The galaxy was a vast, rusted machine that never stopped turning. Billions of gears rotated in a single, grinding rhythm, producing the illusion of order… but sometimes that rhythm would falter. A faint, almost imperceptible creak would echo through the system, a warning of impending failure. And when that happened, the Force had a habit of choosing someone to stick their hands into the machinery and figure out what was breaking before everything came apart. More often than not, that "someone" turned out to be Anakin Skywalker. Not because he enjoyed it, but because he had never been good at waiting for the machine to explode on its own.
This time, the premonition was especially unpleasant. It itched beneath the skin, right where living flesh met the cold alloy of his prosthetic right arm.
XXXXXXX
Orbit of the Elroy system. Outer Rim.
The crew of the light cruiser Arquitens, nicknamed Lucky, studied a bleak scene on the observation screen. A lone Separatist shuttle—classified as a Sixped model—drifted in empty space against the pale bulk of a lifeless gas giant.
"Master, it's not even attempting a hyperspace jump," Ahsoka said, arms folded tightly across her chest. Her montrals twitched faintly, picking up the ship's subtle vibrations. "Either there are suicide bombers on board, or that wreck simply can't fly anymore."
Anakin kept his gaze fixed on the target. The shuttle hung there like a dead thing, yet its shields remained active. Twin turrets swept the void in slow, uneasy arcs, like a blind animal searching for something to strike.
"Or it's a trap," Skywalker said quietly. "Rex, prepare the boarding team. Our Confederate informant did an excellent job this time. I wouldn't be surprised if he's the reason it ended up like this. We're going in, and we're extracting every piece of data we can find."
"It will be done, General," Captain Rex replied with a brief salute before disappearing through the bridge doors. The 501st Legion didn't require further explanation.
The boarding action went suspiciously smoothly. Anakin had expected heavy resistance—corridors filled with debris, commando droids waiting around every corner. Instead, when his blade sliced through the airlock and they stormed inside, there were only four standard B1 units. They barely had time to register intruders before a flash of blue plasma reduced them to scrap.
"That's it?" Ahsoka deactivated her blades, glancing down the narrow corridor with disappointment. "That's almost insulting."
Anakin didn't respond. The Force told him immediately: there was nothing organic aboard. By the time they reached the cockpit, even the pilot droids had begun to fail. No resistance—only a final, automated purge sequence. A flicker of sparks behind the viewport, and their heads slumped lifelessly over the controls.
"Rex, check the reactor for a detonation sequence!" Anakin ordered—but before the words were even finished, R2-D2 had already wedged himself into the ship's main data port and erupted into a stream of excited beeps.
"Artoo says he's already inside," Ahsoka translated as she leaned closer. "He intercepted the data stream before the virus wiped everything. Master… there's not much here. Mostly logistics complaints, supply shortages, Techno Union quotas… wait."
Artoo let out a sharp, startled whistle and projected a heavily encrypted file onto the main display—high-level Confederate security clearance.
"Addressed directly to Count Dooku," Ahsoka read aloud. "Object dossier: 'Relic.'"
"Relic?" Anakin narrowed his eyes. "Artoo, break that encryption. That's not a standard supply report."
The file opened.
A grainy hologram filled the cabin: the gardens of Raxus, officials gathered in tension—and at the center, a figure that made Anakin's jaw tighten instantly.
Massive. Armored. Masked. A respirator hissing softly as he moved with unsettling calm.
"It's him," Anakin said under his breath.
For a moment, memory flashed—burning skies over Mandalore, the chaos of rebellion, the feeling of something ancient and wrong moving through it all.
On the recording, the armored figure—labeled Brutus in the metadata—impaled a minister without hesitation. Efficient. Controlled. Absolute.
"Look at the blade, Master," Ahsoka murmured.
The lightsaber was wrong.
It burned orange-black, a distorted core of light wrapped in something darker, heavier.
