Far removed from the heavy air of the super ocean on Iperos, Marjora VII had little to offer. In the shadows of its larger solar neighbors, Marjora VII offered slight relief from the ever-tightening choke hold the local remnant seemed intent on pursuing in the sector while also being able to deal directly in the heart of Imperial activities of the region. For Weillabo, Marjora VII and one of its many spaceports, Port Ninto, was the perfect meeting point upon being contacted by a man who only identified himself as a ‘friend of Polaris’. While such meetings taking place in the shadows of government institutions was something to rejoice, anyone who calls themselves even an acquaintance of Polaris is someone Weillabo has grown a healthy dispassion for. In the months since Polaris had struck a ‘deal’ - as he put it - with Weillabo, the Hutt’s business and job with Sapius has been teetering on the edge of audits, capital punishment and another self-imposed exile. The Hutt was doing all he could to escape the grasp of the Chev whom had forced him to take a wary part of the trading of sentients.

Of course, it’s not without its perks, Weillabo thought to himself as he held up a golden credit chip against the star-spattered space beyond the viewport of the Hutt’s Arm. He let out a quick ‘guh!’ in surprise as his blue-white Nelvaanian bodyguard, Hallott, tapped his shoulder with a sharp finger.

“Port security agreed to watch over the Arm,” the dog-faced alien said in a hushed tone, unsure if they had disturbed Weillabo in some exotic, credit-induced trance.

Weillabo slowly blinked his eyes, allowing his thoughts to coalesce briefly before sticking the chip into his shoulder-slung pouch.

“Not for lack of money I’m sure,” Weillabo said distractedly, letting out a loud huff through his horizontal nostrils. “Let’s go, then. I wouldn’t want to keep ‘Friend-of-Polaris’ waiting. I’m sure even this fine establishment couldn’t keep him entertained for too long.”

Hallott remained stoically silent behind him, only sidestepping to allow the Hutt passageway out of the modified cockpit and towards the now lowered ramp and eventually following him out onto the cold docking area of Port Ninto’s bay seven. Therein, they were both met with the chilling air from Marjora VII’s thin atmosphere as the landing bay’s canopy-doors finished sliding shut, encasing them and the Hutt’s Arm within. Weillabo slithered down onto the pavement, a rejuvenating chill running through his mass with the Nelvaanian close by. As the two made their way to the blastdoor securing the interior of Port Ninto from the comparatively exposed hangar, they were met with an armored human who was clearly acting under the authority of the Ninto Port Authority.

“Wait,” the man said as if the pair had not already noticed him. “I have it that you’re here to meet Lehmange,” the man wriggled his fingers on his clasped rifle, as if uneasy with the presence of a Hutt. “I’ve been directed to chaperone you in.” Weillabo looked wearily beside him as Hallott who himself continued to look forward. Stretching his lip in obvious discomfort, Weillabo let out a nasally sigh.

“Well,” Weillabo began, his tone defeated and tired, “no time like the present.”

Seemingly relieved at the other’s compliance, the other spoke something quietly into his commlink before waving a hand for the pair to follow him in.

Port Ninto, despite having an entire guard corps sharing its name, was relatively poor compared to its counterparts in the system. Amenities were suitable for those traveling on long-haul trips throughout the Outer Rim and not much else. A few bars, refueling depots paired with shabby restaurants and perhaps a place to sleep were apparently enough to satisfy its patrons, though, as it had decent income for what it was. Full of shaggy-faced spacers, low-lying criminals and honest working cargo haulers, Port Ninto was not necessarily a hub of ‘scum and villainy’, but rather a place where people quite literally wished to stay quiet. Despite this, though, Port Ninto was under the concerned eye of the local Imperials, who in turn frequented not just Port Ninto, but all of Marjora VII’s facilities. The Imperial presence made Weillabo nervous, as all it took was just one zealous off-duty officer to take notice of the Hutt…

Before long, though, and through many hallways and blastdoors within the sealed off facility, the pair were taken into a larger cafeteria space full of businesses selling a variety of food from this region of space. In large contrast to the rather empty passageways, too, the cafeteria was home to at least a few dozen patrons all mingling and conversing over a plethora of well-seasoned meals as the noise and chaos of competing diners and kitchens swelled in the background. The red-armored man who had been escorting them took them to a table in a corner of the hall, where a man in a simple, white tunic and black pants sat down, elbows on the table and lording over a blueish-green drink of some kind. Taking notice of both the port guard and Weillabo himself, he smiled before producing a credit chip for the guard, seemingly in compensation for bringing the Hutt here expeditiously.

The brown-haired, brown-skinned man who was presumably the ‘friend of Polaris’ then began to speak just as the guard walked away.

“Please, sit,” he said, gesturing to the gleaming blue-white plastoid of the opposing chairs. “Well, not you, Hutt. I suppose you come with a seat wherever you are.” The soft-voiced man gave him a wryly smile. Hallott refused to sit, instead standing behind his patron who in turn grumbled a curse in Huttese and slithered over, his face a mix of aggravation and discomfort.

“H’chu apenkee,” Weillabo said courteously despite himself. “Why is it you have summoned me here?”

The man frowned. “Well, like I said Weillabo, I - and Polaris - have some high value, high priority… ahem... property.”

Squinting, Weillabo’s massive eyes stared past the man and into the background where there was, in fact, no ‘high value property’ to speak of.

“You say this,” Weillabo said, gesturing an arm lazily at him, “yet I see nobody accompanying you.”

Giving Weillabo the same sarcastic smile, the man leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms.

“Well, Hutt, a lesson of subtlety is in order, then. Of course I’m not going to bring them out in the middle of a cafeteria for tens of minutes while I wait on you. Trust she's safely nearby.”

“You’ve much caution for an Imperial in some backwater spaceport’s lunchroom,” Weillabo huffed in turn.

“Why- Imperial?!” The man spoke, his Core World accent exaggerating itself as he became flustered almost as if it had grown a mind to betray him. Quieting himself, he continued again but no less surprised.

“What makes you say that, Hutt?”

Smiling now, Weillabo let out a short chortle. “Intuition,” is all he replied, allowing his quiet chuckle to dissipate before continuing the conversation further. “Now, if you don’t mind, why the so-called subtlety?” Weillabo only paused for a moment, before shaking his head. “No, why even bring me here at all? I gave you and that dirty Chev all the information you needed for your foolish raids on Sapius. What is my presence here intended for?” Weillabo leaned into the table, his acrid breath assaulting the other’s face. “Koochoo, do you wish more from me despite all I have given for little return?”

Flaring his nostrils, the other leaned forward again, his gaze becoming more steely-eyed.

“Well, for one, we wanted to see if you’d even show, or if the information you gave us was a trap.” He paused, averting his gaze. “Clearly, it wasn’t. Secondly, though, and now more pressing is the fact that these, uh, assets are of great importance to Sapius and, now, to us.”

Furrowing his brow, Weillabo spoke angrily as a flurry of implications rushed to his head. “Importance to Sapius?” he questioned. “Polaris said he just wanted slaves. Any old slaves.”

“Ah, but he did,” the pompous man replied. “But, the prison transport you so graciously clued us in on was, in fact, just a personnel carrier. We realized rather late. Not late enough, though, to capture a person of skill.”

His anger buried itself at that, instead being replaced by sudden interest and captivation.

“Skill?” Weillabo repeated.

“Skill,” the other confirmed. “She’s a roboticist under contract for Sapius. We plan to sell her and her skills off to some group in the Tressia system who have special needs for her skills. But we have a problem, a problem that requires a third party.”

“If I’m supposed to be a third party,” Weillabo grumbled, “then you people are doing a poor job of keeping it so.”

Rolling his eyes, the man continued on. “You’re… an information broker, nothing more. No need to get more involved. That is, no more than what we’re going to ask you.”

“And what’s that?” Weillabo asked, reaching a grubby hand into his pack and producing a vibrantly colored, cheap looking cigarra that immediately made the table reek of cheap spice before even being lit. “To hold them hostage myself? I work for Sapius, need I remind you. They’ll recognize a Hutt should they escape. There goes my career. I’d gladly leave, but your Imperial friends already saw to keeping that from happening.”

Coughing slightly at the now lit cigarra, and displeased by Weillabo’s non-compliance, the man took a more dire tone.

“Look, Hutt, the truth is that Sapius is looking hard for her. Where better to keep her than at your little bank, huh? Besides, Polaris still isn’t sure you won’t betray him. Frankly, neither am I.”

“Betray?” Weillabo’s now watery eyes widened and squinted in succession from the audacious human’s claims. “I’ve done nothing but concede to his blackmail! I’ve given, and given and yet I have received nothing but suspicion and incredulous threats!”

Weillabo lowered the cigarra to blow a torrent of spiced smoke from his mouth into the face of the other, causing them to instinctively squint before sticking it back onto his lower lip. While his human counterpart coughed, Weillabo gave the idea some thought. Perhaps it wasn’t a bad idea. In fact, he could use the roboticist as a ransom towards Polaris since he valued her so badly. The edges of his lips curled in a confident smile as he looked upwards, all too pleased with himself.

Taking another long draw from his cigarra, he looked back at the other who was now slouched and obviously thinking of ways to force the Hutt’s arm in this.

“Fine,” Weillabo said, clearing his face of any previous pleasantry. “I agree to your terms. I will take them to Iperos where they will be safely held in my custody.” Very safely held, he thought.

Perking up, ‘friend of Polaris’ smiled like a child whose parents had finally relented. “Alright, Hutt. Just note: betrayal results in Sapius catching wind of where exactly our lost roboticist is.” Suspicious, the man pinged a commlink as if in a sudden hurry to get rid of the woman. From some unseen corner, perhaps a maintenance room door, came a paler woman who seemed oddly near-human and a rough looking human male just behind her, presumably keeping her in line with some unseen weapon. The pair stood in the backdrop while Polaris’s representative looked over his shoulder, back at them, and then back through Weillabo and towards Hallott.

“I take my leave now, Hutt. Don’t bother trying to contact me through the same channel, we will contact you.”

In a hurry now, the man lifted from his chair and went for the nearest hallway towards one of the facility’s docking bays, only narrowly remembering his drink. As he exited, the gruff man and the roboticist walked forward towards the table - the man almost ignorantly calm and the woman with a stiffness about her. No wonder, too, the entire exchange would seem odd to Weillabo and even stranger to a being who had been violently made into a bargaining chip between several factions.

The gruff man merely nodded at Weillabo, then at Hallott, before leaving not far behind his Imperial co-conspirator, leaving the roboticist in the awkward company of the Hutt and Nelvaanian. Taking another long, methodical draw of his cigarra, Weillabo examined her much to her visible discomfort. Pale, white-blue skin and black hair accompanied by a rather ornate robe gave credence that she was not necessarily a human, but rather one of the many countless humanoid species throughout the Galaxy. More strikingly were the woman’s golden eyes. Her species was clearly a more isolated one, and he had half a mind to just ship her to Hutt space as an apologetic trophy. Of course, that’d get him nowhere.

“Sit,” Weillabo commanded, white smoke streaming through his lopsided nostrils. Hesitantly, the woman did so, looking sketchily between him and his bodyguard.

“I have it on good word that you are a skilled engineer. A droid engineer.”

The woman scoffed, sudden anger boiling through her previous veneer of being placated.

“You and your gangsters saw to it that you’d butcher half the crew of the Lime Fly before releasing we weren’t just hauling spice.” Her voice was of an accent Weillabo could not recognize and one that suggested Basic was not her first language.

Weillabo did not speak for a long moment, piecing together that she did not know Polaris’s true intentions and instead believed they were after spice. Good, he thought, let her believe inaccuracies.

“But you and your friend made a mistake,” she continued, “tell me why you two chose to make this exchange here. Why shouldn’t I just scream and let the entire spaceport know what and who you are? Sapius is looking far and wide for me. I am an accredited-”

Weillabo held a dismissive hand up, his eyes burning with both contempt and weariness for this deal. He was angry, but could not take out such rage on the proper people.

“Bousha tee droog!” He barked at Hallott in sudden Huttese, lowering his silencing hand. Before either of them knew it, her exposed arm was pinned to the table by the Nelvaanian much to her surprise. Careless of who was around or watching, and tired of the entire affair, Weillabo savored one last draw of stinging spice before putting the cigarra out on her wrist, forcing a shocked yelp from her and the smell of quickly staling ash. There were a few concerned looks from nearby patrons, but most of them, either through the reputation of the Hutts or sheer apathy, turned away.

“This port is owned and operated by the careless and its only patrons are, similarly, too busy and tired to care,” the Hutt said as matter-of-factually as he could muster in Basic. “You’ve no allies here. The only thing you do have is a high selling point and the capacity to make my enemies go away.”

Jerking her arm away from the Nelvaanian and clenching her teeth, she rubbed the visible burn mark, looking down and away from the Hutt in silent protest. Weillabo let out a low, satisfied hum before turning his torso slightly to his guard.

