"Cheers!"

Against the neon lights of the Nar Shaddaa skyline, three men shared a drink. Lothärius the haggard, Otso the zealous, and Bersk the haunted; together they had maintained a tight friendship that stretched back decades to their childhood, when they rode together in a swoop gang named the Hellfathers. Reunited under the banner of the Order of Mercy, each man had found his place to contribute. Lothärius in a commanding role, Otso on the front lines, and Bersk, who ... well nobody was really certain why he had been asked to come live at Michael's academy, but everyone was pretty sure he spent his days drinking in the shade of the trees.

Tonight, however, all their roles were set aside in favor of their original ties. Tonight they were brothers once again, taking a much-needed break from their responsibilities. Tal'aran had been happy to host them for the evening, providing them with a private table on the balcony. Her one requirement had been that should they decide it best to spend the night, Bersk would have to sleep outside. This term was cheerfully agreed to by all.

It was a cheerful evening, the harrowing recent events were set aside for a moment in order to allow themselves a moment of peace. There was no talk of strategy or retribution, instead they laughed at the way Lothärius kept catching foam from the drink in his mustache, or how Bersk could balance a bottle of wine on his nose. For the moment, they were allowed to be children yet again, and Lothärius was eternally grateful for the friendship he shared with them.

" Another round, gentlemen?" Tal'aran asked as she cleared the table. "Drinks on t' house tonight, you have your fill of 'dem."

"Keep 'em comin, ma'am." Otso kicked back his mug and placed it on the table. "I've got nowhere to be tomorrow."

"Hey, hey." Bersk raised his head from where it had rested on the table, folded in his arms. "Do you have any of that special brew? The moonshine Xaboki makes?"

Tal'aran scrunched up her face. "I don' allow that man's swill in my establishment. Not afta what he did. You'll drink ta house special and you gonna like it." She spit on the floor, causing Bersk to jump back a short distance. "You savvy?"

"Oh yes ma'am. I savvy very well, thank you ma'am."

"Damn right." Tal'aran turned and took the empty mugs back inside.

Otso smiled and nodded to Lothärius. "Any idea what that was about?"

Loth covered his brow with his hand and shook his head. "No idea, and I'm not gonna ask."

Otso laughed heartily kicked back in his seat. "Oh man, boss. I sure needed this."

"Yeah, hey, I missed you guys." Bersk pulled a flask from his robe and took a swig. "Should come by the academy more often. Plenty to do there."

Otso rolled his eyes. "Oh yeah, I'm sure you've been keeping busy. Way I hear it, you're practically on vacation."

Bersk smiled and shrugged, tucking his flask back into the folds of his robe as Tal'aran returned with fresh drinks. "It's a tough job, but someone has to do it."

Loth rolled his eyes and took his mug from their host, thanking her. He did miss these two, but gatherings like this came with a price. Sitting here, joking around with his friends, it made it easy to remember the one who wasn't there. The one who had died to ensure that they could go on living. He looked to the empty seat to his left and bowed his head for a second. They always set a fourth place at their table, as a way to honor the memory of their former leader, Kuno. It was harder on Loth tonight, as dreams of that horrible night on Coruscant had been haunting his sleep for weeks now.

It was difficult for Lothärius to think about Kuno without also thinking about Haran'buir. Ever since his friend had died at the hands of Mandalorians, Loth had never been able to trust a member of that mercenary clan. He harbored a deep and bitter hatred of the Mandos, and now he was expected to call one 'brother.' It stung, and felt insulting to the memory of his friend.

"Hey, what do you two think of Haran?" He floated the question carefully, watching the faces of the other two. He knew they shared no love of the Mandalorians either, but neither of them had been forced to interact with their new clansman like he had.

Otso set down his mug, wiping the beer from his red beard. "Now why you gotta go and bring up something like that for? We were all having a good time."

"I'm serious. Better or worse, we have to work with this fella. And he's not exactly...personable."

"Neither am I." Otso chuckled. "Long as he keeps to himself, stays outta my way, he'll be alright."

"Mandalorian." Bersk chimed in. It wasn't a question so much as a statement of fact. He followed this up with a shrug. "Kuno was a long time ago, Loth. Can't hold a grudge against an entire people forever."

Loth looked down in his drink. "Michael wants me to work with him. I think he's doing it deliberately. Kind of a therapy, I guess."

"Now you tell that arrogant pasty Jedi-wussy to keep his damn opinions to himself." Otso was beginning to lose the already thin barrier between his mind and his mouth. "No hippie gonna do his -" he made a gesture with his hands, apparently exhibiting what Otso believed Jedi did with their hands when they used their power. "- on me."

Bersk laughed and slipped out of his chair, landing on the floor with a loud thud.

Loth smiled as Bersk crawled his way back up to the table. "Michael's not a bad guy. Just needs to learn where his priorities should be."

At that same moment, several sectors away on Yavin 4, Michael Halcyon was having a social call of his own, albeit of a very different nature.

For decades, he had harbored a feud with Asmodeus. The battles they fought were that of legend, decimating continents on more than one occasion. The fury and strength that each of them brought to the table had caused countless wreckage across the stars, eventually causing the Halcyon Exile that had brought them all here together.

