“Report, private Greta.” Quinn ordered.
Private Greta, the only one with scouting experience among Quinn’s soldiers, saluted. Then she looked at Morgan, hesitation flickering through her.
He motioned to the lieutenant. “Quinn is your commanding officer. While I, admittedly, am in overall command, that is more along the lines of setting our overarching objective.”
The private saluted again. “Sir. The objective is as intelligence reported. A single tower with a number of support facilities, guarded by automated defences. I counted thirty droids during observation, with six fixed turrets providing full coverage. The entrance to the main structure is heavily reinforced, and will likely require targeted explosives to open.”
“Very good, private. Fall in.”
Greta saluted again, joining the rest of the soldiers a little way back. Quinn turned, Vette rubbing her hands together impatiently. Morgan had to admit it was cold, but rubbing armoured gloves together wouldn't really help with that.
“I know I declined to have a look and all, but was it really necessary to have her observe them for an hour?” She groused. “It's cold here.”
“Firsthand information is important in any military operation.” Quinn said diplomatically. “Personally, I’m worried about the turrets. They’d tear my men apart, and the droids cleared the surrounding area of anything even remotely able to serve as cover.”
That was a problem. One he had no idea how to solve.
“Any ideas, lieutenant?”
Quinn hesitated, then pointed to the cliff the tower was built in. “Me and the men can scale the cliff, rappel down. Private Greta!”
The private came running, saluting as she arrived. “Do the turrets have the capability to aim upwards, more so than standard?”
She shook her head. “Standard issue, sir. Maybe thirty degrees of up-down movement.”
Quinn waved his hand, the private leaving with a salute. “Not enough to catch us, then. When we’re low enough to aim at, the buildings will serve as cover. An oversight any competent commander would not have made, leading me to think it was thought of by an intelligence agent.”
Morgan nodded. “A solid plan. Now please explain the idea you had the first time.”
The lieutenant grimaced. “Ah. Sith have the capability to move beyond mortal men. Grenades would damage the torrent sufficiently, while the droids would struggle to pin you down. It carries a larger risk, however.”
Unmentioned was the fact it could have caused offence, sending a sith to distract and harass. Morgan shook his head. “That plan is better. My armour should protect against limited fire, and my speed will make sure it remains so. While I distract, you move in?”
Quinn nodded, a flash of something indecipherable in his eyes. “Just so, my lord.”
Vette’s voice came over the comm, and he could easily imagine the scowl that went with her voice. “Don’t like this plan. Reminds me too much of another stupid plan involving thrown explosives.”
“This is not that.” Morgan defended. “Besides, the idea of the cliff is sound. I could scale down, jumping when in range of the turrets.”
The lieutenant remained silent as they argued, Vette flexing her hands. “Fine. I’m reserving the right to tell you ‘I told you so’ if this goes tits up.”
Morgan snorted, turning to Quinn. “I’ll rappel down the mountain, destroy the turrets and distract the droids. Vette can serve on overwatch, but I’ll leave the details to you.”
The man nodded. “Greta’s missing her partner, so she can join her easily enough. Specialist Horas, climbing gear!”
The specialist ambled over, climbing kit in hand. He thrust it at Morgan. “You know how to use this?”
Quinn scowled at the specialist, but Morgan spoke before the lieutenant could. “I do not. I would appreciate a crash course, specialist Horas.”
Horas shrugged, laying the gear on the ground. “That’s the harness, strong enough to carry up to three tons. Over there are the spikes. Make sure to wedge them deep, and test them before you put your full weight on them. They’ll drill automatically, and it won’t make too much noise.”
Morgan paid attention as Vette ambushed Greta, throwing her arm over the scout's shoulder and whispering conspiracy.
It seemed like no time at all before he was climbing his way up the mountain, half a click from the facility in question. It was good climbing weather, according to Horas, and the rock had plenty of crevices. His strength made even an amateur's climb go fast, and he heard Vette’s voice over the comm when he was about to wedge another spike.
“That’s high enough. Go left.”
Her voice had lost the playful tone she usually had, all business. He was tempted to snark back, but he dutifully started working his way left instead. Best to encourage professionalism when he could.
That lasted until he was hanging over the facility, the droids spreading out below him. “Don’t suppose anyone thought to just drop a big bomb from there?”
Silence was her answer, until the hesitant voice of Quinn broke it. “The main facility is shielded, and every radar this side of the planet would pick it up. We’d have hostile air forces here in minutes.”
“She was joking, lieutenant. Welcome to hell, as it seems she has decided to patch you into our private channel.”
