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A flash of fields.
An echo of laughter.
Fingers making a fist.
Dire pleas to stop.
Fade of black.
He woke suddenly, memory fractured, and his senses hitting him all at once. Images flashed; fields, fingers formed in a tight fist. Then an echo of laughter followed by dire pleas to stop. Finally, darkness was disturbed by the unseen ripple of a gasp. It was deep and rasping, lungs that sought oxygen as though starved of it for days. Sucking breaths that sank through the teeth and stung the throat. The sound grew louder with each second, then broke with a young boy’s voice whimpering. His voice. The cruelty of consciousness was overwhelming as he opened his eyes, fear, and uncertainty rising through his small torso. He rolled from the cold floor to his feet in panic, limbs stiff and disoriented. He raised his arms instinctively. But the blows he expected never came. Instead, he found himself lost in blackness still. Arms, hands, fingers. He could feel them, but his sight saw nothing at all. He tried blinking hard; eyes darting rapidly as he searched for something, anything that might adjust his vision, but nothing happened. The darkness never changed. It was a grim revelation and the paralyzing panic shackled him. Seconds ticked to minutes, and minutes stretched impossibly into an unknowable future of impervious black. Had he been blinded? His heart pounded at the thought, anxiety fuelling his skin to crawl, burn, anything but remain still. He panted, fast and shallow. Thick and stagnant air choking his mouth, drying his already parched lips and leaving a dusty taste on his tongue. He knew vaguely that if it didn't stop, if he couldn’t gain some small measure of control, then his body would forfeit to the frenzy of emotions, and ultimately, life altogether. Squeezing his fingers into air-tight fists, the boy finally endeavored to gain some semblance of composure. Gathering what he could of his resolve, he tried to will his breathing to slow, to halve each exhale at its source. It seemed impossible. A feverish haze blanketed his mind like fog; it made him fragile and clumsy. He could move, he knew, better than however he was limited now. But the knowledge didn’t change the stubborn refusal of his body to co-operate. In contrast, his head seemed weightless, drifting as if it could float away if he didn't secure it with both hands. Had he been drugged, or poisoned? Surely one was to blame. But when… and how? Even wondering felt like an exercise in madness, freeing the paranoia he’d kept so tightly controlled. It twisted in his gut like a vibroblade and edging ever closer to piercing his sanity. Helplessness, overwhelming and terrifying, began to take root. It weighed on his thin shoulders as if gravity had betrayed him and intended to crush him to the chilled floor. Warm, wet tears streaked from the corner of his eyes and dripped his dismay down his cheeks. The realization that he could die in this place, wherever it was, became more than just real, it became likely. The blood in his veins pumped faster than it ever had before, the resonating thumps of his heart so loud and violent that he could hear their thunder in his ears. He hated the feeling, the knowledge; trapped, violated. He wanted it to stop, needed it to stop. He just wanted to go hom…Home. He knew the word and it should have been an easy thought. But no matter how he probed his memories it remained blank and amorphous. He had a home, he was sure of it…wasn't he? A sick feeling knotted his stomach whilst adrenaline surged like cold heat through his veins. He couldn't recall it, he couldn't recall anything, not even his name, and the more he tried, the worse the sickness became. It wrenched mercilessly, swallowing him whole. It was only when he stopped the mental search that it ended. Hope died. A slow fading death into the shadows that consumed his vision. Weary now, he let himself fall to the floor. His head dropped low in defeated submission to whatever fate was to come. He had no memories of who he was or how he came to be here and even to try and remember them was to be punished viciously by his own mind. Instinct told him that everything was wrong, suspicious, terrifying. But there was nothing, nothing at all he could do but accept the terrible reality. It was in that moment of finality that bought something new, however. A response from the void. "What's wrong, child?" The voice, thin and reedy but somehow powerful, echoed through the silence. It filled the air from every direction and boomed in his ears painfully. "Why do you submit so easily?" The tone was enquiring, soothing, and intimate at the same time. The boy reacted to it ferociously, spurred back to life. His mouth gaped frantically, lips working as words failed. His body scrambled to retreat without knowing where or why, elbows, and legs tangling until he fell motionless, more still than stone. Even breathing seemed impossibly frightening and he shoved his palms across his mouth and nose to smother the sound, even at the risk of falling unconscious once more. "There's no need to run from me, boy. I will not harm you." He didn’t answer at first, silence was his friend in the face of the unknown. If he could just be quiet until they left… But it was an impossibility. Fear began to turn anger as the reality of being trapped and helpless dawned on him. Drugged or poisoned, he’d thought before. Defiance swelled in him like a thruster before the launch. "W-Who are you? Why am I here?!" The boy lashed out, recalling for the first time that he possessed the ability to speak. "Answer, child, and you will know all you seek, and if willing, much more.” This time the voice was softer, more appealing, though still unrepentant. It seemed oddly comforting as well, hinting of an attainable trust, an instant sort of familiarity that made the boy not just consider an answer but yearn to give one. "Why do you submit?" "I-I can't see. I don't…know who I am…where I am," he replied in a low mutter that barely passed above a whisper. "So you submit, is that it? You need a name and place to know who you are?" Although the words should have been a question, the tone was pointed. "Shut up!" The boy growled, anger swelling aggressively. "You did this, didn't you? You put me in this darkness to torture me!" "The darkness tortures you? What if I told you that you had been in this place for many hours now, and had endured nothing more than sleep. What then would you think of it?" Was the reply, calm and measured. "The feelings that maim you now originate from ignorance. You fear what is unknown, and in turn, it is that fear that destroys you. You fear me now because you cannot perceive me, but what makes you believe I can see you?" The point was not just enlightening; it was truthful, which would've carried more weight had the boy not sensed a manipulative undertone. Still, he couldn't see the voice's owner, not even remotely, and it wasn’t hard to believe that perhaps he wasn’t alone in his blindness. Without even a sliver of light, even the galaxy's nocturnal species would be hard-pressed to see. "Nothing,” he conceded, though not without doing his very best to check once more. "And if I cannot see you, how then can I harm you?" The voice asked. "You… can't." The boy ventured tentatively, his anger began to fade, though he was still suspicious. "Correct. For this is not my darkness to command, but your own. I have merely bonded your consciousness to mine, to serve as a guide to what is to come. We now stand inside a manifestation of what lies beneath us all. That which most keep hidden for worry of judgment,” he was told, “Anger. Hate. Fear. Their roots grow here, and it is they that cripple you with haze and weaken your resolve. For now, you are unfit of their potency, but they wait for you still, ever patient, ready to be tended, and in time, blossom. You need only give them the opportunity and welcome the fruits they will bear for you." "Bonding consciousness...w-what are you saying?" The boy pleaded, confused, and still wary of the voice's motivations to seemingly aid him. How could someone do such sorcery as was being claimed? Was it possible, or had he gone mad? The reedy voice released a low, guttural chuckle as if the answer was obvious. "I am saying that if you wish to see, then see. Focus. You have immense power inside you, and it has slept long enough. Awaken it, boy. Immerse yourself. You hate what has happened to you, then use that hate to drive you, to enact change. Bind it with your anger and take control!" The boy's felt himself frown, his face becoming crinkled with trepidation, and yet, somehow, in the recesses of his mind, he wholly believed what was being said. He knew there was something inside of him; he could feel it now, flowing like a tide of waves, like another extension of himself that had been dormant until he was made aware of it. He shut his eyes and searched within. Seeking out the source of the sleeping power, knowing every second brought him closer to understanding. "I-I feel it..." He murmured, his voice filled with awe. Whatever it was, it exuded the comfort that had he had prayed for the moment he awoke, it embodied it even. He could see now, not through his physical sight, but the eyes of something infinitely greater. He watched hazy shapes that seemed far away and close all at once, hearing snatched of words as clearly as if they were stood next to him. There were billions of them, even more, human and not, savage creatures and sentient lifeforms blessed by brilliance, so different in variance, but all connected by this power. The boy knew now, knew information that he shouldn't, that he had been freed from what was recognized as living, while left untouched by death. He had unbound from the vessel of his body, and yet he remained himself. It was as though he was set adrift into an ocean of conscious life, wading through layers of start and end, knowledge and experience. The many streams began here, converged here, and finished here, all feeding into a grander form that transcended the limitations of thought and imagination. These were small windows to what it was, and what had once been. The origin of all things in beautiful simplicity. "Yesss,” the approval was triumphant, seductive even, as if deftly aware that the connection between the boy and his power was growing stronger and more defined. "You have found your strength, child. Now impel influence upon it. Take hold of your darkness and command it!" The words rang in the boy’s ears, filled with encouragement and yearning. The veil of shadows shifted like vaporous tendrils around his body. He began to gasp, blood brimming with excitement rather than fear or anger. His every sense keened with an omnipresence that was sharper and more vivid than anything he'd ever dared imagine. When the veil finally broke it ascended to the greatest of heights, climbing as a whirlwind of darkness that encased him with a roar of motion. All other sound became absorbed by the twisting vortex, and all because the boy willed it so. For a moment he felt resistance, innately, deeply from within. But he retained control, and the exhilarating emotion it brought forth from him was complete and utterly intoxicating. "How is this real?" He gasped, hoping with all his soul that what he was experiencing wasn't some dream due to end an instant later. "It is real, boy. This is your gift. This is the Force." "The Force?" The name was familiar, though only vaguely. Stories he might have heard once, of the Jedi and Sith, good and evil, existing centuries before he was even born. It was folklore, theatrical tales told by parents before bed. Until now. "Are you a Jedi, a Sith?" A knowing snicker echoed in reply. "There is so much more to the Force than those misguided religions. Shall I show you? Would you like to learn?" Kneeling there, surrounded by a spinning marvel of his conjuring, he did not need to think over his response. This ability, this gift, it fulfilled him in ways he never knew he needed. It was more than intrigue that now tore at him, it was desperation, like a terrible thirst he needed to quench. More, he had to know more, to know everything about the Force, no matter the cost. "Yes!" He shouted, voice barely audible over the scream of his gift. "Then it is time you joined the others." As quickly as it began, the tower of wind-dispersed outward with a catastrophic crash. The boy reeled from the explosive boom ringing in his ears, silence could not come soon enough. At the very edge of his vision, a doorway materialized and brought a beaming sliver of ruby light. It was painfully bright and painted his pale skin in and bushy umber hair in shades of red. He couldn’t help touching his arms and face, the return of his sight a priceless treasure. Then he raised his hand to shade his eyes protectively.
Something was moving through the light. Three silhouettes, small and thin like...children? The corners of the door then expanded with a blinding flash, reaching out and beyond, swallowing the dark, and the boy within it.
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CHAPTER ONE
PT. 1 of 4
11 years later
1 year before the destruction of Starkiller Base.
The Unknown Regions; An infinite expanse of uncharted seclusion found beyond the borders of the Outer Rim. There was no real fear of detection, nor laws or treaties to be obeyed. This, though not this alone, was a reason that made the territory ideal for the beginning of the First Order's rise, as well as the initiatives that rose with it. Endeavors of a furtive nature, such as the one found an undocumented twenty parsecs from the immeasurably deadly Starkiller Base. Here floated a ship in stasis. It appeared to be a standard large scale freighter, designed for hauling commercial cargo by the ton. Its outer shielding fumed and sparked, a shredded crater of damage displaying its vulnerability for all to see. The illusion was deliberate. To a casual observer, it assumed the identity of something lost; a scuttled ship or one incapacitated. Its purpose was to appear non-threatening to the eye until it was too late for a scanner to discover the lie. By then, the Black Freighter's long-range turrets would've activated, having zeroed in on the intruding target, and obliterated it from existence. No explanation, authorization, or confirmation was required. And while the freighter's one rule was unspoken, it rang loud and clear; no one could be allowed to see the ship and live to tell of it. Despite its unorthodox design, the base was not particularly different from other First Order installations, continually working under the processes and protocols set in place. Squads of Stormtroopers would depart daily for their designated rounds, patrolling the empty corridors without surprises. Any chatter in the barracks largely concerned the relative boredom of the assignment and the unusual level of secrecy it attracted. Information, already strictly regulated, became a thing of rumor only. The troopers understood the purpose of keeping the vessel hidden and disguised; subterfuge to fool any ships that might somehow wander by, Resistance or otherwise. But why go to such elaborate lengths? What made this place so special? They weren't guarding anything of known value, as the number of regiments was vastly smaller than such a duty would require. It was practically a skeleton crew. Just enough soldiers to sustain operations, no more and no less. At best, it was surmised that only the Captain wielded the power and privilege to know the details of the assignment. So, although rumors occasionally arose, they quickly died out as the Troopers put their trust in their superior. Indeed, Captain Vendol Warvane encouraged this state of mind. He was a traditionalist when it came to troopers and an unquestioned god among those aboard the Black Freighter. One of the living legends from an era of forgotten campaigns and incursions, he was said to be more soldier than an officer and lived up to his reputation. Warvane liked silence and his own council. He spoke rarely and when he did it was to issue orders or share an important observation. It was a habit he’d developed under the discipline of serving as a Death Trooper, the most elite operatives of the old Galactic Empire. He was a fresh face in those days, of course. Barely a man, but age was meaningless when it came to viciousness. Warvane's training had seen whatever traces of humanity he might've possessed stripped away long before he donned his black helmet, leaving him droid-like. Cold, compliant, and free of empathy. It was his service to the Empire, and then to the early formation of the First Order, that had seen him awarded his command position. The sole survivor of an infiltration team, he’d been responsible for acquiring an essential dossier of Resistance outpost coordinates. Though it was only by ruthlessly sacrificing the remaining Death Troopers he’d survived. The reward that followed was one he’d never dreamed of receiving; an audience with the Supreme Leader. Warvane’s selfish resolve, his willingness to sacrifice, had impressed Snoke. He still recalled the gruesome smile that stretched across the Supreme Leader’s face as he examined Warvane’s memories of the exercise. A good beginning to his advancement through the ranks. He strode through the corridors of the Black Freighter with supreme confidence. The armor mesh of the bronze ensemble he favored over the official uniform whispering as he walked. Now a man in his fifties, he might have been moderately handsome had his years in service not left him heavily disfigured. Scar tissue knotted over his prominent cheekbones and strong jaw while long-healed burns marred the smooth brown gleam from his domed head. He was strong still too, broad and lean. There were few amongst the Troopers who thought they might match him. When Warvane arrived on the command deck the duty crew snapped to attention. He ignored them in favor of the stars, mind already focused on the day ahead. Engineers busied themselves in his silent presence, monitoring the freighter's internal systems at their reserved stations, and taking special care to be as quiet as possible. They knew from experience that disturbing their Captain was a mistake that was rarely forgiven. And, like the Troopers, they were to follow his show of discipline. This was not just an expectation, it was the law, and one that remained untested; until now. Alarms. The shrill blare shattered the silence and sent the crew from dormancy to action. Off duty personnel jumped from their beds, running for their emergency stations. And on the command deck, Warvane’s eyes stared coldly. "Report," he ordered. Engineer Gorran tapped keys frantically as her console’s display screen flashed. "Sir, we have unauthorized use of one of the turbolifts." "Which lift?" Warvane demanded. Gorran searched frantically through the various system alerts, her fingers stalling when the answer was displayed. She swallowed hard. "Designation #001. Your personal one, sir." The Captain’s eye’s sharpened dangerously. Only one person could've been linked to his personal lift. The sole passage to the lower levels of the ship. It was a place no crew member aboard the Black Freighter had clearance to go, reserved for only he and the Supreme Leader in his rare visits. However, if they were not the lift's occupants, that only left... "Lockdown the ship!" Warvane commanded, voice booming so loudly he half-drowned out the alarm. "Alert all squads to canvas every level within proximity of the lift. Their orders are to STUN any opposition." "Sir," another engineer spoke up from across the room, voice cracking with uncertainty, "if this is an attack, shouldn't the troopers utilize deadly force?" "It isn't an attack!" Warvane snapped. His murmur as he stormed from the deck was barely audible, "it's an escape."
