@Diviciacus: Sorry. Keep forgetting to say what spoilers I’m using. Aside from some companions in Superior Firepower, I’ve not posted any trooper spoilers.

@Feldraeth: Jadus is awesome. His overall voice and personality would’ve made a much cooler Emperor than Generic McEvilguy.

Jagel stared at his monitor, eyes glazed over. Nothing was happening that day. Nothing had happened the day before. Nothing ever happened. He’d taken up counting the possible ways to be more bored than he already was. A woman walked over to him.

“Excuse me?”

Her vibroknife was the last thing he saw, as she buried it in his throat.

“Sorry to be a pain in the neck,” she said, Nar Shadaa Drawl slithering into an Imperial accent.

Agent Shenara began sifting through the files on the terminal she’d taken from the unfortunate Fa’athra goon.

“Back-door deals with Czerka? Naughty, naughty, Fa’athra. Nem’ro’s going to lov-”

The building was rocked by an explosion, throwing Shenara out of her chair. She climed back up, and brought up the security cameras, metallic fingers clicking across the keyboard. Someone, a Chiss, by the looks of him was in a firefight with what looked like half the building. And winning. He ran off camera.

Before Shenara could bring up the next one, the door behind her burst open, and one of Fa’athra’s thugs flew through. He started to stand up. Suddenly, the Chiss flew in, using what looked like rocket boots, and punched the thug in the face. Shenara whirled and stabbed the flying thug, just in case. He slid off the blade and onto the ground.

The Chiss was a reasonably well-built man in light armor, with dark, almost grey skin, light scars across his face, and long, slicked back azure hair. The Chiss pointed one of his blasters.

“Let’s see some hands.”

Shenara extended both arms, cybernetics plainly visible.

“Sorry, fresh out.”

A pair of darts shot out of the two cybernetic appendages towards the Chiss.

Jol rolled away from the darts and stood up. His new opponent was a woman with cybernetic hands, some kind of cybernetics on her face that reminded him of sunglasses, and bright orange hair, tied back in a ponytail, with a couple locks hanging near her eyes. She had a jagged scar across the right one.

If it weren’t for all the cybernetics and scarring, she might’ve been quite pretty. Jol reminded himself not to think too highly of the woman who’d just shot at him. It was a good philosophy, and it had kept him alive on Nar Shadaa on more than one occasion.

“You got a name, then?”

“Call me the Red Blade.”

“Wait a minute, you’re one of Nem’ro’s people.”

“Yeah?”

“So am I, in a manner of speaking. Sorry I pointed a gun at you.”

“Apology accepted.”

Jol’s cousin had always been the brains of the two, but that she didn’t actually return the apology was not lost on him. She proceeded to open a nearby door.

“Shall we?”

“Sure.”

They entered the room.

------

‘Kay. Looks like six suckers. Two in the rafters with fancy weapons. Two with rifles. Two morons swinging around swords. Trust me, guys, you’re no Jedi.

So naturally one of them comes right for me. Just for that, he gets a face full of fire. I feel bad for him, burning like that, so I give him a mercy shot. It’s not like I need to conserve my ammo, I’ve got two blasters and don’t use either of them that much.

By this point, Blade’s already got two. I better pick up the pace. I shoot an explosive dart at one of the guys with rifles. He starts scrambling around trying to pull it out. I shoot the other guy a couple times, and he goes down while the first one explodes. Looks like Blade’s got the other three.

------

Six hostiles. Two on the catwalk. Sniper and heavy gunner. Two with rifles, two with vibroblades. The ones with swords rush us. While my new partner is busy with one, I stab the other through the stomach, and hold him in front of me. Sentient shield. Uncivilized, but it gets the job done. I throw a grenade up at the rafters, and the sniper falls. The gunner’s on his way down the steps. The mercenary’s dealing with the riflemen, so I go for cover and start shooting at the gunner. He’s well armored, but doesn’t stand up to sustained fire. He’s dead.

“I took half of ‘em.”

“I took mine down faster, and they were better armed.”

“I killed more on the way in.”

“Hardly.”

“Bet I can get more in the next room.”

Not much point, but on the other hand, it could be fun…

“You’re on.”

Joldinyn is my Chiss Male Mercenary. Shenara is my Cyborg Female Agent.

Action isn't really what I enjoy reading (mostly like drama and comedy), but I think I'm good at writing it. Unless I'm not. Because you can tell me. If I suck, I'll stop.

Shonnoph wiped his forhead. His mission on Belsavis had been difficult, but worth it. He was looking forward to a nap on the way back to the orbital station on the shuttle, but he was interrupted by a familiar face. His sister. A Jedi, doing something classified, but whatever it was distracted the Imperials quite nicely.

You wouldn’t be able to tell they were siblings by looking at them. For one thing, he was taller than her. For another, Shonnoph was Mirialan and Shiamma was Twi’lek. She was adopted, along with her twin, Shiassa. About the only trait Shonnoph shared with his sisters was skin color. Shiamma had light green skin, eyes to match, and light freckles across her cheeks. He supposed those also looked a little like his tattoos.

“Good to see you again,” he said.

“Yeah. We keep running into each other. Taris, Alderaan…”

“Tell me about it.”

He looked around. Also on the shuttle were Elara, another Jedi, and two troopers he didn’t know. The shuttle lurched as it pulled into the hangar. Shiamma shook her head.

“You alright?”

“I can feel a powerful presence outside.”

“Be on your guard,” said Elara, motioning to the other two troopers.

“It might not be anything wrong. Don’t worry about it,” said Shiamma, standing up.

“It’s… familiar. I don’t like it,” said the other Jedi, a human woman about Shiamma’s age.

The door slid open and the two troopers walked out with their weapons ready. A small cloaked figure stood in the midst of several dead troopers. The two immediately dropped dead without making a sound.

“On the other hand, it might be something wrong,” said Shonnoph, drawing his blaster. Suddenly, he dropped it. He tried to gasp but he wasn’t getting any air. He felt himself lift off the floor and out of the shuttle. He suddenly started moving toward the wall at an alarming rate. He slammed into it and fell unconscious.

Shiamma and Kira drew their lightsabers. Shonnoph and his medic companion were alive, but out cold, having been choked and thrown against the walls. Everyone else was dead, even the pilot, she found as she checked over her shoulder.

“Sith,” she breathed.

Shiamma and Kira rushed the Sith. Shiamma was brushed aside with the Force. As she rolled along the floor from the momentum of the push, she saw Kira drop her lightsaber, grab her head, and drop to her knees. The Sith looked at her, quizzically.

“Y-you can hear that, too?”

The voice was odd. Higher pitched than it should’ve been, but disturbingly familiar. The Sith waved her hand, and Kira slid backwards, unconscious.

A proper Jedi would’ve assessed the situation, and found a strategic advantage, or at least a method of retreat. Shiamma proceeded to growl with rage and rush the Sith, swinging her lightsaber in blind fury.

Shiamma didn’t like to, mean to, or want to get angry, but in situations like this, she couldn’t stop herself. She lashed out at the Sith with a series of vicious strikes, which were blocked by a pair of violet blades.

The Sith pushed Shiamma into the side of the shuttle, and she fell, dropping her lightsaber as the blue blade extinguished itself. The Sith twirled her sabers.

“Fine then, do it. Just tell me who you are.”

Before the Sith could answer, a series of noises echoed through the station. They sounded like thunder. The Sith’s sabers flew from their hands, and onto the belt of a newly arrived pureblood Sith, almost as tall as the shuttle.

“The fate of the galaxy rests on this Jedi,” said Scourge, choking the Sith, “You will not harm her.”

The Sith’s hood fell back slightly. Scourge’s eyes widened, and he dropped her, the hood falling off completely. Shiamma saw immediately what Scourge had seen. First of all, their opponent was a child, no older than thirteen. Second of all, she was a Twi’lek with green skin, green eyes, and freckles across her cheeks.

She looked exactly like Shiamma.

Plot twist! Dun dun DUN!

Shonnoph is my Mirialan Male Vanguard. Shiamma is my Twi’lek Female Guardian.

Nowhere else in the galaxy smells quite like Nar Shaddaa. That hot ozone stink of hundreds upon hundreds of holo-signs, the fume-smog of engines of all kinds mixed with industry and the foetid reek of a hundred different species, crammed together amid the filth and wreckage of the Hutts. If it weren’t the sort of osi'kyr palon where anything and everything can be bought, sold, or traded, I’d never come near this place. Funny, right? A bounty hunter wishing he could avoid somewhere that he’s absolutely 100% guaranteed to find work? Not as funny as you might think...

My implants filter the worst of the stink, but it’s still there, still detectable amidst the flurry of target locks and weapon-threat alerts; pheromone traces tagged and catalogued, chemical taints highlighted and filtered, atmospheric data scrolling quietly all the while. I shoulder my way through the crowds, curses and threats floating in my wake. I ignore them, easier to do when they think twice as soon as they see you’re armoured head to toe – crimson blastweave and black beskar plate, impassive facemask and all. I look like a bad son of a Hutt, like the sort of trouble no-one really wants. I don’t really understand why Nar Shaddaa is quite so popular a pleasure destination – most of the wide-eyed di’kutii milling around like lost bantha calves are easy marks for pickpockets and muggers, and I can see them at work amidst the swirl of beings.

Easier just to plough through the slow-circling crowd, so I do. There’s a hot curl of anticipation, perhaps even nerves, somewhere in my gut. I’m here to see an old… what? Burc'ya? Perhaps. Rival might be a better description than friend. We’ve been at odds more than once. He’s a smuggler and a mercenary, a gun-runner and occasionally a bounty hunter, but we’ve stood shoulder to shoulder. Burc'ya vaal burk'yc, burc'ya veman as we say. This job I’ve taken, serving no less a personage than the Emperor’s Wrath, is going to need backup. More importantly, the type of backup that will allow me to come and go slightly more easily within Republic space.

A taxi ride leads to a short walk along one of the less salubrious thoroughfares of the Smuggler's Moon. There’s trash and graffiti everywhere, and I find myself threat-tagging weapon signatures everywhere I look. The scent of spice is heavy, and I find myself having to disengage combat tracking more than once. I’m no jetii, it’s not my job to save these poor helpless street-scum… but it’s hard not to care. My jaw clenches as I catch sight of a fat, leering Zabrak, his arms around a pair of scrawny young Cathar girls with blank, despairing eyes. They’re young enough to be my daughters, and he looks like he’s got more than a few years on me. I log the face, set a check running and within a few seconds I feel the shiver of a positive match. Sebrup Drokad, wanted for sexual crimes against minors and drug-running on a string of worlds from the Core to the Outer Rim. I’m no prude, but for this kind of demagolka I can make an exception.

I stop, turn, hands loose by my blaster. He hasn’t noticed. Too busy enjoying the two girls he’s renting. I toggle my external address speaker up a little, and shoulder my way through the spice-heads and pleasure-girls to confront him.

‘Drokad! You sorry hut’uun! You’ve made your last mistake!’ My voice drops an octave or two for the intimidation factor, and I put a little more rubble in it. The Kaas accept stops him mid-grope. He splutters and blusters, something about ‘there must be some mistake’ and ‘don’t kill me’ and ‘I’m just an innocent speeder salesman’. The usual junk. While he’s babbling my blaster’s levelled, systems are spooling up to full power, and I can tell he’s tensing to run. He’ll probably throw one of the Cathar at me then break to my right, towards some swoop-gangers and their rides.

‘Stop your mewling, Drokad. Dead or alive, you’re coming with me.’ He breaks, pushing both Cathar at me (I was wrong) and stumbles to his right where a snap-shot from my blaster finds his knee and sends him sprawling. The two Cathar have vanished, quicker than I could follow, and I pace slowly and menacingly over to the fallen, whimpering Zabrak.

‘You’re a lump of filth, Drokad. All those kids, on all those worlds? You deserve more than a quick death in a Nar Shaddaa back-alley,’ I growl. The crowd’s mood flicks from curious to ugly, I can almost see it ripple across every face by the way their pheromones change. Drokad’s still begging, crying, pawing at my armoured boots. I step back in distaste and trigger the carbonite pump on my armour.

‘Lucky for you, I’m the kind of bounty hunter who likes to make sure his mark gets what he deserves.’

It takes me half an hour to get Sebrup Drokad properly frozen and stored, one of the BBA’s convenient transport droids collecting the slab of carbonite so that he can be shipped back to any one of the many worlds he’s wanted on for punishment. I hope that he’ll be taken around all of them before concurrent sentencing, so that every one of his victims can have the chance to see his fate… it’s rare, but it happens. I state as much in the endless BBA documentation that the droid makes me fill out.

Anyway, eventually I’m standing in front of a neon-lit bar, holosigns dancing and flickering like jungle birds, just another flash of colour among thousands of others. It’s been a long time since I was last here, and in that time much has changed.

Although not here, it would seem. The Wanderer has seen better days, but curiously no worse than it seemed to have seen last time I was here. Perhaps it’s just painstakingly maintained at a certain level of worn-out. I’m aware that the burn of anticipation has intensified, curiously, along with an odd feeling of nostalgia. I pause for a moment, armoured fingers flicking at the seals and catches around the base of my blastweave hood, pulling it free and tucking it into my belt. Unmasked now in more than name. My vision dims for a split second, implants adapting to the change in light levels and the interrupt in data-flow from my visor. The bone-white mohawk I’m sporting these days has sprung upright, and I reflexively run my fingers across its spikes. Ok. Let’s go.

There’s a band playing as I duck inside. It could be a cover of Average Brown Wookie but I really can’t tell, they’re that bad. After a second my implants have it analysed and confirmed but I’d be none the wiser if I didn’t have all this metal in my skull. There’s that moment of silence that you get in any shady bar, when the patrons look you up and down and you find your hand on your blaster just in case it’s the kind of place where you have to take some fool down before you can get a drink. They turn back to their business, though, and the twi’lek waitress gives me a wink as she drifts past, her eyes like strange sins. I’m scanning the room still, logging weapons, exits, stress points on the furniture… call it professionalism, or paranoia if you’re feeling less charitable. Whatever. I like to be prepared. Ib'tuur jatne tuur ash'ad kyr'amur. I saunter across to the bar and slide onto a stool, looking at what’s on offer. There’s a sad-looking Rodian across from me, talking to the bartender - human - who’s polishing a glass and listening with the sort of synthetic smile people wear when they’re trying hard not to scream. I rap my armoured knuckles on the bar, see a disturbing amount of relief in his eyes as he makes his excuses to the Rodian, and point to a top-shelf bottle of Alderaanian Brandy.

He pours, carefully, a double measure at my nod, and sets the glass down on a neat little mat, folded napkin next to it. It’s incongruous somehow, the bar’s too scruffy-looking for those little touches - but I remember that The Wanderer always had those little touches. I slide a neat pile of credit chips across the bar, and he raises his eyebrows.

‘You want I should leave the bottle, bounty?’ he rasps, voice like a sack of rocks.

‘Yes.’

‘Well, ok. Just don’t go making trouble, y’hear? You might look like you’ll blast any fool who crosses your path, but my buddy over there knows just how to deal with your sort if he needs to.’

He points over my shoulder, and I look round to see a glowering Wookie leaning against the inside of the doorframe. It roars something, I don’t catch what. I’m not concerned, either. The bigger they are, the harder they fall. I tag its features, start running a bounty check. You never know.

‘Don’t worry, barkeep. You won’t have any trouble from me. I can hold my drink too, thanks.’ I drop another few credit chips by way of a sweetener, and he relaxes slightly. ‘Tell me, does a big Mirialan named Ezka’ryon sound familiar to you? Tattoos across his forehead and cheeks?’

The barman shrugs, that non-committal gesture of a man who keeps his nose out no matter how much is being offered. Admirable, ruusaanyc and no mistake.

‘What did I say about people sniffing around after me, Elrryc?’ a new voice cuts in, a sarcastic drawl of a Republic accent. I’m up and turned to face him in a heartbeat, grin feeling like it’s going to tear my cheeks.

‘Oya! Su’cuygar, Sab’ika!’ He hasn’t changed much - hair slicked back to the nape of his neck instead of shaved into strips, and the tattoos cover more of his face that I remember - running down over his chin and across his forehead now. Still dressed in a dusty brown coat and battered tan armour, still with those two custom blasters strapped to his legs, still that same scarred grin. He spreads his arms wide, stepping in to catch me in a back-slapping hug. I notice a three-taloned cybernetic claw in place of his right hand. There’s a story there.

'Su'cuygar, my brother. Tell me you reaped a toll for that claw you've gained?'

