Chapter Four Within the swirling blue tunnel of hyperspace, Torrid Squadron traversed the stars faster than the speed of light. The twelve fighters had situated themselves into two columns, angled so that none sat directly in front of another. With each passing second, the vessels put millions of kilometers between them and their home base. Whilst the Den sat patiently amongst the void, the squadron thrust themselves forward into the reaches of the Erical Hyperlane. "We're approaching our destination," Rem said over the team comm. "We don't have an exact location of the target, and the projected area of where it will be stretches several billion kilometers. We'll be dropping out of hyperspace in pairs, spread out across the projected area, but still within communications range." "Once we're back in realspace, then what?" Zal asked. "I mean, searching that big an area for what might be one vessel?" "Anything capable of scanning objects in hyperspace should be putting out enough of a signature that Tessa can scan for it," Rem explained. "Whomever pinpoints its location first will contact the rest of the squadron, and we'll converge shortly thereafter." "What's to stop this thing from picking up our approach?" Erin asked. "From the reports, it seems whatever's performing these scans is choosing its targets very carefully," Rem stated. "No military vessels traveling the route reported anything unusual, which is why it's managed to stay in operation this long." "That just means it doesn't need to do a full scan to know what kind of vessel is traveling the hyperlane," Erin replied. "What's to stop it from fleeing once it's noticed a squadron inbound on its position?" "The kind of tech behind these scans, no matter their source, aren't tuned for starfighters," Fen took over, offering a slightly more mechanical answer. "And the Navy sunk a lot of credits into making sure the Gallants are capable of maintaining a low profile. These aren't stealth ships, but they're capable of operating under the radar for the most part." "But, do we have a plan if the target tries to escape?" Jerel asked, softer in his inquiry than the cyborg. "So long as Tessa completes one of her scans, that should give us enough information to pass on to the Admiral," said Rem. "If the target escapes, he'll have what he needs to mount a secondary operation." "But if we do find it, we get to take it down, right?" Varah asked, suitably invested in the answer. None of her fellow pilots could see the Cathar's hands tightening around her ship's controls. "We need to keep as much of it intact as possible," Rem replied. "The more answers we can get out this thing, the better. We can cripple its systems, but we don't want to totally destroy it. Especially if its manned." "Target weapons and engines, got it," Zal heartily offered. "So that's a no on missiles?" Varah muttered, a touch of defeat in her voice. "We don't know how hard of a target we'll be encountering, so we won't rule anything out," Rem replied. "We're after information, but not at our own expense. If any one of us is in danger, we hit it and we hit it hard. Understood?" A series of confident ayes filled the shared comm. The commander cracked a warm smile. There was something fulfilling in hearing all eleven of her teammates speak in unison. Catching her attention was a ping from the ship's navicomputer. The remaining distance to their destination was shrinking fast. "We're about to drop into realspace," Rem said over the team channel. "Any last questions?" "Do we have an estimate on how long it'll take to find our target?" Chanta asked. "A few hours at the most," Rem plainly answered. The other pilots released a series of groans and mutterings, but were smart enough not to open the comm as they did do. But even as silence filled the commander's cockpit, she could tell the reactions of her fellows. No matter the type or amount of missions they embarked upon, none were ever enthused about having to sit around with nothing to do in such confined spaces. Luckily, such expensive vessels could afford the extra cost of cushioned seats. "Alright. Tessa, engage Bifurcation and ready the comm channels," Rem directed her droid. The astromech quickly went to work, dividing itself amongst the twelve vessels and establishing a independent comm link between the pairs that would be searching the stretch of space together. Rem's eyes sharpened as the hyperspace tunnel collapsed around her. The stars returned to their usual place upon the black canvas that surrounded her in all directions, and suddenly all was still. Outside her viewports was the starry void, unbroken and uninterrupted except for the single vessel floating at her side. Each pair of starfighters dropped back into realspace mere moments apart, and yet found themselves separated by vast distances. Millions of kilometers worth of empty vacuum rest between the six pairs. And despite their vastly different locations, their surroundings were all the same. A black void upon which splayed countless specks of light. No nearby astral bodies. No debris. Nothing more than the errant piece of floating dust amongst the stretch of space that belonged to the Erical Hyperlane. "I guess we'd better get started," said Rem, eyeing the various readouts present on her vessel's dashboard. "Tessa?" "Beginning radial sweep," the calm voice of astromech replied. "Estimated time until completion… unknown." The commander offered a soft nod. "Haron?" "Scan in progress," the executive officer dutifully replied. There was a heavy silence as the two looked over their instruments, monitoring the status of an operation they both knew would take some time. "Kind of strange, isn't it?" Rem spoke up. Away from the majority of the squadron, the commander's tone shifted slightly, becoming somewhat softer as her voice graced only Haron and Tessa. "We spent months sitting around, waiting for our chance to get back in the field. When we finally get the chance, we're still just sitting around." "To be fair, we can do quite a lot when we’re just sitting around," Haron calmly replied as he refused to lift his gaze from the console in front of him. "Plus, sitting kind comes with the territory." "Fair point," Rem said with an unseen smile. "It's good to be back in the field regardless. I think some of the others were starting to feel like caged birds. Or worse, like they'd have their wings clipped." "I did get the feeling some of the old guard were feeling unneeded or unwanted," Haron admitted. "It's just temporary though, right?" Rem asked, a low flutter in her voice. "I mean, I know we've faced setbacks, but we're all still the same pilots… aren't we?" "Perhaps," Haron answered, noncommittally. "But then again, is that really what we want?" "How do you mean?" Finally, the ex-Imperial tore his gaze away from the various readouts that populated the dashboard in front him. Instead, he cast his steady gaze out his side viewport, out into the astral void. "Well, we lost half our squadron. I know it's no use thinking about what we could have done differently, but don't we owe it to ourselves, to our teammates, to at least try and be better? The people we were that day lost, no matter what may have happened to those who attacked us. If we truly are the same pilots now as we were then, what's to stop that from happening again?" "We aren't defined by our skills, our capabilities, any more than we're defined by our ships," Rem replied, slightly firmer than before. "Who we are as people, that hasn't changed. We can learn from our mistakes, become better, without changing who we are. We were targeted. That man and his fleet intended to break us. If we throw away what we were before the incident, he'll have succeeded." There was a pause as the comm channel fell silent. "I have a harder time separating the man from the machine," Haron admitted. "The person from the pilot. The way I see it, we are different. Torrid Squadron is different." "Maybe," Rem conceded. "But we're whole." Again, another pause overtook the channel. "I disagree," Haron bluntly said. Silence followed, as Rem opted to quietly furrow her brow instead of responding. "Again, I do not believe this is a bad thing. We stopped being whole the moment we started operating. Every day you wake up with the intent to fight, you lose a little piece of yourself. Sometimes, it's a piece you voluntarily shed. Sometimes, it's a piece stolen from you. We lost a bit of ourselves when Freemont left. We lost a bit of ourselves when Delgo crashed and spent a month in the medbay. Trying to stay whole is impossible. It's better to hold on to what remains, and do what you can to keep it intact, even if it means you have to change." Only after a few long seconds of silence did the ex-Imperial turn away from the viewport, quickly blinking his eyes. The quiet persisted, even as the comm channel remained open. Haron released a brief sigh. "I'm… I'm sorry. I don't know what I'm talking about." "No, you're right," Rem spoke up. The commander's voice was low, soft, but not resigned. "I guess some part of me associates change with uncertainty. Entropy. But we can change for the better. All of us. It's our duty to change, to learn, to adapt. Isn't that right, Tessa?" As the commander looked up to no one in particular, all she received in response was silence. The droid's attention was elsewhere, utterly focused on the task of scanning the surrounding space. Rem released a light chuckle as she lowered her face, opting to look out the viewport toward the Gallant fighter floating alongside her. "Anything on your end yet?" Rem warmly asked. Haron perked up, returning to the console in front of him. Scanning the electronic readout, it still had yet to yield any results. "Nothing yet." "Oh well," Rem muttered, sinking in her seat slightly. The quiet returned as the pair relaxed, powerless to act amongst the empty vacuum. They were at the mercy of data, either their own or whatever their squadron mates could manage to turn up. But before even a minute could pass, the silence was broken once more. "You know… you were right as well," Haron admitted. Rem straightened out in her chair, keeping her mouth closed as she waited for an explanation. "We may have changed since the incident, hell, since joining Torrid Squadron. But underneath it all… underneath all the callouses, all the stress, all the setbacks, we are the same people. Marvus may be a bit more pessimistic, but he's still the same Devaronian we all know and love. Fen may have lost all confidence in the Senate, but then again, she'd never held them in high regard. So long as we're alive, so long as we put in the effort to preserve them, our cores remain the same." "Well, it's good I know a thing or two about core maintenance," Rem joked. "Just another reason you were the right choice for commander," Haron warmly offered. Rem cracked a smile. "You know, I definitely prefer the warm, complimenting Haron." "As opposed to…?" "The stern, serious, morose-" "How am I stern?" Haron asked, an unfamiliar flutter in his voice. The commander brought a hand to her mouth as she tried to conceal the chuckle slipping past her lips. "I suppose you'd have a slightly different definition of stern, wouldn't you?" "Let me guess, because I'm an ex-Imperial, right?" Haron played along. "Pretty much, yeah," Rem teased. ---------- A black and red blur rushed down gray corridor after gray corridor. Within the bowels of the Gage-class transport, Zuren Baz made his way toward the hangar with a supernatural haste, toothy grin stretched across his face. As he passed through each bulkhead door, technicians and security forces stationed aboard the vessel quickly ducked out of the way, but took the time to snap a quick salute as the Sith ran past them. The halls were a uniform design of angular slabs. There was a rigidity in all facets, the uncompromising zeal of the Empire baked into the ship's architecture. Pipes ran along the walls, exposed only to remind the surrounding denizens of their purpose. Grated flooring stood over the machines of war, granting keen eyes sight into innards amongst innards. As the Sith ran, his mind focused on one thing: getting to his starfighter. But that didn't prevent the admiral's words from seeping into his mind. The countless speakers and comms spread through the command ship spread the declarations of its current master. "This is Admiral Fiernan, speaking on all secure Imperial channels." The admiral's words possessed a grandeur wrought only through countless years of experience. His voice stood tall, taller than a man of his physicality had any right to do. "Lord Solatus is dead. But do not be alarmed. His demise came at the hands of his own apprentice. The former Flight Commander intended to sacrifice this fleet, intended to throw away the lives of each and every dedicated Imperial who swore to him their loyalty. But his apprentice, Zuren Baz, a man of strength and character, saw fit to end the traitor's life before he had the chance to jeopardize this operation. Taking over as Flight Commander of this fleet, Zuren Baz has seen fit to place me in command whilst he leads the charge from his own personal vessel. As the attack squadrons prepare to move out, know that the fleet is back in capable hands. No longer are you beholden to a petty Sith who had turned his back on his brothers and sisters. Now, you serve a Sith willing and able to fight alongside you. And as Flight Commander Baz personally takes the fight to these rebel scum, I will continue to offer my guidance and support. Together, we will lead each and every one of you to victory. No unneeded sacrifice. No unnoticed effort. We are the pride of the Imperial Navy. We serve with dedication and confidence. We bring law and order to the lawless. The fight is upon us. And we will fight. As one." Passing through the final bulkhead door, the rushing Sith stopped dead in his tracks within a large chamber. Lining the hangar floor, a dozen starfighters sat in a neat arrangement. Sharp, compact daggers of gray and black metals. Frail things, but dangerous in abundance and in capable hands. But standing out from its fellows, a single starfighter was receiving renewed service as crewmen rushed to get it prepped for flight. The vessel resembled the standard mass-produced fighters used by the Imperial Navy. Its core was composed of little more than a compact cockpit, the entire front of which was a viewport. On each side, its wings spread like thin sheets, angled and tipped with blaster cannons. Viewed from the front, the vessel resembled the shape of an 'X'. But compared to its fellows, the ship was slightly larger, slightly longer, slightly bolder. The matte black and gray materials that composed its chassis possessed the occasional flare in the form of red stripes along its four wings. As he stood still in the middle of the hangar, casting his sharpened gaze upon his starfighter, Zuren reaffirmed his crooked smirk.

Chapter Three The bridge was deathly silent. None dared to move, to speak, as they cast their wavering eyes upon the stilled Sith Lord. Heads peeked over the various consoles and stations that littered the bridge, each one distant and isolated. Only one man dared to brave the open space, the very man who had delivered the Flight Commander to his fate. Feras stood tall atop the series of steps overlooking the fallen Lord. There wasn't a hint of exhaustion or weakness in his stance as his piercing red eyes sharpened. Suddenly, the soft patter of hesitant steps sounded off behind the Chiss. "Do you have any idea what you've done?" Fiernan harshly whispered. Feras kept his eyes glued to the fallen Sith. "You mean besides getting our fleet back? Yes. I know exactly what I've done." The admiral quivered, mouth agape as he bounced his gaze between the advisor and the still motionless Flight Commander. "You can't… you didn't…" "I can. I did," Feras plainly stated. The elder Human continued whimpering at the stalwart figure's side, until the sound of another set of footsteps filled the chamber, shooting a deep chill up the admiral's spine. From across the bridge, the Sith's apprentice slowly made his way toward the pair. His heavy boots impacted against the hard flooring beneath him, sending out periodic thuds that pounded the senses amidst the consuming silence. With each step, Zuren drew closer, and like a shrinking wave, the Imperials at their various posts ducked and hid as the Sith passed by. Nearing the midway point of the central walkway, the apprentice reached behind his back, and returned with a black hilt firmly grasped in his hand. With a quick flick of the wrist, the Sith soon found himself basking in the glow of his lightsaber's red blade. The droning hum of the weapon filled the chamber, the sound of imminent death. "Oh no…" Fiernan mumbled, slowly backing away. Feras, meanwhile, kept his feet firmly planted as he monitored the Sith's approach. Zuren paused at the base of the steps, beside the fallen Sith. He passed his gaze over the three most prominent figures. First the Chiss, then the cowering admiral, then the prone body of his master. The apprentice offered a single chuckle, before burying the tip of his blade into the back of the motionless Flight Commander, piercing his heart. With that, Zuren returned the lightsaber to his belt and steadily climbed the steps before him. At the top, he was greeted by Feras, who offered the quick, but respectful, dip of his head. "We await your orders… commander," Feras calmly said to the Sith. Zuren cracked a sharp smile, before spinning on his heels to face the rear half of the bridge. "Everyone listen up! As the new acting Flight Commander, I hereby place this operation in the hands of the admiral and his advisor. Any directions they give, you're to treat like they came from me? Everyone understand?" There was a moment of silence as the stationed Imperials were still processing the events, but even the tumultuous death of a Sith Lord could not overcome their training and decorum. Almost in unison, each officer snapped a quick salute toward their new commander. "Good," Zuren continued. "Whomever among you is in contact with the primary hangar, tell them to prep my fighter. I want it ready and able to fly by the time I make my way down there. Anyone in contact with the other ships, inform them that the fleet is back in capable hands." The Sith turned to face the Chiss at his side. "Anything else?" "We shouldn't delay any further," Feras calmly advised. "The sooner you make it to the hangar, the sooner we can proceed." Zuren offered only the briefest of nods before setting out. The Sith descended the steps with a single leap and rushed across the bridge. In a matter of moment, he was gone, and the Imperials were left alone to their own devices. Feras turned to see the admiral frozen in place, still struggling to process the preceding events. "The fleet awaits its new orders, admiral." ---------- "Alright, listen up!" Rem's voice reached the ears of each and every pilot of Torrid Squadron without fault. In a neat arrangement, they stood in the hangar, encased in trademark red and white flightsuits. The final preparations were being made to their vessels. Technicians and astromechs buzzed about the chamber. The twelve TS-AA units were lifted and placed behind the cockpits of the Gallant fighters. At the opposite ends of the hangar, the normally transparent barriers that separated the occupants from the vacuum of space were instead solid slabs of reinforced metal. Beyond, the tunnel of hyperspace encircled the Den. It was already on route to the staging area. "Tessa ran a quick calculation on the data we've received thus far," Rem continued, authoritative but not overbearingly so. "We believe there is a pattern to whatever is carrying out the scans along the Erical Hyperlane. The Den will be dropping into realspace outside the field of operation. From there, we will launch and make our ways to where we project the source of the scans will be when we arrive. We don't know what we'll be facing. It could be Imperials. It could be pirates. It could be unarmed. It could be hostile. First and foremost, we're investigating. Only if a clear and present danger presents itself do we carry out offensive maneuvers. Otherwise, Tessa will gather data to send back to the admiral. Understood?" A series of 'ayes' left the other pilots' mouths. "Then let's move out," Rem directed, supplying a hearty wave of her arm. "I want everyone in their cockpit and ready to fly as soon as we drop into realspace." The pilots hurried across the hangar floor, dodging crates and ordinance as they sought out their respective crafts. Sitting in a neat line, twelve Gallant starfighters lay dormant, wings folded inward, hatches slid forward, cockpits welcoming. A step ladder awaited each pilot at the edge of their vessel's wing, giving them easy access. One by one, the members of Torrid squadron reached their starfighter, scurried up the short steps, and walked across the wing before swinging themselves into the cockpit. Like clockwork, the twelve pilots went to work, bringing the various system online and breathing life into the advanced vessels. Buttons were pressed. Switches were flipped. Lights flared and signals pinged. The hatches began sliding back, sealing each pilot within their vessel. Soon, all twelve were comfortable and cozy in their piece of military splendor. As initial diagnostics were being run, a familiar voice rang out in each cockpit. The one belonging to the mechanical female securely tucked away a few meters behind them. "Welcome, pilot," said Tessa through the ships' interior speakers. Eyeing the main status screen, the pilots watched as one by one, the dark emblems of twelve starfighters soon shined a bright green. Everyone was online. Everyone was linked. Everyone was ready. "Torrid Squadron, check in," Rem's called out over the shared comm. "Torrid Two, standing by," Haron began, calm even as his hands hastily dashed over the various instruments before him. The Human checked systems and subsystems, even tapping the medkit strapped to the inner hull beneath his leg. "Torrid Three, standing by," Dunn followed, his deep, electronically tinged voice penetrating the senses of his fellow pilots. "Torrid Four, standing by," Seraak said, a warmth to his cool demeanor, an eagerness to his enduring calm. "Torrid Five, standing by," Fen plainly stated. The Mon Calamari's eyes darted from screen to screen, from instrument to instrument with a methodical haste. "Torrid Six, standing by," Marvus offered, bordering on a shout. Whatever reservations he had about the mission had fled the Devaronian's mind. With a beaming smile, he basked in the glow of his console. "Torrid Seven, standing by," Jerel dutifully said, kicking things off for the new members. The Miraluka passed his eyeless gaze over his instruments. The various screens and readouts had been personally modified by the man's commander, exhibiting a range of colors more appealing to the alien's unique vision. Subtle shifts of hues and pixels, but enough to ensure no cue go missed. "Torrid Eight, standing by," Erin quickly followed, oozing with the pride of a man out to prove himself. The cyborg monitored and manipulated his ships electronic systems with a blinding speed, lips curling into a smirk. "Torrid Nine, standing by," Chanta said, her coarse voice filling the ships' speakers. Despite the inherent grit, the Selkath had opted for a softer tone, placing decorum over whatever excitement she may have been experiencing. "Torrid Ten, standing by," Zal heartily called out, the antithesis to the preceding pilot. Cramped into the cockpit, the large Nautolan wrapped his large hands around the ship's controls, gloves squeaking as they clenched ever tighter. "Torrid Eleven, standing by," Varah quickly offered. The Cathar was direct, and her voice carried its usual fire. The woman was still riding high on the practice bouts from earlier. Her blood was pumping, and yet, nothing was out of sync. "Torrid Twelve, standing by," Loona finished things off. The Rodian was just as direct as the preceding pilot, and carried a contrasting ice to her heavily accented words. The twelfth pilot clenched and unclenched her hands time and time again before finally securing them around the vessel's controls. In the surrounding hangar, the pilots could see the various technicians and attendants pulling away. The cranes mounted to the ceiling moved along their tracks away from the starfighters. The fuel lines plugged into the back of the ships were disconnected and dragged away. All was clear around the twelve vessels. In the cockpit of Torrid One, Commander Rem received a communication from the Den's bridge. "We're about to drop into realspace," said a soft, male voice. "Are you and your squadron ready to move out?" Rem pressed her finger against the comm. "We're ready to leave as soon as those hangar doors are open." "Understood, Captain." The voice faded and the comm offered a brief click as the channel shut off. All that was left to do was wait. Inside his cockpit, Erin made one final pass over his console. Everything seemed prepped and ready for takeoff, but something was amiss with one of the readouts. The cyborg offered the sharp arch of his brow to no one in particular. "Hey, Tessa, why does the fuel gauge read 94%? I thought we were topped off on hypermatter." "The gauge can be inaccurate after a complete refill," Tessa explained with her usual mechanical delivery. "It should give an accurate report after launch." "Uh huh," Erin muttered, pursing his lips. "Are you sure you're not just messing with my readouts?" "Why would I do that?" the droid replied, same monotone voice. "Oh, I don't know, maybe because you still haven't forgiven me for what happened back during the training sequence," Erin muttered, tapping his fingers against the side of the cockpit. "I mean, I forgave you for dropping me out of the damned sky. I even apologized for what I said. The least you could do is not hold a grudge." "I do not hold a grudge," Tessa bluntly said. There was a pause. "And your apology was merely attempt to manipulate my programming." The cyborg offered a dismissive grumble, returning his hands to the ship's controls. As he stewed in silence, Erin saw the lights of the hangar begin flashing. "We're dropping into realspace," Rem's voice sounded off in each of the cockpits. "Run final diagnostics and prepare for launch." As the hyperspace tunnel collapsed around the Seeker-class carrier, the pilots of Torrid Squadron hadn't even felt the shift. Their insight came from the lights and sounds within the hangar. A siren blared, and on the far ends of the hangar, the metallic slabs blocking the ways out began to part. In their place, a transparent magnetic barrier shimmered, maintaining the hangar's atmosphere as the blast doors finished receding. A new siren sounded, signaling the ensuing launch. The hangar floor had been cleared. On each end of the arrangement, the furthest vessel lifted from its struts, hovering in place by way of repulsors. Gently, the crafts urged forward, their frames still constricted. Torrid One turned to the left, Torrid Twelve to the right. Passing through the hangar, the vessels each approached the chamber's edge, slowly unfurling their wings, adopting their trademark T-shape just before touching the magnetic barrier. The next ships followed soon after, Torrid Two heading left, Torrid Eleven heading right. One by one, the starfighters followed the standardized procedure. Passing beyond the hangar's threshold, the first fighters to exit found themselves floating amongst the vacuum of space. Gently drifting amongst the black void, the vessels' engines shone a bright and angry red. Not a moment later, the starfighters soared ahead, looping back and regrouping ahead of the carrier. The process continued for each craft, until all twelve pilots of Torrid Squadron were out and in formation. The pilots looked over their consoles. Shields were at maximum capacity. Weapons systems were fully operational. Power was evenly distributed. Hyperdrives were primed and ready. All was in the commander's hands now. Rem tapped away at her navicomputer, confirming the coordinates supplied by Tessa, and sending them out to the other members of the squadron. The droid's voice filled the twelve cockpits. "Entering hyperspace in three… two… one…"

