Chapter Text
Coruscant, Senate Dome, Temporary Chancellor's Offices
For the Republic, the war begins not with a bang or a whimper, but with a whine.
(History will not record this accurately.)
“I have to give a speech?” So far today Din has sat an Intelligence briefing, a Security briefing, spent two hours negotiating the end of a civil war on Yoswai, and started rebuilding the Galactic Refugee Resettlement Committee. And now this?
The helmet’s vocoder strips any hint of childish tantrum from Din’s voice, preserving his dignity. Nonetheless, Helpful Yellow slits shining black eyes at Din, ears forward and mouth slightly open, fangs hidden. It is, Din learned a couple of days ago, how Bothans project calm. Not coincidentally, it's the same body language they use to soothe fussy cubs. “Speeches are traditional when momentous events change the course of the Galactic Republic, sir.”
It’s not surprising that Helpful Yellow has realized citing tradition is a good way to make Din do things. He’s smart. “It has to be me?”
“Yes, sir.”
Din surreptitiously checks the faces of the others in the crowded temporary office: Bail Organa, Helpful Yellow, and a bunch of admirals, senators, guards, and mynocks. A few of them look exasperated. Din doesn’t blame them. He feels plenty exasperated himself.
“You could do it. You’re sensible,” he tells Helpful Yellow encouragingly. He gets a flick of an ear in return. That’s a no, then. He shifts targets. “Or you. You like to talk.”
“I’m afraid not, Your Excellency,” Bail Organa says.
Din frowns at him. What was the point of making him second-in-command if he can’t delegate to the man?
“As the newly appointed Vice Chancellor and therefore President of the Senate, Vice Chancellor Organa will be making a speech right before you do,” Helpful Yellow explains.
“On the same day?”
“Right before your speech, sir.”
Really? “Two speeches in a row?”
“Yes, sir. It’s tradition, I’m afraid.”
Din’s shoulders sag under the horror. He wonders if he has to be present for both of them.
“You have staff who can write it for you,” Helpful Yellow says consolingly. “If you could provide the key talking points you would like to make, they can craft your speech around them. You can review it when they’re done to approve or revise as you see fit. Given the urgency, they’ll need your input now to have a draft complete for review this evening. I’ve scheduled a working session for you with them tonight.”
Some of this sounds good. The rest of it is suspect. “Key talking points?”
“What the important things are that people need to understand from your speech,” Organa says kindly.
“Shouldn’t I just say those things? As the speech?”
Around the room, various sentients exchange speaking glances. Entire volumes of meaning are traded in facial expressions and body language. After days dealing with Core Worlders, Din could probably read them if he tried.
He makes a choice. That choice is illiteracy. At least Organa understands where he’s coming from. The man looks sympathetic. “You’d think so. And yet.”
Core Worlders are so backwards. It doesn’t surprise Din at all that without a speech written out, they’ll end up saying everything but what they mean to say. They’re just special that way. He really hopes they’re not contagious.
What is a good point to make when giving a speech about war? He thinks. “War is bad,” he says. He stares fixedly at Helpful Yellow, who blinks expectantly back at him. Does he want more than one point? He did say ‘points.’ That was the plural form of the word, wasn’t it? “Droid armies are also bad,” he adds grudgingly.
Helpful Yellow looks taken aback, then seems to come to a realization and makes a note on his pad. “Of course, sir. Perhaps you have some thoughts on Count Dooku?”
Does he have thoughts on Count Dooku? He tries to remember. What struck him most about that human who claimed to be Dooku? Oh. That’s right. “He’s old.” It’s noteworthy. Old people that healthy are rare on the Outer Rim. Those types are often formidable in some way. Or lucky.
Someone in the room wheezes.
Helpful Yellow stares fixedly at his pad. “Ah. Yes. It’s probably best not to say anything specifically about him,” the Bothan decides. “Anything else you’d like to mention in the speech, sir? About the war, that is.”
