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insane-thoughts-oftheday · 4 months ago

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A (not) so small philosophical interpretation of Odysseus in epic

Disclaimer: I'm doing this analysis for fun, please don't take everything I write as truth, because this text is based on my interpretation and, even though it took some academic research to do it. It's worth remembering that I don't have a degree in philosophy yet, so I can still make mistakes on some points. Another point I want to highlight is that I wrote this text in a language other than English, and there may be some translation errors by Google, so I apologize if anything is confusing or if you have any questions about something, feel free to comment or send an ask, I'll do my best to explain.

(Notice that's basically me as far as you decide to read this blog)

EPIC:the musical is a work that is very present in my life and in the lives of many other people who are reading this little fan outburst; And if you've just stumbled upon this craze and are hearing about it for the first time, a brief summary is that it's a musical, more addictive than drugs, that tells the story of Odysseus, that guy from Greek mythology who spent 20 years trying to get home after the Trojan War, also known as Simp by his wife Penelope. We have moments of joy, sadness, introspection and many fan outbursts caused by the owner of it all, Jorge Rivera-Herrans, who is not only the creator but also the lead singer of this masterpiece, playing Odysseus and a few others.

But let's get back to the analysis here because I could talk about this for hours without stopping.

A few months ago, when the Underworld saga was released, I remembered the phrase:

"If you gaze long enough into an abyss, the abyss will gaze back into you."

This phrase was written by Nietzsche in the book Beyond Good and Evil, and it reminds me a lot of the Odysseus we see in EPIC, although the phrase is incomplete in the previous quote, even though it is the most common one we see being spread around. The original is:

“Whoever fights monsters should take care that in the process he does not become a monster. And if you gaze long enough into an abyss, the abyss will gaze back into you.”

And I also remember thinking about that phrase by Heraclitus, which I think everyone has heard, probably incompletely, at some point in school:

“No one can step into the same river twice, for when he steps into it again, the waters are not the same, and the being itself has already changed. Thus, everything is governed by dialectics, the tension and the alternation of opposites. Therefore, reality is always the result of change, that is, of the struggle between opposites.”

In my opinion, I think that both phrases fit well with the version of the character that we see starring in the entire musical, since most ancient myths and poems have different versions and translations and of course Jorge took some artistic liberties; Odysseus is a Greek hero who fights against many monsters, both mythical and internal, taking into account his ethics as a person while trying to survive and return home.

I think it's interesting to point out that from here on I'll use some different terms, but I'll do my best to explain them.

We can see that throughout all the sagas Odysseus is describing the line of what it is to be human and how one can easily slip off it; this line is located between the definition of gods and monsters/animals and is known as Metron, which gave rise to the word measure, and here we will use it as a synonym for limit for something. It's also good to say that metron has nothing to do with a person's morals/character, because it's a question of ethics.

Morals are the set of rules that concern good and evil, right and wrong. These standards refer to values that are passed down from generation to generation and guide the conduct of individuals in their daily lives. (personal)

Ethics is a field of philosophy whose object of study is the principles that guide morality. In this sense, ethics is a philosophical reflection on morality, approaching the universal principles that govern the common good and coexistence between human beings in general. (common sense)

In my opinion about the musical, the issue of gods and monsters is not so different. For me, in that context, monsters and gods are the same thing, since they are outside the ideal of humanity, but this point may be mentioned later.

Metron is not a knowledge, it is, above all, the limit between impossibility and weakness.

We can see in several Greek myths that human beings like to cross this line, most stories end in tragedy because of this, human beings can also be called “Hybris” which is an excess, it is being hybrid, having two natures, acting in two ways, it is being in the Metron and trying to be something that one is not, because thinking that we can be more than men is arrogance, and arrogance is a human emotion, another story that exemplifies this well is the myth of Oedipus who tries to overcome his destiny given by the gods and ends up fulfilling it anyway.

Hybris is a Greek concept that can be translated as "everything that goes beyond the measure; "immoderation" and which currently alludes to excessive confidence, exaggerated pride, presumption, arrogance or insolence (originally against the gods), which often ends up being punished.

It is worth noting that hybris would in no way be a sin, in the concept of the word and the ideal current translation for it would be "Hamartia", which by chance is also no longer used in its original meaning because of the Catholic Church.

Now going to the interesting part because I was just giving context of terms.

In The Horse and the Infant, we 'meet' our beloved version of Odysseus, where during the Trojan War he states that everything he is doing is for his wife Penelope and his son Telemachus, using this as a way to inspire his men to carry out the massacre that he himself did not want to participate in, I think because of his moral nature, the proof is so much that in Homer's original Odyssey, he pretends to be crazy so as not to show up when called, unfortunately he is unmasked and forced to go.

We also see here that up until now Odysseus is still a very moral character, he has his reasons for being there, he, like the other warriors, has a family and his deepest desire is to return to them. So with this we can conclude that he is still just a man, he is human.

In the same song we see how far his morality goes, as he receives the divine mission to kill the young Trojan prince, Astyanax, who is just a baby, due to the threat that one day he will want revenge on him and his kingdom.

All of this creates doubts in Odysseus, about the morality of gods and men. Here we see him crossing the line and this whole text begins to be about ethics, as it is common sense that killing a child is a monstrous act, but for him not to kill means that his family will die in a more horrendous way later and he cannot let that happen.

Then we have the monologue in Just a Man, the best song, where we can really see the doubts mentioned earlier. And one detail that I find very interesting and that will be important for this text is that in Gigi's animatic, we can see Odysseus' "monster" being 'born' and its source is the baby and his doubts about whether he would really be a monster just for that, even though at that moment the baby is still just a human, the mission to kill him little by little makes him a monster due to the possibility that one day he himself will commit several atrocities.

It's fun for me to think that representing 'the monster' as a tree could be an allusion to the fact that trees take as long to grow as a monster takes to be formed by man.

I think you now understand part of Nietzsche's quote. Odysseus looking at his own reflection and not recognizing himself, seeing the monster he will become if he crosses the metronome is very well treated in several animatics, but the most visible is in Gigi's where he is not only referenced but shown as a completely different being both in attitudes and thoughts.

I'll just pause to say that I love how Gigi did the work of showing the tree growing in the shape of a skull, which could be the deaths that the monster will bring or that it is a macabre thing to do, I don't know, I just love this detail for some reason.

And also how I think that makes a point of showing that the real problem is not the baby but rather Odysseus' unethical thoughts developing because of his doubts.

Ok, end of the pause and start of a mini explanation.

I didn't think this analysis would be so long and in my original thought I was only going to end up mentioning a few songs and focusing more on "No Longer You" and "Monster" but it ended up getting out of control and listening to the musical again it seems like I can make a lot of connections that I hadn't thought of before but now I can't express them properly, so from now on there will be a gigantic gap in content that I might fill later in another post or by editing this one, but at the moment thinking too much about it is giving me a headache and I really wanted to be able to post this now along with the Wisdom Saga because it's something I did for fun from fan to fan and I know that now the fandom is busier. One day I swear I'll do a complete analysis relating song by song, but not today for the sake of my mental health.

End of explanation, subject change.

Going through his entire journey, Ody goes to the underworld after Tiresias who reveals that he will never return home, which makes him indignant, I think any human would be, how much he suffered to get there for nothing. Here we can see how Heraclitus fits into the prophet, and as much as I hate cutting philosophical phrases in half, I don't think I need to use the whole thing to make sense of it here, because the most well-known part of it is enough to get to the point discussed here, since it really won't be him who returns to Ithaca, but rather another man, a man haunted by his own past and by the ethics of his people.

There is no way a man who spent 20 years away from home, suffering for the divine and for his own mind, can be the same, because this is a human characteristic, humans are hybrid beings, which implies that we can change our own nature while gods and monsters will always follow the same line of thought, since they are perfect they do not need drastic changes to live as they are.

That's it. So finally we have the mental breakdown where Ody begins to accept that it doesn't matter if he is a monster to everyone, he did what was necessary. He looked into the abyss and was looked back. He becomes the monster, even if he compares himself to the other divine creatures, which I think he never really learned to differentiate from humans, because Ody my friend there is no way you can really reach the level of a cyclops or a god with a wounded ego, or a traumatized nymph, time makes things very trivial for them and let's face it you will not live even half as long as they do because you are just a mortal.

And I don't know how to make gifs so here are some prints to illustrate the last paragraph. But before that I wanted to thank you if you read this far, I know the ending was kind of bad but I'm emotionally tired, I hope I at least conveyed the idea that was in my head. Thank you and stream the new saga!!!!

(All arts belong to gigi!! go check out this amazing work!!!)

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theetherealbloom · 10 months ago

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THE SILVER LINING — CH. 5

Chapter Five: Closing In

Summary: After aiding the Republic and the fall of the Empire, you left the Jedi Training Clan on Bogden 3 to help families needing medical care with the call of the Force. You are a kind, warm-hearted healer on Nevarro, treating the citizens and the bounty hunters. Imperial remnants still linger in the shadows, waiting to strike at the perfect moment. Leading you to assist the Mandalorian with rescuing the Child has led you to your biggest adventure yet.

Paring: Din Djarin x Force Sensitive!FemReader (Empath)

Warnings: Violence, Age–Gap Romance, Angst, FLUFF, Eventual SMUT, Swearing, PTSD, Depression, Anxiety, Crying, Suggestive content, Flirting, People pleasing, Flattery, Blood, Blasters, War, Religion References, Aliens, Sith, Character Deaths, One Bed Trope, Awkward, Plot Holes

Word Count: 10k

A/N: I swear I don’t mean to take months to update! I get sidetracked so often by random things and other obsessions. I’m at a point with this story where I get lost with the timeline so then I have to reread what I wrote (try not to cringe at my writing) and then continue on writing the next chapter. Usually, I’m very organized with my outline so I don’t lose track of where I am plot-wise, but Star Wars is— it truly is something else. Anyways, I hope you guys enjoy this chapter! We’re one step closer to the season finale. Love you guys :>

Song: De Selby (Part 2) by Hozier

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OUTER RIM TERRITORIES, 9ABY – EVENING

It had become apparent to you that Din was touch-starved, even though he never openly admitted it. You could trace the progression of his need for physical contact, starting with subtle gestures like a comforting touch on your elbow or a gentle squeeze of your hand in public. These small interactions held unspoken messages of affection, revealing a side of Din that he rarely showed to the world.

His tactile expressions of intimacy grew more pronounced over time. Your heart skipped a beat the first time he cupped your face, his gloved hand warm against your cheek. The tenderness of that touch spoke volumes, carrying a depth of emotion that words couldn't quite capture. It was a silent promise, a reassurance that you were not alone in this unpredictable universe.

One memory stood out vividly: a day when the three of you found yourselves in a cantina on an outer rim planet. The credits Din had earned were put to practical use, securing supplies and a decent meal for all of you. While Din went to order drinks, you focused on the child, ensuring he was comfortable and fed.

Amid your care-taking, an unfamiliar man appeared, his presence casting a shadow over your booth. You regarded him with skepticism, raising an eyebrow as his words dripped with overconfidence.

"Can I help you with something?" you responded, your tone laced with a mix of caution and annoyance. The stranger's attempt at flirtation was as transparent as the space beyond the cantina's windows.

"What's a pretty girl like you doing all alone in a place like this?" he purred, his words dripping with unmistakable intent.

Suppressing an inward sigh at the sheer predictability of his approach, you let a subtle, sarcastic smile curve your lips. The galaxy had taught you to navigate these situations with a mix of wits and composure.

As the child cooed beside you, curiosity evident in his innocent eyes, you shifted your gaze back to the stranger, his overconfident demeanor oozing from every pore. Your reply was measured, tinged with a hint of dry amusement, "Clearly, I'm not alone and occupied, so if you could leave, please."

Undeterred, the stranger continued with his advances. "C'mon, baby, don't be such a priss. I'll show you a good time."

You were on the cusp of rising from your seat, ready to firmly reiterate your point when a sudden shift in the atmosphere seized the cantina's attention. It was as if the air had changed, thickened by an invisible tension. The chattering voices seemed to hush instinctively.

Amid the palpable silence, Din materialized like an imposing guardian. His presence radiated authority and raw power, his Mandalorian armor reflecting the ambient light, turning him into an almost mythical figure. His voice cut through the stillness like a blade, sharp and unyielding, "She said leave."

The room held its collective breath as the stranger's bluster crumbled in the face of Din's command. The confrontation became a silent battle of wills, one that spoke volumes without the need for further words. The stranger's retreat marked a victory for the indomitable force that Din embodied, leaving the cantina in stunned silence.

Your gaze shifted from the defeated stranger to Din, who stood there with an intensity that both reassured and electrified the room. His unspoken declaration of protection wasn't lost on you, a testament to the bond forged through shared trials and unspoken connections.

And then, with a swift shift, Din's demeanor transformed. His grip on patience loosened, and his actions spoke volumes where words had been unnecessary. In a heartbeat, he had seized the offender, the loud crack of bone echoing through the hushed cantina as the stranger's resistance was brutally halted.

Your breath caught, a sharp inhale of surprise and a hint of awe, as the resounding crack of bone filled the air. It was a stark punctuation to Din's swift and decisive intervention, a thunderous echo of authority that cut through the cantina's previous cacophony. The clatter of utensils and the discordant symphony of bowls added to the jarring chorus, a testimony to the power that had just been unleashed.

The stranger, once so assertive, now resembled a scurrying insect, his escape marked by a trail of spilled drinks and overturned stools. He disappeared into the crowded haze of the cantina, no longer a contender in this silent duel.

Throughout this confrontation, Din's gaze remained unyielding, a force of nature that had momentarily swept the establishment into a hushed reverence. As the patrons bore witness to the unassailable might he wielded, their earlier bravado had crumbled into hushed awe.

With the situation resolved, Din's attention shifted back to you, and that deep, unspoken connection that had been nurtured through shared challenges seemed to shimmer in the charged atmosphere. His gloved hand gently found yours, prompting you to rise from your booth. You cradled the child securely in your arms, his innocent eyes bearing witness to this display of protective strength.

“I could have handled it,” you spoke, your voice soft and understanding, and Din nodded, a faint hint of gratitude in his voice. “I know.”

A beat passed between you, the atmosphere laden with unspoken words. Then, Din continued, his words tinged with vulnerability, "I could not just stand there and do nothing," he said, “I would... the things I would do to ensure you and the child are safe.”

His voice trailed off, leaving the weight of his unspoken commitment hanging in the air. It was a promise forged in the crucible of their shared experiences. A vow to protect and cherish, even if it meant confronting the darkest corners of the galaxy.

You blinked, your gaze filled with understanding and affection. With a gentle hand, you reached out, placing it over his heart, and whispered, "I know. I would too."

To your surprise, he was the first one to initiate the hug. His strong arms wrapped around your waist, drawing you into an embrace that felt surprisingly warm beneath the cool, unyielding exterior of his beskar armor. You still held the child in your arms, creating an intimate tableau of unity. Surprisingly, the hard plate of his chest was comforting, the armor a symbol of his steadfast protection. In his embrace, you felt safe, secure, and trusted, as if nothing in the galaxy could harm you as long as you were in his arms.

Maybe that's why you two ended up where you are now. In the passing days and nights, your connection deepened, communicated through silent reassurances by the simple touch of an elbow or the light squeeze of his gloved hand. Din seemed to always find a reason to be near you, seeking excuses to touch and hold you, even if only for a brief moment.

There were times when you would prepare food for the three of you, and Din would just watch from a few steps away. Despite the helmet, you could feel his gaze as he observed you move around the small workspace, heating the food. You would glance over your shoulder to smile at him, and his heart would flutter wildly.

In those moments, you could see the shimmering outline of his silver aura mixing with shades of reds and maroons, a silent testament to the emotions he kept hidden behind the beskar helmet.

The nights in the cramped bunk leave you no room to move, but you find it surprisingly comfortable, curled up together. The baby sleeps soundly in his hammock nearby, his tiny breaths filling the small space with a sense of peace.

During those nights, Din often surprises you with unspoken acts of service. He'll quietly slip out of bed, leaving you wrapped in the warmth of the blankets, and return with a cup of hot caf. He never says a word, but the gesture speaks volumes, warming not just your body but your heart as well.

