Fiction Gallery

[Foothold]

Alarms blared in increasing volume with Vreva's return to consciousness. She felt hot blood drip down the back of her neck and clutched at a sharp pain hidden among her dark braids. Though a sharp whine of tinnitus drowned out most else, she vaguely heard Paumgon's low tone urging her to move. Move.

Move!

The Zabrak jolted upright and fumbled for the harness keeping her strapped to the pilot's seat of the Revenant. The Ghtroc Light Freighter was on fire. Smoke stung her eyes, and the scent of something particularly electric caught her nostrils. "Where are-?" she managed, before the Herglic's heavy hand brought her head down.

Slugs pierced the windshield and tore apart the seat where her head had rested moments before. Vreva ducked low and allowed Paumgon to drag her from the chair to the floor. Her rifle was thrust into her hands once she managed to pull herself up into a low crouch, and she slung the weapon over her shoulder. Instinct and adrenaline compelled her limbs to propel her forward after her companion.

The others - Luka, Diyrian, Alex, Sprocket - were nowhere in the cockpit. Whether they had gone on to continue the mission or were laying in the cargo hold dead, she did not know. She would ask Paumgon later. For now, she had to keep her own hide.

Most of the hull was still intact, and none of the Collective soldiers had yet to board the ship. Though she knew it was only a matter of time before they flooded the crash site. The sound of their footfalls surrounded the wreckage of the Ghtroc.

"How many outside?" She shouted over the sound of the alarm.

Paumgon gave her a stoic look that told her all she needed to know. Vreva loaded her rifle.

"Hold 'em here or rush 'em?"

"After you." The Herglic tossed out his Portable Wall. Hopefully the energy field would disperse any blaster fire from the Collective's droids, but it would be useless against the slugs.

"Ladies first, right?" Vreva gave a crooked smile before drawing her blade.

A harumph of mirth from him. "Ladies first."

Collective soldiers, connected through their wireless network, stopped in unison at their company leader's order. Their weapons were trained on the hull of the ship as each watched for movement within the smoke. A shout near the landing bridge brought their attention, each turning to witness a splash of blood and black ichor spray from a fatal wound as Vreva cut the first soldier's throat. As he fell, she moved to the next in a wild frenzy. She was not alone. Soldiers scattered as blaster fire from an MWC-35c Repeating Cannon covered her charge.

"Focus the gunner!" shouted the Collective company leader, pointing at the Herglic. Vreva turned her ire upon him. Red encircled her golden irises as she roared her challenge, rushing him with little care for the few blaster bolts that singed her skin. She launched herself at the man, her first thrust jarring against his armor, though the second found space between plates. Though she was too far gone into her rage to hear him, the blood he coughed up that splattered the inside of his helmet was enough for her to move on to the next opponent.

Heaps of rusted metal rose into the orange tinted, smog laden sky. Mountains of refuse, forgotten relics, a final resting place. A graveyard for the unwanted.

Acidic rain slowly ate its way through the scrap as it trickled down to a mixing pot of liquids that formed a flowing river of oils, accelerants, coolant, and hydraulic fluids; the lifeblood of machinery.

A sharp and ear piercing clank repeated in the distance like a dystopian bell. If you were to look close enough, wading through the mist. You would see them, the two cloaked figures, more machine than organic, clamoring through wayward piles. Tossing aside undesirables while searching for something more specific. They jabbered to one another in a strange dialect woven with binary. One prodding metal with a makeshift spear while the other melted a large wing segment of a ship into slag with a torch.

Clearly, the one with the spear was in control as a mangled hand stretched out and a cybernetic finger pointed excitedly to an object glowing in the filth. The torch cut off and the other Junker jumped up and clapped its hands before scooping up the cylinder. The softness of the orange light seemed weak, but it was still alive. If that term could even be applied to a seemingly inanimate object.

Chattering back and forth with one another for a brief moment. The leader swung his spear to point in a direction that the other immediately began to move in. They navigated the surface and mounds of debris with a unique expertise as the glowing red eyes on their faces at times flashed before going solid. Processing the sprawling data before them.

The journey of fifty thousand steps brought the two to the peak of a mound overlooking the landscape. The ever present glow in the atmosphere had dimmed but a small light flickered down below. This time the spear pointed multiple times with urgency at an A-Wing that still looked to be in working order. It sat idly by the light, which upon further inspection, would reveal a crooked door made from a slab of metal.

They made their way down towards the light which grew to reveal a ramshackle home built into one of the many inner-weaving tunnels that bore through the matrix of refuse. They couldn't help but to admire the A-Wing with lust and greed flooding what was left of their organic minds. Yet, they knew better as the lightbearer reached out to skim its belly with its fingertips only to be swatted by the leader.

They hushed themselves and approached the door, one on either side as they pushed against each other, both fighting to look through the cracks in the door.

The faint glow came from an assortment of lamps wired to a generator gasping for air. They heard talking coming from an adjacent room so immediately scurried around the side where a flat piece of metal with carbon scoring had made up a wall with a porthole window. Upon looking inside they saw a being not much different than they were. He sat in the middle of the circular space cross-legged as four protocol droid heads perfectly spaced floated around him. Uniquely powered by something as they were not connected to a source by wires but something else entirely.

The bronze flesh of the shirtless being rippled with musculature, his right arm was cybernetic in its entirety and black patchwork pants were worn to cover the legs. Falling down his heavily scarred back were black dreadlocks seemingly tied together with wire.

