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  1. Chapter Thirty Rederick led the way through the command center's innards, the packed group of disparate figures trailing his impassioned gait. Soldiers, Sith, and Jedi alike navigated the cramped corridor in silence, only the echoes of more than a dozen boots gracing their senses. But the journey would prove short-lived as the Commander took pause in front of the Consular's impromptu home. With a forced calm, he beckoned the Jedi to the front of the group before waving her into the empty room. "My apologies, Master Kesara, but we cannot risk having you out in the open. Stay here, if you would, whilst the Executors and I tend to the matters at hand." There was an expediency in the Imperial's every syllable, but never did the man completely shed his knack for decorum. His head held at a slight dip as he spoke, Rederick maintained a fine balance of respect and utmost haste. The Consular, meanwhile, offered no objections. Stepping past Sith and riflemen, Kesara returned to her room with little more than a polite nod. With an almost imperceptible wag of the Commander's finger, the pair of soldiers gracing the hallway snapped to attention. Immediately, they moved forward, flanking the entrance to the Jedi's chamber and sealing her in with the quick press of a button. There they remained, stances rigid, rifles in hand, helmed gazes perpetually forward. Spinning on his heels, Rederick continued his trek through the base without a word, simply expecting the Executors to follow. His expectations were promptly met. The group had been reduced to a mere quartet, but quite the quartet it remained. "So, where do we go from here?" asked Fay. "Demik had a communicator," Rederick began, not ceasing his forward pace. "Hidden from us… as well as his apprentices, to a degree. We will locate it and see if it can tell us anything." "The other Sith won't take kindly to us ransacking one of their tents," Fay replied. "That they won't," said Rederick. The Commander retrieved the cylindrical communicator from his belt and brought it to his mouth. "This is a priority alert to all outpost defenders. Pull all but two sentries from the walls. Place a single IDD at the front entrance. I need everyone and everything else in the courtyard. Those guarding the command center are to remain at their posts. Rederick, out." "Don't think they'll take kindly to a firing squad, either," Asher muttered. "I've no intention to kill, only to maintain some semblance of order. We cannot allow anyone to interfere with our search. Time is of the essence." "How so?" asked Graves. "We don't know the nature of Demik's arrangement," Fay stated. "There's a chance him going silent could prompt those he communicated with to disappear." "Precisely," said Rederick. The Commander only momentarily paused in order to open a door, spilling the group into the central hub of the command center. The terminals lining the floor and walls were dark and unpowered, the communications blackout still in effect. "If only someone had opted for something other than a beheading," Asher muttered. "We might have been able to force Demik to talk with his mysterious contacts." Graves' head dipped. "I didn't really have a choice..." "Really? Couldn't have just stabbed him in the gut or something?" Asher asked. "Maybe lop off an arm? I mean, I know from experience that's not a sure-fire way to stop someone but-" "Graves didn't use his lightsaber," Fay interrupted. "He used the Force." The scarred man met his gaze with that of his taller fellow, his typically stoic countenance almost shifting to one of surprise. "You could tell?" "Even if I didn't recognize the technique, the lack of cauterization was a rather big giveaway," Fay plainly stated before turning toward her other teammate. "You didn't think that odd, Asher?" "I wasn't exactly staring at the wound itself," he mumbled, arms crossed. "And people have been known to bleed from saber cuts around major points of articulation... but this is the first I've heard about people getting sliced up with the Force." The Executors came to an abrupt stop, whilst an unaware Rederick continued toward the command center's front entrance. "The most basic applications of the Force are through telekinetics," Fay explained, figuratively and literally talking down to the burned Sith. "Pushes manifest in waves. Compress those waves and, with enough speed and power, you've got yourself a blade." The woman raised her hand and offered a quick flick of her index finger. "Remember?" "Right... no offense, but Graves doesn't exactly seem the type capable of that," said Asher, not even looking at the subject of his derisions. "He's somewhat lacking in skill and finesse and... overall Force prowess." "He's actually right," Graves replied, usual emotionless candor. The burned Sith snapped toward his stoic fellow, almost offended that he would agree with him. "Honestly, I can barely even call upon the Force." "Then explain the headless Sith currently aboard my... our ship." "While I can't actively use it, I've got some sort of subconscious defense system," Graves explained. "Usually it only activates after I've been beat to hell or black out. Guess it was different this time." Before Graves could even finish his words, Asher scuttled away, practically throwing himself against one of the nearby terminals. Eyes wide, chest rising and falling with each frantic breath, the burned Sith continued to press his back against the deactivated machinery. "What's your problem now, Asher?" asked Fay, utterly calm. "My problem? We've got someone who can accidentally behead people!" "Only if they happen to attack him," Fay replied. "Honestly, I see it as positive." "Of course you would," said Asher with a harsh whisper. "First Nami, and now this. I get you've a thing for damaged goods, but whereas the girl just throws a punch or two, Graves cuts people's heads off!" "Only sometimes," Grave plainly stated. "This is the second time it's ever happened... I think." "You think?" "Well, like I said, sometimes I black out and... it's not like I've ever cut off anything of yours." "Is that supposed to make me feel better?" Asher shot back. "That was the intention, yes," said Graves. "Executors," Rederick called out. The trio looked to see the Commander standing in the open entrance, a dark silhouette as the Balmorran sunlight shined beyond him. "I'm afraid I must once again stress that time is of the essence." "You heard him, let's go," said Fay, already taking her first step toward the exit. "Whoa, wait, no," Asher stammered. "We are not dropping this!" Fay paused her advance, looked over her shoulder, and cast a sharpened glare toward the burned Sith. "Yes. We are. The mission comes first, so suck it up." "Just because you don't see the problem-" "Oh, I see the problem," Fay interrupted, firm in her tone. "I just happen to also see the solution. Don't instigate." With that, the tall woman resumed her trek to the front of the command center. Finally, Asher pushed himself off the unpowered terminal, straightening out his robes as he avoided eye contact with the scarred man nearby. "If it makes you feel any better-" Graves began before finding a hand raised toward his face. "Graves... you are literally incapable of saying or doing anything that would make me feel better." Dropping his hand, Asher finally began to walk in the direction of Fay and Rederick. In a matter of moments, Graves was left standing alone in the dim lighting of the command center. "This is why I said I don't work in groups..." ---------- The courtyard of Imperial Outpost XT-25 basked in the orange glow of the setting sun. Though the long day slowly approached its end, there was a renewed bustle within the walls of the military base. Beyond the perimeter, all was still, all was silent. The stomping of boots and struts atop the dry grasslands was replaced by little more than the passing breeze. Atop the duracrete wall, a single soldier stood on each side of the partition that was the outpost's entrance. The black-clad figures cast their helmed gaze out toward the empty landscape, never sneaking even the slightest glance toward the commotion behind their backs. On the ground, practically blocking the base's entrance, an Imperial Defense Droid performed its duty with as much diligence as its organic counterparts. Its three struts firmly planted in the dirt, the walking turret would repeatedly pivot upon its waist, ready to vaporize any external threat with the cannons that took the place of its hands. Meanwhile, the rest of the base's defenders were focused on threats more internal. A gathering was underway. Imperials and Sith. Subordinates and superiors. Organics and machines. A group of blends and stark divides. Of beings dark and gray. The tents were empty, their occupants having been spilled into the courtyard. Scores of Imperial soldiers and battledroids, more than a dozen Sith, two sides staring one another down, separated by a threshold neither would cross. On the side of duty, faceless beings blind to the Force. Not a spot of flesh showed amongst the base defenders, full suits of armor covering each Human's hide. Shoulder to shoulder, the soldiers and their mechanical accompaniment were equally calm, equally rigid. Rifles in hand, they stood at the ready, but never did they fully raise their weapons. On the side of passion, individuals seeped in the dark side. Some Human, others Pureblood. Some robed, others armored. None wholly the same, yet none wholly unique. Pallid skin, eyes of crimson and gold, the warriors had driven themselves deep down their chosen path and reflected that fact in every fiber of their being. And between them all, the motley quartet of Rederick and the Executors. Though with their backs toward the Commander's forces, it was clear with side they truly fell upon. "Sith," Rederick began, speaking just loud enough to ensure his words met every ear beneath every cowl. The man remained adamant as he was bombarded by harsh glares, his hands neatly held behind his back. "A great many questions must be running through your heads. Why we have gathered. Why the one known as Demik no longer stands amongst you. The truth is that he and his apprentices were found guilty of treasonous acts, and they received punishments befitting their crime." There was a series of hushed mummers amongst the Sith as they turned their glares toward each other rather than toward the Commander. "However," Rederick continued, "the nature of their transgression gives us reason to believe that they were not the only Sith involved with this treasonous behavior. Given your contact with the accused, as well as your positions prior to relocation, it stand to reason that many of you are guilty of the very same crime. Fortunately for you all, we haven't sufficient proof and I have seen enough death for today. There will be no executions, no massacres, so long as no one impedes our search of Demik's quarters and belongings. Any attempt to do so will be seen not only as an act of obstruction, but as one's complicity in the aforementioned crimes. Now, if you would, please stand aside and let us proceed with our efforts." Rederick took his first steps forward toward the line of Sith, only to find his progress impeded as the man before him refused to budge. The warrior was a thing of broken and warped flesh much as the cyborg was. But whereas Rederick's visage spoke of wounds sustained, the Sith's spoke of an internal corruption that managed to claw its way to the surface. Organics twisted by the dark side, rather than mended by cybernetics. "I'll ask again," said Rederick, firm and direct, locking eyes with the scowling warrior. "If you would, please stand aside." "An Imperial thinking he can preside over Sith..." the warrior growled. "You've no idea the consequences you'll face..." "I may have earned myself a few demerits... but I'd say it's worth it to put a few traitors in their place." "Just wait until my master hears of your actions... demerits will be the least of your worries." Rederick remained stone-faced as the stared down the hooded warrior. "Go ahead and inform them. Of course, with there being a blackout on communications, you'll have to wait a while before you can deliver the news. Unless you also happen to have some contraband in your tent worth examining?" Without a word, the haughty Sith stepped aside, granting the Commander a clear path toward Demik's quarters. Rederick moved forward, and the Executors followed shortly thereafter. The Imperial pushed past the tent's flap without a second thought, followed by Fay. But as the scarred and burned Sith were about to enter, Graves found a hand placed on his chest. A hand that belonged to Asher. "Stay out here," he said. "But I can help with the search," Graves replied. "Maybe. But I'd prefer not to share a cramped space with someone surrounded by an uncontrollable death-bubble." "It's not uncontrollable," said Graves before looking down. "See? You're touching me right now." Asher quickly rescinded his hand, almost unaware it had extended in the first place. "Look, someone has to stand lookout. Might as well be you. Okay?" "If you think so... then I will." With that, Graves turned his back on his fellow, looking out to the scores of Imperials and Sith that stood before him. His feet planted in the dirt, the scarred man did nothing but occasionally pan his gaze from left to right and back again. Asher opened his mouth to speak, but no words came. Instead, he simply ducked into the tent. Inside, Rederick and Fay had already begun their search. There was little resting between the walls of canvas, atop the floor of Balmorran dirt. The Imperial focused on the Sith's cots, running his mechanical hands through numerous layers of sheets. The Kineticist, meanwhile, did more heavy lifting, raising furniture with the Force before setting it back on the ground with nary a thud. From chairs to shelves, Fay searched beneath and behind the solid objects, moving with an effortless grace. "What exactly are we looking for?" Asher asked, still standing near the cramped quarters' entrance. "A personal communicator," said Rederick as he tossed aside a sheet. "Small enough to have been smuggled in and kept a secret. Likely possesses a cylindrical or disk shape." The burned Sith remained motionless, merely scanning his surroundings. Eventually, he settled on the dirt flooring, running his gaze along the tent's edges until something caught his eye. The slight glint of light reflecting off a metallic surface. Asher held out his open hand, subtly clawing at the air as he focused his mind. Not a moment later, a pair of gray cylinders began rolling across the floor toward their manipulator. Two lightsabers once belonging to Demik's apprentices. With a quick flick of his wrist, Asher sent the hilts flying toward him, only to catch one in each hand. He turned them over, examining every curve and ridge. Searching each one's length, he eventually rested his thumbs over the lightsabers' activators. The tent was filled with the twin hums of the two weapons activating, and soon the cramped space was basked in a red glow. Not a moment later, the other occupants snapped toward the disturbance. "Uh, Asher?" Fay spoke up. "Had to check," he replied, promptly deactivating the weapons. "There's actually a lot of space inside the casings if you remove the crystal and power cell. Seeing if it turns on is easier than disassembling it." "Good call," said Fay. "The best hiding place would be somewhere no Imperial would think, or dare, to search." "Indeed," Rederick spoke up. "Though considering Demik's apprentices didn't know where he kept his communicator, it's safe to say it wasn't hidden amongst their belongings. Though Demik's lightsaber..." "No, we heard it activate on the droid's recording," Asher replied. "Still, Sith are associated with more than just lightsabers. Let's look for something beyond a soldier's purview." "Good thinking, Asher," a calm voice sounded off on the other side of the tent flaps. "Thanks, Graves." The burned Sith's reply was unconsciously warm, a fact that made his eye twitch as his brain caught up with his tongue. Asher quickly snapped toward the partition, biting his lip. "Don't get distracted! You're on lookout!" No more words came from outside. With a huff, Asher set the pair of hilts down on one of the nearby folding chairs. Meanwhile, Rederick had cleared the cots, turning his attention to one of the trunks lying beneath them. He dragged them out, one by one, until three large suitcases graced the center of the tent. The noise and motion of the metal crates scratching against the dirt caught the attention of the Executors. Without a word, they approached the suitcases, all three investigators having a trunk unto themselves. Asher and Fay quickly went to work, undoing the latches of their respective luggage and parting their lids. Both were greeted with little more than a loose bundle of black clothes of varying shapes and sizes. Rederick, meanwhile, simply looked at his still-closed suitcase. "Mine has a combination lock," he muttered. "Need help?" asked Fay. "Appreciated... but no need." With that, the Commander gripped the two halves of the lock, tightening his mechanical grip. The tent filled with the sounds of warping metal until, with a quick jerk, Rederick shattered the lock and forced open the lid of his trunk. The trio continued their search, rifling through the belongings of Demik and his apprentices, not entirely sure to whom each trunk belonged. After a few seconds of rifling through sets of robes, Asher was the first to return with something other than backup attire. It was a metallic disc that fit in the palm of his hand, just thick enough to house a series of electronics beneath its rigid casing. "Might have something," Asher muttered as he fiddled with the device. A moment later, an emitter in the center of the disc lit up and a hologram began to form above the disc. After a flicker, the blue light took the shape a family, a three-dimensional photo. Three Humans stood together, a mother and father resting their hands upon their son's shoulders, all smiling. The burned Sith stared at the image for only a second before promptly shutting it off, haphazardly tossing the device back into the trunk. "Never mind. False alarm." The searched continued. The next to discover something peculiar was Rederick, whose mechanical nerves told him of something sharp hiding amongst his pile of clothes. When he retrieved his hand, he held within it a small pyramid. The black and red polygon was just small enough to be held in the Imperial's palm, home to intricate Sith designs etched into every facet of its glass-like surface. "A holocron," he muttered, his one organic eye growing wide. The Executors immediately looked up from their trunks, staring at the device with similar interest. "A repository of Sith secrets," Fay spoke up. "A device manufactured and utilized solely by those gifted with the Force. Definitely something Imperials would avoid messing with." Rederick rubbed his chin with his free hand, eyes still locked on the crimson device. "Even without superstition holding them back, soldiers aren't to tamper with artifacts without ties to Reclamation Service or the Sphere of Ancient Knowledge." "Making one the perfect place to conceal contraband," said Fay as she made her way over to the Commander. Asher released a quick chuckle. "What better place to hide something than somewhere people would be too afraid to look. Sith holocrons have a reputation for corrupting the minds of the untrained." Fay carefully took the pyramid from the Commander, holding it in her palm and bringing it close to her face. "Of course," Asher continued, "its innards are typically occupied by a complicated crystalline-latticework forming a semi-organic computerized neural network capable of storing immense amounts of data and imprinting from its creator, so even if it possessed a compartment at its core, there wouldn't be much space to-" Ignoring the burned Sith's exposition, Fay hovered her other hand over the holocron, sandwiching the device between her palms. With but a quick thought, she channeled the Force from her hands, and the pyramid shattered into thousand tiny pieces, revealing a metallic disk within. "It was a fake," she plainly stated. "Hollow." "Well then..." Asher muttered, arms crossed. "I guess that settles that." Fay took the hidden device in her other hand, letting the shattered remains of the fake holocron fall to the dirt floor. A rounded disk, home to a clip on one side and a compact holoprojector on the other, its surfaces lined with a number of switched and dials. "I'd say we found Demik's means of communication," she said. The trio drew closer and closer to one another, until they stood in a circle around the device in the tall woman's hands. "So, what now?" asked Asher. "Now... we can begin in earnest."
  2. From the "Sith Titles" Codex entry: So it seems that Apprentice is equal to plain "Sith", with acolyte not quite having earn the designation, at least formally. Which also means acolytes technically don't have to be referred to as 'my lord' to non-Sith, but I suppose most probably do out of fear or respect regardless. During the war, I imagine there'd be plenty of Sith who lost their masters, but hadn't yet earned the right to take their place as a Lord, so they remained at the 'apprentice' level despite not technically being an 'apprentice', at least in the interim before they could find a new master. And given the large scale of operations for the Sith and the Empire, I imagine more than a few individuals who passed their trials at the Academy were pulled out, dubbed Sith, and then sent to fight on the frontlines even without having a Lord taking personal control of their apprenticeship. Someone's gotta stand around guarding all those military outposts and Sith manors.
