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velidewrites · 1 year

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Summary: When 19-year old Feyre Archeron voluntarily takes her sister's place in the Hunger Games, she expects nothing but her imminent demise. But Feyre is a survivor, and as she is thrown into a battle between life and death, she discovers there are things worth fighting for.

Pairing: Feysand

Warnings: Graphic depictions of violence, graphic depictions of blood and gore, Feyre being sexy and unhinged, wait a second is that Rhysand? Is he also sexy and unhinged? AKA Feysand (literally) slaying the game

Read: Chapter I || Fic Masterlist || AO3

Chapter IX: There Can Only Be One

Rhysand remembered the name of every single child the Capitol ever murdered.

The same could not be said for them, of course. Their memory faded as quickly as the funds Panem’s elite poured into the Hunger Games—forgotten as soon as the bloodshed was over. Year after year, Rhys watched as history repeated itself, more innocent blood spilled as the sponsors learned how to get creative.

First, there was all the betting. If there was one thing the Capitol loved almost as much as watching its children die one after another, being right had to be one of them. The endless battle of wits, all done behind the arena’s bloody curtain where the Tributes were nothing but numbers, nothing but pawns the elites forced around their imaginary board. Rhysand had never seen so much money in his life—certainly not before his own Games started. He sometimes wondered just how much of it went out of the Capitol’s pocket just to get him through to the end—right behind that curtain. Right into their laps.

Some people called him lucky to have ended up here. Others—the Victors, mostly—preferred to call him names he’d rather not think about right now. Rhysand, though—he liked to call himself a strategist. Part of something bigger.

After the sponsors poured all their money down the drain, there came the worst part of it all—the waiting. Countless pairs of eyes glued to the holoscreen, either widening in shock as their favoured fell, or narrowing in smugness as they cut down yet another victim of the country sworn to protect them. Each time, Rhysand would etch the victim’s name into his memory, knowing it was already forgotten by their sponsor, the funds already moved to their executioner.

These, Rhysand learned far too late in his life, were the true Hunger Games. The Tributes, their families, their Districts—all meaningless, all mere pawns to satisfy those at the very top. To feed the Capitol, starving for entertainment.

There would come a time when they starved to their deaths—or, better yet, choked on their own greed. It was the only hope he held onto these days. The only thing that kept him going through the past decade.

So Rhysand waited, eyes focused on the holo as he began writing yet another name into the most shielded corner of his heart.

Nuan of District Three must have been one of the cleverest Tributes he’d ever seen. Even through the screen, he could practically hear the wheels of her mind turning. For someone so young, her intelligence and wit had already gained her a sponsor, determined to see the ceremonial crown placed atop her head—to see the gold reflected proudly in her black hair. The man had made sure she’d lasted through the winter day with a coat and the proper tools to light a fire—all proven useless in the end, though, with Nuan figuring out how to keep herself warm hours before the package was delivered. The freshly killed elk’s body heat and warm blood had not been a sight the sponsor particularly enjoyed, but Rhysand watched the entire spectacle with a smile on his face.

That smile was long gone now. Nuan was clever, yes, and she’d managed to make it to the final four—but it was not enough.

It was not nearly enough.

Rhysand, frankly, had no idea how the girl had learned about the coming storm. The sponsor couldn’t have told her—it was against the rules and closely monitored by the Gamemakers—which only meant more credit was due to Nuan’s skills. With the autumn day still around the corner and the spring and summer days seemingly following their old pattern, there were no signs of the coming changes. Only a handful of sponsors had been told of the Prime Gamemaker’s plans to “make things more interesting,” as Eris Vanserra had called it. The fire, he’d said, had been a spectacle, yes—but he hardly enjoyed watching the same show twice, a sentiment the sponsors certainly shared with the final hours of the Games approaching at last.

The wire, Rhys had to admit, was perhaps one of the most brilliant strategies he’d ever witnessed in his ten years of experience. He’d been confused about Nuan’s choice of weaponry ever since he saw her sprinting for it at the Cornucopia—armed only with the long, metal string and a short dagger, Rhys did not anticipate the girl to last this long.

She’d wrapped one end around the bark of an oak tree, the thin cord disappearing in the dried-up grass before dipping into the neighbouring river. It was the perfect trap—if timed correctly. The moment her victim’s foot stepped on the wire—and the lightning struck the tree—would be the moment they drew their last breath. The only thing left for Nuan to do was to hide in the bushes and wait for the storm to come.

It was already too late.

The camera zoomed in on the girl’s face, her gaze focused on the sky above. The sun was starting to come down, greyish clouds already shielding the arena from its light. Rhys could almost hear the thoughts churning in Nuan’s head—the storm is coming. But Nuan did not—could not—see what Rhys saw.

Brannagh was coming, too.

And she was a lot faster than the storm.

A smirk twisted Brannagh’s dirt-smeared face, unease curling in the pit of Rhys’s stomach at the sight. She looked more like an animal than a girl now, he thought, the urge to kill almost primal as it flashed in her eyes. A predator ready to dig her claws into her prey.

The live footage followed Brannagh’s every step, dreadfully quiet against the sun-scorched soil as she made way for the river. If Nuan stayed hidden well enough, perhaps Brannagh would’ve set up camp nearby—would’ve stayed until the rain started pouring.

But Nuan’s attention remained on the clouds high above, her expression tight with anticipation, and Brannagh…Brannagh moved too silently to make her presence known.

It would take a sound—a single crunch of a twig beneath Nuan’s feet, a rustle of the bushes wrapped around her slim body to let Brannagh know she was not alone in the clearing. Rhys’s heart picked up, thumping loudly against his ribs, as if to yell loud enough for Nuan to heed its warning. If only he could be there, somehow—or send a message, one of those silver parachutes to carry a weapon of more substance than the pathetic knife strapped to Nuan’s boot. The holoscreen separating them reminded Rhys that, just like any other Tribute in the past, Nuan was all on her own.

“Come on,” he murmured, chin propped up in his hand. “Look down.”

“Nervous, Rhysand?”

The voice snapped him back to reality so suddenly he nearly flinched—he certainly would have, had he not gotten used to hearing it almost every night. On the holo, Nuan fidgeted with the spare wire in her hands, as though she, too, heard the syrupy question.

Rhys turned to Amarantha with a lazy wave of his hand. “This has been dragging on too long,” he complained, motioning to the screen. “That District Two girl should just get on with it.”

She took her seat on the couch beside him, the deep maroon of her hair spilling over the back. “So bloodthirsty,” she purred, trailing a long, sharp nail down his shoulder. Before he could stop himself, Rhys shivered, and Amarantha smiled, clearly misinterpreting his reaction.“I’m surprised you’re so eager to see Brannagh move forward,” she added, her gaze flicking to the holo.

“Why wouldn’t I be?” Rhys asked, letting his own mouth curl in a smile. “The sooner the Games are over, the sooner I have you all to myself again,” he teased, brushing a thumb over her pale hand.

Amarantha did not so much as look in his direction, her focus on Brannagh now as she kneeled by the stream. “That is not what I meant.”

Rhys’s smile faltered. “Oh?”

Her head angled an inch. “Brannagh seems to be awfully determined to get to a favourite of yours,” she mused quietly.

For a moment, Rhysand’s heart stopped beating.

Did she know?

She couldn’t have—she simply couldn’t. She’d shown no apprehension towards him in the lounge the other day—and certainly none in the night that followed—and he’d been so careful, lot more than in the past few years. There was no chance anyone had found out about his meeting with—

Rhysand composed himself quickly.

“Come now, Amarantha,” he hummed, pressing his lips to the cold hand on his arm, willing her eyes back on his own. “You’ve known me long enough now to know I don’t play favourites. Well,” he winked. “Except for one, I suppose.”

Her eyes narrowed, but she seemed to ease up a little, her lips pursing playfully as she countered, “I’ve known you long enough to know you’re a shameless flirt, Rhysand.” He chuckled, letting Amarantha study his face as she explained, “I meant Feyre Archeron, of course.”

She looked briefly to the live footage, where Nuan finally seemed to have taken notice of the Career a mere few feet away from her.

“Our shining Star of the Capitol,” Amarantha hummed absently.

Rhys forced his gaze away from her face, letting that trained boredom fill his own as he looked to the screen as well. “Feyre Archeron?” he asked, scrunching his nose slightly. “I thought she was already dead.”

The words soured in his throat, the strange sense of betrayal they carried making his stomach tighten painfully.

Amarantha hummed again. “Not yet.”

Rhys blinked. Somewhere, in a world far away from this one, Nuan began silently stepping out of the bushes, the wire clenched tightly in her palm as she crept up on the Career. Brannagh would be far gone before the storm even started—she must’ve decided to act now.

“What do you mean?” he asked somewhat breathlessly, her answer knocking nearly all the air from his lungs.

Amarantha blinked, too, her dark eyes flicking back to him as she explained quickly, “I’m only saying if you’re not even half as bloodthirsty as that dirty Career, our lovely Feyre is unlikely to hold her own against such…”

A loud scream sounded from the holo as Nuan fell to the ground, a knife deep in her throat, fresh blood staining the corners of her mouth. Brannagh hunched over the girl, breathing in an out sharply, hand pressed to her side—just below her liver, Rhys realised, where Nuan’s wire had managed to bury itself seconds before her death.

“…talent,” Amarantha finished.

Nuan coughed for the final time, blood gurgling out loud enough for the cameras to hear, before her eyes stilled, a glossy veil falling over her panicked gaze. The cannon boomed, marking the Tribute’s death.

Amarantha sighed, rising from the couch. “And then there were three.”

Rhys forced himself to look up at her and smile. “Shall we watch the finale back at my place?” he asked, his voice dipping suggestively.

She took his jaw in her hand, thumb brushing the crest of his bottom lip. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” Amarantha teased. “No, I’m afraid I will be watching with Grandfather tonight.”

Rhys’s eyes widened. “Since when?” he blurted before he could really think the question through.

Her smile faded. “The President values my company, Rhysand.”

Fuck.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

He shifted in his seat. “Of course—that’s not what I—”

Amarantha laughed—a low, raspy sound. “I like watching you squirm,” she said. “Don’t worry, you’ll see me after the ceremony—you can be sure of that.”

Fuck!

He was an idiot—an utter fool for not keeping his cool when it mattered most. This was it—his chance to be there, to get her to take him with her, to finally get to a place where only one person before him had ever managed to get to.

And Rhys ruined all of it.

She took him by surprise—she’d always stayed with him for the finale, with Hybern preferring his own company as the Games reached their climax. If he’d been smart, Rhys would’ve waited—would’ve fucked her senseless for it if need be, just as he’d done a thousand times before.

He missed his chance.

“I’ll miss you,” he threw in desperately, a pathetic attempt to gain what was already lost.

Amarantha leaned over the couch, the crimson of her lipstick flashing before she captured his mouth with her own, her tongue demanding immediate entry. He let her in, the way he’d always done, responding with the passion he knew would make her seek him out one way or another later—perhaps he’d manage to pull some information out of her, when she was tired and exhausted and naked in his bed.

Her teeth dug into his lip for the final time before she pulled back, a secretive smile playing on her pale features. “I’m sure you will,” Amarantha said. “Until next time.”

With that, she was gone, the door to his room closing with a light click.

Rhys vomited.

***

“Feyre.”

Feyre kept her gaze on the path ahead. She had no interest in stopping—not with the sun minutes away from setting, and certainly not with the fire sure to start within hours. She would not survive the autumn day again, that she was sure of. This—all of it—needed to end.

Now.

“Feyre,” Tamlin pressed behind her, his large hand reaching to capture her own. Even with the summer’s wet heat slipping away, his skin felt clammy against hers. Feyre ignored the feeling. It was nice to feel someone else’s touch, she realised. Especially since she might very well be dead in a matter of hours.

“Stop.”

She did, the new firmness in his tone halting her in her tracks. Tamlin’s face was hard as stone as she faced him, though the look his eyes was enough to betray exhaustion—they’d been walking for two hours now, moving from one corner of the arena to the other, guided by the river’s shimmering stream.

It had flushed out Tarquin’s blood within minutes, but even now, miles away from where they’d left his body, Feyre swore she could see red staining the water. Feyre knew the Capitol’s ship had probably picked him up soon after they’d left the clearing, and yet, she couldn’t shake the horrid image off her mind. Rotting flesh, slowly sinking into the mud or slipping into the river. Limbs caught up in the net—the net meant for her.

How many had already died so that Feyre might live?

She began counting them mentally, averting Tamlin’s searching gaze. The girl from Four, killed by a dagger seconds after they Games had begun—a dagger Ianthe aimed for Feyre’s throat. Devlon, terrible as he might’ve been, caught up in Brannagh’s bloodlust. Even Ianthe, whose bow now lay strapped to Feyre’s back.

Ressina.

Ressina, who would’ve lived had it not been for Feyre trying to play the Capitol’s game. She was good, her mind as sharp as her physical ability. Had it not been for the trap Feyre had set up, Ressina could’ve very well managed to survive until the very end. It could’ve been her friend now marching for the Cornucopia, ready to put an end to all of it.

Instead, it was Feyre, who only got this far because of sheer luck and whatever it was that Tamlin felt for her. She’d kissed him in that clearing, with Tarquin’s body as a witness. They’d barely spoken since then.

Perhaps, just as Feyre did, Tamlin was starting to realise they could not leave the arena the way they were now—hand in hand. Only one would survive.

And if they managed to kill the two Tributes left…

“Tell me what’s on your mind,” Tamlin said quietly.

She slipped her hand out of his grasp.

“Nothing.”

“Don’t lie to me.”

Feyre looked up to meet that emerald gaze, now stern with conviction. “The sun is setting,” she explained.

“Yes,” Tamlin agreed.

Feyre sighed. Her answer, apparently, was not good enough. “I’m worried about the fire.” Not entirely a lie—she had been thinking about it just a moment ago.

Tamlin’s shoulders fell a little—as though in relief. “There’s nothing we can do about that now.”

“Yes, there is,” Feyre countered. “Once we reach the Cornucopia—”

“We don’t even know if the other Tributes are there,” Tamlin interrupted. “The Games will not end tonight, Feyre. We should find shelter for the night.”

It wasn’t the first time he’d suggested it in the past hour. Feyre’s lips thinned—no matter how many time she’d pressed, Tamlin simply refused to back down. As if he wanted to prolong the Games, for whatever reason. He’d have to kill her eventually, anyway.

Feyre certainly wasn’t going to kill him. She had enough blood on her hands to understand there was no going back.

She could never go home again. How could she? To face Elain, so kind and gentle and good, and expect her to love a murderer? To face Nesta, who valued loyalty above all else, knowing she had watched as Feyre killed the one friend who’d looked out for her? No. Her sisters were lost to her.

Tamlin, at least, would get to go back. It was the one consolation she had left. After everything she’d done, at least she could set things right with him. He protected her—had lied and killed for her out of nothing but the affection in his heart—and he would get to go home because of it. He deserved it. District Twelve deserved it.

If it came down to the two of them at the end, Feyre knew what she’d have to do.

And there was not a shred of regret in her heart because of it.

“Feyre,” Tamlin’s voice, deep and unwavering, sounded again.

“We are so close, Tamlin,” she said, something heavy building up in her chest. “So close.” You could be going home.

Tamlin sighed. “That’s what worries me.” He turned slightly, gaze sliding over the trees around them until they settled at some point far to their right—as though he could see something there. A bird nesting deep between the leaves, a stray squirrel, perhaps, or worse—Brannagh, her favourite dagger already in hand, ready to slice it through their throats.

A split second later, though, Tamlin seemed to relax, powerful shoulders relaxing a little as he reached for her hand, thumb gently swiping over the back of her palm. She couldn’t help but lean into the touch—just how many of them did she have left?

“Tamlin,” she admitted, her voice quieter than a breath lest the Capitol could hear. “I’m scared.”

He squeezed her tightly. “There’s nothing to be scared about,” he told her with a rare smile. “I’ll protect you.”

No, you won’t, Feyre thought, though the words remained silent in the back of her throat. I won’t give you that chance.

He must’ve seen it, then—the pained look twisting her face, the shadows clouding her stare—because his brows knitted slightly, and he straightened. “Feyre,” Tamlin started, “Why—”

His question died with the loud boom of a cannon, so close to the two of them it might as well have been their own deaths it marked.

Feyre’s heart stopped beating entirely, her blood chilling into ice.

“Brannagh?” she dared to ask, the question no more than a whisper.

Tamlin’s eyes widened. “We need to move,” he urged, tugging on the hand she forgot he’d been holding. “Now, Feyre.”

She did not object this time.

They ran back into the forest, far away from the path laid out by the stream, the trees offering shelter from the fading sun. Three—there were three of them left.

The Games were coming to an end.

Feyre could only pray—pray to whoever would listen—that the cannon had been set off for Brannagh, that the girl from Three had somehow managed to kill the Career hell-bent on coming after the two of them. The thought almost made her stumble over her own steps.

Feyre considered the prayer again. Then again. And again.

Perhaps…perhaps this was her solution.

She already knew she wasn’t making it out of here alive—not when Tamlin was still by her side, breathing and in perfect health. She also suspected that if it came down to the two of them, Tamlin would not let her sacrifice herself for him.

Brannagh, though…

Feyre was certain the District Two Tribute shared no such sentiment.

Tamlin could handle her on his own—Feyre had no doubt of that. And Brannagh…Brannagh could handle Feyre.

Feyre swallowed thickly.

Elain, Nesta. I’m so sorry.

“There’s a cave just ahead,” Tamlin said beside her, motioning to the pile of rocks hiding an entry just under an oak tree. “We can wait out the fire there.”

Feyre nodded.

The moment Tamlin fell asleep, she would be gone.

