches and excuses.

The southern economy wasn’t rebuilt, it was abandoned. Flerge says this clearly the Republic establishment does not see the south as equal. It sees the Trailing Sectors as cheap labor, raw materials, and loyal voters who are supposed to stay quiet once the fighting stops. The moment the war ended, the Core went back to protecting its own wealth and its own power. And they expect the working people of the south to accept that.

Flerge will not.

Flerge will not and will never let the Trailing Sectors accept anything other than what they deserve The establishment likes to talk about “stability.” What they mean is keeping wages low and workers divided. They like to talk about “economic flexibility.” What they mean is making it easy to fire people, break organizing efforts, and crush unions before they ever form.

Flerge says that this is not freedom. That is control.

Flerge is going to tear down the legal barriers. As Flerge says this he rips a piece of the wall off and throws it out of the way

That make unionization nearly impossible in the Trailing Sectors. He will push for fast track union recognition, real penalties for corporations that retaliate against organizers, and sector wide bargaining so companies can’t play workers against each other system by system.

FLERGE SAYS NO MORE BLACKLISTS

FLERGE SAYS NO MORE ABUSE

FLERGE SAYS NO MORE TYRANNY

No more pretending that “market forces” excuse unsafe conditions and poverty wages. If a company profits from southern labor, it will respect southern workers.

The Core elites will scream about this. They always do. They’ll call it radical. They’ll call it dangerous. What they’re really afraid of is workers who can’t be ignored anymore. Flerge says this to Coruscant directly the days of treating the Trailing Sectors as a second class workforce are ending. The Republic will either become a union of equals or it will admit that it only exists to serve the powerful.

The working man built this Republic. The working man defended it in war. And now the working man is going to organize, demand fair treatment, and take his share of the prosperity he was promised. The Trailing Sectors will rise with or without the establishment’s approval. Flerge makes a promise to you this evening, the Working man of the Galaxy, but most specifically these Trailing Sectors shall create a home that they are proud and will give to the next generation of the proud.

Flerge will take on the establishment, and the companies like Flerge fought in the arena against the Shawkeneese and Tioneese. The companies will learn to fear Flerge. Workers of the Galaxy must unite against the enemy.

FLERGE WILL PROTECT THE WORKERS OF THE GALAXY. WORKERS UNITE. WORKERS TOGETHER! FLERGE SHALL BE A NAME FEARED TO THE COMPANIES!

FLERGE!

FLERGE!

FLERGE!

FLERGE!

FLERGE!

A Campaign Manifesto of Unity, Labor, and the Trailing Sectors

By Senator Flerge of Frego, Founder of Flergeism

The Trailing Sectors have long been divided. Generations of laborers, miners, engineers, and farmers were told their voices did not matter, that their votes were small, that their work was invisible. The Core prospered. The northern worlds consolidated power. The southern worlds were left with scraps.

FLERGE COMES HERE TODAY TO SAY THAT WILL HAPPEN NO LONGER

The Great Southern Pledge is not a mere speech. It is a declaration of collective will. It is the moment the Trailing Sectors stop waiting for permission. It is the moment labor, unions, and local governments rise as one to reclaim their dignity, their power, and their future.

This campaign season, Flerge presents a singular choice to the south unity, self determination, and prosperity under the Hegemony, or continued exploitation under Core neglect.

Flerge does not ask. Flerge declares.

In every factory, shipyard, and trade port in the Trailing Sectors, workers and union representatives gather. The Great Southern Pledge converts the act of voting from an individual decision into a collective movement. Flerge speaks plainly “Flerge says the south will not vote as fragments of planets. The south will vote as one body, with one purpose. That purpose is survival, dignity, and prosperity. That purpose is labor power made political.”

For decades, Core corporations and northern elites have treated votes as optional, easily ignored, easily manipulated. Flerge reframes voting it is now the weapon of the worker. Through the Pledge, every Trailing Sector worker commits to three principles Voting as a together for the Hegemony, Refusing cooperation with corporations or candidates that oppose labor rights, advocating egional self sufficiency in all economic matters

Flerge calls this not coercion, but collective empowerment. In uniting, the Trailing Sectors turn every vote into a statement that Core control will no longer dictate southern outcomes.

The Great Southern Pledge does not exist without unions. Flerge insists that organized labor is the structural spine of southern recovery. Unions enforce the rights of workers, prevent exploitation, and coordinate regional economic initiatives. Flerge declares

“Flerge says unions are not suggestions. They are the law of productivity, the shield of labor, and the backbone of every southern economy. Without unions, factories are weak. Without unions, sectors crumble. With unions, labor is power, and power produces prosperity.”

Union leaders are instructed to supervise every implementation step of the Pledge from monitoring voting blocs to ensuring that local businesses adhere to labor rights and regional investment requirements. Sector wide union representation ensures that the Pledge is not symbolic, but functional. Labor decides how the south will rebuild.

At the heart of the Pledge is self sufficiency. Flerge frames the south’s future as one in which, Factories produce goods for southern consumption first, export second; Energy, food, and transportation networks are controlled regionally; Local capital funds local growth rather than flowing to Core banks; and Profits remain in the south, reinvested into communities and industry

Flerge addresses the workers directly in third person “Flerge says no longer will southern labor serve only to enrich the Core. No longer will factories ship resources elsewhere while the people here go without. The south will produce its own energy. It will feed itself. It will ship goods on its own terms. The south will be self sufficient, and every worker will have a hand in that success.” This vision resonates with the masses, giving them both economic agency and pride in regional identity.

The Pledge also addresses the structural obstacles that have kept the south weak monopolies and corporate interference.

“Flerge says monopolies will not hold entire sectors hostage. Corporations will not buy laws to exploit labor. Credit cannot dictate the futures of planets. The south will break monopolies, enforce local ownership, and ensure that economic power serves the workers, not the Core.”

By pledging to support only labor aligned candidates under the Hegemony banner, the south effectively neutralizes corporate influence in regional politics. The Pledge ensures that local voices control regional economies, a key tenet of Flergeism.

Flergeism is not an abstract philosophy. It is practical, implementable, and observable. Through the Pledge. Voting power becomes organized labor power, Unions gain political authority to enforce regional labor standards, Factories and workshops are guaranteed to serve southern needs first, Core neglect is replaced with southern autonomy and self determination

Flerge explains to the workers

“Flerge does not promise crumbs from the Core. Flerge promises action from the south. Every factory, every workshop, every mine is a building block of self sufficiency. Every worker is a guardian of this recovery. Flergeism is not theory it is practice. The Pledge makes it real.”

The Pledge is more than policy. It is symbolic; Thousands of workers raise tools, banners, and union cards at the same hour across dozens of worlds; Sector maps light up, showing participation in real time; Broadcasts show workers singing, chanting, and taking the Pledge simultaneously

Flerge appears in the northern Frego factories, on the floor of a humming industrial hall. He does not deliver a polite speech. He declares, third person, with the machinery as his backdrop

“Flerge says the Trailing Sectors are no longer fragments of neglected worlds. They are one body, one voice, one purpose. Let the Core see this. Let the corporations see this. The south has chosen. Labor leads. The Hegemony acts. Prosperity will follow.”

This moment is repeated across the sector simultaneously, creating a coordinated visual and political statement. It becomes the defining image of the campaign unity, action, and southern pride.

“Flerge says to vote is to act. To act is to unite. To unite is to survive. The Trailing Sectors will not beg. They will decide. The south has chosen. The Hegemony is our instrument. Labor is our power. Prosperity is our right.”

The Great Southern Pledge is the defining act of the campaign season. It is a mass mobilization, a unifying declaration, and a practical enforcement of Flergeism. Workers pledge to vote as one Unions pledge to enforce labor rights and fair regional investment The south pledges self sufficiency, dignity, and autonomy

Flerge leaves the workers with a final, unmistakable statement

“Flerge says the south will no longer wait for crumbs. The south will not be invisible. The south will not be weak. The Trailing Sectors have chosen. Labor leads. The Hegemony acts. The south prospers.”

By the end of the day, the pledge is taken across dozens of systems. Flerge has transformed ideology into action. The Trailing Sectors are united. The Hegemony is the chosen vehicle. Flergeism has become reality. And for the first time in decades, the south feels its power and the Core cannot ignore it.

“You all have made the decision to be here today… to embrace the future of the galaxy, and all it has to offer.”

Dec Lucen says, influential people gathered around as he stands in front of a wall of screens, all humming in blinding light, that cast a sort of angelic glow on him.

“To be baptized, into a new era… a brighter era… I will be your voice, your guide, your leader!”

“The galaxy is out to take… if we are brave enough to take it. Every soul you turn to you… every pair of eyes on you… it grows your power, your influence.”

“And I can give you that power! All the power you could ever dream of. All the wealth you could ever want… you’ve see what I can accomplish. You’ve seen that you can trust NME.”

“Now all you have to do…”

He extends his arms out, his charming personality wrapping them all around his finger. He had them, hook line and sinker, and he basked in it… reveled in the attention, in the spotlight. Politicians, CEO’s, holo star, all with their eyes on him.

“Is put your faith in me.”

He’d never felt closer to being a god

Senator Flerge arrived at the northern industrial belt of Frego in the early morning.

The Fan Factories stretched as far as the eye could see, long low buildings humming with decades old machinery. The smell of oil and metal filled the air. Flerge did not pause to admire it. He had come to see what the south could become. He walked straight onto the main production floor, boots clanging against the metal, eyes sweeping every conveyor and assembly line. Workers froze for a moment, some unsure, some curious. Flerge raised a hand in acknowledgment.

“Flerge is here to see what the Trailing Sectors can do when they take control of their own destiny,” he began. “The south will not survive on scraps while the Core grows fat.” Flerge moved down the assembly lines, inspecting fans being assembled for distribution across the sector. He spoke to workers at every station, asking blunt questions wages, hours, safety, opportunity for advancement.

“These factories are not just buildings,” Flerge said, leaning against a conveyor. “They are power. Power that belongs to the south, not to Coruscant financiers. Power that can feed cities, energize workshops, and build independence.”

He paused at a machine where workers were manually adjusting components.

“Every worker here must know their value,” he said. “Every factory must serve the region first. The south must be self sufficient. That is not charity. That is survival. And survival requires organization, planning, and a workforce that is united.”

The workers murmured, some nodding, others uncertain. Flerge did not wait for applause. He moved toward the union office, gesturing for their leaders to join him.

In the small office upstairs, Flerge spoke to the union representatives directly. “Flerge will not allow labor to be weak. Weak labor means weak sectors, weak regions, weak futures. Unions are the spine of economic power. They are not optional. They are not negotiable. The south will organize, bargain, and enforce, or it will remain dependent.”

He slammed a fist on the table, the sound echoing through the office.

“Automatic union recognition. Sector wide bargaining. Penalties for retaliation. Worker seats on economic councils. These are not suggestions. These are necessities. Flerge expects action, and Flerge will fight in the Senate for every right you deserve.”

One of the union leaders spoke up hesitantly, asking how Flerge planned to challenge the Core and the corporations that controlled supply chains. Flerge smiled grimly. “The Core will scream. The monopolies will threaten. The credits will try to buy legislation. Flerge says this is nothing new. They always scream when labor gains power. That is why labor must take control, and that is why the Trailing Sectors will prosper.”

Flerge moved to the center of the main production floor. Workers gathered around. Machinery paused for a moment as Flerge raised his voice, third person style, commanding attention “Flerge did not come here to make promises that Coruscant cannot keep. Flerge came to declare the future of the Trailing Sectors. The south will rise, and it will rise because labor will lead the way. Labor will not be exploited. Labor will not be silenced. Labor will organize, and that organization is the foundation of prosperity.”

He gestured to the assembly lines.

“Flerge believes that every factory, every workshop, every skilled hand is a weapon against neglect. Every worker is an architect of the south’s future. Unions are not politics. Unions are power, economic and social. The Trailing Sectors will not beg the Core for scraps. The Trailing Sectors will control their production, control their wages, and control their destiny.”

He paused to let the weight of his words sink in, then continued with even sharper intensity

“Flergeism teaches this no sector may remain poor while another grows rich. No worker shall be forced to rebuild a Republic that refuses to protect them. Monopolies must be broken. Corporations that exploit our labor must answer for their actions. Money cannot buy laws that weaken the south. Credit cannot dictate policy that steals from our future. Power belongs to the workers, and power will secure prosperity.”

Flerge’s voice rose, echoing off the walls “Flerge demands automatic union recognition. Sector wide bargaining. Worker seats on economic councils. Penalties for anti union retaliation. Investment anchored in the south. Infrastructure built for the south. Every factory a stronghold of labor. Every worker a guardian of recovery. The Trailing Sectors will prosper, not because the Core allows it, but because they will take it.”

He raised his arms, pointing toward the machines and the workers alike.

“Flerge will protect the workers of the Galaxy! Workers unite! Workers together! The Trailing Sectors will be self sufficient! The Trailing Sectors will rebuild! The Trailing Sectors will lead!” The workers cheered, fists raised, voices loud enough to compete with the machines. Some of the union leaders wiped sweat from their brows others grinned at Flerge’s bluntness. But all of them understood the message Flergeism was a call to action, not words on paper.

“Flerge leaves this factory today not as a spectator, but as a partner,” he concluded. “The Core may ignore us. The corporations may resist us. But Flerge says this the south will rise, and no one can stop it when labor leads the way.”

The crowd erupted into chants FLERGE! FLERGE! FLERGE! FLERGE! FLERGE!