Ezka'ryon grins, motioning to the barman with a whirring talon, and neatly catching the glass he's tossed. A good measure of brandy glugs in, and he raises the glass to me.

‘Ah, you know Sith ways better than me, buddy. They always so tetchy?’ he winkes and knocks back his drink, pulling that ‘burn’ face. I used to do the same thing, back in the day… but now I savour the flavour of the brandy; rich, soft, slightly smoky, an undertone of zwil, a memory of that sap-smell of the highlands… Ezka’ryon coughs, grinning. I swallow.

‘I enjoy this stuff more than I used to. And frankly, the further I keep away from dar’jetii business, the better I like it.’

‘I hear that. How’re things on the wrong side?’

I laugh. It’s hard not to with Ezka’ryon around, and as always I’m wondering why we aren’t a partnership. He’s got his scruples, just like me, and if anything he’s more trigger-happy than I am as long as the pay’s right. But ultimately, I’m a son of Mandalore, and Mandalore commands me to support the Sith Empire.

‘How’re things on the side stupid enough to buy knock-offs of Imperial weapons?’ I counter. He and I have a lucrative little racket going; Huttese copies of back-door Balmorran copies of Czerka blasters in genuine Balmorran Arms crates with all the right accreditation… we’re selling junk to seps and secessionists and resistance movements anywhere that Ezka’ryon’s ship can dock, which is pretty much anywhere in Republic space.

He grins. ‘Well, if the creds keep coming...’ he fills his glass again and raises it to me. ‘How’s Dej’ah? Hear from her lately? I hear she’s bruising heads and hearts alike.’

My daughter is thirteen, Force-sensitive. She would have gone to Korriban, and probably never come back if Ezka hadn’t taken her to Tython a few years back. It hurts, the separation, but at least she’ll live and thrive amongst the jetii in a way she couldn’t as a Sith.

‘The day she brings a boy home is the first day I kill in cold blood,’ I grumble, only slightly jokingly.

The bottle empties, steadily, and we talk about this and that, taking pleasure in good drink, an old friend, and eventually good food to soak up the brandy’s fire. Eventually the conversation moves round to the job, inevitable as snow on Hoth.

‘So what in the stars is this job paying, that you’re so keen to split the take?’

I smile.

‘You don’t know the half of it...’

Sab is basically a decent guy, he's not trigger-happy unless he's being paid to be. Everyone speaks Basic unless they're speaking in another language, which I'm choosing not to translate. I noticed a post asking about this, hence the clarification. I'm using the fantastic dictionary you can find at mandoa.org for my snippets of Mandalorian

If you're interested, Sab looks like this

@JamagsAwesome: It's not that you haven't adequately spoilerated your stories (or that anyone else hadn't). It's that When I wrote that - and even now I'm barely starting chapter II - I hadn't played a trooper so I was expressing regret that I couldn't read the trooper-related stories. I will mostly likely revisit them in a day or two when I finish Trooper because stories

Also, OHHHH twins!

@Feldraeth: Attack of the Conservatives? Yo, is your autocorrect liberal or NDP? lol

@Bultitudes_Loke: Loved the BH story! There was much laughing

New story! I was going to submit another story about my BH (Love that BH story!) but I got massively sidetracked by, you know, the new expansion reveal. So I cheated and used the trailer as a prompt. I'm sorry Alaurin and Striges. It was just a fling and didn't mean anything and I'm sorry and here's chocolate and roses and massages. >.>

I'm a bad.

Also, I used 5th century BCE Attic Greek for the Sith language due to a PM convo I had with Feldraeth (who is way cooler than me). I was going to use the neo-Ionic of Herodotus to add a little hilarious (to me) nod to antiquity stuff, but contract verbs do some weird things in neo-Ionic which make accent combinations on Greek letters I can't make MS Word spit out. Anyway. It is both semantic-context logical and grammatically correct (down to the pitch accents), even if what is written are almost idiotically simple sentences by the standards of Greek.

Introducing... A CHARACTER I HAVEN'T EVEN ROLLED! Authenta, the (eventual) Lord Wrath. And, Vaendiskona, my Operative (the only toon I have whose name isn't Classical Greek ). And last, but definitely not not unhinged, Darth Nox, Lord Defixiones Sarenrai. Oh, I lied. My Sorceror's name isn't Greek either. >.> Nor is my Legacy name. Herpily derpily, I'm just going to shut up now before I chew on my foot any more than I already am. Is not delicious.

Oh, but before I do that or forget, count up all the geek-culture references there are in this story and you'll see how obnoxiously nerdy I am that references to fandoms show up without even concious choice! (And also work perfectly in context. Please help me.)

Acrid and heavy black smoke blew across blood red sand; an unwelcome change to the usual seasonal sandstorms. With barely a hiss of hydraulics, a gangplank lowers seemingly out of thin air and the silvery sleek civilian luxury yacht from which it emerged decloaks. Two figures step down, one with the telltale thud of heavy armor beneath a black cloak, the other soundlessly, blaster rifle at the ready.

"Coordinates are correct? This place was hit hard." Heavily and alluringly accented basic from the carrier of the blaster, her pupil-less red eyes narrowing as she surveys the scene of wanton devastation. "Korriban is... gone."

Throwing her cloak back to billow in the fetid wind, the other figure speaks with the commanding accent of pure-blooded aristocracy. "You may exist nowhere but for where you stand, but you will nonetheless address me as 'my Lord.' Remain here; I do not desire you to be caught in the blast."

"Affirmative, Lord Wrath. " Holstering her rifle in a back sling, the operative leans against one of the gangplank struts to watch the fireworks.

Authenta strode through the scorched and bloodied sand, stepping over butchered troopers and Sith as though they were but stones. A few dozen meters from the ship she stopped and turned to the Chiss, breathing deeply. "Do you not smell it, ghost? The bitter aroma of ozone. The putrid reek of rot. Do you not hear their anguish in the wind? In the crumble of the defiled tombs of our greatest lords? They have come, this pretender Empire..." The Sith trailed off, drawing each word into a hate-dripping sneer. "They have come, and they have destroyed my armies. My people. My ancient homeworld. My history. My birthright!

But they are fools. They think they control the Dark Side, but they are merely in its thrall. I am the master. With every dead soldier, with every murdered Sith, my anger feeds. My fury stokes!" Sand, flecked with crimson lightning, began to swirl around the Sith lord.

"And now, in the twilight of the Empire, with the Sith brought to our knees... my hunger slakes. I will cast them down into ruin! ἁπάντας τούτους ἐγώγε κατεκαποκτεῖς!" Leaping twenty yards into the air, the Lord Wrath channeled her bottomless hate into a column of sanguine lightning, blasting away mutilated bodies, rock and dunes as if they were leaves on the wind. As the thunder subsided, Authenta, residual lightning crackling across her armor, dropped to the ground with deep metallic clang.

Vaendiskona could feel herself being pulled into the rage of the Sith's ritual - memories of Ardun Kothe, of Hunter, of Darth Jadus blackened her mind - but her training kicked in. Closing her eyes she pulled a breath in through her nose and exhaled slowly through her mouth, banishing the phantoms of her past.

"Come, ghost! I knew the pretenders would destroy all that we have built; I had foreseen it. And in my Force-vision I beheld the Sith who would be keystone of our vengeance. Thus, I bid them be frozen in carbonite and interred here: barely a kilometer from the Academy's gates, my greatest work! I had in secret a sepulchre constructed deep beneath the sands of Korriban.

This! This is a monument to the idiocy of the pretender empire. They have strength, but lack the conviction and foresight to wield their might. If they desire not the conquest of the Sith Empire, but our extermination, they would be well served to destroy our worlds from orbit - not meet our armies on the field of battle! They are fools.

διατέθηνται."

At the spoken Sith, seamless black metal doors spiral apart between the two women. Vaendiskona, treading inaudibly even on the sand, vaulted backwards to avoid the movement of the monumental gate. Rising to her feet, she could feel the Wrath's eyes on her. Silence. Why? Returning the gaze, reading body language, understanding dawns. "An impressive project to be sure, my Lord. How did you keep this from other Sith, or from the Dark Council for that matter?"

The Sith cracks a small smile as she rounds the opening. "In truth, it was only possible with the resources of my inheritance. I could have built a fleet and savaged the Republic in the name of the Emperor with the finances and technology I poured here into the depths of Korriban. Yet I foresaw the greater need for this, and so I had it constructed in lieu of ephemeral glory previous."

Gesturing into shadow, she began to walk down the vermilion glass steps. "Sincerely do I hope you carry your medical field kit. We may require it. And your vibroknives. Cortosis, yes? Do follow."

"τὸ καὶ φὼς ἐμοὶ πείθῃ" The doors spiraled shut behind the pair and lights flickered on before them as they made their

way deeper. The steps alternated in groups of eight with a landing flanked by a sealed door on either side. Always hating unknown variables, Vaendiskona felt the need to inquire as to their purpose.

"The doors. Where do they lead?"

"Behind each door is a dais upon which rests a sarcophagus forged in the same metal as the entrance. You well know from your stint in Intelligence." Authenta spreads her hands wide as they walk. "How do you ensure that no secrets are divulged? Save for you and I, all who know of the existence of this place are buried here. Ah, but here we are." The passage opens into a small room with only a massive and ornate door on one wall.

"This will be my tomb one day, when I am Lord of the Sith and buried on Korriban as my ancestors once were. For now, it is a wonderful reliquary." Walking to the door, the Sith ignites her lightsaber. The blade extends from the hilt with a smooth drone and a flash of white. "This blade has been an heirloom in my family for millennia. From before the Great Hyperspace War, from before even there were Je'daii or Sith. And it is the key alone to this place from the outside."

The Lord Wrath plunges the blade into an aperture in the door, waiting for the lock to begin flowering open. At the first resounding boom from within the door, she extinguishes the blade and rotates the hilt against the aperture before removing it. The grinding of stone and clicking of primitive clockwork begin their laborious task of pulling the door into the ceiling above. For her part, Vaendiskona stood impassively, arms crossed, one hand hovering over a concealed vibroknife and the other relaxing lazily by her stealth field toggle.

"Come now, we have much work. There are no lights here; you will need your own illumination," Authenta commands as she strides into the shadows beyond the open portal. Reaching across her chest to activate the infrared camera slaved to the HUD over her left eye, Vaendiskona follows into darkness.

This room is not much larger than the last, and appears half-finished. Bases for statues not yet carved and mounts for tapestries not yet woven line the walls, and a large platform in the center awaits this tomb's architect. On the back wall are two slabs of carbonite, their stasis monitors blinking silently.

"The healing arts are not one of my skills; this is on you. Thaw the right hand first; we will need her to pacify the left."

Vaendiskona steps forward, sliding the diagnostic scanner from her field aid pouch. "Readings on the left are... I don't even know. What is this?"

"He is known as a Dashade. You needn't worry about vitals; they're effectively immortal if not outright slain."

The operative shrugs and scans the Sith frozen on the right. "Human. Female. Approximately twenty-five seasons. Lifesigns are stable, if minimal. Status optimal. Beginning warmup sequence." She keys in the thaw command into the panel.

"Get out of this room." There is no suggestion in the Sith's voice. Vaendiskona runs for the door, catching the edge with her fingernails and spinning around the corner with her back to the wall. Before she has time to gather intel, a sustained blast of pure Dark Side energy erupts through the door, swirling with amaranthine tendrils and blackening the stairs.

"I am a member of the Dark Council of the Sith and I WILL NOT BE CONTAINED!"

Authenta stands in the river of the Dark Side, hands clasped behind her back, drinking in the power unleashed from the thawing carbonite. The deep purple lightning and bloody darkness claw their way through her armor - thought it is already suffused in the Dark Side - and under her skin. She breathes deeply as power courses through her, both agonizing and arousing.

But, plans must be set in motion. "Are you quite done, Darth Nox? You are fully aware that I cannot be undone by any means that you here possess, yes?"

The torrential shadow slowly abates as the voice and the words register in the twisted mind of the Darth. Her voice is dark and icy, but collected. "What happened to me? Was I frozen in carbonite?!"

Vaendiskona slips back into the burial chamber. "Affirmative, my Lord. Allow me to scan your vitals; the incomplete thaw cycle may have damaged your tissues. Also, you will be blind for anywhere between a few hours to a few days depending. During that ti-"

"I don't need eyes to see you, little Chiss." Purple fire curls from the Darth's eyes as she surveys the room. "Where is this? How long was I carbonized?" Staring at the operative, she tilts her head.

"You are an Agent. . . Former Agent. Cipher. . . Nine. You have a brother; he. . . is Jedi. You will die in his stead."

The Wrath intercedes in a flash of white, her saber blade crackling sickeningly as it catches the lightning. "She is under my protection, Darth Nox. Need I remind you who here has authority over life and death? It is not you. I would also request that you not use the Force to divine the innermost secrets of our allies. We have enemies aplenty who will require torture - not of their body, but of their souls."

Nox' expression turns to one of quiet glee as a smile spreads across her face. Placing a hand on her chest, she turns to the Wrath. "You know always just how to make me the happiest little Darth. . . wait. Where is Khem Val? Where is my Dashade?!"

"Behind you, frozen as well. And to answer your inquiry, four years. You are here - hate me if you are so inclined, it only strengthens me - at my behest. You should consider also thanking me. As of now, you are the Dark Council."

Darth Nox giggles. "You really do know how to make a Sith happy!"

@Bultitudes_Loke: You’re a really good writer. I only wish I could manage the level of detail you put into your stories.

@Diviciacus: Interesting. Welcome to the Hype Train.

@Diviciacus: Twins? Twins are generally the same age. If you’re talking about Shiamma and the Sith. Shiamma does have a twin, though. Basically, it’s like this:

Shiamma: JK, 20 years old

Shiassa: JC, 20 years old, Shiamma’s twin

Sith: No Class, 11-13-ish years old, looks like the other two did at her age

All will be explained… Later.

I’m using way too much. :p :p :p

“Come on, I’m not one to back down from a fight,” began Shenara.

“Then don’t,” deadpanned the pureblooded Sith next to her.

“But I’m fairly certain she just said thirteen ships.”

“Then we’ll have to work quickly,” he said, opening the shuttle door.

“I’m good at p***ing off important people, but the Grandmaster of the Jedi Order is a new record,” mused the Agent, following him inside.

“Jedi don’t get angry. At least, not the good ones.”

“Oh, so she’ll be calm while she cuts off our ride to Dromund. How convenient.”

“Convenience is irrelevant. We will protect the Black Talon.”

Shenara took a deep breath.

That’s real comforting, Sithy. We’ll be landing in the starboard hangar of a Thranta-class transport. Good. Should be a fairly clear shot to the escape-

She was interrupted by a higher-pitched voice.

“I agree with Agent Scary. This is kinda crazy,” said Vette.

“Your opinion was not asked.”

She stuck her tongue out at the Sith.

“I still have your collar.”

“Shutting up now.”

“Thank you.”

Kaliyo shrugged.

“I’m up for a good fight.”

The Sith stood up as the shuttle landed.

“Then it’s settled. We’re going through with this.”

“We’ll have to play this cautiously. First we’ll go to the-”

She was cut off as the ramp lowered and Arginall rushed out, twirling his saber as sever Republic troops ran to meet him.

“Lovely. Let’s go, everyone.”

If I ever get my hands on Kilran…

Shenara is my Cyborg Female Operative. Arginall is my Pureblood Male Juggernaut.

I don’t know why, but I had a hard time capturing their voices here. For Shenara, I’m going for snarky, but a bit terse under pressure. For Arginall, I imagine him as decidedly Dark, but honorable and respectful.

Shiassa Shianna meditated, drawing the Force in around her. It felt like a warm blanket or quilt. Comfortable, protective. It was her favorite feeling. If there was one thing that irritated her, it was being disturbed while meditating.

BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! went the holoterminal.

She stood up with a sigh. She had to get the Droid to turn the noise down. It probably woke everyone up. She tapped a few buttons, and the holographic form of her twin and fellow Jedi Shiamma appeared.

“M? You do realize how late it is, right?”

“S… Something’s come up. I need you. Now.”

“Send me your coordinates. I’ll be there in 15 minutes.”

Shiamma turned to the astromech beside her.

“T7, transmit.”

<<Coordinates = Already sent // T7 = Too early?>>

“No, that’s fine. I’ll talk to you when you get here, S.”

“Of course.”

The hologram cut out, and Shiamma turned to Shonnoph.

“She’s so adorable. ‘Jedi can’t form attachments, M.’ The moment I get in trouble, she’s there for me, no matter how much she lectures.”

