stories-by-mocho

[stories-by-mocho]

Unsung - Chapter 1

Note: This is a story about my Mandalorian OC, set in the Old Republic timeline

-

Gunnar was his name. 

He was a Mandalorian bounty hunter, trained to be a warrior from the moment he could grasp a blaster. He was good enough to take jobs at the tender age of 15, and only three years later he became one of the best bounty hunters around. Needless to say, Gunnar was very, very good at his job. Though he felt whatever he had didn’t come from years of training or education. Gunnar had something inside of him he had yet to discover. Good as he was, he had always felt different from the people he knew.

There was an unspoken dislike, maybe even hatred, the Mandalorians had towards the Jedi. A war that dated back a long time ago had left the Mandalorian people scarred, urging them to hunt Jedi. Perhaps to seek some form of justice, or vengeance. Raised as a Mandalorian, Gunnar’s surroundings taught him to despise Jedi, to fear them and treat them with nothing but hostility. He had learnt that their choice weapons were different kinds of laser swords, and they would use this arcane weapon not only to slice through any material, but also to deflect blaster rounds. As children across the galaxy were told, Gunnar also heard the stories about how Jedi could move objects with their minds. He hardly believed it to be true. Laser swords he could make sense of, but the latter part was surely just a bedtime story.

One Jedi was powerful enough to take on several bounty hunters at once, and Gunnar had to figure that out the hard way. His very first fight with a Jedi was as quick as the next morning when his bounty hunter crew received a new target. Like him, most of his squad assigned for this job had never seen combat with a Force wielder before.

The greying skies above brought light showers down to the grassless land, creating puddles of mud and muck. Gunnar laid still, hidden behind a hill along with three of his fellow squad members. He grumbled in irritation as his knees began to sink slightly into the mud. This part of the planet was his least favourite.

“Hey, Cruiz. How much longer do we have to wait?” Gunnar asked, nonchalantly pulling his knees out of the mud.

“Delani,” Cruiz spoke into his commlink. “ETA?”

“He just got a hold of a speeder bike,” Delani answered. “Won’t be long.”

“You heard her,” Cruiz said, turning towards the others. “Get ready.”

“How many are with him?” Gunnar asked, taking out his pistol.

“He’s alone,” Cruiz said, earning a look of disbelief.

“There’s four of us, plus Delani covering us,” Gunnar said. “Isn’t this a little bit of an overkill?”

“Oh, you’ll see how tricky these bastards are,” Cruiz replied with a chuckle.

Gunnar scoffed. “Please. You don’t really believe in those stories, do you?” 

“Ten seconds, guys,” Delani warned through the commlink.

“Well, it’s time to learn a thing or two,” Cruiz said, standing up with his jetpack ready.

The light rain eventually became heavier as the Twi’lek Jedi sped through the valley, mud splattering on the sides of his speeder bike and boots. He could barely see through the mist and rain, though he could not mistake the red light of a blaster round. Delani’s shot landed inches to the side of the speeder bike, slowing it down just for a few seconds. That was all Cruiz needed. Looking up at the sky, the Jedi could make out the silhouette of a humanoid. Mandalorian, no doubt.

With the Jedi’s concentration divided, Delani managed to shoot the engine of his speeder bike, sending him hurtling towards the mud. Gunnar stood on top of the hill, watching Cruiz as he pointed his pistol at the collapsed Jedi. That was much too easy for comfort, especially with Cruiz’s unusual paranoia about the bounty. A gasp escaped him when suddenly, among the mist and rain, Gunnar saw blue light illuminating the Jedi’s surroundings. It was immediately followed by the sounds of Cruiz’s blaster and something Gunnar had never heard before. A low hum that seemed to vibrate, and something akin to a blaster impact yet more high pitched.

“A little help would be great!” A panicked Cruiz exclaimed from the commlink, waking the rest of his squad up from their awe.

“You heard him, let’s move,” Gunnar ordered, rising to the sky as he began to open fire.

The shower of blaster rounds caught the Jedi’s attention, though Gunnar found it strange that he did not seem alarmed at all. Oh that’s why, none of the shots they fired ever got close.

“Mandalorians,” the Jedi exclaimed quietly. “I guess negotiation is off the table, then?”