A PIT droid was busy scouring through an assortment of parts on a nearby table and sitting in a corner chair was a droid the Junkers could not identify.

“They need you, more than they realize.” One of the droid heads spoke.

“They are taking the fight to Oligard's doorstep.”

“No, they threw him away. He doesn't need to go back. He's better off here. With us.” Another head argued.

Sweat flowed from the Kiffar and his face muscles twitched as he fought to concentrate, his eyes clamped shut as a war waged in his mind. He could see the faces of those lost, he could hear the echoes of the dead. The first life he had extinguished.

“Rakkasssss, his blood criessss out.”

“He butchered my friends.” Gui spoke through clenched teeth. “They all did!”

“Calm your mind, friend.” came robotic reassurance from the refurbished Architect droid in the corner.

“I have to go back.” He said between breaths.

“They don't want you back!” Uttered the pessimistic droid head once more.

Gui's eyes opened displaying resplendent emeralds and the heads fell to the floor. Once again becoming lifeless shells.

“So where do you plan to take us this time, Master? You swore to never leave Lotho Minor and you know we can't return to Kiast.”

The PIT droid stopped digging through parts and turned its head towards the former Knight of Allusis and High Councillor of Urr.

“So we'll go to Zsoldos. I still have friends there.”

“Zsoldos…” the droid calculated a response. “Surely you don't mean that lunatic mountain of fur and the little unhinged Aleena?”

Gui smiled. “Why not?”

“I can think of one thousand-three hundred and seventy seven reasons why. Or have you forgotten about that trip to Batuu?”

“Barry, prepare the holo.” Gui spoke, ignoring the warning.

The tiny PIT droid clamored to get on top of the workbench and began to record.

“I tried to rebuild the Order.” He started. “I just wanted what I thought was best for everyone. I grew complacent and neglected to see the true danger. What truly threatened us. My own pride. I was tired.” He hung his head, resting it in his hands. “So tired. Tired of fighting, of depression's stranglehold. Tired of routine. The Light, the Dark. The wrongs, the rights. Differing points of view wrapped in dogma. To whoever is listening to this. It may be my last message. But I can't go out like this. Not in this self imposed exile. I have to help. It's who I am, and to those I've hurt. I'm sorry.” He finished and stood to his feet. “It's better than nothing. Hold onto that for me, Barry. Keep it safe.”

The droid flanked its hand to its chest in a form of salute.

Just then, the door to his abode flung open and the two Junkers stumbled in and fell to their knees. The Architect droid tugged what appeared to be a Lightsaber hilt from its waist but Gui threw his hand out to the side to halt what would have come next.

Gui looked down at the kneeling Junkers as one of them pulled the faintly glowing object from its tattered poncho and raised it like an offering to a god.

“Is that your?” The Architect droid queried.

“My Lightsaber.” Gui reached out with his organic left hand and gripped it. The faintly glowing orange light began to grow in intensity as if it had been reunited with an old friend. “I thought you destroyed it?” He snapped a look to the Architect.

“Let's just say I laid it to rest.”

Gui closed his eyes and ignited it. The dormant Sorian crystal awakened and power surged into a blade once more. Vibrant and electrifying in appearance. The former Jedi panted as he felt at one with it before silencing it with deactivation. He clipped it to his belt and rested his hand on the Junker's shoulder. “Thank you, friend.”

“Barry, ready the Shuttle. You and Xod set a course for Zsoldos. Echo and I need to stretch our legs.” He added, looking out at his A-Wing.

Master Windos was a strong Jedi who loved to help people. He had silver hair and large drawings of shields on his arms.

Because he was a Miraluka, Windos did not see using eyes. He used the magic of the Force to see the forest around him. Today, the forest was very peaceful until he heard a loud crash.

Windos found a giant brown Wookiee wearing a fancy green vest, and a very rich Hutt with a tall top hat. They were yelling at each other next to a heavy wooden cart. The cart was stuck in the deep, sticky, mud.

The cart was filled with important medicine for the sick people of the village. "We should smash the cart into tiny pieces!" roared Barlumpa the Wookiee. "I am strong enough to carry the boxes on my furry back!"

"That is a silly idea, you walking rug," laughed Moola the Hutt. "My family has lots of money to buy a brand new cart! We should just leave it here in the mud and take a nap."

Windos stepped out from the trees to talk to the pair. "Smashing the cart will break all the medicine," Windos said. "Leaving the cart here means the sick people will not get better."

Windos walked around the cart, making a plan. He was very good at moving things with the Force. But the cart was too heavy, and too stuck for him to lift alone.

Windos had an idea, but he needed the Wookiee and the Hutt to work together with him. "We are going to be a team to save the medicine," Windos said. He pointed at a thick vine hanging from a tall tree.

"Moola, you are very heavy and can be a great anchor," Windos explained. Moola the Hutt was surprised that his heavy weight was finally useful. He held onto the thick green vine so it would not slip away.

"Barlumpa, you are very strong," Windos told the big Wookiee. "I need you to grab the middle of the vine. When I say go, you must pull as hard as you can."

"I am going to use the Force to make the heavy cart lighter," Windos said. He used his special Force powers to grab the wooden cart. He lifted it up just a little bit to loosen it from the sticky mud.

"Go!" Windos yelled to his new friends. Barlumpa the Wookie roared loudly and pulled the vine with all his might. Moola the Hutt used his heavy body to keep the vine straight and strong.

With a loud pop, the cart rolled back onto the dry grass. Not a single bottle of medicine was broken or spilled. "You both did wonderfully today," Windos said to the Wookiee and the Hutt.

