New Tricks

[Anpher Inirial]

A galaxy at war! Since the BATTLE OF GEONOSIS, a conflict that the media has begun to call the CLONE WARS has raged across the galaxy, laying entire worlds to waste in it's wake. Despite billions of credits being poured into the GRAND ARMY OF THE REPUBLIC, a resolution to the conflict seems a long way off.

Hope is not lost however. Fresh from a decisive victory at the BATTLE OF ANAXES, Captain ANPHER INIRIAL and the crew of the VALKYRIE have recieved new orders, and await the arrival of a representative from the Jedi Order...


She was late. The Captain didn't have a perfect sense of time; nor was he wearing a wrist chrono, or sitting in front of a computer terminal with a convenient time display on the screen. He had no idea how many minutes he had been standing on the bridge waiting. That didn't matter; he didn't need any of that. He simply knew for a fact that she was late.

How? Vansen was seething.

Everything that Anpher was - calm, reserved, laid-back, patient - his Executive Officer most definately was not. Vansen Tyree took every stereotype of a fighter pilot, and shattered them into dust. Instead of the usual flyboy attitude and allergy to rules and responsibility, the man that his crew called The Tyrant was a ruthless and unforgiving taskmaster who no one in their right mind would dare cross. The handful of pureborn officers serving aboard hated it, but the clones seemed to relish the almost Mandalorian attitude of their XO.

For an idle moment, Anpher wondered if Vansen had always been this way; part of him suspected he was merely bitter at having had his cockpit stolen from him hoardes of clone pilots that the Senate deemed more "disposable" than veterans like Tyree.

Finally, a familiar chirp rose up from one of the consoles in the sunken pit beside the catwalk on which Anpher stood. He didn't need the operator to explain to him that it was a proximity warning from a craft dropping out of hyperspace, but the clone did so anyway.

"We're being hailed, Captain," another clone from another station chimed in.

One of the arms that had been casually folded across his chest broke free, the attached hand climbing to rake thoughtfully across his beard. "Transmit our landing protocols," he instructed. "The XO and I will meet them in the main hangar."

He turned; while his right hand man flanked him on the expected side, a Clone Commander was also present, waiting patiently to his left. "The bridge is yours, Commander Gage," Anpher announced.

"I have the conn," Gage replied, in proper naval parlance that no doubt made Vansen extremely proud.

[Vansen]

About bloody time.

Vansen didn't need to express his frustration aloud. Aside from the fact that Anpher could read him like a book - an irritating talent, made all the more infuriating by the fact that it so frequently came with a reminder that Your so like your father, or, That's exactly what your father would have said. His Captain and mentor could no doubt see how much such comparisons made him cringe; Vansen didn't doubt that Anpher said it all on purpose.

They rode the elevator down from the command tower in silence. Anpher clearly considered saying something once or twice, but Vansen had been perfecting his glower - it took something pretty formidable to rattle the bred-for-war Clone Troopers, and he was determined to perfect it.

The use of clones had changed things. When he had been a junior officer - longer ago than his hairless visage suggested - there were two rules that every nugget pilot had burned into their minds from their first day. One: the CAG is a god. Two: the XO is a demon. Sure, there were a few members of the Judicial Forces who tried the softly-softly approach to being an XO; but as the member of the crew responsible for dicipline and motivation, it always seemed to work out better if the prospect of being yelled at by the XO made them fear for their lives.

The glower was shaping up pretty well; but while it had worked out nicely on the group of infant cadets who'd been aboard a few weeks ago to tour around one of the Republic's new Victory Cruisers, all it did with Captain Inirial was plaster that irritating smile across his face: that silent chuckle that buried the corners of his mouth in his beard.

"She's not even a proper Jedi, you know," Vansen muttered under his breath as the elevator doors parted, and he followed the Captain out into the corridor.

A sidelong glance at the Captain later and he sighed. "Yes, I know," he grumbled, as familiar with Anpher's eternally patient and accomodating attitude as the Captain was with his polar opposite personality. "It's a long way from Coruscant," he explained to himself, fighting the urge to copy the Captain's Alderaani accent. "Being a few minutes late isn't a big deal in the grand scheme of things."

He came to a halt, hand hovering an inch or so away from activating the door controls. "Why are we even playing runabout to some Padawan, anyway?" He shook his head. "First those baby clones, and now this? We helped defeat the Bulwark Fleet. What did we do to deserve babysitting duty?"

If Anpher had planned to weigh in, Vansen didn't give him the chance, leaping in with his own answer and self-rebuke. "Right," he muttered, jamming a fist into the door controls, and following the Captain into the main hangar. "I'll know as soon as you do."

[s'Ilancy]

Anything was a welcome break from spending her time aboard the Arbitrator, stuck under the watchful eye of Zem-El Vymes. Anything was better than his constant teasing, his trying to cajole her into the confines of a cockpit to see if she really did get as sick as she often claimed. Thankfully those times had been few, and their time spent in combat had been enough to break the spell of his incessant baiting. Oh, he was professional about it, and respectful, but it was still there. The teasing and the curiosity. And when he knew she was least expecting it? He called her the thing that she had become so used to hearing. The thing that she had been resigned to, annoyed by, and known for.

'Mace Windu's Padawan'.

Right now, anything was a welcome break from the Arbitrator.


Now, stepping carefully down the boarding ramp of the shuttle that'd brought her to the Valkyrie, Lok cast her blue eyes all about, glad to be out of the confines of the small spacecraft. She did not carry much, only a small duffel that was clutched in her left hand; she'd refused to allow the pilot to take it for her. Her hair, still trimmed somewhat short, had been allowed to grow out a little. Not being at the Temple, she had given herself a small amount of leeway, and rather than keep it cropped, she let it grow. In fact, she had rather come to like it being slightly longer. Perhaps some day in the future she would let it go past her shoulders, even.

She wore those typical robes that had come to identify the Jedi ranks, with her lightsaber clipped to her belt.

Why Master Windu had told her to report to the Valkyrie she did not know. He'd not specified, and as ever she did not pry. She only obeyed him. He'd smiled at her at the end of their conversation - something that she'd noticed he did for no one else - and spoke a few words of farewell in her own tongue.

And now, here she was. She had become used to life, more or less, aboard these monstrous ships, and in some strange way she had begun to prefer them over Coruscant.

Blue eyes tracked around, coming to rest on the two men approaching. Their strides were so vastly different; the bearded one was confident and calm, while the bald one walked like an angry, stalking demon.

As her boots hit the hangar's deck, Lok kept up her own pace so that she would meet the two in the middle.

[Anpher Inirial]

As the trio came to a halt, Anpher offered the visiting Jedi.

Vansen did not.

"You must be Loklorien s'Ilancy," he said, with a bow of his head. "On behalf of my crew, and myself, I'd like to welcome you aboard the Valkyrie."

Standing off to his right like some sort of Senate Commando bodyguard, Vansen remained silent and motionless, hands once again clasped behind his back. Given the expression on his face, he was clearly practicing another of his intimidation techniques; but to the Captain it seemed more like his operating system had stalled during an attempt to hold in an unwanted sneeze.

Anpher knew that Vansen wouldn't flinch; but that didn't discourage him from wanting to try.

It didn't make it any less fun, either.

"I am Captain Anpher Inirial," he introduced, speaking once again with barely a pause. "And this -" He slung an arm around his XO's shoulders, clapping him enthusiastically on the back. "- is my Executive Officer, Commander Vansen Tyree."

Anpher turned to face Vansen for a moment. His XO didn't move, but there was a slight narrowing of his eyes in reaction: Vansen knew something was coming, and was bracing himself.

The Captain turned back to the Padawan, a somber note creeping into his voice. "Unfortunately, the real Vansen Tyree died in a tragic accident a few months ago. The crew was devastated, and morale on the ship fell apart... we were forced to construct this human replica droid."

He rapped his knuckles on the side of Vansen's skull, as if it were made of durasteel. "Unfortunately, we haven't quite finished installing all of the emotional subroutines yet." He paused, frowning a little. "Or the hair."

[s'Ilancy]

"Captain Inirial," she greeted politely, nodding her head in respect.

Her eyes went to the Commander though, as the Captain introduced him along with the tongue-in-cheek explanation for his XO's dour expression and silence. When she spoke next, her tone was a cautious one.

"Commander Tyree."

He was a strange one, as the expression he wore made her more confused than intimidated in any way. It was strange to see, but she pushed any thoughts of what he might truly be thinking to the wayside as her gaze went back up to the Captain.

"My Master has asked that I convey his thanks and appreciation."

[Anpher Inirial]

Anpher gave her a gracious nod, and despite her cautious tone the smile on his face didn't falter in the slightest.

"The thanks is unnecessary," Anpher pointed out, as light-hearted as always. "If the Jedi tell us to jump, we ask: 'what system?'."

For some people, a reminder of the army and navy's subserviance to the Jedi was uncomfortable: many who had served with the Judicial Forces and other sector-specific militaries felt that the Jedi - diplomats and peacekeepers - were ill-suited to lead a war. Anpher merely accepted it as a fact of life: as he had explained to Vansen once, 'We're fighting a war that was started by politicians. I'd rather our strategy was guided by the Force than by red tape and bureaucracy.'

"However," he added, countering himself. "Chain of command aside, it is an honour to assist a member of the Jedi Order; particularly one so eminent as your Master."

[s'Ilancy]

The Captain she could already tell was a genial man, easy to talk to and - as he had displayed just moments ago - in possession of a sense of humor. Which made things easier she supposed, but the fact of the matter was that most humor fell flat on the Lupine, and what was often said in jest she took for truth. Or sometimes worse. She would need to be careful, and watchful of her reactions.

She bit her lip, a ghostly downturn pulling at the corners of her lips.

"He seems to have that effect, I've found."

Her shoulders rolled, and her eyes focused once more to the Captain.

"I apologize. It's been a long journey, and I am tired."

[Anpher Inirial]

"Of course."

There was a slight shift in the Captain's smile; not a removal of warmth, but a transition towards something more paternal. Anpher didn't know how old Padawan s'Ilancy was, but she was clearly a decade older than his own children at least; even so, he couldn't help feeling a slight protective tug as he watched her wrestle with her fatigue.

He considered showing her to her stateroom personally, but quickly thought better of it.

"I'm afraid you'll have to excuse me; I should really return to the bridge." He reinforced his smile. "Once again, welcome aboard."

There was a pause before he gestured towards his XO. "The Vandroid will show you to your quarters."

[s'Ilancy]

The jab was lost on her, and as Lok watched Captain Inirial turn about, her brow furrowed for only a moment. She let out a long, pent-up breath of air, blinked, and turned her eyes back up to lock with Commander Tyree's. His expression hadn't changed, and if she were to guess, he seemed to be trying to deepen his scowl even more.

And that was when her own features changed. It wasn't a dramatic shift, but rather a fluid one that set her features in the same downward set as his. She only had to understand his thoughts by looking at him. She'd not needed the Force to shed light on this man when his own stance gave him away; his face able to be read like an open book. Their eyes never wavering, she felt her body straighten up, drawing herself to her full - if not rather diminutive - height.

She was only as tall as the bottom hem of his stiff uniform neckline.

"You are trying to scare and intimidate me," she finally spoke up when she was sure that the Captain was out of earshot fully.

The tone of her voice had a surprising amount of steel running through it.

"It will not work, so stop."

[Vansen]

Frustration and annoyance swelled beneath Vansen's uniform as Captain Inirial escaped and left him stranded, turning the collar uncomfortably tight around his neck.

As s'Ilancy spoke however, Vansen's expression finally changed; albeit only slightly. His eyes climbed a little in response to the Jedi's tone, and it took all his collected willpower and practiced misery to fight down the delicate smile that threatened to tug at the corners of his mouth.

Somehow he managed, and even bowed his head a little: but while the body language suggested apology, his words carried veiled sarcasm.

"Of course, Miss s'Ilancy," he spoke, in his most subtly condescending tone. "It clearly isn't working at all."

He didn't give her an opportunity to respond; turning sharply and smartly on his heel, he began to stride off in long and comfortable paces that, based on his cursory sizing up of the young woman, would make it difficult for her to keep up.

"This way," he called over his shoulder, sounding in a more pleasant mood than he had done in months.

He didn't even stop to glare at the deck hands.

[s'Ilancy]

His body language was at odds with his tone of voice, and Lok was very much inclined to trust his tone more than anything. Of course, he'd given her no chance to reply, but that didn't stop her from staring at his turned back with a strange look. His strides were long - no doubt normal for him - but in no way was she going to be able to keep pace in a comfortable manner.

The young Lupine pursed her lips, her eyes on the back of his head. Each moment that passed made her wonder if trading Zem-El Vymes for Commander Vansen Tyree was really worth it. A small part of her mind had already decided it wasn't.

She started off after him, but rather than try to keep pace, the Padawan merely moved at her own speed. It wasn't slow, and it wasn't fast. It was simply an acceptable gait. Jedi would not be rushed when they did not need to be. Patience in all things, as Master Windu had always said.

[Vansen]

While the Jedi may have preeched patience, the Rendili Military Academy did not. While it had been quite some time ago now - long before Vansen had joined the Judicial Forces - he still lived by the same mentality that governed the crews of Rendili dreadnaughts and cruisers: time was a valuable and rare commodity, and every effort should be made to conserve as much as possible through the swift and efficient completion of one's duties.

Vansen reached the turbolift long before the dawdling Jedi; and was not happy about it at all.

He waited at the elevator controls, triggering the door to shut a mere instant after s'Ilancy had passed through it. In silence, he punched the keypad for the relevant deck, and stared at the wall intently for as long as he could bear.

Finally his resolve broke, and he jammed a finger into the hold control. As the elevator juddered to a halt he rounded on the young Jedi, arms folding across his body in reflex.

"I don't trust Jedi."

There was no apology in his tone: it was a statement of absolute, unwavering fact. The only consolation was the slight hint that he was holding himself back; his Rendili upbringing would not permit him to be too impolite to a young lady. That just wouldn't be proper.

"You are peacekeepers. Diplomats." He shook his head. "At best, you're half-decent Generals; but Generals have no place commanding fleets in battle. Especially not when there are veteran strategists like Yularen, Dodonna, Screed... or Captain Inirial, forced to follow the orders from those who, until a few years ago, were little more than a bunch of holier-than-thou mystics."

There was no venom in his voice per se; the bite in his words came merely from the wholehearted belief that they were completely accurate.

"I fought under Skywalker at Bothawui. His 'tactics' crippled my ship, and needlessly cost the lives of dozens of crew: both natural-born officers and clones. I've seen clone troopers treated like organic battle droids, ordered to throw their lives away while the Jedi fumble their way through this war. I've seen dozens throw their lives away to save just one precious Jedi."

He grunted out a laugh. "You may be pretty formidable with those laser swords of yours, but I'd much rather have a squad of clones watching my back than a single one of you."

He sighed, the sails of his rant finally deflating. "It's nothing against you personally, Padawan. Thing is - we just beat the Bulwark Fleet without one of you Jedi there to babysit us. Having you aboard is a damned backhanded reward."

[s'Ilancy]

Withstanding his verbal assault, despite the politeness in his voice, was something that the Lupine had not expected. She listened quietly, her expression one of emotionless and neutrality. There was not so much as a flicker of hurt in her features, and she maintained their eye contact with a healthy amount of resolve. It wasn't difficult, for though he did not know it, she too felt partially the same.

She was far closer to the clones than anyone knew; They were her Brothers, and she their Little Sister.

