#swtor fanfiction

[swtorpadawan]

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

[ebitenpura]

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.

[kwrite1776]

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.)

[tiredassmage]

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.”

[kemendin]

Chapter III: Shedding Masks

When a critical mission for the Empire goes wrong, MALAVAI QUINN and LORD KHEL SUTEK find themselves lost behind enemy lines in the inhospitable ice-wilds of ILUM. With only each other to rely on, and their recently-formed relationship still relatively untested, the strain of survival under such circumstances is bound to cause a few cracks. But for two men with life-long tendencies towards walling themselves away - perhaps a few cracks are just what they need in order to start sharing things they’ve long kept inside.

Malavai Quinn x Light Side Sith Warrior Words: 13,500/?? A/N: Chapter 3's been sitting at nearly finished for ages, but I finally got there! This one *cough* absorbed a LOT of my opinions about how I've seen Quinn treated in the fandom, and gave me an outlet for my indignation, as well as making it better. Sorrynotsorry.

Read on AO3 (short excerpt below cut)

Khel gave a small hum of thanks, sitting himself up to accept the canteen. He took several slow sips as eyes travelled thoughtfully over their makeshift camp.

“I must say, you know what you’re doing. Sometimes I forget how good you really are,” he complimented the other man. “I ought to let you take charge more often.” 

His words were light - but something vaguely suggestive in his tone brought a faint flush to Malavai’s cheeks. 

“I wouldn’t dream of giving you orders, my lord.”

“No?” Khel smiled a little - the first since the tunnel’s collapse - and glanced over at him. After a moment’s consideration he leaned closer against Quinn, murmuring, “Not even if I asked you to?” 

His cold lips brushed across Quinn’s jaw, and the captain’s breath stuttered audibly. Clearing his throat, Quinn hastily bent forward again to fumble with his backpack, searching through it for some field rations, though his hands seem to have gone inexplicably clumsy on him. Beside him, Khel let out a soft chuckle.

“You’re still quite shy about this, aren’t you, Quinn?” the Sith observed with mild interest, not to mention amusement. “Even when we’re completely alone.”

“I - “ Quinn hesitated, but there was little point in denying it, and so he merely went on, “...Yes, I’m afraid I am. My lord,” he added quickly.

“Why is that?”

Quinn straightened again, but kept his gaze averted from Khel; instead he watched the reflective surface of the foil-wrapped ration packs as it crumpled and contorted beneath his suddenly worrying fingers.

“I’m not quite sure,” he admitted lowly. “I’m not - used to this, juggling business with pleasure. I haven’t managed to find the balance yet.”

Khel tilted his head; Quinn could feel the other’s grey eyes studying him, before the Sith said evenly, “No… you’re not sure, are you?” Another pause, with only the quiet flicker of the torches and the crinkle crinkle crinkle of shifting foil to break the silence, and then - “Does it bother you, how forward I am?”

Quinn shook his head quickly. “No, my lord,” he assured; but saying it caused him to wince internally, and a beat later he was forced to amend, “That is - it doesn’t bother me, precisely, I’m simply - it’s taking me longer than I anticipated, to adjust to this new… dynamic, between us.” Crinkle crinkle crinkle.

“It took you long enough to adjust to the old one,” Khel pointed out, a touch of wryness in his tone. But he sobered again, and gingerly shifted his weight so that he was angled more towards the other man. A slender hand reached out, as though to curve around Malavai’s jaw; but then Khel seemed to think better of it, and stopped with his fingers still outstretched in the warming air.

“If you’re having second thoughts, Quinn,” he started quietly, “if this isn’t working - I want you to tell me. I’d rather know now.” 

[inyri]

❛ why does it feel like this is goodbye? ❜ from the sentence starters 👀

 (I’m not sure if we’ll get here in long form- I’d thought so once, but given the current pace of my writing I suspect I’ll bring Equivalent Exchange to a natural close before we reach this point in the story, then continue Nine and Theron’s tale in shorter pieces. It's a bit of a cheat, but that's authorial prerogative for you.

Something lost is found. SWTOR. Nine/Theron.)

*

She sits on the edge of the bed, looking up at Theron as he scuffs nervously at the floor with the toe of his boot. (Stars, she’s missed this bed, missed this whole apartment even if she doesn’t miss the Kaasi rain falling in sheets against the windows or the periodic assassination attempts- but ah, the view from the balcony toward the sea-)

“You look,” she finally says, considering his expression carefully, “like the tooka that ate the bulabird. What exactly did you do while I was off with Acina?”

He turns to make sure the door’s closed before he answers. “Oh, you know. Took a tour of the place. Sliced a few things- databases, mostly. Census data. Population records. The Intelligence database, for about ten seconds.”

“You-” she chokes. The fact that he’s still standing here means he probably got away with it, but- “I thought I told you to behave yourself. If they figure out what you did- I know you’re not keen on parallel work with the Empire, Theron-”

“I didn’t get caught.” He rolls his eyes and rummages in his jacket pocket for his commpad. “I didn’t get caught last time either, for what it’s worth, but I did find what I was looking for.” 

(Last time? That’s- oh, lovely brilliant reckless idiot boy, he’s going to get himself into far more trouble than she can fix one of these years.)

She raises an eyebrow as he holds the commpad out toward her. 

“I found you.”

She gestures up and down along her body. “Of course you did. I’m right here. I know that mess with Lorman looked like a near enough miss, but-”

Theron shakes his head vehemently, pressing it into her hand and curling her fingers closed around it. “No, you don’t understand. I found you- pre-Cipher you. In the archives.”

“Impossible.” Or it ought to have been; after Hunter she’d watched the Minister purge her file with her own eyes and even then there was nothing left of an old life in it, nothing left but a ghost. The Ghost. “Not in the Intelligence database. They burn all that out when we CIpher.”

“Not in the Intelligence database, no.” He crouches down next to her as her heart twists in her chest. It ought to have been impossible. It ought to have been. “But I followed a thread from the personnel records, and then another and then another and then I found this. Imperial Academy prospective cadet interview number 00-828317. Locked subfolder, but-” he shrugs.    

The number doesn’t hurt. They didn’t take that from her, before, but there’s a pressure building behind her eyes- too close to something that they did, then. Far too close. She takes a deep breath. “Did you see it?”

“Only the first few seconds, and not with audio- didn’t want Lana to notice before I could pull it off the network. She looks like you, though.” 

“I suppose she would.” She lets the commpad settle on her lap, looks down at it like it might bite. (It might.) 

After a moment Theron stands. “I should go. You don’t have to decide if you want to watch it now- I shouldn’t have assumed-” 

“No,” she says, reaches up for his hand without looking and her fingers lace through his. “Stay.”

He sits down beside her; she presses play. 

[she is eleven years old.

she is eleven years old and wearing a white blouse and a black skirt and her hair in two neat plaits down her back and she is standing, hands folded, in front of a table where four men and a woman sit in identical uniforms, backs to the camera. 

we’ll begin, says the man second from right. please state your name for the record.

she nods, and opens her mouth. mustn’t smile too much or they’ll think she’s silly, mustn’t pull at her plait or at her shirtsleeves, mustn’t-]

(oh Void oh Void oh Void it HURTS and he holds on to her- should I stop it? I can stop it- and she shakes her head furiously so he just keeps holding on)

[yes, sir, she says. it is important to show respect, father said. my name is N-]

It’s impossible. It’s impossible. 

It’s her name. 

She does stop the recording then, not because she wants to but because she’s going to bleed all over his damned commpad if she doesn’t. Her nose drips down onto her shirt until she pinches it closed and then she turns her head toward Theron as he mutters apology after apology into the top of her head. “I had a feeling,” she murmurs, “that was going to happen.”

“So that’s your name? N-” he almost says it aloud but stops himself, free hand pressed against his mouth. “Stars, I'm sorry. I don’t want to hurt you again.”

“It may get easier with time. We can try more of the video later- I only remember a little bit. I thought it might all come back at once, but-”

Theron nods. “I hope so- that it gets easier, I mean. That it comes back. But your name, it… it suits you.”

“Does it?”

“Yeah.” He kisses her hair, then her forehead, then the tip of her nose beneath her still-pinching fingers. “Though it’s weird- why does this almost feel like a goodbye?”

“To Cipher Nine? No. it's not-” she shakes her head. “It’s- hello, Theron Shan. My name-” she breathes in and the pain lessens and it wouldn’t matter anyway, all the pain in the universe would be worth it to see that look on his face again and again- “is Nyriala.”