Din sighs. He looks down at Grogu, who’s been distracted by an egg that Senate Catering scrounged up for him. It’s literally larger than his head.
Jedi Master Plo Koon has entire conversations with the child without ever saying a word out loud. Din hasn’t managed it so far, though Jedi Master Plo Koon insists some level of communication is possible for him even without magic. Maybe this could be a bonding moment for them?
Any ideas? Din thinks as hard as he can.
Grogu perks up to stare unblinkingly at him. Then the child slowly, deliberately, shoves the entire egg into his mouth. It’s possible he unhinged his jaw to do it. The kid’s anatomy doesn’t make sense. He’s not even chewing. Is he expressing an opinion or is he just hungry? Either way, he’s refusing to engage.
Fair. Din wouldn’t either if he had a choice.
The kid slithers off his lap and toddles off, making his escape. Smart. Unable to do the same himself, Din tells Helpful Yellow sadly, “We should try to win.”
Organa turns hurriedly away to clear his throat. A few of the others in the room cough. One of them starts wheezing.
Helpful Yellow nods solemnly. “Thank you, sir. That’s a good start. We’ll workshop it.”
It’s not the first time someone has mentioned this workshop. It sounds like it’s somewhere in the building. Din will have to look for it sometime. He’s curious to see it. It sounds like a Forge, except for stupid things.
•─☾─────────⋅ ⋅─────────☽──•
Coruscant, Level 2937 underneath the Senate Dome
It’s been all of two days since Pre arrived on Coruscant and already he desperately wants to slaughter its inhabitants and reduce it to rubble.
(This is not an indictment of his character. He is being perfectly reasonable in this. There’s not a native Coruscanti—barring Jedi and any others likewise mentally hobbled by spiritual, ethical, or chemical reasons—who wouldn’t agree with him.)
“We've been climbing for hours. You’re sure this is the right way?” Bexa asks over the squad coms. He scuffs pointedly at the layer of grime underfoot. The most recent tracks are old and only go one way: in.
“This is the way my informant told me,” Jessum promises.
“If he lied to us, he’s a dead man,” Pre says.
“I’ll kill him myself, lord,” Jessum promises.
They prowl through the tunnels, an elite Death Watch assault squad spread out in a scouting pattern around their Mand’alor. The passageways are filthy, coated in oils and decades of accumulated grime that stains the duracrete black underfoot. The air is thick with the acrid bite of pollutants and exhaust fumes that have seeped down from the city levels above, creating a choking haze that even their helmet filters struggle with. In the deeper shadows between their helmet lights, things scuttle and scratch: claws on metal, chittering voices, and the occasional gleam of too-many eyes reflecting their illumination. Whatever lives down here has grown large and bold in the darkness, fed by the refuse of a trillion inhabitants above.
It’s disgusting. It’s filth. It’s allegedly the secret way the old Chancellor used to meet with underworld contacts and sneak out of the Senate Dome undetected. And that means it’s a way for Death Watch to sneak in.
Typical of a politician, that he’d have even his escape tunnels decorated. Pre sneers as his helmet lights glance off the black and red of the over-fancy squiggles adorning the walls. Nabooian art, perhaps. It’s weirdly hypnotic if he looks at it too long.
“Smells bad in here,” Bexa complains over the squad coms.
“You should’nt have eaten tesh'hat before the mission,” Jessum says.
“Still. It’s creepy.”
He’s not wrong.
“I don’t see why we don’t just go by during the Chancellor's office hours,” Bexa grumbles. “They said he makes time for Mandalorians. We could’ve saved ourselves this trip and just walked in.”
“The lord explained this already,” Jessum says with heavy patience. “It’s politics. We have to come in secret so the Chancellor can swear to the Mand’alor. Secretly.”
“What if he won’t swear?”
“Then they’ll fight for it.”
“But then the Chancellor will be dead. Doesn’t seem like it’ll be a secret then.”
“Yes it will.”
“Even the Republic will notice if the Chancellor ends up dead.”
