A long time ago in a galaxy far, far away....



<CENTER>[font=Microsoft Sans Serif]Star Wars



[/font][font=Microsoft Sans Serif]Generations


[/font][font=Microsoft Sans Serif]Young Bloods


[/font][font=Microsoft Sans Serif]The sun sets upon the REPUBLIC as Supreme Chancellor Palpatine puts his clone army into place. Unaware, the Jedi fight valiantly to the very last.

[/font][font=Microsoft Sans Serif]Lieutenant Commander AZRAEL ZELL is making a name for himself in THE GRAND ARMY OF THE REPUBLIC as he leads his contingent of clone troopers through several successful campaigns.

[/font][font=Microsoft Sans Serif]One bounty hunter from the planet Anzat joins the hunt, not for the money or reputation but for the pure thrill of the hunt... and the kill. BEFF PIKE comes from the darkest corners of the galaxy a Mandalorian, by honor if not blood, to pursue the most dangerous prey of all: The JEDI.


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[/font]Felucia, the Outer Rim[font=Microsoft Sans Serif]

[/font]"What exactly is our objective here, Lieutenant Commander?" The middle-aged and seemingly wise Jedi Master inquired of the young up-and-comer Azrael Zell.


"Well, General.." Zell said, pausing momentarily. "Our orders are pretty fucking vague if you ask me.

"The Commerce Guild is about to burst at the seams, we're fuckin' 'em from every angle. They can't take this kind of abuse for much longer. Basically, we're here to provide support. If we get the order, we'll move in. If not.. we wait. Until then, we march. Good thing they taught you patience back in Jedi school eh Cappa?"

The human Jedi Master Drang Cappa giggled, despite the harsh use of the Basic language.

The Republic had been at war long enough for Drang Cappa to adapt to the common soldier. It was a far cry from the sanctuary that was the Jedi Temple, but Drang Cappa had found his time with Azrael Zell and his contingent of clone troopers to be enjoyable.

Bongo, Zell's second-in-command marched side by side with the two men. He glanced over at Zell smiling. Of course he was wearing a helmet, so his facial expressions couldn't be seen, but Zell knew he was smiling.

"Oh you think it's funny do you Bongo?"

The clone commander said nothing, as they continued to march.

"This fucking guy grew up in a vat of clone juice, and he's got the balls to laugh at a Jedi Master?"

Bongo couldn't hold back his laughter at that point. Zell shook his head feigning anger.

"Bongo huh? How did he come about such a colorful name?" The Jedi asked.

"Who knows with these fucking clones. Honestly... who can keep track? I mean... it's not bad enough that they all dress the same, they all look the same, and they all sound the same. But now I've gotta distinguish between them with ridiculous fucking nicknames like Bongo, or Ajax, or Thumper? Are you fucking kidding me?"

Zell paused trying to hold back a smile.

One of the clone troopers who marched through the jungle a few meters ahead of the trio paused, turning to meet the gaze of Azrael Zell.

"And what exactly is wrong with the name Thumper?" He asked as he slowed his pace to fall in line with the trio.

"Is that a legitimate question?" Bongo asked.

Thumper turned his attention to Bongo. "Are you fucking kidding me? Of all the people to take a shot at my name... Bongo? Seriously, we'll pretend you never said that, Commander."

"Easy there Thumper, let's not forget who wears the blue stripes." Bongo said, referring to his seniority in the chain of command.

"That's right." Zell said, turning to speak to Drang Cappa. "That means Bongo spent more time in the oven, slow cookin' equals higher quality clones."

The Jedi Master giggled. "Well, I tend to prefer my clones extra crispy."

"Right!" The Lieutenant Commander said laughing, it wasn't often that the Jedi made an attempt at humor and Zell always appreciated it when he did.

One of the clones from the front lines fell back, meeting up with Zell and the other three men who walked slowly exchanging chit-chat.

"Commander." The clone said, addressing Bongo.

"Yes, Radio?" An unwelcome nickname, which Zell had inadvertantly assigned the communications officer in the unit.

Radio sighed. "Don't call me Radio, Bongo." He shot Zell a look from under his visor, no doubt thanking him for the designation Radio.

"OK Radio, what's your report?" Bongo continued.

"Mother fu-" Radio paused, catching himself before forcing a smile that would go unseen from under his ivory helmet. "We've received word from central, we're to setup camp here and await further orders."

The unit of clones paused in harmony, as they turned to face Zell and the Jedi who were assembled a few meters behind them.

"Brilliant!" Zell exclaimed, "We'll all get medals for our part in securing this backwater trail, on this God-forsaken jungle of a shit hole."

