Blood of the Patriots.

[Damien Kantrael]

So this was the future; this was reality. No victory, and no defeat. Peace. That was what he gave up his civilian life for. Peace. That was what he gave up his very identity for. Peace. No family, no friends; nothing that could weigh you down or be used to exploit you. Peace was not the endgame he had imagined when he signed those papers, when he signed away his life. Imperial Intelligence was the dream job, and to make it not only into the Inquisition but also into Project: Nightmare was beyond wildest dreams. When they cut out his eyes and replaced them with optic implants he had thought he was sacrificing it all for an eventual end. Instead the rug was jerked out from under him and he was forced to realize this new galaxy where the enemy was allowed to not only live, but to occupy half of the known galaxy. A vague line in the stars and the threat of starkiller missiles was all that separated them from each other. Words. That was all it was. Words. Not actions, not bravery and sacrifice as he had been raised to believe in. When he laid in bed late at night listening to the Imperial Broadcast Radio as a youth, with it's tales of heroes and legends it had ignited a fire in him. The Imperial heroes did not settle battles with words, but by selflessly charging the front lines and giving no quarter. There was never a talk of peace or negotiations beyond absolute surrender or complete destruction.

They said the war was over, but it wasn't. Even as his very government publicly denounced the Inquisition and promised it's closure, he could see the wheels and cogs spinning in new directions. The war continued; muted and cold. No more Stormtroopers dying in the streets of cities vying for control while starships exploded in the skies above. Everything was calculated and planned out ahead of time, with agents slipped behind the borders to wage a war of shadows. There was no fear, no showing of strength. Single targets disappeared in the night without recognition or credit given to the killers. He had become nothing but a knife that twisted in the bellies of whomever his betters pointed to. A bombing here, a sabotaged starship there, and the assassination of a government figure sprinkled on top. Little more than check boxes on a list of objectives that would eventually create an estimated result. It could take years for their plans to ever go anywhere, and in the meantime their reputation as a galactic force would continue to wane, and the so called Alliance would grow ever stronger in the vacuum of power created. They had doomed themselves to a war of subterfuge that would not accomplish it's goals quickly enough. The Alliance would rise and smash their weakening regime into dust before they were ever in a position to make their new government topple from within.

Fools. They were all fools. They had condemned the Sovereign Galactic Empire to death.

[Damien Kantrael]

Carkeras Outpost was a known Inquisition base of operations in the middle rim and as such it and many other similar bases were slated to be closed down in order to complete the illusions of the Inquisition shutdown. Personnel, equipment, munitions, starships, and vehicles were all gathered up, counted, and prepped to be shipped to other bases across Imperial Space. Carkeras has another name, the Crank, so called because it turned many other Inquisition gears throughout the galaxy with it's large storehouse of supplies. Shutting it down would take some time and man power to get everything accounted for. This was where he had been sent after the incident at the Maw with the prisoner escape. A demotion technically, it was proven to be the greatest asset of his career.

Tasked with aiding in the closing operations of the facility, he and many other Inquisitors were at work getting everything stuffed away. It took almost a month before it was nearly complete. Only a few personnel still around to load the last of the equipment up and ship it out. Inquisitor Benson was in charge of overseeing the last leg, and the look of fear turned irritation was evident on his face when Damien Kantrael stepped out into the landing pad where he was overseeing the loading of several Sentinel-Class landing craft. "Kantrael I didn't keep you here to wax nostalgic about your old unit. That armor is decommissioned and classified, just like the rest of your washed out Project: Nightmare. Get back to work before I bust you back down to Junior Officer and take you off the career path for good."

Benson could not meet his eye, because in the full body armor Project: Nightmare employed he looked more fearsome than any enemy the Inquisitor had crossed in the battlefield or in the shadows behind one. The red glowing lenses looked back blankly. There was no emotion in the terrifying helmet. It was designed to live up to the name of the unit: Nightmare. Helghast had made sure every detail bled strength, cruelty, and terror. There were others working on the landing pad and within the storehouse connected to it. Many had stopped to watch, but they made no motions to intervene. Silent watchers. Complete aware of what was to come.

