There was no curfew at the Halcyon Academy. Classes generally only took place during the daylight hours, with rare exceptions. Still, the grounds were fairly quiet once night fell. Everyone on campus kept busy enough during the days that most were welcome for the opportunity to rest when it presented itself. There were some, however, who rarely took advantage of such opportunity. Chief among them, Headmaster Michael Halcyon of the original eight Exiles.
Ever since making the decision to open the Academy as a sanctuary and headquarters for his clan, Michael had shouldered the enormous burden of responsibility that came with it. Safety and security for those he sheltered came first; yet it also fell to him to remain a leadership figure to the Academy students and the Halcyon Clan alike. He may have surrendered his seat as head of the Order of Mercy to Lothärius, who was more suited to carry the organization through a time of war; but he never stopped seeing himself as responsible for the Halcyon Clan itself. Ever since he and seven others of Halcyon descent were exiled, he and Asmodeus had always been "in charge", more or less. Now that Asmodeus had laid down his arms and armor in favor of a quiet, peaceful life, it was up to Michael alone to shoulder that weight.
Secretly, this pleased him. He was always a bit of a martyr at heart, and bearing that load had been good for his soul. It kept him focused. As the clan expanded, so too did his love for his brethren, and his desire to keep them protected.
It was not reasonable to assume, however, that one could protect others without being able to protect himself. Years of sitting behind a desk had softened him, slowed his reflexes, his defenses. To remedy this, he had begun nightly combat training to keep himself sharp. After night fell, he would spar out on the courtyard against various opponents. Haran'buir was usually agreeable to a nighttime hunt, taking potshots at Michael from hidden vantage points. Adara would perfect her stealth skills by sneaking up on him and attempting to attack him unseen. But Michael's favorite sparring partner by far was Darth Pravitas, his counterpart from an unknown timeline.
Tonight, the two men faced off in dueling posture on the terrace. Stripped down to their waists, the two men could easily have been mistaken for twins, or clones at that. Despite being nearly identical in appearance, they were very different in fundamental senses. They both served the Clan, first and foremost, but while Michael followed the path of the Jedi, Pravitas excelled in the ways of the Sith. Two sides of the same coin, each a reflection of what the other might have been.
This was also reflected in their combat styles. Michael kept his saber drawn in tight, in a highly defensive posture. He drew his enemies in close, not afraid to swing a fist when the situation called for it. Pravitas, by contrast, kept his saber low, ready for an upward slash. He adopted a very fast and aggressive stance, preferring to keep his opponent on the move in an effort to catch them off guard. To see Michael and Pravitas duel was akin to watching an intricately choreographed dance, each one pushing the other back and forth with perfectly analysed strikes.
Michael enjoyed these routines because Pravitas was always able to keep Michael on guard. Despite the split soul they shared, Michael was unable to predict Pravitas' behavior in combat. It was refreshing. He always got quite the workout when they dueled, and came away feeling tired; yet accomplished. After thanking his opponent, he would take a shower in his private quarters and collapse onto his bed for a few hours of sleep before the sun rose, bringing him back to his daytime responsibilities. Each day served as a reminder of the purpose set before him. And each day over a morning cup of caf, he would reflect on the day's scheduled activities and smile inwardly.
There was another on campus who enjoyed their morning routines. For one person in particular, the day began several hours before the sun rose over the horizon. Every morning, he would rise and meditate peacefully for fifteen minutes to set the proper mindset for his duties. He donned his robes and tended to his garden, selecting fresh herbs and produce to stock the kitchen with.
Once the garden was harvested and tended, he would carry its bounty to the main hall and begin preparing breakfast for the students, residents, and guests of the Academy. Most days began with a bowl of fresh wilted greens served atop of fried potatoes, with an option for a light protein on the side. He opted to eat in the kitchen instead of the main hall, and once the others had left, he would venture and collect the dishes. He always washed the dishes by hand after every meal. It gave him a sense of peace, working with his hands.
After breakfast, he would head to the dormitory. He would spend half an hour or so making the beds and picking up after the students. He gathered their laundry and headed down to the riverbank, where he washed the clothing of each student by hand. Once they were clean, he folded them neatly and placed them on the beds of their respective owners.
Once the laundry was done, he set about feeding the various pets and critters that called the Academy home. Down by the riverside, there was always a hungry mouth to feed. He would bring them various manufactured feed shipping in from offworld, as well as the leftovers from breakfast and the day before. Most of these creatures were no taller than his knee, Nekarr cats and blurrgs, the occasional flutterplume. There were a few, however, who resided in the caves with Haborym, who required a bit heavier of a diet. For these creatures, he would have the Dawnbreakers hunt large game from the local wildlife. There was little need to clean up after the vorantikus and the like had their way with their meals. They seemed to prefer living among the bones.
