Sometimes, all it takes is one insane move.
A spark that lights the powder keg.
Too much waiting. Too much pent-up frustration over centuries—without even the grace of feeling it properly enough to let it go.
Scourge knew.
There was no going back now.
No Imperial redemption. No emergency hatch.
He would be a traitor. A fugitive. A walking target for every slavering beast bred in the black throne's shadow.
Let them come. Let them try.
He'd be waiting.
He'd never entertained the idea of a peaceful retirement.
And now? Not even in a dream.
He moved through the corridors like a silent typhoon.
The Absolution was sleeping. Its crew snored in their bunks. Systems on night cycle. Lights dimmed. Guards half-awake, lulled by the sweet comfort of routine supremacy.
Fatal mistake.
He entered Loewen's cell. The former Jedi opened his eyes, slowly.
And something flickered behind them.
Not blankness. Not obedience.
Something else.
— Do you remember me? Scourge asked, his voice even.
Loewen didn't answer—but nodded.
— Good. Get up. We've got a war to finish.
He didn't wait for a response.
One by one, he awakened the dead souls.
Tol Braga. Kiwix. The others.
Their chains, gnawed from the inside by a stubborn light Illaoï had left behind—subtle, invisible, but real.
A crack.
A tremor.
And all Scourge had to do was strike where it hurt.
They weren't healed. Not fully.
But they had a choice.
And that was enough.
Once they were armed—still uncertain, still haunted—he spoke:
— I know I'm not exactly in your prayers. I've killed your people. I served your nightmare.
But right now, I'm your only shot at not ending up as someone's dissected side project.
Tense silence.
— So if any of you feels like stabbing me in the back, now's your moment. Otherwise, follow me.
No one moved.
— Perfect.
Now let's give them something to remember us by.
And chaos broke loose.
Scourge didn't advance. He obliterated.
Doors shattered before alarms could even wail.
Security droids were dismembered, officers splattered across walls.
He rewrote access codes, sabotaged hyperdrives, blew up three secondary generators just for the noise.
Every room he passed became a ruin—a living signature.
Tol Braga and Kiwix led the Jedi, now awakened, in a surgical strike against the indoctrination labs.
They freed prisoners.
Republic agents long forgotten, left to rot.
Now armed. Now dangerous.
In the hangars, sirens blared.
Lights strobed like panicked heartbeats.
Troopers scrambled—too late.
Scourge turned to Loewen.
— We're missing one.
— Who?
— Come.
He tore through the corridors like a madman.
Down into the restricted levels.
Where silence became stone.
The stasis chamber was guarded. Poorly. And not for long.
Scourge didn't kill.
He erased.
What remained of the guards wasn't worth naming.
Loewen stared.
— You're risking everything... for her?
Scourge entered.
The Kolto cylinder pulsed gently.
— It's not about feelings.
It's about balance.
He opened the tank.
She slid into his arms, unconscious.
Her breath so faint, he feared he was too late.
But no. She was alive.
Just enough.
They rose again.
Illaoï in Scourge's arms.
Cold fury in his eyes.
Loewen flanking him like a blade unsheathed.
The Jedi were ready.
Waiting.
— We launch. Now! he bellowed, charging into the auxiliary shuttle.
One, two, three seconds…
Then stars stretched into silver streaks.
And the galaxy screamed.
The Emperor felt them flee.
A psychic detonation of rage ruptured the void.
A mental howl so violent, the ship's bulkheads trembled in reply.
But he wouldn't catch them.
Not tonight.
Scourge closed his eyes.
And for the first time in three hundred years… he smiled.
— Set course to... wherever.
As long as it's not here.