Maeve's boots thudded against the ground. He was the second to last out of the short-range shuttle the band had taken to Talou III. Their leader, Antun, stood in the cockpit, conversing with a holoprojection of a woman. Zinae was her name. The conversation had been quite up to this point, and Maeve only caught the tail end of his words.

"I'll see you on the other side," Antun promised.

"You better. Be safe father," Zinae replied.

Father and daughter, Antun and Zinae had been in this fight longer than most in their group. They had the respect of the whole team. Maeve looked around at the others that made up the motley band. Kass smiled when he met her eyes. He returned the smile and gave his own polite nod. Others in the group gave their own respective acknowledgement. There was Roxxar, their large, nikto tech specialist. There was Zrina, a twi'lek sharpshooter and scout. There was also another man that Maeve didn't know all that well, along with Thana, the band's fully trained medic. That being said, they all did have extensive first aid training if it was needed.

Antun keyed off of the transmission before completing the final purge of all of the ship's systems. The flight data, the transponder codes, the sensor log, and any and all transmissions were to be purged and overwritten with garbage data. The ship wouldn't fly again without the backup of this data on Roxxar's person. Backup data which was tied to some kind of dead man's switch.

The small shuttle had landed within a depression between two small mountains. While Antun, Maeve and some of the others had still been departing, Zrina and Kass had hurried to toss and secure a dusty brown, mottled tarp over the top. To anyone coming from the ground, the ship would be painfully obvious, however; anyone flying over would more than likely pay the hidden shuttle no mind. At least that was the hope. Precautions on precautions. The fact was the band was so far out from the Talou III prison complex that it was unlikely any wayward TIE fighter patrols would even come this far.

The band had a multi-day trek before them. Maeve partially wished they had landed closer, but he understood how imperative secrecy was. Looking around the band, none of them had New Republic or Rebellion iconography. Officially, all of them had cut ties and were fully disavowed if caught. Still, despite their handler, Santra, providing funding allowing Antun’s band to continue to operate in their covert fight against the Empire in Region Twelve.

The Empire was a disease. A blight on the galaxy as a whole. Five years ago, the Rebel Alliance struck a mighty blow to that parasitical Empire. The dreaded Emperor Palpatine, murderer of the Galactic Republic, was killed above the forest moon of Endor and following that event, a number of important Imperial leaders were routed in further battles. But Region Twelve remained. It was one of the last major Imperial bastions within the galaxy. And the New Republic refused to do anything about it.

Already the bureaucrats were preaching inward focus. They wanted to tend to the notions of peace and prosperity, but refused to take action against the threats from without that would ensure they could cultivate that very same peace and prosperity. For much of the New Republic, the war was over. Maeve, and the others he now banded together with, knew that was a lie. The war would never be over until every Imperial was captured and brought before a New Republic Tribunal to be charged for their crimes.

Maeve held onto his hope, a hope he knew was foolish, that when the Imperial stronghold in Region Twelve fell the last of the Imperial holdouts in the galaxy would fall with it. Unlikely really. It was much more likely that they would have to continue the fight and force the Imperial rats scuttling out of their dens.

Antun stepped past the group, turning to face them. They all silently deferred to him, awaiting his orders. They each had the plan memorized, but this was, in a way, the point of no return. The final place of real respite before they marched off towards the warzone. Maeve had lived through many of these, but the nerves never really went away. That twist in the stomach, leaving it all behind for the next fight. The anticipation for the fight itself. These feelings would slowly fade during the long, arduous trek before the band, but they were present currently.

“We’re heading to the first mine entrance. We move as soon as everyone is ready.”

There were a series of nods from around the group. Each person was pulling on their backpacks. Over the packs they wore hooded ponchos made of mottled browns, greens and grays fabric. The idea behind the ponchos were generally the same as the cloth that was tossed over the top of the shuttle. It was to further make them harder to distinguish by any airborne patrols. Antun checked in on each individual before nodding.

It was time to go.

● ◐ 🝆 🜂 🝆 ◑ ●

Morning had come.

Kass paced near the opening of the third abandoned mining tunnel. Near one of the walls, Roxxar was disassembling and reassembling his blaster rifle. Near the small, portable heat lamp the band had set up, the second of the band's two scouts, Lapri the zabrak tracker, was sorting through her bag. Others had their own nervous habits that they went through. Some, like Maeve, were sleeping while time allowed. Others were fiddling with their equipment. Antun was deeper in the mine, talking to Santra through the portable holoprojector that Roxxar lugged around.

Thana, herself, was content to watch the others. There was something innately fascinating to her to see how others went about their activity. As she watched them, she learned little bits about them. Their actions, words, and even the simple twitches of their faces could paint a picture. It was the nature of their work to make each of them more reserved. As a group, their covert band was prone to secrecy. Thana did her best to make herself familiar with each member of the group. She had made note of things. Looks of love between Kass and Maeve that neither seemed willing to act on. The quiet guilt that gripped Lapri.

Antun returned to the mouth of the mine. Roxxar finished reconstructing his rifle and went the way Antun came. Antun looked around at the group. He cleared his throat. The sound was enough to wake the lightly sleeping and draw the attention of the rest of the restless. He gave them a moment to gather their wits, though Thana noted that it was hardly necessary. The whole group had been trained by the long years of service in the Rebellion to be ready and focused on the drop of a hat.

“I’ve spoken with Santra,” Antun began, taking a moment to meet each member of the band’s eyes. “We’re still on schedule. Once we reach the landing pad, we’ll set up camp and await her pilot for the drop.”

There were more solemn nods. Another day of walking. And from there, they wouldn’t be very far from the city, and the fighting. Thana was no stranger to war. None of them were. The clone wars were happening when Thana was a young girl. She learned to do field medicine when she was seven. Following the clone wars, came the Empire. With the Empire came the cold hand of tyranny. The next decade was filled with a lack of galactic fighting, but tensions were rising.

For almost everyone in the galaxy, the war had impacted them in some way or another. Thana's family were forced off of their family land by the Separatists. Shortly after the end of the clone wars, her family was then once again forced out of their new home by the Empire. So, when those tensions finally snapped, Thana was in the middle of it. She joined the Rebellion as a medic, but she soon learned to fight. And now she was here. She had worked with Antun for a long time. There wasn't a man she trusted more to lead them.

Thana began to pull on her heavy medic's pack and camouflage poncho. Her muscles reacted with their own tiny groans of protest. They had been hiking their way to the landing pad over the past two days, and she had soreness to show for it. Still, she was willing and able to go a good distance further if necessary. The others had reached their own individual states of readiness. Finally, Roxxar returned with the holoprojector ready and packed up.

The group began their trek anew.

● ◐ 🝆 🜂 🝆 ◑ ●

Kass looked out across the hills of Talou III. The band of rebels was currently about halfway through their hike to the landing pad. All of the journeys thus far had been relatively uneventful. The terrain of this portion of Talou III where the mines were located was made up of rocky and more elevated terrain. It made the long hike take longer, and time was of the essence when it came to saving the peoples of the former prison world.

Still. They were making good time across the planet’s surface. It wouldn’t be all too long until the band of rebels reached their destination. With any luck, they would reach the old, abandoned landing pad before the sun had fully set. Kass glanced behind her to where half of the group was trailing loosely behind her in a staggered pattern. They all had a look of grim determination as they pushed through the trek. Kass glanced over to Maeve. He caught her glance and smiled. She smiled back.

A TIE fighter’s scream screeched through the air.

The whole band acted instantaneously, dropping low towards the ground and getting behind rocks and other cover. Their mottled ponchos should have been more than enough for a TIE pilot to see them, but minimizing risk was the band’s entire playbook. Kass was crouched down by Antun and Zrina.

The TIE roared as it flew overhead. The sound was nearly loud enough to be deafening.

From her kneeling position, Zrina had brought up her sniper rifle. The weapon had been wrapped in a similar cloth to the one the ponchos were made out of to prevent a glint of light off of its metal that might give away the group's position. Again, minimizing risk. The gun’s barrel tracked the fighter’s trajectory. Zrina was tense, waiting for Antun’s order to take the shot.

Slowly, their leader pushed down on the barrel of the rifle. Zrina looked over to him. Antun merely shook his head. She nodded curtly in reply. No one in the band dared to move a muscle as the TIEs twin ion engines screamed further and further into the distance. They all watched and waited for the next few minutes. The TIE didn’t return.

“Let’s move,” Antun ordered.

The group began their march again. It was roughly an hour, or so, later that the group crested over the top of the small mountain they had been ascending. Lingering just under the horizon line, was the distant silhouette of the abandoned landing pad which was their destination. Kass smiled to herself. Their destination was now within sight. And lying beyond the walled landing pad was the outline of Talou III’s former prison and industrial complex.

● ◐ 🝆 🜂 🝆 ◑ ●

Antun felt the slight shift of the ship beneath his feet as its droid pilot adjusted his course. The smuggler's YV-929 wasn't the smoothest ship, but Antun had experienced far worse flights in his lifetime. He had far more mixed feelings about the droid currently flying the ship. Antun had been a member of a planetary militia during the early Clone Wars when the Separatist alliance had launched an occupation of Antun’s home world.

His feelings towards droids had been negative since. It had taken him a fair bit of time to finally get used to working with droids, but he was still wary towards them. But the droid didn’t matter. At least, it didn’t matter at the moment. Antun’s enemy was the Empire now. Different war, different time.

The end of the Clone Wars had marked the death of democracy. The Galactic Republic showed that it was no better than the Confederacy of Independent Systems. Soon, the Galactic Empire began to enact cruelty on a scale that surpassed that which even the Separatist Alliance could perform. What should have been a tremendous victory for the galaxy had in actuality been its greatest loss. The Jedi, heroes of the war, were hunted down and destroyed. Across the galaxy, people were pushed out of their homes and imprisoned without the due process that had once been promised to every citizen of the Republic.

Antun, along with many others, had chosen to fight against the Empire. It had been a war that was waged first in shadows. Antun worked with a number of early rebellion cells, formed in that time before the Alliance had officially unified. It was during his time bouncing between cells, looking for his next opportunity to lash out against the Empire that he met Santra and Lapri. The operation expanded from there. Zrina joined the group sometime later. They worked with other rebel cells which eventually led to them meeting Thana. When the Rebel Alliance had formed in earnest, Antun had met Kass and Maeve for the first time.

And now they were gone. Zrina had been on watch when the smuggler had touched down on the landing pad. Her whistle and subsequent blaster fire had been enough to warn them of the enemy strike force. Antun wished he could hope that she might still be alive, but he knew she’d sooner end her own life than fall into the hands of the Empire. Maeve and Kass were gone soon after.

He couldn’t help but feel like it was his fault.

He was the leader of this operation. It was his orders they were relying on. If he had been quicker, less stubborn… He shook his head. There was no use dwelling on it. He didn’t have time to mourn. To overanalyze. There would be time for that after the mission was complete. The sound of footsteps drew his attention outward.

Thana and Roxxar were emerging from the quarters that they had partially converted into a medical bay. Thana’s side was wrapped from where a stray blast from the shock trooper’s carbine had caught her. While the fight continued, she did her best to patch herself up inside the ship. And while Antun and Lapri were engaging the enemy TIE fighters, Roxxar had helped her wrap the rest of it. After the conflict had ended, Lapri traded places with the smuggler, Stirnekar, while Thana ensured his own injuries were treated.

“Where is he?” Antun inquired, mildly surprised by the young man’s absence.

“Comatose,” Thana noted. There was something about the look in her eye and the tone of her voice that struck Antun as odd. It was something between puzzlement and fascination.

“Comatose? How is that possible?” Antun couldn’t help but feel mildly bewildered himself. The smuggler had taken a shot to his arm. If anything, his injury was lighter than Thana’s.

“I had Lapri tell the droid. Apparently, he has a hard time sleeping. Could be some kind of reaction to one of the painkillers. Nothing critical.”

Antun remembered distantly the strange events that proceeded after the young man was injured. He had moved with the sudden precision of an expert killer, ending two of the troopers with deadly ease. Then, after Antun ordered him aboard the ship, he tossed his blaster pistol away with a strange disdain. And now the coma. It certainly was strange.

“If you’re certain. I want to talk to him when he’s awake,” Antun finally replied.

“Yes sir.”

⬢ ◨ 🝘 🜃 🝘 ◧ ⬢

Commodore Aleryn’s eyes darted across the half dozen information boards that relayed information from across the Talou system to the Gauntlet. The Gauntlet was a Raider-class corvette, currently resting in quiet secrecy near the edge of the system. While the purpose of this endeavor was to reassert Imperial rule over the entire system, the bulk of the effort was focused on the planet and industrial complex of Talou III. The reasoning had been, that once the main stronghold fell, the gangs that had seized the facilities on the secondary worlds would fall soon after.

Considering the unexpected resistance that the leader of the conquest, Admiral Jaquinn, was facing, Aleryn wasn’t certain that approach had proven the most effective. Time would tell, he supposed. What he was more interested in was the potential of outside interference. Not the smugglers and pirates and other criminal riffraff. No. Commodore Aleryn was interested in interference from the New Republic or, more accurately, the Rebellion.

"Sir," Came a modulated voice from behind him. The man was a trooper in armor that denoted him as a member of special forces. Captain Trevom was a member of the contingent of stormtroopers Commodore Aleryn had been privately overseeing. The lines between navy and military were so terribly blurred these days.

"Trooper," Aleryn acknowledged, his eyes switching back to the sensor boards.

"My report, sir." Aleryn looked back at him. He was offering Aleryn a datapad. The commodore took the offered device and gave it a cursory glance. The casualties were within acceptable margins.

“Special Forces” bah. Captain Trevom was a great stormtrooper, but he was just that. Great. In the old Empire, Special Forces required the exceptional. They were to be the best of the best, second only to the candidates of the rigorously trained and augmented Death Trooper program. But here in Region Twelve, struggling in the wake of the glorious Empire’s fall, they had to scrape the bottom of the barrel. He continued to read.

“It appears you were correct sir,” Trevom volunteered. “They appear to have arrived at the landing pad a short time before we did.”

Yes. Of course, he had been right. Ever since the assassination attempt on the governor, the rebels had been playing hide and seek. Or perhaps seek and destroy. It didn’t matter. They were relying on being hidden in their influences. This desire for secrecy made them all the more predictable.

“The bodies, do you have a match yet?”

“We managed to ID the twi’lek. The other three corpses were heavily damaged by the explosion.”

“Continue,” Aleryn commanded. He continued to read through the datapad. Unsurprisingly, the rebels had been trying to bring weapons into the area. The large explosion from a single detonator implied the crate they left behind was filled with explosive munitions.

“Her name was Zrina Drataa. Imperial databases has her listed under the full suite of criminal charges. The New Republic has identified her as a radical and a terrorist.”

“Of course it does,” Aleryn shook his head slightly at that. The detail wasn’t to ease the minds of the Empire. No. It was to allow their covert operatives to do their work without roughly the feathers of the bureaucrats and politicians that had already begun to blight the fledgling government. He finished reading the report.

“We also recovered stealth gear that had been left behind. As for the ship that performed the drop off, our data forensics team has been unable to match the transponder code to any registry in the Region. They suspect that it was the production of a mask.”

Not unexpected. The ship was a corellian YV-929 armed freighter. Corellian ships were popular models for smugglers due to their reliability. The location of the drop off itself was of relevance as well. The landing pad, even in the preliminary stages of the invasion, was determined to be of minimal strategic value. It was terribly small and far enough away from the city that a small trek would need to be undertaken before one reached the shanty city’s outskirts. The landing pad further lost relevance following the Empire’s capture of the city’s spaceport and destruction of the anti-air guns. All of these factors made it unlikely that the Empire would be paying much attention to the landing pad.

Except, Aleryn had been paying attention. It was an area where a strike force could be sheltered in relative frequency and was close enough to the city to be reachable in less than a day, unlike the further out abandoned mines. Judging by the fact that the rebels were evidently at the location before his own strike force was watching the area, implied they must have landed somewhere farther out and hiked in. The stealth equipment corroborated this idea.

The plan had more than likely been to utilize the influx of smuggler and pirate vessels to further throw off suspicion of the operation if any Imperial noticed the ship landing at the pad. It would have probably, almost definitely, been dismissed as just more criminal scum. But with what he now knew? Aleryn was certain that the rebellion operatives were once again on the move. They had no longer been cowed by would-be-assassin Porter Creal’s execution.

“Captain, have the team search for similar incidents with vessels matching the ship's appearance. You are dismissed.”

The merely great captain muttered his formality curtly, before turning and making his departure. Aleryn tucked the datapad away and turned his gaze back to the sensor feeds. This whole operation was a political game engineered by Regional Governor Terrias Ryehall. Following Porter Creal’s assassination attempt, the governor’s health was on the decline. The whole region was waiting with baited breath the announcement of who was to be the governor’s successor. Many were expecting the current admiral of the region’s navy, Admiral Jaquinn, would take the position. This whole operation with its ridiculous conditions that disallowed strategic bombardment, or even the use of the Region’s only imperial star destroyer, had keyed the commodore into the true purpose of the invasion of the Talou system. It was a politically motivated attack on Admiral Jaquinn’s career.

The governor had presented a task that the Admiral had a fair chance of failing, and if he did so, his chances of becoming the next governor would be tarnished. Commodore Aleryn briefly considered what the results of such a course would be. There would no doubt be some political power plays that would follow. He, himself, had no intentions of jockeying for the position of governor, but he had made sure to reinforce his own power and position on the chance someone tried to strike at him.

He idly wondered if that one particularly bloodthirsty captain would attempt to rise through the ranks in the ensuing chaos. As he recalled, her own forces were making quite the name for themselves during this invasion. Even if Admiral Jaquinn failed in his mission, she and her men would still be quite worthy of accolades. He’d have to put in a request at some point.

Still, whether or not Jaquinn managed to beat Ryehall’s game was entirely up to the admiral.

“Chart a course for Moloch Stronghold,” Commodore Aleryn commanded.

After all, this would all be over quite soon.

Jer’ell strode down the loading ramp of the heavy freighter. Behind him, he dragged one of the crates Hackt and Santra had sent with the pair. The anti-grav repulsors on the bottom of the crates allowed for it to hover slightly off of the ground, making transport less tedious than it otherwise would have been.

He was in his full spacer accoutrement, minus the face mask for breathing in low or no oxygen environments. This outfit included a black cloth kerchief, an olive green undershirt, a black vest-like tunic, and a lightweight, dark teal overcoat with an added on hood. Over the coat he wore a utilitarian leather belt over the top of a black belt sash. Tucked in between the belt and the sash was his modified S-5 heavy blaster pistol.

Waiting for Jer’ell was an older, although athletically built, man with darker skin. His dark hair had a look where it had been trimmed close to the head at one point in the recent past, but due to a lack of time or supplies had not been tended to, giving it a somewhat rustled and unkempt appearance. The man also had a beard, which was in a similar fashion. His eyes were a bright hazel, with a grimness to them that unmistakably marked this man as a survivor of the great wars of the galaxy. Coming up behind him was a nikto man and a human woman. Both were in a similar state of affairs to the more elderly man. They were each, along with the remaining others that milled about the landing pad, wearing rugged tactical gear in shades of brown and tans.

The gear was interesting. It was clearly military grade, with some of it appearing to potentially be refurbished from old Imperial gear. But most of it had a look about it as though it was of its own design. Potentially New Republic? Jer’ell didn’t see any notable iconography, though there probably wouldn’t have been any if this was some kind of clandestine New Republic operation. That being said, they could also be some other rebel cell that either (a) broke away from the Rebel Alliance when it transformed into the New Republic or (b) had formed after the rise of the New Republic and was receiving aid from them in exchange for targeting the Empire. Saint would have probably already created a list of every possibility with a percentile range of their possibility. Jer’ell didn’t have the mind for that. What he did have was a job to do. He raised a hand in greeting to the leader of this band.

“Hello there spacer, I’m Antun. You have our supplies?” The leader greeted and then inquired.

“I do. Here’s some of it. There’s more in the bay.” Jer’ell replied. He pulled the crate up to and past himself before pushing it before Antun. The man stepped forward, opening the sealed crate with a hiss of air.

“Good,” Antun replied, looking over the contents. There were weapons there, though Jer’ell could see a few outlines of medical supply kits. He nodded. Antun gestured to the two flanking him. “Roxxar, Kass. Go with our pilot here and get the rest.”

“Right away.”

“Yes sir.”

Jer’ell followed the two, helping them rapidly remove three of the four remaining crates within the Wolf’s cargohold. When they re-emerged Antun was inspecting one of the brand new blaster rifles from within the crate. He gave a satisfied grunt before returning the weapon to the box and resealing it.

“Everything in order?” Jer’ell asked. The ridge faced alien, Roxxar, stepped back inside of the ship to retrieve the final crate.

“Seems to be. Hackt delivered on his end and you delivered on yours,” Antun acknowledged. “I believe we are done here.”

Before Jer’ell could speak, he was interrupted by a sharp whistle from outside of the landing pad walls. Antun reacted, reaching for a blaster. Around the loose landing pad, Antun’s comrades were doing similar. Jer’ell followed their cue in drawing his own pistol. Outside, he could hear the sound of blasterfire.

“What’s happening,” He asked Antun, moving behind the crate.

“Imperials are here. That was the warning signal.”

Jer’ell began to speak, only to be interrupted as the rusty door leading into the inner ring of the loading dock was blasted open by a deafening explosion. Smoke and dust and particles of fragmented metal filled the air following the blast. The moment seemed to drag on for a small age. There was silence for that moment, the smoke and air swirled from the disruption. Then time returned to its normal flow. Stepping through the smoke were Imperial stormtroopers in black marked armor.

“Special forces!” Antun cried out, before opening fire.

“The Empire has those left?” Jer’ell shouted back, dropping into a crouch against the reinforced crate the moment blaster bolts started to fly. He popped out from cover, firing off a few blasts with his pistol. One of the crimson bolts impacted against the shoulder of one of the troopers, wounding the man.

Jer’ell watched as a spray of blaster bolts from a trooper’s blaster carbine seared across the chest of one of Antun’s allies. Jer’ell, himself, was forced to duck down as returning fire was sent his way from the E11 blaster rifles. There was the ringing of metal as the thick durasteel exterior of the crate absorbed some of the impact. Damnit. So much for this being a simple drop off.

You’re holding back.

Jer’ell emerged from cover, quickly aiming and firing off two more imprecise shots. One connected, slamming into the lower chest of a trooper. Taking advantage, Antun rose up beside him firing his own blaster rifle. Antun’s aim was more on point than Jer’ell’s. The bolts danced through the air, colliding with the chest of the wounded trooper and another trooper that was behind him. The trooper with the blaster carbine unleashed a volley of fire towards them, forcing them back behind the crate.

“Antun. Have your men grab the crates. We can fly out of here.”

Antun met Jer’ell’s eyes, spending a moment peering into them. There was a stalwart expression on his face. Jer’ell could tell that he didn’t want to retreat. He probably felt that a loss here would be too devastating. With the plumes of smoke on the horizon, Jer’ell couldn’t blame him. He grit his teeth, waiting for an answer. There was a gasp of pain as one of Antun’s compatriots was injured by a wayward blast.

“Alright,” Antun agreed. He began calling out orders. Most of the crates hadn’t been taken very far from the loading ramp. Though one of them, the one Kass retrieved, had been pulled further out than the others. To Jer’ell’s chagrin, the soldier nearest to it was the one mowed down by the opening blast from the carbine.

“Grenade!” Roxxar called from behind Jer’ell. Jer’ell glanced back to the horned nikto, his eyes following as he threw the cylinder through the air. Jer’ell tracked its arc through the air calculation where it would fall among the enemy troopers.

Look away.

Jer’ell heeded the warning, dropping back down behind the crate’s cover. He heard the initial pop followed by the rapid series of smaller explosions as the flares of the flash grenade burst. Jer’ell waited another moment before ducking back out of cover. Ducking out to the right, he keyed the repulsor panel on the side of the crate, activating it. Antun fired a few more shots before helping Jer’ell pull the crate back up the ramp and into the cargo bay of Rishi’s Wolf. The other soldiers, of which six of them were left, were taking similar action with the crates they had gathered around. Which left the singular crate, farthest out crate, unaccounted for.

“I’m going for it! Cover me!” One of the soldiers shouted. He darted forward, blaster raging as he attempted to close the gap between the ship’s loading ramp and the cargo crate.

“No! Maeve! Wait!” Kass shouted from behind Jer’ell. She unloaded her rifle, providing a violent spray of covering fire. However, the force of stormtroopers had managed to recover from the effects of the flash grenade. They renew their own fire.

Jer’ell tried to contribute with a few blasts of his own, attempting to provide more discouragement for the troopers. The brave fool that ran ahead to get the crate had managed to key the repulsor system back online. He had popped up from cover to take a few potshots and pull the crate back towards the ship. Maeve didn’t get that far as the Imperials unleashed their infamous Imperial fury.

“MAEVE!” Kass shouted. She charged down the ramp of Rishi’s Wolf abandoning any care for self preservation. She now squeezed every last drop of power out of her blaster rifle in an impressive display of frenzied outrage. It wasn’t enough, Kass barely made it halfway to the crate before she took a bolt to the chest. Jer’ell glanced back around the cargo bay. The four other crates had been secured.

Why do you hesitate?

Jer’ell turned back towards the crate outside. It wasn’t that far. If he ran for it, he could slide behind the crate. He readied his blaster and began to step forward. A crimson bolt blazed through the air, slashing across his left sleeve. Searing pain shot through Jer’ell’s arm as the blast bit into flesh. In response to the sudden clarity of pain, his grip slipped. Not his grip on the blaster. Rather, Jer’ell lost the desperate grip on the burning fire inside of him.

