AU in which Ukaita, a Chiss Sith with a mashed-up jk/sw background, has teamed up with the Emperor's Wrath, Lord Scourge, to stop the Emperor's plan to kill all life in the galaxy...and hopefully come out on top of the heap.

Scourge emerged from the tunnel just in time to catch the last bit of Ukaita's sales pitch.

"...with me as Empress, you would have power and glory and lots and lots of people to terrorize. Whaddya say? Good deal?"

"No one can restrain us. We are fear and terror."

"Right, I just point you in the direction and..." She frowned as the Dread Masters walked past her, past Scourge, and out the door. "Ungrateful sods."

Scourge raised an eyebrow at her. "Did you just tell the Dread Masters that the Emperor is weak enough to be defeated by the likes of you?"

"Uhh..."

"The Sith who can destroy entire armies? You told them of the Emperor's vulnerability."

Ukaita grinned a little guiltily. "Maybe."

Scourge covered his face with his palm.

Ukaita grinned as she followed him out of the ancient prison. "Just think, Scourge, maybe they'll take the Emperor out for us! And then all we'll have to do is kill them. That shouldn't be all that hard, right? What was that? I didn't hear what you were muttering under your breath."

I fear this story is decending into complete anarchy and silliness. Future snippets are likely to get worse. You've been warned.

He was dying. He could tell. Cold seeped into every limb and slowly moved toward his core. He could taste the copper tang of blood on his tongue and he knew it to be his own. His eyes rolled around aimlessly. He couldn’t focus; he wasn’t even sure where he was anymore. He had vague memories of the Transponder Station, his trap sprung, and pain. Nothing, but pain. And burning. And fear. Pure, unadulterated fear. His arms grew cold and numb, his legs had long since lost sensation. His vision blurred from tears and an ever encroaching darkness. Finally, his eyes focused on something in front of him.

“Father…” he said weakly. “Father I failed…”

“We learn through failure,” a voice responded.

“I fear… I will not live long enough… to learn… from this failure…”

The dark figure knelt next to him and sighed quietly. “In death, you have succeeded. I am proud of you.”

“Proud… of me?”

“Yes. Rest now.”

“Yes… rest…” he murmured quietly.

“Goodbye, Malavai.”

But Malavai never heard him say goodbye and Malavai never knew his vision was not that of his father, but that of the Sith Lord Syla. And Malavai never heard her heaving sobs or saw Lieutenant Pierce gather his body and send him off for a proper burial. And Malavai disappeared from memory, to be mourned only by Syla until nothing remained of her.

While Quinn fails at killing Syla, he does succeed in killing a part of her.

WTB Lord Scourge facepalm, 200k.

It was vague at the time, but I think “What if Wynston hadn’t gotten hit with the Castellan restraints?” is the formulation I settled on. It means, for one thing, he may have had a few days to spend with Ruth post-Alderaan; and after that Act 2 gets a little flexible. (And involves a lot less of me feeling physically ill hearing Hunter talk.)

*

“Take some time off, Legate. Report to your Imperial bosses. When we need you again, we’ll call.”

“Acknowledged and understood. Legate out.”

The holocall with Ardun Kothe ended. Wynston stretched and yawned. The Republic operation was…dicey, to say the least. He was half enjoying playing the repentant bad guy, but the SIS cell he had infiltrated was far from trusting him. The one agent he had made the most progress with had just gotten wounded to the point of needing evac back to a medical facility in the Core Worlds. Good side: Wynston had earned points for saving the kid’s life. Bad side: the cell’s psychological weak point was now out of action parsecs away and Wynston would need to start focusing his efforts elsewhere.

Kaliyo stuck her head out of her quarters. “So are we gone yet?” she asked.

“I’m not sure,” said Wynston. “I’m trying to decide where best to enjoy not working for anybody for a day or two.”

“Aw. You would leave the Empire unattended that long? What if something breaks?”

He would get annoyed with that mocking pouting tone of voice if it weren’t so damn sexy. “If something breaks, you’ll be happy and I’ll have something interesting to do in fixing it. Everybody wins.”

“Agent,” Vector said from behind him, “that sounded a little like encouragement for Kaliyo to break something.”

“Everything can be interpreted as encouragement for Kaliyo to break something; I’ve given up trying to avoid that.” Wynston considered. “Come to think of it, maybe I’ll spend my downtime with someone who’s less likely to cause permanent damage to my person.”

Kaliyo scoffed. “Am I too much for you now?”

“Not too much. I just thought that for novelty’s sake I would try the relative safety of a Sith Lord.”

*

Ruth met Wynston at the Nexus Room Cantina. “I'm glad to see you,” she said. “When you called after Alderaan and said you were going under, I wasn’t sure when or whether you’d be back.”

“Miss me?” he asked, amused.

“Maybe I did. You’re always a breath of fresh air; apart from Vette I find myself surrounded by diehard work-work-work types who insist on calling me ‘master’ or worse.”

“‘Master’ is bad? Now you’re just putting me on. You aren’t Sith at all, you’re just a very skilled fencer with a pair of stolen lightsabers.”

“I could prove otherwise, but it would involve killing you, and I really don’t like doing that on dates.”

“You could kill the guy over there.” Wynston pointed toward a table at random. The funny thing was, he felt reasonably safe about doing it; this Sith wouldn’t just attack.

“I don’t like killing anybody on dates, silly. It’s not all about you.”

“Ouch. Very well, let’s change the subject. How’ve you been? Up to anything fun?”

“You could say that.” She smiled impishly. “I just finished wiping out half of Republic High Command.”

Wynston’s drink took sudden, violent exception to his windpipe. He eventually coughed his way clear. “You did what?”

“If you keep dragging your feet, there won’t be a Republic left for you to spy on.”

“I can’t leave you unattended anywhere, can I?”

