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  1. In Memory of LAJ_FETT: Please share your remembrances and condolences HERE

Saga Renaissance (AU)

Discussion in 'Fan Fiction- Before, Saga, and Beyond' started by SeparatistSympathizer, Apr 15, 2015.

  1. SeparatistSympathizer

    SeparatistSympathizer Jedi Knight

    Registered:
    May 14, 2014
    Title: Star Wars - Renaissance
    Author: Separatist Sympathizer
    Timeframe: Episode III (19 BBY onward)
    Characters: List Pending, multiple canon and original characters.
    Genre: Drama

    Summary: During the battle of Coruscant, the future of the galaxy is boldy rewritten. With the Confederacy launching renewed offensive campaigns across the Outer Rim, it seems that the Clone Wars will continue without end. Parties amongst both the Confederacy and the Republic desire peace, but what tragedies will force the fanatics on both sides to consider negotiations once more?



    Prologue
    "Did anyone see what happened to six-four? He just went off my scre-"

    The chaotic symphony of warnings and notices flooded the pilot's mind, though his state was clear enough: he was alive, the thump of his chest and his damp brow proved that to him. The V-wing still heeded his command, albeit that the response seemed a hint sluggish. Kalen cursed under his breath, barely loud enough for his voice to register on the comlink, though his whisper was easily drowned out by the cries and barked orders over the channel. Whatever it was that had gotten the jump on him was fast, but it didn't feel like a direct impact, just enough of a graze to throw him into a hellish spin.

    These V-wings were damn fast, but touch the stabilizers and they came out from under you.

    Proving sluggish himself, Kalen barely noticed as the astromech droid not even a meter away from him chattered for the man to rejoin his formation, though Kalen had other ideas. "... what just hit us, B9?" Once the terror of the spin was behind him, he finally caught up to his lag in thought and action. The machine behind him beeped and whirred away, despite the rush of wind in the skies of the capital and the roar of battle in the distance.

    Missile air-burst, fragmentation warhead. Damage to lower stabilizers, starboard cannon hub has sustained minor damage, reactant tank punctured and leaking-

    There wasn't any muttering to his curses now, an audible one thrown over the channel as he considered his course of action. After a quick verbal snap to dispatch the droid to do what it could for the damage, the extent of which B9 was likely just blabbering on about, Kalen attempted to right his course, the craft lagging as he tugged back on the stick. "Theta Epsilon six-four, copy Epsilon flight? Theta wing, anyone respond. Over." He wasn't in much shape to dogfight anyway, testing the craft as he edged the stick to either side, feeling the tug of the damage as the stabilizers labored to keep the craft upright. Fingers moved quickly to a panel at his flank, pressing for damage control and a display of the work the hostile had rendered upon him. The hologram that appeared made his heart sink, sighing inside his helmet.

    The lower right wing was shredded, the durasteel barely holding together as his inquiries garnered nothing over the comms - at least nothing directed at him.

    Theta wing has engaged Separatist aerial elements above the senatorial district, currently at thirty-seven percent casualties, combat effectiveness dropping.

    "... well, I guess we're part of that number." Kalen saw no need to make it a permanent addition to the count, turning the craft into a light bank as he readjusted his heading, soon en-route to the nearest airbase. It was too dangerous moving to climb for their Venator in low-orbit - the risks of either further damaging his stabilizers or becoming prey to the many Vulture droids about urging him away from such a course. Gradually the craft sank from the sky into the metropolitan forest, towers of scorched and flaming steel surrounded the Nimbus fighter as Kalen did his best to avoid attention.

    But something couldn't help but catch his eye, the lone sensor contact zooming along below him at a perpendicular course, seeming to be heading away from the senatorial district. Odd, the thing wasn't identified by either the ship's computer or B9, who had to offer his commentary on the craft by simply restating the obvious - that its IFF contact was registered as a hostile. It was a shuttle of some wealthy manufacture, but Kalen was rather confused as to the discovery of such a thing; a lone, potentially Confederate shuttle or dropship, meandering about behind the lines without any escort?

    Something about this was amiss, Kalen banking into a dive to tail the craft against B9's wishes, the crimson droid babbling away in his odd mechanical tongue. Something about having no clearance to engage, though the pilot dismissed such a concern idly, more curious for his target's purpose and greedy to add another tally to his Nimbus' nose. The man already had seven, only another thirteen until they could put him up as an ace and it looked like he didn't need to wait to get one closer. The chatter of combat was muted by the man, who switched the audio channel as he leveled out behind the craft, which had yet to move away from him.