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PT. 2 of 4
The fast thudding of boots fell muted beneath the enclosed cries of the alarms. The base had been placed on alert, prompting the emergency lights to flash the walls with circulating patterns of red, demanding an immediate response from all squads. Storm Trooper Squad #0-1-6 took the corner of the smooth, arcing corridor in an orderly alignment of two by two, urgency pushing the pace of their armored frames into a composed run. Word came from the bridge, broadcast over the internal com-links of each trooper's HUDs to search the areas surrounding the Captain's private lift, and detailing that detainment protocols were to be exercised. It was news that was received with both an obedient acknowledgment, as well as a hidden degree of chagrin from 0-1-6's Squad Commander, who tempered his opinion during the hard march. Weighing the facts, he believed he understood the presented logic well enough, but agreeing with it was another matter.The Black Freighter, for whatever unknown reason, was a covert site, and anyone that found it this far out in uncharted space, let alone infiltrated it, needed to be captured and interrogated if able but eliminated if not. How else could they assure the prevention of any gathered intel escaping the freighter's confines? To handcuff the ones in charge of safeguarding the facility with such a decree could also likely cost them unnecessary casualties in a skirmish. They didn't know the enemy number, and if it were a strike team of modest size as some already suspected it to be, they would be at more of a tactical disadvantage than they should. Detainment protocols restricted retaliation to a limited arsenal of stun weaponry, ranging from bolts and batons to grenades. While these were effective in their own right, the opposition would have full access to any and all violent means brought aboard and unburdened to spare lives. It was the equivalent of bringing a knife to a gunfight.However, that didn't mean they were completely outmatched. The three troopers that accompanied their Commander each equipped the standard F-11D blaster rifle heralded for its enhancements in both accuracy and power when compared to the old E-11 model, and one of which even carried a Z6 riot baton in case of close-quarters melee. Though, the likelihood of needing that special weapon was minimal at best. Despite any personal discrepancies, the odds should still be in their favor with the other squads converging in the same area. While they may lose some men in the heat of possible combat, they should ultimately win the exchange. A crackle of the com then brought a sudden signal to a halt from the Squad Commander, as he sought to read the incoming transmission."This is STS 0-1-9. We have arrived at the target locale with STS 0-1-1 and 0-0-8. The elevator is secured. We are preparing to investigate decks one through five and will need…" A sudden field of static distorted the message into fragments of speech. The Squad Commander tried to keen his ears and decipher what was trying to be said, but found it challenging. "It's moving…the damn thing…coming up…from...lower levels!" The interference increased in hazy intervals, turning what was once jumbled, but audibly full words into halves of them. "Some…coms…wrong…inter…prep….en…gage." The idea of jamming devices took form in the Commander's thoughts as the perpetrator of the faulty connection when repeating dings materialized vaguely on the other end of the com, symbolizing the elevator had unexpectedly begun its ascent.
Ding.
It was readily apparent now. Whoever had used the elevator for the commute to the lower levels was not done with it yet.Ding.Feeling a dire sense of priority urge him to act, the Commander quickly delivered the hand sign to move out. Squad 0-1-6 lunged in flock-like motion, moving with purpose, taking every corner with persistent speed and determination, and covering more and more ground with each stride. They had to hurry now, they had to be there to help repel whatever enemy absolved from the lift's chamber. Still, as much as the Commander tried to tune out the sizzle of static and keep his mind focused on the coming battle, something felt increasingly odd about the strategy of the lift's occupants. When the alert first came, and the orders were issued, most had assumed that whoever it was they would be hunting had snuck onto the freighter and accessed the vessel from the main deck, as that was where it was always left after Captain Warvane's frequent visits below. What they were seeking in the lower levels was a question best left for afterward, with an answer they would probably never be privy to. However, the explanation needed sooner was why would someone necessitating stealth, and who knew they triggered the alarm on the way to lower levels, then use the same route out, knowing the bulk of the opposition would be waiting?
Ding.
It was possible they didn't know that the lift was the only access point to reach the lower levels, as all ventilation ducts were designed to never fit a full-sized man or droid, but wasn't that something the Resistance would need to know before launching the operation? Even so, was there no contingency in place? No matter what logic he applied, it just seemed so unlike their enemy, so unforgivably sloppy. Could they not see that no matter how many of them there were, the limited space would trap them in a kill-box of their own making? It was almost as if they didn't fear what the freighter could throw at them, and that was a dangerous sort of thinking. The slow trend of dings remained in effect as the Squad Commander came back to the present, playing one after another as what could be discerned as instructions were given in the scramble of white noise.
Ding.
It was then it happened. The prelude to the answer. A final ding sounded, slightly longer in duration than the rest, and the definitive cue of the elevator's arrival from the belly of the ship.
DING.
The Squad Commander pressed his helmet closer to his ear and listened, having discerned the metallic slide of the doors retracting open. Through breathless pause, he hoped to hear a call of surrender from whoever occupied the lift's cramped enclosure, believing it to be the only reasonable outcome for members of an army who boasted of the quality. The seconds ticked, yet still, nothing could be ascertained. No hiss of blaster fire, no detonation of grenades, and the strangest of all, no chatter from the squads already on the scene. If the elevator had been empty as some sort of diversion, they would've surely reported it as soon as the vacancy was confirmed, but no, no word of confirmation, no words at all, only the quiet pitch of the com speaker spoke back to him.The greater share of the silence the Commander took in, the more wrong it felt, as though so much was happening, but they simply couldn't perceive it. In his mind, he pictured them all right there, standing in front of the lift, crouched in firing positions, but frozen by the fear of what they saw. This was only one of many scenarios that began to play out across his eyes, none of which lacked in dramatics, when finally, something rippled from the other end of the line, heard clearly in the new span of radio clarity. They were laborious sounds, loud cracking like that of grounding gravel or snapping branches, and their presence only served to augment another more guttural noise of bellowings, like a growling stomach, or the bending of metal. What was this?Reaching the final stretch of the hall before the elevator would finally be in view, Squad 0-1-6 readied themselves for confrontation. The com might've gone virtually dead, but that didn't mean that everyone involved was. Continuing briskly to the last corner of the hall, The Commander took shelter behind the gentle curve of the wall, as the other troopers fell in behind him. Rather than risk a peek and conceivably give away their presence, the Commander again leaned in to listen. The previous sounds of the com had been brief, disappearing nearly a minute after their debut, but now all but the alarms remained silent.Knowing that time was not a luxury, the Squad Commander exhaled a slow, dragging breath, freeing any anxiety that had been built up to that point, and tapped the ‘go' sign against his red shoulder pauldron. The squad of Storm Troopers cleared the nearest corner with precision organizing their movements into strategic lines of sight, allowing clean windows of opportunity for their trained rifles to fire into. What was seen then could not have been expected, nor conceived, or even schemed for. It was a sight that steered the troopers from their scopes and into glances to each other, a means to ensure that they were all seeing the same thing. The Strike Team was not a team at all, but remarkably, a single human male.His face, despite a deformity of trailing scars over the left side, was young, lean, and well-structured; falling somewhere in the range of his mid-twenties. A wild mane of sable hair draped his scalp, hanging with generous slack to cover his entire brow, where his bangs, so layered and unkempt, drew comparisons to a Bantha in one trooper's head. He dressed in ashen robes that hung limply from his body, oversized and excessively tattered at various angles as if being tossed through a whirling ventilation fan before donning. The neckline of his worn outer tunic slouched to one side, appearing massively stretched and exposing shoulder in its slumped state. What little of his physique could be observed through the multitude of torn fabric, was impressive, so carved with the veined musculature of youth, that his biceps, alone, looked as if they were in a constant state of flex. His bare feet stood under him, caked with a sooty layer of filth that improved his face by comparison, and completed the overall visage of a primitive being that appeared as more prisoner than an intruder. With a brow lifted by the strength of his own shock, everything then became so very clear to the Commander. No one had taken the elevator down to the lower levels as he once thought. By slicing or some other method, someone, this someone, had taken it up.At the moment, his attention lay elsewhere, affixed on the lifeless husks of the first responders. The brutality Squad 0-1-6 saw then could not even be dampened by the tinted view of their visors. The corpses of the other troopers lay sprawled across different areas of the condensed hallway, broken in the most unnatural of ways. Legs were ripped from behind and hooked up over shoulders blades, necks snapped and twisted entirely around to face their backs. One of the dead's helmets had been cast aside in the murderous assault, sitting only a few inches from its owner, and unable to hide the sheer horror he'd endured before death. His gaze spread wide solidified with a fear that would forever haunt his features with the muscular stiffening of rigor mortis. His mouth gaped wide like a devouring serpent from a jaw shattered at its joints, where dying screams carried until his breath left him for the last time.The Prisoner's chest heaved without restraint above them, initially thought to be from the exertion of dispatching what should've been overwhelming odds, until closer observation revealed the terrifying truth. Every hard breath the male took stemmed from an adrenaline-fueled excitement, as though he was more refreshed than tired. He'd reveled in the killing of his attackers with the same exuberance a child has for a new toy. But how? The question still floated unclaimed in the air like a moth. How could one unarmed man slaughter multiple trained squads of armed Storm Troopers?Having watched the aftermath of the horror that had transpired, and doing nothing in its wake to rectify it, the Baton Trooper allowed his foot to readjust on the slick floor out of growing discomfort, and in doing so, produced a squeak from the sole of his boot. The noise, however, subdued, rippled down the corridor, its echo amplified by the enclosed proximity. Realizing what was to come, a simultaneous draft rose frigidly up each troopers' spine, climbing the length of their vertebrae until their skin paled to the color of their armor, as the subtle shift in the Prisoner's posture revealed that if he didn't know of their arrival before, he did now.
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PART 3 of 4
Boots thundered beneath the blare of the alarms. The flash of red lights demanding immediate action from all squads. Stormtrooper Squad #0-1-6 ran swiftly through the arcing corridors in their standard formation. The broadcast from the command deck instructed that they were to search the areas surrounding the Captain’s private lift and detain any non-authorized personnel. The Squad Commander weighed the order carefully. Detainment protocols were, in his view, problematic. It limited Troopers to stun weaponry in a scenario where they had no information about the enemy. He would lose men if they faced a large scale incursion. "This is STS 0-1-9,” the com spat and the Squad Commander paused his Troopers. “We have arrived at the target locale with STS 0-1-1 and 0-0-8. The elevator is secured. We are preparing to investigate decks one through five and will need…" Static crackled through the comm line, distorting the message. "It's moving…the damn thing… coming up…from...lower levels!" "Some…coms…wrong…inter… prep….en…gage." A jamming device had to be in use. No doubt this really was a full-scale incursion, possibly Resistance forces. He signaled the squad to move out in full battle formation and increased the speed of their approach. Over the comm he could pick up the distinctive noise the lift made and frowned; why stay inside what could only become a kill-box? Not that he cared as he signaled the squad to surround the lift access, ready and waiting for the final chime as it arrived. It came all at once; the distinctive ‘ding’ of arrival and the metallic slide of the doors opening. The Troopers tensed, blasters raised and ready for a shout of surrender that never sounded. The moment stretched silently until the commander tapped the ‘go’ signal that forced the Troopers to advance. But as they stepped out, it wasn't a team of insurgents they found, it wasn't a team at all; only a single human male. He was dressed in grey robes, so worn and tattered that they hung loosely from his frame. The shape nearly concealed his powerful build, corded with muscle and sinew, and layover feet blackened with layers of old filth. Every part of him was unkempt; from the tangled mane of sable hair that half covered his scarred face to the streaks of dirt that aged him prematurely. He could have been twenty or one hundred, but it was clear to the Commander that his prey was no intruder at all. Prisoner. Escapee. Both seemed far more likely, and if the destruction inside the lift was any indication then the young man was dangerous too. A brutal wreckage of Trooper corpses lay scattered inside the lift like dolls that had been snapped to pieces. Legs and arms bent at unnatural angles, heads twisted in the wrong direction. It was, at best, a massacre. Whether out of shock or some other growing discomfort, The Baton Trooper allowed his boot to readjust on the slick floor and produce a squeak. The noise rippled down the corridor, its echo amplified by the close proximity. Realizing what was to come, a simultaneous draft rose frigidly up each troopers’ spine, climbing the length of their vertebrae until their skin paled to the color of their armor, as the subtle shift in the Prisoner’s posture revealed that if he didn’t know of their arrival before, he did now. “H-Halt!” The Commander stuttered, more out of some misguided guilt of inaction than any sense of courage or duty. The Prisoner turned his head to the squad with a slow, almost agonizing speed. It was there that dark lashes framed his icy silver eyes in such a way that only intensified the wild nature of his stare. His chest heaved from unknown exertion. The excited dilation of his pupils was visible despite the curtain of hair on his face, like a starved beast within pouncing distance of its prey. The Troopers, to a one, squeezed the dedlanite stocks of their rifles until their knuckles flushed with color. "Don't move!" The Squad Commander barked. "Put your hands up, or we will fire!" There was no response to the ultimatum. The prisoner showed little interest in the Commander at all, his eyes flicking between the assembled Troopers with a long, menacing assessment. It was as if he’d encountered a new game, and like the others before them, their lives were at stake. An urgent rush to act then flared the Commander’s skin, and something warned him they were about to be next. "FIRE NOW!" He shouted, no longer caring about their detainment orders. Fear had freed them of rational thought. The only thing that mattered now was getting off as many shots as they could before the power cells in their weapons depleted. The rapid barrage of plasma bolts ignited the corridor with pulses of glowing scarlet, flying in multitude as fingers compressed triggers without restraint. Over and over, the terrified Troopers fired. Enough, they thought, that anyone and anything in their path could have only faced obliteration. They were wrong. As their firing ceased, they saw it; each bolt, each pulsing blast of plasma hung suspended in the air just a few feet from the prisoner. It was as if an invisible web had snared them and a bone-deep fear ate at their hearts. They knew of this sorcery, touted as a talent used only by the Master of the Knights of Ren. It had been the source of canteen discussions for years. To see it in person, as they did now, was a very different experience. Profound, awful, cruelly magnificent. Filled with the bitter realization that their last moments were approaching. The prisoner’s breath drew faster, panting in the air. Beyond the red glow of the bolts, his eyes flashed between silver blue and a strange chemical swirl of red and yellow. He raised his hand, nails blackened with dirt, and flicked two fingers. The plasma bolts spun, flinging out towards two Rifle Troopers like a swarm of kinetic javelins. “No.” The single word echoed from the prisoner’s smirking lips as the bolts hit their targets, sending the two Troopers flailing into the air. The sheer force of the heat and explosive power expanded through the corridor in an ear-splitting roar. Smoke and sparks flew as the pair landed in charred heaps of scorched armor and scattered the remaining Troopers. In the confusion, the prisoner leaped through the hazy air. He used the wall to propel his feet first into the Baton Trooper’s chest plate, knocking them back so hard that their helmet cracked and they were sent sprawling to the floor. Then he turned his attention to the Squad Commander. They circled each other briefly, one smirking gleefully while the other fought to control his panicked breath. The Commander broke first, throwing aside his blaster in favor of his fists. The Prisoner's circling came to an abrupt stop, his arms firmly at his side as if daring his opponent to make the first move. The Commander took the invitation, throwing a hook for the jaw that missed when the Prisoner stepped out of range. Coming out of his swing, and knowing it didn't land, the Commander quickly re-positioned his feet and reversed his hips in the opposite direction, rounding with his left fist this time, that again missed its mark but prompted no retaliation. It was as if the Commander was a fish struggling on the end of a line and the fear churning in his belly began to turn to humiliated rage. He began to fight in earnest, raining jabs, hooks, and over-hands at every opening. Each was either dodged or deflected with a perfectly-timed forearm or elbow. Lungs burning, he glanced ahead and saw his Baton Trooper struggle to his feet. Calculating, the Commander attacked again. All he needed to do, he told himself, was distract. Upright, the other Trooper nodded at his Commander and activated his riot baton, spinning it in his hands as he lunged. It was a rushed strike, one both were sure would connect. But without even a backward glance the prisoner spun sideways and sent the baton directly into the stomach of the Commander. Tendrils of electricity rattled through his body, searing, burning, and destroying. He fell to the ground in a convulsing slump, white foam leaking from under his helmet. Alone now, and horrified, the Baton Trooper turned to try once more but was stilled by a single raised palm. It was as if his entire body had been clenched in a giant’s hand and as it began to squeeze the life from him he squealed, high and desperate. They had never stood a chance, none of them. A look of analytical indifference replaced the bestial glare on the prisoner’s face as he watched his last victim fall to the ground. It had been an efficient and highly entertaining experience, but he had no more patience for delays. Still, there was one final act to complete. On the floor, the Commander, barely alive and only half-conscious, lay still as he panted wetly. He watched in horror as the prisoner stood over him, too injured to move. The man searched inside the grey robes and produced a strange item. It was a long, thin cylinder. Faded silver and black, one end was flat while the other seemed to be open and decorated with horn-like hooks. It buzzed to life, a single red-orange beam of plasma projected from the central shaft while smaller pillars erupted from the ends of the hooks, forming a V-shaped guard that sizzled centimeters from both sides of the main blade. A lightsaber. The corridor was bathed in a hellish glow as he twirled the saber blade lovingly, the sharpened canines of his teeth glinting orange from his grin. Death was close for the Commander, so close he could smell its acrid stink. He raised a hand, pitiful, pleading and desperate, in some last attempt to shield himself from his fate. The saber hummed over him and he clenched his eyes shut for the final blow. The Prisoner’s posture then released, hacking downward with the force and speed of a guillotine, when it suddenly bucked, falling just short of severing the Commander’s hand at the wrist. A flicker of something brought the Prisoner’s eyes to yield, so brief in duration that he questioned if it happened at all. It was small and tentative, feeling more than familiar, it screamed to be remembered. An image of a person laid out in supplication just like the Trooper. A child, it had been a child’s face, bloody and sorrowed. A child he once knew… On the floor, it was only after an inordinate amount of time had passed that it occurred to the Commander that pain had not overtaken him. the Squad Commander risked a blink of his eyes to investigate, and found that while he still remained among the corpses of the hall, the Prisoner did not.
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PART 4 of 4 He'd been foolish to waste so much time with the Stormtroopers, and so much energy too, he berated himself as he stalked through the corridors. Overindulgence had always been his cardinal sin. Already he could hear his Lord’s sharp criticism.
