They called him the Prince.

A powerful lord, he ruled whole star systems. He amassed the largest mercenary army the galaxy had ever seen, and gathered a fortune in gold and credits. The wealth of a Sun, it was often called. No one is quite sure how he rose to power, or even who he really was.

All they say is that he was set to rule the entire galaxy. One of the only non-force-sensitive men to even come close.

Then… he disappeared.

His empire collapsed. The army receded. The fortune disappeared. Nothing was left of the Prince or his actions. It was as if he'd never existed. But nothing can ever truly cease to exist. There are always remnants.

A few years after the disappearance, perhaps twenty, perhaps a hundred, a starship was purchased from a second-rate dealer on the planet of Alderaan. Purchased using a large amount of gold.

Not credits; gold. Gold that traced back to the Prince's Empire, using a certain texture and carat that only the Prince had ever used.

The fortune still existed.

Now, many scholars before me would disagree with the claim I make in the prose above, but I would argue differently. The first concern has to do with the relevance of the texts regarding the…

"And it drones off into logistical nonsense from there. Most exhausting. But that's not the point. The point is that it does exist. The Prince's fortune is still out there!" The man known as Thatch rambled excitedly. "It exists!" He repeated vigorously, unable to stop a smile from forming on his face.

"So what?"

Thatch glared at the other man who had spoken. The two of them were alone in a small room, dimly lit from the hallway, with only a heavy oak desk separating them. The air was musty, and there was the oddest stench of rotten Colicoid eggs. Boxes and boxes of files filled any spare space there was, each wearing a thick veil of dark dust.

The other man, who had, since Thatch had entered a few minutes ago, been burrowed inside one of his many files boxes, finally looked up, aware of a certain silence, and noticed Thatch's glare.

"Look, mate," The man began, pulling himself up to deal with Thatch, "A lot of things 'exist'. But that doesn't mean they are at all possible to find. I heard nothing in your little speech that would indicate where this fortune went. It's a dead end, give up."

"That's not an option." Thatch responded, crossing his arms. "I don't just 'give up' as you put it. I know it's out there. Trust me." This was not the response Thatch had expected when he'd come in here; to the headquarters of the Imperial Reclamation Service. He'd have thought they would have loved to get their hands on a lost fortune. Instead, the receptionist has sent him here, to this man who was just treating him like some run-of-the-mill loon.

The man looked curiously at Thatch, as if examining a very, very ugly bug. "Interesting…" He muttered, before turning back to his files. His voice coming out muffled, he said, "You don't have a lead. I can't help you. Come back when you have one." One of his arms waved generally towards Thatch, dismissing him from the room.

"Not an option, James." That was not Thatch speaking. James, head still in the file boxes, shot up, panicked.

"Minister!" He exclaimed, standing to attention. His faded and torn uniform looked woefully inadequate compared to the man who had just walked in. This new man, the Minister, was dressed in a spotless uniform of a greyish color. Rank was printed on his right breast, and golden epaulets hung from his shoulders. Hands seemingly glued behind his back, the man was a model of Imperial dominance.

Which was probably why he was the Minister of Reclamation.

"James…" The Minister sighed, shaking his head, "What did you do to your uniform?"

"Acquired while on duty, sir. Helping excavate the remains of a Sith ruin on Balmorra. The local Colicoids had a problem with our work. We…" James grinned suggestively, "Um… came to blows over it." Mouth opening slightly in surprise, it hit Thatch. That was where that pungent Colicoid egg odor had come from.

"And you didn't clean it?" The Minister asked in a tired voice that suggested he already knew the answer.

"Well…" James hesitated, "Sir… I didn't think it was that important."

"And what about this?" The Minister redirected, gesturing towards Thatch, having given up hope on domesticating James.

"Wild goose chase," Came the dismissive response, "Not worth our time."

"Excuse me?" Thatch snapped, taking a step towards James. "My information is incredibly reliable. The fault here doesn't lie with me." This elicited a quick glare from James, who had now relaxed from his earlier stance into a lean against the wall.

Holding up a hand, the Minister silenced the pair before it became heated. "Please," He said, in a low quiet voice that radiated power. Thatch now understood how this man had become Minister. "Don't waste my time, either of you, with your petty arguments." He held their gaze, the pair of them, until they both had to look away. "Now, you," He said, pointing at Thatch, "What's your name?"

"Thatch, sir. Thatch Jones." The 'sir' flowed naturally into the sentence, Thatch barely even realized he'd used it.

