SotP Tales - Hymn of the Battlemaster

by SLotH4

Soldier. Warrior. Zevro Shartan is seen by many to embody the best and worst of the Jedi. Uncompromising in the face of evil, he has seen the worst of the galaxy, and resolved to eradicate it. But when a raid against the Black Sun turns into a conspiracy reaching into the heart of the Galactic Alliance, he will be confronted with a choice - one that will change the galaxy.

1. Battlemaster

SotP Tales - Hymn of the Battlemaster

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CHAPTER I

BATTLEMASTER

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"Sound off."

Nar Shaddaa was a world trapped in perpetual darkness.

The night was a main attraction for this world, brought to life by the masses of casinos, cantinas, drug havens, and thrumming dance floors. Fluorescent lights cut through the perpetually-smoky haze that permeated the air, illuminating streets of filth and trash, atop which was littered the passed-out forms of drunken patrons, or beggars crushed by the systemic abuses of the moon.

Nar Shaddaa was an illusion; a world of tyrants and criminals. A world where the businessman came to profit, the sadistic came to exploit, the thief came to swindle, the addict came to indulge, and the desperate came to die. Nar Shaddaa was a machine of misery; misery hidden under the cocktails of drink and drugs, the bling of credits, and dopamine rushes from casinos.

No one who thrived on Nar Shaddaa did so because they were good. Immorality and sadism were prerequisites for success. There were no laws, other than deference toward the criminal overlords who ran and profited off of what was sometimes known as 'Little Coruscant.'

A comparison which was not inaccurate.

The oppressive atmosphere could never be broken. Orbital shrouds kept the planet in a perpetual twilight, with practically no natural light allowed to come through. Only light from the neon lights and flashing signs was allowed in the ecumenopolis of vice and decay.

An endless party you might never wake up from.

But everyone woke up eventually.

Usually not of their own choice.

Only when on the streets – away from the casinos, drug dealers, and prostitutes – did one see the true Nar Shaddaa. The armed groups of thugs and thieves shaking down travelers for credits. The screams heard from alleys as murder and rape were carried out – the people walking by with shrugs, pretending not to hear, not to know, what was happening.

They walked the streets without a glance to the rows of thin and starving homeless; people who had lost everything, by their own hand or otherwise. Huddled under makeshift shelters that protected them from tainted rain, their clothes threadbare and torn. If they were lucky, they might have a mildewy blanket.

A few corpses were always sprinkled in the rubbish. Droids would occasionally sweep the area, disposing of them without pity.

The living were unimportant.

The dead even less so.

Even in the darkest places there was charity… but not here. Charity showed wealth, receiving it showed the same thing. Desperation trumped empathy, and those who received charity were usually murdered by their fellow destitute, while the charitable were robbed if they were lucky and murdered if they were not.

There was no mercy or honor on this moon.

"Alpha Team in position."

Nar Shaddaa was everything wrong with the galaxy.

Abusive.

Violent.

Degenerate.

Immoral.

Unjust.

It was an uncivilized fiefdom that masqueraded as something it was not. A world designed to corrupt or kill even the kindest soul.

Every single Jedi who came to this world always came back with the same reaction.

They described it as a world in eternal torment.

They described it as a pit of oil and filth that clung to their minds and souls, tainting them. It was a whirlpool of misery and darkness that drove many into depression as they beheld the enormity of the collective misery. It required a strong mind, and an even stronger will, to operate on Nar Shaddaa.

The worst part was that it was permitted.

Tolerated.

Because that was how the galaxy worked.

"Beta Team, standing by."

The rain was tainted. The hutts had no incentive to implement the kind of purification systems used on Coruscant. The filth and degeneracy was a feature. The burning rain served a purpose. It drove people with resources to shelter, and those shelters – be they casinos, hotels, or brothels – profited the hutts.

The hutts were evil, but cleverly so.

It rained frequently on Nar Shaddaa.

On a rooftop was a man who stood in stark contrast to nearly everyone else here. Those who caught a glimpse would marvel at his size; he towered over others in height and bulk. Armor clad the man, the color of the void, with a similarly colored cape that fell from the shoulders.

The cape fluttered in the wind as the rain gradually soaked it. Raindrops slid down the smooth black armor and even a casual observer would note the quality – it was a masterwork compared to the haphazard gear worn by many of the local mercenaries. Those who looked to the roof at this moment would see the man standing, helmet off and tucked under his arm.

"Theta Team, preparing to move."

Removing the helmet was a choice. He wanted to remind himself of what he faced, of what was endured on this moon. Every foul smell, each poisonous metallic taste of the rain, feeling the slight burn as the drops landed on his skin, enduring the sweltering humidity that followed the storms.

He listened.

He heard the cries of the forgotten. He was stoic as the blaster shots fired. He listened to the pleading of a couple robbed of their belongings, and a woman who was cornered and abused by several mercenaries. The sheer volume of abuse he heard in such a short time would drive many to flee or block it out, but he forced himself to listen.

He would not turn away like the galaxy had.

Someone needed to understand.

No one else would.

Easier to pretend everything was fine. He knew better.

The air around the man turned cold.

As he breathed, his breath became visible before dissipating into the Nar Shaddaan air.

Hatred was motivation. Fury was fuel. The Force was the forge. He was the weapon.

A sword fueled by hatred, tempered by fury, and wielded for justice.

"Delta Team, ready to go."

Time to begin.

The man donned his helmet, heard the click and hiss as it locked into place, and waited as his HUD initialized. A few more seconds, and his system checks were complete. With confirmation that the teams were in place, he stepped onto the edge of the roof, overlooking the street below.

"I am moving in. Begin first phase execution. Neutralize all opposition."

Wrapping himself in the Force, the man leapt off the building, through the rushing rain and onto the street below, leaving tiny ice crystals in his wake – which melted just as fast as they had appeared.

~HotB~

This was Zevro Shartan.

Councilor of the Sphere of the Militant Order. Battlemaster of the Jedi. A duelist without peer. A victor of thousands of battles. A tactician with few equals, and a strategist who would fit in seamlessly with the highest ranks of Alliance and Imperial generals. A legend of the Order, who fulfilled his family's legacy before bringing it to even greater heights. A champion of the Alliance, an inspiration to generations to come, the embodiment of what a Jedi could achieve.

Zevro Shartan was many things.

But in his heart, he was a warrior.

Yet war did not make one great.

Killing without purpose was a waste. Victories without meaning were pointless. Fighting without a cause was empty. Empty conflict served no purpose but to allow the warrior to indulge in their bloodlust – turning slaughter into a sport. Such were not warriors, just depraved barbarians.

They were of the dark side. Sith.

Causes mattered. Reasons were important. If life was to be taken, one must be prepared to state exactly why.

And in a galaxy filled with suffering and abuse, there was no shortage of grand causes to champion. There were many things worth dying for. A day when a life was saved was a good one, and a day where the evil screamed was even better.

The greatest of warriors became something more.

Symbols.

Zevro Shartan was a symbol. He was not merely a Jedi. He was not merely a warrior. He was not merely a hero.

He embodied the concepts of judgment and justice itself.

His name was a myth whispered across the Outer Rim as a blessing and curse alike. Rumor and legend became intertwined, and the man with the saber of burning crimson was both a beacon of hope and an executioner.

There would be no mercy.

There would be no second chances.

There would be no escape.

There would only be justice.

Shartan landed on the street with a thud, boots splashing in small puddles as a light shockwave was expelled from the point of impact, scattering away trash and waste. The homeless and drunk saw him, and even in their stupor moved backwards, shrinking as the cold seeped into their bones. The warrior ignored them as he began marching forward purposefully; his destination before him.

He marched, the Force granting him sensitivity to everything around him.

The trio shivered and huddled under a makeshift cover.

The woman hid in the alleyway, watching him fearfully.

The armed duo behind him, hands clutching their weapons, fearing they would need to use them.

The multitude around him, their eyes drawn in curiosity and fear.

He passively assessed each, then dismissed them in turn. It was second-nature to him. He would know when he was truly in danger. The Force granted him this insight – a power honed to a fine edge.

So, as he marched, he reviewed the information for this mission.

Von Sonderest was one of the leaders of the Black Sun organization. A Vigo. According to most accounts, especially public ones, he was one of the more moderate members of the syndicate; the primary driver behind the organization's attempt to rebrand over the years from a simple criminal organization to something more legitimate.

No more did the Black Sun trade in slaves and addictive drugs, but it instead shifted to mercenary outsourcing and pharmaceutical investment. Not all of the businesses of the Black Sun were above board, but Sonderest had quite vocally boasted about how all the businesses he was involved in were fully legitimate. He was the face of the new, moderate, and friendly Black Sun.

But Von Sonderest was still a criminal.

A criminal who was surrounded by criminals, who ran a criminal organization, who employed and attracted criminals.

And criminals lied.

Sonderest was smarter than most, but even he could not maintain the illusion forever.

His charade was up.

And justice had come.

There were relatively few people in this part of Nar Shaddaa. Von Sonderest's Fortress was ahead, a towering skyscraper ringed with exterior defenses. Snipers and autoturrets lined the walls. Security systems and laser-triggered traps supposedly dominated the interior. An army of droids was rumored to be held in the basements. There were all manner of rumors surrounding Sonderest's Fortress. Some true, many not.

Regardless, most believed it safer to not congregate near one of the Vigos. Still, there was nowhere on Nar Shaddaa where one could escape the throngs of destitute and poor.

Shartan ignored them, there was little point in focusing on those wise enough to move out of the way. Most were afraid, but he saw a few whose eyes widened as they saw the hilt which rested on his waist.

And what followed was an ever-so-brief spark of hope.

He paused his march.

A spark of danger he detected. But not toward him.

He turned his head to look down the alleyway to the side. Yet another robbery was taking place; a weequay and a human accosting another human. One held a pistol as they robbed the man. Shartan's right hand closed into a fist, and the vise grip of the Force wrapped itself around their throats, lifting the thieves slightly into the air.

Bodies were small, fragile, organic things.

Glass to be shattered.

Clay to be molded.

Trash to be discarded.

He could hear the snap as the vertebrae separated. As their heads were wrenched in unnatural angles.

His hand opened. The vise retracted. The corpses collapsed onto the filthy streets.

His march resumed.

Some of the mercenaries on the streets had taken notice of him, mercenaries in the employ of the Vigo who hung around the cantinas and sleazy brothels of this part of the moon. The unofficial first layer of security, the basic forces that the Vigo paid to be cannon fodder – an early warning system. Several of these mercenaries, who were shoddily dressed and carried older weapons, approached him.

"Not a place for you to be, stranger," the biggest one sneered, pointing his weapon in his direction. It was said with the tone of a man who had said these words many times before, who was used to unquestioned authority; who was used to submission and fear from his victims.

He stopped his march.

The air grew colder.

Shartan turned to meet the eyes of the mercenary, who only saw the eyeless helm of the Battlemaster.

His hatred burned bright. His fury sharpened into a blade. A blade he plunged into their hearts. His power was a honed edge; a vise he could place anywhere he wished.

So, he placed the vise, and closed it upon their hearts.

The party of mercenaries suddenly gasped, falling to the ground, clutching their chests as their hearts burst, their lungs collapsed, and their bones shattered. Shartan needed no unnecessary hand gestures to achieve this. They were not worth the effort. They were not worthy of death at his blade.

He marched onward.

He could see the edge of the perimeter ahead. Inside would be the Vigo's true strength. He doubted most of them would pose a threat, but they would be more coordinated than the walking dead which resided outside here. He ran over the numbers from the intelligence reports he'd read.

As he walked, more mercenaries tried to make their move. Openly and covertly they tried to approach him with weapons drawn, and each found themselves falling into the dirt and grime of the streets, dead. Some managed to fire shots which wildly missed, before they too fell to the ground, never to rise again.

He wondered what crimes they had committed. He wondered if they had sought any purpose in life beyond their evil, and if in their last moments they would regret. But it did not matter, for it was not them he had come to judge. They had simply tried to interfere in the execution of justice. Obstruction would not be tolerated.

Atop the outer walls of the Fortress he saw one of the guards put a hand to their ear, likely noting his approach. The elite forces would be beyond this initial wall. According to the reports, the Vigo employed some of the best mercenaries in the galaxy, as well as several echani warriors. There was also going to be at least one ysalamir to contend with, and copious amounts of drones, droids, and heavy weapons.

He'd dealt with worse.

He stopped walking.

Atop the walls, more Black Sun snipers had taken position, their guns sighted on him. Turrets had come online, and whirred to life as they aimed their cannons in his direction. The gates of the Fortress opened, and two dozen Black Sun soldiers bearing the crest of Vigo Sonderest marched out. These soldiers, not the hapless mercenaries he had executed.

One by one, they leveled their weapons against him. Rifles and heavy cannons. Grenade launchers and chemical dispensers. A few even carried force pikes and vibroblades. A well-equipped and prepared force, more than sufficient for deterring most foes, even Jedi.