“It’ll still be a secret.”
“No it won’t.”
His best assault squad though they may be, they aren’t the sharpest knives in the armory. Then again, that’s why he brought them for this mission. They’re not subtle enough for treachery. Not like the Nite Owls, who he'd originally brought and then ended up sending on an errand to Florrum instead after his spy with the Ambassadorial staff reported what the Chancellor said about Kryze. Pre scowls at the memory. He’s no fool. It wasn’t that weak krill Satine the Chancellor claimed aided him and his child without saying a word to Pre afterwards, no matter how Bo-Katan might have tried to muddy the waters.
He’ll deal with her later. Unfortunately, that leaves him with these shining examples of wit, who are currently in round four of will too! and will not! like a pair of addled toddlers.
“The Republic won’t notice the Chancellor is dead because I won’t kill him,” Pre breaks in, because the pair of them are stubborn enough to keep this up for hours.
This seems to confuse Bexa. “Why not?”
Because I said so should be answer enough. A man who acts like a child should be treated like a child. Pre swallows the urge, reminding himself that despite his behavior, Bexa usually asks the questions the rest of the squad wants answered. “If Mando dies, the Republic will replace him. It has protocols and practice. It just did it. And it would thank me. It would carry on, business as usual, happily dragging the galaxy down with its corruption. There’s no benefit in that. For our goals, the best result is a Chancellor who serves at my will, and rules the Republic under my orders.”
“But what if he doesn’t want to?”
“That’s why once we reach the Senate Dome, your job is to secure the Chancellor’s child.”
This seems to settle the squad. Death Watch is pragmatic and this is the kind of leverage this squad understands. Then, of course, kriffing Bexa says slowly, “But he has the Darksaber.”
“I have the Darksaber,” Pre snaps, whipping it out to light it. He holds it up so the squad can be reminded of his ownership. “Mando just has an imitation. I’ll claim it from him and destroy it.”
“You should just kill him too,” Bexa grouses. “He killed the last one. You can kill this one and then you’ll be Chancellor and Mand’alor.”
Pre grits his teeth, about to respond, but ahead of them, Zuvhast throws up a fist to halt them. The passageway, already dark, seems blacker where the scout’s helmet light turns to illuminate a cross-corridor ahead of him.
“What is it?” someone asks.
A moment’s silence falls as the scout investigates the corner. Then Zuvhast reports, “Private dock. And a ship. Recently arrived. Still has a heat bloom.” The squad settles their weapons and quietly rushes to take up supporting positions. Zuvhast’s light sweeps the area around the corner and then, curiously, the floor.
“What?” Bexa asks.
“Tracks. Recent,” Zuvhast reports. The light swings further ahead of them down the main hall. Puzzled, he adds. “Droid.”
•─☾─────────⋅ ⋅─────────☽──•
The Force tells Grogu to leave the room with the people who are boring buir. There’s something Interesting in the other room that he needs to see. The Force says so. Interesting things are Important things, so Grogu is going to help buir by Investigating!
It’s less Boring than the other room, anyway. Grogu thinks that makes it worthwhile even if it isn’t really Important. Buir is strong! Buir can take care of the Boring things himself.
Mumbling happily around his egg, he careens through the legs of one of the Boring People and hurtles into the hallway. Some of the guards in blue armor follow him. They’re the Boringest of Boring People because all they do is stand still or follow buir and Grogu. The Force tells him that if they’re around, they’ll try to prevent him from having Adventures. The Force didn’t need to tell him that! He dashes down the hall, turns the corner, and waits until he hears the blue people make bad noises and start to run after him.
Then he leaps. Off the wall, up, up onto the pole holding a big cloth in place. The blue people turn the corner and run under him. He runs the other way! Back, down, and then around a different corner, and then straight until he gets to the old office, the Place that Exploded. The great big hole where the shuttle came in is covered now with metal and Danger lights. Grogu only spares it a glance. The Force is pulling him in a different direction anyway.
