Chance and Steel

This is act one of Sco's introduction story. It's set before the events of TOR.

Suggestions and criticism welcome! (Thick skin)

Act One:
The Silence


A young girl sat in the lone cabin of the Republic vessel, the Tystnaden. She was alone; the one passenger that the captain had allowed on board, for reasons known only to himself. Sleepy eyed and travel sick, she stood to peer through the dusty, scratched window. The cabin’s source of light dimmed, the ship shook as it continued through turbulent space. She watched as the stars stood still while ships tore past at incredible speeds. She touched the sign to the left of the cabin’s window in an attempt to read it, it was instructions on what course of action to take should the window show signs of breakage. The first part had been scratched off, though the picture that accompanied it illustrated that passengers must first activate the steel blinds.

”Ester,” the cabin’s door was opened, a Republic lieutenant stepped inside, ”Keep this door locked,” he pointed to her, then the door, speaking slowly, ”Captain’s said we’ve run into some trouble, keep yourself safe.” The lieutenant left and the doors closed, an extra sound was heard and the door was locked. The girl contented herself by mimicking the actions of star ships in combat with her hands, accompanying the make-believe battle complete with her own sound effects.

An avalanche of silver, a steel wind rained down on the Republic's vessel. The crew were visibly shaken in the ship’s bridge as monitors turned shades of red, brimming with blips of all sizes. As mouths opened and arms reached out, order was swept from under the captain’s feet. He stumbled, flustered, and proved no use as a commanding officer; his clean boots and tidy shirt suggested that he was fresh from the academy, for which his parents had undoubtedly paid a fortune. School had taught him to command, the delicacies of assertion. He swore his oath to the fleet, without question. This particular captain may as well have called in the cavalry against a row of cannons. His charade, embarrassment of a duty shadowed his weakness as a text-book driven academic. Young and foolhardy, he wrongly believed that he was immortal due to his age; people die old in Republic space. Perhaps years of peace was a tactic employed by the Council for this very purpose, as the captain demonstrated his inability to react to the enemy which hedged in on his vessel.

Flashes of energy ran through the window on the starboard side of the bridge. The ship’s captain turned, stood and watched as shapes dotted about in the distance; they moved too fast to be dormant satellites of any kind. Light poured out from their fronts, their deaths were silent. This was a valley without epic mountains, romantic hills, nor soft sand. There was no glory in the slaughter. It was devoid of chivalry or the aspects of war that allowed the unknowing to pretend that one man killing another could be justified - that one man who killed well was not a murderer, rather he was a hero and the man who commanded him to do so was a genius. They looped and they arced, they swooped and they stormed, Republic met Sith. Light from the nearby blue dwarf poured over the field of battle, its light reflected back to the ship; every soundless scream was exaggerated as debris floated in the vacuum. Sirens blared; drowsy officers woke from their sleep in the mess hall. Corridors were illuminated in red, the captain’s voice rang through all available communication channels aboard the Tystnaden; security were ordered to the bridge, non-combatants warned to stay within their designated personal offices or rooms.

Within an ace of mutiny, security lay in wait for the inevitable; the ship’s bow held the evacuation pods and the captain’s panicky state had lead him to permit their use, despite raised concerns from the crew. Those who took the opportunity would then allow for boarding parties to make use of the space created, without drilling through the hull. As the last of the Republic’s fighters were reduced to silence, the Sith surrounded the Tystnaden. Crouched and rifles at the ready, a brave squad of five held position near the opened pod bay. Four awaited the first of the intruders, while one made sure no others took further action upon themselves to flee. They had watched the lone pod that escaped be torn apart by the enemy, the sight allowed for their insubordination in favour of protecting the crew from themselves and their weak captain. While the Tystnaden was engaged in ship-to-ship battle it would be unable to prevent a small docking party from making its way to the open pod space. It was likely that the Sith would send their most foolhardy soldiers first.

With a terrible crash, the first boarding party attached itself to the empty pod bay. The doors opened and there stood an awful statue; black boots, a jaw fit for a king. Bastion moved forward, the entrance of the boarding ship arched overhead, a rusted iron frame. Two to his side were kneeling, a young man and stout girl. He clasped his sides, a wry smile slapped his cheeks slightly, in disappointment to find that the soldiers who had waited so long barely held their triggers. The rookie medic to his right side held his blaster firmly, a bandage covered his eyes while the turquoise Twi'lek to his left held her face down, trailing a navy blue lighter dangerously close to her face; the two long scars that had been etched down her cheeks were illuminated. A constant set of tears.

“Emii, are you busy..” Bastion eyed the men who knelt to his front. A comforting mixture of species, diversity in the military strengthened relations at home; it is always the fall-back option of a government weak internally to promote its intra-galactic strengths. Their armour was identical aside from the obvious aspects that were adapted to accommodate a Mon Calamari head or allow for lekku to flow freely. A contract deal with Czerka allowed for cheap armour to be made ready for the Republic’s use, in this case they seemed shoddy and ineffective. Their design, however, surely inspired hope in the Republic; they looked heroic in the holovids. Shades of white and red, they wore uniform, though they were not soldiers. Perhaps in a silly Republic style, they had hoped to settle the matter diplomatically.