  3. Chapter Twenty Nine Aboard the Fury, a gathering was taking place. Three bodies overlooked the headless one that lay at their feet, but absent was the one actually responsible for the felled Sith Lord. Instead, Graves sat off to the side, red-stained face buried in his hands. Standing shoulder to shoulder, Asher, Fay, and Rederick could only offer terse stares as they bounced their gaze between the bisected pieces of Demik. "I daresay this is what one might call a predicament," said Rederick, unwavering in his tone or delivery. Wearing a face of stone, the Imperial maintained his ordered presence, even as he locked eyes with the scowling Pureblood looking up at him. "You're telling me," Asher casually added, though a touch more perturbed than the Commander. "He died right over a grate, which means he's been leaking into who knows where for who knows how long..." Hands on his hips, the burned man nudged Demik's torso with his foot, slightly lifting its shoulder before setting it back down. A sigh slipped out of Fay as she rubbed her brow. "There are more important things to worry about than the ship right now." "Indeed. This can only shake up an already unstable situation," Rederick declared. Asher shot a sharpened glance toward his fellow seated on the nearby couch. "It's a shame one of us doesn't know the meaning of 'don't instigate'." "I didn't mean to do it," Graves muttered as he lifted his face from his palms. "And it was self-defense." Rederick scratched his chin, eyes still affixed to the floor. "Hard to corroborate that when the only other witness is currently missing a head." "If I may..." A new voice. A new figure. Everyone turned toward the source, only to see the Astromechanical Logistics Droid step into the central chamber. Ever the polite attendant, the machine offered a dip of its head as all eyes fell upon it. "I had offered my services as a personal recorder for Master Graves, services which he chose to decline. However, I still believe it my duty to record the happenings within the Fury, especially when a guest is aboard." "Can you verify the events that transpired here?" asked Rederick. "I can provide an audio log detailing the event in its entirely," said the droid, almost giddy in its speech. Immediately, everyone began to move toward the droid, rising from seats and stepping away from lifeless Sith Lords. With curiosity, they surrounded the metallic being, none willing to speak. ALD maintained its poise, almost staring off into the distance as its speakers fired up. "Graves... I was hoping we could continue our conversation from the other day. Just you and I, no fellows or apprentices." The voice of Demik. The voice of the fallen. The group continued to listen with bated breath, even the man who made up half of the recorded dialogue. They listened through the pleasantries, the reminiscing, and finally, the revelations. Talk of Jedi and Sith. Of wants and desires. Of machinations and games. Of refusal. Of confrontation. "It's far from over... if we can't have our little war, so be it. We'll just make a bigger one. What do you think happens when they find a dead Sith in the base, hmm? They go after the Consular. And when she's dead, the Jedi come out of hiding. Rebels. Imperials. Sith. Jedi. We'll have our war, not from the shadows, but on a global scale!" Then, the sounds of a lightsaber igniting, proceeded by a series of thuds. Playback ended. "Well, he was right about the dead Sith," Asher spoke up. "Though I doubt he was referring to himself." "But the end result is the same," said Fay. "Which means the rest might come to pass as well." The Executors turned toward the Commander, only to see his usually unshakable visage begin to warp. His lips trembled, eventually settling on the slightest of scowls. Slowly, the Imperial reached to his belt, retrieving a small, handheld cylinder and holding it to his mouth. "Sergeant..." Rederick spoke into the device, almost at a whisper. "Yes, Commander?" came an immediate response. "If you would, please triple the security in front of the command center. No one is permitted to enter unless personally accompanied by me, understand?" "Understood, sir!" Rederick drew and released a deep breath as he returned the communicator to his belt. The man fell silent, closing his remaining organic eye. "It would seem that your actions were more than justified, Mr. Graves." The scarred, bloodstained Sith offered no immediate response, simply standing with his head slightly dipped. "So how do we proceed?" asked Fay. "If Lord Demik was the one running this... operation... it stands to reason his apprentices were in on it as well," Rederick suggested. "It stands to reason that every Sith occupying this base, or even this planet, was in on it," Asher mumbled. Rederick worked to regain his composure, wiping any trace of a frown from his face as he interlocked his hands behind his back. "That is a road we shall cross in time. But for now, we must focus our efforts on what we know. Demik's apprentices are likely curious of their master's whereabouts. They should be detained as soon as possible to avoid further troubles." "Detain them how?" asked Asher. "The 'how' is easy," Fay plainly stated. "It's the 'where' that's uncertain." "Bring them to the command center. The rooms there are the closest thing we have to holding cells," said Rederick. Fay arched her brow. "Do we really want to move them closer to the Jedi?" "Better than interrogating them out in the open," Rederick replied. The woman offered a firm nod. "Got it. Prep the room. I'll handle the apprentices." "I'll run interference in case one tries to slip away," Asher added. "What should I do?" asked Graves. Asher cocked his head to the side. "Well, for one thing you could wash up. It's disconcerting how often we've met and your face was stained with blood." Graves' head dipped. "It was my own, last time." "I honestly don't know which is worse," Asher replied. "Clean yourself up. And try not to cut off any more heads in the meantime." With that, the burned Sith made his way toward the ship's entrance. Fay followed, but not before offering her fellow a respectful nod. "About the killing," Graves muttered. "I..." "Another time, Graves," said Fay, lacking the bite of the burned Sith's words, but also lacking a sense of comfort. "Other matters now require our attention." As the two Executors disappeared down the rear corridor, Graves was left alone with the Commander, as well as the droid who stood awkwardly in the corner of the room. The remaining Sith's head dipped further, until his eyes seemed glued to the floor. Lifting both his gaze and spirits, however, was Rederick placing a prosthetic hand upon the Executor's shoulder. "You did a good thing," he said, a softness shining through the Imperial's otherwise stoic demeanor. "The man was a traitor to the Empire, and deserved punishment." "All I did was defend myself," Graves replied. "And even then, it doesn't feel like I actually did anything." "Then think of all you did beyond the one act. You refused his offer. You sought to expose him. The mark of a patriot does not lie solely in great acts. Every decision we make, it can serve our selves, or it can serve something greater. We are individuals united in our purpose." "Our purpose..." Graves muttered. "That is was it means to be an Imperial," Rederick continued. "And though I will not presume what it means to be a Sith, I will say that could not be far off. Or rather, it should not be." Graves lifted his gaze, and was greeted with the Commander's eyes staring into his own, both organic and cybernetic. There was a warmth in Rederick's visage, one strong enough to overpower the cold machinery that dominated half of his face. And yet, its strength was born solely from the slight curl upon his lips. One that Graves mirrored. "But your friend is right, you should probably wash off the blood..." ---------- Back inside the base, the two underlings of Lord Demik squirmed in their tent, tapping their feet and constantly looking side to side. Beads of sweat formed on their brows as they incessantly awaited the return of their master, who had now been gone for hours. All they could feel was a growing panic and unease, until finally a large silhouette appeared on the other side of their tent's flaps. "Master!" the pair joyously cried out in unison. But as the figure parted the flaps, the panic and unease returned stronger than ever. Without a word, Fay stepped inside, towering over the seated apprentices. But seated they would remain no longer. "Where is our master?" barked the lesser woman. Fay focused on the tattooed Sith and took a step forward. She offered no explanation. No quip. Merely the delivery of her clenched first to the apprentice's torso. In an instant, the air was evacuated from the Sith's lungs and she fell to the cold, hard ground. Trembling legs carried the other apprentice as he rushed past the Executor and fled the tent. He managed only a single step before tripping over himself, face planting into the Balmorran dirt. As he lifted his gaze, he was greeted with the sight of the wrapped Sith standing in front of him, arms firmly crossed. "Going somewhere?" asked Asher. The apprentice's lips parted, but no words came forth. And before he could make further attempts to speak, he felt something tugging on his leg. Looking back, the Sith saw his foot raised into the air, seemingly of its own accord. Then, the invisible force began dragging him back into the tent, overpowering any attempts he made to claw at the dirt. ---------- Crowded was the corridor deep inside the command center. Sith, Jedi, and Imperials alike gathered outside one of the many identical doors than lined the hallway. Asher stood beside Graves, no longer stained with the blood of Lord Demik. Rederick was flanked by a pair of soldiers, armed and armored. And amongst them was Master Kesara, absent her usual cup of tea. Each and every one of them perked up as a series of knocks rang out from the other side of the room's door. One of the soldiers tapped away at the control panel, and soon the solid barrier lifted into its recess. "They're ready for you," said Fay as she stepped out of the chamber. Rederick offered a nod. "Thank you, Executor. I can take things from here." "Commander, if I may," Kesara spoke up. "I believe myself capable of acquiring the information we need through less... forceful means." "I appreciate the sentiment, Consular, but I must decline your offer," Rederick declared. Slowly, the Commander passed his gaze between the gathered individuals. "Under no circumstances am I to be interrupted, understand? No matter what you hear, after this door closes, it does not open until I give the proper signal." The soldiers offered their acknowledgements, with the others supplying various nods of their own. With that, the Commander stepped into the chamber and the door shut behind him. The room was as barren as the one Kesara had occupied, but with the added benefit of a second chair to accommodate the two apprentices on the other side of the table. And thus they sat, side by side, opposite their interrogator, hands shackled behind the backs of their chairs. Heads dipped, they slumped not from the swift beating they had previously received, but to avoid eye contact with the Imperial. But as they surreptitiously lifted their gazes, they were greeted with the sight of an impeccably dressed officer, hands kept behind his back, blaster pistol strapped to his thigh. "Aris and Noran, apprentices to Lord Demik," Rederick began. The Commander was the embodiment of calm. Unwavering in his stance. In his voice. "What can you tell me about the Jedi on Balmorra? More specifically, your connection with them?" The woman lifted her head, casting a hateful stare as her tattoo was illuminated under the hanging light. "We don't have to answer your questions." "We don't have to do anything, Aris," Rederick replied. "We don't have to arrange fights beneath our government's notice. We don't have to cause good men and women to lose their lives, just because they happened to get caught in the crossfire. We don't have to commit treason. And yet, you and your master did all those things. Why?" "The actions of Sith are beyond your concern, Imperial," Aris muttered, practically spitting with each word. A loud clang rang out as metal met metal, as Rederick slammed his prosthetic fist on the table. "No they are not! Your master defied the Emperor's will! Sacrificed the lives of soldiers! Made contact with the enemy!" The Commander's shouts reverberated throughout the compact chamber, until all fell silent. Slowly, he withdrew his hand, revealing a dent in the spot it made contact. Gathering himself, Rederick drew and released a deep breath. "And I want to know why and how." "The 'why'?" Aris said with a smirk. "Because we wanted to, you blithering idiot. You think we care if a few Imperials died? It's expected of you. Your lives are worthless next to the ambitions of Sith. That's how it's always been, and how it always will be." Rederick's fists clenched, an audible creaking ringing out as metal rubbed against metal. But the man did not break. Turning away from the woman, the Commander set his sights on her fellow apprentice. Noran kept his head dipped, shying away as he continued to maintain his silence. Another deep breath from Rederick. "Very well. Let's skip the 'why' and go straight to the 'how'. All communications equipment and transmissions are monitored. How did your master relay his messages? How did he arrange these fights?" The woman offered nothing but her sharpened gaze and her growing smirk. All was silent, but for an ethereal hum than began to fill the chamber. "Tell me," Rederick demanded. "How did you master communicate with the rebels? With the Jedi?" No response. Instead, the woman continued to stare at the Imperial, never breaking eye contact. Finally, as the hum seemed to grow in intensity, she spoke. "You don't want to know." Rederick arched his brow. "Pardon?" "You don't want to know," Aris repeated, concentrating. "You want to forget all about this and let us go." The words were almost soothing as they graced the Imperial's ears, laced with the very essence of the Force. Unfortunately for the Sith, her mental suggestion proved incapable of boring into the target's head. The same could not be said for the response. In a single motion, Rederick pulled the blaster pistol from his holster and squeezed the trigger. First, a sharp ping. Then, a green bolt. The woman rocked in her chair as the round passed through her skull, eventually slumping forward. Her restraints kept her from reaching the flat of the table. Her hair obscured the tattoo that now featured a hole in its center. Finally the other apprentice stirred. The man jostled and shook, releasing a litany of garbled words and curses as he bounced his gaze between his fallen fellow and anywhere else he could possibly look. Meanwhile, Rederick maintained his poise, calmly returning the blaster to its holster. A muffled voice rang out on the other side of the door. "Commander? Is everything all right?" "Everything is fine, do not interrupt us," Rederick shouted through the door. Slowly, he panned his gaze back toward the still-breathing apprentice. "Perhaps you'll prove more cooperative, Noran." "I don't... you... you can't do this!" he replied, bouncing between mumbles and shouts. "I can't? And why not?" Rederick calmly asked. "Because I'm not Sith? Because I'm just some lowly Imperial? Well guess what, you're not Sith either. You and your master were stripped of such designations when you decided to commit high treason. Now... you will tell me the means in which you've been communicating with the rebel forces." Noran was reduced to a blubbering slump, tears streaming down his cheeks. Through sniffles and trembling lips, he finally managed to speak. "Our master had a... private communicator. Unmonitored." "Where is it?" "Hidden... in our tent. I don't know where, he never let us see it. But I swear to you, it's there!" The apprentice lifted gaze to find a silent Rederick staring back at him. "You're going to kill me, aren't you?" "Our law dictates that the sole punishment for treason be execution," Rederick plainly stated. Noran lowered his gaze, not ceasing his discharge of tears. "This isn't fair..." "Fair? After what you and your master have done, you would speak of fairness?" "You don't understand... what it's like," Noran muttered. "The Academy... we were raised to fight. That was our purpose. To fight. To hate. To kill. You people spent months, years, preparing us for the war, and then just expected us to give it all up? You know what we are without war? Nothing! You took away our identity... our purpose... our entire reason for being. And then you have the gall to blame us for lashing out? That was our nourishment, and now you're literally starving us. You'll never understand what it's like to be a Sith!" "And yet I know more of war than you ever will," Rederick replied, a softness gracing his otherwise terse voice. The Commander rolled back his left sleeve, then his right, revealing more and more of the metallic limbs that rest beneath. Black, almost skeletal prosthetics emerged, their junction with flesh still not revealed even as he pushed his sleeves past his elbows. "I owe the war... for a great many things. It earned me my position. It earned me my status. It earned me my new body. In all, I can safely say I've gained more than lost from war. But I do not like war. I... tolerate... war. I tolerate the battles, the conflicts, the skirmishes. I tolerate being forced to march across fields of grass, rock, and snow. I tolerate the Sith Lords sending men and women to their doom. I tolerate countless pings of blaster bolts passing by, drowned out only by the roar of starfighters as they fly overhead. I tolerate seeing my fellows burn alive because they cannot escape the wreckage of an armored transport. I tolerate seeing one's own limbs litter the ground as they are carried away from an explosion. I tolerate being brought back, again and again. I tolerate being forced to fight, again and again. But you would seek such a thing. You would manufacture such a thing. And to what end? To fight for the sake of fighting. Mine is the blood of a soldier. Should the Emperor call for war, I will fight without a moment's hesitation. But I do not like war. Whatever glory there is to be had... whatever thrill or sated desire... that is not why we fight. We fight today, that we might not have to tomorrow. We fight to instill some sense of order upon a chaotic galaxy. Not for personal gain. And not at the expense of our fellows." Rederick punctuated his speech with the slow drawing of his blaster from its holster. Noran immediately winced, ducking his head and squeezing his eyes shut. He waited, second after second, until he heard a light thud. The apprenticed cracked open an eye, only to find the pistol resting on the table in front of him, and the Commander nowhere to be seen. Just as he began to arch a brow, Noran felt something tugging on his arms, followed by a series of clicks. In a matter of moments, he had regained control of his hands, no longer shackled. The apprentice puzzled as Rederick walked back into view, circling around the table. Hands kept behind his back, the Commander drew and released one last deep breath. "You've a series of choices. Unfortunately, none of them involve you keeping your life. The first, and most obvious one, would be to try and shoot me and escape. Of course, if I did not manage to end you, those waiting outside definitely would. The second, would be to follow in Aris' footsteps and have me simply carry out your punishment. And then there's the third option." "What's the third option?" Rederick paused. "You, of course, should be familiar with the ramifications of treason, beyond your own execution. Your name, and anything associated with it, will forever be tarnished. Your relatives... past, present, and future with bear the brand of a traitor. But, I believe you are not beyond all measures of redemption. Take the third option, and I will ensure your crimes remain yours and yours alone. That is my offer." Noran stared at the Commander with heavy eyes, cheeks still wet with tears. With a sniffle, he slowly lowered his gaze, eventually resting it on the pistol in front of him. And without a word, he reached out. ---------- Outside the cramped chamber, in the equally cramped corridor, the others patiently waited for Rederick to finish his interrogation. "How do you think things are going in there?" asked Asher. "Walls are too thick to hear much of anything," said Fay, content to lean against the wall adjacent to the shut door. "But he sounded like he had things under control." Cutting off the Executor was a sharp ping ringing out from inside the holding cell. The second one to grace their ears. The motley group stirred from their positions, but heeded the Commander's previous words. Everyone remained silent and motionless, until they heard a series of knocks on the other side of the door. The pair of soldiers stationed outside shared a brief glance and a nod with each other, and one quickly tapped away at the nearby control panel. The door shot up into its recess and out came Rederick, shoving a blaster into his thigh holster as he emerged. "We need to investigate the Sith's tent," he revealed, wasting no time making his way toward the command center's entrance. The rest followed, but not before sneaking a quick glance into the chamber, only to be greeted with the sight of two motionless Sith.
