Note from the author :
Dear readers,
This is the first one-shot in a series of small original stories set in the Star Wars: The Old Republic universe, featuring the dreadful Lord Placide (which means "Placid" in french... although you would have guessed on your own i'm sure) as the protagonist. I like to think that you don't need to be a fan of SWTOR/KOTOR, or even Star Wars, to enjoy it. This first story features only original characters, but future installments will incorporate existing ones. This is a translation, made with a little help from DeepL... so if you happen to read french well, I strongly suggest you check out the original version (that you'll find somewhere on my profile).
The tone and atmosphere of these stories may vary quite a bit—fanfiction, for me, is more of a writing exercise than anything else. The common thread is humor and (or at least I try) suspense.
Feel free to share your thoughts, critiques, or general feedback. That said, I hope you enjoy your trip to Pixa.
A long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away…
After decades of bloody wars, a fragile truce has settled between the Galactic Republic and the Sith Empire. The Treaty of Coruscant has offered nothing more than an illusion of peace. But beneath the surface, rivalries and ambitions continue to fester.
Within the Empire, the Sith Lords weave their plots in the shadow of the Dark Council, each seeking to expand their power. Among them, Darth Malcavian, master of the planet Pixa, has retreated to his isolated world to pursue forbidden research. His silence is as unsettling as it is intriguing.
Rumors whisper that Malcavian is seeking to unravel the deepest mysteries of the Force. That his experiments could shatter the balance of the galaxy. That even death itself is no longer a limit for him.
Faced with this threat, the Dark Council hesitates. But Darth Maya, an enigmatic figure of the dark side, takes the initiative. Aware of the dangers Malcavian poses to the fragile peace, she sends her apprentice on a mission to Pixa to put an end to the renegade Sith's schemes.
An emissary. An investigator. An instrument of the Council.
This emissary is called Placide, and carries his name like a cruel lie.
A starship sliced through Pixa's gaseous atmosphere—perhaps for the first time in months.
To an untrained observer, identifying the exact model of the lugubrious craft would have been impossible. Age and abuse had rendered it unrecognizable. This was not a vessel designed to impress or command respect. No. The Reprieve, as its pilot had christened it with a touch of cynicism, looked more like a funeral barge adrift in space than a Sith transport.
Its black hull, scarred by time and the scorches of forgotten battles, bore the wounds of a long career filled with failed missions and near-misses. Metal plates were missing in places, hastily replaced with pieces from another model, another era. The engines groaned like a discordant brass ensemble, their uneven rumble reverberating through the upper layers of the atmosphere like the echo of a morbid fanfare.
Inside the cramped cockpit stood a man with a closed expression and glacial eyes, watching the planet below with apparent boredom.
He was tall, thin, his pale, angular face etched with a hardness almost statuesque. His grey eyes were devoid of emotion, absorbing the glow of the screens like a bottomless abyss. His attire was austere: a simple white robe, unadorned, impeccably fitted. The one called Placide wore neither mask, nor amulet, nor any of the symbols Sith Lords typically flaunted with pride. Perhaps he simply saw no use for them, as he often reminded those unfortunate enough to endure his unending complaints. Or perhaps he just couldn't afford such ridiculous trinkets.
Beneath his outward calm, a cold tension simmered. For Lord Placide remained a Sith. A master of the dark side of the Force. A peerless assassin, an instrument of the Emperor's black will, forged in the blood-red sands of Korriban to know neither empathy nor mercy. And yet, once again, he found himself playing a role he despised: bureaucrat. Or rather, spy, if one was fluent in Imperial Basic. A subtle mission, as his master liked to call them. A mission that, naturally, required no exercise of violence. Another assignment designed, quite deliberately, to humiliate him.
The ship dove through Pixa's heavy clouds, piercing the violet mist shrouding the surface like a burial shroud. Lightning split the sky, momentarily illuminating the jagged mountains and shattered crystals dotting the plains. Luminous rivers snaked through the valleys, their silver waters forming a labyrinthine web of brilliance that cut through the darkness like the exposed veins of a mutilated corpse.
A deep, inhuman voice echoed through the cabin.
— "Looks like the planet is bleeding."
Perched on the armrest of Placide's seat, Brigitte tilted her head in a slow, calculated motion, her single black eye fixed on the horizon with unsettling intensity.