As Gunnar fired closer, he realised the Jedi was deflecting their blaster rounds with his bizarre laser sword. Not only did he do so to avoid getting shot, he somehow redirected the blaster rounds towards his fellow bounty hunters. The beskar armour the Mandalorians donned was able to keep the blaster rounds from actually hurting them, but the impacts were powerful enough to disorientate. One fell from the sky and into the mud, and thus the others decided it was best to land by their own volition.

“Cover me,” Cruiz ordered, patting Gunnar’s shoulder.

The two bounty hunters focused their blasts to distract the Jedi as Cruiz charged him with his pike. The Jedi’s reflex was too quick, though he seemed quite surprised that the metal stick managed to stay intact upon contact with his saber. Each blast from the squad landed inches away from the Jedi as he somehow managed to dodge all of them whilst combating Cruiz. One deflected blaster landed a hit of one of the Mandalorians on the shoulder, sending her to the ground.

“Hi Delani,” Gunnar greeted through the commlink, his voice ironically pleasant. “I don’t know if you’re busy, but-”

A blaster round shot through the rain and landed with an explosion on the speeder, burying the Jedi in rubble. 

“You’re welcome,” Delani responded.

Cruiz caught his breath, settling his hands on his knees. “Careful, Gunnar. We don’t know if he’s down yet.”

Gunnar raised his pistol at the pile of smoking rubble, slowly approaching it. “Come on. Not even a Jedi could-”

For a reason he could not yet explain, Gunnar stepped to his left. And not a second after, a large piece of hot metal flew right next to him at the height of his neck. Gunnar’s eyes widened at the sight, afraid of what he might see when he decided to turn his gaze back towards the Jedi. And as he did, he could feel something holding onto him, clutching at his torso. It felt like time had halted. The droplets of rain were suspended in the air along with Gunnar, whose feet no longer touched the ground. The Jedi stepped out of the rubble pile, his hands raised.

“The Force is real,” Gunnar whispered in shock.

“Very,” the Jedi responded. He launched Gunnar towards Cruiz, knocking them both in one swift movement.

With a tired huff as he looked at the skies once more, the Jedi did not forget that there was still a sharpshooter somewhere. He couldn’t waste more of his time dealing with that. The fight on the ground was pretty much finished and he needed to seize his chance to flee. As the Jedi tried to escape, he stopped his steps when he sensed something move behind him. His laser sword was activated in time to deflect the blaster round flying towards him. Distracted, the Jedi failed to see the Mandalorian sliding on the muddy ground, tackling him down towards the foot of the hill. The two tumbled down, muck and dirt soiling them, until they hit a rock and crashed on two different murky puddles.

Gunnar groaned as he got up. His armour had protected him from the pain of the landing, but he wasn’t exactly excited to find it dirtied by the awful greenish brown taint from the wet soil. He truly hated this part of the job. Through the rain, he found the Jedi collecting himself, and as if it was in his instinct, Gunnar began firing immediately. When the Jedi managed to locate his laser sword hilt, he pulled it to his hand without even coming near it. Now that’s just unfair, Gunnar thought, combat rolling back to cover as he avoided the deflections.

“This is kind of fun,” the Jedi said with a chuckle as he wiped some gunk off of his forehead. “Could be a great morning workout routine if you weren’t actually trying to kill me.”

“Okay, mister hot shot Jedi man,” Gunnar grumbled, his tone thick with irritance. “Let’s see if you can deflect these.”

The Jedi raised a brow when Gunnar tossed his pistol aside and took his blades out. ‘Blades’ was an overstatement. They were just scrap metal Gunnar had sharpened, not very aerodynamic-looking in the slightest. It actually made the Jedi chuckle.

“Are you really resorting to throwing trash at me, kid?” The Jedi asked. “You might as well turn back and let me go freely.”

Now more focused at beating his muddy ass, Gunnar flung his blades at the Jedi’s torso. With the distance between them, the Jedi did not expect the clunky pieces of metal to even reach halfway. His smile dropped into a frown when one flew right past the tendril on his head. The Jedi was shocked, of course, but his surprise was mixed with a bit of curiosity.

Try as he might, but trying to deflect Gunnar’s blades only sliced them. The Jedi winced in pain as hot, sharp metal successfully struck his right shoulder. Gunnar aimed for the thigh next, dropping the Jedi to his knees with a loud, painful groan.