"Identify yourself or die," the leading officer ordered, a teal-skinned twi'lek woman with black tattoos on her face, who carried twin pistols and was adored in the golden-silver armor of the Black Sun officer corps. In her eyes, he wondered who he appeared to be. An ambassador? A mercenary? A Justicar? No doubt she had seen it all working here.

She had not seen anything like him.

He closed his eyes, and centered himself.

Remember who they are.

Remember who I am.

Remember what they do.

Remember what I am.

I am a Jedi.

They are nothing.

Let hate be tempered, let fury be quenched.

Anger is fuel, abuse motivation.

Vengeance is fire.

Justice is ice.

The air became still as the Battlemaster of the Jedi Order fell into his battle trance – then the air seemed to hum with a charged energy growing ever-so-slightly in intensity. All who were present felt the chill. Several of them glanced at each other nervously; a few shivered at the unexpected temperature change, unsure of what it meant.

I am one with the Force, and the Force is my weapon.

Shartan opened his eyes and reached for his blade.

With a hiss and crackle, the crimson blade sprang to life, illuminating the gloom of Nar Shaddaa in an ominous red. The blade flickered and burned with fury, an effect of the broken crystal within it. It hungered for victims. Thousands had already met their end with it.

Shartan took a forward stance, and pointed the blade toward them in a final salute.

He looked at the Black Sun officer, and noted that her eyes, like many, were drawn to the flickering blade. Fear suddenly engulfed her. Yes, she knew this blade.

When the innocent saw it, they rejoiced.

When the evil and criminal beheld it, they cowered.

Because they knew they were not long for this universe.

---

Vigo Von Sonderest considered himself a reasonable man in a galaxy that very often was not. Much of the galaxy was composed of unserious, uncivilized barbarians, who cared nothing for presentation, manners, compromise, or diplomacy. Such traits were rare among the criminal classes, where power often came from force and guns.

Though perhaps that was why he had been able to ascend where others had not.

Strength and fear had diminishing returns. It continued to amaze him that so few understood this, foolishly believing that strength was all that mattered in the Outer Rim. If true, the hutts would have been eradicated long ago.

And yet, everyone knew the hutts were the most powerful criminal lords in the galaxy.

There was an element to criminality that was beyond strength, and of course, what constituted criminality was a subject of endless debate. Curse the hutts all you wish, but to dismiss them ignores the lessons they taught. It would be simpler if the galaxy ran on simple rules, where it was strength which dictated all.

But the galaxy didn't work like that. You adapted and you accepted… or you died.

He wasn't a physically imposing man. He could fire a gun well enough, he kept in shape, but in a fight, he was hardly a force of nature. Merely another pale-skinned human of average height, with well-groomed black hair. Nonetheless, he was a Vigo of the Black Sun, and embodied the profile of the rebranded entity perfectly.

Mostly because he was driving it.

All the same, in that view, he considered himself a reasonable man.

Of course, he was well aware that his definition of 'reasonable' would be rejected by the many moralists and citizens of the Core Worlds; by the Galactic Alliance and Fellan Imperium alike who simply did not, nor could ever, understand the life of anyone outside their privileged bubbles.

He swirled the drink in his hand, absentmindedly looking outside at another rainy Nar Shaddaa night.

There was some wisdom among the criminals, even if it was unintentional. One rule that he'd learned very early on – it was something very simple, but unbelievably important.

Don't judge.

Judgment, he'd found, was the quickest way to ensure someone did the opposite of what you wanted. Judgment was often very rarely in the pursuit of justice, but to elevate the ego of the judge; who would preen how superior and better they were to the galaxy – or to those they passed judgment upon. Judgment allowed no growth, only perpetual moral stagnation.

It wasn't really justice people wanted, it was not absolution or answers, it was only blood. Punishment. Revenge. They desired the punitive, because anything less was offensive. Because it was simple and primal and everyone understood that desire, even him.

He couldn't condemn anyone for it.

He didn't judge.

He did wish they were honest about it though.

The galaxy would be a better place if people cared less about others living up to their standards, and instead worked to uplift themselves to the standards they demanded of everyone else. It would be a more honest place if they acknowledged the true reasons that drove their judgment, not the sanitized lies they told to make themselves and others feel better. It didn't matter if the death happened in an execution chamber or on the streets.

Death was death. Killing was killing. It was a bit ironic to condemn someone to death for murder, and believe they were somehow better. Crime. Justice. The definitions shifted and morphed to fit the powerful. Hard for him to feel guilty about being a criminal when the definitions were written by men no better than he.

Sadly, he, and everyone else in the Outer Rim had to make do in a galaxy where that wasn't the case. All things considered, it could be worse.

＜＜What's wrong?＞＞

He took a sip of his drink, and turned to see the ever-beautiful form of his partner.

Jarla'cora'insynlas stood beside him, as proud and proper as ever. As if she had never left the halls of the Ascendancy nor the Chiss Intervention Force. Though these days, she would certainly stand out amongst her own kind. Her hair was dyed a dark red that complemented her striking eyes quite well. Chiss disliked dyes as a general rule, but Cora had a tendency to break rules she thought were pointless. Or do anything in general she did not like. Not once had she ever spoken in any language other than Cheunh, she did not compromise her expectations, not for him, not for anyone.

He suspected that one reason she'd initially taken an interest in him was because he tolerated her admittedly irksome quirks.

Those first months working together had been quite interesting, and he'd found out how bad many translators were. Learning the language had been an easier task, in retrospect. He might never be able to properly pronounce her full name – or much else of her language – but he could at least understand. He wouldn't have it any other way.

Love was funny like that.

He didn't answer right away. "I don't think I ever asked you this. Why did you bother with me?"

She cocked her head, her eyes slightly narrowing and widening. Chiss expressions were harder to read as a general rule since they were an inherently less expressive people, but he knew enough to determine she was confused. ＜＜What do you mean?＞＞

"I'm hardly the best man alive." Sonderest idly motioned around the large, dimly lit dining room. "I'm one of the Black Sun, one of the most infamous criminal syndicates in galactic history, and I didn't get here by doing things which were exactly noble." Another sip of his drink. "To go from the Ascendancy to the Black Sun is quite a leap. I didn't really have a desire to question it, but now I find that I want to know the answer."

She nodded once slowly, standing beside him as both watched the storm together. The look on her face was pensive; reflective. It was a casual question, but she knew he wanted a real answer. After some silence, she spoke, ＜＜Because you're trying.＞＞

Trying was one way to put it.

But sometimes that's all they could do.

He turned and set the glass on the tray held by one of the waiter droids. "I apologize for my state tonight, I just…" He trailed off briefly, and gestured outside. "The purple clouds are out tonight."

She understood well enough what that meant.

Cora plucked one of the small kebabs from another tray of food and began munching on it. Technically, it was dinnertime, and he made a point to always have an ample supply of food and snacks available. The men appreciated it. ＜＜It should be a fast night. Don't dwell on it.＞＞

"Very true." He smiled, and checked the time. Yes, it was time to stop reminiscing and focus on business. Shortly, the various sector commanders and captains that answered to him would be convening for their weekly meeting. He didn't anticipate it would be overly exciting, but such were the responsibilities of a Vigo. "I suppose we should get ready."

A few minutes later and the attendees filtered into the room. Several wore armor while others were garbed in more conventional attire – professional civilian clothes like his. Aliens and humans, men and women, all gathered around a long table as foods from across the galaxy were served. Many perks came with his position, and he'd always found business was best conducted over a fine meal.

And it was a productive meeting, enough that he forgot his earlier melancholy.

That was, until Fortress Commander Xyor suddenly entered the room during a lull in the conversation. "Vigo," he whispered in a gruff voice, though weequay didn't really have a tone other than gruff, "there is a situation."

He wouldn't be approached if it wasn't serious. He stood, excused himself briefly, and moved to a nearby isolated room, with Cora following. Once they were isolated, and the white noise generators were running, he crossed his arms. "What is the problem?" he demanded.

Xyor's face was grim, as he projected the holofeed from his device. In it, Sonderest saw his forces engaging a figure who was clearly a Jedi; a very skilled and dangerous one judging how thoroughly and easily he was destroying them.

No, wait.

Not just a Jedi.

There was no other Jedi he knew of that wielded that blade.

Cora's eyes narrowed. ＜＜That cannot be who I think it is.＞＞

"Unless the Knights of Ren have returned, it appears Zevro Shartan is at our gates," Sonderest said, feeling calmer than he probably should have upon hearing that the most dangerous Jedi alive – one with a particular vendetta toward people like him – was heading his way.

"Security forces are engaging," Xyor said, "It appears to just be him here. We'll take losses, but we should be able to handle him like the others, Battlemaster or no."

"Admirable, but he is different from the Justicars." Sonderest shook his head. "Place the Fortress on full alert."

Cora's face was still. ＜＜He should not be here.＞＞

"No, he shouldn't."

"We should prepare to evacuate, Vigo," Xyor said, "We can extract you within the hour. I would not delay."

＜＜Agreed.＞＞ Cora nodded.

Sonderest smiled sadly, realizing why he felt so calm. "No, it's pointless. Shartan is not alone, and he is more than just a simple warrior. If you wish, send forces to each evacuation route to confirm they are clear. If Shartan has planned like I expect, there will be opposition – and I am much safer here than any of the routes."

The Fortress Commander scowled, but realized he was right. "I will dispatch the teams right away and activate the Fortress. Dangerous as he is, he is still one man."

And sometimes one man was all that mattered.

Sonderest glanced at Cora. "Inform the guests that we have a situation. Take all non-combat personnel to the safe rooms, and order the military personnel to prepare for combat."

＜＜Understood.＞＞ She nodded. ＜＜What are you going to do?＞＞

"I'm going to make a call," he said as he walked toward the communications room, "Our friend owes us some explanations."

---

The room was almost plain at a first glance. It was larger than the architecture implied, with the centerpiece being a circular holotable in the middle of the spherical room. Sleek white walls curved into a domed roof, lit with florescent lights. Like a geode, nestled deep beneath Coruscant's surface. Impervious to orbital bombardment, penetration missiles, EMP, or any other manner of attack that could be expected – and some which couldn't.

She liked it here. It was one of the few places where she could be herself – she had designed it with that in mind.

Most of the time, anyway.

Amanda Calsyne knew the power of reputation. Reputations, like anything else, were tools to leverage and employ when appropriate. Reputations allowed one to gauge and exploit the reactions of others – in positive or negative directions. Reputations allowed an advantage that otherwise would not exist – at least to those who knew how to leverage them properly.

Unfortunately, most with reputations leveraged them crudely, or worse, became reliant on them. One could never become reliant on a reputation, lest it lose its impact. Like everything else, reputations needed to be maintained and reinforced.

In some cases, it was beneficial to allow a reputation to fade, only to replace it with a new one.

She had some experience with that by this point.

The reputation she had cultivated was a very intentional one. One which she had tailored her appearance to match. A cold, pragmatic, and focused woman who had no tolerance for failure or time-wasting. She wore the white uniform of the Alliance Intelligence Service Director; each piece designed to emphasize authority and induce submission in subordinates. A shade of white that drew attention to the contrasting silver hair that fell to her shoulders, framing her sharp features and piercing gray eyes.

She'd learned many useful things from Isard. The woman had been just as much a teacher as he had been, even if unintentionally. It was somewhat ironic, and perhaps even sad, that the only people who could relate to her were the long-dead Director of Imperial Intelligence, and a man who made her feel like a child in comparison.

A breath escaped her lips. Almost a sigh.

Cold. Dispassionate. Emotionless.

Common words ascribed to her, and technically, they weren't wrong. In fact, though that reputation was deliberately cultivated, it was more a deception of perspective and playing to expectations. Such traits were expected of those in her position, and it raised questions if she were not sufficiently ruthless.

One long, continued game of self-fulfilling prophecies. Predictors in the toolbox of expectations to leverage and exploit.

But it didn't mean it was accurate at the end of the day.

To be cold and dispassionate was to imply a deliberate rejection, or dedicated distaste for others. It required feeling for others, even if such was negative. Those who admired and feared her alike assumed that when she looked upon most people – be they citizens on the streets or even her colleagues – she felt something.

She did not.

There was simply nothing.

This reaction, she'd been told, was normal. One which set in after the first couple cycles. The galaxy passing you by while you remained anchored in place. 'Chromonic Disassociation Syndrome.' Supposedly, everyone on the Council – even the Shadow Hand – went through this. Temporary, she was told.

She hoped so.

It was lonely otherwise.

Right now, it felt like part of her was dead, and she was an automaton carrying on in the corpse of a woman who should have joined her husband in the void beyond life long ago.

Yet here she remained. In a strange state of disassociation. Which she couldn't seem to be rid of.

But she just could not bring herself to truly care when she knew that in decades or centuries, none of those around her would be here, and ultimately, few of them mattered.

They would live and die without leaving a noticeable impact. They would be forgotten, if they were noticed at all. They would lead simple, ordinary lives. Ones without flavor, meaning, or impact. Their purpose was to exist for the sake of existence, unless the masters who ruled deemed their lives of importance.

In the end, they were all pieces which moved along the predicted and predestined paths shaped by forces and powers far greater than they.