“Drinks…” he shifted his gaze briefly to the woman “...for three.”

Giving a curt nod, Hallott walked off to the nearest bar…

In the months since Vizier had encountered the roaming Twi’lek historian, Sirdo Nilm, and the pleasantries offered to him by Khan Flexo’s facility and Arkanian Ravee Chasel’s services - he had been a nomad. Refusing any more handouts, the droid got to work as the ‘emancipated being’ that he was atop the vast Iperos Installation and its many nooks and crannies that the Arkanian had given him safe passage to. Newly furnished with a fresh chassis, Vizier’s pride had never been stronger since then. The proud insignia of the Tetafort dynasty gleamed brilliantly from the harsh sun of Iperos and Vizier’s own ideology had only been further reinforced upon further readings - or data intakes - of the last few centuries of Galactic history. In spite of this, Vizier was jobless. He was a piece of machinery heavily fraught with millennia of personality quirks that should never have become as autonomous as he had. Furthermore, he was without any sort of capital or resources to draw from. The Arkanian had made quite an offer for ‘droideka’ parts, but further research concluded that those would be extremely hard to come by so long as he was stuck on Iperos.

It had been almost humiliating work for a former administration droid, but Vizier had secured a quiet job with one of the more forward-thinking minds of the corporate installation. The Bothan manager had allowed Vizier to work as a simple greeter and basic trainer for new hires and interns to the spice-refining. Vizier was rather humiliatingly made to wear simple robes over his chassis so as to hide what the Bothan called an ‘outdated’ appearance that supposedly drew away from the company’s image. To add salt to the wound, Vizier was also paid a fraction of the credits normal trainers were given even in spite of the objectively superior - although impersonal - performance he provided. It was effectively under-the-table work, and indicative of a lack of personnel due to events outside the corporation’s control in both Region Twelve and the Galaxy at large.

The worst injustice was Vizier being mistaken as Sapius Corporation property. In such occurrences, Vizier felt a new feeling unintended by his long-dead programmers: resentment. The droid had felt the feeling in lesser forms before, of course. The systematic death of his patron family had sparked more of a prolonged rage and longing for justice. The ever-present politics of the Core Worlds was a harsh annoyance. But being treated the same as the binary loadlifters that populated the cargo bays of Iperos Installation, or as akin to the snide protocol droids in its meeting halls was an affront to the legacy of the Tetafort dynasty to the old droid. Vizier was history. Vizier was the entire logging of family events from the very founding of Vaedas. The births and deaths of his small family, the foreign dignitary visits, the unraveling and storied past of fair Vaedas had all resided in his ailing memory, and for some lackey to claim ownership of it, even by mistake, fostered only growing resentment in him.

Vizier did not advocate for droid liberation. Instead, he paradoxically saw his being as above that of a droid. Working for Sapius had consequently performed a great toll on Vizier’s artificial psyche. Sapius had only intended to be temporary employment. The droid had not even given the Bothan overseer a courtesy resignation notice. In the dead of night, the droid paid for passage to the infamous Point of No Return to lose himself among the rabble of the Galactic underworld…
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That was where Vizier had found himself in the last few months since the local remnant’s harsh response to the independence movement on Talou III. Choosing to continue donning the blue-white garb given to him on Iperos so as to hide his rather intricate chassis from would-be scrappers, Vizier had wandered the vast space station aimlessly despite his lofty aims. The various corners, passageways and ports of the station provided all manner of depravity and debauchery. Completely unregulated, the Port of No Return was yet another failure of Imperial bureaucracy in Vizier’s mind - but a necessary tool in which he hoped to exploit its lawlessness. Like on Iperos, though, Vizier was still small. He was practically nothing in the grand scheme of things, and there was no barrier barring someone from simply taking Vizier and tearing him apart for scrap or, if he was lucky, selling his body to an Old Republic antique dealer. Taking what little money he had left from the voyage, Vizier had bought a cheap vibroblade and a small, requisitioned SC-4 blaster pistol much to the humor of the weapons dealer.
“You one of those rogue droids I’ve been hearing about?” Vizier’s turned his torso to align his bulbous photoreceptor array with the cadence of stiff machinery. His receptor-studded head stared at the fat, bearded man like a confused child being approached by a stranger, unable to formulate a sentence for some seconds. The man himself was rather unassuming and unthreatening to Vizier. He was plump, of course, but also wearing goggles to protect from the harsh light of whatever metal work he was doing. His stained overalls suggested a job in maintenance or repairs aboard the large space station.

The man curled his lips in what Vizier construed as an unearned smile. “You speak binary droid?” He asked the question rhetorically with a quiet laugh before sitting at the same table as Vizier, opening the lunchbox he had been carrying and pulling out a small assortment of lunchtime foods before snacking eagerly.
“No,” Vizier’s unregulated voice volume almost seemed to come out of the station’s PA system, causing the man to jump in surprise and cough a little of what he had just accidentally inhaled. “I am the administrator and caretaker of the salt merchants of the Duchy of Hoesaeg.”

The droid paused as if new variables had suddenly just become known to him.

“Why have you come to me?”

The man, still reeling, finally let out another tone of amusement. “You’re a quirky one, ain’t ya? I ask because I’m kriffing hungry and want someone - or something - to talk to.” The man unwrapped a gray-green bar and began to munch on the protein rich contents inside. “You ain’t got an own-”

This time, Vizier’s predictive algorithms worked for once as he cut the man off.

“An owner? My patrons," he said in correction, "are dead, killed by the Empire.”

The man let out a quiet noise through his nose Vizier could only identify as being sympathetic.
“Seems to be the story of a lot of beings who come through here,” the man said, swallowing the last of the bar and opening a canteen to wash it down. “A lot more lowlifes, though. A lot more. Ya noticed?”

Vizier’s cylindrical head rotated around in a circular, scanning the room unnecessarily.
“I’ve noticed,” he said blandly.

“Yeah,” the man continued, thrown off a little. “I’d be careful. Quirky droids like yourself get snatched up quick ‘round here.”
Vizier leaned his torso in slightly, stiff hands already reaching beneath his robe as the man made himself an instant threat to the unstable droid. Seeing this, the man threw his hands up as if to calm the situation, eyes slightly widened.
“Now- I didn’t mean nothin’ by it. Just a piece of advice from one person to another, yeah?”
Vizier silently considered it, then lowered his hand.

Giving out a sigh of relief, the man began stroking his white-brown beard as if to calm himself, looking down at the table in obvious deliberation of what to say next. What else was there to say, though? Vizier could already feel the onset of an offer coming. The human had tried to make himself friendly in the brief minute or two he had sat there and was now attempting to lead the conversation somewhere.
“My being a droid is obviously of some interest to you,” Vizier finally broke the ice, not giving the dwarfish man a chance to steer the interaction any further.

“I uh- well…” the man lowered his hand from his beard and went for another one of the protein bars. The unwrapping of it and consumption, Vizier noted, gave the man some slight comfort. “Well, see, we- no… he is looking for-”

Vizier again cut him off abruptly. “Who is he?”

This time, the man sighed and shook his head calmly. “Can’t say that. Not now. I just get paid a little on the side to bring in new recruits. You can get paid too, though. And protection. Protection is big, droid.” The man took another eager bite out of the bar, flooding Vizier’s audioreceptors with obnoxious chewing. “I never met the man personally, he uses droids like yourself as proxies. But he’s big on the whole ‘droids rights’ thing. Real big. You seem to be big on it too, yeah?”
If Vizier was organic, he would scoff. Droid’s rights were a futile effort. Droids were machines. Vizier had ascended that threshold, in his view, and become something else entirely. Not quite droid and certainly not human, sure, but a category for those droids who were left to stew in the endless ones and zeros of their own mind that eventually drove them to develop their own personalities. Many owners found it amusing, even comforting. For Vizier, it was like a sort of hellish existence that he only ignored. That was all he really could do, after all.

“The so-called emancipation of droids is for the egalitarians to handle. I care little for it.”

The man swallowed and made a defeated ‘oh’ before zipping up his lunchbox. “Well, then… perhaps you’ll consider it anyway. I’m not the best salesman. I just owe a debt.” The man stood up, reaching into a pocket in his crud-studded overalls. “Here,” he said, placing a strip of flimsiplast on the commissary table. “I don’t know what it says, but you get into that frequency and you should know all you need to know. They pay good, droid. If I were you, I’d look into it.” The man turned to walk away, letting out a series of curses to himself as he did so.

Vizier had not even been able to ask what it was that this purveyor of droids did. What was he getting ‘paid’ for? He leaned over to grab the flimsiplast, careful not to tear the thin acrylic. The entire thing was written in binary. Not necessarily easy to decode, but simple if the man had just sought it out. Of course, the comms frequency was inscribed onto it. Aside from that, though, there were four striking words over the whole thing that Vizier hardly recognized:

‘Droid Gotra - Region Twelve’

The swamp-laden air of Nal Hutta was but a dream for a being such as Weillabo Heinalag Weth. His slick, mucus-covered body had begged all his life to be on such a world specially crafted by his forefathers for his anatomy. Instead, he was born to the desolate volcanism of Sleheyron and further relegated to the salty atmosphere of Iperos with all the comfort his hardly reliable air-conditioning systems offered him. Acherios II, though, provided him some respite in his comfort. Despite the dying star it orbited, the arctic world harbored life in the form of the endless swathes of tundras and taigas the pale solar mass resided over. The Hutt found himself awkwardly comfortable here, even if temperatures fell well below freezing, especially closer to the polar regions he currently slithered through. Perhaps it was due to the thick, nerf-hide coat he wore over his asymmetrical back, or just owed to his many years working on different varieties of cold rocks. Either way, he hardly had a choice. A being like Weillabo had not built the repertoire necessary to avoid 'business' trips such as these. Instead of potential clients coming to him, the Hutt was expected to come to them this time. Refusing would be as stupid as it was a glorification of one's own renown.

"I don't suppose he expects us to meet him here."

Weillabo's eyes shifted to the right at the snide remark coming from his muscle, Hallott, a well-built Nelvaanian who’s matted fur resembled the Acherian sun.

“Of course not,” the Hutt responded in a tolerant, albeit annoyed tone, “He has made arrangements."

“Great,” the next reply came from Weillabo’s left, now emanating from the pudgy, pale-skinned human who only referred to himself as 'Kliff', “and why couldn’t this ‘arrangement’ be made on somewhere that isn’t as frozen as The Drift?”

Squinting and looking forward to the dimly lit mining town, Weillabo chose to ignore the complaint from his probably less–than-capable muscle.

“Here, I have discretion. Something you should be mindful of,” the Hutt advised in his thickly-accented Basic.

Kliff could not help but raise a sarcastic fuss at that. “A Hutt and blue Bothan walk into the only inn on this iceball, yet I’m the unsubtle human who gets counseled for not being mindful enough."

Weillabo silently turned his massive head to the human, giving him an almost predatory glare that reminded Kliff exactly who was on whose payroll. The man shut his mouth, but not before grumbling a few expletives to himself.

The trio, lightly armed only with blaster pistols, moved forward through the crude, ice-covered path that followed from the landing pad to the town proper. The hemisphere’s long night had taken its annual hold of this town, lightheartedly named ‘Flurrytown’ by its inhabitants in juxtaposition to the violent snow and hail storms this part of the world experienced. Only inhabited for its lucrative berubium deposits and extremely limited adventure-tourism, the town was only visited by the scant freighter looking to pick up the raw ore or restless human who had enough of the harsh life here. Consequently, landing the Hutt’s Arm on one of the town’s scant few landing pads brought along attention and stares from its majority human inhabitants. Perhaps Weillabo had not been as discrete as he thought, for as far as he could tell, there were no other ships in sight. Perhaps the other party had parked in the far-outskirts for this very reason.

Entering the main street of the town, which was merely a gravel road suitable for mining equipment and the occasional track-based droid, the trio had the fortune of hardly anyone being up and about. While this part of the world experienced nights that were months long, it was still relatively late locally. Weillabo’s cat-like eyes surveyed the town, settling them on one of the only two-story buildings there with dimly-lit neon signs that read ‘Spiral ‘Inn’ in basic. Approaching it revealed the town to be more of the same; crates full of the barest supplies necessary for living, street lamps lit only by what was likely a primitive power generator and empty bottles of alcohol strewn about the snow. The inn itself was not much to look at, constructed of a duracrete exterior with a drab coat of brown paint thrown on it not too dissimilar a shade from Weillabo’s own spotty skin.

The Hutt was the first to enter, the doors detecting his presence and opening to reveal the rather comfortable interior cast in orange light. The desk was staffed by a young brown-haired human woman who looked surprisingly disinterested in the massive slug blocking her doorway. She waited to speak until the entourage had approached.

Weillabo prepared to speak guttural basic before being silently interrupted by the handing over of a keycard.

