Montegue: Origins - Revelations

Blessed is he that readeth, and they that hear the words of this prophecy, and keep those things which are written therein: for the time is at hand.
-- Revelations 1: 3

- - -

This post is recycled from Devil's Trap.

Vertical City, Nar Shaddaa - 2.5 AE

0630, local time. Hugo crunched his neck from side to side, trying to will away a little of the stiffness that had been plaguing him. Another night in that damn flea-trap motel had done wonders for his spinal alignment; assuming, of course, you considered having a spine that perfectly mimicked the contours of the Perlemian Trade Route. With walking being the occupying activity of the moment however, he was of a somewhat different opinion on the matter: something more akin to the notion that, if he spent another night in that Hutt's asshole room, his bones would probably lose all structure and he'd melt into a puddle that, well, probably looked like a Hutt's asshole.

He needed off this planet, and therein lay the problem. He had a ship - a nice, reliable, fast ship, stocked with weapons, gear, and liquor. At least, it had been when he'd left; he doubted the mechanics would have left much of the latter, knowing how sticky their fingers could get on this gods-aweful planet. The problem was that he couldn't find it. He knew that it was here, somewhere. He knew he'd left it in the charge of one of the vessel storage companies that littered vertical city. But no amount of intensive scrutiny of the planet's docking records revealed the presence of a Class 720 anywhere on the planet; no other Ghtroc Industries craft either, for that matter.

Nar Shaddaa was a shadowed place; things went missing from time to time. But there was going missing, and there was disappearing as if it had never existed. There was no record of a Coromon Headhunter ever having rested its skids on the moon - at least, not in the right time frame. There were no logged flight plans into or out of the system. There were no docking permits issued in that name. Damn strange, given how Hugo was sure as hell he should have had both. The paper trail was cold; dead. Well, almost. One tiny little clue led him in the right direction.

The midget Rodian flailed his legs frantically, heels thudding against the brickwork a good two feet above the floor. Hugo's eyes narrowed, staring into those black, souless eyes. "Where the hell is my ship, Zuri?"

The Rodian blinked, frantically. "I don't - ah - I - don't - ... aaahh!"

The barrel of Hugo's finger dug a little deeper into the bastard's forehead. Sure, it had been built from scraps and calibrated by someone with the IQ of a Rancor, conjouring a lack of accuracy that even Imperial Stormtroopers couldn't match. But at this range, it didn't matter whether the sights lined up with the angle the bolt would leave the emitter. It was still going straight through Zuri's skull, and blasting his brain back to the hell-hole he'd crawled out of.

Hugo's stare was cold; icy. His hand gripped tighter around the Rodian's neck. "Try again."

Zuri squealed; squeezed his eyes closed; tried to shut out the surroundings. He squirmed, wriggled, trying to break free, but Hugo's chokehold had him pinned, and those fat, muscle-fatigued legs from spending so much time sat on his fat lazy ass were hardly strong enough to kick with more than mildly annoying force. The Rodian coughed, struggling to speak; Hugo lessened the pressure on his larynx ever so slightly. "Hutts," Zuri managed to choke out. Hugo dropped him; the body hit the ground like a wet sack. Zuri lay still, gasping for breath. His voice was almost a whisper. "The Hutts took it."

The human lowered his gun; the Rodian was too far away to guarentee a hit now anyway. Hugo cursed himself for not having spent time repairing the pistol he'd bought off that homeless kid; he'd been under the foolish dellusion that his precious ship would be ready and waiting, its armoury crammed with more blasters, slugthrowers and virbroblades than he could ever hope to need. But his brain had been slow lately; his instincts dulled. The face of his captor formed in his mind; a snarl formed on his face. That ice-eyed bitch was to blame. His boot released some frustration on his behalf, smacking into the Rodian's gut.

Hugo kicked the grunting Zuri onto his back. Hell: he wouldn't need a blaster to kill this thing. "Why, Zuri?" he asked, his voice low, eyes drilling into the Rodian's. "Why would you go and let something stupid like that happen?"

"Debts," Zuri wheezed, trying to suck back in some of the wind that had been knocked out of him. "Couldn't pay ... they came ... thought you were dead ..."

A sick smile formed on Hugo's face. "Bad news for you," he muttered, landing a boot in the Rodian's side this time. Something cracked, audibly. "I'm not dead."

His leg recoiled, ready for another strike, but the shaking, trembling, sobbing figure at his feet made him halt. Zuri was pitiful; hardly worth the effort. Killing him would be a service; put him out of his misery. It wouldn't - despite how good it felt beating the crap out of the guy - get his ship back, either. He snarled, boots clacking against the floor as he paced back and forwards. "You got greedy, Zuri," he accused. "And that made you sloppy. You kept charging my account for berthing, even though you didn't have my ship. I wouldn't have found you again if you hadn't been so stupid."

Hugo crouched beside his victim, plucking a vibroblade from his belt. The knife sang as it hummed into life. Zuri let out another sob as Hugo pressed the flat of the blade against his cheek. "Please don't -"

"-kill you?" Hugo actually laughed. "Don't be stupid, Zuri: I don't want to kill you. I want my ship." He pressed the cold blade against the skin a little harder, the vibrating edge finding purchase against the Rodian's scales, a shallow cut coming into being, oozing viscous dark blood. "But since you went and lost mine, you're going to get me another."

Zuri was shaking; only the vice-grip on his jaw stopped him shivvering so much that the vibroblade sliced his entire face off. "Don't have the credits..." he muttered, voice weak and cracking.

Hugo threw a shrug that didn't extend beyond his face. "But you do have a Baudo in that hanger of yours; I saw it on the way in."

"But the owner -"

"Report it stolen," Hugo said simply. "Tell them that I took it, for all I care. A guy with a ship that fancy is bound to have insurance he can claim on."

He backed away and rose; the Rodian form went limp with relief and exhaustion. "I'll need new transponder codes, and enough fuel, supplies and paperwork to get me from here to Tatooine." Glancing down at the vibroblade in disgust, he wiped the remnants of Rodian blood from the steel. "A pleasure doing business with you, Zuri, as always." He almost smiled. "You have two days."

Without another word, Hugo turned, striding out of the dingy, duracrete hole that Zuri called an office without a second thought or the slightest glance back. Two days wasn't much time; he had calls to make.

Keren, Naboo

The grass-coated hill upon which they had gathered was open and exposed, but a scattering of trees formed a barrier that stood firm against the winds that would otherwise howl around them; unhindered, the rain was allowed to maintain its near-vertical path, falling in that deceptive lazy manner: too soft to retreat under shelter, and yet pervasive and covert, soaking every fibre of your clothing and being to the very core.

Drips fell periodically, descending from the tightly woven dreadlocks of Amos' hair, and from the drenched and rain-slicked whiskers of his beard. Coldness tugged at his skin; worked its way through his locks to stream around his scalp, and cascade down the thick hyde of the trenchcoat he wore. He didn't flinch. Didn't react. Didn't move at all, save for eerily infrequent blinking. Rage and loathing boiled within, mixed with despair and sadness. The blame was directed soley at himself, however. He had known for months of his mother's ailing status, but had allowed the galaxy to distract his attention away for too long. Now she was gone.

He felt pressure on his shoulder. It barely translated into a proper sensation through the heavy fabric of his coat, but he appreciated the sentiment just the same. He cast a sidelong glance towards the man who, for the bulk of the last decade, had hardly strayed from his side. "I'm fine," he insisted, though his tone lacked any conviction. He tried again, more forcefully this time. "Fine."

Jaden Luka merely nodded, leather-bound hand clapping gently against Amos' shoulder before reatreating. And adjustment to the ruby-tint lenses that Luka habitually wore, and the pilot turned his eyes skyward, peering at the carpet of ominous grey that hung above. "The weather on your planet really sucks," he muttered, letting his eyes fall skyward again, forced to wipe a finger through his brows to arrest the progress of rain water tricking towards his eyes.

"We've experienced worse," Amos countered, speaking with some reluctance; Jaden had used this technique of luring him into an innocuous conversation before. But Amos wasn't about to let go of his disappointment in himself. Not just yet.

