Saga - ST ASCENDANCE (Action, Drama, OC's, Kylo Ren, NEW Cover Art, Video Intro Added) CH. 3 UPDATE 11/19/17

He could never have distinguished the flicker in whole, and to even venture a guess would’ve been a long shot of the greatest distance, but despite that, the Prisoner couldn’t fight the idea that for the length of that instant, it almost looked like a child’s bloody face. A child he once knew...

You truly know how to create an atmosphere of intensity and thrill, dear The Ascendant. This is why I am afraid I have to stay put, even with my new exhausting job position. This is like a drug (in my case: a dreadful chocolate addiction). I want more, even though I know I should not. But somehow I prefer a dark mind trip to a slushy romance story.

 

Thanks for continuing to read, AzureAngel2! Sorry that I've been away. I know I need to catch up on viewing your work, as well as some other authors like Kurisan, and I will be doing that very soon. However, I do return with gifts. I will be posting the final piece of the first chapter in a little bit, and I have new art to display in the chapter that follows it. Also, I've added a custom Star Wars intro video into the first post, so if you haven't seen it, check it out!

 

PART 4 of 4
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The Prisoner cleared the corner with urgency hastening his pace like accelerant to flames, each stride moving longer and more quickly than the last. Shame clinched his face into a scowl that gave form to the anger he suppressed within. He'd been foolish to waste so much time dispatching the storm troopers, and even more so in exerting himself in the process. Overindulgence. It had always been his cardinal sin. Already he could hear the words springing from his Lord's lips with sharp, piercing criticism. Every syllable stinging like a thousand needles of admonishment.

"Always remember, my children, do not drink too greedily from the well of the Force. It will stricken you, urge your favor again and again, as you will become reliant on its influence, and in turn, suffer under it. While the true power of the Force can only be attained through the Dark Side, it is not without its weaknesses. It proffers immense possibilities, but lacks vitality. It will drain your strength until even your anger will no longer fuel it. It will cloud your mind and demand your wrath, even when sparing your enemy, if only momentarily, will better aid your cause. To give yourself over to it completely, without the tutelage to guide you, is to invite your own destruction. It is because of this reason that discipline must become more than a necessity, it must become innate."

The wisdom was as true then as it was now, and yet, somehow he always found himself punished for disobeying it. Almost concurrently, the Prisoner felt his head start to fog, as his legs went rubbery. He'd reached deep into the Force in such a short time, and the journey's perils were starting to take their toll. The elevator trip from the lower levels was the first heavy blow. While to lift an entire structure was possible for those trained in the Force, that didn't mean it was easy. For it to move, your mind must will it to, as well as keep it moving for as long as needed. Sustaining one's concentration was vital in this process, and a single falter under the elevator's 1200 kg weight would've meant a fast plummet into the afterlife.

The second challenge followed almost immediately after the first, coming in the form of the ambush party that awaited him. To halt one person, even two, was child's play, but an entire squad more than tested his will, it fractured it. He had to reach even further after the other squad appeared and peppered him with their barrage. He could've drawn his saber then, he should have, but chose theatrics over skill instead, and was now paying for the abuse. He wasn't strong enough yet to utilize the Force in such an exuberant display without consequence, and admitting it did nothing to ease the contempt for his own recklessness, which would've continued if not for...

The Prisoner shrugged, unwilling to allow his thoughts to slip back to what happened with the last trooper, but found the issue to be persistent. What had he seen? A wraith, a reminder of all he endured? That person, if you could even call it that, was one he hadn't thought about in years, assumed forgotten, until it wasn't. The boy who awoke to darkness. It was a face so profound to see after so long, a face forfeited of weakness for the chance at a grander destiny.

It was that same future that the Prisoner purchased through blood and death. But was it still his? That question drove all this to be, it forced his hand to betray the one that fed him, that taught him, and above all else, promised him. It would be kept, either given or taken, this, the Prisoner declared. He would do it the way he was told, he would find the ones withholding what is rightfully his, and make their suffering legendary.

"You are the last of The Anointed, the sole victor, but you still have one final test before you. We have spoken of your past, but are you strong enough to overcome it? This remains to be seen. You know your targets. When the time is right, you will find them, you will know them, and you will end them. And upon their demise, you will be worthy of my promise, child. You will be worthy of the duel you seek. You, my Ascendant."

The Prisoner's hand found the wall after a stumble, freeing him of his recollection for more immediate concerns. Breathing came harder, and with a glaze of beaded sweat, as if hoisting a great weight on his shoulders that sought to crush him. He'd harmed himself more than estimated, he knew this now, and it was that fact that coerced him to continue on. He had to get off the freighter, but that was much easier said than done. The Prisoner knew the main hangar bay was located on the current deck, but was most certainly locked down by now. However, if he could get there and access its control panel, he could use smaller expulsions of the Force to bypass the security protocols, much like he did to Warvane's elevator. There was no worry of triggering the alarms this time, as he was more than expecting interference to be waiting for him, ready to give one final greeting on his way out.

He no longer possessed the luxury of surprise, and while not a total setback, he would have to be more careful for whatever came next. Pushing off from the wall, the Prisoner spewed a trailing breath that was both hard and deep, steadying his mind, as well as his limbs, as he pressed on ahead. Stealth was his greatest weapon, and in using it, he would move as though he were the shadows, themselves. He approached each corner with consistent caution, listening for activity, and utilizing only increments of the Force to enhance his awareness. The Prisoner couldn't afford to linger long, so he had little choice but to trust his initial instincts as he crossed from one access hall to the next, giving consideration to each compartment as he breached their entrances.

His evasion paid off, even managing to avoid a patrol that trotted down a corresponding corridor. The hangar was just ahead of him now, and to his complete and utter shock, it was left unguarded. Not a soul occupied the front of the blast doors, where he imagined a large group of storm troopers should've been, already sunken into firing positions, awaiting his arrival. The hangar bay held the only means off the ship, so the fact that it was unwatched left only two possibilities. One, the squads were spread thinner than he estimated, and busy trying to hunt him down, or two, this was a trap. The Prisoner liked number two.

Stepping from his concealment, he gauged what to expect, but found only a condensed hall and a pair of blast doors between him and freedom. Were they solely depending on an encrypted lock to keep him out? No. The Prisoner dismissed the thought. Warvane would know better. Another idea was that the bulk of the opposition was on the other side of the door, but he doubted that as well. The Captain would know that once inside the hangar, the Prisoner's chances of escape would only increase dramatically. Already the endless possibilities began to wear on his weakening mind, so rather than exercise patience, he decided then to speed things up, instead.