She waited after he'd finished as a silence fell between them. Finally she broke their shared gaze with a deliberate and slow blink. Her voice, when she spoke, was quiet, level, and without the hard edges that had laced his own.

"I am not Anakin Skywalker, I am not here to babysit you," she moved, reaching around him to push the button which would set the lift into motion once more.

"... and like yourself, I would much rather have clones watching my back over my fellow Jedi."

[Vansen]

Vansen had prepared himself for some kind of protest: some kind of argumentative defense of the Jedi Order; some lecture on how the Jedi had been winning wars for the Republic for thousands of years. Hell, part of him was actually looking forward to a decent argument: everyone on the ship bar one was either a clone or too intimidated by him to argue back; and his Rendili naval ethics prevented him from getting into a shouting match with the Captain.

What he hadn't prepared himself for was agreement. Her preference caught him completely off-guard, and knocked the wind out of his sails. His mind scrabbled for a response, but he could only muster a single word.

"Why?"

[s'Ilancy]

She didn't look at him, but rather kept her eyes ahead and on the closed lift doors. She did however allow herself a cryptic half-smile and an answer that wasn't really an answer.

"It's a long story."

Perhaps not what he wanted to hear, but it was the most that she was willing to say on the subject.

"Now."

Finally she turned to look up at him, a strange look on her face that was something between curiosity and exasperation.

"Are you finished trying to make me feel bad?"

[Vansen]

Despite himself, Vansen couldn't help the slight hint of a wry smile that crept onto his face.

"I thought you said it wouldn't work," he reminded.

Fortunately, he was rescued from any possible relapse into disagreement by the timely jolt that came as the elevator suddenly stopped; and the hiss as the door leapt aside.

He gestured with an arm out into the corridor, indicating that s'Ilancy should leave first. "After you, Master Jedi."

[s'Ilancy]

"It doesn't," she countered, stepping out from the lift, "... but that does not mean I cannot be annoyed at your attempts."

The utilitarian nature of the ship's interior was so vastly different than the opulence of the Temple, and though she would never admit it, it simply felt a bit off. Perhaps it was one of those things that one grew accustomed to. She rather hoped that she would not spend so long aboard a ship so as to become used to it.

Pausing in her step so that the Commander could once more take the lead, s'Il fingered idly at the clasp of her duffel, her blue eyes traveling along the walls.

So bare...

[Vansen]

"She's a fine piece of Rendilli engineering," Vansen complained, completely mistaking s'Ilancy's critical scrutiny of the ship as admiration. "Don't get me wrong: the Kuati build good ships. But they don't do it with quite the same style and ellegance as they do back home."

For a fleeting moment, there was almost a hint of a smile on the Commander's face; perhaps pride, mixed with a little dash of fighter pilot ego. It didn't last long, but was enough to break the scowl's relentless hold on his expression; when his features reset, it was into mild curiosity.

"Where are you from?" he asked, his voice matching his face.

"And don't say 'Coruscant'," he added as an afterthought, forstalling the obvious sarcastic answer.

[s'Ilancy]

s'Il made a face at that, her brow knitting as she kept her eyes forward.

"Yag'Dhul, but my father moved us to Coruscant when I was very young."

[Vansen]

"Yag'Dhul, huh?"

Vansen led them left at a crossroads in silence, trawling through the stockpiles of intelligence reports and tactical information for something that even passingly qualified as trivial knowledge about the planet. He knew all about the infamous mathematical Givin, and how they'd seceded from the Republic because a statistical analysis told them to. But that was where his knowledge ended: the cold hard facts of what was relevant to the war, and absolutely nothing else.

That was the smart thing, of course. That kind of expert familiarity was what made him such an effective tactician and command officer. What it didn't do was make him an effective human being; and for a fleeting moment, he wondered at which point in his life he'd simply stopped caring about anything else.

That thought was quickly brushed aside. "Did you stick around long enough for any of their math skills to rub off on you?" he quipped over his shoulder. "I could really use a hand with my taxes."

[s'Ilancy]

She stared at his back, a strangely mixed look of confusion, disgust, and utter exasperation plastered across her features. Hidden beneath the veneer of a 'young Jedi's naivety' was in actuality a manifestation of her own cultural barrier. So used to Zem-El's brand of humor and nattering had she become that when introduced with this new breed, Loklorien felt as much a stranger as she ever had. None knew it but her, but that was enough.

She huffed out a breath, looking away from Tyree.

"Your financial woes are not my problem," she snapped his way.

[Vansen]

Vansen mentally recoiled, though his practiced facial veneer didn't display it outwardly.

While hairlessness was a look that Vansen certainly pulled off, it wasn't a style that had been selected with fashion in mind. Complete baldness was better than the partial state that he posessed naturally, and had the added bonus of casting a shadow of ambiguity over his age. Vansen was much closer to the end of his life and military career than he was to the beginning, and as such he'd had several decades to grow accustomed to women reacting negatively to his attempts at getting 'friendly'.

Even so, he was genuinely taken aback by such a strong negative reaction: particularly since for once in his life there generally wasn't an ulterior motive lurking behind. Instantly, even the most fledgeling of thoughts about doing anything other than disliking the Jedi intensely were vapourised.

His face returned to it's usual scowl. "You're right," he muttered under his breath. "Whatever your problem is, it definately isn't that."

[s'Ilancy]

There were some things that she was thankful for, and a particularly acute sense of hearing was one of those. Whether he meant for her to hear his mutterings or not, she did, and the Lupine gave a frustrated sigh. Once more she had apparently offended without realizing (it was something that Zem-El often pointed out), and she pursed her lips. Why did social interaction have to be so difficult? She wielded her lightsaber as though it was a part of her, but to be around others was another situation entirely. It was one of the reasons that she had few - if any - friends back at the Temple.

Of course, this realization did not stop her from continuing to inadvertently add fuel to the fire.

"You are becoming one of those 'problems' whether I like it or not, however."

[Vansen]

Vansen offered a tight-lipped smile. "My apologies, Commander," he replied, almost no effort taken to scrub the sarcasm from his voice.

A battle raged inside his mind; better judgement clashing with the impulsive urgings of his tongue. Restraint lost, words escaping through his clenched jaw before they even registered with his brain. "Your master sent you here to learn about fleet command. That isn't just tactics and theory: command is about people, which seems to me to be your greatest weakness."

His eyes narrowed and he leaned in closer, his voice turning quieter. "Lesson one, Padawan: try wearing your lightsaber on your belt instead of up your ass."

He straightened, his hands tugging down the front of his uniform jacket. "Now, if you'll excuse me Commander, I'm needed on the bridge." He hesitated for a second longer before marching off up the corridor to add with a half-smile: "I'm sure an old and wise Jedi such as yourself shouldn't have a problem finding her quarters on her own."

[s'Ilancy]

Shoulders hitched back and eyes narrowed, Lok glared daggers at his back as he walked off. She gripped the handle of her small duffel with a white-knuckled fist, and her other hand merely curled up into a tiny white ball. She watched him leave in quiet anger and indignation, yet refused to speak so much as a word in reply to his verbal assault.

The man was infuriating! More so than Zem-El, if it was even at all possible. Vansen Tyree it seemed had the frustrating ability to anger and confuse her in the same breath, and while the more logical portion of her brain was determined to decipher his apparent double-speak at a later time, the far more insulted part of her won out this moment.

Lok's ears ticked back, and with an exhaled breath that held a hint of a guttural growl, she turned on her heel and stomped off in the opposite direction.

[Anpher Inirial]

A Few Days Later...

Captain Inirial didn't need to be there, but he was. He always was, in fact - or at least, for as much of the day as his duties and bodily functions allowed. The Republic's shipwrights and architects had lone since evolved beyond the need for a Captain's chair, so instead he stood; perhaps he was merely clinging on to the die-hard habits of a bygone age, but he always felt that as Captain he belonged on the bridge of his ship.

Commander Gage was standing to his left. While Anpher allowed himself a few concessions to comfort in his posture, the clone stood as if his spine had been frozen in carbonite. Anpher longed for those youthful days when he would have been able to do the same without his joints punishing him for it in the aftermath.

Through the forward viewport, the swirling vortex of hyperspace tumbled, but as the Captain watched it shattered into a million stars; he knew the inertial compensators were more than enough to counteract the deceleration as they slowed to sublight speeds, but he couldn't help shifting his weight slightly to avoid an imagined embarrassing tumble towards the front of the bridge.

Precisely worded chatter sprung up from the clones littered around the consoles in the pits below. As ever, Gage echoed the status reports back verbatim. "We have arrived in the -"

"Thank you, Commander," Anpher interjected. "I'm standing right beside you; I heard the Lieutenant just as clearly as you did."

Gage's posture tightened even more. "Yes, sir. Sorry, sir."

"At ease," Anpher muttered under his breath, firm but kind. "I've only ever known one other person who takes life as seriously as you. Do you really want to end up turning into Vansen Tyree?"

The clone's expression changed, and he risked a brief glance over his shoulder, checking that the coast was clear. "No, sir," he admitted. "I suppose I don't."

Perfectly timed to deepen Gage's paranoia, the hatch at the rear of the bridge hissed open, and a malcontented tempest in human form stormed through. The Commander's eyes snapped forward instantly as Vansen Tyree marched forward to complete their trio.

"Report," Vansen barked, even less pleasant than normal.

Anpher was pretty sure he heard Gage's spine snap as he stood even more at attention. "We've just arrived in the Sheris system, sir. Awaiting orders."

Vansen didn't wait for approval from his Captain before issuing instructions; it was an unspoken agreement between them, which Anpher conceded to purely because he knew how fond Vansen was of issuing orders.

"Standard orbit then, Commander Gage."

"Aye, sir," the clone acknowledged, before relaying instructions to the crew. "Helm: sublight drives ahead one third. Lay in a course for geosynchronous orbit above the northern continent."

The Captain shot a sidelong glance at his XO, and kept his voice low. "Is your new girlfriend getting under your skin again?" he asked, innocently enough. Vansen didn't dignify the question with a response; Anpher allowed himself a grin, but managed to keep his chuckle mostly silent.

The expression soon faded when the comms officer chimed in. "Sir, I'm not receiving a signal from the orbital beacons." There was a moment's pause as the clone input more instructions. "Or the outpost itself, sir."

Anpher and Vansen exchanged a look. Both took a few paces further forward; pointless, given the acoustics of the bridge, but it made them both feel like they were more involved in the bridge's goings on.

"Check the lower RF bands," Vansen suggested. "We might be able to pick up on comm chatter, or the latent data networks."

The clone did as instructed, but his head shook all too soon. "Nothing on any Republic frequencies," he responded. A long, heavy pause suddenly descended; he spun in his chair. "I am however picking up Separatist transmissions, sir. It looks like a droid command signal."

Gage narrowed his eyes, squinting at the viewport. "If there was a Separatist ship in orbit, surely we'd be able to see it by now?"

"Not if the planet is in the way," Anpher pointed out.

Vansen chimed in with his agreement. "As long as they have line-of-sight on their landing ship, they can use it as a relay to bounce their signal around the planet."

Anpher's jaw clenched. "It's an old tactic, but it works."

"Then we should take out the landing ship," Gage added, stating the obvious.

A look that might almost have been a smile if it had been on a normal person's face swept across Vansen's features. "For once, the Commander and I are in agreement."

Anpher's shoulders sagged slightly; his XO was far too predictable. "You want to send a squadron on a low-altitude bombing run, knock out the landing ship, and then drop in a few clones to mop up the droids."

"And then break for orbit to flush out the command vessel," Vansen nodded. "In the meantime, you take the Valkyrie into a polar orbit, and descend on the Separatists from above."

"I take?" Anpher countered, with a quirked eyebrow. "Aren't you a little old to be leading daring fighter missions?"

Vansen shrugged. "It's an old tactic, but it works."

Anpher breathed out a heavy sigh. "Fine, but you're taking your new Jedi friend too. I have a feeling she'll be more useful to you in the back of a Y-Wing than she will be aboard the Valkyrie."

"Do I have to?" Vansen asked, with a wince.

"You can always stay here," Anpher pointed out.

"Taking the Jedi; aye, sir," Vansen fired back, before Anpher had a chance to turn his suggestion into an order. "I'll be back before you know it."

[Vansen]

Vansen was a creature of habit; a deeply predictable man. He wasn't dogmatic, and stuck within the confines of rigid instructions and procedures: but if you knew him, even slightly, nothing he did ever came as a surprise.

So when the Deck Chief laid eyes on the Commander, striding across the hangar bay with a helmet tucked under his arms, he knew exactly what he needed to do.

A hand rose to his comlink headset. "Tyrant's here," he spoke through it. "Unpack Thirteen, and wake up Katie."

Thirteen was their spare. A Victor-class cruiser like this would usually only carry two-dozen fighters for active duty, but the Valkyrie's XO was far from 'usual'. He'd been a pilot himself during the war; orders from on high had seen him plucked from the cockpit and wrapped in a command uniform, and he didn't like that one bit. Vansen had always had a soft spot for pilots and ground crew; not wanting to loose their enviable status as the only people aboard-ship that Vansen didn't constantly growl and scowl at, Thirteen had been a gift: an extra Y-Wing added to their compliment to let the XO get stuck in with the action whenever the mood took him.

The Deck Chief threw a salute in Vansen's direction. "No gunner today, sir?"

Vansen's eyes narrowed, and the Chief felt instantly glad that the Tyrant's frustration wasn't aimed at him.

"She's on her way," the Commander answered simply. "Or at least, she'd better be."

[s'Ilancy]

And, as if on cue, Loklorien s'Ilancy trudged her way into the hangar bay. If it was at all possible for a Jedi of any rank to look frustrated and dejected all rolled into one apprehensive emotion, it was worn clearly on her features along with indignant near-rage. Or at least the sort of rage that a Jedi can allow themselves. Of course coupled with her own natural tendencies, the storm in her eyes was a strange thing to see.

She paused mid-step only once, as her gaze traveled to where Vansen Tyree stood waiting with the Deck Chief. She could smell the sense of triumph coming from him, the inner gloating that she was sure he was doing.

She had at least put up a grand fight over the issue, and while their voices had not risen during that particular encounter, their tones had become increasingly more hushed and terse. They had very nearly gone toe-to-toe over the matter, and s'Il had to stop herself more than once from jamming an accusatory finger in his face. She just knew that he was scheming to make her as miserable as possible.

And when he'd ended the argument with the Captain's words that she join in the fighter assault, the Lupine turned on her heel in a huff, stalking away and knowing in the pit of her stomach that the near future was going to be close to unbearable. Oh, she would do her best, but it would not be a painless endeavor.

And if she had to suffer, the Lupine was determined to cause as much strife in Vansen Tyree's existence as she could during the time that she was here. Was it childish? Yes. Was he intolerable? Incalculably.

Lok s'Ilancy hated to fly, and as she closed the distance between the Commander and herself, she knew with finality that he would soon understand why. That at least was not malicious in intent, it was simply the truth, and as she slowed to a stop in front of him, her brow knit while her eyes fell upon the deck plating.

[Vansen]

Though it was impossible to completely ignore the stomping arrival of the young Jedi, Vansen achieved an impressive immitation, his attention quite clearly focused on the ground crew swarming across the flight deck to prep his plane, while others used repulsorlift trolleys and other such contraptions to haul the rest of the squadron into launch positions.

