A battered, skeletal warship stalked in the shadow of an urban planet, silent and unseen. 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, brilliant 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 sparks 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 orbs 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 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 for the hangar. She boarded her personal vehicle, a black, angular fighter class vehicle with a powerful weapons system and limited hyperdrive. Viscera powered up the vehicle and exited the Iscillus.
Her small fighter pierced through the atmosphere of Hrasskis, fiery orange enveloping it for a brief moment before it cleared down into the sky. Trails of clouds chased the jet-like vehicle as it raced toward the surface. Viscera could see a complex of grey and black shapes from her position above the outpost. The single-occupant ship steered toward the construction yard at the center of the tall buildings and sturdy gates. There were towers and cranes throughout, a sprawling compound of industrial resources. She went unnoticed by the shipbuilders, her fighter merely a dark shot from space, until it let loose a spray of red blasterfire.
Viscera's fighter screeched low and fired a rain of energy - powerful bolts which struck in a volley and sent fire exploding in chaotic patterns. Blasts and screams flooded the air, as vehicles were destroyed and workers were killed mercilessly. The sharp aircraft circled then lowered among the wreckage and bodies. Smoke and flames obscured the ship as it landed in the yard, offices and hangars surrounding the central expanse. Viscera wasted no time powering down her craft. She opened the hatch to climb out onto the wing, then dropped to the ground.
She did, however, glance upward to see the buildings around her, squinting against a setting sun and getting a feel for her surroundings. The sky was pinkish orange and the area smelled like a refueling station, metallic and sterile. The cockpit slid closed and smoky white fired from beneath the vessel as she walked away, over smoldering, blackened pavement toward a wounded serviceman. He was burned, bloody and crawling backward, his legs ruined by the ship's blasters. Viscera strode steadily and stepped on his chest, looking down with a wry smirk on her face.
''The resource fleet,'' she demanded, orange-red eyes glaring and shadowy brunette hair fluttering in low wind.
''The eastern hangar, where that hauling shuttle is headed.'' The shudder of his fear quivered the Sith apprentice's foot. A quick glance confirmed the information that was given and also alerted her of the outpost guards. Viscera drew her long arcsaber from the short, matter displacing sheath in a reverse grip before taking it in both hands and stabbing downward into the pinned worker's stomach. Voltage and vibration buzzed along the length of the blade and seared blood sprayed from the wound. Blood gurgled his screaming and red drenched his torso as the vibroblade sawed through his ribs and electricity charred his heart and lungs.
A faded gasp cued his death just as the guards came into range and fired. Green flashed toward her and she hurriedly withdrew her weapon from the body to defend herself. She ducked and leaned to avoid bolts which streaked past her from numerous directions. Her arcsaber intercepted much of the incoming fire as she spun deftly and stepped toward the nearest sentry who continued to fire while backing away. Viscera struck fiercely and sliced across his waist, the whirring sword delivering a jagged cut as if it were serrated.
She resembled some of the ancient Sith, wielding a physical blade instead of a lightsaber. The concentrated light cut too cleanly for her tastes. There was no shredding, cutting or, most importantly, blood. A blade of energy had no weight and removed the feelings of splitting flesh and contact with the enemy. The blood on the weapon was burned dry in spots as Viscera whipped it around to block blaster bolts. Wails drifted in the midday air for each slice that severed and split the guard force to bloody pieces. Her heart soared.
A blaster pistol dropped from the limp hand of the last uniformed watchman, whose brain spilled from a wound cut into the side of his head. Viscera returned the too-long sword to its sheath and watched the standing corpse finally crumple. Then, she headed for the hangar the worker had pointed out before his death. She walked with purpose but not urgency, as all the shipbuilders had either died or run off during the attack. The Chiss slave wiped her hand on the upper swell of her chest where blood had sprayed onto her. Her blueish skin brightened in the lowering sun as she walked to her objective, her thoughts drifting.
There were four frigates inside, which were under the cover of the large hangar. The bay door was wide open and allowed Viscera to enter freely. They were freighter ships, like the one Tyraal had owned during his apprenticeship, the one she was pushed into after she was bought many years ago. Bought. It didn't sting like it used to, but the bitterness in her was unceasing. Viscera continued on her assignment and boarded the first of the frigates, traveling through to the control room to access the navigation system. She activated the autopilot and typed in the location of the Iscillus still hovering out in space.
Once she disembarked, the thrusters fired soon after and the ship lifted on its own, gliding out of the hangar, and tilting upward for the sky. This process was repeated for the second and third frigates, which were programmed to rise out of the hangar and dock within her master's ship, essentially stealing themselves. A smirk played on her lips as she watched them then she turned around to claim the last frigate.
A ray struck an inch from her head. She smelled her own burnt hair and skin, singed and blistered by the shot's residual energy. Her eyes cut around the hangar and she spun only to find a smoldering hole in the ceiling. From behind her a grenade was thrown. It rolled toward Viscera and she dove nimbly but was unable to fully clear the blast radius. She was thrown in a spray of bluish fire and duracrete fragments torn up from the floor. In that same moment a barrage of blaster bolts fired on her downed form. She rolled to avoid them, still taking one to her leg before forcing herself to stand.
In front of her she saw three massive clone troopers, heavily armed and armored. Republic Commandos. She had two seconds to scan them, one had a rocket launcher, one had a sniper rifle, one had the meanest blaster rifle she had ever seen, before the sound of a shotgun clicked behind her. Viscera leaped high into the air as the scatter bolts streaked below her, flipping and drawing her arcsaber simultaneously.
She landed behind the shotgun wielder and slashed at the back of his head. The vibroblade shook, a gash dug into his helmet, and his head jerked from the blow but he survived, saved by his armor and able to turn the scatter gun on her again. She cut downward at the weapon and the spread shot pelted the ground. Viscera put her weight into a thrust at the clone's chest. Her arcsaber pierced the armor only a few inches, enough to draw blood and shock the trooper which caused him to seize for a second and fall over. In any other case she would have gone for the kill, but the rest of the squad would have vaporized her in an instant. Instead she ran, another shower of bolts streaming toward her, another shot landing in an explosion of sparks. She screamed and her shoulder blade shrieked, but she had to keep running.
Viscera escaped hastily and avoided the bodies and rubble that lay around her ship. She climbed onto the wing of her fighter and bit through the pain in her legs, until lowering into the cockpit and blasting off. Acceleration pressed the seat to her back and the console lit up, as she veered upwards into the air. Clouds parted around the prongs of her ship, and she activated the primary boost to jet out of the atmosphere and into space. Sky faded into a black void, where the Iscillus hung among the stars.