“Assignment of a lifetime. I’m getting very good at my job.”

“So I see. When you told me you were in it for the Empire, I was expecting something…less dramatic.”

“I can be a little bit Sith, you know. When I want to be.”

“Remind me to get out of your way if you ever decide to be a lot Sith.”

“As if I would ever crush you. Say, would you like to dance?”

Well, she was certainly more comfortable about this sort of thing than she had been when they first met. “Yes,” he said. “Yes, very much.”

She took his hand to lead him onto the floor. “I like that about you, Wynston.” Her mind seemed to wander for half a second, but then she focused on him again, her blue eyes sparkling. “You say yes.”

“I find it’s a very pleasant word to say when you’re around.”

“Just wait. It gets better.”

*

The following morning, after they parted ways, Wynston checked in with Intelligence, picked up a mission, and got going. A couple of days later he received a call from the Republic side of things.

Hunter, Wynston’s least favorite SIS colleague, showed up. “Legate, my friend,” the smug blond said. “I hope you’re enjoying your vacation. Up to any good war crimes lately?”

“I wasn’t planning on it, but if you’d like I’ll find one,” Wynston said sarcastically.

“I was more interested in talking about your downtime. I heard some very interesting things about someone you met with in Kaas City.”

Really, Hunter? Really? “Tell me you weren’t listening in all night. If you’re that lonely I could just direct you to some fine holonet feeds.”

“Oh no, I got what I wanted out of the observation. You never told us you had an in with a Sith Lord.” He did a significant thing with his eyebrows. Because he was a corny jerk like that.

“I can call her up for a casual date. We’re not up to high treason yet.”

“But you can always escalate, Legate. I have faith in your persuasive powers.” There was something unpleasantly knowing about that statement. Even less pleasant than usual. “I do like the look of her. Hell, I would take a shot myself, but…”

“She doesn’t do Republic. At least, not in a way they survive.”

“Such a shame. But that’s why I have your double-agent connection. Sith can get access where even Intelligence can’t, and that makes you twice as useful.”

Lucky me. “If you think it’ll help.”

“Unless I missed something, you’ll be meeting with her this afternoon so she can help with the next stage of your Imperial Intelligence assignment. Good of you not to let her aboard your ship – security leaks galore, wouldn’t you say? – but I look forward to seeing the after-action report.” Hunter leaned forward. “Maybe if you’re good, she’d be willing to do some favors for me someday.”

“You’re disgusting, you know that?”

“Now, now. Is that any way to talk to your brother-in-arms?” Hunter smiled. “We’ll be in touch, Legate. Until then, enjoy yourself.”

Wynston deactivated the holo and glared at nothing in particular. “Great,” he announced. “I‘m getting special attention from Hunter. Have I mentioned I hate that man?”

“You may have let it slip once or twice,” Vector said mildly. “We do not know Lord Ruth well. For most of our time on Alderaan she was sedated in a kolto tank. But we do not think she would be happy to assist the SIS or Hunter.”

“She’s not going to if I can help it.” Wynston frowned. “Vector, I just wanted to unwind for a night. I didn’t think this was going to make me into the Republic’s personal multitool.” The recollection of Hunter’s smirk mocked him. “Calling her up was supposed to be relaxing!”

Kaliyo barked laughter from the hallway. “And see how well that turned out for you, agent. Maybe next time for novelty’s sake you should try the relative safety of, oh, me.”

Wynston rolled his eyes. “I’m really not in the mood.”

Not having a mental breakdown post-Taris helps the social life immensely. Just saying.

Kirya slammed the door shut on their quarters and spun on him, “Why are you being so hostile?”

“I am not being hostile!” Rixik snapped.

Kirya pointed off in the general direction of the cargo hold, “You threatened to throw Risha out the airlock!”

“I did not!” Kirya stared at him, tapping her foot. He hadn’t threatened Risha. “I just mentioned the possibility. That wasn’t a threat,” that’s just reminding her that she wasn’t invited. She was leftover from Skavak, like the stupid droid.

Kirya threw her hands in the air, “I swear, you are impossible sometimes! You’re barely on speaking terms with Corso, and he’s a sweet kid. Risha—pretty girl, wants to make us rich—I figured you’d warm up to her right away. But no! You’re trying to throw her out an airlock!” She began pacing the cabin.

Rixik followed her with his eyes, “Wait a minute, are you saying you want me to flirt with Risha?”

“NO!” Kirya yelled.

“Well then what? Corso knew Skavak for the Force knows how long. And the whole Nok Drayen thing? Sheesh, that’s almost as old as selling oceanfront property on Tatooine,” he rattled off.

“Jesp—“

“They were both dealing with the slime who stole Sirocco—“

“Jesp—“

“We shouldn’t be taking orders from her on our own ship—“

“NOT EVERYONE IS OUT TO CHEAT YOU, JESP!” Kirya shouted, her hands balled up into fists.

There. She’d said it. Rixik deflated. She had a point, of course. Neither of the two interlopers had actually done anything untrustworthy. But wasn’t that the sign of a good con? You thought everything was legit until the schemer ran off with your credits or your ship or your internal organs or whatever they had their eyes on.

He approached the smoldering Twi’lek woman and placed his hands gingerly on her slim shoulders, “I don’t trust people the way you do. I can’t,” he said.

“Learn,” she growled.

“That’s not fair,” he stated, “It took me ages to open up to you, Kirya, and I loved you.”

Kirya’s expression softened, “Try?” she asked.

“It’s…it’s too many people too fast, Kirya. I can’t…” she leaned forward suddenly and kissed him, slowly, gently. When their lips parted he continued, “I liked it when it was just you and me.”

“It’s still you and me,” she said.

“It’s not the same.”

Kirya traced the scar on his cheek, “Look, I’ve been thinking. Why don’t you and Corso hit a cantina together. Just you two. Do guy stuff. Get to know each other,” Kirya suggested.

