#traitor arc

[eorzeashan]

Conspiracy, Pt. 1

How he managed to discover his stint as a traitor early on, Theron didn’t know. 

Leave it up to the ex-Cipher to have skills far beyond his ken or the perception needed to see past his motives as only another Intelligence agent of his caliber could.

Disappointing as it was, Theron remained fully prepared to force his way out of the Alliance if needed; it would only serve his case as a traitor, and he was in too deep to back out now. He might’ve expected this, even. 

“Take me with you.”

What he did not expect Eight to have was the gall to ask him to come with. 

Theron had no intention of endangering someone else on such a risky mission, already excluding the glaring issues of how in Force’s name he’d swing it to the rest of the Order. The Alliance could live without Theron Shan, washed up spy, traitor to the cause, but its Outlander? Absolutely not. 

He flatly refused.

Eight hadn’t so much as budged. Take me with you, he’d repeated with not an ounce of doubt or uncertainty, I need to leave the Alliance. 

Now that had raised Theron’s brows past his hairline. 

They’d argued about it, if one could call quiet tenacity a type of arguing, until Eight interrupted his tirade about how he wasn’t going to smuggle him off Odessen no matter how bad this looked with a stern glance and tilt of his snow capped head towards Theron’s holocom buzzing in his pocket. 

“This is an SIS matter now,” He declared, and the statement knocked the wind out of Theron’s stomach. Their Eight, ever-so Imperial, loyal Eight, …was a double-agent for the Republic. Not that he had any right to call him out for it, being caught red-handed in the middle of traitorous activities.

“By whose authorization?” Theron asked testily.

-/-/-/-/-/-

ODESSEN, PRIVATE ROOM

“This is a surprise,” Theron said, schooling his features back into impenetrable stoicism. “Ardun Kothe.”

“In the flesh,” The former spymaster gave a professional smile- one that didn't reach past the crow’s feet of his wizened eyes. “Or not quite.” He chuckled, the flickering blue holo-figure of his form pacing back and forth in the palm of Theron’s hand. 

Theron observed him with thinly veiled wariness. 

SIS spymaster. Former Jedi. Failed leader of a resistance cell whose movements went mysteriously unchecked and wiped from the system. Theron had been well on his way to joining him in a similar fashion– then Ziost happened. 

All the less to trust the man before him. “So what's this about? I thought the SIS cut ties with me by now, but clearly-” He gesticulated around the bare room, shifting uncomfortably. “-that's not the case.”

Ardun nodded curtly to Eight in the background, who mirrored the same gesture to his former cell leader. He turned back to Theron. “Not a pleasure call, that's for certain.” He gave pause. “I take it you're familiar with the Empire's experiments in brainwashing– says here you've done a bit of work in attaining samples– and you've met our Cipher.”

A knot of unease formed above Theron’s brow. He glanced askance at Eight, who still masked his expression with the same unflappable look he always wore. “...Where are you going with this?” 

“I’m contacting you now because Director Trant believes in you.” Ardun continued, words rolling off the timbre of his steady voice. “Between the two of us, Agent Shan, all this talk of traitors and who’s betraying who- that's all a cover.” 

Theron’s jaw tightened. “It's really not.” The reply came out shorter than intended.

Kothe shrugged. “Maybe so. But can you say you're not acting in the best interests of the Republic even now? That you’ve left your old home behind for good? You're short of allies, and you’ve cut yourself loose. Don’t be afraid to know where help is– where it always was. You'll need it in the coming days. I’m offering you a way back in. Saresh is gone, and Marcus needs your skills back where they belong.”

The help doesn't usually punish me for trying to save lives, but sure, he mused bitterly, recalling Saresh’s interference and grounding of his work. 

So. The SIS was trying to make a back deal now that he’d exonerated himself from Alliance services officially. He couldn't say he didn't miss the Republic or the feeling of being on familiar ground, and he’d be lying if the prospect of returning to his old job and undoing all of the damage Saresh had done during her career didn't spark more than interest in him, but…

Theron fell silent. “No. This is something I have to do on my own.”

Ardun didn't seem surprised. “I understand. The SIS will respect whatever decision you choose, Agent. But this isn't just from the SIS; it comes from inside the house. Whatever you plan to do…we want you to succeed.” 

The old ex-Jedi winked over his shoulder at him. “We’re leaving you with a little favor, off the books and off-record; use it wisely.” Ardun clasped his hands behind his back, gaze flinty and uncompromising. “Keyword: Onomatophobia. Thesh protocol, phase one.”

Behind Theron, Eight fell to one knee. His expression looked like he’d been struck.

Theron whirled around. “Eight–? Whoa, what's wrong?” 

Eight failed to answer him. “Thesh protocol engaged. Shutting down.” He repeated robotically. The light faded from the other agent’s eyes– then nothing. 

“Eight?”

No answer. 

“Hey. Wake up.” He grabbed him by the shoulders, shaking him slightly. Eight didn't respond, limp in his arms like a lifeless doll. No. This was wrong. He needed to get Lana, Eight was–

Horror dawned on Theron’s features as he took a furtive step back, expression quickly morphing from confusion, to open shock, then finally to white hot anger. 

Eight had repeated Ardun’s words like a pre-programmed droid. Eight wasn't waking up. There was a keyword–

Brainwashing. Brainwashing. That was what he meant. That was what he’d been alluding to this entire time. The cold pit of his stomach opened up to icy bone-cutting dread, and he turned on Ardun with a blazing fury. 

“What have you done, Kothe?!” He shouted, voice echoing off the walls. 

The spymaster only smiled, wan and thin. “He’ll be susceptible to commands after he awakens. Use them wisely,” Ardun reminded him, his holo-figure warping as it lost connection.

“No,” He enunciated, hard and low and angry, “No! Don't you dare hang up- Kothe! KOTHE!” The holocall cut out. Theron yelled, slamming his fist where the holo had been. Crunch. 

His hand came back covered in broken communicator parts. He stared at it, then hung his head. Theron punched the table again, this time much weaker, all the fight having left his body with no one to direct it at it. 

Eight was still asleep, and he was alone, with no help coming and an ever-growing list of betrayals that he’d signed off on. 

“Dammit,” He covered his face with his hands. A slight tremor ran through them. “Damn it all to hell.”

-/-/-/-/-/-

The flight after was filled with stony silence. 