“Not much for words?” Kliff asked rhetorically, snagging the keycard away from her with a gaudy grin and looking down and reading ‘twenty-one’ to himself, but audible enough for all to hear. Weillabo gave the man another sidelong glance.

“Bad customer service definitely isn’t going to make this dump any better,” Kliff added, looking up from the magnetic card before ultimately moving on to the turbolift. Weillabo and Hallott shared brief glances before following the man in turn, leaving the woman to her own thoughts.

Riding the turbolift which was likely wildly out of any regulation found on even some Outer Rim worlds - and making their way to room twenty-one, Weillabo deliberated what they would be met with. Obviously they, or at least a Hutt, was expected there, if the woman’s silent handing out of keycards was anything to go off. But all Weillabo knew was of a man who purported to be a so-called ‘Liberator of Spice’ in his briefly worded message. Weillabo was well adept at working with such ‘liberators’ and thieves, but the lack of identity on the other party’s end did give him some pause. It was not uncommon to remain anonymous, but Region Twelve was not exactly a bastion of law and order. Even if the local remnant or corporate enforcement agencies had caught wind of you, it was not exactly complicated to forge a new identity or avoid them outright. Weillabo, though, simply could not afford to refuse. His current business venture was at its most vulnerable point in its lifecycle and, like a Neimoidian and its grubs, the Hutt intended on fostering the perfect environment for it to flourish in.
The trio walked and slithered the wood-floored hallway and approached the door.

Weillabo stood in front of the entry, staring at the key-reader on the door’s handle in silent anticipation, before Kliff rather abruptly ran the card over it and activated the quiet beep that signaled the primitive door had unlocked.

Weillabo’s eyes widened considerably. A white-skinned Chev, smoking a cigarra leaned back in his chair within the dingy room, accompanied by a Chev female carrying a blaster rifle and a little, ratty Chadra-Fan that looked up, first at the Hutt, then at Kliff before barking out high-pitched noises that could only be construed as laughing. The cigarra-smoking Chev was none other than Polaris Vinth, accompanied by his sister: Illbi. For the bat-like alien, Weillabo had no recognition, but the Hutt could only assume the worst. Swallowing, Weillabo pushed past clueless Kliff, who was giving the Chadra-Fan a curious gaze, and followed by Hallott who only stoically looked past the opposing trio.

“Make yourselves comfortable,” Polaris said dryly, his mere presence obviously hanging in the air for Weillabo to seethe under to the utter cluelessness of his hired guns.

“I think we have… much to discuss, no?” Polaris lowered his feet and looked intently at the frowning Hutt.
“How did you follow me here?” Weillabo asked, stopping just before the table while Hallott and Kliff traded confused glances this time behind him.
“Your kind isn’t exactly hard to find.” It was Illbi who spoke this time, staring icily at the Hutt. Her face suggesting both hatred and her tone a hint of desperation.

Polaris smiled wryly. “She’s not wrong. You’re not exactly subtle either, are you? Big Hutt wants to play criminal in the Corporate Sector and thinks he can just flee to any old rock? You have a big number on your head. I’ve been tracking you since you escaped me on D’ian all those years back. Turns out, it’s not just the Corpos who want you strung up."

Concerned, Kliff and Hallott both placed hands on their holsters as the very real tension in the air only thickened. This only prompted a response from Illbi, though, who quickly took her rifle off its safety and pointed its long muzzle at the sloped cranium of the Hutt.

Weillabo, held back silent fury as adrenaline poured into his system, then leaned forward.
“Nagoola,” Weillabo said, raising a calm and dismissive arm to his two underlings, prompting them to hesitantly take their hands off their blasters even while Illbi continued to keep him in her sights.

“You’ve caught me. Now what? Koochoo, do you think you can get past the blockade running the system? You’ll be space dust!” Weillabo let out a slow, bellowing laugh that would likely cause a stir to anyone sleeping in the next room over, “go ahead, cuff me,” he put both his wrists forward in mocking surrender, “take me to the nearest Imperial outpost. I’m sure they’re all brimming to do paperwork and incarcerate me.” Weillabo lowered his hands, his face glowering as if a joke had quickly run its course. “Truth is, I have friends in high places now," he said, only half-lying.

“My truth,” Polaris began with a scowl, “is that I don’t particularly mind hauling an overgrown worm through the snow all night.” He looked angrily to the other two behind Weillabo. “I’m sure room service can handle the rest.”

Weillabo’s eyes looked to the beady-eyed Chadra-Fan, then to Illbi. Polaris was threatening to kill him, but there was a very real issue of not only the locals coming for him if he did so - but the logistics of hauling his corpse as Polaris had sarcastically mentioned. No, whoever Polaris purported to be working for clearly wanted Weillabo alive and to come willingly. But why, then, would Polaris think he can run the blockade? Seemingly nobody could get through it, and even if Polaris was an idiot, Weillabo knew he wasn’t that dumb.

“Ah,” Weillabo breathed out in understanding, “you brought me out here to negotiate.”

Smiling, Polaris waved his sister’s gun down this time.

“As observant as your kind is revolting, eh?”

Weillabo frowned again. “Then why the pretense of taking me in? Why come all this way just to… ‘negotiate’, as you say.”

“Well,” Polaris continued, “the original plan on arrival was to take you in to the CSA. But we arrived just when the local Imps started getting uppity about travel restrictions. My sister and I can bring in as many low-life thugs as we want, but truth is they don’t pay like they used to. Empire’s run a deficit around these parts. You’d be lucky if a job even pays for fuel."

Polaris looked to the Chadra-Fan who had been silently and awkwardly standing there for a while now.

“Our friend here,” Polaris continued, “suggests we branch out a little. My sister and I are inclined to agree.”

Weillabo let out an annoyed groan. “Why would I work with uppity Chevin-cattle and their little pet who had all, not just two minutes ago, threatened my life,” Weillabo presented a hand to the two behind him, “and the life of my… loyal associates?”

Illbi seemed to take rather harsh offense to that, Weillabo noting that her nostrils flared as he had likely struck a nerve. The Chadra-Fan seemed oblivious, while Polaris - if he was offended - had stifled it for now.

“Because,” Polaris huffed, his patience running thin, “once that blockade runs its course I’ll be right back on your slimy little tail, Hutt. But I am giving you the opportunity now to not only make some money, but also get me off of your tail. If you don’t wanna play ball, then enjoy your bloated life while it lasts.”

Weillabo stared at Polaris long and hard. He could tell the Chev was not bluffing and, more importantly, that Illbi’s trigger finger was particularly restless.

“Peedunky,” Weillabo waved a conciliatory hand, “what do you have for me that would make me so inclined to agree?”

Polaris nodded towards the little Chadra-Fan. “Navi here is…” Polaris paused, as if a little ashamed of himself, “...a purveyor of ‘sentient goods’. Illegal spice mines, podracing, underground medical experiments, all those sorts have a high demand for Navi’s services. Problem is, Navi is stranded here just like us. He has contacts, but lacks the resources.”

Weillabo furrowed his brow, speaking in a tone that was slower and more agitated than anything else.

“I see two able-bodied kidnappers right here. Why don’t you two do it? I’m sure Chevs are very… intimate with the ways of slavery, no?”

This seemed to only madden Illbi more, but Polaris decided to bite.
“Real funny," the Chev sighed, "Point is, we made a mutually beneficial agreement with our friend here, and we all get a share of work and services provided to such… unsavory organizations out here. But we lack the financial capital. That’s whe-”

Weillabo cut him off, pointing a grubby finger in the air. “I am a banker, Chev. I do not deal in such dangerous and ill-advised business. To suggest so is insulting to me and these honrable men you had me bring out here with me."

Polaris could only roll his eyes. “Yeah, yeah, ‘Muun Civil Banking’,” he said sarcastically, “a real charming name. I know what you and your little cronies are doing out here, Weillabo. It sure as hell isn’t just handing out loans for starships. I know you’re already involved in the spice trade, I’m just not sure how. You also work for that kriffing corporation. They run off slavery!” Polaris sighed, leaning back in his chair. “We didn’t approach you out of the kindness of our hearts,” he added calmly now, “we know you’re involved, and we know you have insider details on how slave operations are legitimately run here. All we want is a little information and you’re a free man- err… Hutt.”

Weillabo considered it silently for a moment, the staggered breathing of unathletic Kliff slowly adding to his growing frustration.

“Fine, fine,” Weillabo finally yielded, “if that is all you ask, then I am sure I can… procure information. But I must ask: what is it you plan to do with it?”

Polaris smiled now in genuine giddiness. “That’s for us to know. All you need do is give us what we want and go about your day. You’ll be further compensated of course.”

Weillabo’s cat-like eyes rolled up to meet Illbi who seemed none-too-happy with the arrangement. Of course, why would she be? The Chev species had a long history of being enslaved, and the fact that the two were now being part of the problem was likely a point of contention. Weillabo merely found it amusing and ironic, but why was this the only option they had to make money? Surely there were other lucrative ways to make a decent living out here, especially with their skills. The Hutt hardly knew the pair, though, beyond the brief and almost deadly spaceport encounters on the run.

Weillabo’s wide mouth smiled from end-to-end now. “You would make a fine negotiator if you weren’t so barbaric in your career choices, Polaris Vinth.”

“And you’d make a wonderful pile of dung,” the male Chev bitterly retorted, “but I believe we have come to an agreement?”

Weillabo thought for a moment of what this would imply. The Hutt was no stranger to giving away company information and details to buyers, but the blackmailing gave him great pause. Who was to say that Polaris would not just rat him out to Sapius? Weillabo was tired of running, but he was also tired of living in squalor. His Uncle Ouri had always told him his time would come when he could live in the opulent palaces and properties owned by the wealthiest of Hutt Space. Risk taking, and management, was key to that. He supposed he had to roll with the proverbial punches, and accept that it was a risk he was not only going to have to accept, but also be willing to take.

Weillabo muttered out a Huttese proverb about both parties prospering, mostly to himself, before sticking out a hand to Polaris who hesitantly shook it in turn.

Music hammered the air in the cargo hold, its concussive rhythm erratic and lyrics incomprehensible but most certainly crude if the Basic loan words that slipped through was any indication. Seems to be the kind of cacophony the people of the Outer Rim enjoyed, if the signal was broadcasted powerfully enough to even reach the borders of Region 12 and beyond. After hearing it and others like it through the past couple of years he spent on the Deliverance on patrols, Crutic can't help but admit that the genre - whatever it is - was growing on him. It was the perfect mind rotting chaos to burn time away during the lull between missions and ironically sharpened his focus to get the chores done. Perhaps it was the way it subconsciously reminded him of the unrelenting shouts of drill instructors of his youth or maybe it merely gave no room for stray thoughts. Whatever the psychological reason may be, it was the perfect background track to allow him to put the fusion cutter to the circuits and perform the necessary repair on the targeting computer.

The moment of oxymoronic tranquility was ushered to an end when someone called something out over the music that ended it, leaving his ears feeling fuzzy and numb. Then the hold's lighting also dimmed, the move that finally tore his attention away from his work and towards the blue haze that made itself known in the middle of the room. The hologram took a few more seconds to resolve into a Twi'lek concluding her flowery monologue on the employment opportunities to be had at Sapius Corp. What came after was the familiar jingle of Marjora Broadcasting Network and the reason of the interruption became evident. While usually a source of the local news and any notable going ons of the Region, MBN have became the main source of Imperial news that didn't come through the usual command channels. In this moment, the news of interest would be operation being carried out by Task Force Resh under the direct oversight of Admiral Jaquinn himself. Rumors has it that the objective of such an operation was to quell the insurrection at Talou, as was discussed in the interview with Governor Ryehall not long ago. Perhaps this time Marnora can set things straight as she did back then.

But something was wrong with Marnora Tren today. Crutic could see, could feel, it. It was very subtle but he has always been a bit too empathetic in noticing things like these. Under that professional mask she puts on for the camera drones, something was very wrong. Her picturesque charm was disturbed by her eyes darting around, unsure of where to focus. Minute tensions rippled under her skin, attempting to pry her face into expressions she dare not reveal. Her words, when she spoke them, was stilted. Devoid of the practiced charisma she was known for in the decade she has been the host. A feed of some kind played behind her, possibly of the event she was speaking of, but the sentence she uttered and how it correlates to the footage was lost to Crutic, as her distress took center stage.

And all too soon, the report ended. Abruptly.

"Of course it's edited! The citizens have no reason to witness the horrors of peacekeeping efforts!" one of the stormtroopers blurted at the empty blue glow that replaced Marnora, snapping Crutic out of his hyperfixation.

"That's not the point," one of his teammates grumbled back to the murmur of agreement. "She clearly got the wrong idea of what the boys at Talou III are doing."

Realizing that the brief report contained information he was too distracted to register, Crutic raised his hand to ask for someone to fill him in, but an advert broke the tense silence instead. With it clear that MBN won't be continuing from their apparent technical difficulty, the holoprojector was turned off and the crowd dispersed.