“Heh,” the Jedi scoffed. “I’ve never seen anything like this from a bounty hunter. Much less a Mando.”

“You’ve lost,” Gunnar retorted, approaching the Jedi with a pistol pointed at him. “What could you possibly yap about now?”

“The Force,” the Jedi said, raising his gaze with a cheeky smirk. “It’s strong in you, Mandalorian.”

Gunnar paused, unsure how to react. With a lot of hesitation, which the Jedi can definitely sense, he stuck the nozzle of his pistol onto the Jedi’s chest. “That was a rhetorical question. You know, you’re still worth something dead. Talk to me again, and I will hurt you.”

“I’m just saying-” the Jedi dared continue, earning him a hard smack on the head.

“Man, just shut up,” Gunnar grumbled, watching the Jedi fall unconscious.

-

The young Mandalorian stared at the dying embers in the fire pit, orange light reflected upon the visor of his battle-worn helmet. Roars of laughter and celebration could be heard behind him, his friends toasting drinks for a job well done. Despite the rowdy noise, all Gunnar could hear were the Jedi’s words to him. The Force is strong in him, he repeated for what felt like the thousandth time. It could be written off as bullshit, he could have just forgotten about it and joined the party. After all, his friends were all celebrating him for catching their biggest bounty of the season. Yet for some reason, those words stuck with him, haunted him.

What does it mean, he thought to himself, what does it mean for the Force to be strong in him?

Furrowing his brows, Gunnar took out the sharpened scrap metal from his pocket and started to fidget with it. His mind replayed the fight earlier, where the Jedi launched a large hunk of metal towards him. How did he do it, the young Mandalorian asked silently, eyes focusing at the blade in his hand. Rigid, rusted, and poorly crafted if he was being honest. His friends had never been able to throw them very far no matter how much he taught them, always complaining that his ‘junk’ was impossible to weaponise, at least from a long distance.

Contrary to popular belief, Gunnar was not immediately good at throwing those things. He was able to use them properly because he had practiced more than them. He was disciplined and determined to make them work. Or at least what he always thought. It was rather odd that once he found the way, the revelation his peers never found and perhaps never will, he could always throw his scraps further than they should be able to travel. Gunnar frowned.

He went back to when he saw the Jedi pull his laser sword back to his grasp. At the time, he was too irritated to think any more of it. Now that he was focused, deep in reflection, he realised how familiar it felt. And whatever his feelings could have been, it was the same, exact one from when he first managed to launch his blades. A eureka he had been searching for.

“The Force is strong in you,” a disembodied whisper spoke in the young bounty hunter’s ear. Warm, phantom-like, and most of all, welcoming.

Gunnar’s gasp was audible through his helmet. His breath grew shaky, his eyes widened at the sight of the piece of metal levitating steadily above his palm. The rapid breath of panic soon transformed into a soft, giddy chuckle. There was a sense of wonder and excitement in the eyes behind the Mandalorian’s visor, watching the piece of metal float to his eye level. It was like a fog had been lifted, like everything started to make sense to him.

“Gunnar,” a young woman called from behind. “What are you doing out here by yourself?”

“Uh-” As quick as he could, Gunnar grabbed the levitating object out of the air before she could see. “Just, um, needed some me-time, you know.”

“It’s okay, you can say you’re mad your outfit got covered in mud,” she said, sitting next to him. “Again.”

“It would suck less if the spare armours looked decent,” Gunnar retorted snarkily, adjusting his replacement armour. “I’m working very hard to make this ugly piece of junk look presentable, Delani.”

Delani chuckled, and fell into a concerned silence a few seconds later. “You’re all good, right?”

“Yeah. Of course I am,” Gunnar said with hesitation, clenching the blade tighter. Raising his gaze at his reflection on Delani’s Mandalorian helmet, he suddenly realised what it could mean if anyone found out about his recent self-discovery. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Gunnar,” she frowned. “Is something bothering you?”

“I-,” he stuttered. “I just have a lot in my mind.”

“Well, whatever it is,” Delani rested her hand on Gunnar’s shoulder. “I’m here for you.”

“Thanks,” he said with a frown.

