Week of July 29, 2016 Piercing the Veil--When has your character seen things for what they truly are? Seen past the plots and the machinations of other characters to what was really going on? That sudden flash of insight when the pieces come together and everything makes sense. Was it real? How do they deal with their new-found insight? Do others believe them, or are they alone with the truth? Explore a time when your character’s intuition guided their actions. And, as ever, Night of the Living Prompt: Keep on using any prompt you like! Check out the list at http://www.swtor.com/community/showpost.php?p=7489974post=2 and http://www.swtor.com/community/showpost.php?p=7489991post=3 (we’re up to two full posts!). Many thanks to Alaurin for maintaining the prompt archive and story index here. This week's featured NotLPs: Tall tales and exaggeration: Our characters’ adventures are exciting enough, but even the most entertaining true tale gets better with a little embellishment. Has your character ever improved on the original events for cantina entertainment? Or to impress someone? Enhanced their reputation by bending the facts a little? A lot? Or has someone else on their behalf? Is it odd overhearing someone else telling stories about them? Are the tales even a little bit true by the time they come back? This week, let’s have some boasting, aggrandizement, and hyperbole. LF1M - Dating site profiles are full of the good, the bad, and the ugly. If your character got lonely and tired of his/her designated love interest, what profile would you write for them to submit to the HoloNet's matchmaking services? Got an idea for a prompt? Send me a pm!

Week of July 29, 2016 Piercing the Veil--When has your character seen things for what they truly are? Seen past the plots and the machinations of other characters to what was really going on? That sudden flash of insight when the pieces come together and everything makes sense. Was it real? How do they deal with their new-found insight? Do others believe them, or are they alone with the truth? Explore a time when your character’s intuition guided their actions. And, as ever, Night of the Living Prompt: Keep on using any prompt you like! Check out the list at http://www.swtor.com/community/showpost.php?p=7489974post=2 and http://www.swtor.com/community/showpost.php?p=7489991post=3 (we’re up to two full posts!). Many thanks to Alaurin for maintaining the prompt archive and story index here. This week's featured NotLPs: Tall tales and exaggeration: Our characters’ adventures are exciting enough, but even the most entertaining true tale gets better with a little embellishment. Has your character ever improved on the original events for cantina entertainment? Or to impress someone? Enhanced their reputation by bending the facts a little? A lot? Or has someone else on their behalf? Is it odd overhearing someone else telling stories about them? Are the tales even a little bit true by the time they come back? This week, let’s have some boasting, aggrandizement, and hyperbole. LF1M - Dating site profiles are full of the good, the bad, and the ugly. If your character got lonely and tired of his/her designated love interest, what profile would you write for them to submit to the HoloNet's matchmaking services? Got an idea for a prompt? Send me a pm!

