He is surrounded by fear and dead men.
It feels good.
He snarls, "Apology accepted," as the last of his victims utters a final heaving gasp and succumbs. He doesn't bother to suppress the small smile of satisfaction that tugs at his lips. Today's kills fulfilled a need. Too much pent-up Darkness has been surging in him of late. It had demanded release.
There are two schools of thought on how to handle situations like this one. You can either kill everyone in a decision-making capacity or you can kill only the truly responsible parties. The Pikes and the Hutts tend to choose the former strategy, while he selects the latter. It's better for morale, which is better for business. It's also the more elegant solution. He might find himself occupied in this line of work currently, but he's no thug. Had circumstances been different, he would be choking imbecile officers on the bridge of an Imperial star destroyer. Not killing the proprietors of a low rent whorehouse and spice den who cheated him out of his cut.
Has he made his point? From the expressions on the faces of the two men he selected to survive, he has. Good. Now, it's time to reorganize the assets at this location. It was underperforming even without the cheating. Going forward, this place will strictly be a spice den. Time to redeploy the girls elsewhere where he can charge a premium and get more return on his investment.
"Take the five best looking ones and send them to Ord Mantell. Move the rest to Dantooine."
"Yes, Boss." An assistant scurries away to do his bidding.
Next, he orders, "Download a copy of the books to take with us." He wants to analyze the accounts himself to see why the margins here are slim. Is it just mismanagement? Perhaps lack of demand? Maybe too much expense for bribes paid to local officials to look the other way? There is always a root cause to discover. He might run an enterprise of vice, but he runs it well. He's just as ruthless as his competition, but he's far smarter. It's why Crimson Dawn is leaner, more nimble, and more profitable than its better known, more established rivals.
"What should we do with the bodies?" someone ventures.
"Throw them in the street before we leave," he answers.
In his current line of work, he gets to vent his bloodlust at will. No one cares if criminals kill criminals. Like the Republic before it, the Empire looks the other way. That means he is untouchable so long as his violence does not impact ordinary civilians. It's a marked change from his prior life. Being the Apprentice back in his day was more planning and plotting than it ever was actual killing. He and his Master couldn't do their Dark deeds in the open or risk compromising the Grand Plan. So it was mostly a lot of micro aggressions, political intrigues, assassinations, and corruption.
Tyrannus got the good gig during the war. That Jedi turncoat reaped the benefits of machinations long ago concocted and finally put into motion. He got to duel countless Jedi and kill them overtly. Then Vader got the best ever assignment to finish off Order 66 with the Purge. And all while, he watches from the sidelines. Well, not quite. For he hunts Jedi too these days, just for a very different purpose.
The first assistant is back now and he's dragging a green skinned Twi'lek girl under his arm. "Take a look at this product, Boss. Here's why they weren't making much." The assistant forcibly throws the girl to her knees on the ground with contempt.
He glances down briefly at the cowering woman. She's got her chin ducked low and her head averted almost in profile as her long brain tentacles puddle on the floor. She's decent looking enough. In her loose belted tunic and pants, she's hardly dressed for allure. But it's the morning and she's off duty.
"What's the issue?"
"Take another look." The assistant reaches to grab one of the young woman's tentacles and twists. She yelps in pain and jerks away. The movement reveals what she's hiding. One cheek is a mess of scars. It's clearly an old injury long healed. It ruins her otherwise pretty face. Just looking at her makes a man want to wince.
"Come on, who pays to sleep with this?" his assistant complains. "She's uglier than the customers' wives back home."
"I'm not one of the girls," the Twi'lek quickly responds as she raises a self-conscious hand to her face.
"Boss—" the assistant starts to speak again, but he waves the loudmouthed man silent as he addresses the girl himself.
"What do you do here?"
"I'm a domestic," she answers through trembling lips. "Cooking, c-cleaning, that sort of thing . . . "
It's menial, low skill work that droids do in the Core Worlds. But here in the Rim where people recall with hatred the Separatist droid army, most prefer to avoid mechanized help for all but the most unsavory and dangerous tasks. And since labor is cheap and plentiful, credits are not an impediment to that bias.
"We're shutting this place down for prostitution," he informs her. "This operation will be strictly spice from now on. There is no need for your services here any longer."
"Send her to Dantooine?" the assistant who dragged her in suggests.
His eyes flit over the young woman again and linger a moment on her damaged face. She looks so bleak as she awaits his answer. Her expression uncomfortably reminds him of his own bleak times on Lotho Minor. And why did he think of that? He makes a face. "Put her onboard," he decrees just to be done with the issue. "We'll take her back with us." Then, he returns his attention to the two locals he let live. The green girl with the scarred face is immediately forgotten as he gets back to business.
