Unbroken Silence

[Malkerik]

He sat before the holoterminal in his ship, quietly going over his dirtied weapons. The shutters were closed over the portholes, bringing an unnatural darkness to the interior of his ship. Malkerik had long removed his oculars, his eyes having no difficulty in the low light. His hands moved swiftly over his tools as he cleaned the Tatooine sand out of them, listening quietly to the static of the channel. Few people knew of it's frequency, and fewer used it. Dutifully, he waited often with the channel open, listening for... whatever would come.

Now, however, the Hunter's thoughts were more focused on the task at hand. Commisioned by a Darth to build an infrasonic weapon, portable enough to be carried by aerial jetpack troopers. The task would not be difficult; he had memory of several older proto-weapons, schematics he'd seen during his years acquainting himself with alien weaponry. It was the refining of these sonic concussive weapons that would be difficult.

Malkerik set his rifle down, leaning back in his lounge seat. That was most certainly the problem, he mused. These protoweapons had projected sound as a concussive wave, launching them at such a volume that it could break bones at medium range, killing at close range. The only downside was that these were loud, incredibly so. The idea was instead to use infrasound, sonic waves at such a low decible that they were nearly untraceable by adult humanoid hearing. However these waves penetrated the body, directly influencing fluid filled parts of the body. Loud enough soundwaves could cause people to go blind for hours. Louder pulses could permanently damage the brain.

The Republic had used similar technology in order quell riots after the Invasion of Coruscant, and the Empire had experimented in certain areas of espionage. Now the idea was to make these riot weapons not only portable, but adaptive, able to be carried by a soldier and used for a variety of situations. Conventionality was possible, converting a standard energy magazine and using that for power would suffice. The challenge was projecting that soundwave at a greater distance, comparable to that of a standard issue rifle, without losing effectiveness. A daunting task (certainly very much so for one now in service to a Darth), but not impossible.

He sat in the darkness for some time longer, enjoying the silence of the ship, the crackling of the holochannel. The knock against the hull alerted him. He grabbed his oculars, shutting off the holoterminal and activating the interior lights. He grabbed his rifle as the knock echoed again, this time at the main portcullis. He primed the weapon, standing at the doorway. Aiming the weapon, Malkerik hit the control panel, the door flying open as he looked down the sights.

On the other side was a young Twi'lek girl, perhaps barely in her prime years. She jumped back when she was greeted with the muzzle of an angry firearm, hugging a datapad to her arms. Her eyes were large and wide, full of timid youth. Her face was smooth and her skin unmarred, her outfit far more revealing than someone of her age should be wearing. No exterior weaponry, but nothing said she couldn't be hiding a weapon underneath what clothing she had.

"Who are you," asked Malkerik, "What do you want?" His voice had come out gruffer than he'd intended, and the poor girl looked ready to collapse. She held out the datapad, managing to stammer out, "I'm the assistant from Darth Aria..." Raising a brow, the bounty hunter snatched the datapad out of her hand, looking over it. Parts list, the young girl's name, everything he had discussed with the Darth. He looked over the datapad at the girl again, as she hurriedly stroked her lekku, perhaps a coping mechanism. Her skin was a rich Navy Blue... his favourite colour.

He smiled, dropping the rifle and offering the datapad back. "Apologies, can't be too careful with some of the... unsavoury elements around here." She offered a timid smile back, obviously still not comfortable with the man who'd just pointed a rifle at her.

They talked briefly outside, before they gathered the nearby crate of parts she had brought with her. Ducking inside, he poured her a drink, discussing the bare-bones of things with her. He made sure to keep it impersonal, as he had been trained to do. All of it was reading the target, refocusing attention on her. She either was indeed a long-time slave, or had at least been taught to act very well. Talk eventually shifted towards the infrasonic weapon, discussion based around the proposed technology. Often he seemed to use terms that sailed over her head, but his focus was mostly focused on her eyes and breathing. She was smart, and eyes often betrayed thoughts. And intelligence.

After the third drink, he knew he was losing some of his sense. More than once he caught himself recovering from a personal question, deflecting them sloppily and often giving a bit too much away of his character. Discretion here was the key, and he needed to ensure she was merely an assistant of the Darth, and not someone seeking information on him. The air had gotten much heavier since the Twi'lek had come on board, heady with the scent of her perfume.

"So, how do you think it will go," asked the Twi'lek, "Can you make this... sound gun?" Malkerik chuckled, setting his glass down on the table between them. "It sounds difficult, but the worst of it will be tweaking and optimizing the little things." She smiled quietly, in a lopsided way. "You seem confident." She placed a hand over his. "I like confidence." The moment stretched out, and the alcohol had hit him deep. He knew old protocol, but old protocol wasn't necessarily his own now.

"Can you... show me to a bed?" She batted her eyes at him, and he stood, offering her an arm as a true gentleman would. "Of course, m'Lady." She smiled, wrapping her arms around his, getting close. He felt hot under his jacket, like the Tatooine suns were burning underneath, his nostrils burning just the same, hotter than the drink he'd had before.

They walked down the hallway, as he attempted not to bump into the bulkhead too much, the scent of her overwhelming. She supported him as they moved, planting loving, tender touches against him as they went. The pair finally arrived at the door, and she kissed his cheek, the mark warm on his face. He smiled, and opened the door.

The guest quarters were modest, but well furnished. Her look, however, was certainly not; shock replaced allure, and she looked at him with confused eyes. Malkerik smiled.

"Your room for while you're here," he explained, "Rest up. We've work to do tomorrow in developing this weapon, as well as repairing this ship. Also, no more perfume, m'lady. Scent and pheremone free environment. Have a good night." He patted her hand, leaving the stunned Twi'lek with a mouth slightly agape. Malkerik winked at her, returning to his private quarters and starting the air purifiers in the ventilation. He locked the door, overriding the panel controls before slipping into his own bed alone.

He loved working with Darths. They always kept him on his toes.

[Malkerik]

It had been precisely fourty six minutes. He counted off another sixteen seconds before pressing the elevator call button, descending back down to Vaiken's main level. As the doors slid open, Malkerik swept his eyes over the cantina, ensuring the three he had shared the evening with hadn't returned. Thankfully, the bar space was barren, a few couples stuck in the far corners shoving their tongues down each other's throats. He left a scrambler disk in the elevator as he departed, ensuring the camera erased his ever being in the elevator.

He descended into the cantina, adjusting a dial on his oculars quietly. Approaching one of the lifts, he pulled out his chip, flashing it at the bouncer before stepping onto the platform, rising high into the heavens. He examined it for a long moment, turning the chip over in his hands; it had assisted him more than once in a time gone by, where status had saved him. Now it was chipped, worn, and dulled extensively, nearly unrecognisable save for the Imperial stamping and the print number run along its edge.

The swelling music cut through his thoughts as the lift came to a stop in the VIP lounge. It was far smaller than the cantina below, and he preferred it; less people to watch meant he could throw a little bit of caution to the wind. He walked over to the bar, resting his elbows on it as he listened. He flagged down the serving droid, ordering a mix drink of some sort, the name left his mind as soon as it had left his lips. Time stretched out, and his attention span with it. Malkerik zoned out as he listened to the music, uncaring about whoever tried to step behind him.

It was the barrel of a gun against his back that brought him back to the present. He tensed up, trying to detect the calibre of the weapon before realizing it was a suppressor that was pressing into his back.

"You've a lot of nerve to come back here, Daasiik," hissed the female voice, seductive and low-keyed. Corellian accent, he noted, before smiling. The muzzle of the blaster trailed up his back, pressing against his right shoulder blade, inbetween the floating armoured plates of his jacket. He turned around quickly then, twisting his torso like a pendulum and knocking the blaster out of her hand with an elbow. The movements were practiced and precisioned as he grabbed her wrist, bending it back and bringing her to a knee.

"Helouise," he answered, dismissing the question on the silent cantina's mind. She smiled and he reached down, kissing her with a firm lip and a closed mouth; professional greetings only. The cantina slowly came back to life as he drew her up, embracing her tightly and working the wafer thin chip out of the folds of her jacket, right along her right shoulder blade. He guided her to a stool, and she flagged down a bardroid. Quietly, Malkerik rested a hand against the empty stool, pressing the surveillance disrupter underneath and activating the limited fuel cell within. Thirty minutes of silence.

They caught up briefly, as all professionals did, and most of the patrons dismissed them as a pair of old Bounty Hunters. Who could blame them? He was far too equipped for any Sith, and she was certainly too raggedy to pass for a politician. Must be old rivals.

He finally changed the topic to personal matters, setting his glass down and inquiring, "The others?" She furrowed her brows, folding her hands and resting them on the bar. "Most have been bolted and taken to the Moon... They're on the block now." Malkerik's heart fell into his stomach, his fist clenching in anger.

"So it's all over, then," he replied, more of a statement than a question. Helouise only shook her head in response, picking up her drink with shaking hands. He rested his over hers, offering up a brief smile, the first genuine smile he'd had in some time. She returned it half-heartedly, sipping from the glass.

"Were the records wiped," he asked, more concerned for old colleagues than himself at the moment. She shrugged, brows furrowed deeply. He had nothing to worry about but the others... There was no such thing as re-hires in their line of work.

"I've watched you since you got back," Helouise replied, her draining colour unable to hide her discomfort with their topic, "It's bad business you're running into now. You'd do better as a lap dog informant than the dangers you're putting yourself in." Malkerik nodded in agreement; there were too many uncontrolled variables right now.

"A fried hyperdrive is one thing," continued the young woman, "But employment amongst the Sith, willingly taking one of their agents AND socializing with them? You're putting a target on your head, and you weren't ever -just- a ghost, Malkerik. There are records that can set you up at sev-"

"I know the records," he replied, cutting her off sharply, "And I know the risks." She backed off, frowning. "But those records are unavailable to them, as they are unavailable to the new... Order."

Helouise frowned, resting a hand against his arm. "And if she knows? You're nothing to them. Is your freedom worth these risks? What about your plans?"

He swirled his drink, reaching under his oculars to wipe at his eyes.

"Then I'll change them."

[Malkerik]

He had lost his watcher in the chaos of the spaceport, vanishing into the alleys of Nar Shadaa like a ghost in the night, pulling the collar of his jacket around him. His first thought had been to finally return home after months abroad, but instead he had decided to stop at a hotspot locale. The Dancer's Palace had been a welcoming change to the barren bars of Tatooine, or the rigorous mandates of the Vaiken Cantina. Originally he had sought silence, but instead he had met a new acquaintance... A Jedi of all things. He hadn't talked with a Jedi since...

Look into the death of Jedi Master Jikai To...

He grunted as he turned into the lobby of his building, walking past the dozing transients and the just as unconscious Toydarian on guard duty. He thumbed the call button on the lift, listening to the motor's whir as it descended almost three hundred stories to the ground floor.

Go on. I enjoy your thinking.

Most would disagree...

I don't. Flexibility is good.

The doors slowly opened to reveal the darkened cantina, perched upon the rooftops of Nar Shaddaa's Promenade. The patrons had long since left for the night, Sixty Six had left the bar as dirty as he'd found it that morning with lights long off. Malkerik took off his oculars as he trudged across the floor, his damaged irises filtering in the darkness nearly naturally, permanently fused open. He was almost able to tell the faces of the drunks passed out on the dance floor. The doors slid open as he moved his way up into the staircase, through to the upper levels of the cantina.

You're bored.

... You seem to have overlooked a fourth possibility.

Which is?

Fate.

The overwhelming stench of the VIP bar nearly knocked the wind out of him; evidently Sixty Six had invited a Hutt or two to plot against the Empire here since the Cartels had changed allies. Lifting a hand up to his face, he quickly pushed into the residential hallway, the low hum of a generator cutting through from Sixty Six's room. Suppressing a full-body gag, Malkerik pushed down the hall to his own private quarters, offering his eye up to the ocular scanner.

The door flew open, still working as efficiently as he'd left it so long ago. He squinted, even in the low red light emanating from a few old relics in his room. He hurriedly slipped his oculars back on, the iris plates flexing and unflexing to adjust the light. Malkerik entered his room, locking down the doors and sweeping across every surface for bugs. He found the usual few bits; minor cameras from Sixty Six as well as two microphones. He found a recording device, Cartel in nature, but all it had caught was a couple that had rutted against the locked door of his room.

He started stripping, pushing the mismatched liquid armour plates into his closet, too tired to prepare the assembly. Walking over to his bureau, he stared at it for a long few moments, contemplating its contents.

Do you read poetry?

Once, but I've lost a few things over the past years.

Have you read, 'Blue Bird?'

It was hidden behind a pair of socks, where he had left it. The blood was still splashed on it as it had been when he'd collected it. Coagulated spray covered the polished oak handle, bubbled over and scabbed across the emitter. It had been a desperate fight, taxed after the worst contract he'd ever have to execute. It wasn't clean. Nothing about it would ever be clean. He could never scrub the memories of the flight deck away.

Malkerik picked up the weapon. It was old, yet new; the idea of a tool as brought about by pure instinct and righteousness. It was innocence, and the adornment he had coated it with was the death of that. The death of his own.

Don't let your Blue Bird fly away.

He pressed the activator, crunching dried blood with a thumb. He watched as the weapon that had rendered him blind in so many ways reignited, electricity arcing in the darkness.

Navy Blue. His favourite colour.

[Malkerik]

Six Days Prior

The man was dead, shot through the chest by a precision blaster bolt as he had stepped out from the cantina’s reaches into Nar Shaddaa’s blinding light. He’d rolled down the sloped pathway, coming to a stop by the cantina’s main door. Glassy eyes, frozen in shock, stared up at the world. The man had no name to speak of; he’d never had a name before. In a different life, in a different time, he’d have had a name. Perhaps a family. Friends as well. But he didn't have a life, he had this life. Had had it, that is.

Now Armeria glowered down at the masked man rifling through the corpse’s pockets, taking anything that could trace out an identity; anything that could define an alias or an allegiance. The man behind the mask worked with professional swiftness, knowing just were to reach to find the false pockets, stitched into the sides of his jacket. Documents, identifications, even a datapad chip or two came into his hand. With surprising swiftness he dismantled a datapad, crushing the hard-drive in his hand.

He looked up into the glowering eyes of the Jedi Padawan, as she sternly decreed, “I'm calling the Troopers. You’ll need to stay here for questioning.” Too tired for theatrics or fast-talking, the masked man reached behind his torso to his belt with all the subtlety of a raging Gundark, slowly unclipping a flashbang grenade from the bandoleer. Pressing the detonator with a thumb, he rolled it towards her.

“I think not,” was his visor’s synthesized response, as his helmet’s visor darkened and the aural microphones clamped down prior to the detonation. Had his eyes been unprotected, the combined burst would have been stunning, disarming him as the interior pyrotechnic charge deployed, igniting a small fire where the remnants of the flashbang had gone off, engulfing the body in a quick burning chemical blaze.

With his helmets sensory functions rapidly returning to normal after detonation, he ran full tilt from the scene, tucking his findings in a pouch on his belt. He began rapidly thumbing keys as he took the corner sharp, programming the stealth field generator built into his gauntlet. Malkerik broke out fast into the Nar Shaddaa skyway, long strides carrying him into the Promenade.

With a sigh of relief, his stealth field generator kicked in, finally attuned to the rapid escape. That’s when the blaster fire echoed out at him, smashing into the space his visible body had been not a moment before.

Some of the crowd scattered, the rest pulled out a myriad of weapons and firearms. Malkerik dove behind a bench, quickly producing his collapsible rifle. The stealth field wouldn't hold for long, and his options were limited if there was a shooter training a deadly gaze on him. There was only one way to tell.

He got up again, deciding the Hutt fountain was his best bet. He began running, rifle crooked in one arm as he thumbed his gauntlet, stealth field rapidly dissipating. There was a brief moment of terror mixed with hope as he ran, adrenal glands firing in the rush of action; if this was an expert marksman, Malkerik would be dead within the next few seconds. However, if he wasn't the target, then he still may be dead in the next few seconds. No witnesses to a gang killing.

Diving for the fountain, he cried out as he hit the ground, a blaster bolt ripping across his abdomen. He scooted up with his back to the fountain to examine it, resting his hand against the charred armour plating. The bolt had just grazed along the topmost plates, the Mando-Iron having deflected most of the kinetic force. The heat, however, penetrated deep through the layers of tri-weave durasteel, the residual heat burning his skin.  Hissing through his teeth, he leaned his head back against the statue, another bolt pinging off of it.

Try as he might, he couldn't judge the distance or position of the shooter; while the angle was high enough to suggest the marksman was currently on a rooftop (either lying down or perhaps a very short Uggnaut) and aiming down to try and deliver headshots. The shots delivered added to the profile of the assassin, the position and missed rounds indicating that they needed a handicap; this shooter wasn't experience enough to hide somewhere lower and deliver a shot that could have been passed off for a Cartel assault.

Malkerik quickly weighed his options; if he stayed here, the shooter may change their position. Running could result in death. His stealth field generator would not last forever. His equipment was severely lacking, only a handful of what he normally carried currently emplaced upon his belt and kit. The odds were not in his favour.

So he got to a knee and ran full tilt toward his best guess.

He saw the flash of a muzzle on the roof before the bolt left the barrel, slamming his hand down on the generator. The stealth field kicked to life as the bolt screamed past his shoulder, the plasma energy leaving the air nearly white hot. He sprinted through the overpass of the Promenade’s Southern Exit, noting the bolt had come from almost directly above him. Searching for an access point, he nearly skidded to a stop as two Troopers rounded the corner, brandishing high calibre rifles.

Instinctively he raised his hands, but let out a sigh of relief as they marched past the cloaked Bounty Hunter, the two marching in quick time towards the point of trouble. Taking a few deep breaths, he let the stealth field dissipate, leaving him there in bright white and red armour, wondering how he’d look on the inside of a cell in this garish get-up.

Continuing his search, Malkerik found exactly what he was looking for in a service stairwell. He shouldered the door, hitching up his blaster rifle and drawing his sidearm as he progressed slowly up the stairs, crawling the meagre two floors to the rooftop access with perhaps excessive caution. He planted his arm firmly against the door, taking a steadying breath as he slammed out with his full weight, the thin lock collapsing under his body. Raising his blaster pistol, he strafed the rooftop before him, turning towards the side of the door as a heavy weapon came across his brow.

Sloppy, he chided to himself, dropping to his hands and knees as the butt of the sniper rifle slammed across his jaw, the cushioned interior of the mask absorbing most of the blow. Malkerik turned his head towards his attacker as the butt of the rifle caught him in the chin, sending him reeling back onto his arse, blaster escaping his grip and skidding away.

