The deck shuddered as the Subversion changed its course. Gates wondered about the drop from hyperspace for only a moment, then went back to his exercises. A step and a swing, then a different swing from that position, each motion smooth and slow. The Great Hall was as empty as it could be these days, with only a handful of Jedi lounging about or practicing like he was.

As such, he was able to do a full suite of moves, with dancing footwork and a humming lightsaber in his right hand. He left his hand empty; with his recently-discovered ability to summon lightning to his fists, Gates felt that it would be worth the hundreds of hours of practice it would require to be as capable with one hand on his lightsaber as two.

Slowly, he brought his blade from a high right follow-through to a crouching shoulder-to-pelvis cross. Again, a disturbance interrupted his exercise. “What do you want, Jegora?”

“The Headmaster had a fancy,” his former Master rumbled. Gates shut his blade down and straightened up. Flanking Jegora were a half-dozen of the Marauders.

“Combat? It’s too early,” Gates replied. “So this fancy had to do with the course change, then?”

“It did,” replied one of the Marauders. “Terrorists, apparently.”

“I’m always up to crack some heads, Lord,” Gates directed his response to the newly-anointed Dark Lord of the Sith. “But why now?”

“Politics,” Jegora practically growled.

“Ah,” Gates responded understandingly. The assembled men and women all shared a moment of silence, the single syllable describing each and every one of their feelings exactly.

“So how soon?” Gates asked.

“Three hours. Raziel has the basic outlines of a strategy, but you’ll need to get it ironed out and kitted up by then,” Jegora said, then turned on his heel. “Make sure to do this right.”

Gates nodded. “Jan, roll one of those holoprojectors out. Someone go find my Apprentice, Valthir and the damn mongrel.”

“Mongrel?” asked the man Gates had pointed at.

“Hond,” Gates said flatly. “Jegora’s current apprentice. He’s probably hiding somewhere. Find him and bring him here.”

The man nodded and departed. The holoprojector he’d ordered rolled out a minute later, and he tapped it on. “So here’s where the Lord Headmaster wants us to make our entrance.”

His finger stabbed into the hologram, poking the fat transport craft in the port-side docking bay. “It’s big enough to hold our transport, and with these ships, it actually can’t be shielded. Serious design flaw, but it works for us.”

The other Marauders nodded; Valthir and Vexus joined the circle as he was finishing this thought, the former nodding, the latter bowing slightly.

“It would be expected that they would hold all the hostages in the most convenient place: the central cargo hold. One place to keep a few dozen people hostage, and you’d only need a few guards to do it,” Gates continued. “We can sweep in from these angles, and eliminate all of the guards before they can begin to take out hostages. The Headmaster was very clear on that point: we want zero friendly casualties. We’re to look invincible and reliable. I will lead this team. Tristan - ” Gates pointed at the Knight who'd been highly visible on Copperline - "will lead this second team. Jan; the third."

“That’s asking too much,” complained one of the Knights huddled around the projector. “We’re only Jedi.”

“How often do you get asked to play hero?” Gates grinned. “I’ve got a whole shitload of medals to prove I am one. This operation would be impossible - if this was a team of Stormtroopers I was talking to.”

The Jedi he’d sent after Hond reappeared, the half-Chiss sullenly following.

“But it’s not. It’s a team of damn Jedi Knights, and this is what we do best. Take the fight to the enemy and teach them not to mess with our Empire,” Gates said emphatically. “And we’ll look damn good doing it. We’re due in under an hour. Armor up.”

“Isn’t that overkill?” asked Jans. “They’re just terrorists. They won’t even be able to touch us.”

“It looks pretty,” Gates replied, shutting down the holoprojector. “And looks are half of the impression.”

~An hour later: On Stealth Shuttle-1~

“Boarding action will commence moments after we drop out of hyperspace,” the pilot said over the intercomm, his voice flat and professional. “In three...two...one...mark.”

The shuttle was filled with the clack of the Jedi making their final preparations - armor checks, patting extra weapons, grenades or adjusting their lightsabers to be easily reachable.

Garryll Gates sat in the cloesest seat to the exit ramp. Once upon a time, he'd been a pointman, and now, supremely confident in his own abilities, he'd be one again. He looked down the aisle at the rest of the small force, and nodded to them. “May the Force be with us.”

In his dream, Wyl was running down a dark tunnel, with a woman’s laughter chasing after him.  The scene was hazy, and disjointed – Wyl couldn’t tell if he was running through the corridors of his own ship, or the hallways of the Citadel on Lopen – but one detail was horrifyingly constant: the cackling kept growing louder and louder behind him.  Wyl ran faster than he ever had before, and felt the reassuring sensation of the Force flowing through his muscles, granting him superhuman strength, speed, and stamina.  But it wasn’t enough.  The laughter grew ever closer, until at last he could feel the Dark Lady’s breath on his neck, and then ice-cold fingers with long nails were digging into his shoulder...

Wyl Trykon woke up screaming, flailing his arms, and kicking violently in the dark.  For long, confused moments, the nightmare continued into the waking world, before his eyes adjusted to the low, nighttime lighting of his bedroom, and he recognized the comfortingly familiar surroundings of the Captain’s berth aboard the Imperial II-class Star Destroyer Adjudicator.  As his brain retched itself awake, he threw off his sweat-soaked sheets, and vaulted himself out of bed.

Still breathing heavily, he padded to the refresher, and splashed cold water on his face.  The man who looked back at him from the mirror looked haggard.  The rivulets of liquid running down the gaunt, barely recognizable face were like mighty rivers on some lonely alien planet, carving deep, ugly canyons into loamy, greasy-looking soil.  Wyl frowned, making the effect even more pronounced, and turned away from the mirror.

“Lights,” he commanded in a hoarse half-whisper, and the environmental controls instantly bathed Wyl’s quarters in cheery illumination designed to mimic the exact wavelengths of the visible spectrum produced at dawn on the planet Kuat.

Usually Wyl found the effect calming – a pleasant way to start his days – but after the nightmare, the reminder of his home planet only brought back painful memories of his first Mistress, and with them the trauma of Fai Simsin, and of Aleema Keto... and of Zaq Hawkes.  “Lights!” he growled again, and the room brightened a bit more, to match the standard lighting scheme used throughout most ships in the Vast Imperial Navy: harsh and functional, with no room for sentimentality.  That’s much better, Wyl thought with approval, even as he involuntarily squinted.

His bedside comm unit buzzed, and with an exasperated sigh, Wyl picked it up.  “Yes?” he asked impatiently.  He wasn’t due on duty for another two hours.

“Sorry to wake you, sir,” came the voice of his adjutant, Petty Officer Jak Marr.  “But there’s a transmission for you, on the ‘special’ channel.”  Jak was almost comical, in his overemphasis of the euphemism they’d chosen to describe signals from the Order.  Despite his rude awakening, Wyl found himself smiling.

“That’s okay, Zaq, thanks,” Wyl said indulgently, before catching his slip.  “Jak,” he amended stupidly.  “Thank you, Jak.”  He shook his head, rubbed at his forehead with his free hand, and sighed softly.  “Put it through please.”

The line clicked over.  “Vice Commodore Trykon here,” Wyl said, with as much professionalism as he could muster.

“It’s me,” the Headmaster replied.  “How are the preparations?”

Wyl thought of all the work he had done over the preceding months, ever since that first, fateful transmission had beckoned him back to active engagement with the Imperial Jedi Order.  He thought of the lying, the manipulation, and the staggeringly large-scale fraud he had been forced to perpetrate.  All to funnel Navy resources to the Dark Jedi...  “They are going well,” was all he said.

“Off the books?” Raziel asked.

Wyl frowned.  “Those who hold the budgets have been suitably influenced,” he promised.  “There will be no record.”

“Excellent.  We are going to move the schedule forwards.”

“By how much?” Wyl shot back, a knot forming in his gut.