"I know you're there." The Prisoner's lips curled into a smirk, speaking with an inviting share of snide. "Come out now and I promise you'll go quicker than your friends did."

A loud metallic crunch filled the air as gears wheeled and mechanisms unlatched from each other. The durasteel halves of the blast doors shielding the hangar then fell away in separation, revealing the foreboding presence of Vendol Warvane. The Prisoner's smirk faded at the sight of the Captain, replaced with an unease that threatened to make him rethink his actions. It was clear now why there was no ambush sitting in wait, and that was because he was always the hidden secret of the Black Freighter, even from those who guarded it. The current lack of reinforcements was to limit further exposure, as well as loose ends. Fortunately, all who had seen him had been slain, save for the single Squad Commander, but the Prisoner wagered Warvane would soon correct that mistake.

"What do you think you're doing?!" The Captain's voice boomed with spite, and something more layered within it, something that sounded vaguely like disappointment. It was not at all like the tone one would use in speaking to an enemy, but rather...an ally. He stared on at the Prisoner from his towering height, eyes flaring with anger as his leer became the same given to a disobedient pet. Except this was no pet. It didn't cower at his feet, it stood tall. It didn't weep in shame, it exhibited little emotion, and while it might've been a man, it certainly looked as though it was ready to bite.

"What I must." The Prisoner replied, unrepentant.

"You swore fealty, boy!" Warvane scolded. "After all you've done, all that has been given to you, you're just going to sacrifice everything? This is madness, Zego."

Warvane used his given name as though it would convince him to listen to reason, but that was no longer who he was, he had become than that....hadn't he? At most, it was a feeble attempt to return him to his prior path, one not born out of compassionate, nor empathy, as the Captain cared for no one. It was fear of consequence that motivated his words, should he allow this escape to pass. However, what Warvane failed to see was that the implied path had already closed. To do what Zego has done, to expose his existence, to shatter every rule he had been raised to uphold, would earn him no understanding of his motives. Even were he to return to the bowels of the freighter, the trust he earned through years of loyalty and discretion was irreparable. No, this was his only option.

"That is not my name..." The Force-User growled with cold countenance, his gaze sharp and singular as a razor.

"Oh? So who are you then?" The Captain inquired. "No longer his Ascendant, not if you continue this route. He will take that which you yearn most for."

"Has it not already been taken from me?" The Force-User mused aloud, as if speaking in self-reflection. "It's been nearly a year without reply or visitation. All the while I languish as forgotten, and without opportunity. What I do now, I do to ensure a future for myself, teacher."

The manner in which he used the term boiled Warvane's blood with contempt, but did not rob it of its truth. While others may've assumed Zego was a fleeing prisoner, concealed from their eyes for any numbers of reasons, the Captain knew better. He'd helped trained this man since he was a boy, educating him in strategy and any number of fighting methods, save for the use of the lightsaber and the Force. All in preparation, all commanded of him. Now those years of devotion were swept away by a wind of treachery.

"There is no future for you outside of the preordained." Warvane advised, edging slowly closer in a tensed state of calm, calling on every fiber of restraint to not lunge outward and rip the young man's head from his neck. "Return with me now, and I will not report what has occurred here. Whatever you have convinced yourself of is not true. It is not what is planned for you."

"Plans change." Zego said, less sympathetic than before. "Now move, or be moved."

The Captain was closer now, almost within arm's reach. It was here that he could see a noticeable advantage, hidden between the obscurity of the dark shade and distracting flashes of red emergency lighting. There was a slight hunch in the Force-User's posture, while sweat adhered to his forehead with an oily layer, and every few seconds, he'd flick his fingers, as though trying to keep them from falling asleep. His body language read like an open book, citing exhaustion that was not finished setting in. "I suppose I shouldn't be too surprised by all of this. You always did take things a step too far. Especially when it came to his teachings.'' As Warvane's confidence grew, his tone darkened to the same depth. "You've overexerted yourself, boy. You're tiring."

"You're right," Zego replied, releasing the relief in his voice with a full stream of breath, no longer trying to control its pace for the sake of looking stronger than he felt. "But the thing is...I don't need the Force to take you apart." In that last fleeting exchange, just as the words left his lips, Warvane was on the cusp of standing over Zego when his eyes met the Captain's with a dangerous quality, and in that instant, both knew they only had seconds to react.

The two struck out with simultaneous fists, crushing into the other's face so viciously that it staggered them into opposite directions. Both gave space for assessment, looking for openings to capitalize on, but found them absent due to other man's choice of fighting style. In stoic pause, they stood as a mirror of each other, living parallels taught the same methods of unarmed combat. Their stance was slightly sunken, one leg positioned forward, and the other propped behind it for support. Both fists were balled, one extended vertically outward in contrast to the other that hung at a horizontal angle with the chin. Their stares met once more with deathly symmetry, fire radiating at their cores, lighting the furnace of hate one feels just before taking a life. They came at each other, the first series of blows evolving into a gale of timed strikes and narrow deflections, as their muscles searched for a rhythm that would offset their opponent's.

This lasted for only seconds until Zego broke contact, back-pedaling away with a feign of indecision that he knew would lure the Captain into pressing him. When Warvane took the bait, the Force-User ducked his decapitating haymaker, and rolled out to the other side where he spun off his back leg into a wheeling kick to the cheek, so hard, a click sounded in Warvane's jaw. Zego released a bestial roar as he came back to stance, chewing into his lip as battle lust filled spiked his blood. The Captain's unbalance brought him hard into a wall, dazing his vision, but still he reactively turned to seek out his foe. By then, Zego was already bounding off the ground, following his momentum into a springing knee, that if connected, would've shattered the Captain's jawline altogether.

However, Warvane predicted this maneuver before it materialized, and upon its launch, lunged and caught the Force-User in midair, heaving his weight over his shoulder like a sack, and drove him into the opposite wall with a punishing thud. Air departed Zego's lungs with a harrowing gasp, imperiled more by the sudden pain now radiating from his ribs. The Force called to him out of desperation, tempting him to use its power, yet he defied it. Despite their current scuffle, Zego knew he couldn't kill his hulking opponent, but not because he lacked the ability. His opponent, himself, had taught it to him. The real reason was found in an extenuating circumstance located beyond the hull of the freighter, one that still had use of the Captain.