  4. Chapter Twenty Eight Ziost. A new day. Within the cramped living room of her instructors' home, Nami shared the couch with Vurt as a continuous clattering echoed from the connected kitchenette. The girl was hunched forward, resting her arms upon her legs as she drew labored breaths. Eyes heavy, her entire body ached, but nothing stung quite like the cut that stretched across her face. Bright red, the razor-thin gash had only recently crusted over, running from the center of her brow and down her left cheek. Vurt, meanwhile, maintained an unwavering upright posture, absent of wounds, casting his beady eyes forward in a picture of composure and patience. The noises from the kitchen reached a crescendo before falling completely silent. Only then did the Trandoshan emerge, holding two dishes in his hands. He set the first plate of charred meat before his fellow Sith without a fuss, but the second placed in front of the girl came with an unsteady jitter. Nami stared at Nesk's hands as he withdrew them, the left of which featured a thick wrapping of bandages, and only two of its usual three digits. "I'm sorry about... you know..." the girl managed to finally get out, still ducking her head. "Is no problem," Nesk casually offered, though still delivered with the usual half-snarl. Without another word, the Trandoshan disappeared back into the kitchen, leaving the girl to stare at the blackened patty of ground meat that lay before her. Finally, the Nikto budged from his perfect posture, taking hold of his fork. "It really isn't," he said, not bothering to look at the girl as he spoke. "Nesk once lost a hand. Regrowing a finger shouldn't take much effort." Nami's eyes went wide, before the motion agitated the cut running across her face. With a wince and a grit of her teeth, the girl drew and released a deep breath as she finally took hold of her fork. "Can you really grow an entire hand back?" "He can," said Vurt as he cut into his patty. "Nesk's people can naturally regenerate limbs. And with the Force, a process that would normally take months or years can instead be done in a few short days. Other species aren't quite as lucky." The scaled Sith returned with his own plate of foodstuffs. Taking his seat in the nearby armchair, the Trandoshan wasted no time digging into his meal. Nami watched as Vurt did the same, albeit with smaller, more sensible bites. The girl stared at her food, fork shaking as her hand slightly trembled. Her grip had been steadfast not hours ago, but now it was as weak as the rest of her extremities. She had survived. But only just. And yet now she sat, calmly, amongst her attackers, about to eat a reasonably prepared meal. "Don't think I'll ever get used to sitting… next to people who just tried to kill me," Nami muttered, mouth barely moving as the words pushed past her lips. "It will," Nesk said between bites. "It's the nature of the Sith," Vurt added. "You will share rooms with those who will inevitably try to kill you. You will share rooms with those you will inevitably try to kill." The girl fell silent as she cut into her food. Tender, the beef patty fell apart under the weight of her fork. Light seasoning. A bed of some unknown sauce. She took her first bite, each motion of her jaw bringing a sharp sting of pain. Her muscles ached. Her scar ached. Her entire being ached. After a few more bites, Nami paused her eating, opting to simply stare at what remained of her food. "Did I... did I do good, today?" "It is alive," said Nesk. "All that matters." Nami's head dipped, but only for a moment. "Does that mean... I'm ready for the Academy?" "No one is truly 'ready' for the Academy," Vurt replied. "But you've been given the necessary basics. The rest is up to you." Nesk looked up from his dish to offer the girl a quick glance. "It knows the Force. It knows how to survive. That is all it needs." "I wasn't exactly lacking knowledge in those subjects... before I came to Ziost," said Nami. "It had knowledge. Now it has wisdom," Nesk replied. "One is no more than words. Other must be beaten into it." "I suppose that's one way of looking at it." With that, the girl returned to her food, and the trio continued to eat in silence. ---------- Balmorra. A new day. The sun had long since reached its peak as it hovered high above Imperial Outpost XT-25. The soldiers stationed within moved with duty and precision as they continued their drills and patrols. The Sith, meanwhile, continued to offer harsh scowls beneath dark cowls as they peered out from their makeshift tents. Despite the constant bustle and movement, there was little that actually changed within the base's courtyard. Within the command center, however, was another story. Three figures gathered around the central holoterminal, only the bare minimum of systems receiving power within the communications hub. Standing shoulder to shoulder were the Commander, the Consular, and an Executor. Rederick, Kesara, and Graves. The trio were soon joined by the electronic image of a Sith projected before them, robed and wrapped, arms firmly crossed. "Asher here. Seems we've finished slightly ahead of schedule. The old stock has been secured, and the new schematics have been installed." The burned Sith's words were seeped in boredom, the typically sharp voice having been rendered dull. "No signs of Jedi. Or rebels for that matter. You sure they know about us?" "We plugged all but one leak, so to speak," said Rederick. "We've a channel we know is tapped into by a resistance cell. They knew that a pair of Sith would be present at that facility." The image of Asher began to scratch its chin. "So, either two Sith is too great a risk, or this particular cell isn't in contact with our Jedi." "There's also a chance they're biding their time," Rederick replied. "Without proper intel, we cannot say whether or not the Jedi scouted their targets prior to engagement." "If we were scouted, that might hamper our ability switch out one of us with Graves," said Asher. "If they know there's three of us, that definitely might make us into too great a threat." "Does that mean we're going to switch to solo outings?" asked the scarred Sith still back at base. Rederick held up one of his mechanized hands. "Wait. We're still in the early phases of this operation. We cannot change our methods after a single day." "We've only so many days to keep up this ruse, Commander," Asher quickly replied. "We're going to run out of facilities eventually. Honestly, Graves might be right. Have one of us out in the open with the rest of us playing support. I'm sure Fay can handle some renegade Jedi by herself. Hell, she could probably capture one just like our Consular friend wanted." "The sentiment is appreciated," Kesara offered alongside a slight bow of her head, to which the burned Sith gave an inaudible scoff. Rederick shook his head. "We lack a sufficient estimate of our enemy's threat level. I won't risk sending a single agent into the field, not even a Sith." A sigh from Asher. "Very well. We can discuss our options when we get back to base. Shouldn't take too long…" A pause. "Do you think we can take the Fury, next time? I mean, I don't see it making us any greater or less a target if its parked outside the factory." "Don't worry, Asher. I'm looking after the ship," Graves plainly stated. "You'd better be," Asher shot back. "I don't want to get back to base and find something wrong with my ship." The stern voice of an unseen female poured from the holoterminal's speakers. "Your ship?" Asher's image quickly looked to its side before dipping its head. "Fine. Our ship." "It's in capable hands," Graves stated, his stoicism hampering any intended comfort. The burned Sith unfolded his arms. "I'm holding you to that. We'll board our shuttle soon. Be back as soon as we can." "Do not lower your guard," said Rederick. "There remains the possibility that you could be attacked mid-transit." "Understood. Asher out." With that, the electronic image faded. With communications ceased, the Commander went to work depowering the surrounding terminals. The lights and sounds of technology quickly fled the chamber, until the room was dark and silent. "I should probably go check on the ship," Graves stated. "Do you two need anything?" "Nothing for the moment, Executor," Rederick replied, still focusing the majority of his attention on the surrounding equipment. "We'll send for you if something comes up." The Consular offered the polite shake of her head, to which Graves gave a quick nod. Whilst Rederick and Kesara remained securely within the command center, the scarred Sith made his way back to the Fury. With a determined gait, eyes unwavering, the armor-clad figure passed through the courtyard, paying no mind to the soldiers and Sith that populated the space. He moved, without a second thought, until he stood before the raised entrance ramp of his group's vessel. In the shadow of the Fury, Graves offered the brief wave of his hand, and not a moment later, the slab of metal deployed. The scarred man boarded the ship, and made it through no more than a single corridor before being greeted by the ever friendly Astromechanical Logistics Droid. "Welcome back, master," the machine said with a bow. "Hello, ALD," Graves replied, his emotionless voice a stark contrast to the droid's overbearing warmth. "Any problems with the ship?" "None whatsoever, master. The Fury remains in as perfect a state as the moment you left." "I see. Good." Without another word, the Sith entered the central chamber of the vessel, ALD following his every step. He paused, panned his gaze, and eventually took his seat upon one of the couches lining the interior wall. Hands neatly folded upon his lap, the scarred man did nothing but sit perfectly still as he cast a blank stare toward the opposing wall. Standing beside the stilled Sith, ALD slightly cocked its head. "Is there anything I can get for you, master?" "Nothing for the moment, ALD," Graves replied, not budging from his seat. And with that, the room returned to silence. To stillness. Two beings. One wholly inorganic. The other partially so. Both equally rigid. Graves would say nothing. Do nothing. He was content to sit and stare. And the droid was content to stand by his side. Seconds passed. Then minutes. Each without change. The first disturbance came not from the cyborg, but from the fully-mechanized being. "Is there anything you'd like me to do, master?" ALD asked. "I have a repository of holovids and music that I could play for you." "Nothing for the moment, ALD," Graves repeated, same exact cadence as before. "Studies have shown that an increasing number of Sith enjoy recording their thoughts in journals. I would be more than happy to act as your personal holorecorder, master." Finally Graves budged, offering the droid the slight bow of his head. "The sentiment is appreciated." A pause. "But no thanks." With that, the Sith resumed his rigid posture, continuing to stare blankly at the opposite wall. "Very well, master. Then I shall perform routine monitoring and maintenance within the cockpit." The droid disappeared down the corridor that connected the central chamber to front of the ship, clanks ringing out with each step as metal met with metal. The Sith was left alone with his thoughts, few as he had. Once more, there was little change but for the passage of time. After minutes of silence, of which Graves was ignorant of how many there actually were, ALD's voice rang out once more. This time over the ship's speakers. "Master, someone is approaching the ship." Graves looked up. "Asher? Fay? One of Rederick's?" "I'm afraid I do not recognize them, master. But it appears to be male Pureblood." "Is he alone?" "It would appear so, master," said the droid. "Would you like me to raise the entrance ramp?" "No... it's fine, ALD. Let him aboard." "Very well, master." The Executor slowly rose from his seat, setting his gaze upon the corridor that led to the ship's aft. Already he could hear the distant steps of heavy boots upon solid flooring. Steps that grew louder and louder, until finally their source revealed itself. Standing within doorframe from the rear corridor, the red-skinned warrior Graves had met the day prior. Lord Demik. "Graves," he spoke up, a warmth gracing his otherwise coarse voice. "I was hoping we could continue our conversation from the other day. Just you and I, no fellows or apprentices." The scarred Sith continued to stare at the Pureblood, an almost vacant expression upon his face. Silence hung heavy aboard the Fury, before Graves extended an arm toward one of the room's couches. "Of course. Take a seat." "Appreciated." With that, Demik lowered himself upon the designated couch. Not a moment later, Graves sat on the neighboring piece, angled in such a way that the two Sith could face one another without excessive contortion. A blessing, considering the pair's equally armored hides. "So, Graves... is that a given name, or...?" "Taken name," the other quickly replied. A quick chortle from the Pureblood. "But of course. So, you're with Production and Logistics now? Seems an odd transition." "Couldn't do much after Drath died," said Graves. "Got offered a job. Took it." "New master?" "In a manner of speaking." "Hmm." Demik gently stroked one of the tendrils that hung from his chin. "How familiar are you with the current situation on Balmorra?" Graves continued to stare at the Pureblood. "I thought you wanted to discuss the past?" "Oh, I do." Demik cracked a toothy grin. "But there are certain matters that you might find… enlightening." The Executor remained silent. "Did you know that there are Jedi on this planet?" the Pureblood continued. "Besides the Consular currently being held in this base." "I was under the impression both the Republic and the Order withdrew their forces from Balmorra," said Graves, maintaining his emotionless tone. "Indeed they did. But of course, there will always be those who... follow their own path. Out there, hidden amongst the countless valleys and crags, there are those who would fight, regardless what their government might say. Rebels. Jedi." A pause. "Sith." "Is this what you really wished to speak about?" Another chortle from the Pureblood. "I suppose when it comes down to it, what I really wanted to talk about was you, Graves. I know the stories. About Coruscant." "I'm afraid I don't know anything about that," Graves plainly stated. "No need for false modesty," Demik said, smirk growing ever wider. "The apprentice of Lord Drath, found standing beside his fallen master, stained with the blood of more than a dozen Jedi. You're a warrior, Graves. Like me. Like the rest of the Sith here. You didn't join Logistics because you lost your master. You joined because you lost your war. The Empire may have won... but people like us? We weren't made for peace. We were made to fight. And here, we finally have that opportunity." "The Jedi..." Demik nodded. "That's right. The Jedi. They're no different. Those on Balmorra? They can't stand the peace. They seek conflict. It's in their nature. They need Sith to fight, to validate their existence. And us? We're sated by passions. By conflict. The Emperor bred us to fight, and then had the audacity to command us to stop? Our superiors seek to erase our identity. Our purpose. To render us nothing." Graves finally broke his gaze away from the Pureblood, head slightly dipping. "Yes. That's it. You understand, don't you?" Demik continued. "A warrior like you shouldn't be working with Logistics. You already have your purpose." "My purpose…" Graves muttered. "We don't need the Empire or the Order to have our war. I can give you a taste of that old passion. Of that freedom. I can give you… a Jedi." Graves lifted his gaze, settling once more on that of the Pureblood. "And how might you do that?" "I am able to arrange fights, beneath the Imperials' notice," Demik revealed. "I find Sith willing to fight, and give their position to the resistance fighters. They, in turn, hand that position over to the Jedi hiding on Balmorra. We merely set the stage and the duel proceeds. If the Sith wins, they dispose of the body and keep the fight a secret. If the Jedi wins, they get the satisfaction of thinking they've purged the galaxy of one more affliction. And because they cannot compromise their presence, they're just as keen on keeping the secret as we are." "They think they're doing the right thing, and we get to fight Jedi despite the war's end," Graves suggested. "Exactly!" Demik declared, a fire in his voice as he leaned forward. A giddiness was present in every facet of the Pureblood's visage. "It's absolutely perfect! So, how soon do you wish to fight?" Graves continued to offer the Sith Lord the usual blank stare, but after a few seconds of silence, the Human lifted himself from his seat. And without a word, he took his first steps toward the aft corridor as the Pureblood's once-giddy expression turn to one of bewilderment. "Where are you going?" "To see Commander Rederick," said Graves, ever the stoic. "He should find these matters rather... enlightening." "What?" Demik shouted as he shot up from his seat. Immediately, he moved forward, placing a heavy hand upon the other Sith's shoulder. "There's no way someone like you would pass up this opportunity." "I guess you don't know me as well as you think you do," Graves replied, not even bothering to turn and face the Pureblood. "You would dare ruin this for us?" Demik said through gritted teeth, half a growl, half a whimper. "We need this!" "There's a difference between need and want. The war's over. Deal with it." Demik tightened his grip on the Human's shoulder, fingers digging into the other Sith's armorweave. "It's far from over... if we can't have our little war, so be it. We'll just make a bigger one. What do you think happens when they find a dead Sith in the base, hmm? They go after the Consular. And when she's dead, the Jedi come out of hiding. Rebels. Imperials. Sith. Jedi. We'll have our war, not from the shadows, but on a global scale!" The Sith Lord finally retrieved his hand from Graves' shoulder. But instead of simply letting it return to his side, Demik instead used it to draw his saber. Pulling a silver hilt from his belt, the Pureblood raised his weapon high as it extended its crimson blade. For a split second, the chamber was dominated by the persistent hum of the lightsaber. As well as a sharp, almost inaudible whistle. His senses finally catching up to him, Graves spun on his heels to face his new opponent. The Human moved his hand toward his own saber, but was much too slow. But as he locked eyes with the Pureblood, the Executor saw that drawing his blade was unnecessary. Demik stood frozen mid-step, mouth agape as if to release a primal shout, arm raised as if to bring down a cascading swing. And yet, he was not completely without motion. His entire body slightly shivered. Graves took a careful step back, looking up and down the stilled Pureblood. Only upon a second glance did he notice the line that now graced the Sith Lord's neck. A slightly darker shade of red, it took a second for blood to begin seeping from the razor-thin cut. And not a moment later, Demik's head separated from his body. The Sith Lord fell to the floor in two parts, but not before the body could splash the Human with a spurt of the Pureblood's fluids. The previous hum of Demik's lightsaber ceased as the weapon deactivated, and Graves was left alone with the silence. Standing over the headless Sith Lord, the Executor could only offer a blank stare, his face stained red. Then, a sigh. "Not again..."