“We will collect everything tomorrow.  The Subversion is going into battle,” Raziel declared.

Wyl shook his head.  Transferring his hand-picked personnel all at once, on such short notice, would be hard to conceal from the bean-counting bureaucrats who oversaw the Navy’s logistics and personnel departments.  To say nothing of his orders to move a bunch of experimental weapons systems to “new storage facilities,” on the same day.  “It will be difficult,” he hedged.

“But it will be done,” Raziel ordered, before cutting the line.

Wyl hissed out a long, slow exhale.  Then he clicked over to internal comms again: “Mr. Marr, I’ll be in my office in ten minutes.  We have work to do.  While I’m getting ready, send the prepared info packet to Captain Adeus and the others.  They’re to leave as soon as possible.”



By the time the strike teams were leaving the Subversion a few days later, Wyl Trykon had reached the limit of his patience.  All his hard work over the past months seemed to have been taken for granted by the Headmaster, and the man’s stubborn paranoia had made fitting the “borrowed” weapons to the Eta-3 starfighters much more difficult than it should have been.  Without being able to enlist the aid of Navy mechanics and engineers, Wyl had been forced to accomplish the task personally, helped only by a surprisingly obliging and amiable Knight named Ayme Katash, and by the Order’s frustratingly obtuse droids.  But he’d done it, by sacrificing sleep, and Raziel’s precious secrets had been preserved.  Although why we even bothered doing it that way, given what we’re about to do, I will never understand, Wyl thought darkly.

He was standing in Stealth Shuttle Two with the other Shades of the Order, about to storm a hijacked Imperial transport, in a mission that would reveal the Imperial Jedi Order to the Galaxy.  The secret was about to be public knowledge, and the revelation could not come soon enough, for Wyl Trykon.  I’m tired of secrets, he admitted to himself.

But even as he had the thought, Wyl shielded his mind from the other Dark Jedi on the shuttle, unwilling to risk being vulnerable in front of them.  All of them – especially their leader, Mistress Sharpe, a powerful Dark Council member who reminded Wyl of Fai Simsin – were potential threats.
As abhorrent as lying and manipulation might be, they were also the only proven ways to survive.  And Wyl still desperately wanted to survive...

So when the shuttle bucked slightly, indicating they had a hard seal with the target transport, Wyl stilled his thoughts, and dove headfirst into the emotions they had stirred up.  Frustration, loneliness, anger, fear, and even grief all raged within him, and with them came the Dark Side of the Force: the ally who offered Wyl the best possible chance of survival.  With great focus, Wyl guided the flow of energies within his body, and felt his muscles respond, tingling with anticipation.  His lightsaber was in his hand, and his thumb was poised over the activation button, when Mistress Sharpe gave the order to begin the assault.

The Shades surged forward into the ship, making their way toward the engineering section, where they could cut the ship’s power.  When they finally encountered the first of the hapless, naïve activists who had resorted to taking innocent people hostage, the poor man became a convenient target for all of Wyl’s pent up aggression.  Like a hydroelectric dam bursting, Wyl’s rage overflowed, and seconds later he had to use telekinesis to prevent the terrorist’s severed head from continuing to roll down the corridor and out of sight.

A senior Krath in his group shushed him, and Wyl bowed his head in acquiescence.  The beheading had been too loud, even though his lightsaber had only been turned on for a moment; he sent a ripple of apology out through the Force.

That done, Wyl continued his silent creeping march forward, toward the main engine room.  And he was careful not to let the others see his broad smile.

The shuttle landed with a heavy thud on the port-side hangar’s deck. The ramp dropped with a whine of servos, the metal-on-metal clank signifying its complete lowering. Gates hadn’t waited for the sound, and he’d been out of the shuttle while the ramp was still a couple feet raised.

The rest of the Marauder strike team disembarked as enthusiastically, and the moment the last Jedi dropped combat boots onto the hangar deck, the ramp shot back up. The shuttle scooted back into space on its repulsorlifts; its orders were to hold position a few kilometers off until the Marauders called for their pickup.

Gates swept towards the main hangar exit. Not a single one of the party had detected enemies in their immediate vicinity, and the quick exit from the shuttle had been mere good form and excitement.

“Tristan. Take your team up route two; Jan, route three,” Gates pointed at the various exits from the hangar. Jan, an ex-strikebreaker from Sianat, was a huge brute of a man, rippling in physical strength and brutality. Shock and awe rounded out the man’s arsenal, and he was an ideal choice for such a take-no-prisoners fast-moving mission.

“Noble, Mongrel, Valthir; with me,” Gates barked, and pressed the door controls open.

The first enemy Gates came into contact never saw the man that killed him. Gates’ lightsaber ignited in his right fist, held down at his leg, and swept up with a single, smooth stroke. The terrorist was cleaved from hip to shoulder by the grey-silver blade, collapsing instantly. A couple of his comrades turned, suddenly panicky. Vexus fired his blaster a half-dozen times at the further man, taking him at least twice in the chest and head, and toppling the man.

The last of the men managed a few shots, but they were all wild of Gates. Hond ducked, cursing colorfully, managing to dodge the blaster shots. Valthir ignited his own lightsaber, a brilliant maroon blade, and deflected the dangerous shots, catching the last bolt and deflecting it squarely back into the terrorist.

Gates kept his lightsaber lit, and strode past the dead men. “By the Force, Hond, at least pretend like you’re going to help!”

“I’d have been fine not coming along, asshole,” the half-Chiss hissed back. “If that big fucker hadn’t found me, I’d have been fine back on the ship.”

“Hardly going to become a Knight like that, scum,” Vexus added.

“Shut up,” Hond growled again, pointing his lightsaber, still unlit, at Vexus.

“Focus, idiot,” Gates said over his shoulder. “There’s enough on this ship trying to kill you already. And when we get to the real destination, there’ll be even more. You’ll die if you don’t learn how to work together, and we’ll need every able Jedi we can get to handle the next mission. This one’s a cakewalk - so learn how to work as a damn team.”

The two bickering Apprentices quieted, mostly. Hond still muttered a constant stream of curses under his breath.

After a dozen seconds of walking, they came across a sealed door. A slowly-blinking light above the door indicated it was a passenger compartment.

“Hostiles,” Gates said after a moment. “What d’you reckon, Val, setting bombs?”

“Or looters,” replied the other Knight.

“Probably,” Gates snorted in disgust. “Alright. Stand back.”

The three other men took up a vague impersonation of door-stacking positions, Hond and Valthir standing to Gates’ left and Vexus to his right, ready to invade the room. The controls had a blaster bolt through them, so Gates raised his lightsaber, and plunged it into the right side of the doorframe. He dragged it around the frame, the durasteel offering little resistance.

“On my go,” Gates said, the presences in the next room perking up with curiosity and wariness. His cut complete, he drew his lightsaber from the door and gathered the Force to his palm. A moment’s concentration, and he released it, blasting the cut-apart door into the room. In the same instant, he was following the smashed metal into the room, lightsaber ablaze and presence filled with the anticipation of combat.

“So, do I get any fancy armor?” Valthir asked, grinning at his companion.

Garryll glanced at him before answering, “No, not like ours. You aren’t one of us. Yet.”

“Yet?”

“Well, I assume that you are at least interested in helping us, else you wouldn’t be here. Maybe that could turn into a more . . . permanent situation. Give it some thought.”

“Will do. Anyway, I do actually want to know what I get in the way of armor."

Garryll pulled a package from under his arm and tossed it to Valthir, “Here. You’ll find some basic armor. It isn’t . . . fancy, but it’ll do for now. I need to go take care of some pre-mission things, so I’ll meet you at the shuttle. I suggest you take a bit of time to talk to Vexus and Hond. You’ll probably be working with them quite a bit in the near future.”

“Aye, aye.” Valthir said, snapping off a quick salute.

===================

You aren’t one of us. Yet.

