The black flag of COMPNOR flew high over the COMPNOR tower, Trachta's primary domain while he was on Imperial Center and not off on business for either the Commission or the Bureau. Right now he was in Sublevel 9, a hidden level recently claimed and sealed off by the Imperial Security Bureau and used as a holding facility for what were identified as political traitors and state prisoners. Supposedly no one outside of the Bureau knew about Sub 9, no one was supposed to anyway, not even the Emperor who Trachta knew was a raving lunatic. He was surprised he'd gotten the demented old man to support the Delta 199, especially since the wizened bastard didn't trust the Intelligence community of the Empire at all.

"Sir, we have that white band member you wished to speak with," Captain Rhom said as he walked up next to Trachta as he made he was along the immense hidden facility beneath the tower.

"Good, has he been harmed in any way?"

"No sir, of course not, you left orders for him to be left unhurt."

"Good."

Trachta walked down another corridor, passing several black clad ISB men, all of whom saluted before going on towards their destinations. Trachta then arrived at a door labeled Room 10, sliding a keycard into the waiting slot and watching it slide open to a completely white room, walls, floor, ceiling, furniture, everything white. Trachta stepped inside with Rhom following, taking a seat at the long white table. He then waited and heard a voice from the door on the other side of the room. It was giving shouts of protest as the door slid open and an Imperial officer was dragged in between two black clad ISB men.

"Please have a seat, Captain Moir"

The man stopped struggling, his eyes going wide as he saw Trachta, giving Trachta time to see the Guard insignia on the man's uniform. He snarled mentally at that, Loyal members of the Empire indeed.

"I said sit down, Captain"

The man was shoved down into the seat, now trembling slightly because Trachta had developed a rather nasty reputation within the Empire. His visage was easily recognizable, probably the highest ranking Imperial with such severe cybernetic implants. The two ISB men stood behind the Captain, one at either shoulder, ready to push him back down or do worse if Trachta ordered it.

"Why am I here!? You can't do this to me! I'm a Captain in the Imperial Guard! I don't have to answer to you, you don't even hold a rank in the Armed Forces anymore," Moir said, glaring defiantly at Trachta.

"Indeed, I admit I retired my military rank, primarily because I don't wish to be answering to Imperials who don't grasp the meaning of control, the Grand Admiral for example. Most of you military types are so very... inept in statecraft, primarily the sort that keeps the state alive, such as the Empire."

Trachta calmly clasped his hands in front of himself and looked on at the shaking officer.

"That's my point, you're nobody to me, just a damn civy like these steroid fed creeps you call agents," Moir shouted and shifted his head, indicating the two ISB agents.

"Well, I'm going to let you in on a little secret, Captain. The fact of the matter is COMPNOR is both a military and civilian organization, meaning that while we do not have much military control or have to answer to it, we make up for it in our purpose. This purpose includes rooting out the traitors like you who are challenging the system."

"Frak you, Trachta. You're insane."

"Maybe I am, but in the end, its always the insane one's that end up at the top. Afterall, look at our Emperor."

Moir sat in quiet shock at this, COMPNOR always cried out about love and devotion to the Emperor, yet here was the head of it all, insulting the very being who could have him executed, thrown from power.

"That's real traitor talk... why isn't anyone here trying to arrest you?"

"Because the Bureau is mine. The Commission is mine. And eventually, the Empire will be mine."

"You seem to be forgetting the Empire is ruled by the High Command as well as his majesty," Moir said rather coldly.

"Ah yes, Marshral Kaine, Admiral Drayson, Admiral Desaria, Moff Zell, and so forth. They only real threat there is Kaine. The others are just militaristic fools, they don't grasp what real government is, Drayson's a opportunistic turncoat and Desaria is an out of date aristocrat. As for Zell, well, he'll die eventually. Only Kaine is left and in the end, I'm sure he can be persuaded to see things my way, afterall, His Majesty has to die sooner or later."

"You power hungry bastard, why can't anyone see what you are!?" Moir yelled

"Oh, I'm sure Zell and Kaine know, but they aren't stopping me now, are they?" Trachta gave an evil chuckle, made worse by his vocabulator.

"They recognize the fact that my method is right, they see the need for state security, especially when the Emperor is obviously out of touch with reality and has to be kept in check with the damn Jedi Corp. In the end though, I've got plans. But please, forgive my ranting, you should be the one talking."

"What? What are you talking about? I don't have anything to say!"

"Oh, but you do, seeing as how your part of this White Band movement that's been showing up more and more. Tell me who is behind it? Who recruited you?"

"Never."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, so frak off, you inhuman bastard."

"Very well then," Trachta said, raising a hand.

One agent grabbed Moir by his arms and pulled the chair back as the other one just smirked coldly and threw the first punch, slamming hard into Moir's face. Trachta just sat there, watching as the agent began beating Moir, quietly counting to when he should order him to stop. Several minutes passed and Trachta let the beating continue past the normal amount of time he usually waited. Afterall, Moir was a Guard and if anything else, they were a tough bunch. So it would obviously take more to make him even crack a little.

Just a few minutes more and then the real interrogation can begin, besides, I'm sure he must realize he'll never be leaving this place alive...

Cloud City, Bespin




The nature of the probe had to be subtle but this was a performance well known to the agent known as Ciscero. It was an act, though, that contrasted with the knife he felt being positioned over him.


The noose was tightening and he had yet to find the hands pulling the rope. After months of investigating leads and he found he required yet more resources from Imperial Intelligence. He would have to barter yet more of his soul to the Queen of Intelligence, Isard.


But for her to get in contact with him was something out of the ordinary. The Director never sought her agents, only demanded more of their life when they came back from assignment.


He hadn't felt this excited since the whole 'Beyond Salvage' term had been applied to him.

So as he sat at a table quietly sipping his caf and reading a public industry report handed out frequently on Bespin, he heard the transport number called out overhead and knew she was nearing.

Still, he did not act with anticipation nor did he react to the announcement.


For he was being watched.


Or at least, his entire section was being watched. Carefully, he identified a man and woman seated across the walk taking turns scanning the tables opposite.

Their eyes had settled on him. He had felt it and knew sooner or later they would try for interaction. It would either confirm with extreme prejudice surely following or deny the assessment their subconscious mind made.

He glanced at the empty seat across briefly as if he were waiting for someone and stole a glance at a timepiece to make the action perfect.