The clones laughed in unison as they tossed their packs to the mud. Just as quickly as they relieved themselves of their equipment, they tossed their helmets aside.

Drang Cappa clothed in the common Jedi Robes of the time took a few steps forward, seemingly absorbing the atmosphere of Felucia. Zell hated the place, but he could tell the Jedi Master felt a certain connection with the lush jungle, teeming with life. Jedi nonsense, which Zell had no time for.

And then it happened, without warning or build up. Without foreshadowing or any hint of its arrival, the moment which would change Azrael Zell forever.

Beep. Beep. Beep.

The sound of the incoming transmission interrupted the short bout of silence.

Bongo, the Clone Commander looked down to the holo disk which he retrieved from his utility belt. The small holographic image of Supreme Chancellor Palpatine emerged.

"The time has come. Execute Order 66." The muddled voice of Palpatine said through the holographic image.

Bongo nodded in agreement as he began to raise his rifle on the unsuspecting Jedi. Zell placed his hand over the man's rifle motioning for him to stop.

"No." Zell said as he shook his head. The Clone Commander paused, ready to accept whatever order the Lieutenant Commander gave.

Without hesitation, Zell raised the barrel of his blaster pistol and levelled it at the back of the Jedi's head.

"General." Zell says nonchalantly. The Jedi turned, somehow sensing that his fate had already been sealed.

"It was a pleasure to serve with you.." The young man said as he pulled the trigger, a crimson bolt erupting from the barrel of the firearm seemingly in slow motion. But the Jedi was unable, perhaps unwilling to tempt his face.

The bolt ripped throug the man's skull like a starship through a skyscraper.

His knees slumped into the soft mud, his forehead smoking from the close-range blaster wound. His eyes shut slowly as he fell face-first into the mud.

Order 66 had been issued, and it had been executed. The Galaxy, would never be the same.

StarForge Station, StarForge Nebula



That’s how these things always start, for me. With a lie, with an omission, with the deliberate intention to deceive. Such was the nature of the business. These things never change.

The place; StarForge Station.

Shadow-ports like these are a boon. A beacon of hope – for the hopeless. Smugglers and runners, pirates and mercenaries flocked like moths to flame to locales of such description. The crème de la crème. This place, it sticks to your clothes and chafes the flesh. And I love it.

I would not change it for the world, or any number there of.

Across from me, squat and squalid in his grime soaked garb, sits the liar. The luckless liar was lying to me.

The nebbish imp measured less then a meter in height but for his diminutive stature he was possessed of immense lateral proportions. Rotund could not, in a single word, encapsulate the girth of it. An imp in true fashion its skin was a sallow pallor, a plate-round face beset by bellicose, greedy eyes that cast a sickly green illumination beneath the dome of its transparent helmet. Swirling mists were contained in that half-orb, vital to his continued existence.

“That’s all I know,” repeated the liar, the victim of my mirth, his tone wavering still. “Dangerous place, the galaxy...”

I, a creature of poetic justice, cannot resist. I say, “More dangerous right here, you ask me.”

My point is not lost. The liar blinks.

This is his turf, or so he proclaims. A long time patron of the StarForge he and his people represent a potent, if small, cabal of information merchants. They have endeared themselves to the local syndicates and so think themselves beyond reproach.

How foolish the folly of mortals.

Six kilometers from end to end, StarForge sat vigil atop a captured asteroid deep within the star-rich nebula of the same name. It was part of the rock and the rock part of it, a symbiotic mesh of steel and stone woven together by mad engineers and rogue architects over the course of millennia. A thriving entity was the StarForge, particularly inclined to increased times of galactic tension when creatures, like myself, squeezed out of the cracks, find themselves needed, their skills vital to the sociological condition. Home to business ventures of a myriad sort, its gambling, drinking and womanizing were typically confined to one area. The Red Light District had started as a brothel, a whore-house catering to the space faring males of the galaxy hard-up to get off after a long sojourn through the void. How ironic. Over time, however, it had changed. New establishments were added, new venues.

I had previously arranged to rendezvous with the liar at the auspiciously named V-Lounge which was where we now sat. He, across from me and with his back to the crowds. Me, tucked in to the corner my attention focused outwards.

“Tell me,” I demanded, “the rest.”

He pauses, freezes. I can tell he is thinking it over, running through the possible implications of going further, letting it ruminate. A fatal mistake, it confirms what I suspect. There is more here, and I will have it all.

Over the din and the moan of the crowd a meaningful ‘click’ ushers forth from beneath the table. I smile. Lines have been drawn.

