Varrel Umrahiel is a small man, 5’6, wiry and athletic, roughly 65 at start of his class story. His hair was dark brown in his youth but long since gone grey. Balding, he pulls what remains into a topknot in honor of the style worn by his ancestors. He likewise keeps a meticulously groomed beard and moustache. His drift to the dark side has not improved his appearance, turning once brown eyes a feral yellow and adding more noticeable veins beneath his pale skin. He prefers clothing that, like his hairstyle, mimics that of his homeworld, with loose flowing trousers and plain shirts for free movement. His sabers are green by preference, an homage to the Salle de Umrahiel’s colors.

Varrel Umrahiel was born on the Imperial-allied world of Atresia. First son of Valeri Umrahiel and heir to the prestigious Salle de Umrahiel, he devoted his life to Yovshin fencing and the teachings of his ancestor, Valjann Umrahiel. In Varrel’s time, swordplay was a sport, albeit a highly competitive one. He excelled at his inherited career, achieving the highest rank, nine-daan, as a young man. He married a well-placed woman, Reka Sidonja, raised several children, and had pretty much passed into near-retirement. It was enough to retain official control of the Salle, to teach the more advanced students, and to judge competitions. He was enjoying watching his grandchildren grow up.

But the Empire had other plans. It annexed Atresia, and Varrel’s homeworld went from an ally with an independent government to a vassal state. Under the new charter, all Force-sensitives were to go to Dromund Kaas for Sith training. He never imagined they would choose him. On Dromund Kaas, his age made him a target and his skill with a blade kept him alive. That, and more experience playing social games. He watched his former students fall, one by one, lastly his granddaughter, Vashutarl. The unlikely apprentice caught the eye of Overseer Tremmel, who transferred him to Korriban.

Baras stole him from Tremmel, just as Tremmel took him from the general population on Dromund Kaas. It was clear to him that Baras was a master manipulator, a grand chessmaster, one very at home behind the scenes. Varrel disliked Baras’ methods, especially torture, and chafed in his role as Baras’ enforcer. A scalpel in the hands of a thug. He endeavored to strike a balance between the honor he still believed in and the grasping ambition embodied in the Sith Code. He failed. Varrel saw no way to survive but to adopt the Sith’s rules--which amounted to ‘don’t get caught’. The ideals of fair play, decency, and personal honor he grew up with had no place here. When Jaesa Willsaam looked into his heart and saw only darkness, she spoke the truth.

His marriage to Jaesa was as inappropriate as it was inevitable. He knew better than to take advantage of an infatuated student in that way. Yet he also realized that he left nothing behind. His family on Atresia was dead to him, and he had no children to carry his name in the Empire. Jaesa was more than willing to grant him both. He was flattered that a young, attractive woman desired him, but that was not a factor in his decision. Not at all.

The only surprise in Baras’ betrayal was how late it came--which proved the man’s intelligence. That he failed was testament to his weakness. He had not the courage to face his enemies. Varrel saw the Hand’s offer as yet another power play, but one he could not refuse. Whether the Emperor was right or wrong made no difference. He would serve his new lord just as his crew, his vassals, served theirs. With their help, he systematically dismantled Baras’ support, applying the lessons he’d learned. Finally facing the Sith in combat was a distinct pleasure. Varrel granted Darth Baras a warrior’s death. It was better than he deserved.

Varrel as the Wrath took over the old Grathan estate. He and Jaesa have one child, a boy named Vashutarl Gregor Valho Umrahiel. Honoring both Varrel’s family and Jaesa’s. His new focus is ensuring his new legacy, and he will stop at nothing to guarantee it.

Rixik stands 6’ even, average build, 30 (officially) at the start of his class story, easily twice as old as he expected to live. He’s not picky about dress, preferring whatever lets him blend in on whatever planet he’s on. Though, given the option, he likes simple, serviceable designs without a lot of bric-a-brac. His skin is ruddy orange and he retains the natural irregular mottling on his lekku, declining decorative as well as eyebrow tattoos. He has one obvious scar, a diagonal cut on his left cheek below the eye, what’s left of an attack that almost cost him his eyes. His favorite color is blue.

Jesp Rixik has told so many lies about his past it’s a wonder he can keep them straight, and official records are frustratingly few. He began life as Shen, property of the Cold Gold Corporation on Naos III, a frigid, remote planet in the outer rim. His earliest childhood memories are sifting usable spice from mine tailings alongside other assorted enslaved children. He has no idea who his parents were or how the company came to own him and doesn’t much care. The company, barely profitable even with cheap labor, folded when he was eight and he was liquidated along with the rest of their assets to cover the owner’s debts. He ended up in the hands of Jenks, a brutal Evocii, himself a minor minion of one of the Hutt families on Nar Shaddaa.

At twelve he stowed away on a freighter with the cargo, the first of many. Unlucky jumps resulted in getting sold again (if only temporarily), on better trips he could trade skills--or other services--for passage. The last ship’s captain signed him as crew. Not long afterward an ambitious Imperial captain impounded the ship for a variety of legal violations and sentenced the crew, minus those she spaced, to hard labor in the spice mines of Sevarcos II. Shen served roughly two years of his life sentence before a combination of Imperial corruption and a bit of luck let him escape, taking with him some very compromising holos. He bought himself a new name and a new identity record. Shen the Twi’lek slave boy was dead. Jesp Rixik, miraculously three years older, was born from his ashes.

Rixik fell back into what he knew best: grift, theft, slavery, and seduction. He eloped with a rebellious young Twi’lek, Kirya Bilali, and duped her into helping him steal a selection of slaves from her father. Their marriage came apart within the year when Kirya discovered he was reselling the people she thought they freed. The hash she made of his identity record when she kicked him out drove him from Republic space until he could get it sorted.

In a perverse way she did him a favor. The attention-getting crimes she attributed to him were violent and they were difficult to clear. In the interim he took any work that paid, most of which was thuggish--debt collection and repatriating slaves. His activities, real and planted, caught the eye of Braden looking for a champion who might have the skills and drive to make it in the Great Hunt. Rixik fit the bill.

Rixik found his true calling in bounty hunting. Jobs are on contract so there’s always a buyer, and no one much cares if the merchandise is damaged on delivery. He played his slicer Mako as he plays everyone around him, using her knowledge of Mandalorians and the Great Hunt to ensure his victory. He parlayed the new title into high fees for his services, while declining Mandalore’s offer to become part of his clan. “Mandalorian” might demand respect, but it also comes with a lot of rules and obligations. Rixik isn’t big on either one. He’s also not above bailing on a losing contract or swapping sides for a more valuable payday, exemplified by his destruction of House Girard.

He discovered Rogun the Butcher’s bounty on his not-quite-ex-wife Kirya purely by chance. His initial attempt to collect it ended in failure, and she turned around and hired a competing bounty hunter, Andalar Greyson, to take care of him. Rixik’s solution is typical of his thinking. He sent Skadge after Greyson as a distraction while he himself collects Rogun’s bounty. He’ll deal with Greyson if he’s stupid enough to continue a contract for a dead client.

Notes: More at the end of Kirya’s summary.

Kirya Bilali is a curvaceous female Twi’lek, 5’7, age 27 at the start of her class story. She has cool-toned green skin and spots tracing the shape of her lekku. Her eyes are an intense violet hue. Relaxing onboard ship she likes comfortable clothing and hates shoes. But she can’t resist a flair for the dramatic. Her preferred “captain’s outfit” is shades of black and magenta the better to contrast with her complexion, complete with high boots and a cape. Her favorite color is red.

The youngest daughter of Adoko Bilali's fourth wife, Kirya knew from a young age she was destined for a dull life married off to some business partner or other. She had no intention of going quietly. She was smarter than her brothers; she saw no reason her father should treat her like one of the slaves. That's what it amounted to, after all. Traded for advantage was no different from being sold. And if it was wrong for her, it was wrong for them. She hated it all.

When she met Jesp Rixik she knew he was the one. He was charming, clever, treated her like an adult. Hated slavery as much as she did. They ran off to Nar Shaddaa for a quick, no-questions-asked marriage, then went about liberating slaves from various brokers. He taught her a little slicing, a little blasters, a little everything shady. Thumbing her nose at dear old Dad. She was living a holodrama.

The holodrama ended less than a year later in true holodrama fashion: everything fell apart. She discovered not a single one of the people she'd rescued was free. Jesp sold them all. Everything was a lie. In a rage, she trashed his record and set the Republic authorities on him. Unfortunately, she discovered that her marriage, like a lot of things on Nar Shaddaa, was easy to get into but hard to get out of. Their databases were beyond her skill. She needed his signature and genetic identity stamp and he was gone. Just like she wanted. She couldn’t afford to waste credits tracking him down. She moved on, hoping he’d stay gone.

Kirya wouldn’t go back to her father. The breakup with her family was almost as acrimonious as the one with Jesp. After some false starts on a number of careers (sabacc dealer, fortune teller, accountant, among others) she finally decided to invest everything in a decent (used) starship. She had enough to purchase through a reputable dealer, thus avoiding loan sharks and other entanglements. She really hoped to help freed or escaped slaves. That was her dream. She wanted the rest of her business to be legitimate. But activism doesn’t pay the bills and legal isn’t always better. Shady...shady was okay. She answered to her own conscience. So long as that was clear, she was fine.

Amazing the amount of crazy from one shipment to Ord Mantell. In short order she had no ship, a rather nasty bounty on her head, then a new-and-improved ship, yet another enemy, and a treasure hunt. Then the Drayen fortune, the Drayen heir, an amazing contract with the Republic, and...and a new boyfriend. She took a lot of convincing. Corso said all the right things. But so had Jesp, and look how that turned out.

So yes, she had a new boyfriend. Then a new husband. A good one this time. Things were really looking up. Until her first husband wandered back into her life and tried to collect Rogun’s bounty. He didn’t succeed, but he sure made a mess. After the incident and subsequent explanation, Corso insisted on meeting her family. It turned out that far from nursing a grudge, Adoko Bilali was thrilled with her success. To the point of promoting her mother to senior wife of the remaining three.

Emboldened by their support, Kirya decided to deal with Rixik once and for all. Valden, a friend in the Republic military, introduced her to his brother, Andalar, who agreed to take her contract. With any luck, the next time she hears from him her almost-ex husband will be safely encased in carbonite.

