Translation guide from Mando'a:
aruetii = "traitor" or "foreigner"
beskar'gam = "armor" (don't worry I won't use this every time)
Cabur'alor = "Regent." Literally means "guardian leader."
Kom'rk = "Gauntlet"
Mand'alor = "sole ruler"
Mootla'gaan = "The Upright Hand"
Ruug'verda = "Ancestors." Literally means "old warriors" but is more commonly used for the former
verd/e = "warrior." "e" suffix indicates plural form.
Two months later…
XXX
Gar Saxon
XXX
The two low altitude combat speeders, sleek and blue, blazed overhead for another strafing run against his position, the heavy cannon mounted on its rear spitting round after round of yellow energy. The sordid earth of the ground became, if possible, even more ragged and ruined with each impact.
"Hold your Phoenix Warheads until my cue!" Gar shouted. The front speeder's pilot was fast but had slipped into a predictable pattern with the lack of return fire from this portion of the battlefield. The second behind him was apparently uncreative or content to follow suit. If the pattern stayed true, their next roundabout would bring them within just a few hundred meters of his men's range…
That is, if he had enough men to make it count. The 3rd Volunteer Legion, comprised of members from Clans Saxon, Ruber, and Bralor, was dug in deeply but still managed to acquire an incredible sum of mangled corpses, assorted limbs, and chunks of beskar. The Motla'gaan—what Primir Wren had officially christened his revolt in an illegal broadcast last month—was putting up a terrific fight in holding the gleaming fortress of silver before them.
Gargon's history was one of warlordism, and many of those past warlords had constructed magnificent architectural wonders to both protect their holdings and also try and outdo their rivals in glamor. Castle Fritt, as it was named for the warlord who had built it, was one of the final to be built and had thusly suffered little damage in the final spasms of unification. Gargon's local government had ordained it a cultural and archaeological site, but the preservation had worked a little too well. Gar only had half an intel report, but he knew enough of Gorgon's poor criminal underworld—a penchant of his time with Maul—to complete the picture. The Hand was funneling spice out from the fortress to sell on the black market, a new means of credit production.
It didn't help the Gargon government, a minority of Mandalorians ruling a diverse assembly of aliens and humans, had decided to openly support Primir. Mandalorians they were, Maul had made direct dealings with them under the guise of the Shadow Collective. They were corrupt to their soul and would follow the credits eagerly.
Their Ruug'verda weep at what they've stooped to. Now they set fire to their own kin.
The whine of the combat speeder was getting louder. It would tilt its cockpit towards them slightly, to give the battery operator a more complete and open downward view directly into the trenches of Gar's men.
He would not lose more of them. He quietly thanked those who had died to afford him this crucial information, then spoke to the living through his helmet comm. "Ready your packages!"
Bending his own back down, the rocket on his jetpack began to sputter to life. The targeting rangefinger slid down over his vizor, giving him a predictive path on the blue speeders. Before his eyes they began to fire, the yellow blasts trying to snuff out more life.
A resounding beep of a lock. He counted three seconds for those with slower modules, then bellowed: "Phoenix warheads, go!"
In almost perfect unison the many warheads mounted on their jetpacks let loose, tracing identical trails of smoke as they tore through the air like furious birds. The two speeders reacted quickly alright, curving so violently that the gunner for the second speeder fell from seat, to plummet to his death below.
But try as they did, the warheads were faster. One after another they impacted on the underbelly of the speeders, until both hostile craft were bright fireballs in the sky.
They perfectly matched the other explosions already in the air. Far beyond on the castle's left flank, he knew that Kryze's two legions were already making their push where a low-lying hill range protected them from the heavy batteries mounted on Castle Fritt. When they got close, they would rise up with their own Phoenixes and swarm the citadel.
She would be sorely disappointed. He keyed his comm. "Jannix, you're clear to deploy your AA-guns. The two speeders are down."
"Copy that, Captain." On the other end of the comm, he heard the sound of whirring motors and crackling ground; one of the many drafted by Kryze's decree, Jannix had not yet adjusted to his suit of armor and tended to forget little details like that. Gar muted the volume so that he might devote all his senses to the skyline. It was clear, or at least as clear as the muggy atmosphere of Gargon allowed.