“No,” was the girl’s answer. The lighter’s cap was shut and shoved into a pocket; she dug into her right, previously obscured side, stood and wrenched her blaster from its holster. When skin is subjected to a blaster shot, it burns and chars. Pain isn’t felt at first, flesh wounds are common with blaster technology and these men were conditioned to it. The pain begins to seep in moments later as the skin bubbles and pops, the charring spreads and if new to the experience, it could be disastrous if caught unaware. Emii left nothing uncertain. She pulled the trigger only five times. Five bodies slumped. Blaster shots don’t allow for bleeding, this lack of relation between the wound and death allows for one such as Emii to care less about her actions. The rookie continued to kneel; his blaster remained in his hands, his face cold and industrial.
“You can stand now, medic boy."

The Sith, who were bent on nothing but celestial annihilation were approached by lines of Republic soldiers, armed with the same Czerka-standard weaponry. Bastion lead the charge, his boots shattering the skulls of the fallen, his blue lightsaber making short work of the untrained enemy. Red crystals were stronger, though more unstable. Sco quickly realised through the battle that Bastion was the type to favour precision over strength. They followed the looping message of the comm. channels to the bridge and edged their way through the mass of armed Republic men and women, of all species. It became quite clear that centuries of Republic dependence on the Jedi had weakened those who were not attuned to the force; the disapproval, nigh on hatred of their reliance on something so exterior to themselves fueled Sco’s entry into the empire. A Miraluka, naturally blind and adept to the force, he came to see his ‘gift’ as a handicap growing up in the competition-oriented culture of the Empire. Although pursuing his career in medicine, he was disallowed to become a full medical doctor. He can see, the force grants him that much. But he is blind. When the choice to join either of the two sides consumed his thoughts, it was the Sith who did not ask questions. He had carried an unstable thermal detonator onto the Tystnaden, with full intention to die this day.

Bastion’s reputation in the battle preceded him and once the Sith had reached the bridge, the weaker willed Republic soldiers gave up their captain, who had done little to serve them. Bastion commanded his subordinates inside before finishing the men who he deemed nothing short of animals. His blade was tantalizingly lush, the tip oozed like a Zeltron's red lips; the smell, the sound - it excited him. Bastion was no mere man. Having now cleared the bridge of hostiles, Sco ensured the captain’s only exit was firmly locked. Bastion’s lightsaber etched into his victim’s throat, his eyes locked with the captain’s. Black. Sco had found a barrel of petroleum in one of the ships’ science-oriented rooms and brought it into the bridge.

As he stood in the room, centered and tall, he hesitated once more. A bitter remembrance of days gone past. His stomach dropped, his chest seized as it does when approached by a figure of pure, unadulterated authority - a man of the law. White horses will take him away. The conscience deepens, the regret softens. There are no more secrets when Bastion is within your immediate prescence.

“This is not your ship.” A rebuttal was not necessary, nor wise, though the captain still spluttered, incoherently painting his conviction with his lips. Slightly hunched, Bastion’s back ached as he moved from point to point. His heavy coat pulled on his shoulders, the middle of his back stung.
Emii gripped her blaster, a finger placed on the trigger as the front pierced into the captain’s back, “Turn around.”
“'Scuse her 'tude, I don’t think she’s eaten today.” Bastion chimed in.
The captain squinted and scowled, “My eyes are starting to burn.”
“What's your name?”
“I can't remember...I can't remember”
“Really.” Bastion called out to Sco, “Rookie, over here.”
Emii reached into her pocket, lifted her lighter and handed it to Sco disapprovingly, “Don’t lose it.”
As ordered, Sco strapped the captain to his chair with rope found nearby. Once firmly fastened, the captain was drenched in the petroleum, a now rare clear liquid with a pungent smell.
“You’ll have to kill me.”

Bastion, assured of his success, laughed and spoke with a genuine smile, “I won’t need to. Feel the pain and keep it all in ‘till you die.”
Moving to the captain’s front, the Twi’lek allowed her blaster to fall. It dropped to the ground with a shining splatter. One side of her mouth extended, bridging into her cheek into what could only be described as a smile while she caressed the captain’s face with her left hand, “Without eyes you cannot cry,” she spoke softly. Her hand, a dark shade of purple, was lifted. She placed her forefinger on his lips and then her own, she worked it into her mouth and coated it with saliva. Confused, the captain could hardly blink, he could only stare at her two facial scars; Sco watched with earnest. With her pink lips, she was a true femme fatale. Her chest was laid out, her thighs were extenuated with tight clothing. She released her finger with a flick of her tongue and placed her thumb on the edges of the captain’s eye. With a lick of her lips, the captain moaned as his eye was wrenched from its socket. The animal howled, bleated and screeched; Emii showed not even a trace of regret. Sco watched from behind as the captain’s head flung around in pain. The girl stood and wiped her hands free from the vile jelly on the knee of her victim, a cloth drying her of the petroleum.