"Always remember, my children, do not drink too greedily from the well of the Force. It will leave you stricken, urging your favor again and again, as you will become reliant on its influence, and in turn, suffer under it. While the true power of the Force can only be attained through the Dark Side, it is not without its penalties. It offers an immense arsenal but lacks vitality. It will drain your strength until even your anger no longer fuels it. It will cloud your mind and demand your wrath, even when sparing your enemy if only momentarily, will better aid your cause. To give yourself over to it completely, without the tutelage to guide you, is to invite your own destruction. It is because of this reason that discipline must become more than a necessity, it must become innate."
The wisdom was as true then as it was now, and yet, somehow, he always found himself punished for not listening. Already he could feel weakness spreading through his body. Reaching so deeply into the Force so aggressively and in such a short period of time was taking its toll. It was something he could ill afford, escaping the lower levels was only the first challenge. Forcing the lift to rise had been a necessary strain, an act of intense concentration and skill. Destroying the Stormtroopers so extravagantly, however… that was a miscalculation.He shrugged mentally and deliberately turned his thoughts away from the last Trooper, the one he’d spared. The memory though, would not release him.What had he seen? The Boy Who Awoke To Darkness, perhaps, unaware of the chance at a grander future he would receive. He’d purchased that future through blood and death, at least he thought he had. It was doubt that drove him from his lair, doubt that the promise made would be realized. And so he would find the ones withholding what was rightfully his, and make their suffering legendary.
"You are the last of the four, the sole victor, but still one final test awaits. We have spoken of your past, but are you strong enough to overcome it? This remains to be seen. You know your targets. When the time is right, you will find them and gain their trust. Only then at your most conflicted hour are you allowed to end them, and upon their demise, you will be worthy of my promise, child. You will be worthy of the duel you seek. You, my Ascendant."
The words were all that kept him upright as he stumbled, hand catching the wall before he fell. The harm he’d inflicted on himself was worse than he’d estimated and he had yet to escape the freighter. He grit his teeth, sweat beading, and stinging his eyes as he forced himself onwards.The central hangar bay was located on the current deck but was most certainly locked down by now. However, if he could get there and access its control panel, he could use smaller expulsions of the Force to manipulate the inner locking mechanisms and pry open the blast doors just like he did with Warvane's lift.He didn’t worry about triggering the alarms; that time had passed. Without the element of surprise, he would have to be more careful though and he panted hard to ready himself before walking on.Stealth was his greatest skill, and in using it, he would move as though he were a shadow. He approached each corner cautiously, listening for activity, and utilizing the tiniest tendrils of the Force to enhance his awareness. There was no time to linger. He had little choice but to trust his initial instincts as he crossed from one access hall to the next, giving consideration to each compartment or alcove as he passed their entrances. It paid off, he managed to avoid a patrol that trotted down a nearby corridor and ducked another. The hangar was just ahead of him now, and to his surprise, it was left unguarded.Not even a single Stormtrooper was stood in front of the blast doors, where he’d imagined a large squad might have been stationed. The hangar bay was the only means of exit. There could be only two possibilities. One, the squads were spread thinner than he estimated, and busy trying to hunt him down, or two, this was a trap.He liked two.Stepping out from the niche he’d concealed himself in, he gauged the situation. Just a condensed hall and a pair of blast doors between him and freedom. Were they solely depending on an encrypted lock to keep him out? No. He dismissed the thought. Warvane would know better.Perhaps the Troopers were on the other side of the blast doors? Though he doubted that as well. The Captain would know that once inside the hangar, his chances of escape would only increase dramatically. Too many possibilities and all of them exhausting."I know you're there," his lips curled into a smirk, his tone was snide and antagonistic. "Come out now, and I promise you'll go quicker than your friends did."The sound of metal groaning filled the air as the door mechanisms whirred and unlatched. The durasteel opened slowly, revealing the foreboding presence of Vendol Warvane in the hangar beyond. He felt his smirk fade. It was clear now why there was no squad, no collective of Troopers.He was a secret, the ghost of the Black Freighter. Hidden even from those that guarded it. How long would the Squad Commander he spared live once Warvane knew what had been seen?"What do you think you're doing?" Warvane’s deep voice sneered, his eyes filled with disappointment and frustration.“What I must.”The Captain swelled with visible anger at the unrepentant reply. "You swore fealty, boy!" Warvane scolded. "After all you've done, all that has been given to you, you’re just going to sacrifice everything? This is madness, Zego."The name hung in the air, no longer the powerful word it had once been. He had become more than that, would become more than that. A feeble attempt, he thought, to return him to his prior path, one not born out of compassion, nor empathy, as the Captain cared for no one. Fear, yes, that was the true source of Warvane’s appeal. He could practically smell it on the man. And no wonder, Warvane didn’t and couldn’t understand that once this task had been set in motion, there could be no return."That is not my name..." The force-user growled sharply."Oh? So who are you then?" Warvane asked. "No longer his Ascendant, not if you continue this route. He will take that which you yearn most for.""Has it not already been taken from me?" The Ascendant said. "It's been nearly a year without reply or visitation. All the while, I remain forgotten. What I do now, I do to ensure a future for myself, teacher."How he used the term boiled Warvane's blood with contempt, but did not rob it of its truth. While others might've assumed him to be a fleeing prisoner, concealed from their eyes for any number of reasons, the Captain knew better. He'd helped train the young man since he was a boy, educating him in strategy and any number of fighting methods, save for the use of the lightsaber and the Force. All in preparation, all commanded of him. Now those years of devotion were swept away by an act of treachery."There is no future for you outside of the preordained," Warvane advised, edging slowly closer and calling on every fiber of restraint to hold himself back from ripping the arrogant wretch's head from his neck. "Return with me now, and I will not report what has occurred here. Whatever you have convinced yourself of is not true. It is not what is planned for you.""Plans change," The Ascendant said, less sympathetic than before. "Now move, or be moved."Warvane raised his hands peacefully and continued to close the gap between them slowly, forcing a grin that was anything but genuine. It was all he could think to do to hide his anger at receiving such a threat. He was closer now, and in a few more feet he'd be within arm's reach. It was here that he could see a noticeable advantage, hidden before by the shadows and distracting flashes of red emergency lighting; there was a slight hunch in the young man's posture, and he was sweating profusely. All signs he was exhausted and overtaxed.“I suppose I shouldn't be too surprised by all of this. You always did take things a step too far. Especially when it came to his teachings.” As Warvane's confidence grew, his tone darkened. "You've overexerted yourself, boy. You're tiring.”"You're right," The Ascendant agreed with a long exhale of breath, no longer trying to conceal his weakened state. "But the thing is...I don't need the Force to take you apart."In that last fleeting exchange, just as the words left his lips, Warvane was on the cusp of reaching his ward when his eyes met the Captain's with a dangerous quality, and in that instant, both knew they only had seconds to react. Fists struck instantaneously, each landing a crushing blow that sent the other staggering and urged them to circle. It was an assessment of strengths and openings, each of them well versed in the other's skill. To an observer, they might have appeared as mirror images, living masters of Teräs Käsi. The most deadly form of hand-to-hand combat in the galaxy.Their stares met once more with deadly symmetry. They came at each other, the first series of blows evolving into a gale of timed strikes and narrow deflections, as their muscles searched for a rhythm that would offset their opponent's. The flurry lasted for only seconds until The Ascendant broke contact, back-pedaling away with a feint that he knew would lure Warvane. The bait worked. He ducked the strike and moved into the opening left in its wake, where he spun a wheeling kick to Warvane’s cheek that was so hard, he heard the joints of his jaw clack.The kick threw Warvane into a wall, dazed and aching. He barely recovered when the force-user sprang again, knees high, and was forced to catch his attacker in the air, heaving his weight forward to throw him. Air rushed from the Ascendant's lungs and pain spread through his ribs. The Force called to him, tempting and desperate, but he ignored it. Gasping shallowly, he balanced himself and reassessed their positions. He knew he couldn't kill Warvane, though not because he lacked the ability. The Supreme Leader had use for the man yet, and taking his life would only complicate an already complicated situation.However, the Ascendant was on his last reserves of strength. Even if he managed to win the fight, he might not have enough left to complete his escape. It was, he thought, time to take yet another calculated risk. Gritting his teeth to suppress the pain, he waited until Warvane rushed him once more. At the last possible moment, the force-user contorted his body until his boots arced against the Captain's chest plate. Then he kicked off with an open hand and fired a Force Push that sent them rocketing separate ways.The Ascendant twisted as he flew through the air, keeping his already damaged rib high before his back slammed into the floor and he slid past the frame of the blast doors. A low groan was forced from behind his teeth as he staggered to the control panel. His palm slammed across it and a final pulse of power shorted the circuitry in a spray of sparks. The doors slammed shut, the scent of burnt electronics thick in the air.He collapsed against the wall for a moment, breath ragged and body aching. The fade of adrenaline left him weaker than ever. Get up, he told himself viciously, or everything will be in vain. By will alone, he straightened and took in the state of the hangar. Eight black TIE fighters squatted in the bays; The Ascendant only needed one. These were Superiority Fighters, he could tell at a glance, which meant they were hyperdrive capable.A thin smile stretched across his lips again, the years of flight simulation training would have a use after all. He stumbled up the ramp of the closest craft and into the black belly of the cockpit. Without a flight suit and the plethora of life support functions that accompanied it, it was a risky proposition but death by an oxygen leak was preferable to what came if he was caught. He glanced at the controls and initiated the launch procedures. As his own fighter began to lift, he reached out to the others, using a fine tendril of Force to activate each Navi-com and trigger random hyper-routes throughout the galaxy. The Ascendant didn’t care where they went, so long as they could mask his own escape."Which way did he go, which way did he go?" He sang to himself, grimly amused as the final launch sequence initiated and every fighter detached from their cable tethers.On the command deck, a confused tech was frantically attempting to stop the sequences when Warvane stormed inside, his anger a visible aura radiating from him."Sir, I don't know what happened? I was busy going over the diagnostics for the hyperdrives when the entire squadron suddenly activated their launch sequences!" The panicked tech jumped to his feet."Can you stop them?" Warvane demanded."I-I can maybe manually override one, sir," he offered cautiously, "but the others will be out of range once they hit lightspeed."Warvane’s jaw clenched, still sore from the earlier kick as he strode to the viewport and saw the hangar barrier beginning to dissolve."The barrier! Keep up the barrier!" he shouted."We can't, sir!" His security tech advised, voice shaking. "The safety protocols won't allow it. Once the departure sequence is achieved, the barrier will stay down until all designated vessels have vacated…"Warvane roared, throwing the tech aside like a ragdoll as his fists came down on the controls with raging violence, smashing buttons, cracking frames, and producing plumes of smoke and sparks. He was ruined, his command destroyed. The Supreme Leader would never forgive this error even if his life was spared. In the viewport the TIE-Fighters separated, jumping away into hyperspace and taking with them Warvane’s future. The twisted metal under his fingers squealed as he heaved breaths so deep that they shook his entire body. The crew around him froze, making themselves small and unnoticeable until one foolish trooper risked a single question."S-Sir...do you have any orders?"Warvane stilled, then straightened. When he turned to the crewmen, only the wildness of his eyes indicated the fury that still raged within him.“Yes,” he said, voice clipped and controlled. “Send a request, I must speak with the Supreme Leader.”
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CHAPTER TWO
PLANET: Tozeer
2 Days Later The deserts of Tozeer were an ocean of fire. The sun's blinding orb stung with deadly heat, baking the golden dunes of grainy sand with a glimmer that stretched to the horizon. It was a place where few could live, and less could survive. Yellowed cliffs overlooked shaded canyons, not mountainous in height or depth, but still the only sanctuary from temperatures that could be seen boiling the air. Lanon Kinova's boot crushed into the shifting surface from one side of a swoop bike, sinking into the crusty layers that poured over it. He wiped the back of his hand across his forehead out of habit and found it dry, the endless heat already wicking the moisture away. Part of him regretted his choice of wardrobe; a worn brown jacket in Bantha leather. But it had been left to him, years ago, and Lanon hadn’t parted with it since other than when he slept or showered. Sentimentality. A curse for a mercenary, some said, a distraction from the mission. Lanon didn’t like that kind of talk. It was lazy thinking, a belief that turned decent fighters into caricatures of hard-minded individuals who couldn’t ask for help, couldn’t place value in understanding and having emotions. He’d always found that it strengthened him and bought loyalty from his clients. It was efficient too, and Lanon liked efficiency. It had given him an excellent reputation, a Lanon Kinova solution was practically a guarantee of success. Whatever it took, he’d find the way. And he never turned down an offer just because it was too dangerous or paid too little. It kept him busy, as did his absolute adherence to first come, first served. No matter how rich the client, Lanon maintained an orderly queue of jobs. Not surprisingly, at least to him, his career took off. In little under a decade, Lanon had risen to the upper echelon of the freelance market, the youngest to do so since Boba Fett. Not that he didn’t encounter his troubles, like now, as he watched nine heavily armed men entering the cave mouth ahead. Smugglers. He sighed and began to calculate mentally, his skill in analysis a source of pride. Lanon might have been a lazy schoolboy but he had a talent for tactical problem solving that few would challenge. He'd already been tracking the smugglers for a little over two weeks. They were cunning and well organized, impressively so. They took longer hyper-routes, and gambled by cutting close to the Outer Rim, just on the edge of the Unknown Regions. It put them in the reach of any number of privateers that might have hijacked their cargo, as well as their lives. But they’d survived so far. It told him a lot about the mentality of the group; cautious but prepared to face risk. Drawing them out would need a very specific approach. One that would allow him to fulfill his task to reclaim the stolen cargo before resale. The death of the smugglers was entirely optional. Lanon watched through his macrobinoculars as six of the nine began hurriedly operating utility lifts. A Republic transport hummed at the cave mouth, the ramp extended. It was fake, it had to be, but a clever fake. They were among the few vessels in the galaxy that could travel virtually unbothered by patrols- provided, of course, that they possessed the proper shipping registration and navigational codes. Easy to come by in the right circles, especially if you stole them. By the time the codes were reported and processed as theft, it would be too late. The thieves would reach their destination, complete their transaction, and find alternate means back to their rendezvous point. That explains the rush, he thought to himself. Judging by the speed at which they loaded the stolen goods, their window was closing soon, maybe a day at most. Time pressure was good, it would lower their guard. Lanon smiled to himself, an idea already forming. The cyan light of his comm blinked from his belt and reached down to accept the transmission. "Lanon. You read me? Speak up already!" It was his co-pilot Neevog Lar; a Noghri by birth, a mercenary mechanic by profession, and a jerk by choice. The two of them had first met on a mission to storm the heavily protected fortress of a baron in the Eslei System. The target had crossed the Hutt Syndicate one too many times and ended up with a pretty price on his head. That had been a tough one, Lanon and Neevog were the only survivors. The tentative alliance they’d formed was now a decade long partnership that both frequently regretted. "Yeah, I read you," Lanon replied. "Do you have any idea how much sand you sucked into the air intake with that crap landing spot? I told you the repulsors have been glitchy since the last run, we needed to land on a hard surface. The Cloudburst will be spitting grainy dust for weeks!" Neevog shouted. Lanon could hear him working on something