Zego was on his last reserves of strength, and he knew that even if he managed to win the fight, he may not have enough left to complete his escape. Times had become their most dire, and drastic action was needed, he only hoped the cost wouldn't be too great. Gritting his teeth to suppress the pain, he waited until Warvane reeled back for another slam into the wall, and at the last possible moment, contorted his body until his boots arced against the Captain's chest plate. Gaining position, he then kicked off with an open hand and fired a Force Push that sent them rocketing separate ways. There was a brief feeling of flight that seemed to linger, until the Force-User's back met the floor in a driving slide that carried beyond the frame of the hangar's entrance.

Weary in mind, but alert enough to know he couldn't allow Warvane to rebound from the other end of the corridor, Zego immediately located the nearest control panel and channeled a burst of the Force through it, shorting its circuits in a spray of sparks that sealed the blast doors shut. Having eluded his pursuer, if only for the present, Zego robbed a moment from his shrinking timetable to take stock of his faculties. His breath came ragged, almost oppressively so, and his back felt like a Rancor had danced on it. As quickly as adrenaline had seized him in the fight, it faded just as fast, leaving him lethargic and allured by the idea of sleep. All at once, he recognized he'd reached his limit. He couldn't fight any longer, despite his willingness, but knew that if he didn't get up, all he sacrificed would be in vain.

The pitching beeps of maintenance droids drew his blurring vision to eight, black TIE-fighters that occupied the immense structure. Over the years of isolation, when he wasn't learning tolerance for new forms of pain, Zego was being taught other specialties that would aid him, such as piloting. A flight simulator was built into the lower levels for just such teachings, and in its extensive collection was every vessel at the First Order's disposal. He recognized the fleet he stared on as TIE / Superiority Fighters, models assigned exclusively for Special Forces, which meant the installation of hyperdrive engines inside them was a certainty. It was they that inspired an idea that returned the Force-User's snide smirk to him, and reinvigorated his resolve. They would be his way out, not just one, but all of them. Climbing to his feet through aching movements, Zego inhaled deeply and used the air to fuel a run for one of the TIE's entry hatches, where he staggered up the sloped ramp and into the black belly of the cockpit.

He hadn't the luxury of a flight suit and the plethora of life support functions that accompanied it, but at this point, Zego allowed that death by a leak in the oxygen supply was still preferable to what came if he was caught. Stirring attentiveness from eyes, he studied the onboard controls, display consoles, and gripped the noke in his fingers, trying to establish a feel for it. He'd flown before in countless simulations, and even found that the current controls, all the way down to their pre-flight checklists, were not just familiar to the ones he tested on, they were identical. Obviously, simulations and actual space travel were vastly different in many degrees, but he wagered, albeit recklessly so, that his accrued training would apply. Zego looked next to the navigational components, memorizing their layout, and from there, used his memory as a blueprint to reach out with the Force to the other TIE-fighters and begin adjusting their own navi-coms, selecting hyper-routes to various worlds already programmed into the freighter's database. Their destinations didn't matter, all that did was that they were far away in distance, and even further from where he planned to go...where he must go.

"Which we did he go, which way did he go?" He scoffed in a sing-song tune, a swell of pride nudging his lips to lift. Sensing his reach begin to strain, Zego used the last exertion of his will to activate their auto-pilot functions and initiate their launch sequences, along with his own. A symphony of clunks echoed in unison throughout the hangar as support cables detached their tethers, allowing the automated ships to hover into an orderly line behind the deck's energy barrier.

A confused tech in the main control room was in a frenzy when Warvane and a grouping of troopers came storming inside. "Sir, I don't know what happened? I was busy going over the diagnostics report for the hyperdrives when the entire squadron suddenly activated their launch sequences!" The tech shouted in a haze of panic once recognizing who it was that entered.

"Can you stop them?!" Warvane fumed, aggression burning in his features.

"I-I can maybe manually override one," The tech tried to appease the infuriated officer, his fingers a blur of tapping on the instrumentation in the hope that he could. "but the others will be out of range once they hit lightspeed."

A sour blend of distress blew the Captain's gaze wide open as he found the viewport in lieu of the barrier dissolving from the broadcast of the fleet's departure signal. "The barrier! Keep up the barrier!"

"We can't!" The tech shouted out of nervous frustration. "The safety protocols won't allow it! Once the departure sequence is achieved, the barrier will stay down until all designated vessels have vacated!"

Warvane roared , throwing the tech aside like a ragdoll as his fists came down on the controls with a raging violence, smashing buttons, cracking frames, and producing plumes of smoke and sparks.The anxiety inside him that he had managed to keep subdued was now unleashed, and further provoked by the image of the TIE-fighters' thrusters as they shot off into space, until one by one, they, as well as Zego, were gone. For an extended moment, no one dared speak for fear that his fury would escalate. The Captain remained with his palms pushing heavy weight into the destroyed console, his entire body rising and falling with excessive breathing. It was only out of bold curiosity that one trooper then risked a question.

"S-Sir...do you have any orders?" The trooper asked, hesitation fracturing his speech.

Taking hold of his anger, and attempting to at least appear more composed than he felt, Warvane straightened his posture, and allowed his venting to come to an unceremonious end. He then turned to address the trooper with a calmer visage than was expected, eyeing him with tensed muscles twitching in his face. "Yes..." The Captain answered through gritted rows of teeth, as though what he was about to say begrudged him to even think about, let alone command someone to do. "Contact the Supreme Leader."

 

I'm not sure if there's such a thing as production value in a story, but if there is, you're doing a helluva job bud! That intro is really neat! So our prisoner is not a prisoner at all, huh? We finally found out more about our main character (including his name) and I think you did a good job foreshadowing what he is, but not who he is. He's clearly on a mission of his own, but it doesn't look like one that'll help anyone but himself. I also enjoyed the fight between he and Warvane. It had a very realistic feel, what with Zego being tired from overusing the force. Like AzureAngel2 I'm hooked. I think this story is shaping up to be something special on these boards. Keep up the good work!