“Tell me,” I reiterate, “the rest.”

The imp squeals. He reminds me of swine, of those sweaty beasts mucking about in their own mess and all the more jubilant for it.

“The Jedi are scared, scattered.” The liar speaks truth, “No one knows how many are left but it’s few. They are rare and hiding. Most were killed early, some escaped or were off in the stars when it happened.”

None of this was unknown to me, of course. It was common knowledge that the order had come down, Order 66, and with it the Jedi had been turned from protectors of the Republic to enemies of the Empire. Still, it was a good run. A thousand years of solidarity are no small accomplishment for the shorter lived species of the stars. All the same, I have to allow them their melodramatics. To them this is an event of significant scale, of immense proportion but to me, to my kind, it is but the changing of seasons…

The liar, the imp, waves his hands as he continues.

He tells me the story through and through, best as he knows it. The whole story eludes him, as it will elude many for decades to come but for me it is enough for in his speech, seemingly a random retelling of recent events, he leaves for me the clues I seek for this is his trade and the dispensation of such valued information cannot be told plain faced, or so they feel. In my many long years practicing the Trade, I have known many of his ilk – acquired the skills required to interact with them.

“The Jedi who lived, who escaped,” he goes on, “have gone in to seclusion, hiding.” A story is told, a story to which I pay particular attention, in which he reveals a Jedi who turned against the edict, striking down those who would carry out the Empires order. For two weeks this brave Jedi had wrought havoc among the people before being forced out by the overwhelming might of Order 66 and then, like the rest, he too had vanished. “Jedi are people too,” he says with a laugh. “They are subjects of their emotions, like it or not. Where do we turn when we are helpless, hopeless?”

The answer was obvious.

“Home.”

So that was the key.

I smirked at the imp. “You will be paid, and thanked accordingly.”

Unlucky for him, unlucky for me the imp knew my identity. As I left the Lounge, a haunt I had frequented in the past… all in the name of business of course, the imp was already communicating the content of our meeting to his peers.

Beff Pike was on the hunt, they were saying. And he’s hunting Jedi.

Year One of the Clone Wars, The Academy

Azrael Zell had been a student at 'The Academy' for what seemed like forever. The repetitive drills wore thin sometime during his first month there, now it had been years. As a student, Azrael Zell had excelled in nearly every area. With an unabashed confidence, Az Zell - now known simply as "Zell", was one of the top students at The Academy.

The instructors envied him, the students looked up to him. To Zell it didn't matter, his goals were not the same as theirs. While they dreamed of serving the Republic as officers, Zell dreamed of shaping the very foundation of the Republic. And he knew he could do it. He knew he had what it took to rise through the ranks of the Republic and repair the flaws in the fragile system.

"Nice job on the Sim today, Zell." One of the students clothed in the same garb as Azrael Zell said.

From across the table Zell shot the young man a blank stare with eyebrow raised. It was lunch time at The Academy and the students were assembled in the dining hall. "The 'Sim'? Nobody gives a fuck about the Sim, Reginald." Said Zell, emphasizing the syllables of the student's last name.

"Ha! I bet you'd care if you were able to beat my time eh' Zell?" The boisterous student who sat across from Zell said.

Zell paused a moment, smiling. He looked up to meet the eyes of Simmons, the student who made the outrageous claim.

"I'm glad you're good at playing video games, Simmons. Because out there, knee deep in the shit, blaster bolts whizzing by your ears... I'm sure that knowing how to perform the same menial task, over and over again, which you had been rehearsing since the age of 16, will help a lot. The Supreme Chancellor himself sends his most sincere thanks for your ability to handle the 'The Battle of Muunilinst' in record time."

"You're such an ass hole Zell!" One of the other students said, laughing.

"Shit, you're just mad because I'm gonna end up running the 501st while you're stuck scrubbing Dewbacks on Tatooine." Simmons replied, as over-confident as ever.

"The 501st huh, Simmons?"

"Ya that's right, Zell. If you're lucky, I might even let you be my number two."

Again, Zell smiled. "Simmons, you couldn't defeat an army of eight year old girls, if you had the help of the 501st and Mace-fucking-Windu. The only thing you're gonna be leading is the midnight crew here at the Dining Hall. And God help me Simmons, if you ever get my order wrong..." Zell said, trailing off.

The table burst into laughter simultaneously. Simmons shook his head as he sat there, silenced.

"You guys hear about the early graduation program they've got going?" One of the other students at the table said once the laughter had calmed.

Zell raised an eyebrow, clearly interested.

"What are you talking about?" He asked.