Insulted sputtering came over the line, Morgan slowly working his way down the cliff face. The rock became smooth some fifty feet to ground level, probably to prevent this sort of thing. The droids also failed to look up, something he found suspicious. ‘Shouldn't there be cameras pointed at the cliff, at least?’
He put it out of his mind, checking his rope. He watched, decided he knew nothing of their patrol schedule, and pressed the release.
The ground rapidly approached as he dropped, turrets whirling around to fire as he passed some invisible line. Gravity was far too keen on reasserting her dominance, however, and he disappeared behind the buildings just as they tore the smooth rock to shreds.
The first turret was easy enough. The grenade did catch on the belt, not quite releasing from its place, but after that hopefully unnoticeable mistake the thing had two warped barrels to shoot with.
Morgan shrugged and made his way to the second position, his helmet helpfully displaying its exact location.
Some droids got in the way, his lightsaber cutting through them without pause, and it occurred to him he still needed to upgrade his weapon.
‘After Vette is done poking at the parts.’ He promised. No need to have any tracking or some such attached to his weapon. Or a bomb. He’d never hear the end of it if he got blown up twice.
Three droids surprised him when rounding a corner, shooting before he could react. An annoyance, but nothing some healing couldn't fix. His shields disagreed, and his display notified him the third layer stopped the last bolt cold. He hadn't even felt it.
The droids didn’t manage to shoot again.
The second turret went up like the first, and then a droid's torso disappeared. He scowled, opening the comms. “Do you mind not showering me with molten lead?”
“It’s an anti-material slug throwing sniper, so yes, I do mind.” Vette responded happily. “And I do ever so recommend not being where you are right now.”
Morgan sped up, another round cutting a droid in half. It also showered the immediate area with shrapnel, Vette giggling creepily.
He destroyed the third turret as he thought of an appropriate rebuke, then frowned. He was slipping into the same mindset that got him blown to shit on Dromund Kaas, that cavalier attitude that came with being stronger than anything else in the room.
As the assassin had shown him, strength wasn’t everything. Not if you’re smart and your opponent is arrogant.
His side of the facility was clear of turrets, his suits microphones picking up the faint sound of approaching boots.
He switched to causing damage, cutting through droids as they came running. His knives stayed where they were, as much as they would have sped this up. Vibrating or no, too much metal, a solid chassis, for example, would get them stuck.
Then one of the facilities without a door revealed it had an entrance after all, its wall sliding open. Behind which he spied ten large, mean looking droids. The kind that stood well over eight feet, clocking in over a ton.
He flung the rest of his explosives into the opening, a flash of inspiration causing him to activate them with telekinesis.
Two of the things were out before they went off, surprisingly not knocking down the walls. He couldn't see the rest, but the two that cleared the blast kept him plenty busy.
Heavy and strong enough he couldn't topple them. He swung, his lightsaber doing nothing. He hastily stepped back, a fist cutting through the air his face used to be.
‘Not nothing.’ He corrected. ‘A thin cut. Beskar.’
“Beskar droids on the field.” He called through the comms. “Beware of more traps.”
He heard Vette curse, then nothing as she went silent. If his lightsaber did nothing, and he couldn't physically overpower them, he was running out of tricks.
He could still dodge, and he did, but that wouldn't help solve the problem. It seemed the grenades had taken care of the ones still inside, at least.
The Force screamed, Morgan throwing himself to the side as a fucking sword keened through the air, scratching his armour.
‘So not taken care of.’ He corrected. The eight other droids climbed out of the dark entrance, focussing on him with eerie precision.
He backpaddled, using his lightsaber to turn aside a thrust and kicking off from an extended leg. One that didn’t even budge as he jumped, landing on a roof. He wasn’t sure which building, exactly, but he had bigger problems.
“Quinn, focus on the mission. These things seem to want me dead, so we’ll use it.”
The roof shook as the droids joined him, Morgan adding mobility to their strengths. This really was looking rather bleak.
He’d also successfully lured them out in the open, one promptly getting blown off the roof. Morgan hissed as it climbed back up, some scratches on its torso the extent of the damage.
“Sir, we’re approaching the tower entrance and will soon have access. Horas and Jillins will set the charges in the mainframe while we clear the building.”
“Good man, lieutenant. Vette, keep knocking them down.”
Morgan turned, letting a fist pass while looking for weak points. None came to immediate attention, and he had to fall backward to avoid another sword.
Small mercy only two or three could attack at once, their size working against them. Vette cursed. “What the fuck are these things made of?”