in the background. "You got any idea how hard it is to fix a ship that's one of a kind!?" "It's not any harder than having to listen to you whine about it," Lanon quipped dryly. "You know, I could always leave you here,” Neevog growled. “Call me crazy, but I think the galaxy would survive losing one more entitled ingrate, and his pet tin can." "Good, you learned to joke. Now learn to fix the CeeBee,” Lanon said, then continued to jibe. “Oh, and that 'tin can' has been kinda crucial to this mission, on top of saving your life before, so lay off Lunchbox." "I saw that missile coming a mile away! I was just distracted from all the... the... bleeding out." Neevog gruffly protested, something screamed metallically and he grunted. "And the only joke here is how much you charge for us to risk our lives. We barely made enough to make repairs after the pursuit through the asteroid field." "You think we should charge more?" Lanon asked. "You don't?" Neevog retorted. It was a source of an ongoing argument between the two of them, one Lanon didn’t care to get into at that moment. "Not for your life." Lanon grinned to himself as Neevog hissed on the other end of the comm. "Listen, I have a visual of the targets, and I'm about to engage. Any words of encouragement?" "I hope they blow your head in half!" Neevog snarled. More clattering and ripping echoed across the transmission and Lanon rolled his eyes. "Love you too, buddy. Lanon. Out." Neevog, stuck clearing the vents, swore viciously and yanked a clogged handle so hard that it finally sprang open. Sand dumped all over him in a gritty deluge. The Noghri spluttered angrily. “Lanon!” After cutting the com indifferently, Lanon activated his swoop bike and launched towards the cave in an arc. He planned to keep as far from view as possible. It paid off, enabling him to land in a concealed position to the rear. From there he scaled the rocky terrain as silently as possible, creeping to a better viewpoint behind a rocky mound. He peeked carefully, sharp green eyes tracking the activity in the cave. "Hurry it up, Hutt-lickers! If we don't get this shipment outta here in the next couple hours, we'll miss our delivery window, and then I'll personally take a pound of flesh from every one of you," the smuggler who shouted was human, his head topped by a beacon of curly red hair. "You got it, Belsic!" He strolled to a large storage drum and sat on it heavily as he lit up a cigarra. It was clear he was the one in charge and the rest of the crew doubled their pace under his watchful eyes. Lanon watched him carefully too, eyes drifting to the barrel. It looked like a contaminant tank for oil drainage. An idea formed for a quick distraction and he reached down to his belt, unclipping the main buckle. It was smooth in his hand as he pressed hard into the center, which triggered curving metal wings to extend from either side and faint green light began to glow. The same glow flashed briefly over Lanon’s vision, indicating a successful connection had been established to the psy-rang. One of his most ingenious inventions; a psy –rang tapped the neural connectors in his contact lenses and could then use built-in thrusters to be directed at his command. He waited for a moment when he was certain there were no eyes on his cover and whipped the psy-rang into the air. Guided by his thoughts, it shot towards the target at near-invisible speed. When it connected with the drum the whole thing, Belsic and all was knocked to the ground in a resounding crash. Filthy black oil spilled everywhere and as it did so, the cigarra dropped from Belsic’s lips. There was a whoosh of oxygen exploding outwards as the burning tip touched the oil. Belsic, half doused with the stuff, screamed as fire engulfed his body. He scrambled frantically to his feet, flailing as he attempted desperately to smother the flames consuming him. The crew ran to him; some to help, others to stare in horror. Lanon broke cover and ran for the cave entrance, one hand reaching inside his jacket as the other caught the returning psy-rang and clipped it back to his belt. He pulled a DL-44 heavy blaster from the hidden holster and fired as he ran, leaping into the protection of another rock formation. One smuggler fell, hit instantly, and the others scattered, all thoughts of saving their boss gone. They abandoned him, writhing moaning on the floor, and ran to take cover. Those that were armed fired frantically and without care to aim. Lanon chanced a quick glance at the mess and ducked back as bolts rained around him, grinning at the chaos he’d created. Desperate, that was what he wanted. Confused, desperate, and frightened smugglers looking for a way to end things quickly. On the floor, Belsic finally smothered the last of the flames and let out a growl that was half-mad from pain. "Idiots! Someone's attacking us! Go turn it on!" One of the nearby crew ducked his head and sprinted inside the transport’s loading bay, half tripping over his feet to avoid stray blaster bolts. Once inside, he rushed to the back portion of the ship, where an object sat in a corner, shadowed by the height of stacked cargo crates. He ripped the cloth covering it away, revealing something vaguely humanoid. "Activate!" he shouted. Gears and servomotors whirred audibly, blue light glowing to life from two narrow slits in the head as it sat up. Outside, Lanon kept his patience, firing only when necessary to keep the crew under pressure. He worried, briefly, about whether the plan was going to work and began to calculate his next steps when the blaster fire fell silent. Cautious, he craned his head very slightly left and felt a rush of triumph. The smugglers had grouped together behind a single driod, Belsic struggling to stand at its back. It was, he thought, an impressive piece of craftsmanship. At a formidable height of over two meters, it shared a similar exoskeleton to the humanoid 3PO units. The entire thing shone faintly blue from the combined power condenser and shield technology integrated at the joints of each thick joint. Even the droid's head was large, slanting downward from a bulbous hump that sat atop a flat-screen of transparent duraglass. "Wh-whoever you are out there, I suggest you listen up!" Belsic's voice, still shaking with pain, boomed. "This here is A9L8, a state-of-the-art battle droid! We bought him off the underground market for just such an occasion. Its armor is a heavyweight blend of cortosis, which can stand up to small arms fire of any type. That includes yours, tough guy. On top of that, it's programmed with over 30 forms of hand to hand and melee combat. Give up now, and maybe we'll leave you stranded on this big rock until you die of thirst! Don't, and our droid friend will find you and gut you like a woolly pig!" He panted from the effort of speaking and grabbed onto one of his crew for support as his legs weakened. The droid had to turn the battle in their favour, no one would risk fighting it. Sure enough, a pair of hands rose up in the air and a man stepped into view. He looked to be maybe in his late twenties, with a head of cropped blonde hair and an old fashioned jacket. Belsic sneered through gritted teeth. "So you're the guy," he spat, "who are you, a hunter, a merk?" Lanon kept his head lower meekly as he spoke, tone respectful. "Bit of both, sir. Actually, prefer the term Procurer. It's nothing to trouble yourself with, though. After all, there is a surrender that needs to take place." His voice cracked on the last word. Nerves, Belsic thought. "Oh yeah?" he scoffed. "Well, maybe I've changed my mind on that? Maybe I'll just have A9L8 annihilate you? How's that sound?" A couple of the smuggler crew muttered words of encouragement. "Well," Lanon paused, "I guess I'd have to say… you're wrong. On two things, actually." His head rose, a broad smile on his lips and satisfaction shining from his eyes. "One being that the surrender I was referring to, was yours," Lanon continued confidently, a chuckle in his voice. "And the second mistake was he's not a battle droid. His design is based on an assassin droid. Isn't that right, Lunchbox?" Seconds before Belsic could even comprehend what was happening, the droid answered. "Yes, Father." It spun in place and gripped Belsic by his pudgy throat. The man struggled frantically as he was lifted into the air, choking and spluttering. His crew reached for their weapons. "Whoa, whoa! I wouldn't do that, boys!" Lanon warned impatiently, throwing up a hand to signal all involved to wait. "It takes twelve pounds of pressure to collapse the double-action trigger of those rifles. That gives you a window of roughly three seconds to act and absorb the recoil before the next shot, and that's not counting the time needed to, ya know, aim your shot, so you don't kill your boss while trying to save him." Lanon shrugged mockingly. "By then, Lunchbox would already be on you. Trust me when I say you wouldn't stand a chance if one of those guns barks fire. Best you take this one on the chin, rather than a metal fist through your chest." Face with the choice of death or surrender, the smugglers dropped their weapons and began to frantically pull knives and blasters from their clothes to discard on the floor. Once they were done they followed Lanon’s instructions to lay on their chests and waited as each one was firmly tied. He watched them carefully, no patience for anyone that might consider playing hero. But there was no resistance and Lanon gave Lunchbox the nod to drop Belsic. The man landed on his backside with a thud and began to cough as he sucked in desperate breaths. He stared at Lanon and Lunchbox with confused, bloodshot eyes. "H-How...y-you...?" he stuttered. "Not that hard to figure out. You said you bought him in the underground market, right? Well, who do you think sold him? From there it was just about getting you desperate enough to activate your new toy." Lanon's eyes drew playfully to the chrono on his wrist and feigned shock from what he saw. "Oh, but look at me wasting your precious time when you've got a prison sentence to attend." He delivered a couple of soft pats to Belsic's chubby cheeks to further cement his defeat before activating his com-link. "Neevog, but we're done here. Come pick us up when you're done with repairs." "You know you're more lucky than smart, right?" Neevog snapped, still angry with his partner. Lanon glanced at the nine smugglers tied and waiting. "Yeah, well, maybe I'm so smart that it just looks like luck."
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CHAPTER THREE
PT. 1 of 3
PLANET: Khoden
Tetrin Farm
Cole Tetrin stared up at the bright glow of the stars that dotted the night, studying their shine, evaluating their numbers, but above all else, beckoning them to show him more. A shooting star was his hope most evenings, a fleeting sign that there were still things to be admired in a galaxy far, far away from perfect. It became his motivation each evening, to find a reason to withhold hate towards the way things were, and the way they always seemed to be. A cynical point of view, Cole knew, but he also knew he didn't give a damn. Life can rip your will from your body in a single day, as he learned so long ago… That was why he climbed the steep slope of his plastoid hut now, ignoring the arthritic ache in his knees. All he needed was a comfortable seat and allow his eyes to soar.
It was, for him, a sort of ritual. Every night he released his concerns into the wonder of that secretive sky, until their inevitable return in the new day. It had begun in the icy trenches of Hoth, during those few quiet moments his attention would wander towards the only light in a frigid world of shearing winds and crystal white powder. He justified the waver of discipline as any soldier would during the war; the uncertainty of not how many more nights he’d be alive to look.
Thirty years.
The thought hit him. Had it really been that long? His eyes fell in disbelief.
“How are you still kick’in?” He asked himself. "Because you have to be." He was reminded.
Cole was close to seventy now but felt twice that amount. His back when he woke up was the worst of it, though his joints when he walked came a close second. His hands appeared so frail as he lifted them for inspection. Dry and creased like old fruit, their tips calloused from hard labor, and possessed a noticeable shake. They were the hands of an elder, not the strapping rebel he recalled himself being. The man he saw now in every reflection was a beaten-down wreck, the leftover scraps of someone better. His hair, while still long and silken, had been robbed of its youthful color everywhere except his bushy eyebrows. A wispy beard now occupied the greater portion of his face, grown only because Cole got too damn tired of shaving it off.
Everything sagged, though most noticeably his jowls, and his eyes seemed to maintain perpetual bags at their base. He didn't need to be that kind of man anymore, Cole shrugged, just a good one. Those days of youth and violence were where they should stay now, in the past. His goal was no longer the collapse of the Galactic Empire as it was during his service, which was accomplished, despite how short-lived it might've been. It didn't surprise him to hear that the fractured dictatorship had reformed into a new entity, just three decades after the Battle of Yavin. It was always there, a lesson the ages had taught all cultures over and over again, yet never seemed to stick. You could break tyranny a thousand different ways, but eventually, someone will just come along to pick up the pieces. These particular architects christened their forces The First Order, and just like in years previous, conflict and bloodshed once again choked the galaxy.
After the last campaign, Cole returned to his homeworld of Khoden. It was a planet in a remote region of space, and a long commute into the Instrop Sector of the Outer Rim, where only three other planets composed its territory. It wasn’t anything special, mostly farms and forests divided into small settlements. The closest thing to government consisting of a cooperative council made up of one representative from each community. But it was here that Cole built a new purpose for himself…and his family.
He'd seen more than his fill of combat, so Cole took up a simpler way of living. The rich soil here was capable of growing nearly any source of vegetation, from dry climate fruits to rain-heavy vegetables. In a lot of ways Cole was lucky, countless industries and traders alike fought tooth and nail to acquire farming land in Khoden. The income produced, especially when combined with the proper amount of manufacturing, could range anywhere in the million credit market. The family farm Cole ran now had been passed down for generations; over 400 acres of territory, spanning what numerous testing deemed the most fertile ground on the entire planet.
He’d had countless purchase offers but Cole paid them no mind. Refusing politely when he could, and with a bolt from his WESTAR-66 blaster when he couldn’t. It made him jumpy though, paranoid. Hiring a farmhand was risky, what if he was betrayed? So Cole chose to work the land by himself, well into his golden age. For better or worse, that became his routine. He'd mind the fields of Yaeger Sugar Cane during the warmth of the day, and at night he returned to his roof, searching the stars for elusive comfort. It was a purpose, a fair one, but it wasn't what drove him to keep living. That reason was sleeping now beneath the ceiling that Cole currently occupied, safe from the worries that his Grandfather endured daily.
His grandson. Naudo. The sole remainder of what was once a family of six.
He was still so young, too young to even be of use tending the farm. And it ate at Cole to know he was aging so quickly by comparison. What would happen if he passed unexpectedly? Who would take care of the boy, of their home? It wasn't enough that he had to provide for himself, but fate also decided another life would depend on him, all because he wasn't there when it counted most. Wasn't there when his family needed him most; He'd failed them all, but he wouldn't fail Naudo. This, Cole declared.
He turned his thoughts from maudlin regrets, heart heavy, and looked back at the stars. Movement caught his eye, far above a light shot through the atmosphere. It was slower and more erratic than a shooting star, winding past clouds as it burst through the sky. Here, Cole realized, it’s coming here.
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PT. 2 of 3
