"A beautiful bird. Deadly. But I wouldn't want to spend a moment longer aboard her than I have to," Kem muttered in his own tongue as we stood on the landing pad in the twilight of Concordia.
Before us loomed a Kom'rk-class transport — the quintessential Mandalorian fighter-transport, one we had flown in before — its wings raised vertically now, like the folded pinions of some enormous bird of prey. Vizsla had not been cheap. Handing over a ship like this for the personal use of an "advisor" — even one who no longer existed — was more than a gesture of generosity. It was an investment. And, more importantly, a signal that Pre had finally begun to see me as something beyond a useful mercenary. He was starting to see me as an ally.
The plan had worked. Footage of the skirmishes at the mines and the murder of Vizsla's advisor by a Jedi had already begun to spread through Mandalore's shadow channels, stirring exactly the reaction we had intended — particularly among the conservatives.
Kem slung his blunt slab of iron — the thing he had the audacity to call a sword — over his shoulder, and his massive frame in its brand-new armor, silhouetted against the dying sky, looked genuinely monumental.
"That weakling is clearly pleased with you." He stretched out the last word, wringing every drop of contempt he felt for their current mission into it, then continued: "He thinks Kenobi is trapped. But he's afraid, too."
"Afraid? I didn't sense anything like that from him through the Force." I raised an eyebrow as I headed toward the boarding ramp.
"Oh yes — trust me, little Sith. He's afraid you're too cunning, that you'll stab him in the back. That you'll destroy him the same way you're destroying the Jedi. He'd be a fool not to fear that." Then he made a short sound — somewhere between trying to cough up a lung and a hoarse laugh.
"My dear fr— ahem... ally, Kem, you clearly don't know Mandalorians very well. I'm almost certain that in his mind, he's already seized power, killed me, betrayed every agreement with the CIS, and is basking in glory — and the thought of being afraid of anything simply wouldn't occur to him."
By then we had boarded. The interior of the Kom'rk was spartan: cold metal, functional seats, and the barest minimum of comfort. Everything in the Mandalorian spirit. The moment the airlock hissed shut and sealed us off from the outside world, I felt the tension of the past few days settle onto my shoulders like a lead weight.
"Kem, I'll be in my cabin. Get the ship ready to jump. We need to drop off the grid for a couple of hours. I need to... think."
Dasheid gave a single curt nod and said nothing, heading for the cockpit. I made my way deeper into the corridor, toward the small room that passed for a common area. It smelled invitingly of fresh baked goods — the work of a lone aromatic diffuser sitting alone on the table. I closed the door behind me and finally allowed myself to shed the mask of Brute — in both senses of the word. My shoulders dropped, my face relaxed, and every wound I'd collected over the past few days began to throb with renewed insistence.
The silence, broken only by the hum of the ship's systems, was almost tangible. After the clang of Mandalorian iron, the hiss of clashing lightsabers, and the endless noise of Vizsla's temporary headquarters, this stillness felt unnatural. I sat in a worn chair and stared through the viewport as the dust clouds of Mandalore shrank into the distance — Kem had taken the ship somewhere out into space.
Kenobi... In that battle, a single kick from him had nearly cracked my ribs, and now I had yet another bruise spreading across half my sternum. Even fighting with his hands effectively tied, on a battlefield I had prepared in advance, he had remained dangerous. His strikes were measured and precise — like everything else about his fighting style. But it wasn't his technique that was troubling me now.
What troubled me was the cold. That bone-deep chill that crept through me every time I reached into the Dark Side for concealment or manipulation. In the game, it had been simple — a light/dark alignment bar, icons on a screen. But the real world worked differently. In the beginning, I hadn't noticed any effect on my mind at all. Yet the longer this went on, the more my thinking seemed to shift. These days, the deaths of sentient beings produced no response in me whatsoever.
I lowered myself to the floor in the center of the cabin — where a single, lonely rug made a half-hearted attempt to relieve the general drabness — and crossed my legs. I needed to collect myself. As I understood it, Sith meditation wasn't a search for "eternal Jedi serenity." It was an attempt to impose order on chaos, and right now that was something I desperately needed. I closed my eyes and began to sink gradually into a trance, releasing my muscles one by one — starting with my face, ending with my toes — steadying my breathing...
At first, everything went smoothly. I visualized my internal energy flows. At the center burned the bright core of my own self — an ordinary man who had simply wanted to play a game he loved, and instead found himself at the epicenter of a galactic bloodbath. Gradually, without any will of my own, a ring of Darkness appeared around that core and began to orbit it — the Dark Side given form by my subconscious. Viscous. Heavy. Almost smelling of blood and scorched metal, though it was more association than sensation; I didn't actually detect any foreign odors. It was my tool. My armor.