Finally he turned to the Jedi, acting as if her presence came as a surprise. He heavily exaggerated a frown. "Why, Miss s'Ilancy - you look a little nervous." He could barely keep the grin from his face. "Don't tell me you're afraid of a little flying?"

The expression bloomed full-grown, but he walked away before she had a chance to retaliate, advancing on Fighter Thirteen. Practiced steps helped him clamber with ease up the side of the fuselage; a string of harsh droidspeak tones made him halt half-way to the cockpit.

Vansen glanced briefly over his shoulder. "She's a Jedi," he explained, to his disgruntled little R4 droid. His gaze lingered for a moment longer. "Don't worry Katie: I don't much like her either."

[s'Ilancy]

Her jaw clenched as she watched him walk away, towards the fighter and up its' side before pausing midway to speak with his droid. Despite the fact that her hearing extended far beyond a human's and she'd heard every word he said, the Lupine kept her silence. With one hand clutching at the helmet she'd been provided, her free hand curled into a white-knuckled fist and she took up a slow gait to follow after the Commander.

Stopping at the base of the metal ladder that led up to the cockpit, s'Il looked up at the bottom soles of Tyree's flight boots above her.

"I realize that you do not like me, so take comfort in the fact that the feeling is quite mutual."

Lifting her free hand up to grasp at the ladder's side, she stepped on to the first rung.

[Vansen]

"That's good to know," Vansen grunted back, settling himself down into the pilot's seat. He didn't wait before haulling the canopy closed; and for a few isolated moments he found himself isolated in a private bubble, the lightsaber in his side safely trapped without.

A few moments later, he felt a thud reverberating through the hull as the gunner's canopy swung closed. Though still isolated from her by a few airtight inches of durasteel, the grim realisation that he was trapped in this fighter with her settled in. For a moment, he thought about ripping out the cables on the intercom that would allow them to speak to each other; but that was a little too far, even for him.

Instead, he contented himself by thumbing the activation stud on said intercom, opening the channel between them. "Try not to throw up back there," he warned, with a hint of tease in his voice. "You're in your own tiny bubble of atmosphere, and things will probably get a little ripe if you do."

He pondered things for a moment. "Don't bother trying it for revenge either - I've got my own air supply, so the only one suffering is going to be you."

[s'Ilancy]

"I wouldn't dream of it," came her response through gritted teeth.

It was an alien thing for her, to be sitting in this cramped little cockpit, pulling on crashstraps and buckling them tight. The helmet - now on her head - felt claustrophobic, and as the Lupine steeled herself for what she knew would be her own private vacation to Weit-Fällt. There were, thank the Bloodline, techniques that she could perform to keep her body calm enough; at least for a short while. It was one of the first things Master Windu had taught to her, with the words that she could not avoid snubfighters forever and that she would eventually end up in a cockpit at some point.

Apparently that 'some point' was now.

"Let's just get this over with please."

[Vansen]

Indicators flashed on Vansen's displays as he and Katie worked their way through the preflight start-up routine. The beauty of ships like these - particularly those built to fight during the current war - was that designers had gone to great pains to let them launch almost instantly. Gone were the days when launching alert fighters required minutes of preparation and ground crew attention; which was a blessing, given how ridiculous the demand for mechanics would be given the scores of pilots Republic ships often carried aboard these days.

A board full of green indicators appeared in front of him. Satisfied, he risked a glance over his shoulder, at the turret somewhere above and behind. "Get this over with?" he echoed, not even trying to hide his enjoyment of being in a cockpit again and watching s'Ilancy squirm.

His fingers tightened on the controls. "Aye-aye, Jedi," he muttered, and gunned the throttle.

The Y-Wing lurched forward, racing across the deck plates towards the gaping maw in the belly of the Valkyrie. Throwing the controls forward with elegant grace, he spurred his plane to dive through, tumbling into a corkscrew that sent the Cruiser's huge form spinning away in their wake.

A contented sigh escaped him; he'd forgotten how comfortable the seating was in a craft like this. He made a mental note to talk the Chief into requesitioning extra, so he could swap out the uncomfortably rigid chair in his office.

He quickly cleared his mind of tangents however, and reached out for the communications controls. "All fighters, this is Tyrant. We're heading for a low-altitude, sub-sensor run across mountainous terrain. Expect droid fighters from above and below; we all know how tricky those damned walking Vultures can be."

He glanced briefly at his nav console. "We're three minutes from atmo, and five from our target altitude; we're flying fast and quiet, so radio silence begins from here on out."

Another reach for the controls and his radio went dead. As the planet grew larger in the canopy, he tilted his head to aim his voice at the Jedi; not that it made much difference, intercom considered.

"If it's not yellow and Y-shaped, shoot it out of the sky."

He hesitated for a moment, wondering just how much to dumb things down. He decided to go all the way, just in case a half-hearted attempt wasn't enough to properly infuriate his passenger.

"Use the red buttons make the guns go pew-pew."

[s'Ilancy]

With both hands planted on either side of the gunnery pod, s'Il screwed her eyes shut as her stomach seemed to flip inside out. With the tight corkscrew rolling of the Y-Wing, so too did her gut, and the Lupine found herself suddenly breathless, gasping only once before clamping her mouth shut.

He was doing this on purpose, she knew it. He was determined to cause her as much discomfort and loss of dignity as he possibly could, and with that realization she steeled herself as best as she was able to muster. The short breaths through her nostrils lengthened, and the Jedi consciously relaxed tensed muscles.

She listened as he called out their arrival times, and also at his order for radio silence.

Cracking one eye open, s'Il kept her gaze solidly locked on the turret controls before her - it would only serve to make things worse if she ventured a look outside the canopy.

She did manage a grimace as he spoke to her, the tone in his voice causing a small, gutteral growl to begin in the back of her throat.

"An'arasa su'hgehr," she shot back, lapsing into her own mother tongue without thinking, "... Ener'ek ar su'keh'ama."

[Vansen]

"Basic, motherfrakker: do you speak it?" Vansen muttered under his breath, as his brain completely failed to understand any of the words that had just been thrown at him.

A string of pale green aurebesh characters danced across one of the data displays on his console, as Katie chimed in with the conversation.

I believe the Jedi is speaking Lupine.

A frown deepened Vansen's brow. "You speak Lupine?" he asked of the droid, having absolutely no clue what 'Lupine' was; were it not for the fact that he now knew it was a language, he would otherwise have guessed it was a tree.

Of course. I downloaded a software patch from the ship's computer after the Jedi came aboard. Did you not do the same?

"No, Katie," Vansen grunted. "I didn't 'download' a software patch. I'm a human, remember? We can't do that sort of thing."

There was a moment's pause before Katie's response blinked across the screen.

That is okay, Vansen. I like you just the same, even with your organic shortcomings.

Vansen's jaw clenched in frustration, his grip tightening on the controls. He took a breath to try and keep his tone in check, but failed almost completely. "Damn it, Katie. Are you going to translate for me or not?"

A particularly harsh and rude-sounding string of droidspeak whistles sounded in Vansen's ear before the translation appeared on his screen.

If you are not prepared to ask nicely, then no.

"Prepared to ask -"

Vansen's voice trailed off into exasperation. A sigh heaved it's way out of his lungs. "Nevermind, Katie," he muttered, his scowl falling back into it's usual place. "I don't really give a damn what she's trying to say to me anyway."

[s'Ilancy]

While she'd certainly not been privy to the droid's half of the conversation, s'Il had easily enough heard the Commander's side of it, and as her breathing evened out, shelet her body sink a bit more into her seat.

"Just an expression of surprise," she muttered. Her hands slowly moved to rest over the gun controls, "... and frustration."

Which was the truth. With her mind focused on the task of untying the knots in her gut and calming her nerves, the Lupine had no room for speaking to the contrary. Even his previous patronizing words fell to the wayside, as she chose to ignore the tone with which he'd spoken them.

"No literal translation."

Of course, hearing him utter the word 'Lupine' had been a bit of a shock, but it was one that she couldn't dwell on for any long amount of time. It would most certainly be something that she'd have to confront him over however.

Pulling the Force inward, she let it blanket her, let it soothe over her shaken insides and calm her mind. Moments later the nausea subsided to a dull feeling, and for the first time since stepping foot into the hangar bay, s'Il exhaled out a long, steady breath. So long as the Commander did not jostle the Y-Wing as much as he did upon their initial take-off, she would be well enough to make it back to the Valkyrie without losing any more dignity than she already had. Of course, she had a healthy enough suspicion that that would assuredly not be the case. Gritting her teeth, s'Il steadied herself for not only an inner battle with her insides, but the grim determination to not allow Vansen Tyree the satisfaction of watching her completely wilt away.

"And it is called Bast'yr, not Lupine."

[Vansen]

"You're a total Bast'yrd, alright," Vansen grunted to himself.

Hearing the tension in her voice though, he couldn't help feeling a little guilty. Taking non-pilots on up-chuck joyrides was a pretty common hazing tactic among the ranks of fighter pilots - or at least it had been, before the real pilots had been swept aside and replaced with clones who were, for the most part, above that sort of thing - but it was usually reserved for good-natured humiliation, rather than anything with genuine malicious intent.

From the sound of it though, s'Ilancy wasn't the sort of person to spew, recover, and then have a good laugh about it later on. From the way she was acting though, it was like trying to force-feed bantha steaks to a vegetarian; like he was committing some kind of fundemental afront to her very being. He'd assumed her plane aversion was merely an 'I get space sick' thing. Perhaps it was more than that; and perhaps he was just being a phenominal jerk.

An indicator blinked on his screen as the range-to-atmo readout clocked into the last few seconds. He didn't insert any sympathy into his tone - she'd probably react just as negatively to that as if he'd been sarcastic - instead keeping his voice as neutral as he could muster. "We're about to enter the atmosphere; you might want to brace yourself for a little turbulence; and the g-forces might start feeling a little weird."

A thought struck him, and he reached for one of the slightly less accessible banks of controls. "Hang on," he muttered, flicking open the safety latch, and adjusting the strength of the inertial compensators. "Lets see if I can't smooth the edges off some of the bumps."

[s'Ilancy]

She took his words to heart, and her arms once more went out to brace herself as her body prepared itself for another assault. But, at his last reassurance, s'Il felt a small bit of heart.

"Thank you," came her earnest reply.

[Vansen]

Vansen regretted his show of weakness almost instantly, but it was too late now - his act of compassion was out there, free in the universe, for absolutely anyone on the ship to potentially catch wind of.

He allowed silence to fall for the next few minutes, attention focused on the high-speed descent through the atmosphere. As they reached ground level however, the sheer exhileration of real flying proved too much to remain silent; too much even to maintain his typically sour mood.

"This is your Captain speaking," he said, effecting the kind of voice that civilian shuttle pilots always seemed to have. "I'd like to welcome you aboard Flight Valkyrie-One-Three for this express service to Sheris Outpost. Passengers may wish to look to their left for occasional glimpses of trees and small hills; identical sights are available on the right for passengers with dirrectional identification difficulties."

A flash of data on his screen prompted his voice to return to normal for just a moment. "Range to target: fifteen thousand meters and closing."

[s'Ilancy]

For the first time since she'd met him, Vansen Tyree caused the uttermost barest of smiles to flit across her features, and while she still refused to venture a look outside, s'Il kept her narrowed gaze one the HUD in front of her. It would help, if nothing else, to slow the impending internal doom that she knew was to come.

Her hands tightened on the turret's control yolk at his last words however, and the Lupine let her features descend once more into a determined grimace.

[Anpher Inirial]

Though he was not a Jedi, and had no special connection to the force - his mother had him tested - throughout his life Anpher had posessed a sense about things. It wasn't like the spacer instincts that Corellians seemed to posess; it was more like the instincts of a patriarch, or some holdover from an earlier stage of evolution where he could sense dangers that threatened his herd.

Right now, those instincts screamed at him; subconsciously, Anpher rested the heel of his palm against his chest, pressing the medallion engraved with the seal of House Inirial a little further into his collarbone. He wasn't overly superstitious, but generations of Inirial sons had worn the heirloom as servants of the Republic Navy, and every one of them had walked safely home to their families.

He only hoped that the luck it brought was constant, and wasn't part of some pool of reserves that was rapidly depleting.

"Anything on sensors?" he asked.

It wasn't the first time he'd uttered those words. It didn't matter that the sensor techs would shout out as soon as even a sand grain appeared on their screens. Asking made him feel better; it made him feel like he was doing something, not just standing in wait until the inevitable went catastrophically wrong.

"Nothing on sensors," Commander Gage announced, repeating the message from the crew pits as professionally as ever, despite no doubt being frustrated at the incessant asking.

Anpher opened his mouth to raise another query, but Gage answered before he had the chance. "Squadron ETA is about ninety seconds, sir."

The Captain nodded. "And ours?"

From across the bridge, one of the navigations officers chimed in with an answer to that question; it was unclear whether he'd heard, or had just conveniently chosen that moment to speak. "We're passing over the magnetic pole, sir. If there's a ship out here, we should see it any minute now."

Anpher's breathing stopped, his lungs abandoning their task to watch anxiously as Sheris rolled away beneath them. When the curvature gave way enough for his gaze to settle on what (http://images.wikia.com/starwars/images/4/4d/BlockadeOfRyloth-SL.jpg) waited for them, his lungs gave serious thought to not starting again.

"Contact!" one of the clones shouted, and the bridge exploded into a flurry of activity. Tactical alters were sounded, weapons systems were primed; instructions were barked down to the flight deck to ready the remaining squadron of fighters. Anpher felt his gut collapse into a black hole; though a tiny white dwarf of pride sparked into life in his chest as he watched how efficiently his crew went to work.

A few paces brought Anpher close enough to the viewport to see the trio of Separatist ships in full - one Lucrehulk Battleship, and a pair of Munificent Frigates on her flanks. That wasn't a simple opportunistic raid on an outpost: there were a lot of guns and droids and fighters hovering over that planet. If the facility hadn't already been turned into a smouldering pile of ashes, it soon would be.

And so will anything that gets caught in the way.

"Break radio silence," he snapped. "Tell Tyrant to get his pilots out of there."

[s'Ilancy]

There's always that moment in time when clarity is like a burst of white light, where it becomes a thing so crisp and clear that a person cannot help but become arrested by the sight and whatever feeling it spawns. And when it is the Force that is the cause of such a thing, one cannot and must not ignore it.

So it was with s'Il.

In the moment that Captain Inirial and his crew were setting their eyes upon the foe, Loklorien s'Ilancy felt herself bombarded. Her mind strained beneath the pressure of the urgency that the Force swarmed upon her with, and she felt as though the breath had been knocked from her lungs. She gasped, her hands coming away from the controls to clutch at her chest as she fought for air. In the enclosed, climate regulated atmosphere, it was an odd sight.

Hissing shallow breaths through gritted teeth, the Lupine opened her eyes wide, her gaze tracking to either side of her as if to search for the unseen.

"We have to go back," she finally managed to croak.

"We have to go back now."

[Vansen]

"Go back?" Vansen echoed, a frown forming on his face. He knew she was uncomfortable back there, but the flight had been stable for minutes now. Was she really going to kick up a fuss now, right in the middle of a mission?

"Why would we need to go -"

Vansen didn't get the chance to finish his question. He did however have the opportunity to decide that he absolutely hated it when the Jedi was right.

"Cypter, crypter, cryper," the radio squalked, the nigh indistinguishable voice of a clone crackling through Vansen's helmet. "Mission abort: overwhelming enemy force has been detected." His heart sank at the sound of those words. "Repeat, mission abort."

