Something is Familiar
His boots strike the glossy floor of the white-and-grey corridor, in perfect unison with the other soldier marching beside him. They are clad in identical black armour, with identical black staffs held beside them in their right hands. He doesn't know the other trooper's name—he never does these days. The Empire doesn't want their soldiers getting too attached, it seems. The Empire expects sacrifice without hesitation.
This is nothing new to him. He was born to die from the start.
Truth be told, he misses the old days on the Geonosian front. Back then, he was CC-4381-94. His squad mates had a name for him, once, a real one. As far as he knows, nobody's alive to remember it anymore. He doesn't miss them—soldiers die, that's how it goes. He doesn't even miss his name. He misses the thrill, though. Service as a Purge Trooper is practically a vacation compared to the Galactic Civil War. What he does these days feels more like slaughter than fighting. It's boring.
Today might be a bit more interesting, however.
The Inquisitor turns the corner in front of him, her torn capes fluttering as she pivots. Several long gouges and burn scoring mar her usually spotless mask. He idly wonders if the outcome of the mission could have been different if he'd been one of the troopers accompanying her. It's been much too long since any of his targets have put up a real fight. It would have been fun.
The corridor flares to a set of doors that slide open before the Inquisitor. The officers on the command deck immediately jerk to attention.
He smiles under his helmet. He's served under a handful of the Inquisitorius over the years, but none have had quite the same knack for making those in command shit their crisply ironed uniforms as the Twelfth Sister. Stepping to the side to flank the doorway, he stands his uncharged electrostaff firmly beside him, watching his partner do the same on the other side of the exit.
The balding man at the front of the deck regards the approaching Inquisitor with his hands clasped behind his back, wearing a carefully neutral expression that only seems to highlight his discomfort. The badge on his chest identifies the man's rank as Admiral. The Twelfth Sister stops two paces from him, regarding the old man silently.
"Inquisitor!" the Admiral greets, drawing himself up to his full unimpressive height. "My apologies, I wasn't expecting you back so soon. To what do I owe this visit?"
"Admiral Weselton." The Twelfth Sister's tone is melodic, condescending. "Your tip about the whereabouts of the Jedi Cal Kestis was very helpful."
"It was my pleasure, Inquisitor. And were you able to apprehend the traitor?"
"I was not," the Inquisitor states flatly. "The Jedi had help, once again. My troopers perished in the fight. They were distracted by an accomplice matching the description your men provided of that 'street rat' seen fighting alongside Cal Kestis on Sakiya."
"Ah." The Admiral raises an eyebrow. "Perhaps it was overzealous of you to bring only two troopers for support on the mission, then."
The room is silent for three seconds too long—just long enough for Weselton to start fidgeting nervously.
"I have a question for you, Admiral," the Twelfth Sister continues in the same emotionless tone. "Would you have any idea how a ragtag group of fugitives with little resources managed to so effortlessly find and infiltrate a Legacy Databank?"
The Admiral bristles at the inquiry, his moustache twitching in annoyance.
"Officers, leave us," he orders to the room with a dismissive wave.
The other three men on deck file out rapidly with barely-hidden expressions of relief. As the door closes behind them, Admiral Weselton turns back to the Twelfth Sister, his beady eyes flashing with indignation.
"Of course I don't know how they did it! Are you suggesting that I somehow-"
"Understood," the Twelfth Sister interrupts evenly. "I am not here to point fingers, Admiral, only to continue my investigation. In any case, I would like to request a copy of the data the infiltrators pulled from the databank."
The Admiral shakes his head stiffly. "I'm afraid that data is classified, Inquisitor."
The Twelfth Sister is silent for five seconds this time.
"I am an Inquisitor, Admiral," she finally says, carefully enunciating each word. "Classified means nothing to me."
The Admiral's moustache curls in a snide smile.
"That is a matter for you to take up with Lord Vader. My orders are to withhold access to the Legacy Database from all unauthorized personnel—and, last I checked, the Order of Inquisitors has not been granted clearance. I can do no more for you."
Even through his environment-sealed armour, he feels the temperature in the room plummet. Admiral Weselton's breath fogs in the air as he rubs his arms, the smile falling from his face to be replaced with an expression of rising fear.
"Very well." There is ice in the Inquisitor's voice. "I am, of course, beholden to Lord Vader's orders. But there is one thing you can do for me, Admiral. You can stop being the middleman in this investigation."