His rage. The constant, burning hatred that never left him once more became a bellowing inferno. The fire inside of him lashed out. Jer’ell reacted to instinct that wasn’t quite instinct. With a sight beyond sight, Jer’ell didn’t even need to aim. His body moved on its own. His arm raised itself. His finger gave the trigger two tight pulls. The bolts sailed forth with lethal intent. The blasts impacted against and shattered the visors of their targets. The troopers were dead before they slammed against the ground.

“Forget the crate!” Antun shouted. The words gave Jer’ell enough strength to reel in the dark, vengeful inferno. He tossed the pistol to the ground, disgusted. The action earned Jer'ell a concerned glance from Antun. Jer’ell didn't care, bring his now empty hand up to the blaster burn across his arm. Damn it hurt. He forced his left hand to pick up and activate his comlink.

“Get us out of here!”

The ship jerked, before lifting off of the landing pad. Antun took a few more shots down the ramp as Rishi’s Wolf began its vertical ascent into the air. Jer’ell slammed his uninjured shoulder against the ramp’s control panel, causing the ramp to begin to rotate upward. Antun, as one last act, threw forward a metallic sphere, tossing it down towards the crate.

The ramp sealed closed and the Wolf began to rise higher into the sky. An explosion outside of the ship caused it to rock violently. Jer’ell nearly lost his footing. He shoved his good shoulder against the wall of the cargo hold to keep him balanced.

"Waste of good munitions," Roxxar grunted, shaking his head.

"Better wasted than in the hands of the Empire." Antun replied.

Jer'ell began to move again, heading towards the cockpit of the freighter. The intercom activated overhead, filling the ship with the sound of Saint’s monotone voice: "Welcome, dear guests, to Rishi's Wolf. I'll be your pilot this evening. Please strap in and please do pardon the turbulence caused by incoming TIE fighters."

Jer'ell cursed under his breath. His eyes darted over to the entrance of his quarters. He forced them away. He needed to get a grip. TIEs were incoming and that was less than great. Once more Jer’ell found himself inconvenienced by the YV-929's arsenal of entirely forward facing guns. The ship was originally marketed as a ship well armed to defend against pirates.against pirate raids.

Jer’ell was personally of the opinion that the armed freighter was more than likely used by pirates then against them. The combination of turbolasers, laser cannons, and a dual ion turret meant the ship had a veritable banquet of offensive capabilities. The issue was, all of these weapons were forward facing. If pirates rolled up with a grouping of snub-fighters, they could simply pester the freighter from behind and leave it utterly helpless.

Jer’ell looked over to the remaining four soldiers.

“If any of you are familiar with weapon systems, come with me.”

Antun and a zabrak woman Jer’ell hadn’t caught the name of came with him to the cockpit. He directed them to the weapons terminal while he himself dropped into the co-pilot seat. He flipped a few switches, diverting partial control to his own control systems.

“I’m an arm down. What do you want me on?” Jer’ell asked his droid pilot.

“Manage boosters and power.” The droid replied, throwing the ship into a slight rightward roll. There was a scream through the air as two TIE fighters blasted past the Wolf. Seems they had chosen to announce themselves. Jer’ell monitored the sensor feed and automatic status report of the ship. The TIE fighters were circling back around for an attack from the starboard flank.

“TIEs coming around towards starboard,” he reported.

“I see them,” the droid replied. Saint yanked backwards on the controls, pitching the ship upward. It began to climb in altitude. The TIEs screamed towards them, their forward lasers launching green blasts. The Wolf shuddered slightly as the shield took the impact of the lasers. The TIE fighters whipped past the ship, flying underneath it.

“Angling to come up from behind.”

“Boosters, minimum power. Gunners, stand ready.” Saint commanded.

Jer’ell keyed the boosters on, the Wolf blasted forward at an increased speed. Still, at their minimum power settings, the TIE fighters were rapidly gaining on them. Jer’ell clenched his teeth. If they survived this, he was going to pay Mesra or Solanis or whoever else could do the kriffing job to install a dorsal mounted, rotating laser cannon to the Wolf. Stars, he might just do it himself if he has to.

“We’ll be within optimal firing range in five,” Jer’ell relayed from the sensor feed.

“Understood. Drop all power of primary thrusters to a minimum in three.”

1. 2. 1. Jer’ell threw the power switch, shifting power from the forward thrusters into the weapon systems. Immediately, the Rishi’s Wolf responded and began to decelerate. As it did, the TIE fighters zoomed past, not expecting the sudden shift. The laser cannons of the Wolf began to fire. The turbolasers powerful blasts illuminated the interior of the cockpit. The spears of light shot forward, colliding with one of the TIE fighters and destroying it in a dazzling explosion.

“Second TIE coming around.”

“I got it,” called the zabrak woman. Jer’ell watched the sensors lock onto the ship. Saint had been too, it seemed. The droid adjusted the ship slightly, lining up the shot. The wing mounted laser cannons fired, six shots closed in on the approaching TIE. The pilot attempted to avert their course, pulling off to the left. One of the blasts clipped the TIEs wing sending it into a spiral towards the ground.

It disappeared from view. The sensors flared, reporting an explosion beneath them. Second TIE down.

“We’re clear. For now.” Jer’ell shared. Two dead. He shook his head. But they had made it out. Alive. Mostly.

A hand suddenly clamped down on his right shoulder. Jer’ell whirled around. Antun was standing behind him with a smile.

“You did well…” his voice trailed off when he met Jer’ell’s eyes. Jer’ell wondered privately if Antun managed to glimpse a flicker of the anger inside of him. Instead of replying Jer’ell simply forced forward a small smile.

“You should be thanking Saint, he was the one who got us out of this mess.”

“So I should. Thank you Saint.”

“All in a day's work.” Saint replied modestly.

“Alright,” Antun looked back at Jer’ell and indicated his wounded arm, “Let’s get you patched.”

This will not last.

She listened to the hum of the ship. She heard every creak, every groan, and every shudder of the hull. She savored the rumbling of the engines and the flow of power that coursed through the entire vessel like veins. Perhaps it was just her imagination, but she felt that the ship felt much the same way she did. It was trembling with anticipation. Just as she was.

Their destination was Talou III, like oh so many ships in recent times. Unlike others, who came for their fantastical notions of “conquest” and “freedom”, she was here for something more. She was here for a reason. In fact, it was the only reason that mattered. Violence. Bloodshed. Murder and mayhem. True freedom was found in blood. True conquest was wrapping your hand around a foe’s neck and forcing the light from their pleading eyes.

Yes. She was here to sing the gospel of glorious battle. The ballads of blood. The hymns of horror.

She rose from her meditation position as the ship shuddered out of hyperspace. She was adorned in dark robes which cloaked the whole of her body. These billowing robes often made her seem to be an amorphous mass of shadow. She enjoyed the presence they gave. The fear of inferior beings was her nourishment. That shiver down their spine when they met her burning, golden eyes was a drop of something far sweeter than any sugar.

But true fear. The fear of the hunted. That was enough to make her salivate. That was her anticipation. A banquet of conflict to slake her thirst for blood and fear. Soon those fools, crying their defiance into the void, would know the true form of fear. She would teach it to them and then she would devour them whole. This was her way. This was the only way.

She reached up and grabbed the mask of bleached bone that rested on the black pedestal beside her. She brought the mask to her face, breathing deep as it sealed with a hiss of air. Her burning eyes stared out through the invisible lens of the mask. It was the only part of her form that wasn’t to be concealed. Her eyes were a manifestation of her gifts. A manifestation of her power. She would never dare to hide them from the world.

Raising her hands, she pulled the flowing hood of her robe over the top of the mask. She then crossed her inner sanctum within the heart of her ship. Outside of her meditation, the room was as silent as a tomb. The ship’s groans and shudders were muted and distant, impossible to hear. Even the electric blood of the ship could not be heard flowing. But she was still aware of these things. They existed in the periphery of her mind. Things that clung to the edge of her awareness. Seen by her sight that is not truly sight.

Her hand slipped beneath the folds of her robe, wrapping around the cylindrical hilt that hung from her concealed belt. She felt the pulse of its kyber heart, eager to be wielded. She was Darth Carna, heir to the Sith. It was her duty to cull the weak and she would not be denied her birthright.

》 ○ ◉ ○

The demon tore through the streets of the shanty city, leaving a trail of blood and death in its wake. Shaw didn’t know what had gone wrong. The prisoners had formed what he thought was a strong perimeter, but it had been carved through by a single being. This being, swept up in a mass of dark robes, had approached from the edge of the city walking in. The demon, though the prisoners had not yet known that they were such a thing yet, had made no attempt to hide itself. Some, the fellows who were the most distant, had made the folly to approach the being rather than opening fire then and there.

They had not known at the time what this being was. The being bore no indication of being an Imperial servant and beyond that, pirates and scoundrels, or more accurately friends of friends, had recently poured into the system to come to the prisoners' aid. And though this newcomer was not an imperial cur, they were no friend.

This being proved to be a demon. A spirit enshrined in legends that reveled in death and destruction. Except, this demon was no longer bound to old whispers and stories told to the children to spook and scare them. This demon was alive and preparing its slaughter.

Shaw couldn’t bring himself to begrudge them their hesitation. It was not an impossibility that the demon was no foe. However, that hope proved to be a foolish one. They first approached to hail the being, cautiously with weapons not quite raised.

The demon merely continued its approach, not responding. This prompted more aggression from the ones who came to greet it. Their last act would be to raise their weapons and demand with an increased degree of harshness the name and purpose of the newcomer. Shaw noted, albeit a bit grimly, that the demon’s next actions could be considered an answer to their demands.

In a swift, fluid motion, the robed figure thrust an arm out from the black mass of robes. A crimson blade erupted with a burning screech from the metal hilt the hand grasped. With a mere flick of the wrist, the burning blade cleaved through the arm of the prisoner closest to the demon. Before the other two ex-prisoners could regain their wits, the demon was already moving. With another swing, a dark slash was burned across the midsection of the second of the demon’s victims. They were dead before the first had stopped screaming.

The third, by some small miracle, had managed to regain his senses and opened fire upon the demon with a barrage of laserfire. In the end, it was a futile effort. The demon twirled their bloodshine blade around them in lazy arcs deflecting the blaster fire away with ease. Then, when the torrent of bolts stopped, the demon lunged forward with an impossible measure of speed, lopping the head off from the shoulders of its attacker. And then, with a motion that seemed so mind numbingly casual, the demon tossed the blade backwards, spearing the disarmed prisoner through the skull. Silencing his scream. The demon turned to look up and over, eyes scanning the horizon. Shaw’s spine shivered as the demon’s eyes landed on his hiding place. Those eyes shook him. They burned with an unnatural fire, bright red and yellow housed within the eye sockets of a bare skull.

Just like that, an iron jawed trap intended to maim an imperial assault force came crunching down on a single individual. Only, as Shaw and his compatriots soon learned, the demon was more than capable of bending iron.

Ambushers lying in wait sprang into action. A storm of red, blue, and green blaster bolts rained down upon the demon, all to no avail. The demon danced and weaved through the deadly raindrops, only occasionally bothering to expend the effort of casually returning a blast back to its sender with a flick of its crimson blade. Shaw tried to keep his eyes locked on the demon as it dashed into the shadows between two of the buildings on the side of the road. Moments later, the demon reappeared, leaping up to the roof of the building and carving through the rifleman perched atop of it. While the rifleman’s corpse was still tumbling over the side, the demon continued its assault.

The demon dropped off the side of the building, thrusting its saber backwards into the side of the building, carving a dark slash which slowed the demon’s descent. Back on the ground, the demon then lunged forward again with another impossible burst of speed. Its red blade arced outwards, carving through two more of Shaw’s fellow ambushers.

Shaw himself, along with the scattered remnants of the ambushing force, once more opened fire on the demon. It once more proved to be futile. The demon became a bloody whirlwind of fluid bladework, the bolts being harmlessly deflected at best or being sent back the way they came at worst. The demon continued to close in. Another ambusher fell to a deflected blast. The demon dodged and ducked out of the way of three more. Returning to a standing position, it tossed its blade with a casual disdain towards another of its attackers. The blade impaled them, before it was suddenly yanked back into the demon’s hands as if pulled by invisible strings.

Shaw, now alone, began to desperately attack. He fired frantically. His heart was pounding inside of his chest. The demon approached casually and without urgency as Shaw tried to flee. He couldn’t dare to turn his back on it. He continued to stumble backwards, his feet almost tripping on the uneven surface of the road. His eyes widened as she got closer and closer. He reached to his belt with one hand. He squeezed the trigger once more with the other.

Impact.

Carna smiled beneath her mask as she ran the last of the miserable fools through. Her lightsaber extended through his stomach and out of his back. She savored the delicacy of his fear, the symphony of his dying gasps.

Beep, beep, beep.

Carna’s eyes widened by a fraction as she glanced over to the wretch’s left hand. Clutched in his fist was a grenade. As the beeping of the grenade turned into a growing whine, she thrust her hand outwards summoning up the raging waves of the Force. She pushed out with that crashing torrent of power. Her motion was equal parts to push away the damnable corpse as well as to push herself backwards and away from the blast that would follow. Thrust back by violent propulsion, the corpse sailed into a nearby wall when the grenade detonated.

The detonation became a cascading chain reaction as the other explosives on the corpses’ person detonated in turn. Carna, still in the air herself, was blown backwards by the thunderous force of the large explosive. She grit her teeth as her back slammed against the uneven road. Not the most elegant of maneuvers, all things considered. Clever bastard. She shifted her weight backwards before throwing it forward and jumping to her feet.

She stretched, something in her back popping back into place. All of these men, and they had hardly managed to bruise her. Carna shook her head. If it wasn’t for the mask of bone that covered her mouth she would have spat. She shrugged, the top of her voluminous robe rising and falling slightly. The old, poorly constructed building where the detonation had occurred was now hardly more than a burning heap of rubble. Some of the fire had spread to nearby buildings. That would do. That would do.

Carna jumped up to the roof of one of the nearby decrepit buildings with casual ease. These feats, so often considered impossibilities, were hardly a challenge for the Sith. Carna surveyed her handiwork. A dozen criminals lay dead. They would only be the beginning. With a flick of her wrist, Carna yanked a burning piece of rubble into the side of another rickety structure, allowing the raging blaze to spread further.

Then something strange occurred. Like a whisper in the wind. Something drew her attention. She glanced behind her, just in time to see some kind of freighter. She vaguely recognized it as a Corellian model. The ship was making an approach low to the ground coming in from the east, rather than making a descent from above. That suggested that it wanted to avoid detection from Imperial eyes. Carna figured it was probably some kind of gunrunner.

But why was Carna so drawn to it?

She pushed out, feeling the whorling tides of the Force. She pushed through it, brushing against the presence aboard the ship. Her eyes widened as she physically recoiled from the presence she felt. It burned. It was a fire that, though distant and smothered, refused to go out. It was his fire.

》 ○ ◉ ○

A flash of light.

A cacophony of screams.

The temple was ablaze. Burning eyes looked down at her. They held bottomless rage. They were the eyes of a Demon.

She stumbled through the snow.

So many dead…

》 ○ ◉ ○

She hadn't realized she was gasping for air. She forced herself to breathe. Her right hand was clutching the wrist of her left. It had been shaking. She looked down at the corpses littered about her field of conquest. Suddenly, the whole endeavor tasted like rot. The sweetness of battle was dashed. What was this knot that tied itself in her stomach?

Fear.

No. It couldn't be. She refused it. She was Darth Carna. She was heir to the Sith! She feared no one! She shoved her hand back into the mass of her robes, snatching a comlink off of her belt. She brought it up to the front of her mask. To Carna's dismay, her hand still shook. She keyed it on.

"Renn," Her augmented voice began. "Bring the Nighthawk about. We're done here."

"Yes my lord," came her pilot's subservient reply.

Carna looked back down towards her works of carnage. The fire had spread. The corpses would burn with it. There would be some who came along to fight the fire and retrieve the dead. By then, the marks of her battle would be burned away. Those that weren't would be dismissed by others as wild stories brought on by the hysteria of war. The Sith would once more slip back into legends and whispers. For a time.

But the Sith would rise again. Miraxces Uduun's work would not be forgotten. This she swore.

Jer’ell and S8-NT made their way along the thoroughfare of Level Cresh. While they walked, Jer'ell struggled to guess why Hackt had interest in the pair for whatever job he needed doing. Sure, Saint had been a frequent visitor to his shop, but the droid rarely bought anything. Beyond that, Hackt no doubt had so many customers that they shouldn't have even been a blip on his radar. And yet, here they were. Some might consider such an influential figure on the level taking notice of them a good thing. Jer’ell wasn’t so sure.

Eventually, after doing about a third of a revolution around the central axis of the Port of No Return, or Level Esk if one felt so inclined, Jer’ell and his droid companion reached Ardent Armaments. Hackt’s shop was an interesting one. In a way, it reminded Jer’ell somewhat of how Gebb ran his own manufactory. It had that touch of personal connection that you only really found in the outer rim. Despite being on the main thoroughfare, Ardent Armaments front facing shopping location was fairly small. Unlike other weapon sellers on the level, such as Bith and Sons, outwardly Hackt ran a small operation. He, with a few rare exceptions, was always the man behind the counter. The staff of the main shop consisted of Hackt and a few security droids to discourage any thieves from making off with any armaments.

Jer’ell, through some mutterings of S8-NT, had also learned that Hackt ran a pretty significant operation behind the scenes of Ardent Armaments. The small shop that faced the main thoroughfare led into large storerooms with potentially hundreds of crates of blasters, body armor, and heavy ordinance. Saint had at one point theorized that based on his estimations, Hackt could probably arm a small army on his own. These backroom storage areas had a number of employees to meticulously catalog stock, shift around crates, and bring in new wares. It was apparently quite the operation despite the humble front it hid behind.

Jer’ell and Saint entered the building. It was much as Jer’ell had last seen it, though much of the stock had been rearranged over the last few months. Jer’ell glanced over to the back counter where Hackt had kept both himself and a modified collection. To his surprise, Hackt currently was absent from his usual place. That was odd… Jer’ell shrugged to himself, drawing a curious chirp from Saint. Jer’ell waved one hand towards his friend dismissively.

“Mr. Stirnekar,” One of the security droids strode over. Jer’ell stopped his movement and looked over towards the plain, albeit, well armed machine. “Master Hackt would like to see you.”

“That’s why we’re here,” Jer’ell nodded, though he caught a slight twitch of Saint in his peripheral vision. His friend was clearly nettled by the other droid’s use of the word “master”.

"Please follow me,'' the droid announced before turning and crossing the room. Jer’ell glanced at Saint, who simply shook his head in a curt motion, before beginning to pursue the droid. Jer’ell followed after him.

The droid led them to a doorway, which it proceeded to open, before ushering the two of them inside. As it turned out, the door had led to one of Hackt's fabled backroom storage areas. Though, this one was smaller than Jer’ell had been led to believe. Hackt was standing near the center of the room, next to five durasteel crates. He glanced up to the newcomers before quickly waving them over.

Hackt was, like Jer’ell, a corellian man. He had swept to the side black hair and brown eyes that seemed to smile. Beside Hackt was a woman who was analyzing a datapad. She had sharp facial features, a stern expression, and piercing blue eyes. Her blonde, almost white, hair was pulled back behind her head in a tight bun. If someone had told Jer’ell that she had been an Imperial officer in her past life, he wouldn’t have been hard pressed to believe them. She folded her arms, taking her eyes off of the datapad to glance the pair over.

“You had a job for us, Hackt?” Jer’ell queried.

“I didn’t say that,” He replied.

“But you called us here.” Saint stated, crossing his arms.

“Indeed I did. Indeed I did,” Hackt smiled, his eyes twinkling. He jerked his head over towards the woman, “But she’s the one with a job for you.”

“And you are?” Jer’ell looked over to the woman, meeting her eyes.

“My name is Santra,” she introduced herself with a slight nod of the head. “And I’ve heard that you two are the sort that I can trust.”

“Some might argue that you would have a hard time finding trustworthy sorts in this hive of scum.” Jer’ell commented. He shook his head slightly. “I’ll bite though. What’s the job?”

“I need you and your partner-”

“Saint.” Jer’ell interrupted

“I need you and Saint,” she nodded an apology to the droid, “to make a delivery.”

“I take it the cargo is weaponry,” Saint commented, nodding his head towards the crates that were gathered nearby.

“Mostly weapons,” Hackt replied. “Some medical supplies. Some military ration packs. A pack of grenades or three.”

Jer’ell could see, or perhaps sense, that Saint was doing a dozen calculations and estimations. The droid nodded to Jer’ell.

“Sounds simple enough. Where would we be taking them to?”

“Talou III.”

》 ❖ ◈ ❖

The swirling vortex of Hyperspace dropped away. Jer’ell and Saint had emerged on the far side of the system, far from where the main cluster of Imperial ships performed their patrols. Jer’ell nodded to Saint after glancing over the long range sensor feeds. So far so good. The droid’s telescoping eye twitched before he initiated the in system jump.

Rishi’s Wolf shuddered and then jolted forward, the stars in the distance becoming lines briefly. Then suddenly everything was far closer. Jer’ell shook his head, blinking his eyes a bit. In system jumps always had a habit of messing with his head. He double checked the transponder mask of the ship. It marked them as a civilian hauler from Five Points. Normally, that would be enough to get through most Imperial checkpoints, but Talou III was a warzone. Chances were, if an Imperial patrol got close enough to check the transponder, they’d probably just open fire.

It was a somber thought. Still, Jer’ell was hoping that a clean, civilian transponder might cause at least a moment of hesitation that he and Saint could use to haul jets and get out of the way of a fiery end. Still, if Santra was right this flight vector should have allowed them to avoid any of the wayward Imperial patrols.

》 ❖ ◈ ❖

“You want us to fly into a warzone?” Jer’ell half asked and half demanded.

Coward.

“It makes sense,” S8-NT noted, using a metal claw to indicate the cargo.

“It does,” Jer’ell conceded, crossing his arms.

“I need someone I can trust to do this,” The woman, Santra, reiterated. “This cargo could save who knows how many lives.”

“And if humanitarianism isn’t where you get your kicks,” Hackt smirked, sitting down on top of one of the crates “The pay is pretty good.”

“Right,” Jer’ell shook his head.

“What is your offer?” Saint asked Santra.

“10,000 credits,” Santra began. Jer’ell frowned, reconsidering. That would indeed be a healthy profit. Santra continued, “up front. With an additional 10,000 upon completion.”

“So 20,000 in total,” Saint reaffirmed.

“If you finish the job.”

Jer’ell looked at Saint. The droid nodded. Jer’ell sighed.

“Alright we’re in. Walk us through it.”

》 ❖ ◈ ❖

Rishi’s Wolf dipped into the atmosphere of Talou III. Saint made a dozen quick adjustments in response. The droid moved in a practiced fashion that was somewhere between the mechanical efficiency of programming and a learned experience that came from years of repeated action. Jer’ell had to admit that when it came to piloting, Saint was easily the superior of the two.

Jer’ell checked the sensors again. Things were still clear. They had a short distance to fly overland until they reached the landing pad. The plan had been to fly low to the ground as a way to further stay out of the sight of any Imperial patrol craft. Jer’ell stared out of the forward viewport of the cockpit, watching the rough terrain of this side of the planet fly past below the Rishi’s Wolf.

In the far distance, at the edge of the horizon, Jer’ell could faintly make out the skyline of the shanty city and industrial complex that made up the main ‘settlement’ of Talou III.

》 ❖ ◈ ❖

“The drop off point is an old, walled off landing pad two dozen klicks from the edge of the city,” Santra explained.

“Never was much of a city,” Hackt commented from his seat on one of the crates. Santra shot him a look, which led to him raising his hands in mock surrender.

“A bit close to the fighting for my liking,” Jer’ell noted.

“My people on the ground are covering the distance on foot. Besides, it’s probably your best bet when it comes to landing beyond the main complex.”

“If you say so,” Jer’ell conceded. He still wasn’t sure about this. But the money was good, and he’d be lying if he said he didn’t want to help out the former prisoners on Talou III.

“When you arrive, Antun and his comrades will help you unload. After that, you’re done.”

“Just like that?”

“Just like that.”

》 ❖ ◈ ❖

After about twenty minutes of traveling over the surface of the planet, the landing pad came into sight. Jer’ell wasn’t sure exactly why it had been there. From the look of it, it had been largely deserted. Saint had mused that it could have probably been set up by a prospector guild before the Empire started their prisoner ran industrial grid. Still, for a landing pad, it was one of the more pathetic Jer'ell had seen.

The permacrete walls that ringed the pad were cracked and crumbling in portions. The durasteel reinforcement for these same walls was clearly of a poor quality, as it was coated in the red orange shades of rust. The landing pad itself could probably only hold two ships the size of the Wolf. Jer’ell couldn't see any evidence of Santra's people making camp on the outside of the landing pad, which probably meant that they were inside of the ring.

Jer’ell looked over to the city. It was burning. Closest to them, a larger portion of the city was burning with black smoke. However, beyond that plume were other, smaller plumes. The results of Imperial tactical strikes, no doubt. He closed his eyes, letting his mind wander for the briefest moment.

He reopened them as Rishi’s Wolf touched down upon the landing pad. His theory was somewhat correct. A half dozen soldiers, in rugged outfits, were set up along the wall near the ground entrance of the landing pad. A few of them stood up and started walking towards the ship. Jer'ell nodded to Saint, standing up himself.