Not for the first time, she wondered if this was how Jedi felt. Beings who could feel the Force. How could you possibly relate to those who effectively lived in a different plane of reality? Yet all the same, it seemed at least some of them had been able to bridge that gap. The best of them could, anyway.

There had been times where she was genuinely tempted to speak to the Jedi.

But the Force was a poisoned chalice.

It had to be moved beyond. And even if part of her was dead, another part had never been better.

There was meaning elsewhere, she had found, and if she couldn't find it in people, she could find it in work. She was known as a workaholic, and was rumored to spend time on-site for days, with barely any sleep, little food, and no interruption. Some joked that she was actually a droid masquerading as a woman.

They weren't completely wrong.

She was not an ordinary human, and hadn't been for a long time.

She rarely slept. She ate and drank only sparingly. She never had a hair out of place, or a blemish on her skin. She never had 'off' days or ones where she was ever not in control. She could maintain her focus on multiple high-level tasks at once without breaking a sweat.

No one understood how one woman could do it all, but they didn't need to. She had a much greater task than simply directing the AIS.

All of the Galactic Alliance was her responsibility; she needed to ensure it continued on the right path.

Even if that path was, for the first time in her memory, under debate.

A beeping sound interrupted her reminiscence, a piercing one that brought the world back to its proper speed as she looked to the offending device. A holocall from…

She narrowed her eyes, focusing on the name. 'Vigo Von Sonderest.' She cocked her head at that – there was no reason he should call her right now. Or at any point, in fact. Their arrangement was a simple one, prefaced on having as little direct connection as possible.

He was no fool, so if he was calling her now…

She tapped a finger on the haptic display, and brought up the familiar, overly friendly figure of the Vigo, his arms clasped behind his back. "Evening, Director. I trust you are well?"

She wasted no time. "Why are you calling me, Sonderest?"

"Just a quick question." Sonderest's smile lessened. "You are a busy woman, and I know better than to waste your time. Would you happen to know why Zevro Shartan is currently attacking my Fortress?"

Calsyne kept her face expressionless, but she felt a brief flicker of surprise. Surprises on their own weren't unprecedented, even if one had perfect information, and one of the worst traps to fall into was believing that one couldn't be surprised. Surprise was natural and expected – what mattered was not preventing the surprise, but reacting to it.

Zevro Shartan on Nar Shaddaa? And moving against the Vigo? Perhaps not unexpected, given his profile, but typically she was in the loop when it came to his movements. She kept her voice unemotional as she confirmed, "Zevro Shartan is attacking you?"

"Interesting, so you didn't know." Sonderest glanced off to the side before returning his focus to her. "Unless there is another Jedi in black armor who carries a crossguard lightsaber, then yes. I understand if it becomes impossible to maintain, but I'd prefer you at least do me the courtesy of formally ending our deal rather than me finding out this way. It's unprofessional."

She ignored his jab, more important questions filtering through her mind as she processed the scenarios that could have led to this, while continuing the conversation, "There was no change on my end. This is Shartan acting of his own initiative."

"If I recall, you gave assurances that this wouldn't happen."

"It shouldn't have," Calsyne affirmed, "Nor was it anticipated that he would attack you. I would have instituted stronger safeguards if that had been the case."

"That's nice, but regardless of expectations, that is what he's doing," Sonderest said, "I don't suppose you can call him off?"

"I will attempt to do so," she answered, seeing no reason to give false hope, "I am unlikely to succeed."

Sonderest sighed, but less at her, and more at the situation. "I was afraid of that. I'll have to take matters into my own hands then. If I die today, it was a pleasure, Director. Have a bit more fun in your life, would you?"

"You didn't strike me as the type to throw your life away."

"Oh, I not," he chuckled, "but logically, given my, ah, position, and given Shartan, I expect that my chances of dying are higher than not. Best of luck, Director."

She gave a small nod. "Likewise."

The call ended and the Vigo's form hadn't even faded before she switched to thinking of how to deal with Shartan. The upcoming death or arrest of Sonderest was ultimately irrelevant in the grand scheme of things, there would be another criminal to take his place and fill the intended role, be they Black Sun or not. Aggora would not be happy, but he would find another. He always did.

What was somewhat alarming was that she hadn't been aware this was happening until now.

Shartan was supposedly one of the most predictable Jedi alive. That was what the profiles claimed, and the psychologists and AIs agreed. In several ways, she agreed with the assessment. However, working with him, and observing him, showed someone who was far less easy to manipulate, and not nearly as predictable as believed. It was the inherent unpredictable element of the Force which was the driving factor here, she was certain of it.

An element demonstrated when he did things like this.

This might well be an opportunity – if one where she would have to break out the big guns. It had been a while since she'd indulged in a stimulating conflict of some kind – she hadn't had the time. This, however, she could justify easily enough.

She wet her lips, and shifted to thinking and speaking in a long-dead language, ＜＜Activate battle modules.＞＞

The lighting of the room turned a harsher white, as the holotable sank into the ground. The doors locked, and everyone who might have interacted with her now received messages saying that she would be occupied indefinitely. Holocameras and hi-def projectors booted up as feeds from Nar Shaddaa began transmitting – the images almost indistinguishable in detail and color from the real thing.

In the center of the room, hovering above the scene, was displayed a black cube, the manifestation of the tool from which their power was derived.

＜＜I am online,＞＞ came the familiar, and ever-sinister, electronic voice – soft and feminine in its cadence.

＜＜Localize the Codex toward MegaSecurity Ward Sixteen, integrate into all radio and comms traffic and prepare to connect me to Battlemaster Shartan,＞＞ Calsyne said, ＜＜Recall Goras for potential intervention, and provide combat update on the current engagement. Management-Battle-Directive procedures are in play. Inform me when this has been completed.＞＞

＜＜Understood, Councilor Calsyne. Is the Directorate Council to be informed?＞＞

＜＜No. Level Four-status remains intact.＞＞

＜＜Acknowledged, Councilor. Please stand by. SCORPIO Sanctions activating.＞＞

---

The symphony of blasters and shouted orders was loud as the Black Sun forces fought against his one-man onslaught.

Shartan leapt toward an entrenched trio of soldiers, anchoring them with the Force as he moved with blinding speed toward them. He landed on one with enough impact to physically smash their body into the duracrete and with two quick slashes decapitated the other two before they could scream, let alone fight back.

His red blade wove a protective cocoon around him as blaster bolts peppered his position. Shartan deflected most of them with ease. The sheer volume of blasterfire made targeted redirection an exercise in futility. Humans had limits, and his body could only move so fast.

Not that he was in danger. Not yet.

He had penetrated the interior of the Fortress now, and the defenses were significantly more sophisticated and prepared than those in the initial engagement. The Black Sun defenders were relatively well-equipped and trained. They were a sophisticated military force, by Outer Rim standards. They had officers, they had tactics, they had equipment.

It wasn't enough though.

It never was.

They were blind, he could see.

They were deaf, he could hear.

He was one with the Force, and around him it sang.

The incomprehensible melody reached a crescendo as he drew upon its power to strike and annihilate. He knew movements before they happened, he saw each bolt in motion, and time itself seemed fluid around him as he moved with impossible speed. His weapons were more than the lightsaber in his hand, but the environment itself, and the weapons they wielded against him.

One of the soldiers wielding a gatling blaster cannon had thought they would alter the balance of power, until it had fired up to full power. Blue lasers spit in rapid succession, yet with a yank of the Force, it was turned on his allies. A pull here, a yank there, and friendly-fire did the rest.

Soldiers were thrown into the air and allowed to fall, gravity providing the killing blow. Others were slammed with pulverizing force into walls or equipment. Jedi often used the Force to lightly push and disarm when necessary.

He did so with the intent to annihilate.

Pressure could kill faster than weapons could sometimes.

Crates and debris were thrown around, crushing some under them or shredding those unlucky enough to be caught in the middle. Sheets of metal ripped off the walls and wrapped around victims, crushing or suffocating them.

The world bent to the Force, and he was its master.

And they felt it; that oppressive winter that seeped into their bones and hearts. All who fought him knew the effect well; that cold fury that pressed upon their shoulders like a physical weight, which sapped their strength. And the longer the fight lasted, the colder it became.

Their movements became lethargic. Their hearts slowed. Their limbs grew heavy.

Their confidence fled, their hope faded, their determination floundered.

And his march continued, unrelenting.

The crimson saber plunged itself into the heart of a trandoshan, cutting upward and ending their life in an instant. One fist closed, and the helmets of two soldiers deformed inward, crushing their heads. Another soldier tried throwing a grenade at him, which he directed back with a flick of his wrist.

Snipers continued firing out of his reach, and he was working to whittle them down one by one. As the volume of fire decreased, it became easier. It allowed a moment to plan, step to the side, flourish the blade…

And swipe.

The bolt fired at him connected with the moving blade, and returned to the sniper who sent it. The bolt impacted directly into the head, and the sniper fell off the balcony.

Shartan smiled grimly as he returned to the lethal dance as blue and red bolts rained around him.

One more down.

The bulwark leading deeper in the Fortress opened, and another three dozen soldiers charged out. He wasn't even at the doors to the Fortress proper, and there were still plenty coming and… no, not soldiers. These were the Black Sun droids, with a few organic controllers. And more would likely come after this wave.

A change of tactics? Or buying time?

What immediately caught his attention were the two aliens who also came out. The first was a Mandalorian with blue armor that shone in the dim lighting, who immediately leaped into the air, jetpack firing. The helmet design and uniform attire was familiar. Likely one of the Tribe then, unfortunate he would have to die.

The other individual was particularly interesting – one of the Khaleesh Reforged, some of the rarest warriors in the galaxy. Khaleesh fanatics who replaced most of their bodies with cybernetic enhancements. A movement – or cult, as many called them – that had been inspired by the khaleesh cyborg General Grievous who had fought in the Clone Wars.

A cyborg who, in Shartan's view, had an exaggerated reputation.

The Reforged towered over all the others, and withdrew two vibroblades, seemingly daring him to duel. Shartan flourished his blade in response, smiling under his helmet as he fell deeper into the song of the Force that flowed through him, one which screamed in warning as the mercenaries and droids engaged with a renewed barrage of blasterfire.

He dashed aside, while lifting and tossing debris, bodies, and everything else he was able to grab with the Force toward the oncoming droids, which was successful in culling them by a dozen or so. The Mandalorian began firing from the air with his rifle.

The Force suddenly crystalized into a warning, and already his lightsaber was moving to intercept the projectile—

Projectile.

Instead of swinging the lightsaber to intercept it, he shifted his body just far enough that the slug whizzed past his head. And if he'd deflected it, the shrapnel would have landed on him. More warnings sounded, but now that he knew what was coming, he was able to shift himself out of the way while deflecting the blaster bolts.

It took him a few moments to pinpoint the mystery sniper – one who had taken position atop some crates a distance away, aiming and firing at him. A lightly armored twi'lek sniper with red skin, and half of the face tattooed. The other half was composed of cybernetics and implants. This was different than the snipers he'd been dealing with so far.

Definitely a professional.

High-caliber projectiles. Likely designed specifically for Jedi, where once they were 'deflected' they would shatter and wound the target with molten shrapnel. Less of a danger to those wearing armor, but it was far better to simply dodge the shots than stop them.

The khaleesh charged forward in conjunction with the attack, Shartan moved to intercept, when his helmet suddenly beeped with an incoming communication.

Well, he had expected it at some point. Of course it had to be now.

"This is Battlemaster Shartan," he said as he leapt into the air, and with the Force, charged directly into the midst of droids, throwing out a trio of EMP grenades from his belt just before impact. The grenades overloaded many of the droids on the outskirts, leaving him free to slash and destroy those in the center.

"Battlemaster, good evening," Calsyne said, sounding the same as she always did, "I'm curious what you are doing attacking Von Sonderest's Fortress right now."

The sniper was repositioning, clearly not expecting him to close the distance so quickly. She'd switched to pistols while she retreated. The Mandalorian flew overhead, firing a stream of flame toward him to distract. A raised hand stopped the flames as he deflected the bolts from the snipers and the woman.

"The same thing I always do, Director," he answered tightly, "my job."

"A job where I expect to be in the loop. Especially when you target Vigos."

A Force push sent the Mandalorian off-course, which ceased the flame as he cut through a few more droids. The Mandalorian would recover shortly – but not fast enough to save the sniper. She was far away, but she couldn't outrun the Force. He reached out, his vise wrapping around her body, pinning her in place and lifting her into the air.

A simple application of pressure on her spine, and she was dead. Not even time for the pain to register.

"Out of curiosity, Director, how exactly did you learn where I was?" Shartan asked as he deflected a few more sniper shots, "Or for that matter, how you got this frequency. One that I specifically created to not be hijacked."

"I'm the Director of the AIS," Calsyne said dryly, "This is my job. It is also my job to prevent suboptimal developments for the Alliance. Of all the Vigos you had to target, you picked the one that is least hostile to us."