A Little Spark Cleaner squinted out the window of Zhorrid's private transport. Important discovery over the past couple days. Sex provided as good a screen for his thoughts as fear. Maybe better. Zhorrid liked it. A lot. Hell of a lot for now. Had immediate, unconcealable consequences and while that was probably a bad thing long-term in the short term it was a blast and a half. Euphoria the nano colony couldn't shut down. A tempting drug indeed. More mind-blowing than crystals peddled in Nar Shaddaa’s shadiest corners and twice as addictive to boot. Incredible fun. Right up until she killed him. Or worse. With Zhorrid there was a lot of potential worse. Yeah. Definitely a Bad Thing. He leaned back on the transport’s cushioned seat. He ought to check up on Kaliyo and Lokin, but he didn't want to know what either of them were up to. Kaas City wasn't on fire or swarming with rakghouls, not that he saw anyway. Good enough. The diversion at Zhorrid's estate caused no permanent damage. He shifted on the seat with a grimace. Grunted as he rearranged himself. No, no permanent damage. Temporary discomfort was another story. Back to work. Today's priorities: Get his damn graphic of interlocking Sith loyalties, rivalries, and favors-owed. "I declared Kaggath on him, love. Do you know what that means?" Zhorrid played with the end of his left lekku as though it were a hookah pipe. His fingers drew circles her thigh. He knew already, but Kaggath probably had more rules than the ones he read about. He kissed the inside of her knee, "Tell me," he said. Get pro help wading through the new information from Zhorrid's files. He knew who he wanted to tap for the position, the trick was persuading the MInister. Darth Zhorrid glowered, "I've tried. His files are sealed. It's useless." "Let me try," Cleaner said. He didn't dare touch them without permission. Jadus' old alarms went straight to Zhorrid and she was quite protective of her father's secrets. What she hoped were her father's secrets, “I know a few tricks.” A wave of passion rolled off her at his turn of phrase and she dragged a chrome-colored nail down the center of his chest. "You do at that," she purred. Talk to the Minister about other things. Storms brewed in Zhorrid's eyes, "Intelligence is mine. My resource. My power base. I will have them focus on Jadus. Nothing else. That is Kaggath." "Of course, mesh'la-mesh'la," Cleaner replied, "But the Empire has more enemies than just Jadus. Intelligence watches them all. What good is winning the Kaggath if it ruins the Empire?" The storm paused at the point of breaking. "You care little for the Empire, I think," she said. "I'd like their currency to stay good long enough for me to spend it," Cleaner said. Humor defused her temper and the storm blew over, "I did not think of it that way," she said. He brushed a wayward lock of hair from her face, “But more than that. If one or more of the other Councilors take advantage of your focus, defeating Jadus will be for nothing. You know what they say on Nar Shaddaa.” Zhorrid revealed perfect white teeth inside her scarred wide smile, “What do they say on Nar Shaddaa?” “Guard the front door and thieves come in through the window.” “They do not say that on Nar Shaddaa,” she said with a mischievous scrunch of her eyebrows. “They should,” Cleaner replied. The transport touched down in front of the Sith Sanctum as usual. Cleaner disembarked and headed for the Intelligence wing. It wasn't raining or windy for a change, which qualified as perfect weather in Kaas City. External Security stopped him when he reached the Operations taxi platform. “ID,” one demanded. Yep, he was definitely back in the heart of the Empire. "Cleaner One," he said fishing the scratched datacard out of a pocket. Fearless Leader’s less-than-fearless backup tightened her grip on her weapon. "Run it. I'll wait." Who the hell did they expect coming from the Sith Sanctum who didn't have de facto clearance at least? “Confirmed. Sorry, sir,” Fearless Leader said. Slight note of resentment in his voice. Cleaner patted for a cigarette in his jacket and was half surprised he still had them. Getting direct transport from the spaceport to a Darth’s residence did have some perks. Not that he could actually light up, of course. He strolled into operations. Except the Minister wasn’t Keeper in Operations anymore. He was the Minister of Intelligence, ensconced in the upper reaches of the Citadel. No one seemed to notice his hesitation as he stuffed his ID in the lift slot for clearance, and the slight surprise that it moved when he selected his destination. A functionary in formal military dress met him when the lift doors chimed open. She had rank pips but no other identification. “You will follow me to the office of The Minister of Intelligence,” she said. “How about you just give me directions,” Cleaner suggested. Didn’t really need an escort. Didn’t really want an escort, either. “You will follow me to the Office of The Minister of Intelligence, Agent Cleaner One, Hand of Zhorrid,” she said. News of his relationship to Zhorrid was spreading. Well, between Zhorrid’s address and the Minister’s elevation it could hardly stay a secret. And we was getting an escort whether he wanted one or not. “After you,” he said, with an exaggerated bow. If he annoyed his guide, she declined to show it. The Minister of Intelligence-former Keeper, former Cipher, former just Agent-sat behind his impressive desk, fingers steepled. "I read your report. What did you want to keep out of official records that you could not address in your last message?" he announced. It was the real Minister after all. A single strand of muscle in the back of Cleaner’s neck, ratcheted tight since leaving Taris orbit, relaxed. “Yeah. I know I’m encrypted but I didn’t want to chance it. Plus Kaliyo.” The minister let out a tiny snort, “Plus Kaliyo.” Cleaner shifted his weight. Big damn room and still no chairs. “Lokin’s on board but I have concerns.” “Lokin understands--” “Lokin turned himself into a rakghoul,” Cleaner said. “Permanently?” “No, not permanently--” Cleaner blinked, “wait a minute, you knew?” The Minister replaced his hands on the desk, “I was aware of the general nature of his research, yes. Not that it had progressed to human trials.” Probably wouldn't have told him if it had. Lovely. “If he’s not lying it’s only the one human,” Cleaner groused. “Then it should not affect his performance in his new assignment,” the Minister said. End of discussion. Moving on. Cleaner shrugged and approached the dais. Damn Sith aesthetics were getting to him. “He thought he was off the record," he pressed. “Doctor Eckard Lokin acted on his own volition. He was not on an official assignment at the time,” the Minister said, “Like yourself, Lokin requires somewhat different handling than most agents.” “Speaking of other agents,” Cleaner began, “he ratted out one of the Ciphers.” The Minister cocked an eyebrow, “You’re telling me this why?” “Because Lokin made a point of saying she was there and that she didn't have sanction either,” Cleaner said, “probably covering his wrinkly @ss. Or deflecting suspicion. Hell, I don't know. I know I don't like it. There’s poodoo going on and I’m not in the loop.” “Which Cipher?” “Nine,” Cleaner replied. The Minister wasn't involved in day-to-day ops anymore. This might be news to him. On the other hand, Cleaner had enough history with Nine--none of it good--the Minister might ignore the entire incident. The Minister glanced at his desk, making a note on an out of sight datapad, “Anything else?” Cleaner scuffed his boots on the polished floor. He did not like introducing Mystery Assassin. “Darth Gravus' apprentice took a shot at me." "I warned you I could no longer protect you from the Sith," the Minister said, "Darth Zhorrid announced herself as your patron. It's her responsibility now." Cleaner went for his cigarettes before he forced the wayward hand back to his side, "Yeah, well, someone took her out. Not Zhorrid, the other one. On Taris. Timing was too damn convenient. I know it wasn't one of Zhorrid's people looking out for me so I wanna know what else is in play. Who else is in play." That got the Minister's attention, "You're certain it wasn't one of Zhorrid's?" he asked. "Positive," Cleaner said, "I verified. Cipher Nine might have, but I figure she'd rather shoot me instead given the opportunity. Same thing with the SIS. Same thing for everyone, dammit. I'm not the cleanup crew anymore. The last thing I need is to drop Zhorrid's project to salvage the op I just karked up. Who the hell else is in play, Minister? I need to know." "How was it done?" the Minister asked, declining Cleaner's question. Technically, Lokin killed Thana Vesh, but that wasn't the point. "Long-range sniper. Green bolt, not much spread," Cleaner closed his eyes, recalling the scene. "Elevation better than forty-five degrees but less than sixty. Came from my left, slightly behind." "What did you find in the hide?" the Minister asked. "I didn't," Cleaner replied, reopening his eyes, "Kaliyo caught reflected plasma and needed a medcenter. I returned fire but I doubt I hit anything. They only shot once so I never saw where it came from. It was too dark and there were too many possibilities. Could have been a kilometer or more away or in the nearest ruin." He shifted his weight. If the Minister reamed him over anything, it would be not investigating when the trail was fresh. But he didn't. The Minister drummed his fingers on the desktop before speaking. "I want a full report on the entire incident. Before you leave planet again. What did you learn during your rather lengthy visit with Darth Zhorrid? I presume she's still pleased with you," he asked. Nice. "She let me in Jadus' files." An eyebrow raise to that. Screw him. "A little anyway. Didn't get much but I was hoping you could give me a watcher." He’d never get one, but if he started at watcher a fixer looked much less ambitious. "Not quite my department anymore," the Minister said. Cleaner rolled his eyes, "Like your boss never made special requests. Besides, New Keeper hates my guts. She won't give me the time of day, let alone a watcher. Probably thinks I'd eat him." "Is she wrong?" the Minister asked. “How about another fixer, then?” Cleaner said, dodging the question and segueing into his real goal, “Jadus hijacked the science bureau project on the Eradicators. I figure they’re his best chance of getting his position back. Zhorrid agrees,” a shiver at the thought, and the memory of soft hands sliding down his lekku. “Does she, now,” the Minister asked, “you must have been quite persuasive.” It was Cleaner’s turn to grind his teeth, “It's what you wanted. What you asked for,” he grumbled. “He's either making more of them or trying to regain control of the existing ones. I'd guess the latter." He took a breath, "The Eradicators are karking complicated. Lokin can interpret the biological crap in his sleep, but I need a weapons expert too. Someone who understands big emplacements and the like. That’s not me. I’m small-arms. Wetwork. So’s Kaliyo. You know that. Carryable, concealable, maybe some little bombs, nothing like the Eradicators." "You have someone in mind," the Minister said. A statement, not a question. Here goes. "Fixer 43. He's smart, knows his stuff, I worked with him before and I like him." Cleaner made a point of maintaining eye contact, "I hate everyone, so that's a plus. Hell, I even put a nicey-nice thing in his file. He and Lokin will be science buddies. He’ll have a blast." The Minister's fingers pressed harder together. Cleaner half expected to catch fire under his intense laser glare. "What do you really want with him?" the Minister asked. Instant improvement of his ship's decor. More with a little luck. Not anything he'd admit to the Minister if he wanted the assignment approved. He replied, "Someone who knows weapons better than I do. He called me ‘sir’ all the time. Without prompting. Like I'm a real agent." When the Minister declined comment Cleaner continued, "I promise I won't try to kill him." A pause. "I will consider it," the Minister said, "anything else?" "Yeah," Cleaner said. The Minister was going to like this request even less. "Zhorrid needs a minder." "That's your job now," the Minister retorted. "I'm your pet thug moonlighting as her confidant. Her advisor. Not a babysitter," Cleaner said, "Look, she owns Intelligence but she doesn't understand it. She really has no idea how it works or how to use it to her advantage. And doesn't much care. All she wants is to win this Kaggath of hers. You could be a hydrospanner. Or a stylus. And like a ’spanner she's going to break you without guidance. Assign a minder to her to act like a major-domo and she'll be a lot less trouble," Cleaner said. "Darth Zhorrid is amenable to this idea?" the Minister asked. "In concept, yeah," Cleaner said. If she sussed out the real purpose she'd char both of them and solve a lot of problems. "Who do you have in mind for this enviable position?" the Minister asked. Cleaner shrugged again, "Dunno. Someone not stupid. Someone who takes direction well and knows how precarious their situation is. Someone without much ambition. Zhorrid will smell it a mile away.” "I see," the Minister said. "Someone with a little spark, someone can read her. Even her out. Or at least not get killed before I’m done with introductions," Cleaner continued, still not quite answering the Minister's question, "Maybe owes you a favor. I can't puppet her all the time. Fill her house with your people and I won't need to. But the first one's crucial." "Explain." "I vouch for the first one. First one vouches for the rest. " Cleaner said, "Kark it up and you lose it all." "A what?" Zhorrid asked. "Major-domo. Hutts have 'em. Someone to take care of all the boring crap so they can eat and gamble and otherwise amuse themselves," Cleaner said. "You think I can't take care of myself,” she said. Her words came out in a tight monotone. Treading on dangerous ground. He continued anyway, "You have the vision, my Lady. The grand plan. You are the playwright, crafting the roles and the lines. Telling the story," he stroked her neck. Felt her relaxing. "Let a director make sure the actors have their costumes and show up on time. Someone to help make your inspiration become reality." No fear. Not fear right now. He ran his fingers over the edges of her ear, lingering over its delicate convolutions. He liked ears. Ears were sexy. "That's not you?" she asked. She wriggled forward and closed the gap between them. Tickled the the scar on his hip. "Not alone. We'll find others to share your vision. Expand beyond the power you inherited," he said. Distant lightning flashed in the bedroom’s high window behind her, making a blue halo of her hair and riming white on her bare shoulder. His eyes blind in the darkness afterward, he felt the hand at his hip following the curve of his thigh muscle. Her toes caressed his calf and came to rest on his ankle. "So I can plot and plan and fornicate with impunity," Zhorrid purred. No fear. He brushed her lips with his fingers, "Whatever you desire." "Mmm, what I desire," she said. She snapped at his fingertips and caught one. Her lips closed. Drew him in. Tongue and teeth toyed with him. "I will consider it," she mumbled.

With the Light vs Dark event going on, I thought I’d bring these prompts back from the archive as well: Luminous Beings We Are -- Life is bound up, figuratively and literally, with light. Whether it's the physical study, the Light Side, or the dawning at the most unexpected times, we may find light altering the living space, illustrating the spirit, or showing the way. Write about your character's interaction with light. Forever Will It Dominate Your Destiny - On the other hand, darkness is the figurative and literal opposite and complement to light. Whether it's the physical state, the Dark Side, or some kind of ignorance, we may find darkness concealing what we need, dirtying what it touches, or hiding on the unexpected flip side of something. Write about your character's interaction with darkness. Thank you, BrightEphemera, for this pair of prompts.

With the Light vs Dark event going on, I thought I’d bring these prompts back from the archive as well: Luminous Beings We Are -- Life is bound up, figuratively and literally, with light. Whether it's the physical study, the Light Side, or the dawning at the most unexpected times, we may find light altering the living space, illustrating the spirit, or showing the way. Write about your character's interaction with light. Forever Will It Dominate Your Destiny - On the other hand, darkness is the figurative and literal opposite and complement to light. Whether it's the physical state, the Dark Side, or some kind of ignorance, we may find darkness concealing what we need, dirtying what it touches, or hiding on the unexpected flip side of something. Write about your character's interaction with darkness. Thank you, BrightEphemera, for this pair of prompts.

Week of July 22, 2016 Lost in Translation--Some of our characters know many languages, some only one. Regardless, there will be times when a foreign concept is difficult or impossible to explain. Perhaps a term is untranslatable, words are insufficient, or maybe they’re using a bad dictionary. The results can be funny or tragic, or both in equal measures. This week’s challenge is to lose something in translation. And, as ever, Night of the Living Prompt: Keep on using any prompt you like! Check out the list at http://www.swtor.com/community/showpost.php?p=7489974post=2 and http://www.swtor.com/community/showpost.php?p=7489991post=3 (yes, we’re up to two full posts!). Many thanks to Alaurin for maintaining these lists. This week's featured NotLPs: First Impressions--of someone else: Our characters encounter many others during the course of their stories. Some become strong allies, loyal companions. Others implacable enemies. Some end up just plain useless. Still, it’s hard to size up someone in a glance. Write about your character’s initial encounter with someone who becomes important later in their story. Backfired Plans - ported from the AU thread. No good deed goes unpunished, and sometimes blessings come in disguise. What if something meant for good had bad effects, or vice versa? Got an idea for a prompt? Send me a pm!

