SW Mafia: Death from within (SK #2)
/OOC: This is a special hit. As an executive decision, I have killed the last Serial Killer and am instigating new one in this scene, I will hopefully try and keep it straight forward.
The cyborg strode towards the cafeteria, keeping her eyes focused upon the ground in front of her. The voice inside her head seemed to be quiet and calm for now, but she never knew when that was going to change.
During her training as an operative for Imperial Intelligence, she had undergone many taxing training missions, some of which were designed to fortify her will. Her training had been inadequate, she told herself.
'Of course it had, weakling,' the foreign voice said, with contempt. 'I had thought you to be more powerful, instead you seem to be quite the pitiful specimen.' The pain that followed was sharp and focused, and it lasted only a brief few seconds. It seemed to the woman known only as Mistress Fate to last an eternity.
She wasn't prepared for an enemy of this nature, she was powerless against it. She despaired knowing herself a failure. Her commander, a man in his late forties with a stern expression and even more stern behavior would have beaten her then. She deserved it.
A weak sob escaped her then, marking the interruption of her determined walk, and she suddenly felt weak in the knees.
'Weak,' came the dark voice, echoing in the chasms of her mind. It was so spiteful, so full of malice. She couldn't take it.
Her back found the cold durosteel of the wall and she slid slowly down to the ground. Her sobs came freely now, shaking her small frame. When the station began shaking, she thought it just herself, and she continued to cry.
Denkon Shrubs sat in his small and yet heavily modified Z-95 Headhunter. Many of his peers would jest at his craft, seemingly out of repair and a bit outdated.
He quietly stood behind it though, knowing its capability far surpassed its outward appearance. His life had been saved more than once by its quick response time or reliability in atmospheric conditions.
Mentally shrugging, he readjusted his feet on the console, making sure to not hit any switches. Currently, his astromech, R4-23A was seated in the cockpit behind him, an aftermarket installation to the normally hyperspace incapable craft, piloting the craft through a predetermined patrol route. It was a boring job, but one that needed to be done. The base was hid well, and protected much better than most realized, but how much good would all that armor do if they were caught unaware.
The sort of visitors that frequented the place had as many enemies as they did friends; any number of which could want their hide, at any cost.
Already this month they had deterred two small task groups of various crime lords. Luckily, so far, they had yet to lose any men, but Denkon had been around long enough to know that if there were laser bolts coming at you, eventually they will get you. Simple as that. Odds, and all that business. However, he maintained a good life, got paid well, enjoyed his job and had been either skillful enough or lucky enough to avoid such misfortune as of yet.
He tried to ignore the morbid thoughts and enjoy the view. It was one of those things that at first he marveled at and now barely gave it a second glance. It really was beautiful, he thought. The Maw, a mysterious formation of black holes and other gravitational anomalies looked like a deep bruise in space, floating up and to his right. The outsides were lined with cosmic gases, the last remnants to some ancient supernova.
Foreward, the sky was filled with more stars then he could count, and they glittered as his cockpit traversed the sky. He recalled stories of ancient civilizations making shapes in the stars and assigning them some cosmic or spiritual value. Though the notion seemed primitive, he couldn't help but sympathize; he too could feel the stars pulling on his soul.
To his left and a bit below his starfighter, he saw small flashes, lots of them. At first, he tried to decide what kind of phenomenon it could be. Only when his cockpit was filled with the high pitched whines of warnings and alarms did he snap out of his reverie.
Looking at his instrument panel as he flicked on his ship's comm. unit, a sudden dread put its weight on his shoulders.
"Gray Squadron 7 to Kessel Station 00137, come in, do you read?" They had deemed the smuggler's hive Station 00137, a simple but effective cover-up. The generic name could have been a call-sign for pretty much anything, so as so far the Imperial Navy had ignored the place.
A distorted, hollow, and high-pitched voice answered him, "Go ahead Gray 7, getting bored out there?"
"This is no joke, base, we got unknowns incoming. Lots of them, I count at least 2 capitals and what looks to be 3 squads of fighters," his hands were sweating now as reality sank in. "I am too far to get details other then that, awaiting orders."
As he waited he eased control from auto-pilot to manual and grabbed the joystick, feeling comforted a little by the quick response he got. At least, he mused, he was in such a reliable craft. His heart pounded as the seconds ticked by and, after what seemed days, he heard a voice from the other end again.