 

Thank you, Almerus! This chapter in particular was huge undertaking. Could you imagine if I posted all four parts at once? Lol I'm glad you see that the mission Zego is on is a personal one, but not a noble one. If you've guessed what he is, as I hope you have, you'll probably be able to guess what he's after, and what he has to do to get it. Though, I still have a few twists ahead, so I wouldn't go thinking you've figure it all out just yet.

 

Impatience may help you to end up on the dark side of the Force, but you have grateful readers at least, who had to remember breathing. Last night I almost could not, but that was part of the intense self defence course that I did. Here the breathlessness came through the intense atmosphere you managed to create.

The plot is mysterious still like an episode of "Twin Peaks" (the old one!).

And like in the series "Blindspot" it is not easy to distinguish who has what motive and who the real bad guy is.

 

Lol As usual, you are too kind AzureAngel2! I love the references also! I was too young to appreciate Twin Peaks while it was airing, but I did get hooked on it much later, and am excited as hell that Showtime is giving it the limited series to conclude it. The next chapter will be Lanon's introduction and reveal how he enters into the fray. It will also display more custom art to accompany what's happening in the post.

 

Now, you make me feel ancient...

And I love art. As my husband DarthUncle knows best. Especially after I dragged him into a famous gallery in my city of birth, almost spending hours in front of a certain Vermeer painting.

Even if I am seldom around these days, lack of time due to RL matters & an immense lack of support for my own stories, I will stay put for your updates.

 

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CHAPTER TWO​

PT. 1 of 2​

PLANET: TOZEER​

1 Day Later​

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The deserts of Tozeer were an ocean of fire. The blinding orb of the sun stung with a cankerous heat, baking the golden dunes of grainy sand with a glimmer that stretched to the horizon. It was a place where few could live, and less could survive. What wasn’t simmering sand, was yellowed cliffs overlooking canyons, not mountainous in height or depth, but still the only sanctuary for shade from temperatures that could be witnessed boiling the air. Lanon Kinova’s boot crushed into the shifting surface from one side of a swoop bike, sinking thereafter as crusty layers poured over it. He wiped the back of his hand across his forehead out of recent habit and found it dry, having forgotten that he’d just performed the same act only a moment ago. The day seemed to be getting hotter by the second, leading Lanon to question if his choice of wardrobe was indeed a wise one.

The leather jacket adorning his tan henley may’ve been smoldering to wear, and far worn of its former brown color, but its sentimental value outweighed the increase in degrees. In truth, to take it off for any reason other than sleep would’ve felt as though a betrayal was committed, a betrayal to someone he held dear long after they’d left him. Sentimentality. Some say mercenaries, the best ones, won’t last long with it. That you must think only of the mission goals, and nothing else. It was that kind of talk that particularly disturbed Lanon. It was lazy thinking, the kind that said you had to be one dimensional in order to cut it. What if being sentimental to a client’s needs bought you something in return, like loyalty? Hard men might view that as unnecessary, but Lanon saw it as being efficient, a maximizing of his options.

He knew of bounty hunters and mercenaries who had to ask others for help from time to time, and found shame in it. But why? You still had to complete the mission, and avoid whatever dangers it presented. Were they really so caught up in their own image that to ask for help came difficult? It was this reason that Lanon began to see himself as something different from the normal. He wouldn’t just build a reputation, he’d build a brand as a procurer of solutions, one that never turned away an offer just because it was too dangerous or too easy. Whatever the goal, if you were the first in line, you would stay there. It didn’t matter how wealthy the next client was. Though, in that same regard, some of the more influential customers, he’d appease as pro-bono, in order to create a network of favors that would lower the risk of failure, and strengthen his standard of success.

Not surprisingly, at least to him, his career took off. In little under a decade, Lanon had rose to the upper echelon of the freelance market, the youngest to do so since the likes of Boba Fett. That wasn’t to say everything went perfect since the start. The moment he’d decided to spend his days as a soldier of fortune, Lanon knew there would be a stiff learning curve, that he would have to adapt to a life of the darker aspects. Pain. Betrayal. Death. To say he wasn’t disappointed in that hunch would be an understatement. Lanon had seen them all in his time. Everything from shot in the front by sworn enemies, to stabbed in the back by supposed friends. It was a part of the business, and like many businesses, sometimes you have to bleed for your craft. It was that same craft that brought him to the current wasteland, and his hunt for the smugglers that hid within it. He recalled the briefing like it was etched into his skin. Reclaim the stolen cargo before resale, eliminate the smugglers if necessary.

It sounded easy enough, but it was funny how often the easy jobs could become the most catastrophic in the blink of an eye. This one was no different. He’d only been tracking them for little over two weeks, and to his surprise, the group was rather cunning at keeping their operation a secret. They took longer hyper-routes, and gambled on staying close to the Outer Rim, just on the edge of the Unknown Regions, where any number of privateers could’ve hijacked their cargo, as well as their lives. Yet, in utilizing such tactics, they exposed numerous traits about themselves. One in particular was the necessity to be overly careful, and with that, face the sting of fear that was tethered to it. To draw out men such as this, you had to present them with something that would alleviate their ills and increase their confidence to succeed higher than ever before, and that was exactly what Lanon did.

Bringing his other leg over the seat of his swoop bike, the mercenary steadied himself among the mounds and stared into the long expanse of his macrobinoculars. At the end of its magnified sight, nine men took residence in a colossal cave opening, nine armed smugglers to be exact. Most were entrenched with manually operating utility lifts , doing their best to hurry along production of some sort. A Republic Transport sat patiently under the cave’s towering entrance, its engines humming in neutral, and the rear ramp extended hospitably to the dusty floor.

The smugglers' intentions were now a bit clearer. The transport was a fake, but a convincing one to even the best trained eye. They were among the few vessels in the galaxy that could travel virtually unbothered by patrols, provided they possessed the proper shipping registration and navigational codes, which was easier and easier to come by these days. Especially, if you stole them. By the time the codes were reported and processed as a theft, it would be too late. The thieves would reach their destination, complete their transaction, and find alternate means back to their home base. It would also explain the haste they were in to stock the cargo. Judging by the speed at which they loaded the stolen goods, their window was closing soon, maybe a day at most. Lanon liked the fact that they were rushing, it meant their guard would be so wide open that it might as well be a propped door.

A small cyan light started blinking on Lanon’s electronic belt-buckle, alerting him of an incoming transmission that was only one its many uses, besides holding up his pants. He pressed on it, and in the next second, a brutish, almost bestial voice spoke, deeply seeded by frustration.