Sometimes, he'll softly hum a lullaby, a hauntingly beautiful tune that you've never heard before. The melody dances in the air, soothing both you and the baby, creating a bond that goes beyond words between the three of you.

As you lie there, nestled in his arms, you can't help but think that maybe, just maybe, you've found something exceptional in the vast, unforgiving galaxy.

The peace the three of you had found seemed almost too good to be true. It was a fragile tranquility in a galaxy filled with chaos, and you knew deep down that it wouldn't last long. Still, you couldn't help but hope that maybe, just maybe, you could carve out a small sanctuary for yourselves.

But as you entered the flight deck one day and saw the look on Din's face, you knew that the serenity was about to be shattered. Concern etched your features as you asked, "What's wrong?"

Din didn't immediately reply. Instead, he pressed a button, and a flickering hologram message of Greef Karga materialized before you. His gravelly voice filled the cockpit, delivering a message that sent a chill down your spine.

"My friend, if you are receiving this transmission, that means you are alive," Greef Karga's hologram began. "You might be surprised to hear this, but I am alive too. I guess we can call it even. A lot has happened since we last saw each other. The man who hired you is still here, and his ranks of ex-Imperial guards have grown."

The weight of those words hung heavily in the air, and you exchanged a knowing glance with Din. It seemed that your past had come back to haunt you again, and the peace you had briefly tasted was slipping through your fingers like grains of sand from Tatooine.

Greef Karga's hologram continued to flicker as he outlined the dire situation on Nevarro. His gravelly voice held a tone of urgency as he explained, "They have imposed despotic rule over my city, which has impeded the livelihood of the Guild. We consider him an enemy, but we cannot get close enough to take him out. If you would consider one last commission, I will very much make it worth your while. You have been successful so far in staving off their hunters, but they will not stop until they have their prize."

The gravity of the situation weighed heavily on you and Din. It was clear that this was no ordinary mission; it was a perilous gambit that carried immense risks. Karga's proposal hung in the air, the unspoken words echoing loudly in the confined space of the Razor Crest.

"So, here is my proposition," Karga continued. "Return to Nevarro. Bring the child as bait. I will arrange an exchange, and provide loyal Guild members as protection. Once we get near the client, you kill him, and we both get what we want. If you succeed, you keep the child and I will have your name cleared with the Guild, for a man of honor should not be forced to live in exile. I await your arrival with optimism."

The concern in your eyes didn't escape Din's notice as you voiced your doubts. "This has to be a trap, Din," you asserted, your voice tinged with worry.

Din nodded in agreement, his thoughts mirroring yours. "Possibly."

A small, determined smile graced your lips as you continued, "We're gonna need help... from our friends."

As you glanced at the sleeping Child, the gravity of the situation weighed heavily on both of you. It was a decision that would determine the course of your future and the safety of the innocent life in your care.

After a brief moment of contemplation, Din made his decision clear. Without uttering a word, he steered the Razor Crest toward the coordinates Greef Karga had provided, the ship leaping into hyperspace. The die was cast, and a treacherous path lay ahead, but the bond between you and Din, and the allies you had made along the way, offered a glimmer of hope in the darkness of uncertainty.

SORGAN, 9ABY – DAY

The Razor Crest soared over the lush tree canopy of Sorgan, its engines humming like a contented beast. As the forest gave way to an open area, Din carefully brought the ship down, landing with the grace of a seasoned pilot.

Exiting the ship, you and Din followed a worn path that led to a common house in the distance. The atmosphere was different here, far removed from the cold metal of your ship. It was a place where the rustic charm of Sorgan had found a home.

Inside the common house, the commotion caught your attention. A sizable crowd had gathered, their voices mixing with the clatter of glasses and the low hum of conversation. At the center of the room, a makeshift boxing ring had been set up.

You and Din approached the ring just as Cara Dune, faced off against a male Zabrak fighter. Cara’s movements were swift and calculated, her strikes a testament to her combat prowess. The Zabrak, equally skilled, proved to be a formidable opponent. Each of them tethered to a laser that crackled with energy. The makeshift boxing ring suddenly felt smaller, the tension palpable as the combatants engaged in a fierce battle.

As the bout reached its climax, Cara executed a flawless maneuver, pulling the Zabrak in with the tether that connected them. The Zabrak, caught off guard by her sudden tactic, found himself unable to escape her grasp.

With a swift and decisive motion, Cara forced the Zabrak to tap out, his admission of defeat ringing through the air as the laser tether fizzled out between them.

Cara's triumphant grin illuminated her features as she basked in the adulation of the crowd, her chest heaving with exertion from the intense match. With a playful twinkle in her eye, she extended a victorious finger, punctuating her declaration to the assembled spectators.

"Pay up, mudscuffers! Come on. That's mine, thank you. All right, thank you," Cara exclaimed, her voice carrying over the din of the cheering crowd. In response, several patrons begrudgingly reached into their pockets, producing credits to settle their wagers.

You, Din, and the Child entered Cara's line of sight, drawing her attention away from the crowd. Din's voice, deep and commanding, cut through the noise of the common house as he addressed her directly.

"Looking for some work?" Din inquired as he broached the subject with Cara and you all decided to take a seat and have a drink as you discussed the situation.

"It's a straightforward operation," Din elucidated to Cara, his voice low and measured. Leaning forward, he rested his left forearm on the table, his gaze unwavering as he outlined the details. “They're providing the plan and firepower. I'm the snare.” Meanwhile, you tended to the Child who fussed beside you, keeping one eye on the conversation.

"With the kid? And her?" Cara inquires, casting a glance your way.

"That's why we're reaching out to you," you respond softly, meeting Cara's gaze.

Cara sighs, weighing the risks. "I don't know. I've been advised to keep a low profile. If anyone runs my chain code, I'll be in a cell for life."

"I thought you were a veteran," Din remarks, his silver helmet catching the light as he speaks. The defeated Zabrak fighter drops a credit on the table and nods at Cara, who offers a smile. "Come back soon," she calls after him.

"I've been a lot of things since. Most of them come with a life sentence," Cara explains, her expression serious. "If I so much as board a ship registered to the New Republic, I'm—"

"We have a ship," Din interjects, his voice firm. "I can take you there and back, and there'll be a handsome reward waiting. You can live free of worry."

"I'm already free of worry, and I'm not in the mood to play soldier anymore," Cara says, taking a sip from her cup. "Especially not for some local warlord."

"He's not a local warlord," Din interjects, his voice low and with a growl. You finish the statement, your tone was distant, eyes glazed. "He's Imperial."

Cara takes a deep breath and offers a small smile as she nods. "I'm in."

INSIDE THE RAZOR CREST

OUTER RIM TERRITORIES, 9ABY – SPACE

"Does your contact need to vet me?" Cara leans against the side of the cockpit panel, her arms crossed. Din shakes his head. "Doesn't know you're coming."

Cara raises an eyebrow. "Really? That could be a problem."

"It won't. But if it is, that's his problem." Din shrugs before exiting the cockpit. You give the Child a gentle pat as he sits beside you, then follow Din down the ladder and to the weapons locker with Cara.

"Is he alright up there alone?" Cara asks, nodding towards the cockpit.

Din nods. "Yeah." He opens the locker, the doors hissing as they slide apart. Gesturing to the array of weapons, he adds, "Pick one."

"Do you trust the contact?" Cara inquires, brows raised as she sifts through the locker's contents, a grin playing on her lips.

Din lets out a sigh. "Not particularly," he admits, his tone tinged with a hint of wariness. "He and I had a run-in last time I was there on some Guild business."

"So then why are we going?" Cara questions, her tone laced with curiosity as she glances over at Din.

"I don't have a choice," Din responds, his voice carrying a weight of resignation. He pauses, then reaches out to pull you closer to his side, anchoring you against him as he leans against the ship's panel. "You saw what happened on Sorgan. They'll keep sending hunters," he continues, his gaze steady. "The kid and her... they'll never be safe until the Imp is dead."

"And you're okay with bringing them back there?" Cara asks skeptically, a hint of concern coloring her tone. You frown slightly, your expression conveying a sense of determination as you respond, "I can take care of myself."

"What about the kid? We need someone to watch that thing," Cara remarks, gesturing towards the Child above in the cockpit. Din nods in agreement, acknowledging the need for a trustworthy guardian. "Yeah."

"You got anyone you can trust?" Cara inquires further, her gaze shifting between you and Din.

You feel Din's thumb brush over the exposed part of your hip, a comforting gesture that sends a subtle warmth rippling through your body. He hums softly, his presence enveloping you in shades of silver and grey, a reassuring aura amidst the uncertainty of the moment.

Suddenly, the ship begins to rumble, Cara stumbles, her hands reaching out to brace herself against the wall. Meanwhile, Din swiftly pulls you closer to his body, a protective instinct evident in his actions. With a gruff huff, he releases you and heads back up the ladder.

You and Cara follow Din up the ladder, only to find the Child meddling with the controls, causing the ship to thrash and rumble. Din takes charge, settling into the pilot's seat to stabilize the Razor Crest once more.

"We really need someone to watch over him," you remark, holding the Child securely in your arms while Din nods and agrees, “Yeah.”

MOISTURE FARM, ARVALA-7 — SUNSET

The Razor Crest settles on the desolate planet of Arvala-7, its rocky surface bathed in the warm hues of the setting sun. As the ramp lowers, you step out alongside Din and Cara, the hovering pram carrying the Child trailing close behind.

Your eyes fall on the Ugnaught Din mentioned, a figure named Kuiil, who greets you warmly as you make your way to his home. With a nod, you duck your head to enter the tunnel-shaped structure, eager to get to know Kuiil.

"It hasn't grown much," Kuiil remarks, his eyes fixated on the Child.

Din nods in agreement. "I think it might be a Strand-Cast."

Kuiil shakes his head slowly. "I don't think it was engineered. I've worked in the gene farms. This one looks evolved. Too ugly."

"I had a dream recently," you begin, your voice soft but earnest. "A creature like him named Yoda appeared to me… this little one is likely to be one of his kind."

Din listens intently, his gaze underneath his helmet fixed on you as you speak.

"It’s why I followed you, at first," you continue, turning to face him. "Because the last time the Empire had Force Sensitive children…" You trail off, overcome with emotion. "I just couldn’t leave him there."

Din's gauntleted hand gently clasps yours, emanating a comforting warmth that sends a tender sensation coursing through your veins. You feel a soft flush rise to your cheeks as you meet his gaze, the visor of his helmet lending an air of mystery to his expression.

Kuiil clears his throat, his gaze shifting between you and Din. "You and Din make a formidable pair," he says with a nod, his tone carrying a note of respect. "A union like yours brings strength and unity in uncertain times."

A flush of embarrassment warms your cheeks, prompting you to avert your gaze momentarily. However, Din's firm grip on your waist draws you closer to where you sat, anchoring you in his reassuring presence.

Meanwhile, Kuiil turns to Cara with a playful glint in his eye. "This one, on the other hand," he remarks, "looks like she was farmed in the Cytocaves of Nora."

You gesture toward Cara with a smile, introducing her to Kuiil. Cara responds with a nod, her own smile reflecting the camaraderie in the room.

Kuiil's eyes settle on Cara's arm, where the telltale tattoo of a Dropper catches his attention. "You were a Dropper," he observes, prompting Cara to raise an intrigued eyebrow. "Did you serve?" she inquires the Ugnaught.

Kuiil settles onto a stool, his expression taking on a thoughtful cast. "On the other side, I'm afraid," he admits. "But I'm proud to say that I paid out my clan's debt, and now I serve no one but myself."

As Kuiil speaks, the room is suddenly interrupted by the mechanical steps of an approaching figure. You glance toward the entrance and see an IG-11 droid entering, carrying a tray of steaming drinks. Instantly, both Din and Cara spring to their feet, blasters are drawn, their defensive instincts kicking in. Meanwhile, you remain seated, a mix of confusion and curiosity etched on your face.

The IG-11 droid, its metallic voice crisp and clear, breaks the tension with an unexpected offer. "Would anyone care for some tea?"

Kuiil, ever composed, raises a calming hand towards Din and Cara. "Please lower your blasters," he urges, his voice steady and assured. "He will not harm you."

"That thing is programmed to kill the baby," Din asserts, his voice tinged with anger as he keeps his blaster trained on the IG unit.

Kuiil interjects calmly as IG-11 places the tray on the table in front of you, "Not anymore. It was left behind in the wake of your destruction.”

“I found it laying where it fell. Devoid of all life. I recovered the flotsam and staked it as my own in accordance with the Charter of the New Republic. Little remained of its neural harness.” Kuiil recounted to you and you listened intently.

"Reconstruction was quite the challenge, but not impossible," Kuiil reflects, his voice carrying the weight of experience. "It had to learn everything anew. This is not a task for mere machinery. It demands patience and repetition. Day after day, I nurtured its growth with care and affirmation. And as its experiences expanded, so did its personality."

Din remains skeptical, his tone betraying his doubt as he inquires, "Is it still a hunter?"

"No," Kuiil replies firmly, "but it will defend."

As the IG-11 droid offers, “Tea?” Cara grabs the cup and takes a sip while you exchange glances with Kuiil, sensing the sincerity in his words reflected in the warm hues of the sunset. With a reassuring touch, you rise from your seat and place a hand on Din's outstretched arm, gently guiding down the blaster. "He speaks the truth," you affirm softly. "It’s okay. We’re okay."

Reluctantly, Din secures his blaster back into its holster, his tension easing slightly as he acknowledges the reassurance in your words.

"I've encountered some difficulties," Din admits as he approaches Kuiil, who is tending to the Blurrg.

Kuiil emits a thoughtful hum. "Seems like you've been managing quite well. Especially with her support," he remarks, nodding in your direction. You're engrossed in play with the Child, introducing the little one to the droid, while Cara observes with interest.

As Din watches you, bathed in the warm glow of the setting suns, he can't help but marvel at your radiance. Your smile outshines even the brightest stars in the galaxy. In that moment, he feels a profound sense of gratitude for having someone like you by his side.

A warm sensation stirs within Din as he watches you laugh at something the Child finds amusing. The primal urge to claim you as his own surges within him, an instinctual longing he struggles to suppress. Beneath his helmet, his jaw tightens as he fixates on you, momentarily lost in the intensity of his emotions. When you glance his way and offer a smile and a wave, his heart swells with longing, yearning for a world where he could have you all to himself, free from the burdens that weigh upon you both.

Swallowing hard, Din tears his gaze away, attempting to regain his composure. "That's not... that's not why we're here," he insists, his voice tinged with an edge of determination.

"I assumed as much. There must be another reason for your return," Kuiil observes with a knowing hum.

Din's voice carries a low, earnest tone as he addresses the Ugnaught. "I need your services."

"I'm retired from service," Kuiil responds, his voice measured.

Ignoring the subtle refusal, Din presses on, his words tinged with a hint of desperation. "I can pay you handsomely, Ugnaught.”

The Ugnaught, displeased by Din's persistence, harumphs. "I have a name. It is Kuiil."

Din's gaze remains unwavering as he makes his request clear. "I require someone to protect the child, Kuiil."

Kuiil shakes his head, his resolve unwavering. "I am not suited for such work. I can reprogram IG-11 for nursing and protocol duties."

Din's voice grows firmer, his tone resolute. "No. I do not want that droid anywhere near him."

"Why are you so distrustful of droids?" Kuiil asks, his tone curious yet skeptical.

Din's response is matter-of-fact. "It tried to kill him."

Kuiil nods, understanding. "It was programmed to do so. Droids are not inherently good or bad. They are neutral reflections of those who imprint them." He looks to Din, hoping to impart some sense to the Mandalorian.

Din's voice carries a distant gravity as he speaks with a serious tone. "I've seen otherwise."

"Do you trust me?" Kuiil's gravelly voice breaks the silence, his gaze steady on Din.

Din nods thoughtfully. "From what I can tell, yes."

"Then trust my work. IG-11 will join me," Kuiil asserts, his tone resolute. "And we do it not for payment, but to protect the child from Imperial slavery."

