Deliverance

[Ouran Akasha]

Victory is life.

He didn't remember who said it, or where he'd read it; but that was the phrase and notion that chose this moment to lodge itself in his mind like a thorn. As a concept, he liked it: it had layers, and permutations, that gave you something different depending on how you looked at it. Live or die. That was perhaps the most obvious: in war, often the only way to stay alive was to win. But you could flip that the other way, and say that to win was to survive: that life was itself a victory, over death, over time, and over your enemies. Even then, there was still more meaning to be mined. Fight to win. Live for war. Fight the battles where victory means everything: fight for ideals, for a cause, for something bigger than yourself. Fight battles so important that, even if you do die, your victory and your sacrifice and your legacy will live on. To a soldier, such thinking was a comfort, and was exactly the kind of loyalty that the Empire strove for. Military service and leadership was so much easier when the choice of possible outcomes was reduced to just one acceptable option.

The galaxy did not like that kind of simplicity. It did not like the binary state of win or lose. It chose a third option. Peace. If victory was life, and failure meant death, the Empire now found itself trapped in some limbo state between the two. The war was over, or so the politicians claimed, and neither side had won: not outright. The acceptable option, that the Empire would stop at nothing to crush the Rebellion from existence, had fallen by the wayside. What remained was doubt and uncertainty, no one entirely sure of the circumstances they found themselves in. By failing to destroy the Rebellion, had the Empire failed and lost? By achieving some shadow of legitimacy, had the Alliance somehow won? Or should the uncertainty attach to the assertion that the war was over, rather than merely paused, or transformed into some new form?

The Empire certainly acted as if the war had never ended. Though some forces had either defected or been seized by the Alliance of Free Planets, the Imperial military was still vast and formidable, far more ships than could possibly be required to defend the Empire's significantly reduced territory. That surplus was more than enough to stab into the heart of the Alliance and crush the Free Planets leadership effortlessly; but even as the Empire stood ready to grab their enemy by the throat, the Alliance gestured to the knife held ready beside the Empire's ribs, the Starkiller weapons that ensured that any action launched by the Empire would surely lead to mutual destruction.

Despite their surplus of resources, the Galactic Empire could not merely downsize it's military forces. The Empire ruled through strength, and to surrender their military would have been a sign of defeat and surrender. Instead they invested those forces in new ways, dedicating their efforts to an imposing defense of the new border, and brutal reactions to even the slightest hints of insurrection. If anyone was foolish enough to think that the Alliance set the precedent that rebellion was an effective means to oppose the Empire, that notion was disproved to ruthless effect: hardly unexpected of course, with a woman named Tarkin on the throne.

Currently it was Corellia that served as the leading example of Imperial reprisal. The renewed Corellian Resistance had thought that gestures and symbols would serve as an inspiration, rallying the disenfranchised to their banner. Instead, all they had done was brought the Imperial boot down on the throats of Corellia and her citizens, ever increasing pressure from the Blockade threatening to choke the life out of their naive uprising. The Deliverance had served a tour there, interdiction duties against attempts to smuggle weapons and supplies to the Resistance, and Akasha had watched as Imperial forces dragged civilians from their shuttles, tearing the innards apart in search of the one inevitable insignificant item of contraband that was enough throw fathers and husbands into force cages, and ship wives and humans back to Corellia to fend for themselves. It was harsh. It was ruthless. It was callous and cold. It was also the cost of victory: a cost that Akasha's own heart had already paid in full. No citizen of the Empire whose loved ones still breathed had any right to protest the minor inconvenience of incarceration.

The military was not the Empire's only response to the new status quo. For a year now, the Imperial Knights had trained, and studied, and hunted, a more practical replacement for the Jedi Order of old. While the Galactic Republic had simply bestowed military leadership upon its Jedi out of tradition and convenience, the Empress prepared her Knights specifically for that task. These were not the diplomats or philosophers of the Old Republic: they were warriors, Commanders and Generals by merit not coincidence. There was discomfort, certainly: many within the military felt a sense of unease that so much faith and authority was being placed in people who under Palpatine's rule would have been hunted and executed, or otherwise dragged off into the shadows. The Jedi Order had shouldered much of the blame for the downfall of the Old Republic, sharing it only with the non-human races who had conspired in the Separatist plot that facilitated the Jedi betrayal. Captain Akasha was not quite as swayed by such public sentiment and propaganda as many of his peers, of course; but even he could empathise at least slightly with that breed of concern.