Shonnoph wasn’t amused.

“So, what do you think this is?” said Shiamma, guessing what he was thinking.

“I don’t know. Clone? Another Sister? Disguise? Infiltrator? I don’t like any of it,” he said.

Shiamma turned toward the stairs. Doc was coming up from the medbay, brandishing a syringe.

“Patient’s stable, not that it would even be a problem if Lord Grumpy hadn’t crushed her windpipe. She does look a lot like you.”

“Exactly like me, at least when I was twelve,” said Shiamma.

“Eleven, actually. I think she’s eleven years old. I’ll need a DNA sample from you to confirm if she’s an exact duplicate.”

“Sure,” said Shiamma, extending her arm. She winced as the needle pierced her skin.

“That should do,” said Doc.

Shiamma heard something stirring on the seat near the holoterminal.

“Kira! You’re awake!”

“Where am I? I feel like a rancor used my head as a chew toy,” grunted Kira.

“You’re on the ship, we captured the Sith. She… Looks like me. Exactly like me.”

Kira shook her head.

“Master, she’s a Child of the Emperor. Right before she knocked me out, she said ‘You hear it too?’ and just before that, I… felt him.”

“This complicates things. A lot,” said Shiamma.

The airlock slid open, and Shiassa stepped in.

“M, what’s going on? Are you alright? What happened?”

Shiamma turned to her.

“I think you should see for yourself.”

She led her down the stairs. Shiassa glanced curiously at the massive Sith skulking in a corner of the cargo hold, before seeing what Shiamma wanted to show her. In the medbay, lay an unconscious Twi’lek girl, aside from age, a dead ringer for the twins, and clothed in Sith robes. Doc nodded to them.

“The DNA matches perfectly.”

Shiassa swallowed hard.

“How did you find her?”

“She attacked us in the hangar.”

Shiassa looked at Shiamma.

“Calm yourself.”

“I am calm.”

“You know better than to lie to me.”

Shiamma grabbed Shiassa and hugged her, beginning to sob.

“I… just don’t understand it. It doesn’t make sense.”

“Let’s think about this logically. Given the facts, she has to be a clone. Doc, how old is she?”

“I think she’s eleven, but she’d have to have been through physical training that’s illegal for adults in some places to be at this point. No artificial growth, no engineering. Straight from the template.”

Shiamma shook her head.

“Please, just stop.”

Shiassa was a little shaken by the revelation herself, but her patience was wearing thin.

“Shiamma, pull yourself together. You’re a Jedi. This isn’t a time for hysterics.”

Shiamma nodded.

“This has been a long time in the making, so we need to find the maker,” said Shiassa.

“How?” said Shiamma.

“Simple, really. We’ll ask her.”

Shonnoph is my Mirialan Male Vanguard. Shiamma is my Twi’lek Female Guardian. Shiassa is my Twi’lek Female Sage.

Yay cliffhangers!

You're a prolific writer, Jamags Your narrative is getting very interesting, although the first time around I totally missed the age description of the mini-Sith >.>

Striges, I'm still sorry I didn't use a prompt. Please take me back ;_;

Introducing (at this time) Lieutenant Doryxenos, my Commando Trooper. pew pew pew! The Greek-speakers out there might recognize that his father was a food cart vendor in a certain other toon's tale (Both Hetairos and Doryxenos mean "brother in arms" in Hellenistic Greek ) Totally also married Elara Dorne. I was pleasantly surprised at how good a subplot that was!

The access panel clicks back into place under the dash as the speeder's engine roars to life. Lieutenant Doryxenos dusted off his hands, popping the frontal cargo hatch. As he hoisted his plasma assault cannon to secure it, sergeant Elara Dorne voiced her displeasure with a characteristic Kaas accent.

"Sir, stealing a speeder is against regulations. I will have to file a formal complaint with General Garza."

Doryxenos tossed his cannon in the cargo hold and slammed it shut before turning to her. With a hint of a smile, he informed her, "Persuant to regulation 1337-B, subsection three, I am commandeering civilian transport where military is unavailable in order to complete mission objectives. Besides, we don't have time to wait for a taxi: there's going to be an... incident if the traitors raid a Hutt or Imperial storehouse next. The M1-4X droid was covered in Republic insignia if you recall."

"That's... not a regulation, sir."

He jumped over the door into the driver's seat, beckoning to the medic. "Hop in, sergeant."

As she lowered herself into the passenger seat attempting to shift her armor to sit comfortably, Dorne sighed. "This is an awful course of action, sir. This Czerka 2R Corporate-class airspeeder has customized paint detailing and aftermarket modifications. Its owner will not be amused when they return and find it absent."

"Don't worry Dorne, I'll return it. Won't even scratch the paint. Now, buckle up, sergeant. That's an order."

"Yes, sir."

As Doryxenos piloted the speeder slowly off the landing platform, Dorne couldn't help but think to herself that if her CO was going to "commandeer" a luxury speeder, she should at least enjoy the ride. Until the speeder dropped vertically at least one hundred metres before accelerating between two towers, leaving her stomach back at the landing platform.

"Sir! Are you insane, sir?!"

"Negative. Speed and discretion are top priority here. Staying out of the commercial lanes and sticking to access tunnels provides both."

He glanced at his subordinate. "Also, I wasn't aware there was a reg allowing for putting a death-grip on your CO's arm during ops."

Dorne blushed and softened her grip. "Apologies, sir. I am not used to erratic flightpaths. Search and Rescue missions on Taris were uneventful while in enroute."

"Better get used to flying like this; happens all the time in Havoc."

"Yes, sir."

"I notice you also haven't relinquished my arm, sergeant."

"We have not yet reached our destination, sir."

Doryxenos wasn't quite sure, but as the speeder passed into a dimly lit maintenance tunnel, he thought he could just barely make out a mischievous look flash through Elara's blue eyes.

@Diviciacus: I really like the way you write them. Your Trooper’s mischievous streak is fun.

@Diviciacus: “Prolific” is even my legacy title with my main legacy. The ones I’ve been writing about lately are all level 1, except Shonnoph (14).

In all seriousness, I guess maybe I just have more time on my hands than others. I really don’t know how I keep up this pace, but I always find myself waiting for someone else to post. I guess part of it, is that my stories are generally fairly short. Haven’t gotten over 1k words. I also probably could be a little more detailed.

Arginall stepped into the airlock. He took a deep breath, half expecting fresh air, but getting only the same processed oxygen that filled his Fury. This was different though. It had a corrupted stench to match the corrupted feeling emanating from the center of the Station. A Twi’lek Sith was leaning against the far wall of the docking bay, with a smirk on her face. He hadn’t expected to see her, and he wasn’t happy to do so.

“Hi, Argy!” she said.

“Shi-“

“Ah, ah, ah. It’s Lord Kallig now. Or hadn’t you heard?”

This Psychopath is a Lord? Arginall thought.

He hadn’t seen her since Nar Shadaa, where she got drunk in a cantina and tried to flirt with him, to no avail, before shocking the other patrons in frustration.

“No, I hadn’t.”

“Oh,” she said, looking somewhat crestfallen. Probably waiting for an excuse to shock me.

“Anyway, I’m glad you’re here!” she said, running forward, wrapping her arms around Arginall’s neck, and kissing him on the cheek.

He wasn’t sure whether the stinging was Lightning or just his repulsion.

“Ah… Yes… Shall we see why we’ve been summoned?”

“Okay!” said Kallig, dragging him down a hallway by the forearm, “You must be glad to get away from that Imperial. He’s always so uptight.”

“Captain Quinn’s an exemplary officer. He’s been with me since Balmorra.”

“Imperials are always so boring! Sometimes, I just want to pop old Talos out the airlock!”

Arginall was somewhat sickened.

“You’d murder your own ally so casually?”

“Pop!”

Arginall was relieved when they reached their destination. A large, dark room, with little adornment beyond a window and a holotable. A large Sith in dark robes faced the window.

“Good, you’ve arrived,” she said, whirling around, a little too dramatically to be unintentional.

“Darth Sorrall. I’m surpised to see you here,” said Arginall.

Kallig just giggled.

“We’ve a most dire situation on our hands,” continued the Sith.

“Your objective is a young Twi’lek girl. Subject 4."

“Oh?” said Arginall.

“She was created for your job, but your predecessor forced us to move up our timetable. You’re an adequate substitute.”

Arginall didn’t like the sound of that.

“You had more important duties, so she was dispatched to eliminate a target over Belsavis. We’ve lost contact with her.”

“And how young is she?” wondered Arginall aloud.

“Eleven years of age as of three months ago.”

This was too much. Arginall had heard of the “Emperor’s Children,” but this was ridiculous.

“You’d send a child to fight your battles?”

Sorrall gave him a disapproving look, while Kallig giggled again. Arginall hated that noise.

“She’s stronger in the Force than almost any other Sith. Such duties are beneath My Lord Emperor, and Darth Jadus is untrustworthy to say the least. With her disappeared and possibly hostile, that leaves our esteemed Lord Kallig,” she said, turning to Kallig.

“I really am the best.”

“You do realize she just listed three other Sith who are more powerful than you, right?” said Arginall.

“Details,” she said, turning to Arginall, “I hate people who focus too much on details.”

What happened next was little more than a blur to Arginall, but within a second, Darth Sorall’s lightsaber was pointed between the two other Sith, as Kallig futilely hurled Lightning at Arginall, only for it to deflect off the Saber.

“This man is the Wrath of the Emperor. To defy him is to invite death. You will treat him with respect.”

Kallig folded her arms, and a pouty expression appeared on her face. Arginall rolled his eyes and she stuck her tongue out at him.

“If you are both quite done, you have a task to perform. Go to the Republic’s orbital station above Belsavis, and seek out Subject 4. Be warned: Subject 2 is confirmed present, hostile, and dangerous. She is less of a threat than four, but could make things difficult. Speak to Commander Calum. I’m sure you remember him from your prior visit to the planet, Arginall. He’ll coordinate your efforts.”

“Yes, My Lord,” said Arginall, turning to leave.

Kallig smiled wickedly as she followed him.

Arginall is my Pureblood Male Juggernaut. Shillena is my Twi’lek Female Sorceror.

She’s so fun to write. Interesting how my most evil characters are both Inquisitors. Octavios is a manipulator, a long-term planner. Shillena is just downright insane.

haha, nutcase inquisitors are so fun to play! I based mine, with the constant snap mood swings, on Hexadecimal. I used to love that character for her pure ridiculous.

Also, om nom nom more story.

@Diviciacus: Seeing how my spellchecker believes mafic is magic and rheology is theology, it wouldn't surprise me if it was a republican. I don't know whether that's the elephant or the donkey, I find the system somewhat confusing, seeing how American 'liberals' are akin to the British 'conservatives'.

Secrets long forgotten: Uh, actually I hadn't seen the trailer yet. I only just got my internet running and my phone throws a hissy fit whenever I try to use youtube on it. As for the story, I liked it, though I suspect getting Def and Khem into carbonite is a tale in and of itself. Still, I wonder exactly how long she's been in carbonite for (does it correlate with how long since you last used her character? )

Best Buddies: Loved it, from the not-argument over jacking a luxury car, to the excuse for driving like a boy racer to not relinquishing the death-grip.

@Jamangsawesome:

They don't stand a chance: I liked the way you intertwined their combat perspectives, though the layout was a little confusing at first.

Lookalike: huh, a powerful pre-pubescent Sith. Haven't heard that idea before Like the twist on Scourge's vision, especially how it hinges on a Jedi wearing her face. identical twins or clones play merry hell with it.

Star Destroyer: Enjoyed his calm demeanour and her professionalism especially because we see the internal monologue behind her mask, 'when she gets her hands on Kilran' indeed

Adorable: So, this is what irony feels like. Liked the story, all the companions are believable and liked the interplay between the sisters, the emotional knight and the calm consular.

Catching up: DS inquisitors, the only class I've been able to play DS without feeling like I'm perverting the intent of the character arc. yours was fun, and I like the idea that she's creative, mixing pain with theoretically pleasure. That he brushes her off with revulsion despite or perhaps because of her efforts is also interesting, akin to the 'joke' that underpins the original interpretation of Aristophanes' Lysistrata (that women are unable to resist their lustful natures. The ancient Greeks really didn't like women very much.) Again the parallels with ancient Greece and the empire (just ask senior scientist Gann Sakoal on Balmorra. He views executing his wife as the appropriate response to adultery, a sentiment the warrior [sith with an upper class background] can agree with). Can you guess I've never taken the DS route on that mission set? and I've wandered off topic. Back to the comments...

@Bultitudines Lokes: Even on the way to an important meeting, there's always time for a little Justice. I liked the notion that Mandalorians come in all shapes and sizes, rather than the proud, arrogant thugs we tend to see in game.

I’m still on the Brentaal Star. I can’t see Mako or Vette or the mercenary anywhere, just me, alone again. I press the button for the lift. It whirrs but the lights on the panel don’t change. Huh, I remember they were very fast. I survey what I’ve done. Bodies littered the floor, limbs halves and heads everywhere. That’s okay, they were all red, except now they weren’t. The force screams at me and I look around. The bodies weren’t littering the floor: except they were.

They were up, on their feet, hands or rolling with their identical twins still where they’d fallen down and died. The moving bodies had blue-y purple-y outlines and flickered under the lights. Were they force apparitions: beings so strong willed they refused to die? I thought only the dark lords could do that.

Then I saw Vette, Mako and the mercenary. They all lay on the floor where the hanger joined the corridor, bodies torn apart by blasterfire. No they hadn’t. I stopped the ambush in the hanger. Slowly, they got up too, except they didn’t either. The ghosts loomed closer, Vette maybe a metre from me.

“But you’re all alive.” Vette looked at me sadly, shaking her ghostly head. But I did. I know I did. I jumped, snapped middle’s neck, stabbed right and Vette shot left.

She stroked my cheek, her touch cold and then faded away. No, Vette! I reached out, calling on every dark secret, every forbidden technique and all of my power but nothing latched onto her. Don’t be like everyone else. Don’t leave me! Don’t leave me. Don’t leave me, please. She faded away, leaving me alone, surrounded by the dead: my dead. I sank to the floor.

Something warm and wet ran down my face and whimpering fills the hanger. Stop it. Sith don’t cry. Ragate’s not here. Who cares if I’m not Sith, I just pretend so no one else dies anymore. I look up, and see everyone I’ve killed advance on me. Some are angry, some are sad and it doesn’t matter. Everyone leaves me, either they die or they get what they want but in the end, they leave me surrounded by bodies.

The nearest one, a h*rny Zabrak with holes in her helmet and head the wrong way round, reached for me, arms gently wrapping my head in her embrace. I fold into her, my tears staining her breastplate. Then she jerked her torso, a hollow crack echoing through the room.

I’m back on Korriban, down in the lower reaches. I’ve been here hundreds of times but it all looks unfamiliar. Vette’s here and she’s alive, but she’s all stiff and edgy. The big metal collar is around her neck. She looks healthier than I last saw her, her big, bouncy b**bies hanging out, except they’re not hanging out of anything. She’s not wearing anything for them to hang out of.

She looks, I don’t know, delicious maybe? No, don’t be silly: you don’t eat people. I feel something twitch in my trousers. Eek! I flinch, and so does she. She regards me and I don’t see her fire, her life in her eyes: they are flat, empty voids. She’s dead again, only her body still breathes.

“What happened to your eyes?” I ask, suddenly at her side. She looks down, head bowed at me. She’s subservient, a good little slave, but she isn’t her. Carefully, I cup my fingers under her chin, lifting her gaze to mine. I’m somehow taller than her, though I don’t know why. She flinches at my touch, and it hurts.

“Please, just get it over with, master,” she says, her voice hollow and empty. Slowly, she sinks to her knees, hissing as the hot sands touch more of her blue flesh.

She reaches for my lightsaber, and I can’t stop her. I want to, but my body doesn’t move. Her dainty hand passes my weapon, instead reaching for my belt. I flinch, and the force sends her flying away. No! Reaching out, I wrap tendrils of dark power around her, steadying her flight and gently placing her on the hot sands. How can she stand them without shoes? I didn’t see the Tu’kata lying in wait.

She screams as the beast bears down on her, tusked maw ripping at her. I leap, but my flight is shaky, wobbly and doesn’t go more than a metre. Staggering to not fall over, I run at the Tu’kata, a wordless shout of rage on my lips. Vette’s scream stops sharply as its tusks clamp down. No: I’m too late: she’s dead. I explode with rage, but the hazy chill doesn’t wash over me. The Tu’kata doesn’t see me as it shakes, ripping her lekku off. They sail languidly through the air, and the Tu’kata feasts on her brain. I hit it with my lightsaber, and the blade bounces off its armoured hide. It turns and latches onto my arm. I hear a loud crunch, and pain explodes all over my body. It shakes its head and my arm goes with it. Then it’s gone, retreated to its lair.