Vansen's jaw clenched. At the moment, his sensors showed that the skies ahead were clear; but if the message was correct, that wouldn't last long. "You heard the man," he announced, firing up the squadron frequency once again. "Aboard run, and break for orbit."

He glanced over his shoulder. "I'm sorry about this, Miss Jedi. I don't think you're going to like it at all."

[s'Ilancy]

She had been so set upon by the Force that the Commander's words took longer than normal to register, but when they did, s'Il visibly balked. Her hands, still clutching at her chest, suddenly went out to either side as she felt the Y-Wing abruptly bank to the side.

"Commander Tyree," she whimpered, the pleading tone in her voice more than evident.

[Vansen]

The muscles in Vansen's jaw bunched. Sympathy was not an emotion he was used to dealing with; and given it's largely neglected status, his supply was somewhat vast. Even so, a distracted gunner was hardly better than no gunner at all; and despite all her Jedi pomp and training, Vansen calculating the odds of her actually proving useful as somewhere close to nothing.

An angry spray of tiny red dots appeared on his targetting display. That sealed it. He let out a faintly snarling breath. "Katie," he commanded, "Engage priority turret overload; authorisation Tyrant, Two-Two-Four." He watched as command recognition protocols danced across his screen, a subroutine specially written into the astromech's programming for such an occasion - against regulations, but to hell with that - kicking in on cue. "Switch to droid control, and select targets in order of numerical priority, based on pilot inputs."

A whistle sounded from somewhere behind him, but Vansen paid it little attention. "There's nothing I can do to help you right now, Loklorien." Her forename felt strange tumbling out of his mouth, but under the circumstances it seemed appropriate. "Either we fly, or we die. Katie is going to drive the turret for you; but that means it's going to move."

His voice was firm, but there was none of his usual tone in there at all; it was as if a completely different man was speaking. "What I need you to do is let go of the controls, keep your head as still and straight as you can - away from the consoles - and try to focus on a fixed point inside the turret there with you. Stare at the trigger buttons; don't take your eyes off them, even for a second."

He paused, letting the instructions sink in. "Can you do that for me?"

[s'Ilancy]

The ship juked once more, then rolled tightly to the side in a movement that sealed the proverbial deal with her intestines. Loklorien s'Ilancy's body had had enough, and it was going to rebel whether she wanted it to or not.

In answer to the Commander's words, the Lupine only gave a series of coughs.

"Too late," she got out breathlessly, "... it's too late-"

The sound of her stomach emptying its' contents cut off anything else that she had been trying to say, and ducking her head between her legs, she wrapped her arms over the top of her helmet as her body purged itself in the most humbling and spectacular fashion possible.

[Vansen]

Vansen winced ever so slightly. The sound of another person vomiting was arguably one of the most unappealing sensory assaults in the galaxy. Stenches could be ignored, or countered with enough of something airtight shoved up the nostrils; and sights on their own weren't necessarily unpleasant without the other senses coming into play; but even without any other sensory stimulus, that wretching was like word association for the memory centres of the brain.

For a moment, a glimmer of mischief crept into his eye, and he contemplated a quick inversion of the fighter, while he still had the added bonus of the planet's gravity working in his favour. Even for him though, that seemed excessively cruel.

Besides, his conscience reminded. You've got much more to worry about.

Hostiles coated the tactical display now; more than he cared to count. "Evasive flying, and defensive firing," he ordered over the radio. While the turret was an advantage that few fighters boasted, the Y-Wing was first and foremost a bombing platform; the turret was there to compensate for the fighter's limited ability to get out of the way of almost anything. They'd need to get close enough to the Valkyrie, and hope that the combination of point defense cannons and the remaining twelve starfighters - space superiority craft, fortunately - were enough to keep the enemy at bay until they were safely aboard.

"We're in retreat, people," he continued. "Let's not get stupid and pretend anything else."

[Anpher Inirial]

The Separatists had launched fighters; that had come as no surprise to the Captain. However, he hadn't expected to see them disgourge so many at once. At least a full wing had swarmed forth from the Lucrehulk, and the stream of droid-controlled death machines was still continuing; though admittedly it had become more of a trickle than a torrent.

The cloud of enemy contacts had grown so large that Anpher had been forced to disable the data tags on his tactical holodisplay; with so many aurebesh notations stacked on top of each other, the display had become little more than a solid clump of glowing red.

He watched as the green icons of the Y-Wing Squadron hurtled towards them, frantically trying to keep ahead of the tidal wave of red. Their dozen V-19 interceptors were in the process of being rushed out of the hangar too; but two dozen fighters against ten dozen was a set of odds that not even a Corellian would ignore. Even if the larger vessels stayed exactly where they were, those fighters would tear through the Republic squadrons, and devastate the Valkyrie's hull. Even if they turned and ran, they'd never escape.

"Hail the lead Separatist vessel."

The words tumbled from Anpher's mouth, his eyes not leaving the holodisplay. Standing opposite, visible through the falselight image, Commander Gage recoiled a little in surprise. "Sir?"

Anpher didn't wait to explain himself. He turned, striding back towards the forward sections of the bridge, addressing the communications officer directly. "Open a channel to the Separatists, Lieutenant. I want to speak to the man who has put so much effort into this trap."

The whole bridge seemed to agree with Gage's sentiments; but like good little purpose-bred soldiers, they followed their orders to the letter. "Aye sir," the Lieutenant aknowledged. "Frequencies open."

The Captain drew a breath, collecting himself before he spoke. "This is Captain Anpher Inirial of the Republic Cruiser Valkyrie, addressing the commander of the Separatist forces orbiting this planet."

He paused for a beat.

"Stand down your attack. I am prepared to discuss the terms of our surrender."

[Rurrick Grov]

"Inirial?"

The voice that echoed through the bridge's communications speakers came as a chilling purr, seeming to chew over the name with a great deal of thought.

"Anpher Inirial of Alderaan, of House Inirial? That Anpher Inirial?"

Silence fell; perhaps more chilling than the voice. Clones exchanged worried glances; the concept of surrender alone was enough to turn their speed-bred stomachs, but the mysterious voice with it's unsettling familiarity only made the situation more bizzare, and more menacing.

"My, my. Indeed this is a great honour; to be in the presence of such a noble and distinguished warrior of the Republic."

The lilt and accent of the voice was strange; one minute almost humble, the next almost mocking, but never quite reaching the tones it implied.

"Tell me, Captain: how does it feel to stare into the face of failure?"

[Anpher Inirial]

Anpher bristled inwardly at the words of the mystery voice, but outward his poise remained as steadfast and resolute as ever.

"It would appear that you have me at a disadvantage, Commander," he called back, his voice measured and calm. There was something familiar about the voice; it wasn't the sound that he recognised, nor the specific individual speaking, but it was a manner - an arrogance - he had encountered all too often among his fellow Alderaani nobles. Whoever the enemy commander was, he thought of himself as something grand; someone who demanded - and deserved - respect.

"You know who I am," he continued, "And you seem to know a lot about me."

He paused. "Perhaps you'd be so kind as to share a little of the same?"

[Rurrick Grov]

A holographic transmission began, a communications officer wordlessly routing it to the display where Anpher had, until moments ago, been standing. The translucent depiction of battle changed, replaced by the visage of a man, lounged into what could only be the command seat of the Separatist flagship: on a vessel crewed almost entirely by droids, seats were sparse, and this one in particular bore all the hallmarks of a throne.

"Not a face you recognise?" the Separatist asked, watching Inirial's reaction as he approached the display. Though the blue projection scrubbed out his skin tone into an unrecognisable drab, something about his features flagged him as a member of the Falleen race. Unlike those Inirial had previously encountered however, what would normally have been jet black strands of hair had turned silver with age.

The Separatist tilted his head slightly, his expression seeming a little disappointed. "Strange, since it is a face of your creation." He tapped a fingertip against the steel plate bolted across his eye. "Or one you played a part in, at least."

His head tilted, a telltale gesture of pride. "I am General Rurrick Grov of the Separatist Droid Army, and as you can see -" He opened his hands with a smile. "You are surrounded, quite completely."

[Anpher Inirial]

The Captain risked a quick glance at his Clone Commander; but Gage's response was a simple shake of his head. As Inirial had suspected, it was not a name that had featured prominantly during any recent intelligence reports, or in their brief on this sector of space. Whoever this General was, he clearly hadn't made as significant an impact on the Republic's attentions as he seemed to think.

"I'm afraid I'm still at a loss," he said carefully, treading the fine line between angering his opponent and shaking him just enough to hopefully make a little useful intelligence tumble out. "But perhaps we can turn this into an opportunity."

Another brief look was exchanged with Gage. "Allow my pilots to return to the ship, and I would be happy to extend to you the hospitality of my ship, so that we can continue these negotiations face to face."

He grasped for a straw. "And perhaps that will give me the opportunity to learn a little more about you."

[Rurrick Grov]

The General let out a single note of laughter.

"I have experienced Republic hospitality, Captain." He almost spat the word, as if the very syllables tasted foul in his mouth. "Believe me when I say, I have no desire to be inflicted by it again."

He fell silent and thoughtful for a moment, rocking from side to side on the pivot between his chair. After moments he waved his hand, a single limb approximation of a shrug.

"Your pilots may land," he agreed. "But once they do you will come aboard my vessel by shuttlecraft."

"- alone," he added, as an almost instant afterthought. "I would be most honoured to play host to one of the heroes of Anaxes."

[Anpher Inirial]

That final comment at last struck a note of familiarity for both Inirial and Commander Gage. The Battle of Anaxes - one of the more recent conflicts in the War - had marked the last of several confrontations between the freshly-minted Victory Fleet and the Bulwark ships of the Confederacy. The Valkyrie had fought - along with the rest of the Victor-class - at all those battles, and the Republic had ultimately triumphed.

General Grov was not some strategist with delusions of grandeur then; he was a wounded animal, bitter at not being recognised by those who had harmed him. With a desire for revenge adding extra motivation to the General's actions, their position became somewhat more precarious.

"We have an agreement," Anpher said eventually. "I will contact you once I am on approach. Valkyrie out."

The very instant that the transmission died, Commander Gage's mouth fired into action. "You can't do this, sir. There's no way you'll be safe aboard that ship."

"I can, Commander," Anpher countered, with a note of warning in his voice. "And I will."

He fell silent, contemplating his options. If Grov was a man of his word - and Anpher had to presume for now that he was - his XO would shortly be setting his boots back upon the deck plates of the Valkyrie. Anpher turned to the nearest Lieutenant. "You have the Conn," he instructed; his eyes flicked to Gage. "And you're with me. You will brief Commander Tyree on the situation as soon as he lands -"

He trailed off, and hit the clone with a meaningful look. "And you will follow his orders as if they were my own, no matter how -" He wrinkled his nose, searching for a word. "- par for the course he gets. Is that understood."

Reluctance filled the clone's eyes, but he offered a curt nod of agreement. "Aye-aye, sir."

[Vansen]

The clone on the comm was cryptic; Vansen didn't like that.

The droid fighters had stopped fighting too, and mere seconds later he had been ordered to stand down; Vansen didn't much like that either.

His misgivings worsened as the skids of his fighter touched down on the Valkyrie's deck, just in time to watch the Captain disappear up the boarding ramp of a troop shuttle, and seal the hatch behind him.

Peeling his helmet of his head and tripping the canopy release, impatience had him pushing the transparisteel aside before it had fully finished retracting, and vaulting from the fuselage to the deck plates below. Instantly, his eyes settled on his least-favourite member of the Valkyrie's multuplet crew.

"What the hell is going on, Gage?" he demanded, advancing on the clone.

Gage straighened, unusually respectful and compliant. Vansen definately didn't like that.

"There's little time to explain, sir. Captain Inirial is en route to negotiate the terms of our surrender with the Separatist commander, and you are needed urgently on the bridge. I'll fill you in on the way."

Gage hesitated, his eyes settling on the turret of Vansen's fighter, willing to grasp at absolutely anything that might have even a faint hope of tempering the Tyrant. "The Captain wants you to bring the Jedi as well, sir," he lied. "It is why she's here after all."

Vansen turned, staring back at the gunner's dome with a grimace. "She'll have to meet us up there," he muttered, mostly to himself.

He stopped for a moment seeking out his favourite member of the clone crew. "Chief!" he shouted, loud enough to grab his attention. He jabbed a finger in the direction of his fighter. "Get her cleaned up, and then send her to the bridge a-sap."

[s'Ilancy]

The entire ordeal of having to be carefully coaxed out of the gun turret was thankfully made easier by the fact that the clone who'd been given the duty was patient.

Word had traveled fast through the Valkyrie, and many of the clones were already calling her 'Little Sister' in passing. They knew of her, and knew also that she was as close a family member to them as any of their other brothers born on Kamino.

And so it was with great care that the chief made his way up to pup the turret canopy, help her pull her helmet off, and also help her up and out.

"Come on, Little Sister," he grunted as she struggled to get herself over the lip of the gunnery pod and onto the metal stairway that'd been wheeled over.

Lok s'Ilancy was a pitiful sight, and even after her boots hit the deck she kept her eyes closed. The chief guided her along at a steady pace; not too fast, but not too slow either.

"Let's get you cleaned up, eh? The Commander wants you on the bridge as soon as possible."

s'Il had no energy left to do anything but let him help her along, and as they left the cursed hangar bay and that damned Y-Wing behind, she gave the chief a half-hearted groan.



Fifteen minutes later...


She was clean, her clothes changed, and her teeth and mouth relentlessly scrubbed to rid herself of the horrid taste of bile. She'd moved as quickly as possible, and though her legs still remained somewhat unsteady, she none-the-less found herself striding onto the bridge, her features an unreadable mask as her hands remained tucked into the wide sleeves of the tan tunic that she wore.

[Vansen]

Vansen glanced momentarily in the Jedi's direction as he entered, but he did nothing else to aknowledge her arrival: his attention was deeply focused on the tactical analysis that Commander Gage was provided in painstaking detail. It was obvious to anyone with an ability to percieve the obvious that they were outnumbered, outgunned, and in every way outmatched; but apparently the clone wanted to drive home by just how much.

Members of the crew had been assigned to scour the ship's database for any intelligence or combat reports that made any mention of the illusive Separatist commander; but with the General's droids completely jamming their long range communications, the pool of available data was uncomfortably shallow.

Vansen glanced at the chrono on his wrist. The Captain had been aboard the enemy vessel for seven minutes.

Turning back to the holodisplay, he replayed - yet again - the conversation between Captain and General, Inirial's image interposed into the projection. His senses searched for clues; but there was nothing to be found. General Grov seemed like a pompus, slightly unhinged, and clearly vengeful man; there was nothing they could exploit in there. Flipping the visual back to a tactical display of the surrounding space dented his confidence even more: there didn't seem to be a single square foot of the Valkyrie that didn't have Separatist lasers trained upon it.

He let out a sigh. "It's a shame we're not Malevolance," he muttered, mostly to himself.

His eyes finally rose back to s'Ilancy, his pose straightening. The usual bravado was gone, something uncharacteristically humble in it's place. "Any thoughts, Master Jedi?"

[s'Ilancy]

Her time spent aboard the Arbitrator had not necessarily included weighing in on commend level decisions, and the confused look she graced the Commander with was genuine. She had always been the one to stay back, to follow the orders given by those with more experience. Now she was being asked for input. For a brief moment it was daunting, but that moment passed quickly and her brow knit in thought as she moved to stand beside Commander Tyree.

