Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Darkness is all Morgan sees as he comes to. With a parched throat, aching wrists from being bound and only his ears to tell him what’s going on, you might forgive him for trying to speak.

The guard did not, and with a harsh “Silence, slave!” he was knocked back unconscious again.

Regaining consciousness the second time was no more pleasant than the first, now with a painful bump on his head and a splitting headache, he stayed silent.

“The guard is gone. Speak, if you can.” A not immediately hostile voice whispered. He liked that voice, it was speaking softly.

“Whe- Where am I?” A coughing fit overtook him as other voices urgently tried to shush them. Morgan ignored them, mostly out of confusion.

“From what I can guess, we’re on a shuttle. Where that shuttle is going, I have no idea.” The nice, soft, voice told him.

“Both of you, shut it. Do you want the guard to come back?” A third voice demanded, just as quietly. Morgan’s stomach did a flip as the shuttle turned. ‘Wait, did he say shuttle?’

“Shuttle? You mean a bus?” Talking was making his throat worse. The others shushed them again, even more incessantly than before.

“What’s a bus?” The soft voice asked curiously. A much louder voice broke in, barking. “What did I say about talking, slaves?” 

Just before darkness claimed him, just before both of them were knocked unconscious, he got the faint sense the soft voice was laughing. Laughing and laughing, then sudden silence.

“ETA to spaceport 6A in five minutes.” Morgan woke up again, delirious. Not remembering what happened the first two times he made noise, and not caring besides, he spoke again. 

“What spaceport? Where are we going?”

“Where are we going, it asks?” A level voice mused. Without waiting for a reply, the man continued.

“Well, I’m going to the cantina the moment my shift ends, spending half my paycheck so Kat will pretend to love me. You, on the other hand, are going to hell. Or, more accurately, as close as you’re ever going to get.” He seemed to read the confusion off Morgan’s face, laughing again.

“Korriban.”

He needed no guard to knock him unconscious that time. The head trauma, shock and delirium seemed perfectly happy to do it for them.

‘Waking up like this is really starting to get annoying.’ 

Morgan shook his head. His second thought was more panicked, looking around. 

‘What. Where am I? What’s going on?! what the fUCK IS GOING ON?!’

Heads whipped around to look at him. Morgan flinched, realizing he had shouted that last bit at the top of his lungs. Oops.

“Easy there, everything’s alright.” A soft and reassuring voice murmured from behind. Morgan twisted, stars briefly dancing in his vision. He gave the one that must be Soft Voice an empty glare. “Liar.”

Soft Voice shrugged unapologetically. “Yes, but it got you to focus on me and snapped you out of a panic attack.” Morgan blinked, seeing Soft Voice was, in fact, a hulking eight feet tall devaronian. He shook his head again, ignoring that oddity.

“How long have I been out?”

“About a week.” Soft Voice answered promptly. 

“A week?”

“Hmm. They brought you here a couple of hours ago. How do you feel?”

Now that he thought about it, pretty good. No headache or nausea, no sore throat or bump on his head. No pain of any kind, really. He felt great. Saying as much to Soft Voice had the giant shrugging. “Must have given you kolto.”

“Right, kolto.” Morgan parroted, unimpressed. 

He stood, looking up at the ceiling. He gave that a look to make sure it also understood how utterly done he already was with the situation. Noticing the ceiling was quite high up he gave the room a cursory look, spinning slowly. It seemed much like a military bunk room, not that he had any experience with those, and was filled with cots. The beds were stacked ten high, giving the room a strange three dimensional feeling.

“Alright, that’s enough. Cut the simulation.” The ceiling, beds and other objects in the room, of course, did not reply. “Wake up!” Pinching himself, and then slapping himself in the face when pinching didn’t work, he got slightly more desperate. “Whatever mushroom induced hallucinogenic coma this is, I’m done with it! Wake up!” Slapping himself a couple more times to make sure, he finally noticed that Soft Voice was looking at him funny.

“You’re not dreaming.” Soft Voice informed him carefully. Like one might talk to an injured animal. Or a crazy person.

“Well of course you would say that.” He bit back. Morgan finally noticed how all the red wearing people were holding weapons, tensions high. It took precedence over freaking out. For now. 

“If I was gone for a week, do you know where we are? What we’re doing here?”

“Ah, yes. That. We’re currently on Korriban, the main training planet for the sith. Seeing as we’re all slaves and have no training, we were not sent to the main academy.” Soft Voice spoke calmly, making soothing hand gestures. “We were sent to a training camp, of sorts. If we survive our training to the Overseer's satisfaction we will be promoted to acolytes and sent to the academy proper.” 

He shot Morgan a fleeting look before sweeping his eyes across the room. “The Overseer didn’t seem very hopeful many of us would make it.”

Soft Voice grabbed a uniform and weapon from Morgan’s locker, under his bed, then motioned him to follow. Morgan was quiet as they walked, silently freaking out and trying not to stare at the enormous alien. “If you want any hope of surviving for more than an hour with the Overseer tomorrow you’ll need to catch up.”

Soft Voice stopped at an empty training room, weights, treadmills and a sparring ring dominating much of the space. He threw Morgan the gear and made no move to leave as he numbly started changing out of his hospital garb. He got about half way, his shirt thrown in a trashcan by the door, before catching sight of his stomach.

‘Really? I get transported - isekai'd, whatever - to another world, or universe, get enslaved - helpfully reminded to him as the collar around his neck pressed cool steel against skin - and I'm still fat?’ Delirious laughter filled the room, before he tried, with some success, to fit in the standardized, too small uniform.

Finding a mirror in front of the weights, and seeing Soft Voice was looking at him curiously, he found he looked much like an overweight, harried man stuffed into a cosplay costume four sizes too small. In a word, ridiculous.

He flexed his legs, finding strong muscle pushing against fabric. ‘At least they didn’t take my muscles. Nice thing about being fat, I suppose. Your body never limits muscle growth and you always hit your protein goals. It’s almost scary how quickly overweight people build muscle, assuming they try.’ 

Soft Voice interrupted his pity session by loudly clearing his throat, throwing one of the weapons. He turned to see Soft Voice looking at the weapon on the floor, nodding at him to pick it up.

Doing so, and pressing the red button on the handle, a crackling sound filled the room. Soft Voice grinned. “Want to start sparring with the shock function on?”

Morgan looked down at the weapon, flicking the button again. Then he whipped his head up, looking upon a charging devaronian raising a saber poised to strike. Morgan panicked, swore, and dove to the side. He dropped his weapon in the process, landing painfully on his knees.

Soft Voice, still far enough to course correct with ease, tapped him gently on the head. “So you have no fighting experience to speak of.”

“Of course I don’t!” Morgan half yelled, brushing his painful knees and standing. Adrenaline overcame his fear and confusion, rounding on the giant. “You do?”

“Before I came to this place? No.” Soft Voice lied easily. “But I learned, and now you must learn.” He took a stance and motioned Morgan to mirror him, who complied with shaking hands. “Now, this is the first set of kata’s. It’s for the form known as Shii-Cho, invented for lightsaber combat. You better learn quickly, little Mad Mouse. You’re a week behind.”

Dropping into his bed hours later, the bunk just under Soft Voice’s, every part of his body begged him to sleep. Nevermind the impossibility of being in a different universe. Nevermind being able to use the Force, if only once and in desperation. His body was tired and bruised, and nothing mattered nearly as much as sleep.

But before he surrendered to unconsciousness, before he could pretend this was all a dream he forced himself to pray. Not that he was religious - outside of some minor fascination on the topic - but because praying is what you do after hours of a giant devaronian - an alien - drilling you to fight with a saber. In an alien place, with hostile and unknown aliens all around him. With aliens!

And tomorrow would be worse, Soft Voice had promised. He’d described how training with the Overseer filled half the day, painfull hours of instruction where every failure could mean death. How they would be given the other half to do as they please, to fight and study and train.

‘To whomever, whatever, might be listening. Please return me home. Please. I don’t want to do this. I don’t want to. Please.’ He cried, barely noticing he wasn’t the only one. It came as little comfort.

No one answered. No one fulfilled his wish. And they never, ever, would.

Chapter Text

Fear filled the chamber, and the smirking sith pureblood seemed to revel in it.

She paced back and forth, suddenly blurring across the room. She appeared in front of Morgan, making him flinch.

“It seems our sleeping beauty has finally decided to join us.” No laughter filled the room, the silence filled with fear. She glanced down, smirking wider. Morgan knew what he looked like. His stomach bulged out of his uniform, doing a good job of showing his physique. He mentally shrugged, keeping his face blank and eyes down.

‘If you think being fat is my biggest problem, I’m Tenebrae.’

The Overseer sneered, then turned around to stalk across the room. Hands shook in fear, and one woman pissed herself. She blanched white with terror, looking at the smirking Overseer. ‘Why aren’t I that afraid? I should be. Must be shock. Yes, I’m simply in shock. Can you notice shock when you’re experiencing it?’

“Today we’re going to be training your endurance.” Her voice cracked across the large training room, hidden doors opening to reveal rows of droids. More people flinched. “You’ll be sparring against them, and they will keep attacking if you don’t defend yourself.”

With a dramatic clap the droids marched forth, Morgan only barely suppressing the urge to step back. The slaves, already lined up in two rows of fifty, were soon looking not at each other but faceless droids armed with sabers.

“Begin!”

The droids attacked, pain filling his hours. Pain, and ever so slowly, progress.

“Soft Voice?” Morgan asked quietly. Quiet enough the people surrounding them couldn't hear, or so he hoped. The devaronian looks up from his datapad. “Why did you decide to help me?”

“Hmm?”

“Why did you decide to help me?”

“When?”

“Last week, when I just woke up. Yesterday, today. All the time, really. You’re helping me, even though it doesn’t feel like help. Even though it doesn’t really benefit you.” And wasn’t that the truth. His body was filled with bruises, refreshed daily.

“No reason.” Soft Voice answered, turning his attention back to his lap.

“Oh? You mean that with a week of the Overseer preaching values of the strong and condemning the weak, you decided to help a complete stranger for no reason?” Morgan eyed the other man, sarcasm thick in his tone.

“Hmm.”

“Fuck that. The Overseer killed Weak Eye for helping his opponent correct his grip on day two, and she sure hasn’t been getting softer. You told me what happened before I woke up, too.” Weak Eye, a poor twi’lek with a lazy eye that never got corrected. Overseer shot him with lightning until he dropped dead. He could still smell it, days later.

‘Strange how little death affects me after only a week in this hellscape. Humanity's greatest super power has always been adaptation, I suppose. And self-delusion, but let’s not dwell on that.’ Morgan turned his attention back to Soft Voice when he felt the man’s eyes on him. The devaronion really had quite the intimidating stare.

“The Overseer didn’t kill Weak Eye for helping someone, you know this.” Morgan waved his hand dismissively. Soft Voice shrugged. “Fine. It was your eyes.”

When Soft Voice made no move to continue and looked back to his study material, Morgan sighed, “My eyes?”

“When you woke up. Your eyes were wild, mad,” Morgan twitched, blaming his friend for that nickname. Mad Mouse. Fucking ridiculous. “afraid and confused. But not defeated. All of us here, and I mean everyone, were slaves. Our parents were slaves. Our grandparents were slaves. Maybe not always to the empire, but we were slaves. We’re casting off those shackles now, true enough, but not you.” Soft Voice was quiet, speaking with purpose. “Whatever you were in your old life, you were no slave.”

The words ‘old life’ bounced in his head, bringing up memories he’d rather not think about.

“That is why I decided to help you. You’re an anomaly. You’re also not nearly as batshit insane as many of the others, so I chose well.” Soft Voice hummed, clearly pleased with himself. “And look at you now. You must have lost a few pounds at the very least. You almost never hit yourself with your own weapon anymore, and you can very nearly stop yourself from running away when we spar.”

Morgan scoffed. “Laugh it up. Not everyone can bend steel and ignore pain like a freak.” The thought, however, stuck with him.

Looking around he could almost see the lines drawn in the cube that served as their home. Three territories, carved with bloodshed and cruelty. Soft Voice noticed him looking. “We’re fractured. Stump and Spiky each build their own little armies and are half the reason our numbers dwindle so fast. The rest flock to us for safety, in case you forgot.”

Morgan would be hard pressed to, since their own - well, Soft Voice’s - faction made up the third territory. With some two dozen members, all of them weak in the force or with the saber, had joined with Soft Voice. As the third strongest of the ‘class’ - as the Overseer called them - it seemed almost natural for him to have his own ‘little army’. Unlike Stump and Spiky however, Soft Voice saw no need for cruelty or fear.

And he’d somehow roped Morgan into becoming his second. Not for lack of trying to refuse, but there he was. Truthfully, even with a week less training, he was fairly powerful in the Dark - when he could command it, which wasn’t often - and his saberwork, thanks to Soft Voice, wasn’t half bad. The combination was enough to place him above the rest of their faction. Not that that put him very high in the ranking.

The legion of weakness, Stump had dubbed them. Soft Voice was the only reason they still existed at all.

‘Ahh, the rankings. Such lovely cruelty by the Overseer.’ Morgan reflected darkly. ‘Simply have the system watch our every move, and rank us in a nice big list. And each week, every week, kill the lowest ranked.’

Only two people were killed that way, but both had been from their faction. It made them seem weak - because they were - but Soft Voice was strong enough it didn’t matter overly much. Strong enough to hold off or kill anyone that tried anything, anyway. Not that killing was allowed, but crippling someone sure was. And if you get crippled, well, you spend some time in kolto. Time that you should spend training. And when you get out? You might be mighty close to the bottom of that list.

Shouting filled the room and he didn’t need to look to know that Stump was at it again. Him and his speeches. Disgusting.

Stump, nicknamed for only having one arm, was the first to figure out that the Overseer didn’t only not care, she encouraged us to build our own ‘power bases’. With power over your followers it twisted the strong to rule and the weak to serve. How fast society breaks into tribalism.

Spiky wasn’t much better. He used to be Stump’s lieutenant, before he - in true sith fashion - betrayed and tried to kill him. He failed, but didn’t die. Now he commands nearly half the remaining acolytes. A sadistic bastard, he likes to reward his loyal followers by passing around women like playthings. Those not strong enough to resist. The desperate. The ones that didn’t, for one reason or another, signed up with them.

When the betrayal - as they called it - happened, those not involved, or smart enough to get out when it happened, signed up with Soft Voice and Mad Mouse. Madness, all of it.

‘Well, they signed up with Soft Voice. He was the one that made our little sad attempt at a faction in the first place. Trained them. Trained me.’

More shouting drifted over, the room not nearly big enough to dampen the noise. ‘Lucky the room’s so small, really. Means fighting isn’t really an option here, so we at least have a semi secure place to sleep. Most of the fighting happens in the hallways or training rooms.’

“That idiot won’t shut up for a while, so study time’s over. But before we go train with the saber, pop quiz time.” The other acolytes of their faction put down their datapads and gave Soft Voice their full attention. Mild mannered he may be, when he commands, they obey.

“Mirla, cite the sith code.” She startled, twitchy as usual.

“Peace is a lie, there is only passion.

Through passion, I gain strength.

Through strength, I gain power.

Through power, I gain victory.

Through victory, my chains are broken.

The Force shall set me free.”

A bitter smile briefly touched Mirla’s face. “Not that I would call this freedom.”

Some laughed, but it was quiet and awkward. Soft Voice looked at her, Mirla visibly composing herself. “Apologies, my lord.”

Soft Voice nodded. “We will feel how we feel, think what we think. That we do not control. But what we show, what we say, what we do. That we have control over. Show no weakness, no hesitation. Even if you feel it. Especially when you feel it.” He briefly looked around, the acolytes around them straightening.

“Mad Mouse.” Morgan blinked, not expecting to be called on.

“What does the sith code mean?”

“It means that we control the force, and are not controlled by it. It is freedom because we command it, and are not commanded by it.” He replied. He’d had some time to think about it, even before he came to this place. When he was still happy, and death didn’t loom around every corner, he’d been a nerd.

Soft Voice nodded, pleased again. He called upon a few more, correcting or scolding those that hesitated or answered wrong. After that it was off to the training rooms, walking in the formation Soft Voice had drilled them in.

No blind spots. No easy angles of attack. Close enough to assist, but not too close to get in each other's way. Pack tactics. The hallways were big, closer to a street than a path, and the Overseer didn't care if they fought. Killing between acolytes was forbidden and so far no one had tested that rule. Morgan wondered how long that would last.

Maiming, crippling and enslaving was common already, the strong reveling in the power they possessed.

‘Power. Command. A master and slave. That’s the real difference between the sith and jedi. One holds the whip, the other submits to it.’ He shook his head, his mind spiraling down dark paths again. ‘Still. Dark and Light, Good and Evil. People are never pure good or all evil. The Force isn’t something you can put in a nice little box, labeling it as you wish. The Voss aren’t jedi or sith, nor are the Knights of Zakuul. There must be thousands of cults, groups and sects using the Force. They’re using it just fine, no sith or jedi dogma to be seen.’

Something stirred. Something his nascent, unreliable, command over the force barely detected. He shook his head again, already putting it out of his mind. ‘Might be worth meditating some more. God knows the Dark isn’t getting me anywhere.’

They arrived at one of the larger training rooms, Soft Voice starting to direct people around. Some he ordered to practice with the saber, others to call upon strong emotion and practice enforcing their body with it.

Morgan sparred against his fellows. Kripaa the sith pureblood, a former hutt slave and all around nervous wreck. Maco, a human with dead, lifeless eyes just going through the motions. Bastra, a former trandoshan slave gladiator. A man yet to display Force powers but good enough with the saber to survive.

On and on the list went. Morgan tried to give good advice, and as Soft Voice’s second in command, he was listened to. But he was no trainer. No instructor. He barely knew what he was doing himself, unlike their glorious leader.

Soft Voice called a halt after a few hours, the group turning to him. He had everyone sit in a wide circle, sparring with them one by one. Give them pointers, advice. Had people critique the fights, ask what they learned from observing.

And saved for last was Morgan. He steeled himself. Told himself this was nothing next to what the Overseer did to him every morning. But Soft Voice was a natural with the saber, a natural with the force. He was not. Pain became his life, progress in its wake.

Days turned into weeks. People died, others becoming husks and cracking under the pressure. They didn’t last long.

He meditated daily, either under Soft Voice’s guidance or alone. He tried to find balance. To neither submit nor command. It wasn’t going very well.

It was a good thing he had his extra training, for, day after day, he fell further in the rankings. Without the Dark’s aggression he lost more battles. Without the ability to enforce his body, strengthening it, he was taking more losses.

Failure meant pain. A great, great deal of pain.

If it wasn’t for Soft Voice he would be dead by now, of that he was certain. He trained him, as he trained the others. Pushed his skill with the saber high enough that he could survive without the Force. Never triumph, but survive.

Spiky’s favorite pet was at the bottom of the ranking that week, and the Overseer killed her. His tantrum nearly started an all out war. Then, without warning, Spiky was dead. Stabbed through the skull with a shiv by another of his pets. Then she died, killed by a loyalist.

He and their faction had huddled around Soft Voice as the room devolved into chaos, five more dead before morning came. Morgan hadn’t slept well since then.

The Overseer did nothing.

After nearly a month of failure, of pain, it clicked. He didn’t know how, or why. He hadn’t been trying anything new. He’d just breathed, letting the brief moments of peace sooth his mind.

Then the Force flowed, filling his body. Not the biting, stinging Dark. Nor the soothing, insistent Light. Both he had felt before, and he had been so sure the Overseer was going to storm into the dorm and blast him into a million pieces when he had felt the Light flow through him.

But she hadn’t. And now the force moved like a puppy through his body. Excited. Nervous. Curious.

Morgan smiled. For the first time in his new life, it was a smile of joy.

Chapter Text

The weekly rankings shuffled again, as they did every morning, and Morgan’s name ticked up another few spots. The screens were in every training room, every hallway, so that they always knew where they were ranked. How close they were to death.

He suppressed a laugh, contemplating the last week.

‘Only a week passed and I’ve jumped fifteen spots. Shows what proper enforcement does for you.’

A week of meditating, sparring and Overseer organized torture. Able to strengthen his body again allowed him to keep up with the others, and he was once again the second strongest of his faction. Bastra had overtaken him, his skill with the saber and fighting experience overtaking a Morgan that wasn’t able to use the Force.

Not so much a Morgan that could, not anymore. Experience counted, yes, but speed and strength did too.

Luckily for Bastra, Soft Voice had taken him aside and taught him how to use the Force proper. Not that the man was very good at it yet. His ratio of power used to strength gained was lower than Morgan’s, ensuring his victories over the gladiator by sheer endurance.

Not that the man made victory easy, nevermind painless.

He jumped lightly as the Force moved through his body, a spark of sheer glee fluttering through his stomach even after a week.

He wasn’t sure what this was, exactly, but he knew it was for him. Not the Dark’s endless aggression and betrayal, nor the Light’s submission and apathy.

Something in between. Something that worked with him.

And work it did. Body enforcement flowed easy compared to the Dark, his body swelling with strength. No longer did he need to induce rage to power his blows, to lose himself as he fought.

He still needed to find his balance, that elusive state of mind that allowed him to call on the Force whole, but when he did? His precognition skyrocketed, eclipsing even Soft Voice.

Drawing on the Force grew smoother, faster and more reliable as he used it. Almost as if the Force wanted to be whole, growing easier by the day.

Enforcement wasn't the only thing he could do again. Basic telekinesis was something almost everyone could do, after Soft Voice had figured it out. The Dark had more might, true. He was rarely able to match even the average acolyte for power. But unlike their brutish approach he could pull their foot, push their arm.

Where others had power, he had control. Where others relied on aggression to keep them going, he had carefully measured endurance.

The first time he had to use his new connection to the Force near the Overseer had been terror inducing. A month here had sharpened his acting skills, luckily, so he was able to mask his terror. Mask it to normal levels, anyway. He was always afraid when the Overseer announced her next task, so hiding its source proved doable.

And her tasks kept coming.

Relentless endurance against droids. Run until you drop, dodging low powered blaster fire as you do. Spar against the other acolytes, the loser victim to his opponents' whims.

Tasks to quell fear. Sparring using only the force. Obstacle courses designed to instill agility. Endless were the tasks, and endless were the punishments for failing them.

Spitefully, Morgan was forced to admit it was effective. As long as you didn’t die, of course.

Weeks of enduring the tasks without the Force made it easier to endure them with it. It showed in the rankings, too. Where before he was falling, now he was rising. First out of the bottom quarter, then the bottom third. Now he hovered just above halfway, safe from the weekly purge.

As safe as this place ever could be, anyway.

Soft Voice clapped, pulling Morgan out of his musings.

“Enough standing around. Morgan, spar with Bastra. Make sure he enforces himself properly. Mirla, practise your third kata set. It needs work.”

He called out more pairs to duel, assigning others to guard the room. More yet were told to review some material he had assigned as homework.

Weeks of training had everyone moving smoothly, the progress showing. Now it was usually the weakest of the other factions in bottom place, although the low ten was still often filled with their members.

But for now they lived, so for now they trained. Six weeks for them, five for Morgan, had culled the weakest already. The rest were hardened, tempered. Forced them to find a reason to keep going, to get up every morning knowing it might be your last. Be that for revenge, love, hope or fear. It didn’t matter.

Seeing who had it, and who didn’t, was easy enough. One trained with purpose, pushing themselves to the limit day after day. The second went through the motions, doing what Soft Voice told them to and little more.

There weren't a lot of the second kind left.

Morgan had yet to find what he lived for. Fear, certainly. Fear of death and pain. Fear motivated him to train, but it would not forge him into a warrior.

And only warriors would leave this place alive.

The Overseer was pacing again, as she usually did, and Morgan really didn’t like the look on her face. Not smirking nor scowling. Not angry or happy.

The Overseer’s mood was easy to see, normally. It could shift rapidly, from irritation to glee back to annoyance again, but it was there.

Today her face was carved from stone, her silent pacing scaring more than just Morgan.

When she finally spoke half the room flinched in fear, Morgan among them. “Today we are going to see how quickly you learn a new skill. How quickly you each adapt to new techniques.” She took a breath, halting to glare at them. “Each of you knows telekinesis and some of you are powerful enough to send people flying with it. So why do we bother to teach lightsaber techniques at all? Why not simply pick up your opponent with the Force, smash them into the wall, then laugh as they die?”

‘Because I’m not a fucking psychopath?’

Silence greeted her, stretching as she kept waiting. Finally, when it became clear she wasn’t going to continue, Soft Voice spoke up.

“Besides the fact that enhanced agility and strength limits the damage such a move could deal? Because one can shield themselves against the Force.”

She smiled at him, the normally unshakable Soft Voice lowering his eyes a tad too quickly. “Precisely. Glad to see someone is using the provided datapads.” The Overseer’s accusing gaze swept the acolytes. “Shielding oneself with the Force stops any lucky jedi sending you flying. Stops rival sith from pulling you limb from limb. It essentially creates a layer of protection against Force techniques.”

Morgan mulled on that. ‘Right, I remember something like that. I wonder how my brand of specialness will twist it.’

Before he could think too long, she continued. “There are two ways of doing this. The first, and most common, is simply to layer oneself in the Force. This stops the attack, certainly, but is damaged each time it does so. Should you be powerful, this is a good option. You cannot be surprised, and, once readied, you have to pay it little attention.”

Soft Voice raised his hand, the Overseer blinking. “I’ve read that a sufficiently powerful Force user can overwhelm shields entirely. How would you protect against that?”

Morgan dearly wished he had chosen to stand far from the man that morning, the Overseer stalking over to his friend. And, by extension, to him.

“Indeed they can. A Lord will break your barrier and snap your spine in the time it takes your heart to beat. It cannot be dodged, cannot be defended against. A strong jedi, few as they are, will paralyse your mind. Break your will and leave you a drooling prisoner. Because they’re merciful, you see. They would never just kill. That would be wrong. ”

She looked Soft Voice in the eye, the man lowering his gaze. “Does that answer your question, acolyte Zethix?”

Finally, after what seemed an eternity, he nodded. “Yes, Overseer.”

“Good.” She twirled, Morgan catching Soft Voice looking at her ass. “The second method of shielding is to react to attacks, countering them. More difficult, but more efficient. Every attack has a counter, a way to unravel the technique into harmless smoke.”

She turned around again when she was at the front of the class, smirking at Soft Voice. “These techniques are not mutually exclusive. None of you have the required skill to attempt the second, nor will you for a long time. Should you attempt both your opponent will take your head, laughing at your distracted, decapitated corpse.”

Morgan was trying to stay optimistic, he really was, but he lacked raw power. This seemed like a technique focused on it. His burgeoning telekinesis wasn't too strong, either, but he made up for that with control. He couldn't fling someone across the room with a wave, but he could do things no other acolyte could. Freeze a limb at that critical moment of the swing. Jerk a shoulder, twist a foot.

Each bought him maybe a heartbeat, but at the speed that they fought it could be enough. His growing skill usually made it enough.

“Now focus your sight on me, and learn.” The Overseer commanded. Left unsaid was what would happen to anyone that didn’t. Morgan didn’t think anyone so stupid as to disobey her and slack off was still alive.

So Morgan observed. Not with his eyes, ears or nose but with that strange sight that came with being attuned to the force. Others of his faction had described it like seeing ripples in smoke, the changing of smells.

Soft Voice had told him it was like seeing a painting move on the wall.

For him it was like the Force told his very soul what was happening. Not in messy words, or clumsy writing. Not in picture or smell. None of that could describe the Force as it truly was. What it was like for him.

When he observed his friend, or enemies, fight, he could see exactly how they enforced their bodies. How they pushed and pulled at the world around them. It was why he was so good at both. He copied anything that worked better than what he possessed. Refined his techniques with a drive he never thought he had.

Oh, some things he could not copy. The explosive strength that came with the Dark’s aggression. Soft Voice’s extreme natural endurance, boosted as it was by his mastery over the Force.

But something like this? With an expert demonstrating slowly, their Overseer actually teaching?

It clicked after only minutes.

The Overseer’s eyes snapped to Morgan as he felt the shield wrap around him. Protecting not only his body but something deeper, something arcane. That strange non space that served as his core. His being, or soul.

It wasn’t particularly strong. Not even close to the level of the Overseer, not that that was a surprise.

He didn’t see the Overseer narrow her eyes at him, focused as he was on her demonstration.

If he had, he might not have been so eager to fix its mistakes. Flicking his shield away after every flaw found, ready to attempt an improved version. He might have been more cautious. Smarter.

But easy success was addicting, not to mention rare. Hours later, when almost everyone had displayed some measure of shielding, his shield was nearly as flawless as the Overseer’s. Nearly as smooth to his senses, nearly as quick to build.

It was, of course, weaker. But its weakness was a matter of power, not skill or control.

For the first time Morgan prepared to leave the Overseer’s class satisfied with his progress, smiling.

He really should have known better.

The Overseer called an end, but unlike every day before today she didn’t disappear through the only other door. Instead, she started pointing. “You, you, both of you, you, you and you.”

Morgan felt fear climb up his stomach as the finger pointed at him, the six others that the Overseer had singled out staying as everyone else left. Soft Voice tried to linger, the treasure that he was, but ultimately left after the Overseer glared at him.

Morgan saw he was the only one from his faction to be here, with the others seemingly chosen at random. Not that there were just three factions anymore. Since Spiky’s death every day seemed to bring a new faction or group. A new alliance made, an old one broken. Endlessly they shifted, with the only constant being their own faction.

Some of the best had their own little groups, seeming content to focus on training. Smart. Smarter than the rest, anyway. They spend their time fighting for meaningless power, jockeying for position when they should be improving.

It seemed only Soft Voice had come to the conclusion that treating your followers well, teaching them, resulted in stable foundations. Made them loyal, willing to work together to survive. To trust in the person next to them when the fighting broke out, standing shoulder to shoulder.

Morgan sometimes wondered how everyone else wasn’t dead yet.

“You, all of you, are in need of remedial training.” The woman next to Morgan, Kerala, flinched. He was hard pressed not to join her. “Specifically, all of you are incapable of feeding fear and pain to the Force.”

Kerala broke out in a cold sweat, Morgan joining her. That could mean nothing good.

“So from now on, until you learn to do so, you will be staying behind after every lesson.” The Overseer took a deep breath, Morgan feeling the Force swell around her. ”Now focus your mind. Feed your fear, pain and hesitation to the Dark.”

Without warning the Overseer blasted the only rodian with lightning, harsh light streaming from her fingers. He went down screaming, yet his flesh did not burn. His eyes did not pop, and he leaked no blood.

The Overseer released him, starting to pace. “An interesting variation on sith lightning. Designed to inflict pain without causing wounds. It has fascinating application for torture, wouldn't you agree?”

Light flashed, the next in line dropping while begging for his life. Then the next, and the next, until the Overseer arrived at Kerala. By then terror had taken her mind, moving to run.

She was able to turn halfway before the Overseer zapped her, joining the rest of the line on the ground. Now only Morgan stood, petrified. “The pain lasts quite a while, seeing as it targets something deeper than mere flesh.” The Overseer smiled, and for the first time Morgan could see the spark of madness in her eyes.

The Overseer turned his way, raising her hand. His mind sped up, rapidly constructing a shield. ‘If it targets the soul,’ he thought desperately, ‘the shield should stop it.’

To his surprise the flash of light wasn’t immediately followed by pain. Instead, he heard a sound like breaking glass. His shield strained, cracking soon after, but the pain didn’t follow. When he looked up the Overseer was openly smiling at him.

“Good thinking, acolyte. This version of sith lightning can indeed be stopped by a proper shield. Unfortunately for you, this is not a lesson on shielding yourself.”

When she blasted him again his shield shattered completely, pain filling his mind. It filled his body, his soul. It filled him until it was all he was, all he could think about. Pain unending.

Slowly, ever so slowly, the peak passed. He could hear the Overseer speaking again, feel the cool floor pressing against his face.

“...and that is why it’s important to be able to withstand fear. And if you are unable, or unwilling, to let the Dark feed on it? Well, I’m more than happy to teach you to withstand it alone.”

Her eyes locked with Morgan, the spark of madness all he could see.

“Hour after hour. Day after day. Week after week. Until you learn. ”

The last word was punctuated with lightning, the Rodian writhing on the ground again. Morgan watched numbly, feeling something inside of him die.

He felt his last bit of hope, of happiness, leave him entirely.

Chapter Text

“Up you get, Mad Mouse. The Overseer won’t be kind to latecomers.” Soft Voice insisted.

Morgan didn’t move, slumped against the wall. His friend had dragged him here early for duelling, earlier even than the Overseer’s training. It was just the two of them, dangerous as that was.

He hadn't fought well. Not very well at all. The Overseer would have punished him most harshly for his failure, had she been here.

His mind turned to their warden, flinching.

His friend caught it. “I know it hurts, Mad Mouse. You can’t give up. You know what happens when you give up.”

“Death is better than this.”

Soft Voice grunted harshly, Morgan’s eyes focusing by reflex. “No it isn’t.”

He looked at his friend, his mind flashing to the deceptive peace he had felt before he had died. He nodded reluctantly. “Maybe not. But I can’t keep doing this. It's been three weeks, Soft Voice. Three weeks of that mad bitch torturing us. Three weeks of insisting we must ‘let the Dark feed on our fear’. Three fucking weeks.”

“You can overcome this, my friend. You must.” Soft Voice stepped to the side, blocking Morgan from being seen on the camera. Morgan might have better precognition in battle, but Soft Voice knew him, could predict him the old fashion way. The devaronian knew him better than either would like to admit.

So when Morgan started crying, the camera didn’t see it. The Overseer wouldn't witness a moment of weakness, a moment she could exploit. “No I can’t. I can’t do this. She wants us to feed the Dark. And I can’t. I just can’t.”

He’d tried. He’d really tried. Tried to draw on the Dark. To use it, to feed it. Anything to make the pain stop.

And he couldn't. It wouldn't let him. The Dark shied away from him like a frightened deer. Even the Light seemed reluctant, and he knew that drawing on it was more of a death sentence than doing nothing at all. Only his own way of drawing on the Force worked, now. He cursed himself for it.

It wouldn't take his pain. Wouldn't take his fear or desperation. He couldn't let go of his emotions. Couldn't let go of anything. It wouldn't let him.

The Dark feeds off them, the Light mutes them. He couldn't do either, trapped as the walls caved in all around. Alone.

Soft Voice’s face flickered through emotions, settling on understanding after a moment. “You literally can’t, can you? Whatever method to draw on the Force you use, and it’s not the Dark, it won’t take your emotions. Your pain.”

Morgan nodded, his friend's face grim. “Why didn’t you tell me? We could have started to work on something weeks ago.”

“Why would you have cared?” Morgan looked away. “Why do you care?”

Soft Voice laughed, a bitter, hard sound. “Why do I care? Because this is hell, my friend. Hell itself.”

Morgan blinked away tears, the devaronian’s eyes piercing. “So let me tell you a story. I told you I grew up a slave, yes? Well, where I’m from, so did everyone else. Corporate slaves, chained and worked in one quarry or another. Generation after generation, until even the elders could scarcely remember a time when we hadn't.”

Soft Voice sat, still looming over Morgan. “I was big. Always have been. Strong too, very strong. Even before I learned to harness the Force to strengthen me further. So when I was a child, my elders bade me to protect the others. ‘Your strength can do the work of ten men.’ They told me. So I did. I worked hard, so others; the old, the weak, would not have to. Fought harder, to keep everyone equal.‘That is how we survive, child.’ They insisted. ‘Cooperation. Help those that struggle so they may help you in turn.’ Soft Voice smiled, reminiscing as his eyes unfocussed. “So we prospered, for a time. We helped each other, and lived better lives for it.”

“Nothing lasts forever, of course. We prospered a little too well. So our master, a mining outfit owned by the Czerka Corporation, sent more guards to oppress us. And more still, when I led a rebellion for our freedom.” Soft Voice’s smile turned grim. “And they killed us all for it. I fought them like I never knew I could. Screamed until their soldiers flew like tin puppets. Hit them until their armour dented and crumbled. But in the end I was defeated, imprisoned. Because I stood alone, you see. Because no one else could fight quite like me. Kill like me. And in the end, I was all there was left of my family. My tribe. Hundreds of years of history, gone in four days.”

“So that is the lesson the sith taught me. Before even their soldiers took me from prison and brought me to this place. Before I ever knew what the Force was. United we stand strong, my friend. Because we all make mistakes. Sooner or later, we all stumble.”

Soft Voice drew himself up, determination, purpose, etched into his very skin. “I will not stumble alone again. I will not take every burden, so others may live easy. Unity made my tribe prosper, but being their protector made them weak. It took their strength, their potential.”

“And only the strong can choose, Mad Mouse. They can make a thousand choices a day. What to eat, what to do. Who to love, and who to hate.” Soft Voice shook his head, gesturing around. “The weak, the slave, have one choice only. To fight, or to submit.”

“Remember that. The strong have a choice about everything. The weak have only one.”

Soft Voice nodded to himself, Morgan lost in thought. “That is why I help you, my friend. In hell, you either stand together,” The devaronian shrugged, standing, “or you die alone.”

Morgan flinched when his friend towered over him. “Now come, we dally any longer and we’ll be late.”

He dragged his friend up with him, but Morgan wasn’t really paying attention.

‘Only one choice. Only one.’ His mind kept repeating.

‘Choice.’

“Kybas.” The Overseer sneered. “You truly are the most pathetic acolyte this academy has ever trained.”

Kybas shook in terror, the Overseer sighing deeply. “There is no point in teaching you anything. Away with you.”

He hesitated, for practice normally lasts an hour more. “Away I said. All of you. Away!”

Acolytes scrambled for the door, Morgan almost joining them. But he knew she wouldn't let him go. So did the others, the ones who had earned the Overseer’s private lessons.

Of the seven that started weeks ago, four remained. The other three were husks, broken. Dead, or playthings to the strong. Sometimes Morgan wondered which would be worse.

“Now then, my special little acolytes,” She purred when the others had left. “Have you meditated on the Dark? Have you finally learned how to feed it without being consumed whole? Our lessons could end today, you know. If you’ve learned.”

Her eyes locked with Morgan. He flinched away. “Or maybe not. Either way, we will continue.”

She delighted in picking victim’s at random, never quite knowing when your world would be consumed by pain. Delighted in seeing them crumble, seeing them break.

He built his shield, the promise of pain unending motivating him to action. Despite what Soft Voice had said, the man had helped. They’d thought up dozens of modifications for his shield, of ways to strengthen it. To deflect, or push away. To spin, so attacks would glide off.

Most didn’t work, some did. His shield was likely the most efficient in the facility, barring the Overseer’s.

Not that it mattered. Lightning flashed against it, crawling and twisting. Probing for weakness, ever searching for an easy way in.

It was a grim sort of pride he had felt, making the Overseer overwhelm his shield instead of being able to bypass it. Now he didn’t feel much except for the fear. The terror.

There had been anger, at first. Desperation after that. Begging and bargaining. Denial and avoidance.

None of it had changed a thing. His anger had burned out a week ago and the Overseer couldn't be bargained with. Laughed when he begged. Hunted him when he avoided her.

The power spiked, his shield starting to crack. Desperation ebbed, taking the fear with it.

A strange calm took its place, slowing his racing heart.‘This will never end, will it? Not until my mind shatters or death claims me again.’ The realisation made him strangely giddy, wondering if he’d gone mad. His shield broke like so much glass, the pain consuming him.

When the peak passed and his soul was a touch away from cracking, he heard laughter.

‘Must be the Overseer crackling like a mad bitch again.’ He thought. But the sound didn't fit. Too masculine, too wounded. ‘One of the others must have cracked, then.’ He reasoned. That had happened before, a sound much like the one he was hearing now. But that felt wrong, too.

The laughter abruptly stopped when he realised where it was coming from.

‘Oh, that was me.’ Morgan realised. ‘I must have cracked.’ He laughed again, finding that hilarious for reasons he couldn’t name.

He opened his eyes, seeing the others stare at him blankly. Uncaringly. Only his own faction still operated with some basic human decency. With cooperation. The rest stabbed, lied and betrayed for the slightest gain.

He laughed harder, then abruptly fell silent when his eyes locked with the Overseer’s. A smile was playing on her lips, widening when he didn’t flinch from her gaze.

It faded as he kept staring, fear failing to take root. ‘Must have reached today’s capacity for terror.’ He barked out a laugh again, the Overseer’s eyes narrowing.

He found that amusing like nothing else. ‘Oh come off it, you mad bitch. What are you gonna do, torture me? Kill me, maybe? I’m dead already.’

Gasps of fear echoed as the other acolytes stepped back, Morgan realising he had spoken out loud.

He shrugged after a moment, deciding it didn't matter. The Overseer scowled.

Light flashed and he raised his shield out of reflex, wondering a moment later why he’d bothered. It wasn't stronger, or more able to spare him from the pain. He observed it, those few heartbeats where lightning splashed harmlessly against his shield, and found it beautiful.

The moment passed, the pain consuming him. Yet his mind clung on a little longer.

‘I’m dead already, and pain matters little to the dead.’ He forced his eyes to lock with the Overseer’s, focussing through the pain for just a moment. ‘I will have a choice in this, you wretched woman.’

He laughed when her eyes widened, just a little. Laughed when his conscious mind was consumed by pain. He was still laughing when the pain ebbed, a hair's breadth away from death.

‘And I choose defiance.’

Soft Voice waited for Morgan’s return, same as he’d been doing for weeks. His friend needed someone that wouldn't take advantage of his vulnerability. His pain.

He suppressed the small stab of guilt for failing to help his friend, for Morgan hadn't asked for any. ‘You can only help those that want to help themselves.’ He reminded himself sternly. ‘And it’s not like I could have done much, anyway.’

He knew Morgan’s relationship with the Force was fundamentally different from his own. Colder, more flowing. Like the wind shaving a mountain, or a river taking its course. Not stronger, perhaps, but inevitable. Not like the Dark, which often feels like a forest on fire. His friend was weaker too, but had more control for it.

Still, he felt for his friend.

His escort leaned away from him as he started pacing, regarding them silently. Watching their muted fear, ever vigilant for the moment he would prove to be like the others.

Mad. Cruel. Someone to be feared, not respected. To be obeyed, but never inspired by.

He was no fool, for he knew he was one of the strongest here. He picked up the saber forms quickly, could flow them together like he once had with the songs of his tribe. Others said the Dark felt like a rabid hound, yet for him it seemed a tame wolf. Dangerous, to be sure. To be treated with respect.

But tame all the same.

So he knew why others treated him with deference. Why they regarded him from a distance. To be set above them, alone. It felt good to have a simple friendship again.

The door opened, and his escort - those acolytes he trusted most - tightened their semi circle around him.

‘Help them, teach them, but don’t take every burden.’ He reminded himself, stifling the urge to step forward. ‘You brought them for a reason. Let them do what you trained them for.’

The three others shuffled out first, walking as if in great pain. Soft Voice had never felt the Overseer's special lightning and he didn't much care to. No visible wounds, yet in more pain than seemed possible. He knew they would feel it for hours, for he had helped Morgan through it for weeks.

Slow stretches helped. Reminded the brain that the body was fine, that it was not broken. Low conversation distracted from the pain, and after a while simple exercise did the same.

When he spotted Morgan, he seemed like he normally did. Broken, head down and walking with a limp. Shoulder held stiff, as if dislocated. Soft Voice knew his friend's body was physically fine. That it was his soul in pain.

‘You wouldn't know it looking at him, though.’ Soft Voice suppressed a shudder, waving his escort forward.

To his surprise it wasn’t him that noticed something wrong with Morgan, but Mirla. She stuttered a step, recoiling slightly before correcting herself.

His friend looked away from Mirla, looking at him instead. Soft Voice had to resist the urge to sigh.

‘I’m sorry, my friend. I truly wish I could have stopped it.’

Morgan looked fine, at first glance. And that was his mistake. His friend should be a nervous wreck, trying desperately to not show weakness in front of the other acolytes. He should have a blank face, defeated eyes.

Yet his eyes glazed with humour, lips playing a small smile. It was a stark contrast, Soft Voice admitted to himself, and profoundly creepy.

Logically, he knew his friend was in no state to fight. That he was broken, and needed hours of care before he was able to function normally again.

‘So why do you feel more dangerous than ever?’

Soft Voice realised he had let the silence drag on a touch too long, but before he could break it, Morgan spoke first.

“Soft Voice. Mirla.” He greeted. “My thanks for waiting.”

The devaronian had to suppress a startle at his friend's voice. Calm, lazed with a touch of the same humour as in his eye.

His friend's gaze pierced him. “It's high time I dragged myself out of this pity party, don't you think?”

Morgan strode forwards, Soft Voice’s acolytes parted with fear they hadn’t shown him before. The fear that something had changed, and not knowing what. “Time to apply myself properly.”

Soft Voice said nothing, but allowed himself the slight kindness of laying his hand on his friend’s shoulder. Morgan looked at him, petting the hand softly. “Thank you, my friend. For everything.”

They strode forth, Soft Voice wondering if the Overseer was as curious about this development as he was.

Weeks turned to months, Soft Voice admitting to himself this new Morgan was a dangerous one. It wasn’t that he had changed so drastically. He still had the same dark humour. He walked the same, and - at the start - fought the same.

Nearly three months in this place changed everyone. Some broke, others hardened. He had lamented that his friend had been more likely to break than temper.

Soft Voice contemplated if maybe he had underestimated him.

Gone was the hesitation before the strike, costing him valuable time. Gone was the fear, the flinch before being struck.

Now Soft Voice watched his friend fight with a lazy confidence, if in a still too small uniform. He watched as the acolytes treated Morgan not with fear of Soft Voice’s reprisal, but of his own. Watched as he climbed the rankings, one step after the other, until he was placed ninth.

He watched as Morgan’s control over the Force grew, until he could worm his way past most defences. Soft Voice had that happen to him, before Morgan had shown him how to improve his shield, and it was none too pleasant. His shoulder had locked, like being clamped, with his friend ruthlessly taking advantage. It filled him with as much pride as it did pain. Usually pain, because Morgan struck hard.

The Overseer had kept the special lessons a week after his friend’s change, before scrapping them entirely. It had confirmed his private belief that the whole thing was set up for Morgan from the start, after his astonishing speed at learning Force shield.

He and his faction - the largest remaining, even if most of their members were deemed weak - watched Morgan drop his opponent with a chop to the neck. He left the ring without further injuring his opponent, even knowing the Overseer would not only allow it, but approve of it. He was happy to see his friend took his talks of being a gracious victor to heart.

He clapped his friend on the back, a silent applause. ‘And the thing that brings me the most pride?’ He thought as they observed the other acolytes spar under the watchful gaze of the Overseer.

‘I’m pretty sure he’s holding back.’

Chapter Text

Droids barred the entrance to the main hall, the hall where the Overseer had been training them for months now, and confusion was in the air.

“Only the ten highest ranked acolytes are permitted.” They droned, uncaring about the increasing panic from the crowd gathered before them.

Soft Voice nudged him when he stopped, even though they both knew Morgan had felt him coming. “What’s going on?”

“Overseer changed the rules again. See the people sighing in relief?” Some acolytes were panicking, trying not to look like it. Others, the fools, were happy. His friend nodded, scanning the crowd. “They won’t be so happy in a few weeks. The powergap is about to widen, and that won’t be good for their health.”

Up until now the various leaders of the factions had to keep treating their followers somewhat fairly, or at least their stronger members. If people have nothing to lose, well, they become desperate. And the desperate are dangerous. The tragic and brutal death of Spiky, all those weeks ago, had made that quite clear.

The leaders may be the strongest, but stronger than two? Five, or ten? Numbers could bury superior skill or power, and so the powerful were somewhat kept in check.

“But now?” He told his friend. “Now everyone but the top ten will fall behind. Cruelty will rise, my friend.”

Soft Voice sighed, nodding. “So it will. We must step up the training of the others to ensure they do not stagnate.”

He motioned forward. “Let us enter together. Best to not show even imaginary weakness. Crowds tend to be stupid, and dangerous.”

The lesson that followed involved far more personal attention from the Overseer. More painful, to be sure. But also more targeted, more educational.

And Morgan had stopped caring about such a silly little thing as pain weeks ago.

He sidestepped a thrust, lightly deflecting the next few attacks. He’d been stepping up Mirla’s training for a few days now, so he knew that soon she would take a step back. Attempt to make space, to assess and plan.

When she did he smoothly stepped in after her, surprised to find a solid block waiting for him. She smirked, and he felt his opponent's satisfaction distract her from her shield. Just for a second, before Mirla realised her mistake and corrected it.

A second, however, was more than enough for him. With a flex of will he slipped past her now static soul defences and froze her feet in place. Mirla tried to compensate, to regain balance, but before she could his saber was a hair’s breadth from her temple.

“Dammit.” she swore. “And here the Overseer told us that the shield, once readied, needed no attention.”

Morgan tilted his head, turned off the lightning crawling along the blade, and tapped his saber against her head. “Against most, maybe. But not me, nor our glorious leader.” He looked over at Soft Voice, who was handily training - beating - four other acolytes and lecturing them while doing so. “For those like us, we fight two battles. One with the saber, and another with will. Inattention from either is a good way to lose your head. If you wish to take my place as second, you must learn.”

He felt a spike of fear from Mirla, looking back at her. “I apologise if I offended, my lord. I had no desire to usurp your place.” Morgan suppressed a frown, pretending that being addressed as lord wasn’t making him uncomfortable.

‘The strong are venerated, the sith more than most. Learn to live with it, because telling them to stop won’t accomplish anything.’ His friend had told him. He’d been right, too, as he usually was. Asking them to drop the honorifics had done nothing but make the others of their faction more nervous, not less.

“You think he appointed you without me knowing?” Morgan asked. “He came to me with it, we discussed it, and we agreed that you fit the position better.”

Mirla’s head was still bowed, body radiating submission.

“Look at me.” He commanded, and her head shot up. “We are not petty tyrants. I do not take revenge for things I consented to. I will not punish you for things outside your control.”

“You will take my place in a few weeks, so you must be ready for it. Do you understand?” She nodded, squaring her shoulders.

“Good. Again, and make sure to keep the defences around your soul under strict control.”

Weeks passed, and what Morgan had predicted came to pass. The ones still allowed training under the Overseer kept growing, faster than ever. The rest slowed, only those being trained by Soft Voice or himself steadily improving.

He had jumped three ranks, number nine being far too close for comfort in his opinion, and he had been right to do so. The last few spots were fiercely fought over, endlessly switching between five or so acolytes all around the same skill level. They knew the consequences of missing the Overseer’s lessons, doing anything to join.

Violence reigned, spilling over into the sleeping quarters before long. He, Mirla and Soft Voice agreed change was needed.

So they dismantled some two dozen beds, taking permanent residence in one of the isolated training rooms. They reinforced the entrance, and divided the rest into quarters. Space for sleeping, training and relaxing. Space for storage and eating. All neatly divided, as per Soft Voice’s wishes.

“A clean, well ordered home is good for the soul.” Soft Voice had lectured, the poor acolyte he’d overheard complaining wilting as he listened. The acolytes of their faction were coming to dread his friend’s lectures almost as much as his training.

Mirla’s first real leadership test came, he and Soft Voice leaving the security of their new territory to her. She excelled, to her own surprise, showing the signs of potential Soft Voice had seen before any other.

She always felt nervous to Morgan, but she’d been growing out of it. Stern and confident, she appointed guard duty, organised patrols and cracked down on any slacking. Not that, he admitted, slacking happened very often.

She even took over training of the acolytes, in those times when he or Soft Voice were otherwise engaged. Morgan was glad to see that her training with him had paid off, and seeing her train others with what he had taught her inspired a strange sense of pride.

A sentry interrupted his thoughts, looking over. “Sir, we found this one approaching the perimeter, sir!” The guard saluted, a togruta woman beside him. Kripaa was holding both her saber and his own, and she didn’t appear armed beside it.

He spared some thought to the sith pureblood, marvelling at how much the man had changed. Once a nervous wreck, he now seemed a competent - if not overly powerful - acolyte. His youth as a slave had stripped him of any arrogance he might have had, and Morgan made a mental note to talk with Soft Voice and Mirla about giving him more responsibility. He might very well turn into a solid squad leader.

‘Well, if they agree. I wasn’t lying when I told Mirla she was better suited to command than me.’

He turned his attention fully to the woman, seeing she somehow managed to alter the standard issue acolyte gear to fit her physique. It looked good on her, he admitted. “I was wondering if I might speak with you privately, my lord.” She murmured.

Morgan snorted. “Denied. Acolyte Kripaa, did she state her business?”

“She did not, sir!”

“Then don’t let her in next time.” Kripaa saluted again, turning that light shade of red signalled embarrassment in the sith species. “But she’s here now, so I might as well hear what she has to say.”

The woman took a deep breath, straightening her shoulders. It had the side effect of pushing out her chest, but Morgan easily suppressed the urge to look down.

He felt a flash of displeasure going through the woman, the exact moment he didn’t look down, and Morgan already regretted not ordering Kripaa to kick her out. Before he could rectify that mistake, however, she was speaking.

“My name is Astara, my lord. And I have a proposal.” She fidgeted, looking nervous but excited. Morgan knew better, as he felt nothing but iron resolve and little in the way of excitement.

“My faction, as you may know, isn’t doing very well. Our leader dropped down to twelfth place, and his second is looking to take his head.”

Morgan almost rolled his eyes, bored with the endless betrayals of the sith before ever setting foot in the academy proper. “The second hates me, and I haven’t the skills to stop him.”

Astara fell silent, a breathless look on her face and her lips slightly parted.

“Get to the point.” Morgan ordered, having to hide some discomfort. He’d never been the best at dealing with pretty people, nevermind one wearing that.

She took another deep breath, and this time he felt actual nerves in her. “I wish to serve you, my lord, if you’ll have me. Become your pet, should you wish for it.”

Morgan was silent for a second, thinking.

“I was afraid you were going to say that.” He nodded, and imagined what his past selves would have thought about that.

‘So, hold up. A beautiful, sexy, crazy hot alien woman is all but throwing her clothes off and screaming ‘take me’, and what exactly are we waiting for again?’ The old him, the happy and unhardened him, would have stammered and blushed, but accepted..

‘Sure, great fucking idea. Let’s trust the sith stranger whose motivations are completely unknown into our bed, you know, where we’re most vulnerable.’ The scared and confused him, the man that had found himself in a different world, would have protested.

‘She is bargaining, playing any card she has to to get what she wants. She’s scared, desperate.’ Morgan, as he was now, decided.

“I am quite skilled, my lord.” She pressed. ”I had many years of training before I came to Korriban, and my old master was quite pleased with me. You could have me, whole and completely.” Her voice screamed allure. Her body insisted on desire. Even her eyes told him that she wanted this. Needed this.

But now Morgan could feel her fear, the rising terror as he failed to give the response she wanted. The Force was useful for a lot of things, but the high degree of control it gave him over his own body was amazing even in the most mundane of circumstances. Or maybe that was just his particular way of using the Force.

Either way, no more awkward boners. No more annoying blushing or panic sweat.

His uniform was still quite tight, and his excitement would have shown quite clearly.

“I think not. No offence to you, Astara, but had that been what I wanted I could have taken it by now.” A lie, but one steeped in truth. He could have taken it, yes, but even broken and reforged he had not yet forgotten all his morals.

Just the ones that interfered with survival. The fear of pain, or hurting others. The fear of being judged, or being caught in a lie.

Astara pouted, not showing even a hint of her mounting panic. “Are you sure, my lord? I would be most willing. Willing to do anything, even. Those fantasies you have? We could play them out. One by one, until I’m yours completely.”

‘Now what would you know about my fantasies, I wonder?’

“We’re done here. Kripaa, escort her out.” He said, a part of his mind displaying all those fantasies without his permission.

He frowned. ‘I should meditate on those. Once properly examined, that part of me can have its place.’ He looked at the togruta woman. ‘But not with her. Not with someone I don’t trust.’

Astara’s face had gone blank, her eyes hinting at desperation. “I have something else to trade.” She spoke quickly, taking a half step forward. Kripaa mirrored her, hand going to his saber.

Morgan readied for a hidden knife, a sudden spike in the Force, but no attack came. Still, being here had taught him to be ready for the unlikely.

“I developed a version of the soul shield to protect the mind. It greatly weakens or even blocks any attack on it. I offer that in trade for protection.”

He paused. ‘Alright, didn’t see that coming.'

He raised a hand to stop Kirpaa, the man taking a step back but keeping his weapon close. “Why not lead with that?” Morgan asked. “Surely trading a technique would be better than offering to become someone's pet?”

She shrugged, the seduction act dropped completely. “You’d be surprised. How about it?”

“Not so fast. How did you develop this mental shield, and how come no one else has?” He’d tried, so had Soft Voice. They likely weren’t the only one, but if anyone had figured it out they weren't telling. Mental attacks were few, but dangerous. Soft Voice knew one, preferring to not use it against other Force users. Something about being wasteful.

Astara hesitated. “It's based on meditation exercises I learned as a kid. The Dark gives them weight, and I learned to form a shield out of them.”

He mulled on that, then called Soft Voice over. After filling him in his friend looked at Astara much like a hungry wolf, shaking her hand eagerly. “That would be an acceptable trade, acolyte Astara. Should we be able to learn it, of course, but afterwards I will personally extend you my protection.”

Soft Voice smiled at her, trying to be assuring. Astara radiated more fear now than ever.

‘Serves her right, putting those thoughts in my head.’ He shook his head in mock sadness, confusing Kripaa as the man looked on. The guard was the only one still paying him any attention. He waved the sith back to his duties, following Soft Voice as he escorted their new - temporary - teacher to the training rooms.

‘At least we got something out of that rollercoaster of a conversation.’ He cracked his knuckles, an old habit. ‘Let’s see how long it takes me to learn this one.’

It took him the rest of the day to get it down. Most of that was learning the togruta’s meditation exercise, different from anything he’d learned or heard about.

He had marvelled when the mental shield had snapped into place. Dozens of ways to adapt it had started flowing through his head, experimentation beginning soon after. He theorised a way to break down the meditation into patterns, so he could construct it much like a soul shield.

Holding two shields would be harder, but worth it. He could use the practice, since he had mostly ran out of ways to increase his control in any meaningful capacity.

So there he was, Soft Voice screaming until the walls shook, practising his new shield. It had taken Soft Voice a week to adapt the base principles to work better with the Dark, improving the work that Astara had already done. When he was satisfied he had taken Morgan to practise with him, as eager as he had ever seen him.

That had turned into finding a way for Morgan to do mental attacks, and, to Soft Voice’s credit, he had. But mental attack was less about skill and more about power, at least the ones they knew. The mind tended to reject outside influences, Morgan finding his lighter attacks doing not very much at all.

‘But maybe in the future I learn something that I can do, and then getting skilled at breaking mental defences wouldn’t be quite as wasteful.’ He told himself. ‘Besides, learning how to defend my mind is a high priority. I do not want to be caught in a Force scream without it, that’s for sure.’

Force scream was a wasteful way to attack, even for Soft Voice. It bled power, and while it might stun those weaker of mind, or those that couldn't use the Force, that wasn’t the kind of opponent they were fighting. But now that Soft Voice understood more about how to protect the mind, he had told Morgan about all the ideas he had to improve it.

And so they practised, finding little variations and twists that strengthened the shield. They found ways to get a little more effective power for the same amount of Force, increasing their pool's capacity. Like a mana pool, but not.

‘The Force isn’t mana, or magic, but it kinda is.’ Morgan contemplated one evening, laying in bed and trying to ignore the two acolytes quietly having sex a few feet away. ‘Like, yes, the Force isn’t infinite. You use it to do stuff, then it takes some energy from somewhere to do that, and if you use enough you can’t draw on any more for a while. Then you sleep, or rest, and you can do it again.’

He frowned. ‘Like mana. No mana per second or anything silly like that, and no units or little numbers to represent them, but yes. Like mana.’ He turned around, falling half into meditation to tune out the outside world. Especially the fucking. ‘But also not really. Soft Voice can use a lot at the same time, while I can only use a little.’

In the end, he got nowhere with it. No great revelation, and no idea’s on how to improve power flow. It did slowly improve with use, and maybe some great jedi or sith had found ways to increase the amount of Force a person can use at once. But if they had, they hadn’t told Morgan.

So all that was left was to wait, improve those skills he could, and survive.

Except he was no longer content with merely surviving, so he pushed and pushed until he felt like dying. Then pushed some more, imagining being able to kick in the Overseer's teeth.

Time moved on, as it always did, and Morgan found himself building routines. Little things. Who he ate with or trained early in the morning, how long he showered or slept.

Humans always build routines, he knew, yet it crept up to him anyway. Taking him by surprise in little ways. Mild annoyance when he had to wait to shower, or that one dinner that tasted like wet cardboard yet everyone seemed to love.

The annoyance increased as his routine did, but at least he was still alive.

He strengthened his left leg, careful to not bring his full-body enforcement out of balance, and it blurred forward. His opponent, a would-be raider, went flying backwards into the wall. She didn’t get up.

“I’m honestly surprised they waited a full two months before trying to raid our new little slice of paradise!” He called over to Soft Voice, the devaronian currently slapping around a half dozen lesser acolyte raiders.

Morgan had taken out their leader, and he used that word for lack of a better one, by introducing her to the wall. With her disabled, if not dead, and the rest being scolded by his friend the raid was dead in the water.

The other acolytes decided discretion was the batter part of valour, turning to run. Soft Voice slapped the wall, laughing. “Aren’t you glad we trained proper guards, eh Mad Mouse.”

“They did well. Warned us before we had to fight this in our beds.” He walked over to the last acolyte remaining, surprised to find her still awake. ‘I suppose the other’s haven’t been standing completely still, even if they don’t get to be trained by the Overseer anymore.’

Two guards were standing next to her, one holding his training saber inches from her throat.

He grabbed the woman by the hair, forcing her to look at him. “So why did you raid us, then? Not only do we outnumber you two to one, two of the top five are here. You didn’t think you could win, did you?”

She tried to spit in his face, but his other hand clamped over her mouth before she could. ‘Precognition, handy for blocking, dodging and now apparently getting spit on.’ He thought cheerily. The battle had him in a good mood, especially with it failing so badly. It should stop others from trying something for at least a whole week!

“Now, I’m going to remove my hand, and if you spit on me, I’ll be taking your hands. Clear?” She nodded, so he let her go. “Now tell me why you tried something this stupid.”

She swallowed before answering, her throat not working very well after he had smashed his saber into it during their short fight. Right before he had kicked her into a wall, that is. “For the datapads. Rumour is you described techniques on them to help train your men.” She coughed, looking at the two guards warily.

He nodded amicably. “So we did. Of course, each pad is keyed to one acolyte. So unless you have a slicer with you, they’re less than useful.”

“Unless, of course, you planned to solve that problem some other way.” He looked at her, letting all emotion slide off his face. “Say, perhaps, by taking one of ours with you.”

Her face remained the same, but he felt a bell of alarm in her. She was well trained in keeping her emotions from the Force, but then he was hardly the average acolyte anymore.

“That, unfortunately, is not something we can forgive.” Soft Voice told her, coming to a stop next to Morgan.

“Mirla!” Morgan called, and the now proper second of their faction blurred to a stop beside him. “Take this one and dump her somewhere she won’t like. Greta’s territory, maybe. Dealer's choice.”

She looked at Soft Voice for a beat, then called over a few of her guards and dragged the would-be raider off.

When they were gone, Soft Voice chuckled. “How fast they grow. Even a month ago she would have done as you told her immediately. Now she at least hesitates before obeying someone not in the chain of command.” He clapped his friend on the shoulder, walking back into the highly modified training room that served as their home. “Come, I won’t be sleeping after that. Got my blood good and boiling, and you know what that means.”

Morgan shook his head, joining his friend. “Yes, yes. Sparring. That joke got old months ago."

‘I’ll have to take a better look at the other factions tomorrow. We might be the biggest, but let’s ensure they don’t band together to challenge us anyway.’

The mirror displayed the image of a stranger.

Oh, Morgan knew it was still him. Same general shape to his face, same short hair and dull brown eyes. His height hadn’t changed, nor had his arms lengthened.

But where before fat would have rolled off his stomach, now it was smooth. A six-pack could be seen, should he stop drinking water. Not that abs interested him much.

Broad shoulders, strong arms and muscled legs giving him the air of a warrior. Various scars covered his body, a year’s worth of mistakes and the consequences marring his flesh.

He wasn’t particularly good looking, in his opinion. Fairly tall, but not overly so. Muscled, but meant for work, not show. Short hair, even before coming to this place, and little sense of style made him plain in all aspects.

‘At least the damned uniform fits properly now.’ He observed. With a training saber slung over his shoulder, he looked much like every other acolyte in this place.

“Mad Mouse,” His friend called, and he looked over at the same time he felt a strong sense of alarm and fear flow into the force. By the look of puzzlement on his friend’s face, he had felt the same.

Puzzlement morphed into understanding, Soft Voice grinning. “Mirla, Bastra and Astara with me!” He called. When he passed Morgan, he whispered; “You too, Morgan. That came from the Overseer, clear as day. With the five of us we have half the top ten. Maybe we’ll see if we can’t get some answers from her.”

Morgan smiled, a mean thing. “Now that would be something. That woman owes us an explanation, if not a maiming.”

They blurred through the hallways, acolytes flinching out of the way. Halfway to the main training room, where they suspected the Overseer’s quarters were somewhere behind, the speakers let out sound for the first time in weeks.

“Attention all acolytes.” An unfamiliar male voice called. “You are to report to the central training hall at once. I repeat, all acolytes are to report to the central training hall at once.”

Morgan said nothing, nor did his friend. When they finally got to the training hall the doors where the Overseer always disappeared through were open, showing little of interest. The training hall was still empty, only now one or two acolytes trickling in warily.

Unfamiliar hallways spread beyond them, but Soft Voice didn’t pause or slow. Together they sped past, homing in on the Overseer’s presence.

Strangely, no droids were to be found. Either as guards or servants. Everything was empty.

Some seconds later they arrived at a well appointed room, seeing the Overseer. The woman was rapidly packing clothes and other items into bags, using the Force liberally to clear the room faster.

“Overseer.” Soft Voice greeted, knocking on the open door. “We have some questions.”

“I don’t care.” She said without looking.

Soft Voice hummed, considering. “I’m afraid I’ll have to insist.”

The Overseer turned, looking murderous.

Murderous and afraid.

‘She can’t take all of us.’ Morgan realised. ‘Not anymore. Not after a year of this place.’

She finally nodded curtly, looking none too pleased. “Fine then. Ask.”

“Thank you.” His friend said politely. “First, what is happening.”

“Darth Natra is dead. So are most of her apprentices.”

“I see. Who is Darth Natra?”

“The Darth that funded this whole project.”

Soft Voice was quiet, digesting the information. The Overseer returned to packing. “What will happen to us now?”

“You’ll be taken to the main academy, that’s all I know.”

Soft Voice nodded again. “Right. I suppose that’s all that matters.”

The devaronian took a step forward, and Morgan could feel the Overseer prepare for an attack. He could feel her draw the Force into her body, could see her considering who to go for first.

His friend bowed. “Thank you for training us this past year.” He said. ”You have taught us much, and it will serve us well.”

Morgan, personally, would have preferred to take her head. But he bowed too, thanking the woman that had broken and reforged him. Thanking the woman that was responsible for almost half the scars on his body.

One by one, the rest of their group bowed. When they were done, the Overseer said nothing. She looked much like she always had, cold and cruel. But Morgan could feel her surprise, could feel she hadn't expected gratitude.

She watched them leave, knowing they could have killed her.

And had chosen not to.

“Why didn’t we kill that bitch?” Astara demanded.

They were currently escorting the rest of their faction, twenty one of the remaining thirty six acolytes, to the main training hall.

Soft Voice looked at her, and she shrunk back. “Because while I feel confident we could have killed her, she would have taken some of us with her. It would have won us nothing, save the pleasure of revenge and likely the ire of the people coming to take us away from this place.”

Astara argued some more, but in the end bowed to Soft Voice’s reasoning. They usually did.

Mirla was ensuring their faction was safe from last minute suicidal acolytes, Morgan internalized that Soft Voice had been very correct to have her take his place.

Over the last six or so months he had grown out of the chain of command Mirla and Soft Voice had set up. They obeyed him, to be sure, but he only trained them. It suited him better, being somewhat apart.

An ally, to be sure. A treasured one. Soft Voice was his friend, and he liked the rest well enough. But there was distance, one he didn’t know how to bridge. One he didn’t want to bridge.

In the end, he was more their champion than leader.

Soft Voice was his friend. The rest were his allies. That was good enough.

Enormous doors opened, revealing one side of the training hall to be a door.

The sun touched his skin for the first time in what felt like a lifetime, shuttles flanked by soldiers and an unknown Overseer standing to take them to the academy proper. The woman that had been their Overseer was nowhere to be seen.

He swept his Force sight through them, pausing when he felt the new Overseer.

‘Wait, what?’

Chapter Text

Morgan contemplated his newest discovery, sitting in another shuttle and being taken to the academy of Korriban proper.

‘That Overseer had been far too weak.’ He thought, mentally comparing the male Overseer to the one he was familiar with.

Soldiers stood near the entrance to the cockpit, but in stark contrast to the last time he had been in a shuttle, they stood ramrod straight. Their helmets obscured their faces, but Morgan could feel the fear under their discipline.

He resisted chuckling. ‘They should be. A dozen acolytes in a shuttle, and any one of us could rip them apart.’

Some would be stopped by the presence of the Overseer, clearly felt in the cockpit with who he assumed was the pilot.

But others would not. ‘That Overseer must be hiding his strength. Soft Voice could rip him apart, and so would most of the top ten.’

‘Or maybe he isn’t. Maybe he really is as weak as he feels.’ Over the last year he had gotten rather good at estimating how strong someone was. He had learned hard lessons by under or overestimating his opponents, but the Force told many secrets to those that knew how to listen.

How fluidly their body-enforcement flowed, and how easily they stepped. How they held their shoulder, or looked at those they didn’t consider a threat. It would be impossible to know every secret without a proper fight, but Morgan could get close. Closer than most.

‘That Overseer is either especially weak, or our Overseer was something special.’

The shuttle slowed, and Morgan stood up with the other acolytes.

‘I suppose I’m about to find out.’

Overseer Tremel watched as three shuttles landed, and acolytes spilled out by the dozen. He held a report in his hand, and turned his eyes to it as the acolytes were directed to stand in formation by an Overseer.

‘Project Culling. The experimental effort of Darth Natra to find an apprentice worthy of her mentorship.’ It read. ’One hundred Force sensitive slaves were gathered, and Overseer Sasha was appointed as its sole trainer. The aim of the experiment was to ascertain if the increase in competition, and isolation of the outside world, would result in increased performance by the acolytes. This project was discontinued after her death, and all surviving acolytes were transferred to the main academy.’

Tremel’s eyes skipped the next several pages, detailing various incidents early in the training.

‘Due to unforeseen actions by acolyte Zethix, he managed to build a stable alliance between a large number of other acolytes. Darth Natra was consulted as to set the experiment back onto its proper path, but the Darth declined the Overseer’s recommendation. It is unknown what caused the Darth decision. Overseer Sasha continued the project as normal.’ Tremel looked back to the group of acolytes, and saw this acolyte Zethix rather easily. Towering and confident, he was currently talking with another acolyte. An acolyte that was looking directly at him, nodding periodically at what the giant of a devaronian was saying.

Interesting.

He skimmed more pages, until he came upon what he was looking for. ‘Due to an incident involving acolyte Morgan - the exact nature of this incident can be found on page 64 - Overseer Sasha conducted an accelerated pain resistance course. Several additional acolytes, those deemed to be of low importance to the project, were inducted as decoys. This ensured that the subject did not notice any irregular treatment, nor reacted unnaturally to the course.’

Tremel raised an eye, skimming over the rather well detailed breakdown of acolyte Morgan’s psyche. He had put in his request for that acolyte an hour ago, mentally cursing that he hadn't been able to get the highest ranked acolyte. There hadn't even been time to do a thorough reading of the document beforehand, with how quickly things had moved after the Darth’s death. He had to settle for the second ranked, knowing any delay in choice would see others get his prize.

‘And of course Darth Marr finally got his special military sith battalion out of this, and snagged the best acolyte to boot.’ Tremel mentally cursed. ‘What a waste. Still, the second best isn’t too bad. If only that idiot of an Overseer would hurry up his speech. I have other things to do, and standing here waiting isn’t part of it.’

Unfortunately, the Overseer that had been tasked with collecting the acolytes from their facility seemed to only get more enthusiastic as he went on, and Tremel turned his attention back to his datapad.

‘Acolyte Morgan, after gaining the proper resistance to pain, mostly remained unremarkable. He managed to secure a place in the top ten after the three month mark passed, ensuring his continued training by the Overseer. It was only nearly four months after the projects started that the acolyte's true value seemed to manifest itself. Acolyte Morgan steadily rose in skill, seeming to copy any ability his opponents used against him. If an acolyte discovered a new trick, or improvement, acolyte Morgan seemed to learn it soon after. This, coupled by extensive additional training from acolyte Zethix, has resulted in acolyte Morgan rising to the second rank nearing the end of the program.’

Overseer Tremel scowled, wondering if he’d made a mistake. ‘If that boy was only ranked second by hanging off acolyte Zethix’s coattails, he’ll be dead in days.’

He noticed that the long winded Overseer was finally coming to the end of his speech, so he scrolled all the way to the end of the document. He raised an eye at the recently added addendum.

‘Acolyte Zethix, after feeling my distress at hearing about the death of Darth Natra, gathered four followers and attempted to confront and force answers out of me. They succeeded. Think of me what you will, think me a coward, think me weak. It was not a fight I would have won, and the prize they demanded not one I would die for. Underestimate any of the acolytes I’ve trained at your own risk. They will not hesitate, they will not cower. Darth Natra commanded me to train sith without peer. I succeeded.’

Tremel begrudgingly admitted that Overseer Sasha was an accomplished teacher, being his senior by almost a decade. ‘Still, being forced to do anything by mere acolytes is shameful. Being an open supporter of Natra is bad enough, now that she failed to kill her master. This cowardice will see her dead.‘

The acolytes were finally moving, and Tremel looked at them. Factions were clear, and the devaronian had the largest by far.

To his rather extreme interest, the imperial soldiers he had sent to bring his new acolyte to him were not only stopped, but denied access to acolyte Morgan entirely. Acolytes that by all accounts should have hated or feared their fellows worked together like a pack of hounds, surging forward and stopping the advance of the soldiers.

Tremel’s eyes narrowed after the corporal barked at them to move aside, the soldiers he had chosen familiar enough with fresh acolytes to not be cowed so easily. Instead of moving, the Sith pureblood barked some words of his own, and the acolytes with him tensed.

Acolyte Zethix, Tremel saw, did nothing but look on with interest.

The soldiers refused to stand down, and so did the acolytes. Tension increased, until Tremel himself felt a tingle of nerves. Not for his own safety, for he was far from the conflict, but for the safety of the soldiers.

Not because he cared for them, certainly. But even he would have to answer for it if a veteran squad was wiped out when under his authority. And now he had a problem, for Acolyte Morgan still needed to be summoned. ‘And I’ll be damned if I fetch him myself like some lowly errand boy.’

Before he could come up with a solution, Acolyte Morgan clapped the devaronion on the shoulder, and walked towards the soldiers.

The other acolytes parted for him, and the sith pureblood saluted. Tremel mentally noted down to read the rest of the report later. This was not how he had seen this scenario play out. He had expected acolyte Zethix to intervene, if anyone.

Tremel watched as the soldiers informed his new acolyte where to go. ‘At least he isn’t wasting any time.’ He thought, irritated, as his new acolyte jogged towards him.

“At last you’ve arrived. Good. There is much to do and every moment is crucial.” He told the acolyte the moment he stopped before him. “I am Overseer Tremel. I administer the trials that prove who is and is not worthy to join the sith order.”

The Overseer gave his new acolyte a severe look, noticing his relaxed posture. “The trials are a chance to weed out the weak. Those who face them either survive and become sith, or die.”

Tremel could feel no emotions coming from acolyte Morgan, but his face betrayed a faint sense of amusement. Some of his colleagues relied so heavily on the Force that they neglected the proper study of character. Fools.

“Do you think this is a joke, acolyte Morgan?” He demanded.

Morgan stayed silent for a moment, and the Overseer caught surprise fluttering over his face. “The sith are no joke, Overseer.”

His irritation spiked, and he nearly lashed out. At the last moment, however, he reined himself in. But not before noticing how acolyte Morgan’s body language had shifted. As if to prepare for attack.

‘He shouldn’t have felt anything from me. I really do need to properly read up on my new acolyte.’ He reminded himself again. ‘That is rather advanced precognition.’

“You are here because I deemed it so. I expect you to obey.”

Acolyte Morgan nodded calmly, but stayed silent. Overseer Tremel continued, deciding he had wasted enough time here.

“In the tomb of Ajunta Pall you will find a warblade, a proper weapon for an acolyte. Go there, and do not return without it. When you are done, go to my chambers in the academy. Before I forget, there is an acolyte here by the name of Vemrin. He is your enemy.”

He scowled at the acolyte, who was calmly noting down what he had said on a datapad. “That is all. Go, before I lose my patience.”

Acolyte Morgan gave a shallow bow, and left without complaint or question.

Overseer Tremel watched him go, annoyed and uncertain. ‘There are Sith Lords less able to hide their emotions, but he felt as weak in the Dark as a newborn.’

‘So why do my instincts tell me to kill him now, before he kills me?’

‘Well,’ Morgan thought, ‘killing him won’t be as difficult as I thought it would be.’

He was walking down to the entrance of the tomb, taking in the sights. Enormous statues could be seen looming in the distance, and everything seemed too big. Stairs built for those larger than him, seats carved so enormous no man could sit on them. A sense of scale that told him this place was built for giants, not mortals.

And for all that hazy memories told him this place should be crawling, it was deserted. No k'lor'slugs in sight, no medical droids or soldiers. Not even Soft Voice or the other acolytes.

‘Overseer Tremel felt about as strong as the Overseer that came to collect us.’ He contemplated. ‘And that means killing him is on the table. He’s stronger than me, sure. But my shield won’t break under that amount of power, and that means it will come down to the saber.’

He spotted the entrance to the tomb of Ajunta Pall, and steered for it. It was smaller than he thought it would be, and fortified. Steel doors had been installed, with guard stations around it.

Yet no soldiers were there to occupy them, and the doors were unlocked.

Walking into the dark, he hummed an old tune stuck in his head, and admired some of the murals in the tomb. Grand carvings of who he assumed was the Sith Lord that was buried here, with various scenes depicting the Lord’s rise to power.

He walked further into the tomb, walking hallways too big and noting rows of coffins. ‘Filled with soldiers, maybe? Or servants, meant to serve their Lord even in death?’

Sounds of fighting, of blasters firing and soldiers bellowing, interrupted his gawking. He drew his blade, enforcing his body with the Force as he sped up. He turned a corner and came upon some twenty soldiers under attack. A barricade had been made, and the soldiers were desperately trying to keep k’lor’slugs from getting over it.

Without thinking about it too much, he jumped over the barricade and into the wall of k'lor'slug pincers and teeth. He ignored the cursing and shouting of soldiers, instead focussing on weaving between attacks.

Over the last year, Morgan had participated in a rather large amount of fights.

Sparring with Soft Voice, or others of his faction, had filled many afternoons. Brutal competition, overseen by the Overseer, had happened every morning, with more fighting between factions commonplace.

‘It really is a wonder thirty six of us made it out of there alive.’ He thought, leaning left to dodge a maw filled with many, many teeth.

A year of that, however, had honed his skill with the saber to a degree he still found exhilarating. K’lor’slugs couldn't shield themselves, so Soft Voice would have sent the horde flying like puppets. Maybe other acolytes would have used brute strength, ripping the beasts apart.

He, unlike most acolytes, favoured control. Nudging claws or heads slightly to the side was doable. Picking them up not so much. K'lor'slugs were heavier than people, and stronger than any not enforced with the Dark.

Lucky for Morgan, k’lor’slugs, while highly aggressive and possessing tough hides, did not display any great degree of teamwork.

So he slipped and dodged past a whirlwind of teeth and claw, thrusting his lightning coated saber into soft underbellies or gaping maws. His high precognition, still arguably his best asset, had him slip past any dangerous attacks they could make. Plentiful jumping stopped him from getting surrounded, and from there it was a matter of time.

After cutting down most, and noticing that the soldiers had stopped firing entirely, only two larger specimens were left. They hissed and reared up, attempting intimidation. Their bellies had hardened scales, and they kept their maws closed when not trying to bite his head off.

‘Older, more experienced fighters.’ He noted.

Before either he or the worms could make the next move, small, rounded objects flew overhead. The Force told him the k’lor’slugs would skitter back, dodging most of the damage done by the grenades.

So he gave them a push, a flex of will sending the explosives flying faster than they should have.

Light filled the tomb, with less shock or power than Morgan would have thought. The k'lor'slugs where still blown apart, and with them dead he turned around to face the soldiers.

Helmed faces greeted him, and little but exhaustion and tension could be read from them. Rare was the soldier not injured, but no dead could be seen. He could see soldiers treating wounds, both their own and of others, and a medic looking after the more seriously injured.

“Sir!” A soldier, with sergeant markings on his shoulder, saluted. “Sergeant Cormun, fifth infantry company, Korriba regiment. You have my gratitude, and that of my men, for your assistance.”

The soldiers didn’t feel particularly grateful to Morgan. Mostly just tired, relieved and afraid. The fear, he noted, spiked whenever he looked at them. ‘Afraid of me, then. Fair enough.’

“At ease, sergeant.” He told the man. “You and your men did good work holding the barricade as you did. It kept them from swarming you, and prevented any casualties.”

Sergeant Cormun had taken off his helmet, so Morgan could see the wince that he tried to suppress. “Beg pardon, sir. I was assigned this post with thirty men.” He gestured to the dead beast littered around the barricade, and looked at his men. “K’lor’slugs have a tendency to eat the dead. I’ve lost eleven good soldiers since I’ve been given this post, three of them in this engagement.”

Morgan let the flash of embarrassment come and go. He had known that, with how his friend had drilled everyone on the native beasts of Korriban. ‘No bodies on the ground means no casualties. If only.’

“My apologies, sergeant.” He said, for lack of anything better coming to mind.

After a second of silence, where Morgan turned his mind to the Force to feel for any more beasts nearby, the sergeant awkwardly cleared his throat. “Have you been sent here on a trial, my lord?”

He turned his attention back to the soldier, and nodded. “Indeed. My Overseer has sent me to collect a warblade from this armoury.” He showed the sergeant his datapad, and tilted his head when the sergeant tapped on a wrist device.

“I’ve sent you a copy of the map our patrols have built, before k’lor’slug numbers grew too large.” Cormun pointed out a highlighted spot on Morgan’s updated map, just below the armoury. “The k’lor’slugs have been building breeding nests all over, sir. Me and my men have been tasked with clearing them out.”

The sergeant took a deep breath, and looked at his men. “We won’t succeed.”

Morgan looked at the soldiers, looking past their fearsome armour and trained movements. He looked at the way they bandaged their wounds. How silent they were, with no joy to be seen after surviving certain death.

“You’ve been sent here to die.” Morgan told the sergeant. “Why?”

Cormun spat on the ground, anger overtaking the fear he felt for the sith before him. “Politics. We saved some captain whose daddy bought him his commission. Seemed like a good move. Save the kid, maybe get a nice assignment from his general father.”

Anger bled into the sergeant's tone, controlled but deep. “But instead the captain complained to his daddy about how we embarrassed him. How we took his glory. So the general sent us here. And then, as if being surrounded by sith acolytes wasn't enough, he made sure we were given tomb duty.”

The sergeant looked up, and turned white. “No offence, sir.”

Morgan snorted, wiping his saber with a piece of cloth summoned from a half open crate. “None taken, sergeant. Most acolytes I’ve met are insane, cruel, short-sighted or all three. Luckily, the last tend to die quickly.”

Cormun didn't really know how to reply to that. “Yes, sir.”

Morgan looked at his map, thinking. “How about this, sergeant. I need a warblade, and you need to kill k’lor’slugs. I’m assuming your plan is to use explosives to blow up their nests?” The soldier nodded, and Morgan didn’t comment on the relief he felt pouring out of him at the change of subject. “Well then. It seems our objectives align.”

The sergeant looked at the map, then turned to his men. “How about it, soldiers!” He called.

His men snapped to attention. “Would you rather die here, whittled down one by one until the k’lor’slugs eat us all?” He roared.

“Or would you rather we help the sith, blow their nests back to hell, and get the fuck out of this dammed tomb!”

Boots stamped on the ground, echoing off the walls. Soldiers grabbed weapons, and the medic muttered angrily as the soldier he was treating surged up. “It seems we’re in, sir.”

“Excellent.” Morgan replied. “So, here’s what I’m thinking.”

He took his saber, pointing it deeper into the tomb. “I take the lead, drawing any beasties we find. You shoot them,” The sergeant frowned, “Don’t worry about hitting me, I’ll dodge. If you get overwhelmed, retreat at your own discretion. You know your men, how much they can take.”

“What about you, sir?”

“Worry about your own men, sergeant.” Morgan repeated. ”I’ll be fine. How long until your men are rested?”

Cormun turned a critical eye to them, assessing. “Thirty minutes to treat the wounded, and give the rest of them a breather.”

Morgan took a seat on a crate, closing his eyes. “Very well. Alert me when ready.”

They left a trail of bodies behind them, soldier and sith working together to clear the large tunnels one hallway at a time.

Another hidden ambush was sprung, Morgan jumping towards them with a little push of Force. He felt the soldiers take aim behind him, leaning left to dodge a stray bolt.

His precognition made this easier than it should be, with the sergeant’s men able to freely fire into the melee. Dozens of smaller k’lor’slugs died quickly, with only the larger specimens needing more personal attention.

When the short battle was over, he looked disdainfully at his saber. “I really need that warblade. This thing can't cut for shit.”

“Sir?” A soldier, the medic, asked when he came close.

“Never mind, corporal. Never mind.”

Morgan sat still as the medic applied some antiseptic spray and bandaged the cut on his shoulder, watching as the soldiers exchanged dark japes or ate some quick rations. ‘They seem in better spirits, at least.’

Quiet conversation drifted over. “With how aggressive these damn things are, you’d think they rip each other apart.”

“That would be easier, yes. But then what would rip us apart? You need to learn to look at the bigger picture, Norgrum.” Norgrum rolled his eyes, throwing back some water.

‘Rip themselves apart.’ Morgan thought, interested. ‘Sure, I’ll give it a try.’

In the next fight, of which there seemed to be an endless amount, he saved a smaller k’lor’slug to experiment on, waving dismissively at the sergeant when he looked over.

Over the next twenty minutes, in which the soldiers grew increasingly nervous, he finally found what he was looking for. ‘Their brains are simple, so, by process of elimination, this area should be aggression.’

He poked it with the force, and had to step back as the k’lor’slug stopped trying to crawl away, instead trying to throw itself at him with broken legs. He broke its head with his saber, hitting hard enough to make the metal groan.

“Good news, sergeant. I’ve found the area of the brain that deals with aggression. When we next see a big k’lor’slug, I'll try to get it to kill its smaller brethren.”

Sergeant Cormun had his face behind a helmet, but Morgan felt his abject fear anyway. “No need to concern yourself, sergeant. The human brain is too complex to be manipulated like that.”

Morgan turned, talking deeper into the tomb. ‘Well, for now. But experimenting on humans is wrong.’ He scratched his head. ‘Uhhm, on sentients. Experimenting on sentients is wrong. When they have done nothing to me.’

“For now.” He called back, making the sergeant stutter in his step.

Sergeant Cormun watched as the horde of k’lor’slugs that guarded the nest tore themselves apart, mesmerised.

The sith, as normal as he had seemed, was watching with an utterly fascinated look on his face. Cormun swallowed. ‘For now. He had said for now. That means he might learn to do that to one of us.’

He shook his head, stamping down on his fear. ‘No time for that. This sith has done nothing but be helpful. And if he decides to kill you, there is nothing you can do about it anyway.’

“The sith is waiting, sir.” Private Caire whispered.

He focussed with a start, seeing she was right. “Place the charges and detonate. Then we advance.” He called. “For now, conserve ammunition. Only fire if they come too close, or only the last remains.”

They continued through the tomb, picking up the pace now that the sith was almost single handedly tearing through every ambush or patrol they came across.

Finally, they came to the last nest, just before the armoury. The horde, larger than any they had seen, fell to infighting and heavy munitions. “Place charges and prepare for detonation.” He ordered his men.

The sith was approaching him, and he took off his helmet. “Sergeant Cormun. From here on I will continue alone. Please secure the entrance to the armoury, and await my return. When I have what I came for, we can leave the tomb together.”

He saluted. “With pleasure, sir.”

The sith left, into an armoury that contained god knows what, and he sighed.

“Is that normal, sir?” Private Norgrum asked.

“Is what normal, private?”

“The sith, sir. Is it normal that they can turn allies against one another? Because I don’t really see why he needs us here if he can do that, sir.”

Cornum sighed deeper, wishing he was back on Balmorra. ‘Never thought I’d miss that blasted hellscape.’

“I think he just figured out how to, private.” When Norgrum looked confused, he clarified. “When he took that smaller k’lor’slug aside a few hours ago. I think he just then figured out how.”

Private Norgrum nodded, as if that made perfect sense. “So is it normal, sir?”

Cornum looked over the charges, and activated the detonator when his men were clear. Explosions rocketed through the hallways, destroying what must have been thousands of eggs.

“I’m no expert on the sith, private. I do not know their training. I do not understand their powers and I certainly don’t want to ask them and find out.”

He looked over at Norgrum. “But no, I don’t think that’s normal.”

Faint fighting could be heard from deeper into the armoury, and his men snapped into formation.

Some tense minutes later, the sith walked back out. A new, or possibly very, very old blade hung over his shoulder, and his old weapon was nowhere to be seen.

“Some droids were guarding the weapon I was after.” The sith answered his unspoken questions. “Now then, I do think it’s high time we get out of this, how did you put it, damned tomb, yes?”

The sith walked away, and the sergeant heard him mutter faintly. “Besides, I need some practise with my new little toy.”

Cormun kept his men back from the fighting that followed, watching as the sith sliced through the remaining k’lor’slugs without much problem. Where before the sith’s blade relied on blunt force, or the lightning it was coated with, now it seemed to slice through hides with ease. ‘It seems he didn’t need us either way.’

Sunlight streamed through his helmet, and he heaved a sigh of relief at being outside again. Even if being outside still meant he was stuck on Korriban.

“This is where we part ways, sergeant.” The sith said. “I need to report to my Overseer, and I imagine you have to report to someone too.”

Cormun nodded, and barked at his men. They saluted. “We owe you, sir. If it wasn’t for you, we’d be stuck down there until the k’lor’slugs killed us all.”

The sith stuck out his hand, and he shook it. “My pleasure, sergeant Cormun. If your superiors send you on another suicide mission, tell them acolyte Morgan will want to have a word.”

The sith looked at the academy, walking away. “It won’t carry much weight now, but I have the nagging suspicion that’s about to change.”

Before he was out of earshot, Cormun heard him mutter again. “Or I’ll be slain in a few days, and he’ll look awfully dumb threatening his superiors with a dead man's name. Ah well.”

Sergeant Cormun shook his head, and led his men away to shower and sleep.

‘Maybe we’ll all be dead in a few days.’ He thought. ‘But if not, it seems I’ve made a connection within the sith.’

‘I wonder if that makes me more or less likely to see retirement.’

Chapter Text

“Hey there, acolyte. Hold on a moment. Let me get a look at you.” A stranger told him.

Morgan was tired, filthy and in no mood for anyone’s bullshit. What he wanted was to shower, eat and sleep. Yet here were two strangers blocking his path to the Overseer, the one step he had to complete before he could get to the holy trinity of mental health.

By the time his mind had decided politeness was still the best course, the stranger continued. “Hmm. So you’re Overseer Tremel’s secret weapon, huh? Impressive, to be sure. Afraid the old man waited too long to make his move, though.”

He knew this one. Something about him seemed familiar, but Morgan’s tired mind couldn't quite remember who he was.

“I’m Vemrin, and unlike you I’ve fought and bled for everything I have. I demand respect.”

‘That’s Vemrin?’ He thought, surprised. He finally scanned his apparent enemy, more surprise flickering through him when Vemrin detected it. That spoke of good self awareness.

His ambusher seemed just as surprised, his eyes narrowing and immediately trying to scan him in return.

But Morgan had made it a habit to always have his soul shield up, especially with how efficient it had become. Unlike most others around here, it seemed. ‘Still, must be a drain if it's not as refined as mine. Guess that's why the Overseers don’t do it. Or anyone I’ve met, really.’

Vermin's eyes widened, just slightly, when his own scan ran into Morgan’s shield.

He sighed. “You have no actual idea who I am or what I’ve been through, do you?”

He looked to the side, where Vemrin’s companion was trying very hard to loom. ‘Vemrin screams danger, and feels as strong as Soft Voice. You do not.’

“Stop looming, before I open you from balls to chin and watch as your guts spill on the floor.” He politely lied.

The slab blinked, not seeming intimidated. ‘So stupid and weak, good to know. You won’t live long.’

He looked back to Vemrin, who was silently reassessing him. “Alright. How about this. My name is Morgan,” He still found it strange that he had gone a whole year without anyone using his new name, before Tremel had told him. “And we are going to be enemies. So save whatever is left of your speech, and go. I need to speak to the Overseer, not blab with you.”

Vemrin scowled, motioning his slab to follow him as he left. “You have no idea the enemy you’re making.”

Morgan nodded amiably, resisting the urge to nip this problem in the bud here and now. Cripple him, maybe. ‘Won’t look good if I attack without cause. I’m not in the facility anymore. There are rules here. Tradition.’

The slab hesitated, opening his mouth to speak. Unfortunately Morgan was well and truly done with them both, so he sent a blanket mental attack at the fool.

It didn’t do great damage, with how it was both untargeted and done against a - relatively - complex brain. It still caused Slab to clutch his head in pain, confusion spreading over his face. Morgan walked past him and into the Overseer’s office proper while he was distracted.

“Good, you’ve returned.” Overseer Tremel started. “You seem to be in one piece. Tell me, how do you like your new blade?”

A woman, either another other acolyte or his daughter, stood next to him. She looked impatient.

“Having a weapon with a proper edge is appreciated, Overseer.”

The woman cut in before Tremel could continue. “What are you doing, Father? I only just got my warblade, and I’ve been here six months.”

Tremel scowled at her interruption. “I have my reasons, Eskella. And you will not breathe a word of this to anyone. Do you hear?”

Morgan could feel she wanted to argue, but relented after a second of glaring.

“Yes. Yes, Father.” She bowed.

The Overseer nodded to the door, and Eskella left without a word. Anger boiled within her, and Morgan could feel the Dark feed on it with glee.

“Now, I thought I heard Vemrin’s voice in the adjacent chamber before you arrived. Did he make his move so soon?”

“Not really.” Morgan replied. “Just some posturing and a sad attempt at intimidation.”

Tremel nodded, but narrowed his eyes. “Do not take him lightly, acolyte. Vemrin is an impatient hound, but not a weak one. Underestimate him, and he will take your throat.”

‘I said he was posturing, and bad at intimidation. Not that he was weak.’

“Yes, Overseer.”

The Overseer relaxed, pleased. “In a drive for sheer numbers, the criteria for academy admittance has been relaxed. Now anyone with Force sensitivity is allowed entrance.”

“Vemrin is mixed blood.” Tremel continued. Morgan mentally rolled his eyes, unsurprised at a sith being racist. “The invisible rot eating at the foundation of the Empire. He must not be allowed to advance.”

“Unfortunately, Vemrin’s caught the eye of Darth Baras, one of the most influential Sith Lords. He’s being groomed to be Baras’s new apprentice. As his apprentice, the power at Vemrin’s fingertips will be considerable. He could change the sith for the worse.”

Morgan said nothing, noting down various things the Overseer said on his datapad. ‘I don’t think it’s possible for the sith to get any worse, but sure. Whatever you say.’

“You must proceed to your next trial immediately. I want you to interrogate three prisoners in the academy's jails first thing in the morning. You are to decide their fates.”

Tremel turned back to his desk, picking up a datapad. “Speak to head jailer Knash and return to me after you’ve passed judgement. Dismissed.”

Morgan found his way to the acolyte quarters without much issue, and had a quick shower before bed. He barely remembered to scarf down some rations, before falling into his bunk without looking at the other acolytes nearby. Sleep took him fast.

“That’s him.” A quiet voice whispered. “That’s the new acolyte.”

He groaned, dragging himself up and awake. ‘If that was less than four hours I’m killing everyone in this room.’

Six acolytes crowded around his bunk, backing away slightly when he stood. “How long was I asleep?”

Slab took a step forward, jabbing Morgan in the chest with a finger. “It's tradition to haze new acolytes.” He said, ignoring his question. “And I’m in charge of your hazing.”

He grinned, pleased with himself. “And the best part? It's tradition. You can’t do a thing about it without the Overseers punishing you.”

“The next person to touch me loses his eating privileges.” Morgan gravelled out, finding his warblade gone from where he had put it. “And the first person to tell me where you idiots hid my weapon will get to keep their walking privileges.”

Slab frowned, poking him again. “You don’t control the cafeteria. You're just an acolyte.” Slab turned his frown into a smile. “And we didn’t touch your blade. Someone must have stolen it.”

Morgan sighed, and his enforcement snapped through his body in the time it took his heart to beat. His hand shot forward, his fist slamming into Slab’s throat before the man had time to blink.

He went down gasping, clutching at his throat. Another slow witted acolyte tried to grab his shoulder, and he shattered her own with a simple step grab and lock. Soft Voice had taught him that, what now felt like a lifetime ago.

The rest flinched back, afraid. One acolyte, proving himself smarter than all the others combined, pointed to a locker on the other side of the room.

Morgan fetched his warblade, leaving the sleeping quarters without any more interruptions.

Finding the library wasn't any more difficult than finding the sleeping quarters, and he started to browse the shelves until he came upon something interesting.

‘The art of alchemy, a treatise on fleshcrafting by Lord Gratyl.’ The plaque informed him.

Just above it, in a glass case, was a simple holocron with none of the decoration or embellishment he had seen on many of the others he had walked past.

He opened the case without much issue, careful to not displace the holocron. The warning engraved into the walls at the entrance warned about what would happen if an item was removed from its casing.

He had no immediate wish to be turned into one, personally.

Prodding the holocron with the Force revealed little, save for a strange, narrow pathway for him to follow. He pushed the Force through it, finding it narrowing and twisting the further he got.

After a few minutes of careful prodding, he ran along a tiny bump. The pathway constricted violently, and he cursed. He broke the connection, feeling sore in the Force in a way he never quite had before.

He tried again, careful to avoid the bump this time. That became harder as he moved along, the bumps becoming more numerous and less obvious.

It took him nearly an hour, finding this the hardest his control had ever been challenged. Ways to bend and twist the Force he had never thought of, with even the slightest mistake causing the pathway to shut violently.

It was more than a little uncomfortable, but also rewarding. He twisted and wormed his way through, until he finally made it without a mistake.

The holocron opened, and a voice drifted out. “Nearly fifty four years since last this holocron was opened. The sith must be in ruin for the acolytes of the academy to be this weak.”

The voice, sounding young and tired, sounded little like that of a Sith Lord. “Lord Gratyl?”

“No. And before you ask, my name or identity is not important. Nor was it recorded into this holocron, for that matter. I will not have politics stand in the way of learning, not again.”

“Again?” Morgan probed.

“Yes, again. No more of these questions.”

Morgan put up a hand in acceptance. “You sound more alive than any other holocron I’ve interacted with.”

The voice laughed, a raspy sound. “Interacted with. Maybe you have seen your fair share of them, then. Most say talked with. Very well, if it will get you to stop asking these questions. The material in this holocron was once inscribed on stone tablets or fragile paper. I spent my last few months of life transferring my essence into it, so that the knowledge could live through me. So that I could be its teacher. Its guardian.”

The voice coughed, sounding pained. “Now then. You have passed the test of opening the holocron, and are thus rewarded with the knowledge within. Tell me, acolyte, how long did it take you?”

Morgan contemplated lying, but saw no real reason to. “About an hour, give or take.”

“An hour.” The voice was silent for a moment. “Interesting. Well then, shall we begin your lesson on fleshcrafting?”

Morgan looked at his datapad, noting the time. “I truthfully don’t have long. Other tasks await me, no matter how fascinating this is.”

The voice made a tsking sound. “Then we shall be quick.”