As his eyes traveled back to the paper he saw the woman already in motion, moving toward him.

He continued to read, his mind beginning to operate in a mode only training and experience could evoke.


"Captain? Captain Sansa?" the woman said, in clear surprise. It was a brilliant move. Playing the part of an ISD Captain, he only acted a part but did not memorize crew manifests nor bridge officers and so would not readily know the woman in front. All he had to do was respond in the affirmative and pretend to remember who she was.


But 'Sansa' was a few years past. To an agent of Ciscero's caliber, all she did was narrow down who they worked for.

In any event, he ignored her. Better for them to hesitate than he. Better for them to come up with the story than he. And so he continued reading until she was standing opposite of him, behind the empty chair.


The paper came down. "Excuse me?" he asked with clear sincerity.


His blank expression seemed to puncture her look of superiority and she was unsure of herself. "You.. you reminded me of someone," she murmured and was about to turn away to signal uncertainty to her partner when Ciscero continued.

"My, my... Such a lovely woman. I wonder if you might not have confused me with someone you wanted to have an affair with?"

Her face turned back to him and his eyes showered innuendo and not a little appreciation for her appearance.

Nothing like sex to confuse a woman.

"Please, have a seat." he prompted which drew a derisive laugh from the woman.

"I am sorry. I have confused you--."


The suggestion of sitting already planted his smile became predatorial. "Who are you looking for? Perhaps I can help?"


The offer came out of nowhere and the woman suddenly stared at him with narrowed eyes. Her hand reached out and grabbed the chair. Pulling it out, she sat down opposite Ciscero and smiled triumphantly.

The Intelligence Agent noted the man, still seated, shifted. The woman sitting down was a signal as he had suspected.


"You've been a bad boy, Captain Sansa," the woman purred suggestively feeling her confidence grow with each second. "You made a mistake." She placed her hands on the table as if showing him she carried no hidden weapons aimed at him.

But she didn't have too as the man was shifting as well.


Ciscero also knew that as soon as she stood, the man would fire. He chuckled softly and shifted his chair to put more of the girl between the man seated across the way and Ciscero.

"And you, my dear, were extremely stupid." Ciscero said back as he folded up his paper and placed it on his lap, out of sight.

The woman snarled, "Put your hands were I can see --" and her snarl turned into a gasp of shock.

Ciscero smiled.

"The chair was laced with a very convenient poison. You will find the feeling in your legs diminishing. In fact, you'll find that you have lost the ability to move your legs and arms. Your neck and head will follow."


He leaned forward.

"Tell me, my dear. What does your Union want with me?"


The woman's eyes told all. He had uttered something he was not supposed to know. In fact, he really didn't know but there was enough circumstancial evidence to confidently postulate an organization behind all the terrorist and pirate activities. He had a name and now a confirmation of existence.


"How did you find me?" he asked curiously.


"We didn't." she gasped out, clearly feeling a pain in her chest.

Ciscero's eyes widened at the realization. They were not tracking him. They were locating Sansa through Isard, the most notably more public of the two.

And she led them to Sansa alright. He could not help but admire the tactic.


It was the same tactic he used to locate and slit Brutus Nogoth's throat a few years ago.


And now this is payback?

He could see over the woman's shoulder that the man was becoming frustrated, probably wondering why his partner had not gotten up.


Ciscero's hand came back, slid between the folds of paper grasping a rather long pistol. Try as she might, the woman could not move, her eyes declaring her mounting fear.

The hand began to shift aim as the point of the weapon roamed her body. He settled on a position and smiled.

"Good-bye, my dear."


The weapon was silent and the tiny pointed arrow filament shot through her body and struck the man seated. A hand came up, dropping a pistol, clutching his heart.

The woman was dead, a small trickle of blood escaping her tiny wound.


Ciscero thought for a second contemplating the fact that this action was more subtle than anything the Union had tried in the past.


The transport's docking was announced and as Ciscero's unconscious mind acknowledged it, his eyes widened in realization.


An explosion ripped through the landing birth shaking the floating city.

From the depths of the night came one more ear piercing scream; rustling then another high pitched feral growl. Gaarak had found one more unfortunate creature to feed upon. Residing to the fact that she must find her pet, Dehoir moved slowly into the woods before her.

The moon hung low in the celestial heavens; a bulbous light trying desperately to cast its glow onto the darkened planet. Since the arrival of the Sith on the orb that was Xe Fal it had a veil of the darkside shrouding its entire surface. It was masked to all who sought it; had they only known what wonders resided here.

As the crunch of small twigs and dead leaves were crushed under her boots, Dehoir’s mind began to wander once more. Her master, prior to Vance Jas, came to her thoughts. His wise teachings and skill helped her to hone her own abilities. She was not skillful in lightsaber combat but she excelled in her Force skills. The mastery of the Force had stunned her master, and she often found some the time to confound him in some new and unusual manner. Those comforting memories warmed her heart….bringing a soft smile to her lips…..

Some Years Earlier

…..Her movements were fluent, graceful, wielding the weapon was not her strong point and her master knew so.

“Enough child.”

Markef Thrakin spoke softly. A series of hacking coughs followed suit. Markef clutched his cloak tighter around his throat as he shivered. His pupil became concerned causing her to swiftly move to his side.

“Master! Are you alright?”

The question was asked with an exasperated expression etched upon the youth’s visage. A smile cracked Markef’s dry lips, he had grown old and by the time of his arrival he had grown even older. To say the least he had searched for Dehoir…..she had called to him, for reasons he never spoke of, he would, however, teach her the ways of the dark arts.

“Oh, don’t fret over me, child. You’ve much more important things to worry about than my failing health.”

Her emerald eyes caught his browm ones, her stern expression melting as she took in his grandfatherly features. She had always felt safe with Markef around…if he left her…Dehoir shook her head slightly in an attempt to remove the saddening thought.

“How could I not worry about you, Master? You’ve never told me you were sick!” Her voice grew louder as she continued on.

“You’ve helped me so much, Master. If you were to leave me I don’t think I could go on.” Her tone dropped; as did her gaze.

Markef’s expression exploded into a sneer as he shot forward and grabbed a hold of her shoulders, squeezing for good measure. His intention was to draw her attention, not to hurt her in any way.