The first words Eight had uttered upon awakening had been “awaiting orders”. 

Theron promptly shut the pilot’s door on him. 

He felt bad about it, sure, but his head felt fit to burst with the conflicting emotions and sheer range of thoughts all coalescing into one throbbing headache that made him want to scream. He thanked the stars he still kept a spare bottle of n’etra gal around, a gift from his father around the time of the Ascendancy Spear, yet he never dreamed he’d be popping it open for reasons like this. 

It took about half of the bottle and their flight time for Theron to feel ready to address the bantha in the room again, and even then he wanted to avoid it like the rakghoul plague. 

Sure enough, on the other side of the cabin door was Eight, a deeply apologetic look on his face, hands fisted in the comforter as he meekly muttered “awaiting orders,” as if that were the only phrase in his vocabulary. 

The spy eyed him with condolences. “So,” Theron sighed, plopping down on the other side of the bed next to him, “How does this work? You can’t do anything until I tell you to, or…” He waved dismissively, letting his hands fall back down to his thighs. 

Eight considered this in deep thought. He shrugged. “Awaiting orders,” Eight said.

“Yeah… I got that part.”

Kothe hadn’t been lying about his instructions at the very least, but Theron wished he had. Gift my ass, he inwardly swore. You stuck both of us with a ticking time bomb and no way to defuse it except to take it far, far away. 

Who knew if Kothe had already pre-programmed Eight all this time to act as an unwilling mole? 

Either way, Theron couldn’t leave him behind in the Alliance. As long as Eight was compromised, he needed to be extracted. Any number of their enemies could take advantage of his fragile mental state, and Theron was not going to hand their best fighter to them on a silver platter… nor would he subject a long-time ally to something so heinous. 

He slid a hand down his unshaved face, half-expecting to feel stress wrinkles forming beneath his fingertips. Eight looked at him with worry across the bed.

This was the SIS’ game: saddle Theron with a liability he couldn’t get rid of so easily, and if he did, completely undermine the Alliance from within with it. Not a bad play, ruining their Outlander like that. 

But Theron wasn’t so easily done in; as far as he was concerned, nothing had changed save for a slight wrinkle in the plan. Vinn Atrius still needed to be stopped, and the Alliance was still in danger. Eight being his unintended and unwilling partner-in-crime didn’t steer them off course, although he had to make some serious adjustments.

He’d just have to wing the part about both of them joining the Order of Zildrog.

“Well, if I have to give you orders…”

-/-/-/-/-/-

NATHEMA

“We had a deal, Theron.” Vinn Atrius’ voice took on an edge– the man himself glared daggers at Theron, as if imagining crushing the other into a flattened pancake beneath his heel. 

“I know, I know, just–” Theron put his hands up placatingly. “Hear me out. He’s on our side. We both didn’t like how the Alliance was being run–”

“What sort of fool do you take me for, Shan?” Vinn hissed, the air around him crackling with suppressed fury. The hairs on Theron’s arm stood on end. “Did you really think I would believe two of the Alliance’s top founders would defect, much less their hunting dog?” He threw a disgusted glare at Eight, who feigned ignorance in the corner of the barren base.

Vinn crowded further into Theron’s space, a hulking mass of boiling rage. “Your arrogance knows no bounds; I should kill the both of you right here and now!” He shouted into the spy’s face, finger stabbing into his chest with each spat syllable. 

“Whoa, whoa, easy there, big guy,” Theron fought to maintain his composure, even as he backed up until his spine met the wall. Vinn’s massive frame loomed over him. “That hunting dog is tired of being under the Alliance’s yoke. You don’t know this, but it wasn’t his decision to fight for them. He owes them his life. Just as he owes me.” 

“And? Am I supposed to be convinced that he won’t slaughter us all in our sleep?” Vinn scowled. “You speak of disillusion, yet this man murdered our Emperor– our entire royal lineage without a second thought.” The knight slammed his fist into the moss-covered wall beside Theron’s head. “He is responsible for all of it!”

“If you want someone to blame, blame Arcann!” Theron rebutted, eyes flashing. He balled his fists. “He’s the one who started all this. The rest of us were caught in the crossfire of your family conflict, remember?” Theron straightened to his full height in the face of Vinn’s rage, unwilling to be cowed. “The Outlander was framed for everything Arcann did, including the assassination of your beloved Emperor. Arcann and the Alliance used him to eliminate their enemies. He has more reason than any of us to be here–!”

“Know your place, fool!” Vinn roared, igniting his polesaber. 

Theron fell silent, realizing he’d gone a step too far. 

“If you remain so intent on proving his innocence…” 

Vinn suddenly faced Eight, who reacted with alarm; the knight formed a claw with his dominant hand and pulled. Eight dug his heels into the ground and resisted, but he was no match for the Force without a shield. He zipped to the knight unceremoniously. 

As soon as he was in reach, Vinn caught him by the wrist and violently yanked it upward. Surprise morphed into one of pain as Vinn hyperextended his arm well above his head, gripping hard enough to bruise. His feet dangled; Atrius was a much larger opponent in both width and height. Even in such a position, Eight withheld a cry of pain, unwilling to give Vinn the satisfaction of sadism. He bared his teeth at the knight. 

Vinn decided he didn’t like the look, and tightened his grip on Eight’s wrist, hard enough to purple the skin. His polesaber ignited beside them with a hum, bathing Eight’s pained expression in a militant blue. Theron’s eyes widened to saucers as Vinn raised his saber hand to strike.

“WAIT!”

Theron hadn’t realized the shout came from his own throat, desperate as it was. 

Vinn’s saber stopped inches away from contact. Eight didn’t move.

“Wait,” He repeated, this time, far hoarser, “You don’t have to hurt him. There’s collateral.” A trickle of sweat rolled down his cheek. 

“Speak,” Vinn said imperiously.

He swallowed the lump in his throat. His eyes met with Eight’s, who appeared as unsteady as he felt. And yet, the other operative must have read his intentions, for the light of understanding entered the void of his gaze. Hesitant, yet barely noticeable, he nodded to Theron.

He wet his parched and cracked lips.

Vinn’s lightsaber still hovered, pulsing with blue light.

“We took...countermeasures. Insurance. There’s…a codeword that ensures obedience.” Vinn frowned, but Theron noticed the gleam of ambition in his gaze. He quickened the pace. “If I tell him not to betray us, he has to obey. He’s not a threat. I promise.” 