"If I were Anakin Skywalker - " she saw the flash of horror in his eyes from her peripheral vision.

"... I would be recommending something very stupid and reckless right about now."

Her focus went to the readouts that the Commander himself was pouring over. It was not a promising situation to say the least, and she studied the information for a few moments.

Finally, she exhaled as her jaw clenched.

"Let them board. It'll be the best chance we have to get the Captain back with the least possibility of the Valkyrie being destroyed."

That look of horror on his face came back, and the Lupine winced a little as she sought to further explain.

"Handpick a group of your best clones to accompany me. When the Separatists board, we will sneak aboard their own ship and use it to gain access to the larger beast."

[Vansen]

Stupid and reckless: that was usually Vansen's party line as well. Unfortunately he wasn't in a position to indulge those particular instincts: not without Captain Inirial there to add some logic and sensibility to the proceedings. Instead he found himself channelling the Captain - something that he found somewhat alarming, but that Inirial would probably have regarded with a mix of relief and triumph.

"The Separatists have our Captain; they have us surrounded. They are holding all of the cards at the moment, while our hand is all but empty."

He frowned, mulling the thought over, in search of something obvious that he might have missed before he spoke again. "Loathed as I am to admit it, a Victor Cruiser isn't a prize worth the cost in droids if we were to fight back; and with the Captain already in their ship, there's nothing over here important enough for them to do anything but blow us out of the stars. Nothing -"

He trailed off, a spark of inspiration suddenly flashing in his eyes. A small tug of smile danced at the corner of his mouth as a plan began to form. "Nothing except for the Padawan of one of the Jedi Order's most renowned Generals."

[s'Ilancy]

There was an expression of disbelief that passed over her features at first, soon followed by one of skepticism. While she certainly could not fault the idea itself, the method of possible application left quite a lot to be desired.

s'Il crossed her arms as she looked up at Commander Tyree, a decidedly sour look on her face.

"How fortuitous that you find yourself with such a wonderful sabbacc card," she grumbled, "... but let's be honest. How will it be even remotely believable if you offer to make a trade?"

To drive her point home the Lupine shifted on her feet, slightly rising to her toes so that she almost reached his eye line, and lifting an arm up she jabbed a finger into his chest.

"You could tell them that dewbacks have wings and live in candy mountains with a tribe of star fairies and rainbow mynocks, and they'd trust that over you saying you're wanting to trade me for the Captain."

[Vansen]

Vansen shrugged. "Who said anything about a trade?"

The look that Commander Gage cast at him was possibly best described as 'befuddled'. The Jedi seemed to be equally unaware of just what Vansen was getting at, but her gaze was somewhat less polite and forgiving about it.

"Your plan is sound," he admitted, conceding the point to the Jedi, "But we have nothing of value that would make a man like Grov want to board. However, if a member of the Jedi Order were to contact him and demand the release of the Captain, he might be compelled to revisit that assessment."

His eyes were intense and determined as the plan came together in his mind. "Not only will that give us an opportunity to sneak both you and a Force of clones aboard: Grov will no doubt take you straight to the detention level, leading us straight to where both you and the Captain are being helped. That'll drastically increase our odds of finding him than if we just wandered around aimlessly on a ship the size of a Lucrehulk."

He paused for another moment, shooting s'Ilancy with a knowing look. "And you'll need the best pilot aboard with you to get everyone safely out of there."

[s'Ilancy]

Her finger froze in mid-jab at the sound of those last words as her features ran the gamut of the emotional spectrum. Embarrassment at her initial assumption, a sort of half-pride at his acknowledgement of her initial plan, and concern at the thought that she allow herself to be captured.

The last shone most in her eyes, and was a look that up until now none had seen but Vansen Tyree.

Which made it even worse.

The complete terror that flashed in her crystal blue eyes was unmistakeable to one looking for it, and she knew that Commander Tyree was most definitely on the prowl.

"Please don't say it's you," she whispered fearfully.

[Vansen]

"Actually, Gu-"

Vansen held up a hand, silencing Commander Gage with a gesture. "I'm afraid it is."

His gaze didn't falter from s'Ilancy's in the slightest however; a twitch of a frown tugged at his eyebrows. Somehow, now that his survival wasn't partially dependant on the Jedi keeping her wits about her, it didn't seem quite so unsportsmanlike to exploit her discomfort.

His voice came out one part sympathetic, one part sarcastic. "Don't worry, little sister. I'll try not to embarass you too much in front of your new friends."

[s'Ilancy]

Little Sister.

That he called her what the clones called her was almost enough to break her from her sudden worries - how had he found that out?!

Her hand pulled away suddenly, as if the very touch of him sent lancing pain through her.

"That's not funny,' she finally hissed, hoping against hope that Vansen Tyree was playing a sick joke.

[Vansen]

"If you say so, Miss Jedi."

Vansen turned his attention to Commander Gage, ignoring s'Ilancy entirely for the time being. "Assuming that the Padawan agrees to go along with our rescue plan, I'll need you to make the necessary arrangements. We'll need a small team of infiltrators; preferably some familiarity with Separatist computers, too."

He paused for a moment, mentally checking off his options. "I'll also need you to have medics standing by - I have no idea what shape the Captain will be in by the time we get him out of there."

Gage looked hesitant to respond, clearly thinking about looking to s'Ilancy for approval. With Vansen standing intently in front of him awaiting an answer however, he ultimately thought the better of it. "Right away, sir," he responded with a curt nod.

Satisfied, Vansen turned away, aiming for the exit to the bridge. "You have the bridge, Commander Gage," he added over his shoulder.

Before he left however, he waited long enough to lean in to the Jedi and mutter a message. "I am the XO of this vessel; and very little happens without my knowing about it. You may be a little sister to these clones, but I'm a big brother: and I have my eyes on everything." There was a slight tug of a humourless smile on his lips. "You would be wise to remember that."

Satisfied, he straightened up, and smoothed down the front of the flight suit he was still wearing. "Now if you'll excuse me, I need to get geared up. I'll signal you as soon as I'm ready for you to perform your role in this."

[s'Ilancy]

She deflated, looking up at him as though he was a giant. And in a way, he was. An angry, cantankerous giant that held her by the tail without thought of letting go. Normally the Lupine would have bristled inwardly, but she was too shocked to do even that. His ability to see through her was unnerving to a terrible degree, and the young Jedi could only stare back up at him.

And when he left, her shoulders sagged. With Commander Tyree gone, it seemed as though an unbearable weight had been taken from her shoulders; of course the knowledge of what was to come did not settle well either, and she stared at the closed bridge doors for a few moments longer.

She turned back to Commander Gage, a helpless look passing over her.

"Let's get on with it then, I suppose."

[Rurrick Grov]

Aboard the Battleship Malice

Music flared in darkness as General Grov sat in his chamber. Despite the blackness his eye was tightly shut; volume loud enough to send anything that wasn't bolted down washed over him, and for a few blessed moments, it felt as if he was whole. Images of the first time he'd heard the music - watched the opera from which it was extracted - danced in front of both his eyes. It had been a warm, summers day; he could remember the sunshine upon his face, back when he'd dwelt amongst the land of the living, rather than trapped in this endless, star-filled void surrounded only by mindless and heartless machines.

A hand bound tight within an armour-plated gauntlet flexed at the thought; yet another part of the man he was that had been ripped away by the Republic and their arrogance. They spoke of freedom and equality for all, of how every species in the galaxy was entitled to inalienable human rights; they didn't see it, didn't hear the latent racism tumbling from their mouths. Of course the humans would point to the senate - a herd of squabbling bureaucrats, awash with every creed and breed of sentient species from across their dominion; but the same menagerie worked the Republic's mines, and danced atop tables in it's seediest bars. And where were the humans? In their comfortable homes no doubt, watching with idle disinterest as their clonespawn armies with the same chiseled face of human perfection marched across free space.

It was all a lie, carefully perpetrated to convince even themselves.

A chime from his doorway heralded the arrival of one of his Tactical Droid. As ever, it's programming prevented it from comprehending the manners and decorum necessary in such a situation; light spilled in from the corridor outside as it entered, and shone down from him from it's unnatural eyes as it loomed above him, awaiting instruction.

Grov unleased a sigh. "Speak," he commanded.

[TL-81]

TL-81 cocked it's head to one side: a Geonosian inflection that had been coded into it's behavioural subroutines in an effort to make it appear more relatable to the Separatist officers it served. A T-series Tactical Droid, it had been designed to serve as an intermediary between organic commanders and their droid forces, providing a speed of communication and calculation in leadership that an organic would not posess, but still ensuring the Separatist army had the imagination and non-standard thinking that only a veteran sentient could provide.

One of the many things it was not designed for however was social protocol, or the comprehension of non-verbal communications that formed the basis of so much of galactic language. As such, it had no understanding of whatever emotions it's assigned officer might be feeling or displaying; it merely took the organic at his word.

"We are recieving a transmission from the Republic vessel," it obliged, in it's typical oblivious deadpan.

The General did not respond immediately. A series of calculation subroutines determined that more exposition was likely required.

"A Jedi named Loklorien s'Ilancy is requesting to speak to the commander of this vessel."

[Rurrick Grov]

There were many reasons for a man such as General Grov to remember a name. Some names were committed to memory through intent - senior officers, ranking bureaucrats, and other enemy persons of strategic importance. Some names were learned through encounter and action - formidable opponents, cherished adversaries, or subjects of intended vengeance.

But there were some names that a commander just knew.

He spun in his chair, his eyes opening at last, and ignored the Tactical Droid completely. Commands and authorisations were hammered into his communications console with enthusiasm; tense moments passed before the metallic holographic platform sprung to life with an image of the one whose name he'd heard, but whose face he had never seen.

His mouth split into a broad grin, teeth beared like an eager predator.

"Loklorien s'Ilancy," he said, his voice carefully forming each of the syllables in turn. "My, my. How strange to see you standing so far from your Master's shadow."

[s'Ilancy]

Her features were set in stone, and s'Il stood up just a little straighter as the Falleen spoke her name. The mention of her Master's shadow did not elicit the reaction that it normally did, and the young Jedi instead gave a disapproving frown.

"You have the captain of this vessel aboard your ship," she started, ignoring his taunting.

"It would be wise of you to return him at once, as my 'Master's shadow' will soon be upon you as well."

[Rurrick Grov]

Grov's eyebrows climbed up his verdant face in an expression of mock surprise. His organic hand clutched at his chest, clearly 'overwhelmed' by the terrifying drama of it all.

"Mace Windu?" he mocked. "Here?"

He couldn't fight a curl of a smile at the young Jedi's feeble attempt at intimidation and deception. His expression took on a sinister edge.

"Perhaps if the High General is on his way, it would be safer if you were to await him in protective custody aboard my ship?" His hand opened in an approximation of a shrug. "I'm sure you know how unpredictable battle droids can be: it would be a shame if anything were to happen to that Republic vessel of yours while you were still aboard."

[s'Ilancy]

Her frown deepened, and s'Il glared daggers at the man.

"Your brand of humor is annoying," she growled out.

"Release Captain Inirial now and take your leave. If you do, I will impress upon my Master to leave you be."

[Rurrick Grov]

"Impress?"

Grov let out a note of a callous laugh; but one that conveyed genuine amusement. "My young Jedi," he mocked, his eye sparkling with mirth at her expense. "I'm not convinced you could impress anyone, much less intimidate them as you are clearly attempting to do."

He turned his attention away from the holocommunicator, seeking out the Tactical Droid that continued to linger awkwardly just beside him. "Prepare a shuttle and a boarding party," he instructed, the mirth beginning to drop away from his voice. "It seems we will have to forcibly take Padawan s'Ilancy under our protection."

His eyes were firm, determined as he looked back into the holo display. "It would be wise not to offer any undue resistance. I know how -" He searched for the word. "- uncomfortable it can get for a Jedi to be surrounded by clones as their lives come to an end."

[s'Ilancy]

Now she did visibly bristle, her shoulders hitching back as her stance shifted.

"I will tell you one last time," her voice came out in a dangerous hiss, "... release Captain Inirial."

And before the Falleen could respond, she closed the channel. He'd done well enough to take the bait dangled before him, and had succeeded in raising her hackles quite magnificently. With a huffed breath, the Lupine glowered ahead of her, knowing that the plan that had been decided upon was now committed to with certainty.

[Rurrick Grov]

The premature end to their conversation illicited a growl from the General; but it was less one of frustration or annoyance, and more an acceptance of the challenge that the Jedi had levelled. His lips curled into a smile, deep half-laughs reverberating through his chest. He liked this one, this Loklorien s'Ilancy. She had something of the predator about her, and that was a trait he could respect.

"Prepare a shuttle," he commanded, not bothering to look at his droid. A hand rose to silence it before it had a chance to open it's vocabulator. "I will retrieve her myself."

* * *

The vessel that rose ominously into the Valkyrie's main bay was more than a mere shuttle. While not quite posessing the same cavernous proportions as some of the fully fledged dropships, it's cargo spaces were more than big enough for an ample yield of battle droids: not enough to storm the ship perhaps, but more than enough to make a nasty mess of the Republic ship's ever so shiny landing bay, and any unfortunate soft targets that happened to be contained within.

The boarding ramp descended, a dulled clang ringing out as it made contact with the deck. A trio of B2 hulking battle droids forming a menacing entorage, Grov marched down the ramp with a cheer and swagger that might best befit a returning hero.

He came to a halt at the nearest of the helmeted clone troopers that had formed a perimeter around his ship. "I'm here to collect the Jedi," he said, simply.

[s'Ilancy]

From behind the perimeter, s'Il stood like a threatened striker hawk, her features in a terrible mask of calm as her saber was gripped tightly in hand. Though her bluff had certainly not intimidated the Falleen, it had yielded the exact results that Commander Tyree had wished for. In fact, that the Falleen himself had accompanied the boarding party of drones seemed to be the hga'ene'ateh'ek ana'ssa'ek.

The Lupine, rooted at the far end of the hangar deck, knew that her role in this was from beginning to end the pillar around which their endeavor revolved.

As the collective sound of rifles being brought to bear resonated throughout the hangar, the rank of clones seemed part somewhat. Line of sight through the narrow corridor of bodies only afforded a normally unnerving sight, and as the unmistakeable snap-hiss of a lightsaber echoed over all, s'Il readied herself, Vansen Tyree's last words echoing in her mind like an unrelenting, pounding drum.

You'd better not frak this up, girl.

[Rurrick Grov]

The General's brow tugged into a frown of disappointment that bordered on pity. "Oh, come now," he said, his voice taking on the tone of an adult chastising a child.

He advanced slowly but consistantly, not faltering or flinching despite the rifles trained on him, or the threat of dismemberment that the lightsaber posed. He passed without hesitation into range of a Force enhanced leap, and he continued on; by the time he came to a halt he was close enough for a simple lunge to bring him within striking distance, but more importantly, he was close enough to look into s'Ilancy's eyes.

For a few silent moments, he stared into the Jedi's soul, searching. What was it that made her so different? What caused this edge of aggression that was so uncharacteristic of all but a handful of her kinsmen? He had seen such venom in the actions of Darksiders, but this Jedi lacked the brooding; there was nothing impure or shadowed about it. She acted more there was something contained or restrained within her; something that every now and again, the outside world was allowed to glimpse. And so he stared into her eyes, searching for the beast within.

"We are warriors, you and I," he said, his voice quiet enough that only the Jedi could hear. "We are not diplomats, or peacemakers: we every challenge and we battle with it; and we emerge victorious. And we never, never back down."