An hour later, he's done. He pulls back up his hood and withdraws from this wretched denizen of sin he owns. He hates to spend too much time in these places. They depress him.
He heads back to his cruiser to move on to his next stop. It's a lavish ride. Normally, he is a man of simple tastes, but he likes a good spacecraft. Plus, the crime boss role requires a certain lifestyle. It's not something he takes particular pleasure in, but he plays the game and he owns the requisite trappings. He's got the big ship and the luxury villa compound and the intimidating entourage of conspicuously armed thugs. But, all things considered, those indulgences are fairly modest compared to his competitors. He doesn't keep a palace full of dancing girls, rancors, and bounty hunters. He likes his privacy too much.
Even at the ultra-fast lightspeed his cruiser reaches, it's still a three-hour flight to his next stop. He's paying a surprise visit to one of his most successful casino cantinas. Time for some unscheduled oversight to remind the proprietors who they're working for. He'll take a snapshot of the books there as well for an impromptu audit. Then it's back home.
It's all in a day's work. He trained years to run the galaxy. But for now, he has to settle for running his expanding criminal enterprise. The subject matter is unsavory, of course, and beneath him. But the credits are good and the violence has its benefits. From time to time, he has pondered exiting crime to run a legitimate business. But nothing truly interests him other than being the Apprentice. So he bides his time at the head of Crimson Dawn as he plots his comeback.
And really, the skill sets are remarkably similar, he has learned. Managing is managing. Whether it's running a government, fighting a war, or captaining an intersystem crime syndicate, you must plot strategy, respond to crises, assess risks, and make decisions. He kept himself a shadowy figure at the beginning, hiding behind a figurehead gangster. That was his Sith penchant for secrecy showing. And, well, maybe a little embarrassment too for how far down he has come in his life. But with Dryden Vos' recent death, he has decided to come out publicly.
He's hoping to use the notoriety to his advantage. For no matter his job title, he is a Sith through and through. Meaning he lures even as he hunts. And so, every time he lights his sabers before witnesses, it's a silent taunt and a threat to the man he hates the most. I'm coming for you, Kenobi. He also considers it a knowing wink in the direction of Coruscant. Are you getting this, Father? Do you know what your prodigal son is up to?
It's been years since he tried to impress his cruel father-Master on Mandalore to get his old job back. It was as daring as it was foolish to attempt to oppose both the Separatists and the Republic simultaneously. But it got him noticed, like he hoped. Still, in the end he was spurned and his brother killed. But yet . . . the cold, unforgiving Darth Sidious had let him live.
It was unexpected at the time. Perplexing even. But now, he thinks he knows why he was spared. It's because his Master has foreseen that he will one day take his revenge on Kenobi and that will solve a problem for Lord Sidious since Vader is apparently not up to the task of killing the Jedi General. That's his opportunity. Once he kills Kenobi, he will kill Vader and reclaim his rightful place at his father's side. Once more, he will be the crown prince of Darkness, the righthand man to the Sith Emperor himself, groomed one day to inherit it all.
For what has Vader got that he hasn't got? Sure, he's damaged, but he's not nearly as bad off as Vader is. So why did he get cast off while Vader was coddled back to health and handed an Empire to rule? It's not fair, but more importantly, it's a poor strategic choice. Why have a guy wheezing around who's more machine than man, when you can trade up to an experienced Sith who has fully acclimated to merely two medical prosthetics? Anyone can see that he's the far better choice for Apprentice.
The only explanation is that his father-Master is keeping him in reserve. Likely watching over him at a distance. He merely pretends to be uncaring. It is punishment, not true rejection. Just the tough love of a disapproving father to his son who has disappointed him deeply. But one day, Lord Sidious will welcome him back. He's just using Vader for the time being. Anyone can see that.
His path back to power begins with killing Kenobi, and that requires finding Kenobi. Unfortunately, the man has proven to be an elusive quarry. It's why he's meeting via hologram on the ride home with one of the minor Hutts. This Jabba fellow has a lead on a Jedi fugitive who's been spotted on his backwater world. The Jedi vaguely fits the description of Kenobi, but the details are sketchy. No doubt more specific information will be forthcoming for the right price or a professional favor.
In the end, the conversation with the Hutt proves more intriguing than satisfying. This particular Hutt is a drooling goon who asks too many questions and wants too many credits. It prompts him to pull his weapon and light it. He has no problem with this Jabba or any other competitor knowing he has the Force and a lightsaber. And if word gets around to Darth Vader and he comes investigating? Well, good. Bring it on. He could use the practice.