The pilot wrinkled his nose. "Just because something else sucks worse doesn't make something suck any less." Beneath his dreadlocks, Amos raised an eyebrow, gaze remaining fixed on Jaden. The pilot stared back, blankly. "What?"

Amos sighed, shaking his head. "You never think about words before they leave your mouth, do you?" He fought against the smile quirking at his lips, but didn't quite succeed.

Jaden flashed back a smile of his own. "Come on, big guy; lets get to the wake." He frowned for a moment, hesitant. "You did say there'd be cake, right?"

The burley warrior nodded; his expression was a strange mix of emotions that Jaden couldn't begin to decipher. "Yeah; go on ahead. I'll catch up."

Reluctance bred indecision in the pilot, but eventually he complied. Amos found himself standing alone, watching the last embers of his mother extinguish. It was impressive how well she'd burned, in spite of the rain. He supposed that with enough fuel, you could achieve that with anything. His brow conflicted as he watched, caught between the sorrow of a child who had lost a mother, and the stoicism of a soldier who was meant to cope with life and death every day. He felt compelled to offer words; some recitation to somehow commemorate the moment. His mind found none, filled instead with silence. Muscles hauled his brow firmly down into a frown and, with one last lingering look, he turned away.

A figure close behind startled him. A retort prepared itself on his tongue, intended for Jaden, but the face his eyes settled on belonged to another. Not just another man, either: another Amos Iakona, though Senior as opposed to Junior. A man that Amos had not seen in more than a decade; a man he had hoped not to see again for a very long time.

"Hello, son."

The offering was calm. Platonic. It sickened Amos to his core. His mother and father had separated a long time ago, and the two of them - father and son - had grown apart. Amos couldn't even bring to mind the reason that anger stirred in the pit of his stomach while he regarded his forebear, but it didn't seem to matter.

"I have nothing to say to you," Amos replied, with a growl.

Amos Senior unleashed a gentle sigh. "I'm sure you don't. But I have things to say to you, son; things that you really need to hear."

The son's eyes narrowed, but the tone of the day had erroded his resolve. "Fine," he muttered, a scowl cast in his father's direction. "But talk fast. I never did have much patience."

Mos Espa, Tatooine

"Did you see me?" The man's voice was laced with enthusiasm, hands gesticulating wildly, eyes gleaming with the last remnants of adrenaline and excitement.

His companion lifted the dulled glass to his lips, and drained a mouthful of the foaming green ale. "Yeah. I was there."

The lack of enthusiasm in the response did nothing to dull the speaker's momentum. He pushed his own glass aside to give his hands more room to weave about, simulating the after-effects of the battle they'd just gone through. "When I had that heavy repeater, and we'd flanked him, and I was totally nailing the sucker in his scaley ass?"

A flash of a smile crept onto the companion's face. "Yeah. I saw that. Wasn't it right before the Krayt lashed out with its tail, sent you sprawling, and dislocated your shoulder?"

The smile faded ever so slightly from the speaker's face. "Yeah, but I still -"

"In fact," the companion pressed on, "I'm pretty sure that blow knocked you unconscious, and I had to take the dragon down." He paused for effect, swallowing another mouthful. "On my own."

The speaker's eyes took on the kind of glistening disappointment that wouldn't have looked out of place on a wounded puppy. "I totally weakened him for you though."

"Weakened?" The companion's jaw clenched. "You think you weakened the twenty-foot, armour plated lizard, by shooting him in the side. Note the armour plated in there."

Scorn flashed in the man's eyes. "Distracted, then." He folded his arms across his chest in defiance. "You've got to admit - thing would probably never have opened his mouth wide enough for you to chuck that thermal detonator in there, if he hadn't been trying to eat me at the time."

Heaving out a heavy sigh, the companion slumped back on his seat, twisting the ale glass idly in his fingers. "You're so full of shit sometimes you know, Vittore?"

Deciding that the other man's conversational surrender was as close to a victory as he was going to get, Vittore flashed a smile. "It was a good plan though, right?"

"Oh, sure," the companion granted, eyebrows climbing up his face. "You came up with a great plan. Its a shame you fucked things up so quickly, got yourself nearly killed, and forced me to improvise something on my own at the last minute." He let out a gasped breath of disbelief, shaking his head. "I told you that we were going in there under-equipped, and under-prepared. But you didn't listen. And look what happened."

"What happened," Vittore countered, both stern and smug at the same time, "Is that I was right, Cam. But if you can't accept that, then -" He shrugged, reclining in his seat, and holding his hands up in surrender.

Cambrio's eyes narrowed into a scowl. "Fuck off and die, jackass," he muttered darkly.

Vittore's eyes rose in surprise as he grabbed his as-yet untouched beer, wrapping his fingers around it briefly before wiping the condensation from his palm onto the leg of his trousers, before attempting to pick up the glass again. "Wow," he said in mock surprise, raising the glass to his lips and drinking down a hearty sip. "Really felt the burn on that one, Cammy. Tell me truthefully now: you been practicing insults in front of the mirror again?"

Whatever retort Cambrio might have been planning, he never had the opportunity to unleash it; their conversation was interrupted by a shout of a name from a bar. "Vittore Montegue?"

"Yo!" Vittore shouted, raising an arm and waving a hand briefly to attract attention.

The look cast in his direction by the barman was about as friendly as the one being fired by Cambrio. "There's a call for you," he grumbled, apparently displeased about having to play secretary for one of his patrons. He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. "Take it out back."

Vittore looked at Cambrio with confusion: a sentiment that his brother reflected. The duo were working solo, and had met on Tatooine by chance. That someone was contacting either of them directly was strange enough, but to have found them in the cantina they'd wandered into on a whim, in a totally different city to the one they'd landed in after the guide they'd hired had fucked off and left them in the middle of the desert? That was just creepy.

The elder of the two Montegue sons led the way through the mid-afternoon cantina crowd, and negotiated the crowded back room into the office where a comm unit that seemed lucky to be functioning at all had been set up on top of an upturned crate. The two wrestled briefly over the barrel that had been put in position as a makeshift chair; loosing the conflict, Cambrio wandered away to procure some other item - preferably something more comfortable, just to annoy his brother - while Vittore settled down in front of the screen.

Vittore frowned in surprise as the image display clicked on in response to his touch. "Elroy?" he blurted, before he'd managed to come up with anything useful to say.

"Of course its me, y' idiot," the older man bit back. "Who the hell else would try calling every damned cantina on Tatooine trying to work out where you are?" His eyes narrowed, and he leaned closer to his own comm unit, apparently scrutinising the image he was looking at more closely. "You look like crap," he observed. "What happened?"

"Vittore tried to get himself strategically eaten by a krayt dragon," Cambrio offered helpfully, settling a box of his own down beside Vittore, and sitting down in range of the camera. The elder brother jabbed an elbow into Cambrio's ribs for that comment, but remained silent, for now.

"Cambrio?" It was Elroy's turn to look surprised, but also a little relieved. "Well, that certainly makes life easier for me. I didn't have a damn clue where to start searching for you." He grabbed at the back of his neck, massaging out a tension knot, probably. "I need you both to get on the next transport you can, and head out to Cularin."

Cambrio frowned. "Cularin?" he asked. "Why would we go there?"

"Because Vittore will shoot you if you don't."

A blank expression graced Cambrio's face as he stared back at the monitor. "Why would he do that?"

"Because, unlike you, Vittore actually does what he's damned told, without asking an endless stream of questions about it." Elroy sighed, shoulders slumping. "Look: just get yourselves to Cularin, alright? Its important."

Without another word, the communications feed terminated and the screen deactivated, leaving Cambrio in the dark literally, as well as metaphorically. He turned his attention sideways, eyes settling on a slightly smug, self-satisfied smile that appeared to be gracing his brother's face. "What are you so happy about?"

"Dude," Vittore replied, as if it was obvious. "Elroy thinks I'm less stupid than you."

Cambrio let out a sigh. "Please," he muttered, shaking his head. "Please let me be adopted."