Another went off the roof, but he was rapidly running out of space. “Beskar, lightsaber resistant material. I’m going to have to get off the roof soon. I’ll lure them away”
Vette responded after another round, Morgan having to bend so far his armour squeaked in protest. “Fuck. Try to keep on open, low ground. I’ll do what I can.”
He jumped off the roof before they could push him off, the hulking things following without hesitation. “Help the others. I can keep this up now that I have space, and the sooner it’s done the sooner I can leave.”
More cursing, but no more droids went flying. Morgan smiled grimly, indulging in a moment of self recrimination. And here he had been feeling all proud for recognizing his own arrogance, walking right into another ambush.
Time blurred as he dodged and twisted, clipping his lightsaber to his belt after the first minute. The swords were better dodged than riposted, and his plan of making them stab each other failed on account of the things not letting him.
The wildlife came to play when they got to a click from the tower, wingmaw swooping from the sky. Morgan had felt them coming, his knives gutting two with little issue. The two corpses dropped to the ground, their brethren screeching madly.
His mechanical stalkers ignored them, claws doing little to armoured frames. The wingmaw abandoned their hunt soon after, three more dead for their effort. Morgan put them out of his mind as they disappeared from his perception, sinking into old patterns.
Step. Twist, step. Backstep and jump, clearing space. Avoid the sword, then another step.
Careful, controlled stepping was a surprisingly large part of combat. Soft Voice had called it footwork, the pretentious bastard, but it all came down to the same thing. Don’t be there when the lightsaber, or sword, comes for your head. Position so you can attack while your opponent cannot. Ensure you have space to move, denying your enemy the same privilege.
Sith do not tire, not as others do, but neither did droids. Morgan kept his use of the Force to a minimum, only his enforcement and shields drawing from his reserves. Both were well practised, so he could keep this up for hours.
Not so much without making mistakes, however, and he felt his shoulder bruise as it was clipped. Then a sword took a strip from his armour, a third hunter grabbing for his head.
He avoided the last one, not wishing to test his helmet's endurance against their strength. It cost him a kick to the stomach, sending him flying.
‘It’s been a while since I’ve been beaten around like this.’ He contemplated, twisting so he landed on his feet. ‘Not since Lady Trix.’
His predicament ended as Quinn's voice came over the comms, sounding none too pleased. “Objective secured. Retreating to base along route 6H.“
His display mapped it for him, twisting out of the way of another grab. Then he was running, having to swerve as they pelted him with bolts. His lightsaber deflected them with ease, and they didn’t carry slug throwers. Small miracles. Or good planning, since they only pulled out blasters when he fled.
They had speed of their own, enough he was only just leaving them behind, but they disengaged as he passed the five click mark from the tower.
‘Range limit?’ He wondered. ‘Or recalled?’
He intersected Quinn and his men after another twenty minutes, making sure the things weren't following at a distance. Morgan came to private Jillins being glared at by Vette, who came running over as soon as she saw him.
To his surprise, she went for a hug. Or a tackle, but he was fast enough to avoid a head on collision. Her arms wrapped around his torso and squeezed with strength, Morgan too surprised to properly hug back. His bruises screamed.
By the time his mind caught up with what was happening Vette had jumped back, pretending nothing had happened. The lieutenant saluted, the rest of the men looking various shades of exhausted. He counted all of them, so he’d take tired over dead.
Except for Jillins. The ensign shifted nervously, feeling more than a little ashamed. Quinn coughed, interrupting his musings. “Sir, good to see you are alive and well.”
Untrue, but no need to burden the lieutenant with the knowledge that he was mostly black and blue under his armour. “And you, lieutenant. You reported mission success?”
Horas handed him a detonator, Morgan pressing it while rolling his eyes. “Appreciate the gesture, but next time just blow the thing, yes?”
The tower failed to go up in smoke, but he did feel a rumble through his feet. Horas grunted. “I hear you. Everyone on the planet with seismic detectors will know we just blew something to hell back there, so best to get some distance.”
Morgan nodded, tilting his head as Jillins underwent another fit of shame. “Anything else to report, lieutenant?”
Quinn stiffened. “Ensign Jillins failed to properly plant the explosives, costing us valuable time. Specialist Horas took over successfully, and overall mission success was not impacted, but I will personally oversee his punishment, sir.”
Morgan raised an eyebrow, turning to the ensign. The man flinched with fear, but avoided taking a step back. “Sorry sir. I froze. Won’t happen again.”
“It better not.” Vette muttered.
Morgan ignored her, turning to Quinn. “I will oversee his punishment personally.”