"No. I'm afraid I cannot follow those orders." Damien replied after an uncomfortable moment of silence passed between them. Reaching up his gauntlet grabbed the Imperial emblem that was attached to the shoulder plate of his armor. A moment of effort and it pulled free. A show of made of displaying it to the superior officer before letting it fall to the floor. "Unfortunately a great tragedy was committed the day we surrendered to terrorists, and I aim to right the wrong. The threat of missile bombardment should have never dissuaded us from finishing the war. They would have taken billions of lives, and we would have replied in kind. Again and again until they had no words left. We would win, and the Empire would be stronger for it. Instead he cowed and ran, gave them everything they wanted and prayed they kept their words. The promises of a rebellion mean nothing. They exist only to topple tyrants and restructure government. There is no quarter, and none should have been given. I want to appeal to your patriotism Inquisitor Benson, to continue the fight and how the so called Alliance that we intent to finish what they started."

"You're mad, Kantrael. When the Core hears about this little stunt you'll be hunted down like a dog, stripped of your achievements, and your name ripped from any annals of history it might dirty. I will have no part of this."

The blaster shot rang out. Benson's eyes went wild as he looked to Kantrael, who held no blaster. The shot came from one of the Imperial Navy cadets previously seen loading the landing craft. The Inquisitor collapsed to the ground, holding his chest, trying vainly to patch the hole in his lung. Stepping over Kantrael stood over the man, drawing his own sidearm and pointing it down at the superior officer. All around him the soldiers and pilots continued loading the supplies, ignoring the existence of the dying man on the floor. "Sometimes the tree of liberty must be watered with the blood of patriots and tyrants. You are the latter. Goodbye."

[Damien Kantrael]

When the shuttles were finally filled with the remaining personnel and equipment they headed for the sky, leaving behind them an outpost empty save for dozens of corpses of those too weak to stand against the tyrants. They escaped orbit to where the Cheron waited patiently for it's children. Each member of his resistance group had taken the time to scavenge red cloth and tie it to their person somewhere, the subtle marking that separated the patriots from the tyrants. The Strike-Class Medium Cruiser grew larger in the viewport; a entire crew of souls to save or condemn.

The transition was seamless. No one aboard was aware of what has transpired below. Kantrael stomped through the halls of the ship, drawing curious looks from most of the crew; except for those wearing red who only nodded knowingly at him as he passed. The whole ship was abuzz ass it prepared to set off for the core. Taking his position on the bridge the red lenses of his helmet looked at each bridge officer in turn, noting which ones wore the red marking and which did not. Thankfully, most of the bridge staff did. They were with him on this; the most trusted soldiers in his employ. "Open a channel to the entire ship."

"Crew of the Cheron; this is Grand Inquisitor Damien Kantrael of the Sons of Coruscant. We have broken ties and allegiance with the Galactic Empire for their failure to upheld their own virtues of strength and integrity. Since they will not destroy the rebel menace that still threatens our way of life it is up to us, the true sons of the core, to finish that fight. We are all traitors, and we will all be executed if caught. There is no going back now. However, I would never force this choice upon anyone. Any crewman that wishes will be left behind to serve the tyrants and the betrayers. Just hang your head in shame, and one of my men will escort you to the shuttle bay. Anyone who wish to join please raise your hand and begin a new chapter in the REAL Galactic Empire."

Across from him his navigation officer was standing, red in the face. The words were forming on his lips, like condensation on the outside of a cold bottle. The outburst formed on his lips, but it never escaped as Kantrael's hand dipped to his side again, pulled the heavy blaster pistol, and fired it through the heart of the officer. He continued to stand, defiantly, even as words failed him until he finally collapsed dead.

"Round up the tyrants and space them. I have no time for those who will not do what is necessary. Let their deaths be on the hands of the Empress that failed them; and get someone to take the nav station. We needed to plot a new destination in the outer-rim where we can hide."

"And then what Grand Inquisitor?"

"We built our forces, sow descent on Imperial words, and strike out at the Alliance. They will not know what hit them."