Fairie Junction

Elroy slumped back in his seat, and sighed. A finger flicked at the peak of his cap, knocking it far enough clear of his hairline for him to mob a hand across his brow. He'd exaggerated slightly concerning the lengths that he'd gone to in order to track Vittore down on Tatooine, but not by much. He'd known that the boy was there hunting a Krayt Dragon, and he'd had all the same information that Vittore did thanks to the idget boy treating him like some sort of walking, talking encyclopedia. He'd narrowed down their probable location to three starports, and from there to a list of thirteen cantinas, and seven inns. He'd started with the bars, and had scored lucky with number five. But number four had presented difficulties, and it had taken a lot of effort to convince the Twi'lek on the other end that he wasn't in fact in the market to purchase one of the man's daughters.

He grunted, hauling himself to his feet and vacating the communications booth. He could have managed the search for the boys from home - finding Cambrio had been a stroke of luck; the boy had been off the grid ever since he'd left Coruscant, and Elroy hadn't been particularly looking forward to trying to hunt him down via holonet - but he'd decided that Nora's cantina was a somewhat more hospitable venue. She'd been kind enough to loan him her office for the afternoon, and young Jo had been keeping him supplied with various snacks and beverages from the bar; he doubted that Nora would have been quite so helpful if she knew what he was doing and why, of course. But some things were better left secret.

His heart almost lept out of his skin as he spotted Jo, leaning idly against the wall a few paces to the left of the door. He rearranged his features into the same scowl that he reserved for the neighbour's kids when they let that damn dog of theirs get loose on his lawn. "What're you doing, lurking around like that? Nearly gave me a heart-attack."

Jo blinked, her face an unchanging incredulous mask. "Who were you talking to?" she asked, managing to stamp all but a shred of her genuine curiousity from her tone, so that it sounded like she really was just asking a casual question.

"Oh, no one important," Elroy muttered, with a frown and a shrug.

The girl cocked her head to one side. "Really? Because it sounded a lot like Hugo Montegue's boys. Well, unless you know another 'Vittore Montegue' who is notably incompetant, and has a brother called Cambrio."

Elroy scowled. "You need to be careful where you're dropping those eaves, young lady," he threatened. "Most folk don't take too kindly to being spied upon."

She flashed him the sweet and innocent smile that she'd mastered a decade ago, when all she'd wanted from 'Uncle Elroy' was a few extra credits to buy sweets that her mother refused to let her have. "I brought you a sandwich," she offered, brandishing the tray in her hands. "You sounded busy, so I didn't want to interrupt."

Elroy rolled his eyes, but notably didn't decline the sandwich. "Don't tell your mother. You know how she feels about Hugo Montegue, and what he gets up to."

Her features rearranged into mock concern this time. "Hugo Montegue? But I thought he was missing. You haven't found a lead, have you?"

If looks could be translated into words, Elroy's would likely have suggested a possible recreational activity that involved the anatomical insertion of Jo's questions into an uncomfortable location. He knew he'd lost the battle though; damage limitation was his best avenue at this point. "He's alive. Recently released from Imperial custody. And he wants to see his sons."

"But you neglected to mention those facts to said sons, and instead ordered them blindly to - where was it? Cularin?"

Frustration competed with pride for purchase on his face. He managed to hold both mostly at bay, but couldn't help a slight curling at the corners of his mouth. "Your dad would have been proud of you, you know. Annoyed as hell with the unending tirade of questions, but still proud."

Jo positively beamed. "I suppose it isn't fair that I know things that Hugo's own sons don't know," she admitted, smile subsiding to allow a pondering frown to form instead. "I suppose I'll just have to wait until we get there to find out."

The beast of caution in the pit of Elroy's stomach stirred from its slumber. "We?"

She shrugged. "I could just tell my mother what you've been up to -"

Elroy held his hands up in surrender. "I'm not going to Cularin. Not yet" He winced, and sighed. "Apparently we are going to Taanab first."

"What's on Taanab?"

His mouth drawing into a thin line, Elroy's brow twitched in a mal-formed frown. "Hopefully," he said slowly, pensive, "A little extra help."

Keren, Naboo

The house was just as he remembered it. That scared him, more than anything. If it had been different, that would have been fine. Those childhood memories would have sparked in his mind, but they would have been from another place; another time. Now, the echoes of his youth ran rampant, as if ghosts superimposed over his vision. That vase, riddled with cracks? He'd broken that, one overzealous morning as a five-year-old 'Royal Guard' chasing a 'Gungan Smuggler' around the house. That slightly chipped corner on the cabinet in the corner corresponded perfectly with a dent in his skull - he'd collided with it as a boy; sliced clean through his skin. He still had the scar; but at the time, his father had made -

He clamped down on that thought immediately. His father didn't make things better. He made them worse. Just like he was doing right now.

"What are you telling me?" Amos grunted, attention focused anywhere but his father. His eyes fell on a portrait: an image of his mother, many years younger than when he had last seen her; himself too, no more than three; and two men he didn't recognise, and had never before thought to try and identify. His fingers strayed across the surface of the image; brushed the frozen face of his mother. He dragged his eyes away. "You're not Amos Iakona. You aren't my real father?"

The older man offered a tight smile. "I am Amos Iakona. But that is not the name I was born with. A few decades ago, I was called Amaros Koine. I was - am - a Mandalorian."

Had it been any other day, Amos might have reacted differently. Today, he merely laughed. "A Mandalorian? You think you're some sort of legendary warrior now?" The notion was preposterous to him; some delusion of his father's, no doubt, to try and by his way back into Amos' affections with some new intregue. "Like all those stories you made up when I was a kid?"

"Those were true," Amaros countered, his voice a mix of frustration and hurt. "Clan Koine. Aya and Amaros. Vorran my father, and Rhea my mother. Those weren't just characters from my imagination, Amos. They were my family. Your family. Our heritage."

Amos grunted, patience paper-thin. "I'd say that now is a bad time, but frankly its never a good time to engage in one of your fantasies."

"Show some damned respect you insolent youth!" he snapped, expression turning into a snarl. "I am Amaros, son of Vorran, of the Clan Koine. This is who I am, and who you are. You will listen, and you will believe."

Whether it was being shouted at again in a way that he hadn't experienced since his age was expressed in dual digits, or perhaps the burning sincerity that he was forced to see in his father's eyes, something made Amos fall into a stunned silence. "You're serious, aren't you?"

Amaros nodded. "I am."

"Then why the secrets?" Amos' expression twisted in confusion. "Why the deception? Why the lies? Did mother know, or did you keep it from her as well?"

A bittersweet laugh escaped from the Mandalorian's throat. "You always did wonder why your mother and I separated." Pain flashed briefly in his eyes. "Yes, I told your mother eventually. But I waited as long as I did because I was fearful of the consequences. And rightly so, it seems."

"How did you -?" Amos' mind raced with questions. "A Mandalorian on Naboo? How did that happen?"

Amaros held up a hand to forstall any further comment. "There will be time to answer those questions later," he assured, "But I am afraid time is of the essence. I did not -" His voice stalled with reluctance. "You deserved to know this information, my son, but now is hardly the ideal time. I would not have confronted you with these truths now if I had another choice."

A twist of concern assaulted Amos' innerds. "What is it? What's wrong?"

"Central to a Mandalorian's beliefs is the concept of honour. I know you understand this, because I raised you to believe in it as well." He hesitated, frowning, eyes focussed elsewhere so he did not regard his son directly. "A request has been made of me: one I am honour-bound to fulfill. But I have -" Another pause; uncharacteristic for the aggressive and confident father he had always known. Amos' concern twisted tighter. "I have a bad feeling about this. I am old, and tired. I may not return; and I wanted you to hear these truths from me directly."

Amos contemplated those words for a moment, but found himself speaking before he even realised. "Then I will come with you."

Amaros seemed as surprised by those words as Amos was. "I cannot ask you to do that."

The son shrugged. "I may have been to young to remember, but I'm pretty sure all those stories about the Mandalorians you told me emphasised family loyalty as much as they did strength, and honour, and everything else. And besides -" A hint of a smile cracked on his face. "You said there would be time for questions later. Can't really ask them if you go off and get yourself killed."

