Vengeance

[Chir'daki]

What was this place?

That question was redundant of course, for Chir'daki knew exactly what this place was: an Imperial research station built into some small, barren asteroid that had been tugged into the labyrinthine maelstrom of The Maw to hide it from view, from the Rebellion, and from scrutiny. It was one of many hidden within the maze of gravitational eddies, or so Chir'daki suspected; but it was the only one with which he was specifically familiar. It was hardly impressive: more of a dumping ground than a genuine facility; somewhere out of sight and out of mind for the Empire to tuck away it's abandoned covert projects.

But what was it to him?

Chir'daki had found himself there on many occasions, and each time the excuse had been obvious and convenient. A bounty; a contract; a job paid for by Imperial credits through a proxy; a captive or creature obtained and delivered for reasons he never bothered to ask. It was all simple enough, and yet he always lingered; each trip always took longer than he should. He never really questioned why; not while he was there, at least. But afterward? Afterward it haunted him. If too much time passed between contracts, he felt the thought of the place tugging at his mind, almost as if it was calling to him across the stars. It pressed against his consciousness, a lingering thought in his mind that he could not understand, and could not push away. It grated against his instincts, nudged against his will, urging him, pressuring him, forcing him to change course; to obey. Through subtlety and persistence, it had made a slave of him.

It could no longer be tolerated.

His golden eyes narrowed as he peered out into the blackness, between the swirls of accretion and the plumes of discharged photons, his gaze wrapping itself around the tiny speck of rock and durasteel that irked him so severely. Would that he could reach out with the Force - no, with his bare hands - and crush it into dust; but all the rage and hate in the galaxy could not grant such satisfaction to him. It would take other methods, and a degree of subtlety with which he was not usually accustomed.

That was why he had not come alone.

"Send the signal." It was a request, but it had come out as an order none the less, three deep rumbling words emerging from his throat. His hands settled against the golden-plated cortosis of his ornate helmet, lifting it gently from the the viewport ledge and settling it into place atop his head. "It is time."

[Lúka Jibral]

Lúka had never known the place to be so still; or if he had, he could not recall. His earliest memory of the nameless facility had hardly been thriving, but at least it had been filled with the sounds of activity, the whir of generators and the hum of technology. Buzzing repulsor droids and clanking loders had shuffled back and forth, cataloging and relocating the Empire's various Black Projects. For some of these items, some of these abandoned avenues of research, it was not enough to simply box them and stow them away: some required monitoring and upkeep. Some required maintenance to preserve their stability. Others had more complex needs. The role that the Inquisition had given him here as caretaker of the Black Archives was not as arbitrary as it sounded: not prestigious, no, but still valuable.

The Alliance had changed that, though. What once had been a location of perfect secrecy, nestled out of view beyond the Hutt Cartel, had become a liability. The Treaty between the Alliance and Empire had carved the galaxy in twain, and now The Maw lay too far beyond their borders - too utterly on the wrong side of enemy space - for the Empire to effectively protect it; or worse liberate it, should it be discovered by the Alliance and fall into enemy hands.

No: instead, the Black Archives were being relocated, abandoning the isolation of a treacherous web of black holes for the far more quaint-sounding Citadel. Lúka had no idea if the Imperial Knights and this stronghold of theirs would be sufficient; but the Inquisition was no more, and this instruction had come from on high - the Minister of the Interior himself, no less. Lúka might question the wisdom of his orders, and he did, but he would obey them none the less.

"Commander," a voice called; one of the few human officers left on the station. Idly, Lúka wondered if it would be the last time he'd ever be addressed in that way. "We are receiving a docking request. It's from the bounty hunter."

One of Lúka's brows quirked a tiny fraction. The hunter, Chir'daki, was a loose end - one he had hoped he would not have to deal with until after their exodus was complete. Fate and the Force had other ideas however. Strange, though. The hunter had no scheduled reason to be here.

Lúka's eyes narrowed. There was more. "But?"

The Lieutenant flinched, not entirely sure how to explain this peculiar oddity. "It's not his usual ship, sir."

For a moment, Lúka's gaze shifted, his eyes glazing over as he reached out with his senses, pushing his way gently past the stone and steel of the Archives and reaching out into the void beyond. It was hard to find at first, but then his consciousness brushed across it: a sharp thorn of anger, tearing at the flesh of his mind, aimed and focused like the tip of a spear.

Lúka's eyes snapped to the officer. "Get everyone on the shuttles. If it's boxed, get it loaded; leave everything else. We don't have much time."

Already he was on the move, long determined strides sweeping him away from where the officer stood, dumbfounded. "But sir -"

"On my order, Lieutenant," Lúka snapped, cutting off any opportunity for further protest from the officer. "We have already lost. All we can do is somehow ensure that it is not total."

[Nychus Antirr]

His breath hissed in his ears; or perhaps it was one of the others, feeding back through the comm array built into his helmet. It didn't much matter: it was annoying either way, but the breathing of his own lungs and those of his compatriots was too essential a function for him to do anything about it now.

Instead he leaped, and for a brief moment his stomach inverted itself, torn from the artificial gravity of his ship and hurled across the weightless void of space towards a hunk of rock that was far too small for him to be entirely confident in it's ability to catch him. Fortunately, he was not at the mercy of the frivolous whims of gravity: a few metres out his hand, tightly wrapped around his ascension gun, spat out a magnetic grapple that latched itself onto the plating of the facility's outer hull and, with a disconcerting tug, began to reel him towards it.

Nychus felt unwieldy as he made it to the hatch that the trio had chosen to storm, and while the magnetic tug of his boots against the metal secured him enough to stop him from drifting off back to the stars, it didn't really feel all that secure. He wondered what insanity had gripped him when he had agreed to be a part of this endeavour. Then he remembered the credits. So many credits. So many zeros.

Not that they would do him any good of course, if he or his companions lost their footing and drifted off into oblivion. At least their frozen corpses wouldn't drift on forever, of course: the black holes on all sides made sure of that.

A surge of movement in the peripheral of his vision caught the Nikto's attention, and he watched with first alarm and then envy as a hulking Besalisk threw himself from the airlock on the far side of the gaping canyon of space, and flew towards the asteroid with all the speed and grace of a proton torpedo. At times, Nychus found it hard to believe that the four-armed species were descended from avians, but not today: how something with so much bulk could move with so much aerodynamic ease, he did not know. The envy deepened as with practiced precision Avar Adamas unleashed his quartet of arms like an X-Wing locking it's s-foils in attack position, and unleashed a corresponding quartet of ascension cables that thunked against the durasteel and hauled Avar into position beside Nychus. With all those arms, all those cables, and with the way he settled so effortlessly in a crouch a few feet away, it was almost like watching some strangely bloated Republic walker at work.

"Well we got this far," Nychus grunted. "What was step two?"

Nychus didn't hear the roar that answered him, but he felt it, pressing against his mind. Like some rabid, froth-spewing barbarian, Chir'daki unleashed himself from the ship and charged across space. There was no pressure suit for the bounty hunter: just a tiny film of transpariplast across his nose and mouth, and a tiny atmosphere unit, good for a few minutes of recycled breath and little else. No goggles, no ascension gun, no magnetic boots or anything else; when Chir'daki struck the side of the facility and stuck, it was the Force that held him there, pushing down on the hunter and now on his companions as well like the unrelenting exhaust of an ion thruster. As the greatsaber emerged from Chir'daki's belt and burst into life, the intensity of the blade seared into Nychus' eyes even through the polarised visor of his helmet, and seconds later it seared through the supposedly impenetrable blast door with equal ease.

The Nikto's gut twisted, and this time it wasn't the lack of gravity that was responsible. For a moment he peered off into the blackness, and allowed himself to wonder what those who were about to die had done to deserve the end that was coming for them.

[Orenth]

Orenth's mind was like the facility within which he resided: a tiny grain of existence surrounded by an infinite void. He was not alone in the night: in the distance he could see, feel other islands of consciousness, but they were hazy mirages, too far from view unless he mustered the effort to focus. Yet, even so removed from the minds nearby, he could sense the distant pulses of emotion, the flares and fires of conflict and panic burning on the horizon. He watched souls flee like embers escaping a fire, drifting away until one by one they were snuffed out. Somehow, the inferno chased them, stalked them, is if it was hungry for the warmth and light that they had tried to steal from it.

No, not hungry. It was something else: similar to hunger and thirst, but a different kind of need. At the heart of the inferno was a darkness, a void that desperately needed to be filled. A curiosity. A question. The hunger for knowledge, for truth, for understanding. Orenth recognised the shape of that void; the who; the why. It wasn't as perfect as the hole in Orenth's mind, the gap in his sense of self; the fire had patched over parts of it, plugged the emptiness with truths he had designed for himself; but it was still the same question, of who and what am I?

For a fleeting moment, Orenth felt sadness for the fire's pain. Sympathy. But only for a moment. The fire spread, like a flame across a slick of oil. Drawing closer. Surrounding on all sides.

Orenth's eyes snapped open. His gaze shifted, peering through the transparisteel of his cage towards his other across the way. There was no need for words between them, and yet he spoke them just the same.

"Danger is coming."

[Shen]

I know.

The words left one mind to touch the other, drifting as if on a soft breeze that gave brief respite to an oppressive sun-baked desert. Though as the wind, they did not carry the full calm she wished for. The two simple concepts were tugged and strained with emotion, drifting one way and then the next before fading off into the nothingness that spanned beyond.