Chapter Eighteen Just as they had attained some measure of comfort, Graves and Fay saw their teammate exit Syrosk's office, his head held at a slight dip. Pausing, Asher offered a few rapid blinks as a shiver ran up his spine. Finally, his shoulders drooped as a low sigh slipped past his lips. "Something wrong?" Graves asked. Asher perked up, immediately straightening out his stance before releasing his blathering reply. "What? Wrong? No. Nothing's wrong. Why? What makes you say that?" "Well, the fact that you were only in there a few seconds," Graves said. "A few seconds?" Asher mumbled as he tilted his head, eyes narrowing. "You okay?" Fay asked, more inquisitive than concerned. "You seem a little out of it." "No… I'm just… tired?" Asher muttered, unsure of his own answer. "Anyway. Whichever one of you wants to go next can go ahead." Graves and Fay looked to one another, neither jumping at the opportunity. "If I go, can you keep an eye on him?" Graves asked. "Sure," Fay replied. The scarred Sith removed himself from the wall, his spot soon taken by the burned teammate. Graves disappeared into the dwelling, shutting the door behind him, leaving Asher and Fay alone in the hallway. As the tall Sith leaned against the wall, arms crossed, she shot a quick glance over to the burned man, the both of them consumed with silence. Asher's eyes were closed in a harsh squint as he rubbed the bridge of his nose. "What happened in there?" Fay asked. "He put me in my own mind," Asher replied, somewhat regaining his composure. Relaxing his stance, the burned Sith drew in a heavy breath before releasing it, finishing things off with a quick shake of his head. "He could access my memories. Show them to me. Make me feel them. The day Graves and I fought..." "Made you relive the pain?" "Made me live the memory. I experienced what I thought I experienced that day. What my mind assigned to our fight." "So was it better or worse than how things actually went?" Fay asked. "How could I possibly know? It's how I remembered things. If I remembered with more clarity, that would have been the memory instead," Asher declared. "Hmm," Fay offered. A soft, almost dismissive, fascination. Inside Syrosk's dwelling, Graves sat in the center chair as his employer circled around him. "Now, close your eyes," said Syrosk. The scarred Human did so, drawing and releasing a calm breath. "Now, open them." Graves had been transported to the same blank mindscape as the man before him. Pure, pristine whiteness stretched toward infinity in all directions. The two Sith stood atop a hard surface, but its border with the sky on the horizon was indistinguishable. Looking around, Graves eventually saw Syrosk staring at him, offering the firm arch of his brow. "Now that… was unexpected," Syrosk rasped. Graves looked down to examine his form. There were no robes nor armor encasing his body. In fact, he almost didn't possess a body to begin with. Staring at his hands, Graves saw only an ethereal outline of where he ought to have been, absent any organics or cybernetics, transparent and surrounded by a shimmering and undulating aura. Almost colorless, the Sith blended in with the surrounding emptiness. The humanoid shape had no features. No face. Only a wispy aura that surrounded and rose from his frame like steam. "What is this?" came Graves' voice from the ethereal being. "You. Rather, a representation of you," Syrosk explained. "We currently reside within your mind." The ethereal figure looked around. "Is this… normal?" "The place I have created? Yes," Syrosk admitted. "Your given form? Not quite. Usually a Sith's physical form is so embedded in their mind that they've only one possible representation. I guess your unique physiology has had an effect on your psyche." "Is that… good? Bad?" "That remains to be seen," Syrosk rasped. "It doesn't seem have negatively affected your mental capabilities. You're doing an excellent job keeping me from accessing your memories." "I am?" Graves muttered, tilting the head of his ethereal form. There was a pause as Syrosk arched his brow. "You mean you're not actively resisting me right now?" "Should I be?" Graves asked, genuinely curious. The Sith Lord scratched his chin, passing his gaze up and down his subordinate's vaguely humanoid form. "Did your previous master train you in the mental arts?" "Drath? No, he pretty much kept up my training as a swordsman," Graves stated. "Do you meditate?" "Not really…" "And yet, you seem to have an almost unconscious mental fortitude. Why might that be?" Syrosk rasped. "I'm as curious as you are," Graves plainly replied. The ethereal Sith watched as the whiteness surrounding him warped and darkened. The infinite collapsed on itself, constricting and folding. Soon, the blank void had been replaced with the interior of Syrosk's office. The Human looked to his hands, clenching and unclenching his fists. They were without feeling, but they had substance. One of flesh. One of metal. Lifting his gaze, Graves saw Syrosk circle around him. But his motions did not stop there. The Sith Lord continued to pace about, intently scratching his rough chin. "Was that it?" Graves asked. The alien offered no reply as he strafed back and forth, head dipped, eyes focused on the ground before his feet. After a few moments of silent contemplation, the Sith Lord's movements finally ceased. "There's little I can do," Syrosk said with a low rasp. "I don't know how I can improve upon what you already possess. Especially if it stems from unconscious effort. Regardless, you're not a liability, so we're done here. You can send in Fay." Graves cast his steady gaze toward his superior. The alien seemed almost flustered, but the subordinate had no thoughts to add. Lifting himself from his seat, the scarred man made his way out of the office. Stepping into the hallway, the Sith found the eyes of his fellows fall to him. "Wow, that was quick," Asher muttered. "The man's efficient, I'll give him that," said Fay, arms still crossed, back still pressed against the wall. "I assume it's my turn?" Graves offered a quick nod. With that, Fay pushed herself off the wall and moved toward the office without a second thought. The scarred man stepped aside to let her pass, before taking her place on the wall next to Asher. The burned main turned toward his fellow, looking up and down the man's calm, steady frame. "How'd things go for you?" "Alright, I guess," Graves replied. "What do you mean, 'I guess'? What memories did he show you?" "None." "None?" "None," Graves repeated. "Said he was having trouble accessing them. Something about me unconsciously keeping him out. I don't know, this mental stuff's all new to me. Why? What did he show you?" Asher waved his wrapped hand in front of his wrapped face. "Take a wild guess." "Hmm. What was that like?" "Well, I'd describe it for you, but somehow I doubt you'd understand what being set on fire feels like," Asher muttered. The hall went silent as the pair stood with their backs against the wall, eyes staring at the door across from them. They had each adopted a constricted stance, arms crossed, head dipped. "If we're being honest, I don't even remember anything about our duel after you cut off my arm," Graves admitted. Asher quickly turned his head, eyes wide as he stared as his fellow Sith. "Everything went dark, and I woke up back at the Academy being patched up. I only heard what happened to you later." Asher opened his mouth, ready to speak. But as he stared at the scarred Sith beside him, he paused, releasing only an exasperated sigh. Inside the office, Fay had taken her seat, already being tended by Syrosk. The routine was the same as the previous two. Syrosk would tell her to close her eyes. She would comply. Syrosk would tell her to open her eyes. She would comply, finding herself standing amongst the white void of the shared mindscape. Surrounded by nothing in every direction, for every conceivable distance, the Kineticist stood resolute as always, arms neatly folded across her chest. She was utterly unfazed, and made as much clear as she cast her stoic gaze upon the circling Sith Lord. The circling turned to repeated strafing as Syrosk looked up and down his subordinate's form. She possessed the same figure. The same clothes. The same demeanor. Not a single aspect had changed in the transition. "Impressive," Syrosk spoke up. "You've a firmer grasp on your mind than the other two." Fay offered a brief shrug. "I had good training." "I know. I've read your file," Syrosk rasped. "You belonged to Military Strategy. You were expected to be more than a fighter. Expected to be able to keep the Empire's secrets. But your master covered only the basics." "Is this the part where you make me relive my worst memories? Push me until I push back?" Fay tersely asked. "You'll find I'm not as easy to pick through as Asher." "Of that I've no doubt. Even now, you're consciously keeping me out. But your efforts are too blunt. In protecting certain aspects of your mind you've drawn attention to them. I know exactly where you keep your most hidden thoughts." "Doesn't do you much good if you can't reach them," Fay declared. "A prideful thing, aren't you?" Syrosk softly rasped, neither praise nor condemnation in his delivery. "Very well, let us see what your training has afforded you." All motions stopped. The two figures stood across from each other, eyes locked. Fay maintained her rigid stance, arms firmly crossed. Syrosk, meanwhile, tucked his arms behind his back as he narrowed his gaze. All was still. All was quiet. Suddenly, there was a fluttering amongst the white void. The tall woman's braided hair swayed as if caressed by a gentle breeze. But the calm would not last. The manifesting winds picked up, lashing out at the two adamant figures, but neither would budge. The swirling air soon carried an added grit, flakes of white that managed to stand out from the pristine surroundings. The air grew thicker and thicker as a fog rolled in around the pair. The floor beneath their feet began to vibrate as a new texture supplanted the perfect surface. The whiteness was tarnished, but not entirely missing. In its place, stone beset by ice and snow. ---------- Nami had all but lost the feeling in her extremities. Her hands shakily gripped her weapon, the heavy rod struggling to stay upright. The winds had picked up, stinging her eyes and exposed flesh. Disoriented, she had lost track of the Trandoshan lurking in the fog. Sinking into the snow, the Jedi spun on her feet, anxiously seeking her foe. A whistle cut through the air, and a sharp tingling ran up Nami's spine. She didn't even have time to turn, only duck, as a heavy piece of metal swung past where her head was only a moment prior. The swipe carried with it a wind stronger than any surrounding the combatants, one that shook the Jedi to her core. Nami knew she had to move, but found herself unable. She was frozen in place, stilled by the missed blow that would have otherwise separated her head from her body. Just as she regained control, she attempted to right herself, only to find the Trandoshan's scaled fist driven into her cheek. The strike sent the girl tumbling to the ground, her weapon slipping from her grasp. As Nami lay prone, half-embedded in the snow, Nesk stood over her, looming with his towering frame. The instructor began pacing back and forth, emanating a low snarl as he looked upon his fallen student. Nami struggled to lift herself from the ground. She was tired. She was numb. Even as her cheek reddened, she had felt little of the blow itself. All that was left were motions. Motions and strength. Nami began lifting herself, step by step. She dug her hands into the snow, locking her elbows. Slowly, she rose until her arms collapsed beneath her, sending her back to her prone position. "Get up," Nesk snarled. "I… I can't…" Nami muttered, still on the ground. "Yes it can. Get up." The Jedi dug her hands in once again, but instead used her strength to flip over. Her back against the ground, the girl looked up at her looming instructor. "And then what?" Nami asked, finding the energy to speak. "I'm just going to… get knocked down again…" The Trandoshan offered the arch of his scaly brow. "So?" "So what do you want me to do?" Nami muttered. "Get up," Nesk bluntly replied. "Get up and get good." "What kind of advice… is that?" "Best kind," Nesk firmly stated. "It is soft thing. Soft things die here. Become hard thing. Strong thing." A soft groan emanated from the downed student as she slowly raised herself into a seated position. Hunched over, the girl released a series of heavy breaths, visible amongst the chilled air. "Why do you keep calling me 'it'?" Nami muttered. "I'm not a thing." Nesk took a few steps toward his student, before squatting at her side. "Is it not? What is it then?" "A person," Nami stated, refusing to lock eyes with her instructor. "And what does that mean?" Nesk asked. "Why does it consider that better? Hmm? Because it has name? Because it is Human? Because it is girl? Because it is youngling?" "I'm not… a child." "No. It is not. It is Sith. Or is Nesk mistaken?" "What are you… talking about?" "If it wants to be Sith, Nesk will treat it like Sith," the Trandoshan declared. "If it wants to be Sith, that is what it must be. Nothing else may take precedence. Being Sith must rest at its core, must flow through every fiber of its being. Do not be girl who happens to be Sith. Be Sith who happens to be girl." Nami drew in and released a series of heavy breaths as she turned to look the looming Sith in his beady eyes. "That… oddly made sense. At least… some of it did." "Then it understands. Good," Nesk said as he straightened out his stance. "Now, get up." As Nami pivoted about her waist, the student felt what little control she possessed over her body steadily being sapped by the exhausting cold. "I can barely move." "Don't care. Get up," Nesk directed as he kicked a pile of snow toward the girl. Nami's limp arms could do nothing to block the clumps as they struck her face and chest. She winced, mostly through unpreparedness rather than true discomfort. "I think my body's gone numb," Nami muttered, snow still clinging to her upper robes. "The Force flows through every cell in its body," Nesk declared. "A Sith controls the Force. Therefore, a Sith is always in control of its body. If it wants to move, it possesses the ability to make it so." "I don't… I can't…" "If it does not take control, the Force will abandon it, and its life will not be far behind," Nesk said as his bare foot delivered another pile of snow onto the student. Nami shivered, not from the cold, but from her body's efforts to move itself from its stilled hunch. The girl gritted her teeth, clenching her numb fingers. "Get up," Nesk continued. Another kick, another pile of snow heaped upon the sitting student. "Get good." Another kick, but this time, Nami managed to raise an arm to intercede. The clumps ineffectually clung to her sleeves, but the Trandoshan would not relent. "Get strong." Another kick. Nami opted to weather the snow. Her arm was better suited as a brace as she struggled to push herself off the ground. A low grumble began to slip past the girl's gritted teeth as she urged herself upward. "Take control." Another kick. This time, the snow would land upon her pants as she lunged forward. The grumble had turned into a primal shout as the student raised herself through sheer force of will. Eyes wide, nostrils flaring, the girl wound back her fist before delivering it straight into the Trandoshan's gut. The strike came to an abrupt stop as it impacted against the instructor's sturdy hide. Nesk stood unwavering, unaffected by the haphazard blow. Nami, meanwhile, slipped and fell back to the ground where she would lay prone in the snow once more. The Trandoshan cast his sharpened gaze upon the now motionless student. Tilting his head, Nesk offered a few quick nudges with his foot against the girl's shoulder. No response. The instructor release a quick sigh. Stepping away from the fallen student, he casually walked around the snowy field that surrounded them, retrieving the bag he had brought, and the rod Nami had dropped. Reclaiming his belongings, Nesk paused beside the stilled girl. Carefully, he removed the swords strapped to his back and placed them in the bag alongside the metallic rods. Resting his luggage on his ground, the Trandoshan finally turned his attention toward his student. In one swift motion, Nesk lifted the girl's limp body and slung it over his shoulder. Making sure she was secure, the instructor then picked his bag up off the ground and began making his way back toward his home.