[chaoticstrata]

A Little Bit of Vector

I saw that @riachuelowii wanted more Vector stuff...um, here you go? I don't write a lot of Vector, so hopefully, it works for you! :) Kept the Agent as neutral as possible, so, by all means, insert yours here! ----------------------------------------------------------------

Vector watched as the Agent toiled over their datapad, worrying their lower lips between their teeth. He knew they were stressing over recent developments with this Star Cabal and everything with…Hunter. Red seeped into the edges of his vision as anger gripped him at the thought of the Enforcer. It rippled over his connection with the Hive, which reached out with a calming wave of support--although some clamored for vengeance, mostly the warrior class. He closed his eyes and breathed, accepting that support with a soft smile. When he opened them again, they fell upon the Agent one more time, seeing their aura shift with worry and stress. Vector thought for a moment about how he could help. A memory of another Joiner drifted across their link of a time when they brought a loved one tea to comfort them.

Tea.

The Agent liked tea; Vector knew that from their talks. And he could certainly make some for them. Quietly, the Joiner backed out of the room and headed to the small kitchenette on the ship. Once he set the water to boil, he pulled out one of his favorite teas to share with the Agent. Vector felt his cheeks warm at the thought and warmed further as his link with the Hive was filled with delight and happy chatter of him finding a mate. Killiks, he found, were worse gossipers than politicians, nobles, and other species combined. Pointedly ignored the continual chatter and focused on the tea.

Ten minutes later, he gently placed the tea beside the Agent, who looked up at him in surprise.

“Vector…what--?”

“We thought you looked like you could use a small break,” Vector replied before the Agent could finish their question. “We hope you don’t mind us taking the initiative to make you some tea.”

The Agent stared at him momentarily before looking down at the tea. For a split second, Vector thought he had done something wrong when the Agent relaxed, and a small smile spread across their features. He saw warmth bleed back into the Agent’s aura as it shone a bit brighter.

“Thank you, Vector,” the Agent responded, looking back up at the Joiner with thankful, happy eyes and a wider smile.

Vector smiled in return and replied fondly, “You’re welcome, Agent.”

[sullustangin]

New Chapter: Conflict Resolution

Rating: M (this chapter PG)

Pairing: Theron Shan/Smuggler

Quick Quote:

Eva inspected all the other die rolls.  “Nobody else perceives Koth or the mysterious ticking device in the corner.  Great.”  Eva tucked the rule book under her arm for this one.  “Koth, roll to tamper with the device.  Miot, roll to see if your device goes off.”

Koth raised his hand.  “If it doesn’t go off, can I still take my shot?”

Aygo rejected that idea.  “No, that’s another action on a turn.”

“Ah, ah, ah!  I got a thing – it’s a tactical advantage.  I get a bonus action?” Koth tried to proclaim but he wasn’t totally sure on this one. 

Theron tugged the rule book out from Eva’s arm.  “If you’re stealthed – which it seems you are,” he began, looking at the cards Koth turned over. 

“Anything bigger than a breadbox breaks the field,” Eva commented.  “Miot, is your grenade larger than a breadbox?”

“What’s a breadbox?”

Eva stretched her arms and then made a motion with her hands to indicate the approximate size of the Thief’s breadbox.  “Like this?”

“Smaller.”

“Ok, Koth can play with it and not break the stealth field.  But once he shoots, the energy is more powerful than a breadbox thrown by a Wookiee, and that will disrupt the field,” Eva clarified, permitting Koth to tamper with the device while stealthed. 

“Is that how that guideline was established?” asked Theron.

“Uh huh.” 

A/N: yes, they're playing Brigs and Balyregs, which is my in-universe edition of Dungeons and Dragons.

[krisslegacy]

feeling reaaaal inspired to write a theron wedding fic

[starettethestar]

In the darkness, only ambition will guide you.

In the darkness, ambition will guide you. But be careful of their power. Do not let either consume you.

[serenofroses]

the last part of Ania and Jadus Jadis' minificlet of their first meeting. this had been kicking my butt for months due to my struggles and writing insecurities.

I made some recent changes to Jadis to the point where I separated her from canon Jadus into to her own character.

as usual: heavy canon divergence, deaf f!agent oc x Darth Jadus.

content warnings: use of chloform, Jadis being a horrible Sith as always. and Scarlett's horrible writing bc she needed to get this done and out of the way.

A couple of minutes later…

"Wait here."

The guard advised with an emotionless tone after escorting the agent from the Intelligence base to the Sith headquarters. Ania gave a short nod, watching the guard enter the office to announce her arrival to the Dark Councillor. She stood within the antechamber with a shuddering inhale to steady her nerves until she caught on to the muffled voices exchanging words that pushed her anxiety aside.

Ania tried to peer closer to listen in, hoping to understand their words but her focus was distracted by the large wall mirror overlooking the Sith’s office. Eying the reflection and moving her head forward to get a better view of the office to see within–there, she caught a glimpse of the Sith figure with their back turned. She wasn’t interested in the guard but paid more attention to the Sith.

Jadis was rather intriguing yet imposing, stood impressively tall that towered over the Imperial officers with their height, though their body wasn’t super muscular like she had seen, donning in the signature black with purple pattern robes and led lights, their raven hair was long and tied back neatly with subtle notice of the pale skintone–the reflection made her realised something the second she spotted the helmet laid onto the desk.

Wait a second, she thought, Darth Jadus––correction Jadis, she reminded herself quietly–wasn’t hiding their face?

Curiosity grew, questions filled with pondering over who this mysterious Darth Jadis really was. Nothing was known much about them since the day they “returned” from seclusion and “reclaimed” the Dark Council seat as of five years ago to this day.

Ania tried to lean a little further to inspect the mystery Sith through the reflection vying to see their face. The floor creek underneath her feet cut her off and uttered a quiet curse hoping they didn’t hear that sound.

“Send her in.” 

She heard the Sith tell the guard and took one last look through the mirror to watch them put out the cigar in the ashtray and reached for the specific item from the desk.

“Have my shuttle prepped in the meantime.”

Though, the voice sounded… a little different without their helmet on. Surely she was imagining things that she didn’t actually hear correctly. The sound of footsteps had caught Ania’s attention, readjusted her position quickly to where she previously stood and straightened her posture right in time as the guard exited the office.

“The Master is ready for you. You may proceed.” the guard instructed with a hand gestured to the door, signalling the agent to go inside.

Ania gulped. Her heart pulsed rapidly as dread began to overwhelm her, nausea formed within the back of the throat and her senses of doubt were shoved to the back of the mind with a sharp exhale to mentally prepare herself before walking into the office. 

The interior of the office was darker than the Intelligence’s blue hues but much fancier than she had expected for a Sith like Jadis but there was something rather unsettling about this room that she couldn’t explain through her gut feeling. 

It feels so… wrong to be here.

“Agent Nevrakis.” the Dark Councillor greeted in a deep, rich voice, “Do come in.”

So, she wasn’t imagining things when she heard Jadis’ voice–definitely different without the helmet.

Jadis, then, turned around to face her, “You arrived on time as I have summoned.”

Ania froze in shock.

The Dark Councillor was not wearing their main helmet but presented to her wearing a mask with horns covering their face except for their mouth and chin exposed as bright violet eyes gazed upon her. 

However, the mask looked all too familiar. Like she has seen it before. 

Hold on–Darth Jadis is….?

Jadis took a moment to observe the reaction before speaking, “Do you know who I am?” 

Keeper’s warnings were still fresh on her mind, heeding his advice to remain silent and watch her words carefully.

“If you don’t, you will.”

“You’re Lady Renata of House Vitali,” Ania replied, trying her best to not stare at their lips, “Second Heir to the Sith Emperor.”

“You’re well-informed.” Jadis’ dark lips curled into a pleased smile, “Good–this will save me the proper introduction.”--they, then, continued with raised hands that caught Ania’s attention–”It is a pleasure to finally meet your acquaintance. I heard so much about you.”

Did they–...?

“You…. sign?” Ania stared in disbelief, unsure how to feel about this after her experiences with her superiors and coworkers who deprived her from signing with basic communication to help her get around within the Intelligence.

Apart from her parents, she did not expect to find a Sith Lord nor a member of the Dark Council to communicate through sign language.

“You find that most Sith may learn sign languages through different reasons when offered a chance, but many choose not to.” Jadis explained, “I am aware of your reliance on lipreading–a natural talent that no one could master well.” they said with admiration.

“Except you took a big risk to reveal yourself to me. They said you went missing for five years.” Ania reminded them.

She recalled seeing the news reports about Acina's ascension in her rise to power as the Sith Empress followed by their sister was nowhere to be found with a possible declaration of going rogue.

“Perhaps.” they played along with a wicked smile, “But I choose to appear to you because I prefer to communicate with you this way–should you favour lipread ideally. Will that be a problem between us?” 

Ania shook her head with a quiet murmur, “No.”