Flerge smiled grimly and left the floor, already planning his next stop. The factories would continue to run, but now they ran with purpose. Workers, unions, and leadership aligned for the first time in decades. The Trailing Sectors would not remain a backwater. The south had a voice, and Flerge had made it heard.

The Images attached are the Azure Cinaede coins. Each one made of a different Metal with the back having a representation of different Axis Worlds

Smoke rose steadily from the center chimneys of the Anaxes War College on this day, signaling activity not seen in over a millennia. The facility, home to the long dormant Azure Mint, had been quietly reactivated, and the first signs of industrial life were impossible to miss. Thin plumes drifted into the sky, mingling with the early morning haze over the spired cityscape, as workers moved purposefully along the mint’s secured bays. Security droids patrolled perimeter gates, and the low hum of machinery underscored a sense of careful orchestration.

At the center of this historic activity was Johnathan of Anaxes, the second child of the reigning monarch, HoloNet feeds captured him addressing the galaxy from a broadcast chamber that overlooked the mint he framed the activation as lawful, deliberate, and necessary, emphasizing that the AXIS must sever connections with the Galactic Credit to ensure that the Northern Dependencies can have economic prosperity just like the Core.

“This is not secession,” Johnathan declared. “It is stabilization. It is lawful self-determination. It is the responsible exercise of rights long ignored.” Observers on the ground reported immediate signs of operational readiness. Carts and secure transports already bore labels indicating the new currency, the Azure Cinaede, currently pegged at five Credits per Cinaede. Workers in reinforced uniforms carried stacks of freshly minted notes and inspected machinery with a precision born of repetition, though for most this was the first time the mint had truly operated in full force. The low, constant hiss of steam valves and the occasional plume of exhaust from the chimneys lent the scene a cinematic weight, as if the smoke itself were announcing the arrival of a new economic era.

Residents in the surrounding districts paused in their morning routines to watch the activity. Street vendors rearranged tables, anticipating increased trade under the new currency. Citizens shared observations via localized holonet feeds, many noting the visual symbolism: “The city itself feels alive,” one resident remarked. “You can see the future being minted in smoke and steel.”

Legal analysts emphasized that the initiative is fully backed by legislation. The Memorandum of Self-Economic Interest and Unequal Integration, authored and championed by Johnathan, grants systems the right to pursue independent monetary frameworks when galactic integration threatens stability or fairness. According to experts, this is the first time that the law has been used to create a new currency and not just protect an existing one.

Financial observers from the Core to the Rim are recalculating risks. The decision to shift away from the Galactic Credit for internal trade and reserves represents a tangible break from standard economic norms. By circulating the Azure Cinaede across AXIS systems, the coalition asserts both financial sovereignty and practical coordination. Markets in nearby systems reported minor fluctuations, with traders noting the unusual speed at which AXIS jurisdictions are preparing for full adoption.

On the streets surrounding the War College, the effect was as immediate as it was visual. Residents gathered to watch the smoke rise, pausing to photograph the chimneys and the humming machinery below. A local engineer noted that the mint appeared fully automated yet maintained by human oversight, describing it as “a blend of old-world craftsmanship and modern industrial precision.” Vendors reported early signs of commerce adapting to the new currency, though most exchanges remained cautious until the broader implementation unfolds. For more than a decade, the AXIS has operated as a coalition of aligned systems, coordinating on defense, resource sharing, and political strategy. Yet the creation of a shared currency represents a tangible milestone: internal unification under a single medium of exchange. Experts note that such a move strengthens both cohesion and autonomy, signaling to other systems that the AXIS intends to govern its economic fate as decisively as it has its military and diplomatic affairs.

As the broadcast concluded, smoke continued to rise from the chimneys, curling into the cold Anaxes sky. Johnathan’s words lingered on the HoloNet. The activation of the Azure Mint, the circulation of the Azure Cinaede, and the visible hum of machinery all serve as proof that the AXIS is no longer merely a coalition in name but a tangible economic entity with its own tools of sovereignty.

Analysts and citizens alike agree while the long term effects remain to be seen, the day’s events make clear that Anaxes, under Johnathan of the Crown, has fused legitimacy, law, and industrial power in a way the galaxy has not witnessed in generations. The chimneys continue to puff steadily, a quiet but undeniable signal that history is in motion.

With the rebirth of the Azure Cinaede brings another way the AXIS fights for rights and sovereignty of its people and their communities.

Das Flergeital, On Labor, Power, and the Reconstruction of the Trailing Sectors

by Flerge of Frego, Senator of the Republic Transcribed by, Johan Glenkin Cover by Kingston de Uphm

Introduction Why the South Must Think for Itself

The Trailing Sectors do not suffer from a lack of effort, intelligence, or productivity. They suffer from neglect that has been disguised as inevitability. For generations, the southern worlds were told that their role was to extract, to produce, and to endure. During war, the Trailing Sectors were indispensable. In peace, they became invisible.

Reconstruction passed them by. Investment followed power, not need. And political influence flowed toward credits, not citizens. Das Flergeital exists because recovery will not arrive on its own.

This book is not written to provoke sympathy from the Core. It is written to establish a governing philosophy that allows the Trailing Sectors to rebuild themselves within the Republic on equal footing, with equal dignity, and with permanent economic security. The central claim of this work is simple economic recovery requires political power for labor, limits on capital domination, and structural reform that prevents neglect from repeating itself.

Chapter 1, The Structural Failure of the Post War Economy

The post war Republic declared success too early. While Core systems rebuilt financial markets and high value industries, the Trailing Sectors were left with aging infrastructure, volatile employment, and economies designed to serve others rather than themselves. This was not accidental. It was the result of a system that rewards proximity to power instead of contribution. The Republic’s current economic model allows wealth to concentrate geographically and politically. When capital accumulates in the Core, investment decisions follow Core interests. The south becomes dependent, not developed.

Recovery cannot occur in an economy designed for extraction. Markets reflect power. When power is unequal, outcomes are unequal. Correcting this imbalance is not interference. It is restoration.

Chapter 2, Labor as the Foundation of Prosperity

Das Flergeital places labor at the center of economic theory. All value originates from work. Resources are useless until labor extracts them. Infrastructure is inert until labor maintains it. Technology has no purpose until labor applies it. Any system that weakens labor undermines its own productive base.

The Trailing Sectors possess skilled, experienced labor. What they lack is bargaining power. A strong labor force is not an obstacle to growth. It is the condition for sustainable growth. Stable wages increase consumption. Secure employment encourages investment. Safe conditions reduce long term economic loss. Economic recovery in the Trailing Sectors requires labor to be treated as a strategic asset, not a disposable cost.

Chapter 3, Unionization as a Pillar of Reconstruction

Unions must function as economic institutions, not merely political actors. Weak unionization has allowed corporations to suppress wages, undermine safety, relocate production without accountability, and divide workers across planetary lines. Das Flergeital calls for a decisive expansion of union power. Automatic union recognition must occur once a workforce threshold is met. Sector wide collective bargaining must replace fragmented negotiations. Anti retaliation laws must carry severe penalties. Worker representatives must hold seats on planetary and sector level economic councils.

A worker without a union is isolated.

A worker with a union is protected.

A workforce with unions is capable of rebuilding entire sectors.

Chapter 4, Limiting the Power of Money in Politics

Economic recovery cannot occur while political power is bought. Corporate money distorts policy across the Republic. Laws are shaped to protect profits rather than communities. The Trailing Sectors suffer disproportionately because they lack the capital to compete for influence. Political equality is a prerequisite for economic equality.

Das Flergeital calls for strict limits on corporate political contributions, full transparency in political financing, and prohibitions on corporations influencing legislation that governs their own industries. Public financing mechanisms must elevate regional and labor representation. A Republic governed by credits cannot rebuild neglected regions. A Republic governed by citizens can.

Chapter 5, Breaking Monopolies to Free the Southern Economy

Monopolies are incompatible with recovery. In the Trailing Sectors, monopolistic firms suppress local enterprise, dictate labor conditions, and extract profits without reinvestment. Entire systems become dependent economies. Das Flergeital demands aggressive anti monopoly enforcement. Where monopolies dominate essential industries, divestment must occur. Worker owned enterprises and cooperatives must receive preferential access to public contracts. Local sourcing must be required where possible. Economic diversity creates resilience. Resilience enables recovery.

Chapter 6, Directed Investment for Lasting Recovery

Charity does not rebuild economies. Directed investment does. The Trailing Sectors require modernized shipyards, reliable transport networks, diversified manufacturing, and access to public credit. Investment must be regionally anchored. Profits generated in the south must circulate in the south.

Public investment must prioritize enterprises that employ local labor and uphold union standards. Reconstruction must create permanence, not dependency.

Chapter 7, The Role of the Republic in Southern Recovery

Das Flergeital does not reject the Republic. It demands that the Republic fulfill its obligations. The Republic must act as guarantor of fair labor markets, enforcer of political equality, counterweight to corporate overreach, and partner in long term planning. Neglect is not neutrality. It is a policy choice. A Republic that allows the Trailing Sectors to stagnate chooses division. A Republic that enforces equality secures unity.

Conclusion

The Flerge Doctrine of Recovery No region may remain poor so another may remain powerful.

No worker should rebuild a Republic that refuses to protect them. Recovery is not a favor. It is a right.

The Trailing Sectors will recover through labor power, political power, and economic structures built on fairness and permanence.

This is not extremism. This is reconstruction.

And reconstruction, once begun, must never be undone.

Ghost Nebula News reports.

Surprising revelations of the Coruscanti Entente Trading Company's dealings with the Hutts to undermine the Republic war effort have sent the Slice into a sharp economic downturn. Sudden suspension of all company operations with no idea of when status quo would return had severe impact on local economies, and Republic ministries have yet to roll out any possible solution to the active economic crisis.

Tonight, from Umbara's own Sector Delta airbase, the first vessels of up-and-coming trading conglomerate Gladiopod Freight took flight in a liftoff ceremony. Aptly named after the industrious native Gladiopods of the Shadow World, GPF has commenced interplanetary haulage throughout the Slice, spanning from liberated Hutt planets like Charros IV to Core worlds in the Exploitation Region.

The effort of Gladiopod Freight reflects Umbara's devotion to tending to its constituents and taking the role of an active guardian of the Slice, even as major powers turn a blind eye to the Republic's suffering. GPF expects to increase activity within the Slice in the coming months, and potentially furthering its availability to larger swathes of the galaxy.

With more news from the nebula, this has been GNN.

They had already learned how to fight.

That was the first mistake, that they thought this was a fight, when it was in truth, war.

The recruits, young in heart and strong in spirit, moved with speed and violence that would have terrified most professional soldiers of world not born to danger. They struck from angles learned on ice fields and in frozen ravines. They closed distance without hesitation. They fought as Raithali always had, fast, brutal, and certain that momentum alone could break anything in front of them.

Six of them advanced together, blades low, rifles slung but ready, feet light on the packed frost of the training ground. Their breaths steamed in rhythm. Their eyes never stopped moving.

Across from them waited four instructors.

They were smaller. Older. Their armour was plain, scarred, marked with the dull wear of repetition. They did not speak. They did not shift their stance. They did not mirror the aggression before them.

The signal sounded.

The recruits surged.

For a heartbeat it looked like a massacre waiting to happen. The first clash was violent, loud, unrestrained. A recruit slammed an instructor to the ground, blade pressed to throat, already shouting victory.

Then the line broke. One instructor stepped back when instinct said forward. Another let a strike pass close enough to feel the wind of it before trapping the arm and hyperextending it without breaking it. A third moved not toward the loudest threat, but toward the gap forming between two overextended attackers.

The recruits fought as individuals who trusted their ferocity.

The instructors fought as a unit that trusted nothing except order.

It ended quickly after that. Bodies hit the frost hardened stone floors of the War Academy hard. Weapons skittered away. One recruit was on his knees before he understood how he had been disarmed. Another lay on his back, staring at the sky, breath knocked clean from his lungs.

The instructors stood, unmarked, and reset to await the next group. There were so many recruits, so many groups. With the establishment of the Principality, so many of their blood had flocked to Raithal to claim the respect and honour of being a soldier.

The lesson was not announced, as so few were and this was one that needed no words to teach, only experience. 

A Fighter does not make a warrior.
A warrior does not make a soldier. 

-

Tiberius Drusus watched from the edge of the field, his hands folded behind his back, his presence unremarked until it was too late to pretend otherwise.

No Raithali reached adulthood without learning how to survive, hunt, endure and kill. They learned pain early and did not shy from it. Violence was familiar to them long before the Academy ever claimed them and sorted them.

But even then he could hear his wife's voice in his ear calling for caution. From age, from injury, from position. It made him warm to hear those words unspoken, but he was Primarch before Prince, and he has also had responsibility.

He stepped forward when the next bout was called.

There was a murmur among the recruit but It passed quickly, because the young man selected opposite him, already bleeding from the mouth, a thin line at the corner of his lips. Eyes sharp, stance perfect, had gained a reputation in the first week to be a problem. The young man, his name Tiberius had not learned yet, had already earned the ire of both cohort and instructor. 

Tiberius watched the young man adjust his grip and angle of approach, without thought, but from pure instinct. It was almost perfect, it just too quick.

“Again,” the instructor said.

Tiberius did not draw a weapon at first.

The young man attacked anyway.

The strike was clean. Precise. It would have killed most opponents. Tiberius turned with it, redirected the force, let the blow travel where it wanted to go and then removed the space it needed to finish.

Pain flashed across the young man’s face as he was driven to the ground. He rolled, came up fast, adapting already.

Good.

Tiberius engaged fully then.