Brigitte was no ordinary bird. From a distance, one might mistake her for a malformed raven or a dying parrot. But closer inspection revealed a far stranger reality. Brigitte was an Umbroquet. A creature from the Outer Rim as rare as it was repugnant. If it were possible to erase the sight of her from one's memory, many unfortunate souls would have slept more soundly. Unfortunately, an Umbroquet was the kind of wretched sight the mind simply refused to bury.
Brigitte was small, frail, her oily black feathers evoking soot. Her head, thin yet disproportionately long, always seemed just a little too big for her scrawny body. But it was her gaze that unsettled the most. Her single functioning eye, gleaming like a drop of poison, seemed to see everything and forget nothing.
And then there was her voice—deep, chilling, a perverse parody of humanity.
Fortunately, Brigitte did not speak often. But when she did, it was almost invariably to utter cryptic statements that seemed laden with profound meaning… until one realized they probably had none at all.
She continued watching the landscape below, her attention shifting from the rivers to Pixa's jagged mountains, which were now emerging from the mist like bones protruding from a shroud. Then, in a raspy whisper, she spoke again:
— "The stones are singing. But they do not know why."
Placide closed his eyes for a moment, as if trying to quell the irritation rising within him.
— "Fascinating," he replied in a monotone.
Brigitte, unbothered, kept staring at the mountains.
— "The wind taught them the song. But the wind lied."
Every word, every whisper, every new absurd riddle seemed designed to be more foolish or obscure than the last, as if the bird took perverse pleasure in testing the limits of her "master's" patience. This particular habit went hand in hand with her predatory nature, always locked in a constant struggle for dominance. Was the creature truly intelligent, or merely instinctively malevolent? Impossible to say. But whatever her motives, if her goal was to irritate Placide, she rarely failed.
A sound echoed inside the ship. From behind the cockpit door came the hurried, skittering steps of something small and nervous. Placide opened the airlock, allowing in a tiny creature whose clawed fingers were drumming anxiously against a massive onyx tablet.
— "What is it now, Léon?" hissed Placide, rubbing his temples in a continuous effort to maintain his composure.
From the shadows behind the Sith's seat, the visitor lifted his head from his datapad. He was minuscule, barely sixty centimeters tall, hunched, with large pointed ears poking out from beneath an oversized hood. His skin was grayish, and his wide yellow eyes oscillated between excessive reverence and abject terror.
The small alien stepped forward with exaggerated caution, as if afraid of disturbing his master or knocking something over. His lips twitched constantly, as though the mere thought of speaking filled him with unease.
He cleared his throat hesitantly.
— "Y-your Excellency, master… your darkness… I have received your latest flight data… We are approaching Darth Malcavian's spaceport. You are expected on… on the secondary platform."
Placide arched a brow but did not turn around. He simply kept his gaze fixed on the black spires of a citadel now rising on the horizon, its austere and menacing silhouette cutting through the mountains.
— "Of course. The secondary platform," he said, his voice chillingly even.
— "I… M-my Lord… surely this must be a mistake, mustn't it? An emissary of the Dark Council c-couldn't possibly…" Léon stammered, before being abruptly silenced by an irritated wave of his master's hand.
Placide angled the ship toward a small landing pad nestled within the mountains. The vessel slowed, its engines groaning in protest, the metallic screech reverberating through the cabin. A red light blinked on the console, signaling clearance for landing.
— "Vessel identified as an Arelion-class civilian transport," a deep, metallic voice droned over the intercom. "Visa purpose: administrative visit. Temporary authorization granted for the secondary platform."
Placide kept his eyes locked on the pale beacon guiding their descent. The frustration, the resentment, were welling up inside him, dull and heavy, feeding on the grotesque charade he knew was about to unfold.
Léon, clutching his oversized tablet, cast furtive glances at his master, desperately searching for some sign of reassurance. And what if they had come here for nothing? Or worse… what if this was a trap?
— "P-perhaps there is no mistake, M-my Lord," he ventured in a voice so small it barely existed. "Perhaps… e-everything is in order…"
Placide did not reply immediately. His gaze drifted toward the neighboring platform—larger, grander, flanked by obelisks engraved with Sith Code maxims. Hard words, carved into the very stone, proclaiming power and eternity. Naturally, it was empty.
A thin, almost imperceptible smile crossed his lips.