Sure enough, Eight hung uselessly in Vinn’s hold, not a hint of hostility to be found. Were this any other situation, the ex-Cipher would have attacked him by now– had Theron not taken that into account.

Perfectly aware of his record for lethality, Theron had briefed him prior to the meeting to let him handle the Order at all costs. Granted, it left the other unable to defend himself, but Eight understood that the matter was too delicate to do it the usual asskicking way, and Theron had been working this case for months. It had sounded like common sense at the time.

Now he slightly regretted that decision, knowing what it sowed.

The fact that he trusted him still even at the current threat of injury…Theron had to spare him any amount of suffering. Yet sharing the secret of Eight’s susceptibility was playing exactly into their hands, and he didn’t know how to stop the sinking feeling that he was trading one evil for another, staining his tarnished record black– except it would be Eight paying the price, not him. His skin turned clammy.

“A codeword,” Vinn echoed, almost reverent. He de-ignited his polesaber.  “How very like you outlanders, to be as backstabbing and manipulative as you claim.”

“Yeah.” Theron pressed his lips together into a thin, bloodless line. “So let go of him.”

The Zakuulan arched an unimpressed brow.

“Please.” He added, quieter.

Vinn examined Eight with a newfound curiosity, then released him from his grasp. 

Eight rubbed his wrist and glanced upwards at Vinn with a mixed expression. Theron didn’t let him entertain any vengeful thoughts of violence, as much as he himself wanted to blast Vinn to bits. He lunged forward and yanked the other spy to his side well out of Vinn’s reach. The knight’s eyes tracked him all the way behind Theron.

“If we’re done chopping arms off, can we get back to business?” Theron asked tentatively, hiding the sheer discomfort he felt lingering in the air like a caustic smog. His fingers tapped nervously on Eight’s wrist, still holding onto where Vinn had squeezed dark bruising into his skin. 

Eight peered warily over his shoulder at the Zakuulan knight, though Theron could feel his eyes boring a questioning look into his back every few glances. 

Vinn Atrius folded his impressive arms over his chestplate. “...Very well.” He turned with a dramatic swish of his cape. “The Adegan crystals. You know what to do.” 

“They’re yours,” Theron answered all-too quickly, wanting nothing more than to put a close to this disastrous meeting. 

“One last thing, Shan.”

“One last–?” 

“Leave the Outlander here.”

Theron tensed. “No.”

“I am not so foolish as to allow both of you in the field. He will be monitored.” Vinn stared at him with disdain through his nose. Theron glared back. 

Vinn scoffed. “It’s that or the codeword. Unlike you savage outlanders, I can spare your friend the humiliation of what Lady Vaylin suffered–” He looked balefully upon Eight. “--though he deserves it. Make your priorities clear, Theron, or I’ll make all your decisions for you and him.”

Theron floundered for a mental foothold. A thousand bad scenarios raced through his mind. Neither of these were options, they were ultimatums. Ones he had no control over, no guarantee of safety. Leaving Eight alone with the enemy was tantamount to killing him with his own hands. Giving him the codeword even moreso. 

Atrius tapped his foot impatiently.

He doubted his intentions enough as it was, but Theron couldn’t give him leverage. A hostage, of all things. Who was playing who? Now Theron was caught by the tail in both the Order and the SIS. There was no winning if he agreed. Yet the longer he let hesitation take hold, the more he could sense the suspicion growing from the former Horizon Guard, who looked ready to take Eight away from him by force any second now. 

A sharp tug on his sleeve pulled him out of his anxiety-riddled thoughts. Eight wore a non-expression that gave little away, irises as dark as the black sand beaches of Rishi. 

Theron’s brows steepled quizzically. He felt his heart rate lowering looking at the serene canvas that Eight’s countenance was. Always unflappable, calm, strong. How many times had they come to rely on his detachedness? His ability to face any threat with nigh a hint of fear in him? His eternal resilience, with the scars to prove it?

Theron gripped his chest. The fabric crumpled between his fingers. He’d promised him he wouldn’t have to bear their burdens anymore, and he was already failing.

Eight let the silence hang between them until the panic in Theron’s chest subsided to a dull ache. Then, like a gust of fresh wind clearing the unbreathable miasma from the air, he spoke. 

“It’s alright.” He released his sleeve. “I can stay.”

Theron blinked at him, not comprehending. He shook his head vigorously. “I can’t let you-”

“He’s made his decision,” Vinn brusquely interrupted, muscling between them. Theron was shoved aside, tripping backwards on his heels as Vinn obscured Eight behind the curtain of his humongous cape.  “Now make yours.” He glowered. “I have no time for dogs who come to lick the scraps from my heels.” 

Theron grit his teeth. They ground against each other. He felt like a wounded hound who’d just been thrown out of the ring after a knockout. Screw you, asshole. 

“Wait. Just… let me say goodbye, at least.” He said quickly, clinging to the last chance they’d have at communication. 

The corner of Vinn’s lip curled upwards. Theron took his lack of objection as a yes. 

He scrambled to remove his jacket, internally apologizing to Eight for not washing it sooner and praying that it didn’t smell too bad. Eight’s gaze was bright and curious as Theron draped the classic red jacket over his shoulders.

“Keep it with you,” Theron ordered, hand stopping to rest over the familiar worn leather that now rested on Eight’s smaller frame, “Whatever you do, don’t lose it. Okay?”

Eight seemed to get the memo. He nodded, short and sharp.

Theron gave him a small pat, hand hovering for a moment before falling to his side. He stepped back. 

He was sure Eight was lost on why Theron was fawning over him like a lover– they were never what one could call “close” in the first place, and anything between them was more business than personal. Even the few moments they shared as partners in crime were distant at best, and Theron wasn’t going to lie about the emotional unavailability of their relationship. 

But staring at Eight now, he mostly felt regret. He knew next to nothing still about the ex-Imperial. Even yelled at him a couple times for actions he didn’t approve of (which he wished he could rescind, as Eight no longer ambushed his quieter moments out of mischief and had taken to interacting with him purely out of necessity after). But that didn’t mean he wanted the last time he ever saw him alive to be…like this. Theron drooped. 