His eyes narrowed, not in threat, but in emphasis. "Know this about me, young Jedi: I am just as relentless and determined as you. Do not think you can intimidate me, or ward me off: you cannot. And much as I'm sure you want to, you cannot strike me down either: you know just as well as I do that killing me will forfit the lives of every single being aboard this vessel; and you will have failed to rescue your Captain."

His gaze was unwavering. "But the lesson you have yet to learn, young Padawan, is that a leader must sometimes be more than they are; and sometimes they must be less."

His hand went to his hip, releasing the clasp to free a set of stuncuffs that hung there. He held them - offered them - towards the Jedi. "Be a leader, Loklorien s'Ilancy; be less than a warrior. Surrender now, and perhaps you will save five thousand lives."

[s'Ilancy]

There was a battle raging within her. It was a calculated yet primal battle all the same, and she allowed the Falleen a cautious glare from over the blade of her saber.

"Perhaps."

Her stance shifted yet again as her body reacted almost instinctively to his words. It was a fluid, tactile movement that hinted at a deep, primal response. It was innate and elusive. It was tantalizing and intoxicating - at least to one who knew what to look for.

"Perhaps," she repeated, her voice equally as quiet as his. What she said was for his ears only.

"The uncertainty of those five thousand lives... " her resolve seemed to falter, then rebuild just as fast.

"That is what makes me doubt your honeyed words."

[Rurrick Grov]

Disappointment crossed Rurrick's features, his cycloptic gaze falling away from the Jedi. His silence lingered, but a slight not of his head revealed his grudging acceptance before he finally spoke.

"I see."

A gesture from Rurrick's hand - so subtle it almost went unseen - was all his guardians needed. A super battle droid turned, it's arm dropping instantly into a firing position, exposing the blaster's mounted to it's wrist. The clones tried to react, but with Rurrick's presence distracting their attention, it wasn't in time.

Crimson leapt from the battle droid, carving a smoking hole into the left side of the nearest clone trooper's helmet, and a smoking crater into the eye socket beneath.

A split second later a multitude of precision blaster bolts felled the droid instantly, crumpling to the ground at the feet of his twin siblings, who had remained in eerie, statuesque stillness. The clones retrained their rifles on them with an increased level of intent; but it was too late for their fallen comrade. From beneath the helmets of those who knelt down to check on him, a muffled call for a medic tumbled out into the bay.

Rurrick didn't turn, flinch, or react in any way to scene behind him. He calmly ignored the threat that the Jedi now posed. "My words may be honey, young Jedi; but I will sting if you provoke me."

He let out another sigh, as if this was all a rather unfortunate set of an events that he had grudgingly resigned himself to; he stood with the casual calm of someone contemplating his taxes. However, as his eye met s'Ilancy's gaze once again, there was a flicker of threat lurking inside.

"I am the only sentient Separatist for lightyears. Without me to recind their orders, these battle droids will fight to the last. You and your crew will die. Would you really throw all those lives away just to spite one man?"

A sickening smile crept onto his face. "I'll be terribly flattered if you say yes, of course."

[s'Ilancy]

In stark contrast to the Falleen's terrible calm, s'Il had given a small, startled jump when the single blaster shot rang out. Her gaze, which had been so focused on Grov, tore away in time to watch the clone fall, and his brothers retaliate. Her eyes wide, she was frozen in time, her lightsaber suddenly forgotten as her grip fell slack and the hilt clattered to the deck. The calls for a medic were the only things that her ears could detect. Grov's words were not even registered, and she felt her heartrate rise until it thundered in her chest like a wardrum.

One sharp exhale.

One moment in time where the only ones on this battlefield were Falleen and Lupine.

Her eyes, which had once been so clear and blue, now flashed a dangerous tawny yellow, and as time fell back into its' normal relentless pace, the Lupine surged forward.

He was close enough; close enough for her to wrap her hooked fingers around his throat, and like a feral beast she was upon him.

[Rurrick Grov]

The motion was fluid, the blaster appearing in his hand before it even registered that he'd moved. A single blast rang out: not a dart of crimson like one would ordinarily expect, but a wave of chilling blue that slammed mercilessly into the charging Jedi. Her neurons fried, and while he knew full well that her open eyes would still see - until they dried out, at least - her body turned limp, collapsing into his arms.

His voice turned into a soft purr as he spoke into her ear. "Thank you for dropping your lightsaber. It made this so much easier."

With a bend of his knees and a heave of his arms, he slung the Jedi over his shoulder. His eye settled on the abandoned lightsaber - a souvenir, perhaps? - but he decided against it. While he had the utmost faith in his security precautions, Jedi had a reputation for escaping from the most seemingly inescapable of places. Bringing the lightsaber would merely be tempting fate; a Jedi without one was far less formidable.

He turned back towards his shuttle and calmly marched towards it, offering a nod of silent salute to the most important-looking of the clones he passed. "We should do this again some time," he offered casually as he strode up the boarding ramp, the shuttle sealing itself behind him.

[s'Ilancy]

She was aware, yet unable to stop what she knew had to happen. It did not make this task any less embarrassing. To be captured was one thing, but to be carried across the deck and into the Falleen's shuttle - thrown over his shoulder like some bag of tanna roots - was another thing entirely.

She would have grumbled her extreme displeasure, if her vocal chords could respond. As it was, s'Il could only watch the ground and the heels of Grov's boots and the backs of his legs as they periodically came into view.

This was undignified. It was infuriating. It was unfit for an Apex.

And it was all Vansen Tyree's fault.

[Vansen]

No one noticed the gap in the clone formation, present now where five troopers had been standing shortly before. No one noticed the slight change in the shuttle's mass as the repulsorlifts raised it from the deck, or the slight extra thrust required to manoeuvre them out of the bay.

No one noticed the quintet of white-clad figures hanging from the underside of the shuttle, clinging tight onto magnetic clamps that had locked onto the craft's hull. No one noticed the hitchhikers as the ship raced through the distance between the Republic and Separatist vessels, nor noticed them as the shuttle drifted through the Confederate landing bay.

No one noticed five troopers dropping from beneath the General's shuttle as it made it's final approach, nor noticed their swift movements into the shadows at the edge of the landing bay.

No one noticed as, safely out of sight, Vansen Tyree peeled off his helmet, and cast his scrutinising gaze upon the unceremonious unloading of Loklorien s'Ilancy, still unconscious but immobile; still slung over the General's shoulder.

She's going to kill me, Vansen mused; but he kept the thought to himself.

Instead he turned to the Lieutenant: the leader of his clone strike team. "Did you get it?" he asked, his voice hushed.

The clone nodded, producing the lightsaber that he had tucked onto his belt. There had been no time to confirm it's retrieval before they'd left; no time to say much of anything really, in their silent dash to latch onto the shuttle. That the Jedi had dropped her weapon was an unexpected boon; better yet that the General hadn't chosen to keep it as a souvenir. In his experience, infiltrations were considerably easier when you had the option of cutting through walls.

Another of the clones - a Sergeant, if Vansen remembered correctly - offered a hushed interjection as the Commander took the lightsaber and clipped it to his own belt. "We've got a problem, sirs."

Vansen frowned. "What kind of problem?"

The Sergeant shared a grim look between Vansen and the Lieutenant. "I think we're on the wrong ship, sir." He hesitated, glancing back down at the datapad he'd just used to jack into the main computer. "We're on one of the escorts, sir: not the Lukrehulk."

Vansen almost swore loud enough to expose the entire operation. Their entire plan had hinged on using the General's shuttle to infiltrate the command ship: the ship that they had watched him return to with the General hours before. There had been no movement between any of the craft - Gage had been under orders to watch for signs of a prisoner transport; Vansen had never expected Grov to keep his two prize prisoners separate.

"He must want to keep the Captain off the grid," he mused, still silently cursing himself. "He knows he can't avoid handing the Jedi over to Dooku; but if the Captain is safely stashed away on his command ship while he delivers s'Ilancy in this bucket -"

The clones remained gravely silent, the dour features of their helmets amplifying their concern for their Little Sister. The Lieutenant finally spoke up. "Orders, sir?"

Vansen felt his gut clench at the thought of abandoning his mentor. "We stick with the plan," he instructed, though he had to force out the words. "Disabling this ship won't tip the balance as much as we'd hoped; but if the Valkyrie is going to end up fighting, I want to give her every advantage we can."

He hesitated. "And besides; I promised the Jedi that I'd rescue her. She'll kill me if I don't."

[s'Ilancy]

* * *


She'd come to in an interrogation room; or at least she supposed that that was what it was. Trussed up like some animal with her hands and feet firmly encased, s'Il hung suspended. Whether her summation of the nature of the room she now currently found herself in was correct or not, the Lupine was suddenly far more concerned by another fact.

The Force was gone.

Utterly and completely.

What once had been a tangible thing for her - was even something that she could see - was gone as though it'd never existed. No longer were the constant, near-translucent eddies surrounding her, and in those first few moments of her consciousness returning, s'Il pulled in a sharp breath, her body tensing, muscles bunching in the wasted effort of trying to pull free of her bindings. Her neck corded with her exertions, and the Lupine felt the sickening rise of helpless panic as she let out an angry cry.

She strained within the limited confines allowed, and though she was given no quarter she did not stop until her efforts left her exhausted. Shallow, quick breaths escaped her lips as her head dipped low.

The Force was gone, only to be replaced by a sickening feeling of emptiness.

[Rurrick Grov]

"You seem distressed, Jedi."

She hadn't sensed him; that was one of the beauties of these devices that his fellow Confederates rarely appreciated. They regarded the suppression of a Jedi's ability to feel the Force as merely a way to prevent their escape; removing the claws from a potentially dangerous caged animal. Rurrick knew better. He knew it was more akin to carving out their eyes.

He walked slowly from his concealed vantage point, boots thudding heavily on the deckplates as he circled around her. A laugh tumbled from his throat in slow, deep, rumbling notes, matching perfectly with the rhythm of his footfalls. It wasn't arrogance; it wasn't even a predator circling its cornered prey. He was a warrior on the warpath; and he had his enemy completely surrounded.

"Remarkable device, isn't it?"

He stood before her, but his gaze was upon the machine that held her restrained. He looked it with a strange curiosity and sense of wonder. "I have no idea how it works, of course," he admitted. His vision fell, and he offered s'Ilancy a hint of a vicious smile. "It most certainly does."

A heavy, angry silence fell; a silence that would have sounded like a hoarde of taunting laughter if it had been given a voice.

Rurrick's eye narrowed. "For once, my dear Jedi, you are just as normal as the rest of us."

[s'Ilancy]

s'Il screwed her eyes closed as she clenched her jaw.

There was nothing. No matter how far she went into the depths. the Force was simply gone. As though she had never had a connection with it. As though it had never existed. Her mind spun in disorientation as she shook her head furiously, trying to simply will the Force back.

It was when the Falleen's last sentence reached her ears that she stopped, and cracking her eyes open to glare down at him, the Lupine matched him stare for stare. What he had spoken of was far more insulting than he could possibly realize, and the blood in her veins called for retribution. Her pride demanded nothing less, her people cried out in her mind at this slight.

She bared her teeth at him, like a caged animal watching the hunter with contempt, and her voice - though hoarse - carried the same message.

"Even without the Force, I am still better than you."

[Rurrick Grov]

The laughter that escaped from the General wasn't forced; quite the contrary, it was barely restrained. His eye sparkled with mirth as he took a step ever so slightly closer. "Poor child," he mocked, staring into her. "You honestly believe that, don't you?"

He turned, advancing a few paces towards the exit before he stopped. His hands clasped behind him, his back still facing s'Ilancy as he spoke. "I am more than a match for any human," he boasted, his eyes staring whistfully off into space as he recalled the glorious battles he had won over the years. There was pride in his words yes, but not arrogance: every ounce of it was justified and hard-earned, and he had the scars and war wounds to prove it.

His voice faltered. "Of course, that isn't exactly the case here, is it, Jedi?"

He half-turned, just enough for her to see the victory in his eye, and the confident smile pulling at his lips. "I took the liberty of taking a blood sample; it simply wouldn't do to deliver you to Count Dooku riddled with disease, or close to death for lack of treatment, after all."

He turned away, eyelid closing as he relished in his situation. "The results from our tests were most interesting."

[s'Ilancy]

No longer was she Loklorien s'Ilancy, the Jedi Padawan. No longer was she anything else but what pounded through her veins. The blood of the Losstarot. The blood of dynasties.

With a cheshire cat's grin curling the corners of her mouth upward, s'Il closed her eyes, her head dipping until her chin nearly touched her chest. And then she laughed. Yet, it was nothing so loud as Rurrick Grov's had been - rather, it was a knowing, smirking, teasing sound that escaped her lips. It was the sound that a being made when they knew that they had confounded another despite it all.

And she knew, that despite the confidence in his grin, the Falleen only had the very smallest portion of what he now held captive. Her blood could only tell him that she was not human - beyond that, there was nothing else, and her winding, low laugh carried itself across the distance between them to torment him with that fact.

And as her mirth died away, it was replaced by a venom-laced voice, quiet as each alien word was spit out.

"Ar'a rukhe'on, kheh'su su'kur'ek on'an'ss'ana."*



















*loosely translated as 'We are the nightmares that hunt you when you sleep"

[Rurrick Grov]

Her words meant nothing. It wasn't an alien language that he recognised; but that was hardly of any importance. If her words were relevant, the security monitors would detect it, droids would analyse it, and he could review it at his leisure.

Her laughter too meant nothing. Her actions, her smile, her change in poise; it was all the posturing of a helpless creature, trying to show off in front of those to whom she was so clearly inferior. It was sad, in a way; he had expected so much more from someone trained by the Republic's greatest Jedi.

Rurruck's lips formed a small smile. By removing her, perhaps Mace Windu would have the opportunity to try again; to do better, this time.

He didn't turn. He didn't react to her words; not a flinch, not a blink. He merely offered the faintest of almost imperceptable shrugs. "I care not what you are, Jedi," he said dismissively, his tone sounding tired and disinterested. "That you are different is enough for me; enough to earn the respect of Count Dooku for the gift that I have delivered."

He glanced at her again. "Though, I will be curious to find out more about you, when I read the report from your disection."

With that he left, calmly pacing towards the doors that opened in response to his approach. "Don't struggle too much," he added casually over his shoulder. "It would be a shame if you wound up damaging yourself before the medical droids got their hands on you."

[s'Ilancy]

The laughter slowly died as she watched him leave, her throat still letting out a low, gravelly rumble. A wicked, thin lipped grimace was leveled at his back, and the Lupine once more - out of pure habit - strained against the mental nothingness that was her new existence. She called silently for the Force, begging it to return with promises to watch over the dead on Weit-Fällt, seeing their souls safe and cared for.

Rocking her head back, s'Il stared upwards with a maddened glint to her eyes. Now her thoughts demanded the Force return, with the vow that Rurrick Grov would find himself on Hallesmutt, on the great Gate, tending the fire that burned atop it.

An entire litany of words escaped her, whispered in hushed, pleading tones. Foreign merged with Basic at times, but the bulk of her utterings were not understandable.

Her head fell back down, her eyes now glaring intently upon the deck as her words continued.

[Vansen]

Vansen watched in silence through the grated durasteel as the hulking frame of the Faleen General strode past. His breath was bated, waiting until Grov passed well beyond range of sight and sound.

