The hiss of my lightsaber retracting sliced through the spice-thick air, a fading wail that burned my throat with ozone. The Pyke enforcer's body slumped against the container's durasteel wall, his cybernetic eye flickering out, spice-stained teeth bared in a dead grin. Blood's copper stink mixed with the cauterized reek of his chest wound, the white-blue blade's work done. My hand steadied the hilt. My continued sobriety felt off, the world sharpening too much—every neon flicker, every distant swoop bike's roar, cutting like a vibroblade. Juno's voice haunted me, Fight, Survive, Live, her mantra a pulse in my chest. Sera's eyes, wide with dreams of being like her dad, shimmered in the dark of my mind.
The shipping container's walls, pitted with rust, groaned under the weight of stacked crates, a faint glow from Nar Shaddaa's Corellian Sector seeping through a warped seam. I'd torn into the enforcer's mind, Force clawing through his thoughts like a raptor through flesh. "Nothing useful. 'Black Nebula, Pyke stronghold,' was all I could grab. His cybernetic eye glinted, vowing I'd kill him anyway. Well, I guess he was right. Every cantina rat from here to the Promenade knew the Pykes ran that place. Kael Druun, the Pyke lord who'd sent hunters to Corellia almost a year back, was close. Starkiller's promise made in that cantina back then, just shy of being fulfilled.
My boots scraped the grated floor, the container's hum vibrating through my soles. I'd carved this beachhead, a Je'daii foothold in Nar Shaddaa's gut, chasing Druun and Revan's artifacts. Revan's voice echoed from Mustafar's, his trust a weight—hunt the Veiled Covenant's Rakata relics, find Shepard, radio silent for months, his whereabouts now a mystery unto itself. Druun's hunters had woken me on Corellia, them quickly now becoming the hunted, and Druun would learn what the indelible legend of Starkiller meant.
The container's door screeched open, neon slashing my eyes like a saber. Zevra stood in the glow, Twi'lek lekku curling, her lightdaggers faint embers at her side. "My Shadow," she said, her voice a velvet blade, bowing with grace. Her cloak, stitched with hidden Je'daii runes, eyes sharp as kyber. "PROXY has uncovered something you'll wish to see."
"Very well," I stepped out of the makeshift shipping container prison into the warehouse, a Hutt shipping depot turned fortress, its durasteel walls groaning under the spice trade's weight. Crates, stamped with Black Sun claws, loomed like tombstones, shadows twisting under flickering neon. Swoop bikes roared outside, their engines a war cry slicing Nar Shaddaa's smog. Five Shades patrolled, their lightdaggers—kyber crystals singing of crimson, emerald, sapphire—flashing like stars in the haze. Kaelor, a Zabrak, stood rigid, his emerald blades sheathed, horns catching the light across scarred skin. Myra, a Mirialan, checked a crate's hololock, her daggers hilts glinting, green skin dusted with spice. Two Initiates, cloaked in gray, moved like specters, their steps silent as the Je'daii's destiny demanded.
The warehouse pulsed, a heartbeat of vengeance. My boots rang on the grates, passing a rusted astromech, its dome sparking with smuggler mods, stolen from a Hutt dock. A holoscreen flickered, Nar Shaddaa's skyline clawing a smog-choked sky, the Black Nebula Spire's neon lance piercing the Refugee Sector. Druun's trail burned hotter than the Force wail echoing in my skull—ice moons cracking, a faint scream from beyond. Revan's trust was a chain, but Corellia's ambush burned brighter. Druun dared to stir the legend I'd buried in drink. He'd pay in blood.
Zevra's cloak whispered as she matched my stride. "The enforcer was stubborn," she said, Twi'lek accent curling like smoke. "May Bogan consume him, My Shadow."
"In balance," I said low. "The Spire's no secret. Druun's laughing, thinking he's untouchable."
The comms area sprawled at the warehouse's core, a nest of holoscreens, power cells, and scavenged Hutt tech. PROXY hunched over a console, optics glowing like twin suns, manipulators dancing across a durasteel datacard etched with Pyke writing. "Master, my circuits pale before your… forceful finesse," he droned, sarcasm sharp as a vibroblade. "But this datacard, plucked from our friend's belt pouch, has something curious."
I leaned in, spice dust stinging my nose, the wail's echo fading. "Speak, rustbucket," I said, a smirk tugging my scar. PROXY's screen flared, text scrolling in Pyke cipher.