A hearty laugh escaped the father, and a hand clapped his son firmly on the shoulder. It lingered there, his strong grip far more reassuring than Jaden's had been. The mirth in his face died a little, somber sincerity taking its place, mixed with bittersweet happiness. "You remind me so much of your mother."

Amos shifted a little uncomfortably under his father's gaze, but allowed it to linger long enough for decorum to be served. "So, should we leave now? I have access to a ship we can make use of."

Amaros hesitated slightly. "Perhaps not yet." He leant to the side, eyes peering down the corridor just outside the room. "Did I spot a buffet on our way in?"

Astral Queen, Naboo

"And you were going to tell me when?"

Jaden's arms were folded tight across his chest, and his eyes were angled in that frown that was usually reserved for use only by parents or teachers. Unfortunately for Amos and Amos, or Amos and Amaros, or whatever is is that the son-and-father duo was meant to be known as now, he had spotted their hit-and-run raid of the wake's buffet, and had followed them to the Starport where Jaden and he had berthed the Queen the day before.

Amos grimaced slightly, as he helped unload the supplies from his father's speeder onto the cargo elevator beneath the Astral Queen. He hadn't asked what was contained within, but several of the cases were marked with caution labels, and bore markings reminiscent of military ordnance crates. Amos was guessing guns or grenades; and frankly, he was happy with either.

"To be honest, I wasn't actually planning to." This probably wasn't one of those instances where honesty was the best policy, but frankly Jaden was going to be pissed off regardless. This way, at least the level of annoyance would be proportional to the real truth, rather than to any kind of imagined truth, and Amos' consciousness would be somewhat clearer.

The pilot let out a low growl. "And how am I supposed to get home, huh? Fly on the wings of imagination?"

"Didn't really plan that part, either," Amos replied with a grunt, heaving the last case onto the lift. That statement certainly succeeded in silencing his friend, and Amos decided to seize the opportunity, deftly stepping under the prow of the ship, onto the cargo lift, and activated the mechanism that would haul him and the cargo inside.

Unfortunately, the rather pedestrian pace of the lift - combined with Jaden's frustration-boosted energy levels - ensured that the pilot was waiting for him in the cargo bay when the lift finished making an airtight seal with the hull. "Where are you going?"

Amos shrugged. "Coo- something? Not really sure. You'd have to ask my dad."

"Why are you going there?" Jaden pressed, hoping to succeed in making ground somewhere in this conversation.

The other man paused to ponder that for a moment, but ultimately decided he couldn't provide a satisfactory answer to that either. Instead, he scooped up the top-most of the supply containers, and heaved it across to one of the bay walls. "You'd have to ask my dad that as well."

"But I thought you hated your dad!" the pilot exclaimed, exasperated.

Another shrug, as another container was heaved from lift to deck. "That was before I found out he was a Mandalorian Warrior who'd been in hiding on Naboo since the Clone Wars."

Jaden blinked, completely sideswiped by that unexpected information. "He's a - what?"

"It actually explains quite a lot," Amos continued, stopping for a moment to tie his dreadlocks back with a length of chord, to stop them constantly swaying around his face.

"Why he was so hard on you as a kid, you mean?"

Amos mused on that for a moment. "I was actually thinking more along the lines of why I'm so awesome, and so good at killing stuff; but yeah, I guess that works too."

Grabbing at a support strut to steady himself, Jaden gripped at his forehead, massaging his temples in preparation for his impending headache with a thumb and forefinger. "Fine," he muttered, with a sigh. "But I'm coming with you. Last few times I let you borrow my baby, you got half the paint corroded off the hull."

"Technically, that wasn't my fault," Amos protested, pausing his loading efforts to shoot Jaden a defiant glance. "I thought we'd both agreed that we were blaming Glayde for that." Jaden's response came as a scowl, prompting Amos to search for a possible escape. Unfortunately, his task was far from complete, which left ushering Jaden away as the only viable option. "Shouldn't you... go run some preflights or something?"

Jaden tried to maintain the expression for a few moments longer, but ultimately it collapsed into a reluctant sigh. "Yeah, I'll go do that."

Though they'd already made the trip from the Wheel to Naboo aboard the Astral Queen, the novelty of being back 'home' hadn't quite worn off for Jaden. While he had happily exchanged the sluggish controls of the YT-2000 for the faster-paced lifestyle of a Fighter Pilot in the Rebel Alliance, the blinding white interiors of the Mon Calamari ships he served on, or the barely illuminated Sullustan craft that were one of the few alternatives had never managed to feel as comfortable as this Corellian ship had become. He and Amos had spent half-a-dozen years or so trekking the galaxy from corner to corner. He didn't begrudge what he was doing instead. But there were times when he missed it.

The cockpit was an even more welcome sight. It actually had sufficient space to walk around, no less. And access to a 'fresher. And food that didn't necessarily have to come out of a packet - though, laziness taken into account, it usually did. You could fly this ship without the canopy being only a few short hand-spans away from your face, and without the ominous presence of a life support unit strapped to your chest. And the fashion restrictions were somewhat less strict as well. And less orange.

Unfortunately, things didn't seem quite right. At first Jaden wondered if perhaps Amos had made a few customizations without mentioning it, but his keen senses quickly homed in on the presence of a man to whom he had not been introduced, making himself comfortable in his chair.

"Hi," he offered, attempting to rectify their acquaintance oversight. No response. "I'm Jaden Luka." Still nothing. "I'm coming with you."

"That's nice," Amaros grunted.

Jaden frowned. This wasn't going at all well. And the man was still sitting there, fiddling with his switches and dials, without his express permission. "I was kinda expecting to fly, it being my ship and all."

Amaros glanced over his shoulder, and arched an eyebrow. "Do you know where we're going?"

Frankly, Jaden was confused by the question. "Well no," he countered, deciding that humour was his best weapon at this juncture. "But I am a Rebel Alliance starfighter pilot. Rogue Squadron, actually. I'm sure if you tell me, I can -"

"A rocket jock, eh?" From his tone, Amaros didn't seem particularly impressed. "Well, if we need anyone to brag incessantly, drink their body weight in alcohol, and then dance around space in a snubfighter like a little pansy ballerina, we'll let you know. Now -" He gestured behind him to the co-pilot's seat. "- think you can shut up long enough to run some Hyperspace calculations to Cularin, or are we going to need to find an Astromech to help you?"

Jaden's scowl returned, but his usual ability to pluck a witty retort out of the air failed him. Instead, he settled for seething in silence. I shouldn't put up with this, he muttered inside his head as he sat down. But at least its better than stuck on Naboo, right?

Taanab

The pitch of the turbine whine took a dive as the landspeeder came to a halt, slowly decreasing their rate of rotation until they fell silent. The repulsorlift drives wavered unsteadily on the slightly uneaven ground, the craft bobbing slightly as its too occupants disembarked, landing in the ankle-high mud. Elroy didn't seem particularly bothered in providing an extra coating of alien soil to his worn and battered military boots, but Jo seemed somewhat less pleased, perhaps a little disgruntled at not having been provided with sufficient information about their destination to pack appropriate shoes.

The ground was covered with a carpet of mist; a light frost had turned the surface layer of muck into a thin crust that crunched and shattered with each bootstep. Elroy's fingers teased the grip of his old service-issue blaster from his days with the Commandos, back on Coruscant. Everything had been simpler then; they'd told you who was friend and who was foe. You didn't have to work it out for yourself. Back in the Clone Wars, the foe category had even been mechanical; by the time the conflict ended, Elroy had forgotten about all about the moral implications of having to shoot and kill "wet" targets.

Then they'd been forced to hunt down the Jedi. Elroy had never bought that. He'd actually met Jedi before. And while maybe there was a possibility that the Jedi Council of theirs had grown corrupt, most of the people they'd been sent to hunt down were just kids. He'd never believed that any of them were guilty. When everything had fallen apart for Hugo, well, that had offered the out he was looking for. He'd gone into retirement, and had left it all behind. Well, so he'd hoped. When you hung around with Hugo Montegue though, trouble didn't seem to be far away.