He switched frequencies. "Lieutenant Hark?"
"Captain Saxon?" The other sounded tired, though it was still daytime. Gar had gotten used to the shift in time cycles rapidly, but the Imperial seemed to lag behind each planet. Either that, or his spirit was already burned out. "Have you cleared the bogeys?"
"I have." Gar hesitated, but spoke anyways. Being back in command was familiar, but just as Jannix was adjusting to his equipment, Gar was also recalling what it was like serving another's command. He still spoke out of turn, on occasion. "Although I'm still not sure why your squadrons had to wait for us to clear out the speeders. Our AA guns would have been ready much quicker."
"Commodore's orders," Hark replied blandly. "Are we good to proceed?"
Gar grimaced beneath the helmet. "Yes. We're ready."
"Copy. Wait for the mark."
The comm clicked off and was replaced by static. Gar bid his time, patient. The skyline was still clear, a few more moments of tranquility there. Far below it, he saw the black dots of Kryze's legion beginning their aerial assault, illuminated by the flight of their jetpacks. Some dots from the fortress went to greet them, but they were flanked by massive geysers of crimson fire from four heavy turrets on the castle, as well as three more combat speeders.
She started early. She wants to beat the Imperials. As if it had occurred years ago instead of months, he recalled the erroneous version of events the Cabur'alor had provided at his trial, to indite him and seal his fate in the pits below. Kryze learned more underhanded tactics from Vizsla than she let's on. Only this time, it's just going to get her contingent killed for nothing.
On the horizon, little black dots had appeared. With every passing second they became larger and clearer. The built in macrobinoculars identified them although he already knew their identity: two squadrons of V-wing starfighters, each escorting four grayed-out Y-wing bombers.
The turrets on Castle Fritt abruptly changed their targets to the incoming craft, but the batteries had not been meant for this sort of assignment; they were dedicated to hitting slow-moving ground vehicles and clumps of infantry with deadly precision. Gargon's local government had long removed the castle's antique AA guns for parts for their capital's own defense grid. The four batteries shot their red bolts into the sky, each still extremely deadly, but the aim was infantile. Both fighter and bomber easily swept past the blasts as they neared.
Which meant any moment now—
There.
"Jannix, they're coming out on your left flank, coordinates -134.40, -453.21. You have visual?"
"Yes, Captain! We had the guns pointed in that direction by chance to begin with. Shall we fire at will?"
"Absolu—no, no. Hold your fire until my signal." Gar cut the comm again and watched. That the Motla'gaan had somehow obtained a significant number of Kom'rk-class fighters among other craft, both Mandalorian and outsourced from the pirate gangs roaming the sector. That there were now eight such Kom'rk's rising out of a previously camouflaged landing field nearby was not at all alarming, though he kept his eyes peeled for any sign of the Gauntlet. If Rook was going to be here…
You don't owe her anything, he told himself grimly. She made her choice.
It was hollow in his own ears. She had made him the offer to join with Primir's insurgent sincerely, and he still fully believed she was responsible for getting his armor back in his hands. They were old war buddies that could share their stories without shame, and at one time they had shared more carnally as well. Before Death Watch had brought them together they had been informal enemies by the rivalry between Clans Saxon and Rook, a byproduct of their respective allegiances to Houses Vizsla and Kast. But Vizsla had brought Mandalorians of competing lineages together, miraculously. Despite the generations of dividing history that usually separated the clans, Gar had found himself unable to think of any period of time where he and Rook might actually fall into the definition of enemies again.
But the Gauntlet was not in the octet, which meant Rook was not there to pilot it. Neither was Primir, then; a small hope of his that the old traitor would, but there were many other places for him to hide, ones far less seedy or trivial than Gargon.
He keyed the comm. "Blast those aruetii from our sight."
Jannix didn't answer but instead barked a reply out. Two seconds later and a symphony of yellow, needle-like blasts came from the anti-aircraft arrangement. Five of the Kom'rks were downed instantly, three exploding in the air while the others spluttered before falling back down. Gar recoiled from the simultaneous sound of the cannonade from the comm and from afar, but he did not let his vision waver. The last three's boosters were coming to life—
A second burst of yellow as the AA guns cycled through. Two of remaining the Kom'rks exploded, but the last miraculously did not. However, one of the blasts had tore cleaning through its left wing and it now dangled in the air as if it were with a limp.