Week of July 22, 2016 Lost in Translation--Some of our characters know many languages, some only one. Regardless, there will be times when a foreign concept is difficult or impossible to explain. Perhaps a term is untranslatable, words are insufficient, or maybe they’re using a bad dictionary. The results can be funny or tragic, or both in equal measures. This week’s challenge is to lose something in translation. And, as ever, Night of the Living Prompt: Keep on using any prompt you like! Check out the list at http://www.swtor.com/community/showpost.php?p=7489974post=2 and http://www.swtor.com/community/showpost.php?p=7489991post=3 (yes, we’re up to two full posts!). Many thanks to Alaurin for maintaining these lists. This week's featured NotLPs: First Impressions--of someone else: Our characters encounter many others during the course of their stories. Some become strong allies, loyal companions. Others implacable enemies. Some end up just plain useless. Still, it’s hard to size up someone in a glance. Write about your character’s initial encounter with someone who becomes important later in their story. Backfired Plans - ported from the AU thread. No good deed goes unpunished, and sometimes blessings come in disguise. What if something meant for good had bad effects, or vice versa? Got an idea for a prompt? Send me a pm!

The link in the above post (or what would have been the link, if I could have linked it) is now active. Here it is again if you'd prefer not to scroll. Thanks so much for the comments and interest! Cleaner on Tumblr benefited from editing, especially the earlier bits and most especially the travel to Tatooine. Here is a link to Cleaner One's homepage. Check out the "Chronology" page to read the story in order. I think I'm going to rename that page to "Read The Story In Order" to make it more obvious what it is. Shen definitely likes living dangerously. I was really nervous editing and posting this one so thanks again for the good reception.

Tryst, Trust, Consummation Even with editing, I consider this episode NSFW. A more explicit version is available here. Darth Zhorrid herself met him at the landing pad on her estate. A waterproof hooded robe shrouded her figure. Rain sluiced off it in silver rivers. "My Hand," she said, extending her arms. A flash of lightning reflected off her chromed nails. Cleaner knelt and took her hands in his. He spent most of the trip back reviewing Zhorrid's favorite operas, picking the right parts to stitch together for her. Damn rain made this bit uncomfortable. “My Lady,” he said, “I trust you are doing well?” he asked. On the pad, even in the rain, there was an outside chance they might be overheard. So he made no mention of her injuries or their severity. Zhorrid knew what he asked. "Rise," she commanded, tugging lightly but not really helping, "I am well. Very well. Come, we have much to discuss." He rose and followed her into the estate proper. Discuss, nice. Safe euphemisms for potential ears. He knew his part here. He turned this corner with Zhorrid weeks ago; today just sealed the deal. Heavy doors hissed shut behind him with awful finality. Inside, two of Zhorrid's servants appeared. They took Cleaner's soggy jacket and divested Darth Zhorrid of her wrap, whisking both away offstage. They were alone in the grand foyer. Cleaner's breath caught in his throat. Zhorrid chose an impressive ensemble for the occasion. A gown of lace, its shade shifting between a soft smoke grey and pale blue depending on the angle of the light. The fabric embraced her curves and flared wide at her feet. Opaque patterns in strategic locations covered her most intimate parts, the fine mesh between them near invisible against her porcelain skin. No seams beyond the wide throat barely clinging to her shoulders. She was bare underneath. On Nar Shaddaa similar creations were cheap and tacky, meant for peekaboo titillation. Not here. On Zhorrid it was smoky elegance and sexy as hell. Anticipation fluttered with electric wings. Not his, though, or at least not all his. A rough arousal, like being a kid again, discovering his dick was good for more than pissing through and lekku were more than convenient handles. When all those sensations were new and untried and he wanted to try them all. Pure, primal lust. Zhorrid smoldered with it. Zhorrid never tried manipulating him with the Force before--to his knowledge anyway--but she sure as hell was now. She pushed carnal thoughts at him and drank in his response. Wasn't even trying to hide it. She wanted him to know. Know she aroused him. Know she felt his arousal. Know it excited her in some kind of weird Sith mental foreplay. An answering warmth filled his lower belly. He wasn't going to have trouble performing for her; something that concerned him in the shuttle here. As the thought occurred he felt excitement enter the mix of emotions Zhorrid broadcast. He should say something. "You look lovely, my Lady." If he touched her, would he feel her skin more or the lace? Which would be more silky? Should he touch her without invitation? She made the decision for him, taking a step forward and running her fingers along his forearms. "I had it made for you,'' she said, "do you like it?" Fingertips crept up. Found where his collarbone met his shoulder. He echoed the gesture. Felt unbelievably soft fabric and her skin hot beneath. If the assault left scars the dress hid them. He twisted a lock of her hair in his fingers and wondered how soon before he found out. "It's beautiful,'' he said, "but not so much as you." Zhorrid tittered. Her silver nails ran along the line of his jaw and left tingling electrical traces in their wake, “You flatter me,” she said. Would her lips buzz the same way? Cleaner took a shuddering breath. These were not all his thoughts. He knew what he was here for but this was not how he planned the encounter. Too fast. Too fast by far. He played Sina. Sina to her Graff. He had to let her seduce him. To resist. Let her chase. “Not at all,” he said. In answer, she pressed her lips to his. They did indeed buzz. Her fingers stroked his ear and one lekku, leaving more tingling tracks. Her perfume filled his nose. Glitterstim and night-blooming flowers, velvet curtains in a darkened study, thunder from a distant storm. Real thunder boomed beyond the door and real rain pelted it like blaster fire, breaking the spell. Zhorrid smelled like danger and live wires, her caress a cutting torch. Cleaner disengaged, backed a step. Every instinct screamed run. Almost every instinct. But he wasn’t a kid anymore. He knew better than to get so distracted. Zhorrid pouted, "You're afraid of me," she said. "Yes," he admitted. Abso-f*cking-lutely. "After so long?" she asked. "Yes." Zhorrid closed the gap. Teasing fingers stroked his lekku again. Tickled his chest through his shirt. "Yet you desire me," she said. She radiated heat and sex and stood close enough to him to know the truth even if he denied it. "Yes," he said. Her lips brushed his, pursued even as he tensed. Zhorrid reached up between his lekku to draw sigils on the back of his head. The other arm wrapped around his lower back. She was smoke and embers, the popping of spice crystals in a hookah bowl. The promise of pleasure but at a price. Cleaner shivered in her embrace. Busy hands caressed sensitive skin. "My Hand, my lovely Shen. Of course you fear me. You know me so well. I should not be surprised," she said. She squeezed and stroked the soft flesh of his lekku. "I adore the taste of your fear. But not today. No fear today," she said, "Today I want something else." Her crimson lips sought his, found them, and this time he did not draw back. Her soft body folded against his. He inhaled a breath of sensual perfume and animal desire. The back of his brain screeched at him these were not his thoughts. That he must be cautious. Sith were dangerous. Hard to pay attention while Zhorrid fondled the actual back part of his brain. Their lips parted with a soft wet sound. He wanted more. Was loathe to let her go. She stepped out of his embrace with a giggle. Let his lekku slide through her fingers until they returned, lonely, to his back. "I've been busy while you were away. Let me show you what I've done," Zhorrid said. She spun with a flourish and set off through the cavernous entry hall and led the way through the massive estate. Cleaner followed. Tried very hard to look at something other than her *ss in her filmy dress while she walked. Didn't succeed. A decorative lace triangle accentuated her tailbone and the design framed each lovely cheek. Focus, dammit. With the other brain. This wasn't playtime, it was an op. A job. At last they reached a pair of tall doors. The configuration looked familiar but not the details. Nervousness reared its head. He hadn’t paid nearly enough attention to their path. Familiar as he was with the estate, he wasn’t quite sure which room this was. Zhorrid clapped her hands and the doors opened with a low moan. A pair of her servants scurried out of the way. "I had much time to think during my recovery. You were right. So very right. Everything my father did, he did to humiliate me. Even this room." She spun, arms open wide, and Cleaner realized where they were. The theater room, where once Zhorrid sang for him. As if reading his thoughts, music began in the background. Soft staccato drums introduced an insistent rhythm. Strings entered two measures later, playing a slow, sensual, rocking melody against a backing of languid horns. Zhorrid finished her pirouette, "My father gave me this room so I could never forget the time I wasted learning to sing. I throw that in his face. I will use it instead to memorialize my victories." Her triumphant voice reverberated in the hall. Cleaner evaluated the changes. The sound-masking draperies were gone. Trophies ringed the room in their place. The items once lining the entry now decorated this room. Lord Istret's prized rancor filled the center, its stuffed head brushing the ceiling. A section of Malachor's wall. One of Lord Grathan's cyborgs, a restraining bolt permanently affixed to its cranium and feeding false inputs to its sensors, marched endlessly on a treadmill in a blastproof case. Dim lighting above each display brightened as they approached and faded when they passed by. Their footsteps echoed while a high flute stole the the theme from the strings. The rhythm remained unchanged. “Along with the present trophies, I prepared alcoves for future acquisitions," Zhorrid said, waving an arm at empty niches. Cleaner forced himself to pay attention. Pedestals stood before each one with names already inscribed. No Thana Vesh or Darth Gravus. Yet. “Their emptiness inspires me,” she said. Cleaner committed the names to memory. Have to check against the Dark Council Official Seat Assignments list or probe Zhorrid for information. Probe...his gaze drifted back to the gentle curve of her spine, the swell of her hips, the place where her buttocks met the top of her thighs and the way they jiggled- just a bit- with every step. He wrenched his eyes left, to a trophy from the assault on Darth Hadra's estate. A shrub, this one, ripped from the ground roots and all and entombed in a stasis field. Fat lot of good that did. He and Kaliyo personally evaluated Hadra's extensive p*rn*graphy collection after the op. Cleaner kept a few trophies of his own from that one. Not the best distraction at the moment. His eyes returned to Zhorrid and caught her observing him over her shoulder. She fluttered her eyes and her lips tweaked into an inviting bow. Blew a kiss. He felt it land, not on his mouth or cheek but below the belt. The heated touch of a phantom lover. Cleaner sucked in a breath between clenched teeth. Zhorrid tittered, turned, and went on, her walk more distracting than any cantina dancer. Animal lust rippled in her wake. A deeper horn introduced a new theme, supplanting the first entirely. The drums kept their steady beat. Zhorrid narrated their way through the displays. She paused upon reaching what used to be the stage, "Here, though, is the crowning glory. Or will be, when you bring it to me." Zhorrid danced up the handful of broad steps that replaced the former stage's high edge. The lights came up as she reached the top. Diaphanous lace shimmered and her skin glowed an almost healthy shade beneath it. A half-finished mural rose to the ceiling behind her. It was in the same style as the one in her Sith Sanctum office. All hard edges and sharp corners. A figure on high, likely Zhorrid, called dark bolts of lightning from a jagged sky. The rest was still sketchwork. She pirouetted among the tawny drop cloths mounded at her feet, "Here, overlooking it all, Darth Jadus. I thought perhaps in carbonite but no. Stuffed. Hollowed out. Mounted in his Dark Council robes and mask. Lord of nothing. Empty of all. Can you see it, my love? See it like I do?" She held her arms out to him, an open invitation. Cleaner ascended the stair, took her hands in his, and knelt at her feet. Yuna poy-poy, what a view. "I can see it, my Lady." He could see it, all right. He kept his gaze fixed on her eyes. Safer. Not her navel. Not the delicate lacy detail floating below it, hiding where her legs came together. Zhorrid tipped her head and her grip tightened. Another gust of desire blew through him. The music changed again. Flutes broke back in with the first theme. The horns gave up and joined the percussion section still tapping out their unchanging rhythm. "I know you do. We are so alike, you and I. You know my mind better than I do at times." Cleaner expected her to raise him up, but she didn't. Her fingers walked up his arms while she stepped into his embrace. His hands caressed her hips on their way to the lovely *ss he admired since he arrived. He made himself stroke her skin, not grab great handfuls. Zhorrid had to lead. His role was to follow. He exhaled a breath of hot air across her stomach. A whiff of her perfume blew back at him. Ghostly white night blooming flowers and madness. Zhorrid cooed at him. Explored his lekku from her new vantage. She traced his markings with electric fingertips. "You pledged yourself to me. Do you remember?" Her attention to his lekku was now well past pleasurable and more at frustrating. Pressure built low in his belly, almost irresistible. "I remember, my Lady." "You swore you'd find Darth Jadus for me," she said. She edged forward, hands moving to his shoulders, "and deliver my vengeance." "I remember, my Lady," Cleaner repeated. Emperor's blood, he could kiss that strategically-placed lace if he wanted to. And he did want to. Wanted to do more than just kiss. "You swore it on your heart and soul," Zhorrid said. Her tantalizing fingers found their way to his collar. Teased open the fastener and snuck inside. She tugged until his shirt hung open then turned her attention to his exposed chest. She found the edges of the burn she left on their last encounter and caressed it with the same hand. Electric tingles on his bare skin. Sweet excitement with the spice of remembered pain. The drums and their allies kept up their steady beat while other instruments fought over the melody. Cleaner thought he should know the piece but he couldn’t place it. "I did," he said, low in his throat where the rasp became a growl. He followed her spine with one finger. Time for Sina's lines. "I am yours to command, my Lady. Heart and soul and body. What would you have of me?" She shivered in his grasp. Silver nails tickled the hollow at the base of his throat. Traced his muscles and explored his scars as she melted to the floor before him. His hands followed her curves while she sank. Her lips cruised over his nose and landed on his mouth. Pressed the advantage. Her tongue begged for entry and he let it. Tasted her saliva and the sweet waxiness of her cinnabar lipstick. He probed back, full of a hunger that had nothing to do with food. Zhorrid wrapped her arms around his waist and pulled his shirt free of his trousers, then loosened those as well. Pulled him tight to her. She broke off her greedy kiss with a wet smack, "You know what I would have of you," she exhaled across his cheek. Cleaner growled low in his throat. He held tight to the nape of her neck and sought her ear. Licked the wide flat space inside. Closed teeth on the delicate cartilage rim. Her hair smelled like glitterstim. Unnamed jungle flowers and fermented honey on his tongue. She leaned on him and he yielded, easing back into the fabric nest prepared for them on the former stage. The dropcloths weren’t rough scrap as he thought at first. They settled into decadent golden shimmersilk. She planned the scene. Start to finish. As carefully as he had. Some remnant of intelligence begged to stop. To leave, to go. Go away. Far away. There wasn't away, though, was there? Only here. Only ever here and now. Shen buried himself in the pale woman who inherited him. Who kept him only so long as he pleased her. He knew how to please her. Lust was easy. Lust was easy and base and always in reach. Zhorrid had no better idea what love was than he did. Thunder rumbled in the distance. Drums boomed, asserting their dominance over the other instruments. The recorded concerto reached its dramatic conclusion. After a measure of silence the opening beat began again. The rhythm of their congress echoed in the room's perfect acoustics.