It was a different person, he could tell, but other then that, he didnÃ¢â‚¬â„¢t know who it was; he assumed someone with more authority. They were taking this seriously, as well they should; they had never expected to have had to defend against a force so large.
"Gray 7, we need you to get a closer look, see what we are going up against; are you up to that?"
Denkon knew he had to, but feared he would die in the process. However, he was a man of honor, something rare in his line of work and so he steered his craft towards the cloud of death and ignited his engines.
"Copy that, I will report in when I have some more information. Gray 7, out."
"Be careful, and get outta there as soon as you can, no need to die out there."
Exar Kun was hungry for power, something his current toy had little of. When he made his move and physically resurrected himself, he would need an army to call upon. This took much of his time and effort, considering he was trapped in the ancient ruins of a dead civilization on the fourth moon of the giant gas planet Yavin. Little did he know, the jungles would house a small group of rebels that would, from his temples, strike at the evil government in a way never before done in history.
But, such was still years from occurring and he had other things to worry about. As such, he began seeking a new apprentice on the far off planet Kessel. He felt a great concentration of the force there.
Denkon watched as the distance between him and a fiery death clicked down, 50 km, 40, 35. He knew his scanners would get good readings at about 25 clicks, or kilometers. He felt so alone now, more then he ever had. A lone starfighter assaulting an entire task force. He was dimly aware of the chatter in his comm. helmet. The nervous talk of the other fighter pilots as they were being scrambled.
From behind him, dozens of tiny vessels erupted from a small cave entrance on the planet, like angry wasps swarming from a threatened hive. The odd mix of craft, all independently owned and maintained included many makeshift designs, Incom fuselages welded to Seiner Tie wings, Tie cockpits fastened to Y-Wing engines, and more. The rag-tag group looked anything but threatening, though Denkon knew differently.
If he could get his valuable information back to base, they might stand a chance. Though he had the feeling he didn't. His ship, while maneuverable and reliable, wasn't as fast as some, and that may be his downfall. Jumping to hyperspace would be difficult, and so, it seemed he would have to out-fly his enemies. Entire squadrons of them. Things didn't look good.
Sweat formed on his brow and finally, at 24.99 clicks he got a solid reading on the task force. Two squadrons of tie fighters, one squadron of bombers and two dreadnaught capital ships.
He transmitted his readings to base, hauled back on his yolk and put all power to his engines. He figured he had about 55 kilometers until he was within the relative safety of his friendlies and he could fly 40 of that unmolested. 15 kilometers under fire. He had heard of worse, though not by much.
"Gray 7 to base, I am incoming, bringing some friends. Think you can have a nice welcome for them when we get into town," he tried to put some humor into his voice, though even to him it sounded weak.
Many of the visitors had found their way to the bar, still others sat alone in their bunks. Regardless of where they were, the unmistakable sound of ion drives igniting and the following shake of ships taking off filled the air with tension.
Momentarily, a commanding voice echoed through the station, interrupting all conversation, "Attention, there is an enemy task force inbound. Our station defense force has been scrambled and our groundside guns are being powered. Please remain calm. We are closing our blast doors now and they will remain closed until the threat has been deterred. For your safety, we ask you remain calm and weather this out with us."
"So," said one of those in the bar, "now we are stuck here. Great."
Exar Kun felt the tension of the station and psychically smiled. Tension meant fear, and fear, fear meant a doorway for him. Slowly, he traveled through the halls of the station, no more tangible then a nightmare.
Finally, he found a worthy subject.
Now, he thought, begins the conversion.
Fate, looked up as she noted the footsteps coming towards her, deliberate and menacing. Recognition flashed through her eyes and she searched her memory for a name.
"Hey," she managed, "you are..."
"Silence!" she was commanded. She obeyed, fear welling within her. Only hours before she had felt so powerful, so in control. Now she felt abandoned, lost, and confused. She felt weak.
For a moment, the Imperial spy saw a flash of confusion on the face of the person standing above her, almost as if the same dark voice that had abandoned her spoke now to them; as fast as it was there, it was gone, however. She didn't even have time to scream as the blaster bolt seared through her skull.
Exar Kun reveled in the power of his new vessel. His laugh, menacing and dripping with malice echoed in mind of his new apprentice as his old one slumped to the floor, dead.
Kun, Lord of the Sith millennia before, hadn't found a better apprentice, so much anger - things would work well this time, he assured himself. And he mentally praised his new pupil.