She hoped this meeting would be over and done with, so she could return to her apartment and crawl into a nice, warm bed.

Sound of claws snapped had alerted the agent as she looked over to their pointed finger at the floor in front of them. Ania nervously walked towards to stand in the middle of the room, it’s rather daunting being this close to them. The intimidating aura of the Sith, nor their mask, certainty didn’t help ease her moods. 

The Dark Councillor had taken notice the way Ania was avoiding their masked gaze, humouring themself to approach over, “Look at me.” they said in a commanding tone, “And revel in the power of the dark side.”

Right on cue as they spoke, Ania reluctantly turned to fixate her gaze onto them. With an appreciative hum, Jadis started to circle around the agent at a slow pace to inspect her, drinking in every aspect details about her to memorise, resisting the intrusion to run their fingers over her shoulders, touch her soft hair….

They sensed her nervousness. They smell her blood rushing. They inhaled the scent of her Ziosti floral and berries perfume.

“Allow your body to betray you. Allow your blood to boil and your heart to… slow.” they continued in a husky tone, one that made a young woman shiver in anticipation from a voice alone, “Everything that is not of the dark side will be… purged–or it will be tainted.”

They stressed the latter part–they reached through the Force to read into her, there was a sense of doubtness from her, but something was blocking the Dark Councillor from probing further into her mind. 

‘Unacceptable but I can’t fault her for shielding her mind’, they thought, ‘Getting through to Agent Nevrakis would take time.’

Jadis then walked back to the spot to stand in front of her, “This is an inoculation, Agent, a ... sacred rite.”

Ania wasn't sure if she understood what she heard. A sacred rite...? Aren't those meant to be restricted to the Sith or something, she asked herself. She doesn’t consider herself to be a Sith who barely lacks the power to call on the Force physically, but she can feel things, sense emotions… like a Force Empathy or so she was told.

"The religion of the Sith is not my religion." she said with a lie, holding onto the slightest determination that her words were convincing enough to fool the Sith as a means to hide her identity. 

Or her past. 

"The ways of the Sith are the ways of the Empire--so it shall always be. You should know this because you were brought up, or better yet, trained otherwise.”

Ania stiffened by their implication after they saw through to her lies–how much have they known about her?

"But, that is not why I summoned you." Jadis changed the topic.

Ania narrowed her eyes, obviously unaware that the misty dark tendrils were slowly edging towards her ankles, "You didn’t summon me without a reason other than to talk."

"You're right." Jadis humoured her, "I did not summon you without a reason."

A pregnant pause between the two. The silence left Ania on the fence, wary of the Sith’s intentions with her in this compromising position. She tried to move her footing but something was… holding her back like a stasis-lock stillness. 

Jadis lifted a hand up to call on the Force–a single datapad from the desk from behind flung into their grasp, they flipped through the pages and held it up in front of the agent’s eyes, showing the written assessment with an image of the deceased target attached to it.

It was her report that she handed in to the Keeper a couple of hours ago.

“I believe this has caused… a commotion amongst the higher ups. More specifically to the attention of the Empress and Grand Moff Kilran.”

Ania’s body tensed up looking at the report, swallowing thickly before speaking, “I… was not aware. Had I known, I wouldn’t have…-”

“Which you have performed remarkably well as I have foresaw.” Jadis interrupted, quick to sense the tension through the agent’s body language, “You were given a dosser with instructions where I made it specifically clear that you are to neutralise your target rather than capturing them alive.”

Ania narrowed her eyes suspiciously at them, “You arranged that assignment?”

“Yes, the order within your assignment came directly from me, not the Keeper’s.”

Ania wasn’t sure what to believe here, “You realise that my target was an Imperial, right? Isn’t it wrong to neutralise an agent of the Empire? Or The Emperor’s? Or even Empress?”

“Might I remind you that the Emperor continues to remain silent since the Treaty? As for my sisters.... I do not care about them simply put.” Jadis set the datapad down, clearing their throat as they continued, “The cost of ambitious loyalty comes with a price, it does not matter whether you think it is wrong or not. Regardless if it was a Republic, a Jedi, or one of our own–those dissidents still threaten the way of the Empire.”

“What are you implying?”

“I can’t speak for the rest of the Dark Council, but there are those who hold themselves above the mundane business of the Empire, those still blindly acting on the Emperor’s will while my dear pathetic sister holds the power. A mistake.” they explained, “I truly believe this can be accomplished by spreading the ways of the Sith to the Empire entirely– show them the democratisation of fear.”

“So, what of the dissidents?” Ania asked, albeit sceptical over where this was going, “Are they followers of the rogue Emperor or do they seek for the destruction of the Empire?”

“That remains to be seen. But do not underestimate our enemies.” Jadis warned with caution, “They are powerful--and there are those who sympathise with them. People at the highest levels of government.”

Ania shifted her weight awkwardly but her movement was still, “You made it sound like you don’t trust the Intelligence or the Dark Council…”

“Perhaps, perhaps not… but a piece of advice?” Jadis offered, “Watch those around you, and trust no one. Not even those within the Intelligence. They may not be all what they seem. I believe you and I can propose a…”--they paused to choose the word carefully without giving anything away–”Partnership? No Intelligence, no answering to the Keeper, and certainly no bowing to the Empress to swear loyalty to.”

We…? She thought out of confusion.

“And if I decline?”

Jadis chuckled for a moment, “I trust that won’t come down to it.”

Ania remembered something about the rumours whispered throughout the headquarters for some time. 

“Suppose there's a reason why Cipher Nine or any other low-ranking agents went missing?” Ania asked out of curiosity, “You were the last person to have seen them alive.”

The Sith went silent for a moment, that alone had the agent begin to suspect they know more than they’re letting her on. Could they have had anything to do with the renowned Cipher Nine’s disappearance, she wondered.

“We don’t have to be enemies. I am proposing an alliance between the two of us--you're a special one. You don’t want to let this opportunity pass, Agent Nevrakis,” Jadis began to work on their charm to sway the agent’s wariness then pointed their index finger at the floor in front of them, “Come–kneel before me.”

Ania blinked out of scepticism towards the masked Sith, but barely acknowledged the sound of footsteps within the antechamber behind her. She debated with herself as she bit down on her tongue over whether she should do as she was instructed or not.

“You… want me to bow to your submission?” she questioned.

“Refusal is not an option, Agent Nevrakis.” Jadis said in a warning tone, “I suggest that you should not try to defy me when I am offering you an alliance with me.”

The words of Vowrawn’s warning advising the agent to tread with caution about the dangers of trifling powerful Sith or Dark Councillor’s feathers through wits. She may not know Jadis that personally and she wasn’t planning to.

Ania scoffed. 

“You have quite an ambitious reputation from what I was told, Jadis.” she said, holding her ground with every single warning tossed out of the window, “No matter how you try to charm with your words, you can’t expect me to pledge my allegiance to you.”

Ania could’ve sworn she saw the Sith going red, seething silently, that is until she attempted to make a turn for an exit but found no movement nor control over her body–an phantom feeling of tendrils snaked around her ankles crept its way up her legs in its grasps.

This was the Sith's doing.

"Is that so?"

Ania stared at them. Deep down, she was… afraid. There was no escape–she couldn’t move–the gut instinct told her the possibility of this outcome was to die right here.

"You choose to defy me?" Jadis sounded cold and displeased.

“I won't kneel to you–not to someone who’s related to Emperor Tenebrae. Your lineage is anything but corrupted. Your father ruined so many lives.”

Ania watched the seething rage build up within the Sith, violet eyes glowed, smoke puffed out of their nostrils. The mention of their father’s name had stirred something but Ania couldn’t read nor make out their expression through the mask.

”Did it hurt your ego when those refused to bow and submit to you after you forced them?” Ania lifted her head up bracing for whatever the Sith planned to do with her, “Do what you wish, Lord Jadis, kill me. That’s how Agents disappear, right?”

“... Very well.” Jadis resigned after a short pause.

Ania made a shuddering breath as the weight of the Force tightened around her body that was enough to suffocate her, drowning her in the power of engulfed darkness and felt her throat burning with nausea. She sensed the presence behind her as faint footsteps clicked against the polished floor edged closer to her–was it one of their guards?

Ania did not like where this was going. 

“It’s a pity your defiance has come to this.” Jadis spoke in a harsher tone, “You leave me with no other choice--but you will need to be disciplined.”

She, also, did not like what they were implying.

Then, Jadis snapped their finger.

Ania was startled upon being grabbed from behind with one arm around her shoulder and upper torso–she still couldn’t move her body to fight back against this individual–followed by a cloth pressed to her nose and mouth.

“No! Stop this! Let me go!” she screamed.

They had no intention of releasing her and continued to apply the pressure against her face. She tried to scream to the point she had to practically beg but her cries were muffled by the cloth.