The cold nagged at the hole in his gut where his last set of exploits with Hugo had seen him cut down by a bounty hunter. He'd survived. Hell, the wound was pretty minor, all things considered. But he knew about all the burdens that Hugo carried around with him - all the lives he held himself accountable for. For both their sakes, Elroy hoped that he wouldn't become the next on the list. But I'm getting too old for this, he mused.

He looked around their surroundings; followed the line of the boot-trodden path through the grass that ran alongside the edges of a thick clump of trees, to the low wood-built cabin that was their destination. He let his eyes wander, drinking in the details of the landscape. It was peaceful, and secluded. The kind of place he wished he'd retired to. Maybe one of these days he would. Maybe tomorrow, if Hugo led him out of this one alive.

"So." Jo's voice cut into his thoughts. Ordinarily that would have come as a frustration, but in this instance Elroy was welcome for the distraction. He said nothing, though; let her take the reins of conversation of her own accord. "We've been on Taanab for almost two hours now. Are you going to tell me the reason, or not?"

Elroy heard a snap, as a fallen branch broke under the weight of a humanoid foot. He froze, arms gently raising, a wince forming on his face. "There's your reason," he said with a sigh. "Off in the tree-line, holding the blaster rifle." He turned, slowly, keeping his hands clearly visible. "You could've just called out, you know; let us know you were there."

Emerging from the trees, clad in worn old combat gear in colours that matched the autumn leaves around him, a man with tired eyes stepped onto the path beside them. His shoulders rose in a shrug. "I thought the branch-snapping was more fun." With a little reluctance, the hunting rifle he carried lowered, barrel aimed safely towards the ground. His eyes seemed to scrutinise Elroy's features, peering intently, before they strayed to Jo. "Whose the blonde?" he asked bluntly, jerking his head in her direction. "Did Cambrio finally get a sex change or something?"

A glimmer of a smile cracked on Elroy's face, but he didn't let it flourish. "That's Jo Nichol," he explained, his voice dropping to a slightly softer tone. "Her father was -"

"Jorran Nichol," the man surmised, correctly. His eyes narrowed in an inspection of her as well, before a grunt finally escaped his throat. "I suppose I should invite you in," he muttered, jerking his head down the path in the direction of his cabin, and slowly leading the way. "Offer you some sort of hospitality."

Elroy produced a rueful smile. "Some caf would be nice," he suggested, lagging a few paces behind.

The man didn't bother to look around, as if his words weren't even aimed at anyone in particular. "I'm a hermit who lives in the woods, Elroy. Where am I going to get kriffing caf from?" His pace quickened, and the morning breeze grabbed at his words and wafted them away into an almost ghostly whisper. "What, you think one of these trees is a damned store in disguise?"

As the man drew ahead, Jo quickened her pace to fall into step beside Elroy. "Who the hell is that?" she quizzed, her voice soft and low so as not to be heard.

"That," said Elroy, wincing a little in concern that they might have wasted a trip, "Is Victor Montegue. Hugo's brother."

From the Journal of Hugo Montegue:

My mind is like a shattered remnant; broken to pieces and jumbled around so that none of the images make any sense. Memories float by like leaves on the wind: if I reach out and grasp for them too hard, they crumble to dust in my hands; but if I am too gentle, they merely brush against my fingertips before soaring off out of sight.

They say that the written word can help to organise thoughts. Here is my attempt at proving that theory correct.

I remember Coruscant. I remember a room. Emaryn was there. And Cambrio; just a baby. I remember - something. I'm not sure what. Was she hurting him? Wait, no. Emaryn would never do that. She loved our boys, maybe even more than I did. She'd never hurt them. Or me. And yet she did. Pinned me against the wall, and yet, didn't lay a hand on me. A Jedi then. Mind powers. Never knew she had those.

This isn't working. I don't remember. Why can't I remember?

* * *

Headhunter II, Cularin

Hugo's fist slammed into the console; by sheer fluke a stray finger struck at the right key, and the screen turned dark, plunging his failed attempt at memory into oblivion. A string of curses from a half-dozen languages leapt off the tip of his tongue; the heels of his palms dug into his eyes. Ever since the Empire had let him go, trying to remember had been like swimming through a swamp. It was hard to move; hard to think; and even if he did stumble onto something vaguely resembling a memory, the water was so thick that he had no idea what he was grabbing at. Could have been anything. Mostly trivia.

The only time it seemed to make sense was in his dreams; when one was kind enough to grace his fitful sleep, at least. Even then, there were huge gaps missing. Like Cularin. He remembered that something had happened; knew that going there would help repair his addled mind. He also knew that there was some secret lurking there, and when it was revealed he would need all the help he could get. So he had sent out the summons: Amaros; Elroy; Vittore; Cambrio; Victor. To every name that his memory had whispered, he had sent out a plea for help. And Cularin was the place he had instructed them all to congregate. With hope, they would all arrive.

Beyond those shattered thoughts however, he knew nothing. He had no idea why he was calling in reinforcements. No clue why they were travelling to the home of Emaryn's parents. Had - did something happen there? A fight? A struggle? No images presented themselves; just a sensation of panic; the urge to flee. Hugo of the past had surrendered: run away and left - someone. He squeezed his eyes tight shut, but her face ran away before he had the chance to focus.

"Damn it!" he growled, fists lashing out in frustration.

The dull, synthetic bleat of an alert rang out across the cockpit; its origins were somewhere towards the fore. Flight station. Hyperspace. Right. It was about time they arrived. He closed his eyes tighter, and tried to stamp down his raging thoughts, so that he could focus just on the matter at hand.

"Excuse me."

A distraction. Not helping.

Hugo turned in his seat, and raised his head, eyes confronted by the disturbing sight of an unexpected accessory that had come with this craft he'd appropriated. The luxury yacht had been called the Iego Angel or something along those lines, and while the mythical nomenclature had a certain symmetry with his old beloved Coromon Headhunter, it just wasn't quite the same. Besides, maintaining the registered name was hardly a wise idea, given the means by which the craft had been misappropriated. So, along with a fresh coat of paint - a bold and aggressive red - the ship had been redesignated: Headhunter II. It was just temporary, he had assured himself; just until they got the real one back.

The disturbing sight in question was the gaunt and alien face attatched to the droid that Hugo had discovered aboard the ship. Apparently, one of the technicians had found it and, irritated by its incessant questions, had deactivated it. Shortly after awakening the droid, Hugo had seen the wisdom in that idea, but as yet hadn't undone his mistake. Strange as it was, and unnerving as the droid's permenant expression - like an implosion charge had just detinated within its face - happened to be, the mechanoid was beginning to grow on him. If nothing else, it was company.

"Yes, uh -" Hugo realised that as yet, he had not attempted to associate the droid with any kind of identity. He briefly scanned its plating, but saw nothing obvious. "Do you have a name?"

The droid jerked backwards, as if surprised by such a blunt question. "My designation is CZ-41, though my owner - previous, I suppose - used to refer to me by the moniker 'Sleazy'. I believe it may have been derogatory."

Hugo smiled a little at the mixture of oblivous and frankness in the droid's words. "Well then, Sleazy; what can I do for you?"

"Well." The droid appeared to consider its words carefully. "I do not mean to pester unnecessarily, but I believe that an auditory indicator, intended to announce our proximity to our destination Hyperspace coordinates, has been driggered. As I understand it, the appropriate course of action would be to decrease our velocity, and revert to real-space."

Hugo winced, and nodded. Piloting the ship. Yeah; he was meant to be doing that. "Good idea," he said with a reassuring nod and, with a certain amount of droid-dodging, rose to his feet. Quick strides ate up the short distance to the helm, and within a few moments he had situated himself in the pilots seat. Star lines snapped back into distinct points, and ahead of them, the familiar orb of Cularin loomed - a little larger than intended, but still a safe distance away.

Cularin. Hugo stared at it in silence for a few moments. With any luck, on the emerald world below, the answers he was hoping for were waiting.

Kansas Cabin, Cularin

"You sure these are the right coordinates?"