    Gently Kalen nudged the shuttle's form into his crosshairs, finger constricting about the trigger before the droid jarred him from his thought - the blasted thing likely spinning about in its socket - though the pilot expected anything but what he heard.

    Cease your pursuit and proceed to the nearest airbase for debriefing. Insubordination will result in court-martial.

    "... what?" He asked, eyes wide as he glanced around the cockpit, to the various warning lights, trying to scour his mind for some reason that his astromech droid would say something as audacious as that. "B9, did you suffer any damage from that airbust?" That was the only logical thing he could figure happened with that kind of lip coming from it.

    Negative. Repeat, cease your pursuit and proce-

    "Haar'chak!"

    The authoritative machine had little time to hold Kalen's attention as the shuttle ahead opened fire on him, light spewing from twin turrets on the craft's form as a flurry of bolts were thrown in his direction. Evasive maneuvers in the Nimbus' current state did little to help its constitution, though neither did the lasers that the Separatist was firing; Kalen desperately swerved to avoid them, B9's odd attitude forgotten as he fought not to have his fighter's insides sprayed across the buildings surrounding them. The whine and crack of the weapons was lost on him, unable to hear it through both the canopy and his helmet, only his steady breath and the spike warnings he received from the craft ahead of him. They certainly knew he was here now, and there was no loss in returning the favor.

    As soon as the shuttle entered into his crosshairs he opened fire on the vessel, only one of his hubs managing to fire as its bolts refused to travel where they were needed. They lagged to the right of the target, but upon closer inspection and a test of the hub as the Nimbus continued in its serpentine path, they were travelling directly ahead of him - the other battery was locked, refusing to fire, and this one was unable to pivot in its socket. "B9, what is my craft's malfunction?" Kalen was worried now, no damage having been reported on either his targeting system or his left bank earlier, the clone beginning to consider that there was something more to the droid's activity than being thrown off by the missile earlier.

    Insubordination is treason, CT-3361485.

    As if his eyes could grow any wider.

    "Uh... no." Was about all the pilot could muster as he moved to eject the thing from the craft, desperately searching for the command keys as he continued to bob and swerve under the shuttle's field of fire. Already his fighter's systems began to shut down, lights flickering off as his HUD faded just in time for a muffled thump from the rear of the Nimbus to reach his ears. Command would have his ass for ditching an expensive piece of hardware, but that droid already had him rather paranoid. Droids and treason didn't sit well with him and he was already in dire enough straights with his fighter in the shape it was. Kalen's fingers danced across the controls, most of the more complex systems refusing to respond, the commands dead, as he attempted to relaunch his HUD. It was a no-go, just as much of the rest of his craft's commands were.

    Something had been shutting down his systems, Kalen realized, and it had stopped with that astromech jettisoned.

    Nothing about this situation sat well with him, the pilot considering turning tail and diving away at this point, though he had no way of navigating to the nearest airbase now. With so many of his electronics locked down as they were he was almost dead in the water, but one quick test told him that his craft still had some purpose left in her: the right cannon hub still fired.

    Bolder now, Kalen brought the Nimbus back up onto the shuttle's tail, the three winged craft soon occupying the air before the Republican interceptor, and the clone began to sight in his weapon. Dropping low to the right of the center, a thing hard to keep up with yawing his craft as he did. Dead silence occupied his ears now, save for his own breath in his mask and the stress of the wind on his fighter's H-shaped frame, an eerie contrast to the screaming roar both ships produced as they streaked through Coruscant's sky. The shuttle ahead was at full burn now, desperate to get away from this rogue fighter that had happened upon them; though Kalen pushed his own craft to its limits in response, reveling in his hunger for the kill that danced just out of reach.

    All it took was one good rake of the ship with his lone cannon bank to buckle their shields, the light shimmer that danced above its form arcing with stress before vanishing. It was followed by a second, Kalen's crimson bolts catching his target's right wing at its base, summoning a splash of sparks as it was torn off. The hostile keeled heavily to the right, beginning to spin into a dive from which recovery was a heady fantasy.