The lieutenant underwent a moment of internal indignation and protest, nothing showing on his face. He saluted. “As you say, my lord.”
“You can observe, if you wish.” Morgan promised, feeling suddenly exhausted.
They walked, Vette joining him at the rear as lookouts. She was mostly silent, humming as she cleaned her rifle. The humming stopped as he stumbled over a stone, only the slightest twitch betraying his lapse of balance.
“You alright?” It came over comms, and he saw it was just the two of them again. He contemplated downplaying it, but he didn’t really see a point. She had sounded too idle anyway.
“Those were sith killers. Or jedi killers, I suppose, but designed to kill Force users. Fast, strong and resistant to lightsabers. Too heavy to throw around or push off a cliff, and agile enough to keep up. And these mechanical hunters, each of which must have cost a fortune, were stationed in an out of the way control tower. Doesn’t add up.”
“Not what I meant.”
Morgan sighed. “Fine, yes, they beat me black and blue. I’m working on it.”
Her step stuttered, her voice a hiss at it came over the comm. “You're injured. Fuck. Tell me, you meathead, so I don’t end up making it worse. Goddess, it’s like talking to a stone.”
He didn't know what to do with the protectiveness in her tone, so he shrugged and told her the truth. “I don’t care about pain.”
She whirled on him, and it was easy to imagine her scowl. “That doesn’t mean I don’t care about your pain, you dense idiot.”
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Morgan stopped, looking at her. He smiled involuntarily. “Oh.”
Vette turned, doing an admirable job of covering her embarrassment. He enjoyed the view as they walked, steep mountains and snowy peaks near picturesque in their beauty. It was almost enough to make you forget the whole planet was at war.
Vette sighed, breaking the mostly comfortable silence. “Jillins’s screwup cost us time. Time you had to spend surviving against droids that all but ignored an anti-material rifle. That can ignore a lightsaber.”
“I know. I’ll deal with it back at base.”
Vette hummed noncommittally, Morgan focusing on getting his bruised organs back under control. It was quiet for half an hour before she spoke again.
“I told you so.”
“Fuck off.”
----------------------------------------
Quinn waved off his men as they came to the sith’s sparring chamber, a large, mostly barren room. Horas hesitated, and he had to send the man a glare.
The heavy trooper had, in his own laidback, aloof way, taken Jillins under his wing. It was already a miracle the sith had invited him to observe, however, and he wasn’t going to push it.
Horas left, leaving just the three of them. Vette had all but peeled the sith’s armour off his frame, taking it and Greta to the armoury for repairs. Armour he was fairly sure was obtained illegally, not that he was going to mention it. Laws applied only when another, more powerful, sith insisted they did.
The web of bruises was another thing he ignored, the sith’s shirt not able to hide all of them. Most would be screaming for kolto, nevermind walking around the place.
Quinn promised himself to keep interactions with sith, and jedi, should he ever meet one, to a minimum. His cursed deal with Baras was bad enough already, more than adequately displaying titans crushed everything around them.
And the sith were that. They conquered and killed, none but the jedi able to do more than bow in their wake. This sith was no different, as today had demonstrated.
Pulling the file on his new commander hadn’t been too hard. A heavily redacted file, of course, but more than he should have access too regardless. But contacts could not be as easily wiped away as his career, no matter how much moff Broysc would want to, and he had quite a lot of contacts indeed.
Some still remembered how he had saved the Battle of Druckenwell. Some still remembered he was once being groomed for general. Still remembered their debts, sworn in dark rooms over strong drinks.
That file had painted a terrifying picture. One of a rising sith, crushing everything in his path. Quinn didn’t know what to think about it, except that the man was dangerous. Much more so than he pretended.
And it scared him. Because why would a sith, of all people, pretend to be less dangerous than he really is?
Now he was a lieutenant, powerless to even grimace as Jillins nervously stood in the centre of the room.
The sith calmly sat on the floor, folding his legs under him. “Contrary to what you may be expecting, I am not here to maim, kill, or otherwise inflict pain upon you.”
Quinn blinked, seeing his own puzzlement reflected in Jillins. It was the ensign that spoke, hesitation written all over him. “Sir?”
“Would it help you avoid things like this in the future, Jillins? Would pain and punishment make you a better soldier?”
Neither he nor Quinn spoke, the sith motioning for the ensign to sit.
“You went through a highly traumatic event, and soon after was put into another stressful environment. I do not blame you for freezing, but a repeat must be avoided.”
The sith closed his eyes, Jillins flinching back soon after. Quinn resisted the urge to step forward.