  5. Chapter Twenty Seven Asher, Fay, and Graves began their casual walk back to the Fury, rounding the stockpile in the center of the courtyard. But as the three Executors passed by a group of patrolling soldiers, there was movement that strayed from the methodical norm. Fay held out a hand, bringing herself and her fellows to a stop. "Got Sith on approach," she whispered. Asher and Graves looked past the tall woman to see three figures making their way over from the tents. An armored juggernaut flanked by his robed underlings. "Recognize them?" Graves shook his head. "No. Asher?" "Nope," said the burned man, before he offered an exaggerated shrug. "Then again, at some point Sith just start to blend together. It's all spikes and masks, robes and leather to me." "I don't know them either," Fay admitted. "Remember, don't instigate, don't reveal why we're here." "It's almost like you don't trust us," Asher said with a smirk. "Not 'us'. Just you," Fay admitted. Asher offered with a playful scoff. Reaching into the folds of his robes, the burned Sith returned with a cigarra held between his fingers. But before he could bring it to his lips, the paper tube was snatched away by some invisible force. Its owner watched as the cigarra churned and crumbled in the air before falling to the ground in a clump of fine powder. He looked to Fay, who only offered her sharpened gaze in return. "Those things cost credits, you know," Asher muttered. "Don't. Instigate." Asher folded his arms, releasing a low sigh. "Fine." Under the light of the Balmorran sun, amidst the courtyard of the Imperial outpost, the two trios met. The Pureblood was a warrior in every right, armor encasing his powerful frame, lightsaber clipped to his waist. His followers were less so, youthful faces obscured under raised hoods. But despite their softness relative to the figures surrounding them, they carried a presence of utter confidence as they stood in their master's shadow. "Can we help you?" asked Fay, calm but firm in her delivery. "Help? No, no help," said the Pureblood with a toothy grin, a coarseness dominating his every syllable. "I simply thought I saw a familiar face… and I had to make sure I wasn't mistaken." Fay cocked her head to the side. "And whose face might that be?" The Pureblood cast his crimson gaze toward scarred Sith. "Why, that of Lord Drath's apprentice." "I don't remember having ever met," Graves plainly stated. The Pureblood released a rough chortle. "But of course. I never had the pleasure of meeting you in person, but Drath spoke very highly of you. We were… colleagues of sorts, your master and I. I feel I'd recognize your face anywhere." "You sure?" Asher offered with an arch of his brow. "Because I'm pretty sure he doesn't keep the same face for more than a week. Graves is kinda prone to accruing damage." "Hey!" snapped the hooded woman. The burned Sith turned to see one of the Pureblood's underlings glaring at him. The Human's face bordered on a snarl, but it wasn't her expression that drew attention. Instead, it was the red tattoo etched onto the middle of her forehead. The symbol was wild, yet suitably contained, a series of sharp lines coalescing into a Sith rune. "You should speak with more respect when addressing a superior!" A quick chuckle slipped out of burned man. "I'll keep that in mind for when I actually meet one." "Asher..." Fay muttered, bordering on scolding. The Pureblood placed a heavy hand upon his subordinate's shoulder, immediately causing her to back down. "There's little need for propriety when I've yet to introduce myself. I am Lord Demik. And I would love a chance to converse, Graves, if you had the time." "It'll have to wait," the scarred man plainly stated. "We're here on business." "And what business might that be?" asked Demik. "Executors of Logistics, ever heard of 'em?" Asher replied. The other trio answered in the form of silence. "We're here to prevent the rebels from wrecking too many of the Empire's new factories," said Fay. "Nothing special." "Indeed, sounds rather mundane, far from a worthy task for Sith," Demik replied. There was a heavy silence as the Pureblood passed his gaze between the three Executors, finally settling on Graves. "But it is a new age, I suppose. Still, I'd welcome the chance to talk, catch up on a few things." "Not much to catch up on," said Graves. "Drath died on Coruscant." Demik offered a quick nod. "Of that, I am well aware. But there are other things I'd like to discuss. Another time, perhaps." "Another time," Graves repeated. A crooked smile stretched across the Pureblood's face. "Well, you know where to find me. And judging by the interceptor I saw fly in… I know where to find you." With that, the warrior turned away, the hooded man following shortly after. The hooded woman stood her ground for the moment, sharpening her gaze toward the burned Sith. "Nice tattoo," said Asher, oozing with sarcasm. The woman furrowed her brow, distorting the rune on her forehead. "It stands for 'killer'." "It should stand for 'idiot'," he replied. "No one ever looks good with a dumb face tattoo." The woman gritted her teeth before storming off in a huff, stomping across the courtyard to catch up with her master. The Executors remained stilled and silent, watching the other trio until they finally disappeared into their tent. Breaking the silence was Fay releasing a sigh as she rubbed the bridge of her nose. "I said, 'don't instigate', did I not?" Asher tightly crossed his arms. "What? It had to be said." "No, it really didn't," Fay stated, still rubbing her face. "Whatever," said Asher. "It's not like the whole exchange wasn't already weird." "What was weird about it?" Graves asked with his usual emotionless candor. The burned Sith offered his compatriot the firm arch of his brow. "Really? Nothing seemed off? The pleasantries? Some random Sith knowing you and your master? Him wanting to 'talk'." "What's wrong with just wanting to talk?" asked Graves. "A Sith never just wants to talk," Asher replied. "You seem to do a good job contradicting that statement," said Fay. Asher released a quick scoff. "The guy's up to something, I know it." "We can't afford to be distracted," Fay stated. "Honestly, unless he's involved with our other problem, it's not worth getting into. Whatever business he has with Graves can wait." "Do you think I should speak with him?" asked Graves. "In case he is involved." "You don't exactly have a perfect track record with social cues," Asher replied. "Involved or not, we can't risk you inadvertently revealing anything to him. Never make the first move unless you know more than the other guy... then again, we've pretty much broken that adage ever since joining the Executors." Fay looked to her scarred compatriot. "Is there a chance he'll be trouble?" "I don't know," Graves admitted. "Never met the man before today. Drath didn't have many allies. Or enemies, for that matter. If he did, he didn't tell me." "Then we steer clear for now," Fay declared. "Great, now to spend the rest of the day on the ship," said Asher, curiously absent his usual snark. Without another word, the Executors began their walk toward the outpost's entrance, not intent on stopping until once more aboard the Fury. As the trio disappeared beyond the perimeter wall, the two hooded Sith poked their heads out from their tent. "So, is that truly him?" asked the hooded man, bouncing his gaze between the courtyard and the Sith Lord seated beside him. Demik leaned forward on the simple folding chair that graced his temporary home, clasping his armored fingers together. "Oh, I've no doubt in my mind." "And you think he'd be a willing participant?" asked the hooded woman. The Sith Lord flashed a toothy grin. "Drath may have been a fool, but his apprentice allowed him to make a great many strides in our Order. Graves is more than a warrior... he's a butcher. He'll leap at the chance to shed some Jedi blood. And a chance we shall give." ---------- Three figures stood amidst the cold wastes of Ziost, lit by the sunlight that struggled to pass through the dense cloud layer. The air was calm, granting a respite from the usually harsh winter winds. Missing was the constant falling of snow, as well as the thick layer that usually surrounded their feet. Instead, the three figures gathered on a hard and rigid stretch of gray stone. A natural arena. Nami stood before her instructors, the wounds all but disappeared from her face, only the slightest of faded indentations speaking of injuries sustained in days prior. Across from her, Nesk and Vurt offered only cold stares. "Our time grows short," the Nikto spoke up, firm and direct. "Soon, you will be called to the Academy. Once you step into those halls, we can no longer help you. Do you understand?" Nami offered a firm nod. Gone was the shivering and numbness that usually graced the girl's body. She stood resolute before the Sith, fingers clenched. "Very well," Vurt continued. "Then we shall impart upon you one final lesson. One that will be the key to your survival." The Nikto began to move off to the sidelines, leaving the girl before the towering Trandoshan. Nami followed Vurt with her eyes, but her attention was quickly drawn back as Nesk reached behind his back. No longer wearing the dueling blades upon his person, the taller instructor produced two metallic hilts. Two lightsabers. Without a word, he tossed one toward the student. Just before the weapon could strike the hard ground, Nami caught it with her mind. Carefully, she reached out with the Force, slowly guiding the gifted lightsaber to her hand. The girl studied the device, getting a feel for its weight, contemplating its length. Standard in all aspects, the silver hilt appeared to be the closest thing to a mass-produced lightsaber as one could find in the Empire. Nami remained silent, instead calmly passing her gaze between the two instructors. "There is but one certainty in this universe," Vurt stated. "There is no such thing as perfection. You may train, you may strive, but that will always be beyond your reach. The same holds true for your opponent. Every opponent." Nesk flicked his wrist, producing a red beam from his lightsaber, one that seemed almost too short for his immense frame. As the sharp hum of the extended blade finally reached the girl, only now did she shudder. Nami hastily bounced her gaze between the Trandoshan's saber and her own, searching for the activator on her hilt. The ex-Jedi had questions, concerns, but by this point she realized how unimportant they were. The Sith would speak. The Sith would act. Nothing she did or said would affect that. Instead, she poised herself as the crimson blade extended from her gifted lightsaber. "There is hunter. There is prey. Always," Nesk declared, utilizing his usual snarly form of Basic. "Only it can determine what it is. It needs strength. But it also needs knowledge. It must act. But it must also react." "Within every opponent, every obstacle, there are strengths and weaknesses," Vurt continued. "Traits to uncover. Patterns to observe. Imperfections to analyze. If you wish to survive, you must know more about your foe than they know about themselves." "But that's impossible," Nami muttered. The girl bit her lip, knowing her words were meaningless before the instructors. "It would be, if we were conscious of every action we take," Vurt replied. "But we are not. We are guided by our thoughts, by instinct, by the Force. The key to survival is, and will always be, control. Control your self. Control your surroundings. Control your opponent. Uncover the faults whilst masking your own." "It's not about matching strength with strength," Nami suggested. "It's about overcoming. It's about understanding." "Correct," said Vurt. "You have spent days in our company. You have witnessed us fight. Therefore, you've no reason to lose to us." "What? I get that it's important to recognize patterns and weaknesses... but that doesn't mean I can just beat you in a duel. This is the first time I've seen one of you actually use a lightsaber." "Matters not," Nesk stated. "There are things core to being. More than skill. More than weapon. Things that will always be." "You can't expect me to have noticed anything over the course of a couple days," said Nami, shoulders drooping, her blade lowering along with them. "And if you knew this was coming, shouldn't you have just 'masked your faults'?" "Indeed," Vurt replied. "We should have. We did. As will all you face. But it falls to you to recognize this. To uncover. Not in a matter of days, but moments. That which delivers your death will not announce itself. You do not have time to prepare. You do not have time to try. You simply must do." "Don't try... act," Nami whispered to herself. "Don't try... act. Don't try..." Without a word, Nesk charged, rushing toward the girl with his weapon raised high. Bridging the gap, the Trandoshan brought his saber down with a mighty, cascading swing. Nami sidestepped the blow, gliding across the ground as her opponent's blade scorched the cold stone she stood upon moments prior. The instructor did not relent, winding back the weightless blade for another swing. And once more, the girl dodged, taking a quick leap back. But as she did, she heard the presence of a third hum. In the corner of her eye, Nami watched as a crimson beam of plasma extended from the hilt in Vurt's hand. The Nikto readied his weapon as Nesk slowly approached from the opposite side. "I can't... this is impossible!" Nami shouted. "I can't win against the both of you!" "This is not about winning," Vurt stated as he took a step toward the girl. "This is about survival. That is all that matters." Nami could barely move as she raised her saber, struggling to adopt a defensive stance. Sith to her left and right. Two blades. Two opponents. One objective. Survival. But as the instructors neared, the girl's legs were frozen, and not by the nature of her environment. An oppressive force washed over the ex-Jedi. An aura projected not by her foes, but her own notions of inadequacy, threatening to crush her under its weight. But as she faced the encroaching danger, she felt something trying to rise through the burden. Something trying to claw its way to the surface. Something not of the self, yet utterly inseparable. "No..." Nami whispered to herself. To not herself. The girl squeezed her eyes shut with all her might. "I won't let you. I am in control. You can do this, Nami..." Finally, she opened her eyes. "You can do this." Nesk closed the gap between himself and the girl, offering a wide swing of his blade. Nami ducked out of the way, only to find Vurt's saber thrusting toward her core. The girl moved her blade just in time to misdirect the Nikto's attack, deflecting and backing away in a single move. The two Sith now in front of her, Nami wrapped both hands around her hilt, drawing and releasing a deep breath. Raising her blade, the girl prepared for the next onslaught.
  6. Chapter Twenty Six The older woman finally looked up from her mug, passing her gaze between each of the Sith. The Executors reciprocated, eyes glued to the Jedi sitting deep within the Imperial base. In all manners, she was plain, especially compared to the figures before her. Her robes were absent any flare or flourish, her long hair was restrained in a neat bun, and her face lacked any semblance of scarring or fatigue that typically graced the participants of the Great War. Instead, she possessed little more than the occasional wrinkle and a touch of gray. All was silent as the two sides did little more than stare, until Rederick stepped into the simple chamber. "This… is Master Kesara, Jedi Consular and diplomat," the Commander revealed as he circled the table, soon standing by the seated woman's side. The Sith hesitantly passed the threshold of the room, spreading out as much as the cramped quarters would allow. Fay stood front and center, while her fellows took their respective places against opposite walls. "What's she doing here?" asked Asher. "Like I said, she's here to help us locate the Jedi hiding on Balmorra," Rederick replied. "I was more so referring to the room. You know, the one that looks like a holding cell?" A quaint chuckle from the older woman, her lips curling into a soft smile as she lowered her drink. "I'm not a prisoner, if that's what you're implying. Well, I suppose that would depend on your definition of the word 'prisoner'." The Jedi's words were calm, but lacked the coldness possessed by some of the stoics of her Order. She instead possessed a softness in her voice. A kindness. "This room was merely a safety precaution," Rederick explained. "She's here at the behest of the Imperial Diplomatic Service. The conditions of the Republic's withdrawal dictate that the Jedi are responsible for recalling their members, and that a representative be present until said members are offworld." "Complicating matters is the fact that we no longer consider those still on Balmorra members of the Order," said Kesara. "We've denounced these rogues, but without specific identities we cannot officially excommunicate them. Therefore, I'm forced to stay here until they are all captured… or killed." "Rough deal," Asher nonchalantly offered. "It's not so bad," Kesara replied, maintaining her pleasant demeanor. "I've time to meditate… and they keep me supplied with tea." The woman brought the cup to her lips before taking a quick sip. "Granted, if I'm unable to locate these Jedi, I'll likely receive the punishment in their stead. I guess no matter what, the Empire gets to put at least one Jedi to death." "Well, at least you've sufficient motivation to track down your fellows," said Asher alongside a flippant waft of his hand. "Sorry, former fellows." "I would consider it my duty to locate these individuals regardless of the blade your government holds to my neck," Kesara admitted, tone growing slightly sharper. "The Order does not tolerate those committing misdeeds in its name." "Well, I suppose that would depend on your definition of the word 'misdeeds'," Asher plainly stated. "Regardless, we're all after the same thing here," Fay spoke up. "None of us want to see a war break out on Balmorra." "It is pleasing to know that not all Sith are adverse to peace," said Kesara. The Jedi paused as she passed her gaze between the Executors. "I'm afraid I never received your names." "Fay." "Graves." "Asher." "I see. Well, here's to cooperation," said Kesara, raising her cup high. There it stayed for but a moment, before finding itself drawn back to the woman's mouth. As the Jedi continued to partake in her drink, Graves slightly cocked his head. "Rederick didn't tell you who we were?" Finishing her sip, Kesara shot a sidewards glance toward the Imperial looming over her shoulder, before returning toward the scarred Sith. "I was given the basics, but… the Commander has been rather reluctant in passing along information." Asher smirked. "I guess we've something in common, then." "The withholding of details was a necessary measure, I assure you," Rederick declared. "I can explain in greater detail back in the command center. Follow me, if you would." The Commander stepped around the table, slipping between the Sith and exiting into the corridor beyond. He glanced back into the chamber, only to see the Jedi remain calmly seated. "That includes you, Master Kesara." "Isn't it risky letting me out?" "Don't worry, we'll protect you," Fay offered. "Yeah, you wouldn't be the first Jedi we've kept safe," Asher added. "What do you mean by that?" asked Kesara. The burned Sith offered a brief sigh. "Long story." "We encountered three Jedi on our last mission," Graves spoke up. "Two wanted to fight us, one didn't. When the pair turned on their fellow, we stepped in, protected her." "Okay, not so long after all," Asher muttered. "I mean, there is more to it, but… eh." The Jedi arched her brow as her eyes bounced between the trio of Sith as they left without another word. Calmly, Kesara rose from her seat and stepped toward the room's exit, tea in hand. "What a curious bunch." Together, the motley quintet traversed the cramped halls until they graced the dim hub of the command center. Rederick raised one of his metallic hands, and the others took pause. As the Force-users waited patiently on the outer ring of the circular room, the Commander went to work visiting the various terminals that graced the lower floor. "Whether through ignorance or malice, there has been evidence of classified information falling into the hands of rebels across Balmorra," Rederick said as he continued to move about the command center, not stopping for even a moment. "As a precaution, the usage of data and communications equipment has been kept to a minimum and heavily monitored. This applies across all currently operating outposts. We, however, find ourselves under unique circumstances prompting extra precaution. From this point forth, certain information stays strictly between those in this room." The hums and static of machines coming to life filled the chamber. Rederick moved with a tempered haste guided by mechanical efficiency, before stopping in front of the central holoprojector. The Commander raised his hand once more, but this time beckoned the others to approach. As they did, the central console glowed brighter and brighter, until a three-dimensional map manifested above it. The image reproduced several hundred square kilometers of terrain, detailing with utmost accuracy the local geography and points of interest. Rederick turned, backlit by the blue hologram, to face the others. Although the augmented man possessed a sturdy frame, he was only of average height. But as he folded his hands behind his back and straightened his posture, the cyborg managed to stand tall before the Force-users in both body and spirit. "This shall be an operation of finesse, rather than brute strength," Rederick declared. "We are currently at a supreme disadvantage in the way of available intelligence, thus we must utilize our own. Executors… though your organization has promised me your cooperation with the rogue Jedi, you are officially here to protect and oversee the transition of several manufactories. The process, which involves the transfer of previous stock and the implementation of new Imperial schematics, makes them a prime target for a rebel attack. We, however, are not interested in the rebels. They are the concern of the local governor and our forces in Sobrik. Nonetheless, these installation are your official reason for being on Balmorra." The Commander pivoted, just enough to tap a button on the holoprojector behind him. Seven red blips appeared on the map above as an irregular string along a mountain ridge, several kilometers apart. "These are the facilities you are tasked with protecting," Rederick continued. "You will visit each one, oversee the transition process, and move on to the next." "How long does the process take?" Graves asked. "Each facility will require a full day," Rederick replied. "Which means we've seven days before we can even begin focusing on the rogue Jedi," Asher muttered as he began scratching his chin. "I suppose that's not that long, all things considered." "Balmorran rotations are around forty seven hours long," Fay plainly stated. "Oh..." the burned Sith muttered. "There is, however, a way to carry out both missions at the same time," Rederick declared. Once more, the Commander pressed a button on the holoprojector and the seven blips disappeared, a new batch taking their place. This time, more than a dozen red markers dotted the map. "These are the locations of all attacks in the area since the Republic's withdrawal." A few of the blips disappeared. "These are the locations we suspect might have had Jedi involvement." A few more vanished. "These are the locations we've confirmed the presence of lightsaber marks." Finally, only a single red dot remained. "And then there's this…" Rederick began, before directing everyone's attention toward the back wall. There, a large viewscreen began playing a video. From the perspective of a ceiling-mounted camera, a scene unfolded within one of Balmorra's many manufactories. The floor and walls were of a more rustic design than what was expected of Imperial structures, dull grays and browns composing the metallic surfaces. In the center of the camera's view, three beings. Two mechanical. One organic. Between two battledroids, a black-clad figure stood, eyes forward. The armored and robed man remained utterly motionless, until suddenly he reached for his belt. With a flick of his wrist, he ignited his lightsaber, baring its crimson beam as the metallic beings flanking him took aim in the same direction. The scene shook, and the droids were flung back and out of frame by some invisible force. The Sith, meanwhile, braced himself, only sliding back a few