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ebitenpura · 4 months ago

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Quietus

Takes place in Chapter 9 of KOTET.

Warnings: Implied violence, implied violence against children, minor miscommunication (skip second memory)

It begins with a whisper.

Sleep, Valkorion’s voice echoes in her mind, as firm and gentle as a parent tucking their young into bed. Her eyes flutter shut not of their own will, heavy like lead. The last thing she hears is Theron and Lana shouting her name before darkness overtakes her and her body slumps weightlessly over the cold armrests of the Eternal Throne.

She awakens in a desolate land. Devoid of warmth, grey ash scattering about her feet, the stars whirl ceaselessly overhead, turning in an infinite wheel of lights that streak against the blackboard of the night sky. The wind howls. Yutorin shivers, and rubs her goosebumping forearms, only to stop and turn unfamiliar gnarled palms over. Thick and pale, crusted over with age… these are not her hands. She feels the power running through their veins and snaps her fingers. A tiny spark of purple electricity jumps between her digits– his digits. She takes one unbalanced step forward; she is too tall, her steps uneven. Her too-large hands trace the ruin of her face, and she lifts wizened, yellowed eyes lined by crows feet skyward.

She and Valkorion had switched bodies, but this was not the waking world.

It was a setting that had appeared to her for five years of carbonite. Five years of unceasing loneliness in the funeral urn of a dead planet. Where the abstract took form and voices of the past lambasted her ears, carried by gales of woe and misery. It was her mental landscape, corrupted by the one known as the Emperor, replaced with the last moments of a dying star.

She’d become intimate with the out-of-body sensation it provided and the dawning realization that one was in but a dream, unable to wake. Yet this was her mind– one she had been trapped in before without her bodily autonomy, like a puppet dancing on strings, long ago, when she answered to a different designation. Her fists ball at her sides. Valkorion would not have his way. She would not suffer it a second time. You may have my body, but not my mind, she thinks aloud, but the cosmos above, the unceasing desert, and Valkorion himself do not answer.

She traverses for what feels an eternity. The razor wind tears at her clothes, buffets her off the path, yet she advances dutifully all the same.

Her journey takes her through the labyrinthine innards of a cave, and eventually, to a stretch of open sky dominated by kneeling statues chained at the neck and torches whose flames do not flicker. Before her unfurls a crumbling umbilical cord of a staircase, the only other physical manifestation in this space beyond time. Four arched doorways surround the spiral pit, their paths leading into the seemingly empty void of the starry beyond.

Yutorin stops and stares at the bizarre scenery. There appeared to be no clear way forward, but in the annals of the mind, anything was possible.

She faces the arches, standing like sentries above the crumbling abyss. Her intuition tells her she must enter those doors to proceed– something important lies behind them, but her current knowledge of it is obscured like a memory she can't quite recall. Her brain feels muddied, shattered into incoherent fragments that only leaves her with a faint throbbing sensation when she tries to form a thought.

Yutorin shakes her head, hand falling from her temple. No good. She can't recall a thing. Valkorion’s influence is worse than I thought-

Hurry.

Yutorin recognizes the sound that rings in her ears; of her own timbre and the smooth accent that she's heard from her own throat countless times before. It's her voice: practiced, learned, Imperial. She looks around with increasing uncertainty, searching for the source amidst the chaos of her surroundings.

Hurry. Hurry. The disembodied voice of her psyche urges her on again, coming from nowhere and every direction all at once. Hurry and remember. Hurry and reclaim who you once were.

The voice falls mute. The arches continue to beckon to her in their silent gravitas, and she realizes then there is no other way.

She frowns, and reaches out.

The first doorway sucks her past the threshold, and everything fades into white.

When her vision clears, she's standing in the center of a trashed apartment.

“Where is that bitch spy?!” bellows a man's deep voice, his accent unrecognizable. The sound of furniture being upended and transparisteel breaking fills the air. Flimsi are strewn all over the floor; broken wiring lay ripped out of the walls. More household items are tossed from the next room over to the growing pile of detritus.

Yutorin surveys her environment impassively. She doesn't appear to be a part of this scene despite standing in the middle of it, as evidenced by a kolto pack next sailing through the air and passing through her body as if she were incorporeal. She closes her eyes. This must be a memory of her past. And if her suspicions were correct, then he should be…

A small whimper, imperceptible to all but her own ears, comes muffled from an undisturbed closet.

There.

Yutorin sticks her head past the closet's shutters, passing through as easily as if she were a ghost. What greets her is the sight of her younger self as a mere child of a few summers, trembling in his skin and clutching in his desperate fist an Imperial-grade army dagger, one which looked far too unwieldy for such a small boy to use.

The intruder in the next room stomps over the debris they made, hesitates, makes a half-turn, and pauses in front of the closet.

She sees her younger self deliberate and shove one hand over his mouth. Tears spring to his eyes unbidden, wide with primal fear. She stares at his unmarked face. Her hands trace where it would be lined with a cross-shaped scar, one that would last into adulthood.

She doesn't need to watch this anymore. She knows what comes next.

You were always collateral for someone else's mission. A liability. When Nosta took you in, she made it clear you would face death and worse for the crime of being associated with her, a spy. But you were a child, and you would learn.

The voice invades her periphery once more, speaking aloud the uncomfortable truths she'd always known deep down in her heart. Lessons she'd internalized all her life and never questioned.

The horrific scene progresses. She gazes at her younger self left twitching on the floor with pity, his blank, lifeless eyes partially obscured by the curtain of blood running down his cheeks. The knife is discarded to the side. The man's boots track crimson across the room as he leaves.

She had been a pathetic youngling. Weak and so alone in the world. How could she have forgotten?

Always remember. No place in the galaxy is your home. You will never be safe for as long as you walk this path.

The memory fades the same way it arrived, and she finds herself back where she started. The torches before the first door extinguish themselves. She turns to the adjacent door. Her expression darkens.

She reaches out anyways.

This time, she is in Keeper’s office.

Or rather, he is.

Cipher Eight– her male self, her previous identity as an agent before she became Commander– stands in front of the Minister of Intelligence. His fists white-knuckle at his stiffened sides. The blood has drained from his face, and all she can read from his paralyzed expression is that of pure shock.

Keeper’s eyes bore into hers past Eight himself, and Yutorin flinches.

She would never forget that day. Intelligence’s fall… she had done everything in her power to prevent it, only to be looked dead in the eye and told there was no stopping the inevitable, from a man she had been so utterly loyal to she would've cut her own arm off if he had so much as asked. She had played the game exactly how it should've been, had sold her soul, her freedom to protect them.

In the end, she had been betrayed.

“I will never accept who you are, agent.” His words are like daggers, cutting her to the core. She sinks to her knees.

Intelligence is not being rebuilt.

“There is no longer a place or a need for you. It is time to be let go.”

Dark days are coming for the Empire, and I can't protect you.

Yutorin grips her chest, where the stabbing ache in her heart turns to ice with each consequent phrase.

“But consider one thing: If you could change who you've become, would you take that opportunity?”

She turns away from those kind, unbelievably cruel words, her elegant features colored with pain. Her clothing crumples from the severity with which she holds her heart. Was I not enough, Keeper? Was there nothing I could've done for you to ask me to stay?

Is there any version of me you would've acknowledged as worthy to be by your side?

…Or was I simply doomed from the start?

At his desk, Keeper stamps the exit paperwork with resigned finality.

The memory fades once more. She's back at the cosmic stairwell. Two doors remain. She rises unsteadily to her feet, sways, and lurches through the next door.

The Star Cabal’s hideout, where she executed her final mission, manifests before her eyes.

Hunter is laid out on the floor, bleeding heavily from a deep wound in his abdomen. Eight kneels down beside him in one last act of kindness for an enemy he had neither sympathy nor enough words for. Hunter’s palm, slick with his own blood, slowly reaches for Eight’s cheek. He rests it there in an oddly touching display of uncharacteristic affection, a wan smile forming on his lips.

Eight makes no move to withdraw from his touch, an unreadable expression on his face.

“Goodbye, love. Don't ever let them stop you.” Hunter murmurs, letting his hand fall back down.

Eight wipes the crimson prints left lingering on his skin, smearing the blood across his cheekbone. His dark gaze lowers to the body going cold on the septic metal floor.

He says nothing for a long time, then faces away from him.

Whether you acknowledged it or not, you were exactly the same. United in soul. In history. In conquest. Did you think you could be different from the corpse you’ve made of him?

Watcher X’s voice suddenly pierces the numbing silence of her mind. If she closes her eyes, she can pretend she’s still back there, trapped, listening to the ruminations of a dead man as her skull breaks.

All you’ve been through, your trials and travails, will always lead to one end. Someday you too will be hunted, put down like a dog. When that day comes, you’ll see him again.

Then you’ll know in your heart of hearts…that you played the game right.

The memory dissipates like foam on the seashore. Again. Back at the threshold. The fires snuff themselves out. One door remains.

Time to cross.

She doesn’t look before she leaps.

The old, ruggedly handsome features of Ardun Kothe come into view. She’s back at the Shadow Arsenal, minutes before the impending disaster that would’ve destroyed Kaas City. Eight levels a tired look at the aged Jedi, who only replies with a sad, sad smile that holds years of untold guilt that she’d never get the chance to ask about.

“What I did to you was unforgivable. But I did it anyway.”

We all carry our own sins in this line of work, Yutorin thinks, but maybe you were the only one to see me the way I was meant to be.

“Hold position. Keyword: onomatophobia. And thank you.”

Thanking me. How strange. There’s no need to be gracious to your tool.

That was always what she admired about the man, oddly enough. For all his combined guilt, the burdens that weighed so heavily he would never reveal them to the world, and his rampant idealism, he never once lied to himself. Yutorin had seen his true face that day. It was…kind, for what little good it did him in the end.

But most of all, it was honest. Ardun Kothe was a man of sheer pragmatism. In his hands, Yutorin, the then Cipher Eight, had been nothing but a weapon to be wielded as he saw fit.

This, she would remember.

This, she would respect.

The last memory fades away into the ether. As she returns to the spiral staircase, she hears a sound resonating from the pit below. A sound…of iron being struck in clanging blows, melodically, like a bell. It calls to her, ringing in the depths of her soul. Before she realizes it, her feet have moved of their own volition and carried her down the winding steps, further and further into the darkness below.

The ringing stops. Before her lies the final doorway, and beyond that, the throne. A solitary monument in a snow-covered field of stone and ash, where her body awaits.

She ascends.

Valkorion gazes boredly at her atop his high seat as she comes level to him, a smug expression worn on what should be her face. “You continue to defy me. For what reason? I have given you everything– power, influence, the Eternal Throne. All that remains is to allow me to take your body. You would be a fool to resist.” He rumbles in her voice, the tone benevolent yet warped.

“I am not ready to die here, Emperor.”

He chuckles. “It is too late. There is nothing more you can do.”

“You underestimate me. That will be your undoing,” She declares, stepping forward with a look sharper than steel in her darkening eyes. The snow crunches beneath her feet. “I have seen my future. I have seen who I truly am. And you-” She plants her feet firmly in the ground, squaring off before the Immortal Emperor. “-are not a part of it.”

Simmering fury gathers in Valkorion’s countenance. “You are testing my patience, child.” He moves to rise from the throne, and Yutorin feels the ozone coalescing in the chilled air.

She exhales sharply. “...No. You are testing mine. This is my mind. My world to shape as I wish. You think you've won, Valkorion, but this is the trap I’ve laid for you. Keyword: iconoclasm. Come to me!” She barks, thrusting an arm towards her possessed body.

“!” Valkorion’s eyes widen as he takes one step forward, stumbling as he attempts to resist the codeword ingrained into her very being. “Impossible…! This should…” He struggles in vain. “Only work on Vaylin…!”

“You stole the programming for the Castellans from the Empire. It was used on the Ciphers,” She flatly explains as he unwillingly walks towards her, “First us, then your daughter. Reap what you have sown, my Emperor. I will never be free again.”

She grabs him by the collar and pulls him close into her embrace, holding him as if they were partners in a twisted dance. “And neither will you.”

“What are you doing?!”

Yutorin ignores his protests, blocking out all distractions from her mind. She recalls her memories, reaching deep into the depths of her heart. She has seen it laid bare; she knows what lies at the center of her psyche, the truth of her identity.

She will repair what has been broken. She will reforge it anew.

“I am nothing but a sword,” She chants almost reverently, “I am a weapon. I am no woman, nor man.” Her hand plunges deep into her body- no, Valkorion’s chest, passing through flesh and spirit both. Valkorion’s cry of surprise turns agonized. She feels something begin to take form within her vessel, and grasps it with all her might. “All my life, I have fought for others. I have cut down enemies. I have cut down friends.”

As she speaks, she begins to draw out her hand from within Valkorion’s chest. An intense light ruptures from where she's pierced him, and as she slowly pulls away, something begins to emerge from the cavity. A hilt.

Valkorion writhes beneath her. She pours all her strength into pulling out the hilt– and soon, a guard, a naked blade. A sword. As she does so, visions of her past flash before her eyes.

Intelligence. Ziost. The people of her Alliance.

And…

Before she knows it, she's pulled the full length of the sword from Valkorion, who has gone limp within her arms. The light grows ever brighter, blinding now in its brilliance. It's the blade she's always carried into battle, manifested now in the metaphysical as a representation of her very soul.

“I am not a body to possess,” She says, as the body Valkorion once inhabited becomes translucent and begins to fade away, “I am a sword made to slay you, and I will not be broken.”

She turns the blade on herself, and stabs inward.

When she reawakens, she’s lying on the ground as her old self, in her own body. The sword is clutched to her, bloodied as it is, and she feels a lancing pain in her chest. She gets up slowly, weary.

Atop the stairs leading to the throne, Valkorion’s spirit turns yellow Sith eyes full of loathing upon her. “Well done,” He bitterly rumbles, white vestments flowing in the harsh wind. “You are indeed an unbreakable tool of my empire. I should have chosen a better vessel to mold than a faceless weapon who will never find peace as an individual.” His voice is filled with barely-concealed disgust. “But it ends here. If I cannot possess you, I will send you to oblivion and start again. The Immortal Emperor will never succumb to mortality.”

Yutorin says nothing, answering with only a flick of her blade.

Valkorion gathers lightning within his hands, and fires.

She charges.

END

#swtor #swtor fanfiction #commander eight au #imperial agent spoilers #oc: orradiz #kotxx #valkorion #mentions of swtor hunter and ardun kothe #heavy depiction of mindfuckery bs and general force shit #admin writes #if this and the symbolism makes any sense ill kiss you on the mouth who said that

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swtorpadawan · 7 months ago

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Code Breakers

Author’s Notes: The following story serves as “Part Three” and the conclusion of my In the Shadow of the Hero Trilogy, a storyline that I began with Training Day and Incomplete and featuring my original character in Tyzen Pyne. As with those previous entries, it is part of my expanded Halcyon Legacy, and takes place on Odessen sometime between the Knights of the Fallen Empire and the Knights of the Eternal Throne expansions.

Tyzen Pyne hurried up the hill overlooking the Alliance base on Odessen, joining the many who had already made the trek.

Despite all the bustle and activity – and Tyzen’s lingering anxiety from running late to this gathering – it felt peaceful here.

The Force felt peaceful here.

Looking around, he was awed to see so many people having already assembled.

More than forty individuals were now gathered around the hilltop. Most of them were wearing brown robes of varying styles. Others wore the adaptable armor plating that had become popular during the various conflicts over the years. Others still wore more nondescript garb, clothing that - aside perhaps from the presence of a lightsaber clipped to their belts – would not give away their identities or allegiance.

Jedi. Tyzen marveled.

This was by far the most Jedi that he had seen in one place in years. Not since early in the Zakuulan Invasion, when he and other Padawans had been Knighted on Tython before being sent off to fight.

And to die.

Back before the Republic had given up any hope for victory against the Eternal Empire and before the Jedi Order had been shattered.

As had Tyzen.

And now he was here. On Odessen. Ready to take the fight back to the Zakuulans. Standing amongst the last group of Jedi in the galaxy who could make that claim.

Not for the first time that day, Tyzen thought of Liam Dentiri, his old Master, dead at the hands of some bounty hunter in the pay of Imperials on Tython years ago when the Sith Empire had attacked, prior to the Revanite Crisis.

What would he have thought of his former padawan now?

He was lucky to have learned about this gathering at all, given that his transport – actually a freighter piloted by a friendly smuggler – had only arrived on Odessen late last night, and he’d met only a handful of people in that time.

Fortunately for him, Sana-Rae, the Voss Mystic and leader of the Alliance’s Force Enclave, had kindly informed him of this meeting of all the Jedi who had joined the Alliance when he’d gone to meet her.

Tyzen regarded the crowd, trying to see if he could recognize anyone in all the small clusters of Jedi congregating amongst themselves.

Although a diverse group by nature, one Jedi stood out to him immediately, her blue skin and red eyes giving her a distinct appearance.

He had never met Master Dazh Ranos, one of the exceedingly rare Chiss who had left their Ascendency to serve with the Jedi Order. But Tyzen had heard rumors about her back on Tython. Despite her achieving the rank of Master, it was said that the Chiss Jedi had never agreed with the Council’s policies and had eventually withdrawn to make her own place in the galaxy, journeying through the Outer Rim Territories and helping people wherever she could. Tyzen imagined that she had seen parts of the galaxy that had never seen a Jedi, especially at times when so many had been needed closer to the galaxy’s core.