"What? Middleman!" The Admiral's throat bobs nervously. "I assure you, the information I gained was entirely by my own means!"
"Please, Admiral. Your uncanny ability to know exactly the right information when it suits you for a promotion has not gone unnoticed." The Twelfth Sister angles her head and leans forward. "Who is the informant who provided you the location of Cal Kestis? Or shall I take up with Lord Vader that you are obstructing the progress of my investigation?"
The Admiral blanches.
"No! No, I…" he stutters with a swift lick of his lips. His eyes dart in a panic around the empty command deck before returning to meet the Inquisitor's. "Please, can you keep this confidential? The good of the Empire was tantamount to my motivations, I assure you!"
The Inquisitor remains silent, her posture utterly still. Admiral Weselton pleadingly holds her gaze. He only manages two seconds before deflating like a balloon.
"Westergaard," he says softly. "The information broker's name is Hans Westergaard. He fronts as an arms dealer on Cantonica."
Little by little, the air in the command deck returns to its normal temperature. The Twelfth Sister stares down at the cowering man for a moment longer before straightening her posture.
"Canto Bight. I don't believe that's a sanctioned expense under the terms of the Imperial Navy," she intones. "Thank you for the information, Admiral."
She turns on her heel and makes for the exit in sharp strides, ignoring the Admiral's blubbering attempts at a retort. The Purge Troopers fall into formation behind her with practiced precision.
"You two, back to the shuttle," the Twelfth Sister commands. "Tell the pilots to chart a course for Cantonica. More details to come shortly."
"Yes, Twelfth Sister."
A hollow shudder through the hull tells him the shuttle has dropped out of hyperspace. The mission briefing dossier floats in the periphery of his helmet's heads-up display, alongside the image of a younger human man with neatly coiffed hair and an easy smile. He skims the documents one final time, flicking between pages with twitches of his eye.
Apparently, this Hans Westergaard is a recluse with no known staff under his employ. That means droids. He closes the display with a tap of his wrist controller, allowing himself a small smile. It's been years since he's killed a battle droid. This could be an entertaining trip.
A faint whistling carries from outside the ship as the shudders intensify. They must be making their descent into the atmosphere. He closes his eyes, taking deep breaths and focusing his senses. Soon enough, he feels the force of deceleration as the shuttle makes its landing.
He unfastens the safety harnesses securing him to the bare-metal seat. The exit ramp cracks open, the ventilation hissing with decompressing air. After a moment's consideration, he clips two stun grenades to his belt and holsters a sidearm before retrieving his trusty electrostaff from the rack on the cabin wall.
"You sure you don't want to pack a bit more heat for this one?" asks another trooper as he grabs a long rifle from the same armoury—one of the two marksmen who joined them on the shuttle shortly before their departure.
"I prefer to get up close and personal," he replies simply. The ends of the staff crackle with electricity as he flicks the switch, giving it an experimental spin over his head.
He turns toward the back of the empty compartment, waiting for the ramp to extend to the ground before stepping out into the hangar. The other troopers march with him in perfect unison, assuming a diamond formation behind him as they emerge from the shuttle.
The throng of street-goers give the squad a wide berth, parting like a startled school of fish as the Purge Troopers stride out of the Canto Bight spaceport. Most of those outside the ranks of the military know little to nothing about the elite soldiers of the Inquisitorius outside of rumours and hearsay, but the black armour and clearly visible weaponry are more than enough to command fear in any language.
He leads the squad down a tangle of side streets and back alleys, pausing periodically to check the map on his heads-up display. Instinctively, he scans the crowd in methodical sweeps, taking careful note of everything that may pose a threat. Once in a while, one of the bolder passers-by will stray inside the invisible perimeter, only to scramble back to the safety of the crowd when one of the soldiers activates his electrostaff or raises a blaster rifle.
As they near the destination, his grip tightens on the shaft of his weapon. Eventually, the narrow street opens to a wall of featureless durasteel. This must be the estate-turned-weapons-factory described in the Westergaard dossier. He turns to the others and gives a nod. Wordlessly, the troopers fan out around the perimeter, weapons held at the ready.
"Where is the Inquisitor?" a soldier to his left asks under his breath.
"En route," he states.
