Chapter Thirty Rederick led the way through the command center's innards, the packed group of disparate figures trailing his impassioned gait. Soldiers, Sith, and Jedi alike navigated the cramped corridor in silence, only the echoes of more than a dozen boots gracing their senses. But the journey would prove short-lived as the Commander took pause in front of the Consular's impromptu home. With a forced calm, he beckoned the Jedi to the front of the group before waving her into the empty room. "My apologies, Master Kesara, but we cannot risk having you out in the open. Stay here, if you would, whilst the Executors and I tend to the matters at hand." There was an expediency in the Imperial's every syllable, but never did the man completely shed his knack for decorum. His head held at a slight dip as he spoke, Rederick maintained a fine balance of respect and utmost haste. The Consular, meanwhile, offered no objections. Stepping past Sith and riflemen, Kesara returned to her room with little more than a polite nod. With an almost imperceptible wag of the Commander's finger, the pair of soldiers gracing the hallway snapped to attention. Immediately, they moved forward, flanking the entrance to the Jedi's chamber and sealing her in with the quick press of a button. There they remained, stances rigid, rifles in hand, helmed gazes perpetually forward. Spinning on his heels, Rederick continued his trek through the base without a word, simply expecting the Executors to follow. His expectations were promptly met. The group had been reduced to a mere quartet, but quite the quartet it remained. "So, where do we go from here?" asked Fay. "Demik had a communicator," Rederick began, not ceasing his forward pace. "Hidden from us… as well as his apprentices, to a degree. We will locate it and see if it can tell us anything." "The other Sith won't take kindly to us ransacking one of their tents," Fay replied. "That they won't," said Rederick. The Commander retrieved the cylindrical communicator from his belt and brought it to his mouth. "This is a priority alert to all outpost defenders. Pull all but two sentries from the walls. Place a single IDD at the front entrance. I need everyone and everything else in the courtyard. Those guarding the command center are to remain at their posts. Rederick, out." "Don't think they'll take kindly to a firing squad, either," Asher muttered. "I've no intention to kill, only to maintain some semblance of order. We cannot allow anyone to interfere with our search. Time is of the essence." "How so?" asked Graves. "We don't know the nature of Demik's arrangement," Fay stated. "There's a chance him going silent could prompt those he communicated with to disappear." "Precisely," said Rederick. The Commander only momentarily paused in order to open a door, spilling the group into the central hub of the command center. The terminals lining the floor and walls were dark and unpowered, the communications blackout still in effect. "If only someone had opted for something other than a beheading," Asher muttered. "We might have been able to force Demik to talk with his mysterious contacts." Graves' head dipped. "I didn't really have a choice..." "Really? Couldn't have just stabbed him in the gut or something?" Asher asked. "Maybe lop off an arm? I mean, I know from experience that's not a sure-fire way to stop someone but-" "Graves didn't use his lightsaber," Fay interrupted. "He used the Force." The scarred man met his gaze with that of his taller fellow, his typically stoic countenance almost shifting to one of surprise. "You could tell?" "Even if I didn't recognize the technique, the lack of cauterization was a rather big giveaway," Fay plainly stated before turning toward her other teammate. "You didn't think that odd, Asher?" "I wasn't exactly staring at the wound itself," he mumbled, arms crossed. "And people have been known to bleed from saber cuts around major points of articulation... but this is the first I've heard about people getting sliced up with the Force." The Executors came to an abrupt stop, whilst an unaware Rederick continued toward the command center's front entrance. "The most basic applications of the Force are through telekinetics," Fay explained, figuratively and literally talking down to the burned Sith. "Pushes manifest in waves. Compress those waves and, with enough speed and power, you've got yourself a blade." The woman raised her hand and offered a quick flick of her index finger. "Remember?" "Right... no offense, but Graves doesn't exactly seem the type capable of that," said Asher, not even looking at the subject of his derisions. "He's somewhat lacking in skill and finesse and... overall Force prowess." "He's actually right," Graves replied, usual emotionless candor. The burned Sith snapped toward his stoic fellow, almost offended that he would agree with him. "Honestly, I can barely even call upon the Force." "Then explain the headless Sith currently aboard my... our ship." "While I can't actively use it, I've got some sort of subconscious defense system," Graves explained. "Usually it only activates after I've been beat to hell or black out. Guess it was different this time." Before Graves could even finish his words, Asher scuttled away, practically throwing himself against one of the nearby terminals. Eyes wide, chest rising and falling with each frantic breath, the burned Sith continued to press his back against the deactivated machinery. "What's your problem now, Asher?" asked Fay, utterly calm. "My problem? We've got someone who can accidentally behead people!" "Only if they happen to attack him," Fay replied. "Honestly, I see it as positive." "Of course you would," said Asher with a harsh whisper. "First Nami, and now this. I get you've a thing for damaged goods, but whereas the girl just throws a punch or two, Graves cuts people's heads off!" "Only sometimes," Grave plainly stated. "This is the second time it's ever happened... I think." "You think?" "Well, like I said, sometimes I black out and... it's not like I've ever cut off anything of yours." "Is that supposed to make me feel better?" Asher shot back. "That was the intention, yes," said Graves. "Executors," Rederick called out. The trio looked to see the Commander standing in the open entrance, a dark silhouette as the Balmorran sunlight shined beyond him. "I'm afraid I must once again stress that time is of the essence." "You heard him, let's go," said Fay, already taking her first step toward the exit. "Whoa, wait, no," Asher stammered. "We are not dropping this!" Fay paused her advance, looked over her shoulder, and cast a sharpened glare toward the burned Sith. "Yes. We are. The mission comes first, so suck it up." "Just because you don't see the problem-" "Oh, I see the problem," Fay interrupted, firm in her tone. "I just happen to also see the solution. Don't instigate." With that, the tall woman resumed her trek to the front of the command center. Finally, Asher pushed himself off the unpowered terminal, straightening out his robes as he avoided eye contact with the scarred man nearby. "If it makes you feel any better-" Graves began before finding a hand raised toward his face. "Graves... you are literally incapable of saying or doing anything that would make me feel better." Dropping his hand, Asher finally began to walk in the direction of Fay and Rederick. In a matter of moments, Graves was left standing alone in the dim lighting of the command center. "This is why I said I don't work in groups..." ---------- The courtyard of Imperial Outpost XT-25 basked in the orange glow of the setting sun. Though the long day slowly approached its end, there was a renewed bustle within the walls of the military base. Beyond the perimeter, all was still, all was silent. The stomping of boots and struts atop the dry grasslands was replaced by little more than the passing breeze. Atop the duracrete wall, a single soldier stood on each side of the partition that was the outpost's entrance. The black-clad figures cast their helmed gaze out toward the empty landscape, never sneaking even the slightest glance toward the commotion behind their backs. On the ground, practically blocking the base's entrance, an Imperial Defense Droid performed its duty with as much diligence as its organic counterparts. Its three struts firmly planted in the dirt, the walking turret would repeatedly pivot upon its waist, ready to vaporize any external threat with the cannons that took the place of its hands. Meanwhile, the rest of the base's defenders were focused on threats more internal. A gathering was underway. Imperials and Sith. Subordinates and superiors. Organics and machines. A group of blends and stark divides. Of beings dark and gray. The tents were empty, their occupants having been spilled into the courtyard. Scores of Imperial soldiers and battledroids, more than a dozen Sith, two sides staring one another down, separated by a threshold neither would cross. On the side of duty, faceless beings blind to the Force. Not a spot of flesh showed amongst the base defenders, full suits of armor covering each Human's hide. Shoulder to shoulder, the soldiers and their mechanical accompaniment were equally calm, equally rigid. Rifles in hand, they stood at the ready, but never did they fully raise their weapons. On the side of passion, individuals seeped in the dark side. Some Human, others Pureblood. Some robed, others armored. None wholly the same, yet none wholly unique. Pallid skin, eyes of crimson and gold, the warriors had driven themselves deep down their chosen path and reflected that fact in every fiber of their being. And between them all, the motley quartet of Rederick and the Executors. Though with their backs toward the Commander's forces, it was clear with side they truly fell upon. "Sith," Rederick began, speaking just loud enough to ensure his words met every ear beneath every cowl. The man remained adamant as he was bombarded by harsh glares, his hands neatly held behind his back. "A great many questions must be running through your heads. Why we have gathered. Why the one known as Demik no longer stands amongst you. The truth is that he and his apprentices were found guilty of treasonous acts, and they received punishments befitting their crime." There was a series of hushed mummers amongst the Sith as they turned their glares toward each other rather than toward the Commander. "However," Rederick continued, "the nature of their transgression gives us reason to believe that they were not the only Sith involved with this treasonous behavior. Given your contact with the accused, as well as your positions prior to relocation, it stand to reason that many of you are guilty of the very same crime. Fortunately for you all, we haven't sufficient proof and I have seen enough death for today. There will be no executions, no massacres, so long as no one impedes our search of Demik's quarters and belongings. Any attempt to do so will be seen not only as an act of obstruction, but as one's complicity in the aforementioned crimes. Now, if you would, please stand aside and let us proceed with our efforts." Rederick took his first steps forward toward the line of Sith, only to find his progress impeded as the man before him refused to budge. The warrior was a thing of broken and warped flesh much as the cyborg was. But whereas Rederick's visage spoke of wounds sustained, the Sith's spoke of an internal corruption that managed to claw its way to the surface. Organics twisted by the dark side, rather than mended by cybernetics. "I'll ask again," said Rederick, firm and direct, locking eyes with the scowling warrior. "If you would, please stand aside." "An Imperial thinking he can preside over Sith..." the warrior growled. "You've no idea the consequences you'll face..." "I may have earned myself a few demerits... but I'd say it's worth it to put a few traitors in their place." "Just wait until my master hears of your actions... demerits will be the least of your worries." Rederick remained stone-faced as the stared down the hooded warrior. "Go ahead and inform them. Of course, with there being a blackout on communications, you'll have to wait a while before you can deliver the news. Unless you also happen to have some contraband in your tent worth examining?" Without a word, the haughty Sith stepped aside, granting the Commander a clear path toward Demik's quarters. Rederick moved forward, and the Executors followed shortly thereafter. The Imperial pushed past the tent's flap without a second thought, followed by Fay. But as the scarred and burned Sith were about to enter, Graves found a hand placed on his chest. A hand that belonged to Asher. "Stay out here," he said. "But I can help with the search," Graves replied. "Maybe. But I'd prefer not to share a cramped space with someone surrounded by an uncontrollable death-bubble." "It's not uncontrollable," said Graves before looking down. "See? You're touching me right now." Asher quickly rescinded his hand, almost unaware it had extended in the first place. "Look, someone has to stand lookout. Might as well be you. Okay?" "If you think so... then I will." With that, Graves turned his back on his fellow, looking out to the scores of Imperials and Sith that stood before him. His feet planted in the dirt, the scarred man did nothing but occasionally pan his gaze from left to right and back again. Asher opened his mouth to speak, but no words came. Instead, he simply ducked into the tent. Inside, Rederick and Fay had already begun their search. There was little resting between the walls of canvas, atop the floor of Balmorran dirt. The Imperial focused on the Sith's cots, running his mechanical hands through numerous layers of sheets. The Kineticist, meanwhile, did more heavy lifting, raising furniture with the Force before setting it back on the ground with nary a thud. From chairs to shelves, Fay searched beneath and behind the solid objects, moving with an effortless grace. "What exactly are we looking for?" Asher asked, still standing near the cramped quarters' entrance. "A personal communicator," said Rederick as he tossed aside a sheet. "Small enough to have been smuggled in and kept a secret. Likely possesses a cylindrical or disk shape." The burned Sith remained motionless, merely scanning his surroundings. Eventually, he settled on the dirt flooring, running his gaze along the tent's edges until something caught his eye. The slight glint of light reflecting off a metallic surface. Asher held out his open hand, subtly clawing at the air as he focused his mind. Not a moment later, a pair of gray cylinders began rolling across the floor toward their manipulator. Two lightsabers once belonging to Demik's apprentices. With a quick flick of his wrist, Asher sent the hilts flying toward him, only to catch one in each hand. He turned them over, examining every curve and ridge. Searching each one's length, he eventually rested his thumbs over the lightsabers' activators. The tent was filled with the twin hums of the two weapons activating, and soon the cramped space was basked in a red glow. Not a moment later, the other occupants snapped toward the disturbance. "Uh, Asher?" Fay spoke up. "Had to check," he replied, promptly deactivating the weapons. "There's actually a lot of space inside the casings if you remove the crystal and power cell. Seeing if it turns on is easier than disassembling it." "Good call," said Fay. "The best hiding place would be somewhere no Imperial would think, or dare, to search." "Indeed," Rederick spoke up. "Though considering Demik's apprentices didn't know where he kept his communicator, it's safe to say it wasn't hidden amongst their belongings. Though Demik's lightsaber..." "No, we heard it activate on the droid's recording," Asher replied. "Still, Sith are associated with more than just lightsabers. Let's look for something beyond a soldier's purview." "Good thinking, Asher," a calm voice sounded off on the other side of the tent flaps. "Thanks, Graves." The burned Sith's reply was unconsciously warm, a fact that made his eye twitch as his brain caught up with his tongue. Asher quickly snapped toward the partition, biting his lip. "Don't get distracted! You're on lookout!" No more words came from outside. With a huff, Asher set the pair of hilts down on one of the nearby folding chairs. Meanwhile, Rederick had cleared the cots, turning his attention to one of the trunks lying beneath them. He dragged them out, one by one, until three large suitcases graced the center of the tent. The noise and motion of the metal crates scratching against the dirt caught the attention of the Executors. Without a word, they approached the suitcases, all three investigators having a trunk unto themselves. Asher and Fay quickly went to work, undoing the latches of their respective luggage and parting their lids. Both were greeted with little more than a loose bundle of black clothes of varying shapes and sizes. Rederick, meanwhile, simply looked at his still-closed suitcase. "Mine has a combination lock," he muttered. "Need help?" asked Fay. "Appreciated... but no need." With that, the Commander gripped the two halves of the lock, tightening his mechanical grip. The tent filled with the sounds of warping metal until, with a quick jerk, Rederick shattered the lock and forced open the lid of his trunk. The trio continued their search, rifling through the belongings of Demik and his apprentices, not entirely sure to whom each trunk belonged. After a few seconds of rifling through sets of robes, Asher was the first to return with something other than backup attire. It was a metallic disc that fit in the palm of his hand, just thick enough to house a series of electronics beneath its rigid casing. "Might have something," Asher muttered as he fiddled with the device. A moment later, an emitter in the center of the disc lit up and a hologram began to form above the disc. After a flicker, the blue light took the shape a family, a three-dimensional photo. Three Humans stood together, a mother and father resting their hands upon their son's shoulders, all smiling. The burned Sith stared at the image for only a second before promptly shutting it off, haphazardly tossing the device back into the trunk. "Never mind. False alarm." The searched continued. The next to discover something peculiar was Rederick, whose mechanical nerves told him of something sharp hiding amongst his pile of clothes. When he retrieved his hand, he held within it a small pyramid. The black and red polygon was just small enough to be held in the Imperial's palm, home to intricate Sith designs etched into every facet of its glass-like surface. "A holocron," he muttered, his one organic eye growing wide. The Executors immediately looked up from their trunks, staring at the device with similar interest. "A repository of Sith secrets," Fay spoke up. "A device manufactured and utilized solely by those gifted with the Force. Definitely something Imperials would avoid messing with." Rederick rubbed his chin with his free hand, eyes still locked on the crimson device. "Even without superstition holding them back, soldiers aren't to tamper with artifacts without ties to Reclamation Service or the Sphere of Ancient Knowledge." "Making one the perfect place to conceal contraband," said Fay as she made her way over to the Commander. Asher released a quick chuckle. "What better place to hide something than somewhere people would be too afraid to look. Sith holocrons have a reputation for corrupting the minds of the untrained." Fay carefully took the pyramid from the Commander, holding it in her palm and bringing it close to her face. "Of course," Asher continued, "its innards are typically occupied by a complicated crystalline-latticework forming a semi-organic computerized neural network capable of storing immense amounts of data and imprinting from its creator, so even if it possessed a compartment at its core, there wouldn't be much space to-" Ignoring the burned Sith's exposition, Fay hovered her other hand over the holocron, sandwiching the device between her palms. With but a quick thought, she channeled the Force from her hands, and the pyramid shattered into thousand tiny pieces, revealing a metallic disk within. "It was a fake," she plainly stated. "Hollow." "Well then..." Asher muttered, arms crossed. "I guess that settles that." Fay took the hidden device in her other hand, letting the shattered remains of the fake holocron fall to the dirt floor. A rounded disk, home to a clip on one side and a compact holoprojector on the other, its surfaces lined with a number of switched and dials. "I'd say we found Demik's means of communication," she said. The trio drew closer and closer to one another, until they stood in a circle around the device in the tall woman's hands. "So, what now?" asked Asher. "Now... we can begin in earnest."

From the "Sith Titles" Codex entry: So it seems that Apprentice is equal to plain "Sith", with acolyte not quite having earn the designation, at least formally. Which also means acolytes technically don't have to be referred to as 'my lord' to non-Sith, but I suppose most probably do out of fear or respect regardless. During the war, I imagine there'd be plenty of Sith who lost their masters, but hadn't yet earned the right to take their place as a Lord, so they remained at the 'apprentice' level despite not technically being an 'apprentice', at least in the interim before they could find a new master. And given the large scale of operations for the Sith and the Empire, I imagine more than a few individuals who passed their trials at the Academy were pulled out, dubbed Sith, and then sent to fight on the frontlines even without having a Lord taking personal control of their apprenticeship. Someone's gotta stand around guarding all those military outposts and Sith manors.

Chapter Twenty Nine Aboard the Fury, a gathering was taking place. Three bodies overlooked the headless one that lay at their feet, but absent was the one actually responsible for the felled Sith Lord. Instead, Graves sat off to the side, red-stained face buried in his hands. Standing shoulder to shoulder, Asher, Fay, and Rederick could only offer terse stares as they bounced their gaze between the bisected pieces of Demik. "I daresay this is what one might call a predicament," said Rederick, unwavering in his tone or delivery. Wearing a face of stone, the Imperial maintained his ordered presence, even as he locked eyes with the scowling Pureblood looking up at him. "You're telling me," Asher casually added, though a touch more perturbed than the Commander. "He died right over a grate, which means he's been leaking into who knows where for who knows how long..." Hands on his hips, the burned man nudged Demik's torso with his foot, slightly lifting its shoulder before setting it back down. A sigh slipped out of Fay as she rubbed her brow. "There are more important things to worry about than the ship right now." "Indeed. This can only shake up an already unstable situation," Rederick declared. Asher shot a sharpened glance toward his fellow seated on the nearby couch. "It's a shame one of us doesn't know the meaning of 'don't instigate'." "I didn't mean to do it," Graves muttered as he lifted his face from his palms. "And it was self-defense." Rederick scratched his chin, eyes still affixed to the floor. "Hard to corroborate that when the only other witness is currently missing a head." "If I may..." A new voice. A new figure. Everyone turned toward the source, only to see the Astromechanical Logistics Droid step into the central chamber. Ever the polite attendant, the machine offered a dip of its head as all eyes fell upon it. "I had offered my services as a personal recorder for Master Graves, services which he chose to decline. However, I still believe it my duty to record the happenings within the Fury, especially when a guest is aboard." "Can you verify the events that transpired here?" asked Rederick. "I can provide an audio log detailing the event in its entirely," said the droid, almost giddy in its speech. Immediately, everyone began to move toward the droid, rising from seats and stepping away from lifeless Sith Lords. With curiosity, they surrounded the metallic being, none willing to speak. ALD maintained its poise, almost staring off into the distance as its speakers fired up. "Graves... I was hoping we could continue our conversation from the other day. Just you and I, no fellows or apprentices." The voice of Demik. The voice of the fallen. The group continued to listen with bated breath, even the man who made up half of the recorded dialogue. They listened through the pleasantries, the reminiscing, and finally, the revelations. Talk of Jedi and Sith. Of wants and desires. Of machinations and games. Of refusal. Of confrontation. "It's far from over... if we can't have our little war, so be it. We'll just make a bigger one. What do you think happens when they find a dead Sith in the base, hmm? They go after the Consular. And when she's dead, the Jedi come out of hiding. Rebels. Imperials. Sith. Jedi. We'll have our war, not from the shadows, but on a global scale!" Then, the sounds of a lightsaber igniting, proceeded by a series of thuds. Playback ended. "Well, he was right about the dead Sith," Asher spoke up. "Though I doubt he was referring to himself." "But the end result is the same," said Fay. "Which means the rest might come to pass as well." The Executors turned toward the Commander, only to see his usually unshakable visage begin to warp. His lips trembled, eventually settling on the slightest of scowls. Slowly, the Imperial reached to his belt, retrieving a small, handheld cylinder and holding it to his mouth. "Sergeant..." Rederick spoke into the device, almost at a whisper. "Yes, Commander?" came an immediate response. "If you would, please triple the security in front of the command center. No one is permitted to enter unless personally accompanied by me, understand?" "Understood, sir!" Rederick drew and released a deep breath as he returned the communicator to his belt. The man fell silent, closing his remaining organic eye. "It would seem that your actions were more than justified, Mr. Graves." The scarred, bloodstained Sith offered no immediate response, simply standing with his head slightly dipped. "So how do we proceed?" asked Fay. "If Lord Demik was the one running this... operation... it stands to reason his apprentices were in on it as well," Rederick suggested. "It stands to reason that every Sith occupying this base, or even this planet, was in on it," Asher mumbled. Rederick worked to regain his composure, wiping any trace of a frown from his face as he interlocked his hands behind his back. "That is a road we shall cross in time. But for now, we must focus our efforts on what we know. Demik's apprentices are likely curious of their master's whereabouts. They should be detained as soon as possible to avoid further troubles." "Detain them how?" asked Asher. "The 'how' is easy," Fay plainly stated. "It's the 'where' that's uncertain." "Bring them to the command center. The rooms there are the closest thing we have to holding cells," said Rederick. Fay arched her brow. "Do we really want to move them closer to the Jedi?" "Better than interrogating them out in the open," Rederick replied. The woman offered a firm nod. "Got it. Prep the room. I'll handle the apprentices." "I'll run interference in case one tries to slip away," Asher added. "What should I do?" asked Graves. Asher cocked his head to the side. "Well, for one thing you could wash up. It's disconcerting how often we've met and your face was stained with blood." Graves' head dipped. "It was my own, last time." "I honestly don't know which is worse," Asher replied. "Clean yourself up. And try not to cut off any more heads in the meantime." With that, the burned Sith made his way toward the ship's entrance. Fay followed, but not before offering her fellow a respectful nod. "About the killing," Graves muttered. "I..." "Another time, Graves," said Fay, lacking the bite of the burned Sith's words, but also lacking a sense of comfort. "Other matters now require our attention." As the two Executors disappeared down the rear corridor, Graves was left alone with the Commander, as well as the droid who stood awkwardly in the corner of the room. The remaining Sith's head dipped further, until his eyes seemed glued to the floor. Lifting both his gaze and spirits, however, was Rederick placing a prosthetic hand upon the Executor's shoulder. "You did a good thing," he said, a softness shining through the Imperial's otherwise stoic demeanor. "The man was a traitor to the Empire, and deserved punishment." "All I did was defend myself," Graves replied. "And even then, it doesn't feel like I actually did anything." "Then think of all you did beyond the one act. You refused his offer. You sought to expose him. The mark of a patriot does not lie solely in great acts. Every decision we make, it can serve our selves, or it can serve something greater. We are individuals united in our purpose." "Our purpose..." Graves muttered. "That is was it means to be an Imperial," Rederick continued. "And though I will not presume what it means to be a Sith, I will say that could not be far off. Or rather, it should not be." Graves lifted his gaze, and was greeted with the Commander's eyes staring into his own, both organic and cybernetic. There was a warmth in Rederick's visage, one strong enough to overpower the cold machinery that dominated half of his face. And yet, its strength was born solely from the slight curl upon his lips. One that Graves mirrored. "But your friend is right, you should probably wash off the blood..." ---------- Back inside the base, the two underlings of Lord Demik squirmed in their tent, tapping their feet and constantly looking side to side. Beads of sweat formed on their brows as they incessantly awaited the return of their master, who had now been gone for hours. All they could feel was a growing panic and unease, until finally a large silhouette appeared on the other side of their tent's flaps. "Master!" the pair joyously cried out in unison. But as the figure parted the flaps, the panic and unease returned stronger than ever. Without a word, Fay stepped inside, towering over the seated apprentices. But seated they would remain no longer. "Where is our master?" barked the lesser woman. Fay focused on the tattooed Sith and took a step forward. She offered no explanation. No quip. Merely the delivery of her clenched first to the apprentice's torso. In an instant, the air was evacuated from the Sith's lungs and she fell to the cold, hard ground. Trembling legs carried the other apprentice as he rushed past the Executor and fled the tent. He managed only a single step before tripping over himself, face planting into the Balmorran dirt. As he lifted his gaze, he was greeted with the sight of the wrapped Sith standing in front of him, arms firmly crossed. "Going somewhere?" asked Asher. The apprentice's lips parted, but no words came forth. And before he could make further attempts to speak, he felt something tugging on his leg. Looking back, the Sith saw his foot raised into the air, seemingly of its own accord. Then, the invisible force began dragging him back into the tent, overpowering any attempts he made to claw at the dirt. ---------- Crowded was the corridor deep inside the command center. Sith, Jedi, and Imperials alike gathered outside one of the many identical doors than lined the hallway. Asher stood beside Graves, no longer stained with the blood of Lord Demik. Rederick was flanked by a pair of soldiers, armed and armored. And amongst them was Master Kesara, absent her usual cup of tea. Each and every one of them perked up as a series of knocks rang out from the other side of the room's door. One of the soldiers tapped away at the control panel, and soon the solid barrier lifted into its recess. "They're ready for you," said Fay as she stepped out of the chamber. Rederick offered a nod. "Thank you, Executor. I can take things from here." "Commander, if I may," Kesara spoke up. "I believe myself capable of acquiring the information we need through less... forceful means." "I appreciate the sentiment, Consular, but I must decline your offer," Rederick declared. Slowly, the Commander passed his gaze between the gathered individuals. "Under no circumstances am I to be interrupted, understand? No matter what you hear, after this door closes, it does not open until I give the proper signal." The soldiers offered their acknowledgements, with the others supplying various nods of their own. With that, the Commander stepped into the chamber and the door shut behind him. The room was as barren as the one Kesara had occupied, but with the added benefit of a second chair to accommodate the two apprentices on the other side of the table. And thus they sat, side by side, opposite their interrogator, hands shackled behind the backs of their chairs. Heads dipped, they slumped not from the swift beating they had previously received, but to avoid eye contact with the Imperial. But as they surreptitiously lifted their gazes, they were greeted with the sight of an impeccably dressed officer, hands kept behind his back, blaster pistol strapped to his thigh. "Aris and Noran, apprentices to Lord Demik," Rederick began. The Commander was the embodiment of calm. Unwavering in his stance. In his voice. "What can you tell me about the Jedi on Balmorra? More specifically, your connection with them?" The woman lifted her head, casting a hateful stare as her tattoo was illuminated under the hanging light. "We don't have to answer your questions." "We don't have to do anything, Aris," Rederick replied. "We don't have to arrange fights beneath our government's notice. We don't have to cause good men and women to lose their lives, just because they happened to get caught in the crossfire. We don't have to commit treason. And yet, you and your master did all those things. Why?" "The actions of Sith are beyond your concern, Imperial," Aris muttered, practically spitting with each word. A loud clang rang out as metal met metal, as Rederick slammed his prosthetic fist on the table. "No they are not! Your master defied the Emperor's will! Sacrificed the lives of soldiers! Made contact with the enemy!" The Commander's shouts reverberated throughout the compact chamber, until all fell silent. Slowly, he withdrew his hand, revealing a dent in the spot it made contact. Gathering himself, Rederick drew and released a deep breath. "And I want to know why and how." "The 'why'?" Aris said with a smirk. "Because we wanted to, you blithering idiot. You think we care if a few Imperials died? It's expected of you. Your lives are worthless next to the ambitions of Sith. That's how it's always been, and how it always will be." Rederick's fists clenched, an audible creaking ringing out as metal rubbed against metal. But the man did not break. Turning away from the woman, the Commander set his sights on her fellow apprentice. Noran kept his head dipped, shying away as he continued to maintain his silence. Another deep breath from Rederick. "Very well. Let's skip the 'why' and go straight to the 'how'. All communications equipment and transmissions are monitored. How did your master relay his messages? How did he arrange these fights?" The woman offered nothing but her sharpened gaze and her growing smirk. All was silent, but for an ethereal hum than began to fill the chamber. "Tell me," Rederick demanded. "How did you master communicate with the rebels? With the Jedi?" No response. Instead, the woman continued to stare at the Imperial, never breaking eye contact. Finally, as the hum seemed to grow in intensity, she spoke. "You don't want to know." Rederick arched his brow. "Pardon?" "You don't want to know," Aris repeated, concentrating. "You want to forget all about this and let us go." The words were almost soothing as they graced the Imperial's ears, laced with the very essence of the Force. Unfortunately for the Sith, her mental suggestion proved incapable of boring into the target's head. The same could not be said for the response. In a single motion, Rederick pulled the blaster pistol from his holster and squeezed the trigger. First, a sharp ping. Then, a green bolt. The woman rocked in her chair as the round passed through her skull, eventually slumping forward. Her restraints kept her from reaching the flat of the table. Her hair obscured the tattoo that now featured a hole in its center. Finally the other apprentice stirred. The man jostled and shook, releasing a litany of garbled words and curses as he bounced his gaze between his fallen fellow and anywhere else he could possibly look. Meanwhile, Rederick maintained his poise, calmly returning the blaster to its holster. A muffled voice rang out on the other side of the door. "Commander? Is everything all right?" "Everything is fine, do not interrupt us," Rederick shouted through the door. Slowly, he panned his gaze back toward the still-breathing apprentice. "Perhaps you'll prove more cooperative, Noran." "I don't... you... you can't do this!" he replied, bouncing between mumbles and shouts. "I can't? And why not?" Rederick calmly asked. "Because I'm not Sith? Because I'm just some lowly Imperial? Well guess what, you're not Sith either. You and your master were stripped of such designations when you decided to commit high treason. Now... you will tell me the means in which you've been communicating with the rebel forces." Noran was reduced to a blubbering slump, tears streaming down his cheeks. Through sniffles and trembling lips, he finally managed to speak. "Our master had a... private communicator. Unmonitored." "Where is it?" "Hidden... in our tent. I don't know where, he never let us see it. But I swear to you, it's there!" The apprentice lifted gaze to find a silent Rederick staring back at him. "You're going to kill me, aren't you?" "Our law dictates that the sole punishment for treason be execution," Rederick plainly stated. Noran lowered his gaze, not ceasing his discharge of tears. "This isn't fair..." "Fair? After what you and your master have done, you would speak of fairness?" "You don't understand... what it's like," Noran muttered. "The Academy... we were raised to fight. That was our purpose. To fight. To hate. To kill. You people spent months, years, preparing us for the war, and then just expected us to give it all up? You know what we are without war? Nothing! You took away our identity... our purpose... our entire reason for being. And then you have the gall to blame us for lashing out? That was our nourishment, and now you're literally starving us. You'll never understand what it's like to be a Sith!" "And yet I know more of war than you ever will," Rederick replied, a softness gracing his otherwise terse voice. The Commander rolled back his left sleeve, then his right, revealing more and more of the metallic limbs that rest beneath. Black, almost skeletal prosthetics emerged, their junction with flesh still not revealed even as he pushed his sleeves past his elbows. "I owe the war... for a great many things. It earned me my position. It earned me my status. It earned me my new body. In all, I can safely say I've gained more than lost from war. But I do not like war. I... tolerate... war. I tolerate the battles, the conflicts, the skirmishes. I tolerate being forced to march across fields of grass, rock, and snow. I tolerate the Sith Lords sending men and women to their doom. I tolerate countless pings of blaster bolts passing by, drowned out only by the roar of starfighters as they fly overhead. I tolerate seeing my fellows burn alive because they cannot escape the wreckage of an armored transport. I tolerate seeing one's own limbs litter the ground as they are carried away from an explosion. I tolerate being brought back, again and again. I tolerate being forced to fight, again and again. But you would seek such a thing. You would manufacture such a thing. And to what end? To fight for the sake of fighting. Mine is the blood of a soldier. Should the Emperor call for war, I will fight without a moment's hesitation. But I do not like war. Whatever glory there is to be had... whatever thrill or sated desire... that is not why we fight. We fight today, that we might not have to tomorrow. We fight to instill some sense of order upon a chaotic galaxy. Not for personal gain. And not at the expense of our fellows." Rederick punctuated his speech with the slow drawing of his blaster from its holster. Noran immediately winced, ducking his head and squeezing his eyes shut. He waited, second after second, until he heard a light thud. The apprenticed cracked open an eye, only to find the pistol resting on the table in front of him, and the Commander nowhere to be seen. Just as he began to arch a brow, Noran felt something tugging on his arms, followed by a series of clicks. In a matter of moments, he had regained control of his hands, no longer shackled. The apprentice puzzled as Rederick walked back into view, circling around the table. Hands kept behind his back, the Commander drew and released one last deep breath. "You've a series of choices. Unfortunately, none of them involve you keeping your life. The first, and most obvious one, would be to try and shoot me and escape. Of course, if I did not manage to end you, those waiting outside definitely would. The second, would be to follow in Aris' footsteps and have me simply carry out your punishment. And then there's the third option." "What's the third option?" Rederick paused. "You, of course, should be familiar with the ramifications of treason, beyond your own execution. Your name, and anything associated with it, will forever be tarnished. Your relatives... past, present, and future with bear the brand of a traitor. But, I believe you are not beyond all measures of redemption. Take the third option, and I will ensure your crimes remain yours and yours alone. That is my offer." Noran stared at the Commander with heavy eyes, cheeks still wet with tears. With a sniffle, he slowly lowered his gaze, eventually resting it on the pistol in front of him. And without a word, he reached out. ---------- Outside the cramped chamber, in the equally cramped corridor, the others patiently waited for Rederick to finish his interrogation. "How do you think things are going in there?" asked Asher. "Walls are too thick to hear much of anything," said Fay, content to lean against the wall adjacent to the shut door. "But he sounded like he had things under control." Cutting off the Executor was a sharp ping ringing out from inside the holding cell. The second one to grace their ears. The motley group stirred from their positions, but heeded the Commander's previous words. Everyone remained silent and motionless, until they heard a series of knocks on the other side of the door. The pair of soldiers stationed outside shared a brief glance and a nod with each other, and one quickly tapped away at the nearby control panel. The door shot up into its recess and out came Rederick, shoving a blaster into his thigh holster as he emerged. "We need to investigate the Sith's tent," he revealed, wasting no time making his way toward the command center's entrance. The rest followed, but not before sneaking a quick glance into the chamber, only to be greeted with the sight of two motionless Sith.