Moola the Hutt laughed a big, booming, laugh that shook his belly. "When Force users and non-Force users work together, we can fix anything!"

Windos agreed. They safely delivered the medicine, saving the village and proving that true strength comes from working as a team.

The stillness was the worst part.

Quinn Arapto had stood in war rooms before. He had listened to orbital bombardments hammer continents into molten scars. He had heard the screams of men over collapsing comms channels and watched Jedi ignite blades against impossible odds. Noise, violence, panic—those things made sense. War was honest when it screamed at you.

But this?

This silence felt diseased.

The halls of the Dark Ascent should have been alive with movement. Officers from the Iron Legion usually marched through the corridors with rigid purpose. Apprentices whispered behind closed doors, plotting advancement or murder. The Clans carried their rivalries openly, like ceremonial scars. Even in peace, the Brotherhood was never calm.

Now the corridors breathed like a tomb.

Quinn stood beside one of the immense viewport galleries overlooking Arx. The storm clouds beneath the fortress rolled in slow circles around the mountain ranges below, dark as spilled ink. Lightning flashed inside them every few minutes, illuminating the world in pale white fractures.

He folded his arms behind his back.

Somewhere deep within the fortress, klaxons sounded once. Brief. Controlled. Deliberate.

Mobilization drills.

Again.

The war against the Collective had not officially begun, but everyone in the Brotherhood could already feel its gravity pulling them forward. Fleets were moving. Resources were vanishing from supply depots. The Iron Navy had become increasingly difficult to track even for senior personnel. Entire battalions disappeared into hyperspace staging zones without public explanation.

The Brotherhood was preparing for blood.

And nobody was talking about it.

That was what unsettled Quinn most.

He sensed another presence before he heard footsteps behind him.

“You’re brooding again.”

Quinn glanced sideways as the older man approached. Commander Veyl wore the gray-black armor of the Iron Legion beneath a heavy officer’s coat. The left side of his jaw had been replaced years ago with a polished cybernetic plate after the battle for New Tython. He walked with the slight imbalance of someone whose body had never entirely healed correctly.

“You say that like it’s unusual,” Quinn replied.

“It’s excessive tonight.”

Veyl stepped beside him and stared through the viewport. For a while neither of them spoke.

The lightning flashed again.

Finally, the commander exhaled slowly. “The Council confirmed it three hours ago. Open conflict is inevitable.”

Quinn nodded once. He had expected as much.

“The Collective made another move?”

“No. Which means they’re planning one.”

That answer alone explained everything.

The Brotherhood had survived because it understood predators. The Collective was not chaotic enough to lash out recklessly. If they had gone quiet, then they were gathering strength.

Quinn watched the storm clouds churn below. “How bad?”

Veyl gave a humorless laugh. “Bad enough that they’ve recalled veteran strike teams from three sectors.”

That drew Quinn’s attention.

Veterans were expensive. Recalling them meant the Brotherhood expected losses severe enough to justify abandoning ongoing operations elsewhere.

The commander leaned closer to the transparisteel viewport. “You remember Korriban?”

Quinn’s jaw tightened slightly.

“I remember.”

“Feels like that again.”

No further explanation was needed.

The last great campaign Quinn had fought nearly destroyed everyone involved. Entire platoons had vanished in Sith tomb complexes beneath the sands while rival Force-users butchered each other in darkness. He remembered the smell of scorched robes. The heat of collapsing stone. The sound of wounded soldiers begging medics not to leave them behind.

War always came with speeches beforehand. Glory. Duty. Destiny.

Then came the dying.

Quinn closed his eyes briefly.

The Force moved strangely tonight.

Not violently. Not coldly.

Hungrily.

As though the galaxy itself anticipated suffering.

“You afraid?” Veyl asked quietly.

The question lingered between them.

Quinn considered lying.

Instead, he answered honestly.

“Yes.”

The commander nodded as if satisfied.

“Good,” he said. “Only fools stop fearing war.”

They stood together in silence for several more minutes before Veyl finally straightened his coat.

“The shuttle departs at dawn,” he said. “You’re assigned to Task Force Umbra.”

Quinn frowned. “That unit specializes in infiltration.”

“Exactly.”

The commander handed him a small encrypted data cylinder.

“Intelligence believes the Collective has embedded agents among the frontier worlds near Brotherhood territory. Umbra’s job is to locate command infrastructure before the first offensive begins.”

“Which means we’re the knife before the sword.”

Veyl’s expression darkened.

“If we fail,” he said, “there may not be a sword left to swing.”

Then he walked away.

Quinn remained by the viewport long after the commander disappeared.

Below him, the endless storms of Arx rolled onward.

Uncaring.

The cantina near Hangar Aurek was quieter than usual.

Even the drunken boasting had faded over recent weeks. Warriors spoke in hushed voices now. Pilots drank harder but laughed less. Rumors drifted through the room like poison gas.

Entire supply convoys missing.

Collective spies on Arx.

Secret weapons.

One story claimed the enemy had learned how to sever Force-users from the Force itself.

Nobody knew what was true anymore.

Quinn sat alone at a corner table nursing untouched whiskey while observing the room.

A pair of younger acolytes argued quietly over whether the Brotherhood should strike first. A scarred naval officer stared into space while rotating a dead comlink in his hand over and over again. Near the far wall, a medic slept sitting upright, exhaustion finally overcoming stimulants.

Every face carried the same expression.

Waiting.

Quinn hated waiting.