That said, the entire principle of the Imperial Knights appealed to him. The Force was neither good nor evil: it was a tool, a weapon, one that could be adapted and exploited to the Empire's ends just like any other. The same crystals that powered the Jedi lightsabers had been what gave the Empire the power to destroy entire worlds, and the midichlorians in the veins of these Imperial Knights was so different. Better yet, the Imperial Knights seemed to understand the virtues of knowledge, of insight, and of experience. That was what had brought the Deliverance to Imperial Center today: the opportunity to play a small part in the forging of these new weapons for the Empire.

Ouran tugged down on the front of his uniform, smoothing out the creases before clasping his hands behind his back, patiently waiting for the boarding ramp of the Delta-class shuttle currently cluttering his landing bay to descend. His eyes settled on the figures waiting at the ramp's summit. The Cadet was well-dressed, his uniform a perfect example of regulation, and his stance a prime example of the poise it took to wear one correctly. His droid companion gave Captain Akasha a moment of pause, not quite the Imperial protocol droid he had perhaps been misled to expect, but he brushed such thoughts aside for now, focusing his attention on the Knight-in-training.

"Cadet Redsun."

His voice was not warm, and yet lacked any harshness or hostility; and it carried with it a confidence, and perhaps a subtle hint of pride, though not enough to suggest arrogance. It was the voice of a man who was content with this assignment, mundane as it might seem, and who was pleased to have the opportunity to show this young man why he should feel so lucky to be placed as an observer on such a fine example of an Imperial ship.

"I am Captain Ouranos Akasha. Welcome aboard the Deliverance."

[Jeryd Redsun]

"Captain Akasha." Jeryd came to a stop before the captain, and greeted him with a crisp salute, "Thank you, sir."

Like all captains of Her Majesty's Imperial Navy, Captain Ouranos Akasha was blessed with a gaze carved from ice. He was reminded, at once, of his father's own frosty glare. Height was his defence. At rigid attention, his line of sight sailed comfortably over the captain, and his gaze. It was too early to consider first impressions. Still, he wondered. Was he in the presence of another Weximan Redsun? A distant minefield of a man; an Imperial cliché wrapped in pride. Or was Captain Akasha something else? The circumstances were familiar. It was not his first time aboard a ship like this, and everything, from the hint of grease clinging to the sterile air, to the stark lights that gave plastoid its pristine gleam - it was all so familiar, seared onto his memory like a hot brand upon flesh. A pang of nostalgia threatened to rebel against his outward demeanour, it was swept aside, along with the thought of a life that could have been.

Jeryd couldn't complain. In a roundabout way, the Imperial Knights were providing him everything he ever wanted from a military career: command, responsibility, purpose. If anything, his time aboard the Deliverance was to be an appetiser for the feast to come, and he'd savour every moment. Back at the Citadel, things were going well; he contributed to classes, his test results were climbing, his performance in the piloting simulations was improving, and he was finally able to use the Force without looking like he was trying to pass a particularly stubborn turd. He was becoming popular, again, even with some of the aliens, although there was only one alien whose affections he craved, but, despite his best efforts, there had been no developments on that front. He had found himself wondering if she would even notice his absence. At least he had Neb to miss him, and, even though it was not his first time away from the Citadel, he'd never been gone for very long. This time, though? Who knew? Neb would be fine - it was a mantra to which he often returned - as unassuming as he was, Neb was far more capable and savvy than people realised. He was going to miss his strange little friend. But at least he had Ivy for company.