Chapter Twenty Eight Ziost. A new day. Within the cramped living room of her instructors' home, Nami shared the couch with Vurt as a continuous clattering echoed from the connected kitchenette. The girl was hunched forward, resting her arms upon her legs as she drew labored breaths. Eyes heavy, her entire body ached, but nothing stung quite like the cut that stretched across her face. Bright red, the razor-thin gash had only recently crusted over, running from the center of her brow and down her left cheek. Vurt, meanwhile, maintained an unwavering upright posture, absent of wounds, casting his beady eyes forward in a picture of composure and patience. The noises from the kitchen reached a crescendo before falling completely silent. Only then did the Trandoshan emerge, holding two dishes in his hands. He set the first plate of charred meat before his fellow Sith without a fuss, but the second placed in front of the girl came with an unsteady jitter. Nami stared at Nesk's hands as he withdrew them, the left of which featured a thick wrapping of bandages, and only two of its usual three digits. "I'm sorry about... you know..." the girl managed to finally get out, still ducking her head. "Is no problem," Nesk casually offered, though still delivered with the usual half-snarl. Without another word, the Trandoshan disappeared back into the kitchen, leaving the girl to stare at the blackened patty of ground meat that lay before her. Finally, the Nikto budged from his perfect posture, taking hold of his fork. "It really isn't," he said, not bothering to look at the girl as he spoke. "Nesk once lost a hand. Regrowing a finger shouldn't take much effort." Nami's eyes went wide, before the motion agitated the cut running across her face. With a wince and a grit of her teeth, the girl drew and released a deep breath as she finally took hold of her fork. "Can you really grow an entire hand back?" "He can," said Vurt as he cut into his patty. "Nesk's people can naturally regenerate limbs. And with the Force, a process that would normally take months or years can instead be done in a few short days. Other species aren't quite as lucky." The scaled Sith returned with his own plate of foodstuffs. Taking his seat in the nearby armchair, the Trandoshan wasted no time digging into his meal. Nami watched as Vurt did the same, albeit with smaller, more sensible bites. The girl stared at her food, fork shaking as her hand slightly trembled. Her grip had been steadfast not hours ago, but now it was as weak as the rest of her extremities. She had survived. But only just. And yet now she sat, calmly, amongst her attackers, about to eat a reasonably prepared meal. "Don't think I'll ever get used to sitting… next to people who just tried to kill me," Nami muttered, mouth barely moving as the words pushed past her lips. "It will," Nesk said between bites. "It's the nature of the Sith," Vurt added. "You will share rooms with those who will inevitably try to kill you. You will share rooms with those you will inevitably try to kill." The girl fell silent as she cut into her food. Tender, the beef patty fell apart under the weight of her fork. Light seasoning. A bed of some unknown sauce. She took her first bite, each motion of her jaw bringing a sharp sting of pain. Her muscles ached. Her scar ached. Her entire being ached. After a few more bites, Nami paused her eating, opting to simply stare at what remained of her food. "Did I... did I do good, today?" "It is alive," said Nesk. "All that matters." Nami's head dipped, but only for a moment. "Does that mean... I'm ready for the Academy?" "No one is truly 'ready' for the Academy," Vurt replied. "But you've been given the necessary basics. The rest is up to you." Nesk looked up from his dish to offer the girl a quick glance. "It knows the Force. It knows how to survive. That is all it needs." "I wasn't exactly lacking knowledge in those subjects... before I came to Ziost," said Nami. "It had knowledge. Now it has wisdom," Nesk replied. "One is no more than words. Other must be beaten into it." "I suppose that's one way of looking at it." With that, the girl returned to her food, and the trio continued to eat in silence. ---------- Balmorra. A new day. The sun had long since reached its peak as it hovered high above Imperial Outpost XT-25. The soldiers stationed within moved with duty and precision as they continued their drills and patrols. The Sith, meanwhile, continued to offer harsh scowls beneath dark cowls as they peered out from their makeshift tents. Despite the constant bustle and movement, there was little that actually changed within the base's courtyard. Within the command center, however, was another story. Three figures gathered around the central holoterminal, only the bare minimum of systems receiving power within the communications hub. Standing shoulder to shoulder were the Commander, the Consular, and an Executor. Rederick, Kesara, and Graves. The trio were soon joined by the electronic image of a Sith projected before them, robed and wrapped, arms firmly crossed. "Asher here. Seems we've finished slightly ahead of schedule. The old stock has been secured, and the new schematics have been installed." The burned Sith's words were seeped in boredom, the typically sharp voice having been rendered dull. "No signs of Jedi. Or rebels for that matter. You sure they know about us?" "We plugged all but one leak, so to speak," said Rederick. "We've a channel we know is tapped into by a resistance cell. They knew that a pair of Sith would be present at that facility." The image of Asher began to scratch its chin. "So, either two Sith is too great a risk, or this particular cell isn't in contact with our Jedi." "There's also a chance they're biding their time," Rederick replied. "Without proper intel, we cannot say whether or not the Jedi scouted their targets prior to engagement." "If we were scouted, that might hamper our ability switch out one of us with Graves," said Asher. "If they know there's three of us, that definitely might make us into too great a threat." "Does that mean we're going to switch to solo outings?" asked the scarred Sith still back at base. Rederick held up one of his mechanized hands. "Wait. We're still in the early phases of this operation. We cannot change our methods after a single day." "We've only so many days to keep up this ruse, Commander," Asher quickly replied. "We're going to run out of facilities eventually. Honestly, Graves might be right. Have one of us out in the open with the rest of us playing support. I'm sure Fay can handle some renegade Jedi by herself. Hell, she could probably capture one just like our Consular friend wanted." "The sentiment is appreciated," Kesara offered alongside a slight bow of her head, to which the burned Sith gave an inaudible scoff. Rederick shook his head. "We lack a sufficient estimate of our enemy's threat level. I won't risk sending a single agent into the field, not even a Sith." A sigh from Asher. "Very well. We can discuss our options when we get back to base. Shouldn't take too long…" A pause. "Do you think we can take the Fury, next time? I mean, I don't see it making us any greater or less a target if its parked outside the factory." "Don't worry, Asher. I'm looking after the ship," Graves plainly stated. "You'd better be," Asher shot back. "I don't want to get back to base and find something wrong with my ship." The stern voice of an unseen female poured from the holoterminal's speakers. "Your ship?" Asher's image quickly looked to its side before dipping its head. "Fine. Our ship." "It's in capable hands," Graves stated, his stoicism hampering any intended comfort. The burned Sith unfolded his arms. "I'm holding you to that. We'll board our shuttle soon. Be back as soon as we can." "Do not lower your guard," said Rederick. "There remains the possibility that you could be attacked mid-transit." "Understood. Asher out." With that, the electronic image faded. With communications ceased, the Commander went to work depowering the surrounding terminals. The lights and sounds of technology quickly fled the chamber, until the room was dark and silent. "I should probably go check on the ship," Graves stated. "Do you two need anything?" "Nothing for the moment, Executor," Rederick replied, still focusing the majority of his attention on the surrounding equipment. "We'll send for you if something comes up." The Consular offered the polite shake of her head, to which Graves gave a quick nod. Whilst Rederick and Kesara remained securely within the command center, the scarred Sith made his way back to the Fury. With a determined gait, eyes unwavering, the armor-clad figure passed through the courtyard, paying no mind to the soldiers and Sith that populated the space. He moved, without a second thought, until he stood before the raised entrance ramp of his group's vessel. In the shadow of the Fury, Graves offered the brief wave of his hand, and not a moment later, the slab of metal deployed. The scarred man boarded the ship, and made it through no more than a single corridor before being greeted by the ever friendly Astromechanical Logistics Droid. "Welcome back, master," the machine said with a bow. "Hello, ALD," Graves replied, his emotionless voice a stark contrast to the droid's overbearing warmth. "Any problems with the ship?" "None whatsoever, master. The Fury remains in as perfect a state as the moment you left." "I see. Good." Without another word, the Sith entered the central chamber of the vessel, ALD following his every step. He paused, panned his gaze, and eventually took his seat upon one of the couches lining the interior wall. Hands neatly folded upon his lap, the scarred man did nothing but sit perfectly still as he cast a blank stare toward the opposing wall. Standing beside the stilled Sith, ALD slightly cocked its head. "Is there anything I can get for you, master?" "Nothing for the moment, ALD," Graves replied, not budging from his seat. And with that, the room returned to silence. To stillness. Two beings. One wholly inorganic. The other partially so. Both equally rigid. Graves would say nothing. Do nothing. He was content to sit and stare. And the droid was content to stand by his side. Seconds passed. Then minutes. Each without change. The first disturbance came not from the cyborg, but from the fully-mechanized being. "Is there anything you'd like me to do, master?" ALD asked. "I have a repository of holovids and music that I could play for you." "Nothing for the moment, ALD," Graves repeated, same exact cadence as before. "Studies have shown that an increasing number of Sith enjoy recording their thoughts in journals. I would be more than happy to act as your personal holorecorder, master." Finally Graves budged, offering the droid the slight bow of his head. "The sentiment is appreciated." A pause. "But no thanks." With that, the Sith resumed his rigid posture, continuing to stare blankly at the opposite wall. "Very well, master. Then I shall perform routine monitoring and maintenance within the cockpit." The droid disappeared down the corridor that connected the central chamber to front of the ship, clanks ringing out with each step as metal met with metal. The Sith was left alone with his thoughts, few as he had. Once more, there was little change but for the passage of time. After minutes of silence, of which Graves was ignorant of how many there actually were, ALD's voice rang out once more. This time over the ship's speakers. "Master, someone is approaching the ship." Graves looked up. "Asher? Fay? One of Rederick's?" "I'm afraid I do not recognize them, master. But it appears to be male Pureblood." "Is he alone?" "It would appear so, master," said the droid. "Would you like me to raise the entrance ramp?" "No... it's fine, ALD. Let him aboard." "Very well, master." The Executor slowly rose from his seat, setting his gaze upon the corridor that led to the ship's aft. Already he could hear the distant steps of heavy boots upon solid flooring. Steps that grew louder and louder, until finally their source revealed itself. Standing within doorframe from the rear corridor, the red-skinned warrior Graves had met the day prior. Lord Demik. "Graves," he spoke up, a warmth gracing his otherwise coarse voice. "I was hoping we could continue our conversation from the other day. Just you and I, no fellows or apprentices." The scarred Sith continued to stare at the Pureblood, an almost vacant expression upon his face. Silence hung heavy aboard the Fury, before Graves extended an arm toward one of the room's couches. "Of course. Take a seat." "Appreciated." With that, Demik lowered himself upon the designated couch. Not a moment later, Graves sat on the neighboring piece, angled in such a way that the two Sith could face one another without excessive contortion. A blessing, considering the pair's equally armored hides. "So, Graves... is that a given name, or...?" "Taken name," the other quickly replied. A quick chortle from the Pureblood. "But of course. So, you're with Production and Logistics now? Seems an odd transition." "Couldn't do much after Drath died," said Graves. "Got offered a job. Took it." "New master?" "In a manner of speaking." "Hmm." Demik gently stroked one of the tendrils that hung from his chin. "How familiar are you with the current situation on Balmorra?" Graves continued to stare at the Pureblood. "I thought you wanted to discuss the past?" "Oh, I do." Demik cracked a toothy grin. "But there are certain matters that you might find… enlightening." The Executor remained silent. "Did you know that there are Jedi on this planet?" the Pureblood continued. "Besides the Consular currently being held in this base." "I was under the impression both the Republic and the Order withdrew their forces from Balmorra," said Graves, maintaining his emotionless tone. "Indeed they did. But of course, there will always be those who... follow their own path. Out there, hidden amongst the countless valleys and crags, there are those who would fight, regardless what their government might say. Rebels. Jedi." A pause. "Sith." "Is this what you really wished to speak about?" Another chortle from the Pureblood. "I suppose when it comes down to it, what I really wanted to talk about was you, Graves. I know the stories. About Coruscant." "I'm afraid I don't know anything about that," Graves plainly stated. "No need for false modesty," Demik said, smirk growing ever wider. "The apprentice of Lord Drath, found standing beside his fallen master, stained with the blood of more than a dozen Jedi. You're a warrior, Graves. Like me. Like the rest of the Sith here. You didn't join Logistics because you lost your master. You joined because you lost your war. The Empire may have won... but people like us? We weren't made for peace. We were made to fight. And here, we finally have that opportunity." "The Jedi..." Demik nodded. "That's right. The Jedi. They're no different. Those on Balmorra? They can't stand the peace. They seek conflict. It's in their nature. They need Sith to fight, to validate their existence. And us? We're sated by passions. By conflict. The Emperor bred us to fight, and then had the audacity to command us to stop? Our superiors seek to erase our identity. Our purpose. To render us nothing." Graves finally broke his gaze away from the Pureblood, head slightly dipping. "Yes. That's it. You understand, don't you?" Demik continued. "A warrior like you shouldn't be working with Logistics. You already have your purpose." "My purpose…" Graves muttered. "We don't need the Empire or the Order to have our war. I can give you a taste of that old passion. Of that freedom. I can give you… a Jedi." Graves lifted his gaze, settling once more on that of the Pureblood. "And how might you do that?" "I am able to arrange fights, beneath the Imperials' notice," Demik revealed. "I find Sith willing to fight, and give their position to the resistance fighters. They, in turn, hand that position over to the Jedi hiding on Balmorra. We merely set the stage and the duel proceeds. If the Sith wins, they dispose of the body and keep the fight a secret. If the Jedi wins, they get the satisfaction of thinking they've purged the galaxy of one more affliction. And because they cannot compromise their presence, they're just as keen on keeping the secret as we are." "They think they're doing the right thing, and we get to fight Jedi despite the war's end," Graves suggested. "Exactly!" Demik declared, a fire in his voice as he leaned forward. A giddiness was present in every facet of the Pureblood's visage. "It's absolutely perfect! So, how soon do you wish to fight?" Graves continued to offer the Sith Lord the usual blank stare, but after a few seconds of silence, the Human lifted himself from his seat. And without a word, he took his first steps toward the aft corridor as the Pureblood's once-giddy expression turn to one of bewilderment. "Where are you going?" "To see Commander Rederick," said Graves, ever the stoic. "He should find these matters rather... enlightening." "What?" Demik shouted as he shot up from his seat. Immediately, he moved forward, placing a heavy hand upon the other Sith's shoulder. "There's no way someone like you would pass up this opportunity." "I guess you don't know me as well as you think you do," Graves replied, not even bothering to turn and face the Pureblood. "You would dare ruin this for us?" Demik said through gritted teeth, half a growl, half a whimper. "We need this!" "There's a difference between need and want. The war's over. Deal with it." Demik tightened his grip on the Human's shoulder, fingers digging into the other Sith's armorweave. "It's far from over... if we can't have our little war, so be it. We'll just make a bigger one. What do you think happens when they find a dead Sith in the base, hmm? They go after the Consular. And when she's dead, the Jedi come out of hiding. Rebels. Imperials. Sith. Jedi. We'll have our war, not from the shadows, but on a global scale!" The Sith Lord finally retrieved his hand from Graves' shoulder. But instead of simply letting it return to his side, Demik instead used it to draw his saber. Pulling a silver hilt from his belt, the Pureblood raised his weapon high as it extended its crimson blade. For a split second, the chamber was dominated by the persistent hum of the lightsaber. As well as a sharp, almost inaudible whistle. His senses finally catching up to him, Graves spun on his heels to face his new opponent. The Human moved his hand toward his own saber, but was much too slow. But as he locked eyes with the Pureblood, the Executor saw that drawing his blade was unnecessary. Demik stood frozen mid-step, mouth agape as if to release a primal shout, arm raised as if to bring down a cascading swing. And yet, he was not completely without motion. His entire body slightly shivered. Graves took a careful step back, looking up and down the stilled Pureblood. Only upon a second glance did he notice the line that now graced the Sith Lord's neck. A slightly darker shade of red, it took a second for blood to begin seeping from the razor-thin cut. And not a moment later, Demik's head separated from his body. The Sith Lord fell to the floor in two parts, but not before the body could splash the Human with a spurt of the Pureblood's fluids. The previous hum of Demik's lightsaber ceased as the weapon deactivated, and Graves was left alone with the silence. Standing over the headless Sith Lord, the Executor could only offer a blank stare, his face stained red. Then, a sigh. "Not again..."

Chapter Twenty Seven Asher, Fay, and Graves began their casual walk back to the Fury, rounding the stockpile in the center of the courtyard. But as the three Executors passed by a group of patrolling soldiers, there was movement that strayed from the methodical norm. Fay held out a hand, bringing herself and her fellows to a stop. "Got Sith on approach," she whispered. Asher and Graves looked past the tall woman to see three figures making their way over from the tents. An armored juggernaut flanked by his robed underlings. "Recognize them?" Graves shook his head. "No. Asher?" "Nope," said the burned man, before he offered an exaggerated shrug. "Then again, at some point Sith just start to blend together. It's all spikes and masks, robes and leather to me." "I don't know them either," Fay admitted. "Remember, don't instigate, don't reveal why we're here." "It's almost like you don't trust us," Asher said with a smirk. "Not 'us'. Just you," Fay admitted. Asher offered with a playful scoff. Reaching into the folds of his robes, the burned Sith returned with a cigarra held between his fingers. But before he could bring it to his lips, the paper tube was snatched away by some invisible force. Its owner watched as the cigarra churned and crumbled in the air before falling to the ground in a clump of fine powder. He looked to Fay, who only offered her sharpened gaze in return. "Those things cost credits, you know," Asher muttered. "Don't. Instigate." Asher folded his arms, releasing a low sigh. "Fine." Under the light of the Balmorran sun, amidst the courtyard of the Imperial outpost, the two trios met. The Pureblood was a warrior in every right, armor encasing his powerful frame, lightsaber clipped to his waist. His followers were less so, youthful faces obscured under raised hoods. But despite their softness relative to the figures surrounding them, they carried a presence of utter confidence as they stood in their master's shadow. "Can we help you?" asked Fay, calm but firm in her delivery. "Help? No, no help," said the Pureblood with a toothy grin, a coarseness dominating his every syllable. "I simply thought I saw a familiar face… and I had to make sure I wasn't mistaken." Fay cocked her head to the side. "And whose face might that be?" The Pureblood cast his crimson gaze toward scarred Sith. "Why, that of Lord Drath's apprentice." "I don't remember having ever met," Graves plainly stated. The Pureblood released a rough chortle. "But of course. I never had the pleasure of meeting you in person, but Drath spoke very highly of you. We were… colleagues of sorts, your master and I. I feel I'd recognize your face anywhere." "You sure?" Asher offered with an arch of his brow. "Because I'm pretty sure he doesn't keep the same face for more than a week. Graves is kinda prone to accruing damage." "Hey!" snapped the hooded woman. The burned Sith turned to see one of the Pureblood's underlings glaring at him. The Human's face bordered on a snarl, but it wasn't her expression that drew attention. Instead, it was the red tattoo etched onto the middle of her forehead. The symbol was wild, yet suitably contained, a series of sharp lines coalescing into a Sith rune. "You should speak with more respect when addressing a superior!" A quick chuckle slipped out of burned man. "I'll keep that in mind for when I actually meet one." "Asher..." Fay muttered, bordering on scolding. The Pureblood placed a heavy hand upon his subordinate's shoulder, immediately causing her to back down. "There's little need for propriety when I've yet to introduce myself. I am Lord Demik. And I would love a chance to converse, Graves, if you had the time." "It'll have to wait," the scarred man plainly stated. "We're here on business." "And what business might that be?" asked Demik. "Executors of Logistics, ever heard of 'em?" Asher replied. The other trio answered in the form of silence. "We're here to prevent the rebels from wrecking too many of the Empire's new factories," said Fay. "Nothing special." "Indeed, sounds rather mundane, far from a worthy task for Sith," Demik replied. There was a heavy silence as the Pureblood passed his gaze between the three Executors, finally settling on Graves. "But it is a new age, I suppose. Still, I'd welcome the chance to talk, catch up on a few things." "Not much to catch up on," said Graves. "Drath died on Coruscant." Demik offered a quick nod. "Of that, I am well aware. But there are other things I'd like to discuss. Another time, perhaps." "Another time," Graves repeated. A crooked smile stretched across the Pureblood's face. "Well, you know where to find me. And judging by the interceptor I saw fly in… I know where to find you." With that, the warrior turned away, the hooded man following shortly after. The hooded woman stood her ground for the moment, sharpening her gaze toward the burned Sith. "Nice tattoo," said Asher, oozing with sarcasm. The woman furrowed her brow, distorting the rune on her forehead. "It stands for 'killer'." "It should stand for 'idiot'," he replied. "No one ever looks good with a dumb face tattoo." The woman gritted her teeth before storming off in a huff, stomping across the courtyard to catch up with her master. The Executors remained stilled and silent, watching the other trio until they finally disappeared into their tent. Breaking the silence was Fay releasing a sigh as she rubbed the bridge of her nose. "I said, 'don't instigate', did I not?" Asher tightly crossed his arms. "What? It had to be said." "No, it really didn't," Fay stated, still rubbing her face. "Whatever," said Asher. "It's not like the whole exchange wasn't already weird." "What was weird about it?" Graves asked with his usual emotionless candor. The burned Sith offered his compatriot the firm arch of his brow. "Really? Nothing seemed off? The pleasantries? Some random Sith knowing you and your master? Him wanting to 'talk'." "What's wrong with just wanting to talk?" asked Graves. "A Sith never just wants to talk," Asher replied. "You seem to do a good job contradicting that statement," said Fay. Asher released a quick scoff. "The guy's up to something, I know it." "We can't afford to be distracted," Fay stated. "Honestly, unless he's involved with our other problem, it's not worth getting into. Whatever business he has with Graves can wait." "Do you think I should speak with him?" asked Graves. "In case he is involved." "You don't exactly have a perfect track record with social cues," Asher replied. "Involved or not, we can't risk you inadvertently revealing anything to him. Never make the first move unless you know more than the other guy... then again, we've pretty much broken that adage ever since joining the Executors." Fay looked to her scarred compatriot. "Is there a chance he'll be trouble?" "I don't know," Graves admitted. "Never met the man before today. Drath didn't have many allies. Or enemies, for that matter. If he did, he didn't tell me." "Then we steer clear for now," Fay declared. "Great, now to spend the rest of the day on the ship," said Asher, curiously absent his usual snark. Without another word, the Executors began their walk toward the outpost's entrance, not intent on stopping until once more aboard the Fury. As the trio disappeared beyond the perimeter wall, the two hooded Sith poked their heads out from their tent. "So, is that truly him?" asked the hooded man, bouncing his gaze between the courtyard and the Sith Lord seated beside him. Demik leaned forward on the simple folding chair that graced his temporary home, clasping his armored fingers together. "Oh, I've no doubt in my mind." "And you think he'd be a willing participant?" asked the hooded woman. The Sith Lord flashed a toothy grin. "Drath may have been a fool, but his apprentice allowed him to make a great many strides in our Order. Graves is more than a warrior... he's a butcher. He'll leap at the chance to shed some Jedi blood. And a chance we shall give." ---------- Three figures stood amidst the cold wastes of Ziost, lit by the sunlight that struggled to pass through the dense cloud layer. The air was calm, granting a respite from the usually harsh winter winds. Missing was the constant falling of snow, as well as the thick layer that usually surrounded their feet. Instead, the three figures gathered on a hard and rigid stretch of gray stone. A natural arena. Nami stood before her instructors, the wounds all but disappeared from her face, only the slightest of faded indentations speaking of injuries sustained in days prior. Across from her, Nesk and Vurt offered only cold stares. "Our time grows short," the Nikto spoke up, firm and direct. "Soon, you will be called to the Academy. Once you step into those halls, we can no longer help you. Do you understand?" Nami offered a firm nod. Gone was the shivering and numbness that usually graced the girl's body. She stood resolute before the Sith, fingers clenched. "Very well," Vurt continued. "Then we shall impart upon you one final lesson. One that will be the key to your survival." The Nikto began to move off to the sidelines, leaving the girl before the towering Trandoshan. Nami followed Vurt with her eyes, but her attention was quickly drawn back as Nesk reached behind his back. No longer wearing the dueling blades upon his person, the taller instructor produced two metallic hilts. Two lightsabers. Without a word, he tossed one toward the student. Just before the weapon could strike the hard ground, Nami caught it with her mind. Carefully, she reached out with the Force, slowly guiding the gifted lightsaber to her hand. The girl studied the device, getting a feel for its weight, contemplating its length. Standard in all aspects, the silver hilt appeared to be the closest thing to a mass-produced lightsaber as one could find in the Empire. Nami remained silent, instead calmly passing her gaze between the two instructors. "There is but one certainty in this universe," Vurt stated. "There is no such thing as perfection. You may train, you may strive, but that will always be beyond your reach. The same holds true for your opponent. Every opponent." Nesk flicked his wrist, producing a red beam from his lightsaber, one that seemed almost too short for his immense frame. As the sharp hum of the extended blade finally reached the girl, only now did she shudder. Nami hastily bounced her gaze between the Trandoshan's saber and her own, searching for the activator on her hilt. The ex-Jedi had questions, concerns, but by this point she realized how unimportant they were. The Sith would speak. The Sith would act. Nothing she did or said would affect that. Instead, she poised herself as the crimson blade extended from her gifted lightsaber. "There is hunter. There is prey. Always," Nesk declared, utilizing his usual snarly form of Basic. "Only it can determine what it is. It needs strength. But it also needs knowledge. It must act. But it must also react." "Within every opponent, every obstacle, there are strengths and weaknesses," Vurt continued. "Traits to uncover. Patterns to observe. Imperfections to analyze. If you wish to survive, you must know more about your foe than they know about themselves." "But that's impossible," Nami muttered. The girl bit her lip, knowing her words were meaningless before the instructors. "It would be, if we were conscious of every action we take," Vurt replied. "But we are not. We are guided by our thoughts, by instinct, by the Force. The key to survival is, and will always be, control. Control your self. Control your surroundings. Control your opponent. Uncover the faults whilst masking your own." "It's not about matching strength with strength," Nami suggested. "It's about overcoming. It's about understanding." "Correct," said Vurt. "You have spent days in our company. You have witnessed us fight. Therefore, you've no reason to lose to us." "What? I get that it's important to recognize patterns and weaknesses... but that doesn't mean I can just beat you in a duel. This is the first time I've seen one of you actually use a lightsaber." "Matters not," Nesk stated. "There are things core to being. More than skill. More than weapon. Things that will always be." "You can't expect me to have noticed anything over the course of a couple days," said Nami, shoulders drooping, her blade lowering along with them. "And if you knew this was coming, shouldn't you have just 'masked your faults'?" "Indeed," Vurt replied. "We should have. We did. As will all you face. But it falls to you to recognize this. To uncover. Not in a matter of days, but moments. That which delivers your death will not announce itself. You do not have time to prepare. You do not have time to try. You simply must do." "Don't try... act," Nami whispered to herself. "Don't try... act. Don't try..." Without a word, Nesk charged, rushing toward the girl with his weapon raised high. Bridging the gap, the Trandoshan brought his saber down with a mighty, cascading swing. Nami sidestepped the blow, gliding across the ground as her opponent's blade scorched the cold stone she stood upon moments prior. The instructor did not relent, winding back the weightless blade for another swing. And once more, the girl dodged, taking a quick leap back. But as she did, she heard the presence of a third hum. In the corner of her eye, Nami watched as a crimson beam of plasma extended from the hilt in Vurt's hand. The Nikto readied his weapon as Nesk slowly approached from the opposite side. "I can't... this is impossible!" Nami shouted. "I can't win against the both of you!" "This is not about winning," Vurt stated as he took a step toward the girl. "This is about survival. That is all that matters." Nami could barely move as she raised her saber, struggling to adopt a defensive stance. Sith to her left and right. Two blades. Two opponents. One objective. Survival. But as the instructors neared, the girl's legs were frozen, and not by the nature of her environment. An oppressive force washed over the ex-Jedi. An aura projected not by her foes, but her own notions of inadequacy, threatening to crush her under its weight. But as she faced the encroaching danger, she felt something trying to rise through the burden. Something trying to claw its way to the surface. Something not of the self, yet utterly inseparable. "No..." Nami whispered to herself. To not herself. The girl squeezed her eyes shut with all her might. "I won't let you. I am in control. You can do this, Nami..." Finally, she opened her eyes. "You can do this." Nesk closed the gap between himself and the girl, offering a wide swing of his blade. Nami ducked out of the way, only to find Vurt's saber thrusting toward her core. The girl moved her blade just in time to misdirect the Nikto's attack, deflecting and backing away in a single move. The two Sith now in front of her, Nami wrapped both hands around her hilt, drawing and releasing a deep breath. Raising her blade, the girl prepared for the next onslaught.