No one had ever asked Eight’s reasons for fighting for them as their Outlander, him included. Turned out it wasn’t fair of them to ask everything of one person and give nothing in return but scathing remarks and more demands for the sake of their own lofty ideals.

When Eight killed the royal family of Zakuul, finally did the dirty deed and shed blood in their name, no one had been there. They’d turned their backs on him. A little bit of darkness, and the Alliance abandoned him completely in order to keep their shiny coats clean.

He had been their scapegoat, their hero, their alibi, and their sacrificial lamb all in one. 

Theron couldn’t even call him a friend. 

“We will contact you as soon as you have the crystals. Be ready by sundown.” Vinn carelessly tossed him a burner holocomm. “But know this: make one wrong move, and you forfeit your friend’s freedom. Betray us, and it will be his life. Is that clear?” Vinn’s voice was low, simmering with the threat. Eight, still in his grasp, flicked his uncertain gaze to the SIS agent. 

“...I understand.” He flexed his hands reflexively, wanting to act, do more than gawk like a moron while Vinn had his way. 

Vinn hauled Eight away by the bicep, the other forced to stumble awkwardly along due to the sheer height difference. He stopped just outside the entryway to the temporary hideout. “See that you do, Shan.” Eight’s pitying look followed him all the way until he and Atrius disappeared around the corner. Yet Vinn’s arrogant voice floated to him until they were out of earshot, ringing hollowly in his ears. “...See that you do.”

-/-/-/-/-/-

UMBARA

“The traitor’s just beyond that door.” 

Lana doggedly marched ahead of Theron, anticipation and eagerness rolling off her demeanor. 

Theron performed a simple sweep, carefully stalking behind the vulnerability of her open back. He had a wider area to cover today given the noticeable absence of their mutual friend, who ordinarily would be taking point adjacent to him. At the thought of Eight, a wrinkle formed in Theron’s brow.

Lana had chalked his missing status up to wanderlust, though it sparked no end to muttered threats about what an earful she would give him on his return. 

Theron knew better; Eight’s eccentric habits made it easy to spin a white lie about his whereabouts. The ex-Cipher had a tendency to avoid the Alliance and its “menial” tasks on his off-days, but as a result, made it difficult to locate him in order to avoid being saddled with the bureaucratic duties he and Lana shared simply because he had “no talent” for it, and only came into the base to head missions more relevant to his skills.

Ones that involved gratuitous amounts of violence, mostly. Any work past the bare listed minimum had Eight disappearing the moment their back was turned. Theron wished he could do that with his paperwork, but alas, he was not afforded such special treatment. 

“It’s as if he’s purposefully making our lives difficult,” Lana had thrown up her hands in frustration, paperwork scattering in the air as she slumped backwards in her chair when he gave her the news. “Just… tell me when he gets back. And no more of his excuses, do you hear me?”

It was almost cruel to obfuscate the truth from her.

The opening hiss of a pneumatic door signaled to him the trap was laid; Lana stepped inside, aghast. She lowered her lightsaber, glancing around the empty car with a muddled look on her ordinarily composed face. Not a soul inside. Her confident bloodlust dissipated into thin air, and with it, her only lead. The quarry was…gone?

“What-?” She asked aloud, failing to notice the traitor inching forward at her back.

It took a split-second. The Force screamed at her. She reacted, drawing her lightsaber in an instant. The blaster bolt deflected off the crimson edge and back at her attacker–

“Theron?!” She cried out, disbelieving. Yet she could only confirm the sordid truth as rayshielded walls fell around her, the blaster bolt dissipating uselessly against it. Theron Shan, her trusted ally turned traitor. Her golden eyes fell to the smoking blaster in his hand, pointed straight ahead. Her face fell. He’d attempted to shoot her. In the back. 

She forced down the humiliation that welled up in her for falling for something so obvious, even as he stared at her from the other side of the rayshield with a grim expression, his aura tainted with a nebulous feeling that twisted and roiled in the Force. 

How could he–? After all they’d been through…no, no– this made no sense. Lana controlled her breathing. She knew Theron. 

She needed an explanation, and she needed one now. 

“What in the blazes are you doing?” Lana hissed at him, saber thrumming with the anger that pulsed in her chest like a fractured kyber heart. Her tone bordered on electric, dancing with the imminent danger of her withheld wrath. 

Theron sighed and lowered his blaster. “Stalling you,” He explained, as if faced with an unsavory chore. “I’m sorry, Lana. I should’ve done this long ago. It’s past time we ended this.” He set his wrist comp’s internal clock. “In a few minutes, this train will collide with the side of the mountain, and I’ll be gone. For what it’s worth…” His expression grew sympathetic. “It's been an honor to fight by your side.” 

Lana stuttered. “I don’t– I don’t understand.” Hurt colored her pallid cheeks. “Theron, tell me what’s going on. We can talk about this.” 

Theron appeared pained at her words. He looked away, shifting uncomfortably. When he lifted his eyes to meet hers again, they were filled with an uncountable tiredness to them that Lana had not seen before. “...The Alliance, Lana. We can’t do this anymore. It has to end. That starts,” He narrowed his embittered eyes, “with you.”

Theron took Lana’s speechlessness as a cue to continue, a sudden zeal replacing the deep melancholy that had previously dominated his features. His tone picked up. 

“Our goal was Zakuul, but now that the real threat is gone, we’ve lost sight of who we are–and that isn’t the next galactic superpower.” He paced in front of her, the angry red of the rayshield casting him in a harsher light than Lana had ever seen before. “I won’t stand by and watch it turn into the next Empire, Lana. We’ve sacrificed too much to go on like this, and if the Alliance is another tool for grinding good men and women into dust…then it needs to be torn down.” 

“That’s not-”

“And with the way things are going, we’re destined to return to the status quo by the next cycle.” Theron pierced her with his steely gaze. “Am I wrong?”

Lana froze, grip tightening on the hilt of her uselessly hanging blade. Theron’s eyes bore into hers. She could sense no regret, no point of return from his words. Yet the longer he spoke, the colder the tendrils of despair seemed to become, winding themselves around her veins, chilling her to the bone with this sinking feeling. Betrayal. 

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Lana tried, failing to understand. For all her eloquence, in this moment she was truly at a loss for words. It was as if her tongue weighed duracrete, locked down by an invisible force that choked her very lungs. 

