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#swtor fanfiction
eorzeashan · 1 month
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Commander Stew
Theron cooks something for the Commander.
Odessen - The Kitchens
A young man sporting a dollop of white hair and refined features entered the communal kitchen of the Alliance carrying a large crate, wearing a plain burlap apron, rubber gloves, and waders over what usually would qualify as a stealth suit–a bit of an odd sight, but one Theron had gotten used to over time.
“Hey! You’re back early. Put ‘em down over there,” Theron glanced over his shoulder, nodding briefly at the young man, then motioning with his head at the kitchen island. Eight squeezed past him as he ran his hands under the faucet, careful not to bump into the other spy. They set down the box on the counter and patiently folded their hands, awaiting instructions.
Theron turned off the sink and flung the remnant droplets off his hands, drying them with a slightly stained checkerboard dish towel.
Even with his fearsome past, Theron found the quiet operative to be pleasant company most days, with Eight acting as his assistant in daily matters ranging from mundane chores to deadly missions. All at the behest of Lana, of course. She was the one who insisted on (see: forced) a pair of helping hands for him after he'd incorrectly assumed she’d wanted him to take on all her burdens.
Not that he was complaining about the extra hands. Certainly not today of all days–he was planning something special, and that required all of the help he could get.
Theron opened the flaps of the crate. Fresh from their gardening plot in the Odessen fields, the box was practically bursting with colorful root vegetables and leafy greens native to the planet. Purple, orange, striped yellows and swirls of blue–all packed with vitamins and the healthy color of a successful crop. Plain proof that their efforts to cultivate more organic food for the personnel had finally given fruit, after several long winters of withered stalks and exhausting meals of food chips.
Theron smiled wryly. He’d have to make a toast to Dr. Oggurrobb’s fertilizer and the Force Enclave’s agricultural knowledge later.
“Will this be enough?” Eight asked, mellow as ever. He watched him coolly through deep umber eyes.
“It’s more than enough,” Theron answered, a bit of uncertainty leaking into his tone as he stared at the foodstuffs. The vegetables taunted him from their comfy spot atop the counter next to the impressive array of knives and cooking utensils laid out side-by-side like an interrogation toolkit. “...I think.” He wiped the tip of his nose.
Theron hated to admit it, but he was no culinarian. Master Zho had never taught him (really, what could you teach a kid to cook in the wilderness besides canned goods and pre-packaged rations), and his stint as a SIS agent since his youth had left him with little time to prepare nor care. The extent of his cooking repertoire could quickly be summed up to sticking a frozen Orobird leg in the flash oven and waiting for two minutes, sadly.
So why was he making an effort now?
The image of the Commander’s tired face weary from battle and sleepless nights, aging lines etched deep into their skin with the carvings of a destiny too large for one person, flashed in Theron’s mind. He’d seen the way they’d fought–skipped meals, denied themselves sleep, hid the way their gaze turned vacant when they thought no one was looking, left their cafeteria plate practically untouched, compounded blackened bottoms of endless cups of caf, the stims—the Commander was burning themselves at both ends.
Hypocritical as it was, he couldn’t stand watching them drive themselves into the ground. The galaxy’s fate was important, but…not as important as they were to Theron. Yet he found himself at a loss; what words he wanted to tell them to eat better, to sleep more, to stop hurting themselves fell short whenever the Commander gave him that one look. That look of resignation, deep as the dull ache that would settle in his chest afterwards.
“I’m okay,” They’d tell him, smiling wan, “Thank you, Theron.” It’s alright. It’s nothing. Don’t worry about me.
Like hell he couldn’t. He–
“Theron…?”
Theron snapped out of his reverie, realizing he’d been wringing the dishcloth far too tightly for too long. Eight stared at him, puzzled. He released it. His knuckles returned to their previous pink.
“...Sorry. Just. Tired,” Theron shook his head, massaging his temples. Tired. Yeah. He was sure someone else was too, and he hadn’t asked Eight to come here to watch him have a breakdown. Pushing off from the counter, he clapped his hands together, mustering up a second wind. “Let’s get to work. Shall we?”
Commander Stew
Ingredients:
Young Makrin Legs
Orobird Soup Stock
Rootleaf, 1 Head
Imperial-issued Instant Glowblue Noodles, 1 Package
Republic Synth-Ham and Grophet Sausages
Odessen Wild Onions
Mandalorian Spice Sauce
Zakuulan Swamp Glowshrooms
Slice of Ration Cheese
Directions:
Prepare the young makrin legs by soaking them in water and shaving the fibrous exterior with a peeler.
Theron stared at the unassuming pile of…legs that resembled roots more than they did the limbs of any creature, and secretly shuddered. Makrins weren’t particularly uncommon on terrestrial worlds, but their crabby, tree-like appearance and tendency to wallow in loam didn't make them his first choice to eat. He wasn't exactly opposed to adventurous cuisine, but he wondered how exactly the legs of a chitinous creature equaled something that would make the Commander more appetized.
As if sensing his cause for pause, Eight peered over his shoulder where he stood frozen with peeler in hand. “The Jedi recommended them for use in medicinal dishes. When eaten boiled, it lowers blood pressure, and contains many nutrients.” He said thoughtfully, as if reading an entry from an encyclopedia.
“Is that so.” Theron inwardly balked at the mention of the Jedi–a little known fact was that Master Zho had raised him on Jedi cuisine, most of it vegetarian, but even then he hadn’t sampled every bit of agriculture the galaxy had to offer. Makrin legs were a bit out there, but seeing as they were native to Odessen, recommended by the enclave and another piece of stress relief on a plate for the Commander? His survival training told him the harmless limbs could only benefit, despite their gnarly appearance.
Remove the tips and fibrous base. When cleaned and processed, set aside.
He buckled down and began shaving the legs. Lack of proper nutrition was always a deciding factor in conflict–Theron had seen his fair share of soldiers who contracted disease from improper eating and lack of supplies– and he would feed the Commander any bit of ugly vegetables if it meant seeing a little more life restored to their pallid cheeks. His fingers found their rhythm as he removed the tough outer skin from the legs exposing their soft white core beneath the blade of the peeler, their texture reminding him oddly of Dantooinian tubers with an extra coat of slime.
Slice and dice half of a medium-sized onion.
Theron had to pretend he wasn't looking particularly emotional as he chopped the onion. Or maybe he was simply brought to tears at the thought that their food could have flavor for once, all thanks to the Alliance’s team of scouts who procured such supplies for them from the unmapped regions of Odessen’s wilds. Eight was among that team, hence Theron's willingness to let an Imp spy of all people join him in cooking. There was only a small handful of people he could use to conceal his efforts from the Commander, and Theron would make use of both his ability to obtain food in secret and his espionage skills to see this through, opposing factions be damned.
And if others worried about poisoning, well. He didn't pride himself on being Chief of Security for nothing. The safety of the Commander was his priority, as were the characters of those he chose to fight alongside them. They were his responsibility. His to trust with their most important fight and everything in-between. Theron couldn't afford to keep the old grudges that the Republic and Empire maintained in these desperate times, and he would not fall victim to their need to blind themselves with their unending war. He had to fight for what was important, and that was…people. Not sides.
Theron would always be a son of the Republic at his heart. But now his heart belonged to another, and those lines had long blurred.
Slice the glowshrooms length-wise, removing the head from the stems. Set aside.
Clean and cut the rootleaf in half, then the following halves into quarters; chop into smaller squares until you have about 1 cup’s worth of rootleaf. Store the rest in a cool, refrigerated place.
Unpackage the Synth-Ham, Republic Ration #0625, and slice to desired thickness.
Theron opened the can of mystery meat and upended it onto the chopping board. The green ham-like substance plopped onto it with gelatinous grace. He poked it with his cooking knife. It jiggled away from the tip.
Eight placed an empty pot next to him along with a can of opened grophet sausages and an unwrapped package of Imperial ration Glowblue Noodles, their signature color shining through the foil. Theron quickly thanked him out of the corner of his mouth.
Arrange the rootleaf, onion, makrin legs, and glowshrooms at the bottom of the pot in even layers.
Add a helping of Mandalorian Spiced Sauce on top.
Theron couldn't forget Torian and his people. They were the ones who suggested using their own spices for the hotpot, as “no other spice in the galaxy compares to that of a Mando’s.” Though he’d initially expressed some reservations at setting the Commander’s tongue aflame, this special mix had been made with their preference in mind; Shae had been so impressed by their valor that she presented several crates worth as a gift after the battle of Darvannis. Spices were a luxury if not a grand gesture in wartime, and not one Theron intended to use lightly.
Add the Synth-Ham, grophet sausages, and top with a slice of ration cheese over the previous ingredients.
Finally, add the Glowblue Noodles and 3 liters of Orobird stock.
Theron blinked at the finished product. “Wait a minute. This is…”
“Revanite stew?” Eight once again helpfully supplied.
It was Theron’s turn to ask the questions as he raised a suspicious brow towards his sous-chef. “They ate this during the coalition, when the camps combined. How did you get the same recipe?”
Eight smiled quietly to himself, in his mysterious and elusive way. “Our Commander was there. It was their idea to share food across factions. I still haven't forgotten its taste. If you ask any of the soldiers from that time, they will say the same.”
Theron stared at him, speechless. To think the same recipe he’d been making this entire time was a result of their union on Rishi…he recalled seeing Imperial and Republic soldiers bonding over a cookpot, but hadn't joined in, content to watch the proceedings from a distance. So much had happened during Revan’s rise that he’d failed to pay enough attention to something so innocuous as a moment of camaraderie between unlikely allies.
It had been their idea to eat something both Imperial and Republic that fateful night. To form the basis of their Alliance over a simple, warm bowl of soup.
Theron felt his heart swell.
He…he had to remind them of what they had built. What they meant to him. With this.
Set on top of a burner and deliver to recipients with bowls to share.
Theron held his breath as he wheeled the cart of foodstuffs to the Commander’s quarters, careful to avoid jostling the stew that balanced atop it as he reached his destination. He rapped on the door with the back of his knuckles.
A puff of pnematic air revealed the Commander, yawning wearily from yet another sleepless night of work and burdens. “Yes–” They stopped. “Theron? What are you doing here?” They eyed his cart. “And what's with all the food?”
Theron cracked a sheepish smile, rubbing the back of his neck. “Thought you could use some dinner, so…I brought you some. If you don't mind, that is.” He quickly added, feeling out of place in the deserted hallway.
The Commander smiled, a genuine one that reached their eyes, crinkling at the edges. “I’d love to try whatever you made. Come in, we can eat it together.” They stepped aside to allow Theron room to maneuver.
Enjoy with your intended party.
As expected, it was delicious.
Not as filling as seeing the Commander laugh to the point of tears at his explanations as to why he'd been so secretive all week trying to hide the fruits of his cooking from them, but filling nonetheless. He'd give it a 5/5, personally, as a true soup for the soul. (And a note to make it again with less sneaking around).
If the Commander was satisfied and satiated... so was he.
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swtorpadawan · 1 month
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Chaos is a Ladder
Author’s Notes: The following story takes place on Hutta during Act III of the Class stories. I name-drop a lot of minor NPCs from the game, so I hope you’re into that sort of thing. Content warnings for references to off-camera extreme violence.
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“Chaos isn't a pit. Chaos is a ladder. Many who try to climb it fail and never get to try again. The fall breaks them.” - Petyr Baelish, aka 'Littlefinger', HBO’s Game of Thrones, season 3, episode 6, "The Climb"
Loyalty on Hutta is a complicated thing. The woman who called herself Linh noted to herself in a detached moment of clarity, drawing her consciousness away from the nearby stench of death and the distant sounds of fighting.
Nominally, of course, everything on Hutta was controlled by the Hutts. Any attempts to wrest control of their adopted home world away from the Cartel over the centuries – either by the native Evocii or by the various rival crime lords and organizations that thrived on the nearby ‘Smuggler’s Moon’ of Nar Shaddaa – had been ruthlessly crushed.   
But in practice, the Hutt Cartel ruled Hutta solely through fear.
And it was an effective and even a pragmatic fear, one that allowed a relatively small number of Hutts to each rule over their own private fiefdom, with the backing of countless guards, servants and slaves, aided by any number of semi-independent mercenaries and bounty hunters, and supported by a culture that ensured that however much Hutts might quarrel, fight and rage against each other, they always seemed to band together the moment the status quo of their world was challenged; even if one Hutt did fall, another would simply take their place or absorb their territory, with predictable consequences.  
But it was still a control built on the foundation of fear nonetheless. Meaning that any loyalty anyone showed to the Hutts was an illusion, and that illusion was virtually everywhere.
Based on her own training and experiences, Linh had always suspected that the moment peoples’ fear of the Hutts was eclipsed by their fear of something else, those illusions would be dispelled, and those people would turn.
And that suspicion was now being confirmed as people were now turning on Suudaa Nem'ro, more popularly known as Nem’ro the Hutt, leader of the Nem’ro Clan and lord of the industrial town of Jiguuna.
It had all started less than an hour ago.
The unnamed Houk had shown up suddenly at the entrance of Nem’ro’s Palace, calling out the Hutt and bellowing a series of extraordinarily graphic and imaginative threats against Nem’ro’s person.
This had initially been little cause for concern to Linh and most of the other occupants of the palace at the time, who initially took this development for a rather convoluted suicide attempt. This Houk was clearly insane and was looking for a way to die.
Then Nem’ro’s guards had converged to intercept the intruder… and they had been the ones who started dying.
The amused indifference of the populace had turned to concern and then to fear.
Then the fear had turned to panic.
As the Houk made his way through the palace, killing anyone in his path in a merciless onslaught, everything had descended into chaos. Every second the Houk had spent viciously cleaving his way through defenders with his vibro-blade was a second where resistance seemed to melt away.
The panic had turned to rioting, as everyone’s immediate goals had shifted.
It wasn’t just the Houk’s doing, of course. Had all the guards, servants, hangers-on and guests in Nem’ro’s palace bravely united to stand against the assailant, they surely would have taken him down eventually.
Surely. Linh thought to herself in reassurance, even though she was not completely certain at all.
Many of the occupants of Nem’ro’s palace were perfectly willing enough to feign bravery when the odds were overwhelmingly in their favor and there was a chance for personal gain. But they were quick to turn and flee the moment that equation was in doubt.
No. This crisis was the result of people on Hutta fearing something else more than they feared a Hutt. The instant that happened, all bets were off. Tomorrow, or a year from now, a new equilibrium would inevitably reemerge, with some other Hutt in charge.
No one cared about that now.
The majority of these people simply wanted to survive today.
Far worse than these sheep were the many individuals in the palace and throughout Jiguuna who had instinctively started taking advantage of the chaos. Many saw the opportunity to finish old scores with a rival at a moment when they figured they could get away with it. One or two were petty enough to simply took the chance to mug some of the wealthier patrons of the lord of Jiguuna. A few even risked looting the treasures of the Hutt’s palace.
Fools. Linh thought to herself. She didn’t know how many of these opportunists had made it out of the palace, but she had to assume it wasn’t many. No amount of credits (or personal satisfaction) were worth your life.
Not when everything is falling into anarchy. Linh thought to herself.
She heard fighting – or rioting – in the distance. She counted herself lucky.
For her own part, by the time the intruder had stormed through the palace cantina, where Linh usually spent her days, she had wisely made herself scarce, slipping out into the streets of Jiguuna in the confusion as she gripped her hold-out blaster.
Linh was an observer. By training and inclination. Now she finally had a moment to reflect on what she had observed during her final moments in the palace. Most of it seemed irrelevant. Who was running. Who was fighting. Why was dying.
One thing she was certain of was that Nem’ro’s luck had finally run out.
At what seemed to have been the penultimate moment, only one of Nem’ro’s remaining lieutenants, Carnus, seemed willing to take up the challenge posed by his fellow Houk. The two had come to blows in the cantina, even while Nem’ro could be heard bellowing down the passageway in a panic for more of his guards to come to his side to defend his bulk, and offering outrageous rewards to whomever could end the threat to his life.
When even Carnus had fallen beneath the newcomer’s rampage, the writing on the wall had become clear: Nem’ro the Hutt was doomed. No one else would be willing to die for the Hutt. It was simply a matter of survival now, and who could run the fastest.
If the Lord of Jiguuna wasn’t already dead, he would be soon.
Still outside, cocooned in her moment of clarity, Linh realized that it was a fall that had been a long time coming. Things had seemed to be slowly deteriorating in Jiguuna for nearly two years.
It started with Karrels Javis. She decided.
He had been Nem’ro’s most capable and reliable lieutenant before he’d been killed. He was certainly capable of violence, but Javis had understood that violence was a tool and not philosophical approach to everyday life. He’d been pragmatic and reasonable, usually taking pains to avoid putting decisions to his boss when the Hutt’s temper was acting up.  
Officially, Javis had met his end by an assassination team sent by Nem’ro’s rival, Voontara Fa'athra.
(Linh knew better than to believe that story.)
Nem’ro’s reprisals against Fa'athra’s supporters had been unprecedented even by Hutt levels. Armed with a data file retrieved from Voontara Fa'athra’s palace by the so-called ‘Red Blade’, there had been a bloodbath in Jiguuna with dozens of Fa'athra’s supposed sympathizers in the town purged on Nem’ro’s orders.
Still. Linh thought to herself. Despite his cold-bloodedness, the Blade she’d briefly met, that supposed pirate – with his cool, emerald eyes and chiseled jawline – had been capable. Very capable. He was just the sort of person I could have used to get off Hutta, now.
Unfortunately, he was far from here, on some job or another that she couldn’t even imagine. 
It had taken weeks for the city to calm down.
Even after the dust had settled from the purges, and even after the victory celebrations Nem’ro had held when Fa’athra had fled Hutta in apparent defeat, there was a sullen air to the place. As if whatever little vitality Jiguuna could have claimed before had been sapped, and things were continuing purely on momentum.
Illustrating her point in fact, just a few weeks ago, Nem’ro had come down with a rare flesh-eating disease, placing the Hutt’s life – and his sizable bulk – in jeopardy. This development had led to considerable tension among the Hutt’s various lieutenants and supporters, as everyone jockeyed for position should Nem’ro ‘tragically’ pass away. There had been a number of killings, discreetly passed off as ‘isolated incidents’ by Nem’ro’s security, and Linh was fully convinced that there’d have been an outbreak of open infighting throughout the organization if it had lasted any longer.
Fortunately for what still counted for the status quo in Jiguuna – and for Nem’ro, personally – a Republic doctor had arrived one day at the palace before that came to pass, having heard of the Hutt’s plight. Linh had noted he’d been on ‘watch list’ for her true employer, as the man had previously worked for the Balmorran Resistance and had more recently been working with some upstart Jedi Knight running around the galaxy. This doctor apparently had enough pull to get an appointment with the Hutt, and within a few days, Nem’ro was on the road to recovery.
Even with Nem’ro cured, however, things had never quite gotten back to normal in Jiguuna. There was too much bad blood by then. Too much pressure on Nem’ro’s organization to produce refined fuel to cover his trade agreements with the Sith Empire. Too much lost inertia. Too many people with too many ‘what if’ thoughts.  
It had been a powder keg. And the attacking Houk had lit the wick.
Now she was outside the palace, and the only person on Hutta who knew that her real name wasn’t Linh and that she wasn’t just a small-time private fence with a pretty face working out of Nem’ro’s cantina was lying dead at her feet.
