#viszla

⸻

The moonlight over Sundari always looked colder than it should.

Steel towers pierced the clouds like spears. And though the city gleamed with the grace of pacifism, you could feel it cracking beneath your boots.

You stood just behind Duchess Satine in the high chambers, your presence a silent sentinel as she addressed her council.

Another shipment hijacked.

Another uprising quelled—barely.

Another rumor whispered: Death Watch grows bolder.

When she dismissed the ministers, Satine stayed behind, standing at the window. You didn’t speak. Not at first.

“I feel them watching me,” she finally said, voice quiet. “The people. As though they’re waiting for me to break.”

You took a slow step forward. “You haven’t broken.”

“But I might,” she admitted.

You remained still, letting the quiet settle.

“You disapprove,” she said, glancing over her shoulder. “I can see it in your eyes.”

“I disapprove of what’s coming,” you said. “And what we’re not doing about it.”

Satine turned fully. “You think I’m weak.”

“No.” Your voice was firm. “I think you’re idealistic. That’s not weakness. But it can be dangerous.”

“You sound like my enemies.”

You stepped closer, voice low. “Your enemies want you dead. I want you prepared.”

Her jaw tensed. “We don’t need weapons to prepare. We need resolve.”

“We need warriors,” you snapped, the edge of your heritage flaring. “We need eyes on the streets, ears in the shadows. Satine, you can’t ignore the storm just because your balcony faces the sun.”

For a moment, you saw it in her eyes—that mix of fear and pride. Then she softened.

“I didn’t bring you here to fight my wars.”

“No,” you said. “You brought me here to keep you alive.”

A long silence. Then, in a whisper:

“Will you protect me even if I’m wrong?”

You reached forward, resting a gloved hand on her shoulder.

“I will protect you even if the planet burns. But I won’t lie to you about the smoke.”

She nodded, barely. Then turned back to the window.

You left her there.

⸻

The cracks ran deep beneath the capital. Whispers of Death Watch had grown louder, but so too had something darker. Outsiders spotted. Ships with no flags docking at midnight. Faces half-shadowed by stolen Mandalorian helms.

You walked the alleys in silence, cloak drawn, watching the people. They looked thinner. More afraid.

They felt like you did in your youth—when the True Mandalorians fell, and pacifists took the throne.

It was happening again.

Only this time, you stood beside the throne.

⸻

Sundari had never been louder.

Crowds surged below the palace walls. Explosions had bloomed like flowers of fire across the city. The Death Watch had returned—not as shadows now, but as an army, and you knew in your blood this wasn’t the cause you once believed in.

You stormed into the war room with your cloak soaked in ash.

Bo-Katan stood tense, arms crossed, her helmet tucked under one arm, jaw tight.

“Is this your idea of taking back Mandalore?” you growled. “Terrorizing civilians and letting offworlders roam our streets?”

Bo snapped, “It’s Pre’s idea. I just follow orders.”

“You’re smart enough to know better.”

She met your eyes. “And you’re too blind to see it’s already too late. This planet doesn’t belong to either of us anymore.”

Before you could reply, Vizsla strode in, flanked by his guards, armed and smug.

“Careful, old friend,” he said to you. “You’re starting to sound like the Duchess.”

You turned to face him fully. “She at least had a vision. You? You brought the devils of the outer rim to our door.”

“You think I trust Maul?” Vizsla scoffed. “He’s a tool. A borrowed blade. Nothing more.”

“You’ve never been able to hold a blade you didn’t break,” you said, stepping closer, voice low and dangerous. “And you dare call yourself Mand’alor.”

That was the final push.

Vizsla signaled for the guards to stand down. He drew the Darksaber—its hum filled the chamber like a heartbeat of fate.

“You want to test my claim?” he snarled.

You drew your beskad blade from your back, steel whispering against your armor.

“I don’t want the throne,” you said. “But I won’t let you stain the Creed.”

The battle was swift and brutal. Sparks lit the floor as steel met obsidian light. Vizsla fought with fury but lacked precision—he was stronger than he had been, but still undisciplined. You moved like water, like memory, like the old days on the moon—fluid, sharp, unstoppable.