“Lanon. You read me? Speak up already!” It was his co-pilot Neevog, a Noghri by birth, a mercenary-mechanic by profession, and a jerk by choice. The two of them had first met on a joint mission to storm the heavily protected fortress of a baron in the Eskar System. The baron had crossed the Hutt Syndicate one too many times over business dealings, forcing them to happily put a price on his head. When it was all said and done, Lanon and Neevog were the only two left standing, which looked a lot like hunching in pain. What started as a timid alliance that day had turned into a decade long partnership, one that both regretted ever since.

“Yeah, I read you.” Lanon replied, still staring into the macrobinoculars.

“Do you have any idea how much sand you sucked into the air intake with that crap landing spot? I told you the repulsors have been glitchy since the last run, we needed to land on a hard surface. The Sylvan Sparrow will be spitting that grainy dust for weeks!” Neevog shouted from his end of the com-link within a shaded area of an undisclosed ship, his clawed hands hard at work trying to wrench open the hatch of the air intake’s ventilation chamber. “You got any idea how hard it is to fix a ship that’s one of a kind!?”

“It can’t be any harder than having to listen to you whine about it.” Lanon quipped, dryly.

“You know, I could always leave you here. Call me crazy, but I think the galaxy would survive losing one more self-entitled ingrate and his pet tin can.”

“Good, you learned to joke. Now learn to fix the Sparrow. Oh, and that “tin can” has been kinda crucial to this mission, on top of saving your life before, so lay off Lunchbox.”

“I saw that missile coming a mile away! A MILE, I tell ya! I was just distracted from all the bleeding out.” Neevog gruffly protested, still wrenching at the hatch’s valve handle, hate fueling his enthusiasm to get it open. “And the only joke here is how much you charge for us to risk our lives. We barely made enough to make repairs after the joyride through the asteroid field.”

“You think we should charge more?” Lanon asked.

“You don’t?” Neevog retorted.

“Not for your life.” Lanon smirked, knowing the effect his words would have on the Noghri’s bad temperament. “Listen, I have visual of the targets and I’m about to engage. Any words of encouragement?”

“I hope they blow your head in half!” Neevog forced speech through gritted fangs as he ripped, turned, pulled, anything to jar loose the hatch’s seal.

“Love you too, buddy.” The mercenary said dismissively. “Lanon. Out.” Then signed off.

As he heard the link fall silent, Neevog had just released his grip of the handle, firing a number of muffled expletives when the grind of the hatch’s seal lumbered apart. For one joyous instant, he felt relief usher in and his fury subside, right up until the moment the heft of sand already lodged against the door pushed its way free, pouring down on the Noghri’s head in a deluge that gave his anger voice in the form of a cringe.

After cutting the com, Lanon activated his swoop bike and launched into a long arc around the cave, keeping far from view until he banked to the base of its rear. He took to foot from there, scaling the rocky terrain with muffled steps and short jumps until he was near the opening. Moving to a position of concealment behind a large rock formation, Lanon’s sharp blue eyes peeked from cover, just enough to identify a little more of the cave’s layout, as well as the activity within it.

“Hurry it up, hutt-lickers! If we don’t get this shipment outta here in the next twenty minutes, we’ll miss our delivery window, and then I’ll personally take a pound of flesh from each and every one of you.” A curly, red-haired smuggler barked in a raspy tone, revealing that he may hold a rank of some sort among the criminals.


“You got it, Belsic!” Yelled one smuggler as he and his comrades now moved with more insistent pace. Their time for departure was limited, as was Lanon’s if he wanted to stop them, but he knew he could do little until he was closer. A distraction was needed, something to take all attention away from the entrance, if only for a second or two. He wouldn’t need more than that. Peering for more options, something suddenly caught his gaze. An oil drum, most likely acquired to bath droids in to remove contaminants, sat off to the far side of the transport. The sight of it brought a subtle grin to Lanon’s lips that only he knew why..

 

Loved it, because you had a) a Noghri in it and b) the entire text was sprinkled with goodies that made me think a lot. Such as:

He knew of bounty hunters and mercenaries who had to ask others for help from time to time, and found shame in it. But why? You still had to complete the mission, and avoid whatever dangers it presented. Were they really so caught up in their own image that to ask for help came difficult?


Great update. I like main characters who think their actions through carefully & are not too proud to admit that every being needs help from time to time.

 

I really like the new characters you presented here and their chemistry together. Lanon is a very concise character, and like Angel, he does seem to think outside the box. The part about building a brand and not just doing a job shows his commitment. I also foresee a lot of the comedic elements coming from this group. While we don't see this "Lunchbox" yet, who I think is assumed to be a droid character by the tin can comment, the name had me chuckling. Finally, Neevog's scene and his reaction reminded me a lot of the old Simpsons episodes with Sideshow Bob, which is a very good thing! haha Can't wait for the second part!

 

AzureAngel2 Thanks for continuing to read! Lanon is different in how he operates. He always sees the big picture, and he won't operate until he does. There will be more insight into his background in future chapters that will differentiate him greatly from most other mercenaries or the like. Let's just say that his background was not of poverty.

Almerus I'm so glad you understood the kind of cringe it was!!! Lanon, Neevog, and Lunchbox will provide most of the comedic parts of the story, similar to Han & Chewie, or Finn and Poe.

THE SECOND HALF OF THE CHAPTER WILL PRESENT THE NEW ART!

 

Chapter coming today. Will edit.

 

PT. 2 of 2​

Belsic, the smuggler leader, now rested comfortably atop it, currently using its lid as a seat while he puffed away on a half-smoked cigarra. Fixing his eyes on his target, Lanon reached down to his belt buckle and unclasped it from the band. Pressing on its centerpiece, a faint green light blinked on and initiated the extension of dual curving wings from the buckle’s sides. The same green glow then reflected in the mercenary’s eyes, acknowledging that a connective uplink had been achieved. The Psy-Rang was one of Lanon’s more ingenius inventions, capable of reading the bearer’s thoughts by way of contact lenses that tapped into the neural pathways of the eyes. When thrown, the built-in repulsors would ignite, accelerating the weapon, as the relay from the lenses guided it into whatever direction Lanon wanted.