Just as the cave she’d hidden in before, the space was cold and dark, the wet soil clinging to the soles of her boots. Near the entrance, a plush patch of moss laid waiting, the grassy scent mixing with the pungent mud. Feyre coughed once, then twice, earning a concerned look from Tamlin. She shook her head.

“It’s not poisoned,” she said. “It’s just…the smell.”

Tamlin scrunched his nose—then shrugged. “It’ll have to do.”

“You should get some rest,” Feyre told him, willing strength into her voice. “I’ll keep watch.”

“Feyre,” Tamlin’s tone invited no argument. “I’m not sure if you’ve forgotten, but you almost died today. Died, Feyre.”

She huffed a bitter laugh. “Yeah, well, what else is new?”

Tamlin rolled his eyes. “Very funny. I’ll go out and try to find us some dinner. We’ll need something to hold us over during the fire, won’t we?”

Feyre chewed on her bottom lip. “I don’t think—”

She didn’t get to finish. Without warning, Tamlin pulled her in to his chest, arms wrapping tightly around her as his mouth crashed into her own.

The kiss, unlike the one they’d shared by the river, was quick and chaste—but it was enough for her body to slump a little, exhaustion hitting her all at once. She could wait a little, Feyre decided. The forest was still ripe with prey, and the sun had only just now set. She could sleep—for the final time.

“Wake me up when you’re back,” she told him when he finally pulled back.

Tamlin nodded. “I will.”

And just like that, he left.

***

Ressina’s laughter was warm even underground, the sound echoing through the training ring.

“I’m really trying,” Feyre grumbled.

“Oh, I can tell,” her friend teased, teeth flashing in a mocking smile. “You really showed that dummy, you know.”

Feyre followed her gaze to the back wall—right where the dummy stood proudly, untouched by what seemed like a hundred daggers at its feet.

She sighed deeply.

“You’re doing it wrong,” Ressina tried again, stepping in closer to Feyre’s side. “Your stance has improved, but the issue is in your grip. Here,” she instructed, long, slender fingers wrapping around Feyre’s wrist. “Loosen it up a little. Not that much,” she said when the dagger fell flat in Feyre’s hand. “You still need the strength to throw it—but its the flexibility of your wrist that will guide the knife to its aim.”

“Where did you learn all of that, anyway?” Feyre asked her absently, eyes narrowing on the target once again as she adjusted her stance.

“I’ve told you,” Ressina said. “Apple farms.”

Feyre gave her a look.

Ressina chuckled. “You’re clever, Feyre. More clever than you think. Oh, that’s a good thing,” she added at the sight of Feyre’s rising brows, then nodded to the knife in her hand. “Daggers can only get you so far.”

Feyre followed her gaze—then looked to the dummy once again. She made herself count to three, releasing a deep, deep breath with each second until her shoulders steadied, and the knife became as much as an extension of her own hand.

A moment later, the blade lodged itself right in the puppet’s heart.

Feyre turned to Ressina. “I don’t know about that.”

Ressina smiled.

***

Feyre’s eyes shot open.

Propped up on her elbow, she lifted herself off the cold ground, heart thumping loudly in her chest. The sound of Ressina’s laughter still rang somewhere in the corners of her mind, the memory, too, like a knife burying itself deep into Feyre’s heart.

She blinked the stinging sensation away, her vision adjusting to the darkness around her. She could just barely make out the moss growing at the cave’s entrance, ruffled slightly by the night’s gentle wind.

It was then that Feyre realised she was alone.

She jolted upright, hand nearly slipping on the wet ground. Just how long had she been asleep?

“Tamlin?” she dared to whisper. Perhaps he was simply keeping watch outside. But no—he’d promised to wake her when he returned. What if…

What if Tamlin was never meaning to come back?

He could’ve planned for his own death the same way she had—the cannon told them Brannagh wasn’t far, after all. What if Tamlin had left for his own death, hoping to spare her from having to kill him at the very end?

“Tamlin,” Feyre tried again, voice growing desperate. She had no doubt there were cameras in the cave somewhere—she didn’t care. Not right now, when she needed to go and find him—needed to try and—

A quiet jingle sounded outside, breaking out of her panic.

She recognised it almost immediately, rising to her feet to meet the parachute outside. Perhaps, for whatever reason, Rhysand had taken pity on her again, and was now sending her some sort of protection from the fire. Or maybe, just maybe, the parachute was meant for Tamlin—and, hearing its gentle call, he was already on his way back to her.

The moment Feyre stepped outside, the parachute landed right in her hands.

Not for Tamlin, then.

The package was smaller than her last—only a small box hung attached to the silver fabric, nearly invisible in the darkness. She couldn’t have been asleep for long, then—the sky seemed nowhere near clearing up, the few stars above her only light as she unscrewed the top.

She wasn’t sure what she was expecting—a protective balm for her skin, maybe, anything to let her know the wild, ravaging fire would not be how she went out of this world.

Inside laid a neatly rolled piece of paper, the elegant, familiar handwriting no more than five words:

Don’t let the Hunger win.

Feyre read the message again. Then again—and again.

She gave up with the sixth time.

“What does that even mean?” she asked the stars, twinkling playfully in response. Feyre threw her arms up in exasperation.

“I don’t have time for this,” she grumbled, shoving Rhysand’s secretive message into her back pocket.

She needed to find Tamlin—and she needed to do it now.

***

“And you’re certain,” Rhysand said, his voice shaking slightly on the chill, underground air.

“Positive,” Nuala confirmed. “The parachute went out ten minutes ago.”

He loosed a breath. “Did she already receive ours?” She nodded. “Good. How much until the other?”

She shifted on her feet—a rare sight, and it only made his stomach tighten. If anything went wrong…

“Cerridwen is monitoring the cameras,” Nuala said.

“No names,” Rhys hissed.

“Right,” she scrambled. “Right, of course. I—yes. Tamlin should receive it within minutes.”

Rhysand forced another, frigid breath. “Did she send it personally?”

“She’s not stupid. And, from what you told me, she is occupied.”

“Right.” He’d almost forgotten.

Silence fell, filled by nothing but darkness between the two of them. It seemed that the waning hours of the Games were getting to Rhys, too—and more than he’d anticipated.

“We warned her,” Nuala said quietly—a shred of comfort in a situation like this.

“She won’t understand until she sees what they sent him,” Rhys countered. “And even then—”

“And even then, you’ll have done everything in our power to keep her alive,” Nuala pressed. “The only thing left for us to do is wait.”

The waiting is the worst part, Rhys remembered.

Still, he had no other choice.

It was up to Feyre now.

He could only pray she’d understand.

***

She found Tamlin not even ten minutes later, crouched behind tall bushes, eyes fixed entirely on whatever they were hiding. A sob nearly shook through her body at the sight—he was still alive. He still had a chance.

Feyre approached him silently, her bow strapped securely to her back as she kneeled beside him. “Tam—”

A large hand clamped her mouth shut as Tamlin whipped toward her, his gaze shining with alarm. Feyre’s breath quickened—his reaction could only mean one thing.

They were not alone.

Slowly, Tamlin released her face from his hold, his own finger pressed to his lips tightly, urging her to keep quiet. It was then that Feyre noticed a glimmer of silver near his feet—a piece of familiar fabric abandoned on the grass. Her brow arched in question.

Tamlin shook his head. Fine—he’d tell her later. Whatever it was the sponsors had sent him, it could apparently wait.

Feyre moved in closer toward him, reaching for the thin branches shielding her vision from view. She suppressed a hiss as a sharp pain shot through her finger, tearing the skin open at the tip. Thorns.

Tamlin’s gaze remained focused on the path ahead as she tried again, quietly opening a gap between the leaves to reveal whatever it was that commanded Tamlin’s full attention.

Her heart nearly froze at the sight.

They’d reached the Cornucopia.

She hadn’t seethe horn-like structure since the Games had begun, made of the same metal as the boxes sent from the Capitol and gleaming with its own, humming light. Feyre had forgotten just how large it was—just how much it could hide.

It was Brannagh’s whines that gave her away.

She sat on the east of the horn, back resting against the hardened walls, each one of her breaths falling flat. Feyre’s eyes widened—even the bushes seemed to go lethally still at the sight of the injured Career.

Brannagh’s hand laid pressed to somewhere near her stomach, her clothes bloodied slightly, though Feyre knew her well enough by now to know there was no telling if the blood was truly her own. There was no denying she was injured, though—perhaps injured enough to kill with enough ease.

This ruined her plans a bit.

Tamlin’s hand on her thigh snapped her back to their hiding spot. “We have to kill her,” Tamlin whispered, the sound barely audible on the midnight wind.

Feyre’s heart reset, stumbling over a beat. “Tamlin,” she breathed, “No—wait—”

“There’s no time, Feyre,” he urged. “We have to end this now.”

“Tamlin,” Feyre said, panic rising in her voice, “if we kill Brannagh, we’ll be the only two Tributes left.” She couldn’t kill him. She wouldn’t.

Once again, Tamlin’s face became stone. “We’ll have to deal with that later.”

“No,” she pressed. In the distance, Brannagh whined again—as though in confirmation. Even the wind seemed to pick up, howling somewhere in the distance. Could Feyre truly kill her like this? “There is another way. There has to be,” she said, more to herself now than him. What if—what if they could all get out of there alive. If they stood against the Capitol

“Feyre—”

“We’re not killers, Tamlin,” she pleaded. “We have to try. We can’t let them win.”

Don’t let the hunger win. Was that what Rhysand meant?

Surely, if we all refused to kill each other…I doubt they’d keep us trapped in here forever. Those were her own words, weren’t they? Spoken to Ressina shortly before her death. Perhaps that was why she’d dreamt of her earlier—perhaps the dream was her friend’s final message, her final lesson to keep Feyre alive.

She’d written off her death so easily, Feyre thought, a new sense of guilt washing over her at the realisation. She’d promised Elain to survive—she’d promised Ressina to bring the Capitol down after she did.

And Feyre would. She would make the Capitol pay for this—for all of this.

But first, the three of them were getting out of here alive.

Feyre stood abruptly and marched straight for the Cornucopia.

“FEYRE!” Tamlin roared behind her. Too late.

Brannagh, to her credit, shot to her feet instantly, a hiss managing its way past her lips with the movement. Not even her injury, it seemed, managed to keep the cruel smile off her face.

“Twelve,” she greeted, rising to her full height. “I’ve been waiting.” A look past Feyre’s shoulder, where Tamlin’s hurried steps now sounded. “And you’ve brought the traitor, too.”

“How did you know I’d be coming?” Feyre asked, her tone calm to her own surprise.

Brannagh shrugged, face twisting painfully—wrong move. What had the girl from Three done to her? “You’re the Star of the Capitol, aren’t you?” A raspy laugh. “Of course you’d want to have your moment to shine. Sorry to disappoint,” she added, “but even in my state, I can kill you right where you stand.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure about that,” Tamlin said behind her.

Brannagh’s eyes narrowed into thin slits. “Stay out of this, flower boy. This is between us girls.” A smile at Feyre. “Isn’t it?”

“I don’t want to kill you,” Feyre told her.

Now that seemed to throw her off. “What?”

“We can get out of here, Brannagh,” she told her the same thing she’d said to Tamlin. “All three of us—we can go home.”

Brannagh looked as though she’d gone insane.

Still, Feyre continued, “Please—please just hear me out. I know you don’t want this—I know you wouldn’t be this if it weren’t for the Games. We can all get out. If we stand our ground—if we refuse—”

Brannagh erupted in laughter.

The sound quickly turned into a cough—a flat, shuddering sound, her arms wrapping tighter around her sides.

“They got her,” Tamlin murmured, now a mere step behind Feyre. “It’s her liver, I think. Look at her hand.”

“You dumb bitch,” Brannagh laughed, “I knew you were crazy, but this has got to top it all.” Her dark gaze, now clearer than ever before, settled directly on Feyre’s. “You think you have a chance here? You think any of us do? Open your eyes, Twelve,” she hissed. “Only one of us is getting out of here tonight. And that someone is going to be me.”

“You’re dying,” Tamlin pointed out quietly. Somewhere in the distance, the sky rumbled loudly—enough to make all three of them flinch, as if in confirmation of his words. Was that a storm coming?

It couldn’t be, Feyre thought. Not with the fire a few hours away.

Brannagh tore her gaze off the sky to face them once more. “The Capitol will take care of me the moment you two are dead.”

“You’re a fool if you think the Capitol is ever going to take care of you, Brannagh,” Feyre said.

Brannagh’s eyes widened at that—and, for a split second, Feyre believed they had a chance.

If only.

“I’m no bigger fool than you,” she said, and attacked.

Feyre had no idea how Brannagh managed to launch for her this quickly—or when, exactly, the daggers appeared in her bloodied hands. She could only see the two flashes of silver as the Career swung, inches away from her neck.

Tamlin’s hands on her waist pulled her back with a force so strong Feyre gasped out in surprise. She swayed, heels digging into the ground as she tried to regain her balance, Tamlin’s own weapon already in his hand and charging for his enemy.

Brannagh ducked just in time to avoid his sword slicing her in half, but the move cost her—the strain on her wound made a sharp cry slip past her throat as she fell, back hitting the hard, solid ground. Her scream was cut off as she choked on her own breath, eyes threatening to fall out of their orbits at the impact. Brannagh grasped at the weeds around her, her hands weaponless now with her daggers abandoned from the fall, then choked again as she realised—it was over.

Feyre stepped in closer until her boots covered Brannagh’s blades—better safe than sorry, she told herself. Even disarmed, she was still dangerous.

Tamlin hovered above her, the tip of his own blade pointed at the defeated Career. Brannagh closed her eyes.

“Wait,” Feyre told him. Tamlin’s head whipped toward her.

“What?”

“Brannagh,” she urged, not daring another look at Tamlin. “Please. You have a chance here.”

Lightning tore through the darkness with her words—as if the night sky itself was in agreement.

With her remaining strength, Brannagh shook her head. “Y-you,” she wheezed, body convulsing with the effort, “You don’t mean that, Twelve.”

“We’re more than just numbers, Brannagh,” she told her. The sky rumbled again.

“Go…” Brannagh coughed, “…go fuck yourself.”

“That’s enough,” Tamlin said, hands wrapping tighter around the hilt.

Feyre’s vision flashed with alarm. “Tamlin, wait—”

Brannagh did not get to close her eyes again as Tamlin drove his sword deep into her throat.

Her body slumped against the grass, so small now that the soul was gone from it entirely. Feyre looked away from the blood—from what seemed like a sea of it pooling around her, turning the lush green into crimson—and yet, no matter how far she seemed to avert her gaze, the red found her still. She saw it everywhere now—the grass, the walls of the Cornucopia, the bark of the trees at the edge of the forest. Her own hands, marked by it forever.

The cannon sounded with the first rainfall.

Beside her, Tamlin was panting, those emerald eyes fixed on Brannagh’s dead body. Feyre could see the blood in them now, too. The water would wash it away, she realised, watching as the rain dotted her skin. It would wash it away and make space for more to be spilled.

“Tamlin,” Feyre whispered, the sound drowned out by the howling wind. The rain intensified, accompanied by more thunder, closer and closer with every roar. “Tamlin!”

“We need to take shelter!” he called to her, his hair already wet and clinging to his neck. He motioned to the Cornucopia—and took off.

Feyre had no choice but to run after him, Brannagh’s body discarded for the storm to claim.

“Tamlin,” she tried again once they stood under the silvery roof. Yet another cave of the Capitol’s making.

“The fire isn’t coming,” he said, as if that was the answer she was seeking. “I’m not sure which one of these is worse.”

“Tamlin.”

Finally, finally, Tamlin looked at her, something like a shadow clouding his expression. Feyre exhaled shakily. “What do we do?”

His jaw tightened. “We can’t get out of here. Likely for the next twenty-four hours.”

Feyre couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “Tamlin, I’m not talking about—”

“When was the last time you’ve eaten?” he interrupted, something urgent in his eyes with the question. Something pleading.

He’d just killed Brannagh, Feyre understood. And, if they failed to oppose the Capitol…he’d have to kill her, too.

She could give him one more minute.

“Okay,” Feyre breathed. “Okay.” She considered. “Since the spring day. But, like you said—we can’t go out.” Not with the storm raging by the minute.

Tamlin swallowed thickly. “I have food,” he said, then reached into the pocket of his jacket to pull out a shiny, silver box.

Feyre’s shoulders fell. It was decently sized that the two of them could share it, she supposed. “Is that what they’d sent you earlier?”

Tamlin nodded. “I’ve already had some before you found me—I’m sorry I didn’t go wake you. I thought she’d die on her own there.”

Feyre kept her eyes on the box. “It doesn’t matter anymore.”

Tamlin sighed. “No, I suppose it doesn’t,” he said, then opened the lid.

The box was filled to the brim with something—fruit, Feyre realised, making out their small, round shapes in the semi-darkness of the Cornucopia. Berries. It wasn’t meat, but it would be enough to hold them over for some time—especially if they’d been sent from—

Feyre blinked.

I had a sister once, you know, Tamlin said, not looking her in the eye as the city lights twinkled in the distance. She died when we were little.

Feyre remembered Tamlin from back home. Tamlin Rosethorn, the florist’s son. They’d never spoken, but ever since she was old enough to roam the District streets, she would see him around, clinging to his mother’s leg. She remembered his brothers, too—older, working their days in the mines or fighting each other in the streets whenever they got the chance.

But a sister…

Are you doubting yourself, Tamlin? Amarantha’s syrupy voice poured into her head.

No. But I do wish there was another solution.

That was the night she’d overheard them after training.

Her name was Dalia, Tamlin had told her minutes after, stumbling over his words. She was a lot like you, I think.

Feyre stopped breathing.

Poor Tamlin, Amarantha had crooned after the interviews. Young love can be so heartbreaking.

Be careful who you trust, Feyre, Rhysand had told her moments later.

One day, my sister was going back from the mines through the forest, Tamlin’s voice sounded again. And she picked up some nightlock berries.