I've had a few for post Act III additions for each class, all of which could work as same/opposite gender romances. --- Agent: Kel Thoresh – Sith Operative. Male Pureblood. One of only five Force-sensitives to be put through field agent training. The project, commissioned by Lord Jadus himself, came to an abrupt and mysterious end several years ago. Now, as the Intelligence of old fades, as the seeds of Sith Intelligence take hold, as the future of the sphere remain unclear, Kel Thoresh steps from the shadows he has called home with only one thing on his mind: Cipher Nine. A man of mystery, who knows and uses all the same tricks of the agent. Sly, manipulative, coy, speaks in half-truths and lies. Initial relationship with the agent would depend on who they dealt with Darth Jadus. Romance line would involve two people trained to do whatever they can to influence as many people as they can finding something oddly genuine in the other. --- Bounty Hunter: ‘Kara’ – Freelance Assassin. Female Twi’lek. Cold and efficient. The assassin known only as ‘Kara’ had previously remained faceless, always using intermediaries to procure contracts. Recent events have not only forced her to step into the light, but also seek the help of the most high-profile bounty hunter currently working in the galaxy. An apparently Republic-aligned organization is hunting hunters, wiping away free agents who dare work with the Empire. Believing herself a target of the GenoHaradan, Kara joins forces with the only force capable of opposing them. The loner, she eschews the typical bright, lusty Twi’lek stereotype to be an anonymous, faceless killer. Cold, her joining the hunter would be a means to an end for survival, fully expecting to depart once she was sure her life was no longer in danger. Romance line would be two opposites going at each other, one loud and headstrong, the other quiet and contemplative, as the walls she had built up slowly come down. --- Consular: Yannis Varr – Echani Warrior. Male Echani. The matriarchal society of the Echani have struggled with their place in galactic affairs as of late. Keeping themselves secure has meant dealing with domestic and interplanetary threats such that they were unable to fully support the Republic despite having been instrumental in the effort to rebuild the Jedi Order centuries ago. Now, the Echani people find themselves in the sights of the Sith, but not all are willing to resist. Coming with promises of newfound tolerance and an appreciation of their warriors’ skill, the Empire seeks to ally itself with the Echani people. In order to convince the Echani to accept the Republic’s support, they ask a representation join one of the Order’s most influential Jedi. Yannis Varr, warrior, monk, diplomat, monitors the Barsen’thor until he is ready to pass judge whether or not the Republic is worthy. A spiritual figure, despite not being Force-sensitive somewhat akin to Vector albeit with a largely different background culture. Very physical, often wanting to get to know the Consular through sparring matches, often walking around the ship shirtless because of the Echani’s distaste for heavy coverings and armor. Romance line would be influenced by the matriarchal society he comes from. --- Inquisitor: Nu – Sith Spirit. Genderless ghost, variable vessel. During a routine excavation on Ziost, Imperial Reclamation Service uncovered something more than simple artifacts and recordings. They discovered the spirit of a long-dead Sith Lord. When the team went completely silent, the Dark Councilor in charge of Ancient Knowledge decided to investigate, only to find the threat now inhabiting the body of an archeologist. The Dark Councilor soon discovered the spirit was not just possessing the person, but had bound themselves to their new body in a way resembling their own power, replacing the host entirely. The spirit could not be bound by the Sith, but was attracted to the Councilor as all undead were. Despite seeing the other as a threat, they both nonetheless realized the gains to be wrought from cooperation. Voice would be either multiple voices overlaid (male and female), or a single voice mixed to seem almost otherworldly. A Force-using companion that doesn’t become an apprentice. Can fill the role of a mentor/rival while drawing parallels with Zash in which a more knowledgeable Inquisitor now keeps a careful eye out for anything in particular. Companion customizations would allow a larger array of physical options because the vessel could be all sorts of Reclamation Service agents. Scenes could feature heavy interplay with Khem and Talos. Romance line would be delightfully weird as a centuries old spirit settles identity and body issues, and the Inquisitor questions whether the body is technically living or dead. --- Smuggler: Thayla Renn - Young Privateer. Female Human (Cyborg). Thayla Renn wanted nothing more than become a pilot for the Republic Navy, but an accident that cost her an arm and leg kept her from joining. Despite protests that she could fly with cybernetic limbs, she was never allowed to fly for the Republic. But she would not allow herself to be grounded. Procuring a starship via entirely reputable and legal means, Thayla Renn became a bright-eyed spacer out for adventure and thrills wherever they could be found. But with war enveloping the galaxy, she finds herself burdened with the choice of self-interest and a moral duty to help the Republic she once planned to serve. A young idealist with a thirst for action and adventure. Would be someone the smuggler could guide, keeping her sense of morality and innocence intact, or breaking it to make her into a hardened criminal. Romance line would be the non-Force-sensitive’s version of a teacher/student, hero relationship. --- Trooper: Oren Dal – Jedi Field Commander. Male Human. The Republic military and the Jedi Order have marched side by side to push back the threat of the Empire, but rarely have the two groups fully overlapped. One of those rare occurrences was Oren Dal. A Jedi. A Soldier. A Master. A Commander. Oren Dal was a Jedi versed in martial skill and tactical knowledge, leading companies of soldiers from the ground rather than a command center. The Cold War caused Dal to give up his position of Jedi Field Commander and return to the Order proper, but with the galaxy once more at war General Garza has arranged for him to be put back into the action alongside the commander of Havoc Squad. Would provide a non-Force-Sensitive a Jedi companion without forcing them to be an exile/secret practitioner. Would be ‘grayer’ than other Jedi, but would not be the rigid soldier expected of him. Would be more mature than other companions, which would affect his demeanor and romance line. --- Warrior: Vanar Krey – Imperial Guard. Female Human. The Emperor is silent, but his influence still remains. His reach may be with his Hand, but his weapon with always be the Wrath and the Guard. As challengers and pretenders rise through the ranks of the Sith, judgment rests in the hands of the Emperor’s chosen. And as new threats arise, a promising upstart with the Imperial Guard is given to the Wrath, believing her potential to be best unlocked by the greatest warrior the Empire has known. The intelligence of Quinn. The fire of Pierce. The dedication of an apprentice. Would provide the sense that the warrior has ties to things beyond the Emperor and the Hand. Fiercely loyal to the Emperor, or at least the idea of the Emperor, the warrior would be able to eventually place themselves above him in her mind. Romance line would be one involving duty, but her upbringing and training requires that the warrior prove themselves worthy of her affection. --- Jedi Knight: I have no freakin' idea...

Any sufficiently trained Force-user can control and manipulate their own bodies. Enhanced strength and speed are the most obvious displays, but they can also last longer without food, water, or even breathable air. There are instances of Jedi Masters sating themselves solely through the Force by meditating, surviving for days/weeks/months without proper nourishment. Jedi and Sith can control the amount of pain they feel, and have greater control of their body temperatures than non-Force-sensitives. The limits of their abilities are likely tied to skill and how strenuous the surrounding activities are. If forced to work in hazardous environments for a long period of time, or perform actions that break their focus, Jedi and Sith would likely still succumb to negative effects. And extreme hazards would likely take more effort to counteract than simply wearing protection. So they require less protection, but it'd probably still be a good idea to wear some anyway. In-game though, it's like a mix of this and not wanting to have to create as many unique models.

Chapter Two The pilots of Torrid Squadron watched as the starmap zoomed in, until the projection focused on a small string of stars to the galactic east. Data points pointed to each star system, and a bright line cut a swath between them. "This is the Erical Hyperlane," Rem said, eyeing the bright band that snaked through the map. "It runs from the core through to Mon Calamari, passing by Erigorm, Manaan, and Saleucami." Every pilot in the room focused their gaze on the projection, studying it, committing every single detail to memory. Perhaps the most studious was Lieutenant Dunn. The Kel Dor softly rubbed the base of his antiox mask, staring at the map from beneath his black goggles. "It appears to run through Hutt space as well," Dunn spoke up, his stoic voice possessing the usual electronic grit as it passed through his mask. "The lane only touches the outer fringe of their territory," Rem explained. "Doesn't matter if it's the fringe or the heart," said Loona. The Rodian leaned back in her chair, arms tightly crossed in front of her chest. "Hutt space is Hutt space." The room fell silent, none willing or able to contradict Loona's assessment. "Is this where the 'anomalous activity' has been taking place?" Haron asked as he eyed the starmap, running his gaze up and down the brightly lit hyperlane. The ex-Imperial's stance managed to maintain its rigidity, even when seated. He was unwavering, frozen in place for the duration of the proceedings. The commander offered a quick nod. "Traders have been reporting peculiar readings throughout the route, but the majority have come from those closer to the neutral systems." A series of flashing red dots pinged on the map along the hyperlane. One after another appeared, until they numbered in the dozens. "Peculiar readings?" Marvus muttered alongside the tilt of his head. Even when being briefed, the Devaronian managed to keep up his heightened levels of expressiveness. "What exactly does that mean?" "Cargo freighters have reported being scanned by an unknown source whilst traveling through hyperspace," Rem explained. "That's… uh…" Zal began before trailing off. Despite the Nautolan's large frame and usually high spirits, there was a readily apparent softness amidst his uncertainty. "Is that weird?" "You usually need specialized tech to scan an object in hyperspace," Fen said, utterly methodical in her delivery. There was a pause as the Mon Calamari gathered her thoughts. "But it's not beyond the realm of possibility, even outside the military." Staring at the holoprojector, Jerel seemed more puzzled than his compatriots. He understood the image before him, having no trouble deciphering the electronic image despite his unusual sight. The Miraluka instead took issue with its deeper meaning. "So who do we think's responsible? Imperials? Pirates?" "We're not sure yet," Rem admitted, trying extra hard not to let those words undermine her position. "Which is why we're being asked to investigate." "Investigate what, exactly?" Erin interjected, brow firmly arched. The haughty cyborg leaned forward as his fellows' eyes fell to him. "I mean, is it a listening post, a satellite, or what?" "Too mobile to be a space station," Fen bluntly stated, calm and methodical as always. "If the readings span the entire hyperlane, you'd need a lot of posts, far too many to keep hidden." "A ship then," Chanta suggested, trying to emulate her roommate's tone. "Or a small group of ships. Set up. Monitor the lane. Relocate." "Seems like an information broker," Loona spoke up, a sense of secondary knowledge supporting her claim. "Scan cargo, track it, sell that information on the black market." "The readings seem concentrated nearest Nar Shaddaa, so it makes sense," Varah added. The Rodian and Cathar shared a brief look, one of mutual backing. Meanwhile, the electronic image of the admiral maintained its studious presence, gently scratching his chin. "We still cannot rule out an Imperial presence," Trevel softly stated. "Even if criminals are responsible, the Empire could be aiding them." "Doesn't the Empire have better things to do than spy on merchants?" Erin mumbled, just loud enough to make sure everyone heard him. "Many who continue to support the Republic do so on the condition of stable trade," Seraak calmly offered. "Disrupting the economy in certain sectors can have just as profound an impact as military operations. There is no one way to fight a war. There is definitely no one way to wage a cold one." Whereas his teammates' calm may have spoken to their discipline, for the Togruta, it spoke of a deeper understanding. As vibrant as the alien pilot appeared on the outside, he maintained an almost philosophic grace about him. The Devaronian sharpened his gaze as he eyed the projected image. "There are other trade routes through the Outer Rim, ones that don't pass that close to Hutt space. What's so important about…" Marvus trailed off as his eyes shot open. "Oh, don't tell me we're doing this to appease the Hutts…" "No," Fen bluntly answered. "We're not." The other pilots remained silent as they turned to the Mon Calamari, puzzled by her declaration. "How do you know, Fen?" Chanta asked. "Look at the planets along the route," Fen calmly directed. "Surely, you recognize them." The Selkath leaned forward as she stared at the galaxy map. "Well, obviously I know Manaan, but…" "Manaan. Erigorm. Saleucami," Fen listed. "All worlds who have been less than pleased with their relationship with the Republic. On some worlds, there have even been talks of secession lately. Isn't that right, admiral?" All eyes fell to the electronic image of Trevel. The elder Human leaned forward in his seat, elbows propped upon the table, fingers interlocked. "The status of the planets along the route is of concern to the Senate, yes… but…" Marvus released a low sigh. "So this is just another publicity mission isn't it?” "I thought you actually enjoyed those," Seraak offered, genuinely taken aback. "Not since the last one cost us six pilots," Marvus muttered, the fire quickly leaving his voice. "This mission is just as important as any other you've carried out," Trevel declared. "The Republic cannot afford to endanger any of its peoples or allies. Not Saleucami. Not the Merchants Guild. Not even the Hutts. And if the Empire is truly behind these intrusions, we need to know sooner rather than later. And if this is solely a criminal endeavor, it will provide you a lesser threat as you return to the field." "Do not underestimate the underworld, admiral," Loona spoke up, almost at a harsh whisper. "Pirates can be just as resourceful as any military outfit." "I do not plan to misjudge any threat," Trevel firmly stated. "I know you don't, admiral," Rem declared. "We'll prepare to move out as soon as possible." The electronic image of Trevel offered a quick nod. "Good luck, Commander." The hologram of the admiral faded, and the pilots of Torrid Squadron were alone. As many thoughts stewed within the minds of the twelve individuals, none thought to speak. As silence overtook the room, only the commander had the authority to break it. "Haron and I need to go over some details," Rem spoke up. "The rest of you, suit up and meet in the hangar. I want everyone prepped and ready in two hours. Understood?" A series of nods and 'ayes' emanated from the pilots. Whatever reservations they possessed, they could not outweigh their duty, to both the commander and the squadron. One by one, the pilots lifted themselves from their seats and exited the conference room, until only Rem and Haron remained. The commander and her executive officer sat side by side as the rest of the room went unoccupied. "What are the chances of this being an Imperial operation?" Haron asked. "That's what I was going to ask you," Rem admitted. Haron scratched his chin as he lowered his gaze, trapped in deep thought. "I'm not sure. This doesn't seem like a Navy operation. More in line with Intelligence. But that doesn't exactly match up either. Then again, it would seem the Empire is a much different place since I left." "Any thoughts on what we learned about the incident?" asked Rem. "I know you and the others were pretty set on going after the men responsible." "Revenge was nothing more than a petty want," Haron admitted. "We all knew the chances were slim that we'd ever encounter those responsible again. There are thousands of commanders and thousands more battles throughout the galaxy. We can't afford to take things personal. There's no place for rivalry in war. We honor the fallen by pressing forward, not succumbing to the past." "Hopefully the others feel that same way," said Rem. "They'll come around," Haron declared. "They still think the other side won that day, but they didn't. The Empire may not be exactly as it was a decade years ago, but I know some things will never change. This admiral and his mysterious advisor… they failed their mission, because we refused to give in. And now, they're suffering the consequences of their failure. Being assigned to a Sith Flight Commander was considered a death sentence back at the academy. The Empire takes care of its own… in all the worst ways." Rem cracked a hesitant smile. "I can see why you decided to leave. Command may not always make the right decisions, but at least we can count on them being better than the Sith." ---------- On the bridge of the Gage-class transport, there was a calm before the storm. Beyond the viewports, beyond the metal slab of the cruiser's chassis, beyond the fleet of warships, the Imperials' foes made their valiant last stand. The Imperial fleet was uniform, rigid in its formation. Five Terminus-class destroyers formed a line in front of the command vessel, cannons primed and ready to unleash their torrent on the ragtag group of vessels before them. On the other side, floating above the atmosphere of a world of rebels and dissidents were its defenders. The fleet staring down the Imperials was composed of a variety of vessels. Different makes and models, each of them. Disparate shapes and sizes. No sense of uniformity amongst them. Civilian vessels retrofitting for combat. Mercenary cruisers. 'Procured' Imperial ships. All traitors to the Empire. The pilots sought to remove the Empire from their lives, but the Empire would not abide their rebellion. Standing at the forefront of the bridge overlooking the main holoterminal, the Sith Flight Commander basked in the glow of the battle map. The Human was wrapped in fancifully dark robes, colorful trim inlayed in various patterns but never outshining the overbearing blackness of his attire. A hood covered his head and concealed his wrinkled face. Only by merit of the holoprojection could someone see his sharp and crooked smile. But even with such aid, none would willingly take notice. None dared to lock gazes with their superior. Not even the admiral who stood as his side. The Sith was ready to proceed with the attack. With a deep bow of his head, Fiernan backed away from the commander, who continued his forward stare, arms folded neatly behind his back. The admiral moved toward the center of the bridge. There, a short series of steps separated them from the bulk of the chamber. A walkway connected the front area with the bridge's exit, and on either side a plethora of stations and monitors attended by the ship's dutiful crew. Standing at the top of the steps, Fiernan looked over his subordinates, joined shortly thereafter by his advisor. The Chiss stood tall as ever, unrelenting in his stance. The advisor's uniform was still a muddled gray and absent of ranking or designation. The admiral's however seemed to have been stripped of a few of its merits. "Everyone, prepare for battle," Fiernan called out, his voice still carrying the tenor of a commander. "Secure the channels. Contact Strike-1 through 5, have them recycle their batteries, but they are not to fire until I give the order. Prep the fighters. I want Squadrons 1 through 10 ready to fly at a moment's notice." The chamber was silent but for the pattering of feet and subtle chattering over headsets. There was no need for 'ayes' when the command was absolute. "We will show those who dare turn their back on the Empire the error of their ways," the Sith Lord cackled. "Wipe them out. All of them." "Of course, my Lord," Fiernan said, forcing himself to speak. The Chiss bent his towering frame so that his mouth neared the admiral's ear. "Might I suggest having the destroyers fire the opening volley?" "That would only disperse the enemy fleet," Fiernan quickly muttered. "Exactly," Feras replied. "The enemy is unorganized. If they are dispersed, they'll be less of a burden on our fighters. They can match them ship to ship, but we'd lose to many pilots to the swarm if it remained concentrated." "Very well," Fiernan whispered before clearing his throat. "Have the destroyers prepare the opening volley. After the enemy fleet scatters, we will send out the fighters. They will handle the bulk of the forces while the destroyers spread out and target the largest vessels." "What?" the Sith Lord balked, turning away from the holoterminal. The Flight Commander slinked toward his subordinate, casting his darkened gaze upon him. "We cannot allow the enemy to scatter! Not when we've the ability to crush them where they stand. Send out the fighters. Have them surround the enemy fleet. Keep them in place while the destroyers tear them to shreds." The admiral shivered as he went wide-eyed, bead of sweat forming on his brow. "My Lord, I-" "We cannot keep them in place with the forces we have," Feras bluntly stated. "The fighters would be spread too thin and risk being caught in the crossfire. They can handle a ragtag group of dissidents, but the rebels mustn't believe they are being trapped." The Sith Lord immediately turned toward the advisor, casting his hooded visage up at the Chiss. A harsh scowl formed upon his wrinkled lips. "You'd dare to question my orders?" "No! No, my Lord," Fiernan interrupted, voice almost squeaking. "We'll carry out the attack as you wish." "See that you do," the Sith rasped. The Flight Commander began to turn back toward the holoterminal, when he noticed the bridge's doors opening, a lone figure stomping through. "What is the meaning of this!" a young, petulant voice shouted. All eyes turned to the intruding figure. A Human male, mid-twenties, garbed in dark attire. Peculiarly, the figure appeared to be wearing a black and red flightsuit beset by matching layers of cloth. The man marched toward the front of the bridge, the harshest of glares upon his youthful face. "Why is my starfighter locked down?" "I told you, you've no place out there, apprentice," the Sith Lord chided. "A Sith belongs here, in the command center." "A Sith belongs in the middle of battle!" the apprentice shouted. "Just let me out there! I can help crush these rebels." "Your help is not needed, apprentice," the Sith Lord rasped. "The Imperials have their duties, and you have yours. I'll not hear another word of this nonsense!" The apprentice release an inarticulate scoff as he stomped off in a huff. Rather than exit the bridge, the flightsuited Sith planted his back against the wall beside the chamber entrance, arms crossed, eyes glued to the floor. The Sith Lord released a low sigh before reaffirming his gaze on the admiral. "You have your orders. Commence the attack." "At once, my Lord," Fiernan sheepishly said. But before he could signal the attack, his advisor took a step toward the Sith Lord. "This plan is foolish," Feras declared, his deep voice even deeper than usual. "You're wasting pilots' lives because you're more interested in execution rather than results. You're a failure of a commander." "You insolent filth," the Sith Lord rasped. "In every conceivable manner I am your superior, and you would dare insult me?" The Chiss' hands tightening into fists. "You are not my superior. You are a deluded fool who cannot… who cannot…" The advisor found it harder and harder to breath as an invisible force wrapped around his throat, constricting his airway. The Sith Lord slowly raised his clawing hand, staring into the red eyes of his victim. Even as he was choked through the Force, Feras' stance remained adamant. His knees refused to bend. His hands refused to grasp as his throat. His eyes only slightly wavered as they cast their burning stare into those of his oppressor. "My Lord, please!" Fiernan pleaded. "He didn't know what he was saying. He didn't mean it. It's his alien brain. It makes him act out at times. He won't question you again, I promise!" With a final huff, the Sith Lord released his grip. Feras drew in a heavy breath as he continued to stare down the Flight Commander, until eye contact was broken by Fiernan putting himself between the two men. "You are no longer needed here," Fiernan muttered through gritted teeth, unblinking. The Chiss clenched his fists as his nostrils flared, but eventually he conceded. Walking down the short series of steps, the advisor made his way down the walkway and toward the bridge's entrance. Just as he was about to exit, he found the curious eyes of the Sith apprentice cast his way. The man possessed an uncouth look about him, disheveled hair atop his head and stubble lining his chin. "You have a death wish or something?" the apprentice asked. His voice was unsettlingly warm, a venom underlying his pleasantries. Feras paused, but remained silent. "Sith don't care for having their opinion challenged. Less so by a person like you." "I assume that goes for you too, right?" Feras muttered. "Nah, I really couldn't care less who you are or where you're from," the apprentice offered with a shrug. "When you're in a cockpit, nothing matters but skill. Not heritage. Not status. Nothing." "You fly?" "Yeah." "You any good?" The apprentice's lips curled into a smirk. "The best." "Then what's preventing you from flying?" The smile faded from the apprentice's face. "You heard my master. He wants me to do what he does." "Be an incompetent fool?" Feras muttered. The apprentice released a quick chuckle. "You are different, aren't you?" "Am I?" Feras asked. "I serve the Empire because I value skill. Above all else, strength and knowledge and the power of the individual." "It's a shame we're both stuck under someone too shortsighted to see our potential, huh?" the apprentice offered with an almost genuine candor. The Chiss locked eyes with those of the apprentice. "What is your name?" "Zuren. Zuren Baz." "You are that man's apprentice?" Feras asked. The Sith offered a quick nod. "If I understand the Sith correctly, it is your duty to one day succeed him." "That's what they say," the apprentice flippantly stated. "If he were to die, you would assume his command, correct?" Feras pressed. There was a beat as the two men continued to stare into one another's eyes. "If you were in command, you could fly to your heart's content. Myself and the admiral could direct the rest of 'your fleet'." The apprentice released a hushed laugh. "You really have assimilated, haven't you?" "I will not abide by a pretender who believes himself a commander," Feras firmly declared. "There's a way for both of us to achieve what we want." Zuren paused, the jovialness fading from his face. The two figures continued to meet their gazes, an overbearing seriousness between the both of them. "We could wait until he was asleep," Zuren suggested. "If I could sneak into his room, I might…" Before the apprentice could finish his thought, he saw the Chiss making his way back toward the front of the bridge. With a steady gait, Feras marched across the walkway and up the short flight of steps. Neither the admiral nor the Sith had time to react before the advisor clutched the back of the Sith Lord's robes with both hands. In one swift motion, the Chiss picked up the Flight Commander and hoisted him over his head. As the Sith thrashed about and flailed his limbs, Feras took a series of careful steps toward the stairs separating him from the walkway below. With a deep breath, Feras drove his captive straight down, snapping his neck on the edge of the top step. The Sith Lord tumbled down the flight of stairs. The quick series of thuds were quickly replaced by an all-consuming silence as he lay sprawled upon the walkway, utterly motionless.