Lana Beniko had never been trusting in the traditional sense, but it was Theron whom she shared more than one battle with. More than one war with. She’d thought…

Theron’s eyes widened, then lowered. “I…” He turned away, facing his back to her. Lana could see the visible slump in his broad shoulders, the way they hung like he carried the weight of the world. 

She’d seen that same back working tirelessly on those nights when they burned the midnight oil together monitoring operations, Lana’s other bastion within the Alliance besides Koth and their errant swordsman, the one who had brought them together in the first place. The irony was almost laughable. 

Theron a traitor, Eight a distant specter in their Alliance, and herself, saddled with the immeasurable burden of leadership…their little group was falling apart by the seams. 

Perhaps that was her own fault, for trusting them through shared history alone. How could she have been so foolish to assume they were anything but enemies waiting for their chance to strike once the specter of Zakuul had been removed? 

It was then Lana realized she’d overlooked a vital detail. A huge, glaring mistake, that she should have noticed sooner. 

“Theron,” She spoke slowly, hesitantly, yet impossible to ignore with its underlying edge,  “Where is Eight?”

[captainkurosolaire]

Traitor

Downpour ceased into a gentle fall. Darkened clouds drifting with precipitation forewarned of a looming critical storm, yet faint, a hint of warmth, that circular Sun concealed from its duty could be given peer. Swelling with emotions of loss, amongst his own abode. A ship’s anchor was removed allowing tides their commandment of destiny. Blackguard, taking center deck, a shout bellowed out. “Come out. You’ve won, before I die here. I desire my why.” His gut-instinct knew who the culprit was. Defeat written in his body-language, slouching posture from deceit. He told the Crew to leave but the treacherous snuck aboard a scent the Miqo’te picked up. Paced feet drew forth from creeping shadows, a cloaked individual wearing a mask of Imitation of Mistbeard. Even alone, cowardice mind games are played. While a silver-pointed pistol with engravings <Silver Wind> had been locked onto the Captain since departure. Frowning unruly symbolism, apparel was a legacy attire the Goldbrand of Old used to assassinate, ruthlessly collecting hoards of other pirates, merchants, civilians. Ingrained steep into the culture of piracy. They took Mistbeard’s legend to commit heinous acts. As the original mask held reputation, to pass down from various others; to wretched few, there was a scapegoat to hide crime behind another's identity. None could ever replicate Mistbeard. A King transcended time itself for as long as the actual mask exists, or the imitations, nothing could be forgotten; eternity. This betrayer knew Captain better than any advisory. Two distinct paths taken from a crossroads once shared. Since pre-teens to adulthood.  Sole-survivors. Muffled laughter came from behind that mask, pleased with themselves, before the hooded figure drew a slow methodical grasp on it to pull for identity already known.

The Seeker squinched eyebrows angrily before howling, “We were Skull Brethren! I vouched for you! Three decades between us, growing up beside another, trained! Back to back, front to front! You wanted a Crew like this for sometime! But you fed ruin. WHY! Speak, Sol!” His fanged teeth grit together. Upon name ushered, the Raen revealed himself, discarding Mistbeard’s false mask, tugging off his shadow drapes, revealing an arsenal of a tactical strapped assortment of pistol’s and ammunition enough for atrocious war crimes. Clapping hands together continuously with mockery. “CAPTAIN KURO SOLAIRE.” Following his words like a conductor each word drawn out. “The Infamous Captain Kuro Solaire…. From Harems, magazine covers, large bounties. Denizen’s traversing called you in passerby, The Next Pirate King;  Hells.. The girl I was fond of even wrote about you in her Diary, to her you’re a beacon hero.” Thievery showing-off he held Casta’s journal,  “To her you’re a saint! – Maybe she’s right. Cause’ of you, I’ve saved this realm on three disgusting counts!” Captain’s face showed disbelief, what an ego, talk about something to complain about, snickered to himself letting this condescending praise draw.. The traitor’s tone changed into resentment with a burst. “...But I know who you really are. Over-hyped and rated, you are played out! – I should be the Captain, swimming in recognition, I’m a Pope of the Seas, If anyone’s ascending to King it’s me! I have achieved everything without help, unlike you. Know why? I don’t spare people who cross me, I don’t let my emotion’s get between my fortune. I ERASE them with what comes out from this barrel. You GREW weak on land. Soft as a butterfly. Forgetting who, what we are! We’re PIRATES. Conquerors, everything is subjugated as our rightful claim… Makes me vomit, protecting, compassion, trying to be moral. – You think I was your brother? I couldn’t ever be. Not when I’m a designated shadow, watching you HOIST to the top, you’re a glorified showman. Which piggy-back off me! I’m the creator of where our feet grace, this ship wouldn’t move without me! I won’t be stolen from you ever again!” Shooting bullets into the air with lunacy, demonstrating his dominant Freedom.

Captain never met this side of Sol before was suppressed this his depth? Even unbeknownst to him, two-faced. Long ago an incident occurred where the troubled-Raen had gouged out their own Founding Captain’s eye with a fork, for being commanded. Is this alter-ego the same culprit? This other persona seemed to maliciously come out of nowhere. Was this Garlemald’s influence from being enslaved by them until earning conscription? Nay… This part existed somewhere inside him. Brought to dawn from an event outside Captain’s knowledge. The sun-kissed clad in black stepped daringly forth. “Envy? Huh.” Judgemental amber orbs, infuriating his seething brother-no-more. “Stole from ye? I’ve never been like you, or others upon the original Crew. I couldn’t kill for sport. You relish in making others drown in red. I chose to make others float in pleasure, I gave them my worth, for a small price of a selfish memento to carry with me on high seas. Aye, some, I broke hearts, swindled, hurt but they live now stronger to despise me. I’ve gotten what comes around. You perceive denizen of th’ land feeble? Nay, my mate… They’ve surpassed us! Many can LIVE in Peace! Fine with what they have and got! Can we say that? We struggle stopping after a taste of wealth. Eventually something valuable turns into trash if taken for granted! Accustomed to replacing fer a shiny new thing. Our bond relates t’ this reality. I don’t get it, ye never bothered being Crew’s jester, what changed?” Exhaling bottled lament, showing utter disappointment. The self-proclaimed Pope, snickered and canted his head, “You want to settle down, I’m supposed to follow you? Your ambition is seeing others fulfilled, wow! How generous! Or wait; this for Freedom and Love? Pathetic. Kuro I knew once had unshakable rebellious fire. — For some insane reason. Our Founding Captain chose YOU to be the next successor despite, I'm the senior. He groomed you to replace him. I’ve been discarded as second-rate. When Judas came back, guess what happened? You demoted me back to Shipwright! The reason I put up with being a Jester, is so I can be in the court of the supposed king and usurper him.” Viscous jealousy continued to rattle against the Captain.