“I’m sorry.” a voice whispered to her.

A male voice–why does the voice sound familiar–she doesn’t understand why he is saying sorry for. 

The agent struggled to fight back and resist the Force hold over her body, she tried to thrash her head about but she was starting to feel dizzy and nauseated from inhaling the strong fumes–eying over to find the masked Sith watching on. She lost the strength to continue the moment darkness closed in and her body went limp as eyelids were beginning to drop from tiredness.

“I have no desire to dispose of you, my dear Agent. Killing you would be a waste of my resources,” Jadis told her, “I, however, have a better substitution for you."

She almost collapsed to the floor–one of the guards approached her and caught her within their arms–she heard Jadis commanded the guard to take her to the shuttle. Ania saw them glancing over to the person who was behind her, she wanted to move her head to discover who it was but she was  too exhausted to do anything.

“I will handle everything from here. You may leave now.”

Who was Jadis talking to?

“With due respect, Lord Jadis, this should never happened--I do not condone this, there will be serious consequences for–.”

Jadis cut him off, “You forgot that I still control the Imperial Intelligence with my power and you will abide to my rule, Keeper.”

‘Keeper?!...That can’t be…’

That was the last thing she managed to catch on before unconsciousness took over while she was carried away from the scene.

[swtorpadawan]

Chaos is a Ladder

Author’s Notes: The following story takes place on Hutta during Act III of the Class stories. I name-drop a lot of minor NPCs from the game, so I hope you’re into that sort of thing. Content warnings for references to off-camera extreme violence.

“Chaos isn't a pit. Chaos is a ladder. Many who try to climb it fail and never get to try again. The fall breaks them.” - Petyr Baelish, aka 'Littlefinger', HBO’s Game of Thrones, season 3, episode 6, "The Climb"

Loyalty on Hutta is a complicated thing. The woman who called herself Linh noted to herself in a detached moment of clarity, drawing her consciousness away from the nearby stench of death and the distant sounds of fighting.

Nominally, of course, everything on Hutta was controlled by the Hutts. Any attempts to wrest control of their adopted home world away from the Cartel over the centuries – either by the native Evocii or by the various rival crime lords and organizations that thrived on the nearby ‘Smuggler’s Moon’ of Nar Shaddaa – had been ruthlessly crushed.   

But in practice, the Hutt Cartel ruled Hutta solely through fear.

And it was an effective and even a pragmatic fear, one that allowed a relatively small number of Hutts to each rule over their own private fiefdom, with the backing of countless guards, servants and slaves, aided by any number of semi-independent mercenaries and bounty hunters, and supported by a culture that ensured that however much Hutts might quarrel, fight and rage against each other, they always seemed to band together the moment the status quo of their world was challenged; even if one Hutt did fall, another would simply take their place or absorb their territory, with predictable consequences.  

But it was still a control built on the foundation of fear nonetheless. Meaning that any loyalty anyone showed to the Hutts was an illusion, and that illusion was virtually everywhere.

Based on her own training and experiences, Linh had always suspected that the moment peoples’ fear of the Hutts was eclipsed by their fear of something else, those illusions would be dispelled, and those people would turn.

And that suspicion was now being confirmed as people were now turning on Suudaa Nem'ro, more popularly known as Nem’ro the Hutt, leader of the Nem’ro Clan and lord of the industrial town of Jiguuna.

It had all started less than an hour ago.

The unnamed Houk had shown up suddenly at the entrance of Nem’ro’s Palace, calling out the Hutt and bellowing a series of extraordinarily graphic and imaginative threats against Nem’ro’s person.

This had initially been little cause for concern to Linh and most of the other occupants of the palace at the time, who initially took this development for a rather convoluted suicide attempt. This Houk was clearly insane and was looking for a way to die.

Then Nem’ro’s guards had converged to intercept the intruder… and they had been the ones who started dying.

The amused indifference of the populace had turned to concern and then to fear.

Then the fear had turned to panic.

As the Houk made his way through the palace, killing anyone in his path in a merciless onslaught, everything had descended into chaos. Every second the Houk had spent viciously cleaving his way through defenders with his vibro-blade was a second where resistance seemed to melt away.

The panic had turned to rioting, as everyone’s immediate goals had shifted.

It wasn’t just the Houk’s doing, of course. Had all the guards, servants, hangers-on and guests in Nem’ro’s palace bravely united to stand against the assailant, they surely would have taken him down eventually.

Surely. Linh thought to herself in reassurance, even though she was not completely certain at all.

Many of the occupants of Nem’ro’s palace were perfectly willing enough to feign bravery when the odds were overwhelmingly in their favor and there was a chance for personal gain. But they were quick to turn and flee the moment that equation was in doubt.

No. This crisis was the result of people on Hutta fearing something else more than they feared a Hutt. The instant that happened, all bets were off. Tomorrow, or a year from now, a new equilibrium would inevitably reemerge, with some other Hutt in charge.

No one cared about that now.

The majority of these people simply wanted to survive today.

Far worse than these sheep were the many individuals in the palace and throughout Jiguuna who had instinctively started taking advantage of the chaos. Many saw the opportunity to finish old scores with a rival at a moment when they figured they could get away with it. One or two were petty enough to simply took the chance to mug some of the wealthier patrons of the lord of Jiguuna. A few even risked looting the treasures of the Hutt’s palace.

Fools. Linh thought to herself. She didn’t know how many of these opportunists had made it out of the palace, but she had to assume it wasn’t many. No amount of credits (or personal satisfaction) were worth your life.

Not when everything is falling into anarchy. Linh thought to herself.

She heard fighting – or rioting – in the distance. She counted herself lucky.

For her own part, by the time the intruder had stormed through the palace cantina, where Linh usually spent her days, she had wisely made herself scarce, slipping out into the streets of Jiguuna in the confusion as she gripped her hold-out blaster.

Linh was an observer. By training and inclination. Now she finally had a moment to reflect on what she had observed during her final moments in the palace. Most of it seemed irrelevant. Who was running. Who was fighting. Why was dying.

One thing she was certain of was that Nem’ro’s luck had finally run out.

At what seemed to have been the penultimate moment, only one of Nem’ro’s remaining lieutenants, Carnus, seemed willing to take up the challenge posed by his fellow Houk. The two had come to blows in the cantina, even while Nem’ro could be heard bellowing down the passageway in a panic for more of his guards to come to his side to defend his bulk, and offering outrageous rewards to whomever could end the threat to his life.

When even Carnus had fallen beneath the newcomer’s rampage, the writing on the wall had become clear: Nem’ro the Hutt was doomed. No one else would be willing to die for the Hutt. It was simply a matter of survival now, and who could run the fastest.

If the Lord of Jiguuna wasn’t already dead, he would be soon.

Still outside, cocooned in her moment of clarity, Linh realized that it was a fall that had been a long time coming. Things had seemed to be slowly deteriorating in Jiguuna for nearly two years.

It started with Karrels Javis. She decided.

He had been Nem’ro’s most capable and reliable lieutenant before he’d been killed. He was certainly capable of violence, but Javis had understood that violence was a tool and not philosophical approach to everyday life. He’d been pragmatic and reasonable, usually taking pains to avoid putting decisions to his boss when the Hutt’s temper was acting up.  

Officially, Javis had met his end by an assassination team sent by Nem’ro’s rival, Voontara Fa'athra.

(Linh knew better than to believe that story.)

Nem’ro’s reprisals against Fa'athra’s supporters had been unprecedented even by Hutt levels. Armed with a data file retrieved from Voontara Fa'athra’s palace by the so-called ‘Red Blade’, there had been a bloodbath in Jiguuna with dozens of Fa'athra’s supposed sympathizers in the town purged on Nem’ro’s orders.

Still. Linh thought to herself. Despite his cold-bloodedness, the Blade she’d briefly met, that supposed pirate – with his cool, emerald eyes and chiseled jawline – had been capable. Very capable. He was just the sort of person I could have used to get off Hutta, now.

Unfortunately, he was far from here, on some job or another that she couldn’t even imagine. 

It had taken weeks for the city to calm down.

Even after the dust had settled from the purges, and even after the victory celebrations Nem’ro had held when Fa’athra had fled Hutta in apparent defeat, there was a sullen air to the place. As if whatever little vitality Jiguuna could have claimed before had been sapped, and things were continuing purely on momentum.

Illustrating her point in fact, just a few weeks ago, Nem’ro had come down with a rare flesh-eating disease, placing the Hutt’s life – and his sizable bulk – in jeopardy. This development had led to considerable tension among the Hutt’s various lieutenants and supporters, as everyone jockeyed for position should Nem’ro ‘tragically’ pass away. There had been a number of killings, discreetly passed off as ‘isolated incidents’ by Nem’ro’s security, and Linh was fully convinced that there’d have been an outbreak of open infighting throughout the organization if it had lasted any longer.