A shadow crossed his table.

“You look miserable.”

He looked up.

Lysa.

Of course.

She wore dark field robes instead of formal Brotherhood attire, her hood hanging loose around her shoulders. A thin scar cut across one eyebrow—fresh enough to still appear red beneath the low lighting.

“You should be resting,” Quinn said.

“You should be drinking.”

“I am drinking.”

She glanced at the untouched glass.

“That’s decorative.”

Despite himself, Quinn smirked faintly.

Lysa sat across from him without invitation.

For a while she simply studied him.

“You’ve been quiet since the briefing,” she finally said.

“So has everyone else.”

“No,” she replied softly. “Everyone else is pretending not to think about it. You actually are thinking about it.”

That irritated him because it was true.

Quinn leaned back in his chair. “You ever notice how every war begins with certainty?”

“What do you mean?”

“The leaders always sound certain. Victory is inevitable. The enemy is weak. Sacrifice will be remembered.”

Lysa folded her hands together. “And?”

“And then the bodies start piling up and suddenly nobody talks about certainty anymore.”

The cantina lights flickered once overhead.

For a brief moment, neither spoke.

Then Lysa asked the question he had been avoiding since the Council announcement.

“Do you think we survive this?”

Quinn looked at her carefully.

Not as a fellow operative.

Not as another weapon of the Brotherhood.

Just as a person.

That made the answer harder.

“Yes,” he said at last.

“You hesitated.”

“Because surviving and remaining intact are different things.”

Lysa’s gaze drifted toward the surrounding room.

“Maybe we already crossed that line.”

Quinn followed her eyes.

She wasn’t wrong.

The Brotherhood thrived on conflict, ambition, and power, but this felt different. The Clans were united publicly, yet tension coiled beneath every interaction. Old rivalries had gone dormant too quickly. That was never natural.

Fear made alliances brittle.

And the Collective knew it.

“They want us divided,” Quinn murmured.

“They want us exhausted,” Lysa corrected. “Division comes afterward.”

Quinn studied her face.

“You’ve seen something.”

She hesitated.

Then nodded once.

“I was assigned reconnaissance near the Outer Colonies last month. We found a settlement that had been hit by Collective forces.”

“What happened?”

Her expression hardened.

“They didn’t massacre them.”

Quinn frowned. “Then what?”

“They recruited them.”

That disturbed him more than slaughter would have.

“You’re certain?”

“I saw Collective banners flying over the settlement myself.” She lowered her voice. “People joined willingly, Quinn.”

The implication settled heavily between them.

Not conquest.

Conversion.

The Collective wasn’t simply trying to destroy the Brotherhood.

They were trying to replace it.

Quinn suddenly understood why the Council seemed uneasy despite all their military confidence. Armies could defeat fleets. Assassins could eliminate leaders.

But ideology?

That infection spread quietly.

The Brotherhood had spent years building itself into a power among the stars. Strong military. Strong economy. Strong leadership. The Clans stood united beneath shared purpose. ()

Now another power had emerged offering something dangerous:

Belonging.

The realization made Quinn’s stomach tighten.

Lysa leaned forward. “You know what frightens me most?”

“What?”

“That some of them sounded hopeful.”

The words lingered like smoke.

Hope.

What a terrible thing for enemies to possess.

Quinn barely slept before departure.

The barracks assigned to Task Force Umbra remained dimly lit throughout the night as operatives prepared equipment in silence. Armor plates clicked softly into place. Weapons were cleaned and recalibrated. Navigation data streamed across holotables in pale blue light.

Nobody joked.

Nobody complained.

Veterans recognized the feeling hanging in the air.

This was not excitement before battle.

It was acceptance.

Quinn sat on the edge of his bunk assembling his lightsaber with slow precision. The weapon rested in pieces across his lap, each component polished and maintained through years of use.

Emitter.

Focusing crystal.

Power cell.

Control matrix.

Simple parts capable of extraordinary destruction.

He stared at the crystal for a long moment before securing it back inside the hilt.

The Force trembled faintly around him.

Not warning.

Anticipation.

Across the room, a younger operative named Coren struggled to secure his gauntlet armor properly. His hands shook.

Quinn watched him for several seconds before standing and crossing the room.

“You’re tightening it wrong,” he said.

Coren looked embarrassed immediately. “Sorry, sir.”

Quinn adjusted the locking mechanisms himself.

“First deployment?” he asked.

The younger man nodded.

“Against the Collective?”

Another nod.

Quinn finished securing the armor and stepped back.

Coren swallowed hard. “Can I ask you something?”

“You already are.”

The younger operative managed a nervous laugh.

Then his expression became serious again.

“What if we lose?”

There it was.

The question everyone feared voicing aloud.

Quinn considered the young man carefully before answering.

“When I was younger,” he said slowly, “I thought victory came from strength alone. Bigger fleets. Stronger warriors. More ruthless tactics.”

“And now?”

“Now I think survival belongs to whoever refuses to break first.”

Coren frowned slightly. “That sounds the same.”

“It isn’t.”

Quinn picked up his lightsaber and clipped it to his belt.

“Strength is power,” he said. “Refusing to break is choice.”

The younger operative absorbed that quietly.

Then distant alarms echoed through the barracks.

Departure signal.

Task Force Umbra was mobilizing.

The room erupted into motion instantly. Helmets sealed. Weapons locked into place. Final checks completed with practiced efficiency.

Quinn moved with the others toward the hangar bays.