Pushing down the disorientation, he kicked out at where he believed the assailant was, striking him resoundingly in the shin, drawing a curse from the young male. Positioning his foot a little higher, he struck out again, a shriek echoing out across the rooftop as he caught the right testicle with the heel of his boot, nearly popping it.

Rolling away, he struck up to his feet, taking a breath to steady himself. Looking up, his view was blocked by a black blur, as the sensation of being lifted on his feet weighed heavy on him suddenly. The assailant tackled him to the ground, knocking the wind out of him as the blow (let alone the piss-poor technique) stunned him. He soon became aware of the pounding on his helmet as red warning lights came up, indicating the structural integrity was beginning to degrade.

Flexing his hand, a vibroblade dropped from a compartment in his gauntlet, released and directed by only the flow of gravity and a small wire clipped to the hilt. The blade rapidly extended to a wicked eight-inch steel and Malkerik took the time to drive it squarely between his assailant’s ribs. When his attacker didn’t cease despite his screaming, he twisted sharply, using the flat to direct motion by the fulcrum of his ribs. They exchanged places, the Bounty Hunter planting a knee roughly onto the crying man’s chest, smashing a fist into the side of his neck and stunning him into silence as he attacked the brachial nervous cluster.

The boy was barely over age of maturity, his human features still mostly unmarred. He rapidly checked over his body, removing any excessive weaponry and futilely searching for identification of any sort; starship permits, licencing, some sort of identifying marks on his equipment. The boy was a puppet for certain; far too young to be able to stage a hit like this alone. Whoever had sent him was well equipped (as defined by well-prepared sniper rifle and clear marking of the target) and well-funded. They were in the know.

Malkerik smashed his fist down on the boy’s chest, cracking a rib and waking him with a scream. The vibroblade was still in him and he’d soon bleed out internally; time was precious.

“Who sent you,” he barked, his voice distorted by the vocal array in his helmet. When his question was met with silence, he grabbed the sniper’s hand and hugged it with an arm, twisting the elbow until the musculature was tight. He asked again and was met with a defiant stare. He twisted and dislocated the elbow, snapping a ligament in the torsion.

He roared over the screaming, “WHO SENT YOU!?” The silence was palpable, intense defiance. The possibilities were numerous, if not endless. Darth Aria would certainly be wondering where he was and why her Twi’lek had got lost at the star port, he was wanted by Republic officials, he’d pissed off enough Bounty Hunters for certain, or it could be S-

The boy hissed through his teeth, coughing up wet phlegm, speckled with blood. Spitting into his mask, he grinned, as the Bounty Hunter reached up to wipe the full facial visor clean. He struck the brachial cluster again, stunning the boy’s sensory nerves. The cry was quickly silenced as he collapsed, his vibroknife wound beginning to bleed out onto the ground. Malkerik looked down at him sadly, frowning behind his helmet. It had been a planned assassination and he had been a mark as well. Potentially it would have been because he’d consorted with the now dead man but… There was a chance.

And if it was correct, then he could not let the boy return and tell his superiors that he had found Malkerik Daasiik.

Malkerik grabbed the boy by the collar of his jacket, hauling him to the edge of the roof. He stood him up, dressed him up briefly and then stood back, watching gravity take over the work.

The body sailed past the speeder port on the Promenade, and Malkerik turned away. It would be a minute and a half before the boy became one with the planet’s surface. He didn't want to think about the screaming on the way down.




“… I’m a terrible Jedi… Malk?” He looked up, raised from his exhaustion from the pink Twi’lek across from him. The Cantina was empty, Sixty-Six still preparing for the night’s crowd behind the bar. It would be several hours still before The Stomping Grounds would open up for the VIPs. All the more time to talk with his companion.

“Sorry Armeria,” he replied, reaching under his glasses to rub at his eyes, “There’s a lot on my mind.” She furrowed her brows for a moment and then quickly swept the gesture away with a bright and bubbly smile.
“Complicated?”

“Very.”

“I thought so. You’re very complicated.” He smiled slightly, and she smiled back. Armeria tried to stay bright and happy and pink and colourful, and he valued that about her. It was clear she’d been through quite a bit as he picked up the subtle intonations of her words and phrasing. Always, however, she tried to maintain that child-like innocence, that hope that most of the galaxy lacked these days. She was a young Padawan but there was a sharp intelligence behind her eyes, a careful observance of the universe. She tried to hide her pain to help others. He sympathized.

“I thought you ladies enjoyed complicated, mysterious men,” he replied sharply, his smirk a little more than just a crinkle in his mouth, “Or perhaps I should invite your, ‘friend,’ back and you two can hash out your long term romance.” Her lekku twitched in response and she made a brief face before hardening her eyes.

“No.”

“Too far?”

“Too far.”

He leaned back in his chair, his cup ensconced in his hands, the black Corellian rum nearly untouched. A sigh escaped his lips as he closed his eyes. “Sorry,” he replied, ”I'm just exhausted preparing for this…” Malkerik searched for the word to phrase it. Armeria found it first.

“Your ‘trip.”

“Yes. My ‘trip.”

“Your trip to creatively reacquisition people.”

“Yes.”

She furrowed a brow. “You’re not going to vanish, right? Even though you’re very good at it.” He smiled reassuringly (something he’d long forgotten how to do) and nodded, “I’ll be back in about a week’s time, give or take a few days to meander back to Nar Shaddaa.”

Nodding, she set down her tea. “We can talk then,” she returned, “When you've had some time to rest. I can wait.” He nodded, standing up perhaps a little too hastily.

“Of course,” he replied, “Don’t let me keep you.” She smiled, standing as well. “Of course not. I’ll get out of your hair.”

They bid farewell and he watched her descend into the garage. He watched the security monitors for a moment, ensuring she had departed before retiring to his own room, sitting in the darkness along his bed. He reached over to the small pile of the now deceased man’s body. There was little to distinguish him from an invisible man; his pseudonym was Mikael. He had enjoyed fishing, oddly enough. An armstech by trade. He had tried to put together a semblance of a life on the fringes. Nothing was escapable from the watching eyes.

Malkerik tuned the holocomm quietly, searching for the blind channel, the frequency most communicators couldn't hit. He locked himself on the working channel, pausing a moment to gather his thoughts. He depressed the button, speaking quietly.

“Uniform Sierra T’ree has fallen. Haven is on the Moon. Repeat, Haven is on the Moon.”

He set it down and maintained a listening watch. He expected no one to answer. He was not disappointed.

[Malkerik]

Balmorra Drop Part 1

He hung up the holocall, letting the darkness settle in the cabin of his ship. His feelings were all twisted up and he found it difficult to sort through them. Malkerik had often needed to mask his thoughts, cover up and ignore his feelings to do his job; these genuine thoughts, feelings, attachments were... difficult to mask.

Reaching up to rub at his face, he sighed, his unshaven mug bristling against his palm. These feelings, he mused, were true. He did genuinely feel them, they weren't some facade he had constructed... Right? How he felt about her, about others, was genuine, was real. They were his thoughts, his workings, his machinations. Yes, that was correct. But... how did he go about dealing with them? Was it right to accept them when he had other plans? Was it a good thought to take them in when others could still be hurt?

The holocom pinged again, and he slotted his personal device into the ship's holoterminal. He re-routed the call through several nearby neutral satellites before taking it with a professional, "Malkerik Daasiik."

Helouise greeted him on the other end of the line, her lined face curled in a slight smile. "Mister Daasiik, this is the Nar Shaddaa Southern Bounty Bureau calling, we've a job for you, if you'd take it."

"Depends on the nature of the job, doesn't it?" He smiled, crossing a leg. This was always their banter before he went on something; she'd call to set up for anyone listening in, he'd respond with their safeword. That was normally their prot-

"Sorry Mister Daasiik," she replied, brow furrowing slightly, "But this one I'll need an advanced agreement on. We're looking at a highly dangerous job, but the payout is... more than compensating." Malkerik felt his mouth harden into a firm line, more than slightly perturbed. This was outside the norm; which meant their clientèle certainly didn't wish to appear on any paperwork.

"How dangerous are we looking at?" She laced her fingers together on the projection, biting her lower lip.

Oh shit, he thought.

"Infiltrating an Imperial planet and extracting two officials," she replied. "Nothing political; we won't be turning them over to the Pubs. It's a family looking to get out." Helouise certainly looked skittish, possibly from the nature of their employer. Their specific bureau didn't normally deal in kidnappings or hostages, but perhaps it really was just a rescue mission.

"Payout?"

"Seven Hundred and Fifty Thousand."

"Can it get me a new one of these?"

"It'll buy a new ship and make it EMP proof. I know how you like those."

Malkerik rolled his jaw, rubbing his fingers along his chin.

"Let me shave and I'll jump to Nar Shaddaa. We'll discuss the job over breakfast."

***

"I changed my mind," he said into the intercomm, "I'd like to retire alive and poor instead of pasted on Balmorra's surface."

The job, it turned out, was far more complicated than he'd thought. An Imperial Official (some noble twit, probably) had run with the wrong crowd and had fallen out of favour with the Empire. He wanted to split quickly with his family, who was still locked down on Balmorra. So his job was to get down to Balmorra, rescue the family, and meet a supply shuttle.

The problem was getting onto Balmorra.

"You'll be fine," crooned Helouise over the intercom, her voice holding a slight tone of uncertainty. Since Darth Lachris had taken over as the 'Governor' of Balmorra, security had been far stepped up; deep space sensors, restrictions on flights, security scanning, the whole nine yards. It would be next to impossible to land a neutral shuttle on Balmorra without it being scanned halfway to Life Day, and then their cover would probably be blown.

So instead he'd do an orbital drop from Deep Space.

Orbital Drops weren't something new to him; Malkerik and a few friends had done skydiving from just beyond the atmosphere before. He was an old hand at it, really. However, with the nature of the planetary scanners getting a ship close enough to jettison him was impossible. So the plan was to travel to just out of range, line up the shot, and jettison him from a magnetic escape pod bay (along with the ship's trash). A mocked up trash drop, which would send him careening towards Balmorra's atmosphere.

"I want to let you know," spat Malkerik, "That if you'd told me this up front, I'd have told you to go suck off a Hutt." He could almost hear the smile in her voice as she replied, "Shut up and get ready, tin-man."

He braced himself against the far wall from the hatch, rolling his shoulders. Most of his kit had already been smuggled down to Balmorra's surface. Now he was in a large, cumbersome, really fucking heavy space suit. If he'd anything to compare it to, he'd have thought it looked like a Sith Golem; the inner most layer was skin-tight mesh designed to keep his body together if it got injured by the G-Forces (and his bits from flapping about between his legs and the atmosphere), the secondary being the 'sky-diving' suit with the parachute built in, and the third layer being a large husky shell compromised of radar-resistant plating, a small on-board shield generator, life support and some reverse thrusters to slow his descent. Whoever had wanted this done was well off (though certainly without any sense of suit aesthetic design). Thankfully, he'd be able to lose the snail-shell once he'd gotten through the atmosphere. Well, if he'd hit the planet.

"Dropping out of hyperspace," crooned Helouise as the shuttle lurched to a halt, "Magnetizing jettison chamber." Malkerik lifted a gauntleted hand, thumbing a few buttons as a droning hum came throughout the chamber. His boots thunked down, magnetizing to the ground and he walked up the wall to his launch point, waiting. He thumbed a few more buttons on the gauntlet, the magnetizing charge growing as his boots better bonded to the wall. Idly, he looked down at some of the trash. Someone had tossed a PlayLek in here. Filthy scoundrels.

"Twenty seconds until jettison." He let out a series of slow breaths, calming his nerves. "RIB, activate," he ordered, and the outer shell began compressing down, locking down his body in position. Ideally, the function was two fold; one part of the struts was to keep him from moving and altering the course, the other to hold the suit together should he hit anything.

"Ten seconds." He started to count them back in his head, thinking carefully. He went over the plan's details again, working them over and over and over. Don't forget, he chided himself.

"Five seconds." Don't forget the plan.

"Four seconds." Don't forget their plan.

"Three." Don't forget her.

"Two." Forget her?

"One." Why did he think that?

The doors opened, and the vacuum of space flushed the trash out. Helouise flicked a switch, and the magnetizing charge in the chamber was immediately reversed, shooting the armoured Bounty Hunter out of the hold like a cannon-ball. He soared through the vacuum of space, his suit pushing the trash far out of his way as he sailed. A small heads up display activated in his helmet, pre-programmed for vital points in his journey.

He let his mind drift as he sailed through the blackness of space. He thought about the last time he'd done something like this, plummeting through the skies of some far off moon, surrounded by his friends, his classmates. The night before their graduation. The night before they all left for training. It had been different, back then. Before he had to vanish.

His thoughts were brought back as his HUD pinged, and he titled his gaze. Balmorra had leapt up at him, and the planet was rapidly approaching. Realizing he was beginning to hyperventilate, the Bounty Hunter forced his breathing to slow, letting the suit do it's work.

It was several minutes further before he spotted the orbital scanners; small little satellites poking out of the planet to probe into space. Ideally, his 'suit' would keep him from being exposed, but he knew that he needed to reach a certain threshold speed in order to truly not be seen... What was it?

"... That's not helping me worry less..."

The adrenaline was starting to kick in as he scrambled to think (yes, that was it). 200 knots, nautical miles per hour. Over fourty six meters per second. Squared, of course. He was currently just under that threshold, but gaining speed as he barrelled through the vacuum of space. He closed his eyes, trying to steady his breathing as much as he could as he rocketed closer and closer. The probes were getting closer.

"We all have to grow up sometime..."

He held his breath as he neared the probes, and didn't let it out until he was well past them. The atmosphere neared, and his HUD was only too keen to remind him of his steadily decreasing altitude.

"So far so good," he muttered to no one in particular, as the green and grey surface of the war-torn planet loomed ever closer. It wasn't long until he felt a tug along the surface of his body, that quickly ripped it's way through his skin, through his bones. He was now fully under control of the planets gravitational forces.

"Deactivate RIB," he commanded, as the pins and restraints retracted into the outer shell, freeing his limbs. "Activate atmospheric shielding." The generator hummed to life as he began to slow in his descent, reaching terminal velocity as the atmosphere pushed back against his freefall. Pushing out his limbs, he entered the familiar full-body dive, allowing his torso and legs to to assist in taking the brunt of the wind. The little speedometer showed his halting progress, as the distance indicator flashed his progress.

His body went into almost full auto-pilot, working with plenty of experience as he worked on dropping his speed. Flips, rolls, anything to keep him going as he plummeted. Planet based scanners didn't concern him much at this point; he was far too small to be picked up by ordinary traffic scanners. And if he was picked up, they'd assume him to be some falling debris. Nothing consequential.

Or so he hoped.

Twenty five thousand feet, his suit pinged. "Jettison outer shell." At his words, the pneumatics released with an audible hiss, heavy armouring flipping out into the nether as he was left in a sleek, dark jumpsuit. Nearly at his ideal velocity of one hundred and fifteen miles per hour, he allowed himself to fall spread eagled for a few moments longer before flattening his body into an arrow, directing himself further along the approaching plains.

His ideal landing target was a decommissioned minefield near a bombed out Republic outpost. His contact from the bureau would orient him once he'd landed successfully. Right now, he simply had to enjoy the ride as the G-Forces battered at the inside of his skull, his conciousness trying to keep his course true as he continued the dive. Wincing as his ears finally popped from the low altitude (and then popped back in as he descended, oddly enough) he scanned the landscape for this old minefield, spotting it about ten kilometres off.

Mentally zeroing in on his target, he adjusted his body accordingly to take the wind. He counted down the altimeter readings in his head, waiting for the safe number of five thousand. Finally, it rolled over, and he lazily reached up and grabbed the ripcord for his parachute.

He tugged hard. Nothing happened.

Flattening out his body quickly, his speed plummeted, buying him perhaps another twenty seconds. He pulled and yanked at his main chute cord, and nothing happened. Grabbing the cord for his reserve he hauled away on it. Over the roar of the winds, he heard the doors to the chute holder open, but nothing leaped out. He reached his hand back into the casing, feeling around. His fingers quickly kissed over the lines holding the chute down (the chute's steel cabled lines, actually) and ran his fingers over each one. All of them were taught, trying desperately to escape their confines. Deft fingers worked over to the interior fastenings and found the cause; one of the chute's lines was wrapped around one of the bolts holding the casing together.

The idiots had packed his parachute in backwards.

He screamed inside his helmet, the noise lost to the roaring winds in his ears. The altimeter was descending fast, he had perhaps precious few seconds before he was too high to safely deploy. He stuffed his one hand in, rolling onto his back as he tried to loosen the line. The wind rushing into the open cavity slowed his descent somewhat, though not enough to make a safe fall from deep space. Nothing would save him if he couldn't get this chute open now.

Tugging wildly at the cable, he watched with a falling heart as the altimeter clicked by with every second, precious few feet left between him and the earth now.

Fifteen hundred feet. He yanked and struggled with the cable desperately, wondering if this is where he'd die. He pushed those thoughts down, struggling to remain on top of things as panic welled up in his chest, clouding his mind. Years of running, fighting, swinging, to die on a barren world.

One thousand feet.

"Good night, Mal..."

Goodbye.



The line came free.

The chute deployed.

He was knocked ass over tea kettle as the chute exploded outwards, throwing his hand out to the side. He grabbed onto the lines to steady himself as the chute filled, spinning him around nauseatingly. The ground spun up at him quickly. Five hundred feet.

His hands slipped free from the lines, the chute billowing out as it caught more of the wind. He'd have to bail and roll.

Four hundred feet.

His breath was coming in quick spurts, his adrenals going into overdrive in order to compensate for the intense activity. He ran his hands over the jumpsuit, finding the buckles to his harness.

Two hundred feet.

The harness kept tugging up against his chest, the chute filling, braking, slowly his rapid descent quickly.

Eighty feet.

It wasn't quick enough.

Fifty feet.

Shit.

Twenty feet.

SHIT SHIT SHIT SHIT SHIT SHIT

Ten feet.

He slammed a hand against the buckle, arms slipping out of the harness as he pushed his feet out. Boots hit hard earth and his knees gave, shoulder throwing itself forward on instinct. His plummet was turned into a controlled, but rough, fall as his bones groaned under the sudden stop. His roll quickly spiralled out of control as he swept over onto his side, spiralling out a few times on the ground, his helmet smashing into the earth hard as he flipped side to side hard.

The rolling, eventually, came to a rough stop as he fell into a ditch, once a trench in the planet's war. He blinked a few times, his breathing slowing laboriously as he finally realized he was still breathing.

He rolled onto his hands and knees, breathing heavily for a few moments. Almost immediately he began vomiting into his helmet, struggling to find the clasps to the full helmeted device as it rapidly filled with his breakfast. Throwing it off, her retched into the ditch, the setting sun too much for his eyes as he was blinded and sick in a dead trench.