He didn’t recognize the towering Ithorian Jedi standing at her side, but he’d already been told that his name was Choza Raabat. Serving as a Jedi Knight during the Cold War, Raabat had crashed on a distant planet in the Unknown Regions while leading a Republic patrol. Marooned for a decade, the Jedi had eventually returned to a galaxy turned upside down with the Order all but wiped out the Republic suffering through another defeat, this time at the hands of the ascendant Eternal Empire.

Tyzen had heard that the Alliance Commander himself had personally recruited Choza to his cause while on a mission to destroy the Zakuulan Star Fortress above Alderaan some weeks ago. Since then, he – alongside Master Ranos – had taken up a de facto position of leadership among the Alliance Jedi.

That story hadn’t surprised him; Tyzen already had the impression that a great many people had joined the Alliance based on prior meetings with the famous Outlander.

Case in point was the next Jedi he recognized.

Mennaus was a Zabrak Jedi Knight just like Tyzen. The stoic man was only in his mid-thirties but he carried himself like a wizened Jedi Master with decades of experience, seeming to speak only when he had something to say, but doing so with an impressive gravity.

Tyzen had met Mennaus two years ago on Coruscant. Well beneath the surface, of course. Places like the Works were one of the few places left on the Republic capital where they could avoid detection from Zakuul and their dreaded Fortresses. Mennaus had impressed Tyzen with his bearing and resolve; the man seemed to have endured the difficult years in the Coruscanti underground surprisingly well. They had exchanged information, then spoken briefly about easier days back on Tython. Mennaus revealed that, years before on Tython, he had once been saved by a fellow Padawan during the Flesh Raider Uprising.

That same Padawan, nearly thirteen years later, now commanded the Alliance.

As he recognized more individuals from the crowd, Tyzen looked around, trying to pick out the Alliance Commander. Sana-Rae had told him that it had been the Outlander himself who had called this meeting. Perhaps he was still making his way from the base.

Tyzen deeply regretted not being able to meet with the Commander since his arrival on Odessen the day before. There were things he wanted to say to him. And to ask him.

After all, he hadn’t seen Corellan Halcyon in seven years.

Tyzen had only met Master Corellan twice before, but both encounters had left a profound impression on his life. He very much would have liked the chance to reintroduce himself to the man once known to the galaxy as the Hero of Tython.

He probably won’t even remember me. Tyzen reminded himself, regretfully.

To many Jedi of Tyzen’s generation, the last class of Jedi Knights to have come of age on Tython before ‘The Fall’, Corellan Halcyon, the venerated Hero of Tython, was the reason the words ‘I am a Jedi’ meant something.

Before Master Corellan had disappeared, presumed killed in action. Just before the Zakuulan Invasion had begun.

Tyzen hoped he had grown up somewhat since those earlier encounters with the famed Hero of Tython. Perhaps not that much taller; his body has stopped growing vertically around seventeen. He’d filled out a bit; his muscles developing and his shoulders growing wider and more confident. Still, overall his build had remained relatively lean and agile, as it had been when he’d been a Padawan.

But his eyes had seen more of the galaxy.

Perhaps too much.

True, Tyzen had not been present for The Fall when – despite a heroic effort and countless sacrifices – the Jedi and their Republic allies on Tython had broken. When Master Satele, the Grandmaster of the Jedi Order, had gone missing, apparently on some unsanctioned personal mission. The only members of the Council still active, Masters Ulannium and Gnost-Dural, had evacuated the Temple and the fabled Jedi home world, taking with them all the Jedi they could save and leading them into exile.

Denielle had gone with them.

Denielle.

He’d tried not to think about her over the years. He’d also tried not to think about her smile. Her laugh. Her kindness. Her touch.

Above all, he’d tried not to think about the sensation of her soft lips pressed against his.

It had all been a mistake. He’d told himself after they’d ended it. The Masters had always preached against such “connections”.

But Tyzen couldn’t deny their all too brief relationship had left a mark upon his soul. He still felt her absence from his life keenly, even after all this time.

It had been more than five years since he had seen her.

Not since that night on Tatooine when she’d departed off-world with the other Jedi from their combat group, fully understanding that her next battle would be on Tython.

Where the Order would either make good on their escape or face annihilation.

Their parting – he knew other people would have called it a breakup – had been somber. There had been no harsh words; just a regret and acceptance that both of them now felt compelled to follow different paths.

Tyzen understood that Denielle felt that the Jedi on Tython – already preparing to evacuate – needed her aid the most. After all, the fate of the Jedi Order would be decided there.

But there had been people on Tatooine – and countless other worlds – who would need the Jedi’s help. Who needed Tyzen’s help.

And he told himself that Corellan Halcyon wouldn’t have abandoned all those people.

So they had kissed one final time, before Denielle, tears in her eyes, had turned her back to him and left.

Tyzen’s plan to keep fighting on Tatooine had been futile, of course. Within a month, Algrunar, the only other Jedi who had stayed behind, had been killed and what counted for the local government on Tatooine had capitulated. When he’d realized that the people of Tatooine had only suffered more for his presence, Tyzen had finally been forced to flee as well, a local farmer named Galen Besk providing him with a way off-world.

By then, Denielle and the other Jedi had left Tyzen and the rest of the galaxy behind.

He could only hope that she was alright.

Not much later, he’d received a short message from Master Bela Kiwiiks. The encrypted communique had been routed through a secure relay and into his private drop account, no doubt to avoid detection by the Eternal Empire. The Togrutan Jedi had served on the Council for as long as Tyzen could remember, and he’d once helped her evacuate younglings from the Temple during the same battle where Liam Dentiri had met his end.

Master Kiwiiks confirmed to him that most of the surviving Jedi had successfully escaped off Tython and into exile, but that the Force had called on a different path.

Tyzen found that he wasn’t surprised. Master Kiwiiks was still highly regarded for her wisdom and compassion, but she’d be the first to admit that her days as a warrior were long past. He did not fault her for her for making such a choice.

She and her unnamed companions – he suspected they were again younglings, representing the future of the Jedi – were safe for the moment, and she was now caring for those who most needed it.

Tyzen again found that he wasn’t surprised. Master Kiwiiks was a natural caregiver. The council had selected her to oversee the well-being of the Order’s younglings in the first place for a good reason.

She’d somehow known that Tyzen hadn’t been with the Jedi who’d fled Tython and told him that if he needed sanctuary from the Zakuulans, she could offer it.

The offer did not surprise him. She’d always shown him such compassion. That she’d take a risk, however small, to offer him a safe-haven actually seemed natural for her.

When he had declined her offer, Tyzen’s own choice had surprised him a bit.

Fighting the Zakuulans on his own? Without the support of the Jedi? For a Republic that had all but surrendered?

Tyzen had been terrified.

But he knew he couldn’t give up. He had to keep fighting for those who couldn’t flee or protect themselves. If not on Tatooine, then on a hundred other worlds.

Because he knew that the Hero of Tython wouldn’t have given up.

In the dark days that followed, Tyzen helped whomever he could, whenever he could, however he could, while finding food and shelter wherever he could, all the while never staying in the same place for long.

The Eternal Empire’s pogrom against the Jedi had been vicious and even more devastating than what the Order of the Sith had faced. Clearly, Emperor Arcann had determined that if there was a threat of resistance against their rule, the Jedi would have been the most likely source for such a spark of hope for the galaxy.

Now on Odessen, as part of an Alliance led by a Jedi, Tyzen supposed that history had proven that assertion correct.

The so-called ‘Shadow Temple’ network, those Jedi who hadn’t withdrawn from the galaxy and who were now operating in an informal underground, had determined that the few Jedi still active and opposing Zakuul would live longer when they didn’t stay together for longer than was strictly necessary. Occasionally, he’d get word about another Jedi. Sometimes he would hear a bit of gossip that some other Jedi or another was still active and something of their activities.

More often, he’d hear that someone had been caught and killed.

Still, he’d worked with a few other Jedi off and on over the years. Unaw Aharo. Shigar Konshi. Attros Finn. A handful of others. He’d realized one day that most of these individuals were only a few years older than Tyzen himself.

There seemed to be so few of the old Masters still left.

It had been a hard life. And a lonely life.

But he had kept at it. Again, because he knew the Hero of Tython wouldn’t have given up.

Even his cousin, Karache, had eventually reached out to him. He hadn’t seen the Republic Special Forces soldier-turn-independent bounty hunter in more than a decade, but the older Zabrak had nevertheless offered him a place in his crew.

“The Jedi are long gone, Tyzen.” Karache Pyne had declared in his holo-message. “It’s everyone for themselves, out here. Why don’t you come with me? You’d be good in a fight. We can use you.”

By then, Tyzen desperately wanted to say yes. The years had taken a toll on him. Too many cold and hungry nights. Too many allies lost.

Too many friends lost.

Even worse, Tyzen had started to lose hope.

He turned his cousin down, again choosing to follow his own path. The path of the hero.

Because the Hero of Tython wouldn’t have given up.

And now, after nearly five years of fighting, running and hiding, Tyzen found himself here on Odessen. Ready to fight alongside the Hero of Tython.

As if on cue, Tyzen felt a sudden surge in the Force.

The light side of the Force had already felt strong atop this hill, in the presence of so many Jedi. It was peaceful and calming and soothed his wounded soul.

Now it was as if a blinding spotlight were being shown down on them all, even though it was late morning, and the sun was already high in the sky.

It was powerful and invigorating and inspirational.

Had Master Corellan Halcyon been concealing himself, somehow? Hiding behind some nearby bushes, or perhaps a tree a short distance away? Maybe he’d somehow hidden himself through the Force?

It didn’t matter. Tyzen decided. Regardless of where he’d been, he was suddenly there, standing at ease amidst the Jedi. From his confident stance and smile, he’d obviously been watching for some time now, choosing the moment to make his entrance.

Tyzen noted immediately that Corellan wasn’t wearing the distinctive brown Jedi robes or the adaptive body armor he had made famous during his years as the Hero of Tython. Instead he was clad in a new garment; this uniform was elaborate, predominantly white plating with black sleeves and trousers. The accoutrements had a distinctly… Zakuulan flavor, much to Tyzen’s surprise.

But even so, this was who Master Corellan Halcyon, the Hero of Tython, the Battlemaster of the Jedi Order and the champion of the known galaxy, had become.

And if anything, he had become an even greater hero. Just a few weeks ago, Master Corellan had defeated Emperor Arcann in orbit over Odessen, effectively toppling that tyrant from the Eternal Throne. Zakuul was now ruled by Arcann’s sister, Vaylin, who if anything was even more cruel and insane than her brother.

Everyone on Odessen seemed convinced that the Commander and his Alliance would now defeat Empress Vaylin and end the Eternal Empire that had plagued the galaxy for so many years.

Master Corellan himself looked to be in excellent health, despite the countless challenges he had faced. Tyzen had heard, of course, about the five years that he had spent imprisoned in carbonite, isolated from the rest of the galaxy. The reason why he’d been missing for so long. The reason why he’d missed the war. Why he hadn’t been there to save the Jedi, the Republic and the galaxy.

As difficult as the last few years had been for Tyzen, the younger Jedi couldn’t imagine losing so much time off his life.

Still, Corellan looked older. Not physically, exactly. But there was a look in his pale blue eyes that was somehow more… something.

“Thank you all for coming.” Corellan Halcyon formally began the gathering with a welcoming smile. It was the same expression Tyzen had once seen on countless Republic military recruitment posters during the war against the Sith Empire.

The ‘Hero of Tython’ smile.

Looking around, Tyzen could see that the other Jedi had been as startled by Corellan’s sudden appearance as he had been. After a moment of bustle, however, the gathered Jedi settled down to listen.

“I have three matters I wanted to speak with you all about today. Things you all have a right to hear directly from me. I wanted to do so in a place where we had relative privacy.”

His arms opened wide, as if taking in the scenery around them on the hilltop.

“I assure you all, I have seen to it that we may all speak freely here.”

The implication of his declaration was not lost on Tyzen. He recalled hearing that the Alliance’s Chief of Staff, Lana Beniko, was a Sith as well as having once served as the Empire’s Director of Sith Intelligence. Likewise, it was said that there were many other former spies in the Alliance from both the Republic and the Empire, as well as others who would have – until recently at least – had more than enough reason to ‘observe’ the Jedi.

Corellan Halcyon was staking his word that none of these elements would be a concern for them today.

“For the first matter, I’d like to formally thank all of you for making it to Odessen and joining the Alliance. Regardless of whether you were here on the day we laid ground on the base or if you’re only just now arriving, the fact that you were willing to endure such challenges and dangers just to reach this point is remarkable. I know full well that there are many we all would have wished to have with us today who did not make.”

He paused, a somber expression across his face.

Tyzen momentarily thought about the many Jedi had known who’d been killed over the years. He urgently suppressed the emotion as Corellan continued to speak.

“I also know the last several years must have been incredibly difficult for most of you. Both as Jedi and as people.”

Corellan’s eyes drifted among the crowd, turning from Jedi to Jedi, catching several of them in his gaze before continuing on to the next. He finally caught Tyzen himself, and the young Zabrak felt a rush of excitement course through him.

“Likewise, that you would show such trust in me by coming here under such conditions honors me more than I can ever tell you. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to express my gratitude for that, and I hope to prove myself worthy of it.”

Many of the assembled Jedi gave murmurs of assent and affirmation while others waited patiently. Tyzen distinctly picked up the words “We’re with you, Master Corellan.” from one of the younger Jedi.

Not trusting himself to speak, Tyzen found himself simply nodding. He could not think of anyone better suited to lead this fight against Zakuul than the Hero of Tython. Corellan Halcyon was surely the leader who would lead the Jedi back to glory. He would shatter the Eternal Empire’s grip on power and would usher in a new era of peace to the galaxy.

Nevertheless, Tyzen kept his peace, eager to hear more. Through the eddies of the Force around him, he noted that the words had been well-received and appreciated by the Jedi of the Alliance.

But everyone seemed to understand that this was all prelude to something much more important.

Tyzen hoped he knew what that was. Whether he knew it or not, Corellan Halcyon was now leading the largest active contingent of Jedi in the known galaxy.

Why shouldn’t he declare himself Grandmaster of the Order? Tyzen asked himself, speculating.

The Alliance Commander, after a moment’s pause, pressed on.

“The second matter I wanted to share with you was that we have two new additions to the Alliance who are arriving within in a few days: Leeha Narezz and Jomar Chul. For those who are unfamiliar with them, I can personally attest that both are veteran Jedi Knights of great ability and experience. I have no doubt that their arrival will greatly benefit the Alliance.”

Tyzen recognized the names. He had never met either of those Jedi, but they had been active during the last war against the Sith Empire. If he recalled correctly, Leeha was a famed droid engineer while Jomar had been one of the finest reconnaissance scouts and infiltration experts in the Order before the Eternal Empire’s invasion. Both were just a few years older than Master Corellan.

More recently, he’d heard a rumor that they had served off and on with the Shadow Temple since the invasion these last few years, as had Tyzen.

Corellan paused again, letting another murmur pass through the assembled group before continuing. At some point, this Jedi hero, considered by many the greatest warrior in the galaxy, had learned the art of public speaking. Clearly, he was carefully weighing the mood of his audience.

“With their consent, I am informing you all ahead of their arrival that the two of them have been living openly in a romantic relationship and they have been for several years.”

Tyzen blinked as the resurgence of urgent murmuring resumed, with several of the Jedi present beginning to call out questions for the Alliance Commander. Inevitably, Tyzen himself could only think of his relationship with Denielle with regret.

She had made the choice she’d had to make, and so had he.

That didn’t mean it hurt less.

But for Leeha and Jomar, acknowledging such public breakings from the Jedi code would usually result in their dismissal from the Order.

Corellan calmly waited for the assembled Jedi to digest his words, then held up a forestalling hand. He had clearly expected such a reaction.

Slowly, the crowd became calm.

“For the record, speaking strictly as the Alliance Commander, I meant what I said before. I have no concerns whatsoever about Leeha or Jomar’s ability to reliably serve as members of the Alliance.” He paused. “However, I know that many of you would have concerns about Jedi openly embracing such a… connection. I assure you, Leeha and Jomar are not oblivious to the implications of their relationship for the rest of you.”

There was another pause as the gathered Jedi seemed to collectively nod in understanding.

“As you know, the council is currently absent, and there is no other legitimate authority to govern such matters. Therefore, I leave it to you to decide whether or not they should be considered Jedi. Both Leeha and Jomar have assured me that they will accept whatever judgement you reach without complaint or appeal.”

“For my own part, I would not presume to interfere in your decision. I ask only that you accept them as fellow members of the Alliance, and to treat them with the respect and courtesy that entails. Whether they are Jedi or not is a matter for the Jedi alone to decide.”

These words, perhaps more from their phrasing than their sentiment, caused a stirring of confusion and unease amongst the gathered Jedi. Plainly, this was not what anyone had anticipated.

Tyzen couldn’t help himself. Boldly he stepped forward, raising his hand before calling out.

