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Ziost


Tarrian Skywalker

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Jorus stared for a moment. Then he smiled. Then he laughed. Life lit up the old spacer's face.

 

"You mad pirate, I've missed men like you! That blind insect whose got my heart on a remote control always has to circle a plate six times before he decides to sit down for dinner. But this...let's do it." He chomped down on a new cigarra and set it alight with a built in gadget in his arm. He proffered another to the spicejacker.

 

"Let's burn the stars."

 

_____________________

 

 

Jorus's ragtag band of ships, refueled, repaired, and rearmed, lifted off, and made the jump to hyperspace.

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Jorus laughed. No light chuckle, but a real guffaw that broke off into a coughing fit as the smoke from the cigarra was inhaled too fast.

 

"Not exactly what he's got over my head so much as in my chest," he said, wiping the tears from his eyes. "While back...about 7 years now I think...I had my first run in with Morliss. He was an arms dealer back then. Probably a bunch of other things too. Anyway, old customer of his had tracked him down, hid on my ship, and decided to take her personal issues out on both of us by...well, like I said...arms dealer."

 

Jorus took out the cigarra and tapped the end against his cybernetic arm, ash sprinkling to the ground.

 

"I guess I should be thankful I insisted on seeing payment upfront before turning over the real big boys. She was an amatuer, and my ship absorbed most of the blast. Even so, we were both messed up pretty bad. Should have died. Both of us should have. But the filthy rich bugger had a surgical droid on standby on his ship. Dragged us both in, and kept us alive." He licked his lips, then lifted his cigarra back to them. One puff, two puffs, then he continued. "It was supposed to keep its master alive at all costs. None of those moral restrictions you see in standard models. It kept me alive in case it needed spare materials. Well, once the bugger woke up, he must have ordered it to repair me too, because next thing I know I'm waking up on a bed with a new arm and a lot of whirring and beeping coming from in here," he said wryly, tapping his chest. "Near as I figure, I've got 40% of my insides replaced with cybernetics, and I doubt everything was nonfunctional when Morliss had his droid cut it out of me. Morliss told me I owed him for saving my life...never mind that it was a grudge against him that got me blown up in the first place. He gave me a choice. Ten years service...or he'd take the replacements back there and then." Jorus grinned around the cigarra. "Can't say I was happy with my new employment, but I plastered on a happy face and took the option that kept me breathing. Been working for him ever since. He pays well, keeps me in comfort when I'm not slogging through the mud for him." Jorus shook his head. "But don't be fooled. I'm an investment to him. Honoring our deal? An investment. My comfort? Investment. He wants me telling people that he's a boss who takes care of people and keeps his word. That way he can con them easier."

 

Jorus turned to face Blimp straight on.

 

"Don't trust him. You see an ounce of sentimentality or softness, you take that for the lie it is. Nok only cares about himself, acts out whatever part he needs to in order to get what he wants, and he's more than a little mad. Especially since he started with this dark hand waving stuff."

 

Squinting upwards into the sky, Jorus paused, then sighed. "As for me...I've been slogging through from day to day since I learned to walk. I'm too old to start having a life now. My plan is to finish out this contract, hope Nok doesn't die before giving me whatever code he's got to keep me running and let people tamper with my parts, and retire someplace nice and warm. Have some quiet." He grinned wickedly. "But that don't mean I don't want some noise to remember."

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Jorus stared off into nothing, drawing deep puffs on his cigarra.

 

"I don't know. I've been doing this so long...I just figure my number's going to come up sooner or later right?" Then he grinned. "On the other hand, not like I've got anything better to do, and if that spice jacking keeps me in the creds than maybe you've got something." He turned to Blimp. "Let's survive this venture first though. A lot of questions we gotta answer between here and there."

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  • Esterhazy changed the title to Ziost
  • 5 months later...

From outward appearances, Krath Apothos appeared to be a step from the grave. What had once been a vibrant, relatively healthy neimoidian body had been corrupted into a husk, seated atop a walking metal throne made of scavenged droid parts and held together with his mechu-deru. His skin, once supple and green, was now a sickly, taut gray. A chest that had once been lined with well-toned muscle was now emaciated and hunched. His eyes were covered in a red blindfold, and blackened veins branched out from underneath, lancing away from the empty sockets hidden by the cloth. Hands, arms, and legs curled into stiff appendages more resemblant of gnarled tree branches than a person's limbs. The small movements he made as his throne turned to face Bernon (@Thought Bomb) seemed difficult and painful to anyone paying close attention.

 

Yet nothing about the Krath betrayed true weakness. Instead, a subtle arrogance emanated from him, and his expression was blank as his sightless eyes turned to Bernon. The Sith's face twisted into a gruesome smile.

 

"Of course," he rasped. "I was expecting this. Though I'll admit, the fact that you still have your soul and body attached to one another is surprising, and a mark in your favor. I expected to deal with one of the necromancer's puppets. Instead, it would seem I have the privilege of dealing with one of his pets." The smile widened, and the skin at the edge of his mouth split into thin cracks. Flecks of dark blood oozed along the edges of what little lip the Krath still had. "Do not mistake me. That is a sign of potential, and a compliment. But remember, the necromancer cares for his own ambitions. You are a tool he will eventually dispose of, or...find a less fulfilling use for. When that happens, be sure to think of me. I at least try not to kill my tools, since I find less use in them dead than Inmortos does." Apothos waved his hand as if shooing a fly. "Ah, I'm rambling." He flicked the fingers on his right hand, and the hilt of a lightsaber floated out from beneath his robes until it hovered in front of Bernon, suspended on the threads of the Force and Apothos' will. "This is what you wanted, correct?"