— "Carved stone is expensive, Léon."
Léon blinked, bewildered. But Placide said nothing more.
The ship landed with a harsh, rattling thud on the small platform, barely large enough to accommodate it. The dull glow of the beacons flickered intermittently, casting irregular shadows over the cracked ground.
After extracting himself from the transport, Placide descended the ramp at an unhurried pace. Beside him, Léon scurried along, clutching his datapad to his chest. Brigitte, still perched on her "master's" shoulder, let her piercing gaze sweep across the landing site. She said nothing, but a faint, derisive hiss escaped her beak—barely perceptible, yet unmistakably mocking.
— "And here come the butlers," Placide muttered to himself, his voice tinged with both sarcasm and disdain.
A group of three Sith acolytes awaited at the foot of the ramp, clad in dark robes adorned with etched symbols. Their rigid postures and lowered gazes betrayed a palpable tension. At the center stood a towering Zabrak, clearly the leader of the escort. He stepped forward and gave a shallow nod.
— "Lord Placide," he intoned gravely. "Darth Malcavian awaits you in his fortress. If you would follow us."
Placide returned a slight nod, the kind of false courtesy he executed to perfection.
— "Perfect. I wouldn't want to waste your master's time."
Without waiting, he strode forward, his boots striking against the cold metal of the platform. Léon trotted behind him, diligently noting every word exchanged. The acolytes exchanged brief glances, as if expecting a different reaction.
Before them loomed a vast, clawed structure—an immense, angular mass of steel, perched atop a cliffside like colossal talons digging into the rock. Darth Malcavian's citadel was a hymn to its owner's ego: a structure as needlessly excessive as it was pointlessly complex, where every tower and bridge seemed designed solely to impose an illusion of grandeur. The architect had long abandoned any rational design, surrendering instead to a frantic obsession with verticality.
A massive suspension bridge, grotesquely wide, connected the fortress to the various landing platforms. Huge chains, stretched taut like the tendons of a giant, kept the structure in place. The bridge itself was covered in Sith runes, etched deep into the black metal.
A pretentious display that would only impress the weak-minded, Placide would have noted under different circumstances. Everything about it screamed insecurity.
A colossal gateway, inlaid with sickly-glowing gemstones, marked the main entrance. The steel was engraved with the personal emblem of the fortress's master—a skeletal hand clutching an empty hourglass, a symbol of his obsession with controlling time and death. Placide halted for a brief moment before the emblem, his expression unreadable.
— "Charming," he remarked dryly.
Behind him, Léon was busy gawking at the structure, dwarfed even further beneath its towering walls. Failing to grasp the irony in his master's words, he couldn't help but chime in.
— "I-it's t-truly… i-impressive, my lord!" he stammered, his eyes widening at the citadel's sheer scale.
Placide swallowed hard, as though forcing down a sudden, violent impulse. Now was hardly the time to torture dear Léon for his lack of taste—or subtlety.
The moment the group had crossed the bridge, the monumental gate began to open with a slow, thunderous groan, revealing a hall bathed in red light. Hideous statues—half-humanoid, half-demonic—flanked the entrance, their faces frozen in expressions of agony or twisted jubilation.
At the center of the chamber, Malcavian awaited.
At the sight of him, the acolytes frantically bowed, shuffling backward a good ten meters in a display of feverish reverence.
Darth Malcavian was everything Placide despised in the Sith Order: theatrical, condescending, and needlessly ostentatious. Draped in black robes interwoven with glowing runes, he leaned upon a staff crowned with a crimson crystal, pulsating like a corrupted heart. His silhouette, intimidatingly tall, was stretched and distorted, his gaunt frame exaggerating the absurd proportions of his limbs. He looked, in many ways, like a humanoid spider.
His face bore the marks of some ancient, sinister corruption. His left eye, sharp and cruel, gleamed with predatory intelligence. His right eye, veiled and lifeless, was lost within sagging flesh, veined with creeping black tendrils—as though decay itself had begun to claim him. This grotesque contrast, between the feral vitality of one side and the slow rot of the other, made his gaze almost unbearable.
— "Lord Placide," he said, his voice slow and deep, each word deliberately measured. "What a delightful surprise to receive an emissary of our Empire in these remote lands."
Placide inclined his head slightly, his face a mask of perfect neutrality, his tone dripping with saccharine politeness.