“Master Corellan! Can’t you just claim the authority to decide the issue?”

Corellan smiled at the questioner, a warm look of recognition catching his eyes.

“Tyzen. It’s been a long time.”

The young Zabrak suddenly felt his face flush, put on the spot amongst the assembled Jedi.

“I’m sorry.” Tyzen looked down at his feet, suddenly feeling younger than his years. It felt like he was a padawan again. “I didn’t think you’d remember me.”

He overheard a handful of chuckles as a ripple of amusement passed through the gathering.

Corellan’s calming smile just widened.

“Of course I remember you, Tyzen. I never forget anyone I’ve called a friend.”

He looked around.

“For the record, that same sentiment applies for all of you. Whether I knew you before you came to Odessen or if I’ve only met you today, as of now, I regard each one of you as a friend. With the trust you’ve offered me, I could do no less.”

Corellan’s hand pressed against his own chest.

“Regardless of what is decided today or how the war goes, each of you has done more than enough to lay claim to my friendship just by being here.”

“But Tyzen’s question actually leads me directly to the third subject I wanted to speak to you about.”

Corellan composed himself somberly. He clearly had their full attention.

“I have long believed that people should be judged not by what they call themselves, but rather their actions; for those are a reflection of who they are.” He began.

“In my mind, this is a simple creed. One that has served me well over the years and that has allowed me to achieve many accomplishments.”

“Since I returned to the galaxy, I have made many difficult decisions, and those have led me to this point. I do not regret most of these, but I have given many hours of reflection to my choices. And I’ve come to acknowledge the implications of those choices, both for myself and for my role as a Jedi.”

Tyzen felt a growing sense of anxiety in his belly.

“To that point, concerning own my path as the Commander of the Alliance, there are things that I realize that I must do.” Corellan glanced downward for a moment, then turned back up. “Things that, in good conscience, I’ve realized that I couldn’t perform as a Jedi.”

A faint breeze swept through the gathering.

“For this reason, and before all of you as witnesses, I formally resign as a member of the Jedi Order.”

If Corellan’s earlier statements had drawn a murmur of a response, this one built up a firestorm. Almost everyone started speaking all at once.

The Alliance Commander patiently waited out the storm. Whatever he called himself, however he saw himself, he was more than capable of facing such adversity with a calmness that would have shamed any Jedi Master.

After about a minute, Corellan again raised a forestalling hand, deftly cutting off further questions.

“I understand your concerns. Let me assure you that I have every hope that the Order will reform itself in time. Indeed, I expect that it will. Whatever mistakes may have been made over its history it remains my belief that the Jedi have – on balance – been a force for good. For order and justice, yes, but also for peace.”

That seemed to calm the emotions of the assembled Jedi. Still, they listened on tensely.

“However, it is clear to me that I am not the one to lead such a reformation, even if I possessed the wisdom to perform such a feat. The Alliance, the galaxy and perhaps the Force itself… well, as I have said, they require me to be someone else. Someone I’m already well on my way to becoming.”

“I can promise you all that I will do everything in my power not to pressure any of you into doing anything to compromise your own values.” Corellan paused. “It is the same promise I make to everyone who will join us. But I’ve seen far too many leaders – including more than one Jedi – attempt to force their own beliefs on those who followed them. In my experience, that’s led to hypocrisy at best, disaster at worst.”

Corellan’s hands spread wide again, emphasizing the gathering.

“I will not force my beliefs on anyone else, least of all any of you.” He concluded. “I will ask that people follow me, and the Alliance will have a set a procedures and protocols, but that will be as far as it goes. While I lead it, this Alliance will reflect my values, not be a reflection of any dogma I may follow.”

Master Dazh Ranos stepped forward.

“Master Corellan… Commander… forgive me, but I must ask. Is it possible that… someone else is influencing this decision?”

Tyzen blinked in alarm. He had heard the rumor that some remnant of the Sith Emperor – that evil called Valkorion by the Zakuulans – now resided within the consciousness of his greatest enemy in Corellan Halcyon.

He’d rejected the rumor at the time he’d heard it out of hand, but now he wondered if there wasn’t some truth in it.

Rather than rebuking the suggestion out of hand, Corellan simply smiled patiently.

“I understand your question, Master Ranos. In point of fact, yes. It is certainly possible that that is the case.” He paused. “But no. I assure you that I have meditated on this matter for some time, and I can confidently tell you that this is my choice, alone.”

A green-skinned Twi’lek Jedi Knight named Shiri’ah stepped forward, drawing the commander’s attention.

“Then… you don’t think you’re becoming a Sith?” she asked.

“No.” Corellan shook his head sharply, letting out a slight chuckle. “I can claim more experience in dealing with the Sith than nearly any Jedi living and I can confidently tell you that my own path does not involve embracing the dark side.”

Tyzen remembered watching the Commander fight those Imperial Commandoes on Tython years before, when they had been about to slaughter Tyzen and a room full of young Padawans. The Hero of Tython had fought with an intensity that might have shamed any Sith.

But… it hadn’t been passionate. In hindsight, it had felt almost detached. As if it had been someone else doing it all.

Somehow, Tyzen sensed that Corellan Halcyon might have spoken more but had thought better of it.

Corellan paused, looking around at any of the faces that still met his.

“As I imagine that some of you may have doubts to that, I would be willing to be examined by any or all of you to confirm it.”

A long moment of silence fell over the gathering as no one volunteered. The crowd of Jedi seemed mollified by his words. Tyzen remembered that surge in the Force when Corellan had first made his presence known; he could not reconcile that with the feeling he had experienced from any Dark-Sider – Sith or Zakuulan – he had encountered.

After a few seconds, the Alliance Commander seemed to accept their reaction as tacit assent.

“So to properly answer Tyzen’s question, this is why I cannot weigh in on the subject of Leeha Narezz and Jomar Chul remaining as part of the Order. As I have, in effect, broken with the Order and the Code, it would be a terrible conflict of interest for me to interfere.”

Choza Raabat steepled his fingers together.

“I must ask, Commander, what if one or more of our number breaks from the order as a branch breaks away from a tree?”

Corellan nodded gravely.

“I understand the concern of a potential schism within the Order, Choza. For the record, I sincerely hope it does not come to that. But if a Jedi serving in the Alliance chooses to leave the Order or is dismissed by whatever leadership structure you form amongst yourselves, then that is the business of the Jedi, and not myself or the Alliance leadership.”

“Likewise, if anyone here believes that remaining with the Alliance would compromise their own values, they are free to leave. I would not begrudge them their beliefs.”

He paused, letting the implications sink in.

“As I said before, the Alliance has its own rules that I ask all its members to follow. So long as an individual is willing to abide by those rules, they will have a place here, regardless of what the call themselves.”

Choza Raabat said nothing to this but bowed his head in acknowledgement after a moment.

So it went.

The Alliance Commander spent another thirty minutes patiently answering questions. Some were quite heated. Others were insightful. Regardless, Corellan answered all of them calmly. Gradually, the questions grew less philosophical and more technical. He had clearly been prepared for this as well.

Tyzen could not have imagined Satele Shan or one of the other Masters on Tython giving the ‘rank and file’ that amount of latitude to challenge them. Yet Corellan Halcyon had withstood it all at his own insistence, holding up stoically.

Finally, after seemingly everyone had had their fill, he adjourned the meeting.

“Thank you all again. I hope my answers have brought a sense of purpose, but barring that, I hope I have brought clarity. The purpose of the Alliance is to defeat the Eternal Empire and bring peace to the galaxy, and as far as I am concerned, it always will be.”

“I hope you will choose to stay. More than that, though, I hope you will understand and respect my choices. If not today, then in time.”

He crossed his arm across his chest and bowed at the waist.

“Thank you.”

With that, the meeting ended.

As the Jedi began to make their way down the hill and back towards the base, Corellan remained behind, exchanging a few parting words with individuals, most of whom seemed surprisingly optimistic. Despite the difficulties ahead of the Jedi of the Alliance, not to mention the challenge of facing the Eternal Empire, Tyzen somehow didn’t think any of the Jedi would be leaving the Alliance.

The young Zabrak hoped that he would be joining them, soon.

Both in returning to the base and in embracing their apparent sense of optimism.

But first, there was something he had to do.

Finally, he and Corellan were the last two individuals on the hill.

Corellan turned to Tyzen and smiled.

“Somehow, I knew it would be you.”

Tyzen swallowed, approaching the former Jedi Master.

“I was just wondering if I should quit the Jedi, too.”

The older human blinked down at him in confusion.

“Why would you want to do that?”

Tyzen took a deep breath and then he told Corellan everything.

Everything he’d experienced since they’d last met on Tython. About Denielle. About receiving his Knighthood. About the war against Zakuul. About staying behind and continuing to fight in the shadows while most of the surviving Jedi went into exile. About the dark years that followed.

About his fear that the darkness of the war had changed something inside of him.

About fighting for so long and so hard that Tyzen had started to question whether he was still fit to call himself a Jedi.

Corellan merely listened patiently, letting Tyzen get it all off his chest.

“… so now I don’t know if I should leave the Jedi, too.” He concluded.

Having finished, the young Zabrak was surprised to realize that he’d only been talking for about five minutes.

He’d been certain it would have taken hours to relay all his troubles. That they could be summed up so briefly was startling.

Now finished, the young Jedi Knight looked up at the Alliance Commander, hoping for wisdom and guidance. Corellan Halcyon was quietly going over what the younger Zabrak had told him.

After all, he’d been so helpful to him before, back on Tython.

After a long moment, the former Jedi Master exhaled, then spoke.

“That was an awful lot, Tyzen.” Corellan admitted. “I don’t blame you for having doubts, and I doubt anyone else could either.”

He paused, carefully regarding his younger companion.

“You do understand that I can’t tell you what you should do?” Corellan finally said.

Tyzen felt his shoulders drop in disappointment.

“Are you sure? I was hoping you could tell me what I should do next.”

Corellan chuckled, then padded his shoulder affectionately.

“For me, it was different. I had to break from the Jedi. If I hadn’t… well, I’ve seen what happened to Jedi who didn’t know the difference between following the Jedi path and following their own.”

“I couldn’t let that happen with myself.”

The Commander looked up at the sky.

“If I hadn’t made this choice, I think that the conflict within me, the same conflict that lies within all of us… it would have consumed me. Like it did Revan.”

Tyzen blinked, startled at this revelation. He’d heard stories about Yavin from before the invasion. He couldn’t imagine what that had been like for Corellan, and he certainly didn’t want to ask.

“You think you would have fallen to the dark side?”

Corellan tilted his head in assent, giving a sort of half-nod.

“Or worse.”

He then reached out, grasping the Zabrak’s shoulder again and turning him away from the base. Both the uncertain young Jedi and the older Alliance Commander looked out at the horizon.

“Tyzen, during the war against the Sith, I saw so many Jedi doing terrible things in the name of victory, or of the Order, or of the Republic, or in the name of the Force, itself. All while still claiming to be acting as Jedi.”

He stopped and exhaled, his arm dropping back to his side.

“I can’t do that. I had to break free of it, even knowing how badly that’s gone for so many other Jedi. I need to succeed where they failed, and trust that the people around me will help me stay the course.”

Corellan turned towards him again and regarded Tyzen somberly.

“Truly, I do not expect anyone to follow me down such a path. And I certainly have no intention of asking anyone. As a concept, the ‘Grey Jedi’ seem perfectly reasonable. Even admirable.”

He exhaled.

“As a collective group with a collective belief system? Every iteration has ended in disaster. That’s why so many incarnations of it fail, either due to internal or external pressures.”

“So with the Force as my witness, I assure you I have no intention of starting a schism. The Alliance is already too close to being a cult of personality without me making it any worse.”

Tyzen made a face at that observation uncertainly as Corellan just chuckled at his puzzlement.

“Anyway, you’re too young for these kinds of philosophical conversations.”

The Zabrak bristled.

“I’m almost the same age you were when you beat the Emperor’s Voice on Dromund Kaas.”

Corellan stopped himself and looked downward at the grass, letting out a slow exhale, plainly having realized the truth in Tyzen’s statement.

“Well. So that’s what growing old feels like.” The Alliance Commander smiled wryly to himself.

Tyzen felt his face flush, embarrassed to think he might have offended Corellan.

“I’m sorry. I meant – “

“I know what you meant.” He reached out again and patted Tyzen’s shoulder, calmly. “That’s just something everyone has to get used to, I think.”

He turned back to his young companion.

“So. After all that metaphysical discussion, what is it you’re really asking me?” Corellan pressed. “You can say ‘I am a Jedi’ or ‘I am not a Jedi’, and I won’t try to stop you either way.”

The Zabrak bit his lip.

“I guess I’m asking you… who am I?” Tyzen asked.

Corellan smiled at that.

“Who do you want to be?”

The young Zabrak paused. He knew the answer, he’d known the answer for years, but it was still hard to say. Swallowing, he forced the words out.

“I wanted to be you.” Tyzen finally murmured. “For the longest time, more than anything else in the galaxy. I wanted to be just like you.”

Corellan’s eyes widened, truly startled for the first time that Tyzen could remember.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t recognize that you felt that way back then. If I had, I would have said…” he exhaled then spread his arms apart, as if lost. “Something.”

Tyzen bit his tongue and looked away, not trusting himself to speak. He felt himself start to breathe heavily.

Corellan placed a hand on his shoulder.

“For whatever its worth, I looked up to my heroes, too, Tyzen.” he offered. “Sagottoh Panaka. Nowan Ko Detizu. Orgus Din. Satele Shan.” He paused. “Revan.”

A comfortable silence settled in between them. In the distance, some native bird let out a caw, possibly to signal to its fellows that it had found some fresh kill to scavenge and feed upon.

“Each of my mentors, my heroes… well, they all disappointed me in different ways.” Corellan gazed down at the ground. “It wasn’t their fault, mind you. It’s just that the reality of who they were didn’t quite match my impressions of who they were.”

He shrugged.

“Impressions that might have been fantasies.”

“But I don’t blame them for any of that now. Not anymore, anyway. Our mentors, our heroes, are people, with merits and flaws the same as anyone else.”

“But what’s important was that in the end, I learned from each of them. And with time, I learned to become myself.”

“Now it’s easier in that regard. I’ve learned to respect and appreciate them in a new light. Not as my role-models, but as actual people.”

He stretched his neck. It was a strangely normal thing to do coming from a man who Tyzen regarded as anything but normal.

“Like them, I’m a person. A simple man trying to make his way in the universe. That is all.”

He turned back to Tyzen.

“Did you really think that I would think any less of you? For either going with the others who fled Tython, or finding sanctuary someplace else?”

“I… no.” Tyzen swallowed. He was ashamed. Ashamed for feeling weak. Ashamed for feeling uncertain. “I guess not.”

He looked Corellan Halcyon in the eyes.

“I guess… I was worried that I would think less of myself.”

Corellan nodded in understanding.

“That’s the first lesson. Now here’s the second: After everything you’ve been through, now that you have a chance to breath, have you been true to yourself, Tyzen?” Corellan asked the young Zabrak. “Have you been true to who you want to be?”

Tyzen opened his mouth to answer, then stopped himself. His old Jedi training started to kick in as he chewed over the Alliance Commander’s query, looking within himself for a sense of peace.

He thought about Denielle, and their painful parting.

He thought about every time he’d had to fight his way out of a dangerous situation in the last six years.

He thought about every night he’d spent on a cold street or cave, with a hunger in his belly.

Finally, he thought about the choice of coming to Odessen to join the Alliance.

“I think I have… in the end.” Tyzen finally answered. “It took me awhile, though.”

“Good.” Corellan smiled. “In the long run, you need to be the kind of person you’d respect, even while recognizing your mistakes. Recognizing the good and the bad.”

He looked down towards the base.

“They come from all over.” He mused. “Republic. Empire. Jedi. Sith. Voss. Independents of every stripe. Even Knights of Zakuul, believe it or not. So many differences! And yet… they keep coming.”

Corellan Halcyon smiled faintly. It was a simple gesture that, to Tyzen, radiated hope.

“With the Alliance, I hope to build a place where everyone who joins us can contribute while still being true to themselves.”

He turned his smile onto Tyzen, a look of hope in his pale blue eyes.

“I look forward to meeting the person you are becoming.”

With that, he turned and began his walk back down to the base.

Tyzen watched him depart in silence.

Tyzen could remember that time – in what felt like a lifetime ago – when he had all but worshipped Corellan Halcyon. When he had wanted nothing more than to be the Hero of Tython.

Now, a little older and a little wiser, he didn’t look at this man that way anymore.

But he respected him, perhaps now more than ever. He realized that here was a man who had made his choices and then accepted the consequences.

Tyzen no longer wanted Corellan’s life.

But he could still continue to learn from that life.

He had learned much from being in the shadow of the Hero of Tython.

As he started walking down the hill, he realized that it was now time for Tyzen Pyne to learn how to be himself.

END

Author’s Notes: Parts of this story probably fall under the ‘Unreliable Narrator’ trope. Tyzen isn’t dishonest, but he doesn’t necessarily see everything clearly. I’ll let you judge what parts those might be.

