The Price of Enlightenment

[Isaac]

Deep Space
35 ABY
Three Weeks after the Battle of Exegol

Hellfire rained down upon the wounded Star Destroyer Intrepid, spewed from the cannons of her command ship, the much more intact Impunity.
TIE Fighters shrieked in a flurry of confusion between both Resurgent-class vessels, their pilots hesitant to fire lest they mistakenly shoot down one of their own.
In times not-so-long gone by, they might have taken the risk and counted their losses afterward.
But the Final Order was a shadow of itself, with limited resources and few means of recuperation.
On the bridge of the Intrepid, Commander Nassal mopped a tell-tale bead of perspiration from his temple.
The attack had come suddenly, seconds before the Intrepid was to jump into hyperspace and join the rest of the fleet ahead of the command ship.
By the time Nassal had realised that it was that same command ship firing upon them, the Intrepid had already lost both shield generators and her hyperdrive.
In minutes, he knew, their main reactor would be targeted and then the ship and her crew were done for.

"Begin loading the escape pods," Nassal ordered, accepting the inevitability of the situation. "And try again to put me through to the Impunity."

"Sir," a young deck officer called out from his station, gripping tightly as the bridge was rocked by the shockwave of an impact to the command tower, "only twenty percent of our escape pods are in commission. Their fighters knocked out the rest on their initial attack run."

"Damn them," Nassal cursed. Their fighters. What had happened to our fighters?

"Sir, they're ceasing fire!" the same officer announced, relieved.
Sure enough, the pounding of cannonade had ceased, and the creaks and groans of the dying vessel now punctured the silence left in their wake.

"Any response from the Impunity?" Nassal asked, his voice barely a gasp, as though expecting his ship to collapse around him at any moment.
The reply came in the form of a sudden shimmering light that bathed the frightened officers and Nassal in blue.
Static fluctuated across the stern face that now dominated the bridge, and when she spoke, interference from the damaged communications array gave her voice a deeper, broken timbre.

"Recall your fighters, Commander Nassal, and prepare to be boarded," the hologram ordered.

Nassal swallowed hard, and looked her dead in her one remaining eye. The left one was covered with a patch, the faint traces of a burn scar webbing out around its edges.
"Explain yourself, Phasma," Nassal barked.
His resolve had returned now that his ship wasn't being used for target practice, and he paid no heed to the sudden sharp looks shot at him by his officers, as though his resistance to his commanding officer would cost them all. "The First Order is thin on ships as it is. Do you think we'll win this bloody war if we're turning on each other days after losing our Supreme Leader?"

"It's Captain Phasma," Phasma corrected him coolly. "And the Final Order already lost the war," she corrected him again. "It is my mission to ensure that what remains doesn't destroy itself from the inside out."

"And you hope to achieve that by blowing up your own ships?" spat the bewildered Commander.

"Recall your fighters," Phasma repeated, "and have your remaining troops and officers assemble in your hangar. You'll notice it wasn't targeted. Comply and I may find room in my command for the survivors."
Phasma's ghostly visage flickered out, and Nassal's bridge felt suddenly dark and unwelcoming.
He'd served the First Order faithfully, and the Final Order in the short time that it had existed, and years before either of them, had risen through the ranks of the Galactic Empire under the eye of true visionaries.
Phasma, Hux, Kylo Ren... they were children playing at war, incensed by stories and ideologies but with little grasp on how to command a fleet, let alone rule a galaxy.

"Sir, shall we stand down?" somebody among his crew asked - he didn't know all of their names, having cobbled them together from the remains of other ships, from other fleets.
Perhaps now he would never know them.

"Stand down," Nassal sighed, "and assemble our forces in the hangar."

*

As promised, the hangar was untouched, and after the harrowing trek through the ruined decks of his once resplendent Star Destroyer, Nassal allowed himself a moment to bask in the memory of the pristine.
The moment was fleeting, for no sooner had he arrived at the head of his assembled crew and forces, than the shadow of an Upsilon-class shuttle bore into view, flanked by two troop carriers.
The ships landed, jets of steam hissing from hydraulics, and from the carriers a stream of Stormtroopers filed out onto the deck in two rows.
They stood to attention, forming a passageway of white armour between which eight figures strode.
Four were clad in bright scarlet armour, more angular and streamlined than their lesser white brethren, and two bore the black markings and electro-axes of executioners.
Between them strode a phantom in black robes and armour, his masked face a shadow of the former Supreme Leader, a twisted and battered lightsaber swinging at his belt.

Beside the phantom, Captain Phasma, in her dulled, scarred chromium armour, sans helmet.

Phasma limped, each other step ringing louder on the deck than the first, the betraying sign of a badly fitted cybernetic lower leg.
Her right arm, shattered beyond repair, was bound to her chest, while her left hand gripped a sturdy yet elegant combat spear which seemed to be doubling as a walking stick.
Golden hair slicked back, her one good eye flashing steely blue, and her mouth set into a thin sneer, she seemed ready to impale any who dared put a toe out of line.