Chapter Twenty Six The older woman finally looked up from her mug, passing her gaze between each of the Sith. The Executors reciprocated, eyes glued to the Jedi sitting deep within the Imperial base. In all manners, she was plain, especially compared to the figures before her. Her robes were absent any flare or flourish, her long hair was restrained in a neat bun, and her face lacked any semblance of scarring or fatigue that typically graced the participants of the Great War. Instead, she possessed little more than the occasional wrinkle and a touch of gray. All was silent as the two sides did little more than stare, until Rederick stepped into the simple chamber. "This… is Master Kesara, Jedi Consular and diplomat," the Commander revealed as he circled the table, soon standing by the seated woman's side. The Sith hesitantly passed the threshold of the room, spreading out as much as the cramped quarters would allow. Fay stood front and center, while her fellows took their respective places against opposite walls. "What's she doing here?" asked Asher. "Like I said, she's here to help us locate the Jedi hiding on Balmorra," Rederick replied. "I was more so referring to the room. You know, the one that looks like a holding cell?" A quaint chuckle from the older woman, her lips curling into a soft smile as she lowered her drink. "I'm not a prisoner, if that's what you're implying. Well, I suppose that would depend on your definition of the word 'prisoner'." The Jedi's words were calm, but lacked the coldness possessed by some of the stoics of her Order. She instead possessed a softness in her voice. A kindness. "This room was merely a safety precaution," Rederick explained. "She's here at the behest of the Imperial Diplomatic Service. The conditions of the Republic's withdrawal dictate that the Jedi are responsible for recalling their members, and that a representative be present until said members are offworld." "Complicating matters is the fact that we no longer consider those still on Balmorra members of the Order," said Kesara. "We've denounced these rogues, but without specific identities we cannot officially excommunicate them. Therefore, I'm forced to stay here until they are all captured… or killed." "Rough deal," Asher nonchalantly offered. "It's not so bad," Kesara replied, maintaining her pleasant demeanor. "I've time to meditate… and they keep me supplied with tea." The woman brought the cup to her lips before taking a quick sip. "Granted, if I'm unable to locate these Jedi, I'll likely receive the punishment in their stead. I guess no matter what, the Empire gets to put at least one Jedi to death." "Well, at least you've sufficient motivation to track down your fellows," said Asher alongside a flippant waft of his hand. "Sorry, former fellows." "I would consider it my duty to locate these individuals regardless of the blade your government holds to my neck," Kesara admitted, tone growing slightly sharper. "The Order does not tolerate those committing misdeeds in its name." "Well, I suppose that would depend on your definition of the word 'misdeeds'," Asher plainly stated. "Regardless, we're all after the same thing here," Fay spoke up. "None of us want to see a war break out on Balmorra." "It is pleasing to know that not all Sith are adverse to peace," said Kesara. The Jedi paused as she passed her gaze between the Executors. "I'm afraid I never received your names." "Fay." "Graves." "Asher." "I see. Well, here's to cooperation," said Kesara, raising her cup high. There it stayed for but a moment, before finding itself drawn back to the woman's mouth. As the Jedi continued to partake in her drink, Graves slightly cocked his head. "Rederick didn't tell you who we were?" Finishing her sip, Kesara shot a sidewards glance toward the Imperial looming over her shoulder, before returning toward the scarred Sith. "I was given the basics, but… the Commander has been rather reluctant in passing along information." Asher smirked. "I guess we've something in common, then." "The withholding of details was a necessary measure, I assure you," Rederick declared. "I can explain in greater detail back in the command center. Follow me, if you would." The Commander stepped around the table, slipping between the Sith and exiting into the corridor beyond. He glanced back into the chamber, only to see the Jedi remain calmly seated. "That includes you, Master Kesara." "Isn't it risky letting me out?" "Don't worry, we'll protect you," Fay offered. "Yeah, you wouldn't be the first Jedi we've kept safe," Asher added. "What do you mean by that?" asked Kesara. The burned Sith offered a brief sigh. "Long story." "We encountered three Jedi on our last mission," Graves spoke up. "Two wanted to fight us, one didn't. When the pair turned on their fellow, we stepped in, protected her." "Okay, not so long after all," Asher muttered. "I mean, there is more to it, but… eh." The Jedi arched her brow as her eyes bounced between the trio of Sith as they left without another word. Calmly, Kesara rose from her seat and stepped toward the room's exit, tea in hand. "What a curious bunch." Together, the motley quintet traversed the cramped halls until they graced the dim hub of the command center. Rederick raised one of his metallic hands, and the others took pause. As the Force-users waited patiently on the outer ring of the circular room, the Commander went to work visiting the various terminals that graced the lower floor. "Whether through ignorance or malice, there has been evidence of classified information falling into the hands of rebels across Balmorra," Rederick said as he continued to move about the command center, not stopping for even a moment. "As a precaution, the usage of data and communications equipment has been kept to a minimum and heavily monitored. This applies across all currently operating outposts. We, however, find ourselves under unique circumstances prompting extra precaution. From this point forth, certain information stays strictly between those in this room." The hums and static of machines coming to life filled the chamber. Rederick moved with a tempered haste guided by mechanical efficiency, before stopping in front of the central holoprojector. The Commander raised his hand once more, but this time beckoned the others to approach. As they did, the central console glowed brighter and brighter, until a three-dimensional map manifested above it. The image reproduced several hundred square kilometers of terrain, detailing with utmost accuracy the local geography and points of interest. Rederick turned, backlit by the blue hologram, to face the others. Although the augmented man possessed a sturdy frame, he was only of average height. But as he folded his hands behind his back and straightened his posture, the cyborg managed to stand tall before the Force-users in both body and spirit. "This shall be an operation of finesse, rather than brute strength," Rederick declared. "We are currently at a supreme disadvantage in the way of available intelligence, thus we must utilize our own. Executors… though your organization has promised me your cooperation with the rogue Jedi, you are officially here to protect and oversee the transition of several manufactories. The process, which involves the transfer of previous stock and the implementation of new Imperial schematics, makes them a prime target for a rebel attack. We, however, are not interested in the rebels. They are the concern of the local governor and our forces in Sobrik. Nonetheless, these installation are your official reason for being on Balmorra." The Commander pivoted, just enough to tap a button on the holoprojector behind him. Seven red blips appeared on the map above as an irregular string along a mountain ridge, several kilometers apart. "These are the facilities you are tasked with protecting," Rederick continued. "You will visit each one, oversee the transition process, and move on to the next." "How long does the process take?" Graves asked. "Each facility will require a full day," Rederick replied. "Which means we've seven days before we can even begin focusing on the rogue Jedi," Asher muttered as he began scratching his chin. "I suppose that's not that long, all things considered." "Balmorran rotations are around forty seven hours long," Fay plainly stated. "Oh..." the burned Sith muttered. "There is, however, a way to carry out both missions at the same time," Rederick declared. Once more, the Commander pressed a button on the holoprojector and the seven blips disappeared, a new batch taking their place. This time, more than a dozen red markers dotted the map. "These are the locations of all attacks in the area since the Republic's withdrawal." A few of the blips disappeared. "These are the locations we suspect might have had Jedi involvement." A few more vanished. "These are the locations we've confirmed the presence of lightsaber marks." Finally, only a single red dot remained. "And then there's this…" Rederick began, before directing everyone's attention toward the back wall. There, a large viewscreen began playing a video. From the perspective of a ceiling-mounted camera, a scene unfolded within one of Balmorra's many manufactories. The floor and walls were of a more rustic design than what was expected of Imperial structures, dull grays and browns composing the metallic surfaces. In the center of the camera's view, three beings. Two mechanical. One organic. Between two battledroids, a black-clad figure stood, eyes forward. The armored and robed man remained utterly motionless, until suddenly he reached for his belt. With a flick of his wrist, he ignited his lightsaber, baring its crimson beam as the metallic beings flanking him took aim in the same direction. The scene shook, and the droids were flung back and out of frame by some invisible force. The Sith, meanwhile, braced himself, only sliding back a few centimeters as the powerful kinetic wave washed over him. But before he could properly recover, a white blur appeared from off camera, rushing up to the staggered defender. In one smooth action, a blue lightsaber emerged and batted away the Sith's blade. Continuing the motion, the newcomer spun on their heels, swinging their weapon in a complete circle. The Sith froze, standing completely still for a few second before finally falling to his knees. Only then did the defender's head drop from his shoulders. Motionless, the blur now appeared as a white-robed humanoid, visage hidden by a raised hood. The still-standing figure turned ever so slightly toward the ceiling mounted camera, face still obscured, before extending their free hand. Fingers stretched out, the attacker then offered the swift clench of their fist and the video went black. "Well..." Asher began, breaking the silence. "Thank goodness their security camera recorded in color." The chamber returned to a state of quiet, except for the soft sounds of Kesara taking a sip of tea. "That was our first and only visual confirmation of a Jedi," Rederick explained, redirecting everyone's attention back to the map. The previously lone remaining blip flashed as the others returned. "But by examining that attack and others like it, we've found a way to separate them from unrelated rebel strikes, and determine a common trait amongst them. Their locations are scattered and follow no geographical pattern, meaning it is not matter of distance. Their targets have been manufactories that develop different products, meaning it is not a matter of value." "Then what are they targeting?" asked Fay. "Or is the common trait that there isn't an actual target?" "There is indeed a target. Sith," Rederick declared. "Each of these locations possessed a Sith defender, and at each one they were slain. Rarely were there any other casualties or infrastructural damage. The attacks were efficient. The Jedi knew what they were after and for the most part were able to carry out their task without a trace." The Commander's head dipped, before repeating with a whisper, "for the most part." "I'd call showing up on camera a pretty big trace," Asher offered. "Maybe they got sloppy," Graves suggested. "Or maybe they're running out of Sith, and wanted to issue a challenge," said Fay. "A challenge I'm sure many would willingly accept," Rederick stated, lifting his gaze. "Which is why we've been keeping as tight a control on information as possible. We cannot allow the order we've instilled on this world to give way to chaos. Sith running around, tearing apart facilities in search of Jedi, it benefits no one. Not Production and Logistic. Not Diplomacy. Not even the Ministry of War. But now that we know what these rogues are targeting Sith…" "We can give them Sith," Fay suggested. "Precisely," Rederick quickly replied. "You've seen the others outside. In this outpost, we have gathered all the Sith defenders previously stationed outside Sobrik. With such a gathering, the Jedi would never attack here. But if a few Sith were to leave this outpost, operating on a strict schedule at predesignated locations…" "The Jedi would have nowhere else to attack," Fay finished the Commander's sentence. Asher scoffed."So, we're supposed to be bait." "The attacks will continue, that is an inevitability," Rederick declared. "If the Sith are scattered amongst a dozen locations, there's no way we can predict where the next one will occur. But if we can limit the possibilities, and provide incentive, we can guide the Jedi right to us." "Right," Asher muttered. "And what's our Jedi friend here supposed to be doing while all this is going down." "We still do not know how many Jedi we are dealing with," Rederick admitted. "If we can identify any of these rogues, Master Kesara can likely supply us with additional information. Associates. Loyalties. Agendas." "So she'll just sit around sipping tea for the next few days while we stick our necks out, got it," Asher grumbled. "If you're upset, you could ask for some tea as well. I'm sure there's plenty to go around," Kesara calmly stated, raising the mug to her lips once more. The burned Sith shot an arch of his brow toward the Jedi, who offered the slightest sharpening of her eyes in return. "I will also be meditating. There remains the chance that the Force will guide me toward these rogues." "Well, good luck with that," Asher loudly whispered. "So what do we do now?" asked Graves. "For now, we rest and prepare," Rederick replied. "You will move to your first target tomorrow. Remember, to everyone else, your sole purpose here is to provide security for these facilities. Do nothing to rile up the other Sith, if you would. I will remain here to monitor operations and keep this outpost in order." "Understood, Commander," Fay said with a dip of her head. "We'll be on the ship, so if you need anything, you know where to find us. Will Kesara still be safe here?" "Don't worry. I managed to make it by before your arrival," the Jedi offered with a smile. "I'll be fine." The tall woman nodded and departed toward the building's front entrance. Graves followed, but stopped a moment in front of Kesara. "Nice meeting you." Asher was the last to budge from his spot, and similarly paused before the Jedi. "Have fun meditating or whatever." "I will, thank you," Kesara kindly replied, taking one last sip of tea. The burned Sith sighed and made his way toward the exit to join his fellows. Stepping back into the daylight, the three Executors stood together, passing their gazes between one another and their surroundings. No one was nearby. "So, initial thoughts?" Asher spoke up. "The plan seems sound," Fay plainly stated. "Plus there's the matter of who it came from." "What, you know the guy?" asked Asher. "Not directly," Fay admitted. "I didn't recognize the name, but the face… you remember the recruitment posters in Kaas City? Back during the war?" "Uh… there were quite a few," Asher muttered. "'The Empire endures', 'Duty never dies', those ones?" Asher offered the dismissive waft of his hand. "Didn't spend much time on Kaas while the war was going on. So, what, we're working with a literal poster boy?" "Tell me, what's Rederick's rank?" Fay asked. "Commander, right?" Asher answered. "Commander's a title, not a proper rank," Fay replied. "For as rigid a hierarchy as the Imperial Army, do you know what it takes to get an honorary title, let alone have everyone refer to you by it? He's up there with people like Odile Vaiken, Rycus Kilran, Derro Kaven-" "Who?" Asher interrupted. The tall woman released a low sigh. "Did you ever pay any attention to the soldiers you were stationed with?" "I guess he only knows of old war heroes named 'Murel'," Graves stoically offered. "Though I suppose he did pay attention to their supplies when he stole that grenade." "No one's going to miss one freaking grenade!" Asher barked. ---------- Three black-clad figures sat huddled under the shade of their makeshift tent. One, a monster of a man encased in a suit of plated armorweave. Red-skinned, bald of head, the middle-aged warrior was a Sith Pureblood who wore the marks of conflict upon his visage. A deep gash ran along his left cheek, a wound that had clipped the fleshy tendril that previously hung in its path. He was sturdy, broad, yet equally sharp. Sitting across from him, almost in reverence, were two Humans in hooded robes. A man and a woman, both slim, both young, both inferior in both physical and social stature. The Pureblood panned his sharpened gaze to peer at the courtyard beyond his tent. Catching his eye were the trio of Sith exiting the command center. He watched them, studied them, until finally, his eyes shot open. "What is it, master?" asked the hooded woman. "It can't be… it's him..." the Pureblood muttered. "Who, master?" asked the hooded man. The Pureblood's lips curled into a smirk, revealing the sharp teeth that waited beneath.

Chapter Twenty Five The black and gray Fury cut through the air as it traversed the Balmorran skies. High above the sunlit lands, the vessel's engines shined a bright crimson as they propelled the Sith toward their destination. The terrain below was a mix of sprawling plains and jagged mountains, stone erupting from the ground in the form of countless spires and ridges. Flatlands gave way to sharp canyons, before giving way to equally sharp peaks. And spread throughout the world, the constructs of industry. Factories the size of small towns dotted the landscape, half-buried or hidden by the irregular terrain. But as the Fury flew over the various manufactories, not all were in prime condition, nor were they the only structures populating the world. Despite the end of the war, the great conflict's influence still graced the planet's surface. While some installations continued their production, others had been abandoned or outright destroyed. Complementing the natural valleys and canyons were the pock marks wrought by bombing runs as fresh as a few months prior. Alongside the production facilities, military outposts belonging to both great powers lay in fortified positions. But despite their contrasting designs, now they had only a single brand of occupants. Gazing out the forward viewports, the Sith caught a glimpse of each point of interest for but a moment before it passed under with a blur. The mechanical pilot effortlessly guided the Fury, maintaining a constant speed even as it silently communicated with the various flight officers on the ground. The world was of a monotonous diversity. Despite the broad range of landscapes and structures, they quickly began to repeat themselves. More valleys and ridges. More manufactories. More military outposts. The only true divergence came in the form of an approaching city. And yet, it was simply a continuation of all that surrounded it. Nestled within the embrace of a box canyon, a place not wholly purposed with the production or usage of munitions. Buildings of mostly-Imperial make filled the stone ravine. The edges of the canyon were lined with a mixture of turrets and cranes, pointing outward and inward respectively. And deep within the protected city, a starport ready to receive any travelers. And yet, just like everything that preceded it, the Fury flew on by. "Uh, ALD, you passed over the city," Asher spoke up. "That was Sobrik, master," replied the droid, still facing forward. "I've been informed that Commander Rederick currently resides, and wishes to meet, within Imperial Forward Outpost XT-25. That is where we are to land." The burned Sith released a drawn out sigh. "Oh, great. An outpost. Looks like I'm sleeping on the ship." Fay offered her teammate a sidewards glance. "Was there any circumstance in which you wouldn't opt to sleep on the ship?" "Fair point," Asher replied. "We did decide that I got master bedroom, right? Even after the renovations?" "Even if we didn't, I wouldn't waste the energy arguing," Fay plainly stated. A smirk crept across the burned Sith's lips. "Good enough for me." "I'm comfortable wherever," said Graves. "I'd imagine so." Asher paused. "Wait, do you even need to sleep?" "Just because I can't feel doesn't mean my body doesn't need rest," Graves explained. Asher tilted his head. "Yeah, but, how can you tell when you're tired? Tired is a feeling, right?" The scarred Sith offered a brief shrug. "Eventually, my body just stops moving. I try to get some sleep before that happens." There was a lull as Asher opened his mouth to speak, but no words sprung forth. Instead, he simply stood in silence, unable to find the proper response. Just as the quiet all but consumed the cockpit, the mechanical pilot perked up. "Masters," said ALD. "We've almost reached our destination." The Sith looked past the droid, scanning the horizon beyond the Fury's forward viewports. As the vessel slowed its approach, the trio were greeted with the sight of an approaching Imperial outpost. The small base pressed against the base of a mountain ridge, far from pristine yet lacking the scars of similar installations. "Commander Rederick is expecting you," ALD continued. "He wishes to meet the moment you arrive." "Then we shouldn't waste any time," said Fay. The three Sith pushed themselves off the rear wall, making their way out of the cockpit as the droid went to work setting the ship down. Asher, Fay, and Graves passed through the central room, connecting corridors, and rear bulkhead door. Standing in the cramped chamber beyond, nothing but a series of stairs and a still-raised entrance ramp lay before them. "Well, this certainly feels familiar," Asher muttered. "Standing around, about to throw ourselves into the unknown. Only now we've traded pirates for rebels." "How do you think the two compare?" asked Graves. "Well, there are a number of factors and variables at play…" "The most integral being that these rebels are based on a planet that practically provided half the munitions used in the Great War," Fay explained. "Blasters, explosives, battledroids… just what you need to keep the fight going." "And of course, some Sith would be more than happy to let it continue," said Asher. "But we're not those Sith," Graves declared. "That we are not," Fay concluded. There was a soft squeal and a gentle shake as the Fury touched the ground. A sharp ping rang out from the nearby terminal, signaling an 'all-clear'. Without another moment of hesitation, Graves tapped the entrance ramp's control and the slab of metal began its slow descent. As the dense lip of the ramp touched the hard ground with a thud, the Sith took their first steps forward. Not even halfway down the slab, Asher, Fay, and Graves could see motion amidst the impromptu landing site. Black-clad soldiers patrolled the perimeter of the outpost, their numbers bolstered by artificial beings. Droids of various shapes and sizes made up the majority of the defensive force, ranging from humanoid frames to walking tanks. Stepping off the Fury's ramp and onto the Balmorran dirt, the trio were greeted with the sight of a duracrete wall separating them from their destination. The outpost was fortified, protected on all sides by barriers both artificial and natural. While the rear of the base pressed up against a mountain ridge, the remaining sides were protected by a solid ring of solid, dark gray material, the only gap being the outpost's main entrance. Despite standing only a few meters high, no structures peeked out from behind the curved wall of duracrete. Absent were any marks of excess or grandeur. A place of pure utility. Before they could move further, the Sith spotted a single soldier on approach. Armorweave bodysuit beset by protective plating, the rifleman was outfitted for the front-lines, same as the others stationed in and around the outpost. Armed. Protected. Faceless. One of the countless individuals that made up the bulk of the Imperial Army operating throughout the galaxy. The trio watched the figure approach with an even pace, utterly calm and focused. When he finally reached the Sith, he stopped and offered a dip of his head, methodical in his every action. "My lords," he began, his voice possessing just the right mix of respect and brevity. "You are the Sith from Logistics, correct? The Commander is eager to meet with you." "We've no intention of keeping him waiting," said Fay. "Lead the way." Without a word, the soldier turned and guided the Sith toward the base's entrance. Moving across the dried dirt, the small group passed more guards patrolling the outer wall, but no one offered even an errant glance toward the peculiar Executors. Utterly dedicated to their tasks, those stationed at the outpost embodied everything the Imperial Army held dear. Passing through the gap in the duracrete wall, the Sith finally received their first glimpse of the base proper. The center of the outpost was little more than a dirt courtyard, an open area populated with stored munitions and parked vehicles. Military-grade speeder bikes and armored transports upon belted treads, all possessing usual Imperial aesthetic of sharp edges and gray finishes. On either side of the courtyard, temporary structures in the form of tents and collapsible frames, nothing that couldn't be deconstructed and moved before the next rotation. The only thing in the entire base that seemed to possess any sense of permanence was the structure built into the mountain ridge opposite the outpost's entrance. Asher, Fay, and Graves continued through the base, following their escort. All was calm, if not quiet. Men and women not fully prepped for combat congregated in the various tents, passing the time through whatever means afforded to them. Whilst some gathered to play cards, others partook in the various holovids and readings stored on their datapads. Whilst some polished their armor, others disassembled and reassembled their weapons and equipment. But as the stationed Imperials went about their business, something else caught the trio's attention. The sight of their fellows. Amongst the soldiers, yet decidedly separate, Sith armed and ready for battle rested in tents of their own. And unlike the rest of the outpost's inhabitants, they could not help but cast a number of sideward glances toward the Executors from beneath their black cloaks. Glances that slowly turned to glares. The trio remained silent as they made their way toward the building at the rear of the outpost, a single-story structure looked like it could have been plucked straight out of Kaas City. Its design was comprised of the usual shapes and colors, albeit with a overlaying coat of dust. It also possessed the first bit of signage throughout the entire base, its heavy doors flanked by flags flying the familiar symbol of the Empire. The soldier came to a stop in front of the building's reinforced doors, turning to face the Sith one last time. "The Commander wishes to meet privately. You'll find him in the main hub. Farewell, my lords." With that, the escort dipped his head and departed, soon disappearing amongst his comrades roaming the grounds. "A private meeting, eh?" Asher muttered. "And we never did get those additional mission details aboard the ship," Graves added. "It seems Rederick is trying to limit the information that gets out," Fay stated. "Doesn't want to risk anyone overhearing anything. The question is whether that's just a personality trait or because of this specific mission." "Well, we already saw the Sith we're supposed to 'keep in line'," said Asher. "They don't seem to appreciate our presence here. Then again, that could have just been your standard Sith angst." "There ought to be plenty of Sith on world, no telling if these are our warmongers or not," Fay admitted. "Rederick must has something he only wants us to know," said Graves. "Better hear him out." The trio advanced, parting the heavy doors and stepping into the building. Inside, the Sith found themselves in a chamber not dissimilar from their headquarters back at the Citadel. The circular room was centered around a large holoprojector, with various terminals and data stations lining the rounded wall. But whereas the Executor headquarters was a constant bustle of activity, the same could not be said of the outpost's command center. All was quiet. All was dark. Not a single computer or viewscreen offered a single flicker or chirp. The entire chamber was unmanned, except for a single figure staring at the powered down holoprojector, back facing the Sith, hands neatly folded behind him. "Shut the doors, if you would," the man spoke up. Present was the posh Imperial accent and smooth tones, and yet, there was an underlying grit to his words. His voice spoke of experience. His form practically shouted. As the Sith closed the doors behind them, the Commander turned, his figure plainly visible even in the dim lighting. A strong build was encased in an officer's uniform. His jacket wore a number of colored stripes and blocks upon its left breast, designating more than simple rank. But even such decorations could not distract from the man's visage. A man of many parts, the majority of his face was that of a pristine man still managing to hold onto his youth. The area surrounding his right eye, however, was a thing of scarred flesh infused with cybernetics. The bone of his brow and cheek had been replaced with metal, and a mechanical orb took refuge in place of an eye. An orb with a shining red ring as its iris. But despite the apparent calamity wrought upon his face, the Commander carried an ordered presence about him. Blond hair worn clean and parted. Uniform straightened without a single fiber out of line. The three Sith moved forward, as did the Imperial, until they converged upon the floor of the command center. Standing before the Executors, Rederick passed his mixed gaze between each of the motley figures before him, his lips eventually adopting the slightest of upward curls. "A pleasure to meet you all," Rederick said, a touch of warmth to his voice. "You've come with high praise. And from a Dark Councilor no less. I have been led to believe that you three can be trusted… and that your loyalties are first and foremost to that of the Empire." "Well, I don't know if I'd say-" Asher began, before finding an elbow driven into his side. "That is correct, Commander," Fay interrupted. "If the Emperor desires peace, we'll keep the peace." "Splendid," said Rederick. The officer seemed to possess a restrained, albeit genuine, enthusiasm. "Follow me, if you would." The Commander turned around and began making his way toward the rear of the chamber. Looking down, the Sith saw that as Rederick clasped his hands behind his back, metallic digits emerged from the officer's cuffs. Both hands were prosthetic, composed of the same dark and sturdy materials as Graves' own. At the opposite end of the chamber, a door almost indistinguishable from the surrounding wall lifted into its recess, granting the group access deeper into the facility. Rederick led the way, talking with his half organic, half mechanical gaze set on the constricting corridor ahead. "What details were you given in regards to your mission?" he asked. "Very little," Fay replied, head slightly tilted to avoid brushing her head against the ceiling. "We know some Sith might be intentionally provoking the rebels here to create additional tension. Anything more we're told would come from you." "I see. Very good," said Rederick. "Indeed, we believe there are forces on Balmorra trying to reignite the war, if not create some facsimile of it. However, intelligence suggests that there is something more than the squabbles of petty Sith at work here." "I wouldn't underestimate the squabbles of Sith," Asher replied. "What I mean is, that Sith are not the only ones on this planet to seek conflict." The Commander rounded a corner, leading the Sith down a hallway lined with doors spaced just far enough apart to allot a single room behind each one. "You mean besides the rebels, right?" Fay asked. "Some of your fellow Imperials longing for the war?" "No. These soldiers understand their purpose here. Their loyalty is not in question," Rederick declared. There was a beat as the officer walked in silence. "You are aware of the Republic's withdrawal, correct?" "We got full control of the planet with the Treaty of Coruscant," Fay stated. "The Republic forces planetside were given a strict timetable to vacate, so I had assumed they were all gone by now." "Indeed. Officially, the Republic has made a full retreat, going so far as to abandon any resources they couldn't scuttle," Rederick explained. "You think some soldiers stayed behind?" Graves asked. "Not soldiers," Rederick replied. "Jedi." "There are Jedi on Balmorra?" asked Fay. Rederick came to a stop in front of a door, identical to the many others lining the corridor. "Indeed. Your original task of keeping the Sith in line has just been made more difficult. Ever since the reports surfaced, it has been harder and harder maintain order as warriors seek to sate their blood-lust. Therefore, our mission is now to find and remove these Jedi, quickly and efficiently, before matters spiral out of control." "And how do we go about doing that?" Graves asked. "Fortunately, we have someone to assist us," said Rederick, before he punched a code into the door's control panel. Not a moment later, the slab of metal lifted into its recess. Looking into the small chamber, the Sith saw something more akin to a holding cell, barely furnished and without adornment. Inside, a single figure sat at a table, slowly sipping a beverage. A Human in her later years, the serene woman paid almost no mind to the motley group standing the doorway. Instead, she continued to enjoy her drink, comfortable in the numerous layers of earthen-tone robes. Peering inside, Asher scratched the back of his head. "Well, I'd say we located the Jedi."

Many thanks for the comment. Glad you think I'm painting a realistic picture of the Empire. That's something I set out to do, trying to make it a believable nation/culture that was able to sustain itself as long as it has. I also tried to make it so that nothing is wholly incompatible with what's presented elsewhere, just filling in blanks rather than overwriting anything we already know. Always a joy to see you around. The enthusiasm and squees are much appreciated. ---------- As always, thanks for reading everyone.