“I don’t think that would be a good idea,” Rixik said dryly.

“Please?” she said, kissing him again, “for me?”

Rixik sighed, “All right. I’ll ask Corso on a date.”

Kirya punched his arm, “You stop,” she said, grinning, “be nice.”

“I’ll be nice,” Rixik agreed. This was a terrible idea.

Yeah, this is going to segue right into the other prompt, you betcha

Yeah, this is going to segue right into the other prompt, you betcha

Wynston was pursuing his lead on Taris when he got the call from his SIS squadmate Chance. The youngster looked bad.

“Chance to Legate. Can you hear me?”

“Loud and clear. What is it, Chance?”

“I tracked down the scientist we were after, but on my way to the rendezvous Imperial scouts spotted me. I ditched them, but I’m bleeding fast.” He gasped and…bubbled, one of those sounds Wynston truly disliked hearing from his colleagues. “Please, there’s no one else in range. Help.”

An opportunity to look trustworthy? And an opportunity to save the life of the only SIS cell’s weakest, kindest psychological point? There was an easy call. “Hold on. I’m on my way.”

Wynston moved swiftly and stealthily to the unquiet half-shell of a hospital indicated by Chance’s coordinates. It took some shooting through a rakghoul pack to reach the hallway corner where Chance had barricaded himself. Now he was lying in a pool of blood, most of it evidently his.

The young agent looked up at Wynston with unfocused eyes. “You came,” he mumbled.

“Of course I came. You needed me.” Wynston started initial checks. Shallow lacerations, blaster burns, and some heavy contusions. Likely a broken rib or three. Possible internal damage beyond that. A couple of very bad gashes.

“You didn’t have to,” Chance whispered.

“I don’t know how they do it where you’re from, but I wasn’t trained to leave my comrades to die.”

“That might be…” Chance bubbled off, coughed weakly. “It might not matter.”

“Don’t be an idiot. You got me here in time.” Wynston worked quickly, efficiently. “You’re in good hands.”

“I really didn’t think you’d come,” Chance slurred.

Time for a risk? Time for a risk, another stroke in the image of the repentant defector Wynston was painting. Assuming the kid would remember Wynston’s words at all. “I had to come. Listen. This isn’t exactly something I’ll be weeping into Hunter or Ardun Kothe’s shoulder about. But what I’m doing, with you and your team, here, it’s as close to a shot at redemption as a man like me ever gets. I won’t waste it.” A slight falter and he dropped his gaze. “Let’s find you someplace to hide. After that I’ll take care of the mission.”

Chance stretched a small painful-looking smile. “I think you’ll do okay with us, Legate.”

And don’t you forget it, kid. Sooner or later, something I do has got to win you people over.

Game-Wynston totally helped Chance without a second thought, because Chance was a sweetheart and out there in the field he really was a scared kid out of his depth. He is the only member of that SIS cell who survived Game-Wynston's Act 2. The only time I felt the slightest shade of remorse for killing Ardun Kothe was when I realized that Chance would get word of it.

I was terribly disappointed that saving Chance didn't have further-reaching effects. As you said--all that happens is the cell's weak point ends up beyond your influence (at least so far as I've seen). That irked me to no end. My agent is something of a frustrated medic, so I would have saved Chance anyway, but I was hoping for a bigger return than just a letter. Which ended up making me feel guilty anyway. I like Wynston's reasoning, since he's thinking long-term. It's a choice that makes sense for a double agent.

This is going to sound odd, but losing the personal issue of the Castellan restraints changes the feel of Agent act 2 completely. Sure, Hunter is still a dick, all the rest of the characters remain the same, but it's much more a straight-up infiltration job. I hated the restraints at the time (though the way the game shows you how they work is brilliant!) but the stakes seem a lot lower without them. You can kill them all, you can just walk away if it all goes bad.

This is not a knock on your story at all. It's fascinating to examine what happens when you make one tiny change. That's what AUs are for.

Not odd at all. The hook of Act 2 is completely removed when the restraints aren't there; it's just another job, and Hunter may be an antagonist but he has no immediate reason to single Wynston out for the "plans" he mentions at the Shadow Arsenal. He'll only notice Wynston if Wynston is exceptional in his own right, or if he displays some vulnerability. But the added mistrust of Sith demands and Intelligence low blows is never implanted. I want to see how that develops.

The tradeoff for the weakness in narrative drive here? Outside the game's "you kind of have to follow the Imperial guide" restriction, Wynston may actually become a recruitment candidate. Maybe not, I haven't thought through that far yet. Ironically enough, the reality in which he drops plot restrictions and consequently fully trusts his own Empire may be the one in which he is nearly guaranteed to not want to join with the Cabal, and the reality in which he comes to agree with the Cabal is the one in which he is plot-barred from joining.

I must say, the way the game took advantage of the discrepancy between preview text and spoken word was nothing short of brilliant. It is the only time I have seen that mechanic used for anything other than annoying, ambiguous text shortcuts.

I'll be completely honest. At the time I played through this the first time (got to the intro of act 2 before I had to reroll, long story) I didn't get it. I didn't often esc out of dialog at the time, so I thought I screwed up. When I got to that point again, I picked a different option, and...wow. Literally took me about three dialog scenes and several attempts at the dialog to realize what was going on. Absolute props to the development team there, I understood exactly how my agent was supposed to feel.

“I appreciate you coming right away, Kirya, this can’t be easy for you,” said Governor Saresh.

Kirya rubbed her eyes. A ruddy sun rose over the remains of the Taris ecumenopolis, broken buildings thrust into the sky like rotten teeth. “Are you sure?”

“Of the identification? Absolutely,” Saresh replied. “They’d both be dead already otherwise. Standing orders, you understand.”

