The past is a swirling mist of things that most would have buried in the dirt of age. But the history must not be buried in whole; for pleasant memories come along with the horrors. So some try to bury only the evil. However, evil always comes back to haunt. You cannot escape fate, there is no one who can. A destiny strung out before a being, is like a road before a blind man. He cannot see it. He cannot know what waits for him along the road, whether it be greatness, infamy, or a pitiful story. All the man can do is stumble along, kept on the path by barriers that force him ever onwards and never backwards. There is no time for resting, only constant moving. How can the man know what lies before him, when the past is like a mist that you try to group at for answers, but always come up with empty air? You are left with the images of what you have done. That is all you are given.  And how horrible would it be if the past was filled with your; and your destiny seemed to be non-existent? But even that is not so terrible. Until your past comes back to haunt you; until it finds you and strikes you dumb with horror; when it grasps you by the neck and forces you to look at what you have done. That is when you are not terrified, for terror is something that makes you alive. No. That is when you are horrified. Your very soul freezes up. You cannot move, nor can you stand to look at what you have done. If you stare at the past for too long, it can drive you insane.

*** Unknown Planet, four years ago ***

A shadowy being stood in a room. The room it stood in was old. It was ancient and worn. The feeble light from a small fire in an outdated hearth cast a flickering glow across the room. Shadows spread away from the glow. And its bright light seemed to flicker and waver with some semblance of life. The fire itself seemed to move of its own accord. It gave warmth and provided comfort, but it also destroyed and ravaged; maimed and killed, burned and blackened other life until it too expired. For fire was vengeance. A self-serving mind that wanted to reek havoc on the world for its own pleasure; filled with a madness and despair. And that madness and despair was reflected in the eyes of the dark figure, who stood beneath the shadows. The light did not reach it; save for its eyes, which gleamed like twin emeralds full of hateful fire. They pierced and penetrated everything underneath their green gaze. Around the edges they were flaming with rage, which narrowed to a distrust, but finally turned to a deep sorrow at the center. A sorrowful anger that could only be quenched by the reckoning of the being in which it was.

The figure's thoughts floated through the still air in a wave of crackling energy and sorrow; like the wave of heat tinged with destructive power emanating from the fire. They were confused and tangled; angered and savage, they flowed from the dark figure, pervading the area around it. The tangled web seemed to speak only one word. Vengeance. That vengeance was followed by a second thought. Death. And then a third came close behind. Justice. A vengeful justice that brought death on all who sought to undermine its righteous workings. Such as the one it had completed now. It was so close now...so close.

Blood.

The red liquid ran across the carpet as if ink had been spilled on paper. Its red was dark and fresh. The reflection of the heart of the fire was in it, a deep red. It was the color of life. It was the color of death. It spelled out heroism. It bespoke death. It told of bravery. It told of sorrow. It was life. That life flowed outward from the stretched out flesh that lay upon the carpet. The dark figure that stared down upon them had no feelings of mercy, or pity, or regret for what it had done. This was all part of its justice. And very soon it would have its revenge.

*** VEA Barracks, 1st Regiment, 1st Battalion, 1st Company, 1st Platoon, 4th Squad ***

There was cold sweat that crept down a startled figure, who sat up from his bed with a gasp. He leaped out of his bunk and put on his uniform. The nightmares had been at him again. He hadn't had them since- since four years prior to his joining the VEA. The figure shrugged on his black shirt beneath a brown army tunic, with the rank of Private Second Class on the arm. He belted on his brown trousers with the black belt and gold buckle. With quick fingers he buttoned the gold circles on his brown army tunic and then tucked his brown trousers into the knee-high black leather boots. His pistol he stuck in its holster. He smoothed his hair back and put his brown cap on. Picking up a mirror, he surveyed himself in its glassy depths. The image he cut was one of a man who was not yet used to the military regime. The beard did not take away from his his military uniform. What it did do was make the man look a little more dashing and somewhat more rugged. Satisfied with his slightly unkempt appearance, the man walked out of the sleeping quarters and went direct to the mess hall.