The words reverberated in his head as if his mind was determined for him not to forget them. Valthir glanced at Garryll, who stood on the other end of the shuttle bay, conversing with the other two Jedi that he had assigned teams to. They had met each other years back after Valthir had been assigned to Garryll’s squad as his second-in-command. Typically, that would be cause for dissension among the ranks. Typically, Valthir would have been seen as an outsider put in a position that he did not deserve and would have been resented for it. And yet . . . the squad had flourished and had grown quite close as Valthir and Garryll formed a team quite unlike most others. He grinned as memories floated to the surface of his mind, memories of their time in Blackjack squad. Eventually, Garryll had left and Valthir had been promoted to squad leader, but something hadn’t been the same. Consequently, he resigned after a short amount of time. The grin turned slowly into a frown as he continued down that line of thought.

He had resigned because he no longer felt right in the squad without Garryll. It wasn’t a dependence on the man, an over-reliance on someone else. He and Garryll had worked together closely for a while and had reached the point where they could work independently of each other on a mission, yet still somehow manage to predict each other’s actions and account for them. Simply put, they had made up such an efficient and effective team that he could not go back down from that.

And now here was a chance to do that again. But he had changed since then, as had Garryll. Would it be the same?

No. It can’t ever be exactly the same.

He started to sigh and nearly made his mind up there, but the sigh caught midway as a thought occurred to him.

It can never be the same because we aren’t the same people. But that doesn’t mean that we can not achieve that same level. Or even go beyond, now that we have the Force to aid us.

A sharp rap on the metal near him caused him to look up sharply. He had been deep in thought and missed Garryll’s approach. The man looked at him with a slight frown on his face, a question in his eyes.

“Just thinking on it, as you asked.” he answered.

The question disappeared and Garryll’s face smoothed. He nodded.

“And?” he asked.

Valthir, firmly within reality now, felt the attention of Vexus and Hond settle on him. The only movement Vexus made was a slight twitch of the eyes towards Valthir before he caught himself. Hond was much less subtle, completely turning in his seat to regard the pair. For a moment, he considered speaking normally and giving his affirmation, but rejected that notion. He liked to mess with people sometimes and, from what he had gathered so far, Vexus was a bit of a spoiled brat and Hond was just a hateful asshole. Both would most likely spend quite a while trying to puzzle out his meaning, though Hond would probably give up before Vexus. Valthir had to stop himself from grinning.

“Just be glad I like fancy armor.”

He sent a pulse of amusement towards Garryll and received one in turn, along with a nod. As Garryll turned to sit down beside his apprentice, Valthir caught a glimpse of a faint smile on Garryll’s face. A glance at Vexus and Hond revealed near identical expressions on their faces, puzzled frowns. Again, Valthir quashed an urge to grin. His attention snapped back to Garryll, though, as the man spoke.

?“You three are part of my team. I’m going to be taking point. Valthir and Hond, you will be on my flank. Vexus, you’re taking the rear. Your blasters will be more effective from the back.”

A momentary shudder traveled through the shuttle and Valthir nodded, acknowledgment of Garryll’s words and their entry into hyperspace. The journey wouldn’t take long, if he remember correctly.

A faint feeler touched his mind, immediately followed by a sendings. Be wary of Hond. He needs no reason to murder an ally, only provocation. It was Garryll. Valthir did not react, only continued to idly glance around. Based on Vexus’ glance at his master, he received the message as well. Valthir formed a response and reached out to Garryll. Mental communication is damned useful, isn’t it? Regardless, understood.

A short time later, another shudder shook the shuttle, signaling their departure into realspace. Almost simultaneously, the overhead speakers activated, directing the pilot’s voice across the entirety of the shuttle bay.

“We have entered realspace. I repeat, we have entered realspace. Ready up. Boarding actions to begin in two minutes.[/i]

A sort of silence fell across the bay as conversations ended abruptly and beings began to check their equipment. In the wake of this, Garryll stood up, gradually gaining the attention of everyone. Once the last had ceased moving, he spoke, simply.

“May the Force be with us.”

The holos were filled with long motivation speeches designed to produce the effect of increased courage and bravery, a call to action designed to “pump up” the listeners on screen. They were surgically crafted to also arouse such a response in the audience as well, to the point where most ignorant beings believed that one had to give a speech before an important event or everything would fall apart. Some people weren’t even aware of the second part of that belief, just that a lengthy speech should be given and that was that.

Fools.

Valthir snorted softly, shaking his head at the thought. Garryll inspired with six words. All around him, men murmured the words to themselves, nodding as they finished. Many Jedi outside of the Marauders saw them as glorified serial killers, men hell-bent on nothing but complete and utter destruction. They saw the Marauders as overconfident fools, just waiting for them to be the wrong men at the wrong moment and fall, fall so far.

Valthir was no idealistic fool. They were all of these things, and more. They were an unstoppable force, a wrecking ball in whatever plans the enemy had. To see these men in their shining armor descending upon the battlefield meant a sudden uncontrollable bowel movement and stark terror. They were madmen, true, but they were Garryll’s madmen. And Valthir would be one of them.

And yet another urge to grin. He did not tramp it down into the ground, but let it have its way. Grins always eased his worries, his anxieties. Grinning always made him feel alive. It also reminded him that he had not lost his humanity, that he had not lost himself to the dark side. That was important, to him. Others embraced the dark side, fully, losing themselves in the process. He had recently heard rumors about the Dark Lady of the Krath that suggested . . . terrible things. He had also seen others in his time with the Order, others taken by the dark side.

He still remembered the taint that he felt through the Force when looking at them. Not even making contact with them, from just merely looking at them. He remembered the rancid taste that filled his mouth, his nose, his entire being. Just the memories would spur him towards the near source of water to frantically wash it away. When touching them . . . the Force itself seemed to cry out in his mind. He shuddered. He had only seen a few like that and it was not an experience that he wanted to experience again.

Around him, beings began to stand up and Valthir realized that the speakers were blaring with a message indicating the imminence of the boarding actions. It took him seconds to check his gear, running through the checklist mentally. He had remarked to Garryll earlier about how light and deceptively unrestrictive the armor was. Idly, he thought about how much easier his time as a Stormtrooper would have been had he had access to armor like this.

A muffled thump sounded as the shuttle shook again, this time more violently than earlier, and the ramp dropped. Instantly, Garryll was moving, immediately followed by Vexus, Valthir, and a cursing Hond. Once outside, Garryll began giving orders. There were no enemies in the hangar bay, but that could change quickly and they needed to be moving before it did. Behind them, the last Jedi left the ramp and it shot up, re-engaging with the shuttle. With a thrum, the shuttle’s repulsors engaged and it rocketed upwards and forwards out the hangar, switching to the main engines as it exited the hangar bay.

Valthir watched as the other two strike teams veered off to follow their specific routes and then turned to follow Garryll, falling into his flanking position as he did so. Hond fell in beside him, his explosive cursing relaxed to a subdued mutter. Valthir felt Vexus at his back and knew that his blaster was out and ready. As they approached their exit, he grabbed his lightsaber, feeling the familiar weight in his palm. The warmth of it in his hands soothed whatever small worries he still had.

The first death was moments after the hangar doors opened, Garryll’s quick strike leaving no room for reaction on the dead man’s part. Meters away, another group of the terrorists did have enough time to react and began to move to shoot on the group of Jedi. Vexus poured a half-dozen blaster bolts into one of them as Garryll and Valthir closed the distance to the other one. The man, clearly rattled, mostly missed his targets. A few shots did come dangerously close to hitting Valthir, but he caught them on his blade and attempted to deflect them back towards the man. He failed on the first few attempts, but eventually succeeded, catching the man mid-torso and downing him. Valthir knew that he had been lucky that there had been only one man. If there had been more, there would have been no way that he could have focused enough of his attention on his blade to be able to bounce the blaster bolt back towards his source. He could have easily just deflected them past him, or even dodged them, but completely bouncing them back was almost beyond him.