He faltered.

And then—they stepped out of the shadows.

Maul and Savage Opress, watching from the high walkway above the throne room. Silent. Observing.

When Vizsla saw them, he struck harder, desperate to prove something. That’s when you disarmed him—sent the Darksaber flying from his hand, the weapon hissing as it skidded across the floor.

Vizsla landed hard. He panted, looking up—humiliated, bested.

You turned away.

But it wasn’t over.

Chains clamped around your wrists before you even reached the stairs. Death Watch soldiers—those loyal to Maul—grabbed you without warning. You struggled, but too many held you down.

Maul descended the steps of the throne, black robes fluttering, yellow eyes glowing like dying suns.

He walked past you.

“To be bested in front of your own… how disappointing,” Maul said coldly to Vizsla.

Vizsla staggered to his feet. “You’re nothing. A freak. You’ll never lead Mandalore.”

Maul ignited his saber.

He and Vizsla fought in a blur of red and black and desperate defiance. But Maul was faster. Stronger. Born in a storm of hate and violence.

You could only watch, forced to your knees, wrists bound, as Maul plunged the blade through Vizsla’s chest.

The Death Watch leader crumpled.

The Darksaber now belonged to the Sith.

Gasps rippled through the chamber.

Some kneeled. Others hesitated.

Then Bo-Katan raised her blaster.

“This is not our way!” she shouted. “He is not Mandalorian!”

Several warriors rallied to her cry. They turned. Fired. Chaos erupted. Bo and her loyalists broke away, escaping into the halls.

You remained.

You didn’t run.

Maul approached you slowly, the Darksaber glowing dim in his hand.

He crouched, speaking softly, dangerously.

“I see strength in you,” he said. “Not like the weaklings who fled. You could live. Serve something greater. The galaxy will fall into chaos… and only the strong will survive.”

He tilted his head.

“Tell me, warrior—will you live?”

Or…

“Will you die with your honor?”

“Kill me”

Maul hesitated for a moment, before ordering you to be taken to a cell.

The cell was dark.

Damp stone and the smell of old blood clung to the air. You sat in silence, bruised and bound, staring at the flicker of light outside the bars. A sound shifted behind you—soft, delicate, out of place.

Satine. Still regal, even in ruin. Her dress torn, her golden hair tangled, but her spine as straight as ever.

“You’re still alive,” she said softly, voice hoarse from hours of silence.

You looked over, slowly.

“For now.”

There was a pause between you, heavy with everything you’d both lost.

“You should’ve left Mandalore when you had the chance,” she murmured.

You shook your head. “I made a promise, Duchess. And I keep my word.”

Satine gave a humorless smile. “Even after all our disagreements?”

You smiled too. “Especially after those.”

She lowered her head. “They’re going to kill me, aren’t they?”

You looked her in the eye.

“Not if I can stop it.”

⸻

They dragged you both from your cell.

Through the palace you once helped defend. Through the halls still stained with Vizsla’s blood. The Death Watch stood at attention, masks blank and cold as ever. Maul waited in the throne room like a spider in his web.

And then he arrived.

Kenobi.

Disguised, desperate, but unmistakable. The moment Satine saw him, her composure nearly cracked.

You were forced to kneel beside her, chains cutting into your wrists.

The confrontation played out as in the holos.

Maul relished every second.

Kenobi’s face was a war in motion—grief, fury, helplessness. You watched Maul drag him forward, speak of revenge, of his loss, of the cycle of suffering.

And then—like a blade through your own chest—

Maul killed her.

Satine fell forward into Obi-Wan’s arms.

You lunged, screaming through your teeth, but the guards held you fast.

“Don’t let it be for nothing!” you shouted at Kenobi. “GO!”

He escaped—barely.

And in the chaos, you broke free too, a riot in your heart. Blasters lit up the corridors as you vanished into the undercity, cutting through alleys and shadows like a ghost of war.

⸻

The city was choking under red skies.