"Kael Druun is meeting with a consultant bounty hunter tomorrow, at this penthouse, midnight," PROXY read, voice dry as Tatooine. "Our late friend, assigned to stand watch. Strategic counsel—The name…" He paused, optics narrowing, savoring the jab. "Boba Fett."
My breath caught, the concealed WESTAR-34 a sudden fire at my hip. Fett. Seventeen years, and his name hadn't crossed my path, rotgut blurring the blaze of Kashyyyk's ruin. Juno's scream, Sera's blood—drowned in a cracked bottle, Fett's shadow slipping through my haze, untouched no matter where I looked for him . Now, sober, the clarity was a vibroblade to the chest. Fett, a relic, scheming in Nar Shaddaa's underworld. Revan's artifacts, Shepard's whereabouts—they'd wait. Fett was here, and my family would be avenged.
I turned, neon casting my shadow across the warehouse. Zevra stood ready. Kaelor and Myra stepped forward, cloaks whispering like ghosts. The Initiates froze, eyes wide under hoods. "Zevra," I said, voice low, steel honed to a razor. "Kaelor, Myra—to the Black Nebula Spire. Scout it. By the time I arrive, I want an entry plan and Druun's throat on a map. New data suggest Fett is there with him. Make sure I have a path."
"My Shadow," Kaelor rumbled, horns catching the light, bowing with Myra in unison. Their movements were liquid smoke. "It will be done."
"Go," I commanded, the word a blaster shot. The Shades melted into the warehouse's shadows, lightdagger hilts glinting like stars at dawn. I strode through the depot, boots ringing on durasteel, neon painting my shroud in jagged light. Shades snapped to attention, their loyalty a pulse in the air. The warehouse door loomed hours later, Nar Shaddaa's chaos waiting beyond—swoop bikes, spice dens, the Spire's distant lance. Starkiller was awake, no longer lost in a self-inflicted haze.
Galen Marek emerged from the shipping container's secret entrance, his shrouded form slicing through Nar Shaddaa's neon haze. Five Shades flanked him, cloaks rippling with hidden Je'daii runes, their steps fluid as specters in the smog. The depot's durasteel gates framed the exodus, rusted hinges groaning under the weight of spice and betrayal. A SoroSuub V-90 airspeeder roared awake, its black hull a polished blade, red accent lights flaring like blood in the dark. Galen's driver slid behind the controls, lekku curling as she triggered the false transponder, dodging a Hutt skiff's prying sensors. Another Shade settled beside her, holopad casting Spire schematics in ghostly light. Galen claimed the rear, nerf-leather seats cold beneath him, the V-90's shields humming a low, lethal hymn.
Two swoop bikes snarled to life, Flitknot frames of black durasteel etched with kyber, their repulsorlift thrusters spitting embers. Two Shades mounted them, cloaks billowing like wraiths, lightdagger hilts catching neon as they flanked the V-90. The entourage surged into the skylane, a dark arrow piercing Nar Shaddaa's rotting heart, aimed at the Refugee Sector's Black Nebula Spire. The Spire loomed, a jagged monolith of durasteel and light, its penthouse a fortress where the Pykes ruled their kingdom. Skylanes boiled with chaos—rusted airspeeders weaving through Hutt barges, their silks tattered by acid rain; Black Sun drones ferrying spice, engines whining like trapped beasts.
Nar Shaddaa's neon veins pulsed, a city feasting on its own decay. Skylanes twisted, giving way to alleys where a Twi'lek beggar fled a Black Sun vibroblade, her credits skittering across filth-slick duracrete, enforcers' laughter sharp as shattered glass. Zann Consortium swoop gangs roared, blasters cracking against Pyke riders, sparks painting the dark in fleeting fire. Beneath a Hutt billboard, its hologram flickering with promises of spice and sin, a cloaked dealer sealed a deal, vibroknife flashing as credits vanished into shadow. The city's underclass bled, its spires clawing a smog-choked sky, neon hissing like a dying star. Galen's V-90 faded, a phantom bound for retribution, as the skyline shifted, towers parting to reveal the Promenade's fevered glow.