Week of July 15, 2016 Wrong Size--”one size fits all” rarely does. Anything can be the wrong size: clothes, armor, weapons, starship or computer components, backpacks or duffels, the bowl of soup your character ordered. The incident could be a minor inconvenience or a major problem. The reason behind it might be a simple mistake or deliberate sabotage. Write a story where something was the wrong size, and how your character coped. And, as ever, Night of the Living Prompt: Keep on using any prompt you like! Check out the list at http://www.swtor.com/community/showpost.php?p=7489974post=2 and http://www.swtor.com/community/showpost.php?p=7489991post=3 (we’re up to two full posts!). Many thanks to Alaurin for maintaining the prompt archive and story index here. This week's featured NotLPs: Traditions: Everyone has traditions. Family, cultural, or personal. Some we keep out of habit or societal pressure, others because they hold special meaning. What about your characters? What traditions do they follow? Why? Something as complicated as an elaborate religious festival, or as simple as shredding every completed contract? Maybe your character specifically avoids certain traditions they grew up with. Or adopted new ones from an alien culture. Whatever the case, there's a story in it. Legacy - Legacy is an important part of the game, and a running theme throughout several of the stories. Is your character a part of a particular legacy, be it of family or ideology? What does your character want to leave behind when they're gone? Got an idea for a prompt? Send me a pm!

Week of July 15, 2016 Wrong Size--”one size fits all” rarely does. Anything can be the wrong size: clothes, armor, weapons, starship or computer components, backpacks or duffels, the bowl of soup your character ordered. The incident could be a minor inconvenience or a major problem. The reason behind it might be a simple mistake or deliberate sabotage. Write a story where something was the wrong size, and how your character coped. And, as ever, Night of the Living Prompt: Keep on using any prompt you like! Check out the list at http://www.swtor.com/community/showpost.php?p=7489974post=2 and http://www.swtor.com/community/showpost.php?p=7489991post=3 (we’re up to two full posts!). Many thanks to Alaurin for maintaining the prompt archive and story index here. This week's featured NotLPs: Traditions: Everyone has traditions. Family, cultural, or personal. Some we keep out of habit or societal pressure, others because they hold special meaning. What about your characters? What traditions do they follow? Why? Something as complicated as an elaborate religious festival, or as simple as shredding every completed contract? Maybe your character specifically avoids certain traditions they grew up with. Or adopted new ones from an alien culture. Whatever the case, there's a story in it Legacy - Legacy is an important part of the game, and a running theme throughout several of the stories. Is your character a part of a particular legacy, be it of family or ideology? What does your character want to leave behind when they're gone? Got an idea for a prompt? Send me a pm!