Note: The last set of events occur early in Kirya's chapter three, while Rixik would be further along if not finished. Unfortunately, their game progress is reversed--Rixik just hit Taris while Kirya’s been complete for a while. I haven’t quite worked through the intersection of each of their class stories with the subplot yet, so please pardon my vagueness.

Sha’ra’zaed is a Rubenesque 5’8, with skin normally a deep indigo blue and long hair to match. A social chameleon, she can be imposing in an Imperial uniform, sultry in evening wear or anything in between. She is a mature 22 (closer to a human-relative 30 as far as experience goes) at the start of her class story, owing to the lack of an adolescent period in Chiss.

When Sha’ra’zaed was a young woman, a coalition of adversaries made a concerted move against her house. Her people scattered. Larger families absorbed a valuable few and exiled the rest. Surrounded by enemies, Sha’ra’zaed looked for a more powerful patron. She found it in the Empire. She enlisted in the military, hoping to parlay that experience into a civilian medical position. But despite her high test scores and proven aptitude, it became clear that Imperial doctors and researchers were Human. Not Chiss. Not alien. Her exemplary service in the Military Medical corps notwithstanding.

While hardly a surprise, the bare fact stung. She’d already discovered the military corps was almost as bad. They spent most of their time backstabbing each other for promotions. She spent more time evading her colleagues’ plots than anything else. And it wasn't much of a challenge. Command approved her transfer to Intelligence in record time. If one were suspicious, one might suspect they planned it that way from the start.

She fast-tracked through the Intelligence program. In truth, intelligence analysis and deduction was little different from making a medical diagnosis. The ‘symptoms’ were different, as were the ‘treatment options’, but the process was the same. Find the problem, determine the best way to remove the problem while minimizing side effects to the patient--the Empire. She was still a doctor, or perhaps more like part of the immune system. Same role.

Intelligence felt more close-knit than the regular military. Almost like her old family. She wasn’t looking for glory or recognition, she was looking for a home. She unraveled the Eagle’s conspiracy and stopped Darth Jadus. Infiltrated the SIS...and discovered the brainwashing. But worse than that was discovering on whose order it was done. A cruel betrayal in her opinion. She thought she could trust Intelligence, trust Keeper and the Minister. Knowing, intellectually, that the Minister had only made the same calculations she had done herself didn’t really help. Accepted a limitation to preserve a useful asset. How many times had she made the same choice? The leak, though. The leak was unforgivable.

She dismantled the SIS cell under Kothe but lost Hunter. Then the Star Cabal dismantled Intelligence. Just as she’d lost Scheh back on Csilla. The Cabal had her dossier; they must have known about her exile. They pushed at her weak point. They had other goals to be sure, but evoking those memories, perhaps traumatizing their most ardent pursuer, was an added bonus. This time, though, she wasn’t a child. And, following Lokin’s example, she’d already established a support system that didn’t depend on the Empire.

She pursued the Star Cabal and returned the favor. Disposing of their Black Codex, though, was a different matter. She could not entrust it to the Sith. Despite being the official rulers of the Empire, they were far too interested in their own infighting. They did not govern. Keeper and the Minister, while far from perfect, were at least more stable. Even so, she couldn’t trust them with herself.

She erased her identity record completely, becoming a ghost. Her loyalty always had been to the Empire as an entity, never the specific people holding office. Whatever her new place, she will make it herself.

Jurial is a heavyset Mirialan male, 5'10, with forest green skin and ruby red eyes. He is 22 years old at the start of his class story. He has only one Mirialan tattoo, a small pattern on his chin. His hair, if he allowed it to grow, would be black. He favors the flowing robes typical of the Jedi order in the colors of Tython's plants and trees. His current ones incorporate meaningful sayings embroidered in pale blue, stylized as decoration. His lightsaber is golden yellow.

Jurial spent his childhood in the shelter of the Jedi Temple. He was never one to do things by halves. He took each lesson as one to master, whether it was saber, acrobatics, history, or debate. He did not always excel, but it was never for lack of trying.

He was twelve when the Sith attacked Coruscant. He spent a week buried in the temple ruins, steeped in strong emotion like bitter tea. He survived through half-remembered Force trance and faith, as well as links established with the others trapped with him. But it left him changed. He recognized the power of emotion, both good and bad. The power of connections, those of shared community and the Force. The power of deception--the lie of the peace offering that opened the sky of Coruscant. The Sith were real. Their philosophy empowered them. It was evil, made only for destruction, but no less powerful for it.

The Jedi were not infallible.

After recovering from the ordeal he delved deep into philosophy. He felt driven to understand why. Why everything. Most of all, why had he survived? He burrowed into probability mathematics, becoming an accomplished sabaac player along the way. He disagreed with the Jedi’s decision to retreat to the rediscovered world of Tython, but he was just a youngling. It wasn't his place to argue the point. He went with them.

He was honored and excited when Master Yuon chose him as Padawan. She was well known for having discovered one of Master Odan-Urr's lost holocrons. As a noted historian, he hoped she could answer some of his questions. Provide a different viewpoint. Help him understand historical context. Explain why the Jedi do the things they do the way they do them. He expected to have many discussions about the nature of the Force and the Code. But things intervened. Rajivari. Nalen Raloch. Yuon's illness. Vokk. The Plaguemaster. Perhaps answers will come in their own time.

Jurial has some very specific disagreements with the Jedi code of conduct. Prohibiting attachment is one sticking point. He sees connections as vital, not bad. He also prefers truth and openness to deception. He finds the Order as a whole guilty of both sins while advocating their opposite, without being able to justify their position. Jedi may be Jedi first and people second, but they are still people. The Order would do better to acknowledge that fact and work within that paradigm than deny it.

No doubt these positions will bring him into conflict with the council in the future. He has yet to work through Master Yuon's deliberate deception, but it bothers him. Immediate concerns occupy his mind right now, so some of his arguments and ideas are sitting on a back burner. Not ignored, though.

Simmering.

Schehe'pou'larane is 6'3, slender of build, and more than a little vain about his appearance. He keeps his longish, dark blue hair in a carefully messy style and prefers elegant clothing over practical. Several scars marr his face, courtesy of run-ins with beings more interested in violence than credits or reason. He is only Hepoul to relatives and lovers--everyone else best learn his full name.

Hepoul is Sha'ra'zaed's brother, four years older. With the demise of Scheh he went into exile like the bulk of the family. He is a true believer in Chiss superiority. Insubordination cut short an iffy career in the Imperial military. The Republic had no use for a low-level defector. He refused lower himself to work for any of the syndicates, operating instead as a freelance assassin. Most emphatically not a bounty hunter.

He styles himself as an exiled noble, a role playing (and paying) well in certain circles, particularly on Alderaan and Corellia. He believes it. He is not married, preferring to remain unattached ‘until Csilla welcomes him back’.

He gradually contacted remnants of his family as well as other exiled Chiss and became the de facto head of a reorganized Scheh. Homeless, they drifted from contracted jobs to more opportunistic theft, preying on ships of any flag equally. A tiny, independent slice of exiled Ascendancy. In Hepoul’s mind, anyway. Others may take a different view. Sha’ra’zaed acquired Imperial Letters of Marque for him in an effort to prevent the Empire from spacing him for piracy. It remains to be seen whether he will comply with the terms.

Jealousy is an imposing female Sith pureblood. At 6’2 she towers over most of her peers and finds Khem Val only a little intimidating. She combines most of the classic Sith features: deep crimson skin, glowing yellow eyes, a multitude of bony and cartilaginous extensions of eyebrows and jaw. Even to the extent of four-fingered hands--though there is some question of whether that particular trait is genetic. A burn scar marrs the side of her face, obliterating the tattoo her creator put there to indicate her lineage. She keeps her dark hair short and slicked back; even the highlights are red.

On a remote estate on Dromund Kaas, a Sith Pureblood master, Lord Kriyon-Lys, disciple of Darth Ikoral, determined to recreate the ancient Sith species. His experiment was a combination of bioengineering, cloning, and Sith alchemy, with maturation accelerated by both alchemical and biochemical agents. Rumors of the experiments eventually reached The Dark Council. His explanation of his grand purpose and details of his experiments disgusted them. They sent a military force supplemented with Sith to shut down the experiment and liquidate the compound. The investigators dissected and preserved the bulk of the subjects. Any with potential they sent to Korriban.

Listed only as “Subject J” in Lord Kriyon-Lys’ records, the Sith investigators dubbed her “Jealousy”. Her apparent physical age at the start of her story is late adolescence, but she decanted from a cloning tank only three years ago. She spent the majority of that time on Korriban. Her interesting origin intrigued Lord Zash, who arranged to test her abilities via Overseer Harkun. Pleased with her performance, Zash now works to build up her apprentice’s reputation. Jealousy left Korriban thoroughly indoctrinated with Imperial dogma regarding the Dark Side and Sith superiority. However, a chance encounter with Revanite heretics as well as the spirit of Kel’eth Ur called those beliefs into question. Fear grants power, and it seems the greater Sith fear this ‘light side’. It bears exploring.

Another Sith of Amazonian proportions, Jer’myn shares much of Jealousy’s genetic material. Unlike her ‘sister’, however, she was an early experiment and one of Kriyon-Lys’ many failures. A mere shadow of the proper Sith. Skin of soft orange, eyes an almost human topaz, she possessed few of the physical markers of Sith inheritance. Crowning the list of defects was her near absence of Force-sensitivity. She was worthless for his experiment. A servant was supposed to destroy her along with the other rejects from that batch, but he got greedy. He sold the lot to Ivory’s child-gladiator ring. Jer’myn survived, becoming very protective of the younger ones.

The Republic arrested Ivory and broke up the bulk of his syndicate. One of the troopers involved in the operation took a shine to the girl, the one prepared to take on the whole Republic army if they tried to hurt her ‘family’. When she reached majority, she wanted to repay the favor. She enlisted in the Republic military, eventually earning a spot on the prestigious Havoc Squad.

Even though she doesn’t much resemble a typical Sith, Jer’myn is very aware of what she is. She likes hiding behind Republic armor where she’s more often judged by her rank and performance than her species. When that’s not possible, she arranges her hair and makeup to minimize her Sith-y features. She appears to be in her early twenties at the start of her class story, but has only eight years of actual life experience.