Chapter Twenty Four The banquet hall was filled with a hushed clamor, the various guests continuing to share panicked whispers with one another. Following the attack, there was little in the way of motion. The scene had all but stilled, the only movement stemming from the pair of Guardsmen rushing to Vowrawn's flanks. But even as the red-clad warriors bared their staves, panning their hidden gazes about the chamber, the Councilor and his Executor simply locked eyes with one another. The alien's, sharp as ever. The Pureblood's, absent the slightest evidence of fear or discomfort. Slowly, Vowrawn lifted his palms into the air, immediately catching the attention of the surrounding crowd. The whispers came to an immediate halt, and all was silent. "Ladies and gentlemen, there is no need to be alarmed," the Dark Councilor spoke, his soothing words reaching each and every ear in the banquet hall. The diners suitably enraptured, the Pureblood finally lowered his hands. "It would seem that one of our guests was an assassin intent on taking my life. Fortunately, my faithful Executor foiled this crass and vulgar action. Of course, I've only come to expect such effectiveness out of one such as Lord Syrosk." Vowrawn reaffirmed his gaze upon the horned alien. "Nevertheless, his actions tonight are to be commended." The Councilor punctuated his words with a dip of his head, before transitioning into a full bow. One by one, the other occupants of the banquet hall did the same, until all had lowered themselves before the horned alien. Factory owners. Officers. Even fellow Sith. As Syrosk found himself the last remaining upright figure, there was a slight twitch in his eye. Without the slightest of efforts, the alien could read the surface-level thoughts and emotions of the crowd. Respect. Adulation. Esteem. All towards him. And yet, Syrosk continued to wear a dulled scowl upon his wrinkled visage. When the Dark Councilor finally lifted his head, he found his subordinate on the move. And as more and more guests finished their bows, they too witnessed the alien Sith trudge toward the banquet hall's entrance. "If able, I'd ask everyone to return to their seats," Vowrawn spoke up. "I assure you, these matters will be handled and our evening can resume with utmost haste." The Pureblood took a step toward his exiting subordinate, but was halted as one of the Guardsmen held out a hand. Vowrawn narrowed his gaze before leaning in close to the helmed figure. "I am no longer in danger," he whispered. The usual charm was present in the Councilor's voice, but it possessed a firmness backing each word. "Guard the doors and have someone deal with the body. I will return shortly." With that, Vowrawn sidestepped the Guardsman and moved off the dais. As the two elder Sith made their way out of the banquet hall, the occupants were left dumfounded, but nonetheless heeded the Councilor's words and returned to their seats. A slow chase, Syrosk had returned to his usual uneven gait, only the slightest haste in his steps. But before reaching the building's exit, the Executor paused. Fists clenching and unclenching, the alien began to pace before the doors as his eyes grew ever narrower. "Syrosk," Vowrawn called out, maintaining his regal presence. "You seem troubled." The alien snapped his sharpened gaze toward the Councilor. "Troubled?" Syrosk's usual rasp bordered on a growl, but was restrained just enough to ensure his words did not reach into the adjacent chamber. "This isn't how things were supposed to go." "On the contrary," Vowrawn began, casually closing the gap between himself and his subordinate, ever warm in his delivery. "I don't think things could have gone any better." "You know what I mean," Syrosk shot back. "The publicity. The spectacle. Executor Zero wasn't supposed to officially exist. People were to think me consultant, and now you have me playing the hero? Day one, I said no games, Vowrawn." A soft chuckle from the Pureblood. "Do not misinterpret the pleasure I derive from proceedings such as these. This was no game, Syrosk. All that transpired was absolutely necessary." Syrosk's nostrils flared. "Common words..." "…from an uncommon Sith," said Vowrawn. "Strategy revolves around uncertainty. As soon as new data presents itself, it would foolish not to seek an alternate course of action. Your involvement with the Executors cannot be kept a secret forever. The people need to know you as I know you. A Sith of worth." "And you do so by staging an assassination?" "I staged nothing," Vowrawn admitted. "There was simply a confluence of events to be taken advantage of. I was a target. The attack was inevitable. I simply provided venue to exploit that inevitability. And now Lord Syrosk will not only be known as an Executor, but as someone who saved the life of a Dark Councilor." "I never wanted that designation," the alien rasped. "I never wanted to be a public figure." "I understand your trepidation, Syrosk. But this is not like before," said Vowrawn. "In the past, the public eye may have meant your death. But now, it shall be your sanctum. You've been given value. You've been assigned risk. No one will dare move against you, else they move against me." A harrumph slipped past Syrosk's lips. "Tonight has obviously proven that not everyone is unwilling to move against you." "But they failed," Vowrawn quickly replied. "And that failure shall not go unnoticed. And neither shall your success. There was a pause as silence hung heavy in the air. The two Sith met one another's gaze, both unyielding. The permanent scowl versus the unwavering grin. Two figures, powerful in their own rights, similar yet contrasting in all aspects. Finally, the silence was broken by the alien releasing a low sigh. "You didn't have to keep me in the dark." "Perhaps," Vowrawn replied. "I wasn't sure how you'd react. Given your response here, you'll understand if I kept things from you." "I don't need to be tricked into saving my boss's life. I don't need to be tricked into keeping the Executors or the Empire running," Syrosk declared. "If you need me to, I will act. But I will not be treated as some unwitting pawn." "Of course, Syrosk," Vowrawn offered alongside a polite dip of his head. "From now on, full disclosure." The Dark Councilor swept his arm toward the dining hall. "Now come, the night is not yet over, and we've a meal to finish." Syrosk narrowed his gaze, drawing and releasing a heavy breath. "What was his name?" "Pardon?" "The boy. The assassin. You knew every invitee, so who was he?" asked Syrosk. "Mevik," Vowrawn plainly replied. "Recent apprentice to Darth Tyram. The master couldn't make it himself, so he sent the student in his stead… or so the boy claimed." "Then we know who was responsible for the attack," said Syrosk. Darth Vowrawn placed a soft hand on the horned Sith's back, guiding him back toward the dining room. "We cannot be too sure. After all, you never know when people might be manipulating things. But that's a matter for the investigators to handle." Syrosk remained silent as his boss gently pushed him toward the gathered masses patiently waiting for their return. Through the parted doors, he could see the waitstaff righting the tables and chairs that had been upset by the incident. And as the pair passed the threshold of the chamber, they were passed by an Imperial Guardsman with the body of Vowrawn's attacker slung over his shoulder. The Executor turned for but a moment, briefly meeting his gaze with the scarred, lifeless eyes of the young Human. ---------- The now-familiar wastes of Ziost had calmed. The harsh, frosted winds had faded, in their place only the gentle falling of snow. Once more abandoning the relative comforts of the city, instructor and student trained amidst the cold and gray landscape. Vurt paced back and forth, just enough motion to keep the falling snow from settling upon his shoulders. But no matter where he stood, the noseless, leathery humanoid's gaze fell upon the same spot. In front of the Sith was what appeared to be an orb of frost, a snowball as tall as he. The icy flakes that fell from the sky would touch the sphere, adhere to it, and ever so slightly increase its mass. "Force-sensitivity is more than just the ability to affect the world around you," Vurt spoke to the large snowball, continuing his pacing. "It is also the ability to control the self. The average Sith can make one meal sustain them for two standard rotations. For every hour of rest, they can stay active for ten. A true master can fully sate themselves with the Force, going without food, water, or sleep entirely. By controlling the Force, by controlling your body, you should be able to endure the elements, resist poisons, prevent diseases..." As the Nikto paused his words, he made his way closer to the ball of snow. Standing before it, he offered the quick swat of his backhand. The impact knocked a clean hole in the side of the orb. Hollow, the sphere was more akin to an egg. One that had just been cracked. Through the hole, Vurt stared at the young girl inside with his beady gaze. Nami stood within the orb, arms stretched out to her side. Channeling the Force, it was the ex-Jedi's telekinetic barrier that gave the falling snow structure and shape. "…and you should certainly be able to mend minor wounds of the flesh," Vurt continued. Inside the snowball, Nami struggled to maintain her concentration, arms rigid yet shivering. Upon the girl's face were the marks of the previous trial, faded cuts and bruises, only half-healed. "I did… my best," the girl stated. Her words were slowed, wrought by the ever present cold that surrounded her as well as her attempts to maintain her concentration. "Then your best wasn't good enough," Vurt replied. Finally, the girl's arms collapsed. As her limbs fell, so did the construct of snow surrounding her. The orb quickly became a sheet that covered Nami's head and shoulders as the rest pooled around her feet. "I'm… sorry," the girl muttered, head dipped. The Nikto took another step forward, barely any gap separating the instructor from the student. Despite possessing an average height, the Sith practically loomed over the ex-Jedi through presence alone. Without a word, he batted off the snow that graced Nami's shoulders before placing a finger beneath the girl's chin. Manually lifting her head, the alien locked eyes with the Human. "Never apologize," Vurt declared, voice as chilled as the surrounding wastes. "No one cares to hear it." Nami tried to look away, but the Sith's grip on her jaw was too great. She was forced to meet the Nikto's enduring, beady glare. "It is impossible to fail me… to fail Nesk," Vurt continued. "You can only fail yourself. Perfection will always be beyond your reach, but it falls to you to improve. To get better. To get stronger. We can provide the means to facilitate that improvement, that strength, but you must make the effort. It is your fault, and yours alone, if you fail. But the same goes for success. I don't want your 'sorry's. I don't want your respect. All I want, is for you to act. Do, until you can do no longer, so that you do better next time. Understand?" The girl nodded, even as the Sith continued to hold her chin. "Good." With that, Vurt removed his hand from Nami's face. Instead, he focused on lifting her arms and returning them to their outright position. "You chose to walk the path of discipline. You need endurance and concentration. If you lack either, you will continue to fail. If you continue to fail, you will die. Now, try again." Nami took a deep breath, holding it even as the chilled air stung her chest. Arms stretched, fingers spread, the girl closed her eyes and began to channel the Force. Eventually, the first snowflake above the Nami's head came to a stop. Then another. Then another. Soon, a curved sheet of frost began to take shape, outlining the invisible barrier that surrounded the ex-Jedi. ---------- A dazzling tunnel of swirling blue light presented itself as the Fury traveled through hyperspace. Asher manned the pilot's chair, the ship's droid politely standing in the corner of the cockpit. There, the metallic being patiently waited, eager to receive a new order from one of its masters. From one of the terminals lining the cockpit, a ping rang out, signaling the Fury's progress. Asher went to work, gliding his hands across the various controls in front of him, checking each readout and dial that spanned the forward console. Soon, the swirling tunnel surrounding the vessel collapsed, and the streaking stars returned to their dotted forms upon the black canvas of space. In a matter of moments, the Fury had slowed from its faster-than-light speeds to a gentle drift as it dropped back into realspace. Sitting amongst the void, the Sith vessel faced its destination. Balmorra. The distant orb was painted with large splotches of brown and blue, grand continents and oceans presenting themselves in equal measure. White swirls and patches dotted every hemisphere, a cloudy atmosphere untainted by the factory world below. Floating amongst its four moons, the planet was unremarkable at such a distance, despite the key role it played in the galactic scene. Soon, Asher was joined by his fellows in the Fury's cockpit. Fay stepped inside, followed by Graves, each peering out the forward viewports alongside the burned Sith. "So we've finally arrived," Graves commented. "Not quite," said Asher. Rising from his seat, the wrapped Sith jut a thumb toward the console as he turned his attention toward the droid. "ALD, take over." "At once, master!" The metallic being wasted no time carefully stepping around each of the Sith, taking Asher's place in the chair. Extending a cable from its chest, the droid plugged itself directly into the terminal as its hands took hold of the controls. Graves eyed the burned Sith as he joined the pair near the rear wall of the cockpit. "You don't want to take us in?" "The droid can handle it," Asher replied, offering a brief wafting of his hand. "I don't like having to talk with the flight officers planetside when landing in controlled territory." "And here I thought you never passed up the chance to talk," Fay offered, a slight curl upon her lips. Asher gave an exaggerated shrug. "Better than being the brooding Sith who never unfolds their arms." "That's debatable," said Fay, arms firmly crossed. "Besides, I don't brood." "Of course you don't," Asher replied, adopting a slight grin. The burned Sith leaned against the back wall, making sure not to inadvertently press any of the buttons or switches that lined it. Standing beside the tall woman, he loosely folded his arms across his chest, peering out the forward viewport. Graves quietly panned his gaze between the other two, before eventually crossing his arms himself. A subtle hum rang out throughout the Fury as the sublight engines powered up. In the hands of the mechanical pilot, the vessel made its way toward the planet ahead, the three Sith patiently watching as the world grew closer and closer with each passing moment.

There is no sound in space. What you're hearing is actually artificial/simulated noise from speakers set up inside ships and space stations to keep pilots and crewmen from going insane from the constant silence.

Thanks for all the warm welcomes, everyone. Glad people are liking Osk (who I still haven't decided whether they're the Bounty Hunter in his early years before meeting Braden, or just another merc). But I'll save any other comments for a 'comments' post. Wrote a direct follow-up to the previous piece. Title: Let's Go (Part Two) Prompt: 'Defenses' and 'What's In A Name' Characters: "Osk" (Bounty Hunter) Length: 888 words Spoilers: None

Oh my, what's this thread... I daresay I've never seen it before (ignore the throwaway parody piece that makes up the thread's 4th post ) Heh, thought I'd give this thread a go. I guess almost three years of waiting to jump in is long enough. Dug through the old prompts (there were quite a lot of them) and found some I felt would make for a good enough introductory post. Title: Let's Go Prompt: Description and First Day on the Job Characters: "Osk" (Bounty Hunter) Length: 1,158 words Spoilers: None

Why do others make it an issue when someone wants an LGBT option/version of something that already exists? I understand why it hasn't been implicated (resources and whatnot), but someone wanting something for themselves out of something that already exists is not 'ramming a personal matter down other peoples throats". There are already character/companion relationships in this game, people just want more options. Also, is it me or do opponents to this sort of thing have an odd fascination with things being shoved down throats...

Chapter Twenty Three Nami found herself in the cramped bathroom of her instructors' humble abode. Polished surfaces, sharp angles, dark forms under brilliant lights, the Imperial designs were growing more and more familiar to the ex-Jedi with each day. Standing in front of the room's modest sink, the girl met the haggard gaze of her own reflection in the wall-mounted mirror. Her face was cut. Bruised. Stained. And without words, it spoke. Of pain. Of perseverance. Of survival. Of equal parts failure and success. The stupor of her walk amongst the wastes having finally faded, Nami carefully examined her being, poking and prodding the various wounds that graced her countenance. She flashed her teeth, only to see them stained with the same red that marked her skin. She pulled back her eyelids, only to stare at her own bloodshot eyes. With a heavy sigh, Nami turned on the sink's faucet. A steady stream of water began to pour, accompanied by a continuous ringing in the girl's ear. With no distinct ritual or pattern, she started to cup the water in her hands before bringing it to her face. The dried blood began to wash away, but the underlying injuries remained. Nami continued to stare at her reflection, now with a determined glint in her eye. She drew and released deep, calm breaths. Finally, the girl closed her eyes. "You can do this, Nami," she whispered. "You can do this." Once more, she brought her hands to her face, only this time they carried no water. Instead, she pressed her palms against her battered skin and focused her mind. In that moment, that was all she could do. She knew little of the process, only the intended result. In her mind, she could see the swelling fade, see the split flesh mending itself. A hum filled the air as she channeled the Force through her digits. And yet, when she lowered her hands, Nami was greeted with the same visage she had seen moments before. Her wounds remained. But she would not relent. ---------- There was a soft squeal as the shuttle touched down upon its landing struts. Already, Vowrawn began to rise from his seat, standing and patting down his lavish robes. Syrosk moved at a suitably slower pace, but made a point to reach the rear of the vessel where the entrance ramp would eventually lower. From there he waited, until the alien felt a hand fall upon his shoulder. Turning toward his flank, he found the Dark Councilor standing with a wide smile plastered across his face. "Do try to make it look like you actually want to be here, Syrosk," said Vowrawn, jovial as ever in his delivery. The horned Sith remained silent as he shrugged off the Pureblood's grip. "I'm never been a fan of lavish displays or gatherings," Syrosk rasped as he returned his gaze toward the door. "And if I'm to spot your assassin, I require a focused mind." "Very well," offered Vowrawn alongside the softest of sighs. "Just wouldn't want you to stand out, is all." Syrosk slowly craned his neck back toward the Dark Councilor, his brow arched to the fullest. "In case you have noticed, I stand out no matter where I go." "Well, you might be pleasantly surprised." Before Syrosk could respond, the back of the shuttle began to fold outwards, the 'wall' slowly turning into the ship's entrance and exit ramp. Before the slab of gray metal had finished its descent, the alien had received his first glimpse at what lay ahead. A narrow pathway led away from the landing pad and toward a grand building. Though it did not reach as high as the many spires and skyscrapers that dotted Kaas City, nor did it possess the raw magnificence of the Citadel, the structure that comprised the banquet hall was more than capable of catching the eye. Wider than it was tall, the building possessed the same outward appearance as most Imperial structures. Muted grays and blacks made up the entirety of the architecture. A subtle blue luminescence peeked from behind the windows that complimented the perpetually overcast skies above. Smooth surfaces met at angular junctions, with just enough flourishes to distinguish it from a barracks or weapons depot. But as the entrance ramp touched the ground, Syrosk was met with a sight far more impressive than any feat of architectural design. Gathering amongst the plaza in front of the banquet hall were those set to be in attendance, beings possessing a myriad of colors and shapes. Standing in the heart of the Sith Empire were more than just Humans and Purebloods, all dressed in their most formal attire. Syrosk quickly snapped out of his momentary stupor as he remembered his purpose. Before taking a single step, he made sure to scan the bustling scene. The military police were sufficiently present, armor-clad, rifles in hand, and patrolling the surrounding area. Flanking the entrance to the banquet hall, Syrosk spotted a pair of Imperial Guardsmen. Red-robed, masked, exponents of martial combat, they were tasked with the protection of the Dark Council and the Emperor himself, even without the gift of Force-sensitivity. A low sigh slipped past the alien's lips, relieved that Vowrawn hadn't eschewed all security measures. But before he could react further, the aged Pureblood had already begun his descent of the shuttle's ramp. Syrosk quickly moved to catch up, as much as his uneven gait allowed him, and walked alongside Vowrawn's flank. As the pair approached the banquet hall, the horned alien continued to survey his surroundings, whilst Vowrawn maintained his utterly relaxed demeanor. Their path went unobstructed for mere moments before one of the members of the military police rushed over. Black-clad and garbed head to toe in plated armor, the officer was practically a front-line soldier stationed to defend the capital city. Upon reaching the two elder Sith, the Imperial bent forward to offer the deepest possible bow. "My lords," he quickly said, facemask still all but parallel with the floor of the landing pad. "You may rise," Vowrawn warmly offered. Not a moment later, he did so. "Thank you, my lord," the rifleman hastily replied. "All arrangements have been made. The banquet hall is secure and ready to receive you." "Excellent work, officer," said Vowrawn alongside a polite nod of his head. The helmed man replied with a deep nod of his own before dashing off toward the crowd. "Why is it the word 'arrangements' leaves on odd taste in the mouth?" asked Syrosk as he shot the Pureblood a sidewards glance. Vowrawn offered a soft chuckle as he took his first steps toward the gathering ahead, Syrosk keeping pace. "I do not know, but I surely hope your palate sorts itself by the time we're served the first course." The Pureblood paused before shooting his guest a quick glance. "Pay it no mind, Syrosk. I simply desired a certain table. There's a nice spot that lets you really appreciate the aesthetics of the room." "I take it this isn't your first banquet here," Syrosk rasped. "Oh ho, of course not," Vowrawn quickly replied. "Why, not too long ago we held a memorial dinner for Darth Azamin." "Didn't know Sith got memorials." "They usually don't, but occasionally, a fallen Dark Councilor's successor likes to ascend to their position on a platform of respect," Vowrawn explained. "Such was the case with Decimus." "Considering the successor's usual involvement with the 'falling', I imagine the food and festivities take away a bit of the sting," Syrosk muttered. "I can assure you, Azamin's death came at the hands of Jedi, not his successor," Vowrawn stated, still wearing his usual smile. "An oddly specific denial." A soft chuckle from the Pureblood. "My entire being relies on specifics, Syrosk. You ought to know that by now." The pair continued, passing a patrol of military police and on the threshold of the gathered crowd of attendees. Up close, the diversity present was even more striking to the horned alien. There was a fair share of the typical Humans and Purebloods, officers and Sith, but mingling with them were beings rarely seen on Imperial soil without chains around their wrists. A Twi'lek. A Chagrian. A Neimoidian. A Rattataki. Beings that stood out from their Imperial hosts just as much, if not more than the horned Sith. With each passing moment, more and more people took notice of the approaching Dark Councilor. What followed was an outpouring of warmth and welcomes, each figure seemingly possessing a familiarity with Vowrawn no matter their station or species. The aged Pureblood ingratiated himself into the crowd without a missed beat, greeting each figure before him. Bows, handshakes, subtle nods, everyone warranted a specific response when their eyes met with those of the Dark Councilor. And as Vowrawn practically slinked from person to person, Syrosk struggled to stay by his side. The air was filled with the constant muttering and conversations of all who had gathered for the banquet. But to Syrosk, it was nothing but a constant droning in his ears, sound without substance. He heard not Vowrawn's words. He heard not his own name as the Councilor introduced him to his associates. Such noise was unimportant. Syrosk had his duty, and as such, filtered out all but the most integral information from his senses. He moved through the crowd like a pebble swept up in the current of a stream, no agency of his own. He instead focused on reaching out with his mind. He closed his eyes, sampling the surface thoughts of the myriad of beings that surrounded him. But before he made even a modicum of progress, his concentration was broken by Vowrawn elbowing his side. Syrosk opened his eyes to find the Pureblood leaning in close. "Not now," Vowrawn whispered. "I would never be attacked out here. It would be best... if you used this time to ingratiate yourself." Without another word, the Dark Councilor pushed away, returning to his previous rounds of meeting and greeting the other attendees of the banquet. Eventually, the Pureblood stood before a Human, aged, prim and proper, but absent the garb or decorum of a true Imperial. "Syrosk, I'd like you to meet Agden Frels," Vowrawn introduced. "He owns a considerable chain of manufactories on Balmorra. He was also one of the first to willingly cast off the shackles of the Republic." The balding gentleman offered a quick nod. "It's a shame some of my former associates could not see obvious benefits of Imperial oversight." The factory owner turned to the horned alien, looking up and down his significant frame. "I take it by your attire that you, too, are a Sith." Syrosk was momentarily confused by the utter lack of venom lacing the words he had often heard before. "Yes," he eventually managed to get out. "I am." "Indeed," Vowrawn continued. "In fact, he leads an organization within my Sphere. The Executors of Logistics. As we speak, three of his apprentices are on route to Balmorra to ensure… stability in these trying times." The alien thought to correct his superior, but was cut off by the magnate's reply. "Well, Lord Syrosk, you've not only my respect, but my sincerest thanks and appreciation." The Human dipped his head, and Syrosk hesitantly did the same. Once more the Executor was unable to speak as Vowrawn was once more on the move. Syrosk followed, until he found himself standing before a Human-like figure that matched him in height and bulk. His skin was utterly pale, and marked with black tribal tattoos. The Rattataki's countenance was at odds with the formal suit encasing his sturdy frame. "Karnem," Vowrawn spoke, extending a hand toward the pale figure. The man accepted and replied with a hearty shake. As the Dark Councilor retrieved his hand, he swept it toward the flanking Sith. "This is Lord Syrosk, an associate of mine. Syrosk, you had an apprentice who was a Rattataki, did you not?" "Correct," said the horned alien after a pause. "Unfortunately… she perished in the final hours of the war." "Such a shame, that was," Vowrawn added, momentarily adopting a tone of solemnity. One that was soon abandoned for the familiar pleasantness. "Karnem is one of the premier suppliers of organic labor for the Empire." The process continued. Vowrawn would introduce Syrosk to the various attendees, each with ties to Production and Logistics. Factory owners. Transit overseers. Slavers. Officers. Even Sith. And with each introduction, the Dark Councilor always seemed capable of making Syrosk relevant. His position. His duty. His heritage. In the end, all who met with the horned alien parted with respect rather than disdain. And after meeting with the dozens of individuals populating the plaza, by Vowrawn's word and his word alone, did the banquet commence. Until his call, all were content to stand amidst the Kaas City skyline, risking the fall of the inevitable rain. It took the blessing of a Dark Councilor to move them inside. Thus, one of the twelve most influential Sith in the Empire led the infatuated crowd into the banquet hall, Syrosk securely by his side. As they approached, the pair of Guardsmen flanking the entrance tapped the base of their staves against the ground before taking a knee. In that pose they remained, until the final attendee passed the structure's threshold. Rising to their feet, the red-clad protectors entered the building before sealing the doors behind them. Outside, the military police continued to patrol the surrounding plaza. Inside, the crowd was greeted with the sight of regality and grandeur. The open foyer that welcomed them was decorated with the most vibrant of bannisters and rugs baring symbols of the Empire. Magnificent columns stretched toward the high ceilings, with expertly crafted sculptures of figures in heroic poses placed between. And every line of every design seemed to lead the eye toward the dining room ahead. A pair of large double-doors were splayed open, offering the attendees an overt invitation. One they readily accepted. Vowrawn and Syrosk were the first to step into the banquet hall proper. The room that received them was an extension of foyer's designs, redistributed amongst a large, circular chamber. The floor was home to numerous tables, more than capable of accommodating the group of dozens. The furnishings were situated around a raised dais in the center of the room that acted as a stage. Above, a dazzling cluster of metalwork and crystals illuminated the room, a chandelier held aloft via repulsors rather than connecting with the domed ceiling. As more and more of the attendees entered the chamber, they dispersed and sought out their assigned seats. Each of the rounded tables were capable of accommodating up to five diners, but one particular arrangement tucked away in the northeastern quadrant of the room possessed only two chairs. One for Vowrawn. One for Syrosk. The horned alien kept his wits about him as he and his boss sat at their table, perpetually scanning the other attendees with his focused gaze. Sith were uncommon amongst the guests, only six amidst the dozens of others. At least, only six in the traditional garb of black robes, saber hilts clipped to their waists. No security, but for the two Guardsmen flanking the exit, practically on the opposite side of the room. Anyone standing on the dais would be exposed from all angles. "So, first impressions?" Vowrawn spoke up, barely above a whisper. Despite having the entirety of the table to themselves, the Pureblood and the alien sat to each other's side, both facing toward the chamber's center. "Even with the sharpest reaction time, it would take too long for the Guardsmen to make their way over here in the event of an attack," Syrosk replied, almost matter-of-factly. "Fixture above the dais. A saboteur could disable the repulsors to drop it on anyone underneath. Although you're not the most skilled combatant, you've enough command of the Force to halt its descent. But that could still be used as a distraction while the assassin makes their move." "I was asking more along the lines of décor, but I suppose your observations were nonetheless prudent," said Vowrawn, flashing a grin. "You'll find I'm not easily moved by showings of grandeur," Syrosk rasped. "I lived before the Great War. I remember the feasts, the parades, the displays that reinforced the idea of our superiority and eventual victory, before we had even revealed ourselves to the galaxy. Of course, I wasn't invited to such celebrations." "And yet, here you are. Guest of a Dark Councilor, sitting amongst some of the Production and Logistics' elite." The alien offered a soft harrumph as he continued to pan his gaze across the room. Eventually, Syrosk arched his brow as he looked past the attendees and finally began to take in the room itself. "I don't really see the significance of this spot. Seems like the 'aesthetics' would be the same no matter where one sat." "I'm a man who finds beauty in the arrangement of parts, rather than the sum of an entire form," Vowrawn stated, casting his gaze across the grand chamber. Syrosk was about to speak, but the arrival of more persons caught his attention. Opposite the side of the room the guests had entered from, servers and wait-staff began to enter through another set of doors. As a rather unassuming Human approached his table, Syrosk kept a hand at his side, just within reach of his lightsaber. The server stood across from the two Sith, crisp attire layered upon his slight frame. His face was soft, yet seemed to easily maintain its composure in the presence of the Dark Councilor. In fact, the two met eyes, and supplied one another a subtle nod. Afterwards, the server focused his attention on the horned alien. "My lord," he began, "someone will arrive take your order soon. However, I wanted to inquire as to whether you would enjoy an after-dinner drink following your meal. I'm to understand you enjoy Bothan Brandy, and we've a cask that we would be happy to serve if you so desired." Syrosk turned toward the Pureblood to his side, who remained silently coy. With a sigh, the alien nodded. "Fine." The server offered a quick nod of his own and ducked away, eventually disappearing into the room beyond the second set of doors. Meanwhile, Syrosk continue to give his boss a sideward glance. "Trouble, Syrosk?" Vowrawn politely asked. There was a silence. "No... none at all." The evening proceeded without a fuss. Another server approached the pair, detailing the available food and drink throughout the banquet. Vowrawn made the effort of ordering for both himself and his associate. The air was filled with the hum of chatter as the various titans of industry and logistics conversed throughout the room, patiently awaiting the arrival of their first course. Meanwhile, Syrosk remained perfectly silent. He focused his thoughts, reaching out to the others in the banquet hall, this time uninterrupted by the Dark Councilor. He started with those possessing untrained minds. In return, he received only banal musings and the inner monologues of men and women carefully choosing their next words amidst their contemporaries. Not a single violent thought amongst them. The occasional hint of avarice and ambition typical of a professional Imperial, but nothing that interested Syrosk. He moved to the various Sith in attendance. With a careful comb, he sifted through the surface thoughts of the Force-sensitive Humans and Purebloods in the room, taking care not to alert them to his intrusion. The results were the same. Few things good within their heads, but nothing on par with assassinating a Dark Councilor. Syrosk would likely have to dig deeper to uncover any true intentions, but he would be unable to regardless as he found a dish placed in front of him. The same soup Vowrawn had ordered for himself glistened under the banquet hall's lights, a vibrant red pool of decadence. Not a moment after the bowls were placed before the two Sith, another server was filling their glasses with wine. The same orchestration of moving dishes and bodies filled the entirety of the chamber, as each individual was served in the same way. The horned alien struggled to keep up with the constant motion, intent on not letting a single detail escape his attention. "If you keep staring like that, your soup's going to cool," Vowrawn stated. As if to punctuate his jocular words, he brought a spoonful of the steaming liquid to his equally red lips. "Each new course brings new moving parts," Syrosk rasped. "The perfect time to strike." Vowrawn swallowed his soup before gently lowering the spoon. "On the contrary, the perfect time would be when I'm giving my speech before the next course. After all, that is when I would act." "But that would imply the person moving against you is operating on your level." "If they weren't, I never would have permitted them to make it this far." Syrosk leaned back in his chair. "Of course, the assassin is here because you allowed them to be, didn't you?" The Pureblood gripped his napkin, gently dabbing his lips. "What is one of the first lessons a Force-user learns?" "Depends on the teacher," Syrosk plainly stated. The Dark Councilor released a soft chuckle. "One should not seek to move the motionless, not when you've the opportunity to guide that which is already in motion." Syrosk gave of a low sigh. "You wanted to make a show of it, didn't you? You always intended to stop the assassination, right here, in front of these people." Vowrawn slowly picked up his glass and brought it to his lips, taking a sip of his wine. Afterward, he simply gazed into the dark red beverage. "I have a philosophy. A simple one at that. Everything should have a purpose. Every life. Every death. Too many Sith nowadays, they simply act, caring not for the true consequences of their successes or failures. Suppose someone intends to take your life. And suppose they fail. Afterwards, they've nothing to show for it, and all you can say is that you're still alive. Such is the tragedy of the Sith. The erasure of meaning. But right now, someone has made the effort. Someone has sent an agent to end my life. What better sign of respect, than to give their failure meaning? To gain, rather than lose or stagnate, from death?" Without another word, the Dark Councilor set his drink down and slowly rose from his chair. With a subtle wave of his hand, he told Syrosk to remain seated. He complied. The Pureblood approached the central dais, the room quieting with each step he took. Soon, all eyes were on Vowrawn as he ascended, as he stood above each and every person surrounding him. The Dark Councilor was all smiles as he clasped his hands together. "Ladies and gentlemen of Production and Logistics…" he began. As the first word of their lord and master reached their ears, every individual in the room halted their meal. Syrosk, meanwhile, focused on everything but the Dark Councilor. Vowrawn started with pleasantries, welcoming each and every person in attendance. From there, he moved onto details of statistics and performances, selling ideas the crowd had long since bought into, but were more than ready to hear pitched to them yet again. Meanwhile, Syrosk scanned his surroundings with both his eyes and his mind. All was silent, but for the Dark Councilor's words. All was motionless, but for the Pureblood's elaborate gestures. Vowrawn would occasionally turn to focus on each section of the crowd, but primarily kept himself facing the Guardsmen protecting the primary entrance. Finally, an errant movement. To Syrosk's right and to Vowrawn's rear, a dark figure rose from his seat. A man clad in black robes. A Sith. He was already on the move, charging toward the Dark Councilor, retrieving the metallic hilt from his belt. And with a flick of his wrist, a crimson beam began to emerge from its tip. Time slowed to crawl. Syrosk may have been old, but his senses were sharp, and his body able. The blade of plasma had not even fully extended by the time the horned alien rose from his seat. The attacker was far, with many tables separating him from Syrosk. The same could not be said of the assassin and his target. Syrosk was upright, standing on legs both organic and prosthetic. He reached toward his waist, but instead of gripping his lightsaber, he instead grabbed the rim of his bowl of soup. The alien pulled his arm back, spilling the contents onto the floor, before throwing the dish across the room. The saucer soared through the air with an elegant arc, guided by the Force. Moments before it could reach its target, the assassin raised his saber to intercede. The beam of plasma, however, merely sliced right through the dish, allowing the two molten halves to continue their journey straight into the Sith's face. The bifurcated saucer raked across the assassin's flesh, blinding him, and sending a bone-chilling howl across the chamber. Only now did others begin to react. Cries and shouts emanated from the attendees. Other Sith rushed to their feet. But they could not match the horned alien already on the move. With a grace contrasting his usual uneven gait, Syrosk leapt from table to table, his own lightsaber baring its harsh redness, finally descending upon the staggered assassin. In one powerful move, the Executor brought his weight down upon the Sith, forcing him to the ground before plunging his blade through the attacker's heart. The dark figure released a brief spasm before going completely motionless. Only now could Syrosk get a clear picture of the assassin. Male. Young. Too young. Practically fresh out of the Academy. Vowrawn was right. An agent of some other master's will. Slowly, Syrosk lifted himself from the ground, withdrawing his blade before returning his saber to his belt. Immediately, the alien was assaulted with hushed whispers and wandering thoughts. As he spun around, all eyes were on him instead of the Dark Councilor. The noise continued, growing in volume, growing in clarity. It soon became clear, that only a single word rest on the tongues and minds of those surrounding him. Syrosk. Syrosk. Syrosk. Finally, the horned alien looked up toward the dais, only to see Vowrawn sporting his usual smile.