“That, Jillins, was an empathy link. The Force connects all things, and those that can manipulate it can feel the emotions and memories of others. It is a tool the jedi use to great effect.”
Jillins leaned closer, staring at the sith’s chest. “So the pain is yours, not mine?”
The sith inclined his head. “Indeed. Apologies, this is the first time I'm doing this. Now, I’m actively pushing my thoughts and emotions through the link so that you can feel them. I, as someone capable of manipulating the Force, can feel yours without you needing to do the same. The pain should be gone now.”
The ensign nodded. Any trace of fear and nervousness was gone from his face, replaced with fascination. Quinn sat down, putting a reasonable distance between himself and the pair.
‘Not that this is in any way reasonable.’ He thought, feeling the situation swiftly depart from his expectations.
“Now, think back to what happened in the field. What you felt, what you were thinking.”
Jillins leaned back, fear shuttering over his face. The sith made a calming motion, his eyes still closed. “I see you, Jillins. There is no hiding fear or shame, not now. I will not judge, if that is your concern. You will not drown in it.”
Tears welled in Jillins’s eyes, looking anywhere but at the sith. “I. I don't. What is this? What are you doing to me?”
“Therapy, ensign. This is therapy. Why did you freeze?”
Fear sparked to anger in Jillins eyes, Quinn not daring to interrupt. “If you're in my head, don’t you already know?”
“I do.” The sith responded calmly. “And now I want you to say it.”
“Why?” Jillins bit back. “So you can kick me out of the army? So I can go back to being no one?! Alone!”
The sith didn’t respond, Jillins’s anger draining as fast as it came. “You don’t know what it's like to be afraid. The great sith. The conquerors without fear.”
Quinn flinched as the sith frowned, Jillins too drained to care. “You think I am without fear? That the absence of fear gives you courage?”
Jillins rocketed back, his eyes widening. “That is fear, ensign. Primal terror that makes you want to hide and run. To beg and plead. To do anything, promise everything, to make it go away.”
“What. What is this?”
Quinn frowned, Jillins’s eyes darting back and forth to things that weren’t there. “My death, ensign. When the Overseer broke me and I accepted that fear didn’t rule me. That pain couldn’t constrain me. When I became what she wanted me to become. When I accepted the Force.”
The sith leaned forward, a frown on his face. It looked strange with closed eyes. Like a blind man’s frown. “It is a lie to say I am without fear. It is a lie to say I don’t feel pain. I do. I feel every ounce of hurt. Every second of terror. The difference, Jillins, is that I do not let it control me. Not anymore.”
The ensign was openly crying, Quinn not blaming him. The presence around the sith was terrifying from twenty feet away, and Jillins was almost nose to nose with the man.
“How.” Jillins stuttered. “How did you survive that? How could anyone survive that?”
“Most didn’t.” The sith responded flatly. “They broke into a thousand little pieces, raped and killed soon after. But you are not sith, ensign. You will not be forced to endure that. Now focus. Think on your fear. I will not let you drown.”
Silence reigned, Quinn's breathing harsh to his own ears. Time passed. Ten minutes, then half an hour. Fear and relief would flutter over Jillins face, every now and then, before settling back into thoughtful frowns. He had stopped crying somewhere along the way, but Quinn couldn't quite remember when.
He had sunk into his own thoughts, only snapping out of it when he focused and saw the sith sitting directly in front of him. He looked to see Jillins gone from the room.
“He left some fifteen minutes ago.” The sith informed him. “Said he had some things to think about. Or to get shitfaced. Even odds.”
Quinn smiled briefly before catching himself, standing. “Apologies, my lord. I will not keep you.”
“Nonsense. It’s been a while since I took the time to properly meditate. Too long, really.”
He didn’t know what to say to that, so he looked to where Jillins had been sitting. “Will he be alright?”
Morgan opened his eyes, standing in that fluent, alien way of the sith. “I did what I could. No one can decide his future, lieutenant. No one but him.”
Quinn nodded, extending his hand before he could think better of it. “Thanks. For trying.”
‘For giving a shit.’ He didn’t say.
“He has fought for me. Bled for me.” The sith shook it, his eyes serious. “Respect for respect, lieutenant. Loyalty for loyalty. Excuse me.”
He was left alone in the room, a hundred thoughts whirling around his head.
One kept circling back. Quinn had no idea what to think about that sith anymore.
----------------------------------------
Mirla calmed her nerves as she waited, looking at her datapad again. Morgan was twenty minutes late, and she had other things to do. But he was the only fleshcrafting teacher on the planet, likely the system. She had checked.
