Corellia: Home

[Ecidae Mandrill]

It was the one task of being a soldier that you never got used to.

The ability to adapt to the struggles and hardships of existence was a testament to the virtues of evolution. Adaptation was life; both in terms of biological needs, environmental needs, and emotional needs. You could put a sentient being through stresses of every sort, push the very envelope of their endurance, and somehow they would find a way to struggle through it, provided their will was strong enough and a few paltry provisions of food and water were met. Never was that fact more readily apparent than in war: soldiers deprived of almost every conceivable comfort somehow finding away to not only adapt to their deprivations but flourish in them, clawing their way to victory and then beyond it back into civilian life. Not everyone achieved that return transition to the same degree, and not everyone could reverse the adaptations to their behaviour and psyche back towards normalcy; but enough did to make those who couldn't the outliers. A commander had once called it the definition of a soldier: those who didn't return to normal, those who couldn't bring their minds back from the war, they were casualties, just as surely as if their bodies had been left out there on the battlefields. Soldiers, they were what they were because they came home.

That survival placed a burden upon those soldiers though; and that was what Colonel Mandrill had never grown accustomed to. Coming home while others didn't. Carrying the knowledge of those sacrifices, and conveying it to their families. Watching their heart break and the hope die in their eyes the instant their door opened to a uniform with the wrong man inside. Each time it was more than he thought he could bear. Each time he knew that he could never endure another condolence. Yet he did, time after time; fallen comrade after fallen comrade. He could retire, hang up his uniform, spare himself from another lost subordinate: but that was surrender. That wasn't what soldiers did. So he adapted. He survived. War after war. Death after death.

He watched the light die in a mother's eyes as she realised her daughter would never know the man who'd helped to give her life. He watched the bleakness, the despair and desperation. How would she live? How would she cope? How could she raise their child with only half a heart? He watched it turn into anger, against the Empire, against the cause, against the husband; against him. He had no business fighting your war. He belonged at home with his family. The mother was right: her husband was a casualty, not a soldier. A tragic loss, not a survivor. His vast red eyes had narrowed, struggling to display the kind of sympathy that his Duros features were ill equipped to convey.

I am sorry for your loss.

The words were a mantra, uttered by every army after every battle since the dawn of time. Sorry for your loss. Sorry for our loss. Sorry for loss, in all forms, at all times. Adaptation was life; and life was entropy, the slow descent from order and structure into homogeneous chaos. You couldn't stop it. Couldn't prevent it. The only way to fight it was to answer entropy with entropy, fire with fire; inflict more losses upon them than they did upon you, until one side had lost too many soldiers to continue on. But that truth wasn't a comfort. A vow of vengeance wouldn't appease an aching heart. The mother asked for it anyway.

You make those bastards pay. Drive them from our home. Burn their whole fucking Empire to the ground.

Ecidae had placed a hand upon her shoulder, a solemn nod his only reply. The mother was a soldier. She'd find a way to survive.

The dank, damp air assaulted Colonel Mandrill's lungs as he stepped from the apartment complex into the bleak Coronet rain. It was a strange twist of fate: the factories that the Resistance's efforts had destroyed, the noxious fumes that they had spared the atmosphere from, had thrown the climate into disarray. Nature, startled, had surged into action, endless torrents of slick, oily rain pouring over the city for months at a time. Fitting, he supposed. The Empire insisted upon blaming the Resistance for every dark thing that befell Corellia: at least if the Imperials blamed them for the rain, there'd be a kernel of truth beneath it all.

A set of long, spindly fingers tugged a deathstick from a battered cardboard box, depositing it between Ecidae's lips as he fumbled for a light. They'll kill you, the doctors and the conscientious commenters went to great lengths to inform him. Of course they bloody would. What sane creature would expect something called a deathstick to do anything less? For now though, the numbing properties of the burning fungus were more than welcome; and besides, deathsticks or not, he'd die eventually. It was all a matter of time; a race to see which entropy - drug, or blaster, or otherwise - would get the job done first.

Sucking in the first bittersweet wave of smoke and vapour, Mandrill allowed a little of the tension to release from his posture, transforming himself from poised and formal Colonel into slouching commoner. It was a blessing, he supposed, that humans were so broad and generic in their recognition of races and species that differed more than a little from their own: every Duros looked the same, a helpful shroud of anonymity for a man such as him. Drawing in another drag, deathstick gripped between his pointed teeth, Ecidae jammed his hands into the pocket of his jacket and trudged off into the sickly rain.