— "A surprise? Then your informants are failing you, Your Excellency. My visit was scheduled and approved by the Dark Council."
A smile curled upon Malcavian's ruined lips.
— "Scheduled and approved, you say… Curious. I received only the vaguest notice from Dromund Kaas regarding your arrival. But is that not the charm of our Empire's administration?"
As always, Léon was diligently recording every word of the exchange, his zeal as irritating as ever. Malcavian's gaze flickered toward him, then toward Brigitte, still perched motionless on Placide's shoulder, her pitch-black eye fixed unblinkingly on the Sith Lord.
— "What a charming entourage," Malcavian sneered, a thread of disdain in his voice. "A secretary… and a bird. They say you have a talent for frugality, Placide. What a striking demonstration."
Placide merely offered a polite smile—a masterpiece of hypocrisy that left Léon in open admiration. Then, his tone turning ever so slightly ingratiating, he continued:
— "Will you be accompanying me for this inspection, or shall I content myself with the delightful company of your acolytes?"
Malcavian let out a chuckle, dripping with contempt.
— "An inspection, no less? What weighty responsibilities you bear, my young friend! Your master must be so very proud of you…"
He turned slightly, that same malicious smirk on his lips, and cast a glance toward his acolytes—a silent cue. They obeyed at once, chuckling with sycophantic enthusiasm.
Then, adopting a voice of feigned curiosity, Malcavian added:
— "Tell me, Lord Placide, what is it that you hope to find within my humble home? I have seen 'inspectors' rummage through dusty cellars, hunting for rare poisons distilled in ancient vials. Others have overturned my libraries in search of cursed tomes, forbidden by Imperial decree. I have endured the Council's messengers combing through my towers, searching for compromising letters and heretical alliances. Some have scoured my laboratories, convinced they would uncover abominable creatures or experiments deemed too cruel—even for a Sith."
He let out a low, mirthless chuckle before continuing:
— "They have pored over my archives, hoping to unearth tales of imaginary battles. One particularly bold investigator once dared to examine my gardens, utterly convinced I was cultivating poisonous plants to assassinate Imperial elites. The most audacious among them have even dared to disturb my ancestors' tombs, certain that I had the gall to raise the dead to serve my ambitions. So, Lord Placide, what shadow will you choose to delve into in order to challenge me? What 'terror' have you brought with you in your luggage?"
He paused, waiting for an answer. His voice had dropped to a near-whisper, emphasizing the weight of his words, while his acolytes snickered obsequiously, catching their breath between each sycophantic laugh.
Placide, stoic, waited for the silence to settle.
— "The finances," he replied simply, as if the word carried no particular weight.
Malcavian's sneer faded ever so slightly, replaced by a fleeting shadow of doubt.
— "The finances," he echoed slowly, as if savoring the word or weighing its exact significance. Then, with a sneer once more—lest he lose face—he added, "Such ambition for a Sith Lord. They send you to count pebbles and credits while others shape history..."
Placide remained impassive, as if the barb had slid off him without leaving a mark. He gave only a small, almost imperceptible tilt of his head before responding, his tone as flat as it was detached:
— "History is shaped by those who keep their accounts in order, Your Excellency. But I have no doubt that your treasury will be exemplary." Then, feigning innocence, he added, "I sincerely hope this inspection will be nothing more than a formality."
A heavy silence followed his words. The kind that made Malcavian's acolytes uneasy. They exchanged furtive glances, as if silently praying to be spared any involvement. Malcavian, however, let the tension stretch, nearly unbearable, his single good eye fixed on Placide with unsettling intensity.
— "Follow me," he finally said, his voice eerily calm, yet thick with implicit menace. "I will show you… everything you wish to inspect."
They left the hall, moving down a long corridor lined with towering columns. The walls, adorned with Sith frescoes, depicted tales of bloody conquests and legendary battles. The glow of electric torches, placed at regular intervals, cast shifting shadows that seemed almost alive.
— "An impressive display of architecture," Placide noted, his tone neutral, his gaze drifting idly across the frescoes. "It's rare to see such an investment in aesthetics."
Malcavian chuckled, his heavy footsteps echoing against the tiled floor.
— "A small reminder of Sith grandeur. To inspire those who lack vision."
Placide said nothing.