“Tell me.” Bastion commanded, “Who's to blame?”
“I – I Dun-“ the captain’s hands twitched and flickered as he held onto what was left of his life,
“You don’t know? Speak up.” With her blaster now in her hands, Emii again aimed at the captain’s blood-ridden face, two dark masses in the centre gazed at her.
“The girl – the girl…” the captain moaned and wretched, Bastion cracked the joints in his hands.
“She’s here? Right. Sco, light him up.”

Bastion paced back, his blade thrust back into its holster. Emii ensured that Sco followed his orders with her blaster raised. Sco flipped the lighter’s cap open, flicked the igniter and lit the captain alight. A star was born; the flames crackled, his screams eventually died out to the sound of ember dancing upon his corpse.

“Find the girl,” Bastion motioned towards the door.
There was neither non-existence nor existence then. The space that lay beyond the ship, time stood still. Sco had asked why people had to die, years before. The captain had finally answered this question. Leaving the bridge, Sco found himself immersed in a bloody-walled, body strewn corridor. Burn marks covered the detached limbs, clear indication that a brutal Jedi was the culprit. Bastion embodied the will of the Sith perfectly. Sco’s chest seized , his lungs blocked and he felt his hand find the edge of the door. Hard breathing, his knees seeped to the floor as the floral stench of a hundred innocent men and women made its way into his nose. The corridor, to Sco, was black and white. Until now, his ability to detach himself from the crimes he committed through seeing only what he wanted to see, what the force permitted him to see, allowed him to act without remorse. His screams were blocked by the hand over his mouth; he thrashed around and attacked the walls, the thick liquids covered his fists.

Since birth, Sco had relied on the force for what comes to others naturally. A victim's blood, the death of an enemy was always a dull-coloured affair. Having witnessed the gruesome gouging of the captain's eyes, felt the heat from his burning and the sound he and the fire made as one entity, he now truly saw who he was. He found the ID of one Republic soldier, a one J. Alf Prufrock. The card was worn and oiled, it had been held in the man's pocket. His hair was thinning, his legs were stocky. Sco hoped, if he could survive the mission, to apologize to his family personally. He knew in his heart that this was not possible, though at this time it was the closest he could come to a confession of any kind.

A lone girl sat in the cabin of the Republic vessel, the Tystnaden. Her overly zealous re enaction of space ships in combat spared her the sounds of the battle that had raged behind her locked door. She continued to play and it was the chime of a young girl’s singing that alerted Sco to her position.

After a number of failed attempts with his shoulders, Sco resorted to plunging his vibro blade into the blast door that stood between him and the girl. He heard a cry; shards of metal screamed as the blade passed through, embers popped in all directions, charring what they came into contact with. His hands grew numb, the vibrating cell smoked. Sco coughed and spluttered, though eventually carved the door into an entrance. There stood an innocent statue, a small girl. Blonde hair, and blue eyes. Her smooth faced watched the stranger, her only blemish was the tears that wallowed down her cheeks. Sco, in contrast, was burnt and scarred. His fingers were ashen and his complexion that of someone much older. He attempted to smile but found himself unable to do so. Instead, he only extended his hand, which was gripped by the girl. They made their way back to the ship's bridge, only to be welcomed with a terrible sight. Much of the room was dark to Sco, besides the massive silhouette of sheer force that stood in Bastion's shape.

“You're butchering them.”Sco stood, the girl clung to his legs. Bastion only smiled,
“And you would have it any other way?”
The Twi'lek girl was still, her lips pursed and her eyes wide. A clear red liquid seeped from the lightsaber wound across her stomach. She had been made to suffer.
“She's dead. The captain too.”
“The captain was all you, Sco.” The light from Bastion's sabre dimmed, it was unequipped but never left his right hand, he crouched and lifted Emii's head, closing her eye lids. “But Emii, the dear, she helped me dispose of the mother. It took me three years to get to you, Ester, I'm sorry.”

As Bastion's lightsabre ignited, Sco stepped back. He pulled the girl by the scruff of her shirt as he picked up pace; by the time he had reached the escape pod she was held in his arms. His pursuer gave up chase and Sco was able to retreat past the lines of dead Republic soldiers to their escape. Ester continued to cry as Sco found himself trudging over the dead. Punching the terminal, the doors opened and the two stood in the pod, she clutched at his chest. Bastion appeared, though he showed no interest in taking action, though kept Sco's eye contact as his lightsabre diminished,
“Don't get all misty eyed.”

The doors slammed. Tachyons were sucked from their slumber, the pressure in the escape pod built ready to burst. Sco's blood boiled, his ears popped, the extreme speed pulled his organs apart. He plummeted through space, the girl in his arms. The Tystnaden's engines erupted, it gradually shrunk in size as their escape pod pulled further and further away. The Republic ship entered hyperspace; to Bastion, Sco and his companion would be little more than miniscule gravity shadows as his vessel shot through time, space and dimensions.