As if on cue, the dull screech begins to fill the air, raising in volume until it becomes the familiar scream of a TIE's ion engines. A dark shape darts down from the cloudless sky: a bulbous glass cockpit framed by dagger-shaped solar arrays that gleam in the bright afternoon sun. The TIE Interceptor alights on the roof of the estate with a dull thud, the hatch on top popping open to reveal a familiar black mask and white braid.
The Twelfth Sister clambers out of the cockpit and drops four storeys to the ground with a casual step, her fall slowed by an invisible force that causes the air to rumble. She surveys the assembled troops with a glance before turning to face the metallic wall. Striding forward, she pounds twice with a gloved fist.
"Hans Westergaard." Her voice reverberates off the surrounding buildings. "The Inquisitorius believes you possess information on a dangerous enemy of the Empire. I seek a personal audience with you to discuss this information. Non-compliance will result in a charge of sedition. You have one minute to comply." She pauses. "In case you get any ideas, I have a squadron of TIEs closely patrolling the airspace above the estate."
Nothing happens for twelve seconds. Then there's a low creak. Two bulky droids half the height of the building itself unfold from the wall of the estate, lumbering forward to glare down at the Twelfth Sister with ocular sensors that spew blinding laser grids. The Purge Troopers immediately raise their weapons, but the Twelfth Sister raises a fist, signalling for them to hold their fire.
For another five seconds, the only movement is the Inquisitor's braid fluttering in the wind.
Abruptly, the droids turn to face inward, the angry red glow of their eyes flashing white-blue as they project the face of the man from the dossier in a three-storey facsimile between them.
"Ah, an Inquisitor," the man greets pleasantly. "This is an unexpected honour. Please, come in."
The droids fold seamlessly back into the wall as a rectangular opening splits open in the space between them.
"Secure the perimeter," the Twelfth Sister orders, pointing to the two marksmen. "The rest, with me."
She walks forward into the darkness of the new doorway, grasping her lightsaber in her left hand.
As they pass the threshold, the thermal view on his visor activates in the gloom. They proceed in silence down a long staircase opening up to a dimly lit lounge space. Hans Westergaard stands behind the bar, casually pouring himself a drink.
"Is it proper to offer a drink to you military types? I can never recall."
The Twelfth Sister halts in the middle of the lounge.
"What do you know about Cal Kestis?"
"Not a fan of pleasantries, then." The man raises his glass and downs his drink in one gulp, before leaning conspiratorially over the bar. "As it so happens, Mister Kestis and his crew passed through here not too long ago."
"Harbouring a Jedi fugitive is a capital offense, Mister Westergaard."
The Purge Troopers turn on their electrostaffs in unison. Hans raises an eyebrow.
"Oh, you misunderstand me," he says in earnest. "There was no harbouring done here, only the collection of information. You see, your Admiral Weselton had a contract with me to procure intel for him—as I'm sure you are now aware." He smiles wryly. "Cutting the middleman, are we?"
"Admiral Weselton's contract was an unsanctioned use of military funds, and is to be terminated immediately," the Twelfth Sister intones. "I am sure you are aware of the consequences of withholding information from the Inquisitorius to any degree. I ask again, what information do you have on Cal Kestis?"
"Nothing more than what I told the Admiral, I assure you." Hans's face contorts in a knowing smile. "Just in case any of it was lost in transit, though, allow me to recapitulate."
The man presses two fingers to a narrow strip of metal above his ear. A hidden holoprojector hums to life in the ceiling, displaying a starmap of the Outer Rim in the center of the lounge. The sterile light reflects harshly off the Twelfth Sister's steel mask.
"I planted a tracking beacon on the Stinger Mantis and was able to trace the ship's trajectory for several lightspeed jumps."
A bright blue path emerges from the blip on the map representing Cantonica, working its way along several major hyperlanes before diverging off into an empty region of space. Abruptly, the trail stops.
"Unfortunately, the beacon stopped transmitting after approximately seven hours. At that point, I contacted the Admiral and provided him the information, which he presumably passed on to you at his earliest convenience."
"And how did you plant this tracking beacon on the traitor's ship?" The Inquisitor's voice is calm, almost impassive, but the fingers of her right glove slowly form a fist.
Hans chuckles lightly.
"I keep tabs on every ship that enters and leaves Canto Bight airspace. Clever bluff with the TIE squadron, by the way. Would have given me quite the fright had I had any intention of making a hasty escape—but that would certainly have given you the wrong idea."