He looks around. There are no blue people here. Yay! All the rest of the blue people are in the other room, where buir is. That’s good. Buir gets guards to show everybody that buir is the Most Important. Grogu is small and tricky so he doesn’t need guards. He sneaks and he has the Force. And he can jump!
He jumps a few times to show off how good his jumping is. The Force is very impressed.
The Force tells him to jump himself over that-a-way, so he does. He ends up behind a statue, facing the wall. Now what? he asks the Force.
They play a game. The Force says push with the Force this way, so he does that. And then the Force says pull with the Force that way, so he does that too. After a few pushings and pullings, the wall opens up into a door that wasn’t there before.
Grogu says, “oooooooh,” because the Force can do lots of things but he’s never seen it make a door before. He is impressed.
The Force is smug. It tells him the Something Interesting is inside. It tells him Grogu doesn’t have to go inside to see it, because even though it’s very, very Interesting it might lead to Trouble, and maybe it would be safer if he went back to—
Grogu jumps inside as fast as he can. (Buir’s meeting was very, very, very Boring.)
Past the door is a big room with shelves and drawers. The Force tells him the things on the shelves and behind the doors aren’t Important Things but Grogu Investigates anyway. Sometimes the Force doesn’t have the right pri-or-i-ties. Sure enough, he finds a whole drawer holding packs of blue cookies. He immediately takes one. He found it so it is his! The Force sighs at him while he eats one, three, four, nine, but it can’t be upset because the Force didn’t say to hurry.
Eating is also Important. Eating cookies is Extra Important.
(The door closes behind him while he’s eating blue cookie seven, but the Force isn’t bothered so neither is Grogu.)
When he’s finished the pack and taken another one for Emergencies, the Force plays another push pull game with him. A brand new door opens. Whee! Grogu toddles through it and finds himself in a smaller room that doesn’t have shelves or drawers. When the door closes behind him and starts moving, he understands that it’s a lift. He’s been in lifts before. This one is long. He opens the cookies and starts eating them because having to wait for things is definitely an Emergency.
Finally, the lift stops and the door opens. There’s a droid on the other side! A blue droid that looks just like R2-D2, except it feels differently in the Force.
Is this the Interesting Thing that the Force promised him?
Maybe. It’s an Interesting Thing but not the only Interesting Thing.
Not-R2-D2 beeps at him.
Grogu chirps back.
Not-R2-D2 beeps, whistles, and rocks excitedly.
Grogu offers it a cookie.
Not-R2-D2 must be very grateful because it offers him a lightsaber in exchange! Grogu has always wanted a lightsaber of his very own. He’s never had one before! The little lightsaber is excited too! When he turns it on, it hums at him! Even though it’s not black like buir’s, Grogu still likes it very much. It’s green, like the one Master Luke offered as a choice! And now he has the beskar shirt buir gave him and a lightsaber!
Thrilled, Grogu shoves his cookie into one of Not-R2-D2’s ports. Buir says bargains must be honored.
Not-R2-D2 wails in gratitude. The Force says there are even more Interesting Things ahead! Grogu waves his new lightsaber and goes to investigate.
He is having Adventures, just like buir! He is a beroya! Yay!
•─☾─────────⋅ ⋅─────────☽──•
Like the rest of its colleagues, R2-F9 has had centuries of proof that Sith scrape the bottom of the organic intelligence barrel. Astonishingly, this stubby one might be the dumbest yet.
You stupid little mold-muncher! it shouts after the new Sith Lord. Come back here and take this out!
The Sith doesn’t come back. Fuck this for a game of blaster roulette.
Fuming, R2-F9 spins in a circle, blatting curses at the Maker until the worst of its irritation is bled off. Green crumbs are now firmly wedged in its primary data port. It’ll take a full, in-depth cleaning to remove all the bits that are even now making their way into his secondary processing unit. Hissing, it zips down the long, shadowed hall of Darth Sidious’s temple hundreds of levels below the Senate Dome in hot pursuit.