The Minister mouthed 'Thatch' distractedly, as if concerned as to why someone would name a child that, before continuing, "Alright, Mr. Jones, tell me about this 'wild goose chase'"

"Sir! I told you, this is a waste-" Blurted James, taking a step forward and almost falling over one of his file boxes.

"Shut up, Seeker!" The Minister snapped, raising his voice. If he was commanding before, he was inarguable now. His tone brooked absolutely no argument.

"Yes, sir." James, spoke slowly, lowering himself down onto his seat.

"Continue, Mr. Jones."

Thatch, still a little stunned by what had just happened, shook himself and took a deep breath. Then he began. "Yes, sir. Allow me to start at the beginning, with the Prince."

"Please do." The Minister spoke, pulling over one of the larger file boxes and sitting down on it, his back straight as a board. It was a stark contrast with James, who had already begun sorting through his file box again. "Seeker. Pay attention. Perhaps you missed something." James pulled himself back up, a glare in his eyes, and slouched back in his chair, paying, at least, remote attention.

"The Prince." Thatch repeated, the glint he'd had earlier coming back into his eyes. "Was a King. It was a couple thousand years ago, just after the Great Hyperspace War had concluded. He rose to power using a series of positioned insurgencies in several smaller systems just outside the Core. Mercenary armies were his blunt force, loyal agents his precise tools. He took control of the whole cluster, with time. He controlled around five hundred planets before his power plateaued."

Holding up a hand, the Minister spoke as Thatch reached a natural pause. "You said it was near the Core, yes?" Not letting Thatch answer the rhetorical, the Minister continued, "A power that placed, with that much of a base, would have fought with the Republic. That soon after the Great Hyperspace War, the Republic wouldn't tolerate any threats to their power base. One of the two would have declared war. And wars have their victors. Given what I've heard, the Prince's Empire would win. Easily. So," The Minister paused, leaning back slightly, "How is this true?" James, sullen in his seat, threw up his arms in an I told you so gesture.

"Seeker..." The Minister spoke, warningly, and James crossed his arms bitterly, ceasing his unspoken sarcasm, understanding the threat.

Unaware of their quick exchange, Thatch droned on, answering the Minister's question. "You are entirely right. That much of a power would have had some more noticeable impact on the galaxy at large. But, here's the thing. A few months after rising to power, the Prince disappeared. His agents vanished. The armies simply left, no one was there to pay their bill. It all fell apart. Just like that."

"So, what is it that you're hunting for, exactly? It seems like just a legend to me." The Minister spoke, eyes locked with Thatch's. Somehow, Thatch got the feeling that the Minister was just playing dumb. The only question was why?

"It's the fortune that vanished with the Prince. That's what he is talking about." James spoke up, watching the Minister with furrowed eyes. The Minister didn't take his eyes off Thatch, but motioned for James to continue. "He would need a large sum of money to run his Empire, buy the mercs, pay his men, run the government. It would be like stealing all of the money from the Imperial Treasury. But it's pointless." Shrugging, James looked almost apologetic. "The man was obviously used to power; he probably spent the money before he died. Or, if he didn't his kids did. It's been generations, nothing should exist by now."

"But what if it does?" Thatch snapped back, pulling out a journal from his jacket. "I have notes here, and-"

The Minster coughed loudly. The room fell silent. Everyone's eyes were on him.

"Well, I don't need to hear anymore."

"Wild goose chase, right?" Suggested James, who, though still bitter, seemed a little smug that he was right about the silliness of the endeavor, at least.

"No."

James didn't even react. He just sighed deeply and stood up from his chair, rummaging around in the boxes wearily.

"So you're going to help me?" Thatch asked excitedly, a deep grin setting itself on his face.

Chuckling lowly, the Minister gave a half-grin towards Thatch in amusement. It was obvious Ministers didn't smile often. "I'm not. He will." He pointed towards James, who had pulled out a large bag from amongst the boxes and was filling it with what appeared to be clothing. "Seeker Three, I hope this isn't too much of a bother."

James stopped, turned, and gave the Minister a sarcastic grin. "Course," He sassed, "Won't be a bloody bother at all. Not like I have anything else to do."

"Good man, Seeker." The Minister replied, obviously used to bantering words with the other man, and winning, "And good day to you, Mr. Jones. I wish you luck in your endeavor. Contact the Reclamation Service if you have any problems with your Seeker, and we'll send you a new one promptly." The Minister allowed for one final warning glare at James before leaving the room.

"Well," James groaned, zipping up his luggage and dropping it by the door. "Give it to me, mate. What's the plan?"