Lycus Mattle had (officially) been a freelance hired gun in Jiguuna, occasionally taking jobs with Nem’ro’s gang. An older mercenary, he was respected enough that the local ruffians usually gave him a wide berth. He usually made a place for himself just outside the palace at the bazaar, should anyone seek to hire him.
He had also been, like Linh, an operative of Imperial Intelligence, and a subject of the Sith Empire.
And now he was dead, with multiple blaster wounds having caught him in the chest.  
Linh also spotted a trio of slain Rodians lying nearby. She recalled them having visited the palace earlier that day, planning some scheme or another. Apparently when they had fled the carnage, they had decided that their best bet was to kill the lone, human gunman, take his weapons, and then to decide what to do next to get away from the carnage.
Lycus Mattle may have been old for being a supposed merc. (Truth, he was older still for being a field operative of Imperial Intelligence.) But he had taken all three of his attackers with him.
Linh found herself taking some small satisfaction from that fact. Over these last two years, the older agent had become a partner to her; part mentor, part confidante and part protector should anyone on Hutta ever give her too much trouble. She was glad he’d given better than he got.
But that didn’t change the reality that her only real ally – and her best chance of getting off Hutta alive – was now gone. Linh knew how to use her holdout blaster, and she’d received basic self-defense training. But she had no illusions as to how long she’d last in a deteriorating hellhole like Jiguuna, much less if she ran into that Houk.
She processed all of that as her fingertips gently lowered Lycus’ eyelids. 
“You were a good partner, Lycus.” She whispered to herself, unexpectedly finding herself wiping a tear from her eye. “The best.”
‘Lycus’ hadn’t been his real name, of course, any more than ‘Linh’ had been hers. But in the two years she’d been on Hutta, it had been the only name she’d ever known him by. She didn’t know his real name and it was unlikely she ever would. ‘Lycus’ would have to do.
Now he was rotting in a trench on Hutta, and she didn’t even have the time to bury him properly.
Fortunately for her, she didn’t need Lycus to be alive to help her out of this predicament.
Linh looked around the plaza again to make sure the coast was clear.
She needn’t have worried about being observed. The whole area seemed completely abandoned. People had either fled for cover or had decided now was as good a time as any to engage in violence elsewhere in the town. Nem’ro may have been a ruthless crime lord, but as had been the case in the palace, his authority had also been the only thing holding some people back.
And that was gone now. She continued to hear the sounds of unrest in the distance. People were dying. But she didn’t have time to think about that.
Residing in the palace as she normally did, Linh could have been searched by Nem’ro’s security at any time. (Indeed, more than one visitor to the palace had found themselves wearing a slave collar for carrying around unauthorized contraband.) So it made sense for Lycus to keep their ‘sensitive equipment’.
Taking a deep breath, Linh carefully detached Lycus’ weapons harness and utility belt from his body and reached into his vest. A moment later, now holding his pass-key, Linh inserted it into her deceased partner’s holo-transmitter.
By itself, the equipment was mundane. Only a thorough inspection by a skilled engineer would have uncovered any anomalies in its manufacture.
Linh took off her necklace from inside her blouse and carefully snapped the pendant in two. She then held the now-exposed circuits against the power cell compartment of the holo-transmitter until they seamlessly slid into place, completing the circuit. After a few moments diode on the advice turned red.
Excellent. Linh smiled. The direct line was secure and would be all but untraceable.
“This is Infiltrator Ninety-nine.” Linh’s voice had changed, but she kept her voice low as she spoke into the transmitter. “Requesting immediate extraction. Confirmation Code Delta-Beta-Nine-Four. Please respond.”
With that, she exhaled. It was the first time in years that she’d used her own voice. An Imperial voice. It felt liberating, really.
A moment later, the holo display started to flicker.
She had expected a junior Watcher to pick up her communications signal at headquarters in Kaas City. Or perhaps – if the Watchers were hard-pressed with the war effort at the moment – a Minder or at least a Fixer. Following protocol, they would direct an Intelligence Asset Recovery Team to her aid, and get her off this cesspit of a world.
Instead, she saw only a rotating Imperial Insignia appear in the holo display, as an automated voice spoke.  
“Attention all personnel: By the order of the Dark Council, Imperial Intelligence has been dissolved. Any and all ongoing operations are hereby terminated. You are ordered to immediately report to Dromund Kaas for reassignment to the Imperial Military. Long live the Emperor.”  
The holo-display went dead.
Linh’s jaw dropped in shock.
No. she silently whispered to herself. Impossible. It couldn’t be true.
She attempted to toggle the call button again for a few futile moments.
Nothing.
Her free hand the nearby tent pole for support. If she hadn’t been crouched down, she’d probably have fallen over.
The implications of this announcement were staggering.
The Sith Empire was over a thousand years old. And Imperial Intelligence had been a part of it since the beginning, cleaning up the messes of the Sith and the Imperial military.
Oh, there had been purges of the service throughout that history. Usually due to some perceived operational failure or another. Occasionally a Minister of Intelligence would be “retired” and the powers that be would insist on “changes in personnel” to make way for the new regime.
But for the Empire to dissolve the service now at the peak of its war with the Galactic Republic…
Madness. She thought to herself. Without Imperial Intelligence, there would be chaos. Not just for the Empire, but with respect to her immediate situation.
Linh needed assistance just safely getting off Hutta, much less getting back to Dromund Kaas.
She’d been Informer-99 for the last three years. She had hoped to be promoted to ‘Minder’ someday, perhaps eventually serve as a station chief on some planet with a more enjoyable climate. (After spending so long on Hutta, Alderaan sounded positively divine.) 
All her career goals were gone now. Dead as Lycus.
Dead as Imperial Intelligence. She thought to herself.
She felt her breathing start to become more rapid as she continued to process.
And what sort of future could she expect if she even made it back to the Imperial capital?
A career in the Imperial Military would be a dead end for her, and a waste of her talents. At best, she’d be stranded in some subordinate clerical position in the Ministry of Logistics, running statistical reports and fetching caff for her superiors.
At worse, she’d be pressed into an auxiliary combat battalion where all her intelligence would be wasted, and she’d be killed off in some useless battle or another.
No. She stopped herself. At worse, I’ll be indentured directly to one of the Sith.
She shivered at the thought, remembering all the stories she’d heard at the academy.
Nothing could be worse than that.
Linh felt her grip on the comm device tighten further.
The Empire had abandoned her. It was no longer home.
She felt a sense of panic start to grow. And then the anger of the injustice of it all.
No. She stopped herself again. That was what her instructors at the academy had trained her not to do.
Unlike Sith, operatives did not have the luxury of giving into their anger. Angry agents made mistakes, as did agents in a state of despair.
If she was to survive, she had to think clearly. She had to remain calm.
She had to remember her training.
After a moment, she felt her breathing relax and her brain started to work again.
First things first. Linh decided to herself, following her training.
Dealing with the immediate situation had to be her priority.
She dropped the holo-communicator on the ground and rose to her feet. Pulling out her holdout blaster, she pointed it at the discarded device.
Then she fired twice.
In a flash, the only physical evidence connecting her to Imperial Intelligence on Hutta had been destroyed in a smoking wreck.
Linh exhaled a breath she didn’t know she’d been keeping.
It feels cathartic. She allowed herself a grim smirk.
Next order of business.
I can’t stay on Hutta. Linh concluded. She’d seen enough conflict among the Hutts to know that sooner or later, and probably sooner, the Cartel would move in to fill the gap left by Nem’ro’s sudden ‘absence’. Once that happened, anyone still around who had even been in the palace at the time of the attack would either be shot on sight or they’d find themselves indentured and sent to the gas mines.
The Hutts did not take betrayal well. By their logic, every resident of Jiguuna should have sacrificed themselves to save Nem’ro. To show clemency to Nem’ro’s surviving supporters would only encourage dissent and disloyalty in other Hutt courts and territories.  
She had to get away from the Houk, the Hutt Cartel and the Empire. If she were lucky, she and Lycus would be presumed dead in the paperwork. If not, she’d be a wanted renegade.
But first, she had to get off Hutta.
She had identified the problem. Now she needed to find a solution.
What are my assets? She continued following the steps of her training.
She regarded her holdout blaster.
Honestly, it had been no more than a deterrent in the Palace. Virtually anyone on Hutta would have outgunned her in a shootout, and if she did run into that Houk, it would count for nothing.
She had a few credits on her, but if people were already fleeing to the spaceport in a panic, she doubted those would be enough to get her anywhere.
Nothing drove up inflation like a life-or-death situation.
Thinking to herself, she dug through her hidden pockets and pulled out a thin piece of plastic.  Carefully unpeeling a label, she regarding the revealed card.
Her backup identity. Not her identity as ‘Linh’, small-time criminal on Hutta. Nor her ‘real name’ she’d been born with in the Empire. But a new one entirely.
Jheeg – the local Arcona fixer who Intelligence had once worked with – had been killed after several security failures involving that business with the agent impersonating the Red Blade. (Linh had privately suspected that Lycus himself had done the job on Jheeg, though she could never prove it and she knew better than to ask.) Jheeg had once provided her and Lycus with backup cover identities if they ever needed to suddenly flee the planet. (Lycus had insisted on the precaution; he never really talked about what he’d done for Imperial Intelligence before this assignment, but it was now clear to her that he had been jaded by his career and was aware of the possibility of a situation such as this arising.)
The identity was still valid; or at least it’d be valid enough in a pinch. It wouldn’t have fooled a review by Imperial Intelligence, she was sure. But if Intelligence no longer existed, it just might fool the Empire.
Regardless, she could build a new life for herself.
But all that would have to start with getting off Hutta.
Her training kicked in again:
Who are my allies?
Rex Geer might have been persuaded to help her. He’d bought her a drink or two at the cantina, and she’d considered taking things further to cement a potentially valuable contact. But Nem’ro’s top street lieutenant – who had led the defense against Fa’athra’s incursion during their conflict – had been one of those killed during the unrest from Nem’ro’s illness a few weeks past.
Stabbed in the back in a back-alley. Linh recalled to herself, with regret. Like as not, his own men had killed him just for the prospect of a promotion.
Oren Ward would have been another potential ally. The bounty hunter had fostered a ‘school-boy crush’ on her, Linh knew. But he and Burnok had departed Hutta months ago for greener pastures after Oren had recovered from his carbonite imprisonment at Fa’athra’s palace.
She tried to think of another protector-type who might still be alive and willing to help her. She came up empty.
It doesn’t look good. Linh admitted to herself, as she tried to reconsider the situation.
In truth, obtaining the services of a ‘hero gunman’ to defend her was a secondary concern, even if having such a champion would have been reassuring. By now, she was convinced that the Houk could have torn through anyone she could think of if he spotted her, possibly even a Sith or a Jedi.
What she really needed was someone with the credits and the connections to get her through the spaceport and off-planet. If it was already locked down by the Cartel’s people, she’d need someone with Nem’ro’s security codes to get off-planet.
She smiled grimly to herself as a stroke of inspiration came to her mind.   
Fortunately, Linh had realized that she knew of just the right person who could provide both.
Surprisingly, getting back into the palace had been a simple affair. Evidently, nearly everyone still capable of walking had already fled by now.
Linh knew she was taking a huge risk just coming back here, but she saw no other options. If her quarry was still alive, they’d be inside. As she made her way through the cantina, she tried not to pay any mind to the corpses she was stepping over. She’d known many of these people for the past two years, and while she personally found most of them unpleasant, she also knew that looking at their dead faces now could easily plunge her into a pit of despair.  
None of that would help her.
She made her way down the corridor, holdout blaster drawn and at the ready.
Remember your training. Linh reminded herself for what felt like the tenth time. She was no true field operative. She’d known from the start at the Academy that she never be a Cipher agent. But she knew how to navigate a dangerous building. Certainly, one that she’d lived at for two years.
She carefully snuck past the receiving chamber to the throne room. She could hear sounds from within that didn’t sound remotely human or sentient, for that matter. Not ‘fighting’ sounds exactly, but…
No. she continued on. I won’t think about that.
As she finally approached her destination, hoping against hope that her target was still inside, she nearly tripped over some wreckage on the floor. Looking down, she recognized it as the remains of P8-47, the astromech droid that frequently acted as one of Nem’ro’s messengers.
The droid had been sweet to her on occasion, and she’d once considered recruiting him as a source. She’d discarded the idea, however; he’d been frightfully loyal to Nem’ro.
Pity. Linh steeled herself from the discovery as she continued down the hall into the next chamber, peeking around the corner.
Two Twi’leks were standing within, with the larger male gripping the younger female’s wrist violently.
“The credits, girl!” Toth'lazhen hissed, slapping the beleaguered woman across the cheek as she cried out.
One of Nem’ro’s senior lieutenants, Toth'lazhen had risen to pre-eminence after the death of Karrels Javis. His reputation for brutality had endeared himself to the Hutt.
Linh had been carefully studying Toth'lazhen for some time now as part of her duties to Imperial Intelligence. The Twi’lek lieutenant normally spoke in the perfect Huttese of his boss.
The fact that he was now speaking his native Twi'leki was telling. If nothing else, based on that fact alone, she’d know that Nem’ro was finished.
Linh had always assessed him as something of a fool and a brute. Today, she was seeing evidence to support that opinion.
Unfortunately, his present victim was the one she’d been seeking.
Juda was a young but highly intelligent green-skinned Twi’lek, unusually amiable for a resident of Nem’ro’s palace. For the past two years or so, she’d served as Nem’ro’s paymaster, taking over when his old accountant, an old human cyborg named Yalt, had made the mistake of going over to Fa’athra’s side.
(She did not want to think about the price Yalt had paid for that mistake. Juda had proven more reliable.)
Today, Linh had decided that Juda was her best chance of getting off Hutta.
Apparently, Toth'lazhen had decided the same thing.  
“Please.” Juda cried out, struggling against his grasp. “Let me go! I’m just trying to get out of here.”
Toth'lazhen slapped the girl again as she cried out. Linh noted a bruise forming beneath Juda’s eye.
“You can run once I have Nem’ro’s money.” He snarled.
Part of Linh’s mind, trained for ruthless pragmatism, related to Toth'lazhen’s position. He was self-interested individually willing to do whatever it took to get off Hutta alive.
The same applies to me. Linh admitted.
On the other hand, he had turned his back to the doorway. And something about the way he was abusing Juda did not sit well with the suddenly unemployed Imperial operative.
His mistake.
Linh scowled, as the major domo raised his hand to strike the weeping girl again. Any thought of negotiating with Toth'lazhen had fled her mind.  
The holdout blaster – set for silent mode – was relatively low-power. But she was less than five meters from the attacking Twi’lek, with more than enough time to put three rounds through his back.
If Toth'lazhen tried to scream out in pain, that scream was cutoff with the second round. The third was only for certainty’s sake.  
Juda blinked in surprise as her attacker fell dead to the floor, looking up at her erstwhile rescuer.
The two women’s eyes met. Much to Linh’s surprise, as she gazed into the Twi’lek’s violet irises, she felt herself gulp.
Was it the adrenaline? The fact that Toth'lazhen was the first person she’d ever killed with her own hand? The look of gratitude in Juda’s pretty, violet eyes?  
“Thank you.” The young Twi’lek whispered, falling back into her desk chair in relief. She held herself gingerly, slowly rocking back and forth.
Linh silently nodded, swallowing and lowering her blaster. Her throat felt dry. Whatever guilt she felt for killing the Twi’lek was being suppressed by the adrenaline still pumping through her veins.  
“Toth'lazhen would have killed me.” Juda said quietly continued, swallowing. “Or worse, he would have sold me off to slavers. Before he even got off planet. The moment he had as much of Nem’ro’s money as he could get his hands on. When he didn’t need me anymore. That’s why I didn’t give into him.”
She looked away, sniffing.
“I’d have been a loose end.”
Loose end. Linh thought to herself. She herself was now a loose end to the Empire, her years of training and service amounting to nothing. She was on her way down; she had to find a way up. Who better to…
Out of the corner of her consciousness, she spotted Juda eyeballing the still-drawn blaster.
Jarred back to the present, Linh put away her weapon, calmly.
“I’m not Toth'lazhen.” She offered reassuringly, glancing down at the dead lieutenant. “If you can help me get off planet, maybe I can help you, too.”
Juda nodded, glancing over at a satchel on her desk.
“I can do that. I was right about to run for it myself when Toth found me.”
Linh tried processing the young woman’s reaction. With the immediate threat removed, her practical intelligence seemed to shine though. She found it refreshing. Inspiring, even.
“You don’t have anyone else here on Hutta?” Linh asked.
That question seemed to strike a nerve. The Twi’lek flinched, closing her eyes in pain as her body rocked back and forth again.
“My mother… passed away a couple of months ago.” Juda’s lip trembled. “Nem’ro didn’t even give me the day off to go to her funeral.”
Linh recalled that she hadn’t seen a family member in years. She had no way of knowing if her parents or brothers were even still alive by now. Nevertheless, she felt a wellspring of sympathy bubbling within her for the young Twi’lek.
“I’m sorry.” She murmured awkwardly. She quickly decided to change the subject. “So. You had a plan to get out? Or just sneak past the Houk?”
Juda took a breath as she gathered herself, gazing down at Toth'lazhen’s corpse absent-mindedly.
“There’s an underground tunnel.” She explained. “It runs along the old gas pipes beneath the town. The entrance is hidden behind the bar in the corner.”
Juda pointed. Linh recalled there was hardly a room in the palace that didn’t have its own bar.
“It comes out west of the palace, near the spaceport. Nem’ro never thought he’d need a way out of his own palace, but Karrels knew he might.”
The Twi’lek smirked.
“He had me budget the construction as ‘palace defenses’. Poor guy just never had the chance to make it out when his time came.”
Linh smiled appreciatively.
“So. That tunnel gets us to the port. Any ideas about what happens next?”
Juda returned the smile, clearly emboldened by the praise. The attractive Twi’lek had drawn plenty of looks since she’d started working at the palace. It was a good bet that up until today, few had been foolish enough to make a move on Nem’ro’s paymaster, especially not after what happened to his previous accountant.
Neither of us work here anymore. Linh thought to herself.
“I know Mekks, the communications officer at the spaceport.” Juda assured her. “He knows how the Cartel operates, and how to make it look like someone shot their way out of there without getting anyone killed… in return for a sizable bribe, of course.”
“Of course.” Linh found herself smiling sincerely for the first time in what felt like days. Fear and bribery were the only things that turned the gears on Hutta. “Then we just need to find a ride off-world.”
Juda’s smile widened, as she reached in and pulled a datapad out of her satchel. Linh could see a stack of pads along with credit sticks and a few strips of flimsi. Clearly, the Twi’lek had been preparing for this trip well.   
“Nem’ro took possession of a small freighter last week.” Juda informed her. “Some smuggler who ditched his cargo from the Imperials.”
She bit her lip as she looked down at the records.
“I still have the access codes. And the license. By the time anyone checks, it’ll be legally ours.”
Linh let out an impressed whistle. This was more than she could have hoped for.  
“Sounds like a plan.” The former Imperial operative felt everything start to fall into place. She smiled again to Juda but found the Twi’lek’s smile had suddenly grown cautious.
“And after that?” Juda asked, uncertainly.
Linh paused, remembering her earlier considerations concerning her own future. Assess potential resources. Her instructors had taught her.
To Nem’ro, Juda had been a competent, unambitious underling who always did what she was told.
To Toth'lazhen, Juda had been nothing but a source of quick credits, to be used and disposed of.
But to Linh, she could be much more.