“Don’t you DARE say you could not go on if I were not here to guide you! You, child, are one of the most powerful force users I have ever had the privilege of knowing. Your skills, as I have said time and again, rival those of the Skywalker line.”

His grip loosened as he straightened his posture. Fury was a Sith’s ally, but fury was not at all present here. Markef only wished for his pupil to realize that her life was not to be lived out here on Nar Shaddaa. She needed to go to a place where her powers and skills could be sharpened……made astonishingly profound to not only her, but to her next master. He spoke once more, his tone soft yet full of grandfatherly wisdom.

“Child, I only wish for you to know just how much potential that you have. You can….and you will….go far in this galaxy.”

Her interest was piqued. Her posture showed that she was ready and willing to accept what he had to say.

“I have seen you leave this place, child. I know not when or how, but you will leave. Your ambitions will be quenched with the knowledge and wisdom of a new master. Prepare yourself, child. Your life will begin anew.”

Those words echoed in the young woman’s ears as Markef made his way back into their dwelling. A new master? But what about him? Dehoir became frightened…anxious. She followed him into the small apartment. Lowering her head to avert her eyes from his form, Dehoir began to vent her feelings.

“Master, what of you? Why can’t I stay here with you?”

Another soft smile creased his dry lips as he pondered just what he might say to her. When finally he did speak his tone was calm and easing.

“Child….Dehoir….there comes a time when everyone….”

“Stop it! I know that everyone dies, or passes, or whatever you want to call it, but you, you’re a Sith. You embody near immortality; how is it you’re going to die? Tell me….tell so that I can prevent it form happening.”

His demeanor grew darker, colder.

“Dehoir, you can’t prevent it because it has already begun. You see, child….I grew sickly nearly five years before. The disease not only eats the flesh, but it consumes the soul. Not even my skill in the dark arts can save me.”

Mouth agape in unbridled awe, Dehoir averted her eyes….her beautiful emerald orbs were beginning to drown in her welling tears. Never before had she become so close to anyone that she could feel so much sorrow. Her sobbing was soothed when his hand was gently laid upon her shoulder.

“I want you to have this.”

Before her, Markef held his prized lightsaber. The silver hilt was scuffed and tarnished; surely this was a weapon of a true Sith Knight, for it personified the man that stood before her.

“It was my first and only lightsaber I have ever created. Use it in good heath, child.”

Dehoir took the dueling weapon staring at it for a moment. Her mind was a flutter with activity; she felt the pain of her loss but she was similarly concerned about her nearing future.

“I shall….I shall cherish it, Master.”

His smile was reassuring and at the same time anxious. Markef nodded and turned to move to his bed.

“Come child. I’m tired, and you, my dear, need your rest.”

Dehoir agreed following solemnly.

The night grew bitterly cold at the time of the elderly Sith’s passing; his corporeal body became one with the force. Streams of tears were the only conciliation to the young woman. As she took in the sight of the empty bed, Dehoir sighed heavily.

“My journey has only just begun.”

One Week before the Death of Gash Jiren

As she stood in the woods she wept. She wept for her loss. She wept for Markef Thrakin’s loss. Her tears were cleansing, they did, however, sting. The pain she felt when he died seemed to well once more as she reminisced of that fateful night.

The wind wisped passed her; the scent of night blooms and death intertwined as she breathed. The skies revealed more stars clinging to its celestial body. She looked down to see Gaarak seated by her side.

As her tears dried she would now wait. She would wait for Zarith to make his way to her for their nightly rendezvous. She would remember, but no more tonight. Tonight was theirs…..tonight a new memory would be made.

Irtar left his short battle with Dehoir of the Sith as a broken man. Of both body and spirt. They left each other badly wounded after the fight, and Irtar had crawled his way home only to find his mother slain. By the same Sith whom he had just faced. Though Haldrin tried to comfort him, Irtar would not take.

Though he knew he should've returned to the Jedi Academy to seek out Master Vodo for council. He could bear to face him. His prediction of his family leading to great pain ringing true, and Irtar didn't want to face up to it. He just wanted to be left to his pain.

He knew it was a path to the dark side but there was one thing that wouldn't let him fall to it. He wouldn't become like THEM. It had been several weeks since the battle and he was recovering well from his physical wounds, but his mental ones were still fresh.

He was lying in his bed in the old farmhouse on Dantooine that was taking on a somber feeling. Though they found Argas, Irtar's father, it hadn't improved the mood. Argas was in worse off condition mentally than Irtar though, and that didn't help things.

Argas had been put to some horrible treatment by a group of radicals dedicated to spreading chaos across Dantooine and other Imperial planets and subvert them to their own. Or so was the report the soldiers whom rescued Argas said. And to come home after that only to find out his wife was dead...

Control of the farm had come down to Indarin, Irtar's older brother, who was unhappy of this whole thing. He tried his best to bring his brother and father out of their funk but with no luck. The Mal'Gro house just seemed to be gripped with a depressed sadness.

Irtar was laying in his bed, just watching the holovids and holding his lightsaber in his hands. Lost in depression. It was for THIS and what it symbolized his mother was dead and his father was nearly insane. It was because of the Dark Side they had suffered and the fact he served the light... He shouldn't have left home and should've just been a farmer... The irony that he became a Jedi to help his family but instead, it had helped bring a wound so deep he doubted it wouldn't heal for some time.

'The viewing of Gash Jiren, the Jedi Master began today. It seems that many are coming from across the galaxy to pay their respects for the Jedi Master and prepare for the funeral. We transfer to our person on the scene...' said the voice of the calm newsman.

So it seemed that he wasn't the only one suffering from death... What was he thinking!?! Why would he want others to suffer like him? Especially at such costs? Irtar looked down at himself with a sigh. This whole thing just... didn't feel right. No. His mother wouldn't want this.

Irtar sat up from the bed for the first time in weeks, his fist clenched. No. He wouldn't let the darkness get the better. He wouldn't be beat! Irtar grabbed a duffle from the closet and began to pack it with clothes. He would make sure those dark bastards would never make anyone else suffer like his mother!

But the Jedi wouldn't support such proactive action... He would find them. And he would train with them. And he would ensure that none like his mother would fall again if he had his say!

Indarin came up the stairs when he heard all the noise. When he say Irtar out of bed he smiled and went to congradulate him but stopped dead in his tracks when he saw Irtar packing his bags. Indarin was confused how Irtar, who was just near near comatose was going to go on the run.