Tyzen, Corellan, Denielle, Karache, Sagottoh, Nowan Ko, Shiri’ah and Ulannium Kaarz are all original characters of mine. All other characters named in this story are actual NPCs from the game, some of whom are rather obscure. (As is my way.) Feel free to ask me about them or look them up yourself on Wookiepedia, if you like. Shiri’ah was previously introduced in my Adas Legacy, but she now gets a supporting role in my Halcyon Legacy.

There are a number of references in the game story to a Jedi purge of sorts carried out by the Eternal Empire during the five-year jump in Knights of the Fallen Empire. It’s a fascinating subject that hasn’t been fully explored.

Any similarities between Tyzen and a certain red-headed Jedi purge survivor from a recent video game franchise are… purely unintentional.

The Corellan Halcyon that appears here is one who saw Jaric Kaedan, Nomen Karr and Jun Seros make terrible, tone-deaf decisions during the Second Great Galactic War.

For the record, spoilers here, Ranos and the other Alliance Jedi decide that it is not their place to expel Leeha and Jomar from the Order. By the time the Alliance makes contact with the Jedi on Ossus, no one thinks it’s worth the trouble.

Liam Dentiri, a quest-giver on Tython and a boss in the Assault on Tython Flashpoint, was killed in my canon by Xadya, my bounty hunter in the Halcyon Legacy. Since Xadya would also go on to join the Eternal Alliance, Tyzen may find himself challenged in ways he couldn’t have imagined.

I’d like to incorporate Tyzen into some future stories, though maybe not as a featured character.

I watched a lot of history documentaries during the pandemic and a few of them involved religious schisms throughout history. I found them both fascinating and somewhat depressing. (Spoilers: When it comes to religion, there are no “good guys”. Just times when one group might be worse than another.) But it got me thinking about the “Grey Jedi” in Star Wars, who are incredibly popular in the fandom, but always seem to come up short.

I still like the character of Bela Kiwiiks from the Jedi Knight story. I don’t know how many of you ever read the Star Wars: Dark Times comic series from Dark Horse, but her situation in my story is rather similar to Master K'Kruhk’s in that tale. It is well established that the Jedi don’t put all their eggs “in one basket” when it comes to their Padawans and younglings, as they have many enclaves all over the galaxy. Kiwiiks was returning a group of younglings from such an enclave to Tython when she was cutoff by the Eternal Fleet. Deciding that the younglings needed her more than the Ossus Jedi would, she took her charges into hiding, much as K’kruhk does during the time of the Galactic Empire.

Karache’s line to Tyzen is a reference Han’s line on Yavin to Luke in Episode IV. Naturally, Corellan later delivers a line to Tyzen that was directly pulled from Jango Fett in Episode II. I love my little Easter Eggs.

Corellan’s outfit during the events of this chapter is known as the “Ruthless Scion Armor Set” from the Cartel Market. He would later change it again, but this is what he wore for most of Knights of the Fallen Empire and Knights of the Eternal Throne expansions.

I was originally going to mention Ashara Zavros in this piece, but the tangent that summoned got out of hand.

Although I wasn’t reading the Expanded Universe novels at the time, Luke’s speech to the Jedi Order in Dark Nest III: The Swarm War always resonated with me. It’s important for one’s followers to know where their leader stands, and Corellan is attempting to do the same here. (Though obviously, Corellan takes a very different approach.)

Thank you for reading, and may the Force be with you.

Tagging!

@distressed-gizka @rikki-roses @eorzeashan @grandninjamasterren @space-unicorn-dot @mysterious-cuchulainn-x @iacyper9 @sullustangin @stars-ephemeral @taina-eny @brainmonkeyscartwheeling-blog @nebulis-ceartais @raven-of-domain-kwaadthe-raven-of-highever @nekorinnie @fandomfangirl23 @abbee-normal

#swtor fanfiction #swtorpadawan writes #code breakers #oc: tyzen pyne #oc: corellan halcyon #in the shadow of the hero #my writing #swtor #swtor fanfic #odessen #the eternal alliance #oc: denielle #the halcyon legacy #writers on tumblr #writeblr

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monocytogenes · 3 months ago

Text

A Proper Assessment - read on ao3

In the wake of the Eradicator crisis, Cipher Nine and Watcher Two make love.

Excerpt:

She fumbled for a pillow, putting it beneath her head and shifting a bit to lay more comfortably. Reaching up, she tucked a lock of hair behind his ear. “You’re very enthusiastic.” “You’re incredibly attractive.” “Right. Is that what you tell all your women?” “Not all of them.” He caressed her cheek with his thumb. “Only when I mean it.” “I don’t believe that,” she retorted with a smile, gliding her touch up to the outline of his shoulderblade. “No?” He traced the edge of her lower lip, dropping his voice to a whisper. “Then let me convince you.” Smirking, she pulled him down.

#exactly what it says on the tin #been hitting those fade to black scenes on my agent replay and i was like #you know what? i'm putting this up #they're having a great time and they deserve it #and he is definitely in love with her here even though he wouldn't admit it #too bad she gets promoted not long after #imperial agent #cipher nine #watcher two #shara jenn #swtor fic #swtor fanfiction #swtor #star wars the old republic

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tiredassmage · 6 months ago

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betting on a sunrise

I insist that there was a missed opportunity for Nik to drain that Cassandra Sunrise right in front of Hunter and be almost bored about it, so my brain insisted that we may as well write something to fix it. So, here we are: we'll let Nik steal the spotlight of being Nine for just a moment so that I can have this as a little amusement.

Also posted to ao3(x). And, ofc, Imperial Agent spoilers for the chapter 2 prelude, The Master Strategem.

rating: teen (some swearing); characters: hunter, the imperial agent, shoutout to our best support vector hyllus

Neon lights so vibrant and eclectic they’d be burned into the back of your eyelids for another three days, even in your sleep. At least Nar Shadaa never changed - a reliable bastion of backstabbing, gambling, backstabbing, cartels and street gangs.

And backstabbing, of course.

Still enough to make Nikihlus’s lip curl back slightly over his teeth. And still, he’d rather his chances here than the cloying egos of Dromund Kaas. Or that killer humidity, for another.

“Many auras here oscillate… wildly, agent.” Vector Hyllus cocks their head with the faintest trace of a frown at the corner of their lips. A blue twi’lek woman in a fit of laughter stumbles into their shoulder on her way out with her companion without so much as a glance back. “It is… interesting to sort through.”

“Been to many a cantina, Vector?”

“The nest is not without its celebrations, if that is what you are inquiring, agent.”

The zabrak nearly rolled his eyes, though settled for inclining his head towards the bar. “You’ll have to forgive me if I pass on participating, given the opportunity.”

“Each to their own taste,” they replied lightly. Their eyes drifted across the room as the pair picked their way around a few tables, while the agent was clearly concerned with making for the bar. “We believe it best we do not imbibe at this time. We shall watch your back.”

Nikihlus cast a glance at them over his shoulder. “Suit yourself.” He gestured towards the wall at the end of the bar. “Try to keep yourself out of trouble.”

“Noted.” Certainly they both knew that was why Kaliyo had not accompanied them to this particular rendezvous.

It was curious enough Imperial Intelligence would have one alien Cipher, he could’ve argued. Not that they’d make half so odd a pair here on the Hutt moon, and Hyllus was not exactly much less of a curiosity. Nik could’ve likely enjoyed the higher threat of something starting a brawl with the Rattataki at his side, but rules were rules with their Imperial masters.

For now, at least. And he wasn’t half as much as interested in trying to explain Djannis’s plan to Keeper’s stiff lips. He was, perhaps, on enough of the woman’s bad side as it was.

Nikihlus sighed as he finally rested his arms against the bar. Something strong ought to take the edge off of the work. At the very least, it was far preferable to wasting time wondering if Keeper thought this was some amusing jest for what had transpired on the Dominator. And far more preferable than trying to puzzle out that particular master’s ideas of fate. It was more than enough to make a man miss working for the Hutts.

“Well, hello there.”

Nik closed his eyes and buried a groan somewhere beneath his stomach before he let his eyes slide to his right and settle on the blonde perched against the bar two seats down already wearing a smile.

At least make it good.

The man opened an arm to gesture to a glass beside him. “I suppose she didn’t want to finish her drink. Perhaps I can interest you in what’s left of a Cassandra Sunrise?”

Nik weighed flashing a scowl against the proffered nearly-full glass. And Hyllus’s absence from his side to comment on accepting drinks on the job - from strangers in cantinas, no less.

“Perhaps,” Nik allowed a drawl over the word and shifted to lean against one arm on the bartop - a better mirror of his would-be company. “What’ll it cost me?”

The blonde’s smile grew, and rather pleased, too, with a chuckle to match. “Ah, are all Imperial Ciphers so mistrusting?”

Nik stiffened, breath stilling in place as golden eyes narrowed slightly.

Enough to make the blonde laugh again. He pushed off the bar to close the distance between them and slid the glass closer. “Oh, I’m sorry. Pretty presumptuous of me. Though… I suppose I could just have to keep looking for that Cipher somewhere else… Imperials wouldn’t have such a good sense of direction down here with little old us, would they?”

Nik blew a sharp exhale out of his nostrils. Cocky. He pressed a smile to his lips as his company turned like he was about to leave and took up the glass. “It’d certainly be interesting, wouldn’t it?”

“Very,” the blonde agreed. He perched back against the bar. “Couldn’t imagine it’d have anything to do with that Cipher wanting to change sides.”

Nik hummed as he raised the glass to his lips. Not for the faint of heart. “Careful,” he mused, “I might start believing you got this for me instead of your lady friend.”

That grin glittered like a Hutt statue. “Maybe I did. Maybe I didn’t. You certainly gave me enough time. Made the check at the spaceport.”

The kind of burn that might fry the horns off a krayt dragon, that Sunrise. Nik swallowed and held out the glass to inspect the remaining contents. “Reckon your Imperial ‘friend’ would like that, would you..?” He glanced at the blonde over the rim of the glass.

“Codename Hunter, Strategic Information Service.”

Nik flashed a wry smile. “Trying to kill me already, hm?”

Hunter shrugged. “That’s what we’re going to find out, if you still plan on playing along.” For a mercy, that obnoxious little dangle on his lips seemed to be quieted as he eyed Nik, glass to lips again. “Nothing’s free-”

“Except the drink?”

Hunter’s smile dropped, leaving behind only dark eyes that Nik met silently over the glass. “Job first, then we’ll see if you’re worth anything. No sob stories, no complaints, no questions. Then I’ll consider introducing you.”

With all pleasantries discarded, Nik merely inclined his head slightly. “Better keep talking, then.” The Sunrise would only last so long, after all. Without breaking eye contact, he tipped the glass just enough to offer a steady burn.

“There’s a new factory in town, Cipher - a courtesy of a little deal between Nem’ro the Hutt and your dear Empire. It’s supposed to manufacture hunters, crawlers, Jedi-killers… All the best - and nasty - stuff. You’re going to do something about it.”

Nik’s brow raised briefly as he swallowed. Of course I will. Almost empty. “I’ve been known to deal with a few Hutts,” he said. “Here I was thinking it’d almost been too long.”

“Tempting as that may be, save your thoughts of reunions.” Nik rolled his eyes and took up the glass again. “You’ll need your Cipher clearance. Security’s tight, but automated. Get inside. Get me reconnaissance. We talk again when I know what you’re dealing with, and we make this little problem disappear. Deal?”

Nik set down the glass heavily on the bartop and rolled his neck. “Thought you already knew that much, no? Hunters, killers…?”

Nothing shifted in those dark eyes. “Like you said. Try to make it worth my credits.”

“What? Your bosses not like cantina tabs on your write-offs?”

“You deal, or you don’t.” Hunter turned to leave. “We’ll know either way, Cipher. But the next round’s on you. I know how to reach you, so you’ll know where to go. Within an hour, or I might have to come looking for my credits, and your work could get very complicated.”

Nik’s narrowed eyes followed his back as he left. Vector rejoined him as the blonde turned a corner out of the cantina and beyond view. “Agent?” He could hear the mild frown on the Joiner’s face without looking for it.

“So goes our man,” Nik gestured towards the doorway lightly.

“And? We… hope you minded yourself."

Nik hummed thoughtfully. “We’ll see, I suppose. Won’t we?” He blinked and glanced back towards the bar before he dug in his pocket and tossed a few credits out by the empty glass. To cover the tab or, perhaps, to make a bet. “We shall see, my friend. Come then. I’ve a feeling Kaliyo will be jealous for not bringing her along, so we may as well make it a damn good story.”

#swtor #swtor fanfic #swtor fanfiction #imperial agent #swtor hunter #ch: nikihlus #there you go brain i actually wrote the thing xD #things i may have done instead of classwork shhh #dot words

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kwrite1776 · 1 year ago

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The problem with hobbies is that the more you do them, the more you improve. Which is a wonderful thing. Except every time I learn a new/better way of bookbinding I want to go back and immediately rebind all the books I've already done so they're better. Which, again, is fine, but man does it cause some massive delays in actually finishing projects.

(Also, my apparent inability to cut paper in a straight line, but that's a whole other problem.)

The good news though is that the improvements are noticeable.

My early attempts of binding @sullustangin's first seven stories (The Body of Evidence, Evidence of the Body - The Cosmic Deck) of Corellian Whiskey and Sullustan Gin.

Versus the latest, and much improved bindings of the same stories.

And next up will be the Grand Reveal, which, based on the typeset I have, is going to come in at around 550 pages, so that will be fun. And then it's on to Yavin again. (Third time will be the charm there, I hope.)

#bookbinding #swtor fanfiction #star wars #swtor #star wars the old republic #theron shan #fanfic #the struggle of wanting to get better #but also wanting to be consistent #in terms of quality #fanbinding

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lizzy-xoxo · 29 days ago

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did a still from my fanfic!

#swtor #swtor art #swtor fanfiction #swtor jedi knight #swtor oc

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greyias · 4 months ago

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How are the Highwind's spending life day this year?

Well, now that you mention it... trying to finish their last minute shopping! I think it went a little something like this...

(In honor of my stupidest, annual Life Day tradition in-game. (1) (2) (3) featuring @grumpyhedgehog‘s lovely Lyra Dorn)

There was a special place in the Void reserved for the kind of people who would force an innocent party into unpaid manual labor—actually, wasn’t there laws against that in the Republic? Draike Highwind briefly considered ratting out his stupid baby sister to the proper authorities for forcing him to play pack nerf for this stupid Life Day shopping trip, even if that was a karffing narc move. Deciding his honor was worth more than petty revenge, he squashed down the urge. For now.

He reluctantly trudged behind said baby sister, struggling to balance the weight of enough gifts to stock a small moon. He wasn’t sure if there was a gift here for every single person on Odessen, even the subcontractors that made brief fuel stops in the hangar bay, but from the way his shoulders ached from the strain, he wouldn’t count it out entirely.

Ahead of him, Grey almost seemed to bounce on her toes, a garish sight decked out in her ridiculous Life Day sweater. It was a red and green monstrosity, depicting what he thought might have been Wampas gleefully dancing across her chest. Possibly rampaging. It was hard to tell underneath the twinkling lights. He hadn’t realized Life Day sweaters now came electrified, but this one was lit up enough to guide a Star Destroyer in for a landing. If she got any more festive, she would probably combust into a shower of tinsel and holiday cheer.

It was almost a tempting enough thought for him to endure this torment for a few minutes longer. Almost.

She unfortunately fit right in with the rest of the Promenade here on Nar Shaddaa. While the garish statue of Karagga had been left alone in all of his gaudy, gilded glory, the rest of Lucent Square had been filled with gaudy decorations and festive revelers. Garlands draped haphazardly across vendor stalls, threatening to strangle unsuspecting shoppers, while some enterprising Hutt had decided to erect a towering holographic tree in the plaza. Its intangible branches featured tacky holographic ornaments of the Hutt crime lords who controlled this festive hellscape grinning at the shoppers spending all of their hard earned credits.

Humans, Rodians, and all sorts of other non-Wookiee species wandered about in Life Day robes, something Draike made a mental note to ask Bowdaar the level offensiveness and Wookiee cultural appropriation was happening here. At least, he was until he saw a group of actual Wookiee carolers nearby, the distant cries of them roaring their traditional Life Day songs making him grit his teeth.

He was a respectful captain, and would not compare the sound of his old crewmate’s beloved and deeply spiritual beliefs to grinding gears of a malfunctioning hyperdrive. But that didn’t mean he wasn’t secretly wishing that maybe the job on Nar Kreeta hadn’t actually made him go deaf.

However, that did not excuse the repurposed protocol droids wandering around the place, accosting everyone with good cheer. He thought he’d overheard someone referring to them as gift droids, but if they’d been giving out gifts willy-nilly, he hadn’t seen it. Just heard their tinny voices chirping holiday greetings to passersby as they waddled about, the lights on their chassis blinking in seizure-inducing patterns. One particularly enthusiastic model nearly clothes-lined a Rodian while flailing its arms as it attempted to distribute what may have been some sort of knock-off Life Day candy.

Perhaps that should have been reported to the health inspector, but again, that was another narc move.

“Remind me next year,” Draike muttered under his breath as the circulation to his fingers seemed to be cut off from the weight of presents, “to skip town for the holidays.”

No one seemed to pay attention to, or care, about his suffering.