“You know.” She began. “Between my connections, your financial skills, and Nem’ro’s credits… I think we have enough to start our own ‘consulting’ business. Look around the galaxy. Lots of people are going to need ‘special assistance’ setting up new operations for themselves with all this fallout. Conflict brings chaos. We’ve both seen that here today. But it also brings opportunity to people who know how to seize it.”  
Even as she spoke, Linh felt herself gaining confidence in this plan of action. She’d need time to work out the details of course, but at least now she had a direction. Later, they could take on some hired muscle for security. Linh knew what to look for in a dependable mercenary so that she and Juda could avoid emergencies like this one in the future.
Linh finally extended an open hand towards the Twi’lek.
“Partners?” she asked.
Juda chewed her lip for a minute, regarding Linh and the offered hand.
The Twi’lek suddenly grasped Linh by the shoulders fiercely and leaned in. Juda’s lips met those of the former Informer of Imperial Intelligence, kissing her passionately. Linh felt her entire body go rigid with shock at the gesture.
It had been more than a year since she’d taken actual comfort in the touch of another, and Juda was certainly attractive. A warm feeling started to grow in the pit of her stomach.
She felt her lips and then her hands start to respond on impulse, surrendering herself to the sensation.
Juda suddenly pulled away as the stricken Imperial tried to regain her breath.
“For luck.” She offered by way of explanation, giving Linh a dazzling smile. She finally took Linh’s hand, giving it a friendly shake.
“Partners.” She declared.
Linh could only catch herself against the desk as she regained her footing and blink.
Definitely more than just a source of quick credits. She confirmed to herself.
Juda, meanwhile, had ducked behind the bar with her satchel over her shoulder. Pushing a crate and a rug out of the way, the woman opened the hidden trap door down to the tunnel, then looked back over at Linh.
“Come on.” The Twi’lek smiled. “That Houk might come poking around any minute.”
Linh swallowed and moved to comply.
As she followed Juda through the trap door and down into the escape tunnel, she felt confident she was taking the first step towards her future.
Time to climb the ladder.
THE END?
Author’s Notes: There are any number of corrupt and even ‘evil’ powers within the SWTOR story. As much as we might loathe them, it’s fascinating for me to think that if any of them suddenly weren’t there, the vacuum would make room for something even worse.
Those of you who have played the Bounty Hunter class story too many times will know from the Companion cut-scene dialogue that Skadge killed Nem’ro the Hutt off-screen, a revenge killing for an earlier betrayal that landed Skadge on Belsavis in the first place. The idea of Skadge successfully rampaging his way through Nem’ro’s palace, where we spend so much time as an Imperial Agent / Bounty Hunter at the start of the story, was fascinating to me. (How many of the NPC’s we interacted with earlier actually survived???) Skadge is probably my least favorite character in SWTOR, but the idea of him being the star boogey-man of a grisly horror film, slaughtering dozens of people, that concept intrigues me.
Each class has an NPC on their starting planet that provides a mission directing the player-character to the trainer on-planet. Linh is the NPC on Hutta that directs Imperial Agents to the on-planet trainer, Lycus Mattle. With the many changes in the game over the years, those missions are largely redundant, worth only a smidgen of XP. But some of those cutscene interactions were memorable to me, including Linh’s. I decided I had to do something with her at some point.
This story was the result.
Juda is another fun character from the Bounty Hunter story. She’s Nem’ro’s paymaster on Hutta, and later unwittingly engages in some minor skullduggery during the Great Hunt. Fortunately, my own bounty hunter, Xadya, chose not to hold her indiscretions against her. (Mako would not have approved if Xadya had taken Juda out!)
As always, I love the idea that our characters leave a deep mark on the places they visit, for good and for ill. Gahraath Vaiken, my Cipher Nine in the Halcyon Legacy, was rather vicious when he started out as an Imperial Agent on Hutta, a bit too eager to demonstrate his own ruthlessness. He’d eventually mellow a good deal, but at the time, Linh was both physically attracted to him while simultaneously left with the impression of a cold-blooded killer who would easily dispose of her if it suited his mission.
(Which he absolutely was. But like I said, he’s softened a good bit by the end of the class story.)
Virtually every name I dropped within this story is an actual NPC from the missions on Hutta. (And some of you may also have picked up on an appearance by a certain unnamed mustached field medic companion from another of the class stories. 🤓)
The ‘Informers’ title is, in fact, a specific canon designation within the old Imperial Intelligence organization, much like Ciphers, Watchers, Minders and Fixers. They aren’t mentioned in the game itself; they do come up in The Old Republic: Fatal Alliance novel where Ula Vii is presented as an example. Something we don’t talk about enough is the impact the dissolution of Imperial Intelligence would have on the Empire and the greater galaxy, especially at the peak of the war. You’re literally talking about hundreds or thousands of agents and operatives either completely cutoff from the Empire without recourse or suddenly pressed into the service of the Sith or to an Imperial Military that treats them like cannon-fodder. (Remember how Cipher Nine was treated on Corellia?) The fallout from that sudden absence would be profound for the Empire, as well. Imperial Intelligence literally existed for centuries, and nature abhors a vacuum.
No wonder Marr had to establish Sith Intelligence a few years later. Their entire system would have been in a perpetual state of collapse without it.
I tweaked the layout of the palace a little bit for narrative reasons. It’s significantly larger here, which makes sense given how many people seem to live there.  
The Informer-Ninety-Nine moniker is an Easter Egg reference to “Get Smart”. (A show waaaay before my time. I’m old, but not that old.) It just tickled me, so I tossed that in.
 The ‘For luck’ kiss is an obvious homage to the scene from Episode IV: A New Hope. (Don’t worry – Juda and Linh aren’t related. 😉 ) Further, Juda’s line about a smuggler’s freighter was a Han Solo & Jabba reference.  
Tagging @oolathurman , as they once mentioned she loved the character of Juda.
Also tagging!
@a-master-procrastinator @anchanted-one @distressed-gizka @eorzeashan @justiceforc3po @kemendin @magicallulu7 @nikkeisimmer @sadiebwrites @the-cloudwatcher @the-raven-of-highever @tishinada @zabrakghoul @swtorhub
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grandninjamasterren · 4 months
Text
Returning
"Balmorra-" Tai began, but Ivanye shook his head.
"I was born on Balmorra," he said evenly, "Unless something has drastically changed in the last decade or so, I am aware of the current situation regarding the Imperial occupation."
"You didn't say you were from Balmorra," Aluani accused.
"I'm not," Ivanye enunciated primly, "I was born there, I left when I was still young and, quite frankly, I had no intention of ever returning." Tai seemed mystified.
"Why wouldn't you want to go home?"
"Tython is my home," Ivanye said, as calm and collected as ever, "And before that it was Dromund Kaas. Make no mistake, my parents may have been Resistance fighters, but I was raised Imperial." Tai shook his head, mentally comparing the young jedi's features to various Resistance members.
"Your mom wouldn't happen to be Chemish Or, would she?" Tai asked weakly. Ivanye bristled.
"She lost any right to call herself my mother. When our parents were arrested, my brother and I were given new names and identities and adopted out to good Imperial families. If I hadn't have been force sensitive, or if the Sith had been kinder to me, I might have stayed Imperial," Ivanye shook his head, "You don't need to brief me on the situation. Just tell me who my contact is."
"A Resistance Fighter by the name of Zenith. He's pretty paranoid, so you'll need to activate jammers around Bugtown. Be careful of the colicoids." Ivanye saluted Tai with his unlit saber as he moved to disembark.
"Tharan, would you and Holiday care to join me?"
"Jedi, it would be my genuine pleasure," the scientist responded, falling into step with Ivanye as they exited onto Balmorran soil.
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inyri · 6 days
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Equivalent Exchange (a SWTOR story): Chapter 41: Good Soldiers Follow Orders
Equivalent Exchange by inyri
Fandom: Star Wars: The Old Republic Characters: Female Imperial Agent (Cipher Nine)/Theron Shan Rating: E (this chapter: M. Trigger warning: graphic violence, depictions of torture, body horror.) Summary: If one wishes to gain something, one must offer something of equal value. In spycraft, it’s easy. Applying it to a relationship is another matter entirely. F!Agent/Theron Shan. (Spoilers for Shadow of Revan and Knights of the Fallen Empire/Knights of the Eternal Throne.)
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Author’s Note: Please note the trigger warnings. I had to step away from this for a little while (all right, more than a little while). Chapters are consecutive, of course, and as I posted the last one and moved to wrapping up this one I found life imitating art in a very, very uncomfortable way. I don’t talk a lot about my work for many reasons. Normally it’s not very exciting. And then there are the days that stay, the reminders that sometimes the world is deeply, viciously cruel in ways that are hard to process. As part of my work I met two men who were subjected to that cruelty, heard their stories, and helped care for them on their paths back home.
The first iterations of this series of scenes were very different from where we ended up. Nine and her team were far nastier at first, which wasn’t really true to her, and then I tried to make it funny which- well, obviously we can see the problem with that approach. So this is where we ended. It’s still an ugly chapter, but here we are.  
This chapter is dedicated to AD, AH, and all victims of torture. 
Good Soldiers Follow Orders
Theron follows her close as a shadow as they make their way from her ship across the base, dodging carefully around the first watch guards on their patrol routes. A month ago it would have been simple but a month ago they’d been sloppy; since then she’d ordered new watchposts set, new floodlights installed, locked down the turbolift platform to the valley below. There were so many other places to land a ship on Odessen, canyons and clearings and deep, dark forest far beyond the view of the towers, and it would have been far too easy for an infiltrator to sneak in.
Or one might simply use your landing bay. Valkorion’s armor gleams as an arc of light cuts across the path. In through the front door. All comers welcomed. Perhaps Arcann should-
The illusion shatters when she steps through it, the sentence left ominously unfinished. 
Second patrol. Third patrol. Through the external door on the heels of a pair of Sana-Rae’s adepts, weaving through the hall and crammed into the back corners of the lift with an absolutely massive Zabrak with a distinct half-ring of glitterstim around one nostril (she makes a mental note- the cantina’s more than necessary but if they’ve got a spice problem that’s another vulnerability they can’t afford), down the hallways into Science Wing and nearly to the lab- outside door’s open, good, but how’s she going to-
Shit.
She’s six steps ahead of herself in contingency plans as usual, mind racing, but that doesn’t matter worth a damn when she fucks up Step One. Stopping so abruptly he almost runs right into her, she grabs Theron by the wrist and pulls him into the darkest corner of an empty meeting room. His head tilts in silent confusion as she reaches toward the stealth generator clipped to his belt. I thought- he starts to sign, one hand raised. 
Switching, she replies, left-handed; pulling it free, she replaces it with hers. Backup has a shorter clock when the main’s off. If it overloads-
Theron nods. Bad. Right. Where should I stand?
Back- her fingers stutter as she considers (Void, she really isn’t thinking, is she? She needs to be. One mistake and the whole thing comes apart)- back left corner. You’ll have a five-count to get through the door before it closes, then don’t move and-
Don’t say anything. I know. He repeats the sign, an added emphasis. I promised. 
She rubs her forehead, trying and failing to settle the ache building between her eyes. I know. Come on. 
***
The inner laboratory door slides closed with a soft hiss, just muffling Theron’s last few footsteps as he settles carefully into the corner, and she lets her stealth field drop. 
“I got your message.” Nine forces the words out, forces strength into her voice as she sets the lock. She cannot falter, not now. “SCORPIO, give me the holo. Let’s get it opened up.”
“Commander.” Doctor Lokin looks up from across the room, setting a handful of instruments and an empty syringe- not all clean, she notes- neatly into place on a polished metal tray. Beside him, her would-be killer slumps forward against the treatment chair’s restraints, an intravenous catheter in his right arm and his lower body wrapped in a surgical dropcloth, head covered by black fabric and bound around the middle with thick strips of spacer’s tape. “We were just beginning.” 
[ sleepy already, cipher? but we’re only just beginning.
when hunter’s slap hits she startles bolt upright in the chair and then wishes she hadn’t, her ribs shifting beneath the straps like so many shattered potsherds as she grinds her teeth to keep from screaming. she’s screamed so much already and she won’t give him the satisfaction of another, won’t-
hunter gestures- toward the woman, she thinks, it’s getting hard to see now with her face so bruised. let’s wake her up, hm? ah, no- something cold and metallic tightening on her right index finger- the other hand, to start. now the left side, still the index finger, tighter and tighter and oh void it hurts it hurts it hurts she’s got to say something or it-
i’m telling you, she gasps, when those reinforcements get here from- and there’s a sharp snap and she can’t help it and she screams-
keep singing, little bird. I do so hate to have to break your pretty wings.]
Her hand throbs.
“I didn’t tell you to start without me.” Her stomach churns even as she curls her fingers into an easy fist, testing their movement; she couldn’t do that for a month after Corellia so it’s only the memory of pain, isn’t it? “And how long has that tape been on? We need his eyes open, not swollen shut. It’s too fucking tight.”
“If you’re referring to this-” Lokin lifts a pair of bloody-gripped forceps with one finger and a long-suffering look- “your knife tipped his saphenous, and I assumed you would prefer he not hemorrhage before you had the chance to work. I’ve only just run the amytal in, nothing more. But,” he squints at the rings of tape, flips a vibroscalpel from the tray into his palm and before she can even begin to move he slices through the binding neatly, once and then again, “you aren’t wrong. SCORPIO restrained him while I was busy with his leg, but I ought to have-”
SCORPIO turns from the console, shoulders lifting in what might have been a shrug. “My primary directive on Odessen remains operational security, Commander. He cannot share what he cannot see.”
“Yes, but-” 
One of the wall-mounted monitors beeps, shrill and insistent, until Lokin prods it with a gloved finger and it lapses into red-flashing silence. “He’s starting to wake. Shall we?”
Void, she hates interrogations. (She used to be good at them once, when she was younger and followed orders better. She used to be good at them because of course, why waste precious time on subtleties when you can simply pry and bend and break and it all comes out in the end either way- maybe in pieces, yes, but that was just another puzzle to solve if one was clever enough, even if it was messier-
Orders were orders. 
She used to be good at them once. Before Corellia.)
“Is Lana coming? She’s covering for me with Sana-Rae, I think, but-”
She turns too quickly as the door opens behind her and as she spins the room tips sideways and then it starts to spin, too; pausing midstep, she grabs at the nearer benchtop to steady herself, her left hand raised as a counterbalance. Lana clears the doorway in two steps, the worry lines across her forehead deepening. 
“I’ve got you,” Lana murmurs. “We’ve just finished, and I had a feeling you might-” she only wrinkles her nose a little as she glances toward the instrument table- “want my help with this.”
When she nods the world shifts unpleasantly anticlockwise. “Yes. Dialing out blind on his holo’s a losing proposition. With any luck he’ll talk, but I’m not counting on it and we haven’t got the time to wear him down.” Pressing her lips together against a wave of nausea, she inhales. Exhales. Inhales. The spinning slows. 
“Physical methods, then?”
She shakes her head- oh, Force, there it goes again- inhale. Exhale. “Just tell me what you see. I’ve been bled on enough today, and if we push too hard-”
“Does it matter? You can’t possibly intend to let him-” at her gesture Lana lowers her voice, just above a whisper- “walk away from this. An attack, here, on you- there have to be consequences.”
“Do I look like a Jedi to you? You know me better than that.” When she says it Lana snorts and rolls her eyes and to be fair she has a point- of course she has a point- but a misstep now could be the last strand of a rope to hang herself by, the final block knocked loose that brings the whole tower crashing down, and she can afford that far less than to give away a shred of undeserved mercy. “You’re a step ahead of me, that’s all. I need the who before I decide the what.”
Lana sighs. “I know. I only- I defer to you, Commander. It’s your decision.”
“Maybe, or maybe it’s Trant’s. But we won’t know until we know, and-” another warning chime from the monitors; another warning look from Lokin. “We’re running out of time. And when we’ve finished I’ve still got to talk to Koth and Senya, and-”
“Already postponed, and that can wait in any case. There’s nothing to discuss that won’t keep for a day. We’ll call them once we’re in transit,” Lana eyes her up and down, “after another round of kolto.”
“I’m fine.”
“Liar.” Lana’s hand comes to rest beneath her lifted arm; with the world still half-spinning she’d have missed the subtle pulse of energy if Lana hadn’t flinched when their fingertips meet. “Force help me, you’re not - I’ll take it over, Nine. I’ll… I can do it. You should rest.”
“No.” When she shakes her head the room stays level now, at least. It’s something. “No. This is my mess to sort out. Just lock the door.”
***
Five minutes later all she’s got out of him is a slurred sequence of names, ranks, and serial numbers (lying, Lana says each time from her perch behind the chair, though she knew that long before she said it) and the unwavering gut-punch certainty that the man is an SIS agent. With so little actual information to go on and their databases two years out of date- when Theron left he’d downloaded what he could but slicing back into the mainframe to sync them’s a risk none of them are willing to take right now- trying to find a name for her attacker’s useless, with dozens of dossiers a partial match to the same physical parameters: average height, average build, Underlevels accent, Republic emblems tattooed on biceps and back and another handful laser-faded to barely visible outlines. With half the Republic’s infantry dredged up from the Coruscant undercity’s gangs and prisons and half the SIS (and nearly all of SpecOps) poached from the army, she could have shot into the Dealer’s Den or the Red Rancor on a Primesday night and hit five clones of him in a straight line between the door and the bar.
She studies his face from every angle, waiting for a memory to trigger, and- no, still nothing, barely a nod in the corridor or a passing glance in the mess line. Three weeks on Odessen and the man’s practically a ghost, a traceless alias for a name and a ride hitched on a transport from Port Nowhere. Granted, both she and Theron had been off-planet most of that time, but stars, if this one got in so easily how many more could?
That’s a problem for another day. It has to be. 
But for now SCORPIO runs the serials, just for the sake of thoroughness, and- ah. Those faces she knows: Corellia, six years ago; a Coruscanti gala, bloodstains on a black dress; Dromund Kaas, only a month or two before Zakuul. 
She just hadn’t known their real names, then. It wouldn’t have mattered if she had. 
Orders were orders.
“So you’re ten dead men in a trenchcoat, then? And you’re wrong about that last one, by the way. That was probably Cipher Four. I’ve never been to Ord Mantell.” She pushes his commpad away with a scowl. The damned thing’s wiped clean- all the more likely he’d spoken to Trant within the last half-day, then; that was a lesson from Alderaan that only the Director ought to have learned. With enough time they could have recovered it, but they don’t have time. So she turns back to him instead, her thumb and index finger poised on closed eyelids gone puffy from the pressure of the binding. “Last chance to make this easier on yourself. When did you last hear from Marcus Trant?”
“More’n ten. Way more.” His words are less slurred now, the serum finally taking effect, and Lana sits up straighter. “‘nd hells take your easier. You’re gonna kill me anyway, so-” 
Void, why are they always so insistent on dying?
She doubts he can see her, so she just adds a twinge of melodrama to her sigh. “Not necessarily, agent. You tried to murder me. Naturally, I objected-” a little more pressure on his eye, just enough that he starts to shift against the restraining strap- “but if I really wanted you dead I’d have let you use your kill pill instead of wasting perfectly good antitoxin on you. I can be civil if you can.” 
Lana closes her eyes, focused and still.