The Empire is just that, an Empire. For centuries they operated in isolation, meaning they were responsible for every facet of their society. The Sith make up a tiny fraction of the Empire, and its armed forces are still only a part of it as well. Military instruction may be mandatory for all citizens, but I'm sure once someone's finished their training, maybe completed a tour of domestic defense or report for monthly security detail, there ought to be some 'normal' options for them. Even in the Empire, there's going to be engineers, pilots, doctors, managers, bartenders, artists, educators, merchants, etc. Your work would likely be nationalized and with strict oversight, but there's a way of life out there for the 'normals'. The reason most Imperial fear/revere the Sith is likely because they don't have to interact with them on a daily basis. All they know are the stories and myths and the official reports. Just get a job with Production and Logistics working at your prefecture's manufactory. If you screw up, blame one of the slaves.

The main tenet of the light side is likely the preservation of life. As such, if given the option between purposefully letting someone live versus purposefully killing someone, the life option is going to be 'light' regardless of potential bodily harm. I think the only way the light/dark dynamic here switches is if the victim expressly states they prefer death over capture (like with one of the bounties the hunter goes after, I think). The Force is objective. A lot of the times, it seems like it doesn't care about particulars and circumstances. All it cares about is, did your actions cause the death on another person, did your actions rob another person of their free will, or did your actions benefit yourself at the detriment of another? And the life/death decision seems to outrank all the others.

Light versus Dark side isn't about good versus evil. Its about freedom versus control, selflessness versus selfishness, and life versus death. This is why 'saving a single person now' is often the 'light' choice, even if the 'dark' one could potentially save more lives down the line. The Force doesn't care about 'potentially'. All it cares about is how you choose to act in the moment. For the situation you describe, the key word is 'forced'. You imposed your will upon someone, therefore its a dark side choice. That doesn't make you evil. It just signifies the minor shift in your action toward the end of a spectrum. It's the same reason sabotaging the Imperial aligned senator on Coruscant is a 'dark' choice, because you're imposing your will and putting yourself above the rule of law.

Episode Three: New Assignments Chapter One Two ships sped across the golden plains, side by side, hugging the ground. Like white daggers, they cut through the air, rustling the tall grass beneath their hulls. Maintaining their formation, the pair of starfighters were unwavering in their flight, rigid in their vectors and altitudes. "Alright," Erin's voice rang out, cool and authoritative. "We're coming up on two targets. Just stay low until we can get around them. Circle back and hit them hard." "I'm not so sure about this," Jerel shot back, oddly calm despite his reservations. "Look, I didn't want you as my wingman, but I wasn't given much of a choice," Erin bluntly stated. "If you're more comfortable getting shot at, go ahead and make a distraction. I'll take them out myself." "I don't fancy throwing myself into the line of fire," Jerel admitted, still calm. "Then stop complaining," Erin chided. "There they are, on the horizon." Ahead of the white ships, two starfighters zoomed toward them on a direct path of interception. Like shadows given form, the opposing vessels were dark mirrors to those flown by the cyborg and Miraluka. Keeping low, the black starfighters seemed to be utilizing an almost identical strategy. "Alright, recalibrate shields, double-front," Erin called out. "We'll slip under them, flip around, and strike their flanks." "How do I do that?" Jerel asked, almost muttering. "What?" Erin balked. Before either could offer another word, a series of fiery bolts left the black vessels' cannons, skimming just over the white vessels' cockpits. Erin and Jerel urged their ships forward, Jerel doing so with considerably less grace. As each pair of starfighters matched the other's altitude, it soon became clear that neither would be maneuvering around the other. The two sides exchanged fire, a litany of energetic bolts zooming past each other, eager to send their target tumbling to the ground in a vibrant shower of sparks and shattered metals. As Erin readied another volley, his vessel shook, a series of warnings sounding off in his ear. Puzzling over the fact that he hadn't seen a direct hit, his readout soon told him the blow came from behind. "Jerel? You did not just do that!" Erin barked. "I'm sorry, I'm not familiar with these controls," Jerel admitted, not a hint of urgency or worry in his voice. Distracted, the cyborg did nothing to dodge the oncoming swarm of laser fire from the black vessels. His shields shimmered and crackled before fizzling out. Soon, the bolts had ripped his hull asunder. "Damn it!" Erin cursed as he shot up from the couch, gripping his headset and tossing it to the ground. Jerel remain seated upon the cushion adjacent to his, eyeless gaze affixed to the controller in his hands rather than the viewscreen stretching across the far wall. The ergonomic piece of plastic featured a number of buttons and sticks, all of which the Miraluka fumbled over. Still looking down, Jerel only heard the auditory cue of his ship exploding. There was a smattering of cheers on the other side of the rec room, where two of the other pilots of Torrid Squadron found themselves on a similar couch, clutching similar controllers, watching a similar viewscreen, but with decidedly different emotions. Rising above and beyond the surrounding clamor was the large Nautolan's even larger laugh. "No need to get upset, Erin. I mean, it only means we're the better pilots is all." Even as she attempted to restrain herself, the Selkath by Zal's side released a low chortle, her six fingers still wrapped around the plastic controller. "It's just a game, Erin. Nothing to get worked up over." "You weren't the ones who got shot in the back!" Erin shouted. "I literally would have done better had I gone in solo." "I'm sorry, I've never played one of these things before," Jerel muttered, sliding off the headset, maneuvering it around the goggles that pressed against his brow. "We offered to let you do the tutorial first," said Zal, casting his large, black eyes toward the still-fuming Human. "You declined, so I think you're the one to blame here." "Like hell I am!" Erin shot back. "I'm sorry I thought a pilot might be able to pick up a program design to approximate flight for children." "The game is technically rated for teenagers," Chanta offered, inaudible to the distant pair. "The button map on this thing feels awkward," Jerel admitted. "Honestly, I think I might have done better if it was more complicated." "Would have done better if you had a set of eyes," Erin muttered. "I saw the screen perfectly, it was the controls that were the problem," Jerel replied, somewhat terse. "Oh, I know exactly what the problem was," Erin haughtily replied. "Seriously? Are you this upset over losing at a game? Do you really need to prove you're the best that badly?" Chanta asked, this time loud enough to make sure her words reached their recipient. Erin gritted his teeth. "I don't need my name at the bottom of the rankings. There are crewmen rated higher than me. It's embarrassing." "And this thing you're doing right now, you don't think that's embarrassing?" Chanta offered, a sardonic bite accompanying her voice's usual grit. The cyborg paused, panning his gaze about the small, but still sizable, chamber. The smooth, white walls that encased them were lined with seats and methods to pass the time. Between the two viewscreens, a small assortment of linked systems and terminals housing the now-ceased videogame. Another wall featured holobanks with a wide variety of digital books, and datapads with which to access them. Another housed a number of tables and board games, home to nightly bouts of Dajarik and Pazaak. And only now did Erin noticed the sideward glances from the ship's other occupants. A number of technicians and crewmen occupied the rec room, garbed in the same simple gray jumpsuits that the majority of those stationed aboard the Den wore. And whether they be Human or alien, the cyborg recognized a snicker when he saw one. Throwing his hands in air and closing his eyes, Erin finally conceded. "Alright. You guys won this one. But don't expect to stay on the top. We'll be better next time." Jerel arched his brow. "We will?" "Yes, we will," Erin firmly declared. "You could always just let it go," Chanta bluntly stated. The Selkath's oblong face didn't allow for a large range of expression, but it was trying its hardest to convey a profound sense of snark. "I mean, this is supposed to be for fun. Remember? Fun? Besides, it's really not even that competitive. I mean, half the squadron doesn't even play." "If we really wanted to bug him, we could download the galactic rankings," Zal offered alongside a toothy grin. "Show him how he compares to some kid on Corellia." The cyborg offered an indignant pout toward his fellow pilots, on the verge of another outburst, when a chirp sounded off over the room's speaker. "Would the pilots of Torrid Squadron please report to Conference Room 1," a soft voice called out. "Torrid Squadron, you are wanted in Conference Room 1." ---------- There was a heat in the air. Two figures squared off, surrounded by a ring of their fellows. All eyes fell upon the two combatants as they raised their fists. One a man. One a woman. One a Human. One a Cathar. One a soldier. One a pilot. Workout attire garbed the two fighters. For the man, a set of tight, form-fitting compression gear. For the woman, a pair of sweatpants and a loose shirt, giving her light-brown fur room to move and breath. Sweat dominated the Human's brow, whilst the Cathar maintained her fierce countenance without an ounce of exhaustion. She was the smaller of the two, but possessed a tight, sculpted musculature about her. A simultaneously strong and dexterous form. The man threw out a haggard punch, only for the woman to snatch his fist. Spinning on her heels, the Cathar rolled her opponent over her shoulder, sending him to the flat of his back with a soft thud. Splayed out upon the cushioned mat beneath them, the man opted to remain still as a round of cheers and jeers emanated from the gathered audience. The Human rolled his head upon the mat before regaining his composure. Looking up, he saw the shadowed silhouette of the Cathar standing over him, offering her hand. In one swift motion, she picked her opponent up from the mat with an impressed smile. "That was a nice try," Varah warmly offered, balancing pride and humility. The gathered audience collapsed in on the pair, offering the defeated man a series of playful nudges and shoves. "Yeah right," one of the men spoke up. "Guy got knocked out by a space jockey." The majority of the gathered men and women belong to Ship-Sec, the onboard security forces who protected the Den from within. Garbed in the same uniform compression gear as their beaten comrade, they came in a variety of shapes, sizes, and species. Surrounding the gathered peoples was the ship's workout room. Expansive, the chamber stretched far and possessed a litany of machinery and gear available to anyone stationed aboard the vessel. In its center, a place reserved for practice bouts. A place now owned by Varah and Loona. Walking across the blue mats that clashed with the various whites and grays surrounding them, the Rodian pilot placed a sturdy hand upon her squadron mate's shoulder. And it wasn't alone. One of the security officers had joined in the revelry, a Human female wearing a hearty smirk. "Hah! Always fun to see a woman take one of the boys down a notch," she said, giving Varah's shoulder an energetic shake. The man who had just been thrown to the ground furrowed his brow. "Yeah right. Sex had nothing to do with it." "Bet that's the first time you've admitted that," the woman teased. The gathered figures shared a round of laughter. "Very funny," the man replied, less enthused than his brethren. "But species was the deciding factor. Only one of us was born with the ability to tear out a Mandalorian's throat." "I consider it more a natural talent than an evolutionary trait," Varah offered with a knowing smile. The security officer at her side withdrew her hand, releasing another chuckle. "He keeps making excuses like that and someone's going to mistake him for an Imp," the woman joked. Another round of laughter started, but was mysteriously culled as the men and women noticed an approaching figure. Haron Gregard. As Torrid Squadron's executive officer neared the central mats, the gathered security officers began to silently disperse, until only Varah and Loona remained. The Human had replaced his formal attire for more casual garb, a form-fitting t-shirt and cargo pants. An ensemble of muted browns and grays. Though less intimidating than his uniformed personage, the pilot still possessed a less-than-warm aura about him. This much was evidenced by the cold stare he offered his fellow pilots. "Didn't we say no more fights without supervision?" Haron asked with the arch of his brow. "I thought that only pertained to Loona," Varah admitted. The Rodian crossed her arms, head slightly dipped. "It was never established that I couldn't hit him in the face," she mumbled. "It pertains to all the pilots," Haron firmly stated. "We can't risk you getting injured before jumping into the cockpit. You can't fly with a busted arm." The Cathar cracked a confident smile. "You'd need to find someone capable of busting my arm first." The XO sharpened his gaze as he focused on the smirking pilot. "What brings you here, anyway?" "Well, considering none of the other pilots had seen you two for a while, I figured I'd check to see if you were bothering Ship-Sec again," Haron stated. "Just to set the record straight, I was only watching," Loona calmly interjected. The Cathar turned her head just in time to see the Rodian's flippant shrug. "There's a reason for these rules," Haron continued. "Any injuries sustained here could jeopardize a mission. You need to be at peak performance at all times." "This is how I stay at peak performance," Varah replied. "I need to let off some steam every once in a while. If I don't, I start to get all jittery. That affects my flying a lot more than a few scrapes and bruises." "There are other ways to let off steam," Haron firmly replied. The two locked eyes, each narrowing with each passing moment. Finally, Varah gently scratched the fur of her chin. "You're a fighter, right?" Haron paused, slightly tilting his head. "How do you mean?" "You're skilled in close quarters combat? Given your background, I would assume so," Varah suggested. "My background?" "I mean, everyone knows how important physical conditioning is to Imperials," said Varah. "If you defected after the war ended, that means some of your military training had to have taken place over there, right?" "My 'military training' began when I was ten years old," Haron explained, somewhat softer than before. "Then how about a match?" Varah suggested. "If you can take me down, I promise, no more unsupervised fights." "You want to fight me? Right here? Right now?" Haron asked. "Don't see why not," said Varah. "Everyone knows you and Dunn are the best martial artists on the team. And I didn't get a chance with Dunn before Loona jabbed him in the mask." "Again," Loona quietly interrupted. "No one said I couldn't." "Is this some matter of pride to you?" Haron asked, gaze solely focused on the Cathar. "In a manner of speaking, yes," Varah admitted. "But who knows? Given your reputation, if I beat you, I might not even want to fight anyone else anymore." There was a pause as silence dominated the mats. "Assuming you could beat me," Haron firmly offered. The smirk crept back upon the Cathar's face, but quickly wiped away as a chirp sounded off over the room's speakers. "Would the pilots of Torrid Squadron please report to Conference Room 1," a soft voice called out. "Torrid Squadron, you are wanted in Conference Room 1." "Another time," Haron stated, turning his back on the pilots without a second thought. As she watched her squadron mate depart, the Cathar scrunched her face in disappointment. "Another time," Varah muttered, a fierce glint in her eyes. ---------- Conference Room 1. The twelve pilots of Torrid Squadron had been gathered. The compact chamber featured a round table surrounded by more than a dozen seats, a holoterminal resting in its center. Two chairs were already occupied, one by the squadron's commander, the other by the electronic hologram of an older naval officer. "Welcome everyone," Rem called out. The commander had dressed down from her officer's attire, instead wearing the fatigues the others had taken to wearing aboard the Den, albeit a full set worn to neat perfection. Heavy boots, thick trousers, and a long-sleeve shirt over the form-fitting layer underneath. All colored with various browns and grays. A subdued outfit compare to the usual vibrant flightsuits. "Please, take a seat. Admiral Trevel has some information he'd like to share." The eleven other members of Torrid Squadron made their way toward the table. As the plainclothes pilots circled around the table, one found his path interrupted. As Erin pulled back a chair, he felt a sharp pain in his foot. Releasing a hushed expletive, the pilot saw one of the TS-AA units making its way around the table, but not before it had intentionally driven its forward strut into the cyborg. Erin shot the droid a sharp glare as it zipped away, offering a series of jaunty beeps. Soon, all twelve pilots had taken their place around the conference table. The electronic figure of Admiral Trevel leaned forward in his seat. Transmitting from Coruscant, the superior officer was garbed in the same service uniform that he always wore within the halls of the Senate. "Now that everyone's here, we can proceed," Admiral Trevel's projection spoke up, restrained in its delivery. "Is this about a new mission?" Haron asked, puzzled by the abrupt summoning. "In part. But it also concerns an old one," Trevel explained. "I had SIS do some digging into the incident regarding the Wanderer escort. We now know who was responsible." There was a heavy silence in the room as the pilots looked to one another. They waited, eagerly, for further explanation, and received it when the holoprojector in the center of the table fired up. Before them, a three-dimensional model of an Imperial formed. An elder Human male. Frail body garbed in naval officer's attire. Beside him, a series of charts and notes. "The man before you is Admiral Fiernan of the Imperial Navy," said Trevel. The pilots sharpened their eyes toward the image, studying it. None of them, new or old, recognized the name or face. "Had we faced him prior to the incident?" Haron asked. "You hadn't. At least, not directly," Trevel replied. "I however, have dealt with the man since before the war ended. We've opposed each other on several occasions over the years. We both worked behind the scenes, guiding and maneuvering fleets, but never directly engaging each other's forces." "Those Harrowers seemed pretty damned direct," Marvus muttered under his breath. The Devaronian leaned back, slightly sinking into his chair. "Within the past year, the man's tactics have drastically changed," Trevel explained. "Why might that be?" asked Haron. "We have some ideas," Trevel admitted. "Mostly concerning-" "Wait," Marvus interrupted, picking himself back up. "If you two have a past, doesn't that basically confirm the fact that the incident was a targeted attack?" "Still not enough of a confirmation for the Senate," Fen chided in her own stoic way. The Mon Calamari offered a flippant wave of her bulky hand. "Then again, the man could have called us up on the holo to gloat and the Senate still wouldn't have been satisfied." "You mentioned other details?" Haron spoke up, trying to keep the proceedings under control. "We now believe Admiral Fiernan was not working alone," Rem took over. The holographic image of the wrinkled Human faded. In its place, a physical specimen of a man. Strong, broad-shouldered, and with an impeccable stance. The figure seemed an Imperial officer, but his skin and eyes appeared distorted by the hologram. Marvus raised an eyebrow at the display. "Is there something wrong with the projector?" "I'm afraid not," Rem admitted. "This is Malaf'era'sidoru. A Chiss." "But the Imperial Navy doesn't have any Chiss commanders," said Haron. "It's been a decade since you left," Seraak stated. "Maybe things have changed since then." "Haron's right," Rem spoke up. "Even though the Chiss are allied with the Empire, we've no records of an alien attaining a rank of command within their Navy. From what we've uncovered, this man's official title is Tactical Advisor and Security Liaison. Likely an attempt to circumvent the Navy's typical hierarchy." "So, the Admiral gets himself a new advisor and decides to take on Torrid Squadron," Marvus muttered. "And what of the weapon we encountered?" Dunn asked. "The interdiction field." "Apparently, the Admiral and his advisor had been taking part in an internal arms race," Trevel explained. “Different admirals and generals were competing to earn the favor of the Grand Moff by developing super weapons." "But now that we know who they are, we can go after them, right?" Zal spoke up. The large Nautolan leaned forward, on the edge of his barely accommodating seat. There was a beat as the Admiral remained silent. "I'm afraid not." "Big surprise," Marvus grumbled. "This has nothing to do with authorization," Trevel replied. "Fiernan didn't walk away from the conflict unscathed. Not only did some of you manage to escape, you crippled one of his Harrowers. Because of his failure, he lost any support he had gained from the Grand Moff. He was recalled to the heart of Imperial space. We can't affect him, but he can't affect us either." "What exactly is he doing now?" Haron asked. "He's policing domestic space under the command of a Sith Lord," Rem replied. "And the advisor?" the XO followed up. "Still with Fiernan, according to our reports," Trevel answered. "Maybe we'll get lucky and the Sith will kill them for us," Marvus offered. "Not an unlikely prospect," Haron bluntly stated. "But if they're beyond our reach, where do we focus our attention now?" The commander looked to the image projected above the table. The Chiss faded, and was replaced with a galactic map. "There have been some reports of anomalous activity on the borders between Republic and Neutral space…" ---------- Deep in the heart of Imperial territory, sitting patiently amongst the starry void was a Gage-class transport. The gray slab of Imperial engineering drifted amongst the vacuum, secure in its duty as a command center, confident in its position at the rear of a fleet of warships. Within the bridge stood the vessel's new master. A figure garbed in dark, all-encompassing robes gazing upon a the three-dimensional image projected by the main holoterminal. Upon it, a tactical appraisal of an ensuing conflict. On one side, the fleet of warships it currently belonged to. On the other, a ragtag assemblage of rebels and insurgents. Occupying the bridge were the various coordinators and technicians that typically manned the terminals lining the chamber's extremities. The open area surrounding the holoprojector held only three figures. A Sith Lord. An admiral. A Chiss. "You may commence your attack, admiral."