    The V-Wing dared to follow the doomed craft, the taste of blood having become too much for Kalen to resist, eagerly pumping more bolts into the craft despite the shuddering frame of his own fighter. Debris began to fleck off of the craft, bodies and hulks of droid crew spilling out every now and then, their metal bodies disintegrating - ripped apart by the velocity of the fall - whether they looked to attack him or escape the craft, he knew not but gave them not the chance, dancing out of reach as they came. The shuttle, now alight with flame, plummeted to the distant surface and the pilot was sated he had finished them, gently beginning to nose up out of the dive only for his craft to jolt violently, the world before him beginning to whirl about.

    The shuttle still had fight left in it; even in its death-spin its crew was still firing at Kalen, one lucky bolt catching his already-damaged wing, blowing it cleanly off.

    Now he was the one in the fire, and desperately - both out of reflex and out of drilled instinct - the clone pilot reached for his ejection lever, yanking it once with no response, pushing him into a panic. That damned droid! Again and again he pulled, drawing blood as he bit his lip, without response. Desperation began to set in, Kalen's mind refusing to let this be the end of him, punching and striking at the canopy with as much result as the lever, the hardened shell refusing to budge at his fists.

    Scrabbling about his limited resources, his mind racing, Kalen barely managed to recall the survival kit that was by his leg, his trained mind winning the fight over his animal instincts for but a moment as he clutched the grip of his DC-15 carbine, barely managing to bring the barrel of it about in the claustrophobic space before he fired into the seal of the canopy. The noise of the discharge was largely filtered by his helmet, Kalen ignoring the sparks and splintered bits of molten metal thrown about as he did his best to survive.

    Aces be damned, Kalen wished for one thing now and one thing alone: a drink tonight.

    With an equal effort to the opposite side, the canopy soon fell off as the lever was pulled yet again, though his ejection seat still refused to fire, forcing him to release the straps holding him to the fatal craft and push himself into the sky; he knew that he would die should he remain inside the plummeting fighter, though here he had a chance and so, without bothering to look at his surroundings or altitude, threw himself into the air. Immediately his body was thrown about as a child does a doll, spinning and flailing, the air making an already harrowing task all the more difficult.

    But this son of Mandalore was a hard one to kill as, in a moment's time, his billowing shield unfurled itself, the parachute catching the air as he dared to open his eyes; the V-Wing continued to fall beneath him as the distant thunder of the war still raged in the skies above. His attention was caught, however, by a single sound - more like a pop than the boom the explosion warranted - the shuttle he had pursued so vehemently having blossomed into petals of flame, marring an otherwise verdant park plaza.

    "... seven more." The clone muttered inside of his helmet, letting his head roll back as he looked up into his parachute, a sigh creeping out of his lungs. Already the humble ideas of simple survival began to fade away from his mind as he debated taking a trophy from the flaming corpse of his quarry. Seemingly gentle in the wake of the terror that had gripped him in the moments that had preceded it all, the pilot and the parachute fell to the ground that seemed to crawl up to meet them. Kalen was careful to steer clear and guide himself away from the buildings that loomed close and reigned imperiously in the sky.

    As cushioned as his pace was, the landing was anything but graceful as he rolled away from the chute behind him. A few moment's work saw the thing discarded, along with his helmet, which landed with a thunk on the ground as Kalen ran a gloved hand through his damp hair, disturbing the sweaty brow he wore. The feeling of stillness and stability that the ground offered offset him, the clone lingering for several moments to get a feel for that which was alien to one such as he. It seemed like an eternity since he last felt the touch of earth under him, of grass and actual sod. Exploratory hands moved from his own form to that which surrounded him, reclining to his back as he lingered there in the small park.

    The smell of the grass, the breeze on his soiled brow. Odd how these small things seemed so titanic after the chase and the spin.

    Still, Kalen had a trophy to claim, figuring it to be only proper, considering that this foe had managed to bring him down too. A fitting reminder for him not to press his luck, and a lovely little hint of proof that he did, in-fact, bring this bird down - a tricky task without an astromech droid. A groan escorted his rising body, pushing himself to his feet to look to his quarry with a smile. Kalen allowed a light chuckle past his lips at the sight that greeted him on his feet.

    Despite the invasion, the desperate combat, the city's maintenance droids still strived in their work; firewatch and emergency units already on station, combating the flames and prevailing. For a brief while the clone waited, standing by as he threw an occasional glance into the sky, blocking the sun by hand to witness distant, faint bolts of energy and combat in the sky and space above him. His brothers were still fighting, and here he was on the ground with only a shuttle to his name.