Vashutarl is 5’2 wearing shoes, a graceful figurine of a woman. She is seventeen at the start of her class story. She inherited her brown eyes and hair from her grandfather, Varrel Umrahiel, as well as aptitude with a vibroblade. She received special dispensation to test for two-daan ranking at age sixteen, typically not allowed until at least two years later. The Empire’s acquisition of Atresia nipped her career in the bud.

She despised the casual violence in the academy on Dromund Kaas. She especially hated what she saw it doing to her grandfather, someone she’d respected as a noble and honorable man. Too many eyes were on him, but she was a more typical student. When one of the masters approached her with a proposal for escape, she took it.

Good thing about a large number of student casualties. One more is not suspicious in the least. He faked her death and sent her to a contact on Nar Shaddaa, who woke her from cryosleep and sent her on to the Jedi. The episode earned her scars from Force lightning, but she hoped it was worth it.

She finds the Jedi contradictory and more than a little frustrating. Their calm philosophy, not acting through anger, letting the Force control one’s actions, mirrors what she learned from her earliest childhood at home. The language was different but the ideas were the same. Overall, however, they are too passive for her taste. They won’t fight, even for a right cause, until it is too late. She knows the Sith. She knows they are coming. They will not agonize over whether to destroy the Jedi when the time comes.

But for all that, she could not bring herself to destroy Bengel Morr. She had to believe he could rediscover himself. If he could, then so could her grandfather. That hope may prove a tragic flaw, or a bright light.

At 6’6 barefoot, Sergeant Ian Kughel is hard to miss in a crowd. If not for an extensive chemical burn and subsequent cybernetic replacements he could pose for a Republic Military recruitment board. He keeps his remaining brown hair, a few shades darker than his olive skin, in a short, shrubby military cut. His one surviving eye is the color of fine cognac. The other is a military-grade implant. He is 23 years old when he responds to Vashutarl’s contact.

A native of the agriworld Chandrila, Ian grew up in a small community typical for that idyllic planet. Landholders, for the most part, and usually related if only distantly. A favorite uncle enthralled him with war stories from the early years of the Great Galactic War. He remembers watching the newsfeeds as a child, even if the fighting was always far away. His eyes were on the stars, and the only real surprise was that he chose the Republic Military as his means to leave.

Kughel weathered the inevitable culture shock well and rose to the rank of sergeant within a typical timeframe. No mean feat in an officially peacetime military. The start of a promising career. Unfortunately, an accident during a training exercise left him severely burned. In addition to the obvious, his right arm, shoulder, upper back and spine are cybernetically enhanced. Primarily therapeutic, the implants increase nerve transmission and muscle effectiveness as well as replacing tissues too damaged to repair. His recovery and rehabilitation took the better part of a year.

Upon return to duty, Command assigned him to Rancor Squad, an armored infantry unit. For once, he doesn’t stand out. Much. Most of the squad is cybernetically enhanced if not to the same extent or for the same reason. He’s of average height, relatively speaking. One of the members might be just this side of a section eight (in the gung-ho sense, so not likely to draw much scrutiny) and he has some competition for the position of squad practical joker.

Recently his rival found Kughel’s inactive profile on a dating holosite and set up a date with a vapid blonde, the worst match he could find. The would-be prank backfired--the vapid blonde turned out to be a new Jedi knight, Vashutarl Umrahiel, and her profile itself was a prank. Despite the awkward beginning, they hit it off rather well. Enough that Kughel intends to keep in touch.

Pureblood Sith Inquisitor. Not my canon inquisitor, that will be Jealousy, but highly placed just the same. A low-caste Sith, he was sent to Korriban when the Empire combed its slave population for anyone Force-sensitive. Xathras took absolute advantage of his new status. More to the point, he took it out on everyone else. Overseer Harkun assigned him to Varrel’s dormitory, since it was otherwise empty and apprentices there had a mysteriously short lifespan. Unfortunately for Harkun, Xathras wasn’t an idiot. He made friends with the elderly human, becoming a frequent companion despite their differences. Needless to say, he has not been a good influence.

The sons of Jedi Master Altharn Greyson inherited little to none of their father’s Force ability, but all of his stubbornness. Andalar, the eldest, appreciated the Jedi philosophy and ideals he learned from his father. He was unwilling to compromise those principles, even for the Republic. He chose to remain independent and true to his own concepts of honor. Though officially a Bounty Hunter, and adopted into Mandalore’s clan, he declines participation in any Great Hunt. Rumors persist he was one of the Mandalorians who humbled Tarro Blood in an earlier Hunt. He doesn’t deny them. His current contract is for one Jesp Rixik, winner of the most recent.

Valden, on the other hand, is a Republic patriot. He enlisted in the military at his first opportunity and has proven a more than capable soldier. He disagrees with his brother on a number of issues, most of which boil down to “do the ends justify the means.” Valden believes principles are less important than results on the ground. He’s of a more practical mind than Andalar. On a shuttle to Coruscant he made the acquaintance of Kirya Bilali, a discrete transporter-for-hire, slightly minus one ship at the time. She’s been helpful getting his squad into places where a Republic military ship would get noticed. In turn, he kept out of her cargo hold and helped smooth things over with customs when necessary. After her run-in with Rixik, he introduced her to Andalar, hoping his brother could help with her problem.

Born in the Ascendancy and a staunch supporter of the Chiss, Korjonos’s dossier lists exemplary service and extreme high marks for precision marksmanship. He joined the Empire’s Intelligence division as part of the Intelligence Exchange Program started by the Ruling Familes. The stated goal is to “encourage closer cooperation between our allied Intelligence Communities”. Whatever the Empire’s goals for their participation, the Chiss intend to gather information on their putative ally, their strengths and weaknesses and how best to exploit them. In short, Chiss participants are carefully selected double agents. On an early mission on Hutta, Korjonos met Jesp Rixik, an amoral bounty hunter. Loyal only to credits, he’s proven useful when Korjonos needed some off-the-sensors muscle. Provided, of course, that he takes precautions to limit the canny Twi’lek’s access to information. Theirs is a partnership of mutual distrust. He’d rather keep Rixik close to hand than let him out of sight.

Once upon a time, a young, gifted slicer named Sal made a deal with a devil. The devil granted Sal cybernetics amplifying his natural gift, allowing him to navigate computer systems as easily as he might a street. In return, the devil asked only that Sal perform the occasional task for him. Such as fixing odds on gambling sites and casinos to favor the devil, and make him lots of money.

In a nearby part of the galaxy, another young man was a gifted warrior and might have made a life as a soldier or a mercenary had he been born where such things were valued. Instead, he made a deal with the same devil as Sal. For sponsorship as an arena fighter, the tools and weapons and support he needed to succeed. His agreement was more sinister. The devil allowed him to win, until it was to the devil’s advantage that he lose. Not all bouts were to the death, of course. The devil did not ask for suicide. Only convenient losses. Losses that would make the devil a lot of money.

They both had another secret, Sal and the man who would become The Old Man. They met through their mutual devil. Then they confessed that secret, and fell in love. And hatched a plan. They say the devil’s in the details. For all the details that snare the unwary, sometimes the devil catches himself. He must abide by his own contract. Sal and the man who would soon become The Old Man scrimped and saved and skimmed and managed to buy themselves free of their devil.

It shouldn’t have been possible. But they had done it. And the devil had to let them go.

They married and bought a run-down diner near one of Nar Shaddaa’s spaceports, refurbished it, and built it into a successful venture. They gave food to hungry street kids in exchange for minor work, not because they needed the help, but because The Old Man felt a trade was better than outright charity. To teach them they were worth something. Sal picked up some extra income from judicious slicing jobs; The Old Man still tricked out blasters now and then. And they lived happily, if not forever after, then at least for a very long time.

I was sure she would kill Bengel Morr, right up until I got to that point in her quest...and it just wasn't right. Kill him and let him be remembered as a hero, or let him live and try to become the hero he could be? Should be? There are a number of intersections between the Knight and Warrior story, and a lot of decisions like that one (Praven comes to mind) so it's going to be interesting to move through the Knight story with her background.

Major Rendrik Poole stepped up beside his XO then took the empty piloting chair. He set his steaming mug on the console to let it cool. Elara always made his drinks too hot to start with. But it was enough that she made him anything at all and he was appreciative enough to not complain. The steam pumped out of the mug in the silence as Poole double checked Jorgan's calculations. Then he turned to the Cathar with a raised brow. “How is she doing?”

“Why ask me?” Jorgan asked immediately. There was no question who the Major was asking about but Jorgan still felt a little defensive. Would there be a warning? A lecture? Poole stood in no place to talk, but there were rules. Rules Jorgan was considering breaking.

“You assume I know nothing. I want to hear your opinion. You spend the most time with her.” Poole paused, flicked at a glowing light. “And I'm not here to bust your balls over it.”

Jorgan looked Poole's way and gave the barest of nods. “She's not sleeping.”

“You aren't sleeping much either,” Poole pointed out.

Jorgan sighed. Ipha had stopped sleeping through the night. The first night she shot out of a nightmare and stumbled out of bed to the ship's common room, Jorgan forced himself to lay in his bunk. He told himself this was probably something she wanted to work out on her own. The last thing she would want was for him to chase her out there like a worried mother, questioning, petting. He wanted to, stars did he want to, but it wouldn't be something she would appreciate. So he laid with eyes closed in the dim of the bunks and waited to see what would come first, sleep or her return. It was sleep that night.

He restrained himself for six days before he went after her. She had shadows under her eyes that he could swim in, and her normally bright, dusky skin was growing pale and lackluster. Worry was knotting fists in his back muscles and making him hyper aware of her during the day. She had come out of the mess with a glass of water in her hand to find him at the holo, waiting for her.

Jorgan tried at first to be distant but worried. He pointed out the exhaustion on her features, how two or three hours of broken sleep a night was doing her no favors when they were on the battlefield. She drank her water silently, guilty, tired and miserable. She promised to return to her bunk. He had listened to her toss and turn for the rest of night.

“So I get up with her,” Jorgan said, shrugging the implications off like heavy blanket. “She goes back to sleep now, when we're out in the common room just sitting.”