"Captain Phasma," Nassal greeted her, saluting and then falling into step beside her, careful to avoid crossing paths with the shadow on her flank.
For a wounded woman, she moved fast; Nassal found himself struggling to keep pace.

"This is all that remain?" Phasma questioned, without looking at the veteran. Nassal quickly regarded his sparse forces, and grimaced.

"This is all, yes."

"Good," Phasma declared, then stopped abruptly.
Her entourage halted in perfect unison, and Phasma perused the assembled troops and crew.
"FN-2187," she called out, the serial number causing a vein to throb in her temple, "was a bug in the system. A traitor to his brothers and sisters, a defect that brought disorder and ruin to my Stormtrooper Corps. That same defect has been detected among this crew!"

She stepped back, and the robed shadow strode resolutely into the ranks, flanked by the two executioners.

"A sane commander would have thought to notify me of the issue, not blast one of her ships to smithereens," Nassal hissed.

"Start it with him," Phasma ordered, and the shadow cowed Nassal with a forceful gesture.

Nassal screamed out in sudden horror, his body surrendered to the phantom's control.
His mind was no longer his own, instead shared with this creature, and every private thought and feeling he'd ever had were suddenly exposed.
It was the Force at work, of this Nassal had no doubt, but it was reckless, unrefined, tearing through his mind with abandon rather than carefully dissecting.
Nassal could feel blood welling up in his nose and ears, and tears rolling unchecked down his cheeks.

"He's clean," the phantom announced in barely more than a metallic whisper, and Nassal slumped to the floor.
He shivered and whimpered, though at least his mind was now his own again.
He managed to look up to Phasma, who returned his gaze for but a moment before disregarding him entirely to watch the shadow proceed through his men.
She knew I wasn't part of this defect in the system, Nassal thought to himself with resignation. She's lost her mind.

"Some of you think that in the coming days you will abandon the Final Order and seek solace in the arms of the Resistance," Phasma sneered, watching the assembly for any tell-tale sign of a traitor in hiding. "In the arms of the New Republic. Of the Jedi."
There. Second row, fourth from the left.
She noticed the slightest twitch of discomfort or curiosity, an infinitesimal disruption in the attentive ranks, but it was enough to sway Phasma.
Her associate began to move toward the trooper in question, but Phasma wasn't willing to await his confirmation.
Thrusting her spear into the arms of one of her Sith Troopers, she pulled her sidearm and shot the potential defect clean through the left eye of her helmet, a gross irony that killed her outright.

The assembly stirred, but Phasma silenced them all with a glare.

"Do not think the Final Order will hesitate to expose you. The Jedi are a plague on the galaxy, and now their roots have spread into my domain," Phasma hissed, her eye maddened and bloodshot with contained rage. "We stamped them out when they tried to rise again. We gutted their precious kyber-world and turned it into a weapon of mass destruction. Everything the Jedi do to try and rebuff the Final Order will be repaid a hundred-fold," Phasma promised, incensed.
All the while, the phantom strode from soldier to soldier, passing a hand over each of them.
Finally, he paused for a moment longer behind one of them, then nodded to the executioners.

"No...!" the trooper tried to protest, but his head was on the floor before he could turn to fight.

"That's two. The next to be discovered will be brought back to my command for reconditioning," Phasma threatened. "If the rest do not elect to turn themselves in after, be there any of you left, then I'll blast everyone else aboard to pieces along with the rest of the ship".

Panic began to stir the masses, and Phasma's eye darted from helmet to helmet, her sneer deepening as disorder erupted.

The Sith Trooper to Phasma's right raised his blaster, a high whine signalling that it was primed to fire. Phasma wheeled on the spot and thrust his weapon down toward the deck with her good arm, and stared the soldier in the visor.
"By my command," she snapped.
The Sith Troopers, for all their efficiency, largely operated of their own accord if not checked. They were not trained by her, but hailed from Exegol, their discipline overseen by the Sith Eternal.
She would bring them in line eventually, of that she had no doubt.

"I've found another," the phantom called out from among the panicking ranks of soldiers.
Weapons were being raised, and with their commanding officer quivering in his own blood on the floor, the personnel of the Intrepid were starting to succumb to basic human instinct - fight, or flight.
"He's all yours, Knight," Phasma snapped, and then, after retrieving her walking-spear, turned on her polished heel and made for the command shuttle. "Secure a safe exit for our passengers," she ordered her troops, who now raised their weapons unimpeded. "Exterminate the rest."

The hangar exploded into violence.

The two executioner troopers fought off the scrabbling hands of soldiers desperate to free their brother, while delivering a beatdown with the hafts of their axes.
The Knight of Ren, his hand extended, blasted a clear path through the assembly, sending white armour and navy uniform alike scattering like shrapnel.
Their quarry subdued, the Knight and his executioners dragged him through the hail of blasterfire that split the hangar, making for the yawning mouth of Phasma's shuttle and paying little heed to the death and destruction around them.
Only once they were aboard, the hatch secure behind them, did the Knight stop to consider the toll the Final Order had paid for this one potential Force user.