centimeters as the powerful kinetic wave washed over him. But before he could properly recover, a white blur appeared from off camera, rushing up to the staggered defender. In one smooth action, a blue lightsaber emerged and batted away the Sith's blade. Continuing the motion, the newcomer spun on their heels, swinging their weapon in a complete circle. The Sith froze, standing completely still for a few second before finally falling to his knees. Only then did the defender's head drop from his shoulders. Motionless, the blur now appeared as a white-robed humanoid, visage hidden by a raised hood. The still-standing figure turned ever so slightly toward the ceiling mounted camera, face still obscured, before extending their free hand. Fingers stretched out, the attacker then offered the swift clench of their fist and the video went black. "Well..." Asher began, breaking the silence. "Thank goodness their security camera recorded in color." The chamber returned to a state of quiet, except for the soft sounds of Kesara taking a sip of tea. "That was our first and only visual confirmation of a Jedi," Rederick explained, redirecting everyone's attention back to the map. The previously lone remaining blip flashed as the others returned. "But by examining that attack and others like it, we've found a way to separate them from unrelated rebel strikes, and determine a common trait amongst them. Their locations are scattered and follow no geographical pattern, meaning it is not matter of distance. Their targets have been manufactories that develop different products, meaning it is not a matter of value." "Then what are they targeting?" asked Fay. "Or is the common trait that there isn't an actual target?" "There is indeed a target. Sith," Rederick declared. "Each of these locations possessed a Sith defender, and at each one they were slain. Rarely were there any other casualties or infrastructural damage. The attacks were efficient. The Jedi knew what they were after and for the most part were able to carry out their task without a trace." The Commander's head dipped, before repeating with a whisper, "for the most part." "I'd call showing up on camera a pretty big trace," Asher offered. "Maybe they got sloppy," Graves suggested. "Or maybe they're running out of Sith, and wanted to issue a challenge," said Fay. "A challenge I'm sure many would willingly accept," Rederick stated, lifting his gaze. "Which is why we've been keeping as tight a control on information as possible. We cannot allow the order we've instilled on this world to give way to chaos. Sith running around, tearing apart facilities in search of Jedi, it benefits no one. Not Production and Logistic. Not Diplomacy. Not even the Ministry of War. But now that we know what these rogues are targeting Sith…" "We can give them Sith," Fay suggested. "Precisely," Rederick quickly replied. "You've seen the others outside. In this outpost, we have gathered all the Sith defenders previously stationed outside Sobrik. With such a gathering, the Jedi would never attack here. But if a few Sith were to leave this outpost, operating on a strict schedule at predesignated locations…" "The Jedi would have nowhere else to attack," Fay finished the Commander's sentence. Asher scoffed."So, we're supposed to be bait." "The attacks will continue, that is an inevitability," Rederick declared. "If the Sith are scattered amongst a dozen locations, there's no way we can predict where the next one will occur. But if we can limit the possibilities, and provide incentive, we can guide the Jedi right to us." "Right," Asher muttered. "And what's our Jedi friend here supposed to be doing while all this is going down." "We still do not know how many Jedi we are dealing with," Rederick admitted. "If we can identify any of these rogues, Master Kesara can likely supply us with additional information. Associates. Loyalties. Agendas." "So she'll just sit around sipping tea for the next few days while we stick our necks out, got it," Asher grumbled. "If you're upset, you could ask for some tea as well. I'm sure there's plenty to go around," Kesara calmly stated, raising the mug to her lips once more. The burned Sith shot an arch of his brow toward the Jedi, who offered the slightest sharpening of her eyes in return. "I will also be meditating. There remains the chance that the Force will guide me toward these rogues." "Well, good luck with that," Asher loudly whispered. "So what do we do now?" asked Graves. "For now, we rest and prepare," Rederick replied. "You will move to your first target tomorrow. Remember, to everyone else, your sole purpose here is to provide security for these facilities. Do nothing to rile up the other Sith, if you would. I will remain here to monitor operations and keep this outpost in order." "Understood, Commander," Fay said with a dip of her head. "We'll be on the ship, so if you need anything, you know where to find us. Will Kesara still be safe here?" "Don't worry. I managed to make it by before your arrival," the Jedi offered with a smile. "I'll be fine." The tall woman nodded and departed toward the building's front entrance. Graves followed, but stopped a moment in front of Kesara. "Nice meeting you." Asher was the last to budge from his spot, and similarly paused before the Jedi. "Have fun meditating or whatever." "I will, thank you," Kesara kindly replied, taking one last sip of tea. The burned Sith sighed and made his way toward the exit to join his fellows. Stepping back into the daylight, the three Executors stood together, passing their gazes between one another and their surroundings. No one was nearby. "So, initial thoughts?" Asher spoke up. "The plan seems sound," Fay plainly stated. "Plus there's the matter of who it came from." "What, you know the guy?" asked Asher. "Not directly," Fay admitted. "I didn't recognize the name, but the face… you remember the recruitment posters in Kaas City? Back during the war?" "Uh… there were quite a few," Asher muttered. "'The Empire endures', 'Duty never dies', those ones?" Asher offered the dismissive waft of his hand. "Didn't spend much time on Kaas while the war was going on. So, what, we're working with a literal poster boy?" "Tell me, what's Rederick's rank?" Fay asked. "Commander, right?" Asher answered. "Commander's a title, not a proper rank," Fay replied. "For as rigid a hierarchy as the Imperial Army, do you know what it takes to get an honorary title, let alone have everyone refer to you by it? He's up there with people like Odile Vaiken, Rycus Kilran, Derro Kaven-" "Who?" Asher interrupted. The tall woman released a low sigh. "Did you ever pay any attention to the soldiers you were stationed with?" "I guess he only knows of old war heroes named 'Murel'," Graves stoically offered. "Though I suppose he did pay attention to their supplies when he stole that grenade." "No one's going to miss one freaking grenade!" Asher barked. ---------- Three black-clad figures sat huddled under the shade of their makeshift tent. One, a monster of a man encased in a suit of plated armorweave. Red-skinned, bald of head, the middle-aged warrior was a Sith Pureblood who wore the marks of conflict upon his visage. A deep gash ran along his left cheek, a wound that had clipped the fleshy tendril that previously hung in its path. He was sturdy, broad, yet equally sharp. Sitting across from him, almost in reverence, were two Humans in hooded robes. A man and a woman, both slim, both young, both inferior in both physical and social stature. The Pureblood panned his sharpened gaze to peer at the courtyard beyond his tent. Catching his eye were the trio of Sith exiting the command center. He watched them, studied them, until finally, his eyes shot open. "What is it, master?" asked the hooded woman. "It can't be… it's him..." the Pureblood muttered. "Who, master?" asked the hooded man. The Pureblood's lips curled into a smirk, revealing the sharp teeth that waited beneath.
  7. Chapter Twenty Five The black and gray Fury cut through the air as it traversed the Balmorran skies. High above the sunlit lands, the vessel's engines shined a bright crimson as they propelled the Sith toward their destination. The terrain below was a mix of sprawling plains and jagged mountains, stone erupting from the ground in the form of countless spires and ridges. Flatlands gave way to sharp canyons, before giving way to equally sharp peaks. And spread throughout the world, the constructs of industry. Factories the size of small towns dotted the landscape, half-buried or hidden by the irregular terrain. But as the Fury flew over the various manufactories, not all were in prime condition, nor were they the only structures populating the world. Despite the end of the war, the great conflict's influence still graced the planet's surface. While some installations continued their production, others had been abandoned or outright destroyed. Complementing the natural valleys and canyons were the pock marks wrought by bombing runs as fresh as a few months prior. Alongside the production facilities, military outposts belonging to both great powers lay in fortified positions. But despite their contrasting designs, now they had only a single brand of occupants. Gazing out the forward viewports, the Sith caught a glimpse of each point of interest for but a moment before it passed under with a blur. The mechanical pilot effortlessly guided the Fury, maintaining a constant speed even as it silently communicated with the various flight officers on the ground. The world was of a monotonous diversity. Despite the broad range of landscapes and structures, they quickly began to repeat themselves. More valleys and ridges. More manufactories. More military outposts. The only true divergence came in the form of an approaching city. And yet, it was simply a continuation of all that surrounded it. Nestled within the embrace of a box canyon, a place not wholly purposed with the production or usage of munitions. Buildings of mostly-Imperial make filled the stone ravine. The edges of the canyon were lined with a mixture of turrets and cranes, pointing outward and inward respectively. And deep within the protected city, a starport ready to receive any travelers. And yet, just like everything that preceded it, the Fury flew on by. "Uh, ALD, you passed over the city," Asher spoke up. "That was Sobrik, master," replied the droid, still facing forward. "I've been informed that Commander Rederick currently resides, and wishes to meet, within Imperial Forward Outpost XT-25. That is where we are to land." The burned Sith released a drawn out sigh. "Oh, great. An outpost. Looks like I'm sleeping on the ship." Fay offered her teammate a sidewards glance. "Was there any circumstance in which you wouldn't opt to sleep on the ship?" "Fair point," Asher replied. "We did decide that I got master bedroom, right? Even after the renovations?" "Even if we didn't, I wouldn't waste the energy arguing," Fay plainly stated. A smirk crept across the burned Sith's lips. "Good enough for me." "I'm comfortable wherever," said Graves. "I'd imagine so." Asher paused. "Wait, do you even need to sleep?" "Just because I can't feel doesn't mean my body doesn't need rest," Graves explained. Asher tilted his head. "Yeah, but, how can you tell when you're tired? Tired is a feeling, right?" The scarred Sith offered a brief shrug. "Eventually, my body just stops moving. I try to get some sleep before that happens." There was a lull as Asher opened his mouth to speak, but no words sprung forth. Instead, he simply stood in silence, unable to find the proper response. Just as the quiet all but consumed the cockpit, the mechanical pilot perked up. "Masters," said ALD. "We've almost reached our destination." The Sith looked past the droid, scanning the horizon beyond the Fury's forward viewports. As the vessel slowed its approach, the trio were greeted with the sight of an approaching Imperial outpost. The small base pressed against the base of a mountain ridge, far from pristine yet lacking the scars of similar installations. "Commander Rederick is expecting you," ALD continued. "He wishes to meet the moment you arrive." "Then we shouldn't waste any time," said Fay. The three Sith pushed themselves off the rear wall, making their way out of the cockpit as the droid went to work setting the ship down. Asher, Fay, and Graves passed through the central room, connecting corridors, and rear bulkhead door. Standing in the cramped chamber beyond, nothing but a series of stairs and a still-raised entrance ramp lay before them. "Well, this certainly feels familiar," Asher muttered. "Standing around, about to throw ourselves into the unknown. Only now we've traded pirates for rebels." "How do you think the two compare?" asked Graves. "Well, there are a number of factors and variables at play…" "The most integral being that these rebels are based on a planet that practically provided half the munitions used in the Great War," Fay explained. "Blasters, explosives, battledroids… just what you need to keep the fight going." "And of course, some Sith would be more than happy to let it continue," said Asher. "But we're not those Sith," Graves declared. "That we are not," Fay concluded. There was a soft squeal and a gentle shake as the Fury touched the ground. A sharp ping rang out from the nearby terminal, signaling an 'all-clear'. Without another moment of hesitation, Graves tapped the entrance ramp's control and the slab of metal began its slow descent. As the dense lip of the ramp touched the hard ground with a thud, the Sith took their first steps forward. Not even halfway down the slab, Asher, Fay, and Graves could see motion amidst the impromptu landing site. Black-clad soldiers patrolled the perimeter of the outpost, their numbers bolstered by artificial beings. Droids of various shapes and sizes made up the majority of the defensive force, ranging from humanoid frames to walking tanks. Stepping off the Fury's ramp and onto the Balmorran dirt, the trio were greeted with the sight of a duracrete wall separating them from their destination. The outpost was fortified, protected on all sides by barriers both artificial and natural. While the rear of the base pressed up against a mountain ridge, the remaining sides were protected by a solid ring of solid, dark gray material, the only gap being the outpost's main entrance. Despite standing only a few meters high, no structures peeked out from behind the curved wall of duracrete. Absent were any marks of excess or grandeur. A place of pure utility. Before they could move further, the Sith spotted a single soldier on approach. Armorweave bodysuit beset by protective plating, the rifleman was outfitted for the front-lines, same as the others stationed in and around the outpost. Armed. Protected. Faceless. One of the countless individuals that made up the bulk of the Imperial Army operating throughout the galaxy. The trio watched the figure approach with an even pace, utterly calm and focused. When he finally reached the Sith, he stopped and offered a dip of his head, methodical in his every action. "My lords," he began, his voice possessing just the right mix of respect and brevity. "You are the Sith from Logistics, correct? The Commander is eager to meet with you." "We've no intention of keeping him waiting," said Fay. "Lead the way." Without a word, the soldier turned and guided the Sith toward the base's entrance. Moving across the dried dirt, the small group passed more guards patrolling the outer wall, but no one offered even an errant glance toward the peculiar Executors. Utterly dedicated to their tasks, those stationed at the outpost embodied everything the Imperial Army held dear. Passing through the gap in the duracrete wall, the Sith finally received their first glimpse of the base proper. The center of the outpost was little more than a dirt courtyard, an open area populated with stored munitions and parked vehicles. Military-grade speeder bikes and armored transports upon belted treads, all possessing usual Imperial aesthetic of sharp edges and gray finishes. On either side of the courtyard, temporary structures in the form of tents and collapsible frames, nothing that couldn't be deconstructed and moved before the next rotation. The only thing in the entire base that seemed to possess any sense of permanence was the structure built into the mountain ridge opposite the outpost's entrance. Asher, Fay, and Graves continued through the base, following their escort. All was calm, if not quiet. Men and women not fully prepped for combat congregated in the various tents, passing the time through whatever means afforded to them. Whilst some gathered to play cards, others partook in the various holovids and readings stored on their datapads. Whilst some polished their armor, others disassembled and reassembled their weapons and equipment. But as the stationed Imperials went about their business, something else caught the trio's attention. The sight of their fellows. Amongst the soldiers, yet decidedly separate, Sith armed and ready for battle rested in tents of their own. And unlike the rest of the outpost's inhabitants, they could not help but cast a number of sideward glances toward the Executors from beneath their black cloaks. Glances that slowly turned to glares. The trio remained silent as they made their way toward the building at the rear of the outpost, a single-story structure looked like it could have been plucked straight out of Kaas City. Its design was comprised of the usual shapes and colors, albeit with a overlaying coat of dust. It also possessed the first bit of signage throughout the entire base, its heavy doors flanked by flags flying the familiar symbol of the Empire. The soldier came to a stop in front of the building's reinforced doors, turning to face the Sith one last time. "The Commander wishes to meet privately. You'll find him in the main hub. Farewell, my lords." With that, the escort dipped his head and departed, soon disappearing amongst his comrades roaming the grounds. "A private meeting, eh?" Asher muttered. "And we never did get those additional mission details aboard the ship," Graves added. "It seems Rederick is trying to limit the information that gets out," Fay stated. "Doesn't want to risk anyone overhearing anything. The question is whether that's just a personality trait or because of this specific mission." "Well, we already saw the Sith we're supposed to 'keep in line'," said Asher. "They don't seem to appreciate our presence here. Then again, that could have just been your standard Sith angst." "There ought to be plenty of Sith on world, no telling if these are our warmongers or not," Fay admitted. "Rederick must has something he only wants us to know," said Graves. "Better hear him out." The trio advanced, parting the heavy doors and stepping into the building. Inside, the Sith found themselves in a chamber not dissimilar from their headquarters back at the Citadel. The circular room was centered around a large holoprojector, with various terminals and data stations lining the rounded wall. But whereas the Executor headquarters was a constant bustle of activity, the same could not be said of the outpost's command center. All was quiet. All was dark. Not a single computer or viewscreen offered a single flicker or chirp. The entire chamber was unmanned, except for a single figure staring at the powered down holoprojector, back facing the Sith, hands neatly folded behind him. "Shut the doors, if you would," the man spoke up. Present was the posh Imperial accent and smooth tones, and yet, there was an underlying grit to his words. His voice spoke of experience. His form practically shouted. As the Sith closed the doors behind them, the Commander turned, his figure plainly visible even in the dim lighting. A strong build was encased in an officer's uniform. His jacket wore a number of colored stripes and blocks upon its left breast, designating more than simple rank. But even such decorations could not distract from the man's visage. A man of many parts, the majority of his face was that of a pristine man still managing to hold onto his youth. The area surrounding his right eye, however, was a thing of scarred flesh infused with cybernetics. The bone of his brow and cheek had been replaced with metal, and a mechanical orb took refuge in place of an eye. An orb with a shining red ring as its iris. But despite the apparent calamity wrought upon his face, the Commander carried an ordered presence about him. Blond hair worn clean and parted. Uniform straightened without a single fiber out of line. The three Sith moved forward, as did the Imperial, until they converged upon the floor of the command center. Standing before the Executors, Rederick passed his mixed gaze between each of the motley figures before him, his lips eventually adopting the slightest of upward curls. "A pleasure to meet you all," Rederick said, a touch of warmth to his voice. "You've come with high praise. And from a Dark Councilor no less. I have been led to believe that you three can be trusted… and that your loyalties are first and foremost to that of the Empire." "Well, I don't know if I'd say-" Asher began, before finding an elbow driven into his side. "That is correct, Commander," Fay interrupted. "If the Emperor desires peace, we'll keep the peace." "Splendid," said Rederick. The officer seemed to possess a restrained, albeit genuine, enthusiasm. "Follow me, if you would." The Commander turned around and began making his way toward the rear of the chamber. Looking down, the Sith saw that as Rederick clasped his hands behind his back, metallic digits emerged from the officer's cuffs. Both hands were prosthetic, composed of the same dark and sturdy materials as Graves' own. At the opposite end of the chamber, a door almost indistinguishable from the surrounding wall lifted into its recess, granting the group access deeper into the facility. Rederick led the way, talking with his half organic, half mechanical gaze set on the constricting corridor ahead. "What details were you given in regards to your mission?" he asked. "Very little," Fay replied, head slightly tilted to avoid brushing her head against the ceiling. "We know some Sith might be intentionally provoking the rebels here to create additional tension. Anything more we're told would come from you." "I see. Very good," said Rederick. "Indeed, we believe there are forces on Balmorra trying to reignite the war, if not create some facsimile of it. However, intelligence suggests that there is something more than the squabbles of petty Sith at work here." "I wouldn't underestimate the squabbles of Sith," Asher replied. "What I mean is, that Sith are not the only ones on this planet to seek conflict." The Commander rounded a corner, leading the Sith down a hallway lined with doors spaced just far enough apart to allot a single room behind each one. "You mean besides the rebels, right?" Fay asked. "Some of your fellow Imperials longing for the war?" "No. These soldiers understand their purpose here. Their loyalty is not in question," Rederick declared. There was a beat as the officer walked in silence. "You are aware of the Republic's withdrawal, correct?" "We got full control of the planet with the Treaty of Coruscant," Fay stated. "The Republic forces planetside were given a strict timetable to vacate, so I had assumed they were all gone by now." "Indeed. Officially, the Republic has made a full retreat, going so far as to abandon any resources they couldn't scuttle," Rederick explained. "You think some soldiers stayed behind?" Graves asked. "Not soldiers," Rederick replied. "Jedi." "There are Jedi on Balmorra?" asked Fay. Rederick came to a stop in front of a door, identical to the many others lining the corridor. "Indeed. Your original task of keeping the Sith in line has just been made more difficult. Ever since the reports surfaced, it has been harder and harder maintain order as warriors seek to sate their blood-lust. Therefore, our mission is now to find and remove these Jedi, quickly and efficiently, before matters spiral out of control." "And how do we go about doing that?" Graves asked. "Fortunately, we have someone to assist us," said Rederick, before he punched a code into the door's control panel. Not a moment later, the slab of metal lifted into its recess. Looking into the small chamber, the Sith saw something more akin to a holding cell, barely furnished and without adornment. Inside, a single figure sat at a table, slowly sipping a beverage. A Human in her later years, the serene woman paid almost no mind to the motley group standing the doorway. Instead, she continued to enjoy her drink, comfortable in the numerous layers of earthen-tone robes. Peering inside, Asher scratched the back of his head. "Well, I'd say we located the Jedi."