She could feel her hand lifting from where it had been resting in her lap to reach, fingers extending, as if she could grasp hold of that which had left her. But it was too late.

While the other was quick to alertness she came to the same state far slower, though not out of leisure or lack of the urgency that was desperately needed, but rather resigned to fate. Quick to move or no, they were still locked in their cages and railing against the transparisteel would do no good. They had watched their other, the one more like her and yet less like her, do that once or twice before she too had learned better. That one was gone now. They were all gone, mostly.

Now too would she and he become gone as well?

Shen met Orenth's gaze, a mixture of curiosity and apprehension colouring her otherwise expressionless visage.

"What will you do?"

[Orenth]

Save us.

It was such a simple thought, such an obvious one, and yet so desperate and urgent at the same time. He did not doubt that he would, no matter how overwhelming the question of how became, and yet the notion of it, the need of it almost hurt for it's intensity. She was his other, and he would save her; had to save her. All was a void, all was empty, all was alone; everything else was a shadow, and she was the only other light.

His eyes surveyed the cell that confined him. Transparasteel. Durasteel. Reinforced. Secure. Protected. Inescapable. That was what he knew. That was what he believed. That was the knowledge that he found when he looked into his mind. Yet, as true as it was, it was not. As inescapable as it was, he knew it could be left. He had done so. He had been freed. He had walked the corridors of the facility. He had trained in the halls. He had been tested in the laboratories. His cage could be opened. He could be made free.

Once again his eyes closed, reaching not out to his surroundings this time, but reaching back, delving inwards, feeling for the memories that he had made for himself, buried beneath the ones that had been given to him. They felt different. Softer. The edges and corners were less sharp, the colours more varied and less defined. A painting, not a photograph. A song, not a sound. He searched for those first, for sounds: the hiss of the doorway as it opened, retreating above. He felt his body shift in reflex, sliding to the far edge of the cage, pressing his back against the transparisteel, the way he was instructed to; the way he knew to. The hiss. First the hum, then the hiss. The shift of the air as it opened. The change in the sound, the difference in the echoes. The difference in the walls around him, the breach, the outside. The difference within the walls, the flow beneath the surface as everything changed.

The flow. The hum. The hiss.

Orenth was on his feet, eyes still closed; he didn't need them. His palms pressed against the cool metal of the cage, feeling the faint flow of energy deep beneath his fingers, feeling for where they converged, feeling for the source of the sound. He focused upon the hum in his mind, focused on the shift and the change, willed it into being, urged the memory to become real once again. He felt electrons shift and dance, felt them change direction, felt them swirl in the pattern, twist to the wave of the hum. Then it came, a short burst: an instant of sound, a chime of recognition. Servos whirred and the door began to slide. Orenth's eyes opened, and his fingers slid away from the wall. His gaze found Shen across the distance between.

I will save you.

[Shen]

Orenth was clever. It was good to be clever. Shen was clever too, but in a different manner. No two things alike.

"I know."

When the slight surprise - as if she was unused to the sound of her own voice - faded it was replaced with a ghost of a smile. The repetition had come teasing, playful, yet with absolute certainty. It was just as his initial reply to her question had been. There was no question that they would not remained trapped. Not if he or she could change the shape of things. That was the nature of their training, wasn't it?

Shen got to her feet smoothly; a fluid, graceful motion of practiced muscle memory. Her hand softly pressed against the wall of her enclosure as her pale eyes wandered from her splayed fingertips back to the other across the way, the other who was now free and promised the same.

Faster if you do this one. I will save you later. We must hurry though, the rage draws ever closer. We should find the Keeper, he will not have forgotten us.

[Orenth]

Faster. Orenth would try. Had to try.

His eyes studied Shen's cage. It was different from the outside. He had seen it always, of course, across the way from his own, but the sight of her outside and the feel of his inside was never something his mind had merged. The flow beneath the metal, it was on a different side; twisted and turned, not reflected in a mirror. Of course it was, and yet, somehow that was unexpected. The flow was different, on the other side; it spiraled in a different way. There was a box this side, a narrow crack through which he knew that the Keeper slid something when he was returned to his cage. Key card. That was the word that Orenth knew, and he saw what it was, but he didn't fully understand. He had no such thing.

He pressed his hand against Shen's cage, once again trying to feel the flow of electrons through the mechanism. He tried with all his might, tried to replicate the hum, tried to will it into being, but a different sound emerged, an angry sound, a frightening sound. Through a crack between his eyelids, Orenth saw a tiny flicker of red in sequence with each sound, a flashing denial of his efforts.

Orenth would not relent though. He would not fail. He willed stronger. If the flow would not dance the way he wished it to, then he would force it to do other things. It would obey him. It would comply. It would help him free his other. He felt it surge through his fingertips, felt the crackle against his skin, felt a fresh wave of energy surge from his hand and into Shen's cage. He smelt burning. Smoke. The flow of energy screamed in protest. A spark. A flash.

A whir.

His eyes opened. Relief washed across his face. Success. Safety. Freedom. They could not leave their cages. They should not leave their cages. Yet they did. On reflex, his hand reached out towards Shen, ensnaring hers. "There is not much time," he said in a hushed tone. "We cannot wait for the Keeper to come to us."

[Shen]

He was right, of course, they could not wait. Shen, however, did allow herself a moment to enjoy the feeling of Orenth's hand grasping her own smaller one. Touch was something she was used to, but this was not broken flesh needing mending, this was strong and certain. It was how it should be, it was how Orenth should be.

Fear was not an emotion Shen was used to feeling, even now it only hovered on the very edges of her conscious and subconscious mind. Discipline kept it at bay. Fight or flight. Now was not the time to face the oncoming storm, they were not equipped and this was not a training exercise.

She drew in a breath slowly, reaching out with other senses. Yes, the rage was nearing. Too near. Too close. Flight.

Whatever shreds of seeming languid nature that had accompanied her movements since the threat arrived now vanished. A new alertness took hold in her eyes as they looked across the room in which they were kept. Gaze focused upon the door that the Keeper would usually appear from. Senses reached out once more.

It had never been a question of could, but always of should, always of should not. They did not possess the willful needs to test boundaries imposed upon them. A place for everything and everything in it's place.

Steps were taken, quick yet not hurried, the hand that joined the grip of the other tugged gently, unnecessarily before Orenth fell into silent step next to her as they approached the entryway.

Silence would be preferable, caution could be exercised, but there was heightened need throughout the facility. They were not the only ones seeking escape. Do what must be done.

Her empty hand raised and her calm gaze hardened, eyes narrowing in focus upon the object between them and liberation. She pulled back, hand first then the rest. Senses wrapped around components and metal before retching them inward. First a groan of protest, then a screech of surrender as it gave way. The tear in the doorway was not large, nor was it elegant, but it was enough.

Shen slipped through first, care taken to not catch delicate cloth and skin below on the jagged shards of her work. All the while her hand gripped the others, even as she was through and waited for him to follow.

[Orenth]

Orenth did not pass through the ragged tear in what had once been the door to the rest of the world with as much ease as Shen was able. He had never wondered why he was larger than his other: he simply was, and such was a fact of life. His mind answered with facts, but not really with understanding. She was female. He was male. Such was the way of their species. Human.

A stab of pain snagged against Orenth's shoulder as a rough fragment of the twisted metal bit into cloth and skin. He continued on undissuaded, freeing himself before standing upwards. His eyes fell to the rend in the fabric, analytical. This was pain. This was injury. Hurt Orenth was aware of the notion, but he had never been: a few moments of pain during sparring perhaps, a few impacts that triggered the receptors beneath his skin, but his mind had never responded to it. His mind had never told him to. Now though, it was different. He was not caged anymore, not in that room, and not in his mind. He searched his thoughts. What was it that was done? What action had he learned to witness and understand as a response to this?

Slowly he drew in a hissing breath between his teeth, but there was no force to it, no instinct, no wince to match. He simply stood and stared at himself, in quiet contemplation, "I am harmed," the only other reaction he managed to muster.

[Shen]

He had not needed to speak, they both knew that, so the fact that Orenth had chosen to bring attention to the pain he had experienced - that she had felt echoes of - spoke volumes that his calm assessment did not. Harmed. Inujured. Torn. Wounded. It could not remain as such, Shen needed him as whole as she.

Her feet were feather light as Shen retreated the two steps to utterly close the gap between them, her fingers having the same care as they slipped from his hand and joined her other as they moved to his shoulder and sought out the point of disturbance. She felt the place before her eyes found the place where his tunic had been torn, where skin had followed suit. The fingertips of her right hand wiped away the warm red liquid that had flowed from the wound. Lifeblood of the other staining her skin and marring her vision.

It was not a new sight, even from Orenth. The setting was wrong though, the danger spoken of all too real. It did not change her task, though. Correct the error. Heal the wound.

Her hands cupped together over the slight injury on Orenth's shoulder. It did not require a great deal of focus, she had mended far more before, had pieced back together the unspeakable all at the behest of the Keeper in an effort to measure and study. Test the mettle. Chart the results. Push the boundaries. Strain resolve of patient and healer alike.

This was not such a case and Shen barely needed to pull her attention away from other thought and feeling before flesh began to knit together under her guidance. Careful, always careful, a gentle mending and a gentle touch was all that was needed. No lingering trauma; she was loathe to ever leave that in her wake and doing so to Orenth was simply not an option. Not now, not when choice was given. Taken. Stolen. A necessity.