It cleared his throat, sounding so very alive. “Fleshcrafting, a discipline of sith alchemy, is the art of change. This could be the change of beasts, people or any organic material. Its name might give you the impression that it is limited to flesh, while in truth it deals with any form of change. Growing bone, muscle or any other tissue is perfectly possible, if increasingly more complex as you progress in the art.”

Morgan picked up his datapad, dutifully making notes. “Sculpting monsters to do your bidding, making your followers stronger and more durable or even growing plagues are all uses for the art.”

“Its true value, however, lies in its ability to improve oneself. With the Force, and deep meditation, you can achieve awareness of the body that is near impossible for any other being. While altering others is doable, it is done with grafting better qualities onto them. Replacing skin with strong hides to make them tougher, better muscles to make them stronger. Even giving them the eyes of animals, allowing such things as night vision, is very useful. It does carry the chance of rendering the subject mentally unstable, but such are the risks.”

Morgan made careful note of it all, but was becoming less and less interested.

“What I find the best use, however, is self modification. When proper study is done, one can improve not through grafting, but careful manipulation. To promote the strengthening of muscle, so that none can overpower you through sheer brute strength. To make the skin shrug off blaster fire, or even make the liver capable of rendering any poison harmless, with no grafting required.”

His head shot up, staring at the holocron. ‘Poison immunity. Strength to rival Soft Voice without turning into an abomination. Skin tough enough to stop the inevitable knife in my back.’

“I thought you might like that.” The voice resounded smugly. “But let’s not get ahead of ourselves. Fleshcrafting requires flawless control, not to mention extensive practice.”

“Now then, make careful note of the following. They will be the essence of the art, and will need to be mastered before any true practice can be done.”

Morgan put his head down, rapidly making notes. ‘Now this sounds like it might be worth my time.’

He walked into the jail nearing noon, his studies keeping him longer than intended. Cages lined the wall, many more than seemed needed. Three were to the side, with Knash pacing before them.

One cage, on the other side of the space, held a twi’lek, blue skinned and staring at the wall vacantly. He carefully ignored her, turning to the jailer. ‘Nothing you can do for her yet. You don’t even know her. Not really.’

“You. I’m Jailer Knash. I run these cells and the slave pits. You’re the acolyte Tremel sent for the test, right? He must think highly of you.”

Morgan said nothing, motioning to the cells with his trial in them.

“Not a talker, eh? No skin off my back.”

Knash turned to them, nodding at each. “Now, these three prisoners have been selected for your inspection. You gotta interrogate them as needed, and then decide their fate. Whatever you decide, you will be the one to carry out the sentence.”

Morgan decided that he wanted to spend as little time in this place as he could. “You.” He barked at the first prisoner. The woman jumped. “Name and reason for imprisonment.”

The woman, human and with black hair, stared at him stubbornly. He stared back calmly, and after a few seconds she caved first. “Solentz. I was hired to kill someone, but I had no idea he was Imperial! I don’t even know who hired me!”

Morgan nodded along. “So you, as an assassin, did no research on either your employer or target. Did not find out who either was or worked for, nor what you were getting yourself into as a whole.”

Solentz scowled. “I respect my client's anonymity, and how was I supposed to know he was a spy! You think they hang signs around their necks proclaiming it to the world!”

“So either you are incompetent, lazy or possess a code of honour. Any makes you a poor assassin.”

The woman crossed her arms, her face the picture of defiance. Morgan felt fear coming in waves from her, but so far her emotions did not point at lying.

“Let’s make this simpler. Did you kill the spy on orders of enemies of the Empire?”

“No.”

Morgan couldn't tell lies from the truth, not really. But her emotions pointed at the truth. No nervousness as she waited to see if he believed her lie. No guilt, or any other signs that she was deceiving him.

“Either,” He stated, “you are lying or telling the truth. If you are lying, then you do so to sith, in the heart of their empire. If you are telling the truth, you are incompetent, unmotivated or worse. But I cannot judge the latter, and I believe that you are telling the truth.”

Morgan turned to the jailer, who was watching with interest. “Send her to Imperial intelligence. They can judge if she is worth employing.”

Morgan turned to the next prisoner, and he spoke before he could say anything. “Please, I am a fellow sith. Grant me the opportunity for a trial by combat. I beg you.”

“You beg?” He asked, surprised. “How long were you sith?”

“I served faithfully for twenty-four years, then one mistake and they threw me away. Please, let me feel the weight of a weapon once more.”

“You beg.” Morgan repeated, intrigued. “You were sith for twenty-four years, but beg.”

It wasn’t disgust he felt. Not pity at his state or glee at the prospect of killing. Mostly he felt like he was doing a chore. The thing he had to get through so he could get back to doing what he wanted. But now the chore was slightly interesting, so he motioned to the jailer.

“Give him a weapon.”

The sith bowed his head. “My thanks, young warrior.”

Knash opened the cell, and handed the prisoner a weapon. Morgan realised he had made a mistake when the sith enforced his body, strength rushing through his old frame.

The training saber came straight for his eye, and it was all he could do to dodge and ready his own weapon.

His blade was sharp as anything, with plasma running along its edge to make any wound that much worse. He was younger, rested and in top physical shape.

His opponent was old, tired and starved. He wielded a training saber and had likely not fought for months. Yet he nearly died five times in seven exchanges, the training saber he so readily threw away nearly reaping his life again and again. He could do little more than stay defensive, dodging what he could and blocking what he couldn't.

The fight dragged on, first one minute and then two. He realised, slowly, that he was wrong. That while the sith was pushing him onto the defensive, he wasn’t being beaten. The old man had experience, but was tired and weakened. His edge had been dulled, and age had taken what not even the Dark could give back. Morgan had youth, and his edge was sharp. His mind slowly adapted to the speed and skill of his opponent. He could dodge more, make a few counter strikes here and there.

He studied his opponents' enforcement by reflex, slowly adapting the superior technique into his own. It brought them closer to equal in speed and strength, his blows hitting harder and faster.

Then, after what felt like hours of desperate fighting, the man slowed. Morgan raked superficial wounds across his body, and took less wounds himself. Where his opponent was slowing, he was going steady. His enforcement nowhere close to emptying his reserve, his shield strong and limbs steady.

Then the old sith made a mistake, dragging power from his shield to his limbs. He probably thought it wouldn't matter against a young acolyte, thought that even a weakened shield would suffice. Morgan slipped past it, jerking his opponent's wrist to the side so hard it shattered. He used up a quarter of his remaining power in the process.

The old man didn’t even grunt in pain, trying to grab his falling saber with his other arm. Morgan took it at the elbow, then cut deep along his stomach. Guts spilled, and the man collapsed.

He breathed deeply, watching as the old sith died on the floor. Pain covered his body, but he paid it little attention. ‘Sure showed me to be more cautious. Jesus christ.’

Morgan looked at the man he had just killed, and felt little. No torrent of regret. No guilt gnawing at his bones. He had killed someone, for the very first time, and he felt nothing but exhaustion.

Exhaustion that was leaving his frame with every heartbeat as enforcement flowed through him.

Slow clapping reached his ear, and he turned his head to see the jailer near the door. “My, he sure was a lot stronger than he seemed. Would have gutted me in a second, were I his opponent.”

He looked Morgan up and down, seeing his uniform in tatters and wounds covering his body. “Might want to get those looked at, and maybe get a change of clothes. The last prisoner isn’t going anywhere.”

Morgan ignored him, turning to the last part of his trial. “I’m named Brehg.” He said quickly. “They suspect I forged documents for the republic, but I’m innocent!”

“Strange little fellow, remained adamant of his innocence despite being tortured.” Knash said, stepping over the dead body on the floor. “Always claimed he was set up.”

“That's because I was!” Brehg shouted. “I forged some documents when I was younger, did time for it, but I’ve been clean since I came out! I swear!”

‘No good choices. No way to find out for sure if he’s lying.’

“Send him to Imperial intelligence too. If they believe him, they could use a forger. If not, they can kill him themselves.” Morgan looked at the jailer, seeing he was nudging the dead sith with his foot. “I’m done here.”

He walked away, not noticing that the twi’lek had been watching the entire exchange. Not seeing how she watched him leave with narrowed eyes, looking between his retreating back and the body on the floor.

Not even feeling the slight glimmer of hope in her, as she went back to staring at the walls.

He walked into Overseer Tremel’s office after a trip to the medic droid and a shower. It had taken care of his shallow wounds quickly, applying bandages and smearing ointments. A new uniform covered him, taken from the quartermaster all acolytes could request basic items from.

“Run back to your master in the beast pens, before I cut you in half.” He heard Tremel sneer, just before an acolyte near sprinted past him.

“Ah, acolyte Morgan. Finally.” The Overseer picked up a datapad, reading out loud. “Now then, your test in the jails.”

“First, the assassin. She attempted to kill an Imperial spy but was unaware of her client’s affiliation. You assigned her to Imperial intelligence. I commend you, that was excellent thinking. Never waste a potential resource.”

Tremel scrolled down. “The failed warrior. Why grant his wish for a trial by combat?”

“I wished to see what twenty-four years of experience would make of a sith. To learn from him.”

The Overseer looked up, eyes piercing into his own. “You wished to learn from him? If an acolyte could kill him, no matter how promising, he was not worth learning from. You should have killed him in his cell. We don’t have time to honour yesterday’s accomplishments. In the future, come to me if you wish for instruction.”

Morgan bowed his head in acceptance, knowing it was a pointless offer. ‘Either you are dead in a few days time, or I am. I learned more from that fight than I will ever from you.’

“Lastly, the forger. You send him to Imperial intelligence as well. Why?”

“He is here. Brought to Korriban for a crime without strong evidence. He must be very good at what he does, or someone would have killed him long before now. Innocent or not, I judged that Imperial intelligence should determine if he could be useful.”

The Overseer scowled, but nodded. “Acceptable, in this case. But remember that not all skills are in high demand. A forger, no matter how good, is easier to acquire than an assassin.”

Another acolyte walked into the room, carrying a stack of datapads. “It seems other issues are pressing. You did well in this trial, if slowly.” The Overseer gave him a pointed look, but continued without further comment.

“Your next task is to go to the caverns of Marka Ragnos.”

Tremel pointed to a spot on his desk, and the acolyte put down his burden. “In there is a beast he left to guard his legacy. Go there, sit among the flames, and wait for the beast to come for you.”

The Overseer put down the datapad that he had begun reading, giving Morgan a stern look. “This beast has been there for centuries, so long that records are conflicting on when exactly it was placed there. It has killed many an acolyte, and is exceedingly dangerous. You must kill it if we hope to have any chance to impress Darth Baras.”

He waved to the door. “Go to the Valley of the Dark Lords and find the tomb. Slay the beast, and return to me when you are done. Dismissed.”

Morgan turned and left without comment, thinking. ‘If it’s a beast, I might be able to disrupt its mind. Kill it while it drools on the floor. Or maybe it's resistant to mind attacks, if it’s survived for so long.’

Taking a shuttle to the lower wilds was easy enough, and once there he looked around.

A minimal research station spread around him, with guards patrolling the perimeter and acolytes coming and going. One stark presence in the Force was examining a beast on a table, acolytes caring for dozens more in cages.

The perimeter was soft, he noted. No gate or walls, just soldiers and barricades. What acolytes came and went out of the station did so in groups, looking nervous to leave or returning bloodied. He saw no one he recognized, so went out of the perimeter almost as soon as the shuttle landed.

“Sir!” A soldier stopped him. “Pardon, sir. Haven’t seen you before, and all new acolytes get a warning before leaving.”

Morgan waved at the woman to go on, looking out over the valley. “Thank you, sir. The Lord in charge sent soldiers to gather his research materials before he tasked his acolytes. Unfortunately, some of the soldiers turned mad. Now they stalk the valley, attacking beasts and acolytes alike. The wildlife consists mostly of Tuk‘ata, but they are both numerous and territorial. Deeper into the valley, should you need to go that far, scouts reported to have found failed acolytes, hiding when they could not complete their task.”

‘This many acolytes and a sith Lord are making the soldiers nervous.’ He thought, feeling fear spike and ebb as she talked to him.

She took a deep breath, saluting. “That concludes the briefing. Thank you for listening, sir!”

Morgan nodded. “And thank you for the information, it will be most useful.”

He moved past her, hearing her snap to attention again as he did so.

He was in the wilds proper soon after, and the number of acolytes he could see quickly dwindled to nothing, beasts taking their place.

He quickly found that the beasts were both non-speaking, noting to thank Soft Voice for insisting they all learn their bestiary, and far more able to work together than most. He had to cut through the first group that found him entirely, leaving none to try and find out if he could manipulate them mentally.

That trend continued for near half an hour, Morgan slowly making progress through the valley. Finally, a group he came upon contained a younger hound. He kept it after he killed the rest, wrestling it down and tying it with rope he had taken from the quartermaster.

They looked only a little like dogs, but the resemblance still made Morgan want to try something different than making them turn on each other. So he examined its brain, slowly stimulating various parts of it. He found aggression fairly quickly this time, but moved past it. One made it yelp in pain, and another made the hound shake its head in confusion, whining. ‘That part must be sight or balance.’ He noted.

He poked another part, and he felt nothing happening immediately. He started to move on, but noticed the Tuk’ata had become sluggish. He pressed the area again, and stepped back to observe.

The hound seemed no different at first, but after some ten seconds it’s eyes started to droop. It would shake awake, then repeat. Some thirty seconds after initial stimulation, it fell asleep on the ground.

Soft snoring came from the beast, and Morgan allowed a small smile. “Kinda cute when they're not trying to bite my balls off. Seems I won’t have to kill several dozen of them.”

He moved on, taking his rope and leaving the young hound to sleep. Any group he came across was soon snoring on the ground, Morgan only needing to give ground to buy time. Dodging out of their way wasn’t too hard, and they usually only contained some four to six Tuk’ata per group.

It was when he moved deep into the valley, some hours walking, that he noticed a change. His mental shield, as ever present as his soul one, started to come under attack. A slow, almost unnoticeable attack, seemingly from nowhere.

Morgan took an embarrassing long moment to realise it was the Dark itself grinding against his shield, not so much attacking as bumping into it. It was a high amount of Dark energy, and he scowled. ‘That Sith Lord must have known that this area was so strong in the Dark, and he sent those troopers anyway. So either he didn’t know - which seemed unlikely - didn’t care or wanted to weed out the weak minded. In any case, a disgusting waste.’

Some fifteen minutes after moving into the high Dark area, he came upon the first soldier patrol. Came upon seemed too dramatic, however, because they were inanely arguing about how to best move a large boulder. No purpose or higher reason seemed clear from what little he could hear.

Morgan snuck past with minimal effort.

It was the same for many of the remaining soldiers he came upon, either staring vacantly at nothing, screaming to one another about random subjects or fighting with the rare Tuk’ata group. All were easily avoided, until he arrived at the tomb of Marka Ragnos.

A half dozen soldiers stood around the entrance, vigilant and with weapons ready. None seemed easy to distract, and Morgan saw no other way than to attack.

‘Unless they still respect the chain of command? Madness is madness, but they are still behaving like soldiers.’ He thought.

He walked around the boulder he had been hiding behind, lengthening his stride and putting a scowl on his face. The soldiers snapped their weapons to him, but he spoke before they could shoot.

“At attention!’ He barked. “Officer inspection!”

Half of them snapped to it, the other half lowering their weapons in confusion. All except one.

“We were not told of an inspection today, sir?” The last suspicious soldier asked.

“It’s called a surprise inspection for a reason, soldier!” He shouted, rapidly closing the distance and making his face look as angry as possible. “Now at attention before I boot you straight back to bootcamp!”

It seemed to work, and he pretended to inspect armour and weapons while angling to step past them. “Wait a second! That’s not an officer, it's a jedi!” The suspicious soldier shouted, raising his weapon and firing in one smooth motion.

It hit the wall behind him, Morgan having moved to the side a few heartbeats before the soldier had even pulled the trigger, but it caused the rest of the soldiers to snap out of the fake inspection and raise their own weapons.

He cursed, but was close enough to snatch a soldier's weapon out of his hand and start bashing it on their helmets. One good wack was enough to send them to the ground, none getting back up.

With his speed and being so close to them, the half dozen soldiers were on the ground before they could alert the whole valley with their blaster fire. Morgan made sure to hit hard enough to knock them out, but not so hard to cave in their skulls. A surprisingly delicate balance.

‘That must have looked ridiculous.’ He thought as he moved past their prone forms, dropping the blaster. ‘A sith bonking soldiers on the head with their own weapon.’

Inside the tomb was a group of acolytes, dirty and starved. He slipped past one woman’s shield and snapped her ankle, the sound causing the rest of them to scurry away like rats. They even left her behind, moaning on the ground where she had fallen.

He kicked her head when he passed her, making her eyes roll into the back of her head. ‘Not the academy's finest.’ He noted dryly.

Then, finally, he made it to the chamber itself.

A huge slab of stone, covered with intricate carvings, dominated much of the room. Statues of Marka Ragnos loomed from the wall, and the floor was covered in dust.

Dust and footprints.

He kneeled at the carving, feeling out into the Force. The Dark was near overwhelming here, but it did not attack. It flowed around his shield with no more malice than water, overwhelmingly powerful but harmless. For now.

He studied it, the way it flowed and ebbed around. It moved through stone like smoke, yet bumped into walls Morgan could not see. After some time, a shape seemed to suggest itself, slipping out of his mind’s eye just before he could recognize it.

Then the Force screamed at him to move, and he dove to the side. He cleared some twenty feet, using his enforcement to jump sideways more than roll.

A huge beast lumbered where he had kneeled, vaguely resembling a spiky, smaller rancor.

It shot at him with little warning from the Force. Morgan jumped, using the ceiling to vault to the other side of the room. He tried to attack its mind, but ran into a blanket of Dark so thick he couldn't push past it.

‘That must be the beast, then. The Force gave me less warning than normal. Better not get caught by those claws either, they seem like they would hurt.’

He jumped again when it charged, and it crashed into the wall behind him. ‘Sure is fast. But unfortunately for you, I’m a lot more mobile.’

The next few minutes he spent playing a deadly game of catch, where Morgan used his superior agility to stay out of the huge paws of the beast.

It seemed to become elated as the fight went on, enough so that even though both its soul and mind were shielded in the Dark, Morgan could see it in its eyes.

He was surprised when the beast tried to grab after him after another jump, a move that he could punish freely.

His blade flashed, and two stumpy fingers dropped to the ground at the same time as a deafening bellow rebounded through the room. It resumed trying to catch him, its movements seeming angry, but its eyes shining relief.

‘Almost like sparring with Soft Voice.’ Morgan reminisced. Those fights had him use superious speed and agility to avoid getting hit too. ‘But then he had a saber, and he isn’t quite as big as this one is. He also didn’t have contradicting body language.’

Several more exchanges passed, with Morgan scoring little more than shallow cuts and the beast hitting him with nothing more than sound. Hurt his ears, but little more than that.

Slowly, as Morgan lost himself in the repetition of dodging and jumping, the beast slowed. He could put a little more time calculating his blows, scoring deeper wounds between thick armoured scales. ‘Just like against that old sith. Endurance over power. Speed over strength.’

He thought back to the holocron in the library. ‘But it’s even better to have both.’

The fight ended without fanfare, the beast slumping to the side from a dozen wounds. Morgan startled as the Dark rushed to envelop it, feeling almost protective. Its shields dropped when it fell to the ground, and Morgan could feel the beasts emotion for the first time.

It felt tired. So very, very tired.

‘Finally,’ A rough snarl sounded in his head, ‘Finally an acolyte that can put an end to this misery.’ Morgan startled again, the voice crashing against his mental shield without damage and giving it an strange echoing quality. ‘You can talk?’ He asked back.

He had been wondering why he had seen intelligence in those eyes, yet the beast had tried to kill him the same way every time. Dangerous, to be sure. One slip and he would have been paste, the bruises on his shoulder from a slight graze telling him that much. But predictable all the same.

‘I was forbidden.’ It spoke. ‘Forbidden from speaking. Forbidden from leaving. Stalking this dark tomb for centuries. Alone.’

‘I’m sorry.’ He told it, sheathing his blade. ‘That must have been lonely.’

‘I wanted to join my master.’ It said, voice weakening. ‘But I was young. So very young. My keepers dismissed my claims. Told me that I could not join where he had gone. They thought I did not understand death.’

It snarled into Morgan’s mind, anger bleeding over the connection between them. ‘When I rebelled against them, when I fought to join my master’s side, they chained me. They used the sorcery that birthed me to chain my mind. To bind me to this place. To his grave.’

Its eyes focused, locking with his. ‘Listen well, young sith, for you deserve a prize for setting me free. My master grew to heights few have reached since. He claimed world after world as his prize and built an empire from his followers. He was a man many respected. A man none disobeyed.’

‘But I remember a time when he was but a lowly sith, young and ambitious. We used to play in green fields, running and wrestling. I used to sleep at his side, something deep within me knowing stars would shatter before he would allow harm done to me.’

The beast's chest heaved, then stayed still. ‘But the more powerful he grew, the less joy I saw in him. The more followers he gained, the more time he spent ensuring they did not betray him. He was a man none disobeyed. But the more power he gained, the more lonely he became.’

‘Remember that, young sith. Surround yourself with those you trust. With those you love. When you can have anything you desire, it will be too late.’ Its voice faded, and Morgan chased the connection before it broke.

‘Maybe we’ll play again, like when we were both young and happy. I’m sorry, master. I tried to follow you. I tried. Please don’t leave me all alone again.’

Morgan felt the Dark spike, rushing as a tsunami to the dying beast. He felt the Dark lift something, before his senses overloaded from the power and he could feel no more.

It subsided, the tomb feeling strangely empty at its passing. The drain on his mental shield lessened, until it felt as any other place on Korriban.

But before it was gone entirely, Morgan’s strained senses saw a shadow beyond shape. A shadow that looked at him, and he felt like the statues had come alive. A shadow that reached out, like a giant would pet a kitten. A surge so powerful it knocked Morgan out cold, even if all it had meant to do was wave.

A gesture that felt like gratitude.

Chapter Text

Morgan woke up feeling strangely rested, finding himself lying on the cold ground of a tomb.

It took him a few seconds to remember, until the memory of whatever that had been resurfaced. A shiver went through him, having little to do with the cold stone.

He stood up, looking around to find the corpse of the Beast gone. ‘Alright. Yes. Completely normal for lovecraftian entities to wave at me and giant bodies to randomly disappear without a trace. No fuckery beyond human comprehension going on here, no sir!’

He backtracked through the tomb with little issue, finding himself at peace despite probably having met the ghost of Marka Ragnos himself.

Walking out of the tomb found him catching the sun as it rose, and he realised he must have slept for nearly fifteen hours. He checked his datapad to see he had, in fact, slept for a little over fourteen. ‘No wonder I feel so rested. Also, note to self, let’s not mention to Tremel or anyone else I may have met Marka Ragnos.’

Groans reached his ear, and he looked to the ground to find the soldiers he had knocked out stirring. “If you are still unconscious after fourteen hours, it’s not my fault. I didn’t hit you lot that hard.”

Silence answered his joke, so he sighed and slapped the only corporal among them awake. Strangely enough, not the same soldier that had blown his inspection before.

“Wake up time. Unless you’re still inflicted with Dark induced madness. In that case, better if you stay asleep.”

The effect that had held part of the valley in its clutches disappeared when he had killed the Beast, but he had no idea if the madness it had induced was permanent.

“Wha… What’s going on? Who are you?”

Morgan smiled reassuringly, but the corporal blanched. ‘Right, still covered in blood.’

“At ease, corporal. I’m acolyte Morgan.” He made sure to use his name, as much to humanise himself as to make sure he remembered it. “I killed the source of the madness, and it seems its effects are not permanent.”

The corporal looked around, noting her squad around her. She frowned. “I… I remember some of it. Something about a….” She squinted at Morgan, trying to remember. “Yes. You walked up, shouting about a surprise inspection.”

He raised an eyebrow. “You remember? Well, that’s gonna make for some good laughs between your soldiers.”

She looked at him questioningly. He shrugged. “Most of the troopers in the valley weren't dutifully guarding something.”

Morgan clapped his hands. “Now then, wake up the rest of your squad and let’s move out. We have strays to collect, and I have other things to do today.”

‘Like killing Tremel. How fun that will be.’ He thought dryly.

The corporal woke up her squad, introduced herself formally as Shera, and they set out at a brisk pace.

The first troopers they came across were already awake themselves, and consisted of only privates. They joined them without issue, and so did the next two groups they came across.

It was the third that proved to be troublesome, and Morgan returned to the small army of nineteen soldiers to find corporal Shera arguing with a sergeant.

‘I was only gone for ten minutes.’ He groused. ‘At least the puppies are sleeping now.’

“I don’t care about your opinion, corporal.” The sergeant barked. “We will collect the artefact me and my men have been sent for. That’s an order.”

Shera looked at him helplessly as he returned, and the sergeant snapped around. “Ah, the acolyte that freed us from that nasty curse. Well done.”

The sergeant pulled out his datapad, flashing a sith identification order in Morgan’s face. “This states I am allowed to conscript acolytes to assist with my task as necessary. Consider yourself under my authority until we complete my assignment.”

The sergeant, who still hadn’t introduced himself, turned to walk away. Morgan froze his foot in place, causing him to fall on his face.

“First of all, don’t turn away from me.” Morgan spoke calmly. “Secondly, who was the sith that gave you that order, given that you entrust your life to a piece of paper?”

The man pulled himself up, red faced. “That order came from Lord Renning himself. Fall in, or I will have you executed for treason.”

Morgan walked up to him, and to the man's credit he stood his ground. “You do not have the authority to have me executed, sergeant, Lord Renning does. You are not him.”

He Force pulled the datapad out of the hands of the sergeant, reading from it. The man flinched. “This states that you are allowed to conscript any acolyte already under the authority of Lord Renning, which I am not.”

“But perhaps most important, sergeant, look around.” The man did, finding the troopers around them standing ramrod straight. “Who do you think, if forced to choose, they will support? The sergeant that wishes them, underequipped and just freed from madness, to delve into another tomb? Or the sith that wants them back at base, eating, sleeping and laughing at the dumb shit they did while affected?”

He clapped the man on the shoulder, watching as he tried very hard to keep his face blank. “Pick your battles, sergeant. Now let’s move, we have more soldiers to collect.”

The man relented, if with a great deal of internal anger, and the troopers around them relaxed slightly.

They swept the valley clean of any stragglers, Morgan putting any tuk’ata they came across to sleep. Before long, all troopers were collected. Four sergeants took command of the near hundred remaining men, and they marched up to the research station near noon.

Lord Renning greeted them at the barricade. “The Force told me you would return, acolyte.”

Morgan bowed, and the soldiers behind him saluted. “And it seems you have gathered the weak-minded after completing your trial. How conscientious.”

The Lord waved dismissively, and the soldiers moved into the station. It left Morgan to speak with Lord Renning alone, until a certain sergeant broke in.

“Apologies, my Lord.” The man spoke. “But I must inform you that the mission you assigned to me has failed.”

Morgan could feel the Lord’s surprise at being interrupted, but the sergeant continued charging to his certain death.

“Regrettably me and my men succumbed to the curse before we could complete it, but I wished to continue the second it was lifted! To rally the remaining soldiers and complete the mission no matter the cost!”

Surprise turned to irritation, but the Lord displayed none of it on his face. Morgan took a step away from the sergeant.

“Then this low acolyte waylaid my orders. Threatened me when I insisted my work was on your orders, and forced me to return to you empty handed.”

Morgan took another step away from the idiot, not a second too late. Lord Renning’s hand shot up, lightning shooting at the man.

He smelled the sergeant's hair burning, but kept his eyes on Lord Renning as he heard the man’s body drop silently.

“Well met, acolyte.” Lord Renning continued, as if never interrupted. “I am Sith Lord Renning, master of this outpost.”

He bowed again, introducing himself. Both the Sith Lord and Morgan ignored the body on the floor. He informed the Lord about his exploits in the tomb when asked, the Sith listening intently.

Morgan was careful not to utter a direct lie, or mention even a hint about what he had seen.

“Fascinating. I do believe the whole world has felt the death of that Beast, such a worthy specimen. Alas, some places acolytes can go that Sith Lords cannot.”

Before Morgan could ask why, the Lord chuckled. “Look at me, prattling like an old man. Go back to your Overseer, I’m sure he will be impressed with your deeds.”

The Sith stuck out his hand, and Morgan shook it. “With how much growing you still have to do, I look forward to your exploits.”

The man nodded goodbye, and left. Morgan stood still a few seconds, seeing a couple troopers walk his way with a stretcher.

‘Well, that was creepy.’ He walked to the speeder platforms, flagging down a ride.

The speeder rose into the air. ‘I’m sure the rest of my day will be a breeze.’ He thought sarcastically.

“Well, look who’s here. Remember me?” Slab asked hoarsely, a kolto patch clearly visible on his throat.

Morgan sighed, something he had been doing a lot of recently. ‘Well, at least I got to shower before getting blood all over me again. He doesn’t seem to be in a ‘here to apologise’ kinda mood. And he’s blocking me from seeing Tremel. Again.’

“Get to the point, Slab.”

Slab’s face scrunched in confusion, then scowled. “You’re trying to trick me again. My name’s Dol-”

“Don’t care.” Morgan interrupted. “And I’m really not trying to trick you.”

Slab kept scowling, but continued. “Vemrin thought I should follow up on our earlier discussion.” He made a show of looking around. “Notice anything interesting? No witnesses. No witnesses means no rules.”

The giant wall of muscle took out a syringe, jabbing it into his own neck. “No more shortcuts. No more special treatment. You’re just gonna be another dead failure on Korriban.”

Morgan felt Slab’s presence in the Force go wild, rushing through his body. His muscles seemed to throb, and the acolyte jumped at Morgan with enough speed he was briefly taken by surprise.

Briefly being the operative word, because after dodging and blocking the first few wild swings, Morgan noticed that while Slab’s speed and strength had greatly increased, his saber skills had not.

He also wasn’t quite used to it, judging by the way even slightly messing with his balance had him tripping like a drunkard.

The fight ended after six seconds, with Morgan’s blade cutting into Slab’s achilles tendon. The giant toppled, screaming.

“No! Hold up, hold up. Look, I was wrong. What they’re saying about you, totally true. So… Strong. I don’t wanna die!”

Morgan sheathed his blade, feeling Slab’s body out with the Force. “I’m not going to kill you.” He reassured the giant. “But whatever it is you took, will. I’d say it’s about twenty seconds away from getting to your heart.”

Slab’s face scrunched. “But Vemrin sai-” He gasped, grabbing at his chest.

‘Or less.’ Morgan corrected. He looked on as Slab died, frowning. “Ruthless with no real point. Is that the kind of man you are, Vemrin?”

He shook his head and walked over Slab’s corpse, stepping into the Overseer’s office.

Tremel was pacing, looking stressed. “Ah, good. We must speak quickly, acolyte, there isn’t much time. I may have made a slight miscalculation.”

The Overseer looked to the door, as if expecting someone. “The beast of Marka Ragnos was a great source of Dark energy here on Korriban. When it was slain, there was a tremor in the Force.”

Morgan breathed evenly, observing the Overseer as closely as he could. ‘In good shape, walks like a predator. Weapon always close, and it’s a proper lightsaber. I’ll need to take that from him, and quickly. Can’t judge his shield without him feeling it, but safe bet it’s strong and well made.’

“Darth Baras felt that tremor and has become aware of you. He demands an audience.”

Tremel looked at the door again. “Baras is a serious man, and a master of deception. Everything he does and says is calculated. He will attempt to trip you up, test your nature, get to the heart of who you are. Always take him seriously. And I mean always.”

“We might not speak again, acolyte.” The Overseer said gravely. “You’re the best chance of stopping Vemrin. If you fail, I doubt there will be another strong enough. Good luck.”

Morgan gave a shallow bow, turning to leave. ‘See you soon, Overseer.’

He stepped over Slab’s body again, and walked through the academy shaping and reshaping his shields. A nervous tick, he realised.

‘It’s a while since I’ve been nervous.’ He thought. ‘Not since the facility reforged me. So what’s going on then?’ He turned his attention inward, feeling for his emotions. Letting emotions go into the force wasn’t something he was capable of, but examining them was something he did near daily.

‘Fear of death?’ He nearly giggled in the halls of the academy. ‘Death would be a nice vacation. No. Of failure?’ He frowned. ‘Not quite. What then? Why am I nervous?’

He continued walking through the halls, and he still had no answer when he came to the chamber of Dark Lord Baras.

“There Teeno, I believe that’s the one.” Astara said.

“All right.” The large acolyte responded. “Hey, you!”

Astara shook her head in disappointment, and Morgan looked at her for a second. ‘Now what is she doing here?’

“Come on, I’m antsy for some action. You there! Are you the big shot they’re all talking about? The one who’s been personally summoned by Darth Baras himself?”

Morgan swept his scan over the lot of them, noting their relative strength. ‘Still, nothing Astara should be surrounding herself with.’

“Out. All of you.” Morgan commanded. The acolytes hesitated, surprised. “Don’t care what you want, just go.”

They left, Teeno frowning as he went. His ally stayed. ‘That was easy.’

Astara sighed. “Really, my lord?”

“I’m short on time, Astara. Don’t really feel like participating in more dick measuring.”

He looked at her, noting she hadn't changed much. ‘Right. It’s only been what? Two days? Three? Feels longer.’

“So what have you been up to, then?” He asked.

She pouted, and Morgan felt her push sadness at him. “Way to ruin my fun. Took me like, all morning to find acolytes strong enough to not be completely worthless but dumb enough to follow me.”

Morgan gave her a look, and she straightened. “Alright, fine. Me and the rest of the crew have been assigned to some military unit, clearing out the more dangerous tombs. Lord Zethix dove in with his usual eagerness, but he tasked us with keeping an ear out for you.”

She looked at him, observing. “And in the three days we have been clearing out dusty tombs filled with self assembling droids and more monsters than you can shake a stick at, you’ve been rather busy.”

Astara held up a hand, ticking off fingers. “Found a warblade most acolytes would give a hand for, rescuing doomed soldiers while doing so. Killed a sith champion with decades of experience, terrifying the jailer so much he’s been drinking and blabbering about you in the cantina. Went to a valley most acolytes go to die, then not only thrived but killed a beast that they stopped using as a trial because it killed so many acolytes. And then, as if you’ve not been showing off enough, you have been getting attention from not one, but two Sith Lords.”

“Did I miss anything? Oh right, now one of the Sith Lords that noticed you maybe wants you for an apprentice.”

Morgan looked at her dryly. “I do know what I’ve been up to, seeing as I am the one having done all that. Now, why are you here, and why are Soft Voice and the rest of you clearing tombs like soldiers?”

Astara frowned. “Because that’s what we're going to be, apparently. Someone pulled strings to keep us together, and we’ve been working with the military constantly. Lord Zethix thinks we’re being trained as some sort of special forces platoon, and I don’t disagree.”

“As to why I’m here. Things are moving quickly, for you more than most. There’s been talk that we’ll be leaving Korriban in a few weeks, and you might be gone without warning.”

She turned serious, unusual for her. “So Zethix sent me to tell you that you haven’t been forgotten. That while he might not be able to do much now, he wants you to know you still have allies in the sith.”

“He says he is your friend, now and always.” Astara hesitated, and Morgan felt her wrestle with her emotions for a second. “Zethix trained us. Protected us. We owe him everything, from our lives to our sanity.”

She looked Morgan in the eye. “But we owe you too. Without you, Zethix would have been forced to spend much of his time protecting us instead of teaching us. Without you stealing every technique you came across, we wouldn't know half the tricks we do.”

Astara turned, and Morgan felt embarrassment in her. Embarrassment and determination. “One day, Morgan, one day we will repay you. And when that day comes, it won’t be mere acolytes standing with you. It won’t be twenty sith.”

She looked back briefly. “We will come with legions so many we will darken the sun.”

“Most of you will not return from this endeavour.” Baras lectured. “If you die, you will be forgotten. If you give up, you will be killed. Now, out of my sight.”

He saw his late summon ignore both Vemrin and one of the worthless as they tried to talk to him, walking straight to his desk and bowing deeply.

“Are you having trouble with acolyte Vemrin, supplicant?” He asked when the bowing acolyte before him stayed silent.

“Competition breeds strength, my Lord.”

Baras couldn't feel his emotions, his lightest scan running into a barrier. He could crush it in an instant, but he left his newest toy to the illusion of control. He could read the nervousness from his face without the Force easily enough.

“Vemrin has paid his dues. He’s fought a deck stacked against him to get here. You, on the other hand…”

He scrutinised the acolyte. “If you think the training Overseer Sasha has given you will make you sith, you are sorely mistaken. Her little project was not completed, and you would not have survived it if it had been. Then Overseer Tremel got his claws in you. Yes, as I suspected. He has done you and this academy a great disservice.”

“Your warblade came early, prisoners flown in for your convenience, even a beast here on Korriban instead of offworld in the wild.”

Baras could read little from his newest acolyte. He still spoke of mute nerves, as he should, but the rest of him was calm. Controlled. He narrowed his eyes behind his mask. ‘Not born of fear. And not nervous because of me.’

He continued. “The pacing of the trials is deliberate. Only full immersion over time produces results. Your mind is soft, unhoned, undisciplined.”

Baras regretted not shattering his shield earlier, as doing it now would be giving in to base desire. This acolyte cared little for his opinions, that much he could see clearly. ‘He disagrees. And if even half of what I’ve read about project Culling is true, he will care even less for any pain I inflict him.’

“The first month of the trials should be dedicated to philosophy, conceptual tactics, understanding of the Sith Code.” He kept needling. ‘Best to treat him as any fresh upstart, lest he thinks himself special.’

“Recite the Sith Code for me, acolyte, and explain its meaning in battle, war and politics.” He ordered.

His acolyte recited the Sith Code from memory, pausing afterward to collect his thoughts. Baras waited.

“It means that we choose. We choose to follow our passions. We choose what to do with our strength. With the Dark, our chains are broken, and we are free to choose.”

Baras hummed. “A novice and lacklustre explanation, but not incorrect.”

“The truly correct answer is passion, acolyte Morgan. Passion is what pushes us. What sustains us. Your passion clearly stems from slave roots.”

He ran his sight along his acolytes shield, looking at it deeply. He saw Morgan tense slightly, but otherwise show no reaction. ‘How strangely unpathetic. Almost as skillful as an Overseer’s, if weaker.’

“What will you do, when your passion is fulfilled? Will you languish, I wonder, ambitions fulfilled?” He watched Morgan, but his acolyte seemed a servile supplicant. Head slightly bowed, pose carefully relaxed.

“In any case,” He continued as his acolyte stayed silent, “I am your master now. Tremel was becoming lax before you ever arrived. His unwillingness to adapt to the evolving sith paradigm has become a liability. These are the actions of a traitor. Traitors are executed. I grant you immunity from punishment. Kill Tremel, and bring back his hand as proof.”

Baras waved, dismissing his new acolyte. “Now, leave. I’m sure Tremel is still in his chambers. Don’t return until you’ve killed him.”

Morgan walked back to Overseer Tremel’s office, mentally naming beasts and as much information as he knew each as he walked. He arrived, walking inside and very very carefully not thinking about what he was about to do.

“I didn’t expect to see you agai-” Tremel began. Morgan interrupted him by grabbing near half his reserves and enveloping the Overseer’s shield with it.

Tremel jumped out of his chair, grabbing for his lightsaber.

Morgan ran his perception over his shield, finding it near perfect. Until he saw a crack, a tiny weakness that he would not have noticed before the holocron had tested his control. Had improved upon it.

He poured his power against it, grinding and twisting until it tore a hole straight through the shield. He lost power while doing so, but with what remained he summoned the only lightsaber in the room to his hand.

Tremel grabbed after it with the Force, and his power was greater than Morgan’s by a wide margin. He cursed, letting go of the lightsaber and finding his opening in the man’s shield rapidly close.

He pulled back, instead using what power remained in his attack to fling a vase at the Overseer’s head. He dodged.

‘Well, fuck.’ He thought as Tremels lightsaber ignited. ‘I really hoped that would work.’

Power cracked against his shield, but here the Overseer was outmatched. It surrounded his defences, strangling his shield like a snake. Unfortunately for Tremel, that was what almost any other sith did too, and Morgan had long since found a counter.

As long as the power gap wasn’t overwhelmingly large, Morgan simply let them. He built his shield larger for a purpose, slowly shrinking and repairing it as it got damaged. Tremel was losing more power attacking than he was defending, by a large margin, and the Dark withdrew soon after he noticed.

Tremel might have even won, if he had kept it up. ‘But you don't know that, do you? Not for sure. You spend too long behind a desk, Overseer. Forgot what it's like to take risks.’

Morgan drew his own saber, enforcing his body.

Strength rippled through him, the old sith from the cells having been very helpful in refining his technique. ‘Shame I couldn't copy it wholesale.’ He thought as the Overseer looked at him. ‘But it's not like I use the Dark exclusively, unlike what apparently everyone but Soft Voice thinks.’

A lightsaber cut through the air, the crackling of plasma filling the room.

The Overseer jumped at him, and Morgan dodged a blow that would have taken his head.

To his surprise, they were even in speed, the champion he had fought - and stolen from - more able an enforcer than either of them. ‘Not too surprising. That sith had spent his life on the battlefield, while Tremel has been behind a desk for decades now.’

Unfortunately, and unlike the champion, Tremel wielded an actual lightsaber. Morgan was under no illusion what it would do to his warblade if he tried to block.

He jerked his leg back, nearly losing it to a sweep, and pressured the Overseer with a quick jab to his throat. The man backpedalled, Morgan feeling the man shake the rust from his frame as they fought.

‘I need to end this, now.’ Morgan decided.

So when the Overseer made a sweep to force his wrist back, or risk losing it, he continued the attack.

He grabbed his warblade with the Force, pushing it forward as quickly as he could at the same time the lightsaber shaved cleanly through his wrist. Tremel tried to jump out of the way, but wasn’t quite fast enough.

Morgan’s warblade entered just below the chin, and the Dark fled from the Overseer in torrents.

The Dark, as always, was a fickle mistress.

He heard the sound of his hand hitting the floor, pain flooding his mind. He breathed through it, finding it as easy to ignore as ever. Tremel was clutching at the saber in his neck, dying.

“Come to me, B-84,” he called to the hallways, “my right hand was cleaved by a lightsaber, no other injuries.”

The medical droid he had dragged here from the med-bay beeped softly as it entered, walking to his hand. It picked it up, a scalpel folding out of its other hand.

It held it close to Morgan’s stump. “Please keep still. I must remove the cauterised skin before reattachment is possible.”

With enforcement still flowing through his body, that wouldn't be a problem. He told the droid as much, and it started scraping even as it protested. “I must advise the use of a sedative. This will be very painful.”

“It is.” Morgan confirmed. “Keep working.”

He looked to the Overseer, who was looking at the droid in confusion. “No offence, Overseer. I figured B-84 can treat the wounds of the winner. Quite glad I brought him, actually.”

The man died as the droid was reattaching his hand, dozens of small tools Morgan had no knowledge about poking and prodding at his wrist.

When it was finished B-84 applied a kolto-cast. “I advise limited to no use of the right hand for at least one week, preferably two. Loss of feeling or stiffness is normal, and can be permanent. Additional surgeries can be performed when the wound has properly healed.”

Morgan nodded, unconcerned. “Not if I master fleshcrafting anytime soon. Thank you, B-84, you can return to your normal duties.”

It left, and Morgan looked down at the body of the Overseer.

He was alone for maybe ten seconds.

“You!” Eskella shouted as she stormed inside. “What have you done to him? Where is he?”

She looked at the body of her father, freezing in place. Morgan bowed his head. “My condolences. Darth Baras ordered me to kill him, but I took no pleasure from it.”

Morgan felt the Dark consume her whole. Felt how it clawed at her, how it feasted on her anger. Her grief.

He frowned. “Don’t be rash. You can leave here. Have a life, a future.”

She screamed, jumping at him blade first. He bypassed her shield entirely, the excess Dark leaving her shield in shambles. He took the dregs of his power and grasped her neck.

A snap echoed through the room as she dropped, her head facing upward while her chest was pointed to the floor.

Morgan sighed. ‘I really need to get off this godforsaken planet.’

Vette watched the walls as she waited, growing less and less sure of her prediction. ‘That acolyte has done the judging thing. That means he’s an apprentice of Tremal something. Soon he’ll need my help in the tombs, and I can finally get out of this damned cage.‘

She saw the jailer fiddle with the remote to her collar from the corner of her eye, and braced for the pain.

It never came, instead she heard a strangled cry.

“I’ve been having a shitty day, Knash.” She heard the acolyte she had been waiting for say. “Do you want to hear about it? No? Too bad, since you appear to be lacking the ability to have a choice.”

Vette turned, seeing the jailer that had been tormenting her for months on his knees. The acolyte from the judgement was towering over him, holding the remote to her collar in one hand.

“I woke up, you see, with my right hand being stiff and less responsive. Why?” The man on the floor gasped, but Vette saw the acolyte hadn’t done anything to him. ‘Must be that Force stuff.’

“Well, yesterday, my former Overseer cut it off. And when I killed him, I didn’t even get to keep his lightsaber. Then, when reporting to Darth Baras this morning, he sent me on a fetch quest. Making copies in the tomb of Tulak Hord from ancient inscriptions. Copies written by hand, mind you.”

Vette saw some acolytes make a break for it, stalking out the jails as quietly as they could. “Not the easiest task, when your fingers will barely hold a damned pen. I do think that was rather the point. Wanted to teach me a lesson, you see. Unnecessary risks.”

She looked around, not seeing anyone else even remotely nearby. “Then I returned, and good news!” Knash gasped again, clutching at his throat. “I’ve been made his apprentice. Beating Vemrin to the punch, as they say. I’m sure he won’t mind at all, and the thought of killing me to take my place surely hasn’t even crossed his mind.”

She saw the jailer turn even whiter, and the petty part of her rejoiced. “Now, I have to go into another ancient tomb, collect a lightsaber that may or may not even still be there, and is also very very hard to find. But, luckily, there is someone who knows how to get to it. Someone who, just as I walked in, you where about to torture again.”

“I need her, you see.” The acolyte said. “And I need her with the damned ability to THINK!”

Vette, dozens of feet away, flinched at the sound of the scream. She felt something about it. Something more than just sound. The jailer on the ground started crying, collapsing entirely.

The acolyte sighed, walking her way. She put a smile on her face, stamping down on her fear.

“Apologies.” He began. “He irked me. I don’t normally lose my temper like that.”

She nodded, making her lekku bob behind her. “He is rather irksome.”

“Indeed.” He opened the cage. “I’m the newest apprentice of Darth Baras, Morgan.”

Vette took her first full steps in weeks, feeling how weak her legs had become. “I’m Vette!” She bubbled.

“Pleasure to meet you, Vette. Walk with me?”

He started walking away, and Vette noted with some concern he clipped the remote to his belt. “As you might have heard, I’ve been sent on a task to collect a lightsaber. A lightsaber that only you know how to get to, in the tomb that you were caught in.”

“I suppose I can play tomb tour guide. A lot of work went into cracking that nut, but I did it once, I can do it again.” She said cheerily.

They came to a counter, and Vette watched as her new - boss, owner? - requested a backpack and supplies. She noted with approval he was thorough with it, rope, lights and plenty of food and water all being loaded into the pack.

He shouldered it, and he started walking down the stairs. Vette hesitated for a split second, but started moving down after him. She made sure to show none of the pain her ankle was radiating.

Halfway down the flight of steps, which were rather large, he stopped. She was so focused on appearing normal she didn’t notice until he turned around.

“You,” he said, “are very good at hiding pain and emotions.”

A flash of panic went through her, but she put a smile on her face.

He sighed. “I can only imagine what has been done to you, so I won’t ask for trust. But having your mobility hindered will get us both killed, so I would appreciate it if you would tell me when you are hurt.”

‘Never show weakness, never show fear.’ The mantra raced through her head. She tried to play it off, make some joke, but before she could something enveloped her foot. She yelped.

“It’s just a crutch, of sorts. Come, we’ll get you to the med-bay.”

Vette tried to put her foot down, but to her surprise her leg was fixed in place. She put her other foot forward, frowning. Then she tried to move her injured left foot, and it moved without issue. She swung her injured foot, feeling very little pain. Then she swung her right foot, feeling the other lock into place.

She looked up, seeing Morgan stare at her blankly. “Done playing?”

Vette flushed, nodding.

She hobbled into the med-bay with increasing skill, and sat on a bed when Morgan pointed to it. The strange non-weight around her foot disappeared, and she realised he must have been doing that manually. She frowned thoughtfully when Morgan turned away to talk to a droid.

‘What kind of game are you playing?’ She wondered.

A droid that was quickly replaced by an older looking sith, one who Vette didn’t know.

‘Not that the list of sith I do know is very long.’

“The med-bay and its resources are only for acolytes or sith, not for slaves.” The sith said coldly. Vette noted a touch of strain in her neck.

“I need her for the trial that Darth Baras has assigned me.”

She saw the sith lose a touch of colour, but she remained stubborn. “Nevertheless, you may request basic first aid material from the quartermaster. She cannot be here.”

Vette heard Morgan sigh. He looked at a droid. “You, give her a full checkup. Everything you can fix in a few hours, and make a list of what you can’t. No stims or other mind altering drugs. And no combat enhancements.”

The sith woman scowled, pointing to the droid. “Hold where you are.”

The droid stopped. Vette didn’t like the increasing tension in the room. She saw many of the other occupants didn’t much either.

“You don’t give orders here, acolyte.” She sneered at Morgan. “I am the Overseer of the medical division, not you. No filthy alien slave will be treated here, no matter who your master is.”

Morgan looked at the woman, then looked back at her. He muttered something she couldn't quite hear.

The Overseer doubled over, seemingly out of nowhere. Vette saw blood leak from her nose. “I wonder how long it’s been since you’ve held a blade. How long since you fought for your right to live.”

Vette snapped her head back to Morgan, who was suddenly not looking much like the tired acolyte from the jails.

“From the state of your shield, it must have been a long while.” He chuckled, a dark sound. “So since you so rudely decline to heal someone I need for a task assigned to me by a Dark Lord of the Sith, I shall remember you. I’ve already killed one Overseer this week, and I'm pretty sure I crippled another. Three would be too much, even for Darth Baras.”

The woman got up on shaky legs, breathing deeply. Morgan turned to the same droid again. “Take what supplies you need for a checkup, then come with me.”

This time, the woman said nothing as the droid did as ordered, trying to not look afraid. Vette didn’t think she did a very good job.

The strange feeling snapped around her foot again, and she stood. She saw Morgan turn to the Overseer before they left.

“Remember your spine, when I walk these halls a Lord myself.”

‘That was stupid.’ Morgan berated himself as he walked into the library. ‘Making enemies so quickly is foolish, and you know it.’

Half his mind was on operating the semi-cast he had around Vette’s foot, feeling her hobble behind him. The droid walked after her, beeping to itself.

‘So why was I so angry?’

“Here is good.” He said to both Vette and the droid. “How long will this take?”

Vette sat down on the bench, the droid bending over her. “Approximately three hours. I have all I need, and from my preliminary examination she does not need invasive surgery. Dehydration, malnutrition and various flesh wounds will be healed quickly, while I can apply a kolto-cast for her ankle. It will heal in half a day, should the bone not be stressed.”

Vette piped up before he could. “Well, we are going into an ancient tomb filled with many many nasties. I think combat is not unlikely.”

The droid whirred. “A strengthening sleeve over the kolto-cast should decrease the risk of rebreaking the bone significantly as it reattaches. It will limit the application of kolto, and increase healing time to over twenty four hours.”

“That’s fine.” Vette answered. ”Can I run with it?”

“Yes.”

Morgan turned, walking away. “It seems you have this under control. I will be over there a ways, studying. Collect me when you are finished.”

He came to the holocron, opening it in a few minutes. The pathways had changed since last he opened it.

“Ah, acolyte. Back for another lesson, are we?”

Morgan gave a shallow bow, taking a seat. “Of a sort. I was wondering if you could help me with a problem.”

The voice paused, and to Morgan it seemed surprised. “You do remember that I am not, in fact, a person? Nor have any influence outside of this holocron?”

“I do. The problem is flesh related.” He noted to never use that phrase again. “In the course of my trials, I was ordered to kill my Overseer. He had a lightsaber, while I did not. Sacrifices where necessary to achieve victory. I had a medical droid nearby, and my hand was reattached within sixty seconds of removal.”

The voice broke in. “And now your hand is stiff and unresponsive. Hard to write, or otherwise perform dexterous tasks with?”

Morgan nodded, a gesture the voice could see in ways it had not told him. “Indeed.”

“The hand is otherwise properly reattached? No major loss of function, or complete lack of sensation?”

“No.”

The voice hmmed, seeming less tired now than last time he had spoken to it. “I suppose we can start your first exercise early. Your control should be good enough, if only just.”

It cleared its non-existent throat. “Now then, a way to fix your hand, and indeed to start your practice on fleshcrafting proper, is to achieve awareness over the body. Close your eyes.”

Morgan did so. “Turn inwards, and feel for your blood. Feel your heartbeat, and with every drum how it pushes the blood through your body.”

He felt for it, and after some ten minutes he thought he had it. He told the voice so. “Good. Now, ever so carefully, infuse your blood with the Force. Not to act, just to follow. It should feel close to how enforcement feels, only contained to your blood.”

Morgan tried, and failed, for nearly three hours. Every failure taught him something. Every success exciting the voice immensely. It told him to attempt it in all kinds of ways, until it finally clicked when Morgan infused his blood between heartbeats.

The voice hummed, pleased. “Good. For now, only flow it through your injured arm. From your heart to your hand, doing nothing more than following. Start slow, we have no practitioner nearby to reverse any true mistakes.”

It took him fifteen minutes until he had a completed loop, slowly speeding up. “How does this help my hand, exactly?”

“Because the Force is life, my acolyte. It is everything, everywhere. Always. When you infuse your blood with the Force, it enriches it. Oxygen strengthens the muscles better. Stronger white blood cells to fight disease. Red blood cells work faster, and can make jumps where they couldn’t before. Thus, increased healing. Or rather the ability to heal what it could not before.”

Morgan focused on his hand, noticing a tingle in his pinky where before he had felt nothing. “You make it sound like this is a common problem.”

The voice laughed. “There was a time we trained new acolytes with proper lightsabers. You can imagine the number of times we had to reattach limbs. You are lucky we did, we nearly mastered the practice. Having a medical droid nearby was smart. Reattachment in less than a minute was once considered a miracle.”

“So this will heal my hand fully?” He asked.

“It will, and more. When you get used to it, increase to both arms. Then all your limbs, before following the entire circulatory structure. In time, it will feel as natural as breathing. You will heal faster, get sick less, and become slightly stronger.

The voice laughed merrily. “This is only the start, the least of the abilities afforded to a fleshcrafter. Now, I do think we made the twi’lek wait long enough.”

Morgan’s head shot up, seeing Vette had snuck up on him. ‘Fuck me. How long has she been there?’

“I’m all healed, boss. Ready to steal some treasure.” She said happily, flexing her arms. “Feels great to not starve again. Thanks for that.”

“Of course.” He replied automatically, standing up. He closed the holocron, putting away his datapad as Vette giggled creepily while doing jumping jacks.

‘Why, by all the gods, didn’t the Force warn me Vette was sneaking up on me?’

Chapter Text

They walked into the tomb, Morgan relaxed but cautious and Vette complaining.

“Why, by the goddess, didn’t that damned quartermaster carry blasters.” She muttered. “What am I supposed to do with a sword?”

“Generally,” Morgan answered dryly, “I hit people with it.”

Vette glared at him, Morgan feeling a tiny flinch of fear immediately after. ‘She really is good at hiding her emotions. Like a cat.’

She marched ahead, swinging her saber as if to get a feel for it. Her lekku bounced after her, catching what little light there still was. ‘A really pretty cat.’

He shook the thought away, focusing on his surroundings. The tomb was dark, and the entrance narrow, so he couldn't see far. His other senses told him they were alone. For now.

They came to the first switch with no trouble, Vette flicking it before her head snapped to a shadowy corner.

Morgan followed her gaze, not seeing anything. His first scan didn’t reveal anything either.

His second, more thorough, scan revealed a short blip of life, before that too was gone. The blip felt ravenously hungry.

“You can come out now.” He called to the darkness. “I won’t attack if you won’t.”

Vette backed away from the shadow slowly.

A single-eyed green humanoid stalked out of the darkness, his frame thin. “Who is this? Who comes speaking to the Seh-run? Is it acolyte? Did it bring food?”

“I did not bring food, no.” Morgan answered. “At least none of the food that you want.”

“What are you doing here?” Vette asked, holding her saber tightly. “This isn’t exactly a home, but you look like you’ve been here awhile.”

Seh-run grunted. “Seh-run once lived in the academy. Was once like you. Seh-run feasted on the scraps of the beast pens. Until the Overseer sent it away to starve.”

“You were sith?” She asked, alarmed.

“No.” Morgan answered for him. “Or not a normal one. He is good at hiding, but he has no shield. No defences.”

He pierced deeper, looking at the chaos in Seh-run. How the Dark ran rampant. How it hungered.

“You're a mutation.” Morgan stated. “You can strip the Dark from someone. Feast on it.”

Seh-run grunted again. “Yes. Yes, that is what the Overseer said. His special meals gave me strength. Such strength. Enough to hunt for food on my own. Enough to devour any.”

Vette looked at Morgan, concern plain on her face. “Is he saying what I think he’s saying?”

“Yesss.” Seh-run hissed. “Seh-run will eat from you. Devour you. Then it will be strong again. Then it will have its revenge.”

Seh-run jumped, clearing the distance faster than any acolyte Morgan had seen.

He had not been fighting mere acolytes, however. He had sharpened himself against sith, champion and Overseer both.

So he stepped aside, Seh-run's claws missing by a hand's width. His saber whistled as it cut through the air, biting deep into his attacker's flesh.

Where any other head would have come clean off, Seh-run still had half of his attached when he jumped back to clear space. His neck bubbled, flesh pulsing.

“Seh-run is weak.” Seh-run told them, dismayed. “But Seh-run will heal. Will eat from softer prey. Then it will stalk. Hunt.”

Morgan watched as he turned, attempting to run deeper into the tomb. The grenade detonated right next to Seh-run’s ear, his weakened head coming off with a tear.

He looked at Vette, who was shifting nervously. Seh-run sagged to the ground, dead.

“I may have swiped one or two grenades from some of the soldiers we passed.” She admitted.

He wondered if that was foresight or kleptomania, but he was glad for it. Hunting Seh-run through a tomb he didn’t know would have been a pain.

‘A pretty thief cat.’

“Feel free to steal what you can in the tomb, as long as it’s not ancient relics or such. No need to have the Imperial Reclamation Service after our head.”

Vette grinned at him. “Have I told you you're the best sith boss ever?”

“No. Also, I’m your only sith boss, so that doesn’t count.”

Morgan felt a wave of anger and fear go through her, just before she stamped it down.

He tilted his head. “Unless I’m not. Am I?”

She shook her head, a complicated look on her face. “That Tremal guy. He was your mentor, right?”

“Tremel.” Morgan corrected. “And yes, he was my Overseer.”

“Well, he’s the only one that uses the ‘three prisoners to judge’ test. First time that happened, I didn’t think much of it. Just another sith being cruel.”

“Trial. It’s called a trial.”

“Right, trial. So when that sith, a twi’lek, came to fetch me to get into a tomb, I was delighted. Thought maybe she wouldn’t be as shitty to me as she was to those prisoners, we both being twi’lek and all that.”

Vette scratched her collar, a distant look on her face. “I was wrong. We also didn’t even make it four hours, tripping over a droid patrol. I ran as she was torn apart, screaming as she died.”

She turned to look at a mural on the wall, away from him. “So back into my cage I went, until another three prisoners were brought and judged. That one, some zabrak, never came to get me. Thought maybe I wasn’t part of Tremels trials anymore.”

“Until a third came to judge, and a few days later she came to get me. She revelled in causing pain, that one. Really liked being nasty.”

Vette shrugged, folding a lekku over her shoulder. “Made her a lot of enemies, apparently, because we were ambushed a day into the tomb. Raped her. Killed her. I’ll admit to not having felt much sympathy.” She tilted her head, looking closer at a statue. “They hated her so much I was forgotten, so I tried to sneak off planet. Got caught, and back into my cage I went.”

“And then I came to judge three prisoners.” Morgan finished for her. “How long have you been here? On Korriban, I mean.”

Vette shook her hand. “Hard to say. Spent about six months in that cage, sometimes months and months before another sith came to get me. Before that I was tomb diving, no real idea how long. About another five or so months, if I had to guess.”

‘Those footprints in the tomb of Marka Ragnos.’ He thought back. ‘Must have been the zabrak. Unless some other acolyte was feeling particularly suicidal.‘

Morgan hummed, taking the shock control remote from his belt. Vette visibly flinched.

He pressed a button near the bottom, crushing the remote in his hand afterwards. The collar dropped to the ground with a clack, loud enough to echo.

Morgan dropped the scraps in his hand, feeling confusion mixed with slim hope radiate from Vette. “I woke up in a shuttle a little over a year ago, with no real idea how I got there.”

“I was fat,” He laughed when Vette’s eyes dropped to his stomach briefly, wondering when he had last let out honest cheer. “out of shape and generally possessing little to no useful skills.”

He sobered quickly, his humour fading as he thought back to those early days. “We were one hundred when we started. A year later, filled with more violence and death than I ever could have imagined, we were thirty six. I learned more about combat and the Force than I ever wanted, a friend ensuring that I survived long enough to be able to do so.”

“We were collared when we arrived, and although they were taken off a month into the project, I still remember the weight on my neck.”

Morgan took a deep breath, wondering why he was saying all this. “I despise slavery. Not an opinion you'll find me uttering frequently, seeing as it goes against the direct will of the Dark Council, but I do. I’m not saying I can change anything, not really, but I hate it.”

Vette had picked up the collar, turning it around in her hand. “So I’ll probably tell anyone that asks, tell anyone that I answer to, that I don't need a collar to control you. That I am not so weak as to need a collar to ensure compliance or obedience.”

She looked at him, wide eyed and still messing with the collar. “It will be a lie. I will not lead slaves. Not now and not ever. As long as this task lasts, as long as I have authority over your future, you will not be a slave.”

Morgan cleared his throat, feeling awfully close to embarrassed. “Let’s continue, we still have three switches to activate.”

“Yeah.” Vette mumbled when he turned around. “We do.”

They walked in silence for over an hour, finding little but dust and another switch that Vette activated. It was shortly afterwards that they came upon the first signs of habitations.

Morgan heard it before he felt it, roaring beasts and groaning metal. They turned a corner to see two groups fighting in the distance, droids and beasts tearing into each other.

Vette looked between them and him, tilting her head when Morgan just stood there, drinking some water. “Aren’t we, you know, going in?”

He looked at her, confused. “Why would we do that? They seem perfectly willing to tear one another to shreds. No need for us to get involved, not until one side remains.”

“Yes,” Vette agreed, “that’s smart. Sensible.”

“You don’t have to sound so shocked.” He muttered dryly, making sure to keep his voice down.

“It’s just, you're not behaving very much like a normal sith.” She said cautiously.

He snorted quietly. “Good. Normal sith are self-destructive, probably insane and utterly incapable of working together for any length of time. It’s a miracle the jedi haven’t killed us all.”

Morgan put a hand to his chin. “Well, besides the times they almost did. But why change after several near extinction events? Not like the jedi came so very close to killing us all over and over because of greed, backstabbing and a general inability to trust.”

Vette giggled softly, a sound he liked more than he wanted to admit. “Right, not their fault at all.”

The roaring died down, both of them looking over to see the droids had won the battle. Several damaged ones were dragged around to a wall, where more droids were doing basic repairs. The beasts were shoved to the side where they blocked the main path, but otherwise left alone.

“Those droids have blasters.” Vette muttered enviously. “I want them.”

Morgan took out his warblade, enforcing his body. “Well, let’s get you one.”

He looked back at her apologetically. “Not to be rude, but best if you stay out of this one. Unless I’ve severely misjudged your saber experience?”

She shook her head, so he dropped his pack and dashed down the hallway.

The droids reorganised smoothly as he came close, weapons snapping up and saber wielding droids coming to the front. Morgan looked to the ground briefly as he jumped high, seeing half a dozen blades next to scrapped droids on the ground.

He picked one up as he soared, pushing it to a droid at this left. The weapon shot through the air, but unlike when he had fought the Overseer, he didn’t release control over it. Instead, after the weapon had impaled the droid, he sent it flying to another one.

He finished his descent, cutting into the head of one, then two blaster wielding droids. His second saber continued flying through the air, hacking or stabbing where it could.

Droids were harder to feel in the Force than organic beings, from what he had found, but these were old.

‘Old enough to become sentient, if your programming allowed it.’ He thought grimly. Fighting well programmed self repairing droids was bad enough, but if they achieved awareness?

‘I really don’t want to find out if they could mine enough ore to build themselves into a proper army.’

He focused. ‘Being so old means the Force has gathered around them. That, I can use.’

His warblade sang as he twisted, dodging a bolt at the same time he nearly cleaved a torso in two. He kept his flying blade under stern control, cutting or distracting those that tried to surround him.

Soon, little was left but scrap. He looked back to see Vette stare at him with her mouth slightly open, walking closer. He resisted the urge to puff out his chest.

‘I really need to meditate on that.’ Morgan told himself. ‘Also need to find something smaller than a saber. That was far too taxing on my reserves.’

Vette almost skipped over to a fallen droid, picking up its rifle before dropping it again.

“Now these will do nicely.” She said, taking two blaster pistols instead. “Very nicely.”

Morgan looked down the hallway as she fluttered from one droid to another, ripping small pieces off them. The small satchels on her belt quickly filled, and she scampered up to him to put some of the larger parts in his backpack.

Vette hummed as she finished, explaining without being asked to. “That should do, the rest isn’t worth the weight. About ten grand with the proper haggling.”

He sighed. “Assume I haven't used credits in a year, and can’t quite recall from before that. What would it buy?”

She looked at him strangely. “Uhm, alright. I took mostly electronics and such, and it's well made. Should sell for ten thousand credits to the proper buyer, and with parts such as these that means almost everyone.”

Vette scratched her neck. “Ten grand is about, let’s say four months work for the average dock worker. Not a fortune, but enough to go mostly wherever you want.”

“Right.” Morgan nodded. “Thank you for explaining.”

“Uh, sure.” She said, “No problem.”

He looked to the blasters at her belt. “Want to practise with those? Next time you need them, our lives might depend on it.”

She took them out, pointing at the body of a beast. She fired twice, soft clicking heralding two scorch marks on the floor.

Vette frowned as she walked some distance away, shooting again. Morgan watched as her accuracy improved by the minute, eventually holstering her pistols again.

“That’ll do. Not exactly at my best.”

Morgan nodded, wondered how that was anything but extreme accuracy, and they moved on. What lone beasts they came across were easily dealt with, his warblade and Vette’s shooting more than a match for teeth and claws. What larger groups that found them he twisted, heightening aggression until they turned on one another. It was after the third switch that they came across more droids, clanking feet heralding a large patrol. They opened fire the moment they spotted them.

Vette shot four by the time Morgan had crossed the distance, warblade cutting and stabbing. He opted to not pick up a blade this time, his reserves not able to keep up with the expense.

This group wasn’t damaged and whittled down by beasts, however, and soon Morgan was forced to give ground lest Vette be overrun. Having someone to protect during a fight rather limited his mobility, but it also gave him firepower. The droids had good aim, Vette’s form half hidden behind a statue attesting to that, but it was also her stolen grenade that turned the tide. The resulting explosion ripped nearly a quarter apart, the remainder struggling to contain him. The droids did put more distance between themselves to limit the effect of explosions, but that gave Morgan even more room to work with.

After minutes of intense fighting, an eternity when every stray bolt can be the end, their numbers dwindled enough that Morgan started focusing on offence rather than protecting Vette. The patrol didn’t last much longer after that.

Vette was humming again as she stripped the scrap she deemed valuable, replacing some items in her belt and near filling his backpack to the brim.

Morgan ate as she worked, fluttering from fallen droid to droid. ‘She seems in her element, if nothing else.’

Vette’s blaster shot up when the echo of footsteps sounded down the hall, but he waved her down. She hesitated, before walking over and accepting the ration he handed her.

For the next few minutes the sounds kept coming closer and closer, Vette’s hand tapping her holstered blaster intermittently as she gnawed on the dry bar.

“How are you breaking this stuff with your teeth?” Vette exclaimed, Morgan crunching on another corner. “I’ve seen durasteel more biteable.”

Morgan smiled widely. “The dark side of the Force is a pathway to many abilities some consider to be unnatural.”

Vette narrowed her eyes. “Now I haven’t been watching much holomovies this past year, but that sounds like a quote.”

His smile faltered, thinking of another life.

‘I can’t quite remember my mothers face.’ He thought, alarmed. ‘Memory isn’t supposed to go that quickly, is it?’

“Hey, you alright?” Vette asked, concern clear in her voice.

Morgan shook his head. ‘I suppose it doesn’t matter. Not like I can go back, and I wouldn't fit in even if I did.’

“I’m fine,” He answered, “just thinking about my life before.”

‘What am I supposed to do if I did get back, get a job? Work nine to five, get married?’ Morgan shook his head again. ‘Do I even want to?’

Vette nodded. “Oh. Yea, I get that. What was it like?”

Mirla’s entrance saved him from having to answer, four other acolytes of their old faction with her. Soldiers marched after them, dozens and dozens of them.

She bowed when she came close, while the other acolytes saluted. The soldiers stopped, not quite sure what was going on. “Good to see you again, my lord.”

“And you, Mirla.” He greeted in return. “What brings you to this old tomb?”

She relaxed, barking to the soldiers behind her to set up a perimeter. “It’s all I've seen since we got to the academy. I’ve been inside the main building exactly once.”

The other acolytes with her joined the soldiers, until it was just her, Vette and Morgan. “Mirla, this is Vette.” He introduced. ”She’s assisting me with my trial.”

Vette waved, fighting hard to keep a grin from her face when Mirla awkwardly waved back.

“Vette, this is Mirla. She’s a close ally of mine.” Mirla nodded.

A lieutenant walked up, Morgan’s scan revealing him as sergeant Cormun before he spoke. “My Lady, the room is secure and the men have been given leave to rest.”

“Very good, lieutenant.” She said, “Ensure proper watch is held, I won’t have a repeat of this morning.”

Cormun saluted, taking off his helmet. “Yes ma’am!”

Mirla turned back to him. “This is lieutenant Cormun. He’s been assigned to me this morning.”

“Good to see you again, sir.” He spoke.

Morgan nodded to the man, eyeing his insignia. “I see you have been promoted. Congratulations.”

She frowned, looking between them. “You already know one another, then.”

“Indeed. My lord saved us from certain death a few days ago.” The lieutenant explained. “Since then we’ve been combined with another platoon, and I’ve been promoted.”

“You're lucky to be assigned under Mirla, lieutenant. A more competent acolyte you will not find.” Morgan spoke honestly.

“Yes.” Mirla broke in, Morgan feeling embarrassment bleed out of her. She didn’t show an inch of it. “And what have you been sent for, my lord?”

Vette piped up, tired of being ignored. “Oh, you know, the usual. Steal an ancient lightsaber, become apprenticed to some bigshot and possibly get ambushed by a bitter sith.”

Mirla scowled at her. Vette grinned to hide the spike of fear it caused.

Morgan sighed. “She’s not wrong. My last task before becoming the true apprentice to Darth Baras is to acquire a lightsaber, and the other acolyte I beat to become Baras’s apprentice is likely going to try and kill us before we do.”

“I see.” Mirla said evenly. “Still, she should not speak for you, my lord.”

Morgan waved her complaint away. “I care little for decorum, you know that. She's a good shot and knows these tombs. That’s more important than servility.”

“Don’t forget my winning personality!” Vette broke in.

Cormun stifled a grin. “I don’t think that will be a problem.”

Mirla forcefully coughed, interrupting whatever Vette was about to say in reply. “In any case, is there something we can do to help? Lord Zethix was quite clear that we assist you in any manner possible.”

He shook his head, looking around the room. He saw half the soldiers moving with practised, smooth motions while the others kept glancing down the tunnels. One half joked softly while the other ate and checked gear with trembling hands. The acolytes were further down each end of the hallway, but he couldn't quite see what they were doing.

‘Half veterans, half rookies.’ He decided.

“No need, Mirla. This task is ours alone. And besides, I wouldn’t want a vengeful acolyte killing half your men to get to me.”

She frowned again, but nodded. “Very well. We will be in the tomb for a while yet. Do not hesitate to contact us should you need assistance.”

She handed him a communicator, nodding to it. “It’s linked to mine directly.”

“Actually,” Morgan reconsidered, “Any chance you have a knife on you? Something relatively lightweight, if possible.”

Mirla looked at the lieutenant, who nodded.

“Osla! Get over here.” He called. A trooper, scout patch visible on his shoulder, ran up. “Hand the sith your vibroknife, private.”

Morgan took it, thanking the soldier, and looked to Cormun. The private jogged back to his squad. “I hope that was standard-issue, and I didn’t just take his family heirloom or something.”

The lieutenant barked a laugh. “Nothing of the sort, sir. All scouts carry one as part of their kit, and he won’t need it here. Not much scouting to do with five sith escorting us.”

‘He seems more at ease. He could go far with Mirla to shield him from politics.’

“Good. Now, I think it’s time for me and Vette to take our leave. Things to do, tombs to raid.”

Mirla and Cormun left after saying goodbye, the latter after saluting again, leaving just him and Vette. “You all done with the droids?”

She nodded, and they left the soldiers behind as they moved deeper into the tomb.

It was after they were out of earshot that Vette spoke up. “So why didn’t we enlist the help of five sith and near fifty soldiers? Could have made this a whole lot easier.”

“For the reasons I said.” He answered. Morgan looked at her, curious. “Did you think I was lying?”

“No!” Vette protested. “Just, would have made our job easier.”

He hummed. “True. But it would have made theirs harder, and we don’t really need the help.”

Vette clicked the last switch into place, looking over her shoulder to see Morgan finish up the patrol. His new vibroknife hummed softly as it flew from one droid to the next, parting steel as easy as flesh. She suppressed a shudder.

‘And to think I thought he was scary before.’

She suppressed the urge to rub her neck. To make sure the collar was really gone, and all this wasn’t just some really vivid daydream.

‘Nope,’ she thought, ‘still gone. What kind of game are you playing, sith?’

She again tried to stamp down on the spark of hope in her chest, on the thought that maybe, just maybe, this time it would be different. That she wouldn't be going back to that cursed cage after they were done here.

A lifetime of rubbing shoulders with the vile and untrustworthy had taught her to be wary of unexplained kindness. Her youth as a slave had shown her no one did anything without wanting something in return. Piracy had trained her to bury her feelings, her pain, so that it couldn't be used against her.

But the damned spark just wouldn't go out. The idea that this sith would not just honour his word, but maybe take her off Korriban. Even, if she was very lucky, set her free.

She scoffed internally. ‘There’s hope and then there’s lying to yourself.’

She hopped over to the the pile of scrap that were once droids, her fingers fluttering over them to check for components or materials.

“Not much that is worth more than what we already have.” She mused out loud. “Still, credits are credits.”

Vette looked over at Morgan to see he wasn’t paying attention, a look in his eye telling her he was focusing on something else.

She went back to pawing at the droid, just before it all went to shit.

When it did, it happened fast. One moment she was checking if a circuit was still good, the next whining of plasma and steel was filling the chamber.

She whirled around to see someone she didn’t know, a sith, furiously attacking her new boss, almost faster than she could keep up with.

Seeing Morgan jump and dash around the place with inhuman speed was one thing, but two sith fighting was enough to send waves of fear through her body.

She clamped down on it, hard. ‘I’ve killed raiders and soldiers and survived this cursed planet for a goddess damned year, get a grip!’

Vette pulled her blasters, aiming at them. She knew Morgan could dodge bolts, she’d seen him do it enough, but she didn’t want to distract him.

Morgan looked pressed, giving ground slowly as the other sith attacked ruthlessly. The knife he had wielded to devastating effect sat discarded on the ground, telling her he either didn’t think he needed it or couldn't afford to focus on it.

The pair were silent, only the noise of biting impact and flashing lights filling the room. Vette tracked them, hoping for a clean shot.

‘Not very likely, at these speeds.’

The other sith jumped back, and in the second or so he was clear Vette fired a stream of bolts at him. All were either dodged or slapped out of the air, and she gulped when the sith’s eyes burned into hers.

Morgan took that moment of distraction to nearly take the stranger's head, smelling weakness.

She slowed her breathing, holstering one blaster. She took careful aim with the other. ‘Come on, come on. Help him here and the chances of avoiding that blasted cage skyrocket.’

She breathed and waited, waited for that one perfect moment she knew would come. That one instance where one well placed shot could change everything. Could shift wars and topple regimes.

When it finally came, the stranger pulling his head back just a little too far, she didn’t hesitate. Plasma raced through the room, both sith reacting near instantly.

Morgan angled to the right. It forced his opponent left, straight into his death. The sith jumped instead, but Vette knew he would. Knew it from watching sith fight for months and months, from spying on them in the tomb, before her first capture, to watching her sith owners fight and die.

The bolt impacted his lower stomach, plasma shearing half of it away. No scream was uttered, and to Vette’s horror what should have been a killing shot was ignored as a flesh wound.

Except it made the sith slow, just for a moment, and the discarded, forgotten vibroknife slipped into the stranger's skull with perfect silence.

He dropped like a puppet with his strings cut, Morgan taking his head before the body had even fallen to the ground.

‘What the fuck.’ Vette thought. ‘Was that his plan all along? Did he plan for me to distract him?’

“My thanks.” Her boss said, “He was a rather skilled opponent, and I would have hated to sacrifice another limb for victory so soon.”

His tone was light, but Vette could hear the strain in it. ‘Would he have won that, had I not been here?’

“Sure,” She replied airily, like she didn’t just help kill an actual sith. “what are friends for?”

Vette looked at the body briefly. “Who was that, anyway?”

Morgan seemed surprised. “Vemrin, the acolyte I beat to become Darth Baras’s apprentice. I suppose you’ve never met him.”

“Oh.” She replied. “I guess no more competition?”

He fell silent, and Vette panicked for a moment. ‘Did I say something? No, get a grip girl. Just, wait for whatever he has to say.’

“For each trial, the victor gets to choose a reward. The harder the task, the better the reward.” He started seriously. “When we finish this trial, I will choose you.”

Her heart sank, her mind jumping to her worst fears. ‘That’s it. I'm going to spend the rest of my life as a slave. A sith’s toy, now and forever.’

She plastered a smile on her face, as if her life wasn’t over. As if her last hope, that one spark she should have known better about, hadn’t been a lie after all.

“And when we get off Korriban, we will sell what you have scavenged here.”

She nodded, trying her hardest to bury her crushing disappointment. To make sure she gave him no reason to kill her. To survive, no matter the cost.

“Then we will each take half, and you will be free.”

Vette froze, her train of thought broken. ‘What?’

He continued, not really looking at her. “Free to go anywhere you wish. I recommend reuniting with family, then getting as far into wild space as you can. So far the words sith or Empire hold no meaning.”

Both were silent for a second, Morgan looking at the body of the stranger and Vette’s brain running in loops.

“You will set me free?” She finally asked hesitantly.

Morgan looked at her properly, face like steel.

“I will not lead slaves, Vette. Not now and not ever. As far as I’m concerned, you’ve earned it. When we get off Korriban, you will be free.” He swore.

He turned around, and Vette focused on him long enough to see embarrassment and regret in his posture.

Then it was gone, and Morgan looked no different than usual. The indomitable warrior, breaking any that dared to stand in his path. The sith, undaunting and unafraid.

‘He wants to keep me.’ Her mind supplied. ‘But he promised anyway.’

She looked back to the body on the floor, the smell of blood barely registering.

‘Everybody lies.’ She reminded herself.

‘So why do I believe him?’

Morgan walked into the hidden tomb proper, hearing Vette follow him silently.

He hadn't felt this awkward in a long time. ‘I don’t feel a twinkle of nerves when a Darth is testing my shield or I’m fighting for my life, but promising Vette her freedom is too much for my composure?’

He scoffed softly, not noticing Vette nearly snapping her neck to look at him. ‘Get a grip. She deserves her freedom and it’s a crime you can never offer it to her in the game. She deserves it, and I have the power to make it so. End of story.’

The tomb of Naga Sadow was empty, and near the sarcophagus only statues filled the room. A high domed ceiling and murals painting the walls made the room seem grand, but in reality it was maybe a hundred feet across.

‘This is the final resting place of a Dark Lord of the Sith? An emperor?’

“Ahh, I was wondering if that was you I felt. How good to have a visitor.”

A man, old and in simple black robes, walked out of the wall. His body glowed white enough to not be transparent, but otherwise he looked like any ghost Morgan had ever seen.

‘Well, seen as in movies and games.’

“My Lord.” He bowed. “Apologies for disturbing you.”

Vette had palmed her blasters, backing away to the door. Morgan thought that was probably smart. He stayed still anyway.

The man waved. “Nonsense. It’s so rare I get visitors these days.”

“My name is Elic Ragna. But before we continue this conversation, a test is in order.”

Morgan pulled his warblade, eyeing the statues around him. The Lord laughed merrily. “Very good, acolyte. Very good. Survive, and we will speak. Die, and you join them.”

The Lord clapped his hands, yet no sound was produced by the gesture. The statues around the room shook, half the stone crumbling away.

Vette shot the first statue that moved, plasma only leaving a groove. Morgan heard her curse, before several half stone creatures jumped him. He shot his knife at one, but it snagged on stone.

He vaulted away, attempting to reach the door and protect Vette so she could shoot freely. The statues seemed to dislike that idea.

They also had no regard to personal health or survival, and he knew first hand how dangerous that could be.

‘Lucky they can’t use the Force, or this would be suicide.’ He mused as he cut through another creature, his warblade carving flesh.

Stone it could not part, and he cursed as his blade snagged on flesh covered rock. He somersaulted away, tearing his warblade with him.

He tried to jump to Vette again, only to be blocked by a pair of creatures throwing themselves on his blade. It shattered his momentum, and he pierced another on the ground as he came down.

An explosion rocketed through the hall, and Morgan frowned. ‘That’s her last grenade. She won’t last long, not alone.’

He threw caution to the wind, gripping limbs with the Force to slow attacks and boosting his blows beyond normal enforcement. Power bled from him, and he felt his reserves plummet.

It bought him space, however, and he raced down the hall to where Vette had retreated to. Dozens of creatures sprinted after him, fast for those without the Force.

He came upon Vette surrounded by dead stone men, and he cut through the two left with little problem. Superficial wounds covered her body, but she looked fine.

“Oh.” He said. “And here I was thinking you needed help.”

She grinned at him, their earlier awkwardness forgotten in the heat of battle. “It does pay to be underestimated. Besides, they’re tough but stupid. They also don’t carry blasters, the idiots.”

She looked down the hall, dozens closing fast. “Could use some help with those.” She admitted.

Morgan laughed, turning to meet them. ‘Strange, I’m actually having fun.’

Plasma streaked past him as he charged, destroyed knees causing many to fall like dominoes. ‘Stupid indeed.’

His warblade whined as he cut half the head off a stone man, even rock parting to his excessively enforced blows.

With every creature he killed the pressure eased, but it was Vette that stopped him from being overwhelmed. Her knee shots were downing them faster than he could kill them, and a crawling stone creature wasn’t near as dangerous as a walking one.

After that all it took was work. He was covered in wounds, but they killed them all. Vette was stretching her hands, after, and he was cycling as the holocron had told him to. He’d been able to practise while walking through the tomb, enough so that he could almost enrich the blood in both of his arms. Not that he noticed any enhanced healing.

‘Not yet.’ He promised himself. His hand was feeling better, if not quite back to how it was. ‘Give it time.’

“Good work.” He told Vette. She nodded, flashing a small smile, but it seemed they were back to the awkwardness.

He resisted the urge to sigh. ‘This isn’t what I wanted. I just thought she would want to know, not make things weird.’

‘So tell her that.’ A part of his mind insisted. He stayed quiet.

They walked back into the main room in silence, the ghost standing before the sarcophagus. He clapped slowly, no sound reaching their ears.

“Very good. Excellent teamwork, proper enforcement and no hesitation to withdraw or play dirty.” The ghost praised. “You’ll go far. I can see why Marka Ragnos showed you his favour.”

Morgan narrowed his eyes. “That actually was Lord Marka Ragnos?”

The Lord wiggled his hand. “Of a sort.”

He was about to ask another question when the ghost stopped him.

“Don’t.” The Lord said. “Curiosity is good, but leave this. There are old things in this galaxy, acolyte. Very old things. Not all as friendly as me, either.”

The ghost continued before Morgan could say anything to that. “Now, as I was saying, my name is Elic Ragna. I am not, as you might have surmised, Lord Naga Sadow.”

Something dropped behind Morgan, and he looked back to see a vase shattered on the ground. Vette was standing some feet from it, inspecting one of her blasters. Morgan chose to ignore that.

“I was a Lord in his service, once.” The ghost continued, as if he hadn't even noticed. “Bound to this tomb as its guardian. A common practice, back then.”

“Once, acolytes came here for my advice. I was part of every graduate's trial, surviving my challenge a great honour.”

The Lord looked sadly to the door. “But then my tomb was sealed, and I was still bound to it. To that stupid decoy corpse nobody has cared about for millenia.”

“I was sent here for it.” Morgan jumped in. “Or more accurately, to the lightsaber that it is rumoured to hold. My last trial.”

The ghost perked up. “Ah. That brings me back. Well, you survived my test. Or rather crushed it, seeing as they refused to return when I summoned them.” The Lord shrugged. “Oh well, you survived. It was old alchemy anyway, bound to break sometime.”

“Now, take the lightsaber and use it to cut that fake body in a hundred little pieces. Then burn it, just to be sure.”

Morgan nodded. “That is my task. But what does cutting the body bring me, exactly? My master might be angry if I destroy ancient artefacts for no reason.”

“For no reason.” The ghost sagged. “I asked, yet you see no reason. Once, my word moved armies. Worlds.” The Lord shook his head. “Very well. You destroy the body, and I give you some advice. Are we in agreement?”

Morgan answered by pushing open the sarcophagus, summoning the lightsaber within to his hand. He activated it, dark red filling the room.

Morgan looked to the corpse within, not seeing how this was a fake.

‘Let’s hope this isn’t some really convoluted trap.’ He thought sarcastically.

He hacked until there weren't pieces large enough to cut, then held the plasma to the pile. It caught flame easily, the ghost watching intently as it burned. Finally, he nodded.

“Very good. I can feel the hold over me weakening.”

He turned to Morgan, both of them ignoring a curious Vette that was snooping around the chamber. “Listen well, sith. I can feel how you draw on the Force. How you achieved balance, as the Je'daii once did.”

Morgan took a step back, hand falling to his new lightsaber. The Lord chuckled darkly. “If I attack you, little acolyte, that toy will not help you. I have studied the Force for millenia, and know more of its secrets than you likely ever will. But I have no desire to kill you, nor even reveal your secret.”

“It is not an easy path to walk, make no mistake. Let no Lord catch you. Let no jedi smell you. They will hunt you for its secrets. They will carve it from your bones, if you let them.”

The Lord faded, looking at the ceiling. “Grow strong, little sith, and quickly. This galaxy has no tolerance for those that are different.”

Morgan turned around when the ghost had faded entirely.

‘Hunted, huh?’ He clipped his lightsaber to his belt, nodding to Vette when she joined him.

They walked out of the tomb, his new lightsaber cutting through anything they came across with ease.

‘Your passion clearly stems from slave roots.’ Darth Baras had told him.

‘So let’s find my passion.’ He thought, using the Force to fetch his knife from the torso of a beast. ‘And that starts with getting the fuck off this planet.’

Chapter Text

“I am beside myself.” Baras praised as Morgan walked into the chamber, dramatically holding a hand to his chest. ”Not only did you get the twi’lek to cooperate, but you completed the task and claimed the ancient lightsaber.”

Morgan bowed his head, glad he had detoured to bring Vette to the med-bay first.

‘No need to subject her to him quite yet.’

The Overseer that had given him so much trouble hadn't been there, and according to the staff hadn’t been seen since their encounter.

‘Vette will be fine, the treatment shouldn't take long.’ He told himself firmly.

“Vemrin was not in my chambers as I instructed. I take it he sought to stop you and claim the ancient weapon as his own.” The Darth continued.

“He tried.” Morgan replied, head bowed.

“Bravo.” Baras praised again. “I see you may indeed become one of the strongest sith in the galaxy. Your trials are over. You are now my apprentice.”

“As you say, my Lord.”

The Darth laughed. “This is only the beginning. With you as my right hand, we shall strike fear into the Empire's enemies.”

Baras stalked back to his desk. “I must convene with the Emperor and inform him of your progress. This shuttle pass will take you to Dromund Kaas. Meet me at the Citadel there.”

“As you command, my Lord.”

The Darth huffed another laugh. “Take the twi’lek slave as my gift. Do with her as you wish. If she’ll be of use, by all means, take her with you. Fuck her, kill her or use her to sweep for mines. A reward well deserved.”

Morgan straightened. “She has proven a capable combatant, and her skills complement my own.”

Baras hummed, picking up a datapad. It was a clear dismissal.

“I must ask a favour, my Lord.” Morgan asked. “There is a holocron in the library, containing knowledge about sith alchemy. I wish to take it with me to Dromund Kaas.”

The Darth looked up. “Ah yes, that old thing. By all means, take it. It certainly isn’t doing much good here, with how it refuses to teach anyone not able to pass its test.”

Baras leaned forward, clasping his hands under his chin. “Tell me, how far along its lessons have you gotten?”

Morgan wondered if the librarians had been eavesdropping, not that it really mattered. This wasn’t a secret he cared to keep, not from Baras. “I’ve been able to enrich the blood in both my arms, but adding a third limb has proven difficult.”

Baras stayed silent, and if Morgan didn’t know better the Darth seemed surprised. “You’ve had two lessons with it, correct?”

“Yes, my Lord.” He confirmed.

“Interesting. Yes, be sure to bring it with you. Sith Alchemy has many useful applications, fleshcrafting more than most.”

“Thank you, my Lord.”

Baras waved. “Yes yes. Away with you now, I have other business.”

Morgan bowed and left, steering to the library. It was all but empty, with only an old sith librarian walking the rows. He approached the old man.

“Darth Baras has given me leave to take the holocron in section 4c row 7.” He told the sith.

The librarian's eyebrow shot up. “Is that so? That is most irregular.”

The man made no move to do anything.

“Do you doubt my word?” Morgan asked.

The man startled, as if having forgotten he was talking to someone. “By the Emperor, no. If a Darth has given you leave, by all means, take it.”

Morgan frowned as he moved past him, putting the librarian out of his mind. ‘Being surrounded by this many sith artefacts must be addling his brain.’

The holocron was as he left it, the glass pristine and the holocron hovering just above the pedestal. He sat at the desk, focusing on the pathways to open it.

They seemed narrower than ever, taking nearly twenty minutes to open. When he did, the voice drifted out. It sounded curious.

“Tell me, for research purposes, how long did that take you?”

Morgan tilted his head. “About twenty minutes or so.”

The voice sighed. “I’ll make it harder next time. Now, why does my favourite acolyte seek my knowledge? Lose another limb?”

“No,” he responded dryly, “but I have finished my last trial, becoming the apprentice to Darth Baras in the process.”

“Congratulations, but you are not the apprentice. You are an apprentice.” The voice snarked.

Morgan nodded. “True. Nonetheless, I asked permission to take you with me to Dromund Kaas, so that we might continue my fleshcrafting training.”

“As such,” he continued as the voice stayed silent, “I feel it might be appropriate to give you a name. Referring to you as ‘the voice’ is becoming tiresome.”

“My name was not recorded in this holocron for a good reason, apprentice.” The voice snapped, annoyed. “As I’ve told you before.”

Morgan raised his hands placatingly. “I did not mean your old name. I wish to give you a new one.”

“A new name? What would I need a name for?” The voice demanded.

“How about Teacher?” He suggested, ignoring the question.

The voice wavered, uncertain. “Teacher?”

“Yes, Teacher.” Morgan repeated, liking the sound of it. “It’s what you are, is it not? You instruct students, and spend your last months of life ensuring fragile information would not be lost. Independent of faction or allegiance, caring only about knowledge. A teacher.”

He got the impression the holocron was shaking his head. “Fine, fine. If you must name me, Teacher will do. Now, do you wish to learn?”

“Always.” Morgan confirmed, finding himself meaning it more than he thought he would.

Teacher eagerly moved on. “Good. Now, tell me how you fared enriching your blood. Did you manage to combi-”

A scalpel flashing in the light. Vette, laying still and cold on a table. Sith surrounded her, a strange artefact in their hands. Her eyes snapped open, cold as stone and sickly yellow. Acolytes and droids filled the room, all watching in absolute silence as she climbed off the table mechanically.

The vision slammed into him, passing through his defences as if they didn’t exist. He jerked up hard, sending the table toppling over. Morgan half turned to the door before he heard Teacher shouting.

“-rgan! What happened?” The holocron demanded.

He enforced his body to the limit, not looking back. “Vette. She’s in danger. Med-bay.”

“Take me.” Teacher ordered. Morgan scooped the holocron off the pedestal, Teacher starting to hover the moment he left the confines of the glass.

Teacher kept pace as Morgan dashed through the academy, acolytes jumping out of his way. Overseers tried to scold or even stop him, but he was past them before they could say more than a word.

Teacher was hovering over his right shoulder when he entered the med-bay, the whole room as quiet as the grave.

He saw the med-bay Overseer pause as she was about to insert a device, something that looked to be a five pointed star, into Vette. Morgan froze as he saw her.

Chest cut open, eyes closed and breathing shallow. Three acolytes stood next to the Overseer, who turned around with a sneer on her face.

Wrath filled him. Rage so cold a tiny part of him wondered how he didn’t freeze whole instantly. Anger that bellowed past his shield in torrents, causing near everyone in the room to flinch back.

But he didn’t see red. His mind was not addled with anger. He could not claim madness had taken him. So when his lightsaber cut the Overseer in half, her block a touch too slow, he did so perfectly aware of the possible consequences. He couldn't claim to have lost control, as he broke the pathetic shield of the acolyte standing closest to Vette, shattering his mind. When he strangled the other two, one with the Force and the other with his hand, he was aware of what he was doing. He applied more pressure, two snapping sounds heralding two more dead.

He didn’t care.

The room was still silent as he holstered his lightsaber, four bodies at his feet. It couldn't have taken more than three seconds.

Teacher floated over to Vette. “This is her, I take it?”

Morgan nodded silently, staring at her open, beating, chest. He reigned in the temptation to slaughter the rest of the room, breathing deeply to regain balance.

“That,” Teacher dipped to the device, “was to replace her heart, to eat and supplant it. Clever little device. Would have turned her own body against her, most likely as an assassin or spy.”

Morgan ignored that, and how it made him want to kill the Overseer all over again, to point at a medical droid. “Undo everything done to her.”

“Acknowledged.” The droid responded as it moved close. “The procedure was not completed, nor any foreign elements added to her.”

It went to work as Morgan watched, slowly stitching her up. He didn’t turn around when he felt three relatively powerful entities move into the med-bay, seeing Teacher fly past him to greet them.

“Best not, Overseers.” He said, stopping them at the door. “Unless you would like to end up as the woman on the floor?”

The three halted, probably to argue. Morgan ignored everything they, or Teacher, said. He watched as the droid patched Vette up again, slowly regaining inner balance. Anger bled away to give room for guilt, something he hadn’t felt for a long time.

‘This is my fault.’ He thought. ‘I left her here, believing the word of some acolyte that she would be safe.’

‘My fault she almost died.’

‘My fault she was almost turned into a monster.’

‘My fault.’ His mind repeated.

The first thing Vette noticed was the smell of blood. It was a smell she was familiar with, and one not unexpected. Every place of healing was filled with it, sooner or later. The strength of it alarmed her, however, so she fought to see.

When she, with great effort, finally opened her eyes she noticed the second normal occurrence in every place of healing. Bodies. Corpses were common, for no one could cure every disease. Heal every wound. Bodies were not unexpected.

What turned her alarm into confusion was seeing the bodies on the ground, numbering four, and that her boss was looming over them. The fact that one of the bodies, who she vaguely remembered to be the Overseer of the med-bay, was cut in half didn’t help.

‘Holy shit I was drugged.’ She thought as her memory returned. ‘That droid injected me with something, and also why does my stomach hurt?’

“Ah, she is awake.” A cube said, hovering near Morgan’s shoulder.

The owner of that shoulder turned around, looking more dangerous than Vette had ever seen him. Drops of blood were splattered on his face, his face carved from stone. That combined with seeing him stand over four dead sith did strange things to Vette’s stomach.

‘Or that might be the giant scar.’ She mused, just before she snapped her head down again.

“Ok what exactly happened here?” Vette asked when Morgan stayed silent.

The cube answered her. “Well, the former Overseer here,“ the cube pointed to the half woman in the corner, “drugged you, cut you open and attempted to insert an alchemical device into you. The purpose of which was to turn you into an assassin or spy, as far as I’ve been able to determine. I’m sure it will reveal more information with proper study, something I’m looking forward to.”

Her boss finally moved, grabbing the five pointed star thing and shattering it. Smoke escaped, deep and purple, before it dissolved.

The cube sighed. “Or I suppose we could learn nothing, giving in to our base desire of destruction.”

“Why aren’t you saying anything?” Vette asked Morgan directly, turning to face him fully.

He bowed his head. “Because it’s my fault. I shouldn't have believed the acolytes when they told us she hadn’t been seen. I should have stayed, or done as before and taken a droid to treat you somewhere safe.”

“It’s my fault.” He repeated. “And I’m sorry.”

He kept his head bowed, not looking at her. She huffed, irritated. “Right. So you're the one that cut me open?”

She talked over him when he tried to respond. “You drugged me, tried to turn me into whatever the cube said?”

He tried to speak again, but Vette motioned to his feet. “And when you discovered what was happening, you did nothing, did you?”

“No,” she said, angry for a reason she couldn't quite name, “You killed four sith and stitched me up. All I paid for it is a new scar, and that’s not so bad for surviving Korriban.”

“Incorrect.” The medical droid interrupted. “The incision was properly performed, no scar tissue will remain.”

She pointed to it, victorious. Vette looked back to see him stare at her, eyes searching.

‘He was worried.’ She realised. ‘How I would react, or about me?’

She looked back to the floor, where one of the bodies was leaking blood from every orifice in his head.

‘That’s the second time he’s killed or crippled someone to protect me.’ Her mind supplied. ‘When’s the last time someone did that for me, exactly?’

When she looked back Morgan looked like a sith again, stern and hard.

Vette briefly wondered if she had imagined it.

“You’re not leaving my side until we’re off Korriban.” Her boss commanded. “Which happens to be right now. Get your gear, we leave in five.”

She grinned, hopping off the bed. ‘I should be terrified, surrounded by sith and nearly turned into a puppet.’

‘But I’m not.’ She changed into her old gear, holstering her blasters and looking around the room. ‘They sure seem to be.’

The med-bay was filled to the brim, every bed occupied. Yet no one had made a sound, not now nor since she had woken up. She looked back to the bodies, warmth spreading through her.

‘How long has it been, having someone worry about me? Care if I die?’

“I see you are no worse for wear.” The cube spoke. She looked back to see him float over, abandoning her boss to his staring match with the Overseers. “Good. He reacted rather impulsively when he got his vision, but it could have turned out worse.”

She waved at the cube. “Nice to meet ya, cubie.”

He choked. “I should have let you die. I will stand to be called Teacher, not that I’m agreeing with my acolyte’s notion that I need a name, but I will not be called cubie.’

Vette smirked. “Oh fine, but only because I’m in a good mood. Nice to meet ya, Teacher.”

Teacher dipped. “And you.”

He kept hovering beside her as she finished checking her pouches, finding her loot still secure. Her mind finally processed what he had said. “Wait, what do you mean? What vision?”

She got the impression Teacher was raising an eyebrow. “The one Morgan got when he was in the library with me. One that, apparently, warned him of your predicament.”

“That’s something that can happen?” She asked, surprised.

“Indeed.”

“How often?” She probed eagerly. “To who? Just sith, or normal people as well?”

He wobbled. “Not too often. And admittedly only then to Sith Lords or Jedi Masters. That he received one not only as a mere acolyte but about a specific event is rather interesting, wouldn't you say?”

She thought back to when Morgan had explained the Force to her, back in the tomb. “It is everything.” He had said. “Always. It connects every living being, be they biological or not. It is, in a way, the universe itself.”

