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A message was sent on a pre-arranged comm frequency to Zenas Codrey. The message itself carried nothing but coordinates, both for the galactic grid, and then for a landing zone on a planet. Nothing else was included in the message, but if the Togruta was inclined to look closer, the coordinates were to a planet called Ziost. If he was at all true to his nature, he would understand the meaning in this location.
Zenas stood silently in the darkened cockpit of his JM-5K, studying the coordinates and galaxy map of his navicomputer's hologram. Ziost...it was a planet he was briefly acquainted with through his training. His master had named it a planet of darkness, a possible origin of the Sith infection on the galaxy. Zenas had thought it a rich statement. Milek Tomberlin had fallen so far from the light that he had no hope of reclaiming it. He'd trained Zenas in darkness, as well, but the young Togruta had managed to avoid his master's hypocrisy towards the dark side. The last time he had seen Ziost, it'd been from far orbit as he and his master travelled the Outer Rim to hide from Force-hunting Imperials. Within hours, he would land on its surface for the first time.
Zenas strode with purpose down the JM-5K's boarding ramp, his lightsaber in hand, prepared for anything. He breathed deep the moist, clean air, feeling the cold seep into his lungs. Before him stood a grand palace, long abandoned and weather-beaten. Frost clung to its every surface hanging from verandas and sheeting over windows, occluding the interior. Zenas, craving action, ran to the door and thrust his fist at it. Fire and telekinetic energy punched open the frozen doors and Zenas prowled into the atrium like a jungle cat. A simple thought slammed the door and shut out the cold. In the silence that remained, Zenas focused his senses and sought his summoner.
The light from the high windows above cast long and harsh shadows of the barren interior of this ancient palace. Zenas's entrance was met with mocking silence. Then he heard footfalls.
Down a long hallway, someone approached. They walked with a feeble, close-footed gait, at a pace that was agonizingly slow. Enough light from the windows entered the aperture to allow Zenas's eyes to percieve, now that he was comfortable with the level of darkness in this place. A frail, stoop-shouldered figure approached in a black robe, and a cowl that hung low enough so to obscure nearly his entire face.
"You strike without reason or thought. Perhaps calling you to this place was a mistake. Am I mistaken?"
"No."
Zenas's answer was short and harsh. He gave no further account of himself. "Am I mistaken in answering your summons? I come to this place seeking power, and find only an ancient and feeble man. What strength is to be gained from this meeting?" The Togruta did not posture; it was not his way to make threats to people who he could kill without consequence.
A philosophical question the Sith Lord enjoyed. His mouth visible beneath the cowl began to smile.
"If you believe yourself ready, then strike me down, of course. The strong mustn't suffer the weak."
"Too true." The words, the smile...he could see that it was bait. His Master had baited him out into foolish action many times during his training, and Zenas had never quite learned his lesson. Sometimes, he did right and ignored it, other times, he acted rashly anyway, but more often, he calculated the risk and sprung the trap just to see what it was that was going to happen, and calculate his own growing strength by attempting to defeat it. Zenas's thumb moved to his lightsaber's trigger plate. "Then why reveal yourself, old cripple? If you want to die, wander out into the wastes and let your rotting corpse freeze." Gods, but the thought of slaying the elder tempted him.
The smile dropped, replaced by a frown aided as much by baleful countenance as it was by gravity.
"I have use of you to fulfill my own ends. In exchange, I offer you power. Power enough for you to destroy my apprentice and replace her."
The Dark Lord of the Sith studied Zenas's reaction, and continued.
"She has begun to falter and hesitate, and these are traits I find distateful. Prove your better worth to me."
"Easily," Zenas replied without a hint of boastfulness, though he couldn't stop his lip curling in disgust. "What would you have of me? Shall I slay her in your place?" The Togruta's left foot shifted forward and his arms spread wider by a hair's breadth, turning his posture aggressive. "When your enemies meet death, it is my face that shall greet them."
"You're not yet strong enough. Bury that intent deeply, acolyte. If she senses your intent, she will not hesitate to destroy you. But in time, in time."
From the depths of his robe, he pulled out a lightsaber, extending it for Zenas to take.
"Your eagerness is useful. You will be my instrument of discord. Take this."
