Allocentrism

“I came to speak to Major Benem.” Ixor’s voice was no longer the harsh, crude accent of a Nar Shaddaa native, but of a proper Imperial; curt, sharp and slightly haughty. He was no stranger to working with Imperials and during his apprenticeship under Darth Tholgeth Voidscream, he learned to fake the accent rather well. His husband, the former Minder Obisen Kindrak, had helped him learn the proper words and phrases when they were still young adults.  Ixor could even hear traces of Obisen’s own way of speaking when he talked. It always brought him a little bit of comfort.

However, that comfort seemed to be missing today and it was one reason he was here. Obisen was Imperial, through and through, and with that came all the horrid little traditions his family and the rest of his Empire held sacred, traditions Ixor had grown very tired of. It was one thing for a stranger to think the Twi'lek was some dense alien with an overinflated ego, but hearing it from the one you’ve devoted your life to was a bit much for him. Obisen claimed that it wasn’t what he meant, but Ixor knew his husband well enough to know that despite the pleas and sadness he felt from him, what he said was what he truly believed.

Ixor had decided to prove to his husband that he wasn’t a dense alien that had no understanding of Obisen’s precious military lifestyle.Maybe it was a bit spiteful, maybe it wasn’t the best idea to barge in on his work, but Ixor didn’t want to be thought of as stupid by his own partner. How hard could it be?

The woman nodded and pressed a button on her desk. “Major, Darth Kindrak is here to see you.”

There was a tinny response from the speaker. “Thank you, Anabel. Send him in.”

Major Benem’s office was a rather plain, boring looking square of gray, gray and more gray. The only thing that brought any life to the room was the complete mess it was in. Flimsiplast papers were gathered in unorganized folders, books and holocoms strewn about in half empty boxes. It looked more like someone had moved in and never finished unpacking. The balding man sat at his desk that was covered in stacks of datapads, tapping away at one. Ixor cleared his throat and the human glanced up. “Ah, my lord.” He motioned toward the one extra chair in the room. “I was just going over your request.”

Ixor looked at the one extra chair. It would take more time to move the boxes off of it than the entire conversation would take. “I take it there is no issue?”

“Of course not, my lord. As a loyal subject of the Empire, I am to follow all orders by a Sith such as yourself. I do believe this will be a beneficial arrangement."

Private Obisen Kindrak stood with his hands folded behind his back, his posture straight. The others in the line were not as proper in their stance or their armor. Where Obisen wore nicely polished armor colored red and black, the others wore mismatched armor that was scuffed, dirty and even ill-fitting on some. The Private looked down the line and his squad; Special Sken Bivvin, Privates Wando and Rodig Malafec and Corporal Din Quellinok. He shook his head at how they held themselves. A loud and sharp whistle brought the rest of the squad’s attention forward and Obisen followed suit.

Major Armadal Benem paced in front of the Imperial Auxiliary squad, taking on a much more professional demeanor than the squad in front of him. “You all had a nice little break thanks to that Rakghoul quarantine nonsense, but you still have a mission to complete.” There was a groan from down the line from Rodig.  “Don’t kriffing give me that, boy.”

“Since this is the Sith Empire and I’m gracious and humble enough to know my duty,” his sarcasm was not lost on Obisen and the rest of the squad, “I have agreed to let another take my place as acting lead of this assignment.

“You are all serving the Sith Empire and thus, you need to learn how to work with them, though I’m sure Private Kindrak would be more than willing to share his experiences.” Armadal smirked toward him, making Obisen nearly shrink back. He quickly averted his eyes downward and kept them there.

There was a hiss of a door behind Benem. A dark cape swirled around the legs of an approaching figure. “Major Benem,” the newcomer said with a crisp Imperial accent, “I thank you for the pleasure of allowing me to see one of your squads in action.”

“The pleasure is all mine, Darth Callidus.”

Obisen glanced up to see the face of not Darth Callidus, but the stoic and uncharacteristically professional demeanor of Darth Ixor Kindrak, dressed in darkened armor that matched the long cape thrown about his shoulders and under his lekku.  His heart sank to his stomach and his face paled.

Armadal gave the Sith a bow. “Now, my lord, I will leave you to your troops. If you require anything, do not hesitate to contact me.”

The Sith stood with his hands on his hips as he inspected the troops. Obisen had snapped forward, giving his husband a look that was half disbelief and half confusion.  There was a twitch of a lek and Ixor linked his pinky with the index finger of his other hand.

Obisen had not only coached the Twi'lek on a proper Imperial accent, the two had formed their own little language based on subtle movements. It came in very handy several times in their history together, when they both were sent on missions from Darth Aculeatus and Darth Voidscream. But now that secret language was being used to gloat. The movements roughly translated to 'told you so.'

“Major, I went over the reports for this assignment…” Anabel sat at her desk, tapping away at her datapad, but not looking up as she spoke, “Did you mean to send them to Vintel? The last time a squad went there--”

“Ah, yes.” Armadal smiled down at his secretary. It was a reassuring, sincere smile as he picked up another datapad and scrolled through the screens. “I know exactly what they are going to face out there, Anbela. ”

She blinked. “It’s basically a suicide mission, Major. I don’t even think a Darth could make it work.”

The male slowly strided toward his office, “Ah, see, if I know that Darth, he isn’t going to let anything happen to his little pet, no matter what the cost. And if one of them dies, the other won’t come back and then I no longer have those troublesome fops to worry about.”

With a nod, Anbela went back to work.

“Kindrak, Bivvin! I need you two to get that comm relay set up. Wando, you and Rodig set up a perimeter. Don’t let anything get to us. Din, you keep...doing whatever it is you do!”

The mission had gone just as badly as Obisen had thought, but in ways he didn’t expect. He had planned on his husband being immature, unprofessional and giving him special treatment, but none of that had happened since the ‘Darth Callidus’ character had been introduced. He did not, however, plan to be met with a hilly, rocky forest world of rebels, beasts and a bunker that needed more than just six people attacking it.

There was a loud explosion from the east, too close for comfort and Obisen felt the ground shake under him as he and Specialist Bivvin began to set up a connection link. The satellite dish fell from Obisen’s hands, Bivvin gave him a look of contempt and scooped it up, jamming it unceremoniously into its port.

Ixor stomped over. His cape was lost and his eyes showed the full effect the Dark Side had on his body: bright orange and narrowed in anger. “This is freakin’ ridiculous.” The proper accent had all but faded away, given the circumstances, Obisen couldn’t blame him. It was a rather tense situation. No time for theatrics here.

Another explosion from the rocky bluffs, much closer than the previous one. Ixor turned, sensing the ground quake before the two Force Blinds could. Rocks began to fall from the bluff and rolled toward them. Obisen didn’t have time to react before Ixor dove and pushed the both of them and himself out of the way of a particularly nasty looking boulder, forcing them both to the ground. It kept tumbling down the hillside, leaving the half set up communication relay squashed. Bivvin sat up, rubbed his head and looked at his hard work’s guts reduced to something thinner than a flatscreen. He cursed loudly.

Ixor offered a hand to Obisen, which he gladly took and shakily got to his feet. “Well, that isn’t good.” The three looked at the broken piece of tech in silence.

“I have a suggestion, my lord.” Bivvin broke the silence and handed the Twi'lek his datapad.

“Where were you hiding that?” Obisen asked. Bivvin just smirked his weedy little smirk.

Armadal Benem sat at his desk, idly stirring a cup of tea; three sugar cubes and a splash of milk. Soft orchestral music popular at military functions played in the background but was soon rudely interrupted by his own personal datapad beeping loudly and vibrating on his desk. He smiled and answered it. The grainy blue image of the Sith appeared on the flatscreen.

“My Lord! What a pleasant surprise,” the Major lied. It was hardly pleasant and it was hardly a surprise. “How may I be of service?”

Ixor growled. “Listen here, Benem.” The video feed flickered, yet the audio stayed crisp and clear. “We are going to need a bit more support if you think we can take down this kriffin’ base, you know.”

“Have they refortified the base? Our intelligence said it was nearly empty.”