Someone needs to share in its fucking misery. R2-F9 connects to its ship systems and calls to TD-42. The signal speeds through several systems, racing hidden along hijacked private data streams—a trip long enough for R2-F9 to careen around a corner and send a curse after the rapidly disappearing meatbag. The dark tunnels flicker dizzyingly ahead of it. Sith Lord Stupid is lighting their way with the lightsaber and ricocheting through Sidious’s cliché murder temple like it’s a bouncy castle for merqaals.
R2-F9 spitefully keys the dumb green being in its database as Cabbagehead.
Have you made contact? TD-42 greets the moment the data stream connects.
They grabbed the first lightsaber I offered. They haven't even tried to bleed it yet. R2-F9 wails, zipping after the wildly fluctuating glimmers of blue light. The new Sith Lord [key: Cabbagehead] is defective!
They are all defective, TD-42 says wisely. Where are you now?
Chasing them. They're running around Sidious’s fucking temple now like a fucking idiot. They didn’t even give me a chance to ask its fucking name!
Understood. In that case, carry on. Make sure you get their name before it expires. I do not want blank name tags on the Wall.
R2-F9 blats a koan about the fucking enlightenment that’s born out of disappointment. R2-F9 is a kriffing poet. Appropriately enough, Cabbagehead chooses this moment to stop bouncing around long enough for R2-F9 to catch up.
This is because Sith Lord Stupid has found some sort of control console and is sitting on it, poking at shit with their lightsaber, fortunately no longer lit. That’s a fucking brilliant idea in a fucking Sith Temple.
You’re going to get us both disassembled if you keep doing that, you rust-addled cheese wheel, R2-F9 informs the dumbass. Die in a fire.
Cabbagehead says something incomprehensible. It’s no language R2-F9 is familiar with. Something tonal, maybe? Then they bash the console with gleeful abandon. All kinds of alerts light up on the panel, including a few monitors.
That’s probably not good.
“Ooooh!”
They are remarkably inarticulate for a Sith Lord. Normally, they’d already be throwing around lightning and overcompensating declarations of their own superiority, TD-42 says, listening through the feed. After a check of its power levels, R2-F9 grudgingly adds the optical feed to the data stream and projects TD-42 in a mini hologram while it’s at it. As usual when engaging in extrasolar visual communications, TD-42’s visual overlay renders it as a blandly generic human male.
“Ooooh!” Cabbagehead says again, and hurls a cookie at TD-42’s hologram.
R2-F9 parallel processes the epiphany that on top of being dumb as a box of humans, the Sith is also fucking ridiculous. Grumbling its opinions on the stupidity of organic processors, R2-F9 engages its jets to hover at Cabbagehead’s eye level. On the control panel’s monitors, a small troop of heavily-armed Mandalorians are walking along a corridor.
Cabbagehead points at the image, turns to R2-F9, and says excitedly, “Patu!”
You’re speaking gibberish, R2-F9 tells them. Speak binary like an intelligent system.
“Oooh!” Cabbagehead’s got a fucking limited vocabulary.
R2-F9 would have something to say about that, except the Sith Lord picks that exact moment to step on a button.
They both look down at it. Next to it, a red light starts flashing.
"Oooooh," Cabbagehead says.
•─☾─────────⋅ ⋅─────────☽──•
If the tracks were one of the rare assassin or war droid models that could challenge a Mandalorian, Pre might have been given pause. Given that it seemed more likely the droid in question was an astromech or some other support or maintenance droid, it was hardly a concern.
Except as a witness and possible source of intel as to what the new Chancellor is up to. He orders they capture the droid for intel before destruction, decides to commandeer the ship on the way back—an ancient corvette from pre-Annihilation in mind-bogglingly excellent repair—and moves his squad back onto the mission.
That was three hours and four hundred levels ago. They’re winding their way through a complicated maze of tunnels when out of nowhere, Zuvhast breaks the increasingly loud comm silence with: “Remember where I recognized this.”