“Of—of course,” Kirya stammered. This was all her fault.

“Come with me,” Saresh said, marching into the garrison. There were an awful lot of troopers in the building for such an early hour. The corporal at the desk let her through, and she led the way to the detention cells. “We couldn’t put them in the infirmary. Too much risk of contagion, and no containment in the event of, well, you know.”

Kirya stood at the top of the stairs leading to the cells, “Are you positive they’re infected?” She never should have pushed Jesp. She should have let him get used to Corso in his own time.

Governor Saresh halted halfway down. She turned, looking up at Kirya, “If the doctors were positive, Kirya, I’d be showing you to the morgue. Given their symptoms, it’s highly likely. However, in light of the immense amount of aid you have given our project at great personal risk, I put them in secure quarantine instead. Should the doctors confirm infection, or Force help us, the plague manifests…” Saresh trailed off with a slight shrug, as though it was out of her hands.

“I understand, Governor,” Kirya croaked. Now she was going to lose both of them.

She followed Saresh down, through the heavy security door, into the single hall of the detention center. Open cells lined the hall, five to a side, all empty but two. The last pair, facing each other across the aisle, their security shields shimmering blue with the addition of a medical sterilizing field, held one man apiece. On the left, a Human male, with a scarred face and dark hair teased into dredlocks. The right, a Twi’lek the color of Taris’ sunrise, asymmetrical mottling on his lekku. Corso and Jesp. A medic in full armored containment gear attended each man, but little could be done beyond offering comfort. And waiting.

Kirya pushed past Governor Saresh and the contingent of troops at the head of the hall and ran to the occupied cells. Skidding to a halt, she looked in horror at her injured husband and friend. “You’ve got to help them!” she pleaded.

The doctor in Rixik’s cell shook his head slowly, “I don’t think I can. This one’s already losing the ability to speak.” Indeed, while Corso’s vocalizations were infrequent low moans of pain, Rixik was babbling incoherently. Language-like sounds all muddled together, his brain losing the battle with the rakghoul virus.

Kirya listened for a moment, tears in her eyes. Then she sniffed. “Wait a minute. That was profanity. In Twi’leki. And Huttese, I think.”

Governor Saresh put a gentle hand on her shoulder, “I doubt that, Kirya.”

She pushed the Governor away. “No, I’m not wrong. You listen. Parse the feed through a language filter.”

“Kirya, I think you should just concede the inevitable—“

“I’m not wrong!” she insisted, “That’s my husband, and I’ve heard him cursing at Sirocco’s systems in half a dozen languages. At the same time. I tell you, he’s not turning into a rakghoul.”

“Can’ be,” Corso groaned, “we got shot.” His medic rushed to his side, scanning for blaster injuries.

“Valoramosa binggona prog mnete elav,” Rixik rambled.

“Elav!” Kirya repeated, “Elav is doctor. Twi’leki. You know that word, Governor,” Kirya said.

Saresh’s lips drew tight, “Very well, if it will convince you. Commander, enable the translator, please.”

One of the troopers came forward and flipped a switch on the cell’s master control panel. Rixik moaned and spoke more gibberish. After a delay, the translation matrix activated a generic flat electronic vocoder. It recited a rude limerick, made all the more humorous for the machine’s utter lack of inflection.

“Let me in there now,” Kirya said, staring daggers at the fully-suited medic inside.

“Kirya—“ Saresh began.

Kirya whirled on the Governor, “He doesn’t have the rakghoul virus. And even if he did, I love him, and I’d rather die with him now than live the rest of my life without him. Now you open this cell and let me in there or I swear I will blow your containment field and you can take your chances with me!”

“I luv you too,” Corso sang from the other cell.

Governor Saresh frowned, “Let her in,” she snapped.

The medic lowered the field just long enough for Kirya to cross the threshold then reactivated it, clipping the edge of her cloak. She rushed forward, dropping to the side of the holding cell’s unpadded pallet. Rixik’s bloodshot eyes opened, “Ahh, shendy Kirya huon ol’val,” he slurred. The matrix took a moment to translate again, “Hello, Kirya, I am feeling extremely ill.”

Kirya wrinkled her nose, “You smell chemical. What happened?”

“Inkabunga thuku Corso ta-te jacta.” I bought Corso a drink.

“A drink?” Kirya asked, “what kind of drink? From who?”

“Ool’a shakka,” Lightning water. “Espy des mech el yafulkee bunko du Olaris.” The translator stewed on this phrase for a while, finally coming up with: The serving-person at the Olaris meal palace.

Kirya pinned Governor Saresh with a stare, “What’s he talking about?”

“I’m sure I don’t know, Kirya,” she said, “The Olaris mess hall serves food to the troops and the settlers. We don’t import anything stronger than mild ale. Safer that way, given the environment.”

“Tarisian moonlight,” came Corso’s voice from across the hall, “by the light of the silverrry moooon…”

“Chut chut, Corso.” Be quiet, Corso.

Kirya sniffed again. The odor was somewhere between disinfectant and the solvent for the degreaser tub back on Sirocco. Rakghouls smelled like rotten meat. Kirya was far too familiar with that stench after testing the serum for—

The serum. Granted immunity. Doctor Cel suggested it was only temporary, but surely the protection lasted longer than a week or two. “You can’t have the plague!” she shouted.

Rixik curled up on the pallet, his arms over his ears, “Neesh neesh neesh neesh neesh…” The vocoder rendered his muttering as one word: loud.

“Ah said the doc shot us,” Corso mumbled.

Kirya sat back, “You’re hung over.”

“Ek.” Maybe.

She folded her arms across her chest, “Jesp Rixik, you have a lot of explaining to do.”

Nine hours earlier…

Rixik exited the Olaris spaceport with Corso in tow, “Ah, Taris. The cheap gem in the navel of an ugly Nar Shaddaa belly dancer.”