The Twin Falls Palace burned in the night, its central dome repaired from a rogue airspeeder's crash months back. Neon bled across its facade, casting jagged light through spice haze. Inside, chandeliers swayed, their glow warped by smoke, illuminating sabacc tables where credits clinked like funeral bells. Hutt enforcers prowled, scales glinting under armored vests, vibroaxes slung low, guarding vaults swollen with secrets. Twi'lek dancers spun, their silks catching light; Corellian smugglers bartered in hissed tones; Rodian spice-runners wagered fortunes with trembling hands. The Palace thrummed, a heartbeat of greed and desperation.
A lone figure stood at a sabacc table, cards dancing in his hands with a gambler's grace. Torel, wore a visor that shadowed sharp eyes, dark hair slicked against the casino's heat. His fingers brushed a hidden ace, tilting the odds with surgical calm, every move a soldier's gambit. A Rodian gambler, snout stained with spice, slammed the table, his slurred roar cutting through the din. Torel's gaze, cold as durasteel, quelled the outburst, a faint smirk masking the predator beneath. His eyes flicked to a Hutt guard by a vaulted door, where his lost gear—a lifeline to a world beyond—lay entombed. Cards fell, credits shifted, and Nar Shaddaa's neon beast roared, its veins threading fates poised to collide.
The sabacc cards snapped in my grip, plasticky, worn, like the cheap chips I'd tossed on Silversun Strip, outbluffing Khan's goons with a smirk and a bad hand. Nar Shaddaa's Twin Falls Palace wasn't the Silver Coast Casino, but the haze—spice, not cigar smoke—choked the same, burning my throat. A Rodian's snout twitched, spice crusting his claws, credits bleeding out with every dumb bet. My visor, Torel's mask, shadowed my eyes, but my pulse thrummed, a soldier's beat, calculating odds like a Normandy run. Shift change was coming, three months of planning coiled like a primed detonator, and the sub-basement vault held my gear—N7 armor, Wraith Shotgun, Predator Pistol, Omni-tool—my name, my life, caged by Hutt greed.
The casino pulsed—a rotting beast draped in opulence. Chandeliers swayed, light fracturing through spice haze, jagged shadows dancing on sabacc tables like the Citadel's Wards gone feral. Hutt enforcers slithered through the crowd, scales glinting under armored vests, vibroaxes slung low, ready to cleave. Twi'lek dancers spun, silks snagging neon; Corellian smugglers hissed deals; Rodian spice-runners bet fortunes with shaking hands, eyes wild like Cerberus junkies. Twilight bled through the dome, Nar Shaddaa's skyline a jagged scar, its neon screaming alien rot—Omega's underbelly, but meaner. The crowd thinned, gamblers staggering to dives or beds, guards slacking, their eyes half-shut. Three months as Torel, playing pawn in this Hutt cesspool, and tonight, I'd burn it down if I had to.
I'd spun the web, no one the wiser, threads pulled over lum shots and late shifts, like charming patrons on the Strip. Sylara, the Twi'lek bartender, flicked her lekku, her smirk cutting through haze as she swallowed my lie about spiked spice in the VIP lounge—bait to yank security. Kren Vax, a human dealer, had twitched like he'd seen a Reaper, his brittle laugh masking nerves as he slipped the EMP chip to the Rodian, its pulse ready to fry the table. Mira Zel, a waitress with a sniper's eyes, spread rumors of an exclusive brawl, her gossip a shiv luring droid sentries. Lorem Jek, a Rodian bouncer, slurred boasts about Hutt keycards over ale, too drunk to notice me swipe one from an enforcer weeks ago. They were tools, not squadmates, their moves my chessboard, and twilight was my play.
The Rodian slammed the table, claws scraping, his slurred "Cheat!" spitting spice flecks. I flicked the EMP chip, a faint spark under the table. Lights flickered, the holodisplay fritzing in a static storm, shouts erupting like a C-Sec bust gone loud. Gamblers surged, credits spilling, Hutt guards lumbering over, vibroaxes gleaming like Reaper claws. Sylara's tip hit—holos screamed about the lounge, dragging guards away. Mira's rumor landed, KX-series droids clanking upstairs, vibroblades humming. Kren's shaky glance trailed me, but the keycard burned in my pocket, my ticket out. I slipped from the table, Torel's visor low, fading into the twilight chaos like I'd ghosted through Omega's slums.