‘The universe warned him I was in danger?’

“I see from the look on your face that you are starting to grasp what that might mean.” Teacher commented. She looked over to see Morgan had graduated from a staring match into answering increasingly heated questions with one word answers.

She shook her head. “That makes no sense. I met him days ago. Barely know him, really.”

“Do you?” The cube asked. “Do you really know him so little? You know what he will do when pressed, or cornered. You know how he fights, how he treats those above or below him.”

Teacher floated closer. “Extreme stress forges bonds faster than anything, mark my words.”

With that the cube floated away, leaving Vette to her thoughts.

Thoughts that were straying in dangerous directions. ‘Maybe I do know him, a bit. I know he will protect me, should it be needed.’

She looked at the bodies again. ‘Hard to argue he won’t. We make a good team, and with how little he seems to know about day to day life he might need a guide.’

Vette roughly shook her head, seeing Morgan was done with the Overseers. She saw how they kept their weapons close to hand, how they tensed when he walked past them.

‘And it’s safer with the predator than with the prey.’ She forcefully pulled her mind away from the subject, keeping her eyes moving.

They walked through the halls and out of the academy, heat scorching her face as they moved. She looked on as acolytes moved out of the way. How some even bowed. How soldiers straightened as they walked to the port, inches away from saluting.

She said nothing as the pilot greeted them at the door, or when surprise shuttered over his old face as her boss stuck out his hand in greeting.

They were in the air soon after, Vette snacking on some nuts that the younger co-pilot had laid out in front of her boss. She stuck her tongue out at her when she glared, enjoying the fact that the woman couldn't really say anything. Not without disturbing the sith, who was staring out the window.

The shuttle was small, but they were the only people on board. Vette resisted laughing when Morgan’s head snapped both ways, only now noticing that they were the only passengers.

She wondered what he was thinking about, glaring out of that window. What plans or deep wisdom was going on in his head.

‘Wait, didn’t he say he woke up in a shuttle, already on Korriban?’ She suddenly realised. ‘And he didn’t know how credits worked, or how much they were worth.’

She eyed Morgan suspiciously. ‘So distracted he didn’t notice we were alone on a shuttle for twenty, eyes glued to the window since we took off.’

Her eyes widened, a theory forming. ‘He’s from a primitive planet, probably never been to space.’

She fought hard to not say anything, lest she ruin the experience. ‘I could be wrong.’

They cleared the atmosphere, Korriban shrinking behind them. She watched him tense as he looked out into the never ending expanse of darkness, his hand flexing.

‘But probably not.’

It wasn’t long until they passed the station orbiting Korriban. From there the shuttle took them straight into hyperspace, Morgan tensing again. Vette relaxed, enjoying the absolute lack of anything on Morgan’s face as light formed a tunnel around the ship.

“I recommend not looking at it too long.” She commented idly. “Tends to stress the mind.”

Morgan calmly nodded, very clearly showing no signs of panic or unease, and began eating the few nuts she had generously left for him.

She took a small nap as they travelled, the kolto in her system making the seat more comfortable than it should.

Soon enough they docked at the imperial fleet, both pilots seeing them off.

Vette ignored the tingle in her stomach when the younger pilot blushed as she shook Morgan’s hand goodbye, reasoning it was the scar healing.

“Have you been here before?” Morgan asked her as she walked forward with purpose.

“No.” She admitted. “But I’ve been to places like it.”

She led them deep, taking turns and lifts ever down into the bowels of the station. When the streets were unkept and everyone walked with hands close to their blasters, she ducked into a little foodshop.

Vette was so caught up feeling at home again she startled when Morgan sat opposite her. She fought embarrassment when she realised she just led a sith into a cheap hole in the wall.

“I figured you’d like a place that didn’t bow and scrape everytime you breathed.” She covered quickly, the unease in her stomach lessening when he nodded.

“It’s preferable.” Her boss said. “But I didn’t think places like this existed, not here on the imperial fleet.”

She snorted. “Places like this always exist. The rich wish not to look upon the poor, yet someone needs to serve them.”

Morgan laughed softly, staring at a menu they’d been handed by a rusted astromech. He raised an eyebrow. “I assume that by ‘contains meat’ they don’t mean actual real meat, right?”

“No.” Vette deadpanned. “They do not. It’s close enough, probably.”

She looked at him curiously. “Have a lot of meat, where you grew up?”

Morgan sighed. “It doesn’t matter where I grew up, not anymore.”

She raised a hand in surrender, before choosing item thirtyfour for both of them. Vette explained as the astromech rolled off. “Best chance that’s going to taste good, and it’s pretty cheap.”

“You do realise we don’t have any money, right? Unless they take payment in salvage.”

Vette smirked, taking a handful of credits from one of her pouches. “Kindly donated to us from that sleeping Overseer in the med-bay.”

Morgan sighed. “When did you even take those?”

She grinned at him. “I have my ways. Safe to say we have enough to cover the meal, not that whatever cheap security here could stop you.”

“I prefer my first visit to the Imperial Fleet to not involve petty robbery.” He said blandly.

Her reply was interrupted by the arrival of the food, and she dug in with enthusiasm. Even cheap synthesised noodles tasted heavenly compared to ration bars, so the next few minutes both of them silently chewed in delight.

Until a duo of mean looking individuals barged in, looming over their table.

“Don’t you look like a cute couple?” The left one sneered. “Better hand over what you’ve got, or your pretty twi’lek is going to become less pretty.”

Vette nearly choked on her food when the would-be robber flinched back, Morgan’s knife floating an inch from his eye. He tripped, falling backwards. In his haste to stabilise himself he grabbed at his companion, both falling into a tangle of limbs.

“That was pathetic.” Morgan judged. “From the threat to the execution. Get out of my sight, before I remove both of you from the gene pool.”

They scrambled out, leaving Vette to desperately try and swallow, laugh and breathe at the same time.

She looked at Morgan as she calmed down, noticing how he hadn’t even stopped eating. “So did the sith teach you that?”

“Teach me what?”

“How to hide fear. I’ve never really seen you intimidated or scared, and I know how to look for it.”

“Oh, that.” Morgan waved his hand. “No, it’s not because I’m good at hiding emotions, though I am. It’s because I don’t really feel it.”

She looked at him doubtfully. “You don’t get scared? How’s that even possible?”

Morgan put his food down, thinking. “It was about two months in, I think, when the Overseer had me and some others stay behind after morning training. This was some ten months ago, mind you, long before we met.”

“We showed hesitation, you see. Fear.” He knocked on the table, the sound echoing in the silent shop. ”And proper sith do not fear. They do not hesitate because of pain.” He shrugged. “So she made us experience true pain, something deeper than flesh, with what she called an interesting variation of sith lightning.”

Vette saw his eyes go distant, feeling her own heartbeat skyrocket. “For about three weeks she did that, until something had to give. For others it was their mind. You could see it, when the spark in their eyes died. The lights are on, but no one’s home, as they say. No emotions or desire, no rage or fear. Just, broken.”

She felt her stomach contract, fearing what he would say next. “I did too, but differently. I broke as she had intended. Accepted that I was dead, and that deadmen fear no pain.”

He shrugged again, Vette’s heart bleeding sympathy. “Haven’t feared for my safety since, and found pain means less than nothing to me.”

“I’m sorry.” She said quietly. “I’m sorry you had to go through that.”

He tilted his head, and for the first time Vette thought he looked broken. “I don’t think about it much, truthfully.”

She didn’t know what to say to that, so silence reigned until she couldn't stand it.

“I understand.” She blurted, cursing herself immediately afterward.

‘Great fucking job, how could you possibly understand that?’

Instead of getting upset or angry, as she had feared, he looked at her.

Really looked at her, eyes piercing so deeply she couldn't look away even if she wanted to.

He nodded slowly, seriously, and then the moment was gone. He picked up his food, scanning the shitty little cantina lazily.

Her heartbeat slowly returned to normal, even as she still felt awful for him. ‘That explains a lot about you. And here’s to thinking I couldn't possibly hate the sith more.'

They finished soon after, Vette paying with her scavenged credits, and she led them towards what passed for a market. Finding a place to bargain and trade was always easy, seeing as people were always either going to or leaving them.

Morgan stopped as they reached it, looking it over from their vantagepoint. “Well then, let’s finish up and you can be on your way.”

Vette couldn't tell if he was sad about that, not from just his voice, but she was starting to have doubts.

“I’ve been thinking.” She began, Morgan turning to look at her. “Maybe it wouldn't be the worst idea if I stuck around.”

Morgan said nothing, Vette rushing out the words. She didn’t notice how his eyes widened in surprise. “You know, I’d get to lie, steal and plunder, legally and for profit. I’ve got a big bad sith to protect me and seeing more of the galaxy is always fun.”

She fell silent when he raised his hand, wondering why she was so jittery. “I would be happy to have you.” Morgan said slowly. “But I want you to have an informed choice.”

He took a breath, and Vette suddenly wondered if he was as irrationally nervous as she was.

“Everyone has this idea about the sith and what they do, but it all boils down to death. We live it, deal in it. It’s our trade and profession, and we’re generally very good at it.”

“The code tells us to follow passion, and to an extent we do. But our passion is so often ambition, and the Dark revels in betrayal. In war and misery.”

He looked at her. “That would be the job, Vette. We would be killing those that deserve it, and those that don’t. The wicked and the innocent. For good reasons or no reason at all. We kill those Darth Baras commands me to, and that won't change for a long while.”

She swallowed a shitty joke, forcing herself to listen. “And when I kill, I feel nothing. No guilt or remorse, no sleepless nights. I don’t know if the Overseer made me this way, that she broke something that I won’t ever get back, or that I was always like this.”

“I’m not saying this to drive you away,” he said with a wince, “but choosing to stay might come with strings I have no power over. Not now, and maybe not for a long time.”

Vette smiled sadly when he finished, thinking back to someone long gone. “Someone I knew as a child told me to always reward honesty with honesty, and I try to live by that.”

“So here goes.” She took a deep breath. ”People don’t really care what happens to me. Not really. They would be sad, some of them, but for most life would go on. A few would help me, maybe, if the price wasn’t too high. Most wouldn't.”

She forced a grin. “And then you save my life twice in as many days, no thought to the consequences. Killed those all but untouchable because they hurt me. Butchered those that tried to kill me.”

“Isn’t that sad? That in two days you risked more for me than anyone I can remember.”

She shook her head, lekku bouncing. “I’m suspicious of kindness, you know that? So when you took the collar off I expected to pay for it, somehow. When you promised to set me free, I was so sure it was a lie. Yet here we are. You were going to let me go, weren’t you?”

He nodded, she scowled. “A sith showed me more kindness in two days than most have in a lifetime. So maybe you don’t care about killing. Don’t care all that much myself.”

Vette sighed, forcing herself past the nerves. “We could debate all day about morality and risk. I want to stay, and damn to the consequences. How about you?”

He smiled, and for once she saw it reach his eyes. “As I said, I would be happy to have you.”

She stuck out her hand, a grin on her face. Morgan shook it firmly. “Partners?”

“Partners.” She echoed. Then, because her mouth and brain weren’t properly connected. “Me and my buddy the sith. Nobody’s going to pick on me at school.”

Vette saw him raise an eyebrow. She waved, turning away to hide her blush. “Kindly ignore that last comment.”

“So,” she forged on bravely, “what do you want to spend those credits on?”

“Armour.” He said firmly. “Preferably something that doesn’t scream sith.”

She walked to a merchant, putting her hand in a pouch and taking out a circuit. “Armour it is. But first, offloading all that shiny loot.”

Morgan stayed silent as Vette and a rodian haggled rapidly, gesturing wildly to the armour on display.

The suit was matte black, with only streaks of grey to prevent the whole thing from being one colour. No helmet or facemask was provided, which was a shame. Other than the left pauldron being slightly bigger, the whole thing was uninteresting to look at. Just as he liked it.

‘As tempting as it is to walk into the Dark Citadel wearing bright pink, best if we stay somewhat sith like.’ He thought, listening as Vette argued the price lower and lower.

“Fine,” the rodian almost shouted, throwing his hand up, “but not a credit lower than seven thousand. You’re already starving my children at that price.”

They shook on it, Morgan taking it to change in an alley nearby. The suit fit well, being made for his body-type.

Vette whistled as he walked out, nodding to herself. “Intimidating, that’s good. Not too sithy either, but close enough they won’t complain.”

Morgan looked at her, her own armour already bought and paid for an hour ago. Mostly brown and green, with less plating than his own. Plenty of pockets and pouches were strewn across, her two blasters hanging off her hips.

“Won’t stop a lightsaber,” Morgan agreed, “but should stop the stray bolt from tearing my limbs off.”

“Unlike mine, you mean?” Vette smirked. “I prefer mobility.”

“As you’ve stated before.” Morgan rolled his eyes, not wishing to get back into that argument. He had tried to get her to buy something more protective. Vette had disagreed. Loudly.

Neither suit had helmets, something they would have to rectify before going into the field, but for now they were as protected as they could be.

They bickered quietly about the benefits of heavy and light plating as they made their way to the transport that would take them to Dromund Kaas. Morgan ignored the duros officer trying to get his attention.

This one was a regular transport, and while they got some looks no one recognized him as sith. ‘Or if they do, they are wise enough to stay silent. Thank god I’m not wearing red anymore, I’ve seen enough of that for a lifetime.’

The wait was short, having picked the first available flight, and before long the strange feeling of hyperspace came over him. He patted the pouch with Teacher in it, who had gone silent a while ago to ‘prepare his training’.

‘No windows this time.’ He thought. ‘Good. Rather not watch reality blend like a smoothie again.’

Vette hissed when someone behind them kicked her chair, mumbling something about spacing children.

‘Vette’s cute when she’s angry.’ His mind conjured.

Morgan closed his eyes, sinking into meditation. ‘Let’s take care of that right now. I’m not ruining this partnership with an actual crush. I’m not a damned teenager, for christ sake.’

He pressed it down, not examining the emotion too closely. He frowned when it bounced back, slowly, when he stopped pressing.

‘That’s a fun new daily chore.’ He snarked internally.

He came out of mediation, Vette looking at him curiously.

A flare of affection came, but it felt less crushy than before. ‘Good enough. Unless either of you want to take it?’

Neither the Light nor Dark responded, so he looked to the front of the shuttle. A screen displayed their arrival time, Morgan closing his eyes for a quick nap.

‘Next stop, Dromund Kaas. I’m sure it will go swimmingly. No invasions, rebellions or cursed temples to be seen, no sir.’

He swallowed a snort. ‘Yea right.’

His mind went back to Vette, unbidden. ‘But at least I’m not alone this time.’

Chapter Text

“He can and will kill you.” Morgan warned her again, knocking on the door.

“I know, I know.” Vette muttered, rolling her shoulder nervously. “This isn’t you. He can do whatever he wants. I’ll stay quiet by the door, not looking at him.”

He sighed. “Alright then, remember, you wanted to meet him.”

Darth Baras had his back turned as they entered, turning around when Morgan neared his desk. “I see you decided to make haste in coming here, my new apprentice.”

“And you kept the slave.” Baras looked at her briefly. “Without a collar, no less. Foolish.”

“I need no collar to ensure obedience, master.” Morgan answered neutrally.

Baras laughed coldly, looking back at him. “Spoken like a sith. But that is not where your foolishness ends, is it? You killed an Overseer, one that I did not give you leave to kill.”

“And not only one, for the jailer has yet to wake from his coma.” The Darth started pacing. “That waste of skin was useless, easily replaced. The Medical Overseer was not. She had decades of experience with alchemy, and, uniquely, had no ties to anyone but the academy. Replacing her will not be simple.”

Morgan made sure to keep his voice soft, but wrath bled into it. “She touched what was mine.”

He looked at the Darth directly. “But that doesn’t matter, does it? The Overseer crossed me, in a way I could not ignore, so she died for it.”

Baras stayed silent, Morgan wondering briefly if he had used the wrong argument. “It seems you have cast away the last of your slave roots with your victory over Vemrin. Bravo.”

“Do not think you are her equal, however. She would have killed you, had your strike been slower.” The Darth laughed again. “Oh yes. If that had been a proper fight, I would have a corpse for an apprentice. It seems you are in need of remedial training.”

He pointed to the door. “I have organised training with a blademaster, who will show you how much you have yet to learn. My minion has given you the relevant details.”

Morgan bowed, walking to the door. The Darth’s voice stopped him. “And as for your slave. If you wish to keep her, so be it. If you wish to use her in a fight, she will learn to do so properly. I have arranged for her to join a class of fresh recruits for the Imperial Reconnaissance branch.”

He turned, bowing again. Vette joined him as he walked out the door, not saying anything as they left.

She broke that silence as soon as they were out of the Citadel. “So that was the whole ‘cold sith’ act. Pretty convincing stuff.”

“Good.” Morgan said as he hailed a speeder. “If it fooled you it might fool Baras, not that that seems likely.”

She hummed, snuggling into her seat against the cold as they took off. “So, Imperial Reconnaissance. That’s them scouts right, like the one that gave you his knife?”

“Indeed. Scouts, soldiers and assassins. They’re a good fit for your skills.”

He looked at her sideways. “How do you feel about it? Being sent to the military, I mean.”

“You warned me.” She shrugged. “Not thrilled about it, but I imagine you can pull some strings if I want out.”

“Not as long as Baras wants you there.” He warned. “But I’ll see what I can do.”

They came to the military district some time later, Vette jumping out of the taxi. “Well then, I suppose this is goodbye.”

He was caught off guard by the wave of displeasure he felt. “For now. I’m sure we’ll be running around the jungle sooner rather than later, hunting and killing. I doubt Baras is a ‘safety first’ kind of master.”

Vette smirked, her smile slightly off. “I do get that vibe from him, yeah.”

He nodded to her, watched her wave, then ordered the speeder to the Citadel district again. Morgan used the time to bury his feelings, ones almost sharp when he pressed them down.

He approached his destination an hour later, checking his datapad to see if this was the right place. An old warehouse stretched before him, the door locked with a code.

He shrugged, unlocking it by waving his datapad in front of it. Most of the space was a single room, thick mats on the floor and walls. Racks of weapons and armour covered the back wall, no windows to be seen.

“Finally he arrives.”

Morgan whipped around, suppressing the urge to draw his weapon.

An old sith pureblood walked out of a small side room, sizing him up. “So this is the hotshot that is killing Overseers left and right. Pathetic.”

The woman was about Morgan's height, a scowl etched into her features. She threw him a lightsaber.

“Defend yourself.” She ordered.

He didn’t even have time to enforce before he was flying through the room, smashing into the padded wall. He strengthened his body as he fell, flipping to land on his feet.

“These won’t kill.” The woman barked as she ignited her weapon. “But they’ll hurt.”

Morgan sidestepped a thrust, focusing his sight on the woman’s enforcement. He cursed internally. ‘Far too advanced. It’ll take me weeks to start adapting that.’

“Darth Baras tells me you have good perception.” The woman sneered. “So that’s your first assignment, copying from your betters. I doubt you’ll learn anything.”

She nicked his shoulder, using the opening to send him flying across the room again. The wound burned, not that that bothered him. “Truly worthless. It’s a wonder you’ve survived until now.”

He watched as she seemed to teleport across the room, forcing him to put up a block for her overhead strike. His knees buckled. ‘Well, this is going to be fun.’

What followed was hours of being beaten around the room, his body slowly accumulating welts and bruises. He sagged against the wall as the woman called a halt.

“Take out the holocron.” She ordered briskly.

He ignored her, asking a question instead. “What’s your name?”

The pureblood narrowed her eyes. “You can call me Lady Trix.”

Morgan stood, his body complaining with every motion, and gave a shallow bow. “My Lady.”

“Take out the holocron.” She repeated, staring at it when he did. “Good, now open it.”

Her presence wrapped around the cube, to observe rather than interact. He ignored it, going for the entrance. To his surprise, there were two.

‘First I’m getting beaten like a fresh acolyte and now Teacher is upping the difficulty.’ He complained silently, splitting his attention.

He could do it, if needed. His already low power output cut in half, however, to the point even levitating a knife would be challenging.

Lady Trix stayed silent as he worked, observing. It took him nearly half an hour.

When the holocron finally clicked open, opening his eyes with it, he saw the pureblood sitting cross legged in front of him.

“Well, who might this be?” Teacher’s voice drifted out, curiosity abundant in his tone.

“I am Lady Trix.” She responded. “And you are that annoying holocron that refused to teach me, back when I was still an acolyte.”

Teacher made a dismissive noise. “Then you did not pass the test. I owe you nothing.”

Lady Trix scowled to the holocron, as she had for hours at Morgan, but the cube seemed unaffected.

Teacher turned away from her, floating over to Morgan. “So what might I assist my apprentice with this time?”

“He is the apprentice of Darth Baras.” Trix cut in sharply.

“I,” the cube said slowly, “am dead. Have been for centuries and centuries. I do hope the Darths of this age are not so fragile they cannot endure information storage devices from spreading knowledge.”

The pureblood’s scowl deepened. “Remember your place, holocron. Darth Baras has ordered the continuation of his alchemy lessons, placing special focus on increasing physical strength.”

“Now that is a splendid idea.” Teacher wobbled. “I personally prefer teaching regeneration before strength, but I will bow to the wisdom of your master on this matter.”

Lady Trix stalked off, leaving Morgan alone with the cube.

“We will, of course, also continue your regeneration exercises.” Teacher informed him. “But increasing physical might is not a bad idea. It will give you a good foundation for the later stages of flesh shaping, and mistakes will be relatively easy to fix.”

Morgan shook his head, wondering if it was too late to leave him on Korriban.

“It should take some months to do it properly, and your skill will put a hard limit on the amount of modification we can do, but an increase of three to four times in strength is quite doable.”

Morgan resisted the urge to cackle. “I take back every bad thing I’ve ever said about you.” He promised Teacher.

The cube pointed at him suspiciously. “You haven’t said anything bad about me.”

“Then I suppose taking it back will be easy.” Morgan smiled. He ignored how he briefly wanted to turn to Vette, smirking with her about how Teacher spluttered.

He sombered quickly because of it. “Let’s get started.”

“Very well.” Teacher said crossly. “First, it is important to understand we will not be increasing muscle mass as much as density. We will also need to strengthen various tendons, ligaments and bones to ensure you can handle the strain. Now, do as I say and be exact about it.”

‘I wonder if this is more boring than the cage. No, surely not.’ Vette thought, standing at parade rest with the other recruits.

There were thirty of them, standing in two lines as their old captain marched between them.

“Courage and loyalty to the Empire is the highest virtue a soldier can possess. Before any of you leave my training that will be instilled into your bones!” The man bellowed.

Vette did the hardest thing she had ever done, and resisted rolling her eyes. ‘By the goddess, this is actually worse than Korriban. At least Morgan was there to kill people like this, or at the very least make them uncomfortable.’

“You will walk like soldiers, talk like soldiers and you will damn well die like soldiers!” The captain screamed. Vette joined the rest of the class as they shouted in return.

“Sir yes sir!

“Contact sparring, ten minutes. Get changed!”

Vette smiled, relishing the change of pace. For a week now they had been taught how to walk, talk and maintain blasters. Things Vette could do in her sleep, especially the latter.

Fifteen minutes later she walked into the sparring ring, training knife in hand. She smirked at her opponent, a man, who was looking at her disdainfully. Some human, oozing arrogance but holding his knife poorly.

The captain barked at them to start, Vette shooting forward. The man barely had time to flinch before he was on the floor, her knife an inch from his throat. She looked around to see most of the rest of the class looking at her as her opponent had, before she had wiped it off his face.

‘Alien. Filth. Gutter trash. I’ve heard worse, you little shits. I survived Korriban. You are nothing.’ She thought at them.

Vette looked at the captain, only to see him looking at the rest of the recruits with narrowed eyes. He seemed annoyed.

“Good job, recruit.” The man barked at her. “I see the sith sent you here for a good reason.”

Half the recruits leaned back, fear shuttering over their faces. The other half wiped any hint of disdain from their looks. The captain looked vindicated, just for a moment.

‘Ah, so that’s it.” Vette realised. ‘He’d rather not have the sith pay a visit because they did something stupid.’

She smirked at the man, enjoying the look of indignation that didn’t go further than his eyes. ‘Any other recruit would have been chewed out. I’m going to enjoy this.’

Another man took her opponent's place, the captain bellowing they would keep coming until she was defeated.

‘Still, might as well learn what I can. I’m sure Morgan’s been working his ass off.’ She softly shook her head. ‘Can’t very well let him be all terrifying on his own, I've got a reputation to think about.’

Her days blurred, and to her surprise she was starting to enjoy herself. The endless marching and saluting lessons were replaced with stealth and sniper training, both far more to her taste. She excelled.

Vette excelled a little too much, to the point the class started to resent her again. Not for being an alien, this time, but because she refused to ‘slow down’ or ‘give the rest of them a chance’. Also because she was still an alien.

So she wasn’t entirely surprised when four of them cornered her in the bathrooms.

Vette laughed, taking the initiative before they could. “So, before any of you say anything, I want to make sure I’ve got this right.”

She wiped a fake tear from her eye, holding her stomach. “I’m better at essentially everything, so you resent me. That makes sense. Stupid, but it makes sense. So you’re here to, I suppose, teach me a lesson. Ambush me when I’m all alone. Nevermind that I’ve been throwing you around in CQC, or that the captain will have you hanged for this.”

The largest of them, Searta, snorted. “The captain won’t do shit. I’m the daughter of a baron, you alien filth. You don’t belong here.”

“Alright.” Vette agreed easily. “Say the captain won’t touch you. I see this playing out in one of three ways. I beat the four of you bloody, until even your thick skulls learn not to mess with me. Second, you beat me, and I spend the rest of my time here brainstorming ways for you to have an accident. Lastly, you kill me.”

She smiled pleasantly at them. “Let’s go over what happens after each outcome. I beat you, and the captain won’t do anything. You spent a long time in pain, and I’m still here. You beat me, I survive, and I’m still here. Now you have someone who is motivated, trained and willing to kill you. Or lastly, you kill me.”

“Let me tell you what happens after you kill me.” Vette told them happily. “For a few days, nothing changes. Maybe the captain will disappear, because he seems smart like that. Then, one day, soldiers will come storming in. The kind of troopers that won’t give two shits who your daddy is. After them comes something worse. After them comes sith. He will come, make no mistake, and you will disappear.”

She laughed softly. “But you won’t die. Oh no. You’ll go to Korriban, where every acolyte will use you to train their ‘enhanced interrogation’ skills. Where you will break, day after day, until nothing is left of you but madness.”

Searta looked unimpressed, her friends less so. “Like a sith will give a shit what happens to you.”

For some reason Vette didn’t have a doubt in the world what Morgan would do. Not after the med-bay incident. “That’s for you to decide, isn’t it?”

Three of the would-be bullies backed off as she stalked forward, abandoning Searta. “But it seems they made their choice. So, you think you can take me alone?”

The woman sneered, shooting her friends a betrayed look. “Cowards.”

She stalked off, muttering angrily. The others scrambled after her. Vette sighed, looking in the mirror.

“That went pretty well. Wonder how long their fear lasts.”

More time passed, days falling into routine. Sleep late and wake early. Training stealth and agility, slowly building her body up back to pre-Korriban strength. Training with the sniper-rifle, where thousands of shots were starting to sharpen her aim to levels even she found scary.

Then, after nearly three weeks, something marvellous happened. Something she hadn't planned, hadn’t foreseen.

Her threat to Searta, thought of in the heat of the moment, came true.

Soldiers interrupted them at the range, black armoured and heavily armed. Their captain trailed after them, talking softly with a sith pureblood as he stalked forward.

Vette shot her four would be attackers a coy smile, pretending she had planned this. They bleached white, even Searta looking nervous. Any arrogance was gone, replaced with chilling fear.

Even though she wouldn't admit it, Vette felt some fear herself. Everyone else had no way of knowing this wasn’t Morgan. Would think this was her sith patron.

But she had no idea who this was, and the pureblood was walking straight towards her.

“Bring her.” The sith ordered briskly, two faceless soldiers surging forward.

They didn’t quite grab her shoulders as they escorted her, but every avenue of escape was blocked. One was walking closely behind, while the other stood further back. One to catch her, the other to shoot her.

“I think you got the wrong gal-” She began. Vette didn’t even get to introduce herself before the pureblood cut her off.

“You are Ce’na, going by the name Vette. Born on Ryloth during the great galactic war, living with your mother and sister. Spent your youth as a slave, working in the mines of Ryloth with your family. Sold from master to master from the age of seven onward, separating you from your kin, until said captivity ended when you were recruited by the pirate Nok Drayen. You left some years later to join a band of twi’lek hunters, stealing artefacts with religious or cultural significance to your people. Cada Bliss offered you a job on Korriban, which you took, unaware it was a trap. You were captured, and spent the next six months imprisoned in the academy.”

The sith looked at her sideways. “I have the right person.”

Vette swallowed, the fear in her stomach spreading. ‘Well, that’s me alright.’

They came to an office, her captain peeling off to return to the range after opening the door. The sith walked behind the desk, motioning for her to take a seat. Two soldiers took post at the door, the rest doing the same in the hallway. The only way out shut with an ominous click.

“I,” he began, “would like you to send a message to Morgan.”

Her defence mechanisms locked into place, responding to fear with sarcasm. “Does that happen to include a few fingers, or maybe my head? If it does, I’m going to have to pass.”

The sith blinked, taking a seat himself. “I think there’s been a misunderstanding. My name is Kripaa, follower of Lord Zethix. Lord Morgan is our ally, and close friend to my master.”

“We wish to contact him, but are blocked while he is in training. We are not on the planet long, so Lady Mirla recommended we give the message to you.”

Vette blinked twice, wondered briefly if he was lying, then sagged in her seat. “You scared the shit out of me. Coming in here, terrifying the captain, dragging me somewhere private. By the goddess, you have more information on me than Morgan does.”

Kripaa tilted his head, a gesture Vette found to be singularly creepy on a pureblood. “My apologies, that was not the intention. We keep track of everyone close to Lord Morgan, as ordered by Lord Zethix.”

“So what’s with the soldiers then?” She snarked.

“Them?” The sith asked, surprised. “That’s the special forces unit I’m leading, have been since Korriban. They're here because it would be rude to ask them to wait outside.”

“By the goddess, I thought I was getting killed here.” Vette grumbled. “You must be the worst at parties.”

Kripaa shook his head politely. “I do not often attend social functions, either now or before becoming sith.”

Vette sighed, looking back at the two motionless soldiers posted at the door. “Alright, fine. What’s the message?”

“Ahum. We are moving to Balmorra, where our trainers believe the increasing tension and sighting of former Republic troops is the perfect scenario for the last stage of our training.”

She waited a second, but the sith appeared to be done speaking. “That’s it?”

Kripaa nodded. Vette scowled. “You could have written that on a damn note, no need to give me a heart attack.”

“It was deemed better to give the message in person, even if we are not able to tell Lord Morgan directly.” The sith responded calmly.

Vette narrowed her eyes. “Why are you calling him Lord Morgan? He’s still an apprentice, as far as I know.”

“It is a sign of respect.” The sith answered plainly. “He taught me much of what I know, back when we were being trained under Overseer Sasha. He and Lord Zethix are the reason most of us are alive, in fact.”

“Morgan doesn’t really talk about it.” She muttered.

“Then I shall not do so either. In short, we owe him. Lord Zethix is his friend, and so we assist where we can.”

Vette sighed. “Right then. I got the message. I’ll tell him when I see him, goddess knows when that will be.”

The pureblood stood, causing the soldiers to open the door. “Gratitude. Please give Lord Morgan my regards.”

She rolled her eyes. “Will do.”

With that they left, Vette sitting alone in the captain’s office.

‘Well, if this doesn't stop anymore bullshit from the other recruits nothing will.’

“You’re a shame to sith everywhere.” Lady Trix barked. “Six weeks we’ve been here, and you can’t even touch me.”

Morgan contemplated pointing out that he nearly did, a week ago. Of course, after that, she had set up floating targets for him. Ordered him to sink his vibroknife in the centre while they fought, as if he had concentration to spare.

“A not too terrible crowd control method, if you can master it properly.” She had said.

‘At the very least I’m getting stronger.’ He consoled himself.

His body flexed with power, jumping to the side to avoid a strike to the head. The training lightsaber, for all that it would only leave burns, would still take his eyes.

‘And Teacher said we’re only halfway to my limit.’ He thought giddily.

He already felt faster, his increase in strength compounding with enforcement. It did take adjustment, his reflexes slightly off each time he went through a session with Teacher. Lucky for him, Lady Trix seemed more than happy to spar.

‘That’s not even considering her enforcement.’ He thought, thrusting his blade forward. She slapped it aside contemptuously. ‘Especially now that I’m finally getting the hang of adapting her technique.’

The spar lasted another twenty moves, Morgan sagging down the wall where the sith had kicked him. Lady Trix sneered down at him, as usual.

“I’ve no idea what Darth Baras sees in you. Mediocre talent with the saber, pathetically weak in the Dark and I’ve seen snails better at alchemy.”

Morgan ignored the insults like stone did water, standing and bowing. “I’ll do better, my Lady.”

“Hah.” She snorted. “You seem able to keep your emotions in check, so that’s something.”

Trix stalked up to him, poking his chest hard. “Sith are driven by emotion, but never ruled by it. Remember that, little apprentice.”

She stalked out, disappearing in the little side chamber he wasn't allowed in. He looked to the place he slept, a simple cot in the corner.

Morgan smiled, remembering when she had tried to surprise him in the night. To teach him that nowhere was truly safe. ‘Like Soft Voice didn’t train us to sleep lightly. He must have drowned me in water a dozen times before I learned.’

His smile faded, looking at the empty room. A pang of loneliness was ruthlessly shoved down, together with the face that popped up.

“I see you are done training for the afternoon. Good, we are almost at a breakthrough.” Teacher spoke behind him. Morgan turned slowly, nodding at the cube. ‘Maybe not entirely alone.’

“Sit.” Teacher ordered. “Enrich your blood. Feel how it flows, how each heartbeat circulates it around the body.”

Morgan did, sitting cross-legged on the floor. He closed his eyes, turning his attention inwards. The Force flowed, first down one arm and then the other. Adding a leg had proven difficult, but doable.

Now he was nearly done with his other leg, trying to connect the whole thing together. Four strands stretched from his heart, each to the tip of his hands and feet. All thrummed with power, stimulating recovery and oxygen. Yet no matter what he did, the fourth strand refused to stretch all the way down. Refused to reach his toes, no matter how he tried to push it.

He sat there, eyes closed and attention inward, for near an hour before he took a break.

“I still can’t quite reach it.” He told Teacher. “It won’t stretch that far.”

“Hmm.” The cube responded, considering. “And who said stretching was required?”

Morgan frowned. “You did. Have been for weeks now.”

“So I did. Do you wish to know why?” Teacher continued without waiting. “It is to train control. To train patience. Alchemy is a dangerous art, fleshcrafting more so. Back when every acolyte received training in it, very long ago, we had them practice like this. How far do you think they got, before giving up? Before their instructor told them the secret?”

He frowned, shrugging. “All four?”

“No.” Teacher laughed. “Most certainly not. You were considered gifted when reaching two, and Overseers would fight over those that could do three.”

The cube wobbled closer to him. “But you got two limbs in days, and managed what few have in weeks. Your blademaster is harsh, but not untrue. Your skill with the saber comes from practice, not an innate gift. The Dark is weak in you, enough so most techniques normal for other sith would exhaust you in seconds.”

“But you have control.” Teacher insisted. “Removing weakness is good, yet it is by playing to our strength that we conquer. Let them have their lightning storms, their crushing waves of despair. Let them break armies. With alchemy you can build them. Any soldier fighting for you unbreakable. Any beast unkillable.”

The cube laughed, filling the room. “And if you do it right? Those soldiers will be loyal unto death, a fate no follower of a fleshcrafter Lord will succumb to easily. You have no idea the worlds that have fallen. The Jedi that have run.”

“Make no mistake, Morgan. No one rules alone, not even sith. Fleshcrafters rule through loyalty, not fear. Don’t forget that.”

Morgan smiled, oddly touched. “That almost sounds like you’re trying to make me feel better.”

Teacher scoffed, floating in circles. “Ridiculous. Now focus, and I will tell you the secret."

Morgan closed his eyes again. “Go down one arm, but not the second. Feel the blood at your hand. What is it doing?”

“It’s, turning around?” Morgan answered. “Right, that seems logical. Blood needs more minerals and oxygen before it can do its job again.”

On a whim, he tried to follow it. Instead of making a second strand, he looped the one back around. Going down the second arm was harder that way, but when he reached the point where he normally had to make a third, he smirked.

“I see you figured it out.” Teacher commented. “It starts harder, but the curve is not exponential, like before.”

“So why make me do the inferior technique for so long?” Morgan asked. “I could have gotten this down weeks ago.”

Teacher shrugged, Morgan unclear on how exactly the cube did that. “I wanted to see how far you’d come.”

Morgan completed the loop down his last leg, bringing the strand back to his heart. He connected the two ends, feeling the mental strain lesson as it fed itself from his reserves.

“One big loop.” He said. Teacher dipped up and down.

“Indeed. It is the first step, one that will be used for any change you wish to make.”

He raised an eyebrow. “What about strengthening my muscles? I’ve been doing that for weeks.”

“I said almost.”

Morgan coughed pointedly at the evasion. Teacher sighed. “Fine. No, it’s not technically required. Just like you don’t need the Force to wield a lightsaber, or pilot training to fly a ship.”

“But it sure helps.” Morgan muttered. “I see your point. So now what?”

“Now you practice, until you can complete the loop in under three heartbeats.” Teacher ordered. “Then, we will see. Increasing strength will be easier, now that you can properly feel what you are doing.”

Morgan nodded, letting the loop fade before starting again.

He pushed the excited urge to show Vette way down.

Morgan blatantly ignored how it was getting harder every time he did so.

Vette looked at her four opponents, all showing less nerves than she would have imagined. ‘Fair’s fair, I’m not the only one learning stuff.’

She hooked her arm under the shoulder of the first recruit that swung at her, knife uselessly dangling in his hand as she twisted him to the ground.

The other three used her temporary distraction to advance, trying to grab and lock her in place.

She jumped back instead, running her knife across the back of Searta’s hand. She always overextended it in her first attack.

The training knife had its edge dulled, otherwise she would have lost the hand. Not that that stopped the pain.

Vette ducked to avoid a high kick, punishing the fancy move by smashing the leg from out under the recruit that tried it. He went down hard. She could briefly see the captain as she twirled, shaking his head with a scowl on his face. Vette smirked.

‘The drills are stupid, marching can go fuck itself and if I ever see that dammed obstacle course again I’ll kill someone, but this is pretty fun.’

She finished smashing the rest of them to the floor, twirling her knife idly as she waited for them to be replaced with four more. ‘Honestly don’t know why the captain keeps doing this. I trained my knife skills with pirates, for goddess sake. This sorry bunch needs about two years of training before they can even touch me.’

Another four recruits finished climbing in the ring. She lightly jumped up and down, enjoying how strong her legs felt. A year on Korriban had rather atrophied her muscles, so she had almost forgotten what it felt like to be in shape.

She spent another half hour kicking recruits into the dirt, almost feeling bad for them by the end. Almost.

After that the captain had them march to another part of the large outdoor field, Vette smiling with glee when she saw the snipers. ‘Now this might just be my favourite part.’

Muted shots rang through the clearing as they practiced, Vette making little figurines in the farthest available target two klicks away. The Captain walked past her with binoculars, not saying anything when he saw her stick figure art.

‘It's been almost three months.’ She thought, adjusting her scope slightly. ‘Wonder when we’ll be getting out of here. I plateaued weeks ago, and most of the others are starting to as well.’

She watched as the recruit next to her missed the target by a wide margin, cursing under her breath.

‘Most of us.’ She repeated mentally.

Her answer came later that night, just after a rather gruelling twenty mile run in full gear. The whole class was standing at attention, the captain walking between them briskly.

“Over the last few months I have given you the skills needed to be a scout!” The man bellowed. “Some of you are ready, some of you are not. In one week's time, you will be tested. Forged.”

The captain paused, looking at the ceiling. “Some of you will not survive. Some of you will be broken, be it mentally or otherwise.” He snapped his gaze back down, glaring at them all. “But the rest of you will be troopers of the Imperial Reconnaissance branch! The lifeblood of military intelligence!”

“Your final test will be conducted in the jungles, in those places where beasts still rule. Every skill will be tested, every weakness will be expunged.” The man lectured loudly. “Until nothing remains but iron will!"

The captain looked at them gravely. “Prepare yourselves. This will be the hardest test of your lives.”

A week later Vette was calmly tracking her nineteenth kill, hiding high up a tree. Her partner for the exam, someone she had honestly forgotten the name of, was shivering beside her.

She lightly squeezed the trigger, the dull thud of hundreds of kilos of Gundark falling to the ground heralding her kill. Her partner whined. “Can we go yet? We only needed to kill one each.”

“No.” Vette said sternly. “I heard the record was twenty-seven, and we won’t leave until I’ve beaten it.”

Her partner made a low choking sound, something that sounded suspiciously like crying, until Vette slapped him on the back. “Let’s go. The body will attract scavengers, not the beasts we need.”

“Go into the jungle, track a Sleen, Jurgoran or Gundark. Kill it, and you will have passed the exam.” The captain had told them. “Any additional kills will award the attention of your superiors, for those that wish to climb the ranks.”

She half dragged her partner to another good vantage point, slightly lower than their old one. The trees were easy to climb, sturdy branches making the task trivial compared to the obstacle course. She laid down, overlooking a pond of water. Her partner joined her a minute later, breathing hard.

Vette spared him little attention, seeing a Sleen darting from behind a tree. She waited until it calmed, nearing the water to drink. Her finger twitched and the beast was dead. ‘Only eight more to go.’

They arrived at the small camp hours later, her whole class standing miserably in the rain. Night had nearly fallen, the camp swallowed in shadows. The captain was staring at the jungle, only looking at them when they saluted.

Well, her partner saluted. Vette performed a sort of half wave half salute, grinning broadly. “Twenty nine confirmed kills.”

The captain nodded. “So the observation drones report. Congratulations, you beat the record.”

“Hear that, you maggots!” He barked behind him. “The alien, who you call filth, just beat the runner up by twenty kills, while simultaneously breaking the division record. A record, mind you, that has stood unbroken for thirty six years!”

The rest of the class snapped ramrod straight, saluting.

“We offer praise to the winner!” They shouted over the rain. Vette had to admit it felt kinda good, seeing all those superior imperial recruits try their hardest not to scowl.

“Dismissed.” The captain ordered briskly. He stopped Vette with a raised hand. “Not you.”

The captain handed her a datapad when they were alone, still soaking under the rain. Not that Vette could get any wetter at this point. “Lord Morgan has sent word, and wishes that you join him when we get back to base.”

The man hesitated, looking around to check if they were alone. He leaned closer. “That was my record you just broke, you know. I was proud when I beat the previous holder, I still am.”

She raised an eyebrow, hand itching to her knife. The captain shook his head. “I’m not blaming you. I requested an assignment where I could pass on my skills, hoping to teach the newest generation. Not quite what I hoped for, teaching spoiled brats how to hold a blaster.” The man shook his head. “Not important. You’ve got skill. A talent you must have spent years honing, long before you came here.”

Vette nodded, wondering where he was going with this. “I figured. Sometimes I think we did little more than allow you to get back into shape, sharpening your edge.”

She felt a strange sense of fondness for the man, something she hadn’t expected. “You did teach me things. I hadn't spent much time with snipers, before.”

“Ha.” The captain snorted. “Glad to hear we didn’t waste your time.”

The man sobered. “This sith, the one you work for. Do you trust him?”

The question took her off guard, so she answered more truthfully than she probably should have. “He’s earned it.”

“Thought so. I saw the holo about the threats you made when they tried to attack you in the bathroom, months ago. You seemed very confident about what he would do.” He smiled grimly when she scowled. “Imperial Intelligence does not care for your privacy, let alone your modesty. Something to remember.”

“Sith are temperamental creatures. People of passion. I’ve seen one tear apart a cruiser, cutting through hundreds of soldiers before blowing up the engine. Our ship fished him out of space an hour later, looking bored more than anything. They’re not human, forgive the figure of speech. Not anymore.”

The captain looked at her seriously. “They hold absolute power in the Empire. I’ve watched talented officers rise fast and fall faster. Seen them turn moffs and admirals against each other, brothers cutting into brothers because they deemed it so.”

“Be careful. You have talent. Real talent. Don’t let a sith waste it on some petty feud.”

He walked off before Vette could respond. She frowned.

‘He cared. An imperial officer just cared. About me. An alien.’

She walked back to camp proper, ignoring whatever looks she got.

‘Hating the Empire doesn’t mean you have to hate every person in it.’ She told herself firmly. ‘Some can be nice. That’s still legal.’

She looked to the datapad, double checking the address. She ignored the warm feeling in her stomach, convincing herself she was just glad to get out of the military.

‘That’s right. Just happy about leaving the jungle.’

Two rithmic thuds echoed through the chamber as Morgan sparred with Lady Trix. Two knives, his knives, unerringly finding the ever moving targets. He ducked, sweeping left to make space.

For the first time in nearly three months, Lady Trix was forced back, neatly dancing out of the way. He capitalised, dashing forward with a kick. A move he had learned from the very sith he was fighting, so she danced out of the way again.

His bare foot impacted the wall, metal complaining loudly as he used it to launch himself in the air.

He could almost feel Lady Trix scoff as he left himself vulnerable, could hear the saber coming to smack him down. He couldn't see the look on her face when a vibroknife nearly took her leg, something he regretted dearly.

He landed on the other side of the room, his enforcement humming in tune with his heart. Teacher had assured him that was normal.

Lady Trix was watching him passively as his knives went back to finding their targets, the dull thuds filling the room again. Morgan didn’t relax.

“It seems you can learn after all.” She scowled. “Enough of this. Your training under me is done. Get out.”

Morgan didn’t show his puzzlement at the sudden dismissal, taking his meagre belongings and walking to the door. His knives sheathed themselves at his belt, ready to impale at a moment's notice. He expected to be ambushed, Lady Trix lecturing him about letting his guard down.

Nothing happened.

He walked out the door, seeing the sky for the first time in months. He stared at it, mesmerised.

Teacher started to float next to him, escaping his pouch. “In case it wasn’t clear, my sometimes dense apprentice, she dismissed you because you’re starting to catch up. Most would hold a grudge after being beaten around for months, and she can’t fathom you don’t.”

Morgan hummed. “I nearly got her with the knife.”

“A trick that would have worked exactly once, but yes.” The cube snorted. “If it had, it would have taken the leg. Training you is starting to become too much of a risk for her. Consider it a mark of respect.”

Morgan took out his datapad, and then promptly realised he had no real way to contact Vette. It never crossed his mind that he should probably report to Darth Baras first.

He sighed, taking a speeder to the military district. When he was there he motioned over a lieutenant. The soldier very rapidly contacted Vette’s captain, looking at him nervously every few seconds.

“Done, my Lord. The class is just about to finish their first stage of training, and the soldier you requested will be here around 22:00.” The lieutenant saluted briskly. “Is there anything else I can assist you with, sir?”

“That’ll be all, lieutenant.” He dismissed the man, ignoring how the soldier tried very hard to appear normal as he walked away.

‘Got some time to kill, might as well see the sights.’

He walked around the camp, wandering places he likely wasn’t allowed in. He stared at groups of fresh recruits being drilled on large fields, enjoying how distracted their instructors became when they noticed him.

When his stomach told him to eat he walked into a mess hall, calmly waiting in line as the cooks filled his tray. He was halfway out the door when a trooper finally noticed the lightsaber at his belt, shooting from his bench and saluting.

He left, leaving a room full of confused soldiers, and jumped up to the top of the building. Two people were arguing over a sniper, falling silent when he joined them on the roof. He ignored them.

He returned the plate when he was done, having to almost press it into the hands of the very scared and stuttering cooks, before he returned to his wandering.

Morgan was half meditating when a group of scouts marched into the base, wet and miserable. The only alien among them broke formation, skipping over to him. He realised he was smiling himself when he saw a grin cover half Vette’s face.

“Hiya stranger.” She chirped. “Guess what I just did. Huh, guess guess.”

Morgan closed his eyes, sinking into the Force. He felt its currents, how they flowed and twisted. “You just broke a record. Something about stalking beasts. You… hunted them. Yes, you killed many. I see soldiers saluting, a captain whispering quietly.”

Vette’s smile faltered, eyes widening. She scowled when his serious face broke, smirking at her. She punched his shoulder.

“I had time to kill, so I read the reports.” He confessed.

“Jerk.” She muttered. “How’d you know about the captain whispering to me? He put that in his report?”

Morgan froze, taking out his datapad. “Uhm, No. That wasn't in the report. Nothing about soldiers saluting either.”

“I don’t know how I know that. I just, do.”

Vette raised an eyebrow, rolling her eyes. “Yea yea, very funny. Know when to quit a joke.”

Morgan handed her the report. “I’m not. That’s not in there, Vette.”

Her eyes scanned the pages as they walked to her locker, finally muttering something incoherent. “Ok. So that’s going into the spooky Force stuff I don’t want to think about box.”

“So,” she forcefully moved on, “a sith came to visit me during training. Pureblood named Kripaa. Ring a bell?”

Morgan nodded, taking his datapad back. “Used to be part of my faction back during the project. What did he want?”

“Oh that’s good. Thought maybe he was lying or something. Wanted to give you a message, but said they couldn't get to you or something. What have you been up to, anyway?”

“Getting the shit beaten out of me.” Morgan waved his hand. “Learning some more about fleshcrafting. Made myself about four times stronger, learned to control two knives. What was the message?”

Vette grinned. “Busy busy, as always. I’ve been training too, thanks for asking.” Morgan rolled his eyes. “The sith said they were being deployed to Balmorra, finishing their training or something. He had special forces with him, so probably ghost shit.”

Morgan looked at her questioningly. “You know, black ops? Nevermind.”

He shook his head, hiding a smile as they bickered back and forth. His feelings went rogue, contentment filling his chest.

‘I’ve missed you.’

Morgan couldn't quite stop his conscious mind from agreeing.

Chapter Text

“So why are we escorting this prisoner again? It seems the dozen or so soldiers here, and, of course, the extremely competent commander Lanklyn, have this well under control.” Vette complained loudly. Said commander twitched, but otherwise ignored her.

Morgan hummed. “In short? Because Darth Baras ordered us to.”

“And the not short version?”

He sighed. Vette smirked at having managed to annoy him, so he sighed again. “Prisoner important. We protect. We deliver, then we no die.”

Vette pouted, an expression far too dangerous on her. Not that Morgan was influenced by it. No, of course not.

Morgan looked back, most definitely not to distract himself, and saw the carbonite slab still floating behind them. The spaceport was rather enormous, seeing as they were in the capital of an empire containing trillions. The port was suitably spacious, and the prisoner was offloaded in an out of the way hangar to begin with.

It meant they had been walking for an hour already, no trouble in sight. Vette was becoming more bored by the minute, and Morgan had to admit he was joining her. The troopers didn’t share their confidence, though. A tense bunch, their micromanaging commander not helping the mood.

It seemed the only relaxed person from their ship was the prisoner, frozen in carbonite as he was.

“Oh, here we go.” Vette muttered casually, her hand slowly moving to her blaster.

Morgan remained silent as a group of dockworkers, mechanics and drunk civilians rounded the corner, breaking into an argument almost immediately.

“Clear out the rabble.” The commander ordered briskly, irritation clear in his tone. Half the troopers surged forward, but Morgan stopped them with a raised hand.

“Hold that order, commander. Possible ambush. Take positions.”

The soldiers stopped, taking cover where they could. Morgan saw two of them peel off, moving back from where they came. The carbonite slab was left where it was, floating in the middle of the hallway.

“Now what?” Vette whispered.

“Now we wait. I’m curious to see how long they’ll keep arguing for.”

Several minutes later a human broke from the mob, wearing a resigned expression. Dreadlocks obscured his face, a blaster visible on his hip. “Well, it was worth a try. The commander seemed the type to act first and ask questions never. If only Baras hadn't sent a sith. This could have been done by now.”

The mob pulled weapons, spreading out. The human approached closer, feeling unafraid. ‘Interesting. He’s either very stupid or confident about facing sith.’

Half the mob whirled around before the situation could devolve further. Morgan could vaguely see another group approach from further down the hall, led by a male Houk.

“Alright, enough of this. One chance, dreadlock man. Leave.”

The man looked behind him, cursing under his breath. “Well, now it’s a party. Unfortunately I can’t. My master wants that prisoner, and it seems so does Tu'Marr. But make no mistake, you are not the first sith I’ve killed.”

“Vette, do as you think is best. Commander, keep your men back.” Morgan ordered shortly, leaping at the man.

The human drew his blaster, a single shot from Vette taking his head shortly before he could do anything with it. Morgan kicked off the wall behind him, jumping deep into enemy lines. The hall devolved into chaos, Morgan’s knives slipping from his belt.

Ominous red filled the hall as his lightsaber ignited, causing the thugs closest to him to flinch. They never saw the knives coming.

‘I do think this is a tad unfair.’ Morgan mused, his lightsaber cutting through yet another ‘dockworker’.

‘These guys don’t exactly feel like well trained soldiers.’ He could feel Vette further behind him, killing as many as the rest of the soldiers combined.

He sliced through a Houk, wondering briefly if it was the same one he had seen before. The second ambush party staggered back, a few deciding discretion was the better part of valour.

The dam broke, both parties fleeing as they saw their comrades desert. Morgan’s knives returned to his hands, using a piece of cloth to clean them before returning them to his belt. The commander approached soon after, Vette close behind.

He looked a tad white. “I’ll never doubt Darth Baras again.”

The commander shuddered, looking at the carnage. “I’ve never seen anything like that, either. My thanks, sith. I’d have lost good men if you hadn't been here.”

“What am I, chopped liver?” Vette griped.

The commander ignored her, as he had been doing since they got here. Morgan decided he didn’t like the man much. “Just so you are aware, commander Lanklyn, Darth Baras has given me leave to do essentially anything I wish. As long as I get the job done, he cares not what happens. Not to enemies, allies or anyone in between.”

Morgan stared at the commander. “Do not disrespect her again.”

The man stuttered out an apology, ordering his men forward. They watched as the carbonite and its escort moved down the hall, stepping over the bodies. The two troopers guarding their rear jogged past soon after.

“You didn’t have to do that.” Vette told him as they followed at a distance. “I’m used to being ignored.”

Morgan looked at her, tilting his head. “You have fought for me. Bled for me. If they can’t see your worth, shame on them, but I will not allow them to treat you badly.”

“I’ll just, punch them or something.” Vette smiled at him brightly. “You know, as long as I'm under your mighty sith protection.”

He snorted. “Try not to start a civil war, but sure.”

They moved in silence for a few minutes, keeping distance from the rest of the squad. Vette mumbled quietly as they moved through an enormous hangar.

“Thanks. I have a habit of deflecting, but I appreciate it. Seriously.”

“Go to the Imperial outpost in the jungle outside the city. Commander Pritch is stationed there. Assist him while I thaw and wring any morsel of information from my prisoner.” Darth Baras finished.

Morgan bowed, motioning Vette to follow him as he walked out.

“So that was a Republic spy, eh?” She commented as their speeder took off, taking them away from the Citadel. “And now we’re going back to the jungle. No rest for the wicked.”

“We’ll report to Pritch tomorrow. That reminds me, I haven't a clue where we’re supposed to sleep for the night.”

Vette rolled her eyes. “Three months and you haven’t even gone over all the information that Baras’s minion gave us at the spaceport?”

“I was busy.” Morgan protested. “Besides, isn’t it your job to arrange things like that? Sith should not have to deal with such menial tasks.”

“Hah.” She mocked. “Now we see your true colours. Honestly, it’s a wonder you’ve managed to stay alive this long without me.”

Vette took over the taxi controls. “You have a room at some hotel. Either means he doesn’t want you at the Citadel, is too cheap to buy you a place, or we’re not going to be on Dromund Kaas for much longer.”

“Well, I’m glad one of us can see through Baras so easily.” Morgan responded dryly.

Vette blushed. “Just a guess. Still, I thought you’d be glad not to be surrounded by hordes of sith.”

“I have made my opinion on them clear, haven’t I? Kindly don’t spread that around.”

She rolled her eyes. “I’m not stupid.”

“No.” Morgan informed her gently. “You’re insubordinate, probably a kleptomaniac and really stubborn. But you’re not stupid.”

Vette pouted, sticking her tongue out at him. “Gee thanks. Glad to be appreciated.”

They came to the hotel, the receptionist bowing as they walked in. “My Lord. We’ve been expecting your arrival.” The man handed him a key, looking sideways at Vette. “Your belongings are waiting for you, and our staff will gladly carry out any task or request you have for us.”

Morgan nodded, taking the key. Vette looked at the man curiously, piping up when the elevator doors closed. “Didn’t know spooks staffed hotels. Then again, I’ve never been to one this fancy.”

“Baras likely owns the whole building. Best assume the rooms are bugged too.”

“And staffed it with spies? Seems like his style.”

They came to the room soon after, seeing their stuff neatly stacked near the desk. “That reminds me. We should go helmet shopping before tomorrow, if we can afford it.”

“Baras gave us an account.” Vette muttered, rifling through their things. “You really should read that info packet he gave us. There’s nearly a hundred grand in there.”

Morgan raised an eyebrow. “And you resisted spending it all? I never knew you had such restraint.”

“It’s keyed to you.” She pouted. “I tried. Also, just in case you overlooked it, there’s only one bed.”

Morgan peeked into the bedroom, seeing she was right.

“I guess I’ll take the couch.” He offered at the same time Vette said. “Well, can’t be helped.”

He looked at her dryly as she scowled at him, turning away. “As if you’ve never had to share a bed before. Check your privilege.”

“Yes.” He assented easily. “The sith should really remember to check his ego. Thanks for reminding me.”

He moved to the couch, one that could easily accommodate a party. “I think I’ll be fine.”

“Your loss.” She called from the bedroom. “You wanna shower first? I bought us clothes, should be in the pile somewhere.”

“When? And I thought you didn’t have access to the account.”

Vette returned from her inspection, throwing herself on the couch when he walked to the pile. “We did get leave, every now and then. And who said I paid with legally acquired money? I’m not a hack.”

Morgan rolled his eyes, walking into the bathroom. When he was done showering he realised he took nothing with him, except a towel and his old clothes. He sniffed them. ‘I’m not getting back into those.’

He tied the towel around his waist, exiting the bathroom. Vette saw him almost as soon as he opened the door, walking forward with purpose.

“Not that I’m complaining, mind you, but you do realise we’re sharing a room now?”

He stopped, looking down. ‘Oh, right. That never used to be a problem. Jesus I’m tired.’

“Sorry, didn’t used to be a problem.” He apologised, rooting through the pile. He found a bag with his name on it, looking at his spoils.

“It’s also possible to politely look away, just so you know. Did you buy this stuff? I don’t own this.” Vette ignored him, busy ogling. Morgan resisted the urge to square his shoulders.

“What? Oh, don’t know a politely. Is she nice?”

He rolled his eyes, Vette’s brain catching up to the conversation. “Wait what do you mean it didn’t used to be a problem?”

“I was fat.” He reminded her, taking his clothes to the bathroom. “People reacted with little more than slight disgust, if they reacted at all.”

He heard Vette yelp, hearing something fall almost immediately after. “Oh, right. Were you happy, back then?”

“Happier than now.” Morgan confirmed. “I don’t think about it much. Besides, this life comes with its own advantages.”

“Right.” He heard Vette mutter softly.

He walked back some minutes later, fresh clothes hanging off him. “That’s not a dig on you, Vette. I was just a civilian. I had friends, a brother. I loved good food, watching movies or reading. My life was simple.”

She looked back at him, curious. “Ever want to go back?”

Morgan smiled sadly, turning to the window. Vette shot up. “Shit, sorry. Shouldn't have asked that. Fuck, sorry. I’ll go take that shower now.”

She all but sprinted to the bathroom, leaving Morgan to his memories.

“I couldn't even if I wanted to.” He didn’t say.

By the time she came out, fidgeting nervously, Morgan was already asleep on the couch.

Baras scowled, ignoring the whirring produced by the interrogation droid keeping his prisoner alive.

“It seems you possess a strong will.” He told his unconscious captive. “We will have to shatter it, of course, but it’s an admirable trait.”

He turned to his desk while the droid worked, picking up his datapad. “And it seems my newest apprentice has arrived at his lodgings.”

Baras often talked to his prisoners. He found it helped him focus on the task at hand, with the added benefit that some found it terrifying beyond belief. Not that this particular captive seemed to share that opinion.

He idly watched as his apprentice and the slave argued in their room, noting with interest the tidbit about a brother. Baras shot a request to intelligence for a background on his apprentice, one more thorough than the one he received when he became the boy's master. A brother was leverage, weakness. A weakness he preferred to hold rather than be threatened with.

He worked through reports and mission briefings as he waited, both on his prisoner regaining consciousness and Imperial intelligence. The latter was faster.

‘My Lord.’ The message read. ‘As requested, here is all current information compiled about the subject known as Morgan, no known last name. The subject was found during the capture of a Republic transport vessel, shipping foodstuffs to the outer rim. All members aboard were brought to a holding facility on the spaceport Kralims 4, awaiting further redistribution. During the subject's stay Sith Marauder Blanch found Morgan to have Force potential, and was remanded to his custody. The subject was brought to Korriban, where he was entered into project Culling.’

Baras looked up as his prisoner groaned, looking back down as the man failed to regain consciousness. ‘Information about the subject's family, in particular the brother, is unknown to us. In fact, the subject was not on the passenger list at all. This was, at the time, explained away as the subject having boarded the ship without the crew's knowledge. The ship's point of origin, along with more detailed information about its crew and passengers, was destroyed by the captain during the capture of the ship. We apologise that we are unable to assist further, my Lord. Would you like us to assign an observation team to the subject?’

He replied with a negative. His apprentice would not be on the planet long, and any observers not placed very carefully would be found when his apprentice moved around the galaxy.

His prisoner finally woke up, groaning and flexing against his restraints. Baras smiled behind his mask, walking over to him. “I see you have graced the world with your presence. Shall we continue?”

The spy mumbled something inane about flowers. Baras rolled his eyes. “Standard SIS distraction techniques won’t help you here, little spy.”

He leaned over, whispering softly. “I always find what cracks my prisoners. It’s my trade, you see. My specialty.”

Baras stepped back, motioning toward the droid. It injected a serum into the agent's neck, one that would heighten all sensation.

“Everybody has a breaking point.” He promised his prisoner. “Let’s find yours, shall we?”

Vette was quite glad they had stopped to buy helmets before coming here, because all the soldiers were staring again. Not at her, of course, but still. She wasn’t used to it. Attention from soldiers was bad for her health, seeing as they tended to shoot pirates on sight.

On Korriban seeing Imperial troopers meant either capture, a fight to the death, or getting dragged back to the cage. She suppressed a shudder.

Now the soldiers were lining up as they walked into camp, a camp looking rather more permanent than she would have imagined. She knew from experience the headache that came with holding even a small outpost so deep in the jungle, let alone a full base like this.

Troopers from fresh recruits to veteran captains stopped and saluted as they walked deeper inside, a helpful lieutenant pointing them towards commander Pritch. She ambled off as they reached him, waving to Morgan when he looked at her questioningly.

The base was situated next to a large river, her newly militarised mind recognizing the advantages. Her survivalist eye also recognized the danger of things crawling out of it at night, but they probably knew what they were doing. She found an Ensign looking out over a railing, staring into the water.

“So what’s a commissioned navy officer doing on a military base?” She asked idly, coming to stand next to him. He didn’t startle, to her disappointment.

The ensign ignored her question. “Pleasure to meet you, Vette. Is your Lord around?”

Vette raised her eyebrow, not that the man could see it, and looked down into the surprisingly clear water. “Seems you have me at a disadvantage.”

The man smirked. “Ensign Corian Shye, Navy Intelligence. Currently on loan to the lauded commander Pritch, to provide any and all assistance in dealing with the slave uprising.“

“Pissed someone off, did you?” Vette poked, taking off her helmet. The thing wasn't exactly comfortable on her lekku, even if the seller insisted it was made for twi’lek.

“You know how it is. You shank one drunk asshole after a night out and suddenly you’re a ‘shame to the navy’ and ‘unable to properly suppress impulses’.”

“Sure, sure.” She agreed easily. “So what you want with Morgan?”

Corian looked at her, curious. “Must have a death wish, calling a sith by his name.” He waved his hand, dismissing his own comment. “The slaves, while well armed and organised, are exhibiting some strange behaviours. Some are killing one another, mutilating the bodies, making a real show of it. It’s strange, an anomaly, and one I believe is the key to ending this little rebellion quickly.”

“So you can get out of this jungle, back to civilization.” Vette finished for him. The man wiggled his eyebrows. “That goes without saying, yes.”

“So what do you need my help with?”

The ensign shrugged. “Not so much your help as your Lord’s, but sure. I'd like you to find out why the anomaly exists, report it to me, and end this rebellion.”

“And what’s in it for me?” She demanded with a smirk. “My services don’t come free, you know.”

The man pulled out his datapad, flipping through some files. “My discretionary fund has run rather dry, but how about this? You promise to help convince your Lord to assist me, and I’ll tell you a secret. I’ll even tell you now, with only your word as my shield against betrayal.”

“Depends on the secret.” She hedged. “But sounds fair.”

Corian handed her the datapad. “A memo went out a few hours ago. ‘Assist the sith with whatever he requires, bla bla’. ‘Don’t obstruct the sith on penalty of death, bla bla’. Here’s the interesting part.”

He cleared his throat dramatically. “The retinue of the sith is to be considered outside military command, to be treated with deference and respect.”

She raised her eyebrow, unimpressed. “So I don’t have to answer to some upstart officer, not like I was going to do that anyway. If that’s the secret, you're shit out of luck.”

“You miss the juicy bit, my new friend.” He said gleefully. “‘The retinue is to be treated with deference’. That means they don’t get to give you orders, but they'll have to follow yours.”

The man waved absentmindedly. “Don’t go trying to order around moffs or generals, mind. Still, anything under captain should be fair game. Quite a secret, eh?”

Vette had to admit it was, especially for one considered to be a second class citizen. Being able to pull rank on most troopers she came across would certainly improve her chances of survival, should Morgan's presence somehow not be enough.

‘The power of sith.’ She thought dryly. Corian stiffened, all humour draining from his face. Vette turned around as he bowed his head, seeing Morgan approach.

The soldiers parted like fish before a shark, giving him ample space. ‘Well, the effort of making him not so terrifying failed miserably. The helmet doesn’t help.’

A simple thing, for all that it had cost a small fortune. No decorations or embellishments, per his insistence. Just a simple blank face covering, tapering off near the chin. The eye holes were covered with grey plastics, no light shining through.

It was black and a bit pointy, but he should have, by all accounts, looked like any other mercenary. ‘Except for the lightsaber. And the fact that he’s walking through a military base like wandering the park. And the general feeling of danger he exudes.’

Morgan came to a stop beside her, taking off his own helmet. In the brief moment his sight was obscured the spook gave her a look. ‘Yeah, fine. I keep my word.’

‘Every now and then.’ She cleared her throat, interrupting Morgan’s staring. Corian relaxed slightly as the sith stopped trying to burn a hole through him. “My friend the spook here wants us to look into some ritualistic killings. Apparently the rebels are turning on one another, and he wants to know why.”

“Ritualistic killings?” Her boss mused. “Sure. We’re going to have to go in there anyway.”

Vette shot him a questioning stare, Morgan shrugging while nodding to the Ensign. “Politics, on a need to know basis. He doesn’t need to know. We kill the captains, and the rest of the rebels fall apart.”

“It would be appreciated, my Lord.” Corian confirmed. “I understand the need for compartmentalising information, no offence taken.”

Morgan nodded to her, putting his helmet back on. “The commander has given us the location of their last position. We leave in the morning, so enjoy your evening. It might be the last one spent in comfort for the foreseeable future.”

Vette waved as he walked away, leaving her with the spook. He broke the silence when Morgan was well gone. “Not going to be a spy, that one. I’ve seen armoured tanks with more subtlety.”

His tone was light. Joking, even. Vette certainly had made similar, or worse, comments in the past. She felt her good mood evaporate anyway.

“That’s what I’m here for. And you don’t need subtlety when the tanks are running away.” She put her helmet back on, walking off. “Best keep that in mind, ensign.”

“Tell me where your captains are. If you do, I will let you go.” Morgan promised. The rebels squirmed in his grip, defiance in his eyes.

“Killing slaves leaves a bad taste in my mouth, but after four days of this goddess forsaken jungle I’m past caring.” Vette pressed, holstering her blasters. “Admittedly the ambush didn’t help your case. Now tell us, or I will kill you myself.”

Morgan grasped the rebel tighter, preventing his wiggling from resulting in freedom. Normally he would have marvelled at the fact he didn’t even need to use enforcement to hold the man. But not now, not after four days of sleeping in shifts and eating ration bars. Morgan used his free hand to point to the bodies around them.

“Look, you’re clearly organised and well trained. It was a decent ambush, just bad luck you tried it on a sith. You know where your leaders are. Tell us, and live.”

“You’ll kill me anyway.” The man spat. “I’d rather die on my feet than live on my knees.”

Vette sighed. “Believers. Rather die than give up those that already betrayed them.”

The man’s eyes flickered to her. Morgan raised his eyebrow, faking surprise. “You didn’t know? This whole thing is a squabble between Lords. My master organised it, humiliating a rival or some such. Your leaders were in it from the start.”

“Fuck off!” The rebel swore.

“Where’d you get your weapons, eh? Think the capital of the Empire is rife with smugglers?” Vette asked pointedly. “Or notice any missing members lately? Apparently some of your oh so glorious leaders are selling them back into slavery. Anyone mysteriously disappear?

“I, That's.” The man hesitated, shaking his head. “No. That can’t be true. I won’t believe it. They told me she died fighting, giving her life for freedom.”

“See her body? Personally?” The man shook his head rapidly, eyes wild. Morgan motioned to the jungle around them. “The Empire won’t drag dead rebels back to base, I can tell you that much. Hard enough to get through the jungle as it is.”

The man flinched. “I don’t. I mean. I don’t know where the camp is.” Vette frowned, but the man spoke before she could. “I swear! They moved just after we left.”

“What do you know?” She asked as Morgan sat the man down. “You must know something. You wouldn't have been that stubborn otherwise.”

The man shook his head again, eyes watering. “There’s a group. They’re not with us, not really. Even Hagrin thinks they're too brutal, and that man killed his own aunt to spare her from the hutts' brothels.”

His eyes unfocussed, voice going soft. “My wife. They told me she died fighting for us. For me.”

He shook his head, hair whipping wildly. Anger blazed in his eyes. “Twenty klicks south west from here, holing up in tunnels. They don’t move much. Idiots. Moving is how you stay alive.”

Morgan nodded, thanking the man. “Go. You might live a few more weeks, if you’re smart.”

He looked surprised, just for a moment, then sprinted away. They lost sight of him almost instantly.

“The jungle will eat him alive.” Vette muttered.

“Would you prefer I killed him myself?” Morgan asked, more sharply than he intended. She glared at him.

“No.” She ground out. “I just hate this. They're fighting for what they believe in. Fighting for their right to live free. And here we are, slaughtering them wholesale for daring to dream.”

Morgan sighed, raising his hand in surrender. “Sorry, sorry. I don’t like this either. The Empire has signed their death warrant, nothing we can do about that now. The sooner we find this ‘other group’ the sooner we find the captains. When we kill them, and Baras’s secret with them, we can get out of here. With any luck it's the same group your spy friend is after.”

Vette waved dismissively, displeasure written on her face. They moved on in silence

It was hours later that they finally found the caves, hidden deep in a ravine. Morgan looked down, scooping up Vette with his free hand. She looked at him with wide eyes.

“What do you think you-”

He jumped, holding her tightly. His enforcement snapped into place halfway down, the landing doing little more than bend his knees. Vette cursed, hitting his shoulder as he set her down.

“I have rope, you braindead monkey.”

“Big jump. Me strong.” Morgan gloated quietly. Vette rolled her eyes, a small smile playing on her lips. Morgan could almost feel the awkward tension between them dissipate.

Their good mood was short lived, however, as Morgan felt dozens of people moving towards them. He waved Vette down as she drew her blasters, crossing his arms as the group left the cave.

An odd bunch, but clearly warriors. Strong builds and graceful movements. Eyes wary, but no weapons in hand.

Their leader was the exception. His stance was open, friendly, and he had no weapons on him. He was also the only one approaching closer than twenty feet.

“You are not the initiate.” Their large, scarred leader said. “You are sith.”

The man bowed, a fluid motion. “You honour us with your presence, mighty lord.”

The rest of the group shuffled nervously, bowing stiffly after a few seconds. Their leader continued, straightening. “I am Traga un-Vhol, leader of the Unchained. I am master of my hatred.”

“Morgan, sith apprentice.” He replied. “You have mastered your hatred?”

Traga laughed. “When the other slaves broke free, I knew their escape was a delusion. I knew that it was a ploy, a trick. Only sith possess true freedom in the empire, and we are not sith. Still, I had hoped.”

“Sith is an ideology.” Morgan disagreed. “It’s true they would never accept a non-Force sensitive among their ranks, but that’s just politics. Cults and orders have, and will, exist around them.”

Traga tilted his head, a humourless smile on his lips. “You are kind. But we will not be sith, for our glorious break from enslavement was not so glorious after all. And now the rest of them, the other captains, are blackmailing the Lord that organised it.”

The man barked out a laugh, turning his back to Morgan. “Are trying to blackmail.” He corrected himself. “Trying, but not succeeding.”

Morgan watched as the man walked to his followers, who by now looked afraid more than uncertain. Traga laid his hands on the shoulder of the closest woman, looking into her eyes.

“A quick death.” He promised her.

Morgan warily backed up a few paces, Vette stepping behind him. A loud snap echoed between the rocks of the ravine, the woman dropping to the ground.

The group staggered back, some trying to run back into the cave. The dull sound of explosions promised a dead end. Others tried to fight, hacking at their unarmed leader. Traga weaved between them as if dancing, snaking his hands around another neck.

“What the fuck.” Vette whispered, uncertainty laced with horror in her tone. “Should I shoot?”

“No.” Morgan replied quietly. “But be ready.”

The slaughter didn’t last long, bodies piling on the floor. Traga walked into the cave, unhurried, when he was done. Screams of horror escaped, unintelligible pleading mixed in between.

He returned shortly after, not a speck of blood on him. “Blessed peace be upon them. All came from the earth, and all must return to it.”

“Why?” Morgan asked in the following silence. “Why turn on your own?”

“This is always how it was going to end.” Traga replied sadly. “A quick death is the best I could offer them.”

The scarred man dropped to his knees, head bowed. “The others have made camp east of here, high in the trees. Follow the stumps marked by birds, and you will find them.”

Sunlight broke through the ever present storm, bathing the ravine in gold. Morgan nodded to himself, walking behind the kneeling man. He ignited his lightsaber.

“Look at the sun,” he commanded softly, “and rest.”

“Rest.” Traga breathed. “Yes. It is time. Finally.”

Morgan swung, face carved from granite.

“We need to get off this godforsaken planet!” Hagrin slammed his fist on the table, cups rattling loudly. “Hugren, brother, tell me our contacts have agreed to smuggle us out.”

Hugren shook his head. “They won’t risk coming here, not now. Not with this much attention from the sith.”

“Godsdamnit.” Hagrin swore. “What about the rest of you?”

He looked around the rough table, seeing too many uncertain looks. Turnover had been high lately, even for the captains. It had allowed him to solidify his leadership, at least, but too many of the faces looked young. Inexperienced.

‘Not that anyone around here is green anymore. Not after two months of this.’ He admitted to himself.

“We could dig in, fortify this position?” One captain offered. Hagrin sneered at him, hating how the boy couldn’t even grow a beard yet.

“And when they start shelling us from orbit? You think the trees will protect us, do you, boy? No, staying here is out of the question.”

If it was up to him he’d have thrown them all out and planned this with his brother. Unfortunately, their rebellion was made from many different factions. They got to elect their own captains, and he couldn't do a damned thing about it. Not yet. Not even if they elected pissgreen virgins to lead them.

“We could relocate again?” Another offered, his neighbour nodding in agreement. This one, atleast, had been a pitfighter before all of this. Sadly he knew fuck all about leading people. His partner was worse, some accountant before getting into too much debt. Married, too, but he didn’t mind that. It made them all the easier to control.

“We’d lose more men to desertion and wildlife than we do fighting the imps.” He told the pair. “We cannot move, not if we want any semblance of strength left when they find us.”

“If we cannot stay, and we cannot move, what do you suggest?” His brother asked.

Hagrin growled. “We need to convince the smugglers to bring us more weapons, at the very least. Maybe shield generators, if they can manage it.”

“And how would we pay for it, exactly?” Their last member spoke up. “Our coffers are dry, and I don’t think Baras is going to pay for it. Not now that we’re blackmailing him.”

He narrowed his eyes at the woman, biting his tongue. That one was sharp, and the last of their original council. Apart from him, of course. His brother was here in an advisory role only. Something no one had liked yet hadn't been able to stop.

“We’ll find a way.” He told her firmly. “They must agree to come first.”

He turned to Hugren, cutting off whatever she was about to say in reply. “Lie to them, if necessary.”

His brother nodded, walking out of the hut. He sighed when the other captains started arguing, political blocks forming before his very eyes.

‘They just need to get here.’ He told himself. ‘Then they can smuggle me and Hugren off this fucking planet. The money my last shipment earned should be enough. Will be enough.’

Hagrin suppressed a snort. Paying the smugglers to get off this planet with the credits they paid him for their more useless members. The irony wasn’t lost on him.

The arguing went around and around, never quite coming to any decisions. He always had hated councils. They got nothing done, wasted buckets of time doing it, and usually it fell down to one person anyway.

Or two, in this case. He scrutinised the woman, almost seeing the webs she was spinning to get the majority vote away from him. Something needed to be done about her, and soon.

His planning was interrupted by one of their guards barging into the tent, white as a sheet.

“Sith, coming.” The man got out, grasping for breath.

Hagrin surged up, grabbing his blaster from the middle of the table. “Sound the alarm. How long until they get here?”

“He.” The guard said. “It’s only one. And he’s already here.”

‘One?’ He thought, bewildered. ‘What kind of maniac assaults a full war camp alone? And why didn’t the alarm go off?’

“Then shoot the bastard.” He shouted, storming to the piece of cloth serving as their door.

The rest of the captains stumbled after him, the guard at their head. “We’re trying! He’s cutting through everyone we’re sending at him.”

Hagrin moved to the edge of the platform, looking down. One of their original captains, long dead, had suggested they use their construction experience to avoid the beasts by building high off the ground. He had liked the man. Real shame he had discovered where his money came from.

The sith was standing there, a ring of rebels surrounding him. The platform below the captain's hut was large, meant to allow their numbers to come together. Now it was full, yet no one was shooting.

“Kill the bastard.” He roared, raising his blaster. He saw his brother, almost exactly on the opposite side, take aim to fire. Hugren had always been loyal. Always been better at shooting too, so he was quicker on the draw then he was.

The sith didn’t even look back as he reflected the bolt. Didn’t look back as Hagrin watched his brother's eyes widen. Watch as he bolt impacted his brother in the torso, punching straight through him.

‘Oh.’ He thought numbly, seeing his brother's body fall to the jungle below. ‘So that’s why no one’s shooting.’

Before he could think better of it he was already jumping, landing on the lower platform with a thud. He barely felt his knees complaining as he grabbed a vibrosword from someone's hands, raising it to the sith.

The armoured man said nothing, turning to face him fully. Doubt tried to form, but the numbness swallowed it all. Reason tried to reassert itself, but by then he was already charging.

He knew he had to dodge the lightsaber. Thought that if he could dodge the first blow, his sword would take the head clean off this fucker.

His arm froze halfway into his first swing, wrongness tearing through him as his limb refused to move. Searing heat radiated from his stomach, and he looked down to see plasma sticking through his navel.

The wrongness left, pain taking its place. He crumpled, clutching his wound.

Hagrin blinked, suddenly seeing four more bodies on the ground. He noticed bolt marks instead of plasma cuts, his shocked mind coming to a conclusion.

‘Sniper.’ He thought weakly. ‘He has a sniper somewhere.’

He blinked again, and the scene changed once more. Now his fellow captains were on their knees before the sith, their own followers keeping them there. The sith’s lightsaber flashed, and their council was dead in its entirety.

“My mission was to kill your captains.” He heard the sith say. “And that mission is completed. I care not what happens to you now, but know that I will be reporting this location to the Imperial military on my way back.”

His failing vision saw his comrades run like rats, vague disgust running through him. ‘I’d rather die on my feet than live on my knees.’

The last thing Hagrin saw was the sith looking straight at him. For some inane reason, his last thought was that the sith knew exactly what he had done. How he had sold his fellow slaves, killed his rival captains.

His last thought was that a sith found his deeds disgusting.

Chapter Text

Grik Sonosan was afraid. “I don't care what you do. Break my bones, burn my flesh. I’ll tell you nothing!”

He was also very good at not showing it. Being here, this whole planet, was the worst thing he could have ever imagined. Luckily for him, SIS tended to train its agents for the worst possible scenarios.

His eyes flickered over to the opening door, an armoured humanoid and twi'lek entering. ‘Possibly the Darth’s apprentice, judging by the deference.’

Grik almost laughed at his own mind. Here he was, days from death and with no chance in hell of ever returning to be debriefed, but his compulsive disorder was still loyally categorising every piece of intel he learned.

“I’m afraid it will be quite a bit worse than that, agent.” The armoured man informed him. Strangely, it didn’t sound like a threat. It sounded, in fact, apologetic. His mind added that information to the unknown sith’s file.

“Yes it will.” Darth Baras promised. Then the masked sith turned around, sparing him no more attention. Oh how he would love to sink his vibroknife through that exposed neck, slicing the jugular and spine in one clean motion.

He knew it was a fantasy, even if he was somehow unbound and had his knife. But fantasies are how the mind protects itself, his teachers had once told him. He had found that to be something of an understatement.

“Commander Pritch confirmed that the slaves have been silenced. Good.” Darth Baras said to his possible apprentice. “I’m still trying to extract the information I crave from this Republic agent. He’s much more resilient than anticipated.”

The armoured man said nothing, his composure relaxed. The twi’lek seemed uncomfortable, though doing a good job of hiding it.

‘Possible recruit. Working for a sith yet wearing no collar could indicate skill in combat. Non-human in Imperial territory means a high chance of abuse, either former or ongoing.’

He shook his head, paying attention to the conversation again. “-involves a renegade sith Lord named Grathan. A particularly bothersome thorn in my side. Meet with my apprentice, Dri’kill Ba’al. He’s my covert operative in Grathan’s compound. Ba’al claims to have made a key discovery.”

And just like that, any hope he had of leaving this place alive vanished. Darth Baras, by all accounts, was a prodigious spymaster. He knew escape was unlikely, but he had hoped to break free during transit. The transit he was sure would occur after the Darth failed to break him, and Imperial Intelligence would have its turn.

Now he knew he was never going to leave this chamber alive, let alone the building. Truthfully, even saying this much in his presence was sloppy. Arrogance had been the sith’s downfall since their conception, but sadly he didn’t think it would help him here.

“Grathan’s presence is useful to me, so I don’t want him killed.” Baras continued. “Find out what Ba’al has discovered and do exactly as he instructs.”

Grik heard the armoured man speak again, his ears filtering out the helmet's distortion with ease. “And should Ba’al, for whatever reason, decide I have outlived my usefulness after the task is completed?”

Darth Baras shrugged, uncaring. “Then the strongest will continue under my tutelage, as is the way of the sith.”

The armoured sith bowed, turning away. The twi’lek joined him, throwing him a sympathetic look. He smiled at her, winking. She really was quite pretty.

“Now then, Republic wretch, where were we? Oh yes, breaking you until you tell me what I wish to know.”

He smiled at the Darth, spitting some blood at him. He briefly wondered if the Darth was pretty behind that mask. ‘I won’t break. My mind is a vault, and you don’t have the key.’

Lightning flashed, so he let himself scream. He laughed when it stopped, because why was he in pain again? Vaults are made of steel, and steel can’t feel anything.

‘That’s right, it can’t. My doors are locked, and you don’t have the key.’

Grathans compound was deep in the jungle, a place Morgan was getting far too familiar with. Vette seemed to agree.

“Shall we join the massive amount of soldiers, sith and tanks surrounding the compound? Maybe use them as a distraction, or perhaps even join in a full assault? No! Shall we, instead, paint our armour green and go sneak about until we find the vague as fuck meeting point? Yes!”

Morgan found that unfair. Their armour was camouflaged, not painted green. And it wasn’t his fault Ba’al had been vague about where to meet him.

“Baras doesn’t want Grathan dead.” He reminded her. “So a full assault won’t be happening anytime soon.”

She kicked a rock away, scaring a small lizard hiding under it. “And his opinion is all that matters?”

“For now, yes.” Morgan confirmed. Vette huffed.

They fell into comfortable silence, stalking through the jungle. Vette, trumping his scouting experience by several magnitudes, was leading them in increasingly large half circles. Their meeting point, a large rock with a hollow tree behind it, was apparently somewhere north of the compound. It was rather hard to find.

“Fucking finally.” Vette complained. “I’ll go brood up in a tree, should the meeting not go quite as planned.”

She was already climbing by the time Morgan walked into the small clearing, seeing the rock and tree combo. It was, he had to admit, a large rock. And the tree was indeed very hollow. It had still taken them six hours to find.

Then they had to hurry up and wait, talking intermittently on the coms that Vette had rigged to their helmets. The ones that came with the helmets were, in her words, a ‘disgrace to cyber security’ and apparently ‘baby monitors have better range than this shit’.

He meditated as they waited, practising what he could for fleshcrafting. Teacher had given him exhaustive exercises, one’s that had to be mastered before they could move to the next step. He understood that, but it didn’t make influencing his bone marrow any easier. Still, he’d be ready for their next lesson soon enough.

Finally, after three more hours, he felt a sith enter his perception. One that was moving fast.

Ba’al entered the clearing, short haired and with a deep pair of scars on his face. Morgan faintly sensed that one of his eyes was cybernetic, giving off a strange sensation in the Force.

“You must be the operative Lord Baras sent. I thought he’d choose a stealthy assassin, not some senseless savage.”

Morgan looked at him dryly, his helmet obscuring the expression. “Nice to meet you too.”

“Well, aren’t you the mild mannered supplicant.” Ba’al needled. “But we’ve got business to handle. The complex is roused, some impatient sith welp leading an assault last night. The guard is still on high alert, so sneaking you in won’t be easy. Luckily for us, I’ve got another way. Follow me, and tell your pet that sniper won’t do more than tickle.”

Ba’al turned around, expecting them both to follow. Vette scaled down the tree, her own helmet hiding her scowl.

Their escort made several more snide comments as they walked, mostly some variation about Morgan’s lack of experience. He also complained several times about their slow pace, pointily ignoring Vette’s existence at the same time. Morgan tuned him out, privately whispering to Vette to do the same. And here he had thought that coupling the mute function of his helmet to the coms was overkill.

They came to a tunnel soon after, hidden deep in a cave and protected by a large stone. Morgan raised his eyebrow. “Grathan built an escape tunnel in his impenetrable bunker? Seems sloppy.”

Ba’al grunted, climbing down the steep ladder. “He didn’t. Built it myself. Who knew that studying architecture before becoming sith would come in useful."

A quarter hour of walking the thin, rough tunnel later and Morgan felt many more signatures appear in his perception, signaling they had entered the compound proper. He felt a disturbing amount of Force sensitives, if not very strong ones.

There were so many he almost missed the three waiting for them in a large chamber, the door hidden behind a storage shelf. They didn’t seem surprised when it moved aside, Ba’al climbing out first.

Morgan told Vette to hang back, entering the room. A woman with large buns for hair, a sith pureblood and a man so heavily augmented he could hardly see flesh looked at him, Ba’al joining their side.

“Aren't you, you know, supposed to wait until after I’ve completed my task to ambush me?” Morgan asked curiously.

The human woman scoffed. “Like we need you for that. No, Lord Grathan is on his way out. Lord Baras has promised us amnesty, should we assist him in this task.”

“Did Baras promise you that, or did Ba’al?” Morgan inquired politely. He felt a ripple of uncertainty go through her, but the other three were too well shielded to properly sense emotion.

Ba’al raised his eyebrow, unimpressed. “Though I’m more than capable of facing you alone, a smart man uses every advantage. And I am a smart man.”

Morgan leaned right, the sniper bolt taking half the head from the only human woman when he got clear. “I agree.”

He jumped backwards, sliding into the narrow tunnel. The augmented human followed, speeding past his fellows. Before his training with Lady Trix, he likely wouldn't have been fast enough to even see the man’s movements.

Now, however, he calmly blocked the shallow swipes and probing jabs, the lightsabers leaving deep grooves into the tunnel walls. He gave ground easily, right until Vette threw the electromagnetic grenade.

‘That’s the problem with enhancements, even if you shield them.’ Morgan mused. He stepped into the cyborgs guard, taking advantage of his second or so stutter. Snaking his hands around the man’s neck was childsplay, even if he had to be quick. ‘They tend to be oh so vulnerable to sabotage.’ He twisted hard, the sith’s metal enhanced spine screaming as it rotated.

“That was my only homemade extra strength EMP.” Vette called through the coms. “And the other two don’t seem to be following.”

“Going in, hang back and see if you can’t snipe another one.” Morgan responded.

The room was as he left it, the sith pureblood shaking her head. Ba’al was pacing, snapping his lightsaber to his hand when Morgan entered.

“A senseless savage to the end. Can’t even die when your betters demand it.” Ba’al taunted. “Maybe I’ll have some fun with that pet of yours, after you're dead. She seems like a screamer.”

Morgan guided the flash of rage into his limbs, shooting forward. The scarred apprentice blocked, smirking condescendingly. “So you care for your little slave? Disgusting.”

Several exchanges went the same, the pair slowly spreading around the room. The pureblood seemed to be staying out of it, and he had the nagging feeling he knew her.

He couldn't quite get past the sith’s guard, but neither could Ba’al get past his. Their stalemate ended when Morgan threw a kick, shamelessly copied from Lady Trix.

Ba’al blocked with his arm, his other hand sweeping his lightsaber down for a slash. Surprise shuttered over his face as he was catapulted through the room instead, a sickening snap reverberating off the walls. The durasteel wall wasn't any easier on his back.

“Help me, you useless woman.” Ba’al spat, scrambling up. “You’ll never get the artefact if I die!”

He snapped to the side, narrowly dodging the bolt that would have taken his one working arm. Morgan was there in a flash, pressing his advantage even as he kept a close eye on the pureblood.

Ba’al, now with one working arm and likely a bruised spine, did the best he could. His best lasted for another fifteen seconds.

Morgan held his lightsaber under Ba’al’s chin, the heat forcing his head up. The rest of his body lay broken. “Tell me what you have uncovered about Grathan.”

The scarred man gurgled something, hatred escaping him in waves. Morgan was just too slow in removing his lightsaber, Ba’al pressing his head down into it.

“Well, I’ll give him points for resolve.” The pureblood mused, the smell of burned flesh invading the room. “If not quite intelligence. Even a blind man could deduce that you’re hiding your power.”

Morgan deactivated his lightsaber, assuring Vette that everything was alright but to stay back. “And who might you be?”

The woman bowed theatrically. “Former apprentice and assassin to Lord Grathan, at your service. I was once known by a different name, but you can call me Ladra. I serve the Master.”

Morgan’s mind resurfaced a memory of a camp in the jungle, a trial in caves. Her face finally clicked. “Ah, a Revanite. I suppose this artefact is one of Revan’s memento’s.”

“Not a savage at all.” Ladra praised. “I indeed serve the Order. In particular, I wish to obtain Revan’s mask, rumoured to be in Grathan’s compound.”

He sighed. “And I suppose you made a deal with old Ba’al here to get it.”

“Indeed I did. Sadly, that deal seems to have fallen through somewhat.” She shrugged. “Plans change.”

Vette joined them, her head turning to the woman with half a face. “I just killed a sith.”

“Well done.” Morgan praised, clipping his lightsaber to his belt. “Now then, I suppose it’s time for us to come to an agreement?”

Ladra grinned, her tone playfully mocking. “Why, I do so love making agreements.”

Teacher reclined in his chair, twisting the piece of Force knowledge in his hands. It had degraded an unacceptable amount, but he had been diligent. Several backups were available, and merging the original with the copy would reinforce it adequately. He’d have to make a copy of the copy, unfortunately, but it would have to do.

He looked around his office, holding that title solely for the large desk in the middle. The rest was positively covered in bookcases, large, looming monstrosities that used to scare him as a child. But he had grown to love his father's library, so when the time had come to design his mansion for the holocron he had copied it wholesale.

Still, not everything was as it should be. Several doors connected his study to the rest of the house, long since lost. His original design had called for a forest to surround his childhood home, large lakes and mountains to give it a natural barrier.

Time limitations had forced him to abandon much of the outside world, but the mansion itself had been completed. But he’d miscalculated, and the decay had started sooner than expected.

He sighed. Now he was stuck in a single room, the only balm being that it was his favourite. At least his apprentice had been a reprieve from the sheer boredom. Preparing Morgan’s lessons had been a pleasant distraction from his crumbling world, but there was little else to do. At least the sleep function still worked. Insanity would have long claimed him otherwise.

Shoving the Force construct back into its place, he reclined further. Now would be a good time for a nap, he decided. Teacher set the alarms, making sure to tune them to Morgan’s touch, and let darkness take him.

Waking, as usual, was an instantaneous affair. One moment he was pleasantly thinking of nothing, the next his mind snapped into perfect focus. It had been more than a little uncomfortable, at first, but he had grown used to it.

He focussed, taking control of the holocrons' various steering and flight mechanics. He stretched, more out of habit than need, and pushed his perception outwards.

He, or rather they, were in a small room. By the way his apprentice and the twi’lek were practically in each other's laps, and being wonderfully uncomfortable about it, it wasn’t by choice. Teacher grinned, not that either of them could see it. Seeing those two together was more interesting than any holomovie. Or maybe he was so bored that anything counted as entertainment.

“And what delightful trouble have you gotten yourself into this time, my apprentice?”

He perceived Morgan’s shrug, the lack of light having little impact on his sight. “Currently? Hiding in a panic room, waiting for the estate defenders to act less like kicked ants. Then it’s off to kill a mother and son, as you do. Oh, I’ve gathered some minor wounds here and there. Nothing that won’t heal.”

Teacher made the cube nod. “Understandable. It is ever so dangerous for sith to be in battle. Best to avoid that, if at all possible.”

“I was trying for a modicum of subtlety.” Morgan responded dryly. “Besides, killing three of Grathan’s apprentices is plenty for today.”

He tilted his head. “Although I can only take credit for about one and a half, really.”

Vette, a name Teacher remembered only because she seemed important to his apprentice, frowned at him. “Two. I only killed one.”

Or maybe she had something interesting going on after all. Killing sith could never be classified as easy, especially for those not attuned to the Force. His apprentice frowned. “I’m counting the EMP as half, seeing as it gave me the opening to kill him.”

Vette hummed, turning her focus back on the datapad in her lap. “You’re the one that snapped his neck. Or tore it off, more like. I swear, one day I’ll find you lifting an actual building, acting all confused when everyone freaks out.”

“Is there a reason I am here?” Teacher interrupted his apprentice, who looked on the verge of retorting.

“Ah, yes. Since we’ll be here for a while, I thought we could continue our lessons. Regeneration would be quite nice, especially if I can use it to heal others.”

Teacher, not for the first time, wondered how far the sith had fallen. Honestly, expressing a desire to heal others, even your own followers, would have you laughed out the room. Or stabbed out, anyway. Compassion like that tended to breed loyalty, and no one wanted a Fleshcrafter Lord with a loyal army.

He saw Vette’s head snap up, quickly looking back down. She pretended it hadn’t happened, but Teacher could almost see the gears in her head turning. He almost laughed.

Seemed it was already too late for that, not that Teacher really cared. His old peers would have, certainly, and he reckoned many from this age would too. He shrugged, conjuring the memory of a drink.

“It certainly could.” He answered. “It’s harder, as are most things performed on others, but quite doable.”

Morgan grinned. “Perfect. How do we start?”

“Well, firstly, we start with actually knowing what regeneration is. And perhaps more importantly, what it isn’t. The benefits are numerous, from regrowing limbs to all but halting cell decay, but that will come later. The following principles apply na-”

Teacher lectured, his pre-planned lessons ensuring a coherent whole. While one part of him taught, another part reflected.

It really was a shame most of the personality transfer had failed. If he was his old self, his whole self, he would have been the perfect apprentice. With a sith like Morgan at his side, he could perhaps even have built himself a body again. Transferring someone into or out of a holocron was perhaps one of the most difficult feats he had ever performed, but with the way Morgan was going through the lessons it would have taken a decade at most.

From there he could properly teach, and both of them together could rebuild his Empire from the ground up. The jedi were weak, the sith disorganised. Oh yes, it would have been a glorious thing.

Teacher felt the spark of ambition fail to take hold, slipping between his fingers. He’d lost so very much, back then. Even his name was gone. So at the end of the day, he just didn’t care. Not about power, or his Empire. Not about revenge or love.

Just knowledge.

Vette stretched, climbing out of the panic room they had been holed up in for most of a day now. Morgan’s senses, or whatever he called being able to see through walls, had told them most of the soldiers had returned to the perimeter.

She didn’t like, let alone trust, this Ladra character. Still, she seemed to have kept her word. None had even come close to their hidey hole, so the most they had to suffer through was boredom.

Well, she had been bored. Morgan had seemed very busy learning to regrow limbs and stuff. Vette suppressed a giggle. First she killed an honest to goddess sith, now her boss was learning to make them both practically immortal. Things were looking up for little old Vette, yes they were.

She focused, ensuring her gear was all there. Sniper, check. Blasters, check. Grenades, double check. “All set.”

Morgan nodded, shut the door, and turned to walk down the hallway. They had both studied the schematics provided by Ladra thoroughly, but even so the endless hallways and tunnels of the underground portion of Grathan’s estate were maze-like. Probably on purpose, she realised.

She kept silent as they stalked, Morgan’s lightsaber cutting through what obstacles her encryption algorithms couldn't open. It was after breaking down yet another door that they finally encountered resistance.

The patrol, composed solely of droids, smoothly opened fire. She huffed. People would have hesitated, or at least be as surprised as they were. She rolled two explosives between their legs as she ducked for cover, taking out her blasters.

They weren’t needed, she saw, as Morgan cut through what droids still stood after her grenades had detonated.

Vette shook her head. If this was all the protection Grathan had to offer she would eat her hat. Actually, she would need to buy a hat first.

“You think we could stop to buy a hat on the way back to see Baras?”

Morgan looked at her with a beaming smile, so she stuck her tongue out. Not that she could actually see his expression, or he her tongue, but she had fun imagining. He also didn’t bother to reply, which she took as confirmation.

Getting into the vault holding Revan’s mask, because of course the woman had insisted they get the thing first, was rather easy. The door, one her thieving eye could see was near unbreakable, was no match for a lightsaber. Oh all the things they could steal.

Speaking of stealing, she peeled off as Morgan went to collect the mask. She very much doubted this whole vault was built just for the thing, and she would quite like a look at what else the sith wanted protected so badly.

To her disappointment, it was mostly useless crap. Oh, she had no doubt that all these paintings and statues would be worth a fortune. If she could find a buyer. Which she couldn't, because no one in their right mind bought stolen art. And she didn’t like dealing with those not in their right mind.

Disappointed, but still pinching some small jewellery and ornaments and such, she went to rejoin Morgan. That stuff would be easy enough to fence, although probably best if she waited until they were off Dromond Kaas. It wasn't like they would be searched when they left.

She was almost back to Morgan when she heard the fighting. Cursing, and grabbing her sniper from her back, Vette peeked around the corner.

There, surrounded by a dozen droids and a humongous looking human, was her boss. She wondered why he hadn’t contacted her for help, but then he kicked a droid so hard it nearly embedded itself into the wall.

‘Right, he’s crazy strong now. Still, best help out where I can.’

She aimed, breathed calmly, and the big human had a nice new hole in his chest. Some droids peeled off, a decision she honestly couldn't tell was wise or not. On one hand, turning your back on a sith was just asking to die. On the other, leaving a sniper free rein was so stupid it didn’t even merit consideration.