Chapter Seventeen The world was a gray haze. The air was thick with an icy fog, suffocating the light provided by Ziost's sun. The wind carried flakes of snow that stung the flesh, until it would inevitably become numb. In the throes of a harsh winter, the planet punished any who strayed beyond the protection of its settlements. But there were those who would voluntarily brave the unforgiving wastes. For there was strength to be found there. To be earned there. Two figures marched across the frozen wasteland, feet sinking beneath the top layer of snow, robes fluttering under the constant barrage of wind. Ziost was home to every manner of Imperial influence. Government offices were stacked upon each other, surrounded by their urban kin. Military bases dotted the landscape, testing the mettle of soldiers amidst the unforgiving climate. Tombs stretched high and low, carved from the frozen stone countless generations ago. The Academy stood atop its lofty peak, casting its shadow over the surrounding grounds. But the two figures had need for none of that. In whatever direction the Empire's roots on the planet spread, they moved toward the opposite. They had no interest in what the Empire could provide. They sought gains from the emptiness. Nesk led the way through the haze, stomping across the gray flatlands with nothing to guide his path. He followed no maps. No beacons. Only the knowledge that rest firmly in his own mind. Trailing the Trandoshan, Nami struggled to keep up with her indomitable instructor. She had nothing but the robes upon her back, and the lightsaber clipped to her belt. She trudged, panning her gaze as she struggled to maintain the feeling in her extremities. In all directions, all she could see was fog. Turning back, she could only see a brief series of footprints before they were consumed by the gray haze. No mountains sprouting from the horizon. No hints of the city they had left behind. Returning her gaze forward, the girl saw only the faint silhouette of the large Sith ahead. With a shivered curse, the Jedi pushed herself forward, eager to catch up. There hadn't been a word exchanged between the pair since their departure from Nesk's home. Since leaving Syrosk's side, Nami had thought to ask a question. Where were they going? How much further would they have to walk? What were they going to do once they got there? But she decided it was folly. No answer could possibly sate her curiosity. If anything, it would only prove disheartening. As the girl mindlessly pressed forward, she constricted her frame, hands constantly rubbing her arms in an attempt to stay warm. She bundled into herself, forcing her sleeves past her fingers, keeping her head concealed beneath her hood before the wind would inevitably blow the brown cloth backward. Her only concern was staying warm. A concern that dominated her so much that she didn't even notice her instructor stop. With an inaudible thud, the girl walked into the back of Nesk, colliding with the wrapped bundle of supplies he wore upon his back. Nami stumbled backwards, whilst the Trandoshan refused to budge in the slightest. The girl shook her head, trying to regain her composure. "Are we… are we here?" Nami asked, lips quivering and numb. "Yes," Nesk plainly stated. As the Trandoshan kept his eye glued to the forward horizon, the Jedi moved around his side. Just as she was about to take another step, she found a firm, clawed hand clutching at her shoulder. The girl paused as her eyes grew incredibly wide, only now seeing what lay ahead. Beneath the fog, the flatlands that seemed to stretch into infinity had come to an abrupt stop. Only a few steps in front of the pair, there was a shear drop into a sharp, unforgiving abyss. The fissure stretched to the left and right, its extremities fading beneath the gray haze As the Trandoshan released his grip on the girl's shoulder, Nami took a couple of careful steps back. Nesk, meanwhile, quickly slipped the long rucksack over his shoulder, letting it fall to his feet. The heavy bag sunk into the snow, rattling with a series of metallic clanks. "Now, we train," Nesk declared. "How?" Nami softly asked. "We fight," Nesk plainly answered. "Does it have a lightsaber?" "Yes." "Give it." The girl reached beneath her robes, returning with a simple gray hilt in her hand. The Trandoshan held out his palm, his motions rigid and unshaken by the surrounding cold. Nami complied, placing the metallic cylinder in her instructor's large hand. Nesk clenched his grip, turning the weapon over to examine its every facet and curve. Without warning, the Trandoshan pulled his arm back before tossing the lightsaber with a powerful throw. In a matter of moments, the weapon disappeared into the rocky fissure, falling into the darkness below. All Nami could do was stare, mouth agape. "Is Jedi thing. It doesn't need Jedi things," Nesk declared. "Did you have to… throw it over a cliff?" Nami muttered. "No ties to old life. Only new one. Besides, cannot enter Academy with lightsaber. Too dangerous," Nesk explained. "Cannot appear too strong. Be strong on inside. Not outside." "So how are we… supposed to train?" Nami asked. The Trandoshan lowered himself to the ground, knee digging into the snow. Opening the rucksack, the instructor revealed two metallic rods the length of an extended lightsaber. Unlike the training sabers the Jedi was familiar with, they were simplistic, unshaped and without energy arrays. Wrapping his clawed digits around one of the rods, Nesk picked up the simple tool and tossed it toward the girl's feet. Nami jumped when the piece of metal slammed into the ground, leaving a perfect imprint in the snow as it collided with the stone beneath with a loud thud. Reaching down, the Jedi wrapped her cold fingers around one of the rod's end, only to find herself incapable of lifting it with a single hand. Reinforcing her grip with her other hand, the girl released a soft groan as she picked one of the ends into the air, the other still sufficiently dug into the snow. "What the heck is this thing made of? Durasteel?" Nami muttered as she managed to lift one end of the rod past her waist. "No. Durasteel not heavy enough," Nesk plainly stated. The girl looked up to see the Trandoshan palming the second of the rods he had packed. In one, swift motion, he single-handedly lifted the rod into the air, before resting its length against his shoulder. "Is this what Sith use as training sabers?" Nami asked, slowly raising the tip of her rounded bar off the ground. "Not Sith. Just Nesk. Training sabers not put fear of blade into it." "I already know what happens… when you touch a lightsaber," Nami declared, almost offended. "Is this really necessary?" "Was Jedi learning. Only Sith learning from now on," Nesk replied. The girl released a grunt as she raised her rod upright, struggling to keep it balanced within her grip. "Getting hit with this… could still kill someone. Why not just use a lightsaber… if the end result is the same?" "Is easy to swing lightsaber. Should take effort. It is still soft thing. If it can swing that, it will be ready to continue," Nesk explained. "Okay, but-" Before Nami could finish her thought, the Trandoshan was upon her. With a primal snarl, Nesk raised his weapon high into the air, before bringing it down with a cascading swing. The Jedi barely stepped out of the way as the heavy rod imbedded its tip into where her feet previously stood. Nami stumbled in the snow, struggling to maintain her balance alongside the heavy object in her hands. As she secured her footing, her eyes went wide as she stared at her instructor. The tip of his weapon still embedded in the ground, the subtle sounds of still-crackling stone managed to overpower those of the passing winds. All the while, the Trandoshan stood completely still, beady eyes burning a hole through the girl's psyche. Only a single hand wrapped around the rod, Nesk pulled his weapon from the ground, holding it as he would a saber as he took another step toward the student. ---------- Back in Kaas City, Syrosk led his three underlings through the constricting halls of the Citadel back toward his home and office. "So, we already got another mission lined up?" Asher spoke up, trailing the uneven gait of his boss. "Not a mission," Syrosk replied. The other three Sith offered a series of arched brows. "I need to test you before you're sent back into the field." "Is this because of Nami?" Fay asked. "No. This was always intended to be a part of your induction into the organization," Syrosk admitted. "Mental conditioning, right?" said Graves, recalling their initial talks with the Executor. "Correct," Syrosk replied. "You proved yourselves capable of action when you successfully completed your first mission. Now you need to prove that your thoughts can stand up to forceful intrusions." The group came to a stop in front of the door leading to Syrosk's dwelling. "We don't have to lay on your weird inquisitor's slab, do we?" Asher bluntly asked. "No." The door lifted into its recess, granting access to the dwelling. Just as the three younger Sith were about to step inside, the alien offered a halting hand. "I'll be dealing with you individually. The rest can wait outside. Now, who wants to go first?" The three subordinates looked to one another, bouncing their gazes time and time again as silence overtook them. Only after a few long moments was the quiet broken by the burned Sith releasing a droning sigh. "Fine. I'll go first." "Wonderful," Syrosk rasped, completely deadpan. With that, the Sith Lord escorted Asher into his home and office, leaving Graves and Fay alone in the empty hallway. The tall woman and scarred man looked to one another, unsure of what to do. Eventually, Fay decided to leave against the nearby wall, and Graves did the same shortly after. All they could do now was wait. Inside, the alien waved his hand toward the chair that once held an unconscious Nami. "Take a seat." Asher complied, setting himself down. As he did, Syrosk circled around to the seat's rear, disappearing from the burned Sith's view. "Now, close your eyes," Syrosk directed. Once more, the Sith complied, without a fuss. "Now, open your eyes." Asher did so, only to find himself no longer within the Executor's domicile. No longer within the Citadel. Instead, he stood in the middle of an infinite white void. The burned Sith spun on his heels, only to see Syrosk standing behind him, the only other object occupying the vast emptiness that surrounded them. Together, they stood on some immaculate, perfect surface. Unfathomably smooth. Unfathomably clean. A thing of dreams rather than reality. "Neat trick," Asher dismissively offered alongside a shrug of his shoulders. The Sith Lord stood across from him, only the smallest of gaps separating them. As the alien looked up and down his subordinate, he offered a single arch of his brow. "Curious," Syrosk rasped. "What?" "I thought you might have looked different," Syrosk admitted. Asher looked down to see his torso went unclothed, but not unwrapped. The various robes and coats, the various pockets and bandoliers, they were all missing. The only thing the Human wore was a simple pair of black trousers, and the only thing covering his upper half were the all-encompassing bandages that hid his burnt flesh. Asher raised his hands, turning them over as he examined his form. "This is the mental representation you've created for yourself," Syrosk explained. "I didn't know whether it'd be burned or not." "Let me guess, that means something, doesn't it?" Asher asked, already knowing the answer. "It means this is who you are. Who you want to be. This is your most satisfactory form." "So, we're in my mind, huh?" Asher calmly said, looking around the blank void. "I thought it'd look different." "This is but a piece of your mind. A piece I have partitioned. A piece I control," Syrosk rasped. "Yeah, yeah, telepath. I get it," Asher dismissed. As he once more held his hands before his face, the Human's eyes went wide as he watched a budding flame blossom from his palms. The fire grew and spread, eventually traveling up his arms and dancing upon his shoulders. "Pretty cool." "This is not a time for playing," Syrosk declared. The other Sith offered a slight pout as he mentally extinguished the flames crawling up his body. "Alright, what are we doing, then? Am I supposed to be trying to force you out right now?" "If you were able, it would mean putting a stop to this," Syrosk stated "You could get up, walk out, have the rest of the day to yourself." "Fine." Without another word, the burned Sith closed his eyes and concentrated. He was a part of himself within a part of himself. He didn't know exactly how to proceed, but his trials had conditioned more than his body. The Sith looked inward, and outward, and inward again, trying to pinpoint what exactly was occurring within his mind. There was an intrusion. A foreign body. A foreign mind. There had to be a way to excise it. Devoting his energy to pushing Syrosk out of his mind, Asher gritted his teeth before exhaling the breath he had inadvertently been holding, despite the fact that he no longer needed air to function on the peculiar mindscape. Opening his eyes, Asher could only stare as he saw himself no longer within the white void. Only, he wasn't in the Citadel either. A cold, metallic platform stretched beneath the Sith's feet, its edges hanging over a rocky cliff. Beyond, the orange crags and skies of Korriban. As a shuttle lifted off in the distance, Asher quickly realized Syrosk no longer stood in front of him. But neither was he alone. Ahead, a figure stood out in the Sith's mind amongst the group of acolytes that surrounded him. A teenager. Human male. Slightly diminutive height. Dark, unkempt hair. Soft, fair skin. A hooked smile upon his face. A set of gray robes wrapping his body. Murel Azer. "I wasn't sure if your form would more resemble that," said the voice of Syrosk. Immediately turning his head, Asher saw that the alien now stood at his side, casting his cold gaze forward. "So these are your most cherished memories. Ones not of family or childhood, but of the Academy." "I don't know if I'd call them cherished," Asher muttered. Before his eyes, the scene shifted, wiping away only to be replaced by another. Gone was the landing platform, in its place one of the dueling circles that populated the Academy grounds. Teenagers fought one another with training sabers under the stern gaze of an instructor. Two figures were locked in combat, the larger utilizing wide, brutish swings, the smaller deftly ducking out of the way. Every time the metallic rods would meet, the energy bands running their length would spark, simulating some weak facsimile of actual lightsabers clashing. "Why wouldn't they be?" asked Syrosk. "The Academy gave you everything you could have possibly wanted. Before Korriban, you had nothing. You received nothing in the way of admiration or love from your parents, even when they discovered you were Force-sensitive. It was expected of you. Being a Sith was literally the least you could do in their eyes. But what you never received from them, you finally found from your fellow acolytes." Asher released a scoff and a roll of his eyes as the scene faded once again, now taking the form of the Academy's interior halls. "Oh yeah, I received tons of admiration from the other students." "Not admiration. Attention." In front of the pair, a lone Sith sat at his desk, a series of tools spread out in front of him. Under the light of a small lamp, the acolyte labored away, tinkering with his training saber, its casing opened and its innards on display. Circuits were rewired. Energy arrays were bolstered. Components were pushed to their limits. The environment wiped away again, returning to the dueling circles outside the Academy. Two acolytes found themselves at each other's blade under the glare of an instructor once more. The larger combatant was unable to land a hit on the smaller foe, but neither could the shorter fighter land a direct strike. But he didn't need one. One light slash with the enhance training saber, and its target began howling in pain. A wide gash presented itself in the larger acolyte's robes, and underneath lay charred and blackened flesh. "You knew there was little room for friendship amongst your fellow Sith," Syrosk continued. "But you weren't content with simple progression. Simple superiority. You wanted to prove yourself. You wanted to be noticed. You did everything in your power to not be forgotten." "So what?" Asher muttered. "Obscurity doesn't get you out of the Academy. You have to get people to notice you if you want to become an apprentice." "It wasn't those above you that you were interested in impressing though, was it?" Syrosk rasped. "This was about more than proving how skilled you were. You wanted everyone to know how smart you were. How creative you were. How unique you were. How special you were. Things a child expects to hear from their parents." "Is the psychology lesson over yet?" Asher dismissed, crossing his arms. Syrosk released a low chortle. "But you finally found something, didn't you? Or rather, someone." The scene shifted, but the environment endured. Only its occupants changed. As years passed, the rock and stone of the Academy grounds remained a rigid and unforgiving constant. Its denizens, however, displayed palpable change. The Human acolyte from before had exchanged his gray robes for a darker set. Exchanged his classmates for a new batch. Exchanged his instructor for an Overseer. Standing out from the rest, a sturdy figure. Human male. Tanned skin. Hair kept short. Face populated by an array of scratches and scars. "You found a rival," Syrosk continued. "Someone to finally give you the attention you so desired. Someone to hate. Someone to hate you back. Someone to give more than the cold ambivalence offered by your fellow students, by your instructors, by your parents. The man you knew only as Graves." In front of the Sith, the acolytes began to fade, one by one, until only two remained, staring one another down under the brutal Korriban sun. "You were competing for the apprenticeship of Lord Traer. But the Sith Lord was the last thing on your mind," Syrosk rasped. "You had found someone able to keep up with you. Someone able to match you. Someone able to combat your intuitiveness with raw determination. As each of the other acolytes were eliminated, you prayed he would be the last to go. You had seen how calm he was. But as you prodded him, he gave you precisely the response you desired. He was a mirror, dishing out as much as you could put in. When the day came for Traer to choose his apprentice, there was an emptiness inside you. You knew what awaited as an apprentice. You could not test a Lord as you would a fellow acolyte. You knew how worthless you were to a superior. Traer could never give you what the Academy offered, but neither could you stay. So, you fought, ready to kill the one person with whom you shared a bond with." Before the observing Sith, the younger versions of Asher and Graves stood opposite each other, under the watchful eyes of a cloaked Sith Lord. The dark figure stood shadowed even under the enduring light of the Korriban sun, visage concealed beneath a black hood. All that shone through was a crooked smile. Asher and Graves drew their blades, actual lightsabers gifted to them for their final duel. The blades shined with a harsh crimson, their tips directed toward their opponent. With the drop of the Sith Lord's hand, the two charged one another, meeting with a resounding clash. Graves was the slower of the two, lashing out with sluggish, but powerful blows. Asher kept his head low, ducking and weaving around the swinging blade, darting around the dueling circle. The lighter Sith offered only cursory jabs of his blade, piercing the outer edges of his opponent's frame. The blade's tip would pass through the other acolyte's robes, singeing the flesh beneath. But the scarred combatant continued undeterred. The two continued, dancing around one another with varying degrees of martial grace. As the duel progressed under the invested eyes of Lord Traer, he studied his potential apprentices, reveling in the display. Despite Asher's countless jabs, he was unable to fully pierce his opponent's guard. The unarmored Graves possessed dots lining his robes, holes where his foe's saber had shallowly imbedded its tip. But the warrior was unaffected by pain. Asher thought the tiny injuries would eventually bring his opponent down, but there he stood, unwavering. Reaching toward his waist, the smaller Sith revealed a flask clipped to his belt, hidden under a flap of his robes. In one swift motion, the Sith removed the lid with the flick of his thumb. Thrusting his free hand forward, a globule of liquid vacated the flask, flung telekinetically toward Graves. The warrior raised his guard just as his opponent offered a snap of his fingers. The liquid dispersed and ignited, surrounding Graves in an explosive fireball. The fiery plume encircled the warrior's upper body, but was halted by the acolyte's defenses. An invisible sphere surrounded Graves, one that kept the flames at bay. The Force barrier had blocked the attack, but as the flames dissipated, the warrior found his opponent rushing toward him. His free hand extended, Graves could do nothing to prevent Asher from lopping off his left arm just below the shoulder. As the limb fell to the hard ground, Graves stumbled backward. His other hand still wrapped around his weapon, the warrior saw no need to clutch at the cauterized wound. Instead, he remained standing, burning a hole through his opponent with his eyes. He was not beaten. Not yet. But Asher would not allow his foe to remain standing. He reached toward the flask at his waist, emptying the remaining contents into the air. As the fuel moved between the two Sith, Asher's eyes went wide as he saw the one-armed man on the offense. He had no time to react as Graves closed the gap, swinging his crimson blade between them. The plasma ignited the fuel, engulfing the pair in a fireball. The barrier that surrounded Graves protected him. Asher was not so lucky. The burned Sith stumbled back, his torso aflame. The surrounding air fueled the fire. The black robes provided the means to spread. Falling upon his back, he possessed not his opponent's tolerance for pain. Attempting to release a harsh yelp, the acolyte found himself choking on the fire and smoke that engulfed his upper body. Rolling upon the hard stone beneath him, Asher attempted to snuff the fire as his opponent simply stood over him, watching. Graves was frozen. Despite his nerves offering him no feedback, his body did have its limits. He was exhausted, even if unburdened by pain. As his grip loosened, the weapon fell from his hand, deactivating at it struck the ground. The warrior fell back, colliding with hard stone with a loud thud. Asher continued to writhe on the ground. The flames were gone, but the lingering effects were not. Blackened cloth stuck to blackened flesh. Only now could the Sith breath. He should have collapsed. Should have expired. But something kept him going. Gone was the fair skin. Gone was the hair atop his head. All that remained was the scorched form of an enduring acolyte. Clawing at the stone beneath him, Asher clenched his fists as he attempted to rise. His arms supporting his weight, they bounced between numbness and excruciating pain. But still he rose. As screams slipped through gritted teeth, the Sith pushed himself up. The sounds echoed throughout Asher's mind. The howls, the screams, the yells, all his, overlapping and intensifying with each passing moment, drowning out all else. Watching his scorched form lift himself up, Asher clenched his hands and teeth, shutting his eyes with all might. Until finally, they opened. Gone was the void. Gone was Korriban. All that stood before Asher was the quaint office of Syrosk, and the Sith Lord himself positioned in front of him. The subordinate's hand were clenched around the chair's armrests as his eyes darted across the room, his breathing quick and heavy. Meanwhile, Syrosk appeared almost nonchalant. "You can tell the next one to come in now."