As the blast doors opened, cold air swept inward carrying the metallic scent of fuel and rain. Beyond the landing platforms, massive Brotherhood vessels loomed against the dark sky like predators waiting to feed.

Dropships screamed overhead.

Troops marched beneath floodlights.

The war machine of the Brotherhood had awakened.

For a moment Quinn stopped walking.

He looked upward toward the storm-choked heavens above Arx.

Fear still existed inside him.

Not fear of death.

Fear of what this war would demand from everyone before it ended.

The Collective was coming.

And deep down, Quinn sensed the truth already.

When the fighting began, the Brotherhood would survive.

But survival carried a cost.

It always did.

The thunder rolled across the mountains as Quinn stepped onto the transport shuttle alongside the rest of Umbra.

Behind him, the Dark Ascent stood illuminated against the endless night—a fortress of ambition, power, and fragile unity.

Ahead of him waited war.

The shuttle doors closed.

And the silence finally ended.

Most bounty hunters look for three things when scanning a contract board: danger, reputation, and payout.

I usually look for one.

Convenience.

By the time I wandered into Mos Ila’s bounty exchange, I’d been awake for almost thirty hours, my boots still dusted with the sands of Tatooine and my patience worn thin from escort jobs, drunken mercenaries, and a failed sabaac game that had cost me more credits than I cared to admit.

The cantina attached to the exchange smelled like engine coolant and stale ale. Perfect place to waste a few hours.

I dropped into a booth near the bounty terminal and scrolled through the listings with half-open eyes.

Missing moisture farmer. Pass.

Pirate crew near Beggar’s Canyon. Too many variables.

Escaped Nexu on a private ranch. Absolutely not.

Then I saw it.

WANTED ALIVE — KELL VORRU Smuggler, slicer, suspected arms trafficker. Operating from abandoned mining tunnels outside Mos Ila. Reward: 85,000 credits.

I blinked once.

Eighty-five thousand for a smuggler?

Either Vorru was secretly Imperial intelligence, or someone on the board had misplaced a decimal point.

I opened the details.

No known combat training. Limited associates. Uses tunnels rigged with traps to discourage bounty hunters and local thieves.

That explained part of it.

Most hunters hated traps. Blaster fire you could predict. Mines and pressure plates were another matter entirely. One wrong step and you became decorative stains on cave walls.

Still… eighty-five thousand.

For one smuggler.

I leaned back in the booth, drumming clawed fingers against the table. It felt wrong. Jobs this lucrative usually involved syndicates, Jedi relics, or at least a small army.

This sounded annoying at worst.

Which meant either the client was desperate or every hunter before me had been incompetent.

Neither possibility worried me much.

I accepted the contract.

The old mining site sat several kilometers beyond the outskirts of the city, buried among jagged cliffs and rusting excavation machinery left behind decades earlier. By sunset, I was crouched on a ridge overlooking the entrance.

The place looked dead.

That alone made me suspicious.

No guards. No parked speeders. No smoke rising from ventilation shafts.

Just silence.

People trying to stay hidden usually overdid it. They posted lookouts, encrypted signals, defensive positions.

Professionals made places look empty.

I activated my macrobinoculars and studied the entrance. Old Republic-era rails disappeared into darkness beneath cracked stone arches. Mining carts sat overturned nearby, half-buried in sand.

Then I spotted it.

A wire.

Thin. Nearly invisible.

Connected to a fragmentation charge hidden beneath a cart wheel.

I smirked.

“All right, Vorru,” I muttered. “You’re cautious.”

I circled the ridge instead of approaching directly. Traps are conversations. Every placement tells you how someone thinks.

The minefield near the entrance was obvious enough to scare amateurs away. Which meant the real danger would wait farther inside, where confidence replaced caution.

Sure enough, I found a maintenance shaft concealed behind collapsed debris around the eastern side of the cliff. Smaller entrance. No visible traps.

Which usually meant many visible traps.

I descended carefully into the shaft, boots scraping ancient metal ladders. Dust coated everything. The deeper I went, the colder the air became.

My helmet scanner mapped the tunnel ahead in pale blue outlines.

Tripwire at ankle height.

Pressure plate near the corner.

Motion sensor overhead.

I disabled each one slowly.

Not because I enjoyed caution. Because surviving this long required respecting paranoia.

Whoever Kell Vorru was, he’d turned these mines into a fortress built entirely from bad memories.

The deeper tunnels twisted endlessly beneath the cliffs. Abandoned drilling equipment loomed in the darkness like skeletons. Every few minutes I found another trap.

Gas canisters rigged to detonators.

Shotgun mechanisms hidden behind loose rocks.

Explosive charges disguised as mining lanterns.

At one point, I discovered an entire section of tunnel designed to collapse if someone crossed too quickly.

That one almost got me.

The floor shifted beneath my third step, sending cracks racing through the supports overhead. I dove forward as the ceiling thundered down behind me in an avalanche of stone and dust.

I hit the ground hard, coughing grit from my lungs.

Somewhere deeper in the mine, machinery whirred to life.

Then a voice echoed through hidden speakers.

“Another bounty hunter?” the voice asked. “You people are getting persistent.”

Calm voice. Male. Younger than I expected.

“Kell Vorru,” I said, standing slowly. “You know why I’m here.”

“Because eighty-five thousand credits makes idiots feel brave.”

I brushed dust from my armor. “You could save us both time and surrender.”

Vorru laughed through the speakers.

“No.”

The tunnel lights abruptly died.

Darkness swallowed everything.

Then the shooting started.