In this case it was both. Morgan’s lightsaber turned his remaining opponents into scrap, jumping up and rocketing himself off a railing straight at the droids charging her. Meanwhile her sniper was steadily reducing their numbers, even if they had the annoying habit of randomly changing speed and direction.

She walked over when everything was dead, waving her sniper at him in salute. Morgan turned to her. “Far be it for me to ruin it, but you seem to be in a good mood.”

Vette laughed. “Are you kidding me? We’re in a vault, robbing some rich bastard who doesn’t deserve his money, and if anyone disagrees I can count on the scary sith that’s with me to help them change their minds.”

“Right. Basically your dream job.” Morgan replied dryly. “I’ve got the mask. Seems unwise she told us what Ba’al discovered first, but I did give my word.”

“Oh, right.” Vette hummed, her good mood dampening. “Killing a baby sith. And possibly his not so baby mother, who is also sith. Barrel of laughs. Why couldn't she get the mask herself again?”

Morgan shrugged, so she patted her sniper. “Well, at least we’re shooting people that deserve it.”

He kept a close eye on the various signatures that represented the sith, but so far none had converged on their location. Vette was bypassing the last security measure, and he could feel their two targets pace in a room not far away. They were alone, as far as he could tell.

Unfortunately that didn’t mean much here, seeing as most of the security in the inner sanctum was automated. Droids were common, but automated turrets, gas chambers and even one honest to god trapdoor all made their break-in slow to a crawl, simultaneously making it damned hard to sense the patrols. The vault hadn’t been near as protected, but then most sith valued money second.

Morgan patted the mask, the outline of which was visible on his small pack. He’d packed rations and other essentials for a week's trip, and he was glad he did. The hideout in the safe room already set them back significantly, and they weren’t even on their way out yet.

“Got it.” Vette huffed. “Stupid thing. Who even uses hydraulic safeguards anymore?”

The door opened, and he got a half-second warning before a wave of blaster fire washed down the hall. He all but rammed Vette behind a pillar, focussing on his sight. Their targets were still in the room he had first felt them in, but a deeper scan revealed a hollowness that shouldn't be there.

“Fuck.” Morgan cursed, switching to internal comms. “They planted decoys. Didn’t want to spook them by scanning them too thoroughly. It appears the mother is gone, but the son feels solid.”

Vette had drawn her blaster, a grenade held loosely in her other hand. “We all have our off days, boss. I count some two dozen battle droids plus a mounted machine gun. That’s gonna be hell to get past, not to mention the sith.”

He cursed again. “Ten to one that’s Grathan's wife, too. She’s too well shielded for me to get a good grasp on her strength, and that’s not a good sign.”

Vette holstered her blaster, taking four grenades in her hands. She threw them well, from what he could see. Unfortunately she’d never fought sith outside of an ambush, and Morgan’s favourite trick against explosives was used against them.

He only realised what the other sith would do a split second before she did it, but it was enough to act. The wave of power told him that blocking them outright was a bad plan, so instead he helped her push.

Their fiery death went flying past them, harmlessly collapsing the hallway some hundred feet behind them.

Vette looked over her shoulder, a choked laugh crackling over the comms. “Correct me if I’m wrong, and I really hope I am, but was that our only path of escape?”

The endless wave of blaster fire stopped, and a voice spoke before Morgan could respond. “I am Cellvanta Grathan. You have entered my home uninvited, sith. Name yourself, before I sic a hundred apprentices on you.”

Morgan exchanged a puzzled look with Vette. “There are only forty three sith in this compound, not counting yourself and your son. They are also needed elsewhere, unless you’d like the Imperial army outside your gate to come say hello.”

There was silence, a rather awkward one. Morgan continued out of sheer puzzlement. “Wouldn't it have been more effective to threaten me with your husband? You know, the sith Lord?”

“Unless your husband can’t, or won’t, answer your call?” Morgan guessed. “That’s rather cold, even for a Lord.”

“Silence!” Cellvanta demanded. “I am still the Lady of this house. You will speak to me with respect, or you won’t be speaking at all.”

“About that. Why, exactly, are we talking?”

Another silence, and Morgan had a feeling this was not going as she expected. Well, jokes on her. This wasn’t going as he expected either.

“You have fought your way into the inner sanctum of a powerful sith Lord’s stronghold. You are a breath away from the master himself. Kill him, and I will let you go.”

Morgan considered that, exchanging a look with Vette. “Alright.”

A sharp pinch of relief reached him, one that Cellvanta apparently hadn’t been able to suppress. He switched to internal comms again. “Stay here and get ready. I’m stabbing her the second I’m close enough.”

He walked out of cover, half expecting to be met with machine gun fire when he did. Instead the droids did nothing, Lady Cellvanta looking at him imperiously.

Morgan took one step, then another. Still nothing. He was halfway when the sheer disbelief grew too large to ignore. She was actually letting him approach. She had them. Blocked and trapped, sandwiched between heavy anti infantry weaponry and a dead end.

He stopped some feet from her, the droids standing motionless. He slowly unclipped his lightsaber, holding it up with a loose grip as a token of surrender. Cellvanta drew back, suspicious, but relaxed when he just held it out in front of him.

Three months he had practised with his knives. Three long months of practising his telekinesis with an angry blademaster trying to kick his teeth in. He usually preferred to use those knives for crowd control, true, but these were proper battle droids. The ones he had fought in the tombs had been a marvel of engineering, to be sure, but older doesn’t always mean better.

So he grabbed his lightsaber with the Force, igniting it and sweeping across the ranks of Lady Cellvanta’s escort. The muted sound of Vette’s sniper disabled another one, and then the sith was left with only two.

Two droids he ignored, recalling his lightsaber and pouncing on her. He idly sheared the machine gun in half as he did, just to be sure.

His enemy had fallen back, drawing her own lightsaber. Plasma hissed as she blocked his first strike, then keened as she narrowly dodged his kick.

Her footwork was immaculate, Morgan admitted. Her bladework was sharp, and her control over the Force excellent. She was his superior in power, experience and knew the terrain better than him. By all metrics, he should have been losing.

His vibroknife nearly took her in the shoulder, and Morgan pressed her moment of imbalance.

He landed a punch on her stomach, his strength knocking out the breath despite her enforcement.

She parried, a well executed, proper reply to his attack on her right hip. His second knife sunk into her other leg with a whine.

“You didn’t graduate from Korriban, did you?” He asked, ignoring his better judgement.

Lady Cellvanta hastily pulled back her arm, nearly losing it when he didn’t take her feint. “I’ve been trained by some of the best blademasters alive!”

“Yes.” Morgan agreed, recalling his knife from her leg. She visibly suppressed a winch. “Your skills are sharp. Your fighting style refined.”

He punished a moment of hesitation when he forced her into a non-standard block, kicking her already injured leg. It broke with a sickening snap. “But Korriban teaches you to adapt.”

She lost her balance, so he took both her arms with a quick swipe. Lady Cellvanta collapsed entirely.

“Wai-”

Morgan took her head with a clean stroke. “And it teaches one to not hesitate, when the time comes.”

“Shit boss, that was ruthless.” Vette piped up, inspecting the slightly molten machine gun. “Not saying you're wrong, since we don’t owe her jack. She shouldn't have stopped firing, seeing as we where pretty well fucked back there. Still, ruthless.”

A door hissed open, ominous footsteps thundering down the large hangar.

“I am Beelzlit Grathan, son of sith Lord Grathan. You have entered my home uninvite-” The speech cut off as Vette shot him, the sniper round taking him in the throat.

“He doesn’t count.” Morgan said quickly. “He’s still an acolyte.”

Vette scowled, a gesture so strong Morgan could feel rather than see it. “He’s an adult. Look, he’s got a beard.”

She walked over, looking closer. “Or maybe just some patches of hair. Fuck, did I just shoot a kid?”

Morgan shrugged. “He’s an acolyte.”

“I am sith.” The corpse gurgled. “Sith is sith!”

Vette drew back, surprised. “How is he not dead?”

She shook her head, drawing her balster. The bolt took him between the eyes.

“Sith is Sith? Really? That’s what you want your last words to be?” Morgan asked, black humour bubbling.

“I know right.” Vette complained. “It’s like they don’t practise their last words or something. Weirdos.”

Alarms started blaring in the distance, both of them exchanging a look.

“I still say it counts.” Vette argued as they walked back to the blocked hallway. “He had a saber thingy and everything.”

Chapter Text

“Please, for the love of everything you hold dear, tell me we’re getting a break?” Vette pleaded.

“Everything that I hold dear is in this room, Vette.” Morgan answered distractedly, looking down at the puzzle in his hands.

She spluttered silently, thanking the goddess that he was preoccupied with the holocron.

‘An offhanded, heartfelt compliment.’ She thought, ignoring the warm glow in her chest. ‘My one weakness.’

“Besides, we still need to return the mask to Ladra.”

Vette made a face. “Back to the jungle? Again?”

An audible click reverberated through the empty restaurant, the two droids that had served them nowhere to be seen. Morgan grinned, setting the holocron on the table. “Got it. Thinks he can fool me with triple false pathways.”

He looked back to Vette, who by now had gotten herself under control again. He didn’t seem to register what he had said. “I don’t make the rules. But I do have a present.”

She perked up, looking at his empty hands. Vette scowled. “I don’t think you know how presents work.”

“You and your material greed.” Morgan scolded. “No, this is something more of a biological gift.”

Vette raised her eyebrow, enjoying the way his face had gone blank. “That was really creepy.”

“Yeah.” Morgan forged on. “Anyway. Teacher said I’m more or less good enough to do to others what I did to myself.”

“Increased strength.” He clarified. “And speed, I suppose. But that’s the same muscle, just applied differently.”

She straightened, looking at him with wide eyes. “You can make me as strong as you are?”

“No, no. Sorry. That’s a combination of enforcement and increased natural strength. But you should be around four times as strong as you are now.”

“That’s.” Vette said gleefully. “That’s fucking amazing. Let’s do it, right now!”

“A word of caution, Vette.” Teacher interrupted, the holocron floating off the table. “Not that I really care, but it seems proper. An increase in strength means changing many natural biological processes. Now, my apprentice has progressed adequately since his own forging, but that is not to say it is without drawbacks or risks. An increase in daily calories is required, and I cannot understate how fast you will starve without food.”

Vette visibly hesitated. Teacher sighed impatiently. “Let me finish before cowardice claims you. Since you are not a fleshcrafter, or even able to manipulate the Force at all, the changes will revert naturally. I should think it needs refreshing about once every twenty four hours or so, after which you will lose your modifications over a week's period. Your daily intake of food should triple, and you will most likely be joining my apprentice in eating the calorie dense ration bars reserved for only the largest of species.”

“That’s not so bad.” Vette rebounded. “You made it sound like I would starve in hours.”

“About a week and a half, from the normal three weeks.” Teacher confirmed.

She nodded her head, her lekku bouncing against the bench. “No price too high to join Morgan in slapping around half ton battle-droids.”

“That’s not how that works.” Morgan muttered. “Anyway. Beside that, there are other risks. The greatest of which will be me changing your body's natural biology.”

Vette tilted her head. “So?”

“So I could change literally anything. Have access to everything. ”

“Oh, like that.” She waved her hand dismissively. “I trust you. Not like you can’t do pretty much whatever you want anyway.”

Morgan smiled, one of those rare moments where it reached his eyes. Vette grinned, ignoring the way her stomach did a slight flip.

“I’ll endeavour to live up to it.” He promised. “Now, this shouldn't take long. Kindly keep an eye out so I don’t get shanked.”

Vette kept still as he reached over the table, putting a hand on her shoulder. Teacher muttered something inaudible, but she ignored him.

Tingling started soon after, with cramps joining them after some ten minutes. Nothing too bad, and they usually stopped mid spasm. It didn’t hurt as such, just felt strange.

After about half an hour Morgan opened his eyes, smirking. “All done.”

Vette frowned. “I don’t feel any different?”

She grabbed the edge of the table, bolted to the floor. She didn’t see Morgan’s eyes widen, or the way Teacher floated over the hide behind his shoulder. Instead she was focussed on her arms, and how her hands felt gripping the table.

It didn’t feel like super strength. She shifted her grip, pulling upwards like she wanted the table on the ceiling.

Metal groaned as the table bent, snapping soon after. She held the piece in hand, confusion on her face.

“That’s. You said four times, right? Not forty?”

Morgan gently took the piece of table from her hands, setting it aside. “Yes, about four times. But people underestimate how much strength that is.”

“Still, I shouldn't be able to snap steel like that.” She protested. “Also I’m really, really hungry.”

Morgan handed her a ration bar, having one ready. “I doubt this shitty cantina bought the highest grade durasteel available, or has been maintaining the stuff.”

Vette bit a piece off, looking down at it questioningly. Morgan answered her unspoken question before she could ask it. “It’s not just arms and legs. Jaw, fingers and all other small muscles have increased in strength too. Be careful not to shatter your teeth, and yes, that is something you can do now.”

“What the fuck.” She said, feeling her teeth break the dry, hard ration bar with little issue. “How?”

“Part of it is to remove, or, more accurately, suppress the body's own limitations. Normally this would do nothing but make you snap every little tendon and bone you have, but I’ve strengthened those too.”

“This is so cool.” She tried to stand, slamming her knees into what remained of the table. “Fuck. Ow, less cool.”

“You’ll need time to adjust.” Morgan assured her. “The fetch quest for Ladra will do fine, since you're not a close combat fighter. Took me three months to get used to it, but that was also my first time doing the procedure. Slow and steady seemed wise.”

She finally got out of the booth, clenching her fists experimentally. She smirked. “Any other game changing presents you have for me?”

Vette saw Morgan’s face scrunch thoughtfully, waving her hands. “Just joking.”

“I know. But there might be.” He spat out a string of technobabble she couldn't understand, Teacher answering in the same. She rolled her eyes, falling to the ground.

She'd always been in good shape, and after the scouts she thought she’d been in the best shape of her life. She finished her two-hundredth pushup before her boss and Teacher stopped gossiping, her muscles barely feeling the strain.

Vette pushed herself up as hard as she could, flailing her arms as she went soaring in the air much higher than she had predicted.

She waved her hands as she landed on her feet, skillfully pretending that was her plan all along. Morgan didn’t seem to buy it.

“So, there is something we can do.”

She hopped onto the counter, kicking her feet. “The greatest danger to those not attuned to the Force is Force users, be they sith or jedi. Since you can’t shield yourself, or protect yourself in other ways from being ragdolled, it’s really easy to kill or incapacitate you.”

Morgan cleared his throat. “We can, after more research and testing, harden the Force around you. Or in you, kind of. Everyone is connected to it, and according to Teacher it's possible to make it very hard to influence your body. Your mind will shrug off all but the most skillful attacks, and even those will be muted.”

“And the downsides?” She asked idly. That already sounded pretty damn good. Sure would make killing sith easier too.

Teacher answered, somehow rolling his eyes. “There are none. Unless you count needing a skilled fleshcrafter to refresh it daily, and of course becoming a much larger threat to that fleshcrafter in the process. They’re usually lining up to perform the operation, just down aisle three. Next to the dish soap.”

“Yes yes.” Vette stuck out her tongue. “Special bonecrafters or whatever. Less talky talk, more hardy hardening.”

“I’ll need time to properly instruct my apprentice in its application, and beware that sufficiently powerful Force users can still tear you limb from limb.” Teacher huffed. “The more skilled Morgan becomes, the more power it will take to break.”

“We’ll do it before the next operation that Baras has no doubt lined up for us.” Morgan assured her. “Now let me see who I need to pay for that table, then we can get out of here.”

He walked off, far enough away Vette was sure he couldn't hear. She leaned down, keeping her voice soft.

“I don’t take this stuff lightly.”

“You don’t need to be so close. I can hear you just as well from here as from the other side of the room. It’s not like I have ears.” Teacher snapped. Then he sighed. “I know you don’t. Just, maybe tell him that once in a while, hmm?”

Morgan returned, stopping her from replying. She beamed at him, poking the cube. Teacher hissed, making her cackle in delight.

He watched, amazement clear on her face, as Vette scampered up another tree. She’d really been taking his suggestion of practising with her new strength to heart, even if she still loathed having to finish the fetch quest.

The camp of the Revanites was, as with everything else they did on this planet, deep in the jungle. It would have been a dangerous trip, if it hadn't been both of them that made it. Last time he had to kill, or scare away, numerous predators before they were left alone. Vette was more than capable of killing them, as her graduation exam from the scouts had shown, but it slowed them to a crawl.

Now she made near suicidal jumps from tree to tree, using her strength to leap perilous distances. What predators they came across were swiftly put down, her sniper held loosely in one hand as she ran.

It was, all told, a rather relaxing trip. Also a tad boring, which gave him plenty of time to come up with ways to needle her.

“I’m glad you're finally taking your responsibility seriously.” He told her imperiously as she jumped down next to him. “A sith’s blade should not have to touch such lowly lifeforms.”

Vette rolled her eyes, turning away from him. “That’s my job now, is it?”

“I’m pretty sure your job is whatever I want it to be.” Morgan considered, putting a hand to his chin. “Yes, I’m sure I’ve read something like that back on Korriban.”

He grunted. “Then again, most of what I’ve read on Korriban was senseless propaganda, so maybe not.”

She didn’t even bother to reply, which was rather rude, in his opinion, and walked ahead of him. He smiled, jogging after her.

He felt the people some minutes later, coming to a clearing. The camp itself contained maybe three hundred souls, and was rather boring to look at. The warriors and guards said nothing as they approached, letting them inside without trouble.

They were odd. They looked odd, sure, robes and symbols clearly marking them as a cult. But it was more than that. Not many were Force sensitive, yet more than he expected. Maybe some twenty in total, two of them at the entrance.

The two, twins by the look of them, felt focused. Not terribly powerful, maybe as strong as the average graduating acolyte from Korriban, but strangely sharp. The pair said nothing as his perception washed over them, and he realised they didn’t even feel it. That spoke of inexperience that clashed with the ease of their enforcement, even if it wasn’t quite up to his level.

The encampment wasn’t terribly large, and he was still puzzling over the twins as Ladra approached them.

“The conquering hero returns.” She smirked. “And with gifts, I hope?”

Morgan pulled the mask from his pack, handing it over silently. Ladra smiled down at it. “Very good. The Master wishes to speak with you. Come.”

She walked away, leaving him to exchange a look with Vette. She shrugged, so they followed.

Vette’s voice crackled over their comms, hidden from prying ears. “Look there. Mandalorians sparring with troopers. There’s even a major here, and he feels safe enough to leave his uniform on. What even is this place?”

“Revanites. A cult born from Revan’s shadow.”

She snorted, the sound distorted over the comms.

“Don’t mistake this for a group of mad cultists.” He warned. “Revan brought this galaxy to its knees at his height, and he cared nothing for the prejudice that plagues the Empire today. Worse, he inspired loyalty like few before or since. When he defeated Mandalore, who was at the time threatening galaxy wide domination, he earned their respect like few have before. Wherever he went, loyalty followed. In the jedi before his fall, and in the Republic military after. In the mandalorians when he bested them. Then in the jedi once again, after they wiped his mind.”

Vette was silent for a few seconds, even as they followed Ladra out of the camp. It seemed the Master didn’t live with his followers. “Unity and purpose. I’ll admit that’s a scary thing. What makes a jedi like that fall?”

Morgan said nothing for a few seconds, looking at the sky.

“I don’t know.” He lied.

Her voice was soft. “Yes you do. But it’s not something I want to know, is it?”

“If you do, I will tell you.” Morgan promised. “But not now, and certainly not here.”

The trio entered the cave they came to in silence, Ladra apparently comfortable to let them talk in private. It was well furnished, a woman reading a book in the corner. A fire crackled at its centre, burning so clean no smoke could be seen.

The book was bound with the skin of beasts, letters from a language he didn’t know on the cover. The paper looked rough, as if handmade. She stood as they walked inside.

“Welcome, Morgan of Nowhere.” She turned to Vette, nodding her head. “Welcome, Ce’na of Ryloth. I am the Master.”

He returned the gesture as Ladra handed her the mask. “Follower of Revan.”

She looked down at the mask, running it over in her hands. “A fake. What a shame.”

The Master threw the mask in the fire, turning back to them. “At least it brought you to me. Tell me, sith, what do you know of Revan?”

Morgan looked at her, casting his perception out into the Force. Since coming to Dromund Kaas he had focussed almost exclusively at sharpening his martial skills, but he had not forgotten what he had seen on Korriban.

Shadows beyond shape. Old things that refused to die, holding more knowledge than any library could contain. He had seen what stalked this galaxy, and he sure hadn’t forgotten.

Nothing whispered to him. No old ghost came to tell him secrets. In fact, the woman felt as normal as could be. That alone set off alarm bells like little else. “What exactly are you?”

The Master laughed, a surprisingly warm sound. “That’s a bit rude.”

Vette had warily backed up by now, eyeing Ladra. Morgan ignored them both. “I am what is called a seedling. Revan knew his time was limited, his shackles coming to strangle him sooner or later. So in a work fueled by dying dreams, he made us. Little seeds in the Force, to bind to embryos at conception.”

She smiled, her eyes looking into the past. “It was all very confusing when I was a girl. It wasn't until I found the mysteries he had left behind on Korriban that it all made sense. That I became who I was always meant to be.”

The Master looked back at him, answering his question before he could ask it. “It does not matter that I am here. It does not matter if the Dark Council finds us. I would rather they not, but in the end my purpose here has been fulfilled for years now.”

Morgan looked at her, motioning to the fire where the mask was still burning. “So why am I here? What do you want with me?”

She looked surprised. “I was curious about a man with no past, that is all. You have bargained with loyal Ladra here, and have both upheld your word and enjoyed its spoils. I want nothing from you.”

“Then we will be leaving.” Morgan said firmly.

The Master waved indifferently, sitting back down. “Of course. Walk the path with true purpose, Morgan of Nowhere.”

Morgan half stepped in front of Vette as they entered Baras’s chamber, the scream that emanated washing over his mental shield. It held, but hadn't been directed at him in the first place.

Vette had her hands over her ears, looking around wildly. He ruthlessly pressed down his instinct to help her, instead turning to Baras.

Soft footsteps echoed as Vette abandoned him in favour of the hallway, smart girl that she was.

“I cannot break him.” Darth Baras intoned quietly. Waves of rage washed over the room, Morgan hastily reinforcing his shields. It ebbed after some seconds, the droid keeping the SIS agent alive beeping in distress.

“This is impossible.” The Lord told him with certainty. “An unknown power must be shielding this man, which only confirms my suspicions.”

Morgan bowed his head in agreement. It was quite possible, but it was just as likely that the spy simply didn’t care about pain. Then again, he had some idea how the Force could augment torture.

“This Republic agent is the key to unlocking the threat we face. I must harness my rage and frustration. They will lead me to an answer.”

Darth Baras flicked his hand, and the agent was injected with a serum. His eyes drooped, and soon enough it was just the two of them.

“The word has spread that Lord Grathan is incensed at the slaying of his secret son. I take it that was your handiwork.”

Morgan nodded. “Indeed. Not without problems, unfortunately. Ba’al tried to have me killed before the task could even begin, and he took his own life before I was able to extract the needed information from him.”

“Eh, no matter.” Baras dismissed. “He fulfilled his primary purpose. Every sith must attempt to orchestrate his own promotion.”

He stayed silent, suppressing an eye roll. ‘If that was meant to be reassuring, you failed.’

“Now, back to my prisoner. There’s one last possibility to break him. I thought it impossible, but perhaps there’s a small chance you could pull it off.”

“I live to serve.” Morgan told him sincerely. It was, after all, very true.

The Lord looked at him, but couldn't quite find anything wrong with that statement. “Over a millennium past, the Emperor claimed Dromund Kaas and made the Dark Temple the epicentre of Dark Force energy. In the bowels of the temple, he conducted experiments that drained the knowledge and life essence from all the greatest sith Lords of the time.”

Morgan resisted a sigh. It was, as he remembered, back to the jungle.

“The Emperor created a device called the Ravager. It ate his victim’s mind and delivered to him their greatest secrets.”

‘And what makes you think the Dark Council won’t splat you like a bug the seconds you get your hands on it?’ Morgan thought dryly. He decided that was actually a very good question.

“Pardon, Master, but won’t the Dark Council object to you possessing such an artefact?” He asked, much more politely.

Baras actually laughed. “I do not plan on telling them, apprentice. Your worry warms my heart, but you are several decades too young to have any say in the matter.”

Morgan half bowed, dropping the matter. ‘Here’s hoping they’ll decide I was just following orders.’ He grimaced behind his helmet. ‘That’s an uncomfortable parallel to draw.’

“The Emperor keeps the Ravager hidden in the Dark Temple, which has, in his absence, become a death trap. There's a good chance the horrors that await you will be too severe. But it’s worth your life to me. Go there, and retrieve it.” Baras ordered plainly. “Be swift, apprentice, and try not to die.”

“As you command, Master.” Morgan bowed.

He was halfway out the door when Baras spoke up again, Morgan finding that to be a favourite tactic of his. “Before I forget, I commend you. Experimenting on your slave shows ruthlessness I heartily approve of. Twist her until she breaks, and become all the stronger for it.”

“It has proven most helpful, Master.” Morgan couldn't help but agree. It wasn’t his fault the man assumed incorrectly.

Vette was waiting outside the Citadel proper, holding a taxi as she argued with some attendant. It was quite the sight, so he decided to indulge.

Morgan watched, neither party seeming to notice him. He finally stepped in when a well dressed older man joined them, speaking calmly to the attendant.

“-and she is the head of his retinue to boot. Ah, here he is in the flesh. Go on, don’t lose your nerve now.”

The attendant very much seemed to have lost his nerve, but to Morgan’s surprise rallied after taking a breath. “As I was saying to your slave, holding transportation is against protocol. Taxi’s can be reserved, of course, but the system relies on the constant availability of transportation.”

That actually sounded rather reasonable to him. Fortunately, he was sith, and thus did not need to be reasonable if he didn’t want to be. He also didn’t like the man, but that was beside the point.

The old man spoke, snorting as he pushed the attendant away. “I’ve met blind, deaf comatose patients with more self preservation than you. Let’s go, before the sith decides a spot of mayhem sounds like fun.”

Morgan raised an eyebrow as the protesting attendant was ushered away, looking at Vette.

She shrugged. “No clue. Was about five seconds away from punching him, though, so he probably saved the man’s life.”

Morgan climbed in the vehicle, punching in the coordinates to some out of the way cantina. “Considering your strength, that’s very likely true.”

The ride was silent, Morgan busy thinking about the best way to approach the Dark Temple. A frontal assault seemed foolish, but he honestly wasn’t seeing any other way. From what he remembered there was at least one Lord in the encampment containing the Temple, so taking command wasn’t possible even if he could get away with it. His mind was just coming up with something when Vette spoke.

“Sorry about abandoning you back there.” She blurted. “Not that I could have really done anything, but Baras gives me the creeps. So, sorry.”

Morgan looked at her sideways. “Don’t apologise. It must have hurt, without shields as you are. The less contact you have with sith like Baras the better, and like you said it’s not like you could have done anything.”

“Oh.” Vette looked at him. “Then why have you been so silent?”

“What? I was thinking. Assaulting the Temple will be hard, so maybe we could corral some beasts to help us or something.”

Vette looked at him questionably.

“I mean the plan needs work, but that’s the best I’ve got.” Morgan defended. “Unless you’ve got something better?”

She sighed. “What temple, Morgan? I wasn’t in the room, remember?”

“Ah, right. Sorry. The next, and hopefully last, task Baras has for us. Getting a mind break device from the Dark Temple. It is, naturally, deep in the jungle.”

Vette blushed, looking away. “We’re getting what for Baras now?”

“The Ravager.” He clarified. “It’s a device meant to read the minds of prisoners, extracting information and the like.”

Morgan’s mind caught up with itself, grinning at her. “Why, what did you think I meant?”

“Nothing!” She protested. “So what we having for lunch?”

It was the least subtle redirect he’d ever heard, but he took mercy on her anyway. “We’re not going for the food so much as the privacy. Teacher thinks I’m more or less ready to, as he put it, harden the Force around you.”

“Oh, cool.” Vette smiled, previous mortification forgotten. “Best if we go somewhere semi-public then. Too private and it’s ten to one the place is bugged to hell.”

Morgan nodded, changing their destination with a few taps. It still took him by surprise how vast the city was, even if it wasn’t an ecumenopolis like Nar Shaddaa or Coruscant.

The cantina was busy, but securing a private booth wasn’t too hard. His lightsaber, while drawing some attention, wasn’t too uncommon either. His perception told him there were four more sith on this street alone. It appeared even sith needed to relax.

Teacher hovered in the middle of the table, turning around inquisitively. “I haven’t been to a cantina in centuries. It’s been one library after another, really.”

“Looking for the dancers?” Vette teased. “I don’t think it’s that kind of establishment.”

“I seem to lack the hormones that would make that an enjoyable experience.” Teacher admitted dryly. “Now, since my subtle attempt at ascertaining our purpose here went so far over your heads it achieved stable orbit, what are we doing in a cantina?”

Vette pouted as Morgan answered. “We’re being sent to the Dark Temple, so it seems this is the best time to make Vette Force resistant.”

“Yup.” She agreed. “Ready to be turned into beskar.”

Teacher sighed audibly. “The Dark Temple. If I didn’t know better I’d think your master wants you dead.” The cube pivoted to look at him. “Actually, I don’t know better. Does Baras want you dead?”

“Not quite yet.” Morgan said. “It seems I have yet to outlive my usefulness. Shall we start?”

“Very well.” The cube agreed. “Hardening the Force, or the more technical ‘the application of fortifying Force around an individual, in order to impart protective qualities and enhance resilience’ because scientists can’t be concise even if it kills them, can only be applied to those not able to sense it. This was, in fact, the main area of research. The Lord in question wanted a way to protect himself absolute, without needing to waste attention and power on shields.”

Teacher shook his head, the cube doing a surprisingly good job of conveying the gesture. “They didn’t quite fail, but it was not the breakthrough the Lord hoped for. Hardening the Force around someone made them resistant, that much they accomplished. It also cut off the subject's ability to interact with the Force in any way, making it rather useless for the Lord’s intended purpose.”

Vette piped up. “But it’ll work for me, right? No more sending little old Vette flying around the room. Or off a building.”

“Yes.” Teacher agreed. “It will work for you.”

“So why not enhance some soldiers, mandalorians, for example, and send them to kill jedi or other sith? Seems obvious.” She questioned.

“We’ve already been over this. Pay more attention.” The cube scolded. “Fleshcrafters were rare to begin with, and even less wanted to create beings capable of killing them. The Force is an enormous advantage against any opponent, and they were not eager to remove it.”

“Right, right.” Vette waved. “We’ve already been over this. No need to repeat yourself.”

Morgan interrupted before he could find out if Teacher could still strangle people. “So how does it actually work, then?”

Teacher flew over to him, clipping Vette in the shoulder. She yelped. “I should by all rights refuse to make that creature any more unkillable than she is now. But if you insist. Feel her, all of her, as you did when you strengthened her body. This time, feel her soul.”

Morgan did, not seeing how Vette’s cheeks flushed. “Now gather the Force around her, like you would build a shield. Applying a shield was actually the first thing they tried, but shields require constant upkeep. Instead of doing that, freeze the Force around her soul. Begin slow, and do not mind when it starts to move again. Like I said, this will need to be done once every day or so.”

Teacher muttered instructions as he worked, the practice he had done to the beasts in the jungle paying off. It still took him close to an hour, but soon enough he was finished.

He saw Vette breathing a little hard as he opened his eyes, frowning in concern. “Everything alright? That took longer than I thought it would.”

“Just fine boss.” She said faintly. “Not quite used to people messing with my soul is all.”

Teacher huffed. “You can’t feel your soul. The creature must be messing with us again.”

“Oi, I’ve a name.” Vette protested.

“And I will use it when you prove to be less annoying than a mosquito.”

Vette leaned back, horror written over her face. “Take that back!”

“No.”

She mumbled an old child’s tune as she dropped from the tree, landing easily. Her new strength still brought glee to her like little else ever had, and she would take any opportunity to flex it.

Vette shook her head as they came to the camp, walking forward to speak with the troopers on guard. Her boss was busy broodily staring at the Temple, even if she had to admit it was quite the sight.

“Lord Morgan to see whomever is in charge.” She said formally. The trooper snapped a salute, scurrying into the base.

‘That’s also pretty cool.’ Vette admitted to herself. Effectively holding the rank of captain really did wonders for the cooperation of the rank and file.

She looked back, seeing Morgan just stand there. He, she was forced to admit, did help. She skipped over.

“Whatya doing?”

Her boss shook his head, his eyes focusing on her. It was unnerving how piercing his stare could be, even through his helmet. Or maybe she was imagining things. She did that sometimes.

“Feeling for beasts. There appears to be a large concentration somewhere east of here, likely near a water source.”

She hummed in agreement, filed away his absent mindedness and wondered if some arcane piece of knowledge was about to be revealed. It had happened before, and she wasn't stupid.

Liked to pretend to, sometimes. And she wasn’t winning any academic awards, to be sure. But she was observant, and very good at judging character. So a man, ignorant of the most basic things, yet knowing the most arcane lore, was either lying or suffering from memory loss.

And her boss's memory was fine. He knew more than he was telling, that much was clear. Still, he was entitled to his secrets, just as she was to hers.

A sith came walking up, interrupting her daydreaming. Simple robes hung off his frame, with no armour to be seen underneath.

“At last, the Dark Council has answered my petitions and sent a powerful fighting sith to help secure the temple!”

She raised an eyebrow, hidden behind her helmet. That was a rather warm welcome, especially from a Lord. ‘He’s either desperate or nice, and I’m betting on desperate.’

“I’m afraid not, my Lord.” Her boss answered. She hated hearing the plain, polite voice he used when talking to other sith. Devoid of all personality or emotion. It reminded her of what little he had told her about his life before they met.

It matched her darkest days blow for blow and then some.

“Of course. I’ve been ignored again. How stupid of me.” The Lord muttered. “Do they have any idea the work we're doing here? Those pretend sith in the temple wake up another sleeping Ancient and the whole of Dromund Kaas is dead.”

“Seems like maybe we have a shuttle to catch.” She muttered. The Lord’s head snapped to her, glaring.

Her boss half stepped in front of her, grabbing his attention. She smiled behind her helmet, touched. “I may not have been sent by the Dark Council, but I have been given the authority to enter the temple.”

The Lord sighed, glaring at Morgan instead. “That’s something. You could still save this planet, if you act fast. The Temple is old, much more so than many know. The Emperor built it on already ancient ruins, constructed by unknown hands. His slain enemies still hold power, and He filled the Temple to the brim.”

“It was sealed, yes?” Morgan asked. He continued without waiting for an answer. “And let me guess, someone went looking for new toys. Ironic, I suppose.”

The Lord nodded, clearly unhappy himself. “With His attention elsewhere the ambitious and foolish have become bold. Truly, the most dangerous combination in any sith. They awoke an Ancient, Lord Kallig. Their expedition was plunged into madness, as were the four others before I assumed command.”

“Estimated sith?” Morgan inquired politely.

“Over twenty in the first expedition alone.” The Lord said grimly. “And that’s not counting the pretend sith, who wield very real power. What scant report we recovered did suggest an internal struggle, so I cannot speak to the current number of souls in the temple.”

“How can I assist?” Vette rolled her eyes. Offering to help looked better than being ordered to, but still. Offering just rubbed her wrong.

“Fuse the half ton hinges on the tomb doors, and even a violent assault should not awaken them. A copy of the latest map and the locations of the doors will be sent.”

The Lord waved to a soldier close by, who saluted and ran off. “The team before me had the right idea, if the wrong execution. They hauled a metal torch inside, industrial, strong enough to warp the hinges. Recover it, seal the tombs.”

A strangled wailing noise reached them, emanating from the temple. Soldiers shook in fear, with some even dropping their weapons all together. Only the three of them remained unaffected, and Vette realised her mistake when the Lord looked at her curiously.

‘Force stuff. Great. Now he knows something is special about me.’ Vette mentally complained.

The Lord turned back to Morgan. “Best hurry. Those have been growing in power for days.”

They walked off after her boss bowed, a gesture just as devoid of personality as his speech. It was only when they were alone, somewhat closer to the beasts he had felt before, that some semblance of life returned to him.

In the form of annoyance, something she was quite proud of. “Let go of the swamp thing, Vette.”

“This is a real snake.” She said proudly. “I think so anyway. Look, it has legs. That means it’s a snake.”

“It most certainly does not.” Morgan sighed. “Now throw it away before we find out if it’s poisonous.”

“Venomous.” She corrected, throwing the probably not a snake away. “It's poisonous if you eat it and get sick. Venomous means you get sick when it bites you.”

Morgan turned his back to her. “For all I know you were about to take a bite out of it.”

She let that one pass, smirking. Operation break the robot completed, flawless victory. She bounced after him.

“So what’s the plan? We gonna do the thing we did on Korriban? You know, where we made the beasties eat each other? How would that help?”

“ I.” He corrected pointedly. “Am not. Cooperation should be just as possible. Let’s hope my ability to mess with the minds of lesser sentients has improved, because I don’t see another way of breaking past two hundred madness induced soldiers.”

“We did it with the rebellion.” She shot back. “That was way more than a few hundred, and you walked in like you owned the place.”

Morgan motioned her to stop, jumping up a tree. His voice cracked over the comms as she followed. “These aren’t barely armed slaves. And I somewhat doubt my ability to intimidate the mad, nor am I all that eager to find out if my lightsaber can reflect hundreds of blasters.”

That was fair, she privately admitted. Vette looked down, only one drinking Sleen to be seen.

“One does not an army make.” She quoted glibly. Morgan stayed silent, to her disappointment.

Several minutes of boredom passed, until the Sleen stopped drinking and ambled over. Morgan’s voice finally came over the comms.

“I’ve suppressed its competitive nature, and convinced it this is a good place for a nap. Some few dozens will do. Let’s go.”

She followed, and several boring hours passed. First they had to find them, something made rather easy by Morgan's ability to hone in on them. Then it was several minutes of hiding in trees, trying not to spook the things.

Then they usually walked away from the water, settling down for their naps. When they finally gathered enough, Morgan insisting four dozen was better than three, they had to gather them all up again.

To make it worse, Morgan went silent when they had collected about a dozen together. Apparently it ‘takes concentration to stop them from killing each other’ and ‘this is way more difficult than it looks’.

Her boredom was replaced by nerves as they finished collecting their horde. She had killed all of the beasts they had gathered here before, true. But hearing them hiss and roar as they bumped into each other made her question the soundness of this plan.

‘Theory is all well and good, but if you lose control of this many they’ll break down the damn trees to get to us.’ She grumbled. She had been able to get him to not add any climbers to their ranks, so that was a small consolation. Should give her about a five second head start before the trees came falling down.

Finally, after both a boring and nerve racking afternoon, they reached the edge of the Temple. It loomed above them, easily clearing the tallest trees.

Morgan stilled, the horde roaring as they charged. They went unnoticed amidst the charging tide, hiding high up into the treeline.

She had to admit it was quite the sight. Almost enough to make up for the sheer boredom. Almost.

Mad soldiers and sith noticed quickly, but it did them little good. The fight moved further ahead, so she grabbed her sniper.

Its scope allowed her to see the sith had almost immediately withdrawn to the entrance, where they stood their ground. Behind them were scores of troopers and armed slaves. It was disconcerting to see not a single one waver as the beasts closed the distance, finally done snacking on the few too slow to run. She estimated at least thirty dead already, the rest either guarding the entrance or inside the building.

“So what you do to make them charge like that?” She asked idly. The sith had shot forward, cutting down near a fourth of the horde in one swoop. She saw several jump out of the melee, but most didn’t. Stupid. Not like the Force makes you immune to claws and teeth.

“Breeding frenzy.” Morgan answered, having produced a set of binoculars from his pouch. She smirked, knowing the phrase ‘special sight for special boys’ could be found on them. Vette couldn't wait until he found it.

“It was one of the few things most of them have in common, and I even convinced them the little hairless apes were ‘taking their mates away’.”

“That’s sexist.” She half mindedly argued. With the sith having so selflessly sacrificed themselves the soldiers were having a shit time of it. The beasties were in a proper mood, and the low power of most blasters did little more than annoy them.

“I said mates, not women.” Morgan argued back, just as distracted as she was. “Some of those brave volunteers were female, I’ll have you know.”

The last of the troops retreated back into the temple, followed closely by half the remaining horde, and she was about to sarcastically congratulate him when they came storming back out.

She was about to ask Morgan what had happened when she saw herself. The beasts were taking the place of the dead soldiers, splitting in groups and actually patrolling. She looked to the entrance to see an old man walk back inside, slave collar still on his neck.

“Fuck.” Morgan cursed. “I’ve lost my connection to the beasts.”

“This was a great plan.” Vette mocked. “Really, we’ve replaced mad soldiers with mad apex predators. Great strides have been made.”

“Shut up.” He snarked back. “The sith are dead, that’s something. Let’s see if we can sneak around to the entrance.”

The first part of the new plan, Vette thought, was going rather well. The wind was on their side, blowing their trail back into the jungle. While the beasts were patrolling, they weren't doing a particularly good job of it.

Bad part was that they were significantly faster than normal guards, and also had excellent hearing. Still, she guided them without issue to as close to the entrance as the trees allowed. From there it was a matter of removing the four Yozuks adamantly sticking to the gaping dark hole that served as the entrance to the temple.

“Wait, aren’t those nocturnal?” Morgan suddenly asked. “I mean, not to complain, but why were they just ambling around the jungle at midday?”

Vette looked through her scope, checking for any signs of an ambush. “I assumed it was Force fuckery.”

“Eloquently put, as always.” Morgan sniped. “Planning something?”

“Look.” She said, motoning to the rest of the patrols. “They're straying rather far. Further than they should, anyway. I think I can lure the lot guarding the entrance over here, but from there you’ll need to be quick.”

“Don’t particularly feel like fighting all of them.” Morgan agreed easily. “Four I can manage, however.”

His agreement caught her off guard slightly. ‘Still not quite used to being treated seriously, eh?’

Vette slowed her breathing, aiming carefully. Killing one would likely draw the whole lot, so wounding would have to do.

The shot rang true, completely silent if not for the grunting of the wounded beast.

Her plan worked, but she had somewhat underestimated the speed of the things. They moved faster than they should, her hope of wounding them all vanishing as quickly as the beasts ran.

Morgan dropped heavily to the ground, his landing swallowed by charging beasts. Muted red shone from below as Vette repositioned, using a vine to swing to another tree.

Even with her own enhancements her boss’s speed still amazed her. One moment a Yozuk was swinging a meaty fist, the next it was falling, Morgan riding the body to the ground.

She managed one more shot before the melee grew too thick, but it didn’t look like he needed it. Looking at him now, jumping and dismembering as he went, she wondered if he couldn't take the whole lot anyway.

Vette voiced that question when the last beastie fell, her voice crackling over the comms. “Not to question your Lordness, but didn’t look like you had too much trouble there.”

Morgan motioned to the entrance, and she followed high in the trees. “Even if I could, and that’s a maybe at best, it would take too much out of me. Not to mention doing so without sustaining injury is laughable. I heal fast, but not that fast. Yet.”

She didn’t like how picturing a hurt Morgan made her feel. She had seen him with wounds, sure. But it was always the rugged, non-critical wounds. The kind that made people hotter, not sickly.

Her mind flashed back to Korriban, to the first time she had met Teacher. Not that she knew his name back then. Morgan had been doing something to his hand, something reconnecting.

‘Reconnecting nerves.’ Her mind supplied. ‘What the fuck, he lost a hand?’

“You lost a hand?” She asked as they neared the door. More of an entrance, really, seeing as no actual door was to be found. Just a yawning chasm into darkness.

Morgan flexed his right fist, making Vette frown.

“I reattached it.” He assured her, unconcerned. “Besides, that was months ago.”

She didn’t reply, not liking the way her gut twisted.

They entered as she stewed on her very much non-existing feelings. No one stopped them as they walked deeper inside, the map helping them avoid most of the traps.

The sheer darkness, traps and creep factor did make for an excellent distraction. They made good time, seeing no sign of the pretend armies marked on the map.

It wasn’t until they came to the torch that something happened, several shadowy figures blocking both sides of the hallway.

Her helmet let no sound escape as she hissed. “Don’t suppose you neglected to tell me these guys were sneaking up on us because they were so weak it didn’t merit the wasted oxygen?”

Morgan didn’t reply, turning to their ambushers. His voice came out amplified tenfold. “By the order of Lord Kallig, you are to leave this Temple and report on the outside world.”

Vette wondered briefly if he had been an actor in whatever life he had led before Korriban. She had seen two sides of him now, and only one she liked. His cold, detached persona creeped her the fuck out. She understood it, but she didn’t like it. The second was as he was around her, sarcastic and easy going.

Now he sounded more like the Lords she had heard on Korriban. His voice thundering not with anger, but impatience. As if it was never in question that they would obey. A tone that spoke of bored command, the natural order of things.

It did funny things to her stomach, but now was not even remotely the time for that.

The figures stilled, hesitating. Vette didn’t blame them.

“You speak for the Ancient?”

One of the figures walked forward, his black robes dusty and tattered. It was so old Vette wondered how it was still in one piece.

“I speak with the authority of sith.” Morgan stated. “You and yours are to leave, right now.”

Some of their ambushers flinched, taking a step back. Their spokesperson didn’t.

He took a step forward instead. Her boss barked a laugh. “One more word, welp, and your head will be on the floor.”

The stranger took another step forward. “You do not smell of the Ancient. You smell of woo-”

Morgan stepped, seeming to blur forward to her eyes. The man backtracked too slowly, and a dull thud resounded as his head smacked against stone.

“Get the fuck out.” Morgan ordered to the shadows.

Vette lowered her blasters as the figures melted away, leaving their comrades' corpse behind. “Shit boss, didn’t know you had it in you.”

“I did once command sith.” He answered calmly, sheathing his lightsaber. “They tend to need a firm hand, even if they are not as volatile as most. Glad that worked though. I’d rather save my strength.”

He picked up the torch, an unwieldy thing at the best of times. Vette made grabbing motions. “Gimme. I like big fire stick.”

Morgan handed it over, Vette grunting at the weight. She grinned as she managed to balance it. “Never gets old.”

The doors were marked clearly enough, and they didn’t encounter any more surprises along the way. Welding the hinges was harder than actually getting to the doors.

In the end, and after some arguing, Vette balanced on Morgan's shoulders as she welded. It was just high enough to reach, and the torch was easy to use.

The second vault went as smoothly as the first, but it was at the third that they encountered trouble. Not in the form of actual people, those had been suspiciously absent, but in the form of a hologram.

‘A half person.’ She decided.

“Hello, stranger. My internal chronometer tells me it has been exactly 963 years since this hologram was made. Have the sith truly lived in fear of me for so long?”

“Yes.” Morgan answered. The hologram flickered in surprise. “But you knew that. Just as you know that I can see you, Ancient.”

It looked like a normal hologram to her, but she wasn’t the expert here. “Ahh, a fleshcrafter. Your kind always did have better sight than most.”

The hologram flickered more, half melting to reveal something not quite a person. Limbs were replaced with holographic representations, and its head was crowned with large horns. Vette resisted the urge to palm her blaster.

‘Half person indeed.’ Vette thought as it spoke. “I am, or was, Kel’eth Ur, a born sith and follower of the Force. Like so many before me, I challenged the Emperor and was buried in this temple.”

Kel’eth stepped forward, slowly drifting to the floor. “It didn’t quite take. I had just enough time to make this, a vessel for my consciousness.”

Morgan bowed politely, Vette taking a cautious step back. “Transferring my mind was more difficult than I imagined. This is what is left. Not a hologram, but not Kel’eth either. Something less than whole, but more than nothing.”

The Lord was silent for a few seconds, flickering as if distracted. It spoke up again, changing the subject abruptly.

“The way of the sith lies in channelling the Force through the use of powerful emotions. Fear is the chief of these. The sith feed on palpable dread.”

The Ancient looked at Morgan, who had taken off his helmet. Vette took another step back. “It’s a lie. Fear is a lie. Passion, a lie. Fear gives temporary power, and passion is easily manipulated. Real strength in the Force comes when one is no longer afraid.”

The Lord smiled broadly. “But I don’t have to tell you that, do I? To think you have managed to live this long, not even a Lord yourself.”

“There is only the Force.” Her boss said quietly. The Ancient laughed.

“Exactly. It seems I was not as forgotten as I had feared. Come, come. Sit.”

Ghostly chairs appeared from nowhere, and Vette had the distinct feeling she was out of her depth. Morgan sat without hesitation, but she had to resist poking the things. She didn’t take a seat.

“Everything there is, life and death alike, is wrapped up in the Force. With it, the lines become blurred. What is dead will not die, and what is alive can feel far beyond what I ever thought possible.”

The chairs disappeared without warning, her boss somehow managing to stand instead of fall. “Apologies. It seems I overtaxed myself. I would ask you to deliver my findings, but you are so much more than that.”

The Ancient looked behind himself, flickering again. “It seems I must go. The device you seek is in the lower vaults, past strong defences. Beware the Puppets.”

Kel’eth faded, his horned helmet the last to go. He bowed his head.

“Blessed peace be upon you, Je’daii.”

Vette sighed. Guess it was back to walking. Who knew that tomb raiding could be this boring?

They journeyed to the vaults, their map showing its location. She could have sworn that section wasn’t filled out before, but Morgan didn’t seem to question it. It was when they passed the defences, old and most in dire need of repair, that she spoke up.

“What’s a Je’daii? Sounds like jedi.”

Morgan stepped over a pressure plate, his knives cutting through the starved beasts with ease. Poor things must have been here for generations. “The precursors to both the jedi and sith. That order was founded on Tython, and disbanded some, what, twenty thousand years ago?”

“But why did he call you a Je’daii?”

He sighed. “Because unlike the jedi and sith, the Je’daii embraced the Force whole. I do the same.”

His tone was quiet, so Vette looked around. No one was to be seen, of course. They hadn’t seen anyone since the Ancient.

She shrugged. “So?”

“So, if the sith find out they’ll kill me. The jedi will lock me up, and I’ll spend the rest of my life in a small cell, prodded by every scientist and loremaster they can find.”

“Why?”

“Because both orders fear what they don’t understand. The jedi will condemn me for using the Dark, the sith for the Light. Either way, I’m a threat.”

“That’s stupid.” Vette complained.

“That’s religion.” Morgan said dryly. She scowled at him playfully.

“I happen to be part of a religion myself.”

He ignited his lightsaber, cutting through the thick door that barred access to their price. “That’s your choice. I’m not saying faith is bad, just like I’m not saying it’s good. I don’t pray, but personal faith can give someone strength. A reason to move on, when everything tells you to give up.”

The door fell off its hinges, Morgan clipping his lightsaber to his belt again. “It’s organised religion that tends to do silly things like crusades, mass indoctrination and suppressing information.”

She didn’t argue the point. It had been a token protest at best, and it’s not like she was all that religious in the first place. She prayed to the goddess, of course, but it was informal. Personal.

Her boss moved to the centre of the room, a pedestal holding nothing but dust. An outline of missing dust showed the shape of a device twice the size of her hand.

Morgan sighed. “Well, mission failure. Let’s get back to camp and see if the Lord there has any more information. Stumbling blindly around this place is likely to get us killed.”

Vette hummed in agreement. The track back to the entrance was tedious more than dangerous, but the closer they came to the way out the more tense she became.

It wasn’t until they were four hallways from fresh air that Morgan stopped her.

Shadows melted from the walls, hidden passages opening to spit out many more. Half a hundred souls barred their way before long.

At their head was the old man she had seen walk back into the temple, when the beasts had been turned against them. Dangling from his fingers was a device twice the size of her hand.

“Looking for this, little intruders?”

Chapter Text

Dorian frowned lightly as the armoured man and twi’lek didn’t react. He had them surrounded. He had what they wanted.

And they were doing nothing.

“Or should I say Je’daii?” He taunted. That got a reaction.

But not one Dorian had hoped for. “I really wish he hadn’t said that.”

“Why?” The twi’lek asked curiously. She didn’t seem particularly bothered either.

He interrupted the man’s reply. He knew to maintain the momentum in conversation. “I should be thanking you, really. Your little distraction, and killing that fool Kregas, allowed me to finally dominate the others.”

“The others?” The twi’lek piped up. The armoured man replied before he could. “I imagine he’s talking about the other armies. Didn’t know that one was a leader though.”

“Bah.” Dorian scoffed. “Kregas may be a fool, but he wasn’t weak. Almost sad I missed it, but I had more important matters to attend to.”

The man tilted his head. “Yes, taking over the other factions. You said that already.”

Dorian shook his head. “You idiots can't even keep track of a simple conversation.” He motioned to his followers. “Shoot them.”

They loyally raised their blasters, the twi’lek stepping behind the man. The man whose lightsaber had already ignited, blocking the first shot calmly.

Dorian raised his hand to stop his sith from attacking, curious. “I, on a good day, am able to block five shooters at once. You may have my power, but I doubt you have lived the last decade on a battlefield.”

The stranger didn’t reply. Dorian raised an eyebrow when one bolt flew back to its shooter. Then three more.

He was just about to order his sith to charge when the armoured man stepped forward. In the second it took Dorian to bring his hand down; six more of his soldiers were dead as bolts ricocheted, the strangers movements seeming to blur. A wiggle of doubt formed in his mind.

His sith surged forward, one falling to his knees before he could pass half the distance. Dorian’s eye twitched as the twi’lek shot another.

“Mandalorian.” He spat. “Only one of those cursed mercenaries can aim like that. Kill them both!”

The sith reached the man, who by now had dispatched most of his best troops. Soldiers he needed to suppress the things crawling from deeper in the Temple.

Two more sith fell to knives, flying fast and hitting true. Dorian considered that. The stranger felt about as strong as him, but strength meant nothing without control. Maintaining high accuracy telekinesis while fighting was a good trick, true, but it was nothing compared to him.

He had been sharpening his skills for decades while this boy couldn't be more than twenty. Speaking of skills, that gave him an idea. He reached into the Force, pressing down on the twi’lek.

WIthout his pet mandalorian the stranger would fall, and then he could turn to more important matters. Like playing with Destra. She was turning into a rather fun project of his, his mind spinning with all the things he was going to do to her.

He was snapped back to reality as the Force ran against a barrier around the twi’lek. No matter. Shielded soldiers were as rare as they were wasteful, and distracted the wielder to boot. Dorian pressed harder.

He fully opened his eyes when it failed to snuff out the mandalorian, seeing half his sith dead on the ground.

“Ten sith, dead in seconds!” He barked angrily. “Do you have any idea how long it took me to collect them? How much effort I spent making sure they were the prettiest they could be?”

He grabbed for his lightsaber, surging forward. The man was forced to meet him, leaving the rest of his men to deal with the twi’lek.

The stranger put up a decent enough fight, he admitted to himself. Nothing he couldn't overcome, of course, but relatively skilled nonetheless.

Dorian blocked a punch to the gut, feeling his bones squeak in protest. He cursed. Bullheaded barbarians were the worst.

“Fleshcrafter.” He accused. “Your ilk should be thrown into the sun.”

He spared a moment’s attention to see if the twi’lek was dead yet. She wasn’t. Instead his sith were being harassed by those damned knives, the mandalorian kicking one into the wall.

“You strengthened your pet?” He demanded, disgust roaring in his stomach. “Irresponsible beyond words. I’ll have to make sure she cannot be resurrected, lest she spread that poisoned mind of hers to others. In all my years of command I’ve nev-”

“You’ve been here less than two months.” The stranger interrupted calmly, stepping back as his lightsaber cut a groove in the stone. “And it seems that was far too long already. I’ll admit your enforcement is solid, and you clearly possess knowledge about the Force, but let’s not pretend you’re a Lord of the Sith.”

Dorian snarled. “I will not have some welp question my very existence.”

He pressed, snapping a kick to his opponent’s leg. His foot rebounded like hitting stone.

“Two months. Before that you were a slave of some description, judging by the collar. I can sympathise. Why haven’t you taken it off?”

“Take off my crown, taken from Breta the Succubus herself? I think not.” Dorian sheared off a piece of armour, just missing flesh. The stranger fell back, overwhelmed.

“Breta the Succubus.” The man repeated slowly. “Yea, sure. Heard she really sucked.”

The mandalorian giggled, Dorian snapping his head to her. Ten sith and she still wasn’t dead yet?

He found the girl strangling his last follower, lifting him off the ground. His last mortal troops had died minutes ago, Dorian cursing their loyalty. Bringing reinforcements would have been more useful.

“I can get used to this.”

“Don’t try that with the real deal.” The man warned her, fending off his flurry of attacks. “They may look like them, but proper sith have actual experience.”

He cursed. With his last follower dead he might have to retreat. More soldiers could be fetched, then the welp would see what a true sith could do.

“Stop playing with him, Morgan. That armour is expensive to repair.”

Dorian scoffed. Then his hand burned, and he looked to find it falling.

“His enforcement was interesting.” Morgan defended. “Besides, had to make sure the rest of them were dead first. Can’t very well have them run off and tell their friends about the Je’daii.”

The Force screamed in warning, coming too late for him to dodge. Stars danced as he scrambled back, broken nose leaking blood. He managed to slap the knife away, still scoring a deep cut on his remaining hand.

He couldn't do the same for the bolt, feeling his nerves scream as his knee evaporated.

“I am Dorian the Conqueror.” He spat. “The Liberator. You will no-”

The other knife took him in his right eye, sinking deep. His last sight was the armoured man shaking his head. “If I ever catch you monologuing, Vette, you’re grounded for a month.”

“You can’t do that.” Vette whined. “Derek is having his party on Friday, everyone will be there!”

“Besides,” she complained, “you were doing the same thing.”

Morgan shook his head. “I was stalling. Buying time. Very different.”

“How?”

“Because.” He reasoned.

“Boo. Weak.”

“Oh be silent, I wasn’t the one strangling people.”

Vette looked at the corpse covered floor. “It’s your fault I’m getting used to this.”

“It is not.” Morgan denied, walking to the exit.

“Yes it is. Before joining up with you I killed maybe once a year, if that. Now look at me, snapping necks like a psycho.”

She shook her head in sorrow. “All your fault.”

Morgan ignored her, therefore winning the argument. There was blessed silence for a whole twenty steps, getting him just out of the Temple proper.

“We forgot the thingy.” Vette told him idly.

Morgan stopped, scowling at her. “You waited to tell me that until we were outside.” He accused. “It’s like you want the rats to get in.”

“What?”

“You know, because it feels like rats scratching at my mind? No?”

Vette stopped, looking at him in concern. Her helmet did nothing to make her face seem less hesitant. “You ok there boss?”

“You don’t feel that, really?”

She took her helmet off, frowning. “Go wait outside, I’ll get the macguffin.”

“Don’t go all meta on me.” He warned, following her back inside anyway. “And it’s not like they can get past my mental shield. I’d be as mad as those poor sods if they could.”

“This did feel a little easy.” She admitted. “It’s that bad? No wonder the troops outside seem so jumpy.”

Morgan hummed. “Not fun. Luckily I am very skilled in skilling my skilled mental shield. Your Force Freeze seems to be holding too. Dorian tried to do something to your soul, not that you even seemed to notice.”

Vette snatched the device from where the pretend sith had dropped it. “Shit boss, good thinking on getting that force resistance thing on me. And we’re not calling it force freeze.”

“Force.” He corrected. “With a capital F, I can tell.”

Vette rolled her eyes. “Still not calling it Force Freeze.”

Morgan turned around, walking back outside again after taking the device from Vette. He heard her say something, only barely able to catch it. “Really good thinking, actually.”

She didn’t press as they walked back to camp, something he was glad for. Not like he had a good explanation for half his actions, and something in him churned when he lied to Vette.

The camp was acting like a kicked beehive, troopers frantically coming and going. Sith were stationed at the perimeter, unlike before, and three heavy repeaters were being assembled facing the Temple.

It seemed the Lord had finally gotten his reinforcements. Said Lord was also at the perimeter, looking over the stretch of ground where chewed on corpses could still be seen leading up to the temple. The beasts had mostly dispersed with Dorian’s death, but some had decided the fresh meat was worth sticking around for.

“You’re back. I hope you sealed the chambers of the Ancients? Kel’eth Ur’s chamber especially. I am none too eager to find out what would happen if that Ancient and his crazed ideas were to re-emerge.”

Vette had abandoned him to poke at the heavy repeaters, the soldiers assembling them visibly torn between telling her off and looking at him nervously. He ignored them, focussing on the Lord.

“The tombs are sealed.” He acknowledged. “And we’ve managed to deal a blow to the forces still remaining in the temple. Dorian, one of the generals, ambushed us as we were leaving. He boasted about taking control over the soldiers in the Temple, and his assortment of Force wielders all but confirmed it. It’s likely most true sith are all dead, as he had mostly pretenders with him.”

Morgan felt a flinch of hesitation from the Lord, though nothing was to be found on his face. “Did you find anything else? Something that might make this disaster worth it?”

No way in hell was he telling him. “Nothing the sith would be interested in. Mostly artefacts of minor importance.”

That didn’t mean he was going to lie.

The Lord frowned. “Pity. Well, a proper battalion of sith have finally arrived. Containing the Temple should be feasible now, at least until it has calmed.”

“I would advise you to clear it entirely, Lord. The forces inside are in disarray, and with proper mental shields the influence from the Temple can be mitigated.”

The Lord scoffed. “Like I have the Lords to spare. No, containment will have to do. It’s a miracle you did not succumb, and twice over your slave didn’t either. Still, no surprise Darth Baras’s apprentice possesses a strong will.”

Morgan resisted frowning. ‘What’s he on about? Soft Voice and I bargained with Astara long before we stepped onto the Academy proper, and she was an acolyte. Do most really not learn it before becoming a Lord?’

“Do you have any advice, my Lord? For when I build my own?” He hedged. At worst he looked like a fool, something he could live with.

The Lord scoffed. “Far be it for me to train another’s apprentice. Your master will teach you if you become a Lord yourself, and have attained the proper control. Now, your assistance has proved helpful, and I am a firm believer that such things should be rewarded.”

He called over a soldier, carrying several lightsabers. The Lord motioned to Morgan. “Your’s is an old one, and technology has progressed since then. I advise replacing all but the crystal.”

He made a dismissive gesture, so Morgan bowed. Prying Vette away from the heavy machine guns proved difficult, but the bribe of assisting with the construction of a lightsaber did the trick.

She still complained bitterly about not being able to fire the ‘very big gun’. Her words.

Grik Sonosan, spy extraordinaire and currently regretting that career choice, awakened just as the armoured sith entered the room. His first proper thought was that the Darth had probably timed that to be dramatic.

“When I sent you into the Dark Temple for the Ravager, I thought it might be the last time I saw you, apprentice. The prisoner grows weaker by the minute. There’s no time to spare.”

Grik scoffed, a sound so weak no one heard it. Like whatever device they had found would break him. His vault was secure, the keyhole long since filled with durasteel.

Darth Baras dramatically handed back the object his apprentice had just given him. “A reward, apprentice, for a job well done. Use it, and get your first proper taste of the power that is wielded by the Lords among Lords.”

The man, having long since removed his helmet, nodded. The twi’lek, looking uncertain yet making no move to leave, took a few steps to the side. ‘That avenue of assistance is closed, then. Shame.’

“My name is Morgan.” The sith introduced himself politely. He waited expectantly, Grik rolling his eyes. “Grik Sonosan, SIS.”

Morgan nodded. “I advise you to tell me what my Master wishes to know.”

Grik rolled his eyes harder. “A polite sith, now I’ve seen everything. Afraid not, champ. State secrets and all, you understand.”

His new interrogator nodded amicably. “I do. Two can keep a secret if one of them is dead, or so they say. One last chance. Tell me, and spare yourself the worst experience of your life.”

Grik stuck his tongue out at the sith, partly to cover up a twinkle of uncertainty. Blustering he could deal with. Pain, hunger, sleep deprivation. All things he had been trained to resist. This was new.

An honest desire to spare him pain, with a firm belief that whatever that thing in his hands was would make him talk.

The sith shook his head, his eyes leaking a moment of sympathy. Then it was gone, and the sith placed the device on his face.

“Good.” Baras muttered. “The Ravager will soon seize his mind. In his condition we don’t have long before the ordeal liquefies all brain matter. I will interrogate him, apprentice.”

Grik was used to his mind palace looking like a vault. He had built it long ago, and he, at the time, could think of no place more secure than his mothers safe. It had seemed so unbreakable when he was younger, a hypothesis he had tested over long afternoons.

His mother had caught him, of course, seeing as he was barely a boy. Instead of slapping his hands, as she did when he stole a cookie without permission, she had tilted her head inquisitively instead.

The afternoon where she had taught him simple lockpicking tricks was still a favourite memory of his. When he had finally gotten that safe open, after many, many failed attempts, he had been disappointed to find letters. Simple paper.

He didn’t know at the time that those letters were worth more than any gold that could have fit. Didn’t know that even the paper was worth a small fortune, nevermind what was written on it.

Now he was under attack. The safe, once no larger than his torso, had been scaled up to serve as a memory focus. But he wasn’t used to standing in it. To see the inside walls, the small mountain of items representing information.

A mind palace was not a real thing. It was a memory exercise. A trick. He couldn't be here.

“Come on out dear. I didn’t teach you how to open that safe so you can hide away in it.” A voice called.

Grik flinched. His mothers voice. A voice belonging to a woman dead for decades. He shook his head violently.

“Come now, Grikky. Dinner’s almost ready, and you need to wash up.” She called more sternly. He took a step towards the door without realising it.

Then he took two steps back, clasping his hands over his ears. This wasn’t real. A sith deception. An illusion.

“My mind is a vault, and you don’t have the key.” He insisted to himself. He heard faint knocking on the door, growing more insistent.

He repeated the mantra, looking at the pile of items on the floor. Yes, he had to get rid of them. They were important, but he couldn't remember why.

He had to get rid of them. Grik scooped up a pen, breaking it in half. The knocking intensified, his mother demanding to be let in

Grik tore the pages out of a book, stuffing them in his mouth. More items needed to be destroyed. Yes, quick.

An old journal, covered in blood, burned to ashes. A durasteel torch, marked with strange symbols, shatters into splinters. An old hat, once belonging to a renowned smuggler, trampled and soaked. Torn to bits after, just to be sure. All items held some significance to him, but he couldn't remember. They made no sense. They had to be broken. Destroyed. They would not win.

Who were they? Why was he doing this?

He whirled around as the door creaked open. His mother scowled at him, laughter playing in her eyes. “I taught you how to open that safe, I can open it myself.”

She looked just like he remembered. As he wanted to remember her. Before the sickness took her strength. Before his fathers death took her spark. She scooped him up, fitting snugly against her chest. The items on the ground melted away.

“Come, washing before dinner. Then we can see if Hetra won’t like to visit.”

Grik buried his head in her shoulder, cheeks flaming red. His mother chuckled. “I know you like her. She knows you like her. Strangers, seeing you two together for less than a minute, know you like her.”

He scowled at her. “It’s not like that!”

She nodded indulgently, walking out the door. White washed over them, until all he could hear was her voice. “Of course not dear.”

“I am with the Republic Information Service, on special assignment to verify possible Imperial spies on Nar Shaddaa.” Grik droned. It took all of Vette’s power not to take another step towards the door.

She wasn’t abandoning Morgan here again, to face this horror alone. That didn’t mean seeing someone reduced to an emotionless husk was any easier, unfortunately.

“I was commissioned by the Jedi Council, acting on suspicions provided by Master Nomen Karr.

“Noman Karr.” Baras spat. “Naturally. How did he come to suspect my spy on Nar Shaddaa? Tell me, Republic wretch, what alerted him?”

“Master Noman Karr has a new padawan. She seems to know any being’s true nature. She senses hidden darkness and untapped purity.” Grik provided calmly. “All I know is that when Master Nomen Karr brought her to Nar Shaddaa this padawan sensed the darkness in your spy by looking at him.”

Vette stood her ground as Baras shook with rage. “If this young padawan can see through deception and disguise with such little effort, she threatens everything I have worked for. Continue, Republic dog.”

“Karr believes this padawan’s ability is foolproof, but the Jedi Council is sceptical. I was to provide the evidence, but I wasn't able to report my findings.”

Grik twitched, muscles pulling tight against the restraints. Blood leaked from his nose, his eyes sickly yellow. Baras pressed anyway. “Who is this padawan? Tell me everything you know about her.”

“She was found on Alderaan.” Contrary to Grik’s physical state, his voice was calm and even. “Her power first emerged training on Tatooine. The Jedi send another agent to investigate someone she suspected on balmorra.”

“He’s fading.” Baras cursed, leaning closer. “Is she human? What is her name? Where can I find her?”

Grik mumbled something, Vette not able to hear. By the way Baras tore the man from his restraints and threw him at the wall, it wasn’t anything useful. The body sagged to the ground, the Ravager still attached to his head.

Morgan walked over, detaching it and closing the man’s eyes respectfully. Baras didn’t seem to notice until her boss set it down on the table.

“The Ravager has emptied his mind. That is all we have to go on, a few random places within the greater galaxy where Noman Karr and his padawan have been.”

“Who is he?” Morgan inquired. Vette had no idea how he managed to look so calm.

“Jedi Master Noman Karr. He is a Shadow, and one not as soft as his peers. He is, in fact, one of the few able to pose as a Lord. It is where we met.. I found him out, and during his escape he wounded me most severely.”

‘Ah, great. We’re probably going to have to kill him.’ She thought sarcastically.

“Should you ever meet him, apprentice, I advise you to treat him with all the caution you can muster. He hates the Dark, yet has made a more thorough study of it than all but few of his peers.”

Darth Baras sat behind his desk, appearing to have regained his calm. “Your duties are likely to take you to the far reaches of the galaxy, and I will need to deploy you at will. You shall have a starship of your own. Go to my personal hangar in the spaceport and claim it. Once you have, await my instruction.”

Morgan bowed. “As you command, my Lord.”

Vette shivered as they flew away from the citadel, staring at her feet. “That was maybe the worst thing I’ve ever been part of.”

“It’s certainly the worst thing I’ve done.” Morgan confirmed. “I can argue that Baras ordered me to. I can argue that I gave him a chance. I can even argue he knew the risks when joining SIS. But in the end I broke him to get what I wanted.”

“And Baras still has the device. He can do that again.” She half asked.

Morgan didn’t answer, but they both knew the man would. She privately hoped someone would take it away, if they found it. Another sith. A jedi. She didn’t care.

If being the operative word, as Baras would do anything in his considerable power to keep it secret. Vette certainly would, if she was in the man’s shoes.

The spaceport was, as he had previously observed with his keen eye, enormous. Baras had several private hangars, and likely many more unofficial ones, but they were a ways away from any other owned by the sith.

They checked in with a bored official upon arriving at the private hangar, one that didn’t seem impressed at talking to a sith. He noted down their names, something Vette seemed unhappy with, and gave them directions to the small sub-hangar that contained their new ship.

The ship itself was a Fury-class Imperial interceptor, something the official had helpfully told them. It looked much like he remembered, only the scale seeming off.

It towered over them, but a tickle in the Force distracted him from examining it properly.

A tickle that transformed into a scream as he stepped to the side, the lightsaber passing so close past his face he felt his eyebrows shrink back from the heat. He whirled on his ambusher, his own lightsaber coming up in a guard rest.

A cyborg stood before them, one that seemed familiar. It clicked after the man opened his mouth, a soundless scream echoing out.

“You're that asshole from Grathan’s estate. The one I fried with my EMP.” Vette accused. “Morgan tore your head off.”

He kept his knives sheathed, seeing as they hadn't done much last time. The Dark seemed turbulent in the cyborg, more so than normal. Anger washed off the man in waves, but fear was plentiful too. Interesting.

“Not to sound naive, but Vette’s right. I killed you. How are you alive?”

The man opened his mouth, his synthetic voice filling the hangar. His lips didn’t move. “Lord Grathan remade me after my fall. Stitched me back together with masterful alchemy. Now I will have my revenge.”

Vette nearly tore off his head with her sniper. Morgan frowned as he blocked a wild counterstrike, forcing the cyborg to give her space as he backed up. “Not looking too good there. I can feel what they did, seeing as your shield is more a blob of spiky anger. Gatekeeping aside, it’s a pathetic attempt at fleshcrafting.”

Morgan frowned again as he feigned past the cyborg’s guard, scoring a deep gash. “You’re supposed to be his top assassin, right? Must have lost quite a bit in the operation if this is the best you have.”

The cyborg screamed, waves of hatred washing over his mental shield. He sighed, stepping left and taking the man’s arm. It flopped to the ground. The man’s head joined after another three passes, this time cutting it in half instead of merely off.

The Force screamed, giving him just enough warning to turn.

Fire engulfed him, his last effort blowing Vette across the hangar. Darkness claimed him, one he hadn't seen in a long while. The image of a mocking face made of shadow briefly flashed in his mind, before all went silent.

“Wake up.” Teacher barked. Morgan blearily opened his eyes, pain battering at his psyche. “The explosion damaged your lungs, fool boy. Focus and assess the damage, now.”

He looked forward instead, still drowsy. Endless black filled his vision. It took him a moment to realise he was looking out at space.

Morgan tried to ask a question, namely how much time had passed, but only a gurgle came out.

“Don’t try to speak, you’ll just make it worse.” Teacher snapped. “Focus and follow my instructions. You’re not ready for this level of regeneration, so you better give it your best.”

He closed his eyes, seeing Vette climb the ceiling just before he did. His lungs were fucked, as Teacher had already informed him, but feeling the extent of the damage was sobering.

Several punctures were leaking blood, and closing those was his first priority. He could feel the Force swirl around his body, and he had the vague suspicion they were taking over some biological functions. He had no idea how he was still alive otherwise.

Morgan lost track of time as he worked, hotfixing the worst of the damage. When he opened his eyes he saw a pool of blood with several metal fragments at his feet, Teacher nowhere to be seen. He realised he had tuned the man out somewhere along the process.

Breathing came easier, and he slowly felt the Force return to normal. Pain still nagged at his mind, but he focussed passed it with ease born of experience.

Vette came scrambling up as he stood and moved to a proper chair, settling down gently. She handed him a datapad, dropping a handful of small electronics on the floor. She shrugged when he looked at it.

“Bugs. Figured I might as well make myself useful.”

“What happened?” He typed. “How long was I out?”

Vette nodded, sitting on the chair next to him in the cockpit. She seemed jittery. “Cyborg man had a bomb in his chest. It was rigged with a deadman’s switch, or so spaceport security tells me. You’ve been out for hours, but we're still in orbit around Dromund Kaas.”

He reached out, patting her hand awkwardly. “Glad you're ok.”

She snatched it back as if stung. “What they actual fuck, Morgan. That guy had a fucking bomb in his chest. One strong enough that hangar won’t be used for weeks. Teacher said that if you hadn't been wearing armour, or hadn’t turned around, you’d be dead. Dead.”

Morgan raised his hand, typing with the other. “I’m still alive. Should have figured it out when they sent an unstable assassin after us. Sorry.”

Vette surged to her feat. “Don’t you dare apologise. I saw the footage, I remember how I went flying before the explosion even went off. You pushed me, you utter fool. Didn’t think to maybe jump away, or push the guy instead. No, you had to try and save me, someone who, by the way, was standing a hundred feet further off!”

“Your armour was lighter.” He rebuffed sullenly.

“I’m not arguing.” She huffed, the energy draining out of her. “This isn’t how this is supposed to go. You’re supposed to be the cold sith, uncaring for all but power. The conqueror, or whatever nonsense they teach at Korriban. You’re not supposed to have the heroic sacrifice, or care about a girl you’ve known for half a year.”

He typed, frustrated at the slow speed. “We don’t choose who we care about. Yes, I could have handled it better. I will, should anything like this ever happen again. But I don’t regret it. That shrapnel would have gone through you like butter, nevermind the fact that I’m better at healing myself to begin with.”

Vette sagged further. “After the fact, reasonable logic doesn’t change that you tried to save me over yourself. You can’t tell me that’s normal for most people, let alone sith.”

“I’m not afraid to die.” He admitted, looking over her shoulder. “But I don’t want to do this alone again.”

A shadow of a smile fluttered over her lips. “Spoken like you know what’s going to happen. Say with insisting you make me resistant to the Force, right before it almost trivialises the danger from the Temple. Like how you didn’t know how money worked, but somehow have a near expert knowledge about Revan of all people.

A trill of alarm went through him, but she held up her hand. “You’re entitled to your secrets, just like I’m entitled to mine. If today has done anything it’s proven you aren’t keeping it from me out of malice.”

Silence reigned for a minute, both of them looking at the vast nothing outside the window. Morgan broke it by picking up the datapad again, curious. “Why aren’t I pumped full of drugs, and how’d you get spaceport security to hand over footage of what happened?”

She looked at him sideways. “The apprentice to a Darth was just attacked on their watch, blowing up the private hangar of said Darth in the process. They all but fell over themselves to provide anything I asked for. Teacher said the drugs would mess with your control, whatever that means. Insisted you’d be fine on your own.”

That made sense. Speaking of Baras, he needed to report. That was going to be fun without being able to speak.

He stood, showing her the datapad. “Going to report to Baras. Good thinking in sweeping the ship.”

Vette watched him shuffle out, the knot in her chest tightening even as she grinned at him. ‘Well, I’m properly fucked now.’

She went back to inspecting the ship, climbing down to storage. She patted herself on the back for sweeping the cockpit first, as that conversation wasn’t one she would particularly like stored in some database.

Her nerves calmed as she worked, the talk with Morgan slowly convincing her that he was really alright. Well, aside from not being able to speak. Or move faster than a snail. Or lift his arms over his shoulder.

She forced that image out of her head, focusing on the scanner. Vette grinned as she pried another bug out of a crate, embedded into the lid. It made a satisfying crunch as she crushed it in her hand.

To her surprise, Teacher came floating over. “Any brain damage, or were you too busy making googly eyes at him to notice?”

She shook her head, injecting sarcasm in her tone to mask the accuracy of that statement. “All signs normal. No confusion, or more so than expected. No balance issues or sensitivity to light. Aside from almost being shredded, if that counts, he’s doing fine.”

“Sith lead dangerous lives.” Teacher rebuffed. “It’s why I insisted on training his regeneration alongside his strength training, back when you were playing soldier.”

Vette stuck her tongue out at him, the cube flying closer. “You like him. Like, like like.”

She rolled her eyes. “What are you, twelve?”

Teacher hissed. “Mock me all you want. Think twice and then again. Breaking that boy's heart will lead to nothing but misery. Especially for me.”

“No concern for my poor feelings? Showing favourites is unfair.” She teased. Teacher laughed scathingly.

“I’ve the feeling you have more experience than him by several orders of magnitude, so no.”

“I’m not sure what I want.” She told him quietly as she dug through panels, some minutes later. “Go on dates, picnicking at the beach between invasions? I don’t even know if he’s interested.”

The cube wobbled. “He keeps his emotions close to his chest, that’s true. More so than most, I mean. Normal sith, if you can call any of us normal, feed on them. They make us strong, give us power. It also makes it easy to deduce what drives us. I honestly couldn't tell you what drives him. Not anymore.”

She cocked her head. “Anymore?”

“He was a slave, more so than you realise. What he went through on Korriban shaped him, as it did for all of us. He craved freedom and control, as it was denied to him.”

“But not anymore.” She hummed. “Are you sure about that?”

Teacher tisked. “I’m sure he’ll always value freedom and control, who doesn’t, but it’s not what drives him anymore.”

“It scares you.” She realised. “Not knowing.”

The cube drew away, insulted. “If only you knew, child. His ability with the lightsaber is adequate and his power lacking. Nothing new there. It’s his progress with fleshcrafting that makes him dangerous. How he walked into a Temple that has driven Lords to madness and described it as an annoyance. That speaks of skill, the kind you can’t train or teach. He ignored me, did you know? Managed to get into a proper healing trance and ignored my instruction.”

Vette scoffed. “You’re scared because he's good at healing?”

“I am not scared.” Teacher hissed dangerously. “I am cautious. Cautious of what will happen when soldiers realise he can make them near immortal. What will happen when he finds more like you. ”

He shook his head at her puzzlement.

“It doesn’t matter. Think before deciding what to do about your crush.” Teacher snidely ordered. “Then find out if he feels the same. Use those mammalian asset’s you mortals seem so fascinated with.”

Morgan stumbled down the stairs, making her jump to her feat. It didn’t seem he had heard them.

The datapad flashed as he pointed it at them. “We’ve got our marching order. Balmorra.”

Chapter Text

“Will you stop fidgeting.” Mirla ordered, irritated. “We’re meeting Lord Morgan, not the Emperor.”

Kripaa scowled at her. “Easy for you to say. You're not the one that scared his whatever she is. From all reports he favours her, so forgive me for being a little nervous.”

“Mad Mouse is not the type to punish a misunderstanding.” Soft Voice assured the pureblood. They had been waiting for an hour now, but he was amusing himself with some mental chess. He had quite liked the wooden set he had found here, even if it was technically looted, but for now he had to make do with playing against himself.

“We haven’t seen him for months.” Astara pointed out, throwing fuel on the fire as usual. “Who knows what he will do.”

Soft Voice sighed as Kripaa looked at her with wide eyes. For all that special forces had shaped him into a terrifying effective specialist, he could be so easy to tease.

“Well I’m not the one who basically swore him a life oath.” He shot back after a second, making Soft Voice raise an eyebrow. That was true, and a good deflection. Astara narrowed her eyes.

“That was a group decision, one I remember you voting for. Don’t put that on me because I’m the one that told him.”

Soft Voice chuckled softly, the sound lost in the arguing. It was the first time they'd been together for almost two weeks, with how the war had been pulling them in all directions. He’d missed them.

‘Not that the new recruits are bad.’ He admonished himself. ‘They just need time. And retraining, but mostly time.’

Finding sith recruits that had a snowball's chance in hell of fitting in had been a stroke of luck to begin with. He smiled as he remembered how Mirla had kicked them into the dust, quite effectively breaking their delusion that she was weak because she was polite. They’d learn.

He felt Morgan’s signature as an elevator came down, turning towards it. The others followed, their arguing forgotten as the doors opened.

Something was wrong. His old friend's shield was far too good to get an accurate read on, well, anything, but his body language was off. He didn’t know the twi’lek personally, but she seemed guarded, too.

Getting reports on Mad Mouse had proven more difficult as of late, with his apprenticeship to a Darth and all, but he had stayed informed on his activities as best he could. As Kripaa had said, those two were thick as thieves. Quite accurate, seeing as the twi’lek used to be one.

The twi’lek spotted them first, narrowing her eyes. Her hand stayed close to her blaster, only relaxing as Morgan whispered something to her.

His friend strode towards him, clasping his offered forearm. He remembered reading his friend had taken to wearing armour, so it was strange to see him without. “Soft Voice. It’s good to see you.”

“And you, my friend.” He replied warmly, wondering why they were whispering. It sounded normal enough, if a tad gravelly. He turned to the twi’lek, nodding in greeting. “Zethix, pleased to meet you.”

She nodded in return, her eyes piercing into Kripaa. “Vette. I already know that one.”

The pureblood stiffened, his face blanking. “Lady Vette. My apologies for our interaction on Dromund Kaas. It was not my intention to present myself in a threatening manner.”

His friend stayed silent, watching but not intervening. Soft Voice did the same, curious. Mad Mouse had no problems taking charge, and he doubted his friend had changed that much, so he wanted her to solve this herself. He wouldn't intervene, in any case.

“Don’t worry about it.” Vette finally answered, turning to inspect the others. Astara was the first to take back initiative, stepping forward. She always had been a social engineer.

“Astara.” She introduced. “Pleasure ael meet nu.”

Vette’s eyebrow shot up, returning the greeting in Ryl while the tip of her right lekku curled upwards. From what he remembered that meant ‘greetings’, but he hadn’t studied the language as Astara had.

“So how’s the boss? Been keeping him out of trouble, I hope?” Astara teased. It still amazed him how she could get people to talk to her like old friends. How she could insert into and twist any narrative she wanted. Not three weeks ago she’d turned a resistance captain so inside out he’d spilled whatever she wanted, desperate to please her.

This time, however, she’d miscalculated. Vette flinched, gripping her still holstered blaster. Morgan put a hand on her shoulder.

“It’s alright.” He assured her, turning to them. “There was an incident when we left Dromund Kaas, the scars of which haven’t quite healed. Afraid I’ll not be combat ready for a few more days.”

Vette scowled at him, noting how it seemed a familiar gesture to them both. “An incident. You got blown apart by a fucking lunatic with a deadman’s switch.”

He suppressed a trill of alarm, turning to inspect Morgan more closely. He was still alive, clearly, but it explained the suppressed limp.

His friend sighed. “I got sloppy. Grathan noticed my tendency for lightsaber combat, so rigged a resurrected assassin with a deadman's switch. Won’t happen again, now that I know what to look for.”

Soft Voice narrowed his eyes. “When was this? Not too recently, or the damage to your leg and vocal cords shouldn’t have healed yet.”

Strangely, his friend smiled. “Well, good to know not all my secrets are documented yet. It was a few days ago. I’ve been studying since we last saw each other.”

“Clearly.” He replied, lacing his voice with understanding he didn’t feel. “Now enough holding up traffic. Darth Lachris wants to see you, and I answer to her for the duration of my time on Balmorra.”

Vette kept a close eye on her boss's supposed allies, but she had to admit they seemed adequately protective. Balmorra was a war torn hellhole, as far as she was concerned, and Morgan wasn’t at a hundred percent, but the spaceport looked in good condition. It wasn’t until they left the port, and upon seeing the clear skies, that she was reminded of its current status.

The city was covered with a translucent dome, that little visual detail alone making her want to double check her blasters.

She’d been on planet’s like this before, but it’d always been for jobs. Short get in and out operations, either stealing something or supplying overpriced goods to desperate rebels. Staying to fight wasn’t exactly on her todo list, but she supposed it could be worse.

They could be on the side of the resistance.

After another subtle inspection, deciding to trust Morgan when he said he trusted them, and smirking back at Astara when she caught her, she peeled off. Four of them should be enough to protect Morgan, and she had things to fence.

‘Time to go shopping.’ She thought gleefully.

Her acquired goods were burning a hole in her metaphorical pocket, and they needed new armour. Something more protective than what they had, since she hadn’t quite anticipated being bombed when they got it.

She was an old hand at finding black markets, and Balmorra was a better place for it than most. The market, a misnomer, since it was more dealing with the right person and getting your stuff delivered later, was quite expansive. It might be under occupation, and there might be a war going on, but smugglers existed for a reason.

Those brave, or stupid, enough to risk Imperial ire got rich quick, especially in a warzone.

Another reason the planet had a still functioning underworld, aside from the fact you’d never be able to kill one entirely, was the factories. Balmorra was covered with them, and ones that specialised in high value weaponry. Prototype battle droids, disruptor rifles and so much more, all for the right price.

Vette didn’t have the right price, not yet. But the things she had rightfully taken from Grathan had value, especially after she had them appraised. Value she was planning to turn into credits, and then getting both of them some proper armour. The kind her once owner had worn. The kind that shielded against high-yield blasts, and came with redundant layers of shielding.

It took her half an hour to convince some thug to bring her to someone important, only needing to fend off two desperate thieves in the meanwhile. She hadn’t even needed to use her strength, something part of her found disappointing.

Then it was walking, being guided by a streetrat through tunnels and, surprisingly, abandoned military facilities. She wondered if they were still under the dome, but had no way to check.

She rolled her eyes at the old factory they finally stopped at, the rust covered machines still standing where they once produced munitions. Maybe it worked on some, but to her it looked quaint. The scowling mook waiting there certainly did.

She had seen Morgan terrify hundreds of rebels into executing their own leaders. Seen how a sith’s rage could warp reality, Baras’s scream shaking the walls. How the Temple had twisted slaves into Lords, and how her boss had built an army out of predators.

The mook scowling at her inspired little fear, and she promised herself to wait another five before finding someone else.

Big boss, as the mook had called him, took four. She immediately regretted waiting, and had to suppress a flare of irrational anger at the sight of him. A Trandoshan.

Like the ones that tore her family apart, muttering about offerings. Like the ones that had killed her sister all those years ago. Vette still remembered the indignation on her face when they had found out they were to be separated. Tivva had tried to escape, refusing to be parted from her.

“So you are the one selling artefacts, humm?” Big boss mused. “What do you have then, little twi’lek?”

Vette resisted snapping his neck on the spot, taking out her collection. Big boss inhaled deeply.

“Two Rakata machines, broken but in good condition otherwise. The helm of Rebans, still rumoured to hold his spirit. Six jewellery pieces, none of the same set.” She sold cheerily, no note of her feelings in her voice. Showing no rage was an old skill, learned long before she ran with pirates.

“A worthy offering.” Big boss praised. “But that is not the helm of Rebans.”

She smiled. “I disagree. Had it appraised before coming here.”

Sending over the document for it, and all the others as well, she waited as the Trandosian read them. No need to inform him the inspections had been done off holograms, let alone by an old contact of hers. One of the few not dead or refusing to speak to her.

‘Not that the old man knows my name.’ She reflected. ‘Probably still thinks I’m that art thief from Coruscant.’

Big boss made a call, turning back a few minutes later. “My own people tell me Ardough is a reputable appraiser, enough so that my own appraiser has rechecked her work. It seems I will need to clean house after this is done. ”

Vette raised her eyebrow, making the Trandosion continue. “I already have the helm of Rebans, you see. Making me aware of a possible traitor has already made this a profitable dealing, so I will spare us both the haggling.”

She frowned, annoyed at not being able to fleece the bastard. Then she took a deep breath, because she was letting personal feelings influence work. They both needed better armour, Morgan more than ever.

“Seven fifty for everything, and I will personally introduce you to the best arms dealer this side of the conflict.”

Vette scoffed. “What makes you think I’m looking to buy?”

“Because if you weren’t, you’d have held onto these until you’d found a collector, not a middleman. I may not know you, but I know those like you.”

So he wanted her to buy from his allies. Fine. She needed to wrap this up anyway, and not having to bully her way through the lower ranks would save time.

“Fine. I’ll need the credits in cash, and the meeting soon.”

The Trandoshan whistled, a pair of mercs wheeling in a card. Big boss took her money out of it, and soon she was holding seven hundred fifty thousand credits in a little sack on her waist. That score rivalled the best of her old days, and it was all hers.

‘Morgan would probably just tell me not to spend it all in one place.’ She thought fondly. ‘Nevermind trying to take a cut.’

“Armie can meet soon, if it’s weapons you're after. Armour too, but droids are out of stock. Not just for him, either. Imps have the factories on those locked tight.”

“Just armour.” She confirmed easily. Droids were never her kind of thing anyway. “How long is soon?”

“Half hour.” Big boss replied as he turned, motioning to the mook. “I’ll have the lad show you somewhere more comfortable to wait, now that we know each other.”

The two mercs fell into step behind their boss as he left her with the mook, Big boss hissing to them as they walked. “Round up everyone, full meeting. I better find this is one enormous misunderstanding, and whoever fucked it better be glad I haven’t found a buyer to that helm yet. Reputation is everything, so selling fake merchandise is a shit move. Why am I telling you two this? A goldfish has more brain cells than you to put together. Go on, get. Round everyone up.”

The waiting room was well appointed, and Armie hobbled in twenty minutes after she had gotten horribly bored. Bored enough she contemplated armwrestling the mook in the room with her, but reason won out. Better to not flaunt unnatural strength. Armie was, to her surprise, a Jawa. One smart enough to bring his own translator droid, so that was a good sign. She’d met exactly one person capable of understanding Javanese, and she was pretty sure he’d been faking.

“Big boss tells me you wish for strong armour, yes yes? Tells me you have many credits to trade.”

Vette had bargained with Jawa before, if not enough to make a habit out of it. Enough, however, to know they made themselves sound juvenile on purpose. Made people underestimate them. Even odds this one understood basic, too. Sneaky little furballs.

“Two sets, both with a custom fit. Four layers of shielding on each, with their own integrated power supply. None of that second rate ‘prone to explode’ shit either. Proper fusion reactors. One light, another heavy. Here’s the specs.”

She sent the info packet to the translator droid, it spitting out a string of incomprehensible noise that made the Jawa nod excitedly. Vette praised herself on saving their measurements from last time.

“A customer that knows what she wants, yes? This is good good. Twi’lek and human, both within standard deviation of the norm. This is all possible, even the reactors. But only because you came to Armie, yes?”

Here it comes. The unreasonable prices. Maybe the rights to Balmorra, that be a good one. Or her kidney. Had that happen once, since the Jawa had thought it made for a good replacement part in a speeder. Somehow.

“Five hundred.” The droid told her. She was only just fast enough to put an outraged expression on her face. Five hundred was an actual reasonable price, so something was very wrong here. “In addition to a favour from your sith friend.”

The Gamorrean Armie had brought, one kitted out in enough armour she had to guess at his gender, took a threatening step forward. Maybe something to do with how her hand had gone to her blaster. “I’m not sure this is a path you wish to go down, Armie.”

Armie waved his guard back, the droid injecting a soothing undertone to its voice. “A misunderstanding. No threat, just an offer. I’m no fool, yes? You cannot speak for sith, I understand. Bring him my offer, and the armour is yours for five hundred.”

Vette drummed her fingers on her blaster, thinking. “I want the armour now, and I won’t promise he’ll listen.”

“Yes, deal.” The droid said, Armie sticking out his hand. They shook on the deal, Vette having to bend down to reach it. The appreciative whistle took her off guard, turning around to a new face leering at her.

“Now that business is done, how about you and me get a drink? I can show you a real good time, if you know what I mean.”

Armie took an alarmed step back at her predatory smile, his guard shielding the small Jawa behind his massive legs. The mook, the one that had guided her here, smirked and stepped back, holding up his hands in a clear gesture of surrender.

She walked over to the new face, cocking her head. “Now now, big boy. Let’s make sure you can handle what you’re implying.”

Her hand shot forward, twisting his arm behind his back and slamming him against the wall in the process. Then she applied pressure, forcing it up. The man was screaming by the time resistance snapped, drowning out the sound of his bones breaking. She caught him as he collapsed, lifting him up by the throat.

“Focus on my voice.” Vette soothed, his wild eyes landing on her. “Try not to speak, it’ll just damage your vocal cords. Now, it seems you’re not quite up to it. Don’t feel bad. My standards have skyrocketed lately. Next time, try to gauge someone's mood before hitting on them. They might be sitting on some unexpressed anger. They might even take that out on you, if you’re unlucky.”

She turned to Armie, dropping the man. “So how fast can you get the armour fitted and brought here?”

“So the new recruits are coming along well enough. Not the same as the old crew, of course, but they’ll adjust.” Soft Voice finished, making Morgan smile. It was good to see his friend again. Even better to see him flourish.

“So you’re working for Darth Marr now? And here I thought I was the one with the most influential master.”

Soft Voice scoffed. “Never met the man. An apprentice of his apprentice, for training and such, but no more than that. He sends me where I’m needed, but at least I get my own people. Turns out having a battalion of sith used to working together, and then attaching a few thousand troops to them, is a rather dangerous combination.”

“I bet.” Morgan smiled, turning to the other three he was sharing a turbolift with. “How about the rest of you? Having fun?”

“Can’t complain.” Astara covered smoothly, Kirpaa and Mirla both sharing a panicked look at being addressed. “It’s been interrogation and infiltration for me, and I’m sure Mirla could tell you more about her life than I can.”

Mirla shot her a betrayed look, making Morgan smile. It seemed they had gotten closer without the constant fear of having to kill each other. The Overseer had been a bitch like that.

“I’ve been handling portions of military command, to prepare me for assuming the effective command of a major. It frees Lord Zethix's schedule to train and look at the bigger picture.”

“Always appreciate it when you make it sound like I do nothing.” Soft Voice teased dryly. Mirla spluttered, Kirpaa stepping to the rescue.

“Forgive her. She’s been nervous since we heard of your arrival. Something about wanting to make a good impression, since you’re one of the first to believe in her.”

Mirla turned red, stomping on Kirpaa’s foot. He yanked it out of the way, smiling at her reassuringly. “No need to be ashamed. I’m sure Lord Morgan understands that girls want to impress their crushes.”

She spluttered more, Astara rolling her eyes. “Oh, now he’s all confident. Not an hour ago you were fidgeting like a schoolboy called to the headmaster’s office, terrified he did something wrong.”

“I didn’t go to school.” Kripaa pointed out smoothly. He frowned. “That wasn’t the defence I thought it would be.”

“Show time.” Soft Voice commanded. The three turned serious, Mirla’s complexion rapidly returning to normal. Fast enough Morgan raised an eyebrow. That looked, if he was forced to guess, like fleshcrafting.

The door opened into a grand office, a view spreading out over the city. Darth Lachris was facing the window, her back to them as they entered.

They all politely ignored the finely dressed corpse on the floor.

“I am Darth Lachris, and I’ve been tasked with securing Balmorra. A task my master has given me ample sith for, so I am left to wonder what Baras’s newest enforcer is doing here.”

Morgan nodded at that. Darth Lachris was the apprentice to Marr, so no surprise he’d entrusted her with his experimental sith battalion. “Darth Baras wishes me to assist in any capacity you deem necessary, my Lady.”

“How kind of him.” She praised. “I’m sure no ulterior motives are at play. Nevertheless, your presence here has been cleared with the Council. It seems Baras still has friends in high places.”

She walked to the desk, sitting down and glaring at her datapad. “You can consider yourself below Zethix during your stay here, to follow whatever orders he gives you. He, at least, has shown a level of competence past getting blown to pieces.”

“As you command, my Lady.” Morgan assented calmly. It’d been a while since he’d had to endure this level of rudeness, but it wasn’t like he cared about her opinion of him. “Is there a particular task you wish me to accomplish, or am I free to wander?”

Darth Lachris sneered. “The subtlety of a rancor. Assist Zethix with his missions. If those happen to coincide with whatever Baras wishes done, so be it. If I find out this somehow impedes my effort here, I will kill you.”

“As you say, my Lady.”

“Astara. Mirla. Stay. I have questions about your latest reports. The rest of you, out.”

Morgan contemplated the interaction as the lift brought them back down. “Figured she’d want to keep her eye on me personally, but it seems I’m not that important. Guess I'm under your capable command, oh mine lord.”

Soft Voice snorted. “We both know that’s not going to happen. She’s usually more even than this, though. Must really hate Baras.”

“Oh? Figured we would pretend, at least. Seems a bit brash to just ignore a Darth’s orders like that.”

“You gonna do something that’ll fuck me over?”

Morgan shook his head. “Nah. I’m here to kill commander Rylon, so if nothing else I’ll be helping you.”

“See? No need to pretend after all. It’ll be fun to work together again.”

He laughed. “Fun. Yeah, I’m sure it will be. Speaking of which, how about a spar? Could use some exercise to see how my healing’s coming along.”

Soft Voice led them to his battalion's sparring rooms, finding it empty. Kripaa bowed as they arrived, mentioning debriefing his squad as he left. Morgan turned to his friend.

“He never did answer my question. What do you have him do these days?”

“Special operations. He pretty much commands what special forces we have, so he’s doing well. Him, Mirla and Astara are the reason I’ve been able to focus on training the new sith. Mirla as my second, Kripaa to lead the elite and Astara to head the intelligence division.”

Morgan nodded easily, stretching. “Delegation is key. Haven’t really had to delegate all that much, since it’s just me and Vette.”

Soft Voice opened with a lazy probe, allowing his practice saber to be slapped away. Morgan responded with a push, leveraging strength to press him back. Soft Voice grunted as neither could get the upper hand, Morgan pirouetting as his opponent increased the pressure.

“Mind answering a question?”

Morgan scowled, flexing his shoulder. Found another weak point. “Sure.”

“How, exactly, did you compress months of healing into days?”

Soft Voice sprung forward, Morgan stepping aside. The block was off, his reflexes a little slower than normal. His shoulder screamed, forced to take the brunt. “Fleshcrafting. Enhanced healing and strength, among other things. I find it fits me well.”

Still not quite back to normal, though.

The devaronian narrowed his eyes, probing carefully. “You’ve gotten better. Fleshcrafting. Thought so. Mirla’s been looking into it. Thought about making it mandatory, but the level of control needed makes it difficult.”

“That it does. Glad to see my training on Dromund Kaas has closed the gap between us.”

Soft Voice laughed as he had to dodge a practise saber coming at his head, Morgan just scraping his hand with his own. “Take your false modesty and shove it. Figures you’d pick up telekinesis at some point, and that gap wasn't wide to begin with. Now my strength, my one big advantage, has been cruelly overtaken by vile sorcery.”

Morgan snorted. “I normally use knives, stop complaining.”