"What happened?" he eventually managed to ask FS-273-4 as the pounding music returned to drumming the interior. The flight lead raised his eyebrow to the seemingly oblivious question and stared blankly at the subordinate's helmeted face for a moment as if expecting the plastoid scowl to conform to the confusion of its user before relenting with a sigh.

"We will be busy soon."

MBN Green Room, moments before system-wide broadcast

Marnora Tren stood at the forefront of her friends, her face a still and perfect mask hiding the shocked response to the footage before her. The howling screams of the dying reverberated in her ears, louder than the sounds of pure carnage as a bandolier of thermal detonator ripped through a residential building. It was as if someone had glued her eyes open. She dared not look away while the rest of her coworkers watched her reactions so diligently, any falter in her perfect features could spell the end of her career. She had long been the defacto propaganda arm of Governor Ryehall’s regime, but this… this was too much. Ryehall had been on her show just a month ago, speaking to the quality of Imperial Peacekeeping in Region Twelve. She knew that his words were a false front, hiding the more brutal tactics the Empire had become famous for during the time of the Rebellion. She knew that she was complicit in that facade.

But here and now, there was something stirring in her heart. In the shaky camera footage, she could see the truth behind the mask of oppression. The people of Talou III were not savage out of nature. They were savage out of necessity. The Empire had come to wrestle their brief independence away from them and they would be damned if they let it go without a fight. Was that wrong? On the monitors, Marnora could see the people rallied, shouting cries of freedom as Imperial laser fire ripped through their ranks. The city and its people were losing, but the spirit of freedom was not.

“Cut the indicated sections out,” She could hear one of the producers tell the editor, “Tren’s broadcast will be focused entirely on the heroics of our forces.”

An affirmative was given and Marnora was shuffled out of the room towards the main broadcast chamber. Everything swam as she was sat down behind her desk. The lights were too bright, and the camera drones swirling around the room were too noisy. The incessant chatter of the rest of the crew split her head apart. The sound of the teleprompter whirred to life, like a buzzsaw with its grinding and screeching. Each letter flashed onto the screen like a staccato burst of light. The jingle of MBN sounded like a concussive blast of a Jizz-box. It was time.

Good evening, citizens of Region Twelve. I’m your host Marnora Tren, and I am here to bring you today’s breaking news!

She repeated the teleprompter, word for word as matching footage flashed across the screen behind her.

As loyal subjects, it is our duty to support our brave men and women in uniform, who have embarked on this mission to secure the stability and prosperity of our beloved region of space.

She felt the words sour in her mouth as she spoke as she remembered the faces facing the flames of the Imperial invasion. The presence of the two stormtroopers flanking her made her gut twist.

We must remember, dear citizens, that this operation is not just about military might, but also the security of all. The citizens of Talou III…

Marnora hesitated, cleared her throat, and took a deep breath…

The citizens of Talou III are not the savages the Empire might lead you to believe. All of the footage you have seen is edited! We are slaughtering them like animals!

Abrupt end of broadcast

Aboard the Decadence, high in orbit above Marjora Prime

Admiral Jaquinn paced back and forth in the command room of his Star Destroyer. Every single report coming out of Talou III was a puzzle piece that he needed a fleet of astromechs to decipher. Dogfights in the atmosphere, firefights on the ground, a lightsaber wielding demon rampaging through the streets, it was chaos. Jaquinn cursed under his breath as he lamented his absence.

Ryehall had given him an impossible task, capture the city, the planet, with as little force as possible. Most of the forces under his command had seen little more than the occasional scuffle with pirates. They were not prepared for an insurrection. They had been poorly commanded by inexperienced peacetime leaders. Had he been allowed the use of harder, more efficient tactics, the Talou system would be under Imperial control by now. The valiant efforts Instead, he was left with a city in open rebellion and the orders preventing an orbital bombardment. Ryehall was so damned paranoid that he wouldn’t even let the Decadence join the fighting. The presence of the Star Destroyer very likely could have put an end to the insurrection at the moment of its arrival.

The Imperial forces of Region Twelve were winning, every calculation came to that determination. The outcome of that victory was up in the air, however. Many of the reports spoke of a pyrrhic victory, the city destroyed, and an unsustainable amount of Imperial casualties. Other reports predicted a long and drawn out invasion, a veritable war on terror that would span years. Jaquinn did not have the luxury of such a costly campaign. His anger boiled at the collar around his throat, keeping him in check like some kind of lapdog. Ryehall was out of his mind if he thought these orders were the proper approach to Talou’s rebellion.

“No, we’re doing this my own way.” Jaquinn grumbled as he thundered his way towards the bridge of the ship.

He was saluted by everyone he passed, though he did not offer the same courtesy in return. His mind was a singular focus. As the doors opened and his presence was announced, Jaquinn strode towards the comms officer.

“Open a shipwide channel, full broadcast, highest priority.” Jaquinn ordered.

The officer nodded, flipping a series of switches and dials before a loud screech crackled through the shipwide intercoms. Jaquinn’s voice was stern, a perfect mask hiding the anger and rage boiling inside him.

“Attention, crew of the Decadence. We have been denied our rightful place in the crucible of combat. We have simmered in the shadows while others attempted to claim the glory that should rightfully be ours. We are the Empire’s mightiest fist, and yet we were held back, kept in reserve. No more!” Jaquinn’s voice thundered triumphantly through the comm, “Today, we shall unleash that fury and seething anger towards those that would deny Region Twelve its security. Prepare for the jump to hyperspace. Engage all systems with a ferocity that will shatter the resolve of those who cower within the city walls Ryehall deemed too valuable to assault with prejudice. Make no mistake, the Decadence will rain cataclysmic destruction down upon those who still resist. We will show them what it means to defy the fury of the Empire. We will show them what we are capable of, and we will make a statement the rest of Region Twelve will hear loud and clear. For the Empire!”

In a lonely apartment, safe from the fighting outside

Telvora clutched her child in her arms, gently rocking the Twi’lek from side to side, hushing its quiet crying as distant blasts sounded like thunder on a rainy night. Her lekku draped over her shoulders and the small child playfully grabbed at the tender appendage. The fighting had grown quieter this past hour, fewer and fewer explosions rocked the city and though it was foolish to believe the fighting was over, there was still a small spark of hope in her heart that Talou was free.

“It’s going to be okay.” Telvora whispered.

Her quiet voice hid the fear in her heart. Her smile, a mask hiding the awful truth from her child, was the perfect medicine for an anxious kid. Her gaze fell upon the meager supplies they had gathered - a few ration packs, a blanket, a handful of toys. It was all they had, all that remained of their life before the chaos descended. It wouldn't be enough to hold out, but it would be fine for a few more days. Telvora's fingers brushed over the familiar brow of her child, a bittersweet comfort in the midst of the chaos, a reminder of her husband who had left yesterday to join the fighting. The apartment had been a sanctuary for her and this spark of new life, and hope, for the entirety of Talou’s independence.

A flash of light caught her gaze from the skylight. A green streak across the night sky, like a falling star. A meteor coming down towards the city. Her breath caught in her throat as she clutched her child tighter to her chest. She watched the beam arc towards the ground and lost sight of it moments before impact. The sound of thunder was louder, this was something far more destructive than the weapons that had been used against the Talou citizens for the past few days.

Her heart sank as she watched yet another wave of stars fall from the sky. Whatever order the Imperials had that prevented orbital bombardment was clearly no more. The sky was ablaze with green hellfire. And there was no escape, no refuge to find within the city. They were trapped within the confines of the prison they had fought so desperately to free themselves from. As the thunderous cacophony came closer and closer, Telvora held her child tight, fervently hushing their wailing cries as if the noise would bring the Empire’s turbolaser batteries directly to them. She whispered soothing words, cradled the young life, and pleaded to whoever would listen for help. Telvora’s heart ached with sorrow, and she whispered words of assurance, of a world beyond this one, where they would be together, safe and free. She held her breath as the drumming of war closed the distance to her sanctuary.

In an instant, the world seemed to hold its breath no more. The walls trembled, and a blinding light flooded into the room. Telvora’s vision blurred, her senses overwhelmed by a crescendo of sound and fury. In that final heartbeat, she clung to her child, desperate to shield them from any harm. She hoped, in vain, that her sacrifice could keep her child alive.

In the silence that followed the drums of war, the apartment was empty. The shell of a sanctuary stood devoid of life. Telvora and her child were gone and the city was on fire.

Marjora Prime

Ryehall was a picture of fury. Every single medical diagnostic device attached to him blared warnings as his blood pressure rose to dangerous levels for the ailed man. His jaw clenched, fingers drummed a staccato rhythm on the display that signaled what had happened. Jaquinn had disobeyed him. Earlier in his life, Ryehall would have been proud of the Admiral’s independence. But now, with all eyes on Ryehall’s fading life, Jaquinn was supposed to fail. Doubt was supposed to be thrown on his name as successor.

The thought of Jaquinn reveling in the accolades, basking in the adulation of the masses, was unbearable. Ryehall had painstakingly crafted this plan to smear the Admiral’s goodwill with the rest of the Imperial leadership. The Decadence departing Majrora Prime was a show of weakness for the governor, who used the looming shadow cast by the Star Destroyer to show his authority to all those who would witness. Now, in the absence of the ship, the harsh sun shone directly on his weakness. His mask of authority was crumbling and Ryehall was losing favor by the second.

He needed a way to spin this. Jaquinn might have this moment, but Ryehall would seize control of the narrative. Region Twelve would remember who brought the Talou III insurrection to heel. Marnora would craft a story for him, he knew she would. The broadcast would air any moment now. Any… moment… now. Ryehall’s authority would not be challenged like this.

Governor Ryehall’s face contorted in a mix of frustration and rage as he watched the chaos unfold on the holoscreen. Marnora’s outburst, how could that have been allowed to reach the broadcast? Why didn’t they cut the feed sooner? His rule was unraveling before his eyes. As his fist thumped against the display, cracking the screen, a sudden and sharp pain shot through his chest. It felt like a vice closing around his heart, squeezing with an iron grip. Ryehall’s eyes widened, panic flooding through him. He staggered back, clutching his chest, the room spinning around him.

He could hear voices as a distant echo, but could not register the words pounding in his ears. Everything blurred together, the flashing lights, the urgent voices, the sirens and the humming of machinery. He felt himself falling, his strength leaving him. In that moment, Ryehall felt the end come once more. A silent departure. Life, however, continued to cling to him like a disease. Ryehall would be stabilized, and placed in a bacta tank for extensive recovery. His reign persisted, but his expiration date had moved up considerably.

Acherios II

6 months have passed since the death of Darth Rivix

A chilled breeze drifted up the banks of the hill east of Cadicus, rustling the skeletal twiggs of wild brush that dotted the hillside, while the remains of the barren evergreen forest moaned and creaked in a wooden, familiar way. A light snow had fallen over the land overnight, the first in many months, signaling an end to the planet's summer. A summer which was still cold, but a summer nonetheless, just with a bit less ice and sleet, and a bit more rain and mud to contend with. The season was changing now, though, and Acherios II would return to its regularly scheduled barrage of snowfall and ice storms within the coming days.

In the township, the folks of Cadicus were bustling about in what could be described as a joyous frenzy, in spite of the change in the weather. Verily, in contrary to most beings (probably), the peasantry of Cadicus was in a state of jubilation, as the first snowfall had traditionally served as the beginning of a new year to most of the indigenous cultures on Acherios II. And so it was that the thoroughfares of Cadicus were alive with beings of all ages as they went about adorning their hovels and buildings with hieroglyphic sigils made of twisted straw and twine, while the Liege's guardsmen planted firm stakes along the streets to which torch sconces could be affixed.

"They will drink and feast for several days and nights -"

"I know," Rondo Guun's voice emitted from behind his mask, halting his daughter's words. The two of them stood at the peak of the hill overlooking the township, watching the population of Cadicus move about. "I used to be one of those insects, you know," the tone in Rondo's words radiated a contemptuous nostalgia as he pondered the lives beneath them. "They look like insects from up here, don't you think?"

Akari Guun, now immune to Rondo's abrupt manner of interruption and callous disregard, nodded as she too gazed down from the hilltop.

"You should be down there, with your 'father,' and the rest of the insects," Rondo continued, "Everyone will be expecting the Liege's daughter."

"They will be blind from drink, regardless," Akari waved a dismissive hand as she spoke, but before Rondo could retort something about how it wasn't her place to make such decisions, she continued, "But of course, you're right, my Master, it shall be as you wish."

Akari tugged at the cloak made of fur and hide around her shoulders, pulling it tighter as another chill wind swept up the banks of the hillside. The snow crunched beneath her boots as she made to leave, but was halted by Rondo's voice.

"Spiderling," Rondo Guun turned to face her properly, the sockets of his mask glowing against the white backdrop of the world around them. "Before you go, retrieve your sword from the temple's sparring chamber."