"Yeah…" Anakin's eyes narrowed further. "That's not standard construction. I've seen something like it before."
The hologram shifted. Ventress appeared next—furious, unrestrained—but even she looked off balance. For once, she wasn't in control of the situation. She was reacting.
And Brutus… didn't react at all.
He spoke as if the war itself was background noise.
"No wonder I had a bad feeling," Anakin said quietly. "This is what triggered it."
He turned sharply toward the exit, cloak snapping behind him.
"Rex. Artoo. Copy everything and transmit it. We're returning to Coruscant immediately."
"You're taking this to the Council?" Ahsoka asked as she hurried after him.
"Of course I am," Anakin replied, already stepping into the corridor. "But I'm not waiting for them to 'consider the implications' for half a cycle."
He stopped at the airlock, glancing once more at the drifting shuttle outside.
"That man made a mess of things on Mandalore. He's already shaping how the Republic sees us—how the war is understood. He's more dangerous than Ventress, more unpredictable than Grievous. And that makes him a priority."
The Force tightened around him again, that strange, familiar pressure linking him to the unknown figure in the recording.
Brutus.
Anakin exhaled slowly.
"Very efficient, Brutus…"
XXXXXXXXX
Coruscant. Palpatine's office.
The Coruscant sunset always looked like a slowly cooling fire—crimson flashes reflecting off countless layers of chrome and transparent steel, flooding the Chancellor's office with an anxious, almost blood‑red glow.
Sheev Palpatine stood by the panoramic window, hands clasped behind his back. To the rest of the galaxy he was merely a tired old man carrying the burden of a galactic war, but inside him churned the Dark Side—cold and calculating, like the void between the stars.
The doors slid open with a soft hiss, admitting the one visitor Palpatine awaited with particular anticipation. Anakin Skywalker's steps were heavy and quick—the young man practically vibrated with pent‑up energy and irritation.
"Oh, Anakin!" Palpatine turned, wearing the warmest, most fatherly smile he could muster. "You're back sooner than I expected. Judging by your expression, the mission in the Elroy system brought more questions than answers."
Anakin stopped in the middle of the office, not even bothering to brush the dust off his tunic. His eyes shone with feverish intensity.
"Chancellor, we intercepted a Confederacy shuttle. But the ship isn't the point… Artoo pulled data Dooku tried to erase at any cost after the shuttle was captured."
Skywalker activated a portable holoprojector, and a grainy image flickered to life: the Bonteri gardens on Raxus, bright greenery, and… a heavy armored figure draped in a sleeveless crimson coat. When the strange orange‑black blade ignited, Palpatine narrowed his eyes ever so slightly. His hidden self—Darth Sidious—recognized the Sith instantly. This man was not a product of his own schemes. He was something else—an anomaly that had slipped out of the deep shadows of history thanks to Dooku's carelessness.
"That's him," Anakin growled. "The same 'advisor' who helped spark the Mandalorian massacre. We knew he was dangerous, but now we have proof. He killed some Confederacy senator right in front of everyone! He… he mocked Ventress, Chancellor. Acts like this whole war is just a stage set for his personal games."
Palpatine slowly approached the hologram, pretending to study the armor's details. His fingers trembled slightly—a purely theatrical gesture meant to show deep concern.
"Incredible…" he whispered, letting a note of "sincere" awe slip into his voice. "You know, Anakin, over the years I've spent many hours in the archives studying galactic history. It's astonishing to see old legends come alive in such unexpected ways…"
He paused, letting the silence stretch until Skywalker inevitably asked for more.
"What do you mean, Chancellor? You recognize him?"
Palpatine sighed heavily and lowered himself into his chair, gesturing for Anakin to sit.
"That appearance, my boy… Those armor plates, and especially that unusual blade. Ancient manuscripts from the time of the Old Republic mention the so‑called Sith Inquisitors. Hunters of the old Empire—the Republic's eternal enemy—tasked with rooting out any resistance to the Dark Lords' will. They burned entire worlds if they failed to show proper obedience."