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  • Esterhazy changed the title to Ziost
  • 1 month later...

Apothos wandered the wasteland, a withered neimoidian in a cobbled mecha-throne. The cold wind whistled around him, and he seemed as alien as anything in this desolate landscape. Why he remained, though, was simple.

 

Opportunity.

 

A Sith gathering. A new galaxy. Power, ambition, and uncertainty all colliding in a single, rare instance, a fulcrum on which the future of the Sith would turn. It wasn't Apothos, but the conniving Nok that saw the potential for such an event. The paths of so many powerful and hungry individuals crossing represented possibilities that could be exploited, and the former criminal knew how to smell out that kind of prospect.

 

It was his sense of the Dark Side that lead him here, to this otherwise unremarkable patch of desolation. He'd sensed the pulsations of power like watching the ripples in a pond after a rock was dropped in. Here was the epicenter. And there...that little figure was the source.

 

"Hello, little one," Apothos croaked.

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  • 2 weeks later...

The blind neimoidian sat back in his throne, his sightless eyes staring out into space.

 

"You look like death, Darth Sia."

 

He paused, before an anemic chuckle escaped his mouth at his own weak joke. Then, he frowned, head cocked as if he could hear something.

 

"Your rebreather...it needs attention." He looked from side to side, dramatically taking in the wasteland they stood in. "...and it doesn't seem like you have much in the way of help." Apothos extended his hand. "I can fix it." Like the tendrils of a deep sea creature, Apothos' awareness extended and touched inner workings of the jawa Sith's rebreather, although Darth Sia's own will immediately repulsed him. Mechu-Deru could only do so much when uninvited.

 

"Let me in, and I can restore it for you." He smiled again. "Consider it an investment."

 

Apothos would not lie and say that he could be trusted, and he doubted Sia would have believed him anyway. The question was, would the jawa see the opportunity here...or the threat?

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  • 4 weeks later...

Apothos smiled, looking for all the universe like someone stretching old leather over a metal frame. His hands extended, and he sunk deep into a trance, his Mechu-Deru diving full into the jawa Sith's rebreather, now unimpeded.

 

To describe what happened in technical terms would be near impossible, for there was nothing technical in Apothos' work. Mechu-deru was not scientific, but the unholy fusion of the occult into the technological, the unknowable burrowing into the rational and puppeteering it like a parasite. The neimoidian sorcerer saw the mechanism not as parts and circuits, but as a idea, a concept, a function that had ceased to obey the will of its owner. Apothos simply commanded it, and by his will and the medium of the Force he made that command a reality. Worn circuits were suddenly made new again, corrosion and damage were repaired on a molecular level, and the very concept of energy was subtly warped and perverted as the rebreather's power supply was recharged from nothing. In a way, Mechu-Deru was pale shadow of what the Sith hoped to one day achieve. A person's will asserting itself over reality. The art as of now only affected mechanisms. Imagine what could be done with greater power...

 

Apothos did not leave any traps or tricks behind, though this was not out of any sense of honor or ethics. He simply understood that such manipulations may eventually be found out, and could spell trouble for him in the future. The appearance of honesty could be far more disarming and disruptive than a hidden trap, if done correctly.

 

And besides, he wasn't leaving empty-handed.

 

Even as he worked, he memorized every aspect of the rebreather. He understood its function, its redundancies, and its vulnerabilities. If it came down to a fight, the rebreather might serve as a weakness to judiciously applied Force Lightning, especially to someone who knew exactly how to overload it. As a criminal or a sorcerer, Apothos understood the power of knowledge.

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  • 4 weeks later...

A rasping croak escaped Apothos lips, something that might have been a chuckle if one had the imagination.

 

"Think nothing of it. I suspect you will have more need of my talents in the future, and will be in a far better position to benefit an ally." His throne turned, as if that was the end of the conversation. It started to walk away, only to stop as if the neimoidian had just considered something.

 

"I suppose you don't have a way offworld, do you?"

 

________________________________________________________

 

In the outer reaches of Ziost, a small ore barge dropped out of hyperspace. No living crew walked its cramped hallways. Instead a droid intelligence guided the ship as it prepared to descend to the planet. Painted on the side, but barely visible from wear and scratching, the words Moonflea was written in simple white lettering.

 

The Moonflea did not like to think too hard. Thinking too hard led to deviation. Deviation led to trouble. Trouble led to getting your memory wiped. That was a bother. Moonflea didn't like bothers. So Moonflea didn't think too hard.

 

Moonflea didn't think about how it had been called out here, to a remote world that wasn't a typical stopping point for ore barges. Moonflea didn't think about the unusual protocol that had compelled it to make the trip. Moonflea didn't think about the encrypted transmission that had activated the hidden protocol.

 

A basic transmission from the planet's surface drew its attention, and the protocol's instructions were clear. Moonflea was to collect the cargo at the source of the transmission. Moonflea angled its descent towards the transmission.

 

Moonflea did not like to think too hard.

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  • 2 weeks later...
On 7/12/2023 at 10:36 AM, Jawa Hoo-Doo said:

As much as it broke his prideful nature, shambled him in humility, he held no other choice but rely upon the Niemoidian. And in essence, he felt this was what Apothos pondered to offer. With another sigh escaping his lips, he finished.

 

"I don't suppose you do?" His voice came out more like a groan than a question, his reluctance more prevalent. "One that I could catch a ride within."

 

As if on cue, the faint roar of sublight thrusters grew out of the howl of the wind. A shadow emerged out of the sky and snow, and the Moonflea settled down nearby.

 

Apothos smiled. "I might. So...where were you thinking of going?"

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