"I received some information that altered my calculus on that," Shartan said, as he killed a few more of the snipers from the towers and balconies. More droids were coming still, but they were being easily taken care of. The khaleesh was coming toward him again, and the Mandalorian had switched to using controlled-detonation rockets, since trying to redirect them toward the source exploded them prematurely.

Clever.

"If you wanted me to not interfere with your undisclosed asset, you probably should have disclosed that before now," Shartan continued, marching to meet the khaleesh. He really did not have the mental capacity to fight and deal with Calsyne right now. "We can discuss this when I am not facing a Black Sun army, Calsyne. And for the record, even if you had told me he was an asset, it would have changed nothing."

"And here I thought you were a patriot."

"I am, Director." He closed a fist. Three more droids crumbled. "But there is a difference between us, Calsyne. You are willing to utilize evil for the greater good. I am not."

He cut off the channel. Calsyne would be unhappy at the abrupt end, but he didn't especially care at the moment. She would get over it like she always did, and he had a long battle yet to go. The khaleesh approached, vibroblades brandished, clearly expecting a duel. However, Shartan saw no reason to entertain the disparity in power.

This was a simple organic-driven machine, deluded into thinking it could be the equal of a Jedi. A being dead to the Force was not the equal of a Jedi, nor could ever be. Its servos were faster than human muscles. Its brain was able to calculate and react within nanoseconds. Grievous's reputation had been well-earned – but the machine had been smart enough to fight young Jedi and Padawans.

In the end, it was just a machine.

And machines were powerless before the Force.

The Force wrapped around the khaleesh, pinning it in place.

It did not matter how strong the metal made it. It didn't matter how fast the implants allowed it to move. It didn't matter how quick it could react.

Everything broke before the Force.

The khaleesh roared in electronic anguish as it was crushed. Sparks flew and oil leaked as the delicate parts of the cyborg were crushed and the remains set aflame. The limbs bent in unnatural directions or outright broke. Within seconds, the great form of the khaleesh war machine was little more than scrap.

Shartan turned away to deal with the remaining defenders – few as they were. It seemed the Black Sun were holding the majority of them back, likely preparing for him to move in deeper. The snipers had also pulled back, and all that was left was the Mandalorian who seemed to have missed the retreat memo.

He could no more outrun the Battlemaster than the sniper could.

A yank from the Battlemaster sent the Mandalorian careening toward the ground a short distance away. The man reacted quickly, detaching his jetpack and transitioning to a roll as he unloaded with everything he had against Shartan. All of the bolts were deflected away, the rockets redirected, and grenades expended.

All while Shartan moved closer and closer, his red lightsaber whirring and hissing as it weaved a shield before him.

He thrust out a hand and sent the Mandalorian flying backwards with deadly speed, impacting against the wall with enough force that his spine was almost certainly broken. Scratched and dirtied, the Mandalorian slumped against the dented wall, effectively paralyzed as Shartan stood over him.

"You… you fight well, Battlemaster," the Mandalorian grunted in his last minutes of life, "The Armorer did not exaggerate your prowess."

One of the Tribe then. Shartan nodded slowly. "You were an honorable opponent."

"Good… good." The Mandalorian coughed. "You know us and our ways. A final request then, one earned in honorable combat. Return my armor to the Tribe, and tell the Armorer of our battle."

A rite for the Tribe. Bodies meant little to them; it was only the armor which was important. Armor which would go to his children or family if he had any, or melted and repurposed. All but the helmets, which would remain the personal legacy of each Mandalorian.

Shartan nodded. "It will be done."

The Mandalorian seemed to relax, as he turned the T-shaped visor upward to meet Shartan's own eyes hidden behind his helmet. "This is the way."

Shartan raised his lightsaber, to send the warrior on his final march. "This is the way."

The lightsaber fell.

---

The room was almost eerily quiet as he watched the Battlemaster fight. Sonderest had never seen anything quite like it before, not tonight, not ever. He had seen Jedi fight before, of course. The occasional Justicar had found their way here at times, and were active on the moon – though they never got far against the Fortress, so they tended to attack softer targets.

Beyond attacks against the Black Sun, far more footage made its way – usually with great excitement and fanfare – onto the HoloNet. With a very curious exception.

There had always been a suspicious lack of footage of the infamous Battlemaster of the Jedi Order. It was so rare as to be almost a prized asset among the criminal community – together with the fan groups that grew around prominent Jedi. Like many Masters with a public profile, Shartan had his own devoted fans – a fact he suspected the Battlemaster wasn't amused by.

The lack of combat footage had always struck him as odd. The few vids available always seemed to be low-quality or difficult to make out. A lot of shouting, explosions, sound, screaming, and general chaos – complete with the camera being damaged or shaky. Now that he was seeing Shartan in action, he had a better idea of why this was the case.

He left no survivors.

And with the ease with which one Jedi was dismantling his forces, there was not much incentive to let such footage make its way to the HoloNet. It was a blend of inhuman speed, lethality, and skill that he could not help but be impressed by. He'd not known the Force could be used in such a way before, or to such a destructive effect.

Jedi tended to rely on either their lightsabers or the Force in battle, favoring one over the other – Shartan married and elevated the two in such a natural way he wondered why it wasn't the norm. Either Shartan was just that skilled, or the Jedi were failing to recognize their full potential. Perhaps a little of both.

He poured another glass of wine as he watched.

It was somewhat early for drinking, but he had a feeling about how this would end. In a way, he'd been preparing for it for years. One of the days the purple clouds appeared was going to be the one, and tonight appeared to be the time when the warning that had been given to him as a boy came to pass.

Prophecy was surprisingly useless in the end.

He wondered what the odds were that Shartan killed him the moment he got to him. The obvious answer was that they were relatively high, based on his reputation – although there was the lingering question of why exactly he was being targeted. There were many better targets – even in the Black Sun – to go after, and all things considered, even by Shartan's estimation, he was one of the better ones.

Answering this question, he suspected, would be the key in determining if he escaped from this alive.

The door hissed open. Cora walked in, her face impassive, but he knew it was not good news. ＜＜Scouts attempted to secure the escape routes,＞＞ she said, ＜＜There were… complications. Jedi and Alliance Special Forces were waiting along each one. Unmarked fighters are circling the airspace, and rooftop defenses are under attack by snipers.＞＞

The hutts had nominal control over the airspace of Nar Shaddaa, but in practice, often delegated it to the many parties they hosted on the planet. Even if he requested support from the Cartels, they would be more likely to let him fall than intervene.

Such was the way of the Smuggler's Moon.

His misfortune was their gain.

"I knew I should have installed a mid-level hangar," he mused, "I suppose it's a good thing I didn't evacuate right away, no?"

She ignored the dark humor. ＜＜What now?＞＞

"There are a few more places for him to get past." Sonderest turned back to the holodisplays. "I suspect he'll have to call for backup to get past the ysalamir. If there are Alliance Special Forces involved, then this is an Alliance military operation. A Jedi without the Force is not a Jedi – but it appears he's prepared for that contingency."

Cora crossed her arms, frowning. ＜＜You think he can get past the ysalamir?"＞＞

"At this point? Best to assume the worst." Sonderest took a sip of his drink. "My forces will hold as long as they can. While they buy me time, I'm going to figure out exactly what drew the Battlemaster to me. This was not an accident.＞＞

She nodded slowly. ＜＜You think it is him?＞＞

"It would be like him," Sonderest mused as he brought up several files on the display, "Quite a coincidence that he wasn't able to attend in-person tonight, along with all of his allies. And with Shartan's rampage, I lose some of my best soldiers and officials. Either way, he wins – but the only way he truly wins is if I am killed tonight."

His eyes tracked the holorecordings of Shartan as the Jedi moved deeper into the Fortress. "And if he is going to take me down, I'm making sure he comes with me."

---

Inevitability.

The word was a familiar refrain that Calsyne was intimately familiar with. A promise that no matter what happened, no matter the diversions and distractions, the end had been determined before she had been born. What happened on the journey did not matter, as the destination was long-decided.

She'd never really agreed with that romantic thinking.

Perhaps it was her relative youth, but despite that, she was less certain that she was actually wrong – if for no other reason than she had evidence supporting her. Acting as if all was inevitable and mistakes were impossible was dangerous. It didn't matter if one had all the power and potential in the galaxy – history had shown that even the best laid plans could go wildly off-track.

It was arrogant to think that they were immune to this. That they were an unwritten law of the galaxy, that they were inevitable. There had been a time where they were not. True, in nearly all cases, they were in complete and total control and the outcomes rested fully and totally in their hands. Yet there was always that small handful where paralysis took over, and they could only watch and wait for a chance to reassert their dominance.

Palpatine had shown them that.

She'd taken the lessons to heart. She wasn't sure the others had.

After all, surely such a setback could not happen again?

The road to the end was long, but it would come – yet until the end was in sight, they could not slip into the traps that they had sworn they were above.

And in this little reflection on the inevitable, she watched Shartan cut his way through the Black Sun, seeing a rare opportunity to explore this particular feeling.

The room she stood in had been turned into a holographic recreation of the battlefield, one where models and environments were instantly updated with a bird's-eye view of the conflict and carnage. SCORPIO had long-since hijacked their communications channels and, under Calsyne's direction, had been maneuvering the soldiers into position, pretending to be superior officers, trusted allies, or friends.

The mind behind the Black Codex conducted a dozen conversations at once, all while also listening attentively for the commands of Calsyne who watched the battlefield take shape, determining the most optimal positions, reviewing the known information, and assessing what other tools could be utilized.

She knew every single individual who was currently within Sonderest's Fortress. She knew the exact inventory and itinerary. She knew the layout, the schematics, and also the current mix of Jedi and Alliance Special Forces who were securing all of the exits. Should she truly have wished it, she could have ensured that Sonderest was able to escape.

But that would have raised too many questions, and set too many pieces in motion. So instead, she watched, and turned what would have been a slaughter brought on by a surprise attack into… well, a more organized defense. The minds of the Black Sun soldiers were limited by perspective and experience.

A few nudges here and there, some slight optimizations, and they would still die.

But would die slightly slower than before.

It was a very curious thing; a very curious feeling. She had perfect information at her disposal. She could see and conceptualize all of the possible moves and maneuvers. She could predict with high accuracy what would happen next based on any given situation. Yet she was in the curious position of being unable to really stop it.

She could delay it, she could make it more difficult, but could she stop Shartan with the hand she was dealt?

The answer was stark and simple. She couldn't. His conquest of this Fortress was inevitable – barring an intervention which would break the illusion. A Black Sun Vigo was not worth the risk and effort – but her own exertions did have a purpose beyond testing her own ability to delay the inevitable.

Shartan was driven by objective and battle.

So battle was his guide.

Drive him to the top.

It was essential to keep him away from the lower levels. If he went off the expected path – which she suspected he would not do – then there were going to be problems.

A chime sounded, a priority message from someone she had expected to hear from well before this point. She dissolved the battlefield projection, as the figure calling materialized in front of her. ＜＜You're late,＞＞ Calsyne admonished, ＜＜The MegaSecurity Ward is at risk.＞＞

"Amanda, please drop the Sithese drabble," Wali Goras answered with slight exasperation, "We're not in a meeting, and I am not going to put my throat through that."

Wali Goras was outfitted in his typical mercenary garb – armored and painted in greens and whites. The neimoidian was widely recognized as one of the most successful and dangerous bounty hunters in the galaxy. A legend that some said would one day reach the heights that Boba Fett had.

Though his real mission was much more secret – and important.

She furrowed her eyebrows. ＜＜Funny. We both know that's not true.＞＞

The neimoidian's red eyes seemed amused. "Too much of a sticker for formalities, Amanda. You're young, you'll grow out of it."

She raised an eyebrow. ＜＜It's also pragmatic, considering someone could be listening.＞＞

Goras crossed his eyes – the neimoidian version of rolling them. "Not the first time. And if they do, I deal with them." He twirled one of his pistols. "Catch and purge. Easy to remove one or two stragglers from the galactic consciousness. Sometimes even someone more important. Erasure at scale, my friend, that is what we are masters of."

Calsyne grimaced, but dropped it. ＜＜You didn't answer my first question.＞＞

"Because, Amanda, the Ward is not in any danger," Goras assured her, "And as it happens, I have been following the little rampage of our friendly Jedi. A surprise, but one that you seem to be managing quite well. If it makes you feel better, I've placed the Ward on high alert. No one will get close without us knowing."

＜＜I'm not concerned they will breach it,＞＞ Calsyne said, ＜＜I don't want them finding it at all.＞＞

"Amanda, this has been in my care for a long time – trust me, I know what I'm doing." Goras looked off to the side. "As for the delay, I was more interested in figuring out why, exactly, this happened in the first place. A few things didn't add up. While you kindly took over the direct monitoring, I looked into this."

Good. He hadn't been idle. ＜＜And?＞＞

"It appears that some rather compromising information found its way into Shartan's hands through a diffused network of sources – some real, some fake, but the information is genuine. One of Sonderest's lieutenants engaging in practices that, let us say, go against his carefully cultivated moderate image."