"When we are clear, order my ship to resume fire. Reduce the Intrepid to space dust, and then we can rejoin the fleet," Phasma was instructing the pilot.

"Is that wise?" the Knight asked, rounding on the Captain.

"Do not question me, Knight," Phasma hissed. "It was your leader that led us to ruin. I will restore order to this regime, and if you want me to continue aiding your little experiment, you'll do things my way."

The Knight didn't question any further.
Phasma knew of his abilities; she'd seen Kylo Ren do extraordinary things with the Force, frightening things.
And she'd seen this Knight do frightening things too, sometimes even more frightening in the raw ferocity of it, but she knew he needed her more than she needed him.
The Knight wouldn't strike at her while their purposes were aligned, and she doubted his concern for the Final Order took priority over his desire to undo the Jedi before they could begin again.

In the wake of the shuttle, flames blossomed from the remains of the Intrepid, her wreck being torn apart by the guns of Phasma's ship.
Before the shuttle landed, the Intrepid fragmented and exploded in a dazzling expanse of debris, which was promptly flung out into space when the Impunity jumped to lightspeed.

*

"TH-1138", the Knight called aloud, and the Stormtrooper stirred in his restraints.
He was suspended by electrified shackles around his wrists, exposing his torso which had been stripped of both armour and pressure suit.
His legs hung limply, with the toes of his boots barely grazing the grated deck beneath him.
He let out a pathetic moan, and the Knight backhanded him across the face, splitting his cheek with his bare knuckles.

"TH-1138," the Knight repeated, circling behind the trooper. "Do not make me lose my temper."

This time, the trooper stirred, and then spat a mouthful of blood onto the deck.
He struggled feebly, testing his restraints, and then sagged once more.

"Do you know why you were chosen?" the Knight asked from behind.

"I'm sure you're about to enlighten me," TH-1138 retorted groggily.

"Ah, yes, I knew I was right about you," the Knight murmured, circling back around.

TH-1138 was startled to find himself faced with a young man, barely old enough to be considered such. Pale, slim and somewhat tired looking, with dark hair shorter at the back than it was at the front and a stubborn lock that refused to stay swept back, he looked nothing like what 1138 had imagined might be beneath the mask.
His lithe form and sullen appearance brought to mind an urchin from the street gangs of Nar Shaddaa, not a fabled Knight of Ren.

"Who are you?" 1138 gasped.

"Who is not important," the Knight waved him off, "but where from? That is much more interesting. Like you, I was taken from a family I'll never know. I'd wager around the same time, give or take a year," the Knight surmised, his dark eyes looking 1138 up and down and taking in his equal youth.

"The First Order took you?"

"No, not the First Order," the Knight shook his head. "The Jedi Order. Luke Skywalker, and his apprentice, Ben Solo," the Knight corrected.
He watched for a moment, and then smirked, sensing the warmth that spread through 1138's consciousness at the mention of the Jedi. "Ah, you feel the Jedi will offer a safe haven. You don't know it yet, but you've been awakened. You feel it, here," the Knight reached out, placing a hand flat against 1138's heart. It beat hard beneath his palm, panic perhaps, or something else.

"Awakened?" 1138 choked out.

"The Force, responding to the rise of the dark side. From within its own ranks, selecting potential warriors of the light, to equal the score. Hundreds of Stormtroopers thinking they can break their conditioning," the Knight chuckled.

"I knew I was different," 1138 whispered, his breaths ragged from the proximity of the dark warrior. "And you've brought me here to study? To see what's triggering this 'awakening' so you can stop it destroying the Final Order?"

"I care nothing for the Final Order," the Knight admitted. "It's tools serve my purpose, and my gifts serve theirs, but there is a much larger stake I'm interested in pursuing."

"The Jedi," 1138 surmised.

"The Jedi", the Knight affirmed. "Now, TH-11... no, that won't do, you're no longer a trooper," the Knight corrected himself, and his hand slid from 1138's chest to his face, cupping his chin so that he may stare him in the eyes. "Oh, you and I will do great things together. I name you Thyle, Knight of Ren," he dubbed the young trooper.

"Knight of Ren? I'm no Knight, I'm a stormtrooper..."

"No, you're something bigger than that now," the Knight declared. "You will be my eyes and ears in the fledgling New Jedi Order. It is time for your reconditioning to begin. You may call me Isaac, heir of the Knights of Ren, and in time, Master..."

