Like I promised, here is the next chapter.
Big thanks to my betas: STARWARZMYLIFE, dieFabuliererin, Cuthalion9
The Farewell
Sharp bolts of red traded over the war-torn battlefield with small fires—caused by the incendiary grenades the unyielding forces use—consuming the dead as well as plant life, blanketing the land with suffocating smoke and ash. Ear-piercing screams of the wounded, either crying for their parents or begging for someone to end it all mixed in an unsettling harmony with the grating sound of blaster fire and reverberating blaring of explosions.
"Retreat!" a human adult shouted at the top of their lungs before a thermal detonator went off, engulfing them and two others in a fiery explosion, leaving only charred scattered remains in its aftermath.
A young human boy, probably no older than fifteen, ran from the approaching enemy, bobbing and weaving through their heavy blaster fire as he tightly clenched the barrel of his rifle like his life depended on it. Wide frantic eyes scurried the battlefield, making sure to not trip over his dead friends as he made his way to the fallback point.
His legs ached with each step, sway, and leap he took with his stamina shot and the lifesaving adrenaline no longer pumping through his veins. He was deaf to the sound of war and carnage that surrounded him, only able to hear the erratic beating of his heart and the quick gasps of breath his lungs took.
A stray blaster bolt found its way to the young boy's shoulder, causing his face to twist in agonizing pain as he released a shrill cry and tumbled to the ground.
He tried to stand, even using his rifle as a crutch to aid his shaky legs, but he couldn't. Exhaustion had finally taken control of his physically and mentally drained body, sentencing him to death. He could only watch helplessly as his brothers and sisters in arms, ran past him without even passing a single glance back to their fallen brethren, focusing on their own survival.
His face was drenched in sweat as he reached out with both hands, taking hold of the blood stained dirt, reeling his sluggish body forward. His muscles begged for him to stop but he ignored their pleas. He refused to die on a battlefield such as this. He repeated the action again, paying no heed to the desperate calls his body was yelling at him.
His body froze, feeling a hand grabbing the handle of his blast vest, lurching him up on his feet.
"Move, boy!" the individual barked.
Despite the protest from his legs, the teenager forced himself to move, sacrificing his weapon to the many that littered the ground. He glanced at the corner of his eye to see who his savior was, but wasn't able to get a good look as they too were struck by enemy fire. They yelled to him for help, practically begging. He continued running, tuning out the desperate cries of help and the heated curses that came after.
He had a second chance at life, and he wasn't going to waste it. He wanted to survive—needed to survive.
As he distanced himself from the ugly combat, the sound of blaster fire and explosion lessened. He could no longer feel the creeping feeling of death inching towards him with each plasma bolt that whizzed past his head. He was ecstatic to taste the dryness of his own mouth instead of the ash of the burnt wildlands and corpses that flew with the wind.
The teenager could see a ridgeline in the distance, signifying he was close to the rally point. Once regrouped, he knew his captain would immediately want to mount up a defense and create an ambush.
It would be suicide if they went on the offensive after the heavy losses they've taken.
The human jumped, leaping over the tall sandbags that protected his comrades from the enemy. He landed flat on his face, groaning in pain from the contact. Luckily he was quickly assisted to his feet, with zero words exchanged from the individuals.
He rubbed his sore nose, wincing slightly from the light touch he gave it—probably broken.
"Hands up and behind your head," a gruff voice ordered.
The teenager gazed up to be welcome with the sight of a female Weequay aiming a rifle at him. He took a step back with a tiny yelp, startled at the sudden presence of the gun toting woman.
She deepened her stance, her brown eyes narrowing at the human. "I said, hands up!" she barked, her finger poised to squeeze the trigger.
He followed her command, lifting his hands up and placing them behind his head. He swallowed down his nerves, seeing the Weequay wasn't relenting with her aim. After a tense second, she relaxed her stance, her finger still hovering over the trigger.
She nodded to her left, "March—slowly," she commanded. "Any of ya do something I don't like, or try to make a run for it—you will be shot by me. Understand?"
A collection of nods waved through the small group of three. The teenager took the first step, leading the group. His eyes roamed what was supposed to be a last stance of defiance against the oppressors, seeing those he fought minutes ago standing guard and searching through his people's supplies. Based on the lack of scorch marks and dead bodies, the enemy must have taken it without little resistance.