“Pathetic,” someone old and cold remarks from behind me. I look back. It’s Ragate.

“Ragate, my arm is missing. Put it back on,” I ask dumbly. She watches me, rheumy eyes unblinking, like the shyrack she keeps as pets.

“I had such hopes for you, but in the end, you’re not worthy?” the words bite into me like a shyrack’s beak, “Sith don’t deny their passions or allow simple beasts to maim them.” I understood the second part, but I haven’t denied my passion. I hadn’t been watching Supernova or playing with lightsaber forms or anything.

“I shall find another worthy of his attention.” She growled. Then, Ragate turned away and left me there, maimed, bleeding and alone.

I look at Vette. She lies on the sands, face frozen into a mask of terror and agony. A puddle of purple-blue fluid oozes from the back of her skull.

“Why? Why did you kill me,” the hollow Vette asks, her voice sharp like sand in the wind, “I gave you everything you asked for. Why didn’t you spare my life?”

“I – I didn’t,” I sputter, kicking myself to my feet.

“Give me yours,” she hisses, lurching up onto all fours, twisting so her belly faces the harsh Korriban sun. Teeth grow all around the gaping wound where her Lekku were, so it looks like a K’lorr slug maw. She crawls at me, back wriggling through the sands.

I raise my lightsaber in my good hand but it’s a padded practice blade. I leap back, commanding the force to throw me up atop the tomb. It refuses. No, I am its master: it serves me. The Vette-shaped K’lorr slug lunged at me and I couldn’t do anything. It bit down, sinking its teeth into my shoulder. Fresh pain exploded through my barriers, sharp hot and matching the one in my arm. Then it vanished and the sky changed, darkened. Thunder growled across the sky. No, that’s not thunder.

“Ssh, Ssh, Ssh. It’s okay. They can only change you if you let them. Everything’ll be fine,” someone with a Republic accent whispered, the words reverberating around the canyon. Water fell from the sky, the sands hissing from the first few drops. It started slow, a few sizzling patters, and then gets stronger, a deluge of water rushing into rivers. Twisted plants start to grow in the barren soil, stretching, straightening and becoming greener as they reach for the orange sky. One of the plants sprouts, a big bulb, and it flowers before my eyes.

A woman steps out, clothed in white and gold and glowing with warm power. She is pale, like me, with flush of colour to her cheeks and lips. I know it isn’t makeup: only initiates and apprentices wear makeup to boost their masks. She doesn’t have a mask. She is warmth. Long green hair runs back, held up in a mushroom shape by her headdress before tumbling down her back. Her eyes are green as her hair. I know her name, though we’ve never met. Ashla: it rolls off my tongue.

She waves a hand and bids me close. I approach, clutching my stump to one side. She glances down at it and whirling lights flash around my arm. My skin didn’t itch or burn as it does when Ragate forces flesh to knit together and mend. I don’t understand. Why toy with the stump if you aren’t going to heal it.

Staring at the whirling lights, I saw them wink out, until only a few were left, swirling down where my arm had been, spreading through ghostly flesh and up my veins. I understood. My arm is more than the crude matter. I am a luminous being of light, just like her. She smiles and draws me close. The harsh Korriban sun fades away to night and I see strange stars swirl past behind her.

The plants wrap warm leaves around us like a blanket and we are on our sides. Yellow fades from her eyes and hair, turning them blue. The headdress shifts becoming brown and silver. Her blue hair coils, becoming two long tails with brown streaks running down the length. Slowly she becomes a twi’lek before my eyes. no, not any twi’lek: she’s Vette!

I’m on the Black Talon, in the first officer’s quarters, in her big plumphy bed. I see the swirling stars of hyperspace through the viewport. I’m not alone. Vette sits on the side of the bed, watching me. I don’t think she knows I’m awake. Something flickers across her face, concern, fear maybe and she moves to stand up.

I lunge and clutch her waist as tight as I can, the force wrapping around us like a blanket. Don’t go. Don’t die and leave me. Don’t forget yourself and leave me. Don’t leave me alone. I don’t want to be alone any more. She stiffens under my grip, but only for a moment. Relaxing, she wraps one arm around me and runs her hand through my hair. It’s all clumpy from the fighting and running, but it feels nice. I slouch forwards and rest my forehead against her bare stomach.

“What, are you worried I’ll leave you?” she asks, her tone light, joking. Yes.

My apprentice ordered the meals while I freshened up. The Kaas apartment nestled atop one of the more prestigious hotels in Kaas city, and was owned by the matriarch of the Krannus family, Darth Viscera, my master. I hadn’t planned on going out this evening, spending it with my apprentice in the apartment. Still, I freshened up. I wasn’t going to allow the servants to see me look dishevelled after a long day’s work. Some illusions have to be maintained.

The slaves have sworn oaths of secrecy, punishable by death or gifted to the Sith they’ve besmirched, so effectively death all around. This may encourage other guests to lower their guards while here, but the slaves certainly wouldn’t honour such confidentiality should their master command otherwise. I didn’t expect them to: no self-respecting Sith would either. Even if I caught them in the act of divulging my secrets, Darth Viscera would grant them immunity from punishment, or not. She can be surprisingly erratic, something I theoretically should be able to use against her when it is time to strike.

I had more or less finished and was washing my hands when the holo started humming. A variation on the Sith Hymn: that meant the caller was another Sith. I have half a dozen tunes, all applied to different groups I regularly have to deal with. It’s surprisingly useful for when I have to slip into a persona. Most of the business I use to support my research is done through aliases and trusted aides. After all, no Republic listed company wants a known Sith lord on its board of directors.

I draw the holocomm out of my pocket, ignore the offered filters and lesser encryptions, and thumbed the ‘accept call’ button. A lord materialised over the device, standing proud in three hundred millimetre high glory. The thought I could so casually reach out and crush them entertained me right up until I recognised her.

“Evening Lord Zash,” I greeted, smoothing the front of my robe. She looked the same as ever, golden hair cut to hide all but the centre of her face, tanned skin from the suns of a dozen worlds, simple red robe with a hood, currently lowered, and her trio of golden necklaces, a gift from grateful or possibly terrified tribesfolk.

“I’m not interrupting anyone important, am I?” she purred. I felt the familiar tingle or irritation flicker through me, but I let it pass. She does that, implies I’m as easy as a twi’lek dancer, ever since our first encounter on Korriban. She fried another acolyte for being too noisy in the library. Nothing builds a friendship like hiding a body together. One may wonder why I hadn’t warned the overseers and gotten her executed but I had my reasons. He had tried to molest me in the library. Telling them he was able to dominate me so would only show weakness, especially given what the academy thought of me.

I was the first twi’lek acolyte to go through Korriban, and Ryloth had yet to be annexed so they just had Hutt media to go on. To the average imperial, all Lethan twi’lek women were Hutt slaves, and therefore strippers, harem trophies or prostitutes. Factor in my appearance and that I have ‘homewrecker’ literally branded to my face and there’s little surprise why a teenage boy who’s been raised to embrace his passions acted the way he did. He was the first, but he certainly wasn’t the last to try.

Why she opened herself up to my potential betrayal was beyond me though. I know it wasn’t because she disagreed with what he was doing: It’s Sith nature. The strong take what they want, and the weak deserve it. I suspect his choice of ambush location irked her enough to care, academy rules be damned. She’s never been one for social niceties like rules, though she’s far too intelligent to get caught openly defying them.

“No, I was just about to sit down for supper with my apprentice,” I answered. Now wasn’t the best time to have one of our hour long catch-up talks.

“Sounds delicious,” she coaxed, practically inviting herself to dinner, “I’m actually heading into Kaas city right now. There’s this new censored holo-vid out and I thought we could watch it together. It’s standard Republic pro-military tripe but I hear they’ve gotten Jedi researchers in to validate its accuracy. You’re still at your master’s apartment, atop her hotel, right?”

I knew it. Zash isn’t really one for social situations, she really calls to rant or crow about something, or if she wants something. Over the last four years, she’s dragged me to more archaeological dig sites that I ever care to visit. Yet, it somehow turns out to be profitable in the end, or at least fun. The thought of a Lords’ night in mocking the silly acting, tired clichés and inaccuracies did appeal to me, though I suspect Zash would do more tirading. There were few vids focussing on the intricacies of cell biology, as opposed to the golden age of the Sith.

I could turn her away. I had told me apprentice I’d share a story with her later, but it merely to reward her deduction. I could delay it until after the film, when Zash inevitably catches up with reading. That’s something no one ever mentions at the academy, being a Sith Lord means a lot of your time will be spent reading and managing.

“I am. There’s a private speeder bay up top, below the balcony,” I reminded. Last time, she’d parked up on the balcony, a bay reserved for Darth Viscera’s personal speeder or Darth Acheron. Fortunately, neither had shown but antagonising your master or dark councillor is rarely wise. At least she had one as merciful as Thanaton. Acheron would have choked her out years ago. She flashed me an impish smirk and I knew she would park up there just to annoy me. Fine, just don’t be surprised when someone tosses it into the citadel abyss.

“Okay, I’ll see you soon,” she purred and disappeared. Soon? She was about to descend on me. Wonderful: Okay, food and Matria now, I’ll deal with Zash later. I put the holo away, and headed downstairs.

By the time I reached the conference/dining room, a slave had come up with a tray. As always, I took stock of her, trying to determine whether she was an assassin. It’s unusual, but some preferred the personal touch.

She was surprisingly short, barely a metre in height but what she lacked in height, she compensated with girth. She wasn’t fat by any stretch of the imagination, but she was better fed than most slaves I’ve seen. For all her faults, my master ensures all her slaves eat real food, fit for sentients. That’s sadly more than I can say for a lot of Sith.

Visible ridges ran along her crimson cheeks, marking her as a former member of a once noble bloodline. This meant she had one of two backgrounds: my master destroyed her house and enslaved the children, as per Sith tradition, or her parents sold her into slavery once they confirmed she wasn’t force sensitive. It is unusual for force blind purebloods to survive infancy, especially for those with the crimson markings of a pedigree. There is a third option, that she was born to ‘normal’ human imperials and is simply displays all the traits and features of a pureblood through random chance. I doubt it. The odds simply aren’t in her favour

Her scarlet hair was bound in a ponytail and by a pair of buns on either side of her head. A white tunic with golden hems covered her torso, the triangular décolletage showing the uppermost echelon of her sternum ridge. A loincloth hid her inner thighs and a pair of gold bangles jangled around each ankle. She didn’t wear any shoes.

She could be like me, and disliked the confinement of boots while indoors, but I doubt it. House slaves rarely wore shoes. After all, they theoretically have no need for them. Just go to any number of estates and fortresses outside Kaas city and you will see the gaping holes in that theory, but it is pervasive. Sitting at the large table that dominated the centre of the room, I motioned her over.

With the grace of experience, she bobbed a courtesy and knelt beside the table, all while balancing the sealed tray and turning it to offer me the key-code. The tray wouldn’t unlock until I typed in my code, security to ensure no one tried to poison our food between the kitchens and the apartment.

Within were two bowls of Yozusk stew, still steaming from the kitchens. Beside them, a small pyramid of falafels rested on a square, ridged plate, the balls just cool enough to hold and dip. Being Sith had its advantages: never waiting for room service was one.

You order, they rush it through, make it to as close to perfection as they can manage, and deliver all within twenty minutes. For beings like my apprentice and I, it was perfect. While we have an en-suite kitchen, we rarely used it. I’ve never been much of a cook and Matria always had servants for that. As such, breads, dips, spreads and other tasty things that don’t require much in the way of preparation filled its shelves.

Matria sat beside me, and received her bowl of stew moments later. One may wonder why we ate stew, a dish consumed by the lowest classes, and they could ask Matria that, for she ordered them. I knew why.

My apprentice lived in this hotel for two years before her trials on Korriban. She has tried everything on the menu at least a dozen times. Yet in all her time, she never tried the stews: they were poor people food, unworthy of a Pureblood of her stature. Now that her aunt wasn’t dominating her lifestyle, she could eat what she willed. Besides, if Darth Viscera ever checked, she would claim I had the stew, and she had just the falafels with a hummus dip from the kitchen. A twi’lek can’t be expected to have the same refined palate of a noble, even if said twi’lek is a Sith. Personally, I preferred the stew to some of the more expensive dishes. It may be my master’s apartment but I still have to pay for maintaining my apprentice in it.

After all, one of the main reasons she loans it to me was reduce the amount Darth Acheron requires her to give to her apprentices as a stipend. You can’t reasonably expect high quality research without a decent budget, and all masters under him are responsible for their apprentices, just as he is responsible for them. However, he doesn’t demand masters pay their apprentices’ way for them. Darth Acheron is actually quite reasonable for a dark councillor, but no one on the dark council does charity. The very idea of coddling the weak is anathema to the Sith way. Anyone -master or apprentice- who cannot support their own power base is incompetent. Darth Acheron uses incompetents as test subjects.

We ate in silence, Matria visibly concentrating on the meal. This wasn’t because we had nothing to say, but rather because we were Sith. I certainly have my detractors, enemies and rivals who would pay to see me dead. Matria was in as much danger as I, possibly more, though few would target her on her own merits. Killing her would make a point to her Aunt or Father, yet be indirect enough to avoid their wrath. Still, sloppy or particularly stupid assassins after either one of us would poison both dishes. The Sith have long had a technique for dealing with poison.

Matria and I practiced a force technique, millennia old but with a modern twist. We didn’t just sense out unusual tastes or textures, as the ancient Sith had. Poisons could be naturally undetectable, require multiple parts to be mixed inside the victim or slipped in a form that masked their presence until inside the stomach: glass microbeads being the classic. Instead, we compelled the force to bond with specific chemical compounds while still in the stomach. I have used it so often it has become second nature to me. Matria has less experience dealing with poisons. As such, I have arranged that some of the foods that come up are seasoned with Sortitol or something equally non-lethal.

The slave stood beside the table, obediently awaiting our attention. She was here to accommodate our every wish, enable our every whim and entertain our every desire. She didn’t get a say in the matter. Such is the sign of ‘good’ training. All I will say on that was she wasn’t one of mine.

She belonged to Darth Viscera, and was party to her scheme to ensure the survival of the Sith pureblood race, willing or otherwise. If I can recall my master’s dress code correctly, I believe that she… has already contributed to said plans, hence she’s allowed to wear so much. She was eighteen or nineteen: Matria’s age.

Briefly, I wondered what she had dreamed of becoming when she was younger, but I crushed the thought. She was weak: she was a slave. The two are synonymous. Her purpose is to serve her master in whatever way she so desires and that was all, is all. It didn’t take some filthy alien former slave questioning that and ruining it all. It had taken them three days to clean the last slave I’d asked off the ground floor patio and that was with the rain’s help.

We finished in silence, Matria triumphantly seizing the last falafel and popping it into her mouth undipped: barbarian. I let her have this little victory, before turning to the servant.

“That will be all for this evening. My apprentice and I shall head up to the personal suite. You may clean the room afterwards.”

“Thank you mistress,” she mewled, bowing gratefully before withdrawing to the door. The rings of golden anklets jangled against each other, a quiet indicator of her presence. They weren’t for my benefit, but hers. Bare feet on carpet or bulkhead made for stealthy servants, and sneaking up on a Sith wasn’t healthy. We can be murderous when surprised. She left, her dreams hopes and desires hidden from me, but she was alive. That’s more than I can say for the last girl they sent up.

@Feldraeth: The Price of Power – The plot thickens! I like your stories. You characterize everyone really well.

Evening Plans – Wait, Zash is old as dirt. Is Braca as well, or was Zash already a lord when the incident at the library happened?

Her Master’s Servant – Wow, I feel really bad for the slave. This is why playing Imperial characters in the game is no fun for me. Also, I like how… casually paranoid Braca is, if that makes any sense at all.

@Diviciacus: Yeah. This character’s going to be important later.

@Feldraeth: Lookalike – Wow. I actually didn’t realize the similarity until you pointed it out. Oops. Sorry about that. Come to think of it, the clone angle is similar to something Lunafox did in Foundation of All Desire. *Sigh*

Adorable – Thanks! I thought that one was pretty good. I need to develop them more, but I think the twins are becoming really interesting characters.