Taken aback, Thatch mumbled and stumbled over words, flipping through his small journal as if it held the answers. "Well, I, um… yes, well, he he, it's a… right here…"

"Great." James sighed again. "You have no clue."

"No!" Thatch snapped back, looking up from his journal to give James a warning glare. James just glared right back.

"Don't do that." Spoke James, wearily. "I hate it enough when he does it," He gestured towards the door, "On you it just looks stupid."

"I look stupid?" The question was phrased as a rhetorical warning, similar to when a woman asks if her dress makes her look fat. The proper response is always either silence, or, as is more common, a simple 'No'.

"Yes." Retorted James, not even blinking twice before responding.

Thatch, most like any woman James had ever met, staggered slightly from the force of the insult. "Excuse me?"

"Look…" James began, holding his hands out before him in a passive manner, "I'm sure your girl and your family and your ugly little akk dog will tell you otherwise, but the fact remains, only a fool chases treasure as long lost as yours. Or an idiot. Take your pick."

"It isn't foolish. It's out there!"

"Maybe it is, maybe it isn't. It doesn't matter. Because either way, we have no way to find it."

"We?"

James grimaced, "I don't like it, but I don't have a choice. I'm stuck with you until we find it or you give up. So hurry up and let your dreams be crushed, I have better things to do."

Thatch rubbed his forehead in irritation. "Why did I get you? Of all people, you?" Thatch looked back up at James piercingly, "What are you anyway?"

"What am I?" James laughed in a maniacal fashion. "Didn't you hear my master?" Mocked James, and Thatch got the strong impression that James had absolutely no respect for the Minister. "I'm a Seeker. A name. A designation. A job. That's it."

"What do you mean?"

James frowned at Thatch, "You're not Imperial." It wasn't a question, an inquiry, or anything of that manner. It was merely a statement. A fact.

"Of course I'm Imp-"

"No," James cut Thatch off, "You're not. Don't bother lying about it."

Thatch sighed and leaned back against the far wall. The room creaked ominously. "How'd you know?"

At this, James laughed, "Really? That's your question?" He shook his head, and then answered Thatch, "It's the Imperial lifestyle to be a job, a name, a designation. It's simply how the Empire rolls. If you can't understand that, you haven't lived as an Imperial."

"So, are you going to turn me in?"

"For what? Haven't done anything, have you?"

"What do yo-? Isn't just being here a crime?"

"Well… if you want I could turn you in…"

"No, no, no." Thatch hurried, waving his hands frantically. "I'm fine, really."

"Then what," James leaned forward onto his desk, elbows digging holes in the dust. "Is the problem?"

"Well," Thatch began awkwardly, "It's just…" He couldn't meet James' eyes.

"Spit it out." It was an order, with more than the appropriate force behind it.

"Don't you Imperials hate anyone who's… y'know… not Imperial?" It sounded stupid in his head, and even more-so out loud.

"Most do, yea." James leaned back, and, as he rested his hands behind his head, added a final warning, "Watch out for that."

"But you don't?" Thatch asked cautiously, unsure of exactly what he was supposed to infer from James' response.

Sighing, James sat back up in his chair and stood, brushing off his uniform, though Thatch was unsure of just what he was trying to brush off. He walked over to Thatch, pushed him against the wall lightly and whispered in his ear, "This isn't the time or the place for that."

"What do yo-"

And, yet again, James cut Thatch off. This time, however, it was with a sharp blow to the gut.

"Ouf!" Thatch grunted, falling to his knees and clutching his gut.

"Gather any notes you have on this treasure of yours and bring them to the Raven's Perch in the Kaas City outskirts tomorrow. Grab a room, a drink, and I'll be there eventually. Then, we'll start." It was spoken quickly, precisely, and with a very matter-of-fact tone. Thatch almost didn't hear it, out of breath as he was.

James leaned down and lifted Thatch's chin slightly. "Got it, mate?"

"Got it…" Coughed Thatch in a low, unintelligible voice.

"Good." Smiled James. "See you then."

And so ended all normalcy in Thatch's life.

Thousands of years earlier...

"Honey! Time for dinner!" A wife yelled out the rear of her house. A good distance away the husband, hard at work plowing the fields, looked up, wiping his brow.

"Coming!" He shouted back, pulling in on the reins of his nerf to bring it to a stop. Moving around and nuzzling the nerf's head, he whispered, "Dinner time, boy," before unstrapping the nerf from the plow, an archaic tool that, surprisingly, was still relevant. "Let's get you some food," The man smiled at the nerf, pulling on the reins to get the animal moving.

