The cup in front of me was getting cold. Not that I could drink it anyway. The helmet's seals made sure of that.
Teal overcoat, datapad open, head tilted just enough to look like I was absorbed in some technical manual about droid actuators. To anyone walking by, I was just another short, weird customer killing time with caf and datafeeds.
But my sight wasn't on the datapad. The real display was feeding straight to my HUD, a silent stream from the pinhole cam I'd planted across the street this morning. Nobody had seen me set it up.
Another squad shuffled out the garrison gates, boots clattering against permacrete. My eyes flicked across their faces. Same regulation buzzcuts. Same half-bored, half-annoyed looks. Not them.
I shifted in my chair, the servos in my gauntlet whining faintly. Nearly two hours sitting here. A full hour since troopers started leaving. Still no sign of the four bastards from the warehouse.
Where the hell were they. Sleeping in? Having a cuddle pile upstairs. Since when did the military hand out flex hours.
I tapped a finger against the datapad like I was scrolling. In reality, I was marking another timestamp, noting down group after group that wasn't them.
Twelve hours since they dragged Vasha away. Twelve hours I'd been chasing shadows without a location. If I knew where the detention site was, I'd already be inside it, prying doors open with a Gauss round and a crowbar. But I didn't. The only leads were the soldiers who stuffed her in the transport, or Tevan from ISB.
Tevan. Just thinking the name tightened something in my chest. He wasn't just on the list. He was the list. The moment I got him, he'd learn what pain meant. But not today. Not with the risk of ISB sniffing Force sensitivity. That way lay inquisitors, and I wasn't suicidal yet.
The garrison grunts, though—they were dumb enough. Sloppier. Safer to hit.
If they ever showed up.
I scratched the edge of the table with a fingernail, staring at the still-steaming cup in front of me. My brain wandered. Maybe I should design a helmet you could actually sip through. Built-in straw system. Or a retractable seal. Something. But that was a project for another lifetime.
Another cluster came out the gate. My gaze tracked them, fast and clinical. Not them. My jaw clenched.
Were they seriously skipping duty. Since when did Lothal's garrison give its boys a day off.
I muttered under my breath, "You idiots better not be jerking each other off in there."
And then, finally—movement that mattered.
My HUD highlighted a familiar face in the crowd. One of the four. Walking alone. Quick pace, like he was late for something.
I leaned forward in my seat, heart kicking once against my ribs.
"Well, well," I whispered. "Late, aren't we."
My fingers tightened around the datapad. A little spark of satisfaction flared in my chest.
Maybe today wasn't a total waste.
____
"Motherfucker, finally." I muttered it under my breath as I saw Grunt 1 peel off toward an alley, leaving his patrol buddy behind.
Two hours. It had been two kriffing hours of this circus. I thought my luck had paid out when I first spotted him leaving the garrison, only for the universe to kick me in the teeth. Some friend of his rolled up with a speeder bike, waved him over like they were hitting a bar, and just like that, my guy was on the backseat.
Which left me scrambling. No way to keep up on foot. I had to grab the first hover-cab I could find and pray the destination was the same one I guessed. Couldn't exactly lean forward and tell the driver "yeah, follow the Imperial grunt on the bike, please." That'd go over real smooth.
By some miracle, I was right. Headquarters. The ugliest concrete box in the capital. He went in. I sat outside, sweating bullets in the sun for a full hour, waiting for him to come back out.
When he did, I thought my chance had come. But no, fate had another laugh. He came out with another soldier in tow. Patrol duty. I picked up enough from their chatter—through the mic I'd boosted for range—to know he wasn't happy about it. Sounded like he was venting, something about screwing up yesterday.
Which tracked.
Still, now it was worse. Two soldiers together, both armed, both alert. I couldn't get close without making myself obvious. Ever tried following someone too near in a half-empty street? You stand out like a sore thumb. So I trailed them from further back, chewing on my nerves, waiting for something.
And now, finally, here it was.
Grunt 1 ducking into an alley, his buddy staying on the corner.
I adjusted my grip on the pack strap, swallowed the dry taste in my mouth, and followed. My boots were too loud against the permacrete. Every step I half-expected him to spin around, blaster up, and turn me into a chalk outline.
Was this real luck, or was I walking straight into a trap they'd cooked up after spotting me tailing them?