A blinding flash cracked the sky with light, a noise like the earth itself was moving rumbled, loud and grating. The chilly air was bitingly cold and howled through the crumbling stone and open halls of the long-abandoned temple. Thunder drummed over the unnamed ruin. Below, dust drifted down through the levels into the pit. And there, in the pit’s circular base, the boy who awoke to darkness heaved a gasping breath and spun. He kicked out, his target a monstrously featured figure known only by the name Seyth. Seyth was tall, his build impressive and covered with lean muscle and ashen skin. A spine of horns grew out from his back to his neck, as large and black as the storm brewing above their pointed tips. He smiled once; a hideous grin of yellow teeth that were sharper than daggers. Seyth stepped back slowly, letting the boy regain his balance only so he may once more break it. It was a game the child had come to know well and despise; the outcome never changed. Seyth was a savant of their teachings, a true prodigy in the making, seemingly capable of predicting his opponent’s moves before they even thought to enact them. Rain fell, at first, a tentative spatter, then a crashing torrent. Lightning slashed the sky, the glow reflected on Seyth’s lunging fist slamming into the boy’s cheek; flinging him backward as blood sprayed from his mouth. It dazed him instantly, numbness spreading through his face. It was an unneeded reminder that his opponent was better than him. Better at everything. Better than everyone. He was the most likely to succeed of the children taken. Most likely to earn the prize they all fought for. He would become the Ascendant. It was their goal, their very existence based solely on the quest to ascend beyond themselves, beyond the others collected, and one day, beyond their greatest rival. The man they would meet in combat and take his place in the glory to follow. The time had not come yet though. That great rival was a child too. His place of training was elsewhere, concealed within the stars as well as their own. He was not among the two that watched on at the savagery in the pit, standing dry and indifferent from the protection of a decadent archway. One was a male Voss child. His skin an amphibious teal color and patterned lightly with mottling and white. He had insect-like eyes, sectional, and glittering with the satisfaction of watching the boy suffer. The other that stood quietly at his side was a human girl, though she was as pale as a Wampa’s fur. Her hair was a clash of violet and silver, undercut on the sides, but hanging long and thickly corded as ropes from the scalp. A thin scar lined her neck and made her striking rather than pretty. She appeared indifferent to the punishment playing out before her, unmoved by its violent display. Though in the briefest of instances, just as the boy’s eyes looked up from the aftermath of the strike, he could’ve sworn he saw the faintest concern in her stare. He lay still. Sprawled and broken in a popping puddle as the rain pounded him; thousands of icy needles stabbing his unresponsive body. He tried, tried to move. A long shadow found him then, shrouding his body as an ominous shudder ran the length of his spine. The cold was forgotten and he shook with stress and strain as he looked up, one eye swollen shut. Seyth’s pitiless glare fell on him, his smile turned to a look of utter disgust. “In what world could you be stronger than I?” He spoke in a low, hostile tone, but gave the boy no time to answer before his boot raised fast and came down just as quickly. * * * * * The Ascendant woke in the pilot seat with a violent jolt, his body still bracing for a strike that had fallen many years earlier. Sweat and grime coated his skin and everything felt like it was growing hotter by the minute. The walls of the cockpit closed in on him in his panic and the force-user fought to gain control of himself. Nervous breaths heaved in his chest fast and hard, fuelled by the pounding of adrenaline through his veins as his heart raced. It was an all too familiar feeling to him, from another time he’d woken, but one he remembered lucidly. For an instant, he looked to the familiar setting of the TIE-fighter’s instrumentation, focusing on them, reaching out to feel the shapes and textures of their knobs as a means to remind himself that they were real, not the rain or mud, and not Seyth. Finally, The Ascendant’s breathing settled, his anxiety draining away until his composure was found. A dream was the culprit, a memory to be exact. It was a strange feeling. Years had passed since the last time the man could recall dreaming, and even then, he had never felt so powerfully overwhelmed. Nothing should have been able to rattle him. Not anymore, not after years of mental conditioning. The idea that he could be so weak infuriated him. He was supposed to be better than this…he must be better than this. Exhaling heavily, the Ascendant reached for the controls and tried to ignore the direction of his thoughts. Why, after all this time, had he revisited such a memory? And why did the vision of it still haunt him? It wasn’t unheard of for the Force to send cryptic messages to those who used its influence, but they were rare occasions and one he had never experienced first-hand. There were many things he had never experienced that had come to pass, though. His betrayal of his master, however necessary, the most obvious. He still recalled the moment when it occurred to him that despite spending over a decade inside the Black Freighter, he knew surprisingly little about the vessel, and even less of those that occupied it. The Ascendant'’s only true human interaction was with Captain Warvane, and those meetings weren’t exactly designed for conversation. A change had been needed, and it began with reaching out beyond the borders of his own mind and into the thoughts of others. He spent numerous meditations connecting with troopers and technicians alike, learning what he could of the Black Freighter’s inner workings. It was through their eyes that he memorized the ship’s sectors, mapping his route of escape down to every twisting corridor. It was this access that proved invaluable to him, as it also revealed how the patrols would respond, how long it would take them to secure one area and move onto the next. It hadn’t taken long at all before what once was an experiment to become a plan. It would be treason, but perhaps not to Snoke. At his dark core, he knew his master respected power above all, and those who take it even more so. It was a huge risk to be sure, but that only made the Ascendant want to do it more. Yes, if successful, The Supreme Leader would honor him with what he rightfully earned, the young man believed this, he just needed the conviction in order to make it so. That was what had brought him to the planet, shining green through his viewport. “Khoden. Navigational Code: 34.12.88.50. Outer Rim.” The Ascendant uttered the words in a subdued voice. Was it awe he was feeling? After all, he’d intended to come here eventually, but only after he completed his training, and with the noted permission of his lord. The Ascendant couldn’t be sure of anything other than his reason for being here and its importance. They were here on this world, the ones he must find and silence for him to proceed further. He repeated Snoke's command to himself again. When the time is right, you will find them and gain their trust. Only then at your most conflicted hour are you allowed to end them. The words sounded so simple leaving the Supreme Leader's mouth, and yet, differed greatly when mulled over. One target was once a Rebel Sergeant, and despite his elderly age, was unlikely to be deceived easily. Officers of the Rebellion were a step above common soldiers, their training extending far beyond that of firing a blaster accurately. The strategies he could employ were numerous, but the Ascendant knew he was getting ahead of himself. Entering the planet was the next step, and that, he knew, was where his focus should stay. The thrill of his escape fading, and unwilling to allow the uncertainty of the future edged in closer, he decided to act instead of thinking, griping the steering yoke so tightly his knuckles strained into a lean of the thruster throttle. The ship bucked before it accelerated into a dive, closing the distance at adrenaline-fueled speeds. The air molecules of the upper atmosphere compressed and ignited as the Tie-fighter began the orbital entry process, the sheet of flames so vivid that the force-user could imagine the heat as they roared past the viewport. The gravitational turbulence hit next, coming in a quake of motion that rattled every nut and bolt of the reinforced frame and nearly dislodged the Ascendant from his seat. The flight console instrumentation blinked to life, its internal sensors detecting fault in the steep angle and speed of the TIE-fighter’s plunge. A video display screen of flashing red letters lit the cockpit, beeping loudly and advising corrective actions to take. He already knew what the ship was warning; that his current speed and angle of descent would most certainly cause the TIE-fighter to crash and burn. What the ship didn’t know was that was his goal. It was why he sent the other TIE-fighters to random destinations, knowing that the ones that weren’t collected mid-route, or outright shot down for failure to hail with planetary clearance codes, would crash somewhere. The only way to hide his destination was to ensure that his ship suffered the same fate. It was a gamble with death for his life. One the Ascendant intended to win. The Tie-fighter streaked through the banks of cloud cover, dissolving them into vaporous trails of gray as the ship broke into open air. It sped for the ground, the mottle of shadowed forests and silvery web of rivers growing closer by the millisecond. The Ascendant didn’t panic. Instead, he accelerated faster, the intensity gaping his lips and exposing his sharpened canines. “Come on,” he growled. As the TIE-fighter hurled ever closer to the ground, more and more of the landscape became visible. Trees covered almost every area he could see. And though there were many kinds, their specifics didn’t matter much- the only thing he cared about was two things; their height, and their closeness. And closeness was something he didn’t have to worry himself about for long. His mouth turned downwards in concentration as he scanned the area, before finding a suitable place to jump. The speed of the impending crash would've killed a normal person, but the Ascendant understood his limitations as he stood amidst the blaring cockpit alarms, bathed in their various blinking lights. He inhaled and closed his eyes, focusing and allowing the Force to wash over him and drown out all else. In his mind’s eye, he could sense the ship. He could see the planet of Khoden, with all its luscious green life, and could perceive the approach of his jump point. His body tensed, if he couldn’t maintain control then all of this effort would have been for nothing. Memories of training under Warvane, dreams of Snoke acknowledging his prowess all ran through his thoughts as he used the Force to then shear open the cockpit. The metal screeched as it was peeled apart, tugging at his concentration for a moment, as next the cabin depressurized around the newly warped hole and a vacuum of fleeing air pressure pulled at him. The Ascendant opened his eyes briefly to the struggle, then shut them tightly as he flung himself through the vacuum and into the night. The Force flowed through him, over him, controlling his fall and slowing the impossible speed of his plummet. He opened his eyes once again, but rather than face the ground, the first thing he was greeted with was the sight of the TIE-fighter, racing ahead of him toward the ground with a plume of black smoke behind it. Though he would have enjoyed seeing it tear to bits mid-flight and explode into a fiery blaze, the Ascendant knew he couldn’t afford the distraction, and turned his gaze to the surface far below. The trees were gaining on him and the force-user focused as he reached his hand out. It was going to hurt a great deal. But he was used to pain. The fighter exploded at his front just as the Ascendant reached out, the shockwave slamming into him. A deadly miscalculation. He lost his focus for barely a second, but it was enough to send the Ascendant veering wildly through the canopy. Leaves and branches ripped at his body, knocking the air from out of his lungs from the impact. The edge of his temple clipped a trunk on the way down and he fell limply to the forest floor. ---Cole raised a brow as he arrived at the scene in his speeder vehicle. He eyed the crash through a squint, hating that his vision wasn’t as clear at night as during the day, compounded by the irritation that of all the places on Khoden, this mystery vessel simply had to hit his property. With a sigh, he dusted his hands clean and jogged as fast as his aching knees could take him. Cole wasn’t certain if there were any survivors, but he knew for a fact there wouldn’t be at all if he didn’t hurry and try to do something. The Farmer stiffened as he approached the flaming heap, his sight finally acclimating in time to recognize the ship’s all too familiar design. A TIE-fighter. It was black and newer than the ones that rained down death on him in the past, but it was unmistakably a TIE. The fire engulfed the frame of the wreckage as something inside detonated and flared. No one could have survived this, Cole knew, until a quick glance around proved him wrong. There was a man, injured badly with an array of leaking cuts and fresh-formed bruises. He didn’t move an inch, and from where the Farmer stood, he couldn’t tell if the man was even breathing. “Well, let’s see if you made it,” Cole muttered as he closed the distance between them and bent to check the prone figure. He reached out slowly, his fingers drifting with caution as they approached the man’s stilled shoulder, but as his crouched leaned closer, a hand lashed out faster than a serpent and squeezed Cole’s throat with a choking grip. Cole grunted, his own fingers digging into the stranger’s arm to free himself, but the younger man was stronger, abnormally so. He was old enough to have known better, the Farmer thought angrily as he kicked and shoved at his assailant. There was a dazed look on the man’s face, animalistic, protective, and vacant of conscious thought. But as he stared into Cole’s purpling face, something changed suddenly. His eyes cleared and his hand relaxed. He held the senior’s gaze for an instant longer, looking deep into its dull green color with what Cole could only describe as innocence, before then falling limply to his side. “Ugh.” Cole coughed, rubbing his sore neck as his mind raced in wondering who had just come into his land?
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
He came too with a blink, a plastoid ceiling overhead. There was someone else in the room, a man. The Ascendant stretched out his senses and realized that bandages were being prepared, no doubt for the wounds that he could feel throbbing. Something had gone wrong, he thought. The TIE-fighter crashed and exploded, he remembered that at least. But he’d imagined waking up to see the sky, not inside a building. It wasn’t First Order, that at least he could tell. The furniture, though sturdily built, was too simple and too rough. Everything was serviceable but primitive. The smell of rain filled the air, light, and fresh as he listened to the sound of it patter against the walls. There was something else too, sweet and citrusy. Another first to join the long list since he’d entered that lift. The training he experienced on the lower levels might have allowed him to walk the holographic streets of Coruscant or brave the jungles of Kashyyyk but it was no comparison to reality. The Ascendant considered his next move. Violence was a possible answer, but wouldn’t serve his purpose. A crashed fighter and a murder would reveal his route faster than sending out a signal. No, infiltration was a better idea. So what story would his apparent rescuer find most appealing? Should he be a simple scavenger? Or a farmer? It wouldn’t explain the fighter though. A soldier of the resistance, perhaps? *** It was against Cole’s instincts to take in a dangerous stranger, but there was something about the young man that itched at Cole. A sense of knowing he couldn’t place or understand. If he had to guess, it was the look he gave him. Not the savage one that had the Farmer believing his final moment had come, but that second one. It was almost like he was looking at two different people. Maybe it was curiosity, maybe it was stupidity, but he’d taken him back to the house and begun to see to his wounds, and used up a whole roll of bandages on one leg alone. He went to fetch more, digging through the medical kit for the last of his supplies, and by the time he returned, the stranger was on his feet and standing. By instinct alone, Cole drew his blaster from his hip holster. He didn’t want trouble, but he wasn't afraid of it, either. “Easy there, hoss. I don't know how you're moving, but I wouldn't suggest doing any more of it. What’s your name?” he asked, edging towards the door in case his first shot missed. Not to run, but as the last line of defense to keep the stranger from getting to his grandson. The stranger raised his hands in surrender, his expression exuding a sense of calm. “Nice place you have here. Sorry to have caught you off guard,” he said, giving the man a sheepish smile. Cole’s jaw worked, but the new friendly demeanor didn’t lower his blaster any. “Didn’t answer my question. That’s not a good start, Nameless. Don't want to give your name, that's fine. I don't need it. How ‘bout where’d you come from? Take in mind that I saw the ship you arrived in, so if you're planning on telling me it isn't First Order related, I would think twice.” “It is First Order related." The Ascendant nodded appeasingly, his lie already composed from his time in the bed. "I escaped them,” the man said, wincing tiredly as he lowered his arms. “They had me locked up as a prisoner. It took a while… maybe years, but I’m out now.” He sighed, rubbing at his bruised shoulder. “Would you believe it; they didn’t take too kindly to me stealing that TIE-fighter. Had the nerve to shoot at me after all the time we spent together.” His attempt at humor was lazy and Cole didn’t feel any less suspicious. There were plenty of scars on the man, which would suggest torture, but Cole also knew what prisoners looked like. He knew the haunted gaze and brittlely thin bodies that any time in prison would cause. Nameless was well-built with muscle, which suggested a healthy abundance of food. He could've made a deal for more, given them shipment information that wouldn't directly cost any lives, as such an exchange was known back in his days of wartime. Still, it didn't make the stranger's trustworthiness any more convincing. Cole decided then it would be best to play along for the time being. "Okay, I'll buy that." The Farmer agreed. "So the real question is what do we do with you now?" “Well, I don't mean to impose on you, but in my current condition, I wouldn't make it very far if I left. Would it be alright with you if I could stay here for a while? The First Order is still looking for me, and, well, I don’t think I’m in any shape to defend myself from them right now,” the man asked, looking up at him questioningly. Before Cole could answer, though, the quiet patter of Naudo's footsteps stopped at the door next to Cole. Though his grandson was incapable of speaking, the fear in his expression was palpable. It wrenched at his grandfather's heart to have him see this, and so he holstered his blaster in a move to try to reassure the child that nothing was wrong. Naudo blinked, small face still crumpled, and stared up at the stranger in their home. The frown faded to something more puzzled and Cole intervened quickly. “Naudo, go back to your chores. I’ll talk to you later,” Cole said. The little boy obliged, though his eyes stayed on the stranger as he left. Cole frowned, arms crossed over his chest as he looked over the supposed prisoner critically. “You can stay here until you heal, but after that, you’re going to have to leave,” he offered, “If you escaped from the First Order as you say you did, and they’re going to be looking hard for you, I don’t want you on my farm if they come knocking. Understand?” The young man nodded his head eagerly. "Yes, and thank you." “Here… for your wounds,” Cole tossed the extra bandage roll onto the table as he left, pausing as he crossed the frame of the door. “There are a few other things you need to know as well. One,” he lifted a finger, his back still turned, “You are not to go near Naudo without me being there. Two, you are not to cause any sort of commotion on this farm. And three…” He turned on his heel, his blaster in his hand already. The drawing speed quite uncommon for his age. “I have no problem blasting your chest open if you don’t feel like following those rules. Do we have an understanding?” The stranger nodded, hands rising once more. “Of course, of course. I really can’t thank you enough for this. I won’t do any of that, I swear.” The Ascendant watched the old man leave, his façade dropping to reveal a devious smirk and eyes of shining yellow. Cole may not have known it, but after so many years on the Black Freighter, he was exactly where he was always meant to be.