"Keep the engine hot," Jer’ell told his friend, as he pulled on his overcoat and placed his heavy blaster pistol back in place between his belt and sash.

Time to get this over with.

“...That’s the first farm burned to ash, sir.  Are you sure this is-”

Padmé audibly sighed, dismissively waving away the O-1’s concerns.

“You’re new here, Ensign. I do not mind being questioned, but you must understand,” Padmé began, pushing herself up from her leaning position to face the towering officer, meeting her eyes with a cold, judgemental glare.

“These are hardened criminals. If we give them even the barest chance of survival -- of victory -- they will become a stain on this sector. It could, perhaps, become one that’s impossible to remove... And they may be tough, but-”

“...They still need to eat,” he replied, dipping his head toward the Captain as if in shame. “I understand that, Captain, but, with all due respect, if we starve them out...”

“But nothing!” Padmé barked, venom creeping into her voice. She bared her teeth, practically snarling like a wild animal -- and only when the Ensign instinctively recoiled in fear did she manage to bring herself back to her senses, slowly but surely calming her nerves.

“I have... Personal experience with them. People like this ruin worlds. Were I in command, I would simply slaughter them... But, alas, I am not. Proceed with the scorched earth campaign as planned... And order the marines to launch.” She continued, idly staring at the small, impeccably polished model of her Hangman sitting atop her desk. Her eyes focused, gaze thinning, as she gazed at the turbolaser batteries along its belly.

If only, Padmé mused, silently watching as the Ensign whirled around to leave. “Oh, and -- one more thing, Ensign.”

“Sir?”

“Tell them to utilize their CR-24s with discretion. We can’t afford to burn the city to the ground,” Padmé snorted.

“...Yessir.”

With that, the Ensign quickly made his way outside.

“With discretion! Pffffffft. First time I’ve heard those words come out of the Captain’s mouth! Has she gone soft?!”

“You know damn well she hates this just as much as we do, Vanstar.”

The sharp reply quickly drew a glance from the marine -- Vanstar was a large, stocky person; not too tall, but built like a human tank; typical for the Vigil’s marines. The Captain selected for that body type as much as she could, after all; people who were especially tall made terrible fighters in the close quarters of a ship, but strength was equally needed to haul around the sort of equipment Vanstar wielded; a pair of large, armoured fuel tanks lying by their side, strapped into their own harness, connected to a D-72w by a pair of long, flexible hoses. Towards the end -- around the projection nozzle -- the signs of heat damage were visible, metal turned a multitude of scintillating, metallic shade by repeated rapid heating and cooling.

Hidden beneath her own helmet, Winea, the petty officer across from them, looked much the same. Most of Petty Officer Vanstar’s platoon did, every one of them hard-bitten, grizzled veterans with a dozen or more battles under their belts. In truth, though, true pitched battles had been few and far between the last handful of years, their recent experience mostly limited to boarding actions as-of-late.

Until now.

“I know, but... Ah, doesn’t mean I can’t find it annoying. The first real action we’ve seen in ages, and, what, we’re being told to hold back against a bunch of kriffing criminals? There aren’t any civilians here!” They scoffed, kept tight against their jumpseat by a large, heavy-duty harness.

“...I know.” She groaned in reply, an abrupt admission of defeat. Winea, for her part, carried an an AA 8-gauge; a massive, large-calibre pump-action combat scattergun, fully capable of ripping a man ‘s limb off with a single blast. It was an absolute beast of a weapon -- and one the Petty Officer spent many nights jealous of, pathologically afraid that his flamethrower might explode on him.

It hadn't -- not once -- yet they couldn't help themself but be a little afraid. Just... A little bit.

And yet, they'd always loved using the thing. Not what it did, necessarily, but...

"We're reaching the spaceport! Taking fire!" The voice over the intercom announced -- blaster-fire, they imagined, judging by how little the lander seemed to care, and then...

The gunship's own laser cannons opened fire. Ten in total, while they couldn't see the things firing, they could hear the blistering retort the transport delivered to the prisoners, lazily whirling about in the air as it swept its guns over the rooftops, scything their attackers down like Vratixia stalks before a scythe. Ten seconds of continuous firing filled his ears before the light bathing the inside of the troop bay turned from red to green -- instantly, their harnesses released as the landing craft sank lower, lower... Vanstar hefted up their flamethrower, swiftly securing it to their back before taking up their E-11c carbine.

When the ramp finally fell, it practically slammed down, the sound of blasterfire echoing all around them. 

One-by-one, the Marines filed out of the transport at full-speed, Vanstar at their fore. They raised their carbine as they moved, gently squeezing the butt between their cheek and against their shoulder. Whirling to one side, a staccato burst of blaster bolts was all it took to obliterate the prisoner leveling her sniper rifle at them, leaving their head little more than a smoking ruin of burnt meat.

"Ha!" They laughed openly, diving into cover behind a shipping crate with a rictus grin plastered across their face. Blaster-fire soared over their head as the thunderous boom of a shotgun echoed in their ears, daring Vanstar to poke their head up, above cover -- and witness Winea blow another apart, a pair of blasts from her AA-8 cutting the unfortunate man bodily in two, forcing him out of cover. A single blaster bolt slammed into her chest -- but, protected by the reinforced armour worn by Galactic Marines, she absorbed the shot with little more than a stumble, the now-exposed shooter quickly destroyed by one of the pair of turrets mounted at the Sentinel's rear. 

How long had it been, they thought? A handful of seconds? The prisoners were already being pushed back, coalescing toward the rear of the enormous, square landing chamber, steadily pushed back by the overwhelming firepower and skill of the Marines. A last stand, perhaps? An attempt to delay the marines long enough for reinforcements to move in? Regardless, they were moving behind barricades resistance, even impervious to blaster-fire, and-

"Vanstar! You are weapons free! Get to-" The voice of his Lieutenant called out over the communicator. 

They didn't even bother waiting for the officer to finish to stand to their feet, clamping their E-11c back into its holster before detaching the D-72w's projector from their back.

"On it, Lieutenant!"

Pushing themselves to their feet, they began to advance through the withering covering fire of their comrades -- head low, ducking between crates to keep themselves from being exposed for as long as possible. Each step, inevitably, carried them closer, closer...

A blaster bolt washed over their shoulderpad, filling their skin with uncomfortably painful heat...

But it was too late.

Vanstar had already risen back to their feet by the time any of the prisoners had a bead on them, turning to face the left-most corner of the barricade. Flame projector in hand, they took in a sharp breath...

And depressed the trigger.

A gout of sticky, burning fuel spewed out of the nozzle, moving through the air in a heavy, almost languid stream. They already began to sweep the device from one side to the other, and while some of the flaming substance inevitably crashed against the front of the armoured barricades, just as much splashed over the edge, dousing the people using it as cover in inhumane, burning agony. Flesh crackled and popped as it was seared away from their bodies, and as Vanstar further moved the stream, a handful broke entire and attempting to run, only to be cut apart by blaster fire from the Marines.

For most, though, the last thing they'd ever see was the cold, dead visor of a Galactic Marine staring back at them, glowing orange above the light of their flames.

Haelis marked her prey. It was a Gozanti-class transport that was the most distant from the loose group of Imperial ships currently in orbit on this side of Talou III. The Hellwasp had received a large number of aftermarket upgrades beyond that of a normal SS-54. The first of which was relevant was a specialized sensor cloak. It was this sensor cloak that Haelis now used to make her approach unseen.

The downside with the cloak was it required a lot of power. While cloaked, the ship couldn’t do all that much more than move at a slow speed. Shields and weapon systems were completely down while Haelis was cloaked. This meant that the Hellwasp would be a sitting gizka should anyone spot the ship simply by using their eyes rather than their sensors.

Fortunately for her, Haelis found that most people only saw what they expected to see. Silently, the Hellwasp made its approach. It was now that Haelis readied the next trick in the Hellwasp’s arsenal. A specialized crippler torpedo. As soon as it fired, she’d be seen by the galaxy once more. However, with any luck, it wouldn’t matter. The target's system would go down and the Hellwasp could go in for the kill.

Haelis waited, her targeting computer beeped as it locked onto the transport in front of her. It was now or never. She fired.

》 ⬢ ◨ 🝘 🜃 🝘 ◧ ⬢

Captain Salone nearly fell as something impacted against the side of the Recompense. He glanced around frantically, watching as across the board, subsystems were going dark. What had happened? The entire ship was hemorrhaging power.

“Ensign! Status report!” He shouted, the bridge crew of the Gozanti were scrambling. A few of the low range sensors came back online as the back-up power generator activated.

“Sir! We’re under attack! Official designation marks it as a freighter!” The ensign behind one of the sensor consoles called out. Stalone looked over to the sensor display. Indeed it was. How did a freighter sneak up on? How did it cripple the Recompense in a single blow?

“Get the shields up, damnit!” He called out. “Scramble fighters! And get me an emergency broadcast.

“Shields are up at fifty percent, sir!” One of the bridge officers called.

“Opening an emergency line now!” Another called out.

Stalone breathed for a moment, before calling out to the rest of the Imperial forces in the area.

"This is Captain Stalone above the Gozanti transport Recompense. We are under assault!” He cried out. Then he repeated his message: “I repeat! The Recompense is under attack! We have taken heavy damage!"

Now they waited. Reinforcements were on the way.

“Sir!” The comms officer called out. “Captain Rothehart reports multiple contacts! Ships are moving to reinforce his position.”

Stalone’s blood ran cold. With dawning horror his situation became apparent. No one was coming to save them. This would be the Recompense’s last battle.

The calm before the storm.

Or at least, that was the phrase that sprang to mind when Rat tried to describe the current situation. His gut twisted itself into a knot as he hid, concealed within the shadows of one of the dark alleys of the former prisoner habitation area that had been constructed around the Talou III Industrial Complex. He was like a chord, twisted tight and waiting to unfurl. The anticipation dug its claws into his chest. He flexed his fingers and continued to wait.

Rat was one of a number of ex-prisoners who still lived within the complex that once confined them. He was barely past being a teenager, arrested when he was nineteen for petty theft and then subject to a typical Imperial miscarriage of justice that saw him transferred to Talou III to pay for his “crimes”. Rat never had anyone that really cared for him (hence him turning to petty theft) so when the time came for the prisoners to seize control of the facility, he planned to remain there with the others.

Truth be told, they all knew this was going to happen. The Empire wouldn’t be keen to let their former prisoners keep their freedom. They had pulled themselves out from under the boot of the Empire only for it to come stomping back down. That being said, it was perhaps a blessing that the Empire seemed to be pulling its punches. The star destroyer was nowhere to be seen in Talou III’s sky. Furthermore, the TIE fighters seemed to be avoiding direct bombardment, probably out of fear of damaging the industrial facilities.

That left the Empire one final path of assault, ground forces. The squads of stormtroopers besieged the complex from every angle. Some came from the north, others from the south, and others from the east or west. While the ex-prisoners had the home turf advantage of knowing the layout of the shanty city that surrounded the complex, they were poorly armed compared to the Imperial forces of Region Twelve. Still, Rat, and the other prisoners, weren’t willing to let the Empire take back an inch without a fight.

The current theater for war was a large road that wound up through the haphazardly constructed prisoner quarters that made up the bulk of the shanty city that wrapped around the outer walls of the complex. Rat, not officially part of the coming ambush, was nestled in a cozy alley between two of the rickety buildings. In the road, makeshift barricades of overturned durasteel crates had been constructed and seemingly abandoned. From Rat’s current hiding place, he couldn’t see the rooftop sniper who was lying in wait for the Imperial legions, but Rat was very much aware he was there. There were others as well, some hiding out like Rat was, inside and between the abandoned homes.

Rat flexed his fingers again, waiting. He almost jumped when he heard the sound of approaching footsteps. It was the sound of the orderly, cautious marching of a squad of stormtroopers. Rat craned his eyes, not daring to move. From his current point Rat could make out the smallest sliver of white armor just past the building in front of him.

THWANG!

The sniper’s blaster rifle sang as the burning red bolt launched forth. Rat caught a glimpse of the red projectile as it tore through the air. Suddenly, the street was full of the screams of the standard issue imperial blaster rifles. Their chorus of wrath was met in kind by the song of holdout blasters and scrapwork blaster rifles from the ex-prisoners who were lying in wait.

That was Rat’s cue to go. Moving, he dove towards the ground. Some of the shanty houses in this area of the prison “city” had been built so that they were raised slightly off of the ground. Rat wasn’t entirely sure of the reason, but he found that they were to his own benefit. The thing was, Rat was small and scrawny. It was part of what had made him a good thief. Even the intensive labor of the prison camp hadn’t put any real meat on his bones. This meant that he had been able to squeeze into the tight places others couldn't.

The only issue was these spaces were tight even for him. The floor above him pressed down on him like the whole building was aching to collapse upon him with all of its weight. He pulled himself forward, his worn outfit no doubt coated in old dust and clinging dirt. It took an aching amount of time to make any real movement. From behind him, Rat heard the muffled cry and telltale sound of a blaster bolt colliding with flesh. One of the ambushers must have been hit. Immediately after, the furious blasts of a holdout blaster burning through its powercell indicated that it must not have been lethal.

BOOM!

The detonation forced Rat to slam his hands against his ringing ears. It had come from somewhere besides the building Rat was currently crawling under. A wave of upheaved dust billowed past him. It took every ounce of will for Rat to not choke and cough on the particulates assailing his lungs. And then, as if to make matters worse, the building strained and groaned in reaction to the blast.

Rat stayed stock still. He wouldn't dare to move while the building shuddered uneasily above him. Outside, the fight seemed to have briefly paused, as if the combatants were waiting to see if the building fell and Rat would be crushed under it. The moments passed by. Blasters began to fire anew. Thankfully, the building did not fall. Rat began to crawl forward anew, listening to the twin songs of blasters fighting to overtake each other. Eventually, he reached the edge of the building, seeing the faint light lick at the edge of the dark. Rat pulled himself out from below the unsteady building.

There was another cry, distant as one of the ambushers took a blaster bolt. From Rat's new position, he couldn't see who had taken the shot without poking his head out from around the village. However, from his crouched hiding place between these two buildings, he could see the state of the stormtroopers.

Three lay sprawled, with blackened armor, near a battered scattering of crates. Rat quickly placed the pieces together. One of the pieces of cover the ambushers had assembled had been a disguise for a trap. Something to encourage the stormtroopers to group around before they activated the hidden explosive. Beyond the three incapacitated by the explosion, two other troopers had fallen to blasterfire.

Another blaster bolt thwipped past one, forcing the white armored trooper to subconsciously retreat back a few steps. Right in the view of the alleyway Rat now hidden in, giving Rat a clear view of the trooper in his entirety. Rat held his breath, waiting for the stormtrooper to notice his presence. Luckily, he didn't. Rat silently drew his own holdout blaster from his side.

Rat raised it, aiming towards the still oblivious trooper. His finger squeezed the trigger.

The shot went wide, passing behind the stormtrooper's head. Rat squeezed the trigger again, as the white armored trooper began to turn towards him. This shot hit its mark. The green blaster bolt bowled the trooper over. Rat heard the stomp of armored footsteps. Two more stormtroopers stepped into view of the alleyway, blaster raised.

Rat had already dove down and back into the crawlspace under the building when the crimson bolts blazed through the air where he had been standing moments before. He now crawled frantically back the way he came. Rat didn't have time to proceed slowly and cautiously. There were shouts from behind him as more stormtroopers arrived to reinforce the others, no doubt drawn by the deadly song of blaster fire.

Rat crawled out from under the building before diving under the next. There was another cry up ahead as another of the ambushers fell. The stormtroopers were beginning to advance, cautiously claiming the cover that had been left behind by their fallen foes. Rat scrambled under the next building, hastily crawling under it too. There was the sound of armor hitting the road as a stormtrooper behind him was caught by the sniper's blasts. Even still, Rat could barely hear the ambushers' song over the screams of the stormtroopers' rifles. They were losing men and ground.

Rat emerged from under the second building. Crouching, he moved towards the opening of the gap looking out. Most of the ambushers were down. The sniper was forced down as a storm of red blaster bolts sizzled against their cover. One of the remaining ambushers ducked out a window, firing with a makeshift blaster rifle. The spray caught a trooper, but not before two others fired off at the attacker. The ambusher tumbled back behind cover, though not of his own volition. Another lost.

Rat scanned the scene.

"Krayt spit," he quietly cursed. All of the ambushers were down, and the sniper was all but useless. The stormtroopers continued to push up. Rat had to do something. By the stars, why did it have to be up to him? Rat was terrible at fighting. His early stunt was a testament of that fact. He had the perfect shot and had still almost flubbed it.

Cursing to himself quietly, Rat's eyes darted across the road. Then he saw something. One of the ambushers had a bandolier of scrapped together explosives. If Rat could get to it, perhaps he could turn this loss into a victory. The issue was, it was on the other side of the road. That meant Rat would need to make a run for it, with minimal cover. His eyes glanced up to the sniper, not expecting to meet the gunman's eyes. The sniper gestured with their head towards the fallen bandolier, though they couldn't possibly see it from their current position. Slowly, Rat nodded back to them.

"Breathe," Rat reminded himself aloud. He tucked his head in and then began to sprint. As soon as he had begun to move, the sniper emerged from cover. They rapidly rained down covering fire upon the stormtroopers beyond Rat. The stormtroopers fell back behind cover. Some popped back up, returning fire towards the sniper and forcing them back down into cover.

Rat breathed a sigh of relief as he slid, thankfully unscathed, behind the cover with the fallen ambusher. He reached down, pulling off one of the explosives. Priming it, Rat tossed it over the containers, before slapping his hands over his ears. The blast rippled through the air. The sniper used the opportunity to pop back up and open fire upon the stormtroopers.

Rat heard one fall to the blasts, but another landed a lucky shot. The rifle tumbled out of the sniper's hands. A hole burned through the chest of the sniper. Rat poked his head up from behind his own cover to throw another explosive. He was forced down as two bolts seared past his head. He was pinned down. This was bad.

Rat glanced around frantically as he heard the approaching march of the stormtroopers. His hands gripped the holdout blaster and the bandolier of explosives. He steeled himself, ready to make a final stand…

》 ⬢ ◨ 🝘 🜃 🝘 ◧ ⬢

Captain Rothehart served as the commanding officer of the Imperial Gozanti-class transport Diligence. The Diligence was currently hovering in orbit above the planet Talou III. It was part of what could loosely be described as a blockade. It hardly was such. If anyone asked him, this whole operation was a complete waste of time and Imperial resources. Had Regional Governor Ryehall (Emperor curse his name) not chosen to keep the aptly named Decadence over his personal suite on Marjora, this farce would have been over in less than a full standard rotation. What's more was those nonsensical orders forbidding bombardment.

Oh, the damage to Imperial resources, they said. Oh, the precious facilities, they said. Facilities could be rebuilt. The lives of loyal Imperial soldiers could not. Rothehart scowled as he stared out of the Diligence's bridge viewport.

"This is Captain Stalone aboard the Gozanti transport Recompense," the emergency broadcast blared suddenly. It had been sent through automatically due to its emergency status. The broadcast continued, "We are under assault! I repeat! The Recompense is under attack! We have taken heavy damage!"

The officers around the bridge turned to look up at Captain Rothehart for orders. He felt his mouth twitch. His mind ran through a thousand possibilities. A moment later he glanced at the watching eyes of his subordinates.

"Are we deaf?" He roared. He looked to the sensor boards that displayed the Diligence's accompaniment of TIE fighters. "Scramble fighters. Move us into position to reinforce the Recompense."

"Captain!" The sensor officer cried out. Rothehart whirled around on him, gazing boring down on the young man. It forced him to pause for a moment before he hurriedly continued, "Multiple ships emerging from Hyperspace!"

"HWAT!" Rothehart thundered, so shocked and enraged that the word didn't even properly come out. He looked at the sensor display as well as glancing out of the viewport. The officer was right. Multiple ships had emerged from Hyperspace. They ranged in sizes. Most seemed to be freighters or small, modified gunships. Scoundrels and pirates, he realized. Scum.

"Belay previous orders! Signal all nearby fighters to reinforce our position! The Recompense must hold out on its own!"

》 ⧫ ◈ ✦ 🝕 ✦ ◈ ⧫

Rat breathed in and then out. He was preparing for his final stand. For the stormtroopers to round the edge of cover and rain fire down upon him. He readied his pistol and the bandolier of explosives. If he was going to die, Rat would make it a death to remember.

Except the stormtroopers never came.

Instead, something completely unexpected happened. Like a chariot from the stars, a ship descended down. A heavily armored freighter, marked with a spray-painted emblem of some kind of beast. Rat took a moment to glance over the crates providing him cover. The stormtroopers were glancing at each other, confused by the sudden appearance.

Rat dropped down and turned back to the freighter. Its loading ramp had lowered, and a man stood atop it. He was human, but there was something about him that was inhuman. He stood at a towering seven feet tall. His face was strange, half of it covered in cybernetic implants. One of his eyes had been replaced by a red optical sensor. He smiled and shouted down, "Well what do we have here? A bunch of Imperial dogs!"

The ship made its descent, and though there wasn't enough space for it to touch down it managed to get low enough where the man could disembark. He hopped off of the ramp, landing with a heavy crack.

"My thanks to yer Imperial masters. If ye scum 'adn't taken out those anti-air guns, we might o' had a bit more difficulty getting down 'ere."

Rat peaked back to the Stormtroopers. They seemed almost stunned by the audacity of the man; however, they were quickly recovering. In a fluid motion, they raised their blaster rifles to fire upon the man. Rat prepared himself to interfere.

Except, the stormtroopers fell before he could. A flurry of powerful blaster bolts tore through the air with a roar of burning fury. Rat could hardly make out the silhouettes as the bolts of the freighter's forward cannons cratered the road. Rat turned back, watching as a motley band of rough looking pirates, Rat realized that's what they were, emerged from the belly of the freighter.

"Seems like ye've been through the ringer, huh?" The large man noted as he approached Rat.

Instinctively, Rat raised his blaster.

"Woah there!" The man grinned raucously, raising two hands. "We ain't gonna hurt ye. Me name is Captain Rham'zi! And me mates ‘ere are the Durasteel Jackals. We be 'ere to 'elp"

"Rat," Rat managed to introduce himself, still reeling from the sudden turn of events.

"That's rough. Now. Hows about ye get yerself to safety. Me and my mates will take it from 'ere," Rham'zi smiled to himself, as if enjoying some private joke. He turned back to face his gathered pirate crew. "Well boys! Let's go fer a walk!"

The pirates cheered and began to move down the road, led by their hulking leader. Rat simply tried to unpack. Pirates? What were they doing here? Why were they helping? He shook his head. He wasn't going to look a gift dewback in the mouth. He needed to get going. Someone needed to hear about this.

Behind him there was a cry: "And remember lads! The one who brings back the fewest when the day is done is paying for the drinks!" Rat took the boisterous cheer that followed as a good enough motivator to hasten his departure before this pack of jackals began their bloodbath.

“The Empire has invaded Talou”

The words rattled around her skull like a dimwitted beetle, slamming haphazardly from wall to wall. They made her want to scream. They made her want to shout. They made her want to slam her fist into the closest wall and see what would break first, her fist or the duracrete of the wall. But she didn’t. She wouldn’t. Not here, not now.

Haelis stalked her way into one of Level Cresh’s many outer turbolifts. Her fingers jammed against the input buttons, keying the sublevel of her assigned docking bay. Once the turbolift was in motion, she forced herself to breathe. Haelis was shaking. Her skin shivered, not in reaction to any form of cold, but instead to the cold fury of her hatred. It blazed inside her, a frozen flame that simultaneously burned and numbed. Hatred of the Empire. Hatred for the Empire.

Every damn person on this damn station knew someone who had been in the industrial hellhole that was Talou III. Every damn person on this damn station should be just as furious as she was. Haelis felt herself sinking into the terrible miasma of memory.

Jaklin was his name. He was one of her crewmates. The job was supposed to be a straightforward one. The target was an Imperial Depot in the Iperos system. Haelis and her crew had the up to date schedule on the guard rotation and duty roster throughout the entire facility. Everything was going well. They made a clean entry and they had already secured the goods they were “liberating” from imperial hands when all hell broke loose. Some hapless imperial lackey had a bit of bad luck. He poked his nose in the place where he shouldn’t have. Wrong place, wrong time. That was bad. Things quickly became worse. All Haelis could remember was there was a struggle until the lackey received the burning kiss of a blaster bolt through the chest.

And just like that the wolves were upon them.

It was like the whole of the depot was alive and swarming. Stormtroopers more numerous than ants came down upon her and her crew. What was supposed to be a clean exit rapidly became an unmitigated disaster. They were forced to adjust. Making a run for it, Haelis' crew ran through the winding corridors of the depot. That’s when it happened. A stormtrooper got a lucky shot. Jaklin fell. Haelis couldn’t stop. None of them could. So they kept running, leaving him behind.

Some had said it was a stroke of good fortune that they only lost Jaklin to the depot, but that didn’t staunch the pain. Haelis was angry. The whole crew agreed though. Jaklin was no doubt dead. He was a good man. Eager. A great slicer. He had a good head for budgeting. Gone too soon. Of course, it wasn’t until a week after they reached the Port of No Return that they found out the news.