Don’t let the hunger win.

Feyre swallowed. Hard.

“Tamlin,” she started slowly, looking up to meet his gaze. “What was your sister’s name?”

Tamlin’s brows furrowed. “What?”

“Just…tell me. Please.”

“I…” he hesitated, his stare dropping to the berries, then back to Feyre—then to the berries again. “Lila,” he said slowly. “Her name was Lila.”

Feyre’s chest tightened.

We all have to survive somehow. Her own words, said to Isaac shortly before her life fell apart.

This, apparently, had been Tamlin’s way.

“Wrong answer,” Feyre whispered.

Tamlin took a step back. Then another, until she realised he was not backing away—no, Tamlin was adopting his stance.

“It doesn’t have to be this way,” Feyre begged, even as she knew he was already lost to her.

Tamlin shook his head. “I really wish you had chosen the berries, Feyre.”

And with that, he reached for his sword.

“There can only be one.”

He betrayed her.

He’d been betraying her since the very beginning.

I’ll always protect you, Feyre. Lie, lie, lie.

She could protect herself.

Ressina’s dagger found its way into her hand naturally—like an extension of her wrist, part of her own flesh.

The world slowed down as Feyre made herself count to three, the rain outside blurry as her vision sharpened on one, singular target with a sword in his hand and pain in his eyes.

One.

Two.

“Three,” Feyre said, then plunged the dagger right into Tamlin’s heart.

***

Rhysand sat on the edge of his bed, unaware of the storm hurling at his windows.

He could only see the storm in the arena, clear on the holo as if it was happening right in front of him. Could only see as Tamlin swayed back into the wall of hardened rain with the knife buried in his chest to the hilt.

He looked at Feyre, mouth agape, as though he would say something—anything. None of it would matter.

His sword fell a second before Tamlin, his body hitting the ground with a loud thud.

He did not move again.

A few feet away, Feyre watched as the last Tribute stilled into nothingness.

And then, she blinked.

The determination Rhys had seen on her face moments prior faded instantly, replaced by a panic so palpable he swore he felt it in his own chest. Her blue-grey eyes went wide, freezing in terror as she waited for Tamlin to rise, to take another breath. Rhysand knew—he remembered. Tamlin was lost.

And Feyre was alone.

Slowly, Feyre took a staggering step forward, her face as though in a haze. Then, she took another—and one more, until she reached Tamlin’s side at last.

Rhysand stood, feet carrying him to the holo as if they could reach her, stopping only when he faced the shimmering blue screen.

The camera zoomed in on its star, close enough to capture the tremor that shook through her body, the wobble of her knees as she realised there was no going back. As she, too, understood, just how alone they were in this world.

Her legs gave out.

Feyre fell to her knees beside Tamlin’s dead body, looked up to the storm-torn sky, and screamed.

Rhysand’s palm found the screen. As if to brush the tears off her face.

I understand, he wanted to say. I understand.

For the first time in ten years, Rhys let himself cry.

Taglist (let me know if you'd like to be added!): @fieldofdaisiies @vulpes-fennec @houseofhurricane @reverie-tales @kingofsummer93 @melting-houses-of-gold @labellefleur-sauvage @shadowriel @captain-of-the-gwynriel-ship @headcanonheadcase @foreverinelysian @rhysiedarling @msfeyredarling @itisiyourfemur @to-read-or-to-read @bookish-dream @darling-archeron

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paleghostinthecorner02 · 5 months

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My (could actually be canon) Miguel O'Hara Headcanon is...

Miguel is a huge fan of body horror movies. He has a bunch of holos of movies like The Thing, The Stuff, Slither, Tokyo Gore Police, Eraserhead etc. His favorite is The Fly (a movie he is canonically a fan of!) and anytime he tells anyone this they they give him a weird look until he rolls his eyes and admits that yes, he DOES in fact see the irony now.

Also, everyone is really creeped out that a guy who's job it is to muck around with human DNA is so fond of movies focused on horrifying things happening to the human body. Nobody wants to confront him about it though :P

#miguel o'hara #spider man 2099 #headcanon #People either think he's a psychopath or that he's actually pretty cool for this #And no I'm not joking #He literally admits his gene splicing machine was inspired by the movie The Fly

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smiggles · 2 years

Text

Holo Gore CM

#smigglesart #furry #gore #sooooo old

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c0zyasc0ffe3 · 1 year

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TW/CW for body horror + gore(?) and spider imagery ⟟ think??? Idk but SPOOKY STUFF AND TENTACLES TOO!!!

Holo-Spooky-Spider-Drone G my beloved,⟟ love her sm and she’s SO incredibly fun to draw,her legs are so goofy🫶

#traditional art #art #artists of tumblr #murder drones #murder drones oc #spider drone #Holo spooky snake crab #except it’s a spider #I love her #she don’t bite #maybe #probably #hug at your own risk #or pet #idk

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yahoo201027 · 2 years

Photo

Now: The Great North

Next: Bob’s Burgers

Later: Family Guy

#Now Next Later #The Great North #Blood Actually Adventure #Bob's Burgers #Bobs Burgers #Apple Gore chard (But Not Gory)#Family Guy #Happy Holo ween #Local News #live blogging #Blog All The Time

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ilguna · 1 year

Note

Hi again this is from the supply run. Could you please do #17 from aisle 1 and # 22 from aisle 2 with finnick? Thank you! 🎉 -🪐

☼ only friends (Finnick Odair) ☼

warnings; swearing, gore, blood mention, death, death mention.

wc; 5.7k

prompt; 17. denying their relationship strongly. 22. "They won't take you away from me ever again."

—

“Tomorrow morning, when we pull Katniss Everdeen’s body from the ashes, we will see exactly who the Mockingjay is. A dead girl who could save no one, not even herself.” Snow’s voice is haunting as he gives the final word. The Capitol seal replaces his face, the anthem plays, and the television shuts off.

“Except that you won’t find her.” Finnick says to the empty screen, turning his head to glance at you.

The Peacekeeper’s that will be sent to retrieve the bodies tomorrow will be missing twelve of them, actually. All they’ll come across is Boggs and one of the Leeg sisters. The rest of you made it out safely.

“We can get a head start on them at least.” Katniss says, pulling out the Holo. She moves closer to Jackson, listening to a set of directions on how to work the device. She manages to get the coordinates in, and a projection of the surrounding streets fills the air.

The silence is suffocating as you watch all the different colored blinking lights. No matter what direction you decide you’re going to go, there will be hundreds of pods waiting for you. And these all happened to pop up in the past couple of hours.

You look at Finnick again, and find that he’s got his eyes on you already. This trip has just gotten ten times more dangerous, and your options on travel are beginning to dwindle, quickly.

“Any ideas?” Katniss asks.

“Why don’t we start by ruling out the possibilities.” Finnick tears his eyes from yours. “The street is not a possibility.”

“The rooftops are just as bad as the street.” Leeg says.

“We still might have a chance to withdraw, go back the way we came.” Homes suggests. “But that would mean a failed mission.”

Katniss frowns briefly. “It was never intended for all of us to go forward. You just had the misfortune to be with me.”

“Well, that’s a moot point. We’re with you now. So, we can’t stay put. We can’t move up. We can’t move laterally.” Jackson shakes her head. “I think that just leaves one option.”

“Underground.” Gale agrees.

Your nose crinkles at the idea, but you force your face to smooth. Now is not a time to be picky, especially when you’re being cornered so harshly. You want to make it out of this city alive, which means you’ll do anything for it to happen.

Katniss switches the Holo to show the pods beneath the surface. While it appears that there’s not nearly as much pods underground, the sewers are going to be harder to navigate. The streets are straightforward, the sewer is full of twisting and turning tunnels. It’s a mess.

With no other option, it’s decided.

“Okay, then. Let’s make it look like we’ve never been here.” Katniss says.

You all get to your feet, picking up empty cans to send down the trash chute, while packing the full ones into your bag. The others flip the couch cushions over to hide the blood, wipe the tracks of black oil from the tile, and lock the second bolt on the door from keeping it from looking like the door got kicked in.

Peeta sits on the blue sofa. “I’m not going. I’ll either disclose your position or hurt someone else.”

“Snow’s people will find you.” Finnick tells him, you stop next to him, crossing your arms.

“Then leave me a pill. I’ll only take it if I have to.”

“That’s not an option. Come along.” Jackson says.

“Or you’ll what? Shoot me?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Peeta.” You say.

“We’ll knock you out and drag you with us.” Homes says. “Which will both slow us down and endanger us.”

“Stop being noble! I don’t care if I die!” He shouts, proceeding to turn to Katniss. “Katniss, please. Don’t you see, I want to be out of this?”

Katniss stares at him for a long moment. “We’re wasting time. Are you coming voluntarily or do we knock you out?”

Peeta takes in a breath, burying his face in his hands, letting out a long sigh. He then gets to his feet to join you.

“Should we free his hands?” Leeg asks.

“No!” Peeta snarls, pulling the cuffs closer to his body.

“No.” Katniss agrees. “But I want the key.” Jackson pulls it out, handing it over to Katniss, who slips it into a pocket in her pants.

With this decided, you all begin to head for the maintenance shaft that you have to enter through the back closet on the upper floor. From there, two doors down, a vertical tube connects the row of apartments to the tunnels below. When Homes opens the small metal door to the shaft, it’s clear that the shells Castor and Pollux are wearing will not fit.

They shed them, stashing the shells in the closet, because that’s the only option they have. Castor and Pollux settle on using their emergency cameras, which are roughly the size of a shoebox.

You let them go in through first, motioning for Finnick to go next. He does the same, the two of you stare at each other for a long second. “Come on, Finnick.”

“I’m not letting you take up the rear.” He tells you.

“It’s not that big of a deal.”

“Which is why you’ll be going first.” He raises his eyebrows.

You roll your eyes, shedding your backpack to drag next to you while you shuffle through the tight space. You sidestep past the first apartment, and join the others in the second one, where they’ve already begun to crowd around the tube to the tunnels.

Messalla frowns at the circular cover behind the utility door. “It’s why no one ever wants the center unit. Workmen coming and going whenever and no second bath. But the rent’s considerably cheaper.” He mutters, when he looks up and sees the way you and Finnick are looking at him, he adds, “Never mind.”

The cover opens easily, there’s a wide ladder with rubber treads on the steps to allow quick movement up and down. You don’t bother to argue with Finnick about this one, sliding down the ladder, gathering at the bottom.

It’s terribly dark down here, even with the strip of dim lights. You wait for your eyes to adjust, while being forced to breathe in the smell down here. A sickening mixture between chemicals, mildew and sewage.

“Are you alright?” Finnick asks, moving a hair out of your face. “You look like you’re going to puke.”

“It’s the smell.” You rub your nose.

Pollux is pale, sweat running down the side of his forehead. He grabs onto Castor, holding on with white knuckles.

“My brother worked down here after he became an Avox.” Castor says. “Took five years before we were able to buy his way up to ground level. Didn’t see the sun once.”

It’s quiet between you all, no one knowing how to respond to something so horrid. You couldn’t imagine being forced down here for an extended period of time. You would go crazy. You’d break out and run and get yourself killed because you’re so desperate to see the sky.

“Well, then you just became our most valuable asset.” Peeta says, turning to Pollux. Castor laughs, and Pollux manages to smile.

Pollux leads the way down the first tunnel, you and Finnick walk side by side in the very back, behind Jackson and Gale, who are watching over Peeta like hawks. He doesn’t seem to care, hunched over, watching the ground.

It turns out that there’s a network of wide tunnels that corresponds to the main street plan above. They call it the Transfer, because small trucks use it to deliver goods around the city. The pods are deactivated during the day, but at night it’s a different story. It’s as bad as the ground above.

Pollux knows details that would be dangerous for a newcomer. The tunnels hold hundreds of additional passages, utility shafts, train tracks and drainage tubes that work together to form a multilevel maze. Some offshoots might require gas masks, have live wires, or rats the size of beavers.

He'll alert the gush of water that sweeps through the sewers like clockwork, and anticipates when the Avoxes will be changing shifts. He even brings you into damp, obscure pipes to hide from almost silent cargo trains. And most importantly, he has knowledge of the cameras. There aren't many down here, except in the transfer.

You make remarkable time, compared to when you’d been traveling above. Still, after six hours, everyone is tired and irritated. It’s three in the morning, when Katniss suggests to rest. Pollux leads everyone into a small, warm room that hums with machines. He holds up his fingers to tell you that you must be gone in four hours.

Jackson works out a guard schedule, one that has you take watch right in the middle. You grit your teeth, unhappy because you won’t be getting much sleep after all, but Finnick objects and tells her that he’ll work your shift, and his.

“Stop it.” You whisper to him. “You need to sleep too.”

“I feel fine.” Finnick looks at you. “You can’t think straight when you’re tired.”

You narrow your eyes. “Yeah? And you become a walking hazard.”

“I’m not arguing with you.” He laughs. “Just be grateful I’m your best friend and go to sleep.”

You press your lips together, tilting your head back to rest against the wall. It’s not very comfortable, you adjust several times, until Finnick pushes your head to rest on his shoulder. You let out a snort, and he shushes you.

It doesn’t take long for you to fall asleep, but it’s too easy to wake you. Finnick slides out from where he’d been sitting next to you, and you can’t fall back asleep. He sits next to Pollux, watching the opening you came from. You watch him quietly with tired eyes.

“Are you okay?” Finnick murmurs to Pollux.

He nods, waving away Finnick’s concern with a hand. And then, he motions to you and Finnick, and signs the word ‘date’. You can see Finnick begin to turn his head in your direction, so you close your eyes and fight the smile that wants to come across your face.

It was only a matter of time before he asked, Cressida already did yesterday. She watched Finnick give you a hand down after doing a propo with Katniss. He made a joke, you crinkled your nose at him in response, and he told you that he thought it was cute when you did that.

Cressida had bumped your shoulder a few minutes later, and asked if you and Finnick were dating, or if there was anything between you two. You had to tell her that you and Finnick are only friends. You’ve known each other since high school, which was a decade ago. If either of you had feelings, then it’d be obvious.

You’re used to the assumptions by now, that’s why you’re not bothered by it, and you find it funny.

“No, we’re not dating.” Finnick says, you peek your eyes open to see Pollux blink in surprise, and begin to move his hands. Finnick lets out a laugh. “Yes, I know sign, so does (Y/n). Annie, the victor that was rescued, uses sign language from time to time to communicate when she’s having trouble.”

Pollux nods, making a face, and begins to sign again. Finnick falls quiet enough for the drowsiness to wash over you. You tilt your head back to sleep.

—

“(Y/n).” Finnick shakes your shoulder. “We’ve got to go.”

You take in a breath, holding it for a second, until it erupts into a yawn. When you open your eyes, you’re met with Finnick, making sure you’re alright. You squint, rubbing your face to make yourself more awake.

“You didn’t sleep well.” Finnick says, it’s not a question.

“I woke up after you moved.” You admit, “It’s fine, I fell asleep again.”

He makes a noise, going to open his mouth to speak, when Katniss shushes the group of you. She’s got her eyes on the entrance, listening hard. For a second, all you can hear is the humming of the machines around you, and then you make out the hissing sound.

“Katniss.”

It echoes throughout the tunnels, coming back to you, repeated over and over. Katniss is confused, glancing back at you briefly, before looking away. She jumps at the sound of her name coming from inside of the room, and lands on Peeta. She waits, slowly pulling an arrow out to put on her bow, positioning it over the sleeping Peeta.

He jerks up before she can act on her violence. His eyes are wide, head whipping in her direction, but it’s not because of the arrow pointed at him. “Katniss! Get out of here!”

Katniss lowers the bow slightly. “Why? What’s making that sound?”

“I don’t know. Only that it has to kill you.” Peeta says. “Run! Get out! Go!”

Finnick gets to his feet at the sound of that, holding his hand out for you. You let him pull you to your feet, adjusting the straps on your body until they’re comfortable again. This makes the others move as well, Katniss returns the arrow to where it came from.

“Whatever it is, it’s after me. It might be a good time to split up.” She says.

“But we’re your guard.” Jackson tells her.

“And your crew.” Cressida adds.

“I’m not leaving you.” Gale shakes his head.

Katniss looks between the eleven of you, eyes going from person to person. “Okay,” She agrees. “Finnick, give a gun to Castor. Jackson, will you eject the empty cartridge from Peeta’s and load it with a real one? And (Y/n) do you still have the other Leeg sister’s gun?”

“Yes.” You reach for it, pulling it out for her to see.

“Give it to Pollux.” She tells you. She and Gale then give up their guns, handing them over to Messalla and Cressida because they have their bows. They give a brief lesson on how to shoot the guns, which is all you can afford to do at the moment.

Everything is cleaned up and packed into backpacks, including empty cans to avoid leaving a physical trail, just a scent. When you step foot out of the room, the hissing becomes louder, coming from a fair distance behind you. Without a second thought, you go out in front of Finnick, and you can feel the weight of him grabbing onto your backpack.

You try to move quickly and quietly, but it’s nearly impossible with this many people. The sounds of your shoes splashing in water, the clang of a gun against a pipe, and Katniss giving directions. Still, you manage to cover more blocks before the screaming begins.

You go rigid.

“Avoxes.” Peeta tells you without missing a beat. “That’s what Darius sounded like when they tortured him.”

“The mutts must have found them.” Cressida murmurs.

“So they’re not just after Katniss.” Leeg says.

“They’ll probably kill anyone. It’s just that they won’t stop until they get to her.” Gale says, and he’s right.

Katniss shakes her head. “Let me go on alone. Lead them off. I’ll transfer the Holo to Jackson. The rest of you can finish the mission.”

“No one’s going to agree to that!” Jackson says.

“We’re wasting time!” Finnick whisper-shouts, leaning over your shoulder.