Anakin leaned forward, his face twisting with anger.
"You think Dooku found one of them? But how? Those are legends thousands of years old!"
"Count Dooku has always been drawn to the occult and forbidden knowledge," Palpatine replied gently, watching Anakin's reaction closely. "Who knows what tombs he plundered on Korriban or in the Unknown Regions? But if this… Brute truly is what he appears to be—a relic returned from oblivion—then the galaxy is in far greater danger than we imagined. Sith of the past knew no mercy. These warriors were living embodiments of Darkness: no pity, no doubt, no fear."
"We need to strike Raxus!" Anakin shot to his feet, nearly knocking over the chair. "If he's there, we can't wait. One precise strike and we cut off their leadership—and eliminate this threat!"
Palpatine shook his head sadly, letting a shadow of "political helplessness" cross his face.
"Oh, Anakin… If only it were that simple. The Senate is a swamp mired in bureaucracy and fear of public backlash. Raxus is the Confederacy's capital, and attacking it without Security Committee approval would be considered a war crime. And we lack precise data on their fleet's current position in that sector—though it's safe to assume the planet is heavily defended. The Senate will never authorize a full‑scale invasion over a single recording, no matter how alarming."
"So we just sit and wait until he kills someone else?!" Anakin slammed his fist into his palm. "Or until he sets us up again… sets me up, like on Mandalore?"
Palpatine rose and placed a hand on the young man's shoulder.
"The Senate is bound by law, Anakin. But the Jedi Order… You are meant to protect the galaxy from ancient evils. It is your duty to prevent the return of those who once plunged entire systems into chaos."
He lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper.
"Unfortunately, the Council's masters are often… overly cautious. But you, my boy… you see the truth as it is. You are a true warrior. The Chosen One. If the Council refuses to act, this shadow will consume us all."
Anakin met the Chancellor's gaze. In that moment, Palpatine saw everything he needed: fear for loved ones, hunger for justice, and the spark of fury he had spent years nurturing.
"I won't let that happen," Anakin said firmly. "I'll demand an audience with the Council and make them see the threat. And if they refuse… then I'll find a way to stop him myself."
"I never doubted you," Palpatine smiled softly, a predatory glint flashing in his eyes—unnoticed by the young Jedi. "But be careful… This 'Relic' carries echoes of an age when justice was delivered by force. He is more than an enemy—he is a calamity waiting to awaken fully. Perhaps this is the weapon Dooku hoped to unleash against the Jedi…"
When Skywalker left the office, Palpatine turned back to the window. The recording still flickered on the desk. Brute sheathed his orange blade, and in that motion was the confidence of someone who understood war better than all the Republic's generals combined.
"Inquisitor…" Palpatine murmured, tasting the word. "Let's see how sharp your edge truly is, ancient… tool."
He knew the game had changed. Brute was an unpredictable factor—a wild card Sidious had never intended to be played. But by using Anakin as a battering ram, he could either destroy this obstacle or turn it into another lever to push Skywalker toward the abyss where his true Master waited.
Palpatine switched off the projector, and the office sank into a cozy twilight, broken only by the distant hum of passing airspeeders.
XXXXXXXXXXXX
Coruscant. Jedi Council Chamber.
The cold glow of the massive holoprojector in the center of the chamber stung the eyes. The early evening twilight only intensified it, casting strange shadows across the faces of the Masters. A heavy, almost tangible tension hung in the air—the kind that usually heralds either an approaching storm or a long, grinding headache. Obi‑Wan Kenobi had both: a bad feeling in the Force and a very real throbbing in his temples from trying to make sense of everything.
He sat in his chair with his eyes half‑closed, massaging his temples. The moment he allowed himself even a second of rest, the smoke‑filled streets of Sundari resurfaced in his mind—streets full of enemies who seemed to anticipate every Jedi move. Obi‑Wan didn't believe in coincidences, especially ones as convenient as what happened on that planet. Every time he recalled the aura of the man calling himself "Vizsla's advisor," a prickling sensation crawled up the back of his neck.