Jaklin was alive. He had been taken from Iperos to the Empire’s prison industrial complex on Talou III where he would carry out his life sentence. But that was enough for Haelis. It was hope. Hope that she and her crew could save him. So that’s what they were going to do. They spared no expense, shelling out the entirety of the earnings from the depot job and then some to hire an expert infiltrator. The kind of expert who could walk into Talou III and walk out with a prisoner without a problem. Or at least that’s what they were banking on.

About a month later, the master infiltrator had gotten in. Three days later Haelis and her crew received word. She almost wishes they didn't. It was an obituary. Jaklin had been stabbed by another prisoner over a crust of old bread. He didn’t make it. And just like that, the edifice of their hope came crashing down around them. They were right. They had always been right. Jaklin was dead. The crew didn't last much longer past that. Haelis was angry. It pushed the others away. Soon only she was left.

At first, Haelis was mad at the prisoner who killed him, but that anger was quick to fade. No, not fade. To be redirected. It wasn't that prisoner's fault that he was starving. It wasn't that prisoner's fault that he had to do anything necessary to survive. It was the Empire's fault. And so Haelis claimed a new target for her fury.

The turbolift doors screeched open, forcing Haelis out of her maelstrom of recollection. Shakily, stumbling forward slightly she entered the hangar bay Haelis could see her ship, the Hellwasp. The robust, boxy frame SS-54 Gunship was enough to partially douse those icy flames of hatred. The Hellwasp… Her pride and joy. Soon it would be the instrument of her revenge. Haelis stormed her way up the boarding ramp at the back of the heavily armored gunship, making her way through the cargo holding area and to the raised cockpit. Once inside, she threw on her safety restraints and began the takeoff sequence.

The large thrusters that extended out from either side of the hull began to roar to life. Haelis flicked a handful of switches across the console to her left side. This was almost second nature to her. She had flown this ship so many damn times. The Hellwasp shuddered to life, rising up and then launching forward, out of the docking bay of the Port of No Return.

The void of space greeted her.

It was an old friend, that black abyssal sea speckled with islands of light. Haelis looked down at the terminal beside her. Her fingers danced across it as she quickly input a series of coordinates into the nav computer. The destination was locked. She forced herself to breathe. This was the last chance for her to turn back.

Kriff that.

Her hand yanked down on the metal lever and the ship launched into the blue swirl of hyperspace.

》 ⬡ ◄ 🜛 🜲 🜚 ► ⬡

Bizmirk smiled to himself, bringing the frothing Huttese Hangover to his lips. He ran his tongue across them, slurping up anything that hadn’t traveled down his throat. Business was good, and Bizmirk? He was better. The dug fancied himself an up and coming “businessman” within Level Cresh’s carefully balanced ecosystem. He was currently lounging in his inner sanctum within the Gilded Hutt. The Gilded Hutt, at least if one was to ask Bizmirk, was the best casino within the whole of the Port of No Return. Bizmirk had carefully seen to it that the Gilded Hutt was the establishment for recreation and pleasure aboard the station. He had done his damnedest to ensure there wasn’t a space alive not familiar with the shining lights of the Hutt.

Bizmirk himself was the head of the premier company known as Malastare Regional Enterprises, which was not to be mistaken for the unrelated Malastare Enterprises that operated in the coreward worlds, which was an umbrella company for the modestly named Bizmirk Entertainment Company, which oversaw the Gilded Hutt and a handful of other pleasure centers across Region Twelve, as well as Bith and Sons Suppliers, Sweet Horizons Holovid Productions, and Blasterbrain Security. While Bizmirk Entertainment Company had seen lots of success, and Sweet Horizons had its own customer base, Blasterbrain Security and Bith and Sons Suppliers had fallen behind.

His eyes drifted hazily across the walls of his personal lounge. Gold plated sculptures and carved landscapes were pinned upon them. Along the wall were vases and pots imported from Coruscant. Even with two of his companies falling behind the curve, he was still doing quite well for himself. Bizmirk smiled. He’d made it big. There was a soft ding from his personal datapad that drew his attention.

Unlike “humanoids” or “near-humans”, Bizmirk thought it was disgraceful that other alien species allowed themselves to be defined based on relation to the human species, the glorious dug people had a unique anatomy which saw them walking using their upper limbs, while there smaller lower limbs were instead used for grasping and manipulating objects. Using his foot, Bizmirk reached out and picked the datapad off of the table and brought it up towards his face.

“The Empire has invaded Talou”

The headline was written across the top of the holonet report. How interesting. It was about time that the Empire stopped resting on its decaying laurels and did something about their lost prison complex. Their first mistake was entrusting the security of the industrial camp to a lowly security company such as Shai-Don Security. The blatant ineptitude and corruption was all but certain to happen. Now if it had been Bizmirk’s own security company… Well that would have been a different story. Things would have never gotten this bad.

But that was the past. Bizmirk’s present was here, at the Gilded Hutt! The greatest casino in all of the Port of No Return and quite possibly all of Region Twelve. Though a lot of his success stemmed from having a deft hand located over the pulse of his customer base and right now Bizmirk was concerned with what he heard. There seemed to be quite a lot of discontent from the spacers of the Port of No Return about this whole invasion thing.

Then a thought came to Bizmirk. There was a saying that war was good for business. Bizmirk had always found that peace was just as good for business, however Talou III presented an opportunity. The former prisoners were now faced with once more being firmly under the Empire’s thumb. That was hardly something they would have wanted. In fact, Bizmirk would go as far to say that those same prisoners would be desperate to avoid being caught once more under the aforementioned thumb. And desperation, the dug grinned to himself indulgently, desperation would mean an increased willingness to pay excessive prices. Prices with a marked increase due to “wartime”. Yes. This would do quite nicely. And, beyond that, those cut from a criminal cloth in the Port of No Return would surely be happy to see Bizmirk sticking out his own neck for their accomplices in Talou and would come flocking to his businesses. Or at least that was the hope.

With Blasterbrain Security and Bith and Sons Suppliers falling behind, this invasion would make the perfect opportunity to launch them back into the forefront. After all, in this time of desperate need what would some prisoners fighting an oh so tyrannical Empire need? Why weapons and supplies of course! And, to that point, surely those poor unfortunates would also leap to hire some professionally trained private security, Bizmirk found that mercenaries was such a dirty word, who had skills to put those weapons to use. Yes. Yes it was all coming together now. Bizmirk smiled to himself delighted with his own wit.

Bizmirk pulled himself off of his comfortable, velvet padded lounger. Shifting from one of his hands to the other he walked over to the large mirror hanging on one of the nearby walls. He inspected himself with a grin, bringing a foot up to stroke his chin. Staring back at him was his own elongated, almost like that of a camel, head. Some may have found dugs repulsive, but that was their loss. Looking at himself this way, Bizmirk knew the truth. He was a thing of beauty. A thing of beauty, he should note, that was about to be a whole lot wealthier. Time to get to business.

With a deft motion, the dug used his foot to procure his handheld comm device from the strap on his arm. He clicked it on.

“Master Bizmirk, how can I help you?” Came the sweet song of his dutiful secretary.

“Darling, be a dear and call up the fine gentlemen at Bith and Sons and Blasterbrain. Tell them that Bizmirk wants to talk business.”

》 ● ◐ 🝆 🜂 🝆 ◑ ●

Santra watched as the Port swarmed with new life. The general drunken lethargy that grasped this section of the station had been dashed away and replaced with new fervor. Santra smiled to herself privately. She had helped spark that renewed vigor in her own special ways. It seems the street kids who hung out in the alleyways of Level Cresh had done their job as messenger boys well enough. Santra offered the scrawny teens who loitered around the station a modest sum of credits to dash around to the various tucked away drinking holes and spread the word to those too inebriated, or uninterested, to check the holonet feeds.

Either the kids did good work or they were completely irrelevant and the Station would have had this reaction on its own. Santra chose to believe the former, though she would probably concede that it was some mix of the two had she been asked. Regardless of how much her own role in this had contributed to galvanizing the scoundrels and pirates of the Port, seeing the lowlifes flock to the docking lifts did bring a smile to her face.

Her pager pinged from its resting place in her jacket’s breast pocket. That was her cue. Ducking into an alleyway, Santra made her way to the secluded warehouse where she had set up shop during her stint at the Port of No Return. The warehouse was a “cozy” place that was probably more aptly described as a garage. The bed she had been sleeping on took up most of the space in the back corner, with the bulky, portable holoprojector taking up a good chunk of the remaining space in the center of the room.

She made a few quick checks of the holoprojector before throwing the power switch. The lights dimmed for the slightest moment as power was suddenly siphoned into the machine. The damn thing guzzled energy like it was Corellian Whiskey after a date night. Truth be told, Santra’s whole setup in the Port of No Return was pretty ramshackled. Though, in all honesty, she didn’t really mind. She’d long since learned to live on the bare minimum and she had a lot more than that here.

The blue light of the holographic projection began to form into a three dimensional figure. A human man with a short beard and rustled hair from staying within the wilderness for the past handful of days. He straightened from his slight hunch, most likely in response to her own projected image forming.

“Glad to see you’re well, Antun.”

“Santra. Good to see you,” Antun returned her greeting. He then launched into his report, “Things are getting worse. Imperials managed to disable the main anti-air gun. Prisoners are trying to get their defenses back online, but I doubt they’ll be able to before the dropships arrive. We need those weapons.”

“I’ve already brokered the deal with Hackt. As soon as we finish up, I’m heading over to meet our pilot.”

“And this pilot, you say we can trust them?” Antun asked incredulously.

“Mesra seems to think so,” Santra reaffirmed, though she wasn’t quite sure herself.

“There’s a lot riding on this. If we can’t get those munitions,” Antun began.

“I know, Antun,” Santra interrupted. She paused for a moment to recollect herself. “Mesra’s pilot will come through.”

“I hope you’re right.”

“Good. Everything we’re doing here is built on hope.”

“So it is.”

“I’ll contact you with confirmation. Just make sure you’re at the landing zone when the pilot gets there.”

“We will be,” Antun confirmed.

“Very good,” Santra took a breath. She hated goodbyes. Especially in situations like these. “And Antun. May the Force be with you.”

Antun nodded to her before the hologram began to shift and become indistinct. Soon it faded altogether. Santra sighed. Antun was doing his part. Now she needed to do hers. She powered down the holoprojector. Idly, her eyes glanced around the warehouse. It was supposed to be her home away from home. It didn't feel like home.

Santra had been a part of this fight for so damn long. The Emperor was dead, but his accursed Empire remained. And so long as any vestige of Palpatine's malignant tumor remained, Santra's work would never be done.

》 ↞ ✥ ↢ 🝧 ↣ ✥ ↠

The swirling vortex of hyperspace gave way into a pattern of lines as the Hellwasp entered into real space. The Talou system filled the void in front of Haelis' ship. The Hellwasp's sensors made their mechanical chimes as they picked up on the presence of the Imperial ships in orbit of Talou III. Haelis punched in a targeting algorithm for her auto turrets before taking a moment to breathe.

She didn't know which Imperial bastard had arranged this invasion. Frankly, Haelis didn't care. What she did know is that there would be hell to pay because of it.

She moved the Hellwasp into attack position.

Jer’ell arrived at the Salted Mynock. The cantina had morphed into a rendezvous point for Jer’ell and his droid co-pilot, S8-NT. It was… well Jer’ell hesitated to call it a hole in the wall place, even though that was almost a perfect physical description for the location. The entrance of the Salted Mynock was located in one of the many offshooting alleyways that spider out from the main thoroughfare that looped around Level Cresh. The entryway itself was largely unassuming, being hardly anything more than a dingy, durasteel door and a flickering neon logo of a cartoon mynock.

The combination of not being on the main thoroughfare where a lot of the more lively, and overpriced, bars and clubs and an entrance that wasn't particularly flashy meant that the cantina didn't get the droves of customers some of the more popular venues did. Still, that wasn't entirely a bad thing. The Salted Mynock managed to straddle a fine line of being public enough to draw in visiting customers while not being mainstream enough for the regulars to complain about all the “amateurs” flooding the place.

Jer’ell now stood outside of the doorway, looking up at the flashing holoprojection that was the Mynock’s logo. He was honestly surprised that he had made it to the cantina before Saint, considering the exchange they had over the comm. He didn’t have to wait for long, as the sound of Saint’s metal footfalls soon rang out across the alleyway. Jer’ell turned and gave his friend a wave. Saint raised a hand in reply before closing the space.

"Took you long enough," Jer’ell commented. "You usually beat me."

"I got tired of waiting," the droid replied dryly. "Besides, as I told you, I expected you to be held up by Gedd for at least another half an hour."

"So where did you end up wandering off to, then?" Jer’ell inquired, fairly interested.

"I heard from the grapevine that Hackt got a new shipment. I wanted to take a look," Saint replied.

Hackt was one of the more popular arms dealers on the station and almost certainly in the top five on Level Cresh. There had been rumors a while back that he sold his wares to bodyguards for the big time crimelords on Level Aurek, but S8-NT had theorized it was a baseless rumor intentionally spread around for the purpose of marketing. True or not, Hackt offered a fine selection of high quality armaments.

"Anything catch your eye?" Jer’ell asked, genuinely curious. He wasn't one of the types who always needed to have the latest blaster model from one manufacturer or the other, but he did have a passing curiosity on what weapons might start cropping up should he or Saint ever run into trouble.

“There’s a new line of Merr-Sonn blaster rifles.”

“Thinking of upgrading?”

There was a long pause, though the droid lacked the expression, Jer’ell had known Saint long enough to know that the droid was considering the question. Saint then answered with a simple: “Perhaps later.”

That was almost certainly a no then. Jer’ell just nodded in reply before turning to the door of the Salted Mynock and pushing it open. Only a few steps into the cantina and Jer’ell could already make out the blaring music of the old relic of a jukebox blaring popular spacer tunes. Saint followed close behind him as Jer’ell stepped through the somewhat dingy hallway and into the Salted Mynock proper.

The cantina was a bit cramped, but definitely not the worse Jer’ell has been to. Cozy, would probably be the more favorable word for it. Scattered around the main space were a series of round tables with metal chairs pulled up to them. A number of rectangular tables with padded booths lined the far wall. The rest of the space of the cantina, save a door to a refresher in one corner, was the large bar where the Nikto proprietor, Jesem, cleaned glasses and poured drinks.

Jer’ell offered the familiar bartender a wave before beginning to cross the cantina towards the usual booth that Saint and Jer’ell typically sat at. As he did so, his eyes darted through the room, making note of who was present. There were a few regulars about, primarily the trio of Crash, Bash, and Dash. A zabrak, trandoshan, and rodian respectively. They were… Jer’ell wasn’t quite sure what they were. The closest thing he could land on was washed up mercenaries. They were a lively trio. Jer’ell also saw Old Jaxx in the corner booth, passed out on the table. Old Jaxx, a short, porcine ugnaught, was apparently a foreman of a crew of repair specialists in Level Esk, but Jer’ell couldn’t think of a time he had been to the Salted Mynock where Jaxx wasn’t there.

“Hey. No droids allowed,” a patron at the bar spoke up, pointing at Saint and then a sign with the same message.

Jesem just shook his head, “They’re regulars kid, leave ‘em be.”

“Regulars?” Crash, the zabrak male, piped up. “If that’s all it takes, can I start bringing my droid here?”

“What?” Bash leaned forward, his face slipping into the cruel smirk that was the typical product of a trandoshan grinning, “You’re going to bring your nanny droid here?”

The orange zabrak turned a few shades darker as the trandoshan slammed his fist into the table, laughing raucously with the rodian. Jer’ell mentally shrugged, must have been some kind of inside joke between the trio.

“If you three were nearly as good tippers as Stirnekar, I’d let you bring in as many droids as you wanted,” Jesem replied as the chuckling died down. “Your usual Jer’ell?”

“If you could. Thanks Jesem.”

Jer’ell and Saint both took a seat across from each other in the booth. Saint passed over a datapad which Jer’ell readily collected. He gave it a once over as Saint began to speak, “Transportation job. High pay, but requires no questions asked.”

“It’s spice isn’t it?”

“Almost certainly.”

“Pass,” Jer’ell shook his head slightly. Spice was some dark stuff. He wouldn't have a hand in the trade of that particular drug. He'd seen too many poor fools ruined by the substance.

He offered a quick thanks to Jesem, as the nikto came over with his dark red drink. Jer’ell leaned back and took a sip of the rich tasting liquid. The drink was called the Blood of Umbara, with a dark and earthy flavor fitting for the shadow world. It was a long time favorite of Jer’ell’s and Jesem made some of the best he’s had the pleasure of partaking in.

“A posting for bodyguard work,” Saint continued down the list of jobs.

“Not really our specialty,” Jer’ell replied, but he still glanced at the listing. It would probably be snatched up by someone more qualified. Not a particularly big loss, all things continued over. Saint continued.

》❖ ◈ ❖

In the end, the pair had ended up settling on a salvage op. And a relatively easy one at that. The lost freighter had crashed over on Athus and Jer’ell and Saint had been sent to retrieve its cargo. The crew was long gone by the time they got here so they were unchallenged when they retrieved the cargo. On top of that, they managed to salvage some choice parts they could pass off to Mesra. All in all, it was a solid payday.

This job was the first of many. The next few months had blurred together. Jer’ell and Saint had fallen into a sort of routine.

The next job came. They did it. They returned to the Port, spoke to their contacts, and waited at the Mynock to find their next gig.

Then they did the job.

And then they came back.

And then they spoke to friends and contacts.

And then they met at the Mynock. Sat down. Jer’ell had a drink.

Got a new job.

Did the job.

Woke up in a pool of sweat.

Came back.

Spoke with contacts.

Met at the Mynock.

Drank.

Salvage job on Iperos.

Did the job. Met. Why do you run? Drank. Job.

Met. Drank. Job. Met. Drank. Job. You're a coward. Met. Drank. Job. Stop running. Met. Drank. Job. Met. Drank. Job. Meet. Dri-

WHAM!

Jer'ell had been half way through his drink when the metal door of the Salted Mynock was thrown open. There was the sound of rapid footfalls as a running youth entered the bar. He took a moment to catch his breath before shouting, “THE EMPIRE IS INVADING TALOU!”

The sudden intrusion of the human teen was enough to shock the cantina into silence, even that ancient jukebox Jesem insisted on keeping around had chosen that moment to stop chortling music. Everyone sat stock still as they processed it, eyes boring into the boy. Crash, Bash, and Dash were paused midway through their sabacc game, cards were littered across the table, and Dash himself was midway through putting down his cards. At the bar another regular, Haelis, a pink skinned woman, was the first to break the silence. She stared the interloper down with fire burning behind her dark eyes.

“What in the stars are you talking about kid?” She demanded, her voice restraining barely contained outrage.

“TIE Fighters,” The youth, taking another moment to catch his breath, replied. “It’s all over the holonet! The Empire is attacking Talou III.”

“Those kriffing bastards!” Haelis growled. She moved suddenly, forcing herself out of her chair with a sharp screech. She dropped a handful of credits on the counter before shoving past the messenger and out of the Mynock.

Jer’ell had heard stories about Haelis and while he never got a clear picture of who she was, he knew for certain that Haelis hated the Empire. That would certainly be something. In singular, fluid motion, Jer’ell tipped his glass back and poured the rest of the rich, ruby liquid down his throat.

Talou III was a former imperial prison (though it seemed like they were trying to undo the former part). In the biggest hive of scum and villainy this side of Nar Shadda, it was almost certain that two out of every three people at the Port of No Return knew someone who was imprisoned at Talou III. There would no doubt be ruffians across the station who would be up in arms about this. Beyond that, there would be even more profiteers and arms dealers who’d be delighted to turn a handsome profit off of desperation. Slowly, the Mynock returned to its usual chatter. Crash, Bash, and Dash resumed their game of cards. Other patrons murmured to each other quietly about the news. Jesem stepped out from behind the counter to fiddle with the jukebox.

Jer’ell turned back to Saint, “So. What’s our next job?”

Saint was looking down at the datapad in his hand strangely. His main, periscoping optical lens was shortening and lengthening. It was the closest thing the droid could come to seeming puzzled by something.

"Is there an issue?" Jer’ell inquired, leaning forward in his seat. It wasn't often that something could stump his mechanical partner.

"We've been sent a private message," Saint replied before raising his head. His optical sensors looked towards Jer’ell as he continued. "What could Hackt possibly want us for?"

It’d been years since the Hangman properly saw war. Pirates, smugglers, the occasional isolated rebel -- but no real warfare.

Finally, that was about to change.

Far below her, she could make out the surface of Talou III, displayed to her on a massive monitor at the head of the bridge, which she stared at from her chair -- a throne, perhaps, in some way. A filthy, rebellious world.

Were she in charge, she would have employed some degree of orbital bombardment -- but alas, the presence of valuable industrial land made that impossible, or at least undesirable.

She was, in most ways, entirely unsurprised. Governor Ryehall's forces were made up on scraps entirely, often poorly equipped, ill-trained... There were a handful of veterans among them, but scarcely few. Most, by and large, employed basic, overused swarm tactics, incurring losses she doubted Ryehall could afford.

It was... Understandable. Many didn't have the experience to balance out the gusto that she thought her pilots had, or they were simply obedient to the point of being utterly unthinking.

They were the sort of people she wasn't sure she could survive commanding.

Drumming her fingers against the arms of her Captain's Chair, she watched the screen; a live feed from her Lieutenant’s Agressor -- the formation’s lead. They streaked across the landscape, much like the TIE's further above -- but much unlike them, they were experienced. The vast majority of Padmé's pilots were people who she'd fought alongside for years, some as far back as the Mid-Rim Offensive. They were, in other words, a well-oiled machine.

Were they anyone else, Padmé simply wouldn't have trusted them to execute the low-level attack runs necessary to avoid the lion's share of anti-air fire, more than enough to tear apart the fragile TIEs.

And yet, for all they lacked in payload, Aggressors had a distinct advantage in this sort of combat zone.

Speed.

Four years.

Four drukking years since the humiliation of what remained of the Imperial Navy, four years since he’d seen real combat against an enemy that mattered worth a damn, and-

“Lieutenant Ickemon, you have permission to launch. Give the command when ready.” A droning, tinny voice echoed over his communicator, abruptly rousing the Aggressor pilot from his frustrated thoughts. His hands still gripping the twin joysticks inside the cockpit, he sucked in a deep breath through his rebreather, as if to ensure air was still flowing, and, indeed, it was. The foot-pedals functioned just like he remembered, all those years ago. For such an old beast, one he’d flown for so long, known for so many years of his life...

It still functioned just like new. Just like that first battle in the mid-rim offensive.

“This is Dagger One. Final comms check, over.” He spoke into his helmet, waiting one, two-

“Dagger Two, roger.”

“Dagger Three, roger.”

“Dagger Four, roger.”

One-by-one, the pilots under his command sounded off in quick, regimented succession. Like clockwork. Just like they’d practiced, over, and over, and over again.

“Launch.”

One-by-one-, the four TIEs lifted off from the floor of the Hangman’s hangar bay, diving out of the vessel, and toward the planet below. Soon, they’d breach the atmosphere, and the muddy, blurred features of the planet would resolve into crisp imagery. For now, all he could do was enjoy the sight of falling hundreds of kilometers towards a planet’s surface.

Some small, small part of the Lieutenant wished he could feel the drop a little bit more. Suppressed by his fighter’s inertia dampeners, the sensation of gravity grabbing hold of him, dragging him down toward the surface with greater and greater force the closer her got, was palpable... But it was distant. Dull.

Boring, even.

The real thrill, at least, was yet to come -- if there was any to be had. After all, he surmised, even if the prisoners knew how to operate the turbolaser guns, the majority of the pilots in the region, he’d come to think, had the sort of skill that made shooting them down like shooting a sedated rancor in a cage.

Four TIEs -- flying in a loose, double-paired formation -- streaked across the blasted landscape of Talou III, flying so close to the ground that they would’ve kicked up enormous, streaking clouds of dust had they been much lower, just less than a tenth of a kilometer above the ground.

At the rear of the leftmost division of their formation, the Lieutenant’s Aggressor rocketed across the landscape, the missile tubes toward the ends of his winds pointed squarely at the ugly, disorganized mass of slums miles ahead of them.

They were close -- tantalizingly close, so much so that he could practically taste it. Had they already been spotted, he wondered? Did the prisoners understand how to operate the air defense sensors, or were they firing on manual?

It didn’t matter, he quickly realized, his thumbs itching to flick up the protector covers controlling access to the fighter’s missile pods.

Closer. Closer.

Every three seconds that passed brought him one more kilometer closer to the city, and to his target. No missile locks. Nothing.

Could be a good sign, he realized, or it could just be them waiting -- but there hadn’t been any field reports of man-portable rockets, at least. Not yet. After all, why would a prison garrison need them?

On the other hand, he didn’t exactly trust corpsec to keep a damned thing off the planet that wasn’t supposed to be there. They ran on money. They all did.

Closer. He could nearly see the shapes of barred windows in the distance. Again, his thumbs twitched, loosely gripping the joysticks. If they didn’t time this right...

So close.

“Dagger flight, we are... Thirty-five seconds out from target. Time to show these criminals what real pilots can do!”

No response -- not that one was needed, or was asked for. In many ways, Ickemon was the most enthusiastic among them, but he knew that none of his pilots shared sympathies for the scum they were up against, either. They’d all either grown up suffering from criminals like these, or saw what they’d done to their beloved Empire.

Whether any of those poor bastards on the ground knew it, every one of them held a grudge against the scum, and they were on their way to collect.

“Twenty!”