But something was wrong.
As I sank deeper into my "lighter" core — reaching toward that layer of consciousness that governed my body and instincts — I encountered... resistance. As though, in the foundation of my own house, I had discovered a hidden room I never knew existed.
"Too soft... I'm too careful with lives, even enemies' lives. Am I not risking losing far more than I've managed to protect?"
The thought flickered past so quickly I barely caught it. It didn't feel like a voice in my head — more like a sudden memory of something I had never actually done. For a moment, the face of that farmer from Concord Dawn — Tark — flashed before my eyes. But in this vision, I wasn't saving his family. I was looking at him as a resource. A handful of organic matter to be burned in order to kindle the fires of a revolt.
I flinched, and my concentration nearly shattered.
"Who's there?" I rasped into the empty cabin. No answer came — but the sensation of a foreign, and yet somehow familiar, presence only intensified.
This was no Force ghost in the conventional sense. In Legends, Sith spirits bound themselves to tombs or relics. But I was inside the body of Taalas. My player avatar. An Inquisitor whose story I had written myself, choosing dialogue options. I had always chosen Light. But he... whichever way you looked at it, he had been a real Inquisitor — even if he always chose the lesser evil.
I closed my eyes again, this time diving deliberately into that cold, dark pool.
Somewhere at the far edge of my mind, an "Echo" lay in wait. It was the legacy of this body's neural pathways — the imprint of a personality that had existed here before my arrival. Psychometry: the gift of reading memory from objects. But what if the object was your own brain?
A chill ran down my spine. It was him. Taalas. The real one. The person he would have become in this universe without my interference — though, given the state his mind had been left in after cryosleep, he would probably have been little more than a vegetable when he woke.
The previous owner of this body had not been "evil" in any cartoonish sense. He had been Order. Not the fanatical, fascist variety — but something more measured, shaped in the shadow of the Dark Council, raised from childhood knowing nothing but darkness, yet still reaching toward the light. For him, the Force was not only a weapon; it was a tool for mending a broken world. The methods of "repair" available within the Sith Empire, however, always involved blood and risk.
"Leaving the Jedi alive was a mistake." A cold wave of thought pierced my consciousness, trailing a phantom sting of irritation.
"The risk of exposure now hangs over me like the explosives on those mine walls. I should have dealt with Keir, not tried to fold him into my plan. I spared him — the way I once spared that Jedi and the girl who loved him, the one I tried to help... I still believe that compassion and diplomacy save lives, but in this war... My kindness is becoming a liability." The thoughts were both mine and his — because he was me.
Then foreign memory crashed over me fully, though it didn't feel foreign at all. I saw Korriban, where the slightest show of weakness meant death. I remembered that mission from the game: a stubborn Jedi trying to suppress the love inside him, and the girl who, after so many attempts and no response in return, had finally turned her heart to hatred. I hadn't attacked the Jedi outright. I had tried to reason with him. I had tried to help them both, because I believed it was the right thing to do — and, if I was being honest with myself, because it was useful to me as well. Happy people who owed you their happiness were worth more than corpses.
But even after everything I'd done, the Jedi had remained blind and deaf. Like a fool, he had accepted his death, unable to step outside the boundaries of his own paradigm. Taalas had drawn different conclusions from that experience than I had — for me, it had simply been another interesting quest. He had come to believe there are people who cannot be persuaded, no matter how hard you try. "Sometimes you have to cauterize a festering wound rather than let the whole body die."
I felt my fingers curl involuntarily. Anger — not wild and blind, but dry and pragmatic — began seeping into my mental exhaustion.
"Kill him immediately — is that what you're telling me the right choice was? Without even trying to reason with him?" I tried to argue back against my own thoughts. But the "Echo," this imprint of a personality, resonated with the Force inside me, and his thoughts rose in my mind:
"We are one. We know the same things. But what works in a game can cost far more in real life than I realize. I wear the mask of Brute, but beneath it I'm hiding not a Sith — but an idealist. Obi-Wan is a master at seeing truth. He won't sense a villain in me. He'll sense doubt. And for a Force-sensitive, doubt is a vulnerability that will inevitably be exploited. I need to stop trying to be 'good' by the Republic's standards and start being effective by the standards of what I've actually become."
There was sense in that. A bitter, metallic taste — the flavor of Imperial logic. My attempts to preserve life and keep Keir alive hadn't been a failure of morality. They had been tactical errors. Taalas's ideals, alive inside me, didn't demand pointless killing — they demanded decisiveness. I needed to stop punishing myself for the deaths of those miners and cut out that weakness. If I had let events unfold with more ruthlessness, Kenobi would currently be untangling the aftermath of a disaster, with no time to look in my direction. And yet...