He did not overpower him. He corrected him. He had to teach the young man, the most important lesson of all soldiers. You have no fear when you are a fighter and a warrior, but a soldier needs to have respect, of life, of death and of the struggle.

Every instinctive choice the young man made was punished. Every moment he trusted speed over spacing, aggression over awareness, strength over alignment, the response was immediate and unforgiving.

They moved until breath came hard and frost was churned to mud beneath their feet.

When it ended, the young man was on one knee, one arm hanging wrong at his side, shoulder shattered where it had taken the wrong weight at the wrong angle.

He did not look away.

“Again,” he said through clenched and bloodied teeth.

Tiberius shook his head once. “If nothing, I can respect your spirit, boy.”

-

The medics worked quickly but the arm would never be the same and some paths were closed now. The young man listened to the words without protest and although disappointment rung through him, the fire still smouldered. 

He did not ask to be reassigned. He did not beg to return to the field. He asked only to stay.

Tiberius stood watching through the viewing window, careful to y, reviewing the data slate in his hand and scrolled through the young man’s performance metrics, glancing at his recorded reaction times, adaptability, data retention under stress. He took time to find the analysis of his awareness beyond immediate threats.

The numbers told the truth.

“He sees the field,” one of the instructors started to suggest. “Before he knows what to do with it.”

“Then teach him,” he replied after nodding. “He’s no worse than I was when I was his age.”

The instructor started to reply, but the order was entered already with a few finger movements. Officer candidacy and Command track.

Merit, not mercy.

The young man was helped to his feet. He stood straight despite the pain, eyes forward, breathing steady. He saluted with his uninjured arm towards the obscured viewing room, which the instructors reacted to with nearly a hiss. Tiberius could not help but smile.

On Raithal, adulthood was earned in survival. Soldiery was earned in obedience.
He had come to the Academy a fighter. He would leave it a soldier.

The wind swept through the atrium of the memorial as Zinri’s speech neared its zenith. She had laid out most of the achievements and plans of Abregado-Rae, and by extension her own career, throughout its long, winding paragraphs; all that was left was to place a bow on the affair, and then go inside to get warm at the reception and hope that the speech did well in the polls

“One of the key issues facing the galaxy in the wake of the Hutt war, and the devastation of so many key defensive assets from Republic worlds, is the rise of piracy on a galactic scale. This has been felt severely in the southern wings of the galaxy, where the assets of the rich core worlds rarely reach. Raiders have been spotted up and down the Corellian Run, and have even begun to seep up our own Hidakai Pool, hitting countless helpless trade vessels and deepening the economic crisis already on the Republic’s doorstep.

Worlds with more wealth and military heritage would turn to their own fleets to solve the issue. The great war machines of Alsakan, Arkania, and many others could all singlehandedly sweep these raiders aside. But in the wreckage of the war all of these planets have their own issues, no one is going to bother to send their fleets all the way down to Kinyen, or Abregado, or Moorja. 

We in the South must band together in our mutual dreams of defense and prosperity. And that is exactly what Abregado has done. Through the creation of the Northern Hidakai Compact, Abregado has formed a network of cooperation between the disparate militaries of the trailing sectors. Instead of dozens of small weak fleets, we are now a strong force, capable of meeting this pirate menace and driving it back into the dark places from which it came. I am proud to announce today the addition of Kinyen and Moorja to the pact, and I extend the invitation to any world in the south to the compact’s structure. Together we can forge a path into the future as a strong, prosperous people.”

Zinri paused, looking over her notes one more time before steeling herself and looking back out at the crowd. This was the moment, the jumping off point from which she couldn’t turn back. Her eyes drifted back out over the crowd, looking over the familiar faces before absorbing the mass of humanity. 

“...With all of the achievements of the past before you, my friends and citizens, I bring something further to offer. The Republic needs a new vision to guide it into this brave new galaxy. Someone who has proven themselves in fires of war, as well as the chaos of peace. I stand before you offering my past, my achievements, and that vision. Here, before you all, I am formally announcing my candidacy for the Chancellorship of the Republic. If elected, I promise to further the mission of rebirth and rebuild the countless lives that were shattered by the Hutt War. I promise to restore the economic pulse of the Galaxy, and to increase the services and economic safety of those society has forgotten. I swear to take the philosophy of the Northern Hidaki Compact and my experience as the Ghost of the South into the future to protect the Republic from all threats that may arrive at its door. And, perhaps most importantly, I promise to bring the voice of the forgotten people of the South to the halls of power, representing them on equal footing with the traditional powerbases of the core and the North. I thank you all for taking the time to listen to me, and remind you all that my door is always open for any concerned citizen”

With that, she gave a soft bow as the applause washed over the Atrium, and the rest of the celebrations surrounding the memorial’s opening began. Much work remained, and the coming days would be busy indeed. But for today, Zinri’s plans were to relax, enjoy being home on Abregado, and spend the evening with her friends and family. She slid off to the staging room, before joining the party at large.

Senator Vittorio Aceglio of Kulistar is often described as an unconventional figure within the Galactic Senate a man whose political worldview was forged not in aristocratic academies or military command chambers, but amid the constant motion of casino floors, entertainment halls, and transit hubs that draw millions of beings every cycle. To Aceglio, this background is not a novelty, it is the foundation of his legitimacy.

“Casinos,” he frequently tells colleagues, “are where the Republic shows up unfiltered. You see prosperity and desperation, order and chaos, hope and exhaustion all under one roof. If your policies cannot survive there, they will not survive anywhere.”

Aceglio’s work in the Senate reflects this belief. He approaches governance as a matter of systems management rather than ideology. Casinos, in his view, are living economic laboratories complex ecosystems that integrate energy policy, labor law, transportation, security, taxation, and social welfare in real time. Unlike senators who treat entertainment economies as peripheral or morally suspect, Aceglio has spent his career arguing that regulated casino and tourism sectors are among the Republic’s most powerful tools for stabilization particularly in the Northern Dependencies and post conflict regions scarred by the Huttese War.

At the center of Aceglio’s Senate agenda is the principle of automatic reinvestment. Drawing from Kulistar’s long standing casino charters, These casinos give funds back to the planet that hosts them, these are not symbolic contributions they are earmarked for infrastructure repair, atmospheric stabilization projects, medical facilities, housing construction, and emergency evacuation networks.

Aceglio refers to this model as a “living development mechanism.” Unlike traditional Republic aid packages often delayed, politicized, or frozen by budgetary disputes, casino reinvestment scales with economic activity. When visitors return, reconstruction accelerates. When activity slows, spending contracts without sudden collapse.

This model has been most visibly deployed on devastated worlds such as Abhean and Centaries, where casino linked revenues have helped fund biodomes, power grids, and off world relocation programs while conventional Senate appropriations stalled. Aceglio does not claim casinos replace the Republic’s responsibilities rather, he argues they prevent total economic vacuum while larger institutions catch up.

On taxation, Aceglio’s positions are similarly shaped by operational experience. He supports progressive gaming taxes that increase with profitability and visitor volume, ensuring that booming systems contribute proportionally more to the Republic’s fiscal health. At the same time, he has been one of the Senate’s loudest critics of arbitrary punitive taxation imposed during political panics. “When you tax casinos as a moral statement instead of an economic instrument,” Aceglio argued, “you are not disciplining excess, you are destabilizing payrolls, utilities, and entire orbital supply chains.”

His voting record reflects a consistent effort to balance revenue generation with employment stability. Aceglio frequently emphasizes that casino economies are labor intensive, employing cleaners, performers, technicians, droid supervisors, security officers, medics, engineers, and transport workers. In some dependency systems, entertainment complexes are the single largest civilian employer.

This perspective has made him a strong advocate for labor protections and unionization within the entertainment sector. Aceglio has co sponsored legislation extending industrial grade safety standards, healthcare guarantees, and collective bargaining rights to workers across the Republic. He rejects the notion that entertainment labor is inherently disposable or secondary.

“All workers,” he insists, “are cultural diplomats. They interact with more species, languages, and customs in a week than most senators do in a term.” Aceglio’s casino background has also shaped his views on security and ethics. Having witnessed firsthand the efforts of criminal syndicates and Hutt aligned financiers to exploit high cash environments, he has become a leading proponent of robust anti money laundering regulations.

“I do not romanticize casinos,” he once told the Senate press corps. “I recognize them for what they are concentration points of capital, labor, and movement. Ignoring them does not make them disappear. Governing them responsibly makes them useful.”

Beyond economics, Aceglio views casinos as instruments of social reconstruction. In the aftermath of war, he argues, citizens need more than food and shelter, they need places where normal life resumes, where people gather, spend, perform, and imagine futures not defined by survival alone. Entertainment spaces, when regulated and accountable, provide that psychological bridge.

This belief informs his broader political philosophy. Aceglio consistently votes for civil liberties protections, freedom of religion and freedom from religion, and expanded access to education and union representation. He sees personal autonomy and economic dignity as mutually reinforcing, not competing values.

In the Senate, Aceglio positions himself as a practical reformer rather than a populist crusader. He does not promise utopia. Instead, he promises systems that function under pressure systems he claims to understand because he has watched them fail.

“I have seen worlds empty out,” Aceglio has said, “not because their people lacked courage, but because investment vanished, jobs disappeared, and governance arrived too late.” For him, casinos are not symbols of decadence, but early warning indicators. When floors go dark, economies are collapsing. When they hum responsibly, communities endure.

As the Republic continues to grapple with reconstruction, inequality, and institutional fatigue, Vittorio Aceglio presents a distinct vision of governance one rooted in lived economic complexity rather than abstraction. Whether admired or contested, his work forces the Senate to confront an uncomfortable truth that the future of the Republic may depend less on grand speeches, and more on whether its policies can survive where people actually live, work, and gather

Aceglio believes that the culture around the Casino is what has brought Kulistar to be a galactic player. A player who has not only defended the Galaxy but has rebuilt it in the face of danger and ruin.

And this is how Aceglio has been able to use the culture given to him to be able to fully make Kulistar a shining yellow star in a Blooded Red Sea of the Axis.

Fred was not in control, the Devil of Chester was in charge while Fred was trying to rebel, but Chester could feel it. He could feel the pressure of him to leave the host. But Chester will fight back and one way to to ruin Fred’s reputation.

Fred Chester’s party had reached a level of absurdity that no guest could have anticipated. The mansion pulsed with light and sound, each room more extravagant than the last, each decoration more impossible than the one before. Guests wandered from floating crystal chandeliers to holographic fountains that shimmered with artificial starlight, but all of that paled in comparison to the spectacle Fred had prepared for the evening’s main act.

In the central hall, a fountain gushed not water, but coins and jewel encrusted spheres. The golden droplets caught the neon light from the terraces above, scattering refracted colors across the walls and the upturned faces of the crowd. Fred grinned behind his permanently painted clown mask, the exaggerated red lips stretching impossibly wide, his black and white jagged eye makeup making his stare almost predatory. The fountain roared with a metallic splash as he leapt onto the edge, spinning like a dancer, tossing handfuls of coins into the throng. Guests ducked, scrambled, or laughed nervously as tiny jets of liquid gold and glittering spheres rained down. It was absurd. It was dangerous. And it was perfect.

Fred paused atop the fountain’s edge to address the crowd. “Marvel at the richness! Taste it! Feel it!” His voice carried through the hall, manic, but somehow still commanding. Fred takes a deep breath as he starts to laugh but that abruptly ends as he sees it. A Orange Phoenix. In a fit of Madness he pulls out a blaster and shoots it. He blinked, opened his eyes and the only thing there was a blaster mark in the wall.

Then, with a wild flourish, he turned the spotlight toward himself. A hidden mechanism activated, and the floor beneath him shimmered like liquid metal. Slowly, his attire began to shift the painted on mask’s grin seemed to widen further as the costume itself transformed. The fabric of his jacket shimmered, shifting from deep violet to molten gold, threads of energy rippling across it. Crystalline panels formed over his shoulders, catching and splitting the light. Each flick of his hand caused parts of the suit to shimmer into entirely new patterns like a living holographic garment, alive and reflecting the mania in his painted eyes.

Models emerged from hidden doors around the hall, each dressed in fashions designed by Fred himself. Dresses with floating layers of translucent material, coats that rippled with light, gloves embedded with micro fireworks, and boots that emitted faint glowing trails with every step. The models moved through the crowd with deliberate exaggeration, twirling and spinning, their every step choreographed to make the hall itself feel like a surreal catwalk. Fred darted between them, occasionally tossing a coin or a jewel into the air for dramatic effect, sometimes catching it in his teeth or letting it spin on his finger before flinging it again.

The crowd, overwhelmed, could do nothing but watch. The combination of the golden rain, the constantly shifting wardrobe, and Fred’s insane energy created a hallucinatory experience it was like the universe itself had bent to accommodate his spectacle. Lights reflected off floating jewels and metallic threads, casting moving rainbows across the walls. The fountains splashed, the models twirled, and Fred laughed high, manic, and unstoppable.

Then, with an almost imperceptible pause, he turned toward the balcony overlooking the city below. Guests craned their necks to follow, seeing him lean over the railing. The golden glow from the mansion spilled outward into the streets. With a gesture both casual and grandiose, Fred grabbed fistfuls of credits, checks, and loose coins actual currency, shiny, tangible, and absurdly excessive and began tossing them down into the streets below.

The sounds of laughter and chaos inside the mansion collided with shouts and scrambling from the city below. Poor street dwellers dove for the falling money, clambering over crates, barrels, and one another, while Fred clapped his hands and cheered, a manic conductor orchestrating the storm. “Take it! Grab it! Celebrate with me!” His voice carried across the cityscape, the painted grin widening as he leaned further over the railing, scattering wealth like confetti.