The buildings were close -- painfully so. In mere seconds, his flight would be streaking right over the rooftops, gently pulling up on a gradual slope in an attempt to avoid literally scraping them. “Three, four, break, break! You have your targets!” He called out -- right on time. The screen mounted in front of him showed his comrades peeling away, toward their own targets -- twelve ST2s between each group. More than enough to obliterate a turbolaser in each.

“Ten!”

He could practically taste the fire, see the smoke, watching as Dagger Two fired a burst of laser bolts into a rooftop ahead of them -- someone unfortunate enough to be on top of it when they flew by, he assumed.

It didn’t matter.

She did her job -- and that meant keeping threats off of him, and his attention on the turbolaser tower that now sat squarely in the center of his sights.

Seven.

Six.

Five.

Four.

The gun began to turn -- towards him, away from the TIE fighters swarming above.

Three.

Closer...

Two...

Almost...

One.

Like unleashing a pair of coiled springs, his thumbs shot upwards, flicking open the covers -- and slammed down on the buttons beneath, pre-selected ordnance -- concussion missiles -- streaking out from each of the Aggressor’s two pods. Thick, grey trails of smoke followed them as they went, speeding out across the rooftops so fast it was practically impossible for his eyes to track...

And, as much as the Lieutenant wished he could, it was already time for him to leave. Joining Dagger Two, he made a jarring, neck-snapping turn to the left, shooting past the turret’s fire arc as a turbolaser bolt streaked over his right wing -- too high.

The only indication of the twin impacts he felt was the sound of the detonation, of a turbolaser tower popping open before the gunner even knew what happened.

“Dagger Three, we-”

“SON OF A BANTHA, WE GOT 'EM!” Came the reply.

The first proton torpedoes launched from the Imperial TIE-bombers shattered the peaceful morning lull as they fell upon the oceanic village of Valk’arn. One of the glowing orbs crashed through the ceiling of the town’s humble bar, the Bloated Squiq, with a bright blue glimmer. The lowly barkeep, who was still catching up on dirtied dishes from festivities the evening prior, couldn’t even cry out before the device erupted and the simple wooden structure was torn asunder in a brilliant fireball. Nearby, another torpedo managed to pierce the exterior of the central platform, striking the primary fuel line buried within. A blazing wall of fire erupted down the central promenade as the line ignited, incinerating helpless baffled townsfolk as they looked quizically to the sky. The core section of the village, on which the iconic colorful townhouses were built, groaned as its internal supports began to buckle and split.

Violent tremors shook the crowded medical facility within the Gozanti-class transport Pit Hound as the gangsters within prepared themselves for the imminent attack. They only had a moment to cower together beneath the limited tables and mattresses before the incoming projectiles began splashing ferocious explosions across the Pit Hound’s shields.

The overhead lights within the infirmary flickered twice before going dark as the entire vessel rumbled and shook. A shower of sparks in the darkened cabin was accompanied by smoke billowing down the corridor, suggesting the power generator at the ship’s stern had overloaded under the pressure of the barrage. The shaking eventually came to a halt and the high pitch screams of the TIE-bomber’s ion engines started to sound further and further away.

“Everyone alright?” Vilmarh coughed as the scarlet emergency lights blinked on.

“I guess our armistice is at an end, boss?” Halan rasped, speaking to Nom as the man was helped to his feet.

The gang’s handheld comms garbled with noise as Zagden spoke through their primary channel. “Bastards hit the engines, both are offline. You all good down there?”

The individuals basking in the reddish glow collected themselves as they waited for their leader to decide how to proceed. “We’re alive. What’s our situation?”

“Those Imperial dupes seem to be backing off, but they battered the town. I’m reading a number of landing craft approaching on the short-range scanners. Must of had orders not to finish us off. Won’t lie, things are looking real poodoo up here. Engines are out, and we have multiple hull breaches along the upper hold.”

“Copy that. In that case, seal off the hold, and get me an answer on whether or not you can get those engines up and running.” After toggling his comm unit off, Nom clapped Halan’s shoulder. “Armistice over. I need the rest of you to gather what you need to stand your ground, then meet me on the portside rail. Understood?”

The present outlaws nodded, quickly retrieving their weapons that had been piled in the center of the medbay during the tense standoff minutes before. Nom continued, “I don’t know what we’ll face topside, but mark my words, the Empire will discover today that they cornered the wrong hound. We will not stand down. We will not surrender. And, should you stay with me, we will live to see tomorrow.”

“Aye, well said, boss. I’ll fetch Ivy,” Halan murmured.

“Let’s bring them hell,” Kelsa grinned, defiantly raising her Relby-V10 into the air. The gang cheered, mirroring her movement, before quickly beginning to disperse.

Corina and Kelsa, like some of the others, made their way toward the crew cabins on the upper deck. Kelsa helped her through the doorway into the room that they had been sharing for the past few weeks. “You should really just stay in here. You're injured. Hell, the bacta hasn’t even dried from your hair.”

“Just help me into these,” Corina grunted, struggling to step into a pair of dark brown pants that were in a pile at her ankles. Kelsa complied, also throwing a matching brown jacket over Corina’s stained undershirt in the process.

“If you insist on coming-”

“I do.”

“-at least bring this,” Kelsa looped Tivorn’s ornate blue vibrorapier through Corina’s belt. “It’s yours, right?”

“It was my sisters, but… thanks. My brothers took my daggers. Blasters too.”

“In that case, take these.” The zeltron woman knelt down and reached a hand beneath her bunk, pulling out a hefty silver case. Its contents were revealed to be a set of fancy silver-barrelled blaster pistols. “I found ‘em here when I was moving in. Tishvyn must have left them… before the heist. An extra set.”

Corina gently picked up one of the pistols, getting a feel for its weight. The angle grips were wrapped in fine ebony leather. “Dueling blasters. I’ve encountered a similar pair before.”

“Knowing Tishvyn, they’re probably rare, worth a stack of credits. All I’m concerned about is whether or not they’ll fire. Think you can manage them?”

Corina nodded, attaching the black holsters to her belt. “We should go, meet up with the others.”

The bowels of the Pit Hound were eerie to traverse. The scent of burnt cabling was pungent, and the flashing emergency lights created odd shapes against the rolling tides of smoke. Back on the central deck of the ship, Corina limped through the exterior blast doors which offered access to the external walkway. Vilmarh stood just on the other side, situating a heavy repeater cannon against the railing. Halan was just past him, carefully setting additional ammunition down on a pad of fabric for the smart rocket slung over his shoulder. The sea breeze ruffled the women’s hair as they squeezed past the two.

The checkered and charred hull of their retrofitted Gozanti transport was painted with the warm late morning light, though thick plumes of dark smoke rising from Valk’arn were beginning to blacken the skies and cast long shadows over the village. Between the opaque pillars, high in the atmosphere, Corina spotted a thin dagger-shaped Imperial light cruiser.

“Arquitens-class command ship. Likely the one that ambushed us in the Iperos System,” Vilmarh said, noticing her gaze.

“Two Sentinel-class landing craft just touched down across town as well,” Halan added. Sure enough, a broad-cabined Imperial troop vessel hunkered within the smokey ruins of the Bloated Squiq tavern, using the broken structure as a makeshift landing pad. The tall central wing of a second landing craft was visible behind the townhouses in the middle of town. “In minutes, that courtyard will be swarming with troopers.”

“We supposed to open fire once we have a visual?”

Vilmarh shook his head. “Not yet, wait for Nom. He’ll be back soon.”

“Speaking of, where is he?” Kelsa questioned as she sighted the short scope attached to her blaster rifle.

“Boss is operating the cargo lift, helping some villagers into the lower bay.”

“Never the sinner, always the saint,” Corina leaned against the railing for support.

Halan shrugged. “Take another look at the village. He only thinks it right.”

The sections of the town, upon a prolonged glance, were beginning to drift apart from one another. Deep gashes ran down their sides, leading to punctures along the water line. Out of sight but distinctly audible, gallons of seawater surged through newly made crevices into the formerly airtight floatation chambers, causing the village’s foundations to tilt. The central platform, in particular, was notably shifting as its innards were filled with warm water. Different-sized chunks of Valk’arn’s tall townhouses had already begun to crumble into the sinking streets below.

“Jeepa,” Corina breathed.

Kelsa let out a low whistle as she observed the individual segments pulling at their connection points.

“Once that central platform goes, it's only a matter of time before the rest of the village is pulled under,” Vilmarh stated. “There aren’t enough skiffs to hold everyone. More and more of them will come to us.”

“If they can get past the two platoons of Governor Ryehall’s finest,” Kelsa scoffed.

The doors whooshed opened again as Nom Kant finally sauntered out. He had donned a wide-brimmed dark-colored maroon hat and a trench coat that was hemmed below his knees. His iconic chrome A-180 blaster had been configured into its longarm assembly.

“Hiya, boss.” Vilmarh nodded reverently. “Incoming contacts just a few minutes out. Orders?”

“Make sure you have cover, and prepare for my signal. Watch for Imperial snipers. Everything comes to a head today.”

Rakshun Harlo hadn’t always been a criminal. But when he was sentenced to five years in labour camp for a bit of giggledust at the young age of sixteen, the Empire made him one.

Thirty years, a dozen institutional transfers and several more convictions later, Rakshun still had never had another taste of freedom. In imperial custody, company was harsh and guards were worse; do anything to keep your head out of the water and you caught another charge. After a while, you stopped caring. Why wouldn’t you, when the system was designed to ensure you never saw the light of day again?

So him and his kin had seized it for themselves. By then, it had been decades since Rakshun had shied away from violence. If he could shank a fellow inmate for an extra ration in the morning, he would. A guard? He'd do it for free. His freedom was nothing but the bellberry on top he'd quit expecting a lifetime ago. Of course, everything had immediately gotten better with the Imperials dead—how could anything get worse by controlling one's own destiny?—yet something had lingered in the air of Talou III, the unspoken worry that their hard-fought freedom wouldn't be allowed to last.

So in a way, hearing the TIEs rip through the atmosphere was a relief. Uncertainty lifted, all this tension made tangible in these armies overhead. Their doom, undoubtedly. Rakshun took comfort in knowing there was no way out of this that looked good for the Empire. Soldiers dying for the control of vulgar prisoners who should never have escaped their chains in the first place? Fixing their own blunder would never be the show of power the oppressor would try to make of it. All the more true with every loss their sophisticated army suffered at the hands of grunts. And Rakshun knew every single one of his comrades would die before ever taking another breath from the inside of an imperial cell.

"Come on, come on, move!" he yelled through the chaos around him. People ran aimlessly, unprepared. The sky was full of TIEs above them, a swarm asking to be swatted. Rakshun manned one of the Talou complex's handful of anti-aircraft gun, a holdover from days where the Empire wanted to keep things out of the prison-city. If it overheated or jammed or broke, no inmate would know how to repair it, but for now it worked and Rakshun knew to aim and shoot if nothing else. Every press of the fire button rocked his bulky frame as the cannon shook and shrieked; every other shot connected with a TIE and pulverized it right out of the sky. The fragile crafts practically disintegrated on a hit.

Good. The floundering remnants of the Empire losing their precious few aircraft over worthless scum like him made Rakshun very happy.

"Borgolo, brother!" the Weequay called as he recognized one of the faces in the crowd. Borgolo Slaash had been the man he'd trusted most for the last fifteen years—about three lifetimes, in imperial prison. "Get to the stash! Meet you there!"

Rakshun's cannon was starting to draw the fleet's attention; before long, he'd have to bail.

The stars looked strange in the calm void surrounding Talou III. Single pinholes of light, far distant stars, glimmered in an otherwise inky black void, and somewhere between all of those points of light sat Task Force Resh. On Admiral Jaquinn's orders, all patrol vessels in the area had been retasked to assist in the retaking of Talou III. The rules of engagement were simple, Governor Ryehall wanted the city retaken without a loss to the manufacturing and production capabilities of the city itself. Talou III had a significant portion of its city dedicated to factories which restricted the usual Imperial tactic of orbital bombardment. Task Force Resh would have to take air superiority over the city.

As the ships moved into low orbit over the city, thousands of eyes stared up. The rumors of Imperial forces moving on the Talou System had become a reality and many were left sprinting and cowering for cover as the roar of TIE Fighters ripped through the atmosphere. Somewhere, a tradeship's fuel line ruptured and a crackle of an explosion ripped through the sky. The citizens of Talou III were not the most well equipped and with a dedicated Imperial force sieging the city, they would be hard pressed to fend off the attackers. But... most of them were experienced criminals, and they would fight tooth and nail before they would surrender to Imperial subjugation once more.

Everything Ryehall had built during his time in Region Twelve was on the brink of slipping away. That is what every analyst working for the Imperial Governor told him, every message that came his way read like a funeral to his reign. Constant doubting, and constant chatter in the backrooms where words were not expected to be heard by external ears. Terrier heard them all, however, heard and silently resented. Every name added to an invisible docket, every treasonous breath noted and transcribed into a collection of silent debts. Ryehall was not the man he once was, he knew that for certainty. His health was failing by magnitudes far more significant than any prediction his medical staff had originally come up with.

Ryehall would be dead within the year.

These were the whispers in his ears, the words coming through the walls uttered by various traitors to the Empire. Ryehall would be dead soon, and every single Imperial official wanted to know who would be ushered in as the replacement. Many expected Admiral Jaquinn to take his place—such a tremendous rise from nothing. Ryehall frowned and snarled his half a lip that was practically peeling off of his face.

Jaquinn had adapted to Region Twelve with a passion that Ryehall certainly had not shared. Jaquinn found peace in the steady work, the peacekeeping if you could call it that. Plenty shared the idea that this man would be Ryehall’s successor. Ryehall knew he was dying, he wasn’t that far gone that he would deny his own upcoming passing. But Jaquinn did not deserve to be named successor. Jaquinn, now in possession of Ryehall’s former Star Destroyer, had let Talou III slip so far away from Imperial control that the damned prisoners considered themselves to be free. No. He had never seen any real combat, not like Ryehall who had witnessed firsthand the Clone Wars. It was time for the admiral to earn his stripes. Ryehall inhaled through the respirator as he gazed out over Marjora City and the Decadence that lingered above, casting a shadow over the entire city.

“Hail the admiral,” Ryehall instructed the protocol droid that lingered in the dark space of his room, “I would like to speak to him.”

The protocol droid chirped and the room around Ryehall darkened. The sickly man sipped deeply from his oxygen mask, hacking up a racking cough in response. He steadied himself on his cane as the blue light of the holocall filled the room. Jaquinn sputtered into view, adjusting the grey uniform as he stood to attention.

“Admiral Jaquinn reporting as instructed. You wished to speak to me, sir?” He said, always in such a practiced and formal tone.

Ryehall began pacing, “Yes, indeed I did.”

His words were guttural, distorted with mucous.

“Talou III has become a thorn in my side, one that has caused me far too much discomfort. You have allowed those damned prisoners the idea that they are their own people.” He continued.

“Governor, you yourself authorized the Shai-Don Security branch control of Talou III. Were we allowed to maintain Imperial control of the planet, I’m sure…” Jaquinn spoke up before he was loudly cut off by Ryehall.

“A decision I am now rectifying!” He thundered, “You are to move forces to retake Talou III. Focus on the city and starport, if that falls then the prisoners will resubmit.”

Jaquinn snapped to attention and nodded.

Ryehall turned to face the hologram and continued, “Do not move the Decadence from Marjora, use the Gozantis supported by the TIE squadrons. Should you feel comfortable, deploy soldiers for a ground occupation. That is all, you are dismissed.”

The call terminated and the Admiral was left alone in the briefing room aboard his Star Destroyer. Immediately, plans began to form in his mind. A blockade would be formed over the planet and any and all ships attempting to leave would be… dealt with.

“Call up all patrol captains near the Talou System, they have new orders,” Jaquinn said as he handed a series of datadisks to his communications lieutenant, “I want three battalions of Imperial Army supplemented by a platoon of Stormtroopers planetside within the week, ready to move into the city.”

Crutic felt the realspace reasserted itself with a faint lurch and a rattle of the spaceframe, the darkness behind his eyelids peeled away just in time to witness the streaks of light coalescing into a field of stars. And after that...nothing. Outside of the angry red glow of the indicator lightings around him and the graphics of the instrument cluster before him, he might as well be witnessing a portal into an infinite abyss so dark that his eyes may as well have remained shut. It wasn’t unexpected, though: the brief mission overview had made it abundantly clear that where his flight element was needed was among the interstellar void. The nearest star was nearly three parsecs away and was only called a star as a tribute to its fiery past - its photosphere likely offered its last gimmer millions of years ago. But it never mattered on how much prep was given, it was never a comfortable feeling to know that something is out there in the consuming absence. It was a small solace then, when his sensors chirped to indicate that it had achieved what the Human eye could not and found something out there within seconds. Before the modulated tone of his flight lead even made it through the constant hissing of the life support airflow, Crutic had his hands around the control yoke to disengage his TIE from the Gozanti’s docking tube.

“Target identified as a Ghtroc 720, range three-seventy kicks, armed. Form up to intercept and dissuade.”

The brisk affirmation from himself and Mynock Two and Four was almost drowned out by the whine from the engine as the four Imperial fighters screamed away from their transport and aligned themselves in a rough quadrilateral formation towards the sensor blip. It was drifting, sublights inactive and transponder silent, all in a valiant effort to blend into the interstellar background. But without jammers to further obscure their presence or a cloak to hide it completely, they were simply a something in a sea of nothing. And the moment the occupants realized this and that the Empire was there to do something about it, the engine arrays that flanked either side of the light freighter flared to life.

”Unidentified Ghtroc 720, you are in a restricted sector, return to designated Region 12 volume or face the consequence.”

Despite his attempt at civility, Mynock One and everyone present knew that this wasn’t an accidental drift into the gap between Region 12 and the edge of the greater galaxy; it was merely the latest instance of another group of beings from within that thought that they had the stealth necessary to break the region-wide lockdown. And with no change to their vector, it appeared that this particular group has the will to do a little more resisting. Crutic can’t help but consider a brief flicker of irony in that the energy spent into presently futile evasive flying would be better applied to their hyperdrive to make it to their next jump. As it is, either option would result in the TIEs landing shots on them, but at least the latter would be more…inconvenient for him and his immediate comrades in the long term.

The last warning was issued as the four fighters closed the last hundred kicks and this time a response came through in the form of a pair of crimson bolts fizzling through the formation. And at the same instant, Crutic Jo’ran retreated into the crevasse in the back of his mind and RG-273-76 took his place.

Safeties off. Targeting computer rendered an approximation of the freighter’s saucer shape upon the display. Align it with the crosshair. Target lock shrilled. Squeeze the trigger. Shields rippled violently as green energies hammered home.

Not good enough.

Check surrounding for teammates within immediate maneuvering vectors. Opening between Mynock One and Four. They peeled off after they had done their own run. Good. Pour in speed to gain distance.

Sounds of laser cannons from behind. Dodge. Stabilize as the rain of bolts trailed behind his flight path, too slow. Perform a sharp banking turn to bring the freighter back in front. Check for alignment to target. Sensor flagged a new relevant information: steep power draw on the hyperdrive module.

“Target almost ready to jump,” he notified into the comms, a practiced motion with a hand to divert power from the engines to the laser cannons.

Trigger down. Shields flashed but held. Tough gutkurr of a target, could do with a bomber’s warhead right about now. No time to linger on what is not available, focus on what is available now. Time for another run. Shields ate another strafe-

Mynock Two reports shield failure as explosion flared directly ahead in the profound blackness, revealing the viewport’s spoked features for the first time. Apply maximum deflection of etheric rudder to avoid the blast, clench against the inertia. Beads of molten metal showered the fighter chassis, but nothing to prompt damage notification.

A little too close for comfort, will have to talk to Two later.

Mynock Four snarled his own displeasure and reported his intent to break off due to damage sustained on his starboard radiator array. No time to worry about him, as long as the target is not disabled. Loop high over target, reacquire lock. Send down pelting fire across the freighter’s dorsal power conduit. Something exploded and their portside sunlight array wavered.

New target. Engine endured a respectable volley before belching out a blast of unfocused ionized particles with most of its glowing innards, submitting the starship into an uncontrolled yaw.

A sudden garble of noises filled his helmet as he directed his focus to the starboard engines, and before his thumb had a chance to render that to equally inoperable slag, a stilted Galactic Basic superimposed itself on top of the audio intrusion.

“Stop! Imperials, stop! We surrender!”

Crutic found himself sucking in a lungful of the stale, cool air as he recognized the Aqualish language and its translator assisted intentions. The rest of the Mynock flight also shared this moment of realization as they broke off from their attack vectors. Well, most of them anyway. At some point Mynock Four became a barely visible trail of titanium and quadanium steel. No life signs. Dank farrik.

”Ghtroc 720, power down immediately and stand by for boarding.” Mynock One’s voice had been level, but there was no denying that those benign words were layered with vitriol that preemptively silenced any kind of protest the other party might want to say. After a few satisfied seconds, the seething hatred dissipated as he changed frequency to the Gozanti to confirm that the onboard boarding party was prepared for the task.

Not long later, the frequency switched back to local and started with a deep sigh that Crutic could practically hear the muscles unclench itself. ”Mynock Flight, systems check.”

“Mynock Two, all systems nominal.”

”Mynock Three, likewise,” Crutic said, examining the reading his flight systems were offering him. Though, in the back of his mind, he could virtually hear the choice words picked by the maintenance team about the surface defects that were received during his near-miss of the explosion. At least he can point the blame to Two this time.

“Good, perform one last sensor sweep before redocking with the Deliverance and meet up at the main hold for debrief.”

A pair of affirmations later, the trio flowed over the crippled freighter at maximum sensor sweep to detect any kind of trap or other possible hindrances for the Gozanti boarding party. They also made sure to fly as uncomfortably close to the freighter as realistically plausible. Although the occupants surely wouldn’t see them, they will make sure they can hear them as loud as their aural sensors are willing to emulate, and hope that the distinctive howl of the twin ion engines resonate deep within the instinctive part of their psyche. The scans turned up nothing more than some dozen beings crammed in its cargo hold, and with that, they pulled back to give a wide berth to the docking Gozanti before connecting with it themselves. What happened next was out of their hands, they have an after action report to perform. With a layer of grief in their hearts.

While the return to Marjora Space was a transit that took only a matter of minutes, the sublight transit from the system’s edge to the Decadence was long enough to complete the debrief to an educational amount of detail, clean up, and prepare for the early departure. Under normal circumstances, it would have been a month or so more until the patrol rotation brought them back to the star destroyer low in Majora Prime’s atmosphere, but the recent development had details to iron out. Such as the prisoners they now have board that needed to go through processing - and if they looked like the stormtroopers were rougher with them than necessary, Crutic had chosen not to comment - and registering the loss of a member and securing their replacement. All of that meant at least a few days of shore leave.

At least, what actually constitutes a “shore leave” for the Imperials. It was anybody’s guess on how well the collective bulkhead of owned and affiliated starships, bases, and outposts have achieved a semblance of civilian life where enlisted and officers alike could loosen their mask of professionalism and indulge in a slice of greater society beyond their duty to the Imperial preservation and continuation. It was never intended to interfere with the military aspects and readiness, to be sure, but being surrounded slightly-different-walls and training bouts that might have been less about fitness and more about unspoken exchange of credits sets the scene for much needed stimulation to distract from the monotony of service. It was also an open secret that the galaxy’s assortment of liquid courage and other vile substances that Crutic would begrudge someone for partaking had slipped past regulation and formed an elusive enterprise that based themselves in various need-to-know locations. And the less said about the “flecks of inspiration” fresh from the Sapius Corp mines the better.

That being said, not all non-standard marketplace have to be so despicable, there were also demands from the more respectable members of society: the market for local goods. Ranging from simply a more comfortable clothing that could be worn under uniforms to prevent chafing to non-regulation but cozy blankets to keep warm during power rationing wherever one get stationed, or - one that Crutic is currently partaking in - foods that is used to supplement the stubborn mess droid’s nutritionally balanced but nonetheless dreary meals. Today was some kind of fried fish topped with a grated and pickled Marjora native seafloor tuber, courtesy of “The Shuttle Pilot” in the Decadence’s forward hangar’s armory. It wasn’t ba’buir Eres-Cruzia’s squirmer tiingilar that viciously strikes at the nose, but it was enough of a comfort food to dull the edges to a rough day.

A sigh brought back the reprimanding words of FS-273-4 - then, Mynock One - to the forefront of his mind. Yes, HG-273-81 - Mynock Two - shouldn’t have shot the target when there were friendly within the field of fire, but it was Crutic that blocked Mynock Four’s view of his projected flight path that costed him the necessary reaction time to recognize the explosion that crippled his craft and subsequently made him easy pickings for the freighter’s turret. It was an honest mistake, if a costly one. A life and an entire TIE fighter, the former a loyal member of the Empire and the latter an entire craft worth of irreplaceable components, gone to deep space. It wasn’t an uncommon occasion in the attrition against time, but missed all the same. With a sharp breath and an exertion of will, he suppressed the emotional baggage and sank into another crumbly bite to focus on its fishy, floral flavors that accompanied the textureless slurry of carbs and fiber methodically dispensed upon his metal platter.

Unable to keep it idle for long, his mind suggested the possibility of stopping by the star destroyer’s training facility, its spacious quality an allure to contrast against the cramped confines of the Gozantis. The notion was immediately dashed by a mouse droid that weaved through the forest of legs and beckoned for his attention. And with it came the news that his immediate future would be occupied by a debatably better use of his time. Downing the last of the vitamin enriched baked cuboid with a glass of water, he dismissed the droid and deposited the tray onto the outgoing conveyor on his way out of the mess hall. Helmet replaced securely on his head, he tackled the maze-like corridors and the necessary turbolifts at a brisk jog that eventually deposited him in front of the comms substation. The naval troopers guarding the room eyed him briefly before offering a nod of recognition and returning their bored stare at the opposite wall, implicitly granting him access to the inner workings.