She wasn't surprised; that seemed like the most plausible explanation. ＜＜And Sonderest had no knowledge of this?＞＞

"As far as I have learned? No. And this has been going on long enough that this lieutenant has been getting help – help which has been very carefully and thoroughly compromised." Goras tapped a finger to his lips in mock contemplation. "And I do so wonder who could be involved."

The corners of her lips curled up, turning into a humorless smile. ＜＜Zann.＞＞

"A clever move on his part, though to what end I can't say," Goras said, "Perhaps to be an inconvenience. Perhaps to remind us he's still around. Bold of him to use the Battlemaster of the Jedi Order to send it. Think this warrants a response?"

＜＜Not for just us to determine.＞＞ Calsyne shook her head. ＜＜We'll address that once this has been resolved. ＞＞

"I'll defer to you then," Goras answered with a nod, "I doubt I'll be needed, but I'm moving to the Ward now, just in case. I'm tapped into SCORPIO, so I'll be aware of any developments."

＜＜Good. Shartan is preparing to breach the main Fortress now.＞＞

"Then keep up the good work. Goras out."

The hologram disappeared, and the recreation of the battlefield reappeared. Calsyne could see a few ways Shartan could deal with the upcoming challenge – and she was curious to see which he would pick. One path was obvious.

But knowing Shartan, she believed he was going to deal with the ysalamir in his own special way.

And if so, it was going to be quite explosive indeed.

---

The wall he stood before was the last before the Fortress proper – and Shartan was prepared for this to be the most difficult. Lightsaber ignited, he walked slowly toward the wall, waiting for the change. He knew it was coming, and he suspected it would be here.

A few steps from the wall – from the section where the turbolift would lower – it happened.

It was difficult to describe the feeling when one's connection to the Force ceased. It was as if the breath were to leave your lungs; as if the world became less vibrant to your eyes. The Force was a sense as natural as seeing, tasting, hearing, and feeling.

Having it be ripped away was like having a part of yourself die.

To him, entering the bubble where the Force did not exist was like being hit with a cold wave; an acidic bath that stripped away an essential part of him. But he was used to it by now. He had painstakingly trained himself to adapt to this feeling over many long hours and days.

To live without the Force was to live among the mortal. Quadrillions of beings lived in the galaxy who felt just as he did now, and they were not debilitated; they did not fall down and weep over the loss. They did not know what they lacked, but there was strength in that; it put into perspective just how much easier it was to move through life when one had the Force.

Jedi responded differently to the abrupt loss of the Force. For many, it was debilitating; a nightmare; a torture worse than any pain they could imagine. He'd heard of exiled Jedi who'd killed themselves after having their connection severed, unable to bear the agony. Jedi – who were oh-so-confident in their skills – fumbling and bumbling when forced to fight without their crutch.

He always thought he was prepared for the moment, but it was never easy, especially when he was as deep within the Force as he was in combat. By now, he knew the physical reaction his body would have, and removed his helmet swiftly, keeping the bile down for a few seconds longer before vomiting onto the duracrete.

It always happened like this. Only a few heaves before it was done. He straightened back up, and wiped his mouth with the back of his gauntlet, grimacing. There was no lingering nausea or illness, just a quick reaction and then nothing.

He exhaled.

A Jedi who could not function without the Force was no Jedi; they were something else; something aloof and disconnected from the reality others lived in. Soldiers did not need the Force to operate and fight in war. No one needed the Force to utilize their natural and honed skills. The Force was his weapon and tool – but he was far from helpless without it.

He stayed within the ysalamiri field. Going out of it and back in would be unnecessarily jarring. No doubt the defenders inside were expecting him to engage anyway, likely trying to find and kill the ysalamiri, which would be the most protected asset. Perhaps they expected him to do the logical thing and bring in backup to deal with this.

He might have, if he hadn't planned ahead.

He opened a channel. "This is Shartan. Please deploy package Alpha-Alpha-Six-Two-Two at my location."

"Acknowledged, Battlemaster," came the drawling voice of the Alliance monitor, "Long time no talk, Zevro. Hunting bad guys?"

He smiled under his helmet. "Been a while since I've been on this cesspit, Lilian. Black Sun, if you're curious."

"Ooh, straight to a Vigo then. Which one?"

"Von Sonderest."

"Huh, not who I'd expect. He seemed more tolerable."

"There aren't any tolerable elements of the Black Sun."

"Well, yeah, but you know what I mean. Won't hear any complaint from me though. Kill a few for me, would you?"

"I'll do that. Non-emotionally, of course."

A snort over the comm. "Obviously. Wouldn't want to break your precious Jedi Code. The satellite is moving into position. Expect the package in a few minutes."

On Nar Shaddaa, everything was for sale, including orbital space – and a few orbital satellites were under the control of the Alliance military, AIS, and numerous other Alliance cutouts to use on operations. Some were for surveillance, others private communications, and others delivered packages.

"And there we go. Stand by, Battlemaster. Package incoming."

On cue, he saw the drop pod falling with exceptional speed, impacting the ground a short distance away, sending out tremors to the immediate area. He walked up to it, and entered the code, unlocking the pod with a hiss. Once open, he briefly admired the small armory before him. The Force he might not have right now, but firepower?

Oh yes, he had a lot of firepower.

The cutting-edge of Alliance weaponry was at his disposal, weapons which he trained with nearly as much as his lightsaber. Few expected a Jedi to be a crack shot with a blaster, but he was up there with the best. An S1-Shatterpoint collapsible sniper rifle, modified to fire high-caliber rounds; the Kuat Microdriver assault rifles with blue-nano slugs; the Alliance-exclusive Scythe, a machine gun which could fire off hundreds of bolts per second.

His little armory was worth a couple million credits. He didn't spend his money on much, but weapons were a treasured exception. Each one bought, maintained, and modified directly by himself. As a general rule, he preferred kinetic weapons as opposed to blasters. Partially because they were more effective at penetrating armor, but also because he preferred the feel of them.

There were more than just guns in the pod. Class-D thermal detonators, EMP discs, sludge bombs – all of these he hooked onto his belt or placed in compartments on his greaves.

He hooked the Shatterpoint sniper rifle and Microdriver onto his back after cutting loose the cape – he was sad to do so, but he needed the space. He also hooked a Mark-VIII combat shield generator onto his belt, and quickly scanned himself into several holographic display discs. He pulled out the last gun – an Imperial-made hand cannon – and quickly checked to confirm the SunSpot rounds were loaded. Afterward, he holstered it with a flourish.

He pulled out a double-edged vibroblade, forged of beskar and a personal gift from the Armorer. It was one of the finest weapons crafted, and one which he would need if there were any duelists. Using a lightsaber without the Force was extremely dangerous, and he was more likely to cut his own arm off than use it effectively. Vibroblades had weight and more importantly, could be used safely without the Force.

Hopefully he'd have an opportunity.

The final tool he pulled out was the Jeckle portable grenade launcher loaded with a tube of white phosphorus grenades. Blue-nano was tempting, but his intention here was to cause chaos. White phosphorus would be particularly deadly against the Black Sun, many of whom were unhelmeted. The corrosive properties of the chemical were also useful.

It would be a good opener.

With the launcher in one hand, he picked up the Scythe with the other – the machine gun would be used after the initial volley. Setting both down, he ignited the blade of his lightsaber and began cutting a hole in the Fortress wall.

Once he kicked it in, all hell would break loose.

Clutching the grenade launcher, he kicked it in, and immediately hugged the wall as a barrage of blue and red blasterfire annihilated the space he had been. He was content to let them waste their ammo – and rockets – for as long as needed.

Finally, there was a break in the blasterfire, and he tossed down a smoke grenade near his improvised entrance, spun out, and fired all of the grenades in quick succession. A half-dozen flew out, spewing the lethal chemical along the way. He set the launcher down, and picked up the Scythe, revving up the gatling barrel until it was at full speed.

Here we go.

He couldn't help but smile as he marched through the entrance, blue fire spitting from the mouth of his weapon and catching the hapless soldiers off-guard. Whatever they had expected, it definitely hadn't been him coming through with a machine gun. A large number were immediately mowed down, while the others immediately fell into cover.

In that brief moment of time, Shartan quickly surveyed the rest of the area. Not many exposed places – there were barriers and crates organized to provide cover. Snipers were in the upper levels, firing from the lowest balcony of the Fortress. There were a fair number of automated stationary defenses turning his direction. At least two dozen soldiers total were on the ground, and equal that many droids. They were in chaos now, but that wouldn't last forever. The automated defenses in particular were already acting.

He had to admit, despite everything, the Black Sun had put up a better fight than he'd expected. There was some clear skill and coordination here, which surprised him. It wouldn't be enough – but they were making it a challenge.

He ceased firing, and dropped the shield generator which sprung up around him, and would absorb the next barrage of incoming blasterfire. He'd have limited time to cull the snipers and stationary defenses before the shield gave way. His mental count put the snipers at between six and eight, and equal that number of automated turrets. He'd figure out the exact number as he shot.

As their fire resumed and impacted the shield with dull thuds, he unslung the Shatterpoint rifle and took aim. There was another reason he preferred physical rounds to blaster bolts. It synergized very well with energy shields.

Specifically, they couldn't hit him.

But he could hit them.

He fired once. The recoil of this particular rifle was immense, and known to break the arms of the untrained, as well as smaller and weaker species. Most soldiers used augments or specific armor to account for this.

A sniper fell.

One down.

He immediately moved to the next one.

Another shot.

This one fell from the roof.

Methodically, he moved from sniper to sniper, even as they realized what was happening, and tried ducking behind cover. Unfortunately for them, the rounds he used were strong enough to pierce their meager barriers. The automated defenses were lethal, but they were exposed, and their protections didn't extend to high-caliber rounds fired from the most powerful sniper rifle currently in operation.

His shield generator was wavering now, colored a dangerous orange. but he'd taken care of the snipers and automated turrets before it had broken.

With that threat taken care of, he set the depleted sniper rifle down, and pulled out the Microdriver. He only had a limited amount of ammunition, so he would have to make it count. The blue-nano rounds meant he just needed to be accurate, not overwhelming. Thirty seconds was not long for a lot of things – but it was more than enough for the nanites to chew through the bodies of whoever they impacted.

He targeted the soldiers closest to him first, especially the ones that were attempting to flank. Sometimes they would try and move in groups, but every time that happened, it was solved with a grenade throw or two, and a few targeted barrages. He knew their tricks, and how to respond to them.

Every so often he would survey the visible battlefield. Without the Force, it was easier to outmaneuver him while he was distracted, and while it slowed him down, repeated assessments of the battlefield ensured that he could not be surprised. As was proven when he saw a squad on the wall trying to go to his flank. A barrage of assault fire had cut them down.

Back-and-forth the Black Sun and Shartan fought; one man against dozens. Droids sparked and exploded, corpses littered the ground, parts of them eaten and chewed by the nanites or from the impact of the rounds themselves. The momentum of the battle had definitively shifted, and it was now Shartan who was moving forward, charging and flanking as their numbers were depleted.

That was when he saw the last effort of the Black Sun to stop him, as he marched forward, most of his opposition killed.

He'd read these people had been retained, and had expected them sooner or later.

Silver eyes, silver hair, gold and white armor, and masterfully-crafted weapons. Echani duelists emerged from the mouth of the Fortress to try and finish him off. He'd since run out of ammunition for his rifle, and had been using blasters picked off the ground, or his vibroblade.

Honorable warriors dueled; they did not fight at range – at least that was a core tenant of the echani warrior ethos. He found it interesting that they were fighting here, for one of the Black Sun. A mystery that would never be solved, it seemed. He appraised them carefully, two males and one female, each in the best possible shape.

As expected.

If he had the Force and his lightsaber, he would indulge them in their desire for a duel. He would face them, and he would win. With only his vibroblade, and without the Force? He could likely face one and win, perhaps two. Three was suicide, even for him, which they no doubt knew.

Still, play to expectations.

He pulled out his vibroblade, and flourished it, enjoying the weight in his hand as he leveled it in their direction. They responded with salutes of their own. They slowly spread out, intending to encircle him. He let them do so, taking care to note where they were at all times. The area they were in was open, as it was just before the Fortress.

In his hand he carefully palmed the sludge bomb, and as he heard the one to his right rush forward, he tossed it in that direction and rolled away, as the sticky sludge exploded – anchoring that one in place for a few minutes. The frontmost echani charged forward, as did the other one to his left. They exchanged some blows, feinting and parrying with the skill of masters.

He pinned his primary duelist downwards for a brief second, and with her face focused in effort, it turned to surprised pain as a SunSpot round burned into her flesh. Another one followed, and she clutched her destroyed chest as she fell down. The other nearby echani immediately leaped back, realizing what was happening, but not before Shartan fired another round into his face from the hand cannon.

Echani wore energy shields, but they were of very little effect against slugs that exploded with molten metal on impact. The last echani was still stuck and cutting himself free. Shartan didn't draw out the execution further, and fired a final round into his head, killing him instantly.

For the first time in what seemed like hours, there was silence.

Now, the ysalamir.