Well, I live about 60-70 miles from Austin, so I technically could... But yeah, that's not how things work. The developers aren't just going to accept outside monetary or creative support. It would just cause problems for both parties involved. They'd have to cross hurdles of credit, responsibility, liability... I mean, there's a reason they've never looked at a suggestion and said "We will definitely implement your idea". For one, it promises that it'd be implemented. For another, it says they'll implement an idea that wasn't theirs. Two things developers never want to do, and for good reason. But there's no reason not to keep up the conversation. If it's 'pointless' as has been said time and time again in this thread and others like it, then there's no harm in talking. Do we need to constantly badger and harass the developers at every turn? No. Do we need to accept what we're being given and stay quiet? No. Are there reasons new companion romances haven't been implemented yet? Yes. Are they understandable? Some, yes. Have the developers been doing a good job implementing same-gender flirts with each new story addition? Yes. Can you blame some people for wanted more, particularly something more substantial? No. That being said, if Bioware does have need of a writer...

The Sith Empire has always been Humans and Sith (the species). The Dark Jedi who arrived on Korriban and became the first Sith Lords were predominantly Human. They and the native Sith bred through Sith Alchemy, until they became so intermingled that they could naturally reproduce. Sith traits eventually faded. The species name of 'Pureblood' is a misnomer. Every Sith Pureblood around the time of the Great Galactic War has some touch of Human blood. They just happen to have enough of a Sith ancestry to display the traits like red skin and boney spurs. Likewise, most Humans of the Sith Empire have touches of Sith ancestry, just not enough to exhibit visible traits. In a setting less dependent on establishing wholly separate species, the Human/Sith divide would likely be less strict, and it would be a sliding scale of Sith ancestry rather than a designation of either "Human" or "Pureblood". To answer the question of what happened to the real Sith, it would seem something about the species makes it hard for them to reproduce as the original species and subspecies seem to have died out some time ago, giving way to the "Pureblood" population of Sith.

Chapter Sixteen: Paths (Part Three) The five Padawans had set out upon the dirt path before them, putting the last vestige of civilization behind them. As the hills rose and interceded, the sights and sounds of the Temple and its denizens faded from their senses entirely. Hands tightly wound around the straps of their traveler's packs, the motley group of younglings progressed in loose formation, no sense of direct organization between them. Torg and Zarin marched side by side, reveling in each other's company. Ryska and Torzin stayed close, both directing their attention toward the map in the Cathar's hands. Meanwhile, the consistently shy Aesa kept her distance, occasionally bouncing between the two pairs, but never uttering a word. "Alright, I think I've finally got this," Ryska spoke up, a touch of fire in her voice. "From the look of things, we've got a lot of leeway between the camps. So we can either take our time getting there… or get there quick and have some free-time." "Free-time to do what, exactly?" Zarin called out with nary a turn of his head. "I mean, do you really want to stop and take in the sights?" "I'm just saying we don't have to rush to stay on schedule," Ryska replied, soft but firm in her delivery. "And besides, nothing wrong with enjoying the journey so long as we're making it." "Still not seeing where the enjoyment comes in," Zarin dismissed. "Look around us," Ryska suggested. "This is the kind of place tourists would pay good credits to have a nice getaway in." "Yeah, but we've seen all this, haven't we?" Zarin muttered. "Oh look, trees. Oh look, a river. Oh look, rocks. We could have seen this stuff from the temple." "It's not just about seeing, it's about understanding… appreciating..." Ryska explained. Before Zarin could offer a response, he felt Torg deliver a playful jab to his shoulder. The innocent blow was enough to knock the Human off-balance, sending him scampering as he tried to stop himself from falling. "Don't worry, he's just a little slow on the uptake," Torg offered with a booming chuckle. "Guy only joined the Order a couple months ago." Zarin recovered from his momentary stumbling, reaffirming his stance and giving the Houk a cordial jab of his own. "Shut up, you lump." "You first, scruffy," Torg countered. The pair were all smiles as they continued their friendly exchange of jabs and name-calling, to the subtle bewilderment of the other Padawans. "Wait, you've only been a Jedi a couple months?" Torzin spoke up. "And you're already a Padawan?" "What's weirder is that he was even let into the Order in the first place," Ryska added. "Don't we have age restrictions?" Zarin placed his hands on the back on his neck, interlocking his fingers as he continued alone the dirt path. "Yeah, I heard them say somethin' about relaxing limits on recruitment because you guys were hurting after the war. Or maybe I was just too great a Force-user to be passed up. I think the word 'prodigy' may have been used once or twice." Ryska loudly exhaled. "Ugh." The Human in front release a soft chuckle. "Relax, I'm only kidding. I'm in the same ship as you all." "And what ship would that be?" Torzin asked. "You know, taking part in that ‘apprenticeship day’ thing, pairing master with master-less student," Zarin said. "Except we lost our masters to the war," Torzin declared. "That means whatever you might have felt those during those few weeks of not knowing if you'd find a master, we endured for over two years. And you didn't have to deal with the loss." The link between Zarin's hands broke as his arms fell heavily to his side. Continuing his forward march, the Human turned his head to look at the Mirialan. "Hey, I had to give up a lot more than you when I was inducted into the Order. And you weren't the only person to lose someone to the war." "Guys, it's… it's behind us now," Aesa sheepishly spoke up. Marching alongside the others in her own distant way, the teenager's eyes traced the ground ahead of her feet. "We should just… try and forget about it." "It's not exactly an easy thing to forget," Ryska bluntly said. "Yeah…" Aesa mumbled after a beat, rubbing her arms with her prosthetic hands. "I know…" The girl's pace slowed, until she eventually stopped. The group fell silent as they focused on the stalled Padawan. Ryska's eyes grew increasingly wide. "Oh… oh, I'm so sorry! I didn't mean to-" "No… it's okay," Aesa said, almost a whisper. The Cathar's eyes relaxed, before offering a soft squint. She bit her lip, a mixture of regret and concern overtaking her visage. "Coruscant?" "Yeah…" Aesa softly answered, strand of hair falling in front of her dipped face. "There was a fire and-" "Whoa, hey," Ryska interrupted, her voice soft and calming. Removing herself from Torzin's side, the Cathar placed a gentle hand upon the Human's shoulder. "You don't have to talk about it if you don't want to." There was a pause. "Thank you," Aesa eventually replied, eyes still glued to the dirt path. "Guys, Zarin had a point," Torg spoke up, his normally boisterous voice momentarily restrained. "About what?" Torzin asked. "About being in this together," Torg replied. "There's no point in arguin' over who's different or who's done what an' when. I mean, we're all Padawans. We all want to be better Jedi. We've all been through some stuff. That should bring us close together, not push us apart." Zarin released a soft sigh. "The big guy's right. We got nothing to prove to one another. This trip's going to sour right quick if we keep going like we've been. The last thing we want is to return to the temple in a worse state than when we left." "Agreed," Torzin offered. Aesa offered her own silent nod, and the Cathar cracked a smile. "Yeah, the masters sent us out together for a reason," Ryska warmly declared. "We obviously still have a lot to learn and understand. Not just from them, or from nature, but from each other." "That's the spirit," Torg called out, returning to his usual boisterousness. "We ready to move forward?" The motley group of Padawans supplied a series of nods and put their feet to the dirt, continuing their hillside trek amongst the rustling trees and gentle breeze. As they marched forward, following the path detailed on the map, the teenagers moved as one. Five individuals, each different, each unique, and yet the same. Within each Padawan's mind, dark memories of dark pasts resided. But a light shined on through toward the future. One worth following. Walking side by side, the students pressed forward with an uplifted gait, one free of troubles or physical burdens. The packs upon their backs were almost weightless as they embraced the presence of one another, their auras melding with one another's, with the world around them. The trail they walked had been the same trail as before. The dirt the same dirt. The trees the same trees. But from that point forward, there was change. As the teenagers looked out toward the distant horizon, the Houk wore a wide, beaming smile. One that went undeterred as an elbow playfully dug into his side. "Look at you, yah big lug, bringing everyone together," Zarin teased. "You've the makings of a Consular yet." The Houk released a heavy chuckle. "Yeah right. I doubt anyone could take me seriously as a diplomat. Plus, I'm more of hands-on kind of guy. If I'm going to be staring down a Sith, it ain't gonna be over coffee." "I think there's more to diplomacy than inviting your enemy over for coffee," Ryska offered with a light giggle. "What? That's not what your master does? He seemed the Consularly type when we met him," Torg replied, all smiles. "I'll admit, Osetto can be pretty sagely at times, but he's a fighter too," said Ryska. "He can hit just as hard as any other Jedi." "I don't know, Master Norrida can hit pretty hard," Torzin muttered. "He's proven as much." "Yeah, but that's because he channeled the Force through his fists," Ryska replied. "Channeling the Force is pretty much a Consular's thing, so imagine if Osetto did the same. He could probably go around, chopping boulders in half, finding shatterpoints, all the while keeping that smile on his face." "So that's a no on the coffee diplomacy," Torg joked. "Oh, no, I'm sure he'd be up for that too," Ryska said, lips almost curling into a smirk. "You really look up to him… don't you?" Aesa spoke up, soft, but no longer distant. "Well, if it weren't for him, I don't know where I'd be right now," Ryska answered, almost whispering. "He didn't have to take me on as a Padawan. But he did. He took a chance on me when no one else would." "I know that feeling," Torg offered. The others supplied their own agreeing nods. "Does that mean you want to be a Consular? Follow in his footsteps?" Aesa asked. "Well, I don't know about that," Ryska admitted. "I'm like Torg. Hands-on. As good a teacher my master is, I don't know if I have the patience for Consular duties." "So what? Guardian? Sentinel?" asked Zarin. "I'm not sure," Ryska confessed. "I have enough trouble with the one saber. Two might be pushing it. But I do kind of like the idea of it. Blade in each hand, going toe-to-toe with the forces of darkness. What about you Torzin?" "I've always had my mind set on becoming a Guardian," Torzin admitted. "The stalwart protector, both hands secured around a saber hilt." "A shining Knight in armor," Ryska warmly suggested. "Something like that," Torzin offered with a bashful smile. "How about you Torg? Guardian?" asked Ryska. "Most likely," the Houk quickly replied, before slapping his gut. "Then again, they'd have to find a set or armor that fit me first." "You could always ask the quartermaster to start looking now," Zarin said with a playful shrug. "Unless you plan on getting any bigger, that is." "Pfft. Expectin' a small Houk's like expectin' a calm Sith," Torg joked. "You'd better not?" Zarin suggested. "You'd better not," Torg confirmed. The walking Padawans shared a quick laugh, loud and soft expressions mixing with one another in the mutual revelry. "And you Aesa? Master Thazen's a Consular right?" Zarin spoke up. "Yeah… and I'd like to follow in her footsteps, but…" Aesa began before trailing off. The Human girl slowly began bending her digits of plastic and metal. "I kind of have trouble channeling the Force. But she's training me to specialize in diplomacy." "You sure? I think you could make a fine duelist," Zarin warmly offered, looking over his shoulder. "Me? No… no… these prosthetics aren't military-grade," Aesa softly explained. "It's hard enough holding a training saber with them." "I'm sorry to hear that," Zarin muttered. "I've seen some good hardware back on Corellia. It's a shame you can't get your hands on some of that… er, pardon the expression." "No, it's fine," Aesa said, almost smiling. "I'm just glad the Order gave me anything at all." "I don't think they could call themselves Jedi if they didn't," Zarin replied. "Still, some of the guys I knew, they preferred the prosthetics. That's how good they were." "I don't know, I can't really see preferring them over the real things," Aesa muttered. "What are you talking about? They are the real things! They're a part of you, aren't they?" Zarin assuaged. "I mean, they may be different, but there's nothing wrong with that. Change is change. It happens whether we want it to or not. But we can decide how to react to it. It can only hurt us if we let it." Aesa remained silent, but slowly she lifted her gaze, no longer staring at the ground just before her feet. She looked ahead, a gentle smile upon her lips. "And what about you Zarin? What path you gonna take?" Torg asked. "Don't know. I haven't exactly been thinking about it as long as the rest of you have," Zarin admitted. "I mean, I really don't even know my areas of expertise. I'm still better with a blaster than a saber. I know more about ships than the Force. I might have had an idea, but…" "What kind of idea?" asked Ryska. "Well, until a few months ago, I was planning on joining the Navy," Zarin replied. "Then, I find out I'm Force-sensitive, despite the fact that I failed the first time they tested me. So back then, while my dad stayed with the Order, I stayed at home, training to one day become a pilot, knowing I'd never be a Jedi. Then, what do you know, you guys show up, say you're retesting offspring of a 'Force-sensitive lineage' because of how many Jedi died in the war. Turns out it just took me a little while longer to display Force-sensitivity. Something about the initial test didn't trigger a manifestation. So all of a sudden, I have to drop everything. School. Friends. Aspirations. All gone. Time to be a Jedi instead. I mean, I wanted to be a Jedi like my dad ever since I was a kid. But I had spent years thinking that was impossible, and planned accordingly. And now I know why you people normally have rules in place for bringing in teenagers. I had to leave everything behind and start my new life with the Order. I finally got want I wanted. What my dad wanted. Only the worst part… is that he never got the chance to see me become a Jedi." "You mean… he…" Aesa mumbled. Zarin released a heavy sigh. "That's right. Coruscant. Just like the rest." "I'm… sorry for your loss," Torzin spoke up. "Thanks. But… it's weird," Zarin muttered. "I barely knew him. He wasn't allowed to have prolonged interactions with me or mom. All I knew about him was the fact that he was a Jedi. Which meant I could have been too. I really wanted to be one when I was a kid. Not to be like my dad, but to be with him. I didn't know anything about how the Order worked. I just thought if we were both Jedi, that meant we could hang out, father and son, doing Jedi stuff together. But then I grew up. Put that all behind me. But it all came back, whether I wanted it to or not. I was expected to become a Jedi. It was my duty. Thus, no more dreams of being a pilot." "I'm not entirely sure, but I think Jedi actually can become pilots," Torzin stated. "What? Really?" Zarin asked, eyes widening. "It may have been a product of the war, but yeah," Torzin replied. "The Republic ran into some trouble with Sith manipulating space battles using techniques similar to battle meditation. Jedi starfighter pilots were put in charge of squadrons to help alleviate the negative effects." "So there's a chance I can still fly?" Zarin asked, almost at a whisper. "Things might be different now that the war's over," Torzin admitted. "But if that's what you want to do, it might be worth pursuing." "Yeah!" Ryska enthusiastically shouted. "If there's a chance you get to do what you want, take it! Change is change, right? Well, now you get to be a Jedi pilot instead of a Navy pilot. Whether that change is good or bad can only be decided by you." Zarin released a soft chuckle. "I think I'm leaning toward good at the moment. Now the obstacle to overcome is Master Genn." "You don't think your master would approve?" Aesa asked. "He's been trying to cull my dependence on technology," Zarin admitted. "I don't know how I feel about telling him I want to jump inside a cockpit." "If it's what you wanna do and you're good at it, I'm sure he'll understand," Torg declared. "Maybe," said Zarin as he scratched his chin. "I could be there when you tell him if you want," Torg offered. "Me too!" Ryska heartily added. "Same," Torzin declared. "We Padawans have to stick together," said Aesa. There was a moment of silence as the scruffy teenager had no words. Only smiles. "Yeah we do." "Say, our masters were all friends and worked with each other. I don't see any reason why we couldn't do the same," Ryska suggested. "Yeah, and we already have our pilot," Torg declared. "So what, five misfit Jedi going on adventures?" Zarin offered with a chuckle. "Who are you calling a misfit?" Torzin spoke up. "Nothing wrong with being a little different, Torzin," Ryska warmly said. "In fact, it's kind of endearing." The Mirialan's lips curled into a gentle smile as the five Padawans continued their trek. Following the dirt path, the group of teenagers had almost forgotten about the world around them. Forgotten about the flora and fauna. Forgotten about the sights and sounds of nature. Their senses were preoccupied with the then and now, right there. Only after the conversation had lulled, did they remember their place amongst the untouched wilderness. The Tythos Ridge made up the rising dirt and stone of the distant horizon. But many more hours of travel rest between them and their final destination. In the meantime, they would set up camp, a place to stop and rest.

And there was Darth Vich, who found Rattatak in the early years of the Great Galactic War and built a personal army of Rattataki, the Force-sensitive of which he trained as acolytes. He used his army in a power grab that ultimately cost the Rattataki their lives or their freedom, but Darth Vich is likely responsible for most of the Rattataki slaves or Force-sensitives in Imperial space. This is an example of "if I can gain something from it, screw tradition" that seems to be prevalent amongst the Sith.