"I guess they're getting more than they bargained for with the Separatists, so they're gonna be letting a handful of students graduate early. Looks like they need us out there in the shit."

The idea intrigued Zell, he was sick of The Academy, he'd learned all he needed to learn here and now it was time to move on. It were as if Zell were made to exist in this time and space. Most people only wanted to know peace, and somewhere deep in Zell's soul, someone like that might exist. But Zell was a soldier, and a leader, and now during the Clone Wars, was his time to prove it.

Laid up.

The rain, driving. Saturating everything. Inundated, the weather refused to ebb.

Under my arm is tucked a long-bore sniper rifle its stocked shoved uncomfortably in to the pit of my arm. The rain breaks around me, I know how to survive the elements – in my high hide, beneath a camouflaged tarpaulin, I could lurk here for days… Waiting.

The hours lapse, my eyes ever vigilant. Never does my gaze wander from the small, rustic cabin tucked innocently amongst the trees, built in a small clearing upon a bluff overlooking a lake, a small body of water its surface broken by the downpour. I’ve been here since dusk, now the day threatens to break and still no sign, neither hide nor hair.

My prey will arrive, I know this.

Uncanny are my skills and superhuman my senses. I have come close, on the transport bound for the planet I brushed against him, smelled his fear, tasted his luck… his soup smells strong. Marked, I can smell him half a planet away and he is coming, scared.

Fleet of foot, he broke from the transport even before landing. Obviously he had no desire to qualify himself with the local authorities, obviously he is trying to maintain a low profile. But I saw him, saw him tuck himself away in the lower cargo decks and watched, watched through the internal sensors, as he kicked open a hatch and, still hundreds of feet from the planet below, dove in to the dark abyss, dove in to the night.

I remember laughing. The prey had been spooked, knew he was being hunted. This, I knew, always made the game more lively and the rewards doubly sweet. Anticipating his goal, however; I had no need to go to such extremes. Even my rifle, checked as a big game hunter ironically enough, is legal, authorized thanks to my contacts, my patience. During the height of the Republic my weapon would be considered contraband. How amusing then that now, under the newly risen Empire, the weapon of the Jedi, the lightsaber, should achieve status once reserved for only the most nasty weaponry.

On the planet, legal and welcome, I had picked up the trail. Nearly cold, it revealed few clues but those were enough for me to paint a picture of my victim, his state of mind. Hunted, he knows that he has been deemed an enemy of the establishment but, luckily, is not aware of my presence in particular – only that general sensation of fear that comes with being marked, galactic marked. Home, he feels, is where he will be safe. The only place of safe harbor, his long forgotten familial home.

The cabin, the safe house, spread itself before me. I yawned, not of exhaustion but boredom. I hope he will arrive soon, I wish it and my wish is granted when, near the breaking of dawn, I hear the distant hum of a hover-sled making its way up the winding dirt track that served as a road. Still kilometers distant, I can feel the Jedi coming with the growing rumble, coming closer, drawing near. He has no idea I’m here…

… waiting.

Then it happens.

It breaks from the trees to my left, it breaks through the forest. Seeming redolent upon his conveyance, the Jedi appears seated atop the vehicle struggling with its archaic controls. He winds the vehicle up to the house, kills the engine, and slowly descends from his seat. Weary, he scans the trees, turns his eyes towards the lake. He is soaked, his grey robes and woolen pants absorbing the precipitation alighting upon him, weighing him down.

I feel it like a wave. It pours off of him, I can smell it.

Satisfaction.

He’s home.

For a moment, just a shadow of a second, I allow him his reward before collecting my own. My flinger slides up the side of my weapon to a switch placed there. I depress the button.

The noise is furious. In a flash the cabin, his family home, is reduced to so much splinters and debris by the explosive charges I’d placed within. It explodes, a brilliant plume of orange and crimson. Up and out it climbs. The night sky lights up from below illuminated by the destructive force.

Planned, plotted, I shut my eyes against the blinding light opening them only after the roar has subsided.

There, prone upon the muddy grass, lay the Jedi. Dazed and confused, his senses did not allow him to detect my trap… too occupied were his thoughts, too clouded his emotions.

Home, I know, has a way of doing that.

He doesn’t move, but he is not dead I know for I can still feel his luck, smell his soup. I align my rifle, the barrel directed at his spine, and fire. A dart breaks from the gun, moves through the air with unnatural speed and embeds itself in his back.

I grin. The poison seeps in to him, paralyzes him in the most through fashion – the poison designed specifically for use against wielders of the Force.

Done, I climb down from my hide, move towards the trees that conceal my speeder.