[Matatek Sel Vissica]

A shadow separated itself from that of a parked speeder across the street. It moved as Colonel Mandrill moved, and for that initial second, it might have been mistaken for one of the large hounds Corellians were so fond of.

But it was no hound. Nor was it content to merely shadow the Resistance leader. This was a confrontation.

The rain-slicked beast reared up on it's hind legs as it cleared into view, walking on two with as much ease as it walked upon four. The sight of a Selonian on Corellia was far from uncommon, but Ecidae knew better than to think this encounter as happenstance. If he did, the sight of the Imperial gear affixed to the breastplate of Lady Vissica's armor put that to rest with finality as it glinted in the faint streetlight.

"Colonel Ecidae Mandrill."

The Selonian spoke her enemy's name in a low, even tone as rainwater dripped down the fur at her chin. Her black-as-night eyes never wavered from her foe, even as a webbed hand drew up to her shoulder to pull free the massive greatsaber harnessed there.


SPRAAA!!

The white light of the Empress's Will illuminated both it's wielder and it's target, casting the scene in cool illumination as it threw back the shadows. Vissica held her weapon before her, not in guard, but open to the possibility that this meeting would end either in battle or in execution.

"My name is Matatek Sel Vissica. I am Knight to the Throne of Empress Miranda Tarkin. By Her edict, and by the sanctity of my word, I come to accept payment for your crimes with your life."

[Ecidae Mandrill]

The Selonian.

Mandrill wondered if the irony was by intent: if the Empire had deliberately delved into Corellian humanity's past, and extracted a once oppressed minority to reciprocate upon the rest of Corellia. Ecidae was unsure just how much support from the Selonian crown the Empire and their blockade had received: the Queen had always been vocal in her support of the Empire, but Selonia had been - thus far at least - a problematic environment for the Resistance's infiltration efforts.

Even so, Mandrill knew of this Selonian, even before the snap-hiss of her lightsaber and the utterance of her name. From the moment the Imperial Knights had set foot upon Corellia, the Colonel had dredged every scrap of information that he could muster, and had learned about this brutish hammer that the Empire crashed thoughtlessly against it's foes. He'd glimpsed SpyNet evaluations; drawn conclusions of his own. Blind loyalty. Brainwashed obedience. She spoke with a formality that seemed as absurd on Selonian shoulders as the armour she was encased in: a paltry disguise for the savage underneath.

Ecidae drew in a deep drag on his deathstick, pulling it away from his lips and rolling it contemplatively between his fingers. Silently, he cursed himself for not being better prepared for this situation. No slugthrower, no scattergun; no weapon that the Knight could not deflect harmlessly away, or harmfully back towards him. His hold-out blaster would be of little use. His hands casually wrapped around it's grip anyway, decades of practice keeping his movements and the weapon concealed until the opportune moment.

"Lets dispense with the theatrics," he replied, smoke chasing his words out through his lips. He angled his head, fixating on the smouldering ember at the tip of the deathstick, as close to a human look of disinterest towards the Knight as the Duros could achieve. "You are here to murder me in the street, nothing more. Less an act of Knightly nobility, and more the conduct of a petty thug, wouldn't you say?"

[Matatek Sel Vissica]

The Duro's attempts to bait Lady Vissica into debate on the ethical ramifications of her actions were wasted breath. The Selonian stood motionless, save for the metered rise and fall of her chest as she breathed. The rain continued to patter on the musteloid's oily coat, imparting a slick veneer to her cable-taut physique. The Selonian's silence was made even more profound by the occasional raindrop that fell into her blade with a popping hiss of vaporization.

He would not lecture her. This terrorist who orchestrated the deaths of so many thousands of people. Imperial officers, soldiers, and loyal subjects of Corellia. This butcher who condemned so many to die screaming indiscriminately, waging his hopeless intifada against the Galactic Sovereign and her rule of law. He deserved to suffer. To have his descent to oblivion marked at each milestone by a taste of the anguish he had unleashed. Empress Tarkin was wiser than this impulse for punitive torture. She demanded General Mandrill's life simply and expediently, without prolonged languishing. A quick and final death mark, delivered with grace and temerity.

"Run, fight, or submit. I give you the choice of how you wish to face eternity, General."