Fortunately for what still counted for the status quo in Jiguuna – and for Nem’ro, personally – a Republic doctor had arrived one day at the palace before that came to pass, having heard of the Hutt’s plight. Linh had noted he’d been on ‘watch list’ for her true employer, as the man had previously worked for the Balmorran Resistance and had more recently been working with some upstart Jedi Knight running around the galaxy. This doctor apparently had enough pull to get an appointment with the Hutt, and within a few days, Nem’ro was on the road to recovery.

Even with Nem’ro cured, however, things had never quite gotten back to normal in Jiguuna. There was too much bad blood by then. Too much pressure on Nem’ro’s organization to produce refined fuel to cover his trade agreements with the Sith Empire. Too much lost inertia. Too many people with too many ‘what if’ thoughts.  

It had been a powder keg. And the attacking Houk had lit the wick.

Now she was outside the palace, and the only person on Hutta who knew that her real name wasn’t Linh and that she wasn’t just a small-time private fence with a pretty face working out of Nem’ro’s cantina was lying dead at her feet.

Lycus Mattle had (officially) been a freelance hired gun in Jiguuna, occasionally taking jobs with Nem’ro’s gang. An older mercenary, he was respected enough that the local ruffians usually gave him a wide berth. He usually made a place for himself just outside the palace at the bazaar, should anyone seek to hire him.

He had also been, like Linh, an operative of Imperial Intelligence, and a subject of the Sith Empire.

And now he was dead, with multiple blaster wounds having caught him in the chest.  

Linh also spotted a trio of slain Rodians lying nearby. She recalled them having visited the palace earlier that day, planning some scheme or another. Apparently when they had fled the carnage, they had decided that their best bet was to kill the lone, human gunman, take his weapons, and then to decide what to do next to get away from the carnage.

Lycus Mattle may have been old for being a supposed merc. (Truth, he was older still for being a field operative of Imperial Intelligence.) But he had taken all three of his attackers with him.

Linh found herself taking some small satisfaction from that fact. Over these last two years, the older agent had become a partner to her; part mentor, part confidante and part protector should anyone on Hutta ever give her too much trouble. She was glad he’d given better than he got.

But that didn’t change the reality that her only real ally – and her best chance of getting off Hutta alive – was now gone. Linh knew how to use her holdout blaster, and she’d received basic self-defense training. But she had no illusions as to how long she’d last in a deteriorating hellhole like Jiguuna, much less if she ran into that Houk.

She processed all of that as her fingertips gently lowered Lycus’ eyelids. 

“You were a good partner, Lycus.” She whispered to herself, unexpectedly finding herself wiping a tear from her eye. “The best.”

‘Lycus’ hadn’t been his real name, of course, any more than ‘Linh’ had been hers. But in the two years she’d been on Hutta, it had been the only name she’d ever known him by. She didn’t know his real name and it was unlikely she ever would. ‘Lycus’ would have to do.

Now he was rotting in a trench on Hutta, and she didn’t even have the time to bury him properly.

Fortunately for her, she didn’t need Lycus to be alive to help her out of this predicament.

Linh looked around the plaza again to make sure the coast was clear.

She needn’t have worried about being observed. The whole area seemed completely abandoned. People had either fled for cover or had decided now was as good a time as any to engage in violence elsewhere in the town. Nem’ro may have been a ruthless crime lord, but as had been the case in the palace, his authority had also been the only thing holding some people back.

And that was gone now. She continued to hear the sounds of unrest in the distance. People were dying. But she didn’t have time to think about that.

Residing in the palace as she normally did, Linh could have been searched by Nem’ro’s security at any time. (Indeed, more than one visitor to the palace had found themselves wearing a slave collar for carrying around unauthorized contraband.) So it made sense for Lycus to keep their ‘sensitive equipment’.

Taking a deep breath, Linh carefully detached Lycus’ weapons harness and utility belt from his body and reached into his vest. A moment later, now holding his pass-key, Linh inserted it into her deceased partner’s holo-transmitter.

By itself, the equipment was mundane. Only a thorough inspection by a skilled engineer would have uncovered any anomalies in its manufacture.

Linh took off her necklace from inside her blouse and carefully snapped the pendant in two. She then held the now-exposed circuits against the power cell compartment of the holo-transmitter until they seamlessly slid into place, completing the circuit. After a few moments diode on the advice turned red.

Excellent. Linh smiled. The direct line was secure and would be all but untraceable.

“This is Infiltrator Ninety-nine.” Linh’s voice had changed, but she kept her voice low as she spoke into the transmitter. “Requesting immediate extraction. Confirmation Code Delta-Beta-Nine-Four. Please respond.”

With that, she exhaled. It was the first time in years that she’d used her own voice. An Imperial voice. It felt liberating, really.

A moment later, the holo display started to flicker.

She had expected a junior Watcher to pick up her communications signal at headquarters in Kaas City. Or perhaps – if the Watchers were hard-pressed with the war effort at the moment – a Minder or at least a Fixer. Following protocol, they would direct an Intelligence Asset Recovery Team to her aid, and get her off this cesspit of a world.

Instead, she saw only a rotating Imperial Insignia appear in the holo display, as an automated voice spoke.  

“Attention all personnel: By the order of the Dark Council, Imperial Intelligence has been dissolved. Any and all ongoing operations are hereby terminated. You are ordered to immediately report to Dromund Kaas for reassignment to the Imperial Military. Long live the Emperor.”  

The holo-display went dead.

Linh’s jaw dropped in shock.

No. she silently whispered to herself. Impossible. It couldn’t be true.

She attempted to toggle the call button again for a few futile moments.

Nothing.

Her free hand the nearby tent pole for support. If she hadn’t been crouched down, she’d probably have fallen over.

The implications of this announcement were staggering.

The Sith Empire was over a thousand years old. And Imperial Intelligence had been a part of it since the beginning, cleaning up the messes of the Sith and the Imperial military.

Oh, there had been purges of the service throughout that history. Usually due to some perceived operational failure or another. Occasionally a Minister of Intelligence would be “retired” and the powers that be would insist on “changes in personnel” to make way for the new regime.

But for the Empire to dissolve the service now at the peak of its war with the Galactic Republic…

Madness. She thought to herself. Without Imperial Intelligence, there would be chaos. Not just for the Empire, but with respect to her immediate situation.

Linh needed assistance just safely getting off Hutta, much less getting back to Dromund Kaas.

She’d been Informer-99 for the last three years. She had hoped to be promoted to ‘Minder’ someday, perhaps eventually serve as a station chief on some planet with a more enjoyable climate. (After spending so long on Hutta, Alderaan sounded positively divine.) 

All her career goals were gone now. Dead as Lycus.

Dead as Imperial Intelligence. She thought to herself.

She felt her breathing start to become more rapid as she continued to process.

And what sort of future could she expect if she even made it back to the Imperial capital?

A career in the Imperial Military would be a dead end for her, and a waste of her talents. At best, she’d be stranded in some subordinate clerical position in the Ministry of Logistics, running statistical reports and fetching caff for her superiors.

At worse, she’d be pressed into an auxiliary combat battalion where all her intelligence would be wasted, and she’d be killed off in some useless battle or another.

No. She stopped herself. At worse, I’ll be indentured directly to one of the Sith.

She shivered at the thought, remembering all the stories she’d heard at the academy.

Nothing could be worse than that.

Linh felt her grip on the comm device tighten further.

The Empire had abandoned her. It was no longer home.

She felt a sense of panic start to grow. And then the anger of the injustice of it all.

No. She stopped herself again. That was what her instructors at the academy had trained her not to do.

Unlike Sith, operatives did not have the luxury of giving into their anger. Angry agents made mistakes, as did agents in a state of despair.

If she was to survive, she had to think clearly. She had to remain calm.

She had to remember her training.

After a moment, she felt her breathing relax and her brain started to work again.

First things first. Linh decided to herself, following her training.

Dealing with the immediate situation had to be her priority.

She dropped the holo-communicator on the ground and rose to her feet. Pulling out her holdout blaster, she pointed it at the discarded device.

Then she fired twice.

In a flash, the only physical evidence connecting her to Imperial Intelligence on Hutta had been destroyed in a smoking wreck.

Linh exhaled a breath she didn’t know she’d been keeping.

It feels cathartic. She allowed herself a grim smirk.

Next order of business.

I can’t stay on Hutta. Linh concluded. She’d seen enough conflict among the Hutts to know that sooner or later, and probably sooner, the Cartel would move in to fill the gap left by Nem’ro’s sudden ‘absence’. Once that happened, anyone still around who had even been in the palace at the time of the attack would either be shot on sight or they’d find themselves indentured and sent to the gas mines.