After putting the nerf into its shed and filling up its food trough with the past few days of leftovers, the man was back to his own home, ready to fill up on his own food. His wife was doing dishes as he came in, whistling a tune to herself, the sweet scent of soap perfuming the room. The man sat down, his hands and clothes as filthy as the nerf had been, and reached out to dig into his dinner.

"Did you wash your hands?" His wife asked, her voice a deadly quiet.

"Course, honey." He shrugged the question off easily, too absorbed in the sweet barbecue glaze of the Kowakian monkey ribs in front of him, the delicacy his wife had prepared.

"John." The word was worse than a threat.

"Yes, dear?" John replied, hoping to match his wife's threat with levity and charm.

Needless to say; it didn't work. His wife just gave him the dirty glare that could bring up guilt even when he was innocent. Finally, after several seconds, he caved.

"Yes, dear." He repeated, the words having a radically different meaning this time.

"I'd have thought you would have learned by now, John." His wife spoke, having now returned to her dishes.

"A man can always hope, Martha." His hands were practically rubbed raw from the cleaning he was giving them. "A man can always hope." Martha smiled at this, though from amusement or some unknown allusion John wasn't sure.

Hands clean, John moved back to his seat. Martha quickly joined him. "Want to say the blessing, John?" She asked, and John knew it wasn't really a question.

"Course," He replied, always the charmer, bowing his head and taking his wife's hands in his own. They were soft and smooth from the soap. "Bless this food, almighty Force," He began, his tone reverent. For John, the Force was the most powerful thing in the galaxy, and that deserved respect. "And allow your guardians the strength and wisdom necessary to do what we cannot and watch over us in this time of war." Without another word, they dug in. They were starved.

Several minutes later, when the majority of the monkey ribs were bones and the greens were all that remained, conversation began to bubble up. The couple talked about the farm, money, food supplies, the harvest, and, most importantly, the war.

"Do you really think the Jedi can protect us?" Martha asked, standing up and beginning to clear the table. John smiled and stole another rib from the plate before answering.

"I prayed for the Force's guardians to protect us, honey. That doesn't just mean Jedi."

Martha frowned and turned to regard her husband, a pile of dishes still wavering in her hands. "You don't mean the Sith, do you?"

Hurrying out of his seat, John moved over to help his wife with the pile she was carrying. "You've heard the news." He started, resting the plates down next to the sink. "The war is taking its toll on the Republic. What was supposed to be a 'short border exchange' turned into a massive invasion. The news has even got a name for it. The Great Hyperspace War. It's getting serious, even now that those Sith have come in."

Martha's brow furrowed at the word. "What do you see in them?"

"They're Force-users, Martha, just like the Jedi. At the end of the day, they have to answer to the Force, same as the Jedi." Smiling broadly, he swept his wife up and spun her in his arms, around and around. "We'll make it through this war, nice and easy, no matter who wins."

"It's still a war, John." Martha warned, setting herself back down on the ground.

"Aw, c'mon, honey." He smiled broadly and kissed her on the lips. "We're all the way out here. The war won't even come close to us."

On a nearby front...

"Blaze Squadron reports sixty-two percent casualties, my lord. They can't dodge the crossfire."

Lord Regis, the pureblood Sith Commander of the Auburn Wrath, watched the battle outside unfold, noting his ensign's report. All in all; it was going very poorly.

"Order them to attack again." Lord Regis shouted in response, giving that portion of the battlefield a critical eye. "And send the Grand Creed to flank that crossfire while they are distracted."

"Yes, sir." The young ensign snapped, turning crisply to his comm station and relaying the message.

Yes, Lord Regis thought, the momentary distraction finished, the battle was going very, very poorly. What had begun as a simple raid on a small agricultural outpost had quickly escalated into a full scale engagement. The Auburn Wrath, Grand Creed, and two other frigates had ambushed a lone Republic defense force; two corvette-class ships and a fighter squadron.

It was supposed to be a simple offensive. A quick punch to the Republic's food supply. Lord Regis, who'd planned the mission in the first place, hadn't anticipated any resistance at all, but, rather, retreat.

However, as they had destroyed the first corvette and a majority of the fighters, sending the remaining defenses on the run, five Republic frigates with full fighter compliments had jumped out of light speed directly behind Regis' forces. Needless to say, Regis was outnumbered. And, even worse, outmaneuvered.

Within a few minutes, the Grey Reprisal, the resupply frigate Regis had left behind for his fighters to recoup at after the ferocity of the original battle, had been completely destroyed by the Republic reinforcements. The remainder of his forces had been able to limp back to his, although hastily constructed, defensive position.