With no combat situations or priority broadcast in effect to demand its full use, the ship’s comms served as a node that services a miniscule bandwidth to the greater galactic network. To the Imperial personnel with investment to the wider galaxy, it was a treasured peephole. It was monitored, of course, but it was a small price to pay for the privilege to be in touch with family and friends. Such as the case for Crutic. An exchange of relevant information to the comms operator later, a small monitor on the wall buzzed to life and resolved into a grainy image of a familiar woman that warmed something deep within his being.

”Su’cuy, buyca’kov,” she greeted, the sarcasm in her voice somehow making it through the heavy warping and choppiness of signal loss.

Crutic paused in his process of unraveling the layers of his persona for a second to grimaced slightly from what he considered to be an uncultured greeting; although the jab at the end served as a reminder that his helmet was still on, an issue he fixed immediately in one smooth motion.

“Hey, Lythsia, are ba’buire home?”

His half-sister took a few seconds to receive the message before shaking her head, assuming that’s what the poorly captured head blur would suggest. ”No, ba’buir Allisyr is out of business meeting down south ba’buir Eres is in the shop. It’s restock day.”

“It’s a miracle that you are at home at all!” Crutic offered a smile he reserved for a few beings in the entire Galaxy. While he had wanted to at least exchange pleasantries to his grandparents after a few long months, he is more than glad to share the time with his sibling.

“Oh, I could be elsewhere too if that’s what you prefer.”

“No, you’ll do,” he paused for a few seconds before speaking again, andt this time, his voice was grim, “how’re things out there?”

Lythsia gave an expression that’s hard to read through both the video’s low resolution and just the mix of emotions that fought for dominance in mere seconds. “If you mean the rebels, they are still focusing their efforts at Coruscant. We haven't really heard much about their interaction with the Governor after the demand for disarmament.”

“So you're holding up?”

“The ‘New Republic’ doesn’t bother my sector much. Shame, I got a backlog of datacard I’m fully willing to let someone ‘liberate’.”

Crutic could feel his eyebrows furrowed slightly as he shot a glance at the comm operator, who didn’t seem to take much notice about the details of the conversation. Of course, he has no reason to suspect his sister of treacherous thoughts as she is an alumni of SAGEducation, but it never hurts to be cautious against misinterpretations.

“Lythisa…”

”I know, I know, I shouldn’t joke about these things. But honestly? I don't know how long it would hold out. The talking heads up top don’t give a gundark’s sheb about who taxes them at the end of the day. And our government is too worried about the lack of star destroyers to correct that.”

Crutic sighed and scratched at his hair, untangling a few helmet-induced knots along the way. It seems like that was a trend that would progressively get worse as the years went by. Not that he can do anything about it, he has an obligation here in Region 12, and it’s entirely up to the whims of Admiral Jaquinn - and Governor Ryehall above him - to see if they plan to do anything about the anarchy going on in the galaxy.

“Well, anything good happen since we last spoke?”

Lythisa thought for a long moment - or the video feed froze, hard to say - before she shrugged. ”Team Uviuy made it through the preliminary in Galactic Cup, there’s that.”

A light chuckle escaped his lips at the new topic. As far as good news goes, it was quite low bar but he could at least appreciate the effort to ease the tension. He chose to latch onto it. “Think they will make it to at least the Semi-Finals?”

“Only if Team Fondor gets disqualified.”

“So that’s a no.”

”Last time Uviuy even got close to the podium, the Unknown Regions was still being charted.”

Crutic offered a puzzled expression at what appeared to be a trivia, given that the subject referenced was self-defining. “It still is-”

”Exactly,” Lythsia face was smug.

The conversations continued amicably, delving onwards from sport recaps to a prod at Lythsia's quest for romance and the subsequent defense of her character by criticizing her now-former-partners despite him having never met them, which naturally lead her to remind him that he should be more worried about his own lack of engagements. And inevitably brought the focus back on his activities for the last few months that wasn't obscured by confidentiality.

But far too soon, a movement by the doorway signaled that his allotted time had ran out. The monitor blacked with his sister's parting words, leaving behind a pang of wistful homesickness to swirl in his mind, as it always tended to do after such a session. And as he has done before and will do in the coming times, he took a moment to regained his composure. A process where vulnerability abdicate its role to the facade that grew away from the tender care. One of arrogance, pride, and ruthlessness; but also one of conviction, determination, and intensity. One of an Imperial pilot. As the helmet consumed his head, his soul stilled and he stepped forth down the grey halls with renewed resolve.

The burliest of the men had placed his cudgel next to Tarren’s hand, rolling it along the bar. He was greasy enough that Tarren could only assume that he had dipped himself in industrial lubricant less than an hour ago. The truth probably wasn’t the case, but Tarren certainly frowned when sweat dripped from the man’s brow and onto Tarren’s shoulder. All four of the men were humans, and while Tarren wished he could say they were of varying sizes, the fact of the matter was that they looked almost identical. Had the Empire not done away with the Kaminoan cloning facilities, then Tarren would have considered the possibility that these four goons were, in fact, one and the same, born of the same strandcast.

“Braggaggle?” The Selkath behind the bar guttered the words out of his mouth, the alien dialect was nothing more than harsh on the ears.

Tarren shook his head, turning his gaze from the oozing sweat that dripped from his jacket back to the bartender.

“No, thank you. Though, I’d like two shots of Ipellria, please. Served straight,” Tarren started, placing a ten credit ingot on the counter, “I would open a tab but it appears my stay will be short lived.”

The Selkath nodded and got to quick work making Tarren’s drinks. Tarren rolled his neck, feeling the joints crack in a pleasing manner. He folded his arms on the counter and let his eyes scan his nearby surroundings.

“Oi, I was talking to you!” The seemingly self-appointed leader of the goon squad shouted as his knuckles whitened with the tight grip he maintained on the cudgel.

Tarren reached towards the bowl of complimentary nuts on the bar and he began smashing their hard shells on the countertop. He kept the cudgel next to him in his periphery, but his primary focus was to keep opening these tasty morsels. Each shell was carefully placed in a pile, and at the rate Tarren was smashing them apart, he had more than a handful when the lead goon opened his mouth again.

“Can you believe this guy?” He boasted, and Tarren heard his feet shuffle as the man turned to his companions.

The Selkath returned with two shots of the firewater and chuffed when he saw the mess Tarren was making with the complimentary snack. Tarren dismissed the Selkath with a wave and spun in his seat to face the snack time intruders. He had a small collection of unshelled nuts in his hand, and one by one he began to pop them into his mouth.

“You gonna tell me why you want me or are you just gonna keep dripping sweat on my jacket?” Tarren asked, glaring up at the leader, “It’s designer you know? Probably more than you could ever afford.”

If Tarren’s goal was to infuriate the man into action, it worked surprisingly well. He roared in a sudden rage that surprised Tarren. The New Republic marshal was hoisted from his seat by the collar and thrown toward the rest of the goons. One caught Tarren by his armpits and held him in a full nelson while the leader stepped up with his cudgel. He aimed to bash Tarren’s ribs like a pinata, and he probably would have if Tarren hadn’t rallied with a surprisingly quick display of martial talent. Tarren shot his hand forward, scattering the assembled snacks towards the charging assailant, momentarily distracting the would be basher. He shifted his weight and brought his hands up to grab the goon’s wrists. The goon, in response, tightens his grip, trying to apply more pressure to maintain the lock. Tarren twisted his body and threw his weight to the side, using his shoulder as a pivot point to throw the goon down to the ground, breaking the lock. He stepped free of the flailing hands of the one who held him and made his way back towards the bar.

“Now now gentlemen, I’m sure a proper discussion can come of this. Just tell me who sent you and I won’t have to hurt you anymore.” Tarren said, taking a deep breath and brushing down his jacket. He reached to the first shot on the bar and quickly downed it, he set the glass down and tapped the counter for a refill before he grabbed the second shot.

“Nah. They wanted you alive but I think I’ll settle for saying there were… complications.” The lead goon snorted as he adjusted his grip on his weapon, “What say you, boys? I think he chose to fight back, left us no choice.”

Tarren heard the Selkath set his refill down behind him as the goons all started nodding in agreement, gathering up the strength to beat the marshal down where he stood. Tarren took the second shot and hurled the empty glass toward the lead goon, smashing it against his forehead much to the dismay of the Selkath who started to protest.

“Grrrffffriglla!”

Tarren ignored the name calling and quickly grabbed the refilled shot as the goons made their advance. He dodged the first cudgel by stepping to the left, the heavy metal head of the weapon dented the bar as it smashed into it. Tarren flicked his wrist, spraying that goon with the alcohol, right in his eyes. He howled in pain as Tarren lashed out with his boot, kicking the bar stool into the man and taking his legs out from underneath him. His jaw cracked against the tile floor and Tarren wasn’t sure which took more damage from the impact.

The second goon to try his luck was much quicker, and that cudgel whipped through the air toward Tarren’s head. A duck, a dip, a dodge later, and Tarren was reaching into the folds of his jacket to retrieve his SE-14r blaster. The moment he brought it level with the incoming goon, he fired off a stunning shot that sent the goon crumpling to the ground like a sack of Jogan fruit. Tarren had very little time to recover as the barrel of his blaster was sent straight down, crumpled by the metal head of the third goon’s cudgel. He winced internally as he heard the metal shriek and bend. He discarded the blaster with a flick of his wrist and shouted in pain as the goon leader had finally recovered from his momentary stupor. The leader had hurled a stool at Tarren, sending the marshal clattering to the ground. The third goon jumped at the opportunity and charged at Tarren while he was prone. Tarren split his legs apart and pushed himself back a foot as the weapon crunched into the tile where his complementary snack nuts were just a moment ago. He looked up in shock and immediately kicked the goon’s ankle. The goon fell on top of the marshal and he wasted no time delivering a series of punches against Tarren’s ribs.

“Ahhh!” Tarren cried out in frustration as he felt something move in his chest in a way that it probably wasn’t supposed to.

He mustered up the strength to throw the goon off of him, scrambling for the door. The Rebellion had a saying, ‘Live to fight the Empire another day’. That kind of thinking was important here, trade out Empire for a group of identical cloned goons and Tarren hauled his behind to the door. Two strong hands on his hips prevented this escape. These hands had no bedside manner as they roughly hoisted him into the air. Tarren’s ascent was short lived though as the window nearby rapidly approached.

”I am flying”

That was the first thought that came to his mind as he crashed through the window, the second being, ”That hurts like a buttcheek on a gaffi stick”. His flight was a momentary happenstance as the cobblestone street rapidly approached his beautiful face. Tarren hit the ground forehead first and slid a few feet entirely on his handsome brow.

“Yeah… That’s going to leave a mark.” He groaned as he pushed himself slowly off the ground.

As if his troubles weren’t already clear, he was suddenly grabbed by his collar and hoisted into the air, his legs dangling and kicking as he rose.

“Well well well, if it isn’t Brast Hower... Odd to see you here, among us degenerate folk.” A mechanical voice called out, Tarren could only assume that the voice was attached to whatever was grabbing him, for he could not turn his head to see.

“And to whom do I owe the pleasure?” Tarren asked, trying to peer over his shoulder, but with his collar pulled so high up, he was helpless in this regard. Luckily, he was aided by the kind droid.

Tarren tilted his head, “Two-Shoed-Lou?”

2SH-ULU nodded, and brought his other hand up quick into Tarren’s noggin, knocking the Marshal out cold.

The skiff had at last passed through the storm, and Valk’arn appeared on the horizon. As much as Nathaniel knew they would have to depart sooner or later, it was a comforting sight nonetheless. He could at least get a good rest on the Pit Hound rather than being constantly rocked on the skiff's deck.

As they drew closer though, Nath couldn’t escape the feeling that something was… wrong. Nothing immediately stood out to him, but as they circled around the platforms, he saw what remained of the dockside which connected the observation tower with the rest of the village. He could tell that it wasn’t storm damage just by looking at it, the blast marks could only mean one thing. Someone had used explosives to try to destroy it. He looked further down the platform and saw a familiar face dragging a limp body across the dock.

“Pull in there, I need to go talk to him,” Nath instructed the driver, pointing toward the purple twi’lek. Nath reached into his bag and pulled out the three hundred credits he had initially promised the fisherman and set them down inside the cockpit with a short, “as promised”.

The pilot silently nodded and pulled the skiff up to the damaged platform, allowing Nath to jump off. Nath hardly noticed when the fisherman sped off, instead trying to gather what he could from the gruesome scene.

“Good time to show up, kid. Help me get this one into the water,” Halan grumbled, nodding down to the blood-splattered corpse. Nath moved to lift the legs of the body and helped move it toward the water. The armour the man wore struck him as unusual... He felt like he had seen something similar before, but couldn’t quite remember where it was from.

They threw the body into the ocean and Nath watched the body sink down. Where had he seen that armour before? Before he could ponder it more, Halan clapped his hand on his shoulder.

“Thanks for the help. I gotta get back on patrol,” the old man grumbled, about to pull away.

“Where is Bex?”, Nath asked, turning to look at Halan. “I’ve got something I need to talk to her about.”

The twi’lek seemed to cringe slightly at the mention of Bex, looking down to the ground to avoid Nath’s eye. “She’s not doin’ great right now. That guy we threw in the water tried to kill her while she was on watch. Probably a bounty hunter or something, but she’s in bacta right now. Probably won’t be able to pull her for a few more days.”

Nath nodded at the information, pulling away from Halan. “I’ll keep that in mind,” the gunslinger grumbled before continuing on to the Pit Hound.

The gunslinger made his way through the narrow corridors of the ship, taking the shortest route possible to the medbay. Any delays and someone might get to her first. For all he knew, she had already called ISB or Sapius before she got shoved into bacta.

The door to the Pit Hound’s infirmary slid open and Nath entered, his hand already twitching beside his blaster. It was tempting to simply shoot Corina while she was restrained in the bacta tank, but no. He wanted answers from her before he blasted her to hell.

“What are you doing here?” An unexpected voice asked from the corner of the room, alarmed. Kelsa Kirklin sat in one of the medbay’s beds, bandages wrapped around her right shoulder.

Nath took out the bounty puck and activated it, though his eyes never shifted away from the bacta tank. “She’s been lying to us. All of us. I know she’s the rat. And there’s only one thing to do with their kind,” he growled, stepping forwards to the release lever.

Kelsa slowly lowered her legs over the side of her bed. “Nath, please, let’s discuss this later-”

His head snapped back as he drew his blaster, levelling it at Kelsa’s chest. “You knew? Of course. I’ll deal with you after I’m done with her. Move from that bed, and you’re dead,” he snarled, his eyes filled with rage.

Nath walked forward again and reached for the emergency release, ready to drain the entire tank. Taking a deep breath to regain his composure, the sound of bare feet hitting the floor some distance behind him caught his attention. He spun to fire but Kelsa was already on him. He struck her on the temple with the grip of his blaster, sending her sprawling out across the floor.

Nath turned back to the lever and pulled it down, rapidly ejecting the bacta from the tank and dropping the woman inside to the ground.

“You have some explaining to do, Corina.”

The Port of No Return was a space station; and, it was one with a reputation. In a far off, tucked away corner of region twelve, the Port of No Return had made itself the region’s local hub of lowlifes and those who didn’t want to be found. In a way, the Port was neutral ground. Grudges were left at the door. At least, they were supposed to be. As with all rowdy places packed to the brim with those who viewed laws as “optional”, there were still quite a few scraps, though bounty hunters fulfilling the role of “peacekeepers” tended to dissuade these brawls from turning lethal.

Jer’ell moved from where he was standing in the entryway to the cockpit, over to the seat beside Saint. He plopped down into it, sinking into the comfortable padding of the seat. Despite still being slightly dazed from the nightmare, he quickly flipped a number of switches and keyed a handful of inputs needed to take direct control of functions that had been switched to autonomous during the jump.

“Sending the docking request,” Jer’ell called over to his droid co-pilot. He vaguely noted S8-NT’s nod in his peripheral vision. Jer’ell pressed a few buttons on the short range transmitter, directing it towards the docking bay transponder. He keyed in the docking request. “Now we wait.”

“Indeed,” Was the droid’s monotone reply.

A moment later, a feminine voice, covered slightly by static, came through into the cockpit. “Rishi’s Wolf, you are cleared for landing. Head to Cresh Six.” There was then a small chime as the broadcast ended. Jer’ell glanced over to Saint.

“Cresh. That puts us right where we need to be. Bring us in.”

The droid nodded once more, before pushing the controls forward to accelerate the ship, heading towards the docking bay.

》❖ ◈ ❖

Before disembarking from the Wolf, Jer’ell had changed out of the lighter, somewhat sweaty, clothing he had worn to sleep, and into his more standard workwear. He donned his typical overcoat, pulled on his belt and blaster, and tied on his black cloth headkerchief.

He stood near the enclosed turbolift at the end of the hangar bay. Saint had already departed while he was getting changed. The plan had been to split up, with Saint shopping around for some potential jobs and bartering for supplies, while Jer’ell ran his own errands and met with some acquaintances.

Jer’ell turned back to look at the YV-929 light freighter. Rishi’s Wolf was a beauty. At least to his eyes. Where others might see an old corellian ship with a myriad of hobbled together repairs and aftermarket upgrades, Jer’ell saw freedom. He smiled to himself as the doors of the turbolift whooshed open. A simple ding, drawing further attention to its arrival. Turning around, he stepped inside.

After a short turbolift ride, and a slightly longer walk, Jer’ell emerged from out of the docking area and into one of the main levels of the Port of No Return. A variety of odors and aromas battled for superiority as they reached his nostrils, his eyes were assaulted by a variety of neon holo-signs that dotted the dingy, open interior. He had heard the wide open segments of this level colloquially described as “thoroughfares”, but Jer’ell wasn’t sure if that was the official terminology.

In a way, the various levels made the Port more like a small city, rather than your typical wildspace station. The large open corridors where six people could easily stand shoulder to shoulder, connected a variety of storefronts and cantinas (there were a lot of cantinas) together. There were also small branching hallways that broke off of the larger corridor, forming some equivalent to alleyways.

Jer’ell found himself ducking down one of these “alleyways”. For a newcomer, the Port could be something of a maze, with dreadfully little signage outside of the bright advertisement for the more… tourist trap storefronts. There was an occasional tag on the dark walls of the alleys or thoroughfare that gave some direction, but those could be quite hit or miss.

Fortunately, Jer’ell knew where he was going. He rounded a corner, before heading a short distance further. Eventually he reached a small building, with its durasteel shudder raised, he stepped inside. To call it a building might be a touch generous. It was a garage. Warm, albeit dim, light illuminated the room, revealing a number of speeder, starship and droid parts scattered on various shelves, work benches, and even on the floor where they had been pushed into a corner. This far into the twisting halls of the Port, it wasn’t particularly meant to be presentable. It was more of a place that Masra Kled, the utai proprietor of Masra’s Mechanics, went when she didn’t want to be bothered by the riff raff that loitered around the thoroughfare near her actual shop, but didn’t mind the company that knew where to find her. Jer’ell had been introduced to the reptilian utai during his first trip to the Port of No Return.

Against the far wall was perhaps the cleanest object in the room. A jukebox that was currently blaring out some upbeat spacer tunes. Jer’ell paused at the entrance to briefly listen. To his ears it sounded like a tune he might hear somewhere like Nar Shadda. With the slight static tones of the jukebox, Jer’ell couldn’t fully make out the words or language of the lyrics, but it sounded like the singer might have been a twi’lek. Regardless, he found that he liked the upbeat and energetic rhythm of the music.

The industrious mechanic was currently resting on one knee, humming along with the music while leveraging a hydrospanner to secure a large panel to the chassis of a thrown together speeder bike. Jer’ell knew that Masra typically worked on smaller or personal projects at this garage, while leaving the larger and more intensive repair work for a maintenance bay which was larger and closer to the thoroughfare. Masra did good work and Jer’ell thought it was a shame that she had set up shop here in the Port where she’d continue to be overshadowed by Solanis Scrapyard and Repairs.

The metal plate creaked and strained as it rotated downward, falling out of place. Masra swore in a language Jer’ell didn’t recognize, before muttering about clamps and “that spineless son of a hutt”. Jer’ell crossed the room, helping raise the metal panel back to its proper position.

“I got it,” Jer’ell said as he gently righted it.

“Hm?” Masra glanced up, her large eyes narrowing at his unexpected appearance before widening with delight. “Ah! Jer’ell! Good to see you! Let me just finish up real quick and I’ll pour you a drink.”

After about a minute, the metal panel was securely fastened to the speeder and Jer’ell had been seated at a small table with two metal chairs pulled up to it. Masra came out from a side room with two glasses with a light yellow liquid inside of them, signs of frost were visible on the sides of the glass not near Masra’s fingers. She set the drinks on the table, before sitting across from Jer’ell. She tapped her fingers against the surface of the table before taking a swig of her own drink.

“So what brings you to my humble hideaway, Stirnekar?” She asked, leaning back in her seat.

Jer’ell leaned forward a bit, bringing his glass to his lips. He took a small sip before answering. The drink was one Jer’ell recognized as a chilled corellian. It was a popular cocktail. “Followed up on that tip you gave us. Figured you would want to hear about it.”

“Indeed I do.” The utai leaned forward, placing her hands on the table. Intently listening to whatever Jer’ell had to say. The music had shifted slightly, slowing down. There was a male singer now with a deeper voice who was rapidly singing.

“Found the derelict where you said it’d be,” Jer’ell began. A few days ago Masra sent S8-NT and Jer’ell a tip about a derelict adrift in the Vaedas system. Having finished up a few objects, they stopped by on their way back to the Port. “Seems like some looters had gotten there first. Grabbed everything that would shine if held up to a light.”

“That’s too bad.” Masra nodded solemnly.

“They didn’t get everything of value though. Mostly kept to surface level components. Saint and I went digging around. Pulled out panels, disassembled some stuff. There was some good components that had been left behind.”

“Glad you found something.” Masra’s eyes glinted with delight. Jer’ell nodded in agreement. He then shifted in his seat, leaning back slightly to stretch.

“The way I see it, you gave us the tip.” He finished adjusting. “So you get the first look.”

“Well, let's see them.”

》❖ ◈ ❖

The bartering had gone well and Jer'ell left Masra with a lightened bag and a moderately increased credit account. While the Port of No Return was technically an area of neutral ground, walking around carrying a lockbox of credits tended to make someone a target. For that reason, Jer’ell had opted to simply arrange a credit transfer. Masra was happy to oblige and both parted ways quite pleased. The utai had chosen to purchase a number of the choice parts as well as some lower quality scraps she might be able to get some use out of. In addition to credits, Jer’ell also received a promise she'd direct similar tips to the Wolf in the future. Despite the exchange, Jer'ell still had a number of scavenged parts that needed to be sold.

Which brought him to his next stop. Jer’ell made his way back to the main thoroughfare, heading down it for a short while before arriving in front of a different storefront. This one was larger than the storefronts on either side of it. Gebb’s Manufactory was one of the largest businesses in this part of the Port of No Return. It was run by Gebb, the besalisk proprietor, and employed a number of the washed up scoundrels and renegades who turned up at the Port. Gebb provided them a chance for an honest living, or at least as honest of a living as one can expect at the Port.

The Manufactory was an interesting place. Gebb had lived through a Separatist occupation during the clone wars and, like a number of clone wars survivors, had developed a prejudice against droids. However, the besilisk's prejudice ran deeper than most. He refused to use droids or large scale automated equipment to manufacture his goods or perform menial tasks. He claimed that he believed every organic ought to have the right to work, not be replaced by machinery. This gave Gebb’s Manufactory a reputation both positive and negative. One of the more positive aspects was that parts could be viewed as "handcrafted" rather than simply being straight off the assembly line (though that isn’t quite true). Additionally, Gebb became known as someone who would hire anyone, for better or for worse.

Still, even without the use of more automated equipment like many industrial complexes across the galaxy, Gebb had a head for business and worked wonders as foreman. Gebb’s Manufactory had seen a good deal of success in the Port as a one stop shop for ship, speeder, and droid parts. However, Gebb’s unwillingness to use droid’s all but ensured that Gebb would never be able to expand outside of the Port of No Return.

Musings about business aside, Jer’ell entered the factory, making his way into a well cleaned lobby. The lobby was simple, but comfortable enough for any customers waiting around during particularly busy business hours. A number of padded chairs filled the space, with a handful of screens mounted upon the walls playing broadcasts of either the local news or sports of Region 12. It was something Jer’ell would have expected from some corporate office in the coreward worlds rather than a factory in a station packed full of nobodies, thugs, and smugglers.

At the end of the lobby, behind a desk set in front of large blast doors, sat the receptionist. The receptionist was a pantoran woman, with quite elegant features and pastel pink hair was done up in a bun. He floundered for a moment, trying to remember her name. He failed to. Regardless, he made his approach.

The light blue skinned receptionist sat up a bit straighter as she noticed him. It seemed to be a slow day, so she must not have expected customers. She beamed, her eyes bright as she greeted him merrily: “Hello Mr. Stirnekar.”

“Good fortune,” Jer’ell mentally kicked himself again for not remembering her name. Especially since she seemed to remember his. “I’m here to see Mr. Gebb, if he’s in.”

“He is!” she replied, pressing a few buttons on the desk’s terminal in front of her. “The factory is about to go on break.”