The feeling wore off after several minutes, and he hauled himself up and over the trench. He was dimly aware of a pain in his right pinkie finger, but he ignored it. A minor sprain was perhaps the best he could have hoped for right now. Surveying the landscape, his sight improved as the sun set beyond the Balmorran mountains, damaged irises filtering the low light better and better and better by the second. A blue flare leapt up on the far side of the minefield, exploding outward.

Slowly, he began to shuffle towards the signal, trying not to vomit again. He still had a job to do.

[Malkerik]

Balmorra Drop Part 2

"Again!" He lunged forward with the foil in his hand, he and his instructor duelling within the circle. He had wanted this, his father would chide, he had wanted to push himself. Foil duelling for most people was a sport, but the boy had wanted to learn about how to really fight with them. After he'd mastered the lane, they had opened it up into a circle and now his perceptions about how to fight were all over the place.

The instructor caught him thrice so far; once in the shoulder, disabling his arm. Another in the thigh, forcing him to drag his leg, and a third in the midriff, knocking the air out of him. He felt a tug at his ankle, and he cried out as the instructor flipped his leg out, sending him careening onto the mat.

"Again?" The boy shook his head, trying to catch his breath. "No more," he responded blearily, his entire body covered in bruises from similar, rapid sessions his fencing instructor had brought upon him. Nodding (and seeming somewhat smugly satisfied) the instructor turned to depart, the boy's gaze being filled with white hair and concerned features.

"Father!" he cried, forcing himself onto his hands and knees and leaping at him in a hug. The bearded man laughed, hugging the twelve year old tightly in his arms. Instead of opting for the usual uniform, his father was now dressed in casual street-wear; a coat and some under clothing with knee-high boots. Shore leave, then.

The two departed the academy, chatting idly as time passed by before they returned home. The boy prepared dinner (or attempted to at least) before they gave up and decided to order out. They sat in the living room that night, sharing stories about his schooling and his father's latest trip.

"You seem to be taking rapidly to duelling," the elder man remarked, taking a bite out of the pastry in his hand, "Won't be long now before we could stick a lightsaber in your hand." The boy grinned, rolling his food inbetween his hands. "I had thought about moving to blasters next, actually... Diversify what I'm learning outside of classes." The two laughed a little bit, imagining what his stuffy instructors would do if blasters were tossed into the curriculum.

His father, eventually, drew his brows together. "You're learning all of these techniques... Foils, martial arts, now blasters? Why are you so... pursuant on this, son?" The boy stopped for a moment, looking at his father. He was gone an awful lot, leaving his son to the care of the academy. He didn't see him often, but he idolized him when he did. There was no reason to hide things from him like he did the instructors.

"I want to learn to fight like you do," he replied, smiling, "You go out on your big ships, fighting those scum out in the universe... I want to be right there next to you at the helm one day." His father grinned, reaching over and tousling the boy's brown hair. "A war isn't all just about fighting, my son. It's about protecting people too."

"Who are you protecting?"

"The people of our homeland, those who built the ideals of this great alliance. That is the duty of a Naval Officer. To fight, and to fight elegantly, is the duty of a gentleman."

The boy tilted his head, confused. "So... If I learn to fight I'm a gentleman, but if I want to defend people I need to be an Officer?"

"That's right, son. Some people think they're mutually inclusive, that you can't be one without the other. But there is a time to fight, and a time to defend. If you can't be both, at least start by being one."


Malkerik took the bottle handed to him, rinsing his mouth out with the water before swallowing. The vomiting had finally stopped, thank whatever was watching over him. The landing had caused greater damage however; after finally arriving at the rendevous he'd discovered that he'd rolled his ankle. Combined with his difficulty keeping awake and alert, he figured he had a moderate to mild concussion at best.

His associate, a Zabrak only named, 'Fingers,' currently was patching him up, administering some localized painkillers to his damaged joints. The building surrounding them had long been bombed out during the Balmorran War (drek, the whole city had been really), and now they were seated in what no doubt used to be the bar area of a cantina, a thick layer of dust coating shattered bottles and broken dreams.

The Bounty Hunter hissed through his teeth as Fingers ran his digits along the ankle, now slowly swelling. "Kolto may bring it down a bit, but we don't have much more time," announced the gravely voice, addressing the now bespectacled Malkerik. He nodded, motioning with a hand as he seethed out, "Stick me and we'll walk once I'm dressed." Nodding, the Zabrak quickly pulled out an injector full of kolto from his pack, sticking it into the Hunter's leg.

Packing up his kit, he nodded towards a stall near the end of the bar, a steel trunk sitting on the table. Gimping his way forward, he rested a hand on the lid, opening it up to peer inside. All of his equipment was there, from his powered rifle and sidearm to his interwoven armour and knives. He pulled out his belt and bandolier, checking that all of his usual toys were still there: flash bangs, thermal detonators, a pair of scrambler disks for surveilance equipment, spare ammunition, ballistic knives, and his favourite new toy: a concussive infrasound detonator.

Stripping out of his skin tight suit, he started pulling on his armour. The whole thing had nearly cost him a fortune; tri-weave cortosis plates pulled over an airtight underlining deflected knives and deflected low calibre blaster fire. The inner electronics gave him a decent reading of the local area including temperature and a small radar. Light, agile, and it worked very well with his stealth field generator. The only thing he couldn't pay to fix was the fact if someone came at him with a blade they could slip it inbetween the cortosis plates. Hopefully he wouldn't have to worry about it today.

Removing his oculars, Malkerik lifted the helmet over his head, listening to it close and connect with the rest of his suit. It let out a pressurizing hiss as everything came online, his detailed HUD popping into view. Holstering his weaponry, he turned back to Fingers, who was gaping at him.

"Impressive hardware," he managed to work out. Malkerik smiled, entering some minor calculations into his stealth field generator. "Took me three loans and a lot of favours, but it's more than worth it." Fingers grinned, motioning him over to the bar where he had unfurled a map.

"So we're about five kilometers out from our pickup," he explained, motioning over the paper map, "But there's been a minor complication. They've been arrested." Malkerik grunted audibly; there was always a complication in a job like this.

"Right now they're mid transport, on the way to a general holding complex near the Troidia Droid Factory. We'll need to commandeer their transport and take it to our pickup; an Imperial hangar near Bin Prime. Questions?" Several leapt into his head, most based around how stupid Fingers was.

Malkerik had only seen a paper map twice, once when he was in school. It was odd seeing something pasted out over a two-dimensional plane, but slowly he made sense of it. He rested his finger against their 'pickup' point, "They'll see us here, how do we not get our heads blown off?" The Zabrak grinned, holding up two small harnesses, a series of lenses along them. Malkerik grinned in tandem, the smile stupid wide beneath his helmet.

"Holoprojectors... Beautiful," he replied, looking back to the map. "How do you propose we take this 'transport?' They aren't necessarily going to hand it over."

"Don't worry Human, I've always got a plan."

***

The transport moved down the Balmorran road quietly, armed and armoured by four Imperial Troops. Two in the front and two in the back with their quarry. Mistress Marq and her daughter had been called in for questioning from their, 'home,' about the treasonous activities of their husband and father. It was a regular duty in the life of a correctional officer, and in the driver's seat Cpl. Roberts was more focused on what he was going to do with his leave next week. Idly, he supposed a trip to Imperial Space was in order. Could visit some family, take in the sights, link up with that Twi'lek girl who was aching for a taste of freedom...

His co-pilot elbowed him, and thumbed down the road. Leaning over the steering column, the, 'dutiful,' Corporal spotted two Imperial Marines, one waving their arm spazmatically, trying to get attention. "Get the gun, Charlie," he muttered, slowly nudging down the throttle as his partner grabbed the scattergun packed between them.

The transport ground to a halt near the two, and one of the Marine's jogged over, helmeted and carrying infantry colours along the side. Private Charlie stuck the scattergun out the window, as Roberts barked, "Service Number, designation, now!"

The marine lifted his hands up before replying with, "Echo 623464, Imperial Frontal Assault, Benevolence Company!" The Corporal let out a low, "Mmmmm," before waving off his partner, tucking the scattergun back into the cab. "Sorry mate," he shot back, "Rebels all over the place still, trying to hijack transports. What are you doing out here?"

"Rebels," returned the Infantry Man, "Bastards caught our platoon off guard on a sweep of the city about five clicks West. Shot my buddy up bad, seperated from the rest. We can't patch through. You guys got a working comm?"

One of the guards knocked on the mesh from the back holding, and Roberts waved at the Private to handle it. He grabbed a spare holocom, tossing it out towards the buggered soldier. He caught it in shaking hands, turning his back to try and make the call. He hailed several times before shaking a helmeted head, clutching it defeatedly in his fist.

"No answer, must be cut off as well."

"Hmm," he replied, "Where are you stationed out of?"

"Troidia," replied the soldier, looking back to his teammate as he let out a sickly groan, "But there's no way we'll make it... Can we hitch a ride out that way? Can drop us at any point, but even a few minutes will save us some time."

The Corporal hummed and hahhed over the notion; Troidia wasn't too out of their way, and this particular prisoner was low security... There'd be some questions, but, hey, he'd hope someone would do it for him too.

"Grab your friend," he said, thumbing towards the rear door, "Jump in the back. We've got a con back there though, be careful." The soldier snapped off a crisp salute, jogging over to his friend. The Corporal grunted, staring out the windshield at the dark night. He hated runs at night, worst things happened to him and the Empire then.

A knock on the back mesh alerted him to their onboard passengers and he thumbed the throttle up. Reaching over, he flicked a little Droid bobble head on the dash, settling back in for the last leg of the drive.

Two heavy thunks echoed out from the back, and a muffled yelp alerted him to action in the back. The Private grabbed the scattergun, turning into the sight of the mesh to yell. A blaster bolt snuck out between the bars and struck him full in the face, sending him sprawling back onto the dash. Roberts yelled, until the warm barrel of a blaster prodded into his neck.

"What did I say about non-lethal," barked Malkerik as the holodisguise faded away, revealing the stark red and white armour. He turned his head back to the driver, his face covered by a red and white visor. "Corporal, don't stop. Fingers, driver seat." The Zabrak nodded as the Bounty Hunter kept the pistol primed against the Imperial's neck. His partner kicked open the back doors, knocking the unconscious security team out into the roadway and leaving them far in the dust. He leaped up, grabbing the top of the cargo hold, crawling onto the roof of the transport and working his way to the cockpit.

Nimble fingers cracked the passenger-side door, letting the dead private's body tumble out into a Balmorran ditch. The Corporal opened his mouth in protest, and quickly found the Zabrak's foot wedged inbetween his teeth. He'd be searching for them for several miles as he tumbled out of the truck and into the roadway, leaving the transport now under command of the two wild Bounty Hunters.

Malkerik moved his way back into the holding chamber, grabbing the rear doors and shutting them with a sense of finality, their land-locked piracy complete. He turned his head, looking over at the mother and child, arms wrapped tight around the other. She wasn't old, perhaps in her early twenties. The boy was maybe six or seven, eyes wide at the events that had just transpired. The Bounty Hunter sat on the bench opposite them.

"We've been hired by your husband," he explained, holstering his blaster pistol, "We're getting you out of Balmorra." She sighed thankfully, her grip on her son loosening only slightly. "Is he safe," she asked, eyes filling with concern. Malkerik nodded, the motion muted under his helmet.

"He's contracted us to come and get you out safely. Another crew will be taking you to Alderaan once we get past the Imperial Blockade." She nodded, running her fingers through her son's hair. "We'll be seeing Daddy again soon," she murmured, the boy looking no less panicked. Malkerik stared at him for some time, tilting his head. They were both malnurished, ragged clothing, covered in dirt and death. The war had crept up even into the highest echelons it would seem; this bedraggles wasn't just from being arrested. They'd been living in squalor for some time.

The transport jolted and bumped as it crawled down the road, horrors of Balmorra's war still waging outside in the night. Inside it was quiet. Inside it was safe. Inside it was quiet. Inside they were at work.

He had wanted to fight to defend people like this once, he mused. He wanted to defend innocents, people who didn't have or need a stake in this war. The only difference was that now he was wearing a different uniform, a different rank. He was against everyone instead of one person, he was always at risk. Looking back up to the young mother and younger son, he frowned behind his helmet.

He didn't need to care on this job, his contract was just to get it done. But with people like this, with people who'd lost hard in this war, they deserved something a little more.

Leaning over, he rapped on the mesh to hail the Zabrak.

"Fingers, pass any rations they left up there. These poor folks look hungry."

[Malkerik]

Balmorra Drop Part 3

The transport bumped and jostled along the Balmorran road as the dark planet began to rotate past the moon. For Balmorran central time it was nearly 1AM. Having jumped from Coruscant to Neutral Space to Nar Shaddaa and deep space, Malkerik had been up for nearly a full day, and the lack of action was beginning to wear heavy on his eyes. Even as he sat across from the Lady and her son, his lids slipped a little further. At one point he caught himself dozing for several seconds, the pothole of a detonated mine jostling the Imperial Transport and shaking him to wakefulness. If it wouldn't have compromised his security, Malkerik would have opened up his helmet and stared into a blinding light.

Instead of deciding to damage his already frozen eyes, the Bounty Hunter instead turned to the family, asking about their story.

Balmorra hadn't always been an Imperial world. To be fair, it hadn't been much of a Republic world either. Balmorra had long been a somewhat neutral planet drawing industries and factories of all kinds to the surface. Bin Prime itself had been a bustling hub of industrial economics, bringing the whole planet's worth up. It wasn't until the Empire invaded that Balmorra got involved in the war. The Treaty of Coruscant had cemented who the planet belonged to, and as the Republic's special forces hid amongst the plains the war came directly onto Balmorra's surface.

Sindel, the lovely wife of the Factory Mogul Markus Flint (his fantastic and VERY well paying employer) had been born and raised on Balmorra. She'd never seen anything like the Empire's fight against the Republic's Rebel Castes. Often she'd invited Imperial and Rebel forces into her and her husband's home, offering what she could to both sides in terms of food, warm bedding, and just a place to rest. Without realizing it, the Flints had become a small, forgettable staple to the war effort.

With Darth Lachris taking over as Governess of Balmorra, the Empire began a full purge of the Republic's stragglers and the Rebel Castes. An Imperial Infantry division was assigned this task as their Senior Non-Commissioned Officer decided to stop at the Flint's residence in hopes to give her troops an opportunity to rest in their search. A group of fleeing Rebels had the same idea occur to them, hoping to use the Flint's house as a place to hide-out.

The battle in their front yard was bloody, brutal and intense. The Rebels and Imperials suffered heavy losses, both parties retreating into the hills as the Flints struggled to clean up. Markus decided to head out to the nearby Rebel holdings in order to call in some favours and was evacuated overnight. The Rebels rushed to try and retrieve the family but the Imperials were better equipped and much faster. They detained the pair in an Imperial Holding for a month under grounds of treason. That was where their Bureau came in (and we're beautifull paid to do so) and Helouise had prepped things to get them offworld. It had just been poor fortune that clearance to transport the Flints came through that afternoon and plans had to change.

As she wound down her story, Malkerik leaned over to the mesh, rapping a knuckle against it. "Fingers," he called out, "What -is- our plan now that we can't just hitch up in a transport?" The Zabrak hummed quietly, drumming his thumbs against the wheel.

"Well, options are limited. Best case scenario is we jack an Imperial Shuttle leaving the planet." Malkerik felt his armour fill as he crapped himself (figuratively speaking).

"You're fucking with me."

"Nope."

"No other plan?"

"Not unless you wanted to stick your tongue down Darth Lachris' throat while you stab her."

Malkerik felt his cheeks redden slightly, the image briefly flickering into his mind. He steadied his throat, replying with a harsh, "Get bent. Was this Helouise's idea?"

"Yep," Fingers shot back, "We've got a window of ten minutes to take that ship. We'll be able to make the jump to our swap over ship just inside the deep space scanner ring."

Malkerik dropped back down onto the bench, looking over at the family. Sindel wrapped her arms around her son, holding him tight as she hummed a lullaby, quieting the timid boy.

The Hunter certainly hoped they'd make it out of this alive and well paid.

***

A rap on the mesh woke him up, as Fingers hissed back, "We're near Ben Prime, get ready." Malkerik grunted, reaching up to recalibrate the holoprojector harness quietly. He looked over to Sindel and her son, frowning behind the pale white visor. With the press of the button, the projectors quickly displayed the fully coloured image of an Imperial Soldier just over the surface of his own armour. A clever disguise, but under serious scrutiny they'd be found out quickly. Which was just what they needed going into the Bin Prime complex.

Bin Prime had been the crowning jewel of Balmorra's Industrial Might. In the early battles between the Empire and the Rebels, however, it had been bombed half-way to the pit. The Bin Prime complex rested in the outlying reaches of the devastated city, built out of several derelict hangars. It wasn't the main Empire Strongpoint, but it was a major supply drop zone for camps in the area. Now the Hunters were attempting to smuggle traitors in to steal a spacecraft to escape into space.

His father must be rolling in his grave.

The transport slowed to a halt, as the Zabrak rapped against the mesh, tossing out a brief, "Get ready," before leaping out of the cab. The sound of gravel followed Fingers' footsteps around the holding cell, stopping at the door. Malkerik briefly thought that they didn't have the appropriate paperwork to transfer prisoners before the Zabrak ripped the doors open.

"Alright scum," he barked, "Out!" Malkerik shouldered his rifle, pointing it at the young family. Sindel's face hardened, just like Malkerik had told her to do, and she took her son by the handcuffed hands, leading him out of the holding cell. The Bounty Hunter followed close behind, keeping his rifle trained on her lower back; if he -had- to shoot for realism he didn't want it to be a lethal bolt. They were flying by the seat of their pants now, and for the first time ever the Hunter found himself wishing the Force was with them.

The Bin Prime complex was blissfully quiet, two hefty gates shutting behind the stopped prisoner transport. The compound was quite large, skeleton crews working the twilight shift quietly; guards were up in towers, along the ground, but remained mostly stationary. A pair of Military Police members were currently resting on landspeeders, chatting over a cup of warm brew as they eyed the prisoner transport.

Malkerik drove the butt of his rifle into Sindel's back, barking, "Move it, scum." She let out a whimper, shuffling forward as Fingers led the way. They walked down two hangars, catching the eyes of several Imperial NCOs and guards as they passed. The Bounty Hunters tried to ruff them up as much as possible without being too conspicuous, trying to treat them like prisoners but without making it look like extraordinary abuse.