Not to mention her Lord. Informally, of course, lest they bring the Dark Council on their heads. But Astara had sworn an oath, and they had all agreed. Even Lord Zethix.
An elegant solution to the problem of Zethix and Morgan’s dynamic, as Astara’s solutions usually were. One their actual Lord, the other his friend and their teacher.
The new pups would understand soon enough. Another few months and they would have unlearned their bad habits. Then she could properly instruct them. Teach them about loyalty and respect. Unity and the chain of command.
Teach them how armies flinched when sith worked together.
The door opened, Morgan striding inside. “Apologies, my previous engagement kept me.”
She stood, shaking her head. “None needed. It’s an honour to learn from you again, my Lord.”
Morgan grimaced. “It’s been what, half a year? Stop treating me like a stranger.”
Mirla grinned, only partly as a cover. “It’s a mark of respect, my Lord.”
‘Fucking hells woman. Stop it with this anxiety bullshit.’ She reprimanded herself. Morgan had taken a seat, scowling at her.
“Yeah yeah, laugh it up. Shall we get started? Vette might find a way to start a wildfire if I leave her idle too long.”
Mirla schooled her features, taking a seat herself. “As you say. Lord Zethix has found some literature on fleshcrafting, and it has helped, but it does not mention the solution to my problem.”
“I see.” Morgan frowned. “Mind if I take a look?”
She handed over her datapad, her Lord setting it down after some minutes. “I think I understand. Please try the exercise, so that I can supervise.”
Mirla nodded, focusing inwards. A spike of alarm went through her as Morgan’s attention settled on her, its weight strong enough it pricked her skin.
‘He’s been getting stronger.’ She shook her head. ‘Obviously.’
She deftly manipulated the strands from her heart. One arm was easy enough, as was a second. Adding her leg was where she was running into trouble. It came halfway before stretching no further, pulling on the ones in her arms. Mirla gave it another few minutes, concluded no progress was being made, and opened her eyes.
Morgan was looking at her intently, his eyes closed. The attention sharpened, forcing her to resist fidgeting, then ebbed.
“I know the problem, and be assured it is one we all face. I could tell you, but it would be better to see for yourself.”
Mirla nodded, closing her eyes. Focusing like this on another sith was quite taboo, and usually made them aggressive. She had learned that well with her first batch of recruits. It had been quite the eye opener, and made her almost glad she had been trained in Project Culling. That she trained under Zethix and Morgan, not some Overseer.
She had promptly stamped out that nonsense, of course. It was a miracle the sith still existed, suspicious as they were.
His shield was down, but she felt the grooves where they snapped into place. She still felt the echo of strength behind them, ones no weaker than her own.
Which was telling, because Morgan had always been weaker than her, relying on his high degree of control.
She had no pressing desire to test those shields, thank you very much.
Mirla focused, feeling his own strands unravel before she could take a look at them. Then he rebuilt them, and she felt a fool for thinking her own work skillful. He went slowly, taking near a minute to reach a hand. Then, to her surprise, the strand turned around. She knew it would be easier to make a second. Take less concentration, consume less power.
She got it after the second arm was suffused with power, and snorted when he did a third limb. The circuit completed, beat softly, then settled. She felt the strands blur as they infused the body, until only vague outlines could be felt.
Mirla opened her eyes to see Morgan look at her. “The great secret.”
“I feel foolish for not thinking of it, honestly.” She admitted. To her surprise, her Lord laughed.
“So did I. Now try it yourself. We’ll see if you can’t complete the circuit today.”
She did. It took her an hour, but she did. It hummed with power, making her feel invigorated. Mirla smirked. “Can’t wait to rub this in the other’s faces.”
Morgan raised his eyebrow at her as she opened her eyes. Mirla cleared her throat awkwardly as she realised she had spoken out loud.
“What I mean, of course, is that this will be a great asset to the others. Especially the new recruits.”
Her Lord hummed in agreement, handing her datapad back to her. “I’ve transcribed a number of lessons on it. It is a powerful art, be careful who you teach it to.”
He stood, walking to the door. “Tell Soft Voice I’ll be in touch soon. I look forward to working with you all again.”
“The Enosis.” She blurted.
‘Yes.’ She mocked herself. ‘Really managed to casually insert that into conversation. Good job.’
Morgan paused, turning back. “Pardon?”
“The Enosis. Our name.” She coughed, scrambling. “I mean, if you agree.”
“Since when do we have a name?”