A few of the squad were up and about already. Ryan went and joined them. Blackjack squad was the elite. They were considered a unit that was a cut above the rest. Their red armor bespoke fearlessness in battle and an unwavering sense of duty. Few could stand against them. You didn't hit Blackjack. Blackjack hit you. And it hit you hard. That was the squad motto, and Ryan found that there was good reason for it. Trying to stop Blackjack was like trying to halt the onrushing bulk of an angry reek. A red reek. That was what blackjack was, unstoppable, unbeatable, relentlessly pursuing its objectives. The outright display of force and the red armor was part of a tactic of Shock and Awe. The enemy would be so stunned by the appearance of the red armor on their area of the battle that they would be struck motionless in pure awe of the overwhelming power. But it was primarily a psychological attack on the enemy commander. The fact that his, or her, troops were faced with a squad that was said to be undefeatable would paralyze his ability to maintain control of the battlefield. It usually worked.

The usual mess hall banter was flowing back and forth between the squad members. Jokes and taunts flew back and forth. All the while Ryan just sat and ate his food; his thoughts absorbing him, but he was still listening. That was one thing that the former mercenary had learned to do. He could always keep an ear open for any piece of useful information that might help him. His thoughts went back to why he had joined the Vast Empire Army. There were many reasons why he had joined; the main one being that he had no sense of purpose anymore. Ryan had more reasons that he wasn't going to share....with anyone. The former mercenary didn't know exactly what the men, and woman, in his squad thought about him. Surely, they could see the hate for the galaxy that occasional came across him, as well as the honor for those who had fought bravely to defend their homes. But what they couldn't possibly understand was his true nature. They might think that because he had displayed some honor to the fallen that he had morals and a code of honor. Ryan chuckled inside his head. If they thought that then they didn't know him. They most likely never would.

As usual, the day continued. There was some paperwork and drills to do. Overall the day was uninteresting. Finally, all their required work was finished and they had the rest of the day off. Ryan knew where they were going to spend it, the bar. He gave a mental shrug and followed Blackjack into the bar filled with patrons. It was called 'The Red Reek'. They all sat down at a table and began to order varying drinks.

"I'll take the Corellian Brandy." Called out Loran.

"Abrax Cognac for me." Said Hassar

Ryan decided that he might as well get a drink. He said in his slightly hoarse voice, "A glass of Whyren's Reserve." Whyren's Reserve was one of Ryan's favored liquors. It had a woody bite and was one of the best brands of Corellian whiskey.

As the group chatted, Ryan occasionally put in a word or smiled his crooked grin at some joke. He had lost the ability to form a true smile some time ago. The door of the bar opened to admit entrance to someone. Ryan looked over and saw a familiar face. But for him, seeing a familiar face meant so much more. The Twi'lek who had walked in glanced around. His eyes scanned the room with a practiced ease that bespoke the same type of profession as Ryan had formerly occupied. The Tw'leks eyes alighted on Ryan. The humanoid coolly put a hand in his cloak and began to walk towards the former mercenary. Ryan's hand found his pistol underneath the table and undid the clasp securing it in the holster.

"How good to see you again...Ryan Korr." Said the Twi'lek

Ryan kept his face almost emotionless and replied, "Can't say the same for you, Quin`tarus Kreen."

"I see your manners haven't changed." Said Kreen with a gleam in his eye.

"Specter, who is this?" Gates said with no little authority.

The former mercenary replied calmly, "An old...acquaintance."

Kreen gave a slightly menacing grin, "We were in the same line of business a few years back. I have a message for you, Korr."

"Oh yeah? Who from?"

Quin`tarus spoke each word, each syllable, with a slow doom, "Rivar Darr."

His heart felt like it had just stopped beating. Ryan's face was losing its serenity. It contorted slightly as his words came out with a tinge of rage and confusion, "No. I watched him die."