“No, they are here in full force, with lots of explosions and a terrain that isn’t as navigable as your briefing made it out to be.” Ixor’s voice seemed to get a little louder and just a bit shorter as he continued to talk. Benem kept his indifferent expression.

“It appears the Auxiliary’s intelligence was not up to par, my lord. I will see that they are swiftly reprimanded for their failure.”

“Yeah, the Auxiliary’s everything needs to get up to par before you think I’m letting you take Oh-” He paused and looked at something off screen, “Before I’m letting one of your squads go in without a lick of intel.”

Benem feigned his ignorance. “I am unsure of how I can help from my present location, my lord. As you know, the Imperial Auxiliary is a small operation-”

“Well, your small operation is going to get us killed out here!”

“What do you wish for me to do, my lord?”

Ixor’s exasperated sigh came through loud and clear. “Get us some transport out of here. Maybe you can orbital bomb this place and then turn the kriffin’ laser on yourself.”

“Of course, my lord. Would you like to make that a direct order?”

“Yeah, I would! Now get us out of here. Your damn ship is what, on the other side of the planet? March yourself up to that bridge and get us off of this rock.”

A young male Cathar, the hair on his head done up in almost a mohawk fashion but wearing a neatly pressed Ensign’s uniform, stepped into Benem’s office. He stood out of view, shoving his hands into his pockets. Benem threw him a look pointed to the boy’s hair and the alien quickly pushed it down before returning to his stance.

Once Ixor had finish his berating of Major Armadal Benem’s Auxiliary squad, his intelligence and his intelligence gatherers, and his intelligence gatherer’s intelligence, Benem simply nodded his head. He nodded again when the Sith demanded a transport off world, because there was ‘no way in hell we’re dying on some backwater planet for nothin’,’ and cut off the communication link between the two. He looked to the Cathar and handed him the datapad.

“Menkib, do take this and do what you can to make it sound good, will you?”

The Cathar nodded, taking the tech in his clawed hands. “What would you like it to say, sir?”

Benem waved a hand idly. “Oh, something about who he is, how wonderful the Auxiliary is and how we really need much more support from the Military as a whole.”  He stopped to think. “I know this is Darth Kindrak and he’s about as threatening as Niman form, so you may have to work to make it sound scary.”

Menkib nodded. “Of course, sir. It shouldn’t take too long.”

It had been a day since Ixor had contacted Major Benem and there was still no word from him.  He paced around the impromptu campsite, muttering to himself. Maybe this wasn’t the best idea, but he had held it together. Obisen couldn’t keep up the thought that he was too stupid or dense for military work. He proved that by actually calling the retreat instead of letting people get killed for no good reason. Still, he wasn’t sure if they were actually going to get off this planet. They had found a clearing in the forest, far away from the rebel bunker. They were on constant guard however and Ixor had begun to feel tired. He could only stay up for so long, sensing through the Force for intruders. It was the least he could do for the squad.

He watched Obisen idly pick at a ration bar and wondered if he should drop the facade of an impartial leader and comfort him. He thought better of it, but gave Obisen a reassuring smile. He twitched a lek and shuffled his feet in a certain way as he stopped his pacing for a brief moment. ‘I love you.’ He felt relief wash over his husband. Satisfied, he went back to his pacing.

An hour or two passed before Bivvin’s datapad began to beep loudly. His eyes widened and he quickly covered the speakers with his hands. Ixor reached out through the Force and felt no new signs of life approaching. He snatched the datapad from Bivvin’s hand.

“Glad you could finally reach us, Major. Took you plenty long enough,” Ixor didn’t bother to hear Armadal’s greeting. “I hope you have an excuse for why it’s taken you so kriffin’ long to get back to us.”

“My deepest apologies, my lord. I needed to secure transport off world. A shuttle will pick you up at the coordinates I am sending you.”

Ixor grinned, showing off his pointed teeth. “About time, Major. When we return to the Retribution, we are going to have a nice little chat, yeah?” He motioned to the squad to begin gathering their armor and weapons, “Just you and me. Got it?”

“Very well, my lord. I do suggest heading to the extraction up point as quick as possible. Benem out.”

The datapad’s screen went blank, leaving Ixor glaring at it. “Well, you heard him. Hurry it up.”

It took them only five minutes to have everything packed up and another ten to reach the extraction point where a shuttle was waiting for them. The six jumped in, Corporal Din Quellinok  went first and offered a hand to help the others; the Malafec brothers, then Specialist Sken Bivvin and then the Sith. Obisen trailed behind, looking up at the Harrow that sat above the planet. “Oi, Kindrak. Hurry it up,” Ixor said as he strapped himself in.

Obisen couldn’t help the uneasy feeling he had. Something was wrong. Something was going to happen. He wasn’t a Sith, but he felt it in his bones.

And when a bright light appeared from the underside of the Harrow and bolted down to where the bunker was, Obisen knew he was right. The orbital strike was precise and deadly and the ripples of the explosion were heading toward him. The shuttle began to lift off and Obisen quickly jumped into it, grabbing a handrail. There was no time to even buckle in as the shuttle lifted and rose up into the sky. The door shut behind him, just in time for the waves of the strike to beat against the hull of the shuttle. He lost his grip and fell into a pile of boxes, but found his feet when the shuttle steadied.

“Everyone okay back there?” A tinny voice came from a small speaker. Ixor hit a button to give the pilot an affirmative and soon they were breaking the atmosphere, speeding toward the Harrower. Obisen once more lost his footing as the shuttle broke through, but managed to stay somewhat upright.

“That was an orbital strike,” Obisen stated the obvious to the group, who obviously knew that. “You don’t find that peculiar at all?”

Wando shook his head. “Why would we? I mean, doesn’t the Empire do that a lot?”

Obisen shook his head. “The only ones that have the power to call down an orbital strike is a Darth or a Moff and even then, it isn’t used very often and discussed in detail.” He turned to Ixor, “You didn’t call for one, did you?”

The Sith shook his head. The shuttle rocked back and forth and the group sat silently.

Major Armadal Benem’s finance reports where almost done by the time the Sith pushed the doors of his office open with the Force and strode in. Obisen was following a few feet behind him, trying his best to stay unnoticed as he flanked the door. Benem stood as the Sith entered and gave him a curt, short bow. “A pleasant surprise, my lord.”

Ixor rolled his eyes. “Don’t give me that crap, Benem.” He tossed a datapad on his desk and pointed to it with a clawed finger. “Want to explain what that file is all about?”

The file was a standard military document outlining a one sided conversation Ixor never remembered having; a conversation about orbital strikes and providing more resources to the Imperial Auxiliary.

The older human didn’t need to look at the file to know what it was. “That was me completing the operation and extracting you from the planet, my lord.”

Ixor thrusted a clawed hand forward and gave a bit of a squeeze toward him. “Want to explain it a bit better?” He dropped his hand and Benem coughed slightly.

“As you can tell, my lord, my little squad here is nothing more than a rag tag bunch of rejects. Present company not excluded, of course. Do you know how hard it was to get support for this project? And do you know how hard it is to get any support now that it’s all put together?

“So one of my privates spliced together a little video of you. I had to use it to show someone out in the Empire supported this cause and I used it to finally destroy that bunker on that worthless planet than cost me far too many credits and far too many soldiers. A planet we don’t need that I was sent to take care of.

“What that video did, my lord, was give my little project a little more support from a few higher ups. We may actually have enough credits to start an actual recruit drive on newly taken planets. You’ve done a great service to the Empire, my lord.”

A moment passed and Ixor growled under his breath. “I could have this entire project destroyed with a single talk to the Spheres.” Something hit him in the back of his mind. A sense of worry from behind him.

He knew Obisen liked this weird little job of his. There was something about it that made him feel confident, something that made him feel needed and wanted by the one thing he loved more than Ixor himself; the Empire. Ixor may have hated the time they were separated, but he loved the human enough to know when he was happy. And for some reason he couldn’t grasp no matter how hard he tried, Obisen was happy with this group of rejects.