Akari hid her emotions and bowed her head in acknowledgement, but as she turned around towards the temple's entrance, she allowed herself to grin, and picked up the pace of her steps in excitement. Rondo gazed over his shoulder to watch her leave, before returning his leer down upon Cadicus.

Cadicus... Rondo said the name in his mind as he stood upon the hilltop. He hadn't stepped a foot upon its squalled streets since he had murdered Darth Rivix, but word of what had transpired that day, along with the return of the Liege's daughter soon after, had ensured that the people of Cadicus knew that the Sith once again inhabited the temple on the hill to the east.

The summer had dragged on seemingly forever, by Rondo's estimation. After agreeing to train Akari, he very quickly realized how much he wanted to be free of the burden of passing on his own, limited knowledge. But, he found himself doing exactly that again.

While living among the other students of the Miraxces Sith Order, Goonie had attempted to cultivate potential apprentices among his fellow Sith, and all of them were now dead. Even Darth Rivix, while never truly an apprentice to Goonie, nevertheless had gleaned some knowledge from the older Sith over the years.

Further fueling Rondo's internal, brewing rage, Akari had so far proved clumsy with the blade, even if she was stubborn and determined to improve. She also was lacking in kinetic control of the Force around her, a fact that Rondo couldn't help but deride. So far, the only quality that had impressed Goonie was that Akari hadn't died.

... Yet, Akari Guun could still prove useful to Rondo. The Liege controlled much more than Rondo, in terms of mundane power and resources. Rondo would need to know all that transpired in the township below, including the comings and goings of the Liege's tower. The Spiderling would been employed to that end, and would serve as his mouthpiece, whispering into the ear of the Liege and reporting all that she knew of her false father's plans, or lack thereof. And, soon, it would be Goonie's plans that would begin spilling forth from the Liege's lips.

The sound of Akari's boots falling upon the snow behind him let Rondo know that his daughter was returning from her quick foray into the temple, this time with a leather sheath hanging from her waistline. The sharp edges of a tempered vibrosword within the sheath gave Akari an aura of confidence that shone visibly in the Evereni's dark eyes.

"There is a mantle of unmistakable power upon your shoulders, young one," Rondo regarded as he turned his back to Cadicus and faced his daughter.

"You honor me, Master," Akari's pride was obvious, even as she knelt in humility, "I will not fail you."

"I should hope not, Spiderling, lest you return to the nothing from which I found you. Recall, for me, these many months of hardship you have endured. Go on," he waved his hand in her direction, "Do it. Close your eyes, remember the suffering, remember the hatred you felt."

Akari Guun obeyed, closing her eyes and unwinding time within her mind's eye. The last six standard months of her life played out in a disconnected queue of moments, coming and going as quickly as they played out in front of her memory, leaving traces of powerful emotion for her to consider.

Her stomach ached from hunger at the mere thought of the days and nights that she had spent alone in the wilds, the threat of starvation as real as the threat of Rondo's lightsaber.

Her bones and lungs felt as if they were on fire, her body begging her to surrender, to lie down, if only for a few minutes.

The skin between each of her toes was purple and seeped blood at night when she removed her boots, yet there was no fire for her to warm her extremities in the dark night.

She writhed on the ground, and screamed, while her body was wracked with electricity. She cried out for mercy while secretly vowing vengeance for the pain delivered to her by the Sith that claimed to be teaching her.

And again, and again, when she tried and failed to land even a single strike of her blade upon him, Akari had suffered the torment of Goonie's disappointment at her lack of prowess.

The sting of fear that she would never be good enough, that she would never be more than nothing. She fought against it, she hated it - she would rather die as nothing than live as nothing.

"Good," Rondo nodded slowly as he felt the swirling emotions pouring from Akari's knelt form in front of him, "You still retain it. Do not let those lessons slip away. Continue to draw upon them as you meditate in your own time, that is the only way you can ever hope to escape your mundane fate."

"Yes, my Master," Akari nodded as she spoke through grit teeth, "Through passion, I will gain strength."

"Through strength, you will gain power. I can sense that power on you now, made strong by your sword. Now, rise," Rondo commanded.

Akari obeyed, laying her gaze upon the unflinching visage of Goonie's mask, awaiting what would come next.

"All this talk of strength and power? Surely it will lead to victory, as the Sith creed you've memorized states. But remember this, Spiderling: though you now wield a sword, you are no swordsman. I could cut you down so easily..."

Rondo indulged in a mocking chuckle at the notion while Akari looked on, refusing to react.

"Just remember that, young one," Rondo continued, "Remember that Cadicus is mine. Its people, from the Liege to the most squalled of its folk are mine. And just as the strength and power you now feel are but extensions of my own, victory, is mine."

"I understand, Master," Akari lowered her gaze as she acknowledged the words uttered to her. "The Liege will not falter, my words are like summer honey to his ears."

"Go now, Spiderling. Be with the people of Cadicus. Celebrate the coming of the new year. I will send for you when I need you."

Akari didn't need to respond or nod, or bow. She had received her orders, and had been dismissed. Like a good apprentice, she obeyed, knowing that Goonie was watching as she made her descent down the hill to Cadicus.

There weren’t many things that upset Kaley Zep. She often considered herself practically immune to the effects of a bad day. She kept an unnatural joy that others around her considered to be almost upsetting to be around. Several people had lobbied complaints to Flex-Co about her behavior, Kaley always thought it was weird when people would complain that she was too happy. In truth, she just enjoyed her job. Kaley loved fixing things, getting her hands dirty and grimy, her brow drenched with grease and oil and her shirt stuck to the sweat on her back. It was a life that she was content with.

All of that being said, if there was one thing that could upset Kaley Zep, it would be people who had a flagrant disregard for their machines, especially those crucial to their way of life. Spacers who ran their ships too ragged, farmers who let their irrigation and filtration systems erode, and soldiers who let their weapons deteriorate from misuse and a lack of care. Sure, she was more than happy to fix every single one of them, but she would like to see more people actively trying to solve their problems before Kaley became involved.

Her current job, one that came with a very pricy invoice attached to it. A deep space mining vessel had requested Flex-Co to send out a talented mechanic in order to diagnose and resolve several apparent issues that had cropped up during their last haul. And so, Kaley had made her way and docked The Claw to the massive ship and come aboard to a very welcome invitation. The Devaronian that had greeted her with the biggest toothy grin Kaley could ever imagine, had led her deep within the bowels of the ship. Every inch of every hallway was dirty, covered in a layer of grime that Kaley could only assume had been there for a long, long, time. Every door required an awkward pause before it opened, and eventually, Kaley just asked the Devaronian where to go so that she didn’t have to awkwardly stand next to someone else the entire time.

What she found in that engine bay was an actual disaster. Nothing could have prepared her for what she saw. Wires ripped out of walls, electronic dials blinking everywhere. Hell, there was even a destroyed astromech in the corner. Kaley set her toolbox down and took in a deep breath. She took off her floppy hat and fanned herself, the life support systems in this area were clearly not working and she needed to be mindful of her comfort.

“Where to start?” Kaley asked herself as she scanned the room with her eyes. Honestly speaking, the situation was quite daunting. The engine bay was a stacked deck of sabaac cards, any number of draws could lead to a winning hand. Any number of draws could lead to her bombing out.

“Let’s start with you then,” Kaley said as she squatted low over the astromech droid.

She ran her hands along its frame, feeling every single rivet, divet, and other associated et’s. The metal was cool to the touch, clearly, the droid had not had any power in it for some time. She frowned as she turned the droid over, revealing a very unsettling sight. Carbon scoring marked the scraps of metal that jut inward into the core of the droid. The astromech had been shot by a blaster, and its case had been blasted open by the damage.

Kaley stood up in shock and scanned around the room, eyeing every single black spot. What once passed as grime now revealed its more sinister nature. Dried blood and blaster marks. She wasn’t in some neglected engine bay, she was in a kill zone. As if on queue with her realization, she felt the ship shudder around her, and a sinking feeling in her stomach told her that The Claw had been undocked.

“To all my fabulous crew! We have a new plaything with us today,” The Devaronian’s voice crackled over the shipwide intercom, “She’s currently located in the engine bay, whoever finds her, and brings me her head before we make port will be handsomely rewarded, as is tradition!”

Kaley’s stomach sank as she started to hear the thunder of footsteps towards her room.

Follows The First Time and the Last; events continued from Kindred

Westreach Spires, Vaedas

Present day

The suites that housed Aireen’s children and consorts were kept apart from the royal wing where Merian now lived, nearby but clearly separate in status. Finally changed, the princess passed through the halls between them one by one at a quick pace. She’d traded her official garb for a plainer dress, coral pink and more suitable for everyday wear, and shed the ornate vibrosword her father insisted she carry everywhere. Keeping Rorian at ease was well worth the momentary transgression. And besides, what good was it to her?

To her left, Merian passed the rough staircase that led to the twins’ suite, if it could be called that, one floor below the others. To her right, the entrance to the one that had been Tivorn’s. Both were good as empty now, with Tivorn dead and the twins away on Crownbearer duty. The girl’s mother still occupied the suite alone as she had for the past four years, enjoying a living space bigger than the one the massive boys had shared with their own mother their whole lives. People had questioned the arrangement, once, when months and months had gone by after the death. Now the woman was expecting again, and those same people held their breath. She’d already given King Aireen a powerful child. She could again.

By the time Merian reached her former home, the image of Tivorn’s dying face had come and gone from her mind. The old Resema suite was even emptier than the others. When Aireen had named Vydon his heir, it was only fitting that the young prince took up his own chambers in the royal wing. And when, shortly after, the king had married Thuriel Resema to reinforce the royal ties, she too had moved from the Resema wing to the most prestigious part of the castle.

Merian remembered well the discussions that had surrounded her then. She was not the heir. She’d lost. She had no claim to the royal wing save for the Resema name she hadn’t earned. She’d already been married off to Yacen: officially her home was Craiche Qalea, not Westreach. Despite everything, the constant put-downs, Merian knew her father only wanted her to prove herself. She hadn’t. But Vydon had fought for her. And one day like the others, Merian had returned from a mission to an empty Resema wing and her things moved to her own royal suite; she’d found them once she’d gotten over the thought of having been evicted from Westreach entirely.

But today the Resema wing wasn’t Merian’s destination. Just across from it, the Kyosha wing mirrored it in every way, and a few years ago the resemblance hadn’t only been architectural: a favourite of Aireen’s; two children, a boy and a girl; a contender for heir; open ambition. But in the end, Merian’s family prevailed. Now the Kyosha wing was the only one still hosting a Sanarra child. He was the one Merian was visiting.

“Oh— Lady Merian.”

Merian eyed the source of the voice with barely hidden contempt. Just outside Rorian’s door was Geokri Kyosha, his mother. Frail, tired, self-effacing, she’d once been the king’s favourite companion, but now Merian wondered if she could topple her by staring hard enough. Too much Telezan. The woman had never been the same since the Culling.

The princess often pondered how her own mother would have turned out, if it’d been Vydon crippled and not Rorian, and herself exiled in Corina’s place four years ago. If Thuriel, too, would have fallen victim to antidepressants and doze tablets until she’d spend whole days in slumber. Invariably the answer was no. Deep inside, Merian knew a Resema would never let herself go the way Geokri had. No matter what.

“Geokri. Am I interrupting?”

“No, no. Did you need more—”

“No.” But tempting. “I’m here for Rorian. Is he available?”

“He… Yes. The king’s— Your father’s advisors were meeting with him shortly.”

“Mages?”

“Justicars.”

“They won’t be necessary. Tell them we aren’t to be disturbed.”

Geokri bowed. Not much, lest she fall over, but it was a bow. “Of course.”

Merian slipped past and into Rorian’s room without thanking her.

The journeys through hyperspace were one of Jak’s favourite parts of the journey. Sure, they could be long and boring to some, but for others it was a time of rest and recuperation. Jak was usually part of the latter group, and could usually be found napping or bopping along to her favourite playlists. That trip was only partly an exception.

She sat atop a crate inside the ship’s cargo bay as it hurtled through hyperspace, cross legged and a tool in her left hand that twirled between her fingers, stopping only to be used as a stylus that she tapped against the data pad in her right hand. She shifted from side to side to the beat of the music that blared in her headphones, and occasionally broke her humming along to mumble through the lyrics, bringing some sound to the otherwise quiet ship.

She looked over her cargo manifest and double checked that all of the items she’d be dropping off were accounted for, and flicked her eyes over to the assortment of crates that sat on the cargo bay’s elevator deck. Three medium storage crates, each packed with salvaged goods, and one that even her cargo crane had some problems putting in place. To be fair to the old crane, it was one of the few pieces aboard her old YV-929 cargo hauler that hadn’t been fully replaced yet - the parts continued to evade her. Still, she smiled at the haul, knowing the elevator would do its job, and knowing her buyer would be overjoyed.