“To be clear, you’re alive as a means to an end and it’s in your best interest to cooperate. But you and I know how it goes, don’t we?” When she lifts her open hand SCORPIO presses the holotransmitter into her palm. “Good soldiers follow orders. It’s not personal. You were only doing as you’re told.” She leans in closer, knee jostling against his mended leg just a little harder than necessary as the paper drape crinkles, voice lowered in a simulacrum of confidence. “Stars, I remember those days. He sits in his big office and sics you on a target, unclips your leash and you just- well. Ours not to reason why, hm?”
The cuff around his right wrist clinks against the arm of the chair as he makes an obscene gesture. 
Wrong tactic. Well, then.
Her sigh’s loud enough to make him flinch. “And it was all wrong, wasn’t it? All that planning, all that time pacing, writing a five-line message that he never even saw, all for nothing?” His breath stills, his heart rate spikes, and Lokin hooks another syringe to the IV port and slowly pushes the plunger down. “DId you think I wouldn’t see? I’d almost feel sorry for you if it wasn’t so utterly pathetic.”
His head lolls forward against the restraint, a counterpressure against her hand. 
“Oh, no, no.” Shifting, she pushes him back upright with two fingertips in the center of his forehead. “Not yet. Not until-”
“I almost got you.” His mouth contorts- it might have passed for a grin in a darker room, teeth bared, feral-  and something in his voice makes her hair stand on end. She recoils, pulling her hand away from his face even as he pauses. “So fucking close. Just a few more seconds and I’d’ve bled you dry, Cipher, and then I’d-”
(The words barely register; he’s not the first and certainly not the most creative person to threaten her with postmortem indecencies but somehow they always think it’s going to shock her into silence, as though it’s the single most awful thing that could ever happen when she’s lived through far worse horrors and more to the point she wouldn’t even know, she’d be dead).   
“-see enough and you know Shan’d come running- Force, that would’ve been even better, the look on his traitor face even if it was the wrong way round-”
wait. 
WAIT.
no, Trant wouldn’t have- 
When she blinks she sees it all in the span of a millisecond: half a hundred ways it could have gone, half a hundred indignities inflicted, half a hundred times it breaks Theron for just long enough for the blow to fall. Lana must see something else; she makes the smallest little sound, a muffled gasp of disgust covered over by knuckles cracking in clenched-fisted fury and then a snarled Sith curse she doesn’t understand (but Valkorion clearly does- she isn’t wrong, he murmurs) and it brings her back to herself. 
Her comm buzzes; her eyes flick down toward the screen. 
<ask him about belsavis>
Kicking him for breaking comm silence would be counterproductive, she supposes, but what does Belsavis have to do with anything? If Theron knows his name he ought to have just said so, not making her work harder than she already is.
< don’t know him but think I know the unit> <told Marcus it was a bad idea> <don’t think he listened>
That would explain the burned-off tattoos. Stars, has the SIS truly become that desperate? Or was this another Garza project- some experiment likely as not to fail just as Eclipse Squad had, so why waste frontline troops when the Republic had a whole planet full of froth-mouthed maniacs more than happy to keep killing as the cost of their freedom and if things did go bad, well, they were going to die one way or another so what did it matter?   
Then SCORPIO blinks once, head turning toward her comm and then, slower, toward the corner and oh, damn it all-
“Didn’t think the SIS went in for necrophilia,” she says conversationally, covering her mouth over a particularly exaggerated yawn as Lokin barely stifles a snort. “Don’t worry, I won’t tell the Jedi. I am curious, though- did you pick that up on Belsavis, or was that why they locked you up in the first place?”
His teeth clench. 
“Piracy? Hm, no. Some flavor of war crime, I’m sure- oh, I know. Fragged your CO, I’d bet. You’ve got that sort of look.”
“Onomatophobia. Go fuck yourself.”
(She’d come at it all wrong, hadn’t she? 
She’d thought this wasn’t personal because for her it wasn’t. Okay, fine, with Trant maybe it is, now, but this is no old enemy. She only hurt him to start with because he cut her first and deeper and even Theron doesn’t know his name- and stars know his memory’s brilliant, to judge by his stories he remembers everyone he ever worked with and it was far harder for him when they weren’t all just Minder Ten and Fixer Twelve and Watcher Three. The garotte alone might have been sheer bloody-mindedness in a way she wouldn’t have expected from the SIS, but even the Republic for all its supercilious moralizing had its fair share of sadists; Hunter hadn’t truly been one of them but they’d certainly all thought so at the time and still they’d all turned their heads, every single time, even when she’d screamed until her voice gave out.
Of course her control word was in her Republic file. He wasn’t the only one to try to use it, the first ones in earnest and then, when she’d shredded enough of them into bloody little pieces that they realized it didn’t didn’t hold her any more, as a vicious sort of mockery. That worked a bit, she supposes; maybe it always will. Not well enough to save them, of course.
She’d thought it wasn’t personal, that orders were orders and he’d come after Theron because he had to. But stars, she’d been out of the game for five fucking years and he’s practically got her dossier memorized, errors and all, and he’d called Theron a traitor and the first time she really pushes his buttons he-
Oh, this was very personal.)
“No,” she says, and breathes, trying to untie the panic-knot tightening in her chest, “I don’t think I will.” Snatching up a scalpel from the instrument tray as her voice wavers, she presses its tip, just so, beneath his chin. “You thought you were close? Close only counts in horseshoes and heavy ordnance, puppy, and that and a slip of my hand’ll buy you an unmarked grave. And-” he’s trying not to move, trying not to flinch. A single bead of blood wells up beneath the blade and stars, it’d be so easy, just one little movement and stay calm stay calm stay calm- “you still haven’t answered my question. When did you last hear from Marcus Trant?”
Lana exhales as her gaze comes back into focus, lip curling. Whatever she saw, she didn’t like it. “Today. It was today. But beyond that-”
“It’s good enough.” It was never going to be that easy. “SCORPIO, you don’t still have Belsavis census access, do you?” 
A yellow flash, and then- “I am no longer tethered to Ward 23, and what I retained is long out of date. Proximity would be required.”
“Never mind. We’ll move on to the holo, then. Doctor?”
“Ready.” Lokin nods approvingly as she sets the scalpel down. “Retractor?”
“Retractor, please. Left eye.”
One click. Two clicks. Three.  
The ‘pub squirms, fighting the restraining strap in earnest as he tries to blink against the cold metal instrument. “What are you-” his pupil constricts until she shifts the operating light away- “you gonna take my eyes now, Cipher? Keep ‘em in a jar somewhere, or-”
The holo’s scanner locks on as she holds it level with his forced-open eye. “No, thank you.  I never was much for souvenirs.” 
It chimes cheerfully as it comes to life in her hand; she flips idly through the settings. The user ID’s a string of alphanumeric gibberish, the message system’s not set up and the whole thing’s still on factory default but she’d expected all of that. It’s almost certainly a burner. The call log’s intact, though, with four time-stamped entries. One: incoming but barely five seconds long, likely a functionality test. Not useful. Two: outgoing, eighteen days old. Confirmation of arrival? That’s a Coruscanti subnet, but that could be a handler. Three: outgoing, one day old, to the same address as the second- they’d landed back from Nar Shaddaa by then. 
Four: incoming. Coruscant again, but a different address. One minute and six seconds duration. 
Two and a half hours ago. 
He said he’d call it off, Void damn him. If Trant kept his word and she’s wrong, if she burns the last thin strands of the bridge between Theron and everything he ever believed in to ashes and she’s wrong-
(He did say he would call them. Reflected in the freezer’s glass door, Valkorion tilts his head contemplatively. And tell them what?
He said- 
he said-
[-but those last few breaths last longer if you don’t struggle, don’t they? You’ll figure that out soon enough.]
For the first time she can remember there is something like approval in his smile. So you did hear it, he says. But oh, little Cipher, you didn’t listen.)     
She gestures to Lana and Lokin, pointing with two fingers at each one in turn and then the door with a snap of her wrist that sets it throbbing. “All of you but SCORPIO, clear the room. Now.”
Lana blinks but it’s Lokin who speaks first. “Commander, if I may? If you plan to proceed further, the subject may require additional stabilizing mea-”
“Wait outside until I call for you. That’s an order.”
He’s halfway to the door before Lana starts to move from the benchtop and even then she pauses beside her as she passes, one hand on her shoulder and her mouth lowered level with her ear. “You’re not getting Valkorion involved? I know you’d rather not dial out blind, but I thought I felt-”
“I’m not,” she murmurs in reply. “On either count. But if this goes bad I don’t want you in the room when it does.”  
“All right.” The sheer force of disapproval contained in Lana’s sigh might have leveled buildings; it isn’t all right and they both know it but it’s far too late to argue over it now. “Should I go and find Theron, then? I can think of some excuse to keep him with me until you’ve finished.”
They both startle at the sound of SCORPIO’s voice. “Unnecessary. He is-” her heart stops as the droid’s eyes flicker- “secure.”
“We can’t be certain of that. He still doesn’t know, does he? If there’s a second-”
“I see many things that you do not, Lord Beniko.” Five metallic fingers uncurl ceilingward (not toward the corner; her heart stutters, then resumes). “I am perfectly certain.”
Lips pressed together, nostrils flared, Lana grits her teeth against a retort before she simply continues toward the exit. “Then I will wait,” she says, a sparking halo of electricity coiling around her words as the door slides shut behind her, “until I am needed.” 
And then the room is quiet save the beeping monitors, the ‘pub’s ragged breathing and the sharp rattle of his restraints, and Nine glances sidelong at SCORPIO as she settles herself carefully in the blind spot on his right. “Be nice.”
“Error. Program file: nice not found.” 
She must have iterated again; the sarcasm’s new. Rolling her eyes, she glances down at her comm again. 
< Also, you are welcome.>
She flicks an ironic salute toward the droid and that too makes her wrist ache. More time in the tank, then, on the way to Voss. More time lost that she can’t afford and a favor owed that she probably can’t afford either- stars know SCORPIO’s kept secrets for her well enough through the years but she’s no particular fondness for Theron; the last time he’d cracked a joke about needing a processor update she’d signal-locked his implant to play That Slippery Little Hutt Of Mine on repeat for forty-three minutes straight until half his face was twitching and he’d finally apologized- but hopefully that can be negotiated. Ongoing access to the network, maybe. Lana will fuss and she’ll be right, but if that message had gone through unintercepted they all know what it might have meant. It’s a small enough price.
“If you’re done arguing-” the ‘pub’s slurring again. He’s burning through the serum faster than she’s ever seen- “either get this thing off me or-”
If he keeps that up she may as well not bother with the call. She ought to have known better than to think that he’d say much of anything useful but his ranting’s absolutely tedious; they’re going to need to gag him after all, aren’t they? It wasn’t supposed to be that sort of interrogation, but she also hadn’t particularly expected him to- oh, if he calls her that one more time she might just stab him after all. (Like he’s got any room to criticize- all her old sins could overfill an archive but at least she’s not a stars-damned corpsefucker.) “Shh.” When she tilts her head toward it SCORPIO picks up the spacer’s tape and tears a strip from the roll, pressing it firmly over his mouth until th+e noise quiets into muffled incomprehensibility. “That’s quite enough out of you, I think.“
Hm. That brings to mind a better idea, actually. 
“Do we have enough input for a voiceprint? Something like this?” Tapping a brief message into her commpad, she sends it through to SCORPIO. Only a few lines, but if it truly is Trant on the other end of the connection it should be enough to be certain.
It has to be enough.
She doesn’t look toward the corner. She mustn’t look toward the corner. 
“Way more than enough.” It’s near enough a perfect mimic. SCORPIO folds her arms smugly and the ‘pub goes grey. “Prepared for playback.”
“On my signal, then, but give me a twenty second delay on video.” Her fingers twitch despite themselves, tingling at the tips; she forces her breathing into rhythm. (Lana was right. She isn’t fine. 
Lana was always right. But she doesn’t have a choice.) 
Inhale. “And prep the package files for transmission on verbal command. No passcode.” Exhale.
A pause, a flash of scarlet. Inhale. “Yes, Commander.”
Exhale. 
Inhale. She smooths her hair back, adjusts her collar carefully under her chin, slaps both cheeks briskly with closed fingers to bring a little color into them and even that little jolt rattles her brain inside her skull. She considers, briefly, the backs of her eyelids. That seems to help. Exhale. 
The far corner remains quiet. 
She lifts the holo in line with the ‘pub’s eye once more as his pupil shimmers finely from side to side; they’d definitely pushed the dose too high but even so it’s far faster than it ought to be, chasing some other vice out of his system, and the camera struggles, beeping and chirping error after error until finally it locks on. 
Inhale. Exhale. 
She meets SCORPIO’s gaze, scrolls back to the end of the call log, and presses redial. 
Inhale.
“Connecting.” The tinny synthetic voice of the SIS operator sets her nerves on edge. “Connecting.” Come on, pick up-
The channel opens with a click and she nods, lets her breath out into the following silence before the voiceprint begins.
“It’s done. Shan and the Cipher. Wrong way ‘round, but-”
“Well-” the video delay goes both ways but she doesn’t need it, she’s heard Marcus Trant’s voice in so many briefings it’s burned into her brain; the last brittle shard of hope she’d clung to shatters and leaves her with nothing left but rage. How dare he- “it’s about fucking time.”
Oh, she is going to end him.
***
Nine’s body language shifts then, her spine rigid where she’d been starting to hunch forward in fatigue, her hands fisted, fingernails digging hard into her palms. Her stance settles, just a little wider, forward on her toes; her chin lifts. He can’t see her face, still angled toward the prisoner. 
“Send the photo confirmation, then execute extraction- and get your video on. Where are you?” Force, he’s going to throw up. Even when Jonas told him, even after hearing Marcus with his own ears he hadn’t wanted to believe it. He’d called it off. It had to be a mistake- or maybe Nine’s paranoia got the better of her (and he knows why and he doesn’t fault her, she can’t help Valkorion in her head and the poison he’s feeding her day after day after day) and this was just another shadow to peer into. Dragged into the light, it would have been nothing at all. A mistake. A mistake. 
She nods to the droid once again. “ Just a few more seconds. Bad connection but I’ve almost got it.” 
He shudders. The copywork’s uncanny and he knows for sure that’s not all readback. If SCORPIO gets it in her head to playact as one of them, starts giving orders in Lana’s voice or Koth’s or his own? He’s no reason to think she would, but whatever loyalty she seems to owe starts and ends with Nine. They’ve got to talk about it, at least.  
Nine angles away from their prisoner, raises the comm chest-high as the little hologram springs up in the hollow of her hand. He can see her better now, her face blank and beautiful and perfectly, utterly cold, and then she smiles and- 
(He has spent far more time than he’d ever admit to, from Rishi to Ziost to Zakuul to tonight, every hit and hurt and shattered bone and her bloody armor left in a pile again and again on the medbay floor, being scared for Nine. 
This might be the first time he’s honestly been scared of her.)
“Hello, Director,” she says. “We’ve really got to stop meeting like this.”
It’s only a little flinch, but it’s there. “Cipher. Still alive, I see.”
“Commander. You lied to me, Marcus. You know what happens now.”
“I think you’ll find that I didn’t.” 
Every syllable of her laughter’s a rifle shot, clear and piercing. “Yes, yes. You said you’d call, and you did.” By his posture he’s caught and he knows it, back straight, shoulders set. “But you know perfectly well that wasn’t our agreement. To go by the way Theron spoke of you I’d have thought you an honorable man, but-”
Marcus lifts one hand, a futile placation as Nine’s mocking smile fades back into hard-eyed silence. “I really am sorry about Theron, for what little it’s worth. He-”
“You’re sorry?” That wasn’t a laugh, not quite, halfway caught in her broken throat. “You’re certainly about to be, but Theron’s fine. This puppy was just as stupid as the last one- worse, actually, since he got himself caught in the bargain.” She turns her body, lets the camera capture the prisoner behind her straining against the chair straps in wide-eyed muffled fury. “He never got anywhere close to Theron.”
“He knows, then?” (He still can’t see Marcus’ face. He isn’t sure whether he wants to.)
She shrugs, noncommittal. “One thing at a time.” Her free hand gestures vaguely toward the instrument tray. “I’ve been a bit busy, I’m afraid, and now I’ve got all these dossiers to send off-”    
“I’d suggest some time in kolto first. You don’t look at all well, Cipher.”
“Commander.” When she blinks her eyes stay closed half a second too long and she sways back and forth and stars, she needs to sit down before she falls over but she’s too stubborn to let anyone see her hurting. He knows her tells now, though- her jaw clenches, her left hand curls and uncurls. “Five years in carbonite couldn’t kill me. You honestly thought a garotte would be enough?”
“No,” Marcus says softly. “Not really. But we make do with what we have, don’t we?”
“I suppose we do. SCORPIO, transmit file Eclipse . Full recipient list.”
One red flash, two green. “Transmission complete.”
(She really did it. Oh, fuck, she really, actually did it. 
He should never have gone home. He should never have gone-  
It isn’t home. Not any more.) 
Marcus sighs. “Where?”
“Everywhere.” Nine looks up abruptly as one of the monitors sounds yet again; she reaches up and simply shuts it off completely and at this angle he can finally see properly, both of their faces in profile. “Every reputable news service in the Core Worlds and about half of the disreputable ones, so you may want to warn your receptionist. I suspect your switchboard’s about to melt.”
“She’ll handle it, and Eclipse Squad was Elin’s mess. I’m afraid I can’t comment. Now, if we’re finished-”
“We are not. Transmit file Legate. Full list. Call it off. Now.”
One red flash, two green, and Marcus winces, his composure finally breaking. “Are you out of your fucking mind? No one came out of that clean, you least of all.”
“I might be.” A knock at the door- no, it’s there, not here, and a comm chiming. “But Legate died in a warehouse collapse on Quesh, poor thing, though with all those warheads going up at once confirming it was quite impossible. Pity.”
A single vein pulses across his forehead. 
“Call it off.”
Another knock. “Do you think Theron will believe that?”
“He doesn’t need to. He knows about the Castellan restraints- he’s known for years.” She glances, for the smallest fraction of a second, toward his corner. “I think he’ll understand if I blur the truth a little.” 
(He nods before he remembers she can’t see him. Of course he understands. He wishes she hadn’t done it, wishes she hadn’t needed to do any of this, but of course he understands.)
The room goes quiet, the stillness broken only by restraint buckles clinking against the chair frame. 
“Do you think he’ll believe this?” 
The angle of her head’s a wordless question. 
“What wouldn’t you do to bring down an enemy? The head of the SIS, no less.” The framing of the projection changes, the bottom edge of a screen coming into view as he stands up slowly from his desk. Marcus’d always lived at the office, one of so many bad habits he’d passed down to him over all the years they’d worked together (the work always comes first, he’d said. It always will. It will take everything you can give to it and then it will take more and you’ll swear and shout and threaten to quit. And then you won’t, because this is what we were made for. And that is how we win). “It’s everything you ever worked toward. So: a foiled assassination attempt in your own base- how terrible.” He clicks his tongue, a mocking little tsk. “You’d have to retaliate, and who would fault you?”
Nine’s eyes narrow. 
“But if it came out that you set it all up- a few intercepted messages, perhaps, shared by an old friend-”
Her lips draw back from her bared teeth. “Stay away from him.”
“I’m finished,” Marcus says. “I know that. But that doesn’t mean you get to win. Once a iiar, always a liar, Cipher Nine. Who do you think he’ll believe- you? Or me?”
No. He wouldn’t. He wouldn’t . Not that it would have made a difference, but Marcus couldn’t have known that- Force, he really is going to throw up.