“She fakes it well,” Poole said. “Other than looking tired, she seems a model officer.”

“She is a model officer,” Jorgan ground out.

“Is she talking to you about what happened to her?”

Jorgan paused, looked the opposite way out the cockpit window. “No. She refuses to talk about it. Except her sister. She talks about Brei'yu all the time now.”

Poole considered the controls. It was hard having family on the other side. He trusted her not tell her sister anything sensitive, but the higher ups would get itchy. He would hear about it and he would shield her where he could. “You're doing a good thing,” he said.

Jorgan flicked a quick look at his commander but unsure what to say, said nothing. Poole sipped from his mug, still too hot to drink comfortably but looking for something to do with his hands. “None of us can know what she went through those three days she was missing. Elara- Lieutenant Dorne has been doing some research into the kind of... technology and experimentation Kodrevas was subjected to. It would turn anyone's world upside down. That sister, the one in Imperial space, is someone she'll need to work through it. And I won't stop her as long as she keeps the conversations personal. But it's good that she has you to lean on.”

Jorgan stayed silent, completely at a loss as to what to do with this nearly emotional pat on the back.

Poole took his mug and stood. “Unless you feel there's something you need to bring to my attention, we aren't going to talk about this again.”

“Sir,” Jorgan answered, relieved as Poole turned to leave the bridge.

“How long until we reach orbit?”

“Sixteen hours.”

Poole made a noncommittal noise. “I'll send C2 up. Try to get her to get some sleep, would you?”

Jorgan nodded, though he didn't look back. “Yes, sir.”

Poole, you have a personality. I'm still working on making you more than a two dimensional thing that things happen to because things are also happening to Ipha. I'm getting there, I promise.

http://kodrevas.tumblr.com/

9 ATC – 2.5 years before the confirmation of the Wrath

(Ruth, 18); Calline, 23; Wynston, 25

Hutta

The cantina was standard for Hutta: low ceiling, heavy smoke, music pervasive but not overpowering, clientele sketchy. Wynston had just finished cutting the deals he needed to cut; he finished eating at the bar and settled his bill. He would sleep upstairs tonight and fly out for other things in the morning.

He unobtrusively made his way through the crowd and had nearly reached the door when an unexpected push brought him face to face with, of all things, another Chiss. A tall woman – for a Chiss, average height – very dark blue hair in an updo – lovely and familiar if slightly changed features. Matured.

Wynston's little sister.

His mind slammed into acting mode. Unforeseen problem. Deal with it cordially and quickly.

She was opening her mouth. He headed her off. "Wynston's the name," he said firmly. He did make the concession of speaking Cheunh, even doing it in something like the coarse accent he had grown up speaking it in. "Canuall?"

"Calline now," she said, wide-eyed with a smile starting. "Paperwork, yeah? So, Wynston! I never expected to see you!"

He made his returning smile as natural as his will and training could force it to be. "It's a day for surprises." Now, disengage. Run away. She wouldn't be able to find him again. "Well, I–"

"Got time to sit down for drinks?" She arched a finely plucked eyebrow. "Or do you have to disappear again?"

I always had to disappear, little lump. It was a stupid nickname, but they had been children; of course he had to hang a nickname on his little sister. Disappearing is all I wanted to do.

"I've got nothing else to do today," he found himself saying, and was rewarded with an expression of absolute glee. The desire to feel nothing toward this person only linked to him by blood was swamped by the natural reward of seeing someone else happy. "This way." He picked out an empty table and escorted her with a light touch at the small of her back. She made a small amused face but didn't object.

As they sat opposite one another he made a note of the body armor. A little rough around the edges, but serviceable. Her belt was adorned with one very high-quality blaster. She herself looked healthy enough: enviable dark blue skin, even darker blue hair bound up away from her cheerful round-cheeked face. "I can't believe you worried about not growing up as pretty as Caevarl," he said lightly. Flattery was always a safe bet.

Her eyes widened further. "You talk to her?"

"No. The last time I saw her was the last time I saw you, I'm just saying you seem to have turned out all right. Why, haven't you stayed in touch with her?"

"I do, I still come back a couple of times a year to say hello. We do. The–the rest of us."

"I see. I take it she's still on Atalan, then?" Of course Caevarl would stay wherever she was put: in this case the Imperial colony world the family had moved to from Rentor when Wynston was ten, the year before he struck out on his own. His older sister had always been the most like him in looks and the least like him in temperament. She was sedate, mild, clannish. Passive.

"She and Mimma and Pippa, yes." Calline set her hands on the edges of her chair and squirmed excitedly. "I just can't believe you're here. I can't believe you're alive."

Fourteen years on. "Oh, I'm hard to kill."

"I should've known the Unscathed Wonder would still be running, yeah?"

He raised his hands and turned them for her inspection. "Hands and arms still in one piece, the old mining operation notwithstanding." Wynston, as the smallest and most maneuverable urchin at the Rentor mine's disposal, had crept and reached and worked in spaces, and pieces of machinery, that could have mangled him a thousand times over. He was careful and dexterous enough to manage. Never losing a day of work to injury had been a point of pride.

"I'll be sure to tell Cerruel he's still losing his bet," said Calline.

"And when exactly does he have to pay up on losing that?" Wynston's bigger little brother had been a child, younger even than Calline, when Wynston left, but he did hazily remember some such bet. "I'm planning on maintaining intact limbs for quite some time, there must be a term limit on the wager."

"You try arguing with him. He's been pleading 'ignorance means I probably won' for years."

"Oh, that won't do." Wynston had no intention of chasing the question down, but there were things one said to keep the conversation going, so he said them. The serving droid arrived with drinks and he took a very small sip from his. "Now, then. If you don't mind my asking, what brings little lump to Hutta with a small catalog's worth of equipment?"

She set down her own drink, grinned, and sat up straighter, shedding some of her childish manner. "I'm a bounty hunter these days."

A hired killer? Well, it was a paycheck, and many bounty hunters were decent on the whole. The work could be respectable; many marks had bounties taken out on them as reprisal for legitimately awful actions. A judiciously placed bounty could reach where no justice system could. It was just all the other possible motivations that he found distasteful. "You're chasing bounties here?" he said with friendly, easygoing curiosity.

"I'll be meeting with a business sponsor soon. I'm part of a team now, I'm applying for the Great Hunt."

"Great Hunt." Such an ingenuous name. The scattershot bloodshed of the last one some nine years previously had played merry hell with some Intelligence efforts, and that was only half its real ugliness. "Mandalorian blood sport, isn't it?"

"Much more than that, Wynston. This is the greatest organized challenge Mandalorians have. It's how a bounty hunter, even a non-Mandalorian, can put her name down in history. It's the opportunity of a lifetime, and Little Lump has a shot at it."

Wynston had worked with Mandalorians in the past and nothing about any of them had ever shaken his first impression, namely, that they were a sophisticated association of high-functioning psychopaths. It wasn't something to aspire to.

Still, he had worked with worse. "That's incredible," he said enthusiastically. She was a lovely energetic happy young woman with prospects; he could argue, try finding the pressure point to change her heart, but he would be out of her life in another two hours and he didn't want to risk ill will in making the effort. "You I would bet on; I hope your team is up to it."

"Oh, they're good." She beamed. "So what are you doing these days?"

"I'm something of an odd-jobs man for an Imperial bigwig. Not the most prestigious work, but it pays the bills." He had details to back up that story if he had to. "We do some business here."

"Cartel dealings, huh? Any chance you could put a word in for me with Nem'ro the Hutt?"

"I'm afraid I've never met him." Nem'ro was based in Jiguuna, a few towns over; Wynston had read the briefing but never had reason to go there. Patterns suggested he might soon, but patterns weren't always borne out.

"Well, it was worth asking," she said, still smiling. "We're kind of a crooked pair, then, aren't we?"

"Perhaps. You can keep the work a lot more decent than you might expect if you put your mind to it."

"Yeah." Something rose to glow in her expression. "I have to say I hesitated to go into this job – not exactly the kind of thing you brag to Mimma about, yeah? – but, it isn't just slaughter. There's real honor to be gained along with a living if you care enough to try."

Honor from battle? Battle, the process of killing another sentient, had all the honor of tying one's bootlaces and, for a civilized person, less of the pleasure; it might be required for work but only a maniac fetishized it. It had never been either necessary or diplomatically advantageous to say that to a Mandalorian's face, but it was true.

"I'm glad you have the opportunity," he said. "Galactic travel has a way of growing on you."

"That it does. I've seen places…" She shook her head. Then, starting at the corners, her smile turned mischievous. "I went back to Rentor a couple of years back, you know."

"Whatever for? No one takes out bounties on whales." Casual, smiling. He didn't want to hear this. Reminders of the homeworld had no way of being good.

"Some trading dispute broke out that ended up involving a couple managers at some of the southern icebergs' mines. Nobody we ever knew. The target was a scumbag, I tried to take him alive but I didn't try very hard after the conversation we had."

"I see. I hope he didn't give you any serious trouble."

"Oh, no. He's out of the way now."

"How did the mine take it? The workers didn't get any grief for production getting disrupted, did they?" Of course they would have if production slipped. Did she care?

"I…don't know." Her smile slipped. "Knowing the company things were back up and running in eighteen hours flat. It was a job, I didn't really stick around for the paperwork."

"But someone did," he said quietly. "You or someone else, for good or ill, there's always someone resolving the paperwork." Enough. She didn't need a lecture. "But I imagine you're right, the company was motivated enough to sort it out before any great trouble started." He shook his head. "Anyway, I can't help but notice you haven't mentioned Cruosol yet." Cruosol was their youngest brother; he had been only four when Wynston left.

"Cruosol hasn't done anything worth talking about." She rolled her eyes. "He's still on Atalan. Grew up stupid, spent a few years in and out of jail there and elsewhere before Pippa finally called him home. He's doing all right for himself now."

"Glad to know he made it."

"Oh, yeah. I guess you never…yeah." Her brow knotted up prettily. "So," she said. Sometimes, on big things, she couldn't find the blunt word to start.

What she was asking was 'why had he left Atalan without a word,' and he didn't want to answer. It was enough that he had chosen to leave; he would rather let it rest in silence. "You want to know why I wandered off," he said instead. When they were children they would know each other's thoughts a lot faster than this; he found himself wanting to be sure now.