They sparred until they were interrupted, Morgan using the stress to find what still needed healing. After four sessions of unintentionally ignoring Teacher the cube had huffed and said to do it alone. He felt a little bad about it, but couldn't argue with the results. Few people could go from near death to almost healthy in less than a week.

Vette dragged a piece of armour into the room, Morgan holding up his hand to stop the match. He looked at her, raising an eyebrow.

New armour was adorning her frame. Very form fitting armour. It was also closer to medium than light, something he appreciated. It was still sleek and painted in muted colours, but clearly a few steps above her old set. Her blasters remained the same, but a new sniper hung off her back.

“Got some new toys.” She called, bending over to set her burden against the wall. Morgan noticed how she bent further than strictly necessary, giving him a good look at her armoured ass. “New armour, and even a jobsie. Well, the job is more of an offer, but it’s pretty good.”

Morgan saw her smirk when she turned around, rolling his eyes. Of course she was messing with him. He should have known better, really.

Soft Voice had stepped out of the arena, hanging up his practice saber. “This was fun, but I unfortunately have work to do. Chambers have been prepared, if I know Mirla at all, so you can sleep in friendly territory for as long as you need. Let me know when you’re ready to go after Rylon, since I’m sure our approach will coincide in one way or another.”

He waved goodbye, leaving him with Vette. Who had, by now, graduated from smirking to hopping in place. “Try it on!”

Morgan rolled his eyes again, walking over. His new armour looked much like hers, probably part of the same set, but heavier. Thick plating, especially around the vital organs, with a full helmet. He spied a wetsuit underneath.

“Four overlapping shields, with its own internal power supply.” She boasted. “Rated for limited space exposure and plating so strong no little bomb will even scratch it.”

Vette frowned. “A lightsaber will still fuck it, so be a tad careful.”

“It’s great.” He praised. “Help me into it?”

She did, grumbling how she got into her own piece herself. He decided against pointing out her fingers did rather more touching than was warranted, not wanting to give her more fuel.

Vette grinned as he put on his helmet, the comms syncing with her own. “About that job. Before I start, we don’t need to take it. I’d like to, since it pays well and it’s probably something we’ll end up doing anyway, but it’s not like I gave my word.”

He waved his hand. “It’s fine. What needs doing?”

“Armie, the Jawa I bought all this stuff from, wants the schematics for a new prototype battle droid. Willing to pay a quarter million for them, so obviously well guarded. Apparently kept in the mainframe of the Balmorra arms factory, and wouldn't you know it, the resistance-without-Republic-support has made its headquarters there.”

Morgan nodded, testing his mobility. “That does indeed sound like something we’ll end up doing anyway.

“Right?” Vette grinned. “So, what now?”

“Meeting Baras’s contact, Malavai Quinn. We’ll see how much daylight we’ll have left after that.”

Quinn was, by their standards, not very far away. Sobrik, serving as both the port city and headquarters for the Imperial military, was a fraction of Dromund Kaas. It was one of the reasons they could afford to keep a shield running over it, despite the ruinous amount of power it must cost.

It had been abandoned, bombed and rebuilt by Imperial engineers, so it could be argued it was more military base than city. It still housed many civilians, but since the military had built it, they had built it for their purposes first.

It took only some asking around, Vette asking and him standing there, to find the man. When they did, it wasn’t what Morgan was expecting.

“Focus, Jillins. Breath. Copy me. In, out. Slow. In, out.”

A silent but crying ensign was on the floor, Quinn sitting beside him. It was a barracks, clear as day, but aside from those two it was empty. Morgan raised his hand to Vette, who sent him an indignant look.

“I wasn’t gonna barge in there.” The comm crackled. “I have people skills, unlike some.”

“I, I’m sorry sir. I just. I didn’t know what to do.” Jillins babbled. “There were so many of them. They killed him. Tore him apart and flew off like it was nothing.”

“Wingmaw are dangerous.” Quinn soothed. “And were not supposed to be anywhere close to your patrol route. You are alive, ensign. Alive. Breath.”

The lieutenant’s head shot up, looking at them. His eyes dipped to the lightsaber hanging off Morgan’s belt, eyes widening. “Come now, ensign Jillins. Go find the others. Get some food in you.”

The ensign shuffled out, not sparing either of them a glance. Quinn stood, bowing formally. “Apologies, my lord. Lieutenant Malavai Quinn. I’m to be your liaison here on Balmorra.”

“Well met, lieutenant. What happened?”

Quinn flinched slightly, looking at the door. “Jillins’s a local, one whose house was bombed by resistance forces about a year ago, killing his family. He’s been an ardent supporter of the Empire since, so much so they graduated him early from training. Good shot, loyal to a fault and a near expert with explosives thanks to his dad.”

“A miner by trade.” He clarified at Vette’s raised eyebrow, who by now had joined Morgan in taking her helmet off. “Him and Habo were ambushed during their patrol by Wingmaw, dangerous flying insects that command reported didn’t exist within fifty clicks of Sobrik.”

Quinn’s eyes unfocussed. “They were wrong, and now I have to bury another one of mine. Quite possibly scarring Jillians for life, as an added bonus.”

The lieutenant focused. “Apologies, you are not here to listen to me complain. Lord Baras will brief you personally, but I’m here to acquaint you with the climate on Balmorra. How much do you already know?”

Morgan sat on one of the bunks, his armour making it creek. It held, to his relief. That would not have been a good first impression. “The Empire conquered it during the last war, with a bitter resistance forming immediately after. Rumoured to have Republic backing, and extraordinarily well supplied. The numerous weapon facilities on the planet means they can fight far above their weight class, and sympathies run high for them. They want their home back, and will fight to the end to achieve it.”

“I’m not one to judge the righteousness of their actions.” Quinn said carefully. “But you are correct. High levels of support and expertise has been reported on most, if not all, attacks made by the resistance. The Imperial Conquest Consolidation Corps, or ICCC, have their hands full. I’m afraid you cannot expect much support outside of myself and my men for your mission, my lord.”

Well, that wasn’t true. “That’s alright, lieutenant. We’ll have to make do.”

Quinn looked relieved, walking to the holoprojector mounted against the wall. “I have a secure line to Lord Baras. I’ll patch him through.”

The grainy image of Baras soon joined them, towering above them imperiously. “I see you’ve convened with my apprentice. Very good. Lieutenant, leave us.”

Quinn bowed and left without a word, Vette joining him. Unlike Quinn, she stopped at the door. Out of earshot but still blocking access to the room. Morgan suppressed a trill of fondness, focussing on Baras.

“Quinn owes his career to me, but we should keep the details of your mission between the two of us.” Too late for that, Morgan reflected. “We must act swiftly. Commander Rylon must be silenced, preferably with his cover intact. He acts as my central contact for all operatives in this sector. Losing such a valuable piece is bad enough, and I will not have the entire sector purged.”

Baras scowled, leaning forward. “Quinn is tracking the investigator sent by the jedi. That means we have to cover our tracks before you kill Rylon. Destroy the evidence that links Rylon to the sabotaging of Balmorra’s defence systems during the war. Break into the satellite control tower and wipe it clean. Quinn has all the relevant details.”

The hologram flickered out, Baras’s voice drifting out before the connection cut entirely. “Consider it an introduction to proper war, apprentice. Try not to die, but if you must, take out the tower in the process.”

Vette dragged Quinn back inside, the lieutenant smiling slightly at something she had said. Morgan felt an unexpected pang of jealousy, smashing it an instant later. “Me and my men are ready to assist, my lord.”

Morgan nodded. “Very good, lieutenant. We will depart at sunrise tomorrow.”

He waited a second, but the lieutenant said nothing. Vette rolled her eyes. “This is the part where you protest if you need more time, Quinn. He won’t cut your head off.”

Quinn hesitated. “Afternoon would be better, my lord. That part of the region is covered in steep mountains, the cold making an early assault difficult. Its protections are automated, so the time of attack will not matter to them.”

“Afternoon it is.” Morgan agreed readily. “I am no military man, lieutenant. Vette is correct. I will rely on you to point out any mistakes I might make, preferably before I make them.”

Quinn straightened, relaxing. “As you say, my lord. I will prepare my men.”

Vette piped up when Quinn was gone, turning to him as they walked out.

“I like him. Can we keep him when we’re done here?”

Chapter Text

“Report, private Greta.” Quinn ordered.

Private Greta, the only one with scouting experience among Quinn’s soldiers, saluted. Then she looked at Morgan, hesitation flickering through her.

He motioned to the lieutenant. “Quinn is your commanding officer. While I, admittedly, am in overall command, that is more along the lines of setting our overarching objective.”

The private saluted again. “Sir. The objective is as intelligence reported. A single tower with a number of support facilities, guarded by automated defences. I counted thirty droids during observation, with six fixed turrets providing full coverage. The entrance to the main structure is heavily reinforced, and will likely require targeted explosives to open.”

“Very good, private. Fall in.”

Greta saluted again, joining the rest of the soldiers a little way back. Quinn turned, Vette rubbing her hands together impatiently. Morgan had to admit it was cold, but rubbing armoured gloves together wouldn't really help with that.

“I know I declined to have a look and all, but was it really necessary to have her observe them for an hour?” She groused. “It's cold here.”

“Firsthand information is important in any military operation.” Quinn said diplomatically. “Personally, I’m worried about the turrets. They’d tear my men apart, and the droids cleared the surrounding area of anything even remotely able to serve as cover.”

That was a problem. One he had no idea how to solve.

“Any ideas, lieutenant?”

Quinn hesitated, then pointed to the cliff the tower was built in. “Me and the men can scale the cliff, rappel down. Private Greta!”

The private came running, saluting as she arrived. “Do the turrets have the capability to aim upwards, more so than standard?”

She shook her head. “Standard issue, sir. Maybe thirty degrees of up-down movement.”

Quinn waved his hand, the private leaving with a salute. “Not enough to catch us, then. When we’re low enough to aim at, the buildings will serve as cover. An oversight any competent commander would not have made, leading me to think it was thought of by an intelligence agent.”

Morgan nodded. “A solid plan. Now please explain the idea you had the first time.”

The lieutenant grimaced. “Ah. Sith have the capability to move beyond mortal men. Grenades would damage the torrent sufficiently, while the droids would struggle to pin you down. It carries a larger risk, however.”

Unmentioned was the fact it could have caused offence, sending a sith to distract and harass. Morgan shook his head. “That plan is better. My armour should protect against limited fire, and my speed will make sure it remains so. While I distract, you move in?”

Quinn nodded, a flash of something indecipherable in his eyes. “Just so, my lord.”

Vette’s voice came over the comm, and he could easily imagine the scowl that went with her voice. “Don’t like this plan. Reminds me too much of another stupid plan involving thrown explosives.”

“This is not that.” Morgan defended. “Besides, the idea of the cliff is sound. I could scale down, jumping when in range of the turrets.”

The lieutenant remained silent as they argued, Vette flexing her hands. “Fine. I’m reserving the right to tell you ‘I told you so’ if this goes tits up.”

Morgan snorted, turning to Quinn. “I’ll rappel down the mountain, destroy the turrets and distract the droids. Vette can serve on overwatch, but I’ll leave the details to you.”

The man nodded. “Greta’s missing her partner, so she can join her easily enough. Specialist Horas, climbing gear!”

The specialist ambled over, climbing kit in hand. He thrust it at Morgan. “You know how to use this?”

Quinn scowled at the specialist, but Morgan spoke before the lieutenant could. “I do not. I would appreciate a crash course, specialist Horas.”

Horas shrugged, laying the gear on the ground. “That’s the harness, strong enough to carry up to three tons. Over there are the spikes. Make sure to wedge them deep, and test them before you put your full weight on them. They’ll drill automatically, and it won’t make too much noise.”

Morgan paid attention as Vette ambushed Greta, throwing her arm over the scout's shoulder and whispering conspiracy.

It seemed like no time at all before he was climbing his way up the mountain, half a click from the facility in question. It was good climbing weather, according to Horas, and the rock had plenty of crevices. His strength made even an amateur's climb go fast, and he heard Vette’s voice over the comm when he was about to wedge another spike.

“That’s high enough. Go left.”

Her voice had lost the playful tone she usually had, all business. He was tempted to snark back, but he dutifully started working his way left instead. Best to encourage professionalism when he could.

That lasted until he was hanging over the facility, the droids spreading out below him. “Don’t suppose anyone thought to just drop a big bomb from there?”

Silence was her answer, until the hesitant voice of Quinn broke it. “The main facility is shielded, and every radar this side of the planet would pick it up. We’d have hostile air forces here in minutes.”

“She was joking, lieutenant. Welcome to hell, as it seems she has decided to patch you into our private channel.”

Insulted sputtering came over the line, Morgan slowly working his way down the cliff face. The rock became smooth some fifty feet to ground level, probably to prevent this sort of thing. The droids also failed to look up, something he found suspicious. ‘Shouldn't there be cameras pointed at the cliff, at least?’

He put it out of his mind, checking his rope. He watched, decided he knew nothing of their patrol schedule, and pressed the release.

The ground rapidly approached as he dropped, turrets whirling around to fire as he passed some invisible line. Gravity was far too keen on reasserting her dominance, however, and he disappeared behind the buildings just as they tore the smooth rock to shreds.

The first turret was easy enough. The grenade did catch on the belt, not quite releasing from its place, but after that hopefully unnoticeable mistake the thing had two warped barrels to shoot with.

Morgan shrugged and made his way to the second position, his helmet helpfully displaying its exact location.

Some droids got in the way, his lightsaber cutting through them without pause, and it occurred to him he still needed to upgrade his weapon.

‘After Vette is done poking at the parts.’ He promised. No need to have any tracking or some such attached to his weapon. Or a bomb. He’d never hear the end of it if he got blown up twice.

Three droids surprised him when rounding a corner, shooting before he could react. An annoyance, but nothing some healing couldn't fix. His shields disagreed, and his display notified him the third layer stopped the last bolt cold. He hadn't even felt it.

The droids didn’t manage to shoot again.

The second turret went up like the first, and then a droid's torso disappeared. He scowled, opening the comms. “Do you mind not showering me with molten lead?”

“It’s an anti-material slug throwing sniper, so yes, I do mind.” Vette responded happily. “And I do ever so recommend not being where you are right now.”

Morgan sped up, another round cutting a droid in half. It also showered the immediate area with shrapnel, Vette giggling creepily.

He destroyed the third turret as he thought of an appropriate rebuke, then frowned. He was slipping into the same mindset that got him blown to shit on Dromund Kaas, that cavalier attitude that came with being stronger than anything else in the room.

As the assassin had shown him, strength wasn’t everything. Not if you’re smart and your opponent is arrogant.

His side of the facility was clear of turrets, his suits microphones picking up the faint sound of approaching boots.

He switched to causing damage, cutting through droids as they came running. His knives stayed where they were, as much as they would have sped this up. Vibrating or no, too much metal, a solid chassis, for example, would get them stuck.

Then one of the facilities without a door revealed it had an entrance after all, its wall sliding open. Behind which he spied ten large, mean looking droids. The kind that stood well over eight feet, clocking in over a ton.

He flung the rest of his explosives into the opening, a flash of inspiration causing him to activate them with telekinesis.

Two of the things were out before they went off, surprisingly not knocking down the walls. He couldn't see the rest, but the two that cleared the blast kept him plenty busy.

Heavy and strong enough he couldn't topple them. He swung, his lightsaber doing nothing. He hastily stepped back, a fist cutting through the air his face used to be.

‘Not nothing.’ He corrected. ‘A thin cut. Beskar.’

“Beskar droids on the field.” He called through the comms. “Beware of more traps.”

He heard Vette curse, then nothing as she went silent. If his lightsaber did nothing, and he couldn't physically overpower them, he was running out of tricks.

He could still dodge, and he did, but that wouldn't help solve the problem. It seemed the grenades had taken care of the ones still inside, at least.

The Force screamed, Morgan throwing himself to the side as a fucking sword keened through the air, scratching his armour.

‘So not taken care of.’ He corrected. The eight other droids climbed out of the dark entrance, focusing on him with eerie precision.

He backpaddled, using his lightsaber to turn aside a thrust and kicking off from an extended leg. One that didn’t even budge as he jumped, landing on a roof. He wasn’t sure which building, exactly, but he had bigger problems.

“Quinn, focus on the mission. These things seem to want me dead, so we’ll use it.”

The roof shook as the droids joined him, Morgan adding mobility to their strengths. This really was looking rather bleak.

He’d also successfully lured them out in the open, one promptly getting blown off the roof. Morgan hissed as it climbed back up, some scratches on its torso the extent of the damage.

“Sir, we’re approaching the tower entrance and will soon have access. Horas and Jillins will set the charges in the mainframe while we clear the building.”

“Good man, lieutenant. Vette, keep knocking them down.”

Morgan turned, letting a fist pass while looking for weak points. None came to immediate attention, and he had to fall backward to avoid another sword.

Small mercy only two or three could attack at once, their size working against them. Vette cursed. “What the fuck are these things made of?”

Another went off the roof, but he was rapidly running out of space. “Beskar, lightsaber resistant material. I’m going to have to get off the roof soon. I’ll lure them away”

Vette responded after another round, Morgan having to bend so far his armour squeaked in protest. “Fuck. Try to keep on open, low ground. I’ll do what I can.”

He jumped off the roof before they could push him off, the hulking things following without hesitation. “Help the others. I can keep this up now that I have space, and the sooner it’s done the sooner I can leave.”

More cursing, but no more droids went flying. Morgan smiled grimly, indulging in a moment of self recrimination. And here he had been feeling all proud for recognizing his own arrogance, walking right into another ambush.

Time blurred as he dodged and twisted, clipping his lightsaber to his belt after the first minute. The swords were better dodged than blocked, and his plan of making them stab each other failed on account of the things not letting him.

The wildlife came to play when they got to a click from the tower, wingmaw swooping from the sky. Morgan had felt them coming, his knives gutting two with little issue. The two corpses dropped to the ground, their brethren screeching madly.

His mechanical stalkers ignored them, claws doing little to armoured frames. The wingmaw abandoned their hunt soon after, three more dead for their effort. Morgan put them out of his mind as they disappeared from his perception, sinking into old patterns.

Step. Twist, step. Backstep and jump, clearing space. Avoid the sword, then another step.

Careful, controlled stepping was a surprisingly large part of combat. Soft Voice had called it footwork, the pretentious bastard, but it all came down to the same thing. Don’t be there when the lightsaber, or sword, comes for your head. Position so you can attack while your opponent cannot. Ensure you have space to move, denying your enemy the same privilege.

Sith do not tire, not as others do, but neither did droids. Morgan kept his use of the Force to a minimum, only his enforcement and shields drawing from his reserves. Both were well practised, so he could keep this up for hours.

Not so much without making mistakes, however, and he felt his shoulder bruise as it was clipped. Then a sword took a strip from his armour, a third hunter grabbing for his head.

He avoided the last one, not wishing to test his helmet's endurance against their strength. It cost him a kick to the stomach, sending him flying.

‘It’s been a while since I’ve been beaten around like this.’ He contemplated, twisting so he landed on his feet. ‘Not since Lady Trix.’

His predicament ended as Quinn's voice came over the comms, sounding none too pleased. “Objective secured. Retreating to base along route 6H.“

His display mapped it for him, twisting out of the way of another grab. Then he was running, having to swerve as they pelted him with bolts. His lightsaber deflected them with ease, and they didn’t carry slug throwers. Small miracles. Or good planning, since they only pulled out blasters when he fled.

They had speed of their own, enough he was only just leaving them behind, but they disengaged as he passed the five click mark from the tower.

‘Range limit?’ He wondered. ‘Or recalled?’

He intersected Quinn and his men after another twenty minutes, making sure the things weren't following at a distance. Morgan came to private Jillins being glared at by Vette, who came running over as soon as she saw him.

To his surprise, she went for a hug. Or a tackle, but he was fast enough to avoid a head on collision. Her arms wrapped around his torso and squeezed with strength, Morgan too surprised to properly hug back. His bruises screamed.

By the time his mind caught up with what was happening Vette had jumped back, pretending nothing had happened. The lieutenant saluted, the rest of the men looking various shades of exhausted. He counted all of them, so he’d take tired over dead.

Except for Jillins. The ensign shifted nervously, feeling more than a little ashamed. Quinn coughed, interrupting his musings. “Sir, good to see you are alive and well.”

Untrue, but no need to burden the lieutenant with the knowledge that he was mostly black and blue under his armour. “And you, lieutenant. You reported mission success?”

Horas handed him a detonator, Morgan pressing it while rolling his eyes. “Appreciate the gesture, but next time just blow the thing, yes?”

The tower failed to go up in smoke, but he did feel a rumble through his feet. Horas grunted. “I hear you. Everyone on the planet with seismic detectors will know we just blew something to hell back there, so best to get some distance.”

Morgan nodded, tilting his head as Jillins underwent another fit of shame. “Anything else to report, lieutenant?”

Quinn stiffened. “Ensign Jillins failed to properly plant the explosives, costing us valuable time. Specialist Horas took over successfully, and overall mission success was not impacted, but I will personally oversee his punishment, sir.”

Morgan raised an eyebrow, turning to the ensign. The man flinched with fear, but avoided taking a step back. “Sorry sir. I froze. Won’t happen again.”

“It better not.” Vette muttered.

Morgan ignored her, turning to Quinn. “I will oversee his punishment personally.”

The lieutenant underwent a moment of internal indignation and protest, nothing showing on his face. He saluted. “As you say, my lord.”

“You can observe, if you wish.” Morgan promised, feeling suddenly exhausted.

They walked, Vette joining him at the rear as lookouts. She was mostly silent, humming as she cleaned her rifle. The humming stopped as he stumbled over a stone, only the slightest twitch betraying his lapse of balance.

“You alright?” It came over comms, and he saw it was just the two of them again. He contemplated downplaying it, but he didn’t really see a point. She had sounded too idle anyway.

“Those were sith killers. Or jedi killers, I suppose, but designed to kill Force users. Fast, strong and resistant to lightsabers. Too heavy to throw around or push off a cliff, and agile enough to keep up. And these mechanical hunters, each of which must have cost a fortune, were stationed in an out of the way control tower. Doesn’t add up.”

“Not what I meant.”

Morgan sighed. “Fine, yes, they beat me black and blue. I’m working on it.”

Her step stuttered, her voice a hiss at it came over the comm. “You're injured. Fuck. Tell me, you meathead, so I don’t end up making it worse. Goddess, it’s like talking to a stone.”

He didn't know what to do with the protectiveness in her tone, so he shrugged and told her the truth. “I don’t care about pain.”

She whirled on him, and it was easy to imagine her scowl. “That doesn’t mean I don’t care about your pain, you dense idiot.”

Morgan stopped, looking at her. He smiled involuntarily. “Oh.”

Vette turned, doing an admirable job of covering her embarrassment. He enjoyed the view as they walked, steep mountains and snowy peaks near picturesque in their beauty. It was almost enough to make you forget the whole planet was at war.

Vette sighed, breaking the mostly comfortable silence. “Jillins’s screwup cost us time. Time you had to spend surviving against droids that all but ignored an anti-material rifle. That can ignore a lightsaber.”

“I know. I’ll deal with it back at base.”

Vette hummed noncommittally, Morgan focusing on getting his bruised organs back under control. It was quiet for half an hour before she spoke again.

“I told you so.”

“Fuck off.”

Quinn waved off his men as they came to the sith’s sparring chamber, a large, mostly barren room. Horas hesitated, and he had to send the man a glare.

The heavy trooper had, in his own laidback, aloof way, taken Jillins under his wing. It was already a miracle the sith had invited him to observe, however, and he wasn’t going to push it.

Horas left, leaving just the three of them. Vette had all but peeled the sith’s armour off his frame, taking it and Greta to the armoury for repairs. Armour he was fairly sure was obtained illegally, not that he was going to mention it. Laws applied only when another, more powerful, sith insisted they did.

The web of bruises was another thing he ignored, the sith’s shirt not able to hide all of them. Most would be screaming for kolto, nevermind walking around the place.

Quinn promised himself to keep interactions with sith, and jedi, should he ever meet one, to a minimum. His cursed deal with Baras was bad enough already, more than adequately displaying titans crushed everything around them.

And the sith were that. They conquered and killed, none but the jedi able to do more than bow in their wake. This sith was no different, as today had demonstrated.

Pulling the file on his new commander hadn’t been too hard. A heavily redacted file, of course, but more than he should have access too regardless. But contacts could not be as easily wiped away as his career, no matter how much moff Broysc would want to, and he had quite a lot of contacts indeed.

Some still remembered how he had saved the Battle of Druckenwell. Some still remembered he was once being groomed for general. Still remembered their debts, sworn in dark rooms over strong drinks.

That file had painted a terrifying picture. One of a rising sith, crushing everything in his path. Quinn didn’t know what to think about it, except that the man was dangerous. Much more so than he pretended.

And it scared him. Because why would a sith, of all people, pretend to be less dangerous than he really is?

Now he was a lieutenant, powerless to even grimace as Jillins nervously stood in the centre of the room.

The sith calmly sat on the floor, folding his legs under him. “Contrary to what you may be expecting, I am not here to maim, kill, or otherwise inflict pain upon you.”

Quinn blinked, seeing his own puzzlement reflected in Jillins. It was the ensign that spoke, hesitation written all over him. “Sir?”

“Would it help you avoid things like this in the future, Jillins? Would pain and punishment make you a better soldier?”

Neither he nor Quinn spoke, the sith motioning for the ensign to sit.

“You went through a highly traumatic event, and soon after was put into another stressful environment. I do not blame you for freezing, but a repeat must be avoided.”

The sith closed his eyes, Jillins flinching back soon after. Quinn resisted the urge to step forward.

“That, Jillins, was an empathy link. The Force connects all things, and those that can manipulate it can feel the emotions and memories of others. It is a tool the jedi use to great effect.”

Jillins leaned closer, staring at the sith’s chest. “So the pain is yours, not mine?”

The sith inclined his head. “Indeed. Apologies, this is the first time I'm doing this. Now, I’m actively pushing my thoughts and emotions through the link so that you can feel them. I, as someone capable of manipulating the Force, can feel yours without you needing to do the same. The pain should be gone now.”

The ensign nodded. Any trace of fear and nervousness was gone from his face, replaced with fascination. Quinn sat down, putting a reasonable distance between himself and the pair.

‘Not that this is in any way reasonable.’ He thought, feeling the situation swiftly depart from his expectations.

“Now, think back to what happened in the field. What you felt, what you were thinking.”

Jillins leaned back, fear shuttering over his face. The sith made a calming motion, his eyes still closed. “I see you, Jillins. There is no hiding fear or shame, not now. I will not judge, if that is your concern. You will not drown in it.”

Tears welled in Jillins’s eyes, looking anywhere but at the sith. “I. I don't. What is this? What are you doing to me?”

“Therapy, ensign. This is therapy. Why did you freeze?”

Fear sparked to anger in Jillins eyes, Quinn not daring to interrupt. “If you're in my head, don’t you already know?”

“I do.” The sith responded calmly. “And now I want you to say it.”

“Why?” Jillins bit back. “So you can kick me out of the army? So I can go back to being no one?! Alone!”

The sith didn’t respond, Jillins’s anger draining as fast as it came. “You don’t know what it's like to be afraid. The great sith. The conquerors without fear.”

Quinn flinched as the sith frowned, Jillins too drained to care. “You think I am without fear? That the absence of fear gives you courage?”

Jillins rocketed back, his eyes widening. “That is fear, ensign. Primal terror that makes you want to hide and run. To beg and plead. To do anything, promise everything, to make it go away.”

“What. What is this?”

Quinn frowned, Jillins’s eyes darting back and forth to things that weren’t there. “My death, ensign. When the Overseer broke me and I accepted that fear didn’t rule me. That pain couldn’t constrain me. When I became what she wanted me to become. When I accepted the Force.”

The sith leaned forward, a frown on his face. It looked strange with closed eyes. Like a blind man’s frown. “It is a lie to say I am without fear. It is a lie to say I don’t feel pain. I do. I feel every ounce of hurt. Every second of terror. The difference, Jillins, is that I do not let it control me. Not anymore.”

The ensign was openly crying, Quinn not blaming him. The presence around the sith was terrifying from twenty feet away, and Jillins was almost nose to nose with the man.

“How.” Jillins stuttered. “How did you survive that? How could anyone survive that?”

“Most didn’t.” The sith responded flatly. “They broke into a thousand little pieces, raped and killed soon after. But you are not sith, ensign. You will not be forced to endure that. Now focus. Think on your fear. I will not let you drown.”

Silence reigned, Quinn's breathing harsh to his own ears. Time passed. Ten minutes, then half an hour. Fear and relief would flutter over Jillins face, every now and then, before settling back into thoughtful frowns. He had stopped crying somewhere along the way, but Quinn couldn't quite remember when.

He had sunk into his own thoughts, only snapping out of it when he focused and saw the sith sitting directly in front of him. He looked to see Jillins gone from the room.

“He left some fifteen minutes ago.” The sith informed him. “Said he had some things to think about. Or to get shitfaced. Even odds.”

Quinn smiled briefly before catching himself, standing. “Apologies, my lord. I will not keep you.”

“Nonsense. It’s been a while since I took the time to properly meditate. Too long, really.”

He didn’t know what to say to that, so he looked to where Jillins had been sitting. “Will he be alright?”

Morgan opened his eyes, standing in that fluent, alien way of the sith. “I did what I could. No one can decide his future, lieutenant. No one but him.”

Quinn nodded, extending his hand before he could think better of it. “Thanks. For trying.”

‘For giving a shit.’ He didn’t say.

“He has fought for me. Bled for me.” The sith shook it, his eyes serious. “Respect for respect, lieutenant. Loyalty for loyalty. Excuse me.”

He was left alone in the room, a hundred thoughts whirling around his head.

One kept circling back. Quinn had no idea what to think about that sith anymore.

Mirla calmed her nerves as she waited, looking at her datapad again. Morgan was twenty minutes late, and she had other things to do. But he was the only fleshcrafting teacher on the planet, likely the system. She had checked.

Not to mention her Lord. Informally, of course, lest they bring the Dark Council on their heads. But Astara had sworn an oath, and they had all agreed. Even Lord Zethix.

An elegant solution to the problem of Zethix and Morgan’s dynamic, as Astara’s solutions usually were. One their actual Lord, the other his friend and their teacher.

The new pups would understand soon enough. Another few months and they would have unlearned their bad habits. Then she could properly instruct them. Teach them about loyalty and respect. Unity and the chain of command.

Teach them how armies flinched when sith worked together.

The door opened, Morgan striding inside. “Apologies, my previous engagement kept me.”

She stood, shaking her head. “None needed. It’s an honour to learn from you again, my Lord.”

Morgan grimaced. “It’s been what, half a year? Stop treating me like a stranger.”

Mirla grinned, only partly as a cover. “It’s a mark of respect, my Lord. ”

‘Fucking hells woman. Stop it with this anxiety bullshit.’ She reprimanded herself. Morgan had taken a seat, scowling at her.

“Yeah yeah, laugh it up. Shall we get started? Vette might find a way to start a wildfire if I leave her idle too long.”

Mirla schooled her features, taking a seat herself. “As you say. Lord Zethix has found some literature on fleshcrafting, and it has helped, but it does not mention the solution to my problem.”

“I see.” Morgan frowned. “Mind if I take a look?”

She handed over her datapad, her Lord setting it down after some minutes. “I think I understand. Please try the exercise, so that I can supervise.”

Mirla nodded, focusing inwards. A spike of alarm went through her as Morgan’s attention settled on her, its weight strong enough it pricked her skin.

‘He’s been getting stronger.’ She shook her head. ‘Obviously.’

She deftly manipulated the strands from her heart. One arm was easy enough, as was a second. Adding her leg was where she was running into trouble. It came halfway before stretching no further, pulling on the ones in her arms. Mirla gave it another few minutes, concluded no progress was being made, and opened her eyes.

Morgan was looking at her intently, his eyes closed. The attention sharpened, forcing her to resist fidgeting, then ebbed.

“I know the problem, and be assured it is one we all face. I could tell you, but it would be better to see for yourself.”

Mirla nodded, closing her eyes. Focusing like this on another sith was quite taboo, and usually made them aggressive. She had learned that well with her first batch of recruits. It had been quite the eye opener, and made her almost glad she had been trained in Project Culling. That she trained under Zethix and Morgan, not some Overseer.

She had promptly stamped out that nonsense, of course. It was a miracle the sith still existed, suspicious as they were.

His shield was down, but she felt the grooves where they snapped into place. She still felt the echo of strength behind them, ones no weaker than her own.

Which was telling, because Morgan had always been weaker than her, relying on his high degree of control.

She had no pressing desire to test those shields, thank you very much.

Mirla focused, feeling his own strands unravel before she could take a look at them. Then he rebuilt them, and she felt a fool for thinking her own work skillful. He went slowly, taking near a minute to reach a hand. Then, to her surprise, the strand turned around. She knew it would be easier to make a second. Take less concentration, consume less power.

She got it after the second arm was suffused with power, and snorted when he did a third limb. The circuit completed, beat softly, then settled. She felt the strands blur as they infused the body, until only vague outlines could be felt.

Mirla opened her eyes to see Morgan look at her. “The great secret.”

“I feel foolish for not thinking of it, honestly.” She admitted. To her surprise, her Lord laughed.

“So did I. Now try it yourself. We’ll see if you can’t complete the circuit today.”

She did. It took her an hour, but she did. It hummed with power, making her feel invigorated. Mirla smirked. “Can’t wait to rub this in the other’s faces.”

Morgan raised his eyebrow at her as she opened her eyes. Mirla cleared her throat awkwardly as she realised she had spoken out loud.

“What I mean, of course, is that this will be a great asset to the others. Especially the new recruits.”

Her Lord hummed in agreement, handing her datapad back to her. “I’ve transcribed a number of lessons on it. It is a powerful art, be careful who you teach it to.”

He stood, walking to the door. “Tell Soft Voice I’ll be in touch soon. I look forward to working with you all again.”

“The Enosis.” She blurted.

‘Yes.’ She mocked herself. ‘Really managed to casually insert that into conversation. Good job.’

Morgan paused, turning back. “Pardon?”

“The Enosis. Our name.” She coughed, scrambling. “I mean, if you agree.”

“Since when do we have a name?”

Mirla looked away. “Yesterday? Kripaa pointed out that we can't keep calling ourselves ‘the faction’. Lord Zethix liked it, but said to get your opinion.”

Morgan shrugged. “I’m not heavily involved, name yourself as you wish.”

She scowled, surprise flickering over his face. The part of her that was always analysing information noted that he was at ease enough to not guard his emotions, and nodded happily. “We swore an oath. You're one of its founding leaders. Like it or not, your opinion matters.”

He held up his hands. “Apologies. What does it mean?”

“Solidarity.” She wiggled her hand. “Unity.”

“Unity.” Morgan repeated softly. “I like it.”

Mirla grinned, the relief palpable. She didn’t bother wondering if it came from him liking it, her task of telling him being done, or because Astara now owed her money.

“Let’s not go the way of the Revanites, yes? No worshipping me, Soft Voice or anyone else as gods.”

She smirked, flicking through the lessons he had left her. “No promises.”

Vette skipped after Greta, enjoying the inner turmoil that her new friend tried to hide. Annoying those that couldn't snap at her was a guilty pleasure, especially when they tried to cover it up. Greta wasn’t doing a very good job of it.

Morgan’s armour was repairable, unfortunately. She had been looking forward to complaining how he couldn't go one day without destroying her gifts. Now she had to get her amusement some other way, but she had planned ahead.

Greta, after helping her lug the armour to the quartermaster, who, in turn, had handed it over to some poor blacksmith, was going back to her quarters. Different ones than where they had first met Quinn. That had apparently just been an empty barracks.

And due to her brilliant foresight, she could follow. It was hilarious watching the private try and come up with some excuse why she couldn't.

She’d have left if her vict- friend had asked her to, of course. She wasn’t that mean. But she hadn't, so here they were.

Vette ignored the badly hidden scowl as they came to their destination, seeing Jillins surrounded by the rest of his squad.

Greta sped up, leaving her behind at the door. Vette hung back, curious. Jillins was talking softly, only Horas seeing her lurk in the doorway. She waved at him.

He ignored her, turning back to the ensign.

“Then, I don’t know, he showed me something. Like I could remember, but I knew it never happened to me, you know?”

“Not really, mate.” Another soldier, one she didn’t know, clapped his shoulder. “All sounds like sith magic to me.”

“Magic isn’t real.” Horas rebuffed calmly. “But yes, it sounds like sith magic. Never heard of one doing that, mind you.”

“I thought you’d be getting flogged, not enjoying therapy.” Greta grinned. “All’s forgiven, right?”

Jillins shrugged. “The sith didn’t seem to care so much. The lieutenant probably does. Might be digging latrine pits for the next few months.”

Jeering faces exchanged money, chips flying around the room. Jillins scowled. “Not nice to bet on my demise, you assholes.”

A pang of longing shot through Vette, remembering when she had a crew of her own. People to drink and laugh with.

She shook her head, paying attention. Jillins had turned serious. “The shit I saw. A room filled with sith, in training I guess, getting tortured. Death looming over every second, fighting and killing as they fought to be the best. To survive. How that sith, and another one, biggest devaronian I’ve ever seen, carved order from that chaos.”

The room had gone silent, jeering replaced with hesitation. Horas was the one to break the silence. “I judge by actions, not words. Or memories. Whatever.”

Greta looked to the door, drawing attention to her. She smoothly ducked behind it, avoiding their gazes. “So far his actions have been to help.”

Someone spat on the floor, earning him a shove. “I saw how he led those droids away. Would have torn us apart in seconds, they would have. Did you see him, when he got out his armour? Covered in bruises. Shit looked black. You know how hard you’d have to get punched for it to turn black this quickly? No idea how he’s even walking.”

Vette slunk away, not wishing to intrude on a private moment. Intrude anymore than she already had, anyway. Now that her back-up amusement plan had been foiled, however, she was aimless.

So she decided she might as well take a nap, since Morgan was busy with sithy things. Marching to their room, blatantly ignoring she had a room of her own, she threw the door open, fully expecting it to be empty and ready to be proven wrong.

It was empty. She slumped, walking inside and kicking the counter because it deserved it. Then she slumped on the couch, browsing the limited content available on the wartime holonet. Her nap didn’t want to nap, so shitty entertainment was plan b. Or c, seeing as Greta had been plan b.

“Lazing about, are we? Should be ashamed of yourself.”

Vette jumped, pointing at him. “Don’t sneak up on me. Rude.”

Morgan shrugged. “I’m fine with being rude. You up to anything?”

She looked between Morgan and the B-rated drama, halfway finished. “Depends?”

“I’m gonna build my new lightsaber, and I promised you could help.”

Vette made a show of reluctance, looking between him and the drama again. He waved his hand dismissively. “I see cheap entertainment has gotten its claws in you. I shall simply construct this highly lethal, restricted weapon myself. Good day, madam.”

She scrambled off the couch, catching up to him in the hallway. “Meanie.”

“I’m fine with being mean too.”

Humming until they reached the private workshop, Morgan informing her Soft Voice had brought their stuff over from the ship, she looked questioningly at the array of parts.

“So this is supposed to make a lightsaber? Full disclosure, I tried when this stuff was still on the ship. Didn’t work.” She held up her hands defensively. “Just checking it for bugs, like you asked.”

“Uh-huh. No.” Morgan replied dryly. His lightsaber floated off his belt, disassembling itself in front of her eyes. She gawked at it, seeing Morgan smirk.

“You practised that.” She accused.

“I did.” He admitted shamelessly. “Took me like four hours to get it down. Still, looks damned impressive.”

Vette caught herself before she nodded, not wanting to give him the satisfaction. “So all this stuff is supposed to make a lightsaber?”

Morgan sighed deeply, making her grin. “Yes, all this stuff is supposed to make a lightsaber. Watch.”

A red crystal, the size of her thumb, floated in the middle, a lens joining it. “A lightsaber has five main parts.”

She kept half an ear open as he lectured, watching intently. “The crystal, made from kyber, is the main reason this device works the way it does. Kyber is attuned to the Force, and as such bonds to one wielder for life.”

“The other parts, lens, casing and power cell, are all easy to acquire. The emitter, in which the focusing lens is placed, is harder to get.” The casing twisted around the lens and emitter, concealing the crystal from sight. “But not nearly so as kyber. Ilum is one of the few planets where they can be found, and the jedi pilgrim there when they are young.”

Various wires, switches and resistors floated inside next, Morgan adding no comment about them. “These crystals bond for life, yet the sith do not journey to Ilum for them. Ancient Lords found a way to process the crystals, allowing multiple bonds to occur.”

Morgan grinned softly, the lightsaber completing with a soft click. “But never when the wielder is still alive. I found this one in an ancient tomb, as you are aware.”

Vette nodded, making grabby hands. Morgan floated it over, to her surprise. “Yeah. You needed little old me to steal it.”

She carefully grabbed it out of midair, pointing the weapon away from them. It ignited with a thrum, harsh red illuminating the room. She resisted the urge to swing it around wildly, swinging it slowly instead.

Morgan took it as she handed it to him, making it float in the air. “Nothing too complicated. Some make them from special materials. You can incorporate lights, special casings or even a blaster, if you wish, but I prefer its purpose to be simple. Singular.”

Vette looked at him, and he seemed sombre. Dangerous.

“Its purpose is to kill. Nothing more.”

She decided that was enough brooding, so she accidentally knocked the old casing to the ground. Morgan cringed, making her smirk. “I get it, no more angst. Hand me that screw please.”

She did, raising an eyebrow. He shrugged. “Only had time to practise screwing it out, not in. It’ll probably fall apart without it.”

Vette rolled her eyes, watching him attach the casing tightly with a mundane screwdriver. “Kinda undercuts the whole dangerous sith vibe you had going on.”

He nodded. “And so I ignored it, planning to attach it later. But you just had to ruin the moment, didn’t you?”

“Revenge.” She intoned seriously. “For Force bonding with some random soldier before me. Does our friendship mean nothing to you?”

Morgan turned to her, a dangerous glint in his eye. “Oh? Would you prefer I feel your every emotion? Know your every thought and memory? To know you, whole and complete, as I rearrange your mind?”

Heat flooded her stomach as she blushed, taking a half step back. The room was dark, to add to his demonstration, she just now realised, so she was partly obscured. Her knees trembled a little as he took a step forward, and just for a moment she thought he was reaching for her throat.

He snatched the lightsaber out of the air instead, a noise of protest almost escaping her. Almost.

“It was therapy. Nothing more.” He teased, and she realised he had no idea what he’d just done.

‘Well, at least we know he can play the part.’ Half her mind whispered. The other half was busy covering up the fact she had been about to sink to her knees.

“Sir?” Quinn called from outside the room. “Lord Baras is on the line for you.”

Vette cursed softly, seriously contemplating what it would take to kill Baras. Morgan turned to the door.

Just in case he ever felt like interrupting her alone time with Morgan again.

Chapter Text

Morgan walked after Quinn, his new lightsaber secured to his belt. Vette was walking some ways behind him, muddled feelings whirling through her, and he had no idea what to do about it.

He hadn’t meant to scare her. That bit about rearranging her mind had been too much, he decided. It wasn’t even true. The Force could confuse, yes. Induce memory loss, if the practitioner was skilled enough.

What it couldn't do was change people. It wasn’t mind control, no matter the old jokes about jedi brainwashing.

But now Quinn was here, so he couldn't exactly turn around and apologise.

‘Why not, exactly?’

Morgan stopped, tilting his head. That was an excellent point. “Quinn, go on ahead. I have something to discuss with Vette.”

“My lord.” Quinn acknowledged smoothly. “The holocall is in chamber 7f, third level.”

Morgan nodded, thanked the man, and ushered Vette through the nearest door he could find. Best to have some privacy for this.

A spike of alarm went through her, but Morgan couldn't quite figure out the cause. She had always been hard to read, and he never felt like pushing it. She had the right to her own emotions.

He came up short when the door led to a fairly cramped closet, but by then Vette was already inside. ‘Jesus, really making a mess of this.’

Morgan turned so he was looking at her, the limited space forcing them close. “I wanted to apologise about the mind rearranging dig. Sith can’t do that.”

He tilted his head, considering. “I can’t do that. But since others need to get past your Force Freeze shield, such delicate work is made practically impossible anyway.”

Vette, for some reason, was looking rather breathless. It suddenly occurred to him he’d just dragged her into a closet without warning.

“Sorry about dragging you in here like this.”

A rush of disappointment went through her, Morgan not quite able to pinpoint where it came from. He resisted the urge to look deeper. “By the Goddess, boss. Here I thought we’d be doing something exciting.”

Morgan looked at her, confused. “What could we possibly do in a closet?”

Vette mimed a bashful look and laughed, Morgan feeling like an idiot. “Right. Ignoring that. I’m getting out of the closet.”

He heard her giggle as he yanked the door open, the urge to bang his head against the wall stronger than ever. “Yes, very funny. Here I was trying to be reassuring.”

“Don’t feel bad.” She cooed. “You were very dapper. Like a shining knight.”

“I’ll never forgive you if Soft Voice starts calling me The Dapper Knight.”

Amusement was clear on her face as he spied at her. “You really are just handing me all this blackmail, aren’t you. What’s a girl supposed to do with all this information?”

“Keep it silent, as a personal favour to me?”

Vette snorted. Morgan frowned. “Alright, how about I don’t pin you to the ceiling and leave you there for a while?”

Silence was his answer, and he didn’t dare look back. “That was a joke.”

Vette sounded disappointed. “I know.”

‘But that’s crazy.’ He reassured himself. ‘Just. You’ve made this weird, and now you’re hearing things. Yes.’

Their walk was silent, Vette still walking behind him. Great. Now she didn’t even want him to look at her. This was going swimmingly.

Reprieve came as they arrived at the third floor, Quinn waiting for them. Vette skipped ahead, to his surprise, and poked Quinn in the shoulder. “This better be important soldier boy, we were busy.”

‘It damn well better be.’ Morgan privately agreed. ‘I’ve sure made a fool of myself for it.’

“I do not dare comment on the business of sith.” Quinn answered dryly. “Lord Baras is waiting, sir.”

Morgan nodded, walking ahead as Vette started asking about Quinn’s pistols, whatever that meant. Probably just want a look at his blaster, knowing her.

“Apprentice.” Baras greeted, the door clicking shut behind him. “Things are moving faster than anticipated, and my focus will be elsewhere for a time. Rylon’s son has been taken care of, but not as cleanly as I wished. My asset on the planet left witnesses, the fool. Rylon has gone rogue, and with the success of your mission no evidence of betrayal remains.”

Morgan nodded calmly, his mind going a hundred miles an hour. ‘Things are moving out of order. Expected, but I hoped for more time.’

“Rylon has his Republic allies convinced of his allegiance, and poisoned the ground in the process. He will have full support when you confront him, and the commander is no stranger to killing jedi or sith. Kill him, and report to me when it is finished.”

Baras loomed, oppressive attention invading the room. Morgan shivered. “Fail me, and I’ll make you beg for death.”

The holo cut off, Morgan straightening. Death threats and intimidation had grown numb somewhere along the way, though he couldn't quite say when.

His old Overseer had more than adequately prepared him to pretend, however. Improvisation at its best. Now if only he could get it to work when he was with Vette.

Speaking of, Quinn was likely in need of a rescue.

To his surprise, something which had happened far too much today, they were quietly talking. They also pretended they hadn’t been when he came close. Great.

“Lieutenant. Darth Baras has ordered the death of commander Rylon, and has given me operational control. We will likely cooperate with Soft Voice, Zethix, to achieve this task. You and the men get some rest.”

Quinn saluted. Morgan nodded to the man, then walked off.

Vette skipped after him, waving goodbye to Quinn. “So what we up to?”

“Come on, you must have noticed something. A glimpse at a girl's ass. Staring down cleavage. Anything.” Vette encouraged.

Quinn shuffled uncomfortably, looking at the door that the sith had disappeared through. The sith they were, to his great, visible discomfort, gossiping about. Vette almost rolled her eyes. Not like Morgan could hear them. “I really don’t think I’m the best person to ask.”

“You’re the only one that has spent any time with him, other than his sith posse. I’m not about to ask them.”

Quinn sighed, looking at the door again. “Off the record, and you best hope this whole conversation stays that way, I’ve not. I cannot express how little a sith's sexual orientation is my business. Nor would I wish it to be, should it ever come up.”

He looked at her pointedly, making her huff. “Fine, fine. It’s weird though. I’ve never seen him check someone out. Not one glimpse at someone’s ass, men or women. No lingering looks. Nothing. Well, besides the once. But I’m starting to think that was out of surprise, nothing more.”

Quinn shrugged. “He is a fleshcrafter, yes? They are rumoured to have great control over their bodies, and I see no reason this should not include hormones.”

Vette nodded thoughtfully. “That makes sense. Or wait no it doesn’t because why would he suppress his hormones?”

The lieutenant looked at her, raising an eyebrow. “Why the interest?”

“Why do you know the capabilities of a fleshcrafter?” She shot back. “Both questions we’d rather not answer, yes?”

Quinn stiffened, nodding. The door opened just as he was about to say something, Morgan striding out.

“Lieutenant. Baras has ordered the death of commander Rylon, and has given me operational control. We will likely cooperate with Soft Voice, Zethix, to achieve this task. You and the men get some rest.”

Vette rolled her eyes at the nickname, then strode after him as he walked off, waving to Quinn. “So what we up to?

He didn’t answer, and a surprisingly strong surge of guilt hit her. “We didn’t mean anything with the gossip, really. It’s just-”

“What gossip?” Morgan turned to her, a smirk on his lips. “You mean when you both fell silent the moment I came close? Not suspicious behaviour at all, rest assured. Completely normal.”

Vette grinned, the guilt evaporating as fast as it came. “So you didn’t hear, then?”

“About the surprise party? Of course not.”

She snorted. “Good guess, but no. You want to know? I’ll tell you, if you really want to.”

Morgan rounded a corner, two soldiers snapping to attention. She ignored them, Morgan waving them off. “If I don’t, will it impact me negatively?”

Vette frowned, considering. “Nope. More my problem than yours.”

“Then keep your secrets. Let me know if I can help.”

They fell silent, Morgan getting that far off look in his eye when his attention was elsewhere. He masked it well, but not well enough for her not to notice.

‘I know how he could help.’ Her thoughts whispered. ‘I know just what he could do.’

‘Hush.’ She whispered back sternly. ‘No scaring off the sith with our less than vanilla outlook on life.’

They found Soft Voice many stairs later, lording over an enclosed courtyard. It was filled with sparring sith, instructors stalking among them. Vette watched as two plainly dressed sith hacked into each other with barely restrained fury, another sith hurrying over.

“So this is what you came for.” Soft Voice greeted. “Blowing up towers and running from droids. We’d never have coped without you.”

Morgan scoffed, looking down as the instructor forced the quarrelling sith to meditate. “You know me, I try to confound wherever I go. Fair warning on those droids though. Anyone but you, tell them to run.”

Soft Voice inclined his head, nodding to her. “Pleasure to see you again. So, since I’d never get a straight answer out of Mad Mouse, is he keeping out of trouble?”

“Yup.” She replied. “Just some light exercise of near death, resurrecting a possibly extinct Force discipline and inspiring fanatical loyalty in his soldiers. The usual.”

“That was therapy.” Morgan muttered, looking over as the two sith, supposedly meditating, were inching to their weapons again. “You two!”

The whole courtyard froze as her boss's attention came down on it, the instructors bowing smoothly. The new recruits froze, looking uncertain. “You had one warning already. If you want to fight, you’ll get a fight.”

Vette watched as he vaulted the railing, landing lightly. A practice saber came flying to his hand, the instructors grinning as they ushered the remaining sith to the side.

“Who are you?” The rightmost acolyte, a pureblood, demanded. The one on the left looked just as indignant, but held her peace.

Morgan nodded thoughtfully. “I’m the man that just told thirty sith to take a break as I talk to you.”

He looked at the left sith expectantly. The woman broke her silence, looking over his shoulder. “Inara Bakker.”

The pureblood glared at her, then straightened. “Alyssa Gray. Gray foundries.”

He nodded, looking past their flesh. They shuffled uncomfortably as he broke their shields with a flex of will, waving his hand to an instructor.

A trandoshan stepped forward, rows of teeth visible as he smirked. “Lord Morgan, founding leader of Enosis. Friend to Lord Zethix, apprentice to Darth Baras. Survivor of the Culling. The Fleshcrafter Lord.”

Vette’s ear twitched at the last title, not having heard it before. She looked at Zethix, curious. “You’re just gonna let him do whatever? I thought this lot was yours?

The two quarrelsome sith looked much less certain as her boss walked close, saber held loosely in hand. Soft Voice huffed a laugh. “These are as much his sith as mine. It was before your time, I know, but we once trained them together. Led them together.”

“Anger is power. So the Dark promises. Emotion is strength. So the sith preach. I am not angry. I feel nothing for either of you. Come, see if the Dark keeps its promises.”

Vette shrugged, watching as the two sith visibly hesitated before attacking. She snorted at their teamwork. “Those two are gonna wish they’d kept their mouths shut, especially with coordination that poor. It’s been just me and him for most of it, true. Quinn and his squad have been assigned to us, but that looks to be temporary.”

Soft Voice picked up his datapad as it chimed, typing a reply before answering. “Ah yes, the lieutenant. Most of his file has been redacted on personal orders of a moff. Made me curious, and Mad Mouse can be too trusting sometimes.”

Her boss smacked Alyssa over the head like an errant child as she stumbled, making her snort. “Can he? Good to know. Haven’t got the notion Quinn is untrustworthy, not so far. Anything interesting in his file?”

Zethix waved his hand. “Rising star. Disobeyed a direct order, resulting in Imperial victory. The moff took credit for it while destroying Quinn’s career, you can fill in the blanks yourself. No idea how he managed to stay in the military, not with how angry the moff seemed when we inquired about the event, but sometimes she wishes to give her most promising members a second chance.”

The two sith below were on the ground, looking up through bloodied faces. Morgan loomed over them, every inch the warrior. “Now, did the anger help you? Did your emotions give you strength?”

The two looked away, wrath still in their eyes. Morgan sighed. “Oh well. Be sure to keep it up. The Empire has no shortage of short-fused, suicidal sith. What will two more matter? Bastra, what is the average life expectancy of those kinds of sith again?”

The instructor stepped forth, glaring at the two recruits. “Couple weeks. Usually fall to infighting. Or they step on landmines, get smeared on the ground by artillery, those sorts of things.”

Morgan bent down, looking the kneeling sith eye to eye. “Korriban has taught you strength through anger. Power through arrogance. It is fleeting. An illusion. You’ve been recruited for a reason. Because someone saw potential in you. I don’t.”

He turned to the trandoshan, straightening. “One week. If they don’t shape up, kill them.”

The two sith stiffened, Bastra smiling as he bowed. “As you say, my lord. Back to work! You two, with me. You’ve got until I run out of patience to show me why we should keep wasting oxygen on you.”

Vette waved lazily as Morgan joined them again, jumping ten feet like taking a step. “Sorry about that. Got the old teaching itch.”

Soft Voice waved dismissively, pouring a drink and handing it to him. “They’ll learn. It’s good they’re getting to see some of you. Get a face to go with the legend.”

Morgan snorted, turning to her. “All lies, I assure you.”

“I know.” She took a sip, warm wine pleasant on her tongue. “The truth is so much more terrifying. Bit harsh to kill them, though.”

Morgan shrugged. “They’re weapons of mass destruction, and I’m treating them as such. If they don’t learn control they have no place here, and I will not let them loose on the galaxy. I just focussed their priorities, that’s all.”

He sat, taking a gulp of his drink. He relaxed, raising the glass to Zethix. “Good stuff. I think.”

“Uncultured.” The devaronian sniffed. “Barbarian. Waste of good wine.”

Morgan snorted, turning serious. “Baras cut me free. I’m to kill commander Rylon as I see fit, reporting when it’s done. As far as I know he’s holed up in the Balmorran Arms Factory, imparting his knowledge and experience on the resistance.”

“You heard right. Acts as an advisor and second to Cheketta, the man in charge. Cheketta is a former grand marshal of the Republic, and likely to resume that role the second he steps off this planet. Rylon is special forces, and has killed a fair share of sith. Mostly ambushes and traps, as those seem to be his specialty.”

Soft Voice tipped his glass. “You also have very good timing. Darth Lachris has put me in charge of assaulting the factory, and you’re more than welcome to tag along.”

Morgan frowned. “Well, I’m no good at leading large assaults. You have anything that’ll get me close to him? Some objective you need destroyed, preferably, as cover. Also, we need to discuss those droids. Vette raised some good ideas, but we’ll need your help.”

She sat back and sipped her wine as they organised the death of the rebellion, wondering when she had gone from begging on the streets to sitting in on planet spanning operations.

Vette shrugged. ‘Oh well. At least the wine is good.’

As the sun set on the domed city, Morgan found himself walking alone. Vette had gone off to do whatever she did when he wasn’t with her, and Quinn was doing performance reviews. Vette had shared a picture of the squad's faces when it was announced, boredom etched into their eyes but standing at ramrod attention.

He’d chuckled, it had answered part of the question of what she was up to, and now he was taking a stroll.

No obligations. The planning, insofar as it concerned both of them, was over. Just a simple, relaxing walk through some of the nicer parts of the city.

Without armour, and his lightsaber tucked away discreetly, he drew no attention. Sobrik was a military city, true, but the residential districts still took nearly seven tenths of available space.

A city needed more than just soldiers. Cooks, labourers, housing for family. An endless list of professions outside military life. And those people needed to relax too, leading to shops and cantina’s. Theatres and arcades.

It was walking past a long line of admittedly cute cafes and bakeries that he spotted him.

Morgan sighed, admitted he was bored anyway, and ambled over. The man didn’t look up from his datapad as he sat down, a tired but happy looking man bringing over some pastries and tea.

“I’ve not spent much time in cafes lately, but isn’t it usual to get your food after having ordered?”

The old man reclined, setting down his datapad and taking a pastry. “I ordered for both of us. Good to see you again, Morgan.”

“And you, strange old man I’ve only met once before.”

The man laughed, looking pointedly at the plate of food. Morgan took one, finding it to be filled with a sort of jelly. “John. And as you might have surmised our first meeting was not incidental. Nor this one, for that matter.”

Morgan took a sip, found it matched his tastes exactly, and sighed. “Imperial Intelligence. You either really suck at your job or you need something.”

“Very good.” John praised happily. “Cipher four, at your service. Well, not really. You know how it is. I prefer John.”

“I assume the attendant you saved on Dromund Kaas was one of yours, then?”

John nibbled on another pastry, shrugging. “A coincidence, believe it or not. It happened about an hour after getting this assignment, so I improvised.”

“And how have you been finding your mission?”

The man scowled, tapping his datapad. “Boring. And surprisingly difficult. No offence, not that I’m telling you what to feel, but you’re not exactly subtle. That twi’lek of yours, on the other hand, has some serious potential. Not to mention that gaggle of sith that seem to worship the ground you walk on. I’ve the feeling Zethix would have a stern word with me, should he ever find out I’m tailing you.”

“Like you don’t know the names of everyone I talk to.” Morgan rolled his eyes. “And I have been very clear on the whole worship thing.”

John smiled, happy again. “Indeed. Quite the conundrum you are. So there I was, busting my ass trying to find some way into the wing that Zethix has confiscated and reinforced, when I thought, why not ask? That Morgan seems like a reasonable fellow.”

The man leaned forward eagerly, tapping his datapad again. “So, anything to report?”

Morgan snorted. “How about a question for a question? You can tell when I’m lying through decades of experience, while I can read your mind. Seems fair, no?”

A flicker, short and quickly buried, went through the man. Fear, uncertainty. John laughed. “Is it bad that I’m enjoying this? It’s been awhile since my life has been interesting. Very well, after you.”

Morgan considered, then shrugged and went for the obvious. “Did Baras send you to spy on me?”

John inclined his head, mirth dancing in the man’s eyes. “No. This is Imperial Intelligence taking an interest. Reassuring, right?”

He leaned forward, cupping his chin. “Are you fucking Vette?”

Morgan blinked at the non sequitur. “Nope. Sleeping with those you work with doesn’t end well.”

John blinked. “Huh. Well, even I can be wrong on occasion. Your turn.”

“Why did you set this meeting? Or late dinner. Whatever this is.”

“I’m bored. I also think more can be gained by talking, rather than Vette shooting me when she eventually spots me. Like I said, she has good instincts.”

Morgan waved, feeling John’s attention sharpen. “What are your plans for Imperial Intelligence, should you sit on the Dark Council?”

“My, quite the faith you have in me.” John looked at him without blinking, carefully relaxed. “Fine. I have no plans for Imperial Intelligence, nor have I thought much about wielding that much power.”

The man scowled playfully. “The first lie of the evening. Here we’d been doing so well.”

Morgan shrugged. “Fair. I’ve thought about wielding that sort of power, but I truly have no designs for Imperial Intelligence.” He waited for John to nod, then took a gamble. “What do you know about commander Rylon, and how would you go about killing him?”

John shrugged. “Not much more than you, I imagine. He’s old, and that makes him cautious. Doesn’t go anywhere without his security, and even then rarely leaves the Balmorran Arms Factory. His resources stretch far, and it’s estimated he’s responsible for well over fifty thousand dead Imperial troops since arriving on Balmorra. Not to mention the assassination attempts he’s survived. Play to your strengths, not his weaknesses. He doesn’t have any.”

Morgan nodded, filing that away. The old man stretched, paying the server with a few taps on his datapad. “Last one. I’ll even give it to you for free, since you’ve been a good sport.”

Attention settled on the old man, making him stiffen. Morgan leaned forward, smiling kindly. “It’s not a question, but please don’t take it as a threat either. I like you, John Doe, and I like your candour. Endanger the people working for me, or my mission, and those sith that worship me? They’ll hound you, tear you apart and bring your bones to me as presents.” Morgen nodded, satisfied.

“Enjoy your evening, Cipher Four. I look forward to our next talk.”

Vette hid behind a large outcropping of stone, watching as Morgan and the rest of the men advanced. She could feel Greta next to her, hear her quiet breathing and subtle shuffling.

The ground was not a pleasant one to lay on, Vette watching through her scope as everyone got into position.

They had been, well, ordered would be the wrong word. Soft Voice had suggested they could take out the redundant generators for the Balmorran Arms Factory, third in line. Its main and secondary generators were deep within the factory itself, as they should be, but disabling their tertiary backups would, she had been assured, make their job easier.

‘Oh yes, so very easy.’ She snarked to herself. ‘Simply sneak into the factory, avoid all guards, security and traps, then blow the shield generators to bits so the main assault doesn’t heroically die trying to force past them. Simplicity itself.’

To distract herself from the current phase of the plan, which for her meant hurry up and wait, she trained her scope on Morgan.

She’d been feeling rather spicy since yesterday's unintended teasing, and looking at him didn’t help much. Armoured and armed, looking fierce in a calm, collected way. Like assaulting a fixed position with less than ten men didn't bother him at all. A rock dug into her thigh, the pain not helping to calm her down.

‘If only he wasn’t so dense.’ She groused. ‘Maybe I should tie myself up, set up a use me sign and wait in the room?’

Vette shook her head. Too forward. Far too likely to scare him off. She watched as Morgan jumped from a rock, plummeting over sixty feet and crushing the machine gun he landed on. The soldier manning it didn’t fare much better, but Vette was already looking away.

Quinn and his men opened fire from their elevated position, only one guard having protected the ridge that snaked along the facility. Their intelligence predicted anonymity was their greatest protection, and she was starting to think they might have been right for once.

A soldier, dressed properly for war, started shouting and waving his arms. She couldn't hear what the fool was shouting, but he stopped after she evaporated his torso.

Using her anti-material sniper for this was overkill, but the effects on morale were immediate. Some bolted immediately, scrambling for the hills. It was the veterans she was after, the ones that knew how important this place was. If the armed civilians wanted to run, she was happy to leave them to it.

There. Someone, behind proper cover but not accounting for her position, was pulling grenades. She waited until he pressed the shiny button, then took his head. The explosive dropped, blowing two others apart and wrecking their cover.

A woman, one of a species she had only rarely seen, was frantically calling into a radio. She destroyed it, and the woman, with a light squeeze of her finger.

‘Maybe something less risky. The bending hasn't been doing too much, but how about dancing? I could have a longstanding, cultural passion about dancing. He wouldn't know, would he? Yes, that could work.’

Morgan pointed to the door, Jillins rushing forward to plant the blasting charges. She reflected that he hadn’t meant for that to look so dramatic. Just as he hadn’t meant to rile her up and then do nothing about it. Infuriating man.

‘Patience.’ She chanted. ‘Patience is key. There’s no time limit.’

Everything promptly went to shit, like the universe itself was loudly disagreeing, and smoke obscured her sight. Quinn’s soldiers came running out soon after, Jillins being dragged by Horas.

“All personnel is to retreat until further notice. Sith killer droids have been sighted, so stick to the plan. Lord Morgan will lead them away, after which we will secure the objective.’

Quinn's voice was calm and clear, Vette feeling her heartbeat skyrocket. Those things had nearly killed him last time. They planned for them, true, but part of her had still thought it wouldn't happen.

Her boss jumped out of the smoke, four of the things jumping after him. She spared an idle thought of where the rest of them were, but focussed. One pointed a blaster, Morgan spinning wildly as he was blown away.

Vette cursed, taking aim and smashing the offending droid against stone. It got up within the second. ‘Slugthrowers. Fuck. Don’t like it when they learn.’

Morgan twisted and landed, scrambling back as four small devices flew out of the pouch around his waist. The droids didn’t even attempt to dodge, bounding after him.

She cursed as the high-grade EMP’s did nothing, but they had planned for that too. Vette watched as the devices detached themselves again, all four flying over to a single droid. She shook her head at the control that must have taken, seeing as he was dodging four beskar swords at the same time.

That time the droid stuttered and slowed, and Morgan's voice finally came over the comm. “EMP overloading is a go. Vette, they're all yours.”

Greta wordlessly handed her the pouch of special ammunition, Vette unloading her rifle with quick, sure movements. The new stuff went in, slowing her breathing as she aimed.

Her finger hovered over the trigger as Morgan danced around the droids, until one, the slowed one, froze entirely.

Just for a second. Just long enough to let her aim. They had theorised that coating that many droids in beskar meant they hadn’t skimped on the electronics, and she was proven right as it started to move again.

Vette breathed out as her finger twitched the trigger, the priceless round shooting forward at twice the speed of sound. Its torso bent inwards as the beskar round violently tore apart its core components, the droid finally collapsing.

The other droids jerked awkwardly, as if pulled by an invisible string, before turning to retreat. She heard Morgan laugh as the four EMP’s, still attached at the neck of the fallen droid, flew after them.

Vette had just loaded another of her four remaining rounds as one of the retreating droids stumbled, its electronics stuttering. She blew open its side, muttering curses as it managed to turn a sure kill into a shallow wound.

Morgan was there in a flash, his lightsaber stabbing into the broken armour. The droid collapsed entirely, and Vette grinned as the adrenaline hit her.

They had done some rough calculations on how expensive one of those things were. Even on a factory world, even with the resources of the Republic, coating that much beskar onto droids was ruinous.

Worth the cost to kill sith, undoubtedly. But losing them? Vette’s grin turned into a smirk as she imagined the sheer panic of whoever was controlling them, having lost hundreds of millions in minutes. Then she carefully repacked the remaining three rounds, representing all available beskar in Imperial hands on Balmorra.

She had no idea how Zethix had managed to get his hands on it, even her contacts in the underworld scoffing when she had inquired. Still, her plan had worked like a charm. Warm affection spread through her as it hit that Morgan had not only listened to her, but had put his full weight behind it. That he had trusted her, his life, to her plan.

Her high turned to low dread as Morgan jerked, his lightsaber coming into a block. Dull brown robes fluttered as two jedi moved as one, Morgan scrambling to clear space.

She rapidly loaded her standard ammunition, feeling her focus sharpen. Jedi, unlike those droids, were not lightsaber resistant. Indeed, her fear seemed to be unfounded.

Morgan’s knife keened through the air, one jedi falling to the ground soundlessly. Vette took careful aim at the other, the cursed woman nimbly dancing out of the way.

“Was. Was that a padawan?” Her boss asked incredulously. Judging by the glare on the jedi's face, he was talking to her, not Vette. “You took a padawan to an active warzone?”

“The Dark shall fail you, sith.” The jedi shot back, a rock the size of her head flying at Morgan. Her boss dodged, his two knives calmly floating over his shoulder.

“Probably.” He agreed. The jedi frowned, Vette easily able to see the anger in her eyes. “Not as much as you failed him, however.”

The stranger snarled, jumping forward. As much as her face screamed rage, her technique was smooth. Vette didn’t know much about lightsaber combat, but she did know Morgan. Knew he was being cautious for a reason.

Horas took that moment to fire a rocket launcher, both Force users jumping back. The jedi looked at her fallen padawan, scooped him up and fled.

Morgan waved off a pursuit, turning to Quinn instead. “Enough fighting for today. Is it done?”

The lieutenant saluted. “Sir. The objective is destroyed.”

“Very good. Take those two droids to Soft Voice. I don’t doubt they're worth their weight in gold.”

Vette tilted her head at the odd expression, shrugging. “So, it seemed my plan worked.”

Her boss turned to her, a grin in his voice. “So it did. We’ll have to see about getting you some more beskar rounds, just in case. Don’t tell the mandalorians, they get weird about people turning that stuff into weapons.”

Morgan stretched beside Soft Voice, looking over the convoy through his scope. “This seems a bit overkill.”

The whole of the Enosis were behind them, new recruits mingling in squads of five as the veterans paired up. Mirla was double checking something on her datapad, Kripaa beside her. Astara was to the right of him, looking over the assembled recruits sternly. “You will be graded based on your performance. Stick to your squads, stick to your objectives. Any deviation born from bloodlust, anger or fear is an automatic fail. I will know.”

“Because they need the test. This convoy also carries vital supplies for the resistance, and its guards are hardened Republic troops. They’ll make for a good challenge.”

Morgan rolled his eyes, wondering if Vette was having fun with Quinn. ‘Probably. She was vague, but it seemed to involve tracking down the people that had made her special bullets.’

He smiled at the thought of Vette busting down doors, demanding more beskar bullets as Quinn’s men looked on in exasperation.

“Showtime.” Soft Voice ordered. Morgan flexed, then jumped. His friend was close behind, the rest of the thirty odd sith following eagerly.

The convoy saw them, of course. Hard to keep this many sith hidden, even if they had felt like it. This wasn’t a stealth mission.

This was an exam masquerading as a wartime operation, overwhelming force to crush whomever was in their path.

The trucks stopped, its soldiers opening fire. Morgan shook his head as it was deflected or returned, then focused as they brought out the big guns.

The two tanks aimed and fired without preamble, the sith spreading out immediately. Morgan kept half an eye on them, noting with satisfaction they had dodged properly.

The tanks got off two more shots before they were too close, the troopers smoothly setting lines of fire. Nearly half of them threw grenades, four of them taking out flamethrowers.

Morgan took control of six of the small, explosive objects, sending them back. The Enosis veterans either deflected or returned the rest, spreading destruction among the ranks. The flame troopers were taken care of by Soft Voice, the devaronian strangling them with a raised hand.

He scoffed, his knives finding flesh as they broke through the lines. ‘I try that and they’ll have the unforgettable experience of a hand gently holding their throats, nevermind lifting them into the air.’

Morgan spared a second's attention to the drones recording every second of this fight. Mirla and Soft Voice would be spending the rest of the day grading, no doubt.

The sith spread around him, the estimated four hundred Republic troops disintegrating as he watched. The new recruits were tearing into hastily prepared positions with vigour, one squad managing to topple a tank.

Their counterpart, the group that had the other armoured vehicle as their objective, had gone the more practical route. Two sith sheared off the barrel with little issue, the other three forcing the hatch open.

Screaming reached his ears as they dropped grenades, forcing the hatch closed again. They backed off immediately, turning to their secondary mission.

Mirla’s voice drifted over, Morgan listening as his knives danced. “Well, their training seems to be holding. It’s only been what, two weeks? Look at them, all grown up.”

Astara scoffed, turning to her and glaring at Alyssa and Inara. “Those two had their eyes opened by Lord Morgan himself. If they hadn’t shaped up they’d be dead by now.”

He ignored their banter, turning to the two former problematic sith. Their hate had transformed into a flirty rivalry, gloating as they fought. Morgan shook his head, turning to Soft Voice. “Good thing we don’t forbid relationships. We’d have to kick those two out, for starters.”

His friend dropped the stone he’d been levitating, twenty heavy troopers screaming as they died under a hundred tons of rock. “That we would. Astara apparently caught them, promptly starting a lecture on proper sex etiquette. They haven’t stopped, from what I heard.”

Morgan snorted, but put Inara and Alyssa out of his mind. He turned back to the fight, his knives orbiting his shoulders.

“Or not.” He mumbled.

The last of the troopers were running, eager sith hounding after them. The convoy was a smoking ruin, yet all trucks were untouched. Kripaa was already directing squads to sort through it all, taking what valuables they could.

“Running out of money?”

Soft Voice looked around, spotting the active looting. “Not really. Those two droids you delivered will keep us operational for a long while, nevermind our regular funding. Be a waste to just burn all this stuff, though.”

Morgan shrugged, finding the two lovebirds walking over. Astara was behind them, looming as she prodded them forward.

“My Lord.” Alyssa began, bowing awkwardly. “I am grateful for the opportunity and lesson. I will not disappoint you.”

Inara nodded empathetically, tearing her gaze from Alyssa’s bloodied face. “So am I.”

Astara snorted, slapping Inara over the head. The woman looked abashed, bowing. “My Lord.”

Morgan waved his hand, the two fluttering around each other as they got back to work. Astara looked on, exasperated. “Well, the training worked. They stopped trying to kill each other. Not entirely sure sneaking off every other minute to go fuck in a closet is much better, mind you, but their teamwork improved.”

Soft Voice huffed, pulling the stone off the soldiers and freeing the gore underneath. He explained when Astara looked at him questioningly. “We need this road more than the rebellion does. Keep those two in line. No shirking their duty to have some fun.”

Astara nodded, turning to stalk over to a recruit cutting off ears. “What have I told you about trophies? Give!”

The return to base was done in high spirits, trucks manned by sith passing though the last checkpoint. Morgan grinned at the look on the guards faces, his mirth dying as they came to the docking bay.

Three sith were waiting for them, each feeling as powerful as Soft Voice. The centre one stepped forward, scowling deeply. “Are you children done playing?”

Mirla held up her hand, the squads behind her halting. Soft Voice walked forward, Morgan and Kripaa joining him. He focussed, feeling his scan rebuffed.

Similar exchanges happened between them all, no clear winner emerging. Soft Voice broke the silence. “Step aside.”

“I am the apprentice to Darth Lachris.” Their spokesperson sneered. “I will not be ordered around by some military pup.”

Morgan frowned, recalling the report on the governor of Balmorra as Kripaa shifted. “Ah, Lerek. Spare us the dick measuring and fuck off. We both know your master forbade infighting on the planet.”

Lerek smiled broadly, nodding. “Indeed she did. But to be more specific, she forbids sith from infighting. She made no mention of, say, pretty little twi’lek.”

Morgan stilled as Lerek leered, Kripaa tensing beside him. Soft Voice hummed. “She is under the protection of the Enosis. Harm her at your own peril.”

“Harm her?” Lerek put a hand to his chest, appearing shocked. “I would never. If she came to me, however? Begging for some proper sith protection? Well, far be it for me to deny her when she comes crawling.”

Morgan stepped forward slowly, Lerek smiling at him. “Tut tut. You said it yourself. No fighting between sith.”

Morgan put his hand on his shoulder, ever so slowly. Lerek appeared the picture of confidence, looking at the hand disdainfully. When Morgan invaded the flesh, only the organs protected by his shield, Lerek’s sneer died. When the Force screamed at him to move, Lerek remained frozen.

His two companions hesitated as Soft Voice and Kripaa mirrored them, Lerek screaming silently. Morgan let his hand go, the sith falling bonelessly to the floor.

“It never ceases to amaze,” Kripaa told the two remaining apprentices quietly. “how much sith judge solely on raw power. Now fuck off.”

The two looked around, saw thirty tensing sith, and decided this hadn’t gone quite to plan.

“We’ll answer for that.” Soft Voice sighed as the two sith had left, waving at Mirla. The truck got moving again, docking so their load could be admitted into inventory. Soldiers joined them, saluting before Mirla. “He wasn’t wrong when he said Darth Lachris forbade infighting on the planet.”

“That wasn’t a fight.” Morgan noted, releasing the hot flash of anger in his stomach. “I’ll take responsibility, of course.”

Morgan repeated the same thing thirty minutes later, standing with Soft Voice in front of Darth Lacrhis.

The governor snorted. “Well, all is solved. My apprentice is not blind, deaf and mute. My rules weren’t broken and the war effort hasn’t been damaged. Hooray.”

The Darth narrowed her eyes, glaring at Morgan. “Come on, out with it. You’ve prepared some clever defence.”

“You forbade fighting, my Lady. I did not fight him.”

Lachris’s scowl broke, laughing openly. “Ah yes, the fleshcrafter. His shield should still have stopped you.”

“No offence, my Lady, but not necessarily. Shields protect the soul, and most include vital organs and such. It stops others from ragdolling you, true. What it does not do, or what he did not do, is protect everything. His control was not able to dislodge mine, and disrupting sight, speech and hearing was not difficult when terror broke his concentration.”

The Darth held up three fingers. “Firstly, the protections that you speak of have not been needed for some time, and even then are not expected from apprentices. Secondly, disrupting the three pillars of interacting with the world makes my apprentice worthless, and so he serves me no longer. Come.”

Both Morgan and Soft Voice followed as they stepped into a turbolift, descending deep into the earth. Soft Voice spoke as the doors opened again, revealing a spacious training room.

“What was the third thing?”

Lachris walked inside. “That you two have just become interesting. You and your Enosis both.”

Lerek was meditating in the centre of the room, milky white eyes looking their way as they entered. Lachris scoffed, motioning to him. “It would take months for him to see with the Force, assuming he learns at all. Kill that waste of space.”

Morgan raised an eyebrow, his knives sailing across the room. Lerek dodged, something he found reluctantly impressive, only to miss the second. It came out clean on the other side, tearing through the heart.

“Despite his recent showing, Lerek was not a bad apprentice. Your equal, had he not succumbed to arrogance. Relying on my decree was foolish. Letting you touch him was foolish. Foolishness is fatal, as we have just seen.”

Lachris summoned a practice saber, shoving aside Lerek at the same time. The corpse smacked against the wall, Morgan calling a saber to his hand after raising an eyebrow. Soft Voice walked over, picking one up manually.

Not because he couldn't summon one, Morgan knew. His friend preferred not solving every little problem with the Force.

“Try not to cry. I need to work out some frustrations.”

Morgan backpaddled as his friend counter charged, finding his strength not equal to the task. Morgan focussed on her shields as Soft Voice bought him time.

They seemed like bulwarks. Immovable walls of power without the slightest flaw or mistake. Morgan shook his head and focused on the fight, his friend flying through the room.

Then the Darth was on him, a fury of blows batting aside his defences and dislocating his shoulder in seconds. Pain flared equal with awe, thousands of small probes and attacks wrapping around his shield. It held for a moment. The Darth flared her connection, cracking his shield and sending him flying next to Soft Voice.

Both stood, exchanging a look. Morgan found humour and excitement reflected in his friends eyes, shaking his head.

“Come on, give me a proper fight.” Lachris tilted her head, holding out her training saber. “Or are you tired already?”

The Darth’s taunt slid off him like water, sending his own power to attack her shield. Lachris laughed, not deigning to waste attention on his attack as she charged.

She was right not too, Morgan had to admit. The dome of blinding power was showing no reaction to any of his attack, and he had to rapidly break the connection as he felt something assimilate his power.

This time Morgan and Soft Voice attacked together. He went low while his friend went high, forcing the Darth into an unfavourable position. She solved it by blocking Soft Voice’s strike and kicking Morgan away like an errant rat, impacting the wall with a thud.

He grunted and climbed on his feet. ‘It’s gonna be one of those training sessions, then.’

Several hours of instruction later found Morgan and Soft Voice sitting on the roof of the administration building, Morgan just finishing up the fracture in his friend’s hip. “Kicking you like that was petty.”

His friend snorted, taking a whole ham and tearing out a large bite. “Perhaps. No doubt payback for that drop of blood that almost flew in her eyes.”

Morgan scoffed. “The closest we came to touching her, so I’ll count it as a win.”

Soft Voice looked at him, handing over the ham. “Did you think we’d beat her? She is a Darth. They don’t hand that title to just anyone.”

“No, no of course not. I’d thought we’d manage to touch her, at least. Something more than serving as punching bags.”

“Hah. Like you didn’t steal every secret you managed to get your hands on.”

Morgan looked over the city, emptying a canteen of water over his blood covered face. “Not as many as I’d like. Didn’t get past her shield, naturally, and I didn’t manage to figure out how it works. Like looking at a wall. It’s made of stone. Brilliant deduction.”

Soft Voice cleaned one of his horns, looking at him. “You can learn alot from looking at a wall. What kind of stone is it made of? What mortar did they use, and how thick are the bricks?”

“I know, I know. Just. I used to be able to copy it wholesale. It’s what I did on Dromund Kaas. Took me three months of daily exposure, but I did it. Not that Lady Trix ever came close to Lachris.”

“Boohoo. Welcome to the real world, where things aren’t just handed to you.”

“Fuck off. I managed to get some ideas for improvements, just so you know.”

“Later. Don’t have the energy right now.”

Morgan hummed, looking over the city and feeling some measure of strength returning to his limbs. He shook his head. The healing aspect of fleshcrafting was quickly becoming his favourite, no matter how useful extra strength was.

“Why’d you get so angry at Lerek?” Soft Voice probed some minutes later. “It’s probably the most wrathful I’ve seen you, come to think.”

He snorted at the unintentional pun, looking away. “It wasn’t what he said. Cliche and badly delivered. Five out of ten. It was, I don’t know. The implication.”

Soft Voice stayed silent as Morgan scowled. “You have the Enosis, and I still can’t believe you pawned Mirla off to me for that, dick move, to keep you company. Baras is pulling me around the galaxy at will, so it’s not like Balmorra will become the norm. Soon enough I’m off to another system, killing another spy. You have to clean up here, then Marr will send you to another warzone.”

He shrugged, pointing at him with the ham. “Since I picked up Vette on Korriban she’d been there, you know? Someone to treat me like a person. I don’t want to go at it alone again. To one day find out I can’t take off the sith mask.”

His friend hummed. “I don’t think that one is leaving anytime soon. She was a terror before she ever met you, long before you turned her into a super soldier.”

Morgan shrugged. “Had her slavery status scrapped this morning, so she can. Turns out the Sphere of Production and Logistics has precedent for that sort of thing. They didn’t like it much, but she’s free.”

Soft Voice hummed again. “She’ll be glad to hear it. Still, don’t go turning everyone who insults or threatens Vette into vegetables. You’ll get a reputation.”

“No promises."

Chapter Text

“The Balmorran Arms Factory will not be an easy assault.” Soft Voice intoned. “Protected by large shields, automated defences and some of the resistance's most highly trained soldiers it will no-”

“Point of order.” The admiral interrupted, Vette rolling her eyes. That marked the third time the man had said that in twenty minutes. “It is believed that most, if not all, resistance forces stationed in the Balmorran Arms Factory are former Republic soldiers.”

She looked at the two Enosians stationed at the door, both glaring at the admiral. They’d been getting progressively more irritated as the man kept interrupting their glorious leader. She contemplated needling, but this meeting had gone on for too long already.

Especially since they’d been getting nothing done. Darth, whatever her name was, had given them additional soldiers for the assault. Those soldiers unfortunately answered to an admiral, who had then promptly brought no less than ten of his officers to this small, cramped meeting room. 

Those officers had then started second guessing every decision, arguing over trivial agenda points and generally not contributing at all to the actual meeting. Morgan shuffled beside her, showing her his datapad.

‘If that man says point of order one more time I’m killing him. I doubt Lachris will miss him overly much, seeing as she sent him here instead of helping her crush the rest of the planet-wide rebellion.’

She snorted, unfortunately pulling the attention of the most critical, vocal imperial she’d ever met. “Silence. This is a military matter, and you should be thanking your betters to be allowed in the room at all.”

The rebuke didn’t invite the usual indignation it would have, mostly because the man had immediately collapsed to his knees, grasping at his throat. Morgan shook his head, looking directly at the admiral. “A racist imperial, how shocking. Control your men, or they will be controlled for you.”

The admiral glared, folding his arms. “I answer to a Darth, sith. You do not get to give me orders.”

Soft Voice cleared his throat, spreading his arms in a peaceful gesture. “You do, however, answer to me for the duration of this assault. Your officers will show tolerance and decorum.”

Most of the officers had gone pale, noticing how the two sith guards had taken a step forward. Astara whispered something to Kripaa. He shook his head sadly, the reply lost to Vette’s ears as he waved off the two men.

“As I was saying.” Soft Voice continued smoothly. “This assault will not be an easy one. The first and most critical part of this operation will be the deactivation of the shields. Seeing as they were designed to withstand orbital bombardment, this assault will grind to a halt should they remain active. As such, Mad Mouse and his team will infiltrate and destroy its generators during the first phase of the main assault.”

Morgan nodded beside her, Quinn to his right. The lieutenant had been mostly silent so far, only speaking up now that they were getting to the actual planning. 

“Apologies, my lords. It would be more effective to place the secondary armoured division in staggered formations. They will likely employ stinger missiles, which would destroy most of the tanks should they not be properly spaced in this sort of terrain.”

Vette nodded thoughtfully, wondering if the admiral could get any redder. Soft Voice was taking it seriously, though, Mirla making adjustments to the operations map as the lieutenant spoke.

“Ah, perhaps it would also be better to not employ jump troopers during this engagement, my lords. The aerial advantage would be offset by the height of the facility in question, and previous skirmishes spoke up numerous well trained snipers. These will doubtlessly be employed here, leading to the unit's wholesale destruction.”

One of the officers reddened, looking through the stack of reports in front of her. The woman nodded to the admiral soon after, Mirla taking the jump troopers off the map with a flick of her finger.

Quinn broke in several more times, Mirla adjusting the assault plan as he did, and soon enough even the admiral was reluctantly nodding along. It heralded the end of the meeting, to her great relief, Morgan staying behind to talk to his friend.

She, meanwhile, had other plans.

Morgan blinked as he entered the room. The door clicked shut behind him, locking without his notice.

Vette was dancing, swaying and twisting as she moved through the room. He followed the spin of the lekku as it twirled, briefly mesmerised. The room was well lit, the holo display letting out soft, melodious music. Morgan frowned, contemplated if he was still dreaming, then cleared his throat.

She turned smoothly, her chest swaying as she smiled. Her hands traced her hips, drawing attention to three strings that served as her underwear. “Oh, hi. Don’t mind me. You just caught me practising.”

“Practising what, exactly? I have something to tell you, by the way.”

“My heritage.” Vette said secretively, her lekku bouncing again as she twisted. “I usually practise alone, but I trust you enough to observe. A great privilege.”

Morgan sighed, having to force his heartbeat under control with fleshcrafting. “And why are you doing that in what could generously be called swimwear?”

“Tradition.” She scolded. “Don’t be culturally insensitive.”

“Would it surprise you to learn I’ve studied twi’lek culture?” Morgan asked curiously. Vette stuttered, catching herself with a twirl that just so happened to give him a great look at her ass. He thanked his foresight to have come here with his hormones blocked, or that might have very well caused him to say something rash. “A curiosity since we’ve met. Anyway, twi’lek do have dance as part of their culture. It does not, however, involve being practically naked.”

Vette slowed, scowling at him. He held up his hands in surrender. “Alright, alright. I’m not that thick. I’m just trying not to read into things.”

She stepped closer, her eyes dipping to look at his crotch. “Do you need to try? At this point I’m pretty sure you’re either gay or asexual. I’m stripping in my underwear and you’re not even hard.” She narrowed her eyes, glaring. “Unless Quinn was right and you’re suppressing your hormones.”

He kept the flash of guilt and alarm from his face, Vette throwing up her hands anyway. “Why, in the Goddess’s name, would you do that?”

He grinned despite himself, Vette looking adorable as she scowled. “Quinn’s fired. A general sense of self preservation? Horniness has been known to cause stupidity, and as I said, I’m really trying not to read into things here.”

She glared, the flash of hurt in her eyes wiping any trace of humour from him. “Sorry. Look, it’s a bad idea. The fact you work for me, however nominal, is bad enough. The power imbalance alone would be hilarious if it didn’t make me feel like shit, nevermind that it could break everything.”

Vette’s glare softened. “Break what?”

“Now who’s being thick? You’re the only one that still treats me like a person. Who I can laugh with, complain to. Quinn’s a soldier, assigned to my command. Soft Voice is my friend, but he has his own thing going on. His own missions. Let's not even talk about the Enosis. I don’t want to wake up one day to find out I can’t take off the mask of Morgan, the Fleshcrafter Lord.”

He slathered the title with sarcasm, Vette rolling her eyes. “And that's a certainty, is it?”

He made to talk again, Vette stepping forward. She pressed a kiss to his lips, Morgan freezing in surprise. “There. Situation simplified.”

She looked at him seriously. “Denial didn't work for me. I’m not in my underwear because the power imbalance puts me off. Quite the opposite, really. Do. Do you know anything about what I’m implying?”

Morgan rolled his eyes, seeing the gesture reflected in her iris. His brain decided to ignore the kiss to focus on the conversation, knowing he would probably spiral otherwise. “We did have the internet, yes. You’ll have to be really out there for me to not at least know about it.”

Vette stepped back, sighing. “I’ll just go ahead and say it then, yes? I like you. I’m submissive, I’m hoping you're dominant, I’m really horny and I have the feeling this is all very new territory for you.”

Morgan closed his eyes, easing off his hormone blockage. Getting that right had been a pain, and now he was doubting if he had ever needed it in the first place. When he opened his eyes he saw Vette looking uncharacteristically nervous, realising he’d just closed his eyes after she took a leap of faith.

“Fuck, sorry. I just took off my hormone block. You’re right on the last count, at least. I don’t know what I am, but my search history does tend to suggest being dominant, yes.”

Morgan smiled, burning affection surging through him as he shrugged off his last emotion suppressors.

Vette grinned, starting to sway in place. “I’m really trying to take this slow. Well, slow for me, anyway. I’m the kind of girl that takes what she wants, but I can make an exception just this once.”

Morgan nodded, lost as the conversation caught up with him. “So, uuhm. Now what?”

“Now I gauge your experience, explain if there are any gaps in your knowledge, and then I hope to get tied to that bed and fucked until I lose my mind.”

Vette swallowed, looking at him again as she visibly restrained herself. “Uhm, you know. If you want to.

She glanced down, looking relieved. “Well, if you’d done that two weeks ago this would have been a lot easier on my part. All this guessing was tiresome, let me tell you.”

Morgan shrugged. “In my defence, you could have been twice as obvious about it and I’d still have disregarded it as my imagination.”

Vette giggled, took a deep breath and looked him in the eye. “So, step one. I consent to anything you want to do. If I say the word Colliculus that means I’m not comfortable with something, and I want you to back off. I will be really impressed if you manage to make me say that.”

Morgan waited as she paused, nodding along. She made a your-turn gesture. “What? Oh, wait, I get a safe word?”

She smiled patiently. “So you do. It’s important for both parties to have a way to clearly say they want to stop. So, pick something.”

“Uhhm, alright. Hypothinouse.”

Vette nodded. “Just to be clear, if I hear that I will stop what I’m doing and give you space. I won’t take it as an attack, displeasure or will punish you in any way for using it, alright? I would appreciate it if you treated mine in the same way. Just to be absolutely clear, do you consent to have sex?”

Morgan nodded. “Right. Yes, obviously.”

She waved her hand. “Believe me, I’d love to skip this. It’s important, especially for someone new. Alright. Now, kinks. The stuff that gets you going. For me it’s getting tied up, most measures of pain when done consensually, loss of mobility or control, serving and generally being treated harshly. Like I said, I would be really surprised if you want to do something I’m not comfortable with.”

He shrugged when she made the your-turn gesture again. “I don’t know. Body writing. Uhhm, being in charge, I guess?”

She bounced excitedly. “That’s good. We can explore, don’t worry. This is usually the part where I go over basic first aid, but I don’t think that will be a problem with your healing.”

“Usually?” He cleared his throat awkwardly. “Not that I’m judging.”

Vette shook her head, smiling softly. “You really are just adorable. Don’t worry, I wasn’t being passed around Nar Shaddaa like a party favour. I taught a class for a while. Part of a club, it’s not all that important.”

She stood, walking to a closet and rooting around. She returned with a marker, handing it to him. “While I would love to dive right in, it's best if we start with something small. Body writing is somewhat niche, I’ll grant, but a good way to start.”

Morgan nodded, feeling far less anxious that he thought he would. Vette smiled, lowering her voice and looking at him adoringly. “Oh, before I forget. I’m taking charge here out of necessity, not I want to. Anytime you feel like taking it yourself you’ll find me more than willing to obey.”

“Right.” He handed the pen back, taking a seat on the bed. She followed him with hungry eyes as he pulled off his shirt, throwing it in the corner. Realisation dawned as she looked at the marker again. “Ah. Forcing me to write upside down, how cruel.”

“Less talking, more writing.” He rebuffed mock sternly. Her breath hitched as she nodded, her lekku bouncing widely. “Anything in particular?”

Morgan shook his head. “Be inventive.”

Vette turned around, her bikini-like top falling as she started writing. She turned, jutting her chest out proudly. The word “Slut” was displayed on her left breast, the black marker standing out against her blue skin. She grinned. “This what you had in mind?”

He leaned forward, frowning. “Good girl. Explain.”

She grinned wider. “It’s what I am, of course. One word to sum me up. A slut, eager to serve. Eager to be abused.”

Morgan tilted his head, taking the hint. He looked from her marked chest to the ground. “Then why are you still standing? A proper slut crawls.” 

Her knees collapsed, finding herself needing to look up to meet his gaze. “Sorry sir. I’ll remember.”

Morgan chuckled. “My, how your tone has changed. You do well in hiding it.”

“I know how to be a good slut.” Vette protested. “And I know how to separate sex from life.”

He sat back, waving his hand. “Fair enough. Another, something more crude.”

Vette grinned, the marker moving over her stomach. “Breeding Bitch, because that’s exactly what I am. Someone to fuck and use and cum in.”

“A breeding bitch should be naked.”

Vette tore her panties off without hesitation, her strength causing the fabric to dig into her thigh. She shuddered, her breath coming quick and shallow. One of her hands snaked down to rub her clit.

Morgan slapped it away, looking her over. “No touching yourself without permission. If your other hand feels bored it can pull on your nipples.”

Vette moaned as she rolled her pink tit between her fingers, the marker slipping from her hand. It floated back up, settling just above her cunt.

“I do believe such blatant acts of clumsiness should be punished, yes?”

She nodded breathlessly, watching the marker move as she pulled on her nipples aggressively. The pain caused her to shudder, the marker remaining unerringly on task.

“Free Use Pussy. I do think that fits, don’t you?”

“Yes sir.” She moaned enthusiastically. “Bend me over anytime, anywhere and I’ll be a good whore and love it.”

Morgan took off his pants, the sight of the cock making Vette rub her thighs together. “Now, fleshcrafting is an interesting discipline. This one is my own experiment. I settled for about eight inches, but more is always possible.”

“That thing is going to tear me apart.” Vette pleaded, her words undercut by the way she leaned forward. “Twi’lek don’t have pussies that big.”

Morgan paused for a second, then shrugged as he saw the hungry look in her eye. “Sounds like fun to me. Now, I do remember someone saying they had a thing for bondage. Fetch some rope, slut.”

Vette crawled over to the dresser, swaying her ass in exaggerated motions. The marker followed, writing “Bimbo” on one cheek and “Anal Addict” on the other. She crawled back, holding the rope in her mouth like a dog.

Her tits swayed under her as she crawled, Morgan shaking his head. “You know, some things are starting to make more sense to me now. Tie that yourself, hands behind your back.”

Vette grinned eagerly, folding her hands behind her as she tied it. “Self bondage is harder than it looks, you know.”

“It seems you have plenty of experience.” He shot back dryly. “If you’re this freaky I bet you have some toys. Fetch them.”

She nodded quickly, turning to shuffle to the dresser again on her knees. The marker touched her back, making her shudder. The phrase “Masochistic Pet, Looking for a Master” was added, Vette catching a glimpse of it through the mirror.

“You really do like body writing, don’t you?” She teased, shuffling back. She had a box in front of her knees, pushing it forward as she shuffled. “Makes a girl feel all appreciated.”

Morgan ruffled through it, picking out a thumb sized vibrator. “Tell me how to use this.”

“Spit on it, shove it up my cunt and press the button.” She moaned. “With the mood I’m in I might cum instantly.”

He held it out in front of her, Vette opening her mouth on instinct. She slickened it with spit, then Morgan put his hand between her thighs.

“Forgive the exploration, I’m not sure where the clit is, per se. I’m sure you’ll tell me when I’ve found it.”

Vette nodded as he started exploring, his fingers slipping in with little issue. She shuddered as he leaned forward, then pressed his lips against her.

“Seemed improper to not have kissed you before you cum.” He laughed. Then Vette gasped, stopping his roaming finger. “Ah, I do believe I’ve found it. Bear with me.”

He picked up the still slick vibrator, gently pushing it in her increasingly wet slit. Morgan made sure it couldn't slip out, then pushed the button.

Low humming spread through the room as Vette arched her back, snapping back to Morgan as he stood up. “Now, we're going to play a game. If you cum before I do you get a punishment, if not you get a reward.”

Vette wasted no time in bouncing her head forwards, pulling back on the last second to swallow the cock eagerly. The first two inches came easily, sucking as her tongue circled around the base.

Her pussy ached as she worked her head up and down, looking up at Morgan. She found him expressionless, watching her. “Best hurry. I will admit to some form of cheating.”

Her eyes widened as she relaxed her throat, pushing deeper as fire ignited in her belly. This is what she‘d been missing. The loss of control sweeter than any fantasy. She pushed deeper, savouring the moment of submissive acceptance. The groan that followed made her double her efforts, swallowing inch after inch until her nose could go no further.

Vette breathed deeply, only barely able to resist cumming on the spot as the vibrator did its work, then worked her way back. The dick popped free, Vette licking her lips. “You better not be controlling your orgasm with fleshcrafting.”

“I suppose we’ll never know.” He teased, his foot nudging the device buried in her. She gasped, closing her eyes to beat back the intense need to cum. “Seems I will be winning this game after all.”

She bounded forward, sucking on the tip before forcing it down her throat. A desperate need burned in her to make him cum. To show him that she was a proper slut that followed orders. She kept up a fast pace this time, sucking and slobbering aggressively as she heard his breath quicken.

Then she felt a sharp pinch as her nipple was rolled between two fingers, her pussy contracting around the vibrator as it mercilessly forced her over the edge. Waves of pleasure ripped through her, gasping around the cock still in her mouth. The euphoria crashed through her, fighting the need to keep sucking like she’d been ordered.

Then her mind cleared, seeing Morgan smirk above her. She had failed. “A good effort. Not quite good enough, mind you, but commendable.”

She narrowed her eyes, capturing the cock with her mouth and twirling it around with her tongue. Now that the vibrator had done its job she could focus again, the dick sliding in and out of her throat in steady rhythm. She would make him cum, the loss of oxygen not nearly as important as the burning need to serve. 

Morgan grunted after some minutes, Vette swallowing eagerly as he came. Then kept swallowing, some of the precious liquid dripping past her chin dispide her best effort.

She smirked, swallowed a final time, and released the dick. Her hand came up to capture the escaped cum, licking her fingers clean. “How’s that for losing?”

Morgan opened his eyes, his lips pressed in a line. “A loss is a loss. On the bed, spread your legs.”

Vette crawled on the bed, displaying her soaking cunt obediently. The vibrator was still holding her on edge, but without extra stimulation that was all it would do. She moaned, frustrated, until Morgan returned with more rope.

Her feet were tied to the bedposts, keeping her legs spread and stopping her from rubbing them together. Morgan tied her still bound hands to the headpost. She wiggled, the rope creaking as her strength nearly tore the bed apart.

Morgan pulled on her nipple, making her gasp and look at him. “Break that rope and find out.”

She nodded quickly, staring hungrily at the already hardening cock. He shook his head. “This is punishment, remember? Although I’m starting to think nothing I could do here would stop you from enjoying it. Let’s start with these, yes?”