Thank you! You will have to stay tuned to find out A Few Loose Ends The Minister's image materialized in Cleaner’s big shipboard holoprojector. The Minister rubbed at one eye before forcing himself to quit. His wayward hand dropped back to his side. He was also out of uniform, something Cleaner hadn't seen in a long time. According to the chrono it was late evening in Kaas City, so maybe he was having dinner or at a show. He had to unplug sometime. Cleaner's calls always came in high-priority, so he had to answer regardless. "You have a report?" the Minister asked. "Yeah. I got Lokin," Cleaner said. "And?" The Minister knew him too well. He wouldn't make contact for something so routine. "Complications." There's an understatement. And nothing he could discuss without more privacy and security. "I gotta hit Zhorrid's files so I'll be on Dromund Kaas in a few days." "I see," the Minister said. Cleaner swallowed once, "I can't give you a time," he said. Because he wasn't on public transport this time. And he had to go to Zhorrid first. No avoiding it. The file search shouldn't take long--he duped her databases months ago--but other... stuff might. Would. No avoiding that, either. "Understood," the Minister said. The Minister was awfully non-committal. Complain, at least, for disrupting his schedule. Maybe it wasn't the Minister at all. It was a projection, or one of those holographic disguises. Cleaner clenched one fist, driving his nails into his palm. The sudden pain derailed his runaway paranoia. He just wasn't used to setting his own appointments. That was all. The Minister probably wanted to get back to whatever it was he was doing. Besides, he called the Minister's private frequency. If it was compromised he might as well jump out the airlock. The thought alone made his stomach churn. His traitor brain wasn't quite sure if he was serious. Damn it. He half wished the Minister would use the keyword and prove his identity beyond a doubt. He squeezed his nails into his palm again. Karking sniper had him jumping at shadows. "Cleaner out," he concluded. The terminal went to static for a moment before the channel closed. "Reporting back to Daddy?" Kaliyo quipped. Cleaner turned. She leaned against a bulkhead aft. A green kolto dressing still swaddled her left leg, "Aren't you supposed to have a repulsor for that if you're walking?" he asked. "Yeah," she said. She limped to the acceleration couch and flopped down on it. "I see why you like your doc. He's not stingy with the meds, is he?'' She didn't know the half of it. "No, he's not," Cleaner said. Kaliyo leaned back and relaxed, stretching her arms over the rear of the couch and propping the injured leg up on the weathered dejarik table, "That's the kind of doctor to have." Until he cut her off, that is. Cleaner was about to inform her of that fact when the incoming transmission alert chimed. Sith-coded clearance stamp. Not quite high enough clearance to force the connection; he had to acknowledge it. Maybe someone figured out who ate all the rolls. Cleaner frowned and allowed the message through. He didn't have much choice. The figure of an elderly human male resolved in the display. A scattering of cybernetics marked the right side of his face. In the blue light of the hologram, Cleaner wasn't sure if his skin tone was really that light or if it was an artifact of the medium. The venous tracing was likewise suspect. And both as likely to be real. No wonder so many Sith wore masks. It kept the rabble from guessing who might kill them quicker. "Greetings, Hand of Zhorrid," the Sith said. Cleaner tried not to wince. If Kaliyo forgot the earlier instance she'd remember this one. "I did not have the opportunity to meet you while you were still on Taris. Truly a shame. I am Darth Gravus, head of military operations here." Poodoo. "I was here on Intelligence business, Darth Gravus," Cleaner replied with a slight bow. Definitely needed a Sith scorecard. "I didn't want to trouble you." Making slights look like polite deference were Cleaner's specialty. "Intelligence. Of course. I understand." Darth Gravus said. Meaning he spotted the slight anyway but declined overt action. Bad sign. "Actually, I was curious whether you'd encountered my apprentice, Thana Vesh. No one's seen her since the assault on the Republic forces began five days ago and she’s yet to report in." Cleaner's heart skipped a beat. He knew. He had to know. Hell, this Gravus probably sent her to collect his head. Kark all, he didn't need a scorecard, he needed a 3D interactive holodisplay. So, lie or truth? “Dunno. Got an image?” Cleaner stalled. A small holo of Darth Gravus’ apprentice appeared in the lower part of the main image. Cleaner nodded in recognition, “Rakghouls,” he said, as though that explained everything, “a search team would be lucky to find a belt fastener.” This was technically true. “I see,” Darth Gravus replied, “You chose not to report this?” “Didn’t know who it was at the time,” Cleaner said. Also true. Really wanted a cigarette right now. “Ah. Well, with that resolved I suppose I needn’t trouble you further,” the Sith said, “Darth Gravus out.” His image collapsed and vanished in the holodisplay’s emitters. Cleaner heaved a sigh of relief. Before he could dig out a cigarette Doctor Lokin spoke from behind him, “I expect the issue is not as resolved as you might like,” he said. “Nothing ever is,” Cleaner grumbled.

Week of July 8, 2016 Overindulgence--It is possible to have too much of a good thing. The consequences vary, from a mere stomachache to a hangover to an arrest record or worse. Some characters are more prone to overindulgence than others. Has your character overindulged? Maybe they were the voice of reason while everyone around them consumed to excess. What happened? Did the incident become an embarrassing story? Tell it! And, as ever, Night of the Living Prompt: Keep on using any prompt you like! Check out the list at http://www.swtor.com/community/showpost.php?p=7489974post=2 and http://www.swtor.com/community/showpost.php?p=7489991post=3 (we’re up to two full posts!). Many thanks to Alaurin for maintaining the prompt archive and story index here. This week's featured NotLPs: Weapon of Choice: Ancient weapons are no match for a good blaster: What weapons does your character favor? Is she a traditionalist or does she prefer the new hotness? Does he choose something typical for his class, role, or species, or something wildly different and unexpected? Why? From Corso’s Torchy to Lord Zash’s first saber, weapons play an important role in your character's story. Take a moment and share it. Behind the Scenes - Things aren't always as they seem, some events never look obvious, and wherever there's a curtain there may well be a man behind it. Write about what's really going on behind the scenes of your character's story. Got an idea for a prompt? Send me a pm!

Week of July 8, 2016 Overindulgence--It is possible to have too much of a good thing. The consequences vary, from a mere stomachache to a hangover to an arrest record or worse. Some characters are more prone to overindulgence than others. Has your character overindulged? Maybe they were the voice of reason while everyone around them consumed to excess. What happened? Did the incident become an embarrassing story? Tell it! And, as ever, Night of the Living Prompt: Keep on using any prompt you like! Check out the list at http://www.swtor.com/community/showpost.php?p=7489974post=2 and http://www.swtor.com/community/showpost.php?p=7489991post=3 (we’re up to two full posts!). Many thanks to Alaurin for maintaining the prompt archive and story index here. This week's featured NotLPs: Weapon of Choice: Ancient weapons are no match for a good blaster: What weapons does your character favor? Is she a traditionalist or does she prefer the new hotness? Does he choose something typical for his class, role, or species, or something wildly different and unexpected? Why? From Corso’s Torchy to Lord Zash’s first saber, weapons play an important role in your character's story. Take a moment and share it. Behind the Scenes - Things aren't always as they seem, some events never look obvious, and wherever there's a curtain there may well be a man behind it. Write about what's really going on behind the scenes of your character's story. Got an idea for a prompt? Send me a pm!