His companion, a veritable relic of the Clone Wars, stood at remarkable odds with his Imperial surroundings. It was always easy to tell who had and hadn't met him before, because of the surprised first looks he received. Jeryd liked that about Ivy, he wore his differences on his reinforced durasteel sleeve. Despite the familiarity of his new environment, he took some comfort in the droids presence, beside him. Perhaps that was part of the reason why he invited him along for the ride. Since their first encounter, on the way to Ubrikkia, he'd grown rather fond of Ivy, and he quite liked to believe that, maybe, the droid liked him, too. Droids didn't have emotions, his brain reminded him, they had subroutines. Still, there was definitely a connection, there. Indeed, it was Ivy who had confided in him that he'd become dissatisfied with his rather static teaching role at the Citadel, and, when this fresh opportunity presented itself, it seemed only right that he provide him some reprieve from feeling at a loose end. He'd do the same for any friend.

Of course, he couldn't dismiss the shadow of Lúka's hand from his suspicious thoughts. Even if he wasn't directly responsible for Ivy's presence, Jeryd was under no illusion that he wouldn't be standing where he stood where it not for Knight Jibral, and the intricate web of strings he worked like a mandoviol virtuoso. Surely, he knew how grateful Jeryd would be for the opportunity to get away from the Citadel, once again, and reclaim some semblance of normality. And, while his cadet grey-and-whites were doing their best to keep normality at bay, he escaped inside the trappings of traditional military protocol.

"Sir, this is STE-IV. Ivy has been tasked with monitoring and assessing my performance during my time with you, sir."

[Ouran Akasha]

STE-IV.

Ouran contemplated the droid in silence. Quite the curiosity. The Captain recognised the Separatist unit immediately; a Super Tactical Droid, if he was not mistaken. It had been his understanding that all such units had been deactivated and destroyed upon the termination of the Clone Wars. A handful had escaped that fate, of course, whether through their own machinations or the intervention of others; no doubt there were a handful of such units scattered around private collections, or perhaps gathering dust in Imperial facilities somewhere. No doubt that was the fate of this particular unit; and it seemed fitting that the Imperial Knights, in attempting to revive one outdated notion from the Clone Wars - the Jedi Generals - should seek to do with the resurrected help of another such relic.

It was not the droid's model that piqued the Captain's interest, but rather the designation. It had been a long time since he'd delved into his first hand memories of the Clone Wars, but as far as he could recall from the briefings his younger, junior officer self could recall, Super Tactical Droids were programmed with names, personalities, a sense of individuality. Kraken. Kalani. Tey-Zuka. They were an attempt by the scientists of Cestus Cybernetics to construct a sentient military commander, a step above and beyond the limitations of their T-series predecessors, and away from the fallability and precarious loyalty of the Separatist Army's biological Generals. STE Four was not a designation carved from that same fabric. An Imperial designation then, the result of reprogramming? Was there some meaning to the letters, and to the numerals? It was worth consideration, but idle speculation would be to the benefit of no one. Ouran had sources who could provide him duracrete answers once he had the opportunity to engage with them: he merely required enough patience to find an appropriate moment.

"Is he now," Ouran replied, making his scrutiny of the droid a little more overt. The unit seemed to reciprocate, studying Captain Akasha with its burning gaze; but to its credit it remained silent, content to conceal whatever strategic intelligence it posessed behind the pretence of an unassuming protocol droid. Perhaps the droid really was as Cadet Redsun described: here to observe the Cadet's performance, and nothing more. Perhaps that was the extent of Redsun's understanding of the situation; his explanation had seemed honest enough, though it remained to be seen whether or not the Imperial Knights sought to cultivate the same duplicitous mystique of their Inquisitor predecessors. Perhaps though, it was not merely the Cadet that the droid was here to observe. That could present problems. The urge to challenge the situation, openly and directly, tugged at Akasha's mind; but little could be achieved by it, beyond announcing his suspicions. Reconnaissance was the best course of action; reconnaissance and research. Action without answers was reckless; sometimes necessary, but often futile. Now was not yet - he hoped - a situation dire enough to require such lengths.

His attention shifted back to the Cadet. The relative newness of the Imperial Knights made it difficult to know where Akasha and Redsun fell relative to each other, in terms of authority; but Redsun had chosen to concede his position with sirs, and Ouran was content to follow that lead.