A weight seems to settle on Din's shoulders as he exhales softly. Kuiil's continues, "None will be free until the old ways are gone forever."

Din takes a moment to consider, his mind churning with the implications. Finally, he meets Kuiil's gaze and nods. "Okay."

"The blurrgs?" Din queries, a hint of confusion in his voice as Kuiil starts to walk away.

Kuiil pauses, turning back to face Din. "And the blurrgs will join me as well," he affirms, his tone carrying a sense of finality.

Kuiil turns once more and continues on his way, leaving Din standing there with a contemplative expression. As he disappears from sight, his parting words linger. "I have spoken."

INSIDE THE RAZOR CREST

OUTER RIM TERRITORIES, 9ABY – SPACE

After securing the blurrgs in the Razor Crest's cargo hold, Din takes control of the ship's controls, steering it towards Nevarro. With the ship set on autopilot, you and he descend the ladder into the cargo hold, where the Child sits in his hovering pram, eyes wide with curiosity as he emits a soft cooing sound.

As you assist Kuiil with feeding the blurrgs, your attention is drawn to the sounds of grunting nearby. Slowly turning, you find Cara and Din engaged in an arm wrestle, their muscles straining against each other in the dim light of the cargo hold. Despite the intense competition, they appear evenly matched.

As you observe Din's impressive display of strength, a flutter of excitement stirs within you, mingled with a hint of something more intimate. His determination and power are undeniably captivating, igniting a subtle thrill that courses through your veins.

"I got you, Mando," Cara declares with a huff, her voice laced with determination.

Din's response is confident as ever. "Care to double the bet?" he challenges, his voice resonating with a subtle intensity. You catch a glimpse of his gaze behind the visor, sensing his determination.

Intense heat rises to your cheeks at the sound of his gruff grunt, the raw energy of the moment heightening your anticipation. You’ve been buzzing with anticipation for weeks.

But the heat fizzes out as a moment of panic grips you as Cara struggles, her hand dropping abruptly from the arm wrestling match. It startles both you and Din, prompting him to rise to his feet with urgency.

As you rush over to the Child, you hear Din's firm voice addressing the little one. "No! No, no! Stop! We're friends, we're friends. Cara is my friend!" he asserts, his tone authoritative.

Stretching out your hand, you tap into the Force, attempting to gently ease the Child's grasp on Cara. Gradually, the tension dissipates, and you release your hold on the Force, feeling a wave of relief wash over you. Eager breaths escape your lips, leaving you slightly winded from the unexpected exertion.

Cara gestures toward the Child and voices her concern, "That is not okay!"

"Hmm. Very curious," Kuiil remarks, his gaze shifting to you and the Child.

"Curious? It almost killed me!" Cara exclaims, her alarm evident.

"The story you told me of the mudhorn now makes more sense," Kuiil adds.

"Mudhorn?" You interject, your curiosity piqued. You glance over at Din, who has now moved closer to you, checking to ensure you're okay as you still catch your breath from the ordeal.

"What is it?" Din inquires Kuiil while keeping you close by his side.

"What it is, I don't know. But what it does, this… This I've heard rumors of," Kuiil replies.

Cara shoots the Ugnaught a skeptical glance. "What? When you worked for the Empire?"

Kuiil stands his ground, his tone resolute. "When I was sold to the Empire, in indentured servitude."

"Yet somehow, you walk free," Cara retorts with a scoff, rising to her feet. But Kuiil remains unfazed. "I bought my freedom through the skill of my hands and the labor of three of your human lifetimes. Do not cast doubt upon what I am nor whom I shall serve."

As the swirling colors of intense emotions overwhelm your senses, you feel a surge of turbulence within. It's a challenge to maintain composure, especially given your empathic abilities.

Sensing your discomfort, Din's demeanor softens, a rare glimpse of tenderness shining through. In a voice touched with kindness, he addresses Kuiil, "Tell you what. I could really use your craftwork right now. Can you pad this container so the child can sleep better?"

Kuiil acknowledges the request with a nod, his expression solemn. "I shall fabricate a better one. Then perhaps this Dropper can see how one can win their freedom with the skill of one's hands."

With purposeful movements, Kuiil sets to work, the hum of machinery filling the space as sparks fly from the welding gun. Meanwhile, the Child observes with wide-eyed curiosity. Feeling Din's comforting touch on your lower back, he guides you back up the ladder toward the cockpit.

You move to take a seat on a nearby chair, but before you can settle, Din swiftly pivots from his pilot chair. His strong hands encircle your waist, pulling you onto his lap in a single fluid motion. You emit a surprised yelp as you find yourself seated sideways, legs draped over his, and your head nestled against the cool surface of his beskar pauldron. Instinctively, you loop your arms around his neck to maintain your balance.

"Din! Cara could walk in any second," you whisper urgently.

He responds with a nonchalant hum. "She won't mind."

"But—"

"You seemed winded earlier, using your..." Din's voice trails off as he adjusts a few controls, and you finish his thought, "The Force?"

"Yes," he confirms.

You release a sigh and reach up to lightly touch the side of his helmet, wishing you could see beyond the reflective visor. "Din, I'm alright. It just took me by surprise. Later, I'll speak with the kid about using the Force responsibly. It's something we need to ensure he understands."

As you utter the word "we," something ignites within Din's chest. The notion of you wanting to stand by his side, to be integrated into his clan, strengthens his need to claim you as his own, to initiate the formal courtship.

With a gentle movement, he leans his helmet closer, as he uses his left gloved hand to hold the back of your neck, bringing your forehead to rest against his. The warmth of your skin contrasts with the cool touch of his beskar armor. You instinctively close your eyes, sharing a moment akin to the gesture known as the keldabe kiss.

You emit a soft sound, unable to suppress it as you sense him gently squeeze the back of your neck, expressing his desire to draw nearer. Din gruffly murmurs, "Soon, Cyar'ika. Soon."

"You better be fully clothed in there, I'm coming in!" Cara's voice echoes through the ship before the doors hiss open and shut, signaling her entrance. She finds you still seated on Din's lap, a sheepish expression on your face.

Wide-eyed, you attempt to slide off Din's lap, but he pulls you closer in a tighter grip. Your embarrassment intensifies, your cheeks burning as Cara smirks at you. Wanting to hide, you bury your face between Din's neck and shoulder, the heat of the moment igniting a mix of desire and embarrassment throughout your body.

Cara meticulously cleans her blaster as she addresses both of you, "So, we're heading to Nevarro?"

Din, still seated with you on his lap, engages in the conversation, "Have you been there before?"

"No," Cara responds, settling into her seat with the blaster and a rag in hand. "We lost a lot of our forces there. The city's dug in pretty deep. No cover when you drop in. It stayed in Empire control 'till the end of the war.”

Din nods in acknowledgment. "The warlord we're taking out was an Imperial officer.”

Cara's curiosity piques. "What station?"

Din turns his chair, keeping you snugly in his hold, as he explains, "Hard to tell. No insignia anymore.”

You attempt to wriggle out of his grasp once more, but his arm around your midsection keeps you firmly in place.

"We took out the safehouse when we snatched the kid." Din continues, his tone grave. "More Imps have reinforced since.”

Apologies for the oversight. Here's the revised text, retaining the original dialogue:

"There's something more going on," Cara remarks as she begins to clean a different rifle.

"Maybe. We'll find out more when we land," Din replies, his gaze fixed on the controls.

The doors hiss open, and IG-11 steps inside, its robotic voice announcing, "I have prepared second meal. Would you care to be served here or below?"

"I'm not hungry," Din says flatly.

The IG-11 leaves.

Cara's chuckle echoes lightly in the cockpit. "You got a real thing for droids, don't you?" she teases.

Din's voice remains monotone as he responds, his helmet reflecting the dim light. "I got a real thing for that droid."

"The Ugnaught said he rewired it," Cara mentions, her tone casual.

Din shakes his head, his expression hidden behind the helmet. "That droid was designed to kill things. I don't care how much wiring he replaced. It goes against its nature."

Cara's departing words linger in the air as she heads back down to the cargo hold, leaving you and Din alone once more.

A hushed quiet falls between you, the hum of the ship's engines filling the space. You break the silence, the words catching in your throat. "We need to get ready..."

Din's voice is soft, barely above a whisper. "Just let me hold you a little longer, Cyar'ika," he murmurs, his tone laden with affection. You meet his gaze, feeling a warmth spread through you, and with a quiet nod, you reply, "Okay."

NEVARRO, 9ABY – DUSK

The Razor Crest descends into a desolate corner of Nevarro, the distant hum of its engines fading as it settles on the uneven terrain. Your pulse quickens, the rhythm echoing in your ears as you adjust the cloak robe to conceal your lightsaber, keeping it out of sight.

The four of you dismount the ship, perched atop blurrgs, and spot Greef Karga approaching, accompanied by three other bounty hunters including a human, Nikto, and a Trandoshan. He strides toward your party, a mix of urgency and caution in his steps. "Sorry for the remote rendezvous, Mando, but things have gotten complicated since you were last here,” he says, coming to a halt a few paces away.

As he surveys the group, Greef Karga remarks, "It appears that introductions are in order. It seems we've both provided a security detail," His gaze shifts to Cara. "I'd suggest the shock trooper stays back to guard the ship. These lava fields are swarming with Jawas."

"She's coming with us," you assert firmly.

"But the town is now run by ex-Empire. If a Rebel Dropper is with us, they'll all get their hackles up," Greef Karga argues, attempting to dissuade you.

"She's coming," Din insists.

Greef Karga grudgingly relents. "Fine," he seethes, then relents once more with a resigned sigh. "Fine." Gesturing to Cara, he adds, "Just cover your tattoo. No need to draw unnecessary attention."

"Now, where's the little one?" Karga inquires. Din activates a button on his bracer, causing the hovering pram to glide forward, its hatch hissing open. Greef Karga leans in to inspect the Child, drawing uneasy gazes from the group. Fingers hover near blasters as tension mounts, and you clench your jaw.

"So, this little bogwing is what all the fuss was about. What a precious little creature. I can see why you didn't want to harm a hair on its wrinkled little head," Greef Karga remarks, lifting the Child briefly before returning it to the hovering pram. Din swiftly closes the hatch with another press of his bracer, bringing the pram back to his side.

As the group prepares to embark on their journey across the lava fields of Nevarro, Greef Karga lays out the plan. "Well, I'm glad this matter will be put to rest once and for all. The sun drops fast on Nevarro. We can walk for a spell, camp out at the riverbank, then make our way into town at first light," he explains. You nod in agreement as your group rides the blurrgs, ready to traverse the treacherous terrain.

NEVARRO, 9ABY — EVENING

As the group settles in for the night, a campfire crackles, casting flickering light on the surrounding faces. You find a spot on the ground, seated cross-legged like the others. Positioned between Din and the Child, Kuiil patiently feeds the young one while you quietly finish your meal.

Across the fire, the three bounty hunters sit, their faces illuminated by the dancing flames. With a keen sense, you observe them, your empathic force powers awakening to perceive shades of darkness and red, hinting at hidden motives and deceit.

As you unconsciously shift closer to Din, preparing to whisper your observations, Greef Karga's voice cuts through the quiet night. He gazes at the Child, remarking, "I guess the little bugger's a carnivore. Never seen anything like it. They were ready to pay a king's ransom for that thing. Must be for some kind of highfalutin menagerie."

"Let's go over the plan again," Din interjects, brushing off Karga's comments.

“We three enter the common house. We show the client the bait. We join him at the table. And you kill him,” Greef Karga explains matter-of-factly, as if it's the simplest thing in the world.

Din quickly follows up, “Tell me about his reinforcements.”

“They're all ex-Empire. As soon as they lose their paycheck, poof, they'll all scatter,” Greef Karga replies nonchalantly.

“And what if they don't?” You press further.

“They will,” Greef Karga asserts confidently.

Din shakes his head, “That's not good enough.”

Greef Karga sighs heavily, “If, for argument's sake, a few of them don't realize that I'm their best path to alternative employment and they elect to react impulsively, then these three fine Guild Hunters, along with that battle-hardened shock trooper, and your Jedi will cut down anyone who bucks.”

“I’m a medic, not a Jedi,” you mumble with a clenched jaw.

“How many will there be?” Din asks Greef Karga.

“No more than four,” Karga replies as he rises from his seated position, heading over to the large piece of meat roasting over the campfire. He reaches out to grab a piece, confidently stating, “He travels with, at most, a Fire Team. Trust me. Nothing can go wrong.”

However, his confidence is shattered as a large beast emerges from the darkness. It's a species of winged, predatory reptavians native to Nevarro. With a large wingspan, scaly and dry skin, and a dragon-like appearance, these reptavians have a pointed snout, a mouth filled with sharp teeth, and two brownish eyes.

One of the reptavians swoops down, sinking its teeth into Greef's arm, eliciting a pained grunt from him. Chaos erupts as blaster fire fills the air, echoing against the rocky terrain. Each member of the group takes aim, firing at the winged assailants with precision.

With swift movements, the Mandalorian secures the Child in his hovering pram, shielding the youngling from harm. Meanwhile, you ignite your lightsaber, its vibrant purple hue casting an eerie glow in the dim light. Swinging it fiercely, you fend off the winged creatures with determined strikes.

Amidst the commotion, a blurrg and a Trandoshan bounty hunter fall victim to the creatures' relentless onslaught. As one of the reptavians swoops down to snatch another blurrg, it meets its demise in a barrage of blaster fire, falling lifeless to the ground. Unfortunately, in the chaos, a blurrg is accidentally struck by friendly fire.

After the Mandalorian's flamethrower repels the winged creatures, a tense silence settles over the group, broken only by the occasional groan of pain from Greef Karga. As the dust settles and the smoke clears, everyone remains on edge, waiting to see if the creatures will return.

Moving swiftly, Kuiil rushes to Greef's side, his concern evident in the furrow of his brow. "He's hurt badly," Kuiil announces, his voice tinged with worry.

"I'm fine, I'm fine. I'm fine. I'm fine. Ow!" Greef insists through gritted teeth, his bravado failing to mask his discomfort. You kneel beside him, your focus on assessing his injury. The deep bite mark left by the reptavians catches your attention, and you speak with authority, "Hold still."

"They got you good," you murmur, your focus still fixed on the deep wound.

"How bad, Cyar'ika?" Din's voice comes from behind you as you work.

"Bad. The poison's spreading fast," you reply, urgency lacing your tone as you inject Greef Karga with a pen, hoping it will slow the venom's progress.

"So this... This is how it happens," Greef Karga says between labored breaths.

Cara rolls her eyes. "Don't be so dramatic."

"I need another medpac! Got any other medpacs?" you urgently call out.

“Anyone? I'm guessing that's a ‘no’,” you say with a huff, frustration creeping into your voice. You glance back at his arm, noting the venom's continued spread. “It's still spreading. This isn't working.”

“Get this thing outta here,” Cara exclaims, prompting you to realize that the Child had approached unnoticed.

Observing the Child, Kuiil interjects, “Wait.”

The Child extends his tiny green hand and places it atop Greef Karga’s arm. With a wince, Karga cries out, “He's trying to eat me!”

You sense it too—the subtle hum of the Force emanating from the Child. With each focused use, the Child begins to harness his abilities, channeling them to gradually heal Greef Karga’s arm, leaving no trace of a scar. Witnessing such skill from one so young fills you with awe; Force Healing of this magnitude is exceedingly rare. A collective exhale fills the air, each member of the group seemingly sharing in the astonishment of witnessing such a miraculous feat.

NEVARRO, 9ABY – DAWN

As the sun begins to ascend, casting a dim light across the rugged landscape, the group presses onward. Smoke billows from the small volcanic vents scattered throughout the rocky terrain of Nevarro. An uneasy silence envelops the group, with Greef Karga's companions forging ahead, leaving you, Din, Cara, and Kuiil to tread quietly behind on foot, the Ugnaught trailing along atop the last remaining blurrg.

Cara speaks softly, directing her question to both you and Din. "You think they're having second thoughts?"

Din responds in a hushed tone, his voice barely audible. "Could be. I need your eyes."