Vissica's broad webbed hand slacked and tensed it's grip on the knurled contours of her weapon.

"If you have last words to say, I will hear them and deliver them."

[Ecidae Mandrill]

Of course she would: to a point. From then on it would be fiction, and any true statement he made would go utterly unheard. By this time tomorrow, he would have been chased through the streets by the Empire's heroes, fleeing for his life only to beg for it on his knees like a coward. He would have spat bile and venom at the very name of the Empress. He'd probably have spent a lifetime consorting with whores and Sith by then, molesting children and exploiting the old and infirm. Every last juicy drop of propoganda would be wrung from his death. Declarations of victory would be built upon it; the Empire would believe the Resistance weakened, ready to crumble beneath the onslaught of their single act. Their Death Star. Their Tarkin Doctrine. It was their greatest flaw, their greatest weakness, their greatest mistake.

"It's funny."

A wave of calm, of certainty, of contentment washed over him. He stared at the deathstick in his fingers, the loser in the race between drug and destiny to end his life. He could run, of course, but that would only add truth to the lies that the Empire would tell. There would be no flight, no bargaining, no surrender to the Empire's fearmongering. He was a Son of Duro. He would die on his feet like a man.

"All these years, I thought I was a soldier. Only at the end do I see: I was always just a casualty, waiting to happen."

With a flick of his fingers he sent the deathstick tumbling off to the side, one last shower of embers before it was extinguished against the rain-sodden ground. That split second was all the distraction he needed; in the same fluid motion he ripped his holdout blaster into view, and in a blink of an eye had aimed it not at the Knight, but at himself. Muzzle pressed against the cerulean blue of his temple, a lopsided smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth, one final sentiment creeping into his mind.

"For Corellia," he uttered, with every ounce of resolve he had left.

The blaster whined; crimson flashed; and darkness fell.

[Matatek Sel Vissica]

Lady Vissica watched the light leave General Mandrill's eyes in time with the spark lighting against the side of his head. A single shot, clean and true to end the Duro's life on as much of his own terms as were possible. His body crumpled down at once, falling still against the rain-slicked pavement. His final act of rebellion to deny his executioner the opportunity to perform her duty. The Selonian Knight's black eyes never left the red eyes of her enemy, even now in their unnatural lifeless repose.

Every spoken word of a Selonian was a promise. Matatek Sel Vissica would carry the General's last words. They would not be misspoken out of pride or rancor or petty hatred. Not out of respect for her enemy, but because it was her solemn word.

[Soto Terius]

* * *

Cloud City

It was all over the holonet. Resistance Leadership Killed. Rebellion In Disarray. Every screen on Cloud City was plastered with those sorts of headlines in half a dozen different languages; in between the ones that branded the Corellian freedom fighters as terrorists or seditionists. The sad truth was that even back in the Alliance, the reports were much the same. Ever since the first Resistance strike against Coronet, the Alliance had been forced by the Treaty to decry the Resistance as criminals of the worst order. It didn't matter that these were the same men and women fighting the same causes that the Rebellion had championed mere months ago; the Alliance swallowed it's pride and it's principles, biting it's tongue in the interests of peace. At first it had felt almost noble: a sacrifice the Alliance was making, the discomfort of that guilt in exchange for the safety of the hundreds of worlds that now looked directly to them for protection.

That was the reasoning that Soto had clung to. That was the choice he had believed he was making: the fate of billions, over the fate of millions. The fate of five hundred worlds instead of just the five. Besides, Corellia didn't need Alliance sanctions. They were Corellians: liberty was in their bones. Their uprising against the Empire had been the birth of the Rebellion, and they would be it's aftermath, whether their former allies stood by them or not. It did not matter that the odds were stacked against them to an astronomical degree. The true Corellians would keep on fighting, until there was no longer even a single drop of still-warm Corellian blood left in the galaxy.

The abstenance burned him, though, like acid in his veins. Every intelligence report. Every news story. Every familiar landmark struck down out of desperation by soldiers left with no other way to fight. It was anarchy as much as strategy; and yet that was the corner that Corellia had been backed into. In his idle moments, Soto would consider his plans. How many ships he would need. How many soldiers. The bare minimum to swoop through the Core, shatter the blockade, and tear down the Imperial flags waving in the breeze above the Diktat's palace. The Alliance would never approve, and yet, day after day he chipped away, fewer and fewer resources, lessening the cost until Corellia's liberty became too cheap for the Senate to pass up such value.