    Everyone did their part, he supposed, big or small.

    Kalen grew impatient, rubbing glove-clad hands together before he stepped up to the debris which, though still burning, proved subdued enough for him to kick about in it for anything that caught his eye. Already had he looked to what was left of one of the wings, the Aurebesh script on it alongside the navy-blue wheel of the Separatist Alliance possessing the possibility for a fine metal tapestry in his quarters. But, with an odd footfall and a brief glance, a flash of gold did whisk his attention away from the insignia of the vessel.

    What his peripheral vision had labeled as a nut moments earlier proved something else entirely now: a ring, and a gaudy one at that. Perhaps it had rested on the finger of some Confederate officer on board? Such a thought wormed into Kalen's mind as he squatted, picking the thing up without care for its temperature as he eyed it greedily. Jewelry usually wasn't as fat as this, though the clone knew little about that sort of thing, and pondered if it would fit him when he noticed engraved script in it - a sure-fire sign to the clone that he did indeed hold an officer's ring! However, his momentary excitement twisted into dread. The thing fell back to the ground with a light clack as it struck against the debris at his feet. Kalen's blood ran cold in a mere moment as he had held it close enough to read; his mind struggling to comprehend what it meant as the single word the thing bore ringing in his mind's ear like a sordid, whispered confession.

    Palpatine.
     
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  2. SeparatistSympathizer

    SeparatistSympathizer Jedi Knight

    Registered:
    May 14, 2014
    Episode I
    An Empire Eluded

    The galaxy is in utter turmoil as the fourth year of the Clone Wars dawns. In a bold venture, the Confederacy of Independent Systems struck a nearly decisive blow at the heart of the Galactic Republic, Coruscant, in a raid meant to abduct Supreme Chancellor Palpatine, but the attack has ended in a failure for both sides. Regardless of martial shortcomings, a most dangerous reality comes to light in the wake of the battle:

    Supreme Chancellor Palpatine is dead.

    Without a strongman at the head of the Republic, the Confederacy finds itself with ample breathing room, and across the Outer Rim the droid-foundries continue to reinforce their endless automated armies. In a matter of days the Confederacy has recouped its losses from the daring strike at Coruscant, and a new wave of offensives plunge the Outer Rim into the crucible of war once more as the Republic turns to a defensive stance around the precious Core Worlds, unable, or perhaps unwilling, to leave them vulnerable once again.





    Providence Class Confederate Flagship Invisible Hand
    In orbit above Coruscant
    Two hours since Interception

    The lone human on the bridge had ceased pacing to and fro some time ago. He had decided, despite being surrounded by manufactured automatons, that it was improper for a superior to appear shaken in front of subordinates. But despite his calm exterior,he was a rather shaken man at the news, or rather the lack of news, that had come from the world below. Distressing is the word he found most apt for the situation at hand, and very gently his thumb caressed the natural metal finish of his lightsaber.

    "It has been two hours since last contact with the general, Count."

    A metallic voice echoed over his shoulder, the serpentine head of an OOM series battledroid turned at a right angle to face him, though the caped figure did not move to recognize the speaker. "I know." The bass voice crawled from his lips, the Count of Serenno muttering as if embarrassed by the course of events. The shame was not his to bear of course, but none-the-less he had been the one to order the general into such a vulnerable position, and now with him missing, he had no one but himself and the general to blame.

    "You had ordered me to remind you." The droid innocently added, too used to dealing with the ill-tempered general. The human wouldn't have been surprised if he had turned to see the droid cowering slightly. It was amusing, on occasion, how these automatons could so easily display emotion. Independent thinking was a double-edged sword, he decided, perhaps it should be brought up the coming meeting with the Separatist Council. The last thing anyone wanted was for the droid armies to begin fostering their own ideas.

    "I had." It was the mark for him to know that the General was lost. Part of him knew it to not be so simple but in a purely martial stance, there was no point in keeping their fleet so vulnerable over the capital of the Republic. Already their numerical superiority had begun to wane, thanks both to combat losses and mounting Republic reinforcements. The surprise attack had been a tremendous success initially, the Confederate forces able to sidestep the Republic's defenses and land a significant force on the planet, though the Jedi soon curtailed their efforts. Now the Count wondered, worried, that the primary objective of this daring action had even been accomplished.