You've come a long way, Jake. Bravissimo.

Excellent read, sir! Characters are all well defined and believable, and the story flows really well.
Its good to know we have a 2nd medic with us, although Sco and Dr Forte are pretty different 'healers'

Good to see great minds think alike though, Emii seems to share some rather disturbing personality traits with Xen from The Questioning...

Chance and Steel wrote:

Moving to the captain’s front, the Twi’lek allowed her blaster to fall. It dropped to the ground with a shining splatter. One side of her mouth extended, bridging into her cheek into what could only be described as a smile while she caressed the captain’s face with her left hand, “Without eyes you cannot cry,” she spoke softly. Her hand, a dark shade of purple, was lifted. She placed her forefinger on his lips and then her own, she worked it into her mouth and coated it with saliva. Confused, the captain could hardly blink, he could only stare at her two facial scars; Sco watched with earnest. With her pink lips, she was a true femme fatale. Her chest was laid out, her thighs were extenuated with tight clothing. She released her finger with a flick of her tongue and placed her thumb on the edges of the captain’s eye. With a lick of her lips, the captain moaned as his eye was wrenched from its socket. The animal howled, bleated and screeched; Emii showed not even a trace of regret. Sco watched from behind as the captain’s head flung around in pain. The girl stood and wiped her hands free from the vile jelly on the knee of her victim, a cloth drying her of the petroleum.

The Questioning wrote:

"W-what's that?" he said as she walked toward him "A truth serum? I've told you all I know, that would be pointless!"

As she got closer he tried to pull away from her, turning his head as far from her as possible but it was a futile effort as he could not really move more than a few inches. With her free hand she grabbed the scruff of his hair and kept his head still as he realised all too late that he had left his neck exposed. There was a sudden sharp pain as he felt the needle enter the skin of his neck, followed by a burning sensation and then, nothing but a slight numbing.

"Don't be so foolish," she whispered in his ear, which - for some reason which made no sense to him - he found oddly arousing. "I've injected you with a perception stimulant. Within seconds all your senses: sight, sound, smell, taste and..." she brushed a hand across his thigh and he felt the hairs on his arms and legs stand on end and a shiver run down his spine... "Touch, they well all be working in over-drive allowing you to feel things with a kind of clarity you never thought possible."

As she snaked her way round in front of him she deliberately moved her body against his so that she could provoke a reaction of both considerable mental and physical magnitute; her inner thighs brushed his knees, her breasts pushed against his chest. As his breathing became heavy and erratic she leaned in closer so their lips were almost touching.

"Tell me what you know of this man and I can.....make it worth your while.."

As his senses began to swim things became jumbled in his mind, love for his wife was replaced by lust for this woman in front of him, so close and eager, so young and firm. His fear gave way to desire as the scent of her became overpowering. He begin to grin, blissfully.

"I've told you everything. I don't know who he is, really. Unshackle me, lets....lets have some fun together..."

Pulling back from him she suddenly glared. He had not given her the answer she wanted or expected and now he was just grinning at her stupidly, as if in a trance. She'd never seen a reaction so powerful before. No matter.

Reaching over to the work-bench, she picked up the jagged knife from earlier and walked toward him. He showed no resistance, so drugged were his senses with pleasure, so full of rapture and desire. He wasn't even paying attention when she went to plunge the knife into his rib-cage.

The pain was almost unimaginable. At first he couldn't even cry out, couldn't whimper or sob or scream. There was no way his body could register the pain sufficiently and it went into shock. He convulsed as if his very nervous system was shutting down. She twisted the knife and he just opened his mouth like a fish out of water.

"You think heightened senses don't include pain?" she said venemously "I can show you suffering so esquisite that you will be begging for death in mere moments! Who is he? tell me!"

Again the knife twisted as blood ran down the blade and dripped to the floor. This time he was able to scream. It was a strong, desperate cry that put a smile on Xen's lips and reminded her the day hadn't been a complete waste of time.

"Who is he..."

"I....I don't know...."

Another twist, another scream.

"Who....is....he...."

"I don't know! I don't know!"

Her anger suddenly flared up without warning as she ripped the blade from between his ribs, a spray of blood following it and narrowly avoiding her otherwise untarnished black outfit. Pulling the blade up high she plunged it into his right eye as he wailed in agony, the eyeball puncturing and bursting on the tip of the blade, puss and blood coagulating around it and seeping out of the socket.

"Oh, don't make so much noise," She virtually spat as she removed the knife, the remains of the eye coming with it. "The room is utterly sound-proofed, nobody can hear your pathetic cries..."

Not that this is a bad thing, of course

I'm more than a little interested to find out who this "little girl" is and what she represents, too. Bastion certainly seems interested in her future...