The Hutts did not take betrayal well. By their logic, every resident of Jiguuna should have sacrificed themselves to save Nem’ro. To show clemency to Nem’ro’s surviving supporters would only encourage dissent and disloyalty in other Hutt courts and territories.  

She had to get away from the Houk, the Hutt Cartel and the Empire. If she were lucky, she and Lycus would be presumed dead in the paperwork. If not, she’d be a wanted renegade.

But first, she had to get off Hutta.

She had identified the problem. Now she needed to find a solution.

What are my assets? She continued following the steps of her training.

She regarded her holdout blaster.

Honestly, it had been no more than a deterrent in the Palace. Virtually anyone on Hutta would have outgunned her in a shootout, and if she did run into that Houk, it would count for nothing.

She had a few credits on her, but if people were already fleeing to the spaceport in a panic, she doubted those would be enough to get her anywhere.

Nothing drove up inflation like a life-or-death situation.

Thinking to herself, she dug through her hidden pockets and pulled out a thin piece of plastic.  Carefully unpeeling a label, she regarding the revealed card.

Her backup identity. Not her identity as ‘Linh’, small-time criminal on Hutta. Nor her ‘real name’ she’d been born with in the Empire. But a new one entirely.

Jheeg – the local Arcona fixer who Intelligence had once worked with – had been killed after several security failures involving that business with the agent impersonating the Red Blade. (Linh had privately suspected that Lycus himself had done the job on Jheeg, though she could never prove it and she knew better than to ask.) Jheeg had once provided her and Lycus with backup cover identities if they ever needed to suddenly flee the planet. (Lycus had insisted on the precaution; he never really talked about what he’d done for Imperial Intelligence before this assignment, but it was now clear to her that he had been jaded by his career and was aware of the possibility of a situation such as this arising.)

The identity was still valid; or at least it’d be valid enough in a pinch. It wouldn’t have fooled a review by Imperial Intelligence, she was sure. But if Intelligence no longer existed, it just might fool the Empire.

Regardless, she could build a new life for herself.

But all that would have to start with getting off Hutta.

Her training kicked in again:

Who are my allies?

Rex Geer might have been persuaded to help her. He’d bought her a drink or two at the cantina, and she’d considered taking things further to cement a potentially valuable contact. But Nem’ro’s top street lieutenant – who had led the defense against Fa’athra’s incursion during their conflict – had been one of those killed during the unrest from Nem’ro’s illness a few weeks past.

Stabbed in the back in a back-alley. Linh recalled to herself, with regret. Like as not, his own men had killed him just for the prospect of a promotion.

Oren Ward would have been another potential ally. The bounty hunter had fostered a ‘school-boy crush’ on her, Linh knew. But he and Burnok had departed Hutta months ago for greener pastures after Oren had recovered from his carbonite imprisonment at Fa’athra’s palace.

She tried to think of another protector-type who might still be alive and willing to help her. She came up empty.

It doesn’t look good. Linh admitted to herself, as she tried to reconsider the situation.

In truth, obtaining the services of a ‘hero gunman’ to defend her was a secondary concern, even if having such a champion would have been reassuring. By now, she was convinced that the Houk could have torn through anyone she could think of if he spotted her, possibly even a Sith or a Jedi.

What she really needed was someone with the credits and the connections to get her through the spaceport and off-planet. If it was already locked down by the Cartel’s people, she’d need someone with Nem’ro’s security codes to get off-planet.

She smiled grimly to herself as a stroke of inspiration came to her mind.   

Fortunately, Linh had realized that she knew of just the right person who could provide both.

Surprisingly, getting back into the palace had been a simple affair. Evidently, nearly everyone still capable of walking had already fled by now.

Linh knew she was taking a huge risk just coming back here, but she saw no other options. If her quarry was still alive, they’d be inside. As she made her way through the cantina, she tried not to pay any mind to the corpses she was stepping over. She’d known many of these people for the past two years, and while she personally found most of them unpleasant, she also knew that looking at their dead faces now could easily plunge her into a pit of despair.  

None of that would help her.

She made her way down the corridor, holdout blaster drawn and at the ready.

Remember your training. Linh reminded herself for what felt like the tenth time. She was no true field operative. She’d known from the start at the Academy that she never be a Cipher agent. But she knew how to navigate a dangerous building. Certainly, one that she’d lived at for two years.

She carefully snuck past the receiving chamber to the throne room. She could hear sounds from within that didn’t sound remotely human or sentient, for that matter. Not ‘fighting’ sounds exactly, but…

No. she continued on. I won’t think about that.

As she finally approached her destination, hoping against hope that her target was still inside, she nearly tripped over some wreckage on the floor. Looking down, she recognized it as the remains of P8-47, the astromech droid that frequently acted as one of Nem’ro’s messengers.

The droid had been sweet to her on occasion, and she’d once considered recruiting him as a source. She’d discarded the idea, however; he’d been frightfully loyal to Nem’ro.

Pity. Linh steeled herself from the discovery as she continued down the hall into the next chamber, peeking around the corner.

Two Twi’leks were standing within, with the larger male gripping the younger female’s wrist violently.

“The credits, girl!” Toth'lazhen hissed, slapping the beleaguered woman across the cheek as she cried out.

One of Nem’ro’s senior lieutenants, Toth'lazhen had risen to pre-eminence after the death of Karrels Javis. His reputation for brutality had endeared himself to the Hutt.

Linh had been carefully studying Toth'lazhen for some time now as part of her duties to Imperial Intelligence. The Twi’lek lieutenant normally spoke in the perfect Huttese of his boss.

The fact that he was now speaking his native Twi'leki was telling. If nothing else, based on that fact alone, she’d know that Nem’ro was finished.

Linh had always assessed him as something of a fool and a brute. Today, she was seeing evidence to support that opinion.

Unfortunately, his present victim was the one she’d been seeking.

Juda was a young but highly intelligent green-skinned Twi’lek, unusually amiable for a resident of Nem’ro’s palace. For the past two years or so, she’d served as Nem’ro’s paymaster, taking over when his old accountant, an old human cyborg named Yalt, had made the mistake of going over to Fa’athra’s side.

(She did not want to think about the price Yalt had paid for that mistake. Juda had proven more reliable.)

Today, Linh had decided that Juda was her best chance of getting off Hutta.

Apparently, Toth'lazhen had decided the same thing.  

“Please.” Juda cried out, struggling against his grasp. “Let me go! I’m just trying to get out of here.”

Toth'lazhen slapped the girl again as she cried out. Linh noted a bruise forming beneath Juda’s eye.

“You can run once I have Nem’ro’s money.” He snarled.

Part of Linh’s mind, trained for ruthless pragmatism, related to Toth'lazhen’s position. He was self-interested individually willing to do whatever it took to get off Hutta alive.

The same applies to me. Linh admitted.

On the other hand, he had turned his back to the doorway. And something about the way he was abusing Juda did not sit well with the suddenly unemployed Imperial operative.

His mistake.

Linh scowled, as the major domo raised his hand to strike the weeping girl again. Any thought of negotiating with Toth'lazhen had fled her mind.  

The holdout blaster – set for silent mode – was relatively low-power. But she was less than five meters from the attacking Twi’lek, with more than enough time to put three rounds through his back.

If Toth'lazhen tried to scream out in pain, that scream was cutoff with the second round. The third was only for certainty’s sake.  

Juda blinked in surprise as her attacker fell dead to the floor, looking up at her erstwhile rescuer.

The two women’s eyes met. Much to Linh’s surprise, as she gazed into the Twi’lek’s violet irises, she felt herself gulp.

Was it the adrenaline? The fact that Toth'lazhen was the first person she’d ever killed with her own hand? The look of gratitude in Juda’s pretty, violet eyes?  

“Thank you.” The young Twi’lek whispered, falling back into her desk chair in relief. She held herself gingerly, slowly rocking back and forth.

Linh silently nodded, swallowing and lowering her blaster. Her throat felt dry. Whatever guilt she felt for killing the Twi’lek was being suppressed by the adrenaline still pumping through her veins.  

“Toth'lazhen would have killed me.” Juda said quietly continued, swallowing. “Or worse, he would have sold me off to slavers. Before he even got off planet. The moment he had as much of Nem’ro’s money as he could get his hands on. When he didn’t need me anymore. That’s why I didn’t give into him.”

She looked away, sniffing.

“I’d have been a loose end.”

Loose end. Linh thought to herself. She herself was now a loose end to the Empire, her years of training and service amounting to nothing. She was on her way down; she had to find a way up. Who better to…

Out of the corner of her consciousness, she spotted Juda eyeballing the still-drawn blaster.