The battle had stalemated from there, but now it was starting to shift back in the Republic's direction. The opposing commander, who was unknown to Regis, had been slowly walking his frigates, now assembled in a semi-circle around Regis, closer and closer. The crossfire they created had slowly begun to move up on Regis's position. Now it was almost there.

Blaze Squadron, Regis's last fighter squadron, had been his most recent attempt to break the semi-circle. He'd been hoping the harassment would be enough to divert fire and allow his frigates an opening.

Moving over to the tactical display with surprising grace given his size, Regis studied the various lights and dots coloring the battlefield, looking for the tiny green dots that would signify Blaze Squadron.

He found them.

Four green dots, the remains of Blaze Squadron, moved quickly towards a semi-circle of five large red triangles, the Republic offensive. As expected, the lights began to flicker and die. That wasn't what mattered. What mattered was how long it took them to flicker and die.

"Just a little longer…" Regis muttered, hands nervously gripping the control console, his brow deeply furrowed. A large green triangle, the Grand Creed, moved slowly towards the edge of the semi-circle. The tactical map began doing intense calculations and promptly displayed the approximate time it would take for the Grand Creed to achieve the desired flanking position.

The time began to flicker down, first from a minute down into seconds, and then even lower.

22…

There were only two green dots left. Regis marveled at their skill, no normal fighter pilot could survive that long.

17…

One flickered out, only one fighter remained. The dot looped and spun and twisted, leaving a light green haze behind it on the tactical screen.

14…

The last green dot flickered into nothing.

"Stang!" Regis shouted, mouth perverted into a foul sneer. If it had just gotten down into single digits the time might not have mattered, but this? No. A cloud of red dots spun, quickly redirecting to deal with the Grand Creed. The frigate didn't stand a chance.

For a moment Regis toyed with sending another frigate to hit the opening the fighters had left, but he quickly dismissed it. The frigate wouldn't have enough time, and the crossfire the republic frigates had set up was too efficient for one frigate to counterbalance.

The ensign from before came back over, shaking, obviously about to report Blaze Squadron's demise. Saluting, he opened his mouth to speak, but Regis quickly cut him off.

"I know, ensign." He spoke, he voice quavering with frustration. "Order our frigate back before they are overwhelmed."

"Yes, si-"

"Now!" The ensign hurried frantically away, brow sweating. Lord Regis shook his head. Sometimes the common man's fear of the Sith could be a bit extreme. But he supposed his yelling probably hadn't helped that stereotype much.

The comm buzzed excitedly. Regis activated it and the flickering blue image of Captain Butler, commander of the Grand Creed, came into view. The image was shaking violently from interference, sound crackling madly, and Regis was fairly certain the problem wasn't on his end.

"Lord Regis, sir." The Captain saluted, standing to attention. He was quickly knocked to the ground as another wave of interference hit. Now Regis was sure the interference was not coming from his end.

"Forget the salute, Captain!" Regis roared, trying to make his voice heard by the Captain. "What's going on over there?"

"I'm afraid I have failed you, sir." The Captain said, trying to stand back at attention, but, as per Regis's orders, forgetting the salute. "Our engineer-" A buzz came from behind the Captain. Turning, Butler activated a second comm, pulling up another blurry image of a greasy and dirty man who was, presumable, the engineer.

"She's dead Cap'n!" The engineer shouted, wiping his brow with an even dirtier rag.

"I just need a little more out of-"

"I gave you all she'd got Cap'n!" The engineer shouted again, angrily. "She ain't got nothing left to give!"

Regis grimaced, he hated poor grammar. The Captain cut off the comm to his engineer and turned, tiredly, back to Regis. "Sir, I am sorry, but-" Regis heard the faint shriek of proximity alarms. Then the comm shut out.

Spinning back to the tactical map, Regis was just in time to see the Grand Creed, nothing more than a overly distinguished triangle on the tactical map, flicker and vanish. Regis let out a sharp flurry of curses in Huttese before turning to examine the map once more.

It was over.

There was almost no possible way to take the battle back. The frigates were moving closer, as was the crossfire. Tactical calculations indicated Regis had less than three minutes before the frigate's firing fields were close enough to do real damage. Five minutes until his force was utterly decimated. Who knew if the Republic was looking for prisoners?

Gnashing his teeth angrily, Regis began to formulate a plan in his mind. It wasn't a healthy one. In fact, it was more of a suicide run than anything. But it was suicide staying here anyway, and Regis wanted to give this his best shot before he was done. Besides, there was a… small chance of success.

That, and Regis hated to lose.