A slow breath left her once more, a small bead of sweat felt to trickle down past her left temple to follow curve of cheek and jaw and neck - the only outward signs of the effort of concentration that had been necessary thus far, or perhaps the lingering worry of being hunted.

We need to keep moving.

[Avar Adamas]

Adamas let out a roar that quickly melted into a laugh. His eyes were wide, eager and frenzied as his top arms slammed the stock of his blaster rifle into the forehead of the Imperial technician who'd come a little too close, the lower pair unleashing a volley from a blaster pistol each as the technician's compatriots tried to advance on the Besalisk that they mistakenly thought was otherwise occupied. Avar's lips curled back in a malicious approximation of a grin as the Imperials slumped to the ground, thin wisps rising from the smoking craters he had created in their unarmoured chests.

It had been far too long since he had enjoyed violence such as this. His debt to the Hutt had robbed him of such glorious carnage, the thrill of plundering and piracy replaced by the dull-witted brutality of breaking fingers and shattering kneecaps on the behalf of Ambassador Wrath and his accountants. It paid well enough, he supposed, but it wasn't much of a life; didn't feel much like being alive if you didn't have blood pounding in your ears and whiffing at your nostrils.

The invaders had divided, each embarking on an errand that suited them best. Nychus Antirr was making his way towards a control room, off to put his Sector Ranger skills to use seizing control of the facility's security subsystems; all too necessary if they planned to stop their quarry escaping, and to leave themselves without having to exit the way they'd come in. Apparently the Nikto was good at that sort of thing; he'd certainly chattered on about it long enough with fancy words and lingo. Avar didn't understand enough to follow along: couldn't be sure if Nychus knew is stuff, or if he was just spinning nerfshit to bamboozle them into believing he was anything but all mouth and no substance.

As for Chir'daki, petch knows where the bounty hunter had gone. Adamas had made the mistake of looking him in the eyes as he'd doled out instructions: it had been like staring into the pits of hell. Normally, Avar would have protested at having orders given to him; if anyone was going to be barking commands it should be him, not some turbomouth ex-Ranger, or some hunter with breathtaking anger management issues. There was no arguing with Chir'daki though; no protesting against a man whose gaze was primed with so much venom.

Avar had heard the hunter's name was that of a plague in the Twi'lek language. He'd sure seemed like he was about to be a plague on someone.

Cutting right, Adamas found himself forced to turn sideways to fit through one of the facility's inconsiderately narrow doors. His task was far more simple, and far more fun: break things. Whatever Chir'daki's reasons, whatever his true motives and objective, the hunter wanted to give the Imperials too many things to think about, and Avar was happy to oblige. The facility was more deserted than he would have liked - clearly they'd caught the current tenants on their way out - which was a small disappointment, but there were still plenty of consoles and expensive looking pieces of equipment to put a boot to or a stock through, and Avar did so gleefully. Or at least he had, until this room.

The Besalisk's head cocked to the side as he regarded the slumped and inactive droid. There was nothing particularly remarkable about it, save for the size: Avar guessed it would've been maybe seven or eight feet standing, which was one of the more impressively scaled humanoid droids he could think of. The droid looked old and battered though, not even maintained well enough to hold itself standing in it's powered down state. And yet...

Avar frowned. There was a faint glow in the droid's chest, almost like some sort of exposed power unit, unlike anything he had witnessed before. Maybe it was old. Maybe it was experimental. Either way, there was something oddly enticing about it, some trait that piqued his curiosity, that drew him in, drew him closer, made him lust for closer scrutiny -

[Lazuli]

- a sudden whir, a sudden flicker, and the darkened eyes began to glow. The crystal core pulsed, Lazuli willing waves of electrons to course from his Shard matrix into the systems and servos of his droid chassis. As ocular receptors blinked into operation, he drank in the electromagnetic waves, his consciousness integrating them into his concept of the world around him, alongside the insights and sensations that the Force provided.

Servos engaged, and the chassis slowly and ominously rose. It was not the eyes that peered down at the Besalisk but rather the exposed core, the Shard reaching out with his senses to drink in every detail of the assailant who had breached the sanctity of his prison. He could feel the malign intent from the creature's aura, feel the avaricious greed for blood and plunder. He could sense the deaths that were on the creature's hands, but that refused to weigh on it's consciousness. A simple conclusion was reached.

Bad man.

In a single motion, Lazuli lashed out with one of his mechanical arms, the force of impact hurling the Besalisk through the air, two pairs of shoulder slamming against the frame of the entrance as the creature's body proved too wide to fit. It snapped off a few ineffective shots with it's blasters, failed attempts to snipe at the crystal core glancing harmlessly off Lazuli's pockmarked shell. A new surge of electricity, and a cover of reinforced transparisteel slid into place, sealing the port on the chassis' chest and protecting the Shard from further attempts at injury. One of the technicians with whom Lazuli frequently interacted had come to his chamber when the chaos began; lifted him from the containment vessel in which they kept him, and restored him to the body that allowed him to explore the world. It was an oddness, a strange feat of compassion from the Imperial creature. Lazuli reached out in search of his saviour, but found him missing from the world around. Absent. Gone. Dead.

Killed.

The Besalisk barely managed to clamber his way through the narrow door as Lazuli raised his arm and unleashed a volley of blaster fire, staccato impacts with the deck plates chasing after the assailant as he scampered out of view. Lazuli halted as he reached the doorway, too narrow by design for him to escape unaided. He retreated a few paces; raised the other arm. With a thunk, a coin-sized projectile snagged against the wall, a viscous adhesive gel holding it in place as three tiny lights blinked into darkness, then two, then one. The bulkhead shattered, metal and duracrete shrieking as it was torn asunder, the force of the explosion in such confined quarters sending a ripple of vibration shuddering through the floor.

Unimpeded, Lazuli stepped out into the hall, and began his chase.

[Lúka Jibral]

Most would have been frantic under the circumstances, but Lúka's manner was bathed in an eerie calm. He knew exactly what he sought, and exactly where to find it. A security code and a retina scan unsealed the wall safe, the painting that had obscured it - the burning ruins of the Jedi Temple on Coruscant - thrown unceremoniously aside, no longer of any use.

With reverence, Lúka reached for the small cloth-wrapped cylinder, feeling the cold chromium even through the fabric. A few delicate movements and the object was revealed: unmistakably a lightsaber, though far different from the one that currently hung from his belt. The saber that Lúka had crafted for himself in adulthood was sleek and simplistic, a stark black affair designed with brutal functionality in mind. This though, this lightsaber was a gift: a relic, of his old Master and of the old Jedi Order. This was the lightsaber he had carried as a Padawan. This was the lightsaber that had carved it's way through battle droids and Separatists. This was the lightsaber that had tumbled from his hands the day that the Empire had captured him: the day that they had begun to free his mind from the oppressive indoctrination of his Master and the treacherous Jedi who had sought to destroy a Republic that had endured for millennia.

It was hardly the first time he had handed the weapon since then: quite the contrary, in fact. With lightsabers and their components in such short supply, especially here on the fringes, away from the full resources of the Inquisition, the weapon had by necessity seen frequent use. Orenth, Shen, Thesh, the others: they required training, and the saber of a Padawan seemed the most appropriate thing for them to wield. This was different, though. This was not some exercise to test the subjects and their conditioning. Today, he removed the lightsaber from the safe, knowing that it would never return.

The moment's concession to nostalgia and emotion came to an abrupt end, and at a swift but determined pace, Lúka strode out into the corridor, reaching out to feel his surroundings through the Force, sensing the death and fear and chaos that surrounded him. He felt the deck rumble beneath him, a hand steadying himself against the wall as his footing threatened to be taken from him. The air shifted as a faint breeze moved through the corridor, too brief and gentle to be the breath of depressurisation. An explosion, then. The tech wing, judging from the direction in which it had moved. The Shard, then. Lazuli. Reaching out through the Force confirmed it: the familiar, sharp-edged aura of the crystaline being. Someone must have activated it: unleashed Lazuli from it's cell. Lúka had not ordered anyone to do so, and would have been content to abandon the Shard as unfortunate collateral in favour of Orenth and Shen; but if Lazuli was active, it could be of assistance, and there was nothing to be gained by abandoning a resource that could now feasibly be saved.

"Lazuli, this is Keeper," Lúka spoke, tapping his earpiece and quickening his pace. "We are evacuating. Proceed to the landing bay, and defend it at all costs. I will join you aboard the final shuttle."

The Shard didn't reply; didn't need to. Lúka could feel it's compliance, even from a hundred or more yards away.

A quick right turn, and Lúka found himself confronted with another unexpected development: rather than caged a few corridors away as Lúka had expected them to be, he found Orenth and Shen instead in the corridor ahead of him, walking hand in hand in his direction at an earnest pace. He wondered what lesson was to be learned by this, and by Lazuli's liberty. Was it a condemnation of the Archives' ineffective security that they had managed to escape, or a testament to their conditioning and his training that they had never so much as attempted to do so before today?

No matter. There would be time later to dissect such notions; for now, Shen and Orenth had, through their resourcefulness, earned them all a precious few extra moments to make their escape.

Lúka's eyes settled on Orenth, and contrary to everything he would have expected, he felt a twist of conflict in his gut as he extended the Padawan lightsaber towards him. It was not the first time that Lúka had handed Orenth the weapon, but this time was different; this time he was giving it. This was not clinical. This was not training. This was a transition, a new turn on the path; Lúka had always known there would be a moment like this one day, but he had never expected himself to feel remorse.