Soon, they arrived before a small, dark wooden door, worn with age, nestled within an alcove to their right. A modest sign above it read simply: "General Treasury Department."
Despite the door's considerable resistance—suggesting it hadn't been opened in months—they entered.
Inside, a dingy, dimly lit room served as the office of the Pixa System's Financial Administration. In one corner, a potted plant, discolored and half-dead, stood as a pathetic remnant of some past attempt to bring a touch of life to the place. Nearby, an ancient computer terminal hummed noisily, its aging processors struggling to keep up. A pungent mixture of moldy paper and rusted metal hung in the air—somewhere between an abandoned library and an industrial scrapyard. On the rickety shelves, worn binders fought for space with stacks of files no one had ever thought to organize by any method other than gravity.
At the far end of the room, half-hidden behind an overflowing wastebasket, stood a small, round door with a modest sign: ARCHIVES.
Two figures sat at the center of the room, frozen in mechanical anticipation.
Malcavian stepped forward slightly and, in a syrupy tone, addressed his subordinates:
— "Gentlemen, this is Lord Placide. He is here to audit our accounts and your pitiful contribution to the war effort of our glorious Empire… so do try not to waste his time."
The first was a protocol droid—an exceedingly old model—its joints creaking with every movement. It bowed stiffly as the visitors entered.
— "Welcome… Lord… Placide. Please… excuse… the mess. The… archives… are… not often… consulted."
The second, a small, hunched Neimoidian, adjusted his spectacles nervously. His wrinkled face bore the marks of decades spent handling dusty ledgers and endless columns of numbers. He wore a threadbare gray tunic, and his bony fingers twitched constantly, drumming an invisible keyboard—a reflex conditioned by years of bureaucratic monotony.
Placide cast a cold glance around the room. The place reeked of administrative neglect.
— "Let's begin," he said flatly, ignoring the droid's greeting.
The Neimoidian cleared his throat and stepped forward, bowing in an awkward, ingratiating manner.
— "Your Excellency, I am Frod Tanis, Chief Accountant of Local Finances. I am at your full disposal for any inquiries regarding tax revenues, Imperial subsidies, or the budgetary allocations of the system," he said, his voice unsteady.
Placide gave a slight nod and took a seat on a stiff wooden chair—clearly designed to be as uncomfortable as possible. A moment later, the protocol droid shuffled over with a small datapad, which Placide took without a word. He began scrolling through Pixa's financial records in silence.
— "Let's talk about tax revenues," he finally said.
The Neimoidian paled.
— "The collections for the last three cycles have been in steady decline. Explain."
A tense silence followed. The kind that made subordinates very, very nervous. Malcavian, leaning against the wall in the shadows, eventually broke it with his usual theatrical flair.
— "Ah, credits… How tiresome. But you see, Lord Placide, numbers can sometimes obscure… deeper truths."
Placide absentmindedly tapped his fingers against the edge of his tablet.
— "I'll leave the deeper truths to the poets."
Malcavian's expression flickered. The Neimoidian stammered something incomprehensible. But Placide continued, relentless.
— "Military expenditures have doubled. Yet your troop numbers have remained stable. Where did the money go?"
The Neimoidian opened his mouth, but no sound came out. Malcavian took a slow step forward, still radiating the confidence of a man who believed he was in control.
— "Perhaps the funds have been used to… secure more discreet interests? The security of a world sometimes rests upon… unspoken agreements."
Placide raised an eyebrow.
— "I can only work with what is written."
Brigitte, perched on his shoulder, let out a small, mocking whistle before murmuring in her rasping, mechanical voice:
— "Never ignore circulating liabilities."
The Neimoidian jolted, dropping a datapad with a metallic clatter.
Malcavian, momentarily thrown off, forced a smile.
— "Your bird has… a sharp mind."
Placide shrugged.
— "She is at least as useful as this office."
The protocol droid took an indignant step forward, as if preparing to protest the insult, but the Neimoidian stopped him with a trembling hand. Placide remained unfazed.
— "The infrastructure budget allocations are incomprehensible. You're funding mines that don't exist. Bridges that lead nowhere."
Malcavian, beginning to lose patience, cleared his throat.
— "Sith are warriors, not accountants," he snapped. "What I do with my money is hardly the concern of the Council's bureaucrats."
Placide looked up.
— "Wars are won with credits."
He shut his datapad with a sharp snap.