He attempted to shift the mountain of packages, wincing as the corner of one of the larger boxes dug into his ribs, while ahead of him Grey consulted a datapad that contained an unnecessarily detailed shopping itinerary. If she vibrated with any more holiday cheer, she might phase out of reality soon. Which would at least spare his retinas from the dancing lights on her sweater. Her husband walked alongside her, not bothering to restrain his bride’s excess enthusiasm. Theron’s concession to the holiday spirit was limited to a thin, dark sweater that was barely visible beneath his trademark red jacket. The man’s stubborn refusal to be fully pulled into the Life Day spectacle was almost admirable. Although the tiny antlers carefully perched around his fauxhawk somewhat ruined that air of grumpy indifference.

Their “merry” band of shoppers was rounded out by none other than Lyra Dorn, his Jedi often co-conspirator who for some reason wasn’t trying to rescue Draike from any of this indignity. She was managing to look tastefully festive in a deep red coat with more understated golden embroidery, and a long green scarf with snowflakes on it, exuding the sense of “holiday spirit” without looking like without looking like she'd been attacked by a pack of festive Wampas with a penchant for glitter.

A group of revelers stumbled out of the Slippery Slopes Cantina, cheeks red with festive cheer and their Life Day robes stained with what he hoped was spilled ale, and not some more questionable bodily fluid. Although that would certainly liven up this overly saccharine excursion, come to think of it. And certainly scandalize the walking embodiment of Life Day cheer who still ambled on ahead of him.

He tried to not envy the revelers their drunken stupor too much as Grey waved Theron and Lyra toward yet another vendor stall. Her ridiculous sweater seemed to almost flash in sync with her movements, the lights on the dancing wampas twinkling like a secret attempt to induce a navigational error in a passing starship. Devilishly clever if true.

Draike heaved a sigh, the dramatic kind that carred the weight of a being long-suffering and ignored by his companions, and betrayed by life itself. He tried to rebalance the gift horde again, only for the pointy box to jab into his ribs anew, as if it had a grudge against him specifically.

“How many more?” he called out.

“Hmm?” Grey didn’t even look back over her shoulder.

“How many more stops do you want to torture us with? At this rate I’m going to need a kolto tank for my spine.”

Grey finally turned to look at him, her face alight not just from the sweater but also just an unnatural level of joy and cheerfulness. He didn’t trust it one bit.

“Just three more shops!” She bounced on her toes again as she checked her datapad. “I’ve got it mapped out here. We'll hit Gree's Galactic Gifts for something special for Ben, get him into the holiday spirit."

Their youngest brother, Ben, the lucky bastard, had somehow gotten out of this charade by claiming he needed to do some special intel op spying on the Hidden Chain with Rass Ordo. Draike wasn’t sure if he actually bought the excuse what with the way Ben and his Mandalorian buddy kept sneaking glances at each other, but was actively regretting that he’d not thought to look busy with things of galactic importance to be able to get out of this endeavor.

"I think you’re going to need more than a gift to accomplish that. Probably a Life Day miracle,” Draike grumbled. “I’m pretty sure Ben was born with those grumpy pants on.”

She seemed to either not hear him, or just ignore him. "And then we'll finish up at Devaronian Delights for some of those candied song-cherries for the girls. They’ll like that right?"

Well, Soli and Roz probably wouldn’t say no to it, but seeing as his kids were teenagers, they’d probably appreciate a credit chit just as much. But if correcting her on that extended his agony, he’d just let her be the lame aunt.

Instead, he staggered dramatically and let out a loud groan. "You know, if you keep buying at this rate, we're going to need the Gravestone to haul it all back to base."

“The Gravestone was destroyed over a year ago.” Grey blinked, confused.

“It was the lucky one.”

Grey just rolled her eyes, completely unfazed by her brother's theatrics. "Oh, stop being so dramatic. We're making great time!"

"Great time?" Draike scoffed. "We've been at this for hours. I'm pretty sure my arms are about to fall off."

“Your arms seem fine to me.” Theron gave Draike a once over, eyebrow arching up dubiously but did reach out to steady a precariously balanced box that was about to take a tumble.

“Yeah, easy for you to say,” Draike shot back. “I don’t see you offering to hold any of this crap.”

“Yes, well, we had to keep your hands busy somehow, didn’t we?” Theron shot back. “After all, idle hands are the devil’s workshop. And you were so bored.”

“I’ll show you idle hands.” Draike could have “accidentally” dropped one (or more) box onto his brother-in-law’s foot, but the Jenga-like arrangement in his arms would probably all come tumbling down if he did that. So he resisted.

Lyra cleared her throat, as if she’d read the momentary gleam in his eye. “You know, we could try and reorganize the route? See if we can cut out a little wandering time.”

“Oh, no worries about that,” Grey held out the datapad, showing off a meticulously color-coded map of the Promenade, with a clear line marking an optimized path to take them from the must-have gift locations to the more optional but fun items. “Theron made sure to chart an optimal path that would hit all the stores with the least amount of backtracking.”

“Who knew he was such a stellar navigator,” Draike muttered darkly.

Theron shot him an equally sour look, deftly leaning back as Grey made a swooping hand gesture as she tried to explain the route in more detail, as if that would somehow not make Draike’s will to live slowly ebb away.

“I’m dying,” he whined. “Slowly wasting away from dehydration. My mouth a desert, my throat a barren wasteland. Just a poor abused pack nerf, far from home.”

Theron rolled his eyes so hard it was a wonder it was a wonder his ocular implants didn't short-circuit from the strain. “You’re fine. You had a drink less than an hour ago.”

Lyra, probably moved by the thought of a poor, abused nerf, seemed to take pity on him. “You know, a break doesn’t sound like the worst idea. I think I spied a Biscuit Baron just around the corner. Why don’t Theron and I go grab drinks for everyone?”

“Ooh, hot cocoa!” Grey’s eyes lit up at the prospect. Or maybe that was just the reflection of the lights on her damn sweater.

“I’m going to need something stronger than cocoa to get through the rest of this,” Theron grumbled. Although whether he was agreeing to make his wife happy, or just to shut Draike up was up for debate.

“They don't serve whiskey at Biscuit Baron,” Draike said wistfully, “trust me, I’ve checked.”

“Caf then,” he amended, “strong enough to wake the dead.”

The two of them stepped away, weaving through the crowd towards the promised of caffeinated and chocolate salvation. Immediately, like an excited Kath hound pup let loose in a field of unsuspecting nerfs, Grey’s attention was captured by a nearby shop window. The display had some sort of garish representation of Coruscant’s Senate building rendered entirely in blinking Life Day lights.

“Look at this!” Deprived of her willing victim in matrimony, she tried to wave him over to coo at the display with her. “It’s adorable! Maybe we should get one for the War Room back on base.”

Draike just blinked at her. “You want to add ‘festive cheer’ to our war planning? What next, tying ribbons and bows on thermal detonators?”

She either didn’t hear him, or chose to ignore him, instead peering closer at the gaudy eyesore, her nose almost pressing against the shop window. “I think it would really brighten the place up.”

“I mean, explosions generally do have that. As a side effect.”

As she seemed oblivious to the way he was staggering under the mountain of packages she’d saddled with him, Draike gave serious thought to just dropping the whole lot right there on the fancy little walkway. It would serve them right. Maybe if he made enough of a scene, they’d finally call it quits and wrap up this hellish excursion.

As if summoned by his frustration alone, one of those weird repurposed protocol gift droids waddled into view. Its red chassis was adorned with an ungodly amount of twinkling lights, and its optical sensors fixed on Draike with an intensity that suggested it had scanned him, analyzed his festive deficiencies, and declared him Patient Zero in a Life Day cheer pandemic.

“Uh uh, don’t you dare—”

“Greetings gentle being, and happy Life Day!” The droid’s voice modulator seemed like it was cranked to eleven on the perkiness scale. “I couldn’t help but notice you seem o be lacking in holiday cheer! Perhaps I can assist you in finding the true meaning of this joyous season?”

Draike’s eyes narrowed, as if he’d just been threatened with violence. “True meaning, huh? Like spending hard earned credits on useless junk? Developing a drinking problem to cope with family gatherings?”

“Stars, no!” The droid’s photoreceptors blinked in what might have been confusion. Or horror. “The true meaning of Life Day is about spreading joy and goodwill to all beings arose the galaxy!”

Hell, this thing was worse than his sister. “Yeah, nothing says ‘goodwill to all’ like being accosted by a walking holiday decoration.”

The droid’s chassis prevented it from tilting its head, but it seemed to sway as if it wanted to attempt the maneuver anyway. “I have not accosted anyone.”

“Do you come pre-programmed with the ability to ignore sarcasm, or is that an upgrade?”

The droid, unfazed by his biting tone, forged on. Probably an upgrade. “Perhaps a festive Life Day carol would lift your spirits? I am programmed with over a thousand holiday melodies from across the galaxy!”

“I’d rather be slowly digested in a sarlacc pit.”

“I’m sorry, I’m unfamiliar with that song. Since you do not have a preference, I will select a carol at random.”

“No, wait—”

Weighed down by a thousand gifts, and perhaps also his own crushing despair, Draike was unable to stop the droid from launching into an ear-splitting rendition of the traditional Wookiee song, “A Day to Celebrate”, in what sounded like Huttese. The discordant warbling was painful enough he almost dropped the mountain of gifts in a reflexive attempt to shield his ears from the auditory assault. He glanced desperately at his sister, hoping she might rescue him from this menace, but she remained blissfully oblivious to his plight.

The droid finished its “song” (and he used that term loosely) with a flourish. “Wonderful! I can see the Life Day spirit levels in you rising already!”

Draike’s eye twitched. “That wasn’t my spirit levels rising, that was my will to live actively trying to crawl out of my body and escape.”

The droid once again tried to tilt its head, but failing that ability, just sort of wobbled again, the lights around its chassis flashing in manner that could only be described as offensively jubilant. “Ah, we must then dig deeper into the core of your holiday malaise. Tell me, gentle being, have you considered extending goodwill to others this season?”

“What does it look like I’m doing?” He gritted his teeth as the giant gift pile swayed dangerously.

“A small donation could go a long way in helping those less fortunate.”

His arms burned from the weight of Grey’s endless shopping spree. Less fortunate? If anyone was less fortunate, it was him. “A donation? You want me to give credits to some random droid shaking me down in the street? What, did your ethical subroutines get crossed with a Hutt’s business model?”

The droid’s optical sensors flashed, its holiday cheer protocols struggling to process the insinuation. “I assure you, sir, this is a legitimate charity drive for the underprivileged children of Nar Shaddaa. Every credit goes directly to—”

“Listen, Jingle Bot, I’ve got my hands full of ‘Life Day cheer’ already. Literally. If I had any more my spine would probably snap from the weight.” Draike’s patience was wearing thinner than a worn-out strand of tinsel. “So unless your ‘charity drive’ comes with an extra set of arms or a repulsorlift sled, I suggest you take your goodwill pitch and shove it up your exhaust port!”

The droid didn’t budge, and if anything, Draike’s thinly veiled hostility seemed to encourage it almost. The festive lights on its chassis twinkled brighter as if trying to blind him into submission. “Oh, the gift of giving isn’t a burden. Perhaps if I explained the many benefits of charity during this festive season—”

Draike attempted to sidestep the obnoxious droid, the precarious tower of packages swaying dangerously, forcing him to freeze mid-step to steady them. The droid, apparently programmed with the tenacity of a Corellian sand panther, mirrored his movements, blocking his escape.

“Oh, for the love of—Grey!” Desperate, Draike tried to appeal to his sister’s heroic nature to come and save him. “A little help here!”

She turned her head slightly, barely sparing him a proper glance. “Oh, you’re fine. You’ve dealt with worse.”

A swear escaped him. “Worse? Worse than being harassed by a sentient disco ball?”

“I heard that!” The droid chirped, its tone somehow simultaneously cheerful and deeply offended. “Spreading joy may be a thankless task, but nonetheless, I persist!”

Oh, it persisted all right. Right back into Draike’s path as he tried once again to maneuver around the damn thing. A nearby Ithorian couple paused in their stroll, watching the scene with a mix of amusement and pity. One of them muttered something in their melodic language that he was pretty sure translated to “holiday meltdown”.

“Listen here, you overdecorated hyperdrive malfunction,” Draike hissed at his most hated nemesis, “if you don’t back off, I’m going to find the nearest scrap dealer and sell you for spare parts. Maybe in your next life you’ll be something useful, like a garbage compactor!”

For one blessed, glorious moment, the droid froze. Its photoreceptors dimming as if Draike’s bah humbug attitude had finally short-circuited the mechanical monstrosity. He felt a flicker of triumph.

Before the droid’s photoreceptors flickered. Once. Twice—before glowing an ominous, deep red.

The burgeoning smirk on Draike’s lips faltered. “Well, that can’t be good.”

When the droid spoke again, this time its tone was pitched deeper, slower and was laced with a menace that its cheery vocublator shouldn’t have been able to make. “Life Day spirit deficiency detected. Initiating aggressive holiday cheer protocols.“

“Aggressive what?”

He wasn’t sure if he should laugher be worried. Although from the way the droid’s festive lights flashed in a rapid, almost aggressive pattern… maybe the latter. “Now, now, I’m plenty cheerful. Look at this happy face of mine, see?”

Draike’s lips stretched into a wide, unconvincing grin, but from the way several passersby looked at him askance and herded each other away, perhaps it was more of a grimace.

The droid's chest compartment slid open, revealing a turret-like device loaded with fist-sized snowballs. Draike blinked, dumbfounded. Well, that was new.

Was that about to—?

Options flew by at light speed: Risk getting pelted with snowballs or dive for cover? Wait, what cover? The closest thing nearby that qualified was his oblivious sister. Update, new question. Drop the presents or use Grey as a shield? The answer was obvious.

Both.

Just as the first snowball launched with a soft, distinctive fwump sound, he moved. The mountain of packages tumbling in every direction, scattering with a less-than-festive crash. One particularly sickening crunch pierced the din as a delicate glass ornament met its untimely demise underneath Draike’s foot. He didn’t let that slow him down.

“What the—that was for Master Gnost-Dural!”

Before Grey could protest any further, Draike lunged for cover behind her, his hands clamping onto her shoulders and maneuvering her in front of him as a human shield, just in time for the snowball to splatter her with a wet thwack.

Phew, that was a close one. It had almost hit him!

A startled gasp escaped Grey as the snowball collided with her face, sending a spray of icy powder. But Draike was too busy surveying the damage to pay much attention to that or the fact that the droid was already reloading and launching another volley. He watched in detached, morbid fascination as an extra Life Day sweater, purchased on an impulse during hour three of this never ending shopping nightmare, unfurled like a discarded banner, its vibrant colors lost in the garish over decorated marketplace. Not much of a loss, really. The galaxy had enough crimes against fashion without adding another atrocity to the list.

A bottle of what was unmistakably expensive Corellian brandy rolled dangerously close to the edge of the walkway. Draike’s eyes widened as he looked between the bottle and the rapid-fire volley of snowballs hurtling towards the two siblings (or rather, towards Draike and his convenient human shield).

Saving the brandy could almost make this whole hellish excursion worthwhile. But there was no way he’d reach it without being pummeled. Perhaps he could drag Grey that direction and save it? The thought had merit.

As if sensing his distraction, the droid’s snowball barrage intensified.

“Draike!” Grey’s finely honed Jedi reflexes attempted to dodge the incoming snowballs (and maybe save some of her presents), but any attempt at tapping into that Force-given grace was hampered by her brother’s iron grip on her shoulders. “What in the Force are you—”

The question finished in an undignified squawk as another volley of snowballs pelted her.

“Stop it!” She sputtered, voice raising into a whining pitch that was very reminiscent to the one she used to use when they were kids and he was supposedly ‘picking on her’. “Let go of me!”

“Sorry, this is for the good of the galaxy!” He ducked lower behind her shoulder as another snowball whizzed past his ear. The cackle that escaped him was perhaps a little undignified, and more than a little manic. “You’re saving me from death by holiday cheer, just like a good little Jedi should.”

“It’s not funny, stop laughing!” Her drenched bangs were now plastered to her forehead, her ridiculous Life Day sweater now soaked through and clinging to her frame. The dancing wampas flickered pathetically, their cheery electronics no match for the droid’s relentless assault.

“Sure it is!”

Grey’s expression hardened, jaw setting in a way that suggested she was struggling to maintain her oh-so-perfect Jedi composure. “You’re being very immature, you know.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Draike didn’t sound sorry at all, “I didn’t realize there was a mature way to be assaulted by a homicidal holiday droid!”

Whatever she was going to say next was cut off as another volley of snowballs pelted Grey, making her sputter indignantly instead. That Jedi serenity was rapidly evaporating, replaced by the all-too-familiar look of a little sister pushed to her limits.

She furiously wiped the snow from her face, trying to twist around to face him, but his grip on her shoulders remained firm and she could only peer furiously and ineffectively over her shoulder. “I know where you sleep!”

That drew a full on snort from him, as if he’d be caught unawares by the least subtle person in the galaxy. “Oh nooo, the fearsome Jedi knows my sleeping arrangements! I’m shaking, I’m shaking!”

Grey’s eyes narrowed dangerously, a look that might have been intimidating, if she didn’t resemble a drowned womp rat. “You’re going to regret this, Draike Highwind.”