I opened my eyes. My breathing was labored, and sweat ran down my face.
The Force around me vibrated like a plucked wire. This was the "Echo of Personality" — the legacy of neural pathways that had spent years learning to respond to the world in a specific way. This body remembered more than fencing technique; it remembered a philosophy of survival within the Sith Empire. I hadn't simply taken over this body — I had absorbed the lived experience of a man who had balanced the Sith Code against flickering sparks of light. And now that experience was trying to advise me on how not to get myself killed in the coming weeks.
We were alike, he and I. We both wanted to make the system better. But the Taalas of SWTOR knew that sometimes you had to plunge your hands in up to the elbows before you could wash them clean.
"I hear you," I whispered, staring at my hands. The trembling had faded, replaced by a strange, cold certainty.
"But I won't simply become your shadow. We'll find another way. What would I even be if I buried all my doubts and second thoughts? Just a machine without feeling — the very thing the Jedi have always tried to be?"
The Force responded with a faint, almost ironic tingle. The Echo didn't argue. It simply waited — for the moment when circumstances would press me against the wall and force me to act without looking back at the morals of an old world.
The chirp of the communicator shattered the silence. A call from Vizsla.
I exhaled, fully assuming the form of Brute, and pulled on my helmet.
"Go ahead," I answered...
XXXXXXXXXXX
Here is the translated and polished English version:
Obi-Wan Kenobi.
The same time.
Obi-Wan stood at the panoramic window of Duchess Satine Kryze's private office. His reflection in the transparent polymer looked haggard — his tunic was rumpled, and the wounds left by the Sith's attack were still visible on his body. But despite the discomfort they caused, the Jedi's gaze, fixed on the futuristic spires of Sundari, remained as sharp as ever.
"This was more than a terrorist attack, Satine," he said without turning. His voice was low, threaded with a measured anxiety he kept so successfully hidden from the Council — yet which had slipped free now, of all places, and in front of her, of all people.
"The explosion at the mines, the footage seeded through the networks... All of it is merely a prelude. Death Watch hasn't simply armed itself — they've acquired a tactical flexibility that was never part of their nature."
Satine, seated in a high-backed chair, tightened her grip on the armrests. Her face, which usually resembled a flawless mask of ivory, was now etched with anger and deep grief.
"You're suggesting the radicals have a direct connection to the Confederacy, Obi-Wan? That's absurd. Mandalore is a neutral sector. Pre Vizsla may be an idealist chasing a return to the old ways, but he is a loyal governor — he would never permit an alliance with the CIS on his own territory."
"The men who lead Death Watch have already betrayed their people by agreeing to work with Dooku." Obi-Wan finally turned.
"I've seen them in action. They have support. And more importantly — they have a Sith on their side." The Jedi paused for a moment, his mind returning to their brief skirmish. The cold, calculating presence in the Force he had sensed was nothing like the rage of a typical dark side adept. It was something else entirely — ancient, structured, as though concealed behind layer upon layer of carefully constructed lies.
"Who is he?" Satine asked.
"He was hiding behind the identity of Vizsla's security advisor. But the way he moved in combat was... unnatural. He knew exactly how to counter a Jedi. And more to the point, he used the Force — and then destroyed the data that would have served as irrefutable proof of Death Watch's ties to the Separatists. He did it in a way that made me look responsible for the chaos. I'm afraid Vizsla himself may have some connection to Death Watch, if his 'advisor' was that skilled in the Dark Side."
Obi-Wan paused, rubbing his chin.
"Satine, I need your help. During our skirmish, a former Jedi named Keir briefly appeared. I sense that he's still alive and somewhere in the system. He may have a copy of the data — or information that our 'friend' didn't have time to scrub. Your intelligence services — those still loyal to you — need to find him before Death Watch's hired hands do. And for the sake of the Force, keep a close eye on Vizsla."
The Duchess exhaled heavily and rose from her chair.
"You're asking me to conduct a witch hunt within my own government. But if you're right... if Concordia's leadership has truly sold away our neutrality..." She crossed to her desk and activated a holographic map of the sector.
"Very well. I'll mobilize the Guard. But Obi-Wan, without hard evidence, the Senate won't send aid, and the public won't support the arrest of sitting officials. Right now, Concordia's administration is seen as heroes — officials trying to protect our resources from 'Republican aggression.' And Vizsla has been tirelessly touring cities, distributing humanitarian aid..."
Kenobi stepped closer to the map. His plan was already beginning to take shape. He understood that chasing a Sith on the Sith's own terms was a losing game. He needed to force the enemy into the open.