Disagreeable shake of his head accompanying a chuckle, “I didn’t have a choice to pick up, after our Captain. If you weren’t lost to the sea and placed into the clutches of Garlemald. Things would’ve been different. Frankly, I’m glad you didn’t inherit this mantle. Cause you disregard all life. From other mercenaries employed, to any semblance in recreating your own Goldbrand with Silverbrand, you mentioned stealing? Ye become polluted by entitlement. – People judged you initially on having any affiliation with the Garleans. Not including your pirate background. I played advocate trusting the side I saw of you, now I’ve painfully learned is fiction. You b’ another insufferable dickless prick. Lobbing blows in the dark, a type who’d sell out his own brother, break up his family.” Spitting on the side with disgust. Striking a nerve from the mercenary, but showing composure quickly. Remembering he held all the power with his firearm. “...Underestimate me, Cap’n. I don’t have a family, I butchered them. You should’ve listened to others, maybe they would’ve stuck around. Where is your Crew now? Ayla? Sivir? Everyone is gone, you’re left to perish alone. What has kindness rewarded you ever? – Nobhead, every-time you visited that orphanage, each Starlight donated your share of hoards to them. I TOOK it back to my trove. All your movements and poor attempts to advance as a person, I rectified them.” Deplorable veracity shown, crueler than death. Stunned by the slimy low, the fathomless spite. The most dangerous enemies to possess are those who've been closest. No resolve to fight anymore. He didn’t react with explosiveness or anger even though, knowing that’s what Sol wanted for that rough-destructive, smash-mouth Captain to come out. “I did make a grave underestimation… What exactly, ye want Mr.Perfection? Still you haven’t broken-even yet, taken enough from me!?” Engulfed by sorrow his throat tugged, how do you combat someone you found dearly to be purely a facade after thirty years! It took only a moment before cherished memories shattered.

He couldn’t understand what this version of foul Sol tried to convince him, become or achieve. To Kuro this was pointless, unbridled envy and unfortunately, his opponent had mentally deleted his resolve. “What I’ve always wanted. – The Successor Crown atop your head.” Sol’s thick Garlean accent gave his demand. “I can tell, you’ve no willpower to fight me. Remember who I am… Try not to hurt yourself, but think, Captain. I KNOW all about you, I’ve followed you everywhere. Saw houses of all your ACTUAL treasures. I could send some mail over to your hearties on the land and they’ll get an unexpected present, that’s surely going to blow them away.” Purest of evil distorted his putrid face, no limit! Existing on lengths, Sol would go to obtain his believed rightful claim. The unholy mark of Scourge gave rise in plain-sight. Captain’s depleted form began straightening, his entire being, resolving aether in fury from a despicable blackmail…  His reason to fight returned. “...Y-You… m-monster!” Previous devil’s encountered in his past and brought their bane couldn’t compare to this level of malice, menace, a brotherhood eaten alive by hatred.

🌊 ♫Gasoline♫ - Reference - Last Chapter 🌊

(Shoutout to my roomie since Sol is his muse, always reliable on brainstorming story ideas together.)

[knizuu]

Who could it be? But it’s Silver

Based on the alt. 93 IDW sonic cover and the traitor arc in Archie

*Play at 1:06 for the comic <3

*I would die for a Silver cover of the song it would be so funny :’[

[christinethalassinou]

My poor Inky, going through yet another chain of traumatic events that will surely scar him for the rest of his life... Theron, you better be the most loving, caring and supportive partner ever. Ahiyah needs you.

(Yepp, did the 'Traitor Arc')

[and-the-paradime-shifts]

Commander: tonight, one of you will betray us.

Lana: is it me, Commander?

Commander: no, it’s not you.

Arcann: is it me, Commander?

Commander: no, it’s not you.

Theron: is it me, commander?

Commander:

Commander, mockingly: Is IT mE CoMmAnDeR?

[appleleef]

second chances

version without the light on his forehead bc im so proud of how I rendered his face

[andalon-historian]

The best part of Azula's character is that she seems to actually care about converting Zuko back to her side-- not that she cares about him, but that when she decides to try to keep him evil she actually tries. At all.

So many evil overlords berate their rebellious underlings and insult them and punish them. Only Azula is out here with a "stop doubting yourself king we love you for this."

[delawaredetroit]

It’s great that their internal conflict is addressed but not resolved, and they still choose to work together anyway.

Later Class 1A lacks this crunchiness in their dynamic and it’s unfortunate. It makes sense they would learn to work together better over time, but people don’t all of a sudden change their core priorities/beliefs. Some of this kind of conflict would have gone a long way in later arcs.

Also, leave it to Iida and Momo to find a way to commit vigilantism while simultaneously being hall monitors

[u5an5]

Theory: The Clone X was not Cody like some people think or even Fives (I know he's been dead for a very long time but so was Boba Fett and look where we are. Plus, Echo was supposed to be certainly dead too; making him Winter Soldier-esque storyline wouldn't be that surprising) or not even Slick.

((Also, now that we've seen his face devoid of any tattoos or scars I think first two takes are definitely not applicable anymore; they wouldn't put that much effort to make him unrecognizable))

Back to the point: In my opinion, The Clone X was none other than...

Fox.

Now let me explain.

Who else, other than X, was loyal to the law and justice dictated by it over any moral or ethic code?

Fox.

Who else was portrayed with such single-minded focus on hunting down traitors of the government he served, regardless of what it was?

Fox.

Who else could know not only Coruscant so well but also identify Rex like they knew each other?

He already was a remarkably successful tracker of traitors, why not make him more efficient by pointing them out for him?

Good soldiers follow orders, after all.

[flimflamfranky]

my favorite shot from the new opening <3

[fullscoreshenanigans]

The little bow of reflection and smile Ray makes as he briefly soaks in the last morning Emma and Norman will be able to carry out their routine as usual knowing the horror they'll endure before night's end.