Its pilot didn't let that slow. The fighter blasted off, alone, towards the incoming squadrons of V-wings. Gar thought about chiming in to inform Hark, but knew it would be needless for the pilots. They were only a minute out from the castle, anyway.
Your Ruug'verda protected you so you can die honorably. Die well.
The left V-wing squadron put on a burst of speed, churning ahead of its four Y-wings to coalesce around the Kom'rk. Yellow and green light traded briefly, and then it was over. The final Kom'rk was gone in a flash of light.
"Captain Saxon," came Hark over the line. Even with the victory, he sounded as monotone as ever. "Confirm all aerial units have been eliminated?"
Gar looked to Kryze's end of the field. Many had begun to scale the walls, and the nearest turret had fallen silent while the other three continued to fire. Her wish to obtain sole victory had just begun to be achieved.
"Just the combat speeders left, and their busy with Kryze's legions. You're clear."
The bombs fell. Castle Fritt and the life clinging perilously to its protective walls disappeared from existence. The battle ended. Gar wished they all could have died as romantically as the last pilot, but war rarely gave anyone the chance for myth.
In the end, nobody would write about the last pilot, either. It would be Gar and Kryze on the pages as victorious commanders, and that would be it.
One step closer to the end, to the election. The lives would be well spent if he won, though this was just another false platitude he had begun to tell himself. Another means of distancing himself from the carnage of watching his countrymen kill each other once again, as if nothing had been learned or gained from the past seven thousand years.
Save the grief. He swallowed, acutely aware that the adrenaline spike of battle had totally worn off and left him somewhat empty. Gathering some luster into his throat, he spoke plainly to those around him. "Good fighting, my verde. Take rest for ten minutes, then we will regroup at camp."
A collective rippled of relief went through the troop. Many took off their helmets to breath freely, as if the helmet had been suffocating them.
Perhaps, in a way, it was and always had.
He did not remove his. They would not be allowed to see the pained face of the future Viceroy. The blank visor and protection was all that would be needed to be seen, forever, the unyielding starkness of it a reminder that Mandalore itself was an unbreakable force.
Underneath it, Gar Saxon hurt for his people, for Rook, and himself. But addressing it all would have to wait for a long, long time.
XXX
Festus Hark
XXX
Meeting Room 02 on the Contessa was familiar, but Hark was still not used to having the entire Council aboard it as frequently as they did now. It had been rare before Primir's revolt that he and Moore would meet with them at all; the unspoken hostility between Mandalorian and Imperial had usually kept them a respectful distance apart, interacting only when necessary.
Which was why they were here now, in orbit of Gargon. It was necessary.
"We captured twenty-two of the rebels," Kryze finished, her blue-and-white helmet beneath her palm as she leaned forward on the table. It was dirty with a long black streak along a cheek where a blaster bolt had scorched alongside it. "Castle Fritt is leveled, so we'll be leaning on the prisoners for further information on its operations and connections to other holdouts."
"Such a low count of survivors," Moore mused. "Especially when estimated strength was at 1,000 armored and another 3,000 in support roles."
"Lieutenant Hark's bombers were very efficient." All pairs of eyes flicked to him, some with respect but others were bare-faced anger. Hark did not react but kept up the same somber look he kept up nowadays.
The commodore looked at him a few more moments, then shrugged. "The lieutenant only gave the order; the pilots of the 3rd and 4th squadrons are to be thanked, if you wish to do so." Moore scratched his chin. "You also lost a shockingly large part of your unit, Regent, compared to the report of Captain Saxon. How do you explain this?"
Across the table, the hand tightened around the helmet. "Your bombers were perhaps too good at their job," she said softly.
"Or perhaps your men were too good at following incorrect orders." Moore stood up, putting his hands on the table. "You disobeyed the battle plan I drummed up. I estimate you lost a fifth of your second legion trying to take the castle by yourself. Any comment to that?"
