Author's Note: Thank you all for the overwhelmingly positive response. As requested this fic will continue until such a time as it reaches a natural close.


"I did warn you." The Wrath declared unsympathetically, the cyborg more amused at his friend and lover's situation than anything else.

"I thought you were joking!" Vette complained, the twi'lek so sunburnt she was an almost fluorescent purple. "Anyway, why aren't you near fried to a crisp, you're paler than snow."

Gortoro laughed darkly, "Because unlike you, dear one, I paid attention to the system's EM readings and how thin the atmosphere was and applied sun cream appropriately... did you think I had ultra-violet and infra-red filters installed in my eye for fun?"

The enraged twi'lek reached down off the bed, selecting a suitably heavy item by touch alone, then threw it adeptly at her lover's head, who continued laughing as he smoothly caught his lightsaber out of the air, stepping towards the bed he placed the lethal weapon on the bedside table where it promptly rolled off to land with a gentle thud upon the green carper, the many fibres still new enough that it had a comfortable spring and cushioning to it.

Gortoro had contented himself with metal deck plating and a utilitarian single military bunk as the sole furnishings of his cabin of The Fury for many years, living for the war.

Upon moving in with him Vette had put her foot down, calmly informing one of the most dangerous Sith Lords in the galaxy that if, by the end of the galactic standard year, the cabin was not furnished and upholstered to her satisfaction then she'd be hojacking his ship and his account details, only returning when the entire ship was to her taste or he ran out of credits; whichever came first.

A lesser Sith might have responded violently but Gortoro would sooner lose a hand than use it to mar her petite form, instead he's smiled and asked what size bed she'd like.

It had also amused the sassy blue twi'lek to find out that all those years as a slave where she'd assumed he was living in the lap of luxury off of their hard earned credits he had in fact been eking out an even more austere existance than she was , though that had caused her to question where the money was really going.

In the comfort of the cabin Gortoro ignored the lightsaber's peril, an unthinkable act to a survivor of Korriban, but eventually he'd learnt staying alive was not as important as living. The Sith Code promised to break a Sith's chains, it never mentioned the ones it forged in their place.

Slowly settling down on the edge of the king-size bed he removed a jar of kolto gel from one of the wooden drawers in the bedside table. The room had seen many a battlefield injury and so suppies of bacta, kolto and bandages were in permanent residence along with an army of weapons, armour and munitions, now stored within custom wardrobes and shelves rather than their former residence under the bunk.

With gentle hands he applied the translucent azure gel to Vette's scorched back, drawing a reaction from the smaller woman that was somewhere between a pained hiss and a moan of relief. The burns sufficiently bad that he could feel the heat of them almost an inch from her skin.

Gortoro smiled sympathetically, leaning in to press a soft kiss on one of her lekku, whispering apologie as she recoiled with a wince. The Sith resumed massaging it into her back, whilst scanning her with his cybernetic eye, scanning her from head to toe, the readouts for infra-red and sonic scans passing across his vision as well as various scraps of ancillary data were highlighted on his HUD, including the ever annoying TARGET STATUS: Friendly – recommended method of termination... which had proved a continuing sore where he'd proved unable to program it not to provide assassination advice for his beloved, alas having realtime combat analysis was simply too useful to forsake over minor irritation.

And there were other less passive applications hidden in the hardware. He'd sunk a lot of money into his cybernetics over the years, from automated bacta injections and stimulant packs to exoskeletal supports and he'd had reason to be thankful for every single one of them.

As he reached for more kolto, one of the scans completed.

"Sorry Vette but you need to get down to the medbay." He ordered firmly.

"You have got to be kidding me." She muttered, seeing where this was going, there were few things in the medbay that didn't have a more compact equivalent within the bedroom.

"Two days in a kolto tank." He confirmed, voice full of apology.

"For sunburn?!" Vette exclaimed in disbelief.

"Maybe next time you'll actually listen to me..." Gortoro said pointedly. A snort of amusement told him how likely that was.

He walked over to the wardrobe, selecting a soft Corellian silk robe for her to wear on the way to the medbay; for a former slave Vette was shockingly modest.

"Thanks." She murmured, still wincing from the weight of the light material resting on her tender flesh. "Guess it serves me right for wanting to work on my tan. Where'd you even find that damn planet anyway?"

"Well when Imperial Intelligence was disbanded I took the time to erase a few out of the way uninhabited systems from the Imperial databases, there are maybe three other people in the galaxy who know this planet even exists."

"Clever." Vette conceded, walking slowly and painfully to the door.