"Well, it'd be interesting to find out after all this time," she confirmed with forced lightness. "We'd been on planet for less than a year; I really didn't think you hated Master Thaesson's math class that much."

A shared, careful chuckle. "It's nothing against Master Thaesson or the rest of you. I wanted opportunities a little closer to the center of things."

"So close you couldn't write or holo?"

"You have to realize you're asking about the decisions of an adolescent boy, Calline. I wanted to do something on my own and I wanted to trade up from the plain labor job our parents settled for. And once I got started with my own work, I loved it. I didn't want to get tied down again. Once I transitioned into working the rough side of potentially political matters I certainly didn't want traceable ties." Truth so far. "It's nothing against you, against any of you. But I'm happy where I am now."

He sipped his drink. She matched him, sip for sip, and he realized that she hadn't taken a drop more than he had all evening. Clever girl.

She was frowning. "Nothing against any of us, you just don't want to see us or talk, ever." She picked at her gloves while still staring straight at him. "You would've run the other way when you saw me if you thought you could get away with it, yeah?"

"I didn't," he said rather than answering the question.

She shook her head. "Pippa never really got over it. First Csenndal dying, then you disappearing? You realize the only sons he has left are Cerruel and the guy who can't go six months between petty criminal convictions?"

He kept his voice controlled. "I can't make up for Cruosol and I certainly can't ever make up for Csenndal. It would be an insult to try."

"Mimma just stopped pretending to care years ago–"

"She's a smart woman. She always was. I have a place and it's out here, not back on Atalan. Leave it be."

Calline pressed on, defiant. "I bet Caevarl wouldn't even be surprised to see you walk through the door. She didn't give up on Cru in the worst of it, and she didn't give up on me while I was learning my way around, and I know for a fact she never gave up on you."

"Of that I'm certain. She doesn't know how to be any less generous."

"Was it Nyss? Because she forgave you ages ago."

It took a serious effort to keep from flinching. Nyss had been his one, young, catastrophic effort at a sincere relationship. The less people ever knew or talked about it the better. "It wasn't just about Nyss. I'm sure she got over it in no time at all. But the fact remains, even if I did have the freedom and the inclination to stroll on back to see everyone, there's not much I could help with once I'm there." That was the truth. Move on. "Have you or the others ever thought about seeing more of the Empire? It's done well by me."

Calline gave him a hard look that promised she wasn't finished with the subject. Then she shook her head again. "Not likely. Dancing around the edges is as close as I ever care to get."

"Dromund Kaas isn't bad at all. I spend time there for work, it's a gorgeous center for either business or pleasure."

"High Imperial country doesn't strike me as the best place for a Chiss."

"You'd be surprised."

She frowned. "No, I'd be flattened for not kissing the floor every time a Sith walks by. Maybe I don't get into a lot of Big Business, but there's nobody makes me kneel in my line of work." She examined his face. "But I guess you don't mind that, if you're working for an 'Imperial bigwig' now, huh? Tell me they don't make you wear the collar in polite company."

"Don't be ridiculous, I never wear a collar." Except when it's necessary for the job. "There are real advantages to serving a larger establishment. Stability, for one thing."

"Stable as long as you bend over for those guys. You should think about freelance work. Maybe I don't drink Geonosian reserve every night, but I have my pride."

"As do I."

"Oh, yeah? That's not what I hear about alien servants in the Empire."

He hazarded a small casual chuckle. "I'm not exactly a servant as you're thinking of it."

"You're sure as hell not a Sith. Those are the only two options." She arched an eyebrow, and her next question was a challenge. "And you still want to tell me you'd recommend your job?"

"Unreservedly so. But I'd just as soon not argue the point, Calline."

"Huh, yeah." Her mouth twisted. "Stars forbid you have to stand up to somebody."

And was that what she thought of him now? He had practiced for years to defend himself coolly and professionally without dragging in personal details or hard feelings. It all fell away when his little sister looked at him like that. "I stand up when I have to, and I find ways to change terms when the terms aren't acceptable." To a degree that she would never know. "But the start of my career was three years of daily facing the choice between 'obey' and 'die' in the mines while you were braiding ribbons in your dolls' hair. At least in the Empire I've found something worth obeying and dying for."

"But we can't be involved? How come you never came back? Is it just that you didn't want to be associated with Chiss?"

In part. "Far from it. Everything I do makes it easier for the next Chiss to come make a life someplace stable, someplace they'll be appreciated because of the service of others of their species." He stopped himself short. "I truly don't want to argue about this. I've made a successful career in the Empire, and no, I didn't want to go back to Atalan afterward."

"A successful career under a guy who sends aliens to do his dirty work on Hutta while he's living large in Kaas City. That's really something to aspire to, yeah?" She crossed her arms. "You're lucky I love you, big brother, because otherwise this might get impolite."

Love? He picked up his drink and eyed it, for once simply because he couldn't think of anything to say.

"If I thought it'd do any good I'd knock you out and drag you home now. I can do that."

"No doubt," he muttered. She couldn't, but she might try, and that would just turn this disturbing conversation even more publicly humiliating than it already was.

"But even I remember how stubborn you are, and I think losing you again is more than I want to put all of them through. So I guess I should just thank you instead for having the guts to hang around this long tonight."

"It's good to hear that everyone's all right," he said, as soothingly as he knew how. "That's what matters. Just getting away from Rentor was more important than any difference my presence or absence could make."

"How can you say that? The mines were a job. A rough one, but just a job. You're blood…"

She said a name then, a name he had neither spoken nor heard for fourteen years, the one he had been dreading since the moment he saw her. And when he heard her say it he felt…nothing. It was a name he didn't like very much, that was all. It wasn't him.

And he knew then that he could walk out of Calline's life as he had walked out of Canuall's, and never miss her.

There were those among Wynston's colleagues who called him cold. Outside the neat comfortable patterns of short-term dealings they were probably right, and he disliked dealing with people who made him feel like he should be otherwise. For now he only knew he had spent enough time here and it was doing a distraught young woman no good to see more of him. He wanted to be elsewhere, working, not being followed by an expectation he had never asked for, someone who thought she knew him because she had known a boy with no worth and no future in an aphosite mine a decade and a half ago.

"I should go," he said stiffly. "Sorry, but there's work to do." For a brief wild moment he thought about giving her his contact information, letting her know that if things ever got bad she could call on him, but he mustn't let an unlucky chance encounter lay that kind of long-term entanglement on him. She could take care of herself. Perhaps he should be feeling more just then, but he didn't. I defend the Empire our family lives in. I make it possible for you, all of you, to live, and work, and sort out your lives without the big powers destroying you. That's all the love I have to offer, Calline. If it isn't enough, I'm sorry.

She stood up when he did. Her temper seemed to be subsiding. "You really just want to go, don't you?"

"Yes. I do wish you every happiness, Calline, you and the others. But I'm needed where I am."

"What happened?" It came out somewhere between a demand and a plea. "Why does it matter to you that you're needed here, but not that you're needed with us?"

I want to be needed with Intelligence. You, of all people, would never understand how I thrive as an Intelligence agent – no fixed name, home, identity, beyond that of a servant of the Empire. Wynston has no sisters. You think that that fact is your fault. It isn't.

"Nothing happened, lump. It's just that I was glad that we left Rentor, but Atalan didn't go far enough. You and the boys never worked downstairs, I don't expect you to understand. I don't want to go back to anything like it, anything that reminds me of it. I left that life." And I stayed away because I don't feel any desire, any desire at all, to deal with any of you, but you would never understand that even if I were cruel enough to tell you. Is it reassurance you want? He raised a hand to cup her cheek, very gently. "I love you, Calline." Whatever that means. I think it'll help. "And Mimma, and Pippa, and all the rest. But where work calls me, I answer. And that takes all the time I have."

She clamped her mouth shut and nodded. She was upset, yes, but she was thinking through it. Good. She was sweet by nature and apparently hard by choice; he hoped she could come to some balance in respecting his decision. "If you ever need us you know where to find us," she said at length.

"I know." He returned her hug with automatic correct warmth. "It was good to see you. Give my love to the others if you think it'd do them any good. And…good hunting."

"Take care of yourself, big brother."

"And you."

He dropped a credstick on the table and was surprised when she set one down as well. "I can cover my own drinks," she said with a shaky smile, and then she was gone.

He made for the outer door at a fast clip, headed for the spaceport. No way was he going to spend another night on this planet. He had to get away. It was the anonymous streets of Dromund Kaas he thought longingly of as the shuttle lifted off.

"Wynston" and "family" don't go together in my mind. His dogged sense of responsibility lacks an individual personal component; the closest thing to selfless love he'll ever have is for the aggregate. His few persistent affections are forged through work.

My first and for a long time only inkling of Wynston's pre-Intelligence background was in the original week of the What If? prompt.

Lodestone posited him developing a cuddly weakness for Ruth, and that led to a conversation that canon Wynston would never have opened up for that in turn prompted this what-if.

Nyss is briefly mentioned, not by name, in another non-canon Lodestone talk.

Height: 6'1"

Appearance: Pale® skin, red hair, grey eyes

Visible Cybernetics: Yes

Cybernetic Locations: Not disclosed

Preferences: Men

Gender: Male

Sex: Male

Looking for: An interesting, nice guy to have a drink with occasionally, maybe somewhere more intimate than the pub.

Rochester leant back against the booth and ran a thumb over his glass. A single glass of wine stood opposite him, untouched, and the breadbasket was nearly empty. The wine bottle was nearly empty as well and he tried not to think of how much he had already drunk. He sighed and checked his watch. It had only been fifty-nine minutes... no, a full hour now. Perhaps it was time to give up and go home. One of the wait staff tried to approach the table, but he waved them on, even giving a little shrug. Five more minutes.

Another ten minutes passed and now the wine bottle was empty.

As Rochester prepared to leave, a hand dropped onto his shoulder. Captain Gorse smiled down at him.

"All alone?" He dropped into the booth opposite Rochester, sneering slightly at the wine. "I thought you would be finding someone to spend... Ah," Rochester leant across the table and grabbed the glass. There was no point in wasting perfectly serviceable alcohol, after all. The wine disappeared and he settled against the cushions, fully content to sit in misery now that his captain was here. "What about the guy at the bar? He keeps glancing over." Gorse nodded to a man leaning on the counter. He looked all right and Rochester shrugged. Probably as serviceable as the wine.