He found the creature not far away, cleverly hidden among several crates, and also in an armored container, preventing an easy assassination or accidental death. It took some detective work to find – but find it he did. Another shot killed the creature, and once more the Force flowed back into him, making him stiffen for a moment as his true senses returned.

All done.

According to the reports, Sonderest should have had only one of those in his possession – at least one of this size. Ysalamiri were rare and very expensive – and very few were large enough to project a bubble this large on their own. There was unlikely to be another one.

Sheathing his vibroblade, and pulling out his lightsaber, he continued his march into the Fortress.

Time to find Von Sonderest.

---

Jedi Sentinel Rem Asjari stood silent, feeling a mixture of confusion and curiosity as she beheld their unintentional discovery. Her partner, Fedack, felt similarly. His lekku twitched in a way that indicated he was uncomfortable. His face was hidden, but she suspected he was biting the corner of his lip like he sometimes did.

"I don't think this is supposed to be here," she finally said after a minute of silence.

"Considering it was hidden behind a holoshroud?" he answered slowly, not looking at her, "Someone clearly didn't want it to be found."

Their task had been simple – secure the lower levels of Von Sonderest's Fortress.

This initial task had been accomplished with enough ease that they'd been ordered to patrol the nearby tunnels. They had the schematics, so it was only by luck that they'd gone off-track – noticing an unmarked door.

They'd gone inside, after informing their Master of the discrepancy. Oddly enough, there hadn't been an acknowledgement, but they'd gone in all the same. Initially, they thought they'd been right, as the inside appeared to be nothing but a dead-end. They'd have left right there, had Fedack not tripped and instinctively reached out to steady himself – only to fall down through the wall which had been revealed to be a holoshroud.

And behind the holoshroud was something that could only be described as imposing.

And disturbing.

It was a towering bulkhead made out of an unnaturally reflective silver, which glinted off of the oddly well-lit room. It was at least several stories tall, and everything it was connected to was made out of that same metal. It was like a fortress – a real one, which contrasted the rust and dirt of this place.

There was a high-technological aspect to it which she couldn't exactly confirm, but it definitely felt like she was being watched through invisible cameras. There was no obvious console or keypad, but she was certain it was an entrance.

From what she could see, there wasn't any sign of blemish or rust on any of the metal. The floor itself was like a starship, durasteel and darker than the walls. There seemed to be some simple patterns etched into the floors, walls, and bulkhead, as well as script written in a language that she couldn't read. There was something familiar about it, but she couldn't recall it.

"Sith."

She did a double-take at Fedack's comment. "What?"

"This is a Sith place," he said, igniting his lightsabers that had never left his hands, "Look at the runes on the floors and on the pillars. Sithese. Old Sithese. I almost didn't recognize it at first." He pointed with the blade for emphasis.

Her spine tingled as she realized he was right. No wonder it had seemed familiar to her. She also ignited her own lightsaber, the emerald light joining his sapphire ones. Confusion gave way to a faint fear. "It doesn't look abandoned."

"No," he said slowly, "It doesn't." He pressed a button on his helmet, triggering the comlink. "Master Kjora, we need immediate reinforcements. There's a Sith structure of some kind under this Fortress. Instructions on how to proceed?"

No response.

He clicked the comlink again. "Master Kjora, repeat, there is a Sith structure here. We need instruction."

"Could there be jamming?" Rem asked worriedly, after a few seconds.

"My diagnostics aren't showing any jamming," he said, messing with his earpiece, "I don't get it. Everything is going through. She's just not responding. I don't know why."

"Sentinels, this is Master Kjora," the voice of their Master suddenly came through, "Where are you? You missed your check-in a half-hour ago. We need an immediate recall of all forces, Shartan has breached the main Fortress."

Fedack's head cocked to the side and his lekku indicated confusion – that order had nothing to do with their previous communications. He clicked the earpiece again. "We read you, Master. Did you get our previous transmissions? We found a Sith structure."

"Satisfaction: Voice patterns successfully synthesized."

Both of them readied their lightsabers before the last words of the machine finished. They waited, ready to defend themselves at a moment's notice. Movement out of the corner of her eye brought her lightsaber around – Fedack following suit. They watched with wide eyes as part of the metal column deformed and melted down to the floor. The shimmering quicksilver puddle bulged in its center, rising up and morphing into a bipedal shape. The metal solidified at long last into a distinct droid of towering stature – at least twice her height.

Rem was surprised to recognize the model – one that had not been seen or used in a very, very long time. Not outside the history books, anyway.

"An HK," she breathed.

It was similar enough in appearance to the infamous Hunter-Killer droids, though its limbs were sleeker and longer, with the fingers uncannily long. The body was no longer as bulky as the old models either. The face retained the classic HK appearance – but more angled in some places, and the eyes shone white.

It turned to look directly at her. "Gratitude: I appreciate your cooperation, Jedi." Something in its mechanical eyes shifted, and it then spoke in a perfect recreation of her voice, "Master, this is Sentinel Asjari. Acknowledged and returning. We've encountered some resistance in the tunnels—"

The false transmission was cut off with some fake static, and blaster sounds.

How?

Fedack didn't wait for further explanation, and leapt toward the droid, lightsabers flashing – but the instant they contacted the droid, they fizzled out. Was it made of purified cortosis?

"Go back!" Fedack yelled to her as he rolled out of the way, "Get help!"

Snapping into a battle rhythm, she made to turn around – but before she could take a step, a ray shield materialized in front of the tunnel they had come from, sealing them in.

"Apology: I am afraid you cannot be allowed to leave, Jedi. Request: Please hold still, you are in the process of being scanned."

She turned to face the droid with a flourish of her lightsaber, and tried using the Force to lift and crush the droid. That tactic seemed to be marginally more effective, as the machine was lifted into the air for a brief second – until she suddenly collapsed to the ground, as if her limbs had become ten times heavier. Her lightsaber deactivated as it fell out of her hand, clattering a short distance away. The weight that engulfed her seemed to grow greater and greater, and only a few seconds later she was on her knees, struggling to breath.

"Recitation: Please hold still. You are in the process of being scanned."

Was it a gravity well? Here? It made no sense, and she'd never heard of gravity generators that were this strong outside of Interdictors – and there absolutely shouldn't be one here of all places. She could barely move a single muscle, so strong was the field pressing down on her. The Force was impossible to hold onto from the pressure and pain.

She fell onto her back, feeling like the planet was trying to swallow her. Her armor seemed to be crushing her, or on the verge of breaking.

The HK stood above, looking down at her pinned form, seemingly immune to the field. "Appreciation: Scan complete. Your cooperation is appreciated, Jedi. Dismissal: Your life is no longer required."

She could only watch in fascinated horror as the strangely-long fingers of the machine warped before her eyes, several of them congealing into some kind of blade with an edge so thin it was practically invisible. Nanotech? Some kind of bizarre technology she'd never heard of? All she knew now for sure was that she was going to die – and her armor wasn't going to protect her.

As her ribs began cracking from the gravity, the droid flicked the nanoblade, and she did not even feel it as it sliced through her neck, neatly decapitating her – and marking her as the first of two official Jedi casualties on the operation.

Her partner died a few moments later as the droid executed him.

"Report: Interlopers have been neutralized. Bodily treatment to begin momentarily."

---

Calsyne dispassionately observed the executions of the Jedi who had somehow managed to find the secondary entrance to the MegaSecurity Ward. Unfortunate that they could not have been redirected, but it was safer this way – lest they alert their Master and draw even more attention. Control of technology, unfortunately, did not yet extend to control of the mind, and these Jedi would not have forgotten the unmarked door.

With all factors taken into account, it was a minor, manageable incident. The Jedi were easily dealt with, and were no one important. They could die without attracting any undue attention.

She watched as the Ascendant-class HK began the process of modifying the bodies to make it seem like they had died in combat. The careful application of nanites would restore the body to an 'original' state, which was possible thanks to the acquisition of scans taken while the individual was living. While the Jedi were dead, the nanites would keep their bodies at the needed state of vitality for them to be molded as befitted the narrative.

As the HK droid worked, she briefly looked to the side, which displayed the holo-footage that was being created and edited by SCORPIO in real-time. As was done thousands of times a day, SCORPIO manipulated reality toward the proper narrative. The creation of wholly manufactured footage was an art in and of itself – one tailormade for an AI to flourish in.

Flawless, imperceptible, and indistinguishable from reality. Even those who would be skeptical would be forced to concede its validity when looking at the metadata, and the indicators deep in the cameras and machine code itself. No matter how far down one went, it would repeatedly prove itself over and over again.

Amazing what one could do when the manufacturing of the most basic of components was effectively controlled.

In this particular sequence, it would showcase the two Jedi being ambushed by Black Sun defenders, and while they would fight valiantly, they would eventually succumb to the Black Sun. A tragedy, but one wholly expected given their position and skill – as well as the operation itself.

Something caught her eye. She rewound the current draft of the footage, and frowned. ＜＜Both of them are too stationary. Not consistent with Militant Order Sentinel tactics. Adjust.＞＞

＜＜Acknowledged.＞＞

She returned her attention to the MegaSecurity Ward, and as the bodies were prepared, the doors to the Ward opened and out came another HK droid with a tray of pre-altered corpses, all in the correct attire and weapons of Black Sun. The only thing better than footage was hard proof to go along with it – and fortunately, the kind of proof that needed no witnesses. If any of the Jedi bothered to identify the names of these corpses who had not existed before a few minutes ago, they would find names, histories, and IDs in the Black Sun systems.

Usually, no one cared enough to be thorough in situations like this. Black Sun corpses were Black Sun corpses – they were unimportant at the end of the day. Nonetheless, there was a protocol to these situations, and she would follow it to the letter.

Few appreciated how difficult it was to manufacture a false narrative about such a relatively small event – such as the death of a Jedi – much less those which were far larger and broader. Nonetheless, the small narratives were important, for when those collapsed, so too would the larger illusion. They could not afford to be sloppy at any point.

Right now, there would be plenty of time before anyone came looking for these Jedi. Shartan was in the Fortress, and based on his current speed, he would reach Sonderest soon. She returned her focus to tracking the Battlemaster's march, as he kept going up and up, while cutting down all who stood in his way.

No one believed that Shartan was a serious concern. He was a soldier, a person whose psychology was known and could be manipulated. He was not the most powerful Jedi, nor was he the most influential. He was good, but not among the most important. And so, his impact was deemed 'moderate.'

She wasn't so sure.

There was a characteristic of his that she had noticed – he'd demonstrated it today, and had done so before. It didn't matter that he wasn't the strongest, fastest, or smartest if he could do things that were not anticipated. He didn't fit neatly into the simulation or narrative; too often he forced them to react, instead of guide.

Too… unpredictable. If that was even the right word.

No, Shartan was not a threat. Not in that way.

But he was an anomaly.

And in her eyes, that was almost worse.

Something she would address later. Now though, she would see this through to the end.

---

There were none who stopped him.

None who could.

Not anymore.

No longer did the minions of Black Sun hold their positions as he breached the sacred halls of their Fortress. Many fled in terror when the cold touched their skin, having seen him carve a path through their brethren, droids, and defenses with an otherworldly ease. It bespoke a certain wisdom they held, but also an unveiling of their character.

Mercenaries. Contractors. Men and women who held no loyalty to any individual or ideal, but only to wealth and credits. Their selfishness would not permit them to throw their lives away, not when life itself was what they clung to. And so, they fled before him; the lines broke and they looked somewhere, anywhere for a reprieve. An escape.

They found none.

He did not chase all of them down. There was no need. The Jedi who secured the other exits were moving inward now, called into action by his march into the Fortress; the final stage of the operation. They could not run or hide anywhere, as all that would await them was a lightsaber through the heart.

Though it did not mean he made no effort to catch the cowards who fled.

It did not matter if they yelled or screamed in protest or terror, they died on their feet like soldiers.

If they surrendered, he rendered them unconscious. Surrender he could accept. Cowardice was not an invitation for mercy, but an abdication of responsibility. Those who surrendered had at least fought and they accepted their defeat with as much honor as they could. Those who fled forfeit this right, and instead became vermin of the battlefield; insects who scattered when the torch of justice was shone upon them.

He marched upward.

He did not take the turbolift – it would be a simple matter to disable it and trap him inside. It took time to climb the many, many stairs to the top, but he was not pressed for time. Sonderest had nowhere to go. He suspected the man would still be in his domicile, as none of the Jedi teams had reported his capture.

He wondered how the man would react when they met.

Would he try and fight? Surrender? Attempt to bargain?

He would find out soon.

The entrance was just before him, with the room behind a moderately ornate door. He could sense two individuals within, perhaps Sonderest and a bodyguard. No others in the room. He waved his hand over the sensor near the door, and it surprisingly opened. Not locked. Though it wouldn't have done any good if it was.

His ignited lightsaber in hand, he entered into a dining room with half-finished dishes on a long table, under high ceilings. The mingled scent of a dozen different cooked meals still lingering in the air. At the head of the table sat the man himself, Vigo Von Sonderest. A short distance away, near one of the floor-to-ceiling windows, was a chiss woman.