There was an unease deep inside of Gunnar’s chest. Nobody, not Delani or Cruiz, would take his newfound gift very well. It belonged to the Jedi; their enemy. It would complicate a lot of things, possibly put his relationships at risk, or even instantly end them. 

Nothing good would come out of it, he decided, gazing at the reflection of his Mandalorian helmet in a puddle next to him. The answer was simple; just continue to live as he did before. Forget the Jedi’s words, and forget the levitating scrap metal. Just pretend everything was normal.

Pretend he was normal.

[stories-by-mocho]

Nolan Rhinehart

Note: this is the backstory for my Star Wars RPG character, enjoy!

-

The room reeked of dust and antiseptics. Artificial green light bled through in-betweens of rusted blinds, illuminating the orderly chaos better than any actual lighting inside. Standing in the middle of it was a man called Nolan, his gloved hands encrusted in the very same shade of red that stained the filthy floor. A Twi’lek laid motionless on the improvised operating table, the organs in her abdomen exposed by an expertly cut incision. To the left of her torso was lilac coloured powder thoughtfully packaged in small bags, bathed in a surgical tray full of sanitising liquid.

He paused when he heard a rhythmic knock.

As the makeshift door screeched open Nolan gripped on his scalpel, fresh blood still trickling down the sharpened edges. He was prepared, always prepared, to kill. But he was spared from the task. Nolan relaxed at the sight of his superior, Lieutenant Villius, dressed fully in stormtrooper armour with his helmet rested between his arm and hip.

As he made his way in, the lieutenant was trying really hard to hide his repugnance when he caught a glimpse of a foreign object quite literally stuffed between the Twi’lek’s skin and stomach. He averted his gaze only to find crammed in the far end of the dimly lit room, a person-sized tub filled to the brim with bacta fluid. There was something submerged in it, clearly humanoid. The odour of exposed bacta fluid, which would be about ten times more intense than iodoform, finally made its way to Villius’ nose. He grimaced.

“Why are you giving me that look,” Nolan exclaimed. “This was your idea.”

“I forget it’s always worse in person,” Villius said hoarsely.

“Don’t be a baby,” Nolan jeered monotonously. “If you’re that squeamish you should’ve stayed in the bar.”

Villius just managed to stop himself from starting an argument, remembering why he had to barge into Nolan’s house of horrors in the first place. “How much longer do you need?”

“This one should recover by daybreak, so we’re good to leave in the morning.” Nolan casually folded his arms, not really caring much for his transparent scrub getting smothered with bloodied gloves. “Assuming no complication occurs. In my end or yours.”

“What does that mean?”

“I’m still not convinced this plan of yours will follow through, Alnor,” Nolan answered frankly.

“Well, it’s too late to turn back now.” Villius shrugged. “We’ll be fine. Trust me.”

Nolan flashed him a smile. “I’d rather not this time.”

Villius scoffed to shroud how hurt he was by Nolan’s painfully obvious tone of doubt. “Well. I’ll let him know we’re coming.”

He took out a palm-sized communication device as he turned on his heel and left. The false smile on his face soured into a scowl the further away he paced from that room. His heavy footsteps filled the hallway accompanied by grotesque noises of pleasure coming out of the rooms on his sides, shut behind welded scraps of metal so thin Villius could hear every whisper of filth. He hurried out to the bar to be greeted by the sickly aroma of counterfeit booze and used hallucinogens. Anything was better than bacta fluid at this point.

-

The tips of her fingers twitched as her mind spun awkwardly into consciousness. She raised her hand to touch her face, but whatever her palm felt was not her own skin. She knew her eyes were open but all she could see was blackness, except for a dot of green light, dancing miles away from her body. She reached for it, and with her overstretched arm she broke a thin membrane that separated her and the rest of the world. Suddenly, as her senses came back to her all at once, she felt very trapped.

The Twi’lek hoisted herself up with both her hands, splashing the surrounding area with bacta fluid. Panicked, she hastily studied the room, realising that she had no idea where she was. Her limbs were weak but she managed to tear off her breathing apparatus and climb out of the tub, almost slipping in the process. She swore that she had been wearing clothes the last time she recalled. But honestly, she couldn’t remember the last time she was conscious, nor did she know what had happened before she was knocked out. For now she just needed to get the hell out.