Jarred back to the present, Linh put away her weapon, calmly.

“I’m not Toth'lazhen.” She offered reassuringly, glancing down at the dead lieutenant. “If you can help me get off planet, maybe I can help you, too.”

Juda nodded, glancing over at a satchel on her desk.

“I can do that. I was right about to run for it myself when Toth found me.”

Linh tried processing the young woman’s reaction. With the immediate threat removed, her practical intelligence seemed to shine though. She found it refreshing. Inspiring, even.

“You don’t have anyone else here on Hutta?” Linh asked.

That question seemed to strike a nerve. The Twi’lek flinched, closing her eyes in pain as her body rocked back and forth again.

“My mother… passed away a couple of months ago.” Juda’s lip trembled. “Nem’ro didn’t even give me the day off to go to her funeral.”

Linh recalled that she hadn’t seen a family member in years. She had no way of knowing if her parents or brothers were even still alive by now. Nevertheless, she felt a wellspring of sympathy bubbling within her for the young Twi’lek.

“I’m sorry.” She murmured awkwardly. She quickly decided to change the subject. “So. You had a plan to get out? Or just sneak past the Houk?”

Juda took a breath as she gathered herself, gazing down at Toth'lazhen’s corpse absent-mindedly.

“There’s an underground tunnel.” She explained. “It runs along the old gas pipes beneath the town. The entrance is hidden behind the bar in the corner.”

Juda pointed. Linh recalled there was hardly a room in the palace that didn’t have its own bar.

“It comes out west of the palace, near the spaceport. Nem’ro never thought he’d need a way out of his own palace, but Karrels knew he might.”

The Twi’lek smirked.

“He had me budget the construction as ‘palace defenses’. Poor guy just never had the chance to make it out when his time came.”

Linh smiled appreciatively.

“So. That tunnel gets us to the port. Any ideas about what happens next?”

Juda returned the smile, clearly emboldened by the praise. The attractive Twi’lek had drawn plenty of looks since she’d started working at the palace. It was a good bet that up until today, few had been foolish enough to make a move on Nem’ro’s paymaster, especially not after what happened to his previous accountant.

Neither of us work here anymore. Linh thought to herself.

“I know Mekks, the communications officer at the spaceport.” Juda assured her. “He knows how the Cartel operates, and how to make it look like someone shot their way out of there without getting anyone killed… in return for a sizable bribe, of course.”

“Of course.” Linh found herself smiling sincerely for the first time in what felt like days. Fear and bribery were the only things that turned the gears on Hutta. “Then we just need to find a ride off-world.”

Juda’s smile widened, as she reached in and pulled a datapad out of her satchel. Linh could see a stack of pads along with credit sticks and a few strips of flimsi. Clearly, the Twi’lek had been preparing for this trip well.   

“Nem’ro took possession of a small freighter last week.” Juda informed her. “Some smuggler who ditched his cargo from the Imperials.”

She bit her lip as she looked down at the records.

“I still have the access codes. And the license. By the time anyone checks, it’ll be legally ours.”

Linh let out an impressed whistle. This was more than she could have hoped for.  

“Sounds like a plan.” The former Imperial operative felt everything start to fall into place. She smiled again to Juda but found the Twi’lek’s smile had suddenly grown cautious.

“And after that?” Juda asked, uncertainly.

Linh paused, remembering her earlier considerations concerning her own future. Assess potential resources. Her instructors had taught her.

To Nem’ro, Juda had been a competent, unambitious underling who always did what she was told.

To Toth'lazhen, Juda had been nothing but a source of quick credits, to be used and disposed of.

But to Linh, she could be much more.

“You know.” She began. “Between my connections, your financial skills, and Nem’ro’s credits… I think we have enough to start our own ‘consulting’ business. Look around the galaxy. Lots of people are going to need ‘special assistance’ setting up new operations for themselves with all this fallout. Conflict brings chaos. We’ve both seen that here today. But it also brings opportunity to people who know how to seize it.”  

Even as she spoke, Linh felt herself gaining confidence in this plan of action. She’d need time to work out the details of course, but at least now she had a direction. Later, they could take on some hired muscle for security. Linh knew what to look for in a dependable mercenary so that she and Juda could avoid emergencies like this one in the future.

Linh finally extended an open hand towards the Twi’lek.

“Partners?” she asked.

Juda chewed her lip for a minute, regarding Linh and the offered hand.

The Twi’lek suddenly grasped Linh by the shoulders fiercely and leaned in. Juda’s lips met those of the former Informer of Imperial Intelligence, kissing her passionately. Linh felt her entire body go rigid with shock at the gesture.

It had been more than a year since she’d taken actual comfort in the touch of another, and Juda was certainly attractive. A warm feeling started to grow in the pit of her stomach.

She felt her lips and then her hands start to respond on impulse, surrendering herself to the sensation.

Juda suddenly pulled away as the stricken Imperial tried to regain her breath.

“For luck.” She offered by way of explanation, giving Linh a dazzling smile. She finally took Linh’s hand, giving it a friendly shake.

“Partners.” She declared.

Linh could only catch herself against the desk as she regained her footing and blink.

Definitely more than just a source of quick credits. She confirmed to herself.

Juda, meanwhile, had ducked behind the bar with her satchel over her shoulder. Pushing a crate and a rug out of the way, the woman opened the hidden trap door down to the tunnel, then looked back over at Linh.

“Come on.” The Twi’lek smiled. “That Houk might come poking around any minute.”

Linh swallowed and moved to comply.

As she followed Juda through the trap door and down into the escape tunnel, she felt confident she was taking the first step towards her future.

Time to climb the ladder.

THE END?

Author’s Notes: There are any number of corrupt and even ‘evil’ powers within the SWTOR story. As much as we might loathe them, it’s fascinating for me to think that if any of them suddenly weren’t there, the vacuum would make room for something even worse.

Those of you who have played the Bounty Hunter class story too many times will know from the Companion cut-scene dialogue that Skadge killed Nem’ro the Hutt off-screen, a revenge killing for an earlier betrayal that landed Skadge on Belsavis in the first place. The idea of Skadge successfully rampaging his way through Nem’ro’s palace, where we spend so much time as an Imperial Agent / Bounty Hunter at the start of the story, was fascinating to me. (How many of the NPC’s we interacted with earlier actually survived???) Skadge is probably my least favorite character in SWTOR, but the idea of him being the star boogey-man of a grisly horror film, slaughtering dozens of people, that concept intrigues me.

Each class has an NPC on their starting planet that provides a mission directing the player-character to the trainer on-planet. Linh is the NPC on Hutta that directs Imperial Agents to the on-planet trainer, Lycus Mattle. With the many changes in the game over the years, those missions are largely redundant, worth only a smidgen of XP. But some of those cutscene interactions were memorable to me, including Linh’s. I decided I had to do something with her at some point.

This story was the result.

Juda is another fun character from the Bounty Hunter story. She’s Nem’ro’s paymaster on Hutta, and later unwittingly engages in some minor skullduggery during the Great Hunt. Fortunately, my own bounty hunter, Xadya, chose not to hold her indiscretions against her. (Mako would not have approved if Xadya had taken Juda out!)

As always, I love the idea that our characters leave a deep mark on the places they visit, for good and for ill. Gahraath Vaiken, my Cipher Nine in the Halcyon Legacy, was rather vicious when he started out as an Imperial Agent on Hutta, a bit too eager to demonstrate his own ruthlessness. He’d eventually mellow a good deal, but at the time, Linh was both physically attracted to him while simultaneously left with the impression of a cold-blooded killer who would easily dispose of her if it suited his mission.

(Which he absolutely was. But like I said, he’s softened a good bit by the end of the class story.)

Virtually every name I dropped within this story is an actual NPC from the missions on Hutta. (And some of you may also have picked up on an appearance by a certain unnamed mustached field medic companion from another of the class stories. 🤓)

The ‘Informers’ title is, in fact, a specific canon designation within the old Imperial Intelligence organization, much like Ciphers, Watchers, Minders and Fixers. They aren’t mentioned in the game itself; they do come up in The Old Republic: Fatal Alliance novel where Ula Vii is presented as an example. Something we don’t talk about enough is the impact the dissolution of Imperial Intelligence would have on the Empire and the greater galaxy, especially at the peak of the war. You’re literally talking about hundreds or thousands of agents and operatives either completely cutoff from the Empire without recourse or suddenly pressed into the service of the Sith or to an Imperial Military that treats them like cannon-fodder. (Remember how Cipher Nine was treated on Corellia?) The fallout from that sudden absence would be profound for the Empire, as well. Imperial Intelligence literally existed for centuries, and nature abhors a vacuum.