The two scenes certainly bear a strong resemblance - possibly an indication of a latent geekish Twi'lek bondage fetish? I'll be sure to read the Questioning in its entirety, it's definitely caught my attention..!

The girl's future is more than what's at stake - Bastion's past will forever haunt him and the people he surrounds himself with if he allows her to live. Why, though, is what we have to discover soon.

dun-dun-duh! Well its cracking-good read chap, well done.

(Incidently if you get the time its worth reading Ubran Predator after The Questioning. Not deliberately bumping my own work, but the two go together)

Looks and sounds good so far, I'll may need a couple more of reading in a more quiet place than this noisy office to get it all. I saw some nice things already.

Partisan wrote:

They looped and they arced, they swooped and they stormed, Republic met Sith.

This for example IS epic!

Well, considering I'm now an Agent, I figure it's fitting that I release the second act of Chance and Steel. So here we go:

Act Two
The Communicants

An endless caged cry tore through the planet's atmosphere. A massive, destructive hunk of metal clashed with gravity; it sank, dead weight amongst waves of tangerine dust clouds. Skies rippled - a pebble barely afloat above the water; it shrieked as though a valkyrie's wings had been caught within its engines. “High under helms on heaven’s field,” muttered the captain aloud. Dead hands held onto his charred arm, their owner sighed one last breath within his captain's embrace. As a final act of irony, Branka had remarked that one day they would meet again. “--Their byrnies all with blood were red--.” For the captain, this was the end.

“Captain Rooj - Second brigade!” The lights flickered, a powerful red emanated from the alarm; the walls hounded an atrocious sound that drowned out Rooj’s words and shook so violently he could barely sustain his balance; the stench of decadent metal, molten flesh and fuel invaded the cabin. After multiple attempts to reach somebody - anybody - the comm. hissed back at him and he gripped it tightly, yelling to his lungs’ limit: “My… my crew have already bailed out; the last escape pod’s ruined! It's useless…!” a sudden but welcome intrusion manifested on the other end of the signal, “H-hello?” A woman's voice, “Are you okay? Are you hurt?” it was reassuring at least.
“Doomed, ma’am; I haven’t a chance but… But please, I have a package... It needs to get to Coruscant.” There was a moment of silence as the signal reached its recipient; when she finally replied her voice was more flustered than it had been before,
“But… is there anything I can do to help? Your package… What is it?”
“Your name?” he asked and appealed for her attention,
“…Mahdiya,” was her calm reply.
“Tell the boy I loved him… and I’m sorry.”

The ship continued to fall upon the unsuspecting planet. All kinds of steel barraged Rooj, an ember tinted colour indulged the cockpit as the tip burned on entry; purples and blues filled the darker spots inside. Held in place by his belt, Rooj began his final sacrifice,
“There is no emotion; there is peace.” He placed his thumb on the red button that would detach himself from his harness,
“-There is no ignorance; there is knowledge.--” the device unlocked and a sudden jolt of energy sent him plummeting to the back of the ship’s hold,
“There is no chaos; there is harmony.” there was but one way he could save his son. The last escape pod wasn’t entirely useless, though the exit of the last pod had done devastating damage to the hull. His only hope was to manually launch the pod from inside the ship. The child who sat in the pod continued to wail, weep and moan as Rooj stared through the hatch door’s window; if the extreme pressure allowed it, tears would have streamed down his cheeks, “There is no death. There is-”

Nothing.

***

It was night, the city’s life had by this time managed to reduce itself further than Sco would have thought possible. No torch remained lit and all candles had been extinguished. The old medic and his companion had bunked down in a shelter, which doubled as a stable. They had carved a small space within a mound of ash and Sco had slept peacefully. That is, until he was woken by a strange sight. While she seemed conscious, his companion must have been asleep; Sco repositioned himself to allow for her to notice that he had now been rudely awakened. She whispered as though she was simply thinking aloud, “I too shall lie in the dust when I am dead,” the girl remained fixated on the ceiling; her body was inanimate and Sco was unable to determine whether she was aware of what she had said. She would talk of herself, her companion and about her journey before silencing, allowing for her eyelids to slide to a close. She trembled and shuddered at irregular intervals throughout the night.

Sco began to stir at last; he had suffered from post traumatic stress disorder before and made no attempt to solidify the past night's events as fact. His companion had already woken and sat facing in the opposite direction from him. The deep orange rays from the sun crept through the clay walls of the stable, though she sat in the gloom. As the walls creaked, convexing with the increased heat of the morning, Sco stood with a satisfying crack in each joint; the wall acted as his support while he attempted to rectify the stiffness that enveloped his legs. Torches continued to burn, they were shielded from the ever present sand storm on the surface; brown, undrinkable water leaked through the rotting wooden ceiling, a constant, rhythmic drip that in any other context would seem quite pleasant. The girl peered through the fences, the beasts that roamed here were unlike she had ever seen, these were domesticated and nonviolent. They neither reared their massive claws nor bore their giant, flesh tearing teeth. They were silent.

