Sith Space. He hasn't been here in a long time.

It is a dangerous part of the galaxy. The inhabitants are a crazy bunch at the best times. At worst, they are rabid.

He can tell. He has been one of them. Still was in fact. He just wasn't very thorough about keeping contact. His IFF codes should still be good though, he hasn't been *that* distant.

Right now, he is floating in his cockpit. Not because his ship's artificial gravity is damaged, but because he likes it that way.

On the other side of the viewport and half a klick away floats a CR-90 Corvette, but it's floating seems to be a lot less voluntary. 'Zephyr' is her name. That much can still be read. Her insignia and much of the hull have been scorched though.

A soft beep draws his gaze to a large display. Once more, the sensor array confirms the lack of lifesigns and the questionable composition of the atmosphere aboard.

So why can't he just leave this derelict ship be? A hunch? A sign in the Force? The deeply embedded need to loot, plunder and profit? Wagering with himself, he puts his money on the latter, with the Force being a close second.

Whatever. Just floating here and wondering will not get him anywhere. And he has never been one to turn tail blindly. He leaves the cockpit, returning to the part of the ship which has gravity, and gets his space suit. A TIE flight suit, actually. Still with Scholae Palatinae's insignia.



Minutes later, his ship is side-by-side with the 'Zephyr'. She has not responded to any form of code or communication attempts. She doesn't even seem to have power. Entering her will not be he usual comfortable docking.

Ah, hell. Out of the airlock, he goes. The manual release on the Corvette's airlock is scorched black, but luckily not fused shut. A little patience brings him safely inside. Darkness and furnace heat greet him. Just as expected. With a mental shrug, he activates the flashlight on his weapon.

He finds the first corpse within fifteen meters. A quick inspection of the human man reveals no wounds, just the blue lips and bloodshot eyes of an asphyxia victim. His uniform looks like some security firm's. No armor, just a sidearm. A few tools. And a comm.

It still has power. He can hear it crackle. The air is toxic with smoke and vaporized insulation, but it carries sound just fine. Right now, the only audible sounds come from the comm and the smoldering ship, in addition to his own steps and his breathing inside his helmet.

He clicks the comm a few times. No talk, though, that just isn't on his mind. He clicks the comm a few more times. Survivors might hear it and respond. No high hopes though, outside of a space suit or some rare traits and even rarer abilities, there was just no chance to survive this. Plus, corpses. Everywhere.

The Corvette isn't a large ship. Getting to the living quarters takes only moments. Leaving them alone takes even less; they have burned badly. The life support and security systems must have been fried. The ship must have been barely space-worthy to start with, or severely sabotaged.

Or on Lady Luck's really bad side. Those are his musings as he goes to inspect the bridge. Maybe he can find the Captain's Log. He passes the escape pods on the way. Jettisoned. Either somebody got away, or has found just another way to die.



The bridge lookes a little less screwed over than the rest of the ship. Maybe this is for real, maybe it is just the rebreathing masks that most crewmembers here wear. They ware dead either way. The Captain sits on his chair. His hand still holds his sidearm. Appearantly, he died last, and not of asphyxia.

More mysteries. The log sits in the Captain's lap. The only living being is the visitor. He bags the log and goes over the corpses. Still, everything is very nondescript. An alarm calls out. His flight suit has no problem with the air, but the heat is taxing the energy reserves. Time to return.

Just when he turns towards the exit, things get really interesting. He isn't alone.

She is tall, for a woman. Her clothes are ragged, but not the same uniform that all the corpses wear. Human or humanoid. Ash blonde hair. No rebreather mask. And a lightsaber in her hand which just snapps to life with blue fire. He tenses and braces his gun firmly.

"Your blaster won't help you, do what I say! Give me your..." *BANG*BANG*BANG*BANG*BANG!*

The result is messy.

Standing in the entrance, she has no chance to evade the salvo. And since his gun is no blaster like she thought, but one of the slugthrowers he likes so much, there is no parrying either. Not when the toxic air around her gets replaced with lead.

Her face shows disbelief and then goes blank as she falls to her knees and sinks to the floor. He focusses for a moment and pulls the lightsaber from her. He doesn't have to get close, the Force is with him. *BANG!*

One last shot to make sure before he gets close. She is dead as dead can be. She carries no sign of her allegiance on her body, just some generic equipment and a compblock covered in blood. He bags it. Somebody might be able to make sense of this whole mess.

His suit repeats the alarm. Time to go.



The return takes only minutes. The whole trip was over in less than half an hour. He takes place in his pilot's chair and activates the cockpit's gravity. The bloody compblock and the lightsaber rest in a sealed plastic bag on his console. He takes his helmet off and shakes out his hair.

A sardonic smile comes up on his face. Seems like his hiatius could end soon. His hyperspace comm unit is quickly booted up. He knows who to call, and he will not waste time with pleasantries.

"Xen. This is Jorm. I want you to see something."

He has been an undercover agent for Xen'Mordin Vismorsus-Palpatine before, he can ignore the protocol.

And as the hyperdrive pushes the ship past light speed, Jorm Na'trej leaves his life as a Rogue behind.