“Probably,” he agreed, and then pivoted them both so she valiantly saved him from another bombardment of snowballs. “But not as much as you’re going to regret wearing that sweater.”

“It’s a fun sweater!” Grey shrieked, composure finally shattering as she threw up her hands. The air shimmered in front of her, snowballs splattering harmlessly against some invisible shield. Oh, some sort of Force nonsense. Of course.

“Oh, yeah! Nothing says ‘fun’ like a pack of electrocuted wampas doing the Coruscant Jig across your chest.” Draike peered over her shoulder, eyeing the droid warily. Despite this new obstacle, it seemed content to keep up its relentless assault. “I’m surprised the Jedi Council hasn’t made it standard issue.”

She fixed him with a glare as hot as Tatooine’s twin suns, nose wrinkling in annoyance. But between the wet hair plastered across her forehead made the look more pitiful than threatening. “You realize you’re replacing everything that got ruined.”

He made a noncommittal noise.

“Everything.”Her tone was eerily reminiscent of the times she would tattle on him to their mother. Just about as effective now as it was then, too.

“Oh, no. You’re going to make me go shopping?” He gasped in mock horror. “I guess that will be just like the last ten hours of my life!”

The droid, apparently encouraged by Draike’s obvious enjoyment of the chaos improbably increased the rate of its snowball production, expanding its targeting protocols to include a group of Revelers passing by. They scattered with undignified shrieks.

“Hey, now, look at that,” he pointed cheerfully, “you’re now not the only one being graced with the holiday spirit. Look at all the joy we’re spreading!”

A particularly large snowball sailed over Grey’s Force shield, catching a Wookiee caroler square in the face mid-warble, ending the “song” in a surprised roar that echoed throughout the Promenade.

“Uh oh,” Draike pointed in the direction of the latest victim, “I think you made him angry. Quick, use a Jedi mind trick to calm the savage beast!”

Seeing as she hadn’t stopped glaring at him, or at least attempting to with the awkward positioning, she didn’t fix him with another one. But it definitely turned withering at the comment. “That’s not how the Force works and you know it.”

“Really? Huh. I could’ve sworn I’ve seen you pull that trick on Theron when he gets all worked up about—”

“Shut. Up.” She ground out through gritted teeth, her cheeks flushing a shade of red that had nothing to do with the cold.

The Wookiee shook himself, ending clumps of snow flying in all directions. A larger chunk sailed through the air in a graceful arc, somehow managing to bypass Draike completely and splat across Grey’s freckled nose with pinpoint accuracy. Her eyes crossed as she stared at the dollop of snow now perched in the center of her vision, looking utterly ridiculous with her soaked sweater, bedraggled hair, and newly acquired snow mustache.

It was perhaps the most beautiful sight that Draike had ever seen.

So caught up in the ridiculousness of her snow-covered visage, he almost missed the moment Theron and Lyra returned. Almost.

Just beyond the still shimmering Force barrier that was still being relentlessly pummeled with a frankly alarming and endless amount of snowballs (how was that physically possible for it to keep generating those ad nauseam without being hooked up to a water supply?), he could see both of them emerging from the crowd. Watching in real time as there expressions morphed from confusion. Lyra’s went to weary exasperation int he span of a heartbeat. Impressive honestly. She’d clearly been spending too much time around him.

Theron, however, cycled through a rapid-fire series of emotions as if he couldn’t settle on just one at first. Surprise. Dawning comprehension, then a blossoming rage. That vein in his forehead—the one Draike had mentally dubbed “Old Faithful” for its reliability—began to pulse with a righteous fury.

“Oh oh,” Drake nudged Grey slightly as she furiously wiped snow from her face. “Don’t look now, but Lover Boy’s about to reach critical mass.”

She stopped wiping her face in time to see the thundercloud settling over husband’s face. “Theron, don’t—”

But it was too late. Theron was already in motion, the drinks he’d been carrying went flying, splattering across the Promenade’s flooring in a caffeinated explosion. Lyra let out an exasperated sigh, aking a Force-enhanced step back to keep it from splattering across her cute, practical little Life Day themed boots.

“My cocoa!” Grey’s lower lip protruded in the same way it did when she was five that somehow always got Draike grounded for the next week.

Theron moved with the precision of a trained operative, a coiled spring of protective fury unleashed. He vaulted over the railing, using it as a springboard to launch himself at the droid in a move that was as impressive as it was ridiculous. His dropkick connected with a resounding clang, sending the droid flying back, snowballs scattering in every direction.

Draike let out an appreciative whistle. “Nice form! Good execution. I give it a solid 9.5 out of 10.”

Grey’s withering glare somehow intensified. If that was possible.

The droid sparked, sputtering dramatically. Its chassis was now dented from the well-placed dropkick, and the snowball mechanics seemed to be malfunctioning. The chest compartment opened and closed spasmodically as it tried and failed to rise, determined to find its quarry. With a final, pathetic whir, one last snowball launched weakly into the air, landing with a wet plop at Theron’s feet.

He stood over the fallen droid, chest heaving and looking more than a little pleased with himself. The antlers were a little askew, and the perfectly maintained fauxhawk mussed from the extortion. A few strands of hair escaped the gravity defying amount of hair gel he used to sculpt it and fell rakishly across his forehead. Perhaps on someone who wasn’t such a stick-in-the-mud, the sight might almost have been attractive.

Grey pinched the bridge of her nose, letting out a long exhale that somehow managed to convey both exasperation and fondness. “Was that really necessary?”

“Absolutely,” Theron replied without hesitation. He still glared at the prone droid, as if daring it to twitch. “What kind of husband would just stand idly by and let you get pelted with snowballs?”

“My hero.” Her deadpan reply was softened by the way her lips twitched, fighting back a smile. Ugh, it was so wholesome. Disgusting.

Lyra, meanwhile, was already attempting to do a little damage control, intercepting approaching cartel security personnel with an ease that suggested this wasn’t the first, or perhaps even hundredth, time she’d had to pull this maneuver. She waved her hand in front of her vaguely, voice calm and authoritative, perhaps laced with a small amount of Force suggestion. "Everything's fine here. Just a small malfunction. We have the situation under control."

Crisis finally averted, Draike finally released his iron grip on Grey’s shoulders. She jerked away from him, still clearly irritated. She was in a sorry state, looking like she’d gone for a swim fully clothed. The once-festive sweater was now a sad, soggy mess. The dancing wampas flickered pathetically, their electronic holiday cheer no match for the droid's relentless assault.

She attempted to salvage the thing, wringing out the bottom of her sweater and creating a small puddle at her feet. The motion sent a cascade of melting snow and ice crystals tumbling from her hair, pattering against the floor like the saddest confetti imaginable.

“You know,” Draike stroked his chin thoughtfully, “I think I prefer this look. Really brings out your eyes.”

Her glare could have melted durasteel.

Draike took a step back, not because he was intimidated or anything. Truly, it was only to inspect his… mostly unintentional handiwork. Baby sister’s Jedi composure crumbling into murderous sibling intent? Check. Annoying droid in laying in sparking ruins? Also check. The stupid spy making a fool out of himself with overly dramatic and unneeded heroics? Double check. It really couldn’t have been any better if he’d actually tried to orchestrate this.

So distracted with the beautiful poetry of it all, Draike completely missed the growing puddle of melted snow spreading across the floor from Grey’s soaked clothing. His foot his the slick surface, cutting off his internal monologue about his beautiful chaos. Time seemed to slow, his arms pinwheeling, a look of dawning horror spreading across his face.

“Oh, shi—”

Gravity took over, sending him crashing down hard on his ass right in the middle of an icy puddle, and leaving him in an undignified heap. He blinked up at the gaudy Life Day decorations adorning the ceiling.

Any attempt at Jedi-appropriate sympathy from Grey lasted about half a second, before she snorted. For her part, she did attempt to cover her amusement with a cough that fooled absolutely no one. “Are you alright? That looked… painful.”

“Your concern is touching, truly.”

Grey pressed her lips together, fighting a losing battle against her rising mirth. “I’m just glad to see you’re finally getting into the holiday spirit.”

“I will end you,” Draike promised, trying to rise imperiously from the ground, but slipping and falling again.

“And then I executed a perfect flying kick,” Theron was saying perhaps a little too loudly to a clearly unimpressed Life Day Reveler, gesticulating wildly as he mimed a blow-by-blow account of his droid takedown. “Perfect trajectory, form, sheer power. Who needs the Force?”

The Reveler, a Rodian wearing now snow-splattered Life Day robes, simply blinked at Theron before slowly inching away.

Nearby, Lyra picked through the wreckage of their shopping expedition, plucking a sodden package from a puddle. She winced as she peeled back the corner of ruined wrapping paper, water dripping from it in a steady patter, adding to a growing pool at her feet that reflected the gaudy lights strung around them.

As if sensing his eyes on her, Lyra glanced up, arching one perfectly sculpted eyebrow in a single expression that managed to convey entire paragraphs of unspoken commentary.

A blend of “I saw that coming”, I told you so" and "you deserved that" all rolled into one. The slight twitch at the corner of her mouth betrayed her struggle to keep a straight face. Draike scowled, his pride bruised even worse than his backside.

“Don’t say it. “He pointed a finger at her, finally managing to shove himself into an upright position at least. “Not one word.”

Lyra opened her mouth, expression promising perhaps a remark about karmic justice, when a shadow fell over Draike. A towering Wookiee, draped in a festive sash that strained against its massive frame, loomed over him and let out a deep, rumbling sound. It was probably meant to be sympathetic—perhaps the Shyriiwook equivalent of "there, there." But to Draike's ears, it sounded suspiciously like amusement.

Before he could protest, a massive furry paw came down, patting him with surprising gentleness, though with enough force to still muss his carefully maintained coif. The gesture made him feel about five years old, which added another crushing blow to his already battered dignity.

“Watch the—” Another pat nearly knocked him sideways, silencing his protest.

He flailed, struggling to maintain what little balance he had left. The Wookiee let out another sympathetic warble, misinterpreting the spluttered protests as need for more comfort. The worst part of it was one little sister’s poorly disguised attempts to suppress her mirth, the unconvincing coughs failing to cover her snickering.

The area around them was a disaster zone of holiday cheer gone wrong. Shattered presents lay scattered around the sparking, sputtering gift droid.

"Hap-hap-happy Life D-d-day," it wheezed, a few sad snowflakes dribbling from its damaged chest. "Would you like to make a d-d-donation?"

Draike finally disentangled himself from the well-meaning Wookiee, rising with what little dignity he could muster as nearby, Theron had been forced to shift from trying to regale passersby with the heroic tale of droid slaughter to explaining to a very beefy cartel security officer why droid assault was completely justified.

“It was a menace to society—it’s holiday cheer settings way too aggressive to be considered normal!”

The Nikto security guard looked unimpressed, reptilian features twisting into a scowl. “Sir, I fail to see how malfunctioning gift droid deserved such a brutal murder.”

“Murder?” Theron sputtered indignantly. “It was self-defense—”

Grey, still dripping, had given up on salvaging her festive sweater. She wrapped her arms around herself, shivering as the icy water soaked through her clothes. The dancing wampas on her chest gave one, final, pitiful flicker before going dark entirely.

Theron immediately broke off his impassioned defense of droid violence, shrugging off his jacket in one smooth motion and raping it over his shivering wife’s shoulders. As he fussed with the collar, making sure it was snug around her neck, he shot a pointed glare at Draike that clearly said “this is your fault”.

Grey tried, and failed, to hide her little smile at the gesture, even as she half-heartedly protested. “I’m fine, really. It’s not that cold—”

Her words trailed off as she burrowed deeper into the warmth of the jacket, contradicting her claim entirely. The red leather engulfed her smaller frame, making her look even more bedraggled than before. But the contented sigh she let out betrayed her gratitude.

Kneeling down, still clutching the jacket around her, Grey began sifting through the wreckage of their shopping expedition. Her expression soured as she lifted a sodden bundle of documents, waterlogged and practically disintegrating in her hands.

"Oh no," she groaned, squinting at the label. "This was the documentation for Master Gnost-Dural about the Hidden Chain’s latest activities. It's completely ruined."

“What a tragedy,” Draike muttered."

She shot Draike another exasperated look, this one leaning heavily towards the 'annoyed' end of the spectrum. "Do you have any idea how long it took me to track these down? Now I'll have to file incident reports about the incident reports."

"Ah yes, the bureaucratic circle of life. Truly, there is no greater tragedy in the galaxy."

“Lana has backups,” Theron put in helpfully, although he leveled a similarly annoyed glower in Draike’s direction. “Something about not trusting us with the sole copy of vital intelligence. Which, I loathe to admit, might be somewhat justified right about now.”

Lyra offered Draike a hand up, and he abandoned the attempts to wring out the hem of his jacket to accept her firm grip. She hauled him from the puddle with practiced ease. “Honestly, Draike, this is why we can’t have nice things.”

“I personally think we’re all better for the experience.” He straightened his back in an admirable, if ultimately doomed, attempt to retain some shred of authority. “Besides, seeing that damn droid get dropkicked like that was almost worth me wetting my pants—wait, getting my pants wet.”

Lyra’s lips twitched, managing to fight back a smile as she bent to retrieve another soggy package. “They do say that property destruction is the hallmark of a successful shopping trip.”

“It is when Agent Shan is involved.” Draike thumbed in Theron’s direction. “But also good riddance to an obnoxious menace.”

Grey glanced over in his direction. “I’m sure the Hutt Cartel will be thrilled to hear about our heroic droid slaying. The headlines practically write themselves: ‘Rogue Jedi and Idiot Brother Destroy Priceless Holiday Decorations.”

"Hey, it’s not our fault if they overpaid for that rusted hunk of junk. Clearly it should have only cost them a handful of credits.”

“Because they’re famously so understanding about such things.” Her voice dripped with sarcasm. He really had done a number on that Jedi patience of hers, hadn’t he? “And since you’re so eager to explain our heroic deeds, you can be the one to tell Master Gnost-Dural exactly what happened to his files.”

“Wait, what?”

“I mean, it’s only fair that you get to explain to one of the Jedi Order’s new Grand Master why his carefully compiled research is now soggy confetti."

“Well why the hell did you print it out on flimsiplast to begin with instead of sending him an e-mail like a normal person?”

“I’m sorry if he’s old fashioned—”

“Wait, Gnost-Dural regularly checks his e-mails.” Theron frowned in confusion. “He sends me lame screenshotted memes like every other day.”

“I,” Draike insisted, ignoring Theron like he usually did, “was an innocent bystander in all of this.”

“You’re about as innocent as a Jawa in a droid swap,” Lyra intoned dryly.

“Lyra,” Grey said, a little scandalized at the insinuation against Jawakind. She adjusted Theron's jacket around her shoulders, though it did little to stop the shivering that had set into her bones.

A second security officer joined the Nikto, this one a burly Zabrak with a badge that looked far too shiny for someone assigned to deal with Life Day mall chaos. In unison they crossed their arms, staring Theron down with the grim determination of underpaid employees counting the minutes to the end of their shift. When his indignant sputter of doing what any concerned citizen didn’t move them, Theron moved on to the subject of legal liabilities for Cartel-owned droids assaulting innocent shoppers, and both the Nikto and Zabrak exchanged weary glances before waving him off with matching sighs of defeat. Clearly, they'd decided that dealing with this particular brand of Life Day chaos wasn't worth the overtime.

Lyra, ever efficient, had somehow salvaged and redistributed the surviving packages, even producing a small satchel from seemingly nowhere to carefully tuck away the most delicate items.

“I don’t suppose you’ve got a spare set of clothes in there too?” Draike eyed the satchel with a mixture of hope and suspicion. “Life Day sweaters don’t count.”

Lyra's lips twitched, fighting back another smile as she adjusted the strap on her shoulder. "I'm good, Draike, but I'm not that good. Though I did manage to save your Corellian brandy."

Draike perked up, his soggy misery momentarily forgotten. "You're an angel among Jedi, you know that?"

Lyra gave him a sidelong glance, her lips twitching again. "Don’t push it, Captain. I’m still debating whether or not you deserve it. But I figured if I didn't save the brandy, you'd only cry harder."

“I do not cry,” he sniffed indignantly. “Just occasionally wallow. Besides, that droid had it out for me from the get-go. Did you see how it hounded me?”

“No, I was at Biscuit Baron.”

“It was like a predator stalking its prey—”

A mechanical whir cut him off, and the group froze, turning as one to stare at the defunct droid they’d left in their wake. The battered chassis sparked, chest compartment grinding one final time. Theron instinctively moved to shield Grey just as the droid let out one last sad little fwump.

A single snowball launched, arcing through the air, sailing past where Theron’s protective stance and Grey’s half-formed Force barrier to catch Draike square in the face. The droid let out a final, satisfied “Happy Life Day” before sparking and dying completely, lights flickering out like an errant breeze snuffing out a candle.

Snow dripped down Draike's chin as his sister completely lose her composure, dissolving into the kind of laughter that had her leaning against her husband for support. As he wiped the slush from his face, he had to admit (though only to himself, and very, very quietly) that maybe he deserved that one. But only that one.