Chapter Twenty Two Asher, Fay, and Graves stepped off a lift and into the hangar in which their vessel waited. The Fury-class interceptor sat patiently, undisturbed by droids or technicians, long-since prepped for flight. The trio of Sith walked undeterred toward their mobile base of operations, intent on proceeding with the task they had been given. Their feet carried them across the hangar floor, up the deployed entrance ramp, and inside the half-freighter, half-warship. Traversing the brief corridor that spilled them into the central chamber of the vessel, it wasn't long before the group was greeted by the Fury's mechanical steward. "Welcome, masters," ALD called out with the usual overly-pleasant tone. The humanoid machine offered a deep bow of its metallic dome, accentuated by a formal sweeping of its arm. "Make sure the ship is ready to launch," Graves said to the droid. "We'll be leaving soon." "As you wish, master." With that, the droid ducked out of the chamber toward the cockpit. The central room of the interceptor appeared much the same as it did prior to the ship's renovations. Same sparse seating lining the walls. Same central holoterminal. Same aesthetic of sharp angles, polished surfaces, and industrial grates offering glimpses of Imperial technological prowess at work. Upon the comm array, a blinking red light caught the attention of the Sith. Without a word, Fay approached the terminal and gave a quick flip of the switch. The central projector powered up, and soon, the holographic image of an Imperial stood over the Executors. Female. Clean cut. Fairly youthful. The officer that inducted the trio on their very first day. "My lords, I've details pertaining to your mission on Balmorra," she spoke up, soft yet direct in her delivery. "Go ahead," Fay replied. The Imperial offered a quick dip of her head before proceeding. "You are to be based out of one of the Empire's forward outposts. Coordinates will be uploaded into your ship's navicomputer shortly. Once you've landed your contact will be Commander Rederick." "Any specifics on what we'll be doing landside?" asked Fay. "I'm afraid not yet, my lord," the officer replied. "We're still receiving information here, and will relay it as soon as we're able. Commander Rederick will be able to give you up-to-date information regarding any recent activity on Balmorra." Fay offered a contented nod. "Very well. We'll be moving out shortly. Upload any additional details as soon as you can." "We shall, my lord," the officer replied alongside a quick bow. The image flickered until it had disappeared completely. Communications ceased, and the trio of Sith were left alone. Asher released a low sigh. "One of these days, I hope we get a mission where we're not just running in blind." "If it makes you feel better, we'll mostly be flying and sitting around," Graves spoke up, stoic as ever. "No running involved." "Oh, well, that makes it all right then," Asher muttered as he stepped toward the cockpit. "Let's just get airborne." "I assume this means you'll be taking control of the ship," said Graves, standing completely still. "Damn straight. Gotta keep me distracted somehow," Asher called out as he disappeared into the connecting corridor. ---------- An Imperial vessel soared above the Kaas City skyline. Sharp, gray, though miniscule in comparison to the accommodating Fury. Instead, the shuttle possessed only a limited passenger bay to ferry its inhabitants. Within the ship's interior, two figures patiently sat. While the usual rigid and utilitarian designs were present in the construction of the shuttle, every facet of the vessel seemed to possess something more, something grander. The panels and walls that made up the windowless cabin were intricately decorated, crimson designs and markings accenting the otherwise drab interior. The two rows of seats lining the walls featured the most comfortable of cushions, upon which two aging Sith sat opposite one another. Darth Vowrawn. Lord Syrosk. The regal Pureblood. The horned alien. The pair were of many opposites. One was garbed in decadent robes comprised of every shade of red, the other merely in layers of modest blacks. One filled his clothes with a slight frame, the other with one of bulk. One possessed a visage of warmth, the other seemed to have scowl permanently etched onto his face. The only similarity between the two was the presence of wrinkles upon their skin. But even then, there were contrasts. Vowrawn possessed the look of an elder statesman. Syrosk appeared roughened by both age and quarrel. The two were alone, accompanied only by the soft echoes of the shuttle's engines as it carried them toward their destination, away from the Citadel. Finally, Syrosk broke the silence. "When do you plan on telling me the real reason you've dragged me along?" A soft chuckle from the Pureblood. "Syrosk, you seem to be implying that I would never desire to treat a friend to a pleasant evening out. Now, it may not be the only reason for your accompaniment, but that makes it no less genuine." The alien narrowed his gaze, letting a low grumble slip past his lips. "And these other reasons?" Vowrawn brought a hand to his chin, gently stroking one of the stubby tendrils that hung from it. "Well," he casually began, "I suppose one of the reasons would be that someone intends to kill me." The Councilor remained utterly calm as he continued to stroke his fleshy goatee. Syrosk simply offered the stern arch of his brow. "What? This is a fairly common occurrence for someone such as myself. No need to get so worked up." "No matter how common, assassination attempts ought to be treated with some measure of gravity," Syrosk plainly stated. "I've not become utterly careless," Vowrawn offered alongside another chuckle. "I've you to protect me, don't I?" A soft harrumph from the alien. "If I were you, I'd have chosen a guardian with two good legs." A pause as Syrosk locked eyes with his superior. "Any idea who this someone that intends to kill you is?" "I don't have the exact details," Vowrawn casually stated. "A Sith within my own Sphere with the right mix of brazenness and cowardice to challenge me. Will likely utilize an underling to do the deed. Standard procedure for this sort of thing." "Let me guess, you want to use my skills as a telepath to find your would-be assassin," Syrosk suggested. "Ever the astute being," said Vowrawn with a smirk. "Plus, you're the one Sith I know that would literally have nothing to gain from my demise." "I'm so glad to have earned your trust," Syrosk offered, utterly deadpan. "So there will be other Sith at this banquet?" "Only a few." "That narrows down our suspects, at least," Syrosk stated as he scratched his chin. "Not quite," the Pureblood quickly added. "I know only that a Sith wants me dead. They may use an apprentice, a guard, a server…" "What manner of Sith would entrust the death of a Dark Councilor to the wait staff?" A soft chuckle from Vowrawn. "I'm not known for my combat prowess. I'm sure my life could be cut short with a lucky shot from a holdout blaster." Syrosk remained silent, offering nothing but his still narrowing gaze upon the unflappable Sith. The Councilor retained his smile under the weight of the alien's eyes, his own unblinking. Finally, Syrosk spoke. "When was the last time you were afraid? Of anything?" "I can scarcely recall," said Vowrawn. No words followed, from either Sith. Instead, they remained utterly silent as the shuttle made its way toward the ceremonial hall on the other side of Kaas City. ---------- Harsh winds battered the faces of two figures as they trudged across the landscape. Vurt led the way, utterly composed and without a scratch on him. Nami followed, dragging a heavy metallic rod behind her, every surface of her body marked with scrapes and bruises. The Sith's movements were ever precise, not missing a step as he walked with his hands folded behind his back. The ex-Jedi moved sloppily and groggily, nearly stumbling to the cold, hard ground time and time again as she continued her trek. Part of the girl welcomed the numbness that overtook her body, lest she succumb to the aches and pains that dominated her every muscle. But still she winced as the wind delivered a sharp piece of frost into her eye. She dropped her training weapon, which rang out with a loud clang as its other end struck the gray stone beneath her feet. "Is this place… always like this?" Nami asked, rubbing her eye. Vurt continued walking, not opting to talk until a few steps had been put between the two of them. "Just because you managed to convince me to speak, doesn't mean I intend to partake in idle chatter." The girl drew in and released an icy breath, head hung low. Slowly, she lowered herself to the ground, wrapping her numb fingers around one of the ends of the metallic rod. As the Nikto continued his march unabated, Nami pushed herself forward, urging her body to catch up. The two continued, across frost-ridden stone, across chilled dirt, and eventually, paved streets. On the outskirt of the city, on the border between civilization and the wastes, the humble home of the instructors drew ever closer. Away from the starports, the markets, the office buildings, a quaint domicile sitting at the base of a ridge welcomed the return of its denizens, both permanent and temporary. Vurt pushed past the front door, and Nami blearily followed. Not even seconds after closing the door behind her, the girl felt herself begin to thaw amongst the warmth of the cramped abode. After spending hours amongst the winter wastes of Ziost, even the simple living room proved pleasurable to Nami's senses. She could see, without the threat of ice invading her sights. She could hear more than the harsh winds grating against her ears. She could smell... something. Even as she warmed, the girl stood frozen in the center of the living room. There was a peculiar clattering in the kitchenette, and an oddly satisfying aroma filled the air. But before she could process it further, the numbness quickly fled her body, being replaced by an overwhelming pain. Her legs began to tremble. The rod slipped from her hand, impacting against the floor with a solid thud. Her vision began to blur and fade, until finally, she collapsed. But before she could drop, Vurt snatched ahold of her collar. Despite possessing a rather lithe form, the Nikto managed to hold the girl upright by her robes. Slowly, Nami came to, shaking her head and regaining her bearings. "Thanks," she quietly offered. "Hmm," Vurt muttered, still holding the girl upright. Abruptly, the Nikto led the girl over to the couch before almost tossing her onto it. The Sith offered a few moments of his beady stare before stepping out of the living room. As he disappeared down the hall, the clattering continued to emanate from the adjacent kitchenette. Nami slowly straightened her posture as she sat upright on the couch. Her limbs almost refused to obey her commands, only barely capable of moving without being accompanied by aches and pains. When the girl finally situated herself, she released a heavy sigh of relief, content to simply sink into the cushion as she remained stilled. Interrupting her, however, was the Trandoshan who just stepped into the room. With a loud clank, Nesk set a bowl on the table in front of the exhausted girl. Nami could barely lean forward to get a closer look at the murky gray stew that filled the dish. Instead, her eyes bounced between the bowl and the Trandoshan that stood over her. "What is this?" "Is food," Nesk plainly answered. "That's it? Just 'food'?" "Eat," he replied. With that, he simply turned away and stepped back toward the kitchenette. Soon, the girl was alone with her undefined bowl of food. Yet all she could do was stare at the bubbling contents. Partly liquid. Partly solid. Almost completely lacking in color. A strange gooey mash with an oddly pleasant scent. Nami eyed the spoon beside the bowl, but even thinking about moving toward it made her body ache. Whether it had been seconds or minutes, Nami did not know, but eventually the Trandoshan returned to the living room, a bowl of his own grasped between his clawed digits. He took a seat next to the bruised and bloodied girl without a second glance. "Eat," Nesk repeated, firm and direct. "It will not get another meal today." With that, the Trandoshan went to work, shoveling spoonful after spoonful of the viscous paste into his sharp maw. Nami shifted in her seat before forcing herself forward. Ignoring whatever signals her body sent telling her to stop, the girl reach out and picked up her spoon. As she wrapped her fingers around the utensil, Nami noticed nearly every one of her knuckles had been scraped, a layer of dried blood gracing each joint. Where or when she received such injuries escaped her. In that moment, it didn't matter. With slow movements, the girl directed the first spoonful of the mystery meal into her mouth. To her surprise, her tongue did not immediately reject it. Instead, she easily swallowed the paste, her sore throat and jaw proving no impediment. In silence, the two figures on the couch continued their meal. Occasionally, Nami would shoot an glance toward the towering Trandoshan beside her as he hunched over his bowl. The girl's pacing was much more restrained, primarily because her arms refused to move past a certain speed. Eventually, Vurt returned to the living room, clutching something in his hand. Small. Flat. Reflective. Nami momentarily halted her meal as the Nikto squatted across from her, holding the mirror toward her face. As soon as she saw her reflection, the girl's eyes went wide. At least, as wide as they were capable. She was utterly disheveled. Battered. There was swelling around her right eye. Her face was bruised. Her lower lip was split, a trail of dried blood hanging beneath the wound. "You trained with the Jedi, yes?" asked Vurt, his voice possessing the usual icy smoothness. His arm seem locked in place, still holding up the mirror. "Can you mend your wounds? Fully?" "I... don't..." Nami stammered. "I mean... I never had to..." "Well, now you must," Vurt replied. Finally, he lowered the mirror. "Your survival depends on it." "If it cannot push back," Nesk said between bites, "it must push forward." Nami's head slightly tilted to the side. "So you'd both endorse me… using Jedi techniques?" "We'd endorse you taking whatever measure necessary to prevent your own death," Vurt plainly stated. "Wounds slow it down," said Nesk. "Slowness earns it more wounds. If it cannot recover, it will die." The girl dipped her head. A heavy silence persisted throughout the room, until finally, Nami spoke up, barely above a whisper. "How many students have you two killed?" The two Sith looked to one another, preserving the quiet as neither spoke. "None," Vurt said after a pause. "Ziost kills. Academy kills. Student kills," Nesk added. "Not us." "If an acolyte who trained under us perished, it is because they did not heed our words," Vurt explained. "Hard to heed your words… if you barely talk," Nami muttered. The Nikto replied with a cold, beady stare. "Finish your food. Afterwards, wash up and heal your wounds. Tomorrow requires a clean slate." "That's it? Just 'heal my wounds'?" Nami asked. Nesk set his empty bowl on the table in front of him with a sharp clang. "Knew Sith that could mend flesh. Acolyte. Young. If it could, so can small thing." Vurt quickly straightened out his posture before stepping back toward the hall that departed the living room. Nesk lifted himself from the couch, and carried his empty dish back into the kitchenette. Soon Nami was by her lonesome, sitting on the couch, staring into what remained of her meal.

Many thanks for the comment. I've been hanging around fanfiction.net for the past 8 months, albeit not doing much writing. This past week has been the first time in a long while I've been able to produce new chapters. I have, however, been working on a rewrite of The Seven that's posted there (it's a few chapters into Episode II right now), for anyone interested in that. I find it much easier to organize and edit stories there than on a forum, but I'll never not post new things here for the people who have read my stuff for the past 2-3 years (except for maybe one chapter of The Dawn Eclipse that I never posted here ). I seem to be finding the motivation to write again, but a lot of my older stories would need to be heavily revised before I was comfortable continuing them (Tools of the Trade for example). But I'm excited to continue this story, as I quite like where it's heading. And I look forward to retconning Ziost once they show what it looks like in-game. As always, I welcome comments/feedback/suggestions, either here or on fanfiction.net.

Chapter Twenty One Kaas City Citadel. Executor Headquarters. Early morning. The cramped chambers were bustling as the normal staff carried out their tasks with the expected efficiency of Imperials under direct Sith oversight. All evidence of the morning shift-change had vanished, and the nondescript Humans that worked for Production and Logistics did so without missing a beat. The various gray terminals and databanks that lined the walls flashed their information through a series of lights and chirps, each one recorded and filtered by the ever-proficient Imperials. Contrasting the continuous flow and motion were the Sith standing near the headquarters' entrance, patiently waiting for the day's assignment in their battle-ready attire. Asher, Fay, and Graves; respectively robed, gloved, and armored. The trio leaned against the wall, side by side, none uttering a word as they looked to their superior. However, Syrosk acted much the same as them. The horned alien stood as a statue in the middle of the chamber, eyeing the main communications array. Watching. Waiting. Carefully, Asher leaned closer to the scarred man at his side, whispering in Graves' ear, "Isn't this usually the part where he gives us our task for the day?" Graves opened his mouth to speak, but was cut off before the first syllable left his mouth. "Indeed it is," Syrosk declared from afar, not tearing his gaze away from the central terminal. "But there's been a change in plans." Asher straightened out his stance, before slumping against the wall with a low sigh. "Should have known better." "Even if he couldn't hear you, the man's a telepath," Fay stated, shooting the burned Sith a quick glance out of the corner of her eye. "I thought the point of the other day was so that he couldn't read our minds," Asher whispered. "One wall does not a fortress make," Syrosk rasped. The elder Sith finally turned away from the center of the chamber to face his subordinates. "More sessions are required before I'll be satisfied with your abilities." "Then why aren't we in a session right now?" Asher bluntly asked. Syrosk turned back toward the comm terminal. "Why, indeed." A sharp ping rang throughout the entire chamber, and the previous bustle came to an immediate and sudden halt. The Imperials froze mid-step, slowly craning their necks until their wide-eyed stares fell upon the central terminal. The three Sith by the entrance puzzled at the seemingly innocuous sound, which obviously carried a significant meaning. The holographic maps and data streams immediately washed away, and were soon replaced by the flickering figure of one Darth Vowrawn. Appearing above a much more reliable projector, the Pureblood was fully rendered in all his magnificence. Thick robes of numerous layers and designed wrapped the elder Sith, their colors lost amidst the blue electronic image. The Dark Councilor's face possessed the traits typical of his species, stubby, fleshy tendrils hanging from his chin and cheeks like a Human would wear a goatee. His skin was aged, but lacked any of the corruption or decay expected of a Sith of his age or position. Rather than a powerful conqueror, Vowrawn appeared as a noble politician. A gentleman. And at the sight of the amiable figure, the Imperial workers lowered their heads, offering the Dark Councilor the most respectful of bows. A cordial chuckle emanated from the terminal as the holographic Pureblood offered a soft wave of his hand. "I appreciate the warm welcome, but time spent bowing would be better spent working, yes?" Even if the electronic image weren't of an enlarged scale, the elder Sith would have still been larger than life. To his people, Vowrawn's every word was equal parts powerful and sweet. To his fellow Sith, a moderately pleasant voice, hiding countless unknowns beneath a regal facade. The Imperials quickly turned away from the Dark Councilor, resuming their work without a moment of hesitation. Syrosk, however, merely cemented his gaze on the man only a few years his junior, yet vastly superior in rank and station. "Lord Vowrawn," the horned Sith rasped. Syrosk maintained his gruff stoicism, offering no excess pleasantries nor derisions. "I received your message this morning. You'll understand my desire for an explanation." "But of course!" the Councilor warmly replied, followed by a pause. The hologram's eyes seemed to sway from side to side, as if searching for something. "Where might our three newest Executors be?" The trio of Sith leaning against the wall shared a brief round of looks before stepping forward. Soon, they were standing shoulder to disparate shoulder alongside their immediate boss, prompting a smile to appear on the grander boss floating atop the central terminal. "They're here," Syrosk plainly stated. "I intended to continue their training today, until I got your notice. Why are you putting my work on hold? What do you want with them?" A quaint chuckle from the Dark Councilor. "Syrosk, it's not them I desire. It is you." "Pardon?" Syrosk rasped, arching his brow. "I require your assistance," said Vowrawn. "More accurately, I desire your company. There's a banquet being held later today, and I'd like to take you as my guest." Syrosk's brow remained raised. "A banquet." The Pureblood nodded. "Correct." "And you want me as your guest?" Syrosk muttered as his head dipped, shaking from side to side. Another nod from the Councilor. "Indeed." The horned alien rubbed his leathery brow. "Why me? Aren't there plenty of Sith better suited for this? One of your serving Lords? An apprentice, perhaps?" "No action is taken without purpose, Syrosk," Vowrawn declared, smile widening. "Come. You deserve this." "Somehow I doubt anyone else at the banquet will think so," Syrosk rasped. After a pause, the alien jutted a thumb toward his subordinates. "And what of these three? Shall they have the day off?" His disgust at the notion was almost tangible as the words left Syrosk's mouth. A trademark chortle from the ever-pleasant Darth. "Of course not. I have a task for them as well." "Which would be?" Syrosk asked. "How familiar are you with Balmorra?" Vowrawn asked back. "Factory world," Fay spoke up, crossing her arms. "Primarily armstech and droid production. Highly contested. At least, until the Treaty of Coruscant forced the Republic to completely pull out." Vowrawn offered a contented nod. "Yes, I assumed your background would leave you somewhat familiar. Indeed, the Republic no longer has a presence on the world. And as the Sphere of Production and Logistics, it is our duty to ensure stability as the world and its various manufactories make the transition." "And where do the Executors come in?" Syrosk asked. "Officially? They are to watch over the local factory owners, make them feel safe through the transition," Vowrawn explained. "The Republic may have left, but there remains a rebel element that does not take kindly to Imperial rule. The Executors are to act as security." "And unofficially?" "Balmorra still possesses a heavy military presence," Vowrawn stated. "I fear some of the Sith assigned to the world may attempt to use the situation there for their own personal gain." "And what sort of gain might that be?" Asher spoke up. "War…" Fay muttered. "Exactly," said Vowrawn. "Ever since the Treaty of Coruscant, widespread and open conflict has been in short supply. A sad loss in the minds of many a Sith, young or old. Many see Balmorra as a chance to reignite that lost passion. Push the rebels until they push back, and then push even harder." "Turning Balmorra into a battleground, with or without the Republic's help," Fay declared. "It would be in our best interest to keep such conflict quelled," Vowrawn stated. "And if you succeed in keeping the peace, we'd earn the favor of Diplomacy as well." Asher smirked. "Inhibit their gains for the sake of our own." "Quite," Vowrawn warmly replied. "The Ministry of War has no interest in wasting resources on petty squabbles to sate the desires of petty Sith. We lose nothing if we can dissuade these miscreants and keep the peace." "And how exactly are we expected to 'keep the peace'?" Fay asked. "By any means necessary," Vowrawn plainly said. The smile remained upon the hologram, but with each passing second its meaning changed. The pleasantness in the elder Pureblood's face remained in form, but there was an underlying intrigue befitting the Dark Councilor. "You three are to make for Balmorra as soon as possible. With your ship, you should be capable of an extended stay." A pause. "Meanwhile, Syrosk and I have a banquet to attend." An low sigh from the alien. "When and where do we meet?" "Outside my office. As soon as you can." With that, the image flickered before fading completely. The room went quiet, the pattering of feet dulling as the workers momentarily ceased their operations. More and more eyes fell upon the horned Sith. "Everyone, continue your duties," Syrosk called out, before turning to the trio of Sith at his side. "You three, follow me." The insistence in the alien's words were soon matched by his steps. Uneven as his trudge was, the elderly Sith was still capable of moving with haste. The younger trio offered only the briefest of glances to one another before quickly moving after their boss. Putting the meager headquarters behind them, the four Sith moved in tandem through the halls of the Kaas City Citadel. As always, Syrosk set the pace. "Banquet, huh?" Asher spoke up, breaking the silence. "Sounds fun." "Sith throw the best banquets..." said Fay. "And the worst ones." "Because of the food, or the potential bloodshed?" asked Graves. "The bloodshed mostly," Fay plainly answered. "The food is typically rather good." "Wouldn't know," Graves admitted. "Don't get invited to many banquets, do you?" Asher teased. "Actually, I can't taste-" "Enough," Syrosk interrupted as he continued his march through the Citadel halls. "I've no doubt I've just become a pawn in one of Vowrawn's games, and I've no interest in idle natter. You three are to report to your ship. Hopefully someone from headquarters will have the details of your assignment sent by the time you board. Check the stocks. Make sure none of your renovations displaced anything of import, as you'll likely be on Balmorra for days, if not weeks." The alien words practically had to fight to slip through his gritted teeth. Syrosk's seething continued unabated, even as his subordinates retained their casual demeanors. The quartet moved in silence until they passed the threshold of the next chamber. A hub, home to many more paths and divergent hallways. The chamber was grand in all aspects. The ceiling stretched higher than it had any right or reason to, purposeless except to instill a feeling of grandeur. Gray statues of a robed Sith flanked each path out from the hub, casting their stony gaze upon all who would pass. Monuments to the Emperor, featureless as the individual depicted might have been. All manners of Imperials and Sith traversed the nexus, intent fueling their every step. Guardsmen, in their red armor and robes, scanned the chamber, ready to strike down any miscreant, be they Force-sensitive or not. Lords and their various entourages of apprentices and officers appeared and disappeared without a second thought. After only a single step into the chamber, Syrosk came to a pause before turning to face his subordinates. "You have your mission… and I apparently have mine. The banquet shall only last the day, so I'll be back in command before you've even arrived on Balmorra. I trust you three can handle yourselves until then, yes? Good. Then this is where we part ways." With that, the alien Lord stepped away, setting his sights on the path that would eventually place him at the doorstep of Darth Vowrawn. The stilled trio of Sith could only watch as their boss all but stomped toward his destination. "Methinks our boss isn't a fan of someone taking control away from him," Asher bluntly offered. "Is anyone?" asked Fay. "Fair point," replied Asher. "So, thoughts on this Balmorra assignment?" "Well," Graves began. "When we signed up, Syrosk did mention we might be tasked with striking down unruly Sith. Guess it was only a matter of time." "You never know," said Fay, folding her arms in front of her chest. "Our mere presence might be enough to dissuade anyone from stirring up trouble." Asher offered both a chuckle and a shrug. "I'd consider the idea absurd, were it coming from anyone other than the giantess who could crush a man's skull-" "Yes, yes, between my thighs, you've said it before," Fay muttered. "I was going to say 'with her bare hands', but whatever works for you," Asher offered with a flippant wave of his hand. A sigh from the tall woman. "Can we just head for the ship?" The trio began to move, if only to keep from attracting attention by standing still in the center of the Citadel for an extended period of time. Together, the three Sith headed toward the path that would spill them into the streets of Kaas City. "You know," Graves spoke up, continuing alongside his fellows. "Depending on how long we spend on Balmorra, Nami might be out of the Academy by the time we return." "Assuming she makes it out in the first place," Asher muttered. Hardly a moment after the last word left his lips, the burned Sith was almost knocked off balance by a forceful blow to his side. Righting his gait after a momentary stumble, Asher looked toward the source of the jab just in time to see Fay's powerful arms return to their crossed position. "She'll make it," she said, utterly confident. There was a pause. "Though I wonder how she's doing with her preparations." ---------- Ziost. The Frozen Wastes. Early morning. Familiar were the chilled winds that battered Nami's face. As were the clumps of ice and snow clenched between her fists as she struggled to pick herself off the ground. New was the stain of red beneath her as she spat onto the ground. Wiping her mouth with the sleeve of her new robes, each breath Nami took brought with it a sharp pain in her chest. She tried to stand, leaning against the same rod she had used in the previous day's training. But as her legs threatened to give out beneath her, her teacher stood across from her, unarmed, and unharmed. The Nikto offered nothing but his cold stare. Hands folded neatly behind his back, only after the former Padawan was fully upright did the weaponless Sith extend his left hand. In one single, fleeting motion, he beckoned his opponent, urging her to continue. Tightening her grip around the metallic rod that was her weapon, Nami flung herself forward. She released a wide swing, one that Vurt effortlessly ducked beneath. Her attack not even finished, the girl could do nothing as the Nikto drove his fist into her ribs. A sharp wail slipped passed Nami's lips, just the rod slipped from her hands. In a matter of moments, both the student and her weapon had fallen meters apart, half-buried in the snow. The Nikto continued to offer nothing but his silent stare as the girl writhed on the cold ground, clutching as her side. The process had repeated. Nami, on the ground. Vurt, standing over her. One, battered and beaten. The other, perfectly fine. "S...s..." Nami muttered through gritted teeth. The girl struggled to push herself off the ground, instead managing only to lift her gaze high enough to meet her foe's gaze. "Say something! Anything! How am I supposed to learn... if you won't even talk?" Nothing but silence from the Nikto, followed by the familiar beckoning motion of his fingers. Only this time, Nami refused to comply. Instead, she simply remained on the ground, propped up only by the last vestige of strength left in her arms. "No..." she whispered. "I'm not continuing… until you speak to me. At least Nesk had the decency to-" The girl was interrupted by Vurt driving his boot into her side, sending her rolling to the flat of the back. Every part of her body ached. She had no idea which wound warranted the most attention, but it mattered not. Soon, Nami found her teacher lightly stepping on her neck, permitting only the faintest gasps to slip into her lungs. Clutching at the Nikto's ankle, the girl was powerless to alter her condition as Vurt continued to stare with his beady eyes. But finally, his lips began to part. "I speak... only to those who have proven themselves worthy," he stated. The Nikto's voice remained deep and smooth, and barely rose above a whisper. "And thus far, you've offered little to impress me." Nami could do nothing but wildly swing at the Sith's leg, beating against it with her numb fists. But the Sith's limb refused to budge. Only after a few long moments did he withdraw his foot, and the girl took in a heavy wheeze. "Discipline or fury. Choose one," said Vurt. "If you seek the comfort of one as soon as the other fails you, you'll never survive." The girl released a few haggard coughs as she rubbed her neck, still laying upon the flat of her back. "Discipline?" Nami managed to speak, her voice rough and sore. "That doesn't… sound like Sith teaching…" The Nikto squatted beside the fallen Padawan, bringing his unblinking gaze ever closer to Nami's. "That is because I do not teach Sith. I teach survivors. I care not for matters of light and dark. Strength is strength. You have already spent years under the Jedi. That has afforded you some measure of talent. But it lacks refinement. And abandoning what you possess in favor of wild passions will do you no good. Not now at least. I am to prepare you for the Academy. I am to prepare you for survival. Survival cares not for codes, for nations, for identities. It cares only for capability. There are many paths open, many sources of power... but first you must unlock the basest of such that already exists inside you. A Sith persists. A Sith survives. So must you." Vurt straightened his posture before turning away from the girl. "Now get up. Unlike Nesk, I will leave you out here if you pass out."