The Twi'lek waved a hand, "Yes, yes. You saw what you thought you saw. Rivar is alive. And, he, says, HI!" With the last word Kreen withdrew a blaster pistol from inside his clothes and aimed it at Ryan. The squad leaped backward and began to fumble for their various weapons. A burst of fire came from beneath the table, chewed its way through the wood, and blasted into the Twi'lek's brain. Kreen collapsed. He was dead before he hit the floor. Ryan holstered the weapon amid the shouts and screams from the various patrons of the 'Red Reek'. He took a sip of the Whyren's Reserve before getting up. It wasn't right to let good liquor go to waste. The former mercenary stood up and began to search the cadaver. The Twi'lek had been in the same mercenary group as Ryan. The former mercenary had no doubt that Kreen had been smarter than to simply walk in and try to shoot him, although the humanoid had been a little on the overconfident side. Within seconds, Ryan found what he was looking for. Attached to the Twi'lek's body was a belt and on that belt were five fragmentation grenades, each set to blow within a minute.

Ryan called out to the Squad's combat engineer, "Hassar, we have a problem here!"

The Zabrak rushed over to the dead body and immediately took over. Within fifteen seconds Hassar had deactivated the body bomb. Korr found a flimsi pad in the Twi'lek's coat that Kreen probably hadn't known about. Ryan read the flimsi pad.

Code: Select all

"Hello Ryan,
Its been a while. I am sure you are wondering how I am still alive. Well, I am just going to let that question eat away at you. We have unfinished business. You will pay for the death of my wife, Ryan. The wolves are coming.


There was no signature, but Ryan didn't need one to know that it was Rivar. The man he had thought dead was still alive. And Ryan's mercenary group, the Dark Wolves, were now after him. As Rivar had said, the wolves were coming.

V’rad’s offices were in the central building that dominated the spaceport. He quite liked the setup. Owning a spaceport had its advantages. There was the money he got from bribes. He smiled a Bothan’s grin, that bared sharp fangs and glanced over at the large safe that sat in the corner, oh yes, quite a bit of money. And for those who didn’t pay his bribes? Well, they were the ones who were dead and now their ships served V’rad. Such a wonderful setup.

He swiveled in his chair and spoke to the guard outside his door, “Have any ships come in today?”

“A couple, actually only two, Mr. V’rad.”

“Ah, good. What was their purpose?” Asked the greedy Bothan.

The guard checked his datapad, “The first was a smuggler craft. Their payment to use is supposed to come in tomorrow, before they leave. The second is not identified yet. Security is checking on it.”

As a Bothan, V’rad was naturally suspicious. He didn’t like unknowns and so he made it his purpose to find them out whenever possible. And if it wasn’t possible, to eliminate the unknown.

“Hm, have they contacted the pilot?”

“They are in the process.”

“Good.”

The Bothan sat back in his chair. Today would be just another day in the life of a criminal spaceport manager. Money to be brought in, smugglers to coerce. Just another day.

“What the kriff?!”

V’rad swiveled around in his chair, “What? What’s wrong?”

“We’re under attack! Someone just took out the outpost guards!”

The fur on V’rad’s back rippled. His breath caught for a moment. Who could be doing this? Which one of the people he had offended and betrayed would be coming after him in this place, his stronghold? The answer was one he didn’t want to think of.

“Do you have an identification on the ship?” He asked, his voice empty of emotion.

The Head Security guard looked V’rad straight in the eye, “Yes, sir. It’s a YT-1930.”

***

Ryan double checked his power level on his pistols. They still had another forty plus shots left. He triple checked his surroundings. Everything seemed to be clear. The guards were neutralized, no more were in sight. All Ryan needed to do now was get into the central building. That was easier said then done. With the outpost guards neutralized, he still had a lot of ground to cover. A private spaceport of this size and type probably had thirty to forty guards. Korr went with the higher estimate.