The Zabrak craftily guided them into a large hanger, pushing into the lobby. At one point this had been a public planetwide transport facility. Now it was the main hanger for the hemisphere, and the Imperials had made their conquest known; regal banners were draped over portraits and old maps, certain parts of propaganda blotted out by dark paint. Some poor soldier had apparently gone too far, having replaced all of the lightbulbs with dark red illuminators.

The Prison Parade didn't falter in step, as Fingers walked them right up to the reception desk, a junior officer working behind it.

"Welcome to the Bin Prime Hangar," he said, choosing not to look up from his holomag (ugh, a PlayLek?), "We're closed for the night." Fingers held up a hand to the three, shaking his head. The junior officer took several poignant seconds to look up, his face looking just as bored as the Twi'lek on the holomag's cover.

"Didn't you two dolts not hear me," he barked, trying to wave around his rank and, 'Emporer-given,' authority, "We're closed. Piss off." Fingers looked to Malkerik, and the Hunter shook his head.

"Listen here, pisspot," barked Fingers, folding his arms and causing the junior officer to turn a lovely shade of rage-magenta, "We're prison transport and we've got a pair of traitors to go offworld. You've got the last transport off here to go to Kaas and we're getting on it."

"Ex-fucking-scuse me, Master Corporal," roared the Officer, "But I am your superior, AND YOU WILL RESPECT MY AUTHORITY." Malkerik used every ounce of his willpower not to bust a gut laughing, as the obviously first tour officer turned various hues of red and purple as he tried to wield what Malkerik called the, "Penis of Authority." He believed that an imagined girth and length was far superior to those that were obviously more experienced.

"Now listen here, sir," the Hunter began, breaking out his best Outer Rim accent, "Fingers and I here have our orders from the Governess." Oh, the Officer paled at that one.

"T-t-the Governess," he stammered. Malkerik nodded, "That's right, sir, the Governess. The Flints here are to be transported to Kaas city for trial before the Dark Council themselves." Malkerik smiled underneath his helmet as the officer went through the three stages of inexperienced leadership.

"T-t-the Dark Council," he breathed lightly, eyes wide as the fear of higher authority weighed on him. He took a moment to compose himself, templing his fingers as the fear leaked into his eyes.

"Darth Lachris wants her offworld," he asked, struggling to confirm the knowledge with these two NCO's before him. This was when the junior officer was most pliable, the second stage of trying to not fuck up their fuck up more.

"That's right," returned Malkerik, "Tonight. And that ship in your hangar is our way off. Now let us on." The Officer nodded as compliance, the final stage, settled in, waving them through. "Very well, go quickly. You didn't see me."

"Of course sir," Malkerik gave him a crisp salute, just to make that wilted penis feel better. Fingers added his own sharp salute, offering up, "The Imperial Correctional Division thanks you for your assistance sir." They left the Junior Officer smiling, having just avoided the biggest shitstorm of his life. Or so he thought.

Malkerik lowered his rifle as they entered the hangar, Fingers unholstering his blaster pistol. The Shutttle's Captain worked diligently on his pre-flight checklist, disconnecting the fuel lines and winding them up. He offered a crisp salute as the party walked up, Malkerik returning it.

"Captain we need to commandeer this ship," he offered, backed by a nod from Fingers. "Word's come down from the Governess and we need to transfer this prisoner to your next destination."

"Kaas City eh?" replied the Captain, looking Sindel up and down. "Fucking traitor bitch, eh?" He spat on her feet, scowling. "Scum like you that are ruining this war fer us." The Hunter felt his arm twitch as he struggled not to unload his rifle on this asshole. Sindel looked shocked and disgusted, but Fingers remedied that by striking her over the head with his blaster pistol.

"Y'all can jump on," continued the Ship's Asshole, motioning to the small shuttle. "Won't be no problem serving the Governess and you guys are on the way. Take that bitch onboard." Fingers nodded, grabbing her by the shoulder and guiding the mother and child toward the transport, the Captain following shortly behind. Malkerik took a trained point at the gangway, waiting at the base until he was called.

This was working. He couldn't believe this was working. He could NOT believe this was working. Everything had skewed in the plan, but it was finally coming t-

"Corporal," called out the Junior Officer, jogging across the hangar.

Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit, oh shit, oh shit.

"Corporal," the Officer called, now mere feet from him with a datapad in hand, "Just called Balmorra Command. They've no record of the transfer on the night watch. What's the ID on that memo?" Malkerik open and closed his mouth behind his helmet, reaching for something, anything.

"Well, sir," he retorted, "I wouldn't be able to tell you. We got called mid-transport by the Governess' Assistant. You'd have to get in touch with their office."

"Then I'll do that right now," replied the officer, pulling out a holocomm and puttering away on it, searching for the appropriate number. Malkerik looked at him, down at the comm, and back to his face again.

Oh shit.

He slammed out with a hand, grabbing the side of the junior officer's head and driving it hard into the gangway's lifting strut, denting the outer shell and robbing the on duty soldier of his conciousness. The uniformed man dropped like a stone, his comm skittering away. Malkerik leaned against the opposite strut, closing his eyes for several moments as he let the panic recede.

"Sir?" Malkerik's eyes shot open. He looked around as the voice called out, "Sir?" again.

Oh shit the Holocomm.

"Sir, please respond!" He dropped to his hands and knees, searching hastily for the comm. His hands hastily folded around it, as the comm croaked out, "Sir, we're sending Military Police to your location. If you cannot answer, stay low and stay quiet."

"Fuck sakes," crowed Malkerik, turning his head to the gangway as he hurled the comm against the hangar wall. "Fingers," he roared, "We need to go!" He grabbed his rifle, checking it quick to make sure it was loaded before taking a knee in the gangway, positioning the muzzle towards the hangar door.

As the engines began to roll over, two Military Police Officers wandered in, scoping the joint. One called out for the Officer by name, drawing his blaster rifle. The engines roared to an idling speed, and the officers waved their arms, crying out for the pilot to stop, shouting at the cockpit. If they kept going, the Captain would see him, he'd call their bluff. Things would get nasty.

Malkerik turned his rifle on the MPs, firing at their feet out of hesitation. The two pivoted, opening a hail of blaster fire at the gangway, forcing the Hunter to take cover. Blaster bolts scored along the hull and struts as he started crapping himself. He just needed to distract them long enough so the pilot took off none the wiser. One of them cried out into a comm for support. So much for things not getting nasty.

He pivoted, turning his rifle on them again and letting loose a hail of blaster fire, aiming for minor wounds. By now the two MPs had ducked behind storage and shipping crates, using the durasteel as cover from the blasts. The Hunter turned away as he cut his hail short, the return volley whizzing past his eyes. They exchanged for a few moments as the engines picked up more and more speed. There was a cry from the door to the hangar, more Military Police storming in, blaster files blazing. Hissing and spitting under his breathMalkerik turned again, opening a blaster hail and striking one of the invading MPs in the chest.

"What the fuck?!" Malkerik turned towards the sound of the voice on instinct, catching a blaster bolt in the shoulder from the angry captain. The bolt pierced through the holoprojection, dissolving the illusion as it struck the cortosis armour plate. The tri-weave armour diffused the heat and most of the kinetic energy, but his skin was still left with a nasty burn. The kinetic force threw him onto the ground, crying out as the burn fried the first few layers of his skin.

"Fucking traitor pirate scum," he roared, holding up his blaster pistol, "I'll fucking fry your white-ass Rebel Kissing B-"

He didn't get the chance to finish as he dropped like a stone, Sindel holding a hydrospanner in her cuffed hands. She rolled him down the gangway as Malkerik struggled to deliver some cover fire with his rifle one-handed at the enroaching enforcers. Fingers' voice crackled over the comm as the Captain's body hit the tarmac, roaring, "All ashore that's going ashore folks!" The Hunter took a knee as he fired on the MP's again, taking a blaster bolt across his side, where the armour was thinnest, another scoring across his forearm, causing him to drop his rifle. He swayed onto his side to fall out of the path of another bolt, trying to suppress their attackers as they pried out of cover with his sidearm, weaving inbetween his wild blaster bolts

Two hands reached under his arms, eliciting a scream from him as they pulled him onboard the ship and ripped his burnt skin open. The pain riddled through his body, second degree burns screaming along his nerves. The gangway shut behind him, and he blacked out as the blaster burn along his side began to bleed through his armour.

***

Fingers would later brag about how they smashed through the hangar bay doors into the night sky like a black, swooping eagle, dogfighting Imperial Fighters and jumping through an Imperial Deep Space Probe. Sindel would deliver a much tamer story about how the MPs jumped into cover as the engines turned on them and they made a relatively clean getaway, most of the planet half-asleep in the dead of night.

Malkerik, meanwhile, lay on a bench as Sindel wadded towels under his arms, waiting for his blood to clot.

He finally regained some conciousness as they changed ships in the Outer Rim, picking up two more Bounty Hunters to take Sindel to their drop point on Alderaan. Malkerik was prodded and bandaged the entire flight by various people as he faded in and out of conciousness. The contractors with them taped up broken ribs from his orbital drop, pasted over ripped blaster burns, casted his sprained finger and damaged musculature, and injected him with several needles of kolto.

Sense returned as they landed somewhere in the darkness, bright streetlights shining through the portholes in the hull. The Zabrak crouched by him, wincing at the smell of kolto and burnt skin.

"You look like shit, boss."

"Fuck you, Fingers." The Zabrak grinned at that. "We're back on Nar Shaddaa," he replied, "Sindel and her husband thanked us extensively. Got you some medicine while we were mounted on Alderaan." Malkerik nodded, hissing through his teeth.

"Anything I can get you," asked Fingers, slowly helping his counterpart as the man sat up, his pristine white armour caked red.

"Get me my paychip," he hissed, "Take me to my ship, and tell Helouise to go and fuck herself with any plan bigger than, 'Shoot dumb guy.'"

Fingers laughed. Malkerik punched him in the nose and regretted it when his burn rubbed against his armour. They were, impossibly, alive after breaking into an Imperial Planet and escaping by the seat of their pants with an innocent.

If Malkerik didn't feel so shitty, he might've felt he made a difference. Somewhere deep down inside, he felt it still.

Or maybe that was the Kolto tank calling to him.


((And so ends a super challenging writing exercise in the Balmorra Drop series. I decided to try to take a larger idea and break it down by writing at least once for three days straight on it and posting what I finished with in a marathon-style training session for writing. I'd love to know your thoughts, your criticisms, your comments and most importantly your critique on what could be improved in my writing style here, or what you thought overall about Mal's most intense job ever. Thanks much for reading this marathon writing session and I hope you enjoyed this high-profile multi-facet mini-plot!!))

[Malkerik]

The streets of Kaas City were not unfamiliar to him. He'd walked them many times over the years and very little had changed in the near decade he'd been away. The humidity hung heavy in the air as his boots clicked over the paved streets, polished like smoky steel. The sidewalks were packed with busy citizens, scurrying about like rats on their day to day lives. Often he saw Sith mingling with civilian, perhaps just in close proximity or perhaps occupying benches together. He remembered a time where he saw this as harmony. As peace.

But it was not peace that brought him to the Seat of the Empire. He had to know.

His pace was not brisk, the injuries from Balmorra still crippling him despite several days in a kolto tank. He'd done more damage than he'd thought, ribs creaking and sore under charred skin. With luck he'd be back up to full-speed in a month. But luck, lately hadn't been on his side.

He needed to know.

Turning down the street towards the high end residences, he counted down the housing numbers as he looked for one specifically. When he found it, he was sorely disappointed; the name on the mailbox had changed. He didn't live here anymore.

Malkerik pulled out his holocom, opening the local phone directory. He looked for the name, flipping through the K's rapidly until it jumped out in faint blue.

Archemedes Kireklam.

He quickly cross-referenced the number over the holonet, pinpointing it to an apartment on the west side. Pounding the pavement once again, he started slogging his way in the opposite direction.

It wasn't difficult to slice into the apartment, taking a few wire flicks to open the door. He slipped a scrambling disk into the door's mainframe, scrambling the security system and camera network connected to it. The interior of the living space was reasonably posh; carpets were rolled out over seashell white tile as Imperial Insignified Drapery cloaked the windows, bathing the room in the glow cast by the transparent curtains. He stepped into the modest living room, no more than a couch, a coffee table, a holoplayer and a liquor cabinet.

Crouching down, he cracked open the booze dispensary, perusing the MANY bottles. Black Rum, every last one of them. Most of them were empty, new bottles nearly pristine while full bottles were covered in a thick layer of dust. Drinking heavily, not much had changed it would seem.

Standing, he wove his way through the abode until he found the bedroom. Ensconcing himself inside, he remarked the single bed; only enough room for one person to sleep there. No significant other. Malkerik strode over to the dresser, opening it up. Most of the undergarments were gone, only leaving civilian outerwear. On military service somewhere, posted.

His eyes swept over the top of the dresser, looking over the scattered objects. A few discarded military rank slip-ons, denoting a rank (Commander? Impressive), an old Imperial Pocketwatch, some pens, a tarnished ring (did he re-marry?) and an old-fashioned picture. Malkerik reached down, picking up the frame in a hand.

It had been some time since he'd seen an actual portrait frame or a picture. The image was printed out in dye across a piece of paper, similar to how pixels were dotted out by a holodevice. The frame itself held the picture up physically, supporting it in a rectangular wooden shell. The image itself depicted two people. One was a tall, grey-haired man smiling broadly with his arm wrapped around the other occupant of the frame. He was well built, used to the rigours and training his constantly moving life had made him work.

The other person in the frame was a smiling young man, brilliant blue eyes staring out at him. Brown hair stuck out from the top of his head in a recently shaven, "high and tight," style favourited by new military recruits. In his hand he clutched a Degree Certificate, though the field it was in was obscured by the hand holding it. They stood out in a park, somewhere in Kaas city.

It was such a long time ago.

The sound of the front door opening drew his attention, and he hurriedly placed the picture down. Pushing a button on his gauntlet, he activated his armour's stealth field generator, disappearing in an instant. Exiting the bedroom, he silently stalked his way through the house, returning towards the living room.

A man now sat on the couch, a military duffel resting in the empty seat beside him. The silver-haired officer slipped out of his dress boots with a groan of satisfaction, pulling off his outer jacket and draping it over the back of the sofa as he stretched out. Malkerik paused at the back of the couch, hesitation suddenly pressing against his throat.

What do I do? Appear suddenly?

He thought it best not to, and instead chose to slowly inch his way around the couch, unsure if he wanted to see the man's face.

Archemedes was nearly unconscious, his eyes half-closed as he enjoyed the sensation of just being on his own couch. The last decade had not been good to him, heavy lines creasing into his face as stress and encroaching age ate away at his youth. Dark circles pressed underneath his eyes, speaking to many sleepless nights away. There was a sadness there still, pressing heavy on his shoulders and chest; they didn't rise and fall with his breathing like they had once. It wasn't age compressing that chest, it was the sorrow of losing a son forever. They'd never have told him that the body vanished either.

I can't drag him into this. He doesn't even know if I'm still alive anymore...

Malkerik wanted to reach out and touch him, to hug him tight like he had when he was young. He craved to pounce on him like he did as a youth, beg and pester him about how his tour had gone, how the ship had sailed through the stars. It pained him that he couldn't sit there for hours and just talk with this man, this hero in his existence.

They'd kill him to get to me.

Wetness under his eyes, as a silent tear leaked into his helmet, tumbling across his cheek. He couldn't bring him in to this. He couldn't threaten anyone with it.

The snoring brought him back to reality, as the ageing man before him dozed on the couch. Malkerik took the opportunity to duck out the front door, leaving the apartments, and Kaas City behind him without a bitter word of farewell.

[Malkerik]

He drew the blinds quickly, darkening the meagre living room and casting it into shadow. For a change, he didn't remove his oculars, instead choosing to pull out a small holocomm. The space was small, the Jedi's Apartment temporarily converted into his own safehouse while they were away. He tried not to think too hard to think of necessarily who it was... What they'd gotten into on C-

Enough of that. Now was the time for work.

He hard-wired his comm into the apartment's holoterminal, adjusting projectors before booting it up. "Patch through to Sanctuary, secure connection."

Watching with somewhat muddled interest as the comm made the call, he pictured a little diagram in his head as the call bounced off of several nearby satellites, giving it no clear source of origin. Normally for this he'd had made a standard call, but he wanted to be s- No, here most of all, he needed to be sure that no one could trace him.

Sixty Six answered the other end, digital image giving him a brief bow. Malkerik didn't waste time on pleasantries, immeadietly giving out a crisp, "Download Codex File: Unspeakables to on-board datachip." Almost instantly the file began to transfer and Sixty Six vanished with a wink. The Bounty Hunter cut out the call, grabbing a seat on the couch as the holocomm pinged.

"Open Database Unspeakables." The holoterminal hummed to life again, pulling the data from his holocomm as it projected an image like a star map, endless swirling information packets like a floating nebula. It always astounded him how much knowledge he'd collected over the years. Some of it he'd gathered himself in his extensive line of work, others from co-workers, others from associates. Every night he'd uploaded files, letting Sixty Six sort through and organize them to his specifications.

Now it was just up to him to search his own personal database.

"Conn," he said, his holocomm pinging in notification, "Search all files, keyword: Intelligence." It took a mere perception of an instant, but the galaxy of information swirled around the room, projector recalibrating as the database sorted through thousands of pertinent information. When the swirling stopped, there were perhaps only a third of the original dots remaining.

"Conn, advanced search, keywords: Haven, Nar Shaddaa."

Another kaleidoscopic swirl, another dance of incredible, esoteric lights and then only two little dots remained.

"Conn, open pertinent files: Haven." One of the dots blinked, expanding suddenly into a mindmap. Malkerik crossed a leg, studying it carefully for several seconds.

With things beginning to settle out, he needed to start stepping up his plans and look towards his own goals. To start, he needed to work his way into a prison that didn't exist to break out people who had never been born.

Easy, as always.

Malkerik  for sometime had been familiar with a group simply known as, "The Unspeakables," a body of ghosts that, according to their various homeworlds, had never been born, had no family and just never plainly existed. He'd developed friendships with some of them, worked with many of them, and had carried out tasks for them on several occasions. They were an extended family to him.

In his time knowing them, they'd worked closely with several ex-Imperial Intelligence members up to it's dissolving by the Dark Council. Those that had been unlucky enough to be planetside when Sith Intelligence had taken over had been, 'reclaimed.' With most of the old Imperial Intelligence, the Unspeakables had been executed or retired to one of several secret Imperial Intelligence Holding Facilities along with other senior Intelligence members that were too dangerous to let free but too important to kill.

Now he needed to break his family out.

Over the course of his tenure as a licensed hunter, he'd worked closely with several runaway members of the Unspeakables, gathering information on this hidden prison. Through the work of what field agents they had, they'd discovered that the facility, codenamed Haven, was somewhere on Nar Shaddaa.