But things had changed. The death of Ecidae Mandrill had been the final impulse, but the slide had begun weeks before, with the Imperial blockade of the Corellian Sector. That they had the gaul to take a haven of free trade and commerce and transform it into a prison for it's own citizens was bad enough, but for Soto it was deeper; more personal. At the head of the armada besieging his home was his own brother; his own blood. This affront against Corellia was being committed with his own name getting top billing. Perhaps it was petty. Perhaps it was the most foolish final straw in the history of back-breaking loads; but it didn't matter. Rinzai had gone too far this time; and Soto's moral fibre would not be suppressed any longer.

So he was here. Bespin. As far removed from the Alliance of Free Planets as he could get, while left to his own devices. It was the long way around, but there were no straight lines between the Alliance and Corellia; not any more. A civilian freighter from Jovan Station into Zeltron Space. A chartered transport, a few well-placed credits on bribes and false documents, and then a passenger courier all the way out to the Greater Javin. Could he have found someone along the way who was brave enough to run the blockade if offered enough credits? Perhaps. But Soto Terius wasn't in the market for brave and stupid. His credits were to be spent with the people who, rumour had it, could succeed.

A dull clunk sounded as the door's magnetic locks disengaged. A hiss of servos later, and a sliver of light pierced into the blackness of the room. Fingers laced together into his lap, one leg crossed casually across the other, Soto stared intently towards the silhouette now framed in the light of the corridor beyond.

"Mr Prent," he uttered calmly. "I was wondering when you'd get home."

[Sanis Prent]

The first thought that comes to mind when a guy like me sees someone in his room that definitely isn't paid help of the female persuasion is:

This is how it ends.

And it wasn't as if I hadn't considered the possibility. Sasseeri and I had only recently (sort of) reconciled. It wouldn't be beyond her to simply put me up somewhere to warm a seat for another player she trusted more, if she were even capable of trusting anyone. And if that were the case, removing me from play could be something as impersonal as this.

And yet, before the hand inside my coat could clear out with a gun in it's grip, I'd discounted that possibility. Though the man in front of me, and the possibilities he represented, were equally dangerous.

"Casino work calls for late hours." I deadpanned, slowly relaxing as I passed the threshold.

"If you're here for a nightcap, I'm afraid you're not my kind of girl Terius."

[Soto Terius]

A beat of silence passed before Soto's expression shifted, splitting into a grin that flashed pearly whites out from the darkness.

"You always did have lousy taste," Terius replied in a deep purr, a glint of mischief in his eye. Carefully he uncrossed his legs, easing himself from the appropriated chair with the kind of lazy, casual pace of a man who belonged. He tugged at the bunched up front of his jacket - hastily bought; it was absurd how barren your wardrobe became once you grew accustomed to wearing military uniforms day in, day out - as a few calm strides closed the distance between him and Black Sun's local lackey; not fast, not aggressively, and not too close.

"You'll have to forgive the intrusion, but -"

He shrugged, almost entirely with an eyebrow. A hand rose, a single digit circling slightly to gesture to the vast superstructure of Cloud City that surrounded them.

"- Bespin isn't exactly the most hospitable place for former Alliance Captains these days."

[Sanis Prent]

"It's not so bad if you're looking to change careers." I replied with a flippant smirk that hid the shared understanding. After all, I too had been a captain in the merry band back when everyone kept rotating between chef, cook, and bottle washer.

Taking a few more steps toward my desk, I pivoted back to my polite intruder.

"So, you realize how far past the wire you are, and you decide to jimmy the lock on the Company's franchise man on Bespin?"

A soft laugh.

"Spast. If you were looking to gamble, I would've just comped you to something posh."

[Soto Terius]

The air of joviality surrounding the former Captain lingered for a few moments longer, before a frown clouded it's way across the horizon, tugging his eyebrows together. A hand ran across his face, smoothing through the whiskers of his beard, wiping the last vestiges of his smile from his face. For a moment, the man before him had just been Sanis Prent; smuggler, former Rogue; the well-meaning ne'er-do-well he'd crossed paths with back in the days of The Wheel and the Rebel Alliance. For a moment he'd been just the freighter Captain with devastatingly good taste in starship manufacturers; someone whose ship Soto's old Corellian Engineering Corporation bones couldn't resist having a poke around in.