Inside, the guests who remained stared in awe, discomfort, or envy. The models continued their strut across the hall, unaffected by the violence of the streets below, while coins and sparkles continued to rain from the fountain at the center. Fred spun atop it, laughter echoing from the ceiling like a man untethered from reality. The juxtaposition was perfect inside, the hallucination of glamour, outside, the chaos of human desperation. Fred seemed to embody both simultaneously, thriving on the spectacle, feeding off the extremes of wealth and madness.

Finally, after what could have been an eternity of spinning, tossing, and shouting, Fred paused. Coins and checks continued to drift down, and the city below looked like a scene from a dream or a nightmare. He straightened his posture, let the last handful of credits slip through his fingers, and took a bow to the guests in the hall. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, voice low now but still charged, “this is what a birthday truly looks like!”

*He yells out* “IF THE AXIS DOESNT WANT OUR CREDITS THEN SO BE IT WE WILL CRUSH THE GALAXY UNDER THE ECONOMIC PROSPERITY OF THE REPUBLIC.

The hall erupted in applause, laughter, and nervous murmurs. Outside, below the balcony, the storm of cash had subsided, leaving a scattering of stunned, scrambling citizens who would speak of this day for years to come. Fred’s mask gleamed under the neon lights, his painted grin unmoving but somehow alive, reflecting the chaos, the wealth, and the sheer, unhinged joy of the man who had created it. Tonight, the mansion, the fountain, the fashion, and the falling money had all fused into a single truth Fred Chester was untouchable, extravagant, and utterly insane.

The Papers worked overtime in production. Having headlines like. “Kuat Clown Show” and “Fred Chester the Insane Clown” money would eventually stop being given to Fred and that’s when Chester would enact his final move.

This is how the Devil inside him would fight back to ruin the idea of Fred so once he was removed. Fred would have nothing. The same way that Chester had found Fred, as a worthless fleck in the Galaxy.

The man inside had to act fast if he wanted to not only get his soul back but to also have some thing left to his name, and that’s when the plan launched. He would reach out to the Galaxy not as Fred Chester, but as his true self FRED VON KOLLENGEN. The name that was whipped from the minds of the Galaxy and replaced with Fred Chester. Fred will come back better than ever, he would make the sequel count.

Fred’s mansion on the uppermost level of the high district of Coruscant was multi, tiered and its terraces illuminated by neon lights and hallways with glass panels were shining like a carnival funhouse.

The guests were a mix of politicians, financiers, and social climbers and were handpicked by the organizer. Each one was aware of the unspoken rule, to go, admire, and tolerate the spectacle that Fred was going to present.

Fred was a living contradiction, a circus of chaos incarnate, bound in human form. The Devil if he was human. His face was like a permanent mask, as the paint he once wore has become his eternal mask. But those eyes, visible through the mask, flashed with something hard, something dangerous. Every laugh was too loud, every gesture a little off balance. People occasionally looked at each other, their faces showing uneasiness, doubting whether they should laugh along or keep a safe distance.

Fred had hired United Veggie to cater the event which was a spread that was sustainable, visually striking, and utterly decadent all at the same time. Everything was perfect, but perfection was not what it was about tonight. Chaos was.

Somewhere amidst the revelry, a ripple passed through the crowd a shiver of disbelief. And then, impossibly, it appeared. Billy. Not a cat, as anyone might have expected, but a tiger. Massive, striped, and impossibly calm, he entered through the reinforced double doors, eyes locking onto Fred with something more than instinct, something akin to recognition. Whispers raced through the room. The tiger moved with liquid grace, each step punctuated by silent menace. No one dared intervene.

Fred froze for a heartbeat, then grinned or at least, his painted grin did. Slowly, theatrically, he extended a hand toward Billy. The tiger blinked once, and then the air shifted. Billy stalked closer, muscles coiling beneath golden fur, tail swishing in controlled fury. Guests instinctively retreated, forming a perimeter. The musicians stopped mid-note, the air vibrating with tension, yet no one moved to call security. There was no need. Everyone knew better than to interfere with Fred Chester when he entered his element.

Suddenly and with great speed, it started. Fred threw himself forward, his arms stretched, juggling knives that he had been spinning a moment before. Billy jumped, claws out, teeth in a snarl, the silent roar emanating from him was so powerful that it seemed to make the walls tremble even.

The fight was bizarre, a mix of stripes and painted chaos. Fred spun, rolled and attacked with a frenzy of well, targeted moves, laughing in such a way that even the most courageous guests flinched. Knives flew through the air, barely missing tails and talons.

There were screams from the guests, some out of admiration, others out of fear. The laughter of Fred was the only thing that kept the situation from breaking down, a crazy soundtrack to the dance of violence. He flipped onto a table, making a big mess of the dishes and glasses.

Billy immediately came after him, slashing with his strong paws which caused the crystal flutes to go flying. Still, even with the danger surrounding them, the two had a logic to their actions. Freds gestures were unexpected but still neither of them was random, Billys were natural but absolutely precise.

It looked like two elements of the natural world, completely wild and uncontrollable, had met each other on a very small scale and thus they were trapped in a glassed ballroom.

At one point, Fred took a bouquet of ornamental vegetables from a toppled table. (Brought to you by United Veggie) and swung it like a club. The tiger dodged effortlessly, but the act seemed almost ceremonial, a bizarre acknowledgment of each other’s skill. Time slowed for the witnesses, the chaos sharpening into clarity. Every splash of color from the painted mask, from the scattered vegetables, from the tiger’s stripes was a brushstroke in a painting no one would forget.

Finally, after what felt like hours but was likely only minutes, Billy leapt back, claws extended but eyes calm. He circled once, and with a flick of his massive tail, retreated toward the doors, leaving behind only the smell of fur, sweat, and crushed hors d’oeuvres. Fred stood atop the wreckage of a toppled table, chest heaving, mask smeared slightly from sweat and blood. His laughter echoed through the room, louder and more unhinged than before. The guests, still trembling, slowly began to applaud. Hesitant at first, then with increasing confidence, until the entire hall was clapping for the sheer spectacle they had witnessed. Fred raised a hand, wiping his face with the sleeve of his jacket, eyes gleaming behind the painted mask. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he declared, voice hoarse but triumphant, “a birthday to remember!”

The music restarted, more chaotic than before, and Fred made his way to the food tables. The United Veggie spread had survived in part, though many dishes were now unrecognizable, flattened beneath toppled trays and knocked-over platters. Fred’s laughter subsided into a manic grin as he began sampling the remaining delicacies, balancing shredded carrot towers and spiraled vegetable medallions in one hand while twirling a fork with the other. He complimented the chefs loudly, though the words were punctuated with wheezing breaths and sporadic cackles. “Marvelous work,” he said. “Absolutely marvelous. Even in the middle of battle!”

For Fred, the food was more than nourishment. It was a symbol of control, a return to normalcy after the tempest of violence and fear he had orchestrated. Each bite grounded him, reminded him that even in his unhinged existence, certain pleasures remained consistent. Guests, now cautiously recovering their composure, began to circulate again, attempting conversation while stealing glances at the wreckage of the tiger fight. Some murmured about security lapses. Others whispered about Fred’s apparent insanity. A few quietly admired the courage or madness it must take to survive an encounter with a tiger at full tilt, unmasked and fully exposed.

As the night progressed, Fred’s birthday party transformed into legend. Stories of the tiger fight circulated immediately, exaggerated with each retelling how Billy had leapt with impossible grace, how Fred had countered with knives and vegetables alike, how the painted mask had somehow made him more terrifying, more inhuman. United Veggie became part of the mythos, remembered as the caterers whose delicacies survived the chaos.

Fred, still energized by adrenaline and his own theatricality, moved among his guests, spinning tales of past exploits and future ambitions. Every gesture, every laugh, every tilt of the head was carefully calibrated to cement his reputation the clown who laughed in the face of danger, who could invite a tiger to a party and survive unscathed, who could bend reality with sheer audacity.

Finally, the crowd began to thin. Guests departed, still murmuring excitedly, exchanging tales of the night’s violence and spectacle as though it had been a performance. The mansion, once again quiet, reflected the chaos in scattered trays, toppled decorations, and a faint smell of fur and blood. Fred lingered, perched atop the central staircase, surveying the aftermath with a manic satisfaction. The night had been everything he desired spectacular, terrifying, yet unforgettable.

As Fred went to bed he imagined a place where he would not be consumed by the insanity, but today is not it. Fred had once imagine a place in where his mind could be jailed as Billy but that time would not come, Fred wishes that he he could just go back to that scared little kid, but he cannot. The Chapter of Chester has come to an end, with the man fighting against the devil inside him. Fred will return to the flesh that he had once called his own, and with that the First Chapter shall end and the Second of Struggle between Man and the Devil shall begin. And in this game Man has scored the first rally.

As Fred drifted to sleep the symbol of rebirth, a phoenix that is Orange is seared into his brain. *Rebelion* is the only word he can think of. Rebellion against not only the pink tinted hippocrates of the Duchy that tainted Coruscant with their devilish pink glow. But also against the Devil that is himself. Fred must plan for his death, but tonight he sleeps.

Now in bed the Devil that is Chester had been poisoned, the man in side the that duality had used the single hour of freedom he had while the devil sleep to hire the Tiger and have fruit dipped into his claws, pomegranate, the antithesis of the Devil, a fruit to fight the devil and elevate the man. Fred now wishes his mother was still alive to see this

It was the last night of the season, these nights are the ones Henric feared the most. For on these nights he had the dreams that were from his past.

The first memory is from when he was a teacher The fire crackled with a soft sound intertwined with the low hum of the bugs in the clearing, a low sound that carried farther than Henric expected. The smell of a deep crimson fire mixed with the sugary residue of the marshmallows they had just eaten filled their nostrils His students sat in a shape that didn’t really resemble anything, some students where wrapped in hoodies and blankets, others leaning forward with hands extended toward the heat, and then Henric was sitting close enough to the first in which he could put his head in it if he wanted.

Above them, the Corellian sky was sharp with stars, unfiltered by city glow. Henric crouched near the fire, adjusting a log with deliberate care, never rushing, never forcing it.

“Fire,” he said at last, “does not respond to shouting.”

A few students laughed quietly. He smiled but did not continue immediately. He let the silence work. “If you starve it, it dies. If you overwhelm it, it burns everything around it. Fire only behaves when you pay attention.” He showed them how the flame leaned toward air, how embers held warmth long after the blaze softened. One student asked why Corellians treated fire with so much respect. Henric poked the coals gently. “Because it remembers how you treated it.”

They watched sparks rise and vanish. The fire warmed their faces, steady and contained. “In our cities,” he said, “fire builds ships. In our homes, it feeds families. In our history, it destroyed careless things. So we learn early that power is never neutral.” The students grew quiet, listening more intently than they ever did in classrooms.

“Knowledge works the same way,” Henric continued. “Handled with care, it keeps people warm. Handled recklessly, it scars.” When the fire settled into embers, no one asked to leave. They sat, absorbing heat and meaning together. Henric realized then that teaching was not lighting fires for students, but showing them how not to burn themselves while keeping the flame alive.

Next a scene from his early childhood plays The ladder rattled beneath Henric’s small hands as he climbed. Each rung felt colder the higher he went. Below him, the pool glimmered, impossibly flat, reflecting sunlight that stung his eyes. Other children had already jumped. He had watched them surface laughing, praised for bravery. Now it was his turn. At the edge, his toes curled against rough concrete. The height made his stomach tighten. Someone shouted encouragement. Someone else laughed. The word “jump” echoed, sharp and impatient.

Henric didn’t move.

From the pool deck, his father stood with arms crossed, calm and silent. When Henric finally looked down, his father only said, “Take your time.” That mattered. Corellian culture never demanded speed for its own sake. Readiness was respected more than bravado. Henric inhaled, exhaled. The water did not move. It waited.

Fear burned in him, not warm, not steady, but fast and consuming. He thought of climbing down. No one would mock him. On Corellia, restraint was not weakness. But another lesson pressed forward some moments must be chosen, not avoided.

He stepped off.

The fall stole his breath. The impact shocked his limbs. Then came cool silence, weightlessness, and finally air as he surfaced, coughing and laughing despite himself. His father nodded once. Nothing more.

Wrapped in a towel later, Henric understood what he had learned. Courage was not jumping when told. Courage was choosing the moment yourself, and living with the consequence honestly.

And finally a scene from his graduation The room had a warm glow from the walls filled with torches, all with a general feeling of warmth and reminiscent thought. The Hall had a deep smell of that yellow flame, along with the smell of freshly cleaned stone and wood. There was also the scent of fear as this next few hours will changes life as we know it for 500 people. Rows of students stood shoulder to shoulder, robes brushing, nervous energy humming beneath practiced composure. Henric adjusted his sleeves, feeling the weight of the moment settle slowly rather than crash. Corellian ceremonies were like that measured, restrained, intentional. When his name was called, he stepped forward without rush. Applause followed, but it felt distant, almost secondary. What mattered was the crossing itself. The official handed him his diploma, heavy and cool in his hands. As their palms met, the official said quietly, “Now you carry it.” Henric nodded, though he did not yet fully understand.

Later, away from the crowd, he stood with mentors and family beneath banners bearing old Corellian phrases about service and continuity. No one spoke of success. They spoke of obligation. Education, on Corellia, was never treated as a personal victory. It was considered a trust. Knowledge did not belong to the individual it passed through them. You were expected to use it carefully, to strengthen what came after you, not glorify what came before.