"I guess."

"You guess?" Gorse grabbed the breadbasket, shaking his head in disappointment at finding it empty. "Look, while the Deliverance has lots of proper alcohol, I'll admit that she doesn't have..." He waved his hand vaguely in the direction of the man at the bar. Rochester shrugged. "Not that I don't appreciate the situation, Lieutenant, but I don't really feel like finding my second and Chief Engineer eating ice-cream on top of one of the engines and discussing 'why men suck', again. Get it out of your system before we get stuck up in space for the next six months."

Rochester nodded and put the glass down. "Yeah, I guess."

"That's the spirit," Gorse removed himself from the booth and straightened his jacket. He was not wearing his usual uniform, but still had the air of an officer about him; quite different to Rochester, who was slowly looking more bedraggled and depressed. "Have fun."

Once Gorse had left the gastro-pub, the man at the bar pottered over to Rochester's table. He smiled, introduced himself, and set a bottle of beer in front of Rochester.

"I couldn't help but think you looked a bit lonely over here all by yourself..."

~

"Are you meddling again, sir?" Shala's cybernetic eye twinkled in the light. It was a surprisingly warm and blessedly dry night on Dromund Kaas. She was eating at a little cafe just a ways away from Rochester's and Gorse decided to join her.

"Only enough to make sure the ship runs smoothly once we leave," He waved over one of the waiting staff. "Want to watch? Could be fun," Shala pulled a face over her salad and Gorse shook his head. "Not like that. I just want to make sure he finds someone at least half-way decent."

"We could do that, I suppose." Shala crunched on the vegetables and nodded thoughtfully.

"He's not far, grab a drink and follow me."

They peered in through the window, easily finding Rochester and his new drinking partner. Rochester was in the act of pouring the contents of both beer bottles over the other man's head. He did not look pleased.

"That went well." Shala observed. Gorse shook his head and sighed.

Rochester stepped out of the pub and looked around. He spotted Gorse and Shala as easily as they had found him and walked over.

"Next time, Captain, if you're going to pay someone to spend time with me, at least make sure they're halfway decent," He straightened and saluted stiffly, still glaring at his superior. "I'll see you in a few days, sir, Chief Engineer, aboard the Deliverance."

As they watched him stalk off and the man inside attempted to dry himself, Shala tutted. "What a brilliant plan of yours, Captain, how ever did it go wrong?"

"You're as bad as Torbette. And don't be sarcastic with me, I'll have you demoted." Gorse ran a hand through his beard and started to mutter.

"Sir? With the greatest respect: leave the meddling to people who know what they're doing."

This isn't the first time Rochester has been stood up for a date. Prior to Broan he'd never had a "proper" romantic relationship, just slightly lengthy sex-tanglements with different men (Tala was... not a good relationship either. I may explore it some day). From what I've heard of people with cybernetics in the setting, I kind of expect that not everyone would be willing to get involved with someone with them (a prejudice that isn't right, but is likely reinforced by the society). Plus Rochester hates the fact that he has cybernetics (if he could wish it all away, he would in a heartbeat) and that affects how he approaches people and relationships. Like, not getting his kit off. He's very, very vain and very self-conscious a lot of the time and that's something I think I've hinted at, but haven't explored fully or appropriately yet.

'When you destroyed the core machine you released my microdroid swarm. Autamata like gnats that can drill through flesh. They will infect your associate, and by the time you reach Megasecurity Ward 23, you will stand alone.'

'No! Don't you dare touch him.' The agent shouts the words, her outraged voice echoing back to them again and again as if her livid words no intention to ever die or fade.

'It is already done,' the broken, female voice replies. It causes a shiver to go down the agent's back and her hair to stand on end but she doesn't let it show. She's too angry for fear.

'I will find you and f**king tear you apart piece by piece and somehow make you feel it. I will be your doom,' the agent vows in a low voice that doesn't echo but is more terrifying. She has never said words she means more than them.

There is no reply. She doesn't look at Vector as she storms from the complex. He doesn't speak but she can feel his black eyes watching her back. She wants to know what feeling they have in amongst the black but she's terrified that if she looks at him, she will see him falling apart: red sores and blood spilling and expanding like blooming flowers through his armour until he is nothing. She can let him see that he means far from nothing to her.

When they reach the exit she breathes in the fresh air, the smell of pollen and smoke making her head feel light and causing her to double over coughing. She next finds herself on the ground, Vector kneeling over her with a look of deep concern, his hand holding the back of her head of the hard ground.

'You were injured in the explosion. Let us heal you.'

She tries moves away from him, her armour becoming scratched on the ground, but she's too weak to move more than a meter.

'I can heal myself,' she replies in as strained voice, her fury threatening to break through the forced calm. Agent's don't get angry.

'As you wish.' Vector looks away from her and stands. He is confused by her rejection of his offer and her retraction from his proximity. She's never withdrawn from him before and has often moved close to his side and sought his company, always leaving him pleased and lost. But he can understand her anger. He has felt it when one of the colony is threatened or attacked, only she always insists on a distance from her crew members, correcting him when he called their ship 'the hive'.

She begins to heal her wounds, letting it absorb her concentration. All she can think is that she shouldn't be so foolish when Vector could disappear from her in an instant. She curses herself and tells her to pull it together. She isn't becoming the agent she should be.

When she's done, she stands up and walks away without a word. Vector comes to stand beside her, matching his stride easily with hers. His eyes move around the planet and sometimes she feels he can see things she can't.

'We sense something troubling you.'

She turns on him sharply, his body running into hers. She stares up at him and clenches her fists.

'I will not let you die,' she hisses without a thought to what she's doing or saying. For the first time ever she's too angry and scared too think.

'We feel our song is not at its end but if-'

'No 'if'.' She poke her finger into his chest despite their hardly enough room between them for it to fit. 'And no 'but.' She slashes the same finger through the air and stands on her toes to glare her meaning into his eyes more easily. 'You will leave this *********** prison alive.'

'We are thankful for your concern but-'

'No 'but's!' She didn't mean to shout it. She wasn't acting like an agent. Her crew should be expendable: no attachments, no concern, no pain. Why was the Joiner always an exception? She knew the answer and she didn't know how much longer she could avoid or poorly hide it.

'We do not mean to anger you, agent. We only mean to tell you if it is to be our songs end, we cannot let it pass without...' Vector looks away in what can only be seen to the agent as embarrassment or timidity.

Before she can prompt him to speak, walk away or shout at him for using the word 'if', he smoothly moves his arm around waist, the other hooking around her back, and kisses her slowly and deeply on her lips. He moves his hand to the back of her neck and presses her closer. She doesn't react for a long moment but then she wraps her arms around him, holding him closer. She doesn't want to let him go. It's a dangerous and stupid feeling but she can't remove it. She can only kiss him back with more need and pressure.

He smiles as much as he can when she kisses him back. A thrill passes through him that he hadn't felt since his joining and meets her urgency with his. He loves her as much and as completely as he can. She isn't something that should be left alone and he never intends to.

But then they hear something that makes them move apart in an instant and draw their weapons. She curses under breath as the rift lurker charges. The Joiner can hear it and smiles.

When it lies dead at their feet she takes Vector's hand but only looks forward down their path. She feels embarrassed and awkward in a way she has never felt before and in a way twenty years of training taught her not to.

'I will not let you go again,' she firmly asserts, walking away and pulling him behind her before he can respond.

And she doesn't let him go. They fight and walk across Belsavis hand in hand, only breaking apart to kill stray rift lurkers or Esh-kha. When she claims it again, never looking straight at him, he only clasps it tightly and smiles, trying and failing to keep his eyes off her.

It's weird, SCORPIO says that at one point but then it's never mentioned again and nothing happens about it. I was completely prepared to see Vector slowly die until we made it there where he would be saved at the last minute somehow but then nothing ever happened about it. I was really disappointed (and happy I suppose).

Anyway, hope it was enjoyable

I, too, wondered about this, and was kind of disappointed not to get followup. Belsavis must be terrifying if you actually give a damn about your crew. (I left Vector safely aboard the ship in-game.) <3 for this Agent.

The rendezvous was to be on Nar Shaddaa.

Mellekor was to meet Vette in the Mezenti Spaceport concourse. He and Jaesa made their way to the agreed meeting place observation deck. Vette was nowhere to be found.

If Vette was already lost, Mellekor would make Baras's death particularly painful. He let his anger stir while he took out his holo and called for her.

She didn't answer.

He took a look around – the same distasteful press of people, only half of them spirited enough to so much as jostle for right of way – and then said to Jaesa, "Watch here. Contact me the moment she comes." She gave him a curious look but didn't try to stop him when he returned to the ship's hangar.

The moment he was on the hangar floor and clear of the crowd he knelt and started to focus.

He knew Vette. The signatures of Force-blinds tended to be weak and hard to distinguish, but he knew her, and with the grievances and battles of the previous weeks he was more powerful now than ever. He reached out with his senses into the surging clamor of the planet around him. He searched.

There were few places in the galaxy less conducive to this exercise than Nar Shaddaa. There was too much life and too much of it rioting in clashing emotions. Too many sentients: hundreds in his clear near-term vision, thousands in his broader view, billions racing and tangling beyond that. No matter what will he brought to the search, if she was not already near he would not find her this way. And she was not already near.

He tried the holo again. Nothing. He boarded the ship at a rapid walk and shouted for the ship's droid. "Twovee, locate the ship's holo logs for – " he struggled to remember and couldn't get an adequate idea – "any time from one to two years ago. Get me any frequency connected from Vette's quarters or the main holo, and be quick about it."

The protocol droid clattered out from wherever it had been hiding. "Master, those records are no longer in the primary databanks – "

"Then find the databanks they are in," he ordered coldly. "Now." He had never paid much attention when she asked to be let off to see her friends on Nar Shaddaa in the past, but now retrieving the holofrequency of someone who knew her might be the only lead he had.

If she were afraid, would he know? It wasn't a question he had ever concerned himself with. He reminded himself sharply that the woman was incapable of fear; that was half the reason he respected her. It was the reason she was worth keeping as an ally.

He kept his personal holo out and he paced.