"Captain Weximan Redsun is your father, correct?"

Ouran's eyes narrowed ever so slightly, evaluating the young man before him against a new set of criteria.

"You're taller than I expected. Lets hope that vertically isn't the only measure by which you'll exceed him."

[Jeryd Redsun]

A flicker of internal conflict creased his brow, but for an instant, while he made peace with the captain's curious choice of words.

"Sir," he said, fighting the urge to seek out that piercing captain's gaze, "I intend to excel in all aspects of my service. If you identify any shortcomings in my performance, I am confident my time aboard the Deliverance will remedy that."

A diplomatic answer, if ever he'd heard one. And there was no doubt Captain Akasha recognised an evasive manoeuvre when performed right under his nose. Still, what other option had he offered? Jeryd tempered the distaste of his politician's tongue with the fact that nothing he told the captain was untrue. Being a Redsun came with a certain level of expectation, so his father was fond of reminding him, and over the years, he had cultivated a talent for being able to say that right thing to the right people at the right time. His father was not the kindest of men, but he was a good captain - a great captain, Jeryd was sure - which made him reconsider Captain Akasha's words, and the potential motivation behind them. Perhaps they shared a history, although Ouranos Akasha was not a name that he ever recalled his father mentioning, and he remembered every story his father ever told him. One of two scenarios presented themselves to him: either Captain Redsun and Captain Akasha had been involved in highly confidential operations together, or, more likely, there was a grudge between them.

When he next saw his father, he'd have to ask him all about his new captain. It would be interesting to get his side of the story. That was, once they were past the whole Imperial Knight part of the discussion, of course. On the surface, what would've been an involuntary shudder was kept in check, but that didn't stop the creeping dread from freezing his insides with all of the sudden brutality of a cold snap on Hoth.

If the captain's words were bait, he willingly snapped it up, if only to make amends for his conservative response. Thus, he conceded, "You know my father, sir?"

[Ouran Akasha]

The breath of laughter that crept out from Ouran's lungs carried no particular mirth with it, amused merely by the careful course that the younger Redsun's words followed. Appropriate for one of the Empire's new Jedi proxies, granted, though Akasha had to wonder if it was his training or his upbringing that filled his mouth with such language. It had it's uses, he supposed, especially back in the old days; but among the Galactic Empire it had become the medium of the bureaucrats, and those who lacked the spine and determination for action and tough choices. At times there could be strategic value in carefully chosen words, but at others they were a cloaking device; a smoke screen used as a coward's disguise.

For a moment, Ouran contemplated which side of that line the present fell. Was now an instance for tact, and tactics, or for a Tarkin Doctrine approach to honesty? The right words could probe this Cadet Redsun for vulnerabilities, and expose insight into his emotional responses. How indoctrinated was Redsun with his current status quo? How idolised was his father? Would he be wounded by efforts to disrupt that, or provoked to anger in defense of his beliefs? Or was there a glimmer of potential in this boy, the possibility for something great if his eyes could be opened in the proper way.

"I do," Ouran replied simply, and carefully, his words overtly erring on the side of respectful restraint. A first test, of sorts: an experiment to see if the Cadet would merely accept information being obviously withheld by a figure of authority, or if he would challenge on the presumption that it was relevant to him and thus needed to be known. "And I have known a great many officers exactly like him."

He let that sentiment hang in the air for a moment, a deliberate silence, a deliberate appearence of contemplating his next words.

"He served as an Ensign under me some years ago, early in his career; and we've encountered each other in passing on occasions since. A competent officer, exemplary service; a textbook Imperial, through and through. Exactly the sort of man you would expect to climb his way to center stage on the bridge of a Star Destroyer. The rest of us, meanwhile?"

His gaze shifted, momentarily indicating the starship around him, before reverting back to Jeryd, subtly including him in the definition of us.

"Exceptional officers are the ones who earn the more interesting assignments. I'm fortunate enough to have integrated a number of such officers into this crew. There's plenty to learn, and plenty to learn from on this ship, if you prove capable of that."