    Was the Supreme Chancellor in Grievous' captivity? It was a sham of course, his master was to be brought on board to journey with him back to Raxus and conveniently dispose of the Republic’s strongman as they did. But such didn’t cloud Dooku’s concern, leading him to consider the more pressing question of if Grievous was even successful in his efforts? The Kaleesh was certainly no proper dark acolyte, but there were times when his hastiness, his impatience, got the better of him. It seemed more often than not that emotions did not burden the General in combat, but that did not stop the General's tutor from wondering. If his prize student had failed, then there would be dire consequences, both for the Confederacy and for the Count himself.

    The course of action was rather plain to the Separatist leader, who bowed his head and with a sigh gave the crew of the bridge the solemn order to retreat. The caped figure moved a single finger to a console, a moment or two passing before a macabre hologram greeted the count, a cybernetic arachnid. For the uninitiated in the fleet, and perhaps those denizens of the Republic that would come into contact with him, he could appear imposing and, if given the proper motivation, terrifying. But for now the Admiral spoke simply, without pretension, heels snapping together as he stood at attention for the head of the Confederacy, his Harch dialect only barely hindering his speech. “Count. You have need of me?” Dooku sighed in reaction to his thoughts, knowing what must be done.

    “Withdraw the fleet, Admiral.” The elderly nobleman looked up to the view available from the bridge of the Invisible Hand, a nearly unprecedented engagement, one that had been for naught it seemed. “Immediately.” Valuable resources were lost in this gambit.

    “By your command.” The Harch rapped his baton on the floor of his own bridge, having only begun to distribute the orders for withdrawal as Dooku cut the transmission. There would be stragglers to tie up the Republic's forces to ensure the bulk of the Separatist fleet escaped, but such was a small price to pay. The integrity of the navy was something that must be maintained, lest the Rim worlds be subjected to the mercy, or what passed for it, of the Republic. The droids complied with both the Admiral and the Count, an automated chorus of ‘roger roger’ ringing behind him as the nobleman turned on his heels to make his way about the bridge, moving away from the viewports and the urban planet that dominated them.

    The raid on Coruscant was a failure, he mentally noted, though it was one they could recover from. He would have to report to Lord Sidious and confer with him as to the details, especially regarding Grievous, and Dooku made that his current priority. The Sith made his way through the ship’s passages, the heel-irons of his boots mimicking the metallic foot-falls of the Confederacy's droid soldiers, finding his way to the lifts and, by extension, his quarters. There was no particular haste in Dooku's steps, considering just what he had to report to his master.

    But report he had to, and so once the Count was within the lift, alone and as private as he could be on this vessel, he took the small holographic projector he kept from a pouch on his belt and after he'd set it to the proper frequency, attempted to contact his master. The first attempt yielded no response, and a second produced a similar result. Sidious was, in so many ways, a contrast to his apprentice. Dooku had often reflected on such a thing, knowing how difficult it was at times to contact Sidious, and had made sure that, in his dealings with the Confederacy and his own dark acolytes, he was nearly constantly available. It seemed only to be proper form.

    So it was no surprise to the Count, who slipped the communicator back into its pouch and resumed waiting on the lift, that Sidious did not answer, having ran into the same issue with his master before. It was of no consequence, really, Dooku knowing that more often than not it was Sidious who contacted him and not the other way around. Perhaps Sidious would prove prompt enough that he would take him to task on the matter before he presented the situation to the Separatist Council. It would be a much simpler affair without the specter of the Dark Lord of the Sith haunting his mind.

    Admittedly, Dooku’s thoughts were centered around the botched raid on the Republic’s capital, though they drifted from Grievous’ fate to his likely-to-be ill-fated report to Sidious. His master had told him that this was a singular opportunity, to completely bypass the Republic’s defenses and penetrate its very heart. The walk from the lift, once it had arrived, to his private quarters on the ship seemed to pass in an instant, through for his age that was unsurprising. Once again it was the metallic voice of a droid that struck the man from his mental sanctum.

    “Your cloak, my lord?”

    It was not a battledroid of any type, but rather his personal assistant. With a glance and a subsequent moment of contemplation, Dooku nodded, reaching to unlatch the chain that held the cape about his shoulders, gathering it in his arms and handing it off to V-3MO, the silver-clad droid accepting it with a slight bow. The Count wondered if such programming was really necessary, for Confederate automatons to give such signs of respect. “How might I serve, my lord?” The machine inquired further, having begun to move to hang the garment properly.