“Of course you could, my lord. But would you? Look around you. Out in the hall, the little offices, did you notice they were mainly aliens? People shunned by the majority of the Empire have found a nice little home here. They get paid enough to have a real flat in the city, maybe even send a few credits back to whatever desolate rock they call home. It may not be nice, but it’s a lot better than what they could get before. And you don’t really want to send all those aliens out into Kaas City with no work and no way to care for themselves, would you? They would hardly be considered citizens anymore.”

“You could have just asked, y’know,” He glared at Benem. “Instead of forging a document that could have you thrown out of an airlock.”

The Major smiled. “That is not how my Empire works, my lord. I would not be where I am today if I had a Sith use his rank for me and I do not intend to start now. Your voice may have spoke for me, but it was I who orchestrated it all.” He glanced to Obisen, knowing his words had found purchase with the human soldier. “Surely you know of such ideals, my lord, being Sith and all.”

With gritted teeth, Ixor glanced back at Obisen as well. “Yeah, I know all about them, Major.”

Tension hung in the air for several moments before Benem sat back down at his desk. “If you’ll excuse me, my lord, I need to finish these finance reports. The Empire thanks you, once more, for your support.”

With a flourish, Ixor turned to leave. Obisen looked at the Major.

“You can leave as well, Kindrak.” The Major, however, didn’t look up at him.

“This is not potshots taken before a real fight,” the Mandalorian said. He then looked over at the long-range rifle on Obisen’s back. “No offense. But this will be the battle itself. Our strength against their home. It is better to face them with strength and in person, so to speak, than sip tea and let long-range cannons do the work.”

Obisen was dumbstruck slightly. That one statement had a higher word count from Din than the sum total of Obisen’s days spent working with him.

Din saw this. He snorted at Obisen slightly. “I can talk. With the others in the squad, I have something of a mask to put on as a Mandalorian. You I don’t worry about.”

Obisen blinked. “Well, I am honoured, I suppose, sir.”

Din went back to his macrobinoculars. “It’s because they’ll never value what you say.”

Obisen went back to leaning against the rock. After a few more moments Din tapped him and grabbed his rifle. Obisen did the same. In the middle of an intersection on an abandoned road there were three partisans near a large turret covered in tarpaulin. Eight seconds later there were none, just Corporal Quellinok putting a scattergun blast into some comms equipment while flanked by three corpses with smoking blaster burns in them.

Obisen pulled his eye up from his optics. The wind and dust hadn’t made him miss today.

Corporal Quellinok continued his destruction and dismantling of the anti-aircraft turret site, and the two moved toward their next waypoint. “I hope your beskar’gam and your, ah, bes-bee-trayce are ready for the fight ahead, then,” Obisen offered diplomatically.

“Weapons are besbe’trayce,” the Mandalorian replied. “And I do speak Basic, you know.”

“Well, of course I realize that, sir, but I wished to be as empathetic as possible. And I know how important culture is to Mandalorians, as I am something of a friend with one. When I’m not... here,” Obisen said, gesturing at the blasted planet beneath him.

“You know of Mandalorian culture, and you think I would wish you to be empathetic?” Din asked.

“Yes-- no-- well, it’s more that I wanted to relate. A word or two of Mandalorian is something that I know that can relate to the situation. Intelligence is my strength, and I know I’m not a superb shot or a grand asset in close quarters combat, but I did not want to seem entirely useless on a Mandalorian scale.”

Din looked over. “Why are you worried about a Mandalorian scale?”

“Because I’m talking to and working with a Mandalorian.”

“But you are not Mandalorian.”

“No, but you are.”

Din stopped. He then glanced down at his chrono, decided better of it, and kept walking. “You are not Mandalorian. You do not need to worry about your worth in my eyes.”

Obisen sighed in some relief. “Well, I’m honoured once again, sir.”

At this, Din glanced over. “Don’t be.” Obisen’s countenance fell, and the Mandalorian continued. “Allow me to explain.

“You are not a Mandalorian. I have two children. The oldest, she is seventeen standard years old. She has traveled with me before, learned her ways to fight. She is an adult and a Mandalorian now. My younger, he is nine. He has not left home yet. But he will be a Mandalorian. Even he is worth more than you in my eyes, on a Mandalorian scale.”

Obisen scowled slightly. “I’m a bit more capable than a nine-year-old,” he said.

“Of course you are. But you are more of what? Five Colicoid droids are ‘more’ than I am. If you look at shooting, at destruction, they are ‘more.’ But they are not more tactically. They are not led into combat by a live leader, they do not have more honor. They do not respect the Six Actions. They will never learn about our history, our philosophy, the manda - I know not how to describe this in Basic.”

“I think I’ve heard of that. The great sort of soul of what it is to be Mandalorian achieved after death?”

Din nodded. “This is close enough. In this sense, for what I believe, I am more. I am more than any non-Mandalorian, because they are not Mandalorian. You can and may be a great man, but I do not judge you on the same scale.”

Obisen ran his tongue behind his teeth a bit. “I’m not sure how to feel about that.”

Din shrugged. “I think you should not worry about it. If you were Mandalorian, I may judge you. I could praise you, or scold you if you do not behave with honor, or obey the Resol’nare. But you are not Mandalorian. You have your own beliefs and values. You are outside of what I can measure. You are your own person. I cannot stand in judgement of you except that you are not Mandalorian. I do not think you less for this, simply... outside.”

“Well. Maybe you cannot judge my worth, then, but I’m curious: what do you think of me?”

Din held up a fist, and Obisen froze and was silent. The corporal crept ahead, and looking around, Obisen spied a nearby balcony on an abandoned house. With some effort, he swung himself onto the balcony, and found himself with a great vantage point of the next anti-aircraft gun. Three men stood near this one. Two clicks came over Obisen’s comm, and he knew that was the ready signal. His optics centered on the most distant of the three, he squeezed the trigger. The target, and he forced himself to only think of it as this, fell. A shot rang out from closer to the anti-aircraft gun, and another target fell. The third person there was unarmed. She’d frozen, and now the corporal slowly stalked toward her. Obisen watched Din gesture deeper into the city, waggling his rifle in what looked like a command to leave. The target, however, was instead slowly creeping toward the discarded rifle of one of her comrades. Din stowed his rifle and grabbed his scattergun. He continued to gesture toward the city center while yelling. The target, who Obisen’s optics had gradually determined was a young human woman, still worked toward the fallen weapon. Din stood ready, weapon across his chest. The woman’s hand reached the rifle, and just as she started to lift it, Din turned and calmly fired the scattergun. Obisen could hear a scream from his position, but another calm scattergun blast brought it to a wet gurgling halt.

The corporal and a noticeably paler Private Kindrak started through some gardens toward their next objective. “I hope Privates Malafec and Malafec, and Sergeant Andagol and Specialist Bivvin, are having as clean of a time as we are,” Din said. Obisen didn’t respond for a minute, and when he did, he changed the subject.

“Like I said, I’m curious what you think of me.”

Din shrugged yet again. “I don’t know, I suppose. I don’t stand here and think about whether or not I approve of you or something no more than I stand and think about whether I approve of a house’s architecture when I pass it. I don’t live there. It doesn’t affect me. At this point I’m left wondering why you care so much what I think.”

“I am Imperial,” Obisen said. “I need to be useful. My value is explicitly tied into my power and my ability to wield it - whether that power is physical, or strategic, or informational. I respect you, because you have power, and are useful, and outrank me, and thus I wish to demonstrate my usefulness to you.” Obisen waggled his head from side to side as they walked. “It’s nothing personal, it’s how I am.”

The larger man grunted. “Well, Private, Obisen, I think you ought to spend less time frantically worrying about your usefulness and more time being useful. We Mandalorians mostly don’t believe in the old gods and theologies anymore, just as symbols, but I think the idea that hard work is seen and rewarded remains.

“I don’t think many Mandalorians join the Auxilia. I think they would chafe at being second class citizens and supporting the regular army. But I am an irregular soldier, and it is for irregular soldiers, and while perhaps there is little glory, there is honor, and I provide for myself and my family and teach our ways to my children still. It is tame, compared to the tales of some Mandalorians. But I am confident my efforts are seen and heard by those that need to see and hear them.”

Obisen was quiet and in thought.