Service tunnels snaked under the casino, duracrete walls slick with condensation, cold as Illium's undercity biting through my vest. Neon flickered through cracked panels, streaks of light like the Citadel's Wards gone to hell. Spice haze stung, thick with Hutt filth—stale lum, grease, a coppery tang of blood, like a Cerberus lab's aftermath. My boots echoed, each step a map carved in my head—three months prowling these guts, memorizing every twist, every blind spot, like charting Omega's backstreets for Aria. A maintenance shaft gaped, its grate rusted, groaning like a Krogan's death rattle as I pried it open. The tunnel tightened, pipes hissing steam, and I crouched, heart steady, a rhythm honed on Noveria's ice.
A turbolift loomed, its biometric scanner glowing red, a Hutt's unblinking eye. The keycard chirped, a lie smoother than my cons on the Strip, and the doors parted, durasteel cage yawning. I stepped in, the drop to the sub-basement a plunge into Nar Shaddaa's rot, my pulse kicking like a Mako's thruster misfire. The sub-basement was a crypt, air heavy with blaster oil, Hutt runes etched on walls glowing faint under emergency lights, like Prothean ruins but twisted. The vault stood, a durasteel slab, its transparisteel case a shrine to greed. My N7 armor gleamed, plates like a soldier's tomb; the Wraith Shotgun's barrel caught neon, sleek as a Mako's cannon; the Predator Pistol sat compact. The Hutts had made them treasures, their awe caging my soul behind a kyber lock's hum.
Security was a fortress, tighter than Cerberus vaults I'd cracked before. A laser grid's red beams crisscrossed the door, motion-sensitive, flickering like Illium's traps. Two KX-series droids loomed, vibroblades crackling, optics scanning like Geth hunters. A Hutt protocol droid, gold-plated and prattling like EDI with a superiority complex, monitored logs, servos whining. Biometric scanners—retinal, voice—flanked the door, red lights pulsing like blood. The keycard slipped past the outer scanner, a soft beep in the silence, but the grid and lock were my battlefield. I crouched in a shadowed alcove, the droid's optic grazing inches away, my breath held like facing a Reaper's beam.
The EMP upstairs had scattered guards, but here, it was me against Hutt tech, like outsmarting the Shadow Broker's locks. I'd pieced together code fragments from Lorem's ale-soaked rants, loading them into a jury-rigged datapad, cobbled like my old Omni-tool hacks from casino scraps. Its screen flickered, processors grinding, mimicking the kyber lock's vibration, a hum that rattled my teeth like a Reaper signal. Sweat stung my eyes, the laser grid's beams brushing my sleeve—70% chance of tripping it, worse than a Geth ambush. I palmed the sonic disruptor, swiped from a Hutt guard's kit, its pulse spiking to scramble the grid's sensors. A droid's vibroblade twitched, optics flaring red, and I froze, heart slamming like a Cerberus raid gone south. The lock clicked, sharp; the grid winked out, beams dissolving. The droid's head swiveled, servos screeching, but I was moving, a ghost in Nar Shaddaa's crypt.
The transparisteel case parted, my gear heavy, like hauling the Normandy's wreckage after Alchera. I slung the N7 armor over my shoulder, plates clinking, a soldier's weight that steadied me. The Wraith Shotgun clipped to my back, heavy as Mako's roar; the Predator Pistol holstered at my hip, compact as a C-Sec sidearm; the Omni-tool flickered alive on my wrist, its dim interface a lifeline to worlds I'd saved. Torel was ash, a lie I'd shed like Cerberus's mental chains. Months of groveling, playing Hutt pawn, wearing a name that wasn't mine—they burned away. Shepard was back, N7 my spine, not some Nar Shaddaa drifter.
The vault's door hissed shut, sealing its hoard. I slipped into a back stairwell, neon flickering through slits, scars across duracrete like Omega's bullet-pocked walls. Hutt laughter echoed, guttural, cruel, credits clinking, holoscreens humming—a din I'd outrun on the Citadel. My boots were silent, the route a map etched in my skull—tunnels, shafts, the worker's garage, plotted like C-Sec's maze for Aria's jobs. The tunnel twisted, pipes hissing steam, spice haze thick. A Hutt guard's boots clomped past, vibroaxe scraping, scales glinting like a Husk's shell. I ducked, Omni-tool scanning clear, a ghost in Nar Shaddaa's veins.