The holomap fizzles out. The man spreads his arms.
"Now, is there anything else I can do for you, Inquisitor?"
"What was Cal Kestis trying to find in the Legacy Database?" The Twelfth Sister's voice is sharp through her vocal filter.
"I don't have the faintest idea what you're talking about," Hans answers smoothly. The slightest furrow forms in his brow.
Left hand still gripping her lightsaber, Twelfth Sister silently raises her other in front of her, fingers splayed toward the ceiling. Something floats through the air to rotate lazily in the space above her palm: a single strand of red hair, barely visible in the dim lighting. The Inquisitor scrutinizes the hair for six long seconds.
"The girl was here." She takes a step toward Hans with a tilt of her head. "You lie."
"You mean to accuse me of treason over a hair?" Hans scoffs. He moves a hand toward his head, as if to brush back his hair.
"Don't even think about it." Electrostaffs are raised.
The corner of Hans's mouth twitches as lights flash briefly along the implant above his ear.
"Oops."
The cabinets behind the bar slide into the floor to reveal two dark, humanoid figures set into slots in the wall. Round ocular sensors shine white from cylindrical heads as the figures raise spindly, blaster-tipped arms.
Assassin droids.
He barely has time to dive to the floor as the first shots whizz over his head, ricocheting off the mirrored walls before exploding on the floor and ceiling, showering him in debris. A familiar screech tears through the air as the room is bathed suddenly in crimson. In his peripheral vision, he watches the Twelfth Sister swing her blade in a blur, turning away the droids' fire a hair's breadth before it strikes her body.
Looks like he gets to kill some droids after all.
The first assassin droid lunges down at him with an electrified pincer-hand. He parries the attack with his staff, spinning around and carrying the momentum into a vicious downward strike. The droid reels back from the blow, seemingly dazed as electric sparks run up and down its metal torso. It fires again, but the shot goes wide.
He doesn't give it a chance to recover. Sweeping the droid's thin legs out from beneath it with a kick, he lunges forward, driving it to the ground with the butt of his electrostaff. A grim smile crosses his lips as he jams the crackling weapon deep into the exposed circuitry of the droid's neck. It writhes on the floor, limbs twisting senselessly as its sensors go dark.
He turns to see his comrade driven back against the wall by the other assassin droid's lightning flurry of blows. Before he can move to assist, the Twelfth Sister leaps across the lounge, capes billowing as her blade scythes down in a blazing arc. The droid clatters to the floor in neat halves, its insides glowing molten orange from the lightsaber's heat.
She whirls around in the same motion, throwing out her free hand with her fingers clawed. A blast of wind rips through the lounge, shattering glasses and knocking bottles off the rack as thin spears of ice shoot from the floor, pinning Hans to the wall beside the now-open doorway at the end of the room. The man almost made his escape.
The Inquisitor strides forward until she's face to face with hans. Miraculously, none of the icicles drew blood. For the first time, a hint of panic bleeds through the man's calm facade as he stares down at the enormous crystal spears. But there's something else in that expression. Something almost like fascination.
"What did they want from the Legacy Databank?" the Twelfth Sister asks again, her words soft. The still-lit blade of the lightsaber hums in her hand.
Hans raises his gaze, taking a deep breath to regain his composure.
"They were looking to trace a symbol. A flower."
"Show me."
"How am I supposed to comply like this?" Hans counters, shifting his shoulders with a sneer.
"Use the holoprojector in the room," the Twelfth Sister orders coldly. "You've proven yourself capable enough with your remote gadgets."
Hans grits his teeth in displeasure. The implant flashes once, coinciding with the appearance of a flickering image at the center of the lounge. It's the silhouette of a three-petaled flower, seemingly drawn by hand.
When the Twelfth Sister turns toward the hologram, she goes completely still. Gradually, snow begins to fall in the underground lounge of the Westergaard estate. A full nine seconds pass before she speaks again.
"Secure him. Bring him back to the destroyer for questioning."
"Yes, Twelfth Sister," the Purge Troopers answer in unison.
The spears of ice disintegrate as the soldiers march forward and grab Hans roughly by each arm. At the center of the lounge, the Inquisitor continues to stare at the image of the flower, completely motionless. The lightsaber in her hand extinguishes with a faint hiss.