Subject – To be honest, I was just trying to make her seem really crazy with mood swings and the like, but you do make an interesting point about all of that.

Shialla tried to open her eyes, but they wouldn’t budge. She was tired. Where had she been? What was she doing? It came to her. She’d found the target, but before she could kill her, the big Sith, the old Wrath, had interfered. She didn’t like killing much. It was easier with Troopers. She couldn’t see their faces.

Someone shook her. She opened her eyes. There was a man with a moustache standing above her. Also nearby were the Jedi she’d been sent to kill, another who looked like her, and one of the Troopers she’d spared. Across the hall was the former Wrath. The one she’d been sent to kill folded her arms.

“You’re not going to fight us again, are you?”

“I don’t want to. I can’t, I mean. Too many. Too weak.”

The other Jedi spoke.

“M, let me handle this.”

She walked over to Shialla.

“What’s your name?”

“I’m Shialla. Who are you?”

M paled.

“I’m Shiassa, her sister. Who sent you to do this?”

“Mommy did.”

M (Her full name must have been Shiamma, Shialla guessed) took a deep breath.

“And who is she?”

“Darth Sorrall, servant to My Lord Emperor. She said to say the whole thing to strangers.”

Shiamma turned to the former Wrath.

“I know this name. The woman is insane,” Scourge confirmed.

“You look like us,” said Shiassa, “How?”

“Mommy says she made me. Created.”

“That checks out,” said the man with the moustache.

“What can you tell us about Darth Sorrall?” said Shiassa.

Shialla shrugged.

“She serves My Lord Emperor, she made me, and she wants me to kill people, but I don’t like it.”

For the first time, the Trooper spoke.

“The SIS might know something about her. I’ve got a contact there. I’ll talk to him.”

“Get to it,” said Shiamma, turning back to Shialla.

“Tell me something. You tried to kill us. If you thought you could do it, would you try it again?”

Shialla thought about this. She wasn’t sure, really. She had to kill them. That was just what she was supposed to do, but it didn’t seem right, somehow.

Shiassa leaned in closer.

“You’re afraid, and not of us. What are you afraid of?”

“Mommy says anybody who can’t serve My Lord Emperor is weak, and weak people are supposed to die.”

Shialla thought she heard Shiamma say “Typical” under her breath.

Shiassa put her hand on Shialla’s shoulder and smiled warmly.

“There’s no greater sign of strength than conquering you fears.”

Shonnoph is my Mirialan Male Vanguard. Shiamma is my Twi’lek Female Knight. Shiassa is my Twi’lek Female Consular. Shialla/Subject 4 is a character created for these stories.

I enjoy writing this stuff too much. I’m impatient to get to the end.

Jamangsawesome:

Thanks, I thought Roan was coming across as a bit of a Sue, so I beat him back down to acceptable levels. Also, PTSD. No-one who grows up on Korriban is going to turn out mentally stable, especially with some of the stuff he's already been through.

Actually, Zash's age is never given. her wookiepedia page states that "Although she was an enthusiastic seeker of knowledge and power, the dark side took an extreme toll on her body, decaying her skin and robbing her of her youth." this implies she was young and prematurely aged. Personally, I suspect this happens sometime around Balmorra - Nar Shaddaa, as we stop seeing her in person and Kallig gets unusually suspicious of her. Whether this was an accident is another matter...

Braca's not paranoid. People really are trying to kill her In all seriousness, she's a planner and doesn't deal with sudden changes well. As such, she tries to counter other people's plans before they happen, which leads to slightly more paranoia than your average Sith Lord. Then again, the average Sith Lord doesn't have people on her side who want her dead because of her head tails. On the flip side, few people in the Republic or Hutt space suspect the Twi'lek of being the most dangerous person in the room, hence her businesses expanded over there.

Also, I wasn't going to mention Lunafox' Clone!Lia but yeah. Don't worry about matching backstories. after all every SI on this site is a former slave raised to power (and typically going mad with it). It's your take on the character and what you do with them that matters. That said, your powerful pre-pubescent Sith who has the eye of the emperor and was trained by a powerful female Sith on Korriban to hunt down and kill certain people, is different from my powerful pre-pubescent Sith who has the eye of the emperor and was trained by a powerful female Sith on Korriban now try saying that while drunk

Strength: I liked the interplay and difference in personalities between M and S, as stated previously, but also L's deductions

I’d just gotten into the shower when the proximity alarm went off. Wheeling on the plasteel plate, I grabbed the gown on the fresher door and bolted out. Charging up the elongated neck to the cockpit, I pulled the gown on and vaulted into the pilot’s chair. Streaks drew back into stars as I returned to realspace.

I saw nothing but distant stars. It wasn’t surprising. This was deep space: there was only the ambient light of the galaxy. Glancing over to the sensors, I saw something fifteen hundred kilometres away. For deep-space hyperspace jump, that wasn’t half-bad. Without a gravity well acting as a tether, I was lucky to only get drift of several thousand kilometres. I set the autopilot to approach and stood up. Even travelling at full speed, it’d take about five minutes to get there. That’s five minutes to get washed and dressed.

It mightn’t sound like long, but it was more than enough. I wasn’t going out for a night on Nar Shaddaa: I was going into a vacuum. There’s only one thing you can wear for that if you want to avoid a lot of pain. As for washing, I have a sonic shower.

Sure, using leaves you feeling like you’ve been punched by a swarm of angry bugs, but I can’t justify the expense of getting a proper bath or sanisteam. Most independent freighter captains couldn’t either. I moan about the price of Kolto, but compared to the filters needed to distilled and purify water to the Intergalactic Environmental Quality standards, it was next to nothing,

I tossed the gown on the floor, got back in the shower and turned it onto its only setting. The familiar thumping of high amplitude, ultra-low frequency sound slapped me. Doing an awkward little twirl, I let the feeling spread everywhere. Many first-timers try to minimise their tingling discomfort. I know I had, all the while screaming loud enough that my dad kicked down the door to make sure I was okay. To be fair, I was six at the time. No-one told me that the tingling is your skin reacting with the waves and vibrating dirt and gunk off it.

Tapping the power button, I stepped off the plate and thumbed the self-clean button. Closing the shower door, I didn’t watch the gamma flash up the walls or over the ceiling, though I heard the scratching sweep as the wire brush swept the sterilised debris into the waste disposal unit. Instead, I reached for the pile of clothes I’d left on the floor.

I slipped on my underpants and socks and strapped up my bra, taking care to smooth out any wrinkles. I’d need my space suit, and that thing is punishing on even the smallest wrinkle. Reaching over, I picked up the stiff rubbery garment. We’ve been flying around space for thousands of years. You’d think someone would sell a stretchy under-clothes or loose-fitting over-clothes version.

Slowly, I wriggled into the thing, taking extra care with the straps on my bra. Last thing I needed was a loose wire piercing the suit. It worked by using tension to create a pressure seal. I don’t want it popping in space, and especially not in the small of my back. I also did my best not to breathe in too deeply: It wasn’t just because of the suit pressure locking my ribs in place. The thing was dry-clean only. It’s not like they have no-questions-asked laundromats on remote stretches of desert wasteland. It certainly wasn’t Nar Shaddaa.

Walking out of the refresher, I felt something twinge across the middle of my right foor. Glancing at it, I saw the tread was halfway up the side of the sock. Reaching down, I pulled on the boot until the sole was fully on the bottom. Then I headed up to the cockpit, just in time to see a Vanguard class corvette come into view.

I recognised the profile of his ship, the Vanguard. Okay, so he’s not the most creative guy in the galaxy. I didn’t marry him for his artistry. Still, somewhat surprised the Jedi used it to carry small force sensitive kids. There’s a really good reason I call it the ‘Banguard’. Then it turned, and I tasted bile.

The engines were gone, just gone. The Equinox jerked. I ripped my shaking hands off the controls, slapping at the autopilot. It stabilised, starting up the docking procedure by matching the Vanguard’s speed and spin. I didn’t detect any power readings, but that didn’t mean there weren’t any.

Logically, I knew nothing could survive in there for so long without air. Logically, I should call it here, and contact Rogun. There’s hope the black-box deal can still be salvaged. Logic can go space itself down a black hole. I officially don’t care! I have to know - I have to know if Anakin was still on-board. I have to know if my husband and child are dead.

The crunch of meeting couplings resounded through the ship and I knew it was time. I had one chance to find Anakin and Tarmin: I had to get over there. I paced down the corridor to the airlock, trying my best not to imagine what horrors I’d see over there. I failed miserably and was treated to scenes from the gore-fests that dominate modern horror flicks.

Reaching it, I sealed it up behind me, twisting the lock to make sure. The last thing I wanted was to space my air. I’m too far away from any planets to reach them with just a suit’s worth of tank oxygen. Starting up the decontamination scans, I spied my helmet, a bulbous affair with two headlights on top yeah, that thing’s older than I am, but it works. Before I put it on though, I’d have to do something about my hair.

Sonic showers do nothing for straightening hair. If anything, the vibrations make it frizzier. Scooping it all up, I tied it back in a ponytail. As soon as I lowered my arms, two locks from my fringe tumbled free. I laughed nervously at the errant strands: what can I say, even my hair balks at being restrained. I left them free, just pushed them away from my eyes. Then I fixed my helmet in place, locked the seals and punched the equalise button.

The airlock hissed as it drained away the atmosphere. Slowly, that too faded and the light overhead flashed green. I popped the seal and opened the hatch. The darkness of the void yawned at me, inviting me to leap into the unknown. Would I find my husband and son within an airtight room, would I find them apart, or in parts. Whatever lay within, it was better than not knowing. I flicked on my helmet lights and stepped out, onto the corpse of the Vanguard.

I stepped out, onto the corpse of the Vanguard, my husband’s ship He had been aboard, as had our son and several toddlers, younglings. I remember my brief time as one, before Maga sent me away for not being special, like her or my eldest sister. The temple was full of life and sound. Right here, the only sound was the death-rattling gasp of my breathing apparatus.

My helmet lights illuminated the floor in front of me. I knew the floorplan off by heart. I’d wandered through it in complete darkness one more than one occasion. Tarmin always had it set to the daylight hours of Uphrades, so he always knew what time it was back home. Of course, the darkness then had been faded by the running lights. Right now, it was as dark as a tomb.

I crossed into the ship, noting the ruined scraps of bulkhead littering the void around me. This must’ve been where they boarded from, whoever they were. I was taking the same route in as whoever did this. The thought turned my stomach. I might be standing where whoever it was killed my love.

Something glinted before me, over in the far escape pod. It had a large hole where its viewport canopy should have been. Training my headlights on it, I saw a long metal cylinder lazily spinning as it drifted. I’d know it anywhere: It was Tarmin’s.

I didn’t see him anywhere, living or-, or otherwise. He must’ve been thrown out through the viewport in the battle. His lightsaber drifted between, and it wasn’t alone. Two people, a Rodian in white robes and a human in black, drifted through space, an arm locking them together. I recognised them for what they were: Jedi and Sith. They must have slain each other, to drift interlocked like that.

Carefully, I made my way past the two bodies, and delicately picked up his saber. Clutching the oversized weapon in my hands, I felt a chill run through me. A Jedi’s weapon is his life. Tarmin wouldn’t have willingly relinquished his lightsaber. He must’ve been thrown outside.

I close my eyes and try to stretch out with my mind, the way I used to see back before the implants. I mightn’t look it, but I’m not a baseline human: I was born a Miraluka, one of the ‘eyeless Jedi freaks’ to quote intergalactic parlance. We don’t see the same way everyone else does, we use psychic imprints in the force to see, a lot like echolocation. In this room, in my clammy spacesuit, all I got was a jagged mess: a clash of fading violence, anger, fear and regret. It was like trying to hear a specific kloo hornist is an orchestra, only someone shot the composer and all the instruments are going haywire. All in all, I couldn’t get a read on him from in here.

If I hurried back to the ship and cast off, I probably extend my force sight out far enough to see him. He couldn’t have gotten too far, but my sight doesn’t have the range of a Jedi. He could be at its edge already. Any delays could cost him his life. Still, there’s a chance that their crèche area was behind a sealed bulkhead. If so, there may be living children on board, possibly even Anakin. This ship’s sturdy, but it’s not shrug off two decouplings and a turbolaser barrage sturdy. if I cast off, I might not be able to dock again. Tarmin would never forgive me for saving him over any of his charges. I clip his lightsaber to my belt and carry on.

I head up the stairs into the holocommunications room, the claustrophobic suit squeaking as sweat pools between it and my skin. If all I have to worry about is prune-skin in half an hour, I’ll be thankful. To the side, the door to the secondary cargo bay is sealed. Likely, that was where they installed the crèche. It’d always seemed out of place on the ship, a spare room seemingly without purpose. Now, I suppose, it had one: a sepulchre to the order’s future.

I reach for the door release but realisation slaps my hand away. This door could be the only thing keeping their air in. Sure, maybe I could run two, maybe three children to the airlock and seal them in it: what if there were ten, or twenty? I needed to re-pressurise the path back first.

Vanguards have emergency shield escape chutes or ESECs, a series of internal particle shield emitters that can create tunnels of air through vacuum. They were ideal for exactly this situation, in effect creating mini bulkheads. Only problem was that I’m not sure the Equinox could handle their draw. One flicker, one failure, and none of us would ever leave. I’m used to running the odds, but even I won’t play these ones. I’m not just gambling with my own life here. What if I could reduce the potential air loss to just a compartment of the ship though? That might be feasible. I don’t have long: children don’t have as big a set of lungs as adults do, but they get scared a lot quicker.

I head back to the airlock and flick a switch on its internal door. Power floods forth, pouring from the Equinox’s core through the docking couplings and into the Vanguard. It isn’t enough to restart the missing engines, but it does revive the environmental systems: a brief reprieve from death’s cold grip. The lights slowly flickered on. I knew there should have been a ticking as the lights heated up, but there’s no sound in a vacuum. That’s something I’ll have to change before I open that door.

I head over to the broken escape pod and fire it into space. Its internal hatch seals part of the ship. That’s one breach dealt with. Unfortunately, that’s the easiest one. The passage down to the engine room was shredded. I can’t reasonably expect any compartmental seal to work with a massive gash running along the side. Looks like a job for ship-tape.

Ship tape’s basically an airtight sealant with a durasteel grid running through it. The stuff’s worth its weight in Kolto, and the developers knew it. A roll could set you back nearly five hundred credits. It’s why I keep mine hidden away in the airlock med-kit pamphlet holster. It’s not as if I’ll ever need to read it. grabbing it, I seal over every gash I can see, and then apply a bit more for peace of mid. Sure, it’s expensive, but you can’t spend your savings if you’re dead.

I head back to the environmental control panel over by the cockpit and tap the test diagnostic. A little republic firebird spins in the centre before a green light flashes. The area was airtight. At least we won’t all die if the old girl can’t handle the draw. I make my way over to the airlock, and sync up the SECs system to the power grid.

A series of force-field tubes snap into place, and I can almost imagine the clack as each one snaps into being. They flex, and after a moment, align, forming a thin tube from the airlock to the crèche door. Only when it approaches either end does it expand out into a seal around the portal. I hadn’t even considered it would have a power saving mechanism. I type in the airlock override and start the re-pressurisation sequence. Sound returns to my world as air hisses around me. Slowly, I crawl along the tubes, until I reach the crèche door. I can’t let myself think about it, but that didn’t stop my mind from conjuring images of my Anakin floating lifeless in the void. Would – would I even recognise him if he were?

I tried the door, and the lock gives. It hissed open, fresh air rushing in. I hauled it open, straining against the pressure differential and saw inside. Oh, Stars above! I’m too late.

There were eight children: three Rodians: two boys and a girl, a pair of silvery Cathar kits, eyes half closed, a Twi’lek girl, lekku stubs long enough to be three years old, a Nikto boy, ridges and horns yet to form and a Kel Dor. None were older than five. All floated limply in space.

Relief flooded through me. I know that sounds terrible, that I could be relieved surrounded by dead toddlers, but there weren’t any Humans, Mirialans or Miraluka among them. Anakin wasn’t among them. I breathed out the breath I’d been holding since I found Tarmin’s lightsaber. My son was alive!

Cold crept in with the relief, souring the moment. My son was alive, and with the Sith. I had to get out of here, find their ion trail and follow them: I will get him back, even if the Emperor himself gets in my way. I turned and almost jumped out of my suit.

There was someone else in the pod, a pink-skinned twi’lek girl maybe ten years old. She sat cross-legged, her head in her hands and lekku trailing in space. A look of intense concentration etched across her face, but I could see her chest move. It was small, almost invisible under her robes, but she was alive. Slowly, as if coming out of a long nightmare, she looked up at me, eyes bleary with exhaustion. Slowly, the concentration started to crack and eventually tumbled away.