A lounge's haze bled into the corridor, spice pipes curling smoke, holoscreens flashing podraces across nerf-leather booths, a dive ripped from Silver Coast's underbelly. Rancor skulls loomed, teeth glinting beside kyber carvings, Hutt trophies. Two enforcers sprawled, vests unbuttoned, spice on their breath, voices thick with swagger, gloating like Cerberus grunts over a kill. "Just caught it on comms," one rasped, "Black Nebula's a kriffing mess," laugh like gravel, "Druun's Pykes just got bled dry, muscle and all. That old legend, Starkiller, thought he was king poodoo. Fett carved him up, no joke." The other chuckled, spice pipe glowing. "Fett's a menace, man. Druun's lucky to have him, Spire's goin' to be outta business for a while though."
My gut twisted, a slug hit like facing Reapers. Galen—Starkiller—here, on Nar Shaddaa. That name, Fett, sounded familiar, Galen's wife and his daughter's killer, he let it slip when we first met up with Talis, his voice raw with his pain. Galen wouldn't fall though, not to a half-machine relic these jokers were describing. The haze swallowed their laughs, but I was moving, garage close, urgency a fire, like racing to save Garrus from Omega's gutters. I had to reach Galen, now.
The worker's garage was a duracrete cave, airspeeders rusting under flickering lights, a dive uglier than Citadel's lower wards. My Strato-Hauler 66 lurked in a maintenance bay, tarp hiding its mottled gray hull, pocked with carbon scoring, neon underglow dim like a dying star. I yanked the tarp, the canopy's scratched transparisteel fogging under my breath. Cracked nerf-leather seats stank of lum and grease, fuzzy dice swaying like a smuggler's joke. The repulsorlift coil wheezed, thrusters coughing, one misfiring. Jizz tunes crackled, Nar Shaddaa's defiance, like Afterlife's pulse. The yoke rattled, gauges flickering, navicomputer glitching ghost routes.
I tapped the Omni-tool, comms sparking for Revan, anyone—a lifeline to whatever home I'd scraped together here. Static hissed, dead. That crash into the casino, Hutt tampering—something broke it, and I was alone in Nar Shaddaa's rot still. No time to linger. The gate groaned open, twilight's purple fading to neon's scream. I gunned the Strato-Hauler, thrusters roaring, dampeners rattling like a Mako drop. Skylanes blurred—neon towers stabbing, swoop bikes weaving like Vorcha, Hutt ads flashing sin. The Refugee Sector lay ahead, the Black Nebula Spire looming, a jagged lance beyond the Promenade's haze. Galen was there, his vendetta against Fett bleeding him. I floored it, skycar screaming, Nar Shaddaa's beast roaring behind.
Hours earlier, twilight clawed the Nar Shaddaa skyline, a purple wound bleeding neon's jagged fire. An armored airspeeder flanked by two swoop bikes enters a parking garage, high into the city's vertical tapestry.
The SoroSuub V-90's hum died as I stepped from its glossy black hull, the Refugee Sector's parking garage a shadowed crypt of duracrete and rust. Spice haze stung my eyes, the Black Nebula Spire's lance piercing the smog, a taunt across the void. My hooded shroud rippled—lightsabers heavy at my hips. Juno's scream tore through my skull, Sera's blood staining Kashyyyk's ash—seventeen years drowned in rotgut, but sobriety burned now, Boba Fett's name a vibroblade in my chest.
Zevra stood at my side, her cloak a whisper, lightdagger hilt etched with kyber inlays catching the neon's glare. Ryn flanked me, fresh from recon, his gaze steel, holopad dim with Spire schematics. Vren and Sylis, my swoop bike escorts, dismounted, their cloaks billowing—Vren's lightdagger hilt glinting, Sylis's hilt a shadow. Kaelor and Myra emerged from the garage's gloom, their cloaks still, scouts returned as I'd commanded. Their Flitknot-inspired swoops, black durasteel etched with kyber, stood cold, thrusters silent. Kaelor's horns gleamed under flickering lights, Myra's eyes sharp beneath her hood. "Report," I growled, voice low, my Shades' lives a weight I carried, their loyalty my chain.
Kaelor's grunt cut through, steady as durasteel. "Skybridge, top route, My Shadow. Entry at the 200th floor—ventilation shaft to the penthouse. Sensor nodes every ten meters, alarm relays tied to Pyke droids. Drone patrols mapped." Myra's tone was a blade, precise. "PROXY's cracked their grid. Skybridge is exposed—wind's vicious, drones armed and fast. Timing's critical." Ryn's holopad flickered, confirming. "Entry's solid, but we move now or we're burned." Zevra's lekku twitched, her nod a vow. Vren and Sylis stood ready, their silence lethal. I clenched my fists, Fett's shadow a drum in my blood. "Kaelor, Myra—back to base, be ready. Zevra, Ryn, with me, and Vren and Sylis on overwatch. PROXY, make sure we don't get any surprises."