Something else to add to the list of ‘Things Valthir Needs To Learn.”

As he brought his attention back to the group, he realized that Vexus and Hond were arguing and Garryll was berating them. He was entirely unsurprised. Waiting patiently until they were done, he followed Garryll as the man walked past and headed further down the corridor. Valthir stepped over the dead body, not even bothering to look down. It was already out of his mind.

What was on his mind, however, was the faint notion of activity in the Force that came from down the corridor. He assumed that Garryll noticed and that the other two did not and neglected to mention it. After all, one was Garryll’s apprentice and the other one might as well be Garryll’s apprentice. Even here, Garryll was still a teacher and this might turn into a lesson. From what Valthir had seen so far, even battle could be the perfect time for lessons. In fact, battle frequently was the most perfect time for lessons. He snorted in amusement.

As they moved down the corridor, the feel of activity became sharper, until they stopped at a sealed door.

?“Hostiles,” Gates said after a moment. “What d’you reckon, Val, setting bombs?”

Valthir didn’t immediately reply, instead extending his presence into the room and attempting to get a feel for their intentions. After a moment, he was satisfied that he was not wrong and withdrew.

“Or looters.”

“Probably,” Gates replied, snorting. “Alright. Stand back.”

Quickly, Garryll cut through the door, but left it standing. Valthir watched with approval. Typically, someone would just plunge the lightsaber in and force it the way that they wanted. Garryll did not, electing to ease it in and let it do the cutting. In addition, he only used the tip of the saber, which would not leave half the saber hanging out the other side of the door as a giant sign saying “Heeerrrreeee’s Jedi!” As a result, most of the beings in the other room did not even notice until he was already halfway through the door, and even then they only felt curious. It wasn’t until he finished and removed the saber that alarm began to blossom. It was too late by then.

Definitely looters.

While Garryll had been cutting, Valthir had impressed upon the other two the importance of getting a feel for the location of everyone in a room that is about to be assaulted.

“You have the gift of the Force, so why not use it in a way that will definitely improve your odds of survival? If you know where all the living beings are, you won’t be surprised and if you have a blaster, you can take them out quickly, provided they have no way of deflecting or blocking the blaster bolt. I put emphasis on the living part because there could always be turrets, heavy weaponry, or droids that can surprise you, so don’t think you’re fine if you sense no living beings. Overconfidence can kill just as easily as ignorance.”

Vexus, to his credit, nodded and looked thoughtful as he stared at the wall, presumably trying to feel into the room. Hond just snorted and shook his head, turning away from Val.

Well, you can’t win them all.

Garryll held up a hand, attracting their attention.

?“On my go.”

He held it for a beat, then slammed it forward, pushing the door. It rocketed away, slamming into the room and, unless Valthir misheard those cries of pain, took out a few beings. Garryll followed the door in, lightsaber held at the ready in case of itchy trigger-fingers. Fortunately, none were around and the first few seconds were a complete bloodbath, metaphorically speaking as no blood was actually shed. Instead, limbs flew, liberated from their bodies, and heads rolled, also liberated from their bodies. The door’s sudden entrance had sown confusion upon the ranks, stifling any sort of actual opposition. Shortly, the room fell silent, outside of the gentle hums of the lightsabers. As Valthir and Garryll looked at their handiwork, Valthir couldn’t help but be reminded of a macabre art show he had once visited, years ago. Of course, the art show had used the limbs, bodies, and heads of dummies and they hadn’t been riddled with blaster bolt holes or lightsaber burns, but other than that it was quite similar.

“Pitiful. Barely even put up a fight.” Garryll muttered, shaking his head.

Valthir was about to respond when a shout from outside the door drew his attention. A body fell through the gap, a blackened line of flesh cutting across the man’s torso. Hond stepped in after the corpse, lightsaber lit and held down.

“Finally got a kill, Mongrel?” Vexus said, sneering.

Hond opened his mouth to reply and managed to get out something that sounded like “bloody ungrateful” before finding that he could not make a sound. His eyes bugged out and then focused angrily on Garryll, who shook his head, looking bemused. Confusion clouded his face and he switched his gaze to Vexus who was making a similar expression and attempting to speak as well. Finally, he remembered Valthir and glared daggers at the man, who was grinning openly.

“Ah, finally you come to me. I was wondering when you’d remember that I was also here. Anyway, if you two act like children, don’t be surprised when you’re treated like children. Honestly, you’re a bit of an embarrassment to both of us.”

Waving his hand, the gags vanished. Neither wanted to talk though, instead choosing to glare at Valthir. He touched Garryll.

Step 1: Get them to focus their hatred on a single object and unite them in hatred of that object. Maybe now they’ll be a little more, well, not friendly, but maybe they’ll be less inclined to spit on one another when interacting.

Valthir felt incredible amusement from Garryll and almost looked to see if the man was grinning, but decided not to. The man’s face would be stony, giving nothing away. He, on the other hand, did not care and grinned.

You seem to forget that the only person that you won’t have at your back is the one person that you haven’t pissed off yet. Just a thought.

Valthir snorted as Garryll’s voice faded. You seem to forget how quickly I can move and react to things.

Garryll was silent for a moment. True, but still watch out. I don’t think Vexus would pull anything, but Hond is another story, as I told you earlier.

Valthir neglected to reply in words, only sending a pulse of affirmation. The group had moved back into the hallway before Garryll verbally spoke.

“Now that we have that detour done with, we need to keep moving down the planned route. Let’s go.”

He stepped forward as the other three formed up behind him. Their travel was uneventful for a few minutes before they heard shouting and gunfire. Ahead, bright flashes lit up where the corridor suddenly turned to the right.

“Hopefully we’ll find a challenge there.” said Vexus.

Hond grunted something that could have meant anything, but was mostly either littered with curses or consisted entirely of curses. Garryll nodded, possibly to himself.

As she descended down the ramp of the stealth shuttle Kami shrugged her robes off and left them to drift down to heap in her wake. The sleek stealth suit beneath left virtually nothing to the imagination, highlighting every curve and dip in the wearers body, but she turned to face her Sect with no pretence of modesty.

Lead on. Kami caressed Ari’s mind with the command and felt a pulse of revulsion from the woman keenly in the Force in response. Unperturbed by the younger Knight’s obvious distress, Kami projected her amusement and suddenly cut off the link between them.

Ari frowned at her from her position amongst friends, holding the expression in place even as the technology of her suit kicked in and rippled a path across the length of her face. At the same time that Kami witnessed her own suit shift her hands into nothingness the small group of Krath before her winked out of sight.

They started forward as one, Raziel and Kami hanging back to allow the younger members to draw first blood. The first terrorist that they encountered went down as the aristocratic navy man leapt upon him with saber raised. Kami arched a brow at the display, unaware that the man had even possessed the skill to attempt such a manoeuvre, even as Marina hushed him for being over-enthusiastic in his kill. The second terrorist to stumble into their path appeared to lose his head almost as though by accident, his mouth frozen into a wide grimace, the brief flicker of a saber blade the only visible sign that Havock had struck him.

They paused for a moment as Havock and Ari exchanged words barely audible over the hum of the ship’s engine. Kami didn’t need to hear the words nor see the expressions of the two Knights to know that a challenge had been laid down. Marina and Damon had taken a subconscious step back from the two, probably not even aware that the caustic nature of the raw emotion being projected in the Force had dictated their actions.

Almost subconsciously Kami’s gaze tracked to where Raziel was still standing calmly at her shoulder. He was, of course, not visible, but for someone so used to reading his presence in the Force it was almost as though she could perceive his fingers as they circled impatiently about his saber hilts.

Thankfully Ari and Havock’s conversation had halted and once again the Sect were able to move forward. Havock took point, having clearly accessed the ships logs at some point, and led the group down a long slanting hallway away from the hangar and deeper into the bowels of the ship. They continued unchallenged until the corridor swept into a 3-way junction. Ari immediately drew to a halt just before the junction, her senses alerting her to the presence of four terrorists patrolling down the hallway to their left.