The others must've surrendered quickly.
He spotted a moderate sized crowd of his comrades, probably twenty to thirty people in the same situation. He immediately noticed the captain, being the only Mirialan of their insurrection, talking to someone that didn't look that much older than himself.
The stranger—a human male—was taller than the six-foot Mirialan captain of his, beating him by a few inches. Unlike the teenager's soft vibrant green eyes, the stranger's were a hardened and fierce tawny shade. He was dressed in a turtleneck, electing to roll his sleeves halfway up—tinted in a dark red and tucked in black pants with a holster fastened around his hip. It looked like the stranger was part of the horrid conflict he ran from with the sweat stains on his top, and the blood and grime splattered on his face and clothes.
He saw a grin form on the stranger's lips as he shook the captain's hand. The stranger turned to face the group of prisoners while the Mirialan hung his head in shame.
The fierce eyed man loudly cleared his throat, gaining everyone's attention. "I, am Coquer, and I'm pleased to inform you, your little disagreement with the Techno Union is now over, with your supervisor surrendering to the Corporate Alliance."
The man folded his hands behind his back.
"As of this moment, your contract to the Techno Union is hereby terminated, with no benefits being granted to you. All able bodied former employees will have one rotation, while the wounded will have five, to vacate and leave behind all Techno Union owned properties and goods."
"What?! You can't do that."
The teenage boy took a step forward, ready to fight the man who was kicking them out of their homes but was promptly reminded of the situation he was in when the enemy aimed their weapons at him.
The leader of the oppressors called them off with a simple raised hand. He strolled over to the teenager, stopping a mere inch away—tawny eyes bored into his.
"Do you have an issue you would like to raise about the arrangement your work supervisor and I set?"
The teenager's jaw visibly tensed as he clenched his teeth. The man before him didn't view them as enemies or soldiers, just disgruntled employees who bit the hand that granted them housing and a paycheck.
"No," he grunted out.
"Good." Coquer turned around from the teenager—who released a breath of relief—and walked back to the Mirialan. "Be grateful that my mentor decided that I should personally deal with this situation, not him. He would have sought to burn you all like kindling for disobeying your employers."
He turned to face them, standing by the Mirialan's side. "Worry not for the dead that unfortunately lost their lives today. I gave your supervisor my word that I would see to it they will all get a proper burial."
One of his soldiers walked up to him and whispered something in his ear. It had to be something odd based on the quizzical expression the man had.
He regarded them once more with his hardened eyes. "You have one rotation. Please, don't make me come back and finish the job. I prefer letting former employees live."
Coquer leaned back in his chair, cupping his chin, tapping it as he pondered what would be his next course of action. His forces were holding strong, fighting tooth and nail as defenders, but he could tell—with the seconds ticking by—that the ground he once held was slowly becoming territory to the aggressor.
He was going to lose if he didn't think of something quickly.
"Having problems, Coquer?"
His tawny colored eyes left the holographic battle simulation, gazing at his mentor who had a pleased grin and a twinkle of mischief in his many eyes.
Despite his victory against the fed up workers of the Techno Union early today, the young man wasn't quite versed with ground warfare, being more proficient in conducting ship-to-ship combat. There were too many variables one needed to take into account for. Unlike the simplicity of space warfare, where the military leader needed only to view the ship as a single pawn. In ground warfare, every soldier, tank, and aircraft was another piece on the ever expanding chess board. He could hold his own with the inexperienced and perhaps those of intermediate skills if he was lucky, but not those like his mentor who practically perfected the ugly art.
"Hardly," he said with a tiny smirk, inputting commands to his simulated troops. "Just thinking about what your excuse would be this time when I win."
Trench's low gruff-like chuckle resonated in the spacious cabin. The Harch's infantry rushed forward, throwing caution to the wind, drilling a hole into Coquer's defensive line, shattering all hopes of holding the simulated soldiers at bay. Coquer had to go on the offensive now.
With his rough hands, Coquer typed on the keyboard, sending an array of commands to his men. All of his limited armor forces spear-headed the assault with his infantry eliminating any of the invaders that were missed. The young man's forces easily overwhelmed the Harch's soldiers with his aggressive tactics, but they did not yield nor retreat at the strong retaliation.