— "And, if I may, Your Excellency—" he added, his voice dangerously even, "—it isn't your money."
A heavy silence settled over the room as Malcavian, unable to retort, merely held his frozen smile. Placide decided to twist the knife.
— "Your cash flows are unclear, your reports make no sense… Your third-quarter statements don't even account for liabilities, for instance." His glacial gaze landed on the Neimoidian. "Why?"
The Neimoidian, red with shame, attempted to stammer out a response.
— "There have been… delays, Your Excellency… Complications…"
— "Complications?" Placide repeated, feigning curiosity. "Do tell."
The Neimoidian tried to open his mouth, but only a strangled mess of syllables came out, collapsing into incoherent noise before they could form actual words.
— "Actually, don't bother," Placide interrupted, his patience thinning. "I think I'm starting to see what's happening here," he said, his voice laced with quiet menace. "Bring me the records of the last ten years of Imperial subsidies."
The Neimoidian, now pale as a corpse, hurried toward the tiny round door at the back of the room. He knocked twice. The door creaked open, and from the shadows emerged a small creature, blinking under the dim lighting.
It was a bipedal lizard, no taller than a stack of files. It wore a tiny, faded gray waistcoat, and a pair of small round glasses perched on the tip of its snout. Its clawed hands clutched a notepad, and its pointed tongue flickered nervously.
— "Momo!" the Neimoidian called in a trembling voice. "Fetch the archives for the last ten years of Imperial subsidies."
Momo nodded professionally, wordlessly, and scurried into the labyrinth of filing cabinets and lockboxes, his clawed feet scratching against the floor as he disappeared into the depths of the archive.
Placide remained motionless, observing the scene with impassive detachment.
Malcavian, on the other hand, looked ready to explode.
— "A lizard? You entrust the management of our archives to a lizard?!" he choked, his voice caught somewhere between incredulous laughter and simmering rage.
The Neimoidian stammered a feeble excuse.
— "He is very efficient, Your Excellency… Very methodical…"
Malcavian seethed. Placide, however, was thoroughly enjoying himself.
The tense silence was soon interrupted by Momo's return, dragging behind him a stack of archives at least twice his own height.
Placide gestured to Léon, who—without requiring further instruction—immediately began scanning the documents with startling efficiency. Once finished, he handed his datapad to his master, now visibly distressed at having nothing left to grip with his tiny hands.
Placide skimmed the document. He clearly liked what he saw. There was even, for a fleeting moment, a faint glimmer of amusement in his otherwise empty gaze.
Malcavian, meanwhile, had completely abandoned any attempt at composure. The icy wrath bubbling beneath his surface was now overt, his carefully constructed façade cracking under the weight of his own panic.
Brigitte, perched on Placide's shoulder, seemed to relish the moment, emitting a low, unsettling croon.
— "I have the strangest feeling, Your Excellency…" Placide began, his voice syrupy, drawing out the pause to an unbearable length. "Or rather, the curious impression, that the amount of Imperial subsidies allocated to you bears a remarkable resemblance to the sum total of those nonexistent projects I mentioned earlier."
He turned his gaze to the Neimoidian.
— "One might even dismiss it as a coincidence. If such 'complications,' as you call them, didn't repeat themselves every single year."
The Neimoidian seemed to shrink into himself, his eyes fixed on the ground, as if praying it would swallow him whole.
The protocol droid powered down spontaneously.
Momo, meanwhile, had long since retreated into the safety of his burrow.
Brigitte, tilting her head, crooned in an oddly melodic yet rasping voice:
— "Article 73, Section 12 of the Imperial Public Finance Code: Any suspected misallocation of funds within a system is subject to a formal investigation by the Dark Council. Sanctions may include removal from office, asset confiscation, or, preferably, public execution."
— "So much for the tuk'ata hors d'oeuvres," Placide muttered dryly.
Malcavian snapped.
— "ENOUGH!"
The shout seemed to shake the entire fortress. His one good eye, bloodshot and burning with barely contained fury, fixed on Placide with unbridled rage. Even the acolytes lingering at the entrance felt a chill run down their spines.
— "You dare come here, into my domain, with your flying garbage heap, your pompous prattle, and your technocratic accusations?! Do you even know who you are speaking to, you miserable insect?!"