“Listen.” Peeta whispers.

The screams have stopped, and the hissing has resumed, much closer than it was before. Katniss nudges Pollux wordlessly, and the twelve of you begin to run through the tunnel. She opens up the Holo when you reach a staircase, scanning for another route, when she begins to gag.

“Masks on!” Jackson orders.

Katniss forces her way through a door, stumbling out onto the Transfer. She begins to move, pulling out an explosive arrow to activate the pod. The streets are pastel, smooth, easy to run on. The road is empty from deliveries as far as any of you can tell, but cameras could be at any corner.

Regardless, she sprints for the next intersection, telling you to keep close. Finnick lets go of your bag, running past you to grab a hold of her. “Katniss!”

A beacon of white light encapsulates Messalla, who is as still as a statue inside. With his head tilted back, on the ball of one foot, mouth opened wide. You watch in horror as the flesh melts off of his body.

“Can’t help him!” Peeta shoves you from behind, making you stumble a step. “Can’t!”

You begin to move again, following after him and Katniss, dodging beams of light as they come down from the ceiling. You’re sweating bullets by the time you’ve made it to the next intersection, where a spray of gunfire brings you to a stop.

Peacekeepers are running down the Transfer after you, shooting. You swing your gun up to start shooting back, because you have nowhere to go past here. This is the pod that Katniss wanted to activate first before moving on. The others begin to join you, and together, you manage to bring down a good portion of the Peacekeepers before more begin to swarm in from the door you’d just come from.

You can’t help the startled scream that leaves your mouth when you realize that these aren’t, in fact, Peacekeepers. They’re mutts. They’re naked, about the size of a human, with heads that are jutted forward, arched backs and reptilian tails. They hound the Peacekeepers, living and dead, and begin to rip helmeted heads off of shoulders.

It’s only seconds before all the Peacekeepers are decapitated, and they’re slithering toward you on their bellies.

“This way!” Katniss shouts, hugging the wall and making a sharp turn to avoid the pod. As soon as you’ve successfully cleared the pod, Katniss shoots at it. Mechanical teeth burst through the street and begin to chew the tile to dust. She turns to Pollux, you keep your eyes on where the mutts should be coming from. “Forget the mission. What’s the quickest way above ground?”

Pollux moves, going down the Transfer and through a doorway. The shiny tile turns to concrete, Finnick pushes you in front of him as you travel through a tight pipe and onto a ledge that leads you to the main sewer.

A yard below, a nauseating brew of human waste, garbage and chemicals slide by, bubbling when it touches the wall. It’s hard to tear your eyes away from the parts of the surface that are on fire, and you can physically see the vapor that it emits.

You hurry down the path, over a narrow bridge and into an alcove on the far side. Pollux smacks a ladder with his hand and points upward. Katniss turns to look at you, and her face twists. “Wait! Where are Jackson and Leeg One?”

“They stayed at the Grinder to hold the mutts back.” Homes tells her.

“What?” She lunges toward the bridge, and Homes pulls her back.

“Don’t waste their lives, Katniss. It’s too late for them. Look!” Homes nods to the pipe, where the mutts are coming out by the dozen.

“Stand back!” Gale shouts, firing an explosive arrow into the bridge’s foundation. It snaps, bringing down a good number of mutts.

With them being so close, you’re able to see what they actually look like. Their mouths are wide, teeth sharp, smeared blood on their reptilian skin. Their clawed hands and feet have chunks of flesh stuck between them. You gag.

The mutts throw themselves into the sewage without thinking, wanting to get their hands on you. Everyone open fires, and this lasts for a good few minutes, throwing everything you have at the monsters. They don’t die easily, though. Not even with a dozen bullets in their body, which causes everyone to come to the same consensus.

You have to run.

You have no other option, especially because of the sheer volume of them that are still coming out of the sewer pipe. Finnick tries to make a grab at you to swing you toward the ladder, but you shove him first.

He opens his mouth to speak, but doesn’t get a chance to when you point your finger and bark, “Go!”

Finnick begrudgingly grabs the ladder rungs and begins to climb up after Peeta, Cressida following directly on his trail. It’s you, Gale, Homes and Castor left at the bottom. You shoot what you can, making a big enough gap for Gale to begin to climb the ladder. When Castor goes to follow, a rogue mutt from the sewer river reaches up and grabs him. He disappears over the edge.

“Go ahead!” Homes shouts at you, “I’ll hold them!”

You make it to the ladder, you’ve got your right foot placed on a rung, looking up to see how far you have to climb. You’re met with the sight of the Holo, falling down in your direction, projecting a bright blinking red light, and beeping like a dangerous bomb.

“No!” You scream.

Homes turns to see what’s happening, when your body slams into his, bringing the two of you to the ground. The mutts begin to pile on top of you, just as the bomb explodes.

The blast pierces your eardrums before you have a chance to cover your ears. You squeeze your eyes shut, feeling the ground shake beneath you. A shower of wet and clumped matter rains down on you. When you open your eyes, you find that the mutts on top of you are gone, and with their sacrifice, you’re still alive.

You roll over, the mutts in the surrounding area are dead. You struggle to breathe through the smoke and debris that rains down from the ceiling above, your throat and lungs already raw from breathing in the poisonous soup below. You look at Homes, shaking him to get him to move, because the ringing in your ears is so strong.

He doesn’t move. You turn his head, and it moves with no resistance. You scoot away, eyebrows twitching, heart pounding in your chest at the sight of his face, half blown away from the blast.

You struggle to get to your feet, limping over to the ladder, which is covered in the gore from the mutts. When you look up, there is no opening like there had been previously. They threw the cover over. You begin to climb quickly, and at the top, you try to swing it open. It doesn’t budge.

They locked it.

You hang off of the ladder for a moment, taking deep breaths. You have to get out of here. You’re not going to be trapped here. You go back down, and shuffle through the bodies of the mutts to stare at what’s left of the bridge that Gale decided to blow. It’s not much.

It’s possible, though. You swing your bag off of your shoulder and throw it the distance to the other side. You watch helplessly as it slides on the ledge, coming close to falling. Right when you’re sure it’s going to stop, it slips over the side, and into the sewage.

You let out a defeated sigh.

You stare at what you have to work with, and it’s virtually nothing. The bag wouldn’t have helped much, anyway. It just had food and other supplies if you managed to get stuck down here for an extended period of time.

That won’t happen, you’ll get to the other side of the bridge. You grab a hold of Homes’ body, flipping him onto his stomach to expose the back of his vest, which is clean of blood. You carefully push him to where the bridge should be, and then walk all the way back to the ladder, where you’ll start.

You can cross the gap, the issue is slipping on the blood. That’s why, when you break out into a run, you use Homes body as a launchpad. Your stomach is in your throat the second you’re off of the ground and flying over the gap. You come into harsh contact with the cement on the other side.

You get to your feet, starting to backtrack the way you came. It’s through the tight pipe, down to the doorway until concrete turns back to cute pastel tile. It leads you back to the Transfer, where the grinding pod has stopped. You pick up a piece of broken tile to throw at it, and when it doesn’t start back up, you go through it.

There’s a sea of bodies of Peacekeeper and mutt alike. Among them, you find Jackson and Leeg, both decapitated. You start to head in the direction of where you’d come from, from here. The sight of Messalla stops you, and you turn around to go back through the grinding pod.

You begin to walk down the street of the Transfer, taking your time, occasionally throwing broken tiles in the direction you’re going in hopes that it’ll set off a pod. The familiar sound of hissing seizes your heart, making you stop dead in your tracks. You turn your body slightly, afraid to see if it’s true.

It is.

You begin to run down the Transfer, abandoning your original plan of taking your time to find a place to crawl out. You have nothing to defend yourself with. You almost took the gun off of Jackson, but you thought that you were past the mutts and you had to worry about the pods. You should’ve known better than to trust the silence.

You throw yourself at the first door you see, slamming your shoulder into it because you expect it to swing open. It’s locked, a pain begins to blossom in your shoulder, but you push through, heading further in.

Every door you run across is locked. The mutts are practically on top of you, if you slow down for even a second, it’ll surely mean your death. You don’t know how long you go on like this for, triggering pods, trying to kill what’s sent after you, getting injured because of it.

It must be an hour later when you finally see a door ajar. You throw yourself into it, right as you step off of a tile that had sunk with your weight. It explodes, launching you further into the hall. This does nothing to stop the mutts, as it went off too soon. A sharp claw scrapes your ankle, beginning to pull you toward it, when you slam your foot into its absent face.

You manage to scramble back to your feet, hurrying to the ladder that’s waiting for you at the end. You cross your fingers that this latch won’t be locked, because it’s your last chance to get out of here. You can’t go back, they’re swarming beneath you. The ladder isn’t slippery this time around, you yank yourself up in record time, reaching the top of the ladder in a matter of seconds.

You shove the cover open, pulling yourself out. When you’ve cleared the top, you slam it shut, twisting the latch to lock it. The mutts pound on it from the other side, you sit directly on top of it, gasping for air after running for your life for an hour straight.

You hold your arms out, looking at the cuts and bites you’ve received. The blood that’s on your body is more than your own, it belongs to the mutts and Homes, too. You won’t know the real damage until you’re clean, and that could be days from now.

When you feel like you can move, you get to your feet, stumbling to the next ladder that’ll surely lead you to the surface. You’re not going to run around in this tunnel looking for the others. They have to think you’re dead, which means they’ve moved on to the next place.

Thankfully, you know where that is.

At the top of this ladder is another cover, you open it to find that you’re in a utility room, which means that you’re in someone’s apartment. You pat down all of the pockets in your pants, trying to find a weapon. You come across something solid further down your pant leg. When you pull it out, you can see that it’s Finnick’s knife.

You let out a breath of relief, flicking it open. There are times when he makes you mad when he doesn’t listen to you. Other times, it comes in handy. If you run across anyone in this building, you have only one choice.

You open the door, heading into the room quietly. You can hear the sound of a television playing a room over. You slip into the hallway that’ll lead you to the front door, stealing a glance at the bedroom to see a Capitol woman with brightly colored yellow hair and white skin laying on a bed.

You make it to the kitchen and out the front door, into a small hallway with one other door. You leave down the stairs, almost going out to the street, when you see the light pouring through the windows. You back up, shaking your head. You need a disguise if you want to go out there. You’ll be spotted in the matter of minutes, every Capitol citizen knows your name and your face.

You sigh through your nose, going back up the stairs and into the apartment you just came out of. You fix the knife in your hand, creeping around the kitchen and to the hallway that leads to the bedroom. When you peek, she seems to be sleeping. Still, you don’t risk going up close, throwing the knife from where you stand.

Now you enter the room, leaving her body while you go to search through her belongings. You find several large coats, all brightly colored, and outfits you wouldn’t imagine wearing if it weren’t forced on you. You throw several aqua blue and lime green items onto the bed, pulling the knife out of her skull.

The front door is unlocked, so you relock it. In the woman’s bathroom, you start the shower, shedding everything you’re wearing to step beneath the warm water. It stings every cut on your body, you grit your teeth, watching as the water turns pink and doesn’t run clear for several minutes.

When you step out, you get dressed in the outfit you’d set aside. You tie your hair back into a tight bun at the back of your head, and opt for pulling on a brightly colored wig. As soon as you’re dressed and fairly disguised, you drag the woman to the utility closet, dropping her body down the ladder. The outfit that District Thirteen provided for you follows, as well as the bloodied bed sheets and towel. By the time you’re done, it doesn’t look like you were here at all. You shut the cover, lock the latch, and leave the apartment building.

It takes you a moment of wandering down the roads before you begin to recognize where you are. You’ve been here before, a couple times, actually. The Peacekeepers escorted you to these buildings, and then back to the Tribute Center when you were done working.

It takes you over an hour to get to the designer shop that Cressida was talking to you about. By then, the sun has risen and it’s got to be around noon. You enter through the door, trying to be casual about the way you do. It’s warm inside, there are pants and shirts and underwear made out of fur on mannequins, but there’s no sign that your friends were ever here.

“Can I help you?” A voice purrs.

You turn to see a tall woman, who has been surgically altered to have the appearance of a tiger. With her skin pulled back tightly, tattooed to have black and gold stripes. Her nose has been flattened, there’s whiskers protruding out of her lips. She wears a long fur coat that matches what she’s wearing.

“Possibly.” You murmur, “Are you Tigris?”

“Yes,” She says, looking over your face, eyes squinting. “And you are?”

“Looking for some friends.” You say, pulling off the wig. “I was told by Cressida that you could help.”

She hums, walking past you to the door. You turn to watch her, body tense, terrified that she’s about to shout to everyone out there that you’re a fugitive. Instead, she turns a lock, coming back your direction.

“Follow me.”

You do, she brings you behind a rack of clothes, sliding open a panel at the base of the wall. You peer inside and find that there’s a staircase on the other side. You look at her.

“Thank you.”

You have to crawl through the space, she slides the wall shut behind you. You go down the steep steps, eyes searching the darkness. You run into a hanging chain, which you instinctively reach up to pull on. Light fills the room, and you’re met with the sight of several people on the floor, now covering their eyes as they struggle to see their intruder.

It’s easy to spot Cressida, Pollux and Gale. You have to take a few more steps down in order to see Katniss and Peeta.

“(Y/n)...” Cressida’s voice is quiet.

“Where’s Finnick?”

The sound of moving fabric makes you turn your head. Finnick’s on his feet, coming in your direction, arms outstretched to take you in a hug. You run into him, pulling at his vest to bring him flush against your body.

He’s breathing heavily into your shoulder, a hand on the back of your head, the other wrapped around the middle of your back. “It’s okay.” You tell him, fingers wrapped in his curls. “I’m okay.”

“They won’t take you from me ever again.” Finnick tells you, pressing a kiss to your cheek.

You close your eyes. “I know.” You stroke his hair for a moment, and then pull away to hold onto his face. Finnick searches your eyes, you offer him a soft smile. “I’ll never leave you.”

this is part of my 3k celebration!!

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swtorpadawan · 1 year

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Invincible

Author’s Notes: The following story takes place on Yavin during the Shadow of Revan storyline in my Halcyon Legacy. CW for violence, original character deaths, and brief blood and gore. Also – this is a rather long one, folks. My apologies.

“Dammit! We’re being driven back.”

Theron Shan’s face glowered in consternation as icons representing various Yavin Coalition military units shifted across the holo-map, many of them retreating while a few flickered out entirely.

The Revanite counterattack against the Coalition forces here on Yavin IV had come suddenly, besieging Republic and Imperial troops alike across a wide front. Within minutes, many of their forward positions were isolated if not overwhelmed, while the remaining defensive hardpoints were pinned down, unable to support other troops when they needed it the most. All coordination and communication between the reluctant allies had seemingly gone out the window in the wake of the assault, and the cybernetic communications relay in his ear was being bombarded with requests – pleas, really – for reinforcements, for support, for orders, for any help whatsoever.

Standing around the makeshift conference table at Coalition headquarters, the other members of the ah-hoc ‘leadership council’ – Lana Beniko, Satele Shan and Darth Marr – were likewise intently reviewing holo-transmissions and reports as they came in. Beniko’s expression was one of focused and controlled anger. That was the kind of personal discipline that made her such an effective Sith. Satele (Theron was trying very hard not to think of her as his mother at this moment) watched over the proceedings with a frown of contemplation. Until she saw the necessity to interject herself, she would keep her peace. Marr… well, Theron obviously couldn’t see the expression of the Dark Councilor’s face behind his metal mask, but Marr radiated intensity under normal circumstances. Right at this moment, with all their plans at risk and the campaign itself in doubt, the closest thing the Sith Empire had to an actual leader was positively seething.

None of them had bothered to respond to Theron’s dire assessment of the situation.

The unprecedented Yavin Coalition composed of the Imperial troops commanded by Marr and the Galactic Republic forces led by Satele had successfully invaded the moon known as Yavin IV and – up until just a few minutes ago – had appeared to be on the verge of victory, pushing the remnants of the Order of Revan back until they were almost at the base of the ancient, pyramid-like temples for which Yavin was infamous. Some of the forward Republic recon troops had even reported they’d been facing greater resistance from the indigenous Massassi warriors than they had from the Revanites.

Now the Coalition forces had been caught overextended, with the Revanites driving a wedge between the Republic and Imperial forces. It seemed almost everyone was calling for reinforcements, air support, resupply, orders… the command headquarters couldn’t cope with it all.

“Isolate the problem.” Satele Shan’s voice was carefully measured as she broke her silence. She may have just as well been presenting a logic problem to a group of Jedi younglings in a classroom back on Tython for all the alarm she demonstrated. “Revan is attempting to distract and overwhelm us. Otherwise, his attack would have been much more precise. If we can look past his maneuverings and identify his true strategy, we’ll be able to understand his intentions.”

As if on mental reflex, Theron realized that she was right. He recalled Master Zho teaching him that same technique so long ago in his childhood, and he strongly suspected that Zho had been the one to demonstrate the same stratagem to Satele once upon a time in the Grand Master’s own youth. (Though he had a very hard time imagining Satele ever being a youngling.) Coalition command had been thrown off its game. Junior officers of both factions were scrambling around the conference table with the communications aides urgently relaying messages and reports. Just outside field commanders were yelling for their troops to form up and prepare for deployment as soon as the orders came down. The sound of artillery fire could be heard in the distance…

These factors were all just distractions.

Theron had always preferred being a field agent over being an analyst. Indeed, he’d been more than a little rankled when Marcus Trant, the Director of the Republic’s Strategic Information Service, had temporarily placed him on desk duty as a punishment for one of his “unsanctioned operations”. (Alright, it had been several “unsanctioned operations”.) But that inclination didn’t make him any less effective at analyzing tactical information. Utilizing his cybernetic implants, he crunched the numbers, trying to make sense out of all the chaos. Finding his center. His sense of calm…

Time seemed to slow down for Theron. As he looked down at the map, he didn’t see soldiers fighting and dying or the Coalition at risk of collapsing. Instead, he saw a clearer picture start to take shape.