Kryze looked back at him flatly, and Hark found himself wishing he could have half of the spine she had to stand up to Moore like that. "Only that my suggestion of Imperial aid being unnecessary was rejected without consideration. I hoped to demonstrate otherwise."
"And a poor job it was." Moore offered a crooked smile. "Be grateful it was only the lives of your people lost. A single one of my men lost to your insubordination, and I would—"
"You will not speak to my Lady like that!" Hark winced, then looked about to the speaker
"Councilor Sarri Saxon, is it? Very noble of you to defend your master like that, but she has—"
"She is the leader of our people and she can use our people however she needs if she believes it will help them." The youngest person in the room, she spoke with such strong conviction that Hark would have been shocked to hear she wasn't a stubborn old veteran. "Your comments can be noted in a more respectful tone, if you wish to do so."
The final jab brought a terse silence into the room as the other Councilors shifted uneasily in their seats. Moore stared with the same crooked smile at Sarri, whereas Verideon looked customarily bored by the proceedings, his face buried in his datapad.
"Thank you for your input," Moore said with brevity sharp enough to puncture the young woman's light blue armor. "Now, if we can get to other topics at hand…"
Hark listened attentively, for there was nothing else for him to do. He said nothing unless directly asked and kept his face neutral and angled slightly down at the table so as to not look at anyone. He was a participant of the most unwilling level in it all.
The two troopers behind him ensured that.
Moore had not taken him aside for friendly talk ever since their conversation in his office. Hark's rejection to join in on his concocted recipe for war had clearly struck a nerve with his commanding officer, ending their previously strange but still amicable relationship.
Now two soldiers patrolled Hark's every waking step. They were not even the standard clone troops but something else, identifying themselves as "TK's" with odd, bulky helmets compared to the usual Phase II design. The voices of the troopers were also much like his own, though only in the sense of that they were nothing like the uniform vocal range of the clones. They were human males of random origin, and they clarified nothing to him.
His datapad was scanned at the end of every day. All communications he made were sent off and reviewed by Moore himself. Nothing of his day-to-day life went without filtration.
Sometimes he wondered why Moore simply didn't send him off into one of the battles to die. Part of him believed Moore sincerely valued the skills he brought to table and did not want to waste them. Everyone under his command, even down to the clones that many Hark knew despised to some extent, he treated with whatever respect he felt they deserved.
The other part of him had no idea why. Hark could feel his edge slipping under the constricting treatment. He was immensely unhappy with everything around him, felt a pang of despair every time the Contessa vaporized a Mandalorian ship. It was a war that could have been snuffed out from the beginning, that Moore could have at least tried to prevent.
You enabled this. You wanted this. And now thousands are dying every day to sate the bloodlust. Are you satisfied?
Moore smiled almost subconsciously at a report of torched crop fields at Vorpa'ya. That answers that.
Hark served because he could think of nothing else to do. Desertion? Moore would find out instantly and have him killed. Refuse to fight? The Empire had done away with the Republic's clause for those who felt morally outraged with a combat scenario to step down; arrest and prison would await him. Suicide? He had one night taken a knife from the mess hall back to his room and stared at it for hours, but the conscious desire to use it had never come.
He did not like to think himself a coward, but sometimes when Kryze or Sarri spoke up at the roving meetings on board the Contessa he found himself envying them. Was it because they had not served under Moore they felt no sense of intimidation from him? Or was it because their Mandalorian spirit refused to be cowed by an outsider?
What could've been a faint smile crossed his face. Before this he had respected the Mandalorian people. Under Moore's shadow, he could acutely feel his admiration for them grow.
Some of them. Moore's role be damned, this was still all the doing of Primir Wren, and if not for Moore's enablement Hark would have been proud to reduce his movement to nothingness.
Maybe that's what keeps me going, he thought sincerely, for troubled thoughts of this caliber often kept him up at night now. If we can bring peace back to Mandalore, Moore's agenda will be frustrated. Gar Saxon already stopped an all-out war; the least the Empire can do is end this smaller version as quickly as possible.
The meeting carried on through his inner thoughts until it ended with Moore dryly thanking them all for attending. Hark stood and he felt the TK's behind him stiffen to attention. The commodore shot him a look of a dozen negative emotions then, with a shrug, left the room with Verideon in tow. One by one the Councilors followed suit, and Hark slid out after them.