Biding his time until he was certain all eyes were elsewhere, Lanon broke cover just long enough to whip the psy-rang into flight. Guided by his mental signals, the weapon’s repulsors flared on as it throttled towards its target with almost blinding speed. It smacked the drum with a bevy of force, capsizing it beneath Belsic just as he began a deep draw of smoke, and spilled out its oily contents into a thick wave of liquid black. The smuggler leader hit almost directly after, landing painfully hard, his arm splashing into the dark pool as he did so. In all the confusion of how his midair romp occurred, he’d lost all track of where his cigarra had flown to. Little did he know, it would only take a second before he knew the answer.

The cigarra’s warm, ashy tip followed closely behind until hitting softly into the oil spill. In no time at all, the liquid mineral set ablaze, consuming every inch of its own body in a singeing wave of burning fire, including the human arm that lay within it. The smuggler leader cried out with a painful scream that echoed throughout the span of the cavern, capturing the attention of all in the near vicinity. The smuggler hectically scrambled to his feet in clumsy fashion, flailing and whipping at his flaming arm with his other hand, trying desperately to smother the flames that now charred his flesh. Immediately, the majority of his fellowmen dropped what they were doing to run and assist their superior, and the ones that didn’t, kept their gawking stares firmly affixed on the scene playing out.

Lanon broke cover again and rushed the cave’s opening, reaching inside his jacket with one hand, as he extended the other to catch and reattach the psy-rang to his belt. When the former returned, it came with a modified version of a DL-44 heavy blaster from a hidden holster, primed and aimed on the run. Lanon fired as he came behind the protection of another rock formation, striking one of the unaware smugglers in the shoulder, and collapsing him instantly.There was a single, surmounting shiver that ran the span of each smuggler’s spine as another of their crew hit the ground in agony. They hadn’t even put out Belsic’s arm yet, and now it appeared they were under attack.

Giving into the frantic hysteria of their circumstance, those of the smugglers that were armed yielded to their baser instincts and began firing wildly around the enclosure of the cave, unable to locate their attacker. Lanon smirked proudly as the mineral walls around him were peppered with blasts of red bolts, filling the space with a cacophony of light and sound, some of which hit dangerously close to his position, while others were embarrassingly far off. To this point, everything was going according to plan. The mercenary didn’t need to take them all out by himself, he just needed them to get desperate, so desperate that they’d seek a way to end things quickly.

Fanning the last traces of flames from his cooked flesh, Belsic angrily rose up to one elbow and pulled a subordinate who had been trying to help him down to ear level. “Someone’s attacking us! Go turn on the thing!” The smuggler leader barked, wincing thereafter from his burns.

Acting swiftly on his orders, the subordinate ducked his head and carried into a hesitant sprint inside the Republic Transport’s loading bay, his feet fumbling beneath him as his heart drummed with the fear that he may catch a stray bolt. Once inside, he rushed to the back portion of the ship, where an obscured object sat in a corner, shadowed by the height of stacked cargo crates. A cloth tarp lay over it, withholding its features until the subordinate ripped it off with a nervous grab of his hand. What could be distinguished from the veil of shade that still cloaked the object was humanoid in appearance, and was about to become much more defined. “Activate!” The smuggler shouted to the shrill peak of his voice. Movement then gave way to life, as the resonance of rotational gears and spinning servomotors allowed the head of the object to adjust upright, lighting the shade with a multitude of glowing blue orbs and two very narrow eye slits.

​

Lanon kept his patience, only popping up to retaliate in order to keep the pressure on, but as time passed, and more of the terrain disintegrated around him, doubt of his plan’s effectiveness began to set in. He was just starting to reassess when the barrage of blaster fire halted and was replaced by a solemn quiet, prompting the mercenary to investigate. Stretching one eye past the safety the formation provided, Lanon witnessed the smugglers had adopted his strategy, but rather than finding a large enough rock, they grouped together behind a single droid that stood front and center of Belsic.

The droid was an impressive piece of innovation. It stood at a formidable height of over two meters, its exoskeleton taking inspiration from thicker human characteristics like the old 3PO units rather than the flimsy frames of current models. A thick layer of modular-plating, bathed the darkest tint of cyan, guarded its inner circuitry, data processors, and other crucial components. The droid’s head was large and slanted downward from a bulbous hump that sat atop a flat screen of transparent duraglass, protecting the machine’s photo-receptors and speech functions. Its joints and chest plate brandished circular devices that gave off a soft blue light, acting as part reinforcement from damage, and part condenser for the sizable power flow that conducted throughout each limb.

“Whoever you are out there, I suggest you listen up!” Belsic’s voice boomed, helped by the cave’s echo. “This, here, is A9L8, a state-of-the-art battle droid! We bought him off the underground market for just such an occasion. It’s armor is a lightweight blend of cortosis, which can stand up to small arms fire of any kind, which includes yours, tough guy. On top of that, it’s programmed with over 30 forms of hand to hand and melee combat. Give up now, and maybe we’ll leave you stranded on this big rock until you die of thirst! Don’t, and our droid friend will find you and gut you like a woolly pig!” The smuggler leader snickered at his own threat, feeling the tables had turned increasingly in their favor. This thought was confirmed when open hands suddenly rose up from behind a rock formation near the cave’s entrance. A man in his late twenties stepped into view, his head of buzzed blonde hair lowered in surrender as he approached the group slowly, so as not to provoke them any further than he already had.

“So you’re the guy.” Belsic seethed, the pain of his burns still fresh and abundant. “Who are you, a hunter, a merc?”

Lanon kept his head humbled as he spoke with an air of respect for his new captors. “Bit of both, sir. Nothing to trouble yourself with. After all, there is a surrender that needs to take place.” His voice cracked nervously on the last word, as though hoping the offer was still on the table.

“Oh yeah?” Belsic scoffed dryly, his tone shifting with an ingrained deceit. “Well, maybe I’ve changed my mind? Maybe I’ll just have A9L8 a-nni-hil-ate you? How’s that sound?” A chorus of sinister chuckles rang out from smugglers, all of which seemed to approve of the idea.

“Well,” Lanon paused to compose his response delicately. “I guess I’d have to say…you’re wrong. On two things, actually.” The mercenary's head abruptly rose his head, revealing that it wasn’t fear that weighed it down, but an attempt to conceal a wide smile, as well as the overpowering humor that strengthened it. “One being that the surrender I was referring to, was yours." Lanon continued confidently, laughter threatening to break free from his mouth. "And the second mistake was he’s not a battle droid. His design is actually based off an assassin droid. Isn’t that right, Lunchbox?”