After a moment of contemplation, it became obvious to Theron that the Revanites’ numbers were not as impressive as the ferocity of their attack would seem to suggest. Nor was their counter-offensive as broad as it had initially seemed on the map. Yes, the Coalition flanks were being pressured, but only half-heartedly, as if to discourage reinforcement or encirclement of the main thrusts by the Order. The allies still enjoyed a significant overall advantage in force strength by better than a two-to-one margin; maybe even more. But that advantage had been neutralized by the Revanites’ rapid advancement…

“There.” The crisp, Imperial voice interrupted his thought process.

Much to Theron’s chagrin, Lana Beniko, the former chief aide to the Minister of Military Offense of the Sith Empire (and his erstwhile partner for the last few months in exposing the Revanite conspiracy), had found the solution first.

Beniko re-oriented the holo-map, zeroing in on one particularly deep thrust into the Coalition lines. The display flickered as live holo-streaming of the scene quickly followed the three-dimensional image, projected above the map.

“This is the tip of their spear.” She explained, as they watched the small group of Revanites effortlessly tear through a platoon of Republic soldiers. The assailants appeared to be cyborgs… led by a single armored Sith Lord. “Their vanguard. It’s the lynchpin to their attack. Their momentum is keeping us hamstrung.”

Theron immediately recognized the design of the cyborgs from their mission to Rakata Prime months earlier. Infinite Elites. Revanite volunteers surgically enhanced with Rakatan technology in a process developed by Gorima – a sick, twisted Selkath scientist who’d been operating a secret laboratory on Manaan, the same creep who had briefly tormented their ally, Jakarro, the Wookie smuggler. These cyborgs were incredibly powerful, with their advanced, regenerative capabilities allowing them to shrug off most attacks. Revan had intended to build an entire army of the Infinites, using them as his shock troops. They’d proven to be so dangerous that Theron had even wanted Jedi Master Corellan Halcyon, their ally against the conspirators, to terminate the Infinites they’d found on Rakata in their stasis pods out of hand. (Corellan had refused. Typical Jedi nobility. With hindsight, Theron shouldn’t have been surprised.) Regardless, he’d been relieved when their efforts on Manaan and Rakata had resulted in the destruction of the completed Infinite prototypes, as well as the technology required to create more of them.

Apparently, that sense of relief had been premature.

There may have only been a squad of them, but these Infinites were nevertheless hammering through their formations like a juggernaut, the thin end of the Revanite wedge driving into the Coalition lines.

“Revan must have gotten them off Rakata before we moved in on them.” Theron heard the frustration in his own voice even as he silently called in an air strike via his implant. “He planned this. Keeping them in reserve until now.”

Seconds later, the quartet around the table watched as a squadron of Republic dive-bombers unleashed their payloads upon the advancing squad of Revanites. As the holoprojection flickered to adjust to the smoke and fire, Theron witnessed a Jedi and a Sith leading Coalition commandos into the area. The intelligence agent briefly allowed himself to hope that this strike had finished off the Infinites and would blunt Revan’s entire counter-offensive.

That hope quickly evaporated as he saw the massive Sith Lord who had been leading the Infinites rise to his feet, activating his twin crimson lightsabers. Theron had not initially identified this foe beneath his strange, ornate armor, but now, on closer inspection, he realized that he recognized this mighty Sith Pureblood.

Indeed, nearly everyone in the entire galaxy should have recognized him by now.

“Kael.” Marr hissed behind his mask, the Dark Councilor’s voice was dripping with venom and contempt.

Lord Kael Nosrol Krannus was a towering Pureblooded Sith Warrior of great renown. Over the course of his relatively brief but infamous career, he had led countless operations against the Republic, from crushing the War Trust on Taris to freeing the Dread Masters on Belsavis. Dozens of Jedi and thousands of Republic soldiers and civilians had fallen beneath his blades, including wiping out at least one Strategic Information Service team at a safehouse on Nar Shaddaa. According to the intelligence reports Theron had read, he was wanted for a long series of war crimes and had gained a reputation for brutality even by the standards of the Sith. But it had been on Corellia where his ruthless butchery against his enemies had earned him a new epithet: The Emperor’s Wrath. He had become Vitiate’s chosen, hand-picked to eliminate the Emperor’s enemies both in the Republic and within the Empire. Although the Sith Lord had never formally been named a Darth, anyone would have been foolish to think him any less deadly for that lack of title. Indeed, he had already crushed several of the most powerful Darths in the Empire for apparent disloyalty to the throne, even slaying his old master, Darth Baras. He’d thus cemented his claim as the Emperor’s Wrath before going on to lead Imperial troops on Ilum and beyond.

There had been no reported sightings of Krannus in almost a year, not since he had supposedly broken with the Dark Council and the entire Imperial hierarchy. Locating him had been a priority of the SIS for some time.

Right at this moment, Theron sorely wished that the Emperor’s Wrath had remained missing.

He watched as the Sith Lord stormed through the Coalition commandoes, ignoring multiple blaster shots to his body mere moments after shrugging off the aerial bombardment.

The Coalition Jedi and Sith attempted to divide Krannus’ attention, attacking him from opposite flanks; the Twi’lek Jedi on his right with his lightsaber and the human Sith Lord on his left with Force lightning. For a moment, Theron thought they might have succeeded when the Jedi’s blade caught Lord Kael’s armor squarely on the shoulder while just missing his helmet – a blow that should have all but severed his arm – while the Sith’s lightning blasted at his armored torso.

Impossibly, the massive Pureblood shrugged off these lethal assaults and then, in a single move displaying more agility than should have been possible for a man of his size, simultaneously impaled both of his opponents, one lightsaber sinking into the chest of each.

Just like that, the effort to stop Lord Kael and the Infinites had been snuffed out, the few the surviving commandoes quickly overwhelmed by the Infinites.

Theron grimaced. Not even Mandalorian beskar should have protected the Sith Lord so completely from the kind of punishment Krannus had taken, and he wasn’t even slowed down.

As a stunned silence settled around the table, Theron remembered that the Coalition had already definitively ruled out any orbital strikes from the fleets above. The main temple held by the Revanites was protected by a force field for one thing, and for another they’d decided that the risk of friendly fire falling on their own forces was too great. (Though Marr, of course, hadn’t been thrilled with that decision, given the stakes in play.) That danger was even greater now with the Infinites driving so far into the Coalition lines. There was nothing else he could think of in the Coalition’s arsenal that could have stopped Krannus.

“Please magnify on his armor.” The firm, unexpected voice cut through the silence.

It was only then, as he looked up at the speaker, that Theron realized there was a fifth individual watching the display above the holo-table. Jedi Master Corellan Halcyon looked like he had just fought through Hell itself while simultaneously looking resolute enough to invade it for a second time at a moment’s notice. The Jedi’s robes were singed at the edges and his armor was lightly scorched though undamaged. His expression, normally healthy and open, was darker and grimmer than Theron had ever seen before with bags under his eyes and a pallid complexion.

He doesn’t look good. Theron thought to himself. But one could not have told that from his posture or from the clarity of his voice.

This was the champion who had taken down the Emperor’s Voice on Dromund Kaas. Who had spear-headed the raid on Korriban and then mere hours later had liberated the Jedi Temple on Tython. The one person who Theron and Lana had trusted when they’d gone on the run after they’d been framed for killing Darth Arkous and Colonel Rian Darok on Rakata Prime. On Rishi, he’d defeated Nova Blade pirates, Mandalorian bounty hunters and Revanite conspirators in quick succession without seeming to break a sweat, inflicting more damage in a few days than Lana and Theron might have managed in months.

Since the joint task force had arrived on Yavin three days ago, Halcyon had been even more impressive. His reputation alone demanded respect from friend and foe alike. Every time a trouble spot emerged, every time it appeared bad feelings over decades of war might drive a wedge between the reluctant allies, Corellan had personally intervened, acting decisively yet amicably, putting out fires before the leadership council even knew about them and showing a mutual respect that puzzled the Sith, impressed the Imperials and inspired the Jedi and Republic troops to put their differences with their allies aside and behave themselves. If the Hero of Tython – who’d probably fought and killed more Imperials in combat – Sith and otherwise – in his relatively young life than anyone else still breathing (aside, perhaps, from Satele Shan herself) had made no objection to fighting alongside the Empire, hardly anyone else could either, given the circumstances. He hadn’t started this campaign with a reputation as a diplomat, but he definitely seemed to be building one for himself, albeit unintentionally.

His entire demeanor seemed to have changed since coming to Yavin. At first, Theron wanted to think it was just the proximity of so many Sith. Then he wondered if it might have been that their target was Revan, a figure who was almost mythical in the tales of both the Jedi and the Sith. Heck, Corellan, like Theron, had probably grown-up hearing bedtime stories about the legendary fallen Jedi.

But now, Theron was starting to fear that it was the presence of the Sith Emperor here on Yavin. The same tyrant who’d captured Corellan and his crew at his Fortress years before, imprisoning them for months. The same cancer who was, if reports were to be believed, responsible for much of the suffering the galaxy had experienced dating back to the Mandalorian Wars.

The same enemy who Corellan – and the entire Republic – had hoped had been permanently destroy during the attack on Dromund Kaas.

All this has to have taken its toll. The SIS agent privately suspected. It was rumored that Halcyon hadn’t been sleeping; simply meditating for an hour or two at a time before pressing on with whatever needed to be done. He’d rotated his crewmembers regularly to keep them fresh, then had headed off on another mission. Each time, he’d check in with the temporary command center at the base camp, reporting on details he had observed that might have been missed through the various chains of command.

He also hadn’t shied away from putting his own crew at risk when necessary. Yesterday, he’d designated his loyal astromech droid, Teeseven, to oversee the advance sensor array they’d set up, thus keeping the Coalition’s monitoring system impartial. Later he’d ordered Sergeant Rusk to take temporary command of a company of Republic troops who had lost their commanding officer during the fighting. The veteran Chagrian soldier had quickly whipped that demoralized unit into shape, and even now they were successfully holding one of the critical defensive positions along the Coalition’s lines despite the Revanite assault. And just minutes ago as the attacks had begun, Corellan had assigned his squad medic, Doctor Archiban Kimble – or ‘Doc’ to anyone who asked – to treat wounded Imperial soldiers who’d been cut-off from their recovery camps. The Imperial officer on site had sworn an oath that no harm would come to Doc, and that he would be returned safely to the Jedi Master afterward.

Satele and Marr had provided the leadership and legitimacy. Theron and Lana had delivered the expertise and intelligence on the Revanites and how they operated. But it had been Halcyon, with the aid of his crew, who had brought a sense of unity to the Coalition.

Theron had worked with Corellan Halcyon off and on for more than two years now, ever since enlisting the Jedi Master in a couple of off-the-book operations to deal with problems the SIS would have preferred to remain under wraps rather than address through “official” channels. He was a bona fide hero. A paragon, even. The best Jedi warrior of his generation. A champion of the Republic and the protector of the free galaxy. Honestly, he was exactly what most Jedi younglings grew up wanting to be. The guy the Republic military put on their recruitment posters.

Since they’d arrived on Yavin, Theron had learned that beneath that surface, Corellan Halcyon also possessed a keen tactical mind. One that understood full well the strategies employed by Sith and Jedi, Empire and Republic.

By now, Halcyon had become extremely effective at combating the Revanites, regardless of which faction they’d previously worked for. Their enemies might all claim to serve Revan, but it had been proven on Rishi and now again on Yavin that they weren’t all ‘one big, happy family’. The Order of Revan desperately needed symbols to rally around; specifically, they needed the symbol of Revan himself.

That was the kind of unifying symbol that Halcyon was providing to the Coalition.

And it was now apparent to Theron that the Jedi Master was proving surprisingly adept at approaching people undetected. Even where it concerned dealing with allies.

Even when dealing with Force users as potent as Darth Marr and Satele Shan.

Theron usually prided himself on maintaining a good sabacc face. After all, he was an SIS agent. That sort of went with the territory. But he had no doubt he looked startled right at this moment. Lana had also blinked in surprise at the unexpected arrival. Marr’s face was concealed by his mask, but even his head tilted up in surprise as Corellan’s voice cut through the room.

Only Satele seemed nonplussed at the Jedi Master’s sudden appearance, simply accepting it in stride. If the Grand Master was concerned with Corellan’s behavior or physical appearance of late, she had clearly decided not to reveal that in front of the Sith. She nodded in Theron’s direction, who was only now reminded that he was the one at the terminal controls.

The Republic operative swallowed, increasing the magnification on Krannus’ armor as requested. Some of the resolution was a bit hazy – that often happened when transmissions were broadcasting during a battle with portable surveillance equipment – but the distinct pattern across Krannus’ body eventually became clear. The bulbous pieces looked strange to Theron, who was familiar with a great many body armors commonly used throughout the galaxy by soldiers, mercenaries and Force-users.

“I don’t recognize that design.” He admitted.

“Nor do I.” Lana admitted, who looked over towards Marr and Satele, questioningly.

The Jedi Grand Master was once again in silent contemplation, as if the answer to the problem was hiding right in front of her but would only reveal itself in time.

Officially, Darth Marr was the head of the Sith Empire’s Sphere of Military Strategy and was the second-longest tenured active member of the Dark Council. Unofficially, Marr was effectively running the Empire at this point, having bent the Council to his will. Analysts in the SIS had been taking bets on how long it would be before Marr formally declared himself the new Emperor.

Theron hadn’t taken that action on the bet. Marr knew what had happened to Darth Malgus on Ilum when he’d tried to claim Vitiate’s throne and establish a “New Empire”. Even when it came to Vitiate himself, who’d ruled the Empire for more than a millennium, the facade of invincibility that once came with that position had been shattered. As an institution, the Sith Empire only operated properly when everyone was too frightened of the Emperor to challenge him, or to risk compromising his goals with the internal squabbles. The title of Emperor must have looked much less attractive considering the present political climate, where any Sith who claimed supremacy risked being pulled down and destroyed by his fellows.

Theron suspected that Marr was playing a much different game.

Regardless, he also had to assume that Marr had more practical knowledge than just about anyone else living concerning the multitude of exotic weaponry of the Sith. And he was being silent.

That silence worried Theron intensely. With all the other surprises the Revanites had thrown at them over the last few months, the last thing they needed was mysterious Sith armor that seemingly made one of the most dangerous Sith Lords living invincible.

As he tried to analyze the armor for weaknesses, he could only consider it an effort in futility.

“Honestly, it doesn’t look like armor at all. It looks more like… shells.” He added, grasping for any observations.

With Krannus leading them, the Infinites couldn’t be stopped. With the Infinites leading the Revanite assault and driving a wedge into the Coalition lines, their entire offensive couldn’t be stopped.

Invincible, indeed.

“Orbalisks.” Corellan’s calm, matter-of-fact voice cut through the silence once again.

Theron turned to look over at him again. The Jedi Master was looking down at the projection in what he could only describe as ‘intense detachment’ as the magnification moved out again. In the projection, Lord Kael had Force-leapt onto an attacking Imperial Walker, knocking the towering machine over before eviscerating its driver with his lightsabers for good measure.

Theron was realizing no one else had responded to Corellan yet. He had no idea what an ‘orbalisk’ even was and no one else seemed to be stepping up either. In the absence of any elaboration, Lana took the lead this time, her brow furrowed intently as she addressed the Jedi champion.

“Do you know how we can stop him?”

Corellan Halcyon turned away from the display and towards Lana. The two of them had – along with Theron – developed a surprisingly strong working relationship these last few months. They had made a good team, regardless of their personal, political and ideological differences. (And Lana allowing the Revanites to abduct and torture Theron. That had been a bump in the road.) This question undercut a reversal of roles; usually, it was Corellan relying on Lana and Theron for information, direction or analysis.

But here in this instance on Yavin, the people standing around the table were relying on the young Jedi Master for his knowledgeable insight.

“We can’t.” Corellan answered firmly, gently stressing the first word. “But I will need some help.”

That wasn’t lost on Theron. The Hero of Tython clearly had something specific in mind. Something he intended to personally put into motion.

Corellan had followed Lana and Theron’s lead on Manaan, Rakata and Rishi, and he had likewise acknowledged the authority of Satele and Marr as leaders of the leadership council assembled here on Yavin.

But now, he was calling his own play.

We’ve underestimated him. Theron considered. All of us.

The Hero of Tython raised his arm to chest level, tapping the communicator on his wrist.

“Kira. We’re up. Maneuverer Alderaan-Delta-Three.” He paused, checking his chrono and apparently doing some quick calculations in his head. “Eleven minutes.”

“On it.” a familiar, feminine voice answered. Corellan closed the channel just as quickly.

Since they’d started working together, Theron had long come to understand that Corellan usually only operated with one of his companions by his side at any given time. He had always assumed there was some method behind his choice; a specific companion for a specific kind of mission. That would make good strategic sense, though the particulars in Corellan’s thought process usually escaped him.

Theron had met Kira Carsen several times. First on that Corellian rescue job almost two years ago, then more recently at Carrick Station before the assault on Korriban. He liked her. Frankly, she was probably the most outgoing Jedi he’d ever met and she was genuinely funny. (Granted, her jokes directed at Theron about being ‘Satele’s kid’ had grated on him, but he could deal with that.) Her combat record was proof that she was fantastic with a lightsaber, too. He’d been rather surprised that he hadn’t seen her working beside Corellan lately. He knew that she’d been by his side earlier on Rishi but when Corellan had first arrived at the safehouse Theron shared with Lana and Jakarro, Rusk had been accompanying him. Later, he’d seen Teeseven and Doc at his side as well. He’d found it curious at the time, idly wondering if the two Jedi were ‘on the outs’ somehow.