[Jeryd Redsun]

"Capable and willing, sir," Jeryd's response was swift, shutting the door on the hint of doubt the captain wafted his way, "And I am grateful for the opportunity to prove it."

His face was a picture, frozen into place with a soldier's discipline. Any tell of emotion, of curiosity, confusion, or indignation, was tamed within a hair's width; he felt them all at once, a potent cocktail of feelings, and imprisoned them with equal contempt. He would not be made to look a child just because someone was casting veiled aspersions on his father's name. There was a corner of the hanger bay lost almost entirely to shadow, there he focused all of his attention, as if to unearth the detail within the darkness. In one breath, Captain Akasha weighed the sum of his father's accomplishments, and cast them aside as if they were but trifles. Somehow, he'd made it sound like becoming captain of Star Destroyer was something commonplace, and had turned words like competent, textbook, even exemplary into marks of mediocrity. If ever he had any doubts about what Ouranos Akasha thought of Weximan Redsun, they were dashed. The most pressing question was 'Why?'

Perhaps that was what he wanted, to tease a reaction. In his mind's eye, he pictured it, the naive flicker of confusion in his eyes, the wounded climb of his eyebrows, and the boyish gaping of the mouth. Why, sir? Why do you hate my father so? Inwardly, Jeryd scoffed, piercing the pantomime with a thrust of defiant pride. As if he could be so obvious. Below, he felt the unyielding foundation of durasteel floor pushing up against his regulation boots. He stood his ground.

"You spoke of the exceptional officers aboard this ship. Sir, I have seen your record." Eye contact, at last, and a pause loaded with restraint. Ambiguity cut both ways. Knight Jibral had a way of diffusing the tension of a moment with only the tilt of his head, just enough to convey the right amount of curiosity. Jeryd tilted his head a fraction, and said, "What kind of interesting assignments can I expect to be a part of, sir?"

[Ouran Akasha]

Capable and willing. Hmm.

Still the silver tongue wagged, the Cadet navigating his way through the conversation like a blind man who had memorised the path through an obstacle course. Each response was offered precisely as it should have been, yet the procedural caution and careful propriety lacked any grace or finesse. It was a game of strategy, but one that Redsun played in the moment, contemplating each move as it unfolded rather than remaining turns ahead.

His deflection, however, attempting to turn the focus of attention back onto Akasha, was an amusing move. The Cadet might have seen his record, but that was a far cry from reading it, from understand it, from knowing what lurked behind the context and subtext. Redsun's question confirmed as much: were he truly familiar with Akasha's record, his question would not have been so innocently curious.

The Captain offered him a smile.

"That, Cade Redsun, is the question."

Ouran tugged back on his sleeve, exposing the comlink strapped around it. It was not regulation as far as the Imperial military was concerned, and yet aboard the Deliverance, it might as well have been. The clunky C1 comlink was ubiquitous across the Galactic Empire, a commonality that made it cheap and replaceable, but also easy to obtain, usurp, and hijack for those inclined to do so. While his feelings on the device might have been little more than mild concern in the past, that had escalated in the years since Endor, the loyalties of the manufacturers, the SoroSuub Corporation, shifting from assured, to doubt, to open opposition. With the Sullustans now arrayed against them as part of the Alliance of Free Planets, Akasha had no desire to rely upon foreign technologies; and his status within the Empire offered certain latitudes that spared him from being limited by such protocols.

"Akasha to the bridge," he instructed, wrist held to his mouth as he spoke. "Our passenger is aboard. Signal our departure to Coruscant Orbital, and then proceed to hyperspace. Standard course."

A disembodied voice responded in confirmation and compliance to Akasha's orders; as they spoke, the Captain beckoned to Cadet Redsun, inviting him to follow as he set a course of his own towards the exit from the landing bay. His arm fell back into place at his side as he walked, and the Captain remained silent for a few moments longer, waiting for the confines of the Deliverance corridors before he spoke again.