Vittore's eyes narrowed as he peered at the tumble-down building ahead of them, more of a ruin than a viable residence. They'd managed a brief exchange with Elroy via holonet, and these were the coordinates he had provided: almost literally the middle of nowhere, aside from the fact that it clearly had some significance, else they wouldn't be there. The conversation had been short, but Elroy hadn't mentioned any significant danger; as a result, the ordnance that Vittore and Cambrio carried on their person was casual and restrained, though large guns were only a panic-fuelled sprint away in their hired landspeeder.

A pair of dagger eyes rounded on Vittore. "Yes," Cambrio muttered, through clenched teeth. "I'm sure these are the right coordinates."

Vittore's hand reached out, and snatched the datapad from Cambrio's grip. "You always did suck at reading maps," he muttered, orientating the device correctly, and running through the process of acquiring a signal from one of the planet's orbital nav beacons. A few moments of scrutiny and a wrinkled nose later, he handed the device back to Cambrio, and let his hands rest on his hips. "Yeah, these are the right coordinates. I don't get it."

"Maybe Elroy planned a surprise party, or something, and didn't want us to know," Cambrio offered, a subtle lilt of sarcasm in his voice.

Vittore clearly missed it. "Its your birthday?" he asked, with a frown. Cambrio stared back with blank frustration. Vittore blinked. "Its my birthday?" Cambrio's eyes actually rolled; Vittore's mouth broadened into a grin. "Oh, man. All this planet-swapping, and I've totally lost track of the date." He rubbed his hands together gleefully. "I hope Elroy bought strippers."

"First," Cambrio bit back, tired frustration lacing his words, "Is it actually possible for a thought to form in your head without female nudity being involved?" He didn't bother waiting for an answer; from past experience, the question was pretty rhetorical. "Second of all, it isn't your birthday; thats still four months away. And third -" He looked at Vittore with a puzzled frown. "Why the hell would we be celebrating it at a tumble-down shack on some backwater planet?"

Vittore threw back a scorned look. "Why do you have to piss on all my fun, huh?"

"Because you're a moron?"

Face locked in a pouting scowl, Vittore's voice turned into a dark mutter beneath his breath. "Worst birthday ever."

Cambrio unleased an exasperated sigh. "Look. Shall we go see if there's anything inside the creepy tumble-down cabin in the woods?"

Vittore offered a non-comittal shrug. "Doesn't seem as fun without the prospect of strippers."

"I promise," Cambrio countered, by way of an olive branch. "As soon as we're done with whatever we're here to do, I will pay for you to go to a strip club. Okay?"

Musing the notion carefully, Vittore cast a lopsided smile. "Yeah, I guess that's okay."

"Great."

Cambrio set off trudging up the path that approached the cabin; behind his back however, Vittore's expression turned into a grin. Free strippers. Sweet.

* * *

The door was twisted and rotten; it didn't take much to snap free enough fragments by hand to allow them entrance. Vittore signalled for silence with a gesture, and reached into his jacket to retrieve his favourite blaster. Cambrio nodded, mirroring his action. Just because the door didn't show evidence of human entry didn't necessarily mean the building was unoccupied. Left dormant for as long as it seemed to have been, wildlife could have taken up residence; both brothers had learned from painful experience that even the smaller of the galaxy's varied creatures could do a decent amount of damage if provoked by, say, two humans blundering into their nest.

Vittore led the way inside, sighting down the barrel of his blaster as he aimed up the stairs; into the lounge; dining room; study. All clear. Empty. He signalled as much to Cambrio. The two paced slowly, careful not to allow their footsteps to resonate too loudly on the wooden floors. One by one, the ground floor rooms were identified as vacant and undisturbed. A short corridor led them through to a closed door: the only one that appeared to be still attatched to its hinges. The duo exchanged a brief sequence of nods and signals. Vittore began to count down from three on his fingers. Two. One -

Wood splintered from the frame as Vittore's boot bashed the door open, swinging it wildly into the room. The two lept forward, blasters ready; the sight that confronted them was hardly what they expected. A fire burned away happily in the hearth; lanterns hung on the wall cast a little illumination, in lieu of the electricity that the building no longer had. A long, solid wood table extended across most of what was apparently the kitchen; seated around it were a half-dozen or so people who didn't look in the least bit phased by their appearence.

"Its about damn time you boys showed up," Hugo muttered gruffly, settling himself down at the head of the table.

Vittore blinked, blaster wavering downwards. "Dad?"

Cambrio however was far too quick-witted to allow the unexpected to distract him. "How did you get in here?" he asked, a puzzled frown attacking his brow. "The front door looked like it hadn't been touched in years."

"There is a back door," Hugo explained, as if it was blatantly obvious. "With two speeders parked outside, in fact; which you would have noticed if you'd done a proper perimeter sweep before barging in here. Like I taught you to."

Vittore's voice dropped low, fired sidelong at Cambrio. "Told you we should have done a perimeter sweep."

"Yeah, right," Cambrio scoffed. "You were too busy thinking about the imaginary strippers."

A pair of optimistic eyes flicked in the direction of the the only woman in the room - well, barring Vittore's remarkably effeminate brother, anyway. "One is enough," he uttered back at Cambrio, before turning his attention fully to Jo, and throwing her a quirk of eyebrow and a flash of his trademark heart-fluttering and pant-moistening smile. "Hey there." Vittore interpreted the look of mild annoyance that she fired back as a solid 'maybe'.

"If you're quite done," Elroy interjected, with a hint of edge in his voice, "We're meant to be here for a reason." His eyes sought out Hugo. "Right?"

"While we're asking sensible questions," Cambrio added, suddenly spotting his opportunity to snipe the only remaining vacant seat in the chair, thus relegating his brother to standing, "Who exactly are we? I'm afraid I recognise almost no one."

Vittore aimed a finger towards Amos and Jaden. "Well, I know those two."

Hugo seemed surprised; even he wasn't completely sure who the duo in question were, beyond the brief introduction he'd already recieved. "You do?"

Jaden nodded, managing to drag Vittore's face out from the depths of his memory. "A few years back, he was a passenger of ours. We encountered an adrift pirate freighter out on the edge of Hutt Space. Turned out that one of the slaves they had aboard was in fact a psychotic shapeshifter, and had decided to eat everyone."

A smile formed on Vittore's lips at the memory. "Good times."

Patience only extended so far, and while the exchange was enlightening, he wasn't prepared to risk allowing his precious memories to slip while the banter continued. "It doesn't matter who knows who," he interrupted, eyes roaming the group. "What matters is that there is a problem out there, and the nine of us are the only people in the galaxy right now who can do something about it."

The words mulled over in Cambrio's mind. Something big; something significant. "Is this what you've been working on the last few years, dad?" he asked, frowning. "This why you disappeared?"

Hugo shook his head. "We can thank our friendly neighbourhood Galactic Empire for that. I spent the last two years rotting in one of their cells." His mind wandered at that thought, flashes of the cell, the light, the pain - her eyes - and everything else that had transpired surging through his mind. He wrestled them down; restored his focus. "No. This is something of a longer-lasting project." His pause was almost ominous; certainly dramatic. "Besides myself, there are only three people in the galaxy that know what happened to your mother, Cambrio. Elroy, Victor -- and her."

Vittore let out a breath of disbelief. "But mom is dead, right? I mean, she doesn't really know anything anymore."

He could see Hugo's emotions boiling up behind his eyes; stepping in, Elroy took the conversational bullet for the moment. "Your mother isn't dead, son. She -"

"Yes she is," Victor interjected, a little more sternly than he'd perhaps intended. His eyes cast a dark look at Elroy before he tried again, at a more controlled tone this time. "Your mother died on Coruscant, a long time ago. The woman that she was no longer exists. But something took her over; something is out there, running around the galaxy, wearing her face as if its her own."

Hugo and his brother exchanged a look; a note of thanks passed between them. Victor knew how important that distinction was to Hugo; how hard this would be otherwise if it wasn't there to cling on to. His voice was tired, and strained as he addressed the boys directly. "Turns out that your mother was a Jedi. Well, Sith. Force user. Whatever you want to call it. I never knew, until I came home from deployment one day, and found her -" He searched his memory; strained to find those missing fragments of exactly what had transpired in the nursery. But they elluded him; the memory was still a blur. "- doing something to Cambrio. I'm not sure what, but when I tried to stop her, she turned on me. Used her powers to pin me against the wall. I -" His voice trailed off, eyes falling away as he struggled to convert his confession into words. "I had to stop her. Had to save you both. So I - I shot her. I had to."