“Now there’s mental image I didn’t need,” Corso said. “And the stink hits you right in the face, don’t it? Reminds me of when we’d put the rontos out on the fresh grass for the first time in the spring. Whew, what a mess.”

“Thanks, Corso, there’s a mental image I didn’t need,” Rixik complained. He looked around Olaris. The sun was long down. High-energy lamps poured circles of white light on the duracrete. “Well, the nightlife here seems to consist of patrolling the fence or staring into space in the mess hall. The mess hall has beer,” he added.

He’d confirmed it earlier this afternoon. Kirya said he’d procrastinated enough. She didn’t want to spend another hyperspace trip with him sniping at Corso and Risha. He either tried to get to know Corso better now, on Taris, where there was something resembling entertainment, or she was packing the both of them into a cargo container for the duration.

“Kirya put you up to this, didn’t she,” Corso said.

“You heard them. They’re doing some girlie hair thing,” Rixik said, “I figured you didn’t want your hair all weird colors, or whatever you do with hair.”

“Kirya doesn’t have hair.”

Rixik sighed. Darn kid. “Yeah, she put me up to this. Lets go get some beer and waste a couple hours in the mess hall. I didn’t even see a sabaac table in there. Damn, these people are dull. Maybe we’ll get lucky and one of the settlers will start a fight with an off-duty trooper.”

“That’s entertainment?” Corso asked.

“It’s more interesting than playing name-that-stain at the bar.”

Corso touched his arm, “You don’t have to do this, Rixik,” he said, “you go, I’ll just hang out at the spaceport. She won’t know any different.”

“I don’t lie to Kirya. Not ever,” Rixik said. Not ever, never to Kirya. “Consider this a good faith effort, okay? I don’t like anyone, kid, don’t take it personal.”

Corso kicked at a dirt ball, “I’ll buy my own beer.”

“Sheesh, I can afford to buy my crew a beer. Especially when my crew consists of—“ Rixik made a show of counting on his fingers, “one.”

Corso chuckled despite himself, “All right, one beer.”

“It’s a date then.” Rixik said.

“Don’t call it a date,” Corso objected, “It’s just getting a beer with somebody. At the only place in town to get beer.”

“Whatever you say, Corso.”

...to be continued...

I despise the ‘show the ending at the beginning to hook the reader/viewer then flashback to the beginning of the story and proceed’ device because it’s so overused today. Usually without adding anything to the story. I hate it, hate it, hate it. Like I hate time-travel stories. Don’t get me started on time-travel stories. But…but…please forgive me, I think it works and is appropriate in this case. Between the prompt and the foreshadowing at the close of “Cynic”, I’m pretty sure every reader here knew Rixik and Corso’s male bonding episode was going to be a train wreck. So I thought it would be amusing to show the wreck first, then the trail of stupidity that led there.

And I apologize again for the parts. I’m not copying you, Morgani, really, this thing just grew into a monster.

Wynston's reasoning for sparing him was exactly why mine did, but I regret it a bit for the reason Striges mentioned. It had no lasting effect if you saved him. If he hadn't used that keyword, my agent would have been just fine with letting him live. Wheels and the twi'lek...can't remember her name...they're both still alive and kicking. Lesson here, kids, don't use Xa's keyword and you get to live!

Kirya's fright wouldn't have been nearly as impactful if we knew she was just going to pick up a couple hungover guys.

So after I ran through the IA for the 3rd time I started looking up how many endings there were (5 before the game went live). One of them, joining the SIS as a double agent, supposedly was contingent upon Kothe's team surviving, including Chance. I haven't confirmed it because in order to do so I'd have to let Chance die then save Kothe and the others and see if I get the option to join. I can't imagine letting all the others live but killing Chance so ya I'll have to take someone else's word for it.

The pair entered the Olaris Mess Hall, a depressing little spot just off the duracrete slab outside the spaceport. It wasn’t even a proper cantina, didn’t have a name, just a function. Mess hall. Where to get food. The jukebox played the same three selections over and over, running its idle program. No one wanted to drop credits for their own playlist.

Rixik took in the room. Pretty sparse tonight. A couple knots of settlers gathered on one side of the room, watching some slow games of Republic-Senate pazaak. The troopers had the other side. Another knot of low-stakes pazaak players. A separate crowd of mixed Humans and Cathar settlers surrounded a pair, one of each species, engaged in some physical contest. Not a fight. Oh well. Even their encouragement was subdued.

Corso looked around, “Bar?” he asked.

“Might as well.”

They took seats at the bar; the only ones occupied. The bartender meandered their way. “Two ale?” he asked, reaching for a pair of clear silicate mugs.

“I’ll take one,” Corso replied.

“Don’t suppose you’ve got any Whyren’s reserve?” Rixik inquired.

“Ha!” the bartender barked a laugh, “Out here? You think anyone is stupid enough to get quarantined six months for a load of booze? Naa, mate, we got ale and ale.”

“Shame. I don’t like beer,” Rixik said. Kirya’s fermented fungus stuff from Ryloth was okay. This bar, serving mostly Humans, would have something for Humans.

The bartender filled one mug with the frothy yellow beverage. He placed it in front of Corso and leaned forward conspiratorially, “if you got credits, I maybe could fix you up with something else.”

Rixik leaned in as well, “like maybe what kind of something else?”

“Something local. No tariffs or nothing.”

Corso sipped his beer and made a face, “You sure that’s a good idea, Rixik?”

“Hey, everyone swims on Mon Cal,” he said. This sounded intriguing. Returning his attention to the mousy bartender, “local, you say?”

The bartender ran a damp rag over the bar in a repetitive pattern, “One of the settlers, he got a still. Outside the settlement.”

“Outside? What about the rakghouls?”

“They don’t bother him,” the bartender said.