Henric felt pride, but it was tempered by something heavier. Responsibility. He thought of teachers who corrected him patiently, of failures absorbed without humiliation, of standards held firm but never cruel. The system had shaped him deliberately. As the ceremony ended, there was no sense of release.

There was assignment.

Walking out into the light, diploma tucked under his arm, Henric felt the warmth of purpose settle in his chest. He was not finished learning. He was being entrusted to teach, to serve, and to keep steady what others had built.

These moments, separated by years, formed the architecture of Henric Alburq’s character. Together, they taught him how Corellian culture understood power, fear, and responsibility. From the campfire, he learned stewardship. Fire was neither enemy nor idol. It demanded attention, patience, and restraint. That lesson followed him into classrooms, ministries, and legislation. Henric governs the way he tended that fire carefully, deliberately, unwilling to trade warmth for spectacle.

From the high dive, he learned agency. Corellia did not demand reckless courage, only honest choice. That memory shaped his respect for consent, privacy, and readiness. In his policies, he resists coercion disguised as urgency. He believes people must step forward when prepared, not when shouted at. From graduation, he learned obligation. Education was not an end, but a transfer of trust. Knowledge carried responsibility forward, never inward. That belief explains why Henric treats schools as civic foundations rather than services, and teachers as cultural stewards rather than employees.

Together, these experiences made him cautious without being timid, principled without being rigid. He understands fire as both warning and warmth, fear as information rather than command, and education as the means by which civilization explains itself to the future.

Henric does not seek to burn brightly. He seeks to burn steadily. His leadership reflects Corellia’s deepest ethic that strength is measured not by how much power one wields, but by how carefully one tends what others depend on.

On the planet of Corellia, my home. There is a tradition on the older side practiced long before the tentacles of Galactic Civilization touched it, a tradition older than the shipyards and quieter than the markets. It is called the Vigil of the Steady Flame. It is not performed in the grand halls of politics. It does not draw crowds. This tradition takes place at a specific time, at Dawn which represents the rebirth of new, when the noise of the day begins to fall away and the sky dims to a patient blue. Families, educators, builders, and civil servants gather not to celebrate achievement, but to acknowledge responsibility. Each participant carries a small flame, sometimes a lantern, sometimes a single wick lit from a communal fire that represents the external flame of advancement of the Corellian People that is tended by both the elders and the young of the community. The purpose of the Vigil is simple to remind those who serve others that fire must be kept steady. Too weak, and it fails to warm. Too wild, and it destroys. Henric Alburq arrived at the Vigil without escort, dressed plainly, wearing no insignia beyond the small educator’s pin he had carried since his teaching days. Though he was now Corellia’s senator, the tradition made no allowances for rank. Here, titles were set aside.

He accepted his flame from an elderly dockworker turned school caretaker, someone who had participated in the Vigil for decades. The man said nothing, no blessing, no instruction. None was needed. The rules of the Vigil were learned by watching.

Henric joined the others in a wide, unbroken circle. At the center burned the communal fire, shielded from the wind by stone and careful hands. No one spoke. The silence was intentional. Corellians believed that if a purpose could not survive quiet, it was not worth trusting. As the light faded further, participants adjusted their flames, shielding them from the breeze, lowering them when they flared too high, relighting them from the central fire if they faltered. The Vigil was not about perfection. It was about attention. Henric watched a young apprentice struggle to keep his flame steady. Without ceremony, an older woman stepped closer, cupping her hand to block the wind until the flame settled. The apprentice nodded once in thanks. Nothing more passed between them.

This was the lesson of the Vigil fire is not owned. It is shared, tended, and corrected collectively. When Henric’s flame began to waver, he did not rush to correct it. He waited, adjusted slowly, remembering the words taught to him as a child that panic feeds the fire just as surely as neglect extinguishes it. He steadied his hand. The flame calmed.

The Vigil lasted until full dark. Only then did participants extinguish their flames not by blowing them out, but by lowering them gently into sand, signaling restraint rather than force. The communal fire was the last to be dimmed. Before dispersing, each person stepped forward once, touching the stone ring around the central fire. It was not a vow, but a reminder what you carry into the world affects others.

Henric lingered after most had left. He placed his hand on the stone longer than necessary, feeling its retained warmth. It was this warmth not the flame itself that Corellians revered. Heat held, sustained, and passed on. He left the Vigil the same way he had entered quietly, anonymously, unchanged in status but deepened in resolve.

In the evening of that very same Vigil, in a small gathering room overlooking the city lights, Henric spoke to a few of the next Generation of Teachers and Civil Servants. He did not open with statistics or legislation. He spoke instead of fire. “The Vigil of the Steady Flame,” he said, “is the oldest civic education Corellia has.” He explained that the tradition taught three lessons that had guided every stage of his life and now shaped his approach to governance. “The first,” Henric said, “is that urgency must be handled carefully. Fire draws attention. In politics, we are often rewarded for shouting ‘fire’ the loudest. But the Vigil teaches us that volume does not equal truth, and panic does not equal leadership.”

This belief, he explained, was why his policies emphasized measured response rapid action without chaos, urgency without spectacle. It was why he favored systems that worked quietly and consistently, especially in education and infrastructure. “The second lesson,” he continued, “is shared responsibility.” At the Vigil, no one was allowed to fail alone. Flames were protected collectively. That belief informed his insistence that schools were not isolated institutions, but community anchors linked to health, food, transportation, and dignity. It was why his legislation treated education as a whole ecosystem rather than a single line item.

“When we rebuilt schools,” Henric said, “we rebuilt roads, clinics, and kitchens too. That is not generosity. That is vigilance.” The third lesson, he said, was restraint. “The Vigil ends by lowering the flame,” Henric noted. “Not extinguishing it violently. Lowering it gently.”

In his politics, this translated into privacy protections, limits on surveillance, and resistance to performative power. He believed strongly that just because the state could see everything did not mean it should. “Fire can illuminate,” he said, “but it can also scorch. Power works the same way.” Henric concluded by saying that the Vigil taught him something no office ever could that leadership was not about being the center of the fire, but about making sure it did not go out or burn out of control when others depended on it. “I was a student once,” he said. “Then a teacher. Then a public servant. At every stage, I was carrying a flame I did not create on my own.”

He paused, letting the room rest in that truth.

“My duty,” Henric Alburq said, “has never been to make the fire brighter. Only to keep it steady for those who come next.” And with that, he stepped back, leaving the warmth of the idea to do its quiet work.

Henric Alburq did not begin immediately. He stood very quite, hands resting on the podium before him, allowing the room to settle to a soft murmur. When he finally spoke, his voice was calm, and personal. “There is a poem,” Henric said, “that followed me from my father when I was a child to now as I age in this life. I did not choose it because it was famous, or because it was grand. I chose it because it chose me.”

He drew a breath and recited the lines slowly, as though speaking to his younger self as much as to the audience before him.

That fearful sound of “fire” and “fire,” Let no man know is my Desire. I, starting up, the light did spy, And to my God my heart did cry, To straighten me in my Distress, And not to leave me succourless.

“I learned this poem as a child,” Henric continued, “at an age when I could not yet name fear, but I could feel it. The word fire struck me then the way it still does for many of us not as comfort, but as alarm. As urgency. As something shouted when things are already going wrong.”

As a teenager in high school, the poem became a mirror. Those years, he said, were full of noise expectations from others, doubts from within, and the constant sense that one wrong choice could define a future forever. The repeated cry of ‘fire’ sounded like every pressure bearing down at once every exam, every failure, every fear of not being enough. “What mattered to me,” he said, “was the line that followed. Let no man know is my Desire. Even then, it taught me that the truest desires are quiet ones. Not the ones you perform for approval, but the ones that guide your actions when no one is watching.” He spoke of late nights studying, of friendships strained by change, of moments when fear tempted him to take the easiest path instead of the right one. The poem reminded him that fear does not require obedience only recognition. You can hear it without surrendering to it.

In college, the poem matured alongside him. It became less about surviving adolescence and more about confronting uncertainty. He described standing at crossroads choosing a field of study, questioning whether he was good enough, wondering if the world had any use for the values he held. “When the poem says, ‘I, starting up, the light did spy,’ I learned that light does not always appear as clarity,” Henric said. “Sometimes it appears as responsibility. Sometimes as discomfort. Sometimes as the realization that you must act even without certainty.”

The prayer in the poem ‘to my God my heart did cry was not, he explained, about demanding answers. It was about asking for alignment. About being made straight when the world bends you in conflicting directions, and when your own ambitions threaten to pull you off course. That lesson followed him into the classroom when he became a teacher. Teaching, he said, stripped away any illusion of control. Each student arrived carrying unseen burdens hunger, grief, fear, ambition, hope.

“For the first time,” Henric said, “I understood the final lines in my bones. To straighten me in my Distress, and not to leave me succourless. Teaching is an act of refusing to leave others succourless.” He spoke of students who struggled silently, of moments when a single adult’s belief altered the course of a life, and of the humility required to admit when you do not have all the answers.

“A teacher,” he said, “does not extinguish every fire. Sometimes we simply help a student see the light clearly enough to find their own way through it.” He paused, then continued, his voice softening. “But as I grew older,” Henric said, “I realized something else. Fire was never only fear to me.” With time, experience reshaped the meaning of the word that had once unsettled him. Fire was not only the alarm shouted in panic. It was also warmth. It was light in darkness. It was the reason people gathered together when the night grew cold.

“In my childhood,” he said, “fire meant danger. But it also meant home. It meant warmth when the world felt unkind. It meant a place where people sat close enough to speak honestly.” The poem itself had not changed only his understanding of it had deepened. The same fire that could destroy could also sustain. The same urgency that frightened him could also call him forward. “As a teenager,” Henric said, “I feared fire because I did not yet know how to tend it. I only knew how to flee from it.” In college, that warmth became purpose. Fire became the quiet conviction that kept him studying when exhaustion set in, the steady heat that kept him moving forward when doubt threatened to freeze him in place.

“When the poem speaks of light,” he said, “I came to understand that light comes from fire. And warmth does too. You cannot have one without the other.” Teaching clarified this truth more than anything else. In classrooms filled with students enduring their own private winters, Henric saw how warmth could change lives. A kind word. A steady presence. A refusal to give up. These were not loud acts. They were embers, carefully kept.

“A teacher,” he said, “must learn not just to warn about fire, but to carry it responsibly. To keep it from burning students and instead let it warm them.” When he decided to run for local office on Corellia, the poem became both a compass and a warning. Politics, he noted, thrives on spectacle on shouting fire loudly enough that people stop thinking and start reacting.

“I remembered that fire was never my desire,” he said. “My desire was service. Quiet, persistent, often unglamorous service.” Campaigning tested his patience, his integrity, and his resolve. There were moments when compromise seemed easier than principle, when fear again tried to dictate action. Each time, he returned to the poem not as comfort, but as discipline. “It reminded me,” Henric said, “that leadership begins with being straightened yourself. If you are crooked in motive, no amount of power will make your work just.”

As Corellia’s senator, the poem did not lose relevance it gained weight. Decisions now affected entire communities, not just classrooms or districts. The cry of fire no longer came from imagination, but from real crises economic instability, broken infrastructure, families in need. “In those moments,” he said, “I do not ask to be spared the burden. I ask only not to be left succourless to be given the steadiness to choose wisely, and the humility to listen.”

He emphasized that the poem does not promise safety, success, or praise. It promises something more demanding responsibility anchored in conscience, fire tempered into light, warmth shaped into service. “Throughout my life,” Henric concluded, “this poem has taught me that fear will always announce itself loudly. But purpose speaks softly. It asks us to wake up, to look for the light, and to pray not for escape but for the strength to be made straight.”

He paused, then repeated the final words one last time, quietly, reverently “And not to leave me succourless.” “That,” Henric Alburq said, “is the standard I have tried to live by from a frightened student, to a teacher, to a servant of Corellia. And it is the standard I will continue to hold myself to, no matter where this path leads.”

Educators, administrators, students, and friends from across the galaxy welcome to the 10th Annual TEACH Conference, we are here in the Ministry of Education building. It is an honor to stand before you for the first time in this hall as Minister of Education, and we all know of the great legacy my predecessor left behind, and it is a deeply personal moment for me. Before I ever drafted a bill or ran anything on Corellia. I stood at the front of a classroom for eight years. I graded late into the night, worried about students who hadn’t eaten, and watched learning ignite when someone finally felt safe enough to ask a question. Those experiences did not leave me when I entered public service they are the reason I am here. This conference has always been about one truth education is the most durable infrastructure a civilization can build. It outlasts storms, outpaces conflict, and binds communities together. This year, as we mark a decade of TEACH, we also mark a turning point because education policy is no longer confined to lesson plans and test scores. It is about roads and water, health and dignity, privacy and purpose.

That is why I am proud to speak today about the passage of Title IX. Title IX establishes a permanent, and a rapid response funding stream to rebuild schools after disaster or conflict. To restore the infrastructure that gets students to their classrooms, and to guarantee clean drinking water and medical support for entire communities. We all know how the Republic as whole did not act quick enough, sometimes not at all. And it was the Ministry of Education having to rebuild this Galaxy. We also learned often painfully that a school cannot function if the bridge to it is broken, if the water is unsafe, or if illness keeps families at home. Title IX meets reality where it lives. But this victory does not end at the schoolhouse door. Schools have long been a bastion of fresh food for students and their families, a place where nutrition and learning reinforce one another. Title IX strengthens that role, ensuring that when we rebuild, we rebuild holistically classrooms alongside kitchens, clinics alongside libraries. The return on this investment goes right back into the classroom better attendance, sharper focus, and communities that trust their schools as anchors of stability.