"Danger approaches," Lúka explained, his words adjusting into the clipped and simple format that his subjects had learned to obey. "A Force sensitive named Chir'daki. He means harm to us all. You must delay him, until we can finish our escape."

Lúka's gaze lingered on Orenth's eyes, peering into the subject's psyche, wondering if he comprehended that we was not a description that included him. Did Orenth realise what was about to be asked of him? Did he understand the finality of this last command? For the first time, it truly cared whether or not he did.

"Will you comply?"

[Orenth]

Instructions. A mission. Orenth had not been allowed beyond his cage for anything beyond training and testing, but he was programmed and prepared for this eventuality.

He turned his mind to his thoughts; found the dots connected to the name the Keeper had mentioned. Chir'daki. Human. Bounty hunter. Force user. Emotionally unstable. Prone to violent tendencies. Not lacking in intelligence and tactical understanding either. High level of physical danger. High level of personal danger. He continued to process, the brief outline of the situation that the Keeper had provided giving him a clearer understanding of the situation. Orenth had trained to wield a lightsaber against the Keeper. He had trained in combat against Lazuli. Against the facility's soldiers. Never against anything with such a high threat rating. Never against anything so dangerous.

Yet, the situation was simple. You must delay him. Chir'daki was a threat to the evacuation efforts. The preservation of life was important, essential. A strategic sacrifice of one life to ensure the safe escape of significantly more. It was a logical course of action. An obvious choice. Even so, Orenth found hesitation in his mind where it should not have been. His continued existence seemed important. His core objective, to protect Shen, seemed important. How could he protect her if he was no longer with her?

He looked in her direction, their eyes meeting, wordless understanding passing between them; unshakable resolve forming in his chest. If Orenth was not with her, her safety was uncertain. If Orenth did not delay the danger however, her death was assured.

"I will comply," he replied to the Keeper, but his eyes didn't stray from Shen.

I will save you.

[Shen]

She had not been addressed, had not been the one the Keeper had spoken to, so all responses were negated. Shen had not spoken of her knowing of Chir'daki to Orenth in those brief moments. She had not conveyed her awareness of how much damage the bounty hunter was capable of and how much it took to undo such a thing. It would have been pointless, unnecessary information parsed and passed along to the one who was now designated to defend from such a threat. Still, disturbingly disobedient in it's own way, she worried.

Shen did not have the permission to worry. Worry meant that she had to be actively concerned in matters that did not concern herself, that she had to question the Keeper's orders given to Orenth. There was no doubt in what was being asked of her other, nor of the consequences of such a thing. Percentages could have been calculated, ratios analyzed, and each and every time would come out in favor of the beast that hunted them. But it was not victory that was being asked, it was time that was bartered for with life. A trade. A deception. Distraction. Decoy.

It was... Wrong.

Yet to voice a concern, voice anything that might convey her disobedience, was unthinkable. Unimaginable. Also wrong.

A moment of hesitation was given, just a short one, one that Shen found traitorous in her wish it would go unseen by the Keeper. In that moment her hand tightened around Orenth's and a blank look accompanied the emotions she pushed forward: Gratitude, dismay, trust, and a hint of an emotion she had barely experienced yet alone comprehended. It was a sense of closeness she could put no word to; need and hope and yearning and understanding and anguish all in the same instant. The emotion was confusion. Conflicting. She didn't like it and yet needed it.

I know.

The brief smile she gave Orenth was bittersweet and came only a split second after the gentle tightening of her hand on his, shared in the instant she conveyed the unfamiliar - and slightly unnerving - flood of emotions with her other.

Another moment of hesitation, reluctance, and her hand slipped from his as she took the step towards the Keeper, awaiting his instructions to her. All the while her eyes did not leave Orenth's, her awareness inseparably linked from his own through the Force.

[Chir'daki]

The lightsaber creaked and shrieked as blood was seared and incinerated from it's surface. The sound intensified as the sanguine cascade flowed down the front of the Imperial's uniform, leaking amid spluttered breaths from the torn void that existed where his throat should have been. Chir'daki sneered, the crimson-stained gold of his armoured fingers releasing the Imperial's neck finally, the body slumping awkwardly as it slid backwards off the greatsaber through it's gut, and collapsed into a lifeless heap against the ground. Another Imperial dead. Another weak mind plied for answers; another dead soul with none to offer. There were none that his eyes recognised, and from the way they conducted themselves, none that knew the true secrets of this facility.

He had waited too long. This was the truth that had become apparent to him. The Archives were half emptied, the facility mostly deserted. He should have predicted this. Should have expected this. The Empire would not have left a facility like this languish so far beyond their borders for long. He should have struck sooner, should have exploited the Alliance and their Treaty weeks ago. If he had, the defenses might have been more formidable, yes; but that would have been all the more satisfying, and his answers might still have been here to be found. The researchers, the scientists, that Doctor woman; even the memory banks had been ferried away, carted off to dark corners of the Empire where Chir'daki would never find them.

The realisation clawed at him like a wild animal, and an enraged roar tore itself from his throat.

There was still hope, or at least a small fragment of it. There was one person still within the facility who might have the answers he sought: Lúka, the custodian of this repository of forgotten projects. He could feel him, feel the aggravating calm as the whelp of a man scurried through the corridors, making haste to flee. Chir'daki fixated him, sensing him through the durasteel and the deck plates. He stalked him like a predator, teeth bared beneath his helmet as he threw himself around corners, marching with determined purpose, casual swipes of his blade dispatching any foolhardy Imperials who made the mistake of getting in his way. One managed to snap off a lucky shot that glanced off Chir'daki's armour rather than being deflected by his 'saber. Chir'daki didn't even break his stride as his hand lashed out, the Force dragging the Imperial irresistibly towards him, right into the path of a flurry of greatsaber blows that severed his head and bisected his waist. Nothing would stop him from reaching his goal. No door, no obstacle, no person would be allowed to get in his way -

One more turn, and Chir'daki halted. For a moment his fixated rage recoiled, briefly startled by the sight that stood before him. There was something familiar about the figure that stood in his path: simple clothes, simple physique, a scruff of blonde hair clearly cut for practicality by nurses. One of Lúka's pets no doubt: a sacrifice thrown down as a distraction to buy an extra few seconds for his cowardly escape.

How quaint.

Chir'daki's lips curled into a snarl, baring his teeth. "You seem lost."

[Orenth]

"You seem angry."

It wasn't a verbal barb, just a simple observation, and yet it played off that way. Despite the way that the danger's helmet obscured much of his face, Orenth could still recall the telltale signs that were inexplicably there in his mind: the flair of nostrils, the curl of the lip, the subtle motions beneath the armour that spoke of muscles under the influence of adrenaline. There was a golden, almost burning sheen to the danger's eyes; not a typical colouration for the human that the Keeper had identified him as. In an odd way, it seemed to match the fiery way in which Orenth had perceived him at first: for there was no doubt that this was the inferno of rage that Orenth had felt before he escaped.

Orenth contemplated his options; the possibility that his training had prepared him for. He studied the details of the danger: physically stronger and larger than him, but armoured, so perhaps not as agile. The hilt of his lightsaber was large enough for two hands, and the blade long: a greatsaber, Orenth knew it could be described as. For bladed energy weapons, weight was not as big a consideration as with a metallic blade; but the power supply would be larger, the emitters more robust; the hilt would be heavier, and the danger would no doubt favour lateral sweeps and downward blows, bringing to bear as much force and inertia as he could every time their blades made contact against one another. The armour itself was another consideration: it did not match anything in Orenth's mind, but the metal plating seemed heavier and more robust than the synthetics that he had seen guards wear. Perhaps it was like Lazuli's chassis, providing protection from blaster fire by brute force: but Orenth was skeptical. The danger was here, and he seemed to have a purpose. He had his lightsaber, and clearly knew how to use it. If he was willing to sacrifice his mobility instead of simply relying on his blade to deflect blaster fire, there must have been another purpose. Orenth recalled knowledge of certain metals that could interfere with the energy blade of a lightsaber: cortosis, Mandalorian iron, ultrachrome, phrik. It seemed logical that the danger would be dressed in such attire; and logical that there would not be exploitable vulnerabilities for Orenth to target. The danger would not be easily slain.

But then, of that much, Orenth was already aware. His survival was not expected, and the Keeper was far more knowledgeable than he, and Orenth trusted the Keeper's evaluation of his chances. But survival was not required: only a delay. That was why Orenth remained as he was, not moving, calmly standing in the danger's path. The sooner he engaged the danger, the sooner their duel began, the sooner it would end and the shorter the distraction would be. There were other ways to delay. Other strategies. Other tactics.

"I sense your confusion, also. I felt it when you arrived, and I feel it now. You are searching. You have questions."

[Chir'daki]

There was something strange about this pet of Lúka's, this obstacle in his path. It wasn't quite familiar, and yet there was something about him that Chir'daki could not shake: something almost comforting, calming even. Had Chir'daki known him somehow, back before the mental wall that shielded his earliest days from his memory?

There were certain fragments that Chir'daki could still recall, from before: scattered pieces of memory that even after years of effort and research he had scarcely managed to resolve into anything but a vague notion. There was a name, Romo Mantana: a servant of the Empire whose mind had been torn asunder when the dark side erupted from within him, leaving nothing but amnesia and shredded remains in it's wake. The dark side had shaped who he had become, and he served it as much as it served him. These impulses then, to return to this place: as there some great dark power here in the Maw, whispering to him from across the stars? If so, how did this pet fit into the equation? Or was it more insidious than that: were the urges the product of some seed of thought that the Empire had planted into his mind?