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#swtor fanfiction #theron shan x jedi knight #Theron Shan #Female Jedi Knight/Hero of Tython #Smuggler/The Voidhound #oc: greyias highwind #oc: draike highwind #friend's oc: lyra dorn #otp: adorkable #oh look another holiday fic for the round-up #just in time for life day #greyfic

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the-tomato-patch · 3 months ago

Text

The Hand that Stays the Void

"Nightmares were a fickle thing. They could be omens, glimpses of a possible future, warnings. Or, like most of the dreams Scourge experienced, they could simply be his own mind creating dark scenarios based on past events. Visions, however, were not par for the course. They were a personal harbinger, a heralding of catastrophic things yet to come." In which a Sith feels a sudden force disturbance that heeds his reckoning.

Pairing: Jedi Knight x Lord Scourge ( established relationship )

Word Count: 2.9k

AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/62363026

Nightmares were a fickle thing. They could be omens, glimpses of a possible future, warnings. Or, like most of the dreams Scourge experienced, they could simply be his own mind creating dark scenarios based on past events. Visions, however, were not par for the course. They were a personal harbinger, a heralding of catastrophic things yet to come. It had been 300 years prior when he'd been granted visions of galactic extinction and put on the path to destroying his once-lord Emperor. It had led him to the figure that had cut through the dark, a silhouette, a beacon. A benediction. His Jedi.

Scourge awoke to the warmth of that familiar Force signature radiating against his side, an arm haphazardly draped across him in some attempt at spooning. As always, it brought him a modicum of comfort, enough so that he considered sinking back into the warmth, closing his eyes. He basked in it for a few moments before sighing heavily, slipping from under Rhiasen's limb, and getting up.

This particular nightmare was the type that made his hackles stand on end. A shiver snaked down his spine as though his blood had turned to ice in his veins. In it, ash choked the sky and blotted out the sun, shadows covering the world like a suffocating cloak. There was nothing. A bleak vision of nothingness. This was no horror made physical, no phantom stalking the edges of consciousness. This was a reminder of what he'd been leashed with for hundreds of years: the absolute absence of any feeling, a desolate and terrible emptiness. This was the mark of the void he had once held close, as he was sure his lord had as well.

He had grown accustomed to that absolute feeling of apathy over his nearly three-hundred years. To feel that empty, gutting hollow once more filled him with dread. This was a vision warning of an upwelling of something vile. And it was warning him of something coming. Something those he had come to care for might succumb to. And they would not see it coming.

But perhaps this was just the natural reaction of being unchained from the ebon void. Perhaps he had simply finally broken. The weight of years pressing down. The horror of hundreds, if not thousands, of deaths at his hands taking root. Perhaps his psyche was simply crumbling.

Though truly, he had no qualms with those deaths he had caused. He cared not for those he'd been forced to slay to protect his now. He was Sith, an order without mercy, built on the strength and conviction of willpower. If those with power could not hold fast in the face of death, they had no place ruling over others. If they faltered or perished because of his own blade, it was merely a result of their own failings. And this was a world where you must kill or be killed—an immutable, brutal fact. Yet the sight that haunted his vision was no blade of red-hot light or a symphony of death played out via screams. Nor were they memories of the thousands he'd snuffed out by his own hand; forsaken beings whose names had slipped into the void with them.

What clung to him was something abstract. Something vague and ephemeral in its appearance. Nothing. The absence of feeling, presence. An eternal night with not a single star.

Perhaps this was just a trauma response and not truly the warning he was dreading. After all, one does not experience what he had for a millennium and have it mean nothing. One does not bear that burden, that loss, and have no response. He'd had too long to steel himself, become dead to emotion. No amount of time could scrub clean the stains, nor could it soften the sting. What had become of him was merely a reflection of time. It had dulled and burned away everything once vibrant inside. Forged a hardened steel exterior, a barrier built by both design and necessity to preserve what lay beneath. The bare essence of himself. And over centuries, layers had begun to build over these foundations. When those he had believed to be lost forever found their way into his world once more… well… he was still adjusting. For all his bravado, he was just a man. A man not having seen an uncounted number of years, allowed weakness, and could show fault.

The sunless skies, a starless void—the absence of all that provided life, nullifying it entirely. But this was no extinction. This was an erasure of the spark of life. It had crossed his mind more than once if his lord Emperor's presence still somehow manifested itself in the void, wherever it lay in wait. A chill washed over him just at the thought, eyes closed for the briefest of moments to center himself before panic could set in. But he'd seen his death through. He knew it surely, as he could now feel the warmth on his skin, smell the salt of the planet's oceans, feel the gentle breeze against his face. To be reborn was to be certain of only one thing: Vitiate was dead.

The Children of the Emperor then? The sycophants left behind to continue the machinations set forth for a return in the original plan? Or simply remnants that he could squash? Not nearly enough of a reason, a threat, he supposed. Let them writhe in the ashes of their dead lord. Let them scream and cry as their master did, as their legacy is burned. They were weak, broken, pathetic. These were beings he could fell.

"Scourge?" The familiar baritone broke the Sith from his thoughts. Eyes turned to see his Jedi, sleep-disheveled. A hint of concern visible through half-lidded orange eyes. He only hummed an answer in response, his gaze drifting. He sat in a chair looking over the large windows that took up one whole wall. Space and stars stared back at him in endless silent judgment, offering not an answer, not a scrap of hope to assuage the fear gnawing away within his chest. The image still clung to his psyche, and he couldn't find the words or even the thought process to properly put it into speech. He so loved to just stare, lost, drifting, until a voice cut through the maelstrom—that light guiding him back home.

"You okay?" The tone was still gentle.

"Nightmares." Scourge still could not break his attention, though, drawn back and held fast by the space—an ocean vast and dark outside that thin hull.

"Wanna talk about it?"

"Not particularly." He sighed as she appeared in his peripheral, curling her arms around his chest. Scourge relaxed in his lover's grasp, leaning against her.

"Will it help to say it anyway? I can practically hear you brooding." Her soft chuckle vibrated from her chest to him.

"I do not… enjoy voicing it." He began slowly, a brow furrowing. "This felt more like an omen. I saw nothing, but it felt like something worse was approaching."

He felt her nod, her chin brushing over his shoulder. A comfortable, calming warmth emanated from her, the Force pulsing with steady beats. Though, perhaps comfort wasn't quite the word he wanted to use. No, not exactly. Rather, more along the lines of a sense of balance, a rightness. When she was around, Scourge could ground himself. If not with words, then certainly with the peace radiating from her Force signature. She'd become a sanctuary after torment. An island of reprieve in a sea of sorrow and loneliness. That she would endure his less-than-amicable personality, take the time to learn him, and welcome him so easily—his entire person, faults and all.

It made his chest tighten, emotions tangling like wriggling worms, moving about his insides, fluttering between nerves. But his voice was steady, unwavering when he spoke again, "There is no future that is assured, only choices made. Perhaps I'm simply becoming paranoid with the ever-changing galaxy. These feelings are no more likely to prove themselves truth than mere worries." He gave a weak smile, attempting reassurance for her. "Go back to bed, my Jedi. I will not be long." He didn't think it was too convincing, given the way she furrowed her brow. A sigh from her lips, arms slowly unwinding as she reluctantly returned to their bed. A chaste kiss, and he watched her lay herself back down. Scourge watched in the window's reflection as she drifted off again, a comfort that she was present, safe, and secure. It eased the tightness coiling his insides into knots.

They'd survived worse, Scourge mused, giving a grunt as he stood. So long as the choice is ours and we are together, there is no true fate. As certain as there was to the flow of the Force itself, Scourge was as constant a point of presence as the stars.

The nightmare lingered as a constant ache in the back of Scourge's mind in the days that followed. There were duties to fulfill, missions to complete, reports to write, and a hundred and one smaller issues to manage alongside the more pressing tasks. These distractions kept him too occupied to brood over the nightmare. By the end of the week, he found no trace of the darkness that had troubled him. Still, he had taken the time and put in the effort to search for any sign of it, just in case it was a true omen of something ill. Unfortunately, every path seemed to lead to a dead end, offering no comfort or answers. At least this brought a measure of respite, easing some of his apprehension.

Until it didn’t.

The shift he felt was almost like a dagger thrust between his shoulder blades—subtle, yet deeply painful. His nerves hummed, like the strings of a musical instrument, as he jerked upright, blinking furiously at the inky blackness surrounding him.

A Force disturbance. Not the normal hum of the Force he usually felt around him, but something that had pulled him from his slumber. As he strained his senses further, he could feel it.

The sensation wasn’t just a ripple—it was a tearing, like an invisible claw raking through the fabric of existence. It coiled and writhed, resonating with an unnatural vibration that gnawed at his instincts. Scourge, with centuries of training, knew what such a disturbance meant. Something impossible and terribly dangerous had awoken somewhere in the galaxy. And whatever it was, it had enough power and malevolence to warp the currents of the Force.

Intervening was his first instinct—simply cut off the offender's head, whatever it might be. But he realized it might be more a matter of discovering the origins of this ripple in reality. He wouldn't find answers lying tangled in warm blankets with her body beside him. The longer he dwelled on it, the deeper the frown that twisted his features.

Without further hesitation, he rose from the bed.

The Force around him felt warped, tainted with an alien presence. It carried the sour taste of decay, of something ancient awakening in the void. It called to him—not in words, but in the primal, guttural language of the Dark Side. He could almost hear it—a low, insistent hum, like whispers just beyond comprehension. He reached out cautiously through the Force, probing the disturbance. It was distant, diffuse, but unmistakably there. Its nature eluded him, slippery and amorphous, but it radiated with an unsettling familiarity that sent a chill through his veins. The void from his dreams—the hollow emptiness that had haunted him—was here, alive, pressing against the edges of his awareness.

Alien was the perfect word for it—an unfamiliar presence he couldn't name or recognize. If it were a beast, it had no shape, no form he could grasp. Only an all-too-familiar pull, one he knew he would answer. It felt like an echo from long ago, or perhaps from another reality in the depths of his mind—where the same question had always been asked: Will you serve?

The answer had never changed.

Without hesitation, he closed his hand, letting the Sith teachings surge through him, anchoring him to the present moment. Whatever had risen from the depths, he would drag it back down by the throat and make it choke on his fury.

There is no future written. There is only your will and your commitment to fighting back what seeks to overtake you. If he were to be on the front lines, if it were his final moments, they would know—no sacrifice was ever made in vain, not when protecting those they cherished. He would bear the brunt of the force as long as the ones he cared for and loved, the ones who mattered, lived on.

He felt her stir beside him, her arm reaching for the warmth he'd left behind. Her eyes blinked groggily as a frown spread across her face, seeking a touch that wasn’t there.

"Scourge?" Her sleepy voice pulled a strange, bittersweet fondness into the Sith's chest. He smiled, a small, gentle curve of his lips, as she squinted toward him, obviously seeing him through the darkness. But there was no time to speak, no time to explain what had torn him from his sleep. There was no time for anything—no time to hold her, to feel the warmth of her body against his.

He forced his mind back to the present, to the quiet room where Rhiasen lay, unaware of the storm gathering outside their sanctuary. He had to protect her—and them—no matter the cost. His mind, once sharp and filled with certainty, now felt fractured by the weight of his visions and the knowledge he carried. No one could bear this burden but him. His past was a web of blood and darkness. If his former self had been willing to forsake everything for the Emperor, then this new version of himself could do no less for Rhiasen and their crew.

In his still-undressed state, he leaned down, bringing himself closer. It was a gesture of reverence, though to him it had become something more familiar, commonplace even. An intimacy that was not purely carnal. He kissed her then, slow and lingering, with the weight of all his emotions: fear, worry, desperation, resignation, acceptance. That kiss was a goodbye. He didn’t know whether it would be his last or both of theirs.

He would miss the warmth, the smiles, the quiet understanding they shared—especially when words failed them. He would miss her quiet faith in others, her belief in their better nature, always reaching out regardless of the threat. All those little things had made him love her more deeply than any words or songs could ever express. But in this moment, it had to be enough.

He left no room for words or argument as he pressed his mouth gently to her cheek. "Goodbye, my Jedi," he whispered, barely above a breath. His words carried through a sigh before he pulled away. Rhiasen was still groggy, her eyes hazy with the remnants of sleep. He waved a gentle hand, exerting just enough of his will to coax her back to rest, her eyes closing as the night took her once more, just a little colder.

Scourge sighed and vanished like a whisper—because there was no room for weakness.

He donned his armor and grasped his saber. His mortality, once a distant thought, now clung to him like a shadow, a constant reminder of what was at stake. His body—once a weapon of indomitable strength—felt fragile, like a crumbling stone in a violent storm. He wasn’t the unbreakable weapon he once was. He could feel it. The countdown to his own inevitable demise. Yet in that moment, the fragility of his existence only steeled his resolve. If he were to fall, it would be fighting for those who had become his tether to the light in the darkness.

They—she—was everything. The cold, empty void of his past, the nothingness that had once been his home, was a place he could never return to. Rhiasen had freed him from that void, and for that, he would sacrifice everything. He would not let the past's fate, an equilibrium of despair, become the legacy of the galaxy. He would not allow this premonition to mute the Force and render it dormant.

The weight of this burden was his to bear alone, as it always had been. For her, for them, he would stand between this alien presence and those he loved. This disturbance, this dark power, was just another obstacle in the endless fight for survival. He had survived worse.

He made his way into the hangar bay, each step purposeful, each motion filled with deadly grace. He drew himself up taller, dignity and a death sentence bound together. Death, murder, slaughter—these were old friends to the Sith Lord. His life had been one of misery, wrought in the name of an Emperor no more. Yet as he stepped aboard the ship that would take him far away, he felt the unfamiliar sting of something tugging at his heart.

In silence, he set his jaw and prepped the ship for takeoff. As the ship ascended, he typed a message to his Jedi, sending it just after launch. It would reach her once he was gone—an apology, an assurance, and above all, a statement of his conviction. The conviction of his will and purpose that he had given to her.

Failure was not an option. It would not be accepted. Scourge would save them.

#swtor fanfiction #star wars the old republic #fanfiction #lord scourge x jedi knight #drabble based on that letter scourge sends before leaving #:(

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serenxanthe · 3 months ago

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The Trooper: A SWTOR Story

Introducing my Trooper. Here she is in a cameo as part of Seren's Nar Shaddaa Jedi Knight story-arc.

On Nar Shaddaa, Havoc Squad CO Ninme Heusos and her SIS contact Jonas Balkar are having some fun when they get caught up in the Powerguard Crisis and cross paths with a certain Jedi Knight.

Ninme pulled on her boots and checked her spare energy packs were still hooked securely to her tactical belt. Jonas leant down to kiss her cheek, and she let him, smiling. They both knew that this was casual; that the sexual attraction between them would never develop into anything deeper, but she appreciated his politely affectionate gallantry anyway. Gestures like that meant neither of them felt used, even if they were both using the other to let off steam, to relax, even if only for a few hours.

She ran her fingers through her practical bob, ensuring it was tidy, then picked up her assault cannon, ready to secure it into its holster on her back. Without warning, there was a terrible grinding, screeching noise at the front door of the allegedly secure SIS apartment, and almost before Ninme had time to ready her weapon, the door was gone, wrenched out of the wall by the huge barely human looking cyborgs standing there, their assault rifles pointed straight at her and Jonas.

This was what Ninme was trained for, and she didn’t even need a moment to think before she’d thrown a grenade at the intruders then begun laying down what should have been a crippling round of boltstorm. Her eyes widened as the cyborgs kept coming, barely seeming damaged by her most powerful attack. Jonas was getting shots off too, of course, but she wouldn’t even expect his simple blaster rounds to do all that much against these behemoths.

As Ninme tried a demolition round, another man, she assumed a fellow SIS Agent of Jonas’, emerged from the apartment’s other bedroom, and started to fire at the cyborgs with his twin blasters. Ninme tried not to notice that he was stark naked, and he certainly wasn’t letting it affect him; his shots on what should have been the cyborgs’ vitals unusually accurate, possibly due to the man’s own cranial implants.

As Ninme frantically replenished her weapon with energy, another woman now emerged from the naked Agent’s room. She had long loose hair, perfectly painted nails and face, and voluptuous curves in contrast to her slim waist and dainty hands and feet. She was barely dressed herself in a skimpy and very sheer negligee. Absolutely not suited in any way shape or form for an active combat zone. Was she some rich Senator’s daughter slumming it with a junior SIS Agent, or, given the Agent in question’s apparent lack of concern for the danger she was in, was she some kind of high-class escort?

“Ma’am, get back inside the bedroom and take cover!” Ninme yelled.

To her relief, the woman turned away, as if she was heading back into the relative safety of the bedroom. Instead of doing so however, she held out her hands, and to Ninme’s utter shock, twin lightsabres slammed into them from across the room. The woman leapt backwards without missing a beat, igniting her green-bladed lightsabres as she soared over their heads, and executed a perfect mid-air turn, allowing her to land exactly in the centre of the group of cyborgs, knocking them backwards.

What followed was almost too fast for Ninme to follow, but she saw the woman sweep her lightsabres through the tangle of limbs and weapons making up the cyborgs’ formation, then make a series of pinpoint accurate cuts on their necks and groins, deftly avoiding the resulting sprays of arterial blood and sparking components, until all four cyborgs lay dead, or deactivated rather, on the floor of the apartment.