Some may have looked at Ryan’s moves and called them impulsive. They weren’t looking hard enough if they thought that. What else was he going to do? Sneak in? No, he couldn’t do that, there were too many security measures. Blow up the building with concussion missiles? Sure, he could do that, but what if V’rad wasn’t in there? And what if the Bothan had money in there? It would be vaporized. The thing was, Ryan was not just logical, he was practical. He took the simplest and most realistic measures to solve a problem. Korr was an expert marksman, he knew that. Put him up against forty ordinary beings and yes, he might get beaten up, but would he be able to beat them? If they didn’t come all at once, then yes, he should be able to beat them.

People didn’t understand Korr because they all thought in humane, idealistic, and in terms of getting away clean from a job. Korr didn’t think at all like that. His idealism was all about himself. Maybe that would change, he didn’t think so. Humane? Not really, if someone was in his way, they would die. He wouldn’t be unnecessarily bloody, or sadistic. It was practicality. Getting away clean from a job? Who was going to arrest him for killing everyone at this private spaceport? Not the NR, they didn’t have jurisdiction here. Neither did the NIF. In fact, Ryan didn’t know of any legal government within any important alliance that had authority on this planet. It was all between him and V’rad.

***

“Get those perimeters secure! I don’t want him in this building!” V’rad was yelling at the chief of security, Gnar.

Gnar nodded, his grey security uniform well used. He was an expert at his job. His ‘security’ detail was actually a mercenary group that V’rad had hired and called spaceport security. Their real name was the Inferno. They had seen action on fronts of various criminal wars. Most of them knew how to handle a blaster with a level of above average. The pay was pretty good and the work was easy. They were seeing action for the first time in a while, and the rust was showing. Gnar estimated at least six or seven of his detail were dead already. He was going to make sure whoever was attacking them payed the price. Apparently, V’rad knew who it was. And it sounded like there was only one. A ‘him’. And this ‘him’ had taken down seven of his guards.

“I’m on it, sir.”

He opened up a transmission to the perimeter guards and all of those on the lower levels of the central building.

“Attention: Inferno detail. We have an unknown personage inside the spaceport. Subject is hostile, has just incapacitated the outpost detail. Shield Team, take all necessary measures to secure the perimeter of Central Operations. Assault team, take the hostile out, Gnar out.”

***

Assault team locked and loaded. They were trained professionals, always ready to respond to exactly this type of situation. Handpicked by Gnar, they were all good marksmen, but they were trained to do more than just hit a target. They went in and eliminated.....fast.

The commander of the assault team, Commander Dauod, ex-military, big and burly Togorian, surveyed the detail. A livid scar traced its way across his cheekbone, a memento of a fight long past. He was first employed by Hutts in paramilitary actions, subjugating various smaller crime factions and coercing them to join the Hutt family he worked for by force. Then their little empire began to collapse, when the Hutt family crossed the wrong bounty hunter. They all died and he had to go and find a new job. The New Republic accepted him into their enlisted forces. But after several years of service, they rejected him, for violation of combat rules. All for obliterating an entirely unnecessary village. And then Gnar had found him and hired him.

Dauod had impressed Gnar with his combat capabilities. He led through fear and an iron will. The butt of his rifle was numbered with at least a hundred ticks, symbolizing the lives he had taken, and then he had lost count around that number. He had grown restless and irritable during these months of inactivity, punching around those smugglers was about all the action he got. But now there was an enemy to be found an killed. He surveyed his team. They all looked geared up and ready to go.
“Snipers, I want one of you on the tower and the other two on the refitting station. LGs you’re going to set up in three different positions. Juma, you’re behind that Sorosuub. Keis, you will provide a crossing line of fire behind the tool shed. Harun, behind the third refueling station. The rest of us will provide covering fire while you set up on your positions. Now MOVE!”
The team scrambled out of the central building and ran towards their positions, as Dauod and his five other riflemen provided immediate covering fire for any threat that popped up.

He had an idea. Maneuvering around the ships and buildings, Ryan rounded to one side of the central building and found what he had been looking for, a side entrance. With one pistol covering the door, Ryan opened it and stepped inside.