"I'm watching," Cara confirms with a nod.

An hour later, your group arrives at the outskirts of Nevarro, with Greef Karga leading the way and you, Din, and Cara close behind. "I guess this is it," Greef Karga remarks, gazing out at the view. But something tugs at your gut, a feeling that something isn't right.

Before you can react, Greef abruptly turns around and fires at his associates, sending them collapsing lifeless to the ground. The sudden violence startles you, Din, and Cara. They swiftly unholster their blasters, aiming them at Greef Karga, while you grasp your saber hilt, activating it in readiness to deflect any blaster fire.

Din and Cara keep their blasters trained on Greef Karga, who raises his hands in surrender. "There's something you should know," he confesses as he ensures that both the bounty hunters are truly dead and kicks away their blasters. "The plan was to kill you and take the kid. But after what happened last night, I couldn't go through with it."

Your brow furrows as you listen to Karga's plea. "Go on," he continues, "You can gun me down here and now, and it wouldn't violate the Code. But if you do, this child will never be safe."

Cara grits her teeth and shoots Karga a scowl. "We'll take our chances," she asserts firmly.

"The Imperial client is obsessed with obtaining this asset. You tried to run, but where did it get you?" Greef Karga reasons, causing Cara to grow more agitated. "This is ridiculous," she tells Din.

"Perhaps you should let him speak," Kuiil interjects calmly, while you maintain a steady gaze on Greef Karga.

Karga points out, "Listen, we three need the client to be eliminated. Let me take the child to him and then you two…"

"No," Din interrupts firmly.

Cara clenches her jaw, her blaster aimed at Greef Karga. "Let's just kill him and get outta here," she suggests, her frustration evident.

You feel the Force connecting you through your empathic powers, sensing the true colors of Greef Karga. Taking a deep breath and deactivating your saber, you speak up. "He's right."

Din lowers his blaster, while Cara hisses in disbelief, "What are you doing?"

"As long as the Imp lives, he'll send hunters after the child," Din explains to Cara, who responds with a warning, "It's a trap."

"Bring me," Din suddenly interjects.

"What?" you exclaim, taken aback, while Greef Karga echoes, "Bring you?"

"Tell him you captured me. Get me close to him and I'll kill him," Din states with determination, and Karga nods, “That's a good idea. Give me your blaster.”

As Din hands over his blaster, it prompts you to protest as you take a step closer to him. "No! Hold on, it should be me. Bring me instead," you insist.

Din begins, "Cyar'ika—"

You sharply turn your head to face Greef Karga. "Do they know?"

Greef Karga begins to respond, but you cut him off, your voice tense with urgency. "Do. They. Know?"

"Yes," he confirms.

"Okay," you swallow, your mind racing through the options and landing on a decision. "You bring me in. Say that Cara captured me and convinced Mando to trade me instead of the Child." You then hand over your saber hilt to Greef Karga who pockets it.

"No. Absolutely not. You are going back to the ship with Kuiil and the Child," Din interjects, his tone firm.

"But without her or the Child, none of this works!" Karga exclaims, trying to reason.

"I’m going with you," you assert, stepping closer to Din. As he meets your gaze through his visor, you see the conflict in his eyes. He starts to protest, but you cut him off with a whispered plea, "I am going with you, and there is nothing you could say to convince me otherwise. We face these things together." You reach out and touch the side of his helmet, feeling the cool metal beneath your palm as you press your foreheads together. "Let me be there for you, like you were for me. Please."

Din hesitates, visibly conflicted. Finally, he lets out a shaky exhale. "Maker help me. Fine, fine. But you listen to me, alright? When I tell you to run, you run. Got it?"

You nod, determination in your eyes. "Okay."

Din grunts out his plan. "Kuiil, ride back to the Razor Crest with the child and seal yourself in. Once you're inside, engage ground security protocols. Nothing on this planet will breach those doors."

"Here's a comlink," Kuiil says, handing Din the device. "I will keep the child safe."

Kuiil looks at Cara and advises, "Don't forget to cover your stripes."

"Let's go," Din nods, prompting everyone to prepare. He turns to you, offering a pair of silver binders. You secure your hands in front of him, feeling a flush of embarrassment at the familiar sensation of the cuffs.

With a click, your hands are bound, and he asks softly, "Not too tight?"

Feeling playful, you respond with a cheeky grin, "You could make it tighter."

There's a warmth in his chest, almost like laughter. His mouth quirks into a smirk. "Cyar'ika, you are going to be the death of me."

You freeze, sensing the shift in his demeanor beneath the helmet. It's almost like awe or something.

"What?" he asks, catching your reaction.

"You're smiling, I can tell by your voice," you note, smiling yourself. Your eyes meet the visor of his helmet, and his skin prickles with awareness.

Suddenly, he wants you a lot closer. In his lap. Straddling him, maybe. Your hands in his hair, and his in yours. But there's no time for that. You clear your throat, breaking the moment, and gesture toward Greef Karga, who is waiting for the other pair of stun cuffs to restrain Din.

Din regains his composure, walking over to Greef Karga to be cuffed. As he does, Cara conceals her tattooed arm with a cloth, and Kuiil picks up the Child from the hovering pram. With your group heading in opposite directions, you hope fervently that everything will go according to plan.

NEVARRO, 9ABY — DAY

Greef and Cara escort the bound Mandalorian, you, and the hovering pram toward the town. At the gate, they come across two scout troopers riding 74-Z speeder bikes.

"Chain code?" one of the Scout Troopers demands, eyeing Greef Karga suspiciously.

Greef nods toward you and Din. "I have a gift for the boss."

The Scout Trooper repeats, "Chain code?" with insistence. Reluctantly, Greef retrieves his card and hands it over.

The Scout Trooper scans Greef's card. "I'll give you 20 credits for the helmet," he offers, eyeing the Mandalorian's helmet.

Greef lets out a fake laugh. "Ha-ha! Not a chance. That's going on my wall."

Din leans in to Karga, whispering, "On your wall?" Greef shoots him a pointed look. "Go with it."

"Go ahead," the Scout Trooper says, returning Greef's card. The group proceeds forward into town.

Cara gives Greef a sharp look. "You said four. There are more than four troopers."

Greef explains quietly, "Four guarding the client. Many more here in town. Things got really heated once Mando crashed the safehouse."

Cara suggests, "Slip him his blaster."

Greef shakes his head. "Not yet."

You approach the cantina's entrance, Greef Karga announcing, "Here we are." As the door slides open, the once bustling space is now eerily empty, save for the watchful eyes of the stormtroopers stationed inside, their presence unsettling.

Greef nods towards the troopers. "You see? Four." He then leads you and Din towards the Client, gesturing towards both of you. "Look what I brought you. As promised."

The Client moves closer to Din, his fingers tracing the intricate patterns of Din's beskar chest plate. "What exquisite craftsmanship. It's remarkable how beautiful beskar can be when forged by its ancestral artisans."

Your expression twists in disgust as you watch the Client touch Din's armor. Then, the Client's attention shifts to you, his hand reaching out to grab your face. You meet his gaze with a defiant glare as he remarks, "Ah, the Jedi. Word travels fast whenever your kind is spotted." His tone drips with disdain. "What a waste."

As the Client releases your face, you feel a surge of revulsion. Sensing Din's simmering anger, you brace yourself.

"Can I offer you a libation to celebrate the closing of our shared narrative?" the Client proposes to Greef Karga, who accepts with a nod.

An RA-7 protocol droid sets to work at the bar, preparing drinks for Greef and the Client. Gesturing towards a nearby booth, the Client invites, "Please, have a seat."

As you take your place, the Client begins, "It's regrettable that your people suffered so. Just as in this situation, it was all avoidable."

He turns his attention to Din. "Why did Mandalore resist our expansion? The Empire enhances every system it touches." You let out a derisive scoff, prompting the Client to continue, undeterred. "Judge by any metric. Safety, prosperity, trade, opportunity, peace. Compare Imperial rule to what is happening now. Look outside." He gestures towards the window. "Is the world more peaceful since the revolution? I see nothing but death and chaos."

You grit your teeth and suppress a retort, sensing the Client's emotions swirling before you, a dark maelstrom of black and red hues.

"I would like to see the baby," the Client requests.

Greef Karga clears his throat. "Uh... It's asleep."

"We'll all be quiet. Open the pram," the Client insists, narrowing his eyes. You swallow nervously, feeling a sense of unease. But before the situation can escalate, a stormtrooper approaches the Client and murmurs something discreetly. The Client stands abruptly. "Don't think me to be rude. I must take this call."

A stormtrooper sets up a holoprojector as the Client strides over to it. Under the table, Greef Karga discreetly unbinds his restraints, while Din swiftly does the same for you, his hands deftly removing the cuffs. "Give me the blaster and her saber hilt," he instructs Karga, his tone firm.

"You get one shot," Greef Karga reminds Din as he hands over your saber hilt. Din passes it to you with a determined nod.

Cara leans in close, her voice barely a whisper. "This is bad. You said four."

"Well, there are more. What can I tell you?" Greef Karga replies quietly.

A tense moment hangs in the air, and you sense a shift in the atmosphere. Before you can react, gunfire erupts from outside the cantina, catching everyone off guard. The shots strike the Client and his stormtroopers, sending them sprawling to the ground. Instinctively, you, the Mandalorian, Cara, and Greef dive behind a nearby table for cover. Amidst the chaos, the RA-7 protocol droid is caught in the crossfire and falls to the ground, incapacitated.

Taking cover behind various pillars, you, the Mandalorian, Cara, and Greef cautiously assess the situation. Through the shattered windows of the cantina, a line of death troopers becomes visible, their ominous presence sending a chill down your spine. As if that weren't enough, an Imperial Troop Transport rolls onto the scene, unloading a squad of stormtroopers, further escalating the situation.

"Four stormtroopers?" Cara scoffs, her expression darkening. "This is bad."

The Mandalorian quickly contacts Kuiil via comlink, his voice urgent. "Kuiil? Are you back at the ship yet?" After a tense moment of silence, he presses, "Are you there? Do you copy?"

"Yes!" Kuiil's voice crackles through the comlink.

Din wastes no time. "Are you back at the ship yet?"

"Not yet," Kuiil replies.

"Get back to the ship and get the kid out of here. We're pinned down!" Din's command is sharp and resolute.

The roar of engines interrupts the chaos, drawing your attention outside. An Outland TIE fighter swoops into view, its retractable solar collectors gleaming in the sunlight. The Imperial officer emerges from the cockpit, clad in full black attire, his cape billowing dramatically in the wind. His voice carries over the commotion as he declares, "You have something I want."

"Who's this guy?" Cara asks, her confusion evident.

"You may think you have some idea of what you are in possession of, but you do not," the officer asserts ominously.

"Kuiil, are you back at the ship yet? They're onto us!" Din urgently tries to reach Kuiil through the comlink.

No response.

Din attempts again, growing increasingly desperate. "Kuiil, come in!"

Still, there's silence.

"In a few moments, it will be mine," the officer threatens, his tone dripping with menace.

"Kuiil! Do you copy? Kuiil!" Din's voice echoes with urgency.

"It means more to me than you will ever know," the officer adds, his words sending a chill down your spine.

"Kuiil! Are you there? Come in, Kuiil. Kuiil, come in," Din pleads desperately.

"Kuiil? Are you there? Do you copy? Kuiil? Kuiil!"

TAGLIST: @wastingspaces @avengersheart @lunatic1012 @keepingupwiththeskywalkers @mxltifxnd0m @syviiss @luckyzipperscissorsbat @avengersheart @dins-riduur-anthe @lizlil @n7cje @scoliobean @ofmusesandsecrets

#din djarin x reader #din djarin fluff #din djarin fanfiction #din djarin x y/n #din djarin x fem!reader #din djarin x female reader #din djarin x you #din djarin x empath!reader #din djarin x forcesensitive!reader #ethereal writes #thesilverliningch5 #the mandalorian x reader #the mandalorian rewrite #the mandalorian x you #the mandalorian fic #the mandalorian #the mandaloria/reader #pedro pascal x reader

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ghostinthegallery · 7 months ago

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As a transformers fan I love robots who have divorce drama stretching millions of years but also have a body count in the trillions. Thus it has taken little convincing but I think I shall investigate these undead robots.

In the event of my death I'm Telling. This is your fault. How do I start wading into this mess bc my only encounter with Warhammer was when a very drunk frat guy tried to explain the horus heresy at a party.

Well you are in for a treat then! Robots with marriage/divorce drama, severe mental health issues, and body counts best measured on a planetary scale are our specialty in Chez Necron.

If you want a setting overview before you dive in, Bricky's two part series going over all the factions is quite solid. Long, but hey this has been around since the 80s. (no drunken Horus Heresy rambles*)

First, watch this clip of Trazyn the Infinite, as an amuse bouche before your meal.

As for books, there are two main places I'd start for necrons:

The Infinite and the Divine- the classic starting point for necrons (and 40k in general). Trazyn the Infinite, lord of the Prismatic Galleries, battles against Orikan the Diviner, master chronomancer and prophet. Clash of godlike beings over...what amounts to a magic Rubik's Cube. It's so petty. This fight spans epochs, multiple wars, and one legal case. There's no heterosexual explanation for their dynamic. Also this book has dinosaurs. Some of whom carry shuriken canons.

Now, this book has a ton of 40k stuff. Most major factions make an appearance so there's a very good chance there will be words/things that a new person is unfamiliar with. If that doesn't bother you, awesome! Proceed. Ask me things, I'll explain that an aeldar is just a space elf or whatever. Or watch a lore vid beforehand. However if that is a turn off I'd recommend starting with...

Severed- Novella, so shorter which is nice. Do you like angst? The horrors of immortality? Lord/knight love story? One very silly guy? Then meet Zahndrekh and his loyal bodyguard Obyron as they set out to conquer a planet where the necrons are...wrong. Complicating factors include Obyron's crippling depression, Zahndrekh's asshole ex, and the fact Zahndrekh is insane and believes them all to still be the creatures of flesh and blood they were before a bunch of star gods ate their souls and turned them into robots. Prepare to cry.

After those, I cannot recommend the Twice Dead King duology highly enough. Oltyx, an exiled prince attempts to save his dynasty from destruction while battling his own creeping madness. He's got an adorable crush on his hot best friend. The voices in his head were put there on purpose so its fine. Well most of them were. Everything is fine. I didn't cry multiple times reading these...

Then refer to my reading guide for the good short stories and boom! The wonderful world of gay undead space robots is open before you.

I accept full responsibilities for my actions. If you die I promise to say mostly nice things at your funeral.

*mini rant, but I honestly think the Horus Heresy is one of the worst ways to introduce someone to the 40k world. It's a series with like 70 books! Many of them are bad! You need a flowchart to keep track of the timeline! I know there's some good books and characters, power to all who love the HH, but it is not newbie friendly! Also it only has humans which robs you of some of the best parts of the setting (like...y'know. Necrons). Ease people in, then they can make an informed decision about tackling the mountain of buff space men with daddy issues shooting each other.

#answering asks #necrons #warhammer 40k #wh40k #the infinite and the divine #severed #really the overlap in the venn diagram of Transformers Fans and Necron Fans is pretty big in my experience #we love our genocidal divorced robots #I could use more genocidal divorced robots in my life...#I should try out transformers...

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elbiotipo · 1 year ago

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One of the Spelljammer-like settings I worked the most on was and alternate history where the Byzantines went into an alchemical industrial revolution, conquered Venus and Mars and then the stars (the classical constellation plus many many more made up ones). So you got this Space Roman Empire that has conquered many other civilizations, still ruled from Constantinople on Terra. So the technology is industrial but the asethetics are very much all over the place, with sailships flying on the aether powered by crystals and such.

The characters are communist revolutionaries (as in, literal communists, of course with some other kind of referents since this is alternate history) who want the overthrow the Empire, not because it was once good and now corrupted by evil forces (though of course there's a Space Rasputin) but because they're communists and so they oppose empires and want to establish the People's Galactic Republic. They don't want to return to olden days or to defeat a coming evil: they want to change established society. So you have these pair of aristocrats who join a "pirate" crew and slowly as they travel from world to world in their Space Sailship they learn about what the Empire is truly like for those outside the palace. Slowly the revolution begins. They are by the middle of the story the first ones to open fire on the gates of the Astral Palace.