  8. Many thanks for the comment. Glad you think I'm painting a realistic picture of the Empire. That's something I set out to do, trying to make it a believable nation/culture that was able to sustain itself as long as it has. I also tried to make it so that nothing is wholly incompatible with what's presented elsewhere, just filling in blanks rather than overwriting anything we already know. Always a joy to see you around. The enthusiasm and squees are much appreciated. ---------- As always, thanks for reading everyone.
  9. Chapter Twenty Four The banquet hall was filled with a hushed clamor, the various guests continuing to share panicked whispers with one another. Following the attack, there was little in the way of motion. The scene had all but stilled, the only movement stemming from the pair of Guardsmen rushing to Vowrawn's flanks. But even as the red-clad warriors bared their staves, panning their hidden gazes about the chamber, the Councilor and his Executor simply locked eyes with one another. The alien's, sharp as ever. The Pureblood's, absent the slightest evidence of fear or discomfort. Slowly, Vowrawn lifted his palms into the air, immediately catching the attention of the surrounding crowd. The whispers came to an immediate halt, and all was silent. "Ladies and gentlemen, there is no need to be alarmed," the Dark Councilor spoke, his soothing words reaching each and every ear in the banquet hall. The diners suitably enraptured, the Pureblood finally lowered his hands. "It would seem that one of our guests was an assassin intent on taking my life. Fortunately, my faithful Executor foiled this crass and vulgar action. Of course, I've only come to expect such effectiveness out of one such as Lord Syrosk." Vowrawn reaffirmed his gaze upon the horned alien. "Nevertheless, his actions tonight are to be commended." The Councilor punctuated his words with a dip of his head, before transitioning into a full bow. One by one, the other occupants of the banquet hall did the same, until all had lowered themselves before the horned alien. Factory owners. Officers. Even fellow Sith. As Syrosk found himself the last remaining upright figure, there was a slight twitch in his eye. Without the slightest of efforts, the alien could read the surface-level thoughts and emotions of the crowd. Respect. Adulation. Esteem. All towards him. And yet, Syrosk continued to wear a dulled scowl upon his wrinkled visage. When the Dark Councilor finally lifted his head, he found his subordinate on the move. And as more and more guests finished their bows, they too witnessed the alien Sith trudge toward the banquet hall's entrance. "If able, I'd ask everyone to return to their seats," Vowrawn spoke up. "I assure you, these matters will be handled and our evening can resume with utmost haste." The Pureblood took a step toward his exiting subordinate, but was halted as one of the Guardsmen held out a hand. Vowrawn narrowed his gaze before leaning in close to the helmed figure. "I am no longer in danger," he whispered. The usual charm was present in the Councilor's voice, but it possessed a firmness backing each word. "Guard the doors and have someone deal with the body. I will return shortly." With that, Vowrawn sidestepped the Guardsman and moved off the dais. As the two elder Sith made their way out of the banquet hall, the occupants were left dumfounded, but nonetheless heeded the Councilor's words and returned to their seats. A slow chase, Syrosk had returned to his usual uneven gait, only the slightest haste in his steps. But before reaching the building's exit, the Executor paused. Fists clenching and unclenching, the alien began to pace before the doors as his eyes grew ever narrower. "Syrosk," Vowrawn called out, maintaining his regal presence. "You seem troubled." The alien snapped his sharpened gaze toward the Councilor. "Troubled?" Syrosk's usual rasp bordered on a growl, but was restrained just enough to ensure his words did not reach into the adjacent chamber. "This isn't how things were supposed to go." "On the contrary," Vowrawn began, casually closing the gap between himself and his subordinate, ever warm in his delivery. "I don't think things could have gone any better." "You know what I mean," Syrosk shot back. "The publicity. The spectacle. Executor Zero wasn't supposed to officially exist. People were to think me consultant, and now you have me playing the hero? Day one, I said no games, Vowrawn." A soft chuckle from the Pureblood. "Do not misinterpret the pleasure I derive from proceedings such as these. This was no game, Syrosk. All that transpired was absolutely necessary." Syrosk's nostrils flared. "Common words..." "…from an uncommon Sith," said Vowrawn. "Strategy revolves around uncertainty. As soon as new data presents itself, it would foolish not to seek an alternate course of action. Your involvement with the Executors cannot be kept a secret forever. The people need to know you as I know you. A Sith of worth." "And you do so by staging an assassination?" "I staged nothing," Vowrawn admitted. "There was simply a confluence of events to be taken advantage of. I was a target. The attack was inevitable. I simply provided venue to exploit that inevitability. And now Lord Syrosk will not only be known as an Executor, but as someone who saved the life of a Dark Councilor." "I never wanted that designation," the alien rasped. "I never wanted to be a public figure." "I understand your trepidation, Syrosk. But this is not like before," said Vowrawn. "In the past, the public eye may have meant your death. But now, it shall be your sanctum. You've been given value. You've been assigned risk. No one will dare move against you, else they move against me." A harrumph slipped past Syrosk's lips. "Tonight has obviously proven that not everyone is unwilling to move against you." "But they failed," Vowrawn quickly replied. "And that failure shall not go unnoticed. And neither shall your success. There was a pause as silence hung heavy in the air. The two Sith met one another's gaze, both unyielding. The permanent scowl versus the unwavering grin. Two figures, powerful in their own rights, similar yet contrasting in all aspects. Finally, the silence was broken by the alien releasing a low sigh. "You didn't have to keep me in the dark." "Perhaps," Vowrawn replied. "I wasn't sure how you'd react. Given your response here, you'll understand if I kept things from you." "I don't need to be tricked into saving my boss's life. I don't need to be tricked into keeping the Executors or the Empire running," Syrosk declared. "If you need me to, I will act. But I will not be treated as some unwitting pawn." "Of course, Syrosk," Vowrawn offered alongside a polite dip of his head. "From now on, full disclosure." The Dark Councilor swept his arm toward the dining hall. "Now come, the night is not yet over, and we've a meal to finish." Syrosk narrowed his gaze, drawing and releasing a heavy breath. "What was his name?" "Pardon?" "The boy. The assassin. You knew every invitee, so who was he?" asked Syrosk. "Mevik," Vowrawn plainly replied. "Recent apprentice to Darth Tyram. The master couldn't make it himself, so he sent the student in his stead… or so the boy claimed." "Then we know who was responsible for the attack," said Syrosk. Darth Vowrawn placed a soft hand on the horned Sith's back, guiding him back toward the dining room. "We cannot be too sure. After all, you never know when people might be manipulating things. But that's a matter for the investigators to handle." Syrosk remained silent as his boss gently pushed him toward the gathered masses patiently waiting for their return. Through the parted doors, he could see the waitstaff righting the tables and chairs that had been upset by the incident. And as the pair passed the threshold of the chamber, they were passed by an Imperial Guardsman with the body of Vowrawn's attacker slung over his shoulder. The Executor turned for but a moment, briefly meeting his gaze with the scarred, lifeless eyes of the young Human. ---------- The now-familiar wastes of Ziost had calmed. The harsh, frosted winds had faded, in their place only the gentle falling of snow. Once more abandoning the relative comforts of the city, instructor and student trained amidst the cold and gray landscape. Vurt paced back and forth, just enough motion to keep the falling snow from settling upon his shoulders. But no matter where he stood, the noseless, leathery humanoid's gaze fell upon the same spot. In front of the Sith was what appeared to be an orb of frost, a snowball as tall as he. The icy flakes that fell from the sky would touch the sphere, adhere to it, and ever so slightly increase its mass. "Force-sensitivity is more than just the ability to affect the world around you," Vurt spoke to the large snowball, continuing his pacing. "It is also the ability to control the self. The average Sith can make one meal sustain them for two standard rotations. For every hour of rest, they can stay active for ten. A true master can fully sate themselves with the Force, going without food, water, or sleep entirely. By controlling the Force, by controlling your body, you should be able to endure the elements, resist poisons, prevent diseases..." As the Nikto paused his words, he made his way closer to the ball of snow. Standing before it, he offered the quick swat of his backhand. The impact knocked a clean hole in the side of the orb. Hollow, the sphere was more akin to an egg. One that had just been cracked. Through the hole, Vurt stared at the young girl inside with his beady gaze. Nami stood within the orb, arms stretched out to her side. Channeling the Force, it was the ex-Jedi's telekinetic barrier that gave the falling snow structure and shape. "…and you should certainly be able to mend minor wounds of the flesh," Vurt continued. Inside the snowball, Nami struggled to maintain her concentration, arms rigid yet shivering. Upon the girl's face were the marks of the previous trial, faded cuts and bruises, only half-healed. "I did… my best," the girl stated. Her words were slowed, wrought by the ever present cold that surrounded her as well as her attempts to maintain her concentration. "Then your best wasn't good enough," Vurt replied. Finally, the girl's arms collapsed. As her limbs fell, so did the construct of snow surrounding her. The orb quickly became a sheet that covered Nami's head and shoulders as the rest pooled around her feet. "I'm… sorry," the girl muttered, head dipped. The Nikto took another step forward, barely any gap separating the instructor from the student. Despite possessing an average height, the Sith practically loomed over the ex-Jedi through presence alone. Without a word, he batted off the snow that graced Nami's shoulders before placing a finger beneath the girl's chin. Manually lifting her head, the alien locked eyes with the Human. "Never apologize," Vurt declared, voice as chilled as the surrounding wastes. "No one cares to hear it." Nami tried to look away, but the Sith's grip on her jaw was too great. She was forced to meet the Nikto's enduring, beady glare. "It is impossible to fail me… to fail Nesk," Vurt continued. "You can only fail yourself. Perfection will always be beyond your reach, but it falls to you to improve. To get better. To get stronger. We can provide the means to facilitate that improvement, that strength, but you must make the effort. It is your fault, and yours alone, if you fail. But the same goes for success. I don't want your 'sorry's. I don't want your respect. All I want, is for you to act. Do, until you can do no longer, so that you do better next time. Understand?" The girl nodded, even as the Sith continued to hold her chin. "Good." With that, Vurt removed his hand from Nami's face. Instead, he focused on lifting her arms and returning them to their outright position. "You chose to walk the path of discipline. You need endurance and concentration. If you lack either, you will continue to fail. If you continue to fail, you will die. Now, try again." Nami took a deep breath, holding it even as the chilled air stung her chest. Arms stretched, fingers spread, the girl closed her eyes and began to channel the Force. Eventually, the first snowflake above the Nami's head came to a stop. Then another. Then another. Soon, a curved sheet of frost began to take shape, outlining the invisible barrier that surrounded the ex-Jedi. ---------- A dazzling tunnel of swirling blue light presented itself as the Fury traveled through hyperspace. Asher manned the pilot's chair, the ship's droid politely standing in the corner of the cockpit. There, the metallic being patiently waited, eager to receive a new order from one of its masters. From one of the terminals lining the cockpit, a ping rang out, signaling the Fury's progress. Asher went to work, gliding his hands across the various controls in front of him, checking each readout and dial that spanned the forward console. Soon, the swirling tunnel surrounding the vessel collapsed, and the streaking stars returned to their dotted forms upon the black canvas of space. In a matter of moments, the Fury had slowed from its faster-than-light speeds to a gentle drift as it dropped back into realspace. Sitting amongst the void, the Sith vessel faced its destination. Balmorra. The distant orb was painted with large splotches of brown and blue, grand continents and oceans presenting themselves in equal measure. White swirls and patches dotted every hemisphere, a cloudy atmosphere untainted by the factory world below. Floating amongst its four moons, the planet was unremarkable at such a distance, despite the key role it played in the galactic scene. Soon, Asher was joined by his fellows in the Fury's cockpit. Fay stepped inside, followed by Graves, each peering out the forward viewports alongside the burned Sith. "So we've finally arrived," Graves commented. "Not quite," said Asher. Rising from his seat, the wrapped Sith jut a thumb toward the console as he turned his attention toward the droid. "ALD, take over." "At once, master!" The metallic being wasted no time carefully stepping around each of the Sith, taking Asher's place in the chair. Extending a cable from its chest, the droid plugged itself directly into the terminal as its hands took hold of the controls. Graves eyed the burned Sith as he joined the pair near the rear wall of the cockpit. "You don't want to take us in?" "The droid can handle it," Asher replied, offering a brief wafting of his hand. "I don't like having to talk with the flight officers planetside when landing in controlled territory." "And here I thought you never passed up the chance to talk," Fay offered, a slight curl upon her lips. Asher gave an exaggerated shrug. "Better than being the brooding Sith who never unfolds their arms." "That's debatable," said Fay, arms firmly crossed. "Besides, I don't brood." "Of course you don't," Asher replied, adopting a slight grin. The burned Sith leaned against the back wall, making sure not to inadvertently press any of the buttons or switches that lined it. Standing beside the tall woman, he loosely folded his arms across his chest, peering out the forward viewport. Graves quietly panned his gaze between the other two, before eventually crossing his arms himself. A subtle hum rang out throughout the Fury as the sublight engines powered up. In the hands of the mechanical pilot, the vessel made its way toward the planet ahead, the three Sith patiently watching as the world grew closer and closer with each passing moment.
  10. There is no sound in space. What you're hearing is actually artificial/simulated noise from speakers set up inside ships and space stations to keep pilots and crewmen from going insane from the constant silence.