Vette looked on with wide eyes as he showed the nipple clamps. “You put those on, with the vibrator still in my cunt, and I’ll cum non-stop.”

He shrugged, opening the clamp and catching her left tit. “That’ll be a sight. Hold still.”

She froze, the electric feeling of the clamps sending her into another orgasm. Morgan snapped his fingers in front of her face. “What do you say, slut?”

“I’m your fucking cum-whore.” She panted. “Your submissive pet. Thank you for letting me cum again. Thank you for treating me as I deserve. Please use this unworthy cunt’s holes as you see fit.”

A second climax builds on the first, her vision going haywire as Morgan chuckled. “Well, this is fun to watch. I do think it’s been a while for you, hasn’t it?”

Vette came to half a minute later, staring at him with a blissful smile. “Longer than it could have been.”

He took the vibrator away as he hummed, dropping it to the floor. She wiggled her legs, displeased at the emptiness. She let go of the disappointment of not being punished, resolving to talk to him about that later. A proper submissive should follow orders, and punishment should be given if those are failed. “I hope you’re planning to fill me with something else.”

Morgan stuck two fingers in her mouth, making her suck instinctively. “Shush, I’m admiring the sights.”

Vette worshipped his fingers as he flicked the clamps, her thighs tensing. Without the vibrator it wasn’t enough to send her over, making her whine needily. “Oh very well. Beg for it.”

“Please fuck my worthless cunt while you torture my nipples, sir.” She pleaded, his fingers teasing her sex. “Tie me down and use me until you cum, leaving me a writhing, begging mess. Leave me addicted to your cock as you keep me here, tied and helpless, coming back and using me as your pet whenever you wish.”

Morgan broke the rope holding her legs. “Bend over, ass up.”

She did, pushing her ass into the air and displaying the words written on her back proudly. He grabbed her bound hands as support, making her back arch as she tried to hold still.

He went slow, savouring the moment even as Vette moaned and whined. He encountered resistance when he almost bottomed out, causing her to freeze. She shuddered, breathing hard.

Vette whined again, trying to push her ass back. “Fuck me harder. I can take it, I promise. Fuck me until my cunt’s ruined and you’re satisfied.”

Morgan pulled back, then worked forwards again. Vette was breathing hard and moaning as he picked up the rhythm, slapping her ass as he fucked her properly. He let go of his iron control as she constricted around him, her pussy milking as hard as it could as she came again.

He twisted her around when he was done, Vette falling to her knees. “Clean me up, then I think it’s your turn to be the active one. Riding should serve as a start.”

“Yes sir.” She got out, licking up his cum as her legs spasmed. Her mind was slipping further into bliss as he fondled her lekku. “I’ll be a good girl and serve, sir.”

He smirked. “Good, because I’m stimulating the hormones that influence sex drive. I’ll be good for another ten rounds, if not more.”

Vette moaned pathetically as she licked up the last of his cum, not able to hide the glee in her eyes.

Hours later Vette snuggled closer as Morgan got back from the shower, tracing circles on her back. “I do hope you don’t expect me to be all servile during the day.”

He snorted. “Didn’t even cross my mind. Having people challenge me is far too rare these days.”

“What did you mean you taught a class?” He asked after a minute. “Can’t really picture it.”

She burrowed, locking her legs with his. “Just what it sounds like. People who want to get into bdsm but don’t know where to start come there to learn. Wasn’t all that busy, maybe a class twice a year. It was only a two month course.”

He hummed, looking down. “So where does this leave us? Dating, booty calls? In case it wasn’t painfully clear yet, this is all new to me.”

She laughed, pressing a kiss to his lips. “Could have fooled me.”

“I did, apparently. Kept expecting to go too far, be too selfish or hear the alarm go off and wake up.”

Vette stroked his chest, tracing the various scars littered there. “You’ll have to do a lot worse to make me hesitate. No cheating though. That’s a hard limit.”

Morgan murmured his assent, silence filling the room. “So, what are we?”

She pulled closer, nestling her head under his chin. “Dating sounds good. You’re all mine now. All mine.”

Morgan chuckled at the possessiveness, kissing her head. “All yours. And you are mine. Mine alone.”

“Hmmkay.” She mumbled. “You had something to tell me? We got somewhat distracted.”

“Oh, right. I’ve cleared up that whole misunderstanding with you being a slave. As far as the Empire is concerned you’re a mercenary employed in a sith’s entourage, granting you automatic, temporary citizenship.”

She patted his shoulder. “Thanks.”

Morgan rolled his eyes. “Well, I’d thought you would be a tad more excited, but you’re welcome.”

Vette lifted her head, looking at him through half lidded eyes. “After getting my mind melted for several hours I’d almost forgotten you’re new to this. Sorry. This part is called aftercare. It’s for both of us to relax, reassure and generally do nothing of importance. Dropping a bomb like that while I’m still high on subspace is a big no no. We’ll talk about it in the morning.”

Morgan flinched, kissing her head. “Shit, sorry. I’ll remember.”

“It’s ok. Just cuddle and sleep now, yes?”

He nodded, closing his eyes and basking in the warmth of Vette in his arms.

“Not to be a bore, but did you happen to think about a condom last night? Or, you know, a dozen.”

Morgan gagged on his drink as a soldier missed her step, glaring at her. “Be louder, I don’t think they heard you on the other side of the building.”

Vette shrugged. “I’m not ashamed. Are you?”

“Ashamed? No. Feeling the need to talk about it, loudly, where everyone can hear? Also no. To answer that very nonchalant, not at all serious question; I don’t need one. I’m infertile until I decide not to be.”

She laughed, skipping ahead. “Fleshcrafting sure has a lot of applications in the bedroom. Wonder if that’s why they came up with it.”

He nodded sagely, but Teacher interrupted before he could come up with something suitably sarcastic. “We need to talk.”

Vette drew back, horrified. “Oh no, your wife found out. Quick, everyone for themselves.”

She sped off as the cube floated from his customary pouch, turning to him with an accusatory tilt. “Sweet mercy, she broke you. This better not cut into your training time.”

Morgan shrugged, altering course to an empty training room. “It seems so. Not to worry, I’ll just tie her up when she gets too distracting. Should cool her off while I train.”

“Forget I got involved.” Teacher shuddered. “I have no wish to hear about your mammalian exploits.”

He shrugged. “As you wish. What did you want to talk about?”

The cube floated to the middle of the room, Morgan shutting the door. “Your training.”

“My training? It’s been going fine. Sparred with Darth Lachris a few days ago, gave me some good ideas for improving my shield.”

“Yes.” Teacher hissed. “Darth Lachris, not your own master. What, exactly, has he taught you?”

Morgan tilted his head. “Nothing? I’m really not that surprised. I’ve been killing his apprentices, informants and spies for months. The kind of people with years or even decades of service to the man. The second I’ve outlived my usefulness I’m next.”

The cube floated closer. “And you’re fine with that?”

“Yes? I’m not just going to let him kill me, of course, but it’s pretty much what I expected. I’m his enforcer and assassin, an apprentice only in name.”

Teacher scoffed. “And you think you’re going to learn enough to resist him, to stop him, on your own? Before he figures out you're growing too strong?”

“Nope. If only I had an experienced teacher, a scrappy, street smart sidekick and sith allies. Oh, and growing ties to the military. Alas, I am doomed.”

The cube stayed silent. Morgan sighed. “Fine, yes. I’ve recently seen just how powerful a Darth is. Yes, Baras will kill me if I grow too strong. No, I don’t have a foolproof plan to get out of it. Yes, I’m working on it.”

“Spare me your sarcasm.” Teacher said quietly. “Strengthen your ties with the military further. Many an arrogant sith Lord has suffocated in space, refusing to believe mere mortals ships could harm them. Sit, and pay attention.”

Morgan sat, folding his legs under him. “They can only kill you if they can find you. Your control makes you well suited for a number of disciplines, fleshcrafting being by far the most versatile. Stealth is another, one that has not fit your skillset until now. Tell no one, and I mean no one, that you’re learning this. Not Vette. Not that hulking friend of yours. No one.”

“I trust both of them.” He rebuked. Teacher laughed. “It is not about trust. A secret shared is no secret at all, and this must remain a secret above all else. I will not teach you how to blend with the environment. No. You will learn to become invisible in the Force itself. Appearing, to even the most skilled practitioners, as just another civilian. Your master finds out, gets even the slightest suspicion, he will kill you.”

Morgan nodded. “I get your point, I really do. But trust is what defines us. Why the Enosis can exist.”

Teacher sighed. “You and your healthy relationships. It’s just until you have mastered the art. Until you learn to hide from even the Dark Council. Vette does not have the Force, but your friend does. Baras is, however, very unlikely to have spent the time linking himself to- What was his name? Soft something.”

“Soft Voice. Zethix.” Morgan answered. “How long will it take to learn? What’s linking?”

“If it was anyone but you I'd say a decade. Creating a link between two Force users is a way of communication. The jedi use it to send feelings, and in some extreme cases, memories, over vast distances. Vast as in half the known galaxy, vast. It takes time, years and years of close proximity and bonding, to achieve. Most often found between a padawan and master. Baras has learned to ape this, in its crudest form. I can feel it on you. How it tethers your soul. He knows where you are. And he will keep knowing until you learn to hide. Now stimulate the Force, and blend. Let the Force settle around you like a blanket, hiding all from view.”

Hours passed in pseudo-meditation, trying to hide his, apparently glaring, signature from sight. Morgan finally opened his eyes, standing. “I can practise on my own from here. Blending should be easy enough to do anywhere.”

“Remember to not actually hide.” Teacher stressed. “Even if it’s vanishingly unlikely you’ll be able to for years to come.”

He held up his hand. “I’ll remember. Gods, haven't felt this incompetent in months.”

The cube floated back to the pouch, getting the last word in as he dimmed. “Almost like you’re learning a new discipline.”

Morgan snorted as he opened the door, finding a surprised Quinn about to knock. Morgan hid his own surprise with long practise, raising an eyebrow. “Yes?”

The lieutenant straightened. “Sir. I wish to ask for a favour.”

“I’m all ears, lieutenant.”

Quinn coughed, more awkward than Morgan had ever seen him. “It’s. It’s the men, sir. They wish to spar.”

“I’m able to snap steel.” Morgan said dryly. “Doesn’t sound like the best of ideas.”

The lieutenant nodded, shuffling. “I told them that. I can’t disagree with their reasoning, however. That jedi you faced, we were useless against her. Sparring with another Force user might give us the edge to assist in the future.”

“There are very, very few people who can beat a jedi knight, lieutenant, nevermind doing so without the Force. Who came up with this idea?”

Quinn stiffened slightly. “It was a group decision.”

“I’m sure it was. Who proposed the group decision.”

“It was ensign Jillins, sir.”

Morgan sighed. “Of course. Lead on, lieutenant.”

He walked somewhat behind the man, taking the time to contemplate the soldier. Quinn was, by definition, the spy.

‘Well, maybe not yet. I’ve no idea if Baras has already ordered him to start spying, or that he will wait until Quinn is part of the crew.’ They walked through a door, a startled squad of green troops saluting as they passed. ‘The lieutenant is nothing like how I remember. An imperial loyalist, to be sure, but no elitist. He’s good to his men, competent and easygoing.’

Morgan smiled slightly, remembering yesterday's meeting. ‘I’ve no trouble believing he was a rising star before Druckenwell. So that’s the rub, isn’t it?’

He nodded to an Enosis member, one he didn’t know by name. The man flushed, bowing. ‘New recruit, if I don’t know him. Two choices. I treat Quinn as if he’s going to spy on and betray me. He will feel ostracised, starting to resent me. Far more likely to betray me than not, at that point. I don’t treat him any differently, he spies on and betrays me.’

Morgan looked at the back of the man’s head, wondering. ‘But that doesn’t take into account the changes. Vette isn’t the same, nor would I wish her to be. Baras is, well, Baras. Still, this is a living, breathing galaxy.’

They came to the training hall ensign Jillins was pacing, the rest of the squad lined up before him. Morgan followed the lieutenant inside, nodding to himself as he came to the only real choice. ‘Judge by action, not suspicion. I suppose we’ll see.’

He focused, watching Jillins pace. He had never been the most involved member of the military, but even he had found it strange their second in command was a rookie. He hadn’t commented on it, and in fact the squad hierarchy seemed far less rigid than expected, but ever since his attempt at therapy Jillins had changed.

He’d actually missed it, at first. The soft conversations between him and Horas. The intensity of his training, above what even Quinn expected of them. How the rest of the men had fallen in line, one by one, until even Horas played along with a quiet sigh.

Jillins saluted as they came inside, the flash of tangled feeling overlaid by awe churning his stomach. The Enosis weren’t half this bad. ‘But then.’ His mind whispered. ‘They can shield their emotions. Who knows what they really feel?’

“Ensign. Quinn tells me this exercise was your idea?”

“Sir! I believe it would help prepare us to face jedi, sir.”

Morgan settled his attention over the room, careful to keep it down. Fleshcrafters could inflate their presence far above most. A useful trick, but here he just wanted their full, undivided, attention.

“Next time we meet that jedi, ensign, I expect you to make any and all effort to disengage and retreat.”

Mutinous protest flashed through the man, Morgan holding up his hand. “That is not an insult to you or the men, Jillins. Jedi knights are some of the most dangerous entities in this galaxy, however peaceful they may be. I do agree that we cannot always have what we want; to prepare for the worst. As such, the exercise.”

He stepped closer to the ensign, looking him in the eye. “Be warned. Glorious displays of loyalty mean nothing to me. Do your job, get out alive. That last bit is most important, so focus on it. Everything, everyone, learns from failure. Everyone but the dead. I prefer a failed objective but a better soldier over a dead soldier with a completed objective. Is that clear, ensign Jillins?”

The man snapped another salute, the row of men behind him mimicking the motion with rigid precision. Morgan let the pressure drop, stepping back as they breathed a quiet sigh of relief. “Good. Now, set your blasters to training grade four and set up over at that wall.”

Quinn took over as Morgan walked to the other side of the room, leaving his lightsaber unignited.

“The objective of this exercise is to hit me. I will begin with evasion, blocking only when needed. Should you manage to overwhelm me I will start to redirect attacks back to you. Begin when ready.”

Quinn barked an order, drawing his sidearm as blasters went up. Morgan leaned out of the way, stepping calmly as blaster fire impacted the wall behind him. Seconds passed until the lieutenant barked at them to spread their fire, eyes narrowed.

Morgan focussed, his areas of movement shrinking as they started to anticipate his motion. His lightsaber snapped to his hand some ten seconds after, redirecting a bolt into the ceiling.

He was forced to deflect more as Quinn focussed their fire, systematically boxing him in. It was another twenty seconds before a bolt slipped past, burning a hole through his shirt and leaving a slight red welt on his shoulder. Morgan smirked, starting to reflect the attacks back to them. 

They spread out, covering half the room as Morgan dodged and twisted, occasionally sending a bolt back. They splashed harmlessly against their armour, only standing down when enough damage was dealt to ‘kill’ them.

Quinn ordered a halt another minute after that, Morgan's torso covered in angry red marks. He spread out his arms, smiling. “An excellent attempt. Restricting movement, covering multiple angles and limiting return fire. You might just be some of the best soldiers I’ve stood against. I can feel your pride, and you should be proud. These skills are hard won.”

He clipped the lightsaber to his belt, pulling a marker from his pocket. “Pride should never become arrogance. I do this not to humiliate or discourage, but to give you understanding.”

He moved, holding back most of his strength as Quinn was smashed against the wall. He drew a black line over his throat before he could gasp, dropping the man. Morgan turned, tackling Jillins as he received a similar line over his throat.

Horas backpaddled, aiming his blaster. Morgan glided to the side, grabbing the weapon from his hands and throwing it to the soldier taking aim some ways away. The men went down groaning as Horas lost his life.

None managed to score any hits as he killed them, careful to do little more than bruise. The room was covered in groaning soldiers after some seconds, Morgan putting the cap back on the pen and pocketing it.

“These jedi are trained for war. They will not hesitate. They will not flinch. They are my equal, if not more so.” He looked Quinn in the eye, the man climbing back to his feet. “If you meet one, retreat.”

Morgan stepped back, looking the room over. “Same time tomorrow. We have three days before the assault. You will be ready.”

Vette hummed a quiet tune as she cut the last wire, Greta giving her a thumbs up as the cameras cut off. She once knew a guy that could have looped the images so smoothly they could have been in and out before anyone caught on. 

This wasn’t a high skill grab job, however, so killing the cameras would be good enough. The giant army outside should serve as plenty of distraction. Greta offered her hand to pull her from the wall’s guts, her voice crackling over the radio.

“Cameras down, proceeding.”

They moved down the hall, meeting no resistance as they cut through yet another security door by overloading the console. Morgan and the rest of the men were breaking through the defences around the generators, she and Greta having split off at the start to cut off the enemies eyes. Best to keep them guessing as long as possible, in her opinion. Quinn had agreed.

With the cameras down they were moving to link up, dropping down a shaft to avoid a hallway filled with turrets.

The infiltration had gone far smoother than she had anticipated, really. A traitor had given them schematics, helpfully informed them about an old smugglers tunnel that everyone had forgotten about, and only wanted a way off the planet in return. His information was accurate, to her surprise. A rarity with turncoats.

Using the tunnel had undercut the shield rather effectively. She shook her head. They really should have been more thorough.

The resistance had, annoyingly, embedded all their electronics deep in the wall, forcing her and Greta to split off and find the connection point between them and the rest of the base. Quinn had pointed out that, since the generators were so important, they would run in a contained system. 

He’d been right, as usual. They had left one point where the wires connected, so by snipping it the resistance was blind down here. Horas had grunted that with a building this old, and with the increased pressure on the resistance, it was a miracle there was only one weak point in the system.

They’d undoubtedly send people down here eventually, their camera’s mysteriously dying far too suspicious, but it would be low priority compared to the army outside.

She bent open the grate in her way, hopping out of the shaft and looking at her display. Only two hallways from the team's position, perfect. Greta crawled out, dusting off her blaster. “This is going quite smo-”

Vette bonked her over the head. “Shush. You can think it, but no speaking out loud.”

She got an annoyed scowl in return. Or, since her helmet hid her expression, a grateful smile filled with adoration.

She was pretty sure it was a scowl. Shrugging, and setting a good pace down the hall, she turned the corner and froze.

A giant door locked off the hall, one that was not on their schematics. No console was in sight, and it seemed to be made of military-grade durasteel. Her eyes roved over the plans. “There. Two levels up and through an, ah fuck that’s a mess hall. Alright, it’s fine. Hopefully no one is having lunch. Though the mess hall and down another shaft. Should get us past the door.”

Greta nodded, so they got moving again. The room was indeed empty, save for a terrified cook that fainted when Greta pointed her blaster at him. Vette shrugged, broke through a cheap, shitty padlock keeping the storage closet closed and pointed down at the floor. “Smash.”

Her companion set a small, coned grenade on the floor, both of them backing off as it tore a hole through the thick ferrocrete. She hopped in, slowing her fall as Greta balanced on her shoulders.

Not the most dignified way down, but she was the only one strong enough to slow their descent. Faster than using a rope, anyway.

They detonated another low yield hole maker at the bottom, her own special name for the very boring, technically named grenades, and then she was looking at the other side of the giant door.

She checked the time, saw they were only four minutes behind schedule, and picked up the pace.

Soon enough they were running through rooms and hallways marked by battle, lightsaber touched corpses littering the floor. Her breath hitched as they caught up, finding Morgan walking forwards as the lieutenant ordered his men back.

Two robed individuals were blocking the only way inside the generator room. One of which she recognized.

The knight that had run after the ambush, still the only time she had gotten to use her beskar bullets. She’d had backup back then too. Morgan had told her it had been a padawan. A trainee.

Vette didn’t judge this new companion of hers to be a padawan. Not at all.

Chapter Text

Morgan sighed as the two robed strangers dropped from the ceiling. He had hoped to avoid the jedi.

But hope rarely beat planning. “Lieutenant, you know what to do.”

Quinn nodded, quiet orders passing around as the men retreated. Morgan nodded politely to the two strangers, one of which was no stranger at all.

“Hello again. Forgive me, we didn’t exchange names last time.”

The man, the proper stranger, didn’t react. The woman hissed, fury in her eyes. “You killed him. Killed him and expect to have a civil conversation?”

Morgan tilted his head. “You’re the one that took a padawan to a warzone. I honestly expected him to dodge.” He put a hand to his chin, his helmet interrupting the gesture. “I also seem to remember your code forbidding revenge.”

The man spoke, his voice calm. “The code is a guideline. Tekkata was not a padawan, sith. He was a jedi knight and diplomat.”

“He wasn’t? Oh.” Morgan shrugged, the open comm letting him hear Vette’s voice as she argued with Quinn. He suppressed a smile at her fury, knowing he’d be twice as bad should the roles be reversed. They’d talked about it, however, so she’d do her job. “Seems I’ve misunderstood my sith dogma. Apologies.”

The woman snapped her jaw, the sound echoing loudly in the silence. “Well, if revenge is allowed then surely attacking someone unprovoked is too? Or are we waiting for someone?”

The man, who still hadn't introduced himself, shook his head. “You’re a strange one, sith. You mean to destroy the reactors, letting the army above doom the future of this planet. We will not allow it.”

Morgan shrugged, palming his lightsaber slowly. “I won’t argue morality with a jedi. Balmorra belongs to the Empire by treaty, however. I’d rather be on a beach, but you know how it goes.”

The woman, whose name he’d never learned, surged forward. Morgan blocked the first strike, only narrowly stepping back as the man came from the side. He frowned, feeling him flicker in and out of his perception.

His knives flew, the man dodging one and cutting the other. The two halves fell, hitting the ground with a strangled whine. Morgan ignored it, slipping past the woman’s guard to rake his lightsaber over her stomach. She jerked back, landing safely behind the man with little more than singed robes.

“Control your fury. This is not an opponent we can take lightly.”

The woman nodded reluctantly, Morgan feeling her wrath slip behind iron shields. When they came again they did so together, slipping past each other to strike as one.

Morgan backstepped, blocking one blow while narrowly dodging another. He looked at them both, decided he’d bought Quinn enough time, and made to retreat.

The Force screamed as the lightsaber sheared through his armour, his side burning as it melted and blackened. He swung to clear space, the man backing up as the woman came in low. Morgan kicked at her, but she flowed around the strike to maim his leg.

He barely managed to avoid losing his foot, jumping back to run. The man was there in a flash, forcing Morgan to slow down and defend. The woman caught up, letting the man step back to intercept him again.

Fear tried to assert dominance in his mind. The low terror he had become so very familiar with under the Overseer. Morgan channelled it, tore at their minds, but felt smooth domes of power ward off his attack. He took the time it bought him to get clear, turning to flee.

The man sheared through his neck, only his helmet buying him enough time to counter and force him back. This time he surged after the man, managing to grab his shoulder.

He locked the muscles in the arm, the man's eyes widening in surprise. He jerked, tearing his shoulder but managing to get loose. Then the woman was there, forcing Morgan to backpedal.

His reserves drained as they harassed him, his body accumulating wounds he couldn't spare the time to heal. Armour melted to his skin, horrid pain demanding attention. Morgan stepped back, judged the man to be the more dangerous of the two, and launched an attack numbering in the dozens.

Power flared as his reserve plummeted, the man straining his face in concentration as he warded off the attack. Morgan plucked and twisted with his forty tentacles of Force, the man spreading himself thin to guard.

Morgan knew firsthand how difficult that was. How splitting the Force like that took practice. Concentration. He’d been training for weeks, ever since Lachris had given him a glimpse of what a Darth could do, and he could only summon forty.

He was forced to withdraw before the shield could crack, the other jedi rushing forwards. Morgan blocked as the man found his balance, hurriedly looking for a way out.

He found none. He took more wounds as his armour melted and broke, what scraps of power he retained fueling his enforcement. His remaining knife lay on the ground, forgotten, its companion lying broken further down the hall.

‘At least Quinn should have planted the charges by now.’ He thought. ‘He better have.’

The man retaliated, his shield coming under attack as he dragged what little power remained to defend. The man looked back as a ripple came from the Force, shaking his head as he focussed. ‘That’s right, ignore the whispers in your mind. I'm the bigger threat, and you cleared the room properly. No soldiers planting explosives, no sir.’

His shield shattered, his enforcement following soon after. Morgan laughed, feeling the tiredness in his bones. “Gods, haven’t exhausted my power like that since Korriban. Figures it be two knights that did it.”

The woman stepped forward, lightsaber raised high. “Now you die, sith.” She hissed. “Like my Tekkata did.”

Morgan’s mind flashed to laughing faces stitched from shadow. To old things spawning seeds that grew into cults spanning the galaxy. To a man’s mind in a holocron, enduring centuries after death. He laughed, hacking out blood. “There is no death, there is only the Force.”

The woman seemed to care less than nothing for what he had to say. Morgan's mind turned to Vette, pushing warm affection into the Force as the void loomed. She wouldn't be able to feel it, especially not with a reinforced shield, but it felt like the right thing to do.

As such, he didn’t notice the man's frown. Only barely noticed how his scan swept over him, looking deeper than anyone had before. Morgan didn’t notice how his eyes widened in utter surprise, lightsaber coming to hand.

He did notice the woman whirl around, blocking the strike that would have taken her head. Morgan slipped out from under her, hobbling as fast as two damaged, unreinforced legs could carry him. The woman saw, trying to follow.

The man blocked her, his face passive again as the woman shouted. Morgan turned a corner, trying to activate his comm. He shook his head as he grasped nothing, the scraps of his helmet on the floor behind him.

He’d studied the maps the old fashion way, fortunately. He climbed a ladder, his legs screaming in protest as he ran down the hall. He ignored it, giving them what motes of Force had returned to his core as apology.

Vette saw him first, eyes widening as she took stock of him. Some ways behind her Quinn and the men held the corridor, resistance members wearing Republic gear doing the same at the other end. Morgan sighed, leaning on and slipping down the wall.

She scrambled up, jamming a kolto syringe in his leg. “What the fuck happened?”

“Two knights is just above my limit, I’d say.” His attempt at humour fell flat, Vette trying to jam another needle in his leg. He stopped her. “One is plenty. The other knight turned on the woman, I don’t know why. Are the explosives planted?”

Vette nodded, looking at Horas. The man turned as she spoke into her comm, pressing a button on his wrist. The facility shook, red lights and alarms starting to blare in the hall. “Turns out they did know about the abandoned, sealed over hallway. Unfortunately for them, I’m somewhat of an expert at trap disarmament. Why didn’t one stay behind?”

Morgan shook his head, directing wisps of power to his side. He could feel the kolto seal his internal injuries, his breathing coming easier. “One wouldn't have been enough, and the woman was hellbent on killing me. Called that padawan, or not padawan, my Tekkata. Apprentice or lover, probably.”

“The man though. The way he moved, waited, attacked. It seemed familiar.” He shook his head, looking down the hall. The fighting didn’t seem to be going one way or the other, and he was in no shape to do anything about it. “We still need to kill commander Rylon.”

Screaming came down the hall, Quinn ordering his men to cease fire. Morgan looked over, seeing two blurs tear through the soldiers there. He grunted and stood, pushing off the wall so he was standing on his own power.

Inara and Alyssa walked up in silence, both covered in blood. Vette tensed as they stopped before him, looking at his wounds. They shared a look, bowing after a second. “My lord.”

He suppressed a sigh of relief, far too tired to fight. “Good to see you both. Did Soft Voice send you?”

Alyssa nodded. “Lord Zethix assigned us to this sector, to assist you if able. Are you alright, my lord?”

“Two jedi knights beat the piss out of me, so no. Inara, you’ve had fleshcrafting training, correct?”

The woman nodded, seeming to catch his meaning. She closed her eyes as power flowed, Morgan mixing it with his own. He knew she’d be losing double what he gained, nevermind he had to be careful not to take too much of the Dark without enough Light. He mentally thanked Mirla anyway. That woman was twice as smart as she gave herself credit for.

He forced the bone in his leg to snap back in place, wrapping it with a brace. Vette flinched at the sound. He left the rest of the wounds, starting to walk down the hallway. The three women followed close behind, Vette eyeing them suspiciously.

“Lieutenant. Do we know the current location of commander Rylon?”

Quinn shook his head, Horas answering. “He’ll most likely be in his quarters, coordinating the defence.”

Morgan nodded, motioning them forward. Their first resistance was a patrol fortifying a door, the two sith dogging his step surging forwards. The soldiers died screaming, Quinn’s men halfheartedly assisting in the attack. Vette stuck to his side, eyes roaming.

He turned to her, keeping his voice down. “I’m fine. Nothing a few hours of meditation won’t fix.”

She snapped her eyes back to him, scowling. “We’re still in the middle of a battlefield. So help me Goddess, you will never do something as stupid as that ever again.”

Morgan put his forehead to hers, basking in the worried love streaming from her in torrents. “I won’t.”

She nodded, her scowl vanishing at his proximity. “I’d kiss you, but my stupid helmet is in the way. Consider yourself kissed.”

He grinned, planting a quick kiss on her faceplate. “Yes ma’am.”

They moved forwards, Alyssa and Inara breaking any opposition in their way. It wasn’t until they came to the office that they stopped, taking position at the door.

Morgan spent precious power enforcing his leg, kicking the door down as they did the same. Their combined strength rocketed the steel slab inwards, revealing an empty office.

“Well, that was anticlimactic.”

He ignored them, striding inside to look around. Quinn joined him, pointing to a console. “There. Horas, get us camera access. Jillins, take the rest of the men and secure this position.

The men saluted, leaving just the five of them in the room. Horas got to work, Morgan taking a seat and closing his eyes.

Vette shook him out of it a while later, looking at his side. “That looks better. Horas found Rylon. He’s in the administrative complex, top floor.”

He nodded, standing. His wounds did feel better, using as little power as possible to guide kolto to the most critical injuries. He made a mental note to talk with Mirla about that. It made the stuff significantly more useful without consuming much power.

The elevator was easy enough to find, and with three sith the complement of droids guarding it were less than sufficient. “Lieutenant.” Morgan said as the doors closed. “Update on the assault, if you please.”

Quinn turned to him, idly tapping his pistol. “Sir. The main armoured division has broken through the outer defences and has begun destroying entrenched positions. Without their shield the resistance is facing heavy losses, and several special forces units led by one captain Kripaa have broken through to the inner facility.”

“That’s where we split off to come assist you, my lord.” Inara piped up. “Lord Kripaa and his men are hunting priority targets and stealing money.”

Quinn coughed pointedly. “He is appropriating enemy supplies, yes. Please note this information is ten to fifteen minutes old.”

Morgan nodded, the doors opening. “Very good. Let’s kill commander Rylon and see if we can’t help out.”

The hallways and offices were abandoned, lone squads of droids all they came across. Alyssa and Inara burned through them with vigour, needling about kill counts. Greta spoke as they returned, curiosity mixed with trepidation in her voice. “What’s the prize?”

Alyssa turned to her, disdain only barely suppressed on her features. Inara elbowed her, shooting a look at Morgan. She rearranged her expression into something more neutral. “Bragging rights, along with more material gains.”

“It’s who gets to wear the strap-on.” Inara broke in excitedly. “You won’t believe the toys we found here, it’s amazing. Did you know they have double-sided ones these days?”

Vette sniggered as Greta bleached white, stammering a reply. Morgan rolled his eyes, looking them over. “This is hardly the time.”

Alyssa dragged Inara away with the excuse of scouting. She was whispering furiously, shooting dismayed looks back to them. Vette burst out laughing, elbowing Quinn in the side.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” He said stiffly. “In fact, my helmet seemed to have mysteriously blocked all incoming sound for the last half minute. Isn’t that right?”

The soldiers chanted their agreement, fiddling with their equipment. Vette rolled her eyes, shooting him a displeased look. “All that blackmail material, wasted.”

“I think they prefer their lives.” Morgan replied dryly.

They finally came to the administration complex, cautiously walking inside. Rows of abandoned cubicles, offices and meeting rooms blocked their sight, the battle outside making his Force perception less than useful. Thirty sith participating in the battle was good for everything but accuracy, the Dark drawing thick over the factory.

Vette spotted them before anyone, her sniper coming up and firing in a smooth motion. A gargled scream was heard before the room burst into chaos, the two sith at his side surging forwards.

“Go, I’ll find Rylon.” Morgan ordered, jumping high. He landed among the beams supporting the roof, wide enough to walk on. He startled a soldier hidden there almost as badly as himself, his lightsaber flicking out smoothly regardless.

The beams led him deeper into the complex, keeping him out of sight. What soldiers he spotted he ignored, hunting for Rylon. Morgan finally spotted a sole man highly focussed on the console in front of him, images of the battle flickering on screen. He observed the room, no sight of the sith killer droids, or anyone, to be seen.

He’d have kept them close. Keep them for an ambush, maybe.

Morgan dropped, ignoring the way his leg screamed and bone shifted as he landed. The Force brace held, if barely, and he watched Rylon whirl around.

The Force surged through his arm as his lightsaber whined, a headless corpse falling to the ground. He picked up the head, suspicious, but found Rylon face staring back after removing the helmet. He pulled up an image of the man to be sure, finding it to be a match.

He shrugged, turning around to rejoin the battle. When he got back it turned out to be unnecessary, three soldiers on their knees surrounded by a sea of dead. He hadn’t been gone for two minutes.

Inara giggled, pushing Alyssa playfully as the pureblood scowled. “I told you, pay up.”

Alyssa used his return to abandon her, bowing as blood dripped from her face. “My lord. We kept their captain alive for interrogation.”

Morgan nodded, scanning the room. He found two of his own dead on the floor, Vette kneeling by Greta’s corpse. He joined her, putting a hand on her shoulder and looking at the dead scout.

Vette looked back, patting the hand and standing as shallow grief was buried. He looked at the woman, bowing his head. Then he turned, nodded to the corpse of another of his men, and joined Quinn.

The lieutenant was jamming a needle of kolta into Horas, the specialist lacking both arms and a leg. Morgan found it nearby, picking it up and pushing it against the stump.

Horas groaned weakly, trying to scoot back. Quinn stuck a needle in his neck, the man staring uncomprehendingly at his lieutenant before drooping his eyes. Morgan nodded thankfully. “Keep him still.”

He used what power he had left to fuse the bone, wrapping it in a layer of muscle before his reserves sputtered and emptied. Jillins came running with a cast, Quinn wrapping it around the leg. The man finally looked at him, nodding. Complex emotion whirled through him, relief most prominent. “Thank you. He might keep the leg.”

Morgan checked his work, nodding. “We can hope. What happened?”

“They were good.” Quinn chuckled humorously. “That's it. If it wasn’t for those two we’d all be dead.” He nodded to Alyssa, who was busy furiously whispering to her girlfriend. “They don’t care for any of us, of course. They're here because of you.”

Morgan shook his head. “Don’t downplay your own work, lieutenant. I’m sorry about Greta and-” He trailed off, looking at the other dead soldier. “I’m sorry. I didn’t even know his name.”

“Arlous. He preferred to keep to himself.”

Quinn was silent, looking between the dead and the living. “It would've been alot worse if you hadn't been here, sir.”

“You wouldn't be here if it wasn’t for me.” He denied, turning. “Horas is stable. Patch up the men while I talk to our prisoners.”

Two of them were rank and file, though tougher than he was used to. They had fear, but it was mastered. Controlled. Their captain was much the same, but unfortunately for him he had something Morgan wanted.

“Why wasn’t there some last trap? One more clever play? Rylon died, but no beskar-reinforced droids to be found.”

The captain spat, resignation taking hold as he glared. “We’ve been trying. Those droids were supposed to be sith killers. The billion credit invention of the hutts. No idea how the commander managed to borrow some, but he did.”

The man scowled. “Then you destroyed two, somehow. Supposed to be impossible. No lightsaber can scratch them. No Force powers can tear them apart. The hutts demanded an immediate return of their investment, of course. Damn near drained our accounts.”

“And that was it? Just like that?”

“What do you want me to say?” The captain asked tiredly. “You killed his son. Thirty sith were tearing the resistance apart. We fought, we lost. Now fuck off and let me rest.”

Morgan agreed, lightsaber coming to hand as Greta’s face flashed through his mind. Three heads rolled, and he turned back to his men. “Pack up, we’re done here.”

The speaker whined, a booming voice echoing through the room. Quinn snapped his pistol up as Jillins grabbed a grenade, both relaxing when no threat presented itself. “This is Grand Marshal Cheketta, supreme commander of all Republic troops on the planet of Balmorra. I, and the men I led here, are in violation of the Treaty of Coruscant. All forces under my command are to surrender. The Empire has made assurances that prisoners of war will be treated fairly.”

The speaker cut off, the voice of his friend coming over scant seconds later. “This is Lord Zethix, commander of the imperial forces assaulting the Balmorran Arms Factory. All surrendering Republic troops are to be disarmed and placed under arrest. No harm will be done to them. The resistance has surrendered. Long live the Empire.”

Vette stretched beside him, forcing humour in her tone as she took off her helmet. “Well, all in a day's work. If you’ll excuse me, my looting senses are tingling. I’ll pick you up something nice, don’t worry."

She made to leave, Morgan grabbing her shoulder. She twirled, her lekku bouncing freely as her eyes widened in surprise. He kissed her, pressing his forehead to her own.

“I love you. Be careful.”

Vette shuddered, her pupils dilating as a smile took over her features. “I love you too.”

Then she was gone, a bounce in her step as Morgan turned to Quinn. “Get the men proper medical care, I’ll go find Soft Voice.”

The lieutenant nodded, the men trudging after him with tired frames. Horas was carried on a fold-out stretcher, the two dead carried by hand.

Alyssa and Inara looked at him questioningly, Morgan motioning for them to follow. Imperial soldiers were everywhere as they walked through the facility, many saluting as they walked past. He ignored them, only briefly speaking to a captain to get his friend's location.

Soft Voice was deep in conversation with Mirla and the admiral as they arrived, the two sith following him sticking close. Soft Voice raised an eyebrow as he approached, taking in his appearance. “You look like shit.”

“Two knights were waiting for me. I foolishly assumed there would only be one, but here we are.”

Mirla flicked her datapad. “Ah, here. One jedi knight Mashallon, dead by decapitation with a lightsaber. Well done, my lord.”

Morgan looked at the admiral, Soft Voice dismissing the man with a wave. His fists tightened, but he left all the same. “Not exactly. Two knights seem to be more than my equal. I lie. Two jedi beat me like a rented mule and were seconds away from killing me. One of them, the one that isn’t currently dead, turned on Mashallon. Before you ask, no, I don’t know why.”

Soft Voice frowned. “At the risk of stating the obvious, that’s more than a little abnormal. One of Baras’s spies?”

“The man would rather let me die than burn an agent in the order. No. Whoever he answers to, it isn’t Baras.”

Mirla shrugged helplessly. Morgan sighed. “Very well. How did the rest of the battle go?”

She cleared her throat. “Casualties are light with Lord Zethix forcing an early surrender. The destruction of their shield generator allowed our armoured companies near free rein over their lines, not to mention our sith advantage. Only Lord Zethix encountered jedi, the rest of the Enosis free to hunt priority targets. We estimate nearly forty percent of their officers died within the first twenty minutes of the battle.”

Soft Voice took over, smiling grimly. “Cheketta had a master and padawan with him. The learner died easily enough, the master not so much. Took me, Kripaa and Astara to match him, and even then he still took four of the old guard with him.”

Morgan sighed. “Who did we lose?”

“Anna, Corin, Alran and Sarah.”

Faces flickered in memory, hours of training and sparring coming to the forefront. “Shit. You alright?”

His friend shrugged. “Soldiers die. I don’t like it, but it’s the way of the galaxy. They died well, fighting for something they believed in. I would like to go the same way when my time comes.”

Mirla looked at his leg, frowning. “Wait, is that broken? Medic!”

Morgan contemplated telling her he’d only need a few hours of rest before he could fix it himself, but by then two medics were already prodding at his leg.

‘Oh well. I hope Vette’s having fun.’

She skipped along the outdoor hangar, rows of ships lining up beside her. Imperial troops were light this deep in the factory, and what few thought to question her presence hastily got out of her way when a sith’s identification popped up in their visors.

“Goddess that’s amazing. Almost makes stealing too easy. At least getting those schematics for Armie was somewhat challenging. Can’t believe Morgan forgot about that.”

She passed by the Republic's BT-7 Thunderclaps without stopping, their build far too non Imperial to be of use. A Conraddas Vindicator drew her eye, towering over everything else. She’d never get it off the ground alone. ‘Still, scrapping that thing could get us an easy twenty million. Shame.’

Vette eyed construction materials, large diggers and drills left where they stood. ‘They must have been building this little staging point for years. Oh the money that could be made.’

Tucked in the back, partly hidden by the bulk of the Conraddas Vindicator, was a surprise. “Now that looks like a Terminus-class destroyer. Why is it so small?”

“Ma’am?” A corporal asked hesitantly. “Is there something we can assist you with?”

She turned, seeing three soldiers had come walking up. “That ship. How big do you reckon it is?”

The corporal looked, the two soldiers beside her quiet and still. “Six hundred feet, give or take?”

“I do think you’re right. Why, then, does it look like a Terminus-class destroyer? Those should be well over fifteen hundred feet, nevermind quite a bit taller.”

“I. I don’t know, ma’am. May I inquire as to the nature of your inquiry?”

“How many marines does a normal Terminus-class destroyer have?” She asked, ignoring the question. Another of the soldiers spoke, barely containing his excitement.

“Five hundred crew and about three hundred marines, ma’am.”

“And this one, scaled down as it is?”

The soldier put a hand to his chin, looking over the ship. “Logic says roughly a third, ma’am. I served on one, you know? My first post, back when I was in the marines. Loved that ship. Still do.”

“A ship lover, good. What are the differences between this one and a normal one, as far as you can tell?”

The man stepped forward, not seeing or ignoring the harsh hand signs made by his superior. “Well, the ion cannon is gone. Probably drained too much power from the smaller engine. Half the turbolasers seem to have joined it, likely for the same reason. Otherwise it looks fine. Plenty of laser turrets and missile launchers. Armour looks thick, more so than even the proper sized version. Room for five or so fighters, maybe two shuttles. I’d have to see inside to be sure.”

Vette nodded thoughtfully. “What’s it doing here?”

The soldier shrugged, stepping back. “No idea, ma’am. Stolen? Balmorra produces plenty of military ships and even more custom civilian vessels. Doesn’t seem impossible for the resistance to have taken it.”

She clapped her hands together. “It’s perfect. Corporal, you’re categorising the ships?”

“Ma’am.” The woman agreed.

“Excellent. I’m taking it.”

The corporal lost what colour she had left, stuttering. “I. I don’t think I can allow you to do that, ma’am. These ships belong to the Empire.”

“Nonsense. Zethix won’t mind, I’m sure. It’s a present for Morgan. He’s been very good to me, so I’d like to do something in return.”

The woman looked uncomprehendingly until the so far silent soldier whispered something in her ear. She straightened, fear flashing through her eyes. “Ma’am. I’ll have to ask Lord Zethix for permission.”

Vette waved, already walking forward. “Fine. I’m taking this now, though. Here’s hoping I can still fly.”

Twenty minutes and one manual override later found her shuffling in the pilot's seat as the ship came to life beneath her, a very nervous corporal standing close. “You didn’t have to come, you know?”

“Orders, ma’am. Besides, Harrold seems happy.”

The ship enthusiast was sitting in the captain's seat, gleefully spinning around. Vette approved of his attitude. Far too many stiff soldiers in the Empire. “Say, corporal, how’d you like a new job?”

“Ma’am?”

“I’m being proactive. Quinn could use more good men, assuming I can convince him to tag along. You three seem like fine soldiers.”

The corporal flinched. “We’d be working for a sith, ma’am. No offence.”

“Meet him, then decide. I’m sure someone went tattling to him the moment I appropriated the ship and he’s waiting for us at the spaceport.”

The corporal fell silent, Vette concentrating on flying the destroyer. It was a short trip to Sobrik, and after a clipped talk with a panicked customs agent she landed the ship. “I’m Vette, by the way. Nice to meet you.”

“Corporal Helen. This is specialist Harrold and private Mute. Don’t ask, he chose the name when he joined.”

The quiet man nodded to her solemnly, Vette waving back. They departed, stepping in a turbolift as it took them down. The doors opened to a bandaged Morgan, Alyssa and Inara standing behind him. The three soldiers stiffened, Vette bounding forward.

She kissed him as he caught her, laughing. “I knew someone snitched. Come on, tell me you were a little surprised.”

Morgan sighed, setting her down. “That you stole a destroyer? Not as much as I should have been. This better not be the present you were talking about.”

Hesitation coiled in her gut. “You don’t like it?”

“It’s.” Childlike glee shot through his eyes, gone in a moment. She caught it anyway, smirking. “That’s not the point. There’s just the two of us, Vette. How are we supposed to fly that thing, let alone fight with it?”

She bounced in place. “I knew you’d like it. I’ll think of something, don’t worry. I’d like you to meet some people.”

Morgan introduced himself as she watched, trying not to grin. It really was adorable how he tried to not frighten new people. If only he knew a polite, well spoken sith was twice as terrifying. The two women dogging his every step didn’t help.

Then they were off, Vette exchanging a wave with the corporal. “So why are these two lovebirds following you?”

Morgan sighed. “Mirla’s idea. Soft Voice went along with it to fuck with me, I’m sure. Now I can’t get rid of them.”

“You poor thing. Two hot, dangerous women as your bodyguards, obeying your every order. I feel for you, truly.”

He grinned, looking at her. “Jealous?”

“Considering they’re as gay as gay can get, no.”

“I’ll ask before recruiting more women into my harem.” He promised. “I was thinking of seven to start with, but I’ll value your opinion.”

She snorted. “You can barely handle me, nevermind six more.”

“That’s true.” He admitted easily. “Besides, why would I need anyone else when I can just take you against this wall right now?”

She stuttered in her step. “We’re in public.”

“Right, yes. It would simply be awful if these people thought less of me. Wouldn't be able to handle it, really.” He looked at her, a blush on her features as she resolutely stared ahead.

“Aww, I’m sorry, was that too indirect?” He leaned close, whispering into her ear. “How about I put a gag on you, bind your hands and stick a vibrator in your ass? Doesn’t that sound nice, having you shuffle along like a good slut, trying desperately not to cum.”

Her breath quickened as heat shot through her, her hands unconsciously settling behind her back. Morgan laughed. “Anyway, we’re here. I’ll go have a talk with Baras and Quinn while you entertain these two.”

He disappeared through a door before she could blink, shutting the door behind him. “That utter bastard.”

Inara set her hand on her shoulder, Vette managing to resist jumping in surprise. “The life of a sub can be difficult.”

“If that was supposed to be reassuring, it wasn’t.” She glared. “How dare he, winding me up like that and then leaving. I’ll show him. He’ll have to beg and plead before he’s allowed to touch me again.”

“Sure.” Alyssa drew out the word, shooting her an unimpressed look. “Like you wouldn't fold the moment he snapped his fingers and told you to sit.”

“That's.” She paused, considering. “None of your business, now that I think about it.”

Inara snorted as they started whispering, walking some ways away. She waited impatiently, minutes ticking by before the door opened again.

When Morgan finally returned her retort died on her lips. He looked serious, Quinn walking beside him. “To give a short recap, we’re being deployed to Nar Shaddaa. I can keep the ship, but I’ll have to staff and fund it myself. Quinn has been promoted to captain, and allowed to choose his next assignment.”

She breathed as a deluge of emotions hit, her protests forgotten. “Nar Shaddaa?”

He nodded sympathetically. “Indeed. I have some unfinished business with Quinn, but we can grab some dinner in the room after?”

She nodded, Morgan giving her a quick kiss before leaving. She suddenly found herself without a distraction and far too many conflicting feelings, idling as his bodyguards moved in step behind him. ‘Armie. Right, I can finish that up. Should get enough money to fuel the ship until Nar- Until the next planet.’

Armie was easier to be found than last time, yet there was a complication. A door, guarded by one very adamant thug refusing to open it.

The jawa looked up in surprise as the door opened, the guard’s body slumping outside. Vette stalked, the storm of emotions swirling in her shifting to irritation.

She acknowledged it, breathing deeply to regain calm. She looked at the jawa, folding her arms. Her stare was blocked by the gamorrean guard, Armie having promptly hidden behind his massive legs when the door opened.

“Dear customer. Did the guard displease you? I do apologise, we will-”

The droid was making calming motions as it talked, walking to stand between her and the jawa. Vette’s irritation spiked, the protocol droids backing up as she pushed it aside. “You can speak basic, and so will do me the courtesy of talking yourself. Now, I have your schematics. Unfortunately, I’ve been having a somewhat up and down day.”

She leaned forward, the gamorrean shifting. Vette laughed. “My day, so far, has consisted of killing a worldwide rebellion, stealing a destroyer and losing a friend. Get the fuck out of my way before I strip your corpse for parts.”

“Please, no violence. I’m a man of business, yes?” Armie waved at the guard, walking forward and speaking in smooth basic. “Your exploits have been noted. What is it you desire?”

She pulled up her datapad, sending over the schematics. “There, our deal is done. Now we're going to secure a new one.”

“You are a valued customer, yes? What is it you wish? More armour? More beskar bullets? Armie can get it for you, yes? No violence needed.”

Vette leaned forward. “You are going to accept a job.”

“A job?” Armie asked curiously. “What kind?”

“The kind where you work for me, and I take fifteen percent of your profits.”

Armie paused, tilting his head. He spoke after a few seconds, laughing. “You travel with sith, no customs. I see, I see. Yes, I accept. Where are you going?”

“Nar Shaddaa.” She said, managing to keep her tone level. “I suppose you have contacts there?”

The jawa nodded, turning to the protocol droid. “I can have someone bring four crates of goods to your ship, assuming you have a man there to accept?”

She didn’t. “I do. Slavery is off the table. In fact, if I catch you dealing in the flesh trade I will kill you myself.”

Armie nodded rapidly, waving his hands. “The slave trade is bad business. I deal in technologie. Weapons.”

Vette stuck her hand out, the jawa shaking it. “Welcome to the crew. I expect great things from you, my furry friend. Great things.”

Morgan walked into the hospital room assigned to Horas, Quinn dogging his step.

‘Seems like someone is always following me these days.’ He thought glumly. ‘And I just managed to get rid of Alyssa and Inara too.’

The specialist was awake, looking at two mechanical arms set beside him. Smooth skin covered them, wires starting where the arms ended. He didn’t look up until Quinn cleared his throat, stiffening. His left stump twitched, trying to move an arm no longer there.

“Specialist. Captain Quinn has been promoted, and given leave to choose his next assignment. He has chosen to enter my service. So has Jillins, and all but one of your squad.”

The man nodded, looking at Quinn. He sounded calm. Resigned. “Congratulations captain. If anyone deserves it it’s you.”

Horas turned to Morgan, blinking. “Didn’t take you for the cruel kind. I’ll be in bed for weeks, and it’ll be months before the arms fuse and I’ve learned to use them. Unless you want to drag a cripple along for the ride, I’m going nowhere fast.”

Quinn stiffened, keeping his peace. Morgan nodded calmly. “I’ve read your case. Synth-net neural interface biomechanical arms, cutting edge. When fused, as you put it, you’ll have full sensation and function, not to mention a not insignificant boost in strength. The biomechanical part of those arms intrigued me, however, so I’m here to make you an offer.”

He held up his hand. “Sorry, no. That sounds like I want something in return. You’ve bled for me. Fought for me. As I told Jillins, loyalty for loyalty. Respect for respect. I can fuse these arms for you. Compress months of work into minutes. Learning to use them will be up to you, but you could be walking around within the next half hour.”

Horas twitched, looking surprised. “I don’t understand. What’s the offer? The choice?”

“Risk. This will be my first time connecting cybernetic components to a nervous system, and as such I cannot guarantee success. There will also be pain. A lot of pain.”

“But I can come with? Look after Jillins?”

Morgan inclined his head. “If that is your wish, yes. Please note that while Quinn and most of your squad have chosen to enter my service, it is not mandatory. One has left, and no ill fate has befallen him.”

Horas kept silent, thinking. It didn’t last long. “Do it.”

Morgan stepped forward, one of the arms gently floating forwards. It settled against the stump, Horas suppressing a grimace. “Quinn, get him something to bite on. I’ll need to measure brain activity in response to stimuli, so no anaesthesia.”

Horas nodded, bit down, and nodded again. Morgan closed his eyes, reaching out and wrapping the Force around the specialist whole. He stiffened, but otherwise didn’t react. “Fleshcrafters are some of the best healers alive, rivalled only by jedi. Where they use the Light, we use the Dark.”

A lie, but not an important one. Horas didn’t seem to care either way, jaw tight as he bit down. “It’s strange. Healing seems to come naturally to me. Not much does, no matter how it looks. But regrowth? The mending of flesh and bone, of tissue and muscle? It flows.”

Horas grasped as nerves connected to the arm, its fingers contracting wildly. His eyes were locked on it, the medical stick falling from his mouth. Quinn forced it back. “There. This is the part that’s going to hurt.”

Morgan removed the block on the largest nerve cluster in his shoulder, letting the specialist's mind properly experience the new connection. The man screamed. “Focus on my voice. Where are you from, soldier?”

“Corellia.” Morgan tweaked a nerve, the man spasming. “Left a long time ago. Not much left for me there.”

He reworked an improperly fused connection, Horas panting as sweat dripped from his face. “Used to go to a bakery. There was a girl there I was sweet on. Long time ago. So long.”

Morgan worked as the man talked, smoothing and correcting as he went. Then it was done, Horas staring at his new hand. “I’m afraid that’s only half of it. Quinn, strap that hand down. I’d rather it doesn’t try and hit me. Double bindings, it's strong.”

He walked into his room two hours later, finding Vette already there. She was bundled in blankets as some inane holo played on the screen, waving. “You missed dinner.”

“I know, sorry. Bumped into that new friend of yours, Harrold something. Kept me busy.”

She scooted over, patting the seat. He snorted and sat down, Vette draping herself over him immediately. “Oh? Is he going to be joining us?”

“Quinn’s dealing with it. That and finding us a crew for our new ship. According to him captains will be lining up, or near enough. Seems working for a sith is good for one's career.”

Vette hummed, watching cold food levitate from the kitchen as she rearranged the blankets. “At least heat that up, you barbarian. I’m starting a criminal empire, by the way.”

“That’s nice. Should help with our money problems, if nothing else. How’d that come to be?”

Morgan ate as she talked, barely tasting the food. “Armie agreed? Just like that?”

“Eh. Criminal stuff is all about connections. He refuses and I could well return with a couple sith, he agrees and now it’s in my interest to keep his business going. To expand it. He’s a smart one. Figures he’d make more working with me than not. I’ll keep him in line.”

He set the empty plate aside, nodding. “Good, haven’t the slightest clue how to run a syndicate. I’ll just stand there all menacing every now and then, your shadowy, terrifying boss keeping an eye out.”

She snorted, shifting until her head was on his shoulder. “That’ll do it. You doing alright?”

He shrugged, feeling her head resist the motion. “Two people died because I rushed off to kill Rylon. He was just standing there, doing nothing.”

“You didn’t know that.” She grabbed his head, twisting it so he was looking at her. “Listen to me. People die. They’ll keep dying, especially in our line of work. Learn from your mistakes, mourn, move on. Anything else will chip away at your soul, taking bit after bit until nothing’s left.”

He nodded, pulling her closer. “I didn't care, before. Death was a staple, sliding off me like water. Now it’s different, and I don’t know why.”

“Because now they're yours, just like I am.”

Morgan leaned his head on hers, breathing in her perfume. “How about you? I didn’t even try to untangle the whirlwind of emotion when you heard about Nar Shaddaa.”

“Old history.” She said slowly. “I’ll deal with it, don’t worry.”

He caught her hand, locking his fingers with hers. “Your problems are mine. I want to help, if I can.”

“I know. I’ll tell you if I need it, promise.”

Quinn kept his back ram-rod straight as Lord Baras’s image came to life, looming over him. “Captain. Did my wayward apprentice accept your offer?”

“He did, my lord. I am to command his military forces onboard the Aurora, his new custom Terminus-class destroyer.”

Baras radiated satisfaction, leaning closer. “Very good, captain. A sith takes what he wants, it’s about time my apprentice started acting like it.”

Quinn nodded, failing to mention it was Vette, not Morgan, that took it. “I will keep you up to date on his actions and movements, my lord.”

“As I commanded. Do you have anything else to report?”

The captain hesitated, Baras flicking his hand. “Out with it.”

“Lord Morgan and his twi’lek have begun a sexual relationship, my lord.”

Baras snorted, leaning back in disinterest. “That’s what slaves are for. He’s young, he’ll get it out of his system. Continue your work and keep me informed, captain.”

Quinn didn’t correct him, saluting as the image cut off. ‘And here I thought my days of sith politics would be over. Foolish of me.’

He buried the guilt as he got back to work, reading over the list of captains. Well over thirty had applied, twice as many as even his most generous prediction.

“Too young. Too reckless. Known for seducing and sleeping with her superiors? She’ll be dead within minutes of Vette finding out. Too old school.”

The list shrunk as he worked, interrupted sometime later by Jillins. “Sir. The three new men are settling in and lieutenant Helen is finding her footing.”

Quinn looked up, noting the tightness of the younger man's shoulders. “She had seniority, corporal, not to mention an exemplary record. Your time will come.”

“Sir. That’s not it, sir. I understand I cannot be promoted without at least a year of active service. It’s the men. They feel we should be more selective with our recruitment.”

He put down his datapad, folding his hands on the desk. “Speak freely, corporal. What’s the problem?”

Jillins relaxed, leaning against the wall. Quinn almost smiled at the easy confidence. “Horas came back this morning, said the sith attached his arms in minutes. Pete won’t stop talking about how the sith saved his life, swearing some native blood oaths whenever he gets drunk. They, we, feel that we should choose new recruits with care. Make sure they fit in.”

“And how would we do that, corporal?”

Jillins straightened, eyes flashing. “Recruit them out of bootcamp. The young and promising, those without previous attachments. Keep the officers in house, promoting instead of bringing in fresh faces whenever possible.”

Quinn massaged his forehead, finding he didn’t disagree. He almost snorted at the irony. ‘Good way to keep out spies. Shame about the one at the top.’

“I’ll take it under advisement, corporal. Dismissed.”

Jillins saluted, leaving him alone in the room. Quinn got back to work, mumbling softly. “Duty above all. Duty.”

‘But duty to whom?’ His mind questioned insistently. ‘To the master or apprentice?’

John, his mind accepting the new name with ease born from long practice, calmly walked out of the offices of the Sphere of Production and Logistics. He firmly reminded himself he was just another bureaucrat, out on lunch. He had not, banish the thought, hacked and altered their servers.

That would be illegal.

He hummed an old tune as sunlight streamed through the trees, his datapad chiming. He picked it up, finding an information packet waiting for him.

He sat on a low wall, reading and deleting the message in short order.

‘Nar Shaddaa, eh? Vette won’t be happy about that one. Nor with me, but that's alright.’

John spied a restaurant serving pasta, hopping off his seat. ‘You’re a slave for now, little one. Better than Baras finding out he can use you as leverage against your master.’

One of his locals sent an update, informing him two strange men had been seen delivering goods to the Aurora. John snorted, his tails knowing better than to intervene. ‘Smuggling. That’s illegal, Vette. Could get you in trouble.’

He sighed, pulling up his datapad to purge his local network. ‘It’s going to be a pain setting this up again on Nar Shaddaa. At least the Enosis won’t be there, that’s going to make it easier. Only thing worse than a gaggle of sith is an organised, devoted gaggle of sith.’

John Doe reclined, finishing off his dish and tipping the server. ‘Whatever will you be doing on the Smuggler’s moon, my dear Morgan?’

‘Maybe my old bones will get to see some excitement after all.’

Chapter Text

Steel boots clacked against steel as captain Kala Tre stood on the bridge. Her executive officer was beside her, a man she had known for six hours, and she hated how he flinched every time the sound came closer.

But Bealc had been forced on her, unfortunately, so she couldn't get rid of him. She eyed Clara, the woman who she actually wanted as her xo, and suppressed a sigh.

At least she knew most of her command staff, unlike her crew. She’d had two hours to scrape together who she could, and four more would arrive in a few hours, but the command deck looked empty regardless. If she’d been closer when the vacancy reached her, or if her duties hadn’t postponed submitting her application, she might have had more time.

As it was she’d spend three days in a shitty transport to get here, only to find they’d be leaving in seven hours and her supposed xo had done only the bare minimum to prepare.

She stretched, looking around. It was, admittedly, one hell of a career move to go from commanding a hunter of twenty to a destroyer of three hundred. Not to mention working for a sith, but she knew that could go either way.

The doors opened, but it wasn’t the sith she saw. A twi’lek came first, followed by a rather normal looking man quietly talking with her. Bealc stiffened, everyone else on deck trying their hardest to look busy.

She snapped off a salute her old drill instructor would’ve been proud of as the sith stopped before her, holding out his hand for her to shake as he nodded to her xo.

Kala shook it, looking him over and trying to reconcile the stories she’d heard over the last few days and the man before her. His eyes didn’t pierce her very soul nor did he drip with dread incarnate. The only way she knew this was as sith at all was the lightsaber hanging off his belt.

“Captain Kala. Pleased to meet you, sir.”

The man smiled, the twi’lek looking past her xo. “Morgan. The pleasure is mine, captain. This is Vette, who has no manners and thus got distracted by shiny chairs.”

Vette squawked, rounding on him. “It’s a very nice chair and you know it. Would look great in our room.”

“We’re not taking the captain's chair.”

Kala hid behind her officer face as the man turned away from the twi’lek, provoking an insulted hiss. “Excuse her, she wasn’t raised. Are you clear on your duties?”

She nodded, deciding to ignore the byplay. “Sir. I am to captain the modified Terminus-class destroyer known as the Aurora and its complement of navy personnel, command her should we engage in naval combat and transport you and your men to wherever needed.”

Morgan smiled again. “Very good, captain. Two last minute passengers have been added, Alyssa Gray and Inara Bakker. They are both sith, and will accompany us to Nar Shaddaa.”

She nodded calmly, no hint of her alarm showing. The sith tilted his head. “Not to worry, captain. They are under my command, and I expect you to report to me should you have any issues with them.”

Vette broke in, bouncing on her heel. “I don’t think they’ll be leaving their cabin until we dock or get attacked, but what do I know?”

“Nothing at all, but your sparkling personality keeps me entertained.” He shot back lazily, turning back to her. “I have other business, but is there anything you wish to discuss with me before I leave?”

‘I’d like this incompetent, daddy-ensured-my-promotion commander off my deck and to promote Clara in his stead. Otherwise nothing, sir. Just some light career suicide for me and my friend, who I had dig into his past two hours after meeting him.’

She shook her head. The sith looked at her, his tone calm, but she finally understood the stories. It was the eyes, the calm part of her brain decided. How they seemed to look past her flesh. “If there is anything, anything at all, I would like you to tell me, captain. Honesty is something I value in my people, especially those that will advise me on matters I have no experience with.”

Kala flinched as the twi’lek seemed to appear beside her, casually leaning on her shoulder to whisper in her ear. “Pinky promise that, whatever it is, he won’t take offence.”

“I’d like to fire Bealc.” She blurted. “Uhm, sir. I believe lieutenant Clara would be a significantly better fit as my second in command than commander Bealc, sir.”

Vette sniggered, looking at the man in question. “Drama already. I do so love the navy. Well, not really, but I love that they do drama, apparently."

Bealc had gone white, looking at her with wide eyes. ‘I’d apologise, but I think you're a disgrace to the uniform. Still, I didn't mean to just blurt it out like that.’

Morgan turned to the man, looking him over. “And why would your commanding officer doubt your competence, commander?”

Bealc cleared his throat, bowing as his high society manners kicked into gear. Kala rolled her eyes, heaving an internal sigh of relief when no one witnessed her breach of protocol. “I wish I knew, my lord. I passed all my academy classes, possess a high degree of skill in diplomacy and have four years of officer experience. I truly cannot see a reason for her dislike of me, my lord, as I have just met her.”

Morgan nodded, smiling at the man. “Did you know, commander, that I possess the ability to tell when people are lying to me?”

Bealc's face formed into polite confusion, his hand twitching before he stilled it. She had to suppress a grin, a small ray of hope starting to bloom in her chest. “And that I have a strong dislike for people lying to me? It's a personal thing.”

Kala startled slightly as she lost track of the twi’lek, finding her standing casually behind the commander. She narrowed her eyes as the woman silently tapped the knife on her belt, looking at the sith.

‘She's going to slit his throat.’ She realised, wondering what the hell she had gotten herself into. Bealc spoke, his voice remarkably even. Her’s wouldn't be, in his situation.

“I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean, my lord. I’ve only just met the captain.”

“That’s true.” Morgan admitted easily. “And so you lied that you had no idea why the captain dislikes you so. Does anyone wish to shed some light on the matter?”

The sith waved his hand, turning to the deck at large. “I know no one is actually working. Anyone?”

Kala desperately wished it wasn’t Clara climbing onto the deck, but when the footsteps finally entered her field of vision she saw her friend standing prim and proper at attention. “Sir. Commander Bealc has questioned her command, remarked several times how a woman of her species is fit only for a slave-brothel and has attempted to replace her as captain by appealing to his father, sir. I also wish to inform you that it is widely believed the commander's father pulled strings so that the commander would not have to redo several of his classes, but nothing was ever proven. I believe that is where her dislike comes from, sir.”

Morgan looked briefly surprised, Kala managing to resist snorting. A human sith wouldn't be confronted with racism all that often, she imagined. “With a yes or no answer, have you remarked that your commanding officer is only fit for a slave-brothel?”

Bealc looked like he couldn't decide between terror and anger, managing a strange looking middle ground. “Yes.”

“With a yes or no answer, have you attempted to use personal connections to replace your commanding officer as captain?”

Bealc grit his teeth, forcing out the words. “Yes, but-”

“Get off my ship, commander. Captain, replace your second in command as you see fit. Believe me when I say I’m not here to micromanage you, nor do I have the expertise to do so if I wanted to. Excuse me, I really do have other business to attend to.” Morgan nodded to her, turned and left. Bealc took a step forward, his lips forming words of protest.

Vette surged, the butt of her knife coming to his temple. Bealc collapsed in a heap, Jillins and two of his men stepping onto the bridge moments later. They saluted as Morgan passed, the sith nodding to them. She’d been reading up on the soldiers on her ship, although she didn’t know the two accompanying the corporal by name. “You called, ma’am?”

Kala watched Morgan walk away, his stride unhurried. She turned as the corporal spoke, wondering when the twi’lek had done anything of the sort. “Dump this waste of space off the ship. Don’t worry about bruising him, and if he ever attempts to intervene with our people again, new to the job or not, kill him.”

The corporal saluted, his two men stepping forward and dragging the unconscious commander away. Kala looked at the twi’lek, once again looking like a cheerful young woman someone had given far too many weapons. “Now that that's dealt with, and in the effort to avoid listening to Quinn report on whatever he found so important as to bother Morgan with, let’s get to know each other, you and me.”

Kala shot a panicked look at Clara, the woman smiling wildly at the twi’lek as she intercepted her.

‘No please not another one I’m begging you.’

Clara bounded forwards, her decorum forgotten as she introduced herself cheerfully. Kala watched, helpless, as the innocent looking pair gravitated to the captain’s chair.

‘Clara no wait stop that woman just ordered a navy commander shot and the soldiers just went with it what the fuck please.’

Her internal pleading was kept under a professional mask as she made her rounds to double check supplies and their destination, half her mind panicking while the other was drafting the letter that would promote her friend to the new xo.

She calmed as she worked, the pair chatting still chatting like old friends, and finally shook her head.

‘Dismissing a commander like an errant dog and giving me leave to staff my command as I see fit, only to turn around and find he’d given the same liberty to a possibly insane twi’lek. What have I gotten myself into.’

Morgan walked quietly through the ship, saluting crewmen stopping left and right until he passed. He ignored them, returning polite nods to those he made accidental eye contact with.

‘She’s been getting more protective.’ He mused, passing through a bulkhead door two feet thick. ‘That commander, whatever his name was, wouldn't have been able to scratch me even if he’d been stupid enough to attack.’

He opened the door to Quinn’s office, finding the man bent over a table. He didn’t look up, so Morgan waited politely.

He decided to use the time to perfect his stealth, not so much drawing on the Force as settling it around himself. He noted some progress, but Teacher still saw through it with ease. ‘Progress is being made. Maybe I’ll even be able to turn invisible some day.’

Morgan smiled to himself as he imagined sneaking up on Vette, then smiled wider as he imagined the sheer outrage that would follow.

Quinn looked up and nearly shot out of his chair, saluting unnecessarily. “Stop that. You're an army captain, not some fresh recruit. I get enough saluting from the crewmen.”

“My lord. Apologies, I didn’t hear you come in.”

He waved his hand, taking a seat and bemoaning his lack of armour. He’d gotten used to wearing it, and now he had to wait until Nar Shaddaa to get a new set. “You had something you wished to update me on.”

“Ah, yes.” Quinn cleared his throat, regaining his footing. “Over the last four days I’ve been able to recruit those I believe to be a good fit, and adding that to the three recruits Vette picked up, we’re sitting at twenty soldiers. Lieutenant Helen has settled in well, but we have encountered a problem.”

Morgan sighed. “It’s the money, isn’t it? It’s always money.”

“Precisely. We have been reassigned to your entourage, and this does come with several benefits. Reassigning skilled, willing soldiers is significantly easier with a sith’s backing, and I will not have to manoeuvre around the Imperial chain of command when we arrive at Nar Shaddaa.” Quinn finally sat down, handing over a datapad. “As you can see, there is a downside. The Empire expects sith to fund their own entourages, likely in an effort to stop them from dividing the military into their own private armies.”

He looked it over, flinched at the sum. “Baras did tell us this.”

“He did.” Quinn allowed. “I found it prudent to get an accurate account of our finances. As it stands, even with the generous donation made by Vette, we will be able to get to Nar Shaddaa and no further. Fuel alone will drain the coffers, not to mention salaries, combat pay and repairs to the ship.”

“Vette’s working on it.”

The captain nodded, his face carefully polite. “You don’t approve. Speak freely, Quinn.”

“Using a military vessel to smuggle does not sit right with me, sir. It’s dangerous to transport unknown goods, not to mention unethical.”

“Unethical.” Morgan repeated slowly. “Firstly, captain, Vette inspects all goods that we transport. I’m the last person that wants explosives or god forbid slaves in my hull. Secondly, said hull is as good as empty. Her connections are the only reason we won’t be stuck on Balmorra, unable to pay for the fuel needed to leave.”

He put a hand to his chin. “Unethical. I believe the only war crime I have yet to commit is rape and the slaughter of children, and that is if you don’t count stupid eighteen year olds picking up a rifle as a child. Speaking of war crimes, the Empire is want to enslave, burn and conquer any planet it sees fit, nevermind the ethics. The Imperial military has conducted some of the single most gruesome, unnecessarily barbaric campaigns imaginable. I will allow the vast majority to have been committed under orders of the sith, yet they were committed all the same. Don’t tell me avoiding tax is unethical when we just participated in a battle that killed thousands of people fighting for their freedom.”

Morgan sighed, holding up his hand. Quinn's face had gone blank, his hands carefully relaxed. “Apologies. I do not blame you for the whole of the Empire’s actions, nor do I believe you to be the man to commit them.”

Quinn waited for a second, looking, before deflating. “I know. It’s an objection I had to raise, seeing as smuggling is illegal under Imperial law. The true downside is that we can’t submit its gains as income. Donations have to be taxed, but any income made by a sith is exempt.”

“I don’t know what to tell you. Start a business, sell stuff?”

The captain shrugged. “Passive income would be best, but I admit to not being a trained economist. I’m afraid I don’t have an answer, my lord.”

Morgan hummed, setting the matter aside. “I met captain Kala. She seems young, for someone of her rank.”

Quinn shrugged again, handing over a different datapad. “Top three percent of her year, shunted off soon after graduation due to her race. She’s seen actual combat, quite a lot of it, in fact, and has an exemplary record. The best of those available, not to mention someone who will rise far with your protection, my lord.”

“Combat?”

“Pirates and the like. They send her on suppression missions, mostly as a lone vessel. She’s flourished, in my opinion. Most of her crew went with her when she accepted this assignment.”

“I see. I fired her xo, by the way. Shouldn't be your problem, but heads up.”

“So corporal Jillins has informed me.” Quinn nodded. “I’ve impressed upon them to not shoot a commander of the Imperial Navy, and I will assume Vette meant that figuratively.”

“She likely did not. I’ll talk to her.” Morgan stood, having no intention of doing so. He found it rather adorable when she got protective, actually, although he could imagine others found it significantly less so. “Keep me up to date, captain. We’ll be departing in a few hours.”

The captain nodded, looking back down at his desk as Morgan left again.

‘That took significantly less time than I thought it would.’ He contemplated, walking aimlessly. Appearing busy when he wasn’t was an old skill, one acquired long before lightsabers and twi’lek became a staple in his life, but these days he hadn’t much need to employ it.

His feet brought him to his, their, room. He hadn’t explored much of it yet, and taking one look at his small pile of stuff made him decide to change that.

Packing his things away didn’t take long, he travelled light, and then he was back to being bored again.

Teacher would likely scold him and set him to training, but it was all he’d been doing since arriving at Balmorra. A soulless drama had him somehow more bored than doing nothing, but by then his stomach reminded him he’d skipped lunch. Again.

He snorted. “From overeating to not caring about hunger to the point of starvation. Upgrades people, upgrades. Still, might as well.”

Inspecting the kitchen he found an actual kitchen, a four pit stove standing next to a tall fridge. Looking inside revealed rows of neatly arranged vegetables, meats and cheeses, most of which he didn’t recognize.

Morgan didn’t so much decide to make dinner, but eating some cheese led to inspecting the steak. That led to baking it, and who eats steak without potatoes anyway? Some strange looking plant tasted just like cauliflower, so he set some water to boiling.

He hummed as he chopped onions, blue but otherwise tasting fine, and used his telekinesis to hunt for something to drink. He found wine, but a small taste revealed his pallet to be as unrefined as ever. Shrugging and pouring himself a glass, his hands still busy chopping onions, he resumed humming. He heard the door open, soft footsteps padding inside.

Turning, he saw a bemused Vette standing in the living room, eyebrow raised. “Whatya doing?”

“Making dinner?” He offered with a shrug, setting down the knife to flip the stake. “I was bored and someone went through the trouble to stock the fridge. Would be rude not to, at that point.”

She hummed in agreement, skipping over and kissing him on the cheek. “Anything I can do?”

“Set the table? You’ll have to find the plates yourself, if we even have any.”

Vette nodded resolutely, throwing open cabinets until she found what she was looking for. Morgan turned back to the potatoes to find them mostly done, cutting the steak in half.

So they could share, of course. Certainly not because he’d forgotten how long ago he put it on and needed to check how rare it was.

A few minutes later found Vette kicking her feet on the counter, watching him work. “I didn’t know you could cook. I can’t, for the record. Frozen dinners all the way.”

“Not a skill the sith taught me, that’s for sure.” He floated over the cheese when she made grabby hands for it, shrugging. “Used to be a hobby. Feels like a lifetime ago, honestly.”

She hummed, breaking the cheese and throwing him a piece. He bent over backward, keeping the pan level as he caught it with his teeth. He smiled smugly. “Force agility, suck it.”

Vette scoffed, flicking a piece high and catching it. “What did Quinn want?”

“Oh, that. So, basically, we’re broke.”

“We knew that already.” She accused grandly. Morgan chuckled. “So we did. Unfortunately, relying on your donations won’t cut it. Worse than being suspicious, it’s taxed. Any business or property I own isn’t, but how do you even buy a business?”

She made a face, throwing the cheese back toward the fridge and missing. “Taxation. Truly, the evil of the Empire knows no limits. This is why I became an outlaw in the first place.”

He caught the cheese with the Force and put it back in the fridge, throwing a spoon at her. “Don’t throw food, it’s unbecoming.”

Vette dodged, sticking her tongue out. “How long is this going to take, anyway?”

“Another twenty? The steak needs to rest.”

She hopped to the ground. “I’m going to take a shower, then.” She lingered near the door, finally turning back. “You can’t actually tell when people lie, right?”

Morgan waved, turning his focus on the cauliflower. “Not as such. I can feel what they feel when they lie to me, and that man's anxiety spiked whenever he did. Someone with excellent control over their emotions would be able to lie to me easily enough.“

She nodded, throwing her clothes to the floor before disappearing into the bathroom. He picked up a piece of vegetable, judged it about done and went to check the table. It was set well enough, although he straightened the cutlery and added the wine bottle. Placing some candles completed the table, having found some when hunting for a cheese grater.

Vette returned to find the room darkened, shadows cast in the soft orange of fire. “Romantic.”

He tilted his head, looking it over. “I guess? Honestly wouldn't know. It’s a miracle there are candles in the first place, by the way.”

She accepted a glass of wine, taking a seat as Morgan did the same. Her feet immediately began fighting for space, making him scowl and pin them in place. “Behave. The food’s getting cold.”

She glared back but started eating, taking a sip of wine and raising her eyebrow. “If I didn’t know better you're trying to get me drunk. This is strong stuff.”

He shrugged. “Automatic poison filtering, I need at least this much to even start feeling it. Besides, I don’t think there’s much you do drunk that you wouldn't do sober.”

“Fair. Steaks’ good, by the way. Nice and juicy.”

Morgan smiled, inclining his head. “Good ingredients are half the job.”

They ate in companionable silence, finding himself with an armful of twi’lek afterwards, curled on the couch. He floated the dishes into the kitchen to be tomorrow’s problem, playing with her lekku as she flicked through channels endlessly.

“This was good. Nice.” She said after a while. “I. Fuck. I’ve never really done this stuff before. I’ve been wined and dined once or twice, but that was them trying to get into my pants. It’s nice to just relax.”

He kissed her head, smiling. “I had fun too. Better enjoy it while you can, I doubt we’ll get much time when we get to Nar Shaddaa.”

Vette grumbled, hugging his arm as she finally settled on a drama. He watched with her, uncaring for the show but basking in the moment of peace. “I love you, you know. Never thought that would happen.”

She twisted her head up, kissing him and burrowing again. “I love you too, you surprisingly big softy. Now shush, it’s just getting good.”

He smiled, keeping quiet as he traced circles on her shoulder.

‘I’ll make time.’ He promised silently.

Nar Shaddaa, Vette saw, hadn’t changed much.

Granted, she was still in orbit and they hadn’t even made it to landing yet.

Quinn was standing a half step behind Morgan, both looking stoic and professional as they talked with some customs agent.

There had been a problem, apparently, and the dock assigned to them had been taken by some hutt. Said hutt had promptly refused to vacate the spot, pulling on family connections to make life difficult for everyone and claiming she owned it in the first place.

The woman was some big important export magnet, she hadn't listened too closely.

But a hutt wanted something, and so they got it. Nothing had changed.

“Please bring her into this call, officer Grethic. I will talk with her.”

The customs agent nodded tensely, and Vette imagined he had to be hitting every panic button he had. She could sympathise.

The woman was quick to join the call, at the very least, but looked not the slightest bit intimidated. “Ah, the little sith that believes the universe bows when he demands it. Nar Shaddaa belongs to the hutts, not the Empire. We loaned you our docks, we haven’t sold them.”

Morgan nodded, surprising the woman. “Correct, in a sense. This dock, however, is the only one available for my ship at this moment in time. If you would be so kind as to lend it to me for a number of weeks, I can complete my business and we’ll be on our way.”

A wheezing laugh came over the speaker, the woman smiling broadly. “A begging sith, how interesting. We can arrange something. Come, speak with me in my penthouse.”

The image cut off, the whole deck silent as the grave.

“Well.” Vette broke in cheerily. “That went about as well as could be expected. So, we're off to kill her?”

Captain Kala choked silently as Morgan sighed, turning to her. “Perhaps. Quinn, hold down the ship as I go talk to her. Best not to start a war with the cartels, no matter how annoying to deal with. Someone fetch me Alyssa and Inara.”

The two linked up at his smaller fury-class ship, both looking like they’d just crawled out of bed. Inara returned her broad grin, miming something she couldn't quite decipher.

It earned her a harsh look from Alyssa, so she didn’t imagine it was polite.

“We will be dealing with a hutt, and since I do not wish to plunge the Empire into a war with the cartels quite yet there will be no violence unless I order it, understood?”

Both women bowed, murmuring assurances before they finally got moving again. Landing an interceptor was significantly easier than a destroyer, the short trip lasting minutes before they were walking on Nar Shaddaa proper.

The penthouse was some ways away, but securing transport was easy enough. The ride was mostly quiet, the lovebirds horrible at smalltalk and Morgan staring broodily out the window.

“Stop sulking.” She chided. “At the absolute worst we’ll kill her and let the chips fall as they will. The ship will be fine in orbit, if not capable of serving as our base of operations.”

He looked at her, eyes tired. “It’s not that. Annoying, sure, but it’s not that. This is an old place, and older things stalk its darker corners. I’d like to avoid them like the plague, but I don’t think they’ll let me.”

“Cryptic.” She murmured approvingly. “You’ll be scaring young sith in damp tombs within the year, mark my words.”

He smiled faintly, turning back to the window as towering skyscrapers raced past. ‘It’s also creepy as hell when you spout arcane knowledge like that, 'cause so far they’ve all turned out to be true.’

The penthouse was a grand thing, glittering windows and spouting fountains framing their landing site. The guards looked well armed and competent, but she saw rather less of them than she had imagined.

Their party made it inside without trouble, the hutt’s seat dominating the grand, and only, room in the space. Said hutt waved her arm as they approached, the music falling still. “Ah, the sith. Welcome, welcome. I am Wisi the magnificent. Please, take a seat as I finish with some business. ”

Vette wanted to hiss at the insult, but Morgan nodded politely before she could jump at the thing and strangle it. He put a hand on her shoulder, leaning close. “We aren’t pressed for time, and I’d like her feeling confident instead of cornered. Go see what information you can gather while I stand over there with these two and terrify the guests.”

She nodded, holding her anger tight as she looked over the room. As expected from a hutt it was filled with adoring fans, most too terrified to leave, bounty hunters, mercenaries and slavers. Her anger spiked as she caught the dancers, looking miserable but hiding it well. They looked fed, at the very least, but she knew something about the weight of their collars.

She ignored the slavers entirely and walked over to some bounty hunters playing pazaak, drinking like it was going out of style. They didn't much like her, but she had credits and a carefully cultivated air of ignorance about the game.

Over the next ten minutes she lost about as much as she won, but more importantly the hunters started to relax again. She bought a few rounds, earning her appreciative grunts, and they finally started doing the thing she was here for.

Complaining. “I swear, it’s factory duty one week after another. Boss doesn’t know what the hell to do with us, I’ll tell you.”

His neighbour laughed, taking a long drag from some pipe on his shoulder. “We’re getting paid to sit here and look rough while we drink and play, won’t hear me complaining. Sides, with the way things are going we’ll get another bonus soon enough, then we can go looking for some real work.”

Filing that away and slinking off, the group laughing at her spectacular loss, she joined another. Trio of mercenaries this time, intently watching two droids in a ring and cursing as one dropped. “You boys have room for little old me? I’ve credits.”

One of them, who looked to be an actual mandalorian, snorted. “I don’t drink on the job, so unlike those idiots I saw you come in with the sith. What do you want?”

She seated herself, throwing a handful of credits on the small pot in the middle. “Everything on black, round three elimination. Just wanted to see who managed to pique the interest of my boss, then was stupid enough to tell him to sit and wait like a dog.”

The mandalorian huffed, writing down her bet while she nodded to the two others. They didn’t seem in the mood for talking. “Did seem a little laidback for one. Fought a sith once, or saw one butcher half my company, anyway. Your boss gonna start something? Don’t reckon too many will stand and fight when that trio starts breaking spines.”

“I’m Vette, and not if she keeps the insults to a minimum. He’s got purpose here that’s more important than dealing with her.”

“Dorka. Words to make any wise man shiver.”

He fell silent as the droid's fight intensified, turning back when a pretty woman appeared to promote a new drug. “Wisi isn’t stupid, won’t hear me say that, but she might be having some trouble. Suppose that’s what she gambled on your boss for. Employing a sith, or appearing to have one working for her, would solve many of them.”

She hummed, keeping an eye on the game as the third round started. “That why there’s few guards but too many mercs?”

“Can’t say I have an opinion about that.” Dorka shrugged noncommittally. “But anyone with eyes could see the mercs and hunters are bored.”

The black droid knocked the red one out of the ring, making grand gestures of victory. Dorka snorted and shoved the pile of money her way, the two silent mercs scowling. “Nice meeting you, Dorka.”

The mandolorian waved, and she joined Morgan where he was quietly talking with his two bodyguards. “And why did Soft Voice send you, exactly?”

Inara shuffled awkwardly, Alyssa frowning. “I believe his exact words were to guard you, my lord. I could not begin to guess at his true motive, should that not be it.”

She broke in, the other woman taking a step back to give them space. “Found out why the hutt’s being a cunt. To summarise four brilliant insights, one skillful interrogation and several spectacular bets, she’s having trouble. Lost too many of her guards and is compensating with bounty hunters and mercs, but they're getting bored with securing her factories. Having you work for her would scare away whoever is muscling in, but I have a plan.”

Morgan rolled his eyes, which was uncalled for, but listened. “So, basically, I steal it first. That way I can be the queen of the underworld and make lots of money.” She eyed the dancers. “Maybe free some slaves while I’m at it.”

“Brilliant.” He said dryly. “It might possibly be too well thought out, actually. Best not to make it too complicated.”

“You may approach, sith.” Wisi called loudly, what conversation still going on in the room falling silent. “Wisi the magnificent will hear your plea.”

“Play along please.” She whispered. “I’d really like to steal a syndicate. Think of the money. So much money.”

Morgan nodded, stepping forward while she stepped back. If violence were to erupt she’d be in a better position in the back, not that it would. Dorka was right when he’d said mercs don’t fight sith. No matter the money, can’t spend it when you’re dead.

“Not a plea, but yes. We need to have a conversation.” Morgan said. “The Empire is renting several large hangars in this port, one of which was assigned to my ship some days ago. It is currently occupied by one of your vessels, and I would like it empty.”

Wisi laughed, and it just occurred to her she was speaking basic. She didn’t know if she was broke or less arrogant than most hutts, although from this experience it looked like the former.

“That hangar belongs to me and I will do with it as I please, no matter the meddling of the Empire. I can, however, make an exception.”

Vette frowned, shooting Inara a warning look when she stepped forwards. She ignored how she had wanted to do the same, and how Alyssa’s hand was itching to her lightsaber. ‘No wonder she’s losing control of her people if she’s this bad at reading a situation.’

Morgan nodded sympathetically, taking a small step forwards. “Business is all about exchanging services. What did you have in mind?”

“Very good.” Wisi praised. “Using the brain is a rare thing for your kind. There is a warehouse in the corellian sector, once belonging to the great Wisi, that was unjustly taken from me. Retake it in my name, and the hangar is yours for as long as your business lasts.”

Vette wanted to shoot her, no matter that she just stopped the lovebirds from doing the same, but Morgan agreed before she could. “Very well. I will need the hangar now, though.”

Wisi laughed, waved her hand agreeably, and music started to play again. Morgan walked their way, not saying anything until they were in the car again and he’d informed captain Kala the ship could be landed. “That could have gone worse.”

Inara hissed. “She insults you, takes what is yours, and it could have gone worse? She thinks you are weak, to be ordered around.”

Vette agreed, but also didn’t particularly want the reproachful look levelled at her either. “And what a surprise it will be, when she finds out I am not. Her opinion of me matters less than dust, her threats smoke in the wind. Immediate, overwhelming violence is the way of normal sith.”

Morgan looked at Alyssa briefly, turning back to the fuming Inara. “Are we normal sith, Inara? To be swayed by our emotions, our anger?”

She shook her head minutely, Alyssa putting a hand on her shoulder. Morgan nodded calmly. “You two are here to guard me, learn from me. I value advice, and I always will, but it will be given in private. Do not contradict me in public, nor attempt to steer my actions directly.”

Vette didn’t much like the strained air in the ride, not that her boss seemed to even notice it, and when they finally came back to the hangar she welcomed the relatively fresh air. Kala had landed the Aurora, not waiting for the hangar to be fully cleared, and Quinn’s men were chasing out the last stragglers. “I will speak with Baras. The day is yours to fill as you see fit.”

The two sith bowed, Inara somewhat stiffly, before departing. Vette spoke up when they were gone, looking him over. “Was that wise?”

He looked at her, sighing. “She’ll get over it. Astara sent them here to temper, so they can study under me. They will obey me, even if, especially if, they don’t like it. Fanaticism is a dangerous thing, forming a disconnect between who you are and who your followers think you are. If you let it spread, let it fester, that distance will grow. One day what they think you should do, and what you wish to do, differs entirely. ”

She hummed, giving him a kiss and shove. “You’re the expert, but for the record I don’t like the way that hutt talked to you. Go, you have scary sith lords to talk to. I’ll find something to entertain myself with, don’t worry.”

“Don’t burn down the moon.” He chuckled half-heartedly. “At least not until we're done here.”

“Apprentice. I see you have made good use of your new ship.”

Morgan bowed, Darth Baras’s image looming over him. “It will serve me well, my Lord.”

“See that it does. Onto the matter at hand. Nar Shaddaa is, I’m afraid, the armpit of the galaxy. It’s a planet of frivolity and distraction, gambling, spice and gang disputes filling every corner of the place. Its black market can be useful, however, so do not discount it entirely.”

He stayed silent, nodding along. “But you are here to eliminate my spy, Agent Dellocon. Normally it would be a trifling task, but Dellocon has acquired a powerful ally. When his position came under scrutiny from Nomen Karr’s padawan he figured I would kill him, and sought protection from lord Rathari. An upstart, by all measures, but the Dark Council has granted him dominion over sith interests on Nar Shaddaa.”

“Will his death be required, Lord?” Morgan asked. “It might bring scrutiny from the Council should I succeed.”

Baras scoffed, waving his hand dismissively. “Leave the Council to me, apprentice. Agent Dellocon knows much about my organisation, and so Rathari cannot have possession of him. The spy must die. If you find a way to do this without killing Rathari, feel free to do so.”

“Of course, my Lord.” He didn’t sound confident that would be the case, but Morgan didn’t fancy fighting a sith Lord quite yet.

“Halidrell Setsyn runs my slave operations on Nar Shaddaa, and has been a valued operative for many years. She is ready to receive you and can fill you in on Rathari’s movements and interests. That is all.”

The image cut off, leaving him standing alone in a dark room. ‘Slavers. Of course it’s slavers. Well, if I might be fighting a sith Lord it's back to Teachers lessons for me.’

He walked to the training rooms, finding surprisingly well equipped facilities greeting him as he walked inside. ‘Then again, Quinn might well have arranged for the equipment on Balmorra to be transferred here. I swear, that man doesn’t sleep.’

Teacher floated off his belt, the holocron clicking open. “I see you have managed to extract yourself from the pleasures of the flesh.”

“Don’t be snide, I was busy. Not like I stopped training.” He demonstrated by cloaking himself in the Force, his perception finding himself muted. Teacher scoffed.

“That won’t fool a clever dog, nevermind a Darth. I see that you have, at the very least, managed to not alert your master. Small miracles. That is not what we will focus on today.”

Teacher floated closer, looking at him carefully. Morgan shuddered when he felt only the barest hint of the scan. “Your shield is adequate, I suppose, and will grow in power on its own. You might just be ready to try and unravel hostile techniques before they reach you, allowing for a higher skill ceiling.”

Morgan frowned, remembering the Overseer talking about that. Or most of her lecture, anyway. “My old Overseer said that trying both at the same time is near impossible.”

The cube wobbled. “Not untrue, and it won’t be a skill mastered easily. It will, however, prevent a repeat of your disastrous fight on Balmorra. Your relatively high degree of skill means you have stamina despite your lacking reserves, but against those that can tax them directly you are woefully underprepared.”

“Alright, alright, I get it. No more slacking. It was only a few days. How does one counter Force techniques, exactly? The Overseer didn’t mention.”

Teacher floated closer, his voice dropping. “I do not push you to be cruel, apprentice. You are stacked against giants, those that have decades of experience to draw on. You either become one yourself or die, no matter your own desires. Now, what is a Force technique?”

Morgan tilted his head, shaking his head at the warning. “A structured interaction with the Force, guided by intention and will. It’s no science, I can tell you that.”

“Fair.” Teacher floated back, pacing by slowly moving side to side. “Study, while having revealed some of its secrets, remains slow and clumsy. There is no guidebook, and each practitioner draws their own path. We teach them to push, how to structure thought and will. What path they take to accomplish a push is their own, for we do not know how to.”

“How can we do something yet not know how to do it?”

Teacher scoffed. “Tell me how to sleep.”

“You lay down, preferably in a dark room but not always, and-” Morgan opened his mouth, closing it again when he didn’t find anything else to say. “I see your point.”

“Good. To get back to the lesson, to unravel is to feel the structure of a hostile technique. To know it, as you know your own. When you do, know it so well you can see how it is built from nothing to completion, you can break it. You can find that one point where a small application of Force will destabilise it, rendering it harmless.”

The cube laughed. “Doing so while it is actively trying to harm you is where the difficulty comes in. Nor can you devote all your attention to it, lest your opponent cuts your head off.”

A small, harmless push hit his shoulder, coming with so little warning his arm jerked back before he could dodge. “Lucky for you it is not difficult to train, merely taking practice. Pay attention.”

The next came slower, thankfully, so Morgan could lean out of the way. A slap caught him on the cheek, turning his head with its strength. “This is not avoidance training, apprentice.”

He grunted, sitting down and crossing his legs. The slaps kept coming, but after the initial surprise they bothered him little. Instead he focused, finding it easy enough to home in on the techniques as they came. Unravelling was another matter, until he found a rather glaring hole in one of them.

Poking it dissolved the technique, but he couldn't say how he knew there was a weakness there. It just was, like studying the techniques of others, seeing what he could copy.

Another came, and he realised this was almost exactly how he copied techniques in the first place. Not so much lately, true. Darth Lachris had been the last, and finding those he could fight, yet were strong enough to learn from, were far and few.

The unravelling was new, but not something he had all that much trouble with. Opening Teacher’s holocron had been far harder, especially near the end. “I wonder, sometimes.”

He opened his eyes, seeing Teacher orbit his head. “Wonder what?”

“What you would have become, had Baras taught you properly. There is no substitute for a real mentor, not even the most brilliant of trapped minds.”

Morgan shook his head. “I have no wish to see what he would have moulded me as. I take it I wasn’t supposed to get it down so quickly?”

“No you were not.” Teacher hummed. “But it was ignorant of me to discount your perception and the thieving it allows. Don’t be offended, thief will be among the kindest things they call you.”

He didn’t feel particularly offended. “What now?”

The cube shrugged. “I cannot produce more Force attacks than what I already have. It allows me mobility, a fair amount of it, but nothing more. It was a mistake I implore you never to repeat. I am quite literally at your mercy, should you wish me harm.”

“Good thing I don’t, then. I’ll call Alyssa and Inara.”

Calling a crewmen to fetch them wasn’t hard, and he filled the time with some light meditation. They arrived soon enough, Morgan feeling a surge of amusement at the sight of them. “I hope my summons did not interrupt anything important?”

Alyssa stood with dignity, her hair a mess and her clothes less than their usual neatness. Inara shook her head, smiling broadly. “None at all, my lord. It proved an interesting time constraint to our activities.”

Her girlfriend shot her a dangerous look, taking half a step forward before she could say anything else. “What can we assist you with, my lord?”

“My apprentice is learning to unravel hostile techniques.” Teacher cut in. “You will both attack him with relatively harmless but varied attacks, and when he has learned to defend against them you will spar.”

“Alyssa, Inara, meet Teacher. Teacher, two of Enosis's new recruits.”

Teacher floated closer. “Did I stutter? Begin!”

Morgan snorted, motioning for them to start as he took a seat on the floor. Two attacks came soon after, one a structured telekinesis punch while the other felt more like a wave. They came slower than Teacher’s attack, yet took more power and concentration to unravel.

“Techniques with more power behind them will take more to unravel.” The cube lectured, mirroring his own thoughts. “Their structure is more solid, although the skill of the practitioner can make it more difficult the more perfect their craft.”

He pricked another one, stabbing a Force tendril through it as it dissolved into nothing. The next caught him, knocking the air out of his lungs. He laughed, turning away three more before the fourth caught him across the leg.

His reserves kept steady, each unravelling taking only a tenth of what shielding would have. Morgan smiled as bruises started forming, standing and slowly walking around the room.

Alyssa and Inara exchanged wary glances, their previous levity forgotten as Morgan turned their attacks into nothing. An hour later they sat on the floor, sweat dripping from them as they recovered.

Teacher was having none of it, hovering over his shoulder. “Two minute break, then we start with sparring. Training sabers only!”

Morgan smiled, petting the cube as another life saving skill was added to his bag of tricks. “Don’t know what I would do without you.”

Teacher floated away, knocking his hand off. “Lay dying in a ditch. Refrain from petting me like a cat.”

He snorted, closing his eyes as bruises faded. “I probably would be. Back to it?”

Inara groaned, dragging herself up as Alyssa rose smoothly. “As you command, my lord.”

He threw them two sabers, holding one himself. Teacher hissed. “Enough with the theatrics. Begin!”

Morgan smiled, blocking an overhead blow as he failed to unravel a cutting wave of Force. Blood welled as his leg screamed, pivoting to avoid Inara hitting him over the head.

‘This might take some practice.’ He thought happily, closing the wound on his leg and kicking Alyssa across the room. ‘But that only means I’m improving.’

Chapter Text

The corellian sector of Nar Shaddaa was a strange one. Its name came from the mostly Corellian descendant population, yet it was now home to many species living side by side.

That is not to say it was a peaceful place. Gangs controlled most of the streets, with port control largely content to live in their fortified barracks and outposts. Everything from gang wars to petty theft was ignored, but to the surprise of no one they came out in force should certain casino’s or warehouses be so much as scratched.

The rich and powerful, those few that for one reason or another chose to live here, had their own security. Morgan considered that fair, seeing as he was currently moving through the sector with a twenty men escort.

Quinn’s men were in good form, the captain himself walking beside him at the front while his second held up the rear. Most were new, recruited after the death of the Balmorran resistance, and this would be their very first mission working under him.

Said captain had spent their travel time drilling them in their still mostly empty cargo hold, although Morgan had little idea what Quinn had been teaching them. They looked impressive, however, and sometimes that was half the job.

The gangs agreed, resistance melting out of the way as they walked deeper into the sector. He did have to stop some eager soldiers from hurrying along an elderly homeless man, but other than that the walk was uneventful.

“Did I mention I hate slavery? I feel that, somehow, that will become important soon.”

Vette’s sarcasm lacked her usual levity, her hand never straying far from her blaster. He was about to reply when Alyssa did it for him, turning to the twi’lek with her customary seriousness. “You belong to Lord Morgan. Should any other try to enslave you, they will be slain.”

Sighing, Vette patted her on the shoulder. “I can’t tell if you’re joking or not.”

“We’ll have to deal with Halidrell, unfortunately, but there is no scenario where you will not leave Nar Shaddaa a free woman.”

Vette bumped her shoulder into his, smiling briefly. “Thanks. I just don’t like dealing with slavers, is all. Although with twenty soldiers itching to prove their place and no less than three sith I don’t doubt she'll be on her best behaviour.”

Morgan returned her smile, idly turning to look at a badly hidden observer scurry back into darkness when their eyes met. “Don’t discount yourself. I’m sure at least some thugs would be too busy drooling over you to aim properly.”

Inara snorted, Vette scowling at her playfully before sticking her tongue out at him. “You’d be surprised how useful that can be. But then I suppose you wouldn't know anything about that.”

Morgan put a hand to his chest, eyes widening. “The sheer cruelty and spite. My fragile masculinity, I feel it shattering. Breaking into a hundred little pieces, never to be the same.”

She was about to reply when specialist Harrold interrupted her, his voice coming over comms. “Possible contact, three hundred and closing.”

Quinn grunted, pointing. “Horas, Kapa. Intercept.”

The two surged forward, lieutenant Helen barking orders as the rest of the men halted. Morgan stalled, watching as they brought back a nervous teen. He eyed the slave collar, waving the two soldiers away.

They saluted, the young man clearing his throat while bowing deeply. “Lord Morgan. Halidrell Setsyn cordially invites you to participate in drinks and entertainment in the Violet Moon cantina. Should that be amenable, I am to escort you to the establishment at your leisure.”

“We have business, as it happens.” He replied dryly. “Lead on.”