Whatever Corellan had in mind – whatever ‘Maneuverer Alderaan-Delta-Three’ even meant – he’d clearly decided he needed Kira with him to execute his plan.

The Jedi turned towards Theron and Lana.

“Set a timer.” He requested. “I need every bomber we can get in the air to hit Kael and the Infinites in exactly ten minutes in successive waves. Then pull them off after 30 seconds.”

Theron set the timer on reflex, then checked the data. The Infinites had advanced well past the range of the remaining Revanite anti-air flak cannons. At the speed they were moving at now, it would be a tricky target; even fighter-bombers usually weren’t designed to hit a target as small as a single squad. But he could predict their movement speed and relay those coordinates to the pilots.

“We can do that.” Theron offered. “But you just saw that it won’t keep them down for long.”

Corellan looked down at the SIS agent intently. For a second, Theron thought he might have seen a hint of a grim smile on the Jedi’s lips.

“I don’t need it to keep them down for long.”

Without another word, he turned and headed towards the exit.

“I’m ending this battle.” He spoke as he walked away from the table intently, never breaking stride or even looking back over his shoulder. “Now.”

Theron blinked as the Jedi Master departed, then turned back and looked at the others.

Lana seemed uncertain. Satele looked concerned but continued to keep her silence. Marr… Marr just continued to watch the passageway where Corellan had exited, as if trying to decide something. Theron now realized that Corellan hadn’t even asked Satele or Marr – the Coalition’s nominal leaders – for approval of his plan.

Without anyone needing to say anything, Theron relayed the orders.

Kira Carsen was more than ready to go when she’d gotten the call.

Three days of barely seeing any action back on the ship while a massive battle waged around her had admittedly left her antsy.

Corellan would have known that, and she knew he wouldn’t have held her back this long without a good reason.

She’d also barely seen him since they’d arrived on Yavin. He would have known how that would make her feel, too. She knew he wouldn’t do that to her if it could have been helped.

(It also didn’t help that they could both feel the Emperor’s presence here on Yavin. Deep down, she’d always known he hadn’t been completely destroyed on Dromund Kaas. But feeling him this close still put her on edge.)

These were their lives: They meant everything to each other, but the needs of the rest of the galaxy would always come first.

Kira knew that. She understood it. She even accepted it.

That didn’t mean she had to like it.

Still, she’d been monitoring the situation carefully. Kira had been in enough battles to know that this one was rapidly approaching its climax: the fight between the Revanites and the Coalition would be decided over the next few minutes.

And in this crucial moment, Corellan Halcyon, the vaunted Hero of Tython, had called her. She’d never admit it to anyone, but that meant something.

(It meant everything.)

Kira didn’t know if she’d ever be a Jedi Master. That goal had once been a driving ambition for her; something to solidify her sense of acceptance within the Order. To give herself that reinforced sense of belonging that she’d been seeking for most of her life. Maybe she’d even have been able to stir things up with some much-needed policy reforms. But the last few years – spent with Corellan and their crew – had eventually led her to reconsider her career goals.

She was happy with who she was. And with where she was in her life.

For example, Kira couldn’t imagine there were many Jedi Knights who could outfight her in a one-on-one lightsaber duel at this point. After all, Kira had been the one who’d struck the killing blow against Darth Nox on Tython, one of the most feared Sith in the galaxy and a particularly infamous member of the Dark Council.

But Corellan was the most driven lightsaber duelist she’d ever met. He was up before dawn most mornings (long before Kira usually rose), sparring with Scourge for an hour before even showering and sitting down for breakfast. Then, if they didn’t have a mission that day to keep him occupied, he’d spar with Kira in the early evening, working them both almost to exhaustion.

He was dedicated.

(And if Kira had ever felt overshadowed by her partner, he’d more than made it up to her during their nights alone together. Lightsaber training wasn’t the only thing he was dedicated to.)

And he did his homework, too. There probably wasn’t a holocron or text on lightsaber combat in the Jedi Archives that he hadn’t borrowed for review at least once.

But as valuable as those had been, they couldn’t begin to compete with the knowledge provided by the individual who lived in their cargo bay.

For someone like Corellan Halcyon, training with someone like Scourge was more valuable than a dozen holocrons. The former Emperor’s Wrath had spent three hundred years hunting and slaying the Emperor’s enemies, effectively becoming a ‘boogey-man’ within the Sith Empire. Kira thought it was ironic that most of those ‘enemies’ had been Scourge’s fellow Sith. (After all, up until these last few years, the Emperor had had little to fear from the Jedi, himself.) He’d taught Corellan dozens of techniques that would aid him in facing and defeating his enemies.

In the years since Dromund Kaas, Corellan’s reputation among the Sith and Imperials had only reached new heights. Even most Mandalorians refused to accept contracts on him anymore; not since his meeting with Xadya on Makeb.

Kira hadn’t listened to every lesson Scourge had taught Corellan about ancient Sith weapons and rituals, but she’d gotten the gist of what orbalisks were. (And frankly, the things sounded incredibly disgusting to her. As neat a trick as it sounded, invincibility would not be worth having those nasty bugs all over her body and digging into her skin.) According to Scourge, Vitiate had destroyed all known records of the blasted creatures decades ago. Not because he feared they could make a rival Sith powerful enough to face him; Kira’s ‘father’ was apparently far above such physical concerns. No, it was more to discourage any ‘fools with delusions of grandeur’ who managed to master the Dxunian creatures from even attempting such an act.

And Corellan being Corellan, he’d put in more than a little thought into how to counter an enemy employing the parasites should the need ever arise.

Kira supposed she owed the ‘Big Tomato’ a ‘Thank you’ for that kind of help.

The culture of their ship facilitated this kind of thinking. Hundreds of hours of training amongst their crew had led to the creation of dozens of combination maneuvers for various contingencies. Alderaan-Delta-Three was one such combination. With Scourge’s assistance; Kira and Corellan had trained for it in parts, but they’d never actually had the chance to use the whole thing in a real fight.

To Kira, that uncertainty made this job even more exciting.

Also, she’d get to bring her speeder-bike. Things were always more fun when they involved speeder-bikes, in Kira’s opinion. It would be a pity to lose this one; she’d spent months customizing it just the way she liked. Force, it was even purple.

But if this worked, then it would be worth it.

Both for the thrill of the thing, and to win this battle.

The sooner they got off this rock, the sooner she and Corellan could get some alone time together.

Theron knew that lightsaber enthusiasts and gamblers alike had been debating for years who would win in direct confrontation between the Hero of Tython and the reigning Emperor’s Wrath, and for good reason. The two champions of their respective factions were contemporaries: Corellan Halcyon and Kael Nosrol Krannus were near enough the same age with vaguely similar ‘career tracks’. Both were practitioners of Jar’khai, wielding a single-bladed lightsaber in each hand at once to devastating effect. Both had incredible combat records and a plethora of accomplishments, any one of which would have granted any warrior legendary status in the wider galaxy. Both had seen action at many of the same flashpoints that had defined the current conflict for the last few years.

Taris. Balmorra. Belsavis. However many others.

Frankly, it was a wonder that the two adversaries, these titans of the age, hadn’t met in battle before now.

Between the two of them, four consecutive Sith Lords at the head of the Empire’s Sphere of Military Offense - Vengean, Baras, Arho and most recently Arkous – had met their ends; the first two by Krannus and the latter two at the blades of Halcyon.

(Theron had heard that the entire ministry had recently been placed under Marr’s “temporary” stewardship, since Arkous’ death on Rakata Prime. If Theron had been Marr, who’d spent decades as the head of the Empire’s Sphere of Military Defense, he wouldn’t have been in a hurry to formally claim that position any more than he apparently wanted to claim the title of Emperor.)

Nor was that the end of the parallels of their journeys. Corellan had reportedly slain Lord Kael’s brother on Belsavis. The Imperial Executor – a fanatically-loyal servant of the Sith Emperor’s will – had attempted to destroy the prison world to further Vitiate’s plans for a ritual that could have destroyed the galaxy.

(Just thinking about that report had boggled Theron’s mind. He was, after all, just a spy. Situations like this still felt like they were way above his pay grade.)

From what Theron had heard, Kael had been – if anything – even more loyal to the Emperor than his brother had been.

But now, seemingly in a complete reversal, the surviving Krannus had taken up with the Order of Revan. Conspirators who fanatically opposed the Emperor’s return to the point where most had turned their backs on everything they’d ever known, to ally with a fallen Jedi who’d gone missing for centuries.

What could have prompted such an astronomical shift in allegiance for the Sith Lord?

And now, after all of that, he was finally facing Corellan Halcyon.

Theron had it on excellent authority that Nar Shaddaa bookmakers had a massive betting pool of several million credits going of what would happen when the two finally met, with odds swinging back and forth between one or the other.

The intelligence operative couldn’t deny that as the fighters began their bombardment of Krannus and his Infinites and the seconds ticked down to whatever Corellan was planning, he felt a surge of adrenaline within him despite the circumstances. As he looked around the table above the holo-map, he could feel that the others were intrigued as well.

There.

Within seconds of the barrage beginning, an icon representing a speeder bike appeared, tearing across the map, skillfully dodging stray blaster fire along the battlefield. The Coalition had been employing a handful of the machines, mostly for transporting portable equipment and relaying messages and orders that couldn’t be safely transmitted. This, however… this wasn’t one of those efficient, practical, military vehicles. Based on the specs of the data-stream, Theron recognized this one as an Aratech Coral speeder, a high-end civilian bike designed for style and mobility as well as speed.

As the holoprojection focused on the speeder, Theron noted the two figures were mounted in the pilot’s seat, a smaller figure – with short red hair, he noted – driving the vehicle while their companion, larger, wearing Jedi robes and armor, had their arms wrapped around the driver’s waist.

Just before the bike crashed into the Infinites, the two Jedi leapt off.

The resulting explosion made the holo-display flicker as it knocked Krannus and his squad down yet again. Everything within ten meters of the point of impact was suddenly immersed in flames, the wild grass on the ground briefly catching fire before just as quickly burning out. Theron only now realized the speeder must have been rigged with incendiary explosives. As Corellan and Kira landed unscathed, their lightsabers lashed out at their fallen enemies.

Theron was starting to understand the broad details of their tactical plan. The Infinites were normally all but indestructible; but as Corellan had proven on Manaan, exposing them to extreme flames could briefly leave them vulnerable to direct attacks.

Including attacks made with lightsabers.

As Kira continued to finish off the stunned Infinites, Corellan turned his attention to Lord Kael, who suddenly found himself alone and isolated. The Pureblooded Sith had risen to his feet and now plainly recognized his opponent.

The Jedi Sentinel squared off against the Sith Marauder, with the fate of Yavin, the Order of Revan, and perhaps the whole galaxy on the line.

The Hero of Tython versus the Emperor’s Wrath.

As their blades met, Theron was tempted to ask for popcorn.

Kira’s lightsaber impaled the last Infinite before it could rise, finally snuffing the last of them out for good.

For a fraction of a second, she wondered who this person had been before their transformation. Did they have a life? Did they have a family? Did they fall for some bill of goods the Order of Revan had sold them to get them to volunteer for this insane procedure?

Would they regret that their lives had come to this?

She was reminded of Agent Galen, who’d worked with Kira and Corellan on Coruscant and later again on Nar Shaddaa during the Desolator Crisis. The SIS agent had been abducted by Lord Sadic, and then horrifically transformed against his will into an Imperial-aligned Power Guard cyborg. Thanks to the Jedi duo, the Republic operative had broken free of the Sith’s control and had found peace with his lot. Kira heard months later that Galen had eventually met his end while serving on an SIS mission, but he did so on his own terms, doing something that mattered to him.

Kira took some comfort from that memory as she steeled herself and turned to join the main event.

The duel before her was incredible.

Kael Nosrol Krannus was using Form VII to deliver ferocious blows from both his sabers without restraint. The powerful Sith Lord was considered by many to be the master of using Juyo with twin lightsabers. Corellan was, for his part, seamlessly alternating between stances: employing Form Three – Soresu – to deflect Krannus’ attacks before switching to the powerful strikes of Form Five – Shien – to press him back; precision and grace one moment, decisive strength in the next.

The Jedi’s approach was slowly starting to frustrate Lord Kael, who – to no one’s surprise – was responding with overwhelming rage. His only rival for the title of ‘mightiest warrior in the galaxy’ had finally engaged him in battle and that challenger had already taken the early advantage by eliminating his supporters. Even as she approached, the Sith roared, battering the Jedi’s defense with powerful blows.

Kira scowled. Even this varp-head was ignoring her.

His mistake. she vowed to herself.

Kira Force-leapt at Krannus, her green double-bladed saber flashing high above the battlefield.

“Eat lightsaber, jerk!” she called out.

Corellan timed it perfectly. As a startled Lord Kael raised his crossed sabers above his head to meet Kira’s attack, the Jedi Master’s own blue lightsabers found an opening, slicing low at the Sith Lord’s ankle.

Had it not been for the orbalisks, the blow would have cleanly severed Krannus’ foot, and that would have been the end of it.

Instead, the attack (mostly) glanced off the impenetrable armor. Wounded or not, the impact had definitely further enraged the massive Sith Pureblood however, pushing him even further over the edge.

“Shavit!” Krannus screamed in pain, his blades recklessly slashing at Corellan again even as the Jedi effortlessly jumped backwards, a graceful toreador fighting a mighty bull.

Kira and Corellan hadn’t had time to discuss this part of the plan, but through their Force-bond, she knew they didn’t need to. She felt what he was doing. Kael’s orbalisk armor may have protected his body and even fueled his rage, but even with the Force, his physical and mental stamina had limits. Especially if he were wasting energy with his frustration.

This wasn’t the ‘end game’, of course. That would come later. But Corellan was a savant at lightsaber combat. Where most skilled duelists could, at the most, think a few moves ahead against an opponent of equal skill, it felt to Kira that Corellan could see a dozen moves ahead, even against a Sith as dangerous as the Emperor’s Wrath.

Krannus had the advantage of strength and resiliency. With his orbalisks, he could shrug off nearly any attack.

But as his frustration grew, it would also turn into anger and rage. Those emotions would power a Sith, but it would also lead them to make mistakes. The longer this fight lasted, the more Lord Kael fell back on his instincts. And those instincts had been honed long before he had donned the orbalisk armor. Those instincts were plainly built on the premise of ‘The best defense is a good offense’. (After all, if your enemy was dead, they couldn’t attack you, could they?) Within minutes he was again fighting like someone who was supremely confident in his capability to overwhelm his opponent with his powerful attacks to the point of arrogance, not like someone who rationally knew he couldn’t be wounded and had adjusted his tactics accordingly.

Corellan Halcyon and Kael Nosrol Krannus were equals in nearly every way. But here, their differences shined through for all to see.

Lord Kael had the benefit of his impregnable armor.

Corellan had the benefit of having a plan.

And of having Kira.

As the duel in the center of the battlefield raged on, so too did the greater battle of Yavin.

Theron knew that there was a perception amongst the general populace of the galaxy that the great clashes between the Galactic Republic and the Sith Empire were ultimately decided by lightsaber duels between Jedi and Sith.

Historically, Theron knew, that was rarely the case. While there were always exceptions, most major battles were instead decided by planning, logistics and – in Theron’s experience, what with being an SIS agent – superior intelligence.

He was starting to realize that – despite the Hero of Tython’s reputation as being exactly that, a Hero – Corellan Halcyon understood the same thing. Young though he was, at some point during his adventures, Corellan had learned to appreciate the difference between tactical planning and strategic planning:

Good tactics could win you a fight.

Good strategies could win you a war.

Because regardless of whether he and Kira could beat Krannus, in eliminating the Infinites and halting Lord Kael’s advance, he had already stopped the Revanites’ momentum cold. Their offensive had stalled.

The Coalition lines, buckling mere minutes earlier, were now consolidating and holding firm. Formations had regrouped, communications re-established. The pressure on the flanks faded as the Revanites struggled to hold their gains against superior numbers. The ‘wedge’ into the Coalition lines was now under pressure. Now, it was the Order of Revan troops that were looking overextended.

In that moment, Theron Shan finally began to understand why Halcyon had been so successful throughout his career. Yes, he was brave, skilled and powerful, but now he understood that this was what the Jedi Master had actually done on all those other worlds in his travels.

He didn’t do other people’s jobs for them. Instead, he took on the central problem those people were facing – the one obstacle that was causing the crisis and preventing the people there from doing their jobs – and that freed everyone else up to refocus on what mattered.

He helped people to help themselves. That not only earned him peoples’ gratitude, it also minimized any potential resentment people might have for being ‘rescued’.

And that’s what he was doing right now for the Coalition commanders.

Even if Corellan and Kira did fail to put down the ‘invincible’ Sith Lord, they had already defeated him. The Revanites were starting to be pushed back by Republic and Imperial forces all along the front. Looking down at a secondary display, Theron noted the icon representing the troops under Sergeant Rusk’s command. They had routed a group of the Order of Revan’s attack droids they’d been fighting and the Chagrian was even now driving his soldiers forward.

The tide had been turned.

Win or lose the battle, Corellan Halcyon had already won the war.

How long had they been fighting? Minutes? Hours? It could have been a day for all Kira knew. But the Force was surging within her, firing up her endorphins. She hadn’t felt this powerful since she’d purged Vitiate from her mind back on the Desolator above Tython years before.

Right now, with the adrenaline pumping in her veins, she felt like she could keep fighting like this forever.

And with Corellan at her side, she never questioned what the outcome of this fight would be.

It wasn’t courage, really. It wasn’t even faith, though Force knew she believed in Corellan Halcyon more than she believed in almost anything.

No. This was the confidence of certainty.

In the four years since Kira’s Knighting, Corellan had never taken on a new Padawan, despite numerous offers from the Jedi Council to do so. Nor had Kira accepted any assignments that would have allowed her to begin formally training a Padawan of her own; something she’d always intended to do herself.