The main room of the ship, to the twi'lek's relief proved deserted other than the permanent, rage-inducing presence of 2V-R8, the protocal droids ability to speak long removed after an 'unfortunate accident' involving Pierce's sidarm, the rest of the crew were presumably pursuing their own entertainment.

"Are you sure this is necessary?" Vette complained once they were safely ensconced within the medbay.

"Well you can ask the medical droid for a second opinion but by the time it's finished it will likely be three days in kolto." Gortoro assured her whilst nimbly tying a band across her arm, pulling it tight to await, poised, the surfacing of a vein so that he could inject a knockout dose of general anaesthetic before placing her in the kolto tank.

"Okay, but this doesn't count as holiday time." She ordered firmly, quite aware that she had the Sith wrapped around her little finger and also aware that he wouldn't have it any other way. "Just so we're clear on that."

"As the cold void of space." He confirmed as he depressed the injector.

"Good 'cause I... I..." Vette passed out mid-sentence.

Delicately the Wrath placed her in one of the three tanks, placing the respirator over her cherbuic smile and petite noe. "Sleep well sweet Vette." He murmured before heading to the bridge.

As he'd expected Quinn was sat in the pilot's seat, alternating between checking the instrument readings and collating after action reports and surveillance data from his growing network of spies and informants, both Imperial and Republic. It was a useful tool, and one the good captain had assembled unasked and in secret, only unveiling the network's existence when in dire need. And the Wrath wasn't without his own list of far less secret contacts, there was a great sense of security when it came to the petty politicking of the Sith empire knowing that three of the Dark Council and two Jedi Masters would take his call.

Still Malavai Quinn was an undeniable, unrepentant workaholic and Gortoro viewed his main role when governing his activities as persuading the captain to relax and unwind.

"Malavai." He snapped, announcinh his presence from a food behind the captain's shoulder. To his credit Quinn didn't react beyond placing his data-slate down and swivelling the pilot's chair to face the Sith. "My lord. I trust all is well?"

"It is. I was merely escorting Vette to the medbay." Gortoro answered amiably, ignoring the inherent contradiction in that response. "Nothing serious I trust?"

"Why captain, is that concern I hear?" The Sith teased, amused by this breach in Quinn's facade of near complete emotionless and constant professionalism.

"Only for the Empire my lord. You are good for the Empire, and the twi'lek – Vette – is good for you , thus I must account for her health."

Gortoro didn't need the readout from his eye to see through the lie, still he'd let the captain maintain aloofness. "Merely an exceptional case of sunburn." He reassured, carefully not noticing Quinn's small sigh of relief. "Nothing to do with today's incident."

"I'm sorry my lord. I take full responsibility." Quinn said, standing up and to attention, as if he were on trial.

"As you should be, saving my life like that." The Sith rebuked, trying to maintain a straight face. "I can't imagine what you were thinking."

"My lord?" The captain inquired, not used to the casual ribbing even after all this time.

"Relax Quinn. I swear one day I'll tell a joke and you won't look puzzled." Gortoro sighed, shaking his head. "Though now we're discussing the matter, has our new guest told us anything?"

"Not a word or a whimper, my lord. Miss Willsaam is quite frustrated." The captain said earnestly.

The Wrath winced at that; Jaesa had... issues. In much the same way Hoth was a little bit cold at times. "I should probably go see him while there's something left." The cyborg mused to himself.

"I'm sure she will restrain herself." Quinn posited diplomatically.

The Sith had no such confidence. Jaesa's tendency to kill, main and torture anything she wasn't explicitly ordered not to was a growing problem, and even when under orders there had been mistakes.

She was a truly exceptional Sith and a close personal friend but even with her fanatical, and slightly worrying, loyalty and unique abilities there had been times he had considered whether the galaxy might be better off without her. Thus far the answer had been no, having a pet psychopath was a useful tool when, like today, assassins came calling.

Instead of voicing this opinion, Gortoro merely gave a non-committal, "Perhaps."

"As you say my lord."

"Quinn, I want you to stop automatically agreeing with me. The last thing I need is a sycophant." He ordered, irritated to the point of excess.

"Of course my lord."

The scream was entirely suppressed as the Sith turned to another matter he'd intend to address, "Also I am ordering you to stop working."

"My lord?"

Gortoro ground his teeth, "We're on holiday Quinn. You need to take a break. I'm having fun, Vette's having fun, Pierce is having fun, and, incurring mild risks to my sanity, even Broonmark and Jaesa are having fun."

"I enjoy my work." Quinn said phlegmatically.

Gortoro sighed, giving up and leaving as quietly as he came.

His path took him inexorably to Jaesa's quarters, the walls thoroughly soundproofed – there was only so much screaming the crew could take.