Her weak, slippery feet did their best to carry her body to wherever the exit may be. Panic, nausea, and fatigue set in her chest, and her breathing became rapid and heavy. She let out an involuntary whimper as she caught herself on the door handle before she fell on the rough, uneven ground. A small, hopeful smile formed on her lips. Ready to run away and leave this behind, she opened the door.

She gasped. What greeted her was the muzzle of a blaster pistol pointed directly between her eyes. The hallway was filled with noises of vulgarity, but Nolan’s utter silence encouraged the Twi’lek to stay quiet. He calmly, almost clinically, watched as his patient’s smile withered away into terror, droplets of tears seeping from her eyes. He flicked his pistol to the side, gesturing for her to go back in.

There were others like her. About eight other people of various races were loaded on the back of a large carrier, hands and feet bound with unexpectedly elaborate high-tech cuffs. She swallowed, gently fidgeting on the fabric of an orange jumpsuit her captive had told her to put on. Soon she realised everyone in the carrier was wearing what she recognised as Republic attire, for a reason she didn’t understand.

In front of her sat a sickly looking Human. His lips were dry and his eyes, weary, as if he had spent days without sleep. He was hugging his own stomach, shielding it from more harm that may or not be inflicted. Perhaps he had the same series of mysterious stitches on his abdomen as she did. But unlike him, she felt only slight discomfort, like something in her chest didn’t quite fit. She could do nothing else but watch him rock back and forth on his seat, muttering a quiet prayer to the stars, or the Force, or whatever cared enough to listen.

The carrier stopped. There was a clear absence of sound outside; wherever they were was void of any sort of activity. Death was the first and only thing that had come across the passengers’ minds as a stormtrooper entered, blaster pistol exhibited proudly on his utility belt.

“Good morning and congratulations,” Lieutenant Villius started, much too energetic for this time of day. “You’ve all been given an opportunity to repay your large sum of debt to Black Sun.”

His words broke the tension and hopelessness that had plagued the crowd. They muttered to themselves, questioning the authenticity of this man’s promise. But nevertheless a faint light of hope twinkled in everyone’s eyes.

“Now, we are on a tight schedule so I’ll make this quick,” Villius continued. “You are all affiliated to the Rebel Alliance. My associate and I found you setting up a base of operations. We decided to take you in for questioning. It is vital that you play this role until I say otherwise. Questions?”

Everyone looked at each other briefly before a Rodian, dressed similarly to the female Twi’lek, raised his bound hands meekly. “Where are you taking us?”

“Away from this garbage planet,” Villius answered vaguely. “Keep in mind that we will keep you alive until you’ve reached the destination, but other stormtroopers may try to kill you. And if you try anything brave or heroic, it will be the question of whose blaster would reach you first. When you stay in line you stay alive. Understood?”

The combination of delirium, bacta sickness, and this overly enthusiastic stormtrooper jabbering at light speed confused them even further than before. Not knowing how to react, they chose to stay silent.

As stressed as the prisoners were, none of them spent hours operating on nine subjects with a deadline. Nolan tapped his foot restlessly, and stopped when the repeated sound of his boot hitting the metal floor of the vehicle was starting to corrode whatever was left of his patience. After working a few years with Villius, he thought he would eventually get used to his giddiness in the morning.

“We don’t have long until they become septic,” Nolan explained. “Especially that Human. He’s looking worse than I anticipated.”

“It’ll be fine,” Villius reassured, turning the engine on. “We only need them alive until we get to a starship.”

“This is a really, really bad idea,” Nolan said.

“I’m sure you’ll feel better when you see how much we’re getting paid for this,” Villius beamed, his tone somewhat antagonistic. “Drink your tea and relax. It’s all me from this point forward.”

Unsurprisingly, thanks to Villius, they easily managed to move the captives into a ship that would fly them to a Star Destroyer. Of course every trooper he spoke to would trust him. He was quite literally everything his subordinates wanted for a commander; good humoured, understanding, personable, dedicated, patriotic, the list could go on. Despite him knowing that he really was nothing like the facade he constructed, the praises still fed into his ego. 

Villius was not ready to admit that he was scared of this plan falling apart; that Nolan’s reluctance to involve himself in this job was completely justified. He knew the riskiest part was about five minutes away, where neither he nor Nolan could lower their guard for even a second.