Her heavy duty work boots made a dull thump as she unfurled herself and hopped down from her crate, satisfied with her records, and made her way through the busy cargo bay. She skirted around stacked, but empty, cargo boxes here, checked on netting straps as she passed there, and even took a moment to stare longingly at the cold furnace that sat proudly in one dedicated section of the cargo bay.

Tools of all sorts hung up on racks that flanked the old, yet excellent condition blast furnace. Beside it sat three more stations, each one dedicated to just one part of her craft, and one she took very seriously. Yet, she’d had no chance to fire up the forge for some time, something she knew she needed to change, she just needed the time and resources. Story of her life, that. Everyone's story, apparently. Everyone just seemed so damn busy, especially after the fall of the Empire. It was a time to make one’s fortune, and Jak wasn’t letting that pass her by.

Her wistful looks were cut short as her music quickly faded, replaced with a beeping in a strange mechanical language. She pulled a device from her pocket and paused the music before taking her headphones off. “When?” she asked up to the ceiling, as if that’s where the ship’s communications lived. She knew better, but it felt strange talking to her companion while staring into space.

The bleeping over the communicator quickly replied.

“Uh huh. Five minutes early, I’m impressed.” She slung her headphones around her neck and passed through the cargo bay door and into the heart of her beloved ship.

When she got to the ship’s bridge and looked out into the void, she was met with the clouds of the hyperspace lane coming to an abrupt end with the harsh, intersecting streaks of stars as her ship squeezed itself back into normal space. Ahead of them sat the bright blue gem of Iperos. She cracked a smile as she slipped into her pilot’s seat. It wasn’t home, but at that point it might as well have been. A home away from home, and she was quick to lay in coordinates for her home on her home away from home. She didn’t even ask permission, partly because she knew it’d get accepted, but also because she liked to annoy the platform’s owner.

She wasn’t so lax with planetary security, however. “Vessel…” It wasn’t the usual chipper airspace coordinator she normally dealt with. Damn shame. “This is Station Galanta, we see you on approach. Please hold while we confirm your idents and perform a scan. In the meantime, I’m gonna need your designation and destination before we confirm your flight path. You know the drill.” Whoever that was on the other end definitely didn’t feel like working that day. Jak could feel it.

Jak picked up the pilot’s headset and placed one cup to her ear before speaking. “Captain Jak Streborn aboard salvage ship Diamond In The Rough.” That was easy. “Transferring licences and clearances now.” She kicked back in her chair, boots resting on an empty space on her console - empty purely because she’d ripped that particular screen out ages ago and never replaced it - and grinned, knowing the reaction she’d get.

There was a small whistle on the comms as the coordinator looked over her documents. “That’s one hell of a resume, Captain,” he said. “I was kinda dreading the paperwork, not many who try those old YVs with us get by without docking here and heading down the old fashioned way. Looks like you’re in the clear, just keep those weapons cold and I don’t think you’ll need to hear from me again.” She’d worked hard to get her official cargo hauler, salvager, and weapon licences, and it paid off time and time again. “Your coordinates and good to go. Galanta out.”

Jak hummed a little tune to herself, bobbing from side to side with satisfaction as she took manual control of her ship. “Thanks Galanta. Diamond out.” With that, she pressed her controls down, much to the annoyance of the short, green, mostly cobbled together astromech that wheeled itself into the bridge. “But manual is more fun,” Jak shot back as her ship made its descent. “You know I like to make an entrance.”

The droid almost grumbled as it docked itself to the ship’s system. Just in case.

The air down on the surface was calm. The sun was out, casting its rays over the shimmering sea that surrounded Iperos’ main station. The waves crashed down below, the sound carrying up on the gentle breeze that filled the station with that fresh ocean smell. It was all quickly ruined by the sound of old, Corellian engines that seemed to get closer by the second.

Jak grinned to herself as she eyed the win platforms below and began her landing sequence. The ship began to slow, it turned, then banked as she eyeballed the landing, something most pilots didn’t really do anymore, but she always liked to say that she could. So far, she had a perfect track record.

The ship levelled itself and its landing gear extended before finally landing on the platform. Jak let out a huff of satisfaction as he stood and peered down from the bridge. Another perfect landing.

As she made her way through her ship, she stopped only by the crew lounge to grab two giant, foil wrapped items from the lounge’s heater which were quickly deposited in her jumpsuit pockets, and the cargo bay for a piece of metal assembly made up of pipes and a tank-like container on the end, which she rested against her shoulder, and made her way down the ship’s docking ramp.

She squinted for a moment as she stepped out into the sunlight and felt the warmth against her green skin for the first time in days. It made perfect sense, she’d been wearing her protective suit while out in the black and it was the first time she’d been planet side for a while. Considering the planet she was headed for, she opted for tying her jumpsuit’s top around her waist and letting her shoulders and arms get some sun with her usual slightly grease stained grey tank top.

“Flexo!” she called out. “Get out here you shabby looking, four armed nerf-herder!”

THUMP THUMP.

Jer’ell stirred awake. There was an overbearing fog that gripped him. A haze that blurred his visions and muted his thoughts. He forced his eyes closed and opened again, blinking rapidly in an attempt to clear the haze. It was somewhat successful in that he could see his quarters aboard Rishi’s Wolf more clearly. Still, some of that sluggishness remained.

THUMP THUMP.

The infernal drum beat again. It took Jer’ell longer than he wanted to admit to realize that the loud thumping noise that threatened to split his skull was merely the beating of his heart. Despite so many of his thoughts feeling muted and slow, the thundering of his heart made itself heard over the mental fog that consumed Jer’ell’s mind.

Slowly, he forced himself to his feet. His legs wobbled slightly beneath him, woozy and unstable. He forced himself to take a step forward. His hand fell upon the metal panel that formed part of the wall across from his bed. He pulled himself away from the panel, forcing his legs to move bit by bit by bit towards the door of his room. He slammed a hand sluggishly into the panel, keying it to open.

With a hiss, the metal door slid open and Jer’ell tumbled through it and into the void.

Down and down and down and down and down and down.

Jer’ell couldn’t be certain how long he had been tumbling into the dark. His sense of time was enshrouded by the numbing fog that grasped the rest of his mind. It caused individual moments to be dragged out into small eternities. So he continued to fall. For seconds, for minutes, for hours, for days, for months, for years, for decades, for centuries, for eons.

Down and down, he tumbled into the abyss.

And then, as sudden as he fell, he stopped. He floated, stationary and still, suspended within the dark. A golden celestial orb blazed before him; its surface was alight with radiant fire. Behind and beside of him, the black void, speckled with white starlight, stretched into infinity. Rishi’s Wolf was nowhere in sight. He was alone within the unforgiving vacuum of space.

It was then that Jer’ell dimly recognized the fact that his body was in agony.

The star scorched the front of his skin, burning into it with its baleful fire. However, he could hardly move to avoid its glare. His back and sides were gripped with the freezing cold of the void. He was trapped between the burning brilliance of light and the bite of the dark’s eternal chill. He wanted to scream, to rage, to cry out his suffering, but the vacuum swallowed his words and he could scream only in silence.

Belatedly, he noticed the debris that circled around him. Objects, rubble, broken pieces. These things orbited him as though they were grasped within the sheer gravity of his suffering. They were to be satellites to his pain. They bore witness to his anguish.

Jer’ell watched as pieces of painted plasteel floated by. Parts of a broken visor following in their wake. A corpse came soon after, garbed in the muted tactical gear of Antun’s band. Its face was hard to see. The wreckage of a TIE fighter continued its orbit around Jer’ell. Briefly, one of the wing panels blocked the burning light of the sun. While it ought to have provided Jer’ell a reprieve, his body was only subjected to the same all-consuming frost of the void. The wing drifted by and he was returned to burning radiance.

The objects began to orbit more rapidly. They entered his focus more clearly. More corpses. Faces that existed on the edge of familiarity. Based on their clothing, they seemed to be smugglers or pirates. People from the Port of No Return. More faces passed. Seared by blaster burns. The pantoran receptionist at Gebb’s manufactory. Jesem and Bash and Crash and Dash. There were others… People Jer’ell had interacted within in passing at the Port. All of them were dead and adrift.

They know.

The voice splintered the silence of the vacuum. Its tone was a warning. Jer’ell’s mind desperately fought against the fog that devoured his mind. He was caught in the void and he sought to be free. The light burned and the dark froze. Where was he to go? With renewed force, his skin was seared and frozen. He tried to move, each limb snacking in minute fractures as it broke the ice of the void, only to be seared by the immense heat of the star.

He felt so very small.

Once more, he screamed. He screamed with all of his being. The vacuum broke and shattered as he poured out his pain and fury and rage. He released it all into the dark and the light.

》 ❖ ◈ ❖

They know.

Jer’ell startled awake. He ran his hands across his face, feeling his skin. He was no longer hot and cold at the same time. His skin had not burned or frozen. It was just another nightmare. He shook his head, attempting to force it into clarity. To his chagrin, Jer’ell’s thoughts still came at a sluggish pace. Everything felt slow and muted.

They drugged you. You are in danger.

The voice cut through his dazed thoughts with ease. It was clarity for his mired mind. The voice's words made sense. This strange fog that clouded him was no doubt a product of some kind of drug. He forced himself to bring the last few hours into focus, straining himself to push past the delirium. g. He forced himself to push through his muted delirium and recall the past few hours. The recollections came to him in blurry fragments. He reached up, gingerly touching the blaster burn that had scorched his left arm. It had been bandaged and treated. Right. He had been given a painkiller. That must be why his thoughts were so murky.

He forced himself, once again, to his feet. The steps now felt easier than before. His journey to the door was not nearly as laborious as it had been. He keyed the door of his quarters open once more. He let out a breath he hadn’t realized he had held when the door opened without any issue. He stepped through.

His foot found the floor. He continued forward into the main hallway of Rishi’s Wolf. The YV-929 armed freighter was a very linear ship in its design. Past the crew quarters, Jer’ell entered the wider common area of the ship. It wasn’t anything special, all things considered. At one side was an extended padded booth that wrapped around a round dejarik table. On the other side was a small galley, as well as a refresher, that allowed Jer’ell to prepare a meal if he needed to.

Antun was sitting in the booth when Jer’ell entered the lounge. The older man raised a hand to greet him, standing up to say hello. Jer’ell didn’t see his companions anywhere. They must have been somewhere else within the ship. He shook his head again, trying to clear his thoughts. It didn’t do all that much.

“You alright, son?” Antun asked. Looking him up and down.

“Yeah,” Jer’ell replied, offering the soldier a vague gesture to indicate his wellness. “Just a bit tired.”

“Alright,” Antun acknowledged. There was something about the tone of his voice that sounded off. Jer’ell tried to parse what it was, but his thoughts were so murky he couldn’t determine what exactly it was that he was hearing. Jer’ell started to walk past the man, heading towards the cockpit of the ship.

He knows.

The voice issued its warning just as Jer’ell heard the faint slip of metal against a leather holster. He was dimly aware of the older man pointing a blaster towards his back. His hand slipped down to his own holster, only to find it empty. Right. He had tossed his blaster away after they had left the landing pad.

“Do we have a problem here?” Jer’ell asked quietly. He tried to buy time as his drug-addled mind tried to figure a way out of this situation. He felt terribly numb.

“I believe we do,” Antun replied, “Sith.”

Jer’ell moved before the man could. In a flash, his lightsaber screamed its bloody warcry. The crimson blade spearing forth, behind Jer’ell and into the stomach of the older veteran. There was a second shriek as Antun’s blaster discharged, firing upwards into the ceiling where it collided with some dark piping which began to spew forth a hiss of pale gas.

Jer’ell twisted his wrist, removing the dying corpse from the end of his saber. With his other hand, he called upon the roaring flames of the Force. He placed his crushing grip around the pipe which was now pouring out vapors, pushing it inward to stop the flow. He’d have to make more extensive repairs later. But at present, he needed to reach the cockpit.

Called by the blaster fire, Antun’s large nikto and the medic, with the fog he couldn’t remember their names and didn’t particularly care to, came running. The woman raised her pistol to open fire, however before she could pull the trigger, Jer’ell ripped it out of her hands with a simple expression of telekinetic power. The blaster soared through the air, hoisted towards him by invisible tethers. He flicked his wrist upward, slicing the weapon in two.

“Die SITH!” The nikto roared, unleashing a burning torrent of blasterfire. Jer’ell didn’t bother to reply, instead he opted to lazily flourish his saber. Each of the incoming blaster bolts was easily deflected, with two or three being redirected back towards and into the nikto. With groans of pain, and a larger thud, the nikto tumbled backwards, slamming into the floor of the corridor that led into the Wolf’s cockpit. As Jer’ell started to walk forward, the woman, he again failed to remember her name, dove for the nikto’s fallen blaster. By the time she reached it, Jer’ell was already upon her. He slashed casually, his lightsaber cleaving up through her side to the opposite shoulder. At least she was courteous enough not to scream.