    Dooku retired to a nearby seat, reclining into it with a sigh as he allowed his eyes to close for but a second, debating mentally whether he should take the time to rest properly on the trip to Raxus Secundus. “Tea, V.” Spoke the man, knowing that he often needed such a thing in a case like this. More often than not, thanks to the likes of Kenobi and Skywalker, he had found himself in these situations before. At least today a majority of the fleet was still intact, the engagement was not a total loss.

    “By your wish. The usual preparation?” The lightly enthusiastic nod from the Count showed the droid to proceed as planned, a waning smile present on his lips. He could enjoy this little thing, even if his mind was troubled with worry over the fallout of the day’s actions. Perhaps he might even dwell over what troubled him with a bowl of tabac. Such could certainly aid in directing his thoughts.

    “... could you fetch my pipe as well V?” The Count added, fingers tracing shapes in the cushioned arm of his seat. That was certainly one benefit to a droid army, the man noted. One could smoke wherever and whenever he liked, without complaint or repercussion. It was refreshing to be free of such, even if he was surrounded by mechanical yes-men. There was only one who typically complained over the vice he kept. Unpleasantly he was reminded of Grievous’ failure. The man groaned for a moment in thought, already beginning to wrack his mind for replacements, utterly unsure just as to where to begin. His most promising pupil, one whose skill with a saber was only matched with his savage tactical cunning, had been lost.

    Only the mechanical workings of the droid could be heard here, even the battle outside - though the fleet was hastily withdrawing - was absent from the man’s ears. Were it not for the previous attempts on his life in a vessel not unlike this, Dooku might have let his guard down entirely, finding such a situation rather peaceful. Rare was it that the man was granted such a reprieve from the noise and bustle of his station. Though the Parliament ruled the Confederacy in truth, its citizens looked to him as leader. Silently Dooku shook his head as he thought of such things, knowing that this was not what he had wanted out of this newborn nation, drawing a concerned look - if droids had looks - from V-3MO, who had just sat down the count’s tea on the nearby endtable, well within his reach. “Is something the matter, my lord?” The droid was assuming that something was wrong with the tea or its own actions.

    With a curious glance Dooku looked up to the droid before smiling and shaking his head once more, a twinge of amusement accenting his bass tone. “Just politics. Nothing either of us can help.” With that he reached over for the porcelain cup, rising out of its saucer with a light clink, and brought it to his lips, taking a gentle sip of the stuff before he held the vessel with both his hands. “... marvelous as always, V.” Dooku announced, seeming to dispel the droid’s worry as it bowed in response to the compliment. Soon enough the machine shuffled off to find the man’s pipe, knowing where he often left it, leaving Dooku alone in the sitting room for a minute or two. It was lit with warm colors, unlike most of the ship, strong orange and red tones billowing across the walls. The Count liked that, though part of him couldn’t wait to return to the open air and trees of Serenno. One could only spend so much time on a ship before they longed to feel the brush of a breeze across their brow. With a sigh Dooku lingered on such a thought, imagining the leaves about him in the wind, just after nightfall, with that lovely purple glow settling over the forests of his valley...
     
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  3. SeparatistSympathizer

    SeparatistSympathizer Jedi Knight

    Registered:
    May 14, 2014
    The Supreme Chancellor’s Office
    Coruscant
    Six hours after Interception

    “... the genetic material is a match, Amedda.” The obese Twi’lek spoke to the wide-eyed Chagrian, his own words holding both an air of surprise and fear. Easily the most popular chancellor in decades was now dead thanks to a daring surprise attack by the Separatists. There was no doubt in any of the minds in the crimson office that this was planned, save perhaps for one. With a wave of his plump hand, senator Free Taa dismissed the hologram of the medical droid, biting his lip before addressing the former Vice-Chair. “You are Chancellor now.”

    It was a fact that Amedda was painfully aware of.

    Beyond them, though the shattered window of the office, life on Coruscant appeared to be returning to normal, as if nothing had happened, the traffic lanes reestablishing themselves following the terror that the Separatist offensive had sowed. Already replacement and repair droids were seeing to what was left of the shattered glass on the floor, and a replacement window was on its way. It was almost peaceful, watching the bustling convoys of aircraft and speeders and the droids at work, within the serene and altogether quiet confines of the senate building, only interrupted occasionally by the white noise of the city beyond them.

