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"...He makes you say that, doesn't he?" A brief pang of sympathy for the droid flickered through me. I'd dealt with puffed up bosses before, and unlike me this droid didnt have the hands to cave their face in when they stepped on that last nerve. Fine...I'd already "bought the hangar" so to speak, I might as well take the ship that went with it, as smelly as it might be. Besides, my last deal with a small, hairy, fast talking rodent had gone...reasonably well. "Alright. He better be worth it." I was already doubting he was. The droid hadn't even promised hard credits, just information and "services". Well, if this guy was some kind of info broker, he might be able to point me in the direction of some bounties on this dust choked oven of a planet. I couldnt be the only one who'd thought a remote little world like this would be a good place to hole up. Worst came to worse, I could dunk the little gremlin in a tank of soap water and leave, paid in full for my work with the good, warm feelings I'd get from that. Now I kinda hoped he didn't hold up his end. _________________________ After one quick scaling up the side of the monastery, and the droid leading me to the hole its master had presumably used (I swear I could still smell him), I was inside. And this...was not a monastery. This was a chop shop. Half disassembled speeder bikes hung from the ceiling in chains. Burly men and women of about a dozen different species sweated and grunted as they cut through metal and pulled out the guts of the vehicles I'm positive had not been acquired legally. A twinge of nostalgia welled up for a moment, happy times spent crawling over excavator engines and digging through scrap heaps semi covered in snow playing out in my head before I sent them packing to the back of my brain. Time to be going. "HEY!!!" A deep, phlegmy voice boomed over the racket of the work stations. "NEW GIRL! GET OVER HERE AND HOIST THIS THING!" I glanced towards the source of the noise to find a large chevin beckoning me over. Im pretty sure he was angry, although with that much face it was hard to read his expression. I complied, which might seem odd given I'd flattened the side of a guard's skull a few minutes ago for just stepping on me, but the difference was that now I was on the job. Professionalism was key, and I could use the practice. Plus it was easier than dealing with the racket he might make if I ignored him. "This," as it turned out was a modified swoop bike that looked like it had more thrusters bolted on than some starfighters. It was a miracle it was in one piece, and not spread over the course of a mile along with the galaxy's longest red stain. The chevin was trying to hoist it down onto a workbench, and struggling with the monstrosity's criminal lack of proper weight distribution. I took the other end, and after a moment's wrestling and a few choice, muttered words, we got it down. "Thanks," he said, wiping his brow with an oily cloth. "Yeah," I said, not sure what else to add. "So...boss, I gotta-" "Shove off it, i know you dont work for me." My expression must have been telling, because he chuckled and elaborated. "Lady, you're pale as bone and wearing a black overcoat on a planet with two suns. A short circuited gonk droid could tell you were an offworlder." "Then...why-" "I needed a hand." His gaze narrowed. "But I dont need trouble. So you came in the front door, agreed?" A smile crept onto my face at the cantankerous foreman's guff. I nodded. He thumbed towards the rear wall. "Stairs are over there." I nodded once more, and left him to his work. Alright...let's find that "magnificent" jawa.