Léon looked moments away from fainting, the tension in the room suffocating. But Placide, by contrast, seemed perfectly at ease. (And Brigitte? Absolutely delighted.)
— "You think these columns of numbers will protect you?! That your little report is enough to bring me down?! That you're so clever?!" Malcavian raged on.
Placide adopted a look of feigned shock.
— "Your Excellency, please, I am but a humble patriot trying to do my job… There's no need to get so worked up."
Then, adjusting his robe as though preparing to leave, he handed Léon his datapad with a measured, deliberate motion.
— "I will draft my report," he concluded smoothly. "You would, certainly, do me the honor of escorting me back to my 'flying garbage heap'?"
Malcavian inhaled deeply, attempting to regain his composure. His forced smile returned, stretching his pale lips into a strained expression.
— "You are right, Lord Placide. I shouldn't let myself get carried away. After all…" He made a vague gesture, as if casually dismissing the entire affair. "…it's just numbers."
He took a slow step forward, his scepter clicking against the floor.
— "I'm afraid, however, that I won't be able to accompany you to the spaceport," he said, his voice thick with insincere cordiality. "Urgent matters require my attention. I'm sure you understand."
Placide gave a slight bow.
— "Of course, Your Excellency," he replied, matching Malcavian's hypocrisy note for note.
Malcavian's thin smile twitched.
— "My acolytes will be delighted to escort you to your ship."
With a theatrical wave of his hand, he gestured to the three hooded figures who had silently emerged from the shadows near the archive entrance.
Placide slowly turned toward the acolytes, his gaze empty yet piercing.
— "How very thoughtful."
Malcavian gave a shallow bow—too precise, too calculated to be sincere.
— "I wish you a safe journey, Lord Placide. And do pass along my warmest regards to your master."
Then, with a dramatic swirl of his black robes, he turned sharply on his heel and strode out of the chamber.
But instead of heading to his office or private chambers, Lord Malcavian veered into a side corridor, where a small concealed communications terminal awaited him. He activated the console with a violent motion, and a red light cast an eerie glow over his rage-twisted face.
— "Phase Ignis," he murmured coldly.
The terminal emitted a confirming beep.
Phase Ignis.
A simple yet brutal plan, designed to make a target disappear in the most spectacular fashion. The secondary platform of the spaceport would be destroyed mid-takeoff, reducing Placide, his pathetic servant, and that abominable crow to ashes. A tragic accident. The Dark Council would be deeply saddened, of course—but such incidents were… not unheard of. Especially with old ships.
Malcavian allowed himself a cruel smile.
— "May your name be forever inscribed in the ledgers, Placide," he muttered, before erupting into a grandiose, entirely artificial bout of villainous laughter—a clear testament to his flair for theatrics. "To the liabilities!"
Meanwhile, Placide and his escort had already reached the spaceport. The secondary platform was battered by relentless winds.
At the far end of the walkway, The Reprieve sat perched like a tired old crow, awaiting its passengers. The Sith had a hard time disguising his impatience to leave this wretched fortress behind.
— "Finally," he exhaled under his breath. "I was beginning to think I'd never leave this miserable planet."
The acolytes exchanged a glance. The Zabrak discreetly tapped his communicator. A soft beep followed.
Léon felt the tension shift ever so slightly. He glanced at the acolytes. Then at the sky. Then at the platform itself.
Something was wrong.
His master, however, seemed entirely unconcerned.
At last, the Zabrak spoke—his voice just a little too loud.
— "We must… unfortunately leave you here, Lord Placide. There are… specific instructions to receive. Orders from Darth Malcavian."
Placide didn't even turn around.
— "Of course, of course," he replied, his tone utterly bored, dismissing them with a lazy wave of his hand.
The acolytes bowed hastily before retreating—perhaps a little too quickly.
— "I'll check the engines, My Lord," Léon announced hurriedly before scurrying toward The Reprieve.
Léon scurried clumsily toward the main control panel of the platform but tripped over what appeared to be a large pressure plate just as he reached for the boarding bridge controls.
CLANG!
A metallic noise echoed, followed by a sinister grinding sound. The boarding bridge froze halfway through its deployment, swaying dangerously over the void.
— "Oh… Oh no…" Léon whimpered.
He frantically tapped at the control panel, hoping to unlock the mechanism. Instead, a piercing siren blared across the entire spaceport.
Placide raised an eyebrow.