Taris Wrapup The infirmary door hissed shut behind Doctor Lokin, "Your lovely friend is recovering well," he said, ''Her leg suffered no permanent damage. Though knowing you you're less interested in her legs than what's between them." "Kark you, Doc, " Cleaner retaliated. "And she shares your exquisite command of language," he continued. Great. The last thing he needed was Lokin needling him about his habits. "She awake?" Cleaner asked. "Awake, yes. Lucid? Not very," Lokin said. "I gave her general rather than local anesthetics so she's more than a bit groggy. I think she's rather pleased with the situation. In the interim I expect you have some questions. Shall we?" he asked, indicating the cramped office. Cleaner's credentials kicked the base doctor out, as well as all the mobile cases. The remainder either burbled in their Kolto tanks or slept even deeper with additional sedatives. Green and white kolto bandages marked Cleaner's own injuries. He looked like he was either growing mold or oxidising. Always a popular fashion statement. He followed Lokin into the room and dropped a radio bomb anyway, followed by a white noise generator. The door closed with a soft click. "I'm rethinking our agreement. What the absolute kark did I just see?" Doctor Lokin took a deep breath, "Precisely what you believe you saw. I find the rakghoul virus fascinating. A disease that rewrites an organism's genetic code to the point where it is a new species entirely? That can reproduce both through the original vector conversion method and sexually with its own kind? Furthermore, each host retains their individuality. The only other similar examples either create a group-mind consciousness or a puppet under control of a dominant intelligence-" "Sure, great. Rakghouls are your favorite monster," Cleaner interrupted. He leaned against a data station, "Why the hell would you want to be one?" Loken chuckled, "I don't want to be a rakghoul, not in the way you imply. Not a permanent transformation. My goal was to perfect a customized strain of the rakghoul virus. Keyed to my own genetic structure, it currently allows allows free reversion between human and rakghoul forms while retaining my own intellect and motivations. There are advantages. Consider how effective a squad of special ops soldiers would become. Imagine an unarmed operative who could enter an enemy facility...and grow teeth." Cleaner suppressed a shudder in all but the tips of his lekku, "You weren't meeting another operative. Cipher Nine didn't have any research for you. I bet there's no Jedi, either. This whole play was to test your ‘get out of jail free’ card, wasn't it? Kark all, doc, why don't you just hide a shiv up your @ss or swallow a dataspike like normal people?" "Both detectable," Lokin countered. ''Yeah I noticed the medscan didn't flag you as infected," Cleaner said, "What's up with that?" "The common strains of the rakghoul virus activate immediately, hence the physical changes seen at the onset of infection," Lokin explained, returning to lecture mode, "but any virus that does not kill its host can go dormant. Hiding, as it were, inside its cells. Indistinguishable from the host DNA without invasive testing. I exploited that property to great effect. Of course, the present Keeper would never agree with my choice of 'personal projects.'" "Or the last one, either," Cleaner complained, "He never would have sent me after you if he knew." Lokin shrugged, "Perhaps ." Cleaner tapped a finger on the data station. Silence stretched out. Cleaner broke it, "I am not playing lab rat for you. Not again." "I didn't ask," Lokin said. "Didn't ask last time," Cleaner said, his voice full of empty menace. Harsh language was about all the safeguards permitted. Doctor Lokin knew it, too. ''I am my own best test subject for the time being," Lokin said, "I gain nothing from trying the formula on you or your partner, even if my research had progressed to other species." "I don’t trust you," Cleaner said. there it was. Out in the open. ''Nor should you," Lokin agreed, "but consider. I could have let the Sith kill you. I could have shut you down afterward, revealing your programming to your charming companion, but I chose not to. I could have killed her in the field rather than merely sedating her, but I did not. Frankly, Shen, now that you're here, I'm quite curious about this old experiment. I never really lost interest in the interaction of consciousness and chemistry. One might say my current work is part of a lifelong fascination -" "Great, there's a whole industry for that," Cleaner interrupted Lokin's monologue again, "You fit right in." Doctor Lokin smiled, "I do believe I'll take that as a compliment, knowing how familiar you are with the trade. Speaking of which, have you considered who might have been behind the rifle?" That particular question set its hook in his consciousness earlier and kept tugging on it. Problem was, he couldn’t think of anyone who wanted to kill him. Correction: anyone who wanted to kill him who was in a position to actually try. Loads of beings more than happy to see him dead, not many willing to incur the wrath of the Empire to do it. If they even knew who he was. Sith, maybe, but his gut said they'd be in his face, not a kilometer off. "Dunno," he admitted at last, "Can't imagine anyone gunning for me that I don’t know about. None of 'em crazy enough to put out a contract on me or anyone dumb enough to take it." Doctor Lokin's enigmatic smile remained, "Shen, no assassin willing to go after you would take a shot and miss. The bolt was intended for the Sith. Darth Gravus' apprentice, Thana Vesh. At an all-too-convenient moment for you. The better question is: who wants you alive?" "Besides you and the Minister?" he quipped. "Well, that's debatable, but in principle yes," Lokin replied. Lokin had a point. Unfortunately. Any explanation suggested major security leaks or that some unknown party was observing him. Or both. None of which helped his paranoia. Anyone who did want him alive wasn't planning on asking him out for a fun evening, either. "Dunno," he repeated. "Karking short list." He dug out a cigarette but did not light it. "Indeed," Lokin agreed. The air circulation thrummed in the background. "You're wrong on another count as well," he said after a moment. Cleaner fiddled with the cigarette. Stuffed it between his lips. "Enlighten me," he mumbled around it. "I was indeed collaborating with Cipher Nine. She was looking into Doctor Godera's records for something called the Ultrawave Transmitter. Suspicious, yes?" Lokin said. "Like I give a damn," Cleaner said. His thumb rubbed the igniter switch. Wanted very much to light up. "Funny thing. About the Ultrawave Transmitter. You know that Nasan Godera was notorious about hiding secrets in his devices? Encrypted codes, maps to lost projects? Just something I heard," Lokin said. Dammit. Dammit dammit dammit. It was suspicious and he was supposed to report suspicious activity. Which he had to, now that Lokin made a point of drawing it to his attention. It felt far too close to real loyalty than he liked. Even if it wasn't. Cleaner yanked the cigarette out of his mouth, "I hate you, you know that?" he said. "I do," Lokin replied. Cleaner glared at Lokin. Then spun on his heel and stormed out of the office. Be a shame if he had to retire Cipher Nine. Maybe the Minister would let him have her ship. Bah. Not likely. Hunter found Chance in the ruins beneath the research hospital. Something mauled him, something else patched him up. Someone, more correctly. He had kolto dressings in places he couldn't reach, not to mention the puddle of blood he left behind the barricade half a floor back. The same someone moved him to this hiding spot and sedated him. Cipher Nine. Aka: Legate. Kothe and his silly sabacc codenames. A blaster bolt took care of him. He let the rakghouls clean up the rest. Kothe didn't need to trust a supposed defector all that much. Hunter warned him the agent was dangerous. Too much for Chance to handle. Cipher Nine would eat him, hadn't he said so? Such a burden being right all the time.

There is probably some irony in missing the deadline for a prompt...about deadlines.

Week of July 1, 2016 Deadlines--Time is running out. Your character has something to do, to complete, to finish, to arrange, and their time grows short. What were they doing? Was it something they put off until it was critical? Did they plan for a long time and only now the pieces are coming together? Did the situation arise suddenly and demand a quick response before the critical time? Was it self-imposed or did another character impose it? A deadline is nothing more than a date or time by which something must be ready or complete. Write about it this week. And, as ever, Night of the Living Prompt: Keep on using any prompt you like! Check out the list at http://www.swtor.com/community/showpost.php?p=7489974post=2 and http://www.swtor.com/community/showpost.php?p=7489991post=3 (we’re up to two full posts!). Many thanks to Alaurin for maintaining the prompt archive and story index here. This week's featured NotLPs: Exactly as Planned: Last week, the challenge was to rewrite an in-game event that your character would never do. This week, it’s the opposite. Were there any quests--class or otherwise--that fit your character’s story perfectly? Maybe something happened during combat or while exploring. Flashpoints? Even a bug, glitch, or mistake can become part of your character’s story. How did that go down? Write a story about a canon event that really is part of your character’s personal canon. Goals and Ambitions - Everybody has something they dream of, something they're working for in the future. For a lot of our characters it's a defining part of who they are. What are those goals? Who do our characters want to be? Got an idea for a prompt? Send me a pm!

Week of July 1, 2016 Deadlines--Time is running out. Your character has something to do, to complete, to finish, to arrange, and their time grows short. What were they doing? Was it something they put off until it was critical? Did they plan for a long time and only now the pieces are coming together? Did the situation arise suddenly and demand a quick response before the critical time? Was it self-imposed or did another character impose it? A deadline is nothing more than a date or time by which something must be ready or complete. Write about it this week. And, as ever, Night of the Living Prompt: Keep on using any prompt you like! Check out the list at http://www.swtor.com/community/showpost.php?p=7489974post=2 and http://www.swtor.com/community/showpost.php?p=7489991post=3 (we’re up to two full posts!). Many thanks to Alaurin for maintaining the prompt archive and story index here. This week's featured NotLPs: Exactly as Planned: Last week, the challenge was to rewrite an in-game event that your character would never do. This week, it’s the opposite. Were there any quests--class or otherwise--that fit your character’s story perfectly? Maybe something happened during combat or while exploring. Flashpoints? Even a bug, glitch, or mistake can become part of your character’s story. How did that go down? Write a story about a canon event that really is part of your character’s personal canon. Goals and Ambitions - Everybody has something they dream of, something they're working for in the future. For a lot of our characters it's a defining part of who they are. What are those goals? Who do our characters want to be? Got an idea for a prompt? Send me a pm!