She called. That answered one question, at least; she was alive. He answered instantly. "Vette."

She was crouched somewhere. "Can't talk long, currently hiding. Turns out your friends got here first, but they're not the most competent assassins I've met."

"Tell me the quickest path."

He walked while she gave a rapid-fire set of directions; he focused hard to memorize them. The moment she closed the line he sped up.

He took the first available taxi outside the spaceport, pushed the driver droid out of the way, and drove the taxi to maximum speed, swerving out of the traffic lanes when he had to to reach the neighborhood he was after. When the droid extended the shock arm it kept for aggressive passengers he Force shoved the thing against the far door until it stopped moving. He would not be slowed. Baras would not win this one.

He drove the speeder into the tunnel nearest the place Vette had described, paying only the barest heed to the pedestrians scattering before him. He didn't stop until he rounded a corner to see the streaks of blaster fire.

The moment he was in range he flung the door open and launched himself toward the trio of gunmen standing over a couple of fallen fellows on the street. He drew his saber in the air, struck at the moment of landing. In the glow of rage it took only the barest effort for him to snuff out the poor sparks of their lives. Fools.

He sensed her now. She was on a ledge some ways above street level; she was not alone. Even at his full power Mellekor had to strain for the energy to leap to join her. Once he did he relied on raw physical strength to strike at the Force-blind swordswoman who had cornered Vette. The human had only an instant to burst fear before she died.

His world flared in a clear and saturated red as he scanned the scene once more. No threats remained. He took a few harsh breaths and finally focused on the person he had come for.

The Twi'lek straightened and gave him the fearless crystal stare he was not foolish enough to admit he had missed. "Hi there," she said.

"We should move," said Mellekor. He could think of nothing else to say. He looked around for a way down; he could jump easily enough but she couldn't safely follow.

"Stair's this way." Vette pointed.

She looked around when they reached ground level. The taxi speeder would not turn around in this space. Vette raised a brow at it. "Close one," she said. "So did you actually downgrade to a slower ship, or did you stop for kaf on the way?"

He bristled and directed an angry look her way. She grinned and trotted to fall in step with him. "Lead on, O Wrath of Wraths. I hear there's some guy we have to kill."

As long as Vette's stuck with it, she's going to be her chatty chatty self. I see her as the type to stroll in as if nothing has changed if she knows she has to deal with a setup where the danger hasn't changed. Because even if he's scary he's still a friend. Probably.

Some company will have to chalk up the expense of one damaged taxicab and one totaled cabbie droid to Sith entitlement.

…relevant background, brunette Sith Warrior Ruth was killed in action a year and a half prior to this scene. Pierce Junior has only recently been recruited for Wynston's galactic-meddling organization, and his background to date is intentionally vague. Oh, and ever since Quinn's tragic bereavement, Quinn = chick magnet. And, to PJ's chagrin, gay man magnet as well.

*

"Agent." Quinn stalked up to where Wynston was working and, by dint of not slowing down, managed to shove Wynston out of the way in the collision of personal bubbles. "What are you doing?" He started typing something on the console.

Wynston already seemed to know what he was talking about. "Making your life hell, with Pierce Junior's assistance. What did you think I was doing?"

"Is this your retribution for my finally resolving the matter of Dyskorn V?"

"Maybe. Why did you drag the Empire in? I had that system in hand! The civil war was almost over, I was going to arrange a sustainable golden age of world peace!"

"World peace was instated."

"Under the bootheel of the Dark Council was not what I had in mind."

"Regardless, you hardly needed to respond by…escalating like this." He finally finished bringing up a HoloNet page, a garishly cheerful-looking dating site. He scowled harder when a picture of himself came up. Wynston grinned.

"Malavai Quinn," Quinn read crisply, "species human, gender male, age forty-eight, hair black, skin fair, eyes…'a deep and soulful blue'…no cybernetics. Education, Dromund Kaas Military Academy, likes, uniforms, brooding and attention to detail, dislikes, frivolity and brunettes. – That last was uncommonly considerate of you."

"I'm not completely insensitive."

"This would be the first evidence I have seen to substantiate that, and it is somewhat overshadowed by the fact that you know full well my reluctance is not with brunettes so much as with women and romantic activity of any kind."

"You're never going to get anywhere with that attitude."

"I don't want to go anywhere! That's the point!"

"I should reiterate, now that it's been more than a year and a half, that I cannot for love nor money get female attention while you're in the room."

"You tried money?" Quinn said in a tone threatening to dip into smugness.

Wynston ignored that. "Pierce Junior's suffering for your effect, too. If you'd only have the decency to pair off I'm sure it would help. Especially if the unlucky woman managed to get you to lighten up a little."

Quinn was only half paying attention. "And what is this portrait?" he demanded.

Wynston arched an eyebrow at the image on Quinn's holo profile. "That's what you look like when you're brooding up on the observation deck all day."

"I don't brood, agent. I'm thinking."

"Thinking brooding thoughts. Which is exactly what women love about you. Hence, I took the most flattering possible shot."

"I look like I just ate something vile."

"Yes, that's what they like. I don't pretend to understand it." Wynston spread his hands. "Junior was going to holographically alter it to make you smile. I couldn't get him to back down 'til I reminded him that it's your air of noble tragedy that gets you women in the first place. Or would, if you would just give any of them the time of day."

"There are chronos enough in the galaxy, agent. They hardly need mine."

"But they really want it. It's obvious the 'random passersby throwing themselves at your feet' approach isn't finding you anyone suitable, so desperate measures are called for."

Quinn made a small annoyed noise and moved on from the profile picture to the text. "'Career military man seeks motivated Imperial for action abroad and long, meaningful chats at home.' I don't 'chat', agent."

"'Long, fraught staring out the window' didn't have the same ring to it."

Quinn returned to reading. "'It takes a precise mind and a very high adrenaline tolerance to keep up with me in the field, but stick around and you may catch a glimpse of the…romantic beneath. I firmly believe that actions speak louder than words when it comes to romance; the gift of a star system or two scarcely qualifies as a grand gesture in my book, but it's the least I can do from time to time for the kind of woman who can appreciate it. Behind my solemn exterior lies a…passionate lover just waiting…for…the right…touch.'" Quinn's eyebrows somehow managed to inch higher, but he continued. "'Though thoughtful at heart I'll be the first to leap into action to defend friends and family.'"

"We chose to posit, for purposes of this profile, that you have friends," Wynston added.

Quinn shot him a dirty look, then continued reading. "'I am assertive, no-nonsense, and in thirty years of military service I have yet to surrender…For the right woman, that last point may be negotiable.' 'Surrender'? This was paraphrased from his…fiction. Wasn't it."

"Most likely. I wasn't feeling masochistic enough to ask."

"If he included fabricated details about my…"

"I stopped him before he went that far."

"I would thank you were it not for the fact that you're still complicit in the rest of this. You will remove this profile at once."

"After all the effort Junior went through to put it up, not to mention the days we spent struggling to come up with accurate likes and dislikes that don't make you sound like an insufferable priss? I think not."

"I'll have someone delete it."

"Junior's quite the slicer. He could get it back up in no time."

"Junior is going to find the People's Front of Ryloth knocking at his door if this profile doesn't disappear in the next twenty-four hours."

"Bugger. Found out about that, did you?"

"You're not the only one who can get up to mischief on the HoloNet, agent. If the PFR doesn't deter him I'll find an old grudge who will. A man like Pierce Junior makes enemies." Quinn showed his teeth. "Now. We can get to work on something constructive, or I can start finding ways to make you regret harassing me in this fashion. When one spends as much time 'brooding' on the matter as I do, one comes up with a number of ideas."

Wynston edged away from the quickly-spreading cloud of malice. "All right, let's work on something constructive, then. – That does not involve inviting the Empire to crush the problem."

"That is acceptable. We can send Junior to crush it instead. He obviously has nothing better to do with his time."

I should probably write these boys actually working in the field at some point…they don't spend all their time standing on the Aegis sniping at each other. …Just most of it.

The conference room the mystery invitation offered directions to was in a cantina on Ilum, a corporate outpost popularly considered neutral territory. When Ruth walked in she understood why.

The long table was strictly split: on one side, a Mirialan Jedi and an improbably proportioned blonde threatening to spill out of her emerald-green dress; on the other, a hulking Zabrak in Sith robes, a bright-eyed green Twi'lek also in robes, an utterly average-looking Pureblood youth in red armor, a black-haired black-clad human with yellow skin and slanted eyes, and a curvaceous bald Pureblood ravaged by Dark Side corruption. The bald Pureblood was glaring balefully at the Jedi with bleach-pale eyes. Up against the rear wall lounged a black woman in well-worn mechanic's leathers. A silver protocol droid at the front stood waiting.

Ruth headed to where there were chairs, letting Wynston trail behind her. The blonde gave her a shameless evaluation of a stare and finished with a little smug grin as she passed. The Mirialan smiled warmly and nodded greeting. She proceeded past them both to settle at the table; Wynston, having slowed on his way by the blonde, eventually settled beside Ruth.

The bald Pureblood woman spoke up, her languid voice bringing every word out slow and clear. "You're doing it wrong," she informed Ruth.

"I hate to let a perfectly good chair to go waste," Ruth said lightly. "And you seem to be full up on Sith on that side."

Niselle rolled her eyes. "You could take out Dahlia." She jerked her head toward the black-clad Imperial.

"Ooh, do try," purred Dahlia.

"Please minimize bloodshed until this meeting has concluded," announced the protocol droid.

"I can do it without blood," said Dahlia. "Less fun that way, but I can."

"I can think of much more enjoyable uses for our time," Wynston said, demanding her gaze. "Let's keep it polite, shall we?"

"I think you have the right idea," agreed the Mirialan Jedi, his voice full and velvety. "Welcome, by the way. I'm Rho."

"Wynston," said the Chiss with easygoing courtesy.

"I'm Ruth," added Ruth. "The Emperor's Wrath."

The big Zabrak scowled at her and opened his mouth to speak. The armored Pureblood cleared his throat loudly instead. "Trust me, it makes sense," said the Pureblood. "By the way, Ruth, I see you kept your original lightsaber. Nice model, isn't it? I deleted my first at level 20 and have been kicking myself ever since."

"That's a secret," the protocol droid said sharply.