One of the toddlers behind her started moving. I don’t mean drifting, I mean moving, as in hands and feet working independent of spin and velocity. The ugly little Kel’Dor child was the most adorable thing I’ve seen all day. Pouncing on it, I drew it close, pressing its orange body against my space-suit. The gaping maw where its mask would go opened; the ridges of bone that served as teeth apart. It wailed, though I couldn’t hear it through its transparent bubble mask.

It made sense it had the greatest chance to survive: Kel’Dor children lived with their heads in enclosed domes until they were old enough to wear their distinctive breath masks safely. Hugging it close, I checked the other infants. Slowly, the Nikto started breathing again, his durable physiology holding him in a temporary stasis. Then one Cathar started snuffling, and then the other. Finally, the little twi’lek started whimpering. The girl must’ve, I don’t know, put them in a trance or something, kept them calm. The details didn’t matter: they were alive! Well, almost all of them. The Rodians never moved. They were the only casualties. All things considered, it was amazing so many survived.

Okay, I think I’m done here. I carry the still living children, the older twi’lek helping, along the ESEC back to the airlock. once all are inside, I seal the door and start up the return sequence.

After a few minutes and bio-scans, the Equinox clears us for entry. While I wait, I struggle out of my space-suit. It gives me enough lubrication to slip free, barely. Okay so maybe it wasn’t the freshest of suits when I put it on, but now it definitely needed a thorough wash. Trying not to gag as fresh air gave me enough contrast to smell the damn thing, I tossed it out the airlock, into the ship.

These kids needed all the fresh air they could get. So did I, but I hadn’t nearly asphyxiated. The stiff little Rodian siblings drifting lifelessly through the crèche stabbed their way into my thoughts. Stars I’m gonna have nightmares about them, aren’t I? Come on, worry about that later. Padding through the ship in my damp underwear, I sought out the droid. It was still in the crèche, playing a warbling melody that calls dark rooms to mind. Who designed this thing? The Dread Masters?

“Oh my! Mistress, you’re unclad,” it protested. I ignored it. I didn’t have time or patience to deal with easily scandalised toasters.

“Uh huh, you equipped for alien kids?”

“Of course, I am versed with over six thousand-,” it began. I droned it out after ‘course’. The rest wasn’t important. Finding Tarmin before he succumbed to the void was. Dragging it over to the airlock, I pointed at the children. Its photoreceptors lit up at the sight of so many new charges. Darting around the clean lounge, -huh, maybe the droid was useful for something after all- I stripped out my underwear, leaving it in my wake. I’d pick it up later when I had to do laundry. Besides, this was important.

Tarmin had always told me the best results came when you had no barriers between you and the force. Course, he could’ve just been saying that to get me naked. My concentration span isn’t that great, he was there and we were on a flat-ish surface: do the math. Even if he had made it up, I could use all the help I could get. Sure, I’m not trying anything beyond what nature provided me, but I’ve had my implants for almost a decade. Senses dull without use, and I rarely used my force sense any more.

I slumped down on the rug by the holoterminal, crossing my legs. Slowly, closed my eyes and breathed deeply: in through the nose, out through the mouth. I repeated it a dozen times or so, until everything but my purpose fell away. I wasn’t Captain Noctaire, purveyor of personal freedom or Detinah the worried wife and mother. I was simply me, and I looked out across space and time. I reached out, as he showed me all those years ago.

A faint beeping nibbled at my focus. I ignored it. I was busy and this was more important than anything. Besides, I’m not answering the holo naked. It gives the wrong impression and that’s bad for business.

I – I couldn’t sense him. He must’ve moved out of range while I saved the children. The beeping gave up, whoever it was recording a holo-message. I tried again, pushing up against the skin of the force. My sight stretches out, across the void, yet there is still no change. He couldn’t have gotten that far that fast. Had they taken him with them? I assume he was thrown out of the viewport, but that could have been someone else.

“Detinah, are you there?” a deep Mantellian voice drawled and my everything stopped. Only four people knew my birth name, and only one was a guy. I turned and saw my husband loom in monochromatic blue over the holo. He was alive! I whirled up to my feet, a trick I learnt as a kid.

“They’ve taken our son. I’m en-route to the Dantooine enclave.” Now so am I. Spinning, I charged along the neck that led to the cockpit, his voice pleasuring the speakers.

“I will get him back. I swear this upon my oath as a Jedi. Tarmin out.” My heart stopped. The man I loved -the man I married, not the craven Jedi- was back. My knees gave and I almost careened into the pilot’s seat. Grabbing it, I hauled myself up into it and fired up the navicomputer. Dantooine, here I come.

I woke up, stale recycled air filling my lungs. Huh, I hadn't expected that. Most spacewalks without a ship nearby are one way. I breathe in deeply, and smell chemicals. Huh, my armour's sealed. They must've removed my helmet, made sure my airways are unrestricted. Now that I thought about it, I can feel a faint draft against my chest hair. they must've taken my armour for the same reason. At least I can feel the elastic tug of my underpants, so I'm at least somewhat decent. All right, let’s see who I should thank for the rescue: I opened my eyes.

I lay against an operating table, medical instruments on trays and cupboards all around me. So, a hospital? No, the place was tight, dank and filthy: a medbay, and not a Republic one at that. The slow whub-dub-dub-dub of an air scrubber droned into my ears, the quiet screech of electricity pulsing through unseen circuits, but that was it. It’s quiet: too quiet.

Closing my eyes, I reach out with my senses, and pain is my response. Electricity lances up my arms. I feel the force strain against the pain, letting me ignore it, allowing my ally to drain it away and build my reserve. The electricity doesn't let up, but my ally is strong enough to absorb it and add its power to my own.

The door creaks and hisses as it opens, and three men swagger in. Laughing and jabbering something in a language I didn't understand, the three stiffened when they saw me watching them. They hadn't expected me to be awake, or perhaps alive. Realisation flared through me, searing more than the electricity could have ever hoped. I'd been thrown out a ship in deep space Even if a ship knew exactly where I was, deep space jumps were imprecise at best. They had to have been there: They served the Sith I’d fought, the one who stole my son.

One was a Zabrak, tattooed, tanned and with horns poking through his golden locks. Another was a blue-skinned Togruta, skinny even with the bulk of his armour. The last was human, dark skinned and totally shaven: my opposite. As diverse as they were, I recognised their blue, industrial-looking armour. They were Mandalorians, the spoilt brats of Mandalore.

I read about them at the temple after facing a platoon in battle, and they didn’t impress. They were a roving culture of marauders, not growing anything, not contributing anything to the galaxy but suffering and death. As the warriors they prided themselves on being, they lacked discipline, focus, duty and compassion. They were a plague, but I won’t hold that against them, not if they don’t get in my way.

“Jetii, you caused us a lot of grief getting your voided *ss on board. Don’t think this trip’ll be easy,” the lead, the Zabrak, sneered, cracking his knuckles. Right, they’ve got this whole pining for the Jedi order thing going for them, ever since we beat them into the dirt three hundred years ago.

They would have been intimidating, if swaggering and bluster was actually intimidating. It was laid on too think and far too fast: like watching children act tough, trying to impress their alcoholic father. Go grab Daddy a beer, boys: I’m about to show you how it’s done.

“And where exactly do you think you’re taking me,” I asked, not bothering to hide the bored insolence in my tone. These men were mandalorians, cowards and bullies. You don’t show them fear, not that I had any for them. They were speedbumps in my way.

“You’ll only speak when you’re spoken to, Jetii,” the human snarled, backhanding me across the face. The strike was barely a stray breeze. Perhaps the child analogy was accurate.

“That was your one: you don’t get a second.” I told him, calmly, my tone brooking no disobedience. They don’t respect restraint: they don’t respect compassion. They value strength, resilience and power, like their Sith masters. Seems like it’s time to show them the value of restraint.

He brought his arm back, readying another backhand. I reach out, wrapping my ally around his raised wrist. Electric pain shoots up my arms, and I accept it. I use the bite and sting and wrap them into enhancing my grip. He strains and manages to wrench his arm close to my face. My grip didn’t waver in the slightest. A loud brittle crack echoed through the ship, followed by his screams. Collapsing to his knees, he clutched his shattered limb close. I warned him.

“Your master stole my son. I’m getting him back.” I stated, the thought of that gnarled Sith touching my son sending comfortably searing tendrils of wrath to coil around my heart. I forced it down, away for now. I’ll deal with it later. I almost missed the sour looks the other Mandalorian shot the Zabrak. Family was central in their culture. They would all die for their brothers in arms. I however, was an outsider: my family was not their concern. Looks like it’s time to impress upon them why that is a flawed line of reasoning.

“Tell me: do you have a child?” I drawled leaning close to the Zabrak’s horned skull. I’m chained to a bulkhead, bound by special cuffs that restrict my access to the force, and I make him gulp. I stare into his eyes, as soft as the flesh under his armour. He doesn’t want to tell me, I will him to, and he can’t resist me. He strains valiantly, almost having a seizure from the effort, but it does nothing. I am a Jedi: my will is absolute.

“Jaina: She’s twelve.” He admitted, straining through gritted teeth. I could hear his thoughts, buzzing around that horned skull. He feared I was going to kill him and then wreak my vengeance against his daughter. An interesting idea, but he needn’t bother. I’m a Jedi, we don’t do vendettas against accessories.

“Then you know how far I’m willing go to get him back. Tell me what I want to know,” I flexed my wrists and felt the tinkling of shattering durasteel. The Zabrak’s tanned skin visibly paled. Yes, those were your only defence against me and my kind and yes, I just shrugged them off like they were flimsiplast. Now do as I say, boy.

“We… we came from Dantooine,” he admitted. Good, I won’t have to beat it out of him, “Darth Volath had an agent in your enclave.” So this mystery Sith had a name, Volath, and a mole. That’s how he knew exactly where we were.

“Good, take me there,” I commanded. He watched me but understood. It wasn’t a request.

Turning, he half staggered, half fled from the brig. The Togruta followed. Hauling myself off the operating table, I pursued them.

Walking down the main and only corridor of the ship, I got a sense that there were two more people on board, another hardened spirit and a smaller presence, faint and pitiable. It set my already boiling blood to a simmer. They were off to my left. I turned and threw open the door. It was a crew bunk, small, cramped and no place for a lady. Posters hung off the two sets of bunks and far footlocker on the wall, all displaying women in various poses and states of undress.

A woman, as flesh and blood as I, sat on the bench, curled up into a foetal position. Her face was buried in her knees, but I could tell from her matted brown hair she hadn’t been allowed to wash for several days. She wore a Czerka jumpsuit, faded and stained from wear and use. The zip had been torn off, exposing her bony torso down to her navel. She was unwilling domestic help, among other things. She was a slave.

“You keep slaves?” My voice was as quiet as the tomb this ship would likely become. The Zabrak picked up on the change: guess he wasn’t as dumb as he looked.

“Not anymore, she’s all yours,” the Zabrak acceded, hands raised in supplication. Good, the force is life and I prefer not to weaken my ally, but I’ll make an exception if you try to keep slaves and I hear about it.

The other Mandalorian protested something in their guttural language, whirling in front of the Zabrak. His body was stiff, posing a challenge to the Zabrak. Bad call there, boy. Really shouldn’t have told me you did this.

“No, she’s free and she’ll be leaving with me. Got a problem with that?” I stated, metaphorically slapping him across the face with my big swinging di©k of authority. He took it the way I expected, the way I wanted. Jedi are never the aggressor, but that doesn’t mean I can’t break him in two if he does something stupid. Whirling, he punched his blaster pistol into my gut and pumped the trigger. My shield caught most of the shots and my ally absorbed the rest. He kept shooting until the gun clicked dry.

Slowly, he looked up at me, rage draining from his blue face, giving way to terror. Yes, I don’t have my lightsaber. Yes, I just absorbed your entire power pack, and yes, you’ve pissed me off. I hope you’re happy.

I smiled at the Togruta, flashing him my teeth and rested my hand on his shoulder. He screamed as I flexed my fingers, snapping his collarbone. I left him broken and struggling not to weep as I entered the cabin.

The woman stirred at my approach, but she didn’t raise her eyes to me. She didn’t even hope for freedom. Carefully, I reached down and picked her up. Her weight shocked me, though it shouldn’t have. I doubt they would have given her anything more than their table scraps. I’ll ensure she gets proper treatment for as long as I’m on the ship, and proper care once we reach Dantooine. So long as they haven’t razed the enclave, there’ll be people there happy to help.

I carried her out, purposefully treading on her former ‘master’s breastplate as I passed. His scream as shoulder straps shifted the broken bone stirred the girl in my arms. She looked up at me, and I saw the most delicate grey eyes I’ve ever seen. She rested her gaunt face on my shoulder, sniffling in relief. It was over. They couldn’t hurt her anymore.

I entered the bridge. A Jedi my height and powerfully built loomed against the wall, war leader armour seal-, no. My armour stood on their bridge, like some trophy they'd won: filthy scavengers. Another Mandalorian, a woman if the moulding of her breastplate is any indication, sat at the controls, helmet covering her head. Good: if I had to see another of these cowards and thugs, I might do something against the code. The Zabrak was beside her, muttering something in their language. I didn’t understand a word of it, but Dantooine came up more than once.

“That your comm terminal?” I asked. The Zabrak glanced where I pointed and nodded. I dialled a frequency, the only one I know from memory, and hesitated. I had to tell her, the ashes of my love compelling me to make the call. Still, I wonder if there can be anything left between us but her hate. I stole her child, took him into a life she could be no part of and had been cruelly denied.

“Detina, you there?” I began, speaking into the static. There was no response. She had to be busy, or didn’t want to speak to me. My mind rationalised such, but they were a poor tonic for the ache in my chest. I carry on, not wanting to pause. If I paused, I’m not sure I’ll be able to retain my composure. Right here, right now, that would be fatal and not just for me. The Togruta would exact vengeance upon the girl in my arms.

“They’ve taken our son. I’m en-route to the Dantooine enclave. I will get him back. I swear this upon my oath as a Jedi. Tarmin out.” I pressed the end call button, cutting the link to my love. It took more than I’d thought it would, just knowing she now knew my failure. I take a moment and a deep breath.

“All right, hit it.” The Mandalorian woman flicked over the controls, tapping them with practiced skill and the stars stretched out before me. We’d be at Dantooine soon.

It may come as a surprise, but I’m not a fan of David Hayter’s knight. Perhaps it’s the way he says it or maybe it’s the dialogue in front of him but I find he sounds hollow. It’s especially noticeable when compared to Scourge. It’s not as bad as Nolan North’s Consular IMO, but one of my least favourite voices in the game. As such, Tarmin, not being the canon HoT, doesn’t have his voice talent. Personally, I’ve imagined someone like Clancey Brown voicing his lines.

@Feldraeth: As far as I know, I haven’t seen Roan do anything the original SW couldn’t, Roan’s just more interesting.

Ah, that would explain it. I never made that connection.

Yeah, I never said Braca was unreasonable. Most of my Sith are very paranoid.

Well, mine wasn’t trained or Korriban. She was basically just trained in a controlled environment on the Emperor’s Space Station from JK Chapter II. Still, I’ll try to add a bit more to change her.

@Feldraeth: The Vanguard’s Grave – Gah, poor Noctaire. The droid is funny, though.

Waking a Sleeping Jetii – Ah, I see Tarmin shares my opinion of Mandos. I love how coolly he takes them all down.

Notes – Wait, it’s NOLAN NORTH doing that trainwreck of a voice for Male Consular?! Dang. I personally like David Hayter’s voice on the JK, but I do see what you mean. Does Female JK sound any better as Light Side, because I’ve got a DS female, and she is really phoning it in. It’s odd, because aside from the Jedi, I really like the acting in TOR.

Jonas Balkar propped his feet up on his desk. The Jedi were late. Not that he was surprised, they probably had something important to do. Still, so did he. He probably wouldn’t have bothered if anyone else had asked, but Major Shianna was an old friend. He picked up his datapad, and opened up the message he’d received that put everything together.

“Hey, Jonas,

Found something that might be what you’re looking for. I figured out what happened to Kothe. He had a run-in with a Cipher Agent on Quesh. Been tracing where this Cipher came from. On Alderaan, I found a lot of “donations” going into SIS from a Cortess noblewoman. Here’s the catch: she’s dead. Killed by her husband for double-dealing with this Cipher’s target. That’s when the donations started.