[Isaac]

Umbara

The gentle buck and sway of the mag-lev train, rocketing through the picturesque, bio-luminescent Umbaran countryside, gave Ezrio Drace a sensation of familiarity. He'd been away from home for far too long, and upon returning to find his world ravaged by the First Order's occupation, it had been difficult to remember his place there. His family were withdrawn and alienated, as though his absence from Umbara had prolonged their suffering at the hands of the tyrannical regime, and after years of traipsing from world to world with the Resistance, he found it hard to recognize his roots. Only now, on the balcony of the grand observatory carriage, staring through the translucent shields that protected the esteemed passengers from the elements, did it come rushing back. It was his fondest childhood memory, staring out at the flora and fauna with his brothers and sisters, pointing in awe whenever they spotted a particularly large vixus nestled among the myriad plantlife, or giggling whenever a banshee flew too close and rebounded from the shields and into the perpetual night.
It was fleeting, but it was the first moment of warmth he'd felt since the war had ended. Ironic that it was as he was preparing to leave Umbara, on Resistance business.

The war was over, for all intents and purposes, but it hadn't been as clean a victory as the media would claim. HoloNet News were adept at glossing over the finer details of what 'victory' entailed - the ruined civilizations, the shock and trauma of those that had lived in terror throughout it all. Nor did they seem interested in reporting that the Final Order, the evolution of the First Order, was still out there, wounded but vengeful. The immediate focus had been on the re-establishment of galactic order, with the drafting of treaties and the declaration of the imminent reinstatement of the New Republic being the current fanfare.
The romanticized image of the end of a war was all glory and celebration, with soldiers returning home to their families to live happily ever after, and the immediate return to how things were before.
The reality was harsher, and Ezrio somehow felt that returning to the fray would feel more comforting than staring down at his broken family and trying to justify his absence. Yes, he'd fought hard for their liberation, along with the rest of the galaxy, but he hadn't been here, on Umbara, and that, apparently, made all the difference.

A gentle melody chimed across the observatory, followed by the equally melodic lilt of the onboard announcer, her watery voice wishing all passengers a continued safe and pleasant journey as they were about to arrive at the Delphi Spaceport.
Ezrio agitated the remains of his wine in its glass, and then swallowed it in one swift gulp. Around him, families swathed in the richest of silks and shadowcloaks in a variety of shades that only Umbarans such as Ezrio could perceive, gathered their children and their belongings and began to cluster around the boarding ramps at either side of the observatory.
They were the elite, the upper echelons of Umbaran society; seemingly, rather than help their lower brethren face the realities of rebuilding, they were leading a mass exodus to various remote vacation worlds, to enjoy whichever ecosystem appealed to them most until everything blew over.
Though he didn't count himself among them, Ezrio was adept at blending in. He'd operated as a Resistance Ghost, an agent and a pilot undertaking off-record missions which usually required a flair for disguise. On this day, it was simple distaste for the refugees crowded into the adjoining carriages that had brought him to mingle with the rich; their gaunt faces and haunted stares reminded him of the cost of war.
He wore a more utilitarian attire than the finery of his peers, though it still bore a distinctly rich flair, patterned in the darkest of violets to appear almost black, and laced with silver and varying hues that could only be seen in the ultraviolet spectrum. It contrasted well with his ghost-grey skin and translucent silver hair, though didn't draw too much attention as to make others question his place among them.

Ezrio idled, lagging behind the bustling and tittering rich folk, to check his datapad. To the casual observer, it was little more than a transmission from a loved one in the Outer Rim.

"Have you been well? It's a long time since you visited, I'm starting to feel like you're a stranger. Missing you dearly, but I would never hope to keep you from your family in these hard times. As soon as you're able, I'd love it if you could come to Kaboryth and pick up where we left off. I hear from my sister that King Conda is hosting a show in two days, I'd really be happy if you could make it. Hope to see you soon."

A blink of Ezrio's colourless eyes activated his overlay lenses, and dulled out portions of the message, revealing his orders.
"Have been visited by stranger. Missing from family. Come to Kaboryth. Pick up from King Conda in two days. Hope to see you soon."

In short, it meant that another Final Order defector had come forward. Kaboryth wasn't the friendliest of planets, but getting in and out shouldn't be an issue. Dealing with King Conda would pose the biggest problem. The King wasn't even a King, nor was he a man; it was a title, a defiance of King Prana, the ruling warlord on Kaboryth, though that territory was always being fought over. Ezrio had dealt with Conda before she'd even begun calling herself 'King', back when she'd been the head of a smuggling syndicate still subject to the laws imposed by Prana. She'd moved up in her own little microcosm, and knowing Conda, that meant this wouldn't be a simple retrieval. She'd want something in return, no matter what bargain she'd struck with Maz to get the defector to safety. And when she learned it was Ezrio coming, she'd probably want even more still.

Folding his pad back into his pocket and deactivating his lenses, Ezrio made for the exit and lost himself in the crowd. The majority were heading for the departure lounges, but Ezrio detached from them and headed largely unimpeded for the docking bay twelve, where the Phantasm awaited.
The Phantasm was a sleek black vessel, and custom-built from parts the Resistance were able to get their hands on at the time. That they'd put together a ship as equally functional as it was aesthetically pleasing was a testament to their engineers. She was based around a disused Oubliette-class transport, with Geonosian salvage providing her armaments and solar gathering arrays spread between the struts of what was once likely a Raider-class engine array. She was distinct, and yet could easily be overlooked as any old cobbled together transport limping out of the Western Reaches if Ezrio so wished it.