"Whoa there Irt." Indarin said as he went to grab Irtar, who quickly pushed him back. Indarin got upset. He had to put up without enough shit, might as well his brother getting uppity NOW of all times. "Where is it you think you're going? Dad's nearly out and we're still dealing with Mom, and you're just going to up and run!?!"

"Indy..." Irtar said, stopping his packing for a moment, taking a deep breath, trying to calm himself a bit. "I'm not just letting her get away with it... she killed Mom... I've gotta do SOMETHING!"

"Leave it to the Imperial Patrol. Haldrin said he's not just going to let her get away with it." Indarin said, moving back against the door. He wasn't just going to let Irtar out in this mental state.

"I don't trust the Empire. They've done too much in the state. One of my Masters at the Academy even told me their leader is a servant of the Dark Side!" Irtar said, throwing down his full duffle-bag. "I'm not letting her get away from me just because of a corrupt system... I know Haldrin means it and will do his best, but eventually someone up there will call him back."

Indarin sighed, knowing Irtar was right. He had heard the whole thing as well when the Republic had controlled Dantooine for that brief time. And the Empire still hadn't really offered refutable evidence against it in their eye. He stepped out of the way with a sigh.

"Just don't get yourself killed Irt. Dad's already ailing enough as it is." Indarin said, sounding nearly forced as he stepped out of the way to let him pass. He didn't like it but he couldn't deny he wanted to see justice done for Mom's sake. And he knew of anyone, Irtar would get the job done.

Irtar grabbed his bag and made his way past Indarin with his dufflebag to make his way towards the Y-Wing that Vodo had granted him that was now outside the house (they needed the space at the base for other craft). Irtar climbed inside, taking a deep breath, looking to his brother who was standing there, giving him a nod and began to start.

"And Irt!" Indarin shouted, knowing likely he wouldn't be heard but he had to say it. "Good luck and give her one for me!"

But Irtar did... or at least he felt it and gave his brother a light nod with a smile. He hit the final button in the sequence and the Y-wing began to make it's way into space, and to his future.

The Imperial ball was a sight to behold, not one seen since what was known as the incident of Vladet, when delegates from the Galatic Coalition and the Black Dragon Empire had been invited to an Imperial Governer's Ball for conference talks concerning the ongoing troubled issues between the three goverments following the last large war. The conference had been going as well as could be hoped talk wise between the three goverments, before the now defunt terroist organization, GLF, struck, causing confusion before their strike was defeated. The Dameun Dragons had immediatly departed thereafterwards, and although the cause is still not known, it was thought to have been an unforseen side effect of the use of the Dragon's strange Arbiter, but Vladet had been surronded by a large gravity well for several hours. One of the Imperial moffs attending the conference, Bhindi Drayson, finally penetrated the field in her flagship, allowing the flustered Galatic Coalition vessels to depart. Oddly enough, several probes and one whole search group of TIE Defenders and blastboats dispatched to search for weaknesses in the field were never heard from again. Their wreckage was found covered with a sort of plasma, leading Imperial Investigators to believe that they had accidentally flown through stars coming out of hyperspace, although a precise explanation may never be known.

Guests, men and women, moved in an erratic motion over the dance floor, tunes and drums of music filling the Imperial Palace. The governer of the Mid-Rim, Park Alexei Kraken, was dancing with his lovely wife, Melina. He was dressed in his standard olive grey uniform, she was dressed in a stunning should strap dark blue gown that greatly presented her acute figure. Near his position danced his secret service guard, Foley, with his wife, and on the other side, the secret service guard, O'Haire, with her husband as well. Having finished the latest dance, the governer, his guards, and the media moved out onto the balcony, overlooking the mighty military base, where shuttles and the undamaged Venator class ships were still landing and unloading the surviving troops, wounded and not wounded, who were not assigned as occupation troops to the newly conquerored colonies. One of the Venator class ships began to land, but then seemed to be in some sort of trouble. Apparently the systems aboard the ship could not detect it's repulsorlifts being damaged, for they failed, and the ship slammed into the space dock with bone jarring force. Immediatly emergency ships and shuttles flew in from surronding areas.

Park sighed, and his wife gave him a knowing glance. Even in the best of times, there was always something that would detract from his attention and his fun. And this time it would be forms needed to be filed for replacement of the space dock, which was surely beyond repair, and taking care of forms for transfer of patients to different hospitals to make room for the injured aboard the star destroyer. Giving his wife a "I'm sorry" look, he motioned to a well dressed guard to take his place, then moved down the stairs to the waiting speeder, to go off to his mansion. It was time to get back to work.

Irtar didn't really know why, but he made his way to Ossus. He heard of some of the past exploits of the Jedi of Ossus. If there was at least one thing that was true, they would at least accept him as a Jedi and he could find out where he could find the training he so seeks from there. And with the funeral of Gash Jiren coming up soon there would definitely be all sorts drawn...

And soon enough was the old Y-Wing flying through space yet again heading towards the funeral. It would take some time for him to arrive. And the last Irtar wanted to do was think. So he brought out his tools and went to work. Burying his thoughts beneath calculations and schematics going about in his brain. He had grabbed five crystals in the cave. So first thing first was to test their properties and uses.

After some time he had discovered their uses and had decided to begin refining them for use. And modifying his lightsaber some more. Yes... this would take him a long while to do. This would keep him from thinking of that red hair, and that red blood. Thinking of the physical ressonance of lasers through properly tuned crystals. Reangling the emiter and the mirrors to handle five crystals instead of the tranditional three for an even more refined blade. Then came refining the emiter to produce a higher energy flow to handle the other crystals and the lens to handle it. Also the mirrors to handle the higher power allotment while not channeling too much energy as to split the crystals. And so many more calculations as he kept going.

For the most part, the trip was uneventful beyond several near crackings of crystals and an overloaded emiter, and Irtar arrived safetly to Ossus. The planet had so much air traffic, Irtar was overwhelmed. So far he'd not seen much and once more was Irtar stuck fighting for his life with his lack of training in piloting.

He didn't do as badly this time and only cut off TWO ships. And got a helpful escort from Ossus control to a Landing Pad as to pretain whether the young man was drunk or just highly unskilled. Several invasive questions and a test or two later (and a short instructional video on piloting), Irtar was allowed to enter the streets of Ossus.