The slave nodded, relief clear on his face, and turned sharply. Morgan motioned to follow him, walking deeper into the sector until they hit what could only be described as the upper class streets.

The filth and grime was gone, even now groups of janitor droids tirelessly cleaning every inch of the floor and walls. Guards of varying allegiances walked in small groups, keeping an eye on them but not intervening. Vette grumbled as they walked into the cantina itself, two holographic dancers framing the entrance.

“A pleasure house, of course it is.” Morgan told Quinn to station his men outside, turning to her. “Bad?”

She shrugged noncommittally. “Never been inside. Supposedly one of the nicer ones, so the rape is happening in nicely furnished rooms, but it’s a slave brothel all the same.”

He sighed. “Don’t shoot anyone. For now she’s important to the mission, and thus to Baras. When that’s done I can take offence to something she said and there’ll be one less of them on Nar Shaddaa.”

Two young women curtsied at the door, smiling brightly with no collar adorning their necks. He let his perception wash through them, finding little but resigned bitterness in their hearts. “We’re here to see Halidrell Setsyn.”

The left woman motioned for them to follow, taking them to a private room. Inara elbowed Alyssa, pointing at a dancer doing very impressive things with her legs. “Neither of you are to frequent a slave brothel.”

Alyssa seemed almost offended. “I can feel their emotions just as you can, my lord. I’d rather not spend the night with someone hating every second of it, no matter how prettily they smile.”

He nodded shortly, finding his patience thinning as he caught sight of an older man inspecting several women. They looked afraid, glancing at each other as the man pointed to two of them.

Their guide pointed to a door when he asked, only refraining from kicking it in at the last second. He found a woman sitting with three men, two of them clearly guards, while the last had stood the moment the door opened.

“Everyone that isn’t Halidrell Setsyn, get out.”

The man that wasn’t a guard turned, his two guards joining him. “So she wasn’t lying about having sith up her sleeve.”

Inara and Alyssa stepped forward, hands going to their lightsabers. “You’ve been given orders to leave. Follow them.”

“Ha! We’ve been trained to handle sith. Kinda glad we get to show off.”

When his hand went to his blaster his head disappeared in a mist of red, Vette calmly aiming to the next guard. He was dead before he could draw his weapon, his comrade managing to curse before Inara cut his torso in two. Morgan had walked to the now vacant seat, nodding to who must be Halidrell.

“Who did I just kill?”

Halidrell herself was still sipping her drink, nodding her head in greeting. “Exchange captain. Low ranking, so no one’s going to miss him. Not after your dramatic entrance, at any rate. Halidrell, pleasure to meet you.”

“What do you have for me? In case you’re unaware, I’m here to kill Lord Rathari.”

He wasn’t. “Ah. Yes, of course. Won’t be easy, he usually just appears, devastates then disappears. You’ll have to draw him out by disrupting his power play, make him expose himself. I propose doing so during his meeting with the hutt cartels, where he is strong-arming them to signing over some important territories in their own headquarters.”

“Estimated forces?”

Halidrell shrugged. “He has an apprentice, Girik, but otherwise a fairly normal Lord’s retinue. On the smaller side, if I had to say. The cartels are Imperial allies, should violence break out it would be best if there were no survivors. I’ll transfer you the location.”

Morgan stood, finding little need to stay now that he got what he came for. “I’ll try not to pick a fight with the hutt’s.”

Vette broke off outside, nodding to the taxi service. “Not to abandon you or anything, but I do have some other stuff that needs doing. You alright with just those two?” She shot Quinn an apologetic look. “Not that I’m discounting the captain and his men, of course.”

“I’ll be fine.” He waved her off, turning to the interceptor that served as their makeshift transport. “Go be mysterious and vague. Meet you on the ship tonight?”

She kissed him, walking off. “Wouldn't miss it.”

He watched her disappear into an alleyway, turning to Inara. “Before I forget, go clear that warehouse for Wisi.”

Inara raised her eyebrow. “Just me?”

“I have full faith in you. Go.”

She left with a lingering look at Alyssa, the pureblood’s scowl replaced with a small smile. When Inara disappeared the scowl returned. Morgan chuckled. “She’ll be fine. Come, we have business of our own.”

The interceptor took them to the duros sector with little trouble, its streets filled with the species the sector was named after. Poor would not begin to describe it, crawling with refugees and the desperate.

“This many refugees will be crawling with gangs.” Alyssa said, a touch too nonchalant. “Not that I’m against killing the poor, necessarily, but it would delay us.”

Quinn nodded, surprising Morgan somewhat. “Gangs will be prevalent, and my research has shown that this sector contains many specifically fleeing Imperial space. We will not find a warm welcome here.”

The soldiers around them exchanged looks, tightening their loose circle. Morgan tapped his lightsaber. “Scare tactics only. That said, I value your lives over those I do not know. Use your best judgement.”

Quinn signalled for the pilot to take off, to retreat to a safe distance until needed again, and started to move forwards. It didn’t take long before they encountered resistance, finding a man standing on a makeshift platform some ways away. A growing crowd surrounded him, agitation in the air. “This is our home! The Empire took everything from me, from us, and now they come to take more? To take what little we have left?”

The shouting increased in fever, more and more people drawing close. Morgan spied a rather alarming number of weapons among them, but before he could do anything the man had seen them. “There they come! The defilers and thieves, come to take our homes, our children, to turn them into monsters. To bring dea-”

The man staggered back, Alyssa’s boot kicking him to the ground. The crowd drew back as one, quiet falling like a wave. Her lightsaber ignited. “Disperse, now.”

Her voice echoed off the walls, loud enough the closest people staggered back. The smarter of the crowd vanished down alleyways, fear replacing anger in many faces.

When the mob saw the soldiers marching their way they scattered entirely, Morgan heaving a private sigh of relief. “Well done. Mob mentality is a dangerous thing, even to sith.”

Alyssa bowed. “I live to serve. Or to scatter the homeless, either way.”

“That would have turned ugly fast.” Quinn agreed. “You have my thanks. Killing civilians has negative implications on morale.”

Morgan rolled his eyes. “And we wouldn't want that. Let’s get to the headquarters before another mob forms.”

Some gangs with more brawn than brains took longer to get out of their way than others, but they made it without fighting. That would have likely have drawn the hutt’s enforcers down on them like flies, and he preferred to keep an amicable relationship with them.

At least for now.

Coming to the hutt headquarters was a sight to behold, the population thinning until they were the only ones around. Large duresteel gates blocked the street, two dozen well armed enforcers standing outside. His lightest scan told him more remained behind the gate, and a small, hate-filled bundle of Force told him exactly where the sith was.

“The Lord either isn’t here or I can’t feel him. I can feel another sith, though, likely his apprentice.”

One of the enforcers stepped forward, bowing lightly. “The esteemed Qiltakka and Ybann are in conference, honoured guests. You have been permitted entrance, but your retinue is requested to remain outside.”

Morgan nodded to Quinn, lieutenant Helen already directing the men some distance away. The captain went with them, leaving him with just one. He walked past the gate, Alyssa close behind. The enforcer cleared his throat, Morgan waving his hand dismissively in reply. “She isn't part of my retinue.”

He walked past, the enforcer letting them. Morgan smiled at the utter lack of anger or indignation, the man clearly not caring one way or the other.

They found the hutt’s in a grand room, richly decorated and with two large thrones dominating much of the space. Droids lined the walls, Morgan blinking at them.

Most looked normal enough, but he spotted six of the sith killers. They didn’t look the same, much more modestly sized than those he fought on Balmorra, but after his lightsaber failed to do much of anything he’d recognize beskar anywhere.

Unlike the hulking things, these blended in. The sith already here clearly didn’t know what they were, and he discarded the idea of starting a fight with the hutt’s.

A male zabrak was pacing before the hutt’s, anger etched into his frame. “You would be wise to bend to the great Lord Rathari’s will. Sign over the specified territories before he loses his patience.”

The left hutt, either Wiltakka or Ybann, he had no idea, scooped up a large frog and swallowed it whole. Their emotions were muted, somehow, but he didn’t feel any fear in them. The hutt on the right laughed, waving his arm in Morgan’s direction. “Another sith guest. Welcome, welcome. This welp was just threatening the hutt cartels while standing on Nar Shaddaa, it is quite amusing.”

The droid next to the hutt’s translated, managing to express humour better than any droids he’d come across. Morgan bowed his head lightly. “Apologies for the interruption. I am here to provide an alternative to Lord Rathari’s demands.”

The sith, who Morgan assumed was apprentice Girik, rounded on him. “Baras’s lackey shows his face at last. And he brought a friend, showing his weakness for everyone to see. That’s right, my master and I anticipated your arrival.”

“A rude, arrogant sith. How boring.” Morgan shook his head. “I’ve been here for not even most of the day, Girik. Nor did I know you existed until a few hours ago. Let’s not pretend we have some rivalry going on, that would just be sad.”

The left hutt spoke, the droids translating in near real time. “Tell us your purpose, dark one.”

“Rathari's death is my purpose. If that happens to align with your own interest I would be more than willing to aid the Empire’s allies in their time of need.”

“We have seen Rathari’s strength, yet know nothing of yours.” The right hutt shrugged. “Kill this welp and we will consider delaying our deal with Rathari until your mission is complete, or your death simplifies the matter.”

Girik’s lightsaber came screaming for his head before he could agree, Morgan sidestepping with a sigh. “Like I said, no manners.”

The sith narrowed his eyes, lightning leaping from his fingers. Morgan held up his lightsaber to absorb it, unravelling a pull at the same time.

“Power but no skill. Such a waste.” He stepped forwards, forcing the zabrak to defend left while his leg kicked right. It connected at the hip, Girik catapulting through the room and impacting the wall.

The four droids stationed there stepped out of the way, a scream resounding through the room. Morgan unravelled it again, managing to bleed half its power before it reached him. His shields did the rest, clawing past the sith’s shield in return to freeze his foot in place.

Girik stumbled, turning his fall into a roll but losing sight of Morgan in the process. His lightsaber blocked the strike that would have taken his leg, Morgan’s fist impacting his throat.

The zabrak choked as he tried to stand, the flesh turning blue before he managed it. Morgan shook his head. “You might have twice the raw power I do, yet look what that gets you. Sloppy form and slow reflexes, not to mention mediocre Force techniques.”

He kicked again, feeling ribs break before Girik impacted the wall. This time he shot after him, the man managing to turn a sure kill into a crippling by leaning to the side.

His arm fell to the ground with a thud, the man drawing deeply on the Force and opening his mouth. Morgan’s lightsaber sliced his skull in half before he could complete it, the Dark abandoning the zabrak in torrents. “And that’s why I value speed over power.”

The hutt’s clapped lightly, Morgan ignoring them for the moment and turning to Alyssa. “Burn his corpse.”

He turned to the thrones as she pulled out an incendiary device, one each Enosis member carried. Soft Voice was of the opinion no Force user’s body should remain behind, something Morgan agreed with wholeheartedly.

“Great sport. Great action. You were clearly the stronger.”

The other hutt chuckled, a deep sound that reverberated through the room. “Defeating the welp is one thing, sith. Lord Rathari will be another matter entirely, but we will stall any agreements with the man as promised.”

Morgan smiled as Girik burned, turning to leave. “Then our business is concluded.”

It had been a long time since she’d walked the streets of Nar Shaddaa as she was doing now. Marching through with a small army didn’t really count, nor did it grant the true experience of the ecumenopolis.

The last time she’d walked it’s paths she’d been an artefact hunter and thief, not exactly the highest on the totem pole. A crew helped, as did experience, but neither could account for what she had now.

Armour that cost a small fortune, a sniper that could punch through durasteel with ease and that’s not even mentioning the skills she picked up on Dromund Kaas. She’d hate the Empire for the rest of her life for what they did to her, but she had to admit they knew how to train their soldiers.

‘Silly me, I almost forgot the strength to bend steel.’

She snorted, outright ignoring the teenager waving a blaster her way and ducked into an alleyway. Her map said that her meeting point was at the end, and then she could finally unload her merchandise. ‘And get Quinn off my ass. It’s almost as if he doesn’t like that I’m smuggling with impunity.’

The door at the end of the alley flew open, two cyborgs escorting Dorka outside. The mandalorian grunted, moving past her with barely a look and muttering angrily. She raised an eyebrow, stepping to the door when the thugs were about to close it again. “I’m here for Bert. Got that shipment he’s been waiting for.”

They motioned her inside without a word, revealing a warehouse behind it. Most of its space was filled with containers, closed and marked with gang sigils. She briefly inspected them, finding she recognized less than a tenth. ‘Not a surprise. The smaller gangs fracture, reform and fracture again like it’s going out of style. It’s been what, three years?’

Bert walked up to her, a mountain of a man more droid than cyborg. He grinned, holding out his hand. “Bert. Armie tells me you have my shipment, and something about a change of employer.”

She shook it, squeezing back as the metal fingers tightened. His grin widened as he let go, inspecting the small imprints on his prosthetic. “Always liked a girl with some bite to her. Afraid to inform you I don’t work for Armie, though, nor for you. I’m independent, you might say, and I’d like to keep it that way.”

“Fine by me.” She shrugged. “I’m here to sell, and Armie tells me you have something I might be interested in.”

“The armour, yes. Come.”

Bert walked past rows of containers as she followed, explaining as he went. “I serve as a neutral secure storage facilitator. Don’t need to know what’s in it, as long as it’s not alive or might explode in my warehouse. Good money, if you have the contacts.”

“I bet.” Vette halted as they came to an unmarked section, Bert opening one of the things and walking inside. “Must say, you’re pretty confident walking into a dark place with someone you don’t know.”

“I’m a confident guy. Does help that I'm stronger than anyone I come across.” She walked inside, a single light illuminating the space. He sent her a considerate look. “Usually.”

He pulled open a crate, a suit of armour lying inside. She briefly inspected it, sending over a list of modifications. “Armie sent me the specs already. You got the facilities to modify it?”

“I do. But only because you’re a friend of Armie. I normally take payment upfront.”

She flicked over her last ten thousand as if it was nothing, bending down to check the helmet. “That should cover it.”

Bert nodded easily, tucking the chits away. “Where can my boys pick up the goods? If they're good I’ll be paying you that twenty times over, and I don’t suppose you’d thank me for it if I gave you a bag.”

“Not here. You can inspect on site, and I’ll take the money there.”

The cyborg grunted. “No time like the present.”

She agreed, and after a walk found herself standing in front of her very own, very recently acquired, warehouse. Commander Clara had been kind enough to loan her some bodies to move the goods here, although they had vacated hours ago. “And you call me confident. I could take this shipment and kill you, you know. Armie’s a practical sort, no trouble at all to resume our old partnership.”

“Eh.” Vette stretched, idly looking over his six men. “I figured I’ll just kill you if you try something and sell it myself. It’ll take longer, that’s all.”

Bert chuckled, waving at his men to start inspecting. “There’s rather more here than expected. More than I can move if I don’t want to start a war.”

“That’s fine. Your original shipment is in there somewhere, but the death of the Balmorran rebellion opened some lucrative opportunities.”

The men tore open crates and inspected the goods, Bert stalking around them. She waited, not really all that tense. Even if her people skills had failed spectacularly and they’d attack, she hadn’t been lying when she’d said she’ll kill them.

Their armour didn’t even have shields, nor did their strength eclipse her own.

“All here boss.” One of the cyborgs called. Bert nodded to the woman, turning back to her. “Then it seems our business is finished. I’ll have someone deliver your armour when it’s done, shouldn't take but a few hours. Your money.”

She snorted when he handed over an actual bag, opening a compartment in his torso that must have taken up half his stomach. He nodded at her, then whistled sharply as he and his crew left. Vette looked down at the money, jiggling the bag. “Shame most of it is going back to Armie, could do some fun things with that much cash.”

Her display told her it was still hours till evening, unfortunately, and she had weapons to sell. Most of her old contacts had dried up years ago, nevermind that she had little interest in tangling with her old life, so it was time to make some new ones.

If only she knew someone that was looking for weapons and had the connections to get her more buyers, while undermining that bitch Wisi at the same time.

Hiring a slicer to find Dorka’s contacts was easy enough, if not cheap, and an hour of idling later found a meeting invitation popping into her display. It was close enough, still in the Correllian district, but she ran into a problem.

More accurately, the problem ran into her. Some hulking man with glowing eyes rounding on her after bumping into her, anger stitched over his features. Her strength stopped her from sprawling to the ground, but even if she had this one had the look of someone spoiling for a fight.

So she shot him. Her draw had always been fast, running with pirates will do that, and her hesitation to kill had been low long before consorting with sith. What she hadn’t counted on was her blaster bolt doing very little at all, having to sidestep to avoid a meaty hand grabbing at her.

‘Ah, subcutaneous armour plating. That’s. That’s very expensive, actually. Who is this?’

“Tail-heads.” The man spat. “As if there aren’t enough twi’s on Nar Shaddaa, now they’re thieving and knocking people over. Brutus will kill you for this, mark my words.”

She stepped back again when he lunged, her leg snapping to hit his knee. She saw brief surprise flicker through his face when the leg buckled, her sniper in hand before he could regain balance. Her rifle hadn’t been made for close combat, but then boltguns didn’t exactly lose power at close range.

Quite the opposite, really. The round punctured through the man’s torso with a low whine, his body pressed to the floor. She put the barrel to his head, lightly squeezing the trigger before he could do much of anything in response.

The fight, if it could even be called that, had lasted some four seconds if you counted the initial shoulder bump. The street was clear, only a single blind drug addict left behind, looking around with a confused expression on his face.

With a clear victor emerging and the violence over the people returned, reappearing from alleyways or hiding holes and going back to their business. She shrugged, checking his pockets to find a few hundred credits, and left herself.

‘Here’s hoping he wasn’t anyone important.’ She dropped the pouch, pulling out an identity card. ‘Oh, look at that. He’s actually named Brutus. Who even talks like that?’

She’d known she was more dangerous than ever. Goddess, she’d survived Korriban and fought in an actual war. This felt different, though. The person she’d just killed, in self defence or not, had terrified her when she was young, walking Nar Shaddaa as apex predators. Now people scurried out of her way, fearful looks and submissive gestures forcefully reminding her she’d joined their ranks without properly realising it.

Vette put it out of her mind when she arrived at the club, two bouncers nodding politely as she entered. In stark contrast to the one she’d been to this morning the hostess had an easy smile and fancy clothing, her suit clearly tailored to her frame and what she guessed was a blaster hidden on her hip.

Her contact was known here, fortunately, so the hostess beckoned her to follow when she mentioned his name.

Dorka was drinking when she found him, alone and watching a zabrak dancer move on stage. She sat down herself, ordering a drink and admiring the woman for a few seconds. “Not the place I usually do business.”

The mandalorian snorted. “Where would that be? From what my slicer tells me you’ve been a pirate and thief, skilled but inexperienced. Then your records stop abruptly some two years back, vanishing without a trace. When everyone you knew assumed you were dead, you show up linked to a sith, killing kingpins like so much trash and looking to sell mountains of equipment.”

“That was only twenty minutes ago.” She complained goodnaturedly, accepting her drink from another sharply dressed server. “Suppose that’s what I get for not having someone scrub the net after me.”

Dorka waved his hand, his eyes flickering back to the stage briefly. “To be blunt, I shouldn't be here talking to you. You’re dangerous, unpredictable and while Wisi and your boss might be allies, if you’re blind and highly optimistic, we both know it’s war sooner rather than later.”

“Not here on orders from my boss.” She countered lazily. “He cares little what I do in my free time, and after I saw Bert kick you out I figured we might as well talk. No need to get either of our bosses involved, now or later.”

The mandalorian sighed, putting his back to the room to face her properly. “You’d be selling weapons to someone who, by contract, will be forced to fight you. Quite literally supplying the enemy.”

“Oh my sweet mandalorian.” Vette leaned back, tapping her glass. “Wisi truly has no idea who she’s gotten involved with, has she? When my boss tires of her games, or more accurately decides her death will be more convenient after all, no amount of weapons or armour is going to save her. Not unless she has some jedi tucked away, which I doubt.”

She drained her glass, the server appearing with another almost the second she did. “Or maybe she figures those little sith killer droids will save her.”

Dorka didn’t stiffen or otherwise betray his surprise, but Vette had been doing this long enough to know it when she saw it. “Thought so. Those don’t work as well as advertised, I'm afraid.”

“Now how would you even know those exist? And, perhaps more importantly, why would you tell me?” His casual relaxation didn’t change, so much, but he straightened. “Who is he?”

She giggled, enjoying the disturbed look he didn’t quite manage to suppress. “That would be telling. I like you, though, so here I am. Now, you wanna buy some weapons for the very fair and not at all hopeless war you insist is inevitable? Promise they’ll be in working order, straight from the Balmorra factories.”

Dorka haggled well, his eyes dragging back to the stage after they shook hands. “You can come by tomorrow morning to pick them up, I’ll send you the address.”

The man nodded, accepting another drink. “I’d say it be nice working with you, Vette, but I don’t think you’ll be good for my health.”

“Liar.” She snorted. “Mandalorians don’t value their wellbeing.”

She left him behind, the hostess bowing politely at the door. “We have many other accommodations for someone of your means, should you wish to avail yourself now or later. It was a pleasure serving you, ma’am.”

She stalled, throwing a look back to the dancer and feeling heat rise in her stomach. “Tempting, but I think not tonight.”

The hostess bowed again, holding the door open. She saw the zabrak dancer bend, twirling on the pole and flashing her ass to the room with a twirl. ‘I might need to seduce Morgan again, though. For all that he's coming along nicely he has the bad habit of not initiating.’

Walking into his room to find Vette there was becoming an increasingly common occurrence. What was somewhat less usual was to see a suit of armour laying on the couch, a half dozen knives strewn haphazardly on the small table next to it.

“Ah, finally.” Vette walked out of the kitchen, exaggerating the sway of her hips and wearing very little clothing. “I’ve been waiting.”

She was pawing at his belt before he could blink, her breath quickening as she sank to her knees. He snorted, stepping back. “Armour first.”

She looked up, surprise on her face. “What?”

“The armour.” He repeated, amused despite trying to be stern. “Then we’ll see if I can be tempted to play with you.”

Vette whined, her hands stopping. “I’ve been waiting two hours without touching myself. I deserve a reward.”

He bent over, kissing her forehead. “You’ve been a good girl, now be one for a little longer. I won’t repeat myself again.”

“This is unfair.” She protested, rising. “Actually, it’s more unfair that you can’t be driven mad by lust. Cheating.”

Morgan chuckled, kissing her properly while a hand slapped her ass. “If one of us doesn’t display some measure of restraint we’d never get anything done.”

“Don’t tease me if you won’t play properly.” She scowled, interrupted halfway by a moan as her ass jiggled. “Like that.”

He tilted his head. “Now there’s an idea. Go fetch your playbox.”

She narrowed her eyes, not believing he’d changed his mind so quickly but fetching it regardless. Morgan ruffled through it, fishing out a pair of nipple clamps. “Present yourself.”

She jutted out her chest, her hands settling behind her back while her pupils grew large with anticipation. He shook his head, catching a nipple and securing the clamp. She moaned, one hand trying to snake in between her legs.

He swatted it, making her return it to its place with a mumbled apology. He secured the second clamp and lightly tugged on the chain connecting them, her breath growing ragged. “What is the one rule?”

“No touching myself without permission.” She recited quickly, looking half in a trance. “Can I please be a good slut and serve you, sir?”

“Nope.” He denied with a chuckle. “Tell me about the armour.”

She took a half step back in denial, shaking her head. He chuckled again. “The faster you tell me about that armour, to my satisfaction, the faster you can start cumming your brains out.”

Vette glared, turning to the armour and speaking in a rapid, clipped tone. The chain jiggled as she did, catching the light. “Armie’s contact had this in storage, supposedly never worn by the person that ordered it. It needed only minimal resizing, and while sporting two less shields it has thicker armour around the neck and torso. It came with strength enhancements, which I had them take out. You don’t need it and it took away mobility. As you can see it looks mostly the same, if less elegant. The knives are just normal vibro-knives, but I had them put six sheaths on the armour so you won’t run out if you break or lose some.”

Morgan walked next to her, tracing her collarbone. “Continue.”

“That’s it. It’s armour, good armour, but nothing more.” She looked at him, her glare shifting to a pout. “Now please treat me like I deserve?”

His hand lightly gripped her throat, more tracing than choking. Her eyes widened, her hands starting to paw at his pants again. He let her this time, her efforts rewarded when her price finally slipped free. “I haven’t heard a particularly good reason to do so.”

“Because I adore you.” She gasped, his thumb tracing circles on her throat as her hands eagerly started stroking. “Because I’ll kill anyone, do anything, to please you. Tie me up and use me as a cocksleeve, always happy to be fucked. Have me anywhere, anytime, as your free-use pet. Make me crawl and beg, living as your happy, cockdrunk, bitch. Mark me, fuck me, anything.”

He applied a light squeeze, a moan escaping her lips, before stepping back. “That’s pretty convincing. Convince me more.”

Vette sank to her knees, grabbing the box to take out a marker. She put it to her stomach without hesitation, starting to write just above her pussy.

Morgan chuckled as the words “bimbo pet” appeared. Her marker moved on even as she spoke, explaining with conviction. “Being a bimbo pet means I’m always in the mood to be used, never hesitate to obey orders and to love it when someone cums in my worthless holes.”

Her marker drew lines over her tits, the chain connecting the clamps tugging at them lightly. “Pain whore. I love to have my nipples tortured and abused, as a proper slut should. No one should hesitate to twist and grab them, no matter how rough they want to be.”

“Cock addict” joined pain whore on the other side of her chest, her stomach filling with increasingly crude debasements. He stepped closer when she finished “Breath pet”, all but slapping his cock in her face. She almost dropped the marker in her haste to swallow it, moaning appreciatively.

Her free hand grabbed his thigh, pushing herself deeper as spit dripped from her lips and her eyes widened with effort. He picked up a vibrator with the Force, pushing it against her sopping clit.

“Same rules as last time. You make me cum before I do you get a reward, if not, punishment. I’ll even promise not to cheat this time.”

He idly stroked her lekku as her head worked up and down, her moaning only interrupted when his cock was in her throat. He could push her, she’d enjoy it, he knew, but he didn’t see a need.

She was pushing hard enough on her own, spit dripping onto her chest and eyes determined as she fought off her orgasm. He set the vibrator to a higher setting, enjoying the indignation mixed with panic in her eyes. His perception washed through her, finding little but absolute contentment as she buried his cock deeper and deeper. Determination filled her as she barely fought off another peak, her tongue tracing circles around his head when it was able.

She redoubled her efforts when he was close, some instinct telling her she was about to win, so he tugged on the chain hard enough to pop the clamps free. She came with a aggression he found surprising, her eyes briefly rolling upwards as she swallowed his member deeper on instinct.

The long moan sent him over the edge, grabbing her head as she swallowed desperately. She grunted in disappointment as some dripped down her chin, releasing his cock to lick it up before it could fall. “You cheated.”

“No I didn’t. I simply employed an effective strategy to win, is all. Now, about that punishment.”

Hesitation shot through her, making his pause. “Problem?”

She shook her head quickly, swallowing the last of her prize. “No sir. This cunt merely wishes to remind you that she wants to be punished roughly, as she should be when she fails her task.”

“I enjoy some nipple torture as well as the next guy, but whipping you isn’t something I’m in to. Nevermind more extreme forms of inflicting pain.”

Vette stood, abandoning play for the moment as Morgan leaned forward to kiss her. She smiled into it, motioning to the couch. “I get pleasure from doing something that gives you pleasure. Holding me still as you cum is exactly the sort of thing I love, so don’t be afraid to do that more. Sorry, I’ve been enjoying myself so much I forgot you're still new to this.”

She patted the place next to her, Morgan taking a seat and abandoning his clothes in the process. Vette eyed him appreciatively. “You’ve no idea the willpower it takes me to slow down. Anyway, what sort of punishments would you be comfortable with? I’d imagine it’s a shorter list than mine.

“Nothing with extreme pain. Bloodletting is out, just to have said it.” He shook his head. “I don’t really know? I just know what makes my stomach turn, but I can’t really articulate it all that well.”

Vette nodded. “That’s good. As long as we’re talking about it, no master/slave wording or collars. Brings back bad memories, but let me rephrase. What would give you pleasure to do to me that I won't like that much?”

“Right.” He eyed her red nipples, slightly exasperated. “I’m starting to think there’s not much I could do that won’t get you off, honestly.”

She grinned. “That’s because you’re new and surprisingly innocent.”

He stopped, tilting his head curiously. Vette’s grin widened. “You thought of something?”

Morgan floated over handcuffs instead of replying, Vette holding her hands behind her back invitingly. He shook his head. “In front.”

Her hands shifted, clicking together. He used one hand to drag them up, kissing her as she squirmed in her seat. “Up.”

She sprang to her feet, following him eagerly as he walked to the wall behind the couch. Ripping off a lamp left a steel rod, one he bent backwards into the wall. She grinned as he unlocked one of her hands, looping it through the hook and clicking it shut again. It left her standing on the tip of her toes, vulnerable and eager as she spread her legs as much as she could.

The playbox floated over, Morgan picking out a ball gag. Vette opened her mouth obediently, biting it as he secured it tightly behind her head. He traced his fingers past her thighs, making her shiver as he pulled out a smaller vibrator.

She was wet enough it would likely slip out, but its base had a ring to loop a rope through. He bound it to her hips, locking her legs in the process. “There, all ready. Test that for me, would you?”

She wiggled, twisted and jumped but the vibrator stayed put. He nodded, pleased. “Now then, my helpless pet, we’re going to see what setting doesn’t make you cum.”

Morgan ignored the realisation dawning in her eyes, setting the vibrator to four. He cheated liberally with his perception, feeling the eb and flow of her arousal and setting it just high enough to keep her on edge.

Then he walked off, ignoring the muted confusion behind him and starting to make dinner for himself. He took his time, finishing his meal to finally look back at her. Vette’s eyes locked onto his, suspecting they’d never left, and they practically begged him to use her. He looked down instead, her pool of juices making it even harder to keep her footing.

He walked to the table, sitting down to look over some paperwork that Quinn had sent him. The muffled moaning coming from behind him was a pleasant backdrop to work in, he found, and he finished his work almost an hour later. Looking backward he found Vette hanging on miserably, the arousal he felt in her almost unbearably strong.

She could rip herself free easily enough, so he wasn’t fooled. But this was punishment, so she would endure. Morgan found he was finally starting to understand this whole dom/sub thing properly, past what active sex would normally entail.

Morgan walked over, taking the gag out. “Tell me, pet, did we learn our lesson?”

“Yes sir.” She nodded quickly. “I’ll be a good slut and follow orders, sir.”

“Give me a reason to give you what you crave.”

Vette opened her mouth, closing it again without saying anything. She looked him in the eye, sincerity etched into her face. “Everything I am is already yours to do with as you will. If you wish me to hang here all night, I will obey. If you want to reward me, I will worship you, and obey.”

‘Now that is a damn good answer.’

He gently pulled out the vibrator, unbending the bar keeping her trapped and carrying her to the bed. “That is a very good answer. So good, in fact, I’ll let you ask for your own reward.”

She fell on the bed face first, pushing her ass in the air while keeping her head low and arching her back in the process. “Fuck me, please?”

The neediness was different, somehow, but he grabbed her hips without mentioning it. She moaned low as he fucked her, cumming quickly and not really stopping. His hand kept her in place, setting a steady rhythm as she moaned and spasmed on his cock.

Vette sighted contently as he came, collapsing in a heap on the bed. He walked around, her mouth opening slowly and cleaning him off as he played with one of her lekku. “You’re a very good girl, Vette. My very good girl.”

 It was during breakfast that she spoke again, having fallen asleep not soon after cleaning him off. The bed had a very strong smell of sex to it, not that he minded, but after a shower she looked good as new. “That was cruel, tiring and extraordinarily frustrating.”

“So an effective punishment, then.”

She nodded happily, kissing him on the cheek before sitting down. “Exactly. Haven’t been that deep in subspace for years. Falling asleep immediately after hasn’t happened ever, so yes, very good punishment.”

He snorted. “Glad you enjoyed yourself. I miscalculated, so it took me an hour or so to find sleep myself.”

Vette tilted her head, not getting it, but he shook his head dismissively. She shrugged, taking a sip of water before her eyes widened. “You can increase hormone production. You increased it thinking we were going to go ten rounds again, but I fell asleep after two.”

He startled when she dove under the table, finding a twi’lek settled between his legs in short order. “That’s unforgivable. My pride as a submissive cumslut simply won’t allow you to fall asleep without being properly satisfied. Next time, though Goddess hear me there won’t be one, wake me up.”

Morgan nodded on instinct, taken off guard, as she freed his cock and adored it with kisses. She got impatient almost immediately, preferring it deep in her throat and acting on that desire. She found herself swallowing in short order, no trace of cum escaping her this time.

“I’m not regulating anything, for your information, but then I don’t think you want me to.”

He felt her nod, her throat bulging as she edged the line between her consciousness and her desire to swallow deeper.

Most of his brain was content to enjoy breakfast, the smaller part wondering if this was God's apology for dying young. She was swallowing again when he got to his eggs, not bothering to slow down after.

It was after breakfast was over that she finally climbed out from under the table, looking satisfied with cum dripping down her face. “There. I’ll have to brush my teeth again, but that’s better.”

“You can skip your eggs, that should compensate for the lost time.”

She grinned, skipping to the bathroom again while he shook his head. God's apology indeed.

It was an hour later that he found himself walking the spaceport of Nar Shaddaa, stretching his legs. Vette had gone off to do ‘crime stuff’, her words, so he was taking his walk alone.

Morgan blinked, ducking into a small cantina built into the walls when he felt a familiar signature standing behind the counter. John waved, cleaning some cups and nodding to one of the few seats. “You got a job. Or a second one, stalking me seemingly your main purpose in life.”

John shrugged, his hands keeping busy as he looked around the empty space and ignoring his sarcasm. “Temporarily. How was your flight?”

“Better than yours, I imagine.” Morgan sat, accepting a sweet tasting drink. “I don’t suppose I have to catch you up on anything?”

“You mean about working for Wisi, killing a Lord’s apprentice and securing neutrality from the hutt’s? Consider me caught up.”

Morgan nodded. “Good. I could use some advice, actually.”

“Kegel exercises.” John supplied. “Works wonders.”

“Not even remotely what I was going to ask, and I’m doing fine in that area, thank you very much. It’s about Wisi. In your professional opinion, should I kill her or not?”

John kept silent, serving some sliced fruit that tasted bitter. He only answered after some time, motioning to the exit. “This is Nar Shaddaa. To say the hutt’s are in control here would be an understatement, and Wisi very much belongs to the cartels. Killing her would, by precedent and law, start a war.”

He put the glasses away, leaning on the counter. “That said, she’s losing her grip. The hutt’s are firm believers that the strong rule, and that belief is ingrained so deeply in their culture it applies even to other hutt’s. Do you know how they first rose to claim what is now known as hutt space?”

“They came to power fairly soon after the Infinite Empire collapsed, expanding their territory on the back of slave-armies. They ruled much of the galaxy as the dominant government of the time, but I’ve no idea how long they existed until they formed their empire.”

John nodded, looking faintly surprised. “Indeed. It should be noted that hutt space existed even before the rakata collapse, and they came to galactic power only after. Nevertheless, their species is highly intelligent, although notable outliers do exist, and can live for over a millennium. Killing a hutt ensures grudges that can last just as long, assuming they don’t use their extreme wealth to kill you first.”

“I’m not hearing a recommendation.”

“Then you aren’t listening.” John tapped the counter. “Hutt’s that lose their power are no hutt’s at all, and will not be avenged.”

Morgan tilted his head. “Rob her, then kill her?”

“I assumed that was already the plan, especially with how Vette’s been going after her people.” The man shrugged. “But yes. Take everything, and the cartels won’t lift a finger to help when you shove a lightsaber through her neck.”

Chapter Text

Captain Malavai Quinn walked into the personal office of the Aurora’s captain, having to hide some exasperation when he caught Kala rapidly shoving something in her desk drawer. “Ma’am.”

“Quinn, come in. Please, we hold practically the same rank. Kala will do.”

He nodded, knowing it would be fruitless to argue military protocol with someone that had spent most of her career on the fringes of known space. “I have the field reports from yesterday, should you wish to read them over.”

Kala nodded, accepting the datapad and setting it aside on her crowded desk. She leaned on what little free space was left, looking at him with naked curiosity. “I’ve been meaning to ask, is it true Vette and Morgan are sleeping together? One of my crewmen heard some interesting noises last night.”

“I prefer not to gossip about our Lord's personal relationships.” He emphasised our, Kala winching. “But it would be safe to consider Vette outside our chain of command.”

Kala waved her hands rapidly, shaking her head. “Of course, of course. Thank you for bringing these, I’ll be sure to look them over.”

He made no move to leave, an awkward silence descending over the room. “Uhhm, was there something else I can help you with?”

“I have begun to fear that this assignment might not be as exciting as your last.” Quinn said. “I hope it is not a disappointment, docked as we are for the next few weeks.”

Kala blinked. “Are you kidding me? This ship is amazing, its crew is just starting to come together and we’ve finally ironed out the issues with Bealc’s dismissal. Running emergency drills is a lot easier while docked, speaking from experience here, and that’s not mentioning how great it is to be working for a sith.”

She shoved a datapad his way, Quinn looking it over briefly. “Supply requisitions?”

“I didn’t even have to bribe anyone.” Kala gloated. “They took one look at my assigned post and opened their stores wide. Food, oxygen and water are fully stocked, with heavy munitions and secondary equipment to arrive over the next few days.”

Quinn's mind backtracked, the conversation deviating from where he’d been leading it. “Emergency drills?”

“I’ve been scheduling them when you and the boys are away, escorting the sith and such.” She dismissed. “Morgan seems reasonable, but I’m in no hurry to find out if I’m wrong. Blaring alarms in his face seems like a good way to annoy him, honestly.”

“I’d like me and the men to participate.” Quinn leaned forward, lowering his tone. “And I’ve found it best to do what you think is necessary when it comes to military matters. As long as you have a good reason he doesn’t mind, and he has us to advise him on military matters in the first place.”

Kala smiled, badly hiding her relief. “Good, good. Happy to hear Vette wasn’t lying to Clara.”

Quinn hesitated, looking back to the door. “Give us some privacy?”

A button was pressed and the door locked, Kala tilting her head slightly. “This about the rumours?”

“Rumours? No.” He shook his head, confused. “What rumours?”

“Oh. Ah, well. It’s been going around the ship that Morgan killed someone named Girik, who, also according to rumour, has been terrifying Nar Shaddaa for months. They say he beat him like an errant boy and lectured him on proper technique, or something. It was a bit outside my area of expertise.”

Quinn frowned. “I’ll talk with the men. They have this bad habit of, doesn’t matter. Won’t happen again.”

“None of that.” She scolded, fascination on her face. “You were there, right? You won’t believe how hard it is to get an accurate recounting of sith combat.”

He sighed. “I had specialist Horas plant a bug on one of the enforcers, give us an ear inside. When the enforcers didn’t accompany them all the way I thought it was a bust, but apparently they listened at the door.”

“And.” Kala leaned forward so far her chair creaked, seeming not to care about her precarious balance. “What happened?”

“Sith combat happened.” He explained dryly. “It’s lots of red colours, people moving so fast you can barely keep track of them and then someone is dead on the floor, usually with a few limbs missing. But yes, apparently our Lord scolded the sith for rudeness, lectured him on sloppy technique and then cut his head in two.”

Kala leaned back, morbid curiosity on her face. “Not to be a groupie or anything, but do you think he’d let me touch it?”

“Vette will snap your neck.”

She blinked, not getting the joke. Quinn already regretted making it, but she turned red before he could move the conversation forward.

“Not that! His lightsaber. Oh, nevermind. It’s a wonder I got this post in the first place, especially with how many applied.”

Quinn cleared his throat, Kala tensing. “What?”

“About your assignment. You should be aware that some mentioned the position should have gone to, and I’m paraphrasing here, a proper human candidate.”

She snorted, waving a hand. “I’m no stranger to racist subordinates. My officers are solid, the rest will fall in line.”

“Not them.” He swiped on his datapad, showing several emails he’d gotten over the past few days. “High command. I’ve spoken to some old friends, long story, and it seems they’ve been regulating your career with greater care than most.”

Kala read them over, finding excerpts timestamped to the start of her career. “What is this?”

He didn't answer, her eyes growing narrower as she kept reading. “They said my assignment was needed. That the pirate threat was getting out of hand. This says it’s a two year special exercise, to evaluate my independent command.”

“And you have done extraordinary work there.” He assured. “It seems in their effort to keep you down they’ve given you more combat experience than half the fleet, not counting some of the old hands from the first war. You’ve flourished, if anything.”

“But.” She swallowed, confusion on her face. “I signed up to serve the Empire. Passed all my classes, highest scores my instructor had seen in decades. Fought for them. I knew some didn't like a Rattataki leading ships, we’re too violent, whatever, but I was born in Imperial space. I grew up on Dromund Kaas, for god's sake!”

Quinn shrugged helplessly. “I don’t like it, no sense in limiting capable officers because of race, but it's also their heavy handedness that saved your career. Some wanted you gone from the fleet completely, but isolation coupled with your high performance had some more open minded admirals interested. I’m not privy to what politics went on behind closed doors, of course, but it seems they decided to mostly leave you be.”

“I didn’t think it went that far up.” She whispered, letting the datapad half clatter to the desk. “How did I get this post, then, if they wanted me somewhere far away? Or why was I even admitted into the academy in the first place?”

“You sent your application directly to me.” He said. “And I was recruiting directly for a sith, one who is apprenticed to a Darth. The Dark Council would have them all hanged if they intervened with a sith’s business, especially a connected one.”

“I. I don’t know what to think.”

Quinn nodded at that. “Your exemplary record speaks for itself. I would like to think someone saw to it you were accepted into the academy, but it is just as likely they needed the bodies. Even Korriban is relaxing its policies.”

He stood when Kala didn’t answer, staring at her desk unblinkingly. ‘She’s friends with her xo, right?’

Quinn sent for her, then went to see about those rumours. Well intentioned or no, information like that shouldn't be gossiped about. It kept him busy, his men annoyingly resistant when he ordered them to stop spreading the good word of Morgan.

As such, he didn’t know that Clara all but dropped her coffee to go see Kala. He didn’t hear how the captain nearly destroyed half her office, or how she’d broken down in tears when the wrath left. He had no idea that Clara spent the better part of an hour whispering that her life’s purpose had not been a lie, her friend staring blankly at the wall. That she’d gotten to where she had on her own merits, despite their meddling.

But he did know that showing her that information, even if he’d been sure she already knew, would result in cracks to her loyalty to the Empire. Knew that expecting, even experiencing, racism was different than being shown proof they tampered with her whole career.

It went against his mission for Baras. Not explicitly, not technically, but it did. It went against his whole purpose here, in fact. His orders were to observe and report, nothing more.

‘So why, then?’

He didn’t know, couldn't answer that question if someone would ask.

He just had, because it felt like the right thing to do. Because it felt proper, like his father had always said a soldier should act.

Because it was the right thing to do, and acting on that impulse had him feeling better than he had in years.

Leaving Morgan to his walk, a habit she found strange but accepted, found Vette on the prowl.

Alright, so maybe she was walking too. But unlike her wandering boyfriend, a term that didn’t seem quite right but she had no alternative for, she had a purpose. A purpose that took her to one of Nar Shaddaa’s many black market hospitals, ducking past rows of desperate people to knock on the metal door.

“We’re not admitting new patients.” A bored voice called. “It’s on the sign.”

Vette had seen and ignored the sign, knocking again. An irritated man opened the door, his eyes growing wide as he took in her appearance. “Might be best to install a camera, good man. Who knows who you're letting inside?”

She pushed inside, the man hastily stepping back as she started stalking through the establishment. She wasn’t here for just anyone, but then again she hadn’t been given a room number either. Barging in a few wrong rooms was inevitable, but she soon found what she came here for.

“Who are you? Are you a friend of my granddaughter?” Vette smiled at the elderly woman, walking closer and patting her down for weapons. She found none, but she wasn’t in the habit of being sloppy.

“Not really, no. I do wish to talk to her, but rest assured I mean her no harm.” She raised her voice, the cramped but comfortable room forcing her to remain standing. “I just want to talk, maybe offer you some work.”

She waited as no reply came, wondering if she was making a fool of herself for nothing, until a screen clicked on. She smiled. “Hello there. I’m Vette.”

“I know.” The speaker's voice was distorted, the screen showing nothing but a blank red screen. “How did you find her?”

Vette handed the old woman some water, turning back to the screen. “You might be a good slicer, Miraka, but I’m a good hunter. Even on Nar Shaddaa not everything can be hidden with tech, no matter how good you are.”

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

“I went through the records of the hospitals, looking at admission dates coinciding with your grandmother's sickness. You forged those, of course, but you can’t forge memories. Bribing a few overworked and underpaid nurses pointed me in the right direction.”

The screen flickered, the red disappearing to reveal a teenage girl blanched white. “You’re with the sith. Fuck me, what do you want?”

“Already tracked that far back, did you? Well, that’s pretty much what I want from you. Scrubbing cameras, find what I want to be found, you know the drill.”

“And if I don’t?”

Vette shrugged. “Then I’ll leave, you won’t hear from me again, and you best hope the next person to find your weakness is as nice as I am.”

Miraka wavered, looking at her grandmother and back to Vette again. “I’m doing fine on my own.”

“Are you?” She looked around, snorting at the sad plant dying in the fake window. “It’s a nice room, I’ll grant. How many gangs, syndicates and cartels have you stolen from to afford it? More or less than twenty, I forget.”

The face frowned, stubbornness set in her chin. “They haven’t found her yet, nor me. I don’t need your money, and I want nothing to do with pure evil.”

“There’s no such thing as pure evil.” The old woman chided, waving her finger at the screen. Miraka cringed back. “Not even for sith. There are bad people, and they can do bad things, but condemning people to evil is a blindfold to make yourself feel better. What’s this about stealing?”

“Nana, let me handle this.” The girl complained. “I can deal with her on my own.”

The woman tisked, sitting straighter. “Stealing from cartels, only the young, I swear. What has my foolish granddaughter gotten herself into?”

Vette shrugged, smiling as the girl sputtered. “Nothing major yet. Syphoning schemes and such, but sooner or later they’ll catch her. I’d like her to work for me, so that talent can be put to better use.”

“You work for the sith?”

“A sith.” She corrected. “But Miraka would be working for me. Good pay and protection, a crew to run with, hell, I’ll even throw in dental.”

“A crew of one.” Miraka muttered, eyes flickering somewhere offscreen. Vette grinned. “For now, perhaps.”

Nana frowned, looking between them. “What would she be doing?”

“Nothing that would put her in danger.” Vette assured. “Remote slicing, data scrubbing. I need someone of her skillset, she needs a crew.”

“She’ll do it.” Nana answered, ignoring the girl again. “The cartels won’t be asking nicely, young lady. You need a job. A proper one!”

Vette put a hand on the woman’s shoulder, turning to the girl. “While she’s arguing in my favour, I stress that this decision is yours and yours alone.”

Miraka leaned in her chair, Vette catching a scar peeking from under her shirt. She sighed dramatically. “I suppose you have some sort of test for me.”

Three one thousand chits clattered on the bed, Vette leaning over them. “My, do I ever. Find me some scavenger crews that are employed by Wisi, but haven’t had much work lately. Get me their contact info, general info sheets and threat assessments and the money’s yours.”

“Easy.” The screen changed, a console appearing in its place. The hutt’s picture briefly appeared before a list of crews flashed by. Six highlighted, the rest disappearing from view.

Vette snorted. “Of course you’ve already tapped into her systems. Give me crew one and five.” The list changed again, pictures and small information blurbs scrolling by. “Send me their info, I assume you already have my contacts.”

Her datapad chimed, making her clap her hands. “Perfect. Be seeing you around, Miraka.”

“Wait, what?” The teenager’s eyes snapped into view. “That’s it? I have questions.”

Vette stalled, turning back. “Yes?”

“Why is your, Lord? Weird title. Why is your Lord’s past erased?”

She narrowed her eyes, the girl flinching back slightly by what she saw in them. “I understand that as a slicer you have a habit of poking your nose in people's business. Don’t. Not with him.”

Miraka hesitated, nodding. “Good. Welcome to the team.”

Vette used the location data to track the scavenger crews directly, both residing down low. Low enough the district boundaries started to blend, its official names rarely used. Low enough her armour alone made her queen of the ground she walked on, people less getting out of her way than sprinting.

The crews themselves, Holidas Reclaimed and The Red Scavengers, lived and entertained themselves in different circles, but they were close enough. One of the reasons she’d picked them out, in fact.

Going after Wisi’s crews was, technically, a declaration of war. Of course, if said crews were out of work, and didn’t go tattling, Wisi wouldn't notice for days. Weeks if she was lucky, but luck was a shitty thing to plan a war around.

And war it would be. Not with ships and soldiers, but money and enforcers. Information and spies. Theft of contracts and business, blackmail material and evidence.

But for now she sat in a shitty cantina and drank a barely not poisonous drink, waiting for her marks to finish what work they had. Shouldn't take long, as per Miraka’s information they were just salvaging some old factory. One that had already been scavenged, leaving just the scraps of scraps for the Red Scavenger.

Five rough, dirty men finally walked in, grumbling to themselves and ordering something that wasn’t on the menu. She walked up, throwing a few hundred credits to the owner. “Drinks on me.”

Her offer was met with scepticism, but few working men turned down free drinks from a pretty twi’lek. She’d always been able to use her looks to get what she wanted, although these days she had plenty of alternatives and saw little need for it.

Money was her go to these last few hours, a thing that could make up for almost all other defects. One of the men, likely their leader, grunted. “Don’t expect thanks. With armour like that you're not here to drink, so you want something from us specifically.”

Vette nodded, sliding into the booth. The man that was already there was forced to make space, his eyes widening as she shoved him aside with ease. “I have a business proposition, as it happens.”

Her display of strength made the man tense, but none of them tried something. “We already have work. Work for someone you don’t want to make an enemy of.”

“Oh, but that’s exactly what I want, Harrold.” She leaned on the table, her elbows claiming space. “I want to burn Wisi’s little kingdom to the ground, take everything she has and actually accomplish something with her resources.”

“Why would we give up easy work?” The man next to Harrold, a duros, asked with a snort. “We get paid the same, working ten hours or four.”

Harrold winced, shooting the duros a glare. “Don’t go flapping your mouth.”

“Easy work now, perhaps.” She countered. “But we both know less work for the same pay is bad news, especially for a hutt.”

“Means they don’t have work for us, but don’t want to lose status.” Harrold sighed. “Yes, I know. I don’t see how getting stabbed in the neck while we sleep will improve our situation any.”

Vette grinned, a smile full of teeth. She threw another four thousand credits on the table, the men eyeing the money nervously. “Because soon Wisi will be far too busy to think about you at all. Your choice. Sign on with me, get some actual work with good pay, or enjoy the next few weeks until she's dead.”

She sent them an address to contact, standing and scooping the credits back. “Up to you, but we both know which way the wind is blowing. Enjoy your free drinks.”

Her comms pinged when she left the room, Miraka’s voice leaving the speaker. “What’s this about going to war with a hutt? Don’t believe I signed up for that.”

“You signed up to work for me. Not like I expect you to pick up a blaster, nor would Wisi be all that forgiving if she discovered you’ve been syphoning her money.”

Miraka grumbled, switching the subject after complaining for a few more breaths. “The Holidas Reclaimed just walked into some sort of club. Sending you directions now, and by the way you had no less than five algorithms keeping track of you. Took care of those, you’re welcome.”

“Only five?” Vette grinned. “Either I haven’t been trying or you missed some.”

Silence was her answer, stepping into what passed for a taxi this low on Nar Shaddaa.

Hours later found her reclined in a massage parlour, a droid working to destress her shoulders. Miraka popped up on the only screen of the shop, peering down at her. “Harrold just signed up, as did Greate. Send them the wrecks you had me find, but I’m not in the mood to be your assistant.”

Vette grinned, wiggling her toes. “It’s been a good day, don’t spoil it with teenage angst.”

“For you, maybe.” Her slicer scowled. “This work is boring.”

“Give us some privacy.”

The droids shut down, the door locking and lights shutting off. “Good. You want something challenging? Find a way to get access to Wisi’s accounts. All of them.”

Miraka gaped at her. “What?”

“Her accounts.” She repeated. “Every bank, every digital scrap of monetary value she has. Prepare, mind you. Don’t pull the trigger until I say so.”

“That.” The screen flickered, Miraka facing her properly. “That’s impossible.”

“Always is, right up until it’s done. If you can’t do it, I understand. It’s rather tricky to rob the hutts, even one on the backfoot such as Wisi.”

The screen shut off with an angry scowl, making her grin. “Good. Remember, not until I give the order.”

The droid resumed, the lights flickering back on. Vette reclined further, sighing contently.

“Et donc eyima go merrily ael chee.”

It was evening by the time Morgan returned to their room, his body slowly recovering from an afternoon of training with Alyssa and Inara. Training to unravel technique’s was an ongoing project, and he could only semi-reliably do so against a single opponent. Fighting two handicapped him sufficiently they won more often than not, the bruises and shallow breaks proof to that.

Still, he was improving. So were his training partners, which should please Soft Voice. He found Vette already inside, hanging from the ceiling.

She completed her pullup, dropping down to kiss him. He smiled, leaning into it and wrapping her into a hug.

Vette squeezed back, two still healing bones snapping again. She flinched back, looking him over. “Sorry, sorry. You alright?”

“My fault.” He shook his head fondly. “They were still setting. Had a good day?”

She looked him over critically, nodding. “Was alright. Plans progressing, you know how it is. Are you sure you’re alright?”

“Fine.” He sat down, Vette sitting down next to him some distance away. He narrowed his eyes. “I’m not made of glass.”

She shot him a guilty look, scooting over. He sent a pulse through himself, distracted by finding Vette echoing more than she should. “We need to tune up again.”

Vette settled lightly, shrugging. “Sure. It takes you, what, five minutes these days?”

He closed his eyes, wrapping his attention around her. He could feel her shiver, opening his eyes in surprise. “You alright?”

Her eyes were locked on his face with an intensity he hadn’t seen before, nodding. “It’s fine.”

“Please don’t stare like that.” He admonished. “It’s unsettling.”

“Don’t make me feel like this, then.”

He got to work, ignoring the less than helpful advice and shoring up her Force nullification. It was routine by now, and he ignored the various ideas that popped into his head as he worked. Moving on to her enhanced strength had his attention nearly broken when he felt hot breath on his face, struggling to get back into the right mindset.

He finished some minutes later, opening his eyes to find her mere inches from his face. “What, exactly, are you doing?”

“Watching. I’ll calm down now.”

“Please.” Morgan slumped to the couch, his last strength leaving him. “Is it really that strange for you?”

Vette shivered, her eyes tracking him. “Like being wrapped into a soft, warm blanket that comforts and restricts and protects. A feeling telling me it’s safe now, to relax and be happy. It’s been getting stronger, too.”

“Probably because I’ve been getting stronger.” He admitted. “Daily sparring with Alyssa and Inara is helping, as is time.”

He watched her calm down, laying her head on his lap and curling up. “How come I can feel you again, anyway? Force nullification used to just block everything.”

“Teacher fixed it. An entertaining challenge, he said. Didn’t even take him three weeks.”

“Hmmm. What went wrong, before?”

He tensed, something that did nothing to dismiss her curiosity. “Something important?”

“Not wrong.” He assured. “Just. I’m figuring something out, and it scares me.”

She turned, looking up. “What?”

“I’ve been getting this feeling I could make your strengthening permanent. Or last for years, at least.”

“Oh.” She watched him. “That’s not small, is it?”

“No. Something to do with my particular interaction with the Force, but I haven’t talked with Teacher about it. I’m in no hurry to find out what Baras would do, should he discover I could make him an army of super soldiers.”

She narrowed her eyes, clutching him possessively. “He doesn’t get to take you. Not from me.”

He bent low, kissing her lekku. “Nor do I want him to. But what I can do now doesn’t begin to come close. Even if I spend all my time enforcing soldiers it’s gone in a week, enough for maybe a couple thousand, assuming I don’t sleep. If it’s permanent, though?”

“Yea.” She squirmed. “So we don’t tell anyone. Not now and maybe not ever. Not worth the risk.”

“I agree. To contradict myself immediately, it’s too great a force multiplier to let lie completely. I was thinking of strengthening the men that were with us on Balmorra, for example. The non-permanent one, of course. Nar Shaddaa is dangerous, more so if we go up against a hutt and sith Lord at the same time. Baras hasn’t done anything drastic when I enforced you, so he shouldn't freak out when I do the same for some men.”

Vette hummed, settling down. “I don’t know. Quinn seems solid, and his men do too, but maybe I don’t like not being special anymore.”

“You’re always special.” He said dryly, feeling her worry settle. He withdrew, scolding himself for the breach of privacy. “And it wouldn't be the same. Not like I spend my nights cuddling with them.”

She shot him a teasing look. “I’m sure some wouldn't mind. Jillins would do pretty much anything for you, your brainwashing spectacularly effective as always.”

“Not brainwashing.” He denied tiredly. “Therapy. Brainwashing assumes I wanted something in return.”

Her head tucked under his chin, nuzzling. “That’s why I called it effective brainwashing.”

By morning his body was healed, the last small bruises vanishing with breakfast. His reserves were full, his new armour was on and his knives were strapped tightly. He looked dressed for war, which means all he was going to do was talk to a slaver.

Last time he’d ordered three people killed, admittedly.

Halidrell was in the same place as before, lounging in her slave brothel and reading some reports. He was alone this time, something that made travel significantly faster, and so was she.

“Word spread through the streets that Rathari’s conference with the hutt’s was invaded and his apprentice killed.” She greeted, raising her drink. “And the hutt’s aren’t saying who did it. The Empire’s alliance is intact and Rathari is provoked. An excellent job.”

Morgan sat, waving away the slave coming to serve him a drink. “This won’t take long. Status report on Rathari’s actions and whereabouts.”

The woman bowed her head, waving her hand to clear the room. “Rathari is on the verge of taking over the Republic's base of operations in the upper industrial sites. With his cartel angle blocked he is sure to pour himself into eliminating the garrison there.”

“I suppose that will be my next angle, then.” He stood. “Anything else?”

“You don’t like me much, do you? Even if he is not there, he will come for you if all his operations are thwarted.”

He looked back, flooding his attention through the room. Halidrell stiffened, her drink slipping out of her hands. “Don’t presume to tell me who I can and cannot like.”

She nodded shakily, displaying fear for the first time since meeting him. Morgan found it strangely satisfying.

Vette was lounging outside, raising her eyebrow at his mood. How she was able to read his expression when he was wearing a helmet he’d never know. “Bad meeting? I stalked you here when you abandoned me in bed, in case you were curious.”

“You looked too adorable to disturb.” His mood lightened, Vette falling in step with him. “And any meeting with slavers is a bad one. Good news, though. We’re going to war with a sith Lord.”

“I thought we already were?”

“More at war, then.” He shrugged. “Call Quinn?”

Vette disappeared behind her helmet. “I’ll do you one better. Miraka, get me an update on Rathari’s location.”

He waved his hand, stepping into his interceptor and ordering the pilot to bring them back to the Aurora. When they were halfway there his display flickered, a video of Rathari’s men attacking the Republic outpost filling his vision. Vette piped up, shaking her head. “It seems my slicer is feeling shy. Anyway, Rathari’s not there. His men are commanded by one general Kligton, and according to the report I’m reading he’s rather brash.”

Morgan nodded, getting in some light camouflage practice as they boarded the ship. Quinn and his men were standing at attention when the door opened. “Get in, we’ll brief you on route. Where are Alyssa and Inara?”

The soldiers piled in, the small fury class ship suddenly feeling cramped. “They could not be found on short notice.”

He shrugged, turning to the cockpit. “Very well. With me.”

Vette was waiting for them, waving briefly at Quinn. The man nodded back, ever the professional. “So, good news and bad. The good news is that Rathari isn’t currently hacking apart a Republic garrison and starting a war. The bad news is that he ordered his general to do it in his stead, and that’ll probably still start a war.”

“But that’s not why we're going there.” Quinn stated. “You want to kill the man, weaken Rathari’s support.”

Morgan shrugged. “Kind of. Not his men, mind you, so we’ll be going in non-lethal. Vette?”

She nodded, general Kligton’s file popping up on the holo display. Quinn frowned. “You shouldn’t have been able to get that.”

“I’m paraphrasing here, but,” she tilted her head as if listening to someone, “even the best security relies on people not being fucking stupid. Make of that what you will.”

“Anyway.” Morgan interrupted. “Kligton is a Rathari loyalist, seeing as the man owes his career to the sith. It wouldn't surprise me if he starts something, on orders or not, but until then non-lethal only. We’re here to prevent open war, and that means having Kligton stand down.”

Quinn nodded, clearly still not all that happy, and turned to the intercom. “Attention. We will soon be entering the upper industrial district, known for housing many Republic corporations and sympathisers. Any Imperial personnel is to be treated as compromised, but any violence against them will be non-lethal only.”

Morgan turned to look out the window, his lips quirking as the pilot tried his hardest not to react. “Eta?”

“Five minutes, sir.” The pilot responded briskly. “Closest landing site is three clicks away from the target.”

He nodded. “Very good.”

The interceptor touched down, Quinn’s men lining up with sure steps. Vette was lounging as he walked in front of them, spines straightening. “Do not fire unless fired upon, and do not kill any Imperial soldiers. Non-lethal is the name of the game. Unless under direct orders from me or your captain you are not to engage unprovoked.”

Twenty soldiers saluted, Quinn and his lieutenant taking over as he walked to Vette. She waved, holding up a finger. “Then find more. Keep those crews busy, and make sure to impress upon them the idiocy of trying to steal from me.”

“Problem?”

“Nothing I can’t deal with.” She dismissed. “Just some of my people testing boundaries.”

He raised an eyebrow, the gesture lost under his helmet. “You have people now?”

“I did say I was going to take over a syndicate.” She tilted her head. “What did you think that entailed?”

“Can’t say I know how to take over a cartel. Figured it'd take you more than two days, honestly.”

Vette shrugged. “It will. Let’s go bully some general, yes?”

He turned to see Quinn waiting, pretending to go over some last minute things with Helen. “Right.”

Much like the last two times he took an armed escort into one of the districts, he faced no resistance. As the gangs before them the private security forces of the various corporations melted out of their way without issue, none wishing to engage Imperial soldiers. Morgan was happy to let them scurry off, likely to report their presence or not.

The Republic garrison Kligton was besieging, unsurprisingly, had been built into an old factory. It was well fortified, but devoid of any soldiers wearing Republic colours. When they approached men blocked their path, although they boasted only half their number.

Morgan stepped forward, not particularly wishing to start the fight just yet.

Their captain mirrored him, holding up his hand. “Halt. This is a restricted military operation, even for other Imperial elements.”

Vette laughed. “We’re with a sith, little soldier. Step aside.”

“Irrelevant.” The man looked at him, tensing when he saw the lightsaber. He didn’t step aside. “This area is restricted under orders of Lord Rathari himself.”

Morgan stepped closer, flooding his presence outwards. “I am sith, and I have business with general Kligton. Move aside. ”

The captain took a stuttering step back, bowing his head. “My lord. I. I cannot let anyone inside.”

“You have been given a direct order, soldier.” Quinn barked. The captain’s men were looking distinctly nervous now, Quinn gaze sweeping over them. “Disperse.”

Half of them saluted, taking the out Quinn had provided. The captain looked back, finding only three of his men remaining.

Morgan put a hand to his shoulders, fear flooding the man whole. He lowered his tone. “Go home, captain. This is between sith, and no man needs die today because of that.”

The man hesitated for a long moment, long enough Morgan thought he’d have a fight on his hands regardless, but finally saluted and backed away. Morgan waved his own men forwards, what few soldiers standing deeper inside the facility letting them pass. Quinn frowned, finding none higher than a corporal. “Something isn’t right. Too few officers, too many fresh faces.”

Vette nodded, flipping a knife as if bored. Morgan knew better. “Speaks to high levels of attrition, that does.”

“And negligent officers.” Quinn added coldly. “More experienced soldiers should have been reassigned, assuming squad level command and ensuring army cohesion.”

Walking through hallways and abandoned choke points finally brought them to the main force, the general standing a safe distance away surrounded by his officers. Morgan counted only two, not finding anyone higher than lieutenants actually commanding the assault on the front-lines.

Kligton turned to him, scowling. “What is the meaning of this? These soldiers are under my command, and I answer directly to a Lord of the sith.”

“You.” Morgan stepped close, the general holding his ground. “Are starting a war. Call off the assault.”

“Ha. Lord Rathari has been given authority over Nar Shaddaa by the Dark Council itself. That extends to me, so I will not be ordered around by some apprentice.”

Vette whispered something to Quinn over comms, the man nodding. Morgan crossed his arms. “Where is Lord Rathari?”

The general sniffed, half turning away. Quinn’s men were spreading around, Kligton’s officers eyeing them nervously and turning to the general's bodyguards. “You shouldn't have come, sith. Lord Rathari has given clear instruction to destroy you should you intervene.”

Morgan pushed his presence out, the general snapping back to look at him. The man’s bodyguard tensed as they were surrounded, looking at their officers in half panic. “That sounded like a threat, general. You have one chance to retract it.”

Tasting the man revealed little in the way of fear, confidence bordering on arrogance built in his very foundations. “Very well, then. Men, full attack!”

Quinn’s signal flashed on his display, twenty flashes of light heralding the dropping bodies of Kligton’s officers and bodyguards. Three dodged, Vette knocking them out the old fashioned way before they could regroup.

Morgan, meanwhile, slapped the pistol out of the general's hands and broke his knee.

Kligton dropped with a scream, some hundred soldiers turning to look from the front lines. Most turned away quickly, deciding a sith’s business was not theirs in the slightest.

Quinn pounced on their hesitation, barking for an orderly retreat. Lieutenant Helen added her voice to it, the mass of men slowly disengaging the enemy. Quinn stalked forwards to speak with their lieutenants, Vette squatting to look at the general.

“Ordering the death of a sith that’s standing two feet away. I can’t quite decide if that’s the bravest or stupidest thing I’ve ever seen.”

Morgan shook his head. “I suppose he normally has his officers deal with the small things like risk assessment. It’s more than that, though. He honestly believed I wouldn't hurt him. He was so sure of it, so confident.”

“We need him?” Morgan shook his head, a knife being buried in his chest a moment later. Vette stood, wiping it clean.

Quinn had rounded up Kligton’s troops, sending off the gathered lieutenants and coming to stand with them. Morgan nodded to the marching column. “I feel that went a little too well, and won’t the Republic counter-attack?”

“Their garrison is all but decimated.” The captain shook his head, looking at the dead general. “And most of our men are fresh recruits. It’s depressingly normal for sith to take over command mid battle, so most didn’t question it.”

Vette nudged the unconscious officers, left behind by their peers. “What do we do with them?”

“Our men?” Morgan parroted. “You have something in mind, captain?”

Quinn shrugged, looking as the soldiers marched away. “We’re still short of a proper complement of soldiers. It’ll take days before those men are reassigned, assuming Lord Rathari even remembers them. Thought I might take a look, see who’d be a good fit.”

“Leave them for the Republic soldiers to find.” Morgan told her, turning back to Quinn. “Use your best judgement, but do keep the budget in mind.”

It was some time before they got back to their own ship, having to make sure the mass of mostly leaderless soldiers made their way home. It went smoother than expected, what lieutenants they still had more than eager to leave. Some even saluted as he passed, though they were in the minority.

Morgan watched Nar Shaddaa shrink underneath him, feeling Vette stretch. “All in a day's work. Wanna grab a bite?”

John hung up his apron as the last guest left, pulling out his datapad and looking at his trackers. Keeping an eye on Morgan had proven simple enough, the man ignorant or uncaring about any surveillance on him, so four separate algorithms gave him a good picture of his location.

Not that sith generally needed to care about such things.

Vette, on the other hand, had proven more of a challenge. His programs had ceased to be useful after she’d hired some slicer, one even he’d not been able to find. Mostly because he hadn’t cared to, but he admitted to himself that whoever was masking Vette was doing a good job of it.

She’d gotten better at spotting his tails, too, but some still followed her around. For now he looked over the reports, noting with some interest that Morgan had killed an Imperial general, and walked out.

This whole non interference policy was getting to him, honestly. Vette had the potential to become something special indeed, especially with more direct training, and teaching Morgan the basics of spycraft could result in interesting developments.

But no, his handlers were getting more antsy so he had to play by at least some of the rules. That they approved his budget increase within the hour was amusing, mostly because it meant someone high up the chain was getting nervous.

Honestly, who would be scared of little old Morgan? The man had always been a reasonable, polite individual when he’d spoken to him. Minus that one time he’d threatened to sick some two dozen sith on him, of course. But he’d been young, then.

Alright, so maybe he was growing in both power and resources at a slightly higher rate than expected. And maybe, just maybe, someone had read his report that had Vette been recruited by Imperial intelligence she’d be a cypher by now. Still, he didn’t see what all the fuss was about. Not like the man stole a destroyer and was rapidly accruing talented individuals to his side, upending all their growth assessments without care or subtlety.

That would be ridiculous.

John shook his head, looking around. He hadn't been to Nar Shaddaa for many years now, but dusting off his old working man’s persona was easy enough. Confident few would try to steal from him, but not so flashy others would see it as a threat. He’d spent years working out the balance, but then he had more years than most. An old but well maintained blaster completed the ensemble, looking like little more than a cautious old man.

Finding Executive Bfjorn was almost boringly easy, and he was walking into the man’s place of work within the hour. What guards not asleep at their post were taken care of quietly, although one managed to nearly fall through a window. That would have woken up the whole place, and he hated getting blood out of his clothes.

It’s why he preferred quiet approaches, but when he finished slicing through the lock protecting Bfjorn’s bedroom he just knew this one was going to get complicated.

For one, two women were in bed with the man. One of which, a strikingly beautiful togruta, was wide awake and staring at him. He put a finger to his lips, the woman tilting her head but remaining still.

The other problem was the hound asleep near the bed, grunting as it dreamed. An anooba, if he wasn’t mistaken, although this one was big even for one of them. He crept up, his knife severing the beast's vocal cords as he injected a needle in Bfjorn’s foot.

The man woke with a start, rolling out of bed and flat on his face. John shook his head, patting the hound as it died. “Shhh, it's alright now. Sleep, and dream of long hunts in deep deserts.”

He’d cut deep, the hound dying in a matter of seconds. Bfjorn managed to stand, something he found reluctantly impressive, but collapsed when he tried to take a step. “That’s one nasty cocktail I put in you there, my friend. Cyborgs, always thinking an iron liver makes you immune to poison. Well, the nanites probably don’t help.”

The man crawled forward, John lazily disarming the other woman as she tried to stab him. He twisted her around, breaking her neck with a short grunt. The togruta was standing as far away from him as space allowed, still staring blankly.

“Wh. Why?” Bfjorn coughed, blood gushing onto the floor. “I’ve done nothing. Nothing to you.”

John tilted his head. “Well, I could say it’s payback for the thousand you’ve sold into slavery. Maybe I was hired by that poor girl's father, although that was a while ago now. How did you kill her again, droid fighting? That’s cruel, even for you.”

“Why?” Bfjorn demanded, slowing. John sighed.

“It’s always why with the dying. You’re going someplace no one knows anything about, yet all you want to know is why.” He leaned over the man, making sure to stay out of reach. “Maybe it’s because you’re a sadist, rotten to the bone and uncaring to change. Maybe it’s for the hundreds of girls you’ve raped and butchered. The people you’ve forcefully addicted to drugs. The killings, the wars. All the suffering you’ve caused, often for little more than your own amusement.”

He stood straight, looking at the togruta. “But that would be a lie. It’s because your son bumped into a twi’lek, and took offence. It’s because that twi’lek put him down like a dog, and I can’t have you taking revenge on her.”

Bfjorn died with little fanfare, the nanites shutting down his heart with uncaring efficiency. John made sure by disrupting the brain, something he could have done from the start. He’d been rather disgusted by what his people had dug up on the man, however, so a slow death it was.

“You’re going to kill me now, aren’t you?”

He looked up. “Why do you say that?”

“Because I saw you. Saw your face.”

John hummed, catching her eyes to find calm acceptance there. “How long did you spend in this man’s care?”

The togruta shrugged. “Some months. This one, another one. It makes little difference. I am dead already, so I decided it does not scare me anymore.”

He hummed again, thinking. When he was done staging the scene, for his own amusement first and foremost, he looked back to her. “How would you like a career change?”

The woman tilted her head, uncomprehending.

“I know someone that would be more than amenable to take you under her wing, if you want. Danger aplenty, but then I think you rather don’t care about that anymore, do you?”

The togruta shrugged. “I am dead. Do as you wish.”

Chapter Text

Morgan walked into the hangar proper to find three distinct groups very pointedly not looking at each other. The first was Quinn and Kala, standing together with an ease there hadn't been before. He ignored how the Aurora’s captain had been having less than subtle emotional issues, deciding to bring it up should it interfere with her work.

Considering he relied on Quinn to tell him when that happened, that might not be as easy as it used to be.

The second group contained Vette and someone he didn’t know, although they also didn’t really seem to know each other. The stranger was mostly holding still, not looking at anyone and generally trying not to draw any attention to herself.

The third group consisted of one irate looking man, two enforcers flanking him, all being blocked access to the hangar by soldiers.

‘Don’t suppose I could slip inside unnoticed, can I? Be nice to shower first.’

Quinn spotted him, alerting everyone else to his presence in the process, and he had his answer. “Sir. Do you have a moment?”

“No wait me first.” Vette interrupted, ignoring the less than friendly look the captain sent her in return. “It’s for once kind of important.”

“I must insist on being seen at once.” The last party insisted. “I bring the word of the great Wisi herself.”

Vette turned to the man, clearly about to explain her opinion on his urgency, when Morgan pushed out his presence. Blessed silence fell, so he turned to the representative.

“Twenty words or less.”

The man frowned. “Wisi the magnificent will speak with you. Now.”

A handheld holoprojector was activated before he could respond, Morgan feeling his patience fray by the second. Wisi appeared, seeming less than pleased. “Ah, finally. You did not report on your task, sith. It cost me valuable time waiting for your reply, although I will admit the warehouse has been cleared to my satisfaction.”

“Good.” Morgan summoned the projector to his hand, the representative looking ready to protest. One of the soldiers made it clear that was a bad idea. “Then this dock is mine.”

He crushed the device, turning to the representative. “Leave or be removed.”

Quinn waved his hand, his escort stepping forward to assist in removing the three. Vette was about to speak, making him hold up his hand. “In a moment. Quinn, please keep it short.”

“Right.” The captain cleared his throat. “Here is the list of candidates I have been interviewing for reassignment. There has been no pushback from Lord Rathari, especially with his own officers dead or incapable of protesting. I will let captain Kala speak for herself.”

Morgan signed the document without looking, handing it back as Kala stepped forward. “Sir. The Aurora’s crew, as per training regulations, has been performing regular emergency and combat drills. Captain Quinn has requested him and his men to participate, and we have cross referenced schedules for when this can be done. Please mark your preference when you have a moment.”

“That’s an excellent idea.” He praised absentmindedly, looking it over quickly. He selected one later today, handing it back. “I’d like to participate as well. There will be little I can do in naval combat, but boarding drills and defensive simulations will make sure I don’t get in the way.”

Kala smiled, relief clear on her face, and he caught her eyes dipping down. He was about to move on when he noticed no spike of lust or arousal, his brain only blatantly realising there was another object of some fascination down there.

‘Look at me, assuming any girl that looks down past my torso wants to sleep with me. Lightsabers are cool as shit, I’ll give her that.’

He unclipped it, handing it over to a frozen Kala. “Don’t cut your arm off, but here’s the on switch.”

“Sorry about that.” He turned to Vette, the stranger having joined her. “What can I do for you two?”

She smiled, leaning forward with a scandalous cast to her eye. “You can make it up to me later.”

The togruta woman didn't react in the slightest. Morgan ignored what alarm bells that set off as Vette resumed talking. “Anyway, this is Amelia. I’d like you to give her some therapy, when you get a moment.”

The woman curtsied when he looked at her, lowering her gaze when he caught her eye. “Later today?” He idly swept his perception through her, turning on a dime. “Right. Sure, let’s go.”

“Wait, now?”

“Yes. Anyone bother to ask her opinion about it?”

“Do as you please, my Lord.”

Morgan raised an eyebrow at her, summoning his lightsaber. Kala jumped, seeming disappointed. “Close enough.”

Vette excused herself when they came to one of the sparring rooms, not bothering with any excuses and shutting the door. Amelia had walked to the centre of the room, clothes dropping to the floor.

“Stop.”

She froze, looking back at him. He trained his perception on her, finding little but confusion. Here she was, alone in a room with a sith she didn't know, and she felt so very little fear.

“Please, put your clothes back on and sit.”

He led by example, sitting on the floor with his legs crossed as she dressed again. When she sat down it was some distance from him, not too far to be insulting but not close enough to crowd. He opened his mouth, closing it again and finally deciding words weren’t going to do much of anything.

“Some people,” he began regardless, “are afraid to put themselves out there. I was. I feared judgement, to be found lacking and small. That my friends would find out I’m a fake, a collection of lucky breaks with nothing holding it together.”

He closed his eyes, establishing a connection between them. He’d only twice before gone this deep, to feel another as he was doing now. It was intimate, in a way, but more than that. It was showing someone who you really were, your closest emotions and pseudo memories.

Amelia’s eyes snapped to him as he pushed his worst moment at her. His fear, the pain and hatred and hopelessness, before it all condensed into nothingness. Before he decided he was dead, and so what did any of it matter?

“I was where you are now. Came to the conclusion that feeling nothing was better than reality. That pain is a joke, and death is to be welcomed. That I was broken, but no longer able to be hurt because of it. I had someone to help me understand that wasn’t true.”

She was shaking her head, abandoning her position on the floor to back up against the wall. “That I changed. Was forced to change, but that I wasn’t lesser for it. That I couldn't be lesser, because you cannot take from someone. Not the things that matter.”

“Who are you?” She asked quietly, her composure broken and eyes darting as if looking for the answer. “What are you?”

He looked up at the ceiling, hearing more than seeing her approach. “I am sith. I am what happens when you connect someone to the fabric of the universe, when they scramble for a rope at their lowest and find something to tug at. And I can see you, Amelia. I can see everything you try so desperately to hide from.”

A fist slammed into his shoulder, doing little more than tilt it back slightly. He looked down to see her stare at it, in disbelief at what she’d just done. “I can see what you want. I can see what you crave and fear. What you loath and embrace. I do not judge you for it, but you need to accept it.”

He tapped his shoulder where she had struck him. “Just as I have come to accept that I am in command of a warship. A warship that will, should I order it, start a war with the hutts. With soldiers that will follow my orders, assassin’s that will kill who I command to die. That those people can themselves die because of my orders, and that the responsibility lies with me.”

“I can give you what you want. I will do so because I can. Because I think you deserve it. But you have to ask. You have to realise that no one, not me or anyone else, can take the first step for you.”

Amelia had backed up again, a blankness falling over her features now that she had gotten used to feelings that were not her own. “What are you doing to me?”

“You feel what I do, I feel what you do. An empathy link, connecting two with the Force.”

She was silent for a moment, collecting herself, and sat with smooth motions. He sighed internally, pushing the link open wide. “I’m sorry. I know hiding is more comfortable. Safer. But being in control of yourself is not what this is about.”

Amelia had all but sprung to her feet again, her eyes darting around the room as he fed her own emotions back to her. “What do you want, Amelia?”

She jumped, fear and anger at war as her emotions went into overdrive.

“To kill.” She decided, her mouth snarling and hands curling into fists. “To find them, to rip them apart for what they did to me. I want to be free.”

Her anger drained, all but collapsing to the floor as he shut the link off. “But I’ll never be free, will I? They won’t let me.”

He stood. “Freedom isn’t granted, Amelia. It isn’t bargained or pleaded for. Freedom is taken, with blood and death until all that keeps you in chains lies broken on the floor. That is my offer. Blood and death will be needed, yes, but I offer you the strength to take your own freedom.”

Amelia looked lost, staring uncomprehendingly. Then something sparked, something small and old and so buried it surprised even herself.

Morgan held out his hand. “But it is an offer. A choice. Your choice.”

For the longest moment she hesitated, finally reaching a tentative hand to his own. He could feel it, though. The smallest of sparks growing.

Vette stalked through Nar Shaddaa’s underbelly, mentally scolding herself for hesitating to leave her Morgan with Amelia.

With a highly attractive, skilled seductress that would set off his ‘broken need to fix’ instincts like nothing else.

‘If he even realises he has them.’ She chuckled. ‘Quinn the career-dead soldier. Kala the alienated prodigy. Me, if we're being honest.’

Even the soldiers counted, to some degree. Now she brought another one, and he wouldn't be able to resist trying to help her too.

She forcefully derailed that train of thought, not wishing to examine her own mental state all that closely. Arriving at the cantina, if it could be called that, served as the perfect distraction.

Dorka was already there, his helmet on the table and sipping some foaming drink. She slid into the booth, looking around to see no patrons or staff.

“Good place for an ambush.” She approved. “Won’t end well, of course, but it’s a good place for it.”

He ignored the opener, sliding over a second drink and raising his eyebrow. “What, exactly, did you do?”

“Well, she just reminded me too much of someone I used to know. I know he’s just going to get another devotee out of this, but I just couldn't help myself, is all.”

The mandalorian blinked, scowling. “I’m being serious. Wisi is bleeding left and right, merc’s are breaking contract and her slicers are all but running for greener pastures. What did you do?”

Vette smiled grandly. “Not my fault in the slightest. If someone’s operation can’t withstand a little poking it shouldn’t exist in the first place.”

“You opened the floodgates.” He accused, his scowl softening despite his tone. “And you know it. Everyone is taking a shot now that you’ve proven it can be done. It’s sheer chaos out there, you utter lunatic, and the other cartels are going to step in sooner rather than later.”

She leaned back, glee dancing in her eyes. “Am I being scolded? Because there’s only one person alive that can scold me without losing an eye, and trust me, you’re not them.”

She was joking, mostly, but Dorka leaned out of reach anyway. “No. No, I’m not scolding you. I’m simply informing you my job has gotten significantly harder.”

“Is that why I’m here? Venting to a friend over drinks, eh? Didn’t know we’d gotten that close.”

Dorka sighed deeply, a sound that was music to her ears, and tapped his helmet. “I’ve been clanless for almost a decade now, did you know? Ever since my old one disintegrated over a power struggle. I lost more friends that night than I care to remember. And I swore I wouldn't get involved with something like that again. The politics and backroom deals are poison that kill all who touch it, so for years now I’ve been a hunter. Just another merc looking for a paycheck, not getting involved.”

She waited, something that would surprise many she was capable of doing. “But now here we are, another power struggle. Another night of blood and violence for the sake of blood and violence. So answer me this, stranger from the stars, why did you start this war?”

“Because I hate them.” She answered after a moment, deciding to return his honesty. “Because I know what it's like to wear a collar around my neck, the spectre of death hanging over my every waking moment. Because she gave me an excuse when she insulted the person I care about, finding I no longer had any reasons to let that slide. Because I will end them, wanderer of mandalore. The cartels and syndicates and their slave empires. The corporations with their slave workforces. The mines, the brothels, the slave-armies. All of it. I will burn it all.”

Dorka's face had gone blank, and what she wouldn't give to be able to peek into minds like Morgan could. “That would mean war. War with the hutts and the syndicate. War with half the galaxy.”

She laughed, a laugh with a tint of insanity. A laugh more honest than she had intended. “You sound eager, mandalorian.”

“I am under contract still.” He pulled back, tapping his helmet twice. “Or I was, until five hours ago. A clerical mistake, I’ve been assured, and another generous contract has been proposed.”

Vette wiggled her eyebrow, adopting a serious face. “Such good fortune. What will you do with your newfound freedom, I wonder?”

She grinned as he haggled, her bad mood melting as her plan came together.

Hours later found her standing in a condemned warehouse, Dorka a step behind and some two dozen bounty hunters and mercenaries idling around the space. “Well, well, well. If it isn’t that twi’lek from the party. What’s with the getup, don’t you know dancers don’t wear armour?”

A confident hunter stepped forwards, turning to address the group. “Well, now that we’ve seen she’s just some little girl playing pretend, let’s talk who should be leading this crew, and why that should be me.”

The sound of his neck snapping echoed around the space, his body crumbling to the floor. It revealed Vette standing behind him, stepping over the body and clapping her hands together. “Right then. Anyone else with more weapons than brain cells?”

Shaking heads and amused chuckles spread through the group, so she inclined her head slightly to Dorka in thanks. Always good to secure dominance quickly, and inviting the ambitious and short-sighted was a sure way to achieve that.

“Arrange yourself in squads of four or five, then we move.”

One of them, a duros with seemingly cobbled together armour, spoke up. “What about our pay? We’re taking a not insignificant risk by turning on a hutt, her powerbase falling apart or not.”

Dorka, after agreeing to a new contract, had confessed there were some others he might be able to sway. They’d be breaking their word to Wisi, so not the most reliable ever, but they’d do for now. With a right hand man secured she needed a show of force, one with people fighting in her name.

An army, even if she was more effective on her own, just sent the right kind of message.

She fished out her credit chits, throwing the bundle to Dorka with an uncaring toss. “Half now, half when the job’s done. Anyone gets greedy you join our friend on the floor.”

Half the eyes in the room followed the money, the mandalorian handing small handfuls to each group and throwing the rest back to her. Giving the appearance of wealth could be just as effective as being wealthy, although with the progress Miraka was reporting that would soon be a moot point.

After some grumbling they were off, Nar Shaddaa more than used to groups of armed strangers moving through its streets. Her slicer had found one of the warehouses Wisi housed second grade tech in, a good target for a dry run. Dorka joined her as they moved, their helmets syncing to a private channel.

“How much money you got, anyway? Might be good to know, seeing as you want me as your second and all.”

Vette snorted. “Having a mandalorian, even a merc, as your right hand is good for one's image. Money’s a tad tight for now, although there’s some stretch room if needed. Got contacts on Balmorra for smuggling, and a few here too. Send him a list, Miraka?”

“I am not your secretary.” The slicer hissed, sending the file anyway. “And I’m a tad busy making sure your little birthday gathering won’t be tracked by every interested party this side of the moon.”

Dorka stayed silent, hopefully reading, and spoke up when they were closing in on their target. “A decent start, I suppose. Not seeing anything about sith or Imperial soldiers in here, though, nor a warship.”

“Not mine, and not a move I will make unless absolutely necessary.” She knew Morgan would help her, if she asked. He had his own problems, though, and this was supposed to be her thing.

They came to the building, a normal enough looking warehouse with shitty locks. “Squad one to three, follow Dorka and hit them from the back. Four and five with me, kill anything that shoots at you.”

Blasting the front door open was a bit more dramatic than her usual style, but with nine people flanking her she found it more effective than picking the lock. Her visor filtered out the smoke, her pistol taking care of three while the rest died in a haze of blaster fire. She looked around, idly killing one or two moaning on the ground, and blinked.

“This isn’t second rate tech, boss.” Dorka’s voice came over the speaker, his group joining her own. “Why the hell were these idiots guarding stuff like this?”

Rows of crates and lockers filled the space, some opened with weapons clearly visible. One corner was filled with heavy ordnance, everything from grenades to anti-air missiles stacked on tables. “Now that is a good question. Miraka?”

“Looking.” Her annoyed voice came. “There. Seems she reassigned most of the people stationed here about a day ago, though it doesn’t say why. It’s listed as ‘site g6-2, non-military technology’ in her logs.”

Vette beamed. “About time luck was on my side. Alright boys, pack it up and let’s get out of here.”

The same duros as before spoke up, looking around. “Pack it up where? We walked here, remember?”

“Steal something.” Dorka barked, slapping the duros over the head. “Something that can carry cargo!”

He joined her as she overlooked her temporary army loading the two cargo ships, though they looked more like larger taxi’s to her. “Can’t trust them to guard this stuff, even if you have somewhere to store it.”

“We’ll figure something out.” Vette grinned, flicking on her speakers. “Night’s young, my minions. Onward!”

Dorka sighed, a sound filled with regret. “It’s eleven in the morning.”

Morgan stepped into the gym, Quinn flanked by seven of his soldiers already waiting. He nodded to the man, sweeping his gaze over the rest.

Jillins was standing as ram-rod straight as ever, Horas flanking the man. The cyborg had taken the fast attachment of his limbs as a personal challenge, apparently, and in one of the reports Quinn sent him the captain admitted to running out of excuses to have the specialist rest more. He spent the rest of his time in the gym, regaining the coordination he’d enjoyed before.

The only other that stood out was Pete, a soldier that had apparently not spoken the language when signing up with the Imperial military. His recruiter had settled on the name, the man not caring one way or the other. He was also the one who, to his slight alarm, had the habit of swearing blood oaths when drunk.

Blood oaths to him, specifically, and he knew what he was about to do here wouldn't make the private less likely to do so.

“Sir. I’ve assembled the men from Balmorra as commanded.”

The question was clear, and he smiled at the man. How far he’d come. “So I see. As you should all be aware we are currently at war with one sith Lord, possibly a hutt and the Republic soldiers stationed here are feeling twitchy. We have the same sith Lord to thank for that, of course, but they won’t hesitate over such trivial details.”

“In short, we are outnumbered, outgunned and out sith'ed.” Horas snorted, the rest of the men not reacting much. “As such, after some debate, I’m here to make you stronger.”

Quinn raised his hand, speaking before Morgan could admonish him for the gesture. “Like Vette had been made stronger, sir?”

That got a reaction. Jillins eyes widened, Pete muttered something he had no hope to understand and even Horas looked surprised. “In essence, yes. It will require an increase in daily calories, and will need to be refreshed once every twenty four hours, but it will make you as strong as Vette is.”

Not as skilled, of course, but even then he could see how Quinn had to suppress a grin. No doubt imagining what he could do with seven super soldiers under his command, instead of an erratic twi’lek fluttering about as she pleases.

Pete stepped forward, earning him a glare from Quinn that was promptly ignored, and dropped to one knee. “I swear dominion over my soul to he who is the fleshchanger, he who can break the limit of the body and deliver me onto hunting eternal.”

That seemed important, and a scan revealed little but absolute certainty in the man, but he still flinched internally. Morgan suppressed his hesitation, the thought that this was half a step away from starting a cult, and set his hand on the man's shoulders.

He didn't know what he was supposed to say for his half of the ritual, nor did he want to. Instead he twisted, infusing flesh with hair-thin needles of Force. The man stiffened, his muscles locking as they were infused with power.

It went quickly, more quickly than he anticipated, and after some thirty seconds of minor adaptation to account for species Pete collapsed to the floor. “Get him some food, he’s going to be hungry.”

Horas went to pick Pete up, but the man struggled to his feet. He took a shaky step, nodded deeply, and went to the small pile of food he’d requested Quinn to bring here. “Try not to break the table, but we’re in the gym for a reason. Get used to your new strength.”

‘Jesus fuck this shouldn't be so easy.’

He beckoned the next one forwards, Jillins seeming to teleport across the room. The eager look, coupled with the awe he felt in the man, left little room for fear. He suppressed the need to ask if he was sure, setting a hand on the man's shoulder.

Morgan knew this was a calculated risk. That he needed force multipliers for when they finally met with Rathari. To make them less reliant on him to fight the monsters of this galaxy. That increasing his men’s own strength would keep them alive, even if it risked Baras’s attention.

He still couldn't shake the thought that this was all but starting a religion, parcelling out power to his most loyal.

When seven soldiers sat around a small table devouring the pile of food Quinn walked forwards, lowering his voice. “It’s good you didn’t ask if they were sure. It would have seemed insulting.”

“I wanted to.” He shook his head. “Changed my mind. This is insane to me, you understand? These people are being changed on a biological level, where I could do just about anything, and they lined up for it.”

Quinn scoffed quietly. “They are soldiers. Soldiers that, serving here or elsewhere, risk death with every engagement. Men that you made stronger. More able to do their duty.”

“That doesn’t mean I have to like it, even if I think it’s necessary.” Morgan rebuffed.

The captain shook his head. “It’s not just their ability to kick in doors. With increased strength their gear won’t tire them, their weapons won’t feel heavy in their hands. They can run longer, faster, to outmanoeuvre or retreat. What you gave them isn’t just strength, sir. It’s life.”

“I’m not a soldier.” Morgan sighed. “So I won’t argue the point. Make sure they don’t get cocky? They’re still very mortal.”

Quinn nodded, then stiffened as Morgan wrapped the Force around him. He left when his men pushed a ration bar in his hands, one saluting as another helped their captain to the table.

“Horas, let me know if something happens that isn’t supposed to. Enhancing a cyborg isn’t something I’ve done before, but it should make your body more able to keep up with your new limbs.” He disappeared through the door, not waiting to see if the man replied.

‘That might have been one of the most uncomfortable things I’ve done.’ Morgan reflected, somewhat aimlessly walking through the ship. ‘But it was necessary.’

He ignored doubt trying to creep in, his feet bringing him to the command deck of the ship.

He found Kala there, talking with her xo. The rest of the bridge was empty, and the two were engrossed in their talk, so he turned the idle time to training.

It was after a few minutes that Clara turned to grab something and saw him, managing to turn her surprise into a salute at the last second. Kala didn’t, whirling around and pointing. “What the fuck.”

She bleached white, but he cut off the apologies before they could begin. He smiled instead, one he hoped was reassuring. “I’ve become quieter without noticing, it seems. I don’t truly have a purpose here, but there are some things we could talk about.”

It was an awkward offer, although not one even remotely subtle. Clara cleared her throat softly. “I have some other things to see too.”

A shot of panic went through the captain, although nothing was seen of her face. Morgan sighed. “Please, stay. Did either of you know I can feel emotions? I normally wouldn't confront people about theirs, but what I’ve been feeling has been rather extreme.”

The captain seemed to deflate, dropping into her chair. Clara stood behind her, putting a hand on her shoulder and squeezing. “It is a somewhat delicate matter.”

“And I do not wish to intrude on personal issues.” Morgan assured. “But you’re under my command. I will help, if I can.”

“The Imperial navy sabotaged my career from the moment I entered the academy.” Kala blurted. “And all because I’m Rattataki. Not human enough.”

Morgan hummed. “That will not happen while you serve under me, captain. I cannot change the past, but I sympathise.”

A feeling much like a snort of disbelief when through Clara. He turned to her. “I understand your reluctance, but don’t think sith are above the uncaring nature of the Empire.”

He ignored the panic in her eyes, turning to the window. The blast shields were down, but he walked to them anyway. “Before I was sith I lived a normal life. Friends, family. A job I didn’t much like but tolerated. Hobbies I enjoyed and a woman I fancied.”

“Then they took me from my home.” He turned, looking at both of them. “Sent me to Korriban. Make no mistake, so very few of us choose to go to that cursed planet. They put a slave collar around my neck. Told me, in no uncertain terms, that I would either become sith or die in the attempt.”

He looked at Kala, finding her listening with rapt attention. “I have no trouble believing that they would meddle with someone's career, or kill them outright should that prove to not be enough. What I also believe, captain, is that you now fall under my aegis.”

“And the people that threaten those under my protection will learn exactly what Korriban teaches her students.”

Wisi the magnificent, leader of the third most prominent unaffiliated cartel on Nar Shaddaa and commander of over a thousand men looked on as her empire collapsed around her.

Her once endless legions betrayed her with reckless abandonment, her holdings were being stolen by what must be an entire team of slicers and the worst of it was she had no idea how to punish them.

Oh, she knew it was that twi’lek that started this. But when she was with the sith she was untouchable, and when she wasn’t even her best couldn't find where she operated from. Now she was hitting her warehouses with her own traitorous men, the goods disappearing without a trace.

She growled, the room before her falling silent. This had to stop, and she had no other options left. “Everyone but my immortals out.”

Her immortals. Those enforcers and disguised mercenaries most loyal to her. The room emptied, some three dozen remaining. It was infuriating how difficult it was to acquire loyal troops, before the others stole them.

Because she was young, because she was new. Because they didn’t like how it had only taken her ten years to rise from no one to where she was now.

But her rapid ascent had required sacrifices. To rely on blackmail and extortion, money and fear. She’d known it was an unstable foundation. Another year, maybe two, and it would have solidified.

Her first classes of proper guards would have finished their training. Her wealth would have made anyone think twice about turning on her.

“The others are looking to see how I handle this sith before they will take action against the Empire. So we will handle him. Kill him. All that has been lost will be regained.”

Even her immortals flinched at the notion of fighting sith, making her narrow her eyes but relent. No good would come from pushing them, not now. “Fear not. We will burn his stronghold, kill his tin soldiers and then, only when he is alone and weakened, will we kill him.”

Her men found their spines, turning to gear up and prepare. Paying off a few dockworkers, she wasn’t going to rely on slicers, not for this, would give her a window of opportunity and keep her people's presence there quiet.

It came some three hours later, the sith leaving with his two female guards into Nar Shaddaa proper. She tasked a few of her more discreet people to warn her should they return early, then ordered her assault to commence.

Attack from outside would be impossible with the hangar doors closed, so a frontal assault would have to do. She would bet on her immortals over Imperial recruits any day, even outnumbered two to one, and a dozen holo screens gave her an overview of the battle.

Any nerves she felt from moving against a sith vanished when it proved not to be a trick, and she grinned when the early stages of the assault sent the Imperials fleeing into their ship. It would give her men the opportunity to set up their heavy equipment, and there would be no fleeing as long as she controlled the operator with blackmail.

She would never manage to understand other species' fascination with mating their own young, but she was more than happy to coerce them for it.

Wisi watched as proper soldiers came running out of the ship, their assault stalling with returned fire.

‘Cornering the sith had been greedy.’ She admitted, if only to herself. Not a mistake she would make again, that was for sure. His death would still benefit her, prestige she desperately needed, but it had been done badly.

Her men didn’t aim to kill. That would come later, but for now every wounded would take another to drag them away. To care for them, thin their numbers.

Then something happened that shouldn't have. Five men, looking like all the rest of their soldiers, started running. Running like only cyborgs could, with speed that made return fire inaccurate at best.

Her immortals had been hardened on the streets of Nar Shaddaa, however, so they knew how to deal with cyborgs. Shouts for EMP’s went out, dozens of small devices thrown to the feet of the cyborgs. That many and even shielded enhancements would malfunction. She approved of their caution.

Only they appeared from the blasts without a scratch, wielding slugthrowers that sent her immortals flying. One of them, and she had difficulty telling them apart, started kicking her men into a wall so hard she flinched in sympathy.

With their attention diverted the other Imperials pushed, broke their formation entirely, and she watched with an infuriating helplessness as her men retreated. Another gamble failed, and now the sith would be coming for her head.

With half her immortals down fleeing would be dangerous, but she wasn’t waiting here until lightsabers came cutting her front door down.

‘Survival before pride.’ She reminded herself, clapping her hands to summon slaves. “Pack up everything of value, quickly. Leave anything too big to be carried.”

A glow grabbed her attention, her eyes widening when three red blurs tore into her retreating soldiers. One of them, the last wearing a camera, was pulled halfway across the room.

The sith’s face filled the screen, cutting off abruptly. “Change of plans. We’re leaving, now.”

It pained her to leave everything behind, but it had to be done. She was about to leave her throne when a crash resounded, a twi’lek rolling to a standing position before her throne.

Glass rained around her, the invader acting like she hadn’t just broken through reinforced glass. “Hello again.”

Her few remaining guards opened fire, the twi’lek lazily leaning aside and killing them with a few shots. “Send your best to kill Morgan, then. Big mistake, that. But then you couldn't know we’d been informed by John you might try something like this. Didn’t know I had my people keeping an eye out.”

She went around the room, pressing a device against the neck of her slaves. Their collars popped free, three of them picking up the weapons of her fallen guards. “I wanted to draw this out some more, you know?”

The twi’lek spoke, grabbing her attention while she stayed still. She’d seen footage of the thing drawing her sniper faster than one could blink, and high powered slugthrowers wouldn't care about her armoured skin.

“Give me more time to take over piecemeal.” The twi’lek sighed, and the sniper appeared in her hands. “Now it’s going to be a mad scramble. Not, I will admit, your problem to deal with.”

She felt the bullet enter her head before she heard it, separating layers of skin and bone with terrifying ease, and Wisi slumped against her throne as she lost control of her body.

But she was hutt, one of the toughest species to ever walk this galaxy, so her death was slow. Slow enough she heard the twi’lek talk to someone, heard her slaves laughing at her death.