And then he said it. The Company. Black Sun. Two words that reminded Soto of the way that they'd ceased to be compatriots; and of the reasons that had brought Soto all the way here to the dubious outer edge of Imperial space.

"The Company is why I'm here, Mr Prent."

The gruff and growl of Soto's voice laboured over those words, purring over the syllables that allowed it, and draping grim reluctance over the rest. His mouth tugged in both directions as a grimace formed beneath his already pensively narrowed eyes, urges to turn away and to clasp his hands behind him, fold them across his chest, do something with his damned awkward-feeling arms flooding through his system. He resisted them all, stayed steadfast; locked an unwavering gaze square onto Prent's eyes.

"Much as it pains me to admit it, I have found myself in need of the Company's services."

[Sanis Prent]

"Oh really?"

I paused on my way to the bar, turning back at Soto with a rogue's grin.

"That sounds like something I'd expect from a Rebellion, but I figured an Alliance was too good for that sort of thing."

Of course we both had a pretty good idea of the why of it. Whatever had caused all the guns in the galaxy to stop firing, it had changed the calculus of how things were done. And more importantly where they were done. Resuming my bit of good manners, I dragged a finger across an array of curated bottles full of brown hospitality. Finding one to my like, I began the ritual of making my unannounced guest feel like I invited him to begin with.

"Of course, if your handlers have temporarily lost the stick up their collective asses, you'll be pleased to know that we're conveniently franchised for our customers, no matter how big of a fence the galaxy wants to build."

I pressed a tumbler into Terius's hand, hefting my own for emphasis.

"You met me on the wrong side of that fence, which I'll just mention isn't the smartest thing you've ever done. Let's just say you've got my attention with that stunt. It reminds me of the kind of thing I used to do."

[Soto Terius]

Soto hesitated at the mention of the Alliance. He felt a strange dull pinch at his shoulders, a reluctant absense of the uniform he'd grown so accustomed to being there. The tumbler that Sanis had provided became suddenly welcome, and the reaction to the alcohol he tossed down his throat became part of the same grimace as the reaction to the painful holocomm messages he'd endured with Bothawui the last few days.

"The Alliance and I have had a falling out."

Difference of opinion was probably the correct tactful turn of phrase, but Soto didn't find himself in that kind of mood. News of the blockade of Corellia, and news of his brother's prominent role had found it's way to Sluis Van, where Admiral Tyree had sent him to help develop new starships. A desk job. Worse than a desk job. There was a time when R&D had been a passion, back home with the Corellian Engineering Corporation. He'd helped convert Consular Cruisers into Republic Frigates. He'd helped convert Gozanti Cruisers into Imperial Assault Carriers for the New Order. Back then the challenge, the puzzle, the artistry of redesign and engineering had brought a sense of fulfilment. The Rebellion had changed that, turned him into a Captain, reminded him that serving a cause wasn't always enough: that sometimes you needed to be out there making a difference with your own bare hands.

So when the news of the blockade had reached his ears, he requested the change. He knew the Alliance would be meddling secretly in Corellia's affairs, but they denied all knowledge. He'd requested a ship, just a simple patrol assignment, a way to be some small part of whatever response the Alliance finally got around to making; they had politely declined. And so he was here, about to make a devil's deal with the devil he knew.

"I need to get home, Mr Prent," he explained, his voice deep and slightly hidden as he gazed at the fluid in the glass he held, words laced with subtext and unspoken meaning. "I was hoping that you'd be more willing to get me there than our former Alliance friends."

[Sanis Prent]

So this was a rogue spear sort of situation then. I took a contemplative sip of my bourbon, watching the light refract through crystal facets and amber liquid alike.

"That's a shame. About the falling out."

Which it was on a few levels. I'd parted ways with the Rebellion. Not really out of spirit, but more due to operational matters. Trying to save my own ass was a big part of that. But the new reality was that I didn't have any room for charity or free favors. Even if I did, I had a bottom line.

"I can smuggle you past the blockade. That's easy. The trick is that I have this nagging feeling that you're not exactly going home just to link up with family."

Actively moving rebels (since the rabble-rousers on Corellia could still own the word) into a conflict zone carried risk. The last thing I wanted was for the Empire to find a reason to turn the screws on the Company, or at least moreso than we could deal with.

"It's not the money, or at least, it's not the kind of money you'd have. I was hoping you'd still pull weight across the line. That might help me to help you."