“Our next target is up ahead. I will show you. Find a good vantage point,” Din said, and jogged ahead of Obisen.

Obisen crept between some rocks on a small hill looking over an empty space that looked to have been a commercial plaza before the war had come. Where perhaps a fountain had stood, another of the mobile anti-air platforms had been parked and deployed. A half dozen of the resistance’s forces stood around it.

“You fire repeatedly, Private,” a voice said in Obisen’s ear. “They will come for you, and I will intercept them. Acknowledged?”

Obisen double-clicked his comm, and levelled his rifle. One target in the sights. Trigger. Successful hit. Panic spread. Obisen pushed his idle throughts to the back of his mind, focusing on the simple rapid fire exercise before him. Another target. Down. Winged him - no, it, - though, so perhaps not out.

The other four were scrambling for cover. Two popped up and sprayed blaster bolts in Obisen’s general direction, but he knew their odds. One more. Down. Three away, three to go. When two of the remaining soldiers rushed toward his position, the hulking form of Corporal Quellinok swung out, and an overhead slash from his vibroblade sent one of them tumbling to the ground in a bloody heap. The vibroblade was in his off hand and his scattergun in his main in a flash, and with a burst from that the second soldier fell just as he was steadying his rifle. The sixth soldier stepped up to fire at Din, but Obisen was ready, and that target fell as well.

Din approached the turret, finding the second target that Obisen had merely injured. “Come up here, Private,” he said. Obisen shouldered his rifle and hurried toward the anti-air emplacement.

The target, Obisen saw, had been a middle-aged male with close-cropped hair and a two-day beard. He’d had no armor to speak of, merely civilian clothes and a rifle that looked like it had seen service in the Mandalorian Wars. He’d taken Obisen’s shot to the hip, and while it had been non fatal, he was now unable to move, and his weapon had gone flying. He winced and spat at Corporal Quellinok as Obisen approached.

“You wish to demonstrate your worth. You think your superiors, your comrades, think you’re weak. Think you are not a soldier. A soldier does what needs to be done, and this man needs to die. We are not taking prisoners. Here is your chance to clear your mind, Private. Do what needs to be done, though your comrades are not here to see it. Trust it will be seen and heard when it’s needed.” Din handed Obisen his sidearm.

Obisen stared, first at the weapon, then at the man on the ground before him, then at the weapon again. The wounded partisan spat at Obisen. Obisen thought of his father, military uniform and all, and the twenty-odd years of military discipline - or perhaps expectations - he’d imparted on Obisen landed themselves around the private’s shoulders. Obisen clenched his jaw, lifted the weapon, and fired.

On the way back to the squad’s rendezvous, Din stopped. “You know, when you asked why we were bombing, and I really answered you with Mandalorian reasoning, not Imperial. That’s not fair."

A slumped, exhausted Obisen was startled out of his thoughts. “Hmm? Oh. Well, it’s fine. Don’t worry about it.”

Obisen didn’t answer.

“Oh, come on,” Bivvin said. “Sarge put it out there. You’re going to have to address it. You’re a Special Boy,” he added, oozing sarcasm.

Obisen was already somewhat uninterested in this particular squadmate. He was very uninterested in discussing his home life. And he was entirely uninterested in the I-told-you-so smirk he knew his husband would give him when he described his tenure in the field, as Ixor hadn’t wanted him to go in the first place.

“It’s fine,” Obisen eventually said.

“He a bit... rough of a chap?” Bivvin was grinning.

“No comment.”

“Oh, come on. You going to tell me a Sith isn’t a total monster in the sheets?”

Obisen’s datapad prompted him for permission to try the next algorithm in its attempts to decrypt the contents of the late handsy Duros’s computer. Obisen tapped a button in the affirmative.

“Don’t presume to know everything about a Sith’s home life,” Obisen said.

“Oh. Oh, yeah. I follow. Someone has to be all tough on the outside all day, they probably get home and... open up, yea?” Bivvin turned to Obisen, making an intensely obscene hand gesture to demonstrate what he thought ‘opening up’ consisted of.

Obisen scowled at him. “Could you put a little more effort into slicing and a little less into probing into my personal life?” he spat.

Bivvin chuckled. Obisen thought he spied a little malice in his grin in addition to the simple uncouth behavior. “Ah, I touched a nerve, didn’t I? Poor Private Kindrak and his little Sith leather daddy. D’aww.”

Obisen slammed his datapad down. “You’re a creep,” he declared with a glare.

His alleged counterpart stood. “Excuse me? I’m a specialist. That should be ‘You’re a creep, sir.’”

Obisen looked back down at his work.

Bivvin laughed harder and pulled his datapad back up. “Well, let’s see what else this says about you... born and raised on Dromund Kaas, with a lineage of... wow. This goes way back. Your family must have the nicest pedigree around that never managed to pop out a Force-sensitive child to kick you up to that next tier.”

Obisen looked back up. “Major Benem wasn’t kidding - you seriously sliced my files from his computer, didn’t you?”

Sken shot Obisen a sideways look. “Not all of it. Some of it was a little too well classified for my limited time frame. So no good stuff from Imperial Intelligence.”

“So just the entire rest of my life, then,” Obisen suggested dryly.

“Pretty much, Kindrak. Wow. Most people just dye their hair during their rebellious phases. You went a bit farther, didn’t you?”

“I hope that while you’re not paying attention to your slicing, you trigger the security here and it shoots us both to death,” Obisen offered to try and conclude things.

It worked, for a little while. Bivvin actually went back to work for a few minutes. Then he piped up again.

“You’ve never had a hard day in your life, you know that?”

Obisen looked up. “I beg your pardon?”

Bivvin was staring at him. The hint of malice had bloomed over his entire countenance. “What was the worst day, hm? Was it pre-wedding jitters? Was it getting fired from both your jobs back to back? Was it finding out your father had died, and being able to read between the lines of the report to know some Sith had done it?”

Obisen’s eyes narrowed. His erstwhile comrade in arms was staring back at him, the jaw on his little round face clenched. Had his two front teeth been sticking out, he could have been a caricature of an idiot.

“Are you working toward a point at all?” Obisen asked coolly.

“You love the Empire, don’t you, Obisen?”

“Golly, Specialist, did you figure that one out all by yourself?” the ex-agent replied with uncharacteristic sarcasm.

“Let me tell you a story, Private,” Bivvin said. “This little boy wasn’t born with a million or so generations of military service money behind him. He was born on some podunk world a lot like this one, but a bit closer to Dromund Kaas, so that when the Empire came back, his world got picked to join the glorious resurgent domain of the Sith.

“While you’re shaking silver rattles, and your daddy’s out blasting Republic fools, this little boy gets his home planet neatly sacked and a new governor installed. He gets to hear all about how things were quiet, once, before the war, but how we can’t say that too loudly. There are new people in charge that won’t like that, not one bit. So he grows up hearing how someday, he’ll have to join the military - because everyone does - and bring his family a little respectability around their parts.”

Obisen was watching, tense. Bivvin was doing a fat kid’s impression of a prowling nexu cat, head leaned down, teeth bared as he spoke.

“This kid, maybe he gets into a little trouble when he grows up. Nothing major. Nothing the discipline of the military won’t fix! He’s just a clever boy with computers, digging around where he shouldn’t. Nothing serious, really, in the long run. But he gets in the military. Because everyone does. But maybe he continues to dig around in computers a bit too much. Maybe the Imperial Army takes it a bit more seriously than a farm town’s school district did. Maybe this kid doesn’t want to stop slicing, and he doesn’t want to take his meds, because he doesn’t feel like himself when he does.”

A heartstring in Obisen was plucked for a moment. “Any sort of mental disorder that requires treatment is a different situation altogether, since--”

“You’re not implying I’m a victim, are you? That kind of pity is Republic talk.” Bivvin shot back. His gremlin grin was back.

That kind of comparison was across the line for a loyal son of the Empire like Obisen, but he merely quieted and let Bivvin continue.