  11. Thanks for all the warm welcomes, everyone. Glad people are liking Osk (who I still haven't decided whether they're the Bounty Hunter in his early years before meeting Braden, or just another merc). But I'll save any other comments for a 'comments' post. Wrote a direct follow-up to the previous piece. Title: Let's Go (Part Two) Prompt: 'Defenses' and 'What's In A Name' Characters: "Osk" (Bounty Hunter) Length: 888 words Spoilers: None
  12. Oh my, what's this thread... I daresay I've never seen it before (ignore the throwaway parody piece that makes up the thread's 4th post ) Heh, thought I'd give this thread a go. I guess almost three years of waiting to jump in is long enough. Dug through the old prompts (there were quite a lot of them) and found some I felt would make for a good enough introductory post. Title: Let's Go Prompt: Description and First Day on the Job Characters: "Osk" (Bounty Hunter) Length: 1,158 words Spoilers: None
  13. Why do others make it an issue when someone wants an LGBT option/version of something that already exists? I understand why it hasn't been implicated (resources and whatnot), but someone wanting something for themselves out of something that already exists is not 'ramming a personal matter down other peoples throats". There are already character/companion relationships in this game, people just want more options. Also, is it me or do opponents to this sort of thing have an odd fascination with things being shoved down throats...
  14. Chapter Twenty Three Nami found herself in the cramped bathroom of her instructors' humble abode. Polished surfaces, sharp angles, dark forms under brilliant lights, the Imperial designs were growing more and more familiar to the ex-Jedi with each day. Standing in front of the room's modest sink, the girl met the haggard gaze of her own reflection in the wall-mounted mirror. Her face was cut. Bruised. Stained. And without words, it spoke. Of pain. Of perseverance. Of survival. Of equal parts failure and success. The stupor of her walk amongst the wastes having finally faded, Nami carefully examined her being, poking and prodding the various wounds that graced her countenance. She flashed her teeth, only to see them stained with the same red that marked her skin. She pulled back her eyelids, only to stare at her own bloodshot eyes. With a heavy sigh, Nami turned on the sink's faucet. A steady stream of water began to pour, accompanied by a continuous ringing in the girl's ear. With no distinct ritual or pattern, she started to cup the water in her hands before bringing it to her face. The dried blood began to wash away, but the underlying injuries remained. Nami continued to stare at her reflection, now with a determined glint in her eye. She drew and released deep, calm breaths. Finally, the girl closed her eyes. "You can do this, Nami," she whispered. "You can do this." Once more, she brought her hands to her face, only this time they carried no water. Instead, she pressed her palms against her battered skin and focused her mind. In that moment, that was all she could do. She knew little of the process, only the intended result. In her mind, she could see the swelling fade, see the split flesh mending itself. A hum filled the air as she channeled the Force through her digits. And yet, when she lowered her hands, Nami was greeted with the same visage she had seen moments before. Her wounds remained. But she would not relent. ---------- There was a soft squeal as the shuttle touched down upon its landing struts. Already, Vowrawn began to rise from his seat, standing and patting down his lavish robes. Syrosk moved at a suitably slower pace, but made a point to reach the rear of the vessel where the entrance ramp would eventually lower. From there he waited, until the alien felt a hand fall upon his shoulder. Turning toward his flank, he found the Dark Councilor standing with a wide smile plastered across his face. "Do try to make it look like you actually want to be here, Syrosk," said Vowrawn, jovial as ever in his delivery. The horned Sith remained silent as he shrugged off the Pureblood's grip. "I'm never been a fan of lavish displays or gatherings," Syrosk rasped as he returned his gaze toward the door. "And if I'm to spot your assassin, I require a focused mind." "Very well," offered Vowrawn alongside the softest of sighs. "Just wouldn't want you to stand out, is all." Syrosk slowly craned his neck back toward the Dark Councilor, his brow arched to the fullest. "In case you have noticed, I stand out no matter where I go." "Well, you might be pleasantly surprised." Before Syrosk could respond, the back of the shuttle began to fold outwards, the 'wall' slowly turning into the ship's entrance and exit ramp. Before the slab of gray metal had finished its descent, the alien had received his first glimpse at what lay ahead. A narrow pathway led away from the landing pad and toward a grand building. Though it did not reach as high as the many spires and skyscrapers that dotted Kaas City, nor did it possess the raw magnificence of the Citadel, the structure that comprised the banquet hall was more than capable of catching the eye. Wider than it was tall, the building possessed the same outward appearance as most Imperial structures. Muted grays and blacks made up the entirety of the architecture. A subtle blue luminescence peeked from behind the windows that complimented the perpetually overcast skies above. Smooth surfaces met at angular junctions, with just enough flourishes to distinguish it from a barracks or weapons depot. But as the entrance ramp touched the ground, Syrosk was met with a sight far more impressive than any feat of architectural design. Gathering amongst the plaza in front of the banquet hall were those set to be in attendance, beings possessing a myriad of colors and shapes. Standing in the heart of the Sith Empire were more than just Humans and Purebloods, all dressed in their most formal attire. Syrosk quickly snapped out of his momentary stupor as he remembered his purpose. Before taking a single step, he made sure to scan the bustling scene. The military police were sufficiently present, armor-clad, rifles in hand, and patrolling the surrounding area. Flanking the entrance to the banquet hall, Syrosk spotted a pair of Imperial Guardsmen. Red-robed, masked, exponents of martial combat, they were tasked with the protection of the Dark Council and the Emperor himself, even without the gift of Force-sensitivity. A low sigh slipped past the alien's lips, relieved that Vowrawn hadn't eschewed all security measures. But before he could react further, the aged Pureblood had already begun his descent of the shuttle's ramp. Syrosk quickly moved to catch up, as much as his uneven gait allowed him, and walked alongside Vowrawn's flank. As the pair approached the banquet hall, the horned alien continued to survey his surroundings, whilst Vowrawn maintained his utterly relaxed demeanor. Their path went unobstructed for mere moments before one of the members of the military police rushed over. Black-clad and garbed head to toe in plated armor, the officer was practically a front-line soldier stationed to defend the capital city. Upon reaching the two elder Sith, the Imperial bent forward to offer the deepest possible bow. "My lords," he quickly said, facemask still all but parallel with the floor of the landing pad. "You may rise," Vowrawn warmly offered. Not a moment later, he did so. "Thank you, my lord," the rifleman hastily replied. "All arrangements have been made. The banquet hall is secure and ready to receive you." "Excellent work, officer," said Vowrawn alongside a polite nod of his head. The helmed man replied with a deep nod of his own before dashing off toward the crowd. "Why is it the word 'arrangements' leaves on odd taste in the mouth?" asked Syrosk as he shot the Pureblood a sidewards glance. Vowrawn offered a soft chuckle as he took his first steps toward the gathering ahead, Syrosk keeping pace. "I do not know, but I surely hope your palate sorts itself by the time we're served the first course." The Pureblood paused before shooting his guest a quick glance. "Pay it no mind, Syrosk. I simply desired a certain table. There's a nice spot that lets you really appreciate the aesthetics of the room." "I take it this isn't your first banquet here," Syrosk rasped. "Oh ho, of course not," Vowrawn quickly replied. "Why, not too long ago we held a memorial dinner for Darth Azamin." "Didn't know Sith got memorials." "They usually don't, but occasionally, a fallen Dark Councilor's successor likes to ascend to their position on a platform of respect," Vowrawn explained. "Such was the case with Decimus." "Considering the successor's usual involvement with the 'falling', I imagine the food and festivities take away a bit of the sting," Syrosk muttered. "I can assure you, Azamin's death came at the hands of Jedi, not his successor," Vowrawn stated, still wearing his usual smile. "An oddly specific denial." A soft chuckle from the Pureblood. "My entire being relies on specifics, Syrosk. You ought to know that by now." The pair continued, passing a patrol of military police and on the threshold of the gathered crowd of attendees. Up close, the diversity present was even more striking to the horned alien. There was a fair share of the typical Humans and Purebloods, officers and Sith, but mingling with them were beings rarely seen on Imperial soil without chains around their wrists. A Twi'lek. A Chagrian. A Neimoidian. A Rattataki. Beings that stood out from their Imperial hosts just as much, if not more than the horned Sith. With each passing moment, more and more people took notice of the approaching Dark Councilor. What followed was an outpouring of warmth and welcomes, each figure seemingly possessing a familiarity with Vowrawn no matter their station or species. The aged Pureblood ingratiated himself into the crowd without a missed beat, greeting each figure before him. Bows, handshakes, subtle nods, everyone warranted a specific response when their eyes met with those of the Dark Councilor. And as Vowrawn practically slinked from person to person, Syrosk struggled to stay by his side. The air was filled with the constant muttering and conversations of all who had gathered for the banquet. But to Syrosk, it was nothing but a constant droning in his ears, sound without substance. He heard not Vowrawn's words. He heard not his own name as the Councilor introduced him to his associates. Such noise was unimportant. Syrosk had his duty, and as such, filtered out all but the most integral information from his senses. He moved through the crowd like a pebble swept up in the current of a stream, no agency of his own. He instead focused on reaching out with his mind. He closed his eyes, sampling the surface thoughts of the myriad of beings that surrounded him. But before he made even a modicum of progress, his concentration was broken by Vowrawn elbowing his side. Syrosk opened his eyes to find the Pureblood leaning in close. "Not now," Vowrawn whispered. "I would never be attacked out here. It would be best... if you used this time to ingratiate yourself." Without another word, the Dark Councilor pushed away, returning to his previous rounds of meeting and greeting the other attendees of the banquet. Eventually, the Pureblood stood before a Human, aged, prim and proper, but absent the garb or decorum of a true Imperial. "Syrosk, I'd like you to meet Agden Frels," Vowrawn introduced. "He owns a considerable chain of manufactories on Balmorra. He was also one of the first to willingly cast off the shackles of the Republic." The balding gentleman offered a quick nod. "It's a shame some of my former associates could not see obvious benefits of Imperial oversight." The factory owner turned to the horned alien, looking up and down his significant frame. "I take it by your attire that you, too, are a Sith." Syrosk was momentarily confused by the utter lack of venom lacing the words he had often heard before. "Yes," he eventually managed to get out. "I am." "Indeed," Vowrawn continued. "In fact, he leads an organization within my Sphere. The Executors of Logistics. As we speak, three of his apprentices are on route to Balmorra to ensure… stability in these trying times." The alien thought to correct his superior, but was cut off by the magnate's reply. "Well, Lord Syrosk, you've not only my respect, but my sincerest thanks and appreciation." The Human dipped his head, and Syrosk hesitantly did the same. Once more the Executor was unable to speak as Vowrawn was once more on the move. Syrosk followed, until he found himself standing before a Human-like figure that matched him in height and bulk. His skin was utterly pale, and marked with black tribal tattoos. The Rattataki's countenance was at odds with the formal suit encasing his sturdy frame. "Karnem," Vowrawn spoke, extending a hand toward the pale figure. The man accepted and replied with a hearty shake. As the Dark Councilor retrieved his hand, he swept it toward the flanking Sith. "This is Lord Syrosk, an associate of mine. Syrosk, you had an apprentice who was a Rattataki, did you not?" "Correct," said the horned alien after a pause. "Unfortunately… she perished in the final hours of the war." "Such a shame, that was," Vowrawn added, momentarily adopting a tone of solemnity. One that was soon abandoned for the familiar pleasantness. "Karnem is one of the premier suppliers of organic labor for the Empire." The process continued. Vowrawn would introduce Syrosk to the various attendees, each with ties to Production and Logistics. Factory owners. Transit overseers. Slavers. Officers. Even Sith. And with each introduction, the Dark Councilor always seemed capable of making Syrosk relevant. His position. His duty. His heritage. In the end, all who met with the horned alien parted with respect rather than disdain. And after meeting with the dozens of individuals populating the plaza, by Vowrawn's word and his word alone, did the banquet commence. Until his call, all were content to stand amidst the Kaas City skyline, risking the fall of the inevitable rain. It took the blessing of a Dark Councilor to move them inside. Thus, one of the twelve most influential Sith in the Empire led the infatuated crowd into the banquet hall, Syrosk securely by his side. As they approached, the pair of Guardsmen flanking the entrance tapped the base of their staves against the ground before taking a knee. In that pose they remained, until the final attendee passed the structure's threshold. Rising to their feet, the red-clad protectors entered the building before sealing the doors behind them. Outside, the military police continued to patrol the surrounding plaza. Inside, the crowd was greeted with the sight of regality and grandeur. The open foyer that welcomed them was decorated with the most vibrant of bannisters and rugs baring symbols of the Empire. Magnificent columns stretched toward the high ceilings, with expertly crafted sculptures of figures in heroic poses placed between. And every line of every design seemed to lead the eye toward the dining room ahead. A pair of large double-doors were splayed open, offering the attendees an overt invitation. One they readily accepted. Vowrawn and Syrosk were the first to step into the banquet hall proper. The room that received them was an extension of foyer's designs, redistributed amongst a large, circular chamber. The floor was home to numerous tables, more than capable of accommodating the group of dozens. The furnishings were situated around a raised dais in the center of the room that acted as a stage. Above, a dazzling cluster of metalwork and crystals illuminated the room, a chandelier held aloft via repulsors rather than connecting with the domed ceiling. As more and more of the attendees entered the chamber, they dispersed and sought out their assigned seats. Each of the rounded tables were capable of accommodating up to five diners, but one particular arrangement tucked away in the northeastern quadrant of the room possessed only two chairs. One for Vowrawn. One for Syrosk. The horned alien kept his wits about him as he and his boss sat at their table, perpetually scanning the other attendees with his focused gaze. Sith were uncommon amongst the guests, only six amidst the dozens of others. At least, only six in the traditional garb of black robes, saber hilts clipped to their waists. No security, but for the two Guardsmen flanking the exit, practically on the opposite side of the room. Anyone standing on the dais would be exposed from all angles. "So, first impressions?" Vowrawn spoke up, barely above a whisper. Despite having the entirety of the table to themselves, the Pureblood and the alien sat to each other's side, both facing toward the chamber's center. "Even with the sharpest reaction time, it would take too long for the Guardsmen to make their way over here in the event of an attack," Syrosk replied, almost matter-of-factly. "Fixture above the dais. A saboteur could disable the repulsors to drop it on anyone underneath. Although you're not the most skilled combatant, you've enough command of the Force to halt its descent. But that could still be used as a distraction while the assassin makes their move." "I was asking more along the lines of décor, but I suppose your observations were nonetheless prudent," said Vowrawn, flashing a grin. "You'll find I'm not easily moved by showings of grandeur," Syrosk rasped. "I lived before the Great War. I remember the feasts, the parades, the displays that reinforced the idea of our superiority and eventual victory, before we had even revealed ourselves to the galaxy. Of course, I wasn't invited to such celebrations." "And yet, here you are. Guest of a Dark Councilor, sitting amongst some of the Production and Logistics' elite." The alien offered a soft harrumph as he continued to pan his gaze across the room. Eventually, Syrosk arched his brow as he looked past the attendees and finally began to take in the room itself. "I don't really see the significance of this spot. Seems like the 'aesthetics' would be the same no matter where one sat." "I'm a man who finds beauty in the arrangement of parts, rather than the sum of an entire form," Vowrawn stated, casting his gaze across the grand chamber. Syrosk was about to speak, but the arrival of more persons caught his attention. Opposite the side of the room the guests had entered from, servers and wait-staff began to enter through another set of doors. As a rather unassuming Human approached his table, Syrosk kept a hand at his side, just within reach of his lightsaber. The server stood across from the two Sith, crisp attire layered upon his slight frame. His face was soft, yet seemed to easily maintain its composure in the presence of the Dark Councilor. In fact, the two met eyes, and supplied one another a subtle nod. Afterwards, the server focused his attention on the horned alien. "My lord," he began, "someone will arrive take your order soon. However, I wanted to inquire as to whether you would enjoy an after-dinner drink following your meal. I'm to understand you enjoy Bothan Brandy, and we've a cask that we would be happy to serve if you so desired." Syrosk turned toward the Pureblood to his side, who remained silently coy. With a sigh, the alien nodded. "Fine." The server offered a quick nod of his own and ducked away, eventually disappearing into the room beyond the second set of doors. Meanwhile, Syrosk continue to give his boss a sideward glance. "Trouble, Syrosk?" Vowrawn politely asked. There was a silence. "No... none at all." The evening proceeded without a fuss. Another server approached the pair, detailing the available food and drink throughout the banquet. Vowrawn made the effort of ordering for both himself and his associate. The air was filled with the hum of chatter as the various titans of industry and logistics conversed throughout the room, patiently awaiting the arrival of their first course. Meanwhile, Syrosk remained perfectly silent. He focused his thoughts, reaching out to the others in the banquet hall, this time uninterrupted by the Dark Councilor. He started with those possessing untrained minds. In return, he received only banal musings and the inner monologues of men and women carefully choosing their next words amidst their contemporaries. Not a single violent thought amongst them. The occasional hint of avarice and ambition typical of a professional Imperial, but nothing that interested Syrosk. He moved to the various Sith in attendance. With a careful comb, he sifted through the surface thoughts of the Force-sensitive Humans and Purebloods in the room, taking care not to alert them to his intrusion. The results were the same. Few things good within their heads, but nothing on par with assassinating a Dark Councilor. Syrosk would likely have to dig deeper to uncover any true intentions, but he would be unable to regardless as he found a dish placed in front of him. The same soup Vowrawn had ordered for himself glistened under the banquet hall's lights, a vibrant red pool of decadence. Not a moment after the bowls were placed before the two Sith, another server was filling their glasses with wine. The same orchestration of moving dishes and bodies filled the entirety of the chamber, as each individual was served in the same way. The horned alien struggled to keep up with the constant motion, intent on not letting a single detail escape his attention. "If you keep staring like that, your soup's going to cool," Vowrawn stated. As if to punctuate his jocular words, he brought a spoonful of the steaming liquid to his equally red lips. "Each new course brings new moving parts," Syrosk rasped. "The perfect time to strike." Vowrawn swallowed his soup before gently lowering the spoon. "On the contrary, the perfect time would be when I'm giving my speech before the next course. After all, that is when I would act." "But that would imply the person moving against you is operating on your level." "If they weren't, I never would have permitted them to make it this far." Syrosk leaned back in his chair. "Of course, the assassin is here because you allowed them to be, didn't you?" The Pureblood gripped his napkin, gently dabbing his lips. "What is one of the first lessons a Force-user learns?" "Depends on the teacher," Syrosk plainly stated. The Dark Councilor released a soft chuckle. "One should not seek to move the motionless, not when you've the opportunity to guide that which is already in motion." Syrosk gave of a low sigh. "You wanted to make a show of it, didn't you? You always intended to stop the assassination, right here, in front of these people." Vowrawn slowly picked up his glass and brought it to his lips, taking a sip of his wine. Afterward, he simply gazed into the dark red beverage. "I have a philosophy. A simple one at that. Everything should have a purpose. Every life. Every death. Too many Sith nowadays, they simply act, caring not for the true consequences of their successes or failures. Suppose someone intends to take your life. And suppose they fail. Afterwards, they've nothing to show for it, and all you can say is that you're still alive. Such is the tragedy of the Sith. The erasure of meaning. But right now, someone has made the effort. Someone has sent an agent to end my life. What better sign of respect, than to give their failure meaning? To gain, rather than lose or stagnate, from death?" Without another word, the Dark Councilor set his drink down and slowly rose from his chair. With a subtle wave of his hand, he told Syrosk to remain seated. He complied. The Pureblood approached the central dais, the room quieting with each step he took. Soon, all eyes were on Vowrawn as he ascended, as he stood above each and every person surrounding him. The Dark Councilor was all smiles as he clasped his hands together. "Ladies and gentlemen of Production and Logistics…" he began. As the first word of their lord and master reached their ears, every individual in the room halted their meal. Syrosk, meanwhile, focused on everything but the Dark Councilor. Vowrawn started with pleasantries, welcoming each and every person in attendance. From there, he moved onto details of statistics and performances, selling ideas the crowd had long since bought into, but were more than ready to hear pitched to them yet again. Meanwhile, Syrosk scanned his surroundings with both his eyes and his mind. All was silent, but for the Dark Councilor's words. All was motionless, but for the Pureblood's elaborate gestures. Vowrawn would occasionally turn to focus on each section of the crowd, but primarily kept himself facing the Guardsmen protecting the primary entrance. Finally, an errant movement. To Syrosk's right and to Vowrawn's rear, a dark figure rose from his seat. A man clad in black robes. A Sith. He was already on the move, charging toward the Dark Councilor, retrieving the metallic hilt from his belt. And with a flick of his wrist, a crimson beam began to emerge from its tip. Time slowed to crawl. Syrosk may have been old, but his senses were sharp, and his body able. The blade of plasma had not even fully extended by the time the horned alien rose from his seat. The attacker was far, with many tables separating him from Syrosk. The same could not be said of the assassin and his target. Syrosk was upright, standing on legs both organic and prosthetic. He reached toward his waist, but instead of gripping his lightsaber, he instead grabbed the rim of his bowl of soup. The alien pulled his arm back, spilling the contents onto the floor, before throwing the dish across the room. The saucer soared through the air with an elegant arc, guided by the Force. Moments before it could reach its target, the assassin raised his saber to intercede. The beam of plasma, however, merely sliced right through the dish, allowing the two molten halves to continue their journey straight into the Sith's face. The bifurcated saucer raked across the assassin's flesh, blinding him, and sending a bone-chilling howl across the chamber. Only now did others begin to react. Cries and shouts emanated from the attendees. Other Sith rushed to their feet. But they could not match the horned alien already on the move. With a grace contrasting his usual uneven gait, Syrosk leapt from table to table, his own lightsaber baring its harsh redness, finally descending upon the staggered assassin. In one powerful move, the Executor brought his weight down upon the Sith, forcing him to the ground before plunging his blade through the attacker's heart. The dark figure released a brief spasm before going completely motionless. Only now could Syrosk get a clear picture of the assassin. Male. Young. Too young. Practically fresh out of the Academy. Vowrawn was right. An agent of some other master's will. Slowly, Syrosk lifted himself from the ground, withdrawing his blade before returning his saber to his belt. Immediately, the alien was assaulted with hushed whispers and wandering thoughts. As he spun around, all eyes were on him instead of the Dark Councilor. The noise continued, growing in volume, growing in clarity. It soon became clear, that only a single word rest on the tongues and minds of those surrounding him. Syrosk. Syrosk. Syrosk. Finally, the horned alien looked up toward the dais, only to see Vowrawn sporting his usual smile.