With a twinge of regret the solace in the back of her mind departed. It was almost sorrowful in its leaving. Shocking in its absence, and disastrous for the future. In its departing wake there was only silence, like the last toll of the church bells on Zinthos which had rung until the silver castings had cracked. The clappers making a hollow and dead sound as the missiles fell from the sky like petals of arathium roses. The same fear that had left her to cower into her mother’s breast, now tricked in behind her ears. The same doubt that she would never see tomorrow, and what a tomorrow it would have been. There would have been lilies in the springtime, and an early morning mass at the cathedral. And peace. Was that what she had fought for so long to achieve? That dream of a frightened little girl screaming into her mother’s skirts? Or the dream of an equally frightened Sith apprentice? Or the crying stormtrooper in a battle she had no control over? Signing her name over the line of a treaty while Jedi and Rebels laughed behind her back? Dooming her people into a government that would never succeed. How that fear had driven her. From senate to rising star of the remnant. From faction leader to claimant to the galactic throne. And how many that stood in her way now lay before her in their graves. Grinning skulls that would welcome her with arms of bone into the fastness of the grave. Her name joining those of Tenebris, Starlisk, Darkfire, Cadan, and Sikaot. Carved in the granite of some war memorial that would be unnoticed a generation from now. The memorial garden used more for picnics and play than for solemn ceremonies. A glance at the readout told her that the fleet battle was going as expected. An orderly loss. And Nar Shaddaa on fire. Billions of lives coming to their end in the city below her. And perhaps that would be her legacy. Another failed rebellion, that resulted in only death and destruction for trillions of lives. Fighting for an idea they couldn’t even define. She had no further legacy than that. She had no children and no claimants to carry her name. Nothing to offer the galaxy but her life. She looked once more towards the viewscreen and the hulking super star destroyer that was outlined against the fiery red of Nar Shaddaa. Then she looked back to her crew. All silent, all standing at attention. She gave them a crisp salute that carried with it the weight of a dozen generations of Imperial officer academies. “It was my pleasure to serve beside you. Please use the aft escape pods. I will not be joining you.” She let the salute drop away, and she walked towards the doors and towards the Sith Lord that waited on the other side.

The explosion of the door being blown off it’s hinges and slamming into the opposite wall rang in the smoke-filled air. ”That didn’t take long.” Gunnery Sergeant Benjamin Wood grumbled as he turned and let loose a burst of bright red carbine fire in the direction of the sound and inevitable onslaught of Mandalorian invaders. “Hurry it up boys!” He urged the others. It was hardly needed. They had heard the door being blown off the hinges and knew what that’d mean. With Benjamin tucked in an alcove across the hall, Steve crouched in the janitorial closet, peering around the corner into the smoke-filled hall. His carbine hung ablut his neck as he thumbed a pair of grenades at his belt. Behind him, Rags and Christoph feverishly pulled chunks of drywall free, it’s dust mingling with the smoke in the air; their breathing ragged with the effort. It did not take long before a lair of Mandalorian super-soldiers materialized from the smoke, their weapons belching laser fire down the hallway. Had the Scouts not been able to crouch behind cover, even with their Imperial issued armor, they’d have been done for. Speed. That is what they were built for. Prolonged trench-fighting was a task for the Army, the Imperial Marines. A gout of flame tore through the thick air. Benjamin winced as he diverted his eyes, his HUD scrambling to adjust to the sudden changes in temperature and light. Inside the deceptively spacious and packed janitorial closet, Rags grunted as Christoph elbowed him suddenly. “The heck bro?! We’re in the same team, I thought.” He stopped his complaint as a chunk of drywall fell from his gloved hand noting the reason his teammate had elbowed him. “….ooh!” His voice elevating in realization. ”Boom.” Christoph chuckled as he kicked an exceptionally rusted can coated with a variety of caustic and explosive gas labels. There were dozens of them, only the most potent and dangerous cleaners available for the Imperial Remnant. It did not matter the environmental cost, floors had to be kept clean. The sound of gunfire at their six as the Mandalorians began to press down the hall told the sarcastic pair of soldiers all they needed to know. Time was of the essence. Hauling weapons and personnel files to a preordained rendezvous point was not going to happen. It was time for plan B. Quickly stooping, Rags began to hand bottles and buckets, containers of caustic, flammable, explosive, poisonous chemicals through his arms to Christoph. The second Scout popped, twisted and otherwise removed the caps, opening the containers to the air. He tossed them through the hole, blanketing the cabinets and files. Chemicals began to mix, steaming and smoldering as they interacted; and still the duo kept pouring them on. The chemicals ate at the metal, the walls, the floors. All of it began to disintegrate at the touch of the fumes. Even Christoph began to cough through his helmet-contained respirator. As the Mandalorians and their flames advanced, Steve sprung into action. Their weapons were having little to no effect; maybe this would. Maybe it would stop them, maybe it would slow them down for a minute. With his thumbs, the Chiss yanked the pins from a shock grenade and a sonic grenade. He threw the ionic shocker first. A moment later the screamer followed. With any luck, the Mandos’ high tech suits would be frazzled enough by the rapidly expanding electronic scrambling field. The screamer would do it’s job after without the protections of technological sound-dampeners. Nodding Benjamin kept his head tucked behind cover. He knew the play. He swung his carbine in the hall and sprayed, laying down a barrage of suppressive fire. The explosions followed momentarily and the gout of flames ceased as the invaders faded back into the smoke. In the closet Rags grunted, “Thats our cue. With any luck both file rooms’ll get it.” “And Steve will finally get the bath he’s been needing” Christoph smiled as both he and Rags shoved the barrels of their rifles through the hole and fired off several rounds igniting the vapors. Leaping towards the hallway, the Scouts grabbed Steve and pulled him with them as a caustic explosion ripped through the closet and shook the storage room. ”Time t’go Gunny!” Rags shouted, the glee in his voice only slightly out of place. The Scouts picked themselves up and scurried down the hall away from the Mandos. Klaxons began to blare as the in-house fire suppression system began to regurgitate choking suppressive foams and water from above filling the already smokey air with even more debris.