"What? There aren't any companions here!"

"No," said the green Twi'lek, before anyone could ask what the hell the Pureblood was talking about. "Our companions were specifically uninvited." He shot a suspicious look at, of all people, the Zabrak.

"Spare me your paranoia, Imperius," growled the Zabrak. "So far as I know, Vette is fine."

The Pureblood youth blinked. "Wow, I hope so. Hey, Ruth. Your Vette's okay, right?"

"Um? She's fine," said Ruth.

"Good," he said. "Good. I'm Sevasht, by the way. I don't think I've met any of you before at all."

"I would have remembered if I had," said the blonde in a sultry tone.

Just then a huge man in the uniform of the Republic Army ducked in and froze, scanning the room. "You have got to be kidding me."

Someone said something behind him. He stepped in, glaring at every Imperial and Sith in the room, while a much shorter man of the same brown hair and similar features strolled in. The newcomer waved to all and sundry and then caught the blonde's eye. With an utterly unselfconscious swagger he strolled up to lean against the table facing her. "Now what is a knockout like you doing in a den of highly questionable figures like this?"

"I never met a party I didn't like, Gears." Her eyes flicked over his cybernetics and she smiled a tiny half-pouting smile. "Have a seat, why don't you? If they start serving drinks we'll be the first ones to intercept."

"I like the way you think, Master Jedi. Kirsk Savins, at your service."

"Larr Gith. Yes, you are."

The big man was sidling past them to reach the sole remaining seat. He determinedly didn't look at Ruth or Wynston as he settled beside them.

The woman at the back of the room shifted a bit while still lounging against the wall. "So are we starting the meeting, happy hour, or both, sometime today?" she said in a scratchy playful voice.

"I second that motion," Kirsk said with a languid wave.

The protocol droid consulted some notes on the podium. "We are still missing one attendee."

"Oh, we can start without her," said the bald Pureblood. "Trust me."

The door burst open once more, shards flying in every direction. Framed in the doorway was a bald curvy Pureblood, a twin to the robed one already here except decked out in over-the-top black armor. She had her lightsaber out, and she was scowling.

"Please minimize bloodshed–" started the protocol droid.

"You," she snapped. "Could you not be bothered to put directions to this stupid room?"

Her twin Niselle giggled. "Lenny, there are three rooms within a hundred-klick radius of here and they're all adjoining. They probably didn't think it was going to be that hard."

"There's a downstairs," grumbled the newcomer. "A very dark, kinrath-infested downstairs." She brightened. "I took care of the kinrath infestation, anyway."

Wynston half stood up. "My lord, you're wounded."

Niselle snickered. "So she is. I could patch you up, but why bother?"

Nalenne scowled. "It's nothing." She started limping toward the emptier side of the room.

Wynston intercepted her; his med kit was already out. "Please, my lord. I don't know what feeds on blood around here and I don't intend to find out. May I?"

She stopped and looked him over, something like glee growing on her face. "Now that's service. Please, do continue."

Wynston administered first aid with his customary quick precision, Ruth watched, not really paying attention to the idle chatter around her. When Wynston finished and stood up he nodded respectfully at the Sith. "There. That won't give you any long-term problems, I guarantee."

She just kept staring at him, smiling in a predatory way. "You have some skill. I don't suppose you do tricks, too?"

Wynston maintained a thoroughly tolerant face, enough to avoid irritating the aggressor, then added a knowing eyebrow quirk. "Like you wouldn't believe."

"Hmm. That's cute, Glamour, but white's more my color."

Wynston shrugged philosophically. "Story of my life." He stepped out of her way and gestured. "There's still a seat open, my lord."

Nalenne plopped down next to Ruth, in the chair that had been Wynston's, and glared across the table at Niselle. Wynston folded his arms and settled against the wall.

The protocol droid's eyes lit up brighter. "Well, then. Now that we are all gathered. Greetings. I have good news. For some time you have all been reaping unseen benefits from a certain association you all have under–" the droid checked its notes – "erm, the 'O'saurus'rex Legacy'." It tapped at an earpiece. "Did she really not change that to 'Ephemera'?" it muttered. "Wrong server? Ah. – Um, anyway, I am pleased to announce that an entirely new feature has been added that will allow you all to build fame and popularity together."

The big soldier raised his hand while glaring at the assembly of Sith across the table. "What if we don't want to?"

The graceful black-clad Imperial gave him a lingering once-over. "You could try not building popularity at all; I'm sure it wouldn't be hard."

"Pfft," said Nalenne. "Dahlia, you're a sweetheart, but you really have no appreciation for the hunkier things in life." Ruth was pretty sure she heard the soldier's teeth grinding at that. The big man scooted his seat a little bit away from Nalenne.

"Moving on," said the droid, "performing tasks for major factions across the galaxy will increase your reputation, unlocking specialized rewards that will be available to everyone."

Sevasht looked bewildered. "I thought this system was a secret. How is this not a secret?"

"I only read what I'm told, master," the droid said apologetically.

"Other people do work and it makes me look good? Sign me up," said Nic, the woman in the back.

"Oh, dibs on being the one not working," Nalenne said loudly.

"Got there faster," said Nic.

"Got there with a lightsaber," said Nalenne.

"This really sounds like a win-win for the factions," Ruth said thoughtfully. "I like it."

"Agreed," said the green Twi'lek, Darth Imperius. "Outreach to different species accruing benefits for all of us together? That's incredible."

"It certainly has possibilities," said Wynston.

"I'm on board. Vette would love it," said Sevasht.

"Yes," Imperius said, suspicion edging his voice. "She would."

The woman in the back was staring at the holoprojection of details that the droid had brought up. "Wait, flying recklessly in space counts? Score! You guys are going to be gods within the week!"

"Plus, Imperial interests?" murmured Wynston.

"Covered," Ruth, Wynston, and the Zabrak said in unison.

"Republic interests are going faster," Vierce said doggedly. "I'll see to that."

"You are cute," Nalenne said, grinning.

"Blast it," muttered Vierce. "Are we done here?"

"A recap of relevant information will be sent to you in the mail," said the protocol droid. "That is all."

"Good," grunted Vierce, and stood. "Come on, Kirsk."

Kirsk tore his eyes off Larr Gith long enough to say "I'll get my own ride off, big brother. See you 'round."

"Well, aren't you optimistic," said Larr Gith in her low lilting voice.

"You wouldn't leave a man to hitchhike in this weather, would you?" drawled Kirsk.

"Of course not," Rho interjected firmly. "I'll take you off planet if she decides not to."

Kirsk blinked, then looked back to Larr Gith. "You wouldn't leave a man to hitchhike in this weather, would you?" he pleaded. Vierce rolled his eyes and stalked out.

"Wait." Nic in the back was scowling now. "Voss is one of these factions? I take back every good thing I said about this 'legacy' system."

"What? I thought Voss was nice," said Ruth.

"It certainly had a sort of last-gasp-of-innocence quality to it," muttered Wynston, looking at Ruth.

Sevasht caught the significant look. "Oh," he said. "Did she not know?"

"Of course she didn't..." Wynston eyed Sevasht with a mix of calculation and unfriendly caution. "Of course she didn't know."

"Ouch. I'm sorry."

"Voss was creepy," said Dahlia, before anyone could ask Sevasht what the hell he was talking about. "But as long as I get to blow stuff up there I'm willing to go back."

"Well." Niselle stood and stretched. "You know I hate to miss a word of you peons nattering, but I promised Nicky I would help him murder that drill sergeant he so hated back in Republic space. So, tata. Nalenne, try not to die on your way out the door. That I really would hate to miss." And she walked out.

Larr Gith finished conferring with Kirsk. "I think we're out, too. Have fun, all."

Nic strolled on out behind them, waving goodbye as she went.

"Well, if you're going to be boring," said Nalenne. "Dahlia, how about some indiscriminate murder before supper?"

"I can't let you do that," Rho said reflexively.

Nalenne rolled her eyes. "It was going to be wildlife."

"There is no wildlife on Ilum."

Nalenne blinked. "Oh, my stars, you have a neuron. Tell you what, why don't Dahlia and I go find someplace where there is wildlife, and have fun there."

Rho thought about it for a moment. "All right," he said reluctantly.

"One, lonely neuron," Dahlia breathed, and then she giggled and looked to Mellekor. "So, big guy, you look like a dynamo. Want to come with?"

He sneered. "I think not. I have conquests in mind that befit a Sith." He turned on his heel and strode out, dark robes billowing behind him. Nalenne and Dahlia exchanged looks and headed out themselves.

Wynston bowed in Darth Imperius' direction. "I think I'd like to keep in touch, my lord."

"Please, Ananz. And keeping in touch is a good idea. An interested diplomat of...varied skill set...is always welcome with me."

"If you come up with a cooperative project, I'd like to help," said Ruth.

She couldn't account for the veiled hostility in the Twi'lek's green eyes. "I'll keep it in mind," he said.

"She's one of the good ones," Wynston said quietly. Ananz looked at him, then nodded acceptance and gave Ruth a small bow.

Then the Twi'lek turned to Rho. "We should also talk," he said.

"I look forward to it," said Rho.

"Keep me in the loop, would you?" said Sevasht. "I like sane people. I don't meet nearly enough of them."

"I know the feeling," said Rho, Ruth, Ananz, and Wynston.

Sevasht smiled amiably. "All right then. It's a shame we can't do voice chat, but...keep in touch." He sauntered out.

"Voice chat?" muttered Ananz.

"That," said Wynston, staring after him, "is a man with secrets."

Rho nodded. "Uh, before we all go home...I should probably...this is awkward." He smiled self-deprecatingly. "I should probably arrest one or both of you," he told Ruth and Ananz. "Emperor's Wrath, Darth Imperius, you know."

"You don't want to do that, Master Jedi," Wynston said mildly.

"I wouldn't suggest trying," said Ananz, flicking sparks across his fingertips.

"We do a lot more good by being constructive where we are," added Ruth.

"It's the principle of the thing," said Rho. "Are you sure you won't come along peacefully to face judgment before the Jedi Council?"

"Quite sure," Ruth said politely.

"Extremely sure," growled Ananz.

"All right. I had to try. Well then...I guess it's back to the spaceport."

"Sounds good," said Ruth. "Come on, Wynston. Let's go home."