He appraised her carefully. Chiss in the underworld were rare.

Von Sonderest raised a wine glass as he entered. "Welcome, Battlemaster. You can put away your weapon, I surrender."

He kept it ignited. "A wise choice. Your surrender is accepted."

Sonderest smiled, a small, sad one. "I'm glad to hear it. Do feel free to help yourself to any of the food or wine. I can have my droid bring out more if you wish. I'd hate for it all to go to waste."

He probed the man's feelings, though not gently. Sonderest winced as the full force of Shartan's power directed into his mind, but it was withdrawn in moments. It did seem a sincere offer, if a resigned one. Still, he saw little reason to indulge. "I know better than to accept gifts from my enemies. Especially from a Vigo."

Sonderest snorted. "I've watched you cut through some of the best men I've had the privilege of knowing. You single-handedly breached a Fortress my engineers assured was impenetrable. I had this designed to be able to fend off a small army, did you know that?"

He gestured around. "And in mere hours, it has fallen. The ysalamir barely slowed you down. Impressive, truly. I just hate that I had to learn that particular lesson. So, to be clear, Master Shartan, if you think I would be stupid enough to do something such as poison you, I must say my intelligence is insulted."

"And why, exactly, do you think I care to indulge your generosity?"

"As a final courtesy, perhaps," Sonderest mused idly, before exhaling loudly, "Much as some of my colleagues say you are a bloodthirsty barbarian, I know a bit better than that. That we are speaking peacefully now implies as much. Although I find this current circumstance rather unfair, if I am to be honest."

"Attempting to flatter me will not save you." Shartan reflected on the probe, and judged it was safe enough to put away his weapon – for now. " 'Unfair.' Quite a curious word. You are a Vigo of the Black Sun," he said, deactivating his lightsaber, "A new face that hides the rot of the criminal enterprise you perpetuate. The galaxy may buy your story, but I do not. Nor have I forgotten what the Black Sun has done, and continues to do."

"Clearly," Sonderest answered dryly, "But do answer one question: why exactly are you here? I believe I know, but I want to hear it from you."

"Sixteen shipments of Consortium-grown slaves, sent directly to Coruscant for undisclosed clients," Shartan rattled off, tone cold as he paced around the room, "Black Sun personnel providing slave-running operations for the Cartels and other Outer Rim criminal groups. Arms shipments to Corellian separatists and Red Front terrorists. Systematic drug proliferation among the impoverished areas of the Core Worlds. How much more do you want me to detail?"

"No more. That is what I needed to know." Sonderest lifted a hand. "I was unaware those operations were taking place."

Shartan narrowed his eyes under his helmet and closed a fist, unceremoniously yanking Sonderest into the air, who reached for his throat. "I have had a long night," Shartan breathed quietly, carefully, as the air turned cold, "I certainly did not come here for you to tell me that you're innocent in all of this. Do not lie to me."

＜＜He is not lying,＞＞ the Chiss woman spoke for the first time, stepping forward, her voice without fear, and almost offended, ＜＜Why would he lie to you now?＞＞

＜＜The same reason all of them do,＞＞ Shartan answered in her language, which seemed to surprise her, ＜＜To save themselves; it is a misplaced appeal to Jedi mercy and tolerance.＞＞

He let Sonderest drop down, and the chiss rushed to him, as he coughed and sucked in air. Shartan continued watching them. "You knew. You may pretend you do not, but you know exactly what is going on. You may not direct it, but your ignorance is intentional; a blind attempt to hide the truth of what you perpetuate."

"It's funny you should say that." Sonderest scowled. "When you serve the Jedi Order, and act as the attack dog of the Senate."

Shartan chuckled. "Your comparison is on rather shaky ground, Vigo. Unless you wish to truly compare the Black Sun to the Jedi Order. And I assure you – many in the Senate quite dislike that I am the only one who dares attempt to clean the cesspit of the Outer Rim."

"Not that comparison," Sonderest said, "but how when it comes to convenient ignorance, we both look the other way. There are certain inconvenient truths that we ignore, in the interest of stability and organization. To do otherwise is problematic."

"Do state what you are implying, Sonderest."

"I am not implying anything, Battlemaster." Sonderest seemed to have regained his breath and composure. "I am saying that politics sometimes prevents us from doing what we actually want – and believe it or not, politics plays a role in the Black Sun. Politics is why we are speaking right now."

"Do tell."

"You are a man who does not like being fooled," Sonderest continued, "Neither do I. I believe this is the culmination of a power grab by a man named Iro, one of my lieutenants. A man who, shall we say, dislikes the particular direction I have pushed the Black Sun in, and the influence I have with the Underlord."

"That you are telling me this implies you knew he was an enemy."

"Of course I knew, come now." Sonderest shrugged. "A political concession to gain my title. As much as I would like to have free reign, I do not, and I have enemies within my own organization. I'm sure there are members of your own Order you would wish to deal with, or perform unsavory actions that you conveniently ignore because to remove them would be… problematic."

"It depends. In my Sphere, no. Outside, my authority is limited."

"Fair enough, but you should hold to a consistent standard." Sonderest poured himself another glass of wine. "You seem to wish me to impose my will over the Black Sun, even over other operations I have no authority over. I understand well enough, of course, I'm an easy target. Even at my best, I am just another criminal in your eyes."

He nodded pointedly toward Shartan. "Because actions matter less than association, and the legacy of the Black Sun is forever tainted. I concede it is a well-earned reputation. But as much as I wish I could have been born into a safe, privileged, and well-off family, I had to make do with the life I had."

Shartan listened carefully. He was not expecting Sonderest to attempt to speak like this; very unlike most of his brethren. "You chose this life."

"I did, because what was my alternative?" Sonderest asked, his own tone turning steel, "Leave? Would that truly be something you respect? If you are the only individual with some principle, leaving is the easy path. I could have left to accolades, and someone worse would have taken over."

He sighed. "There are no simple or straightforward answers, Jedi. You have no idea of what it is like to live outside what you would broadly call 'civilization.' The Alliance, the Imperium, the Ascendancy, all of you have vaunted rules that reinforce your simplistic perception of what the galaxy is. Good and evil, right and wrong. Truth is complex, Jedi, and your people hate complexity."

Sonderest took another drink. "Yes, I am a criminal, but even you can see that I am not like the others who succumb to their worst impulses. I am certainly no worse than your vaunted senators, but here you are, coming to arrest me and not them."

He met Shartan's hidden eyes. "I am going to die, one way or another. It doesn't matter if you capture me alive, no matter what cell you put me in, there are things I know which too many people will want silenced. So, if I am going to die, I want to know… why does your sense of justice only extend to me, and not them?"

It was not the first time he had thought about this question.

There was always an internal hypocrisy that he was making an effort to ignore. He was not wrong about that. And his rationalization always came down to the same, stark conclusion. Why he couldn't let himself be distracted by such an accusation, or if that at all made his other actions unjustified.

Shartan waited a second before answering, "Because if I start… I will not stop until there is nothing left but ash."

There was something that seemed to shift in Sonderest's face. A short nod, serious; he knew he was getting an honest answer, and seemed to understand what he meant. "Were it anyone else, I would call it bravado. From you, it is a promise."

He ran a hand through his hair. "Well, I suppose there is little left to say. Do not worry, I will cooperate fully with your interrogation and questioning."

"Your cooperation will be appreciated."

"I have little to lose." Sonderest exhaled sadly. "Even if I were to get off on a technicality, all that would await me when I return is at best a forced retirement, and at worst a coffin. Vigo or not, no one who has undergone a Jedi mind-rip can be allowed a place of power. I have an interest in ensuring that whoever put you on my trail be found and dealt with. Iro is a lieutenant, but he would not have done this on his own. He is, and always has been, a pawn for others to act through."

Shartan cocked his head. "You believe there is a larger conspiracy at play."

"Without question," Sonderest said, "If my last act is turning the tables on those who have ruined me, then I will do so – fortunately, I believe you are the right person for this."

"If you cooperate, your sentence will reflect it." Shartan motioned him forward. "Turn around, and place your hands behind your back." He glanced to the chiss. "You do the same. You will be turned over to the Ascendancy. They will decide how to handle you."

The woman pursed her lips, but said nothing as he pulled out the cuffs he had brought for this occasion. "Vigo Von Sonderest, you are under arrest for crimes against the Galactic Alliance. Anything you say – or is found in your mind – will be used against you in court."

And as the cuffs were placed onto his wrists, one of the Vigos of the Black Sun was down.

~HotB~

The rest of the operation completed without issue.

The other Jedi met him on the lower floors, and took the bound Sonderest and his partner into custody. Several Justicars had been summoned for just this purpose, and they had been very, very pleased with his capture.

Now that the fighting was over, Shartan stood just outside the Fortress observing the aftermath. With an exhale, he finally released himself from his battle-trance and took off his helmet, shaking it free. The air was still terrible, but he was hot under the helmet, and the air had a pleasant coolness to it.

Jedi of the Militant Order were strewn around the site, as well as black-armored Alliance Special Forces, all of them taking inventory, salvage, and casualties. A few of the wounded were being treated, and those who had surrendered were organized into groups, watched by Jedi and the Special Forces.

They would be released after they left. Much as Shartan would prefer to lock them up, they didn't have the capacity to extradite all of them to Coruscant. Being forced onto the streets without weapons or armor was a sufficient punishment in his eyes. Perhaps they would meet again in battle one day, and he would finish the job.

Or others who were watching would.

Shartan was very sure the events of tonight were being carefully monitored by other interested parties – from a safe distance. No one was going to risk involving themselves in a Jedi-Alliance operation, one which had just taken down one of the most powerful arms of the Black Sun.

More shuttles were landing in the courtyards and commandeered landing pads, where more Special Forces and Jedi emerged to fully secure the area for just a while longer. It would have to be relatively quick, because Shartan knew that the hutts would not stay away forever. They became… antsy if they thought the Alliance was encroaching on their territory.

He knew they wouldn't do anything until he was gone at least, hence why he would be the last one out.

There was nothing quite like a successful operation, and as he watched Von Sonderest be marched into the ship, he felt good about what he'd accomplished. At the very minimum, a large part of the Black Sun would be destroyed, and knowing the organization, the infighting would consume the criminal syndicate for at least a year or more.

"Battlemaster." Shartan turned as one of the armored Alliance Special Forces soldiers walked up, a captain from the orange marker on his chest. "Captain Dora, we spoke several times over comms."

Right, he remembered the man now. Sharp and no-nonsense. His type of person. "A pleasure." He grasped the soldier's hand and shook firmly. "Your men performed well."

"One of the cleanest ops I've been a part of, against a Vigo no less." Dora nodded. "Mostly thanks to you. My gratitude – from the men and myself; always respect someone who leads from the front. Honestly, I feel you made it too easy for us."

"Maybe next time I'll reconsider," Shartan said with a good-natured smile, "Give my thanks to the men for their – and your – help. Was there something you needed from me?"

"There was, sir." Dora pulled out a datapad. "We're performing flash-salvage ops now. Most of the corpses and crates are worthless, but we're going to pull out some valuables if we can. Is there anything specific you want us to extract before we pull out?"

"Yes, there is," Shartan recounted, "You will find a Mandalorian corpse in one of the outer layers. Take the armor, and have it delivered to me."

"Understood." Dora made a note. "I assume this is a Mando thing. The body as well?"

"No." Shartan shook his head. "Mandalorians don't care about the body."

"Copy that."

"There is an ysalamir down there." Shartan pointed to the cage, where some soldiers were milling around. "Dead, but it's one of the largest I've seen. I want it delivered to the Sphere of Science and Research. They'll see if it's natural or not."

"I'll pass along your orders," Dora confirmed.

"Lastly, there are three echani." Shartan indicated the corpses which had remained untouched. "Preserve the bodies and weapons as best you can – do not take trophies – and have them returned to Eshan. The Echani Command will decide what rites are to be performed. Provide a full accounting of where they were, what they were doing, and how they died."

"Do echani usually work with criminal syndicates?" Dora wondered, as he made the note, "I've not seen many on Nar Shaddaa, let alone with the Black Sun. I don't know echani customs, but would that preclude them from their death rites?"

"Echani often can be found in the fighting pits here. They're a rare sight, but not unheard of," Shartan answered, "In theory, they could be denied death rites, but that is unlikely. What matters is that they died in battle, and with weapons in their hands. That is more important to them than the sides they fight on."

"Sound like Mandos when described like that," Dora quipped.

"They were rivals once upon a time."

Both men chattered for a few minutes longer, before he excused himself and walked among the rest of the soldiers and Jedi, speaking with all of them briefly before moving on. It was important that all of their contributions be acknowledged, and when the line of work was literal life or death, the absolute least he could do was make sure they knew they were appreciated.

Even if it was just by him.

Then he heard the pinging, and excused himself again. This call he had been expecting, and he was certainly going to take now. He walked a short distance away from the gathered soldiers and Jedi, and pulled out his holocom.

The familiar image of a bothan stood in his palm, hands clasped behind his back, and an ever-stern expression looking even more irritated than usual rested on his face. "Shartan. I see you're still alive."