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CHAPTER FOUR
THE SUPREMACY
MEGA-CLASS STAR DESTROYER
THRONE ROOM LIFT
Warvane could barely hear past the sick dread of his own thoughts as the private lift to Supreme Leader Snoke’s throne room rose. It wouldn’t have mattered, the silence surrounding him was nearly absolute. He wasn’t the type to crack under pressure. He was sturdy. Reliable. Confident in his ability to find resolutions. This time, though, it was hope rather than certainty that kept Warvane’s mind churning; searching for something he could say or do to please the Supreme Leader. If he could just convince him of his lack of culpability… but of course he couldn’t. The Ascendant had escaped under Warvane’s command, and no amount of words would alleviate that fact. Perhaps another strategy was in order. His hands moved to his belt, where two frag grenades hung at each hip, eyes clouded with a mixture of determination and hate. Though hate for whom, that was the question. For Zego and his part in Warvane’s inevitable execution at Snoke’s hands? For himself and his inability to control the situation? Or for the Supreme Leader, who would undoubtedly humiliate him before ridding the galaxy of Warvane’s useless body. He licked his lips as the lift stopped, stomach clenched and sour. Bile rose in the back of his throat and Warvane composed himself, hands falling back to his sides. A sneer stretched briefly across his lips. The long, silent journey in the lift, the sense of oppression. All of it was no doubt another game designed to weaken him. An appetizer for something much worse, no doubt. The doors slid open smoothly and he stepped out with a veneer of easy confidence, back straight and shoulders set firmly. An image of absolute control. This moment would be his last before a long, painful, and thoroughly drawn-out execution at the hands of the Supreme Leader. Warvane refused to face it sniveling like a fool, death would be on his terms and no other. In any case, the odds of inflicting any real damage were slim. The praetorian guards would see to that. The throne room looked no different than he remembered; drenched in a blood-red glow from the curtains that hung on every wall. It was shockingly grandiose, but didn’t distract from the person who greeted when the lift doors slid apart, the last person he ever expected to see; Kylo Ren. “Welcome, Captain. The Supreme Leader awaits your report.” The dark warrior nodded to him, his voice slightly muffled by the helmet that he wore. It was a struggle to control his expression, but control was the very last thing Warvane had at his command. “And you have been invited to listen?” He asked lightly. Ren’s head swung towards him, and although his face was covered, Warvane could sense the burning in his gaze. It was a mistake to speak, he realized too late. One that Warvane might not have had, were it not for the strain of the situation. Everything the Supreme Leader did had a purpose. If Ren was present then Snoke assuredly intended him to be there. Perhaps he was to be the Captain’s executioner. “I have,” Ren replied flatly, a quizzical tinge noted in his tone. What he knew, and what was yet to be revealed; Warvane couldn’t say. This development was unexpected to say the least. Could Ren have known about the Ascendant all this time, and if so, why was Warvane ordered to conceal him from all others for so many years? “Ah, Captain Warvane. Kylo. Come.” Snoke commanded from his throne. It went against every instinct in Warvane’s body to step forward, thoughts turning back to the frag grenades. Ren’s appearance now made his impossibly slim chances shrink to non-existent. The option of suicide became more appealing, and though it felt cowardly, he would still be going out on his terms. “Captain, your debriefing?” Snoke drawled. His sharp, blue eyes pierced Warvane. All-seeing, all-knowing. It wasn’t his place to guess the Supreme Leader’s motive, he thought. “It’s rather...compromising. Perhaps we could discuss this matter alone, my lord?” “Captain. I asked for your debriefing, not your opinions. You were given a command, and it would be in your best interest to follow it,” Snoke sneered at him. Kylo shifted at Warvane’s side, almost imperceptibly, and Snoke settled back into his throne with a sniff. Clearly, there was no escaping the situation and he swallowed back any further complaints. Wetting his lips, the Captain prepared himself for the consequences that were to come. “As my earlier message to you stated, the Ascendant used his skill with the Force to flee the Black Freighter and has escaped into parts unknown to us now,” he admitted, jaw working stiffly when he finished. Snoke motioned his head subtly, seemingly satisfied with this. Ren, however, stiffened. The roiling of uncertainty in him was obvious even through the shield of his armor. “Who is this Ascendant you speak of?” Ren asked, keening on Warvane and his tense demeanor, but it was not he who answered. Snoke waved an impatient hand, drawing attention back to himself. “He speaks of your replacement, my young apprentice.” The reaction was not instant, having been a slow burn effect that rose the length of the dark warrior until the creak of his synth-leather hands balling into fists echoed the room. Power and anger flared from his body in a perceptible aura. Warvane stiffened his spine to stop himself from stepping backward. His instincts screamed at him to be still and unnoticed. “What do you mean replacement?” Ren growled. Snoke leaned forward, a cruel smile on his wizened face. “Is the term unfamiliar to you? You have proven yourself unsuitable as a successor. Your family remains a continued threat to my goals and the First Order, and yet they remain breathing after all of this time. Remind me, whose responsibility is it to end them?” He glared down at the younger man, at his continued silence. “And you have the gall to question why I would ever seek your successor?” “My family will fall. You can trust that.” Ren retorted. The Supreme Leader steadied himself in his seat and laid back into a comfortable position. “You speak of trust, yet your lineage shows a history unworthy of it. Your grandfather betrayed both the Jedi and the Emperor. Your mother betrayed the empire that governed her, and your father, well, I think we both know his loyalties lie solely with himself. And lastly, your Uncle, the great Luke Skywalker, a supposed paragon of morality, tried to take his only nephew's life.” Ren lowered his head for a moment, the emotion in him growing at the mentioning of his father and uncle, all the while Snoke's criticism proceeded, twisting further into him like a knife. “Palpatine’s greatest error was his lack of contingency with Lord Vader. He knew your grandfather’s love for his wife was instrumental in his fall to the Dark Side, and yet, never considered that the same familial bond could orchestrate his treachery. I, however, would not be so blind to your beginnings.” Ren’s silence remained absolute despite the hard words. “That was why it is crucial for you to take the lives of those closest to you and banish all sentiment you shared. Even so, I knew the day I decided your destiny and mine were linked that you could betray me. So I did what the Emperor had no thought to, I devised a second prodigy. It took years to scour the galaxy for youths sensitive enough in the Force to be of use, but I managed to collect four, and of the four, Zego arose as the challenger to your legacy.” “Zego….” Ren murmured, as the Supreme Leader gazed on. For a moment Warvane suspected he saw amusement on Snoke’s face and wondered if he had played a part in a larger game. Death, it seemed, might well be escapable. “Yes. His name before claiming the mantle of Ascendant. While he may lack the pedigree of the Skywalker bloodline to utilize the Force, I bestowed him with the same tutelage as you were granted.” Snoke continued to taunt. “It has to be this way, you understand. Insurance, if you will. The Ascendant had to be capable of completely assimilating your place, without delay or incident.” “So despite all I have done, all I have given to you…I am expendable.” Kylo’s voice shook, the tremble of fury thickening in his voice. “I suggest you shelve your fragile ego and adjust your tone,” Snoke quickly cut him off, raising his voice by a small, yet not unnoticeable level. “Powerful you are, but my lesser you will always be. If you cannot see the necessity of the Ascendant’s existence, then you are even more unworthy than I imagined.” The Supreme Leader waved a dismissive hand and reclined back in his throne. “Perhaps I have put too much time into your development. Perhaps the Ascendant is correct that my attention was better suited towards him.” He stated coldly. “No. I am yours, and yours alone to command. Tell me your bidding, and I will see it done,” Ren relented. It was as if his rage had compressed to something colder, more dangerous. Warvane eyed him carefully, it was not the response of the reckless, headstrong Force User that the Captain knew. Ren was understandably upset, but he subdued it in order to maintain decorum. The younger man did not know it, but It was a mental edge he already had over his rival. A hideous smirk adorned Snoke’s face. “I should think it was obvious. Can you not sense it? A decree has been issued by fate. It would seem a collision course has been set for you and he to finally meet. We will find him at some point, of that I am sure, and when we do, I expect you to be ready for the challenge he presents.” Ren raised a fist to his chest, appearing ready to comply with the command, but Snoke was not satisfied. “Be warned, young one. Do not underestimate your opponent. For while the Ascendant’s connection to the Force may not be equal to yours, his prowess with a lightsaber is among the most natural I have ever witnessed. A true duelist, forged by the teachings of the legends who excelled in the craft, as he, too, excelled. You should know that to the winner goes the spoils. Though, if he has betrayed me as is suspected, then I will do my best to offer a second chance. And if he should refuse…” Snoke lifted his bony, desiccated hand to his face, turning it from side to side as strands of electricity conducted between each finger. “I shall ensure victory upon your defeat.” With this, he finally stood, attendants rushing to help him from the throne. Warvane’s relief was almost a living thing in his body. The Ascendant, he knew, was yet to reach his full potential. The other apprentice falling incapable of making his kyber crystal fully bleed; a sure sign of resistance to the dark side. This was a test, it seemed, for both men, as Snoke searched for his heir. One that Warvane had inadvertently played a part in. The Supreme Leader paused. “Warvane. Send regiments after the tie-fighters, search ever quadrant if needed, and locate the Ascendant.” He commanded, finally turning to look at the Captain. Warvane merely shook his head. “I’ve already looked into that option. The data submitted by General Hux states we’re shorthanded due to the war with the Resistance. Perhaps releasing a bounty instead to the freelance hunter market would produce greater results, my Lord? If the wage is high enough, we may have an entirely separate army tripping over themselves to aid us.” He suggested, steely as ever. After a moment of consideration, Snoke nodded. “Although I believe working with mercenaries and bounty hunters to be below us, it is warranted. Go. You are to oversee the hunters and report any findings…Kylo Ren, you are also dismissed as well. Ren obeyed, but Warvane sensed the resentment in him. He waited for the younger man to leave before walking back to the lift himself. “Oh, and Captain, it pleases me that you didn’t resort to those grenades. They are annoyingly loud.” A shudder of terror crept through Warvane, but he didn’t stop and didn’t turn. It was better to go about his business. There was an Ascendant to find.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
CHAPTER FIVE
THE SUPREMACY
MEGA-CLASS STAR DESTROYER
KYLO REN'S CHAMBER
The helmet slammed onto the floor, the force of rage and frustration with which it was thrown sending it spinning under the narrow desk. Another, there was another apprentice. Hidden. Concealed from Ren, yes, but not from Warvane. How many others knew and understood the slight, the stain on his very existence? What had he told Snoke on that day, that his master would need no other apprentice? That he would be the only one, the heir to all, the once and future master. Snoke had smiled, he recalled, and Ren… Ren knew now that it had been derision, not encouragement. Ren stared at his face in dim reflection from the mirror, peering into his blackened soul to search for that sliver of weakness; that crack, that flaw. The invisible stain that made him impure and distrusted. It stared back at him. The easy smile of his weak father, the indomitable spirit of his righteous mother. A disease. He sneered at himself, teeth clenched so tightly that they creaked. A tremble started in his hands and spread through the moldings under his fingertips, buckling the metal and splintering the glass. He’d been dismissed and degraded; an underling to be cast aside or a child put in its place. Ascendant. His replacement, pre-planned for his inevitable failure and fall from grace as his master judged him and found him wanting. The disgrace could not be tolerated. Ren slammed his fist downwards, sheering the sink from the wall in a spray of water. The scene of ruin did nothing to calm him, rage building under his skin like a lightning storm. Ren growled as he caught sight of the twisted helmet of his grandfather, the empty eyes casting their judgment on his hollow commitment to Snoke, his supposed Supreme Commander, and Master. The same hollow commitment Vader once made to the Emperor Palpatine, was it any wonder Snoke doubted him? Treachery and failure ran in his blood, where it mixed with the sanctimonious piety of his weakling uncle and cowardice of his father. They hadn’t known him, hadn’t wanted to know him or understand him. If ‘Ben’ couldn’t be shaped into their flawed images then he had to be shattered by their disappointment. But Kylo Ren was different, had to be different, he was his own creation. That was the purpose that drove him and made him more than they could ever be. More than whatever pathetic competition Snoke believed he had created. Ren nursed the hurt and the anger, letting it grow. It was power and he used it to snatch his saber from its cradle from across the room. The thump into his palm satisfied him, but it wasn’t enough. Ren strode from his room and signaled a nearby trooper. “My chamber is damaged. Have it fixed before I return,” he barked. “Yes, sir.” He ignored the salute, uncaring of their fearful obedience. He deserved to be feared. Fear was power. There was a training room a level down and Ren gathered his fury, covetous of the purity of strength it filled him with. He approached lift wearing his rage like a cloak and the two aides stood waiting stood stiffly to the side, eyes fixed to the floor like frightened animals. Useless, spineless. All of them, he sneered internally and stalked towards the tall metallic doors of the training room. “Command code Kylo-Alpha-X-Three,” he snapped as the doors slid open before him. The training room beyond was a large, black cube, the walls, and ceilings paneled with glassy squares. It rippled and stretched at his arrival. “Command code Kylo-Alpha-X-Three recognized,” the mechanical voice of the intelligence system intoned. “Simulation launch in five… four…” The familiar resonance of Ren’s lightsaber filled the air, red light staining every surface as the simulation initiated and the room twisted, the panels rising from the floor and walls to form an elaborate maze of towering black blocks that appeared to stretch towards a distant horizon. Dimly lit, each passage was barely more than a shadow. The pale reflection of Ren’s face shone from each glossy pane as he stalked the shifting pathways. His senses extended, the Force imbuing a net of power under his total control. It probed as he explored the maze, an all-seeing eye that sought every tiny disturbance amongst the rise and fall of the blocks. Then it rippled to his left. Brief, tiny, barely noticeable, and Ren ducked. The familiar hum of a saber passed over his head as he lashed out, foot connecting briefly with the hard shell of a simulation droid. Though glancing, the blow flung it back into the shifting shadows where the droid vanished almost as quickly as it appeared, disappearing between two merging walls like a wraith in dark. He’d programmed them himself. Perfect assassins to send against a force wielder and immaculate tools to hone Ren’s own skills. He doubted the other one, the Ascendant, could have done so well. Ren scanned across the horizon line and jumped as a new tower began to form, riding it upwards with easy grace. A low whine sounded in the distance and he struck out instinctively, power guiding his lightsabre faster than thought as he deflected a plasma bolt. He twisted left as another bolt, then another and more still behind it, fired in rapid succession. His breath was faster now, his heart pumping hot blood and hotter still fury as he turned aside each one. Too simple, too easy. He jumped towards the shooter’s position and dropped into the narrow space where two towers loosely connected, drawing out his attacker. The cramped space was too close for saber combat and he turned his weapon off; the first, he decided, would be destroyed in hand combat alone. The lure served its purpose well. As Ren bided his time he sensed the minor ripples of another’s approach and spun, catching the droid by the arm it had raised to strike him. It swung, flipping them both backward, and Ren wedged his foot against the surface of a block to create traction but missed blocking the second arm and it gripped him painfully by the throat. Growling his displeasure at the mistake he cut down with his free hand, the Force a fine knife blade in his hand. The droid’s arm severed from its body in a spray of sparks and mechanical fluid, the scent of hydraulic oil filling the air and staining the floor around them. It reacted quickly, one foot coming up to kick him away as it retreated. But the thing was already partially lame and of little interest to him any longer. No, Ren craved more, craved the true testing of his limits. “Increase, command Kylo-Delta-Four-Seven,” he snarled. “Command code Kylo-Delta-Four-Seven, recognized. Engaging droid two in five... four… three…” He kicked from one wall and found a platform, still forming as blocks bricked together, to observe from. The room was quiet again, only the sound of his controlled breathing echoed in the surround. Ren closed his eyes and refocused. It was instinct that saved him this time, honed through years of relentless and merciless practice. His lightsabre flew into his hand as he blocked the strike from above then dropped to his knees to cut away at the middle torso section of the second droid. It split in two cleanly, the red glow of Ren’s saber creating the illusion of blood on its destroyed body. The first droid, still damaged but no longer dripping hydraulic fluid, circled him cautiously. And when he flipped to his feet it attacked, aiming not for his chest but his legs. The move was a welcome surprise but a weak attack, it was the work of a single thought to avoid the blow and put the machine out of its misery. “Increase, threefold, command Kylo-Delta-Four-Seven,” Ren shouted, this wasn’t enough, he wasn’t challenged. He was bored. “Command code Kylo-Delta-Four-Seven, recognized. Threefold requested, confirm?” the system chirped. “Confirm!” “Engaging droids three, four, and five. Countdown to release... three… two… one…” They were on him in an instant, the first from the right in a leaping slash that sang past Ren’s ear while the second fall from above in a deadly summersault, its saber a yellow blur. The third he noticed a moment too slow and a heavy blow to his thigh knocked him to one knee and sent a spatter of blood onto the platform. Kylo hissed his rage and his pain and swung upwards. The blow hit air and nothing more, the three droids had vanished into the mechanisms of the maze. He sneered and climbed to his feet, breathing harder now as he began to take hold of his anger and channel it. Snoke had a second apprentice, that was an undeniable fact, and the anguish of acknowledging his disgrace, his failure, was a gift. More than that, it was a higher state of being that brought skill and power that his weakling parents and the pointless, fading Jedi existence could never begin to understand. Ascendant; a vanity name if Ren had ever heard one. He spat as he jumped down a level and edged towards the next platform, his lightsaber humming as he passed. A foolish title no doubt worn by a fool that matched it well. It was a ploy, a manipulation that was as unsubtle as it was insulting. From nowhere a fist swung across his face, knocking Ren against the side of a block and sending a sting of humiliation through his veins. He’d allowed himself to become distracted once again. It was unacceptable. He swung widely, fending off the second attack and gaining high ground against the third before clashing forwards and backward in a roar of saber slashes that bounced and hissed. An opening appeared, less than a finger-width wide, and Ren slid through it. Two droids scattered into a collection of seared parts and the bleep of dying processors while the third retreated. “Increase, fivefold, command code Kylo-Delta-Four-Seven,” he demanded, wiping at his stinging nose with the back of his hand. There was oil, or something very similar, already soaking the gloves and he pulled them off. Where they landed, he didn’t know and didn’t care. All that mattered was to keep going. “Command code Kylo-Delta-Four-Seven, recognized. Fivefold requested. Countdown to release… five… four.” With five droids hunting him at once they became a small pack, scattered in the maze as they attempted to corner and drive him. The random movements of the towers and walls were both a help and a hindrance and so Ren played a subtle game of hide and seek, moving low and silent. At least one of the droids had taken up a position as a snipper and the occasional plasma bolt would fire across the ceiling in an attempt to flush him out. Ren destroyed it with little effort, dropping onto its back from a separate platform when a falling tower revealed its nest. The second he pulled from the floor by the neck and ripped the coils of wiring from inside its head with minimal effort. The five seemed less troublesome than the three and Ren found himself growing bored. “Increase,” he spat the codes and confirmed the order for an additional ten droids to release. It was an exponential rise in difficulty and he steeled himself for the challenge. How would a single warlord compare to more than ten expertly crafted assassin droids with adaptive intelligence coding? How would the Ascendant compare? They fell on him all at once, moving in a pattern that more closely resembled a dance than an attack protocol. Ren was forced to focus on his defense and shrunk his sphere of attack to no more than the length of a lightsaber from his body, striking by opportunity rather than purpose as sweat pooled against the base of his spine and plastered his hair to his skull. One droid made a perfectly timed hit to his ribs and Ren coughed out a roar of pain as the bones creaked and bruised. Not a break, though it was a stark warning that he had wavered once again and been punished appropriately. Failure. The word echoed in his mind as he adjusted his grip on his lightsaber and cut his attacker across the knees. It fell dramatically, dropping over the edge of the platform and spiraled to the distant floor where it shattered. No, there was no failure to be tolerated, to be born. His inadequacies could not be allowed to grow more virulent. Ren crouched and jump to another platform, deflecting a series of shots from the plasma blasters as he landed. The chasing droids jumped or climbed to follow and he sneered at them, hacking away the surface of the tower to create a fortress. “Increase, factor of ten again, Kylo-Delta-Four-Seven,” he wanted the challenge to build, needed it. The pack closed upon him from every direction and Ren became a mindless blur, an instinct-driven creature reacting to every whisper of pressure and movement with absolute violence. The air became thick with smoke and the burn of metal as he ducked and rose, jumped and dropped. Tiny cuts across his legs and arms stung from the endless sweat and friction, blood dripped in a constant refrain of angry spatter, and still it wasn’t enough. “Increase, command Kylo-Delta-Four-Seven!” Ren screamed the command as he struck again and again against the droids, the Force wielded like a whip in his hand to cast them down as his lightsaber burned a bloodless path of red. “Command code Kylo-Delta-Four-Seven, recognized. Command denied,” the intelligence system bleeped. “Increase, command Kylo-Delta-Four-Seven!” Ren snarled again. “Command denied. Insufficient droid error.” “Impossible,” he denied and flipped away from the surrounding pack, clutching the rising edge of a block as his lightsaber batted away plasma bolt after plasma bolt. More than forty droids were assigned to the training room and Ren was still gaining ground. “Insufficient droid error, would you like to reroute droid stores from level 26?” the intelligence system replied. “Reroute!” He commanded. “Rerouting. Approximate time to reroute counting downing… ten… nine…” Ren swung up onto the narrow platform at the top of the current tower and rolled to his feet. The black cape on his back was burnt and hung awkwardly to his left, the tattered edges limp. He struck it from his shoulders with contempt. The time for purposeless things had passed. The strength in his body surged; enormous, outrageous and beyond compare. What was another apprentice compared to his skill, his strength? Ren’s jaw tightened bitterly. And yet… another existed. A mewling child, no doubt, one to be crushed as easily as he crushed the droids. But the