(When Theron joined the SIS he was seventeen years old and every adult he’d known for more than a galactic standard month had abandoned him, sold him out or simply sold him at the first sign he’d outgrown his usefulness. It took nearly a year on Coruscant, nearly a year of steady paychecks and a bed to sleep in every night, before he owned more clothes than he could fit into a go bag; it took almost two before he stopped apologizing for asking for equipment. But Marcus never gave up on him, even when he fucked up (which back then was more often than not), even when he bristled and snapped like a half-wild animal, even when he wanted to give up on himself. If Master Zho had been the nearest thing he’d known to a father- stars knows it wasn’t Jace, especially not now- Marcus had come close too, once.
Once.)
She takes a deep breath. She’s fading fast, now, hands tremulous even as she’s fighting to keep the holo steady. He can’t just sit here and watch this, he can’t, he can’t-    
“Her,” Theron says, letting the stealth field drop as he takes a step forward and she spins, startled, at the sound of his voice. It comes out as a gasp; he doesn’t even know how long he’s been holding his breath. ”Who do I believe? Her. Always.”
Marcus buckles like he’s been gut-shot, bracing himself against his desk. “You- you said you hadn’t told him yet. You said-”
“I think you’ll find that I didn’t.” Nine smiles, absolutely feral and absolutely beautiful, and he steadies her with one hand at the small of her back. “Though as you can see, I really have been busy.”
The last time he saw that look on his face was the day the blockade went up around Coruscant. “Hello, Theron.”
“Hello, Marcus.”
He sits back into his chair, heavy, elbows resting on the desktop. “This office would have been yours, you know. You were ready for it. But you’re on the wrong side of the war.”
“Which war?” Nine says it at the same time he does and then she dips her head, ever so slightly- you first. “We’re here fighting Zakuul. We’re here fighting Arcann,” he continues, “and we’re finally winning. I know you know that. I know Jace knows that, and I know you’re both still fighting the same fucking war against the Empire that you’ve been fighting since before I was born because for you that’s the only thing that matters. But I’m not.”
“You dare-”
“I made my choice,” he says softly.  “Now you make yours. Are you going to drag the whole SIS down with you?”
Marcus rests his head in his hands. For a moment it’s the day after the Ascendant Spear, the day after Ziost, the day after Tython, the weight of a thousand impossible choices and ten thousand lies pressing down on him, and then he looks up and shakes his head. “No.” He sighs. “No, I’m not. What happens now?”
“Resign,” Nine murmurs. “Retire. Disappear before the Senate comes for you, or let them scapegoat you: I don’t care what you do, but you will call this off. You will do it now, and if I ever have reason to doubt you- if anyone from the Republic so much as breathes harm in Theron’s direction- the Ralltiir file goes public.”
Someone’s pounding on his office door, a woman’s voice shouting something incomprehensible as he reaches out of frame, and then a few moments later a series of four tones in a cadence burned into his own memory- send message; subnet selected; confirm?-
Message sent. 
The holotransmitter in Nine’s hand chimes. 
“Done. Now, if there’s nothing else?”
Nine turns once more (and he turns with her, careful) to put their prisoner back into frame. “What do you want me to do with him? I’d put him back on Belsavis if I was you, but-”
Marcus stands up abruptly, even as he makes a face as she says Belsavis, at the unmistakable sound of a single round of blaster fire and the hiss of a door sliding open. “Elin,” he snaps, “not now -”
“Yes, now.” General Garza’s got a blaster pistol in one hand and a commpad in the other when she crosses into camera view. “I just got a fucking call from the fucking- oh.” She cranes her neck toward the projector. “Well, we can fix that problem, at least-”
The call disconnects abruptly.
Nine sags against him, exhausted. “I’m sorry,” he whispers, “I know I promised-” 
“Commander.” He’d nearly forgotten SCORPIO was still at the console until she speaks, and he’s never heard that tone from her before; he looks sharply up at her and follows her sightline. The prisoner’s sitting bolt-straight, back rigid, eyes wide, and a high-pitched whine like a drill through durasteel shrills warning from somewhere that isn’t his mouth- “Commander, get down!”
All Theron can do is drop where they’re standing, his body a shield over Nine’s, before there’s an awful wet noise and the smell of blood and something else familiar in his nose, hot and metallic and not his and not hers and even though he knows he shouldn’t he looks up again and oh, fuck-
The lab door slides open and Doctor Lokin comes running into the room, Lana just behind with her lightsaber blazing, and they both stop short at the sight of it, at the ‘pub still strapped into the chair with half his head just gone and at him and Nine on the blood-spattered floor.
“What- who-” Lana covers her mouth with her free hand. “What in the Void happened?”
Nine’s shaking so hard she can barely move; he curls her close against him to keep her upright. “Not me,” she whispers. “Not me.”
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wackyart · 1 year
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"Warrior of the Mind"
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I can't stop listening to this song and thought it would be a good idea to draw my SWTOR next gen Twi'lek Force User: Yana Beniko Rivashi, adopted daughter of Lana and Luce.✨ ✨Sketched on paper, colored on Krita and available here and here !✨ Commissions open, special offer on the Valentine's Day ones and Reposts/Use are forbidden !
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stratataisen · 24 days
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I think 'Theron Shan's Secret Vacation Spot' is in a decent spot that I can give out the link for it! Come join us if you like reading and/or writing SWTOR fanfiction!
It's till a work in progress, but hopefully it ends up being a nice little community! :) Trying to keep it word of mouth right now. If it becomes a rather large I may have to put in some additional measures to make sure it doesn't implode. (And hopefully no bots show up...save for the Dyno bot I have on there.)
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the-tomato-patch · 1 year
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First official post ever on this account but here’s a beautiful commission of my Sith Pureblood Jedi Knight Rhiasen ( Shedim Darkstar ) with her main squeeze, Lord Scourge by the wonderful @yalaki!
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kwrite1776 · 6 months
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A little while ago, I asked @sullustangin if I could print out and bind their fanfiction, and they agreed.
Just about finished with Volume 1 (parts 1 - 5 of Corellian Whiskey and Sullustan Gin) - ran out of vinyl and still need to work on designing a cover worthy of such a great fic, plus there are a some other issues I want to improve for the next time. But, I am super excited to have a copy of the story on my bookshelf.
Once I figure out how to make room on my bookshelf. This books already over 600 pages and based on quick formatting of the next parts of the story, future parts will be longer. By the time the story is done, I'm pretty sure it'll take up an entire shelf on its own.
But it's a story worth an entire shelf of space because it is absolutely fantastic. The story is wonderful; the characters are amazing and realistic, with strengths and weaknesses that make sense. Plus the relationship between Theron and Eva is just the best.
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sith-shenanigans · 3 months
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Another Liminality chapter is up. No, not because TORCommunity’s dialogues are back, I didn’t realize until after I had finished it. But I’m very, very happy that they’re back, because I was getting so little writing done.
We get to meet Lachris in this one. And her apprentice, who I love forever.
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kemendin · 11 months
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Contentment
What can I say, I woke up today and chose snuggles. Small sequel scene to my fic ‘Cover Your Crystal Eyes’.
Jedi Knight x Lord Scourge Words: 925
The first morning he wakes up next to Scourge, Cas turns a look over his shoulder, and smiles.
They must have shifted positions during the night. He remembers being settled on top of Scourge, drifting off with his head tucked beneath the other’s chin, feeling the slow swell and fall of the Sith’s broad chest beneath his cheek.
Now Scourge is a bulwark of warmth against his back, his body not so much moulded to Caspian’s as Cas is to him. One weighty arm is wrapped easily around the Jedi, his scarlet hand spread over the dark skin of Cas’ abdomen, where he can feel the steady rhythm of his partner’s breathing against his palm.
Cas studies the Sith fondly for another moment, soaking in the view, before passing an idle glance around the cabin of his ship. Early sunlight is threading itself through the narrow windows, melding with the muted glow of the gold-lit panels that border the walls and floor. With the Seeker at rest in its glade behind the Alliance base, and no other occupants aboard, the entire ship is so quiet, so calm, and the Commander is basking in it.
Sighing happily, Cas shifts himself closer against Scourge, sinking deeper into the Sith’s heavy embrace. Sleep is still dragging at his eyes and his brain, and the temptation to succumb to it again is undeniable. But there’s something to be said for savouring this as well, this liminal place between consciousness and slumber, where his entire existence has been reduced to the softness of sheets and the warmth of unyielding muscles now relaxed against him in repose.
A tiny smirk pulls at the Jedi’s lips. The irony of the situation has not escaped him; that for all the Jedi Order’s talk of finding serenity, and clarity, and peace, Cas has at last found all of this here: in the powerful, protective arms of a Sith.
Absently he seeks out Scourge’s hand with his own, weaves his fingers into the empty spaces between the Sith’s stronger digits. To his surprise he feels a slight squeeze in response, and then a tickle of breath across his ear.
“Awake so soon, Jedi?” Scourge’s voice is a thick hum that Cas can almost feel upon his skin.
Caspian rolls back against Scourge, turning his head around to regard him. The sight of the Sith’s half-lidded yet still-bright gaze causes his smile to broaden into a lopsided grin.
“I wasn’t sure you’d still be here,” he admits.
“I promised I would be,” replies Scourge. There’s a light rebuke in the tilt of his browstalks. “And I keep my promises.”
“Well, in that case - good morning, Scourge,” Cas says, more brightly. He cranes his head farther to deposit a blithe kiss on the nearest of the Sith’s chin tendrils.
“Good morning, Jedi,” returns Scourge, before nuzzling his face into Caspian’s silver hair and inhaling deeply.
Cas laughs a little. “Does my hair smell that good?” he teases.
Scourge considers. “It smells - like you,” he answers after a moment, slightly muffled, and Cas chuckles again. He understands that this is as good as a ‘yes’. 
Raising his head again, Scourge lets out a low groan of satisfaction and tightens his hold around the Jedi. “You are a very sound sleeper, Caspian,” he goes on. “I was beginning to wonder if you would ever wake up.”
Cas makes a wry expression at this. “I’m not, usually. But this….” He exhales a similarly contented sound, and tilts his head back, and smiles again when he feels Scourge meet the crown of his head with a kiss. “This was the best I’ve slept in… years. No tossing and turning, no waking up in the middle of the night. No awful dreams.”
Scourge hums deeply again. “I have not felt this well-rested for as long as I can remember,” he agrees. “Being bound by the Emperor’s ritual, I was not disturbed by dreams - but sleep was always hollow and unsatisfying. And the return of my emotions only made me more restless.”
With some effort, Cas manages to squirm onto his back while remaining cradled against his partner. He reaches up and brushes his thumb across Scourge’s lips, and the Sith’s mouth quirks beneath his touch.
“Ssshhh,” the Jedi scolds him, still smiling. “Don’t talk about all that, you’ll ruin the moment.” His forefinger strokes along the other’s ridged cheek. “None of that matters right now, remember? It’s just us, here, together.”
He stretches up to catch Scourge’s mouth in a full, tender kiss - only to have this blissful sentiment rudely interrupted by the sound of the ship’s hatch opening. A moment later the familiar trill of an astromech droid burbles from the central deck.
Scourge lifts a browstalk, pushing himself up on one elbow and glancing towards the door, even as Cas falls back with a disappointed groan.
“Just us - and the droid,” the Sith corrects drily. “I suggest you relay to him that there is no more room in the bed, before he starts getting ideas.”
A whir of servos approaches the cabin door. [T7 = bringing breakfast for Jedi + Sith!] comes the proudly beeped announcement.
Cas lets out a loud sigh, and looks up at Scourge. “What d’you think?” he asks ruefully. “Should we let him in?”
Several light thuds vibrate from just outside - like an astromech droid is running repeatedly into the door.
“I think,” says Scourge matter-of-factly, now speaking over the distinctive sound of a lock being overridden, “that we are being given very little choice in the matter.”
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nikkeisimmer · 3 months
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Conversation in the Swamps
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Love leads to attachment - and that leads to the Dark Side…
Her statement hung in the air like a hollow echo as the vision of her time in carbonite assailed by the visions of Valkorian taunting her. Yet she had loved once; deeply and was hurt just as deeply by his betrayal and thus she had sunk herself deeper into the Jedi Code for solace.
There is no emotion; there is peace
There is no ignorance; there is knowledge
There is no passion; there is serenity
There is no chaos; there is harmony
There is no death; there is the Force.
The darkness of the swamps of Zakuul, so different from the bustling city towers, allowed them in the darkness to hear the noises of the animals that frequented the marshes. A lot of these animals were predators and Claria and Lana had to be on their guard, their sword hands hovering close to their lightsabers just in case those weapons were needed.
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She had been encased in carbonite for five years; five years lost to the ruling oligarchy of Zakuul; a brutal dictatorship that had consisted of the Sith Emperor before she put the blade of her red-bladed lightsaber through him, ending his life and placing the rule over Zakuul into the hands of Arcann and Vaylin; the psychopathic children of an even more psychopathic parent.. The red-bladed lightsaber was the preferred weapon of the Sith and she had used it as a part of her disguise undercover on Sith worlds. Claria hated deception, but to use her green-bladed double-blade lightsaber was to invite certain death as an easily identifiable weapon of a Jedi. It was better to use the weapon of a Sith whilst undercover.
Darth Marr was dead, killed by the lethal force-lightning blast from the fingers of Valkorian or was he Lord Vitiate. And she had languished for five years encased in a tomb that kept her between life and death, unable to breathe, unable to scream, yet held in limbo as the time ticked away.
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And Lana had tried to move mountains in order to rescue her from her prison. Lana Beniko; a Sith Lord. Claria wondered how she had become best friends with the blonde-haired Sith. Lana was, after all, a practitioner of the Dark Side. Jedi and Sith were normally mortal enemies, but Lana had an air about her that seeking power was just not something she was interested in.
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Gazing into the darkness that surrounded the swamp Claria reminisced. Two years prior to the capture of her and Darth Marr over Zakuul, she had been forced to cut down the love of her life in the passageways of the Sith Empire’s Harrower Class Dreadnought that was Darth Nox’s flagship Marauder, a ship that was feared throughout the galaxy for the crew’s sheer ruthlessness under orders from the vicious and ruthless Darth Nox himself - member of the Dark Council and the pillager of worlds; unbelievably the once-gentle Keron who now refused to surrender and return to the Light Side of the Force and who longed to destroy any Jedi who crossed his path. After a harrowing emotional and physical battle between Jedi and Sith, her green shimmering blade had entered his body vaporizing internal organs and ending his body’s capacity to sustain life, she had seen him turn back; his irises losing the red-tinged yellow and returning to his natural brown as he breathed his last.
:Attachments can be a weakness to be utilized against you by those who would seek to destroy you. Do not follow that path, Do not mourn for me...I am free. I will be with you always in the light of the Force: Keron’s voice echoed in Claria’s mind, the gentle voice she remembered from many years ago.
Tears filled her eyes as she recalled the light leaving his eyes leaving them dull and lifeless as she had held his limp body and wept. She would now follow the Jedi Code to the letter. Even if Theron Shan was constantly trying to flirt with her. Same with Koth Vortena. The two of them couldn’t help it. Theron was always seeing women throw themselves at his feet. Koth was just a regular smuggler/wrench who seemed to be unable to keep a ship under him, until he had found the Gravestone in which they were currently sheltering. I will follow the Jedi Code; there will be no more attachment, Claria resolved. There is no love for me any more. My love died aboard the Marauder.
There was no way to come to terms with the loss of Keron, since she’d had to kill him. Being encased in carbonite was part of that problem.
*****************************************************
Hopefully my muse can come up with more.
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eorzeashan · 11 months
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Minder, Minder
“Ensign, why don’t you go run a systems check– I need a minute with the agent.”
Raina turns to leave. “I’ll chisel the ice off the pilot’s seat for you,” She says, good-natured and obedient. Eight watches her form disappear up the ramp of the shuttle. She’s young, sweet, and terribly fresh: green in a way he hasn’t known since his Academy days. He’s not sure how she survived in the frigid wastes so long with such a chipper attitude.
Hunter seems to share his sentiments, judging by the slight disapproval in the fold of his arms and the impatience rooting his back foot to the ice floor. He’s at a crossroads for a decision, and Eight zeroes in on the words hanging off the thick of his lips. 
“Ardun Kothe’ll be happy,” He starts, his commander’s opinion relayed first, and Eight patiently waits for the relevant information that comes after the but. 
“But the girl…” There it was. “We agree that she needs to die, right?” Hm. Brutal as ever.
Not that he was complaining. They did agree on that. It was standard procedure; saw too much, heard too much, not useful enough to me, a liability– all judgements that usually ended with new blood buried somewhere deep underground. He knew it by experience and the intimate familiarity of being one such liability in a long age past. You’re a weakness, his mentor had said to him without an ounce of warmth in her voice, looking down on him wheezing for breath on the cutting board floor, unless you become a knife in my belt, I’ll leave you with all the rest.
She’d then extended a blue finger to the misshapen trash bags piled up along the wall, where the remains of her ex-lovers sat in neat little pieces, stinking of chemicals that stripped the hairs from one's nose.
He learned his lesson quickly.
People weren’t people to agents. They were loose ends. Trash to be discarded. Tools to be used. Mouths that talked too much, and eyes that watched too closely. It went the other way around, too.
Which was why Raina Temple could not suffer to live– yet against the voice of Nosta that lived eternally in the cracks of his soul, Eight found that he did not want to sink her body beneath the ice floes with rocks in her gutted stomach, a meal for the fish below.
“She’s not a threat,” He decided, not a retort, his words paced and even.
Hunter doesn’t look convinced. His fingers tighten on his forearm. There’s an unamused twitch in his second eyelid, and his shoulders are set square– relaxed from the outside, bordering on tense from within. Ready to act, while trying to play off that he is. More words stand to crawl from his throat, just above the bulbish shape that is a feature in his species. They called it an apple, like the fruit. Eight lingers over how much force he’d need to break the skin when biting it.
“She’s Imperial, she knows about the Starbreeze, she’s seen me, she’s seen you…” Hunter trails off, and Eight can see the metrics ticking in that wound brain. Eight wouldn’t call it nervousness, but Hunter…is cautious. Too cautious in all the ways he is not. Hunter skims just past paranoia and into the territory of bad faith; good for a classical agent, but too much fear begets no rewards– and jumping at shadows opens just as much room for mistakes as excessive trust.
“If she becomes a problem, I’ll take care of it,” Eight answers with a quirk of his brow, as if the danger she poses hardly warrants a second thought. To him, it doesn’t. She’d never last against him. No reason to send her back to Saganu in a body bag, and he suspects the Aristocra would be less than pleased if he did. 
Hunter’s eyes dance over his face, searching for the source of his confidence with pinpricks of wariness in the minute twitches of his face before he visibly relaxes, taut muscles released from their focus. Like a sigh, his readiness dissipates…but Eight is staring at the intent rolling up from his throat’s apple to his chin, resting on the bottom of his lower lip, weighed with purpose and a bit of that high that all with even a hint of power relish in before the utterance. Something animal in him rises to its hackles. It smells of the leash, the gentle tug before the pull. The freedom with which cruelty is spoken and the safety his prey finds in it. 
Eight has waited long enough.
“Just to be sure, though,
I’m putting a command in your brain. 
O n o-"
Eight lunges forward. The hut is small. The distance is laughable.
"M a"
He sees the shock bleed into Hunter’s eyes as he automatically falls backwards at his sudden advance. His back hits the wall, Eight’s hand fisting his collar.
