Abandoned.
Ecidae Mandrill had heard every other possible spin and permutation of what the Alliance had done to it's supporters and allies on Corellia and Duro, but that one word conveyed the emotional punch more than any other. Hot on the heels of it's Liberation of Duro, the Alliance had withdrawn, pulling out of the Core entirely to fortify itself behind a shiny new border: one protected by Treaty and superweapon alike. These worlds, some of the deepest and oldest parts of the Alliance to Restore the Republic, had been left to fend for themselves in the heart of the Empire, cut off from support and from hope, buckling under the strain of the Imperials as their influence came crashing back upon them all like a wave. The occupation on Duro was brutal. What the Empire had begun to do to the home forests of Ithor as punishment for their rebellion was unthinkable.
And here? Here was one of the first places that resistance against the Empire had begun, and so it was here that Ecidae and his rag tag band had decided to show the galaxy that while the Alliance had abandoned so many of those to whom it had promised freedom, the resistance had not ended; and it would never end, until the galaxy found itself truly free.
The worst blow came later, however. It was one thing for the Alliance bureaucrats to hide behind their Treaty, and preach to the neglected and betrayed that their involuntary sacrifice and suffering was for the good of the galaxy; it was arrogant nerfshit, but at least it obeyed it's own deluded internal logic. But to denounce the Corellian rebels the way that they had? To sit there in the comfort of their Bothawui palaces and critique the desperate actions of desperate people? It was hypocrisy of the highest order. The Alliance itself had set the tone with it's Starkiller missiles: the conflict with the Galactic Empire had been elevated to a higher form of war, and in this war the rules fell silent. How could those with the ability to destroy a planet on a whim decry the destruction of a mere square mile? How could a government that's very existance was built on the threat of catastrophic destruction believe it had the right to condemn the Corellians for striking the exact same kind of symbolic blow?
Ecidae glanced to his left, to the Ithorian silhouette that lurked in the shadow of a few stacked containers, tucked beneath one of the ascending ramps to the upper level of the warehouse that harboured them. Sphyrna Mokarran was the messenger: the man who had delivered their ultimatum to the Empire - and their promise of freedom to the galaxy - by pulling the trigger that tore an Imperial Star Destroyer from the sky. He had not spoken much since that day, but the guilt that weighed on him had tempered his resolve into a steel edge. He had turned the carnage he caused into a playground, lurking in concealed sniper locations to pick off members at random from the Imperial salvage teams that attempted to pick their way through the wreckage. Towards the criminals of Corellia he was less lethal, but only slightly; one could not enter The Zone without facing the fear of being shot.
Beyond the Ithorian, a human slumped against a plasteel container with his hands deep in his pockets. All the suave and swagger that Oran Jsorra had once possessed had been burned away by the sights his eyes had seen. Once, the slicing of computer systems had been a game, a joy; instead of slicing Jsorra now carved, wielding his datapad like a ruthless weapon, unleashing carnage upon the cyber-systems of Corellia for tactical benefit, material gain, or sometimes simply just the satisfaction of knowing how much time would be wasted and effort expended by the Imperial's efforts to unravel his antics. Beside him was Judas Voss, the Voice of Freedom, the man whose words spread the message and rallied new fighters to the cause day after day, his signals hacked into every network that Oran Jsorra had been able to help Voss get his hands on.
And then last, and least, was Andana Callax. If there was anyone who had earned more of Ecidae's ire than she, he could not think of them. It was not her actions that had earned his distain, but rather what - and who - she represented. This warehouse was not controlled by the rebellion: far worse, this was Black Sun territory, part of the proverbal deal with the devil that the resistance had been forced by Alliance abandonment to make. Ecidae had nothing but disgust and dismay for the criminal cartel, but their resources were few, and the simple fact was that if you wished to transport something discretely to Corellia, there was no one else but Black Sun to turn to. The true Corellian kingpin for the cartel was a rather unimpressive man by the name of Garrick Kane, who spent his time in the luxury of a casino in Kor Vella: the Callax woman was his proxy, here to distance her employer from the risk of exposure, and to save him from the unpleasantly menial task of interacting with his customers directly, no doubt.
Ecidae felt a wave of air breeze it's way into the warehouse as a transport buzzed overhead and then banked into view, floating low on a repulsorlift cushion as it drifted it's way into the warehouse before settling down against the duracrete. The hatch opened almost instantly, and Ecidae advanced towards it without hesitation, his fingers clasped behind his back firmly enough to make it abundantly clear that he had no intention of shaking anyone's hand. At long last, the Alliance had - as covertly as the universe could possibly allow - set it's attentions on Corellia once more, and this transport smuggled past the Corellian defenses with the aid of Black Sun, carried the first official representatives of the Alliance to set foot on Corellia since they had turned and fled.
The Duros waited until the passengers slowly began to disembark. "Ms DeLumiar and Phoenix Cell, I presume?"
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