"Supreme Commander," Shartan greeted, "Good to hear your voice."

"You're in a good mood."

"Successful missions have that effect."

"A mission you failed to clear with me beforehand." Supreme Commander Kenirr's ears flattened onto his head and his fur rippled. "What in the name of the Force were you thinking? I can tolerate insubordination from you, Battlemaster – you are technically not under my command. What I cannot tolerate is you launching single-man operations against one of the most powerful crime syndicates on Nar Shaddaa! And against a Vigo no less!"

"I had some help," Shartan qualified

"And I am going to need to address that," Kenirr growled, "I give you significant – and technically-illegal – authority in the military, with the explicit understanding that you do not abuse it. Taking my Special Forces on unsanctioned ops is a dangerous breach of trust. I don't care if they all volunteered, there is a chain of command that I expected you of all people to respect."

Shartan raised an eyebrow. "Do you want an apology?"

"I don't care for your melodrama right now, Shartan," Kenirr muttered, "You're good, but you are a supremely irritating individual."

"I would have thought you would be happier," Shartan said dryly.

"It's a particular talent of yours. Do you have any idea of what effect this will have? A Vigo being taken down by a Jedi? More specifically, you?" Kenirr demanded.

"I can make a guess. It sends a message," Shartan said, "Which was the intention. The entire Outer Rim is on notice – the hutts, the Black Sun, everyone. I—"

"It means I am going to be inundated with Senate hearings and depositions on what the fuck we're doing in the Outer Rim!" Kenirr interrupted, almost shouting, "It's one thing if you used the Jedi for this. That's your business. It is a completely different thing if Alliance soldiers are involved."

"If people take issue with the Alliance striking one of the most infamous criminal syndicates in the galaxy," Shartan said neutrally, "then that says a lot more about them than me."

"Because you have the privilege of telling the insufferable cretins in the Senate to 'fuck off,' " Kenirr snapped, "Unfortunately, I don't have that luxury, and because I don't want to look like I'm not in control of my own army, I have to pretend this was the plan all along. You're lucky you got something out of it, otherwise this would be an unmitigated shitshow in the Senate."

"I don't fail my operations, Supreme Commander," Shartan reminded him, "I don't envy your testimony to the Senate, but they are irrelevant."

"To you, to me it's part of my job." His fur rippled again. "It'd be one thing if I could prepare for this, but thanks to you, I have to make it up on the spot. I've already gotten a call from Calsyne about this. She's not happy."

"I know, I already talked to her. Here's my question then," Shartan said, as he kept walking, "If I had come to you with the plan, would you have signed off on it?"

"Of course not. Of all the Vigos to target, Sonderest is the least offensive of the lot."

"Right, and that's why I didn't." Shartan nodded. "And it will be the same answer for anyone of actual importance to the underworld. Sonderest being slightly less offensive than the other crime lords is a convenient excuse, and I'm growing tired of convenient excuses to stop work from getting done. Besides, I arrested him."

Kenirr scratched his forehead. "Did you think about how this will ever hold up in court? What did you even arrest him under? He's not an Alliance citizen, nor is Nar Shaddaa part of the Alliance!"

"Slave trafficking and arms smuggling to Core terror groups," Shartan answered, "Relax. I didn't choose him for the fun of it. And he's being held by the Order. We'll handle the legal issues."

"That's something, I suppose," Kenirr muttered, "I don't mean to express my disappointment, Shartan, the Black Sun can burn for all I care, Sonderest included. But I would much prefer that… if you do this again, you keep me in the loop. Officially or otherwise. Even if I don't sign off on something, I want to at least be aware if you do something… 'unplanned.' "

"Understood," Shartan said, nodding once, "I will give a full brief when I return to Coruscant, though I'm not sure this is finished yet. Sonderest thinks that I was set up to go after him, and depending on what the mind-rip shows, there may be something to that. I'll keep you apprised."

"Let's hope there's not." Kenirr looked off to the side. "I have the President calling right now, and this I have to take. Get some rest, Shartan, we'll talk later. Kenirr out."

He ended the holocall. Kenirr's anger was understandable, but he would calm down eventually – most likely he was more irritated about getting stuck with the paperwork and Senate hearings than the fact they'd gone after a criminal syndicate without explicit permission.

Which was a fair complaint. He would be on Coruscant soon, so he might offer to take some of the burden off Kenirr. The Senate might want some testimony from the Battlemaster of the Jedi Order.

He sensed someone coming, and he turned to see Warden Kjora approaching. The nikto's armor scoured from the battle, but otherwise she looked quite well.

"Battlemaster," she greeted, "Do you have a moment?"

"Of course," he said, inclining his head, "All of the Jedi performed well today. Your own work is to be commended."

"An almost-perfect operation," she agreed, "We did unfortunately suffer two casualties."

"I know." He nodded. Rare was the operation where everything went perfectly, and everyone came out alive. "Sentinels Fedack and Asjari, if what I heard was correct."

"It was," she answered, "They were on a patrol under the Fortress. They ran into a full team of Black Sun soldiers who overwhelmed them." She sighed. "None of us expected it, we thought most of the tunnels were empty. We lost contact when your order came through to move in, otherwise we would have investigated. We didn't find their bodies until afterwards."

"They'll be cremated with honors," Shartan assured her, "What matters is that they died well and for something greater. It's a good lesson to remember. None of us are invincible. Even me."

She grunted at that. "I'm not sure about you."

He smiled faintly. "I have a lot of experience. I'm not special."

"Modesty doesn't work for a Jedi who fought a small army within an ysalamiri field," she chided, "I hope the technicians were able to save some of the holo-footage from this. This'll be taught in curriculums for sure if I have anything to say about it."

"Well, maybe catch some of the Alliance technicians before they head out." He patted her shoulder. "Get some rest, and tell your soldiers to do the same."

"I will, Battlemaster." She nodded. "Where will you go next?"

"I'll be returning to Coruscant." He looked to the landing pads. "I'll oversee Sonderest's interrogation for the near-term, and see if that gains us anything. But I'll be away from the front for a while."

"The rest of us will keep up the mission." She saluted. "An honor, Battlemaster. May the Force be with you."

He returned the salute. "May the Force serve you well."

~HotB~

He flew into the atmosphere without any issue. He was fairly certain the Cartels were aware of his ship, but fortunately, they knew better than to interfere. More than likely, they just wanted him gone, and he certainly couldn't blame them. One day he'd return.

But today he'd done enough.

He settled into his seat, content to let the autopilot take him most of the way. In the meantime, he typed in a communications frequency, and a few minutes later, the blue-tinged form of Councilor Vol'mateil of the Sphere of Law and Justice manifested. The twi'lek was in his Jedi robes, and still up despite the late hour.

He inclined his head. "Master Shartan. Congratulations are in order."

"Seems you've heard then."

"The Justicars informed me of Sonderest's capture," Mateil confirmed, "Sounds like it was a successful operation. Kenirr and Calsyne comment yet?"

"Spoke to both of them, Calsyne called while I was in the operation."

"Sonderest was an asset then. As expected."

"And she'll probably find another one," Shartan muttered, "Intelligence agencies."

"Means to ends," Mateil agreed, "Or so goes the justification. In any event, we have one of the Vigos in our custody. Once we mind-rip him, I expect he'll give us many trails to follow."

"Supposedly, he has promised his full cooperation," Shartan said, "He was oddly forthright, even when I arrested him. He believes that I was lured to take him down, and claimed no knowledge of the operations his lieutenant was running."

Mateil rubbed his chin. "Do you believe him?"

"He didn't appear to be lying."

"So incompetent then."

"Most likely, but he believes that this was a concerted effort to take him down." Shartan paused. "It's not implausible. It is not a stretch for another party to assume that we would think he was behind the operations, or supporting them."

"But the mastermind is not this lieutenant."

"Sonderest doesn't think so, but he might not want to believe he was fooled." Shartan shrugged.

"All of this will come out during the interrogation." Mateil paused for a moment. "You captured him, and appear to have a read on him. How do you propose we proceed with him? Straight to the mind-rip, or see how much he willingly cooperates?"

Shartan raised an eyebrow. "I'm surprised you're giving me the choice."

"I'm aware of Sonderest, and he's not your typical crime lord," Mateil said, "What I care about is truth and justice. He's captured, and will spend his life in prison. If he cooperates willingly, he should be treated accordingly."

Shartan nodded. "Have an emotional read on him at all times, but at least initially, let him cooperate. The moment he lies or refuses to divulge information, perform the mind-rip."

"Affirmative." Mateil made a short note. "I presume you're coming back to Coruscant?"

"Yes. I want to keep track of this case." He thought for a moment. "And I'll probably make it up to Kenirr by testifying for a Senate deposition if he wants."

"Please do that." Mateil cracked a smile for the first time. "That is the kind of entertainment I would pay to see. Shartan against the Senate Intelligence and Armed Forces Committees. Please confer with Yaden before you do though, make sure you know all of the conflicts of interest."

Shartan snorted. "I'll keep that in mind."

"Also, I assume some family time?"

"Obviously. Quialis needs a break from the kids."

"He'll appreciate that. We should get together during that time too. I don't know when both our families will actually be on the same planet in the near future."

"Only if Sil does the cooking, I'm out of practice, and the less said about Quialis in the kitchen, the better."

Mateil made a face. "I'm slightly offended you ignored me altogether."

"What, are you a cook now?" Shartan chuckled.

"…Fair point." Mateil coughed. "Yes, I'm sure she'd be happy to have you and the kids over again."

"Alright, then we'll pick a time once I'm on Coruscant," Shartan said, "I'll leave you to manage the arrangements for Sonderest. He also has a chiss partner."

"Ah, yes, I heard of that. Opinion on what to do with her?"

"Interrogate her and extradite her to the Ascendancy."

"I'll reach out to them. Mateil out."

The Councilor's form vanished, and Shartan began the preparations for taking his ship into hyperspace. He was looking forward to some time away from the front-lines. Combat was where he thrived, but one could not have that be their life. Not if there wasn't something or someone to fight for.

He hesitated for a moment, but punched in the frequency away. It was late on Coruscant now, and she might be asleep, but he wasn't going to miss an opportunity to talk with his daughter. Worst-case, he'd see her tomorrow.

Luckily, it seemed she was still awake, and Tauli appeared on the holoprojector, clearly dressed for bed. Her hair misshapen with her horns just poking through.

"Dad!" she said, face lighting up, "You were able to call!"

"Had to fight through a few hundred Black Sun, but I wasn't going to miss our chat." Shartan smiled. "I won't be able to talk long, but I have some good news – I'm getting ready to jump to hyperspace now back to Coruscant. I'll be home tomorrow."

"Yes!" she exclaimed, "Wait, does this mean…?"

"I'll arrange for your brothers to have a vacation too," Shartan promised, "I don't know how long I'll be planetside, so I want us all to be together, at least for a few days."

"Ooh, have you told dad yet?"

Shartan chuckled. "No, it's going to be a surprise. Where is he? Asleep?"

"Not yet. He had a long day – helping Justicars in the Undercity." She made a face. "He fell into a sewer today."

Given how sewers in Coruscant were… "So, what you're saying is he's cleaning up?"

"Well, actually, he's getting 'medically sanitized.' " She added air quotes at the end. "He's not back yet. He was mad at the doctors for keeping him there."

Yes, that was his husband. "Well, hopefully he'll be out by the time I'm back."

"He will, and I'll tell him you're coming," Tauli promised.

"Alright, I'm going into hyperspace now, I'll see you soon," Shartan promised, "Love you."

"Love you too, dad, see you soon."

The holoimage disappeared, and Shartan settled in as his fighter jumped into hyperspace. As the stars blue-shifted from the jump, he closed his eyes and allowed himself to drift off into a very well-earned sleep.

Today had been a very productive day. He could confess to being curious as to what Sonderest would actually share. And Calsyne's continued involvement with criminal elements in the name of protecting the Alliance was a concerning – and repeating – trend that he felt should be addressed sooner than later.

But all of those were problems for another day.

Right now, he would sleep, and look forward to going home.

---

TO BE CONTINUED IN CHAPTER II | FAMILY

---

Xabiar's Note: Surprise!

Believe it or not, this particular story has been in my head for a while now. It came into focus a bit later than some of my other ideas, but this was one where I had a very clear idea of what I want to do with it, and for that reason, this came together very quickly while writing it. Of all the characters that have been created for the SV, Shartan has been one I've found the most interesting, and I'm very excited to be actually developing him.

There is a point to be made with this story. Or several, I would say. Some may be clear already, others not. It's intentional, it is going to be very messy and unclear at times, but it's something that I believe will be very good. And, of course, you'll get some answers to other hints and questions that have been laid in other Addenda or Tales along the way. I hope you enjoy.

SLotH4's Note: Xabiar created a Discord server for his own XCOM stories and included a channel to discuss "Shadow of the Phoenix" and its related works (such as the various Addenda and SotP Tales). If you would like to join the server and come to the channel to speak directly to us, just use the code NeKH6YF and go to the channel "sotp-discussion."