Right into Sarri Saxon. He stumbled backward with surprise into his two escorts, her heavier frame keeping her steady despite being almost a head shorter.
"My apologies, Councilor" he said quickly as the TK's gruffly straightened him. He made to move around her—
But it was no accident this time; she had stepped into his path. Hark's lip twisted as he craned his neck down at her. "Is there… a problem?"
"No, I was just hoping you might escort me to my shuttle, Lieutenant Hark," she asked sweetly, a bizarre departure from the strength her Basic usually had with Moore.
"Err…" It was an unusual request, but what reason did he have to deny it? All there was for him to do would be to read other front-line reports. "I'd be happy to, Councilor Sarri. Your hangar bay is…?"
She told him, but hesitated. "Are your escorts necessary?"
He looked over his shoulder; the two men were there as always. "I'm afraid they like to stay close," he said evenly.
Sarri cocked a black eyebrow. "Very close, apparently." She turned to the pair. "Accompany us at a distance. My culture forbids you as foreign warriors to come into too close of contact with me."
"Our orders are to guard the lieutenant and all communications," the left one said plainly.
"Republic Order 44-1.c states that military personnel are to obey cultural requests on the field provided they do not put Republic lives at risk."
"That's a Republic law, ma'am," he said, a hint of indignation behind the vocalizer.
"One that has not yet been superseded by an Imperial one, and as all Republic laws have carried over until reformation by the Senate, then you will obey it lest I take it up with your superiors." The turquoise eyes flashed with steel. "Do we understand? Five meters back."
The two TK's traded looks, and though nothing could have been conveyed through the blankness of the helmet they seemed to reach an agreement. "Very well. But neither of you will leave our sight, and this will still be reported to the commodore."
Sarri shrugged, then beckoned to him. "Let's walk, lieutenant. I don't want to be late."
Hark allowed himself to be swept into her side. Contrary to the Councilor's words, every step came with almost deliberate slowness. The whole thing felt staged, awkward… but perhaps that was deliberate, too. The law was real, and he had on a few occasions been made to comply. But the custom was just a lie; even if he had not known enough about Mandalorian culture to know that, the twitch of her left eye was an obvious enough tell.
"How are you finding the war's progress?" she asked softly, the jangling of his armor plates almost overtaking it.
"I… find Primir's ability to maintain it for long impossible," he replied carefully. The setup was definitely intentional, and she was fishing for information plain as day. Whatever answers she wanted had to be frustrated—
But why? The thought was almost novel. They were on the same side, weren't they? Sarri Saxon was a loyalist of Bo-Katan Kryze and a brother to Gar and Tiber Saxon, all people Hark to some extent knew and respected. She held herself with the same power and confidence they broadcasted. And yet—
The purposeful quietness of her voice. The secrecy she was clearly trying to wrap themselves in. The slowness of her step. All obvious, but unexplainable. There was something off about her on a level he was not ready to understand.
Moments of secrecy were rarely afforded to him. He would play along, for now. "The recent casualties at Gargon disturb me," he said frankly, though still quietly. "Primir's insurgency seems determined to fight almost to the last man. They're zealots."
"Does that fact concern you?"
He turned his head slightly. "Should it?"
"Mandalorians are already a fierce people. Add a willpower to fight till the end and you have a homicidal opponent who will take with him as many foes as possible."
Hark nodded. "I encountered a people like that during the Clone Wars. Unknown to them, the mountain range they lived at the base of had been hollowed out by Separatists into a factory for starfighters. I was part of the task force sent to destroy it, and because I was a comm officer at the time the Jedi wanted me to be the liaison with the people, to convince them to move out of harm's way."
"As if they would give up their homes," she said with a sniff.
"You would be right," he agreed. "But the orders were firm and we did not want needless casualties. They were primitive, still only in Late Iron Age technology. But they resisted us at every step as interlopers. I went down three times, and each time a battle erupted with them. I found myself in hand-to-hand combat with one the second time, and only managed to defeat them when I managed to wrest their short sword out from their grasp and turn it on them."
"You lived?" she asked, the stupidity of the question not lost on him. He grinned and eased up the lower left side of his uniform, showing her a long white scar that ran from his lower rib down to where it disappeared at his thigh.