"Currently, the Deliverance is assigned as a response vessel. Our orders provide us with a route that passes Imperial territory, and we patrol along it, diverted as required should situations along or proximate to that path warrant our attention. This rotation we began at Ansion, and followed the Namadii Corridor to Coruscant; next, we follow the Corellian Run, and then divert onto the Trade Spine, out through Jaso, the Greater Javin, and on to Terminus. Then, unless our orders stipulate otherwise, we reverse course and return to the Core."

A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

"As for interesting assignments?"

The smile became a soft chuckle.

"I'm aware that your military career began in somewhat more conventional surroundings. During your time at the Academy, did you ever hear stories about Task Force 99?"

[Jeryd Redsun]

"SCAR Squadron?" He said, not missing a beat, "They were a big deal in the Redsun household. My brother and I knew everything about them."

It was a bold claim, but one in which Jeryd felt confident. The first book he ever read, as a kid, was The Little Patriot's Book of Heroes, which was where he first learned all about men like Crosshair, Tech, and Wrecker. Clone Force 99 was what they called them, named in memory of a clone who died defending Kamino from the Separatist invasion forces. They were more commonly known as the Bad Batch. He remembered the stories fondly, indeed, he and his brother lived for stories of Imperial valour in the face of overwhelming odds. While the other kids played laser hoops, and were told bedtime stories about Casper Moridian's grand adventures, Quarl Fezwick's lost ship and Captain Astra's blasters, Aryn and Jeryd Redsun played war games and watched old holonet feeds from the Clone Wars.

The legacy of the Bad Batch was rekindled by an elite group of stormtroopers, who, like their predecessors, boasted highly-specialised skill sets, making them the best in their field. Aryn was in his early teens, then, and pretended to be too cool to care about the stories when Jeryd told them, always making excuses to hang out with Miggs and The Guv, instead. But when Father spoke of these new Imperial heroes at dinner, Aryn was just as fast as he was in reciting the names: Aero, Shrap, Misty, Mic, Cav, Zuke, and, of course, Sergeant Kreel. And, like a kid again, all too eager to impress, Jeryd was on the cusp of reciting their names, and their deeds, and whatever extraneous detail he could recall from those days before he stopped himself cold. He was not at a family dinner, he reminded himself. He was on a blasted ship. The childish enthusiasm was quenched, and he cleared his throat.

"There were many others at the Academy who were familiar with their actions. Indeed, we studied the Siege of Coronet, and how Sergeant Kreel and his men broke the stalemate with decisive and unrelenting force. There was the Assault on Taanab, the Battle of Xeron, the Defence of Bespin. Task Force 99 has become an essential part of the curriculum at Carida."

Lines of curiosity creased his brow, then, as he reconsidered the captain's words, "Why do you ask, sir?"

[Niomon Terius]

As the final corridor junction was traversed, as the Captain and Cadet made their final turn, they were confronted in the corridor by the imposing figure of an Imperial Death Trooper, jet black armour glistening in the artificial glow of the Deliverance's regulation lighting. It was no ordinary Death Trooper either: the cool green glow that shone from the tusks of his tactical helmet cast upon the matte black pauldron denoting an officer of the Stormtrooper Corps.

A small synthetic click sounded from within the Trooper's helmet, the termination of the comlink feed that Captain Akasha had discretely activated a few moments prior, allowing the trooper to covertly hear the Captain's conversation with the Cadet. A mild note of disappointment struck him at the absence of any of his own exploits with the unit from the Cadet's recounting; but then, as the trooper saw it, if people were aware of the exploits of SCAR Squadron, they were not performing their duties properly.

The Trooper reached up with gloved hands, detaching the helmet from his suit, and tucking it comfortably beneath one arm. The vision below was a horrifying one: a tangle of scars and reconstruction, the best surgery and cybernetics that Imperial Intelligence credits could buy - which was to say, the bare minimum and most fiscally justifiable. Some might regard him as unsightly, find the cauterised flesh and the gleaming red glow of his eye to be unnerving. That was the hidden beauty of the Imperial Stormtrooper Corps: beneath the uniform, a Trooper could be anyone, the Empire's fondness for conformity acting as a great equaliser that - outwardly at least - erased the damages and disabilities that the Trooper had earned over the course of his service. Perhaps it was a little too on the nose for a member of SCAR Squadron, but the Trooper cared little about such external opinions. Anyone familiar enough with him to know the extent of his damages also knew his record, and certainly, that was enough to alleviate any concerns about his eligibility.

