A battered, skeletal warship stalked in the shadow of an urban planet, silent and invisible. It was the Iscillus, drifting in low orbit around Hrasskis and positioning for its next attack. All throughout the dark, ghostly vessel, droid soldiers and automated vehicles whirred quietly in standby mode. They rested in their collapsed forms along the walls and organized in perfect ranks in the hangars, behind sliding doors, and stacked on top of each other like the disposable weapons they were. The only two living beings on the ship were aboard the bridge: Darth Tyraal and his Chiss slave, Viscera. The Lord stood atop a platform with arms by his sides, deep sleeves and flowing robes melding in the dark to become a draping column of black. Graying hair fell to the nape of his neck, and he stared out of the segmented viewport. The blackness outside would have been indistinguishable from the ship's walls if not for the dots of white and the large sphere of slate grey that hung in empty space.
''Tell me, Viscera…" Darth Tyraal spoke plainly into the gloom, ''…what do you hate?''
"The Republic, the Jedi and you,'' Viscera responded while kneeling to the master, who didn't bother to look at her when speaking. Her reddish eyes scanned the metallic floor beneath her, strands of deep brown hair running down to her back, around her face and into her vision. Her blue-grey skin, decorated with inky patterns, was even darker in the void of the bridge, the only light blinking scarcely on the far walls from droids on standby and automated consoles. She dressed in the light armor of a bounty hunter mixed with the scarcity of a dancer's wear.
"Why do you hate me, Viscera?'' His voice was rumbling and dead.
''You own me.'' Her voice was quiet, nearly a whisper, but sharp as the blade sheathed horizontally at the small of her back. Her status as property was a fact, which she both hated and accepted.
''Why do I own you?'' The Sith Lord was a statue of despair, standing still as a stone and uttering the query as if he had done so before.
''I am broken." A hint of admittance accompanied the statement and the bite from earlier was gone. Viscera's expression twisted slightly into a scowl. No matter how many times she said it, part of her screamed in protest. Her hands became fists and the Force warmed around her. Her master either didn't notice or, more likely, didn't care.
''Indeed,'' He continued in a dull drone that seemed to mimic the ambient noise of the ship. ''You have passion, you have strength, but you are not free,'' the Sith Lord explained to his apprentice for what was surely not the first time.
"I am incomplete,'' Viscera conceded, causing the vengeance inside of her to shriek another objection. But not for long. Her power grew every day and besides Darth Tyraal, there was no one in the galaxy she feared. Soon even he would fall to her blade- a day she dreamed of often.
''No.'' The Dark Lord rejected her dryly and idled atop his platform. ''You are whole for my purposes.'' The purposes included murder, destruction, and something to take his anger out on. ''However, you will never take the title of 'lord' or 'lady' in your case.''
"I will kill you, master." The edge returned to her speech. Her proclamation was fierce and daring, which her master did not care for.
''Do not speak what you cannot fulfill," the Sith Lord snapped and shot a glance over his shoulder.
''The Force is all you have.'' Viscera took comfort in that, her statement a whispered glaive of certainty. ''It will not protect you forever.''
''Is that so?'' Tyraal asked without question while turning to face Viscera fully. He was a pillar of dark, save for the pale skin of his face and the mysterious blue-violet of his eyes, bright yet distant, a pair of spherical nebulae. His glare was slight, and his robes hung still when he issued the challenge. ''You may test that assertion, if you like.'' He was motionless yet fluid, unarmed yet wickedly powerful.
Viscera's brow tightened, and she flashed a glare up at the robed figure standing on the platform above her. Her hand flew back to the sheath at her waist; her sword was in her grip in a second and she pulled it from her belt quickly. White flashed and the weapon extended, three feet of blade drawing from one foot of sheath. She leaped powerfully and deftly transferred from a kneeling position to a lunge.
Tyraal's hand twitched. Viscera froze in the air. She hung there, her silvery sword glinting only inches away from the Sith Lord. Her clothes were stiff, her hair was still, and even her breath had been caught in the Force. The next moments were lingering, silent and still. Viscera thought her master might hold her there until she suffocated, a pathetic and undignified death, until she saw the nebula of his eyes shift downward. Her body followed his gaze and she crashed into the floor hard.
The edge of the stairs dug into her face, ribs and knees, cracking bones and spilling blood. Quickly after, Tyraal raised Viscera back to his eye level. Blood leaked from her mouth and she hung weakly in the Force of his sight, still scowling, still clutching her arcsaber. That is, until his swirling blue eyes flickered once and flung her fast and far away from him and the platform. Viscera tumbled end over end onto the catwalk where she lost her sword and collapsed. Her breath quickened and her chest heaved as she immediately tried to get up. On her periphery she saw tiny arcs of electric blue between her master's fingers. The sight made her shut her eyes tight and turn away instantly.
''No more!" she cried for mercy. "I yield.'' The Chiss woman trembled and her breath shook, defiance overtaken by fear. Her cringing lasted until she no longer heard the energetic crackle, forced to wonder whether or not she would be spared. Viscera gathered herself into a kneeling position, angry with how much control Tyraal had over her, to see him turned around and facing the starry black once more.
"I would rather not damage you right before sending you on an assignment.'' The caring in his voice was strangled by its plainness.
"I understand, master. What would you have of me?'' Viscera asked of her owner.
''Descend on Hrasskis at these coordinates.'' A console flickered to the right of her at that time and she turned to read the details. ''There is a shipbuilding outpost there. Commandeer their metal working frigates,'' Tyraal instructed.
''It will be done,'' she breathed. She was eager, but not without patience, thanks to her master, who was always on his own time.
''Leave at once.'' The Lord was done with her for now.
She stood, silhouetted in the bridge's dim light while picking up her arcsaber and returning it to her compact sheath. It which gave a piercing whir as matter displacement allowed the too-long blade to fit inside. After a metallic shink the only sounds came from the dull ambiance of the ship and the fading click of Viscera's boots as she departed.