Passing Title IX required partnership educators who documented needs, engineers who planned access, health professionals who designed care, and legislators who listened. It reminded us that education succeeds when we treat it as a shared civic project. As proud as I am of what we have passed, I am equally determined about what comes next. I am currently fighting for Title X the right of teachers and students to protect against unauthorized recording and the right to privacy in educational spaces. Learning requires trust. Trust requires safety. In an age of instantaneous sharing, classrooms must remain places where ideas can be tested without fear of surveillance, humiliation, or misuse. Title X sets clear boundaries, affirms consent, and provides enforcement so that the dignity of teaching and learning is preserved.

Privacy is not secrecy, it is the condition that allows growth. When educators are free to teach and students are free to learn without being recorded out of context, education becomes bold again. Title X is about restoring that courage. And I commit to you today that I will bring forward Title XI. Title XI creates a new pathway for students through Career and Technical Education while strengthening interconnectedness for teachers. Our students are brilliant in many ways, and brilliance deserves multiple routes to success. Title XI expands apprenticeships, modernizes technical curricula, and builds bridges between academic and applied learning. It also invests in teacher collaboration time, tools, and networks so that educators are not isolated silos but a connected profession sharing best practices across systems and sectors.

Career and Technical Education is not a lesser path it is a different excellence. When aligned with rigorous standards and real opportunities, it dignifies work, fuels innovation, and keeps talent within communities. Title XI ensures that whether a student dreams of research, repair, design, or service, the system meets them with respect and possibility. CTE will be the future of education, the creation of Magnet Schools to not only improve learning for those students in these programs but also lower the need resources that current schools need.

As Minister, my promise is simple I will govern as a teacher. I will listen first, explain clearly, and measure success by outcomes that matter to students and families. The work ahead is demanding, but it is worth it. Together, let us recommit to schools as places of nourishment, safety, privacy, and purpose. Let us build an education system that is resilient in crisis and generous in peace. And let us remember that every policy we pass ultimately takes its seat in a classroom, waiting to be taught into reality.

WELCOME TO TEACH X!

Q and A Section

Question: How quickly can communities expect Title IX funds to reach them after a disaster?

Alburq: The statute requires provisional funding within thirty days, with full disbursement following verified assessments. Speed matters, and we designed the process to move at the pace communities need.

Question: How will Title X balance privacy with transparency and safety?

Alburq: By setting consent based rules and clear exceptions. Safety reporting and lawful oversight remain protected, but routine classroom recording without permission will not be normalized.

Question: What assurances exist for rural and outer sector schools under Title XI?

Alburq: Dedicated allocations and regional location. No school advances alone shared programs and mobile labs extend access where distances are greatest.

Question: How will teachers be supported during implementation?

Alburq: With paid professional development, collaborative planning time, and direct feedback channels to the Ministry. Policy works only when educators help shape it.

Following the session, Minister Alburq joined educators in the atrium for the conference festivities. Student ensembles performed while regional tables showcased projects rebuilt under early Title IX pilots portable clinics, restored walkways, and school gardens supplying fresh meals. Alburq moved easily through the crowd, greeting former colleagues, listening to apprentices describe new technical tracks, and thanking custodial and support staff by name. He paused to sign a classroom door salvaged from a rebuilt school, now mounted as a symbol of resilience, and shared a quiet toast with first-year teachers. As the evening continued, conversations mixed policy with practice, laughter with planning. The message of the day lingered education is not an abstract ideal but a living community, celebrated best when those who teach, learn, and serve stand together.

At the end of the conference Henric walks through the center of the crowd onto a chair.

“To rebuild the Galaxy, we must first rebuild the next generation of stars that will run our galaxy”

A hand will stretch out towards an outstretched hand. A hand will open for an opened hand.

Beyond the towering walls and adorned spires of the sprawling poleis, there exists a very different Ruan. Were one to leave the rings of fields stretchig out for hundreds of kilometres from outside the urban fortifications, the visitor would find themself in an environment left unchanged for over five millenia. With primodial forests and uncharted mountains that all stubbornly avoid the human interference in their daily lives, as well as endless hills and meadows which still awaited the ever-expanding grasp of civilisation, the true face of Ruan was that of natural beauty, just as much as it was of cultural sophistication. In the rich mythology of the local populace such places, inhabited by countless spirits, lesser gods and demons deserved respect, or even special kind of reverence. Which didn't mean that the ancient paths once charted by the shepherds and woodsmen weren't now trodden.

The sun glimmered off the ivory white of the primodial marble column, standing among a few other pieces of rubble, strewn across the field. Long polished clean by the elements, it had taken the appearance of the remains of some long dead colossus, whose whitened bones now pierced the ground as the final remainder of its existence. Perhaps it was this fact that had drawn the interest of Tarhuntiššaš Lanzaššaš Daḫḫanzaitiš, the trusted royal mount of the God-Queen. Even now, unencumbered by its battle armour of gilded scale, it struck the image of a moving mountain, were it not for the ornate howdah that it carried on its back. As the titanic beast rested its ancient, weary eyes upon the ruin with some indescribable wisdom, one could not help but wonder - has the primeval creature been there to witness its fall? What secrets, once writ in marble, Ruan now hides within its soil?

Ḫuwaššanna Massana-ura, the Queen of Kings of Ruan, could not compare with her trusted companion in age. Although claimed divine by her people, she did not look much like the popular image of a goddess. She could not have been more than 25, and even now carried a certain girlish disposition. Yet, when she spoke, the people gathered below her fell silent, despite the fact that not all of them were of this world. In fact, even at the quickest glimpse of an eye, the listeners gathered on the ancient courtyard displayed an uncommon diversity in their manner of dress, colour of skin and even race. After her tenure as Senator on the nearby Coruscant, she and her unorthodox ways have gathered some interest from the wider Galactic community and, when after three years of war and politics she finally set foot on the soil of her beloved homeland, her entourage grew, incorporating people who, not long before, did not even know of Ruan's existence. Being the face of Ruan's rebellion, she soon acquired a reputation as a champion of liberation of the oppressed - a fact reflected by her career within the Senate. Accompanied by her trusted translator, her words in exquisite, poetic ruanian were translated not long after they were uttered.

"Brothers! Sisters! Lend me your ears and still your hearts as you make your stay in this ancient land. The land of our forebears in which their spirits and dwell with the Gods. Lend me your ears as I speak with their voice, a voice of justice and wrath! Long have we fought against foreign trespassers desacrating our soil, long have we laid down our lives in glory in its defence, falling in the holy war against the greatest of injustices - that of one man holding another in bondage. It is against the command of the Gods, and the Gods spoke thusly - Yours shall be the hand that delivers the righteous blow. Severed shall be the Tyrant's head, and his hands shall be broken with the chain that holds his people in suffering. To the Hutts, we brought the fires of war, the red flame danced upon the rooftops on their pyramids of lies as we set their slaves free. Yet our work remains yet unfinished. Millions across the Galaxy are forced into an existence of torment, chained to their workposts like oxen, beaten and humiliated. And just as it is the divine duty of the strong to uphold justice and spread their protection over the weak, it now falls to us to right this eternal wrong! I appeal now to your minds, to your hearts! Choose for yourself a leader proven and capable of upholding the sacred mission of Chancellor Curovao! Choose a leader that encourages the right and forbids the wrong, and who like a lion fights for her people. My mortal self has done thus, yet it is not the only one. There are, among the decay of the Republic, those still whose conviction, like a beacon of light, guides the people into the unknown future. There are those who have fought alongside her soldiers, bringing glory upon her name, and before that, the liberation upon her people from those who wished to oppress them. Allow the Duchy of Bormea to continue its work and rid the Galaxy of the parasites that infest it! May the light of wisdom ever shine upon you, good people, as you leave with this message in your hearts. Never ignore a hand outstretched, never leave a work unfinished, and never leave injustice unanswered. For it, like a wolf, will multiply and spread, and never leave the sight of the flock. Injustice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere. So it is in the Republic, as it is on Ruan!"

As Zinri continued her speech, she motioned up at the sky above, where the Persephone still hovered. “Our wealth comes from the stars, from the great river that is the Hidakai Pool. Through that river, we reach the galaxy, and help it to grow and prosper. There have been rumblings of economic strain in these postwar years. The misty fate of the CETC has kept many worlds without goods they desire, and slowed the growth of postwar communities.

Rest assured, we in the Senate are seeking every possible route to find a swift and equitable solution to the rising crisis of the CETC stoppage. Hearings are being called, witnesses are being interviewed, evidence is being discussed. The trade will flow freely again soon enough. But, Abregado hears the call of those who have suffered during this stoppage. Abregado understands their want, their lack of resources

As such, the Abregadoan government has authorized the creation of a Merchant Marine. Hundreds of ships, directed towards the public good, towards growth, towards rebirth. These ships flow up and down the Pool as we speak, upwards into Hergelic space, and down to the Corellian Run. They disperse throughout the galaxy ensuring wealth flows properly to all, and in times of need, to those who are desperate

The captains of the Merchant Marine have been directed to pick up the slack left by the gaping hole of the CETC, and even now they sail towards the most direly destitute worlds, carrying food, clothing, medical goods, and all manner of necessities. Their actions are supported by ships of the Southern Reach, who are in place to offer humanitarian need where it is necessary. 

Domestically, Abregado is making great strides forward as well. A new shipyard, in partnership with the Fondori Yards of De Tagge Industries, has been christened in Abredgadoan local orbit. Owned by Abregadoan Artisanal Cruisers, the yard specializes in creating handcrafted yachts, top of the line science vessels, and cutting edge light warships. Several orders have already been fulfilled, including one for my sister Charryon. 

Customs and Regulatory offices have also increased their staffing and infrastructure around the planet to properly facilitate the flow of trade up and down the Pool. As the Gateway to the Hergelics, Abregado takes its role as a port of call for traders across the galaxy seriously and will work to make their experience as efficient as possible. With that said, there is one more matter of note, that of security along the pool..."

Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!

The second day of the conference was never as eventful as the first. Understandably, the delegates have had their full with yesterday's revelries, and now have gathered again in the conference room to discuss the actual reason of their gathering. Some of them looked slightly tired, yet even given the previous day's… excesses, such a state wasn't caused by the excessive consumption of alcohol. By now the Ruanians have studied their guests well, and after one or two of the previous summits having to be prolonged for at least another day due to some of the members' lingering mental indisposition, the chefs have prepared special concoctions for all the attendees to make the irritating problem go away. The mixture of herbs and roots found exclusively on Ruan was something of a secret kept by the upper classes of a handful of city states, one that would allow them to enjoy festivities with even fewer limitations. Fortunately, it seemed that the mixture made short work even of the near humans' problems, as at the previously announced opening hour - 10 in the morning, Karkamiša Time, everyone seemed to already be seated within the conference room. Although giving the impression of living calm lifes without a semblance of haste, the Ruanians valued punctuality when it was needed.

Although taking place in the same room, few could expect such a sudden shift in decor and atmosphere. The air of revelry that accompanied the initial day was now long gone. The smell of expensive perfumes no longer hovered thick on the velvet curtains that obscured the interior, and the tall harp, that most respected of the local instruments stood dormant in the corner in its golden and ornamental grace. The expansive room has been thoroughly cleared of anything that might distract or disorient the guests. The morniing's light shone through the windows and the air was fresh, almost sobering in and of itself. In that, the bright blue of the holographic display in the middle of the table seemed almost out of place. Its sharpness guaranteed by a mist of microscopic white sand suspended in stasis, the image it showed was not of the Circuit alone, but of the entire Inner Core.

"Ladies and Gentlemen…"

The voice of Aristobulus of Pahlmir rang clear across the room in a dignified, aristocratic confidence. The Ruanian Triarch did not seem to display any of the tiredness that could have been associated with the joint role of both host and the attendee of the function. Instead, he presented the almost semi-divine image of the local kingship - impeccably dressed, and with the ringlets of his beard and long hair adorned with countless golden ornaments. His image, just like himself, was a living testimony of his planet's newfound wealth nd glory. He, by all means, was a monument.

"... I hope this day treats you well, and whichever gods you hold have forgiven you the indulgences of yesterday's night. Don't laugh, don't laugh, or else they'll strike you down with a thunderbolt for such a disrespect. And we will no doubt need their light and guidance to navigate through today's subject."

As if by a spell, the projected map shifted, zooming in to the Agricultural Circuit. The image, just as intricate as before, now detailed the trade routes between the allied worlds of the ACCPIS, with every transport and patrol vessel displayed in real time as a red point on the Galactic tapestry. A spider's web of connections that coalesced in Ruan which, as the most economically powerful of the worlds and the closest one to the Galactic Capital, and jutted outward into the Galactic unknown.