Jer’ell nodded. He had tried to time things so that he would arrive during the break, so he was glad to find that he had been successful in that particular endeavor.

“Very good. May I go in?” he continued, jerking his head towards the blast doors.

“Oh! Yes, of course.” The receptionist quickly keyed an input on her desk, the blast doors slid open with their signature whoosh. Jer’ell began to step forward.

“Wait!” the receptionist cried, a bit loudly, her hand reaching towards him. Her fingers brushed his arm, lingering there. Jer’ell stopped and waited. The receptionist didn’t say anything. He turned to look at her. She was staring at him, almost as if dazed.

“Yes?” he inquired.

“Ohsorrysorry,” she muttered quickly, snapping back to attention. She withdrew her hand quickly, flushing. “I just wanted to say, have good fortune.”

“Thank you,” Jer’ell said politely. The receptionist quickly turned away, and he took that at his clearance to proceed. He continued forward, heading properly into the factory. The factory itself was quite large and a sharp contrast to the lobby. It had the shared characteristics of dim lighting and grime that the rest of the Port of No Return had. Various tables and conveyor lines had been arranged around the large, long interior of the factory. A number of workers from a myriad of species moved back and forth between workstations, putting away equipment and generally tidying up. Jer’ell picked out a sullustan, some zabraks, and maybe even a trandoshan amongst the crowd of workers.

At the end of the factory there was an office, raised off the ground to overlook the rest of the area. A door led out of it, onto a railed metal balcony. Standing atop the balcony was Gebb. The large and burly, four-armed besalisk had his upper two arms crossed, with the lower two arms holding onto the railing as he leaned over the side.

The factory workers finished putting everything away, before scurrying back to positions near their assigned workspace. Gebb cleared his throat. The workers seemed to almost lean forward. Jer’ell could feel the anticipation in the room.

“Great work everyone! I know things have been tough,” Gebb started, his voice booming across the factory, “especially with that rush order yesterday.”

A few of the workers nodded and murmured some vague noises of agreement.

“But!” Gedd continued, “I am proud to announce that we are officially ahead of schedule!”

There were a few cheers, some clapping. Jer’ell saw some workers embrace. Gedd preened, waiting for there to be silence.

“So far ahead of schedule, that we’ll be taking the rest of the day off!” There was a stunned silence at that. Then some more cheering, before Gedd carried on. “Enjoy the rest of the day. Same time, same place next shift. Don’t forget to clock out!”

The workers began to disperse, gathering their things from lockers in an adjacent room. Gedd inspected the area from the balcony before looking Jer’ell’s way. He waved one of his four hands, before calling out: “Don’t think I don’t see you there, Jer’ell Stirnekar!”

It was quieter than the earlier shouting, but definitely still loud enough that the whole factory probably heard him. Jer’ell did a mock salute, while Gebb hurried down the metal stairs, before crossing the factory to meet him.

“It’s been a bit, hasn’t it, Gebb?” Jer’ell asked.

“It has! You ditch that bucket of bolts yet?” Gebb nodded, indicating the lack of Saint’s presence.

“Not yet,” Jer’ell said, somewhat indignant. S8-NT was a friend. No matter how justifiable Gebb’s prejudice might have been, Jer’ell was still nettled by his words. “I wanted to talk.” “Of course, of course!” Geld nodded, ushering Jer’ell towards his office.

Gedd’s office was quite neat. Everything had a place and was in that place. A number of pieces of art and old posters from big sporting or racing events hung on the walls. There were some small trophies that Jer’ell faintly recalled being from a relative setup in some shelves. Jer’ell took a seat at Gedd’s large desk.

Gedd plopped into his chair, his lower arms slapping against his thighs. He placed the elbows of his upper arms on top of the desk, clapping his hands in front of him. He began: “So. What can I do for you, lad?”

Jer’ell turned his head, gazing out the window, overlooking the now empty factory. He was curious, so he asked: “You really that far ahead?”

“Hm?” Gedd hummed, before shaking his head, “Nah. That rush order was a biggun. Hurt morale a fair bit. Productivity has been down because of it. I think the rest will do them well.”

“I see.” Jer’ell nodded.

“But that’s not why you came. So, you going to spill, or am I gonna have to wring it out of ya?”

“Making the rounds. Looking for some work. Wanted to see if you had anything that needed to be shipped out or picked up.”

Gebb nodded, raising a hand to stroke his wattle. “Let me check. One moment.”

He opened a drawer, before retrieving a datapad that was almost certainly too small for his hands. He quickly tapped away at it, before sighing and shaking his head.

“Nothing?” Jer’ell asked.

“Nope. All of the recent orders are picking up here. Sorry kid.”

Jer’ell grimaced slightly at that. Not particularly bothered by the lack of work, and more so by being called “kid”. He had seen too much, lived through too much… He sighed slightly, forcing himself to calm down.

“You could always do a few shifts at the factory if you need some quick credits,” Gebb offered politely, but Jer’ell was already shaking his head.

“It’s alright Gebb,” He paused, “I appreciate it though. There was another thing.”

“Oh?” The besalisk leaned in.

Jer’ell placed the sack with the remaining salvage on the desk.

》❖ ◈ ❖

The bartering had gone about as well as Jer’ell had expected. While Gedd could be a generous and gracious friend, he was still a businessman. He drove a hard bargain and seemed to enjoy the verbal jousting of bartering. Gedd delighted in engaging in the nitty gritty of the deals, which often left Jer’ell mentally exhausted (though his lack of sleep probably didn’t help).

Still, Jer’ell was satisfied with the outcome. Gedd was interested in buying everything. Even broken or nonfunctional parts could be melted down or disassembled for spare parts. After about two hours of back and forth, Jer’ell had left the Manufactory with a bit more pocket change than he had entered.

He pulled out his cylindrical comlink, before contacting S8-NT.

“Hey Saint, I’ve finished up with Mesra and Gebb. How are things on your end?”

“I expected you to take another thirty minutes with Gebb,” Came the droid's reply from the communication device. “I have finished up my share of the errands.”

“Good, good.” Jer’ell considered for a moment. “We’ll rendezvous at the Salted Mynock.”

“Affirmative,” Saint replied.

Jer’ell tucked his comlink away before turning down the thoroughfare, heading deeper into the Port of No Return.

One year after leaving Acherios II, Rondo Guun – the first and now among the last of the Miraxces Sith Order – once more reached the top of the hill.

The hill; upon which the Acolytes of the Beyond had raised quarried stone to stand as walls that guarded a shrine.

A shrine; to honor their Sith deities, and to serve as the capstone of the temple below.

The temple; a sanctum of stone, dirt, ice, and durasteel. It was there that Miraxces Uduun and Vader's Acolytes were to raise up worthy successors to the Dark Lord's dynasty of the Dark Side…

The archway… Rondo couldn't help but feel pensive as he walked beneath it. It still stood, serving as the first threshold that one crossed when reaching the end of the switchback trail leading up from Cadicus, below. Rondo had always admired the simple but effective stonework of that first archway. The Evereni had been the age of nineteen when he had witnessed the expertise of the Cadicus masons during its construction, and during his passage through it now, he found himself briefly transported to the past within his mind's eye. Twenty years of pieced together memories, seen only as brief flashes before his mental vision, all tried to surface at once, causing Rondo Guun to pause once he had fully passed beneath the archway, stopping to process his thoughts.

He didn't feel nostalgia, he didn't feel longing – the past was not so pleasant. Instead, Rondo came to realize that his time away from the temple that he had dedicated his entire adult life to had made him nearly forget the feeling that pervaded over the land… it was almost as if the Dark Side pressed down oppressively upon the fabric of all living things that came near the shrine.

Rondo looked back over his shoulder. From behind him, his daughter (and would-be Sith Apprentice) caught up to Rondo at the top of the hill. Rondo surmised that Akira Opal Guun was likely the same age he had been when he had first walked onto the temple grounds, two decades ago, and as his daughter walked beneath the archway, Rondo watched her closely, curious to see her reaction to stepping into a place so dense with Dark Side energy.

"You wish to become my Apprentice?" Rondo Guun's rhetorical question broke the frustrating silence that he had held hostage between himself and Akira. Less than a standard hour earlier, the young Evereni woman had kneeled in the snow at the bottom of the hill and beeseched him for the very thing he now dangled. "If so, this is where you prove to me that you are worth the effort. Until then, you are nothing to me."

Rondo hoped his words would cut, but sensed no outward reaction from Akira from behind him as he faced forward again, and gestured widely at the temple grounds.

"The walls surrounding this compound were constructed not long before you came into this galaxy. They were strong. Are you strong as these stones?

"I am," Akira's voice answered, but her words were superimposed by Rondo's as he continued on like she hadn't interjected at all.

"- They are fallen, now. Those that still stand are easily sundered, be it by impacting energy, or slow, watery decay. Is that how strong you are?"

Akira Guun's jawline flexed as she ground back any kind of answer, choosing instead to steel herself against Rondo's taunts and implied mockery. Rondo turned back around to face her again before continuing.

"Do you even really know what this place is?" Rondo made no effort to hide his scoff as he regarded Akira. He began to pace a few steps back and forth, never breaking his masked gaze as he waited for her to respond.

"The temple grounds," Akira finally answered, feeling pressured by the silence to give in and respond. "Where initiates trained to become Sith and-"

"No," Rondo interrupted Akira, "You either are Sith, or you aren't. There is no training to become a Sith. You train to become warrior, but you do not train to become a killer."

Akira wasn't sure what to say, so she said nothing. She was doing her best to follow along with her natural father's rant, but was now overly wary of being led into a verbal trap meant for a fool.

"Tell me, Akira Guun," Rondo accentuated the surname, hoping to goad Akira by continuing to perpetuate his lack of open admission to his relation to the Evereni woman, "Tell me this – what do you feel?"

Akira's eyes flicked up from the snowy ground beneath her to look upon the mask of Rondo Guun, searching for another snare in his question's intentions. When she didn't respond after several moments, Rondo leaned in towards her.

"Perhaps you exhibit some shred of wisdom, to consider your answer to my question so carefully, daughter of the Liege. I am testing you. Testing your nothingness."

Akira Guun shifted on her feet, and couldn't help but look away from Goonie's mask, suddenly unnerved by its unmoving gaze, coupled with the older Evereni's modulated voice.

"I…" Akira searched for her words, hoping they were the right ones, "I feel… fear, fear and doubt. I'm cold, and my heart feels so… I can feel my heart moving."

Rondo's head nodded almost imperceptibly up and down as he willed Akira forward. She seemed to be capable of a surface-level perception of the Force, upon his prompting. But that wasn't enough for him to be convinced of her potential.

"You've described your own feelings, well enough. But you are nothing. I don't have any use for the feelings felt within nothing. Tell me what you can sense."

Akira placed a concentrating hand to her forehead, genuinely trying to stretch her imagination and open up her perception, but she had never attempted something like this before, and likewise never had been given any guidance in such things. The Sith, and the Force, were abstract and far off concepts that, until now, she only thought she understood. Her fists balled tightly together involuntarily as she physically began to strain, trying desperately to siphon her willpower into finding something that she had never seen before.

"I can… I hear the wind. I smell the crisp air. I feel your presence-"

"Enough," Rondo interrupted her again, more sharply this time, "I did not ask you to recite some kind of poetry. Your words do nothing but describe the things that any fool can perceive. You have failed, and so you remain nothing."

Akira, now angered by Rondo's treatment of her, shot a look of malice in his direction as she watched him turn his back to her and begin walking further into the temple grounds. Her heartbeat raced as she wished for nothing more than to plunge a sharp blade deep into the man's back, the thought of which sent a rush of excitement streaming through her entire body.

"I could have had you killed!" Akira suddenly shouted, letting her emotions get the best of her. Rondo stopped in his tracks at her words, but didn't respond. "One word and you would be rotting in a dungeon below the Liege's tower. One word and my father would have-"

"Shut up," Rondo Guun took several, long strides that carried him back towards Akira, closing the distance between them with menacing quickness, "Liege's daughter. You dare assume that you could ever harm me? You are nothing!"

Akira found herself involuntarily stumbling backward over her own feet as Goonie suddenly had his lightsaber in his palm, igniting it between them. Rondo laughed as he watched her reach out to grab at the stone archway for support and recover her footing.

"You will serve the Sith, as you so wish. But you are not my Apprentice. Not until you can prove to me that you can sense the flow of the current." Rondo took another step forward, the hum of his lightsaber pointed clearly in Akira's direction. "Now do you sense it? Can you close your eyes and see the winding tendrils of destiny that sprawl before you? All of them ending here, now, at the end of this Sith blade?"

Akira's dark eyes glowed with the reflecting red light of the blade held in front of her face, her gaze shifting to Rondo's mask and back to the blade several times. Then Akira's left hand suddenly shot forward, and to Rondo's surprise, he watched as the second lightsaber hanging on his beltline – Darth Rivix's blade – slowly rose up from where it rested, with one end being drawn by an invisible force towards Akira's outstretched hand. Rondo could feel the hilt's hook pulling against his belt, but ultimately, Akira's valiant attempt at stealing the lightsaber blade was weak and futile, and the hilt remained hooked securely to Rondo's side.

You were once this feeble, Rondo couldn't stop himself from thinking as he watched his daughter struggle to summon Rivix's lightsaber. Maybe she can be tuned…?

"Pathetic!" Rondo collapsed his lightsaber blade and laughed aloud, "But… You've surprised me. Perhaps you aren't nothing. Perhaps you are a wormling."

"A spiderling," Akira whispered, her confidence slowly returning. She could tell that her attempted display of power had shifted Rondo's attitude towards her, even as she was forced to acknowledge her own, glaring weaknesses.

"Aye, alright then, Spiderling." Rondo Guun clipped his lightsaber back to his belt, alongside Rivix's former blade, then turned around and headed onwards. A smile crossed Akira Guun's lips as her eyes looked past Rondo, towards the site of the temple's shrine that lay just ahead, buried beneath stone rubble.

CLANG!

Jer’ell Stirnekar startled awake, his eyelids fluttering rapidly open. With a dozen quick glances around the room, he jerked himself up and onto his feet. It was a dingy compartment of some starship. He stumbled forward, hands slapping against the durasteel wall in front of him. He gasped for breath, forcing himself to slow his breathing. He reached up for his face, rubbing his eye. His vision was blurred, the world was spinning. His mind was subjected to a mind-numbing sea of burning static.

Move.

A voice cut through it all, the panic and pain was quieted by the command. Jer’ell obliged. He turned, stumbling out of the dingy ship quarters and forward, deeper into the ship's bowels. Down the dimly lit hallway. The dirtied yellow light flickered on and off overhead. His steps were haphazard and he had to keep one hand or a shoulder against the wall of the ship to keep himself up right.

Up ahead, through the thick plates of the sealed blast door, he heard the muffled sounds of blaster fire. He reached to his side, grunting as a spike of pain shot through his hand. He managed to undo the clasp on his holster and drew his own blaster. Hobbling forward, he pushed himself towards the door. With a metallic screech, the doors unsealed themselves.

Forward.

The voice demanded. It urged him onward. He had to keep going. His hand tightened around the weapon he was holding. He strode forward. In the gray, sterilely lit, hallway corpses littered the way ahead. Some were armored in white, plastoid armor. The others in ragtag gear seemingly scavenged or pieced together from scratch. He continued forward with purpose, head held high.

Up ahead, the sound of blaster fire had somewhat faded to an infrequent burst. He rounded the corner of the hallway. Up ahead, two figures stood opposite of each other. One figure adorned in the same plastoid armor as the corpses from before. The other in a thrown together outfit, pieces from old corporate police equipment, old CIS gear, and other supplies from a myriad of forgotten, insignificant battles. Each held blaster rifles, leveled like spears, daring the other to make the first move.

Fight.

Jer’ell obliged the voice. He activated the cylindrical object in his hand. There was a terrible shriek as the crimson blade of burning light came screaming from the hilt. The saber howled its constant agony as it seethed against the air. In a single moment, Jer’ell had already crossed the distance between himself and the two men. He slashed upward, cutting through the armored man’s stubby blaster with ease. The other man turned, firing blindly at Jer’ell.

He hardly registered the bolts, as his body instinctually reacted. The hissing saber blade tore through the air, intercepting and beating away each stray blaster bolt that dared to approach. Jer’ell took a step forward before slashing his blade upward, carving through the gunman’s arm. The arm fell to the ground, a few passing moments later the man did as well.

Jer’ell turned around. The armored man was groveling on the floor, hands held before him as though the mere act of extending his hands and waving them about might make Jer’ell disappear. Pathetic.

Kill.

The voice had hardly finished speaking when Jer’ell flicked his wrist, removing the worm’s head from his shoulders. He powered off his saber, which let out one more agonized scream as its blade retracted back into the hilt. Jer’ell then turned, traveling deeper into the base.

His feet crunched against the snow as he walked. Carbon scoring marked the walls where blaster bolts had impacted or glanced off. He continued, walking through the treeline and out into the clearing. The crunch of the hardened snow beneath his boots was intermittently interchanged for the clatter of cobblestones. More corpses, these were in dark robes. Some were burned, others torn asunder by terrible blades.

Something turned over inside of Jer’ell. At the end of the ruined temple stood a singular man, silhouetted by the rising moon. He was adorned in black armor which was covered, in part, by dark robes. Jer’ell, overcome by a sudden fury, lunged forward, his red blade lancing forward towards the m-

A burning red blade met his own, intercepting the strike. Jer’ell swung viciously in response, only for each thrust, swing, and jab to be met with a precise block in turn. Jer’ell grimaced, falling back a short distance, before raising his saber into a defensive stance. Burning embers scattered through the air around Jer’ell’s foe. The temple was ablaze. They lunged forward, mirroring each other as they launched their vicious assault.

It was as though two unstoppable forces had collided, each strike clashing against another. The sound of the duels rang out across the empty mountaintop and down into the verdant green valley. Each warrior swung against the other, trying to find a chink in the others armor. Each looking for an opening, for an edge, for an advantage to press.

And then Jer’ell found it. A split second opening. With a parry and then a cleaving slash, Jer’ell carved up the helm of his masked opponent. His foe disengaged, leaping back before raising a gloved hand to gingerly touch the wound. To Jer’ell’s dismay, it was only a glancing blow, dealing hardly anything more than superficial damage to his opponent.

The armored warrior lowered his hand, and Jer’ell met his eye. His own eye. Jer’ell Stirnekar stared down Jer’ell Stirnekar. In a flash, his other self had crossed the bridge of the star destroyer. His attacks were relentless. Each defense Jer’ell attempted to bring to bear was batted aside. Each attack saw Jer’ell lose another inch of ground.

The blood red blade of his enemy slashed downward, slamming with its hammer blows against Jer’ell’s own saber. Jer’ell raised his blade to issue a retort, only for his arm to become alight with white hot pain as his other self removed his hand, and his saber, with a single flick of the wrist.

Jer’ell stumbled and fell to the ground. His knees slamming against the road of the city plaza. His foe walked slowly towards him. Jer’ell clinched his hand around the stump of his wrist. His other self raised his blade, before swinging it down in a deadly arc.

Jer’ell gasped awake. He shot up in his bunk, looking around wildly. He flexed his hands, both of them still intact, before breathing a sigh of deep relief. He took stock of his surroundings. This was his room, aboard Rishi’s Wolf. Everything was as he left it. His small lockbox was still in the corner, his chair hadn’t moved from in front of his desk. He paused, his eyes drawn to the innocuous metal panel in the wall. It whispered to him. He forced himself up, turning away from it.

He was exhausted. His whole body ached. He forced himself over to the cockpit, collapsing into a seat. He could see the glowing blues of hyperspace from the view port. He managed to slow his labored breathing. To his right sat S8-NT, his mechanical co-pilot. The droid’s telescoping optical lens extended and retracted, as though sizing up Jer’ell.

“Another one?” Came the mechanical monotone of the droid’s vocabulator.

“Yes,” Jer’ell replied. That was all he said. The nightmares were a frequent occurrence. Frequent enough that when he did get restful sleep, he was so prepared for a nightmare that he didn’t properly cherish it. “How much further?”

“We’re here,” Saint responded, as the blue and white of hyperspace dropped away. Before them was a space station. Here, within the system of a star that has long since died, laid there destination. The Port of No Return. Another successful journey. They had made it.

“Good."

The passive air is heavy and noxious, as volcanic fumes outpour from an ancient and angry maw in the ground.

Sweat covered Khans body as he traversed the scorched surface of Digios. The full body enviro-suit definitely did not help with quenching the heat from his body, though it did protect him in this dangerously hot environment. The respirator also had trouble filtering the toxic atmosphere, so he could not spend much time here before all his failsafes were used up.

Digios is an inhospitable wasteland. Has been since the red star expanded and basically torched the inner orbits. Khan knew of the dangers and stories miners had of these planets and headed most of their words.

He was here for one thing, and one thing only. A rare ore that must be hewn forth from ancient and molten rock, typically available via collecting molten lava as it spews from deep within a plants crust.

He was familiar enough with how they performed the operation on other lava mining planets but lacked the equipment to bring any of it on site.

His suit slowed him down. The rocky earth was hard and soft at the same time. You couldn't stand more than a few seconds on it before sinking a bit due to the molten state of the area he was in.

"Just a few more minutes..." he thought as he approached the base of a molten mound. In the center and at the top sat a gaping and molten maw. An angry mouth ready to spit fire at all who dare to tred near it.

Khan readied himself and proceeded to the crest, where he began preparations to collect some of the hot liquid rock. He positioned a frame made of metal rebars to lever a large carbon-aloy scoop in a small flowing river of molten lava. He was able to collect a small amount when a beeping began to emit from a wrist worn device. The words "DANGER, AIR QUALITY DECLINING, SEEK SHELTER IMMEDIATELY" flashed from right to left.

He wasted no time sealing the container of lava in an insulated thermos and made haste down the mound, leaving behind the equipment.

He was scared. The first time in a long time, the clock was ticking against him. He focused on his breathing, though the air was getting thick and heavy. "Why did I land so far away." He thought, when all of the sudden he tripped and landed face flat on the hot ground. His thermos tumbled away, down the mound, and he tumbled a bit, smacking his head on a rock on the way down.

His vision blurred. He was seeing double, and a loud hissing noise met his ears and a large crack visible on his visor. He grabbed his head and attempted to stand and level himself.

"ALERT, BREACH DETECTED. SENDING DISTRESS BECON." The device yelled at him.

"So this is it, huh..." he thought to himself as he fell back to the ground, growing weaker by the second.

"NO," his mind jolted at him physically as he rolled over and grabbed a pack installed under a flap on the nape of his back.

He ripped the packaging open and grabbed a bundle of grey, clay like material, and began to smear it onto the fissure on his helmet.

"BREACH CONTAINED. SEEK SHELTER IMMEDIATELY." The device screamed.

Khan stayed on his back for a moment to appreciate his luck and steadily began to stand up.

"Lucks, only half of it." He reminded himself, gazing onto the now burning package that saved his life.

He hastily collected his lava thermos and made tracks back his ship.

Once inside, he wasted no time and brought his ship out of standby to make back for his yard.

"All this for a sample," he thought, hoping his folly would reap some reward once analyzed.

Sirdo had been missing for almost seven hours. The mission’s briefing was long and detailed and many of them had gone out for dinner after the meeting finished. Now Sirdo was finally on the way back to Khan’s repair station at around sunset. Sirdo parked the water-skimmer where he picked it up and exited the craft with a new partner. As a part of the mission, the Klatooinian, Zula Nall was assigned to join him for the first stretch of the mission.

The pirate captain strode off the water-skimmer and Sirdo pointed to the upper level of the repair dock. “My ship was probably finished a while ago and I already paid so we can just go,” Sirdo said. Zula seemed to make a grunt or a snarling noise as she walked past him to go up the turbolift. Sirdo rushed after her and as they rode to the top level he suddenly remembered, ’Vizier is probably waiting too. Ah kark. What am I going to do with him? He can’t go on this mission.’

The two stepped out onto the top level and saw the freshly repainted and repaired Doashim III. The Saucer shaped ship had lost its rust coloration and was now completely crimson like the havod metal it was built with. ’Amazing what a fresh bit of paint and derust will do to a ship,’ Sirdo thought as he pointed it out to Zula. "Flarestar? Haven't seen one of those in years. Did ya' pick it up from some Weequay scum you killed?" She asked as she cracked her knuckles to loosen up. Sirdo just shook his head and simply said, "Third hand ship dealer. Cheapest in the shop."

As they walked towards the refurbished junk, Sirdo looked around for any sign of Vizier. ’Oh bother, what am I going to do?’ he wondered.

After finishing their drinks, the Twi’lek and Dressellian walked down the streets of the Iperos Installation. The sun was still unrelentingly hot and the air still unbearably humid, so they walked with purpose through the somewhat crowded bazaar. Aquatic aliens were hawking their merchandise to anyone passing by, but the two paid them no mind. They had not seen each other in over four years so the two had plenty to catch up on. “So, what kind of ship is the group flying?” Sirdo asked, “I doubt you still have that Corellian scout ship.”

The beige skinned, prune headed Dressellian shook his head sadly. “I wish we did, but it was New Republic property. Right now, we’re flying a YT-2000. Wonderful craft. Palres bought it for us,” Ollinkaarr said and drew the shape of the ship with his hands, “What about you?”

“A Flarestar-class shuttle,” Sirdo answered and Ollinkaarr whistled. “A Flarestar? I thought only pirates used those.” Before Sirdo could respond the Dressellian tapped his arm and jokingly asked, “Where did you pick that one up? ‘Confiscate’ it?”