Kaelor and Myra bowed, Vren and Sylis mounting their swoops, pulling their blaster rifles from their saddle bags, engines humming as they peeled away. The skybridge arched from the garage, a durasteel spine linking to the Spire's mid-tier, its top a razor's edge slick with acid rain. I led, a shadowed sovereign, my Shades clearing the way with lethal grace. Wind screamed, tearing at my shroud, but Zevra vaulted a beam, her body a fluid arc, kyber-tuned disruptor sparking to silence a sensor node's red pulse. Ryn scaled a girder, lightdagger hilt clipped, his disruptor humming as an alarm relay went dark. I strode behind, Force guiding my steps, their precision my blade, their movements a dance of death honed by Je'daii training.
PROXY's voice crackled, laced with dry wit. "Master, a Pyke drone approaches—forty meters, armed, and woefully inconvenient. I suggest haste." A drone's thrusters whined, blaster ports glowing red. I signaled, Zevra flattening against a beam, Ryn's cloak a shadow on durasteel. The drone hovered, optics scanning, then veered, lost in the smog. Zevra's disruptor sparked again, killing the final sensor, her fingers steady. We sprinted with precision slicing through the gale, our cloaks trailing like wraiths. The Spire's ventilation shaft gaped at the 200th floor, a durasteel grate. Ryn pried it open, metal groaning under his grip, and we slipped inside, the shaft's chill biting my skin like a blade.
The Spire's innards were a labyrinth of duracrete and neon, spice haze curling through ducts like venomous mist. We ghosted through service tunnels, my Force sense a razor, Zevra and Ryn moving lethal ahead. A Pyke guard rounded a corner, blaster raised, but Zevra's fingers snapped his neck with a silent twist, body slumping into shadow. Ryn's disruptor fried a relay panel. I followed, my presence a storm, directing their strikes with a glance, their blades an extension of my will. Security corridors loomed, neon pulsing through cracked panels, Hutt graffiti scarring the walls. A turbolift shaft gaped, cables swaying in the dark, and we scaled it, muscles burning, Ryn's holopad guiding us past droid patrols.
A maintenance shaft led to the penthouse level, its rungs slick with grease, neon leaking through slits like blood. Zevra climbed first, her cloak a shadow, disabling a motion sensor with a disruptor's spark. Ryn followed, his breath steady, Force sense sharp as he scanned for threats. I ascended, lightsabers heavy. The penthouse access was a transparisteel balcony, its overhang a shadowed perch above Nar Shaddaa's sprawl. We crouched, cloaks blending with the dark, the city's neon towers stabbing twilight like jagged teeth.
Below, the penthouse gleamed—a lair of Pyke ambition. Durasteel walls shimmered with kyber inlays, transparisteel panels framed the skyline's chaotic sprawl, spice urns and vibroblade racks glinted like trophies of conquest. Kael Druun paced, scar-faced, his cane tapping a rhythm of greed. Boba Fett stood, a cybernetic wraith, Mandalorian armor scarred, red eyes glowing through a pitted visor. His rasp was cold, authoritative, a crime lord's edge. "Druun, your Pykes are bleedin' credits. Lock the spice lanes, arm your crews, or the Hutts'll carve you out. I've run syndicates—pay me my fee, and you'll be running the whole district soon enough. I guarantee it."
Druun's voice wavered, desperate, losing ground. "We're tryin', Fett. The Hutts press hard—what's your fee, we'll make it right." My blood roared, sobriety sharpening every syllable. Fett—the killer, Juno's scream, Sera's blood on Kashyyyk's ash. My fists trembled, lightsabers itching to ignite. Zevra's hand grazed mine, a warning, but rage was a supernova, Fett's voice the spark. I leaped, transparisteel shattering as I crashed the penthouse, "Fett!" I roared, Force lightning arcing, durasteel tables buckling, dual lightsabers igniting with a crackling white-blue, a storm unleashed.