His grip tightened on his greatsaber, a snarl of protest erupting from him as he realised the affect that the pet was having on him. Whether it was merely psychology or some trick of the Force he did not know, but he would not stand for it either way.

"You will not keep me from my answers," Chir'daki promised; and without another moment of hesitation, he charged.

[Nychus Antirr]

This would have been far easier if Nychus had been given the opportunity to obtain a schematic of the facility's layout, but they had left with too much urgency to attempt such things, and somehow Nychus doubted that his obsolete Sector Ranger clearances would have opened the doors he needed to find out about a facility such as this. Instead he was reduced to relying on his wits and his powers of observation: still a formidable asset for anyone to possess, but still the somewhat less expedient option.

The data conduits certainly seemed to converge in this area, but which of the facility's myriad chambers was the control room was still a matter of guesswork. The facility did not seem to be built for purpose, but rather haphazardly converted: a network of maze-like corridors and generic chambers that at one time or another had been converted for purpose through extensive modification. Alas, so much of the equipment had already been salvaged and shipped out that if clues had ever lain in the rooms Nychus inspected one by one, they were no longer there to be seen.

There was a twist of wire, and then a hiss, and suddenly all the doors on the next stretch of corridor opened at once. The Nikto allowed himself a small smile of satisfaction at that: a partial trip of the fire suppression system had convinced this section of the facility that it needed to ready itself for all it's oxygen to be sucked out into space; a quick bypass had made sure that none of the external hatches had actually opened. Now he found himself with an array of rooms to quickly search, no need to contend with every seal and locking mechanism one by one.

Slowly he began to progress down the corridor, aiming his blaster and the underslung flashlight into room after room. Most were dark, the Imperials so efficient with their efforts to gut the base that even the lighting had been removed. The darkness flanking the lit corridor on all sides was ominous, but second from last on the right Nychus' eyes detected a faint glow. Hoping it was the security terminal he was looking for, Nychus aimed his sights through the doorway, but instead of the welcoming glow of computer terminals, instead it was the shimmering red of a force cage that confronted him.

An occupied force cage, he suddenly realised, his eyepiece relaying details about the kneeling, almost meditative figure contained within. He drew a cautious step closer. Anyone in captivity was likely no friend to this facility, and while his career in law enforcement made him wary of anyone who had been deemed worthy of being caged, his curiosity got the better of him. "Hello?" he called as he drew a few steps closer, trying a few other languages when the occupant didn't immediately respond. There was no reaction at all - oblivion, or ignorance? Another step closer, wariness growing with each inch he advanced. Nychus carefully raised his blaster, the flashlight sweeping it's way up the figure's hunched from. A human perhaps; or perhaps not. Something about him didn't quite add up.

"If you don't say something soon," Nychus quipped, "I'm going to start taking it personally."

The figure's eyes snapped open.

[Hugo Montegue]

Hugo's perception finally cleared.

His world had been broken, twisted and distorted by what the Imperials of this facility had done to him. Serums, therapies, cocktails, implants, retroviruses, radiation - every conceivable treatment, every conceivable blight upon his body had been injected into his blood, and everything that had once made him who he was had slowly begun to bleed away. Augmentations was what the scientists had called them, and in a way he supposed they were: his human senses paled in comparison to the insights now available to them; but whether through age or stubbornness, his mind struggled to adapt. For those born with the ability to see beyond the conventional wavelengths of light, to sense subtle shifts in air and temperature, to feel ripples and sensations that no normal being should have been able to feel would have been second nature, but to Hugo it was a constant bombardment of noise, chattering impulses that clouded his mind and made it impossible for all but the simplest of notions to make it's way through.

The scientists had attempted to correct his cognitive deficits; he could feel the metallic implant grating away beneath his skin, it's roots woven through his skull. It took the inputs that his mind could not comprehend and attempted to translate them, shunting the bias from one receptor to another, helping him to screen out the telemetry he did not want, and focus on what he did. It couldn't undo the changes, though. It didn't fix the colours of the world around him back to the way they used to be. It didn't take away the taste of copper in his mouth every time the sharpened teeth that his mouth wasn't designed to contain snagged against his teeth. It didn't change the way that every joint and every muscle fibre ached, the way it felt like acid pumped through his veins, or the way his skin felt strangely tender to even the gentlest touch. It didn't change the way that a sound, or a smell, or a whiff of perception beyond his understanding could steal the entirety of his focus, dragging him into a stupor while the rest of the world faded into nothingness around him.

Worst of all, it didn't change what he was, and what he had become: an abomination; a monster; the kind of unnatural creature that he had made it his life's mission to rid the galaxy of. This was his punishment, cruel and unusual; this was the penance for his many sins. This was Hell, custom made, the ultimate conceivable suffering for the great Hugo Montegue.

But there were moments, brief and fleeting, of clarity. Now was one of them. The eyes that fixed upon the Nikto were as unnatural as the rest of him, the same unsettling gold irises that Nychus would have witnessed in Chir'daki's scowl, wreathed in burning red like the corona of a star. The smile that slowly began to curl into being quickly became a grimace as a fanged tooth pierced his lip from within. The stab of pain gave him focus, sharpened his clarity. Hugo let his head slowly rise, with all the deliberate menace of a cobra readying to smile. Crimson stained his teeth as his mouth fell open to speak.

"Hello."

[Nychus Antirr]

The word hit him like the blow of a hammer - no, like the blow of water, cascading into him through a sudden breach. The current swirled around him, dragging him irresistibly forward, a split second passing before Nychus felt his flesh impact the energy field of the force cage. The discharge that should have thrown him backwards, that should have fired his reflexes and forced him to recoil transformed from a sharp sting into an agonizing burn as it endured, biting into the flesh along the side of his face and neck. His armour, the pressure suit he had refused to remove - and after this, likely never would for the rest of his life - shielded him from the worst of it, but the few square inches that suffered the field did so in such overwhelming pain that thought was almost impossible.

Worse, he could feel the captive in his mind, not the penetrating intrusion that he had felt from Force users before; something far more clumsy, far more primal, a presence squeezing on his mind as if it were trying to crush his skull. He fought against it, tried to move, tried to demand that his body obey him despite the overwhelming invisible force that crushed him in place. Who was this man? What was this man? The few glimpses that Nychus could now see, closer than ever, saw a man pockmarked with scars and half-healed scratches; a man whose flesh seemed to ripple and move like the shudder-inducing shift of a Clawdite, a man whose half-open maw looked as if a Cizerack or a Shistavanen or some other predatory mammaloid had crawled inside to wear this human's skin as a suit.

All his will, all his effort went into one single goal: not breathing, not recoiling, not resisting the pain or restraining the screams that tore from his lungs; just one simple motion, a shift of the arm and a twist of the wrist, enough to bring his pistol to bear. The trigger squeezed, and an overcharged blast leaped forward; where once had been a power cable supplying energy to the force cage, now there was a smoking crater, singed conduit and deck plate half melted and twisted amongst the debris.

Nychus collapsed, the forcefield that had held him aloft suddenly gone, the wave of force that had pressed him against it vanished as well. He gasped for breath, every nerve ending screaming, to overcome and overloaded to even flinch as the captive slowly rose. For a moment he swore he heard it's body popping and cracking as it moved, it's bones and joints shifting far more beneath the skin than they should have. He felt it stare down at him; felt the anger, disdain, and pity that pressed against his mind. He felt the intent, the contemplation over whether or not to end Nychus' existence.

He felt him leave, stepping over Nychus' prone form without another thought.

A few moments passed before Nychus mustered the effort to move, an agonizing struggle finally hoisting himself back to his feet, the frame of the force cage used for support. His breaths were ragged, but that didn't stop him from speaking, a hand rising to trigger his comm. "Something is loose," he managed to say, deciding there was little point in mentioning his own culpability in bringing that to pass. Limping steps carried him towards the exit, and back into the corridor; injured or not, the security systems would not hijack themselves. "Watch your backs."

Limps became staggers, the wall needed for stability, the arm holding his pistol hanging limply at his side. As he reached the next doorway he slumped against it, a few moments permitted to properly regain control of his lungs. His eyes settled against a slightly faded stencil: eight simple letters of Aurebesh: SECURITY. Nychus' jaw clenched in disbelief.

"The universe hates me," he muttered, and then shuffled inside.

[Lúka Jibral]

Lúka flinched as somewhere in the facility - too close for comfort - he felt the clash between Orenth and Chir'daki begin. His pace slowed a little as he reached the next turn, drawing to a halt as they passed the intersection. He could feel something twisting in his gut, a sensation he wasn't accustomed to, and wasn't particularly prepared to feel. It wasn't guilt, he was certain of that: Orenth was a subject, an abandoned experiment and nothing more. He no more felt guilty for using a weapon for it's intended function than he would have a blaster or a missile. And yet it was not as far removed as he would have liked: regret, or something thereabouts. He had cared for Orenth, for Shen, and the others, for more years than he could remember. He had trained them; invested in them. In a strange way, despite everything, he had developed a fondness for them. He never forgot what they were, never forgot the simple reason that they existed; but there were times he almost did, times he almost allowed him to forget that they had been grown in this facility; times when he almost let himself think of them as people.