Security became much tighter with vital political prisoners on board, but it didn’t stop Nolan from examining the Human kidnapee. His face was much paler than before, his skin drenched in cold sweat. A double check of the other prisoners concluded that Humans were just not built for this specific kind of drug trafficking. He didn’t blame himself, as he was more used to the type of practice that involved harvesting organs rather than stuffing things in-between them.

As xenologically insightful as this experience was, Nolan would rather this Human live for however long as they stayed in the Destroyer. An unexplained death of a sick Rebel would not only panic the paranoid Imperial officers on board, it might also call for an autopsy, which to him would be the absolute worst thing that could spoil this stupid plan.

When the ship landed in the hangar, Villius found the second lieutenant anxiously waiting. Her eyes were focused on him alone, making him wonder if he had a misstep. The captain strutted towards him, greeting him with a look of distress and urgency.

“Lieutenant Corbell,” Villius addressed with a nervous smile.

“There is something I need to discuss with you,” Corbell said, almost cutting him off. “It’s very important.”

“I’m afraid I’ve got my hands full with Rebel affiliates. Whatever it is, I’m sure you can carry on without me,” Villius said purposely in a dismissive manner, hoping that she would be put off.

“Well, that can wait,” Corbell said, taking a glimpse at the line of captives guarded by the same number of troopers. “It’s not like they’re going anywhere.”

“But-”

And without another word, she marched off.

Villius quietly muttered several curses as he strode briskly through the progressively busier hallways, much too exasperated to acknowledge any greetings from his subordinates. With every step he counted how many seconds he could have used to load the prisoners to a starship, and more importantly, how increasingly peeved Nolan must have been from being left to fend for himself. Despite him not commenting on the unexpected change of plans, it really was not hard to tell how agitated he was back in the hangar, even with his helmet on.

The off-white hallway felt more claustrophobic than Nolan remembered. The air was heavy with tension. Everything seemed to fall silent the more they were further away from the busy hangar, tapping of boots and clicks of blaster rifles gently grazing on laminate filling the stillness. Nolan couldn’t help but to sheepishly take a glimpse of the Human behind him, and as if on cue, he began to wobble and brushed shoulders with the stormtrooper next to him.

“Hey!” the trooper yelled, breaking the silence. He jerked the captive against the wall, blaster rifle thrusted upon his chin. “What the hell do you think you’re doing, scum?”

“I wouldn’t do that,” Nolan warned with virtually nothing behind the threat. Under the stern pretence of his standard stormtrooper helmet, Nolan was the opposite of calm. There were so many unwanted things that could happen to this particular captive.

The trooper paused, looking right at him for a few seconds before backing off. The Human faltered to the floor, gasping and exhaling as he began collecting himself. 

Nolan’s initial surge of relief vanished at the sight of the trooper’s boot making violent contact on the prisoner’s chest. Nolan almost shouted, instinctively rushing towards him as he would to an injured soldier on the field.

The war room was grey and miserable, not unlike the rest of the spaces in the Destroyer. Soundproofing installed on the walls only spoke of how paranoid the officers were of information breach. As a result, it became quiet; uncomfortably so. Before Villius could start making conversation, Corbell rushed to the door she forgot to lock. The uncharacteristic lack of any positive emotion on her face was starting to raise concern.

“Okay, Corbell. Now that we’re safe from Rebel spies,” Villius mocked. “What’s going on?”

“Last night one of our scouts recovered this from the side of the road,” Corbell started, taking out a clear bag with what looked like a comm device, destroyed and put back together. Villius, getting less and less patient, watched how delicate and careful she handled the device when she took it out of its sleeve. “The reason why I’m bringing it to your attention, well…”

As she activated it, the vague irritation on Villius’ expression slowly faded. Dal Perhi, vigo of Black Sun, or at least a still image of him appeared in blue holographic light out of the device in the second lieutenant’s palm. Villius’ heart suddenly sank to his stomach, his mind running thousands of miles an hour. It was obviously a burner.

But it was his.

There were eight pairs of terror-stricken eyes glued at the sight of a man, blood oozing out of his nose, mouth opened as he struggled to inhale. The stormtroopers stood apathetically and lost interest immediately after Nolan reached him. As he knelt down to examine the injured man, the closest trooper noticed a growing stain of crimson pooling on the man’s chest. Nolan chose to say nothing, even going as far as acting like it was not abnormal.