"This him?" he asked, feigning ignorance. Captain Akasha responded merely with a nod, and so the Trooper took a step forward, extending his hand towards Jeryd. "Lieutenant Niomon Terius, OC SCAR Squadron. Pleasure to meet you, Cadet."

[Ouran Akasha]

Captain Akasha allowed himself a measured smile, studying Redsun for his reaction. It was a deliberate subterfuge, a staged encounter in order to help gauge the Cadet's reaction. Had Redsun been oblivious to the nature of the Special Commando Advanced Recon Squadron, their path would have been different, enough time to either build expectation as to the nature of such a unit, or simply to catch Redsun unawares with a surprise encounter with a Death Trooper. There was a theatricality to it that Akasha found unpleasant, and yet over the course of his Imperial career he had learned that showmanship was often necessary. It was as important to manage perception and perspective as it was to manage any other variety of information: not merely a case of need-to-know, but a case of how that knowledge was received and presented being an essential consideration.

"What kind of interesting assignments can you expect to be part of?"

The Captain echoed the Cadet's words exactly, letting the presentation - merely one of many - speak for itself.

"Lieutenant Terius here will be escorting you to a security briefing. There are a number of aspects of this command that you must be properly cleared for and briefed on if you are to participate in any operations aboard this vessel."

Akasha's attention shifted, drifting behind them to the tactical droid that had apparently shadowed them from the landing bay.

"I am afraid your droid will not be cleared, however. I'm sure you can appreciate the importance of such security measures. Once you reach your briefing, the Lieutenant will ensure that your droid is properly accommodated in a more appropriate location."

The glance that Akasha added converted the statement into a subtle order for Lieutenant Terius.

[Jeryd Redsun]

"You've got to be shitting me!"

It was perhaps not the best way to greet one of the most elite commandos in the Imperial military, but for one heady moment, Jeryd had taken leave of his senses like a teenage girl at a Duke concert. He shook the lieutenant's hand with vigour, marvelling at his iconic black armour. It struck him at once as both dangerous and beautiful. For all of five seconds, there was a bright glow in Jeryd's gaze as he drank in the sight of Lieutenant Terius - he was grotesquely deformed, by any standards, however, Jeryd had long thought of battle scars as marks of valour, which presently put him in truly remarkable company - and then Captain Akasha, to acknowledge a surprise well-delivered. Once the five seconds were up, he changed, replacing youthful enthusiasm with professional reserve.

"It is a pleasure to meet you, sir."

In his state of shock, Jeryd could scarcely muster more than a few words at a time. It wasn't the first time his passion for Imperial heroes had left him starstruck, and it almost certainly wouldn't be the last. Fortunately, Captain Akasha kept them on task with a summary of what he had to look forward to; Jeryd looked forward to a reprieve from Akasha's scrutiny, he was a fascinating man, but there was something about him that put him on edge. When he thought about it, he supposed it made sense for a captain to want to keep his crew sharp at all times, but with the captain, he couldn't help feeling exposed in a way that was not dissimilar to the way he felt with Lord Jibral. His assessment had already begun. Instead of making a greater fool of himself, Jeryd kept his mouth shut while the captain divulged the arrangements for both him and Ivy.

When the captain took his leave, Jeryd afforded his droid companion a look that he hoped would translate as reassuring. He had no intention of having Ivy stowed away in a cargo hold like excess baggage. They were in this together.

"Terius," he said, suddenly, breaking the momentary silence between himself and the lieutenant, "I recognise that name. Do you have family in the military, sir?"

[Niomon Terius]

Neo offered a small smile, that could have just as easily been pained as polite, given the way it tugged at his features.