“So he doesn’t get along with people in the army. They don’t need slicers or troublemakers. But maybe someone elsewhere doesn’t mind oddballs, and could use slicers. Someone like the Auxiliary Corps. So now that’s where this guy ends up. Where they pay half as much, give none of the prestige, but actually use my skills. I get no cash, no glory, no pride from my family, but I’m too useful to let go of. Ta-da.”

Obisen made sure he had concluded. “Are you asking me for pity, Specialist?”

Bivvin balled both hands into fists and shook them silently for a moment before slamming them into his desk. “No. No! You don’t get it. You and I, we’re the same. We’re the same person in a different situation.”

Obisen was taken aback. “I fail to see how my disposition is anything like yours.”

“No, you’re just like me. You didn’t take to the army, did you? Even though I’m sure your military family would have loved it. But you, you got to go join Imperial Intelligence. Big rich boy like you gets to study for whatever exams they have, I’m sure. Do I get to go to Intelligence? Of course not! I’m a farmboy. No. We’re the same, Obisen. I’m a little off, I get angry, I have trouble with words, or explaining myself, or handling dumb people in authority. You, you love it, and you submit to all the authority and you keep your mouth shut whenever someone contradicts you. I see it with the Major, or with Sarge. You’re just as crazy as I am, but you’re crazy in a better way. A nicer, handier way.”

It wasn’t so much Bivvin’s higher rank keeping Obisen quiet at this point as it was his somewhat... deranged nature. Obisen’s hand fell away from his datapad. He knew he was being paranoid, but he keenly felt the sidearm on his thigh.

“What does this have to do with me never having a hard day?”

“Because no one is disappointed in you. You lose both your jobs because you were too busy serving the Empire too hard, and you have it so rough back with your husband and your kriffing fat lizard you fawn over and your fat mom to drink wine with. And then you just bumble on up in here to say how’dya do, let me shoot at these people and miss when I’m brought on as a marksman. And you get what? The same dressing down everyone gets from the major every day. Just so rough. You’re never the only child that gets kicked out and now his family’s nobody, will be nobody forever, are you?”

“So... what do you want from me, Specialist?” Obisen asked. The gremlin looked troubled. He wasn’t looking at Obisen as much while he spoke. He hadn’t paid attention to his datapad or done any work since he’d started his story.

“Well, I want to kill you, for one. Just wear your skin. I could do it, you know. I could be you.”

When Bivvin looked up and still had the nexu cat hungry grin, Obisen decided that sidearm might be a really good idea. He pushed his chair back and stood as he drew his weapon, but Bivvin was up and pointing his own pistol at Obisen even sooner.

“You can’t shoot me,” Bivvin said. “I’m the Empire. You love me.”

“Well, when someone says they’re going to wear my skin, I get a bit edgy.”

“I’m not-- not literally. Come on. I’m not going to kill you, you little noble twerp. But I could! I wish I could. I could take that rifle, use it better than you could, don’t you think? I even found the data we were looking for five minutes ago. I just wanted to see how good you were at cracking his computers open. We’re the same. You’ve just got your daddy’s rifle and a Sith, and I don’t get to have those. If we were Sith, I could kill you and take them, and that’d be the right thing to do. Now I shouldn’t? Because we’re not Sith? Is that how the Empire works?”

Obisen slowly started to lower his pistol. “Specialist, I think you need help.”

“Nah, the Empire doesn’t give help. It weeds out the sick. That’s why Sarge doesn’t let me do the decision making. It’s not a good idea.” Sken put on a more jocular smile now. “I’m sorry you thought I was going to kill you. But I do hate you. I do what I do well, and it gets me halfway to nowhere - less than the army. You do what you do well, and you have everything that someone that isn’t a Force wizard could want, right? Tell me why I shouldn’t be you,” Sken said. Before Obisen could speak, he waved it off with his hand. “No, no. Tell me how I could be you, and why I can’t. Tell me that about the Empire.”

Obisen was emotionally exhausted. The idea chased him around his head like a spectre for a moment before the private simply threw up his hands and shrugged. “I really don’t know, sir,” he offered.

Sken’s grip visibly tightened on his pistol. “Now you see why I hate you. And why you’ve never had a hard day in your life.”

“Sure,” Obisen offered to try to end the conversation. “I see it.”

He couldn’t tell if Bivvin believed him, but he did put his pistol away.

Another new voice. This one was female and with a less distinct accent. Hutt space? “Bivvin, shut up. Welcome to the theatre, Private Kindrak. I’m guessing you noticed the two sentries on your side. The third just patrolled over toward ourselves, to your northeast. Don’t look. If you act fast on your side, we can spring before he gets back to you.”

“I think I understand, ma’am. Sir,” Obisen replied, a bit shaky. He whipped his rifle off of his back. Peeking the barrel over the ridge, he kept his bipod legs down, balancing the barrel on the rock rather than having it stick out another half dozen centimeters. Opening the cap on the optics, he got a better look.

The dust storm continued, but the optics slowly filled in the shapes of two armed guards that didn’t appear to have spotted Obisen. They were standing at the side door of a squat gray building that occupied the center of the craterlike valley that Obisen was on the lip of. Turning, Obisen could pick out the other soldiers at the main door, on the building’s east side. The rest of the squad must be at the lip of the valley on that side.

Returning to his own targets, he let the view linger, letting the optics build a better view through the dust. The person-shaped outlines filled in, and Obisen was left staring down two humans facing him, but unable to spot him through the dust.

“Fire when ready. We’re jumping them in the confusion,” the female voice said in his ear.

Obisen looked closer. It looked like ‘men’ was a bit relative, as these guards looked to have a combined age of about thirty-two. Their rifles were big on them, and they were definitely doing more chatting than guarding.

Obisen brought his crosshairs up onto the throat of one of them. It might have been optical noise, but Obisen thought he could pick out a horrid teenage mustache on his target through the dust and the optical computing. His rifle was hanging from a strap over his shoulder, and the target’s hand wasn’t even on its grip.

This was the resistance that required his presence on this planet? He’d dealt with snooping and traitors before, but never had he been tasked with a target so young that—

One of the boys extended his hands out in front of him, as if holding someone else, and began to thrust his hips obscenely. The other laughed.

A target that young, then.

This wasn’t Imperial, this. This wasn’t what the Empire’s conquest was, this wasn’t what the army was for. This wasn’t the way of the mighty Empire. He was going to have words for his commanding officer after this fight. He re-levelled his barrel. The wind blew up, and as he tried to hold his breath to fire, the dust in the breeze made him cough. The targeting of the rifle was sure through the dust. One teenaged human male. He chuckled and said something else to his partner. Obisen couldn’t seem to steady his aim. It must have been the wind. He settled on letting his crosshairs track across and onto his target before he fired.

A panel on the building behind Obisen’s target exploded, and the target jumped forward. Both guards started looking around frantically and scrambling to get some kind of grip on their weapons. A yell was heard from the other side of the building, and a sudden cacaphony of voices came through Obisen’s headset.

“Oh, are you kidding—”

“—who’s this guy—”

“—least they look confused—”

“—carry the weight. Charge!”

Four people vaulted a rock on the eastern edge of the crater. A shot from one dropped a guard before that auxiliary put his rifle on his back, pulled out a vibrosword, and charged ahead. Another form skidded to a stance on the sloped ground and started unloading from an assault cannon, suppressing fifteen meters or so’s worth of cover.

Obisen caught himself staring, then leaned back into his sights. The two guards on his end of the building had run away from the charging auxiliaries. Unfortunately, they’d simply taken cover behind a corner of the building, and they were still in Obisen’s line of sight. His optics sketched out two body shapes. One was peering around a corner toward the firefight, bright and clear in his sights. The other was based on heat readings, a blob that occasionally poked its head out from behind his partner. Obisen carefully swiveled to his left and levelled the sights once more. His earpiece was still silent. He held his breath, centering his crosshairs on the chest of the clearer target. His reticle continued to rock. Damned wind. He fired.

The shot pierced the shoulder of the guard and caused part of the ferrocrete building to explode, and the lifeless body fell. The guard behind him screamed, and patted at his friend in disbelief. He suddenly stood as a shape formed in the sandstorm behind him, turning just in time for the vibrosword to make its upward slash. There was a spray of clothing and blood in Obisen’s optics.

