In the depths of a fortified mine complex buried under Jabiim's northern highlands, Alto Stratus stood before a flickering holoprojector, the air thick with the damp rot of mud and unwashed bodies. Two weeks had ground by since the failed orbital assault—two weeks of futile droid probes that achieved nothing but scrap heaps on the Republic's doorstep. The rain had returned in full fury, sealing the skies once more, rendering the massive Separatist blockade in orbit as useless as a rusted vibroblade. Lucrehulks and Munificents hung there like bloated corpses, their hangars full but their dropships grounded by the storms.
Stratus's face was gaunt, etched with lines of rage and exhaustion. His Nationalist forces were shattered: militiamen deserting in droves, Nimbus commandos reduced to shadows of their former elite status, and the captured nobles—Thorne Kraym among them—likely spilling secrets under Republic interrogation. Cordelia's fate gnawed at him like acid. The people he had rallied now whispered of betrayal, of a war that devoured their world without end.
He activated the secure channel to Serenno. The hologram solidified: Count Dooku, regal in his cape, expression as impassive as carved marble.
"Count," Stratus began, voice raw. "The losses... catastrophic. Two weeks of attrition, and we've gained nothing. A million droids vaporized in the mud—B1s, B2s, entire armored battalions of AATs and Hailfires shredded by their walkers and those cursed Scorpenek annihilators. No nationalists left to commit; my people are broken, fleeing the front lines. The blockade? Useless. Those ships might as well be scrap orbiting a dead moon. The Republic holds Handuin like a fortress, and this General Dagon... he slaughters everything we send. Savage Opress and his Nightbrothers—gone. Wiped out in a single clash."
Dooku's eyes narrowed slightly, the only crack in his composure. "Patience, Stratus. The Confederacy's resources are vast. The atmospheric dispersal charges are depleted, yes, but resupplies are en route from Hypori. Your role is to hold—"
"Hold?" Stratus barked, spittle flecking his beard. "With what? Ghosts? My cousin captured, my commanders in chains, my world drowning in Republic bloodlust? Dooku, if you don't send real help—fleets that can punch through the storms, assassins that can end this Jedi butcher—I'll take matters into my own hands. I'll march on Handuin myself, blaster in hand, and kill every last invader. Even if it means my end. Jabiim will not fall while I breathe."
The threat hung in the air, bold and desperate. Dooku regarded him coolly. "Bold words from a planetary warlord. But rash action serves no one. Reinforcements will come. Maintain your positions. The Republic overextends; their victory is illusion."
The connection severed. Stratus slammed his fist into the console, cracking the duraplast. Alone in the dim light, he whispered to the shadows, "Illusion or not... I'll end this myself if I must."
---
On Serenno, in the opulent halls of his ancestral palace, Count Dooku deactivated the holoprojector with a flick of his wrist. Stratus's defiance irked him—another pawn fraying at the edges. The Jabiim campaign had devolved into a quagmire, draining resources better spent elsewhere. Gwori and Aridka's losses still stung, and now this: a blockade rendered impotent by planetary weather, droid waves achieving only mutual destruction.
He sensed the summons before it arrived—a chill in the Force, like the void between stars. The private chamber's hidden emitter hummed to life, projecting the hooded form of Darth Sidious. The Dark Lord's face was a mask of wrinkles and malice, yellow eyes glowing with restrained fury.
"Master," Dooku bowed deeply. "Stratus reports failure. The blockade is neutralized by the storms; no further landings possible without new dispersal agents. Losses exceed projections—a million droids, armored battalions obliterated. He threatens personal intervention if aid is withheld."
Sidious's lips curled in a sneer. "The fool clings to his mudball like a parasite. Jabiim was to be a trap for the Republic, a graveyard for their clones and Jedi. Instead, this... Dagon turns it into a slaughterhouse for our forces."
Dooku inclined his head. "He is formidable. Force-sensitive, wielding hybrid weapons and Battle Meditation. Savage Opress fell to him, along with the Nightbrothers. Stratus's nationalists crumble without orbital support."