The doors were locked but a brief fingerprint and retinal scan – of both eyes – overrode it, the doors sliding smoothly open to reveal a frustrated young woman sat on her bed, head in her hands, though she perked up as he walked in, "Master." She all but kissed the word to Gortoro's discomfort, "I'm so glad you're here, I've been trying to get him to scream for hours, and nothing!"

Nervously the Emperor's Wrath placed his arm confortingly around her shoulders, it was the stress equivalent of trying to defuse a bomb.

Instinctively Jaesa wrapped her arms around him, face pressing into his chest as she began to sob.

Gortoro sighed, gently patting her back, "It's ok apprentice, you can't break everyone."

"Thank you master." She murmured, smiling weakly, "But you'd have broken him hours ago. I haven't even got a name yet."

"I have a name for him." The older Sith confessed, barely able to stand the look of adoration this earned him. "He's former Imperial Intelligence: Cypher Nine."

"How did you-?" She gasped, "You haven't even been in the room with him."

"I have my ways." He smiled, not willing to disclose his methods, one lesson Baras had successfully instilled was to never reveal everything to your apprentice and even though he knew Jaesa's loyalty was bordering on the fanatical it amused him to maintain an air of mystery. And there was always the fear that should he ever seem anything less than omnipotent she might turn those powers upon him for, though both were true servants of the Sith Empire, his adherence to the Sith Code was sketchy and Jaesa lived and breathed for the Code. "One thing you have yet to learn is the best weapon to bring to an interrogation is information."

"Does this mean you're taking over the interrogation master?" She tried not to sound disappointed.

"I'm afraid so Jaesa. Someone this high up the intelligence ladder will be trained to resist physical and psychological interrogation and torture, but you can sit in if you want, see how to get information without a set of knives and a generous amount of Force lightning."

"But master that's boring." She complained loudly.

"At the risk of sounding like Quinn, performing our duty for the Empire need not be fun." He said solemnly, before lowering his voice, not out of some paranoid belief the room was bugged, the entire ship was swept for bugs once a day at random intervals and if someone were sufficiently artful to sneak one into his apprentice's quarters – something that only a spy with a very strong stomach would do – then the bug would be sensitive enough to pick up the barest hint of a whisper, no this psuedocaution was born of the low level melodrama endemic to the Sith. "Especially as I can foresee a future where it is our Empire."

"You don't lack ambition master." Jaesa all but purred.

"True but there are lots of ambitious people, what's generally lacking is the drive to put the work in." He informed her calmly as he retreated out of the door, intending his next destination to be the armoury; a novel place to keep a prisoner but barring the main room; which they used for holocalls and group planning, and the engine room which with its potential for creative and explosive sabotage was out of the question for keeping prisoners, it was the only room left that people weren't in fact living in.

When he entered he found Pierce and Broonmark standing guard, an assault cannon pressed to the prisoner's chin. The man visibly beaten to a pulp and tied firmly to a pipe.

"Go ahead." The commander of the Wrath's growing special force unit growled, "Make a move, make my day."

"That's enough lieutenant." Gortoro ordered firmly.

"Right you are sir." He replied gruffly, stepping back.

As he did so the prisoner made his move, leg sweeping out to hook behind Pierce's knee, causing the larger man to collapse onto him where a sharp headbutt followed up. As the special forces commander arched back, blood already pouring down his face from the busted nose, the spy brought his other leg up in a display of amazing flexibility, kicking him across the jaw, and again as the foot came back across.

Unconscious Pierce was lead across the spy, shielding him from violent reprisal.

"You can't escape." Gortoro said pointedly, "That was rather pointless."

Smoothly the spy kicked Pierce off of him before pulling him back to apply a chokehold with his legs, "Toss me the keys or I kill him."

Gortoro stared impassively, "I can find a replacement within a week."

The spy sighed, gritting his teeth, "The hard way it is then."

With a hiss of agony he pulled his hand out of the cuffs, all but skinning his thumb and little finger as he did so. Without wasting a moment he grabbed Pierce's sidearm, pressing the blaster pistol to the other cuff, calmly accepting the burns as the cuff vaporised.

With both hands on the gun now, he levelled it at his two captors, impassively shooting the impulsive Broonmark in the gut, the sadistic Talz collapsing like a dropped sack of vegetables.

Gortoro smiled as he stared down the barrel, both of them waiting for the other to make a move, the tables turned upon him in a matter of moments. "You're very good." He said calmly, before blasting the spy in the chest with a bolt of Force lightning. "But not quite good enough."

Author's Note: I hope the character portrayal's are ok, particularly Dark Side Jaesa's who is, quite frankly, utterly insane. Also an errors in terms of fluff or typos can someone please point them out.