No wonder Marr had to establish Sith Intelligence a few years later. Their entire system would have been in a perpetual state of collapse without it.

I tweaked the layout of the palace a little bit for narrative reasons. It’s significantly larger here, which makes sense given how many people seem to live there.  

The Informer-Ninety-Nine moniker is an Easter Egg reference to “Get Smart”. (A show waaaay before my time. I’m old, but not that old.) It just tickled me, so I tossed that in.

 The ‘For luck’ kiss is an obvious homage to the scene from Episode IV: A New Hope. (Don’t worry – Juda and Linh aren’t related. 😉 ) Further, Juda’s line about a smuggler’s freighter was a Han Solo & Jabba reference.  

Tagging @oolathurman , as they once mentioned she loved the character of Juda.

Also tagging!

@a-master-procrastinator @anchanted-one @distressed-gizka @eorzeashan @justiceforc3po @kemendin @magicallulu7 @nikkeisimmer @sadiebwrites @the-cloudwatcher @the-raven-of-highever @tishinada @zabrakghoul @swtorhub

[ebitenpura]

Quietus

Takes place in Chapter 9 of KOTET.

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

[kwrite1776]

Earlier this month (why is already June and why is June not over yet?) I finished binding Corellian Whiskey and Sullustan Gin by @sullustangin - caveat, that the series is still ongoing, so I haven't actually finished, but I got to the point where the series was about when I started binding.

Now, theoretically, the smart thing to do at this point would be to catch up on reading the various fics that I'm currently behind on and/or contact authors of other fics I love to see if I can bind their stories too. So, of course, instead I decided that I didn't like the inconsistencies with the series and decided that I needed to start rebinding CWSG again, to make it better. And I've only redone one book so far, but I'm a fan of how it came out.

And a few more pictures of the finished set below the cut. Because even though there's a bunch of inconsistencies and problems that drive me crazy, I am proud of them. And I love having one of my all time favourite fanfiction series as a physical edition sitting on my bookshelf.

[tiredassmage]

wip wednesday

woe! for it be wednesday and the desire to make words domed me in the head last night, so you may all have more 'dot what au are you on now?' wonderings! the premise context on this one is a bit long-winded, so the short of it is aus with friends! au where friends blorbo was the inquisitor! [it... does not go well. for most involved, lol press f, etc.] so! this piece is several(?) years post-nathema conspiracy, a little drabble on... tyr and theron and trying to heal through the aftermath of an eternal alliance era that... wasn't so kind to them.

“Theron…” Tyr sighs heavily with a hint of frustration that Theron wants to flinch from. He struggles to swallow down the urge wriggling at the back of his throat if only because Tyr’s hand draws steadily up and down his arm.

“Look at me.” Two fingers reach out and gently tap under Theron’s chin with the softly rasped words.

Theron nearly frowns a moment, nearly shrugs his chin out of his partner’s embrace, but reluctantly gives to the request. Tyr rewards the tilt of his head by caressing his jaw. A soft, easy smile starts to paint across the ex-Cipher’s lips.

He’s tired - a very different kind of ‘tired’ than Theron remembers when they stood together in the Alliance. The Kaasi edge has started to bleed from his voice after the many years separated from the capital planet for something a bit more roaming, for something warmed by a sun more commonly seen than that which may or may not have broken through the storm clouds.

Theron leans faintly into his calloused palm. A few more silver threads mix with sun-muddied blonde at Tyr’s temples. He used to say Darth Nox - Emperor? It… Well. It doesn’t much matter what the dead prefer.., does it? - would drive him to it earlier. He’d smiled less and less about it as the Alliance matured.

But now..? Now, the ‘tired’ looking back at him has a gentler kind of warmth - the kind he hasn’t felt… maybe since Rishi.

The thought’s almost enough to make Theron tremble.

Tyr shuffles a bit against the pillows, squirming to lay a bit more on his back, to steady Theron against him. The brief grunt of effort dispels the smile for something more…

Theron’s eyes drop, blindly skimming along, eager to find some indeterminate distraction to settle on. His hand moves towards Tyr’s wrist. He shouldn’t need to-

“Theron.” He can hear the frown without having to look back. That was more like it.

Except the caress moulds firmer and directs his fleeing eyes back to Tyr’s knitting brow.

“Stay. Please?”

Theron blinks, breath stilling in his stiff shoulders.

Tyr’s next smile is fragile, framed with barely a breath of a tight chuckle. “I… I’ve lost quite enough, by now… Or so I thought, at least.”

Theron’s jaw shifts. Tyr’s touch softens to fingertips tracing the line of his jaw, his thumb brushing along his cheek.

And his eyes follow. “I’ve thought I’d lost everything so many times.” He swallows. His touch drops lower once more, cupping under his jaw to steady his thumb against Theron’s chin. “I’d thought… Finally… Finally, I’d lost everything, and I had no more to lose… Only to find there was always just… one more thing… Always something more to lose…”

The tightness around Tyr’s eyes threatens to shorten Theron’s already arrested breathing. He faintly realizes his other hand has tightened, twisted into Tyr’s shirt against his side. His grip nearly flexes to release, but-

“Always some… part of me to lose, I guess,” Tyr breathes shakily.

The same hands that hadn’t followed when Tyr left Odessen… however many cursed years ago it’d been now. The same hands that had strangled any hope of better out on Nathema - had strung it up in odd tresses and shot it bloody before it could even realize it’d waltzed into a trap. Tyr closes his eyes and draws in a deep breath with some unsteadiness. His thumb works uneasily across Theron’s chin, drawing their eyes back together. “And then I…” Another sharp exhale that cracks the painful veil threatening to constrict around him once more. “And then I didn’t… I haven’t lost you, Theron. Not yet.”

[kemendin]

Chapter II: One Crisis at a Time

When a critical mission for the Empire goes wrong, MALAVAI QUINN and LORD KHEL SUTEK find themselves lost behind enemy lines in the inhospitable ice-wilds of ILUM. With only each other to rely on, and their recently-formed relationship still relatively untested, the strain of survival under such circumstances is bound to cause a few cracks. But for two men with life-long tendencies towards walling themselves away - perhaps a few cracks are just what they need in order to start sharing things they’ve long kept inside.

Malavai Quinn x Light Side Sith Warrior Words: 8900/?? A/N: Yeahhhh so it's been a hot (er, cold, rather) minute since I updated this, apologies! I fell into the BG3 hole and that's been taking up most of my writing brain. Also life's just been A Lot so I haven't been writing as much overall, much to my sadness. But here we are! Progress!

Read on AO3 (short excerpt below cut)

He must have been out for only a few moments, because the mountain was still shuddering around Malavai as he coughed and groaned and coughed again. He lay there for a moment, trying to take stock of himself. His body felt bruised all over - it probably was - but experimental movement told him his limbs were intact. Gingerly he felt at his head, and found a tender spot that made him flinch when he touched it. It didn’t seem to be bleeding, but then it was difficult to tell through his hat and gloves.

And then another thought asserted itself, instantly driving his own condition from his mind.

Khel. Khel!

Quinn scrambled onto all fours, looking about wildly; but his surroundings were nearly pitch dark now and his flashlight was gone, presumably torn from his hand in the collapse. 

“Khel?” he called shakily. “Khel!” But there was no reply.

His head threatened to spin, and he pulled in several rapid lungfuls of the freezing air. Calm, he told himself sternly, above rising panic. Stay calm, stay focused, think -

He began to crawl forward through the thick, settling silence, feeling blindly around him for the missing flashlight as part of him braced to encounter something softer. After a few moments his stiffened hands stumbled across an object lying on the ground not far away - a short, narrow cylinder of metal.

A lightsaber.

He snatched it up with a renewed surge of fear. Khel would never have willingly discarded the weapon - it must have been yanked from his belt in the blast.

Quinn slid his thumb towards the switch - but then abruptly he dithered, instead turning the hilt over in his hands. While there was no strict regulation against a non-Force sensitive using a lightsaber - frankly there didn’t need to be, any ordinary individual was more likely to cut their own limbs off than wield a lightsaber effectively - Quinn’s own peculiarity of mind had always been that he was…well, unworthy of such a magnificent weapon. 

But the urgency of the situation was clawing at him, and his flashlight appeared to be a lost cause. So reluctantly - and very, very carefully - Quinn ignited the blade in his hand. 

The sudden flare of white-gold in the black surroundings nearly blinded him. He squinted harshly, averting his gaze for a moment as he held the lightsaber at arm’s length and gingerly swept it around, using it to illuminate the area. 

The scene was grim: the passage was entirely collapsed only a dozen or so metres behind him, an impenetrable blockade of ice and rock. And there, at the edge of the rubble -

“KHEL!”