Soon the Jedi will be helpless, disconnected from the Force and bound to my will. His life is over, I know, but his nightmare, the nightmare that will be his demise is only just beginning.

Looming over him, I smile.

“Your soup,” I say, “will be mine.”

Azrael Zell stood there sharply, saluting his superior - if only by rank.

"Please, be seated." The officer said.

With a nod, Zell had a seat opposite the Headmaster of the Academy.

The older man sat silently for a moment, staring at Zell - sizing him up. Years spent behind the desk here at the Academy had caused Kelvin Cooke to develop a healthy paunch. Age had begun its cruel assault on the older man's appearance, his hair line was retreating. His grey hair was combed over on top to cover the inevitable balding.

This was the man who would decide Zell's future. Sure it was Zell's prowess and savvy that had gotten him this far, and would inevitably help him reach his goals - but this man had the ability to put Zell into combat here and now.

To say Zell was nervous would be incorrect, Azrael Zell was determined.

Cooke broke the stare as he glanced down at a few sheets of flimsi scattered about on his desk.

"Your record is impeccable."

"Thank you, sir." Zell replied concisely.

"Do you believe you're ready to enter the field?"

Excitement nearly overwhelmed him, but Zell allowed himself to calm before replying.

"Yes sir, I believe I've learned all there is to learn here at the Academy, and I believe my skills would be best served out in the shit."

The Headmaster gave the student a harsh gaze. "So, you believe that you have nothing to learn from me."

"Well that's not what I-" Zell began to say but was cut off prematurely.

"You? A young punk who thinks he's tough shit because he's good at running simulations?"

Zell's blood curdled as he whinced at the statement. Zell loathed the sims that they were forced to run day-in and day-out.

Zell sighed. The one thing that stood in his path was not a legion of Separatist Battle Droids, but an old, out-of-shape man, who probably didn't know his blaster from a hole in the ground.

"No... that's not what I meant."

The older man's face was bright red, his anger clearly apparent.

"I know what you meant hot shot!! Do you think I got where I am today by letting upstart pricks like you tell me what's what?"

Zell's head reactively moved back a few centimeters in shock, he somehow managed to crawl deep beneath the Headmaster's skin.


One Year Later, Aargonar, Year Two of the Clone Wars

The Battle of Aargonar was a difficult one for the Republic, with clones and Jedi alike losing their lives in combat. The order had been given to retreat, the scattered Republic forces were doing all they could to escape the harsh battle zone, but Zell's gunship had been shot down after they landed.

So Zell, the clones, and the Jedi Master Drang Cappa hid amongst the caves, waiting for rescue - or further orders.

"So Kelvin Cooke is just blowing his lid at this point! I don't even know what the fuck I said to get the guy all pissed but he is just fuming." Zell says, recounting the story of his early graduation from the Academy.

"He says something like, 'You think I got where I am today by letting some prick like you tell me what's what'?"

The clone troops are huddled around him in the dimly lit cave, laughing at the tale. The Jedi master allows a smile but holds his laughter.

"So what'd you say?" Bongo asked, excited to hear how this disaster ended.

Zell glanced at Bongo, smiling. "Well.. he asked, so I answered."

"I said, No, sir. I emphasized the word sir, just like that too. I said, I think you got where you are today by reading tale after tale of ancient battles that had nothing to do with anything. All the while, doing all you could to avoid combat at all costs. You probably sat in your dank quarters reading about The Battle of Ruusan late at night while your counterparts were out getting drunk and laid.

"And what do you have to show for it? A small office, on a shitty planet, and a bunch of kids that obey your every order?

"Congratu-fucking-lations, sir. I would rather go out into the shit, and earn my place in the Galaxy firsthand rather than sitting here in this miserable shit-hole reading about it."

"No fucking way did you say that." Ajax, one of the clone troopers said as the others reacted in much the same fashion.

"And you're telling me that he let you graduate early, after you pulled a stunt like that?" Bongo inquired.

"Are you fucking kidding me? He wanted to have me court-martialed. The only thing that stopped him from coming over that desk and coming after me, was the fact that I would have throat-chopped that old fuck and laid him out in his own office."

They all laughed in unison, including the Jedi Drang Cappa.

"So you got court-martialed?" Drang Cappa asked.

"Nope. Cooke had me confined to my quarters, but that didn't last long. The order came from the top, somewhere, I don't know from whom exactly. That fuck had to let me graduate."

"No way!!" A few of the clones shouted at the same time.

"Yup, you should have seen the look on that mother fucker's face when he had to shake my hand at the graduation ceremony. Price-less." Zell said, emphasizing the syllables of the last word.