    “I require a new vice chair.” Amedda spoke, nearly mumbling, though audible over the light breeze and the distant whizzing of speeder traffic. The man was still trying to come to terms with the fact that he was the head of the Republic now. The head, the face, the spirit… at least if he was to fill Palpatine’s shoes. Curious that Free Taa would be the one to break such news to him, having pushed for his assignment there to begin with. “... am I to wait for the senate’s choice, or is it granted to me via the EPA?” Mas Amedda attempted a gesture at looking authoritative, even if he was asking the senators such a politically vulnerable question.

    “You choose.” Came a feminine voice from the office’s entrance, causing the few senators gathered, as well as the new Chancellor, to look to its owner. Were it not for their familiarity with the Umbaran, some might have even been taken aback by Sly Moore’s intense stare. “You are the Chancellor now.” For, as everyone had come to accept in the years following the Emergency Powers Act, the Chancellor acted as he wished without senatorial check. But, for a man who had only minutes to come to terms with the knowledge that he was now one of the most powerful individuals in the Galaxy, it was daunting. Looking back to this moment, one might even make the case that this was Chancellor Amedda’s first shortcoming.

    “I will give it suitable thought and consideration.” Replied the Chagrian, figuring it to be the best course of action for all involved. If he had time to think it over he could avoid both the dangers of a hasty decision and the ire of the Senate at large, that is if he chose wisely enough. “Senator Taa, convene with your bloc and supply a list of suitable candidates.” The blue Twi’lek nodded at this, licking his lips for a moment in thought before he glanced to Moore, wincing from her stare. While often intense, it didn’t always carry the malevolence which it now held.

    “I shall see to it right away, A-... your excellency.” The man spoke, moving quickly, eager to be out from under Sly’s gaze. The woman gave him little respite however, and watched him and the other senators begin to file out of the room, one or two occasionally throwing glances back to the aide and the new chancellor. It was only once they were gone and the door closed behind them that Sly again turned her eyes to her former colleague, now her superior.

    “The plan remains intact.” She spoke, without warning or prelude, her words eliciting a momentary look of panic from Amedda, the already nervous Chagrian unable to help himself from hushedly snapping at the woman. She referred, of course, to the plot that Palpatine had concocted in order to destabilize the Republic and institute a much more authoritative state - one that Amedda now put no stock in without its mastermind.

    “Are you insane? H-... I knew you were his puppet but I didn’t take you for a fool!” He growled, the Chagrian’s paranoia getting the better of him, parrying words that the woman attempted to speak with a stern glare and a hand, one finger on it raised in warning. The Chancellor glanced at his flanks, as if to seek out some concealed spy in their midst, though the two were certainly alone now. It took a moment or two, but the former Vice-Chair strangled his fear well enough that he spoke in a more even tone, though the man still hissed at her. “... the walls here have ears, Sly.”

    The bald Umbaran narrowed her eyes at the Chancellor, clearly unimpressed, removing her gaze from him for a few moments as she approached the window, the sentiment of a planet regaining its vitality lost on her. She was, at this point, a product of Palpatine’s machinations - a pet, almost - and now she was without direction. A dangerous thing, markedly so in the case of a dark acolyte. Perhaps in her mind she saw herself now as the inheritor of the title of Sith, and that she wielded some unspoken power that had once belonged to Palpatine, and that gave her the means to see the grand plan to fruition. “The parasites of the senate have more pressing matters now than listening to what Palpatine’s freak has to say to the new Chancellor.” There was, after all, the matter of the succession of the vice chair, one that she had already given due thought. “I will be Vice Chair.” The thought was voiced with every ounce of confidence, Sly truly believing that she was to inherit the Chagrian’s former position.

    Amedda sneered at such insolence, partially out of irritation but also from genuine confusion. “D-... do you really want to make it that obvious?” He asked rhetorically, brow furrowed. Fear had wedged itself into his heart from the moment he had heard the rumor that Palpatine could be dead, and now it had split his being in two. Amedda was afraid, and Moore could feel that fear now ruled the man. He was, and always would be, a tool. First to Free Taa, then Palpatine, and now it was her turn to use the Chagrian to her ends. “The Jedi will be brought into this sooner or later, and what… what do you think is going to happen when they search this office?” A hand moved to point a finger towards a nearby statue, both of them knowing just what that piece was - an idol from Sith antiquity, “bought” and put on display as a historical curiosity by the late Chancellor. “Or, Force forbid, his own apartments.” There was no telling just what manner of dark treasures the Sith had kept there, hidden away from all but his closest of aides.