Chapter Nineteen: Paths (Part Six) Tython’s sun had fallen beyond the horizon, and evening had turned to night. At their campsite, the five Padawans sat in a ring around the newly formed fire. A small pit of dirt had been prepared, and the twigs and branches gathered by the Houk had been set aflame. As darkness surrounded them, the teenagers basked in the glow and warmth of the campfire, smiles on all but one of their faces. Torzin was the first to notice as he turned toward Aesa. The girl gazed into the flames alongside the rest of them, but her eyes were wide and unblinking. Not the slightest curl upon her lips, she appeared locked in her cold stare. “Hey, Aesa,” Torzin softly called out. “You okay?” Immediately, the girl blinked and shook her head, snapping out of her trance. “Yeah… yeah, I’m fine.” The Mirialan tilted his head, before he was struck with realization. “Oh. I didn’t even think, is the fire… a problem?” “No, no,” said Aesa, almost stammering. “Sometimes, I just get… lost in it, you know? “I understand,” Torzin replied. “It just totally skipped my mind earlier. I should have asked if it’d make you uncomfortable.” Aesa dipped her head, shying away from the green-skinned Padawan. “It’s fine, really.” There was a pause before she lifted her gaze, wearing a smile. “Thanks for the consideration, though.” “Oh, it’s no trouble,” Torzin said as he scratched the back of his head. Ryska let out a brief giggle. “You know, it’s kind of nice seeing you like this, Torzin.” The Mirialan’s eyes shot toward the neighboring Padawan. “What do you mean, ‘like this’?” “You know… soft, caring, like someone other than your master,” the Cathar teased. “Sometimes I think he’s a bad influence on you.” “You think Master Norrida is a bad influence on me?” Torzin asked with an arch of his brow. “Really?” Ryska delivered a playful jab into the Mirialan’s side. “No, not really. But still, you have to admit he doesn’t come off as the most… warm individual.” “He can seem cold at times,” Torzin admitted. “But that’s just how he expresses himself. It’s not that he doesn’t actually care. He just takes a more literal interpretation of the Code.” “Yeah,” Zarin spoke up. “From what I saw, he pretty much embodies ‘there is no emotion’.” “He’s still a great master,” Torzin declared. “I would be a fool if I didn’t follow his example. He believes in me. Trusts in me.” “Of course he does,” Ryska offered. “He’s an excellent teacher. But you don’t have to be like him in every aspect.” The Mirialan released a single chuckle. “I suppose you’re right. But then again, I don’t think I should act like Master Osetto either.” “I’m not saying you should,” Ryska said with a smile. “Then again, I only think someone can reach Osetto’s level of pleasantries after years of practice.” “Fair point,” Torzin warmly replied. “I think it’s pretty clear there’s no one way to be a Jedi,” Torg spoke up. “I mean, look at us. Look at our masters. We’re all different, doesn’t mean we ain’t fit to be Jedi, right?” “Right!” Zarin declared. “Right,” Aesa softly added. Ryska offered a hearty nod. “There’s a reason the masters didn’t accompany us. They want us to follow our own path and they trust us enough to figure out what that path is ourselves. Torzin, you don’t have to act like your master, and I don’t have to act like mine. We may be guided by the Code and our teachers, but we’re still people. Still individuals. That’s what this camping trip is about. Understanding who we are. And who we are oughtn’t be someone we’re not, right?” “Right,” said Torzin, focusing his gaze on the Cathar. “The Republic finds strength through diversity, so should we. We shouldn’t simply emulate our predecessors. We should learn from them. Become better. Make the Order stronger than it was when we joined.” “Yeah,” Zarin spoke up. “And just think about how much better things will be when we’re all Jedi Masters.” The Mirialan let out a soft chuckle. “We’re still a far ways off from becoming Masters, Zarin. And that’s assuming we ever attain that rank.” “Can’t be too hard. I mean, our masters are pretty young,” Zarin declared. “But they’re technically still Knights,” Torzin explained. “They may be our masters, but they’re not Jedi Masters.” The scruffy Human simply rubbed his furrowed brow. “Wait, so there’s a separate title and rank?” A quick giggle slipped out of the Cathar. “Wow, you really are fresh to the Order, aren’t you?” “Oh, like I’m the first person confused by this,” Zarin muttered. “I thought you became a ‘Master’ when they gave you a Padawan.” “Actually, taking on a student is usually only the first step in becoming a ‘Master’,” Torzin explained. “Successfully guiding a Padawan into Knighthood is one of the criteria for the Council deciding if a Knight should be promoted, if I recall correctly.” “Okay, that seals it, I’m sticking with becoming a pilot,” Zarin joked, to the collective laughter of his fellows. The five continued to share words as the night progressed. The fire crackled amidst the calm and quiet nature. Little more than the occasional sound of breezes sweeping through tree or singing insects could be heard. As the campfire burned through its fuel, the flames died down, soon being replaced by a piled of cinders. Clear skies offered an unfiltered view of the astral sea, countless points of light hanging above the Padawans’ heads. Smothering the dwindling campfire, the teenagers slipped into their sleeping bags, ready to bid farewell to the night. ---------- Morning came as peacefully as the previous night went. Under the warmth and glow of the early morning sun, the Padawans rose from their slumber, eager to continue their journey. Even the more lethargic of the teenagers found themselves invigorated. Hours that would have previously left them struggling to keep their eyes open were instead welcomed with open arms. The teenagers stretched, engaging in idle conversation as they prepared for the rest of their hike. Materials were gathered and placed back in their containers. Sleeping bags were rolls and reattached to their backpacks. Training sabers were safely hooked to each Padawan’s waist. The five Padawans moved along their path, much closer in their formation than the day prior. The students moved as one, rather than in disjointed pairs or as isolated beings. Ryska kept the map at the ready, relaying the group’s immediate direction to her fellows, Aesa offering more in-depth insights when called for. Together, the students took in the sights and sounds of nature. There was calm, but the surrounding wilds were not without activity, subtle motions ever-present. Plant and animal life existed just off the beaten path, offering their various rustles and chirps. Along their way to the next campsite, the group would made the occasional stop. Even away from the temple, there was room for insight, room for each Padawan to offer something to their fellows. A small stream of water cut across the forward path, easily traversable, but Ryska instead called her fellow students aside. She took a knee beside the gently flowing waters, and the others joined alongside her. The Cathar repeated the words of her master, speaking of the Force and flows before dipping her hands in, parting the stream, and even guiding a rivulet of water up her arm. One after another, Zarin, Torg, and Aesa attempted the same, all being met with success. Further along the path, the branch of a tall tree hung overhead, ripened fruit dangling in plain view. With a focused mind and a quick tug with the Force, any of the Padawans could have easily plucked the distant fruit. In fact, anything stronger than the slightest breeze would have sent it falling to the ground. But the Mirialan had other plans for it. Torzin led the others to the base of the fruit-laden tree. In one swift motion, he threw out a punch toward the stocky trunk, only to stop short just of making contact, and instructed his fellows to do the same. Torzin stepped aside, Ryska following him. As the other three walked forward, the Cathar offered more words of instructions, advising incremental movements. Zarin released quick jabs, movements that more than naturally came to him after living more than ten years on Corellia, always managing keep his knuckles from gracing the tree. Torg threw out heavy, powerful swings, but was able to keep from overextending due to the Cathar’s advice. Aesa was careful with her punches, having to keep track of her arm, her prosthetic hand, and the tree, but proved nonetheless successful in her attempts. There was more talk of the Force and flows, with Torzin making a brief aside regarding resonance. The Houk perked up, a widening smile upon his face. Asking the others to step back, Torg placed the flat of his palm against the trunk of the tree and closed his eyes. The large Padawan drew and released heavy breaths, the typically boisterous teenager turning into the picture of calm. Finally, the Houk pulled his hand away, balling it into a fist. In one smooth motion, Torg wound back before delivering a blow to the tree. The hearty plant shivered as vibrations ran up its entire being, and a moment later, the previously dangling fruit shook free. As did dozens more like it. More than a score of vibrant, green orbs fell toward the teenagers as fast as gravity would carry them. The Padawans winced as the fist-sized fruit were moments away from impact, but with no thuds heard or felt, the students slowly opened their eyes to see the fallen fruit hovering and stilled just above their heads. It took a few more seconds before any of the teenagers noticed their own hands were outstretched, the faintest hum filling the air. They were keeping the fruit afloat with their minds. With the Force. They acted unconsciously, and yet, acted as one. The burden, light as it was, was shared between all five students in equal measures. As the scene remained frozen in time, only the Padawans moved, and they did so through growing smiles and hanging jaws. In unison, the students slowly let the fallen fruits resume their journey to the ground. With subtle waves of their hands, they guided the green orbs until they touched the grass with nary a thud. The journey continued, each step putting the group of five deeper and deeper into the wilds, and closer to their destination atop the Tythos Ridge. With snacks in hand, the Padawans pressed forward, munching on their gathered fruit as the sun traversed the sky. Already, sharp changes in elevation began to occur around the students. Hills and dips turned to mountains and valleys. Greenery was supplemented by stone rising from the earth in sharp, yet majestic formations. But no matter where the teenagers went, a land of lushness awaited. Afternoon turned to evening, and soon the falling sun would once more dip behind the mountain on the horizon. Only this time, said mountain was no longer a distant thought. It was in fact, fast approaching. ---------- “I mean, I’m not stupid, I know the stigma exists for a reason,” said Zarin as he walked and talked. “I just happen to like the color red. Under other circumstances, I think it’d make the best lightsaber color.” “Even if it weren’t associated with the Sith, I don’t know if I’d call it ‘the best’,” Ryska replied. The scruffy Human turned toward the Cathar as he continued to walk along the path. “Oh yeah? And what would your pick be?” “I don’t know,” said Ryska as she panned her gaze toward the sky. “Gold?” “Would that be yellow, or orange?” asked Torzin. “Come on, that’s not a real color,” Zarin scoffed. “You asked what I thought we be coolest,” Ryska shot back, narrowing her gaze toward the Human male. “I think a gold lightsaber would be pretty cool.” “At least I chose one that exists,” Zarin teased. “Gold might exists, you don’t know,” Ryska teased back. A chuckle from the Human. “What about you, Torg?” “I dunno,” the Houk admitted. “Blue, maybe?” “Blue?” Zarin balked. “Boring.” “Hey, nothing wrong with blue,” Torzin spoke up. “It’s practically the standard.” “Like I said, boring,” Zarin teased. “Let me guess, you’d go with green?” “What makes you say that?” asked the Mirialan. Zarin turned toward the green-skinned Padawan, and wafted his hand in front of his own face. “Oh. Very funny. To be honest, I think I’d prefer blue, too.” Ryska leaned in close to Torzin, almost brushing shoulders with him. “Well, if you’re still thinking about becoming a Guardian, I think blue would suit you just fine.” The Mirialan met the Cathar’s gaze with his own, wearing a smile. “Think so?” “Actually… nah,” Ryska said before a pause. “Know so.” Torzin let out a brief chuckle, but before he could speak further was cut off by the soft voice of Aesa. “Uh, guys…” The others looked at the girl, only to see her gaze glued to the path ahead. Looking forward, the students had become so engrossed in their conversation, they did not notice the wall of stone that lay ahead. Rising more than a few dozen meters into the air, the natural slab’s surface was almost completely vertical. “Is that the Tythos Ridge?” asked Zarin. “Well, it’s certainly a Tythos Ridge,” replied Ryska, gazing at her map. The teenagers continued until they finally stood at the base of the mountainous ridge. Looking up, the sky had turned into an orange haze, and the sun had disappeared on the other side of the elevation. The Padawans stared in silence at distant cliff that rose high above them. “So, is that where we’re supposed to be headin’? Torg asked. Looks like it,” Ryska declared. The Cathar panned her gaze from side to side, examining the surrounding area. “There looks to be walking path. It zigzags all the way up to the plateau.” “Could just try climbin’ it,” Zarin suggested. “Oh, no, I wouldn’t be able to,” Aesa quietly spoke up. “I’d probably have trouble, too,” said Torg as he gave his gut a hearty slap. “Well, I could, but…” Ryska began. “I think I’ll still with the path on the map.” “What about you, Torzin?” Zarin asked. “You up for it?” “I’d say I’m up for it,” the Mirialan replied. “But I don’t think it necessary.” “Aw, come on, think of it as a training exercise,” Zarin continued, elbowing his fellow Padawan. “I can teach you a special Force technique.” “You know a special Force technique?” asked Torzin with a firm arch of his brow. “Hey, I got into this Jedi stuff a bit late, but that means my skills are in things that comes naturally,” Zarin explained. “You know, running, jumping, climbing, stuff like that.” Torzin looked at the scruffy Human, eyebrow still raised. When he turned to face the Cathar, he was met with a soft giggle. “Go ahead, Torzin,” Ryska suggested. “Have fun. See you two at the top. With that, the three other Padawans set out on the thin, winding path that would lead them up the ridge. Soon, Torzin and Zarin were left alone beneath the cliff-face. “What are you trying to do, Zarin?” asked the Mirialan. “Don’t know what you’re getting at,” the Human replied, a smirk upon his lips. “I’m just tired of doing nothing but walking all day. I want to actually work up a sweat.” “What’s a Corellian know about mountain climbing?” Zarin let out a chuckle. “Not much. Doesn’t mean I don’t know how to scale a vertical surface.” “Okay,” said Torzin, still somewhat in disbelief. “And what of this Force technique?” “Well, that was mostly a bluff to get you to agree to come along,” Zarin admitted, still baring a smirk, to which the Mirialan offered a heavy sigh. “What? I mean, I do know some things, but I’m pretty sure there’s nothing you don’t already know. All that talk about motions and flow and resonance, I don’t think you need to be told how to channel the Force through your fingertips.” “Then why try and convince me to climb?” “Oh, because I wanted to race someone,” Zarin admitted. “Much more impressive for the ladies that way.” The Mirialan buried his face in his palm. “And what if Ryska had agreed to climb? What then?” “What? You don’t think she’s the kind of girl to bond through a mutual challenge?” “Oh, I’m sure she is, but…” Torzin muttered, before shaking his head. “I can’t believe we’re having this conversation.” “Me neither,” Zarin replied. “Why talk when we should be climbing?” The Human slapped his hand against the rough cliff-face, securing his fingers around whatever piece of rock he could. Despite his relative inexperience, Zarin managed to bolster his grip through the Force, keeping him secure to the ridge as he began his ascent. Torzin bit his lip before letting out another sigh. Quickly, he began climbing alongside his fellow Padawan. With each reach of his hand, the Mirialan remembered his teachings. The Force in motion. Contact points. The connections that existed in all things. As he ascended, he could feel the weight of gravity tugging him back down. But gravity was but one flow amongst many, one that could be overcome. Zarin climbed upward, a natural skill in his movements. Every hand and foothold he found along the cliff-face seemed perfect, more than willing to bear the Human’s weight, as well as that of his belongings. The pair of Padawans rose higher, their gear clattering with each motion, the tip of their training sabers clanking against the stone. For meter after meter they continued, until they happened upon a ledge. Lifting themselves up and over, the two teenagers discovered they stood upon the winding path the others traveled. In the distance, the walking trio approached. Ryska offered an exaggerated wave of her arm, and Torzin quickly waved back. But as he stood, the Mirialan heard the clattering of gear beside him. Zarin had already started his climb up the rest of the ridge, not content with walking the remaining distance. Torzin quickly placed his hands on the cliff-face and began climbing alongside him. Ryska, Torg, and Aesa passed under the other Padawans as they continued their gentle stroll up the zigzagging pathway. “Come on, Torzin!” the Cathar called out. “You can do it!” The Mirialan paused for a moment, but as a smile washed over his face he began to ascend with a renewed vigor. Zarin looked down to watch the progress of his fellow climber, only to see him bridging the gap that separated them. The Human’s lips curled into a smirk, and he continued his way up the ridge. But soon, Torzin was even with him, and soon after that, was ahead. Zarin made no attempts to increase his pace, simply watching the Mirialan scurry up the cliff-face, almost leaping upwards with each reach of his hands. With one final extension, Torzin’s palms met with the lip of the cliff’s edge. And with one final push, he threw himself up and over onto the waiting plateau. The Mirialan rolled onto his side, panting as his heart raced. As he lay upon the grass atop the ridge, Torzin could have sworn he heard Ryska’s voice cheering in the distance. A few short moments later, he was joined by the Human, who climbed over the edge with a chuckle slipping past his lips. “I guess… you win,” said Zarin through heavy breaths. As the scruffy Padawan righted himself, he opted to sit and dangle his legs over the cliff instead of stand. “Hey, it was a valiant effort… on your part,” Torzin offered as he took his seat next to the Human. He traced the winding path that led up the ridge before spotting the remaining trio in the distance, a sizable distance remaining before they reached to top. “Yeah, well, I kinda went easy on you,” Zarin admitted alongside another chuckle. “Oh, is that the excuse you’ve come up with?” asked Torzin, a jocular tone to his words. “Not an excuse,” Zarin replied, smile growing. “Just thought I’d let you win since you had a certain someone cheering you on.” The Mirialan tilted his head as he faced his fellow Padawan. “Is that so?” Another chuckle from the Human. “Well, at least you confirmed what I thought.” “And what might that be?” “That you care about her,” Zarin plainly stated. “At the very least, you care about impressing her. Don’t want to risk disappointing her, right?” “Why are you so interested in the details of our relationship?” Torzin asked. “What was it she said last night? ‘Who we are oughtn’t be someone we’re not’?” Zarin asked. “You should be honest with yourself, if with no one else.” “I am honest with myself,” Torzin declared. “Then why won’t you admit you care for her?” Zarin asked. “Every time I’ve brought it up, you dodge the issue. Never giving me a direct answer.” Torzin’s head dipped as he bit his lip. “Fine. I admit it. I care about her. Satisfied?” The Human leaned back until he was laying on the ground with his backpack as a cushion, legs still dangling over the cliff. Placing his hands behind his head, Zarin looked upward to the gentle orange skies. “I came to Tython a few months ago,” said the scruffy Padawan. “In all the time I’ve been here, you know how many genuinely happy people I’ve come across? Well, let’s just say the four of you make up the majority. A lot of Jedi I’ve seen… I don’t know, they just seem… buried. And what, I’m not sure, but-” “What’s that have to do with us?” Torzin cut off. “I don’t want anything weighing you down, if I can help it,” Zarin admitted. “It’s one thing to keep things from others. It’s another to keep it from yourself. Those kinda feelings? They eat away at you. You can talk about the Code and everything all you want, but you can’t honestly tell me bottling that up is the better choice.” “And what would you have me do? Admit to myself that I care, only to never be able to tell her?” “Able? Or willing? I say go for it,” said Zarin. “It’s not a crime to care about someone, even amongst Jedi. She makes you happy. And I’m pretty sure you make her happy, too. There’s a serious deficit of happiness going around the Order, and here you are trying to keep things hidden and buried.” There was a pause. “The climb was never about winning for you, was it?” asked Torzin. Another chuckle from Zarin. “I guess not. I just wanted you alone for a bit. Seeing how you reacted to Ryska’s cheers was a bonus.” A hesitant smile crept across the Mirialan’s lips. “So what, the ‘Corellian out to impress the ladies’ bit was just an act?” “Well, any god ruse has a hint of truth to it,” Zarin replied, smirk growing ever wider. Torzin let out a brief chuckle as he rubbed his brow. “You’re an odd one, you know that?” “I wouldn’t have it any other way. And considering what passes for the norm nowadays, neither should you.” “Look, I appreciate what you’re trying to do, but-” “Hey, listen,” Zarin interrupted. There was a genuineness to the Human’s voice. A softness. “I know every rule that tells us what we can and can’t do. I’m not trying to get you into any trouble, it’s just… what you have with Ryska? It’s worth protecting. And if you try hiding or running away from it, one or both of you is gonna get hurt. And even if we just met a day ago, I don’t think either of you deserve that.” “I-” Torzin began, before noticing the rest of the group had made it to the top of the ridge. Further down the plateau, the trio were on approach, walking along the cliff’s edge. At the front of the group, Ryska offered a hearty wave of her hand. Torzin quickly waved back before picking himself off the ground. As he stood, Zarin followed, rolling away from the cliff and rising to his feet. The two groups soon reconvened, and once more there were five. “So, how did you little climb go?” Ryska asked, a slight teasing to her voice. Torzin scratched the back of his head. “Well, it-” “It took a bit more out of us than expected,” Zarin interrupted. “What say you we go ahead and reach the next campsite before it gets dark?” Ryska nodded, and with a quick look of the map, the Cathar spotted where they would be spending the night. There was a small clearing a short distance away, within the forest that stretched inland a short distance from the cliff. With their destination in mind, the five teenagers continued their trek. As they passed the tree line, the Cathar shot the Mirialan a quick glance. “I didn’t know you were such a good climber.” “To be honest, neither did it I,” Torzin replied. The pair continued to walk, side by side, smiles on their faces. ---------- Darkness. Night had long-since fallen. The campfire had come and gone, little more than smoke and smothered embers in its place. The five Padawans rested in their sleeping bags under the canopy of the forest, the faintest starlight filtering through the various leaves and branches. The gentle breeze swept through the clearing in which the teenagers slept, rustling the natural foliage that surrounded them. But ever sound and motion that graced the scene did not belong to nature. A faint jingling rang out, unnoticed but all but one of the teenagers. Torzin shot up from his prone position, hastily reaching out for the training saber beside his sleeping bag. The Mirialan scanned his surroundings, searching through the darkness for the source of the peculiar sound. Eventually, his eyes settled on his backpack a short distance away. A few steps closer, and the Padawan noticed it lay on its side, open, half its contents spilled. Quickly, Torzin lowered himself to the ground, frantically searching through his belongings. Rummaging inside the bag, the Mirialan looked and looked, moving item after item out of the way and his mind focused on only one. But not matter how hard he tried, he could not find it. His master’s lightsaber was missing. *Author's Note*

Chapter Twenty A new day. Obscured was the passage of time. Outside the small bedroom's window, the unchanging skyline of Kaas City presented itself. The skies remained in their permanent state of chaos and shadowed clouds, ever masking the rising sun. If not for the ringing alarm of a clock on the bedside table, none would know of the morning's arrival. Shifting beneath her sheets, the tall woman stirred from her slumber. Sitting up, the Sith moved a calm hand toward the alarm, silencing it with a single press. Lifting her large frame from the bed, the constrictive nature of the apartment was made all the more apparent. Raising her arms to stretch, Fay could not help but brush against the cold ceiling. In silence, the tall woman trudged down dark and gray corridors, dipping her head as she passed through each open doorframe. Stepping into the nearby bathroom, she flicked a switch, basking in the rays of artificial light. The shift stung the Human's eyes, but elicited not even a flinch as she maintained her stoic countenance amidst the early hours. Hair unbound by knots or braids, the stern visage was at odds with the almost chaotic appearance presented. The dark fibers fell upon sturdy shoulders, continuing down the woman's chest and back in an untamed waves. Paying no mind to the reflection in the mirror before her, she shed whatever nightclothes graced her body and stepped into the walk-in shower. Shutting the pane behind her, the tall woman's head peeked over the opaque barrier. Hot water left the wall-mounted faucet, splashing against her chiseled frame. Closing her eyes, Fay basked in the warmth of the spray, and soon enough, the once-chilled air became far more welcoming. Upright, the water had no hope of reaching anywhere near the Human's face or scalp. Instead, she had to bend her legs if she wanted anything above her shoulders to not remain dry. Bracing herself against the forward wall, Fay directed her head just below the faucet. As the waters cascaded down her form, it hugged every firm contour and ridge that graced her figure. One particular ridge, however, stood out from the rest, as it was not born from her efforts, but from another's. A deep scar ran the length of the tall woman's back, a diagonal gash that stretched from shoulder to waist. The singular mark upon her otherwise pristine, unmarred body. And one readily kept from sight outside the confines of her domicile. The routine continued much as it had on any other day. Despite the recent happenings in her life, some things had no intention of changing. No manner of new masters or purpose would interfere with starting the day with a warm shower. ---------- The steady stream of the faucet turned into a mere trickle as the water ceased its advance. Amidst the steamy air, the door of the walk-in shower slightly parted and an arm emerged. Reaching for a nearby rack, the speckled limb found the towels just beyond its reach. Ceasing its frantic grasping, it instead opted for a series of smooth waves as its hand clutched at the air. Soon after, a towel lifted itself from the rack and began floating toward the slowly clenching fingers. As soon as fiber met burnt flesh, the hand snatched the towel and pulled it behind the cracked barrier. The shower head releasing its last trickle, the faint sounds of rustling filled the bathroom as the figure dried off. Finally, the burned man emerged from behind the opaque screen, towel wrapped around his waist. Stepping out, the Human's legs were rather unremarkable. Fair-skinned. Typically haired. A firm contrast to the man's upper body. Starting just above the waistline, Asher wore the aftermath of a lost bout with fire. The skin covering his lean, athletic frame was spotted and of varying tones across his head and torso. But the effects seemed superficial as the Sith continued his morning routine undeterred. Maneuvering toward the nearby mirror, Asher's focus was not on his reflection, but the cabinet that stood before him. Kneeling down, the burned man opened the container, within which rest more than a dozen rolls of white material. Pulling a handful of the bandages out, the Sith set them on the countertop before finally looking up and down his body in the mirror. Unraveling one of the rolls, Asher went to work doing what he had done countless times before. Pressing the end of the bandage against his abdomen, the burned man began slowly unrolling the material and wrapping his flesh. With each methodical second, the white material obscured more and more of the pink skin underneath. And so the Sith worked his way up, covering his abdomen and chest, until the roll had no more bandage to give. A new roll started, wrapping around his shoulder and continuing down his left arm. The same was done to the right. Finally, wrapped below the neck, Asher locked eyes with his reflected self. The stare-down lasted for only a moment before both figures cracked a sharp grin. With his final prepared roll, the burned man went to work wrapping his head, maneuvering around each contour and pressing down the short bedraggled hair that graced his scalp. Soon, all was covered but the gaps left for his eyes, mouth, and ears. Stepping away from the mirror, Asher made his way back toward the bedroom. As little flesh he exposed at that moment, bandages and a towel proved an insufficient alternative to clothes. Passing through dimly lit corridors of plain grays and smooth surfaces, the burned man eventually reached his destination. Swinging open the doors of his closet, the Sith looked upon the numerous sets of baggy robes and clothes with which to further conceal his being. ---------- There was an audible click as the scarred man buckled the fastener at his waist. Hands working in tandem, one of rough and calloused flesh, the other of smooth and polished metal, Graves had firmly secured the armorweave around his legs. Half of his outfit had been donned or, more appropriately, assembled. The plated boots and hardened leggings of his battle attire hugged his battered hide, the rest of it yet unburdened by the stiff material. Reaching into the closet, the Human returned with a long-sleeved shirt. The black, form-fitting compression garb was merely a base, a buffer between the skin and the armored chest-piece that would surround it. Slipping his arms through the sleeves, the thin material hugged Graves' organic and inorganic parts. The black shirt soon masked the litany of scars that graced the man's sturdy musculature. But with his hands and face still exposed, there remained little hope for achieving anything resembling symmetry. The scarred man hoisted his chestguard off of the ground, carefully lifting the bulky garb over his head. The armorweave had the maneuverability of hardened leather, but the inlayed plates and attached pauldrons made it a hassle to don even with the wearer's enhanced strength. His arms stretched high, Graves slipped his limbs through yet another set of sleeves as he lowered the chest-piece down upon himself, eventually popping his head through the armor's neck hole. A few quick adjustments, and the pieces had shifted into place. Comfort wasn't something on the Sith's mind, but he knew each piece had its proper position, and he knew each piece belonged there. Bending his even bulkier mass over, the scarred man retrieved a pair of plated gloves and slipped them over his hands. No longer was there the distinction of flesh or prosthetic. The armored state took precedence. Fastening the gauntlets, Graves clenched and unclenched his fists before turning to the final piece of the ensemble. For his last foray into the closet, the scarred man retrieved a utility belt, various boxy pouches and attachment points lining its length. Wrapping the piece around his waist, the clink of interlocking metal sounded out as its two ends met. Thus, the suit was complete. Taking a few steps back, Graves sat on the edge of his bed. Holding his hands in front of him, he began staring at his open palms. Focusing on his left, he ran through the same sequence he did ever morning, extending each finger one by one. After the five movements proved satisfactory, he urged his prosthetic into various arrangements to further to test its operation. When his left hand finally ceased its motions, the scarred man did not rise. Instead, he directed his focus toward his right hand of flesh and bone. He began running the same sequence, extending and retracting each finger before moving into more varied arrangements. Spending just as much time with his right as his left, Graves showed no favor toward either hand when it came to capability. Lowering his palms, the scarred man turned his attention to the left of his limbs. Poking and prodding his numb self, the Human moved with an ordered grace about his armored figure as he continued sitting at the edge of the bed. He ran his fingers up his left arm, giving a few subtle taps along the way. Then, the same with his right arm. Then, his right leg. ---------- Sitting on the edge of a bed that looked practically makeshift, the horned alien sat in the dim lighting of his office turned domicile. Running his leathery hand over his right knee, Syrosk stopped to give it a series of quick taps, eliciting a muffled clank from beneath his black robes. With a raspy sigh, the Sith Lord raised himself from his cot, setting his sights on the adjacent table. Though converted from its original state, much of room remained occupied by the tools of prior purpose. Armoires stood adjacent to data terminals. A once central desk had been shoved against the wall, losing whatever magnificence it may have possessed as it lay buried under a haphazardly tossed cloak. In the corner of the compact chamber stood a mannequin garbed in a suit of armor, black plates home to the scars of battle. Scratches and scorch marks graced every surface, wrought by both saber and blaster, by both Jedi and Sith. Of note was the piece missing from the lower-half of the right leg, and the hole bored through its abdomen. Picking up a datapad from the nearby table, Syrosk had already begun the day in earnest, cold eyes scanning the various status updates and notices that presented themselves. Despite having slept through only one of the preceding seven nights, even the Sith's restlessness could not compare to that of the Empire's. The Executors could operate without his direct oversight. And given recent responsibilities placed upon the alien, they would likely have to. Tapping away at his datapad, Syrosk quickly authorized a series of low-priority requests and operations that had accumulated whilst he slumbered. Finishing off the backlog, the elder Executor then sent a trio of notices to his subordinates, summoning them to the Citadel in a matter of hours. With that, he set the tablet back down, never shedding the dull stoicism that dominated his visage. With a series of uneven steps, the horned alien approached the wall-bound desk, clutching the cowl of the black cloak within his rough hand. ---------- Sharp claws gripped the black cloth for but a moment before giving it a mighty tug. In one swift motion, the scaled arm flung back the bedsheet, revealing the slumbering girl underneath. Shaken awake by the chaotic motions and sounds, the Human's eyes shot open to see a Trandoshan standing over her. Immediately, she constricted, covering herself with her arms despite being garbed in her under-robes. Nesk offered only the narrowing of his beady eyes as he looked upon the shivering Human. "Time to get up," said the Trandoshan. His words were blunt, and his tone sharp. But Nami was more interested in her surroundings. Turning her head side to side, she examined the unfamiliar room, compact and free of excess adornments. The black sheet that had apparently been covering her lay in a disheveled heap at her feet. "How long have I been asleep?" she asked. "Too long," Nesk snarled. "It must train." Rubbing her eyes, the girl shivered, a distinct lack of heat gracing the bedroom. "I don't… remember getting here." There was a worry in her voice. One only she could understand. The Trandoshan remained adamant, not budging from his bedside stance. "Dragged it back after yesterday's training," Nesk explained. "It's had enough time to rest." Bending over, the Trandoshan reached down, just below the girl's sight with the edge of the bed. She couldn't get a clear picture as he stood back up amidst the darkness. Instead, she found a pile of clothes tossed at her face. "Must continue training." Nami examined the disheveled attire in her lap. Gray, form-fitting robes. Robes of an acolyte. Robes of a Sith. The ends were frayed, and nothing at first glance seemed to be quite the right size, but she knew better than to offer protest. "Thanks," Nami finally spoke after a moment of hesitation. "Thanks not necessary. Robes necessary. Should fit small thing." The girl released a low sigh. "Can we stop with the 'soft thing' thing? Heard enough of that yesterday…" "Said 'small thing', not 'soft thing'." The Trandoshan crossed his arms. "Is improvement." "Hmph," Nami offered, swinging her legs over the side of the bed. "I'll take your word for it." "It should," Nesk plainly stated, bending slightly to better meet his eyes with those of the Human. "Is change. Sith is change. If it can change, it is Sith." "Inspiring as always," the girl muttered, toeing the line between deadpan snark and morning grogginess. "So, are we going to spend the day fighting out in the middle of nowhere again?" "No," Nesk bluntly answered, turning toward the bedroom's exit. "No?" Pausing, the Trandoshan shot a quick look over his shoulder, eyes piercing through the darkness. "Today, it belongs to Vurt."