“-care if you’re not ready. Take what you can, now, before the others drain her accounts dr-”

She died after a few seconds of darkness, stubbornly clinging to life. Wisi wanted to laugh. She’d been so worried about the sith she hadn’t even considered it would be the twi’lek that killed her.

‘I’ll do better, next time.’ She promised. ‘I’ll be better.’

Vette sighed, having to stop the gleeful servants from being attacked by the horrified ones. Slavery, she well knew, could be an insidious thing. Serve someone long enough and you learn to love your master, to mourn their death. Be angered by it.

And now she also had to work double time to get as much as she could before the other hutts seized Wisi’s holdings. She already had some of her merc’s, thanks to Dorka, but she’d need money to pay for them.

Not just sums of it either, but income streams and businesses. Contacts and weapons, housing and training.

Her people finally came, some nearly dropping from exhaustion. She frowned, looking over their disorganised state. ‘Training indeed. Lots and lots of training.’

That would mean she’d be busy for a while, however, so she called Morgan. He picked up quickly, his miniature body hovering over her palm and not looking pleased in the slightest. “How did it go?”

She showed him the room, including the corpse. “Wisi’s dead. I got work here, unfortunately, and I need to watch out for any retaliation. Thanks for letting me take the lead.”

Morgan shrugged. “It helped you more than me, and killing her isn’t nearly as important as her death. Halidrell contacted me about ten minutes before they hit the ship, said she has a lead on Rathari. He’s not coming out of hiding, clearly, so we’ll have to bring the fight to him.”

“Be careful.” She bit her lip, her expression safely hidden behind her helmet. Morgan smiled at her, making her wince. It would fool most, she admitted, but she knew a real smile from a fake.

He shook his head. “Sorry, not in a good mood right now. Be safe. Call captain Kala if you need anything, but I’ll be taking Quinn and the two lovebirds with me.”

He looked over his shoulder, waving and cutting the connection as he replied to someone. She put the holocommunicator away, turning her attention to her loitering merc’s and resolving to talk to him when she got a chance. “Take everything that isn’t nailed down, then we leave. Anyone who wants to join, feel free..”

The three attendants that had grabbed weapons nodded almost as one, many of the other former slaves hesitating.

‘Right, suddenly having to choose for yourself is going to be a no-go.’

“Dorka, take everyone here and see to it they’re cared for. Anyone that wishes to leave after is free to do so.” Her display pinged, account numbers flowing past. “Good timing. Here’s some spending money.”

She waved Dorka off, who directed several of the more easy-going merc’s to gather everyone up. The rest gathered around her, but she put up a hand and switched her helmet to private. “More than I feared but less than I hoped for, and either way faster than expected. Good job.”

“Just executed what I set up.” Miraka answered, a bored tilt in her tone. “And it’s only about one sixth of what she had in credits. Not even a hundredth of her liquid assets, and just so you know I already took my cut.”

That last bit sounded forced, but then that fit with her mental picture of Miraka. The bored teenage prodigy, not looking for cash nearly as much as a challenge. “That’s fine. She forced our hand. Get a list of businesses and such? I’m sure Wisi had plenty.”

Another list was sent, this one with addresses and names. “She didn’t force our hand. Could have told the sith to chill and we’d have a few more weeks.”

She gathered everyone up, groans of boredom resounding when she explained all they were going to do was inform some people they were under new management. Then she walked over to Dorka, ignoring Miraka for now.

“When they’re settled in go find the now unemployed hunters. Take the ones with good reputations first, if you can, but we need warm bodies sooner rather than later.”

The mandalorian nodded, gazing at the hutt. She smirked. “What? Didn’t think I’d do it?”

“I thought you believed you were serious.” Dorka sighed. “Here’s hoping the cartels won’t crush us like bugs.”

Vette snorted. “Don’t be like that, you crave a good war like the poor crave clean water.”

He turned, not answering, and she switched her helmet again. “First of all, she very much did force our hand. I have friends on that ship, not to mention that attacking Morgan makes me feel stabby. Secondly, you are very much mistaken if you think I can tell him what to do. He’ll listen to my advice, but he will not chill and stand down when someone attacks his people. He’d have come, with war and blood, to tear this entire building to the ground. We wouldn't have gotten the credit for killing her, nor would you have gotten to play with her automated defences.”

“So you stole his revenge. Seems unwise.”

Vette tisked. “Stop digging. He’d be more than happy to meet you, answer your questions. You can satisfy your burning curiosity in person.”

No answer came, not that she expected one, so she left the building. “Thought so. Give me the list of businesses again, closest first.”

The closest building turned out to be a cantina, operated by one very nervous muun, who was more than amenable to her taking ownership. He even pushed a stack of credits in her hands, mumbling assurances.

She pushed it back. “Put it in the business. Unlike what you might be used to, protection money will get you actual protection. Spread the word, any merc with a reputation of not breaking their contract can find well paid work with me.”

The muun nodded, not seeming all that reassured, so she turned to leave and contacted her slicer again. “Start a list. When we get the people assign some here to guard the place. Those unlikely to rob and pillage, Dorka will know the type.”

“Still not your damned secretary.” Miraka complained, typing. “Use that woman the spooky fucker brought you, or, you know, literally anyone but me.”

Vette hummed. “Not a bad idea. Call her?”

“If it’ll get you off my back. Coming through now.”

Amelia appeared on the bottom left of her screen, looking tired and sweaty. “My lady?”

“Am I interrupting something?” She teased. Amelia shook her head, her eyes lowering.

“No ma’am. Just working out in the gym, and private Blea offered to show me how to defend myself.”

Her image shrunk, a soldier in off duty fatigues saluting as she came into view. A bandage covered half her shoulder, although it didn’t seem to be slowing her down. “Ma’am.”

Vette waved her off, not recognizing her face. One of Quinn’s new recruits, probably. “Not here for you. Amelia, how’d you like a job?”

“I’m afraid I am not yet combat ready, my lady.” She apologised smoothly, bowing her head as the soldier disappeared from view again. “But I will help if I can.”

Vette smiled widely. “Awesome. I need a secretary. Someone to keep track of my growing criminal empire and all that. That something you'd be interested in?”

“I served as an aid to the matron when I was younger, my lady, and I do have training in that field.” She hesitated, looking somewhere off screen. “Is the Lord aware of this?”

“No clue. You can call him to make sure, if you want.”

Amelia looked back, her posture and manners impeccable. “No need, my lady. He did impress upon me to make my own choices, and I choose to assist you.”

‘Ordering someone to follow their own orders.’ She snorted internally. ‘Classic.’

“Cool. Miraka, send her what she needs. This job might have some odd working hours, but I pay well.”

Miraka’s scowling face appeared, settling just beside Amelia. “Done. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have other things to do.”

Her face disappeared before she could dismiss her. Vette approved of the power move. “Talk to Clara, she’ll get you a place to work. Buy what you need, I’ll foot the bill.”

Amelia nodded, bowing slightly before she disappeared. “This having money thing sure is handy.”

No one replied, she realised she was still in privacy mode, and she waved at her people to get going before the embarrassment could set in.

The next four businesses, two brothels, an arms dealer and a private hospital in that order, all went smoothly. Amelia started taking notes after the second, and she was more than happy to have her deal with the paperwork.

Dorka called as she was about to walk into a corner shop, his helmeted face appearing. “The former slaves are set up, but most don’t know what to do with themselves. I took the liberty to hire staff, figured you might be freeing more. Old friend of mine, reliable.”

“I do like competent people.” She agreed. “Also, meet Amelia. Amelia, my second in command to this mad scramble for power. Dorka, my new secretary. Morgan gave her therapy, so she’s solid.”

The mandalorian shrugged. “Don’t know what that means. Welcome to the team, I guess. Going to see some captains, testing the waters.”

“Please forward me any information on new hires.” Amelia requested. “Getting a complete picture of all assets and personnel will greatly improve my ability to advise lady Vette.”

Dorka shrugged again, disconnecting when Vette nodded. “Not to be crass, but you sound like you know what you’re doing.”

“I was a full service companion.” She explained, a smooth smile on her lips. “That means that while I saw to the physical needs of my masters, I am also trained in a wide variety of skills. This includes but is not limited to first aid, keeping a house in order as well as hiring and managing any personnel needed for such a task, and training to maintain monetary assets.”

She bowed her head. “Most of these skills are transferable.”

“Sounds like you were worth a lot of money.” Vette noted. “Want me to burn whatever place they trained you in to the ground?”

The smile slipped slightly, a more genuine one appearing in its place. “Perhaps later. A power vacuum is dangerous business, and should be managed with our full attention.”

Morgan shut off the communicator, wincing, as his wrath cooled. ‘Nice move, masking with the one person you don’t need to.’

He turned to Alyssa as she walked up, her girlfriend close behind. For once, there was no trace of humour in either of them. “Is it dead?”

“She is. Gather Quinn and the men, we’re leaving.”

Alyssa bowed, but Inara stayed behind. “I wished to apologise.”

Morgan turned to her, making her stiffen. He forced himself to relax, making sure his anger didn’t cloud his mind. “About what?”

“We turned off our communicator to better focus on meditation, but you needed us for the attack against the general.” Inara averted her eyes, looking over his shoulder. “It won't happen again.”

He looked at her, briefly contemplated if punishment was what she needed, but decided against it. “See that it doesn’t.”

A surge of guilt swept over her, strong enough she had trouble shielding it, and she nodded.

It was no time at all when Quinn had assembled his men, four rows of ten lined up before him. He briefly swept his perception over them, finding them roughly separated in three groups.

The new recruits, those Quinn had poached from Rathari, felt nervous. He didn’t blame them, he’d be nervous too. The second were the men recruited on Balmorra, steady calm only interrupted by slight nerves.

The third, standing in line as normal soldiers, were the men he’d enforced. Those felt eager, awe mixed with impatience steeled by discipline. He made brief eye contact with Pete, finding something far too close to fanaticism burning in them.

Morgan broke eye contact first. “The hutt is dead. Killed on her own throne, slaughtered like a cow. Her attack did not go unpunished, even if we did not do the punishing. I consider this matter settled. No one is to take unsanctioned revenge.”

“Rathari’s influence has been crippled,” he continued, sweeping his gaze over them, “but he doesn’t seem to care. Recent reports indicate he has gone deep underground, tearing through Nar Shaddaa’s lowest levels in search of something. We’re going to follow.”

“I’m aware some here are new to my service. Follow your officers, do your best. Should any feel they are not up for this mission, for medical reasons or otherwise, this is your chance to return to the ship. No punishment will follow, no blame will be laid at your feet."

No one moved. “Very well. Captain?”

Lieutenant Helen stepped forwards, beginning to separate them into squads as Quinn walked over. “I didn’t get a chance to look over the final report. How many men do we have, these days?”

“Fifty one.” Quinn supplied, looking back to the ship. “Some were injured in the fighting, or still injured from their service to Rathari, but the men here will do their job.”

Morgan nodded. “Good. Transport?”

“An Imperial assault shuttle was delivered yesterday morning. Captain Kala has reported it cleared by her technicians and fully operational. That, in combination with your personal ship, should serve to ferry the men. It will not be possible to descend too deeply, unfortunately.”

Morgan shrugged. “Didn’t think we’d be able to. Supplies?”

“Enough for a three week mission. Sir, if you don’t mind me asking, why are we pursuing the Lord? Dismantling his operations further will force him out of hiding sooner or later, and would carry significantly less risk.”

He waved a hand. “Baras won’t be patient as Rathari blackmails him with Dellocon. Believe me, I’d much rather kill the spy without ever seeing the sith in person.”

Quinn titled his head, confusion clear. Morgan stared. “Has. Has no one briefed you on what we’re actually doing here?”

The captain shook his head, Morgan groaning. “Fucking hell. Ok, this is fine. Just my highest ranked military officer not knowing what the actual end goal is. No problem.”

He gave the short version, lieutenant Helen directing the men into the two ships. “Ah. Yes, this would have been good to know before we started the mission.”

It was by far the closest rebuke he’d heard from the captain. “Make a note to beat me over the head for the proper information next time.”

Morgan realised he’d just more or less told the captain this thing was his fault, but the man was already nodding. He ignored the awkward trying to creep in, looking at Quinn directly. “I should have made sure you knew. This is on me, and I will do better.”

He waved at Alyssa and Inara to join him, and the descent into Nar Shaddaa’s lower levels went smoothly from there. Light became sparser the deeper they went, the pilots switching to their own sources of illumination when it cut off entirely.

Morgan looked out the window to see a sea of black, only clusters of light breaking the oppressive dark. This deep into the moon, deeper even than the so-called undercity filled with shipyards, light was more luxury than constant.

“I’m going to have to land here, sir.” Their pilot spoke, some half hour later. “We won’t be able to reliably descend any further, not without accurate maps or specialised scanners.”

He nodded, disembarking when the door opened. He and his two pseudo-apprentices were the first out, looking around. Dark, deep tunnels greeted them, with little in the way of navigational landmarks.

Then the proper work started. They knew Rathari had descended here himself, and the man had left a noticeable trail to follow, but that was where their luck ended.

The trail was haphazard, often consisting of lightsaber marks and dead monsters, but also doubled back on itself. False leads, made by accident or otherwise, forced them to inspect and rule out every option.

It took hours, and by the time the men were tired they’d moved four clicks in the right direction.

‘Hopefully, anyway.’ He thought, looking over the rapidly assembling camp. Tents were set, watches organised and two privates where cooking god knows what in a large pot. Morgan resisted the urge to step away as Pete approached, no matter how uncomfortable the man’s emotions were. “Private.”

“My Lord.” The man saluted, coming to stand next to him. He nodded to the pot, the two soldiers manning it devolving into argument. “We have dry rations, and they fill you up, but the captain will have us eat proper when we can. Helps with morale.”

“I see. Do you think that will be a problem? Morale?”

Pete grinned, a half-smile full of teeth and malice. “No. No I do not.”

He was rescued by Alyssa, the soldiers saluting again as he left them be. “Inara and I would like to request some sparring, my lord.”

Four days later they were still no closer to their goal, even Rathari not knowing what he was looking for. It was also around that day Morgan felt a blip on his perception, gone before he could recognize it. It wasn’t Rathari, it felt far too controlled to be of the Dark, and it was staying away for now.

He kept an eye out, informed Quinn of its presence, but decided not to do anything about it. As long as it didn't intervene he had more pressing business, like killing another nest of Vrblther. The monsters had been riled up when Rathari came through, leaving most for them to deal with.

At least the men were getting plenty of practice, and with one sith always at camp no casualties had fallen. Yet.

That changed on day seven, Morgan ripped from his sleep by the alarm going off. He’d slept in his armour, like everyone else, but even then by the time he’d come to the perimeter four of his men lay dead on the ground.

Killing the monsters, those that looked like dog sized cats but twice as strong, took time. Time enough for the rest of the camp to mobilise, but leaving them nothing to do as his knives butchered the last of them.

Quinn stepped up, looking over his four dead soldiers. “Record their names. Burn them after.”

Morgan watched, some minutes later, with a detached hollow ache in his stomach as the flames took four of his people. “We’re joining the watch roster. Always have one of us on duty.”

The captain nodded, but time moved on. Another two days, another three of his men dead and burned, and they finally found a solid lead.

“Looks fresh.” Inara noted, tracing the scorch marks on the steel. She pulled her hand away. “Still hot, too.”

“We’re close.” Quinn agreed, looking at him. “But one lone sith can move more quickly than a group of soldiers.”

‘Why did you take us?’ Morgan translated. He didn’t have a good answer. Not one equal to seven corpses.

By day ten they finally found something noteworthy. Traces of a camp, evidence of blaster fire and monsters killed by grenades. A perimeter, Quinn proposed.

That theory was confirmed when they found broken turrets, dead soldiers in unmarked gear laying next to it. One was cut in half, another embedded deep into the wall.

“This one is still alive!” A private called, calling for a medic. Morgan moved over instead, wrapping his presence over the fallen soldier.

‘Not for long.’ He thought, helping the man sit. ‘Not with that much internal bleeding.’

He shook the man awake, dulling the pain as best he could. “Why are you stationed here? What happened”

The soldier coughed, blood leaking from his chin as his lungs filled with liquid. “Sith. Didn’t.” Another cough, more blood on his lap. “Didn’t care we were Imperial. Killed everyone.”

“What were you doing here?” Morgan asked, gently separating the nerves flowing along the spine. The man relaxed, going comfortably numb.

“The droids will get him.” He said instead, smiling. “Three years and we never even made a dent. Will kill the bastard. Avenge us.”

His eyes closed, Morgan getting the horrid feeling he knew exactly what Rathari was looking for.

Quinn all but confirmed it when they arrived at their camp, a permanent looking installation carved into the tunnels. The door was lying on the floor with an unknown sith crumpled next to it, and when they reached inside a mound of corpses greeted them.

“Black ops think tank.” Quinn mumbled, looking around. “Studying what?”

“Unending, self-repairing droids, an installation buried deep in Nar Shaddaa.” Morgan read, dropping the journal. “The Star Forge. Or a fragment of it. Fuck. Fuck fuck double fuck.”

Inara looked over, prodding one of the dead scientists. “The what?”

“Not important. Think of a machine that can make limitless, self-repairing droids and feeds on nothing but energy and life. That can create all matter without limit, as long as it can feed on the Force.”

“Imagine what it could do under someone like Rathari, who values most life as lesser. How he could grow it.”

Alyssa frowned. “That would be bad. Still, if it feeds on the Force we are not in that much danger. There are perhaps two dozen trained Force users on Nar Shaddaa? Perhaps half that in jedi and sith. He could not get far with just them alone.”

“You forget what the Force is, Alyssa.” Morgan shook his head. “We think of the Force as moving things, enhancing our bodies and power. But the Force is not war or fighting, it is life. In every sentient being, even droids should they get old enough, the Force gathers. Everyone has some.”

Quinn stepped over a dead soldier, joining them as his men set out to secure the facility. “There are somewhere around eighty billion souls on Nar Shaddaa. You’re saying he can, what? Feed on them, grow stronger?”

“I don’t know.” Morgan admitted. “Not for sure. Maybe it can only feed on Force users, and not everyone. Maybe Rathari wants to use it to build a paradise world, free of all hardship and strife. Or perhaps he heard something about a machine that can make an army from nothing, deciding he’d really like to have that. What I do know is that he cannot have it. Not him, and not anyone.”

Inara looked up. “Why not? Sounds useful, being able to make anything from nothing.”

Morgan pushed his presence out, the whole room stiffening as it filled every inch of the space. “Because we cannot keep hold of it ourselves, and I will not trust anyone else with its power. I will make myself very clear. We will stop Rathari from getting the fragment. We will destroy it if we can, and if we cannot we are going to sink this entire sector into the ground. Understood?”

Alyssa and Inara kneeled, their eyes lowered as they nodded. Quinn had snapped straight, straightening further when Morgan glanced at him. Most of the soldiers still in the room looked terrified, hurrying to get back to their assignments.

He pulled back, letting the Force settle as normal. ‘That was stupid. Any half-blind Force user could have felt that, and Rathari is not blind.’

“You two, with me. Quinn, secure the facility while we scout. You might need to hold off or kill what guards Rathari’s brought, but if not, fortify this position and secure a path of retreat.”

The captain nodded, Morgan leaving the room with Alyssa and Inara trailing behind.

Following the path Rathari carved to the fragment was easy to follow, finding another dead sith on the way. ‘Another apprentice? Intel suggested he had just the one.’

They came to the end of the tunnel, having to step past a small army of broken droids and turrets as they did, and before them spread a vast space.

Artificial, by the support beams and smooth walls, and stretching so far it disappeared into darkness. It made the room feel infinite, and far below them, on the ground floor, was Rathari. Morgan looked down, seeing a makeshift ladder carved into the wall to reach the tunnel. ‘Slowed down enough to secure his retreat. Even with a lightsaber half a click is a lot of space to carve.’

Inara handed him a pair of binoculars, doing the same for Alyssa.

Morgan hadn’t known what to expect from a sith Lord. Not really. Before one of the pillars, easily two hundred feet thick and stretching two clicks upwards at minimum, Rathari was fighting an army.

And winning, by the way more forces were streaming to his location. Droids of every shape and size, some humanoid assassin’s or hulking brutes, others massive constructs reminiscing tanks, lay unmoving at his feet.

As they watched Rathari cut through a war machine ten feet tall, using it to push high and dent the ground where he landed. The droids there scattered like ants, flying back as he crushed and cut through the remainder with terrifying ease. The sith Lord screamed, loud enough they had to cover their ears six clicks away, and droids fled in terror.

‘He.’ Morgan thought, awed in all the worse ways. ‘He just terrified droids.’

“We’re leaving.” He declared, turning. “We could throw the whole Enosis at him and get slaughtered for the effort. We’ll find another way to kill Dellocon, if he’s even here.”

Just as he was about to step back into the tunnel, to reassess and get Quinn’s opinion, everything quieted. His own breathing fell silent, something he had no trouble admitting freaked him out. He looked back, his perception picking up a miniature sun casting twisting shadows, and he had the horrid feeling it was waiting for them. He dropped his binoculars without noticing, hand going to his lightsaber.

He blinked and found himself standing right before it.

Rathari was to his left, not even ten feet away, and before them stood an ordinary man. Dressed in plain clothing, with short hair and soft features.

The sith Lord looked just as disoriented as Morgan felt, and it occurred to him he’d remembered nothing about the strangers features. He looked again, finding an old woman sculpted from crystal.

“Why.” The entity spoke, burning eyes narrowing. “Are you two making all this ruckus?”

Chapter Text

The young man snapped his fingers, pointing at the sith with a triumphant expression. “I remember now. You were on Korriban, helped my hound.”

Rathari frowned, trying to think back. He’d gotten here by some sort of spatial distortion, folding two points to reduce its distance. He hadn’t even known that was possible, but now that he did recreation would be a high priority.

He looked to the sith, a child fresh from Korriban, and saw he was in the process of bowing. Even Rathari had to admit it looked proper, although doing so before an unknown entity was rather cowardly.

“Lord Marka Ragnos.” Morgan, if he remembered his file, murmured. “I am glad to have been of service.”

Marka Ragnos? Unlikely. Ghosts were tethered to the place of their death, and that Lord of the sith had not died on Nar Shaddaa. He stayed quiet anyway, because lying or not, the stranger was far more powerful than himself.

“Yes, yes. My pup is hunting Old Hekka’s right now, having the time of his life.” The orb beckoned, Rathari blinking. He’d sworn the thing had been humanoid, before.

Morgan walked forwards, bowing again when he stopped. “Now then, why are you here? Not for my little science experiment, surely? That would make this a wasted trip.”

“No, my Lord.” Morgan assured, and Rathari heard only the slightest tremor in his tone. He approved. Relying on the Force for all things was a wasteful habit. Especially here, where feeling another with the Force would be rather like staring into the sun and trying to make out birds. Some basic acting skills should be taught on Korriban, doubly so with how most sith wore their hearts on their sleeves.

“Ah, here to kill that one, then.” The lizard pointed to him, and Rathari thought he’d seen the orb change. Absurd, the stranger had been a lizard since the start.

Morgan looked pained. “No, my Lord. I am here on orders of my master, to kill a spy. When I learned Rathari was trying to acquire a fragment of the Star Forge I planned to stop him, but changed my mind when I saw the Lord fight.”

Star Forge? All he’d heard was rumours of a self replicating machine. Even the researchers had no idea what it was, and he’d spend a couple hours looking over their findings. ‘So how does a baby sith know?’

The dark skinned man looked disappointed, patting Morgan on the shoulder reassuringly. “Oh. Well, plenty of time for you to grow. Remember, all paths lead to the same Source.”

Source? Morgan seemed to agree this was getting off track, venturing with a question of his own. “What happens now, my Lord?”

The man blinked, pointing at Rathari. “That one has been rude, impatient and altogether a bother. I suppose I’ll take care of him, and then we can talk about why you’re still clinging to those petty notions of honour.”

Rathari focussed, stepping back into old habits as his hand fell to his lightsaber. “You may not find that as easy as you are imagining, whoever you are.”

Morgan had made space, abandoning manners as he retreated. The lightly tanned man laughed, more amused than mocking. “People always assume I mean to kill them. Trust me on this, sith, there is no death. Not in any way mortals can comprehend.”

He swung high, knowing the mad entity had already made up his mind. The man didn’t move, didn’t defend himself, until the lightsaber cut through his body. Then he reformed, like gathering smoke, and shook his head.

Rathari stepped back, dropping the ineffective lightsaber to draw on his internal reserves. Panic tried to grip him when he couldn't push it out of his body, the stranger holding the Force as still as stone.

“You are well trained.” The man praised. “You plan and reassess. Can admit when you do not know something, and seek to change because of it. You are also going to kill Morgan should I let you live, if only because he knows about this place. About the fragment.”

His heart stopped, Rathari checking reflexively on his shields even as half his mind descended into blind panic. He found them perfectly intact, drawing from his internal reservoir of power. How?

The entity turned his back on him, walking over to a carefully relaxed Morgan. Rathari ignored them, grabbing hold over the Force and massaging his heart manually.

“Now. It appears to me you have been ignoring my advice given to you on Korriban. Bold, but not wise.”

Morgan replied something, he had no idea what, and Rathari struggled to find the rhythm needed to keep his brain from starving. He’d learned a host of medical techniques when he was fresh out of Korriban, a response to the high amount of bodily trauma he’d suffered, but a manual cardiac massage was not something he’d ever needed to perform before.

“Ah.” The entity spoke, appearing briefly embarrassed. Rathari wanted to growl, every word the man said thundering in his ears. Distracting him. “Perhaps a three fold tesseract was not the best way to convey information to mortals. Allow me to explain.”

The other sith’s reply was lost again, Rathari forcefully ignoring how he could hear one but not the other. His lungs were less effective than they should be. A cursory look at his shields revealed them to be thinning, something that should not be possible in the slightest.

None of this, he admitted, was lethal.

“Do you understand?” A brief silence, then a laugh. “Good. Flattery will get you everywhere.”

Rathari looked, his eyes drawn by a surge of Force, and saw that a vaguely egg shaped machine had appeared. The fragment, if common sense had not abandoned him.

“I’m done studying it, a pleasant distraction from my other works, so I leave its fate up to you.” A pause, something Rathari was coming to understand where Morgan’s replies. “I see. You meant it, then? To destroy this machine?”

A lightsaber ignited, metal dripping to the floor as Rathari heard his prize be destroyed. He collapsed, playing dead and not having to pretend all that heavily.

The entity hummed, pleased as a button. “No hesitation. No greed. Very good. Go on now. Leave an old man to his thinking.”

The entity bowed over him, having taken a step stretching hundreds of feet, and cleared his throat softly. “He’s gone, you can stop pretending.”

Rathari struggled to his feet, a task he found to be alarmingly difficult, and looked at the entity. “Why didn’t you kill me?”

“Because no one grows without strife.” The man replied, sounding surprised. “So that’s going to be your penance. Kill Morgan, kill his soldiers and apprentices, then come back. I’ll restore your shields, your connection to the Force, everything.”

The man shaped his fingers, pointing at his chest. “Quick thinking on the cardiac massage, my good man, but then it seemed like something you’d know.”

“I’m.” Rathari coughed, his lungs shuttering. “I’m weak. Weaker than I’ve been for years.”

The entity frowned. “I’m not going to set a fully realised sith Lord on him. This is a test, not an execution. It will be a fair proving, however. You’ll have the strength as you did when you walked the galaxy fresh from Korriban. Just as long as Morgan has. Who has learned more, I wonder?”

Rathari nodded, not seeing any other choice, and turned when the entity waved his hand. ‘You can restrict power, strange thing, but not knowledge. I’ve been a sith Lord for over a decade, no matter how you limit me.’

Following the orders of some entity rankled, although not enough to do anything about it. Having to manually keep his heart beating limited him further, but he caught up soon enough. Part of him, the angry impatient part, wanted to pounce now. To dispatch the two women and snap the neck of that meddling sith like a twig.

He held back, not seeing a good angle to attack. The trio was fresh, silent and keeping a close eye on their surroundings. He was wounded, had spent hours cutting through an endless swarm of droids and had no idea how far his imposed limits stretched.

Rathari practised as he followed them, working the Force much like a muscle. Feeling where it complained, ran against walls in a manner he had never felt before. He had maybe half an hour before they came to the facility, if they kept this pace, and that would have to do.

He’d gotten the Force under control when he left the glare made by the entity, briefly wondering if the whole sector could feel it. Like a star going supernova, infusing everything with its power.

Only, when he tentatively reached back, he could feel none of it. His tendril disintegrated when it crossed some invisible line, but before that he could feel nothing. He shuddered involuntarily, lightly brushing away a wave of detection when it came his way.

His target relaxed marginally when his scan revealed nothing, although they kept on high alert until they passed a pair of soldiers and reached friendly territory.

Rathari frowned, did one final check of his ability, then decided it would have to suffice. He charged, rounding the corner and pushing off the wall with explosive force. The two soldiers had just about raised their weapons when his lightsaber cut through them.

Waves of alarm and fear swept over him as he felt his target turn to meet him. He prepared, carefully setting up a mental attack that would incapacitate his target. Incapacitate at the least, but with how little power he could infuse before the structure warped he would have to see.

The three sith bounded across the hallway to meet him, their formation widening to fit the large space, and Rathari noted an unusual degree of teamwork.

It wouldn't matter. He let his attack fly, his eyebrow rising up when his target met it halfway. Cancelling out Force attacks was too advanced for a mere apprentice. His mental attack weakened, although his prey failed to dismiss it entirely, and struck home.

His two neophytes collapsed in a heap, their eyes rolling up as they went boneless. The man himself only stuttered, a wave of rage briefly washing over his face before it went blank. Rathari frowned deeper, drawing his lightsaber and sinking backwards into the Force.

‘Countering techniques, solid mental defences.’ Rathari tested his opponent's shield, finding it a dome of power. ‘Able soul defences.’

His picture of Morgan was refined as the man closed the distance, raising his lightsaber to block an incoming attack. He took a half step back, lessening the power of the following kick. He blocked the remainder, his forearm intercepting the foot.

Bone fractured as he slid to the side, the pain failing to distract him. ‘Extraordinary strength. Delay, learn and counter.’

The mantra settled him deeper into the Force, his precognition heightening as he turned aside a crippling blow to his knees. He retaliated with a needle, poking the sith’s shield to cripple his enforcement. It was unravelled before it could touch him, and Rathari’s control had degraded enough he couldn't hide them inside a larger technique.

He tried another mental attack, point blank and forgoing skill for power. Some of it was unravelled again, but he estimated roughly seventy percent crashed into Morgan’s shields. The man stuttered again, slowing for just a heartbeat or two, and Rathari went on the offensive.

His lightsaber went low, armour slowing the blow enough his opponent managed to save the leg, before carving a ruinous path upwards to his throat. Durasteel melted, but before he could finish it he had to slap aside a knife.

It bought his opponent enough time the man centred himself, another knife slipping free. The one on the floor joined its brother in circling the pair, out of reach of his lightsaber but close enough to punish any lapse in attention.

Rathari snorted, breaking the finger-light control of the man’s knives with a twist. They wavered, but another connection was established before they could fall. He tried again, deflecting a kick with his leg. This time he briefly flooded the hallway, infusing his Force into the air. He nodded, satisfied, as the knives clattered to the ground.

Then he nearly lost his spine as they went for his back, catapulting forwards as his opponent went for his throat. He twisted to dodge the steel, Morgan’s fist catching his windpipe and collapsing it.

Without air this fight had a deadline, his control stretching further as he tried to force it open. Horrid pain laced his neck, small panes of power restructuring his trachea. Air inflated his lungs, but Morgan took the exact worst moment to attack.

His control was split between keeping his heart beating and his windpipe from collapsing. Another two seconds and it would have stabilised, but his shield was enveloped by dozens of tendrils. Twisting and grinding, breaking until a fracture appeared.

Rathari was just slightly too slow. His foot locked up, its muscles disobeying orders as his balance suffered. The lightsaber came for his chest, a killing blow, and he realised too late it was a feint. By then his lightsaber was in the wrong position, his opponent twisting.

The kick broke four ribs, damaging his heart further and embedding him into the wall. He’d managed to avoid breaking his spine by layering the Force behind himself, looking at his opponent. As wounded as he was, Morgan’s condition was worse.

A large, jarring cut stretched from his upper leg to his navel, the melted steel burning flesh. His left eye was watery, likely from the strain his mental shields suffered, and he didn’t close in for the kill.

Rathari saw why that was as he climbed to his feet, shaking his foot. The wounds were closing before his eyes, flesh filling them from within. It looked horrid, like someone had forced pulsing skin into the wounds, but Morgan seemed to care little. He shook his head, tested his leg, and waited.

‘I won’t win a battle of attrition.’ Rathari thought, frowning. ‘Healing. Fleshcrafter, by the looks of it. Another four minutes until my brain starts starving?’

Soldiers appeared, interrupting their duel, and he wanted to scoff. Throwing their lives away was more ruthless than his profile suggested, buying him only fractions for each. Morgan flicked his hand to his apprentices, his men dragging them away.

Six stayed behind, hands tightly clutched around ancient looking weaponry. Slugthrowers.

He kicked off, flying to land in their middle and take care of them before his body filled with lead. His speed was still fast enough he landed without being shot, but the soldiers didn’t aim for him.

They threw themselves backwards instead, a rough circle forming with him in the middle. That normally wouldn't have been a problem, his speed more than able to close the distance, but they managed an impressive twenty feet.

Impressive enough he hesitated, unsure, and that was something he hadn’t done in a long time. It was punished immediately, dozens of slugs tearing through the air. He dodged most, blocking what he couldn't.

Molten slag punched into his body, the damage not nearly what an intact slug would inflict. Before he could charge his opponent appeared, forcing him to block.

‘They’re trained against sith.’ He noted, stepping back to avoid the lightsaber and having to duck to avoid a slug. ‘Fleshcrafter. He enforced them.’

This was beginning to look like more than he could handle, his escape route being blocked by four soldiers ready to fill him with slugs. He felt fear in them, fear aplenty, but they stood regardless. He sped deeper into the facility instead, something they hadn’t expected.

He raced by more soldiers, leaving them be. Killing them would give his opponent time to catch up, but he had a plan. The profile hadn't been wrong, not entirely. The rage Morgan had felt when he killed his two soldiers had been real, so a hostage could be useful. His captain.

Rathari burst into the command centre, said captain looking at his arrival with cold eyes. He appeared behind the man, his lightsaber coming up to rest against his throat and stilling the knife that had appeared in Quinn’s hand.

The kick took him off guard, forcing him to take a balancing step and feeling searing pain in his leg. He looked, seeing the knife had missed his artery by an inch. One of the women, a pureblood, readied her lightsaber. ‘They aren’t dead?’

He crafted another mental push as the captain made space, being interrupted before he could complete it. The second woman attacked his shield, and he was weakened enough he had to reinforce it. His mental attack was abandoned, the two women circling him like hounds.

‘Buying time.’ He decided. Rathari blinked. ‘That should have been obvious.’

He checked his lungs, feeling one of his ribs had poked a hole in his left lobe. Blood was pooling inside, his brain already slowing. He closed the hole with another pane, his control stretching further still, and went on the offensive.

Morgan intercepted him, his eyes clear, and he moved to block. The circling sith bounded forward, one aiming for his neck and the other going for his knees. He turned aside, dodging the lightsaber coming for his neck, but his knee burned.

He rolled as he collapsed, clearing some space, and he heard Morgan bark something. His brain tried to puzzle it out, panicking slightly when it took longer than it should have, but by then a rolling wave of Force crashed into him.

Their combined power overwhelmed his weakened shield, flinging him through the table. A directed tendril of power came after, only barely fought off, and he struggled to his feet as they advanced.

The women stayed on the defensive, letting their master occupy his attention and snipping at his heels. It was frustratingly effective, his body collecting minor wounds even on the defence, and he used a moment of peace to jump through the room.

His knee damaged further from the stress, more hanging on than attached, but the hallway offered a moment reprieve.

Until those soldiers appeared, slugs tearing through the air and forcing him to defend. One impacted his back, half turning to see the captain take aim again. It also brought his attention to a corpse slumped against the walls, Dellocon’s face staring back.

He focussed, barely managing to turn away from the lightsaber coming to take his head off, and a hail of slugs impacted his chest.

The soldiers abandoned their careful aim when their master jumped back, half a hundred more slugs shredding his internal organs. More than he could dodge or block. More than he could handle.

‘Killed by a ghost and apprentice. How humiliati-’

His thoughts stopped when the lightsaber sheared his head in two, the briefest shock going through him before all feelings stopped.

Morgan waved, Alyssa and Inara stepping forwards to cut his body into pieces. Jillins came after, dropping an incendiary grenade on the mangled corpse.

Quinn called for medics as Rathari burned, the sith Lord’s body disappearing into ashes.

Vette reclined in her pseudo throne, overlooking the expansive floor below. Only days ago it had been an abandoned warehouse, now emptied and cleaned.

Dorka stalked between the mercenaries, divided into four rough groups. Vette smiled lightly, seeing the exhaustion on some of their faces.

When the call had gone out she’d pay double for the first three hundred that signed up; they'd been flooded. It had allowed her to be picky, weeding out the arrogant and hopeless. Four days now. Four days Dorka had been putting them through their paces.

One third retention was a horrendous margin, true. These would not be simple hunters and enforcers, though. She had plenty of those, more streaming in as her reputation grew and money flowed. No, these would be her elite.

Her second barked at some fool almost dropping his blaster, getting a fierce glare in return. The mandalorian laughed, a mocking tilt to his tone as he asked if the man wanted to leave.

‘Well, they have time to shape up.’ She reasoned. More when they’re in transit.’

Vette stood, going unnoticed among the spectacle forming below, and walked into her office. An actual office, once belonging to some supervisor. Amelia was seated at a desk twice the size of her own, two attendants flanking her.

Her assistant stood as she entered, bowing her head as Vette waved her off. The two former slaves, now turned into Amelia’s very own minions, had dropped to the floor.

The gesture of submission made her more than a little uncomfortable, not that they’d ever know, and brought up bad memories in the process. Their boss whispered something, both women standing with their eyes averted.

Amelia had assured her they’d come around. It was depressing to think they were among the most mentally stable of her rehabilitation program, most stable among thousands. It was a bit of a money pit, right now, but Vette had glared at all the naysayers and they’d shut up.

Maybe she had glared at Dorka when he’d lightly asked if the money sent there could be better spent elsewhere, same difference. She’d just as lightly informed him it would make for very fertile recruitment grounds, giving them a steady stream of recruits.

That had the benefit of being true, even if it wasn’t her prime motivation. She dropped into her chair, made for comfort over style, and rapped her fingers against the table.

“I’m sure he will be back soon.” Amelia assured, signing some documents and coming to stand before her desk. “In the meanwhile.”

Vette glared half-heartedly, huffing. “Like I spent all my time worrying over some guy. I’m a pirate queen, above such petty things.”

“We are not pirates.” Amelia denied gently. “And no. You also spent it in furious conquest, terrifying both our own people and the enemy.”

She huffed again. “Some fear will do them good.”

A list of their holdings and manpower was deposited on her desk, Vette looking it over reluctantly. “Four hundred and ninety eight businesses of varying prosperity, a detailed account on pages seventy three to one hundred and nine. Two thousand and seventy one employees, one thousand eight hundred and fifty combat ready, a detailed account on pages thirty one to fifty eight. Nine subverted territories in the process of converting, with- I’m not reading this again. What’s new?”

Amelia smiled, taking the datapad. “The Glorious Sons of Varos have offered their surrender. Captain Helioas has accepted, following current protocol, and is seeing who will be allowed to join his crew. The Mantos Droid corporation, such as it is, has been neutralised. We are buying up their holdings cheaply and looking for someone to run the rebranded enterprise. It should, given time to recover, become the most profitable company under our control.”

“Switch to fortifying and securing our current holdings.” Vette twirled in her chair, catching one of Amelia’s assistants taking notes. “We, and by that I mean us in this room and the people being drilled by Dorka, won’t be here to oversee for much longer. How we doing on finding someone to run the place?”

Her second second in command, someone who she probably needed to give a proper title soon, frowned. “Gregor is our favourite candidate. Former gang leader, using the money he made to start Gregor’s Shipyard Inc. The company went under some years ago. Revenge, from what my people could find, for insulting the wife of a rich tourist. He killed the tourist not long after, but his fortune had dried up.”

Vette hummed, putting her sniper on the table and disassembling it. She found she concentrated better when her hands were busy. “Why’d you like him?”

“We got his daughter private medical care, she’s better now, and he seems grateful for it. Little ego, likely because he is old, and knows how to run both legal and illegal operations. By all accounts he is loyal, competent and experienced with Nar Shaddaa.”

“But?” Vette asked, laying out her cleaning kit. The one downside of slugthrowers, other than having to carry munitions. They had to be cleaned twice as often.

“But I see no reason for him not to turn on us when we leave. The plan of using a small, well trained army to establish footholds on whatever planet Lord Morgan is going to is a sound one. I don’t see why any would remain loyal when we leave again.”

She nodded, turning over her weapon and taking off the barrel. “Good question, my most loyal minion. Firstly, we’ll control the money. He could lie, report less than what he’s made, but that’s what we have Miraka for. She’ll set up algorithms and other tech magic to monitor any discrepancies with the company's revenue. If we were a typical outfit, getting our money from protection schemes and drugs, you’d be right. We’re not. Our enforcers will be protecting weapon shipments, supplying muscle and defending territory. Few hard credits, difficult to syphon.”

She wiped the barrel clean, picking up a bore brush. “So we’re the ones paying for the mercenaries. He could take control anyway, true. Subvert contracts and such. Should that happen we’ll have to come back, clean house. I don’t think it will. Why won’t they, Amelia? Why will people hesitate to turn on me?”

“Because you spent the last week showing what happens when they displease you.” She said quietly. “They might forget.”

“Then I’ll remind them. Hand me the cloth?”

Amelia did, making her smile. “I do worry about Morgan. I haven’t been aimlessly venting that worry on Nar Shaddaa without a plan. If you ever have questions about my motives, ask. In private, mind you, but I won’t get upset with you. Who do you like for Gregor’s second?”

“Captain Helioas.” She answered, looking back at her assistants. One brought over a different datapad. “Here’s his report.”

It was hours before she got out of her office, stretching her legs to see most of her so-called private army collapsed on the ground. Dorka was stalking among them, displeasure written over his face.

He approached when he saw her, waving his hand at the room and lowering his voice. “They're improving. You sure we can’t put some veterans in there?”

“Better if they're young, new. We can train them, and I’d rather not have moles this early.”

Dorka nodded begrudgingly. “So you keep telling me. Didn’t escape my notice I've been doing most of the training.”

“But you’re so good at it.” Vette grinned, stepping over a prone young woman groaning on the floor. She clapped her hands, the sound nearly deafening those closest to her. “Everybody up.”

She cajoled them into a rough circle, sitting them on the floor like children. The phrase herding cats came to mind, although most cats weren’t this well armed. “You, my special minions, have seen what my second can do. Some of the better behaved ones have even seen what I can do.”

Four women flinched slightly, sitting together. Dorka had told her they were the best of the crop. Disciplined, well trained. Inexperienced, but solid. So she’d taken them on a little excursion.

‘Maybe breaking that cyborg over my knee was a tad much.’ She frowned. ‘Nah, that was cool as fuck. They’ll get over it. Look, they're even sitting together as friends.’

“The rest of you, errant children that you are, need to be reminded who the biggest bully of this schoolyard is. Jess, Dials, Krilka. Up.”

Those three were the troublemakers. Aggressive, used to being the toughest around. It gave them an edge. It also shot unit cohesion in the face. They stood, looking at each other. “Don’t just stand there. Hit me.”

Dials shrugged, dancing forwards and japping at her head. She shot her forehead into it, making sure the fist collided with the thickest part of her skull, and Dials screamed as he broke four fingers. “Next!”

Jess and Krilka exchanged wary glances, moving forward as a pair. Good. “Don’t be scared. Eating children is for Thursdays.”

Jess’s face scrunched up at the taunt, stepping out of sync with her partner. Vette shot towards her, Krilka a step too far away to help her properly, and kicked her in the chest.

Two arms and a braced position, in addition to her holding back, saved her from any broken bones. She still fell on her ass, her eyes wide as she stared at the twi’lek. Krilka pounced, Vette leaning aside with a yawn. “Come now, you’ve been acting like you own the place. Surely you can do better than this?”

They couldn't, and she spent the next five minutes or so hammering that fact home. To his credit Dials had struggled to his feet, helping where he could. She gave him points for trying.

“What the fuck is she made of.” Jess complained, the trio slinking back to the line. They found their old spot had closed, having to split up to find space.

“Dorka, want to show them how it’s done?” She called, sending Jess a smirk. The woman paled, still cradling her shoulder. Her second didn’t get a chance to respond, Amelia striding onto the sparring floor and leaning close.

“Captain Quinn has reported mission success. They got back to the Aurora some minutes ago.”

Vette smiled, a mean glint in her eye. “Finally. Making me wait for a whole week. Rude.”

“Take an hour break, then you’re on patrol. Dorka will see to your schedule. Valkyries, with me.” She called. The four huddled women stood when she pointed at them, exchanging uncertain looks.

The oldest, she hadn’t cared to remember their names, spoke up. “Valkyries?”

“You’re all pretty, fighters and female. Warrior women in service to some god who’s name I can’t remember. Extinct religions fascinated me once. Ignore the bit about shepherding dead souls, it’s not important here.”

By their confused looks that hadn’t cleared anything up, but they also didn’t ask for clarification. She decided that was good enough, stepping into one of her ships. Confused or not, her four guards took their positions.

Travelling without a guard had become somewhat less feasible over the last week, annoying as that was. These ones were competent, though, and usually kept silent. It added to her image to have well armed people following her, and that mattered more than it used to.

Coming to the dock she saw crewmen on guard, stepping aside when she waved at them. The woman's confusion grew, something that amused her if nothing else, but by the time she came to the Aurora’s hangar bay doors she had more important things to do.

Like flinging herself into Morgan’s arms, jumping when she was still a good twenty feet away. Her legs pushed, she sailed into the air, and laughed when Morgan took a steadying step backwards.

The strength of his arms surprised her, wrapping her up and burying his face in her shoulder. He murmured something, she couldn't quite hear, and she pulled back to put her forehead to his. “I missed you. Don’t take so long to kill a sith Lord next time, it’s inconvenient.”

Her guards approached as his face blanked briefly, something she noticed but didn’t comment on, and he put her down. “I was just about to look for you. They’re with you, I assume? Otherwise my men are being surprisingly cool with four unknown strangers in their middle, all heavily armed.”

“My valkyries.” She introduced, grinning. “Minions, meet Morgan. I’ve been assured he’s sith.”

“You’re. You’re dating a sith?” The third oldest asked, seeming to regret opening her mouth the second she did. “Not that that’s any of my business, of course.”

“Omens of war. Fitting.” Morgan kissed her head, being the perfect height to do so, and turned. “Come, I imagine we have stories to share. Odin’s maidens can get something to eat while they wait.”

She frowned, turning her back to her guards as they walked. “Odin? No wait, more important. Why’d you flinch?”

“I did not.” He denied, sidestepping an opening door and waving off the torrent of apologies. “I very pointedly didn’t display any emotion, actually.”

“Same difference.”

Morgan sighed, smiling briefly. “I’ll start, then. Come, I can get some healing in as we talk.”

He pulled off his shirt as they came to their room, a jagged scar running from thigh to navel. She flinched, anger and fear surging. Vette calmed as he sat, reminding herself he was a big boy and could take care of himself. “It went well enough until we got ambushed at night, four of my men dead on the ground.”

She listened as he talked, seeing him slip half in a trance as he prodded the scar with his fingers. By the time he came to the fight with Rathari, only briefly mentioning talking with some long dead sith, the scar had become lighter. Less noticeable. “My armour saved me, as is becoming standard, but I hesitated.”

“Told myself I was buying time, fixing the wound. That’s true, even, and could have been a smart play. But it wasn’t a play. I found old fear coiling in my gut, telling me what I would be leaving behind. You made me feel things, wretched woman.”

She ignored the last part, forced sarcasm as it was, and dropped into his lap. “You won anyway.”

“I did. Got over myself, you could say. He killed two of my men before we even engaged him. Ragnos lied.”

Morgan shook his head, leaning into her hand as she combed his hair. “That feels wrong. He didn’t lie, and Rathari was weaker. Saw him tear an army apart without breaking a sweat, but somehow I killed him? A test.”

It sounded like he’d just come to that conclusion. She hummed. “Old ghosts. I’ll shoot him, next time. Make the bad man go away.”

He snorted, letting himself fall backwards. She went with it, lying half on top of him as he stared at the ceiling. “Nine of my soldiers died. They got Dellocon, shot him as he tried to slip past their patrols. Can’t even say I shouldn't have brought them.”

“Why’d Rathari bring the spy, anyway? Seems smarter to put him in a safehouse somewhere.”

Morgan shrugged. “Keeping him close? Maybe Dellocon was getting cold feet about defecting, wanted to run off. Can’t exactly ask the man.”

“What did you get up to?” He asked after a minute of silence.

He turned to look at her. She smiled, going boneless and forcing him to catch her lest she slip off. “Nothing as exciting as you. Took over what I could from Wisi, securing contracts and businesses and such. Suppressed or took over the gangs trying to take their own cut, let people know who's in charge. Laid the foundations for an interstellar crime empire, establishing footholds wherever we’ll go next. Just normal stuff. Oh, that slaver women is dead. Halidrell, I think. Got hit by some angry Wisi loyalists. It was hilarious. Took care of them after, mind you. No sense letting them run around. The cartels have been quiet, fitting with your ‘the weak are worthless, even other hutts’ theory.”

“So normal.” He praised, not even mentioning the slaver. “Not my theory, either. Concerned about leaving these footholds to govern themselves?”

She scooted forwards, pressing a kiss to his lips and smiling. “I’ll deal with it. I can spare a few hours, if you want to decompress?”

His lips curled against her own. “How generous. A massage sounds nice, I’ve gotten all stiff from lying on the floor like this.”

Her heartbeat jumped slightly as he lifted them both up, grinning as the tightness in his eyes relaxed slightly. “I’ll even return the favour.”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

Darth Baras, arguably the seventh most influential sith after the Dark Council, stared at a report and hesitated.

‘We followed Lord Morgan into the depths of Nar Shaddaa, encountering a research facility along the way. Our Lord informed us this was to study a device called the Star Forge Fragment, a topic on which I will confess my ignorance. We saw the enforced in action, tearing through beasts like wet paper. They possess the strength of a cyborg with none of their weaknesses, and many of my fellow soldiers have told me they would join their ranks if they could. I am unsure, as it seems to require a level of loyalty I’m not comfortable giving to a sith. Almost forgot. The enforced engaged a sith Lord and survived, some even scoring lasting wounds. It is a point in their favour, I will admit, but I still hesitate. Not that they are recruiting, and I get the feeling they pick their members with care.’

It was scattered at best, a personal recollection recovered by his agents. He’d been spending close to an hour reading them, thoughts put to writing without order or structure. This was the seventh soldier that told more or less the same thing, Baras putting down the datapad.

‘My apprentice went into the bowels of Nar Shaddaa, killed Rathari, his slave started a criminal enterprise and his fleshcrafting has advanced enough he is starting to enforce his soldiers.’ Baras summarised. ‘Quinn’s reports are becoming less useful by the cycle, the captain of Morgan’s ship hanged the man I sent to blackmail her and my apprentice seems to have developed genuine affection for his slave.’

He flicked at his datapad, the official status of said slave appearing. ‘Yet has not used his growing influence to free her. Good.’

That is where his indecision came in. Or, if pressed, his hesitation. ‘The creation of enhanced soldiers would be a boon, yet it was almost laughably easy to figure out he needs to be close to reapply it. Insurance should his soldiers betray him? An inability to make it permanent?’

His apprentice would not continue to grow in captivity, of that he was sure. Out of spite or not, fleshcrafting needed a measure of creativity not compatible with active imprisonment. What he had is what Baras would get, and he would not settle for a few hundred super soldiers when he could have millions.

‘Leave him be for now, then.’ He decided. ‘More useful as an enforcer. Assign watchers to keep an eye on his slave’s criminal dealings. Maybe get Imperial Intelligence involved?’

He walked to his long distance communicator, spent a second to get into the right mindset, and hailed his apprentice.

Morgan’s body appeared, carefully submissive in a bowed position. Baras approved. “It seems your business on Nar Shaddaa is over, my apprentice. Lord Rathari dispelled and Dellocon eliminated. Halidrell Setsyn's death was unfortunate, but the ends justify the means.”

His apprentice didn’t seem to care one way or the other about Halidrell, at the very least assuring him he’d not become a bleeding heart. “With the death of both my compromised agents the time has come to set out sights on Nomen Karr and his gifted padawan. She has trained on Tatooine and claimed on Alderaan, so that is where you will go. My agents have yet to find a solid lead on her home planet, so Tatooine will be first.”

Morgan stayed silent, appearing as little more than a soldier awaiting orders. Baras knew better, yet he found it was a convincing display. “I am certain Nomen Karr brought his gifted padawan to Tatooine to train with a legendary master named Yonlach. Find him, kill him. The bond between padawan and master will be severed, and the girl will be unbalanced.”

“By your orders, master.” Morgan replied. “Are there limits in this objective?”

Baras waved his hand. “Tatooine is a backwater. Kill every man, woman and child. Burn any house. As long as Yonlach dies I care not what happens to the rest of that wasteland.”

His apprentice bowed again. Baras disconnected, displeased with that interaction for reasons he could not name. ‘We will see how he deals with the tracker on his ship. Knowing Karr he will move to eliminate, though I doubt the man will come in person. A test, apprentice, to see if you still have use as my enforcer.’

Morgan waited patiently, his presence fading slightly as he matched the patterns of the Force, until Teacher spoke. “I agree. Rathari should have been capable of more, dismissing the slim possibility that sith Lords have weakened since my time. You dealt with him, but I should not have to mention how monumentally stupid hesitation is at a moment like that.”

“I was afraid.” Morgan said, shrugging helplessly. “Afraid of losing Vette, of abandoning the spark of happiness I found. Of death, as banal as that sounds. I’m surprisingly fine if that makes me weak.”

Teacher shook his head. “I keep forgetting that you are young. A fear of death does not weaken you. Do you think I forged a holocron not seen before or since because I was happy to die? That people strive to improve and grow because they wish to give the reaper a more fulfilling experience?”

“I hesitated. Feared death where I didn’t before. Nearly killed me, so I will have to argue for weakness.”

“Wrong.” Teacher denied. “You were uncaring about your death, a form of severe functional depression. Now you have to make peace with it. That everyone, no matter how immortal they claim to be, will die.”

Morgan didn’t have an answer for that, something Teacher clearly noticed, so the man moved on. “Show me what you’ve learned.”

He did, blending as far into the Force as he could. The cube said nothing, moving on to unravelling techniques. Teacher provided them, low in power but quick. Their construction was masterful, taking twice as much power and time to deplete. His mentor hummed, tilting side to side.

“Not bad. Unraveling will grow with practice, as will camouflage. Both are skills well suited to your strengths, although finding a talented blademaster will need to become a priority. The master fulfils that role, normally.”

He snorted at the sarcasm, petting the cube. “You're a great teacher, even if you can’t swing a lightsaber around.”

“I would get more respect, that’s for sure.” Teacher scowled, floating out of reach. Morgan didn’t comment how he could have done so before being touched. “Call those two eye candies you insist on employing. You need some proper practice.”

“I’m pretty sure that counts as sexual harassment.” Morgan said mildly, calling Alyssa and Inara. “That or you suck at names.”

Teacher didn’t respond, a silence falling over the room. He didn’t mind, letting his mind wander and focussing on his breathing. The power of his lungs, enforced as they were, drawing the air from all around. He opened his eyes when Teacher spoke, a hesitant tilt to his tone. “You said you spoke with Marka Ragnos?”

“If you call what we did speaking. I was scolded for ignoring information I didn't know was being given to me, praised for destroying the Star Forge Fragment and instructed to find the Source. Don’t ask, no idea what that is either. Told me to abandon honour, deepen my connection to the Force and trust nothing but the One True Sun. If he didn’t give off power like a nuclear reactor I would name him inane, if not insane.”

The arrival of Alyssa and Inara interrupted whatever Teachers reply would have been, both bowing lightly. “Welcome. Teacher wants me to train unravelling techniques, you two need to work on your mental shields. I don’t suppose either of you will complain, seeing as they saved your lives against Rathari?”

Neither did, bowing their heads in mute compliance and moving deeper into the room. “Good. I don’t employ mental attacks much, if ever, because they’re costly. That and I’m not supposed to really know any, nor have a mental shield capable of resisting them. Something to learn on Tatooine, perhaps?”

The last bit was directed to Teacher, the man humming noncommittally. “I’ve never put too much stock in them. Works great against anyone not shielded against them, or those not particularly powerful in the Force, but against those that can they become less than useful. Breeds overconfidence.”

“I’ll defer to your expertise.” Morgan said, turning to his pupils. “I’m essentially going to scream at you, every now and then, and it’s your job to shield against it. The Enosis trained you how?”

“With varying success.” Alyssa said. “It’s difficult, focussing on maintaining two shields at once.”

“True.” Morgan leaned right, stretching his shoulder and feeling his scar pull on skin. “Let’s begin.”

He was distracted as he trained, destroying techniques and blending the chaotic Force to hide him. Neither went all that well, his mind nagging at a detail he’d missed. Hours of training didn’t reveal it to him, and neither did an early dinner with Vette.

Putting it out of his mind seemed best, letting it come back on its own time. He didn’t feel all that reassured when he stepped onto the bridge, wondering how Vette had gotten here before him. “Commander, Vette. Am I interrupting?”

Clara shook her head, Vette grinning. “Kinda. What’s up?”

“I wished to go over the last details for our departure to Tatooine with the captain. Unless you have the relevant information, commander?”

The woman nodded, pulling up her datapad. “The last crew on shore leave returned three hours ago. Engineering has reported all systems operational and captain Quinn has accounted for his men. We’re fully supplied for desert operations with additional water supplies having arrived this morning. In short, everything is in order.”

Morgan nodded. “Excellent work. How are our finances?”

Vette whirled around from where she’d been scratching at a console. “Knew I forgot something. Amelia, pull up the present list?”

“My lady.” Her voice drifted from a small speaker on Vette’s armour. “It's on your datapad now.”

Clara cleared her throat awkwardly. “How long has she been listening?”

Vette waved her off, skipping over and shoving a datapad in his hands. “A present!”

“A present?” Morgan repeated, looking over a list of addresses and account numbers. “Thank you?”

She rolled her eyes. “It's money. Income streams, specifically. Quinn put it in your name already, asked him to keep it on the down low until I could surprise you. Surprise!”

He smiled, shaking his head. “Thank you. In my name?”

“Sith owned.” She confirmed. “Tax deductible or something, Amelia would know. Quinn said it should be enough to pay for his men and the ship, although not much more. Your mysterious benefactor, that’s me, will gift more when she expands her criminal enterprise.”

“Tax exempt.” Amelia provided.

“That.”

“You didn’t have to do that.” Morgan said. “I’d have figured something out. Can’t be easy running a syndicate when you give away money.”

Vette shrugged, sticking her tongue out. “You take that illegally obtained money and you like it. Besides, the sith hovering over my shoulder made taking over way easier than it should have been. People are scared you’re going to go on a rampage if they don’t get out of my way or something. Silly.”

He was about to reply when two more joined them on the bridge, Quinn and Kala halting when they saw he was in a standoff with Vette. He shook his head again. “Thank you. Don’t strain yourself on my account, please. Captains.”

Quinn nodded, Kala seeming distracted. Morgan turned to the man. “How are the men?”

“Rest was sorely needed. Morale is holding, considering.”

Morgan nodded. “Good. I saw new faces. While I do not consider my memory to be exceptional it is not so bad as to have forgotten whole squads of men.”

The captain shrugged. “Captain Kala recorded their names over the past week as they arrived. Most requested reassignment here, others are those I poached from Rathari. They were too wounded to move here. What resistance I faced at approving their official reassignment vanished when you returned, and the Lord did not.”

“Imagine that.” Morgan answered dryly. “Give me a short summary? I’ll read the full report later.”

“My command currently holds ninety six men, with lieutenants Helen and Kartwick as my senior staff. I’ve organised them into squads led by sergeants, those enforced by you answering to me alone. Still working out where they fit into command.”

Quinn nodded, as if to assure himself that was everything, and Morgan did some math. “Do we have enough funds for that? I don’t know if Vette’s present accounts for the increase in men.”

“Already included.” The man answered. “There is also an Intelligence agent waiting for you outside, pretending to be a messenger.”

“In a moment. Vette?” Morgan called, the twi’lek turning from where she’d resumed her talk with Clara. “Everything done on your end?”

She managed to look both bored and lightly insulted at the same time. “Got a ship, my second is in charge. They already left a few hours ago.”

Morgan nodded, ticking another item off his mental list. “Let’s go see what John wants, then. Captain, prepare for departure.”

He passed a still distracted Kala, the woman saluting belatedly as he passed and nodding her assent.

John was indeed waiting outside, looking different enough Morgan blinked. The man grinned, holding up a datapad. “Got a message for you.”

He closed the distance, some soldiers nearby relaxing when Morgan waved them off. “Good news, I hope? Certainly nothing to do with me getting a confused message when I inquired about Vette’s enslavement, I assume?”

The man flinched, more for the effect than because he got caught. “Meant to talk to you about that. A necessary evil, I assure you. It would broadcast to everyone you actually cared about her, not playing some sick game or having her brainwashed.”

“People think I’ve brainwashed her?” He had meant for that to sound casual. John shook his head a tad too quickly. “No one whose opinion matters. Point is, freeing her would do more harm than good.”

Morgan didn’t much like the sound of that. “It means she goes back to Korriban should I die.”

“I don’t happen to think she’ll go back to a cage without violent complaint. She’s a connected woman, these days.”

Point. “Why are you here?”

“Because my superiors ordered me to keep my distance.” John grinned. “And life is just so much more interesting when I don’t. I also come bearing gifts.”

“Following us to Tatooine, then?" Morgan asked, accepting the datapad. He looked it over, seeing a list very much like the one Vette had given him. “What is this?”

“Fraid so. It’ll be great fun, tracking you through the desert. That, my good friend, is your property. I muddled the papertrail some, although whoever handled the digital side is good at what they do. Young though, so I fixed some mistakes. It looks better like this, promise.”

He’d have to warn Vette John was poking into her people. “Thank you. Slightly concerned Imperial Intelligence is getting this much into my business, but that’s beside the point.”

“Well, that’s all I came here for. Be seeing you.”

“One moment.” Morgan didn’t even try to make it sound like a request. John turned. “Should something like this come up in the future, where you strongly believe my actions are detrimental, I will listen. Even if I disagree, I will hear your opinion. Don’t ever assume to make such decisions for either Vette or myself.”

A flicker of concern flashed through John’s eyes, briefly, but he smiled. “Sure thing.”

The man disappeared through the crowd, leaving him standing at the entrance of his hangar. Morgan turned, walked back inside his ship, and got to his quarters before someone bothered him again.

Although in this case he was the one barging in, Vette waving without turning from the holo. “So forty containers won’t be a problem?”

Armie nodded excitedly, waving his hands. “No problems, no problems. Will be two point six million credits. Boss lady smart, will sell for three on the streets of Nar Shaddaa no issue.”

“Good. Gregor, my captain on Nar Shaddaa, will see to the details. You have his address?”

The jawa nodded, disconnecting after setting a new meeting. Morgan walked deeper into the room, kissing her shoulder and wrapping her into a hug. “Friend of yours?”

“Armie.” Vette said, twisting in his arms. “Jawa that got us that armour on Balmorra. Seems the factories are up again, or he’s raided some stockpile, either way he got stuff to sell.”

“Big money.” Morgan confirmed. “Should help with whatever you’re planning for Tatooine.”

She smiled. “A girl should have her secrets. Come, I made dinner. That’s a lie, I stole it, but it's good food.”

He shook his head fondly, finally able to put the nagging sensation from his mind as she tugged him to the kitchen. “Some downtime would be nice.”

Kala stood on the bridge, her full staff manning the consoles, with her hands clasped behind her back. This is where she liked to be, the vastness of space blurring just beyond the windows as they made ready to come out of hyperspace. No awkward social interactions she’d inevitably fuck up. No scrambling for etiquette as Morgan appeared from nowhere. Just her and the stars, infinite potential at her fingertips.

“ETA of thirty three seconds before disengaging hyperspace.” Her navigation officer called.

She nodded, looking over their planned route. They’d been able to mostly chain routes together, their computer was smart enough to factor that in, but here they’d have to stop and recalculate. This journey was nothing extreme, sticking to well mapped hyperlanes. A good shakedown run, letting the crew get their footing.

“ETA fifteen seconds before disengaging hyperspace.”

This would be their only stop before reaching Tatooine. Kala frowned. Their only stop? She looked to the map, her mind rapidly planning alternate routes, but she saw none. A horrid feeling spread through her stomach.

Her command to sound battle stations was met with hesitation, distracting her for a brief moment. She snapped them out of it. “Lower viewport blast shields. Prepare fighters. Deflector shields to full draw.”

Her officers scrambled as the seconds ticked by, lights starting to blink and informing her of various decks reporting their readiness. “Missile launcher armed and ready to fire on your command.”

She nodded, her mind calming as five seconds turned to three. Her stomach settled, only her clasping hands indicating her nerves. “Do not fire unless fired upon, or on my orders.”

Hyperspace disappeared as their engines cooled, her navigation officer already calculating their new vector. She looked at her map, the ship's sensors reporting three vessels arrayed to intercept. Three Hammerhead-class cruisers, odds she wouldn't face on a good day.

With fifteen seconds to prepare this wasn’t a good day. “Keep fighters close and have them prepare their own hyperspace calculations. Hail them.”

“No response. Unknown ships are moving and setting deflectors to full!”

She could see that. “No non-critical chatter. Bring us to defence point nine.”

Millions of tons of durasteel moved on her command, pointing its heaviest armour directly to the enemy ships. She was vaguely aware of their Lord joining her, although he wasn’t saying anything. “Launch three missiles at each enemy.”

The explosives fired, invisible but for the enemy's fighters detonating them. Only a single one got through, breaking against the shield of ship two. Her readings displayed a seven percent drop in power, a grin forming on her lips. “Attack ship two, set fighters to screening manoeuvres. Concentrate fire on grid eight four. They don’t have the numbers to overwhelm us.”

The next few minutes were a haze, her ship accelerating as the enemy scrambled to get into a proper defensive position. She kept changing the angle of attack, their confusion evident as they adapted a rough defensive line unsuited to intercept her.

“No central command.” She mused. Louder, she said. “Fire two missiles at random intervals between ten and twenty seconds, target only enemy ships one and three. Engines, ramming speed.”

The captain of ship two panicked as he, or she, but statistically he, realised what she planned to do. The two other ships could have, should have, torn her to shreds before she could manage it.

They didn’t, her shields blocking their unfocused fire until it was too late. Ship one got close, but didn’t have the firepower to disable her on its own. “Brace for impact.”

This is what she lived for, feeling her ship tear into the Hammerhead with violence uncounting. She kept an eye on her sensors, no breach warnings appearing in her hull. “Engineering, get me an update on armour effectiveness.”

She listened with half an ear as her fighters tore three boarding pods to shreds, four more getting through and rapidly closing the distance. “Armour at estimated eighty four percent effectiveness.”

He sounded surprised. She wasn’t. Shields of a Hammerhead-class cruiser shouldn't have dropped by more than three percent against her missiles. Still in need of repairs, then, and assembled with haste. No central captain appointed, so drawn from different sectors and fleets. “Brace for boarding. Escort one and two, focus on disabling enemy fighters.”

Her pilots acknowledged, men she’d known since her early command. Crewmen that had spent the better part of four thousand hours in simulations, honing their craft as they hunted pirates. The enemy fighters dropped from six to four, then two before they retreated. ‘Who said being friends with crime lords doesn’t pay? Never heard of the Empire shelling out for mark nine deflectors and type four manoeuvre thrusters.’

“I’ll help deal with the boarding parties.” Morgan said, appearing as calm as ever. “If possible disable ship one without destroying it. There is someone I wish to talk to either on board or in contact with it. This is your command, I will add, so do as you deem best.”

“Understood.”

He strode out, Kala turning her full focus back on the battle. “Send fighters wide, no more than nine clicks, and converge on ship three. Arm bombs and destroy its shield. Move us to intercept directly, ramming speed. Bank at twenty clicks and fire payload in sync with fighters.”

Her people moved, her grin refusing to go away as the captain of ship three set to dodge her. Like she was that green, ramming two times in a row and not being sure it would have weakened plating. Her ship turned, their heavy plating to protect them from ship one, and her missiles impacted two seconds after those of her fighters. The deflectors dropped, her turbo lasers cutting deep into their armour.

Ship one got its act together, heavy fire concentrating on her engines. “Disengage, turn to meet ship one. Fighters, intercept enemy missiles and keep those bombers off us.”

Fighter four disappeared from her radar at the same time as ship three made a wild jump to hyperspace. She winced internally, saying a quick prayer for her lost pilot. Ship three’s departure suited her fine, on the other hand. ‘That’ll be missing for a while, assuming they don’t get sucked into a black hole and die.’

“Hail ship one and move to put some space between us. Shields?”

“Hailing. Shields holding, but we need time to recharge.”

She nodded, feeling the vibrations in her legs as one missile got through her defences. Her armour was thick enough for it, the chances these quickly assembled ships carried special munitions low enough to be discounted.

“Terminus-class.” The enemy captain, an older man with deep stress lines, greeted. “Not looking so good there.”

She was giving him time to recharge his own shields with this, but then she was betting her rate was better than his. “More so than your two friends. Jumping into wild space like that was risky, speaking of genius or panic. I’d go with panic, seeing as they didn’t angle before leaving.”

“I have someone that wishes to speak with your Lord, captain.”

“Nah.” She denied, pulling up her camera’s. “He’s busy.”

She shared the view, Morgan just finishing cutting a droid in two. He turned, two blurs tearing past the screen and coming to stop over his shoulders. He looked around, dismissively cutting down a soldier clawing at his feet. “See? Tisk tisk, ship three, leaving your boarding parties behind like that. Hope that wasn’t a friend of yours, seeing as he’s probably as dead as ship two.”

The captain disconnected with an angry scowl, likely seeing this break was helping her more than him, and she smiled wider. “Move to defend.”

‘Older, a veteran from the first war. Will move to bring his heavy weapons in range. Armour is damaged, but they have few fighters. Another sign this was hastily cobbled together, counting on the Hammerheads alone to destroy us.’

Morgan joined her on the bridge by the time she wrapped up, a well placed missile taking out their engines. “One Hammerhead-class cruiser, disabled and gift wrapped. Preparing boarding pods, they won’t dare shoot with us this close even if they find a turret that’s still operational.”

She was giddy enough at the victory her usual nervousness couldn't even touch her. Morgan nodded. “Good work, captain. All enemy boarding parties disabled. No casualties, although the med-bay will be crowded for a few days. Turns out three sith and a squad of super soldiers are very effective at taking care of unwanted guests."

Kala got herself under control, tugging down her uniform from where it had gotten crumpled. “I imagine not. We will assess damages in the meantime, ensure we can still make it to Tatooine.”

The sith nodded, leaving as Clara walked up. “That was fun. Let’s not ever ram a Hammerhead again, please?”

Kala snorted, turning into a full laugh after a second. Her officers joined her as nerves and adrenaline found their release. “First rounds on me when we get to Tatooine. Well done, boys and girls, well done.”

Chapter Text

Morgan strapped into the boarding pod, Vette to his left. Inara was with the squad of enforced, Alyssa in the third joined by more soldiers. They hadn’t been happy to be split up, nor get different assignments, but they hadn't complained.

The men and women surrounding him he didn’t know. His soldiers, that much was obvious, but keeping track of names and faces was starting to become impossible. This pod alone held eight people who he’d never met before, having joined during his hunt for Rathari, and there were dozens more.

Enough it was starting to get abstract. Numbers on a page, squads separated between specialties or experience. The ones joining him were shocktroopers, trained and equipped to break enemy formations. He never fought with them before, they didn’t know him, and he had the irrational urge to switch them out with Jillins’ squad.

The man had more than earned his command over them, in his opinion, and they actually knew how to fight with a sith. He shook his head minutely.

“Our objective is the command bridge.” He said, more for something to distract him than true need. “The other two squads will be taking the engines and communications stations respectively. The enemy ship is disabled, we do not know if it was assigned its maximum of four-hundred marines, and how many have survived the battle. I will lead any engagement, your job will be to back me up. Don’t be afraid to fire into a formation I have engaged. Do try and keep your aim on the enemy.”

Nods and acknowledgements echoed in the small space, the door closing with a hiss.

One of Kala’s officers came over the speaker, his voice monotone. “Travel time of approximately twenty four seconds. We are aiming to put you within two floors of the bridge.”

Vette nudged him, tapping her helmet. He switched his channel to private, looking her way. “First time?”

“You’ve been with me, or known about my whereabouts, since we left Korriban. Yes, this is my first time sitting in a tube and hoping not to get disintegrated. Even the Force can’t save me, and damn me if I haven’t gotten used to that safety blanket.”

She bumped his shoulder, her tone teasing. “Welcome to the realm of us mortals.”

The door completed its safety checks, setting off a second later. It was quiet, peaceful even, when they exited the launch bay and entered open space. “How many times have you done this?”

Her tone was wistful. “Must have been dozens. I remember my first. So filled with optimism, back then. With the righteous zeal of the wronged. No feeling quite like being sure that what you’re doing is right. Needed.”

The seconds ticked by, the room filled with thick silence. He looked to the door, so close he could touch it, and steeled his mind.

The pod was equipped with laser cutters, the kind they used for asteroid mining, and after the shock of attaching themselves to the Hammerhead they made short work of its armor. Eight, maybe nine seconds until the door pushed open, clearing the way of debris and ensuring they could exit.

The Force whispered and he pushed, grabbing the six small spheres and flinging them back. He kicked off, landed in the middle of scattered crewmen and soldiers, and his knives began their bloody work.

“See.” Vette said, her voice low enough it wouldn't travel far. “This is why I like fighting with sith. Would have made a mess of us fine Imperial subjects, it would have."

Morgan ignored the men staring at her, the other half looking at his feet. Thirteen dead in the time it took them to disembark, his knives finishing what the grenades hadn’t. “Stack up on me.”

They moved through the ship, eight soldiers and Vette close behind. They moved in a column two thick, his lightsaber able to defend the entire group from frontal attack. That became necessary when they turned the corner, a hastily stacked barricade blocking their way. Morgan looked it over, wondering if he should spare the power to blow it up.

Reason won out, reaching out with the Force. Two of their members carried visible grenades, the only soldiers among the barricade, and he activated them. Panicked shouts came their way, still too far to engage properly, and only one of the unfortunate soldiers managed to extract his explosive and have enough presence of mind to throw it his way.

Morgan batted it back, the detonation catching the left half at the same time the right exploded into fire. He advanced slowly, blocking or redirecting the limited fire turned their way, and his men took care of the rest.

“This is what I like to call the turning point.” Vette gloated, her voice coming over their comms. He checked, seeing she was broadcasting to the whole squad. “Where you proud soldiers can relate the stories you’ve heard to real life experience. So no more grumbling, hear? I’m friends, or at least friendly, with your captain, and I don’t think he’ll mind if I take over corporal punishment.”

Tight nods were sent her way, Morgan feeling lost. He abused his command access to kick everyone out of the connection, just leaving him and Vette. “What was that for?”

“No need to worry.” She assured, and he easily imagined her grin. “Just keep being the terrifying war machine you are, mamma will take care of the rest.”

He watched the hallway as his squad ensured everyone on the barricade was dead. “You’re not my mother. Nor would you want to be, trust me on that. Now kindly stop being coy and explain.”

“Just ensuring the loyalty of your men.” She half whispered, the effect lost over the comms. “And we’ll talk about your mommy issues later.”

Morgan shook his head, seeing the barricade was cleared. He waved his hand forward, their formation forming as they continued.

Two terrified groups of crewmen fled as they approached, abandoning their post and dropping their weapons. His map guided them to the bridge, apparently Kala carried stolen blueprints for Republic ships used during the last war, and he cut through the blast door within a minute.

A swarm of droids, he counted no more than twenty, interrupted him when he was almost finished. The squad of shock troopers held them off as he extracted his lightsaber, kicking off from the door to land in their middle.

Unlike the droids employed by the hutts, or the ones on Balmorra, these proved not so lightsaber resistant. Two of his men still fell, striding over when the last enemy crumbled to the ground.

One of them, late forties with an unfortunately long nose, was fine. She grunted as their medic injected a shot of stimulants, dulling the pain of a no doubt enormous bruise forming on her shoulder. She put her helmet back on, not looking at him.

The other had been unlucky, his leg twisted where he lay. Broken, Morgan didn’t need the Force to tell him that, and the man stiffened with a soundless scream as he forced the bone together again. Their medic wrapped a mechanical brace around it, nodding her thanks.

Morgan turned to the door, breathing deeply as he leaned back. The kick reverberated through his body, the blast door bending open with the groaning of metal. “What seems to be the trouble, Hirosho?”

A crewman, not captain, was talking to Nomen Karr. The image flickered some, the man standing tall and easy. A stark contrast to his contact, Hirosho seeming near hysteric. “Trouble?! We don’t have the men to fight off three sith! The engines are already lost, not that they were much use to start with, and you didn’t see that crazy fucker ram a warship! ”

“In my defence, I didn’t give that order.” Morgan interjected, stepping onto the bridge proper. It was staffed with a skeleton crew, his squad spreading out to round everyone up. Vette joined him, twirling her pistol and pushing the captain into his chair. “But yes, it did seem crazy at the time. Worked out in the end.”

“This is insane.” Hirosho laughed, his hand gripping his hair. “Just destroy one little warship, Hirosho. Don’t worry about that treaty we signed, I’ll take care of it. No, no it wasn’t important to inform us it would be filled with sith, why would that matter? You have three Hammerheads, Hirosho, and a veteran captain. Nevermind we didn’t give you enough fighters or soldiers, or that the other two ships were pulled from the shipyards before they were fully repaired. Oh, we also appointed two near rogue captains. Just a snag, Hirosho, you still have them outnumbered three to one!”

“You were provided the details necessary to perform your duties. Now, please remain quiet.” Karr replied, not seeming bothered. “Sith.”

“One moment.” Morgan returned, walking over to the captain. Karr nodded. “Captain, order your crew to stand down. They will be treated as prisoners of war, or the equivalent when not at war, and I will personally ensure they will go to one of the nicer prisons.”

The captain looked to the jedi, who seemed like he was waiting for a friend to finish his drink so they could leave, then to the crazed Hirosho. “Don’t see much of a choice.”

He turned to the comms, ordered his men to stand down, and complied as Vette prodded him to stand with the rest of the bridge. Morgan turned back, looking over the increasingly unstable Hirosho. “Karr was condescending, but not wrong. I suggest you find your peace, a breakdown will not help you.”

Two of his men, another two guarding the prisoners and four more keeping watch over the door, guided the man away. “Sorry about that. Pleasure to meet you, Nomen Karr. I’ve heard great things.”

“I presume you are Dath Baras’s new apprentice. You know me?”

“Nice touch.” Morgan grinned. “But you know who I am. Certainly haven’t been keeping a low enough profile for the SIS to not have a file on me."

The man shrugged. “So they do. Baras and I like to keep tabs on each other. When I heard of a new apprentice I investigated, not liking what I found. Another brute I could have stomached, another crazed sith throwing a tantrum, but a fleshcrafter? No, sith, that I cannot allow. I have been heavy handed, though, that I’ll admit.”

“Three warships attacking an Imperial vessel unprovoked could start a war.” Morgan agreed. “Nevermind that Baras would have been forced to respond, should you have killed me. Loss of reputation and all that.”

Karr shrugged. “He is ever unpredictable. I thank you for the insight, sith. It will come in useful for the next time.”

“Not going to bargain for your men?”

The jedi shook his head. “They have served their purpose. The greater good will prevail, sith, as it has for millennia.”

Morgan chuckled. “The greater good has been the excuse of tyrants throughout all of history. You remind me of my master, Karr.”

A flicker of anger, of something he couldn't quite decipher, flashed over Karr’s face. The man disconnected. Morgan chuckled again, turning to Vette. “Tell Kala to land the rest of Quinn’s men. Keep Alyssa and Inara close, they might need to help break some last pockets of resistance.”

They weren't needed, it turned out, and two hours later found the brig full and a nervous Kala glancing at her report. Morgan sympathised, old memories flashing up briefly. “You won, captain. I assure you no bad news will overshadow that.”

“Right.” She took a breath, organising her thoughts. “The Aurora’s holding. Armour is thin, down to forty percent in some sections, but that damage will be easy to repair on even primitive planets. I’ve stocked the ship with the assumption of long distance missions, without the luxury of Imperial Logistics handing over what we need. My engineers are stocked with three matter-printers and even a biological growth vat. As long as we can obtain high quality durasteel we can manufacture most of the things we’ll need for repairs.”

“Most?”

Kala nodded, not seeming concerned. “The engines are the main weakness. If it gets damaged, even should said damage prove to be minor, we’ll need specialist expertise and tools to repair it. Not applicable here.”

“A weight off my mind.” Morgan smiled. “Please take this at face value, but what were you thinking? Ramming wouldn't have been my first choice, nor my second.”

The captain winced. “It. It worked?”

Morgan sighed. “Yes, captain, it worked. Now please explain why.”

“Oh. They didn’t account for it, this ship is built for it, and it would add division in the ranks. With a proper command structure I wouldn't have risked it, but there wasn’t.”

“That seems to be the case, yes. Assembled with haste by Noman Karr, abandoned when it proved to have failed. He’s more ruthless than I expected, something I’m pleased to have learned in victory rather than defeat.”

Kala nodded, not seeming to be sure what she was nodding for, and cleared her throat. “I’ll have my full report to you by morning. The ship is finishing its last checks, but afterward we can leave on your orders.”

“Very well. Set off when ready, captain, I’ll be in my chambers.”

Chapter Text

Drakka stretched as he left the gambling den, pleased by the way his pouch bounced against his hip. Not so much profit that he’ll be followed, but enough that he could afford a fun night in one of the better brothels.

Alas, there was work to do. The fact it took nearly three hours on a speeder bike to get to their outpost was bad enough, no need to do so in the light of day. The hell that would follow if he was tracked to their base wasn’t worth even the best Mos Ila had to offer.

Straddling his bike, and taking a few seconds to check it hadn’t been tampered with, he pushed off. Then he immediately set it down again, eyes flickering over to the spaceport.

Not much of one, admittedly, but for the Imps purposes it sufficed. Especially after their engineers had turned it into more than a smuggling post for the Exchange. Drakka pulled binoculars, taking a closer look.

The man, standing taller than most and walking as if he was the toughest bastard around, he ignored. The Twi’lek was more interesting, simultaneously annoying the armoured man and watching their surroundings. Her eyes found him, briefly, before flickering away dismissively.

He would have been insulted, he was more dangerous than half the warriors on this pathetic planet, if not for the way his spine itched when she had looked at him. Curious, weighing, as if his death was little more than an extension of effort.

Drakka refocused on the man, wondering why a twi’lek that dangerous followed just another human, before he caught the lightsaber. A lightsaber. Seeing as they were in an Imperial city, that wasn’t a jedi. A shame, a jedi would at least lecture before taking a hand.

He fled, kicking the speeder into high gear and feeling marginally more safe as sand surrounded him for as far as the eye could see. A sith would mean nothing good. They might have to shut down operations for a while, wait to see what caught the things' attention. To hope it wasn’t them.

Arriving, and ignoring the two sniggering guards as he nearly tripped when getting off the speeder, he stepped inside. The boss looked at him, waving for silence. “I don’t often see my hunters leaving the brothels early. What has happened?”

Drakka hissed, bowing his head. Private grievances or not, he owed the boss a life-debt. “A sith has arrived.”

Silence followed, before half of the people in the room scoffed. Idiots. The boss, at least, seemed appropriately cautious. “And this concerns us how?”

“Because it is sith.” Drakka said, irritated. “And if it comes for us, we will die.”

The insult and wounded pride turned the room against him, too many of his fellows thinking themselves at the top of the food chain. How they only needed to fear the Exchange. The boss held up his hand. “Drakka is right to be cautious. A sith, even should it prove to be a pup, is no easy prey.”

Drakka sighed in relief. Finally, an ounce of sense. “Yet it does not need to disrupt our meal, one way or the other. Come, Drakka, eat with me.”

“Of course. I meant no disrespect.” It was a wonder how he managed to stay polite, sitting as he accepted something that smelled like piss. “My thanks.”

Something itched its way across his back, ever so slowly creeping up and up, and by the time they were finally done with the useless posturing he felt like screaming. Food and drink was cleared as their boss slapped the table. “Now, let us discuss how to kill this sith.”

Drakka flinched as the boss’s head evaporated, the wall caving in a moment later. Shouts, screaming in pain and not, echoed as fighting erupted. He threw himself backwards and kept still, hands very carefully away from his blaster, and thanked the Scorekeeper the boss had died first. He’d have been honour bound to defend him, otherwise.

“Not him.” A voice called, and the chaos settled enough he could see a man holstering his blaster. A blaster that had been about to kill him, and Drakka wanted to laugh. How easily he gained another debt. “He actually displayed some brains, unlike the rest of them. Honestly, talking about killing my Morgan. It’s like some people are just destined to get on my bad side.”

The Twi’lek. Drakka sighed, wishing he could say it was a surprise. Some part of him wished it had been the sith, so they could have died to a worthy opponent. The woman stood over him, tilting her head. “You speak basic, right? I think I have a Trandoshan translating program around here somewhere.”

“I speak, great huntress.” He said, making sure to avert his eyes. “I obey, as the debt demands.”

Surprise, and something more, flickered over her face. She pouted. “You only say that because you saw me with Morgan. No matter.”

The sith, if logic had not abandoned him. “Isn’t a life-debt a bit extreme for this? Or are you one of the old ones?”

It was his turn to be surprised, looking up. The Twi’lek smiled. “I made some study of religion, once upon a time. Stand, speak. I insist.”

Drakka stood, disliking how amused she was. “I follow the old rights, great huntress. I obey.”

“I’m Vette.” She introduced, appearing far too upbeat. “What’s your name? The rest of you, loot and pack. We leave in ten.”

Her people, soldiers, Drakka corrected himself, moved with practised efficiency. Not even a single casualty, although some appeared wounded. How little his former coworkers had managed after all that boasting. “They called me Drakka, great Huntress.”

“So, Drakka, how would you like a trial-run position in my little organisation?” The offer wasn’t unexpected, yet he still hesitated. To hide from this madwoman and her sith master. To be far away from the chaos they would bring.

“It would be my honour, great huntress.”

Darth Baras, Dark Lord of the Sith and master of the largest privately owned intelligence network in the galaxy, did not like to be surprised. The fact he did not know where his apprentice was, aside from appearing to stand in some cantina, irritated him. “Why are you not on your ship, apprentice?”

“It was damaged in battle, master. Repairs will take time, so I sought to begin the mission immediately. My slicer has confirmed this line is secure and my men are keeping prying ears away.”

So had his, but the fact his apprentice had access to one capable enough to determine that was a surprise. Another one, and two in such sort a time was not something that happened often. Not anymore. “Very well. Tell me about the battle. About your thoughts on Nomen Karr.”

“He is steadfast.” A pause, as if to collect his thoughts. Baras let him. “Self assured. He believes he knows what is right and just, and will go to extreme lengths to see it come to pass. Unafraid of sacrifice, either his own or that of others.”

“You paid attention, then. The battle? I heard you took prisoners.”

His apprentice nodded, eyes still averted. Respect, or did he know it made him harder to read? “I kept them in reserve, to use as a bargaining chip against Karr. The jedi did not care, so their deaths would have given me little. Perhaps Imperial Intelligence will learn something.”

“They will not.”

“As you say, master. The enemy ships were destroyed, their soldiers and sailors captured or killed. My own losses were minimal, although my ship will need a few weeks to repair.”

“You spared the prisoners after they ceased to be useful.”

The sith bowed deeper, if only slightly. “Their deaths would have achieved nothing, save the breaking of my word.”

“Your word.” Baras laughed. He saw his apprentice flinch, just slightly, as he pressed on their bond. “Means nothing to me. Their deaths would have prevented any chance of a leak, and would have spared the Empire the cost of imprisoning them. Your compassion betrays you.”

“I did not care for them. I still do not.” That rang true, to Baras’s hidden surprise. “They are worms, for all the emotion they evoke in me. As I do not stop my day to eradicate every anthill and birdsnest I come across, they ceased to be important to me when they surrendered. Their captain's compliance ensured no holdouts would attempt something drastic, such as detonating the engine.”

The sith lord grunted, waving the matter away. “You bring results, the games you play are your own. Bend them all as you did your slave, but the mission comes first. Find the padawan’s master, kill him.”

He cut the connection, leaning back in his chair. “Which is it, apprentice? Compassionate or uncaring, cold cruelty or simpering affection?”

Baras didn’t know, not for sure, and it irritated him. It was needed, of course. He had thousands of tools, many more soldiers and slaves, but few apprentices. Each required something unique, something he couldn't simply buy or take. A spark, to keep him on his toes. To replace him, if one proved strong enough. Perhaps it would be this one, perhaps not.

Such was the way of the sith, but still it bothered him. He could see, strip his apprentice bare and satisfy his curiosity, but it would do little good. Temporary satisfaction for months of work, to say little of how rare a fleshcrafter was to begin with. A shame, really, that the art had been all but lost. A time when the sith could trust their legions absolute.

Still, perhaps his apprentice would show him what they were like. Before taking it all, of course, as was his due.

But for now he was contained, so he was worth the risk. Future tests sprang to mind, from pitting him against his other apprentices to making him kill his slave, but Karr was more important. More pressing. Baras sighed, turning back to his work.

‘This is the way the sith works.’ He reminded himself, bending to the task. ‘The master demands, the apprentice obeys. Until the apprentice kills the master, and the cycle repeats.’

Gregor groaned as his back cracked, leaning over his desk. The plans to decimate Cybers Chosen spread before him, but that operation had already concluded. His captains shuffled, clearly uncomfortable, and he finally looked up. “Spit it out, then.”

“Lady Vette and her sith master have survived the attack, but their ship was damaged. They are stranded on Tatooine for the time being.”

“They won their battle, and the ship can still fly.” Gregor corrected. “And whatever business they have on Tatooine is their own.”

It wasn’t common knowledge, of course. Few outside this room knew of their boss's connection to the sith, and fewer still believed it to be a weakness. He himself had met the man, early twenties and carrying himself with the air of domination. Of fury restrained, a calm face hiding monstrous strength. The fact he seemed to care for their boss made it twice as terrifying, really. He remembered how far he’d gone to protect those he loved, and imagining a sith spurred by grief was enough to make him shudder.

“Even so, they are gone. She took most of her loyal men with her, including the mandalorian. Her influence here has never been weaker, sir.”

Gregor nodded, a pleased smile on his face. “So it hasn’t. Good thinking, captain. Tell me, how would you go about it.”

He settled the disbelieving and worried with a wave, the young leader of the Grey Death spreading his arms. “We have everything we need. The men obey us, the workers do as they are paid. Helioas, even in victory, can be dealt with. Bert will do business with us regardless. She has no more power here.”

“And if she comes back?”

The boy scoffed. “Then we’ll kill her. The hutt’s were ill-prepared to deal with a sith, but we have time. Weeks, before they finish whatever they are doing on Tatooine. More before they can marshall a force large enough to contest us. Beskar can be bought, soldiers trained.”

“I see you’ve been giving this some thought.” Gregor grinned. His eyes flickered to the Grey Death’s second in command, a woman of some reputation. “Who here agrees with him?”

No one moved, the boy frowning. “Cowards. We could rule Nar Shaddaa, be what the Hutt’s have been for centuries. We could be kings. ”

Gregor waved his hand, tired of the drivel, and the Grey Death got a new leader as the woman stepped over the boy's corpse. “Sir.”

“Now that that’s dealt with, let’s move on. Unless anyone else wishes to suggest turning on the woman that saved the life of my daughter?” The remaining captains shook their heads, two of his guards dragging the body away. “Good. The Hutt’s?

“Cautious, for now.”

“They won’t be for long. Start planning for everything from undercutting our businesses to a full scale invasion. They have what they need to bury us, but the threat of the sith should keep them somewhat honest. Operations?”

“Smooth. The business model started by the boss is holding, and our contact on Balmorra is reliable.”

“Very well. Unless anyone has anything to discuss, we’re done here.”

Vette shuffled as they took positions around the camp, wishing she had her own people here. Quinn’s men were competent enough, sure, but she’d come to like having her own army. People for her to lead and teach, to terrify and train. Here everyone was used to Morgan being his normal self, so she didn’t seem all that impressive in comparison.

“Mark in ten. Divide them, clean them up. No heroes.”

The increasingly popular motto echoed over the channel as the lieutenants made ready, Vette stealing a look at Morgan. Standing eerily still, watching the little town as if he could conquer it with his mind. He probably could, too, the cheating bastard.

She’d noticed it, of course. How he always got introspective when they touched down on a new planet. She hadn’t known better on Balmorra or Dromund Kaas, had teased him about it on Nar Shaddaa, and now here they were again. She wondered if more cryptic comments were incoming, nonsense until they left the planet behind.

Then it would turn out to be prophetic, and she knew Quinn had more or less started treating it like that. Speaking of. “Quinn, has Morgan been spouting nonsense at you? Stuff like, the sands will turn to glass when the second moon rises, or something?”

The reply took seconds, his voice annoyed. Professional, of course, but still annoyed. “No. Please keep your focus on the battle.”

She hummed, doing just that. The mark crept to zero, and Morgan disappeared. Not technically, but he certainly moved fast enough that blinking could see him move dozens of feet. Spooky, she noticed some of the greener men flinch away through her scope, and very impressive to look at.

She aimed, almost idly, and her anti-material rifle tore through one of the droids. Big bastards, the X4-Z2, and a favourite of the Exchange. Her rifle still turned it into scrap. She watched as the soldiers carried out their assignments, what forces the Exchange had posted in the village poorly prepared.

Well, perhaps not poorly. Adequately for raids and mercenaries, perhaps the average Tusken tribe. Not the bigger ones, of course. She’d been reading over information gathered by her people, and apparently they could grow to hundreds of thousands in size.

Morgan tore through the defenders with contemptuous ease, his two shadows hunting the droids as if a game. Knowing Alyssa and Inara, it probably was. Vette stood, stretching as she put her rifle away. ‘All that planning for thirty seconds of combat.’

Striding into the village, and ignoring what soldiers saluted her, she entered the hut Morgan had vanished into. It would hold Izzeebowe Jeef, a name she couldn't help but roll her eyes at, and according to Sharack he would tell them how to follow the padawan. She’d mostly skimmed her stolen briefing. That reminded her, she still needed to tell Quinn about that security flaw.

“-the tears evaporate in the heat of our sins.”

She raised an eyebrow, looking at Morgan. He’d taken his helmet off, appearing, to all effect, to be paying attention. She could see the boredom in his eyes, though, as if this was a chore he knew was necessary but mind numbing all the same.

Well, at least none of the men had died. He’d be broody instead of bored.

“I understand. Please, let’s get down to business.”

“To do the business you are about, one must indeed sink very low.”

Vette bristled, Inara and Alyssa not far behind. The old man seemed ignorant of the danger, Morgan waving his hand. She led go of her knife, reluctantly.

“You are the seeker Sharack spoke of. You wish to understand the jedi’s purpose in the lair of the sand demon?” The man continued without waiting for an answer, cutting Morgan off mid word. “My eyes may be aged and failing, but my mind sees. Few are aware that Tatooine was once a place of positive Force energy. That the jedi made pilgrimages here to renew and purify. The sands speak of a ritual called the Demons’ Blood. This is what the jedi that Sharack witnessed was engaged in.”

“Interrupt him again and I’ll slit your throat.” She said evenly, catching the old man’s eye. He blinked, seeming to just now notice her. “It's impolite, and I don’t like impolite people.”

Morgan glanced at her, a smile on his lips. “Vette, please. The old and inane are allowed some courtesy, and the sooner he tells us what we need to know the sooner we can leave.”

She nodded, smiling at the old man. Izzeebowe spoke again, unbothered. “The Demon's Blood. A jedi seeking enlightenment would cover himself in fresh sand demon blood and enter the village of the savage ones. Cowering before the demon slayer, the savage ones would reveal the path to self discovery and to that which the slayer seeks.”

“And where would I find the demon?” Her Morgan seemed somewhat interested for the first time since she got here. “A precise location, if possible. With coordinates.”

“Sharack has asked me to prepare. Here.” He handed Morgan a datapad, who turned and left with it. “Carefull, young sith. Tatooine holds more danger than you know.”

He looked back, snorting. “Let’s hope not. Alyssa, leave him be.”

Vette watched the sith step back, disappointment on her face. Inara put a hand on her shoulder, and they followed Morgan. Izzeebowe turned to her when they were alone. “You have questions?”

“Many. He knew just about everything you just told him, didn’t he?”

The old man nodded, milky eyes roaming her face. “He did. All but the coordinates. I do not blame him for coming. Hunting the desert is a dangerous enough task without having to guess its location.”

“Hunting in the desert, you mean.” The old man stared at her, not answering. She sighed. “Fine, be that way. You happen to know how he knows stuff like that?”

Izzeebowe shrugged. “He is connected to the universe. To time and gravity, space and energy. He knows because he can see, or remember. I do not know for sure which is which, and his mind is as protected as yours.”

She stepped back, hand going to her blaster. “You're a Force user.”

“And I mean no harm to you or your lover. The jedi and sith like to believe they hold prominence in the Force, but every culture in this universe has some relation to it. Priests and shamans, warriors and healers. They are revered as gods or condemned as mages. Practised as religion and science.”

Vette relaxed as the man did nothing, staring off into space. “Does Morgan know?”

“He is certain of his knowledge, and so misses the obvious.”

“That’s not an answer. I’ve seen him arrogant and self assured. This wasn’t that.”

“He knows. He does not care. He protects me, in a sense, by ignoring my existence.”

She didn’t know what to say to that. “Well. Be seeing you?”

“I hope not.”

Walking outside, and trying to decide if she liked the man or not, Hellen walked up. “Ma’am.”

“Lieutenant.” She greeted, looking around. “Where’d Morgan go?”

“Back to the ship, ma’am. We’ll be returning shortly ourselves, if you need a ride.”

“Nah.” Vette turned, walking deeper into the desert. No one knew she had a speeder stashed behind a rock, so hopefully it would keep a few of them up at night. “Let him know mama is taking care of some business? I’ll be back for dinner.”

Hellen nodded, saluting, and she waved the woman off. The speeder took her to her own ship, the sentries only standing down after verifying her identity. Good.

“Dorka.”

The mandalorian nodded to her, sending off the two men he’d been talking to. “How’d it go with the Exchange?”

“Folded like a cheap hooker.” She grinned, her second shaking his head. “What?”

“You only get that crass when something is bothering you. No, I don’t want to know. Talk to Amelia if you need counselling.”

She folded her arms. “That’s insubordination. Is it? You’d tell me if you were insubordinate, right?”

“No.”

“Oh. Well, good to know where we stand.” She pointed to the ship, already preparing for the endless complaints from her people. Not that she’d budge, of course. Keeping her people housed in the ship meant rapid deployment, and kept them out of trouble besides. The Exchange had a worrisomely large presence on the planet, and they wouldn't swallow their wounded pride like they had for Morgan. Say what you will, belonging to the Empire gave you a reputation. “Amelia’s inside?”

A nod, and she was off. Boarding the ship took another security screening, this time performed by six bored looking mercs instead of two perimeter sentries, and she was inside. Getting to her own room, which she had also made her office to cut down on travel time, she opened it.

Mildly disappointed not to have Morgan here to annoy, and debating getting a second office on the Aurora, she shook her head. She’d see him tonight, anyway. Amelia entered not a minute after she’d sat down, pretending very skillfully she hadn’t been running. Vette knew better. “There you are. I would prefer you’d not leave without informing me, ma’am.”

“I was just joining Morgan for some light exercise. Didn’t even get to speak to him, really. Waste of my talents.” She sniffed for effect, Amelia narrowing her eyes lightly. Damn. “What were we doing again?”

Her deflection was ignored, and she grieved the loss of her ability to lie to people. Or just the people that knew her best. “I’m fine, really.”