Prior to events in-game, a Sith's rank and promotion was still entirely dependent upon their superiors. To become an apprentice, all one needed was a Lord to bestow the title upon them. To become a Lord, all one needed was a Darth to bestow the title upon them. To become a Darth, all one needed someone on the Dark Council to bestow the title upon them. Assuming a Force-sensitive alien could get past the initial barriers to entry into the Order, all it'd take to rise in the ranks would be to earn the favor of someone two ranks ahead. Of course, that doesn't mean it'd be easy. Even if not prohibited by Imperial law, Imperial traditions would still oppose the inclusion of nontraditional Sith. But that's assuming they could enter the Order in the first place. Whilst all Force-sensitive citizens are forced to enroll in one of the Academies, aliens within the Empire likely aren't citizens, or are at least not classified as such. The Academies have standards, and if someone didn't meet those standards whilst still being Force-sensitive, they'd likely be subjugated or executed. But standards loosened considerably following the end of the Great Galactic War. Even though a decade after the Treaty of Coruscant the inclusion of aliens and slaves was still considered a new and disgusting practice, there's no definite answer as to when exactly admission standards were relaxed. It could have been a few months before the start of the class stories, or a few years. On the other hand, the Sith Warrior was capable of being a Zabrak even before legacy unlocks, whilst still being held in high regard. Because of this, I believe that aliens stand a chance of rising to prominence. If a powerful alien bloodline existed in Imperial space, and proved itself generation after generation, people would be willing to overlook a few horns on their head. Others would still think them inferior, but enough of the right people would respect them enough for them to perhaps attain the rank of Lord. Darth would likely still be beyond their reach prior to recent events, though, as none of the Dark Council would likely be willing to carry the burden of vouching for an alien Sith to such a degree. So an alien Sith's status depends on who came before them, and who currently supports them. A Lord or Darth could take one under their wing without violating any particular 'rules'. They're within their right to do as they please. However, it would likely attract the ire of any traditionalist associates, who would be more than willing to strike down the alien or their master. In the end, its a matter of risk. If someone of rank was willing to take that risk, and the alien Force-user was able to get past those initial barriers to entry, there's no reason to think it impossible for an alien Sith to exist around or prior to events in-game, without the benefits the player-character receives. They wouldn't be plentiful and would likely live an even harsher life than a Sith of the same rank, but they could exist.

*Discovers the Forge on Tython* "Wait, this is how you're supposed to build lightsabers? We've been doing it wrong for years..." "This is why we lost the war..."

Chapter Four: Old Guard Gazing up at their new ship, Lorrik and Jresh thought only of infinite possibilities. They possessed the ability to go wherever they wanted, to do whatever they wanted. More than anything else in their lives, they had been given the physical embodiment of freedom. "So, what next, Lorrik?" Jresh asked, an enthusiasm layered atop his usual calmness. Lorrik dipped his head, gently scratching his chin. "You know… we could always use a vacation." The Pureblood arched his brow. "You haven't considered the past few weeks a vacation?" "I meant away from Imperial space," said Lorrik. "Go someplace nice, have a little fun." "What did you have in mind?" "Depends on the kind of experience you want," Lorrik replied. "Do you want to indulge in a bit of seedy revelry, do you want to unwind and relax, do you want some good wholesome fun? We've got Nar Shaddaa, countless orbital resorts… oh, and there's Pa'nek Station." "Isn't that place a slaver den?" Jresh asked. "It was," Lorrik stated, slightly tilting his head. "But apparently a new Hutt took it over and has been turning it into a theme-park or something." "I suppose we are in an era of change, after all," Jresh noted with a restrained shrug. The Human released a hearty chuckle. "You've got that right. Point is, we've got plenty of choices. There's no reason we have to immediately get back to business." ---------- "We have to get back to business," Lorrik bluntly stated. Looking up from the couch, Jresh saw his partner holding a datapad in his hands. Pouring over the information presented by the electronic device, the Human awkwardly paced about the living area of their apartment. His face aglow from the handheld tablet's screen, Lorrik bared a look of hesitant frustration. "That bad?" Jresh calmly offered. "Well, we've only a month before we have to start making payments on the apartment. We had to move our ship from the Logistics' starport into a public one, where we have to pay to maintain a hangar. Once we start flying anywhere, we're going to have to cover fuel costs," Lorrik listed. "How much funds do we have in our account?" Jresh inquired. The Human offered his answer in the form of a scrunched face. "That bad?" "Not to worry," Lorrik tried to assuage, mostly himself. "You remember how much those lightsaber crystals went for. If we can get our artifact hunting business off the ground, we'll be fine." "There's a limited number of Force artifacts in the galaxy," Jresh stated, tempering his expectations. "We can't guarantee we'll get our hands on that good a find again. At least, not this early in our operations." "Early on, we won't have to worry about finding items ourselves, others will tell us exactly where to find them," Lorrik confidently stated. As Jresh readied another response, the Human tapped a series of command into his datapad. Setting the device onto the coffee table, the pair watched as its data streamed to the viewscreen mounted on the opposite wall. "I've been doing a little research." Taking his place beside his companion, the two Sith looked upon the series of data presented by the viewscreen. Names. Numbers. Facts and figures. "I see you've been busy," Jresh commented, eyes widening at the bounty of information. "Alright, a big part of the artifact trade is retrieval," Lorrik began. "A Sith's biggest concern is opportunity cost. Most Lords are unwilling to go out and get these things themselves, despite the fact that they are capable of doing so. It's just that their time could be better spent elsewhere, especially when they have the means to get others to get things for them. The biggest players have apprentices or ties to Reclamation Service, but still, nothing gets done for free. That's where we come in." "We get Sith to pay us to get artifacts they are too lazy to get themselves," Jresh suggested. "Exactly," Lorrik heartily admitted. "Now, typical costs can range in the thousands once you factor in travel, accommodations, hazard, things like that. But since we're just two people, we can cut costs a squad of troopers or mercenaries cannot. Plus, we've specialized skills we can charge extra for. Therefore, we're making more and spending less." "So we're not actually acquiring any items for ourselves, we're just facilitating transfers," Jresh commented, less enthused. "For now," Lorrik replied, a playful intrigue in his voice. "We have to ingratiate ourselves in the sphere before we can make use of its networks. Once we're proven we're reliable, that we can be trusted, we can start to work with Reclamation, we can start making contacts, we can start gathering artifacts ourselves. That's when we can finally start doing what we dreamed of." "Bettering the Empire?" Jresh suggested. "Bettering the Empire," Lorrik confirmed. "If you can control the artifact trade, you can control a lot of things… control a lot of people. We'll have influence within one of the more influential spheres of the Sith Empire. Eventually, we'll be able to dictate the flow of items. Instead of going to other Sith, other Sith will come to us. We can start aiding likeminded Sith, start punishing disruptive ones. We can keep dangerous items out of dangerous hands." "Upset one of the Empire's oldest and most sacred institutions," Jresh mused. "We beat the Academy, we can beat this right?" Lorrik said with a smile. "Now, there are some major figures we need to familiarize ourselves with." Reaching for his datapad, the Human input another series of commands, focusing the data stream on a set number of individuals. A series of statistics and pictures popped up on the viewscreen, mostly of pasty old men. "The biggest guy, and one we need to avoid, is Darth Thanaton," Lorrik revealed. Of the images displayed, one of a middle-aged Human enlarged and took focus. Hairs grayed by age, eyes yellowed by the dark side, the Sith's visage made clear his experience. The regal countenance, coupled with the crimson rune tattooed around his left eye, gave the Darth a look of calm ferocity. "He's got the largest pool of resources in the entire sphere of Ancient Knowledge," Lorrik continued. "More than the Dark Councilor?" Jresh wondered. "Technically, the Dark Councilor owns and operates everything within the sphere," Lorrik declared. "But he's more interested in macro-scale operations and dealings. We can operate beneath his notice. Thanaton, not so much." "Why do we need to avoid him?" Jresh asked. "Is he that large a threat?" "If you're on his side, not at all," said Lorrik. "But getting on his side might be impossible for us." "How so?" "He's a staunch traditionalist," Lorrik explained. "Which, given the fact that we have neither masters nor apprentices, the fact that we managed to completely circumvent the Academy system, and the fact that I'm a former slave… we won't be earning any points with him any time soon." "If he's as influential as you say, can we get by ignoring him and his minions?" Jresh wondered. "Sure we can," Lorrik enthusiastically declared. "He might be the biggest fish, but it's a pretty big lake." Input another command, Lorrik had the viewscreen focus on another individual. This one appeared practically ancient, a hunched Human hidden beneath his hooded robes, wrinkles dominating every bit of exposed flesh. "This is Darth Kaar. He's the Sith's head archivist," Lorrik commented. "He doesn't collect so much as document. Every archeological find goes through him. He catalogues and tracks every artifact that falls into and out of Sith hands. While he doesn't interact directly with those within the sphere, he nonetheless has great influence. He doesn't have a power base or a legion of followers, but he supposedly reports directly to the Dark Council. And even without enforcers, it's said that those who keep their finds from him always wind up dead." Jresh scratched the fleshy tendrils hanging from his chin. "Anything about his behavior? His personality?" "He's something of a hermit, never leaving his office within the Citadel," Lorrik explained. "Everything I've seen indicates that he's more of a scholar than a Sith, but he's managed to keep his position since before the war, so he must be doing something to keep him in the Council's favor." "And how do we stay in his favor?" Jresh asked. "So long as we don't go hiding our acquisitions, we should be okay," said Lorrik. "And since we turned over the cache we recovered on Coruscant, we might already be in his good graces." "Who else do we have?" Lorrik pulled up the next individual, a female Pureblood. While younger than the preceding men, she was still advanced in her years, her particular age masked by her rigid features. Her face was sharp, possessing the boney ridges and spines jutting from her brow and cheeks indicative of a strong bloodline. "Darth Karresh," Lorrik commented. "She'll likely be our in." "How so?" "She deals primarily in external expeditions rather than domestic affairs," Lorrik explained. "Her underlings are always looking for means to impress their master, which means they're constantly on the lookout for valuable artifacts. But retrieving said artifacts outside of Imperial space requires a certain… effort. Effort that has been somewhat hampered by the end of the war. They can't just mobilize an armed force like they used to." "But a pair of Sith with their own starship might be able to do what they cannot," Jresh suggested. "Exactly." "Alright, how do we go about meeting with Karresh?" Jresh asked. "We don't," Lorrik quickly replied. "We work through the Lords beneath her. Establish credibility and competency. Word will spread of our successes. Perhaps Karresh will take notice. Perhaps others will. At this point, we're not establishing loyalties, we're building our brand." "You know, I almost thought putting the Academy behind us would make you lose your spark," Jresh said, lips bordering on a smile. "Good to see I was mistaken." The Human released another hearty chuckle. "I'd never lose my spark, you know that." Jresh nodded as he looked to the other portraits on the viewscreen. "Who else do we need to consider?" "Let's see…" Lorrik muttered as he flipped through the other names. "There's Darth Skaven. Human male. Specializes in Sith tombs. Heavy ties to Reclamation Service. Operates mainly on Kaas, Korriban, and Ziost. It was one of his minions that tried and failed to pillage the Valley of the Forgotten Lords. He might view our more successful delves with respect… or distaste." "I notice those in high standing amongst the sphere aren't exactly young," Jresh commented. "Ancient Knowledge is the territory of patience and careful calculation," Lorrik detailed. "The war took less of a toll on this sphere than most of the others. If we want to make any headway here, we're definitely going to have to deal with some of the old guard." "But with the end of the war, I suspect there will be an influx of new players as Sith shift their focus inward," said Jresh. Lorrik offered a firm nod. "You'd be right. There are countless upstarts trying to make a name for themselves, just like us. Only they'll be far more invested in keeping the system as it is. We'll have to look out for these Sith just as much, if not more than the Darths." "Almost makes our previous trials seem simple, doesn't it?" Jresh offered with a low chuckle. "Tash did weave a particularly impressive web of intrigue, but I suppose no matter what, there was still only two sides to our conflict," Lorrik commented. "We're stepping into a world of countless parties competing for countless interests. One on one doesn't exists anymore." "Well that's a relief," Jresh declared. "I was worried our new occupation might be too easy. Wouldn't want us going soft now would we?" Lorrik released a soft chuckle. "Ever the warrior, aren't you?" "So, these upstarts… anyone we need to watch out for?" Jresh wondered. "Well…" Lorrik softly stated, drawing out his word as he punched another command into his datapad. The pair of Sith watched as the pictures of the old guard disappeared and were replaced with the names of rising acolytes and apprentices. The list stretched and expanded, name after name revealing itself. The list grew and grew until there were dozens, until there were hundreds on screen. "Oh." ---------- Tucked deep within the Kaas City Citadel, amongst the grand halls of Imperial dominance and Sith superiority, there was an office. An office cemented in grandeur. The normally dull walls were adorned with bannisters, blood-red cloths baring ancient runes of a long-dead language. Pedestals rose from the ground in smooth columns, lining the left and right sides of the chamber, each featuring a unique trinket hovering above its flat surface. Held afloat via microrepulsors built into the base of each stand, the various items of power and status rotated in the air, granting visitors a look at every single facet of their being. A holocron here. An amulet there. All procured through effort. In the center of the room, there was a grand desk fitting its grand surroundings. The elegant block of wood had been cut and shaped from one of the towering trees native to the dark world. Every face of the sharp piece shined with an ebon glow as the light reflected off its polished surfaces. Dominating the wall behind the desk was a large inlet featuring a single fixture. A stone bust, meticulously carved to resemble the visage of a Sith Lord. Gray stone, shaped into a fierce, but heroic countenance. And sitting between the room's two most prominent features, the organic counterpart to the bust. A Human, middle-aged, matched his stone-faced replica in all manners aside from existing at a slightly smaller scale, and possessing a slightly more receded hairline. The graying Lord sat his high-backed chair, garbed in his high-collared robes, leaning forward to intently eye the two guests before him. Lorrik and Jresh sat in parallel armchairs across from the Lord, almost sinking in the oversized seats. Wearing their plain robes, the pair took extra care to at least look presentable in front of the Sith Lord, the black clothes having nary a stain or wrinkle. Enduring the cold stare of the office's owner, Lorrik and Jresh remained stilled and silent, the Pureblood with his arms crossed, the Human with a datapad resting upon his lap. "Thank you for invitation, Lord Morrin," Lorrik respectfully offered. Interlocking his fingers, the Sith Lord affixed his sharpened gaze toward the pleasant guest. "Under normal circumstances, I wouldn't entertain this sort of endeavor. But I cannot afford to wait for another opportunity to present itself." The Sith Lord spoke with a dismissive gravel tainting every syllable that slipped past his lips. As tall as everything around him stood, the middle-aged Human seemed to sink in front of the pair of guests, his elbows digging into the hard desk, his face drifting behind his conjoined hands. "I understand your trepidation, but I guarantee you'll be pleased with our work," Lorrik warmly stated. "If I recall, you seem be having trouble with some pirates, correct?" "That's right," Morrin grumbled. "A Reclamation transport carrying an important artifact was assaulted on the fringes of Imperial space. Now, the holocron I promised my master currently rests in the filthy hands of pirate filth." Lorrik began softly scratching his chin. "I thought Reclamation Service was a military branch. How did a band of pirates manage to steal from them?" "I didn't requisition a full team. I didn't think they were needed to ferry a single holocron," Morrin confessed. "An understandable mistake," Lorrik offered along a brief shrug. The elder Human's eyes sharpened further as he arched his brow. "But regardless, do you know where these pirate are now?" "They have a base on Nar Shaddaa," Morrin informed. "Normally, I'd send my apprentice to retrieve the item, but he's on assignment and I can't risk the thieves selling the holocron before his return." "Well, for a modest sum, we can have that artifact back in your hands in no time," Lorrik warmly declared. "A modest sum?" Morrin repeated. "That's all you desire? Credits?" "If you want to put in a good word for us with your associates, we'd surely appreciate it," Lorrik replied. "But for compensation, yes, credits are all we need." "How many credits are we talking?" "Well," Lorrik began, lifting the datapad off his lap. Placing the tablet on the desk in front of him, he carefully slid the device toward the Sith Lord. "This is our contract. It stipulates that we'll be compensated for travel fees on top of a standard rate for hazardous item retrieval." "I see you don't work cheap," Morrin grumbled. "That's the cost of efficiency," Lorrik replied. "And what all this text beneath it?" Morrin inquired, still eyeing the datapad. "That's an agreement basically saying that neither party entering the contract plans to manipulate the terms of our agreement. I won't try to backstab you. You won't try to backstab me. It's so that you know we won't just keep the artifact after you tell us where it is." "This sort of agreement actually works?" Morrin mumbled, almost impressed. "Not sure. You're the first we've offered it to," Lorrik said with a chuckle. "But we fielded it with Laws and Justice, so you can just walk over to their offices and report us if we break our agreement. Don't even have to leave the Citadel." "When I heard about you two, I expected something unusual, but this is downright peculiar," Morrin plainly stated. "Our methods may be strange, but our results will be more than satisfactory," Lorrik replied. "That remains to be seen," Morrin grumbled. "Very well, how do I sign this?" "A hand print will suffice," Lorrik answered. The Sith Lord pressed his palm against the tablet's screen. A quick flash of light and an audible ping signaled its recognition. Sliding the device back across the desk, Lorrik took ahold with a thankful dip of his head. "That should cover it," Lorrik said, carefully picking himself up and out of the soft armchair. Silently, Jresh did the same. Patting himself down, Lorrik gave one final perusal of the datapad in his hand before looking to the Sith Lord. "You have our contact information. Send over whatever details you can, and we'll set out as soon as possible." Lorrik offered a respectful bow of his head before stepping toward the office's entrance. As his partner passed column after column of trinkets on display, the Pureblood remained still, focusing on the seated Lord. "Have a nice day," Jresh spoke up, utterly stoic. With that, the Pureblood followed his companion, and the two soon vacated the office leaving the middle-aged man alone and befuddled. Traversing the dark halls of the Citadel, Lorrik wore a beaming smile as his partner caught up with him. Together, the pair walked side by side, a confident gait powering both of their legs. "I'd say that went rather well," Jresh admitted. "I know, right?" Lorrik replied. "Thank goodness for desperate Sith Lords." "Desperation often breeds stupidity," Jresh offered. "If he's doing this to stay in his master's good graces, he might oppose the idea of being saved by two lowly Sith." "That's the point of the contract," Lorrik said with a sharp grin. "You don't think that agreement will actually hold up, do you?" Lorrik chuckled. "Oh, of course not. But at least this way, we'll always be in the right when our clients inevitably turn on us. It's less about preventing the betrayal, and more about keeping the Imperial Guard off our backs if we're forced to start busting heads inside the Citadel." "But Morrin works for Darth Karresh," Jresh noted. "If we're trying to build a relationship with her, I don't think beating down a subordinate is the best way to do so." "It's not like I go into these things expecting to be betrayed, it's just something to prepare for, you know?" Lorrik offered. "Besides, depending on the type of Sith she is, she might like that kind of thing." "Humiliating a member of her power base?" "Asserting our dominance," Lorrik corrected. "I'd prefer if we withheld such assertions until we have a few jobs under our belts," Jresh admitted. "Fair point," Lorrik admitted. "For now, let's focus on getting this holocron." "Do you think we can reach it before it gets sold off?" Jresh asked. "With the war over, the Jedi and Sith have less distracting them. That's made the underworld traders a bit more cautious when dealing with Force artifacts," Lorrik detailed. "How fast we can do this depends on the info Morrin send our way." "What if he doesn't give us anything to work with?" "We can stand to do a little investigating ourselves. Beside, information is a major commodity on Nar Shaddaa. Someone will have the information we need." "It won't come cheap," Jresh declared. "We don't need to spend more than we make on this mission." "I doubt it'll come to that," Lorrik replied. "Besides, we can just bill it as part of the travel expenses." "It seems you've thought of everything." Lorrik leaned to his side, brushing shoulders with his partner. "Well, it's much easier to plan for contingencies when I know you'll be by my side." The Pureblood looked to his grinning companion, his own lips curling into a smile.

Thanks for the compliment. Sometimes I don't know whether I'm putting in too little or too much description. For example, I feel like I've repeated myself in describing Kaas City across multiple stories, but I really enjoy fleshing it out. Considering it's the Empire's central hub and capital, and all we really see of it in game is a small district, the majority of the city resting beyond the horizon, I like to see it portrayed with the sense of grandeur it deserves. Then I get into the fact that I'm writing sequels now, and trying to remember what I've described where and how, and trying to keep things consistent. So, glad you're enjoying things.