“We need this one to survive,” Nolan said, half-lying. “Help me get him in his cell.”

“Should I call the medics for you?” a trooper volunteered.

“It’s fine,” Nolan said, attempting to help the Human stand up. “This shouldn’t be difficult.”

“I’ve called them in,” another trooper chimed kindly. “Don’t work too hard, doc. Remember, we’re all here to help you.”

There was nothing Nolan wanted more than to bite the heads off of these good-natured, thoughtful idiots. The patient was laid on an elevated bit of ground in his cell. Nolan wouldn’t call it a bed, it was made with the same material as the flooring. As he expected, the stitching on the man’s abdomen had unravelled. Easy fix. He would be done in ten minutes, if it weren’t for the unnecessary medics that barged in, instantly crowding the cell.

“I don’t need you here,” Nolan said bluntly. “I can handle this. His stitches just opened, is all.”

“Er, doctor Rhinehart,” the medic shyly called. “I know I’m not as qualified as you but… That man looks like he needs intensive care.”

And here, in the heat of the moment, Nolan realised he had forgotten about the bigger health issue this man had; sepsis.

Villius’ hand rested on the grip of his blaster pistol on his belt, staring attentive and cautiously at the second lieutenant. He could physically feel his facade slowly decaying, his false smile looking disjointed on the mistrustful veil over his expression. 

“You need to destroy that thing, Corbell,” Villius said, struggling to keep his voice down. “It’s too dangerous to keep.”

“I was thinking of sending it over to law enforcement.” Corbell was much too focused on the device to notice the irregularity in the lieutenant’s behaviour. “We may not be able to touch Dal Perhi, but what if this thing has intel on on-going Black Sun activities. If I can find a way to play back some of the calls…”

“No, wait,” Villius cut her off, aggressively grabbing onto her hand as she fiddled with the frail device.

“Hey!” Corbell exclaimed, Villius’ force hindering her from holding on to the device.

A small piece of it chipped away when it dropped the cold, hard floor. The hologram disappeared upon impact but immediately glitched back to view, and unlike previously, the image of the vigo was animated.

“I’ll think about it,” Dal Perhi said coldly, the sound of his voice crackling in static. “After I get my shipment.”

“You will,” a reassuring voice replied. Corbell furrowed her brows at how disturbingly familiar it was. “Give us a couple more days. I guarantee it’ll reach you.”

She turned towards the lieutenant, perplexed. She didn’t realise Villius had pointed his pistol right to her chin.

“You’re already a few days late, Villius,” the vigo continued.

His eyes shifted into a diabolical shade of green, completely distinguishable from the lieutenant she knew. But evidently she knew less about him than she thought. Villius noticed the slight glance Corbell took down towards her belt. Without hesitation, just as she pulled her pistol out, Villius pulled the trigger.

“Vigo. How many smugglers do you know who’s got my day job?”

She laid on the floor, motionless, dead. Villius vented his frustration out on the comm device, stomping it beyond recognition. This time he made sure every bit was disintegrated. He scoffed, mocking himself for not being able to come up with a way to get out of this situation clean. With specks of the second lieutenant’s blood on his white armour and helmet, he made his way through the hallway in search of his companion.

A stretcher passed by with a very sick looking, very familiar Human man dressed in Rebel trooper uniform. Trailing not far behind was exactly the person Villius needed to stop. He grabbed Nolan by the shoulders and pulled him around the corner.

“Alnor, I can explain. He got assaulted and his stitches opened, then--” Nolan began frantically.

“We need to leave,” Villius said gravely.

He paused for a second. “What?”

“Right now,” Villius resumed. “We need to be anywhere else but here.”

-

The Star Destroyer edged further as the starship flew away, and eventually, when the ship entered hyperspace, Nolan could no longer see it. He had to give credit to Villius for thinking of a fail safe, that was what the old ship was called. Fail-Safe. Nolan leaned his back to the co-pilot chair, for the first time in days savouring a moment of tranquility. There was an air of peace coming from Villius despite how frantic his movements were. They’ve escaped, and whatever consequences they were going to face, they would think about later.

“I told you so,” Nolan said quietly, sombrely.

“Yeah,” Villius replied.