But that was a long time ago. Tonight, Michael and Asmodeus sat across from each other as equals and friends, meditating together at the close of the day. Asmodeus could sense the great weight on Michael's shoulders as he struggled to maintain his role as Headmaster while also feeling the need to be involved in the greater matters of the Halcyon clan as a whole. Likewise, Michael could sense the deep regret and pain that Asmodeus felt over the many deaths he had caused in his long and wrathful life. None more so than that of the young girl Calliope, whom Asmodeus had sacrificed in his ambition to become immortal. Calliope, who had been granted a second chance at life, only to have it cut short by Asmodeus' own two hands, effectively killing her a second time. The pain and the guilt that he lived with eventually broke him, and it was through that brokenness that Michael and Asmodeus had finally formed a bond, a tight and caring relationship that was precious to them both.

"You are dwelling again." Asmo spoke, eyes closed, stirring Michael from his reverie.

"So are you."

"You are so damned annoying."

Michael nodded and repeated himself. "So are you."

Eyes still closed, Asmodeus frowned. "You worry about what must be done with Oryon."

Michael furrowed his brow. "I understood why he had to be sent away. What he did, using Calliope to try and take you out, that was cold, even for him. But now? What if he IS behind this new threat? How can we spare him again?"

Asmodeus opened his eyes and placed a hand on Michael's shoulder. "I know you care for him. So do I, although he might never believe it. But we have to think about the safety of these children above all else. They are counting on us."

Michael rested his head on Asmodeus giant, meaty hand. Michael was not a small man, but Asmodeus dwarfed even him. "I know it is a sensitive subject for you, Asmodeus."

Asmodeus stood and gently grabbed Michael by the shoulders, raising him to his feet. He picked him up and held him close in a great hug. Michael hugged him back, but his arms could not even reach around the larger man's shoulders. "Calliope is my burden to bear, my friend. Not yours."

"You torture yourself over this. You shouldn't."

Asmodeus felt a warmth against his cheek as a single tear fell from his eye. "I...just don't think I could take it if another child was harmed because of me." He set Michael down and looked him in the eye. "If Oryon is involved, we must keep him from hurting anyone else. You must promise me."

Michael nodded. "Oryon is my brother, but so are you. I swear on my life, if any harm approaches these wards of ours, I'll gladly give my life before I let it befall them."

Asmodeus gripped him in another hug. "You are a good man, Michael."

The Headmaster remained silent, his eyes drifted away. If it came down to it, could he raise arms against Oryon? The man he loved as a brother?

Please, Oryon... he thought. Please don't force that decision on me.

"Hold still."

In yet another sector, on the remote world of Tatooine, Oryon injected Zahavi with a compound of his own design. Zahavi grimaced as the needle penetrated his thigh, but made no sound. He glared at Oryon as the Chiss readied himself.

"Shut up, you big yellow baby." Oryon rolled his eye. Of all the phobias in the galaxy, the fear of needles was one he would never understand. "Alright, just like we discussed. You will take control of me, make me walk around the room, stand on one leg, and then release. My bionic eye-piece will monitor my chemical balance and log the changes for the next formula. Understand?"

Zahavi nodded. He walked up to Oryon and placed his hand on the smaller man's face. There was a short flash of energy, and Oryon stepped backward. All expression was gone from his face. He stood perfectly still, awaiting command.

Zahavi nodded to him, and Oryon began to dutifully pace the room. He did so silently, with no objection or comment. After completing the circle, he returned to stand in front of Zahavi, who tilted his head. At this, Oryon raised his left leg and stood balancing on his right, his arms flat against his side. After a moment, Zahavi allowed him to lower his leg, and then released his hold on him.

There was no flash of energy this time, just a gasp from Oryon as control of his body was returned to him. He coughed for a moment, regaining his composure, and then stood straight up. "Excellent. I was able to log the entire process. I will comb through these results and see what I can do. If I do find a way to aerolize this compound, are you sure you will be able to maintain control of that many subjects at once?"

Zahavi reflected briefly on the crowd he had taken control of in order to dig out this compound they resided in, and then nodded.

"Very good." Oryon turned back to his work desk and began compiling the notes from the experiment. "The more of them we can control, the less blood we will have to shed."

"What are you saying, Loth? You gonna retire, again?"

Lothärius shrugged. "I don't know. If I have learned one thing from all of this, it is that maybe I'm not the right guy for this job anymore. I mean, back when the Order was disavowed by the Republic, we had to go underground, and yeah, it made sense then. We needed a military presence, a discipline. But now?" He shrugged again and took a drink. "These people never trusted me. They aren't soldiers like us. I'm nothing more than an overbearing drill sergeant to these people. They follow orders, sure. But I don't know for how much longer."

Otso scoffed. "Well you can't just step down. Last thing this group needs right now is wanderin'. Besides, what would you even do?"

Lothärius looked over at Bersk, who was snoring loudly on the floor. He smiled. "I do miss riding."

Otso guffawed at this. "Sure, why not? Ha! Revive the Hellfathers! Bunch of old farts on bikes, tearing it up!" He choked on his drink and laughed some more. "Gods, wouldn't that be a sight?"

Lothärius, his head spinning from the drink, laughed with him. "And why not? Better than choking back bile, trying to get through to a damn Mando. At least out on the road, we find a buckethead we can shoot them!"

"-y not? -etter than -bile -through to a damn Mando."

Static, as the radio frequency auto-tuned itself back on its target.

"-we find a buckethead we can shoot them!"

From a nearby rooftop, the crosshairs that had been focused on Lothärius lowered as Haran'buir began packing up his rifle. He had heard all he needed to hear.