Sunlight dripped over the outpost's barricades; an animal colour. The bazaar, where the two soldiers had made their way, was now brimming with life. A fruit was plucked from the edge of a small tent's roof; Sco held it in his hand and examined it for threats before offering it to his companion. Tentatively, she took a bite from what may have just been a dried, bright yellow stone. The topic of discussion, it seemed, revolved around the recent exploits of the Banachs. While the Tarski and the Banach were not privy to the Republic’s enforced laws concerning certain chemical substances that acted upon a person's central nervous system, - or better known as Spice - age old feuds between the two pirate bands and the growing religious base in the Tarski has lead to today's Banach as being looked down upon as little more than drug dealers corrupting the natural balance that has been created; Anarchists.

It was closing onto mid day and for an old, rusted and starving outpost, most people were still content with their lot enough to make small conversation. It wouldn't be at all surprising if these conversations had become almost scripted; routines had been formed to give people some solace in an otherwise uninvigorating existence. A violent life was lived in the outpost and most would spend their time training for combat when they were not foraging for food; they could be seen sparring in the streets and exchanging blows at the slightest discrepancy. Raiders would attack on a weekly basis and this at least supplied a reasonable amount of fresh meat, since consuming your old neighbour was no longer a social faux pas. Among the concerns displayed by the inhabitants of the outpost were murmurs that the recent terrible expedition by the Banach was part of a search. A weapon of some sort seemed to be the general consensus; some were convinced that they were looking for a girl that had escaped their grip. This settlement had always historically been on the border of the Tarski and Banach territories, changing hands every couple of years. The people of the outpost feared that the time for an attack was imminent.

Sco would not have to wait long until the inevitable occurred. Information traded freely in the outpost and for good prices. As the day drew on and the contact failed to appear, ships began to land on the outskirts of the outpost. Their presence had been noted, despite the measures Sco had taken to ensure they would only need to spend a short amount of time in the pirate city. Sco knew that with night approaching, they would be watched. He sat on the nearest stool and waited. Sco allowed for the girl to explore, though kept a close eye on her should anyone be idiotic enough to attack. He rummaged through one of his tiny pockets in search for his lighter, having found it he preceded to continue flicking the cap open and closed. Meanwhile, the girl spent her time experiencing life in the settlement, knowing that it would likely be her last visit to the outpost. Here, she encountered people unlike any other that could be found in the galaxy; they were pirates, but it was their way of life. The people of the outpost talked, walked and went about life as though pirating was all they were capable of. She had heard of the tragedy that befell the city years before, which sparked the wars between the Tarski and the Banach, the war that would devastate the city and the surrounding lands, the lush landscape that would eventually become the wasteland of the present.

A gang of three men appeared; typical. Sco thought that this was perhaps a bit insulting; to assume that three moderately armed men would be satisfactory. Sure enough, these men were on a mission. They had not simply stumbled on the outpost, nor were they looking for a drink and a bar brawl at Jimmy’s; these men had been sent by somebody. Sco took note of their movements, and sat relatively out of sight. From what Sco could see, they had not been supplied with an image and seemed to be searching through the basis of basic descriptions. They were not Banach and if they had been, they would have already been jumped. They did not bear any signs of Tarski affiliation either however; these men were from some form of higher authority. At last, they made their way to a small stall where Sco’s companion stood; with the gang’s muscle holding blasters at the ready, the front man approached the girl.

An arm belonging to the gang's front man stretched forward and attempted to take hold of the girl who stood, seemingly guarded by no one. His fingers had all but reached their target, stopped short by the blade that found itself tearing into his forearm. Sco stood, his back to his enemy as he forced his weapon further into the man's limb, a sudden burst of ruby as the wound blossomed, spice red as Sco's victim's veins began to leak; the now pale limb blushed as its life was drained. Bone shards shot in all directions. The man, who had come under shock, sharply realized that he had been attacked, only for Sco to furiously force the blade through the length of the man's arm, breaking the forearm's bones and shredding the limb in half. The arm, now rendered useless, slumped as the front man struggled for breath to scream, nerves and tendons dangled from the brutal dissection. A second assault, this time by the more aggressive of the crew was halted by the thunder of Sco's leg, which punished the ground beneath him as his free arm lunged at the raider's throat. Sco's blade, now free from the gang leader's lifeless remains was brought to his front, bludgeoning the blaster held in the man's hand.

It was now that the ruling elite of the land, the Tarski, intervened. The bodies of the two men, one without an arm and the other without a throat decorated the floor beneath where Sco stood, an utterly perverted red carpet. The gang's third member cowered in Sco's great shadow; he moved towards the third man before his compaion took it upon herself to intervene. Sco, by this time, was covered in the remains of the raiders and turned to the young woman who was undoubtedly already regretting her involvement. Blood trickled from Sco's vibroblade; it covered his face and most of his armour. He addressed her calmly, "Step aside."