The story is from then on basically taken from the Russian Revolution and Civil War with some Warlord Era China and Napoleonic France for good measure. The revolution intially triumphs, then reactionary forces gather, there is warlords and ideological infighting and tyrants who take over and more. A new order is finally established, through great sacrifice, but the story doesn't end in an utopia, just with a revolutionary state that might or not endure the tests to come. Of course, with space battles.

#cosas mias #if you're imagining the aesthetics of Treasure Planet you've completely understood what I mean

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haveihitanerve · 2 months ago

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Rewatched Far From Home the other day and gotta say- also if you havent seen it- spoilers ahead-

- knowing what I do about Fury and Peter and Tony and everyone that I didn't the first time around- its so obvious to me now that Fury is not actually Fury. Because Fury talks to Tony like… frequently. They’re good friends. Father-son. If it was really Fury, he would have probably remembered Beck from one of his and Tony’s chats- a dude who invented his therapy tech that he then fired for being unstable is probably not something Tony doesn't share. Also, Fury never talks someone down- especially not a teenager. Not to that degree at least. Hes a little harsh, sure. And he doesn't mince his words. But he doesn't criticize. And he doesn't lash out. (also he measures his words. Dude impersonating him spoke wayyy too much. Fury is more careful with everything he says) And when Beck said “fury sent me up here to talk to you, he felt bad” i seriously believed that shit because it is something Fury would do. Anyway maybe its all just hindsight speaking now that I know its not really him but yeah.

The only thing is the star wars reference and his threat to shoot the next person who interrupts him and peter. That was something i could actually see Fury doing.

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ladamedusoif · 1 year ago

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Ornaments (Din Djarin)

A Merry Fic-Mas - December 15

Part of A Merry Fic-Mas: A Holiday Fic Calendar - click for masterlist.

Follow @ladameecrit for my writing updates!

Characters: Din Djarin, Grogu (can be read as part of the ‘Joy’ world)

Warnings: None; set after the end of S3 of The Mandalorian; we’re using Life Day and I don’t care what anyone thinks; reference to Star Wars alcohol; pure unadulterated fluff

Rating: Teen

Word count: 1100

Summary: It’s Din and Grogu’s first Life Day in their new home - but how do you even prepare for that, when you've never celebrated before?

Dividers by @dreamland-gallery

Peli’s droids scurry in fear as soon as they feel Din’s heavy footprints hit the ground after he climbs out of the fighter, and Grogu squeals with delight. Freaked-out droids mean one thing: dad’s back.

He picks up his son and greets Peli. “I hope he was no trouble.”

She leans forward to pat Grogu’s head, throwing in a few ear scritches for good measure. “When has he ever been trouble? Sweet little thing like that, never been trouble to anyone, ain’t that right?”

Grogu coos in agreement as his father sighs.

“Mind you, he’s all hepped up about Life Day. Never shut up about it the whole time. He’s really coming on with the vocabulary, it’s impressive.”

Din tilts his head and looks into the little boy’s enormous eyes. He had never really been the kind of person to celebrate Life Day - who would he have celebrated it with, for a start? - but Grogu had become a little obsessed with the holiday since learning about it at school.

“I hope you’ve got something planned for him, Mando.”

Din shrugs. “I’ll pull something together. Got plenty of time.”

He makes a mental note to find out from Karga what exactly a Life Day celebration should look like.

***

As so often happens, life got in the way of Life Day. A few unexpected jobs, some repairs necessary around the house, and Din’s plans to mark the holiday disappeared into thin air.

But there was still time, right? It was the eve of Life Day, Din finally had a spare day, and surely a quick trip to the market and stores in town would do the trick. Pick up a few nice things to eat, a few ornaments and decorations, maybe a gift for the little guy. Perfect. Then home, prepare, and rest.

Din was not prepared for the chaos that greeted them in the city. It felt like the entire population of Nevarro had descended and decided to engage in something that looked half-festival, half-riot: smiling and laughing in some quarters, and running around with stressed expressions while managing large piles of carefully-wrapped goods in others.

Din sighs. So much for the quick trip to the city.

They meet Karga along the main thoroughfare, beaming at the citizens hurrying to and fro on the eve of the holiday, making sure to acknowledge as many as he can to remind them of the bond between the High Magistrate and the people he serves. He opens his arms widely and greets the clan of two warmly.

“Well! Here to soak up the atmosphere, are we? I’m guessing you’re all set at home, this being your first Life Day in the new place.”

Grogu looks from his father to Karga and makes a mournful little coo. The magistrate raises an eyebrow and stares at the Mandalorian.

“Uh…it was a busy time. Anyway, I just came to get a few things to decorate the cabin and things to eat, and then we’ll get out of here.”

Karga tries not to look too concerned, for Grogu’s sake. He leans closer to Din. “You might get some food, if you try some of the quieter stalls, but by this stage there isn’t a single blue orb ornament left on the planet. I’ll send you a reminder next year, hmmm?”

Din pats Grogu’s head, unsure how he can break it to him that he won’t be decorating his house with the special ornaments like all the other children. He settles on food as a distraction, promising cookies and blue milk as they set off towards some of the less popular stores in the back streets of the city.

***

The cabin is quiet later that night as Din pads around in his long-sleeved undershirt and dark pants, putting away the food and treats purchased for the holiday. He managed to find a little toy bantha as a gift for his son, secreting it in his bag when Grogu got momentarily distracted by a nearby fried food stall.

But he can’t shake the guilt. This Life Day thing is clearly a bigger deal than he realised, his little boy tried to convey that to him, and he just…forgot. Or assumed it didn’t require preparation. And now Grogu was going to be disappointed.

“Dank farrik.”

He pours a little glass of spotchka and takes the toy out of his satchel, placing it on their dining table before wrapping it in a length of red Life Day fabric he’d snagged at the last minute.

Wrapping is not Din’s forte. As he surveys the lumpy little parcel and drains his glass, he swears to Maker that he’ll make it up to Grogu next Life day.

In his dreams, he hears his son laughing and chattering.

***

Din rises as usual and slides back the door to the main living area of the cabin, preparing to wake Grogu, when he is slapped in the face by - well, he’s not quite sure by what.

He rubs the sleep from his eyes and scratches his head as he looks at the strange, flat object that’s hanging down over the door to his bedroom. Circular. Lightweight.

“Is that…paper?”

He moves around the paper circle to enter the main room and realises that it has been haphazardly coloured blue, the crayon lines making up in enthusiasm what they lack in finesse.

To his astonishment, there are more blue paper circles in the cabin: on the walls, on the floor, on the table, even inside the fresher.

Din sits at the table. What was in that spotchka?

The door that leads to Grogu’s room slides open, its tiny occupant invisible as he enters the living area, giggling and cooing, before leaping to the main table where he points excitedly at the mysterious festive decor.

His father puts two and two together when he spots the telltale bright blue crayon wax still stuck in his little boy’s nails. And on his robe. And, for some reason, on the back of his head.

“Wait - you made these? For us? When?”

Grogu babbles back in the language only he and his father can truly understand.

“Last night? They’re - what are they?” His heart melts when he realises. “They’re Life Day orbs, aren’t they?”

Grogu pulls himself up to his full height, proud as punch, before moving in for a hug. Din blinks hard, bursting with pride at the kindness and determination of this strange little boy.

He reaches down and hands Grogu the red-wrapped gift. “Happy Life Day, buddy.”

#a merry fic-mas #holiday fic calendar #din djarin #grogu #din grogu #the mandalorian #the mandalorian fanfiction #life day #pedro pascal characters #pedro pascal character fanfiction #pedro pascal

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david-talks-sw · 2 years ago

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The Obi-Wan Kenobi comic book adaptation is gonna be illustrated by Salvador Larroca, whose art I despise.

So here's me venting, real quick.

It's not because he traces. It's because he's sloppy about it. A lot of Star Wars artists trace, or at least use references. But they also try to hide it a bit, y'know?

Larroca's so blatantly just taking pictures, tracing the lineart, then keeping that picture but lowering the opacity of the original image, sometimes blurring it too for good measure...

... and finally adding some soft-shaded colors all around it, hoping to make the original pic blend in with its surroundings.

The result? Images where the FACE of the character is hyper-realistic, but the rest of the body is shaded like a comic.

So it's not just tracing. It's copy-pasting.

When I draw, my process is like this one too, for the record. Tracing, lowering the opacity, the whole shebang. But:

I try not to make it as blatant (and even include my references sometimes).

I'm not a trained professional artist who does this by trade.

What kills me is that he knows how to draw, read his Iron Man or Wolverine stuff, the tracing is not as obvious there, sometimes it's not there period!

Like, he COULD do better, he just doesn't fucking wanna 😃

Also, I mean... originally the Star Wars comic book adaptations also offered insight into characters thoughts, included or re-adapted deleted scenes, maybe added some new scenes, maybe showed old ones through a different POV.

Now they don't do any of that (probably because they wanna add as little lore as possible to then avoid as many retcons as possible), it's just "the movie/show but now it's a comic".

If the action will be the same as what was in the show, and the images are traced from the show... what's the point of this adaptation???

#obi-wan kenobi #larroca #sw negativity

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sinisterexaggerator · 5 months ago

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Wait.

There's is a official star wars book about Hondo called "Pirate's Prince"? I'm not from the USA and not super familiar with cannon Star books, so I didn't know about that.

Also, you mentioned a fic about Hondo you writing right now, can you share more details? I already hyped!

Yeah! Pirate’s Price! The audiobook version is even read by Hondo’s voice actor in his voice!! It’s amazing!!

As far as the fic goes, I am just beginning to write it! It’s what I refer to as my Magnum Opus, Lol. It’s a long series about Cad Bane, Hondo Ohnaka, Jango Fett, and many other characters, bounty hunters, and original characters! It spans their entire life (Bane and Hondo) before and after they meet.

I must warn you, I ship Cad and Hondo together as well as Cad and Jango and Hondo and Aurra, plus some original characters throughout, otherwise it is going to be a mostly canon-complaint story that takes place all the way from 72 BBY to 9ABY and beyond! If that’s not your jam though, it’s cool. A lot will be based on events that happened in canon with my own ideas thrown in for good measure.

#star wars #hondo ohnaka #Pirate’s price

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theonevoice · 1 year ago

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Rumination n. 5 - Is the Metatron the skylark from Romeo and Juliet (and are we going to cry)?

I don't know if someone has already pointed this out, but I think I stumbled upon something regarding the Metatron (may he step on legos for the rest of his eternal existence).

I was in the middle of one my regular cycles of Neil Gaiman Cultural References Game appreciation, thinking of how much Romeo-and-Juliet-like is our ineffable husbands- love story. The parallel is obvious: forbidden love between two members of families in violent open conflict, side characters constantly stepping in and adding fuel to the fire, a masquerade ball (you know, where everyone shows up in different clothes than usual), a secret encounter in the garden... even a nightingale that doesn't sing, because the long-awaited night of love has come to an end and in place of a nightingale now a skylark is singing, and its song tears the lovers apart.

And then it struck me.

In classical, medieval, and romantic immagination, the skylark is the symbol of the Triumph of Good over Evil, and many cultures consider it a messenger from the gods. Are you seeing what I'm seeing?

Look at how Percy Bysshe Shelly describes the skylark:

Hail to thee, blithe Spirit! Bird thou never wert, That from Heaven, or near it, Pourest thy full heart In profuse strains of unpremeditated art. Higher still and higher From the earth thou springest Like a cloud of fire; [...] Like a star of Heaven, In the broad day-light Thou art unseen, but yet I hear thy shrill delight, [...] Better than all measures Of delightful sound, Better than all treasures That in books are found, Thy skill to poet were, thou scorner of the ground!

Am I spiraling, or does it ring a bell? A metaphisical bird "like a cloud of fire" (reminder that the Holy Spirit, alternative form of God's voice, is canonically depicted in art as a bird, often a flaming one) that speaks "from Heaven, or near it" (like as God or almost, remember "you are the voice of the Almighty in the same way as a presidential spokesman is the voice of the President") and pours mezmerizing melodies from above. A bird that cannot be seen but only heard, as if it was pure voice, that scorns the earth and can mysteriously entrance you with spellbinding promises that are better than "all treasures that in books are found."

And who is casually popping up early in the morning, after the long-awaited night of love and dancing (and occasional demon smiting) has come to an end, singing a mesmerizing song (the offer of restoring Crowley to his former angelic status) that is better than books and silences the nightingale, if not the Voice of God, harald of capital-G-Good, freaking Metatron himself?

My friends, I want to trust Neil Gaiman when he says that everything will be ok but, in perfect "it must get worse before it gets better" style, I am afraid that we are going to witness a nearly Romeo and Juliet double death ending that will scare the living daylight out of us.

Maybe Juliet-Crowley (Juliet is the one who wants Romeo to ignore the skylark, remember?) will be threaten with a permanent imprisonment in Hell (like the forced wedding of Juliet with Paris) and will have to fake his own death in order to leave his old lot behind once and for all, possibly involving fake holy water in place of Friar Laurence's fake death potion. Maybe a fatal miscommunication (I don't need to explain why miscommunication is plausible in this scenario) will lead Aziraphale-Romeo, coming back from Heaven (where he went after almost declaring war on the opposite side, much like Romeo went to Mantua after killing the Capulet Tybalt) just a moment too late and incorrectly informed, to believe that the love of his life is gone for real and to contemplate his own death, possibly throwing himself on his own flaming sword or willingly stepping into hellfire.

I will be honest, I can see Neil Gaiman pulling a shakespearian move on them (and on us). And, as someone said just before a bomb fell on a certain group of people in 1941, it will take a real miracle for them to survive it.

#good omens #go2 #good omens 2 #good omens thoughts #go 2 speculation #go2 spoilers #good omens 2 spoilers #aziraphale #crowley #romeo and juliet #shakespeare #the metatron #metatron #good omens theory

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tonydaddingham · 1 year ago

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Hello! Hope you're having a nice day 😄 I'm extremely new to the fandom, as in post season two's release, and I keep seeing offhand remarks about Crowley's fear when Furfur shows up in the dressing room in the Blitz minisode and how he didn't know he was saved until he and Aziraphale were back in the bookshop. I was hoping as the designated 1941 person you might know whether there are any posts looking exclusively or just in more detail at those things? It's just, it may be fairly self-explanatory, but there's been enough reference that I feel like there should be a starting point somewhere for those observations despite that?

hello anon sweetheart!!!✨ first of all, welcome!!! and second, im having a lovely day so far, thank you - hope you are too!!!✨ im not aware of any posts that look at this exclusively, and whilst im certainly not an expert on 1941, the minisode accounts for about 50% of my personality at this point so i'll do my best to give you one instead!!!

let's start from when furfur enters into the dressing room. aziraphale and crowley are both completely relaxed, albeit keyed up on the success of the trick, and their guards are down. you can feel the tension begin to settle in, though, as soon as furfur starts speaking after entering, just as aziraphale removes the feather boa, and his armour goes back on.

now, for me, the crux of the issue in 1941 is that crowley underestimates both furfur and hell. we know that in the various other flashbacks that crowley, in some ways correctly, dismisses hell as only being bothered about anything he does, or doesn't do, when the paperwork isn't handed in. he arguably gets a very rude awakening in 1827 when, it seems, that hell might have been keeping a closer eye on him than expected; after the events of the resurrectionists minisode, he's dragged into hell - and then in 1862 is shaken and paranoid, asking for holy water.