A gemstone in a pile of Bantha Poodoo.

With the rest of the Unspeakables lying low, it was now up to Malkerik to stage a prison breakout of a place that just simply didn't exist. And that in itself was a problem.

Certainly, the Bounty Hunter could prove it existed; that fact was not in dispute. The problem came with the notion that it was an Imperial (now Sith) Intelligence prison, designed to hold the most dangerous (and now most unpredictable) killers, scientists and information experts in the galaxy. There would be no gaps for error, no chance for failure or everything would no doubt go up in smoke and all their efforts been for naught. Before he could even plan, though, he needed to know where it was, what the layout was, and how prisoners were kept.

And that, frankly, stressed him out worse than being beaten on by a Sith Lord.

Idly, he reached across the couch, fingers trailing across her vest before he found his weather-coat, reaching into the inside pocket to pull out his vaporizer as his head started to ache. He slotted in his favourite herbal remedy, taking a deep, long vape as the liquid chemical inside vaporized into mist. Opening his mouth, he flicked his tongue, turning the sweet smelling vapour into smoke rings, chasing the last little data-dot around the room. Slowly, the pent up stress started to bleed out of his body with the smoke, and he felt his mind going all misty.

Waiting was no longer an option. With one Unspeakable dead in the last month and more in prison, it would only be a matter of time before the rest were weeded out by the Imperials. Take too long and there'd be no more informants.

That was it, he thought hazily as the herb began carving off at his anxiety, they needed an informant...

Someone on the inside, someone in Sith Intelligence. Certainly, that made it difficult enough, but your average Cipher wouldn't know about the prisons; they'd have no need to. Fixers wouldn't know either, Haven probably had it's own maintenance and security crew and there was no doubt their identities would be extensively protected. The new Keeper would be well protected and obsessively watched; too high priority.

A Watcher, however...

Watchers were Intelligence's information annalists, as well as the predominant handlers of, 'Cipher,' field agents. Getting a Watcher on the inside would be invaluable...

The only problem was that most Watchers were now based out of the Eugenics program; grown and reared to be the most powerful thinkers in the Empire. The issue with that was they were also the most loyal, bred with various methods of ensuring loyalty from pain receptors on a remote applicator to far more insidious methods. Some of which could be exploited.

His hazy brain slowly chugged along to the conclusion like a special little Hutt child. He let out a little, "Ooooo-hoo-hoo-hoo..."

Some of those loyalty systems could no doubt be exploited. Could be reversed. Could be controlled.

He needed personnel files. He needed to find the most vulnerable Watcher.

That would take high security clearance.

Darth security clearance.

"Ooooo-hoo-hoo-hoo..." He knew a Darth... A Darth who he was eager to work with again, for certain.


Several hours passed before he was aware that he was stretched out on the couch still, his joints stiff and a sweet smelling smoke clinging to the room.

Trying not to garner a contact high, he opened up the ventilation system, letting the smoke vent out into the complex's central air system. He took a quick sniff of the Twi'lek's couch, screwing up his face. Oh, she'd smell that when she returned. At the call of his stomach, he rested a hand over it. Hopefully she didn't get the munchies like he was getting.

Wandering into the bedroom, he flicked on the food generator and grabbed a bottle of his rum, pouring himself a drink as he ran things over again in his head, polishing hazily drafted plans.

The task could be presented as a job he needed help on... Use her trust, use what she felt to his advantage. It made him feel somewhat dirty, but if she could manage it, she couldn't possibly be implicated. Not if she did it right. Perhaps, in the end, she could become a valuable ally. if the price was right.

He smiled as the generator dinged, sipping his drink to rinse the herbal taste out of his mouth.

He DID wish to meet with the Pureblood, after all. This was just another good excuse to wine and dine.








K,

Enjoyed our dinner. Want to talk shop with you. Can't discuss, sensitive. Need favour. Large payout; hotels and dinner for a week. Respond if interested, co-ordinates to meet will follow. Dancing soon?

M

[Malkerik]

He was thankfully awoken by the sound of the hyperdrive ramping down. The room was lit dimly, the red trim-lights giving enough illumination that his widened pupils could see safely. Slowly, he pushed himself up, the grip of his nightmares holding his brain in a slow fog. OR perhaps it was the Rum.

It was probably the rum.

Shuffling himself into a robe, he groaned himself over to the doorway, pressing a palm against the comm. "Sixty Six," he croaked, "Why is the drive going?"

"Vi," was the response, his name, "You need to see this on the bridge." His real name.

Malkerik pushed through the door, stepping into the low-light of the quarterdeck (or at least what he'd like to think it would've been a quarterdeck). Turning his head, he saw a bright, white light come from the bridge... Too dim to be a spotlight, too bright to be the dash...

The Bounty Hunter stumbled onto the bridge, needing to squeeze his eyes shut from the light's intensity, choosing several choice words as his photosensitive eyes were suddenly blinded.

"Bloody fuck, Sixty-Six," he swore, hissing through his teeth, "Turn the holoprojector down!" A motivator turned. Sixty-Six had plugged himself into the service droid.

"It's not the projector, Vi," came the robotic response, "Hold on, I'll lower the chroma-shield." Malkerik sighed in relief as the tinted interior shield came down, the motor whirring quietly as a shadow thankfully pressed over his face. Slowly he creaked open his eyes.

His knees nearly gave out as he grabbed the Captain's Seat for support.

"Six," he asked, mouth suddenly dry, "Why am I looking at Hoth?" The planet was too small. The colour of it's surface wasn't the right shade.

"It's not Hoth," the droid replied, A.I. carefully articulating the response, caution it's first thought, "It's... Ziost."

Malkerik dropped into the seat carefully, his hands shaking. His heart was pounding, his pulse was racing. Breath caught in his throat.

"The Imps Glass it?"

"No," was his friend's reply, "Caught chatter on our channel... No one knows what happened, but it happened some time ago."

The Hunter reached out, fingertips pressed against cool glass sheet. The surface of Ziost was grey, like ash, a dark grey where the jungles had once been, and a pitch black where the oceans had once roared. Ziost had once been so full of life, tall Imperial cities once a testament to the tenacity of the Sith Empire, tall towers standing in defiance of the Republic's ideals of assimilation. A promise that even the weight of a world, even the laws of gravity could not stop a people from unifying and rising against all odds.

Now it was dust. Ash. Death.

"Land us," he whispered, the droid looking over at him incredulously, "Put Sanctuary on the ground."

It only took a few minutes for Sixty-Six to land on the dusty surface. It took Malkerik only seconds longer to suit up. The airlock closed behind him as his own helmet sealed shut, suit pressurizing as the limited life support came online. Sixty-Six had said the air was breathable, but he didn't want to breathe it. He didn't want to be there.

He needed to be there.

The door opened as the gangway descended, a wild wind stirring up the dust. The ash. The remains of the planet. He tried not to think about it. He couldn't STOP thinking about it.

Footprints sunk into soft ash, the thick dust clinging to the treads of his boots. He could only take a few steps before he dropped to his knees, senses completely overwhelmed as the wind howled all around him.

He remembered running through the jungles with friends, his first time sweeping over the Ziost Academy, his graduation. He remembered following girls through the trees, play fighting with friends as they pretended they were swinging lightsabers. He remembered all of his friends... All of them he'd met here and spent summers and winters with. Slowly, he laced his fingers through the ash coating the earth, lifting it up between his fingers. Slowly, it sifted down inbetween his fingers, pouring through the gaps like sands of lost time.

He had signed on so long ago to protect worlds like this, people who had lived and laughed and cried and just existed. He had wanted to protect all of them.

And someone in an instant had erased all of them. Someone had wiped a planet clean, heavier than any glassing. And they had done it so well that no one knew.

He had failed them. They, as a group, had failed every single person that had died.

The scream had been swelling in his throat for sometime, stoppered behind the anguish in his mind. Nothing could stop it as it ripped forth, a cry of anguish for everyone here who had fallen, who had been reduced to a pile of ashes.


On the other side of the comm, Sixty-Six muted the yell. He'd known Malkerik for his entire life, and he'd never heard that before. Not when the first Sixty-Six had died, not when his eyes had been cut out, not when he had resigned himself to leaving forever.

If the A.I. had known how to hurt, how to feel humanoid sadness, he would. All of them had failed.

And the Hunter blamed himself entirely.

[Malkerik]

He opened his eyes, looking over the scene. Same as it had been before, the Temple was quiet, the dead of night enshrouding it in silence. Only the faint light of the entryway cast any illumination upon the area. The robed figure slowly approached the steps, hood drawn over head as the entity ascended, graceful as a shifting spectre. Feet never seemed to move as it walked, ascending with dignity and poise.

In stark contrast, his own footfalls were heavy and military; booted feet stepping hard and sure upon each step as he ascended to the pointed monolith before him. Tethered to the apparition before him, he followed close in step, at her shoulder as if he were contracted to be her bodyguard.

They turned into the atrium of the temple, and the wisp of a woman stopped for a moment to observe the monolith before her. To an adept, this was a testament to the woven power and life of the Force. To him, it was merely another hunk of stone who's patterns he had memorized in the many times he'd lived this dream over and over again.

The woman lowered her head as a noise drew their attention. Descending the stairs before them was a beast of a man, built tall and large from the side of some great edifice. Robed all in black, it was near impossible to tell features from shadows. Cloaked in what seemed to be the shadows themselves, the figure tromped down each stair with dark purpose, a white skull peering out from beneath the hood, fiery eyes glowing in sunken sockets.

The two circled each other quietly, a familiar dance; two apex predators squaring off in a familiar challenge of dominance. The beast-man drew a lightsaber, amber blade igniting from emitter to form the familiar plasma arc of a lightsaber. The ghost woman only drew her hands from sleeves, slender copper fingers held out before her. The motion was minor, nothing to gawk at, but it belayed a power within.

And they danced.

Lightning arced across the small chamber, connecting with plasma in an extravagant phosphorescent show, all manners of the spectrum dashed against the walls of the temple, colours igniting in a glorious corona of death and disharmony. The striking of power ripped a taste of power into the air, dispersing it between the duelling masters of the arts, echelons of the Force.

The tableau was broken with a quiet gasp of effort, the most powerful image one could look upon shattered by a ghosts crying grace.

The monolith turned aside the lightning strike, advancing purposefully like a Hunter-Killer droid. Through spindled fingers, another arc, a greater obliteration of electricty, burst forth with deadly intent. An artisans hand was all that saved the statue from a final blow, raw power deflecting pure energy into the stonework around them, smashing chunks out of ancient brickwork and mortar.

Controlled fury could be tasted in the air, as the two duelled for some time in a similar fashion for some time, both trying to gain some semblance of footing as their battle raged. A crowd began to draw itself about on the parapets, young initiates and promising apprentices. The Council had yet to descend from their chambers, no doubt locked too deeply in their deliberations to quarrel with a petty fight.

Within the antechamber, war raged between paragons of power. Discipline and power raged against fury and absolution.

Another lightning strike rung out and connected with durasteel plating, arcing over blackened robes and burning them away, sending the smoking monolith to his knees as echoes of power embraced twisted metal. Copper fingers had twisted to bronzed gnarls as they recoiled to unleash a final bolt, a moment's of hesitation in the finality of the strike. Air inhaled, paused, exhaled.

That moment of weakness was all that was needed.

The monolith reached out with pure fury and power, gathering energies darker than time itself. Near visible tendrils of pure darkness encircled the woman, constricting her and lifting her from the earth.

"No," he roared, his cry drowned out with her own, the scream of anguish echoing into the temple as her body kept folding, further and further until the blood began to leak from a shattered form, sickened crushings whispered out from a tortured shell. The gurgling didn't stop echoing against the walls, echoing along the students above, striking into his ears over and over again.

"STOP," he roared, lightsaber suddenly in his hand, a golden blade igniting as he moved to strike out at the monster. A hand grabbed his throat, crushing the air out of his lungs, lifting him up high from the ground. The fire burned in those eyes, piercing into his soul, blinding him as his vision began to turn into an icy white, tendrils of death encroaching along his sight.

"You will make her failure complete..."

His eyes snapped open. He didn't cry out anymore, he didn't sit up in his bed to make sure he was safe. Instead, he laid there for sometime, sweat beaded along every inch of his skin as broken eyes stared out into the dim light of the captain's quarters.

He chose not to sleep again for the rest of the night.

[Malkerik]

He drew the covers up over her shoulders, fingers resting there for the briefest of moments. She didn't need to be awake, thinking about what he was to do. Nor would she ever understand. For her, everything had just been turned around on its head; he'd walked the road before. He had been utterly decimated and left to rot.

She didn't need to worry. Didn't need to think about anything else more.

Stepping out into the gangway, his Droid met him there, already handing him his equipment as the ship descended.

"How long until dawn," he asked, his plan long concocted and ready to be put into action. He knew every action she would take, every motion her body would form; his mark had devolved into a creature of habit instead of a prime killer. It would be her undoing.

"Approximately sixty standard minutes," replied Sixty-Six, walking out into the main deck and assisting him in armouring up. His current stow-away had not been a part of their plan, and in an effort to cater to her needs he chose instead to forgo stepping into the Armoury, instead gearing up traditionally. The process took much longer than he remembered, looking at his gauntlet's timepiece in growing dismay. Their window shrunk further and further, and for once he wanted to be a little dramatic.

Slamming the shin-guard of his greaves shut, Malkerik grabbed his jacket, throwing it over a shoulder and marching towards the main portcullis, buckling his jacket. "I'll bring back eggs for breakfast," he called over his shoulder, disappearing into the hangar bay and leaving his bandoliers and thus his weapons hanging off the back of a chair.

***

Nar Shaddaa was quiet, just before the dawn. Certainly, it was hard to believe that the Smuggler's Moon could ever be really called, 'quiet,' but just before the dawn, when Helouise was wide and awake, it was peaceful. The Secretary (she preferred the term 'Administrative Assistant') always woke up early; it had been bred into her as a habit and she simply had no control over that any more she did her hair colour or her soft rosy cheeks. Her disarming smile netted her a free cup of java that morning (she'd often given the barista enchanting looks, to say the least) and she was in high spirits when she stepped into the Nar Shaddaa Southern Bounty Bureau, thumbing the elevator switch to take her up to her rooftop office.

To be fair, it wasn't -her- office; she shared a small entryway with the Bureau's CEO (or that's what he liked to be called), but she still thought of it as an office. Not the big, black, onyx desk of her dreams, but it was a modest office, all the same.

Everyday she rode the elevator up before anyone arrived at work. Everyday she stepped out to look through the skyscape from her penthouse office and it's wide windows. Everyday she thought about how lucky she really was.

Today was not everyday.

When the doors opened, she let out a surprised sound, the white boots of an infamous Bounty Hunter currently laid out across her desk. His glasses were off (and why would he need them, it was dark out) and his sharp gaze was on the elevator. On her.

Boring into her cheap credit-store blouse.

"Morning, Helouise," he said coolly, his tone unsettling. She tried to rapidly process the information, think about how he was attacking, what angle he was coming from. His whole body language was open, but his eyes... His voice... She had to remind herself that if nothing else, Malkerik was a master manipulator and psycho-assailant. He probably already knew every angle she could take and had an attack for it all.

"Daasiik," she said evenly, not trying to betray unsettled stirrings in her voice. Why was he here? After their original meeting in the Long Shadow (how long ago was that?) they'd always stuck to holocomms on his insistence... Why was he HERE?

"I figured I'd stop by," he said, slipping on his winning smile, "Talk and catch up a bit... Really, wanted to ask you how work was going."

Work? Something so mundane? "Fine," Helouise replied curtly, the Assistant walking over to her desk in her three inch heels. She set her handbag and her coffee down, the prim and proper lady resting her hands on the desk, leaning over it to stare right into his eyes, trying to assert her authority. "Just here to ask about a glamorous life as a Secretary?"

"No, here to ask about your work on the side." He dropped the datapad on the desk, feet sliding off of it in a brief bodily exchange, "I hear you've been selling some old stories and influencing a few new ones." She didn't need him to turn the pad around with a hand, she knew what it was from the big Imperial Brand on the top of the screen. She looked down each name, each individual designation, and noticed the bold red beside each one. Each stamping of the words, "DECEASED," twisted in her gut.

She stopped at one, and her heart fell.

Cipher Six-Thirteen: Imperial Informant

She knew her look was panicked as her face twisted up to his, white eyes filled with an unabated fury. His jaw was clenched, locked.

How did he get this? How did he break into the Citadel and steal files from Intelligence?

"How long," he hissed, "How long have you lied to me, to the others?" He stood as he asked it, her presence in the room melting away; she had been born and bred to kill and seduce, she'd never had the charisma and the ability to own a room like he had.

"Archie..." she started, before he cut her off roughly, smashing a fist down onto the table, onto the datapad, leathered gauntlet spidering the screen in a million different directions.

"Don't call me that," he hissed lowly, "You have no -right- Thirteen. No right to call me that, anymore." She stepped back from the desk, clutching her handbag suddenly, knuckles white as she evaluated her options. If she ran for the elevator or tried to escape, he'd stop her easily... But if she could plant a shot in between his eyes...

He pointed at her with a finger, face contorted in pain and anguish as she detached herself from the situation. "How long," his question was like a knife in the dark; unexpected and biting. Helouise had thought he'd simply execute her, but...

"How long did you feed back intel? How long did you tell them about all twenty five of us?"

"Since we left," she replied softly, calculating timings as her fingers and thumb found the clasp of her clutch, "I told Intelligence everything about their renegade Section Six." Something glistened at his eye, was it a tear?

"How many of us did you kill," he asked quietly, fists clenched tight. She returned just as quietly with the truth, "Ten."

"Ten," he said, bewildered and dazed. She realized he'd not come here to kill her, he came here for the truth; he came to know why.

"After Intelligence fell apart," continued the Secretary, trembling hands clenching slightly, "I had to go back to stop the pain... I told them I'd killed you after we changed your identity. And then when you wanted us all to just... Take over Intelligence?" Helouise shook her head, biting her lip, "It was just... Too much, Archie, to-"

"Do not call me that," he roared, causing her to jump. Either he was seriously unstable, or playing a good enough game to put real fear in her heart. He turned his back, raising a hand to his mouth as he tried to hide the anguish.

Now.

She snapped open her handbag, reaching in as her fingers closed arou-

Nothing.

It wasn't there.

Malkerik reached into his jacket, drawing out her personal blaster pistol. She gaped for a moment before deciding to cover it up. How had he gotten it without her knowing? Did he bump into her on the street? Did he take it from her apartment during the night?