Cassandra defended herself admirably. Even in his current state, Darth Mavanger could appreciate that. Had it not been for the walls limiting her mobility, the fight would have very likely gone on for longer, and the False Empress would have been given a chance to escape. She expertly parried, redirected, and dodged his attacks in a masterful display of footwork, agility, and swordsmanship, right up until the end. Like he though, she ducked to the side to avoid one blade, and stepped right into the path of another. The ship screamed as a metal blade made a hole in the durasteel wall, blood coating the other side as it pinned her to the wall. It was an awful sound, as though the room around them mourned for the Imperial Knight's final moments. Cassandra, the first of his many hurdles, the Imperial Knight who had thwarted his defense of Kuat when he was but an apprentice, now struggled for breath, mere inches away from him. He leaned forward, into her her as he caught his breath. She still had life. the fog of rage and vengeance was lifting, and his senses came back to him. The voice was back. The guilt. The death and destruction that he had caused. Even now, with Cassandra dying inches away from him, by his hand, he was not satisfied. The pit was still there. The hole in his heart, the loneliness of his path of vengeance. He placed a hand on her shoulder, looking at her blindfolded eyes, looking for an answer. "Will the pain ever stop?" he whispered, agony creeping into his voice. But she was gone now. His question was left unanswered, and again he was alone. He looked over at the turbolift, retrieving his blade from the wall and Cassandra's corpse, guiding her gently to the ground. His forces were dead. His guards were dead. Cassandra was dead. This was the destiny of those who surrounded him. Whether they be friend or foe, all that followed him for long was death. And death was still to come, a fact he knew from what he was going to do next.

Rru took the blaster and shoved it deep into his flowing robes. The shackles were uncomfortable on multiple levels, mentally and physically, even if he knew they were all a ruse. He stared lovingly at Rose for a moment, a warmth glowing in his heart at the thought of jumping back into action beside her. He was only called back to reality by her harsh words as she urged him forward, a captured prisoner. Chaos hung in the air as they easily made it through the front doors without issue. It had been easy, too easy. How was it that these offworlders had ever been able to take ahold here? Playing the part Rru yowled in his native Tusken pitch at the priest who addressed them, only to receive a solid clip from the butt of Rose’s rifle to the back of the head. He would have been cranky had it not been warranted in their play. As such, he welcomed it, relished it even as he felt the guidance of his ancestors flood his mind. As he stumbled forward, the Tusken noted the shifty nearby acolyte. Was he going to be taken? Escorted to the gluttonous overlord the Jawa had promised? The Tusken Raider crashed into the Lutrillian knocking the chirping comlink from his hand as they both fell to the floor. In an instant, amidst the flurry of bodies and the rough hewn sandy robes of both the false-bantha-worshipper and true-son-of-Tatooine, Rru’ was yanked to his feet by his supposed Mandalorian captor; but not before the potential saboteur lay unmoving and unconscious on the floor, the consciousness choked from his throat in the momentary frackas; a deft application of nerve pressure and inhibited bloodflow.