    Moore seemed unphased by this, continuing to gaze out of the window, hands moving to weave their fingers together, the Umbaran keeping a calm disposition, unlike her colleague. “Then we must see to purging the evidence.” And doing what they could to ensure that things could continue as they had planned for. The War still raged after all, and the more protracted it proved the weaker the Republic and its Jedi stewards would become. Perhaps, Moore thought, she could rule the state through Amedda, as a figurehead, though such a plan had one very fatal flaw - it depended on Amedda still supporting it.

    “... and be caught in the scandal as co-conspirators?” He replied, understanding the political ramifications, not to mention the physical ones, for being found by the Jedi to be collaborating with the Sith. Already this war had revealed just how brutal these Guardians of the Peace could prove, and Mas Amedda was not one to wish to tempt their wrath. His query went unanswered, Moore believing that she could command the same authority as Palpatine, her form held with a deal of pride. She had weathered greater trials than this, and would come out the other side all the stronger. The Chagrian’s next words both surprised and irked the Umbaran.

    “You’ll be executed alone, Sly.” Amedda muttered, wanting no part in Palpatine’s orphaned plot, even with Moore’s confidence. His unexpected stand brought her eyes about to him again, the fact that she tended to only look at him when she was displeased not being lost on the Chancellor. For the first time in their encounter she let her guard slip, her visage soon visible cues of anger. In her mind she was right to be, as how could this toad of the senate dare threaten her? Not that the Chancellor had intended it to be, but such was the price to pay for not choosing one’s words properly.

    With a mechanical, measured pace she moved, turning to face the Chargian that she might close with him, leaning in to whisper. “If I die, we both do.” With such a bold statement the Umbaran made quite the gamble, banking now on intimidating Amedda into cooperation. She’d seen it done before, threatening his political being, whether it had been a senator or Palpatine himself, and she didn’t hold herself above the tactic.

    But Moore had made a critical mistake, not that she now knew it.

    The Chagrian’s eyes were wide, for fear of his own demise, but soon fury at Moore’s quick slide into treachery. Discretion meant nothing to this woman. Though he hadn’t before, now he certainly knew that she was never to be trusted, and such a threat to him could not be allowed to remain. Moore’s words had brought out the politician in the man at this point, his mind already racing as to how to disengage himself from this scandal as quickly as possible, and how best to dispose of this rogue Umbaran.

    “Then what must we do, Vice Chair?”
     
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  4. Cushing's Admirer

    Cushing's Admirer Chosen One star 7

    Registered:
    Jun 8, 2006
    =D= Well done, SS. I continue to enjoy your detail and language.
     
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  5. Ewok Poet

    Ewok Poet Force Ghost star 6

    Registered:
    Jul 31, 2014
    This looks...big. I like alternative takes on things for as long as they make sense and so far, this one has been making sense. Will leave a more detailed comment soon.

    A couple of tips:
    - People usually cannot process too many words in too little time so, for more visibility, go for smaller bits and give us a little time to respond in between posts.
    - Comments on comments are a great way to explain things to your readers, once they ask.
    - This thread might be useful, too; so you can introduce your OCs to your readers. :)

    Not preaching, by any means, these are things that work for me and many others. ;)
     
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  6. Cushing's Admirer

    Cushing's Admirer Chosen One star 7

    Registered:
    Jun 8, 2006
    These blocks aren't that big, Poet. He's doing fine.
     
  7. SeparatistSympathizer

    SeparatistSympathizer Jedi Knight

    Registered:
    May 14, 2014
    Of course, and I do appreciate the comments! I'd only posted one after other because no one had said anything yet - I figured I was good to go. :p I am glad that you are enjoying it so far.

    I hadn't seen the index yet, I'll be sure to drop by there and start on my list.

    If you've any questions or comments, please do share Poet. I'm excited to simply share my ideas, as it is. :)

    And thank you, Cush. I am glad you're enjoying it, I only apologize it's taking me so long to get to Tarkin and more of Dooku. I'm still debating on when to introduce Gilad.
     
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  8. Cushing's Admirer

    Cushing's Admirer Chosen One star 7

    Registered:
    Jun 8, 2006
    No worries, SS. I am simply thrilled to have a story that will feature all my main SW Elders and very likely in much more human and complex ways then usually done. [face_party]=D=
     
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