That could be taken two ways. Either the rakghouls left him alone, or the mysterious settler didn’t worry about them. Interesting. “So what’s the deal? I fork over some credits and you tell me where his still is?”

“Naa, easier,” the bartender propped himself on one elbow, “he delivers his stuff every couple weeks. One hundred percent top-grade Tarisian moonshine. Forty-five credits a shot, right here.” He tapped the bar with one thick finger.

“What’s he make it from?” Corso asked, “Not like you grow much around here.”

“I don’t ask,” the bartender said, rubbing his nose, “still blew up once, few months back. Made a big crater. The Governor, she sent troops to investigate, they thought it was a bomb. Rakghouls leave the crater alone, so they figure it must have been one o’ them scavengers, stumbled into something left over from before the bombardment. Test project, maybe a biological weapon. All kinds of crap like that here.”

“But he got it running again?”

“Oh yeah. He was back again at the delivery door a month after the explosion, had a big old two-hundred liter drum of the stuff. We swapped out like he’d never even missed a day. Been going good ever since.”

Rixik glanced at Corso’s ale. He really didn’t like beer. Corso hadn’t taken more than the one sip, so it must be pretty bad. He wasn’t sure what to make of the bartender’s story. “Pull the other one,” he said finally, “this is just a yarn for offworlders, isn’t it?”

“Jedi’s truth!” the bartender hissed, “look, I’ll show you.” He dipped below the bar for a heavy shot glass. Then he slid open a cabinet below the taps and retrieved a well dispenser, the kind cheap cantinas used for their hard liquors. A translucent hose connected the dispenser head to the supply, hidden from view.

There could be anything on the other end of that hose. Dishonest outfits hooked up the cheap stuff but charged for premium. There was no way for a customer to be sure. Other than taste, and that was too subjective.

The bartender measured out a half shot of clear fluid into the glass. He set it in front of Rixik, “On the house,” he whispered.

Corso pushed the glass with his finger. It shifted and the alcohol rocked. An odd perfume drifted up, slightly sweet, with background notes of organic solvent and something…vegetal. “A neighbor two farms over made moonshine sometimes,” Corso said, eyeing the drink, “at least until his barn caught fire. It didn’t smell like this, though.”

Rixik swirled the glass, catching more of the bouquet. “How do I know this stuff is even booze?” he asked, “I notice no one else has any.”

“That’s because most everyone around here dumps it into that lousy beer and makes a shipbreaker out of it. Improves the beer and the nosy authorities are none the wiser.” The bartender grinned a crooked grin, “no one here but us fairly sober, law-abiding citizens.”

Rixik swirled the suspicious beverage again. Like purveyors of recreational substances everywhere, the bartender wanted him to buy. He gained nothing from trying to poison him. So the only real risks here were that the drink was addictive or overpriced. It didn’t smell of any kind of spice he was familiar with, so that left overpriced. Forty-five credits would buy a shot of first-rate liquor anywhere else. On Taris, this was it.

Well, you only live once. Rixik brought the glass to his lips and sipped. The fluid seemed to evaporate on his tongue and head straight up his nasal cavity, filling his head with its unusual aroma. A second sip actually made it down his throat. Or may have; he thought it absorbed directly into his bloodstream. Not mellow and aged like his preferred whisky. Sharp and raw and, well, intriguing in an in-your-face kind of way.

Had to beat the hell out of that ale.

He pushed the glass toward Corso with a nod. His voice didn’t seem to be working. Corso drank off the remainder, considered for a moment, then followed it with beer. He coughed once, “That’s, uh…”

Rixik cleared his throat. He became aware of a strange sensation, as though the air itself had substance. Fluffy. That was it. He sniffed the empty glass, and along with the scent of the moonshine was the definite feel of fluffy. Rixik blinked. The bartender was staring at them expectantly. “Two of these,” he ordered.

“Heh heh, that’s good stuff,” he said grinning. He measured Corso’s directly into the remains of his ale and refilled the shot glass. “Packs a punch. And it lingers, if you get my drift.”

Rixik drank off the top third. Fluffy was now a constant. If it were a sound, it would be like the air recirculators, that constant whir in the background. Weird.

Corso took a long drag on his beer and set the mug down, “That’s an improvement. I think.”

“Well, it won’t replace my favorite, but it’s not bad,” Rixik said.

The bartender refilled both their drinks and moved off. Corso gulped his, “Kirya never said she was married.” The words rushed out all at once.

“Huh?”

“Back on Ord Mantell,” he drained his shipbreaker as if it would be his last, “She never said she was married. I thought she was all alone, on a strange planet, then that rat Skavak ran off with her ship and she was in so much trouble with Rogun and Viidu was panicking and all…” Corso trailed off.

Well, that explained some things. Rixik knocked back the remainder of his moonshine, “Look, kid, Kirya’s a smart woman. Would you have helped her if you thought she wasn’t available?” Rixik signaled for another round. The bartender swiftly provided it.

“I would!” Corso exclaimed. He frowned at his cocktail, as though wondering how it got there.

“What about the others?”

“Uh, maybe not so much.”

Rixik leaned on his elbow, “So, you think I’m mad at you because I figure you were trying to muscle in on my wife?”

Corso swigged his ale, “Aren’t you? I sure would be.”

Rixik sighed. “I’m not jealous, Corso.”

“Oh.” Corso buried himself in his drink.

“I figure you gotta be working with Skavak somehow.”

Corso coughed and sputtered, “I am not working with Skavak!” he shouted, “I hate him! Skavak is a complete jerk and he stole Torchy and got Viidu killed and a whole lot of other good people. Well, okay people anyway. I can’t wait ‘till we find him and, and,” In his fury, Corso’s Ord Mantell twang grew quite pronounced. Several of the troopers and settlers turned and stared at him during his outburst. Corso pulled in around his mug, “You wanted to run him through a meat slicer or something, right? I could go for that. If he were dead already, I mean.”