idea itched at his skin and brain as the first of the fresh droids dropped onto the platform, its blackened armor dully reflecting the red saber light. It was larger than its predecessors, yellow eyes in the blank face glowing flatly, and it remained solitary. The program learned each attack and each strategy as Ren fought, this time rather than a simple frontal attack the droid circled Ren slowly and raised its weapon. They traded blows, this one's technique clearly better than the others that had come before and now lay in pieces to be absorbed and recycled. Ren feinted left unsuccessfully and barely avoided a skewering. He grinned mirthlessly. A vague suspicion crossed his thoughts and a tiny nudge at the very edge of his senses was all the warning Ren received before a barrage of plasma bolts flew at his back. He’d been tricked and maneuvered to a point of vulnerability and recognized the attempt too late. He might have congratulated himself for his coding skill, were it not for the very real danger of immolation. Safety protocols were pointless, he never trained with them engaged. Cowards fought with limits. Like his Uncle. Ren’s hand rose, the Force thickening under his fingertips into an impassable barrier. The blue glow of the bolts hung in the air as Ren’s body trembled under strain. Sweat beaded in his hair and rolled into his eyes, stinging and burning until the wetness could be sweat or tears. A low groan rumbled in his chest and hissed through his straining teeth as he reached for each bolt mentally, grasping each one. It climbed to a roar when he flung them back, echoing in the air. Ren staggered under the exertion. Each panting breath rasped in his throat. Not done, not done yet. The droid on the platform saw the opening and weaved closer, a vicious strike catching the back of Ren’s hand with enough force to disarm him. Pressed and unsteady after his feat, Ren jumped from the tower, catching himself a level below. He clawed for grip at the edge and heaved his body up. Every lungful of air was an exhausted agony in his chest, a burning reminder of the limiting weakness that dwelled within him yet. Ren tightened his resolve. This was what he yearned for, the perfect torment to pry the last fragments of weakness from his soul and let them burn away as vague memories; soon to be forgotten. That smile and that spirit, he would tear them apart until only remnants remained. He ducked into the shadows where two towers merged and examined the little he could see of the maze. His feat with the plasma bolts had undoubtedly wiped away most if not all of the droids. Ren suspected that the single barrier to achieving absolute victory was a solitary droid, the same one that had battled against him already. Amongst the towers, a familiar handle glinted. His lightsaber lay where it had fallen, at the edge of a slowing rising block. Ren scanned the surroundings carefully, it was ripe for an ambush. He then saw it to his left, half invisible as the dark body blended with the shadows, the droid. It was crouched in a shallow niche between two interconnected platforms and sat so still that without the faint glow from its eyes it might have looked like a decommissioned model. It held a blaster trained on the lightsaber, focus unwavering. No doubt it had extended its vision to the maximum limits. Ren calculated. His best opportunity would be to make the leap and deflect the plasma burst, but it would require control and a near-impossible jump when his body was already balanced on a fine knife-edge, hovering between exhaustion and a powerful breakthrough in his current limitations. The risk was impossible to ignore, but the reward was even more alluring. He could ill afford to be second place in the race to achieve Snoke’s legacy. Nor did he deserve to be, the title of Supreme Commander would fall to him, as would the entire legacy of the First Order. He sucked a short panting breath and ran. When he jumped it was with everything, not a single fiber of his being held in reserve, and for a moment it was as if he flew without barriers and or limitation. If Ren had felt strong before, he was unbeatable now. In landing, he snatched the lightsaber cleanly and in a fluid movement deflected the blaster shot aimed at his back directly through the droid’s central processing unit. It tumbled from the niche in a stiff tangle of limbs, shattering the glassy wall of the opposite block as it fell, and landed with a dull crunch of grinding metal. “Level clear,” the intelligence system chirped, “Congratulations. To restart the level select command reload, to complete confirm end simulation.” “End simulation, Kylo-Alpha-X-Three record is complete. Begin reformatting for difficulty increase by ten bits and add a gravity variance over negative two,” Ren instructed stiffly. “Confirmed.” He holstered the crossguard handle as the room morphed back to the basic training space. In a dizzying dance the black blocks began sinking into the floors and walls, the maze receding and the space shrinking back to the original size until he stood once more in a large, empty room. In the center lay the cloak and gloves he had discarded, still ruined. Ren didn’t touch them. The things he discarded were beneath him. His reflection stared back at him from the wall, the eyes pits of black in sallow skin and frenzy pumped under Ren’s skin as the doors slip open and he emerged, sweat and blood and triumph written over his face. Power coursed within him like it never had before. But it wasn’t enough, the void inside him howled with greedy hunger. He needed new prey to break that next limit and push himself further and harder. Something nearer his equal than an unending attack of assassin droids, something to battle and wrench and destroy for the simple knowledge that he could. His mind turned back to the Ascendant, Zego was the name he recalled, and an idea began to spread like creeping poison as he strode through the corridors. Troopers scattered when they saw him, their backs pressed flat against the walls by the billowing might of Ren’s aura. They were nothing to him and nothing compared to him, and so Ren ignored them completely. His so-called competition was missing, hidden well enough for Warvane to seek the disgusting help of bounty hunters and other filth. This was an opportunity, Ren thought, no doubt contrived by his master, Snoke, but an opportunity all the same. There could be only one successor in the end, as neither could truly thrive under the threat of the other, and no matter how large the galaxy, it was still far too small for two. If they were to be pitted then let him make the first move. Be the predator to Zego’s prey. Bitter satisfaction eased his rage and Ren made his way to his quarters, uncaring of the bloody trail left in his wake. The repairs were already complete, though he felt nothing at the sight of his vanished destruction. It was the right of the strong. Ren tore away his tattered uniform and toss it away to be recycled with the rest of the trash. A large reddish bruise was already beginning to bloom across his left side and smaller scrapes and bruises littered his arms and torso. They glowed against the paleness of his skin and he pressed against those that hurt the most, collecting the pain as a visceral reminder of his success. Dismissing his appearance, Ren turned on his personal terminal and accessed Warvane’s command requests. At the top, an order to prepare a tie fighter unit and transporter flashed invitingly. A rare sensation of pleasure fluttered briefly in Ren’s chest. He had much to do and little time to prepare. A new uniform was the least of his concerns. * * * * * “Is my transport ready?” Warvane questioned the aid that jogged at his side to keep up with his rapid pace. “Almost sir, final checks are being completed as we speak,” the little man replied. Warvane didn’t recognize him and didn’t care too. Underlings came and went, only the truly excellent rose through the ranks. He tapped quickly on his portable terminal. “The transport is docked for boarding, we have Trooper units B732 through B782 currently at sixty percent loaded.” Warvane nodded, damning Hux for his measly offering internally. The insipid little man would have his downfall one day. “Continue to load and hurry it up.” “Yes, sir!” the aid snapped a quick salute and scurried back to wherever he’d come from in the first place. The Ascendant was continuing to be a challenge and Warvane felt a fine stirring of fear in his chest. The Supreme Leader was not a forgiving master, Warvane had no interest in becoming a sacrifice in the game played between the Lord and his apprentices. The sooner he was away from here, the sooner the Ascendant was back in Supreme Leader Snoke’s grasp, the better for his prolonged life and livelihood. A bounty, though distasteful, might prove a good choice in the end. There would be plenty of pawns to dispense with should any incidents occur. Warvane thought it was about time someone took General Hux down a peg or two, the man’s sneering arrogance was only exceeded by his gross inferiority. “Warvane.” Kylo Ren stood ahead, his power almost flavoring the air with bitterness as it warped around his body. The dark lord was dressed in the robes of his rank, the polished black chrome of his mask reflecting Warvane’s startled face a hundred times over. Dread gathered in the pit of his stomach but he raised his chin in a confident challenge. “Kylo Ren, I’m afraid I don’t have very much time. Supreme Leader Snoke was very specific in his command. If you have any matters to discuss then I’m sure they can wait until we next meet,” Warvane replied, wearing his arrogance like a mask and armor of his own devising. “In fact, they can’t,” Ren said flatly. “I really must insist, I have no time and no taste for these games,” Warvane continued and walked past Ren with an indifferent glance. He passed successfully and swallowed quickly to wet his dry mouth in relief, but it barely lasted a moment. The squeezing, crushing grasp of an invisible hand fastened firmly around his neck and Warvane was dragged forcefully backward towards Kylo Ren. He choked and sputtered against the grasp, his toes barely scraping against the grated flooring as he was thrust against the unforgiving wall. Warvane’s consciousness spun, lack of oxygen, and the daze of his head slamming into an immovable object battling to quell every thought in his head other than the desire to live. “Tell me everything,” Ren instructed grimly. “Ab- about… w- what?” Warvane gasped. He could feel his eyeballs begin to bulge and his pulse throb with the effort to speak. “The Ascendant. What his strengths are, the things that make him weak. You know him better than anyone, apart from the Supreme Leader. Isn’t that right?” Ren said. His tone was emotionless, but Warvane could hear the jealousy that hid beneath those questions. “W- why?” he choked. “Shouldn’t I learn about my fellow apprentice? Is that not exactly what the Supreme Leader planned?” Ren replied and when Warvane didn’t speak the pressure on his throat increased. “Ppp..pl…” “Answer me!” The command shook through Warvane’s bones. Ren’s mask was inches from his face and the bulge of his own fear-riddled eyes reflected back at Warvane in an infinity of terror. “Or would you prefer I tear it from your pathetic mind?” The price of his silence was too high by far. “I’ll… s- sp- speak…” he gasped, straining at the invisible grasp at his neck with terrified fingers. It released almost as suddenly as it began and he tumbled to the floor, his chest heaving with great lungfuls of air. Warvane coughed and spit. His windpipe felt sore and swollen under his fingers and starbursts of light bloomed across his vision as blood and oxygen rushed back to his brain and vital organs. He slumped back against the wall, legs sprawled in front of him. He could sense the disdain in Kylo Ren’s eyeless stare, but in that moment it was meaningless. Life, life was what he craved. “Still reluctant, I see. Does the other inspire such devotion? Perhaps Supreme Leader Snoke should be informed that your loyalties lay… elsewhere,” Ren sneered. “Not – not reluctant,” Warvane’s voice sounded weak and he despised it but wheedled anyway. “My loyalties are al – always with the Supreme Leader.” He paused to cough and managed to stand, pressing first one foot under his body and then the second until the support of the wall was enough to regain his feet. “Perhaps… perhaps you should join me on my transport,” Warvane offered roughly. “I can share everything I have there, in the privacy of my cabin.” He couldn’t follow Ren’s thoughts from behind the mask, but he noticed the slight tilt to the left. A sign of agreement, he thought, everyone had their tells. Ren might believe his were hidden but Warvane knew otherwise. His survival often, like now, depended upon his ability to read them. “Lead on,” Ren instructed. Warvane nodded ingratiatingly and gestured for Ren to follow him, but internally his mind whirled with what he might say to keep the warlord satisfied. He’d left his departure just moments too late. Disheveled and limping, he escorted Kylo Ren with him to the main hangar bay. The transport arranged for him was a hive of activity as Trooper units boarded, the floors echoing with the synchronous sound of their marching. Technicians scurried to and from undertaking essential pre-departure checks and maintenance, each stopping to salute as he and Ren passed by and each carefully keeping their eyes lowered. Although he endured the humiliation, Warvane remembered it well, his covetous heart locking away his anger to use at a later date. Let every deed be revisited in one way or another, he thought to himself. The commander’s cabin was a luxurious space designed in order to keep betters, like himself, in maximum comfort. When Warvane entered he coded the door for privacy and gestured for Ren to take a seat. When the young warlord remained standing, Warvane suppressed a snort of disdain and poured himself a drink from the private stocks before sitting comfortably at the desk. “What would you like to know?” he asked and took a long sip, wincing as it burned his damaged throat. Kylo Ren placed his palms flat on the desk and leaned in menacingly. “You will tell me everything, or I will rip it from you,” he intoned. “Now begin.”
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
Lanon sighed as he rolled up the sleeves of his shirt and cracked his knuckles. He let out a small hum as he brought up the cognitive module he had been working on for closer inspection. Looking it over, he surmised that it would be sufficient for the time being. Of course, he had much, much greater plans for the small device, but they could only come to fruition with both time and trial. He’d already put plenty of effort into the module’s enhancements. Years in fact. It certainly looked different than what it began as, but how much work had he really done? He considered this question, his eyes turning to the kneeling droid that faced away from him, his scalp casing exposed and ready to receive the latest upgrade. Lanon hoped this version of the module would give his metallic ‘son’ all the things he promised, all things sentient lifeforms took for granted. Knowing, understanding, or more importantly, choice. A soul forged of science. It was a lofty expectation like all of Lanon’s goals, but that didn’t make it impossible. Doubters said the same thing when Kinova declared he’d rise to the top of mercenary market, and while he may not be at its peak, he was definitely in the conversation. It was doubters like those that helped motivate Lanon to give Lunchbox such an existence. Sure, artificial intelligence had come a long way from the times of the common droid’s yes or no answers. Some were damn close to being their own person, acting fun or even quirky and defiant, but in the end, they would always heed their programming and give into their master’s wishes. That, however close, was not acceptable to Lanon. Spinning around on his step stool, Lanon adjusted the device to the right angle and placed it back into Lunchbox's head. It took little effort and even less concentration to reinstall, the extended frame grasping and retracting as soon as the module settled. All of his creations were works of pride, though little topped the Cloudburst. His ship truly was the crowning jewel. The hull was coated in Impentrion, a metallic alloy of his own creation that was incredibly light but hardier than anything on the market. Even the hottest of heat would struggle to pierce it. Lunchbox was covered in the material too, and Lanon was pleased to see how untouched the droid was despite their sojourn with the bandits. Except the dust stuck in his joints, anyway. “Father,” Lunchbox said, his current consciousness a product of a background program running his neural processor until his module was returned. “May I ask an inquiry?” Lanon leaned to the side to respond to the droid’s statement. “Fire away, big guy. You know we’ve got an open-hatch policy around here.” “Why do you insist on rewriting my cognitive processes so much?” It paused for a moment, almost seeming to consider the wording of its next question. “Am I a disappointment to you?” Lanon shook his head and scratched at his chin, caught off guard by the question’s depth. “No, no. It’s not that… I'm proud of you, Lunchbox. I’m just trying to help get you to a better state.” “A better state? Is there something defective about me?” Lunchbox asked once it pondered his reply. “Again, no. The only thing defective on this ship is Neevog.” Lanon deadpanned, then continued. “Common droids are relatively more limited in their programming, and that’s only because it makes things convenient for most people,” Lanon tipped his head, choosing his words with care. “But I want to give you the freedom they don’t have. To make your own decisions like humans and or other species can. It’s not about being inferior or defective at all.” “But I am not human or another species.” Lunchbox retorted, his tone coming confused. “I know that,” Kinova confirmed, grinning with a measure of warmth. “You’re unique, and my kid. Like most parents, I want the best for you.” He patted Lunchbox’s rear plating affectionately, producing a few metallic thuds. “I want you to be your own droid.” Lunchbox seemed satisfied by the response, at least for the time being. Despite this, Lanon felt a tug of curiosity about himself and his motivations. Maybe it was the little bit of his mother that he still carried within him, just like the jacket he still wore, her final gift to him. It had to be, it certainly wasn't his own father's influence that led to such care and understanding. Perhaps that was why he worked so hard to give Lunchbox every choice he could because his own father never gave him one. All decisions were processed through him and altered if necessary. Lanon's life was more of a schedule than an adventure. Every day, he was told what he was doing and how he would do it. Fancy galas, regal functions to buy off political favors, Lanon had seen them all. His mother tried to intervene and even managed to win a few battles, but once she passed, matters only got worse. He felt like the various droids that occupied the rooms, only present to serve a purpose. That was when Lanon knew he had to go, to find and make all the choices that he was deprived of. “Hey, you done tinkering yet?" Neevog's gruff voice broke Lanon's contemplation. "Something new just hit the wire. And it’s B-I-G, big.” He said, standing across the tool bench. His clawed hands rubbing together with giddiness as he spoke. “No combat required, either.” “No combat required in the risk business? Sounds great! Now what's wrong with it?” Lanon asked, his false face of delight fading into a frown, the offer already sounding a bit too good to be true. Neevog threw him a shifty look, as though the coming information was more complicated than his tone initially implied. Lanon raised an eyebrow at this, his mind already narrowing the list of clients that would make the Noghri this uncomfortable, and the likely answer hit him almost before his co-pilot could speak. “Now, listen… you gotta hear me out, here...” He began, but before he could go on, Lanon's expression soured as he lifted up his hand. “Let me guess. First Order.” His human partner interrupted. “I knew you were gonna…!” Neevog trailed off angrily as he slammed his scaly palm on top of the workbench. “Now listen here, do you know what they’re paying?" "For you to even think about running this by me, it would have to be enough to spend a million trips to every brothel in Nar Shadaa." "Not a million," The Noghri corrected, lifting up one clawed finger with absurd conviction, and replied, "just one great one!" Lanon's eyes fell into a rollback, his brain feeling numb from Neevog's comment. "Your desperation makes me sad." He said, shrugging. "Now do us both a favor and find a real job on the wire." "This is a real job, Lanon! They’re paying enough for me to retire! They’re paying enough for BOTH of us to retire! The Nar Shadaa brothels have enough seats for the both of us, ya know.” He threw his hands up in the air, point made. Lanon only sat back in his seat, arms crossed and shaking his head. “No. Not happening. If The First Order is involved, nothing is as simple as it might seem. Especially when it pays big.” “Not simple? It’s a seek-and-find! It don’t get any more simple!” Neevog huffed, while Lanon only continued shaking his head. "Neevog, if it's that important to you, I'll pay for your damn retirement! I'll pay you double if you shut up about it right now." "I don't want no stink'in handout from you, Lanon!" Neevog's roar boomed, insult ringing from every word. "I actually want to earn my credits. It's a matter of honor." Lanon's jaw weighed down with a small gape, his eyes fading to a squint from the lunacy of what was just said to him. "You don't have honor! You barely have thoughts! And if you would just take a second to form one, you'd see this thing reeks of 'bad idea'. What kind of person thinks they can escape from The First Order without the Resistance behind them, anyway?” He replied. “I don’t know, the stupid kind? The kind that's stupid enough to be found easily?” Neevog said, sneering and hopeful. Lunchbox looked between them as they argued, the gears in its domed head rotating audibly as they followed each speaker's comment. An idea occurred for him to interject, to try and voice his own opinion on the matter, but when the droid tried to speak, it found itself unable to complete the task. It wasn't that he didn't have the ability to do so, it was more that he had trouble reasoning who truly was correct, and if he could not decide, he could not process an answer. Their occupation permitted seek and find missions, however, his father was firmly against them now. Was this a debate of personal preference, and if so, how did shouting at one another decide the winner? It became apparent then to Lunchbox that more upgrades were indeed needed. “Listen, Lanon! With all the jobs we’ve done so far we’re barely scraping by. Mainly because of you, by the way, and your oh so generous tendency to help more than you’re helped.” Lanon could only roll his eyes at this, but he remained silent as Neevog continued. “And that is fine. If you wanna act all a hero on your own time, that’s on you, but I don’t wanna keep doing this just for the sake of it. We’ve been here for what, a decade? A decade, and how close are we to getting some stable future? Not very." The Noghri made a sour face. “You forget that not all of us have rich, dead mommies that supply us with funds so we can play the good guy and cry about our mean daddies. Like I said, if you wanna keep doing that, fine with me, but I want no part of it anymore.” The implications hurt, though there was some truth to them. Lanon had inherited more than enough to keep him in luxury for the rest of his days, even with the funds allocated towards the creation of Impentrion, the Cloudburst, and Lunchbox. If he was being honest, it was all still just a drop in the bucket. What Neevog had said had merit. He actively depended on the credits that they made taking on jobs as a team. And it was true that although they had been working together for ten years, there was hardly anything to show for it. Lanon wasn't lying when he said he'd of given him some of his inheritance directly if he thought this that would solve things, but despite being a creature that of loose morals and occasional hypocrisy, he knew his co-pilot wasn't lying either, not when it came to earning his keep. Judging by the tone in his voice, Neevog had finally hit a point where he would tolerate it no longer. Lanon let out a small sigh. He wasn’t prepared to lose his partner over this. They might make an unhappy pair, but it would be selfish of him to deny the Noghri this opportunity. “Alright. If you feel that way about it, then I agree to take the job.” Neevog's grin grew from ear to ear, his demeanor shifting instantly with a combination of glee and relief. “Good, great! See, I knew you’d come round.” “What other details do you have about this?” Lanon might have said yes, but he sure wasn’t planning to be happy about it. “Well, it’s a seek-and-find, like I said. We’re looking for a traitor who stole some technology from The First Order, took a whole fleet of Tie-fighters, too. Set ‘em off in various quadrants with the trackers disabled. So far, they've calculated the general trajectory of each one, but have only found two. Empty, and crashed off-world.” He specified. “Basically, the job is gonna be to track down the traitor, find out where he’s staying, then send those coordinates over to some higher-up in The First Order. No confrontation needed. I actually think it said don't go anywhere near the guy.” A sense of unease prickled through Lanon. If the First Order was telling the hunters to explicitly not to approach the target, then what kind of traitor was he? Clearly dangerous in some manner, but in what way? Something just wasn’t right about this job, but...well, if it would help Neevog, then he supposed he would go with it. And so he nodded, looking over at his partner with feigned approval. “Well, then, fellas. Let’s hunt.”