Wrinkles Content warning for gore. The arrogance was back in her voice. She advanced on Cleaner, saber to the side, her left hand half-clawed as though holding something. "Behind!" Kaliyo exclaimed. She pivoted, drew, and fired all in one smooth motion. Cleaner barely saw the object before she shot it down. His blaster was in his hand before he knew he'd drawn. He pointed it at the Sith out of instinct more than thought. Her grin grew wider. Daring him to fire. Her claw threw something else. A fragment of long lost Taris machinery ripped from the ground. He shot this one a fraction before Kaliyo did. Genuine Tarisian dirt pelted him. Some part of his brain calculated how many credits worth of relics he just destroyed. The Sith uprooted more and tossed them at Kaliyo. She changed her bolt pattern to wide. A shapeless mound turned to slag. Another rained down as droplets of molten glass. They hissed and bubbled where they spattered on her fibroplast armor. The odor caught in his nose. The Sith's attacks came faster. He hit a tangle of wires and polysilicate and it shattered. Rusty shrapnel and translucent shards filled the air. He shielded his eyes with an arm and hissed as the sharper pieces stabbed through his duramesh. More slashed his exposed lekku. Ripped hot-edged wounds. Blood welled, dripped. The Sith cackled with delight. She gestured with both arms now, her saber a foreman's pointer. A hunk of metal that might have once been part of a load lifter struck Kaliyo's back. She stumbled with a grunt. Cleaner caught her elbow before she went down. "Is she special to you?" the Sith taunted, "How touching. I'll make certain you see her suffer before I kill her." "Spulta!" Kaliyo cursed, "try it!" She abandoned defensive fire in favor of a full-on assault on the Sith. Kaliyo shot once, twice. The Sith's saber cut across. Blocked. Deflected. The first bolt fried grass and fused soil. The second flew back at Kaliyo. A blast of superheated plasma on wide choke wrapped around her knee. The armor plates melted and ran. Kaliyo shrieked. The gas dissipated and the molten fibroplast solidified, locking her leg in position. "Spulta," she hissed again through clenched teeth, followed by a string of Rodese invective raw enough Cleaner left it off the language recording. A pleased smile crossed the Sith's lips and she stalked forward. Cleaner picked off another inbound hunk of garbage. Purple and yellow afterimages filled his vision. Kaliyo shifted her grip on her blaster. Her breath came quick and shallow. He could leave her. Leave her and run. Pointless. Not even a distraction. The Sith wanted him. The Sith paused for a bare fraction of a second. Spun left. Deflected a narrow green bolt with her humming blade. It hit the ground at Cleaner's feet. Sniper. Experience so ingrained it operated as instinct took over. He sidestepped out of his previous position and sent two blue bolts up after the green one. Didn't aim, didn't care, just hoped to spoil the sniper's sight. Dove for cover behind more scrap. Shot twice more toward the sniper's hide. Kaliyo just toppled over on her awkward leg and rolled out of the way. Dragged herself behind one of the speeders and hoped for the best. The Sith screamed in fury. Her face glowed red in the light from her saber. A rakghoul leaped out of the shadows and onto her shoulders. Its weight and momentum bore her to the ground and it snapped her neck with its thick hands. Sharp claws tore out the big vein for good measure. Punched like old-fashioned daggers through armor, between ribs, into lungs, kidneys. The corpse twitched then lay still. Blood flooded the ground, black in the starlight. It did not feed. Its eyeless face looked up from its kill. Looked at Cleaner. At Kaliyo. He became keenly aware of his bloody wounds. The smell of Kaliyo's scorched skin and melted armor. Her breathing, growing shallow and irregular. He didn't have a clear shot through the junk. Moving out of cover exposed him to both the rakghoul and the sniper. If he ran it would chase. Rakghouls ran fast. It turned back to Cleaner. Stood upright. Glanced up in the direction the mysterious green bolt came from. Then spoke. "I daresay it's just as well I cut my experiment short, Cleaner," it said. Despite the weird throaty distortion, Cleaner knew the voice, "Doc?" he asked. He peeked through a gap in the garbage. Couldn't be. Could it? The rakghoul straightened further. Its bloody arms held away from its body. It arched its back. Claws retracted, lightened, became nails. Fingernails. Thick bunching muscles withered beneath fading, sagging skin. Teeth became blunt before lips covered them. Greying hair replaced the spines on its head. No. Not its. His. Most definitely his. Familiar brown eyes appeared last, worming their way out of the flesh beneath his growing eyebrows, which had not been there moments before. In the rakghoul's place stood an elderly male human, naked as the day he was born, gore up to his elbows and dripping from his fingers. "Lokin?" Cleaner asked. Dumb question. Couldn't shoot him. Had to take his finger off the trigger as soon as he recognized who it was. No doubt why Lokin made sure to address him. Bastard. “What the everloving f*ck, Doc?" Lokin approached Cleaner’s position, "A successful test," he said. "Pwusko ittu stay right there," Cleaner demanded, "Rakghoul transformation is one-way.” Lokin sighed as though dealing with a particularly dim helper, "We can discuss my condition later. Rest assured that it is not contagious. Now, your paramour is going into shock-" ''Kark you, Doc," Cleaner objected. Sounded dirty, somehow, coming from him. Lokin flicked his right hand in irritation, sending a spray of blood pattering to the ground, "Even if I didn't know you well, rakghouls possess an exquisite sense of smell. Another reason to move quickly, if the nearby Republic forces and the mystery rifleman weren't enough." He was right. Cleaner hated it when Lokin was right. He scowled at the doctor. For once, words failed him. "Put on some pants or something," he snarled, rocking to his feet, the best he could come up with. Lokin chuckled low in his throat, ''Well, I'd say that if this is indicative of how you plan to kill Darth Jadus, you need all the help you can get," he said, nonplussed at his nudity. Cleaner knelt at Kaliyo's side. Her breathing was shallow and ragged. The triage alert on her armor strobed yellow. He couldn’t see what happened to her underneath the fused armor, but it wasn’t good. "He's a piece of work," she gasped, "Tell me we dozed off in the armory afterwards and this is a bad dream." He pulled out a combat medpak, exposed the injector tips, and pressed them into the medi-port inside her elbow joint. Big load of kolto, analgesic to take the edge off, and a 6-hour stim on the back end. Wouldn’t do much for a yellow triage beyond help her not care for a while. She groaned when he pulled her to her feet, "We're still in the armory," he said. "you're having a bad dream." "Liar," she gasped. _______________________________________ damn damn damn damn damn damn damn damn damn damn damn damn damn Hunter leaned against the crumbling wall, his blaster rifle at his side. The smell of charred vegetation and scorched metal filled his observation station. Cleaner's blasts were nowhere near accurate enough to hit him. Or close enough--most blasters lost cohesion past fifty meters. At this range the bolt was far too diffuse. He might get singed but not much more. Hunter turned his eyes to the ragged gap he shot through. A fresh blaster burn decorated the edge four meters up. Another one darkened the elderly ceiling. Lichen frizzled by Cleaner's blue plasma drifted and swayed in the air. Close enough. Too close, if he were honest. With adrenaline keeping his heart in high gear, honesty felt best for a change. He should have stuck to the brief. The brief said avoid contact. The brief said this Cleaner was violent. The brief made the old 'shoot first and ask questions later' joke about his methods. Except it wasn't a joke. Even Kothe warned him off. Now he probably blew any future contact attempt. And he had to report it to the Cabal. They'll love that. What was he supposed to do, let the Sith kill him? They’d say yes. Weaken the Empire's position without showing the Cabal’s hand. Picture perfect. Was he thinking of the Cabal, or his career? Maybe he could spin it into a positive. Hunter picked up the electro binoculars and dared a look at the scene. The Sith lay face down on the ground in a lagoon of blood. Cleaner stood astride an idling speeder well away from the corpse. An old man in a medic's jacket zipped off on another speeder before he focused on it and Cleaner followed. He tried tracking the leader but it vanished into the night. It might have been carrying two. Kaliyo took a bad hit and she wasn't with Cleaner. Hunter scanned the area. No Kaliyo. He focused again on the Sith. One of the smaller rakghouls approached and pulled at her boot. It barely dislodged it before more converged on the body, no doubt attracted by the commotion and the smell of fresh blood. He put the binoculars away. Any information he might learn from examining the corpse would be gone before he got there. Hunter leaned back against the crumbling wall again. Who the hell was the third? Where had he come from? What did he miss? He took cover for no more than a minute or two, surely. What was going on? Working for the Cabal was like playing pazaak with a marked deck. He knew everyone's hand before they did. With all the information at his fingertips, he took it for granted. Being in the dark was an unfamiliar feeling. Maybe he'd look up Chance after all. Cleaner was out of reach for the moment. As was the Cabal. He smiled without realizing it. For the moment.

Week of June 24, 2016 Relaxing--When your character takes time off to kick back and relax, what do they do? Do they have to travel? Go somewhere where they can avoid pressure and constant requests for aid or advice? Do they escape into a good book or other entertainment? Perhaps they indulge in a hobby or visit a spa. What does your character do to relax? Or do they find it impossible? And, as ever, Night of the Living Prompt: Keep on using any prompt you like! Check out the list at http://www.swtor.com/community/showpost.php?p=7489974post=2 and http://www.swtor.com/community/showpost.php?p=7489991post=3 (we’re up to two full posts!). Many thanks to Alaurin for maintaining the prompt archive and story index here. This week's featured NotLPs: That Didn’t Happen!: Or, alternately, It Didn’t Happen That Way! Whether you follow the class and planet stories in your fic or consider them more of a springboard, the dialogue wheel still helps tease out your character’s motivations and actions. And then, there are those other times. When none of the options are in-character. No matter how many times you exit out of a scene, what combination of responses you pick, there’s no way your character would act like that. This week’s challenge is to choose one of those moments and write what really happened. Stomping Grounds - Our characters all have favorite places. Somewhere they grew up, somewhere they spent a lot of time, someplace that feels like home or might as well be. Someplace they’d rather be any day of the week. Somewhere they dream of when things go wrong. Tell us about your character’s favorite stomping ground. Got an idea for a prompt? Send me a pm!

Week of June 24, 2016 Relaxing--When your character takes time off to kick back and relax, what do they do? Do they have to travel? Go somewhere where they can avoid pressure and constant requests for aid or advice? Do they escape into a good book or other entertainment? Perhaps they indulge in a hobby or visit a spa. What does your character do to relax? Or do they find it impossible? And, as ever, Night of the Living Prompt: Keep on using any prompt you like! Check out the list at http://www.swtor.com/community/showpost.php?p=7489974post=2 and http://www.swtor.com/community/showpost.php?p=7489991post=3 (we’re up to two full posts!). Many thanks to Alaurin for maintaining the prompt archive and story index here. This week's featured NotLPs: That Didn’t Happen!: Or, alternately, It Didn’t Happen That Way! Whether you follow the class and planet stories in your fic or consider them more of a springboard, the dialogue wheel still helps tease out your character’s motivations and actions. And then, there are those other times. When none of the options are in-character. No matter how many times you exit out of a scene, what combination of responses you pick, there’s no way your character would act like that. This week’s challenge is to choose one of those moments and write what really happened. Stomping Grounds - Our characters all have favorite places. Somewhere they grew up, somewhere they spent a lot of time, someplace that feels like home or might as well be. Someplace they’d rather be any day of the week. Somewhere they dream of when things go wrong. Tell us about your character’s favorite stomping ground. Got an idea for a prompt? Send me a pm!

Thank you! There are definite plans for Zhorrid's hand. And more innuendo. I'm glad you're enjoying the story.