Seconds before Belsic could even comprehend what was happening, the droid answered with a gravelly: “Yes, master.” and then proceeded to spin in place, grip Belsic by the throat, and hoist him off his feet with the ease of lifting a pillow. The other smugglers gave immediate space between them and the traitorous machine, jumping back from their leader and having a mind to shower Lunchbox with bolts, when a fast reaction from Lanon froze them just in time.

“Whoa, whoa! I wouldn’t do that, boys!” The mercenary warned impatiently, throwing up a hand to signal all involved to wait. “It takes twelve pounds of pressure to collapse the double-action trigger such as the ones on those rifles of yours. That gives you a window of roughly three seconds to act and absorb the recoil before the next shot, and that's not counting the time needed to, ya know, aim your shot so you don't kill your boss while trying to save him." Lanon gave a mocking flick of his hand to emphasize the mistake nearly committed. "By then, Lunchbox would already be on you. Trust me when I say you wouldn’t stand a chance if one of those guns barks fire now. Best you take this one on the chin, rather than a metal fist through your chest.”

The rabble of criminals didn’t linger very long before doing what was commanded of them. A glance at the towering assassin droid was more reason than they needed. One after the next disarmed themselves of any weapons they possessed. Everything from blasters to boot knives struck different areas of the dirt. From there they converged slowly to the ground, where each laid on their chest with their hands bound behind their back, as though they were keenly familiar with the process. Lanon kept both his vision and blaster alert as he studied the men’s movements. It wasn’t likely with how easily they submitted that one of them would risk a sneak attack, but then again, stupidity rarely had a limitation.

With the greater bulk of the men subdued, Lanon then gave Lunchbox a nod, who without delay, dropped Belsic down on his rear. Oxygen swelled the smuggler leader’s throat, entering and leaving his mouth through hacking breaths of deprivation. Once gathering himself enough to speak, Belsic turned to Lanon, then Lunchbox, and back, confusion plaguing his bloodshot eyes. “H-Hooow?” Was the only hoarse reply he could summon for the time, but Lanon already knew what he was asking.

“You said you bought him on the underground market, right? Well, who do you think sold him? I denied all other buyers once I identified your men during the bidding process, then it was just a matter of setting the price to your liking, and tracking tall, dark, and shiny back to this world. I knew I couldn’t take you all by myself, so I decided an alternate means to win. Fear. It does the worst things to our judgment, doesn’t it? See, I knew if I could get you desperate enough, you’d feel inclined to activate your new toy. From there, the odds didn’t really matter. Lunchbox would’ve torn you all apart inside a minute.” Lanon’s eyes drew playfully to the chrono on his wrist and feigned shock from what he saw. “Oh, but look at me. I’ve wasted enough of your precious time. You’ve got a date with a prison sentence. Now if you’ll excuse me.” Lanon then delivered a couple of soft pats to Belsic’s chubby cheeks to further cement his defeat, before then stepping away and activating his com-link. “Neevog, we’re done here. Come pick us up.”

 

Lol Isn't Lanon the clever one. He had everything in hand from the start, and certainly showed off his brilliance with how he defeated the smugglers. I would comment on it more, but I don't want to spoil it for other readers. It looks like he and Zego are both of the smarter variety, and I can't wait to see how they match wits with each other. I also adore the beautiful art your friend makes to illustrate the scene. I'm sure you're already planning it, but can I make a request for you show Lunchbox in your next pic? I love the droids of SW and would enjoy seeing your own take on one.

 

Thanks Almerus! I, too, am anticipating Zego and Lanon's conflict. It will be very cat and mouse to say the least. While I cannot accommodate you on the final product as posting it now would not be in continuity with what is happening in the chapters, I CAN, however, post the concept art of him I created using another program. Without further ado, A9L8 (Lunchbox)!

 

Wow, another rough update. Your fighting sequences are always great! Back from my holidays by the way and starting a new job tomorrow! I hope to remain a regular reader with my new obligations.

 

CHAPTER THREE
PT. 1 of 3
PLANET: KHODEN
TETRIN FARM

​

Cole Tetrin was lost in what the night would present him. His stare clung to the saccharine glow of the stars that dotted the night, studying their shine, evaluating their numbers, but above all else, beckoning them to show him more. A shooting star was his hope most evenings, a fleeting sign that there were still things to be admired in a galaxy far, far away from perfect. It became his motivation each evening, to find a reason to withhold hate towards the way things were, and for the way they always seemed to be. It was a cynical point of view, Cole knew it, but he also knew he didn't give a damn. Life can rip your will from your body in a single day, as he learned so long ago…

That was why he endeavored the steep slope of his plastoid hut now, ignoring the arthritic ache in his knees, so he could find a comfortable seat and allow his peer to soar. Cole relied on the submission of it, the release of all his concerns into the wonder of the glinting black sky, until their inevitable return in the new day. It was a ritual he first began practicing in the icy trenches of Hoth, during those few quiet moments his attention would slip to the only light on a frigid world of shearing winds and crystal white powder. He justified the waver of discipline as any soldier would during war, the simplicity of not knowing how many chances he'd have left to do so. Each night could’ve been his last, so that meant finding some semblance of hope was always high in demand.

Thirty years. The thought hit him. Had it really been that long? His eyes fell with a measure of disbelief, sifting the evanescent pictures of his tour of duty. “How are you still kick’in you old bastard?” He asked himself, unable to return a reply.

Cole was close to seventy now, but felt twice that amount. He felt it in his back when he woke up, he felt it in his joints when he walked, and he felt it all over after working the fields. His hands appeared so frail as he lifted them for inspection. Dry and creased like old fruit, their tips, calloused from hard labor, and a slight shake adhered to the way they moved. They were the utensils of an elder, not the strapping rebel he recalled himself being. The man he saw now in every reflection was a beaten down wreck, the leftover scraps of someone better. His hair, while still long and silken, had been ebbed by time, robbed of its youthful color everywhere except his bushy eyebrows. A wispy mustache now occupied his upper lip, grown solely because Cole got too damn tired of shaving it. His features had sagged inches from where they used to be, most noticeably on his jowls, and his eyes seemed to maintain perpetual bags at their base.