Maybe being self-aware isn't always a good thing.
--
The guy was taking a piss break.
That gave me some relief. Not enough to switch off the back-view camera, though. Of course I had one wired into the helmet—what kind of idiot doesn't? I'd seen way too many movies to risk literal backstabbing. The emotional kind? No HUD setting for that.
In my hand was the tazer. Same model Vasha had used yesterday, the one that fried the pervert like a cheap toaster. I'd dialed down the charge this time. Yesterday's little experiment had taught me that my expectations were… overly generous. Turned it into a lethal weapon by accident. This guy needed to survive the interview.
I crept up, boots silent on the grimy permacrete, tiptoeing like the world's most murderous ballet dancer. My brain was busy with the important questions: back? Neck? Straight to the balls? I mean, the last one would've been poetic, but I wasn't sure I wanted to live with that image forever.
By now I was right behind him. He was multitasking—pissing with his dick and pissing with his mouth, grumbling about some "shithead Korso." Probably his boss.
"…and then Korso's fat ass says I gotta file the damn report. Like it's my fault the civvie chick got mouthy. Screw that. Whole squad saw it, but nah, let's dump it on Grunt 1. Always on Grunt 1. If I see that bastard in the mess hall, I swear I'll—"
The prongs touched(penetrated) his lower hol-I mean his back.
"AAAAAARRRHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!"
The sound ripped out of him so loud I thought the windows three streets over would shatter. He jerked like a marionette with half the strings cut, spraying piss across the wall in a perfect arc before crumpling sideways.
I froze, eyes wide under the helmet. "Holy shit," I hissed. "Shut up, shut up, shut up—"
The tazer had definitely gone off, but the guy was still twitching and making horrible gargling noises. The reduced charge wasn't enough.
He tried to roll over, boots scraping the wall. "Korso, you—uuurghhh—I'll kill your—aaaahhh—"
I panicked, jabbed him again, thumb slamming the trigger. This time the snap-crackle-pop was way too much. His whole body seized up, every muscle locking tight before he slumped flat on the permacrete, a thin trail of smoke curling from the back of his uniform.
"Fuck." My pulse was in my throat. "That's… that's not dead, right? You're not dead, right?"
I crouched over him, watching his chest for movement. It was there—shallow, ragged, but there. Alive. Barely.
"Congratulations, Grunt 1," I muttered, dragging his limp weight by the shoulders. "You just survived the Ezra Bridger patented two-step tazer dance. Step one: tickle. Step two: electrocute your ancestors."
---
The nameplate on his locker said RYKER, but right now he felt more like 'designated fuck-up.'
His head throbbed. Too little sleep, too much cheap caf. The dressing-down from Sergeant Korso was still ringing in his ears. An hour of his life he'd never get back, standing at attention while Korso's spit-flecked tirade painted him as the sole reason a squad of Imperial troopers got jumped by 'insurgents' in a warehouse. The official story was a masterpiece of bureaucratic fiction, and Ryker was the designated fall guy. He couldn't even tell the truth—that their actual commander was a smoking corpse thanks to a Twi'lek with a mean right hook and a modified shock-tool. That truth would get him a one-way ticket to a penal colony.
He'd drawn the short straw for patrol duty as punishment. Of course. And his partner, Jax, was a chatty bastard who wouldn't shut up about his girlfriend. Ryker needed a piss. Badly.
He ducked into the first alley they passed, grumbling. "Just cover the mouth for a sec, Jax. Bladder's about to burst."
Jax snorted. "Hurry up. Korso'll have our hides if we're late for the sector sweep."
The alley was a relief—cool, shadowed, smelling of damp and ozone. He fumbled with his fly, the pressure immense. As he finally relieved himself, the litany of his shitty day poured out in a low mutter.
"…and then Korso's fat ass says I gotta file the damn report. Like it's my fault the civvie chick got mouthy. Screw that. Whole squad saw it, but nah, let's dump it on Ryker. Always on Ryker. If I see that bastard in the mess hall, I swear I'll—"
The pain was absolute Pure agony lancing into the small of his back, and his entire nervous system screamed in protest. His vision whited out. A strangled, inhuman shriek tore from his throat as his body convulsed, urine spraying the wall in a wild arc. He was vaguely aware of collapsing sideways, his cheek hitting the cold, gritty permacrete. A garbled threat meant for Korso died in his mouth, replaced by a wet gurgle.