Upon entering he discovered that he was in a large room. There were a bunch of supplies in boxes. Maybe mechanical parts. Korr moved forward. It was a supply section. Replacement parts crowded shelves in boxes and crates. It was more of a garage of sorts. The entire complex was centered around this main building. There was the tower, the guard’s outpost, and then the berths for the ships, with various refueling lines and necessary equipment. But doubtless this was meant to be the mechanics workshop and now Korr could see that the entire wall could be raised so as to have a ship come in. Then the mechanics could set to work on it and repair it. But Ryan didn’t have time to waste on staring at mechanical parts. He took a step, and then heard a noise.

“Hey! I thought I told you guys to use the other door. Look man, I’ve got a family to feed. You just can’t come barging in here and take what you want! Pay at the desk, boss says so.”

The speaker was a human male, middle-aged, balding. He wore a mechanic’s grimy suit and carried a hydrospanner in one hand, a blaster pistol was at his hip and a com link in his belt. The man saw him. Ryan didn’t take a second to make a decision. He acted. The mechanic was suddenly staring into the barrel of the DE-10. He blinked. Korr depressed the trigger. The bolt hit him, upper right pectoral. He fell back onto the ground, a look of shock on his face. Ryan flicked the stun setting off on his pistol. The mechanic didn't deserve to die. Only those who stood in his way would be killed.

Stepping through a second doorway into the main building, Ryan found that he had now entered the central part of the building. He was guessing that V’rad’s offices were located somewhere on the second floor. In the center of everything. Right outside the door he found a stairwell, with an outlay of the building on it. V’rad’s offices should be located on the second floor. Korr walked up the stairwell, careful to keep his eyes on everything above and below him. The metal construction of the stairs rang softly as he walked up it. His heart was beating fast, he tried to get it under control, to steady it. The dull gray paint that covered the interior of the stairwell was peeling, blue tape lined the corners of the wall. It needed some refurbishing. Korr reached the top of the stairwell. Then he smelled something, what was that? The door to the second floor opened and Ryan was face-to-face with an Aqualish holding a paintsprayer. Korr reacted instantly. The barrel of his right-handed pistol smacked into the Aqualish’s throat, stopping a yell for help. A crack resounded as the left-handed pistol crashed into the Aqualish’s head. Korr grasped the Aqualish as it fell and settled it to the ground.

Ryan stood up and stared around. He was in a smaller room, in between the hallway and the stairwell. Peeking through a window in the door, his green eyes spied four guards standing in front of a door at the end of the hall, while other beings moved in and out of a couple doors that lined that hall. In all there appeared to be at least eight beings. On a remote planet, uncontrolled by either of the most dominate factions, with a spaceport that was solely controlled by him, V’rad had made a grave error. There was no one to stop Ryan, no one to come after him. No legal authorities held jurisdiction here. That was a mistake that V’rad would not live to regret. It allowed Ryan to do things, like this.

The door to the stairwell swung open. There was a sharp click and then a hissing noise. Something silver and fast shot out from the stairwell and straight at the guards at the end of the hall. One of them caught it in the throat. It stuck there like a strange flower, for one fraction of a millisecond, then it exploded. Orange and yellow flames wrapped around the guard. The other three fell to the ground screaming and writhing in agony, nerves raw and flesh seared by the heat of the blast. Then blaster bolts began to come streaming out through the stairwell. A female Cathar took three bolts to the chest and one through the head before she could recover from the shock of the explosion. The other three uninjured thugs ducked behind hallways. Ryan came diving out, he rolled once and then ducked into a door on the left. Plaster was shattered and blackened in the places he had been a second before. What he was in now seemed to be some sort of small accounting office for the Cathar he had just killed. Doubtless it was the place where V’rad had his henchmen count up their earnings. Perhaps money would be located somewhere in the building. The thought intrigued Ryan, but he would think more on that later.