“All clear,” came a growling voice through the earpiece. Obisen stood up, lifting his rifle, and crept toward the building.

The group reconvened near the front door of the building. The growling voice belonged to a large, muscular man in bulky, Mandalorian-styled armor. A rifle was slung across his back, crossed by the vibrosword after he’d cleaned it off and resheathed it. His head was bare of helmet and most of its hair, as well, the hairline having swept upward in the man’s forty or fifty years.

The second largest form was another male human, much younger, with a rifle cradled in his arms. He was built like a wrestler, but had the long swept hair and smug demeanor of a lankier action holo hero. Less than a meter away from him was a smaller, pudgier youth with lighter colored hair - both on his head and in a hideously thin shape on his lip. His left eye was cloudy.  

Finally, there was the shortest man there. He had short black hair and a wicked looking, heavily modified blaster pistol in a leather holster on his belt. He feigned tapping at a datapad, but had been staring at Obisen since the moment the firefight ended. The female that had been giving Obisen orders was nowhere to be seen.

The largest form gestured with a thumb toward the now open door of the building. “Sarge’s inside getting our man out of house arrest,” he grunted, speaking primarily to the three men that weren’t Obisen. The middle two forms nodded and leaned back against the exterior of the building. The smallest man switched from staring at Obisen to staring at the rifle on Obisen’s back, and the former agent grew fidgety and unsure of what to do with his hands.

There was about five seconds of awkward silence until a gunshot rang out from inside the building.

The largest man swept inside in a flash, rifle drawn. His very speed shocked Obisen slightly - it was almost bestial, the way he rushed in, like a Wookiee or Trandoshan ambushing something. The little weasely fellow was next, drawing his pistol, and the two others followed. Obisen fumbled with the strap on his sidearm holster and drew it.

The squad quietly stalked through the building, a largely empty bunker-like structure with a few decorations and pieces of furniture strewn about. They finally came upon the master suite in the center, where an armored human female with a ponytail was angrily kicking at the limp body of a Duros on the ground.

The other four holstered their weapons, and Obisen assumed this woman was Sarge, and the voice he’d heard on his earpiece earlier. When she saw the group enter, the woman recomposed herself. After spying Obisen, she gave him a quick look, and he noticed that her right eye was a fairly crude, by Imperial intelligence standards, cybernetic. Her steely gaze lingered on him for a moment, and then she clapped her hands together. “All right. Teambuilding exercise. Everybody’s going to shoot this piece of teal garbage. And look, you’re already in an orderly line!”

Obisen blinked, and Sarge ticked down the power of the pistol before handing it to the large man. He shrugged and sent a bolt into the chest of what, Obisen had now seen, was clearly a fresh corpse before handing it down the line to the long-haired wrestler, who fired as well and continued the rotation.

Obisen stared at the body as weak blaster bolts rocked it over, but it never rolled out of the fetal position it had landed in. Finally, the pistol was handed to Obisen, who examined it for a moment. When he felt the eyes of his squad upon him, he nervously held it up and fired. The body shook, but remained in its position, seemingly unbothered by the five additional perforations it had suffered.

“Call the Major,” Sarge said, and the small man, who was still staring at Obisen, and Obisen had decided was some kind of gremlin, punched at his datapad and set a small transmitter on the ground. A light flashed up from the transmitter, and a projection formed of Major Armadal Benem.

Obisen started to wonder just what reality he was in. He looked around for someone to hand this blaster pistol back to, but everyone was focused on the image of the major. There was also no nearby table. He engaged the safety and held it at his side.

The major’s holographic protection looked the group over. “Well, well. All still here. And I see the new guy’s made it,” he said, nodding at Obisen. “Where’s Chesom Bal?”

“On the ground, no longer breathing, just out of sight of the projector, sir,” Sarge said, staring smugly at the major.

Benem’s face fell from something vaguely approaching joy to a grimace. “And why in the Emperor’s name is he dead?!”

Sarge shrugged. “The new guy shot him, sir.”

Everyone, including the projection, turned to look at Obisen. He threw up his hands in a gesture of self-defence, but the pistol that had killed the Duros was still in one of them. At this, he paled, and put his hands back down.

“The Duros made a pass at me, sir,” Sarge said. “He wanted some physical favors before he gave us the information we were here for. Private Kindrak insisted on defending my honor, and when Chesom laughed, the private shot him.”

Benem was still staring at Obisen. Obisen wondered if it was possible to sense orbital strike targeting lasers. Maybe his hair would stand up, and he’d have a moment to prepare for his death. Maybe it would just happen, and no one would know until his husband received the cinders of his effects.

“Listen, you ex-intelligence kriffing rodent,” Benem said. “Maybe on Dromund Kaas, where you’re all looking to impress someone for a date to the next kriffing ball, defending a woman’s honor is a good move. Maybe that’s how you get the prettiest, bustiest, Sith-bloodiest girl there to reach down into your trousers and make you stain your underwear on the speeder ride home so that you can tell your Young Imperials troopmates all about your kriffing conquest the next day.”

Once again, Obisen was at a loss for words. The squad stared at him. He dropped the pistol, and Benem reeled in disgust and rolled his eyes. The gremlin man started to chuckle, but the Major appeared not to notice.

“But out here where it’s a warzone, we do what we have to for the Empire, right? And I’m not a xenobiologist, I don’t know exactly how Duros waste processing works. But Sergeant Andagol there is putting her tongue in or on whatever the grossest orifice that body has if she has to, because it’s her kriffing job. And ‘honor’ has nothing to do with it, you hear me? We do what we have to for the Empire. You understand me?”

“Y-yes, sir,” Obisen spit out, more out of a need to agree and move on than any specific comprehension.

“Good. I’m going to make your next contact a hulking Gamorrean and make sure he knows he can do whatever he wants to that Kowakian monkey lizard body of yours, private. And then I’m sending the holos to that twi’lek you serve as a lightsaber sheath for.”

Obisen said nothing. The major’s image paced a few steps from side to side, in and out of focus. “Specialist Bivven, you think you can get the files from the contact’s computers?”

The little gremlin-man shrugged. “If they’re there, I’ll crack them open, sir.”

“Good,” Benem spat. “Our little private allegedly has some skill in slicing as well. Though I’m sure you knew that, since you keep slicing my own files, you Drall-looking kriff.”

Specialist Bivven paled. The major smiled venomously at him. “Have him help you. Feel free to take any searched and useless datapads and stuff them down his kriffing throat.”

At this, the specialist smiled once more. Obisen blinked. The major’s image turned back to the sergeant. “Once you get a location, contact me. I’ll see what support I can pull up.”

“Thank you, sir,” the sergeant said, and Benem closed the transmission.

“What was that?!” Obisen suddenly exploded at the sergeant. She rolled her eyes - well, the remaining organic one - and flapped her hand dismissively at him. “Don’t worry about it, private—”

“Don’t worry?! The major already hated me when I was on my way here, I didn’t need any more help getting on his bad side.”

“Really?” Specialist Bivven interjected. “With the gunplay we saw out there, I can’t see why you’re not everyone’s favorite new addition.”

“Sken, shut up,” Sergeant Andagol said. “The Duros did want physical payment. I told him to go jump into the Maw, we’d be taking our information. He didn’t like that. I had to shoot him. You had to take the blame.”

“I didn’t have to take the blame,” Obisen said, folding his arms over his chest. “There are six people in here. Anyone could have taken the blame,” he said.

“You had to take the blame because you’re the only one he can’t kriffing kill,” Sarge said. “You see a lot of top-form people here? Beloved war heroes? You’re a Sith’s husband. You don’t get discharged, you don’t get treason trials. You get yelled at.”

At this marital revelation, everyone turned to look at Obisen. Private Kindrak quieted for a moment, eyes locked with the sergeant while the rest of the squad stared. “Like the Major said, you should do what you have to for the Empire,” Obisen finally concluded, huffily.

“The Empire? Do we look like the Empire, new guy? I don’t see a lot of Imperial soldiers and Sith around here, do you?” asked the chunky blonde man from where he stood, half-behind the other long-haired soldier. “Does this look like the mighty Imperial war machine to you?”