"You betrayed us," he said, finally, turning to look at her, silencing the creeping anxiety with his own harsh, shredding tone. If she could ever love, her heart would have broken into the tiniest of pieces; her best 'friend' in the universe looked at her with hate and despair, pain and anguish.

"You wanted to go against the Empire," she hissed back, body tensed up as she tried to repel his frozen assault, "You wanted us to turn on the Sith and what? Fight a war? Go blow for blow!?"

"Fight for what is right," he roared back, slamming the pistol down on the desk, "We were SLAVES to them, Helouise! You still are! You were bred for it from day one and you can't see past the chains around your wrists!" Malkerik leaned across the table from her, desperately pleading, "We. Are. Freeeeee."

"Not with you around," the harpy spat back, words of venom to drive him back, "Not with your ideals and fundamentals that the whole Empire needs to change, that the universe needs to go on its head. 'We'll wipe out the Sith in Intelligence and show them how it runs without their interference.' That's what you bloody said Zero, you prick! How could I -not- go back to them after that? It's treason!"

"It's not betrayal," the Hunter retorted, liquid ice dripping from his mouth, "It's not cold blooded murder for your own cowardice, for however you justified it. How much longer until I had to die, hm? How much longer until you started using me to kill people for you?"

She thought to answer, but didn't. She'd need it if he suddenly became violent, no need to play her card now.

He pushed the blaster towards her, letting it rest on her side of the desk. She looked at it, and he looked at her.

"Pick it up."

She did as she was told, choosing to leave it at her side for now.

"The Mandalorians believe in honour," he said softly, looking at her hands folding before his waist, "They believe in a fight to the death, when one warrior wrongs another in their work. I believe it's fair to follow that tradition now; only one of us is leaving this room."

"I agree," answered Helouise, suddenly lifting the blaster up to fire at him, determination setting in. The Bounty Hunter rapidly turned his hands, flipping her beautiful Alderaanian desk at her, heavy blaster bolts sinking into the beautifully polished wood grain. Somehow, some way, the Secretary threw herself backwards, unstretched muscles coiling in near agony as she forced her body to move in ways it hadn't since Balmorra. Rolling to a knee, she heard the distinct crack of her expensive heels as the little risers broke off, turning the shoe into a flat.

"You're going to pay for these," she hissed, pointing the blaster at the Hunter and letting her training take full reign. The volley came quick, forcing Malkerik to leap across the room, barely dodging the red trail of death chasing at his back. With a flick of his hand, something smashed into hers, ripping a sharp yelp out of her throat and sending the blaster spinning away. Looking down, she swore under her breath.

The kriffer had stolen a pen off her desk.

No one stole a Secretary's KRIFFING pens off of their KRIFFING DESK.

Leaping to her feet, the two Ciphers advanced towards each other rapidly, exchanging heavy, vicious blows. Both were experts in martial combat, and while Zero would never know it, they'd fought several times before in the past.

This time, she was going to break their tie.

Fists met fists, kicks danced off of feet; they matched each other blow for blow like two masters in the holovids. One was still at the top of his game, and the other had let herself slip leagues since their work in Imperial Intelligence. Sweat beaded on her forehead long before it gathered on his, and by the second minute she could feel her joints creaking, breathing getting harder after one too many body shots. After trying to punch him dead in the chest for the fifth time, her knuckles started to groan from smashing into Cortosis plate.

The bruising was becoming more evident as he back-handed her across the jaw, sending her sprawling. It was quickly becoming evident that she had been unprepared from the moment she stepped out of the house that day; Malkerik was bigger, faster, stronger than her in every way, he was a better fighter, still in shape and he'd had everything planned out. Now, she was just a fly in his trap.

She groaned loudly as his boot caught her ribs, audibly cracking as she flipped over onto her side, rolling away. Helouise groaned, arms wrapping around her waist as he kicked her again, her ribs groaning under the assault. She coughed, something wet striking against her teeth and the top of her mouth. The Secretary desperately reached out before her, trying to find something before the Hunter could deliver another swift kick.

Her fingers found cool plasteel, one slipping into the trigger guard. She grinned.

Rolling before he could wind up again, Helouise fired off several shots, the high-intensity bolts smashing him full in the chest and sending Malkerik sprawling along the floor. Scrambling to her feet, she kept the pistol trained on him as he struggled to take a knee. With a grunt, she pressed the muzzle against his forehead, breathing heavily.

"Do it," he said finally, blood dripping from a crooked nose, "Kill me like the others." She hissed through her teeth, so wanting to pull the trigger and fry his brains. But she couldn't do it. Not looking at those eyes.

"Get up," she barked, and he did. "Turn around." With hate in his eyes, he did as he was told. Driving the muzzle into his back, she commanded, "Walk forward."

He did just that, taking about ten steps before stopping to stare at the elevator door, hands falling by his sides. "So this is how it ends, is it," he asked, "The only one bred for loyalty betrays everyone else."

"I'm sorry," she said softly, "But I'm a Patriot through and through."

"So am I," he said with something strange in his voice... Conviction?

She pulled the trigger, she thought he went down. The problem with perception, however, is that it's simply not reality. Helouise had been a Eugenics-bred marvel, made to shoot straighter, faster, and with more power than any model before her. But like all humanoids, like all soldiers, her skills deteriorated with time.

Malkerik, however, hadn't been bred to be the best. He'd trained to be the best; he'd gone toe to toe with some of the worst scum as a Bounty Hunter, and he trained harder every day than he did the day before. His senses hadn't diminished like hers had with two years of a cushy desk-job and Imperial Protection. He had lived in rampant paranoia, waiting for the Sith to come claim his life. He'd wake up every day surprised he was still in his own bed, and he fell asleep each night with a blaster in his grip.

It took less than a fraction of a second before the click of the trigger transferred into the firing of the blaster bolt, pure instinct heightening his senses to the point of imperceptibility. The knife was already sliding out of the compartment in his gauntlet when he went to take a knee, twisting to give the illusion he'd been struck in the shoulder while the bolt missed completely. The Hunter turned with his fall as the knife extended to a wicked eight inch dagger, perfectly balanced as he threw it underhanded like a dart towards his target.

Steel met flesh and bit deep, piercing through to the other side, spreading bone and severing nerves before splicing open the soft skin at the back of the neck.

Helouise wasn't sure what had happened at first as the force of the blow rocked her back into her own desk chair. There was still concious thought, but she wondered why she couldn't feel anything. She didn't even feel numb.

It was when he stood and started walking over towards her that she realized she wasn't breathing, her eyes weren't focusing anymore. The world was going dark. But she could still hear him.

"It's a beautiful day, Thirteen," he said softly, as she screamed inside the prison of her brain. She had four minutes left. Four minutes of agonizing life... She didn't have even that; already she was losing conciousness, his voice drifting further and further away as her lungs failed to supply the precious air her brain needed, her spinal column severed by a hand machined blade.



"What a day, Thirteen," Malkerik said softly, slipping on his oculars as the sun's glow broke over the Nar Shaddaa's horizon, "Oh what a lovely day..."

He left the blaster with her as a parting gift, his heart long-since hardened against his choice. Cipher Six-Thirteen had been dead once he knew she'd betrayed their fellow Agents; the only family they'd had anymore. She'd been dead while he planned every single inch of his plan, she'd been a corpse through every minute of his divining. Nothing had been left up to chance, and everything was as he'd deigned it to be; there was no use grieving over her cooling corpse.

Stopping short, he looked up at the security camera above the elevator, the little red recording light blinking softly at him. Raising a finger, he pointed at it like a little blaster, making a pew sound with his mouth before stepping inside.

All according to plan, he thought as it descended towards the ground level.

Let them find out. Let them come. I'm ready to stop hiding.

[Malkerik]

"Should we have left her alone on Sanctuary, Ar-"

"Not here, Sixty-Six," chided Malkerik, rifle stock pushed into his shoulder, "And yes. As much as I'd love to bring her into the criminal element, it's best she's not associated yet. The Jedi may not take her back if she regains her senses but dealt with the wrong kind of Hutts."

The Droid let out something of a sigh, it's optical targeting array scanning the rolling green fields admist the corpses and destruction. A woman leaped up out of a nearby trench, vibroblade in hand as she charged towards them, screaming at the top of her lungs. Sixty-Six extended an arm, a compartment opening on it's forearm to reveal a compact infrasonic projector. With a quiet, 'whumpf,' the woman collapsed, her eyes turning Sith-skin red as her ears started to bleed, the infrasonic sound piercing her orange jumper and rupturing her internal organs.

Belsavis must have been beautiful once upon a time, thought the Hunter. If it wasn't for the towering prison complexes and violent inmates, he would have rather liked to live amongst the trees as a native. In a fashion, he still wanted to; there was a certain thrill behind needing to fight for one's life every sixty minutes. There was a part of him that missed a good prison scrap.

It hadn't taken much to swing a temporary landing permit to the surface; the Empire had mostly abandoned their efforts after releasing the Dread Masters, and the Republic were more focused on other planetary threats than wrangling renegade criminals and prisoners. What limited presence the two factions still held over the planet were mostly archaeological or corrections based; the superpowers wanted either the Rakatan secrets held within the deepest reaches, or they wanted to rile up some prisoners and throw them at people they didn't like. Anything else, they really didn't care much about.

As he tromped into the minimum security section, he idly wondered how well Republic Corrections Officers would do in Sith Politics.

Belsavis held very little for him, outside of sport. Once in a blue moon he'd be hired to take a bounty that ended with him chasing a mark all across the prison. He'd made some friends, he'd made some enemies, and he'd made a TON of wounds on other prisoners. Throughout the raving riots, he'd brushed elbows with a reclusive group of technophilic Nikto called, 'The Circle,' who were tapped into everything on the Holonet. He owed them a lot of favours.

He was hoping he could cash out a few more.

As he approached Vault K-66, a prisoner standing watch spotted him, darting into the labyrinthine tunnels. Ducking inside, Malkerik switched off the echolocation settings on his visor, allowing his eyes to lead him through the near-darkness. He wasn't concerned with the Circle's hired help or watch-dogs. They knew who he was... Or maybe they'd forgotten him? He hoped they'd forgotten him.

A hand found his shoulder, tightening hard around it before he could twist to aim. "Mister Daasiik," hissed the Niktoan voice, the rapid, gibbering language not completely lost to him, "Nice to see you've joined us again."

The Hunter waved down Sixty-Six, the droid's armaments already drawn before replying with a cautious, "Kreeken, I had so very much missed the sound of your gorgeous, gravelly voice."

The Nikto turned him around, sneering at him for a few long moments, putting on his best threatening face before laughing, hugging Malkerik tightly.

"It's so good to see you again," rambled the gibbering Nikto, grabbing him by the arm and leading him further into the vault, closer and closer towards the glowing light cast by the Circle's monitors.

They'd certainly upgraded quite a bit since the Hunter had last paid them a visit, monitors and networking cables stretched from wall to wall. Far in the back groups of Nikto darted around an expansive server room, stacks of solid-state drives in arms as they flitted around wildly, trying to keep up with the massive influx of data. In the front room, about half a dozen slicers skittered about like ants, floating from terminal to terminal as they compiled data and shipped it out.

While most of the galaxy weren't aware of them, the Circle were possibly the best criminal slicers ever to be seen. While despite not being GOOD criminals (most of them had been arrested and stored on Belsavis after an SIS databank hack) they were resourceful, reliable, and more than just a touch off in the head. Completely compiled of technophallic Nikto, Malkerik had never met a more interesting group. After all, it wasn't everyday a Bounty Hunter could show up with his own creation, want a criminal's credit account, and then walk out with both the account number, his mother's maiden name, and several improvements to a droid motivator.

"... And that's how my daughter ended up marrying a Gundark!" Kreeken laughed, clapping him on the back. The Hunter grunted, shrugging him off.

"That's great, my friend," slowly eased Malkerik, "But I'm looking to talk business with your boss."

"Bolan," he asked, shaking his head, "Offworld at our new hub. And after you tried to tap into the servers last time, it's probably best you didn't talk to him." A few of the server Nikto in the back poked their heads out at that, glaring daggers at the Hunter before disappearing back inside the room.

He grinned, "Can't blame a man for trying, hm? But I was hoping you might be able to help me out with a few favours."

"Oooo, favours," grinned Kreeken, smile widening as he wrung his hands, long claws folding over leathery knuckles, "You want to owe us more, do you? Only a matter of time before we make you our personal slave, hm?"

"Careful with that," growled the Hunter, pointing his full hand at the horned alien, "I just got out of a bad deal, not into going for another one." He reached for the satchel he had slung around his shoulders, drawing out a small, white droid hand, covered in a strange piece of what he could only describe as liquid metal.

The Nikto gaped, making grabby hands at the prize. Malkerik swatted his hand roughly, "Nuh-uh-uh!"

Grunting, the alien rubbed the back of his hand. "Fine, what is it you want?"

"Well, first things first," he pondered, "I'm looking to get my criminal record wiped." The Nikto let out a low whistle, brows furrowing as he walked over to a terminal, waving the Hunter over with a hand.

"Hard to do," he muttered, his native tongue quickening as nails raced over keys rapidly, "Cartel isn't a problem, make you vanish from the Hutts' site... Can't do Republic or Empire yet." Malkerik grunted in distaste and the Nikto flipped him a Corellian Bird. "Sith Intelligence is of little concern these days, but Sith are far worse than their retired agents; I'm not risking it. SIS knows our signal, we can't hack them without being discovered again." Grinning, the Nikto added, "Yet."

"Cartel will do," shot back Malkerik, folding his arms as he watched him worked with keen interest. Looking over his shoulder, he spotted Sixty-Six trying to dissuade several Nikto, punching one that came too close with a hydrospanner.

"Done," piqued Kreeken, making grabby hands at the droid phalanges again. Malkerik rapped his knuckles sharply with the droid, causing the alien to yelp in surprise. "What else then," he barked anxiously, rubbing the back of his hand.

"Two things and I'll let you have it," assured the Hunter, smiling underneath his visor. Tucking the part back into his satchel, he pulled off his helmet, looking out at the Nikto with his pair of blackened oculars. Gesturing to his eyes, he explained, "I'm looking for the best to fix my eyes. Any chance you know a guy?"

"What's wrong with your eyes," teased the Slicer, grinning, "Nice pair of oscillating solar oculars? Don't see the problem."

"Funny, you kriff," shot back the Hunter, pushing them down his nose so the Nikto could get a good look at his white eyes.

"Mmm, plastic melted over them?"

"Do Sith like torture porn," assured the Hunter, sliding the oculars back up, "The Cartel doctor said they'd be fused on and seized up the muscles, but I want a second opinion." The alien nodded it's head, letting out a thoughtful sound.

"That will take some time," he replied, pondering, "For an old friend, I'll do this one for free. We'll get you the best." Malkerik smiled, clapping the Slicer on the shoulder. "Thank you, my friend. I owe you my talents."

"Yes you certainly do, now what about my toy?"

Malkerik laughed, producing the reward, withholding it for a brief moment, almost comically yanking it away. "One last thing, I promise."

Kreekan stomped his feet, grumbling childishly before looking over at a sudden sound of commotion. Malkerik turned in near unison, watching as Sixty-Six clocked a Nikto that had started to unbolt his crotch plate in his... reciprocal parts. The rest scattered like crows, flitting back to their stations as the Droid attempted to put itself back together, threatening the nearby ones with permanent disassembly.

"... So," continued his companion, "The, 'Last thing,' of yours?"

"Ah, yes, right!" The Hunter offered up the hand to the greedy mitts of the Nikto, adding, "Found this floating in one of the Spacer Hubs that got hit by our ghostly friends, just drifting in the wreckage. Wondering if you could get me a manufacturer's ID that I could trace and take back to my people."

"Hah," laughed the alien slicer, pulling some cables out of the main terminal and jacking the droid part into it, "Child's play. I was identifying droids and programs while those desert Nikts were slapping rocks together!"  Fingers flew over keys, near blurring as Malkerik tried to keep up with his eyes. Confidently, Kreekan slapped a hand down on the confirm key, smugly folding his arms as the computer cross-referenced the on-board cybernetics across the holonet.

Just as quickly as the commands had been input, the computer returned back with a negative blaring sound.

The Hunter raised a brow quietly, while Kreekan, the slicers in the room, and the Nikto shuffling around in the back stopped and stared at the red screen on the terminal, more than one slightly agape.

"Where... Did you get this," asked Kreekan, looking over at the confused Hunter.

"Epsilon Holdout," he replied, brows coming together in a concerned furrow, "One of the latest Spacer Colonies that got hit. Some group likes to slam it hard and then shred it to pieces. No witnesses; no survivors." The Slicer re-input the command line, making a few slight alterations before pressing the confirm key again. Once more, the terminal blared negatively.

"What does that mean," inquired Malkerik, the Hunter trying to decipher the Niktoan script with some difficulty.

"It means that your programmer and builder aren't on any database connected to the Holonet," replied Kreekan, tone heavy, "Which means he doesn't exist."

"That's impossible," Malkerik offered, "The Circle's connected to everything in the galaxy through the Holonet."

"Indeed we are," the Nikto returned, "But evidently, the schematics, the design, anything of what you've got there, just plainly doesn't exist, friend." Kreekan looked over at him, brows furrowing almost as deeply as Malkerik's. The Hunter disconnected the droid hand, cracking it open with a knife and examining the circuitry himself.

It was foreign, he realized, all of it. Some of the patterns were there; basic fundamentals of robotics and programming. Once he pulled out the motivator and the command chip, he understood why. With the tip of the knife, he traced over the circuit pathways gently, the materials and patterns completely foreign to his extensive expertise. Never in his life had he ever seen something go around what he assumed were the basic laws of programming and development. Everything was just so... advanced! Years ahead of even his own cybernetic designs.

"What does it mean," he hissed, as the Nikto took the command chip, briefly examining the motherboard with an expert eye, the Slicers gathering around to look at this systemic anomaly.

"Either what you've brought us is completely top secret, or it's come from somewhere in the galaxy that we've never even heard of before..."

[Malkerik]

WARNING THE FOLLOWING JOURNAL/HOLOCRON CONTAINS PREPOSTEROUS AMOUNTS OF TESTOSTERONE

It also contains KOTFE spoilers. You've been warned.

"We're landing here?" The concern was evident in her voice as they began a final approach to one of the stations hangars.

"Yes we are," he replied, reaching a hand up to snap a few toggle-switches. 6T-6 was jacked into the ship in the Captain's Chair, a long metal dataspike sticking into his cranium, hardwiring his AI straight into the ship's computer. Now it was communicating with Narkit Spacer Station as Malkerik steered the ship, Armeria's arms folded. To her credit, she was very open-minded and curious; most Jedi would have thought him foolish and insane.