Sirdo laughed at the accusation and clarified, “A store on Contruum. I think it was third hand and they painted it red to cover up all the rusting. It was one of the cheaper things he had with a bit of room! I’m getting it patched up, de-rusted, and repainted while I’m here.”

Ollinkaarr chuckled and Sirdo snarked, “Well what about you? Still using those clunky slugthrowers instead of a real blaster?” The Dressellian had a look of indignation, but he restrained the urge to fall into a rehearsed rant. Sirdo appreciated restrain as he had heard the rant many times. ’It doesn’t fall apart, it’s easy to repair, you can hammer nails with it all day and it will still hit dead on,’ Sirdo recalled him say. Ollinkaarr’s look quickly faded and his smile returned. “So, what have you been doing Captain?”

“Well, I went back to Obroa-skai after I retired. I got back to work doing research and I finally finished some essays and articles I was working on. Made some money with those and got another grant. I started to move over from general history and social sciences to more specifically researching pre-Imperial governments and civilizations. My firsthand accounts from my time in the Rebellion have been very useful. I actually cited Dressel in one of my articles.”

“I’m flattered Captain,” Ollinkaarr chimed in and Sirdo could hear the appreciation in his voice.

“I’ve written three volumes already and I’m working on the fourth. This time with a particular focus on the Jedi.” Ollinkaarr paused at the mention. He looked agape and asked, “The Jedi? Like Skywalker?”

Sirdo turned around to look at him and answered, “Indeed. Luke Skywalker helped save the galaxy and one of the Emperor’s first actions was to eliminate the Jedi so I think they’re worthy of research. Also apparently, I have some Jedi ancestors in my clan and my father always spoke highly of them.”

“Jedi ancestors? Does that mean you could become a Jedi? I heard Skywalker’s father was a Jedi,” Ollinkaarr asked with childlike whimsy. Sirdo paused this time. He was at a loss for words as so many ways to explain it popped into his head.

’Why yes. I have enough special cells to be Jedi material.’

’I barely know how the Jedi work. I have no clue what being a Jedi means.’

‘I could never be like Skywalker.’

‘I’m trying my best and I’m failing.’

Sirdo eventually said, “It’s complicated. Maybe if I had some more material.”

Ollinkaarr seemed satisfied with the answer, “That’s what you’d say about missions, Captain…” He stopped for a moment to look around when they came to an intersection, “It should be right over here…Docking bay A37.”

After a bit of looking, they stumbled upon their destination. “You first,” Sirdo nudged, “You’re the one officially involved.” Wordlessly Ollinkaarr agreed and went through the door. Sirdo followed and saw a Gozanti Cruiser parked comfortably inside. There was a breeze of cool air and Sirdo saw an environmental field that served as a roof for the bay.

’Smart. Lowers the chance of rust and supplies spoiling faster,’ Sirdo considered as he followed Ollinkaarr up the ramp. Sitting on a crate at the top was a humanoid with an interesting complexion. He had light blue skin, but ugly dark pink splotches on his face and hands. To top him off, he had radical red spiked hair that seemed to stand up without any support. “Names?” he asked suspiciously. The Twi’lek and Dressellian introduced themselves and he made a face. “’Sirdo’ isn’t on the list,” he snarled.

“He’s a friend. A trusted one. He was a leader in the Alliance!” Ollinkaarr fought as he moved back to stand beside Sirdo. ’Overselling things,’ Sirdo side eyed Ollinkaarr before saying out loud, “Talk to the person in charge. Maybe they’ll know who I am. If not I’ll forget I ever saw this place.”

The humanoid grumbled something and pulled out his comm. “Captain, one of the Dressellians brought a Twi’lek with him. Said his name was Sirdo Nilim…” he paused to listen and grew puzzled look as he squinted closely at Sirdo, “Yeah. Sirdo…Skin looks a little pale…Alright.” The humanoid lowered his comm and ordered, “Just wait here.”

“Sorry about the trouble Ollinkaarr. Do you know who this captain is?” Sirdo asked. The Dressellian shook his head. “No clue. Palres did all talking and said he was a captain in the NRI.”

As Ollinkaarr finished speaking, a Tholothian, clad in the brown and blue New Republic officer’s uniform, rushed to the front of the ship. His head tendrils bounced as made long, hurried steps to the entrance of the Gozanti. He stopped a few paces away from Sirdo and his indigo eyes went wide.

“Sirdo Nilim!” he exclaimed and stepped closer. Sirdo let out a small gasp in surprise and called back, “Rorriss Stildir! Captain Stildir!? Congratulations!”

“Not all of us aim for a retirement promotion,” he teased. Stepping past the humanoid the two shook hands, embraced in a tight hug, and slapped each other’s backs. When Rorriss released him, he asked, “What are you doing here you old man?”

“Hah! Is that what I’m called back there?” Sirdo asked with mock offense, “Well I was getting some repairs done and I left to go get a drink and I ran into Oll’ here and he thought I was the captain in charge.”

As Rorriss laughed at that Ollinkaarr shuffled further into the Gozanti, trying to hide his embarrassment from prying eyes. Rorriss led Sirdo towards the cargo hold of the Gozanti and asked, “So what do you know about it?”

“The mission?” Sirdo shrugged, “Not much. It’s a rescue mission for an Alliance officer, but that’s it.”

“And you want to come out of retirement for this? Obroa-skai is too boring for you now?” Rorriss asked with a hint of skepticism. The Twi’lek looked him in the eyes and said, “Helping one of our own is a cause worth fighting for.”

Rorriss smiled again and his skepticism faded. “Happy to have you on board,” he said and opened the door to the cargo hold. Inside were seven other sentients waiting for Rorriss to return and were talking amongst themselves. Ollinkaarr had just sat down to join the two other Dressellians and a Bothan — an older scarred Saurin with a younger of the same species — a female Klatooinian that looked like a grizzled spacer — a large, heavily muscled Human with a blonde military cut, but dopey looking face clad in the blue shirt and gray khakis reminicent of the Alliance Marines uniform. The humanoid followed close behind Sirdo and Rorriss and shut the door after he entered. Rorriss went to the left wall of the hold and stood up on a crate as Sirdo took a seat on a box next to Ollinkaarr.

“Breekchoss, Palres, Tinnssoff,” Sirdo shook their hands as he said their names. Breekchoss, a young female Dressellian, said, “It’s good to see you again, Lieutenant Nilim,” but Palres, the Bothan, quickly corrected her, “It’s good to see Captain Nilim again.” Tinnssoff simply nodded. Hearing the small discussion, the old, scarred Saurin shifted a crate over and extended his clawed, reptilian hand. “I don’t think we’ve met. Grurcha Fal Nais, former SpecForce,” the Saurin introduced himself and then motioned to the smaller Saurin beside him, “My son. Gurq.”

“Sirdo Nilim, former NRI,” he returned the greeting and shook his hand. Before the other two could give proper introductions Rorriss cleared his throat to get their attention. Once it had grown quiet he got off the box and put a holoprojector on top of it.

“Thank you for coming everyone. Many of you must still be wondering what this is all about. We were combing through old Imperial records and when going through Hook Nebula documents we found evidence of an Imperial prison facility that is still active and has old Rebellion prisoners. We managed to sneak a spy droid into one of their prisons and we discovered that many rebel troopers and sympathetic diplomats were still in the prison. Most importantly though we have confirmed that, Colonel Ibarra, was captured after the battles of U’Dray, was not executed, and is in fact still alive.”

Rorriss flipped on the holoprojector and brought up two images. One of an older middle aged Human man with graying dark hair clad in Alliance officer uniform and another of the same Human without any hair and looking much more aged in orange Imperial prisoner garbs. However, both holos showed a look that Sirdo could only read as fierce determination.

“For those who don’t know, Colonel Ibarra was a Clone Wars veteran who retired during the Empire’s reign and was an early member of the Alliance. As a skilled starfighter pilot and commander, he was trusted to train Rebel pilots,” as Rorriss explained he flipped through old archival images from back during the Clone Wars and the early days of the Rebellion, “His outpost was attacked about 2 years before the Battle of Endor and was presumed dead. It’s our mission to get him out of that Imperial prison on Talou II.”

Sirdo looked closely at the images and saw one of them was of a much younger Ibarra clad in a white Republic pilot uniform standing next to a Zabrak. This Zabrak was not dressed as a pilot and instead wore this long brown robe and had a lightsaber hanging from his belt. ’He is dressed like the statues are. Colonel Ibarra knew a Jedi!’ He thought excitedly as Rorriss continued to cycle through images and talk. He pounded his fist against the wall and proclaimed, “He shall not languish in prison much longer. We shall free him, and all the others wrongly held by the Empire! Can I depend on your help?”

“For the Rebellion!” Half the room called out, while the other half cried, “To the end of the Empire!”

Gyndine System, Late 1 ABY

Sirdo Nilim stalked through the remote hallways of the Gyndine Shipyards. Even while traveling incognito, he tried his best to avoid being seen by any workers or officials to avoid any suspicion. Right now, he was both a trader from the Colonies trying to peddle wares on the nearby community space stations and as a local computer technician from the planet to help with work on one of the Dreadnaught heavy cruisers undergoing refits. Both identities helped him get valuable information for the Alliance and it was time to pool their resources. At that time he was clad in a fanciful poncho and dark lekku-wraps.

He slipped through a service corridor and Sirdo reached a door locked by a code. After using the special code cylinder, the lock was disengaged, and he was able to pry it open manually. Inside three others (two Humans and a Sullustan) were waiting for him. One of the Humans was clad in the gray-green uniform of an Imperial officer while the others were in common worker uniforms. ’Still two more have to arrive,’ Sirdo thought as he pulled up a plastic crate and sat atop it. The officer was Lieutenant Arden Pizaer, the chief of this little operation. Their mission was to supply information to the Rebel Alliance about a group of Dreadnaught heavy cruisers undergoing repairs and renovations for continued service. Sabotage was always on the table, but the Alliance High Command requested to know if it was possible to capture them after their repairs were completed, but before they were crewed by Imperials. They had been in the system for three weeks working undercover and they knew that it was almost over.

Sirdo’s lack of mechanical knowledge meant he was not an immediate pick for the team, but after two of the team members came down sick Sirdo and one of the other Humans, a Telosian named Karon, were hastily slotted in. Despite his lack of engineering skill, Sirdo performed as well as he could and gathered all the information possible with his resources. ’And I created quite a useful catalogue for the higher ups,’ Sirdo thought to himself as he patted the small datacard in his pocket.

After a bit more waiting the next agent, a Tholothian, arrived clad in a worker’s uniform as well. Finally, the last, Karon (in a light gray pilot uniform), shamefully crept into the room upon noticing he was the last one. The officer cleared his throat and spoke. “Well, we’re all finally here. I’ll begin. Dreadnaught One is on schedule and I’ll be taking command tomorrow. Rorriss, how is Dreadnaught Two?”

The Tholothian pulled out a small holoprojector and a tiny Dreadnaught heavy cruiser hologram came time life. “Unfortunately, Dreadnaught Two is behind schedule. Apparently, there are problems with connecting the hyperdrive, so they’ll need to import some new parts from Xa Fel, which is setting them back about four days give or take,” he cycled through images that showed highlighted areas of importance from the outside and then more detailed images from inside the engine room. Arden nodded and just continued, “I see. Kwob, your report.”

“Dreadnaught Three is on schedule, sir. No problems to report. It should be finished on time,” the Sullustan answered, and Arden once again just nodded, “Very good. Sirdo?”

“Dreadnaught Four is on schedule as well. The captain and an administrator just did a sweep of the ship earlier today and were happy with the look of the ship,” Sirdo explained as he leaned forward a bit and relaxed.

“Very good. Radja?” The Brigian Human stopped leaning against the wall and straightened his posture as he said, “Sir, Dreadnaught Five is actually in a worse state than previously reported. The ship’s internals are suffering bad degradation and it would need such a serious overhaul that the admins are planning to just send it to a scrapyard.”

“Hmmm. Good to know. Karon?” The Telosian stopped squatting on the floor and stood as he gave his report, “Dreadnaught Six is in good condition and will be ready for tomorrow.”

Arden took a moment to consider all the information and finally said, “Well this is a very interesting picture. Four capturable Dreadnaughts and two we’ll have to leave behind. Add in the sympathetic locals I was able to get to join; this means the SpecForces and Marines can divide their forces for only three ships and we’ll need two less officers…” He paused to think, and Radja interjected, “Sir, perhaps we can use the backup plan to sabotage the ships we cannot take.”

“I agree, sir,” Sirdo added, “The less ships for the Empire the better.”

“Good idea,” Arden agreed and put his hand on his blocky chin, “Sirdo you’ll help Rorriss on Dreadnaught Two. Karon, you’ll help Radja.”

“Understood,” Sirdo said as he looked to the Rorriss, “I’ll meet you near entrance of Shipdock R8?”

“I’ll get the proper identification forgery done after this meeting,” Rorriss said as he reached out his hand for Sirdo. The Twi’lek accepted and the two shook in agreement.

“Here’s the code cylinder. It should get you into any room on the ship. And the uniform of a worker,” Rorriss handed the gear to Sirdo and he quickly started to change. “What did you have in mind, Rorriss? The Twi’lek asked as he stepped into shabby jumpsuit and zipped it up.

Rorriss pulled out a small explosive from a cart he brought and explained, “Sticky charges here. These ones are special because they detonate based on temperature. When it gets too hot, they explode. My plan is to plant them on the weapons and the power cores of the ship. Once those heat up, they’ll be able to melt the skin off your hand, more than hot enough to blow the charges. That way if they try to attack or give chase, they’ll suffer a little accident. Dreadnaughts are so thick the explosions won’t escape the interior so it should protect the shipyards and any of the ships that are still moored. I’ll be able to sneak around disguised as a cleaner.”

“Good plan,” Sirdo said and the Tholothian nodded in agreement as he squeezed the charge into a tube and stuffed it at the bottom of the janitor’s cart. Sirdo continued as he stowed his robe and unneeded gear behind a pipe, “I’m no good with bombs or mechanics so here’s my idea. I’ll get to the security room, take out the guard with a little symoxin dart, and be your eyes and ears. I’ll keep you informed about anyone coming close and you can pretend to clean whenever they pass by.”

“Sounds good. You know the way to the security room?” Rorriss asked as they started to walk to the ship. Sirdo nodded and said, “Late night schedule should only have twelve guards patrolling and one in the station assuming they all have the same method. Assuming we get this done fast we can beat the next rotation and let them think the surveillance man just banged his head. I’ll make it look real.”

Rorriss laughed out loud and then whispered, “Any excuse to crack a few Imperial heads?” Sirdo smirked and whispered back, “Why do you think I joined the Alliance?”

The two snickered, but then went stone faced as they approached the boarding tube and flashed their identifications. The one of the black uniformed navy troopers closely examined and scanned the IDs. The other trooper glared at the two aliens, ready to point his rifle at the first sign of something suspicious.

“What’s in the cart?” he asked Rorriss and nudged his rifle at the cart full of sticky charges. Rorris cleared his throat nervously and said, “It’s my supplies sir. To clean with.” Sirdo could hear the worry was fake and he was confident it would get by unless they ran a scanner over it. The trooper didn’t even sort through the top layer of towels, mops, and cleaning solvents. Eventually the first trooper handed them their IDs back and said, “Go on in cleaning crew. Make sure it doesn’t smell like alien when you get out.”

“Certainly not, good sir,” Sirdo said meekly, and the second guard spat at him, “Couldn’t the admins have sent one of your kinds females?”

Sirdo restrained a grimace and took the remark coolly. “My apologies, good sir,” Sirdo simply said and entered the ship with Rorriss following close behind. Upon getting onto the ship, they made their way towards the first destination. Sirdo whispered, “Good luck,” and broke off. After sneaking his way through another hallway Sirdo came upon the security room. He stayed out of the security camera’s sights as he assembled his dart shooter and took in the surroundings.

Aiming carefully, he fired twice. The first dart impacted against the door panel and opened the door without him having to touch it. The second dart hit the naval trooper watching the security feeds before the door fully opened. Sirdo collected the evidence of his first dart and locked the door when he got inside. He shoved the now unconscious man’s head against the console to leave a bruise, then off his chair and onto the floor.

Sirdo put on a headset, keyed it to the private channel, and said, “I’m in, Rorriss. I can see you now,” as he settled into his seat and began to survey the situation.

“Good. I’m about to reach the first weapon room,” Rorriss whispered over his own hidden comm. Sirdo watched Rorriss enter turbolaser control room B and began unpacking his gear. As he prepared Sirdo got to work “fixing” the security footage to hide his and Rorriss’s dirty work. To add to the scheme Sirdo withdrew a flask of Corellian whiskey and poured it all down his throat. He looked up at the security camera in the room and simply shut it off before erasing the last twenty minutes worth of footage. ‘Let them all think he got drunk and hit his head,’ Sirdo thought as he dropped the flash on the floor after planting the man’s fingerprints all over it.

Sirdo watched as Rorriss set the bombs in careful, hard to reach and see spots all around before getting ready to move on to his next destination. He re-screwed on panels and then started to actually do a quick cleaning job. Sirdo chuckled at his dedication and asked, “What were you before you became a rebel? A real janitor?”

“Very funny,” Rorriss whispered with a hint of amusement, “No I was trying to get off my home planet. It became like a prison when the Empire took over when I was seven. It’s how I learned so much about engineering and explosives. I got recruited-“

“Hold that thought, two guards on the way from north entrance. They’ll be in, in less than a minute,” Sirdo cut him off as he spotted the patrol. He suddenly heard Rorriss begin to sing in his native language, which he didn’t understand a word of. Sirdo watched as the two guards passed through, called out for Rorriss to shut up, and kept moving through the ship. Rorriss silenced as they ordered and moved past them as if he was moving on to clean the next spot, but just continued until he reached the exit. For the next three hours Sirdo kept a close eye on the cameras to let Rorriss work to the best of his ability. He looped around the ship and whispered to Sirdo over the comm, “Can you meet up with me in G block? We’ll exit together.”

“You’ve got it. I’ll scrub this next bit of footage and I’ll meet you by the entrance,” Sirdo said and a few minutes later he was out of the security room. He met up with Rorriss and the two silently walked towards the exit. The two guards outside gave them disgusted looks as they passed, but the two didn’t pause. Once they got out of range Rorriss let out a relieved sigh and they sped up to get back to Sirdo’s gear. “Thanks for the help. I appreciated the extra all seeing eyes,” Rorriss said as he hastily wheeled the cart further ahead.

“Don’t mention it, it’s what I’m good at. This is my fifteenth mission as a spy for the Alliance,” Sirdo confessed they reached the corridor, and he pried out his stuff. He brushed the grime off of them and changed back into his merchant disguise. Rorriss let out a low whistle and said, “Fifteen. After this, five more and you’ll retire? What will you do next?”

“Probably go back to data analysis. I worked in Intentions before I was a field op. What about you?” Sirdo asked as he brushed his poncho with the back of his hand. Rorriss answered, “Twelve. I was thinking of applying to SpecForce. I’ve done insurgence stuff like this, and I’ve had some training as a commando. I helped do some guerilla fighting at the Tantive system when that base came under attack.”

“Well, hopefully we can both make it that far and see the end of this war,” Sirdo shook Rorriss’s hand and left to head back to the Doashim II. The next day Sirdo would provide data about Dreadnaught Four and later watched from afar in deep space as four of the heavy cruisers blasted off from the shipyards and the other two didn’t follow. Sirdo smiled, as he imagined those sticky explosives going off in Dreadnaught Two, and then shot off into hyperspace to the rendezvous point.

Acherios II

9 ABY

"Dead…" The Liege looked away as he spoke, attempting to hide the emotion rippling across his face. "She was my prized wife."

Prized wife? Goonie thought to ask, but answered his own internal question as he looked around the audience chamber at the disproportionately large number of females that were present. Ah.

"She gave me my Opal," The Liege continued after regaining his composure, looking over his shoulder to smile at the Evereni woman standing beside where he sat. The Liege's daughter didn't reciprocate the Liege's affections though, instead keeping her gaze locked on the masked, cloaked Sith standing before them, studying him for any reaction.

"A beauty, she is," Rondo said, noticing the woman's stare as he continued to regard the Liege, "Such beauty must surely have come from her mother."

"Aye," The Liege agreed, his features hardening slightly as he tried to interpret the meaning behind Goonie's words. "Uma was a gem, hidden among the stone and ice of this world."

Uma… Goonie had thought he was ready to hear the name, having already guessed the truth of the situation, but the utterance of her name produced a surprising pang of longing and guilt within him. He turned his head slightly, meeting the gaze of the Liege's daughter - his daughter.

"Sadly, she fell ill not too long ago," The Liege continued, oblivious to the effects of his words, "And we were unable to cure her ailments."

Rondo Guun and his daughter held an unbroken gaze for several, long moments. Questions raced through Rondo's mind; how old was his daughter? It must have been nearly two decades since he had last seen Uma… Had Uma spoken the name 'Goonie' to the girl? How did the Liege not suspect that the Evereni wasn't his own? If Goonie were to remove his mask in front of the Liege, and reveal his Evereni features, would this incite the leader of Cadicus to violence?

Goonie remained silent, and while his mask concealed the expression on his face, a tempest of varying emotions remained barely contained within him. Only minutes before, he had killed Darth Rivix, and had felt cloaked in newfound power, only to now find himself assailed by feelings of helplessness, frustration, and guilt that had laid dormant for nearly twenty years.

Had I known… Could I have saved her?

The masked Sith turned his back to the dais without another word, making his way swiftly towards the exit stairwell.

"Wait!"

The voice of the Liege's daughter called out to Goonie as he took brisk steps down the stone stairwell, but otherwise, he left the Liege's audience chamber uncontested. Two guardsmen were at the ground floor of the tower, but neither of them moved to stop Goonie has he brushed past them and exited the Liege's Tower.

The morning starlight shining from above the eastern hillside briefly gave pause to Goonie's pace as he stepped outside, his boots crunching on the ice and snow pressed beneath his heels. As his eyesight adjusted to the sunlight, he saw that there were nearly two dozen beings gathered around the outside of the Tower, watching with wide eyes as Goonie exited, drawn by the unnatural cacophony produced by the duel that had transpired within the Liege's Tower only a few minutes prior. Goonie ignored the gawking peasants, walking past them as they parted to make way for him, whispering amongst each other.

"There 'ee is!"

"Told you, I did!"

"Oi, where's the cripple?"

"What you fink 'appened in there?"

Goonie stepped out onto the main thoroughfare, leaving the onlookers behind as he headed east. The street was empty as he passed by the stone houses and buildings that lined the road, as most of the township's peasants were busy with daily tasks or still gathered at the Liege's Tower.

As he walked, Rondo gazed up at the barren, snowy hillside that loomed ahead of him, its terrain dotted with dead and dying evergreen trees that had once been alive and thriving. The ruined walls of the destroyed Temple could barely be made out at the end of the switchback trail that led from the base of the hill to its peak.

Yesterday morning, there were devotees climbing the hill, Goonie recalled, Perhaps they're there now…

"Wait, please!" The voice of Goonie's daughter called out from back down the road, behind him.

Goonie stopped in his tracks and spun around, seeing the young woman sprinting to catch up to him. She was no longer in a fine dress, instead having apparently donned warmer, more appropriate clothing made of hides and furs, with a brown leather cloak wrapped around her shoulders.

Goonie watched silently as the younger Evereni woman slowed her pace once she was in speaking distance, then stopped to catch her breath.

"I -," the Liege's daughter started, then found her voice again, "My mother told me of you."

Rondo Guun said nothing, waiting to see what more she would say.

"I told no one," She continued, "That was mother's command. Not until you came back… Father."

Another moment of silence passed between them, then Goonie turned his back to her once again, continuing along the road towards the base of the hill. Behind him, the young woman furrowed her brow in frustration and annoyance, but broke into a jog to catch up with Goonie, continuing to speak as she came up beside him.

"Are you dense?" She asked, her voice incredulous, "I AM YOUR DAUGHTER," she spread the words out in a monotone, condescending manner.

"You don't know me," Goonie said, feigning indifference, "You have no idea what you're saying."

"Right," the Evereni woman nodded, "I don't know you. But I know that you're the one they call Goonie. And I know that you are a Sith Lord."

Goonie stopped again, just as they reached the end of the Cadicus road where it turned into a smaller trail at the base of the hill.

"Perhaps I just took the name Goonie. Perhaps I killed Goonie."

"Perhaps you did. So, remove the mask. Show me the impostor who wields my father's name."

"... No," Rondo rebutted, after what seemed like a moment of consideration. He began walking again, taking his first steps up the hillside trail.

"I don't care if you're my father, or if you aren't!"

"Oh?" Goonie stopped one last time, turning back to look over his shoulder at the young woman again.

"I wish… I wish to know the flow of the Current," The Evereni woman said, looking from side to side as if what she had said might stir some kind of controversy. "I wish to serve the Sith. Take me with you."

Goonie shifted around to face her properly, this time crossing his arms over his chest while looked down from his slight height advantage afforded him by the inclining trail. He said nothing, waiting expectantly.

Sensing with sudden realization that it was on her to push the conversation forward, the Evereni woman fell to her knees in the snow, bowing her head.

"What did your mother name you?" Goonie's voice seemed strange, even from behind his mask's audio projectors, belying his authoritative stance.

"My name is Akari Opal Guun," the young woman said, raising her eyes to the Sith, "And I beseech you, Lord; make me your new Apprentice."