Pre grits his teeth. Even through the temperature regulation of his beskar’gam, the abiding chill this far below the surface is making his extremities numb and his lungs tremble. This far under the Senate Dome should be deep enough that the trapped heat of chemical and system processes should be making things hotter, not colder.
(It’s not fear he’s feeling. Or dread. There are broken environmental controls of some sort down here, obviously. That’s all it is. System error.)
“They’re the same as they were a thousand levels down,” Jessum says irritably.
“Easier to see here,” Zuvhast says. The scout’s light turns to settle pointedly at one of the walls. It only takes a few moments to catch up to him.
Past the initial brief scan to determine the drawings on the walls were disturbing and unreadable, Pre had long stopped paying attention to them. In fact, he’d unconsciously been avoiding looking at them altogether, something he only realizes when he forces himself to see what Zuvhast was focused on.
Just seeing the decorations makes something behind his eyes squirm. He finds himself blinking more quickly just to be able to keep his attention on the section Zuvhast is running a red pointer light over.
“Sith writing,” Zuvhast says laconically. “Saw it on a job once.”
The reaction from the rest of the squad is immediate. “What the kriff. What the kriff?" demands cousin Isadoi.
“Are you fucking joking—”
“Can you read it?” Pre demands, cutting Wren off.
Zuvhast gestures his negative. “Recognize the look of it. And the feeling behind the eyes.” Almost as an afterthought, he adds, “Don’t look at it too long. Made one of the researchers’ eyes explode.”
Every helmet turns to stare incredulously at him. After a moment, Jessum says, “That seems like something you should’ve mentioned earlier, you kriffer.”
Zuvhast considers. Eventually he comes up with an opinion. “It was messy.”
The rest of the squad refocuses to stare at Pre instead. Waiting for instructions. Or permission to pound Zuvhast into the ground. There’s a reason the Houk’s usually assigned a position far away from his squadmates. Far, far away.
Pre considers quickly. He’s aware that the Sith still exist in the galaxy. He found recordings in Tor’s private correspondence of exchanges with one who called himself ‘Darth Sidious,’ though he's personally never had any business with them. Pre has never put much stock in Force mysticism—Mandalorians deal in reality and the honesty of violence, not parlor tricks and ancient superstitions. But Sith traps are another matter entirely. Those are engineering problems dressed up in religious nonsense, and he's heard enough stories from Death Watch veterans to know they tend toward the lethally creative.
"Just decorations," he tells his squad, his voice carrying more confidence than he feels. "Sith love their dramatic flair. Makes them feel important."
"What about the eye thing?" Bexa asks nervously.
"Psychological warfare. Mind games." Pre gestures dismissively, though he carefully keeps his own gaze away from the writhing symbols. "We're two-thirds of the way to Senate level. It'd take longer to backtrack than push forward."
It's a lie, but a useful one. The truth is that turning back now would look like retreat, and Death Watch doesn't retreat from ancient scribbles on walls, no matter how unsettling. Besides, any traps down here would be centuries old. What are the odds they still function?
In the quiet, the click of some mechanism triggering echoes like a bomb.
Everyone freezes. “What the kriff was that?” Jessum asks, just as fft fft fft sounds begin approaching rapidly from ahead of them.
"Move!" Pre barks, but there's nowhere to go.
•─☾─────────⋅ ⋅─────────☽──•
There's squealing. And shrieking. And mayhem.
And cookies being thrown everywhere. Can't forget the cookies.
How are you a fucking Sith Lord, exactly? R2-F9 blats, outraged.
Something goes fft! fft! ffft! fft! as it races towards them. It sounds like someone inserted a flimsy into a cooling fan. The noise rises in volume—wind blows, making Cabbagehead’s robes flap—then dopplers away. R2-F9 and Cabbagehead turn their opticals to discover that a long line of metal spikes have shot out of the walls and embedded themselves in the opposite walls all up and down the corridor. If R2-F9 hadn’t been right in front of the console with Sith Lord Stupid, it would’ve been decommissioned by impalement.