The woman, the Jedi, if that’s what she was, sheathed her lightsabres and tried to clip them to the belt she wasn’t wearing. She looked down and clearly realised how she was dressed, but instead of being embarrassed by her state of near nudity, she just shrugged, transferred both sabres into her left hand, and advanced on Ninme, her right hand stretched out in greeting.

“Seren Astierred,” she said, “thanks for the help.”

Ninme shook her hand, automatically replying, “Captain Ninme Heusos,” while thinking Seren Astierred? The Hero of Tython? What the hells is she doing here? Dressed like that? Doing… whatever she’d been doing with that other Agent?

“Oh! The Havoc Squad CO? Very pleased to meet you. Like I said, thanks for the help, I was, um, busy, when the attack started, and your covering fire was invaluable.”

Ninme frowned at her. “Covering fire? That was supposed to be a devastating attack, and it usually is. What the hells are those things, anyway?”

The Jedi, Seren, smiled at her. “Don’t feel bad, they’re a new form of cyborg, powerguards, originally a Republic project believe it or not, but we were betrayed from within, and yeah,” Seren gestured to the pile of smoking bodies on the ground behind them, “this is the result.” She shrugged. “I’ve been fighting them for a few weeks now and I’ve learnt, learned, their weak spots.”

Ninme nodded. “Their necks and groins, right? Good to know.”

Seren smiled at her again. “Exactly, you’ll know next time. I’m trying to shut them down at the source, don’t worry, but it’s good to be prepared. Feel free to brief the rest of your squad given you’re special ops anyway, but General Var Suthra is pretty insistent that this whole thing stays highly classified.” She sighed. “Hopefully not to minimise his involvement in it, but… yeah.”

Ninme finally gave her a half-smile in return. “Generals, huh?” she said.

Seren laughed. “Exactly!” She turned back to the Agent from whose room she’d emerged. “Come on, Theron, we’d better get dressed.”

He put his arm around her waist as she reached the door to his room and smirked at her suggestively. “I’m pretty sure we were in the middle of something, weren’t we?” he said.

Ninme saw Jonas roll his eyes. “Dude, we have to be at work in fifteen minutes!” he reminded the other Agent.

Theron shrugged. “No problem, I only need five,” he said.

At Seren’s giggle and Jonas’ disparaging snort, Theron’s face flushed and he opened his mouth to say something else, but then he just shrugged again and pulled Seren back into his room, shutting the door firmly behind them.

Ninme turned and stared at Jonas in silence.

He raised an eyebrow at her. “Thoughts?” he prompted Ninme.

Ninme considered for a moment before she said with circumspect understatement, “Seren is a very… unusual Jedi, isn’t she?”

Jonas snorted again. “Yeah, you could say that. That’s if she’s any kind of Jedi at all.”

Ninme frowned. “You saw what she can do with those lightsabres, what else would she be?” She paused and considered. “You can’t mean… don’t be ridiculous! She saved Tython from the Sith!”

“Playing the long game maybe?” Jonas suggested, then sighed. “Yeah, doesn’t make much sense, I know.”

“Have you spoken to Theron about it?” Ninme asked him, “I mean, are you close, or just roommates?”

“Theron doesn’t do close, but we’re friends I guess. And yeah, I’ve tried, and he even seems receptive when they’re apart. He’s not stupid, when he’s thinking with his actual brain he knows there’s something off about her. But when they’re together…” Jonas gestured at the bedroom door. “And it’s not just sex. He’s… dazzled by her. Can’t see straight. Not that I blame him. I mean, did you see her?”

“Are you dazzled by her too, then?” Ninme asked him, slightly piqued.

Jonas laughed and said, “hey, I might think that a vorn-tiger is beautiful, but I have no desire to pet one!” He stepped forward and went to put his arm around Ninme’s shoulders.

She stepped out of his reach. “Uh huh. And what am I, if she’s a vorn-tiger?”

Jonas looked nervous. “I don’t know!” He ran his hand through his hair. “A… loth-cat maybe?”

Wow. A loth-cat. Delightful. Ninme rolled her eyes and strapped her assault-cannon onto her back. “I’ll leave you to clean up this mess.” She gestured at the dead cyborgs. “See you around, Jonas.”

Later, on board The Thunderclap, Ninme and Jorgan were cleaning and checking their weapons in companionable silence. Ninme looked sideways at him. “Aric,” she started, “if you were going to compare me to a cat, what kind would you pick?”

“A cat? Are you serious, Sir? Just because I’m a Cathar? Do humans really think that we categorise people in terms of cats?!”

“It’s nothing to do with that! I hadn't even thought of it that way! It’s just a thing! Somebody else compared me to a certain type of cat, and I’m just curious to see if you agree?”

Jorgan huffed, but then said, “fine. Go on then. What type of cat? I’ll tell you if I agree.”

Ninme shook her head. “I want you to think about it yourself and give me your answer.”

“Is that an order?” Jorgan asked sarcastically, but looked at her consideringly anyway. After a while his face flushed, visible even through his short fur, and he looked away from her and resumed cleaning his sniper-rifle.

“Vorn-tiger,” he mumbled into his laser-sight.

“I’m sorry?” Ninme asked.

“Vorn. Tiger.” Jorgan said loudly, sounding irritated. Or embarrassed. It was hard to tell with him.

Ninme suppressed her amusement. “And, um, would you pet one?”

“WHAT?” Jorgan asked her, shocked.

“I didn’t mean me,” Ninme reassured him hastily, horrified at herself. “I meant, y’know, an actual vorn-tiger! Obviously!”

“Oh!” Jorgan said, “well, good. Obviously good.”

He was blushing even more furiously now. “Er, sure, if it was tame, or I guess bonded to me somehow.”

Ninme smiled. “Good to know,” she said.

#swtor #star wars the old republic #swtor oc #theron shan #jonas balkar #swtor jedi knight #swtor trooper #swtor fanfiction #oc fanfiction

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ebitenpura · 1 year ago

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Commander Stew

Theron cooks something for the Commander.

Odessen - The Kitchens

A young man sporting a dollop of white hair and refined features entered the communal kitchen of the Alliance carrying a large crate, wearing a plain burlap apron, rubber gloves, and waders over what usually would qualify as a stealth suit–a bit of an odd sight, but one Theron had gotten used to over time.

“Hey! You’re back early. Put ‘em down over there,” Theron glanced over his shoulder, nodding briefly at the young man, then motioning with his head at the kitchen island. Eight squeezed past him as he ran his hands under the faucet, careful not to bump into the other spy. They set down the box on the counter and patiently folded their hands, awaiting instructions.

Theron turned off the sink and flung the remnant droplets off his hands, drying them with a slightly stained checkerboard dish towel.

Even with his fearsome past, Theron found the quiet operative to be pleasant company most days, with Eight acting as his assistant in daily matters ranging from mundane chores to deadly missions. All at the behest of Lana, of course. She was the one who insisted on (see: forced) a pair of helping hands for him after he'd incorrectly assumed she’d wanted him to take on all her burdens.

Not that he was complaining about the extra hands. Certainly not today of all days–he was planning something special, and that required all of the help he could get.

Theron opened the flaps of the crate. Fresh from their gardening plot in the Odessen fields, the box was practically bursting with colorful root vegetables and leafy greens native to the planet. Purple, orange, striped yellows and swirls of blue–all packed with vitamins and the healthy color of a successful crop. Plain proof that their efforts to cultivate more organic food for the personnel had finally given fruit, after several long winters of withered stalks and exhausting meals of food chips.

Theron smiled wryly. He’d have to make a toast to Dr. Oggurrobb’s fertilizer and the Force Enclave’s agricultural knowledge later.

“Will this be enough?” Eight asked, mellow as ever. He watched him coolly through deep umber eyes.

“It’s more than enough,” Theron answered, a bit of uncertainty leaking into his tone as he stared at the foodstuffs. The vegetables taunted him from their comfy spot atop the counter next to the impressive array of knives and cooking utensils laid out side-by-side like an interrogation toolkit. “...I think.” He wiped the tip of his nose.

Theron hated to admit it, but he was no culinarian. Master Zho had never taught him (really, what could you teach a kid to cook in the wilderness besides canned goods and pre-packaged rations), and his stint as a SIS agent since his youth had left him with little time to prepare nor care. The extent of his cooking repertoire could quickly be summed up to sticking a frozen Orobird leg in the flash oven and waiting for two minutes, sadly.

So why was he making an effort now?

The image of the Commander’s tired face weary from battle and sleepless nights, aging lines etched deep into their skin with the carvings of a destiny too large for one person, flashed in Theron’s mind. He’d seen the way they’d fought–skipped meals, denied themselves sleep, hid the way their gaze turned vacant when they thought no one was looking, left their cafeteria plate practically untouched, compounded blackened bottoms of endless cups of caf, the stims—the Commander was burning themselves at both ends.

Hypocritical as it was, he couldn’t stand watching them drive themselves into the ground. The galaxy’s fate was important, but…not as important as they were to Theron. Yet he found himself at a loss; what words he wanted to tell them to eat better, to sleep more, to stop hurting themselves fell short whenever the Commander gave him that one look. That look of resignation, deep as the dull ache that would settle in his chest afterwards.

“I’m okay,” They’d tell him, smiling wan, “Thank you, Theron.” It’s alright. It’s nothing. Don’t worry about me.

Like hell he couldn’t. He–

“Theron…?”

Theron snapped out of his reverie, realizing he’d been wringing the dishcloth far too tightly for too long. Eight stared at him, puzzled. He released it. His knuckles returned to their previous pink.

“...Sorry. Just. Tired,” Theron shook his head, massaging his temples. Tired. Yeah. He was sure someone else was too, and he hadn’t asked Eight to come here to watch him have a breakdown. Pushing off from the counter, he clapped his hands together, mustering up a second wind. “Let’s get to work. Shall we?”

Commander Stew

Ingredients:

Young Makrin Legs

Orobird Soup Stock

Rootleaf, 1 Head

Imperial-issued Instant Glowblue Noodles, 1 Package

Republic Synth-Ham and Grophet Sausages

Odessen Wild Onions

Mandalorian Spice Sauce

Zakuulan Swamp Glowshrooms

Slice of Ration Cheese

Directions:

Prepare the young makrin legs by soaking them in water and shaving the fibrous exterior with a peeler.

Theron stared at the unassuming pile of…legs that resembled roots more than they did the limbs of any creature, and secretly shuddered. Makrins weren’t particularly uncommon on terrestrial worlds, but their crabby, tree-like appearance and tendency to wallow in loam didn't make them his first choice to eat. He wasn't exactly opposed to adventurous cuisine, but he wondered how exactly the legs of a chitinous creature equaled something that would make the Commander more appetized.

As if sensing his cause for pause, Eight peered over his shoulder where he stood frozen with peeler in hand. “The Jedi recommended them for use in medicinal dishes. When eaten boiled, it lowers blood pressure, and contains many nutrients.” He said thoughtfully, as if reading an entry from an encyclopedia.

“Is that so.” Theron inwardly balked at the mention of the Jedi–a little known fact was that Master Zho had raised him on Jedi cuisine, most of it vegetarian, but even then he hadn’t sampled every bit of agriculture the galaxy had to offer. Makrin legs were a bit out there, but seeing as they were native to Odessen, recommended by the enclave and another piece of stress relief on a plate for the Commander? His survival training told him the harmless limbs could only benefit, despite their gnarly appearance.

Remove the tips and fibrous base. When cleaned and processed, set aside.

He buckled down and began shaving the legs. Lack of proper nutrition was always a deciding factor in conflict–Theron had seen his fair share of soldiers who contracted disease from improper eating and lack of supplies– and he would feed the Commander any bit of ugly vegetables if it meant seeing a little more life restored to their pallid cheeks. His fingers found their rhythm as he removed the tough outer skin from the legs exposing their soft white core beneath the blade of the peeler, their texture reminding him oddly of Dantooinian tubers with an extra coat of slime.

Slice and dice half of a medium-sized onion.

Theron had to pretend he wasn't looking particularly emotional as he chopped the onion. Or maybe he was simply brought to tears at the thought that their food could have flavor for once, all thanks to the Alliance’s team of scouts who procured such supplies for them from the unmapped regions of Odessen’s wilds. Eight was among that team, hence Theron's willingness to let an Imp spy of all people join him in cooking. There was only a small handful of people he could use to conceal his efforts from the Commander, and Theron would make use of both his ability to obtain food in secret and his espionage skills to see this through, opposing factions be damned.

And if others worried about poisoning, well. He didn't pride himself on being Chief of Security for nothing. The safety of the Commander was his priority, as were the characters of those he chose to fight alongside them. They were his responsibility. His to trust with their most important fight and everything in-between. Theron couldn't afford to keep the old grudges that the Republic and Empire maintained in these desperate times, and he would not fall victim to their need to blind themselves with their unending war. He had to fight for what was important, and that was…people. Not sides.

Theron would always be a son of the Republic at his heart. But now his heart belonged to another, and those lines had long blurred.

Slice the glowshrooms length-wise, removing the head from the stems. Set aside.

Clean and cut the rootleaf in half, then the following halves into quarters; chop into smaller squares until you have about 1 cup’s worth of rootleaf. Store the rest in a cool, refrigerated place.

Unpackage the Synth-Ham, Republic Ration #0625, and slice to desired thickness.

Theron opened the can of mystery meat and upended it onto the chopping board. The green ham-like substance plopped onto it with gelatinous grace. He poked it with his cooking knife. It jiggled away from the tip.

Eight placed an empty pot next to him along with a can of opened grophet sausages and an unwrapped package of Imperial ration Glowblue Noodles, their signature color shining through the foil. Theron quickly thanked him out of the corner of his mouth.

Arrange the rootleaf, onion, makrin legs, and glowshrooms at the bottom of the pot in even layers.

Add a helping of Mandalorian Spiced Sauce on top.

Theron couldn't forget Torian and his people. They were the ones who suggested using their own spices for the hotpot, as “no other spice in the galaxy compares to that of a Mando’s.” Though he’d initially expressed some reservations at setting the Commander’s tongue aflame, this special mix had been made with their preference in mind; Shae had been so impressed by their valor that she presented several crates worth as a gift after the battle of Darvannis. Spices were a luxury if not a grand gesture in wartime, and not one Theron intended to use lightly.

Add the Synth-Ham, grophet sausages, and top with a slice of ration cheese over the previous ingredients.

Finally, add the Glowblue Noodles and 3 liters of Orobird stock.

Theron blinked at the finished product. “Wait a minute. This is…”

“Revanite stew?” Eight once again helpfully supplied.

It was Theron’s turn to ask the questions as he raised a suspicious brow towards his sous-chef. “They ate this during the coalition, when the camps combined. How did you get the same recipe?”

Eight smiled quietly to himself, in his mysterious and elusive way. “Our Commander was there. It was their idea to share food across factions. I still haven't forgotten its taste. If you ask any of the soldiers from that time, they will say the same.”

Theron stared at him, speechless. To think the same recipe he’d been making this entire time was a result of their union on Rishi…he recalled seeing Imperial and Republic soldiers bonding over a cookpot, but hadn't joined in, content to watch the proceedings from a distance. So much had happened during Revan’s rise that he’d failed to pay enough attention to something so innocuous as a moment of camaraderie between unlikely allies.

It had been their idea to eat something both Imperial and Republic that fateful night. To form the basis of their Alliance over a simple, warm bowl of soup.

Theron felt his heart swell.

He…he had to remind them of what they had built. What they meant to him. With this.

Set on top of a burner and deliver to recipients with bowls to share.

Theron held his breath as he wheeled the cart of foodstuffs to the Commander’s quarters, careful to avoid jostling the stew that balanced atop it as he reached his destination. He rapped on the door with the back of his knuckles.

A puff of pnematic air revealed the Commander, yawning wearily from yet another sleepless night of work and burdens. “Yes–” They stopped. “Theron? What are you doing here?” They eyed his cart. “And what's with all the food?”

Theron cracked a sheepish smile, rubbing the back of his neck. “Thought you could use some dinner, so…I brought you some. If you don't mind, that is.” He quickly added, feeling out of place in the deserted hallway.

The Commander smiled, a genuine one that reached their eyes, crinkling at the edges. “I’d love to try whatever you made. Come in, we can eat it together.” They stepped aside to allow Theron room to maneuver.

Enjoy with your intended party.

As expected, it was delicious.

Not as filling as seeing the Commander laugh to the point of tears at his explanations as to why he'd been so secretive all week trying to hide the fruits of his cooking from them, but filling nonetheless. He'd give it a 5/5, personally, as a true soup for the soul. (And a note to make it again with less sneaking around).

If the Commander was satisfied and satiated... so was he.

#swtor #swtor fanfiction #theron shan #theron shan x alliance commander #oc: orradiz #knights of the meshi.#admin writes #unnamed commander btw you can self insert. or not #eight cameo in there for. uh. reasons.#i spent way too long procrastinating on this but i think it turned out alright #writing a cooking style fic is way harder than it looks also the ending was kind of botched but im tired #a bit of alliance worldbuilding a bit of speculative cuisine of alien species and plants a bit of #CHARACTER STUDY??#what the hell whatever

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