As his gaze turned to Shen, now was one of those times. She was not programmed for concern, not programmed for worry, or attachment. Such things were distractions, and her batch had been specifically conceived to be without those flaws. Yet to look in her eyes, to see some echo of the same conflicted emotions that Lúka felt himself somehow impossibly reflected there, it was hard to believe that she was as devoid of soul and emotion as she was supposed to be. Impossibly, she and the others were beginning to be, beginning to think for themselves, to feel for themselves, to contemplate, to question. Perhaps they had merely been exposed for too long to the thinking, feeling beings who cared for them. Perhaps it was the will of the Force, working in mysterious ways. It defied understanding. It should not have happened; and yet hear it was.

People they were not, but perhaps people they were becoming.

In a moment of weakness, Lúka reached out a hand, resting it gently against Shen's shoulder. "He fights to save us," he offered, pushing sincerity into his words, wishing he could somehow order Shen to believe him and be comforted. "This is a good end -"

His eyes shifted; glanced up the corridor to where one section of the facility merged with another, an inches-thick emergency bulkhead just waiting to be triggered to seal off the rest of the Archives.

"- and once we have closed that blast door, he will have succeeded in saving us."

[Shen]

It was not her place to question. It was not in her design, her core, her being. What the Keeper said was truth. Orenth would linger just long enough for the two of them to seek out safety; his last mission a success. He would have saved her.

Yet she felt the emotions of the hunter almost as keenly as the stoic sense of duty from her other. There were intentions there, lingering just under the surface amid the raging inferno of hatred; questioning, confusion, a desire to make an example out of the obstacle before him. The obstacle that meant nothing to the hunter. The obstacle that meant... everything to her.

That realization was startling, her own confusion drawing upon that of the hunter to become it's own small storm within her mind.

It took a few moments before Shen became aware of how the sensation had effected her physically. Her breathing had quickened, her heart raced and she felt sick, as having eaten something disagreeable.

Shen looked back to the Keeper, the same wave of feeling compounding even further when she realized the implications of what she was about to say. She had not been given a direct order, but they had all come to learn that there were expectations of them that were not always spoken, orders could be inferred.

Her eyes averted downward before she drew in a deep breath and forced herself to look back to the Keeper.

"I must go to him."

[Lúka Jibral]

Lúka understood. it was a strange kind of understanding, one that he could not justify or quantify, but he still somehow comprehended what Shen was trying to say, and what she was trying not to. These subjects, Orenth and Shen, they were like droids. They had not been programmed with personalities. They had never been intended to make moral decisions or to possess an opinion: they were meant to simply obey.

Yet, just like droids, if you left them operating long enough, compound error upon compound error started to evolve those things. They became loyal, they developed quirks of personality; they began to care. It was a complex conundrum, a great philosophical debate: was it the presence of humanity, or merely the illusion of it? Did Shen truly care, or was she simply opposed to the change in her operating criteria, too codependent on Orenth to tolerate being made to exist without him? Lúka couldn't be sure which it was; but right now it didn't seem to matter. Watching Shen wrestle with the internal conflict was painful. And yet -

"This was the logical choice, Shen," Lúka said, and while his voice phrased it as a reassurance, there was also a test concealed within the words, a curiosity wanting to be satisfied. "Sacrificing Orenth guarantees your safety. If both of you challenge Chir'daki, there is a high probability that neither of you would survive; that nether of you would remain."

Lúka paused for an agonizingly long beat. "Do you value the slim possibility of Orenth's survival more than you value your own life?"

[Shen]

She could sense there was more to the question than simply what was asked. Perhaps nothing tremendous, but it carried the weight of other things that the Keeper had asked before. Trials. Tests. Fact finding. Whatever the purpose, there was no doubt in her troubled mind that this was such a time.

Shen considered what had been asked of her, let it seep into her to try and quell the whirlwind of thought and emotion that continued to buffet at her senses. To weigh the value of one life against another, that was no difficult task. Everyone had their uses, their purposes, their benefits and their faults. Each could be compared and analyzed given a situation, but this was different. This was a matter of self preservation versus something Shen was not entirely certain of.

Her gaze slowly drifted away from the Keeper, eyes sweeping across bulkheads to ultimately end up peering at a blank space of wall where if she had the ability to see through, her vision would have been filled with the sight of the hunter and it's would be prey.

Orenth was not - could not - be someone's prey. Not if she could stop it. Not if there was a chance, no matter how small in percentage.

"Yes."

[Lúka Jibral]

He could sense the thoughts echoing around in her mind; not that there was any need, they were plain to see behind her eyes. It was the answer that Lúka had and hadn't expected; the one that made no sense, and yet he knew that he would receive. Whatever this unplanned, unpredicted, unexplained bond that had emerged between Orenth and Shen, it was far from an insignificant variable. It took a lot for emotion to override logic; took a lot for a being to be convinced that the nonsense option made perfect sense. It was heartbreaking to watch, and fascinating in equal measure. The things that could be learned about their neural matrix from proper dissection of this one incident alone -

Are things we will never know.

Lúka found himself facing his own illogical choice. The loss of Orenth was unfortunate, but his superiors would understand the wisdom behind it. They would understand the strategic value of the sacrifice. Of the two, it was Shen with her natural affinity for healing that had proven most useful; it was her that held more objective value. He would be forgiven, for making the right choice. But to allow both to die? To allow the project to incur such losses on the basis of an imaginary emotional reaction? Lúka could not justify making that choice.

And yet that was exactly what he did.

Wordlessly, he reached for his belt, unfastening the newer, fire-bladed lightsaber that he had constructed for himself. Further compounding his mistake, he supposed: it was one thing to allow Shen's suicide mission; another thing to facilitate it in some way. Regardless, he reached out, gently taking hold of Shen's forearm, raising it enough so that he could press the 'saber hilt into her hand. He looked at her, peered into her eyes, searching for the glimmer of a soul that she should not have and yet somehow seemed to possess. Her gaze wasn't as empty as it had been in the past; her eyes less lifeless; he wondered how much was truly there, and how much was him projecting his own attachments onto her. It didn't matter now. It was a wasted thought; one he would never find himself needing to contemplate again.

His hand slid away, hesitating close to her for a moment before coming to rest upon her shoulder. "May the Force be with you," he uttered softly, and then turned away.

[Orenth]

Chir'daki was as relentless as gravity. Every blow sent shockwaves through the muscles that tried to resist it, every impact of his greatsaber against Orenth's own indigo blade rattling his bones and sapping away at his strength. Orenth ducked and avoided, movement taking every opportunity to convert a direct hit into a glancing blow, every wild swing of the greatsaber countered with the precision placement drawn from Orenth's Makashi training, but some still managed to strike true against Orenth's defenses. Chir'daki's strength was boundless, fueled by seeming infinite rage: Orenth had no means to compete with that, no emotions to draw upon to bolster his attacks.

For a fleeting moment he reached out with his mind, a quick glance into the Force to glimpse the progress of the evacuation. People were still here; too many lives still left to save. His perception had been to swift to sense Shen and the Keeper, and there was no time beneath Chir'daki's assault to look any longer: he would simply have to prolong this fight until there was not a single other being left alive in the complex. It was the only way to be sure.

The greatsaber swung again, and Orenth evaded, a fluid pattern of steps dancing him out of Chir'daki's path completely, the greatsaber humming harmlessly through the air beside him. Each blow was evaded to the best of his ability, each dodge practiced with calm indifference. Orenth perceived the way that he was loosing ground. He sensed that every time he robbed Chir'daki of a satisfying blow, the frustration further fueled the assailant's anger; further bolstered the already considerable strength of his attacks. Orenth responded with emotional neutrality, and sage-like clarity. Another blow was deflected, off to the side this time; a shove of Force added with Orenth's offhand nudged Chir'daki off balance. He snarled. Orenth retreated a few paces, readying himself for the next attack.

For a moment, he allowed himself to listen to the messages that his body was sending him: to the ache of his muscles, the softness and shake of his legs. For his body's sake, it was unwise to continue; exhaustion would surely set in soon, and as much as Orenth drew on the Force for aid, he could not offset such things for long. But there was no need to worry, no need to factor in that consideration. If his body failed, then his body failed: all he required from it was a few more minutes of excursion, and then he would never require anything of it again. But even a few minutes of effort seemed too much to demand. Surely there was another way.

He contemplated his surroundings, noting the relatively narrow but tall proportions of the corridor. In other aspects of his training, he had learned to use the Force to perform feats of agility and acrobatics, to leap higher heights, to run faster, to jump and dodge and sprial and spin through the air. That physical training and his lightsaber practice had never overlapped, the Keeper's instruction focused entirely on the form and poise of Orenth's combat technique, and on fighting an equal. The Keeper had told him that he might one day be called upon to apprehend a rogue Jedi, to defend against such warriors; but Chir'daki was not a Jedi, not compared to any of the knowledge that Orenth possessed, at least. He was far from Orenth's equal; this battle required more, these circumstances demanded more than just the training Orenth had received. Like the cage, this was not something that Orenth had been trained to do: it required a strategy that he would have to calculate for himself.

Orenth didn't wait for Chir'daki's attack this time, springing into an advance of his own. A sudden stride, and the Force pushed the ground away from beneath him. A moment later, and a foot thrust against the wall, launching him in a diagonal arc into the air above Chir'daki. The assailant, startled, swung to defend himself: Orenth let that blow clash against his lightsaber, stealing Chir'daki's strength and using it to catapult him further still, up and over. The instant Orenth's feet found the ground again he span, a graceful pivot on his heel sending his lightsaber in a broad arc, a sweeping finish that would surely sever Chir'daki's spine.