Stepping over the corpses, intact or otherwise, Jer’ell continued forward. Lying in the center of the cockpit was a fourth corpse. He vaguely recalled them as the zabrak that had accompanied Antun and helped fight the TIE fighters. She had blaster burns on her chest. He turned to look towards the pilot’s seat.

Only something stopped him.

His eyes crossed the viewport and saw stars. Despite himself, he stepped forward looking out to the void that laid beyond it. They were no longer in the Talou system. Before the Rishi’s Wolf was the Port of No Return. But something was very, very wrong. Normally, the Port of No Return was a shining jewel of lights that illuminated the whole Tressia system. The lights that indicated glimmers of the life that went on within the Port’s levels had gone dark. There were trails of debris and detritus pouring from the sides of the station.

The starscape was filled with the wreckage of a large space conflict. Shattered TIE fighters and broken freighters drifted aimlessly through space. Something that at one point in time might have been a living thing briefly collided with the Wolf’s viewport, before drifting back the way it came. The Port of No Return had fallen.

Jer’ell turned away from the fallen station. His eyes fell on Saint. The droid hadn’t fared much better than the station. His components were littered throughout by blasterburns and other scorch marks. Some of his wires sparked feebly, trying to continue the flow of power. One of his eyes glowed briefly. Flickering. Jer’ell knelt down next to the slumped droid.

“You…” The droid spoke feebly, “could have stopped this…”

Jer’ell tried to understand. He forced his brain onward through the haze. He felt dazed. Adrift. He was once more without anchor or purpose. He turned to look towards the console. To run. He reached out.

BANG!

The burning blast seared through his chest. He felt himself tumble backwards and collide with the metal flooring of the cockpit. Slumped against the doorway was Antun. In his right hand, Antun clutched a blaster pistol. His left hand was pushed against his stomach. He smiled and toppled forward.

》 ❖ ◈ ❖

Jer’ell, for the third time, startled awake. The first thing he noticed, to his relief, was that the mental haze that had wrapped itself so tightly around his thoughts was gone. He looked around his quarters, which were relatively unchanged from how he recalled them, save for a medic's kit resting against the bed. His eyes crossed the space and landed on the metal panel across from his bed. He tried to look away, but his eyes were quickly drawn back to the durasteel plate.

There was a noise, soft as a whisper that lingered at the edge of his ear. It was the mix between a whistle and a growl. It grew louder and louder and louder. With an effort, he pulled his gaze away from the panel, retrieved his coat and stepped outside of his room. Just like that, the whispering roar was gone.

Slinging the coat over his shoulder, he made his way leisurely through the ship. As he went, he listened to the Wolf and the sounds that it made. The hum of electricity and the slight shuddering of the hull as it flew through the atmosphere of Talou III. The ship sounded healthy. The TIE fighter attack didn’t make it past the ship’s shields, but he had been concerned that the impact and rapid deceleration might have jostled something or shifted a component. Still, he’d make sure to glance everything over next time the ship made it back to the Port.

He had always been a bit of a tinkerer but spending the last year or so aboard the Wolf, along with some tutoring from Mesra, he had expanded his mechanical skills to include ship maintenance. He was fairly confident that he would be able to repair Rishi’s Wolf enough to limp its way back home if it ever was seriously damaged, but he wasn’t particularly inclined to put the theory to the test.

Shortly thereafter, he arrived in the crew lounge. Generally, the standard YV-929 was expected to run with a crew of four consisting of a pilot and three gunners. The designer of the Wolf had significantly overhauled the cockpit of the ship, converting it into a two pilot setup similar to the ones a person might find on the more popular YT-series ships. Rishi’s Wolf could still fly well enough with only one pilot but having a co-pilot to assist allowed it to push the base capabilities of the ship. When not needed for a piloting role, the second seat acted as a gunner terminal, able to interface with the weapon systems of the ship. Despite the changes to the cockpit that allowed the ship to be run fairly effectively with only half of a crew, the crew lounge remained a similar size to the standard model, minus some space for a larger refresher.

Currently making use of the lounge were the remaining four of the soldiers. Antun stood up upon seeing Jer’ell. The others briefly watched him go before returning to their in-progress game of sabacc. A game which seemed to be remarkably stacked in the zabrak woman’s favor.

“Glad to see that you’re up and about,” Antun greeted him.

“Similar. I’m probably missing too much sleep. Nightmares,” He waves a hand dismissively.

“They happen,” Antun said solemnly. He brought his sharp, bright eyes to meet Jer’ell’s. They held like that for a moment, staring at each other. “Listen. I really don’t have a right to ask you this. You could have flown off without us back there, and I wouldn’t have blamed you. But you didn’t.”

“You want us to help you get the crates into the city?” Jer’ell asked.

“These crates have resources that could prove vital to the outcome of this invasion,” Antun replied. He shook his head slightly. “While you were out, Roxxar was monitoring Imperial comm chatter. They bombed the hospital. The people down there will need the medical supplies we can provide.”

Jer’ell stayed silent for a moment. Mentally, he turned the possibilities over. He shook his head, which caused Antun to frown in turn, though the headshake wasn’t for him. Jer’ell felt a need, deep down, to see what this was all for. To see if this really was doing the right thing. He had placed too much on blind faith in the past…

“Fine. I'll have Saint put us down on the far side of the city," Jer’ell finally replied. "But, I'm coming with you."

Antun smiled, his bright eyes glinting. He gave Jer'ell a firm, steady nod, seemingly not at all surprised by Jer’ell's declaration.

"Understood."

Rat scampered, or at least as much as a scrawny young man could scamper, into the heart of the ex-prisoner holdout on Talou III. While the streets of the shanty town had become a warzone between Imperial forces and the collective combatants of Talou III, the Industrial Complex had become the stronghold for their resistance. But even the stronghold hadn’t been unscathed by battle. All around him, Rat saw disheartened and grim faces. Morale was starting to crumble. Attacks by Imperial aces had crippled the anti-air defenses. Food was running low due to the Imperial bastards burning the few food storehouses the prisoners had. After the core revolt, some had begun the work of trying to start some meager farms on the outskirts of the city. Those farms were now both unreachable without danger from Imperial squadrons as well as unlikely to produce sufficient harvests for a long time.

There had been another fire shortly after the Imperial attacks on the food storage buildings, which had spread through the eastern side of the city and lives had been lost getting the blaze under control. And of those lives not lost, many of the injured were taken to the city's main infirmary. The same infirmary the Imperial dogs proceeded to bomb minutes later. People were hurting now. Makeshift medical tents and old buildings closer to the complex were being set up to try and fill the void, but the ex-convicts didn’t have the skills and supplies to make them work.

Things were bad.

The ex-prisoners. The freedom fighters? Rat wasn’t entirely sure what to call them. Either way, they were hungry, wounded, and feeling the wear and tear of the Imperial siege. Still, Rat thought it was a miracle that the Empire hadn’t simply blown them up from orbit. Everyone here was determined to make the Empire regret the fact that they didn’t. In his heart of hearts Rat knew that they still wanted to, but some were losing the path. War had its tolls. He himself had been changed by it. There was a numbness inside of him that had only grown since the battles began.

Rat peered around the complex. In one corner, a group of mercenaries in unformed armor were passing out some kind of ticket or voucher. Each of the men were marked with an emblazoned insignia of a simple head with a blaster hole in it, that was clearly stylized off of how a graffiti gang mark looked but somehow managed to look too corporate. Sneaking between the throng of bodies, Rat snatched up one of the fallen tickets. It was indeed a voucher, offering thirty three spins at some casino Rat had never heard of. Still, it might have helped a tad with some of the moral problems. Rat pocketed the slip within the inside of his dirt caked vest. At another end of the complex, Rat spotted a muscular, sleeveless weequay and a shorter, pale green rodian chuckling to each other about some private joke. Further down the way, Rat saw the cyborg pirate captain Rham’zi and his own crew conversing merrily. Despite their own losses, they seemed to be in relatively high spirits. Rat envied them.

He lacked a crew of his own. Most of the… well to call them kids or even teens would be wrong. This place saw that any vestiges of child-like innocence teens incarcerated had was rapidly crushed. Most of the miscreant youths that had been sent to Talou III to feed the complex’s increasing need for manpower ended up forming their own little packs and gangs. These groups typically were created out of the dual purpose and need to be amongst their peers as well as to protect themselves from the older prisoners of the complex and city. Of these gangs, Rat never really was able to find his place. He bounced around some of the smaller ones, but many of the youth packs had splintered after the revolt, with most of their members taking the chance to get out of the system and back to their families. But Rat didn’t have anyone outside of the system. It was a grim reality, but the shanties of Talou III were more his home than anywhere else in the galaxy. So he stayed. Alone.

But now the Empire was here. The Empire that was threatening to crush the ex-prisoners back under its boot. The Empire that would rather see them burned and starved than freed. And some were beginning to believe that the Empire would succeed and that the cause was hopeless. Rat felt something inside of his chest. Something new. It was an overwhelming sense of righteous purpose. A feeling he had only heard about in some of the tall tales he had overheard other prisoners telling when he would crawl under buildings looking for somewhere, relatively, warm to sleep.

Acting upon this feeling that had suddenly enraptured him, Rat pushed a crate to the center of the “square”. He leaped upon it and feebly raised his voice.

“Excuse me!” he cried out.

A few of the ex-prisoners near the center of this wide area in the middle of the complex glanced over to the scrawny, small and ragged youth that had just jumped atop a metal crate before looking away. A lump formed in Rat’s throat that prevented him from speaking. He prepared to step off of the crate.

BANG!

Rat flinched, instinctively ducking for cover at the sound of a blaster discharging. Silence fell across the meandering crowds of the Industrial Complex. They all looked towards the source of the blaster fire, and Rat looked with them. Having stepped forward, the eight foot tall cyborg, had his impractically large, or at least it would be for anyone but Rham’zi, blaster pistol raised into the air. It was his turn to speak.

“Now listen up ye lot of scallywags! The lad ‘ere ‘as somethun’ to say! I suggests ye do yerself a favor and listen to ‘im!” The captain shouted. Then, he turned to meet Rat’s eyes and gave him a stern nod. “Project, boy. Tis’ important.”

Rat, partly dazed, nodded back to the good captain. He turned, rotating on the crate. For the moment, all eyes were on him. He took a deep breath. He had to make this count. He wasn’t a trained public speaker. Hell, he wasn’t a trained much of anything. But he had to try.

“H-hello.” He winced but forced himself to continue. “You probably don’t know me. I tried to avoid being anyone that anyone needed to pay attention to. I was willing to have my shadow of obscurity and do the bare minimum I could to suffer and survive. But no more!”

There were some murmurs in the crowd, and a few people began to disperse. Rham’zi cleared his throat, which mostly got them quiet and still again. Rat shifted his feet slightly, feeling put on the spot, even if that was entirely his own doing.

“We’ve been through a lot!” Rat shouted, attempting to recapture the attention of the crowd. “I know most of the people here don’t need me to tell them that! We’ve all had to live through the miserable, tortuous existence the Empire forced upon us. The Empire would have us live in constant anguish! The Empire would have us work until we die! And even then they would blame us for not working past our dying day!”

There were murmurs of outrage. A bit of agreement from the crowd. It didn’t take much for the familiar anti-Imperial fires to be stoked. Rat ventured onward. “The Empire would have us live and die, toiling in this kriffing shithole! But I say no more! We say no more!”

There were more cries of agreement. The support from some became support from others. Bonds of community were being reforged. Fires given kindling before they burned out. Rat felt a swell of pride within his chest.

“Most of us know what it was like to live under the thumb of Shai-Don,” Rat spit after he said the name. “We know the torture they subjected us to. But there are some of us still left who remember the darker times. Those who know that life under Imperial jailors would make Shai-Don Security look like benevolent saviors.”

Across the crowd that was forming around his crate, he saw a small handful of nods. The oldest of them who had been here the longest. Some of them muttered small agreements.

"We've all lost someone to the rule of these…" He strained to remember the word. "These tyrants."

A few more nods. Rat picked out some familiar faces.

"Those Shai-Don bastards took Muthrin from us," Rat named one of the familiar, and popular, gang leaders who helped stage the initial revolt. "And there was Old Bart. He was there for all of us when no one else was! Those kriffing scumsuckers gave him poison when he needed medicine!"

There were more cries of outrage. Old Bart had been a kindly elder, jailed unjustly, who helped treat the wounds of the injured. He caught a sickness working with the poor supplies he could scrounge up. Shai-Don hadn't bothered to try and give him any treatment.

"And there was…" Voices began to overlap. The crowd volunteered names. Elegies for those crushed during the revolt and before. Voicing grievances and sufferings. A pink skin woman, among the crowd murmured the name “Jaklin” quietly. After a minute or so, the crowd began to still, looking back at Rat, eagerly waiting to hear his next words.