With movements so slow and careful that his muscles ached from the sheer strain of such intense control, Vansen lifted the grate free, lowering it gently to the ground before clambering out into the corridor. It was replaced with equal silence, and the Commander moved swiftly but silent footed down the few meters that separated him from the ominous security doors. Fingers deftly punched in the sequence of Aurebesh symbols he'd covertly observed.

With a sound that disgraced his efforts at stealth, the security doors flung themselves open, the darkness from the dimly lit room seeping out towards him. Vansen took a careful step forward, and then his eyes settled on her.

He had intended for his entrance to be triumphant. He'd been rehersing witty words to herald his arrival for his entire crawling progression through the ship's maintenance crawlspaces and life support ductways. Some kind of clever turn of phrase to kick the Jedi while she was down; to drive home how effective his plan had been after all; and maybe even to indulge a little of the overwhelming amusement and satisfaction he'd felt while watching her unceremoniously stunned and slung across the General's shoulder.

Seeing her now, he couldn't bring himself to say it. For all her intolerable and abrasive personality traits, their verbal sparring had made the Jedi become a worthy foe in his mind. He had relished the thought of her recieving her come-uppance: a little healthy humiliation to knock the chip off her shoulder. But stringing her up like a hunting trophy went far beyond what was justified; far beyond what Vansen's morals would allow her to accept.

"Come on," he muttered gently, tugging s'Ilancy's lightsaber from his belt and thumbing the activation stud. The blade hummed into life; he held it awkwardly, like he was gripping a snake that he expected to squirm around and strike at him at any moment. "Lets get you down."

[s'Ilancy]

Moreso than the sound of her saber, the sound of the voice that spoke to her made the Lupine jerk her head up, and crystalline blue eyes widened in unbelieving shock. She let out a gasp, and her entire body seemed to recoil within the bonds that held her fast.

When she'd heard the door open, she had thought that the Falleen had returned briefly to deliver an extra amount of parting vitriol and further humiliation.

But the man who now spoke was most assuredly not Grov. In fact, the padawan was not entirely sure that the man who now spoke was actually real.

She had seen him shot, the blaster bolt what's opened the ugly, smoking hole in the clonetrooper's helmet. She had heard the calls for the medic.

She had finally gone insane. She had lost her mind. Like so many of her people before her - like her own hGemma! She had lost all form of sanity and was now seeing people that were not there, hearing them speak words that no one else could hear.

She shook her head, unbelieving even as she stared at Vansen Tyree.

"No... no no. You're dead - I saw you get shot... "

Her grasp on reality had been torn away as her fearful whisper filled the air between them.

"You are a figment of my mind; you don't exist. I've gone mad... my mind has gone. They say we go mad... all the books say that. We lose sanity and clear thought. We become raving lunatics...

"I am a raving lunatic."

She let a pained look descend on her features, and the Lupine felt sorrow over the knowledge that came with the sudden realization of ones' own delirium.

Her voice fell even more, and she shook her head sadly.

"You're not real."

[Vansen]

It was touching, in a way.

Vansen had assumed that the Jedi's anger and defiance towards the General had merely been because of the death of one of the little sister club; but the knowledge that she'd believed it was him cast a whole new light on the situation.

He drew closer, fixing her with a look that pierced straight into her eyes. Why did you care? he wondered, footsteps bringing him within an arm's reach. Why so cut up about the death of a person you claim you can't stand?

He searched her eyes. Was it all an act? Was her anger, her annoyance, all a front to hide the fact that she felt something entirely different? Something more?

He reached out, and jabbed a finger viciously into her stomach.

"Does that feel like some sort of wacko hallucination?" he grunted.

He certainly couldn't blame her if she did feel something more. She wouldn't have been the first woman to fall hopelessly under the spell of the Tyrant's irresistable charm, inappropriate as it might be. He had to fight the urge to smile, and made a mental note to tease her incessantly about it, as soon as they'd done what they'd come for and got off this damn ship.

"You're not crazy," he assured, turning his attention away from her, and focusing instead on which bits of contraption he could safely hack away at with the lightsaber, without costing the Jedi any of her extremities.

He couldn't resist one small jab, however. "You just suck at counting. Which, you know, is pretty ironic, considering the planet that you come from."

The smell of ozone lept up as the 'saber seared it's way through part of a mechanism, whisps of smoke rising as the metal melted like butter.

"Now, are we done acting like a crazy person?" he asked, slicing through the next chunk of durasteel. "Because if you are, now would be a really good time to brace yourself and try not to hit the ground too hard."

[s'Ilancy]

The expression of discomfort on her features was muted despite the jab to her midsection. She stared down at the spectre of her mind in such a way that left little room for any other emotion but dull awareness. Her brain did register the rather harsh physical touch, telling her that yes, this was indeed a physical manifestation, but it only worsened the spiral of uncontrollable despair she felt at her own mental facilities. She could no longer grasp what was real and what wasn't - her mind told her one thing as her body told her another.

Was this how it was? Was this how hGemma had felt? She'd never met her Dama's mother - indeed she had never met her own Dama either - Dat'ia told her wonderful stories of Dama, of how she was the most beautiful woman in the world, and of how when she changed her coat was the most gorgeous of any Apex. Of any of their people, even. He had told her of hGemma and how the old woman had become unfit, and that it was a common affliction.

Perhaps she had been too young for those stories she'd been told - either way they had been ingrained. Even after Dat'ia died and the Guardian had taken her as his own...

No. Not simply 'the Guardian' or 'the Leh'beni'. None of that. He'd become her Dat'ia, and though it'd taken time she'd come to treat him as such.

All of that was gone now. She had succumbed to the madness, and it was only a matter of time until she would be put down. Put down by the one who'd taken her in.

[i]"You just suck at counting. Which, you know, is pretty ironic, considering the planet that you come from."

She frowned at that, turning to look away from the face that she knew her madness had conjured.

"You know nothing of where I come from," she growled out.

It was truly amazing, the depths that her delirium-addled brain was taking her. She could even smell the ozone and molten durasteel.

One hand came free, soon followed by the next, and as she braced herself up with a hold to either side of the contraption that held her, s'Il gave a snort. She watched as the phantasm of Vansen Tyree worked to free her feet.

"You speak of me being 'crazy' as though you're not the spectre of my-"

He'd moved faster than she thought, and with both feet suddenly free, the Lupine found her grip on the machine's structure woefully inadequate. It was a strange feeling, to be unable to stop one's descent. Without the force, she fell back on old instinct that was so ingrained and natural. It was her only saving grace.

The Lupine seemed to twist unnaturally in the air, her body a fluid thing as she came down. She landed in a crouch, low to the ground as her limbs absorbed the impact of her sudden and unexpected drop.

Her breathing quickened at that moment, and she stared down at the decking. As though the touch of it was enough to jar her back to reality, she pulled in a long breath before slowly rising to stand.

"You are real then... ?"

[Vansen]

Vansen sighed as he thumbed the lightsaber into silence, and wrapped a hand around the Padawan's slender forearm. A slight miscalculation in depth perception almost made him cup a handful of something else entirely, but in a rare moment of maturity, he managed not to dwell on that as he haulled the Jedi to her feet.

"Very real," he assured, flipping the lightsaber in his hand to aim the non-lethal end towards s'Ilancy. He hesitated before surrendering the weapon however, allowing him a brief window to verbally jab at the Padawan while she was still unarmed. "Step 1:" he reminded, "Infiltrate the Separatist ship. Step 2: Rescue the Jedi."

He flashed her a faintly condescending smile. "I'll let you off for not realising this time, because you're clearly young and stupid, but my plans always work. Always."

An involuntary wince crept onto his features. "Mostly."

[s'Ilancy]

Her nostrils flared, but the Lupine remained silent as she stared up at Tyree. She internally ordered herself to remain quiet; to only glare at him. Any spoken acknowledgement would signal her surrender, and s'Il was loathe to admit that.

But still - with the dawning realization that Vansen Tyree was in fact still very much alive, she struggled to parse this new information. She had seen the clonetrooper with a hole in his head; the clonetrooper that she'd thought was him. She was sure it had been, and yet here he stood now. And with the sight of him - holding out her lightsaber for her to take, Loklorien s'Ilancy felt as though her thought processes had been irreparably scrambled.

"Commander Tyree," she finally got out, each syllable taking on more of a hissing note.

And then her hand came up and out, faster than a blaster bolt. With fingers partially splayed, the palm of her hand connected with the side of his face.

"I thought... you were dead."

[Vansen]

Vansen's eyelids blinked in double-time as he shrugged off the shock of the sudden impact to his face. It was unexpected more than anything else; so much so that half a dozen solid gold sarcastic remarks were wasted, drifting through his mind while his mouth hung open and useless in confusion.

His gaze turned, his eyes beneath furrowed brows as they met hers. Why did that matter to her so much? He was just a soldier, and soldiers died all the time. If he was alive, then one of her 'big brothers' was dead instead - why was his death so much more deserving of anger and upset than CT-5759?

His free hand reached for the one that had struck him, gently pulling it towards him and placing it atop the lightsaber that rested in his palm, his eyes not breaking from hers for even an instant. "I'm not," he said, his voice as gently assuring as it could possibly be. Confusion still danced behind his irises, and the moment stretched out into an aching, laboured silence. Words went unspoken, desperate to be said.

Vansen's hand reached up towards Loklorien's face, a stray lock of hair brushed from her forehead before his fingertips traced their way down the line of her cheek. He swallowed hard against the lump forming in his throat.

"This is what being proven wrong feels like," he said finally, the tone of his voice still as delicate. "If we're going to keep working together, you're going to need to get used to that."

[s'Ilancy]

He was wearing his emotions on the surface of his mind like an open book, and it was that book that s'Il unabashedly read. She let his take her hand and place it over the hilt of her sabre, all the while keeping her eyes on his.

"That 'Big Brother' did not formulate the plan that we are now carrying out," she finally managed to verbalize.

"You did."

She brought her face mere inches from his, so that he would understand the gravity of her words.

"I cannot bring to fruition the plan of a dead man; especially when that man was the fulcrum of this mission to liberate Captain Inirial."

Her brows furrowed as she continued to lock eyes with him.

"Seh'na'aa?"

[Vansen]

He tried to fight it, but Vansen couldn't help the flicker of a smile that managed to creep it's way onto his features. Infantile amusement danced through the back of his mind, over the fact that s'Ilancy had practically just called him invaluable to the mission. Granted, 'fulcrum' wasn't necessarily the most flattering way of putting it, but Vansen was prepared to suspend disbelief if it meant he could regard it as a compliment.

He didn't voice that particular chain of thought at the moment, however; that was something best saved as ammunition for a later time.

"I have no idea what you just said -" Vansen admitted. His eyes involuntarily flicked to Loklorien's lips, painfully close to his thanks to her in-your-face aggression. He took a deliberate half-step backwards, and allowed his eyebrows to rise in a judgemental anti-frown. "- but if you're done trying to kiss me, we really should get on with that whole rescue thing."

[s'Ilancy]

More so than anything else he had spoken since his reappearance, the Commander's last words jolted her unceremoniously to her core, and the Lupine reared back. Suddenly aware of their proximity as though the implications he spoke of were indeed something that might come to pass, s'Il sought safety through distance.

"Do not give yourself so much credit," she grumbled, her grip on the sabre tightening.

"I am a Jedi," her eyes finally left his to cast about the interior of her prison, "... outward displays of intimacy are frowned upon, wasteful, and unnecessary."

Finally her gaze settled once more on him, and she straightened her stance.

"As well, they are certainly not desired."

[Vansen]

His gaze held hers for a few uncomfortable moments longer, his eyes reflecting the suggestive mischief that graced his lips as a smile. "You keep telling yourself that."

And with that, the moment ended; Vansen turned on his heel and withdrew, granting Loklorien the distance she so clearly wanted. A few quick strides brought him to the cell's doorway; a cursory glance studied the controls of the lock mechanism, registering where to enter the faux security code that the clones had sliced into the ship's computer on his behalf. As far as the logs would be concerned, the General's prize prisoner would apparently have been stolen by a maintenance droid. No doubt that would cause a great deal of confusion amongst the slow-witted automatons upon which the Confederacy relied.

For a moment, Vansen wished he could recapture some of his impish overconfidence from a few moments before; it would have made delivering the next piece of information somewhat easier.

"We need to get to a shuttle," he explained as casually as he could muster. "We didn't quite end up on the ship we expected to."

[s'Ilancy]

The young Lupine stared at Vansen in dawning disbelief as the meaning of his words sank in. Surely he was... surely they were...

She shook her head, an accusatory glint flashing in her eyes her shoulders angled back and down. No. No no no.

"We didn't end up on the," she hissed. All thoughts of her previous demands for space evaporated in less than a nanosecond, and s'Il angrily marched toward him. A roiling, five foot thundercloud advanced upon Vansen Tyree
with intentions to drag him through this gods-cursed ship by his toenails.

"Don't you dare tell me that," the butt end of her sabre jabbed into his chest.

"Don't you dare tell me that."

[Vansen]

"Hey!"

The reply burst out of him as a shout. His body pressed forward into the lightsaber hilt, grateful for the armour plating between the lightsaber hilt and his body. Mustering all the fury he reserved for insolent new recruits, his features adjusted effortlessly into a blood-curdling scowl that he had inherited directly from his father.

"If you've forgotten, I got here by clinging to the outside of a ship with a few inches of plastisteel between my lungs and hard vacuum. We flew wherever they damn well wanted us to fly, and it is not my fault -" The edge of accusation in his voice was clear for all to see. "- that you apparently aren't important enough to be imprisoned on his command ship."

He drew in a breath, not fighting for calm per se, but at least trying to reel in his volume. "We have two options here, Commander. We can stand around arguing about why things aren't going our way like a bunch of children, or we can shut our mouths, get on with the job, and act like gorram soldiers."

"Child or soldier, Miss Jedi." His eyes narrowed. "I know which one I am. Do you?"

[s'Ilancy]

The butt end of her hilt was drawn slightly back before tapping twice on his armored chest. A sign that she wasn't in the mood for any further arguing.

Rather, the Lupine gave a half-hearted roll of her eyes while pushing past him. Perhaps at another time they could debate their differences and any other infantile issue that would inevitably arise, but for now the obstacles that were before them had been compounded by the fact that they had to make their way off the ship they currently found themselves on. To that end, it was best that they started on their way.

Not before, of course, one last parting shot across his bow.

"Yes yes, we all know that you're a child," she couldn't help herself.

[Vansen]

Vansen didn't rise to it; the argument was passed, or at least it was for him. Commander s'Ilancy could gripe and bitch all she wanted, as long as she got on and did the damned job.

It was strange though, the way she'd managed to rile him so easily and so much. His temper wasn't exactly hard to ignite, but the petulance of it was unsettling as much as it was annoying, more like a babysitter arguing with a disagreeable child than a confrontation between professional, adult soldiers. But then, that was part of the problem: the Padawan was no professional, nor was she an adult, or a soldier. The Galactic Republic had decided to place it's faith in the Jedi Order rather than it's existing officers; the titles of General and Commander had been bestowed based on the policies and hierarchy of a quasi-religious order, rather than due to any expectation of skill or competence in such a role. Jedi could become Padawans in their early teens; as Vansen understood it, the only requirement was finding someone willing to take you as their apprentice. The one prerequisite for being a Commander in the Grand Army of the Republic was apparently the fact that you were acknowledged by your peers as needing to be trained.

He settled his helmet back over his head, letting the plastisteel absorb and disguise his sigh. "Try to keep up," he muttered, readying his blaster. "And don't get caught. I'm not rescuing you again."