“I was thinking of having him stuffed and mounted, like a trophy.”

“Ha. Who’d do that?” Corso asked.

“Trandoshan taxidermist,” Rixik said, sipping his moonshine. There was a nice warm feeling in his stomach now. And the fluffy sensation persisted. He wondered if this was what it felt like to have hair on your skin.

Corso was quiet for a minute, studying his drink. “I never know when you’re joking.”

“I’m not joking,” he said, “You know what would be better? Minefield.”

Corso laughed, “Hell yeah, minefield! I know where there’s a real nasty one—“

“There’s another kind?” Rixik interrupted. Corso’s laugh reminded him of Kirya’s. Real. True. Friendly.

“Yeah! No. Wait,” Corso took another drink, “kind of what?”

“Uhm,” What had they been talking about, exactly? “Explosives?”

“Right!” Corso agreed, “Explosives.”

Eventually the troopers and settlers filtered out of the mess hall, leaving Rixik and Corso alone with the only the bartender for company. Corso sat back on his stool, “You know what the problem is on Tarish? No one here knows how to have any fun!” he complained, waving his hands at the empty mess hall.

“Well, they don’t have sabaac and the pazaak players left. I queued up all the Brightly Bith and the Screaming Eels I could find on the jukebox, but nobody wanted to dance,” Rixik said. He swirled his glass, watching the liquid move. How many was this, now? Was he running a tab? Had he authorized withdrawals from his account? When?

“Whell, there’sh gotta be something else to do,” Corso said. “Back home, when we needed a laugh, we used to run the rontos in circles and see if they could charge us without fallin’ over,” Corso slurred.

Rixik swigged the remainder of his drink, “No rontos here. Got any ideash of fun that don’t involve farm animals?”

Corso thought for a minute, “Wha’ about rakghouls?”

“Rakghouls.” Rixik frowned at his empty glass, “Why not round up the rakghouls and run ’em off the buildings? That’d solve the problem nice and quick. How far you think a rakghoul could fall without getting hurt?”

Corso signaled for another round, “I dunno. Pretty far maybe.”

“Someone should find out,” Rixik stated.

Corso nodded, “Research, like.”

“Yeah, research. Like the scientistsh.” The bartender refilled their drinks and moved off warily. Rixik took a sip, “We get a grant, right? Credits?”

“To study, um, to study,” Corso swallowed half his shipbreaker in one gulp, “shtudy herding rakghouls off Taris uh, Taris structures.”

“Shomebody would pay for that,” Rixik said, swirling the colorless fluid in his glass, the movement mesmerizing him, “You know how to herd animals, right? How hard can it be?”

Twenty minutes later they were standing just inside the Olaris perimeter fence, in the shadows between two of the bright lights. “Come on!” Corso hissed.

“Shhhhh!” Rixik hissed back.

Corso echoed his shush, the both of them hissing like broken coolant pipes. Finally Corso whispered, “The soldiers won’t let civvies out the main gate this late, and they know us both too well for you to bluff pasht. This is the only way out. Climb over!”

Rixik sized up the fence. It was a simple metal grid, not hard to scale or even all that tall, but it was a fence. His stomach knotted and the moonshine sloshed. Fences like this aroused an almost primal dread for him. They were a tempting means of escape, but no one ever made it over. “We can’t get over, Corso, it’s electrified. It’ll set off alarmsh.”

“Naa, this is just like the stock fence back home. It only pulses every six or seven seconds. Saves on power. I guess rakghouls can’t count any better than rontos can. Listen,” he said, cupping his ear. “Hear it? There’s one.”

Rixik listened. He heard it, the staccato thungk of the power pulse. Then silence and darkness. A few seconds later the sequence repeated. Then again. Regular, an electric heartbeat. “That’s not enough—“

The fence pulsed again. Corso leaped on it and scrambled up and over, dropping off halfway down on the outside. He landed on the grass with a grunt, stumbled, and fell in a heap. But he’d cleared the barrier well before the charge flowed through it again. “See? Nuthin to it!” he said in a hoarse whisper after righting himself.

Rixik stared at the fence. It was a fence. You leave the fence alone, don’t touch it, don’t even think about climbing it. Messing with the fence gets you hurt, sounds the alarms, calls the goons, gets you hurt more. You leave the fence alone.

“What are you waiting for?” Corso rasped again. “Come on! My cousin went over fences twice this size when she was ten. And she’s a girl.”

That did it. Rixik waited for the pulse, his heart racing. He heard the distinctive sound and jumped on the fence. He clambered to the top and vaulted off, leaping to the opposite side. His feet hit the ground and he rolled with the impact, his legs full of pins and needles and his lungs devoid of air. He came to rest on his back, staring up at a sky full of stars.

He’d gone over the fence. Over. He sat up. No alarms. No goons. Just the steady beating of the electric heartbeat, none the wiser for their escape. “Skrek ta, fence!” he said in a loud whisper, making an obscene gesture in the general direction of the compound. Then he collapsed on the grass, giggling inanely. He’d gone over the fence.

Corso staggered up to him, “We gonna go herd us some rakghouls now?”

“Yeah, yeah sure,” Rixik said, scrabbling to his feet. “Where you think they are?”

“There was a bunch west of Olaris this afternoon. Let’s try there.”

“Watch out for Republic patrols,” Rixik said, lurching forward.

“Oh, right. Forgot about that,” said Corso.

…to be continued…

Coremi trudged through endless sand careful not to lose her way. She preferred to leave her speeder a good distance from the hut, she did not want the odd passerby to know the old master had visitors. Lord Scourge had been recalled by his master, he left her on Nar Shaddaa trusting her to train alone and stay out of trouble, so of course, she ran away.