By this point, it was time for lunch, and routine of preparing and serving the meal would be repeated, as would the cleanup afterwards. One lunch had ended, he would retire to his room and read a book for an hour or two. This was his relaxation time. Occasionally he would doze off in his chair, snoring away the afternoon.
In late afternoon the meal routine would be repeated for dinner. Once again he cooked and served and washed and cleaned, all by hand. As the sun set and night approached, he tended to grounds in the cool air of the evening. There was always a patch of grass to be watered or a bush that needed pruning. He preferred to do this kind of work as dusk set, enjoying the magic hours of the evening.
As the Academy quieted down and the air filled with sound of the nighttime insects and wild creatures in the distance, he would retire to his room. He would kneel on the floor of his quarters and pray to all the gods of the universe for forgiveness of his many sins. He would reflect on the lives he had taken and the many horrible things he had done in the name of his own ambitions. He prayed for forgiveness and asked to be allowed the opportunity to continue his penance here in the service of others. Most nights, he would cry over the needless and senseless death of Calliope, the young girl whose life he had stolen and later ended with his own hands. He allowed himself to cry for a while, and then he would wash his face and lay down in his bed, slowly drifting off to his dreams.
And this was how the once-mighty, once-feared Asmodeus Halcyon chose to serve his sentence. The once Conqueror of worlds, of entire Galaxies, now the most humble of servants. Few knew his name; fewer still knew his history. He would serve the Academy, and pray that his service might one day ease the heavy burden he carried on his heart and soul.
Similarly, there was very little deviation in the daily routine of Oryon Halcyon. He spent every minute of every day plotting and planning for every possible future that could come about as a result of his actions. He had set up a workshop on Zahavi's Rakatan stronghold on Tatooine, and never let a second of his time go to waste. He dedicated himself to perfecting his defenses against any and all attacks. Physically, he had never been in better shape. Five years of fighting for his life on Belsavis had done wonders for his reflexes and body mass. From his old gear that Zahavi had recovered, he was applying everything he had learned over the past several years into perfection.
His cortosis gauntlets that allowed him to fight hand-to-hand against lightsaber wielders received a considerable upgrade in both structural integrity and functionality. Each gauntlet now carried a discreet dart-launcher that could administer a variety of lethal and non-lethal concoctions with a mere twist of his wrist. Vials of poison and kolto extracts were fitting onto his belt and were fed into the gauntlet with a loading device that could reload the darts from his hip. He was inspired by the way his former compatriot Rodeo would perfect his quick-draw. A flash of his hand towards his side and he could prepare any combination of chemical warfare.
His boots were outfitted with quick-launch rocket pads that would allow him a limited degree of superhuman mobility. He could jump higher, run faster, and kick harder than ever before. Combined with the hydraulic frame that outlined the joints and tips of his new uniform, he estimated that he had more than doubled his combat proficiency from his time before his incarceration.
But all the tech in the world he incorporated into his physical defense meant nothing if he did not prepare his mental defenses. His time with Imperial Intelligence had granted him a great degree of mental fortitude against external attacks, both psychological and telepathic. However, he had the unique advantage of a cybernetic ocular implant with a direct line into his frontal lobe. The right chemical treatment could bolster his mental and psychokinetic defenses tenfold if applied in a critical moment. And so his implant was outfitted with several doses of a nootropic formula of his own design that would auto-inject if evidence of mental or telepathic tampering was detected. In addition, the implant received an update to its firmware that provided Oryon with several alternate viewing modes, including electromagnetic and heat detection.
In addition to upgrading himself, he occupied his time by plotting and planning for the future. Zahavi would not rest until the Halcyons were destroyed. The vision that he had passed along to Oryon had convinced him that this was not negotiable. However, it was not Oryon's intent to see the Halcyon line dissolved forever. With the right plan in place, several of the clan could live through this ordeal and move on with their lives. Zahavi was of a mind to leave no loose ends, better to sever the link completely than risk disaster in the future. Oryon would have to balance the scales perfectly in an effort to spare the future from the disaster he witnessed while still sparing the lives of as many as he could.
Not for the first time, Oryon held the life and death of thousands in his hands. Some would be sacrificed for the greater good. As much as it pained him, he was a creature of logic above all things. What was best for all outweighed the that what was preferable to the few.
When the stress began to get to him, he would close his eyes and dream of better times. More often than not, he dreamed of Voss in the summertime. There he was happy. There, he had known love.
But it was not his nature to dwell. When his heart rate slowed and his blood pressure stabilized, he would open his eyes and return to his work. Too much rested on him now. He could not allowed himself to be distracted by anything. If he planned well enough, there would be nothing to surprise him in a critical moment.
Little did he know that the surprise of his life was waiting just around the corner.