"Master Ezrio, you have returned at last," IR-8 greeted him.
IR-8 was something of a caretaker for the Phantasm when Ezrio wasn't around, and an extra pair of arms - or weapons - when he was operating without the rest of his squad. Which, Ezrio thought to himself, is all the time, now.
A pang of regret swept over him as he recalled Exegol, and the visual of his squad mates in their individual ships, silently careening out of control after being struck by a storm, and exploding against Star Destroyers, each other, and even Exegol itself.
"I was beginning to wonder if you'd forgotten about me," the droid continued, and Ezrio rolled his eyes.

IR-8, or 'Irate', as Ezrio called him, was another patchwork of parts. He possessed the spindly body of a Separatist BX Commando droid and the head of an IG assassin unit from the same era. His internal processing unit was ripped straight from an even older model of assassin droid, and hadn't taken well to being over-written with stock protocol files. As a result, the droid was able to sound hostile and generally annoyed even when delivering the simplest of greetings or lamentations, and joyously courteous when emptying his blasters into First Order troops.

"I'm surprised you didn't come looking for me," Ezrio smirked, rapping the droid's chestplate with his knuckles as he breezed past. "I could've done with the distraction of an assassin droid going door-to-door in my village. Would've been a riot."

"And you say I'm the one with the malfunction," IR-8 huffed, clapping Ezrio on the shoulder in return and almost pitching him up the ramp of his ship.

"Oof... easy there, I'm not made of metal y'know," Ezrio laughed, rubbing at his shoulder.

"No. If you were, I wouldn't have to worry so much about protecting your soft chassis every time your covert work becomes... well, overt," the droid affected, and Ezrio could almost picture his violet photoreceptors rolling.

"A bit hard to stay silent with your metal ass clunking around every corner, asking if it would be 'permissible to begin extreme hostilities, sir'" Ezrio countered, in his best impersonation of his droid companion. Having reached the top of the ramp, he swung himself around to face IR-8 and jab him in the chest with his finger.
"Don't tell me you don't enjoy getting me in trouble," he winked. "Protecting me gives you purpose."

"I'm not capable of experiencing enjoyment. I exist only to serve, Master," IR-8 droned, all deadpan sarcasm.

"Well, serve me by getting this bird off the ground. I've got a date on Kaboryth and I don't wanna be late," Ezrio smirked, and began heading to the cramped passenger lounge.

"Oh, Kaboryth. How romantic. Lucky guy. Or is it a girl this time sir?" IR-8 mused, his spindly digits pulling the ramp mechanism and his footsteps disappearing toward the cockpit.

"Do you know, I can't quite remember," Ezrio feigned thoughtfulness, even though IR-8 no longer had a visual on him. "I can't keep track of 'em all, you know."

"I can," IR-8 retorted over the intercom. "Would you like me to list all fifty-seven dalliances since our partnership began?"

"Absolutely not," Ezrio shook his head, smiling the most he'd smiled in weeks. "Not unless you want a memory wipe."

"You wouldn't dare," IR-8 warned over the comm.

"Yeah? Get us to Kaboryth and we'll revisit the issue," Ezrio teased, and then yelled in surprise as the Phantasm took off at a particularly sharp angle, sending him crashing into his battered old recliner before the ships inertial dampeners could kick in.




Night Buzzard, Oubliette-class Transport
En-route to Nur, Mustafar System

Isaac paced impatiently in the forge of the Night Buzzard, a ship so deep into disrepair that it was a miracle it could still fly, let alone reach lightspeed for any sustained length of time. The ship had been flown from Exegol by its only survivor, the Symeong alchemist Albrekh, and into the ownership of the ranking survivor of their Order. Everything that he needed was aboard the vessel, from the scripture and recordings of the Way of Ren, to the forge in which he now stood, and the sole services of Albrekh himself, steeped as he was in the ancient lore of Sith Alchemy.

"Can't you work any faster?" Isaac asked impatiently, slamming his helmet down on the Symeong's workbench. Albrekh regarded him from beneath a heavy brow, and then continued to tinker away on Isaac's broken lightsaber. It hadn't worked for a long time - Kylo Ren had forbidden its use. Alone among his peers, Isaac had been strong enough in the Force to be considered dangerous with it, unlike the lesser Knights that were touched by the dark side but sadly ungifted. As a former Jedi Padawan, Isaac had an understanding of the weapon and its use, even if he hadn't used it in many years, instead being forced to rely on rudimentary weapons and his command of the Force.