Chapter Eighteen: Paths (Part Five) There was a warmth in the air, even as the Tython sun continued to dip behind the mountainous horizon. There were smiles abound across each Padawan's face, but none was wider or brighter than that of Aesa's. As the thre boys moved in on the still hugging pair, the campsite was filled with the faint sounds of celebration that continued to emanate from the Human girl. Finally did she relinquish her grip around the Cathar's shoulders, but she did not break contact. Instead, she gripped her hands with her own, interlocking fingers of flesh and plastic. Aesa continued to stare at her fellow student, eyes still watering, mouth still baring a quivering smile. "I can't believe it!" Aesa declared, brimming with emotion, yet still somehow her soft, restrained self. "I did it! I felt something. I mean, it was different, and it wasn't much, but it was something!" Ryska cracked a bashful smile, and had her hands not been otherwise preoccupied, she was have used one to scratch the back of her head. "Glad I could help. I honestly didn't know if it would work, but-" "It did!" Aesa gleefully interrupted. "It did! It did!" With each exclamation, she bounced her hands up and down, bringing the Cathar's along with them. A short distance away, the sound of rustling thuds rang out as Torg dropped the branches he had retrieved onto the ground. The other students turned to face the new sound, only to find the Houk wearing a smile rivaling those of the girls'. "Glad things didn't get boring without me," Torg offered alongside a hearty chuckle. Aesa perked up, just now noticing the towering Padawan's presence. "Oh, Torg! You're back! You missed it! I can feel things with my hands now! Ryska taught me!" The Padawan finally pulled her hands away from the Cathar, raising them to flash her palms toward the fascinated Houk. "Well, I don't know if I taught her," Ryska said, trying to retain some semblance of control over her emotions. But her bashful smile proved hard to overcome. "I figured she could already do it, she just needed a little help." "Well, why are we out here if not to help?" Torg warmly stated. "I'm sure your masters would be proud of the both of you." A swell of pride filled the two girls, driven speechless by the notion. "Now I don't know about you, but I feel like celebrating with some food!" Zarin released a soft chuckle. "You're dedicated, Torg, I'll give you that." "And what is a Jedi if not dedicated?" Torg replied. The others released their fair share of laughs and giggles as they readied themselves for the upcoming meal. Torg tried to reorganize the motley heap of twigs he had dropped, whilst Torzin and Zarin returned to their traveler's bags. Just as Ryska was about to return to her belongings, she saw the scattered contents of Aesa's bag strewn about them. "Here, let me help gather your things," Ryska warmly offered. Aesa panned her gaze around her, just now remembering that she had emptied her belongings onto the ground. "Oh… no, that's okay. I've got this. You've helped enough." "Nonsense," Ryska teased. "A Jedi can never help enough." The two shared another smile as they began picking up the items around them. On the other side of the camp, Torzin and Zarin knelt close to one another, retrieving their rations for the coming meal. As the Human picked up his rod of foodstuffs, he looked up to see the Mirialan staring back at the pair of girls. "She's something special, isn't she?" Zarin whispered, cracking a smile. "Yeah," Torzin softly replied. "Wait, who are you talking about?" "Aesa." Straightening out his stance, Zarin moved to the Mirialan's side, casting his somewhat softened gaze toward the girls across the campsite. "To have gone through what she's gone through, it's a miracle she didn't just… break. I mean, we all lost things we held dear to the war, but she literally lost a part of herself. I don't know if I could keep going after something like that. And look at her now. You'd never know anything ever went wrong. That's strength. Still, if she had to go it alone…" "A wise man once told me that we must never give up on those who fall," Torzin calmly said. "It's up to us to offer our hand, that they may pick themselves up." "Anyone can get knocked down. Anyone can get back up. But having someone to lend a hand is always a big help," Zarin restated in suitably plainer words. "Let me guess, your master said that?" Torzin let out a restrained chuckle. "Actually, it was from Ryska's." "Then I see where she gets it," Zarin replied, gently scratching his chin. "She's quite the helper." "I wouldn't ignore your contributions," Torzin warmly offered. The Human gave a curious arch of his brow. "Back when we were still on the trail, you told her that her prosthetics were as good as the real things." "Ah, well…" Zarin mumbled, scratching the back of his head. "I was just telling the truth, to be honest. Hate seeing people uncomfortable with themselves is all." "Still, you could have just said nothing, but you chose to act," Torzin offered, somewhat solemn. "Sometimes I worry about doing too little. Sometimes I worry about doing too much. So I just wind up hesitating and doing… nothing." "Well, the first thing you can do to fix that is just relax," Zarin teased. "No sense in being so tightly wound. Sometimes you just got to let go and wait for something besides your head to guide you." "The Force?" "Your gut," Zarin plainly stated. The Mirialan offered the playful arch of his brow. "What, a guy can't pick up a life-lesson or two outside the Order? You can learn just as much on the streets of Corellia as you can here." "I don't doubt it," Torzin replied, tone carrying a warmth alongside its usual calmness in equal amounts. "But I can't just let go. Control is too important to me. Too important to being a Jedi." "Control isn't squeezing your fist as tight as you can, it's being assured in your grip enough to know you won't let go," Zarin said. "Is that Jedi or Corellian wisdom?" Torzin asked. "It works with either a saber or a spanner, so both I guess," Zarin offered alongside a soft chuckle. The Mirialan dipped his head, a subtle smile upon his lips. "Besides, it's not like you've spent this whole trip doing nothing. If not for you, I'd never have known I could become a pilot." "I'm still not entirely sure if it's possible, especially with the war over," Torzin admitted. "Even if it's a long shot, I'm gonna try and take it," Zarin emphatically stated. "My gut's telling me it's what I'm meant to do." "Well then, glad I could help," Torzin said. "Still, I don't think that compares with what you or Ryska did." "Help is help. No use trying to weigh yourself against another person like that," Zarin admitted. As the Human offered a soft shrug of his shoulders, he watched the girls gather the remaining items that lay upon the ground, smiles on both of their faces. "Still, can't help but impressed by her. She's not what I expected." "What did you expect?" Torzin quickly asked. "I don't know exactly, but considering she's the Padawan responsible for the ‘holocron incident’…" "Holocron incident?" "You mean you don't know?" Zarin asked, eyes wide. "I've only been here a few months and I've heard about it." "I remember her and Master Osetto mentioning it on apprenticeship day, but I don't know the details," Torzin admitted, almost at a whisper. "Well, it's not my place to talk about it," Zarin softly declared. "It's just… knowing that, I didn't expect her to be so kind, spirited, intelligent…" "Yeah, she's pretty great," Torzin blurted out. As the last word slipped past his lips, he froze, biting his tongue . The Human at his side panned his gaze, staring at the stilled Mirialan with a curious arch of his brow. "What's the matter with you?" Zarin asked, confused by the other teenager's rigid stance. "Well, what I meant was… I mean, she's just," Torzin stammered. "What? You can't compliment a friend?" Torzin took a deep breath, trying to regain his nerves. "I shouldn't think of her like that. We're not supposed to develop feelings for one another." "Doesn't mean you can't think kindly of her," Zarin balked. "Honestly, I don't get the whole 'you're not supposed to care about people' thing with Jedi. Everything we do is because we care about others, right?" "This is different," Torzin firmly replied. "One can be compassionate without developing attachments. There's no rule against being friends, but if it developed into something more…" "Then what? You suddenly fall to the dark side?" Zarin teased. "I don't think you become Sith because you happen to like one of your fellow students." "No, but someone could get hurt if I were distracted… if I were careless," Torzin declared. "But even if nothing bad came from it, it's still against the rules. Do you know what happens when the elders find out two Padawans are romantically involved?" "Yeah, yeah, they drilled that into my head on the first day in the Order, too," Zarin replied, voice utterly lacking the severity of the Mirialan's. "Then again, you should have seen the look on the masters' faces when I started flirting with some of the other students." Torzin narrowed his gaze toward the grinning Human, baffled by his candidness. "Maybe you're the last person I should be listening to in regards to 'control'…" Zarin released another chuckle. "Oh, lighten up. It was my first day. Takes more than a set of robes to change the kind of guy I was." "And could you really have changed that much in the few months since then?" Torzin asked in disbelief. "Well, when you've a master like mine…" Zarin warmly replied. There was a beat as both Padawans went quiet. Finally, the Human narrowed his gaze as he broke the silence. "So just so we're clear, you two aren't anything more than friends? Because I actually knew a Selonian back on Corellia and I have a thing for girls with fur…" The Mirialan clenched his fists. "You-" Torzin was interrupted by the Human placing a heavy hand on his shoulder and giving him a good shake. "Relax! I'm only kidding. I know the rules, and regardless of my beliefs I'd never go against the wishes of the masters. You're just so easy to tease." The Mirialan relaxed, unclenching his fists but retaining his narrowed gaze. "So that was all just to get a reaction out of me?" "It was to get you to loosen up," Zarin declared, giving the student's shoulder another shake. "I don't exactly feel 'loosened'," Torzin muttered. "Hey!" a boisterous voice called over from the other side of the camp. Looking toward the sound, the pair saw Torg waving his hand. "What's the hold up? We're ready to eat!" Zarin released his grip on the Mirialan's shoulder and made his way toward the other Padawans without another word. After a quick sigh, Torzin followed, and soon, all five of the students found themselves situated around the unlit assemblage of branches and twigs. The Mirialan lowered himself to the ground, taking almost a meditative stance as he held his rations in front of him. Starting to unwrap the sealed rod of foodstuffs, he was almost thrown off-balance as Ryska plopped down beside him, brushing against his shoulder. "Oops, sorry," Ryska offered, flashing a gentle smile as she scratched the back of her head. Torzin quickly corrected his posture, offering a smile of his own. "It's no problem." The pair went to work unwrapping their rations, as did the other three Padawans. "So what were you talking about over there?" Ryska bluntly asked. "Oh, well…" Torzin muttered. His gaze panned toward the ground in front of him as he formulated his answer. "We were just talking about the future." "The future? Like what?" Ryska continued. "Well, Zarin's still dead-set on trying to become a Jedi pilot," Torzin replied. "And what about you?" asked Ryska. "Have you thought any more about your future?" Torzin took a deep breath before slowly releasing it. "Quite a bit."

Chapter Nineteen A familiar gray haze stretched in every direction, interrupted only by jagged peaks of frozen stone. The winds had died down, only a gentle breeze passing over the fields of rock and snow. But even without the bellowing air, the scene's inhabitants would have succumbed to the cold, if not for the fact that none of it was real. "Ziost," Syrosk spoke up, continuing to cast his sharpened gaze upon the subordinate across from him. "I didn't expect to be returning here so soon." "Is it really that surprising?" Fay bluntly asked, stance ever rigid. "This is where I received most of my training. I'm sure most Sith have unpleasant memories from their time as an acolyte." "But you hold the power to forget. To just let go. What is it that you're holding onto?" "You're the telepath," Fay offered with a light scoff. "You tell me." The alien's eye's sharpened. "Very well." The winds hastened, kicking up a veil of snow that washed away the cold wastes. As the flakes drifted and fled, the scene was replaced with that of the Ziost Academy. Rigid and imposing architecture welcomed a group of trudging children. Gray slabs of stone and metal rose high atop the already tall ridge, casting no shadow and yet basking the new acolytes in its darkness. A lone adult led the group of children, all Human, out of the cold Ziost exterior and into the cold Academy interior. The adult stood out from the younglings bundled in their many layers of robes and winter attire, standing tall in his Sith garb over all but one. In the rear of the group, a girl not yet even in her teens was tall enough that her head reached the adult's shoulders. She kept her head dipped, her stance slouched, allowing the long, dark hair atop her head to fall and conceal her face. Fay watched her younger self move into the unwelcoming bastion of the Academy halls, whilst Syrosk gently scratched his chin. "Came as a child to study in the ways of the Sith," Syrosk began. "Despite efforts to mask your presence, your size immediately made you stand out from your peers." Inside, the group of children advanced not only in place, but in time. The students found themselves in an oppressive chamber, confined to small desks as an instructor stood at the head of the class prattling on about codes and doctrines. The large girl was barely contained in her desk, and as she sat hunched over, it felt as if all eyes were upon her. Sideward glances fueled by sharpened eyes weighed down upon the isolated student. "Alone and a target," Syrosk continued. "The worst possible things a Sith can be. A lesser being would have been utterly crushed. But not you. You persisted. You endured." The classroom faded, its gray walls contorting from a squared chamber to a winding hallway. The sounds of conflict echoed throughout the halls. Years had passed. The young girl had only grown taller, stronger. She had pushed herself physically, training her body to resist the constant trials of the Academy, those issued by instructors and students alike. Backed into a corner, the girl's tall shoulders rose and fell with each heavy breath. Her nostrils flared as she offered a firm scowl. Her knuckles were stained with the blood of her fellows, those who now lay unconscious in front of her. "It would seem you were more than capable of fighting," Syrosk rasped. "I didn't have a choice," Fay plainly said. "I suppose not. Unless…" Fay arched her brow. "Unless?" "While we are often forced to defend ourselves," Syrosk said before a pause, "defending another is entirely voluntary." Behind the standoffish girl, another faded into existence. Curled up into a ball in the hall's corner, the girl peeked through her fingers at the defeated acolytes that lay before her and her tall defender. "An excellent tactic," Syrosk rasped. "Instead of hiding the memory away, you willingly offered a piece, hoping I wouldn't notice the parts you left out." Fay remained silent. Looking at the girl cowering behind her younger self, she narrowed her gaze, only this time, instead of a harsh glare, she offered something much softer. As the woman gently sank her teeth into her lower lip, the scene faded once more. The gray walls shifted and expanded, turning from the winding corridor into a central hall. Fay and Syrosk watched as a pair of teenagers walked side by side through the Academy, shoulder to much lower shoulder, both garbed in the plain gray robes of an acolyte. The pair were contrasts. One Human, one a red-skinned Pureblood. One tall, one short. One hard, one soft. But where they did not differ, was in emotion. As the smaller Sith wore a beaming smile, the larger one released a giggle of her own. "You found a companion," Syrosk said, a surprising warmth to his usual rasp. "Two Sith who desired each other's company enough to risk the potential outcomes of such a relationship." The walls of the Academy collapsed and fell as Fay and Syrosk found themselves standing amongst the cold exterior of Ziost. Before them, a number of acolytes stared one another down in pairs, training sabers firmly grasped within their hands. Meanwhile, an instructor cast his discerning gaze from duelist to duelist. The tall girl kept one hand wrapped around her weapon as she offered a silent glare to her opponent. The boy across from her seemed inferior in all aspects, trembling from a mixture of fear and exposure to the cold winds. Nearby, the tall girl's friend readied herself against a foe much more confident in his standing. With the drop of his hand, the instructor signaled for the acolytes to begin. In an instant, the gray figures did battle amidst the equally gray haze that dominated the field. Boots stamped across rock and snow. Metal rods clashed against one another, sparking as the energy bands running their lengths collided. As the isolated duels progressed, the tall girl and her friend managed to occasionally sneak a peek at the other. They would lay eyes upon one another for an instant, before returning to focus on their duel. The tall girl made short of her opponent, batting his weapon away and sending him face down into the snow with a balled fist rather than her training blade. As the acolyte writhed on the ground, the tall girl quickly turned toward the nearby duel her friend was engaged in. The pair of duelists brought their metallic sabers together time and time again. The two Sith were unrefined, sloppy, but such was to be expected of the teenagers. They were raw emotion, lashing out with wide swings and harsh yells. But as the combatants released all manners of shouts, a third source provided one of her own. The tall girl called out words of encouragement, urging her friend onward. As the duelists locked their blades, the Pureblood turned her head as she maintained her guard. Her crimson eyes locked with those of her tall friend, and a determined smile crept across her lips. The girl shoved the boy away, and found the opening she needed to send her training saber crashing into her foe's abdomen. The other acolyte fell to his knees, clutching at his stomach with his head hung low, hands raised so as to yield. The Pureblood's smile widened until it had morphed into a toothy grin. Baring her sharpened teeth, the girl offered a giddy bounce as she deactivated and hooked her weapon to her belt. She and the tall girl abandoned their foes, running to meet each other with a warmth in their eyes. A warmth strong enough to combat the surrounding cold. As they met, the tall girl wrapped her arms around her friend, lifting her into the air and locking her in a strong, yet comforting, embrace. As the tall girl spun on her heels, she swept her friend around with the greatest of ease, the both of them releasing laughter into the flowing air. In conjunction with the movements, the winds hastened once more, kicking up snow until the scene was obscured from view. One by one the duelists faded into the snow, the last of which being the embracing pair. Finally, Fay and Syrosk found themselves staring into the familiar gray haze. But as the winds calmed, as the snow settled, the pair were granted sight to a most pleasant vista. Gone were the bleak flatlands and wastes of Ziost. Instead, the tall girl and her friend sat upon the precipice of an overlooking ridge, watching the sun lower on horizon. Breaking the gray monotony of frosted stone, the teenagers basked in the orange luminescence of the fading sun. Gone were the harsh winds and debilitating cold. Winter had passed, and there was almost an air of comfort as the two acolytes sat together, legs dangling over the cliff's edge. All was silent as Fay and Syrosk stood behind the teenaged pair. Even as she could only see the back of her head, Fay knew that her younger self wore a smile, one that caused her own lip to quiver. The silence persisted as the two acolytes were content with merely one another's company. After a few seconds, the smaller girl began to lean, resting her head against her tall friend's arm. There, the teenagers would remain as they continued to gaze toward the Ziost sunset. Fay's firm crossing of her arms began to rescind. Her limbs had loosened, but as she gripped her elbows, the tall woman began unknowingly tapping her index finger. It moved as a shiver whilst she looked toward her younger self with soft eyes. Meanwhile, Syrosk offered only the stoic scratching of his chin. "Hmm," he muttered. "I see now why you took such a liking to Nami. I suppose she reminded you of this girl?" There was silence as the woman continued to stare at the pair of acolytes. Only after a long pause did the faintest of noises slip past the her lips. "No..." Fay slowly whispered. She most certainly did not." Just then, the orange warmth of the setting sun was washed away, replaced by the familiar gray haze. Fay perked up, panning her gaze amidst the bustling winds as if searching for something. When the scene finally cleared, it barely did so, heavy winds carrying flakes of ice and snow clouding her vision. Suddenly, she could make out two figures trudging across the wastes. The same pair. And yet, different. Acolytes, one a Human, one a Pureblood. But instead of their gray uniforms, their bodies were wrapped in black robes. They had each aged, progressed, grown. The two teenagers were older, advanced in their studies. Together they marched, feet sinking into the heavy snow with teach step. The tall girl dragged behind her friend, following as the other blazed a trail. There was a tempered haste in the leader's gait, and the tall girl was more than capable of keeping up. But their final destination she did not know. "How much further, Dess?" the tall girl called out. Her words were filled with wonder, and only a hint of trepidation. "I told you, Faera, it's just at this next ridge," the other girl replied, voice filled with bubbly amusement. "Now come on, stop asking questions. This is supposed to be a surprise!" "I guess I should thank you for not blindfolding me," the tall girl replied, a subtle smile upon her lips. The two acolytes continued their trek across the frozen wastes, as Syrosk and Fay watched from afar. The Sith Lord was atypically silent as he surveyed the unfolding scene, but Fay's breathing was growing faster and heavier with each passing moment. The snowy winds coalesced into an impenetrable wall of frost, before fading to reveal something besides the usual flatlands the observers had seen. A tall ridge sprouted from the ground, cutting into the sky with its jagged peak. In front of the wall of stone, two statues lay crumbled, ancient monuments to some forgotten Sith Lord. Crumbled, broken, and cast from their pedestals, the statues had long since been claimed by the planet and rendered utterly unrecognizable. But between the remains, was something far less so. Inlayed with the jagged, imperfect stone, a square archway stood buried in the snow, only a hint of the darkness beyond revealing itself to the pair of acolytes. In front of the archway, the smaller acolyte turned to face her friend. "It's a tomb!" Dess shouted with glee. The other girl was speechless. Gazing upon the half-buried structure, it was small, hidden, but still somehow magnificent to behold. "This is it, this is our chance to prove ourselves to the Overseer!" Fay could sense the wind picking up again, threatening to overtake the scene in yet another consuming blur of gray snow. The tall woman's hands were already trembling, and the moment the wind began to die down, the moment she saw the first glimpse of the cavern walls beyond, she shut her eyes with all her might, just as the echo of a scream graced her senses. In an instant, the mental connection was severed. Ziost had been replaced with the calm of Syrosk's chambers back at the Citadel. The Sith Lord stood in front of his seated subordinated, head dipped with almost a wince upon his face. As he recovered, he looked to see Fay glaring at him, eyes red and on the verge of watering. "Are we done here?" Fay muttered, a harsh scowl upon her face. "Yes..." Syrosk calmly rasped. "We're done here. For now." Fay immediately pushed herself up from the seat and stomped toward the room's exit. Passing beyond the threshold, she didn't even acknowledge her compatriots as they offered their waves and words of welcome. Instead, she kept her sights firmly down the hall as she marched, intent on putting the Citadel behind her. Graves watched the tall woman round a corner, disappearing into the dark halls as he was left tilting his head. "What do you suppose that was about?"