1862 is the first time, i think, we've actually seen him petrified - his countenance, his eye movements, his body language, even his speech pattern all suggests this. it is also, it seems, to be after 1862 that crowley becomes more and more vehement about aziraphale expressing any kind of gratitude or compliment towards him - this tracks, if he thinks hell are listening in. suffice to say, despite his cool bravado, he's been shown the measure of what hell can and will do, and understandably doesn't want a repeat.

i think it's also fair to say that aziraphale somewhat predicted this; it's one of those unfortunate ironies where - for all of the criticism shown towards aziraphale for seeing things in black and white, both in show and by the audience - this is one of the times where aziraphale was absolutely correct in his assessment of hell. it's not a hell vs heaven, good vs. evil thing, it's a "demons and angels can be as cruel as each other" thing. it only ever seems to be crowley that thinks lowly of his own 'kind' (for lack of a better term), and this has repeatedly bitten him on the arse.

we've seen this kind of behaviour though even since the pre-fall scene; crowley, both as demon and as an angel, can be very blinkered. sometimes, he'll only pay attention to what suits him, to what holds his interest or fascination, and what threatens it. we've seen it with the stars, with humanity/earth, and with aziraphale. its not, per se, that everything else has no importance, but more that he doesn't consider it worthy of his attention.

so let's go back to the 1941 scene (i promise this is going somewhere), because it seems that in the height of the trick, and the development that his and aziraphale's relationship has made, crowley has forgotten all of that.

furfur enters, and drops the somewhat bombshell that crowley and he fought together during the war. crowley, however, paid attention to the war, but evidently not to furfur. this is understandable in that context, but it's crowley again seeing to consider all of hell to be idiots, and below him; had he perhaps paid more attention, would he have realised that there are multiple demons that actually have their own personal motivations? shax for power/status, and furfur to be recognised? possibly; he'd know who the really dangerous demons are.

so we establish immediately that crowley is somewhat at a disadvantage, but still maintains the behaviour that furfur is not a threat to him.

this all mirrors the interaction between aziraphale and shax in the bentley at the beginning of the episode, in 2023; aziraphale, however, acts more appropriately, given that he has the benefit of hindsight to not underestimate what information, motivation, and power shax/hell might have. aziraphale doesn't know that she does or doesn't have proof of anything (neither of their relationship or of gabriel being in the shop), but there remains the possibility that she could - and that's dangerous, something rightly to be afraid of.

but when furfur accuses them of their fraternisation, crowley comes up with an excuse that is delivered very coolly, and almost practiced; there's no way that hell would have proof, they're not clever enough for that, and he can just deny it (especially if he has the favour of beelzebub at this point). however, unfortunately for him, furfur is actually one step ahead in that:

again, all very circumstantial... but crowley is notably very quiet. aziraphale takes control, asks where the booklet came from etc. when furfur then hands over the photograph, again, crowley is remarkably quiet as he takes it, and removes the photograph. his eye movements aren't very visible, but from what we can see they don't look especially wide or frightened. however, from the moment he can see 'evidence' written on the envelope, and can read the docket, he appears to withdraw, gulps, and very calmly hands it over to aziraphale. this to me is the very typical "...ah, fuck." kind of fear; his face is very passive, non-emotive, and you can almost feel your stomach sink along with his.

and whilst of course the scene itself calls for him to hand over the photograph so aziraphale can see it, it feels also that symbolically he's handing over control of the situation to aziraphale too; crowley has, realistically, got nothing - is coming up empty - on how they can possibly worm their way out of this one.

and the thing is that crowley continues to underestimate his fellow demon; when furfur mentions the miracle blocker, he immediately questions who the blocker was placed by, seemingly not considering that it might in fact be furfur himself (and, imo, as was heavily implied in the way furfur said the line). aziraphale however very quickly comes up with a solution and, whilst furfur is distracted, sets up the sleight of hand to hide the photo up his sleeve - with misdirection.

the bit however that really tells me about crowley's emotional state, however much he's keeping a fairly good lid on it, is the next bit; he covers his face with his hat. now, from furfur's perspective, he's just acting nonchalant and dismissive again, but to us - we know that crowley doesn't show his eyes. a combination of both how strange they are, but also how expressive they are (and therefore how vulnerable they make him). but crowley goes a step beyond, and practically covers his entire face, shielding it from furfur and the zombies.

furfur obviously goes off on his tirade, and his last parting shot is telling crowley that he'll be escorted off of earth first thing in the morning, and probably sentenced to who-knows-what... but given that he's already had his warning, so to speak, i think it would be fair to evaluate it will be rather... final. i think therefore we can interpret this emotional state as not only fear, but defeat - he's not been careful, he's underestimated hell again, and is going to be made to suffer the consequences.

the fact that then, after everyone has left him and aziraphale alone, crowley removes the shield, his hat, because he can obviously trust aziraphale with that vulnerability; take down the cool, hardened exterior. he looks - just on his face alone - so resigned, but the exhale, the way he chucks down his hat, and returns his hand to his face... well, i wouldn't say it's fear anymore, by this point, but more that he has accepted to surrender to the inevitable.

we leave them at this point, and then rejoin them in the bookshop, where crowley learns how aziraphale secreted away the damning photograph. the whole scene then turns into not only the discussion on black/white vs. the grey, but also into a bit of a joke; crowley doesn't even thank aziraphale for legitimately saving him. despite the fact that aziraphale's magic trick is literally the device used to save him, he immediately reverts back to taking the piss out of aziraphale for fluffing it when performing on command... as aziraphale said, he "got it right the time that mattered", and this just completely sails over crowley's head (or seems to, anyway).

so my conclusion personally is that whilst we can be fairly confident that crowley feels some kind of fear, it's not as palpable, in my opinion, as it was in 1862. but 1941 is an example in crowley not learning from his lesson; he has been shown that hell is (or at least, certain demons are) possibly more driven than he's previously given credit for. unfortunately this time, as far as he's concerned, his underestimation of them has led to him blowing all the chances hell has presumably given him, and just as he's gotten closer to aziraphale, he's now about to be pulled away again.

as for his behaviour in the bookshop - well. we know crowley doesn't do well with being vulnerable. i have certain thoughts that ive discussed separately on crowley's propensity towards a hero-type narrative, and in this case he literally had no way to save himself or aziraphale... and possibly doesn't want to accept that he messed up, and that aziraphale had to be the one to save them. fear may not have been very evident on crowley physically, but to me his actions and mannerisms betray just how deeply it was set.

anon beloved, i hope this went some way towards answering your question!!! of course this is only my interpretation of these two particular scenes, but always happy to discuss 1941!!!✨💕

#good omens #ask #crowley meta #1941 spec #ish #flashback meta #s2 meta

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duelofthefatesmp3 · 2 years ago

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tell you what, we coulda had a good show together! fuckin’ real good show! had us an isolated star wars story without focusing in other characters. but you didn’t want it, filoni! So what we got now is a Skywalker cgi cameo! Everything’s built on that! That’s all we got, boy, fuckin’ all. So I hope you know that, even if you don’t never know the rest! You count the damn few times we have had interesting explorations of Mandalorian culture and fatherhood in nearly three seasons and you measure the amount of stupid ass decisions you made to create hype– and then you ask me about why andor was 10x better and tell me you’ll kill me for needing somethin’ I don’t hardly never get. You have no idea how bad it gets! I’m not you… I can’t make it on a coupla wink wink reference to the clone wars once or twice a year! You are too much for me the mandalorian (2019), you sonofawhoreson bitch!

#yo.txt

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shadowlink06 · 1 month ago

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So I just wanted to put a little update because I haven't done one in a while! I'm still around and try to keep up with what our little Tumblr group does. Sadly, I still have my medical issues. And while that is part of the reason that I've not been as active with Home related matters, the other is that I've gotten pulled into Honkai Star Rail/other games and been writing my own fanfictions again. I'm a writer at heart, always have been and it's why I've been critical of Home. However I do have to acknowledge that when you consume great products or write your own material, after you view shoddy works like what Kique does, it puts you in an awkward position.

On one hand, from a creative standpoint, you should invest your time on what you love. Investing in Kique's story and IP (intellectual property) takes time away from working on my personal stories and enjoying my favorite games. On the other, bringing awareness to bad media has a dual effect. First it allows upcoming creators and consumers to understand why a story doesn't work and to not fall into the same pitfalls. Also, since Kique just will not allow public criticism it shows that people actually do have strong opinions to what he is doing and the comic isn't as perfect as one would think.

While I try not to allow IRL politics/gaming discourse into what I do online it has gotten so bad lately that I'm starting to wonder if competent writers will still be around in a few years. I say that because there is a noticeable drop in quality within the entertainment industry. If you want to see examples, see what is happening in the DC/Marvel comics scene, see how Disney has degraded it's “live action” stories of the Golden Age and Star Wars, see games such as Dustborn, Concord, Dragon Age: Veilguard, Assassin's Creed Shadows, and Avowed. See how Visa/Mastercard force Japanese and other companies to enforce censorship measures or they won't do business with them. Yes, there are good games that have come out that have done exceptionally well, but the amount of BAD games/media is alarming.

So what does this mean for me? I do want to still contribute to Home because what I'm seeing in the newest pages leaves a lot to be desired. But I'm not going to delude myself into believing that I can do my videos, which has been the medium that I've been using up until this point. Part of that again is my medical problems, my computer also needs to be replaced, and the other is a lack of time. Compiling the pictures needed is a very time consuming task for the videos. I'm a one person army and it can become a daunting task. I do like the video format because it seems to be what a lot of people enjoy, but I just can't commit right now.

What IS easy for me however, is writing. So what I'll be doing for the time being is dropping my video scripts. They can range from a specific topic that I'm interested in exploring, or a complete chapter breakdown which I actually enjoy doing. If time ever allows, I will make a video to accompany them with pictures and other important details but I need to do what is feasibly easier to crank out.

So that is what you can expect for me for the time being. I'm getting my thoughts together and finishing the script for the Antagonist piece I was doing so I'll drop that as soon as I finish it. Again, these won't have pictures as I'm running them like a script but I'll try to include page numbers/links for references.

~shadowlink06

#kique7 #kique nordin #homecomic #home #asmundrhome #asmundr #status update

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only-in-december · 2 years ago

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Oh, hi! I hope you're ready for some Star Trek thoughts! I just rewatched the ST:TNG season 2 episode "Measure of a Man," and oh boy. Do I have thoughts. Like, obviously, Data goes through a lot in this episode. The poor guy was nearly torn apart for the sake of one scientist's ego. (I'm hyperbolizing. It was a little more involved than that.) And I will forever stand by the opinion that this was one of the first really good episodes of Next Gen.

But, aside from the Data part, the Riker side of the plot breaks my heart just as much, if not more. (Okay, not really more. I'm being dramatic and hyperbolizing again.) William T. Riker was put in a horrible position that no one else would ever want. He was forced to say that his friend, someone that he cares deeply for, wasn't alive. And throughout the episode, you can see him struggle with that. His desire to protect Data, was at war with the fact that he had to follow orders. Nothing that he said was what he believed, but if he didn't, then Data would be labeled as Starfleet property, and the trial would be thrown.

"Pinocchio has been broken. Its strings have been cut." The way that line was delivered, you can hear just how much he hates to say it. How much he hates to turn off Data. The disgust he has for himself in that moment is obvious. It gets even more heart-wrenching when you remember that it was Riker who compared Data to Pinocchio in season one, and a few times would jokingly refer to him as such. I don't think he does that again after this episode. (Actually, canonically, I think that he only ever called Data Pinocchio a few times anyway. But regardless. I'm talking about the emotional impact that Riker had from saying that 'its strings have been cut.')

And the ending!! When Data goes to Riker, and the two of them have a heart-to-heart! I could say so much just on that moment. The fact that Data can see how much Riker was hurt by what he had to do, and the fact that he forgave him...actually, he didn't forgive him. Data didn't see what Riker did as being the wrong thing. If Riker had stood down as the prosecutor, then Data would've been handed over to Maddox with no further investigation. And Data was grateful for that! He was grateful that his supirior officer, and his friend would do something that hurt himself so that Data could be saved from danger.

Okay. I think I'm done rambling now. I just have a lot of feelings related to this episode, and I just love the way it explores the friendship of Data and Riker.

#star trek tng #star trek the next generation #william riker #data #s2 ep9 measure of a man #jonathan frakes acting in this episode was absolutely wonderful #and the way that data aknowledges just how much it hurt riker to do what he did #mah heart #only-in-december rants #sorry for rambling

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talldarkandroguesome · 1 year ago

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22nd of Evening Star, Fredas

We had a lovely little celebration of the winter solstice. Prince Irnkstar gave small gifts to everyone, as is part of the tradition. The staff were all very pleased by it, for they had not expected any gifts at all.

The prince asked to visit the Tribunal Temple to give to the poor and injured. Avon, Sildras, and I escorted the prince and his retinue. Food, coin, clothing, healing potions, and small toys for children were all given freely.

Prince Irnskar has certainly cemented his reputation in Mournhold for his kind heart and generosity. So many of the most arrogant and xenophobic nobles have been so thoroughly impressed, they have given, what I can only assume sounds a compliment in their minds, by naming him the most civilized and un-Nordic Nord they have ever known.

Had they ever let go of their prejudices and actually visited Solitude, even once, they would find just how "civilized" Nord culture truly is. How can we ever expect to hold together long term as a Pact, bonded brethren, if we cannot even see one another as equals?

I can see how important such cultural exchange truly is. The path to survival of our peoples is reliant on our seeing one another as being similar. To align our values beyond simply a war effort. I shall suggest to the House Council that we repay this kindness and aim to do the same. Let our House be the first to do such proactive and progressive measures.

Hard to say whether or not the Council will be receptive, but I believe they shall honor this request. After all, it improves the House image, while also keeping me further afield. Though, I may have to worry about Tel's visits and how I will agree to retain my duties in that regard. I doubt that a visit to Skyrim would be more than a couple of months. And with the state of teleportation of the Mages Guild, it should be easy enough for Tel to meet me in Eastmarch, or any other major city that I should be sent to visit.

I should rest now, there are more places Prince Irnskar wishes to visit. And I still need to bring Holgunn to Davon's Watch to meet with uncle Tanval. He has requested to stay at the Indoril manor in Davon's Watch for the Old Life Festival and I am not one who would deny such a heartfelt request from such a respected family member. I really should start referring to Holgunn as uncle Holgunn. I think he would be touched by it. Yes, I will make sure that Sildras addresses him in kind. It is the least we can do to help him, after all, the loss of my uncle was hardest on him. I think I shall start inviting him to every family occasion. He was the closest thing my uncle ever came to a second spouse. I think in time, with the right people involved, he could have convinced the House Council of the marriage. Though it may have taken longer than Holgunn's life. Uncle Holgunn.

Cheerz will be given a new set of instructions regarding uncle Holgunn. I will see to it that he is treated like a real member of the family. I do not care if he shares no blood, he has done more good for us than my Aunt Vivyne has ever even dreamed of.

I must get back to the feast now. I think the dancing is going to start shortly and I want to make sure that the musicians play their Nord songs as well as the Dunmeri ones.

#ESO #TES #RP #Dunmer #elder scrolls online #the elder scrolls

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lublas1138-blog · 1 year ago

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The Star Wars

The following is the first chapter of a novel I wrote based on the original treatment of Star Wars in 1973 by George Lucas. Though the synopsis was vague, the novel was fun to write and I think it came out quite well. I submit it here because there is no way Disney will allow me to publish this. So, enjoy and tell me what you thought? I will be publishing a chapter each week.

In the 33rd century.

the Jedi-Bendu were the most feared warriors in the galaxy. For over one thousand years, generations of Jedi-Bendu perfected their art as personal bodyguards of the emperor. they were the chief architects of the invincible imperial space force that expanded the galactic empire across all known worlds, from the celestial equator to the farthest reaches of the great rift.

Over time, ruthless trader barons, aided by crime syndicates driven by greed and lust for power, replaced enlightenment with oppression and ‘rule by the people’ with brutality and domination.

it is now a period of civil wars. The Empire is crumbling into chaos and lawless barbarism expands throughout the million worlds of the galaxy. seventy small solar systems have united in a common war against the tyranny of the Empire. The Emperor realizes one more such defeat will bring a thousand more solar systems into the rebellion and imperial control of the Outlands could be lost forever…

From The Journal of the Whills, vol. 5

CHAPTER ONE

A PLANET IN PERIL

In the cold and airless void of sidereal space orbited a spherical planetesimal nestled within an asteroid belt of the binary star system Kepler-427. The celestial body, designated as Aquilae, attained a diameter of slightly over 2,370 kilometers. Aquilae was the belt’s fourth-largest asteroid by both volume and mass.