Something—someone—was saying "Shut up, shut up, shut up—"
Then the pain came again. Worse. A final, catastrophic jolt that felt like his skeleton was trying to escape his skin. The world folded in on itself, and everything went black.
---
The alley air was thick with the smell of ozone, burnt fabric, and piss. Ryker came to with a gasp, his body one giant, throbbing ache. His head felt like it was packed with wet sand.
He tried to shift, to push himself up, but his arms were wrenched back, bound tight at the wrists. He tested his legs. Same story. A thin, unyielding metal wire was wrapped around them from his thighs to his ankles, biting into his uniform. Panic, cold and sharp, started to cut through the fog.
A few feet away, a discarded syringe lay on the grimy permacrete. The plunger was down, a smear of brownish residue clinging to the inside of the glass. Had they drugged him? Why? He was nobody. He didn't have anything worth this.
A pair of boots entered his limited field of vision. Small boots. He tilted his head up, his neck screaming in protest, and saw a figure crouching in front of him. Small frame. A teal overcoat. A full helmet that hid everything. The voice that came out of it was flat, distorted by a modulator.
"Wakey wakey."
Ryker's brain, still scrambling, latched onto the only thing it knew: the Imperial handbook on dealing with hostiles. "Who the hell are you? You're in so much kriffing trouble—"
The figure didn't even twitch. "Let's skip the part where you pretend you have leverage. You don't. Yesterday. Warehouse 12B-2 on Luminara. A Twi'lek mechanic. You were there."
The blood drained from Ryker's face. This was about that. His bravado evaporated, replaced by a cold, sinking dread that tightened his stomach. "I—I don't know what you're talking about."
"Wrong answer."
The tazer was in the guy's hand again. He didn't stand up. Just leaned forward and jammed the prongs into Ryker's thigh.
The world dissolved into pure, white-hot agony. Ryker's back arched against the cold wall, a strangled scream ripping from his throat. It felt like his bones were vibrating apart. As suddenly as it started, it stopped. He sagged, panting, tears and slick mixing with the sweat on his face.
"The Twi'lek," the voice repeated, no louder, no softer. "Vasha Syndri.Where did they take her?"
"Prison… holding…" Ryker slurred, the words thick and clumsy. "Just… standard processing… I swear!"
Another jolt. Shorter this time, but just as effective. Ryker's teeth clacked together. He whimpered, the sound pathetic even to his own ears.
"Try again. The officer—the dead one—he mentioned a specific site. A detention location. Your partner outside said you knew it."
"He's a liar! I don't—AAGGHH!"
The prongs found a new spot, higher on his leg. Ryker sobbed, his body trembling uncontrollably. He was babbling now, the words tumbling out between ragged gasps. "Okay! Okay! Stop! It's—it's not a standard block! It's a black site! For… for special holdings!"
"Name. Location."
"It's… it's just called Site Gamma! I don't know the address! We just drive! It's in the industrial sector, past the old fuel depots! They never tell us the number!" The lies felt flimsy even as he said them. "We... we just drop them with the transport team there and leave! I don't know where they go after that! I swear!"
The helmet tilted. A long, silent moment passed. Ryker could hear his own heart hammering against his ribs, a frantic drumbeat of fear.
"You're lying," the voice stated. It wasn't a guess. It was a fact.
"I'm not! I swear!"
"I can feel it. You know the site. You know the number. You just don't want to say it." The helmet leaned closer. "You think telling me makes you a traitor. Your misguided loyalty to the institution would have been admirable, if it wasn't the Empire." The figure seemed to stare right through him. "I feel a sense of fear too. A different kind. I wonder why that is."
Ryker just shook his head, clamping his mouth shut. He couldn't. They'd court-martial him. They'd—
The figure stood up, the tazer dropping to the grimy floor with a clatter. "I didn't want to do this, you know? Had enough blood on my hands yesterday. But you're really forcing my hand."
Ryker watched, confused, as the freak stepped closer. He wasn't holding a weapon. He just reached out a gloved hand and placed it over Ryker's face, the leather cool against his sweaty skin, covering his eyes and mouth.