Automated blaster turrets unfolded from hidden wall compartments, spraying crimson bolts through the tunnel. I threw myself behind a drilling machine as metal exploded around me.

“Not very ‘alive wanted,’” Vorru called mockingly.

“You installed the turrets.”

“You brought the gun.”

Fair point.

I waited for the firing rhythm to stabilize before moving. Turrets tracked movement patterns. Predictable. Unlike people.

I sprinted low beneath the first barrage, slid across the tunnel floor, and jammed my vibroknife into the nearest cannon’s rotation joint. Sparks erupted as the turret locked sideways and blasted the second turret apart.

Silence returned briefly.

Then I heard slow clapping over the speakers.

“Okay,” Vorru admitted. “That was impressive.”

“I get that a lot.”

“You still aren’t getting paid.”

I followed the speaker system deeper into the mines, bypassing more traps along the way. Some were clever. Others felt desperate.

That told me something important.

Vorru wasn’t protecting treasure.

He was afraid.

Eventually the tunnels widened into a central chamber filled with old mining equipment and flickering monitors powered by portable generators. Makeshift living quarters occupied one side of the cavern. Crates of spice and stolen weapons lined the walls.

And standing beside a control console was Kell Vorru.

Human. Mid-thirties. Thin. Nervous eyes.

Not exactly the criminal mastermind I’d imagined.

He raised his hands slowly when he saw me emerge from the tunnel.

“That’s close enough.”

“You planning to surrender now?”

Vorru gave a nervous laugh and slowly raised a compact blaster pistol from beside the console.

“That depends,” he said. “You planning to shoot me the second I do?”

“I’m being paid to bring you in alive.”

“Alive until whoever posted the bounty gets me back.”

Fair point.

I kept my blaster trained on him anyway. Up close, Kell Vorru looked less like a hardened criminal and more like a mechanic who hadn’t slept in weeks. Grease stained his sleeves. His eyes darted constantly toward the tunnel entrances like he expected death to come storming through them at any second.

“You don’t look worth eighty-five thousand credits,” I said.

“That’s because you don’t know what I stole.”

I gestured with the barrel. “Enlighten me.”

Vorru hesitated.

“That bounty came from the Vargos Syndicate.”

That got my attention.

The Vargos weren’t some local gang shaking down moisture farmers. They controlled spice routes through half the Outer Rim. Smuggling, extortion, weapons, assassinations. Serious people with serious money.

And very short tempers.

“I worked logistics for them,” Vorru continued carefully. “Cargo schedules, hidden accounts, bribe records. Boring work.”

“But?”

“But I found out they were planning to erase everyone connected to a failed shipment on Ord Mantell. Loose ends.”

“You included.”

He nodded.

“So I emptied several hidden credit vaults and copied every piece of data I could get before disappearing.”

I frowned. “How much did you steal?”

Vorru swallowed.

“About twelve million credits.”

I stared at him.

“Twelve million?”

“And the data.”

“That explains the bounty.”

“Yeah.”

Suddenly the mines made perfect sense.

The traps. The paranoia. The isolation.

This wasn’t a smuggler hiding from local authorities. This was a desperate man hiding from one of the most dangerous syndicates in the Outer Rim after robbing them blind.

I almost respected it.

Almost.

“You still should’ve run farther than Tatooine,” I said.

“I tried.” Vorru laughed weakly. “Turns out disappearing is expensive when entire syndicates want your organs sold separately.”

A distant metallic clang echoed somewhere through the tunnels.

Vorru froze instantly.

So did I.

“Expecting company?” I asked quietly.

“No.”

Another sound followed.

Footsteps.

Several pairs.

Moving carefully through the mine entrance.

Vorru’s face lost what little color remained.

“They found me.”

The lights inside the chamber abruptly dimmed red as automated sensors activated. Somewhere deeper in the tunnels, one of Vorru’s traps detonated with a thunderous boom.

Then came screaming.

Professional screaming. Short.

Armed intruders.

I looked back toward the tunnels.

“How many ways out?”

“Two.”

“Good. We use the second one.”

Vorru shook his head immediately. “No. If they’re here already, they probably covered both exits.”

Blaster fire erupted in the distance.

Blue bolts this time.

Military-grade.

Not random mercenaries.

The Vargos Syndicate had sent professionals.

Vorru grabbed a data drive from the console with trembling hands and shoved it into a satchel already overflowing with credit chips.

“You know,” I said, “bringing twelve million credits with you probably isn’t helping your mobility.”

“I’m not leaving it behind.”

The tunnel behind us exploded.

Dust and smoke blasted through the chamber as armored figures advanced through the debris. Black combat plating. Helmet visors glowing orange.

Vargos enforcers.

One of them shouted, “Target located!”

Blaster fire filled the cavern instantly.

Vorru dove behind a mining drill while I rolled behind stacked supply crates, bolts scorching the stone around us.

“This bounty suddenly feels underpaid,” I muttered.

“You’re still getting paid!” Vorru yelled back.

“Not if they vaporize us!”

One of the syndicate mercenaries pushed too aggressively through the chamber entrance and triggered a pressure mine hidden beneath the floor.

The explosion tore him apart.

I glanced toward Vorru.

He shrugged apologetically.

“Forgot that one was there.”

The remaining attackers slowed immediately.

Good.

Cautious enemies lived longer.

But they also killed smarter.

A grenade bounced off the crate beside me.

I threw myself sideways as the blast shattered the entire barricade into flaming debris.

“All right,” I snapped, firing back. “Secondary exit. Now.”