"You, are an evil mother fucker Zell." Radio said, no doubt smiling from beneath his visor.

The clones exchanged laughter with each other, if they didn't know Zell personally there's no way they would have believed the story to be true.

"Bongo!" Radio said, shouting at the number two, breaking the laughter. "We got a line from central, they've got gunships coming in on our location. We gotta get to the rendezvous quick."

"You heard the man ladies. Grab your shit and let's get the fuck off this rock." Zell said, as the troopers gathered their gear.

They would escape Aargonar, barely. Soon, however, Zell and his men would be put to the ultimate test.

“The toxin,” I say. “It will burn away eventually.”

My prey, the Jedi capture, is slung and bound in one of the prisoner transport fields located in the hold of my ship. He is in no position to reply, his only response a coincidental spasm as the poison worked its way through the humans system.

I laugh.

Dramatics go a long way in my line of work.

The hold of my ship is cold and dark, foreboding. We are in space now and the vacuum beyond its walls turns the steel icy as sheets of condensation gather. Within the suspension field he is unable to move – his arms and legs bound in magnetic coils, leaving only his head to bob back and forth according to the gyrations of his fits.

“It won’t kill you,” I add.

I add, “But it won’t matter soon. You will be as good as dead.”

Removing my outer jacket, a draping navy-colored affair home to my many weapons and tools, I drape it over the exposed bulkhead and recover a hypodermic filled with an amber liquid. My eyes linger on the filament thin needle, narrow on the stream that arcs through the air as I push the plunger forward ever so.

“I am going to tell you a story,” I begin.

Close now, I say, “Listen close. This will be the last tale you ever hear.”

I jab him, the needle sinks in to his flesh like the fang of a viper. The fluid rushes forward, it fills him. Withdrawing the blade, I smile at the pin-prick that wells up red on his shoulder. He is naked from the waist up.

Something stirs in him, he opens his eyes in to my own.

There is a connection there, as his senses gradually clear, and he uses it to reach out, to try and touch my mind. But this is the gift of my people, the blessing evolution bestowed upon us that we might show some mercy in our brutal nature.

“In the depths of space there live a people,” my voice is soft, soothing like gentle breaking of surf, “a species called Anzati.”

He strains, he struggles but there is no escape. Look in to the eyes of a serpent, a venomous killer, look him in those black, bottomless eyes and freeze. He does.

It is biological. It is supernatural. Pheromones, crippling, intoxicating, they over-come, they over-whelm. In my eyes glows an intangible glimmer and it is our connection to the biding, to the Sea of Voices, to the Soup and to the Force. This is Luck.

“They are predators, they are vampires made real.”

Tingling, slithering, I feel it behind my nasal cavities. I feel the shifting and savor it in anticipation of the pending feast.

“For longer then men have traveled the stars they have hunted. In the guise of humanity they insinuated themselves throughout society and lived, gloriously, on the lives of humans but they were not, these hunters, human. They were monsters.”

The coils push forward extending outwards from me and I watch his eyes widen. Reassuring his complacency, I move my hands to grip his head, move his eyes to mine.

“For a very long time these monsters were little more then myths, stories told by parents to keep their children in line but in truth they were real and they thrived on your ancestors.”

I move close now, very close. The coils press against his flesh.

“And as the empires of man spread across the stars so did their own and with their expansion tasted new flesh, new horizons never before dreamed.”

“For a very long time they remained elusive. The stories were told, the rumors made fact. And then, due to their greed, they were found.”

“A planet full of these monsters, a planet where they could congregate and breed, where they could build monuments to their own depraved society. And then, just like that, their mystique was dispelled.”

“But this is not where their story ends, nor where it began. You see, there are those who know the truth…”

“That these monsters did not evolve beyond humanity, but of it and alongside it. This species did not arise of some bizarre evolutional concept on some forsaken planet – no, they bred behind the eyes of humanity, beside it and because of it. And then, in their greed, they elected to create something new… a homeworld.”

“Imagine the blasphemy.”

“And now the myth of their existence is fact, but the truth of their nature remains a secret hidden from many, from most of their own ilk. But this will not last, I promise you. The days are coming when the people of Anzat, a planet named for their own vanity, will be reminded, will be driven back to their roots. There are great powers now, dwelling in that place, and they will be the cure, the cause of their revolution.”

The coils snake inside of him, searching. I can smell it.

“I know the truth.”

They find it, they tap it.

“You know the truth.”

I drink deeply.