The Force. Even that had been denied him, forced to keep his abilities suppressed so as not to draw the ire of Kylo Ren. Oh, how Isaac had hoped that Ren would take him beneath his wing, and train him as his apprentice. How he'd longed to be elevated above his lesser peers, to rule the galaxy side by side with, and one day succeed, the Master of the Knights. It was a dream that had almost come to fruition, a dream that he could see taking tangible form.
And then she had come along. The girl Kylo Ren began to covet, the one and only consideration for his goals of domination. His Knights became an afterthought, Isaac even more so, relegated to training younglings in the Unknown Regions.

The first thing Isaac had done upon hearing of the death of Kylo Ren and the senior Knights had been to exterminate those younglings. The time had come for him to dream bigger than serving at the heel of another; he would engineer the final downfall of the Jedi Order, and the girl that had taken his Master's attentions. To do so, he'd sought out Phasma, long believed dead, and helped her to assert control over the remains of the First and Final Order. He cared little for the regime, for it had been another distraction leading to the downfall of Kylo Ren, and he was not keen to repeat the mistakes of the dead - though if other remnants existed elsewhere, it would be beneficial to bring them under one banner. Phasma's banner.

It would make it easier to crush them once he'd wrung out the last ounce of worth from the failed regime.

Finally, Albrekh raised the broken lightsaber hilt to examine it in the dim light. Much of the inner workings were still exposed, stripped of their casing by Kylo Ren, but the alchemist had been toiling on repairing the handgrip and activation plate, as well as protecting those inner workings with practices only he knew of. Isaac took the proffered weapon once Albrekh was satisfied, and examined it himself. Glinting at him was the cracked red kyber crystal, bled from his own crystal from his time as a Jedi. It, too, was protected - Isaac could feel the dark artistry in the Force, as well as see it in the scarlet cracks that twisted and webbed around the hilt.

He flicked the weapon to life, and a snarl of energy rent the air between Isaac and Albrekh. The Symeong recoiled for a moment, as though expecting Isaac would strike him down, but the blow never landed. The forge was awash with angry, spitting energy and crimson glow, a ragged blade groaning with each movement and ejecting veins of bloody energy in spiderwebs at random.
"The alchemical adjustments to the crystal chamber and emitter matrix will prevent an overload," Albrekh offered, in a guttural tone. "I'd still recommend a new kyber crystal the moment one arises. That weapon is dangerous to you as much as it is to others."

Isaac hissed sharply, as a strand of energy arced thinly from the blade and into his hand, scorching his glove and leaving a smoking hole in the leather, with the faint smell of burned flesh tainting the air.
"I think we understand one another," Isaac murmured in response, losing his gaze in the coruscating flare of his weapon. Albrekh grunted, unsure whether the Knight referred to himself, or the unstable thing he'd made for him.




Kaboryth

Ezrio hated Kaboryth. He'd only ever visited once before, and that singular impression had been lasting enough that he'd never wanted to return.
It was the red light that bathed everything, filtering out all colour and ambiance from what could have been a beautiful planet, in a primitive kind of sense.
He walked through the market square of Varactyl Town, kicking up sand and dust with every step. Wrinkling his nose at the assault of smells from the hundreds of street-food stalls, and squinting against the harsh glare of the triplet suns, Ezrio was glad that the granite-carved houses and statues that overlooked the square at least provided some shade. The heat would otherwise have been unbearable.

"I'm not certain we stand out enough," IR-8 quipped from behind Ezrio.
He was right; the locals were decked in simple clothes, their colours bright but difficult to determine in the bloody glare, and everyone seemed to be favouring a poncho or a cloak made of the hide of their favourite beasts. Kaboryth was famed for its beast fights, and the rulers of each territory made huge efforts toward importing rare and exotic creatures to draw in larger crowds and as a result, more followers. It was a precarious trade, as not only was it a difficult, expensive, and often deadly job to bring in such animals and contain them, but each effort resulted in the opposition going to even further lengths to out-do his or her competition.
And thus the loyalty of the Kaborythians was never a certainty, and the reigning power was in constant flux.

"How many credits do we have?" Ezrio asked, without turning to look at IR-8. There was no disguising the droid, he would have to hope that the locals simply accepted him. It wasn't unusual for a bodyguard droid, or a labourer, to be plodding through the marketplace along with their owners, but an Umbaran in rich attire would stand out.
"Enough to buy you something cheap. I hear Mudhorn hide is very chic these days," IR-8 rumbled, and this time Ezrio did shoot him a glare over his shoulder.

After locating a stall off the beaten track, Ezrio re-joined the ambling market goers, looking far less conspicuous in a poncho of dark tanned Ronto leather that almost reached the floor. Conveniently, it also hid his weapons from view, and he imagined that would come in handy before the day was out.

"Do you know where we're going?" IR-8 asked, as they passed their fifth jewellery stand, selling the same bracelets of 'genuine Terentatek leather' and pendants of 'Felucian Bull Rancor teeth' at double the price of the first.

"Easy, Irate, I'm just browsing for souvenirs," Ezrio calmed the droid.

"You don't, do you," IR-8 replied, unconvinced.