Their physical relationship aside, this fight highlighted the reason why. They simply could not do the things they did with anyone else. Certainly not with a padawan.

They frankly would’ve gotten anyone else killed.

At some point, perhaps inevitably, Krannus had shifted his tactics, refocusing his attacks on taking down Kira while simultaneously attempting to hold off Corellan. No doubt he had decided that once he’d dealt with her, he could have turned his full attention on the Jedi Master in a one-on-one engagement with improved odds. Theoretically, it was a sound strategy, eliminating your weaker opponent so you could then focus on the main target. Kira and their crew often used similar tactics against particularly powerful enemies and their followers, allowing Corellan to isolate and defeat the primary threat.

But Lord Kael employing this plan in turn against this particular duo ignored three critical factors:

First, while she couldn’t match Corellan in sheer power or ability, Kira Carsen was still one of the most skilled duelists of her generation of Jedi. One who’d spent a childhood training to be a Sith on Korriban and who’d endured an adolescence just surviving the dangers of Nar Shaddaa and who’d spent nearly every day for the past four years training against the very best the Jedi Order had to offer. As far as she was concerned, she was no one’s “weaker target”.

Second, countless Sith – and far more Imperials – had already attempted this exact same tactic against the pair of Jedi. Thus far, it hadn’t worked out for any of them. Their ‘switches’ – where Corellan and Kira would suddenly change positions during a maneuver – had been the undoing of some of the deadliest Sith in the galaxy, most notably with Kira’s lightsaber spelling the end of Darth Angral on the Desolator and – much more recently – delivering the death blow to Darth Nox during the Empire’s assault on the Temple of Tython.

Third, the bond between Corellan and herself now far surpassed anything she imagined any two Sith – with their inherent distrust of each other – or any two Jedi – with their dogmatic dismissal of attachments – could ever experience. Kira and Corellan fought as one.

This Sith Lord didn’t have a chance.

As his frustration continued to build, Lord Kael let out another roar of rage.

“Schutta!” he cursed, calling upon the dark side as a massive radial Force blast knocked Kira and Corellan back.

Had she been on her own, Kira might – might – have been intimidated by the sheer power behind the blast. Krannus was proving to be even more powerful than Zu’fanda Pampya had been on Tython. More powerful than Darth Malgus had been at Ilum. Perhaps – in sheer power – he was second among the Sith only to Vitiate himself.

But fighting beside Corellan, with his innate combat senses and reassuring presence, she saw the blast it for what it was: a desperation move.

As she regained her balance, Kira found herself smirking in spite of the situation. The attack had been against both Jedi, but the expletive – with its feminine connotation – had unquestionably been directed against her. She’d gotten to him.

So when Lord Kael reached out his fingers and she felt the pressure of a Force choke squeezing her neck, Kira didn’t panic. Her own defensive barrier, having briefly flickered by the Force blast, reasserted itself, resisting the strength of the Sith’s attack. He was still restricting her breathing, but he couldn’t apply enough pressure to strangle her or to snap her neck. With time, perhaps, he could have rendered her unconscious.

But time was something Lord Kael Nosrol Krannus had just run out of.

Corellan Halcyon had risen to his feet.

As Kira glared into the Sith’s golden eyes, she could tell the moment they both sensed what was about to happen. Engaged this closely to Kael, she could feel him start to panic as he desperately used the Force to hurl her towards the oncoming Corellan, clinging to the hope that it would buy him a few more seconds to regroup.

And Kira… Kira simply placed herself in the hands of the Force. And in the hands of Corellan. Instinctively, she turned her body sideways in mid-air, watching in awe as a cerulean blue lightsaber passed above her by mere inches while sensing an identical blade passing below.

It took her mind a second to comprehend what had happened; as Kira’s body had been thrown towards him, Corellan had unleased both of his weapons in a twin-saber throw towards Krannus, one directed above her, the other beneath, no more than a meter apart.

It was an insane move.

Had Kira not turned her body at the precise instant she had, she’d have been sliced apart.

Before she could process that, however, she felt Corellan’s hand catching hers. Rather than pulling her into his arms, she instead felt his own body turning in place. Kira’s feet never touched the ground as her deep blue eyes caught his icy pale blues for a fraction of a second.

That fraction of a second was all Kira needed to understand exactly what Corellan was doing.

Had they been anyone else – any other two Jedi in the galaxy – this entire maneuver would have been insane. They’d have both been killed.

But they weren’t anyone else.

They were Kira Carsen and the Hero of Tython.

They were young. They were in love.

But above all else, they were heroes.

And today, with the eyes of the galaxy upon them, they would prove that claim beyond any doubt.

Spinning in place, Corellan effortlessly redirected Kira’s momentum, releasing her hand and hurling her back towards Krannus.

The Sith Lord had barely fended off the attack of Corellan’s sabers. Turning to see the Jedi Knight hurtling towards him through the air, her green, fluorescent double-bladed lightsaber ignited, even his Force-enhanced reflexes weren’t fast enough to block her attack.

In that instant, as the Emperor’s Wrath looked up at her in shock, Kira felt like a living weapon.

More, she felt like she was his weapon.

It was nothing like what she’d felt like when she been under the Emperor’s control. Back then, she’d felt like she was losing her own sense of identity. Like she was less than a slave.

Here, through her bond with her partner, she felt free.

Because someone like Kael Nosrol Krannus, who’d spent most of his life devotedly serving the worst tyrant the galaxy had ever seen in pursuit of his own personal power, would never understand that to someone like Kira Carsen, moments like this weren’t just worth dying for.

Moments like this were what she lived for.

Kira’s blow caught the inside of Lord Kael’s helmet as he screamed out in pain, dropping one of his lightsabers as he reached his hand up to grasp at the wound. She landed on the other side, turning to see that Corellan had regained his own lightsabers and was now standing alongside her.

Whatever Krannus’ helmet was made of must have been tough; he wouldn’t have survived this long if it wasn’t. But it didn’t protect his entire face.

As his blood spilled across the ground, Kira realized that she’d put out his right eye.

There had been a multitude parallels between Kael Nosrol Krannus and Corellan Halcyon over the years. But how they faced change and adversity were quite different.

Kael had once placed his total faith in Vitiate, the Sith Emperor, the being of ultimate power who had ruled the Empire for more than a millennium convinced that service to that monster was the truest path to power.

When he’d seen that faith shattered, he had thrown himself into the service of Revan, losing all sense of himself in his pursuit of revenge.

Corellan had once placed his total faith in the Jedi Order and the Galactic Republic.

When he’d seen things that had challenged that faith, from the Jedi Order’s dogmatic apathy on Voss to the Republic prison on Belsavis to Chancellor Saresh’s “military reforms”, he’d learned from it. He’d grown up. Matured. Evolved. He’d accepted that he could look past the shortcomings of others and find the strength within himself to do the right thing. That our beliefs could evolve without sacrificing the principals that defined us.

Corellan had accepted that he could change without abandoning the things that made him Corellan.

Their choices had now led these two icons of their respective, warring factions to this point here on Yavin at this exact moment.

With his remaining good eye, Lord Kael now glared at Corellan with a burning hatred.

“They call you the Jedi assassin.” He spat blood on the ground between them.

Kira felt a flash of anger at the Sith’s verbal snipe. She wanted to shout back at him that Corellan was the blasted Hero of Tython, and that he had saved the whole blasted galaxy, and that Kael could take his insults and go kriff himself.

Instead, she felt nothing but a cool acceptance from Corellan, who maintained a defensive stance with his lightsabers drawn.

“I would imagine they do.” He acknowledged, a placid expression on his face. “I’ve killed many people in my time, Lord Kael. Sith. Imperials. Criminals. Even a few rogue Jedi here and back on Rakata who joined you in Revan’s service.”

Corellan exhaled.

“I admit, at one point, even I was afraid I was turning into something I wouldn’t recognize.”

Krannus stood stunned, breathing heavily, a trickle of blood trailing down his red cheek from his ruined eye socket. Lightsabers usually cauterized the wounds they caused; this was something else. His body wasn’t responding normally. And whatever response he’d expected from his barb at the Jedi, it hadn’t been a confession.

“But just recently, I met with… with an old friend.” Corellan continued.

Kira knew instinctively that he was speaking of their encounter with the Force-ghost of Orgus Din, his old master, on Rishi. Corellan may have called almost everyone he’d ever met a ‘friend’, but she knew the few who actually got to him.

After all, she knew his story.

She knew everything about him, inside and out.

“That friend helped remind me of who I am and why I do what I do.” The Hero of Tython continued. “That I do have a future, if I can just let go of my fear that it will never come.”

He smiled wistfully.

“The strangest thing happens when we let go of our fears, Lord Kael. We become… well, I believe we become more of ourselves.”

To Kira, that very sentiment said so much about Corellan. Some cynical thinkers – and maybe even Kira herself – would claim that people were defined by their fears. How much suffering had been caused by people fearing their fellow sentient beings? Or for a lack of resources? Or a hundred other fears that seemed to drive everyone’s motivation? Even Kira’s own story had only really begun when she’d fled Korriban in fear of what the Emperor was doing to her.

Right or wrong, Corellan was exactly the kind of person who would think that people could only become the best versions of themselves when they let go of their fears.

That was one of the things she loved about him.

And he wasn’t finished.

“But that begs the question… with all the sacrifices you’ve made from just by donning that armor, what is it that you’re afraid of?”

Krannus’ good eye blinked once, and Kira found herself smirking as he snarled in anger at the barb. As Corellan raised his lightsabers, Kael’s hand lashed out with a massive blast of Force lightning towards the two Jedi…

All along the front, the Coalition forces were emerging from their defensive positions, starting to advance. Slowly at first; the Revanites were fanatics and they made their enemies fight for every step. But the loss of their momentum and the carefully coordinated counterattacks ordered by Satele and Marr were having the desired effect: The allies were once again starting to gain ground.

In a few minutes, if Krannus were even still alive, he’d be encircled.

So when Lord Kael’s blast of Force lightning struck Corellan’s crossed sabers, Theron decided that this had to be the end.

As lightning met lightsabers, the seconds started to pass. Roaring again in frustration, Krannus’ added his left hand to the attack, discarding his lightsabers entirely as the holoprojection flickered at the sheer power being unleashed from both hands.

Any second now, Corellan would break the circuit. He would turn the lightning aside and take the fight back to the Sith, even if he couldn’t directly penetrate the armor. Or, perhaps, he’d have Kira lead off with a series of distracting blows, then move in himself for the kill.

Once that happened, the leadership would order an all-out attack. The Revanites were already starting to buckle. Once Krannus was off the board, everything else would – Force-willing – fall into place.

He watched intently. Any second now…

Theron finally blinked, as the seconds kept ticking by and electrical charge against the sabers continued to build. Only now did he notice the awkward silence around the table.

“Uhm.”

Kira remembered, some years ago, Corellan discovering that he had no real aptitude for the Tutaminis Force technique beyond the rudimentary level. This was not particularly remarkable; only a small percentage of Jedi – among them Grand Master Satele – were skilled enough in the art of energy absorption to harness the truly impressive effects, like absorbing Force lightning or deflecting a lightsaber blow with their bare hand.

(Kira had heard a rumor once back on Tython that some Jedi and Sith could even use the Force to freeze a discharged blaster bolt in mid-air for several minutes by using only their minds before releasing it with full effect on a target. She’d always assumed that story to have been a crock: no one could ever identify a single individual who’d performed the trick. If Kira herself had seen it, she wasn’t sure that even she would have believed it.)

Still, it was a bit of a surprise that Corellan hadn’t managed to at least become adequately skilled at it. Aside from his old friend Ulannium, he was probably familiar with more Force combat techniques than any other Jedi of their generation.

But learning this one particular feat had always alluded him.

Still, hours upon hours of training with Scourge and Kira were sure to pay dividends eventually. The grumpy old tomato had probably seen more combat between Force-users than anyone else living, aside from maybe the Emperor himself.

But when Corellan had discovered the capability of doing something even Scourge had never seen or heard of before, even the Sith Lord had been impressed. And on that fateful day more than a year ago when the three of them had attempted this move together in a secluded valley on Alderaan, the effects had been, well… shocking.

Despite nearly being electrocuted during the exercise, Scourge hadn’t even been mad. In fact, he was as close to pleased as Kira had ever seen him. Heck, the grumpy old tomato had almost smiled.

The very rage that was powering Kael’s lightning attack was also going to be his downfall. Even with that pool of anger to draw on, sustaining this continuous torrent of lightning would be physically and mentally exhausting. Further, it would blind him to the fact that the charge building against Corellan’s lightsabers was actually growing brighter.

Lightning was supposed to dissipate against lightsabers; Tutaminis or no, it wasn’t supposed to build up.

Through Kira’s Force bond with Corellan, she could feel the moment coming. The Hero of Tython was focusing all his attention on the power building within his crossed sabers. In a sense, it felt like a test of wills between the Jedi and the Sith.

Engaged as he was, there was no possible way that Corellan could redirect that power himself with any kind of precision.

Of course, if Corellan were properly attuned through a Force-bond to someone skillful enough… well.

When the instant arrived, Corellan didn’t need to say anything. He didn’t even need to project anything towards her.

Kira simply knew.

She thrust out her green lightsaber blade, crossing it with Corellan’s weapons at a precise angle that should have been impossible to calculate.

The resulting blast of Force power erupted from the built-up charge, and it launched itself towards Krannus, faster than any of them could process.

The Sith Lord screamed in pain, blasted by electricity of his own making.

It was part of what Scourge had taught them about orbalisks: They were vulnerable to concentrated electricity. They could resist an attacking Sith’s Force lightning adequately enough… but they could not resist the wielder’s own power.

Kira watched as Kael continued to scream, the orbalisks literally burning off his body as the Sith Lord struggled to break free, to no avail.

As the final surge struck him with all the power of a thunderbolt, the Emperor’s Wrath was knocked off his feet for the third and final time this day.

The lightning finally dissipated.

The Sith Lord lay there on the ground motionless.

It sounded to Kira as if nearly the entire battlefield had suddenly gone quiet. She could hear blaster fire somewhere in the distance, but it felt like the planet itself was holding its breath for whatever happened next.

Corellan lowered his lightsabers, deactivating them as he exhaled in exhaustion, barely able to stand.

And yet, the victorious Jedi Master was still standing.

Krannus wasn’t.

Tired though she was from her adrenaline high wearing off, Kira reached out to Corellan through the Force, offering him a gentle caress. His eyes closed for a moment in acceptance and soon, his breathing started to return to normal. She could feel him becoming rejuvenated and felt more than a little satisfaction that she could have this sort of impact on him without even touching him.

He didn’t even look back towards her. But then, he didn’t need to. She could feel his upswelling of appreciation and gratitude as if he had squeezed her hand.

Corellan finally stepped towards the fallen Kael Nosrol Krannus. Kira, acting on reflex, followed at his side, looking down at the beaten Sith.

The smell of cooked flesh was revolting as it reached her nostrils, and she could barely contain the nausea she felt. As they looked down at their fallen foe, Kira could almost imperceptibly observe the Sith’s chest rising and falling; his breaths were ragged and broken.

Krannus was dying. And he clearly knew it.

With his one good eye, the Emperor’s Wrath glared up at the Hero of Tython.

“Finish them, Jedi.” He snarled weakly. “Finish those who have deceived us.”

Kira understood immediately whom he meant, even as Corellan stood in place in stoic silence.

The Emperor.

And Revan.

The galaxy itself had been engulfed over an insane feud that dated back three centuries.

It had to end.

A final sigh escaped Kael’s lips as his head fell back, yellow eyes still open, looking skyward.

The Emperor’s Wrath was gone.

Back at Coalition headquarters, Theron had been standing by to give the order the moment Lord Kael fell. Before Krannus had even taken his last breath, the Republic agent had already toggled the open channel on his communicator.

“All Coalition forces – this is command.” He announced. “The Revanites are broken. General attack. Again, all troops, general attack. It’s time to finish this.”

Theron fell back in his field chair as the icons started to advance in earnest across the holo-map. If there had been any fight left in the Order, any faith in their leader’s mad plans, it had been spent the moment Krannus had fallen: They were running.

No more strategic planning would be needed. Not for commanding the troops, anyway.

“Whew.” Theron exhaled in relief. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen that trick before.”

He beamed, looking up at the others.

All three pairs of Force-sensitive eyes around the table were still locked silently on the projection of Halcyon, Carsen and the body of Krannus.

Lana’s mouth had fallen open in shock for a long moment before she’d quickly composed herself, swallowing before letting out a breath. Satele’s eyes were clearly focused on the projection of Corellan, as if silently scrutinizing him for something only she could see. If she’d appeared concerned for her order’s young champion before, she was definitely rattled, now. Theron had long reasoned that part of the famed ‘Jedi mystique’ involved keeping one’s mouth shut when you didn’t actually have anything to say. Grand master Satele Shan certainly personified that approach. Meanwhile, hidden behind his mask, Marr’s throat made a sound that Theron couldn’t even begin to describe, nor did he think any human mouth should have been able to make.

Once again, it was Satele who seemed to regain her senses first.

“Deploy the medical teams to recover our wounded.” She ordered, reasserting herself, the very picture of decisive calm. “Alert the fleet in orbit to be on guard for fleeing transport ships. We cannot allow Revan or any of his followers to escape us again.”

Theron, blinking surprise at the reactions of the others, nodded in assent and relayed the instructions.

As the battle of Yavin came to an end, the SIS agent reflected on what he’d seen this day. Lana was certainly highly intelligent and knowledgeable concerning the Force, but it was their mutual superiors who’d captured his attention.

Satele and Marr were two of the most active and accomplished leaders of Jedi and Sith in history. They’d seen countless battles over the decades, fighting endless enemies. Between the two of them, they’d probably opened Force-knew how many holocrons or other ancient texts to expand their respective knowledge of the Force.