"But she didn't die," Elroy continued on Hugo's behalf, taking the reins while Hugo had a moment to collect himself. "Whatever darkness had taken hold of her, it picked up her body and walked it out of the appartment." He gestured towards the ceiling; a vague indication of the house they were in. "Your father brought you here to escape; this is the house your mother grew up in. But she found you. Tried to harm you both again. Hell, your mother even killed her own sister: Cambria gave her life so you boys would be able to escape."

Cambrio and Vittore stared blankly, struggling to process the information that was being presented. It seemed incomprehensible; unfathomable. Their mother, who their father had only spoken of with the kindest, most loving words, had in fact been something dark and evil: so twisted that she would turn on her own family. Cambrio's jaw worked, trying to find words. "Why would she -?"

"Emaryn Montegue did nothing to harm you," Hugo insisted, fixing his sons in turn with a burning stare. "Get that straight in your heads right now. Your mother did nothing but love you. Something betrayed and murdered her. And that thing is exactly the sort of thing that we've spent our lives so far hunting."

Amaros' eyes widened as that particular revelation came to pass, and decided it was the appropriate time to weigh in with his own sentiments. "That's what this is about? You know where this thing is, and we're going after it?"

"No." Hugo trampled that thought before it even had a chance to form. "Lets not get ahead of ourselves. I don't know where she is. And the Imperials screwed my memory up completely: any clues I have are a jumbled mess."

"Then why are we here?" The question came from Jaden, but no one decided to throw in a sarcastic retort about him not having been invited anyway.

Hugo produced a rolled-up flimsy from inside his jacket, and spread it out on the table. "I've been doing a lot of research over the last twenty or so years, trying to work out where whatever killed Emaryn has gone. I was getting close too; I remember that much. The information we need is stored in a secure memory drive, buried deep in the data core of my old ship."

Amaros winced. "Your old ship, that a bunch of mercenaries went and stole."

"Right." Hugo peered around the assembled again, a glimmer of determination in his eyes. "I know who took her. We know where they are. How would the eight of you feel about a rescue mission?"

Hugo stood, and watched it unfold.

He watched himself step through the door. Watched the fear flash in his own eyes as he saw. Watched himself hesitate. Panic. All in an instant. He was watching, through someone else's disembodied eyes and yet, as the memory rolled past at a painfully slow pace, he felt every emotion, magnified by the years that had passed since.

"What the hell are you doing to my son?"

She didn't react; at least, not much. But from this side - from this perspective - he saw the confliction in her eyes. Saw fear there as well. He watched himself step closer, hand outstretched towards her. "Step away from Cambrio."

A flinch; barely noticable. He hadn't seen it at the time. Hadn't seen the sadness and panic swimming behind her eyes. "I can't do that." Her voice was like music to his ears, but it sounded bittersweet and sorrowful. He hadn't noticed that before, either.

He felt an ache in his chest; a gnawing doubt. Watched himself advance, his voice taking on the edge of a predatory growl. "I said, step away from my son."

Anger flashed in her eyes, so intense that he almost felt it himself. Her eyes flashed, transformed from the deep and dark browns that he'd drowned in so happily each night, into a firey amber that glowed with the intensity of a star. She lashed out, but her arm never made contact, unseen forces throwing him across the room; pinning him against the wall with irresistable strength.

He knew what happened to him; he'd relived it near every night since then. But this dream seemed different: more vivid than ever. He saw things in her that he had not seen before. What he had taken for malice had instead been hurt. What he'd mistaken as a smile of satisfaction had been the tuggings of remorse at her features. How different the world seemed, when you saw it through new eyes.

Then the shot came. The blaster tumbled from Hugo's fingers. Emaryn's body crumpled, a smoking hole burned into her chest. She fell; collapsed into the pose that had burned into his eyes, and haunted him whenever his focus strayed. The Hugo of the past fled, off to whisk his sons away to safety. But the other Hugo remained. Tears glistened in his eyes as he stepped over to her; crouched beside her lifeless form.

He sensed a presence behind him, and he knew. Her hand came to rest on his shoulder. "This is a dream," he said aloud.

The world melted around him; shifted and reformed into the familiar surroundings of the Kansas Cabin, back on Cularin. Except this time, it wasn't dark and damp; didn't reek of abandonment and neglect. It was bright. Homely. Just as it had been back then.

"More of a vision than a dream."

Hugo turned his eyes to Cambria, his sister: the in-law part didn't enter into it. Cambria and Emaryn had always been close, and so Hugo and she had been as well. She looked different now, though: not the tired and saddened woman, still reeling from the death of her husband, and rattled by the news of her sisters fate. She seemed calm. Tranquil. Almost regal.

"A vision?" Hugo's voice was skeptical. While he had seen the Force acting with his own eyes, he'd always found it difficult to believe in acts that couldn't be quantified. Far too much of the Jedi's ways seemed to be drawn from dreams and fantasy; too intangeable and abstract for the old soldier's liking.

A smile broke on Cambria's face. "Don't worry," she assured, a shred of the old wry personality that he remembered creeping through, like a lance of sunlight between clouds. "You aren't turning into a Jedi or anything." She frowned, no doubt searching for the best way to explain. "This vision is mine; I am merely allowing you to see what I witnessed through my mind's eye."

"You're dead." Hugo's statement was blunt, but truthful. At least, it was as close to truth as he could get. Victor had returned to the cabin, after Hugo had fled to safety. But unlike Emaryn, who had somehow risen to her feet and walked away after a fatal blaster shot, with Cambria they had found a body. Hugo hadn't asked how she died; just accepted that she had.

Cambria nodded at his statement. "Yes. But I have since become one with the Force. I am -" She searched for more words. "- a manifestation. A projection of my thoughts and my emotions, into your mind."

"A ghost?"

Another flash of a smile. "If you like. Though I am not yet skilled enough to appear before you while you are awake." She waved an arm around her. "Hence the dramatics."

Hugo didn't know what to believe. This could be a side effect of whatever it was that Amaros had brought with him to drink; something alcoholic and brewed with shaak's milk, apparently. But something felt honest about her words. They seemed truthful, and real, even though there was no possible way he could know for sure. "Why?" he asked, brows knitting together in a frown.

"Because Emaryn needs you to save her, Hugo. She needs you to pull her back from the brink of the Dark Side, and let her become one with the Force, as I have."

Hugo laughed, leaning back in his chair and raking his fingers through his hair. "Save her?" He shook his head, and sighed. "I don't even know where to start looking."

Cambria's smile was enigmatic. "I suggest you take your own advice," she offered, a glimmer of something in her eyes. "As you always tell the boys: it is always best to start from the beginning."

* * *

Hugo's eyes snapped open. A hand rested on his shoulder, exactly where Cambria's had been minutes before, in his dream, or vision, or whatever it was. It didn't belong to her, however. He glanced upwards, following the arm until it reached proximity with a face. Vittore. He mustered a flash of smile.

"I'm done with my bunk," Vittore said softly, easing himself down into the observers seat, a little behind and to the side of the pilot's station his father occupied. Concern was washed across his expression, and his efforts to hide it were pittifully unsuccessful; but then, Hugo always had been able to read his son. That was part of the reason that Vittore never really had an allowance as a child; he'd always challenge his father at cards, and Hugo would invariably win it back.

Eyes falling to the console, Hugo frowned a little as he pretended to read the displays, searching for a means to deflect Vittore's question without provoking a sappy bonding moment. "Looks like we're only a few minutes from Lok," he replied, with a gesture towards the screens. He forced a hint of reassurance onto his face. "I'll sleep when we're done."

Vittore nodded, not satisfied with the answer, but resigned to accept it. "You're the boss."