An hour later it is over. A blissful exchange, or so I perceive it to be, that replenishes my own strength with his own. It can elapse in moments that last days, but in my hunger I imbibed to the fullest. Looking upon the Jedi, I smirk at the results.

He is alive, though perhaps alive is too strong a word. His skin is drawn and pale, his eyes sunken in deep, dark depressions. His hair has lost its luster, hangs limp over a pale scalp. He doesn’t strain any more, he just slumps. Whatever used to be inside of this man is gone. All that remains is a hollow, empty shell. A husk.

Which is good for me.

“The authorities pay more if I bring you in alive,” I say without expecting him to really understand. “You are a criminal after all.”

Chuckling, I depart for the bridge of my vessel to plot a course for Coruscant. For Imperial Center.

Time to get paid.

"Your elimination of the Jedi Master Drang Cappa was impressive, Azrael Zell." The older man said, as he stared through the viewport of the Star Destroyer which hung in orbit high above Coruscant.

"Thank you, Governor Tarkin." Zell replied, as he sat there opposite the Governor, Wilhuff Tarkin.

Slowly turning, the Governor engaged Zell directly.

"The Empire is in need of your... expertise once again."

"What do you request of me, Governor Tarkin?"

Wilhuff Tarkin tapped a button on his desk, illuminating a holographic image of the planet Utapau.

"A Jedi Master, and his Padawan have managed to escape the Emperor's orders. They are one of the few Jedi scum who have managed to evade Order 66."

"What would you have me do, Governor?"

"We are placing you in charge of their... extermination." Tarkin said, as he slid a flimsi dossier across the desk.

Arns Wryght, read the dossier. Followed by the caption, Vroyle Mons just a few lines below. No doubt the Master and Padawan which whom Zell was in charge of eliminating.

"You will find that all the information you require, lies within these files. The Emperor himself is overseeing this mission, Azrael Zell. If you were to fail him..."

"I will not fail, sir."

"Good." The Governor said, dragging out his response.

"We will supply you with all the resources you should require in this mission of... utmost importance."

Zell nodded, the pressure was on. Failure was not an option.




"This is gonna be a lot tougher than taking out Drang Cappa. Hell, Drang Cappa was one of us until he breathed his last breath of stank Felucia air.

"This... Arns Wryght character knows we're after him, or at the very least that someone is after him. Add that to the fact that he's a fucking Jedi Master, and he presumably has his pony-tailed apprentice... Vroyle Mons with him." Azrael Zell said as he glanced down to the sheet of flimsi to find the name of Arns Wryght's Padawan learner.

"This is no fucking joke ladies. Chances are we won't all come away from this mission with our balls intact. You up to the task, Thumper!?" Zell said, as he addressed one of the clones in his squad seemingly at random.

"Sir, yes sir!" The trooper replied excitedly.

"How about you, Ajax? You ready to donate your head in service of your glorious Emperor?"

"Sir, if some pansy in tights manages to remove my head with a pretty purple glowrod, then I'm not fit to wear this beautiful mug."

"Well said, Ajax. Now... Well, now there's only the small matter of how exactly you track down a Jedi Master, and then of course there's the whole part about killing him."

"And his student, sir." Radio pointed out from the crowd.

"Yes, Radio. And his student."

"I think we might need some help, sir." Bongo, the second-in-command said as he stood there side by side with the young officer.

"And where exactly do you propose we find help in dealing with our Jedi... problem?"

"We could use a bounty hunter sir." One of the clones from the middle of the pack said.

"A bounty hunter?" Zell replied, with a surprised look on his face.

"Some of them actually specialize in Jedi." Radio said matter-of-factly.

"This is true." Bongo said, as Zell turned his head slightly to face the clone commander.

"Like Beff Pike!" Thumper said, no doubt proud of himself.

"Thee Beff Pike?" A puzzled clone trooper said.

"Thee Beff Pike!? What the fuck are you raving lunatics rambling about? What the fuck is a Beff Pike?"

"Sir... Beff Pike's not a thing, he's a person." Bongo interjected.

"And a damn fine one sir, he's well known throughout the Galaxy." Radio responded. "I'm actually pretty surprised you've never heard of him."

"Well fuck me Radio. I'm sorry that while you were sitting in front of your holoproj sipping decaf coffee and watching Caytiee fucking Korek on Good Morning, Galaxy, I was out de-flowering the Headmaster's daughter and preparing to lead your sorry ass to your inevitable demise some day.

I'm sorry I don't know who THEE Beff Pike is."

The clones chuckled under their helmets, not only were they getting used to Zell's tirades but they actually enjoyed them.