"T o-"
He slams him against the slope of the hut. The impact rattles Hunter’s skull to an explosion of dancing stars, interrupting his verbage–it happened in the blink of an eye, and before he can so much as get another sound out, the Cipher’s moving again. A bit of spittle escapes Hunter’s mouth, mixed with blood. Too fast. Far too fast. What the hell?!
He’s not going to make it. No room to reach his blaster. Nowhere to get distance. The word, idiot! He tries again, fury welling up in his chest for being played a fool. 
Hunter blinks. Eight’s lips are on his, hotter than a molten star, softer than synth-silk.
His brain shuts off. He feels the other’s tongue slip through, wet, mixing with his saliva.
It takes him a second to register it probing the walls of his mouth, his senses overloaded with fever. He’s struggling to catch up, but he does, and a fierce hunger overtakes him as he claws at the Cipher agent’s back and pulls him closer into his space, their mouths battling for dominance, searching for just the right way to lock together as he eats him alive for more, more, more. His fingers trail down his nape as he bites his lower lip, tastes the wetness there and Eight moans into his mouth– the sound shooting straight down to his hidden pistol. Filthy like a whore.
Yeah. That’s more like it, Cipher. 
Just as he’s in the throes of kissing him senseless, the small part of his brain that has been screaming warnings at him breaks through the haze of his desire and he’s hit with remembering exactly what he’s here for.
The keyword! 
Hunter’s glazed eyes shoot open, the cold shock of recollection assaulting him like water dumped over his head. He shoves the agent away from him– did he really think he could seduce him out of a command? Cheap trick. He sneers.
…Only to find that the agent wasn’t budging.
Eight’s formerly closed eyes are wide open and staring straight at him. From here, he can see the wild glint in his eyes, light reflecting off the obsidian edge of his irises, dizzy with carnivorous desire and a gut-plunging intensity that makes Hunter think he’s been stabbed. Those dark eyes are the black rocks dotting the bay above a sea cliff, and he feels their pull keenly, the call of their void. 
It takes Hunter a moment to find out why.
A white-hot pain overtakes him. He tries to scream, but it doesn’t make a sound besides bouncing uselessly around in his throat. Iron, wet and heavy, gushes forth inside his mouth. The knee jerk reaction of pulling away from Eight sparks even more of that terrible pinch, the stretch of ruined flesh and his tongue alight with the kerosene of suffering– 
You bitch!
Eight’s cheeks are flushed now, and he can see the shy grin that extends from both sides of his face, painted with driblets of red.
He lets go after what feels like an eternity, taking one step back to admire his handiwork. Hunter falls to his knees, gagging and choking, blood leaking out of his ruined mouth. His tongue lolls, swelling with the inflicted bite mark of the other agent, flopping uselessly to the side as he tries to hurl swears at Eight but can only mush malformed invectives together that feel as mutated as his damaged digit.
His eyes spell of murder.
Eight wipes the runoff from his lips with the side of his hand, smearing it with red.
Amidst his rage, he hates himself for the arousal that emerges seeing him so bloodstained. The pool of want settles within the acid of his stomach.
He wants to kill him. He wants to kill the girl in front of him. He wants to have him choke on air for a week. He’s never wanted so badly to drag someone to a closet and lock them in there with him until they beg to do anything but know his touch. He still can’t say the word, and he wants to yell and scream for being in this position. 
Eight’s expression is orgasmic. 
“Mind your tongue,” Eight purrs with as much satisfaction as an overly-fed vine cat, “Minder Seventeen.”
—--------
Kothe confronts him about it later.
“Did you do that to Hunter?” It’s an innocent question, posed with that no-nonsense tone of a father trying to parse who took a cookie out of the jar. I’m not mad, just disappointed, says the stern set of his jaw. Eight doesn’t turn around to look at him from where he’s sitting crosslegged atop an empty weapons crate that Saber emptied. The spymaster waits for his answer.
He slurps a mouthful of instant MRE. Chews the noodles a little. “Dogs will bite if you pull the leash too many times.” He explains, in between a cascade of pasta falling from his mouth. Sluuuurp.
Ardun sighs. “I don’t understand why you boys are fighting, but I trusted Hunter with the codeword for a reason. If there’s a problem, I want you to tell me, Legate.” He says firmly, with a tired air to his stance. “We’re a team. We don’t hurt each other.”
“Already told’ya.”
Another sigh. “Because Hunter hasn’t talked to me either, I’ll let it go– but only this once." Ardun's tone is deadly serious. "I won’t tolerate dissension or hurting the other members of this cell. Time’s short and there’s too much at stake for in-fighting... I hoped you'd understand that. We’ll discuss this again another time.” Eight feels the air waft off the swish of Ardun’s cape as he exits the room, left alone with his lukewarm noodles.
Hm. He sips the broth thoughtfully. He didn’t use onomatophobia this time either. 
Out of the corner of his eyes, he spies something orange around the corner. He felt it before, staring at his lips. Eight smiles and wipes a stray bead of liquid from his mouth, smearing it across the back of his hand for his secret voyeur. 
The visitor quickly disappears. It’s fine, though.
He always comes back. 
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swtorpadawan · 9 months
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Misplaced
Author’s Notes: The following story is Part III of my Shadow Games series and takes place at Vaiken Spacedock in my Halcyon Legacy a few weeks before the Forged Alliances story arc.
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“What do you mean you’ve lost an experimental dreadnaught?”
Darth Arkous glared across his desk towards his chief advisor, Lana Beniko. The younger Sith was standing before him, having just delivered a report that had made his blood boil.
Beniko cooly maintained eye contact, impassively holding her ground. Despite her lack of a formal title – apparently by her own choice – she was unflappable as usual.
“With all due respect, my lord, I played no role in maintaining the security of the Undying.” The human female’s voice was clearly unphased by Arkous’ rising anger. He found himself simultaneously impressed and infuriated by her poise. Most of his underlings would have been cowering by this point, some of them on their knees.
Arkous finally turned away in dark contemplation. The implications of this news would impact his plans on multiple fronts.
Taking his motion as assent, Lana continued her report.
“The Sphere of Military Offense only just received this report - as a courtesy from our counterparts in Military Defense - that the ship had gone missing from where it had been posted stationed.”
She paused.
“As it was nominally considered a defensive asset, that placed it under Darth Marr’s purview.”
Despite his dark mood, Arkous had to bite back a smirk at the mention of his fellow Councilor. Nominally, Arkous was a fully-fledged member of the Sith Empire’s feared Dark Council as the Councilor of the Sphere of Military Offense, a position that should have made him the better or equal to any other Sith Lord in the galaxy save for the Emperor himself. Further, he was now well entrenched in his position, having held this role since shortly after the death of his predecessor, Darth Arho, on Ilum nearly two years ago.
In practice, Darth Marr, his counterpart as Councilor of the Sphere of Military Defense and one of the longest serving Sith on the Council, had taken advantage of the Emperor’s absence and the Empire’s many internal conflicts over the last few years, consolidating a significant power base for himself. Arkous, along with many of the other Councilors, were finding it increasingly difficult to act on their own authority without consulting him.
Indeed, some had even dared to whisper that Marr would eventually attempt to lay claim to the dark throne of the Sith Emperor for himself.
He is a symbol of everything wrong with the Dark Council. Arkous privately reflected.
He could only hope that the loss of such an infamous weapon under Darth Marr’s watch would take his esteemed colleague down a peg or two. When a new Empire eventually emerged from the fires to come, Sith like Marr would be tossed aside.
Beniko might well have been sensing – or perhaps anticipating – his thoughts.
“I am told that Lord Marr is… less than pleased.” The Sith advisor, the face of professionalism, confirmed dryly. Arkous fully understood the implied understatement.
Heads would no doubt be rolling at the Sphere of Military Defense over such a catastrophic failure. Quite literally.
Reluctantly putting aside his personal satisfaction at Marr’s plight, Arkous decided to press on.
“Fine. Fine.” The Pureblooded Sith Lord waved his hand dismissively. “What else do we know?”
Beniko turned back to her datapad.
“The Undying was stationed at the far end of the Dromund system outside of standard sensor range.” Beniko continued. “It was hoped that it would serve as the Empire’s ultimate fallback weapon if the Republic ever attempted another strike against the capital. With its advanced capabilities and the advantage of surprise, it could have devastated an opposing fleet…”
“I am well aware of its tactical potential.” Arkous interrupted, irritably. The Republic’s raid on Dromund Kaas two years prior, an attack that had led to the destruction of the ancient Dark Temple, had been a blight on the reputation of the entire Empire. It had made the Sith appear weak to the galaxy, encouraging dissent and rebellion throughout the Empire’s own ‘sphere of influence’. Revolts had arisen on several planets in light of the setbacks they had suffered during the Second Galactic War, and even the supply of Isotope-5 that Marr had claimed from Makeb prior to that planet’s destruction had not been enough to completely reverse that momentum. Indeed, Arkous recalled that it had been that these events had set him on the path of reconsidering his own loyalties…
He stopped himself. Beniko was perceptive. It would not do for him to dwell too long on those considerations in her presence.
“And I understand why it was there.” He stated firmly. “Pray, continue, Lana.”
Arkous had researched the specifications of the prototype vessel extensively after coming into power. Knowledge of the superweapon – much less details of its full capabilities – had been severely restricted. It had been an impressive ship, indeed.
“As you say, my lord.” The advisor moved on, apparently unrattled by his interruption as she looked down again.
“Every effort was taken to conceal the ship’s presence, including maintaining only a carefully selected skeleton crew and employing a communications embargo. Space traffic in that zone was restricted, and supply runs were carried out by droid-controlled transport ships.”
Beniko looked up.
“This is why it took them nearly a week to realize it had gone missing.” Lana was clearly allowing some of her dry contempt at the oversight by her counterparts at Military Defense to bleed into her report, even while maintaining her professional detachment.
“And thus we’ve managed to lose the last of Mekhis’ toys.” Arkous sighed in aggravation, sitting back in his chair.
Darth Mekhis, the late Councilor of the Empire’s Sphere of Technology, had been an engineering genius without peer. But she had also been a decrepit and insane crone; far too obsessed with the artistry of her own creations to effectively deploy them properly. Some rumors even claimed that she’d come to regard her weapons as her ‘children’. Arkous had no doubt those distractions had helped lead to her demise, along with the destruction of the Sun Razer some years ago.
Since then, both the Gauntlet and the Ascendant Spear, arguably the two most promising of Mekhis’ creations, had both been destroyed during ill-considered operations against the Republic.
The Silencer, a mega-laser that could be attached to a capital ship with the capability of destroying entire fleets, had shown great potential initially under the direction of Darth Nox. But the Republic had proven to be incredibly resourceful in refitting their capital ships to defend against the weapon. What’s more, it was terribly power-restrictive. Already there had been at least one incident where an Imperial dreadnaught had crippled itself in a failed attack on the Republic, leading to its capture. Without Mekhis to make corrective alterations, her mega-laser was now obsolete.
Finally, the Emperor’s Shadow, with its advanced cloaking capabilities, had been lost during Darth Malgus’ coupe attempt, its incredible technologies squandered on another Sith’s delusions of grandeur.
The Undying was now the only remaining superweapon from Sun Razer project, and now it had apparently been lost as well.
Arkous drummed his fingertips along the surface of his desk.
“Could the Republic be responsible?” he finally offered.
Beniko paused at length.
“Our intelligence apparatus has been somewhat… disorganized since the dissolution of Imperial Intelligence, my lord.” Her disapproval of the present state of affairs was obvious. Academically, Arkous was forced to agree. Whatever its faults might have been, the absence of the Empire’s Intelligence service had left a major gap in their capabilities, forcing them to rely more and more on the private networks of individual Sith.
Then again, that same ‘gap’ had allowed an opportunistic Sith Lord like Arkous to engage in his own machinations unimpeded.
“But our current analysis is that direct Republic involvement seems unlikely.” Beniko continued. “Such an operation would require the involvement of too many assets to have gone completely unnoticed. I believe our remaining operatives would have reported on such a bold plan.”
Suspicions of treachery creeped into the Sith Lords mind.
“Could the crew have mutinied?”
Beniko paused at that, gathering her thoughts.
“Not impossible, but both the officers and the crew were carefully selected for their loyalty to the Empire. Collective treason without warning signs seems implausible in the extreme.”
Arkous turned away in consideration.
“So we have nothing.” He concluded.  
“I’m told that Lord Marr has already asked the former Cipher Nine to investigate.” Beniko quickly responded. “Despite their… semi-independence, they have the most impressive track record of our surviving field agents.”
Arkous imagined that Marr hadn’t quite phrased it in the form of a ‘request’, independent agent or not. He also knew he could not allow anything to interfere in the Order’s goals. Not when they were so close to finally putting their plans in motion.
I’ll have to make certain that this Cipher agent finds no compromising breadcrumb trails leading back to me. He mused.
Not for the first time, he considered revealing his true allegiances to Beniko; her talents and acumen could be a great asset to the Master.
No. Not yet. Too many variables at this point. Beniko was a pragmatist. She might certainly come to recognize the danger that Vitiate represented, both to the Empire and to the galaxy as a whole. But it would be unwise to overplay that hand just yet. Perhaps later, she would be ready to see the situation clearly as he did and be ready to understand the desperate measures necessary to stop him.
With that decision made it became vital that he continue to keep her in the dark to his dealings, at least for the present.
“Very well.” He finally assented. “Keep me informed and order a full audit of our own Sphere’s assets in case other vessels or equipment are targeted. It would not do for us to repeat Marr’s mistake.”
He steepled his fingers together.
“You alone are capable of overseeing such efficiency, Lana.” The Dark Councilor then regarded his fellow Sith, their yellow eyes meeting. “I do hope my confidence in you has not been… misplaced.”
He allowed the unspoken threat to linger in the hope that it would convey enough urgency that she’d be distracted from his true intentions.
If she were at all intimidated by the warning, Beniko didn’t give it away.
“No, my lord.” She answered with a deference he strongly suspected his advisor didn’t feel. “I assure you I remain fully capable of carrying out your instructions.”
Crisp. Professional. Dedicated. Confident.
Were the situation otherwise, Arkous would have been enormously pleased with such a servant.
“Good.” He nodded, feigning satisfaction.
As he started to reconsider the webs of his plans, a stray strand caught his attention.
“One last thing. Inform Lord Goh to get that report to me as soon as possible. He’ll know the one.”
Beniko nodded in assent.
“Of course, my lord.”
“Then that will be all, Lana.” He said in dismissal, his chair rotating until he had turned away from his advisor.
“My lord.” She bowed and turned away, heading for the exit. He heard the door seal itself shut behind her a moment later.
Finally alone, Arkous fumed at the lost opportunity of the Undying. He had planned to steal the ship himself with the assistance of the Order, and now he had to consider the possibility of yet another player on the board, putting the Master’s plans at risk.
There was still time to revise his plans around this setback. Perhaps he would even have the opportunity to see Darok again.
For now, he would have to watch his back – and his chief advisor – carefully.
 Author’s Notes: The Undying makes its sole appearance in the Star Wars: The Old Republic - The Lost Suns limited series and graphic novel. Its one of several superweapon prototypes Theron Shan discovers before the destruction of the Sun Razer. The Gauntlet and the Silencer both later appear in the SWTOR class stories, while the Ascendant Spear is featured in the Annihilation novel. The Emperor’s Shadow and the Undying are not mentioned outside of the comic, and those absences are loose ends in my mind. I try to tie those off here.
The connection to the previous two chapters may not be obvious at this point, but I hope it becomes clear in time.
Makeb was destroyed in my storyline’s canon; more on that another time.
Lord Goh appears in the Forged Alliances story and is the end-boss in the Republic-sided Assault on Tython flashpoint. He’s most notable for almost never talking in the cutscenes.
The Darth Arkous / Colonel Darok ‘ship is one that’s been going through the fandom for a while, now. I touch on it here.
Thanks for reading, and may the Force be with you.
Tagging interested parties - @a-master-procrastinator​ @anchanted-one​ @grandninjamasterren​ @kartaylirsden​ @kemendin​ @kgoblin​ @magicallulu7​ @mysterious-cuchulainn-x​ @space-unicorn-dot​ @the-raven-of-highever​ @thefrostflower​ @tishinada​ 
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greyias · 1 year
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I wish you would write a fic where... Theron somehow amasses a following of actual, physical porn bots droids and shenanigans ensue
I saw this prompt come in and devolved into a fit of heinous cackling. How, oh how could I resist trying to render our collective Tumblr nightmare into fictional text form?
Context: While not required reading, this is technically a sequel to this stunning crackfic, authored so long ago. If you need a refresher on the Medical Droid Love Triangle Saga, follow this link. Or this one, which is the real villain origin story of this fic. Or don't, you're already cursed if you click beyond the read more of this post.
With special thanks to @grumpyhedgehog, @sandwyrm, @storyknitter, @kitsonpaws, and @andveryginger for providing me with ideas, cursed pornbot summaries, and many cursed HoloNet websites that should never exist. You are not required to read any of this.
Technically rated T, but in reality rated N for Nobody, because no one should have to read this. I'm packing my bags, as my ride to superhell just came. Enjoy.
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It had started as such a normal day -- if you could indeed have called any day on Odessen “normal”. What with the galaxy always being at the brink of some disaster or another, and their merry little band of misfits being led by the galaxy’s most notorious do-gooder, Theron’s schedule and to-do list had a tendency to get derailed on almost a daily basis.
This, however, was not how that usually happened.
He’d paused, mid-step, finger still hovering over his datapad, mid-entry as the hairs on the back of his neck stood on end, slowly dawning horror washing over him. His head turned slowly, like one of those doomed characters in a horror holofilm to look at the droid he’d just passed.
It was one of the new ones that had come in on a recent shipment. So new in fact, that there was still a fleet of them in the middle of being unpacked in the Logistics Wing. Shining, tall and blue, its highly polished quadranium head pivoted to look back at him.
“What,” Theron swallowed, willing his voice to sound even and not give in to the creeping dread, “what did you say?”
“Theron Shan,” the droid repeated helpfully, “is a master lover.”
“Oh no.” The words slipped out of their own accord.
“Just a moment, sir,” the droid continued, seemingly oblivious to the human’s distress, “I’m not quite done with your evaluation yet. Let’s see, where were we?”
“No no no no.”
The round flattened dome that served as its head tilted to one side, beady orange eyes sweeping over Theron from head to toe, before resuming its cheery, if horrifying report. “Subject is an exemplary specimen. In good cardiovascular health, above average muscle tone. Tall, well-built, and very clean...”
“Um,” Theron stammered. “I’m...” Flattered? Taken? Leaving? Wait--yes, that last one. “Going now!”
He didn’t give the cursed machine any more time to continue ogling him, instead taking off down the hall at a very brisk walk that nearly bordered on a jog. His mind raced at he beat a hasty retreat, trying to understand what was happening. It had been over a year since the The Incident, dubbed by some as the “Sexy Spy Virus”, and others by much more crude names, where a little harmless reprogramming had taken on a life of its own. Theron had been meticulous in his coding of the antivirus, wanting to ensure that the entire debacle would be forgotten. There was simply no way that it could crop back in on its own.
“Theron,” the brisk accented tone of one Lana Beniko burst in over his comm, “why did a droid just feel the need to inform me that they found rust on its insides during its last tune-up?”
“I don’t know,” Theron insisted, but his words were almost drowned out by a metallic clanking echoing down the corridor.