Vorru sprinted toward a narrow maintenance corridor and I followed close behind while blaster bolts chased us through the tunnels.

The mine had become a war zone.

Explosions thundered through nearby shafts as syndicate mercenaries triggered traps trying to pursue us. Some sections collapsed entirely behind us, buying precious seconds.

But only seconds.

Vorru led me deeper underground through twisting maintenance passages barely wide enough to run through side by side.

“You mapped all this yourself?” I asked between breaths.

“Mining records were incomplete.”

“That’s not reassuring.”

“It gets worse.”

Naturally.

Ahead, the tunnel split three directions.

Vorru pointed left. “That way.”

I grabbed his shoulder before he could move.

“No.”

“What?”

I pointed toward the ceiling.

Fresh scratch marks near the support beams.

Recently disturbed.

“Trip-collapse,” I said. “Someone already came through here.”

Vorru blinked. “I didn’t even notice that.”

“That’s why I’m still alive.”

We took the center tunnel instead just as the left corridor collapsed behind us in a deafening avalanche of stone.

Vorru stared at me.

“Okay,” he admitted. “I’m starting to understand your rates.”

We eventually reached a massive vertical cargo shaft descending deep into darkness. An old industrial lift hung suspended by thick chains, rusted but functional.

Vorru hurried onto the platform and slammed the activation lever.

The lift groaned upward.

Below us, shouting echoed through the tunnels.

The syndicate had found the shaft.

Blaster fire streaked upward from beneath, sparks flying from the platform rails.

I returned fire while the lift climbed painfully slowly.

Then I heard it.

Tick.

Tick.

Tick.

I looked down.

Explosives wired beneath the platform.

“Vorru.”

His eyes widened. “That’s not mine.”

Wonderful.

The detonator blinked rapidly beside a compact receiver module.

Remote trigger.

Someone in the syndicate wanted to guarantee we never reached the surface.

The ticking accelerated.

“How long?” Vorru asked.

“Not long.”

I crouched beside the device, ripping open the casing while the lift swayed violently from incoming blaster fire.

Inside waited a tangled mess of wires attached to unstable detonator gel.

Cheap construction.

Fast assembly.

Harder to predict.

The timer beeped faster.

Vorru looked ready to faint.

“Can you disarm it?”

“Probably.”

“Probably?”

“I usually don’t get a practice round.”

The lift jerked suddenly as another blaster bolt snapped one of the side supports.

The platform tilted dangerously.

I examined the wiring.

Three primary connections.

Red.

Blue.

Yellow.

Of course.

I cut the blue wire first.

Nothing happened.

Good start.

The timer kept ticking.

I cut the red wire.

The beeping stopped.

Vorru exhaled sharply in relief. “You got it.”

Then sparks erupted from beneath the yellow wire.

Secondary detonator.

I realized the mistake exactly one second too late.

“Move!”

The explosion tore through the underside of the platform.

Fire engulfed the lift as metal screamed apart beneath us. The blast hurled me backward into the railing hard enough to crack armor plating.

Vorru took the explosion directly beside him.

He screamed as the platform collapsed sideways.

I barely caught the railing before falling into the shaft.

Vorru slid across the burning metal, one hand desperately clawing for support while the satchel of stolen credits scattered chips into the darkness below.

I grabbed his wrist at the last second.

For a moment we hung there together above the abyss while the ruined lift groaned around us.

“Don’t let go,” Vorru gasped.

Below us, syndicate mercenaries were already climbing the shaft ladders.

Above us, the damaged chains snapped one by one.

I tried pulling him upward, but dead weight and failing metal aren’t forgiving combinations.

Then the final support chain broke.

The platform lurched violently.

Vorru’s grip slipped from mine.

His eyes widened in terror.

Then he fell.

The darkness swallowed him almost instantly.

A few seconds later, the crashing sound reached the bottom of the shaft.

Silence followed.

I pulled myself onto stable ground just before the remaining lift wreckage collapsed completely into the abyss.

The syndicate operatives below stopped climbing after that.

Probably because there wasn’t much left worth recovering.

Hours later, I sat outside the mine beneath the rising suns of Tatooine, bruised, burned, and exhausted beyond reason.

My bounty puck blinked patiently in my hand.

TARGET STATUS?

I stared at it for a long moment before answering.

“Dead.”

The response came immediately.

CONTRACT FAILED. PAYMENT VOID.

I laughed once.

Twelve million credits lost in a pit.

An entire syndicate still furious.

And me?

I got nothing except cracked armor and another story nobody would believe.

I stood slowly, holstered my blaster, and started the long walk back toward Mos Ila.

Next time, I decided, I’d take the Nexu job instead.

The twin suns of Tatooine had long since dipped below the dunes when Quinn Arapto stepped into the palace.

The Zabrak mercenary moved with the confidence of a man who belonged there, though every instinct beneath his dark red skin screamed otherwise. His black horns caught the glow of hanging lanterns as music thundered through the sandstone corridors. Silk-draped dancers spun beneath clouds of spice smoke while smugglers, assassins, and crime lords crowded around banquet tables stacked with roasted meilooruns and glittering bottles from Core World vineyards.

The Hutts were hosting a summit.

Which meant every predator in the Outer Rim was inside one building.

Perfect cover.

Quinn adjusted the embroidered sleeves of the stolen servant’s robe and lowered his gaze as two Gamorrean guards shoved past him. Their axes scraped the walls. Neither bothered to look twice at another servant carrying wine.