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
The Ascendant sat on the edge of his bedframe, legs crossed, back straightened as balled fists sat atop his thighs. The depth of his meditation was deep, but not fully complete. There were still concerns lingering, avoidable. Would he see him again when his eyes opened, standing there with his judgmental silence? His breath tensed in annoyance, breaking what concentration the Ascendant had managed to build. He used the Force to travel beyond the confines of his human body, reaching out to the crystal of his lightsaber. It was still intact, and the device that housed it, fully functional. The Ascendant could see it clear as the day around him, hidden in the brush at the roots of the tree he'd crashed through. It was fortunate for him that the impact jarred his weapon from his belt, as he wouldn't have been conscious in order to keep it concealed from Cole when he found him. Nor would it have been easy to devise a cover story with it present. The Ascendant would have to reclaim it, but he knew better than to go after it too soon. Returning to the wreckage could raise the farmer's already high suspicions. If Cole thought he was going back for a weapon, it would complicate an already complicated position. Sounds echoing through the hut’s walls finally startled the Ascendant's eyes open, the boy's presence thankfully absent. He turned his ear down to them and used the Force to keen his hearing, giving it an advanced quality of perception. The Ascendant could hear the precise decibel of volume in each movement, the arthritic creak in the bones and joints of the old man lifting something and how he struggled with the task. His breathing was haggard, and easily exhausted considering the small effort required. Next was the clang of the metal against metal, the familiar sound of something locking together like a gate. The Ascendant’s guess was that Cole was preparing for a departure somewhere, a departure he didn’t plan on asking his guest to join. This would have to change, he decided. His time was limited, and in order for him to proceed to the next step, he must finish here first. He must test him himself just as was intended before his escape. He needed to gain this old man’s trust; only then could he progress. That process began the night he convinced him to stay, and while their interactions since then had been awkward, he knew this was expected. There was still much to do, much for him to feel and conquer. It was a daunting challenge, especially when much of his training was learning not to feel on a number of fronts. Pain, sympathy, remorse. They’d all been beaten from him until they were mere rumors, things others were said to experience, but not he, never he. The Ascendant knew he must persevere now more than ever before, he must find that part of him that refuses to die and kill it, finally making his blade bleed the full red that it teetered on the edge of being. The delay was over, he would take the next step now.
* * * * *
The noon sun had reached its peak on the day, drawing a feverish sweat from Cole’s skin. It was an absolute scorcher, even with the breeze that occasionally pushed at the fields of cane stalks around the farm. A crate of hard plaster hung in his arms, one of four that sat piled next to Cole’s speeder car, ready for loading. They were light for the time being, but soon would be weighed by various supplies once he arrived at the closest settlement of Unity. The old man didn’t look particularly forward to the commute, despite it only taking place once a month. He hated the stares, hated what the residents knew about him. It was in their faces, the way their eyes sank when he was around or how their mouths fought to find words that never materialized. The task had to be done though. They needed food and fertilizer, among a host of other things to keep the farm running. Cole refrained from his morning duties, preserving his strength for the exertion to come, though even then he knew the activity would still be a struggle. It always was. The audible slide of the front door caught his attention, drawing him to his guest of the last few nights as he left through it. Cole eyed the nameless man, his lips pursed with consideration. Days earlier he had found him in a tie-fighter crash and pulled his damaged body away from the chaos and back to his farm, and even now he still wondered if it was the right choice. Nameless had behaved himself though, staying in his room unless it was time to eat. What conversation he attempted to have felt forced and insincere, not that Cole added much of his own thoughts for that matter, nearly appearing as mute as Naudo. It was clearly a feeling-out process, of which neither man was getting much from. He hadn’t noticed Cole yet, choosing to engage in a series of stretching. The farmer was careful to approach, not wanting to startle the boy, but the other had already spun quickly to him with sharp eyes sitting low on his face and a questioning look. It was as though he sensed before seeing him. 'Trained for sure' Cole decided, replacing the frown of his face with a more friendly expression, which was harder than expected for the old curmudgeon. “You're up early.” the old man began the conversation, watching Nameless´ face closely for any shift of facial features, but he was only met with gray-lit eyes that expressed disinterest. "Still having some discomfort." The Ascendant answered with a lie, knowing full well his wounds were aided by the Force and, at best, were surface level now. The truth was that he'd heard movement from his bed and decided to investigate, hoping to find an opportunity for more trust as their dinners were getting tenser than his meetings with Snoke. “Well, that's what happens when you forget how to land." Cole chuckled, a legitimate attempt at humor that surprised both men. The Ascendant smirked in return, despite the joke doing nothing to actually amuse him. His attention then turned to the speeder car and the empty trailer attached to its rear. "Going somewhere?" "I need to head to one of the nearby settlements to load up some supply crates," Cole said. The Ascendant nodded calmly, but secretly rejoiced, recognizing this as the exact kind of opportunity he had been waiting for. "Need any help?" He inquired. The offer caught Cole off guard, hiking his eyebrows as he looked the younger man up and down. It wasn't that he didn't want the help, the heavens knew his body would appreciate it, but part of him still found this questionable. "I figured since you're still recovering that you wouldn't be able to do any physical stuff." "Have to get my body stronger somehow." The Ascendant replied, hoping his words came off genuine enough to be believed. Cole took a moment to assess his options. There wasn't much harm to be had in allowing him to join, and technically he was already trusting their guest enough to leave him alone on the farm. At least this way, he could keep an eye on him, or who knows, maybe once they arrived, he'd disappear into the crowd and never return, eliminating this awkward situation altogether. “Alright, come on. We don’t have all day.” The farmer grumbled, waving to follow him to the speeder. The Ascendant nodded and did as instructed, climbing into the vehicle and took notice that the mute boy, Naudo, was already inside waiting. The Ascendant figured the old man for the protective type, but didn’t think much else about it for the time being. A second later the speeder thrummed alive and shot forward in an instant. The ground passed along their feet in a blur of brown and beige, as a current of wind push into their faces and hair on the way to the settlement. The force user examined the majority of Khoden's terrain was not densely populated. Unlike the Black Freighter, the planet's people weren’t packed in tightly like a tin of food. No, the hut structures that the Ascendant could only assume to be residences, dotted the land and were far and wide from each other, where some seemed to be growing things, while others weren’t. The ones that weren’t had their land overtaken by yellowish-green foliage and weeds that grew as tall as a human and sometimes reached even higher. It was an odd sight to see, certainly, as while the Ascendant had seen such lush wilderness before, they were holographic and gave off no bawdy scent like the one that currently laced the air. As they approached the city and went into it, there was quite a lot to be seen and digested. First and foremost, it seemed almost entirely devoid of the technology that was common of other worlds. The majority of the buildings were seemingly fashioned from the wood that was in abundance around the planet, rather than built with any kind of other material like Duraplast. The settlement seemed to have been built in bursts, with some structures scattered along the entry to it, but as you got deeper inside, there were small places where a bulk of buildings were nestled together. As they got closer to what appeared to be Unity's main hub, there were businesses built around the base of the giant trees, and in certain instances, some residents appeared to have carved homes and shops out of the inside of colossal trunks. Above it all, pillars of light shined in sparsely, as the giant trees acted as a grand canopy to some parts of the street, but not others. This continually changed, though, as the branches moved from side to side. Looking up through the shade, the Ascendant noticed that not even the branches of the trees, some of which hung hundreds of feet in the air, were free from being made a home out of, as various buildings dangled from them, tightly secured by metallic cable lines that measured in yards of thickness. If one looked closer, they could see zip wires that could be dispensed to the ground for customers or visitors to gain entry above. Large, colorful fungi grew throughout the stretch of Unity's limits, but looked to be kept at bay on the busier districts, allowing easier access to shops and cantinas for patrons and tourists. The residents of the city were as diverse as the range of foliage surrounding the city, too. Amongst the leaves and tall plants that adorned the city, the Ascendant could spot a variety of humans and aliens, but surprisingly no droids. They all seemed rather calm and homely, something he wasn’t really used to seeing given the tight conduct with which the people of the Black Freighter had concerned themselves with while he was there. The hustle and bustle of the residents aside, there also seemed to be an overabundance of small mice-like things, which hopped around occasionally, their springs sending them over the tall grasses in quite an amusing fashion. The Ascendant was sure that there was more to it, but he didn’t have much time to think about it as the vehicle slowed to a stop in front of a business. Judging from what he could see on the outside, it seemed to be some sort of supply shop, a crude wrench drawn in the sign for it, which, much like everything around it, was made of wood, and swung from side to side as the dust settled. Within the business, a woman named Lursi Inwyne watched dutifully, her head resting on her hands. She was quite familiar with Cole’s speeder vehicle-- in fact, though she wouldn’t admit it, at times she looked out for it. She moved from behind the counter of her establishment to open the door after the vehicle came to a full stop, and leant on the door with her arms crossed, watching Cole hop off, along with some stranger that she’d never seen before. “Hello there, Cole. Your shipment is in the back, same as always. I see you’ve brought someone new with you. You finally realize you’re getting too old for loading stock?” She questioned in laughter, pushing a grey hair back behind her ear as she feigned a raised brow. Cole shook his head, grunting and motioning his hand so the younger man could get to loading the crates, which he did, stepping into the shop and finding them quickly, carrying them in and out with surprising speed and ease, as Naudo watched from inside the speeder’s compartment. “No, Lursi. This is just… a temporary farmhand. He's passing through.” He explained, his face indicating, as usual, that that was about all that he was willing to divulge on the subject. Noticing this, she tilted her head a bit, arms still crossed in apprehension. “You hired someone...to help?" The woman's surprise wasn't all that unfounded to Cole. The idea would've sounded just as ridiculous to him if he didn't already know it was a ruse. Brushing his fingers through his white mane, the farmer cleared his throat to buy time a few seconds to try and make his story appear more believable. "Yeah, well, I didn't really want or need it, but, uh, the young'in was in a bad place financially from the Tevor Settlement. Made his way down here and was filthy as Dregmal when he came to the farm." "Lursi held her scrutiny of Cole, her pale green eyes digging into him like shovels. He wasn't sure if she knew he was lying outright or just fascinated that a man with his reputation would open his home to someone in need. He hoped for the latter. Cole didn't like lying to Lursi, especially given that she was the only person in Unity that never looked at him like some kind of charity. "Well, if you say so." She finally relented, choosing a change of subject over continuing her investigation. "Have you heard about the festival? I hear they’re going to hold it a little earlier this year.” Lursi remarked, to which Cole shrugged with indifference. “Going to a festival isn’t going to do anything for me. I have better things to do with my time.” He explained, earning a scoff of humor from the woman. “Working yourself to the bone on that farm isn’t going to give you what you want, you know that.” She huffed. Cole raised a brow challengingly. “Oh? Then what is it that I want?” He asked, lifting his chin a bit before retracting the movement. “Peace.” She answered simply, still looking over him critically. There was absolutely no doubt in her tone that this was the truth, and his tired expression confirmed it. Even if it hadn’t, though, she would have still been certain of it as she’d known him for a large chunk of her life. And for a large chunk of his, too, knowing him from even before the days where he’d been a fighter for the Rebel Alliance. In fact, there had been a time where they might have been even more. It was a time shortly after the Alliance had won, and he had spent the majority of his time socializing in the local cantina, He’d had the slyest tongue and the sharpest eye back then, but now it was a nothing but a memory, one that she would have lost long ago if it hadn’t been for the fact that she clung onto it dearly and treasured it. Despite the effort though, it was a bit faded, due to the years and years that had gone by since she’d last seen that side of him. It seemed to have died, along with any possibility of a relationship, years ago when he lost his son, the wife of his son, and his eldest grandson. After that, he all but retreated into his farming life, only ever showing his face for supply runs like the one he was on right now. She wished that he would let her in. Really, she wished that he would let anybody in, but as it was, it didn’t seem as if her wishes would be granted anytime soon, if at all. “Lursi, I haven’t known peace my whole life, so what does it matter now?” He asked solemnly, sighing a bit after and running a hand through his white hair again. "That's not true, Cole. You can't keep blaming yourself for what those monsters did. Rance and Kaywin wouldn't want that, and neither would..." "Stop." Cole cut her off as his skin reddened. He knew all too well where this topic would lead, what it would bring out of him, and it was not a place he wished to go. Not here. Not now. Not ever. "My apologies for the cynicism, I just...let me just pay and take my leave, okay?” He huffed and looked away. Lursi merely shook her head in disagreement and rolled her eyes. The man was stubborn, but he also had every right to be in this case. “If you weren’t cynical I’d wonder who I was even talking to you. Don’t worry about it.” She nodded, as Cole transferred the credit amount to Lursi's stationary datapad and turned for the door. All the cargo had seemingly been loaded as Nameless was leant up against the vehicle, eyeing the terrain while Naudo stood close by, mimicking his exact body language. “Well, then. That's not good.” Cole said, nodding to Lursi one last time, which she returned. As he turned and got ready to leave, he held her eyes for a second longer than usual. “Goodbye, Lursi. Have a good day.”