Another door lead into an adjoining office. Ryan burst through it. A Trandoshan whirled on him, getting away with a partial blast with its carbine. A shockwave burst from Ryan’s SFOR, ripping the Trandoshan’s head, and part of the shoulders, from its body. Blood spattered the office wall behind the dead lizard, but not before Ryan felt a plasma bolt skimming his left arm as it burned away his shirt-sleeve and left the outer layer of skin charred and oozing blood.

Maneuvering around the body, Ryan strode towards the other door. He opened it, pointed his carbine around the corner, and fired two shots. When he came out he found that two guards lay on the floor. The first one, a tall man, with a drooping mustache and spiky black hair hadn’t had time to even squeeze the trigger. The shockwave had eaten through his chest, tearing out his heart and then going on to rip through the other guard’s arm, who was standing right behind him. Korr finished that one off, impassively. Ryan checked the power level on his carbine and moved towards the door at the end of the hall at a dead run, shouldering the carbine and withdrawing the DE-10 pistols as he went. Three bolts killed the guards who were still moaning in pain.

Reaching the door, Ryan placed two shots into the control panel and the door shuddered, allowing him to push it back with one hand, while the other covered the area in front of him. Head of Security, Gnar, saw the action and was quick to react. The head of guard security wasn’t a bad gunman himself, when Ryan came through the door he was able to squeeze off five rounds with his automatic slugthrower. The first skimmed Ryan's neck, opening up a thin cut. Three of the 52. cal rounds zipped through the coat Ryan wore, barely missing his torso. The final round ripped through the side of Ryan's thigh, missing the artery but leaving a bloody hole wear it had traveled. Ryan grunted as he collapsed to the ground, getting off one good shot before he fell. A red streak of plasma smacked Gnar in the face, snapping his head back. He was dead when he hit the floor. Korr took a second to assess the damage to his leg. It wasn't a vital wound, only just catching the outer edge of this thigh. He could go on, but if he didn't patch it up soon then he would be in trouble. Korr stood, grimacing through the pain, and walked into the next room, pistol held out in front of him. V'rad sat at his desk, with one hand casually pointing a pistol at Ryan. The blaster winked and Korr was punched in the chest, just below the sternum. He grunted, his brows coming together in a frown, as he fell to his knees. His hands hung as limp at his sides.

The Bothan was staring at his pistol. “Well, apparently I didn’t take enough steps to secure my safety. Doing things myself is so much easier.” V'rad winked at Ryan.

“Not nearly enough.” Ryan’s voice was harsh, but in pain. His green eyes flickered with what appeared to be dying fire.

V’rad’s eyes never left Ryan’s, “You know why I sent you to that Twi'lek, don't you?” The Bothan chuckled in amusement as he saw the pained rage evident in Ryan's face. "I'll tell you while you die there. See, I've been payed by someone who wants you dead, or alive. Quite a lot actually." The Bothan patted a safe that stood near his desk. "But that's not what is important. What is important is that you took a gamble. And guess what? You lose Ryan." The Bothan grinned with his cruel, feline features. "Oh, and you know who was paying me? An old friend of yours. Dogora the Hutt. How do you feel about that, Ryan?"

Red plasma burned through V'rad's trachea. Ryan dropped his pistol back to his side as he got to his feet. "Like I want you to shut up." The burn hole in his torso only served to show the body armor he wore beneath.

V'rad's eyes were wide and he gurgled in articulately as he dropped his blaster and grasped at his throat with both hands.

"Looks like I didn't lose after all." Ryan smirked.

Then V'rad's eyes narrowed and his hands moved to grasp a comlink on his desk. The Bothan pushed only a single button on the comlink, and then he gurgled with inarticulate laughter and collapsed onto the the desk. But he wasn't dead yet. With his own fingers sticky with blood, V'rad informed Ryan one last time as he wrote his final message in red. Then there was more gurgling laughter that was choked off as V'rad's eyes rolled into the back of his head. Dead. Ryan felt a chill cross him as he read the message scrawled in blood.

You Lose