It hung like a derelict wreck on the edge of an asteroid field, staring out into the blackness of uncharted space like a forlorn guardian against the darkness. One of the oldest Spacer Stations out there, Narkit had become a getaway for pirates and smugglers (and the occasional unwanted criminal). From here, ships jumped out into deep space from the borderline asteroid field, sailing for the unknown regions with cargo in tow. Some returned with greater treasures. Some never returned at all. Some came back with star charts and the knowledge of what was out there.

That's what the Hunter was looking for now.

Slowly, he brought the large cruiser into a hangar bay, landing props extending as the ship touched down softly, the auto-reaction control system thrusters ensuring they touched flush with the deck of the hangar. Turning off the engine's ignition, Malkerik stood, grabbing his helmet from the dash.

"Ensure the ship is refueled," he said, walking past the pink Twi'lek as he clipped his helmet onto his belt. He let out a surprised, 'oof,' sound as she hugged him from behind. Smiling, he reached an arm around his neck, resting his hand on her shoulder.

After disentangling himself and disembarking, Malkerik cleared his permits and payments with the landing official and meandered into the main construct of the station. As he wandered down the decks of the outside rim, black markets peddled their wares to crooks and smugglers, more than one dirty deal swapping hands as pirates looked to sell off their ill-gotten gains. He gave an ongoing beatdown a wide berth as he headed towards the inner centre of the station, fists clenching as he heard knuckle dusters slide over leather-fitted hands.

Narkit Station was seedy, to say the least, as most Spacer stations were. The whole station was a hive for the underground world, the outer rings hosting business stands and the odd shipping station. The inner hold, which at one time had no doubt been a command center of some sort, now hosted a massive cantina that would've put Vaiken to shame. Admist the packed in cantina were under the table deals, threats of murder, ACTUAL MURDER, and in the far corner Malkerik swore he watched a Weequay slide under a young Twi'lek woman's table. Deciding his best bet was to take the bar, he pulled up the collar of his jacket, walking down the main isle as he pushed past several rough looking types.

"Watch where you're going," barked a Cathar after slamming into him, looking down his nose at the Bounty Hunter. Grabbing the collars of his jacket, Malkerik straightened himself out before looking down his nose at the large fuzzball, snorting.

"I'll try not to walk into Pub trash," he shot back. That earned him a good right hook, sending him sprawling over the table behind him. The Cathar grabbed him by the jacket, hauling him onto his feet to roar, "Say that to my f-AWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWK" He reeled away, holding his now bent nose as Malkerik rubbed the spot on his forhead that he broke it with. Drawing a knife from beneath his jacket, he stopped when a hand grabbed his shoulder, spinning him around and delivering a strong slap across his face.

"Would you stop beating the kriff out of my walking dick," whined a sultry Pureblood, batting her angry red lashes at him as her Imperial accent whined. He chuckled, wrapping his arms around her tightly, dropping his outer rim drawl for a proper Kaas accent as he brightly returned with, "Good to see you too, Kiera."

She laughed, hugging him tightly, much to the derision of the Cathar. The three of them looked over as a table beside them busted out into a full fist fight, vibroknives coming out of jackets as things began rapidly escalating. While he'd love to watch her Cathar brute get turned into a coat, the three wisely decided to gravitate towards a table in another quadrant, Kiera quickly pulling out some wine she'd smuggled in her too tight vest.

She and Malkerik caught up, jabbering back and forth in rapid Kaas dialect as they reminisced; Kiera had been one of his oldest friends, her father having been a posh Moff when they'd been kids. The pair had grown up nearly in the same hallway, shoe-horned into boarding schools and eventually they'd decided to take the Officer track at the Imperial Military Academy. Rather, he'd gone through on accelerated learning and his friends had struggled to keep up with his learning curve while they tackled basics of mathematics.

"Anyway," she finished, "I ended up graduating, got my Mil Arts and Sci, but I decided that it wasn't for me. Went into trade." Malkerik chuckled, raising his brows.

"Trade? Your old man must have gone ballistic."

"He put out three arrest warrants," Kiera replied, causing the Hunter to nearly snort his drink up into his nose, laughing hard. "Yeah, I bet you could picture his voice. 'Lauke vik'dyt! No daughter of mine will be some common space trash!' It's like I was putting on a pair of hooker boots and whoring myself to failed Acolytes."

The pair shared a hearty laugh as the Cathar looked between the two, confusion striking him more and more. Standing, he offered a hurried excuse before meandering to the main bar, no doubt perturbed by Malk's sudden appearance.

He smiled at her, grinning ear to ear, "So you graduated, what about Ex and Mickael?" Kiera frowned deeply, and the mood immediately shifted.

"Exavier didn't end up graduating," she murmured, eyes downcast, "He... got killed in the riots when the war came back. Mickael got into a command position with the 45th Infantry and got sniped on his first tour." Malkerik leaned back in his chair at that, letting out a slow breath. It didn't hit him hard; to him, most of his friends and family had died a long time ago. Now it was just... more permanent.

"I'm sorry," he said softly, resting his hand over hers, "I know you and Mickael were close at the Academy." She nodded softly, her hand turning to lace fingers in with his. She smiled, the edges of her eyes rough and ragged with sorrow.

"Thanks, Archie," she replied, "It's been... hard, the last few years. Once you graduated, we all thought we'd hear about you sailing on the Oberon with your old man. Then... poof! Arkavim vanishes!" He grinned softly, trying to push the churning in his gut down.

Continuing, she peered at him with narrowed eyes, "Then when your old man didn't say anything... We thought you off and left us all, Archie..."

"Yeah, things... came up."

"Talk to me," she urged, squeezing his hand gently, "We always talked so... openly when we were kids." Looking down at her hand, he wanted so very badly to say what had happened, that he'd been recruited to be a Spook, a ghostly enforcer.

He pulled his hand away, entwining his own fingers together with a sigh. "It's... complicated, Kiera." The Pureblood peered at him for several seconds, and for a moment he thought she'd pull a blade on him. Instead, the woman leaned back in her chair, folding her arms as her brows furrowed. "You've changed, Archie."

"Yeah," he offered, "I'm missing my eyes and I look about fifty pounds heavier." He grinned softly and she rolled her eyes.

"No, I mean you've... changed." She bit her lower lip for a moment, searching for the words, "You're... walled off. It's like I'm talking to a Sith now, instead of a man... What happened? You've been gone for almost twelve years Archie, what made you just up and leave?"

"If I told you, I'd have to kill you."

Her mouth formed into a hard-line, and he braced himself for one of her ripping bursts of anger; the rant that would've left the Dark Council second guessing on whether they should have kicked that poor puppy. Instead, she let out a puff of air, snorting. "Yeah, well... Piss off."

Chuckling, he refilled their glasses, crossing a leg. "I'm not the only one who's changed, Kiera."

"S'hard life being a spacer," she proffered, "Harder being a woman. Don't know who's trying to shoot you or seduce you every five minutes." They laughed over that for a few moments, before she settled her blazing red eyes on him again.

"If this isn't to catch up, then why are we meeting up, Archie?" Malkerik frowned, reaching into his jacket and pulling out the droid hand. He set it on the table in front of them, and she studied it for several long moments.

"You've got the Master's in Advanced Cybernetics. What the kriff am I looking at?"

"I don't know."

She nearly choked on her wine, coughing into her glass. Looking up at him, she looked shocked. "You don't know?"

"Nope. Neither does The Circle."

"Well th- Wait, you got an audience with THE CIRCLE? Those Nikto master-slicers?"

"Can we focus for a few cycles," asked Malkerik, pushing the hand towards her, "You've been all over uncharted space since we parted ways; have you ever seen anything like this?" The Pureblood's mouth pressed together in a hard line as she picked up the part, looking over the smooth metal plating.

"Where'd you find this?" The Hunter hesitated, for the briefest of moments, before answering with, "Kirek Station, out near Tatooine." She looked back up at him, eyes narrowing as she tried to pierce his smoothed face and percieve past his tinted glasses.

"The latest wrecked colony? What the kriff is going on, Archie?"

"I'm trying to find the bastards hitting these stations," he returned, his tone becoming hard and cool. Kiera's browridges shot up at that, never ever having heard him speak as such before. With careful eyes she looked over every nick and crack chiselled into the grey hand, thumbs tracing the slight indents in the metal.

"I've been just about everywhere, Archie," she finally said after minutes had stretched out in the relative silence of their table, "But I've never ever seen a hand like this. It's put together more like a starship than any droid I've junked." He nodded, resting his elbows on the table. "I found the same," he replied, brows drawn together.

Kiera set the hand on the table, her ridges pulled together just as tightly as his were. "What'd The Circle say?"

"Doesn't exist on the Holonet." The Spacer let out a low whistle at that, grabbing her cup and swirling it quietly. Lifting it up to her lips, she went at first to take a sip before simply deciding to knock it back, refilling her cup. Malkerik followed suite, pushing his glass towards her for his fill.

"So this thing just appears one day, and it belongs to no one in the galaxy?"

"Sounds about right, Ki."

"Arkavim."

The buzzing cut through the crowd and even the Pureblood's reply as his sub-dermal comm implant vibrated, striking the bones in his ears to directly transfer 6T-6's voice into his ear. He nodded to whatever Kiera said, reaching up to press the tip of his middle finger against his ear, putting a little pressure on the ear canal to make a better connection with the bone.

"Go," he replied, his vocal chords vibrating just loud enough so as to not tip off the Pureblood across from him, but still able to be picked up by the auditory pickup embedded into his throat. He took the glass back from Kiera, raising it to her as he lifted it up to his lips, knocking back a bit of the smooth liquor.

"Something's going on in the station," continued the droid, "I've lost the connection I had to the camera feeds. Security systems have been deactivated." The Hunter slowly leaned back in his chair, looking around the Cantina. It's patrons generally went about their business (including the overenthusiastic Weequay 'server'), and it seemed for the moment all was right with the Galaxy.

At each of the six main entrance doors, a file of droids took point, blocking the pathways out. They stood four abreast, all seriously advanced, all made out of the same, grey material. Their familiar hands reached up, over their shoulders to their rifles, magnetically holstered across their shoulder plates.

The adrenaline hit him hard and he grabbed the edge of the table, flipping it onto it's side as he grabbed his swearing friend, pulling her against him by the vest.

The droids braced the stocks of their rifles against their shoulders in perfect unison. The blasterfire came out like a well organized machine, catching the off-guard cantina patrons by surprise. Criminals and mercs dived behind what cover they could find as their unfortunate friends were mowed down in mere moments by the hail of weapons fire, levelling nearly a quarter of the cantina's patrons.

Sliding his helmet over his head, he let it pressurize as its internal visor booted up. He grabbed his rifle, taking a marksman's stance by the corner of the table. Kiera reached for her boots, pulling out a pair of small holdout blasters, prepping in much the same way. In perfect unison, the pair pivoted out from behind their cover, raining red death back upon the droids as they pressed forward towards the other patrons in the bar, providing cover as other survivors drew their weapons.

"Getting something on the sensors," called 6T-6, "Advanced War Droids are trying to break into the hangar. Fighters are scrambling outside in an attempt to lock down fleeing ships."

"Kriff," he muttered, his voice modulated by the helmet's internal systems. "Start the ship up, hold out until I can get there!" He turned his head, looking over Kiera as she blinked at him in confusion as they ducked behind a concrete planter. He rapped a knuckle against the side of his helmet, indicating a comm system. She nodded, tossing one of her blasters to a meek looking Rodian as the droids returned fire on the cantina patrons.

"They're going for our ships," roared Malkerik, his voice projecting out through a pair of speakers as the blaster fire blasted hard into the hunkering crowd of criminals. Kiera bared her fangs, hissing lightly as she braced her shoulder against their cover. She called over the chipping granite and burning plantlife, "Ideas?"

"I'll clear the way," he returned, drawing a thermal detonator off of his belt, "Grab your boyfriend and lead them all out to the docks!"

"He's not my boyfriend," she shouted back as he primed the detonator, "I just... He's got a nice prick, okay?"

"You do wear hooker boots," he retorted, following up with, "THERMAL OUT!" He leaped across a small gap towards another planter, hurling the detonator at the droids blocking the nearest door, his helmet's internal speakers dampening the explosion as he rolled up onto his knee. Turning, he dropped the barrel of his rifle along the top of the planter, looking down the sights at the totalled units. One of the poor bastards tried to crawl away, collapsing as its leaking coolant caused its motivator to seize.

"Let's go," he called, hurdling himself over his cover as Kiera followed close at his heels, guiding a wave of patrons with her. A few of the hardened crooks broke off, volleying some cover fire at the battle droids covering other entrances, trying to draw their fire away from the fleeing crowd. Malkerik ran ahead of the pack, going full tilt towards the hangars as fast as his armoured feet would carry him. Without a map of the facility on his heads up display, he was relying on his somewhat inebriated memory to guide him as he ducked down side channels, doing his best to avoid the sounds of blaster fire that echoed out of the Outer Ring.

Turning down a side hallway, his eyes briefly caught a holosign, the words, 'Hangar Deck A6 ->' jumping out at him. Nearly there, he thought as he rounded another corner, pushing into a full sprint as he heard the sound of blaster fire echoing out of his hangar.

Armeria stood, saber before her as a platoon of battle droids advanced on her. The scraps of fallen units lay at her feet, though she'd received her fair share of blaster hits, the tops of her arms covered in minor burns. The Hunter pushed himself, feeling the pins and needles of his suit's spinal injector pushing adrenals into his nervous system to compensate. Twisting his hands, he triggered a gravity-drop release, the inside of his bracers opening up to neatly deposit a pair of vibroblades in his hands.

Flicking his wrists, the collapsed weapons extended out to twelve inches, and he quickly dropped to his knees. Skidding across the hangar floor, he stretched backwards bringing the blades back to nearly kiss the floor beneath his back before lashing forward with their keen edges, biting through the legs of the first two droids as easily as a Gundark  ripped through the corpse of a Nexu. Rising to his feet in a fluid motion, he pivoted as his skid turned into a controlled stop, sweeping the legs out from another droid with a leg and burying his vibroblades in it's chest, pinning it to the floor.

The Pink Padawan grinned as the Droids turned towards the commotion, taking the opportunity to strike at the group with renewed abandon, offering brief, quiet apologies to each droid she cut down. Wrenching a blade out of the downed unit, Malkerik hurled it at an encroaching combatant, driving it into its shoulder joint and sending the droid sprawling. Filling his now empty hand with his sidearm, the Hunter targeted several other droids, striking weakened points such as joints or damaged armour with the small-calibre holdout blaster as blaster bolts whizzed around them.

A sound called his attention away, and he found the stock of a rifle driving itself into his helmet, tossing him backwards. Landing on his back, he tried to scrabble up onto his feet futilely as a Droid began to approach him, muzzle trained on him. Malkerik reached for his belt quickly, a searing pain sending him back onto his arse as a blaster bolt collided with his chest full-force, the cortosis alloyed armour absorbing most of the blow. Drawing a knife from his belt, he pointed at the droid, the ballistics embedded in the handle sending the blade flying. A dull thunk echoed out from the droid's cranium the blow sending it sprawling.

His vision was suddenly filled with pink as Armeria appeared, looking panicked as her fingers ran over the black scorch mark across his chestplate. He waved her off, dissuading her with a muttered, "M'okay," before grunting, holding his chest as he pulled her arm over his shoulder, carrying her up the gangway of his ship as the engines roared to life.

"Sixty-Six," he called, wincing as they crossed the threshold into the main gangway of the ship, the portcullis shutting behind them. He left Armeria's eyes to adjust to the low light as he headed towards the bridge, pulling off his helmet and leaving it on the main entertainment deck. Stepping onto the bridge, he found the droid jacked into the ship, its robotic fingers flying as it prepared things both with a direct connection and terminal access.

"Ready to go," it offered as he dropped into his chair, taking direct control of the ship as it lifted itself from the hangar floor. Armeria limped in behind him, resting her butt against the console as she groaned, arms aching from what must have been an impressive battle. Malkerik barked a hurried, "Update me," as the hangar doors opened, revealing a war blazing on the outside.

"Ships are departing the hangars," replied 6T-6, "Single man fighters and cruisers like Sanctuary are engaging in full battle against what seems to be automated systems. Casualties on the inside of the Station are high; they chose an apt time to attack."

"Vitiate's wrinkled bullocks," he muttered under his breath as the ship shot out of the hangar like a bullet, darting out into the chaotic fray. All around them a battle waged: Troop transports bearing more of the automated death machines either poured into hangars or collided with the surface of the station. Single one man fighters were doing runs across the brows of the hangars, firing on fleeing vessels as they tried to jump into hyperspace. All around them, parts and wreckage drifted, threatening to hit them and cause damage to the ship.

"Prep the cloak," the Hunter commanded, speaking to his limited crew with sureness, "Dial in the hyperdrive for Nar Shaddaa, we need to get out of h-" A loud beeping drew their attention astern, behind them, and directly under Armeria's butt. The steely gaze of the two professionals nearly caused her to jump, moving with haste to see what was crowing so stressfully. When her eyes found the scrolling text the alarm entailed, her voice leaped about an octave higher.

"Hyperspace signature, something HUGE is jumping in!" Malkerik and 6T-6 turned back towards the viewport, watching as the battle around them almost parted, making way for a larger presence.

Almost immediately a singular capital ship appeared out of Hyperspace. Then two more. Then six more. Then fifteen. Fourty. Hundreds. Malkerik's mouth went agape as the radar's pinging turned into a low whine, the small cruiser's systems unable to process the sheer numbers that had just appeared from the blackness of space.

After only a moment's pause, the front ranks of the armada opened fire, turbolasers striking the space station, surrounding fighters, and narrowly missing their own ship.

"Kriffing sithspit," he roared, throwing the ship into a sharp dive and spinning into an roll-off-the-top turn, sailing underneath the hangars and diving below the bottom of the space station.

"All power to rear deflectors and the engines," he ordered, "Get our cloak and the hyperdrive dialled in, Armeria!" The Padawan nodded, feet quickly carrying her across the bridge. Malkerik's hands tightened around the flight wheel as they dove beneath the skeleton of the spacer station, watching as turbolaser bolts ripped easily thought the outside hull. He took great care to avoid piercing bolts as they descended past the ship, knowing that one unlucky shot could send them out into the blackness of space.

"Fighters on our six," reported 6T-6, leaning back in it's chair as the radar pinged in confirmation. "Five single-man fighters armed with high-calibre anti-air cannons." The ship groaned as one of said cannons delivered a shot to their rear shields, energy arcing dangerously. Malkerik's hand found the throttle, slamming it as far forward as possible as his brain quickly ran through options. Looking out the starboard viewport, towards the asteroid fields, he knew that it was probably his best option.