Neither of them had even recognized the orbalisk armor that Krannus had been wearing. And certainly neither of them had seen anything like the feat that Corellan Halcyon, at just twenty-seven years of age, had just performed with his former padawan.

Reflecting on that, Theron finally turned his attention back to the live feed of the duel that had just ended.

Halcyon and Carsen had turned their backs to the fallen Sith Lord and were now walking back in the direction of the Coalition lines even as their troops advanced the other way. Their part in the wider campaign was done.

As she followed a step behind and to the right of Corellan, he saw Kira turn and glance over at him, an expression in her eyes that he couldn’t quite interpret through the projection.

Theron was usually a loner by choice. It suited his personality. But just for a moment, he truly envied Corellan Halcyon for having a partner like Kira Carsen.

Minutes later, now standing just outside of Coalition headquarters, Kira stood across from Corellan.

Right this moment, she wanted so badly to grab him and kiss him. She would have shoved him back against the nearest tree and…

But it wasn’t the place or the time. Even in this moment of relative privacy, there were too many Republic and Imperial officers close by. Anyone could have been watching them.

Meanwhile, Satele, Theron and the Sith were waiting for him.

Revan was still out there, preparing to do Force-knows what. Regardless of whether or not it was really him behind the mask, he needed to be dealt with.

And beyond Revan was the Emperor.

As always, there was never enough time for them. And until they gave it up, there never would be.

Still, in this moment, Corellan had let the mask drop for a bit. The cold front he’d put up for the Sith. For Marr, Beniko and even Krannus. The ‘Hero’ personae he’d put up for Satele, Theron and the Republic. She alone could see the vulnerable man beneath the invincible hero.

That was enough for her. For now.

The development of Corellan’s “mask” meant she owed Scourge another ‘thank you’. As much as she loved Corellan, she’d been worried the Sith would exploit his blasted heroic nature for their own ends. So along the way, he’d learned to present the face of someone else for when he needed it; someone who could consistently throw his enemies off based on their expectations of what a Jedi even was. Between his Force camouflage and the public demeanor, they didn’t see him.

Kira had heard that Darth Marr claimed that the mask he wore was his face.

Right now, it felt like Corellan’s face was a mask.

On the flip side, he’d probably worried both of the Shans with how he’d been acting the last couple of days in front of the Sith and the Imperials. That would need addressing at some point, Kira knew.

But here, alone with her for this moment, he could allow himself to be vulnerable with her. More than that, he could be himself.

That moment couldn’t last, of course.

“You’ll tell him that its time?” he finally asked her.

I love you. Was what Kira heard.

“Yeah.” she nodded in agreement. “I’ll send ‘Big Red’ in.”

I love you, too. Kira had answered.

Without another word, she turned and left, feeling his gaze following behind her before he, too, took his leave.

“How did he do that?” Darth Marr nearly growled beneath his mask.

The Coalition forces had turned the victory over the Revanites into a route. But no one could have discerned that based on Marr’s mood in their headquarters.

“How did he even know about orbalisks? They haven’t been seen in the Empire in centuries! I barely recall even reading about them from some forbidden text in my youth!”

“My lord, please.” Lana beseeched her new boss. She’d had the presence of mind to dismiss the support staff so they wouldn’t be around to witness any ‘potentially difficult’ discussions. “I can begin making discreet inquiries once this current situation is concluded.”

Theron didn’t have any explanation that could have placated Marr and decided to himself that a snarky remark would be ill-timed right now. So he and Satele were quietly continuing to coordinate the mop-up effort while Lana attempted to defuse the situation with the frustrated Dark Councilor.

Marr paused, turning to glare down at the younger Sith.

“Talented as you are, Beniko, I doubt even your guile could determine how a young Jedi learned of long-forgotten Sith techniques.” Marr’s voice had leveled, but he couldn’t quite keep the slight hiss from his tone as he addressed his subordinate. Indeed, it was so intimidating, he probably hadn’t even tried. Regardless of how he felt about her right now, Theron didn’t envy Lana having Marr’s attention in the slightest.

Fortunately, they were interrupted before things escalated any further.

“’There is no ignorance, there is knowledge’, Lord Marr.” Halcyon’s voice echoed in the clearing as he approached the table, as he quoted the opening line of the Jedi Code, the same doctrine that Sith Lords so famously rejected with contempt. Clearly, the Jedi Master had overheard the conversation.

Theron found himself surprised that Corellan didn’t sound remotely smug; just coy. Aside from his singed robes, there was little sign he’d just fought the battle of his life. Indeed, if anything, he looked reenergized.

“You’ve returned.” Satele noted assessing him with a conciliatory nod. “Well done, Master Corellan.”

If she was still concerned with Corellan’s state, and Theron had to believe that she was, she was keeping it well-hidden in her voice behind a shield of formal compassion. Her veneer of calm was as unflappable as always.

Corellan turned to the famed leader of his order and bowed, crossing his arm across his chest in the Jedi salute.

“Master Satele.” He returned the formal greeting, bowing his head. “Thank you for approving the bombardment.” Corellan paused. “I regret there wasn’t time for me to sufficiently explain the plan earlier.”

Theron bit his lip, remembering their previous conversation.

“So we gathered.” The Grand Master assented. Their exchange was entirely civil, but Theron noted that it had not been entirely warm.

“Yes, let me second those congratulations, Master Jedi.” Lana stepped towards Corellan, giving him a surprisingly genuine smile. “It was a remarkable victory.”

She paused as if about to speak further, looking past Corellan towards the entrance.

“Will we be meeting your talented companion?”

Corellan returned her expression. Somehow, though, the smile he gave her didn’t quite reach his tired eyes.

“I’m afraid not, Lana.” He answered. “Knight Carsen was needed elsewhere. But thank you.”

Again, civil words. But delivered more formally than Theron would have expected from a man who was usually so open.

Corellan paused and looked around at the faces around the table.

“What’s our status?”

Theron, undistracted from the drama with Marr, had been ready for that line of inquiry.

“All units report success.” The SIS agent reported. “The weapon has been shut down and all the Revanites have been neutralized.”

He let that sink in, knowing what was coming next.

“Only one more left to deal with.”

Theron didn’t have to announce who that was. Lord Kael Nosrol Krannus had been all but invincible, but in the end, he’d just been a follower. There was no doubt in his mind that Revan had been the one who’d donned Krannus in the orbalisk armor in the first place. They’d be foolish to think their quarry didn’t have more surprises in store for his enemies, even with his army thoroughly beaten.

“Iven told us where Revan might go.” Satele reasoned. “The Emperor’s final sanctuary.”

A moment of silence fell across the table. Defeating the Order of Revan had been one thing. Defeating Revan himself – and possibly the Emperor, as well – was something else altogether.

Marr regarded Halcyon with what Theron could only assume was an appraising look beneath his metal mask. It felt like the Sith Lord was finally regarding the young Jedi Master with new eyes.

“You must realize, Master Halcyon, that if you embraced the dark side of the Force yourself, then no one in the galaxy would be able to stand in your way. Not even Revan.”

His voice felt like a viper slithering up Theron’s arm as he dangled the other, temptingly.

“You would be invincible.”

Satele’s eyes narrowed at the suggestion that her order’s champion could be corrupted in such a manner and even Lana looked downwards and shifted her feet uncomfortably. Theron found himself torn between the practical advantages of a dark-sided Corellan Halcyon and the fear he felt in contemplating the Jedi as a Sith Lord.

But Corellan Halcyon himself merely turned and regarded the towering Dark Councilor in turn. Marr stood at least five inches taller than the Jedi, but they might as well have been at eye level for all that mattered. The thinnest of smiles came to the Jedi’s lips.

“But then who would you find to stop me, Lord Marr?” he asked. “When I became too powerful to be contained and ruled your Empire for my own benefit?”

Theron watched as Marr’s powerful shoulders clenched at the barb. The reminder of what Vitiate, a veritable demigod ruling the Sith Empire for thirteen hundred years, had done was still fresh in everyone’s mind.

Before Marr could respond, the intelligence agent decided to change the subject.

“We could call in help.” Theron offered, eager to break the tension. “Havoc Squad could be here within a day. And Barsen’thor Kaarz reached out to ask if we needed his assistance, as well.”

He considered their other options, glancing towards Lana.

“We could even call in Xadya, the reigning Champion of the Great Hunt, if the Empire wanted to contract some Mandalorian help.”

There was a quiet pause around the table, then Corellan shook his head.

“Not enough time. Whatever Revan is planning with the Emperor, we don’t have a moment to waste.”

Theron just nodded in agreement. He was unsurprised when again no one attempted to contradict Corellan’s assessment of the situation. Glancing sideways at Satele, he could see the reluctant approval in her eyes as well. Her concerns for the young Jedi Master could wait.

“We’ve got speeders prepped.” he promised, turning back to Corellan. “Jakarro is insisting on joining us as well. You won’t be facing him alone.”

Corellan just nodded back to Theron gratefully.

“Then let’s finish this.”

Without another word, he turned and headed back towards the exit, his ruined robes flowing behind him like a hero from some holovid drama.

Theron watched him silently as the others began their preparations.

He wondered if Marr had been wrong in his estimation.

Corellan Halcyon was, by all outward appearances, already invincible.

Deep within the Temple of Sacrifice, a man behind a metal mask scowled as he witnessed his final roll of the dice come up short.

He’d known that Kael had been a blunt instrument given the state of mind the Sith Lord had been in, all but useless the moment a more refined response was called for. Nevertheless, had played the hand the Force had dealt him.

Now his followers were routed or fleeing. Even his personal guards, the Infinites, had been lost in that last assault.

The Order of Revan was finished.

That was unfortunate, but the cult had served its purpose getting him to this point. He was strong enough to complete his great work on his own no matter what these interlopers threw at him.

They might have been powerful. They might even believe that they were invincible.

But he was Revan.

TO BE CONTINUED

Author’s Notes: Full disclosure, a small chunk of the dialogue late in this story is pulled directly from the Shadow of Revan expansion, just before you go to face Revan near the end.

I’ve had this story in my Work-In-Progress writing journal for many years. At one point, I started to actually write a draft of it, then set it aside when the scope of the work started to become clear. It’s by far the longest thing I’ve written. That was two years ago. The final product involved going through many, many drafts, and has been a burden for these last three months.

It was the hardest writing project I’ve ever finished since I started writing fanfiction.

I remember one day thinking to myself ‘The Jedi Knight crew spends all this time together. What do they wind up talking about? What are their common interests?’ So I decided they talk a lot about combat. Rusk is a tactical specialist. Kira is an adrenaline junkie. Scourge is basically an ancient ninja. Doc is a field medic. Teeseven loves lightsabers. Corellan is Corellan. I imagined the group spent a lot of time designing maneuvers the way coaches draw up plays in American football and basketball. For the record, I do remember that when I fleshed out this idea, I had Skillet’s “Invincible” playing in the background. This piece was also partially inspired by the action scenes in the classic Deceived and The Return trailers.

This piece was originally planned as a chapter in a five-part series, with each piece featuring a point-of-view alternating between one of the Jedi Knight companions and one of the prominent NPCs involved in the S.O.R. story. (Lana and Teeseven would have been “paired” together, for example, like Theron and Kira were here.) That project wasn’t coming along, so this story is now a two-parter in that duology, with this chapter being the first. I’m fascinated by the idea of a story being told from the points of view of different characters who have different perspectives on the same scene based on their own understanding and preconceived notions. I touch on that concept for this chapter and I’m thinking I intend to make it even more pronounced in the next.

Writing action scenes is … still challenging for me. But I’m working on it.

We never see them in the actual SWTOR game story, but I head-canon that orbalisks are not commonly used in the “modern” Sith Empire, with even the knowledge of their existence a secret suppressed by the Emperor. By the time of the Shadow of Revan expansion, even knowledgeable Sith like Marr have barely heard of them. (Obviously, certain select individuals – such as a three-hundred year-old Sith Lord – are obviously more familiar.) I was tickled by the head-canon that Marr kept forbidden Sith texts under his pillow as a child. I know that many of you are not fans of Drew Karpyshyn, but I enjoyed his Darth Bane Trilogy. Those of you who have also read it will no doubt be familiar with some of my inspirations for this chapter. I wanted to introduce a special element into this fight and giving orbalisks to Lord Kael seemed to make sense to me.

Speaking of which, Kael Nosrol Krannus is one of my oldest OCs, dating back to when he was simply known as “Nosrol”. (Which sounded too much like one of the orcs from Warcraft for my tastes.) The literal intent of the character was to take (almost) every single dark-side choice available in the Sith Warrior Class and Imperial stories since I so often play light side. Simply put, he’s my token ‘edge-lord’, as terrible a trope as that is. But he was also a hardline Vitiate fanatic, and as such he fit the role here: when you shatter a fanatic’s faith in something, they don’t usually become a better-rounded person with a fresh perspective. They just find something else to be fanatical about. That development is about as interesting as the character gets. Other quick notes on Kael: First, ‘Lord Kael and the Infinites’ sounds like a good name for an 80’s death-metal band. (No, that wasn’t intentional.) Second, the game-play rule that Sith Warriors can’t make Force lightning is dumb. Third, his line of dialogue at the end is a reference to the Obi-Wan / Maul scene from Star Wars: Rebels, one of my favorite moments from that series.

Fun fact, the first reference to Theron in the actual game story comes from Kira Carsen herself, during a post-class story letter. I head-canon that Kira, in contrast to the discreet Corellan, frequently teases Theron about Satele being his mother. (She eventually quits teasing him after she joins the Eternal Alliance, but that comes much later.) Aside from his encounter with Orgus, Corellan didn’t team with Kira for much of the Forged Alliances / Shadow of Revan storyline, primarily because he was concerned about Lana or Satele or possibly even Revan himself putting two and two together concerning their relationship. Obviously, that weighs on my favorite one true pairing. Other notes on Kira: First, @taraum is the reason I have Kira calling Scourge ‘the Big Tomato’ and so on. Years later, I continue to be inspired by her work. Second, I’ve head-cannoned for a while that Kira loves the color purple and would change her lightsaber color to it if it didn’t make the other Jedi look at her suspiciously. (Lookup the story “Apex” on ff.net for my inspiration on that.) Third, SWTOR gameplay is weird. Regardless of the settings, companions often wind up acting like tanks in the fights, drawing the attention of mobs. So I have certainly seen enemies trying to gang up on Kira while I’m playing as Corellan, and they usually pay the price. Fourth, Kira’s Tutaminis rumor was a light dig at the opening scene from The Force Awakens with Kylo Ren. All jokes aside, it wasn’t a terrible film, but I can only look back on it now as a waste of potential knowing what was to come.

Theron’s obliviousness to Kira’s relationship with Corellan is just good, clean fun for me.

Unintentionally, I feel I’ve laid the groundwork for the Eternal Alliance storyline and the choices Lana, Theron and other characters wind up making concerning Corellan Halcyon as the future Outlander and Alliance Commander. On its surface, there aren’t a terrible number of reasons why Lana Beniko would ‘draft’ an Outlander like Corellan, who is probably a bit too idealistic for her tastes. The Corellan she sees here has a ruthless streak in addition to being an inspiring figure. That is the version of Corellan she wants to lead the revolt against Zakuul. (This naturally leads to some misunderstandings later on after she frees him. “Lana Beniko disapproves” indeed!)

I’ve alluded before that in my Legacy, Corellan and his crew met with Theron well before the events in the Forged Alliances story on a couple of “unofficial” missions. That story is even deeper in my WIP folder than this one was and probably will not see the light of day.

The Twi’lek Jedi and human Sith Lord who died fighting Kael are named Pol’fenn and Fen Huang. They are obviously minor supporting players here, but they are featured original characters in my Barith Legacy, where (obviously) they don’t meet their end fighting my favorite evil edge-lord. I might write about that “alternate timeline” legacy some other time.

My characterization of Satele Shan feels very passive in this story and that may draw some deserved criticism. I intend to address that in the next chapter.

I don’t know if any of you caught it, but there was an homage to the classic Dark Phoenix Saga story from the X-Men comics. It was just a bit of narrative text that always stuck with me, and it fit Kira and Corellan.

Stay tuned for “Part Two” of this story, titled Allies and coming… someday. I probably need a break from this series for awhile, but I’ll get to it. Kira won’t really be there, but Scourge and Satele definitely will be.

Thank you, and may the Force be with you.

- SWTORpadawan

Tagging interested parties: @a-master-procrastinator @abbee-normal @abysskeeper @actualanxiousswampwitch @ainyan @amons-hat-enthusiast @ancha-meadow @anchanted-one @atlanta--airport @beaut-ful-d-saster @blueburds-but-swtor @cassthechaoticmercenary @certified-anakinfucker @chaosandwonder @chokit-pyrus @cinlat @commander-krios @connoissuer-of-fine-vines @cryo-lily @darthsinister66 @depizan @dynlegacy @eorzeashan @freedim @girlstandstill @gmkelz11 @grandninjamasterren @inventedbyawriter @itstheelvenjedi @jayofolympus @jbnonsensework @justadreaminghufflepuff @karanan @kemendin @kgoblin @khrushchevs-corn-farm @lemonlinelights @lonewolfel @magicallulu7 @boggedfrog @misthios00 @mysterious-cuchulainn-x @nostalgiaaftersimming @rangerslayer-97 @oolathurman @pentacass @princessthriller @rogue-kenobi @sealeneee @shabre-legacy @shadowysthings @shynmighty @space-unicorn-dot @starknstarwars @sullustangin @taina-eny @taraum @the-jedi-knight-enjoyer @the-raven-of-highever @the-sith-in-the-sky-with-diamond @tishinada @velvetsunset @vexa-legacy @vihola @wackyart @what-we-fight-for @wilvarin-chan

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