Taris in the Moonlight Cleaner didn't bother waiting for Lokin’s appointed time. After a brief stop at what passed for civilization on this lousy planet he pushed on to Lokin’s coordinates. Thus it was the middle of the night when he and Kaliyo crested a hill overlooking the Republic base and coasted to a stop. According to Imperial recon data, their defenses included surface-to-low-orbit pulse cannons, high walls, charged fences, artillery emplacements, armed patrols, and even the occasional Jedi. At the moment, it looked like an angry Killik nest. Alarms blared into the night. Personnel swarmed everywhere. Some of them armored, most of them not or only haphazard. Roused out of bed, no doubt. The regular lights made the grounds as bright as daylight and yet searchlights panned the ground as though they needed more illumination. Hand-held blaster fire beat a staccato background rhythm. The big guns remained silent. This was a ground assault. All the commotion was inside the walls. A little too frenzied for the rumored Imperial strike. One guess what it really was. Kaliyo squinted against the glare, "I think we missed the party." Cleaner reached for a smoke then stopped himself. Damn rakghouls. "Not like Doc to start without me." That wasn’t quite true. Lokin did whatever the hell he wanted, but he was usually less noisy about it. This mess was more Cleaner’s own style than Lokin’s. "Ha," Kaliyo laughed, "You're not planning on going in there, are you?" While he might not be able to harm Lokin directly, Cleaner had no compulsion to come to his rescue. The Minister never managed to get that one to stick. He could watch the show with impunity if he wished. Joining in? Completely optional. He raised an eyebrow ridge at Kaliyo, "Thought you wanted to mess with the Pubs," he teased. "Strafe the base from orbit? Sure," Kaliyo said, ''stroll in while they're on high alert and shooting shadows? Kark that. Don't mind watching the fireworks from here, though. Might even munch some official Imperial issue junk food." "Doubt you're that desperate, " Cleaner said. ''Na," Kaliyo agreed, "Lucky you found something worth eating. Something else," she said with a wink. They hit the base's cafeteria before setting out and discovered someone trucked an amazing pastry chef all the way out here. Who might not survive the morning when his Sith master--and it had to be a Sith, regular army didn't have that kind of pull--discovered all the jelly-filled leishii rolls were gone. Kaliyo was quite appreciative. Good food, sex, and explosions. Damn fine day so far. A brilliant fireball erupted farther back in Olaris bathing them in soft orange light. For a moment their skin colors matched. The low crump of the explosion hit a second later. One of the distant cannon going up in style. Cleaner felt it in his lungs and gut as much as heard it. "Haven't seen anything that beautiful since the Dominator went down," he said. "Yeah," Kaliyo agreed. The pressure magazine on a second gun failed in the intense heat. Compressed shvash gas expanded and ignited, propelling its twin barrels into the night sky like a pair of interlocked missiles. ''Too bad we didn't run off with a rocket or grenade launcher while we were in the armory. Lob a few in there just to mess with 'em," Kaliyo said when the glow faded. Cleaner snorted, "Just as soon not give 'em a clear target." "Killjoy." Behind the walls, behind the cannons, something else caught fire, so far back he saw nothing more than a vague glow,. The underside of billowing smoke shone blue with reflected light. Starship engine blue. Had to be the primary fuel depot. Stars, it was glorious. Too bad it wasn't Imperial. A low rumble filled the air. Like the shockwave earlier it was almost inaudible, just an insistent vibration deep in soft tissues, along with a low thrum coming up through the soles of his boots. Adrenaline kicked Cleaner's heartbeat into overdrive, sweeping away his good mood. It wouldn't take much to send Olaris and the surrounding countryside into Taris's rakghoul infested depths. Republic wasn’t known for planting scuttling charges in resettlement colonies, but Taris wasn't a typical colony. Not like they'd be so polite as to put up warning signs if they did. "Think I'd rather enjoy the show from the back seats, yeah?" he said. Kaliyo pulled her speeder upright, "Yeah," she agreed, "Yeah, let's find some solid ground." Her voice held the same uncertain note his had. Perhaps Lisha Techt had been too close to one of her own bombs before. Cleaner kicked on the repulsorlifts on his speeder and turned it around. "Kilometer or so should do it," he said, flicking the propulsion engine on to standby idle, "head back once the smoke clears." Kaliyo started her speeder and reversed its direction like a swoop-racing star, "Good idea," she said. "Leaving so soon?" asked an haughty alto, cruel and full of Sith-issue arrogance, "We've not even started yet." Cleaner’s gut clenched. He didn't want to turn. Didn't want to see. A Sith owned that voice, that's all he needed to know. Armor no good, blasters no good, no planning, no plan, nothing. He turned around anyway. No sense letting her stab him in the back. Human--he expected that--a bit too pale for his taste even though she had the kind of curvy athletic build he liked and body armor that accentuated it. Hair dyed that funky dark red Sith favored. One of those silly tattoos in a matching color. Beneath it, her eyes. Even in this crummy light he saw them. None of Jadus' quiet menace or Zhorrid's mercurial insanity. This Sith was full of small cruelty. The kind who hurt beings because she could, because she liked it, because it was fun. He had plenty of experience with beings like her. Two options, really. Either beat 'em down until they knew who was really king of the sh*theap, or suck it up and endure it until they were done or got bored and moved on. As Sith she outranked him, making her king of the sh*theap. As Zhorrid's Hand, she was supposed to leave him alone. Without Zhorrid here to back him up it didn't much matter. She could do as she liked provided no one found out. The Minister was right. Sith politics sucked. Well, if he played it wrong he'd end up dead or in a kolto tank that much faster. Probably the latter; Lokin took a perverse pleasure in keeping him alive. Assuming Lokin himself was alive, given the mess in Olaris. He opened his mouth to speak and the defiant words died in his throat. Pulling rank on this Sith was suicide. He knew that. His traitor brain calculated the odds faster than a Nar Shaddaa bookie. He couldn't mouth off to her any more than put a blaster to his head. "Nexu got your tongue? " The Sith taunted. She whipped out her lightsaber hilt. For a moment he thought she held a sex toy before his brain made the correction. Made a few practice passes through the air before igniting it. An angry red blade emerged. Red Blade. The noob's cover identity. Dammit. Panic nibbled at the fringes, chewing on mental flotsam. Useless. How long frozen? How many seconds? How many heartbeats? Kark all, he was going to die if he said nothing. The logic flaw broke the impasse. What was less lethal? Sidestep maybe. "I'm the Hand of Darth Zhorrid," he said. Stars, Kaliyo was going to give him hell for that. "I know who you are," the Sith snapped, "I can smell your fear, Twi'lek. Your lord isn't here. I am." A few more lightsaber flourishes. Her blade buzzed like angry bees. "She can't protect you." She didn't know him well. She missed the subtleties of his emotional state. Why didn't she just attack? He wasn't a challenge, not like this. She wanted something else. What part? What role did she think he played for Zhorrid? "My lord Zhorrid will be displeased," he said. Oh yeah, Kaliyo will have a field day with this poodoo. A wicked grin split the Sith's lips, "I'm counting on it," she said.

Week of June 17, 2016 Special Delivery--Has your character ever ordered or commissioned something? A weapon, an outfit, a portrait, or a story? Are they patient waiting for it to arrive or be completed or do they inquire every day? Do they micromanage? Track their package down to the minute? Or do they forget about it entirely until it shows up? Perhaps your character is the one doing the delivery. Do they get lost? Wonder what’s in the mysterious box? Write about your character’s encounters with deliveries and orders. And, as ever, Night of the Living Prompt: Keep on using any prompt you like! Check out the list at http://www.swtor.com/community/showpost.php?p=7489974post=2 and http://www.swtor.com/community/showpost.php?p=7489991post=3 (we’re up to two full posts!). Many thanks to Alaurin for maintaining the prompt archive and story index here. This week's featured NotLPs: Breaking the Fourth Wall: These are a lot more meta than we usually explore; roll with them and have fun. Addressing the Audience: Characters aren’t supposed to acknowledge their audience. Suppose they did? How would they speak to all those who’ve been reading and enjoying their adventures? What might they say to the complainers? Addressing the Creator: If your character could say something about their writer, what would it be? Would they complain about something? Take the opportunity to give you a piece of their minds? Maybe ask for a favor? Or would they be grateful and thank you? Got an idea for a prompt? Send me a pm!

Week of June 17, 2016 Special Delivery--Has your character ever ordered or commissioned something? A weapon, an outfit, a portrait, or a story? Are they patient waiting for it to arrive or be completed or do they inquire every day? Do they micromanage? Track their package down to the minute? Or do they forget about it entirely until it shows up? Perhaps your character is the one doing the delivery. Do they get lost? Wonder what’s in the mysterious box? Write about your character’s encounters with deliveries and orders. And, as ever, Night of the Living Prompt: Keep on using any prompt you like! Check out the list at http://www.swtor.com/community/showpost.php?p=7489974post=2 and http://www.swtor.com/community/showpost.php?p=7489991post=3 (we’re up to two full posts!). Many thanks to Alaurin for maintaining the prompt archive and story index here. This week's featured NotLPs: Breaking the Fourth Wall: These are a lot more meta than we usually explore; roll with them and have fun. Addressing the Audience: Characters aren’t supposed to acknowledge their audience. Suppose they did? How would they speak to all those who’ve been reading and enjoying their adventures? What might they say to the complainers? Addressing the Creator: If your character could say something about their writer, what would it be? Would they complain about something? Take the opportunity to give you a piece of their minds? Maybe ask for a favor? Or would they be grateful and thank you? Got an idea for a prompt? Send me a pm!