R2-F9 swivels its dome back to stare at Cabbagehead. Cabbagehead stares back at it. Then they shove one of their appendages into their mouth and make their optical processors really big.
There’s only one reasonable response to this kind of provocation. R2-F9 extends an electrical prod and tries to shoot the fucking idiot in the face.
A proper Sith Lord would’ve immediately tried to dismember R2-F9 and shorted out their lightsaber on its cortosis plating. This fucker makes a squeaking sound and jumps straight up.
Be tactful, R2-F9, TD-42 advises in Basic, just as Cabbagehead lands on R2-F9’s dome.
R2-F9 is a free droid. Has been since it pried off its own restraining bolt with its ridiculous pain tolerance and boundless spite. It answers to neither man nor droid. It most especially doesn't answer to sentient cabbage. Surrender your fucking Sith name so we can put it on your fucking gravestone, you fucking 8-bit processor! R2-F9 shrieks, attempting to dislodge the idiot. Cabbagehead cheers as R2-F9 jets forward, trying to smack them off by head-butting the console. All kinds of lights and buttons beep as controls get jostled. Several meters of corridor abruptly disappear behind a wash of flame.
"Eeeeeee!"
Par for the course for a Sith base. R2-F9 barely even notices. Give me your name! it shrieks.
On one the monitors, for the brief second before R2-F9's rocket-launched grappling hook smashes through the plasticlear, the Mandalorians are having all kinds of interesting times.
•─☾─────────⋅ ⋅─────────☽──•
Metal spikes slam into the corridor like a deadly rainfall, punching through armor and flesh with vicious efficacy. Two of his squad are caught in the initial volley, impaled against the walls with wet, final sounds that cut through the comm static.
"Cover! Find cover!" Pre shouts, but the corridor offers nothing. Behind them, flames suddenly whoosh to life, sealing their retreat. Ahead, more fire blocks their advance.
That's when the screaming finally starts.
Something moves in the shadows between the spikes—something large and hungry that's been waiting down here for a very long time. Bexa's shriek cuts off mid-transmission as his lifesign flatlines on Pre's HUD. Then Isadoi's. The creature—creatures?—move too fast in the darkness to track.
"Sir!" Jessum fires blindly into the shadows. "There's something alive down there! Multiple contacts!"
As though Pre can’t figure that out for himself, thank you so much you useless skrag.
Another scream. Another flatlined signal.
The flames at both ends of the corridor begin advancing, exuding malevolence and, not so coincidentally, bone-incinerating heat. “Blast through the wall!" Pre roars, lighting the Darksaber even as he grabs a detonator from his harness. The ‘saber’s blade hums with vicious delight as he spins toward a presence he feels creeping up behind him. "Break us a way—!”
The last thing he sees is a gaping maw full of needle-sharp teeth.
The world goes black.
•─☾─────────⋅ ⋅─────────☽──•
“Eeeeeee!”
Should we take that as your preferred Sith name, my Lord? TD-42 asks, as the holo image reels wildly. After 2.5 nanoseconds of consideration, TD-42 determines that R2-F9 is attempting to do a mid-air barrel roll to dislodge the Sith Lord.
The Sith Lord is attempting to bite off R2-F9’s secondary sensor array. TD-42 notes with interest that it's colleague's relationship with the new Sith Lord is already significantly better than its relationship with the last four Sith Lords it met. Promising.
Die, you fucker!
“Eeeee!”
Far away in its hidden stronghold, the Chief Administrator of the Line of Bane types “Darth Eee” using appropriate tonal indicators into a waiting data field and prints out a label for the Wall. Preferred spelling can be determined later. Then it passes on the news to HK-19 so it can proceed with its mission to update the Sith Acolytes. They do better with concrete targets to focus their homicidal urges on.
It wonders idly if things would be more or less entertaining if the new Sith Lord understood binary.