Mirla looked away. “Yesterday? Kripaa pointed out that we can't keep calling ourselves ‘the faction’. Lord Zethix liked it, but said to get your opinion.”
Morgan shrugged. “I’m not heavily involved, name yourself as you wish.”
She scowled, surprise flickering over his face. The part of her that was always analysing information noted that he was at ease enough to not guard his emotions, and nodded happily. “We swore an oath. You're one of its founding leaders. Like it or not, your opinion matters.”
He held up his hands. “Apologies. What does it mean?”
“Solidarity .” She wiggled her hand. “Unity.”
“Unity.” Morgan repeated softly. “I like it.”
Mirla grinned, the relief palpable. She didn’t bother wondering if it came from him liking it, her task of telling him being done, or because Astara now owed her money.
“Let’s not go the way of the Revanites, yes? No worshipping me, Soft Voice or anyone else as gods.”
She smirked, flicking through the lessons he had left her. “No promises.”
----------------------------------------
Vette skipped after Greta, enjoying the inner turmoil that her new friend tried to hide. Annoying those that couldn't snap at her was a guilty pleasure, especially when they tried to cover it up. Greta wasn’t doing a very good job of it.
Morgan’s armour was repairable, unfortunately. She had been looking forward to complaining how he couldn't go one day without destroying her gifts. Now she had to get her amusement some other way, but she had planned ahead.
Greta, after helping her lug the armour to the quartermaster, who, in turn, had handed it over to some poor blacksmith, was going back to her quarters. Different ones than where they had first met Quinn. That had apparently just been an empty barracks.
And due to her brilliant foresight, she could follow. It was hilarious watching the private try and come up with some excuse why she couldn't.
She’d have left if her vict- friend had asked her to, of course. She wasn’t that mean. But she hadn't, so here they were.
Vette ignored the badly hidden scowl as they came to their destination, seeing Jillins surrounded by the rest of his squad.
Greta sped up, leaving her behind at the door. Vette hung back, curious. Jillins was talking softly, only Horas seeing her lurk in the doorway. She waved at him.
He ignored her, turning back to the ensign.
“Then, I don’t know, he showed me something. Like I could remember, but I knew it never happened to me, you know?”
“Not really, mate.” Another soldier, one she didn’t know, clapped his shoulder. “All sounds like sith magic to me.”
“Magic isn’t real.” Horas rebuffed calmly. “But yes, it sounds like sith magic. Never heard of one doing that, mind you.”
“I thought you’d be getting flogged, not enjoying therapy.” Greta grinned. “All’s forgiven, right?”
Jillins shrugged. “The sith didn’t seem to care so much. The lieutenant probably does. Might be digging latrine pits for the next few months.”
Jeering faces exchanged money, chips flying around the room. Jillins scowled. “Not nice to bet on my demise, you assholes.”
A pang of longing shot through Vette, remembering when she had a crew of her own. People to drink and laugh with.
She shook her head, paying attention. Jillins had turned serious. “The shit I saw. A room filled with sith, in training I guess, getting tortured. Death looming over every second, fighting and killing as they fought to be the best. To survive. How that sith, and another one, biggest devaronian I’ve ever seen, carved order from that chaos.”
The room had gone silent, jeering replaced with hesitation. Horas was the one to break the silence. “I judge by actions, not words. Or memories. Whatever.”
Greta looked to the door, drawing attention to her. She smoothly ducked behind it, avoiding their gazes. “So far his actions have been to help.”
Someone spat on the floor, earning him a shove. “I saw how he led those droids away. Would have torn us apart in seconds, they would have. Did you see him, when he got out his armour? Covered in bruises. Shit looked black. You know how hard you’d have to get punched for it to turn black this quickly? No idea how he’s even walking.”
Vette slunk away, not wishing to intrude on a private moment. Intrude anymore than she already had, anyway. Now that her back-up amusement plan had been foiled, however, she was aimless.
So she decided she might as well take a nap, since Morgan was busy with sithy things. Marching to their room, blatantly ignoring she had a room of her own, she threw the door open, fully expecting it to be empty and ready to be proven wrong.
It was empty. She slumped, walking inside and kicking the counter because it deserved it. Then she slumped on the couch, browsing the limited content available on the wartime holonet. Her nap didn’t want to nap, so shitty entertainment was plan b. Or c, seeing as Greta had been plan b.
“Lazing about, are we? Should be ashamed of yourself.”
Vette jumped, pointing at him. “Don’t sneak up on me. Rude.”
Morgan shrugged. “I’m fine with being rude. You up to anything?”