***

Grasping the tattered hide that served as the girl’s armour, her companion took hold of her delicate frame; the violent wind shook them. She turned in fear, with strength he returned her to his grip; their boots clashed, it rang in her ears. “It’s not up to you,” he breathed, taking command; “Whether he lives or dies - it isn’t your decision.” There was a moment of silence before the blade that had hung from Sco's side was thrust into the man’s chest. A grunt escaped the man’s teeth as the dirt brown jacket he wore now slowly dyed red, his hands blue; “It was his.” Sco tore his blade from the corpse and turned, the remains of his victim seeping from the edge of his vibroblade; the almondy stench of death had begun to surface. Reaching into a pocket on his left side, Sco produced his navy blue lighter which by now had ceased to ignite. He flicked the cap of the lighter open and closed as he considered the girl’s thoughts, who now lay with her knees buried in the sand, her head bowed, “He was only human, Sco.”
“Stand up... we’re leaving.”

The girl studied Sco through her peripheral vision as they left the settlement, an assortment of scars decorated his finely chiselled face. For much of their trip she stared across the great steppe, gazing at the sun that hung above the mountains in the far distance as it began its gradual setting. Even beyond what her eyes could see, there was only desert. The two soldiers trudged through the dank crystal wasteland; five men lay deceased in their wake. Her companion Sco, the taller of the two, had the body of a beast – though he stood on two feet; darkened and tanned skin, he was mature and assured; his posture showed neither fear nor trepidation; deep, rusted brown hair with the muscles of a steroidal man. His booming voice, were it applied, would inspire thousands; his only physical weakness was the shortness of his neck, a product, she thought, of having worn many heavy combat helmets; for a man of his age, possibly nearing his sixtieth year on a standard calendar, he was in good shape. Although Sco's lack of eyes would be looked down upon by society, it didn't seem to prevent him from completing his work. She was merely a rookie and struggled to compare to the great strides made by her senior. Of average height and ample breast, she was fair haired and blue eyed; not typical of a woman from this region of space. Her strength was of little impact and a certain compassion and empathy for others hindered her ability to do her job, or so she was told. Her face was smooth and did not show the wears of battle as her companion’s did. With weak wrists and short shoulders, it was a wonder that she could even be considered a soldier.

The two marched until an old yurt caught Sco’s eye. They had encountered many in their short travels, each one empty; Sco had explained that they were often forgotten by the pilots who were more interested in the profits of the spice trade; many nomadic Tarski would live in these temporary shells. While many turned to cannibalism - products of historic food shortages - others found ways of making at least some of the necessary ingredients for a proper diet. He spoke of how very rare it could be to find a child in the wasteland that had grown to be fit and strong, able to work the machines needed to sustain a population. The miracle children who fought the diseases, beasts and marauders were captured and trained as pilots. Those who survived their terms ended up in the factories.

It was dark before they reached their destination; with the relative size of the nearest sun, the planet had been long since burnt and roasted. The bodies Sco left in his wake had either been lost in the constant sand storm, or had simply been reduced to bone by the planet’s vicious nature. The one thing that separated Sco and his tag along from death in this way was their armour. In Sco’s case this armour boasted the many scars of blade and blaster typical of one who would lead a dangerous life. Still, she knew the dangers of the night were not to be left to chance and steel, the night is home to horrible beasts, voracious vultures and four eyed monsters; the general population of the dark. Beyond all these dangers, it was the terrible cold that would certainly kill even the strongest of men on the surface of the planet. It was for this reason that Sco and his partner sought shelter. The yurt, from as far as they could tell, was no different than the thousands that could be found in this region of the planet, one of the few that had not been made completely uninhabitable through internal wars, drought and raids.

The door to the yurt stood before them; “Wait,” Sco commanded. She halted and Sco’s hand found her shoulder; she turned only to see his back as Sco tread, almost hesitantly toward the entrance. Shots fired. His vibroblade was heard leaving its holster and the frightened, silent whimpers of the yurt's occupants ended. The corpses were tossed from their shelter and Sco’s hand beckoned her inside. It was not clear who fired first, though she had not yet seen Sco with a blaster.

“We need a fire, Sco, or we’ll die. This thing won’t protect us from the cold.” The hardened soldier sat as a spark fired from his companions’ palms, the product of many frustrated attempts with two stones found nearby; her eyes caught his as she smiled, a fire was lit before her, though her brief success was quickly muted by a gust of sand. Neither of the two moved, it was to be a cold night. The silence that lasted for an agonizing few minutes was broken after some time, “You were a doctor, right?" she went unanswered as Sco removed his gloves and turned his back to her, lying on the tough ground, “Why?… Sco?” it would be some time before he replied,
“It’s a long story - sleep.”