Zenas took the weapon in his other hand, testing its heft against his own. It was smaller, narrower...a precision instrument. His own hilt was built sturdier, slightly longer than normal, with a ridged grip to aid him in making Djem So's power strikes. "The blade in my right hand favors my fighting style more readily than this...oversized datapad stylus," sneered the non-human disdainfully. He turned the new saber over in his hands, noticing the damage on the bottom end. "What purpose does this broken lightsaber serve?"
"It's purpose lies in the murder of those who have misplaced their trust."
His response was cryptic, and Decepis continued.
"The Alliance to Restore the Republic has taken steps to give the refugee Jedi Order safe harbor. Make them question this decision."
So, the plan was to kill Jedi and Rebels. "Then...this lightsaber is to be what humans call a red herring. A false lead to make them believe a Jedi is killing his so-called allies." Zenas hid the decoy saber away in his clothing. "Is there a specified target, or shall I tally the mountain of the dead and report to you their number?" The question was begun with a smirk that grew to a smile of relish, full of sharp Togrutan fangs and malice to match.
Decepis gave a flippant wave of his hand.
"I'll leave the details to you, only to point you in the direction of Bothawui. It's the base of Alliance Intelligence. I'd like them to get a good look at their enemy. Keep your actions public and brutal. Kill who you can."
Oh, yes. This was going to be profitable alliance. Zenas bowed in respect.
"Strength, or death," he swore as a good-bye, straightening and walking back out through the brisk cold to his JM-5K. He boarded, punched in his coordinates, then retired to his spare quarters to prepare.
Days later, he emerged into real space with Bothawui hanging like a pristine jewel in space before him. It looked peaceful. Zenas scowled at it out his front viewport, slashing his hand across it as he hit the throttle. If he could scar a planet he would, someday.
There was a safehouse, far enough away from Drev'starn to be unassuming yet close enough to be somewhat accessible to the rest of Bothawui's capital. Some would say that the surrounding area was a slum, while others would simply call it one of the more unfortunate parts of the outlier suburbs. No real violence, yet those that called this small district 'home' knew better than to disturb their neighbors. It was simply a point of principle to keep away from the things that went quietly by. Those here had learned many times over that despite the 'Bothan Way', preserving their own lives was often the better deal to be had.
So it was with the safe house - those who knew of it said little to nothing of the possible goings on that happened behind those closed doors. None were ever seen entering, and none were ever seen leaving. It simply existed as a single unit nestled among other single units in a sea of repetitive architecture and lost in a maze of complete sameness.
And yet despite it all, a single occupant sat waiting in the sparsely furnished interior. Settled in the depths of a chair whose upholstery had certainly seen better days, Darth Acera waited for the one that her Master had said was to meet her.
She waited patiently. He would come. He would come, and she would consequently send him on his way.
Arms resting on each armrest, she held her sabre hilt in a loose grip as her eyes - one a muddled grey and the other a haunting yellow - stared ahead.
He would come.
Zenas landed his JM-5K under cover of darkness, coming in far from the cities and using terrain-following flying to evade sensors until he was close enough to land. From there he proceeded on foot, sneaking to the safehouse where his contact was to meet him. He stepped in silently, the door opening and shutting without sound, and met the mis-matched eyes of Darth Acera. He could guess her relationship to the withered lich he'd met on Ziost by her lightsaber hilt and quiet, fierce darkness that filled her with energy like a furnace. They took each other's measure with a quick, sharp flick of eyes. It was all the greeting they exchanged.
So this was the one that had been sent to her.
Acera let one corner of her mouth twitch upwards in the barest showing of a ghostly, unimpressed sneer.
"He sends to me a child, then."
The fingers of her free hand curled inward ever so slowly, fingernails raking lightly across the fabric of the armrest.
"I can still smell your mother's milk upon your breath. Go home, boy."
Zenas laughed, long and loud, a genuine sound that he hadn't produced in years. When had he last saw his mother? 18 years ago, at least. Maybe longer. The idea that any of her qualities remained in him was one he found truly amusing. His mother would be horrified to see what he'd become, to hear the tales of his atrocities and see his powers used before her. Later, looking back on this moment, he'd find himself conflicted about how that revelation affected him. Here, in the present, he was feeling good about this new alliance as well.