"Not without cost, of course. Many of those with me were not as fortunate, and by the third time they had become able to knock down our escort fighters with huge catapults."
"What happened?" She sounded earnest now, even attentive.
Hark, though somewhat warmed by her energy, felt himself frown. "When the negotiations failed after that third time, the commanding Jedi ordered the mountain be bombarded regardless. I reasoned against it, that a fourth time with the natives might yield something different. But we were on a timeline and he was personally being sent to Umbara with no delay; the cost of life was termed acceptable to wasting the factory immediately. I think it had been that way from the beginning." He sighed, lifting off his cap to run a hand through his hair. It felt frazzled. "The resulting damage sent avalanches into their capital city and destroyed it, as we had predicted. We left soon after without chance for aid, though I don't think they would have accepted it anyway. It… was painful to witness."
"I see." They stopped before a turbolift, whose door opened for them. The TK's approached quickly to close the distance, but no sooner had Hark taken a step in that the woman almost forcefully tugged him in.
"Hey—!"
The lift closed in their faces and they began to descend. Sarri rolled her shoulders, and as she did so her hand and arm brushed up against his chest. Disbelieving with the tops of his ears burning, he looked at her. "What are—?"
"We can talk more freely now." She faced forward to the door. "The security cam in the top left behind us can still see us, but the audio will be left too broken for anyone to make sense of it. How long do we have until the hangar bay?"
"I—why are—"
"Face forward!" A bite of impatience to her and Hark felt some annoyance well up in him. How was it his fault he wasn't adjusting well to what basically amounted to espionage? "Now, talk to me. How long?"
"Two-and-a-half minutes."
"Then let's be fast. Why are those two always following you around?"
He worked his jaw. "The commodore and I had a falling out. They're his eyes and ears around me now."
"Is that why your communications have become so clinical now?"
"Yes. I'm monitored there as well."
"Why?"
Where is this going? He wanted to say, but the liberation of expressing his condition surpassed his cautious curiosity. "Because he tried to deceive all of you, including me. He was going along with the insurgency's plans in the capacity he felt they wanted him to help their cause."
"To help them?" She sounded disbelieving. "I don't buy it. Moore hates Mandalore."
"Exactly. You're smart, put it together. That night of the First Primary, if Gar had shot Verideon, what would have happened?"
She looked over her shoulder at him, and he was delighted to see a fraction of his own annoyance on her now. "We don't have time for this. Just tell me."
"Play along with me or I won't with you."
"A child in a man's uniform, how novel. Oh fine—if Gar had done it, Moore would have had justification for war on all of Mandalore, not just the Motla'gaan."
"And it's as simple as that. Moore wanted a war with Mandalore; for exactly why, I'm not sure I understand yet. But by enabling Primir's actions to work, he brought him that much close to that moment. If Moore had been in orbit with 97th instead of en route to Gargon, do you really think Imperial High Command wouldn't have reprimanded him if he let the Vaunted Hall of Mand'alore go without a total bombardment that night?"
She was silent. Above them, the turbolift chimed; they had about thirty seconds left.
"Do you think Moore wants Primir to win?"
"I don't know," he admitted. "I just know he's enjoying every minute of every battle he's in right now. He still got what he wanted, even without total war with the sector."
"Okay. When the lift door opens, step forward and trip over my foot."
He glanced at her again, irritated. "Why do I have to look like the fool?"
"Would you rather a lady like me do it instead?" The lift door chimed on their arrival. "I thought Imperials had some sense of courtesy."
"Most don't. But not everyone in the galaxy outside Mandalore is a barbarian." It opened and he took his designated step forward, quickly tripped over her precisely extended foot. His body swung to the ground and she reached out to stop his fall. This time he felt it, the click of something on her gauntlet touching his body as she still failed to catch him.
The annoyance on him wasn't acting, at least. "Good job trying to catch me," he muttered.
She offered a small smile down at him, something that oddly made his eartips burn again. "You should have been more graceful in your fall, lieutenant. Are you alright?"