He knows they'd both prefer the harsh truth over a pretty lie, would hate to think about other siblings suffering the same fate as Conny, Hao, Sadie, Susan, and so many more before them if there was even the slightest chance of being able to do something about it. It's part of what he loves about them; where he had the tendency to give up after years of learned helplessness and self-loathing, they would resolutely say "no" and escape the system they had been born into.

(they are better, they are deserving, unlike him)

He loves them so much he can't help but let some of his fondness show on his face as he savors Emma's reaction to seeing him and Norman, because if that isn't so incredibly her, to love so effortlessly and uninhibited, to live so unabashedly authentic.

It's part of what got him through a life he cursed and part of why he has faith if anyone will be able to do this, it'll be them.

[eorzeashan]

WIP WEDNESDAY

i've missed 6 billion wip wednesdays by now, rip. currently bored out of my mind flying back and forth so have a sneak peek of more traitor arc shenanigans, ohoho.

The SIS calls looking for opportunity. Theron answers. This is part is probably after he's left the Alliance? saying maybe, bc wips are finicky things bound to change.

“This is a surprise,” Theron said, schooling his features back into impenetrable stoicism. “Ardun Kothe.”

“In the flesh,” The former spymaster gave a professional smile- one that didn't reach past the crow’s feet of his wizened eyes. “Or not quite.” He chuckled, the flickering blue holo-figure of his form pacing back and forth in the palm of Theron’s hand.

Theron observed him with thinly veiled wariness.

SIS spymaster. Former Jedi. Failed leader of a resistance cell whose movements went mysteriously unchecked and wiped from the system. Theron had been well on his way to joining him in a similar fashion– then Ziost happened.

All the less to trust the man before him. “So what's this about? I thought the SIS cut ties with me by now, but clearly-” He gesticulated around the bare room, shifting uncomfortably. “-that's not the case.”

Ardun nodded curtly to Eight in the background, who mirrored the same gesture to his former cell leader. He turned back to Theron. “Not a pleasure call, that's for certain.” He gave pause. “I take it you're familiar with the Empire's experiments in brainwashing– says here you've done a bit of work in attaining samples– and you've met our Cipher.”

A knot of unease formed above Theron’s brow. He glanced askance at Eight, who still masked his expression with the same unflappable look he always wore. “...Where are you going with this?”

“I’m contacting you now because Director Trant believes in you.” Ardun continued, words rolling off the timbre of his steady voice. “Between the two of us, Agent Shan, all this talk of traitors and who’s betraying who- that's all a cover.”

Theron’s jaw tightened. “It's really not.” The reply came out shorter than intended.

Kothe shrugged. “Maybe so. But can you say you're not acting in the best interests of the Republic even now? That you’ve left your old home behind for good? You're short of allies, and you’ve cut yourself loose. Don’t be afraid to know where help is– where it always was. You'll need it in the coming days. I’m offering you a way back in. Saresh is gone, and Marcus needs your skills back where they belong.”

The help doesn't usually punish me for trying to save lives, but sure, he mused bitterly, recalling Saresh’s interference and grounding of his work.

So. The SIS was trying to make a back deal now that he’d exonerated himself from Alliance services officially. He couldn't say he didn't miss the Republic or the feeling of being on familiar ground, and he’d be lying if the prospect of returning to his old job and undoing all of the damage Saresh had done during her career didn't spark more than interest in him, but…

Theron fell silent. “No. This is something I have to do on my own.”

Ardun didn't seem surprised. “I understand. The SIS will respect whatever decision you choose, Agent. But this isn't just from the SIS; it comes from inside the house. Whatever you plan to do…we want you to succeed.”

The old ex-Jedi winked over his shoulder at him. “We’re leaving you with a little favor, off the books and off-record; use it wisely.” Ardun clasped his hands behind his back, gaze flinty and uncompromising. “Keyword: Onomatophobia. Thesh protocol, phase one.”

Behind Theron, Eight fell to one knee. His expression looked like he’d been struck.

Theron whirled around. “Eight–? Whoa, what's wrong?”

Eight failed to answer him. “Thesh protocol engaged. Shutting down.” He repeated robotically. The light faded from the other agent’s eyes, and he became still.

“Eight?”

No answer.

“Hey. Wake up.” He grabbed him by the shoulders, shaking him slightly. Eight didn't respond, limp in his arms like a lifeless doll. No. This was wrong. He needed to get Lana, Eight was–

Horror dawned on Theron’s features as he took a furtive step back, expression quickly morphing from confusion, to open shock, then finally to white hot anger.

Eight had repeated Ardun’s words like a pre-programmed droid. Eight wasn't waking up. There was a keyword–

Brainwashing. Brainwashing. That was what he meant. That was what he’d been alluding to this entire time. The cold pit of his stomach opened up to icy bone-cutting dread, and he turned on Ardun with a blazing fury.

“What have you done, Kothe?!” He shouted, voice echoing off the walls.

The spymaster only smiled, wan and thin. “He’ll be susceptible to commands after he awakens. Use them wisely,” Ardun reminded him, his holo-figure warping as it lost connection.

“No,” He enunciated, hard and low and angry, “No! Don't you dare hang up- Kothe! KOTHE!” The holocall cut out. Theron yelled, slamming his fist where the holo had been. Crunch.

His hand came back covered in broken communicator parts. He stared at it, then hung his head. Theron punched the table again, this time much weaker, all the fight having left his body with no one to direct it at it.

Eight was still asleep, and he was alone, with no help coming and an ever-growing list of betrayals that he’d signed off on.

“Dammit,” He covered his face with his hands. A slight tremor ran through them. “Damn it all to hell.”