"Oh, I see! A firebrand all the way through!" he finally said. "It's an appreciable quality in you. I understand why that crumbling elder chose you. So, then, my new ally, what aid are you to give me on his behalf?"
"I am not your ally."
Her voice was low and level, with scratching undertones of contempt.
"And what sort of aide do you think that you need, other than what my Master has provided."
Her fingers tightened around the hilt of her saber, the leather of her fingerless gloves creaking.
The Togruta smirked. Very well, then.
"Fine, if such is your attitude, I'll not waste your time. I can accomplish the Lord's task with or without you. Though, if you do not play the role he has defined for you, I wonder what your fate will be..." He shook his head and turned to leave.
Her own features slid into a devilish grin, but her body remained sitting.
"The role I fulfill is nothing that you should concern yourself over, boy. You are an attack dog, meant for nothing but menial tasks. Do not think yourself so worthy."
"And you are a lapdog, meant to lay about, perform no useful functions, and get in the way of true work. I, at least, serve my masters with my ferocity and utility." His lightsaber came to hand. "Why else should the Dark Lord choose me for this task, when he already has an agent on-site? You are not capable or worthy to enact his will, and now you make a liar out of him by also proving you are unable to even assist me. I have delayed here long enough. Now is the time for action."
Her smirk turned into a low, evil chuckle and Acera levered herself up to her feet.
"If that is what you wish to think."
The saber hilt in her hand was deftly clipped to her belt.
"You wish to act, and I suppose that I cannot deny you the chance to do so."
The Sith crossed the room to a small, unassuming desk that stood against the far wall, ignoring the saber in his own hand. She reached out to a datapad that sat lying atop the desk's surface, giving it a light tick with a fingernail.
"Here are names... "
A gesture was made to a wrapped parcel that rested beside the 'pad.
"... and here are the items of clothing that will help you get close to those names."
She turned to face him fully.
"Do what is instructed; nothing more, and certainly nothing less."
There was no triumph here for him. He had the distinct feeling of a stalemate at most, and being humored at the least. Zenas opened his other hand and the pad and package leapt from the desktop eagerly to meet it. "I never do anything else," he replied to her admonition, then escaped into the night. Once clear of the house, certain he'd not been followed and found a secure position, he checked the datapad and package. The names of Rebel sympathizers stood out in harsh white lettering in the dark, and Zenas quickly committed them to his memory while he opened the parcel. Inside were long, brown robes. He recognized them instantly as the garb of a Jedi Knight. His former master, Milek Tomberlin, had a burned and slashed set crucified to the wall of his chamber. It was a reminder, he said, to be ever-wary for betrayal. Zenas dressed himself in this fresh set and threw the hood up over his face, hiding it from view, then destroyed the datapad with a quick flash of the borrowed lightsaber. The Togruta then took a breath, clamping down on the furnace of hate and anger that beat in time with his heart's truest desire, and managed to push it down. Now his camouflage was complete, and he set off to achieve the goals of Darth Decepis.
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The Togruta observed the target building's main entrance, having scouted it all the way around. There were no entrances that he could use secretly, and his powers of Force Persuasion were weak, when they worked at all. He crouched there, cursing his lack of subtlety, when he made a realization: He had no need to be stealthy or subtle AT ALL. The listed targets he'd received from Darth Acera weren't the main goal, not according to what little he'd been told by Decepis. The elder Sith had merely wanted a public and brutal slaying of the people in that building. If he could kill a target that had been named, so much the better for him. With that thought in mind, Zenas strode with purpose into the building, his stolen lightsaber in one gloved hand. As he entered, a young Bothan approached worriedly.
"Master Jedi," he hissed, "You ought not to have come in the front so boldly! What if someone had seen you?"
"What if, indeed," muttered Zenas, powering on the lightsaber and bisecting the clerk with a lazy swing of his arm. He moved in further, leaping the desk with a swift vault and killed another clerk who'd been gathering a dropped stack of flimsiplasts. He entered the turbolift, carved out a piece of the ceiling, then climbed up to the next floor. He blew the doors in with telekinesis and fire, just as he'd done on Ziost, and walked in through the twisted slag to a riot of noise and panicked motion. "Much more like," announced the Togruta savagely, moving with one long stride to slay four more Bothans.