— "Léon…"
— "I-I think… um… that's the fire alarm… yes, definitely the fire alarm…" came the meek reply, his ears drooping.
The platform—designed to collapse with a single controlled detonation—began to vibrate beneath their feet.
Nearby, the acolytes, who had been lurking in the shadows to watch the spectacle unfold, exchanged panicked glances. Phase Ignis was clearly not going according to plan.
A series of explosions erupted along the walkway, sending debris and flames in all directions.
The acolytes screamed, caught off guard by the premature detonation of the charges.
One of them, trying to flee, slipped on a slick metal plate and was promptly catapulted off the edge of the platform, his shriek fading into the abyss below.
Another, engulfed in a wave of fire, flailed wildly—his limbs thrashing like a broken marionette—before stumbling headfirst into a support beam, which promptly bounced him back into the inferno.
Placide, meanwhile, had not moved.
— "Léon."
— "Y-Y-Yes, Your Excellency?" stammered the small alien, now wildly pressing every button and lever in sight.
— "This boarding bridge is going to collapse."
— "Y-Y-Yes, M-My Lord."
— "Then… do something."
Léon scrambled back to the control panel, frantically jabbing at buttons with catastrophic precision.
A sudden burst of scalding steam erupted from a vent, narrowly missing Placide, who took a single measured step back.
The steam, however, did not miss the last remaining acolyte, who was promptly roasted à la Sith in a matter of seconds.
Then came the second wave of explosions.
This time, the fuel tanks—which were supposed to remain intact until after the ship had taken off—were hit.
A geyser of fire erupted from the ground, turning the spaceport into a vision of absolute hell.
— "I think I found the problem," Léon piped up in a small voice.
— "Oh?" Placide responded, unnervingly calm.
— "Y-Yes, Master… i-it's the f-f-f-fire… I think!"
Just as everything seemed lost, Léon's panicked claws smashed down on one final button.
A sharp beep sounded, followed by a hiss.
Brigitte, who had remained perfectly silent until now, lifted her head.
— "The Iron Widow weeps…" she crooned, as if making a solemn observation.
Suddenly, a thick, pinkish foam erupted from the ceiling, coating the platform in a slick, viscous layer.
The fires vanished instantly.
The foam, however, continued to pour down, covering everything in its path.
Placide stood perfectly still, his impassive face barely masking an increasingly murderous exasperation.
His immaculate robes were soaked.
His carefully combed hair now hung limply over his forehead.
Léon, meanwhile, had been entirely buried under the foam, with only his large, trembling ears poking out.
— "I… I th-th-think it's fixed?" he offered timidly, emerging from the mess.
Placide sighed. He wiped a bit of foam from his face with slow, deliberate motion.
— "We are leaving."
Léon nodded so vigorously his ears flopped.
— "Y-Yes, My Lord!"
They boarded The Reprieve, its engines—miraculously intact—roaring to life.
Through the cockpit viewport, Malcavian's fortress began to fade into the mist, its jagged spires disappearing into Pixa's violet haze.
Léon approached his master hesitantly.
— "M-Mission accomplished, Your Excellency?" he ventured.
Placide did not respond, his eyes fixed on the horizon.
Then, something caught his attention.
In the distance, a dark figure emerged on the secondary platform, silhouetted against the crimson glow of the sunset.
Malcavian.
The Sith Lord was running at full speed, his robe flaring wildly behind him, arms flailing like a deranged specter.
His voice ripped through the air, amplified by the vocal emitter on his scepter.
— "IT'S NOT OVER, PLACIDE! I WILL BURN YOUR FLESH WITH THE FIRES OF THE DARK SIDE! I WILL SHATTER EVERY BONE IN YOUR MISERABLE SLAVE'S BODY! AND THAT ABOMINATION OF A BIRD—"
He gasped for air, his bloodshot eyes bulging.
— "I WILL— I WILL— I WILL—"
His foot caught on a metal crate.
Malcavian lurched forward with a pathetic squawk, crashing face-first onto the platform with an unglorious thud.
Placide, watching from The Reprieve's cockpit, did not move a muscle.
Léon, pale, cast a quick glance at his master.
— "That… that looks bad."
Brigitte let out a guttural, satisfied cackle.
As The Reprieve disappeared into the mist, Malcavian flailed miserably on the platform, engulfed by smoke and silence.