Zevra vaulted in, her amber lightdagger igniting with a plasma hiss, searing a Pyke guard's throat in a flash of white-hot. The charred gash smoked, burnt flesh stench choking the air as he crumpled, eyes wide in silent agony. Ryn followed, his orange lightdagger a blur, slicing through another's chest, cauterizing ribs with an ozone crackle, the guard's scream cut short as he collapsed in a heap of singed meat. My Force choke clamped Druun's throat, windpipe buckling, blood flecking his lips as he gasped, eyes bulging in terror. His cane, a cunning Pyke trick, triggered a hidden turbolift, durasteel doors hissing open through the haze. Druun clawed at his bruising neck, a choked plea lost in the chaos. Fett's whipcord lashed out, monofilament slicing my forearm, blood beading as I released the choke to dodge, fury blazing. The turbolift doors snapped shut, Druun's cowardice slipping through, a searing wound in my gut hotter than Mustafar's sulfuric air. Fett spun, his EE-3 carbine barking plasma bolts, ozone crackling as they scorched the air, but I deflected, lightsabers humming, Force slamming a Pyke against durasteel, his skull splitting open across the neon-lit floor.
Zevra spun, her lightdagger carving a Pyke's arm, the plasma blade searing bone, the limb falling with a wet thud. Ryn's blade slashed, bisecting a guard's torso, cauterized guts sizzling as he toppled, his blaster clattering. Fett's jetpack flared, dodging my strike, his whipcord snapping around my wrist, monofilament biting flesh, blood welling in crimson beads. Sparks flew, neon panels exploding in showers of molten glass, the penthouse a slaughterhouse of fire and gore. Mid-fight, Fett's rasp sliced through, cold and mocking, a vibroblade's edge. "Juno screamed like a little sleemo, Starkiller. Your girl? What a waste, just died." Sera's laugh choked me, rage a red haze, my lightsabers a whirlwind, plasma blades shearing durasteel tables, sparks raining like blood.
I charged, Force lightning crackling, bolts scorching Fett's armor, but his flamethrower roared, napalm flames licking my shroud, the heat blistering my skin, forcing me back. Zevra's blade danced, searing a Pyke's face, his flesh melting into a blackened scream, eyeballs popping in the heat. Ryn struck, saving Zevra from a guard's vibroblade, its ultrasonic edge grazing his cloak. His Force sense, razor-sharp, stretched thin as Fett feinted, carbine firing a decoy bolt. Ryn pivoted, lightdagger deflecting, but Fett's wrist rocket launched, detonating in a concussive storm. Shrapnel tore Ryn's torso, ribs splintering open, his choked scream gurgling as he crumpled to the ground, lightdagger clattering, eyes wide, a final gasp shredding his lungs.
My heart ripped—Ryn, my Shade, my failure. Juno's blood, Sera's screams surged, a crimson mirror of my weakness, their faces drowning in his gore. Guilt crashed like a collapsing star, rage faltering, the Spire's neon pulsing in mockery of my shattered command. I'd led him to this slaughter, my fury his pyre. Zevra's anguished cry cut the air, her lightdagger wavering, her cloak stained with Ryn's blood.
Fett's silhouette loomed, a cybernetic wraith, red eyes blazing through his scarred visor. My guilt dulled my Force sense, the rotgut no longer numbing my empathy, lightsabers trembling as rage choked on grief. He surged, jetpack roaring, a decoy burst masking his whipcord's snap—it lashed my wrist, monofilament biting, blood trickling. I staggered, off-balance, and his vibroblade hummed ultrasonic, a neon-glinted fang. It struck, unexpected, slicing my chest with a sickening tear, flesh splitting, muscle shredding, blood jetting in a hot, crimson spray. Pain burned, a white-hot roar, my lightsabers faltering as I stumbled—clattering to the ground, the penthouse spinning.
Fett paused, his whirring arm savoring my ruin, visor mirroring my bloodied shroud. "You failed them—Juno, that daughter of yours, this fool. So much for the buried legend rising like a pyraeth." His boot slammed, a thunderstrike, transparisteel shattering. Nar Shaddaa's skyline devoured me, neon maw roaring as I plummeted, blood trailing like a comet's tail. Consciousness flickered—Juno's whisper, Sera's laugh, neon blurring to black. Zevra's shout pierced the chaos, her cloak a shadow as she leaped after, lightdagger hilts glinting as she clipped them to her belt, loyalty sharper than my rage. Fett's silhouette loomed, triumphant, Nar Shaddaa's neon screaming as my fading pulse teetered on the void's merciless edge.