His goal was no longer the collapse of the Galactic Empire as it was during his service, which was accomplished, despite how short-lived it might've been. It didn't surprise him to hear some years later that the fractured dictatorship had reformed into a new entity, even when ranging over three decades after the Battle of Yavin. It was always there, a lesson the ages had taught all cultures over and over again, yet never seemed to stick. You could break tyranny a thousand different ways, but eventually, someone will just come along to pick up the pieces. These particular architects christened their forces The First Order, and just like in years previous, conflict and bloodshed once again choked the galaxy.

After the long campaign, Cole returned to his home world of Khoden, a planet that shared the same name as the system, as well as its neighboring star. It was located within a remote region of space, a long commute into the Instrop Sector of the Outer Rim, where only three other planets composed its territory. Its terrain was predominantly terrestrial, posturing a lush wealth of forests that grew in the colossal shadows of scenic mountains. Khoden’s population was spread out among many settlements, with the closest thing to government consisting of a cooperative council made up of one representative from each community. It was here that Cole built a new purpose for himself…and his family.

He'd seen more than his fill of combat, so utilizing that particular skill set for personal gain garnered little interest, but rather than appealing to the heavens for an answer, Cole looked to the ground instead. Khoden’s soil had been documented to be excessively rich on a nutrient scale, capable of growing nearly any source of vegetation from dry climate fruits, to rain-heavy vegetables. It was this reason that countless intergalactic farmers and traders alike fought tooth and nail to acquired its land, some rumors even suggesting blackmail and murder as means to do so. The income produced, especially when tended with the proper amount of manufacturing, could range anywhere in the million credit market. Fortunately or unfortunately, Cole had neither the tolerance, nor the means to enter such a rat race. Passed down from his ancestors, he'd had long retained ownership of over 400 acres of territory, spanning what numerous testing deemed the most fertile ground on the entire planet. An attraction that inevitably led competitors to seductive offers of purchase.

As expected, Cole paid them no mind, refuting each offer with a charmed suggestion of exit, or a singeing bolt from his WESTAR-66 blaster, ironically titled Civil. Paranoia took precedent from there, leading him to question if he could risk hiring a farm hand and trust they wouldn't betray him to a secret benefactor. Cole decided he couldn't, and chose to work the land by himself, well into his golden age. For better or worse, that became his life. He'd mind the fields of Yaeger Sugar Cane during the baking heat of the day, and at night, he returned to his roof, searching the stars for elusive comfort. It was a purpose, a good one, but it wasn't what drove him to succeed, to not abstain from giving constant effort. That reason was sleeping now beneath the ceiling that Cole currently occupied, safe from the worries that his Grandfather endured regularly.

It was his grandson. Naudo. He was still so young, too young to even really be of help maintaining the farm. That thought, on top of numerous self-criticisms, made Cole even more bitter at how he’d aged so quickly. What would happen if he passed unexpectedly? Who would take care of the boy, of their home? It wasn't enough that he had to provide for himself when he barely could, but fate also decided another life would depend on him, all because he wasn't there when it counted most. He wasn't there when Naudo's parents and brother were…

A swell of something brought weight to the farmer’s breath, catching it in his throat as flashes of the past appeared and vanished before his eyes could relive it. He knew what was trying to be seen, every detail of it had been etched into his soul like scripture, condemning him for his failure. Why wasn't he there? The question stalked him in every moment, no matter what challenge awaited Cole with the farm or on the trail, it was there, demanding an answer he couldn't find in over ten years of searching. However many days he had left on this plane, Cole knew he would spend them looking for that elusive answer, hoping and praying that some day he would finally have the more he sought.

Lifting his eyes back to the stars for solace, a glinting movement alleviated the old man from his contemplation, drawing his head to a different region of the sky. Far above him, a traveling light streamed through the vagaries of the atmosphere at an incalculable distance. For the slightest of moments, Cole allowed himself to believe it was the very sight he had sat there for, until suspicion weighed his brow down to a squint. Its speed seemed odd, moving slower than that of a shooting star, and rather than streaking past the planet, it was looping---looping toward it!

 

I'm glad to see you continued this. I'm even more pleased to see you dove into the farmer character, who the younger folks on these boards may not know is Sam Elliott. I know him from old westerns like Tombstone and Conagher, but I know someone's gonna say Roadhouse lol. Are you a big fan?? It was cuz of that that I could really imagine how he'd say his lines and enjoy your post even more. Like all classic western farmers, Cole has more on his mind than just plowing fields. I really felt for the guy. He's having to battle age at a time that he really can't afford to, while still reeling from a past tragedy that made him a father figure to his young grandson. Great characterization, Ascendant! Ending on a cliffhanger only cemented that I'll continue reading.

 

Thanks, Almerus! Yes, I am a big fan of Sam Elliot, though if I'm being honest, the first movie I saw him in was 100% Road House. I normally don't cast known actors in my fics, but when I was coming up with the plot of taking place on a backwater (country-esque) planet, as well as Cole's hardened, but philosophical character, the choice was easy. Elliott just has a natural gravitas ingrained to who he is and what he says.

WARNING: This clip has some adult language in it.

 

I'd been hovering around this story for a minute, but just now decided to dive in, and I'm glad I have. Firstly the art is amazing! Each character has their own style and the detail is incredible. You have a very mature way of writing that jumps off the page. I can tell you've read a lot of Star Wars novels too, as the similarities are everywhere. Where you succeed most is the pace of the story. You keep it fresh with action that is written well and creative. Just when I tell myself I'll read the next part later, you leave it off with a cliffhanger or something interesting that keeps me reading.

 

Thanks, Scowler! Yes, my friend is certainly a talented artist, and was gracious enough to make the additions to the title art on the first page. You may or may not know this, but some characters were added to the original picture, and I gave Zego his own unique version of a lightsaber. You can't really see it in the title art like you will be able to with the coming ones, but it has two venting shrouds similar to the crossguard that extend out and curl back towards the hilt. When the saber is ignited, smaller blades extend at upward angles just in front of, and just behind the central blade, never intersecting with it, and giving it the appearance of a claymore sword. I call it the X-Guard. Thank you again for giving my fic a shot, I try to really tell a good story that entertains, and hopefully touches some readers. The art I believe is just the cosmetic portion of the scene below it, which is where the magic happens. I hope you enjoy the ride. Just FYI, custom art will not be in every chapter, but it will be in enough of them.