“But in the end, we, all of us, we threw off Shai-Don’s chains. What stops us from throwing off the Empire's chains? Nothing!" There were cheers at that. He could see it in the faces of everyone around him. They were invigorated, pulled out of the miasmic pain of loss and grief and back into the fight. As much as Rat would like to pretend it was all his doing, it really wasn’t. The ex-convicts were a keg of gunpowder waiting to explode.

Rat just made sure to relight the fuse. Pointed them back in the right direction. Anyone could have done it. Rat was a nobody, but here he was, a rallying force. What a strange galaxy this was.

“We have something the Empire doesn't.” The crowd looked back towards Rat. The closest of the crowd leaned forward, as if they weren’t already the ones most likely to hear his words. “We have each other.”

“Oh boo,” Someone in the crowd heckled. He quickly shut up when he noticed the cyborg captain starting to walk his way. “Carry on, carry on.”

“No really. Think about it. The Empire? It’s not what it used to be. It’s a dying corpse. The Emperor has been dead for five kriffing years! Governor, kriffing, Ryehall and his lackeys are some of the last Imperial officials left. This? What are they bringing to try and bully us into submission? It’s all they have. There is no help coming for them. They're alone. But we aren't. Look around you. Pirates, bounty hunters, mercenaries, those that the Empire would call scum and villainy! They've flocked to our cause! They come from across the Region to help us. Us. Together, together the Empire doesn't stand a kriffing chance!"

There was a roar of agreement from the crowd. The righteous uproar of those who would not let the Empire reclaim Talou III without a fight. Their spirits were renewed. The roar broke down into idle chatter as Rat began to get down from his crate. He had done what he needed to. Then, a raised voice cut over it all.

“A good speech!” Shouted the masculine voice. The crowd turned to look in the direction of the speaker. Five newcomers, four of which were pushing large, hovering durasteel crates behind the first. The speaker was an older looking man with darker skin and bright eyes. “While working together helps, it never hurts to have some quality supplies.”

The newcomers pushing the crates moved past the leader. They disengaged the repulsors that lifted the crates off of the ground. On the right, the nikto of the group pulled the lid off of his own crate before calling out, “Now who wants some grub?!”

On the other side of the loose line they had formed, a brown haired human woman called out. “Medical supplies! Form an orderly line. If you need assistance please let me know, I’m a trained medic!”

The crowd surged forward, eager to collect the offered supplies. Lines formed for rations, weapons, and medical services. Rat, atop his own, though empty, metal crate smiled.

Finally, everyone was working together.

Sitting behind her desk, Padmé stared intently at a holomap of Talpu's primary prison-city -- Imperial blueprints, thankfully, had been relatively easy to uncover, and while the Prisoners were more personally familiar with the buildings...

The Imperials still knew where all the pre-existing structures were. Food warehouses, armories, and more -- many of which they could strike from the sky with relative impunity, though armories, unfortunately, tended to be heavily armored themselves, if not being buried wholly underground.

Having intended to destroy them from above, Padmé was now forced to face the simple reality that her Aggressors lacked the bunker-busting munitions necessary to strike targets buried so deep -- thus, until routes to them could be secured by the boots on the ground, her pilots needed alternate targets... But what?

The Imperial forces were steadily pushing back, but, as with any urban battle, they quickly turned into grinding quagmires, and Talou was no exception, by any stretch of the imagination. Hundreds, likely thousands of casualties had mounted on each side by not, and infirmaries were rapidly filling-

Padmé's eyes widened, not in shock, but realization, her pupils shrinking into tiny pinpricks. She practically slammed her palm against her desk, shaking it, and began furiously scrolling over the holomap, searching for something.

Technically speaking, the rules of war -- not that the Empire particularly ever cared to abide by them when it was inconvenient -- didn't apply to the prisoners. Padmé was under no legal obligation to take them captove when they surrended, to refrain from the use of certain weapons...

Or to restrict her targets to purely military ones. She'd already been targeting food supply, after all, in an effort to starve them out, but with casualties mounting so rapidly on both sides...

She had a far more tempting, and immediately impactful, target.

A controversial one, perhaps, was it not true that all was fair in war?

But if it was necessary to win, they so be it, she thought -- all the more so since she was dealing with convicted criminals, not innocent citizens of the Empire.

They would give her soldiers no mercy -- and she, in turn, would show them none.

The reports streamed in suddenly, yet came in in the dozens, practically all at once. 

The first signs that something terrible was happening in the city were the panicked cries of prisoners across local, unencrypted communication channels -- the Vigil had been listening in to their ground-level communications for hours; typically, hardly anything vital, but even basic listening occasionally bore the fruit of a hint to their movements.

This latest series, as it turned out, was to be an exception, interrupting Padmé's ruminations on when to have her TIEs break from the bulk of Imperial bombers for their own mission... Only to abruptly cut out, replaced by increasingly frantic complaints of the city burning before them.

Only elite special forces or a force-wielder could singlehandedly cause enough devastation to have hardened criminals screaming in horror, pleading for mercy... And she knew of no special forces units capable of engaging in such rampant, hypocritical slaughter. Normally, she would divert all the forces she could to destroy anyone capable of that much damage, just as she was taught in her time in the Empire...

But, this time, whoever it was was on her side, whether she liked it or not. They'd provided the perfect opportunity to execute her plan.

And so, Padmé found herself, sitting on her bridge, timers counting down in her head. The timing here was essential, communications crackling through to her bridge from her TIEs, themselves still buzzing about the city on strafing runs. Fully loaded with missiles, to most on the ground, they simply appeared to be running wild roughshod over the city, though in reality, the truth was far, far worse.

"Captain?" An ensign spoke. Sitting up straight in her chair, she turned to face the small, athletic woman in her chair -- a communications officer.

"Ensign? You have good news for me, I hope." She asked, her void utterly devoid of emotion as she spoke.

"Reconnaissance reports that most of the wounded from the fire have reached the prison hospital. Not all of them seem to have been moved there, but-"

"Good." She replied, sharply clearing her throat.

"Transmit the order -- leave nothing alive."

__

Mere moments later, the squadron of TIEs came back together, sharply turning toward the center of the prison complex with cold, single-minded purpose, their pilots moving more like battle-droids than men. Their duty was not one they were proud of -- but neither was it one for which they felt any shame. They moved far faster than mortal eyes could hope to track on their way to their target, pre-programmed into missile racks and targetting reticles... 

And when the building finally game into view, the two Aggressors at the fore fired, unleashing a barrage of high-yield concussion missiles into the hospital building. In mere moments, nearly an entire half of the building practically evaporated in a series of four massive, firey explosions, pulverising duracrete into dust, and shattering windows dozens of city blocks away. Hardly designed to be hardened against such potent assault, considering how little care was typically given to the health of prisoners, the explosions that stiched across the bottom floors of the hospital saw the floors above violently crumble in on themselves, collapsing in on themselves as they unleashed massive clouds of dust -- and on the TIE fighters went, spewing one last barrage of laser bolts into the building before speeding away to re-arm in orbit.

Soon, however, they would return.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was time to go.

● ◐ 🝆 🜂 🝆 ◑ ●

Morning had come.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The group began their trek anew.

● ◐ 🝆 🜂 🝆 ◑ ●

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

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

A TIE fighter’s scream screeched through the air.

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

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

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

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

“Let’s move,” Antun ordered.

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

● ◐ 🝆 🜂 🝆 ◑ ●

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes sir.”

⬢ ◨ 🝘 🜃 🝘 ◧ ⬢

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

After all, this would all be over quite soon.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Right away.”

“Yes sir.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You’re holding back.

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

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

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

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

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

Look away.

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

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

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

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

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

Why do you hesitate?

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

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

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

“Get us out of here!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jer’ell looked over to the remaining four soldiers.

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

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

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

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

“TIEs coming around towards starboard,” he reported.

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

“Angling to come up from behind.”

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

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

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

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

3. 2. 1. Jer’ell threw the power switch, shifting power from the forward thrusters into the weapon systems. Immediately, the Rishi’s Wolf responded and began to decelerate. As it did, the TIE fighters zoomed past, not expecting the sudden shift. The laser cannons of the Wolf began to fire. The turbolasers powerful blasts illuminated the interior of the cockpit. The spears of light shot forward, colliding with one of the TIE fighters and destroying it in a dazzling explosion.

“Second TIE coming around.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“So I should. Thank you Saint.”

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

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

This will not last.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

》 ○ ◉ ○

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Impact.

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

Beep, beep, beep.

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

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

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

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

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

But why was Carna so drawn to it?

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

》 ○ ◉ ○

A flash of light.

A cacophony of screams.

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

She stumbled through the snow.

So many dead…

》 ○ ◉ ○

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

Fear.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I didn’t say that,” He replied.

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

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

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

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

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

“I need you and your partner-”

“Saint.” Jer’ell interrupted

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

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

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

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

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

“Talou III.”

》 ❖ ◈ ❖

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

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

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

》 ❖ ◈ ❖

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

Coward.

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

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

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

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

“Right,” Jer’ell shook his head.

“What is your offer?” Saint asked Santra.

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

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

“If you finish the job.”

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

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

》 ❖ ◈ ❖

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

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

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

》 ❖ ◈ ❖

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Just like that?”

“Just like that.”

》 ❖ ◈ ❖

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

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

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

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

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

Time to get this over with.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Sir?”

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

“...Yessir.”

With that, the Ensign quickly made his way outside.

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

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

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

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

Until now.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"On it, Lieutenant!"

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

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

But it was too late.

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

And depressed the trigger.

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

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

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

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

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

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

》 ⬢ ◨ 🝘 🜃 🝘 ◧ ⬢

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Now they waited. Reinforcements were on the way.

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

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

The calm before the storm.

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

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

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

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

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

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

THWANG!

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

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

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

BOOM!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Rat scanned the scene.

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

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

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

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

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

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

》 ⬢ ◨ 🝘 🜃 🝘 ◧ ⬢

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

》 ⧫ ◈ ✦ 🝕 ✦ ◈ ⧫

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

Except the stormtroopers never came.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Instinctively, Rat raised his blaster.

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

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

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

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

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

“The Empire has invaded Talou”

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

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

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

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

And just like that the wolves were upon them.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The void of space greeted her.

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

Kriff that.

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

》 ⬡ ◄ 🜛 🜲 🜚 ► ⬡

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

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

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

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

“The Empire has invaded Talou”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

》 ● ◐ 🝆 🜂 🝆 ◑ ●

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

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

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

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

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

“Glad to see you’re well, Antun.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I hope you’re right.”

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

“So it is.”

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

“We will be,” Antun confirmed.

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

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

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

》 ↞ ✥ ↢ 🝧 ↣ ✥ ↠

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

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

She moved the Hellwasp into attack position.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Thinking of upgrading?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“If you could. Thanks Jesem.”

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

“It’s spice isn’t it?”

“Almost certainly.”

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

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

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

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

》❖ ◈ ❖

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

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

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

Then they did the job.

And then they came back.

And then they spoke to friends and contacts.

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

Got a new job.

Did the job.

Woke up in a pool of sweat.

Came back.

Spoke with contacts.

Met at the Mynock.

Drank.

Salvage job on Iperos.

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

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

WHAM!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Finally, that was about to change.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Speed.

Four years.

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

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

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

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

“Dagger Two, roger.”

“Dagger Three, roger.”

“Dagger Four, roger.”

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

“Launch.”

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

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

Boring, even.

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

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

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

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

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

Closer. Closer.

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

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

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

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

So close.

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

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

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

“Twenty!”

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

“Ten!”

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

It didn’t matter.

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

Seven.

Six.

Five.

Four.

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

Three.

Closer...

Two...

Almost...

One.

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

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

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

“Dagger Three, we-”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“If you insist on coming-”

“I do.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Jeepa,” Corina breathed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ryehall would be dead within the year.

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

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

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

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

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

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

His words were guttural, distorted with mucous.

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

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

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

Jaquinn snapped to attention and nodded.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Not good enough.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Stop! Imperials, stop! We surrender!”

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

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

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

“Mynock Two, all systems nominal.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hey, Lythsia, are ba’buire home?”

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

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

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

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

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

“So you're holding up?”

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

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

“Lythisa…”

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

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

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

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

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

“Only if Team Fondor gets disqualified.”

“So that’s a no.”

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

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

”Exactly,” Lythsia face was smug.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Grrrffffriglla!”

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

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

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

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

”I am flying”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You have some explaining to do, Corina.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

》❖ ◈ ❖

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Well, let's see them.”

》❖ ◈ ❖

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes?” he inquired.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I see.” Jer’ell nodded.

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

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

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

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

“Nothing?” Jer’ell asked.

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

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

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

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

“Oh?” The besalisk leaned in.

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

》❖ ◈ ❖

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Affirmative,” Saint replied.

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