Mandalore burned beneath Maul’s grip, its soul flickering in the ash of the fallen. You stood in the undercity alone, battered, bleeding, and unbroken. The taste of failure stung your tongue—Satine was dead. Your boys were scattered in war. You’d given everything. And it hadn’t been enough.

You dropped to one knee in the shadows, inputting a code you swore never to use again. A transmission pinged back almost instantly.

A hooded figure appeared on your holopad.

Darth Sidious.

His face was half-shrouded, but the chill of his presence was unmistakable.

“You’ve finally come to me,” he said, almost amused. “Has your compassion failed you?”

You clenched your jaw. “Maul has taken Mandalore. He murdered Satine. He threatens the balance we prepared for.”

Sidious tilted his head, folding his hands beneath his robes.

“I warned you sentiment would weaken you.”

“And I was wrong,” you growled. “I want him dead. I want them both dead.”

There was a silence. A grin crept onto his face, snake-like and slow.

“You’ve been… most loyal, child of Mandalore. As Jango was before you. Very well. I shall assist you. Maul’s ambitions risk unraveling everything.”

⸻

Maul sat the throne, the Darksaber in hand. Savage stood at his side, beastlike and snarling. The walls still smelled of Satine’s blood.

Then the shadows twisted. Power warped the air like fire on oil.

Sidious stepped from the dark like a phantom of death, with you behind him—armor blackened, eyes sharp with grief and rage.

Maul stood, stunned. “Master…?”

Sidious said nothing.

Then he struck.

The throne room erupted in chaos.

Lightsabers screamed.

Maul’s blades clashed against red lightning, his rage no match for Sidious’s precision. Savage lunged for you, raw and powerful—but you were already moving.

You remembered your old training.

You remembered the cadets.

You remembered Satine’s blood on your hands.

You met Savage head-on—vibroblade against brute force. You danced past his swings, striking deep into his shoulder, his gut. He roared, grabbed your throat—but you twisted free and drove your blade through his heart.

He died wide-eyed and silent, falling to the stone like a shattered statue.

⸻

Maul screamed in anguish. Sidious struck him down, sparing his life but breaking his spirit.

You approached, blood and ash streaking your armor.

“Let me kill him,” you said, voice shaking. “Let me avenge Satine. Let me finish this.”

Sidious turned to you, eyes glowing yellow in the flickering light.

“No.”

You stepped forward. “He’ll come back.”

“He may,” Sidious said calmly. “But his place in the grand design has shifted. I need him alive.”

You trembled, fists clenched.

“I warned you before,” Sidious said, stepping close. “Do not mistake your usefulness for control. You are a warrior. A weapon. And like all weapons—you are only as valuable as your discipline.”

You swallowed the rage. The grief. The fire in your soul.

And you stepped back.

“I did this for Mandalore.”

He nodded. “Then Mandalore has been… corrected.”

⸻

Later, as Maul was dragged away in chains and the throne room lay in ruin, you stood alone in the silence, helmet tucked under your arm.

You looked out at Sundari. And you whispered the lullaby.

For your cadets.

For Satine.

For the part of you that had died in that room, with Savage’s last breath.

You had survived again.

But the woman who stood now was no mother, no protector.

She was vengeance.

And she had only just begun.

⸻

You tried to vanish.

From Sundari to the Outer Rim, from the blood-slicked throne room to backwater spaceports, you moved like a ghost. You changed armor, changed names, stayed away from the war, from politics, from everything. Just a whisper of your lullaby and the memory of your boys kept you alive.

But you knew it wouldn’t last.

⸻

The transmission came days later. Cold. Commanding.

Sidious.

“You vanished,” his voice echoed in your dim quarters. “You forget your place, warrior.”

You said nothing.

“I gave you your vengeance. I spared your life. And now, I call upon you. There is work to be done.”

You turned off the holoprojector.

Another message followed. And another. Then…

A warning.

“If you will not obey, perhaps I should ensure your clones—your precious sons—remain obedient. I wonder how… stable they are. I wonder if the Kaminoans would let me tweak the ones they call ‘defective.’”

That was it. The breaking point.

⸻

The stars blurred past as you sat still in the pilot’s seat, armor old and scuffed, but freshly polished—prepared. You hadn’t flown under your own name in years, but the navicomp still recognized your imprint.