Kami stood forward, her command whisper-soft but clear enough for those about her. “Continue towards the engine room.”

Havock didn’t hesistate, well used to trusting Kami’s judgement, and started down the hallway to the right. Ari was slower to obey but when she finally turned and moved after Havock the rest of the Sect followed suit.

Kami was only somewhat surprised when Raziel lingered behind.

Not worried anymore? Kami asked him, the comment tongue-in-cheek.

Disabling an engine is easy enough. Raziel replied.

Kami withheld her next comment, aware on some level that the Headmaster was unapologetic about his somewhat bloodthirtsy tendancies. Her pointing out that the former assassin wanted to ‘wet his blade’ was as pointless as stating the presence of gravity. There were no longer many secrets between the pair, but even in the Order speaking of a comrades…appetites…was frowned upon. Raziel did not remark upon Kami’s penchant to forcefully dismantle the minds of her foes. In return, she did not comment on his remarkable capacity for killing.

Even for the depraved there were certain rules of etiquette.

The two swept towards the incoming patrol almost in sync. Raziel moved like a wraith, his feet not even seeming to hit the ground, every movement cloaked in silence. Kami had to work harder to mimic the Headmaster’s movements, directing the Force to still the air about her shifting form and keep her own footsteps light.

After traversing several hundred meters the patrol became visible. They were clad in mismatched gear common for mercenaries, various weapons slung over shoulders or held at ready in their hands. No doubt some canny terrorist, perhaps someone who fancied himself a leader, had deduced that the presence of the Marauders meant that there might be other enemy forces on board. The patrol had obviously been sent to secure the engine room. They were moving forward, loping into a run every few meters, their gazes fixed on the hallway ahead and their weapons held loosely. They did not expect to come across the enemy. In fact, all four felt much safer below decks having escaped the glowing blades of the Sith above.

Kami stretched out her senses with practiced ease, sweeping through the minds of all four as they closed to within several meters of their position. Two were more fearful of their leader than the strange enemies that had abruptly appeared on-board the vessel, their minds consumed with the ways with which they might be torn limb from limb if they failed. Another was focused on dredging up the faces of her children from the depths of her memory, one dead, one still alive in slavery, held in ransom for her service. The final terrorist was fixated on the presence of the sabers he had seen displayed on the vid screens of the bridge. He was a hero-worshipper this one, young enough to be enamoured by the sight of Jedi, even if they meant to do him harm.

Kami gestured with one hand and all four members of the patrol immediately spun about, drawn by the sound of ghostly boots in the hallway behind them.

“You hear that?” The woman ventured, taking a step in the direction that Kami had pointed her.

Raziel slid up behind her like a viper, striking out with the tip of one of his sabers and driving it neatly through the woman’s chest where her heart lay. The terrorist let out a gurgle that was muffled by Raziel’s spare hand before collapsing to the ground in with a sickening crunch.

Her three friends didn’t react at all to her death. Their minds were still firmly focused exactly where Kami wanted them to be. One actually stood on top of one of the dead woman’s strewn limbs, frowning slightly as he stumbled, unable to comprehend why the floor had tripped him up.

Raziel ignited his other saber with a practiced flick of his wrist and stepped into the midst of the remaining members of the patrol. Extending both arms on eiher side of his slight frame, he span in place, neatly driving both blades through the torso of the surrounding terrorists.

Kami withdrew as he did so, unwilling to risk being caught in the minds of the dying, and watched as the dismembered chunks of the patrol fell to the floor alongside their already dead comrade.

“It’s never much of a challenge when you do that.” Raziel said, deactivating both of his sabers.

“I apologise,” Kami answered, her gaze already moving from the patrol in disinterest. “Should we catch up to the others?”

Raziel moved back to her shoulder. “After you.”

Gui Sun P[classified] leant back into his throne, his face impassive as he waited for Javick and the droids. He regarded Aeos’ unconscious crumpled form with detached interest. Luring her in had been ridiculously easy, her mind full of information for the taking. She might not remember anything, but it was still up there in her pretty head. Withdrawing it was equally as easy as it was torture for the young dark Jedi. At times there were flashes of her mental defences setting itself back into place, her instinct overriding her consciousness for the act of self-preservation but it was all the same to him. The acquisition has left her nearly broken and him with information that provided new possibilities. The doors opened, the light blinding Javick’s shape for a moment before it disappeared with the doors closing.

“You called my Master?” Javick asked, ignoring the woman at his feet. He was on his way to train some of his lieutenants when P[classified] called for him.
“Have this one trained, she should be able to pickup most of what she knows within a few days. She’ll last longer than the drudges against these people. “
“Besides inducting her, was there any useful information she gave?”
“It would seem she has a sister in the Order. Not particularly close, but through their link we might be able to track their whereabouts.”
“Should I worry about her turning?”
“No, I have taken precautions. Her past life will not be an issue. Her Order would be nothing more than the enemy. Send her to the Maw with M[classified].”
“Yes, my Master.” Javick bowed, gesturing for the nearby droids to retrieve Aeos and take her back to the medical bay.

**********

”Train her. Make her usable. She’s yours.”
“I thought she was under your supervision as Lord P[classified] instructed."
“I don’t have time to teach a pup to walk. Maybe when she’s more interesting after the Maw.”

Hence the reason why it was Kirra and not Javick who was currently pushing his lightsaber against Aeos’ training saber. Sweat dripped from her and stuck her light clothes to her frame.  They were already en route to the Maw, the ship full with new Reborns waiting to drink from the fountain of power. Kirra smiled ferally at the thought of it.  But for now he had to focus on trainining Aeos along with the other new recruits. They were sparring in one of the empty training rooms on the ship, away from other Reborn where Kirra could focus and study the girl, see what she knew.  She was in a catatonic state when P[classified] had finished wit her. Her face chalk white, the insides of her palms bloodied where her nails had cut into the flesh when the droids retrieved her to continue her treatment.

A direct conversation with P[classified] when there was such a massive difference in power between the two of them, was a moment Kirra did not envy for himself despite his own inner ambitions to enter the council. Tiring of Aeos’ futile struggle against his push he shoved her back, and turned away walking away from her. It has been three days since  P[classified] ‘spoke’ with her. Three days which she spent without uttering a word, her eyes empty and unfocussed. He had been worried when they started training. She would need to be focussed if they were going to train. However, she responded surprisingly well, her reflexes instinctively seeking out the guidance of the Force as she blocked his strikes.  It was to be expected however, she’s been taught extensively for the past few years and no amnesia could completely overwhelm instincts programmed into the muscles and senses.

“Tsje.” He spat to the floor and deactivated his saber. They have been at it for a couple of hours, and he still wanted to get some work done besides training the ‘pup’ as Javick had described her. The first two hours when they started out were the most frustrating. She was completely useless with the training saber he had provided, her hands clumsy, her form weak and her legs full of burns where she accidentally brushed it against herself, seemingly unused at the strange weight.

“No, not yet.” Aeos said, stepping back into a defensive stance. The first words she’s spoken in days. He arched his eyebrows in surprise. It would seem she had more fight than he had expected.

Three Hours Later
Tired, exhausted, drained, and empty were some of the words that could describe Aeos’ current state of mind. Her body has healed much faster than she anticipated, credits to the excellent medical facilities Lord P[classified]’s Order provided but her mind was still reeling in shock at the information overload bubbling in her.  She dropped for dead onto the makeshift bunk bed not bothering to excuse herself as she disturbed the other Reborn recruits around her. 

Her squad was executed. No proof or paperwork of the circumstances but she believed Lord P[classified] as he gently told her of what happened. How they were en route to an off-world mission, the sudden attack and the cold execution of the Jester Squad. Her miraculous escape when a squad member pushed her into an escape pod. Eventually ending up with the Reborn. The attack led by Sergeant Gunnery Kami Sharpe of the Iron Hourse Squad, under Major Raziel’s command. It made no sense, these two people were her colleagues and superiors. They would never betray their values and the Wildcard Platoon. There was no logical explanation in the story, but she believed P[classified]. His words were resolute and unquestionable.