That was the difference between professionals and amateurs, Quinn thought. Professionals became invisible.

The holocron rested three floors below the palace in a private vault maintained by the Hutt kajidic. Ancient Sith Empire artifact. Priceless. Dangerous. The kind of relic that powerful men killed entire cities to possess.

Which explained the party above.

The Hutts planned to auction it tonight.

Quinn had spent three weeks preparing for this job. He bribed a dock clerk to learn supply routes, blackmailed a Nikto accountant for vault schematics, and nearly lost a hand stealing a security cipher from a drunken Weequay captain. All of it for one chance at entering the vault without triggering alarms.

A reckless thief would have tried explosives.

A dead thief, more likely.

He slipped through a service corridor behind the kitchens, counting the seconds between surveillance sweeps. The palace security network rotated every forty seconds. He had learned that by sitting across the street for five nights pretending to repair vaporators.

Thirty-nine.

Forty.

Quinn moved.

The servant robe came off first. Beneath it waited matte-black armor fitted tight against his lean frame. He crossed the corridor silently and pressed a small spike into a security panel. Numbers flashed red, then blue.

Access granted.

“Too easy,” he muttered.

That thought nearly got him killed.

The floor shifted under his boot.

Quinn reacted instantly, throwing himself backward as a concealed vibro-blade shot from the wall exactly where his throat had been. It sliced through empty air before retracting.

Pressure-sensitive trap.

Not on the schematics.

His heartbeat hammered against his ribs as he crouched low, studying the floor tiles. Tiny discolorations marked the triggers. Nearly invisible.

The Hutts had upgraded security for the auction.

Of course they had.

Quinn exhaled slowly and navigated through the corridor one careful step at a time. Sweat rolled down the side of his face despite the cool underground air. One mistake here would alert every guard in the palace.

Ahead stood the vault door.

Circular. Massive. Durasteel plated with overlapping electronic locks and an old-fashioned mechanical wheel at its center. Two guards stood outside in crimson armor, both carrying heavy blasters.

Quinn remained hidden in the shadows.

He didn’t draw weapons.

Blaster fire was noise. Noise became panic. Panic became sealed exits and bounty hunters.

Instead, he waited.

Patience was the sharpest weapon he owned.

One of the guards eventually wandered toward the end of the hall to smoke. The other stayed behind, bored and alone.

Quinn slipped forward soundlessly.

The guard sensed movement too late. Quinn wrapped one arm around his throat and jammed a shock injector against the man’s neck. Electricity crackled. The guard collapsed without a sound.

Quinn dragged the body aside just as the smoker turned the corner again.

The second guard frowned.

“Hey—”

Quinn hurled a small metal cylinder.

The flash grenade detonated silently in a burst of white light. The guard staggered, blinded, and Quinn crossed the distance instantly, driving an elbow into his jaw before slamming his head against the vault door.

Silence returned.

Quinn checked the corridor, then knelt at the vault controls.

Three minutes later, the door rolled open with a deep metallic groan.

Inside, the vault resembled a shrine more than a treasury. Credits, jewels, and golden idols lined the walls, but Quinn ignored them all.

At the center of the chamber sat a black pyramid-shaped holocron atop a stone pedestal.

Even from across the room, he could feel it.

Cold.

Hungry.

The air itself seemed heavier near the artifact.

Quinn approached cautiously. He had heard stories about Sith relics whispering into the minds of the weak. Men slaughtering friends for power they barely understood.

He didn’t believe in legends.

Still, when he reached for the holocron, a faint voice brushed the edges of his thoughts.

Take me.

Quinn snatched his hand back.

The holocron glowed crimson for a split second.

Then palace alarms erupted overhead.

Quinn froze.

Not his fault.

Someone else had made their move.

Blaster fire echoed faintly from the upper floors. Shouting followed. The rival crime families had turned the summit into a battlefield.

Quinn swore under his breath.

The palace would lock down in moments.

He grabbed the holocron and sealed it inside a padded satchel. Immediately the vault lights shifted red. Automated security protocols activated with mechanical clicks inside the walls.

Turrets.

Quinn sprinted.

The first cannon dropped from the ceiling behind him and opened fire. Red bolts tore through the corridor, scorching stone. Quinn slid beneath the barrage and vaulted over a collapsing guard rail as more explosions shook the palace overhead.

By the time he reached the main levels, chaos had consumed everything.

Rodians exchanged blaster fire with Trandoshans across banquet tables. A chandelier burned on the floor. Screaming servants ran in every direction while Hutt enforcers tried to restore order.

And through all of it, Quinn walked calmly.

Fast, but not running.

Panicked people noticed runners.

A composed man carrying a servant’s robe under one arm? Invisible.

He crossed the ballroom as firefights erupted around him. A blaster bolt scorched the wall inches from his head. Nobody cared. Everyone was too busy killing each other over a relic that was already gone.

At the palace entrance, a Nikto guard shouted, “Seal the gates!”

Quinn threw a thermal detonator down a side corridor.

The explosion thundered through the palace. Every guard turned toward the blast.

Quinn slipped outside into the cool desert night.

His speeder waited exactly where he had left it beneath the cliffs.

Only when the palace disappeared behind him across the dunes did Quinn finally remove the holocron from the satchel.

Its crimson glow illuminated his tattooed face.

Again, the whisper came.

Open me.

Quinn stared at it for a long moment before accelerating harder into the darkness of the desert.

Whatever secrets the Sith had buried inside that thing, someone else could pay to discover them.

Assuming the holocron let him sell it first.

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