"So where the fuck can I find this idol of yours? This Beff Pike?"

"That's, thee Beff Pike, sir." Radio said, straight-faced.

"Sir, I can get ahold of him. He's not cheap though, it's gonna cost us." Bongo said.

"Well, it's going to cost somebody, Bongo. But it's not going to cost us. So set it up, he'll get his credits, as many as he desires. If he's as good as you sorry-excuses-for-soldiers say he is, I might just ask him for his autograph."

Downtime…

I hardly remember the word. Forgotten that acronym as indelible to the trained soldier as to encourage immediate impishness, deviant behavior, at the mere prospect of their mention…

R&R…

Coruscant. the new Imperial Center and high command was no place to linger in these turbulent times. But again, so much of my life spent thriving on such upheaval; I cannot withdraw without moments repose. A year ago things were different, much as they had been for a thousand now elapsed.

Where I sit, a private veranda, my table at a posh upper spire café (the accented ‘e’ and all) I can look out across the interconnected causeways below but where once my view would have met throngs of multi-species hordes mingling between street vendors, there resided now only the distant clap of marching troops, their jackbooted heels a sounding out a stark contrast to the once lively bizarre.

Inside, though I do not bother myself with its depressing uniformity, the tables are empty but for a few patrons… all human.

The times are changing; you can taste it in the air.

My tea, a sickly pitch, tastes to my palate as I imagine the streets far below would taste; bitter sweet.

“All the worlds a stage,” I remark aloud. “And if that is true, what is history but the script. We all play our part.”

“Towards whatever inevitable outcome,” my host replies deadpan. “Is that how it is?”

“Yes,” I quip, witty now, and cutting. “But not the way it has to be. At least we know the difference.”

“Do we?”

We laugh.

His name is Rodaan. He is old but potent, his intellect keen when coupled with his considerable wisdom. Grey hair, a wild mop of static spun wool, frames his face. Wide, satellite-dish-wide ears and a broad nose give him an almost comical appearance, almost… His eyes, bloodshot beyond compare, lurk behind half lids, studying me.

Fed fat on the contracts pouring out of the now Anti-Jedi propaganda machines, I have done well for my pocketbook. The work, however; has been constant… and hard. These reflective moments are expensive, but necessary. Opportunity itself must have a sense of the ironic.

“There is a job,” my friend puts it plainly.

I find myself working. Vacations are fleeting things and here I had hoped to watch the transition, the shift of power and paradigm, from a front row seat. Naturally, I bite.

Behind my tea-cup I ask, “How much?”

Here, Rodaan smirks. “Sixty percent of your asking.”

I feign outrage, eyes widen and nostrils flare, “That is an insult,” I say, but it is simply a rouse. My friend knows better, asking as he was not the least taciturn in his approach, there had to be a catch. Curious, I add , “Go on.”

“The contact is an Imperial officer, name of Zell.” Rodaan is speaking Anzati now and in low tones. “He has been romping around the frontiers making a name for himself. To call him a rising star in the new hierarchy would be an understatement.”

Romping around the frontiers? I contemplate its’ meaning. Making himself a name? I can only surmise. But I have an idea. Likely a Jedi Hunter, the best way to carve a reputation – killing the Galaxies best warriors. They had scattered to the wind, fled the bright core towards the dim, remote outer rims.

Frontier dispatch, in the new Empire as the old Republic; would be a death sentence career wise. There were no frontiers to speak of, only backward dust-ball worlds too worthless to civilize. It was hard for an officer to establish himself so far from the chain of command… unless the frontier was especially important.

Enter the Jedi, those left, now hiding in the dark corners.

“Go on,” I ask intrigued. “What is the subject of my employ?”

“A particularly elusive quarry,” Rodaan answers. “One of such resourcefulness that those alongside this Imperial have suggested he procure assistance in this matter.”

Clones? That is all it could be. They were everywhere, serving under their uniformed commanders. Fett, I knew him, was the template for their manifestation. But how…

… questions to be answered later, if at all.

“I do not see any particular interest.” I am being honest. Earnestly interested in the story as is inclined in my nature I cannot fathom the connection. The price, too low, hardly matches the headache.

“Would my telling you to trust me make any difference?”

He asks it flatly. This is a boundary.

I have known him for over a decade and never once had I regretted it. Our transactions were flawless and profitable but beyond that, I considered him a peer, a colleague, as close to friend as I would risk. It makes a difference, a big difference.

I nod, silently.

“So much for time off,” I confess.

He smiles, laughing, and I cannot help but wonder if I have crossed a line. “No rest for the wicked.”