He's savoring the thought when the door to his office on his cruiser slides open. It's the green Twi'lek woman bringing his dinner. Someone has already put her to work apparently. She walks in without the courtesy of a knock and she catches him extinguishing his double bladed saberstaff.
"OH!" she gasps. The surprise causes her to lose her grip on the tray she's carrying. It would clatter to the floor to make a mess except his Force-attuned reflexes save his dinner.
Now, the girl is especially spooked. She stands there, wide eyed and open mouthed, as she stares at the tray hovering before her. Ironically, she seems more intimidated by the levitating dinner than by his flash of lightsabers. It's sort of irksome.
He knew she was coming, of course. The Force betrayed her presence. Such a timid, deferential creature. She is pathetic in her deformity.
"Go on. Take it," he orders impatiently.
Gingerly, she complies.
"Bring it here."
"Yes, Sir," she replies automatically. But as she draws near, he can see that she is trembling.
"Put it down," he instructs lest she drop it again. Is she always this skittish? If so, he won't be keeping her at the villa as a servant.
She places the tray on the corner of his desk and rapidly backs away. She's afraid. The Force broadcasts her fear loud and clear. It's like a beacon to his mind. He's used to that reaction. He likes it. It gives him the advantage in every situation.
The Twi'lek woman now verbalizes her emotion. "I w-won't tell," she whispers. Then, she looks around to make sure they are still alone. "I w-won't tell, I p-promise."
"Tell what?"
"T-that you're Jedi," she hisses furtively as she wrings her hands. "I promise. I m-mean it."
Yes, he can feel her sincerity. This little mouse of a woman turns out to have some mettle for he can feel her conviction. Still, she is terrified to know this secret she believes she has stumbled upon.
He's amused by her mistake. She's not the first to make it. "I'm not Jedi." The very thought is perverse.
"But the laser sword—"
"I'm not Jedi."
"But the Force—that was the Force, right? It looked like magic."
"Yes." Dark magic.
Her face is solemn now as again she promises, "I w-won't turn you in. You can trust me, I've been Crimson Dawn for over t-ten years now," she alludes to her loyalty as she flashes her insignia wrist tattoo. "Sir, I'm not a snitch."
He shrugs and offers, "Tell anyone you like. I'm not Jedi."
She doesn't believe him. "They'll k-kill you like all the rest. They'll send Darth Vader after you."
"One can only hope." He's thoroughly enjoying her confusion and dismay. It's so innocent. So ignorant. "Vader and I are overdue to meet," he purrs.
"He'll arrest you," she stammers as she backs towards the open door as if to flee. "And then, he'll arrest all of the rest of us for harboring you."
"Not if I kill him first."
She nods with immediate enthusiasm. "You'd better do that, Sir. For all our sakes."
It's a pragmatic answer. This woman understands how the pecking order of power works. Her fate is dependent on his goodwill and his continued survival. So, with a smirk of Dark noblesse oblige, he assures her, "I have cheated death before. I will evade it again." That's not a boast, it's the truth.
"Good," she mutters and then flushes as she realizes she spoke that thought aloud.
He cocks his head and considers her. He watches as she shifts her weight nervously from foot to foot. She's so fearful and uncertain beneath his scrutiny. So lowly and utterly forgettable save for her scarred face that is strangely compelling. One side is beauty, the other side is pain.
"What is your name?" he asks, surprising himself with the question.
"Rhea. Rhea Cardulla."
It's a typical Twi'lek name. Their women are all Heras, Hestias, Demeters, Theias, and the like. One and all, they are named for the storybook goddesses their species' famed beauty suggests. "You are from Ryloth?"
"Yes. Originally."
"Refugee?"
"Yes."
That story is typical as well. His eyes land on her ruined cheek. "That mark is from the war?"
She looks down. "Yes."
He grunts. "The war cost me a lot as well." He doesn't elaborate. He doesn't talk about Savage to anyone, least of all to some new servant.
Like the rest of his personal past, it remains unspoken. Very rarely is it even alluded to. And truthfully, that's less his Sith penchant for secrecy than it is his grief and guilt. He's killed a lot of people and he will likely kill many more. But that does not mean he is indifferent to his personal losses. It's been a long, hard fall as through the years he lost first his position and his health, for a while his sanity, and then his homeworld and his family. Two things keep him going these days—his lust for revenge and his determination to claw his way back to the top. His youthful years as the Apprentice were the only good times he has ever known.
He dismisses the woman now. "That will be all." Then, he turns back to his screens and grabs his dinner. As he eats, he mulls over whether he should take a trip to Tatooine himself or send a scout. The Hutt's information is not much of a lead, but he has a hunch it's worth checking out.