"Look at these readings," Mace Windu's voice pulled him out of his grim thoughts. The Master stood beside the hologram, his stern face carved in blue light like a statue. "The energy signature of this man's blade… it's atypical. We detected a frequency that doesn't match any known synthetic crystal."
Mace pointed at the frozen image of Brute, captured in the moment he sheathed his orange‑black weapon.
"This 'Relic' is an unaccounted‑for variable," Windu continued, his tone sharpening. "He appeared out of nowhere—first interfering in Master Yoda's negotiations, then showing up on Mandalore, and now we see him on Raxus, carrying out executions in the government district. The politician he killed was our covert informant in the Separatist Senate. While we fight droid armies, this individual delivers precise strikes that reshape the political landscape faster than we can respond. We cannot ignore this threat."
Yoda slowly opened his eyes. His small fingers tightened around his cane, his gaze fixed somewhere beyond the hologram.
"Strange this is…" the old Master rasped. "Darkness I sense, but not the kind from Ventress or Dooku. Fallen, he does not feel. Ancient—yes. Filled with ambition—yes. But madness of power, I do not feel in him. Something else guides him. Or his own will he places above all."
Anakin Skywalker, who had been standing off to the side this whole time, finally couldn't hold back.
"Masters, I saw the recordings from the shuttle. This Brute… he's mocking us! On Mandalore he made us look like fools! We need to strike back while he's still on Raxus. Give me the 501st and we—"
"Hold, Skywalker," Windu cut him off with a voice cold as durasteel. "Your impulsiveness is unnecessary here. We are not launching a full‑scale invasion of the Confederacy's capital over personal grievances. That would trigger a massacre that would cost millions of lives."
Obi‑Wan leaned forward slightly.
"Master Windu is right, Anakin. Attacking Raxus head‑on means playing by the Sith's rules—becoming like them. It would be wiser to lure him out of the system. Plant a false lead, force him to leave the Separatists' safe haven, and intercept him where we have the advantage."
"Unfortunately, we don't have time for elaborate schemes," Mace replied, turning to Kenobi. "Intelligence reports indicate Brute is preparing a new series of meetings with the Separatist Council. We cannot wait. Obi‑Wan, I'm assigning this mission to you. Take Skywalker and his Padawan. This will be a covert operation."
Anakin bristled, ready to argue, but swallowed his words when he heard the order. Obi‑Wan frowned.
"Without army support? On Raxus? Master, that's practically suicide. One mistake and we'll be captured and branded war criminals."
"That is precisely why I trust you with this," Windu said, meeting Obi‑Wan's eyes. "You are a master of diplomacy and subtlety. Skywalker is a master of… other solutions. You must track Brute down and take him alive. We need answers: who he is, where he came from, and whether the Confederacy has more like him. If capture is impossible—eliminate him. He is too dangerous a variable. Thousands, perhaps millions, could die because of him."
Yoda nodded in agreement.
"Great the risk is, but greater still his shadow grows. Go you must, and the Force will guide your path."
Obi‑Wan rose with a heavy sigh. His head still throbbed, and his instincts whispered that this hunt could end in disaster.
"Well," he said, glancing at Anakin, whose eyes already burned with eager fire, "let's try not to blow up the Separatist capital on the first day. Out of respect for diplomatic etiquette."
"Then it is decided," Windu said, shutting off the hologram. "And one more thing: officially, this mission does not exist. Be careful."
The Jedi began to disperse. Anakin walked ahead, already thinking through gear options for a deep‑strike mission behind enemy lines, while Obi‑Wan lingered at the doorway. He understood they were doing exactly what someone wanted—charging at an enemy who preferred to fight on an entirely different battlefield. But as always, there was no choice.
The hunt for Brute had begun.
End of interlude.