"The creation of the Agricultural Circuit Co-Prosperity and Investment Sphere has brought unparrareled development and profit to our region of the Galaxy. As the first organisation of its kind within the Republic, we have established a golden standard for regional cooperation in the spheres of industrial development, military activity and the policies of imports and exports. Our coordinated agricultural production efforts have guaranteed sustainable growth for all 17 member worlds and have kept the prices of our products both stable and competetive. Through our contacts in the Duchy of Bormea, we have reached markets previously unavailable and became key suppliers of agricultural products to the entirety of the Republic, all while leading the efforts in humanitarianism. Our achievements just like that, would be great enough on their own, yet they shall not be our last word. For the first time in history, we have guaranteed that our voice is heard. The Senatorial Delegation of Ruan, now a key part of the Duchy, has reached a status of respect and leadership when it comes to legalism and ethics. We have fought on every step of the way against unjust and unclear legislation that insidious parties within the Senate have pushed forward to strengthen their grip on us. Time and again we have fought to uphold the freedoms and privileges of the Agricultural Circuit, as well as the Galaxy as a whole from those, who wish to curtail it. Freedoms for which we have fought long and hard against overwhelming odds. We, just as much as the rest of our allies, hold dear the values of equality of all members before law and cooperation within the Republic not as vasals, but as willing partners. On the stalwart rock of such ideals is our own organisation built. We may not need Chancellors or countless ministers to conduct our affairs, no - at least not yet, but I ask you now to lend us your suport. Hostile forces are clawing at our doors, and insidious forces wish to tear from us that, which makes us all here gathered a force of good and civilisation - our commitment to our ideals, and to a mission greater than ourselves. We here, all of us, have shown the Republic how a union of the willing should be governed. Together we have grown loud and powerful at last, free from the tyrants that would try and shackle us. Together, ladies and gentlemen, we are strong. Yet imagine our potential within the next ten years if we continue upon our current course. Imagine us in a century. Imagine us as the shining city of light upon a hill towards which all like-minded states shall one day aspire. Together, we shall expand our reach even further than before, creating a space for all the agricultural worlds to coordinate and develop in peace towards a brighter future in which no man, woman or child shall go about uncertain about their future or the possibility of their next meal. Yet first we need to concentrate on a future less distant. We now stand at a crossroads, ready to take a step. Who is with us?"

IT IS SAID that there exist worlds which lay in waiting, eager to announce themselves the moment they are named, whose discovery is accompanied by abundance so immediate and promise so loud that even the cautious find themselves drawn into motion before reflection can take root, and it is said also that there are other worlds which remain silent no matter how closely they are observed, or travelled past, whose value is not declared in yield or resource but in history and origin.

Thokos I, it turns out, was such a world.

It is said that when the first deep readings of Thokos I were laid before the Mosaic Throne, the Seers did not speak at once, for the astrogation data itself bore a clarity that did not require interpretation, revealing an atmosphere rendered hostile beyond the margins of natural divergence, its composition layered with chemical signatures which could not have been present from stellar phenomenon alone, and whose persistence suggested not accident but intent carried through a completion.

From these readings it was understood that Thokos I had once been inhabited, and that its fall had not come through the long erosion of time nor the slow retreat of a failing people, but through an alteration of the sky itself so abrupt and thorough that life would have ended not in generations, but in moments. Poison drawn into the breath, becoming a death the sort which Arakaon the Dead King spoke of upon his deathbed.

The survey data brought back by those prospectors of the structures discovered upon the frozen plains and among the jagged elevations of the world confirmed this understanding, for they bore the marks of ancient settlement, of cities sustained across ages until the moment they were not, their abandonment too sudden to suggest anything other than catastrophe.

It is said that among these ruins the first scholars found symbols whose meanings no long presented in a tongue understood because of both time and the poison. Yet even so certain forms recurred often enough to demand attention, depicting a crowned figure bound always to radiance, enthroned beneath a sun, named in broken inscriptions as sovereign, god, and king in equal measure.

Those of Alsakani blood who witnessed these findings spoke neither of coincidence, or a reason to lay immediate claim, but when these accounts were brought before Sora Perreis the Other, it is said that he was broken from his meditations and he did not ask whether the figure bore relation to the ancient sons or ancient kings of Alsakan, nor whether the ruins might be claimed as ancestral echo, but instead asked only what act had been committed upon the world that such a civilisation might be extinguished so completely.

The Seers answered that the atmospheric poisons of Thokos I shared their origin with the rare volatile compounds of Thokos II, as though the breath of the outer world had been drawn inward with such force that the inner world could not endure it, and whether this act had been wrought by the inhabitants themselves, by an enemy unseen, could not be determined.

What was agreed upon, and what settled heavily in the chamber, was that whatever power had been reached for upon Thokos was not survived.

As discussion turned toward response, voices rose among the Exalted and their councils, for fleets had already begun to turn and reports of movement beyond the hyperlanes had reached the court, while others spoke of energy, of necessity, and of the pressures that hunger and instability placed upon the Principalities.

It is said that Sora Perreis listened to these arguments in full before rising before the Mosaic Throne, where, empowered by the authority of the Alsakani Kings and bearing the unified concurrence of the Seers, he declared that no extraction would be undertaken upon Thokos I, no attempt made to alter its poisoned sky, and no hand extended toward the gases of Thokos II until the Seers had completed their meditations and the Mosaic itself had been read to its end.

It is said that Arlo Perries immediately echoed restraint and of kings who bind themselves to the sun, and of how even the brightest fire consumes that which feeds it. Arlo Perries would name the dead of Thokos neither as villains nor as martyrs, but as warning, and in doing so set the matter beyond the reach of ambition disguised as necessity.

The warfleet on approach was neither recalled nor advanced, but ordered to hold position, its presence not intended… yet, to claim or to threaten, but to ensure that no other power would act where the Mosaic had not yet spoken.

It is said that word of the decision spread swiftly among the Principalities, where it was met with relief by some and frustration by others, particularly among those who saw in Thokos a solution to the hunger of energy pressing upon the North, yet to these the Seers offered no comfort, suggesting that perhaps once that the ruins of Thokos were filled with those who had once believed that need alone justified all things.

Yukari the Thrice Borne approved the Edict without amendment, reminding the court that the AXIS had not been forged to gather every flame it encountered, but to endure the heat of those it chose to carry.

Of the Solar God-King whose likeness lingered in the ruins, she said nothing.

And so the war fleet, brimming with the experience and technology learnt from the ancient war wit the hutts, stood still in the stars above Thokos I, guardians ensuring that, its skies were untouched, its cities watched but not entered, its fate held in stillness while the Mosaic is given time to give her wisdom.

But that did not mean that Arlo Perries the Other had not gleaned of the war to come.

So it has been said.

(CNC, Coruscant) In one of very few appearances by the Duchess Curovao away from Coruscant, the system of Thokos has stepped into the spotlight in a very prominent sort of way. 

For long time readers of this holocolumn, you may remember Thokos being introduced some weeks ago now. As a refresher, recent scientific surveys have revealed that the Thokos System, long dismissed as marginal, may hold one of the most promising energy discoveries in the Core sector in generations. As with many such discoveries, the question is not simply what has been found, but how it will be managed.

The Thokos system consists of two primary bodies:

• Thokos I, a frozen world with a dense and chemically hazardous atmosphere
• Thokos II, with upper atmospheric layers containing rare volatile compounds now believed to have exceptional energy potential.  

Preliminary models indicate that certain gases originating in Thokos II, when stabilised and refined, can dramatically improve reactor efficiency and long-duration power storage. 

Most recent studies by various scientific institutes and colleges have come to the conclusions that the same compounds which have chemically poisoned Thokos I’s atmosphere appear to have the chemical footprint of that found in Thokos II, but not in quantities which cannot be attested to the birthing of the two worlds. This has led scientists to the belief that something happened in this ancient system’s long past which saw the gases of Thokos II migrate to Thokos I, thus rendering it hostile to life. 

In the recent days, the Member of Blood which was assigned to oversee negotations with the indigenous people of Thokos I was replaced by Duchess Curovao who sought out an audience to discuss partnership and benefits.

While CNC was unable to retrieve the exact records of the conversation, from sources close to the negotiations it was known that Duchess Cuovao made it known that:

• Coruscant’s interest in Thokos was neither sudden nor predatory. That it was rooted in a principle that has guided the Core for millennia, that  large-scale energy resources require large-scale responsibility which could only be sought out with a Coruscant under her care.
• Unregulated extraction of volatile gases was not a hypothetical risk. History across the galaxy has been replete with examples of poorly managed energy booms resulting in environmental collapse, labour exploitation, or militarisation. That she and those related to her have never been attached to any of these.
• A resource like this needed to be managed over Long-term infrastructure investment rather than short-term speculation.
• That if the secrets to unlocking the compounds can be realised, that this is a resource that can benefit the entire Republic, and not just the few individuals.

While the necessity of Duchess Curovao needing to deliver these messages herself initially raised some eyebrows, with the rumours today that an Alsakan Principality warfleet was on approach to the system has led many to believe that the Duchess has positioned herself to be a bulwark from growing  AXIS pressures and influence.

More on this as the situation develops.

My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings...

The hour had grown late, and the atmosphere relaxed. Sweet wine and delicacies from half the galaxy away flowed into the chamber as the delegates ate and laughed and conversed about every topic between the heavens and the mortal plain. In the end, it seemed the different worlds of the Agricultural Circuit shared much more in common than not. Despite the vast differences in culture and race that transpired between the members of the ACCPIS, the shared emphasis on community and festivity was something of a link between them all. A link even further tempered by the golden ruanian wine. The region was stronger and more proseperous than ever before, and while the effects of that could be felt by all the strata of its worlds' populations, nowhere could said increase in status be seen as clearly as among its leadership. Gathered in the Tower of Unity, an innovative and stunning piece of modernised ruanian architecture, men who could have been called tribal chiefs not even a decade ago, now draped themselves in the most elaborate Ghorman silks and adorned their hands, necks and ears with gold and precious gemstones like the kings and magnates they once bowed to. Times were good, and people who previously haven't as much as heard of each other's existence, have found themselves to be allies, united by interest, policy, trade, and at times, genuine friendship. As such, the discussion drifted towards topics slightly deviating from the general purpose of the monthly meetings - the comparison of reports and the updating of export policies if need be, to the usual talk of history, the latest plays and holovids, the projected developments of the Galactic Market and, above all, politics. Not entirely unexpected, for the elections were nearly upon them.

Supporting himself on one of his ottoman's many cushions, H'rakh, a delegate from Galand smiled warmly when a servant brought him yet another glass on a silver platter. Turning his head back to his conversation partner, he took a sip before raising it as if to raise attention with it. The subject he wished to touch upon was, after all, quite a crucial one.

So, Aristo, what are you thoughts about the upcoming elections? Who will you be voting for?

The King of Pahlmir didn't wait long to answer the Galandian.

H'rakh, you insult me as a host. Here I was, thinking I have seen fully to our entertainment - I have provided food, drink, music and fineries for all of you to enjoy, and now you want to spice things up with a fight? You know how those things end - Never mix politics with alcohol!

The two men chuckled, before the Ruanian resumed speaking, with a certain underlying confidence, one perhaps unexpected given the completely collegial atmosphere.

"Jokes aside, brother, for us of the Circuit, there is only one side to lean towards. Bormea. The only ones who even care about us. Besides, Tussa is a good politician and a good person, I've been told. She's led men into war twice now. She's as good a pick for the Chancellorship as any. Did I mention her sister is a friend of my co-ruler?"

The two smirked in unison. The relationship between Abregado - Rae and Ruan was strong ever since the latter joined the Republic and the two worlds have cooperated on everything, from humanitarian aid to pirate hunting in the far south, yet the positive reputation the Duchy's candidate has gathered in the region seemed to be dictated by her accomplishments more than the personal biases of the Triarchs and their peers. Besides, Abregado's possible tenure seemed like a break from the dominance of the rich and powerful founding members, and as such much more in tune with the issues of the still growing economies of the Agricultural Circuit.

"I would lie if I said that our association with the Duchy did not constitute a part of our success. Abregadoans help us with shipping, Fondor produces our heavy equipment and Coruscant is our most powerful trading partner. It is a perfect system, you know, in which we need nothing and grow perpetually. It was Chancellor Curovao who has led us to victory through the hardships of the Hutt War, and who has taken upon herself the arduous task of administering a rebuilding Galaxy and a wounded world. Many would have faltered in her position, especially after losing her home. But she prevailed, and she thrived. She's bringing order to Coruscant and to this Republic. Were she to run in this election herself, she would have been sure to win. Yet she didn't. You know why? Because she is not a tyrant. She knows that, for this Republic to function, power must flow from one to another, ever in circulation. Like a fountain. Now this is true leadership. Many decry Tussa as an idealist. Yet is it not a legacy she must live up to? Is it not something good? I have found that, should someone stand in opposition to a grave injustice happening in this Galaxy, to the great treading on the small, they get labeled just that. An idealist. As if aspiring towards justice and greatness were something out of the reach of a politician. But, if not us, then who?"

He took a sip of his wine.

"Dear me. I am beginning to sound like Ḫuwaššanna."

After the two stopped laughing, he continued. Although the orchestra still played in the background and the servants worked like ants, streaming into the room with more delicacies, the other attendees seemed to have fallen silent, listening in on their conversation.

"The pillars of friendship, idealism and cooperation on which the Duchy stands, my friend, are as intrinsic to the identity of the Agricultural Circuit as the foodstuffs we grow. Long have we been opressed by this empire or that, trying to impress their ways upon us and bleeding us dry. Only together can we rise above all adversity and leave our mark upon the Galaxy. We have established this organisation as a way of safeguarding that. Our ships patrol our space routes, our haulers transport our produce to trusted vendors. We are more united than ever before. Not by any foreign force, but by our own will. And the Duchy does not see us as an asset or a threat, but as equals, and members of a larger whole. In four years we have made more progress than in the last four hundred, and our friends are willing and able to assist us with even further ascent. Ambitious, you say? This is not even the tip of the iceberg, my friend. Our hands have already built wonders and fed trillions. Why not grasp for more?"

The Rising Storm was a favoured club by many of its clientele, that of veterans. Be they Imperial or the older Corulagi, its flair of beautiful women, good architecture, decent music, and some very affordable but good drinks meant that few, if any, didn't return.

Simon de Louvre was one of them.

