The following is a pair of vignettes focusing on characters from Plagueis before the events of Code: Dread. You can find the complete series here.

Isle of New Raxulon

Aliso

37 ABY

A zephyr was picking up along the pockmarked shore, and little beads of water were shaken from their moorings and disturbed, scattering among both the pebbles and fragmented glass shards that were haphazardly buried in the sand. To the west of a large dune, the hollowed out remains of old barracks sat lopsided on a slope, its entryway reminiscent of the sloppily opened mouth of a fish. And a dying one at that. The smell was the most offensive, made even worse by the bursts of wind gusts that picked up and carried shrapnel of trash and rubble across once perfectly pristine sandy glens and dales. It was the smell of burnt rubber, melted plastic, and sour oil. It was the smell of mechanical decay.

Scudi Ferria didn’t mind it, though. She sat perched on the edge of a small building’s roof, which she had scaled easily, eating shark stew from a wooden bowl. As her spoon scraped for the last of the guts, she exhaled loudly and let her eyes settle on the waves that withdrew from the coast as quickly as they had dared to kiss it. Below her, a limping crab did its best to skitter into its new home beneath a metal husk that was once a freighter’s nose. It slipped away into the confined darkness, paused, scurried back out, and then fled once again from the sparse sunlight.

The slim Chiss slurped up the remaining broth, looking petite compared to a nearby mountain of metal scraps looming behind her. Then she tossed her bowl to the side, bored of it, and hoping to find some new cutlery.

New Raxulon was not just a treasure trove to her; it was her home. Sure, Scudi had a commute these days; she was needed often at Korada Monastery, the headquarters of Karness Muur, where she was now Quaestor. But the inherent lack of respect aimed at her from the rank and file Force users left her disinterested in making the trek. Not even her accomplishments during the Disorder campaign had seemed to put her in good graces with some of the Plagueians. And now that she had heard her Dread Lord’s decree to attack the Collective on her encrypted commlink, she was even less inclined to help her. Why should she continue to put her life on the line for such ungrateful people?

Still, though, there was Julius, and Scudi did have a soft spot for the old man. He was like a grandfather to her...no, perhaps that was too harsh. A father? A violent uncle? Yes, that third one worked.

Swinging her legs off the roof of the caved in squat edifice, Scudi began to navigate down the shoreline toward the Decimator, her personal vessel. The Monastery was awaiting her return from the junk heap.

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Aliso City

Nightfall

37 ABY

Behind a drug store, a spy was getting stomped into the duracrete by a black boot.

He screamed as the blood welled up in his ear canal, the cartilage split upon impact, spraying his life fluids from his split tongue and cracked teeth. As the enormous heel of the boot came down on the side of his head again and again, the spy became all too familiar with the color red in his vision.

“No…please…! I’ll tell you! I’ll tell you everything!”

“Fool,” snarled the helmeted assailant above him. “You have nothing valuable to offer me. Not anymore.”

“But...I can tell you about my boss...I can tell you about Kel Zar…”

“You think I don’t already know all I need to know?! I have eyes everywhere. I’ve been told everything!”

“Then...then why…?”

“Simple!” growled the monster. “Because you shouldn’t be here. And I’m the pest control!”

Then, before the spy could say anything else, the hands of Wrathus folded around his neck and lifted up. Each finger pressed wildly into the spy’s jawbone, projecting unimaginable strength, and the Plagueian revelled in the texture and sight of stretching and ripping skin, as if splitting the seam of a blanket. In a mere handful of seconds, the head of the Collective agent had been torn clean off its foundation, the exposed throat spouting flood like a wakened geyser as the body slumped to the ground.

The Aedile of Ajunta Pall stood motionless for a moment, backlit only by the single street lamp to his left, the alleyway clear of everything except carnage. He held the spy’s head in his hands for another moment, thumbs tracing the matted curls, before dropping it like a loose weight. Then, sighing, he released a trail of vapor from his visor, his face damp beneath the helmet.

“Interesting,” murmured a voice from behind him. “I would have just maimed him myself.”

“What are you doing here, Ranarr?” Wrathus demanded, not needing to turn around to sense the presence of his clanmate.

The copper-maned Cathar emerged as if from the shadows, shoulders shrugged beneath his robes. “Same reason you’re out and about. Tahiri expected me to go hunting for Collective infiltrators. Looks like you beat me to my target.”

“Too slow. The Inquisitorius would suit you better.”

“Where are you off to now?”

“The Nimbus Room,” replied Wrathus, an unseen smirk simmering. “I’ve given it quite the reputation. Yet all the people I wish I kill like to hang out there. Like swarming flies for me to swat, if you will.”

“Fair enough. I’ll head toward the Sand Pit. I’ve heard a couple of Collective cronies may be getting involved in the fights.”

“Your apprentice?”

“Oh, Ahsik? Already there, enjoying the fights.”

“Save me a snack,” joked Wrathus.

"I'll bring you a Bantha shish kebab."

The older man frowned, his curmudgeonly ways emerging in full force. "You can get me a shish kebab. But I don't do Bantha."

"...All right, then," mumbled Ranarr. With that, he disappeared back into the Alisoan night. It was like the Battlelord to work alone, and besides, even with Wrathus as his elder superior (literally and figuratively), the Aedile knew that the difference in rank changed the dynamic. He didn’t mind, though. Examining his rather bloodied fingers, he contemplated the usual.

Okay. Just a taste.

He licked the plasma off his left index fingers and smiled.