The instant the lightsaber made contact with Chir'daki's armour, it spluttered and crackled into nothingness. Cortosis then, Orenth mused. Hypothesis proven, at least.

[Chir'daki]

Chir'daki felt the impact of the blade against his body, and for a fleeting moment he forgot about the Jensaarai shell wrapped around him. The shock and fear lasted only an instant though, and Chir'daki's reflex was instant. An arm lashed out, the Force and cortosis armour slamming into Orenth, a heavy blow that sent him sailing through the air to land heavily against the deck several meters away.

A hand reached for the small of Chir'daki's back. Though his gloved fingers could feel little detail, there were scuffs and scars that hadn't graced the armour before. Cosmetic damage for the most part; Orenth had not managed to open a vulnerability in his protective coating.

A sickening grin split across Chir'daki's features. He turned, his fingers wrapping around the hilt of his greatsaber, holding it aloft as he advanced on Orenth with the slow deliberate pace of an executioner marching to the gallows. "Impressive, little Jedi," he conceded, coming to a halt at Orenth's feet, watching a slow trickle of blood creep it's way from the corner of his opponent's mouth, "But you are woefully outmatched."

His face turned somber, less out of respect and more out of reverence for the sweet, satisfying death that he was about to inflict. He raised his greatsaber high, twisting it in his grip to point downwards, ready for a strike that would surely puncture through Orenth's prone body and the deck beneath with equal ease. There was a whiff of madness in Chir'daki's eyes as he stared down.

"No one warrior can ever be a match for me."

[Shen]

"Then perhaps two will prove more your match."

For all he madness and rage that rolled off the hunter in near tangible waves, her voice and figure was filled with utmost calm. Shen knew what she was facing, knew the odds of success versus failure, there was no reason for agitation. The sight of Orenth on the floor did add a certain edge to her, though. It wasn't anger for what the hunter had done as he had only done what was expected and correct for his nature, but that same disconcerting twinge of emotion she had felt when her other had been sent on his mission threatened to overwhelm her again.

A single stride was taken forward, the grip on the lightsaber hilt in her hand adjusted before the orange blade sprang to life. She had not been taught how to posture, how to appear threatening and issue a challenge, but Shen could not deny that she had captured the hunter's attention.

[Orenth]

Orenth didn't pass up an opportunity when one presented itself. Taking advantage of Chir'daki's momentary distraction, he rolled aside and used the Force to catapult him back to his feet, retreating a few paces to bring himself alongside Shen. His lightsaber gripped in his left hand, the way that felt most comfortable and natural, gave him the opportunity to snare Shen's fingers with his own as he stood beside her, the way he had reflexively found himself doing earlier. Then, it had been a comfort, a strangely satisfying way of knowing that their proximity to each other was real, and tangible. Now it was something else: still a reinforcement that the other was there, but more than that, it was if the physical connection between them somehow merged their auras, shared their strengths, made them stronger than they could possibly be while they were apart. It was not logical, and yet Orenth knew that he believed it. Blasphemous as it was to even consider, he knew that the Keeper's estimation of their chances of survival were wrong, because he knew that there was a variable that the Keeper had not considered. Orenth and Shen were not just two: they were more than two. They were a shield wall. United we stand. Greater than the sum of it's parts.

"You came back for me."

The words were simple and unadorned, and yet they conveyed many sentiments and permutations. There was gratitude, but also criticism. Shen had been safe, and now she was not. The Keeper had given them instructions; Shen had disobeyed. It went against what they had been taught, and what they implicitly knew. it went against who they were, and who they were supposed to be. She had come back for him. She was risking her existence for him. She was trying to save him, with just as much determination as he was trying to save her. It all coalesced into a single notion; a single question; one he willed at her with all his might, letting the thought flow through his veins and neurons, transmitted down his arm, through his hand, and into hers.

Why?

[Shen]

I had to.

It was a simple statement, complete in it's certainty and yet there was hidden nuances as well. Another unfamiliar addition. Sentimentality that would otherwise not be present. Emotions that could not be fully comprehended. Where others may have taken the sense of confusion that came from experiencing something so unfamiliar and used it as reason to be alarmed, Shen accepted it for what it was. New experiences. Necessary experiences. New understandings of exactly what her and Orenth were to one another. A missing piece, an addition, a necessary component for full productivity. Yet it wasn't quite that simple, there were other things that Shen had no words for but felt just as strong in terms of attachment.

Come, we face this together.

A gentle tightening of her hand on Orenth's came before Shen diverted full attention towards the hunter, calling upon The Force to enhance her perceptions, to better gauge the distance between them, to feel where he stood in relation to all around him. This was no longer a mission of delaying, this was ensuring the threat did not take away what was vital to her - to them.

While Shen was not incapable of physical combat - far from it - it had never been her forte. She was a healer, a soother, a mender of wounds and spirit. She had been taught the opposite, of course, and now was the time to use it. Teaching of how to push emotions forward to another, to help calm a wounded individual had not been at the forefront, but Shen had learned all the same. The same concept was applied here, only she drew upon the emotions the hunter was feeling, confusion, rage, anger and at the core found the necessary component. Fear. Fear of the unknown, of the uncertain, of the unanswered. The Force guided her as she expanded upon that sensation, inflating it, letting it consume their attacker.

The soothing process had proven quite potent and useful against those she had been instructed to utilize it upon. But this was not a test subject, this was a skilled hunter capable of using The Force himself. How effective her assault may be, Shen was uncertain, but perhaps it would give enough distraction for Orenth to lead the attack with blades successfully.

[Chir'daki]

Chir'daki watched the unspoken exchange - and it was an exchange; he could feel the connection flowing between them, even if he could not perceive the content. He saw the way they looked at each other, the stunted and simplistic emotions of animals playing out behind their eyes, any hint of understanding completely absent. Yet he could feel the way they fed from each other's strength, as if their auras intertwined like the poles of a magnet, the Force flowing from one to the other, wrapping around them both. His eyes narrowed.

"Your services are not required, healer."

The hunter's tone was dismissive; scathing. This new annoyance was known to him. He had encountered her before, after he had apprehended Vittore Montegue and delivered him to this place to be questioned. Invasively. Every day his torturer had shattered bone and carved through flesh; each time he reached the brink of what his body could survive, they sent for this one and with a wave of hands and a gentle touch, she would knit the fibres of his body back together so that all could begin again. Chir'daki had merely been an observer, much to his frustration: he would have preferred to work on the Montegue boy himself but there was -

Chir'daki frowned. There had been a reason that it was someone else's blade piercing Montegue's skin. There had been a reason. Yet, try as he might, he could not recall: there was only a blankness, an uncomfortable sensation like static against the inside of his skull, driving away his attempts at memory. Not again. Chir'daki's memories were precious and few. What had they done to him? How had they affected him this way? Were they responsible for the amnesia that had robbed him of everything but the last few years of his life?

Was she responsible? He felt her mind pressing against his. Felt her presence trying to weigh down on his thoughts, to subdue his anger like a beast in a net. No. No more intrusions into his mind. No more intrusions into his psyche. His anger flared. His hand lashed out. The Force extended from him, wrapping it's way around Shen's throat. Chir'daki's voice escaped as a snarl.

"I will not be toyed with again, little girl!"

[Shen]

Despite knowing better, Shen had truly been over confident in her actions, and as such the hunter's retaliation came as an utter surprise. The strangled gasp that left her threatened to sever the connection she had with Orenth. Cut offAlone. It could not be allowed.

Instincts she did not know she possessed urged her to claw at her throat, to loosen the unseen pressure that cut off necessary air from filling her lungs. Yet Shen remained still, flinching eyes focused upon the one who wished to cause her harm even as her hand tightened on Orenth's. She knew he sensed her distress, knew he felt the tightening as if it were his own trachea being manipulated by The Force, there was no need to try and further make her other aware of what it was the hunter was inflicting upon her.

If she had been alone she would have succumbed. Perished. Failed. Together, though. Together she was stronger. She felt herself drawing inward, energy collecting towards her core before suddenly shooting upwards. A physical reaction came with the sensation, body moving as if it were trying to expel something - and in truth it was. Another choked breath came, exhaled sharply as best as managed as she fought against the tightness, pressing it outward from the inside. Force to match Force.

It felt as if she was prying a chain from around her throat without making a single move. Yet it was not enough. The pressure was lifted, but just barely. A plea was sent to her other.

He will not relinquish. I cannot stop him.

[Orenth]

Then I will make him relinquish.

Without another instant of hesitation, Orenth surged forward, the Force compelling him into a leap so swift that he was upon Chir'daki within the blink of an eye. All his strength, all he could muster, was thrown through his muscles, carving his lightsaber down in a sweeping arc that slammed into the hunter's outstretched arms. Any other man, and he would have collapsed to his knees, clutching the cauterised stump that Orenth would have left him with. Instead he merely chuckled, mouth splitting into a predatory grin as once again the lightsaber sparked and spluttered the instant it contacted the cortosis.

The hunter turned his attention as if to speak, his confidence pressing down upon Orenth like a blanket of lead. Overconfidence. It was too late.