[Soto Terius]

And there it was. The rub. The catch. The gentle reminder that dealing with the devil you know still meant dealing with a devil.

The shift in Soto's features was subtle, barely noticeable if you weren't looking for it. It wasn't a full transition to anger, but rather as if the civility and patience quietly drained itself away. He didn't scowl, didn't even sacrifice the faint smile on his lips or the familiarity in his tone; but there was the faintest edge there, a quiet sharpness that cut through the air of double talk and intentional obscurity that hung like a cloud between them.

"I have little patience for dancing."

He reached out, setting the glass down on a convenient surface, freeing his hands to interlace in his lap.

You know what I want from you, Mr Prent. What I need from you and your associates. So let's cut to the chase. How much of my soul is this going to cost me? Just how much do you plan on leveraging out of me on the Company's behalf?"

[Sanis Prent]

We were still talking, which I chalked up to a good thing. If he wasn't comfortable with selling a bit of his brand, he would've walked. If he was moral and smart, we wouldn't even be here.

I took another level off my spirits, pacing around my desk.

"Let's just say that politically-minded individuals aren't the only things the Empire is trying to keep away from the Five Brothers. There's also contraband. I'd read the list, but I don't think you've got all night to hear it."

Easing into my chair, I propped my feet at the far corner of the desktop.

"Among that list are a few...let's just call them pharmaceuticals. The Empire's pretty thorough about keeping the finished product from getting in, so we work in precursors. A little over the counter Gordian Flu medicine, a few trade secrets, and some all-natural Corellian flora."

I paused, resisting the urge to smirk and wink.

"All under the supervision of a doctor, of course. A nice prescription to deal with the symptoms of living on a planet under the thumb of an asshole."

It was time to get to the point, and I eased my feet back to the ground, sitting up slightly.

"I've already got the logistics and the supply flow. What I need is a little community service. Keep the Empire away from my bag men, my cooks, and my distribution. Throw a friendly tip my way if the heat gets turned up."

[Soto Terius]

It wasn't the worst thing that Sanis could have asked for.

The speed at which that justification presented itself was alarming. Sanis was a smart man: instead of something that would chafe against Soto's morals, he went with the grain. You want help smuggling yourself past the blockade? Then help do more of the same. It made the Empire seem like the victim here, their overbearing grip the only thing being subverted. It kept Soto's mind distracted, deflecting him from the notion that it was the people of Corellia who would ultimately suffer, if Soto helped establish the pipeline that would pump narcotics into their veins.

And yet, wouldn't that happen anyway? Without the blockade, drugs and contraband made their way to the streets of Coronet with relative ease, and Soto refused to accept that the throttling of imports that starved off the Corellian drug trade was somehow a benefit to the Corellian people. Besides, what position was he in to judge? The same smugglers who ran spice through the Empire were the ones who smuggled supplies and weapons to the Alliance back in the Rebellion days. They had all been breakers of the law back then, and you learned to choke down your distaste; let the ends justify the means. Was this any different? Were the tactics the Resistance would need to adopt any less dubious than this?

Soto's brow furrowed. It was an equation. Cost and balance. A chance to steer the Resistance in the right direction after the brutal death of it's former leader, an opportunity to be the prybar that would help free Corellia from it's Imperial shackles; traded against the knowledge that Soto was helping to feed the addiction and vice of his home and people. Vices they already had. Addictions they already suffered for the lack of. Was it his place to judge what Corellians chose to inject into their bodies? Did he, standing here on the precipice of terrorism, have any right to judge?

I can live with it.

That was the truth that mattered. It was a price his soul could afford. It was a relapse, a familiar scourge upon the Eldest Brother; a sickness to be cured at a later time. This was continuing to fight before a wound had already healed: you might tear your stitches, you might lose a little blood along the way; but if you won the fight, then you could worry about patching yourself back up again - and if you lost? Corellia would be too busy bleeding and dying with the Empire's boot at it's throat to care.

"The Empire is my enemy." The words were quiet, but heavy with meaning and dark gravity. "And on this matter, it is yours. That makes us allies, and I will aid you in subverting them as much as I can. But my cause is to protect the people of Corellia. The instant Black Sun begins to contribute to Corellia's downfall rather than it's liberty, our arrangement will end. You will have made yourself my enemy right there at the Empire's side, and I will deliver war unto your door with the most extreme prejudice."