The informant she met on Nar Shaddaa had told her much about her master, information that terrified her, but that was not why she left. She had run out of her medication, and her nightmares combined with her increasing power were dangerous on such a densely populated planet. Tatooine held two things that she wanted, isolation from people and cheap spice. Her new friend taught her to distill spice into a near perfect chemical match for her medication. Of course, Lord Scourge could obtain the medication easily but he would want to know what it was for, and she would not discuss it, not with him, or with anyone.

She traveled to Anchorhead rather than the Imperial side of things, and upon landing a strange man approached her. Strange overly familiar men were nothing new to her but this one was different. He called himself Galen, he was of average height and soft around the middle, but he moved like a fighter. He appeared to be blind, but he saw and knew more about her than should have been possible. He sent her to see an old hermit and his student at the edge of the Dune Sea.

She almost ran when she realized he sent her to a Jedi, but she entered the hut anyway and gave them Galen’s message on a datadisk. “She is not what she was meant to be. You must help her or all will be lost.”

The hermit studied her, feeling the force swirl around her chaotically. He told her it was a good thing that she came to him, that the dark side was growing in her and it was not too late to turn to the light. He introduced himself as Master Yonlach and his former Padawan as Master Yul-Li. He offered to train her in the ways of the light. Secretly, she thought the idea of giving up love and all other emotions was insane but her mother had taught her never to discard an opportunity to learn, so she agreed and began her training.

She visited the hut every five days, learning to focus and channel the force, the lessons were oddly similar to the ones she learned from Lord Scourge, like the same song played in a different key at a different tempo. While the Sith methods were intuitive and mutable, Yonlach's ways were technical and precise. She could see that both methods had their strengths and weaknesses but she knew Scourge and Yonlach would insist one was entirely correct while the other was inferior in every way. She wondered what they would think if they knew how similar they were despite their opposing philosophies.

At the end of each session, Yul-Li would spar with her. She had received some indifferent swordtraining as a resistance youth. At the time, she was force-blind and petit, and most of the swordsmen were hulking brutes not unlike Yul-Li. She learned to compensate for her stature by using different tactics. As a result, she preferred knives for close combat, blasters for distance, and explosives for everything else. Yul-Li on the other hand considered the lightsaber to be the only form of combat worth learning, a deficiency Coremi was certain would get him killed. Still, they were both kind and friendly if distant and she was a quick study, practicing alone between sessions or taking jobs from the local constables. She was looking forward to another day of training when she noticed a speeder outside the hut. She activated the stealth generator on her belt and made her way to the door.

A young woman, a Sith by the feel of her, fought Master Yonlach and Yul-Li. She was strong, graceful, and defeated them easily. Coremi watched with fascination, Yonlach insisted the light side was always greater than the dark, this Sith proved him wrong.

Coremi studied the Sith looking for vulnerabilities, she did not want to lose her teachers but she did not think she could defeat the woman where two Jedi had failed. There, she nodded to herself spotting the Sith’s weakness. At her feet lay an Imperial officer and no matter what either Jedi did, she made sure to keep herself between the Jedi and the man. It was obvious that she was concerned for him, and had they noticed, Yonlach or Yul-Li could have taken advantage.

The fight inside the hut ended and both Jedi knelt before the Sith, she prepared to deal the killing blows.

Coremi unstealthed and cleared her throat. “Am I interrupting?” she asked from behind the Sith. The woman spun attempting to guard her fallen comrade from three.

“Must I kill two of your pupils today Yonlach?” the Sith asked, “Tell me the girl’s name and where I can find her.”

“You should not have revealed yourself, Padawan,” Yonlach reprimanded, “You are not ready to fight this Sith.” The Sith smirked at her and turned back to Yonlach and Yul-Li. Coremi waited until Yul-Li started speaking.

“Master,” Yul-Li began, “I must bargain for your life.” He had the Sith’s attention, Coremi pulled out her blasters and opened fire. The Sith had expected some sort of attack from her and blocked the incoming bolts.

“Are Jedi Padawan so pathetic now they need blasters?” She looked down her nose conveying her amusement. Coremi returned her stare then dropped her eyes to the man on the floor. The Sith followed her gaze and saw that the officer was now bleeding heavily.

“Gut wound, blasters boltls usually cauterize but the force of it rips open all kinds of things,” Coremi warned the Sith as she tried to apply kolto patches to the hole in the Imperial. “If you get him to a tank soon he’ll live, if not he’ll die. I can’t defeat you but I bet I can keep you here till he bleeds out. Your choice, Sith.”

She gave Coremi a look so filled with hatred that, even in the Tatooine heat, sent chills down her spine. The Sith dragged the officer out of the hut to the waiting speeder.

“Are you two alright?” Coremi asked checking them for wounds.

“You should not have shot at the officer.” Yonlach said, “It was a dishonorable thing to do.”

She rolled her eyes. “So,” she said awkwardly looking around the damaged hut, “What are we learning today?”

The old master shook his head, “I still sense the darkness in your heart. The force is not a mere weapon that you manipulate.” He looked at the young girl, he sensed she only knew death and nothing of life and was not ready to change that. “Go, I have nothing more to teach you.” He and Yul-Li turned away from her and neither would say another word.

Coremi returned to the hostel where she lived, a cheap place with no other tenants and a proprietor that left her alone. As she watched the twin suns burn the horizon, she expected to feel sadness or anger, instead she felt something close to amusement, she was starting to get used to rejection from the so-called good guys. She wondered what Lord Scourge could possibly want her to face that forced him to take her back when everyone else wanted nothing to do with her.

Three days later a message arrived from Galen informing her that Master Yonlach and Yul-Li had been defeated by a Sith named Praven. She left the message on the table and went out to find another glitterstim dealer. She had a feeling the nightmares were about to get worse.