Suddenly, bombers flew through the artificial skies, dropping proton bombs at the conflict below, decimating both Trench's and his troops. The Harch's armor divisions moved in, dispatching what little survivors there were.
Coquer grumbled, annoyed at the tactic his mentor utilized. He detested the act of willingly sacrificing one's soldiers to achieve victory. While he understood sacrifices were needed in combat, he would never stoop so low to implement such a horrendous strategy.
"I believe that makes a thousand wins now."
Coquer rolled his eyes, leaning back in his seat as he crossed one leg over the other. "Don't forget, I did best you four times."
"Yes, over the long span of six years." Trench reached for the glass cup, half-filled with a reddish-brown liquid. He took a sip of the drink. "Though I will admit, you have provided me with a fun challenge that I have not experienced in quite some time."
Though compliments weren't foreign for his mentor to give, it was still rare for the instances to occur. Coquer took small pleasure in the praises Trench gave. Like his droid caretakers from his youth, he viewed the Harch as an uncle figure of sorts, having taught the young man many things about life and guided him through the horrors of puberty.
"I'm glad to have proved worthy of your teachings, Captain."
"As am I." Trench took another sip of his beverage then released a heavy sigh. It wasn't a noise contentment of the delectable liquor, but of remorse. "And apparently, so does Count Dooku. Your Master deemed your training complete and requested your return."
Coquer blinked, caught completely off guard at the mention of his father.
So that was why Trench had ordered his immediate return to the ship. He hadn't seen nor heard from the Count since he placed him under Trench's care. Why did his father seek him now? Probably only to rip him away from those who cared for him only to place him in the hands of another.
The young man took a deep breath, ridding himself of the negative thoughts he carried for his father. There was nothing he could do but accept his fate.
"When do I depart?" Coquer asked, his voice even.
"Immediately," Trench answered before finishing the last of his drink. "I already have a ship prepared for your travel."
"I see." This was it. The end with his time with the Harch captain. He begrudgingly stood from his seat. "I shall gather my belongings then."
"Wait."
Trench stood and then walked to a large cabinet. He opened one of its wide drawers, taking out an item wrapped in cloth. It was of moderate size, having to be carried by two of the Harch's six hands. He walked to the young man, presenting the unknown gift to him.
Coquer accepted the item, carefully taking it from the hands of his mentor. He was surprised about the decent weight of the mysterious item based on its thin look. Trench urged him to unwrap it, and Coquer did so.
The clothed item revealed to be a vibrorapier of elegant design. It shined brightly from the overhead lights with the sharp, slender blade having a silver finish. The handle—black in color—had small grooves for grip. Lastly, the gold pommel had the insignia of the infamous Harch himself, etched on it for all the universe to see.
"It's made of cortosis ore—a highly rare mineral."
Coquer didn't know what to say, too shock at the presence of the well-crafted gift.
"I know you favor the feel of a blade in your hand more than that of a blaster." Coquer turned his gaze to the Harch as he spoke. "I had planned to reward you with this when my defeat by your hands reached double digits, but I guess it will do just as fine for a farewell gift."
"C—Captain—"
"You earned the right to call me Trench." The Harch reached out a hand, "it was an honor teaching you, Coquer."
Though harsh and sometimes down right cruel with his lessons, Coquer knew that it was all for a reason. A military leader needed to be strong and unyielding to all adversaries. To surrender meant death. These lessons would forever be engraved in his mind, and used as references for all future battles.
Coquer accepted the Harch's hand, giving his mentor a hearty shake. "It was a privilege learning from you, Trench."
Author's Note: So I thought long and hard about this chapter. Had a discussion with Cuthalion9 about whether or not to show the growth between Coquer and Trench, and we both agreed this is for the best. While nice to see, it didn't necessarily add more to the story and slow down the pacing(we're still in the prologue phase of the story). Plus, I can fill in the gaps and stuff later on if needed(have something major plan in the later chapters about them).
Anyways, like I said, there won't be a mew chapter for a while due to my kid popping out soon. Once my wife and I get into rhythm of our new lifestyle, expect schedule updates again.
Till Next Time
Updated Dec 20 2021