He threw a look over his shoulder, and to his horror, saw that his robotic admirer had decided to give chase. 
“I’m going to have to call you back,” he quickly said into the comm as the droid picked up speed from a walk to an all out gallop.
“Theron,” she sounded both concerned and exasperated, which, considering Lana, was about par the course, “what’s going on?”
“Save me!” He shouted as he took off a dead sprint.
In his many years in the field, Theron had been threatened, sure. Shot at? Many times. He’d been drugged. Tortured. Stabbed through the gut with a lightsaber pike and lived to tell the tale. He’d run into Sith, Revanites, bounty hunters, thugs, fanatics and cultists alike. He’d been in more firefights than he could remember, and more covert ops than he cared to. He’d even been accused of being a traitor (although that was kind of the point at the time).
None of that compared right now to being chased down by a droid yelling at top volume claiming he was the best lover it had ever seen.
And this time, he was pretty sure it wasn’t actually his fault.
He rounded the corner from the corridor leading from the Logistics Wing, passing by the Commander’s (and at this point, his) Quarters. HK-55 and Z0-0M straightened to their full height at his arrival. Oh thank the Force, allies.
“Salutations: Agent Shan, you are looking quite spry today.”
“What?” he panted as he approached.
“Yes, Agent Shan, don’t believe what anyone else is saying!” Zeeyo exclaimed, throwing her arms into the air. “Your undercarriage doesn’t look rusty at all!”
Mind sharp as a tack, Theron realized the implications of this just in time, and dodged to the side, ducking and rolling as the assassin-turned-bodyguard droid lunged forward to trap him in a bear hug. Not pausing to even catch his breath, as soon as his feet hit the ground he propelled himself forward and further down the hall.
“Frustration: I only wish to profess my admiration for you, Agent Shan!”
“Nope nope nope nope!” Desperation was starting to tinge the edges of his words now.
The metallic clanking intensified as more droids behind him joined in the chase, all of their vocabulators joining in unison to tell him in one way, or another, that he was in fact, the pinnacle of sexual prowess.
Theron couldn’t run forever, despite whatever their programming was forcing them to say, his stamina would give out before the lustftul droids’ power supplies. As the corridor zigged and twisted, he saw an opening in the form of a door sliding open. Without hesitation he dove in, shoving the individual there, thankfully made of flesh and bone, aside as he slammed the door controls.
The door slid securely shut just as the thunderous clanking filled the corridor beyond, their lustful words of appreciation and encouragement nearly drowned out by the racket. Theron hadn’t bothered to look or count, but he was pretty sure that the number had risen from three in the scant moments it had taken Theron to dart from one corridor to the next.
He held up a hand to his lips as he turned to thank the person who had unwittingly provided his temporary salvation. The words of gratitude died on his lips, as he realized exactly who’s room he had sought refuge in.
For a moment, Theron truly considered surrendering himself to the lusty droid mob.
Draike Highwind’s face was caught somewhere between confusion and amusement, but the latter was winning out as he started to decipher individual phrases drifting in from the corridor. A dark brow arched higher, lips twitching with undisguised mirth as the stupid blue droid that had started this whole mess yelled once again about Theron being a master lover.
More seconds passed, the ruckus quieting down, before silence descended once more, and it was finally safe to speak.
“So,” Draike drew out the word, somehow lacing it with more innuendo than all of the malfunctioning droids combined, “what ya been doing, Shan?”
“Nothing!” he insisted, voice still hushed just in case one of the droids could somehow hear.
“Doesn’t sound like nothing.” His brother-in-law’s smirk widened into an almost feral grin, eyebrows waggling. “Sounds like you’ve been getting... busy.”
One of the greatest mysteries in the galaxy was how one man could make anything sound that dirty. “I was minding my own business!”
“Oh, I bet you were.”
“You’re having way too much fun with this.”
“I mean...” If looks could kill, the pilot would have melted on the spot. Unfortunately for Theron, Draike was apparently immune to that sort of thing. “How often do I get the chance?”
“Did you do this?”
“Me?” Draike let out a sharp bark of laughter. “Stars, I wish I could have thought of something this good! These are memories I will cherish forever.”
Theron massaged the bridge of his nose. “I hate my life.”
“I mean, I’m not really into droids,” Draike went on, either not knowing (or more likely caring) about his brother-in-law’s predicament, “flesh is more my kind of thing. But you know, if you and the little lady need to spice things up by bringing in a little metal--”
“Please stop. I’m begging you!”
“Begging, eh? So you’re saying you’re more into--“
“Forget it, I’m taking my chances with the sex-crazed machines roaming the halls.” His palm hovered over the door sensors.
“Theron, wait!” There was enough urgency in Draike’s voice to give him pause. “It’s dangerous out there, take this.”
At first, he was honestly afraid to look, expecting to be offered something like a condom or some other bad joke, but was surprised to see the other man holding out a stealth generator.
“To escape your fans.”
“That’s actually not a bad idea.”
“I know. I’m a genius.”
“I didn’t say that.” He quickly nabbed the stealth generator before Draike could change his mind and frowned at the initials carved in the side in Aurabesh. “Is this even yours?”
“Eh, close enough.”
Whatever, beggars couldn’t be choosers. Theron would deal with those potential repercussions later.  He flicked on the power to the stealth generator which let out a low, almost inaudible hum as a burst of life engulfed his form. He closed his eyes against the sudden burst of brightness, and when he opened them again, dark spots of the light pattern danced in his vision for a few seconds. He blinked a few more times before they faded away.
He waved an arm experimentally in front of his face, and only felt the slight movement of air. Draike didn’t seem to react at all, and that was probably good enough.
“Thanks,” he said, palming the sensor to the door.
Draike rolled his eyes and ambled out into the corridor, looking around with the air of a man all too used to hiding from those looking for him. Theron watched as he raised a hand to a very slowly moving GNK power droid.
“How’s it hanging?”
“GONK!” 
“Oh yeah? You don’t say! I think I saw him head that way.” Draike pointed in the direction leading to cantina. “Just between you and me, I heard he’s sweet on that droid who’s a comfort enthusiast.”
“GONK! GONK! GONK!”
Still hidden underneath the stealth field, Theron had to bite down the urge to make any noise of frustration and just turned an invisible, irritated gaze at the other man’s back. As if sensing Theron’s irritation, Draike just grinned wider.
“Yeah, you know how those spy types are. Always toying with droids’ hearts. You could do better than him.”
“GONK!”
“Oh, you spicy droid! Yeah, trundle off that way, big guy. I’m sure you’ll catch him!”
With a loud clanking, the GNK droid began his slow and steady journey towards the cantina. As the echoes finally faded, Draike casually stretched, pointing towards the direction of the War Room.
Theron skulked on by, but not before giving his brother-in-law a well deserved whop upside the head. The stealth field flickered momentarily on the physical contact before shimmering back into place.
“It’d serve you right to get caught by doing that,” Draike sniffed indignantly, “after all I’ve done to help you.”
“When all of this is over--”
“Hush now,” Draike waved at the air in front of him. “You have bigger problems to deal with. Meanwhile, I will be heading to the cantina. And definitely won’t be live-streaming any brawls breaking out over the Master Lover breaking droid hearts everywhere.”
Theron snorted out an annoyed breath, and checked his urge to trip Draike as he sauntered off, hands jammed into his pockets as he whistled a jaunty tune. Like the purloined stealth generator, he’d have to worry about slicing and corrupting any servers containing evidence of this mess after he figured out how to stop whatever this was from spreading any further.
The upside to this whole unfortunate side encounter, was that the stealth generator made it possible for him to quietly creep around any droids he passed in the corridor. Most seemed to be making a hasty exit for the cantina, almost as if word had spread of Drake’s false rumor about his and C2-N2’s torrid love affair and every heartbroken circuit was flocking in that direction now.
And when he thought about it like that, when exactly had this become his life? Oh, right. Like fifteen minutes ago. Or however long this nightmare had started. Time had sort of lost meaning, if he were being honest.
He managed to make it to the war room, undetected and unmolested, and quietly snuck his way towards the irritable blonde Sith, holding her head in her hands as if she were battling the world’s strongest migraine. As Theron approached the Sith, he could hear her muttering under her breath in frustration. He hesitated for a moment before clearing his throat, causing her to jerk her head up in surprise.
“Who’s there?”
“Quiet,” Theron hissed. “They might hear you.”
“Oh, for Sith’s sake,” she exhaled, “where in the blazes have you been?”
“Hiding,” he whispered urgently. “These droids have all gone haywire!”
“And who’s fault is that, I wonder.”
“Not me,” he insisted, “not this time!”
“Right,” she said sardonically, “and I suppose that’s why there isn’t a reality holoseries entitled ‘Programmed for Love’ currently being live-streamed in the cantina for the entire HoloNet to see.”
“Damn it, Draike!” Theron cursed. “I thought he was joking about that.”
“Of course. How did I not see that coming?” she muttered.
“I’ll slice in and scrub all of the servers after we figure out this... this... whatever this is?”
“Your insecurities laid bare in binary?” she suggested, oh so helpfully.
“Why did I come to you for help again?”
“Because--”
It was at that point, that a probe droid, currently speeding its way towards the cantina, happened to take notice of Lana talking to thin air, and veered off its intended trajectory, heading straight for Theron’s position near the back of the war room. If the loud alarms and flashing lights were any indication, it had been able to see through his stealth generator.
Wait... those weren’t alarm proximities it was flashing. As Theron watched its rapid approach, he couldn’t help but stare at it in dumb fascination, brow furrowing as he tried to make out the images it was projecting. If he didn’t know better, he’d almost say it was a bizarre mixture of Aurabesh and hologlyphs.
He squinted, just able to make out: “DX-98 🤖🔥 Analytical  Scanner 💋🙏 Okara Droid Factory 🔍🌌💕 Exobiology Research 🥵🍑 Top HoloFans 0.7%!”
Before he had a chance to process any of that, the droid was already upon him, pincher arms spreading wide to snap him up for some purpose far beyond its original programming. He only had milliseconds to react before the droid reached him, when an explosive force sent the droid flying backwards harmlessly, and had Theron landing ungracefully on his tailbone. The stealth field fizzled out with a pop on his impact with the ground.
A familiar figure landed between him and the droid, twin blue scarves billowing behind her dramatically, blonde ponytail swaying with the motion of her movement. A small frown of concentration bunched her forehead as his wife threw a concerned look in his direction.
“You requested rescue?” Grey asked.
“Ah, my knight in shining armor has arrived,” he quipped back.
“I am not wearing my armor.” The frown of concentration morphed into one of confusion.
“I--never mind.” He pushed himself to his feet, dusting off his hands. “Thank you for the timely intervention.”
She graced him with a hint of a smile and a bob of her head in acknowledgment. “Any time.”
“As touching as all of this is,” Lana broke in sourly, “it still doesn’t solve our larger problem.”
“Yeah,” Theron rubbed the back of his neck, “you’re not wrong. It sounds like this has spread across the entire base?”
“It appears that way,” Lana said tightly. “You know, you assured me that all of this had been taken care of the last time we dealt with this issue.”
“Hey now,” he bit back, “I’m a man of my word!”
She snorted at that. “Tell that to the Umbaran Transit Authority.”
“How are you still mad about that?”
“You tazed me!”
“Focus,” Grey said, eyeing the stunned probe droid warily. “If memory serves me correct, you had a program you deployed to revert the programming of the droids the last time this happened.”
“Yes, that’s what doesn’t make sense.” He watched as the holoprojectors on the downed probe droid flickered, hologlyphs flashing rapidly in the War Room’s dim light. “I programmed it to eliminate all trace of the offending code. The only way it could be reappearing now is if someone took one of the infected droids offline before I deployed...”
Lana arrived at the same conclusion right about the time that Theron did, picking up the thought. “I seem to recall a certain someone requesting you replicate your work for less-than-legal purposes.”
Theron angrily punched the button on his comm as he growled, “Gault!”
The Devaronian’s voice came back immediately, almost a little too suave. “Theron! What a surprise to hear your dulcet tones requesting my presence.”
“Gault,” Lana managed to keep some measure of calm, “are you responsible for this current situation?”
“What situation is that?” he asked far too innocently, even as a distant call of a droid’s clanking nearly drowned out it’s loud declaration of the presence of rust on one Theron Shan’s “bolt”. There was a moment of silence before he continued. “Oh! You mean the lustful droids currently running amok on the base?”
“I’m glad we’re on the same page,” Lana said dryly. “My original question stands.”
“I am shocked, shocked and scandalized that my name would be the first to come to mind! Might I remind you, it was one Miss Djannis who requested you create her a Shan Sexbot.”
“Yeah,” Kaliyo jumped in on the comms, clearly annoyed, the sound of metallic brawling nearly drowning out her voice, “I wanted it for hilarious crimes! Not whatever the fuck this is!”
“Gault,” a third voice, Hylo Visz, cut in. From the background noise, it seemed she was in the same location as Kaliyo. “I swear, if you don’t help us figure out how to stop this, when you’re not looking I’ll cut off your--”
“Okay, okay, geez!” He interrupted before his significant other could finish whatever that threat was. “Fine, it was me! I deactivated a droid before Theron uploaded his program.”
“Of course.” Lana rolled her eyes upwards, as if asking the Force for patience.
“In my defense,” Gault continued, “originally it was just to shut the stupid thing up! But then Kaliyo came up with that brilliant idea for the Shan Sexbot Distraction, and I thought, why not hold on to this beauty in case it came in handy for a con?”
The sound of Theron smacking his forehead in frustration echoed throughout the War Room.
“So you know, just had a fun idea come to me the other day, so I extracted the original programming and altered a few things, and tried to put it into a new droid for my plan.”
“Did that droid happen to be a blue medical monstrosity?” Theron was actively massaging his temples at this point.
“I will have you know,” Gault said, “that BL-U3 is a consummate professional. You would be lucky to have him perform a medical exam on you!”
“Yeah, that was definitely his intent,” Theron shot back. “Purely professional and not lecherous at all! Which was not in any of my code.”
“Hey, I never claimed to be very talented when it came to software programming. I may have made a mistake or two when altering your code.”
“May have?!”
“How was I supposed to know that the remnants of the Gemini Frequency code in our systems was going to work after the entire Eternal Fleet had gone offline and deploy your software STD to the entire network? Sue me!”
“I’m considering it!”
Before the mostly pointless argument could escalate any further, the sounds of metallic clanking from above, roughly from the location of the cantina, began to grow closer, the cacophony increasing in volume, until it sounded like it was coming in all directions.
“That is not a good sign,” Grey’s mutter was nearly lost to the noise.
“Hey,” Drake’s annoyed voice cut in over the comm, “my livestream is now officially ruined! I hope you’re all happy!”
“I’m afraid to even ask why,” Theron said.
“Oh, it seems all of my extremely eligible and single contestants heard your voice over the comms and abandoned challenging Seetoo Enntoo to unarmed droid combat for the right to court you, and are now all headed in your direction.”
“Oops.”
“Worry not Agent Shan,” the unusually warbly vocabulator of C2-N2 came over the comms, “I will not rest until I alone can provide you with the ultimate in comfort!”
“We should probably get a different housekeeping droid after this is all over,” he told his wife.
That seemed a lesser concern to Grey, as she had shifted into Alliance Commander mode, and was currently on the comms, shouting for every available member of the Force Enclave to get to the War Room as fast as possible to help hold off the incoming army of lustful droids.
Yeah, come to think of it, that was probably more important.
“We must use nonlethal force,” she stressed, giving a particularly severe look to Lana when she said that, getting a simple nonplussed shrug in return, “as we only need to hold the droids at bay until we can come up with a solution. They are not to blame for what’s happening.”
Theron begged to differ, but she was probably right in this case. The cost of repairing or replacing an entire base full of droids would be astronomical.
As Force users began to stream in and take up position around the room, the sound of wheels racing along the metal plating caught Theron's attention, and he looked over to see a familiar silver T7-series astromech racing into the room. He tensed up instinctively at the sight of a droid, as anyone would have in his situation.
“Teeseven!” Grey called out with a smile, clearly not as wary or droidshy.
The little astromech let out a friendly whistle and series of chirps in binary, that roughly translated to: “T7-01 = Safe! // Been off network entire morning!”
“Oh, what a relief,” she breathed, “I would have hated for you to be infected with this too!”
He let out another series of beeps: “T7-01 = still in possession of original antivirus code. // Can tweak it and upload to servers = Save the day?”
“I don’t know if that’s such a good idea,” Theron muttered.
“T7 = not scared!”
Grey’s expression melted into one of admiration and pride. “Teeseven, that’s incredibly brave -- but are you sure? Theron’s right, it could be very dangerous.”
“T7 = Jedi + Theron’s friend. // Helping > Risk!”
She looked at him and he returned the gaze with a small nod, realizing there wasn’t much in the way of choice. It was either that or let the droids overrun them. And then whatever happened when one of them actually got their hands on on Theron -- a prospect he wasn’t really that thrilled to explore right now.
“Fine,” he said tersely, “let’s do this!”
The two of them rushed over to the center console in the room, Theron pulling out his slicer spike as Teeseven plugged his scomplink arm into the main network terminal. The rest of their reinforcements from the Force Enclave arrived just in time and formed a ring around the two slicers. They managed to erect a large Force barrier just as the metallic clanging and clatter grew to a roar, announcing the arrival of the lecherous horde.
Near the front of the mob, Z0-0M threw up her arms in glee and excitement as she jumped to try and catch sight of her beloved. “There you are Agent Shan! You left before we could finish our conversation -- you were saying something about oxidation?”
“Interjection: Do not listen to this hussy, Theron! You and I will make sweet explosions together!”
Theron valiantly tuned them out as he took in a feed of the original antivirus code that Teeseven shared with him. Yes, this all looked correct. Unfortunately, he was going to need get a look to see how Gault had mutilated his beautiful original coding to know how to alter it.
Teeseven was two steps ahead of him, and a stream of code flashed across the HUD in his ocular implants. He watched in horror as he saw the butchery with his own two eyes.
“Gault, where the hell did you get this code?” he asked over the comms incredulously. “HornHub?”
“Excuse you, I only frequent the classiest places on the galactic communications grid, like HoloHump!” The growl of Gault’s name from a very angry Mirialan smuggler had him quickly adding. “You know, I’m just going to shut up and let you concentrate on what you’re doing.”
Teeseven, ever the valiant worker, ignored the conversation completely, and was hard at work running diagnostics on the altered code and the best way to modify the antivirus to address it. Theron watched the stream of letters and numbers fly across the HUD at lightning speed.
The little guy was good at what he did. He let out a flurry of beeps and whistles as almost the last piece of this very lurid puzzle started to fall into place. The little droid seemed to almost be singing along with the code as he wrote it, like a mechanical maestro conducting an orchestra. They were close, so close and--
The next whistle Teeseven let out was not his normal, cheerful way of communication, much lower in timbre and more seductive.
No.
Teeseven whirled his flat head around until his visual sensor faced Theron, and let out another wolf whistle, his holoprojector lighting up to proudly display: T7-01 🤖👀🔍 Observant 👁️🔭 Scanner 🔍🏞️ Tython 🌄👏 215 🍒♎ Repairing 👅🙈 Top HoloFans 3.6%
“What was that?” Grey shouted to be heard over the droids catcalling.
“No no no no,” Theron muttered, “we’re so close! Don’t do this to me, little buddy!”