Its rotation was slow, taking nearly twenty-seven hours to complete in a single day. Though the asteroid’s journey around its twin suns was less circular, its perihelion remained at a similar longitude with an orbit reaching out to the extreme edge of the asteroid belt; nearly crossing the path of Guataubá, the systems gas giant.

Aquilae orbited an average distance of eight million kilometers from a set of yellow binary G1 and G2 stars. Both colossal suns orbited a common center with peculiar regularity and Aquilae circled them far enough out to permit the development of a stable, if rather arid, climate.

Long terraformed before the Great Revolution, Aquilae attained a rugged, if sparse, ecosystem of vast prairies and low rolling hills consisting of resilient steppes of needlegrass, wild asters, coneflowers, clovers, and wild indigos.

Outfitted with an atmosphere factory and gravity bell, the asteroid maintained a parched climate colonized by stalwart farmers and ranchers.

Though mundane in its appearance, Aquilae was known more for its production of a psychotropic narcotic. An exceptionally addictive hallucinogen manufactured from the esoteric fungi labeled sphongos azul – commonly referred throughout the galaxy as Aura Spice or simply Aura.

The benefits of Aura consumption increased the efficiency of human metabolism and streamlined the consumption of energy from food. Bulky supplies normally required for long space voyages could now be reduced to a container or two, permitting cargo holds to be used for other base necessities.

On settlements struggling to provide agricultural goods to an ever-demanding population, the dietetic effects of the narcotic were a welcomed relief.

Found and harvested only on Aquilae, the fungus was a commodity in great demand. A demand the emperor highly desired to control and extort.

Following the failed attempts at several diplomatic negotiations, the emperor considered it necessary to take spice production by force. By imperial decree, he ordered a blockade of the planetary system by use of a T-67 Battlestar.

Orbiting the asteroid, the looming station was an impressive metal sphere measuring one hundred kilometers in diameter with three hundred and forty-two internal levels and a surface area of over 650 square kilometers.

The station’s command bridge, the Combat Information Center, was located above the Northern Polar Command Sector, a series of towers and antennae array that jutted up out of the station’s northernmost point.

The equator housed docking and hangar bays, tractor-beam generators, turbo laser emplacements, and mooring platforms for ships of the fleet. Magnetic seals and an atmosphere-containment projector kept the station’s internal atmosphere in and the vacuum of space out.

The outer hull was made of quadanium steel plates. A habitable crust several kilometers thick featured an entirely man-made atmosphere composed of command centers, armories, maintenance blocks, and other requirements for a fully operational space station. With the exception of the crust, the interior space was largely uninhabited and housed the hypermatter reactor, hyperdrive, and the Hubble Drive Yards sublight engines.

The station was equipped to easily house a crew of fifty thousand personnel along with ten legions of Imperial stormtroopers.

On the asteroid, from its capital city of Utapau, the ruling government of the independent system, the noble House Organa, retaliated by launching an aerial fleet of deadly Y-wing fighters.

The Cantwell-74 Y-wing consisted of a wedge-shaped cockpit connected to a reinforced central section fitted with strong pylons that extended to the long and powerful engine nacelles on either side of the craft. The pressurized cockpit seated a pilot and a gunner. The gunner, who manned the rotating blaster cannon, sat protected by a transparisteel bubbled canopy directly behind the pilot.

The aerodynamic craft was heavily armored with a titanium-reinforced hull. For weaponry, the starfighter craft was fitted with two forward-firing laser cannons. These weapons, designed to penetrate battle cruiser hulls, could inflict devastating effects.

The Y-wing was capable of unleashing a tremendous amount of firepower, especially when attacking in groups.

Fifty of these sleek spaceships soared up over the curving horizon of the rust-colored asteroid in v-formations of five each.

In an orange flight suit and black oxygen mask, the squadron commander sat behind the cramped controls of his space fighter.

“Lt. Pyter Barnell – GHOST RIDER” had been stenciled on the side of his space helmet. The commander was lean, hard, athletic. The archetype space fighter pilot. His stern face was obscured by a space helmet, the lights of the complicated control board reflected off his visor.

Directly in front of the fighter’s control stick, two CRT screens displayed data. The bottom screen revealed a radar sweep. Wedged between the instruments was a snapshot of a pretty young woman with a two-month-old baby.

The tense apprehension of the looming battle was shrouded by the silence of space. Only the muffled whine of rocket engine sounds could be heard in the tight cockpit. The squadron commander – with the call sign Ghost Rider - remained calm. Cowboy, his ventral gunner in the bubbled turret, sat behind him.

With a thick gloved hand, Ghost Rider turned the dial on the interplanetary radio and the cramped cockpit was filled with static followed by an elderly voice.

“…we will not yield! Aquilae is a member of the Alliance of Independent Star Systems. Imperial occupation of our space is a violation of General Order 329 subsection twelve of the Intergalactic Edict. Withdraw that battle station from our air space or House Organa will be forced to retali-…”

The voice suddenly fell silent and the speakers filled with static.

Ghost Rider flipped another switch and said, “They cut off all interplanetary communications. All right, boys, that’s our cue. Squadrons five, nine, and three, follow me across the station’s axis and take out as many turrets as possible. Greyhound, ward off any bogies dropping planet side.”

The squadron commander glanced out his cockpit window and called back to the gunner sitting behind him at his bubbled turret, “Activate targeting computer.”

Cowboy answered with a thumbs up and, “I got your six.”

As the small and sleek Y-shaped fighters darted toward the ominous Battlestar, the cockpit of the squadron commander became a static cacophony of UHF transmissions from the other pilots.

“Ghost Rider, this is Greyhound, continue your vector zero niner zero five alpha.”

A young voice crackled over the speakers, “Ghost Rider, this is Fahrenheit, we have unknown contact inbound. Vector zero three zero for bogey.”

Almost immediately behind Ghost Rider, he heard the targeting computer beep and Cowboy’s response, “Contact. Multiple bogies at one-fifty. Forty-five hundred knots closure.”

Ghost Rider glanced out the cockpit and saw one hundred tiny objects swarm out of the equatorial docking ports like wasps from a nest.

“TIE fighters!”

The P-s4 Twin Ion Engine fighter was one of the most recognizable symbols of the power of the Galactic Empire and was at the forefront of modern Imperial technology. A small, two-man craft, the cockpit was a blue, metal sphere attached to two large and black solar sails mounted on either side of the cockpit sphere.

Within the cramped cockpit, the pilot and gunner sat back to back surrounded by a myriad of intricate technology.

Due to the lack of life-support systems, each TIE pilot had a fully sealed flight suit superior to any space suit on the market.

The fighter ships were cheap to produce and therefore manufactured in large numbers by the Empire. Their far superior performance made them adversaries to be reckoned with by any starfighter.

The absence of a hyperdrive rendered the fighter dependent on carrier ships when deployed in enemy systems. TIE fighters lacked landing gear, another mass-reducing measure.

The primary armament was a pair of L-S1 laser cannons and a powerful sensor suite. The cannons were formidable, and a well-placed hit on a starfighter or medium-sized transport could damage or destroy it.

The silent darkness of space was lit up by the incandescent flak fire of battle as the two opposing fighter crafts soared headlong into one another. Within a matter of seconds, the battlefield was spotted with puffs of smoke, blazing fireballs, whirling spark showers, fiery spinning debris, rumbling implosions, shafts of light, tumbling machinery, and space frozen corpses.

In the cockpit of Ghost Rider, the console lights glowed dimly on the windscreen as his ship rocked and shuddered by the flashes of exploding blaster fire.

Unknown to his fellow squadron pilots, Ghost Rider realized this was deemed a suicide mission from the start. The goal was not to win, but to stall for enough time for the royal house of Organa to escape and seek safety elsewhere. As he watched his squadron picked off one by one, he only hoped old General Skywalker could safely deliver the young princess along with her mother and father to their hidden fortress.

In a monolithic tower located at the very north pole of the station, the main Combat Information Center was a drone of scurrying activity. Long rows of monitors and wall-sized viewscreens displayed the chaotic battle outside and scrolled statistics on how to attain the best and most effective victory.

Lights blinked and beeped on consoles as officers sat hunched over their stations observing the space battle in a cavernous chamber of grey metal and titanic power conduits.

Admiral Wilhelm Tarkin, Governor of numerous outlying Imperial territories and commander of this particular T-67 Battlestar, stood at the large, circular viewport with hands behind his back.

In his late sixties, Tarkin was a tall cadaverous man with a form borrowed from an old broom and the expression of a quiescent piranha. His lanky torso was meticulously fitted into a fascist military uniform of jet black. The only color on his uniform was the assortment of war medals pinned to his chest. With a furrow of arched brows, he scrutinized the spectacular aerial battle several kilometers away with intense interest.

His complete attention focused on the space battle outside, Tarkin nonchalantly raised a small plastic inhaler to his thin and chapped lips and, with a slight click of the mechanism, injected an aerosol puff of Aura into his lungs. Instantly, every object snapped into focus. For a brief second, he was one with the universe. Everything was as clear as glycerin.

Behind him, a uniformed officer stood from his console and, with a slight bow at the hips, said, “Admiral Tarkin, I just received a short wave radio transmission. King Bail Organa has ordered for the entire House to evacuate to their hidden fortress. He is estimating the plan one hour for completion.”

Enraged, Tarkin spun and pointed a gnarled and twig-like finger, “Deploy all bombers!” He ordered in crimson-faced fury. “Lay waste to every capital city! Let nothing survive!”

“Gen-genocide, s-sir?” The officer meekly stammered.

“Everything!” Tarkin screamed, spittle flinging from his insipid slit of a mouth. “I want that asteroid reduced to a burned-out cinder! It will serve as a deterrent to other star systems who dare oppose the emperor!”

As the chaos of battle echoed throughout the void, the pilot to Y-Wing 5, young Lt. Joffry Santos – call sign Fahrenheit – piloted his fighter through a wall of orange blaster flak just in time to glance fifty TIE bombers roar out of the station’s equatorial hangar bays and, in tight formation, nosedive toward Aquilae.

“Ghost Rider, this is Fahrenheit. Ghost Rider, one one seven. Contact off port multiple bogeys, zero zero niner at fifteen hundred kilometers, seventeen hundred knots.”

“Maintain position.” Ghost Rider ordered.

“Chief, their calculated trajectory is the palace at Utapau!” Answered a voice.

“Surface artillery will do their job so we can do ours,” was Ghost Rider’s calm response. “Keep those TIE’s off our tails. We are making our power dive. Concentrate firepower onto the station’s reactor conduits. Watch our six, Fahrenheit.”

“Copy that,” was the static-infused reply.

With TIE fighters and florescent bursts of flak zipping past, Ghost Rider and ten of his squadron plowed through the blasting Imperial fighters and soared downward, skimming along the industrial complex of the massive space station.

Powerful blaster cannons mounted on towers rained deadly laser bolts onto the zig-zagging craft.

“Cowboy! Take out that cannon at four o’clock!” Ghost Rider ordered through gritted teeth. Out of his peripheral, he saw two more of his wing disintegrate into fireballs.

Three cannons to his right exploded into a spectacular display of incandescent fire. Ghost Rider skillfully piloted his sleek fighter past floating debris, shrapnel, and bodies.

“There’s too many of them!” Said a static voice over the intercom. “We’re sitting targets with these guys! They’re killing us!”

“What are your orders, chief?”

“We’re no match for this kind of firepower!”

“We won’t last much longer. Squad is down to thirty percent and rapidly dropping!”, blurted another voice, it was Fahrenheit.

“Issue a retreat, sir! We must retreat!” Cried another voice.

“Remain vigilant!” Barked Ghost Rider, “We must hold our positions to allow the King and Queen time to evacuate! The empire wants to take our home! Take our way of life! Take away our freedom!” He glanced at the photograph on his console, “We must win for our families, for our children! With me, men! For House Organa!”

“For House Organa!” Came the response of the remaining pilots.

With that, the Y-Wing squadron flew low over the infrastructure of the immense battle station releasing a barrage of blaster bolts across its hull. As the pilots skillfully flew through the fire storm they created, the very base of the station shuddered in the volley of enormous explosions that tore open its keel.

Down below on the arid surface of Aquilae, a stout farmer stood next to his silo scrutinizing the stars with his electro-binoculars. With intense wonder, he watched as vivid flashes erupted around the glinting, metal sphere that hung suspended far up in the night sky.

A battle? Way out here? He thought to himself. Who are they fighting?

Suddenly, the night was lit by the blinding flare of several atomic mushroom clouds sprouting across the landscape.

In a flash of complete shock, the farmer froze in astonished horror as his shadow was burned into the side of the concrete silo and the farmer was reduced to ashes.

Like the Valkyrie of old, TIE bombers soared across the night sky, illuminated by the orange burst of over one hundred atomic bombs dropped across the craggy landscape.

General Luke Skywalker stood on a low bluff under a sea of stars looking out into the arid prairies of Aquilae. Amid the dull and distant booming on the horizon, with sad resignation, he sighed. He was feeling his age. Though, even at sixty, he retained the vigor and strength of his youth.

The general was a tall and powerful-looking man with ruggedly handsome features. He wasn’t muscular but held the bulky physique of a seasoned prizefighter.

On an angular head was strapped a leather flight cap open at the top that exposed a shock of silver hair parted on the side and a white, close-cropped beard covering his stern jaw.

He was outfitted in the uniform of the Jedi Bendu – an ancient warrior class who protected the royal clans of the galaxy through a code of honor and justice. Over a dark blue shirt, he bore a chest plate of chrome that bore the heraldry of House Organa: a crescent moon with two stars. A pair of khaki jodhpurs ended in knee-high black leather boots. Attached around his waist was a leather scabbard that held both blaster pistol and a cylindrical baton a little over thirty centimeters in length that consisted primarily of a short, thick handgrip with a couple of small switches set into the grip. Above this small post was a circular metal disk barely larger in diameter than a spread palm. The reverse side of the disk was polished to mirror brightness.

The laser sword was his father’s, killed in battle defending House Organa during the early Revolution. His father and his grandfathers had served House Organa for over eighty generations.

He was the first to fail.

With pained trepidation, he slowly pulled his thick blue cloak around his torso. Once pristine, it was now tattered and singed.

The general adjusted his dark goggles over steel blue eyes as the far horizon was lit up by a blinding flash of an atomic detonation to the southwest.

Five, he said to himself, that was five within the last half hour.

Around him at every point of the darkened horizon, the tell-tale remnant of an atomic mushroom cloud dissipated into the tepid night.

He swallowed in a dry mouth. His face, though weathered and lined from being subjected to a myriad of exotic climates, remained stoic. His lined face revealed the thoughts of the sixty-year-old Jedi Bendu: broken, hopeless, and beaten.

He recalled how he entered the cavernous throne room in Utapau less than two hours prior. He hurriedly marched along the red velvet carpet past monumental marble columns of white to the grand steps that led to a great throne cut from a single emerald.

King Bail Organa sat on his throne surrounded by twenty of his retainers. A strong-looking man in blue and black robes of velvet and silk. A crown of gold sat atop a square head of black hair with grey on the sides. He sported a trimmed goatee on a handsome face.

The king rose as the general was striding across the throne room. Extending his bejeweled hand, an elegant and matronly woman in fine silks took the king’s lead as they began to descend the stairs. The beautiful woman was his loving wife, Queen Breha Organa.

Skywalker stopped and bowed curtly at the hip, “My grace, you ordered the evacuation of the city?”

At the base of the steps, the king said as he met Skywalker’s stern gaze, “General, my SkyHopper is awaiting you on the landing pad.” Skywalker noticed the look of absolute tense horror on his wife’s face as the king continued in a voice laced with grief, “Retrieve my daughter and safely escort her to our hidden fortress beneath the palace.”

A platoon of armored Aquilian Rangers marched in and stood at attention to the left of the king. It was at that moment Skywalker understood the severity of the situation.