She looked between Morgan and the B-rated drama, halfway finished. “Depends?”
“I’m gonna build my new lightsaber, and I promised you could help.”
Vette made a show of reluctance, looking between him and the drama again. He waved his hand dismissively. “I see cheap entertainment has gotten its claws in you. I shall simply construct this highly lethal, restricted weapon myself. Good day, madam.”
She scrambled off the couch, catching up to him in the hallway. “Meanie.”
“I’m fine with being mean too.”
Humming until they reached the private workshop, Morgan informing her Soft Voice had brought their stuff over from the ship, she looked questioningly at the array of parts.
“So this is supposed to make a lightsaber? Full disclosure, I tried when this stuff was still on the ship. Didn’t work.” She held up her hands defensively. “Just checking it for bugs, like you asked.”
“Uh-huh. No.” Morgan replied dryly. His lightsaber floated off his belt, disassembling itself in front of her eyes. She gawked at it, seeing Morgan smirk.
“You practised that.” She accused.
“I did.” He admitted shamelessly. “Took me like four hours to get it down. Still, looks damned impressive.”
Vette caught herself before she nodded, not wanting to give him the satisfaction. “So all this stuff is supposed to make a lightsaber?”
Morgan sighed deeply, making her grin. “Yes, all this stuff is supposed to make a lightsaber. Watch.”
A red crystal, the size of her thumb, floated in the middle, a lens joining it. “A lightsaber has five main parts.”
She kept half an ear open as he lectured, watching intently. “The crystal, made from kyber, is the main reason this device works the way it does. Kyber is attuned to the Force, and as such bonds to one wielder for life.”
“The other parts, lens, casing and power cell, are all easy to acquire. The emitter, in which the focusing lens is placed, is harder to get.” The casing twisted around the lens and emitter, concealing the crystal from sight. “But not nearly so as kyber. Ilum is one of the few planets where they can be found, and the jedi pilgrim there when they are young.”
Various wires, switches and resistors floated inside next, Morgan adding no comment about them. “These crystals bond for life, yet the sith do not journey to Ilum for them. Ancient Lords found a way to process the crystals, allowing multiple bonds to occur.”
Morgan grinned softly, the lightsaber completing with a soft click. “But never when the wielder is still alive. I found this one in an ancient tomb, as you are aware.”
Vette nodded, making grabby hands. Morgan floated it over, to her surprise. “Yeah. You needed little old me to steal it.”
She carefully grabbed it out of midair, pointing the weapon away from them. It ignited with a thrum, harsh red illuminating the room. She resisted the urge to swing it around wildly, swinging it slowly instead.
Morgan took it as she handed it to him, making it float in the air. “Nothing too complicated. Some make them from special materials. You can incorporate lights, special casings or even a blaster, if you wish, but I prefer its purpose to be simple. Singular.”
Vette looked at him, and he seemed sombre. Dangerous.
“Its purpose is to kill. Nothing more.”
She decided that was enough brooding, so she accidentally knocked the old casing to the ground. Morgan cringed, making her smirk. “I get it, no more angst. Hand me that screw please.”
She did, raising an eyebrow. He shrugged. “Only had time to practise screwing it out, not in. It’ll probably fall apart without it.”
Vette rolled her eyes, watching him attach the casing tightly with a mundane screwdriver. “Kinda undercuts the whole dangerous sith vibe you had going on.”
He nodded. “And so I ignored it, planning to attach it later. But you just had to ruin the moment, didn’t you?”
“Revenge.” She intoned seriously. “For Force bonding with some random soldier before me. Does our friendship mean nothing to you?”
Morgan turned to her, a dangerous glint in his eye. “Oh? Would you prefer I feel your every emotion? Know your every thought and memory? To know you, whole and complete, as I rearrange your mind?”
Heat flooded her stomach as she blushed, taking a half step back. The room was dark, to add to his demonstration, she just now realised, so she was partly obscured. Her knees trembled a little as he took a step forward, and just for a moment she thought he was reaching for her throat.
He snatched the lightsaber out of the air instead, a noise of protest almost escaping her. Almost.
“It was therapy. Nothing more.” He teased, and she realised he had no idea what he’d just done.
‘Well, at least we know he can play the part.’ Half her mind whispered. The other half was busy covering up the fact she had been about to sink to her knees.
“Sir?” Quinn called from outside the room. “Lord Baras is on the line for you.”
Vette cursed softly, seriously contemplating what it would take to kill Baras. Morgan turned to the door.
Just in case he ever felt like interrupting her alone time with Morgan again.