Chapter Six Twelve Gallant fighters sat patiently amongst the void. Regrouped after a quick round of communications, the squadron was ready to descend upon their target. "Alright," Rem called out over the team's unified comm, calm but authoritative. "We don't know who or what we're going up against. But the plan hasn't changed. The moment we arrive, we surround the target. I will attempt to establish communications, whilst the rest of the team does everything they can to block the target's escape. The second it initiates hostile action, we will defend ourselves. Primary objective is to disable, but do not hesitate to destroy the target should it be deemed necessary. We don't know its capabilities, or even if it's alone, so keep your eyes and ears open." "Or for one of us, just ears," Erin whispered to himself, making sure his comm was closed. "Is everyone ready?" Rem continued. A series of firm 'ayes' sounded off. "That's what I want to hear. Tessa, link everyone's nav systems and prepare to jump." The twelve pilots watched as their dashboards flickered and lit up all on their own. Coordinates and commands were being issued by the droid until every starfighter gave the same exact reading. The hyperdrives fired up in perfect synchronicity. The ships were aligned. All that remained was the final command. Rem passed her gaze over the console one last time for confirmation. "Let's do this." The stars on the infinite horizon began to stretch, turning from dots to lines as the twelve vessels made the jump to hyperspace. The previous area returned to its usual state of emptiness as the Gallants disappeared, thrusting themselves forward in an instant. The familiar blue tunnel surrounded the twelve starfighters, only this time, when it collapsed, they would not be alone. ---------- Eleven Imperial starfighters sat patiently at the front of the gray fleet, headed by its vibrant leader. Zuren and the rest of the vanguard squadron stared down the motley gathering of rebel and mercenary crafts that refused to budge under the gaze of their oppressors. "Alright," Zuren called out over the newly formed team's comm, brash and full of vigor. "Listen up, because I don't like having to repeat myself. Our job is to teach these rebel scum the error of their ways. Not only have they turned their backs on the Empire, they had the gall to raise arms against us. Therefore, it falls to us to make an example of them. Strikes-1 through 5 will fire the opening volley. The enemy may be standing their ground now, but the moment they witness the true might of this fleet, they will scatter. After that, we will move in and destroy whomever we can before the other squadrons can steal our fun. Understood?" A series of 'yes, my lord's filled the Flight Commander's vessel. "That's what I want to hear!" Zuren declared. "Let's do this! And try not to get scrapped by our own warships." Within the bridge of the command vessel, Admiral Fiernan sounded the call to begin. In unison, five Terminus-class destroyers aligned their batteries, sending forth a barrage of cannon fire. The countless bolts crossed the gap separating the two forces, and effortlessly tore through the forward vessels of the rebel fleet. The assorted freighters and starfighters behind their fallen fellows began to fan out. The time for passive resistance had been forced to an end. As the Imperial destroyers prepared their next volley, Zuren urged his craft forward, followed by his personal squadron. ---------- There was a droning hum in the cockpits of the twelve Gallants as they simultaneously dropped back into realspace. Then, it was quickly replaced by the familiar silence. Hands firmly secured around their ships' controls, the pilots of Torrid Squadron would not allow their guard to drop as they prepared to engage their target. Sensors blared as they picked up the enemy vessel a short distance ahead. But even with their target in their sights, there was a moment of hesitation in each of the pilots. Rather than floating amongst the vast emptiness of space, the target was surrounded by what appeared to be an assortment of junk and debris. Minor clumps of metal and scrap orbited the vessel, none larger than newly arrived starfighters. The vessel itself was unrecognizable. It's chassis was atypical, in that that is was utterly simple. Like a brick with engines jutting from its rear, the rectangular vessel was smooth in its faces, rigid in its edges. The freighter-sized ship possessed no distinguishing features. No weapons. No attachments. Not even viewports. A dark gray prism that floated amongst the similarly colored flotsam. "What kind of ship is that?" Marvus muttered. "Not sure," Haron admitted. "I can't tell if it's of Imperial make." "We'll find out soon enough," Rem calmly said. "Everyone, surround the target." Without another word the pilots heeded their commander's order. Urging their vessels forward, the wedge-shaped formation soon deformed before utterly collapsing. The Gallants spread out and formed a ring around the still motionless slab of metal nestled amongst the debris. "What's with the junk around it?" Zal asked as he moved into position. "I thought hyperlanes were supposed to be empty." "Could be an attempt to mask its signature," Fen calmly suggested. "Surround itself with junk, nothing big enough to generate a mass shadow…" "But enough to keep something surrounded by it from jumping," Chanta added. "It's practically cut off its own escape." "Who needs to escape when you're disguised as scrap," Erin offered. "Well, if it wants to be mistaken for scrap, we'll happily oblige it," Varah said, cracking a sharp smile. "Hold on," Rem called out. "It still hasn't reacted to our presence. Don't need to escalate things prematurely." "Have you been able to contact the vessel?" Dunn calmly spoke up, his electronically tinged voice as chilling as ever. "Not yet," Rem replied, a touch of concern in her voice. As the commander looked over her ship's console, the sound of her droid filled the cockpit. "Commander, I cannot detect any life signs aboard the target vessel," Tessa explained. "Nor do I detect any systems necessary for habitation." "The vessel appears to be unmanned," Rem called out over the team comm. "That means we can scrap it right?" Varah asked. "Wait, there's something odd about this," Rem quickly replied. "It's likely an automated vessel," Fen suggested. "Following a set programming." "That would explain the 'peculiar readings' we got from Admiral Trevel," said Seraak. "It was following a pattern, that's how we were able to pinpoint its location." "And if it's automated, that means it can be predicted… manipulated," Haron stated. "If we brought a larger ship to its next location, we could capture the vessel completely intact." "Or we could let it do its thing, and just monitor the information it sends out," Seraak suggested. "We don't know if it's delivering its data to one or more sources," Rem replied. "And if that information puts traders along this route in danger, I don't think we can risk letting it continue." "Well then, I'm getting a lock on its engines just in case," Varah sounded off. Rem's eyes widened. "Wait, don't-" Just then, more than a three dozen pings simultaneously flared on the Gallants' sensors. A multitude of power signatures had appeared out of nowhere, none of them stemming directly from the target vessel. "Looks like we got trouble," Marvus muttered, hastily passing his gaze over his console. "Everybody, move!" Rem shouted. The pilots broke formation, fanning out from their ring around the target vessel and surrounding debris. As they did, the gentle floating clumps of metal and scrap began to shift and shake. Slabs unfurled into wings. Tubes emitted an orange glow. Cannons emerged from the nondescript forms. "Drones!" Fen called out, breaking her usual calm, collected tone. The disguised bundles of scrap began to break their orbit around the motionless freighter, seeking out the nearest target. Outnumbering the Gallants three to one, the swarm of tiny vessels pointed themselves toward whatever fighter they could find and opened fire. ---------- Amidst the calamity of Imperial warships continually firing their canons toward the dispersed rebel fleet, Zuren and his fellow starfighters weaved through the initial layer of scrap and debris, setting their sights on the vessels nimble enough to dodge the destroyers' volleys. The Sith zeroed in on his first target in a matter of moments. No time wasted on locking on or checking sensors, Zuren tore into the personal vessel in front of him, unleashing a quick torrent of red laser fire. The precise volley instantly dispersed the vessel in an explosion that was quickly snuffed by the vacuum of space. Pressing forward, the Flight Commander urged his team deeper into the conflict, dodging the litany of cannon fire surrounding them. Along the way, the rest of the vanguard squadron would lash out at approaching vessels, ensuring no one managed to touch their leader. The rebels were on the defensive. They looked for any opening they could to strike the Imperials, but none revealed themselves. The motley assortment of ships couldn't hope to overcome the organized might of their foes. As they scattered and spread out, the rest of the fleet's squadrons had been fielded, and kept the fight contained. Light fighters prevented their enemy's escape. Destroyers downed the larger vessels one right after another. And Zuren was in the middle of it all, reveling in the conflict. Back on the bridge of the command vessel, Fiernan and Feras calmly looked over the holomap of the battle before them. "Zuren is quite the capable pilot," said Fiernan. "The rebel fleet is on the brink of retreat. We should ready a coordinated strike, make sure none manage to slip away." Feras turned his gaze from the map to look out the forward viewport, watching the battle unfold before his own red eyes. They darted from distant vessel to distant vessel, watching explosion after explosion. "Pull the command vessel forward," Feras calmly suggested. The admiral looked to his advisor with a tilt of his head. "Might I ask why?" "The rebels have no hope of winning," Feras coldly stated. "With no opening, they have no choice but to flee. Give them an opening, and they will stay just long enough to seal their fate." "You would purposely put this ship in danger?" Fiernan asked. "There is no danger," Feras declared. "We are merely presenting a false opportunity for the enemy. They will attempt to make one final strike, and we will have Zuren flank them. Better they attack us than the fighters." The admiral narrowed his gaze as he remained silent. After a few slow breaths, he tensed as he saw the Chiss slowly look over his shoulder. Their eyes met, and the advisor's won out. Turning back to the holoprojector, Fiernan placed a finger on the comm, ready to issue a command. ---------- The battle was upon Torrid Squadron. As they darted around the empty stretch of space, they had only their maneuvers to dodge the nipping laser fire of the swarm of irregular, asymmetrical drones. "Tessa, engage Bifurcation," Rem commanded, juking her vessel back and forth. "Everyone fan out and deal with the drones. Watch each other's backs, same pairs as before." The erratic movements of the twelve starfighters quickly became more focused. Rather than wildly flying around whilst the unmanned seekers lashed out at them, the squadron split into the same six teams of two that had spent their previous moments searching for this very spot. Rem and Haron were the first to move to each other's side, and the rest soon followed. Dunn and Seraak kept their cool as they put some distance between themselves and the main target. Fen and Marvus kept a wide gap between them, but never strayed from each other's sights. Jerel and Erin had already gone on the offensive, firing their cannons at whatever drone they could get in front of them. Chanta and Zal moved in total unison, only the slightest of gaps separating their two vessels. Varah and Loona plunged themselves straight into the fray, skimming just over the original target as their engines flared. Split up, the pursuing drones did the same. Five to seven unmanned fighters followed their targets, their small size and nimble speed making up for whatever rudimentary programming guided them. The Gallants were some of the most advanced vessels in the Republic fleet, but even they could struggle to outmaneuver such agile foes. But there was more to Torrid Squadron than its technology. Whether it be side by side or in a line, the pairs moved together, totally in sync with their partner. Just as the drones following them had zeroed in on, their targets parted, splitting the pursuers up even further. The drones knew of only one way to attack, and so they did. Trailing behind each Gallant fighter, the unmanned fighters followed the ships' movements as well as they could, releasing sporadic laser fire whenever their targeting systems deemed it prudent. The sloppy shots passed over and around the expert pilots. Within no time at all, Torrid Squadron was back in control. They were leading their foes as much as they were being followed. With a trail of drones in their wake, the ships would run themselves in front of their partner, giving the other a clear shot at the pursuers. Red bolts left the Gallants' cannons, and instantly ripped the drones apart. The seekers once disguised as scrap metal had found themselves looking the part once more. In a matter of minutes, the automated protectors' numbers had been cut in half. All that was left was to steadily strike down the rest. Erin and Jerel made particularly short work of the drones pursuing them, crisscrossing in front of each other to deal with the others' hunters. As one of the seekers neared his partner, the Miraluka released a single bolt, expertly nailing the automated fighter. The drone exploded in a quick burst of energy and metal sufficient enough to rock the cyborg's vessel. "Hey Jerel, you want to let them get a little closer next time?" Erin teased. "I don't know Erin, if I did, I might accidentally hit you again," Jerel jokingly replied. The pair shared a quick chuckle as they searched for the remaining drones following them. The Miraluka had none on his tail, and the one following Erin had disappeared from behind him. A moment later, the drone made itself known, this time in front of the cyborg's vessel. Erin cracked a confident smirk and clinched his fists around the ship's controls. With a deep breath, he fired a pair of bolts toward the lone seeker. His eyes widened as the drone surged forward with a quick burst of energy, slipping between the two red bolts. The cyborg tried to pull away, but there wasn't enough time before the unmanned fighter drove itself straight into its target. Erin's shut his eyes and winced as he felt his vessel shake. But when he opened them, all he saw was his forward shields slightly fizzling and pieces of scrap dispersing around him, the impact having done no damage. The cyborg pilot breathed a sigh of relief as he wiped his brow, only for a siren to ring out in his cockpit. "Warning," Tessa called out, still utterly calm in her monotone deliver. "Foreign object detected on the right wing." Erin perked up, only to see a piece of scrap metal embedded in his wing just outside his viewport. As he narrowed his gaze, he saw the piece begin to move, a series of metallic claws and wires emerging from its underside, clinging to the hull of Gallant. "Damn," Erin muttered before opening his comm. "Some part of the thing is still functioning and is now trying to chew its way through my wing." "Can you shake it off?" Jerel quickly asked. Erin gave with starfighter a quick twirl. The piece remained, only now a stream of sparks sprouted from its belly. "Don't think so," Erin replied. "Alright, keep straight and don't swerve," Jerel called out. There was a silence as Erin processed his partner's words. "Wait, what are you-" The cyborg's vessel shook. As he hastily panned his gaze, he could see his shields flare up as a crimson bolt struck them. "Did you just shoot at me?" Erin shouted. "Looks like it didn't make it past the shields. Take them offline and I should be able to hit it," Jerel calmly suggested. "I'm not powering down my shields so that you can shoot me!" Erin shouted. "Warning," Tessa's voice returned. "Structural integrity of right wing in danger of being compromised." Erin palmed his face as he released a low sigh. "Are you sure you can hit it?" "I'm sure," Jerel declared. "Well, you heard him Tessa. Power down shields," Erin mumbled. The console in front of the cyborg shined an angry red as they displayed the fact that the ship was defenseless. Just as he was about to give the go ahead, a single red bolt collided with the machine digging through his wing. The assemblage of claws and wires was instantly scattered, leaving only a small surface wound on the wing in its place. "Did I get it?" Jerel called out. Erin was still speechless, gawking at the sight just outside his viewport.

The Sith Empire as it is now came to be when the (mostly) Human dark Jedi bred with the Sith species of Korriban. As such, they stand on relatively equal standing, Pureblood sometimes held somewhat higher due to their high percentage of Force-sensitivity. Plus, every 'Pureblood' that exists actually possesses a mixture of Human blood and that of the old Sith species, therefore they still fit in with the Empire's ideal of Human superiority.

Chapter Seventeen: Paths (Part Four) There was a slight cooling in the air as Tython sun began to dip behind the Tythos Ridge. Rising high upon the horizon, the stretch of jagged stone was still a day's travel away, but the Padawans were perfectly content with their progress. The goal was firmly attainable in each of their minds. And as they prepared camp, the journey had grown all the more tolerable. Under golden skies and gentle breezes, the five students stopped at a marked point on their map. A small piece of flatlands nestled between hills and forests. Balancing the open skies with floral shade, the camp site was peaceful, undisturbed but for the occasional chirping of passing birds. One by one, the Padawans set their traveler's sacks upon the ground, those not blessed with a Houk's figure releasing a sigh of relief as they did so. They began unwrapping and unbundling their gear, laying their sleeping bags upon the grass in a ringed formation. Gazing upon their work as well as that of their fellows, none of the teenagers were inherently familiar with the camping procedure. There was a series of awkward silences and nudging of belongings as each student wondered if they were doing things right. Wilderness Survival was a course they were all familiar with, at least for those who had been with the Order more than a few months. But none were sure if what they were doing could be labelled 'survival'. Each one of them had all the necessities, but they also knew there was more to the trip than simple rest and relaxation. Even if they had come to embrace their trek amongst Tython's nature, they were expected to learn. But little would come from trying to force it. As Jedi, they knew these things had a way of naturally occurring, so long as they didn't work to impede them. Their belongings set, the five teenagers gathered in the center of the ring they had created with their beds. "Alright, you think we should build a fire?" Torzin asked, scratching the back of his head. "Do your rations need to be cooked or something?" Zarin asked, raising an eyebrow. The Mirialan slightly scrunched his face, continuing to run his fingers through his hair. "No. But it just seems like something we're supposed to do. Make camp. Build a campfire. You know?" "Makes sense," Zarin conceded alongside a brief shrug. "Though I think the masters would be plenty mad if we accidently set the wilds of Tython on fire." "We can prepare a spot for it. Keep it under control," Ryska confidently stated. "What are we going to use for fuel?" Aesa softly asked. "Could just stick a torch in the ground, business-end pointing upwards," Zarin said, half-joking. "We gots plenty of woods around us," Torg declared. "I can gather us up some branches." "Want someone to go with you?" asked Torzin. "Nah," Torg offered with an exaggerated wave of his hand, a wide smile upon his lips. "Like I said, if any of us need to be luggin' anythin' around, it might as well be me." "Alright, but we don't need anything too heavy," Ryska replied. "Look for anything dry. Anything that naturally fell. No reason to go ripping things off trees." The Houk released a hearty chuckle. "Take only what we need. Don't go disrespectin' nature. Got it!" With that, Torg offered a dip of his head and the wave of his hand as he ventured toward the tree line neighboring the campsite. The other four replied with waves of their own before the Padawan disappeared amongst the forest. The sounds of rustling shrubs continued to grace the campers' ears for a few moments as the large Padawan pushed through the undergrowth. "Big guy's always gotta try and make himself useful," Zarin softly said with a smile. "You two seem close," Torzin stated. "We got to know each other at that ‘apprenticeship day’ thing," Zarin explained. "We both kind of stood out from the other Padawans, so I guess we just decided to stand out together. Of course, I was still new to the whole Jedi thing. Him? He'd been here just as long as any of the other students. But people don't exactly see 'Padawan' when they look at him. I'll admit, I didn't when we first met either. I'd seen plenty of Houks on Corellia. None of them seemed like the kind of people you'd find in the Order. But we hit it off pretty well." "I've never considered myself much of an outsider, but being Cathar has earned me a few funny looks," Ryska admitted, losing a touch of warmth in her voice. "People think we're primal, emotional, headstrong…" "Well, you are pretty headstrong," Zarin teased. The Cathar's eyes sharpened as they locked with the Human's own. A moment later, he released a soft chuckle. "I can assure you, it's a compliment. Even in my short time here, it can be tiring how boring some of the other Jedi are." "A Jedi need not be exciting," Torzin firmly stated. "It's our duty to be in control of our emotions. If we are not-" "Relax," Zarin calmly interrupted. "I know all about the Code, and the importance of peace and balance and all that. Believe me, when you're a late inductee, they drill that stuff into you right quick. But that doesn't mean we have to be devoid of personality. I mean, we're still people. Even you, Torzin. You may be calm and level-headed, if a bit overzealous at times, but I'd not call you boring." "Thank… you?" Torzin muttered after a pause. "But some of the others, mostly the elders..." Zarin continued. "My master talked about how the war changed a lot of people. Or rather, the end of it did. Some people didn't take kindly to the peace. A lot of Jedi had a lot of pent up anger, and no way to release it." "It's true," Torzin mumbled. "Those two years after the war's end… we were broken. We had no home, so we spent our time spread across the core worlds and capital ships, places where the Republic could keep their eyes on us. We were split up… divided. All we knew was what was happening to our individual groups. What remained of the Council was relatively silent. Only after we began rebuilding on Tython did we realize how much we had changed… how much we had lost." "Ouch," Zarin whispered, scratching the back of his head. "No wonder some of you folks hardened after all that." "But it's all behind us, right?" Aesa softly spoke up. "I mean, look at all the progress we've made in the last year. We're slowly rebuilding. Slowly going back to the way things were." "On the contrary," Ryska firmly stated. "I don't think we'll ever get back to the way things were. But I do think we're moving toward something greater. We've got the Council leading us. All the changes the Order's been making have got to be for the better, right? And it's our job to help in any way we can." "She's right," Torzin declared. "We're the next generation of Jedi. The burden of the future falls upon our shoulders." Zarin released a soft chuckle. "Look, it's still our first day together. I think we can hold off on talks of burdens and saving the Order. For now, let's just sit back, relax, and have something to eat." "Fine by me," Ryska said with a grin. "Should we wait for Torg?" "We can start without him," Zarin replied. "I've seen him down a ration stick in one bite, so he'd be finished before we even started if we waited." The gathering of students dispersed as they returned to their belongings. Rummaging through the traveler's bags, the students looked for something to eat. That something came in the form of ration sticks, compressed rods of 'food' containing everything needed to sate the body, if not the appetite. Digging through her bag, Ryska eventually returned with a ration stick in hand. The rod was wrapped in clear plastic, it's reddish-brown color readily visible. The geometric piece of foodstuff didn't readily appeal to any of the senses, but it served its purpose. Compact. Nutritional. Preserved. Eyeing the ration with little glee in her eye, Ryska could hear the hushed whispering of Aesa nearby. Turning her head, the Cathar saw the Human still rummaging through her belongings with a steadily increasing pace. The muttering grew louder, until the teenager could make out the sounds of subtle cursing. Removing her artificial hands from the bag, Aesa released a quick yell as she gripped the sack's bottom and turned it over, dumping its contents onto her sleeping bag. Dropping the bag, the girl stared at the spilled belongings, head lowered, hands gripping her pant legs. A soft whimper cut through the quiet air. Raising herself from the ground, Ryska quickly moved to join the almost crying student. "What's wrong, Aesa?" Ryska softly asked. "Do you not have any rations?" As the Cathar looked over the girl's shoulder, she immediately saw a number of reddish-brown rods nestled amongst her other belongings. "No, it's…" Aesa struggled to speak. "It's just hard to find things sometimes." Ryska continued her approach, eventually sitting beside the distressed student. As their shoulders brushed, Aesa looked to the Cathar, eye's watering. "I can't… feel anything… with these," Aesa muttered, lowering her gaze to stare at her palms. "I still have trouble distinguishing objects when they're all bundled together." Ryska bit her lip, struggling to think of something comforting to say. On the other side of the camp, Torzin and Zarin sat frozen in place, unsure of what to say or do. As the silence hung heavy in the air, a thought entered the Cathar's head. "Have you tried using the Force?" Ryska asked. "It's kind of hard to do without hands," Aesa mumbled. "You don't need hands to channel the Force. They just happen to help us," Ryska explained. "Jedi have had senses damaged or lost, but have been able to replace them through the Force." "But those Jedi aren't Padawans," Aesa softly replied. "And I've never heard some someone replacing a sense of touch." "But the Force can replace organic senses," Ryska stated. "My master can see, and he doesn't even have a set of eyes. Your hands don't need a set of nerves to feel." "You're master's a Miraluka," Aesa replied. "What he does comes naturally to him." "It just means he's never had to adapt his sight," Ryska said, growing increasingly excited. "But you, you know what it's like to feel. You remember the sensation, don't you? You can replicate that through the Force!" "How do you know?" Aesa asked. "I… I don't exactly," Ryska admitted, momentarily dipping her head. But just as quick, she perked back up. "But there was a moment, in one of my lessons. My master had me and Torzin lifted a huge rock together. We were on opposite sides, making contact with the stone. And as we starting to pick it up, I swore I could feel his hands on the other side as if they were touching mine. So long as you're making contact with something, you should be able to feel it, regardless of physical sensation." "I don't know," Aesa mumbled. "I've tried before. But no matter what, it just feels like these things are in the way. Like I'm separated from what I'm trying to hold." "We have the ability to overcome separation," Ryska declared. "That's why we're able to manipulate the world around us. Because everything is connected. We don't have to touch a rock to lift it off the ground, it merely helps. You're connected to your hands which are connected to whatever you're touching. That link is more tangible that any telekinetic feat." "But how would I even know how to act on that link?" Aesa asked, warming up to the Cathar's words. Ryska paused, rubbing her chin as she thought of an answer. Just then, it hit her. "We just need to provide the greatest stimulation we can." Aesa puzzled as she stared at the giddy student. A moment later, Ryska began rolling up her sleeve, exposing the pale-brown fur of her arm. The Cathar then extended her uncovered limb in front of the Human. "Run your hand along my arm," Ryska directed. Aesa remained motionless as she bounced her gaze between the girl's eyes and arm. Her lips parted, but no words came. She was unsure, but the utter confidence present in the other teenager's visage proved almost contagious. Carefully, Aesa extended her hand of metal and plastic, and placed in on the Cathar's forearm. "Concentrate," Ryska whispered. "Remember the sensation of your fingertips. Feel every hair as you move your hand." Aesa narrowed her gaze, biting her lip as she hesitated. Finally, the girl abandoned whatever caution was holding her back. She began slowly moving her hand up Ryska's arm, fingers embedded in the thin layer of fur. She did it, time and time again, going up and down the Cathar's arm. The girl's eyes were totally focused, moving side to side as they followed the movements of her artificial hand. Eventually, Aesa's hand came to a stop, still resting atop the other girl's arm. Ryska watched as her eyes began to water, and a smile began to curl upon her lips. The Cathar was about to speak, when she found herself interrupted by the Human throwing her arms around her neck. The Human squeezed her fellow Padawan tightly, tears of joy streaming down her face. Ryska reciprocated the embrace, running her hands along and patting the girl on the back. There was a faint rustling as the Houk emerged from the nearby tree line, an assortment of branches held in his arms. "Hey guys! I miss anything?"

Chapter Five Within the Imperial hangar, there was a persistent movement. One of efficiency and purpose. And the newly arrived Sith had no desire to go against that status quo. With a bounce in his step he continued his single-minded approach, which did not go unnoticed by the technicians tending the personalized vessel. The bland gathering of Humans in gray jumpsuits quickly stepped away from the starfighter as its master drew near. They each offered a deep bow of their heads in case the Sith's eyes fell upon them, but his attention was suitably fixed to the simultaneously dark and vibrant vessel. "Is it ready?" Zuren firmly asked of no one in particular, his eyes glued to the empty cockpit. The technicians hesitated but for a moment before one took the initiative to speak. "Yes, my lord," one dutifully said. "All locks have been disengaged. She's ready to fly when you are." "Excellent," Zuren mused with an almost lustful curl upon his lips. He was about to board the ship, when something stood out in the corner of his eyes. A stillness amongst the constant movement of the hangar. On the other side of the chamber, ten starfighters lined the far wall. Interceptors. Mk. VII's. A step up from the models that made up the bulk of the fleet. But only a single step. The ten silver and black chassis stood neatly in their row, unpowered. In front of them, an equal number of pilots stood in a rough circle, garbed in matching flightsuits but absent their helmets. Unprepared, all of them. Zuren stalled the boarding of his vessel to sharpen his gaze at the odd display. Without another moment of hesitation, the Sith's feet propelled him toward the gathering. A still sizable gap separated him from the pilots, but he had no qualms about raising his voice. "You there! Pilots! Why aren't you ready to move out?" Zuren called out. The group immediately snapped to attention, turning to face the approaching Sith. The disciplined faces of ten Humans turned to face their new master, chins held high. Compared to the uncouth Sith, they were clean-cut and proper, all of them. Their postures straightened, affording Zuren the respect his rank and title deserved, but absent was the fear that graced their less hardened fellows. "My lord!" one of the pilots called out, snapping a quick salute rather than bowing his head. "We're the command ship's defense squadron." Zuren took his next few steps before stopping with a firm arch of his brow. "How are you supposed to protect the command ship from in here? You're pilots for Emperor's sake." "Apologies, my lord," the same pilot offered, unflustered. "Lord Solatus ordered us not to move out unless explicitly instructed to." "Well, Solatus isn't around anymore," Zuren flippantly said. "We heard, my lord. And if we're being honest, me and the boys didn't fancy being forced to sit around." "Now that's what I want to hear!" Zuren heartily declared. "You're all with me now. From this point forth, ours is this fleet's vanguard squadron." The clicks of ten pairs of boots snapping together resonated throughout the hangar. The pilots of the newly christened squadron snapped a firm salute to their commander before breaking up. Rushing to a nearby rack, each Imperial retrieved a helmet to complete their black ensemble. Donning their gear, the Humans had become faceless instruments of war, ready to step into their cockpits. Zuren twirled on his heels and returned to his own starfighter. With a mighty leap, the Sith soared meters into the air before coming down on top of his cockpit's hatch. With a wave of his hand, he opened the circular lid and dropped inside. The others did the same, though with suitably less flair. Climbing into their cockpits, the Imperials went to work breathing life into the ten interceptors. As the lead starfighter came online, it released a sharp howl as its systems cycled at the behest of its master. The Sith interceptor lifted itself from the hangar floor and quickly pushed itself toward the chamber's magnetic barrier by way of repulsors. Just before passing through, the twin engines behind the vessel glowed a fierce crimson. Floating into the void of space, Zuren urged his craft forward before looping around to hug the top of the command ship's hull. One by one, the fleet's new vanguards slipped into the vacuum of space before following the path set by their commander. The eleven ships skimmed along the surface of the Gage-class transport, stopping just short of brushing against the bridge's viewports as they passed by. Inside the bridge, the admiral and his advisor stood before the main holoprojector, the map adapting to the newly fielded ships. The pair stood tall, even if only one was physically capable of doing so. Hands neatly folded behind their backs, the Human and Chiss readied their next command. ---------- Across the galaxy, the pilots of Torrid Squadron continued their search. Having dropped out of hyperspace, the twelve starfighters that had just been crossing millions of kilometers a second now drifted almost motionless amongst the empty blackness. In pairs they sat and waited, praying for the moment Tessa would signal the target's location. Shifting in his seat, Zal struggled to find a more comfortable position. His broad shoulders brushed against the side viewports of his cockpit with each overzealous fidget. In the Nautolan's partnered vessel, Chanta cast her steady gaze forward as the sounds of subtle scuffs and clinks reached her ears. "You know the comm's open, right?" the Selkath calmly asked. The first response came in the form of a grunt sounding out over her speakers. "Sorry," Zal mumbled. "Almost got it." Chanta offered a quick giggle, albeit one possessing her voice's usual grit. "And what would 'it' be, exactly?" "The right way to sit," Zal replied. "One would think that'd be the first thing a pilot figured out," Chanta said. "You never seemed to have trouble with it before." "We were always moving or doing something before," the Nautolan explained. "Now we're just waiting. Feels weird. Like, shouldn't we be at least flying around while Tessa makes her scans?" "Wouldn't be much point to it," Chanta replied. "I mean, with the range of the scans, whatever distance you could cover with the sublight engines would be insignificant." "But at least I'd feel like I was doing something, you know? Wish there were some asteroids we could snoop around or something," Zal admitted. "But there's absolutely nothing out here." "That's kind of the point of a hyperlane," Chanta said with a smile. Knowing her voice atypically rough, the Selkath had to take the extra effort not to come off as abrasive, injecting warmth wherever she could. "This route is supposed to be devoid of anything that might interfere with a ship's hyperdrive. No astral bodies. No gravity wells. Nothing capable of generating a mass shadow." "Yeah, I know," Zal softly admitted. "Still, think flying a few circles around here would interfere with the scan?" "That doesn't seem like a question you should be asking me," Chanta replied. "Oh, that's right!" the Nautolan said, perking up at the revelation. Panning his gaze around his cockpit, the pilot hadn't yet gotten used to communicating with his astromech. The baseline fighters never had more than a simple navicomputer installed, nothing so personal. The idea that there was something, someone, always listening took a while to fully seep into his head. "Tessa, do we have to stay completely still for the scans to work?" "So long as you stay in the immediate area, any movement should have no effect on my scanning," Tessa relayed, possessing her usual monotonous calm. "Hah! Alright then," said Zal as he wrapped his gloved fists around the starfighter's controls. Within the other cockpit, Chanta watched as her partner pulled forward before passing by her front viewport. From there, he continued to run wide laps around the still motionless craft. "You really can't sit still, can you?" "Of course I can!" Zal called out as he banked his fighter. "I just like to feel like I'm doing something. You didn't see me pacing around the room when we were in the rec room, did you?" "Fair enough," Chanta replied. "I suppose being motionless in the quiet vacuum of space can be a little unnerving." "At least we have each other to talk to." The Selkath nodded. "And if we didn't, we could converse with Tessa… assuming she wasn't otherwise preoccupied." "But I'd say we make a good enough pair, wouldn't you?" Zal admitted. "Did pretty well in our game earlier today." "Well, the teams were a little unbalanced," Chanta offered with a soft chortle. "You think Erin's still sour about losing?" The Selkath looked up and into the black void beyond her viewport, gently stroking one of the fleshy tendrils that hung her upper lip. "He did say he has a pretty good memory. And even if he was playing that up, he doesn't seem like the kind of person to forget something like that." "Nah," Zal playfully dismissed. "He's probably forgotten all about it by now." ---------- "I'm just asking whether you plan on shooting me in the back this mission." The haughty voice of the cyborg filled the Miraluka's cockpit as he cast his eyeless gaze forward, a dulled expression upon his face. Erin's tone denoted a lack of seriousness, but there was still a hint of bite to his joking. "I mean, you've done it once before, so it's a fair question." Dipping his head, Jerel began rubbing the small divots of flesh where his eye sockets ought to have been, releasing an inaudible sigh. "Do I really need to apologize for that again?" "Oh, I don't want an apology," Erin replied, playing coy. "I'd just like a confirmation of whether or not you plan on doing it again." "I didn't plan on doing it the first time," Jerel admitted. "Well, that didn't stop it from happening, did it?" Erin teased. "By that logic, nothing would stop me from doing it again, either," Jerel plainly said. There was a silence between the pair as their ships floated next to one another, motionless amidst the empty void. "You got me there," Erin admitted. The cyborg offered a flamboyant shrug, noticed by no one but himself. "I guess there's really nothing I can do to keep you from shooting me in the back." "No, but you're starting to make me want to do it again," Jerel mumbled. The Miraluka's cockpit was filled with the brief cackle sounding off over his speakers. "See? Now that's the attitude I want to see from you," Erin said, dropping whatever antagonism he possessed. "None of this 'oh, I don't know what I'm doing' or 'I don't want to step on anyone's toes'. If you really are a good pilot, you should start acting like it." "Ego has no bearing on how good of a pilot you are," Jerel calmly replied. "Nonsense," Erin countered. "It's all about your state of mind. Reflexes and training can only do so much. Moving forward, what matters is how you think." "I think one can become a better pilot without submitting to narcissism," Jerel said. "Hey, it's worked wonders for me," Erin plainly admitted. "Has it now?" Jerel muttered, almost drearily. "You saw how I performed in the testing phase," Erin haughtily stated. "If the droid hadn't dropped me out of the sky, I'd have had a perfect run." "You fell after the run was complete and the score was already tallied," Tessa interjected. Her mechanical voice filled each cockpit, though it was slightly softer in the Miraluka's, having emanated from the cyborg's unit. "It is surprising that a man with a self-described eidetic memory would forget such a significant detail." As the cyborg furrowed his brow, he could hear his partner releasing a restrained snicker. Erin grumbled as he looked around his cockpit, eventually settling his gaze upon his fuel gauge. "I can't help but notice that the fuel gauge still reads 94%, Tessa," Erin muttered, a slight bite to his voice. "Now I certainly remember you saying it would give an accurate reading after we launched." "We did spend several minutes in hyperspace. There is a chance the journey used 6% of our fuel," Tessa explained, utterly stoic. “A chance?” Erin sharpened his gaze at the readout. "Jerel, what's yours say?" Sublight drives at 98%. Hypermatter at 90%," the Miraluka read off. "Is that so?" Erin loudly said, folding his arms. "Care to explain that, Tessa?" "Perhaps the reading is an average," Tessa replied, completely deadpan. "Perhaps?" Erin balked. "You're in charge of the damned readouts! How can you not know, unless you're just messing with me?" "I could investigate the gauge if you'd like, but it would divert resources from my scanning," Tessa calmly explained. "Oh, no, you're not finding a way out of this," Erin chided. "Erin," Jerel called out, calm and even-tempered. "I think the mission-" "This will only take a second," Erin dismissed. The Miraluka released a heavy sigh, adjusting the goggles affixed to his forehead. Looking up, the pilot slightly scrunched his face, before talking to his own droid. "You're still scanning though, right?" "Of course, Lieutenant Wardon," Tessa stated. A different Tessa. The same Tessa. Within the cyborg's cockpit, the pilot persistently tapped his fingers against the viewport to his side, eyes glued to the console in front of him. After a few seconds of silence, Tessa's calm voice filled the sealed chamber. "It appears that someone may have manipulated the gauge." "Oh really?" Erin offered with a caustic sarcasm. "Yes, and it also appears that someone made manual adjustments to the ship's dampers. They're currently reading at 2% below the standard levels," Tessa explained. "Would you happen to know anything about that, Lieutenant Hayes?" The cyborg crossed his arms, constricting his frame. "Well, you wouldn't let me make the changes I wanted, so I did it myself." "And might you have knocked a sensor loose when you were rooting around inside the chassis?" Tessa asked, still completely deadpan. Erin sat stilled, eyes closed, slowly raising his chin. "That doesn't sound like something I'd do. Besides, that seems like something you should have caught before we launched." "Is that so?" Tessa offered, almost breaking her monotone delivery. The cyborg's eyes shot open as he sharply raised one of his eyebrows. But before he could speak, the Miraluka's voice filled his cockpit. "Erin, I think we've got something," Jerel called out. "Forwarding data." A moment later, the other pilot's readouts shifted. A bright ping signaled the scans had picked something up. A lone vessel, sitting deep within the nothing of the Erical Hyperlane, putting out significant levels of energy. "I think we found our target."