Chapter Sixteen There was a sharp clattering in the adjacent room as Syrosk and Nami sat on a constricting couch. The room they found themselves in was dark, utterly unadorned, and cold even by Imperial standards. Across from them, the Nikto had taken his seat within a simplistic armchair, casting his calm, deadened gaze upon his guests. The younger of the two leathery, orange Sith in the room wore a face absent of emotion or expression. A fact that did nothing to lessen the growing unease in the young Jedi. Vurt was no older than the trio of Sith that had taken her in, but his species' rough and wrinkled features forced a haggard appearance and etched a permanent scowl upon his noseless face. A fact the Nikto did nothing to rectify. Small, stubby horns sprouted from his brow and chin, but it was his eyes that would continue to hold the girl's attention. His cold, unwavering, beady eyes. Eventually, Vurt's gaze stopped passing between the two guests, focusing solely on the young Jedi. Her hands neatly folded upon her lap, Nami struggled to keep herself still. She had escaped the outside cold, but something else forced her arms to continue trembling as shivers ran up her spine. Breaking the tension, the Trandoshan stepped into the room, a metallic tray in his bulky, three-digit hands. Upon the platter balanced a pair of cups that clinked with every motion the intimidating Sith took, threatening to spill their contents with each step. As he set the platter down upon the table in front of his guests, the murky liquid within jostled, a few drops managing to push past the cups' rims. Straightening his posture, the Trandoshan dominated the space of the room. But despite his size, Nesk managed to cut a sharp figure, his powerful musculature hidden beneath thick, sandy-brown scales. His hands and feet went unburdened by coverings as the rest of his body went wrapped by simplistic black robes. As Nami studied the imposing figure, she couldn't help but notice that one of his hands possessed a lighter shade of scales that the rest of his body. "Here… drink," Nesk bluntly spoke. Whether the scaled Sith was offering a description or issuing a command, the young Jedi did not know. He spoke with a firm enough grasp of Basic, but every sound that slipped out of his snout seemed dominated by a snarling dialect. Without a word, Syrosk reached out, taking one of the cups in his rough hands, silently urging the girl beside him to do the same. Nami grasped the small container with both hands, welcoming the touch of warmth. Bringing the black beverage toward her face, her nostrils were assaulted by a sharp, pungent odor. As Syrosk moved his cup to his leathery lips, taking a sip that could only be described as dainty, the young Jedi opted to maintain her grip at a safe distance, forcing a smile as the two other Sith continued to offer their beady stares. As the Nikto continued to sit, Nesk opted to stand at his side. "Syrosk," the Trandoshan muttered. "Nesk," the Sith Lord replied. "How is the leg?" Nesk asked. "Serviceable," Syrosk declared. "How's the hand?" Nesk raised his right hand, the one possessing a lighter shade of scales compared to the rest of his body. "Regenerated." "That's good to hear," Syrosk offered, taking another sip of his drink. "Why has it come here?" Nesk asked. Syrosk pulled the cup away from his lips, everything about him steady, if not sluggish. The silence hung heavy for the moment as the elder Sith waited to respond. "I need your help. The both of you." The Trandoshan and Nikto looked to one another, before reaffirming their gaze upon their former master. "With what?" asked Nesk. "With her," Syrosk replied. The two Sith turned, casting their gaze on the girl who was doing everything she could to keep from squirming. "She's to become a Sith. My new apprentice. She's entering the Ziost Academy directly into the hands of an Overseer, competing with other acolytes, but I'd still like you to offer some prior instruction." Nesk refused to tear his gaze away from the girl. "Why? Is it weak?" "No. But she is a… special case," Syrosk calmly stated. "How so?" Nesk asked. "She is a former Jedi," said Syrosk. Another chill shot up the girl's spine as she felt the Sith reaffirming their gazes. As unexpressive as the rough pair were, it became plainly obvious that they were capable of arching their brows. "As expedited as her training will be, I intend for it to fulfill every standard of the Order. When she becomes Sith, there cannot be room to dispute her." "But it still seeks an advantage?" Nesk asked, turning back toward his former master. "I merely seek to offset the disadvantage of being a Jedi amongst Sith," Syrosk replied. "If she has truly turned her back on her former Order, then I'd not see her efforts here disrupted. She needs to spend as little time in the Academy as possible, whilst still being able to say she graduated the Academy." The Trandoshan began scratching his chin, the sounds of claws against rough scales filling the room. "How long until it is given to Overseer?" "No more than a week," Syrosk replied. "Cannot do much with one week," Nesk admitted. "She's already more skilled than your typical acolyte," Syrosk said. "I just need you two to give her some conditioning. Making sure her skills can be utilized in an Academy setting." "Why make it compete with others?" asked Nesk. "Is possible for Overseer to judge single acolyte for Sith Lord." "She'd break under the scrutiny. Any Overseer given a Jedi to test would do everything in their power to keep them from becoming an apprentice, especially to a Sith Lord of my caliber." The Trandoshan released an unsure groan. "Why not just give it to Lorrik?" "As many liberties as we're taking with the system, we still abide by its rules. I need this to appear as legitimate as realistically possible," Syrosk admitted. "You two are instructors. You can train her here without drawing notice. Were she to associate with someone like Lorrik, we'd both have inquisitors from Philosophy breathing down our necks." "Is it worth the trouble?" Nesk asked, shooting a quick, but sharp, glare toward the young Jedi. Syrosk turned toward the girl, who looked to him with wide-eyes. "That remains to be seen." Nami's head dipped. The warmth that once graced her hands was slowly fading, the cup's contents adapting to room temperature. "But, nonetheless, she deserves this chance, I suppose." A gentle smile graced the girl's lips. Meanwhile, the two Sith across from her turned to one another, sharing a series of silent looks. Eventually, a soft groan emanated from the Trandoshan's snarly mouth. "Fine. If it wants a new apprentice, it will have a new apprentice. Owe it that much." Syrosk offered a polite dip of his horned head. "I appreciate it. And I won't forget this." "Knows it won't," Nesk muttered, stepping away from the gathering. As the Trandoshan disappeared deeper into the dwelling, the remaining three figures were left with the heavy silence. "Is… is that it?" Nami whispered, leaning in close to the elder Sith. "Just like that?" "As needlessly complicated Sith affairs can be at times, they can often be rather simple," Syrosk replied. "A fact that is neither good nor bad." As Nami dwelt on the Sith Lord's words, she couldn't help but still feel the sting of the Nikto's cold, enduring glare. "Does that one ever speak?" "Not often, no," Syrosk plainly stated, voice absent of judgment. "But he'll prove an effective tutor, as will Nesk." "Is there much they can do with a week?" asked Nami. "You'd be surprised," Syrosk admitted. "They may be tougher on you than the Overseer." "I thought the entire point of this was because an Overseer might be too hard on me," Nami softly said. "The entire point of this was fairness," Syrosk admitted. "I'd see you rightfully judged. That does not mean I'd see you untested. If you want to be a Sith, you still must prove yourself. I just know that these two will treat you fairly. Harshly, but fairly." Another distant sound of jostling metals echoed through the dwelling, but this time, it did not come from the kitchen. Emerging from a shadowed corridor, Nesk stepped into the view of his guests. Upon his back, two full length blades lay strapped upon his back, utterly black and utterly sharp. Accompanying the dueling swords, a long rucksack was held over the Trandoshan's shoulder, a unknown collection of solid materials resting within. "Its training begins now. Come," Nesk quickly spoke up, thrusting his head toward the door. "What? Like, right now?" Nami muttered. "It has only a week. Maybe less. No time to waste," Nesk bluntly explained. "If it wants to be Sith, it must learn Sith ways. Come." The young Jedi turned to the elder Sith, who offered only a dismissive shrug. "I'd listen to him if I were you." Nami set her cup on the tray in front of her, still filled to the brim, its contents untouched. The girl carefully stepped away from the seated Sith, moving toward the Trandoshan. Standing at his side, she couldn't help but stand in the imposing figure's shadow. Having already basked in the presence of Fay, Nami was used to height discrepancies, but Nesk possessed a far-different aura about him. Whereas the woman she had met exuded a calm, collected countenance, the Trandoshan's apparent calm seemed only a facade. A fiery passion rest beneath his eyes, beneath his scales, one that wanted nothing more than to be released. Nesk approached the home's entrance, inviting a brisk chill as he opened the door. The girl turned back to the elder Sith, but he offered nothing. His expression blank, his eyes cold, Syrosk seemed to purposely offer as little as he could that might make the girl want to stay. Without protest, Nami followed her new instructor out into the cold of Ziost's exterior, unsure of her destination or fate. As the door resealed, the two silent Sith remained sitting in the quaint dwelling's central room. Syrosk and Vurt offered each other their own unique brand of cold, emotionless glares. Breaking the silence and stillness, the Nikto leaned forward, thick fingers interlocked as he rest his elbows on his thighs. "I assume there's something more to this," Vurt spoke up, almost whispering, voice utterly deep and smooth. "There always is, isn't there?" Syrosk slowly replied, setting his cup on the tray in front of him. "I never expected you to take another apprentice," Vurt declared. "Neither did I," Syrosk admitted. "But I didn't have much choice in the matter." "But you still want her to succeed," said Vurt. "If you wanted to be rid of her, you wouldn't have brought her to us." Syrosk's head dipped as his eyes drifted toward the floor. "She is skilled and wants to become Sith. I'd not see her talent wasted because of whatever prejudices are present in the Academy and its staff." "You've trained aliens, slaves, and now, fallen Jedi. Did you ever think to do things normally for once?" "That's what I thought I'd be doing with Logistics," Syrosk muttered, before a pause. "It would seem even there I cannot escape the peculiar. Even discounting the girl, the other Sith I'm overseeing are anything but normal." "You know, you never told us her name," Vurt stated. "I guess I didn't," Syrosk replied, leaving it at that. The Nikto sharpened his gaze as he stared at his former master. "What aren't you telling us about her?" "A great many things," Syrosk whispered. Without another word, the elder Sith rose from his seat and stepped toward the home's entrance. The Nikto remained seated, barely turning his neck toward the exiting Sith. As Syrosk stood at the door, he paused, hand hovering over the nearby controls. "I'll stay in contact." "We'll call if she dies," Vurt bluntly said, not even facing the exiting Sith Lord. With that, the exchange was over. Syrosk stepped into the cold exterior of Ziost. In the distance, the Sith Lord could see the Nami and Nesk growing smaller and smaller on the horizon. Walking a path of cracked stone, the motley pair journeyed out into the wilderness, toward the lands untouched by civilization, toward the veil of wind and fog. Wherever their destination, it did not involve the local Academy. Leaving the domicile of his former apprentices, Syrosk set out back toward the nearby starport. The cold wind continuing to kick the tail of the Sith Lord's black coat, he pressed forward, intent on returning to Dromund Kaas. ---------- Time passed. Hour after hour came and went in silence. Syrosk traversed the lines of transportation, briefly interacting with the Logistics workers whom operated along his path. Boarding a shuttle, he sat alone in a constrictive passenger bay as the vessel traversed the atmosphere, the stars, and hyperspace. On route to his base, Syrosk had only his thoughts with him. Thoughts that turned to the girl he had left on Ziost. Thoughts that turned toward the future. There were countless possibilities. Countless outcomes. Many of which he knew he had no hand in influencing. Soon, the system would take hold. The infallible system. The system he willingly submitted to following the war's end. Oddly uplifting, was the thought. And yet, it was simultaneously burdensome. He had let go. The matter was out of his hands. Whatever happened, happened. Matters were left to fate. And yet, they weren't. They were left to each individual. They were left to him, to Nami, to Nesk and Vurt, to the Overseers, to Vowrawn. If he relinquished control, someone else would assume it. And that same truth existed in every other facet of his life. Of every Sith's life. Eventually, the shuttle ferrying Syrosk touched down amidst the familiar capital after hours upon hours of travel. Beneath the darkened and crackling skies. Amidst spires and monuments to the glory of the Empire. How long it had been since his original departure, he did not know. How long it had been since he last slept, he did not know. Dromund Kaas had finished at least one rotation in his absence, during which, the gears of bureaucracy had turned without him. Logistics continued to operate. The Empire continued to exist. Little was forced to change or adapt to the missing Executor. Emerging from the gray shuttle, Syrosk offered an appreciative nod to the bowing pilots before making his way through the hangar. Like clockwork the starport operated, the Sith Lord the lone piece of dust drifting between the cogs of the machine. Ascending the lift out of the hangar, Syrosk drew a heavy breath, wondering what awaited back at the Citadel. Part of him wished for everything to be operating at its peak. And yet, another wanted something to be amiss, some measure to validate his continued presence there. Stepping off the lift, the Sith Lord trudged along the curved walkway that made up the starport's main surface corridor. Passing branch after branch, lift after lift, Syrosk paid no mind to the various movements and operations of technicians and administrators. That is, until he noticed a peculiar amount of activity surrounding one of the cargo elevators. The one he knew led to the hangar belonging to Asher, Fay, and Graves. A repulsor-assisted loader carried crate upon crate onto the lift. The boxy containers differed in size, but all bared the labels of Production and Logistics. Taking another step toward the lift, an overseeing Imperial wielding a datapad took notice of Syrosk's approach. "My lord," the Imperial shot off, straightening his posture. "This is the last of the supplies you've requested." Syrosk paused, passing his gaze between the Logistics officer and the bundle of crates. After letting the silence hang for a few moments, the Executor finally spoke. "I see. Thank you." The Imperial offered an appreciative nod before hastily stepping onto the industrial lift. Before he could descend, the Sith Lord followed, taking his position beside the assemblage of stacked crates atop the hovering loader. The officer bit his lip as he buried his face in the datapad, keeping silent as he urged the lift downward. As the lift came to a stop, the Executor was granted sight into a bustling hangar. In its center, a Fury-class interceptor sat, being tended by an abnormally large group. Imperials garbed in work clothes carted crates up and down the vessel's lowered entrance ramp, full boxes going in, empty ones coming out. Meanwhile, three figures stood out from the rest, standing watch over the entire proceedings. Syrosk stepped off the lift, an unusual haste to his otherwise sluggish advance. Near the parked interceptor, three Sith watched as the starport workers carted supplies onto their ship. "Alright," Asher called out, to no one in particular. "We don't exactly know what sort of timetable we're working with, but let's get this done, people. Remember, these requests come all the way from a Dark Councilor." "They do, do they?" a chilled rasp emanated from behind the wrapped Sith. Asher jumped, spinning on his heels to find the cold stare of his boss planted directly on him. "Syrosk! You're back. How's things?" Asher asked in his most diplomatic tone. "I do hope you're not going to make me ask for an explanation," Syrosk plainly stated. "Well, we figured the ship needed some renovations, especially with a fourth joining our team," Asher explained, trying to maintain his calm. "I mean, have you see what passes for sanitary fixtures on a stock Imperial vessel? We just made a few requests to better serve the organization." "He uses the word 'we' very loosely," Fay bluntly said. "This was practically all his idea." The burned Sith snapped toward the tall woman. "Wow, just throw me under the shuttle, why don't you?" "If I wanted, I could literally do so," Fay replied, maintaining her stoic demeanor. Behind the Sith Lord, the loader carrying the last batch of supplies came to a stop alongside its attendant, who kept his gaze lowered in the presence of the four powerful figures. "Excuse me, my lords, but where do you want us to put the exercise equipment?" the Imperial sheepishly spoke up, almost afraid to bother the four Sith. "The left wing is fine for now," Fay politely offered. Without another word, the Imperial ducked away, bringing the loader with him. As the man slipped away, the other three Sith looked to the tall woman. "Alright, it was only mostly his idea." A low grumble slipped past Syrosk's lips as he rubbed his brow. "How did things go on Ziost?" Graves spoke up, changing the subject. "As well as expected," Syrosk admitted. "Nami's in the hands of my former apprentices. They'll prepare her for her trials in the Academy." "What do we do until she graduates?" asked Fay. "The same thing we were going to do prior to you bringing home a wayward Jedi. Work," Syrosk rasped. "Now come on, we've wasted enough time." The Executor quickly turned on his heels and began making his way back toward the lift, his underlings following soon after.

Many thanks for the extremely kind words. I can't say how thrilled I was to have something of mine receive such analysis. It's good to see I succeeded in writing more than a simple action piece. I wanted to write a story about bipolar symmetry, in which both sides slowly degenerate and drift closer and closer until they are indistinguishable from each other. Another thing I was particularly proud of was the fact that I made no mention of gender throughout the story. Whether the Jedi and Sith were men or women was an assumption the reader had to make themselves. Even though the main characters are pretty much nothing more than a set of robes each, I'll admit this piece was inspired by another pair of characters. In some of my stories, I'll get around to mentioning an organization of assassins whom employ a pair of Force-users who have turned their back on their respective Orders to become contract killers. A Jedi and Sith, unable to kill each other, who decide to go into a business where they and they alone dictate the use of their power. Should I get around to writing about them, they'll likely be only tangentially related to this isolated piece, but the connection will be there nonetheless.

None. They were so awesome, they just rode around on asteroids braving the vacuum of space. (Or Roon, if you want to be all historical about it. After that, the planet they named Mandalore.)

And you have my sincerest thanks for your comment. I never really expected anything I've written to receive the level of appreciation and enjoyment readers have expressed toward this story. If anyone asks, it was you people who made this happen. If not for the feedback and comments left by everyone in this thread, I don't know what state this story would be in. All those weeks and months between posts happened even when I was sufficiently motivated to continue writing. Without them, I don't know if I could have finished this. For all my other ongoing stories, I still care about each and every one of them, and hope I can deliver them somewhere as remotely satisfying as this one. I haven't been writing much as of late, and probably won't for the rest of April as I find myself with a heavy workload that requires my writing attentions, but I don't plan on stopping anytime soon. Also, for anyone interested, I've posted this story over at fanfiction.net. It should be easier to navigate and won't have any comments or author's notes breaking it up if someone wants a 'cleaner' read.

As the Jedi Order grew and became more organized around a central power structure, it likely became necessary for more rigid standards and practices. It's not that all attachment or emotion was inherently dangerous, it's just that once you've got a certain number of Jedi in the Order, it's easier to just lay down whatever rules you can to prevent whatever problems might arise. Rather than bother reviewing things on a case-by-case basis and risk making a mistake, ban the potentially dangerous thing altogether. It's likely the same as Jedi and positive emotions. Can positive emotions make someone a better Jedi? Yes. Do they always lead to the dark side? No. Can they lead to the dark side? Yes. But instead of properly teaching understanding and caution, it's probably easier to just outright forbid. There's a lot of parallels with the Republic itself. Lots of members. Lots of unique individuals. But everyone is subject to the same rules and regulations, sometimes unnecessarily restrictive or burdensome. In the early days, there likely weren't as many Jedi or at least less 'mishaps' wrought from Jedi turning to the dark side from emotional attachment. In the later days, Jedi likely had a greater understanding of the Force and their relationship with it, and therefore relaxed restrictions pertaining to attachment. Between then, we have the Old Republic Jedi and all their heavy-handedness. Less likely an issue of stricter ideals, and more likely an attempt to maintain control as the Order grew.

Most of which mostly pertain to current members, or appointees since the start of the game. There's little to no information regarding Council members in the early Cold War or during the Great Galactic War. And considering people like Vowrawn and Marr are considered anomalies with their years long, or even decades long tenure, one can't assume who held what seat more than a few years before the start of the game. Most likely, considering Defense and Offense are spoken for. For some, I could see it explained away as the 'Military' spheres wanting to keep appointment decisions in-house. And with Marr taking charge of things, it's likely all one needs is his approval to gain a seat. With Ancient Knowledge being a rather insular sphere, I can understand the other Councilors feeling like they don't need to acknowledge or include the player in every decision. As such, the player is granted the most leniency, but is also kept out of the political realm. It'd be good if in the future, they start to acknowledge that the Inquisitor is no longer the fledgling member of the Council, with new appointees looking up to them the same way they would a senior member. Maybe get the chance to swat a fellow Councilor down if disrespected.