No transmission. No warning. Just the coordinates punched in. Republic Senate District.

Your hands were steady. Your pulse was not.

In the dark of the cockpit, you pressed a gloved hand to your chest where the small, battered chip lay tucked beneath the plates—an old holotrack, no longer played. The Altamaha-Ha. The lullaby. You never listened to it anymore.

Not after he threatened them.

He had the power. The access. The means. And the intent.

“Your precious clones will be the key to everything.”

“Compliant. Obedient. Disposable.”

You couldn’t wait for justice. Couldn’t pray for it. You had to become it.

Your fighter came in beneath the main traffic lanes, through a stormfront—lightning illuminating the hull in flashes. Republic patrol ships buzzed overhead, but you kept low, slipping through security nets with old codes Jango had left you years ago. Codes not even the Jedi knew he had.

You landed on Platform Cresh-17, a forgotten maintenance deck halfway up the Senate Tower. No guards. No scanners. Just a locked door, a ventilation tunnel, and a war path.

Your beskad was strapped to your back, disguised under a loose, civilian cloak. Blaster at your hip. Hidden vibrodaggers in your boots.

You knew the schedule. You had it memorized. You’d been preparing.

Chancellor Palpatine would be meeting with Jedi Masters for a closed briefing in the eastern chamber.

You wouldn’t get another shot.

The halls were quieter than expected. Clones patrolled in pairs—Coruscant Guard, all in red. You knew their formations. You trained the ones who trained them.

You didn’t want to kill them. But if they stood in your way—

A guard turned the corner ahead. You froze behind a pillar.

Fox.

You saw him first. He didn’t see you. You waited, breath caught in your throat. His armor gleamed beneath the Senate lights, Marshal stripe proud on his pauldron. Your boy. You almost stepped out then. Almost…

But then you remembered the threat. All of them were at risk.

You pressed on.

You breached the service corridor—wrenched the security lock off with brute strength and shoved your way in.

The Chancellor was already there.

He stood at the center of the domed office, hands folded, gaze distant.

He turned as you entered, as if he’d been expecting you.

“Ah,” he said softly. “I was wondering when you’d break.”

Your blaster was already raised. “They’re not yours,” you hissed. “They’re not machines. Not things. You don’t get to play god with their lives.”

He smiled.

“I gave them purpose. I gave them legacy. What have you given them?”

Your finger squeezed the trigger.

But then—

Ignited sabers.

The Jedi were already there. Three of them.

Master Plo Koon, Shaak Ti, and Kenobi.

They had sensed your intent.

You turned, striking first—deflecting, dodging, pushing through. Not to escape, not to run. You fought to get to him. To finish what you came to do.

But the Jedi were too skilled. Too fast.

Obi-Wan knocked the beskad from your hand. Plo Koon hit you with a stun bolt. You went down hard, your head cracking against the marble floor.

As you lost consciousness, the Chancellor knelt beside you.

He leaned in close.

“Next time,” he whispered, “I won’t be so merciful. If you threaten my plans again… your precious clones will be the first to suffer.”

⸻

Your eyes snapped open to the sound of durasteel doors hissing shut.

Your arms were shackled. Your weapons gone.

Fox stepped into the room, helmet under one arm.

He stared at you a long time.

“You tried to assassinate the Chancellor.”

You didn’t speak.

He pulled the chair across from you and sat down. He looked tired. Conflicted. But not angry.

“…Why?”

You met his gaze, finally. No fear. No hesitation.

“Because he’s a danger to you. To all of you.”

Fox narrowed his eyes. “That’s not an answer.”

“Yes, it is.”

“You nearly killed Republic guards. You attacked Jedi.”

“I was trying to protect my sons,” you said, voice trembling. “I can’t explain it. You won’t believe me. But I know what’s coming. And I won’t let him use you—not like this.”

Fox looked down.

For a long moment, the room was silent.

Then quietly, almost brokenly:

“…You shouldn’t have come here.”

You gave a sad smile. “I never should’ve left Kamino.”