I managed to trace the money back to a Darth Sorrall, it’s going to Project 32. You should be able to pick up from there.

-Theron”

Balkar tabbed to another page.

“PROJECT 32

Full Report

Project Lead: Lenge Izak

Objective: Test Cloning as viable method for creating Agents.

Parameters: One template, eleven clones

Result: Failure. One clone (Designation: CORAL) believed self to be original, killed template and nine clones. One lost (Designation: MAKO). Mako aided in Coral’s capture.

Current status: Active

Current objective: <Null>

Current parameters: <Null>”

Cloning. Darth Sorrall. It all added up, but it didn’t connect. Izak was a good agent who’d undergone multiple background checks.

The door slid open, and one of the Jedi entered. She had an intense expression on her face.

“Master Jedi, come in. I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure.”

“Shiassa Shianna. Shiamma couldn’t be here. Listen, Agent, something is very wrong. One of the Emperor’s Children is in this building. I can feel it.”

The Emperor’s Children. Force-Sensitive sleeper agents trained from birth. That explained it.

“You should see this, first,” Balkar said, handing Shiassa the datapad.

She paged through it.

“This… Izak, is he here?”

“Yeah, he’s-”

The door slid open, to reveal Izak. Balkar immediately noticed the blaster in his hand and ducked. He needn’t have bothered. By the time he made it out of harm’s way, Shiassa had drawn her lightsaber and deflected the first few shots. She swung, destroying the blaster, and searing Izak’s hand. He ran off down the hallway, Shiassa in pursuit.

Balkar knew better than to chase a hostile directly through SIS headquarters. If he did that again, Director Trant would personally chew his head off. Instead, Balkar needed a more creative solution.

So, he jumped out the window.

He landed on a passing speeder, the occupant of which swore at him in Huttese.

“Excuse me, Ma’am!” he shouted.

“E chu ta!”

He jumped off of the speeder, grabbing hold of a ledge along the side of the building, shimmying across to reach the front. He was just in time. Izak was running out of the building, Shiassa in hot pursuit. What Balkar did too late, was notice the man in red armor waiting patiently near a parked speeder. Who promptly killed Izak with a blaster shot to the face.

Balkar dropped to the ground, and, recognizing the armor, grabbed Shiassa before she could reach the man.

“Get down!”

He tackled her to the ground as the Imperial Guardsman flipped a switch, and his armor exploded.

Balkar stood up as Agent Fauler ran outside.

“What the hell is all of this?!”

“A mess, for one thing. Get a droid.”

Fauler went back inside. Balkar offered his hand to Shiassa, who took it. He pulled her up.

“Sorry about that.”

“It’s fine. At least we’ve got some new information.”

Just then, they heard a series of footsteps, coming closer. Shiamma rounded a corner. She looked enough like her sister, but she was covered in burns and bruises, and was clutching her side and limping a little.

Shiassa ran to her.

“M, what happened?”

“S… The girl’s gone.”

“Gone?”

“She… Escaped.”

Shiassa is my Twi’lek Female Sage. Shiamma is my Twi’lek Female Guardian.

If this plot gets any thicker, it’ll be hard to twist.

Feldraeth:

I had a hard time reading your story featuring Roan, but I almost feel like that was the point - you have a powerful Sith who is also a child. He probably barely understands what he's getting into and then has vivid nightmares on top of it. I can't wait for the next instalment considering the cliff-hangery nature of his vision!

The Sith-specific paranoia of Lord Braca is much more realistically done than depicted in TOR, but I think there's a bit of a disconnect. If she (I'm pretty sure?) knows Zash is basically on the doorstep, why is she still eating?

I loved seeing the same events from the perspectives of two different characters, and I liked the representation you pulled of a Jedi dealing with the hordes of nameless speedbump enemies in TOR - although on a realistic, literature level it feels a tiny bit Mary-Sue. But then so does slogging through literally thousands of troopers if you stop to think about it.

JamangsAwesome:

This episodic story you have going is starting to claw into my usually archaeology-related "I MUST KNOW MOOOOOORE" attitude It's really impressive how you've woven so many threads from in-game together. (And I'm disappointed Mako never actually figured out CLONING, DUH.) Do you keep notes? I write everything from just thundering around in my head - I wouldn't be able to keep plotlines untangled for a story like yours if I didn't.

Reintroducing Synchordia - mentioned in passing in my BH's origin story.

A certain Sentinel I don't actually play beyond putting stuff on the GTN is also mentioned in passing, and will probably show up again in the future, but I may never get around to writing a story from her perspective.

It's set up as journal entries, and the dates are given in the regular Roman format - and also correspond to the days I was playing through these very events on my Consular. Quintilis is the pre-Julian name for July, and nine days before the first of July (ante diem novum Kalendae Quintilis) is in fact today - I literally just finished Consular Chapter II today during lunch. (And yes, in Latin the month names are actually adjectives.) I decided to go with the Roman dating to show the antiquity (heh) of the Jedi order, as well as its adherence to tradition.

Also, am I the only one who occasionally writes a story... and then finds a prompt to fit? I feel like that's a terribly disingenuous modus operandi and against the spirit of this thread >.>

I also took some minor liberties with the finale of Consular Balmorra, to fit the narrative.

[TRIGGER WARNING]Also, this story may offend some people. I was trying to write a story about a Jedi struggling with feelings of sexuality and romance - and on top of that homosexual ones. HOWEVER, I am neither homosexual nor a woman myself so I apologize in advance if this comes off as sounding godsawful or offensive. I tried to keep it realistic as possible, using the secondhand (from a very close friend coming out) and thirdhand information I have on such things. Also note that my usage of Synchordia believing what she's thinking and feeling to be the result of some kind of Sith curse is IN-CHARACTER. It is most certainly not my personal feelings on the subject of homosexuality, or sexuality in general.

Ante diem quindecimum Kalendae Quintilis

With the death of Darth Lachris, Balmorra is at last free from the Empire. I had a hope - however slim - that she, like her apprentice, could be redeemed. But this was not to be. With her dying breath, even impaled on my saberstaff... she attempted to kiss me. Disturbing. I have heard tales wherein some Sith tap into passions other than hate and rage... perhaps Lachris was among them? Was it an attempt to leech strength from me through sexuality? Even in death, the Sith are enslaved by their passions. I must meditate.

AD XV Kal Quin, suppl.

The daughter of Senator Tobas Grell has brought forth an unsettling revelation. Communications aboard the Moonrise were being tapped by the Empire. This is doubtless how Darth Lachris knew of my mission on Balmorra. Even more unsettling, I sense no deceit amongst the delegates. Is perhaps one of them a plant from Imperial Intelligence? I must meditate.

Ante diem quattuordecimum Kalendae Quintilis

More revelations: Nadia Grell is Force-sensitive. And strong in its ways. She is however undisciplined and can barely control her powers. Her ability to direct the flow of the Force manifests when under the influence of strong emotions. I have yet to see evidence of her sensitivity from positive emotions, only duress; it is worrisome. Is she perhaps a Sith, and the informant? I must meditate.

Ante diem duodecimum Kalendae Quintilis

Despite my earlier suspicions, I believe Ms. Grell to be neither Sith, nor the informant. After reviewing all information on her background and her homeworld enroute to Hoth, I am confident she is innocent of deception.

Records indicate, as far back in history as they are kept digitally, that Force-sensitivity among Sarkhai is literally unheard of. She is likely unique, considering her people would not have joined the Republic if they feared or hated Force-users.

At Senator Grell's earliest convenience, I will broach the subject of having her sent to Tython for training as a Jedi, despite her age. I must meditate now.

AD XII Kal Quin, suppl.

Despite several hours meditation, Darth Lachris continues to occupy my thoughts. As an apprentice to a Dark Councilor, her knowledge of the upper echelons of the Sith power structure would have been invaluable with the flames of war beginning to kindle across the galaxy. Yet it is not for this reason she weighs on my mind. The sensation of her hand as she wrapped it behind my neck, the slow caress as her strength failed... I find myself reliving her touch as she died in my arms.

I have been present at the deaths of civilians, soldiers and other Jedi, and I have mourned their union with the Force and moved on. As is the Jedi way. Lachris is unlike these deaths. I find it difficult to put the events within the Balmorran Arms factory behind me. I worry that it is some kind of Sith corruption - a last attempt by a dying Sith to bring down her Jedi killer as well. I must send word to Grandmaster Shan concerning the disturbance of my thoughts. She will have insight. For now, I must clear my mind and concentrate on the mission to Hoth.

Ante diem decimum Kalendae Quintilis

Despite becoming heavily compromised, I was successful in extricating Rift forces on Hoth. Both the Imperial troops and Captain Valon were aware of my activities and locations. The informant is becoming more brazen. I must find out who it is, before the Rift Alliance is destroyed through subterfuge. I will review holocom records with Nadia in an attempt to uncover the culprit.

AD X Kal Quin, suppl.

Disaster! While I initially entertained a suspicion that Senator Alauni of Saleucami was behind the information leak - her obtuseness and general condescension are typical of many Sith - she is in fact innocent, if still obtuse. All her communiqués were done through her secure, but traceable, official senatorial frequency.

No, after conferring with both Nadia and Senator Grell, we have determined that Augin Blaesus is the likely agent, considering his frequent usage of comm channels using a private and encrypted frequency. Worse, before coming to this conclusion, Senator Grell sent him on a shuttle ahead to Waypoint Station Three to join - intercept, now? - the royal family of Sarkhai, enroute to Coruscant for a diplomatic summit. The Moonrise is making best speed, but it will still be several hours before we arrive at the station. May the Force be with us.

Ante diem novum Kalendae Quintilis

Children of the Emperor. This is a disturbing revelation. Powerful Force-sensitives. Virtually undetectable Sith sleeper agents. War has ignited across the galaxy once more and they are beginning to make their presence felt. I have spoken with the padawan of a former colleague from Tython. Kira Carsen is also one of these Children, and the testimony of her experience in throwing off the Emperor's shackles will be valuable information for the coming days. I am returning to Tython to oversee the final stages of the restoration of the Noetikons, and have sent a holomessage to Cheimeria and her padawan to meet me there if she can spare the time. May the Force be with us all.

On another disturbing front, I will hopefully have opportunity during my stay on Tython to speak to Grandmaster Shan in private concerning Darth Lachris. Meditation helps immensely with keeping my mind mostly clear of her influence, but of late I have found myself wondering what would have happened if Lachris had kissed me. I find myself wondering - I find myself wanting her to have kissed me. Despite the Dark Side clawing its way into her body as it had her soul, she would have been considered rather attractive by many standards of beauty. In addition, I find myself entertaining similar thoughts for other women I have met since Balmorra. These are not the thoughts of a Jedi. I fear the seed of corruption is beginning to take root. May the Force be with me in this dark hour.

@Feldraeth I like the presumably unconscious, anger-fuelled hypocrisy of Tarmin 'Jedi are never the aggressor...' despite goading a Mandalorian into attacking him so he can put him down was that your intention for this piece? Tarmin believing that he's acting purely as a selfless Jedi despite being compromised by anger and the desire to protect his child?

@Diviciacus I really, really dig the journal format you used here, plus the Latin really fits the idea of the Consular class in my mind - formal, perhaps even a little archaic, using mannerisms and turns of phrase that are perhaps antiquated... anyway, that's by-the-by. My own Consular is male, so reading this I was able to completely visualise the mental conflict and turmoil that the situation would have created in a devoted Jedi - which is a long-winded way of saying I think you hit the nail pretty much on the head.

@Diviciacus Thanks I think that the BH and Smuggler stories in particular are really very funny, or at least have a lot of comedy potential - I try to carry that along a bit.

@JamagsAwesome Thanks I try to make it as immersive as possible; a very good writer of my acquaintance once advised me to make sure that all my characters' senses are involved in everything I write. Good advise, I thought.

@Feldraeth In my mind that's how all Mandalorians should be, given their focus on honour and all that. However, like many things, shades of grey creep in. Sab'thaan is absolutely a ****** gun-for-hire, if you pay him to shoot up a room full of women and children he'd do it if the price is right but he'd also demand a damn good reason for doing it. Or, of course, authority that he can't argue against...

@Diviciacus: Excellent. That’s exactly what I was going for. Generally, my method is to come up with what’s really going on, bury it as much as possible, then figure out how the characters might dig it back up again. One time, just as an exercise, I came up with a story so complicated that I had to write it down. I never actually wrote it but, I’ll get to it at some point.

To be honest, Shialla escaping was a last-minute idea, but it folds into the story nicely, now that I’ve planned ahead a bit more.

@Diviciacus: Wow. I don’t have any first- or second-hand information, but based on what I’ve heard third-hand, that is a fairly realistic depiction of what it’s like to go through that. Being a Jedi could only complicate matters. Also, your Consular has an awesome name. Now I want to do a journal-style thing.

And by the way, using the format is totally cool. I just put together the title, the info Alaurin needs for the archive, and a couple other relevant bits.

About the story-before-prompt thing, no, you’re not the only one. I know what I want to write, so I try to split the difference and find a prompt before putting anything on paper.

@Bultitudes_Loke: Yeah, that is good advice. I need to try to do that before.

Shiamma clutched her side as she ran. She didn’t like running, but it beat dying in a fight with those Imperials. She’d walked right into an ambush. Too busy saving the planet to watch out for her own hide. She winced upon squeezing the wound too tightly. It wouldn’t have hurt so bad, but it was an old wound, inflicted when the girl, Shialla, broke loose, taking Lord Scourge’s lightsaber with her.

She stumbled. Ahead of her, a Twi’lek in dark robes perched on a rock, peering at her through a skull-like mask.

“Found you!”

“What do you people want?”

The Sith’s over-the-top frown was visible through her mask as she rubbed her chin.

“Hmm… What do I want…”

She perked up as if coming to a realization.

“Oh! That’s it!”

Before Shiamma had time to react, the Sith unleashed a blast of lightning. Pain coursed through Shiamma’s body. The scream she needed to make and the snappy one-liner she wanted to make merged into a pained grunt.

Thundering footsteps echoed through the canyon behind her. Looking over her shoulder, Shiamma saw a heavily-armored Pureblood and a squad of Imperial troops. Exactly what she didn’t need right now.

“Nox, we’ve discussed this. Don’t torture a target if she might cooperate,” said the Pureblood, clearly resigned to the fact that Nox didn’t care.

“You’re no fun,” said Nox, turning her back to him and pouting.

“Now, I’m going to say this once, and I’m going to say it clearly. Where is the girl?” said the Pureblood.

“She ran off. I thought she’d gone back to you,” said Shiamma.

“You wouldn’t lie to the Emperor’s Wrath, would you?”

“Who’s Wrath? Did they find someone else to fill the job so quickly? It’s been a while since I was last on Dromund Kaas.”

The Wrath was very careful not to show any outward signs of the sudden concern Shiamma sensed in him. Good, he knew who she was. She could use that. Somehow.

“You’re hiding something. I want to-” the Pureblood was cut off by a tremor.

It wasn’t like the other groundquakes. It was localized around the Imperial squad, as they began to stumble and fall over. The Pureblood turned to see what was going on, but was struck from behind by a large rock and went sprawling. Shiassa was standing at the entrance to the canyon, not even having drawn her lightsaber. Nox stood up eagerly.

“Ooh! Someone fun to play with!” she said, rushing Shiassa.

The Pureblood started to get up, rubbing his head, but Shiamma planted her boot firmly on his back.

“You’re not going anywhere.”

Nox laughed, unleashing a burst of Force Lightning at Shiassa. Small bits of rubble flew from the site of the quake, past Shiassa, meeting each forking tendril of Lightning as it pushed forward. Nox snarled.

“How?” she growled.

Shiassa drew her lightsaber with a shrug. Nox drew hers in response, only to get pushed backward by the Force, past Shiamma.

“M, we’re getting out of here. Now.”

“You don’t have to tell me twice,” said Shiamma, following her.

Outside, there was a shuttle, which the Jedi boarded before the Sith made it outside.

Shiassa turned to her sister.

“Alright, what was that?”

“The Empire doesn’t have her either.”

“Then where is she?”

Shiamma is my Twi’lek Female Guardian. Shillena is my Twi’lek Female Sorceror. Arginall is my Pureblood Male Juggernaut. Shiassa is my Twi’lek Female Sage.