Obisen’s countenance fell. After a quiet moment, the sergeant spoke back up at him. “These are the Privates Malafec,” the sergeant said to Obisen. “That one’s Rodig,” she said, pointing to the heavier one with the light hair and bad eye that had just spoken up. “His brother is Wando,” she added, and the larger man with wrestler’s build and suave hair nodded.

She pointed at the largest man, the one with the sword. “Corporal Quellinok,” she said, then pointed to the gremlin. “Your new partner, who looks enamored with you, by the way, is Specialist Sken Bivven. You are now permitted to stop whining and get to work along with him on decrypting this trash’s data.” She accented her descriptor with a final kick to the alien’s smoking body. “The rest of you, security. Boring, I know. I have some people to contact. Sound good, everyone?”

Everyone mumbled a yes, sir, including Obisen. As the Privates Malafec and Corporal Quellinok headed back outside, Bivven had put his little gremlin face back on and was staring at Obisen again. Obisen briefly reconsidered the potential upsides of the orbital strike.

No Sith emerged. Instead, there came a junior officer, an attractive female human with dark skin and light blonde hair. She was frantically taking notes from another human, an older male in an Imperial Army major’s uniform.  The crew seemed to do their best to avoid him and scuttle out of his line of sight as inconspicuously as possible. Reaching for the bag at his side, and adjusting the rifle strapped to the back of his fancy new combat armor, Obisen moved out to intercept the major at the middle of the hangar.

The younger female officer saluted and left in a rush. The major stood in the middle of the hangar, surveying the scene. Obisen was behind the officer, and stopped about three meters away to loudly call, “Major,” and salute. The man turned. He was entirely bald, clearly in at least his forties, with what looked like burn scars over the right side of his neck. One line of scarring from a slash wound, prominent among the others, wound its way up his neck to the side of his mouth.

Obisen put on as pleasant a look as he could conjure without breaking decent military decorum. “I’m Former Agent Obisen Kindrak, sir. I’m here to begin my assignments with the Imperial Auxiliary Corps, sir. I serve at yours and the Emperor’s pleasure, sir.”

The major returned the salute with a smile. “Ahh. You must be our new recruit,” he said with a heavy brogue. “I’m Major Armadal Benem. I’ve been looking over your file, Private Kindrak. Have to say, you’re a bit different from your pictures.” He waved his clipboard at Obisen, and Obisen saw an old picture of himself, with neater hair and much lighter skin. “It’s a long story, sir,” the former agent said with a smile.

Benem nodded. “Well, let’s get on board and moving and we can have a nice chat about it.” Major Benem gestured to the assault shuttle near the opening of the hangar. Obisen grabbed at his duffel and set it next to a seat in the shuttle before strapping himself in. Benem stood with a loose grip on one of the support beams in the passenger area with him. The hatch shut, and silence settled through the craft as the two waited for the shuttle to make its way out of the hangar. Obisen moved to break it.

“Have you served on the Retribution long, Major?”

The older man shrugged. “I spend my time staring at paperwork, and every Harrower looks the same on the inside. They all blend together after a while, really.”

Obisen nodded. “Well, standards and discipline bring success, of course.”

The major didn’t reply, and the silence set back in. Obisen opened his mouth to add more, and Benem slammed a fist against the comm channel activator. “Pilot, any chance of us actually arriving on the planet this standard week? I could have jumped out and been there by now.”

A tinny voice came back through. “Apologies, sir. Preflight checks. Should be lifting momentarily.”

The major rolled his eyes, and the sudden shift in demeanor took Obisen aback. He tried to lighten the mood.

“I’m glad regulations are followed, at least. Enough Republic troops out there trying to kill us for--”

“You’re real kriffing welcome to shut that twi’lek pleasure cave of yours, fop,” Armadal interjected, and Obisen froze.

The shuttle lurched to life, and both occupants felt the shift from repulsorlifts to thrusters as the ship cleared the hangar and shot toward the planet below.

Armadal’s countenance had fallen from the proud, determined smile of a scarred veteran down to a vengeful glare. “You’ve been here all of three minutes and I’m sick of that prim little voice of yours, ex-agent. And what’s more, you don’t even need to speak to be a thorn in my side the size of a kriffing rancor tooth, boy.”

Obisen had received dressings down in the past, but generally he had an idea as to why. At this point he was simply frozen in place, bug-eyed, while Major Benem stared him down with demonic fury.

“Like I said, I’ve been looking over your file. You know what that’s like, don’t you, Minder? Ex-Minder, at least. You got all buddy-buddy with a Sith boss too, Darth Aculeatus. Intelligence wasn’t happy with you having another master, were they?”

Obisen retreated into his normal passive attention stance and clamped his jaw shut.

“They cut you out. Couldn’t kill you like they do most of their exes, though, could they? You were a Sith toy.” Major Benem tilted his head. “An’ here’s the thing, though. I’m guessing your other boss didn’t have much use for a Minder that didn’t Mind anymore, did he? You couldn’t fetch him all sorts of classified information anymore. So you lost the second job that cost you the first one.”

Obisen didn’t respond. He tried to look away, but his eyes crept back toward the major, who was smirking like a nexu with cornered prey.

“So you have all sorts of free time. Down to being the whipping boy of just one Sith, I take it? Or does your husband the Darth only do that when you ask nicely and call him daddy?”

“Sir, I hardly see how my personal--”

“Perhaps I wasn’t clear about how strongly I felt about shutting up. You should kriffing shut up, right?”

Obisen glared at the officer. The major stared back, his body wearing a swagger befitting something more than a simple major in the Imperial military. His eyes roamed Obisen, probing. His presence did not swell to fill the shuttle in the way a Sith would. He was smaller, if as fierce. Where a Sith would be a rancor, Major Benem was a handheld obsidian blade.

The shuttle rumbled as the planet’s atmosphere began to swirl about it.

“Your personal crap is relevant because you have at least one former employer that wishes you were dead, perhaps two former employers you have a grudge against, extreme potential for defection or capture and torture for information, and now you’ve grown bored of life in Kaas City and you want to serve the Empire. So they shunt you into the Auxiliary Corps, where the other irregular and mercenary forces are managed, and boom, you’re here under my jurisdiction where if anything happens to you, your husband can show up, rip my aorta open and let me drain until I’m as wrinkled and dry as Darth Zhorrid’s nethers, and no one can do a thing about it. You, ex-agent, you’re like someone took my breakfast, replaced it with a Gamorrean with a thermal detonator in his mouth, and then took a dump on it and served it to me. Right?”

Obisen didn’t reply. He found the strength to stare straight ahead, instead of at the major.

“Congrats, you learned your first kriffing lesson about shutting up.” Major Benem paused as some explosions, presumably anti-air weapons from the partisans on the planet below, rocked the shuttle back and forth. However, the major didn’t move, still on his feet with one hand holding his folders and papers and the other grabbing a handhold on the ceiling, as casual as if he was riding public transport. He let go of the handle for a moment and smacked the comm button again. “Pilot, if you don’t get this shuttle back to the Retribution in one piece, I’m throwing you out the airlock and riding your kriffing body down next time I come here. I’ll melt your kriffing face off on atmospheric entry, you hear me?”

The pilot didn’t reply either. After a few tense moments, the sounds of explosions grew more distant, and Major Armadal turned back to Obisen.

“You just existing, Kindrak, is screwing me over. And it’s screwing your future coworkers on the ground over. It’s even potentially screwing any regular army units you work with over. The last time the Empire screwed this many people this hard it was written down and called the Treaty of Coruscant. The first person you need to not screw over, Private, is a Duros on the ground named Chesom Bal. He’s behind the resistance’s lines, but has files to hand-deliver to you and the rest of your squad, who should be nearby by now, assuming they didn’t sleep in.”

“Yes sir,” came the quiet reply.

The shuttle switched back to repulsorlifts, and the rear hatch opened as the small craft lowered itself fully to the ground. “Get out of my kriffing shuttle,” Major Benem said.