"Maz said King Conda's place," Ezrio explained. "Everyone here knows she'll be overseeing the beast fights at the coliseum tonight. Which means she'll be there now, probably in her private suite, entertaining the local hot-shots."

"Then why are we wasting time?" IR-8 continued, impatiently. "Need I remind you that the longer we delay, the more likely it is that our turncoat Stormtrooper will end up being sold back to the Final Order? These barbarians are hardly the type to keep to a bargain no matter who..."

"Would you keep a lid on it?" Ezrio hissed, rounding on the droid and almost pressing his face against IR-8's cylindrical head. "Conda probably has people out looking for me. She likes to have the upper hand in every situation, so I'm giving her guys time to lose me," he explained, as though it should be obvious.

"Or time to find you," IR-8 countered.

"Not gonna happen," Ezrio parried, standing back and crossing his arms defiantly.

"Oh I'd calculate you're wrong on that one," IR-8 stated, and Ezrio thought he could detect amusement in the droids voice. IR-8 pointed over Ezrio's shoulder, and the Umbaran turned around on the spot, crestfallen. "Dead wrong," IR-8 added.

Where there had been a bustling throng of market goers, there was now only the well-trodden sand, empty of people except for a pair of Cathar in battered leather and durasteel armour. Ezrio was used to being towered over, but these guys were huge, their musculature rippling and what fur was visible standing on end. One of them bared their fangs, and the other reached for a blaster at his hip.

"Oh, welcoming committee?" Ezrio asked, as nonchalantly as he could muster. "Conda needn't have bothered, we were on our way..."

"King Conda grows impatient," the snarling Cathar growled. "She says to bring you now. She says you have no choice."

"This one hopes you disagree," the second Cathar, the one fingering his blaster, added.

"This one is feeling agreeable," Ezrio replied hastily, throwing up his hands to show he was unarmed and not about to make a fuss.

"How brave," IR-8 murmured, in what amounted to a whisper. A loud, humiliating whisper.



The inside of Conda's Coliseum was a welcome splash of colour compared to the world outside.
Golden plinths displayed holo's of various creatures, from a snarling Nexu to a thrashing Rancor; a braying Reek to a pouncing Gundark. Each was a record of the champions of Kaboryth's beast fights, with their name, handler, and length of their reign emblazoned on each pedestal.
The smell of various spices and hookah smoke washed from the entry to Conda's suite, itself draped in azure curtains and guarded by no less than six muscle-bound Korunnai humans, their dark skin bared but for the bone animal masks covering their faces and the nexu-hide loincloths protecting their modesty. Each wielded a spear which looked like it had been fashioned from the bones of a Krayt dragon. It was more for intimidation and theatricality than for actual protection, Ezrio surmised, but he still didn't fancy a tangle with them.

"Weapons check," chimed a short rotund Ishi-Tib, her heavy lidded eyes peering out from behind the blast shield of a booth set just before the entrance to the suite.

"Sure thing, " Ezrio complied, and unbuckled his blaster belt, dropping it along with his boot-sheathed vibroblade onto the table. A scrawny arm swept out from under the blast shield, and fitted each one with a circuit disruptor, preventing them from being activated.

"All weapons are to remain holstered at all times, no exceptions," the Ishi-Tib drawled, as though she'd repeated the same script for the better part of a day. "Your droid will have to remain outside."

"Now there's a surprise," IR-8 complained.

"Don't make a fuss, Irate," Ezrio pleaded.

"I most certainly will make a fuss. This 'no droids allowed' business needs addressing, this isn't the Clone Wars," IR-8 protested, his violet photoreceptors flaring.

"C'mon buddy," Ezrio reasoned. He threw an arm around IR-8's shoulders, and guided the crestfallen droid away from the weapons booth. "After this we'll get you an oil bath and a tune-up. Just let me do this one job, okay?"

"Oh very well," IR-8 huffed, and sank onto an ornate bench to wait.

Ezrio returned to the suite entry and the impatient Cathar escorts, gave a mock salute and a wink to the nearest Korun guard, then strolled inside.
Immediately, his eyes began to sting from the amount of smoke being wafted around the room, hanging thick in the dim light that bathed the patrons in their glittering finery.
Cordial games of sabaac and pazaak were being played at the outer edges of the suite, though it was mostly a distraction for the suited beings to discuss business, sip at expensive drinks, and parade their dazzlingly beautiful consorts. The center of the room was strewn with pillows and divans, themselves draped with old and overweight men and women of all different species, being fed and fanned down by slaves.
Male slaves, Ezrio noted, for Conda was reputed for overt displays of dominance over her male peers. She'd even taken the 'King' honorific for her own, in protest of Kaborythian rulers past, all of whom had been men.