The cold is often the subject of lyrics in Tarski arias. The years had taught them to bear the heat, to survive against the ravenous beasts and make life somewhat bearable, though the cold represented an enemy that even the greatest warrior could neither attack nor defeat. Nature would be the Tarski’s enemy first and foremost since their arrival on the planet. They spent the night inside the yurt; it was not particularly large in size nor was it warm at all. Sco had suggested using the bodies of the former inhabitants for insulation, though when this was strongly refused by his companion, the two settled for taking their clothing. They had been poor; only a pair of shoes between the couple and child. As Sco slept, the frontiers of their shelter drifted into darkness. His companion's shape deteriorated and the memories of old stars lit the sky. All we ever see of stars is their old photographs. His fingers moved along his jaw, which felt increasingly empty. Running his index finger along his sensitive gums, he came to the realization that his teeth had begun to fade away and found them scattered about his body, as though he had just been on the wrong side of a bloody confrontation. Clumps of gray, matted hair were pulled from his scalp, his hands littered with old age. Weakened and frail, he awoke, slightly alarmed and scared. It was still dark. The two soldiers had kept their armour on throughout the night and wasted no time in leaving. She noticed, almost straight away, that the bodies of the yurt’s former inhabitants had been stripped of their skin, likely by the animals that roamed the surrounding area. She couldn’t help but feel responsible, though Sco showed no sign of remorse or grief over their death other than their rather hasty burial. When asked abut a eulogy, Sco sighed and kicked the last piece of dirt over their remains, thanking them for the shoes.

“How do you justify the deaths of innocents like that, Sco?” She had intended ask this since they had left their shelter, though she was not yet allowed an answer. The sky began to carry its usual properties; a blue horizon had not been seen in many years - if at all on the planet - at least, no sightings could be confirmed since Czerka had arrived long ago. Reports of such an anomaly were often attributed to a supernatural experience, a great omen. Pollution had stained the atmosphere, the system’s iconic emerald colour seemed just a dark mass to those who had never left the planet’s atmosphere. The tangerine sun penetrated the dark clouds, its heat and colour a constant reminder that hell exists. A neighbouring planet would often provide light in the long darkness as the two orbited each other; they shared each others atmosphere and refracted light upon one another. The two soldiers’ shadows had grown in density as the sun rose. A large orange mass to their front pointed the way to their ultimate destination. Partially obscuring the sun were the mountains that marked civilization. While much of the region was flat, burnt and otherwise uninhabited save for the yurts, these mountains provided the smallest amount of shade, enough for hungry and desperate early sleeper ship survivors to inhabit the area. The lights of Malo were visible from this distance, though had dimmed with the arrival of the sun.

Among the larger Tarski settlements on the planet, Malo is a commonplace for thieves, pirates and generally it lived up to its expectations as the black market capital. The dominant group of pirates that lived and worked there were the Tarski. Although these pirates were strict for a number of years on immigration, the conditions on this planet made it impossible to police thoroughly. Others would come seeking a change in lifestyle, from rival pirate groups to civilians who took a wrong turn in their search for adventure. While most of the planet’s spice exports to the Rodians are commandeered by the Tarski, a Rodian ship would sometimes dock to meet with the highest ranks. The Tarski’s limited alliance with the smaller, quasi-legitimate groups brought fresh ex-Republic types to Tarski bars and brothels. Czerka would not dare trespass in this territory any further.

The inferior pirate groups were viciously oppressed by the elite. Decapitations and horrifyingly brutal attacks were accepted by the majority as ways to cull the frequent revolts. Factions ranged from the military wings of pirates primarily operating near Byss, to the large criminal families that ruled with blade and blaster. One such faction, that had lost significant membership in recent years, was the Banach; a religious movement born from the depression found in the slums.

Having reached the borders of the city, the shadows of the two soldiers had been reduced to almost nothing. An ominous, domed wall towered over all those that stood underneath, presumably in awe. Built from what seemed to be bones and makeshift cement, the wall stretched for a mile in each direction. The gates immediately to the front of the city were the only known entrance to and from the pirate haven. The unbearable heat of the sun as it loomed above the mountains was more than enough reason to quickly enter the city. Guarding the entrances were all manners of exotic species; their weapons ranged from typical Tarski standard issue to refitted and unstable bounty hunter rifles, held together by a worrying amount of tape. They were approached by a blinded man who held outstretched an empty bowl, “Don’t forget to tip yer gatesman now will ye?" who was ignored.

The gates to the city of Malo revealed the city's gruesome insides; their small windows served as ever present watchful eyes for enemies. Sco remarked on the slaves that had been employed to sit in the scaffolding behind the entrance, the eyes of the city: “Nothing short of animals.” They howled upon this remark. The city offered little in the way of people. The once ‘proud’ pilot’s pit stop had been reduced to little more than a starving outpost. Wild beasts lay half consumed in the streets; all kinds of insects calling them home. The awful stench refused to be forgotten.

Sco and his companion found their way to a mud bricked, iron-roofed shelter, where upon paying the appropriately expensive toll they sat atop a lump of dirt and ash to survey the silent streets,
“Sco…”
“I think… this was where it began.”