Greetings! Been playing SWTOR a lot recently and couldn't get enough of my Chiss Imperial Agent. I now have 2, an operative and a sniper. They're nearly identical but for their scars. One I play Light Side, the other Dark. A story popped into my head.
Review and enjoy!
It was late. The cold night air was creeping in through the doorway and customers were taking their leave. Phelin remained, hoping to catch one more joke from Demet, or another tale of dodgy fist fights from Khelden. Not tonight, they both said, stifling yawns that spread contagiously around their table. Phelin was tired, but he was only stationed there one more day and was having the time of his life. Besides, he was probably too drunk to find his way back to base.
Their table emptied until Phelin was alone with one other; a Chiss who had kept them roaring with stories of travelling into the Core planets, meeting royalty, and trading insults with Hutts. It was all too ridiculous to believe, but Phelin hung around, hoping the Chiss would tell just one more. The Chiss saw him staring and gave him a toothy smile. He rose unsteadily, gained his balance with help from his chair, and stumbled towards the bar to order another drink. Phelin followed, ordering a water, figuring it was the best choice if he had any intention of retaining any memory of this night.
He watched his companion fingering the bottle of dark liquid. Beyond knowing he was a Chiss (and a well-travelled one, at that), Phelin knew nothing about him. His clothes were dirty and worn, his blaster stained with age and extensive use. His thin frame gave no clue to his occupation. But when he poured himself a shot, he threw his head back as he tossed down the fiery liquor, Phelin saw pale scars around his neck, barely visible above his collar. Sober Phelin would have known better but Drunk Phelin wanted a story.
"How'd you get those scars?" Even Drunk Phelin had to wince at the blunt insensitivity. The Chiss stared at him for a moment until his question registered, then sighed. But rather than refuse angrily or swing his fist around for a solid punch, which Phelin would have rightly deserved, he told a story.
"My face isn't unique. You'll see a Chiss and you'll think to yourself, I recognize this man. You will remember a night of heavy drinking, stories traded until morning. You'll approach me, smiling, ready to greet a friend. As you get closer, you'll notice a scar across the face, stretching from one side, down the other. You'll pause, trying to remember if I had such a scar. You were drunk, perhaps your memory isn't as clear as it should be. You get closer and we lock eyes. Then you realize you made a mistake. This is not your friend. This is a stranger with hatred in his eyes. It is then you realize you are a dead man. This man is my brother.
"We grew up together, grew up identical. We excelled in the same educational programs, were accepted into Imperial Intelligence Academy in the same year. A rivalry formed. He tried to kill me. He gave me my scar, I gave him his. But it isn't over. If our paths ever cross again, neither will hold back. He is a murderer; a dark soul with no regard for mercy, compassion, or empathy. He laughs when he kills. That laugh will be the last thing I hear. But by then my blade will slide through his ribs and the laughing will stop."
The Chiss broke off, refilled his glass. "Wish me luck."
"For what?" Phelin asked.
Turning to him, the Chiss grinned, sending chills down his spine. Freezing his blood. Cold, deadly eyes paralyzed him with fear. Phelin became very aware he was standing next to a trained, armed assassin. The Chiss knocked back the shot then pushed himself away from the bar, giving his collar a tug to cover his neck.
"My brother's in town."