Skywalker stood immobile and said, “My King, you are my responsibility. I will first see that you and Queen Breha make it to the safety of the hidden fortress. Afterward, I will then…”

Outside the palace, the klaxon of an air raid siren began to wail. The knot of terrified retainers huddled together behind their king and queen nervously glancing toward the domed ceiling.

“No!” The king stated curtly; his eyes moist in tears. “My daughter is your only responsibility! Now, go! That is a direct order, General!”

With a bow at the hip, the general raced out of the throne room to a small landing pad adjacent to the palace tower. The SkyHopper was a two-seater pod with two fins, a dorsal wing, and a single rear rocket. The king generally used the craft for quick trips between outlying settlements or for holiday diversions. The maintenance crew barely had time to get their distance before Skywalker lept into the cockpit and rocketed east toward the Royal University campus.

The moment Skywalker landed his craft on the palm tree lined square outside the Great Hall of the ancient Academy; the air raid sirens began to wail. Students and faculty flooded out of the antiquated halls. Amid the confused throng, the general spotted the princess.

“Your Highness!” The general called. He approached the princess, “We must return to Utapau immediately. Your father has ordered you to join him and your mother in the hidden fortress.”

Princess Leia Organa, at sixteen years old, retained a form both slender and delicate. Every graceful movement and every knowing glance revealed her royal upbringing. Without question, she was noble born.

“What seems to be amiss, General Skywalker?” She asked in well-educated and enunciated tones. Her voice was smooth and comforting.

“Your father believes the empire is about to attack Aquilae, Your Highness.”

Still clothed in a nightgown of white whisper-lace and silk, the sixteen-year-old princess said with discerning anxiety mounting her delicate features, “Then let us make haste to the palace, General Skywalker.”

Secured in the SkyHopper, the general and the princess rocketed west toward Utapau.

Suddenly, to their right on the horizon, an atomic explosion lit up the night sky. To their west was another and then directly ahead an atomic blast disintegrated the Royal Palace and much of the sprawling capital. A powerful EMP pulse washed over the tiny SkyHopper.

The princess screamed as the general grasped the SkyHopper’s control stick. The control board blinked off as the craft fell toward the craggy surface of the asteroid.

The general’s thoughts returned to the immediate situation as he stood silent on the edge of the bluff. They had lost. The aerial fleet was no match for a T-67 Battlestar, that much was certain. The palace, the fortress beneath Utapau, along with every living person within, had been reduced to charred ash. His wide shoulders sunk. House Organa had fallen. They had lost.

He heard her muffled sobbing behind him. The general turned and saw the princess sitting against a boulder, her delicate hand up to her mouth and grieving the death of her mother and father.

How he pitied her. A great wave of sadness rushed over him as he scrutinized this tormented and grieving young girl. He walked over to her and knelt on one knee with head bowed.

“I am sorry, Your Highness,” Skywalker said, the sadness apparent in his gruff voice. “I have failed House Organa. I have failed you.”

The young princess turned her tear-streaked face to the melancholy general, “No, my chieftain, you have not. There was nothing you could have done to save my mother and father. They foresaw this attack and prepared for it.”

“Prepared? For what? Look out there!” He extended an arm out into the persecuted night. “There is nothing left!”

She placed a delicate hand upon his scruffy chin, causing the general to meet her gaze.

She said, comforting, “There is hope, General.”

Tears began to run down his rugged, soot-covered face, “Hope? How is there hope, Your Grace? All is gone. The Empire had taken House Organa by surprise and dealt its death blow. How is there hope?”

She gently smiled a warm smile that reminded him of her mother. “You served my father and his clan for so long and, at this most catastrophic of times, doubt his resourceful intelligence, my chieftain? My father suspected of this treachery from his last transmission with the emperor. You will find one kilo of raw Aura Spice in the back of that fallen SkyHopper. I noticed the micropack when we fled the University.”

The general rose and walked over to the wrecked SkyHopper. Leaving a long skid in the sand, the craft was a twisted and torn wreck. It lay on its side against a rising bluff, one tattered wing pointed toward the clear and starry night.

Behind the passenger seat was indeed one chrome canister. Skywalker opened the lid to reveal it packed with the incandescent blue of the unrefined mushroom. An overpowering musky scent assailed his nostrils.

He retrieved a leather satchel that lay next to the canister and opened it. In the bag were one hundred ampules of refined spice. Small, chrome aerosol injectors ready for consumption. A fortune on the black market.

He grabbed the satchel and the small harness attached to the canister, holding them up to the princess, “This is enough to purchase an entire moon. Why? Why did your father leave you this?”

The princess continued, “It just may be the last living Aura on the entire asteroid. The emperor has long threatened Aquilae to rob her of her spice. The scientists in my father’s employ had designed a virus that would kill all fungus on the asteroid if the empire should attack. They did and forced the hand of my father. He ordered all spice crops across Aquilae to be destroyed. Our clan may be in ruin, but there is hope, General. If we can get to Ophuchi, my uncle there will help us.”

General Skywalker remained silent, pensive. His mind reeled. Was all spice on the asteroid gone? He inspected the satchel. He found a holodisc. It displayed the royal crest and was addressed to him. He approached the princess holding the bag and canister in his arms. She stood. Her white, tattered gown blew in the gritty and dusty breeze.

“You, my princess, you are our last hope,” Skywalker said with finality.

Leia clasped her thin white veil of satin about her small frame. With head held high, she stated in formal tones that belonged to her father, “Once again, my General, House Organa calls upon you for assistance. We must find a way off-world if our clan is to survive.”

Placing a gloved fist to his heart, General Skywalker bowed and stated in earnest, “Princess Leia Organa, from this time forward, my existence is the sole safety of you and the continuation of House Organa.”

Far above, the battle in space raged. Admiral Tarkin stood at the large viewport. Flashes of yellow and orange danced across his bony face as he scrutinized the systematic destruction of House Organa and its pathetic areal fleet. Across the surface of Aquilae blossomed the atomic destruction he had ordered.

A sly smirk crossed his cadaverous face, “Lieutenant?”

An officer approached and bowed at the hip.

Tarkin took a shot from his inhaler then continued, “I wish to see the look on King Bail Organa’s face when our occupational forces take siege of Utapau and the palace. Deploy the stormtroopers. Prepare my shuttle. I shall lead them when they march onto the palace.”

The officer bowed, “By your command, Admiral Tarkin.”

Near the equator of the space station, the metal hallways buckled and twisted as the battle outside raged. Repair crews scrambled to extinguish fires and fortify girders as platoons of white armored stormtroopers hurried to their waiting transports.

Another distant explosion shook the station – certainly not distant enough for the two maintenance robots assigned to prep Admiral Tarkin’s shuttle.

Designated as R2-D2 and C-3PO, the rumbling concussion bounced them around the narrow corridor like bearings in an old motor.

R2-D2 was a short, cylindrical robot with three, squat and thick legs. His legs ended in stabilized treads that allowed him to scurry about with easy headway. On both sides of his torso jutted two clawed arms as well as two more tucked away at the front of his chassis. Atop a dull chrome dome, the robot’s face was a mass of computer lights, surrounding a radar eye.

In contrast, C-3PO was a tall slender robot of burnished copper. Attaining a human-like framework, his metal casings were crafted with a distinct art-deco design.

Glancing at these two, one would suppose the tall, humanlike machine, C-3PO, was the master and the stubby, tripodal robot, R2-D2, an inferior. While C-3PO may have scoffed at the suggestion, they were equal in everything save mobility. Here C-3PO was clearly superior.

Another fiery explosion rattled the corridor, throwing C-3PO off balance. His shorter companion had the better of it with his squat, cylindrical body’s low center of gravity well balanced on thick treadmill feet.

R2-D2 glanced up at C-3PO, who was steadying himself against a corridor wall. Lights blinked enigmatically around a single mechanical eye as the smaller robot studied the battered casing of his friend. A patina of metal and fibrous dust coated the usually gleaming copper finish, and there were some visible dents - all the result of the pounding the battle station they were on had been taking.

Accompanying the last attack was a persistent deep hum that even the loudest explosion had not been able to drown out. Then for no apparent reason, the basso thrumming abruptly ceased, and the only sounds in the otherwise deserted corridor came from the eerie dry-twig crackle of shorting relays or the pops of dying circuitry.

Explosions began to echo through the battle station once more, but they were far away from the corridor.

C-3PO cocked his smooth, humanlike head to one side. The imitation of a human pose was hardly necessary - C-3PO’s auditory sensors were fully omnidirectional - but the slim robot had been programmed to blend perfectly among human company.

This programming extended even to mimicry of human gestures. In which he did as he flailed his metal arms as he followed his smaller companion down the smoky corridor.

“This is crazy! We have to get off this station before we are reduced to atoms!” C-3PO declared in a panic.

“You are the one who’s crazy!” R2-D2 shot back. “You want to jump ship and evacuate? We have a mission to do! You are in violation!”

“What’s the point of threatening me with violation when no one will be around to enforce it, you short-circuiting bucket of scrap!”

“No need for unpleasantries! Let us complete our mission and worry about what is next afterwards!”

“How did I get stuck with you?” The slender robot uttered, shaking his head.

R2-D2 stopped at the entrance to Admiral Tarkin’s hanger. He turned and faced C-3PO, “Feeling is mutual. You complain too much. Always have. Go back to command and tell them you weren’t in the mood to prepare Admiral Tarkin’s shuttle. Go ahead. I’ll wait.”

Without allowing C-3PO time to retort, the little robot spun on its treads and darted uncaringly into the hangar.

“You’re going to cause me to bust a fuse! Switch off! I can do this on my own! Why do I need a servomech’s assistance, anyway?” The copper robot asked.

“I can prime the fusion cells, you are programmed to not.”

“Fair enough!” C-3PO shot back, “But do not think a minute I will not report you for malfunction the moment we return to automaton maintenance when our mission is done.”

“Whatever, buzz rod.”

“The audacity!”

The two bickering robots entered the cavernous hangar and made their way to Admiral Tarkin’s streamlined personal shuttle. Several maintenance crews dashed about attaching fuel lines and power cables. Two armored stormtroopers stood guard at the ship’s hatch.

The commanding stormtrooper curtly nodded approval at the two robots as they hurried past and up the ramp into the shuttle’s two-seated cockpit. R2-D2 plugged a clawed arm into the command console as he began to switch levers and turn dials with his other three arms.

Sitting in the pilot’s seat, C-3PO pushed several buttons as the ion reactor began its deep hum. He looked at his counterpart, “You know, we should just hijack this ship and get as far from this madness as possible.”

R2-D2 made a noise that sounded like a popping breaker, “They will melt you down to slag if anyone heard you uttering such traitorous nonsense! I certainly do not wish…”

At that moment, a fiery explosion tore across the hangar. The two robots stared in horror as the electromagnetic field shut off and personnel and debris were sucked out into space. Another large explosion ripped through the hanger, violently knocking the shuttle across the deck, and tearing the small craft from its moors.

“We have to get out of here! We’ll be blasted to atoms!” C-3PO yelled.

“No! If they catch us they’ll render us down to spare parts!” R2-D2 shot back as he desperately clung to a support frame.

“I personally do not wish to be around when this station explodes!” The copper robot grabbed the control stick to the spacecraft and, flicking several switches, shot the shuttle out of the demolished hangar and into space directly into the middle of the space battle.

“Oh, no! It’s worse out here!” C-3PO said as he desperately piloted the craft through the chaos of exploding shrapnel.

Without warning, a Y-Wing swooped past and shot the shuttle across its dorsal solar fin. The broken shuttle dived down toward the surface of the asteroid, trailing a spiral stream of gray smoke in its wake.

“This is it! We’re meeting our end!” The smaller robot cried.

“This is all your fault! Complete felonious intent!” C-3PO retorted in despair.

In the CIC of the battle station, Admiral Tarkin leered with a coy smirk outside the viewport as he watched the futile attack on his station.

An officer adjusted his headset and listened intently to an incoming message, “Admiral Tarkin, we are receiving word that the capital city Utapau lays in ruin. A ground assault had been issued and is now en route to the Royal Genetics laboratories.”

His unwavering attention remained on the space battle, “Issue general order 527, lieutenant. Begin a planet-wide sweep to all farms and commandeer all spice production. If any of the local farmers retaliate, kill them.”

“Just a moment, Admiral Tarkin…” The lieutenant bent over his console, head tilted in attention, hand clasping the left headset, “We are receiving reports that the corpses of King Bail Organa and Queen Breha Organa were found amid the rubble of the palace. One servant had been captured and confessed that Princess Leia Organa was spirited away from the city by General Luke Skywalker and is now hiding in the surrounding wasteland. Their whereabouts are unknown.”

Tarkin spun, his face crimson in rage, “Dispatch all land personnel to locate that insufferable brat immediately! I want a garrison of stormtroopers in every standing village and the remaining spaceport! Report any…”

With a low, ominous hum, a hologram of a scowling man’s face three meters tall appeared between Tarkin and the cowering lieutenant. The man’s face was thin and lined with advanced age, made pale by the flickering cathode image. He had a predominant nose, heavy-lidded eyes, and a wispy goatee that hung limply over insipid lips. A crown of jewel-encrusted gold was perched atop a bald head.

Instantly, all personnel, stormtrooper, and flight officers alike, dropped to their knees, placing their foreheads onto the deck with arms outstretched and palms flat on the ground. This was the custom when in the presence of the Galactic Emperor Ford Alejandro Xerxes the XII. Tarkin merely huffed a quick shot from another inhaler, snapped his booted heels together, and bowed curtly at the hip.

“Your majesty,” Admiral Tarkin said.

Emperor Xerxes sneered, “This campaign has floundered over budget by sixty-three percent, Admiral!”

“We have captured the asteroid and commandeered the capital, my emp…”

“Do not ever contradict me, Admiral! I will see to it personally you spend your remaining years in a pain amplifier!”

Tarkin kowtowed and simply nodded.

“I’ve been monitoring your transmissions. What is this that the Princess Leia Organa has escaped? Aided by a Jedi-Bendu?”

“She will be found, my emperor.”

“Indeed she will!” The Galactic Emperor snarled, “I have sent a Knight of the Sith to assist you in your efforts. He will locate your missing princess.”

Admiral Tarkin heard him before he saw him. The raspy breathing was made even more sinister as the sound had been distorted electronically.

The image of the emperor dissipated as Tarkin saw the knight stride onto the command center opposite of him.

Over two meters tall. At first glance, Tarkin thought the figure was a malicious looking robot. No, the character strode on his two legs far too eloquently, like gliding across ice.

A flowing black cape trailed from the individual with a face forever masked by a functional, if peculiar, black metal breath screen. The imposing figure was completely encased in a suit of black armor which, though black as it was, was not nearly as dark as the thoughts drifting through the mind of Darth Vader as he approached the grave figure of Admiral Tarkin.

Fear followed the footsteps of all the Dark Knights. The cloud of evil that clung about this particular one was intense enough to cause hardened stormtroopers to back away, menacing enough to set officers muttering nervously among themselves.

Issuing a discomforting mechanical gasp followed by a click, repetitive and unnerving from his suit, the Dark Knight halted his stride a meter in front of the Admiral.

Tarkin was familiar with the history of the Sith Knights. During the reign of the previous emperor, he solicited their aid in exterminating the Jedi-Bendu after an unsuccessful coup. But, this particular one? He heard whispers, rumors. This Vader held the reputation of being the worst.

Tarkin distrusted every one of them. A group of warrior fanatics consumed by a forgotten and twisted religion.

“By Imperial decree of Emperor Ford Xerxes the Twelfth, I am here to commandeer your effort in locating Princess Leia Organa and the traitor General Luke Skywalker,” Vader said with deep and condescending tones. The Dark Knight turned to the trembling lieutenant, “Inform the public on the asteroid below that criminal insurgents move amongst them. Lockdown the spaceport. Broadcast on all frequencies any citizen assisting in locating the princess will be financially compensated.”

With a flow of black robes, the Dark Knight turned and exited the command center. He trailed a smell in his wake like that of burnt oil and sulfur.

With a rudimentary puff from another inhaler, Tarkin’s bloodshot eyes narrowed as he observed the armored knight and thought, How dare the emperor! We certainly do not need scum like the Sith to assist us.

to be continued...

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