What the fuck is he doing? Ryker thought, a hysterical laugh bubbling up. Is this a joke? A weird alien ritual?
Was this supposed to be some some weird intimidation tactic? Whatever it was, it felt far better than the shocks from before...
Oh How wrong he was.
In but a mere second, his whole face lit up in agony, every nerve screaming at once. It felt like his skin was being peeled off his skull one layer at a time, slow and methodical. His throat locked up. He wanted to scream, but the pain jammed itself in his windpipe. Nothing came out except a wet choke.
Something hot trickled from the corner of his eyes. He blinked and it smeared his vision red. Blood. More of it seeped from tiny pinprick ruptures all across his face, sliding down into his mouth, metallic and bitter.
WHAT THE KRIFF IS HE DOING TO ME!???
It didn't stop. Every second stretched into eternity. His vision dimmed, body jerking against the wire binding his arms. Just when the black was about to swallow him, the tearing sensation cut out.
He gasped like a drowning man, dragging air into lungs that burned. His head lolled forward. The freak wasn't touching him anymore. No hand near his face.
"Four-Seven-D!" Ryker shrieked, the words tearing out of his ravaged throat as if afraid of the possibility of experiencing the horror again.. "It's Four-Seven-D! The old munitions testing building! Past the third fuel depot, left at the broken signal tower! Please!"
His chest heaved. Each breath felt like broken glass scraping inside him.
The modulated voice tilted like it was almost amused. "Wasn't that so easy?"
Ryker didn't answer. Couldn't. His body was too busy trying to remember how to breathe.
"But," the voice continued, calm as ever, "I still feel like you're holding something back."
The helmet tilted. The hand started to move toward his face again.
"No, no, no," Ryker babbled, words spilling out in desperation. "I don't know anything else. That's all I got. Please, I swear, I swear on the Emperor's shiny boots—"
The hand kept coming.
His brain scrambled for scraps, anything, anything that might save him. And then he remembered. The custodians at Gamma, joking in the smoke pit. Something about scheduling. About the next ship.
"Wait! Wait, please!" Ryker babbled, his mind frantically scrambling through the fog of pain and terror. What else? What else did he have? "I heard them- I heard them talking! The officer there!"
The hand paused, hovering an inch from his nose. Ryker could smell the ozone on the glove.
"Talking about what?" the voice prompted, utterly calm.
"About the ship! The next transport! They were complaining about the schedule! Said the current batch was scheduled to leave in a couple of hours! That's all I heard! I don't know where it was going! I don't!"
Ryker shouted, half-sobbing. "That's all I know, I swear, that's all—"
The gloved hand paused. Relief hit him like a lungful of fresh air.
And then the hand moved again. Not to his face this time. Lower. Hovering right over his chest. Left side.
Ryker's heart skipped a beat. His lips trembled. "W-wait, don't—"
Pressure bloomed deep in his chest. Small at first, like someone pressing a thumb into his sternum. Then more. And more. His ribs ached. His lungs squeezed tight.
Oh stars no.
"S-S-Stop," he croaked. His voice cracked apart into nothing. His eyes bulged, veins burning with the strain. The pressure became unbearable, a crushing fist closing around the one organ he couldn't live without.
His heart hammered against the invisible grip, a frantic, trapped bird. He could feel every beat, each one harder than the last, struggling against the inevitable.
There was a final, sickening sensation—not a sound, but a feel—of something giving way. A soft, internal pop.
A frozen, perfect second of knowing.
Then...his world collapsed in on itself. No air, no sound, no thought. Just black.
And that was all.
The figure stood up, looking down at the body for a moment.
"Couple of hours," the modulated voice muttered to itself, the words devoid of any emotion.
"Couple of hours ha..ha ha" he laughed to himself, an laughter which had no discernable emotion.
The transport had left yesterday. Vasha was already off-world.
Finally the laughter stopped and one word came out: "Fuck"
--
A/N: Sorry for sudden absense past days. I had gotten a bit of writer's block in regards to execution of this scene, and lot of work load didn't help the case.
I will try for one chapter tomorrow at same time too.
I am trying to wrap up the Vasha's Arc as soon as possible as its nearly the destined time of the year. The time when an certain princess gets kidnapped from her ivory tower of an planet.