[s'Ilancy]

She gave a scowl to the back of his head - it seemed that she was always sending such expressions his way. He had the strange ability to pull that particular expression from her with ease. It was enough to cause her to worry, and to remind her that she needed to be more vigilant against outside annoyances no matter their form. Commander Tyree was infuriating and a source of pure ire; perhaps being with the man was a roundabout lesson from her master? If Master Windu had sought to teach her patience, then pairing her with Vansen Tyree was - even she had to admit - rather brilliant. The truth of everything so far since being sent to the Valkyrie was impossible to ignore, and the more that she thought about it, the more she was convinced that her master was some sort of evil genius.

Gripping her lightsaber with resolve, the Lupine dutifully followed after Commander Tyree. But, it wasn't long until a thought barged in and caused her to speak up once more.

"The clones you brought with you," she hissed quietly, "... they know that the Captain is not aboard, yes? They will be coming with us?"

[Vansen]

"The clones are aware of Captain Inirial's location."

Vansen paced his revelations carefully. The clones had been there as soon as they'd realised their destination; and after they had parted ways, they had begun their own chain of infiltrations into the bowels of the Separatist ship, preparing to cripple as many of the frigate's functions as possible, as soon as the signal was received. Ideally, the signal would be a transmission from Commander Tyree, once Captain Inirial was safely retrieved. It seemed more likely however that the signal would come when Republic forces arrived and began blowing them out of the sky.

That was the crux of it. That was the complicated knot of reality that needed delicate presentation, if Vansen hoped to avoid provoking the Padawan's ire yet again. At some point a battle would break out between the Valyrie and the Separatists: and even if the Valkyrie was lost in the process, this frigate would be destroyed. There was no question of that in his mind: his clones back on the Valkyrie would absolutely reduce this gargantuan hulk of Confederate durasteel into little more than a debris field, even if they had to run the frigate through with their own hull. The fate of the Valkyrie, the Malice, and the second frigate depended entirely on whether or not Republic reinforcements arrived in time to participate. If they did, perhaps they would all be saved. If they did not, then Commander Tyree was determined to ensure that he and his Jedi charge were not aboard the ship most likely to explode.

"They will not be joining us, however. They have other objectives, and for the good of everyone back there on the Valkyrie, this ship needs to be disabled. They have orders to get out if they can, but we cannot risk their tampering being discovered and disabled by leaving it unattended for too long."

He braced himself for it: the protest, the anger, the insults to the validity of the plan. She wouldn't be entirely wrong. It was a bad plan. Unfortunately, there were no good ones to be made; and as it stood, this was their best option. Vansen wasn't cold to it. Clones or otherwise, he was asking four men to court death, just as he had when they'd been selected for this boarding operation. But you learned not to dwell. That was what command taught you. That was what war taught you. Soldiers die all the time: the trick was to try and make sure you died doing something important, and to hope that luck and the Force would conspire to delay that inevitable as long as possible.

"We'll be fine," he assured, trying to inject a certain playfulness into his words. "The command ship is so absurdly big that you could fly a whole squadron through it and the droids would barely notice."

Of course, he mused, that meant finding the Captain would be like searching for a grain of salt on a sandy beach: an exercise in near-futility that would all be for nothing if the tide came in.

[s'Ilancy]

She listened in silence, her brown knit as she mulled over the tasks before them. It was not an impossible thing, but it was certainly... less than ideal. Of course, in all things during the Clone Wars, she had come to know that rarely anything went the way it was supposed to. It was not a great plan that commander Tyree had laid out for her, but it wasn't a colossal repulsorlift-fire, either. And more importantly, it was not something that stank of the carelessness of Anakin Skywalker's command tactics. She didn't have to like it, but there were often enough very few things that she liked.

"I certainly hope so," came the mumbled reply.

But, a thought nagged her mental calculations at his mention of the command ship.

"If it's so big, we'll need to make sure we're certain of where the Captain is being held."

Pursing her lips, the young Lupine clutched her lightsaber imperceptibly tighter.

"I can help with that, I think."

[Vansen]

Vansen should probably have asked what the Padawan was considering; but doing so would have stepped on the dramatic impact of her statement, and Vansen was too much of a gentleman to callously undermine someone else's efforts at linguistic heroics. He kept quiet as they progressed through the vast vacant corridors of the Separatist ship, relying on the enhanced phonics in his Clone Trooper helmet to listen out for the telltale clank of an encroaching droid patrol.

In the corner of his vision, a series of red wavelengths over a faint grid began to fluctuate, gentle waves converting into angry staccato spikes. Vansen held up a gloved hand to halt the Padawan, before pressing his back against the corridor wall. A hand reached for the flipped back targeting eyepiece on his helmet and settled it into place, before reaching down to draw the second of his twin blasters. A slow, careful glance was taken into the thoroughfare beyond: fight against droids often enough, and you learned that their sensors detected targets largely based on speed of movement.

A grimace formed across his face as he withdrew; he was deeply grateful that his helmet concealed the expression from s'Ilancy.

"We have a droid patrol. Two Supers, four Rogers."

His voice was soft and quiet, relying on the internal comlink in his helmet to convert it into something clear and covert. He glanced down at the lightsaber still tightly clutched in Loklorien's hand.

"I hope you know how to use that thing."

[s'Ilancy]

There was no real reason to answer him. It would be wasted breath anyway, and letting a long exhale out, she steeled herself for what would be coming. Her stance lowered, shoulders squaring back slightly as she gripped her hilt with both hands. She kept the weapon silent however, opting to only ignite the amethyst blade when it was time, and not a moment before.

Her entire body seemed to tense, yet it appeared relaxed all the same. A strange combination of complete opposites. Her senses reached out in an attempt to gauge the eddies of the Force and determine what her best course of action would be when the time to move was upon them. It was a comforting thing despite their situation now... to feel the Force once more. To have it swirling about her in reassuring waves.

Ears ticking back, the Lupine tested the air as she waited. Scents mingled together; durasteel, a vast array of oils and greases, the strange notes of vacuum that still clung to Commander Tyree... even his sweat she could detect. The metal footsteps were growing louder, and s'Il let her eyes half-close as she pushed distraction from her thoughts. She would exist in the moment and react when she was guided to. She could even almost hear Master Windu's voice whispering in her ear, urging her to let everything but the moment fall away.

She saw Commander Tyree in her mind's eye, watching him with eyes that did not open and waiting for his signal.

[Vansen]

There were many things a Republic Officer needed to be aware of when serving with a Jedi. Things to be mindful of, as the Knights themselves would say. Powers. Procedures. Propriety. Remember that they know more about meditation than military protocol. Remember that they are peacekeepers rather than professional soldiers. Remember the emotions they shun and abhor. Remember that your questions might be met only with ambiguous snippets of alleged wisdom. But above all else, there was one notion that anyone wishing to survive service alongside a Jedi needed to keep at the forefront of their mind:

Stay out of the kriffing way.

Vansen shoved off from the wall, a little extra inertia to speed his progress as he made a break for the opposite corner of the corridor crossroads. Azure fire spat in tandem from the barrels of his DC-17s, a mix of suppression fire and a few well-placed shots that buffeted the super battle droids, disrupting their aim. A hail of red flurried in his direction as the B2 droids returned fire, but the bolts grazed by a few molecules clear as his arcing path led him towards fresh cover and safety, steps retreating him slightly backwards: well clear of the Padawan and her lightsaber.

His shoulder slammed against the opposite corner of the corridor, peripheral vision watching s'Ilancy as she surged into action. Leaning out from cover, he reached out with a single blaster, launching a volley of blasts that smashed their way inch by inch through a B1 droid's shoulder, depositing a severed limb and a blaster carbine onto the deck with a clang.

[s'Ilancy]

Eyes still closed, the young Lupine emerged from cover, her amethyst blade bursting into life as she brought it around in a sweeping arc. She could feel the unnatural ripples in the Force where the droids were, like jarring notes playing in an otherwise perfectly melodic symphony. Each battledroid was an angry point of discord that made them stand out all the more. They exuded a sense of wrong, and s'Il felt the instinctive need to correct that wrongness. So many times she had been told by her Master how there was no mistaking a droid in the aether waves of the Force, and in the back of her mind there was a sense of recoiling disgust, that something could disturb the natural flow of tranquility. It was enough to bring a scowl to her features, and her body fell into those old rhythms that she had spent so many long days training in.

A graceful sidestep brought her out of the way of what would've been a blaster bolt to the chest, and she twisted herself about, blade coming about, angling up then right back down to slice cleanly through the front chest piece of the lead droid.

On hand detached from her saber to shoot out, palm open as she pulled inward for the briefest of moments before focusing it back out. One of the super battledroids was pushed violently to the side; if it had a neck no doubt it would've broken with the force of her invisible shove. It crashed into a bulkhead with enough strength to the impact to dent in a portion of its' casing.

[Vansen]

Watching the lightsaber carve effortlessly through a battle droid that took a flurry of blaster bolts to damage reinforced every reservation that Vansen had felt holding the weapon in his own hands. He had seen Jedi fight before, and consciously he knew that no Knight would be irresponsible enough to allow their apprentice into a war zone without being able to defend themselves; even so, seeing the grace and finesse with which the Order's young Padawans moved with such a deadly blade in hand never failed to fill Vansen with a squirming, uncomfortable sense of awe.

He had already begun to feel old as the Clone Wars had begun, and frankly wasn't sure how many decades he had left in him, but at times like this he was struck by the alarming truth of this war: save for the Jedi Masters, and a handful of veterans such as himself, this was a war being waged by children; Padawan Commanders leading armies of clones barely a decade old at most.

The more he reflected, the worse it became. Everyone knew the story of how a Jedi came to be: snatched from the cradle by the Order as soon as they were old enough to be weened; raised in a culture of religious fanaticism by warrior-priests whose role as negotiators and mediators for some reason required a blade that could cut through solid steel. The clones were much the same, bred and engineered for war, educated and trained in its execution for every waking moment of their short lives, branded with nothing but a number until their squadmates chose a name for them like fighter pilots selecting a callsign for a newly minted nugget.

All that, to clash against the Confederates and their toy soldiers; the only real casualties of any great number being the poor unfortunate bystanders found pinned between the armies of Senators and bureaucrats who could not manage to settle their disputes like adults. Vansen wondered how different this war would be, if the armies of the Republic and Confederacy simply rounded up the politicians, dumped them in the arenas of Geonosis, and let them fight it out among themselves.

Droids thoroughly occupied with their dismemberment at s'Ilancy's hand, Vansen emerged from cover again, snapping off shots of opportunity, covering fire to discourage any droid who attempted to turn their blaster sights upon the Padawan. For a moment, blue and amethyst energy conspired, and barely a moment passed before the droid patrol had become a heap of smoking scrap, scattered across the deck.

Vansen let the sensors in his helmet sweep over the debris, scanning for the telltale residual power signatures of droids left still alive. One B1 unit glowed faintly. Twitched. One last blaster bolt stabbed it in the back, and closed its operating system for good.

A soft sigh escaped from him, attention turning to the Padawan.

"I can't tell if any of them managed to send out a signal. We should get to the hangar fast: I doubt we'll have as much success if they start rolling Destroyers at us."

[s'Ilancy]

She stood, half-crouched over one of the droids as her head turned, eyes tracking to Commander Tyree. He seemed as ready to leave this ship as she was, which was a notion that she could fully back. For all of the things he did which grated against her own self, there was at least one thing that she could agree with him on. Still though, for as nearly insufferable as he was, at the very least he was not Zem-El Vymes. And for the foreseeable future (however long that was), she was nowhere near the Knight or his peculiar 'sense of humor'. Master Windu had never really shown such behavior; always solemn and serious. Sometimes showing compassion, but those times were very far and few. Never once had she seen her Master behave in a way that suggested otherwise. Humor was an abstract concept that she was vastly unfamiliar with, and as such the young Lupine more often than not spent her time at the Temple in silent observation and obedience.

Straightening her stance, s'Il extinguished her blade as she stepped over the fallen droid.

"I do not like Destroyers," came the flat, almost monotone reply. Word filler. A statement made to express her distaste for the thought of staying where they were.

Idly, her head canted upward as she scented the air in an attempt to pick out anything mingling with the stench of burnt and destroyed droids. Of course there was Commander Tyree's own body odor, but she disregarded it with a slight degree of annoyance. A slim tendril lingered however, and the Lupine frowned as her brow knit in remembrance. Grov. Though slight, she could still catch the smell of his pheromones. They were as unmistakable as their scarcity in the air.

"I will follow your lead."

[Vansen]

It was a gift bantha, and Vansen Tyree had no intention of looking it in the mouth.

A curt nod was all he offered before setting off, blasters held ready as they advanced through the Separatist corridors. The Commander kept a mental log of their position as they moved, tracking their way through a remembered layout of the Munificent's internals. There wasn't anything special about his ability to do so: just a talent one acquired when starships had been your life. All it took was a few embarrassing rookie incidents of getting yourself lost, and knowing your way around became a survival instinct.

An understanding of the design language of starships helped. There were context clues that could help you find your bearings. Survival training taught you to use the sun and stars, or the growth patterns of plants to navigate; engineering made use of ducts, and conduits, and corridors to the same end. As long as you knew the lay of the important landmarks - the engines, relative to the main reactor; the landing bays, relative to the cargo hold - a little logic was all it took to figure out the rest. Every power conduit led to a generator, eventually. Pathways that connected hangars and airlocks to the cargo bays were usually wider. On a ship shaped like a Munificent, you were unlikely to find a long straight corridor that wasn't running along the main thrust axis; anything closer to the hull had to begin respecting the curves of the ship. Such thoughts and considerations ticked away inside Vansen's skull, evaluating each corner and junction, tracking closer and closer towards an escape.

To do that, of course, Vansen needed an exit strategy. That was where the faintest glimmer of doubt began to creep in. There were a few different ways of getting off this ship, each with their own flaws, and none of them offering any real safety. Perhaps the simplest choice was an escape pod. Despite the predominance of droids aboard Separatist ships, escape pods were still plentiful, strategically placed throughout the vastness of their starships to ensure the rare occasional living member of a Separatist crew wasn't too far from a way out in an emergency. An escape pod would certainly get them off the ship, and with a little imagination and improvisation it might even do so without them being detected. What it wouldn't do was get them on the command ship.

That was where a shuttle came in. Stealing a shuttle was potentially the far less subtle option, depending how crowded the bay was, and how attentive the droids on the bridge were; but at least they'd be able to do things with a shuttle, beyond floating through space and hoping to be rescued before someone blew them up. Particularly if it was the right kind of shuttle; a kind of shuttle that Vansen was fairly sure he'd glimpsed on the way in, and was absolutely positive would infuriate his Padawan companion - which Vansen considered a definite plus.

A few carefully navigated intersections brought them perilously close to the landing bay that Vansen and his troopers had arrived in; a fact confirmed by the noticeably lower temperature displayed on his visor, caused by heat streaming out into the void of space through the bay's atmosphere shield. Thankfully, Vansen's pressurised armour shielded him against it, but he spared a moment to idly wonder if Jedi discipline made s'Ilancy impervious to it or not.

Checking around the next corridor, Vansen back-pedalled to a panel on the wall. "Keep an eye out," he instructed, gloved fingers wrapping around the panel's edge, prising it free, and exposing the maintenance functionality beneath. A data device was tugged from the utility belt of his armour, and plugged into a waiting port. "I need to check where our ride is parked."