What happens now?” she asked, her arms supporting her frame from dropping to the floor. The stress  and impact was overwhelming her. Verkur, Decembrist, Eviscares, dead. Some of her closest companions snuffed from this life. And she herself now suddenly an orphan.

“Slaughtering your squad is not where they stopped. They are wanted for treason against the Empire. We will find them, and you can help us. “ She shook her head, nothing was making sense, but his offer was eerily enticing, eliciting a foreign bloodlust in her.

“How?”
“We’re a special division of unique individuals with unique potential who are addressing this and hunting down these criminals. You would know them better than most of the my Order. My people would appreciate your insight.” The strange sense of bloodlust stirred in her again as disturbing images of Sergeant Sharpe’s mangled and bloodied body flashed through her thoughts. She flinched from the sudden intrusion of violence.

“What would my role be here?” she asked cautiously, struggling to concentrate on P[classified]’s face while trying to clear her thoughts which were becoming increasingly more jumbled and confused.

“I hate to do this to you, but I will need to extract information from you, an unpleasant but necessary process if we are to catch these people. You understand. You want to help us track them down.”  Aeos moaned, her body shaking, barely remaining conscious. 

She steeled and stilled herself. If she wanted to honour her squad’s death she needed to be strong. This was not the moment to be passive. Her mind was clear for a moment. Her soul confused but calm. The Jesters would have wanted revenge. She screamed into her hands, the strange lust for revenge flaring up, licking at her soul. Only through revenge could she restore their peace.  For a moment she remained still, her decision hesitating on her lips. This was wrong, but it felt so right. 

“Yes Lord P[classified].” She said defeated, and got up at the command of his beckoning hand. She ignored her instinct’s violent protest. Why should she be afraid, why should she question if Lord P[classified] provided the answers? His hand waving lazily into her face was the last memory she processed and then it was utter and complete darkness.

Hond truly was a problem. Chiss, half-dressed, dirty and unhealthy-looking, he hardly cut the heroic figure that made for live holo gold. And while Gates understood, as a former soldier, that efficiency and deadliness could be packaged in almost any way, the average layman expected supermen. Bronze chestplate and dark robes with a sweeping cape, now that would sell their status as instant heroes. A half-dressed half-Chiss with an ugly mouth and a foul temperament, that would do the exact opposite.

Gates hoped that with the goggles hiding those trademark red eyes, the hostages they’d be rescuing would simply overlook the dirty man. But that was what he’d signed on for when he’d dragged Hond in after him. Even now, he could barely comprehend why he had ordered the Mongrel in with them, but finally decided that he’d rather have the man under his watchful eye than sulking uselessly on the ship. When, and perhaps more appropriately ‘if,’ Hond became a useful member of the Order, he could look back upon this incident and think positively of it.

Garryll snorted as he turned to Tristan, the other Marauder team’s leader. Hond thinking positively of anyone was less likely than a child discovering the mystery of the universe. “Tristan. Make sure your team is on time at the next point. We breach precisely at 0517, local time. The entrance time must be precise.”

“Roger, sir,” Tristan inclined his head a centimeter. “We’ll be on time.”

“You’d best be, posterboy,” Gates grunted. Tristan flinched at the verbal slap. Secrecy had been the creed of the Order, until Tristan had managed to get himself splattered all over after Copperline. “The Order demands much of you.”

“I won’t disappoint, Lord,” Tristan said, and waved his two companions forward.

“You’d best not,” Gates muttered to the man’s back. “Val, Noble, Mongrel: with me!”

Valthir stepped after Garryll without a word. Vexus nodded quickly before falling into his position, and Hond raised his voice for a choice curse before grudgingly sliding into line.

They jogged away from the carnage of their last skirmish, hands on weapons. They had only a short way to go, now. They were closing quickly on the final goal: the main cargo hold. The Headmaster’s sound tactical thinking had been correct, and almost every single Jedi onboard the ship could certainly feel the huge nexus of panicky hostages in the bowels of the transport.

As they closed, the panic began to fill the Force so completely that it made it difficult for Gates’ own sense to draw a clear picture of any hostiles that were nearby. It clearly inhibited the others, as well, as they had nearly stumbled into another team of patrolling terrorists before they’d detected them.

Gates threw his off-hand upwards into a ‘stop’ signal. The three other Jedi halted instantly, their own senses attuned forwards. “Contacts. Prepare to obliterate.”

The patrol, a simple five-man half-squad, rounded the corner, weapons at port-arms. They were eviscerated in seconds as three lightsabers lit and a pair of blasters went off a dozen times.

The leader went out the fastest, Gates’ lightsaber slicing back-and-forth through his torso, cutting him into three. Valthir’s blade punched through a terrorist’s throat, then jerked to the left, leaving the man’s head attached by a scrap of skin and muscle.

Hond body-checked his target down, and slammed his own lightsaber downwards, all power and no elegance. Gates caught the motion in the corner of his eye as he was disemboweling a second terrorist. Even if he didn’t particularly like Hond, Jegora had been quite lax in the half-breed’s formal training. No duelling skills at all - his form was full of wasted motion, using his saber like a club.

The last terrorist collapsed, his face and upper chest a char from the blaster bolts Vexus had pumped into him.

“This should be the last patrol,” Gates said, stepping over the grisly collection of severed arms and legs, and bodies missing heads. “Two minutes to breach.”

They turned the corner, their target a dozen meters before them. There were doors that branched off of the hall they jogged down, but each was empty of life. Likely, they were auxiliary cargo holds or some other form of storage.

They stood before the final door - beyond it, there was an orgy of nervous, fearful hostages and hyped-up terrorists with itchy trigger fingers.

“One minute,” Gates said, checking his chrono. “I will enter first, and go down the center. Valthir will be next; Hond, third, going left and right. Vexus, bring up the rear, on my heels.”

For once, they followed orders without complaint.

“Ten seconds. Prepare yourselves,” Gates said, igniting his lightsaber and extending his left hand towards the door. In his mind, he could feel the rising anticipation of the other two teams of Marauders, but he ignored them. The enemies before him would die. He gripped the door in the Force, mentally preparing himself for the last few seconds.

“Two seconds...one...go.”

Shaya Sal was a woman, a twi’lek not to be trifled with. Under no circumstances was Anto Kirra to assume he held authority over her. Her lekku twitched, a silent curse in her own language which only another twi’lek would have understood. She was tall for a twi’lek but curvy with thick lekku that was tattooed and bound together by a simple leather strap. As a rutian, her blue skin was ridiculously common, something she rectified by inking her body in delicate dense floral designs that changed the hues of her skins to purple at times.

  She leaned with her back against the curving wall behind her, silently regarding Kirra’s new apprentice. The girl herself was of no interest, it was the role she was playing currently that was interesting. The fact that Kirra found Aeos was sheer dumb luck. Despite his ambition and power she still considered him to be weak, a quality framed by his foolish understanding of power. He merely saw the effort of retraining Aeos as a job that would rackup points with Javick. She however, saw it as opportunity. Aeos’ unusually fast progression had nothing to do with his skill as a trainer, it was remnants of memories fuelling her reactions to his training. The new Reborn recruit was still adapting to her new life, but Shaya could see the passive personality resurfacing, challenging the mental constraints P[classified] had placed. While Shaya was an excellent fighter, she was reasonably apt in mind manipulation and it was easy to recognise Aeos’ tampered thoughts.  Kirra’s job was to foresee the cultivation of these thoughts into violent loyalty, guiding her away from any old habits hampering her drive. His job was so much more than simply reteaching her, and the fool failed to see that. Usually she would allow such mistakes to bury themselves and not intervene, however Aeos would make a fine addition to her own particular ranks. She was powerful but easy to control through her relapsed state of naivety.