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the muted gray of another cam in the hallway. He heard distant footsteps of the Contessa's crew in the intersecting hallways. He did not want to think Moore would actually scour every second he was away from the two TK's, but with this remarkable woman he was learning quickly that caution was key.
Sarri offered a gloved hand to him and he took it firmly. Her grip was strong and she pulled him up with strength surprising for her slender form. "Thank you. Now, I believe we should wait for my guards. You really should have been more patient, especially since we're now not going to make up for any time."
"Mention your guards to me again and I'll write you up for wasting my time," she snapped, her eyes dancing mischievously at him as she fed into the false conversation. She sidled up against the wall of the cam, so that it only had a limited top-down scope of her.
In a lower voice, she asked, "You don't like war, do you?"
Hark eyed her curiously. He could not give a genuine answer with the security cam's audio receptor intact, and yet she was eyeing him daringly. She was practically begging him to toe the line.
Why shouldn't I? Is Moore going to imprison me for speaking my mind to another? To have an honest conversation was a luxury for him now, and he felt something inside him twitch somberly as he realized he had missed being able to converse with Moore on that level.
But Moore, in the end, had been a monster. Their past conversations to him felt ugly and tainted. Before him now was a Mandalorian, an outsider by default to most. But she was coming to him for closeted answers, seeking him as a confidant at great risk to them both. It reminded him, for the first time in two months, that people could still be genuine.
To an extent. No doubt she was here on Kryze's behalf. Sarri's motives for being here were still political. He was surprised to find that that hurt slightly, and he wondered if this was why Moore despised politics so much.
Yet it still only hurt a little, and this question right now was of different motivations. It was a sincere inquiry; one that might still broker trouble with Moore, but not those like of the turbolift. That brought him to his final decision, in that he found that he did not care what Moore would think if he were to hear this. If she was going to acknowledge his existence and give him this rare chance to defiantly oppose his confinement, he would seize it.
"War is inescapable, and someone has to fight. I think it's the duty of a warrior to make that fight as short as possible, so those on the periphery suffer as little harm as possible."
"You think yourself a warrior?" She sounded amused, her eyes looking him up and down in his slightly wrinkled olive uniform.
But he stood firm. "I do, and if you think that can only be defined by how well someone can use their fists or a blaster, I'd love to step into a training room with you someday."
He had not meant to sound so harsh, to get carried away. But he forgave himself by how quickly the smugness melted off her face, replaced instead by a squint. A hand played with the loose purple ends of her hair. "Didn't expect such tough talk from an Imperial. Let alone one in uniform."
"We all find ways to impress each other every day."
The other cracked a smirk. "Who said I was impressed? I'm not the one who was knocked flat by an outstretched boot."
Hark matched it. "Bravado is only that until proven otherwise."
"Funny." The turbolift pinged again and the two TK's stepped out, brandishing their rifles with agitation.
"You broke protocol. This will be report—"
"Be grateful we waited for you at all," Sarri snapped, finger tapping on the helmet at her side in sudden impatience. "I will be this much later in my return home because of this. Thank the lieutenant for us being here at all." With that she smartly marched off. Shaking his head, trying to keep a smile off his face, Moore jogged after her.
The TK's kept much closer this time, but Sarri made no comment on it; she had an awareness for toeing the line too, good. The rest of the walk to her shuttle was thusly devoid of even hushed conversation. Hark was fine with that; he felt more alive than ever.
On cue the shuttle's landing ramp opened up for her, gusts of steam coming out of its ports. Hark made to move forward with her towards it, but she paused and turned to him. The playful amusement was back. "I may be a dignified woman, but I can walk up my own ramp without support, lieutenant. Thank you for accompanying me."
"It was my pleasure," he said, and he meant it.
She eyed him a moment longer, the colorful eyes unblinking. "It was a sad story you told me," she said finally. "But you told it well. I'd like to hear a happier one from you, next time I'm here."
Hark dipped his head slightly. "There has been little joy in my life, Councilor Saxon. But I will find some for you."
A final nod and she ascended the ramp. He stepped back into the company of his guards, safely out of the way of the ship's liftoff, dangerously back in the grasp of Moore.
He found it was not as tight a vise as he had felt before. Indeed, all he found himself thinking of as he eventually attended to his reports was how he wished he could have spent just one more moment with her.