“Nighthawk en route, Shadow Lady. We’ll land in two minutes. Talons, lock and load!”

The ringing voice of Rulvak Qurroc called out across the hangar deck of the Nighthawk. As the premier combat vessel of the Arconan military machine, it was being tasked with one mission: extract the strike team as best as they could. Having failed, unfortunately, the Nighthawk would have to take those that were left and bring them home.

Mateus looked to his allies, then sealed his T-visor helmet over his head. All around him everyone was clad differently: those dedicated Dark Jedi and Sith fought in their best battle robes or light armour. Some fought in proper battle armour, like him. No matter their preference, the team of the Nighthawk was allied in purpose: save this alliance. Bring their friends home.

Many had been cut down by the Iron Legion aboard the Suffering that day as things turned from bad to worse. Mateus was highly unsure that they could pull this off: board a Super Star Destroyer and extract the strike team deep within enemy territory? It seemed crazy. However, he was a professional warrior. There was nothing other than the mission now.

Mateus had already volunteered to be the vanguard, saber raised high, prepared to defend and heal and bond his allies. The Force weaved together meant that the battleteam was perfectly united now. That kind of unity was all that was left to save the three-way alliance, if not for the blood they were shedding together. It would bring the three Clans together for the future, at the very least.

The ramp dropped. All that were left now were bodies – battered, broken, some dead. And, at the far end of the hangar bay, the waiting rifles of the Iron Legion.

“Gather them! We’ll evac them now!”

A fireteam with a heavy repeater, brought on board by Major Kharoc Garrlan, laid down covering fire – the Legion scattered. Mateus could only think to himself that this had been suicide, as he picked up a fallen Tarenti. Suicide for the Clans. That was all this was.