When they attacked Lopen, Shaya’s lost some capable Reborn. Her thoughts bristled at the memory of it. She wanted to claw onto the Sharpe bitch in particular and she sensed that Aeos could somehow provide insight into the Krath. The woman was the reason why she was left with almost no following of Reborn. She sensed that they were two women very similar in thought and character, and while she was amused by it she also felt threatened by it. Raziel was the biggest threat to the Reborn in his ability to unify the Order, but Sharpe was a dangerous wild card. Her ease to infiltrate minds could be problematic for some of the ‘saner’ Reborn. She would not allow that threat to be an issue when they finally met.

Aeos parried Kirra’ s blow with an upward block, immediately pushing his momentum and swiping in a circular arch at his torso which he left exposed. She grinned as the tip of her training saber singed at his armour. The short man, undeterred by her offence jumped backwards and launched his own crimson lightsaber at her  flying through the Force which she blocked effortlessly only to find his fist jamming into her gut. She stumbled back for a moment and propelled herself forward again. The rythymn  of offence and defines was a familiar one to her and it comforted her in her strange new circumstances.

She had been terrified when Kirra first tossed her the trainingsabre, questioning his sanity when he informed her that she was familiar with it. The unnatural ease with which the Reborn fought, throwing their opponents through the air at times was surreal to her. She’s never seen anything like it before in the Army, but she found it comforting and easy to slip into. They had been right when they said she had a natural talent for this form of combat, a notion she prided herself in. She was picking up new techniques and stances in a matter of days that took most the Reborn from several weeks to several months to master. It meant she could eventually rise in the Reborn ranks. More importantly, Jester Squad’s death would be revenged. The stronger she became, the more easy she would secure victory over the traitors.  She’s never considered herself to be someone driven by vendetta or ambition, but it was qualities that’s been festering in her lately, leaving her with a hunger to excel, improve and kill. Her footing in the Reborn was shaky, as her new comrades sneered at her and thought of her inferior. Her docility was tested severely by their spiteful attitudes and open challenges to her presence in their midsts. Aeos snarled outwardly at the thought of the Reborn trainees and violently pushed Kirra from his feet in retaliation towards them.

“Enough!”  Shaya pushed herself from the wall and withdrew her lightsaber.

“Fuck of Sal.” Kirra pulled himself back on his feet. Aeos’ confidence in the Force and use of it was growing each day and so was her determination. Most of the times she was passive and neutral in her training, but recently she’s become increasingly unpredictable in her temper which was shifting across the emotional spectrum chaotically, a parting gift from P[classified] it would seem he mused. While he remained superior in power to her, he found it difficult to temper the training according to Aeos’ shifting needs. Which is exactly why Sal needed to back off. The twi’lek has been observing for the past two days, and she never did anything aimlessly.

“You seem to be lacking grip on the girl. You should backoff and let a real master teach her the ways.”

“He’s doing fine as it is. “ Aeos said, coming to Kirra’s defences, her face betraying her confusion at the interuption.

“Which is exactly the problem.” Shaya sneered.

“Javick entrusted her to me. He would not be happy about thi-“ Kirra started before Shaya interrupted him.

“Javick doesn’t give a shit. As long as the job gets done, he won’t care how. Hand the recruit over to me and focus on training the drudges. “  It was an open challenge and insult to his capabilities. Kirra barred his teeth at the twi’lek. They have never shown open animosity to one another before, in fact they barely acknowledged one another, so why would she care now?

Shaya activated her lightsaber, the dark violet splaying beautiful hues over her cerulean skin. She smirked at Kirra and mock-bowed.  The latter snarled and sprung at her in response.

Aeos backed off to the side immediately, not understanding the fight. She frowned in annoyance at Shaya’s interruption of her training but at the same time found herself unwillingly enthralled by their combat. She’s only seen training thus far, but she knew that the participants in this fight would have no qualms with decapitating or killing one another. It made the fight intense, real and enticing. The hum of the lightsabers as it vibrated through the air before clashing with one another was violent and exciting. Shaya’s style was wild and elegant, reacting on the whim to Kirra’s solid form imbued with practised combos and stances. It was clear who would win. Kirra was afraid of compromising his defence in exchange for offence. She found it strange that she could read so much into the battle, but at the same time encouraged that she was able to do so.

Shaya jumped in a graceful arc over Kirra’s forward thrust with his lightsaber. She landed at his exposed back and with a deft kick slammed him from his balance follow by a sweeping kick to his legs landing him on his side, his lightsaber rolling uselessly to the side.  Her lightsaber hovered at his throat. Kirra scowled at her, unable to move.

“Do you still think Kirra is appropriate to be your master?” Shaya asked looking at the Reborn on the floor with open disgust.

Startled by the direct question, Aeos was unable to answer. The moment of indecision was taken from her hands when she felt the foreign presence of Shaya ripping into her thoughts. She bit back a scream and pushed back only to be crushed under the mental pressure. She tried not to whimper, vague memories of P[classified]’s interogation flying into her head.

Kirra has not been teaching you anything. How do you wish to avenge your squad if you have master who can’t teach? Shaya whispered into her head as she toyed ruthlessly with the different memories in Aeos’ mind flitting different faces and scenes at her. The Squad, Sharpe, the squad, Tadath, Sharpe and Raziel’s bloodied faces-

“Stop it!” Aeos screamed, sinking for an umpteenth time with the Reborn to her knees.

Shaya withdrew both from Aeos mentally, and from Kirra’s vulnerable shape beneath her. She turned around, walking away from Kirra and closing the distance between herself and Aeos. When she reached the new Reborn, she hoisted Aeos’ shaking form up into the air wrapping her completely in the Force. She stepped to Aeos' side.

“You should understand that I am much more suited to teach you.” Shaya said softly into her ear. She dropped the girl unceremoniously to the floor as she pulled and straightened her clothes and left the room at a leisure pace.

Aeos breathed raggedly, dragging a shaky hand through her hair trying to still her thoughts. Shaya had beaten Kirra and while she was grateful in everything Kira has done for her, Shaya had been right to say that she wanted to learn new techniques. The twi’lek’s easy intrusion into her head had also terrified her, realising it was an aspect Kirra has never addressed. His shortcomings as a teacher would grow her own vulnerabilities. Kirra’ stoic demeanour was a mismatch for her own growing confidence and she needed a teacher who could acknowledge it.

Kirra grunted and started pushing himself up to continue the lesson only to find Aeos’ back facing him as she left the room, following in Shaya’s wake.

OOC:

I was hoping to provide more insight into the Reborn with this post, but it ended up becoming too long. Currently need to cover alot of ground in terms of character and scene setting.

OOC:

NB: I wrote this last night before Raziel's post, so the flow is a bit disjointed. This post takes place before his post. Nothing major, just cementing Aeos into the Dark side XD

On another part of the ship, Shaya smirked as she observed the recruits she’s singled out to be her new followers. With Kirra’s defeat at her hands earlier,  she was inheriting his responsibilities and charges and she herself was now one step closer to Javick, and Lord P[classified]’s council. The last few days had been most interesting with Kirra losing Aeos to Shaya and essentially losing his last shred of authority with virtually everyone on board.  Majere seemed unconcerned with the ongoings between the Reborn, as long as every action saw to the growing strength of the Reborn. In fact he seemed to encourage the process of weeding out unwanted elements. Despite Kirra’s strength, he misjudged his place in the pecking order. Shaya merely stepped in to fill the void his weak leadership left.

Convincing Aeos however to finally give into her own festering bloodlust had proven to be difficult. How the girl ever survived to be a Jedi Knight for the Dark Jedi Order was beyond her. She was constantly fighting and suppressing her own inhibitions. And as she grew more accustomed to wielding the Force again, so she grew mentally, making it increasingly difficult for Shaya to twist her thoughts. It was only at night that she could ease into Aeos’ head to dissolve her inherent sense of compassion and honour. The nightmares she suffered chipped her emotional stamina, her tolerance was a slipping on a daily basis. Shaya smiled at the memory of the first lapse.