Sidious paced his hologram, robes whispering like serpents. "I regret the deal I struck with the Jedi Council before this debacle. Promises of restraint, subtle manipulations to prolong the war... but if Dagon captures Stratus and his remaining commanders—drags them to Coruscant in chains—the Senate will hail him a hero. They would elevate him to High Jedi General, grant him command of legions. Competent Jedi like him could accelerate the war's end, crush our fronts before my grand design bears fruit. The balance teeters; we cannot allow swift Republic victories. The Jedi must bleed longer, fracture further."
Dooku's mind raced. Sidious's plan—the orchestration of chaos to pave the way for Empire—required the war's slow grind. A quick resolution would unravel everything. "What would you have me do, my Lord?"
Sidious's eyes burned brighter. "Send Durge. The Gen'Dai bounty hunter. Grievous is occupied on the Corellian front; he cannot be spared. Durge is immortal—his regenerative flesh has slain ancient Jedi and Sith alike. He endured millennia, his hatred forged in the fires of forgotten wars. Dispatch him to Jabiim. Let him hunt Dagon, break the Republic's spine from the shadows."
Dooku nodded. "It will be done. Durge's brutality is unmatched; he will revel in the mud and rain."
"And more," Sidious continued, his voice a venomous whisper. "Deploy the legion of my new assassin droids. Secret developments from the Kaminoan labs, refined in the depths of Mustafar. These IG-100 MagnaGuards evolved—sleeker, deadlier, programmed solely for Jedi extermination. They wield a wide range of weapons: electrostaffs that disrupt lightsabers, vibroblades for close quarters, missile launchers for distance. All carry a blaster mounted at the left shoulder, but it serves merely as backup to their primary armaments—flamethrowers, sonic emitters, poison darts. They learn from each kill, adapting mid-battle. A full legion—five thousand strong—will overwhelm even Dagon's defenses."
Dooku's admiration was tinged with caution. "A formidable force, Master. But secrecy—"
"Secrecy is paramount," Sidious snapped. "They are my shadow arsenal. Launch them under cover of the next storm break. Let Stratus believe they are standard reinforcements. Durge will command them on the ground. End this stalemate, Tyranus. Or Jabiim will be the least of your failures."
The hologram dissolved, leaving Dooku in silence. He straightened, summoning his aide via comm. "Prepare a transmission to Durge. And ready the transport for the assassin legion. Jabiim awaits."
---
Durge received the summons in the bowels of a derelict freighter drifting near the Hydian Way, his massive form coiled in a regeneration chamber. The Gen'Dai warrior—ancient, undying—stirred, tendrils of flesh reforming around his armored exoskeleton. Millennia of battles flashed in his mind: Jedi Knights impaled on his lances, Sith Lords torn apart by his bare hands. Immortality was a curse as much as a gift—endless pain, endless rage.
Dooku's hologram appeared. "Durge. The Count requires your services on Jabiim. Hunt the Jedi General Dagon. Break the Republic hold. You will command a legion of specialized assassin droids."
Durge's voice rumbled like grinding stone. "Payment?"
"Triple your rate. And the satisfaction of Jedi blood."
A guttural laugh escaped him. "Accepted. Their screams will echo in the rain."
The connection ended. Durge rose, weapons arraying across his form: blasters, vibro-axes, flamethrowers. Immortality hungered for war.
---
Back on Jabiim, in the dim command bunker at Handuin, I felt the shift before any scout reported it. A tremor in the Force—dark, ancient, laced with malice. Two weeks of relative quiet had dulled the edge, but not the vigilance. Ahsoka paced nearby, her youthful energy frayed by the endless grind.
"Something's coming," I murmured, wiping a fresh nosebleed.
She stopped. "More droids?"
"Worse."
The rain pounded harder, as if the planet itself sensed the gathering storm. Probes had ceased that morning—no armored battalions rumbling through the mud. Silence. Ominous.
Alpha-Seventeen entered, helmet under arm. "General. Long-range sensors picking up faint signatures. Possible inbound transports slipping through storm gaps. Not standard droids."
I nodded. "Durge. And something new. Get the lines ready. This isn't over."
The clones moved with grim efficiency, unaware of the horrors descending. I gripped Savage's stolen lightsaber, the dark hilt cold in my palm.
The war evolved. So would I.
But in the shadows of my mind, the dark side whispered: *At what cost?*