Making a hard turn to the starboard side, the Hunter pushed his ship for all that was worth, dead-heading straight for the dangers of the asteroid field. "Drop the anti-personnel turrets," he barked, "Aim for them as best you can. Armeria, how long until the cloak is powered?"

"Another minute," she called back uncertainly, fingers dancing along the consoles as she tried to multi-task. 6T-6 remotely descended the ship's security turrets along their stern, rotating their pitiful rear guns towards the wing of attackers and firing bolts in an effort to dissuade them. Their enemies returned fire just as eagerly, bolts slamming across the shield with abandon, the first two ripping one of the aforementioned turrets from its housing.

The Hunter grit his teeth as the asteroid field loomed closer and closer, knuckles white around the steering as they dove in bow first, blaster bolts dancing across the arse-end of his ship. With everything concentrated towards the stern of the vessel, one bad asteroid could cripple them just as badly as a hit from a turbolaser. Putting every ounce of his Officer training to brass, he put the lead out on his ship, ducking and weaving through the field with the graceful movements of a drunken ballerina hoping to appease a Sith Lord.

"How much longer until the cloak?"

"It's ready!"

"Alright," he said, "On my signal, cut the engines, radar, everything except RCS and hit the cloak. On three." Looking around, Malkerik picked an especially large asteroid, making a bee-line dead for it.

"One." His knuckles tightened further, bones and ligaments groaning around the wheel.

"Two." Armeria gripped the back of 6T-6's chair, watching the hunk of rock as it approached fast. Really fast... TOO FAST.

"THREE!" Malkerik pulled back hard on the wheel, slamming his hand down on the RCS Thrusters, pulling a Cobra Turn as the engines gave him just enough of a back-burn before they went off, slowing their speed to a near stop as they came towards the asteroid. Armeria reached over and activated the cloak, the whole ship going dark as the stealth field generator came online, turning them practically invisible as the fighters roared past, barely avoiding them and their new hidey-hole.

Softly, Sanctuary touched down on the asteroid's surface roughly, grinding against the foreign rock as it came to the most gentle halt it could manage. The Twi'lek slowly walked over to the captain's chair, her hands resting on Malkerik's shoulders.

"Are they gone," she asked lowly, a conspiratorial whisper as if they could hear the inside of their ship. He shook his head, watching the radar as the five ships came around, combing through the asteroid field for their lost quarry. With each ping of the radar, he watched them looping around, separating and slowly reforming into a tell-tale crescent as they zeroed in on their hiding place. The dots didn't go in any other direction as if they were searching, they didn't meander, they came straight at them.

They knew.

"Turn it on," he roared, panic rising, "Get it online, they know we're here!" 6T-6 struggled to comply, moving as quick as he could as Armeria gave him an incredulous look, shooting back, "I thought you said the hull was radar-proof?!"

His answer was drowned out as the asteroid exploded beneath them, heavy rock striking their shield as the stealth field dissipated, smaller chunks striking the bared metal of the hull. The engines roared back to life as the Hunter struggled to regain control of the ship, RCS thrusters along the bottom of the hull damaged by their rough landing. Blaster bolts raked their exposed underbelly as Sanctuary swung around, engines roaring as the chase began again.

"Shields at Fifty Percent," crowed 6T-6, interrupted as an asteroid scraped along the top of the ship, smashing hard into the outside panelling. "Twenty," the Droid corrected, before Armeria darted over to her console, interjecting with a hurried, "We're ready, but we need to get clear of the fields!"

"I know," barked Malkerik, pushing the ship for all it was worth. Weapons fire raked across the hull in near misses, the rear dampeners only taking so much before stray fire tore through the outer edges of the dwindling shield. Several structural warnings crowed out from the console at him, warning of the increasing damage to ship systems. Another light began to blink, and 6T-6 answered the query for him.

"Radiation warning," it clarified, "A reactor has recently detonated." Armeria looked over at Malkerik, eyes locking in collective worry as the radar crowed out an alarm. Looking down, 6T-6 didn't clarify for a few moments.

"The Station has been destroyed by the enemy armada." A red light came on in the bridge, alarm blaring. "And the shield has reached critical levels. Further hits will directly impact our engines."

"Throw everything into the engines, divert power from life support if you need to," roared Malkerik, desperately trying to make it the last few kilometers out of the asteroid field, the crowing of alarms filling his ears and drowning out common rational thought as panic threatened to swallow him. He wanted to look over at Armeria, he wanted to tell her it would be alright, he wanted to tell her that they'd make it out of this. He stopped breathing as the asteroids seem to close in tighter around the ship.

And then they were clear, two smaller pieces of the earthly debris grinding across the stern of the ship, draining the last of the shields.

"Now," he roared, "Punch it!" Without further hesitation, Armeria nearly threw herself onto the hyperdrive console, smashing her fist against the ignition.

A blaster bolt hit their main artillery, another scored a blow across their wings.

The whine of the hyperdrive was the last thing Malk heard as he slammed his eyes shut,Sanctuary leaping into hyperspace and into safety.

[Malkerik]

Malkerik shouldered the door, sticking an elbow out to hold it for his companion as a blur of pink slipped past, somehow leaping between the small gap of the door-jamb, his body, and the teeny elbow-sized gap of the door. Looking around, the small, 'office,' was empty, but it was clear it was setup for for high-range clientelle; beautiful wooden trim adorned the walls, glorious holo-pictures waved out from walls, and the most incredible flora decorated expensive vases sitting on expensive tables, dotting an expensive carpet. He adjusted his glasses, looking over at the young Twi'lek as she gaped at the... expensiveness.

"Should I take off my boots," she asked, hands moving to smooth out her robes. He shook his head, muttering a, "It's their job to clean up what we leave," under his breath. He deflected her incredulous look with a turn of his head, quietly tromping towards the secretary's booth, the carpet muffling his footfalls better than any technique he had.

"The Doctors aren't seeing anyone today, honey," replied a Twi'lek in rapid Hutteese, her eyes glossing over a magazine quietly, "Go home and make an appointment." He rested his hands against the counter-top, leaning forward slightly as he spoke, yammering back in an expert's dialect.

"I think they'll make an exception for me." She looked back up, narrowing her eyes and scowling before blinking rapidly. "Uh-uh, you're that Bounty G-guy, yeah? From the n-news?" He smiled, nodding, slowly slipping down his oculars so she could stare into his white eyes, hoping to socially unbalance her.

"I am indeed, though I'm here for something else. Krayt Industries business; Mistress Karmic has made an appointment for me." The Twi'lek blanched a little further, shaking hands reaching out to grab a file. He smiled warmly, scooting the lenses up his face as Armeria lifted a brow at him, arms folded in front of her chest as the Twi'lek scrambled behind the counter. He shrugged in response and she drew her brow together, letting out what might have possibly been an adorable look of disapproval. He returned with a silent, apologetic grin as he folded his arms across his chest. She bumped him with a hip, turning and grabbing a print magazine, seating herself amongst a posh seat, eyes going wide as she sunk deep into the fluffed upholstery.

***

He listened, pushed back into his chair as the other Darth's babbled on about their departments. Predatus, truly, was half paying attention, the thoughts of several ongoing cases filling his head. There was the smuggling rings ongoing within Yavin 4, the pockets of Revanites hiding out amongst Kaas City, and of course he couldn't forget about the recent gang resurgence o-

"Predatus," warned the Overseer, Darth Mortis' Right Hand amongst the Enforcement Divisions, "I would ask that you focus on the logistical report from Darth Avarus." Predatus waved off the notion dissmisively, nodding in agreement as he somewhat decided to pay attention. True, the Overseer had a name and was in a higher position of authority than Predatus was, but the older Darth had neither the time, the patience, or the respect to memorize or CARE about some upstart's name. Just another cog in the bureaucracy that prevented him from excising the criminal element as they should.

His associate finished her dull and uninteresting report about blaster rifle repairs and uniform requirements, the Overseer's holo-projection waving a hand to cut it off. The four assembled Darths were holding their bi-monthly holoconference, pushing statistics, numbers, and generally enacting Mortis' will for the Sphere of Laws and Justice. While Predatus only handled the tactics,  several law enforcement battalions, and general 'enforcing' of the enforcement division, he'd been a Darth for longer than most of his compatriots had been Sith and he knew enough to eclipse their feeble workload. In his eyes, he was the rightful successor and should have been Mortis' hand.

Or perhaps more than that.

"I think that will do," decreed their Overseer, nodding as Darth Avarus inclined her head, stepping back and sitting in her seat. Darth Octarus stroked his chin, the Pureblood, nodding as the Twi'lek inclined her head respectfully to the Overseer. Patiently, they waited for further words as their better recorded information on a datapad.

Trained lapdogs, he thought clenching a fist in his lap, Where is your FIRE? Your PASSION!?

"We'll move into the private debriefings now," he commanded, his tone causing Predatus' inner fire to roil. "We'll start with Enforcement Tactical Operations. Avarus, Octarus, I'll talk with you in a moment." With a brief incline of their heads, they vanished from the holoterminal, leaving the two Darths staring at eachother.

"Well," snarked the Overseer condescendingly, "I'm waiting, Predatus."

Squashing his anger, the Darth began his own private briefing.

***

It didn't take long for the doctor to admit them, and he treated Malkerik with the utmost repsect, catching him off guard with many, "Sirs." Armeria blushed and waved it off when the doctor began calling her, "Ma'am," bowing deeply to her when she stepped into the office. As the Hunter slid himself into the patient's seat, the somewhat aged Optometrist smiled good naturedly, squashing down into a stool.

"Now then, Mister... Daasiik? What's the problem?"

With a sigh, Malkerik reached up, taking off his oculars. The room became white as light flooded his eyes, painfully blinding him. The only indication he could get was the Doctor's low whistle as things moved around him. Fingers gently pushed against his cheek, guiding his face into what felt like a pair of straps, one at his chin, the other at his forehead. He heard the tentative footfalls of Armeria's boots against the carpet as she hovered at the Doctor's shoulder. Something cool and mechanical slipped around his nose, a faint shadow cast over his eyes.

"My word," muttered the Doc lowly, "Lot of damage here." Malkerik tried to nod in response and found it difficult to do so, instead opting to say, "Yes, had some plastic melted over my eyes."

"By what," he retorted,"A plasma torch?" He laughed, but quickly stopped when his clientèle remained silent. The low hum of a holoprojector whirred just before his eyes. There was a, 'hmmm,' and a, 'haaah,' and several other concerning sounds.

"How old is the damage," inquired the Doc.

"About two years," returned the Hunter.

"Mmm, your corneas are burned rather badly. Irises are frozen open, and your lenses are badly damaged." The doctor let out a low sound, the creaking of his stool indicating a thoughtful lean back. "How bad was the burn, did a medical droid say?"

"First degree."

"I can tell the area around your eyes has scarred rather well, honestly. You're very lucky overall, the damage could have been absolutely catastrophic."

"Well," asked Armeria, her voice slightly raised with concern, "What does that mean?" The doctor's chair squeaked, rotating to look at her. "A few things: There's enough there to salvage the eyes with some surgery and short-term medication. We could also look at doing full on-implants; completely remove the eyes in favour of either cybernetics or synthetics. Or we could look at a donor list for new eyes, but that will take a long time to find a compatible match."

"Unacceptable," cut in Malkerik, his voice carrying with some latent Imperial authority, "We're going to need a quicker solution."

The Doctor continued, "Well, the quickest one is salvaging, we could do that in probably an afternoon. Some ocular steroids over the course of a month to strengthen your eyes again..."

"Done," he shot out, pushing the holoptoscope aside and slipping on his oculars. The Doctor looked at him incredulously, and Armeria blinked like a deer in the headlights.

"Uuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuulright, sir!" The doctor smiled, quickly erasing any look of concern, "When is your schedule open f-"

"Today."

"What?" Their collective voices, one a female tenor and the other a male near-soprano, filled the room.

"Today," he reaffirmed, "Time is of the essence with how other things are progressing doctor. Darth Draga'zathoth wants them today." The Optometrist blanched slightly, nodding quickly at the use of an official title. "Well, it'll take me an hour or two to bring in surgeons, b-"

"They will come, won't they doctor?" It wasn't a question Malkerik asked, it was a directive. The Doctor nodded, quickly ducking into the hallway with a hurried explanation, muttering about sedatives as the door shut behind him. Malkerik smiled, turning to look at a worried (and scowling) Armeria, arms folded under her bust as she gave him the best healer's look she could.

"What?" he asked for, grinning, "It -is- in my schedule."

***

"... And we've clamped down on illegal spice shipping in the local systems," completed Predatus, crossing his legs in his chair, "That's the full report." The Overseer nodded, tapping down a few things across his datapad. The moment of silence stretched out for several seconds, and Predatus found himself growing more and more impatient. These meetings were a waste of his time; there was crime to crush underfoot.

"You've opted not to mention your Section Six investigation," noted the Overseer, looking over his pad at Predatus, eyes lighting up. The Darth scowled, metallic plates drawing together across his face. "You were not supposed to know about t-"

"I am Mortis' Right Hand," was the scoffed reply, "I know everything, Predatus." The Darth slammed a fist down on the table, but was cut off with a sharp wave of a hand. "You will sit and be silent." Predatus bared his teeth, metal flats grinding down into metal blades.

"Report on it."

"It's... inconclusive," Predatus admitted lowly, "Intelligence records are incomplete and with Lord Garugas in the hands of the Republic I can't follow many leads. We have a primary one, however, one I'm intent on pursuing."

"And this frivilous lead?"

"The Bounty Hunter that killed our informant in the Nar Shaddaa Southern Bounty Bureau."

The Overseer's nose crinkled, "A Bounty Hunter is your only lead?"

"Yes," growled Predatus, his anger flaring underneath his skin, "We heavily believe him to be the missing Cipher Agent. Under an inquisition, we c-"

"Your excuses are not giving us results, Predatus," sneered the Overseer, "You've a lead but have yet to follow up on it. A criminal, a TERRORIST, but have yet to apprehend them. You're losing your edge."

"I MOST CERTAINLY AM NOT," he roared in response, leaping to his feet, "But I CANNOT work with your beurocracy  clogging down the entire enforcement aspect of the Sphere! Jumping through kriffing hoops, just to requisition a wa-

"IS NECESSARY," completed the Overseer, rising out of his chair to meet the raging Darth, "And is a primal part of how we want things done."

"How YOU want things done!" he retorted, fists slamming down into the desk.

"And my word is law, Predatus," the Overseer returned, "And you are not conforming. Which is why you are being reassigned."

***

"Are you sure about this?" He smiled at her, nodding, squeezing her hand reassuringly.

"Yes, I'm sure," he replied, already tilted back into an operating chair, "We've little time the way things are developing and I may not get another chance." She nodded, brows drawn together as the Doctor slipped back into the room, the ocular surgeon stepping in behind him to prepare several of the instruments needed. The Twi'lek gave them both scrupulous looks as she eyed the Hunter carefully, eyes narrowed.

"Just stick em' if they do something while I'm out, yeah?" She gave him a small smile, nodding. The Surgeon stepped over to them, and Malkerik tuned him out. It hadn't been the first time he'd had, 'sudden, life changing surgery.' He signed off on the waivers and papers rapidly, waving off the cautionary notices.

"Very well then, Mister Daasiik," he said, "We'll need to put you under for this procedure. Shouldn't take more than a few hours."

"Dope me up then, doc," came the reply, "But I'll need a double dose. Rather resistant." The Surgeon gave him a half smile as a mask went over his face. He didn't pay attention to the countdown or the words that came after. He only closed his eyes.

***

"Reassigned?" He stared at the holoprojection, teeth bared in defiance, "What do you mean assigned?!"

"Your position, like you, is old, worn out, and obsolete. The Sphere of Laws and Justice has no more need for a Head of Enforcement. The Moffs can take care of it on their own accord, frankly."

"But, I've been with the Sphere for THIRTY YEARS of loyal, deliberate servi-"

"And lately you've been slipping, Predatus," came the sharp reply, "Arrests are down, executions are down, but costs are up."

"The war criminals you're wanting to hol-"

"Raids have been cut, gang activity is on the rise and we're getting word of potential rebellions cropping up amongst the populace."

"Because the Empor-"

"And now this Section Six DEBACLE," exclaimed the Overseer, "How it wasn't caught under your watch is beyond me, Darth Predatus. And now it's been near a month and no arrests have been made?"

"Because I need to clear every move through your damned BUREAUCRACY," he roared defiantly, slamming a fist down on the table, "EVERY KRIFFING BREATH I TAKE NEEDS TO BE RUN PAST YOUR DAMNED APPRENTICE, AND IT BOGS DOWN MY DIVISION'S WORK!"

"Your resistance to how myself and Darth Mortis wishes enforcement to work hinders your work, Predatus," came the clipped response, "And now your career will pay for it. Because you have served faithfully for so long, Darth Mortis is seeing you transferred on a temporary subconment to the Sphere of Military Offence, with chance for permanent placement after one year. Your staff will not follow you."

"So that's it then," he spat, metal face twisted in hate, "You rip the rug out from under me, throw me off my own damn investigations, and leave me without a political power base? I was killing traitors before you were born!"

"Yes you were, Predatus, and look where that got you. A dead end position, now being eliminated. And now, you are nothing. You will be nothing. You are old, and you will die on the frontlines so we do not have to waste dirt burying your corpse. Clear out your desk, Darth. Your new master, Darth Oblivicus will meet you at the start of next week."

With that, the feed terminated.

Predatus screamed his fury, slamming another fist down into the hard metal of his desk, leaving a permanent imprint in the durasteel.

***

"Wake up..."

He slowly opened his eyes. Everything was still so blurry...

"Mal?"

She sounded pretty...

"Why are his eyes like that?"

"It's his natural eye colour."

"Did y-"

"For the dozenth time, yes I did insert the lenses correctly."

Why was pretty lady arguing with lens-man?

Slowly, the grogginess began to lift, and he found himself looking into a mirror. Two perfect golden eyes stared back at him, the irises flared like a raging star.

"My eyes..."

"Yes they are, Mister Daasiik," rumbled the surgeon, turning to the pink pretty lady and discussing medicine with her.

"My eyes..." His fingers reached under them, poking gently at the skin just underneath them.

"My eyes." He smiled.

***

My life...

Everything had been undone by an upstart Sith-brat. His office was absolutely destroyed. He'd done it, he remembered dimly, lost in a moment of uncontrollable rage.

He'd serve his new master, but he'd always remember his enemy... He'd always remember the tool the Overseer used.

The traitor. The Cipher. Daasiik.

He would hunt him. He would chase him. He would die. And when there was no leg to stand on, he'd return and gut the Oveerseer. There was no better hunter.

There was no greater apex predator.

There was no other Predatus.