Two days earlier:
“Aeos, you need to strike harder!” the twi’lek barked from across the gym at the two sparring Reborns. Aeos gritted her teeth in frustration and pushed the other trainee; Loah’s lightsaber away from her face. Shaya found the notion of training lightsabers to be ridiculous and replaced her white training saber with the blood red energy blade as soon as they had left Kirra.
“I thought we have to earn these.” Aeos said in confusion studying it in her hands.
“You will earn it soon enough.” Shaya said jovially anticipating her new apprentice’s days ahead with a feral grin.

Currently Aeos found herself buckling under Loah’s strength. While he was not so quick on his feet, his unnatural strength more than made up for it as Aeos felt her bones chatter every time they crossed blades. Loah was a Reborn they only picked up a few weeks ago who showed actual potential in the Force and not just a mere presence. He could intuitively use it without any instruction and he was a rising star amongst his new comrades. He was large man who worked as a miner in his previous life and it was of no surprise that Aeos’ presence agitated him. She was strong in the Force, but she was naive and weak, essentially useless. A decadent drudge as far he was concerned, yet Shaya seemed more enamoured with her than any of the other recruits. He snarled and launched again, determined to unseat Aeos of that attention. They have been sparring against one another for only a day and while he was strong and fast on his feet, Aeos fought with unnatural experience and seemed to be hindered only by her own insecurity.

“That’s enough, go wash up and report back to me. Next!” Shaya commanded seeing no fast approaching end in sight between the two recruits’ current spar. Two other Reborn trainees sauntered over to the training circle, already fingering their lightsabers excitedly.

Aeos flipped back and deactivated her lightsaber. She gave a small bow to Loah, acknowledging the end of their bout. Loah spat to the ground and walked towards Aeos unperturbed by Shaya’s watchful gaze, his lightsaber still humming. He was not finished yet.

“Backoff Loah.” Aeos said with a frown. She didn’t understand his anger, but brushing over his thoughts she sensed his thirst to prove himself and that was more than enough reason for him to challenge her.

“I don’t feel like backing off. “ He replied smirking at her, dropping into an offensive stance.  Aeos sighed, waiting for Shaya to put a stop to this. Unsurprisingly, her new master only seemed to find amusement in the new development and was already waving the other trainees away from the mat again.
“Lady Shaya has called the fight. We’re done for the day.” Aeos warned again, annoyed, and threatened by Loah’s slow advances. She did not have time time for a challenge of territory, not when she had a bigger target in mind. Loah was hindering the process. Her thoughts tightened as anger flashed through her for a moment.

Shaya cocked her head to the side her lekku jangling with it as well, piqued by how her trainees would handle one another, their animosity in an open display of a challenge. She gently intercepted their thoughts, analysing it. Loah showed nothing of interest to her, his mind was ready, his arrogance disappointing. However, Aeos was a bit too docile on the outside to her liking when in her mind she was mulling sentiments of annoyance and a building temper. It just needed a small push.

“I’m not doing this.” Aeos scoffed turning her back to him, her regard of him instantly visible to the other trainees. Loah snarled again and this time launched himself at her exposed back.

Aeos’ reactions were lighting fast, a credit to her previous tutelage. She whipped around, her lightsaber barely igniting as she sidestepped his strike and tore through his arm, decapitating it.
The man fell backwards in shock, cradling his cauterised stump that was still smoking in a silent moan.
Shaya would have expected Aeos to simply walk away but she found herself pleasantly surprised when Aeos continued her assault on Loah as she straddled him at the waist and dipped the tip of her lightsaber to  his contorted face. His body suddenly spasmed into a spread eagle position as Aeos pulled at his limbs with the Force. Every pair of eyes in the gym focussed on them. Aeos spoke softly but acidly, driven by the loss of control within herself.

“I do not have time for your antics. Next time I say back off; you listen. Next time I speak; you listen. I have bigger fish to fry than you. “ She said slowly in a low husky voice carving the energy blade into his skin, drawing a criss cross of wounds across his cheeks and nose, disfiguring his features completely.  The young recruit screamed at the new intrusion of pain but Aeos continued until only his eyes remained untouched. He needed those to see.

Shaya nodded in approval. It would seem Aeos was establishing herself into the pecking order at last. The fact that she was marking her new territory was surprising but it also indicated that the careful meddling that she was concocting on the girl at night was at last reaping results. P[classified] would be pleased with her.

Aeos withdrew from Loah and released him from her hold. For a moment, her eyes swept over the gym, studying all the trainees around her. She held their gaze for a moment, willing their eyes to the floor in submission. They were inferior, and there will be no further need for them to challenge her again.

The taut silence was interupted with another Reborn entering into the gym. He gave Loah a terrified look before forcing his eyes in to Shaya.
“Master Majere wishes to see you.”
Shaya frowned. The master could have easily informed her through the Force. She clicked her tongue in annoyance.
“Aeos, you seem to be handling this. I want some recruits ready to spar when I’m back.” She ordered Aeos who had a definite hold of her new authority now. Aeos nodded silently, still eyeing all the recruits suspiciously, gauging their intentions. 

Hours before landing at the Maw

Red blood as deep as the setting sun pinked in the clear running water over her shaking hands. The refresher did a wonderful job from keeping the smell of it soaking into the steaming walls while Aeos tried to clean herself up.  Next to her, on the shelf right below the mirror that reflected her blood splattered face, another face was staring back, grey, lifeless and bodiless, filled with the last moment it did not enjoy. A face contorted in anger and surprise eternally. The Reborn suffered a painful death, his decapitation was a slow and agonising process hindered by the blunt edge of the dull dagger Aeos used as she saw his head away from his body while he screamed in silence, his vocal chords already broken.

Her face was still, not betraying an ounce of the turmoil inside her. She’s always had authorisation to dispose of someone. The reason was clear, the objective justified, but this kill…this kill was cold murder. Her first one, or so she thought.  She did not know that she has performed a couple of them as a Dark Jedi Knight for the Order. She did not know she was simply reliving a very old and rehashed memory of her own actions. Her initiation into Shaya’s circle required brutal compromises and sacrifices. Becoming Shaya’s apprentice was not as easy as simply following her. Shaya believed in survival of the fittest, a philosophy in which all her followers were baptised through different trails.  Shaya sought proof of her intentions, a demonstration of what she intended to do once she faced the Order. Simply craving for their deaths was not good enough for Shaya. She wanted to see her student work for it and earn it, she wanted her student to cultivate her inner bloodlust. The victim was a drudge, no one in particular, only to prove that she was committed to her cause. Loah would have been an excellent subject, but his disfigured body was her demonstration of her authority to the rest of the Reborn recruits.

Your mind is ready for this, but your heart lacks conviction, I suggest you practise more conviction and bring me proof.

She braced her arms against the sink and stared at her pale reflection. She should be petrified of her actions, but it was the absence of it that shocked her. She was an Imperial who followed orders but never relished in the implications of it. She always saw it as simple paperwork, a sane excuse to detach herself from the grisly reality of it. Before all of this; she was working her way up into Wildcard Platoon to land a desk job where her authority could serve both the Empire as well as her own sense of justice and compassion. She was no longer that person the moment she beheaded one of her comrades, the moment she decapitated another trainee’s arm. Actions that her superiors oddly ignored, actions that she found a strange and unnatural satisfaction in.

We will be arriving at the Maw in four hours. Master Majere wishes to head to Cylea afterwards. Shaya whispered unexpectedly into her head.
I have what you asked of me. She felt Shaya’s satisfaction seep through the Force.
No need to show it to me. I’ve already seen it the day you followed me.
Aeos chuckled in-affectionately her master’s message. No surprise there.