"I do," the Lieutenant replied, with a gesture that invited the Cadet to follow him down the corridor, one that ran in a different direction to that which was currently leading Captain Akasha back to the bridge. Unlike the Deliverance's commanding officer, the officer commanding SCAR Squadron was not eloquent, nor inclined to be. His words were delivered as required, sentences tailored for purpose, efficient and direct. He moved with similar precision and drive, the cybernetics at work beneath his armour attuned perfectly to an officer who was as sharply calibrated as they were. He hadn't always been that way, but the events that had left him in this state had thoroughly purged the recklessness and impertinence of youth.

For his bravery, the Empire had rebuilt him enough so that there was something to pin a medal to, but it was Captain Akasha who was responsible for the officers' pauldron that graced his shoulder. Sergeant Terius had been warned away from the Captain, discouraged from attaching his career and reputation - and the reputation of SCAR Squadron - to that of Ouran Akasha. Lieutenant Terius was glad his past self had ignored those warnings. Akasha had a way about him, a way with people, that made you feel part of something in a way that the average Imperial sycophant did not. Niomon would always serve - it was his life, and in his blood - but under the command of Ouran Akasha, he was proud to.

"You're thinking of my father, Brigadier Rinzai Terius. Veteran of the Pilot Corps, current OC of the Corellian Blockade. Or possibly my uncle, Soto Terius. Serial defector. First to the Alliance, now to the new insurgency on Corellia."

The words were delivered factually, and clinically, no obvious indicators of emotion one way or another. The masque of detachment slipped slightly, the faintest hint of personality creeping through.

"Hopefully you're not thinking of my jackass little brother Kyodan."

[Jeryd Redsun]

"Your father. Of course."

Jeryd made a point of nodding in silent confirmation. While the name was certainly familiar to him, he was no longer sure which Terius he'd heard of before, the famous brother, or the infamous one. Perhaps both. His father spared no vitriol for traitors and defectors, just talking about them turned his face red and glazed his dinner with spittle. And the last thing Jeryd wanted to do was dwell on the lieutenant's ugly family history. It was curious, he thought, how the lieutenant divulged the information, like it was a banal piece of trivia. Maybe he'd made peace with the shame of it, Jeryd supposed. Either way, he could think of nothing less appropriate to discuss. Instead, he latched onto something that was all too familiar: the unguarded barb of sibling rivalry.

"I can't say I've ever heard of a Kyodan Terius before," he said, with a telling curl in the corners of his mouth. He suspected it was music to his mangled ears. "Is your brother in the service, too, sir?"

[Niomon Terius]

"He is."

The answer was provided curtly, too many layered sentiments to make the context plain and obvious. Even to Niomon, it was unclear what he felt, especially these days. Kyodan had always been the superior version, raised in benefit of the mistakes that had befallen Niomon's childhood. Much had changed between the brothers' birth, of course, the state of the galaxy and the state of their father's career twisting and changing the opportunities presented to both. Niomon was just old enough to remember the Old Republic; Kyodan just young enough to have known only the New Order. Niomon had worked for his education and opportunities; Kyodan had then handed to him, through scholarships and private schools. Niomon didn't begrudge his younger brother - his younger brothers - the improvements that their childhood had over his own, but Kyodan made that a difficult mindset to maintain. He was so smug, so proud of what his headstart had allowed him to achieve, so glad to have outdone Niomon that the differences and disparities largely went ignored. The acute sting of that first instance of Ensign Terius expecting his elder enlisted sibling to call him sir had never quite faded, and instead had festered into the powerhouse of Niomon's ire.

Therein was another reason for Niomon's gratitude towards Captain Akasha. Lieutenant was hardly prestigious, but it closed the gap between brother and brother; and Niomon knew that his commission was based on merit, and not the size of their father's charitable contributions to the Imperial Academy on Carida.

"Pilot Corps," he added, a terse and reluctant expansion to his answer. "A Captain, last I checked. Heard he was bucking for a comfy assignment back on Coruscant; no idea if he succeeded."

A brief glance was cast towards Redsun, a wave of mild discomfort creeping through Niomon's mind at the amount of sharing he had engaged in: not much by the standards of most sentients, perhaps, but far too much by his own.

"How about you, Cadet? Any other Imperial Redsuns I should keep my eye open for?"