Obisen grabbed his duffel and shouldered his rifle once more, having to hurry to hop the hatch on the back of the shuttle before it closed once more. The terrain was dusty and reddish and immediately felt alien. The shuttle lifted off.

Nothing’s changed, Obisen told himself. The Kindraks have always served at the Emperor’s pleasure. Your grandfather did, your father did, and he gave his life for the Empire. You’ve served the Empire and the Sith two different ways. Now you have a third. There’s no way all that talk about your presence not being a net gain is true, right?

He tried to say right? to himself in that matter-of-fact tone the major had used. It didn’t sound convincing.

The rest of the major’s beration echoed in Obisen’s head. He pulled up a holoprojector with a map, checked his surroundings, and began to trudge north.

Story by Taylor Vincent

Previous readings:

She kept her head buried in her hands, muttering toward her desk instead of her counterpart.  “Every bloody possibility comes up with an error. Too valuable for grunt work. Not trained enough in naval operations or combat. Still attached to that Sith and he won’t let him leave for years at a time. Can’t risk him getting caught by Republic Forces. He knows too much.”

Tern scooted a bit closer, causing the woman to roll her eyes. “Well, what about…” he grabbed her datapad and quickly punched in a few things. “What about this?”

Westinli looked at the screen and laughed a little louder than what was acceptable for Imperial protocols. She quickly clapped a hand over her mouth and sunk into her chair. After the rest of her coworkers turned back to their desks did she finally speak again. “Really, Tern? You must be joking.”

“Why would I be? You never worked under him and you should thank the Emperor for that. The Major is a complete tool.”

“You shouldn’t use such language when speaking of one of our superiors!” Westlinli gave him a judgemental look and Tern simply shrugged it off.

“And? The guy is a jerk and that former agent won’t stop bugging us. Send the agent to work under Benum and I bet you a drink at the cantina he won’t come up here again looking for more work.” Tern waggled the screen at Westinli. “It’ll work. Auxiliary is where they put the rejects anyways. Nothing too dangerous but nothing important either.”

The girl stared at the datapad and the picture of Major Armadal Benum on the screen. He looked much older than the age written in his profile and even through the image, she could feel him judging her with a stern look of a disappointed and angry father. “Well, I guess I could approve it...but if I get in trouble, you’re taking the blame!”

Tern just smiled and handed her the datapad, which she took and entered a few codes. “And if it works, you owe me that drink tonight.”

The codes were accepted and Westinli sighed.

  When Obisen’s datapad began to beep loudly, he grabbed it quickly and flicked it on. The sleen resting on his lap managed to lift its head long enough to look at him before dropping it down and falling asleep.

“Auxiliary?” He moved the datapad to look at Tes. “Never heard of it. Perhaps it’s a new part of the war effort?” He waited for the animal to acknowledge him, but when Tes snorted in his sleep, Obisen went back to reading, letting one hand scratch at the lizard’s neck. “Let’s hope Ixor isn’t too upset with this.”

And Bi'ev. The Sith that welcomed him into his powerbase, gave him the highest honor any Force Blind could have had denied him as well. Years of praise, of being his top Agent were gone in an instant. Useless. All that work, all those assignments trudging around backwater planets, risking life and limb for the Pureblood was null and void now. Those things didn't matter to the Darth who shunted him away like an old datapad. Worthless. No good. 

You were a worthy asset because of your Intelligence connections.

Was that all he ever was? Obisen really hoped not. He went to smooth the jacket down once more, but his hands met another pair now wrapping around his waist. He managed a smile as Ixor's face came into view in the mirror and rested on his shoulder.

"So, wearing the uniform again?" 

Obisen shook his head. "I can't. Feels too...wrong. It's basically fraud, you know. To wear a uniform for Intelligence and to not be a part of Intelligence." 

The Twi'lek tilted his head and fiddled with the buttons idly. "No it ain't. I wear one of them all the time when we gotta work with those stuffy Moffs."

"You're different." 

The two stood there in silence for several moments before Ixor nuzzled his head against Obisen's cheek. "C'mon, don't let it get you down. I know it sucks for ya, but you're still the best Agent I know, even if you aint got the title no more."

The human grabbed his husband's hands in his and squeezed them. "They should have fired me like they do all the other agents." 

Ixor stepped back, turning Obisen around to face him, hands gripping his shoulders tightly. Perhaps a little too tight. "Don't you ever say that." His face was stern and his voice even sterner as he looked down at the shorter man who quickly lowered his eyes. Ixor sighed and his posture deflated. His hands let go to grabs Obisen's face to bring his view to meet Ixor's own gaze. "Look, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to get all snappy, but you can't say that. I wouldn't let them."

Obisen shook his head free. "I know, I know. But this is--it's killing me." 

Ixor responded by wrapping his arms around Obisen and pulling him closer. "Yeah, I can tell. Your moods are pretty strong right now. Hell, they woke me up a few times. Ya gotta just relax." Ixor leaned down to kiss Obisen's forehead and let his lips linger there as he kept talking. "I wish I could fix it, Obisen. I really wish I could."

The former Minder wrapped his arms around Ixor's waist, squeezing him tightly as his eyes squeezed shut. You're Imperial, damnit. Don't act like this. Don't. 

But what's an Imperial if they don't have a way to serve their Empire? What good is an Ex Minder with no connections? What worth does a disgraced Sith's Agent have?

Agent Obisen Kindrak smiled brightly; his white teeth stood out against his skin tone almost to the point of it bearing unbearable. “Ah, just coming to check up on you is all. I know the weather is rather unbearable the past few days.” He stopped rather suddenly and looked back at his datapad. “Just a routine check up is all.”

Anjin’s shoulders relaxed slightly. “Permission to speak freely, sir?”

Obisen nodded, but didn’t look up from his datapad. “Of course.”

“Over the past few days, I’ve noticed you check up on myself more than you do any other soldier or officer here. Is there a reason for that?” Anjin rolled his neck. His collar had now joined the rest of his uniform in sticking to his skin.

The human placed his datapad in the holster on his belt and looked up at the taller alien. “Well, I do know how the weather is and I know you are not from the Homeworld-” Anjin raised what would be an eyebrow, but Obisen kept talking. “You aren’t acclimated to the weather like most of the soldiers are.”

The Rattataki blinked. Obisen kept talking. “And I do know of your people’s...disposition.”

“Disposition?” Anjin attempted to not narrow his eyes at the human that stood nearly a foot below him.

“Ah, yes, see, the Rattataki race is known for their violent behaviour,” he responded rather casually. “I just wanted to ensure you would not be falling into such unbecoming habits whilst you are here.”

A sneer came over the Rattataki’s face as he looked at the tiny human. “So, all us Rattataki are a bunch of violent people, huh?”

Obisen straightened his posture, arms folded behind his back. “It is just part of your culture. I am sure in time, you will learn to be a proper Imperial.” His tone wasn’t in malice or anger or spite, but almost friendly. He smiled that insufferable smile.

“You’re one racist little prick, aren’t you?”

Obisen canted his head, a curious look on his face. “Pardon?”

In a swift motion, Anjin grabbed the human’s collar and tugged him up. Obisen attempted to protest by grabbing at the Rattataki’s hands, but the glare of the alien made him think twice about trying to pull them away from his uniform. He felt his feet leave the ground and he held his breath.

“You think I’m violent just because I’m Rattataki? Did you know I grew up in the Empire? My mother and father died in a Republic attack and I was raised with a human and you think you can just play babysitter with me because I’m Rattataki?” Anjin didn’t wait for a response. “If you want to see violent, I can show you violent, but I’m above that.”

Obisen coughed and tried to wiggle his way free. Anjin tightened his grip. “But if you come and check up on me again, I will stoop down to the level you think I’m at and you won’t have that smug little grin when it happens.” With a shove, the alien let go of the human. He fell to the ground, coughing loudly and breathing even deeper.

Anjin simply walked back to his makeshift desk and grabbed his datapad. “Curious question before you leave,” he said as he sat down at his chair. “How does that twi’lek of yours put up with that--what’s the nice word for xenophobe? Oh, yes. How does he stand your traditional beliefs? Or do you keep him shackled up like a twi’lek should be?”