Now on the surface, Irtar was immediately able to appreciate the beauty of it's cities. No wonder man held this Gash Jiren with such high respect... To have been able to carve this slice of heaven out in this galaxy of fear and chaos?

Quickly though, Irtar forced it back. He would find someone capable... someone with the will and want to bring Justice. Someone that would train him to fight and kill the Dark Jedi.

Zarith slightly adjusted his cape as he continued gazing into the mirror. He wasn’t a vain man, but he did acknowledge the importance of one’s appearance. Taking a last quick glance in the mirror, the Sith Knight spun about and strode to the door. As he walked, he lifted his hand, and from a small table his lightsaber lifted into the air and shot into his hand. He paused at the doorway, examining the weapon. The curved handle played well into his fencing style of combat, allowing for quick and graceful strokes. A flick of the thumb and the crimson blade shot out from the hilt of the weapon. Zarith waved the weapon around a bit, putting it through a couple of very basic moves before deactivating it.

He glanced down once more at the weapon before attaching it to his belt. It was quite different from the one he had brought with him to the temple. It seemed like a lifetime ago that he had begun his training here. He still remembered presenting the old weapon that had been his original lightsaber to Maser Jas. The weapon had barely looked like it would function, but it had worked perfectly and served him well. As Zarith walked down the hallways of the Temple, he remembered how the weapon had come into his possession.




Zarith’s booted foot splashed into yet another dank, smelly puddle. He had always heard that the waste and refuse from the top layers of Coruscant all eventually fell down to the very bottom layers. He could now attest to that as a fact. While his clothing had not been the best before coming into the tunnels, he now feared he would simply have to burn it later, as the mud and muck would probably leave a permanent stench in them. His hair was matted to his head with sweat, the moisture in the air being quite thick.

Zarith was in a tunnel, deep below what had once been his family estate. When he had lived there he had always heard rumors of there being a vast array of secret tunnels and even crypts deep beneath the estate that contained the bodies of some of his oldest ancestors. He had done a bit of research out of curiosity. He had found what could be tunnels, but he had been forced out of the estate shortly after that discovery. After he had collected himself from his fall from grace he had done his best to resume the research. He became obsessed with finding the tombs of his ancestors, as if something was pulling him and guiding him towards them. As if by magic was able to easily find information that had been elusive to him before.

He had found what he thought to be an entrance to the network of tunnels through an abandoned sewer line. He had scrimped and saved all of the money he could get his hands on to buy the equipment he would need. He carried with him a rope, flashlight, multiple lightsticks and, most importantly, a variety of weapons, including an Imperial standard issue blaster carbine. That had cost him several credits, but it was well worth it. There were dozens of tales of the various creatures that lived in the deepest depths of Coruscant and would eagerly attack and feast on the flesh of humanoids. Zarith didn’t believe them all, but there were simply too many stories to simply ignore them. He had already killed a pair of giant rodents that had attempted to jump him. Each the size of his arm, the beasts had proven difficult to kill, requiring a shot between the eyes to finish them off. That incident had shown his purchase to be a wise one.

Zarith could feel himself walking faster, despite the difficulty of navigating the dark tunnels. He made quick turns, a left, a right, another right. His pace continued to increase, his heartbeat increasing. He could almost feel himself getting closer and closer to the tomb he was looking for. The tunnels were a virtual maze, but somehow he knew which way to go, which turns to make. Zarith continued his brisk walk until he turned a corner and came to an abrupt halt. There on the floor before him, the empty eye sockets of a human skull stared up at him.

Zarith was slightly taken aback, but not overly so. He had expected to see some human remains down here, and this was not the first time he had stared death in the eyes, but the location of the remains did surprise him. They were simply spread out on the tunnel floor, as if the person had simply collapsed and died right there. But if this person had simply died right there, his remains should be scattered all over the bottom of Coruscant. Various scavengers and carrion feeders would have picked the corpse apart. Certainly the two rodents he had killed early would not have passed up a free meal such as this one.

It was then that Zarith noticed the bones of other creatures around the humanoid remains. He shined his flashlight all around the skeleton, finding remains of more giant rodents and a variety of other creatures he couldn’t identify. He flashed his light back on the human remains, looking more closely at them. He now noticed the nearly perfectly circular hole in the skull, a matching hole on the other side. Zarith took a slow step back from the body. The humanoid and the other creatures had all died from some sort of booby trap.

Zarith withdrew one of the lightsticks from his pocket. He activated the small device, and tossed it down the hall. It illuminated a seemingly empty hallway. As soon as it hit the floor, six laserbolts struck the device, destroying it with a bright flash. Apparently the tiles on the floor were pressure sensitive; any weight put on them activated a series of laser cannons mounted in the walls. He shined his light to where he had seen one of the laserbolts shoot out from. He saw an indentation in the wall, but nothing else. The cannons were set into the wall in such a way to prevent him from getting a clear look, or a clear shot at any of them. He would not be able to shoot his way out of this booby trap.

Zarith sighed as he brought his flashlight back down to light up the area near him. He began examining the nearby walls, hoping to find some sort of deactivation switch somewhere. As he looked around, he noticed a faint glow coming from down the hallway. He looked down it to see some of the tiles glowing ever so slightly. Keeping his flashlight down, he took a step down the hallway, being careful not to get to close to the various remains. He noticed that the tile that the lightstick had landed on was one of the tiles that were glowing. He looked more closely at the tiles. As far as he could tell they were simple stone, both the glowing ones and non glowing ones. He picked up a nearby rock and tossed it on one of the non-glowing tiles. Nothing happened. He looked down the hallway, seeing that the non-glowing tiles stretched down the corridor to where he could see some sort of entranceway.

Zarith took a breath and cautiously placed his foot on one of the non-glowing tiles. Nothing happened. He brought his other foot onto the tile and began looking for the next one. He leaped, stepped and skipped his way down the corridor, avoiding the glowing tiles as he did. After one last leap, he landed in the entranceway to a large room. Hefting the carbine in his hands, Zarith walked into the room.

The tomb was a giant room, with a ceiling that stretched up too high for Zarith’s flashlight to illuminate the top. It was circular in shape, with only the one entranceway. Arrayed around the room were a series of statues attached to the walls. They were of various figures wearing the trappings and armor of Sith Warriors and Lords. The each held the hilt of a lightsaber, all of them aimed down at the center of the room, where a large stone sarcophagus sat.