Ten minutes ago, Torrsk Oruo'rel had uttered a prayer to the gods, imploring them to liberate him from his tedium. Politics was a pastime he abhorred, and while his service on the Advisory Council made a certain level of exposure a necessary evil, he managed to avoid the worst of it: one of the many advantages of commanding the SpecForce was the army of troopers at his disposal to guard his office from errant beaurocrats.
The General had been selected to represent his people on the Advisory Council because his intimacy with SpecForce and the Bothan SpyNet made him something of an expert on the strategic value that the Bothan people had to offer. Foolishly, Torrsk had believed that his opinion was valued and respected, both by the Alliance and the Bothan people; the truth was revealed in meetings such as this however, when members of the Bothan Council summoned him to grand, palacial residences such as this to offer their input on the kind of advice he should be providing.
His eyes narrowed into a scowl as sounds of the commotion outside reached his ears, and those of the clansmen he was meeting. His prayer had been answered it seemed; alas the Trickster had chosen to make mischief with his superstitious beliefs.
The posturing that had been displayed moments before vanished, fear gripping the hearts of the elders. They branded themselves as alphas - worthy warriors of their clans - but it was in moments such as this when their true nature was revealed. Fear shone from their eyes like a lantern; the words that seemed such formidable weapons suddenly revealed to be useless when it really mattered. Torrsk uttered a growl of disgust.
Reaching effortlessly into his uniform, Torrsk triggered his comlink. Years of experience prevented him from speaking a word: demands for information would serve only to distract those who clearly had better things to do. Keen hearing and a shrewd mind instead discerned the knowledge he saught from general comm chatter.
"The building has been breached," he announced, as calmly as if he were reading from a restaurant menu. There was a brief pause as a contingent of security troops reported their ETA. The news they provided was far from good. "It would seem that they will reach this room long before reinforcements can arrive."
One of the politicians found his voice; even in the face of death, his spineless nature compelled him to somehow displace the blame for his own shortcomings onto someone elses shoulders. "You are the General of SpecForce!" he exclaimed. "Make them arrive faster!"
An angry snarl exploded from Torrsk's throat, and the pathetic whelp recoiled in surprise. "If you posessed enough humility to take a smaller residence closer to the city, it would not take so long for aid to reach us. It is your ego and avarice that has doomed you."
His eyes swept around him, refreshing himself with the particulars of his surroundings. This building had once belonged to the Moff of the Bothan Sector: a puppet with no real power, appointed by the Empire merely to remind the Bothans of the fiction of their seeming liberty. When the Alliance had liberated the planet, forces had stormed the building: but the Moff himself had escaped through some emergency route. Even in their own homes it seemed, the Imperials were ever prepared to flee like cowards.
"Who attacks?" The voice that spoke this time was different; the addles of age had scuffed it raw and weary, but one could still make out the faint remnants of martial confidence. The same nature flickered behind the old warrior's eyes. "Has the Empire returned?"
Torrsk met his gaze, the telltale strobing thrumb of a lightsaber still echoing in his earpiece, slicing through the steadily diminishing staccato chorus of gunfire. "No," he said grimly. "Something worse."
There was no time to say more. A paw jabbed towards a small doorway in the corner of the room. "There is an elevator in the adjoining chamber. It will take you to a tunnel that leads to the landing platform." The paw crept to the base of the General's spine, lifting the hem of his uniform to reveal the burnished durasteel of the slugthrower it concealed. "Make haste; I will buy you what time I can."
Like all good cowards, the bureaucrats did not require that instruction to be repeated; they fled like akk dogs, shoving and stumbling past each other in their haste. Only the old warrior lingered, just long enough for his hesitant gaze to meet with the General's. "Keep them safe," Torrsk ordered, with a slight shake of his head to forestall any delusions he might have about remaining behind. Reluctantly the old warrior nodded, before following in the wake of his colleagues.
A kind of serenity descended on Torrsk as the escape route hissed closed, and the approaching onslaught grew louder. The humans had an expression that spoke of one's life passing before one's eyes when death was upon them; but Torrsk was not merely so sentimental. He was too much the soldier, too much the spy to allow himself to indulge in such things. To him, life was a mission: and so he allowed his objectives to run through his mind. He considered the victories he had helped to bring about; the defeats he had helped to inflict upon the Empire. He thought of his world, liberated; and of a galaxy that had been reminded that freedom was not impossible, provided you had the courage to stand and fight for it.