[captainkurosolaire]

Hat

Rain pattered a window leaving streaks of tears unable to get indoors to solace. Desperately seeking but unable to fulfill against that barrier for entry. Envy wasn’t far from this notion. Many associate those of envious characteristics heartless. Although, perhaps it was an undeveloped soul crying out internally. Across a looming battlefield, Captain laid confronted against a blood brother. Unrecognizable memories flash-flooded from street-urchins, to trainees to playing pretend pirates, to becoming their own troublesome pirates! Under their flagship with tutelage of a shared surrogate Captain Father, for two believed unwanted bastards. Even as tension drew, each anticipating the first-to-move a hinted rushing storm-breeze blew through the middle of them. Sol didn’t focus sight intently on Captain, but what he coveted. For him jealousy made excuses for everything and suppressed anyone's achievements. Once as a boy to motivate his depleted aspirations, when he was on the precipice of giving up hope. His Founding Captain sat him down, then told him to aim ambitiously for stars out of reach! He proceeded to put the weight of his Tricorne upon his nestling head, and tell an incredible story. That simple bland seemingly fabric which was common amongst seafarers. Whoever gained this particular one he don under its possession could own Fortune itself, manipulate their own tides. That whoever became Successor aboard who proved themselves in seafaring would be allowed to commune with the mighty Sea itself. Crown of Fortune, Sol perceived it. However this story is false. The Founding Captain fabricated it to uplift his aspiring youth to soar heights! Because the moral was – if you do-not set destinations of unfathomable, you may never claim something of wealth in your limited life. It’s not a sin to own dreams, conquest, to wish a hoist of these! Life is minuscule compared to the infinite potential willpower can overcome. That tremendous blue laid host of unpredictability. Amongst the oceans, waves held habits to be gentle and graceful, kind, calming and inviting. Other times, it could prove rampantly angered and swept the strongest! Impossible tempered with no control against it, a force of wildness.

To make noise against a space canvas of such trifling and competitive water. You must become a survivor of undeniable, adaptability. Sea bred spirit’s and souls of hosted warriors that all showcased larger than life personas. A requirement! The true students, masters of the sea, even grew to gain powers that were comparable. Almighty and powerful with foreboding disaster, serving them to Conquer or Liberate. Those who became imbued with the sea. Became personifications of the ocean wherever they went commanding Presence. With it, their step’s alone. Picked up noise that could make their own ripples, create their own fortune, by their aura alone, knees quaked, legs shook in horror, hearts opened. Inspiring many seafarers to chase on and brave any unknown, they were called the bold; they followed stories of their predecessors, learning history, becoming it, from Tales, Fables, Myths on their own volition, they gave belief unlike any other! At a moment’s glance when they saw their sea. That peered into endless Freedom. To acquire their versions of it. Sol believed in his heart. That Captain… Betrayed him in a twisted way. That Hat had to be the reason for accomplishments and luck.

[The Truth.] That the Hat didn’t define the Man. Captain Kuro Solaire! Defined it. What was nonsensical fabrication became reality. A massacre of fire, a shipwreck of travesty had left the Seeker mourning over all his comrades. Injured by a historical noble rival yet given proper color and made. When Captain symbolically picked up the Hat believing he was the sole-survivor. He compassionately vowed he’d become a formidable force that stood among the tallest, with a head raised up. He had every reason to not want to live and to give up. Would’ve if not moved by the Sea who was his inspiration since a boy that carried promise beyond abuse, neglect and loneliness. In that company something drew him against the water’s edge, he felt alive, and became determined to make his own wealth, fate, and he’d fight for it. Submitting before it, should a threat arise too impossible to overcome. To hear the unseen. Acknowledge every indifference and ride not from; but to it openly! A ship of their former Goldbrand laid in ruins and with recently attaining the mantle. Challenging himself to brave the sea’s with a small rowboat and an ore. Navigating the entire Five Seas. He didn’t wish to acquire his own pirate ship or crew and proved directionless, experience was required to obtain. Traversing, the boy braved many treacherous storms, waves, but with his heritage of heightened senses those ears became sharper. He began listening and following what his surroundings were attending to do. When nature sang he didn’t misjudge it, instead began singing sea shanties. Flowing and moving, stopping when needed. Trusted instinct and his family heirloom compass. Upon sleeping in the rowboat. He greeted each day with the sea like a companion and talked to it. Shouting, “ Where were they going today?” They charted across Eorzea’s map and globe! Taking-in tremendous sights, encountering peril dangers, evading or contesting against forces that attempted to eat his only life and perseverance with that tiny wood giving float. Across the end of his journey. He was confronted by an all-powerful spirit mentioned, she possessed beauty unrivaled! A fierceness that warped all his senses. Although she appeared frightening and brought down many who neglected and mistreated her presence, and corrupted, who polluted her waters, the pirate saw through the surface and realized that was his companion this entire journey. She offered him a harrowing trial and quest that would forever see him bond eternally to the seas forever until he reached the end of that task. If pledged, and underwent this challenge, She’d offer her boon. From his incredible journey of spirit-discovery, His Founding Captain’s cherish Hat, was brought to tatters. Upon accepting her creed they forged a union between a simplest fabric. Carrying mementos of all he had traversed, sharing the journeys from sea, to land, to spirit’s, sky, turmoil, fear, all burdens, heartbreak, everything was carried between that Hat -- like prying open a treasure chest after finding the 'X' burial spot to a long-chased and sought out hunt. When her Captain returned, that Hat’s knowledge passed on everything by their devoted champion. Whatever condition it served to be under or was tossed into the seas, it returned, rising with rejuvenation like him and fulfilled him to be reborn! Awaiting him at the next port for a new mystical destination to chart. A Hat of a symbolic Promise. The seafarer wasn’t given extra divination or power. He received merely an eternal companion. To prevail over that harrowing journey the spirit offered, there was no mention of a reward. Because within depth, he had it. Freedom.   To become Vast and Wild as the Sea itself.

[ ♫New World Coming♫ - Reference - Last Chapter

[Special shout-out & credit to the Ft. @the-littlest-kojin for her screenshot and collaborative incredible muse, Saltsong! -- Also to roomie for Sol.] --------------------------------------------------------------------------

[poethebeloved]

the ability for the smallest one-off jokes to become deep heartbreaking lore is why I love the qsmp so much. like the silliest glitch, the weirdest joke, can completely alter the story and change everything

my favorite examples:

Abueloier logging on to mess with qcellbit and ending up almost destroying guapoduo

qphilza clicking on the code and getting the egg naming screen, then the codes actually disguising as eggs at the presidential dinner

Walter Bob being a silly little construction worker that the members joked was being overworked by the federation, only for it is be revealed that he is actually an unwilling pawn of the federation that has been living in the prison for years

[schmorporatefool]

Hollow Knight Major Arkana, Pt. 2/?

Pt. 1 here

Quirrel's card is probably my favourite so far. I love that little guy

[punkeropercyjackson]

"We need more redemption arcs that're about found family instead of romance!!!"You guys couldn't even handle Prince Zuko