  15. Chapter Twenty Two Asher, Fay, and Graves stepped off a lift and into the hangar in which their vessel waited. The Fury-class interceptor sat patiently, undisturbed by droids or technicians, long-since prepped for flight. The trio of Sith walked undeterred toward their mobile base of operations, intent on proceeding with the task they had been given. Their feet carried them across the hangar floor, up the deployed entrance ramp, and inside the half-freighter, half-warship. Traversing the brief corridor that spilled them into the central chamber of the vessel, it wasn't long before the group was greeted by the Fury's mechanical steward. "Welcome, masters," ALD called out with the usual overly-pleasant tone. The humanoid machine offered a deep bow of its metallic dome, accentuated by a formal sweeping of its arm. "Make sure the ship is ready to launch," Graves said to the droid. "We'll be leaving soon." "As you wish, master." With that, the droid ducked out of the chamber toward the cockpit. The central room of the interceptor appeared much the same as it did prior to the ship's renovations. Same sparse seating lining the walls. Same central holoterminal. Same aesthetic of sharp angles, polished surfaces, and industrial grates offering glimpses of Imperial technological prowess at work. Upon the comm array, a blinking red light caught the attention of the Sith. Without a word, Fay approached the terminal and gave a quick flip of the switch. The central projector powered up, and soon, the holographic image of an Imperial stood over the Executors. Female. Clean cut. Fairly youthful. The officer that inducted the trio on their very first day. "My lords, I've details pertaining to your mission on Balmorra," she spoke up, soft yet direct in her delivery. "Go ahead," Fay replied. The Imperial offered a quick dip of her head before proceeding. "You are to be based out of one of the Empire's forward outposts. Coordinates will be uploaded into your ship's navicomputer shortly. Once you've landed your contact will be Commander Rederick." "Any specifics on what we'll be doing landside?" asked Fay. "I'm afraid not yet, my lord," the officer replied. "We're still receiving information here, and will relay it as soon as we're able. Commander Rederick will be able to give you up-to-date information regarding any recent activity on Balmorra." Fay offered a contented nod. "Very well. We'll be moving out shortly. Upload any additional details as soon as you can." "We shall, my lord," the officer replied alongside a quick bow. The image flickered until it had disappeared completely. Communications ceased, and the trio of Sith were left alone. Asher released a low sigh. "One of these days, I hope we get a mission where we're not just running in blind." "If it makes you feel better, we'll mostly be flying and sitting around," Graves spoke up, stoic as ever. "No running involved." "Oh, well, that makes it all right then," Asher muttered as he stepped toward the cockpit. "Let's just get airborne." "I assume this means you'll be taking control of the ship," said Graves, standing completely still. "Damn straight. Gotta keep me distracted somehow," Asher called out as he disappeared into the connecting corridor. ---------- An Imperial vessel soared above the Kaas City skyline. Sharp, gray, though miniscule in comparison to the accommodating Fury. Instead, the shuttle possessed only a limited passenger bay to ferry its inhabitants. Within the ship's interior, two figures patiently sat. While the usual rigid and utilitarian designs were present in the construction of the shuttle, every facet of the vessel seemed to possess something more, something grander. The panels and walls that made up the windowless cabin were intricately decorated, crimson designs and markings accenting the otherwise drab interior. The two rows of seats lining the walls featured the most comfortable of cushions, upon which two aging Sith sat opposite one another. Darth Vowrawn. Lord Syrosk. The regal Pureblood. The horned alien. The pair were of many opposites. One was garbed in decadent robes comprised of every shade of red, the other merely in layers of modest blacks. One filled his clothes with a slight frame, the other with one of bulk. One possessed a visage of warmth, the other seemed to have scowl permanently etched onto his face. The only similarity between the two was the presence of wrinkles upon their skin. But even then, there were contrasts. Vowrawn possessed the look of an elder statesman. Syrosk appeared roughened by both age and quarrel. The two were alone, accompanied only by the soft echoes of the shuttle's engines as it carried them toward their destination, away from the Citadel. Finally, Syrosk broke the silence. "When do you plan on telling me the real reason you've dragged me along?" A soft chuckle from the Pureblood. "Syrosk, you seem to be implying that I would never desire to treat a friend to a pleasant evening out. Now, it may not be the only reason for your accompaniment, but that makes it no less genuine." The alien narrowed his gaze, letting a low grumble slip past his lips. "And these other reasons?" Vowrawn brought a hand to his chin, gently stroking one of the stubby tendrils that hung from it. "Well," he casually began, "I suppose one of the reasons would be that someone intends to kill me." The Councilor remained utterly calm as he continued to stroke his fleshy goatee. Syrosk simply offered the stern arch of his brow. "What? This is a fairly common occurrence for someone such as myself. No need to get so worked up." "No matter how common, assassination attempts ought to be treated with some measure of gravity," Syrosk plainly stated. "I've not become utterly careless," Vowrawn offered alongside another chuckle. "I've you to protect me, don't I?" A soft harrumph from the alien. "If I were you, I'd have chosen a guardian with two good legs." A pause as Syrosk locked eyes with his superior. "Any idea who this someone that intends to kill you is?" "I don't have the exact details," Vowrawn casually stated. "A Sith within my own Sphere with the right mix of brazenness and cowardice to challenge me. Will likely utilize an underling to do the deed. Standard procedure for this sort of thing." "Let me guess, you want to use my skills as a telepath to find your would-be assassin," Syrosk suggested. "Ever the astute being," said Vowrawn with a smirk. "Plus, you're the one Sith I know that would literally have nothing to gain from my demise." "I'm so glad to have earned your trust," Syrosk offered, utterly deadpan. "So there will be other Sith at this banquet?" "Only a few." "That narrows down our suspects, at least," Syrosk stated as he scratched his chin. "Not quite," the Pureblood quickly added. "I know only that a Sith wants me dead. They may use an apprentice, a guard, a server…" "What manner of Sith would entrust the death of a Dark Councilor to the wait staff?" A soft chuckle from Vowrawn. "I'm not known for my combat prowess. I'm sure my life could be cut short with a lucky shot from a holdout blaster." Syrosk remained silent, offering nothing but his still narrowing gaze upon the unflappable Sith. The Councilor retained his smile under the weight of the alien's eyes, his own unblinking. Finally, Syrosk spoke. "When was the last time you were afraid? Of anything?" "I can scarcely recall," said Vowrawn. No words followed, from either Sith. Instead, they remained utterly silent as the shuttle made its way toward the ceremonial hall on the other side of Kaas City. ---------- Harsh winds battered the faces of two figures as they trudged across the landscape. Vurt led the way, utterly composed and without a scratch on him. Nami followed, dragging a heavy metallic rod behind her, every surface of her body marked with scrapes and bruises. The Sith's movements were ever precise, not missing a step as he walked with his hands folded behind his back. The ex-Jedi moved sloppily and groggily, nearly stumbling to the cold, hard ground time and time again as she continued her trek. Part of the girl welcomed the numbness that overtook her body, lest she succumb to the aches and pains that dominated her every muscle. But still she winced as the wind delivered a sharp piece of frost into her eye. She dropped her training weapon, which rang out with a loud clang as its other end struck the gray stone beneath her feet. "Is this place… always like this?" Nami asked, rubbing her eye. Vurt continued walking, not opting to talk until a few steps had been put between the two of them. "Just because you managed to convince me to speak, doesn't mean I intend to partake in idle chatter." The girl drew in and released an icy breath, head hung low. Slowly, she lowered herself to the ground, wrapping her numb fingers around one of the ends of the metallic rod. As the Nikto continued his march unabated, Nami pushed herself forward, urging her body to catch up. The two continued, across frost-ridden stone, across chilled dirt, and eventually, paved streets. On the outskirt of the city, on the border between civilization and the wastes, the humble home of the instructors drew ever closer. Away from the starports, the markets, the office buildings, a quaint domicile sitting at the base of a ridge welcomed the return of its denizens, both permanent and temporary. Vurt pushed past the front door, and Nami blearily followed. Not even seconds after closing the door behind her, the girl felt herself begin to thaw amongst the warmth of the cramped abode. After spending hours amongst the winter wastes of Ziost, even the simple living room proved pleasurable to Nami's senses. She could see, without the threat of ice invading her sights. She could hear more than the harsh winds grating against her ears. She could smell... something. Even as she warmed, the girl stood frozen in the center of the living room. There was a peculiar clattering in the kitchenette, and an oddly satisfying aroma filled the air. But before she could process it further, the numbness quickly fled her body, being replaced by an overwhelming pain. Her legs began to tremble. The rod slipped from her hand, impacting against the floor with a solid thud. Her vision began to blur and fade, until finally, she collapsed. But before she could drop, Vurt snatched ahold of her collar. Despite possessing a rather lithe form, the Nikto managed to hold the girl upright by her robes. Slowly, Nami came to, shaking her head and regaining her bearings. "Thanks," she quietly offered. "Hmm," Vurt muttered, still holding the girl upright. Abruptly, the Nikto led the girl over to the couch before almost tossing her onto it. The Sith offered a few moments of his beady stare before stepping out of the living room. As he disappeared down the hall, the clattering continued to emanate from the adjacent kitchenette. Nami slowly straightened her posture as she sat upright on the couch. Her limbs almost refused to obey her commands, only barely capable of moving without being accompanied by aches and pains. When the girl finally situated herself, she released a heavy sigh of relief, content to simply sink into the cushion as she remained stilled. Interrupting her, however, was the Trandoshan who just stepped into the room. With a loud clank, Nesk set a bowl on the table in front of the exhausted girl. Nami could barely lean forward to get a closer look at the murky gray stew that filled the dish. Instead, her eyes bounced between the bowl and the Trandoshan that stood over her. "What is this?" "Is food," Nesk plainly answered. "That's it? Just 'food'?" "Eat," he replied. With that, he simply turned away and stepped back toward the kitchenette. Soon, the girl was alone with her undefined bowl of food. Yet all she could do was stare at the bubbling contents. Partly liquid. Partly solid. Almost completely lacking in color. A strange gooey mash with an oddly pleasant scent. Nami eyed the spoon beside the bowl, but even thinking about moving toward it made her body ache. Whether it had been seconds or minutes, Nami did not know, but eventually the Trandoshan returned to the living room, a bowl of his own grasped between his clawed digits. He took a seat next to the bruised and bloodied girl without a second glance. "Eat," Nesk repeated, firm and direct. "It will not get another meal today." With that, the Trandoshan went to work, shoveling spoonful after spoonful of the viscous paste into his sharp maw. Nami shifted in her seat before forcing herself forward. Ignoring whatever signals her body sent telling her to stop, the girl reach out and picked up her spoon. As she wrapped her fingers around the utensil, Nami noticed nearly every one of her knuckles had been scraped, a layer of dried blood gracing each joint. Where or when she received such injuries escaped her. In that moment, it didn't matter. With slow movements, the girl directed the first spoonful of the mystery meal into her mouth. To her surprise, her tongue did not immediately reject it. Instead, she easily swallowed the paste, her sore throat and jaw proving no impediment. In silence, the two figures on the couch continued their meal. Occasionally, Nami would shoot an glance toward the towering Trandoshan beside her as he hunched over his bowl. The girl's pacing was much more restrained, primarily because her arms refused to move past a certain speed. Eventually, Vurt returned to the living room, clutching something in his hand. Small. Flat. Reflective. Nami momentarily halted her meal as the Nikto squatted across from her, holding the mirror toward her face. As soon as she saw her reflection, the girl's eyes went wide. At least, as wide as they were capable. She was utterly disheveled. Battered. There was swelling around her right eye. Her face was bruised. Her lower lip was split, a trail of dried blood hanging beneath the wound. "You trained with the Jedi, yes?" asked Vurt, his voice possessing the usual icy smoothness. His arm seem locked in place, still holding up the mirror. "Can you mend your wounds? Fully?" "I... don't..." Nami stammered. "I mean... I never had to..." "Well, now you must," Vurt replied. Finally, he lowered the mirror. "Your survival depends on it." "If it cannot push back," Nesk said between bites, "it must push forward." Nami's head slightly tilted to the side. "So you'd both endorse me… using Jedi techniques?" "We'd endorse you taking whatever measure necessary to prevent your own death," Vurt plainly stated. "Wounds slow it down," said Nesk. "Slowness earns it more wounds. If it cannot recover, it will die." The girl dipped her head. A heavy silence persisted throughout the room, until finally, Nami spoke up, barely above a whisper. "How many students have you two killed?" The two Sith looked to one another, preserving the quiet as neither spoke. "None," Vurt said after a pause. "Ziost kills. Academy kills. Student kills," Nesk added. "Not us." "If an acolyte who trained under us perished, it is because they did not heed our words," Vurt explained. "Hard to heed your words… if you barely talk," Nami muttered. The Nikto replied with a cold, beady stare. "Finish your food. Afterwards, wash up and heal your wounds. Tomorrow requires a clean slate." "That's it? Just 'heal my wounds'?" Nami asked. Nesk set his empty bowl on the table in front of him with a sharp clang. "Knew Sith that could mend flesh. Acolyte. Young. If it could, so can small thing." Vurt quickly straightened out his posture before stepping back toward the hall that departed the living room. Nesk lifted himself from the couch, and carried his empty dish back into the kitchenette. Soon Nami was by her lonesome, sitting on the couch, staring into what remained of her meal.
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