Zarith walked over to the sarcophagus. He wasn’t sure why exactly he had come here. It did confirm that his ancestors included some sort of Sith Lord, but he already knew that. Proof of that could have been more easily obtained elsewhere. No, something had called him here, guided him here. Was it the force, a person, or maybe the spirit of his ancestor? Zarith wasn’t sure, but he knew he had to complete his task here. He had to open the sarcophagus and gaze at the remains of his Sith ancestor, a man who had ruined him and his family, but had also passed on his power, power that Zarith was only now discovering inside of himself.

Zarith walked towards the sarcophagus. As he stepped up onto the platform that held it, a stone slab slammed into place in the entranceway, sealing the room off. Zarith ran back to the entranceway, but the stone was tightly in place and far too heavy to move. He had not tools or weapons that could cut through it. He began shining his flashlight around the room, looking for another exit when he heard the quiet whir of fans. He could not see them, but they were definitely mounted up on the ceiling. He could feel the air being pulled up into them and out of the room. He quickly realized that this was another trap of some sort. The room appeared to be air tight and now fans were drawing away the precious little oxygen that was in the room. If there was a way out of here, Zarith would have to find it quickly.

He quickly ran back to the sarcophagus, frantically looking for some sort of control or switch. He now noticed the carvings etched into it. It showed a picture of a man standing before the torso of some other sort of giant man. The giant man was holding a sword pointed down at the floor. In a box next to this image were the same two figures, except this time the giant had his sword raised up in a salute, while the smaller figure had his arm pointed up at him with some sort of beam or effect coming from it, hitting the giant in the arm. In the next panel the two figures were still in the same position, but a doorway appeared behind them.

Zarith looked back up at the various statues surrounding him on the walls. The meaning of the inscriptions was clear. He would have to move the arms of one of the statues to trigger the mechanism that would lift the stone slab and let him escape. He whirled around, looking at all of the statues. Which one was he supposed to move? Was he supposed to just move one of them or all of them? The inscription was vague, the carving looking nothing like any of the statues that lined the room.

It was then that Zarith felt it. Something was pulling at him. It was like a hand was guiding him, but it was insubstantial. It was as if the air itself were turning him around. The entire room came into sharp contrast and time seemed to slow down. The whir of the fans slowed in his ears, going from a steady rhythm to a slow beat. He turned to face one specific statue.

“Do it!”

Zarith did not know where the voice came from. It echoed in his head, a deep, resonating inhuman voice, yet it was familiar. It had a power behind it, a power that Zarith desired, that he longed for. Right at that moment, Zarith saw his destiny clearly for the first time since he had been cast out from his estate. He was not to be some rich playboy, with power over thousands of employees. No, he would become a Sith Lord, with power over billions. He knew it right then as a fact, something as unchangeable as the laws of physics.

He did not have time to dwell on that vision now though. He could feel the air in the room getting thinner and thinner. He raised his hand towards the statue and began concentrating on it, stretching out with an invisible hand to grasp it. He grabbed hold of the arms through the force, but he could not budge them.

“DO IT!”

The voice shouted in his head. Beads of sweat formed on his forehead and poured down his face. Blackness was beginning to engulf his vision as he began running out of air. Still he strained, pouring himself into moving the statues arms.

“DO IT!!!!!”

The voice screamed in his head. Zarith let out a feral scream and howl. Anger burst forth inside him and poured out towards the statue. With another scream the arms shifted up, the statue now saluting him and the sarcophagus. The fans reversed direction and the door slid open. Zarith collapsed on the ground, sucking in large breaths of air.

It took a few moments for Zarith to regain his breath and strength. He staggered back to his feet, using the sarcophagus to help support him. As his hand rested on it, he quickly realized that it had slid open, probably as the door had opened. He scrambled for his flashlight and pointed it into the sarcophagus. All that lay within in was a single ancient lightsaber.

Zarith looked down on it in confusion. Where was the body? Why had he even bothered coming here? Had this all been just a waste of time?

‘No,’ he thought to himself. ‘This was a test, a test of my determination and power. Body or not, it does not matter. This has proven to me that I am a Sith and that I do have a destiny. A destiny I must now live up to. But for now, I will take my prize.’ He reached into the sarcophagus and scooped up the lightsaber. He tucked it into his pocket and began leaving the tomb. As he walked out, the voice whispered to him once more.

“You will go to Xa Fel. There you will train and seize your destiny. Go to Xa Fel, my child. Xa Fel……”

Between derision and complete apathy lies how I feel about you.

After what you have constructed it is no more, nor less, then you deserve.

And I see in your eyes that you agree.

I look upon you with equal measure sorrowful regret and infuriated disgust at what you took and what you have become. All I can see in you is wasted potential… the building blocks for everything you could have desired and the truly miserable excuse for a human being that you have turned yourself into.

And when I look into your eyes I know that everything I say resonates in you with a truth that hurts far more then even the most scathing, vitriolic lie. You are a waste of fucking space. And you know it. Every second you live is a waste of someone else’s oxygen and in the bottom of the remnants of your heart you hate every minute you are alive.

You fill me with a vile and putrid feeling from so deep within my body that I convulse in disgust and barely keep down my vomit at the consideration of your failures.

And in the ultimate gesture of your insipid ineptitude and your worthlessness as an entity, you cast down you failures upon me.

I am not sure whether I find you more disgusting then the realization that I am exactly like you in every single caveat I can imagine.

I cannot begin to put into words the level to which that perturbs me.

Oh, well. You have to wake up. You have a funeral to attend to. If you find an unused blaster lying around, why don’t you do us both a favor and put it to good use and arrange up your own funeral? Pragmatically you have to know that everything you now desire is but a fictional construct in your brain serving as a poorly summoned excuse for you to continue your miserable existence?

Just a thought.

You do whatever you do, as usual. I’ll be in touch.





Ahnk awoke with eyelids heavy, and for several minutes merely sat on the edge of his bed and cried.

And then he grabbed his lightsaber.