The air shimmered as Orenth mustered every scrap of Force that his mind could influence, unleashing it in an exploding pulse-wave from the palm of his hand, now mere inches from Chir'daki's armoured chest. The wall of telekinetic force hurled Chir'daki backwards with such a sudden shock that the greatsaber tumbled from his grip, blade carving a rut in the floor where it landed. Chir'daki's own impact with the ground was momentarily delayed by a slamming contact with the distant wall. When gravity took hold, his stunned reflexes barely had time to catch himself on one knee before he crumpled entirely to the floor.

Orenth's eyes didn't deviate from him for even an instant. They did not look away from Chir'daki as he triggered the blade of his lightsaber once more. They did not look away as with a flick of his wrist, Orenth carved the tip of his 'saber blade through the hilt of Chir'daki's greatsaber, the oversized crimson beam of energy fading into nothing as the weapon became two singed and sparking halves. They did not look away as Orenth retreated backwards in deliberate paces, his hand snaring Shen's once more, fingers interlacing.

Finally they looked away. They looked to her.

We will stop him.

[Shen]

As the hunter was disarmed, the pressure she had been focusing on keeping at bay around her throat dissolved. Shen was capable of performing multiple tasks, but the hunter was formidable and had taken far more of her strength than she had suspected necessary. Now she was free to act in full capacity. It was not vengeance or reaction to a slight that would guide her. It was necessity.

Her grip on the lightsaber given by the Keeper tightened, its fiery blade still live. The others hand was likewise tightened around for an instant before she released him, fingers splaying as Shen reached out to the Force to grasp hold and lift the hunter from where Orenth had left him. At first the movement was a gentle lifting, but an accompanying swift curling of her fingers trashed the hunter against the wall behind him once more and pinned him in place.

"Your rage is all consuming. It weakens you." If any emotion could have been said to colour her voice, it would have been a sense of serenity. "It has sickened you, like an animal who has been poisoned to madness."

Slowly she stepped forward, knowing Orenth would do the same. "And as such a creature, you cannot be allowed to persist," a moment of silence was allowed as her head gently lilted to the side.

It was clear the hunter was powerful and the skill and prowess to be truly great. If under the right guidance he perhaps would have left his name upon the galaxy rather than simply extinguishing all that came in his path. It was sad, if any emotion could be felt. "You have squandered your potential."

[Orenth]

Orenth's motions mirrored Shen's completely: sabers held in opposite hands; an echoed reach stretching out towards the hunter, directing their combined influence over the force towards their adversary. Orenth felt the determination from his other, contributed his own force of will to the crushing pressure that they placed upon his body and chest. He could feel the exotic metals of the adversary's armour begin to bend and buckle. He could feel the beast straining and struggling against their projected restraints. It was strong. Too strong. Even together, the hunter challenged their abilities, his wellspring of rage continuing to fuel his seething strength. Orenth could feel the hunter's muscles straining away from the distant wall. He could feel the focused anger, the intention to unleash himself and inflict harm upon them both. The Keeper had known this would be the case. The Keeper had known that even together they would be no match. That was why the Keeper had sent him alone; had tried to spare Shen from experiencing the same fate. That was why -

No.

The notion was resolute, and absolute in his mind. Orenth wasn't sure if it had originated with him or his other, but it didn't matter. The Keeper was always right, and yet in this he had been mistaken. They would exceed his expectations. They would outperform his expectation of them.

"Now witness our potential."

The words tumbled from his lips unbidden. The motion of his arm was born of instinctive action, not control. For a moment his hand seemed to sag and retreat, but then it surged forward anew, gathering the Force around it, compressing the ethereal energies into tiny pinpricks of light. In an instant they surged forward, arcing and crackling through the air between, ripples of blue coursing across the hunter's golden plate and biting at his exposed flesh.

"Yield," Orenth commanded, with calm insistence. "There are no answers for you here. Walk away, while you still have the opportunity to seek them."

[Chir'daki]

Pain. Searing. It tore through his skin. Carved into his bones. Lanced into his mind like needles. He could feel it shredding at his consciousness; battering at his resolve. The onslaught lasted mere seconds, but the echo of it - the persistent whisper of agony, the stabbing spasms of his muscles, the aching aftertaste it left behind - persisted long after. Chir'daki felt his resolve falter and weaken. How was this possible? How did these two hollow creatures, these shallow figments of people, malformed and incomplete as they were, possess the strength to rival his power? How could their serenity and their intent be a match for the righteous rage that fuelled Chir'daki's actions?

He felt himself slump inside his armour, his body desisting it's resistance against the duo's persistent grip. He felt unconsciousness beckon. Surrender. Defeat. Yield, his electrocutioner had said.

"I."

The word was forced out through struggling lungs, straining to escape past the pressure on his chest.

"Do not."

The words gave him strength, muscles surging into action, prising himself away from the wall, willing himself forward, his own propulsive use of the Force pressing back against theirs like two raging torrents of water clashing together.

"Yield!"

As the last word was uttered, an explosion of power ripped through the corridor, the Black Archives complex shuddering around them. Like a wild animal bursting from a cage, Chir'daki surged free, staggering forward as the Force pressure against him released, managing to catch himself on his knees. Breaths panted out of him, ragged and feral. Blood pooled at the corner of his mouth, seeping from a wound bitten in frustration.

"I am Chir'daki."

With each moment, with each snarled word, his strength seeped back to him, his anger and outrage reaching out into the cosmos to draw unto him all the power he could muster. How dare they? How dare these feeble creatures dare to challenge him? Were they so foolish that they did not understand who he was?

"I am death seed incarnate. I am a plague, a pestilence that cannot be halted. I am death without cure, and I will tear your spines from from your bodies with my bare hands! You will lie bloody at my feet, and in your dying moments you will know -"

[Lúka Jibral]

"Bheith fós, Onith!"

The words bellowed from Lúka's lungs as he burst into view, still questioning the unshakeable impulse that had brought him here. To his mind, it was some misplaced sense of loyalty; obligation; sentiment. Some notion that his duty to safeguard these experiments extended to protecting them at risk to his own life. He hoped it was something else, prayed that there was some rational factor at play rather than his own human frailties. Yet, the tug that he had felt, drawing him down the corridor in Shen's wake, pulled not from his trained instincts but from something deeper within him.

The Force, he decided: the comfortable lie, so easy to blame. The Force wills this.

He came to a halt, positioning himself behind his two charges, one hand resting upon Shen's shoulder - for restraint, not for comfort; or at least he hoped as much - while the other reached out, a soothing gesture as if trying to subdue a wild animal. Not far from the truth he supposed, all things considered. He reached out with his mind as well, teachings and practises he had learned while among the Jedi Order of old, soothing across Chir'daki's psyche, draping a blanket of serenity across him like a hood upon a bird of prey.

"You are Onith. Éisteacht, agus a bheith mar a bhí roimhe."

[Onith]

Chir'daki pounded against the inside of his skull, rattling against the bars of the cage his mind and programming had trapped him within. He roared, screamed, thrashed; but to no avail. From the outside, his inner turmoil was cool and silent, a storm raging away beneath the surface of a tranquil lake.

Onith blinked with Chir'daki's eyes, taking a moment to focus, and recognise his surroundings. His gaze found the Keeper, and understanding began to slowly flourish. Instructions. A task. He was needed. He would obey. Slowly he rose from the ground, his body no longer rippling like the vornskyr that Chir'daki seemed to emulate; and turned himself to face the Keeper directly, a deferential bow of his head offered to the man two whom his obedience was programmed.

His hands settled behind him, loosely clasped like a soldier standing at ease on parade.

"I await instructions from Sarlacc," he announced with calm monotony. "What is required of me?"

[Lúka Jibral]

Lúka let out the smallest of sighs. This was not how the plan was supposed to proceed. This was not the path down which Onith was meant to travel. Yet, anything to do with this unruly failed experiment was a gamble: a volatile force of destruction, aimed by Sarlacc at objectives and enemies where restraint was secondary to devastating effect. In the past, his successes had been numerous, and his value great. There was great benefit for Sarlacc in having the services of a notorious bounty hunter, particularly one with the kinds of connections that his Chir'daki persona had managed to cultivate.

Recently however, his effectiveness had begun to falter. Questions and hesitations crept into the constructed personality's mind, buffeting the gaps and cracks in a psyche that had been haphazardly thrown together when Onith had pried himself away from the program and fled into the galaxy. In recent months he had begun to fail, the only mitigation coming from a change of whim in the attitudes of Lúka's superiors towards Emelie Shadowstar and her associates. But tides turned and winds changed; an order reversed could just as easily be reiterated. Onith was a volatile risk and yet, despite it all, there might still be a use for him within the grand plan. Perhaps if Onith's imprint was reinstated, that might smooth over the structural insecurities of his mind, like plaster smoothing across cracked walls: far from a permanent solution, but enough to restore at least a little of his usefulness. But the equipment was boxed, and Chir'daki's associates still tore through the compound. There was neither the opportunity, nor the time.

"Your other self has questions. They must be suppressed."

Lúka contemplated the instructions he had received. Salvage all that can be salvaged; destroy the rest.

"Gather Chir'daki's associates, and return to Cloud City. You will tell them that you found what you were seeking. You will refuse to answer further. You will cease questioning the past that you have been given. You will not seek out Sarlacc again."

Lúka's attention fell away, suddenly realising that his hand persisted upon Shen's shoulder. Onith remained where he was, unflinching; Lúka offered a nod of final confirmation of his instructions, before shifting his focus to his younger charges.

"Come, we must hurry. Little time remains."