“What happened to my precious baby boy?” Grey demanded, sweat trickling down the side of her face as she struggled to maintain the Force barrier.
Beyond the barrier, the rest of the porndroid army followed suit with Teeseven, all either wildly projecting their own series of hologlyphs and random facts about themselves and their planets of origins, while others struck disturbingly seductive poses, and a scant few demanded that “ShanDaddy” start a holocall with them in private.
With no time and no recourse left, Theron dove back into the system, yanking Teeseven’s unfinished code as he was nearly overwhelmed with lewd images and thirsty hologlyphs, struggling to finish and upload the code as the volume in the War Room rose to a crescendo just as the Force users’ began to fall, one after the other, their barrier weakening by the moment.
The overwhelming cacophony of hologlyphs, lewd poses, and robotic come-ons that had filled the War Room suddenly disappeared. All eyes turned to the droids as almost in unison, as they all powered down—a sign that their malware had been neutralized. Theron slumped back in relief, his work finally done.
Grey, Lana, and the others let out a long sigh of relief, the tension leaving their bodies in a rush.
“Thank the Force,” Grey murmured, sinking down to the ground. “I do not think I could have held that barrier much longer.”
Theron nodded, feeling a similar sense of exhaustion. He leaned back against the console, closing his eyes but was unable to banish the mentally scarring series of images that were probably permanently burned into his retinas.
“Remind me,” he said faintly, “to obliterate HoloHump’s servers. Once I’m done murdering Gault.”
“You act as if there will be anything left after I find him,” Lana said darkly.
“Remember everyone,” Grey spoke in her best and most official Alliance Commander voice, “murder is bad and frowned upon in the Official Alliance Employee Handbook.”
“Query: Why are we all in the War Room?” HK-55 asked as he came back online. “And more importantly, why is that blue meddroid manipulating its medical instruments into a heart shape, as if expressing affection towards the Commander?”
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fleeting-sanity · 6 months
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Perhaps it was not about attachments but the simple act of helping one another. That's what being a Jedi was all about, wasn't it? Vyria has always banked on the idea that she was never much of a Jedi, allowing herself a few of the inhibitions but still believing in the teachings and principles of the Order. Besides, her brother was such a key player in this war that they could not afford to lose. 
But she knew well that Riornivo had had enough of it, making their decision on his life seemingly selfish. 
She felt an arm around her shoulders. Sitting next to her was her eldest brother, but his action was so out of character according to her. Still, she showed her appreciation by hugging him in return while remaining silent. Her mind however, recalled the days of the Dread War, where their lives were changed in a chain of misfortunes and losses. It was the most abandoned she felt in her entire life. Parents passing in short succession between themselves, the one she could depend on joined the enemy, the enemy revealed to be her blood wanted nothing to do with her, and lastly, albeit a controversial fact, was how she resented the Order for achieving heights partly contributed by her family, yet she felt shunned in her moment of grief.
"How do you think we'd deal with him after he's awake?" Vyria muttered.
"We don't know what's happening in there. But if it comes to that… I think… I think we can pull that off again. It's been done before. We know his true nature…"
One of the strike teams storming the Dread Palace was led by Rionnic. Vyria was part of the other. There were numerous defeats suffered from both teams, and when they managed to reach the throne room, only a few remained. Riornivo sat on the throne previously owned by Brontes, completely unrecognizable behind his Dread Master crest and apparel. They were overwhelmed by the might of the Dread Masters, but the two siblings' attempts on reasoning and reaching inside their fallen brother’s heart paid off.   
Riornivo ultimately betrayed the Dread Council, which resulted in their defeat.
It was the second fallout, and their father wasn’t around anymore to gaslight the Order against punishing Riornivo. They didn’t even have to though, as the fallen Jedi was ready to cut himself off from the Force and be an exile somewhere unknown. Satele talked him down and provided both of her students the help they needed. But the siblings practically considered themselves exiles as most of the Order were intimidated and weary of them. The few who were accepting and kind were not enough.
Her reminiscence however, was interrupted by a commotion in the next room. It sounded like Arcann debating with the guards outside, but there should be no reason for him to do that.
"This is it, this is your chance to turn around and keep your anonymity...”
In front of the Zakuulan siblings; about a good distance away were three guardians composed of two Jedi and a Sith. Arcann was a regular visitor but what galvanized them was the Knight accompanying him. At first, the former Emperor tried to bluff his way inside, but the guardians wouldn't budge on the Knight's identity. Then he tried to proposition his sister into canceling the visit for another day, which was a futile effort. 
"I want to see him!"
But the moment Rionnic and Vyria appeared, she became tense. The siblings dismissed the guardians despite their reservations. Rionnic had a look on his face that could tell who the Knight really was. 
"I know it's you." 
As soon as Vaylin removed her helmet, blades of blue and red were drawn, followed promptly by a golden one. Arcann was in such a tight spot, but he noticed a crimson smoke dispersing from the slab door's crevice. "Please, let's not escalate. This is not what he would have wanted…"
"Then leave," As Rionnic entered an offensive stance with a reverse grip, while his left hand hovered above his offhand lightsaber. "I'm not opposed to ending both of your existence."
Vaylin was not about to be murdered a second time by the evil twin. But before she could launch an attack, a booming voice coming from inside the chamber stopped them. "Be quiet. Do not disturb my concentration."
The crimson smoke increased its amount, but what truly startled everyone there was how Rionnic suddenly dropped his lightsaber as his body collapsed to his knees, grunting in pain. His sister immediately caught him, restlessly panicking. It instilled a wicked satisfaction in Vaylin seeing him that way. Arcann moved to help, seemingly recognizing the pain Rionnic was feeling. “Hmm… you’ve been hiding this, aren’t you?”
“What?” Vyria asked.
“Twin bond. Thexan used to say that he felt the pain of losing my… arm, but he powered through it. The way of the eldest brother.” Arcann teased while pointing out to Rionnic. 
Vyria escorted Rionnic out to hand him over to the guardians for his own treatment, which he refused. He’d rather be left nursing his pain with the traditional Sith way. Not a healthy coping mechanism by ordinary means, but perfectly so in the Sith Empire. Once again, Arcann coaxed his sister to delay the visit, which succeeded only because Vyria told them that Riornivo was off-limits due to his current treatment, but she was open for future visits. It was honestly surprising for Vaylin, since she thought that his sister was adamantly against her friendship with her brother. She put on the helmet again before leaving the underground chambers.
“I think I’m going to stay here,” as Vaylin put brakes on her footsteps.
“But that’s-”
“Going back and forth is a hassle. I’ll be fine–I’ll stay out of sight and out of trouble. You should go back home and help your wife.”
It was with great hesitation that Arcann departed Dantooine without Vaylin. Seeing how desperate Vyria was planted a seed of dread in her, but she chose to mitigate it by entertaining her curiosity of exploring Dantooine for the second time. She has not been in this part of the planet before, and something different happened recently by the looks of it. After briefly exploring the ruined Jedi Temple, she headed towards a nearby settlement and browsed the vendors. 
She was carrying a bag full of necessities when she realized that she should have scouted for a camping spot first before shopping. It took a few hours of sneaking around, but she finally found a secluded spot near some big trees, enough for shade and concealment. When she attempted to contact Serrus, the signal was choppy but she informed him of her situation and his tasks. She threw in a promise of getting him something when she returned, in which Serrus laughed off but thanked her for her generosity. 
There were adorable juvenile kath hounds to pet but her heart still couldn’t shake off the worry about Riornivo. 
Perhaps it was predictable, but Riornivo escaped death yet again. His eyes slowly opened to a crimson surrounding, causing quite the strain to the newly adjusting cornea. What was more painful was his chest, as he groaned trying to stand but ended up falling instead because he was floating. His Architect Wings retracted, then he looked up to a Dread Master shaking his head.
“Congratulations. You are now two weeks younger.”
“W-what? Master Cal…?”
Calphayus rubbed on his temple, regardless of the crest he was wearing. He wanted to lecture this young Jedi so much, but refrained from it after seeing his condition. Gently, he helped Rio to sit on the bed, receiving a whimpery smile and gratitude. “I haven’t seen you in a while… how are you doing?” asked lightheaded Rio.
“A little lonely. Our focus now is you. How do you feel?”
The Barsen’thor was quiet. His arms crossed around his chest, feeling so weak and disoriented. He sighed, then his eyes flitted upwards to the Dread Master. 
“I’m supposed to be dead, aren’t I?”
“Why? Would you prefer otherwise?” 
His gaze downturned, gulping a metaphorical nerve to reflect on whether he should let it all out, or keep it to himself. He chose the former. “Why can’t they just… let me go?”
“Exactly. They are trying so hard to keep you, when you are jaded. But you do not grant the same courtesy to others. Chiefly, when they should be left to fate.”
The last sentences struck him as too personal, somehow. Healing others was a general fact about Calphayus’ statement, but there was something else behind it, his intuition whispered. “What do you mean…?”
“You know what I mean. I’m advising you against that in the future. Not because of your mercy, but of your survival. Dispense all of the compassion you want, just as you’ve given me, but be careful how you do it. The Force is strong in you, stronger yet if you let it be.”
People in his life seemed to love lecturing him. He even made categories of their flavors, Calphayus there was bunched in the same class as his stepfather. Cryptic but precise. He sighed, but quickly smiled it away. “I’m sorry, master. I haven’t thanked you. Oh, and you said you were lonely? Do you want me to accompany you?”
Calphayus smirked behind the crest. “Always trying to please. Go and live your life. Your way of gratitude would be heeding my guidance… Perhaps we will meet again.”
“Wait!” 
But the Dread Master instantly disappeared in a cloud of crimson. The subject of his warning resurfaced in his mind, causing him to quietly ponder. Yes, he agreed that it was an extreme measure of saving someone's life, but he already vowed to not repeat it. He wasn't even sure if he could do it again. Somehow, he was upset about receiving the same treatment, albeit in a different way. But he would benefit from his own advice: that he could help more lives by surviving another day.
Riornivo saw no point in staying inside the chamber, subsequently spotting the slab door which can only be opened with the Force or heavy machinery. He did so carefully, avoiding making a sound. His sister was sleeping on the temple bench; he fixed the blanket and tucked her in successfully without waking her up. When he exited the waiting room, the three guardians outside were shocked upon sighting him.
“Barsen’thor?”  
“Shh, apologies, but my sister’s asleep.”
“But you shouldn't be walking around like this.”
“I… I need air. Alone. Please let me… I’ll be brief and safe.”
The three tried to gently let Riornivo down, but at that time, he had enough of people not letting him do what he wanted. He broke down sobbing, which spooked the guardians. 
Then he apologized for crying. 
“I’m very sorry, Barsen’thor, but I cannot risk your health. This is-”
“I say we let him,” The Sith interjected, which surprised the three Jedi in front of him. “He can take us all out if he wishes. He’s more than capable of defending himself out there. Which is already quite clear of pirates.”
Riornivo thanked the Sith, and the remaining Jedi had no choice but to let him go. "But please return to us soon–your brother will have our heads if he discovers us not supervising you."
"Don't worry about that. I'll give him a call. Thank you for keeping me safe and concealed."
He spent the remainder of his walk out of the ruined temple admonishing himself for crying. Not because of the shame, but he loathed worrying people. Appearing weak in front of them could demoralize, and as a beacon of hope, he was finding it hard to become a good Jedi. But emotions are a core part of humanity; sadly nobody has ever told him that. His mind decided to put it behind as he inhaled the fresh air of the farmlands. 
Something caught his attention. Two kath hounds were racing towards another one, apparently injured. The Jedi cautiously approached them to render aid in the form of healing. Once he successfully did so, all three kath hounds thanked him by grazing their nuzzles around his robes. It was a much needed soul support for him as he watched the small animal family retreat to their pack. Reminding him of his twin's little family.
His next steps were aimless–he was content with watching nature and feeling the breeze slip through his robes. However, according to destiny, it wasn't aimless at all. It led him to the person he wished he could share this calming stroll with. Meditation started but this time, standing still as a statue. It was short lived however, when snapped twigs indicated that someone was behind him.
It was the woman he deemed the most beautiful in the entire galaxy.
"Vaylin…?"
Both of them were speechless. Vaylin however, couldn't contain her relief after spending days camping out worried about him. She stormed towards him for a tackle hug, which caught him off-balance. They both fell to the grass; her fall was entirely cushioned by his body. 
They can feel their breaths on each other’s skin once again. It was something they needed–from their deepest desires, but after a few seconds of that, they realized the situation and how it might have looked. Vaylin immediately got up, their hearts pounding, faces all red, and just inches away from each other. “S-sorry!”
It took quite the labor for him to sit up, which made Vaylin move quickly to help. Her antics were jittery but timid; as apparent by her fixing his robes and sweeping away the leaves and twigs off him. As if he was a newly discovered treasure. The first minute passed, and they both still haven’t said a thing. 
Rio stole a glance.
Vaylin stole a response glance. “How… how are you?” 
“I’m… uhm, quite fine. How about you?”
They were awkward, when they shouldn’t be. Perhaps it was that body to body contact just then. Vaylin sighed, wanting to express how much she missed him, but was hesitant and didn't have a clue on how to break the ice. She stood up, readjusting her breathing and posture. She wanted to take care of him. “Have you eaten? You look very tired.”
The first question alone was enough to further weaken his resolve, falling even deeper in love. His gaze naturally fell, and he tried hard to conceal a flustered smile. 
“I just… got out of the temple. Um, yes, I haven’t eaten.”
“Let’s go. To my camp.”
A slight change of scenery might be beneficial for her nerves. Her speed wasn’t matched by Riornivo however, as he lagged behind. But this time, instead of sneering, she turned around and held his arm to escort him. “Oh, um–you, uh, you don’t have to-”
“You’re right, but I want to.”
That made his joints soggy. There was no more Code repetition in his mind, only the future of holding her while enjoying the sunset, or feeding her some of his cooking, or slow dancing in a private venue somewhere. Whatever happened to the warden of the Jedi Order?
“Right, sit here. Let me get some, uh… hold on let me make something!”
Seeing Vaylin fumble around was adorable. When he wanted to help, she refused. She cooked a simple stew and brewed a jug of tea, serving them in front of him. This domestic scene felt like a dream to the Jedi, but he wouldn’t let it get too far. An example would be her spoon feeding him. He thanked the former Empress many times, to which her arms akimbo and said; “Well, eat it before it gets cold!”
The taste was better than his own cooking. Even though she forgot to put a little sugar in it, causing the stew to be overly salty. It mattered not as the flavor of being in love made up for that. The semi-sweet tea right after definitely helped. When it was her turn to taste, she spat out her own cooking. How did he eat a whole bowl so fervently?
“You like salty food??”
“What? Oh… um, I don’t think it’s salty?” a flustered Rio assured. He reached inside his robe to present yet another flower crown. Her eyes were in disbelief.
“How th–when did you make this?”
“During my walk. I saw some farm flowers and thought of you. Well, I guess this is my token of thanks.” As he placed the crown on the Empress of his heart. Her doe eyes paired with the rosy cheeks and lips were enhanced with a genuine smile. Both were struggling to talk despite sitting next to each other. 
"H-how have you been doing?"
"I'm… good. I met with my nieces and Arcann's wife. They're… such happy people. Mother was there too."
Rio's loving heart was delighted to hear that. "I'm so glad you visited them. How are the twins now?"
The topic of Arcann's family proved to be a good icebreaker. Their conversation branched towards her new pet, his nephew, childhood nostalgia, but it took a little turn when she inquired about the recent battle.
"If I may ask… um, what is that thing from your back? The… six extra arms you got?"
That was an unexpected, and frankly embarrassing question. "It's… a device? An invention by a Dread Master. Umm… some sort of a tool. It's a long story… almost a decade ago. Hard times. Dark times…”
Vaylin put a hand on the back of his shoulder. “Sorry… didn’t mean to ask such questions.”
“It’s alright, Vaylin. It’s a fact of life–that we have dark times and good ones. But I’m hopeful that the days forward will be better. Especially yours.”
Vaylin sighed her head down. She wanted to keep listening to those honeyed words, because she knew that he’d eventually had to resume his duties to the Alliance or the Order, so who knew when they would meet again? But she knew it was such an outlandish thing to do–to confess all of the pent up feelings for the Outlander. His response would probably be something predictable. All of that melancholy resulted in a noticeable silence. “Vaylin…?”
“Rio… I…”
“Is something wrong?”
If she uttered the next words following her heart, it can potentially change the dynamics of their friendship forever. She covered her forehead with her palm, distressing over her heart. “I want…”
The Jedi waited.
“Forget it.”
“Are you sure? It looked important to you,” as Rio shifted a little in his seat, facing her. “You can tell me anything. If you want.”
“Do you mean that? Can I tell you anything?”
That smile again. She stood up weakly, putting a little distance between them.
“I really… really want to… I want to be with you. I want–I want to be with you!”
She turned away, not wanting to see his reaction. His face slowly devolved into one of despair as he stood up. He wanted to say yes, he wanted to turn her around and deeply embrace the woman. But his heart broke instead to the point of almost crying again.
“Vaylin…”
Both of their hearts were pumping blood so intensely it labored their breathing. He wanted to say those words back to her. Maybe even return the kiss she gave him last year. But there was something even bigger than him barring reciprocation.
“You’re… you’re so much more than that…”
“...What do you mean?” She voiced her confusion without turning to face him. She was fully expecting him to either say no or go on an inspirational speech. 
“You have so much to experience… your life is still wide open, so much of this galaxy to meet–I-I don’t want to stand between that. You’re-”
“Why do other people always decide on their own about what’s best for me? Why am I not deserving of anything I desire?”
“It’s not like that-”
“Enough. I get it.”
She immediately sprinted away, fighting off the tears and anger of rejection. His pleas for her to stop were ignored. No way was she facing him again. No way was she interested in listening to his explanation about why he did not feel the same. No way would she accept that it wasn’t feasible for a Jedi like him to be with a tyrant like her. This confession was a mistake. He tried to give chase and stumbled due to his weak body. Using the Force to stop her felt wrong, and it could potentially rile her up even more. His waterworks began spilling.
If only she understood the predicament he was in. Perhaps they were not compatible after all; his kind of love was to put her on a pedestal, way beyond him, and he wanted her, a former victim of abuse, to further heal and experience life to the fullest. A relationship was not in his perspective of a full life, possibly attributed to being raised a Jedi. But what about those fantasies in his head where he caressed her?
Vaylin’s body gave out after running a good distance away with a mix of the Force and intense emotion. Finally, she could cry it out. She mourned the imminent death of their friendship–as it would never be the same anymore. She tried her best to subdue her sobs so as to not alert the people inside the buildings nearby. But an attention stealer in the form of a broadcast struck fear into her psyche. 
“There have been sightings of the former Empress Vaylin on various planets recently. We still have yet to confirm these reports, but it would be wise to not approach her and instead alert your local authorities. Remain calm and vigilant, but more importantly, be careful as to not accuse blindly. Taungsday news out.”
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wackyart · 1 year
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"Life's Rage"
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Sable Beniko-Rivashi being a badass on Korriban because I wanted to I guess ? Finally finished this one and I'm happy with it ????? Sketched on paper, colored on Krita and available here and here ! Finally caught up all of my work and I'm finally healed from this f*cking awful cold so I'll be sending the commissions and all in the day/night don't worry ! This one is the match for this one right there, Yana and Sable are sisters ! Commissions open, follow this post here and please do NOT use and/or repost (a DMCA ain't cute, don't try it) !
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