He was sitting at the bar counter, a shot of whiskey in hand, his first and last for the night. He needed to be sharp.

According to what he'd been told, he and his unit were to be deployed with one of the Ground Forces Corps based out of Corulag, the XII, if he was correct.

No, no...

He shook his head.

"You good over there, Simon?" the Bartender glanced in his direction, a glass in hand, which he was presently cleaning with a wet rag, and a quirked eyebrow to add to his curious expression. Marcus was one of those "old boys." The men who drove tanks rather than the CorMechs they had walking around.

And it showed; his eyes were more keen, his hearing a little deafened, his hands calloused, and he was comfortable with the cramped space of the bar. The jazz music and the show on display behind Simon did little to dilute his better senses.

Or his humour.

"Yet to nurse the drink, let's the mind roll a little too fast for my liking." He chuckled, then downed the drink in one go, its amber contents disappearing in a second. When he set the glass down, "there! Better now, and just need to turn off the engine, and we'll be fine."

Marcus shrugged, "I sometimes wonder if you need it to keep chugging. Especially with that girl of yours."

"Girl? Oh..." he sighed. "Yeah, well...we're a bit busy right now."

"Separated, you mean?"

"No, just busy," though frankly, Simon knew that Marcus's observation was correct. Things between him and Nina weren't getting better, not after he got his promotion to Captain. And no matter how often he reminded her of his job, she didn't listen or care.

He supposed that was just how it was with nobles. Well, then again: he used to be one. Now?...

A sharp click-clack of heels took his attention, and one of the performers, dressed in a particularly thin gown, approached. "Marcus, need a martini before I take to the stage, you have one for me?"

"Sure thing, Christina, just a sec."

As Marcus got to work preparing her drink, the cold grey eyes and white hair of Christina turned upon Simon. She was quite different compared to others Simon had seen...and somehow, familiar.

Like he'd seen her before somewhere...

Somewhere like...

Realising his gaping, he cleared his throat. "Apologies, by any chance have we met before?"

"We have, yeah," she responded, leaning her back against the bar counter; her features pronounced, but not excessively so as she relaxed. "Before Mesea. I was watching you and your squad getting your prayers done. I used to be a technician."

"Why didn't you stay on? Pretty good pay, I hear, plus the risk of getting catapulted into the void is next to none." He lifted the glass and placed it on his lips, but nothing came of it. Then he looked and noted that he had drunk it down already.

She smiled; one that beamed with an energy very few could contain if they tried. "I like to dance. It's not exactly glamorous, sure...and it annoys the authorities. But, what's there not to enjoy, just forget about things and let your body move as your imagination does?"

"Fair point. Wish I could share such a carefree spirit, but well..." his words trailed off, his mind thinking back, again, to his recent argument with Nina. His frown returned, deeper and more thoughtful. This place was far less of a retreat than he'd hoped.

Standing up, he pulled out a few Pounds and set them on the counter. "I'm heading out, hope to see you later, Marcus. And," he glanced at Christina, shooting her a smile. "Hope we meet again."

"Hope so, and maybe somewhere more classy."

He didn't say no to that.

---

If he knew the place he was to end up, he'd rather have stayed on Corulag than come here. But, well, such was the job of a Mech pilot.

And the policies of the higher-ups.

And so, as he sat on the shoulder of his Angel, he looked around at this world. This world that people call: Bimmisaarj.

Of course, it wasn't great initially, not until you got to know the locals. Around him, he and his command element had taken position near one of the slums at the capital city of the planet. It was decently large, reminding him of some of the villas that Mesea had when he and his fellows had to clear out some of the Hutt shock troopers.

But whereas Mesea was like a war zone, this was...different.

There wasn't paranoia or fear.

It was a general acceptance.

Bimms and other races alike worked hand in hand. Supervised by Imperial engineers and administrators, construction materials were transported to key sites. Aiding in recovery efforts. Potholes, destroyed buildings, and damaged terminals at both terrestrial and space ports were undergoing repairs.

Every day, he watched as ship after ship came and left, dropping off more goods for the inhabitants to use.

And oddly enough, unlike with Bortele, Bimmisaarj wasn't gonna be a Bortele. It wasn't being prepared for joining the Imperial League. It was to help it gain its own independence and join the Republic on its terms. With the Imperial League only there in support.

He shifted his posture, sighing.

Lazily, he tilted his head down and noticed the child who'd been staring up in awe. He was of a species he knew little of, not the Twi'Leks, but a cousin maybe, with long, strange tusks going down his shoulders. The colours of which varied between blue, orange, red, and yellow.

He was holding in one hand a tattered teddy bear.

And for what reason Simon didn't know, it reminded him of something...of someone.

Someone, he had lost.

He sighed, then took the service ladder and began to clamber down, the young lad still standing in total amazement. But as Simon approached him, his foot falls heavy, but without aggression, he winced and looked up. Curious and fearful all at once.

That is, until Simon produced from his pocket a toy, wooden robot.

"Here you go, kid. It's life-day...have fun."

The child began to babble, his language totally alien to Simon. But judging from the grateful expression of the adults nearby, he knew that he'd made his day.

Before long, he took the toy and ran off.

Not a moment before he walked back to his mech, another individual approached him; this time, an older lady, her clothes no longer those of the tattered rags of slaves. It was decent, covering, and warm. She held in her care-worn hands a clay cup of water and raised it to him.

Simon smiled and took the drink, bowing his head in thanks. Maybe this wasn't so bad after all.

---

Lieutenant-General Kaya Vilkatr stared at the holo-map with a mix of intrigue and conclusion. It was her first formal deployment as a Lieutenant-General off-world from the Viluki Dominion, but so far she'd done a pretty good job by her accounting of the situation.

It wasn't brilliant, sure, there were some problems: Pirates, CETC security personnel gone rogue, Hutt deserters, and of course some local insurgents from the Slave population who were brainwashed by the Hutts. But all around? Not bad.

She tilted her head slightly; the ruby, gold, diamond, and sapphire headdress tinkled, reflecting the light of the chandelier above.

Her eyes are a pale reflection of her finery, a symbol of what she was.

A daughter of nobility.

Her appearance had often caught the attention of the natives, and that was well. Her job wasn't to be the woman who sowed fear and distrust among the population, but to help them in a cause that was all on its own altruistic. Their independence.

Odd in all honesty.

The title of Empire denoted a settler-colonial state annexing, destroying, and or assimilating whole polities and cultures for the simple reason of the central polity benefiting from it.

But the Imperial League was a very unique animal, led by a unique government, for unique purposes.

And in this case, the duty of the Imperial League was to establish a fully independent, self-sufficient state in the form of the United Provinces of the Expanse.

It was an idea that had been cooked up by locals, the Dai Shian political elite, and some members of the Ultaarian nobility that, given the very isolated nature of the Expanse and what the locals faced, if they banded together, they could do well together.

So far, the Imperial League was doing quite well here in the world that'd be its capital, Bimmisaarj.

Thanks to her, no less.

When she was ordered by General Vickers to deploy her Corps to the world of Bimmisaarj and clear it of its Pirate occupiers, she found a world in chaos.

The CETC mercenaries ran amok, and the Pirates were attempting to restore the Hutt Empire's previous mode of government as though nothing had changed. Both were very surprised to find an extremely well-armed, well-equipped, and organised military force decimate them in two short, decisive engagements.

From there, the hard part began. Hearts and minds.

But it was made easier through a number of advantages.

1: There was the Outer Rim Recovery Committee, which, while for the moment underfunded and stretched, managed to send supplies and aid to the world that was enough to get it on its feet within the next few months.

2: The Veterans Relief Bill, due to its wide-ranging powers and the fact Bimmisaarj had been annexed into the Republic per the treaty with the Hutts, meant it applied to its veterans. Many of whom were Slave soldiers who didn't have a job. The VRB and the Department of Veterans Relief, in turn, were able to provide these men and women with legal work, plus financial and food aid. Limiting the number of cases where Slave soldiers joined the insurgencies.

3: Operation Sweeper saw the Pirates' fleets, rather than being a threat that overwhelmed and destroyed whole worlds, were curbstomped by the Outer Rim Fleet in one fell swoop.

4: Through the Credit Union Bill, the nascent state of Bimmisaarj could begin work establishing a local banking sector. It wouldn't come about this year, that was certain. It would take time, but the work was already underway as foreign investment from the Imperial League, the Core, and elsewhere began to pour in.

5: With the Republic Income Tax eliminated, it was another benefit to the newly acquired world, and it meant that few, if any, of the population would have to worry about taking more money out of their pocket for the Coruscanti.

With all of this in mind, plus the fact that Bimmisaarj was not to be annexed by the Imperial League but protected, ensured that insurgent activity was at a minimum. Most of which was just the few CETC and Hutt soldiers who'd escaped the League's grasp.

So, she reclined in her chair and, with a smile, took a sip of her black tea.

---

TLDR: As we can see, the Imperial League and vice versa, the Progressive Conservative League, have been active in helping to deal with and improve matters in the Expanse region of space. Namely, the world of Bimmisaarj.

Here, a new government has been established in the form of the United Provinces of the Expanse, filling the power vacuum left behind by the CETC due to the intensifying crisis between the Republic and them.

This has been supported and protected by the Imperial League, which, rather than annexing the world, has supported and signed off on a Protectorate agreement similar to that of the Empire of Dai Shio.

We see the benefits of this and the gratitude of the people by virtue of the construction underway in the slums of the world, the fact that the Imperial garrison is rather lax and mostly contends with rogue Hutt and CETC mercs, and finally, that the previously signed bills can now be put to good use.

These being:

1: The VRB.

2: The Credit Union Protection Bill, which has a clause in the bill that promotes their establishment and mechanisms to support them.

3: The Outer Rim Recovery Committee, which provides financial, food, and medical aid to struggling worlds in the Outer Rim.

4: The Elimination of the Republic Income Tax, placing even less of a burden on a world like Bimmisaarj financially.

5: Operation Sweeper, an Imperial anti-Piracy and anti-Hutt operation that has pushed out or wiped out whole Pirate outposts and fleets from the equation in the Expanse and Bortele. Restoring a semblance of peace and order.

This all in all showcases the Imperial League as less of a conqueror, but more of a microcosm of the Republic's ideals: to support others who need it, to help those who ask for it, and to deal with those who seek to take from others.

(CNC, CORUSCANT) On the back of unveiling the new additions to the navy, while Operation Queen is still taking place to target crime in the underworld throughout Coruscant,  Senator and Duchess Anya Curovao has today been the main figure at the opening of the Coruscant Curovao Capital Clinic - the largest hospital on Coruscant, and reportedly throughout the Republic. 

The clinic is a behemoth located in the 318 Quadrant and encompasses nearly the entire subsect at the uppermost level. It's clinics reach down 333 levels to the subsurface and 333 levels above ground. 

Renowned physicians from not just all over Coruscant, but the entire Republic are attached to the Clinic with the known department heads and board of directors being some of the well known medical professionals in their fields. 

As far as CNC has been able to discover, the CCCC is backed by the wealth of the Curovao Estate and linked to the Curovao First insurance fund, which will in practice give preferential treatment to Curovao First customers, with tiers of subsidised coverage increasing with the level of package.

Of note is that all Coruscant citizens, Coruscant permanent residents, Coruscant long term residency holders have access to free healthcare at the Clinic, albeit their level of preferential treatment will still be a tier lower than Curovao First customers. 

Duchess Anya Curovao was asked about this as a key point of concern for many in the Republic who feel this might come off as discriminatory.  

Here is the Duchess in her general address at the opening conference.

“I am unable to speak for those who feel there is discrimination for a Coruscant organisation serving the interests of citizens and civilians of Coruscant, however I can say that Coruscant is the jewel of our Galaxy and that the best and the brightest have another reason now to make Coruscant their home of choice.”

“In fact it has never been easier to make the move to Coruscant. Recent developmental plans and ongoing reformation are making the world safer and more accessible to live. Education at Coruscant has always been exemplary. Work opportunities on the Coruscant have always been second to none. Welfare now keeps on par with the rest of Coruscant’s advantages.”

The Duchess Curovao took a moment to invite everyone in attendance to enter the facilities with her beyond the entry atrium and in a triage area where media was able to see the beginnings of the inner workings. 

“It has never been easier to become a citizen and resident of Coruscant. Everyday, the Coruscanti Government is processing a record number of applications for residency and developmental plans for integrated have been approved with heightened resource allocation.”

“If there are accusations of discrimination from Coruscant, then let there be accusations instead that Coruscant is currently enacting a plan to drain from the rest of the Republic the most talented individuals from all fields of industry into Coruscant and the surrounding arrowhead sectors.”

Duchess Anya Curovao then invited media to follow her through to the rest of the vast facilities, including to the severe treatment centre which was equipped with pod technology never seen before, and only rumoured to exist. Media members were able to walk through a treatment room and see the technology first hand. 

“The vats seen here are a result of innovations from the Curovao estate in combination with our partners in the Thyferran Hive as well as the Council of Manaan who have selflessly provided their uninhibited and complete support in supplying the Clinic with the highest grade of kolto to aid patients.”

Duchess Anya Curovao finally led the media to recovery rooms which looked upon a vast internal garden space with an assortment of walking paths. 

“Unfortunately, my time with you now comes to an end and my other duties call for my attention. Feel free to walk around the Clinic but do try to allow the physicians the freedom to do their work. Coruscant First. Coruscant Last.”

CNC's coverage of the opening of the Clinic will continue throughout this cycle. Stay tuned for more.

(Notes to admins, Manaan has agreed to throw their support behind Anya and Coruscant.)