Captain Helksan McKairn was, at one point of his life, a normal family man living on a farm. Well, normal is a relative term when you’re a chiss ex-sith living in a Republic colony. His wife, Sera was a pretty human woman, but his daughter, Rheyja was like him, a chiss, but born outside the ascendancy. He loved them dearly, and was happy to spend his life toiling away on a farm to make them happy, and safely away from the galactic conflict. Even when he was harassed or was cheated from money because he was a chiss. Imagine the day he found his daughter picking up the farm equipment he had left in his shed to be repaired with her mind. His joy quickly turned to fear, fearing for her, telling her to hide this gift, so she could remain safe. Sera tried to persuade him from that course of action, but it was drowned out by his fear that the sith or the jedi would find her, his little girl, and take her away from him. His bad experiences with force users and the academy kept him blinded from the danger of hiding a force sensitive child, especially when you come from a society allied with the Empire.

Fate it seemed, wouldn’t let him have a simple life. The day he encountered a jedi in his home, was the day his daughter turned 17, and the jedi was talking to his wife about sending their daughter to Tython, to train as a jedi. He walked in, already angry about the whole idea of it. Telling the jedi he could leave, quickly, or else. Seeing that the father of the force sensitive chiss child he was hearing about was one of them sparked something in the jedi. Up until that point he had calmly believed that a couple had taken in a chiss child, this jedi was not expecting a chiss man with a dark aura to walk in. His eyes clouded with an indescribable hate, fear, and anger as he braced for Helksan to attack him, drawing his lightsaber in a defensive position, saying through gritted teeth “What is a Sith doing on a republic colony, are you after the child?”

Helksan did not attack him, simply staring venomously, and asking “Why have you come to my home jedi? I don’t seem to recall inviting you here, in fact i don't recall inviting anyone to come into my house and try to take my daughter away from me!”. The jedi seemed to barely register his words, and before he could attack, they heard a loud giggle come from the upper floors of the home. Helksan’s composure broke, as did the jedi’s. Sera excused herself from the room quickly, and ran upstairs to see what that was about, and to escape the brewing conflict downstairs. “Jedi, I do not seek a fight, but i’m going to have to ask you to lower your weapon and disarm, conflict is not a good thing for me to be experiencing right now. So if you would just calm down, i can explain without my anger getting the better of me... again. Now if you’ll excuse me a moment.”

The jedi looked taken back by this, but then he complied, letting Helksan pass to go upstairs. What he saw when he got there made him extremely unhappy, his daughter, his little girl, was passionately making out with a zabrak girl he had never met, in her room, and he was fairly certain he could smell alcohol as well. Sera was standing in the hall, unable to move or speak, Helksan, did the only thing that seemed natural to him, he calmly walked to the end of the hall, and grabbed his blaster, a specially made one, a starforged MK-7 blaster pistol. He menacingly walked back to the hall outside Rheyja’s room, and wrathfully, gloriously aimed it at the ceiling, and fired a loud, sonic blast. All motion stopped in the room as the looked at what had caused the noise, and saw an enraged Helksan pulsing with dark, angry energy. The zabrak girl did the only logical action, ran out the window after gathering up her discarded clothes. Rheyja gave her father a look of pure anger after collapsing onter her back, and slamming the door shut with the force.

Helksan whistled as he walked downstairs, and greeted the jedi happily. “So you’re saying you’d like to take my daughter to a jedi academy where there are rules against relationships, meaning no-one is going to touch my little girl?” Sera just stared at her husband and his antics.

The jedi was dumbstruck, but then realized this was the moment to strike. “Yes, there are definitely rules against relationships of that kind, glad we can come to an agreement Sith. Absolutely no-one will harm your daughter, i will see to it personally. If you would like, i could come by tomorrow and take her to Tython with me so yo can have a chance to say your goodbyes.”

The next day, after much convincing Amafii that he wanted her to stay with him and not go with the jedi, she swore that she would become a jedi even if that is the last thing she would do. Helksan smiled at this, pleased at his successful manipulation of angry teenage rebellion. Rheyja realized what a mistake she made when she heard her father call out before she got on the shuttle. “Bye sweetie, i love you and remember, jedi don’t allow dating!!!”

It was 2 years after Rheyja had left for the Jedi temple on Tython that Helksan saw her again, and it was at Sera’s funeral. Sera had been killed by imperials looking for a hideout on the planet and thought Helksan’s farmhouse would be the perfect place for it. They came in and killed her. Helksan got home an hour later, and saw his wife lying dead on the floor in the living room. Rage had filled him, and he did something he promised he never would, use the force, and use the force he did. There was nothing left of the imperials save for corpses still sparking from all the lighting they had been pumped full of.

Appalled by his actions, he did something most would never do, he tried to shock himself to death, but only succeeded in burning out his connection to the force. In despair he took the imperials “pirate” ship and went to Coruscant. He tried to atone for his actions through becoming a doctor, but he couldn’t stay in hospitals, they held too many people suffering in similar ways as him. He the dedicated his life to helping the republic defend citizens from imperials, so he started flying his ship into warzones, carrying supplies. He tried to make his wife and daughter proud, but he knew he could never atone for what he did that day.

@toatokua: Great to see a new writer! The more of us there are, the less time I have to wait until I can post more stories! I should just do what Feldraeth does and post a bunch at once.

The only advice I’d give is try to slow down and describe things in more detail. I know it can be hard, I used to be really bad at it, and I don’t pretend I’m all that good right now. Otherwise, nice job! I’ll be interested to see more of these characters.

Shiamma folded her arms, and glared at the holographic figure before her.

“I’m not here to talk, I’m here for my friend.”

“Then perhaps you’d rather speak to my associate,” said Revan, nodding at someone behind Shiamma.

Shiamma whirled, igniting her saber, but no attack came. The cloaked, masked figure just leaned against the doorway.

“You made quite a mess coming in here,” said a modulated, but distinctly female voice.

“I’m going to ask nicely, and if you want me to continue being nice, you’ll answer me. Where is Theron?”

“Your spy is fine. In fact, he’s already broken out. Since you seem to like him so much, I just couldn’t bring myself to kill him.”

“Who are you?”

“Call me Lord Quarrel. I’ve been watching you since Korriban. I must say, the way you took down Darth Soverus was quite impressive. And Lord Goh? No pushover, either.”

“I didn’t see you there.”

“I didn’t want you to. Regrettably, by the time I reached the facility on Manaan, I had to leave again, the whole place was collapsing. Couldn’t risk that you’d actually fail against Stivastin, not that I thought you would’ve. Rakata Prime, though? That was really impressive. I think you actually made Revan angry.”

“Get to the point.”

“The point is, you of all people should know what we’re fighting against, so I need to know why. Why are you stopping us? You know what will happen if we let him win.”

“Yes, I do know what you’re fighting against. I’m stopping you because unlike you, I know what I’m fighting for.”

Lord Quarrel was visibly frustrated.

“If we fail, what you’re fighting for will be so much ash! Revan’s not the mighty chosen one he likes us to think he is, but he’s our only chance.”

“That’s not a chance I’m willing to take.”

“Fine, then. I want you to know that if you win, everyone loses. Goodbye.”

Lord Quarrel seemed to disappear. Shiamma was almost too focused on her departure to notice the blasterfire from a nearby room, and Theron running out.

Shiamma is my Twi’lek Female Guardian. Lord Quarrel is kind of an unknown at this point, but she is Female and some sort of Sith. If I were to recreate her ingame, she’d be an Assassin, just for the stealth abilities.

It’s getting to be difficult keeping all this stuff straight in my head.

Oranis got out of bed, it had been years since he had told himself what he would do when the time was right. He walked to the cargo hold, Scorpio and Vector were there, they were discussing something, he didn’t care to find out. He left the message on a couple of crates before they saw him. He began to head towards the bridge, passing HK-51, he seemed alright, powered off for now, waiting for the next opportunity to cause chaos or whatever else he enjoyed off ship. As he walked by the med bay, Lokin seemed to be discussing a theory with someone on the holo. He didn’t notice when Oranis left a datapad by the door. He passed by Kalyo, she seemed intent on a holo-vid. The message was left behind her on a supplies crate that was there for some unknown reason. When he finally reached the bridge, Temple was there, filling some reports it seemed. He set course for the imperial fleet, arrangements had been made for this final trip.

He began to checking status reports, no crises or emergencies or even any urgent messages. “Good,” he thought, “then there is no reason to delay.” He took Vector with him as he left the ship. He purchased to tickets to his destination, one for him, and one for his companion. On the way to Alderaan, he made a few more holo-messages, one for his husband, a starship captain whom he had met a few years before then. whom he probably wouldn’t see again, and one for Ardun Kothe, his SIS, something, handler didn’t seem to be the proper word for it. To his husband he had written a note of goodbye, and sorry, sorry he couldn’t do it properly, and to Ardun Kothe a message telling his final report, and goodbye to the friend he had made to end the bloodshed.

They arrived on Alderaan, heading directly to Oranis’s final destination. The Killik hive outside House Cortess had grown in size and population, it now stretched beyond the cave it had started in. They entered, the killiks there greeted their Dawn herald. Upon reaching the heart of the nest, Oranis’s mind was filled not with regret or remorse, but solid concrete hope in the knowledge that his time of struggle dealing with the empire’s cruelty and the republic’s hypocrisy was soon to be done, those things wouldn’t matter anymore, nothing would.

As the ritual of joining began, he was filled with peace, his life would matter more now than the secrets he held in his head, something he would hold to his grave, and now those secrets would become something the killiks could use to ensure their own safety in the instability that was sure to come.

He began to smile at the thought, the very idea of a hive of Killiks holding the galaxy’s secrets would be so ludicrous to most of the galaxy, the stuff of legends that would fascinate people for long to come.

As the end neared, his thoughts went from the future to the past. The events that had driven him to this were numerous and linked, it was first as the empire had enslaved him inside his own head, helpless to be nothing but a tool and a weapon, he showed them when he made himself into an unstoppable juggernaut with the very thing they had enslaved him with, the castellan restraints no longer hold him, but allow him to reach new heights, he can laugh at the power a sith holds, because they can not take his mind from him.

He thought of the aftereffects of the war. The republic, the “supposed good guys,” were worse than the sith in many ways, you know you are expendable in the empire, it is the number one lesson that one learns working for it. when one sees the republic, it is worse because no one does anything, they sit in their high towers and pretend they are better just because of those high towers. That was what drove him to defect, thinking the republic would somehow be better, but they were just a new variety of evil that even the jedi support.

“It’s better this way” Oranis thought, “I can finally rest knowing I am done, no plots to end the world, no manipulation, no more lies, no more greed, no more misery. The only thing that will remain is true peace, something I have never had, if only because the wrong people got to hold my leash. I am now truly done, no lies left to tell.” And with that, Oranis joined fully, no more self, the hive remained, content with the new addition to the hive.

Far away, on a mission, Ardun Kothe’s holo-transmitter pinged, a message from his shadow operative. It read: “Kothe, now that you read this, know that I have quit the wider galaxy, I hold no regrets, but I want you to know that I respect you, and this will be my last message to you, don’t look for me, even if you do find me, I won’t be me, that is my choice, the only way I actually get to leave this, It wasn’t going to end any other way but death or my leaving. -This is Legate, signing off.”

Temple’s message began to beep, alerting her to its presence. She picked it up, seeing the last thing she would hear from her mentor and friend. “Raina, I made this message to tell you I’m sorry, the me you knew for years was not really me, I was dead inside, the only things that remained of me were duty and rage, I let my duty compromise myself, I could not give you the respect you deserved because I wasn’t really there.” -This is Cypher Nine, signing off.”

Scorpio’s message popped up on her HUD, “Scorpio, I always knew that one day, you were going to kill me, It was only a matter of time until you figured your way around that programming, and I’m sorry, you deserved better than what the star cabal gave you, you lost the chance at purpose only to guard a bunch of old misers and the secrets of old bitter people. For that, I am truly sorry, and I wish you the best of luck finding your own purpose in this galaxy.

-This is Cypher Nine, signing off.”

Lokin’s message played audio, a final message to the man whom had helped him even as his mind shattered under its own weight. “Lokin, I just wanted you to know that you were a damn good medic, and a damn good friend, I hope that the future holds great advancements for you. The time I spent stuck in my own head drove me to the brink of sanity, but I am thankful you helped me to fix myself, even though you didn’t know what was going on.

-This was Cypher Nine, signing off”

Kalyo’s message was triggered. The words written read: “Kalyo, I will miss you, my crazy psychotic killer of a friend, the times we spent together were good, and you were the only one in this whole mess who knew my real name, and for that, I thank you, when we first met, I swear that I knew just how much trouble you were going to cause me, but I stuck with you because you had my back, and I had yours, nothing could change that.

-This was Oranis, signing off.”

Vector received no message, he already knew what Oranis would say, and Oranis had already told him what his final message was. “Vector, I know that for me, this has been a very strange and informative relationship, and I want you to know that even after I join, even if what I am about to say becomes the knowledge of the hive through my joining, You are my brother, someone I could count on because you and I gave each other knowledge, and the favors we have done for each other are now so numerous, and that you are doing these two last favors for me, it gives me peace to know that you will do this, and to know that everything i have done will be remembered as it truly was.”

Captain Kaellik's holoterminal pinged, a priority message from his husband. The message was flagged as private, so he took it in his bunk, no one else was around. “Kaellik, I am going to miss you. I know that this will probably hurt for a long time, but I just want you to know that this is my choice, and this is the last thing you will hear from me. I have spent too long buried in secrets, and those have all gone into my head, I can’t forget them, and to let them fade will contribute to the failing of civilizations. This could have only ended two ways for me, either I die, or I retire to seclusion in secret, I choose to join killiks because they can protect those secrets, and I won’t be used by them like I was by the Republic and the Empire. I know that you have had your fair share of run-ins with the law, and I just want to tell you to keep the republic alive, even for all its hypocrisy, it keeps the greater galaxy alive with hope. These are my last words, so I will not waste the any more, I wish I could tell you everything that happened to me, but I can’t. When you hear this, if you really want to find me, respect my decision to join the Killiks, it fills me with a peace I can not describe, to take me away from that would destroy me. So goodbye, and with three last words, I quit this galaxy. I love you, never forget that, don’t even think about forgetting it.” -Oranis, signing off, Goodbye, I love you.

"I love you too," Kaellik smiled at Oranis’s final words, such the smooth talker in disguise, but when he really meant something, it got so wordy and rambly that you could almost forget he was a master of infiltration. Kaellik began to whistle as he headed to the bridge, flipping a coin in the air absentmindedly, preparing for the long journey ahead to continue his love’s work.

The Killik fledgelings Vector had placed on Kaellik’s ship saw all of this, and this information got to the hive. Somewhere deep inside the consciousness of the hive, what remained of Oranis was glad he wouldn’t be forgotten, happy that his love took the blow not lying down, but in stride, ready to help the galaxy to survive. He just knew Kaellik would help himself to a few things that only a few people would miss, after all, what do you expect from a smuggler?

What was left of Oranis smiled, his true purpose fulfilled in the hive.

I get why people might be taken aback by my character's choice, I think it really is how I planned for him to go since first meeting Vector on Alderaan.

Private Journal of Special Agent Bryyn Harkness. Secret passenger cabin, The Oritor. 0015 hrs.

Hey Mom, hey Dad. It’s me.

They say I’ll be ready go into cover tomorrow morning, although I’m still in orbit tonight. My new outfit is hanging over the back of the chair, and it’s not as bad as I thought it would be. I’ve worn worse in training, and it’s perfectly made and fitted. I’ll look just like every other Hutt dancing girl on Nar Shadda.

This isn’t what you wanted for me, I know. This isn’t what I wanted for me. But life and the Sith had other plans, so here I am. My training prepared me to use my body and my mind, and the Empire needs what I can give them. It’s what I need to do. I need to survive

Bye Mom, bye Dad. I love you.

Delete, delete, delete.

The privateer was waiting for him in the lounge. She was a twi’lek, with the typical bright blue skin and long headtails of her species, hers elaborately painted with darker blue designs. Despite probably being almost thirty, her light green eyes still sparkled with mischief under the broad brim of her hat as she said “I heard you have a present for me, Captain.”

“It’s going to cost you, miss,” he replied.

“Let’s negotiate, then.” She removed her hat and heavy brown trench coat and tossed them onto an empty chair. Under it, she had a rather nice hourglass figure, shown off by tight dark brown pants the same shade as her coat and a bright purple shirt unbuttoned just far enough to show a bit of cleavage. A pair of well-used blaster pistols hung in a fancy holster. Flopping into her own chair, she propped her legs up on a second and ran her fingers down the gold-trimmed leather headband she wore. Although her expression was still light, he saw that she was scrutinizing him as closely as he was her. This would be an interesting bargain.