The list was far from complete, of course: there were still objectives that he would not see through in person. He would not live to see the Empire fall, or to see a new Republic take it's place in the galaxy. It did not matter: the fight would continue, with or without him.
A stray thought crossed his mind. And at least you won't have to meet with the Ithorian delegation tomorrow.
He felt his muzzle tug into a smile at that. "Today is a good day to die," he said to himself softly as his paws cocked the slugthrower, and waited patiently as the doorway exploded in fire.
A corpse sailed in, its head missing, its arms flailing uncontrollably as it landed on the table and slowly slid off the opposite side. Outside the door, Zenas frowned at the lack of screaming. Shouldn't that room be full of people? With his moment spoiled, Zenas was starting to lose interest. He stepped in, just to check and make sure the room was clear. The Bothan standing there was one from Acera's list of targets: Torrsk Oruo'el. He was of high value, being a name near the top of the list.
"You know the power of the Jedi, Torrsk," he said, the stolen blue lightsaber pointing at the Bothan's throat. "Surrender, lest you learn today the sensation of being bisected by lightsaber."
Torrsk's eyes narrowed, but that was the only part of him that reacted. He had seem too many battles, been part of too many stand-offs to let a glorified lighting rod spook him.
Calmly, a hand rose, smoothing down the longer fur that swept back from his brow to the nape of his neck. His mind was far less casual however, near-eidetic memory sweeping through the scores of documents and security reports he'd been privvy to over the preceeding months and years. As the representative of one of the Alliance's key races, and as the head of it's special forces division, he knew more than most about the things the Alliance hid from the galaxy. Most importantly, he knew more than most about the Jedi that the Rebellion harboured. His mind scoured every report and record he could recall, searching for just one word - Togruta.
His efforts only confirmed what he already suspected. There are no Togruta Jedi on the Wheel.
"Where are you from?" he asked, his voice a steady almost-purr. "Who sent you?"
Damn it, a soldier. Zenas had enjoyed the panic and terror that had afforded him easy, grisly kills in the room behind him. Eventually, he'd have become bored. Maybe this challenge would be better. Best to cut to the chase; he had no orders to participate on either side of an interrogation.
"Shili," he snarled, then followed his sarcastic tone with a serious one. "The Council sends its regards." He stepped in with a flash of speed and chopped at the hand which held the gun.
Muscles protested far too much as the General performed a dodge that would have come so easily in his youth, but it succeeded: his duck and roll traversed the luxuriously carpeted floor, moving him far enough to evade the alleged Jedi's agressive strikes.
That would work to his advantage, perhaps: he set little stock in the Jedi's religious views regarding the light and dark sides of the Force, but he was a skilled enough warrior to know that an aggressive attack was often a flawed attack. Such strikes carried more strength, but they often did so at the expense of precision, defense, and situational awareness. An over-committed strike by the Togruta might open a window wide enough for a snapped shot by a blaster: not a fatal shot of course, but every shot to the knee or graze to the arm added precious seconds to the General's life expectancy.
"And which Council would that be?" Torrsk asked, the infuriating calm maintained in his voice with ease. He had learned long ago that most non-Bothans found it intensely annoying, and the General knew all too well that an aggitated opponent was far easier to outwit, on both military and political battlefields.
"I'm afraid that when you're involved in as many aspects of Alliance politics as I am, it's very difficult to keep track of which group of squabbling bureaucrats you may have offended."
Zenas didn't even want to grace the probe with an answer, but noted mental denseness with cowardice as Bothan flaws. He did notice, with satisfaction, that this aging officer had enough fire in him to make the job fun...for the next two minutes. He went ahead and fired back a response anyway.
"Poor senile bastard. Drop your weapon and I'll put you out of your misery. Or hold it, you're a dead man regardless." He took a stance with the lightsaber held high over his shoulder. Anyone who was in deep enough with the Jedi might recognize Shien's basic stance, so he held the pose for any cameras that might be recording this for posterity as he stepped forward, wary of the gun his opponent wielded.