Cha’at’Nooq was a modest Imperial cruiser that had seen better days, taken pictures, lost them, and then forgotten what a good day was. Her hull was beaten from asteroid collisions throughout her service… her engines strained from pushing a schedule for the better part of several decades… weapons and shields inactive into atrophy, corroded to the core… pretty much the only thing that still worked was the food dispensator… the only comfort to be found aboard ship in bottles stashed or folded beds…

…folded… beds…

“Morning, sleepy head.”

Ahnk felt his eyes flutter open, taking in the woman above with mild surprise.

“Tell me I didn’t.”

“Nope. But after everything you’ve done for me I…”

“Stop. Your being here means more to me then that ever could.”

Ahnk tried to push himself away… trying to put a distance between them equal to his professional respect… to find his arms limp and useless. He shrugged his torso about, but was unable to move.

“Don’t strain yourself. You got yourself all worked up last night… gonna take a while to flush the system.”

Ahnk nodded. He could feel the lactic acid in his body, clogging his musculature like an irritating syrup of his physical actions… which begged the question…

“You’re sure I didn’t…”

“Positive. I think I would have remembered, and I’m a little disappointed you think so highly of me that you assume you would have forgotten.”

”Ow. Low blow. In my fragile emotional state such comments are ill advised.”

“No… if you want the story, here goes. I got an internal alarm of a contraband flush shortly before I was going to tuck in. As you know, this is an old Lancer frigate, and the security system was designed pretty well… if a cadet had an inspection and decided he needed to flush some contraband out the fresher, security picked it up, analyzing any discharge from within the ship… either released into space, or if they tried to sneak it into rotten foodstuffs for the furnace… for unusual properties.”

“…I expelled unseal properties?”

“You flushed your lightsaber down the toilet.”

“…really?”

“Yes, really.”

“…how did it fit?”

“Andrew Micheal Rashanagok, I have just told you that you have flushed your lightsaber, your most trusted possession, always at your side, personally created by you and used by you for a decade and change, perhaps, very likely, the closet thing in one inanimate object to being the symbolism for the very essence of who you are, down the shitter and into space, and you ask me how it fit?”

“I think it’s a perfectly valid question when you consider the nature of what normally is expelled down a refresher. By comparison the light…”

“Never mind how it fir for a second. Do the measurement later. You flushed your saber down the toilet and I want to know why.”

Ahnk took a moment to look at her, eyes matching hers, and sighed.

“I don’t know. I don’t even remember doing it.”

The sympathetic and simultaneously apologetic tone of his words allowed her the briefest of nods.

“I suppose that makes sense. As I made my way to my quarters… knowing, from experience, you’d make your way down there… the intruder alert went off. Someone was banging on the internal plating and bulkheads in a fashion consistent with intership physical combat.”

“…what?”

“That’s what I thought, until you walked in the door. You’d hit the sauce… again… and were just dripping blood. I took off your vest… that’s a nice tattoo, by the way. Did it hurt?”

”It was excruciating. Why else would I have gotten it?”

“To look cool?”

”But I was never cool. So you can…”

”…call me loser. Don’t be so self-deprecating.”

“Why not?”

“Because people care, you selfish asshole.”

And Ahnk couldn’t summon to that a sarcastic reply.

“Okay, so you took off my clothes.”

“And wiped the blood off your face and chest. You went berserk… I checked after you went under, you have a compound fracture in seven fingers and your right hand, as well as surface fractures in your remaining 3 fingers, your left hand, your right knee, and your skull. The laceration to your skull was quite severe… with all that head trauma I did consider stopping and turning on the EDB, but I figured if nothing else you’d be mostly just bleeding booze. But yeah, you were a mess.”

“You should see the other guy.”

“You’re lucky this ship isn’t a rental. But yeah, that just about covers it.”

Ahnk was almost afraid to ask.

“…just?”

She looked down at him wordlessly, a single tear streaking down her face.

“I need to know.”

She sighed, wiping her face dry with the sleeve of her shirt.

“You told me about your dream.”

Ahnk said nothing. She touched his head gently, and he nodded.

“It took about half an hour but you went over everything. When you were finished you leaned into me and cried yourself to sleep.”

For a lingering, painful moment, they looked at each other and didn’t say anything. She laid a hand down on his shoulder, and he looked away.

“Say something, Andrew. Now, before it’s too late.”

Ahnk didn’t… couldn’t… face her…

“It is not a dream…”

Her hand took the back of his head, fingers softly digging into his bald flesh. His veins pulsed against her… terror coursing across his heart, fear seeping from his brain he strained…

“It’s real… and… I can’t face him. I can’t face him again. I’ll glue my eyes open, I’ll shoot stimulants if I have to… I would rather die…”

He looked up at her, and she gasped when she saw him. All of his color was gone and he stared at her with a look of abject terror; trembling slightly with his mouth hanging open, eyes wider then she had ever seen him as he contemplated what was to him the incomtemplatable.
“I… can’t face him… not again…”

A tear began to streak down his cheek, and she found she couldn’t look at him anymore… she turned her head and pulled him into her, his eyes finding her shoulder, his tears dripping down her spine… he shuddered, he sobbed; losing control as he broke down in her arms… Andrew Micheal Rashanagok, formerly the Dark Lord of the Sith, simply lay and cry, as Ali Sabin held him to her, like a mother to child…





”I want to thank you, for everything.”

“You’d do the same for me.”

“I’m not so sure.”

“I want you to come back here if you need me. You’re sure you don’t want me to come with you?”

“I’m meeting someone. I’ll be okay… Ali…”

“Forget it.”

“…”

“I mean it. I’ll be here whenever you need me, Master.”

“I told you to cut that out.”

“Yes you did… Andrew.”

“…I’ll be back.”





”Hey Sabin, why didn’t you ever ask for a promotion?”

“I would have had to work with Exel more often.”

“…of course. Never mind me…”





During the Galactic Cival War, Ossus rose as a dream. The planet was the homeworld… adopted or of birth, depending on who shot the movie… of Gash Jiren, the hero of the oppressed, cutting through the organizational red tape of the Jedi to strike a blow at the heart of the Sith… he fought valiantly against an impossible foe, sacrificing friends, family, and the better part of his self in an effort to create a better galaxy, by any means necessary…

And, looking back, it probably wasn’t worth it.