"Then we need to create conditions in which he can't afford to stay silent." Obi-Wan pointed to the central plaza of Sundari. "The summit of neutral system leaders is coming up soon. You were planning to discuss trade routes. Expand the agenda. Announce a 'Peace Conference on the Concordia Crisis.'"
"You want to invite the very people you suspect of being Death Watch allies into the heart of my capital?" Satine raised an eyebrow. "After you've just described them as Separatist collaborators?"
"Exactly. We invite the Governor and his retinue as honored guests. Vizsla will have to either ignore the invitation or attend. And if this 'advisor' is operating behind him, he'll be right there alongside him." A steely glint passed through Obi-Wan's eyes.
"This 'dead' advisor was far too capable to be an ordinary man. I could sense him working the Force, but he did it with such precision that my perception barely registered the disturbance — at least until his final attack. Technique, however, doesn't lie. While the delegates debate, I'll prepare the hall."
"What exactly are you planning?" Satine asked, her tone wary. She had read his extensive file — she knew that Obi-Wan's "plans" often walked a very fine line.
"High-frequency biometric scanners — Bio-Scan 90s, the latest model. I'll request them from the Order under the pretext of protecting the delegates. These devices can detect metabolic anomalies that occur when specific Force techniques are used. Concealing one's presence requires enormous concentration — it alters heart rhythm, skin temperature, even neural electrical activity. If the Sith shows up again, he won't be able to sustain his veil indefinitely under the scrutiny of those sensors, imperfect as they may be." The Jedi folded his hands thoughtfully across his chest and added: "Either he gives himself away by using the Force in self-defense, or the sensors register his true nature, or I simply sense him myself. Either way, we'll have something to work with. That said... this is a risk, Satine. If he realizes what we're doing, he could tear the conference apart."
"He won't just tear it apart, Obi-Wan. If there's an 'incident' in the negotiating chamber, it will be the end of my rule. The peaceful systems will turn their backs on us, convinced that Mandalore has descended into civil war." Her voice carried genuine alarm.
"I know," the Jedi answered gently, crossing to her and resting his hand briefly on hers.
"But we have no choice. This man is not simply a pawn. He's working like a surgeon — cutting through Mandalorian society, splitting your people into two hostile camps. We have to knock the scalpel from his hand before he reaches the heart. In addition to the scanners, I'll also request more Jedi to help ensure everyone's safety."
Satine studied him for a long moment, then nodded in silence.
"So be it. The announcement will go out within two standard hours. Governor Vizsla will be among the first to receive an invitation. I hope your Jedi instincts aren't failing you, Obi-Wan. Because everything is at stake right now."
Kenobi bowed and left the office. As he moved through the palace corridors, he could feel the cold unease in the Force not fading, but concentrating — around him, around this planet, around the entire system. He knew his opponent was intelligent. Possibly more dangerous than any other servant of Dooku he had faced before. This "advisor" had none of Ventress's theatrical cruelty, none of Grievous's overwhelming brute force. There was only cold calculation — a quality that had a way of quietly turning an enemy's every victory to ash.
"You'll come. You won't be able to pass up the chance to consolidate your success in front of the Duchess herself. And then we'll see what's hiding behind that flawless mask of yours." Obi-Wan thought, his fingers brushing the hilt of his lightsaber.
He entered the guest room that had been set aside for him and sat on the bed. He closed his eyes and tried to settle into stillness — but the same image kept rising in his mind: a figure whose face beneath the mask seemed strangely familiar, yet whose spirit was hidden behind an impenetrable black shroud.
"Who are you, really?" he whispered into the empty room.
No answer came. Only the hum of the palace's ventilation system and the distant murmur of the city below reminded him that time was slipping inexorably forward. Obi-Wan felt it clearly: this conference would either preserve the peace in this troubled sector, or plunge it into an endless war that would claim hundreds — thousands — of lives. And he would do everything in his power to prevent the latter. Even if that meant cornering his enemy with technology that had been nearly impossible to requisition for a mission like this. But he would do what he could.
The Jedi had no way of knowing that at that very moment, his adversary was fighting a far more grueling battle — one waged entirely within his own mind. Obi-Wan was relying on his experience and his logic, with no suspicion that the "dead" advisor of Vizsla's — Zarek Von — was nothing more than a mask worn by a being who carried within him the echo of a thousand years of Sith history.
And while Satine prepared the official holographic announcements and Obi-Wan contacted the Temple to requisition equipment and request backup in the form of his former apprentice, Anakin, along with his Padawan, the machinery of events began to turn faster. The pieces were in position. The trap was set. All that remained was to see who would be the first to take the wrong step in this dance along the edge of a vibroblade.