Conda herself was squished into a throne shaped like a flowering plom bloom, drawing heavily on a hookah pipe. Too heavily; she spluttered a cloud of smoke, her body rippling with each cough, the heavy jewels hanging from her neck, arms, and her scant clothing jangling loudly. Ezrio had never seen a Devaronian as fat, pale, and ugly as Conda, nor did he imagine he would again. She was squat enough to be considered pygmy sized, and her horns were little more than stubby protrusions from a round, deceptively cherubic face of sickly pink-red flesh and black beauty marks. She wore a scant dress of intricate gold lacework and emeralds, including one set into one of her upper incisors, glinting against the yellow pointed tooth every time she laughed, which was often and loud.

"Ezzy, I didn't think you were coming!" she beamed, and snapped her ringed fingers sharply.
Four attendants hurried to Conda's flowery throne armed with a pair of poles, and slotted them into the seat. They hoisted her aloft, the seat of the throne coming away, a gilt basin in which Conda shuffled herself into a lounging position.
The attendants - a Mon Cala, a Quarren, and two Nautolan, all male and all bare save for their slave silks - brought Conda across the suite, and stopped when she was eye-level with Ezrio.
Ezrio eyed the slaves up and down, then cast a raised eyebrow to Conda.

"I'm noticing a theme, Conda," he smirked.

"The slaves? I'm breaking 'em in for Barapha the Hutt," Conda announced, sure to make it heard that she was in league with so esteemed a member of the Hutt Cartel. "She wanted something nautical. That, or her new pet likes sea food," she laughed, slapping the blue-skinned Nautolan to her left on the shoulder. The slave kept his head down in subservience, not reacting to the jibe.

"I remember when you tried to get me in one of those outfits," Ezrio recalled. He grimaced at the thought, and then caught Conda's hungry eye taking him in. "Hope you're not getting any ideas there..."

"Oh Ez, you'd have been my crown jewel," Conda sighed, licking her black lips with a short, stubby tongue. "Sure you won't reconsider? I could be good to you..."

"I think you'll remember I violently opposed the idea the first time," Ezrio reminded her, and Conda pouted sulkily. "How's the beast trade going?"

"Why, amazing, thank you for asking," Conda perked up, and gestured to a vidscreen set into an alcove behind Ezrio. He glanced over his shoulder, and read the names and species to be on show later in the evening's games. "I just acquired a family of Rathtars, King Prana is going to have a seizure, he's been after them for years," she grinned through her filed teeth, rubbing her tiny hands with glee.

"Heard they were dangerous," Ezrio commented, hardly interested in Conda's business.

"But of course they're dangerous boy, what do you think brings in the spectators?" Conda laughed. "Maybe you'd care to place a wager?"

"I'm not the gambling type," Ezrio replied. He was scanning the room for any sign of the defector. It was unlikely that Conda would have him out in public, but she was a showman, and he wouldn't put it past her to have turned the Stormtrooper into another one of her attractions.

"That's a lie you can keep, boy," Conda advised, curling a black nail through his fine silver locks. "Your entire life is a gamble. Coming here was a gamble."

"Have it your way," Ezrio sighed, and pulled gently away from her stubby fingers. "Where is he?"

"Who?"

"The defector," Ezrio hissed, trying to ignore the child-like grin stretching out Conda's chubby jowls. "I assumed you wanted to get this done quickly, hence the walking fur brigade," he motioned toward the Cathar, who were staying close by while feigning interest in a particularly slow dejarik game.

"What's he worth?" Conda asked dreamily, lounging back on her dais. Ezrio rounded on her, and for a moment, she tensed.

"You've already been paid. Maz made the transfer before sending me out here," he warned. He knew the games Conda liked to play, and he wasn't about to be dragged into them.

"I've been paid for the merchandise, yes," Conda agreed, waving a hand loftily, "but the information he carries? Loose lips, Ezrio," Conda chuckled. "His value has increased somewhat."

"Fine, I'm sure Maz will be willing to grant you an extra fee for the info," Ezrio huffed impatiently. "Just tell me where he is."

"Why, he's up there," Conda gestured once again to the vid screen.

A young male, around twenty years old, was being profiled in advance of the opening of the games.
Thyle, ex-First Order Stormtrooper, vs Albino Webweaver from the Shadowlands of Kashyyyk, odds of 120:1 in favour of the Webweaver.

"Oh, Conda, you didn't..." Ezrio groaned.

"It's no-holds barred," Conda offered casually, waving a Twi'lek servant over to give her a drink. "Would make someone mighty rich if they put money on the Trooper and someone helped him to win," she winked.

"If you think..."

"If you want him alive, Ezrio Drace, you'll throw your pale behind in that pit and make me some damn credits," Conda spat, spilling her drink down her fleshy folds and soaking the cushions she perched herself on. "It's the only way you're getting out of here alive, after the stunt you pulled last time."
Ezrio began to protest, but the Cathar were no longer pretending to be enjoying the complexities of Dejarik, and were instead moving slowly toward him.

"Okay, okay," Ezrio sighed. "But if we win, we walk."

"If you win, then we negotiate," Conda countered, and Ezrio knew he was in no position to argue.
All he could do was glare at the saccharine smile of the Devaronian as he was dragged away to be made ready for combat.