Grand Admiral Thrawn had turned Ossus into a nightmare. The progressive attitude of the Rogue Jedi Order had been ventilated by shot after shot from Thawn’s discompassionate artillery, evaporating into the night sky like so much boiled blood, the proactive attitude nothing but a vapor lost amongst the odor of all the seared flesh. What was left of the Order was around… somewhere. If you dug hard enough, you could pick pieces of its halls from amongst the various piles of wreckage… if you looked hard enough through the decomposing corpses, you could find its members…

Imperial Doctrine did not allow for hope. Where hope existed, it was found, and systematically destroyed.

For a long time, Setherian Jiren was the exception to the rule. But he too, like all others, found his face crushed under the boot of his enemies…

…and now the dream of Gash was dead. To that stood a monument in his corpse… a warning to those who would fight, the irrefutable evidence that they will die.

While Gash Jiren was not a saint, with the universe the way it was, he was perhaps the closest thing it had to a hero. And now there were none.

The galaxy alone…

Ahnk…

Alone…





”As you are no doubt aware, the weather on Zanzabar is as it always was… makes the narayan hunting season more miserable every passing year.”

“Mr. Rashanagok. There is no need for code words… the lady is to be expecting you.”

“I wasn’t expecting her…”

”To be perfectly honest, neither was I. Her decision was apparently made at the last moment, and not without much internal disagreement as to whether it was a good idea.”

“Am I to see her?”

“I cannot say for sure. Mr. Vinda… and, in turn, the Lady Vinda… was made aware of your requests of me and authorized the funding necessary, and as such, is aware that you will be present at the service. If at a later time the sir or the madam would wish an audience, would you be able to make yourself available?”

“Without hesitation.”

“When I next see them, I will relay that information. All of your requested arrangements have been seen to. Shall we begin?”

“Please.”

“Then please follow me, Mr. Rashanagok.”




”She was born on Corellia.

Her father was a statistical engineer and analyst who worked for Rudrig Progressive, a technologies trust that purchased manufacturing and design companies to form a conglomerate entity. Shortly before Rudrig Progressive was absorbed into IDTech, he retired.

Her mother was a dancer. When she met her husband she was an erotic dancer, working in one of the more high-class establishments in what was at the known as Port City. Later, she began to dance in the classical style, performing at art houses for several decades until she, too, retired.

It is possible that it was the pregnancy that was the catalyst in her mother’s career change, but regardless… shortly after the child was born the two moved from the port cities of Corellia and into the more core developments, ensuring their child would grow up a more sheltered life, away from the various problems of living near the spaceports.

Growing up, she was always a shy girl. Both of her parents were very outgoing and friendly with people, so where her timidity was derived from no one can be certain. It is feasible that that character trait was what led her to become a scientist… her ability to be successful while remaining completely isolated from other human beings would have no doubt been an attractive choice of careers for her.

At a relatively early age, IDTech was interested in the booming young scientist. There she went to work for several decades, but truthfully was unfulfilled, as IDTech’s primary focus was on starship design and related technologies, and it was evident that she wanted a more… human assignment. Her termination was said to be amicable; the official cause listed as “mutual shift of interest”.

Not along after, Allied Biogen was looking for project managers. Allied Biogen was, as you know, the front company for all of the Allied Sith Empire’s genetic and biochemical related research. Her job application was ultimately unsuccessful… she was deemed too timid to take a managerial position… but she reapplied and was hired as a technical consultant. She would rise quickly, combining unorthodox ideals with a cold and constant attention to her work. She was almost single handedly responsible for the completion of the Massassi resurrection and the transformation of the grotto liquid into the regenerative black blood compound.

After her success with the Massassi, she was culled for the more high priority projects of the cloning human beings. She created the first five clones of the Sith Ahnk, and created the prototype of Ahnk’s “perfect warrior” he had desired cloned. She would continue to work in solitude, buried under the ocean with only a visiting Yuuzhan Vong to keep her company, until her work would become obsolete.

And as to what she did after the death of her master and the unmentionable things contained therein, I say only this. We do not commiserate her life through blinded eyes. She does not leave this plane of existence as an angel, but rather as a tortured soul; never recognized and nurtured for what she was, instead neglected and twisted into what she became. We cannot hold her blameless nor we can blame her; what happened was what happened, and none of us stand with clean hands and dry eyes at the results.

That all being said…

I hereby commit Emily Montague to the ground. May she rest in peace.”

Ahnk looked for a long, hard moment at the casket, and then uttered a small sigh. He closed his eyes, and slowly, the casket began to lower into the ground.





”Thank you.”

“Of course, Mr. Rashanagok. I take it that you are satisfied?”

“If I didn’t know any better, I’d peg you as a preacher, rather then a banker.”

“Well, I take pride in what I do, even when what I do is… not, what I do.”

“You were excellent.”

“Then if you do not mind…”

“No, of course not. I appreciate you taking the time.”

“Then I bid you goodday, Mr. Rashanagok. I will tell the lady of your presence.”





”…please do.”





Between two destroyed buildings on Ossus is a clearing of the rubble. If you find the right spot, in the right crater, you can find an unmarked grave. Inside that grave is an empty casket, standing as the likely only to ever be created monument to Emily Montague, footnote in the history of the tyrant Ahnk Rashanagok.

Important to no one.

May she rest in peace.

Zarith walked quietly out of the temple. While he was not sneaking out, he had no wish to disturb the various apprentices and masters who dwelt within the Sith Temple. He looked up into the night sky, the infinite number of stars twinkling back down at him. He quickly scanned the sky until he found the star that Coruscant orbited, buried in a cluster of stars near the center of the galaxy. Some day he would return to the planet of his birth, but not as a shamed aristocrat, but as a powerful Sith Lord.

Zarith brought his focus back to Xa Fel and the forest that stood beside the temple. A loud howl broke the silence of the night, a howl he recognized quite well. He left the temple grounds and entered the woods. He could hear the rustling of various creatures as they scrambled away from him. He could sense the excitement of the predatory creatures in the forest closed in for the kill and the fear they generated in their prey before snuffing them out. It was an exhilarating feeling. Zarith allowed the force to wash over him, opening himself up to it.

Amongst all of the various lifeforms that lurked in the forest, one shined like a beacon through the forest. The Sith Knight quietly made his way to her, silently coming up from behind her. Wrapping his arms around her waist, Zarith gave Dehoir a long passionate kiss on the lips. He broke the kiss and gazed down into her glowing emerald eyes. "Good evening my dear. It is a lovely night, and I see your pet has had another successful hunt."