Satisfaction washed through Hugo. Of the two boys, Vittore had always been closer to the warrior ideal that Hugo had striven for: willing to take orders without question, based on the trust he had in the one giving them. That wasn't to say that Hugo wasn't proud of his other son; on the contrary, Cambrio's initiative, and his inquisitive nature made him just as capable, and he meant just as much to Hugo as his brother. Its just that things were easier with Vittore.

The downside was that at times, Vittore felt more like a subordinate than a son. He never said anything, but Hugo could see it in his eyes at times. The affection and acceptance that Cambrio strove for, Vittore craved just as much: he just commanded the virtue of patience, on that issue at least. It was one of the things that Hugo would have to rectify, once this was all done, and he could concentrate on being a better father. He frowned a little at Vittore. "How are you doing?" he asked, his tone genuine.

"Me?" Vittore frowned as well; his mind leapt instantly behind its mask of humour, a lopsided smile forming on his lips. "I've got my brother back; I've got my dad back; and we're on a family trip to go kick the ass of some mercenaries. Just like old times." His smile faltered, the warmth falling away from his tone a little. "I'm okay, dad," he offered, as reassuringly as he could. "Are you?"

Hugo's smile wasn't nearly so convincing, but it did the job. "I will be, son," he said softly, eyes falling away to regard the swirling Hyperspace void beyond the viewport. "I will be."

Adi's Rest, Lok

The jagged tooth of the volcano loomed above them, but the shadow it cast was half-hearted: robbed of intensity by the diffuse sunlight that barely managed to penetrate through the perpetually clouded skies. The Headhunter nestled low on the desolate lava fields, beached upon the barren surface like a great bird descended to roost. Huddled beneath her wing, the Montegues and their comrades-in-arms formulated their plan.

"If they spotted our approach," Amos revealed, arms folded across his chest as he loomed above the group, insistant on still standing, "They aren't acting like it: security patrols around the perimeter of the facility seem pretty tight."

Jaden subtly adjusted the visor settled over his eyes: even without the glorified electro-binoculars magnifying his vision, the red tint they cast over everything was making it difficult to see in the like-hued Lok wilderness. "I doubt they did though," he chimed in, manipulating the contrast settings to try and make the crude diagram of the compound that Amos had drawn into the dusty ground with a finger stand out a little better. He nodded his head in the direction of the peak behind them. "Unless there are concealed sensor rigs around the place that we didn't pick up on, that volcano back there should have done a pretty good job of shielding us from their sensors, especially given how low we were when we flew in."

His expression fixed in a contemplative mask, Hugo had to admit that the rocket jock that had tagged along with them by accident had certainly earned his keep as the ship had made its approach to the surface. While Hugo could certainly do a decent enough job haulling the Coromon around space, and Victor could pull off some pretty fancy manoeuvres when he needed to, the way that the kid had managed to race over Lok's wasteland contours with their wingtips almost kissing the dust had been in a class of its own. They'd asked for 'nice and low', and boy did they get it.

Hearing no comment from the others, Jaden jabbed a finger at the box-like map with its crude block buildings, marking out the tactical information that he'd observed. Both Amos and he had served as Scout Troopers for the Empire in the past; he'd honestly never expected to find himself relying on that particular skill set again. "There's a static heavy weapons emplacement at both of the south corners," he explained, marking the appropriate vertices with a smudged circle, "And a third over the main gate on the north wall. Looked like E-Web heavy repeaters, constantly manned."

"Don't forget the sentry towers on the north wall," Amos added, with a nudge. "Nothing static, but the rifles those look-outs were carrying seemed like some pretty serious long-range hardware."

Jaden nodded. "Everything seems to be configured to optimise the weapons fire directed at anyone approaching and breaching the main gates. That said, whichever way you come at it, you're still facing at least one sniper and one repeater."

Victor shuffled a little, perched atop a container. "Except from the south," he observed, sagely.

"As far as we're aware," Jaden conceeded, though placing particular emphasis on the uncertainty in his words. "Even if we could take out those weapons from range, it wouldn't take long before they managed to deploy more out of their armoury."

His fingers scratching at the beard spread across his jaw, Elroy unleashed a ponderous noise as his eyes narrowed towards the diagram. Sixteen sets of eyes turned towards him; not realising that he'd actually uttered something, it took a few moments for him to speak. "I'm just thinkin'," he mused aloud. "There's nine of us. They won't have much time to react if we hit 'em all at once."

A smile curled at the corner of Hugo's mouth. "Got something in mind for us, Sarge?" he asked, a playful note in his voice.

"Oh, shut the hell up, suck-ass," Elroy shot back with a scowl. "Its not a plan," he admitted, "But it might be the startin' of one."

* * *

Vittore crouched low against the rise; a crag of more solid rock that the volcano had presumably spat out thousands of years before, and that the elements hadn't managed to grind down just yet. Shuffling a little to find a comfortable nook in the surface, he sighted his eye up against the viewpiece on his rifle. The mercenary compound was almost a klick away, but the electronics within the scope made it appear as big as the broad side of a barn. He glanced to his right where, several meters away, his uncle Victor was similarly poised. A finger rose to Vittore's earpiece, triggering the comlink. "I'm in position," he said softly.

His uncle's response came with a slight time delay. "That makes two of us," he spoke; somewhere between his tone and the vocal distortion, he sounded almost tired, bored by the endeavour they were about to embark upon. How he managed to be so calm illuded Vittore. He was nervous as hell. He'd do the job, but damn: this tense.

"Good to hear," Hugo's voice cut in, sounding exactly as ice-cool and professional as Vittore always remembered. After so long, hearing his dad issuing instructions for a military-style operation like this brought an irresistable grin to his face. "Stand by for my signal."

Doing as instructed, Vittore idly aimed the targetting scopes over one of the figures on the distant wall. His finger itched, straying closer to the trigger of the sniper rifle, butted up against his shoulder, but he drew in a calming breath of patience. Their cue to fire would be very loud, very obvious, and was due any minute -

Vittore heard the roar of her engines and the wine of her repulsorlift drives before he saw her, but only seconds passed until the Headhunter rumbled overhead, Jaden Luka's signature show-off flying swooping her low, to buzz and straffe the mercenary base. Crimson fury spat down from beneath her as her laser turret errupted into life, Elroy's gleeful voice inadvertantly cracking in over the comlink. "Eat laser, you lousy sons of bitches!"

Movement stirred, mercenaries beginning to swarm from within the buildings within the compound, but their frenzied response was premature. An explosion echoed across the planet as a portable rocket launcher spat its ordnance towards the weapons emplacement above the main gate, fire twisting the durasteel and duracrete, and tearing the defenses asunder. Distracted by the over-flying ship, the snipers in the sentry tower fumbled to position themselves ready to shoot at the occupants of the landspeeder that had suddenly appeared; taking the initiative, Vittore squeezed off a shot at his pre-assigned target, his uncle taking care of the other. "Repeaters," Victor stated calmly, and Vittore adjusted his name, a trio duo of shots launched across the distance to the merc base; an extra one for good measure, to take care of the first E-Web gun crew. Victor, ever the professional, did the job with just two. Hell, knowing Uncle Vic, he'd have taken them both down in one if they'd had the decency to stand one behind the other.

Turning his sights on the carnage within the base, Vittore picked out his father and brother, and the father-son team from Naboo, blasting their way through whatever paltry opposition the mercenaries had mustered. They seemed to have abandoned their landspeeder - some vintage thing that the Headhunter's previous owner had apparently left aboard - and were proceeding on foot. The Mandalorian had cast off the rocket launcher as well, in favour of an equally large and impressive-looking heavy blaster. No doubt he was peeved at the slightly reduced collateral damage, but at least the rifle would be good for more than a meagre six shots.

"Come on." He heard the voice through his earpiece; a moment later, his uncle's hand fell on his shoulder. "Our job is done," he said in a low mutter. "Lets get to the rendezvous, before the mercs work out where the Hunter is landing."

Reluctantly, Vittore nodded, and heaved himself off the ground, following Victor as they jogged the short distance to where the two Speeder Bikes - the same two that Amos and Jaden had used when performing their recon earlier - were hovering in wait. Victor wasted no time, stowing his rifle and vaulting aboard; he hesitated only a moment to ensure that Vittore was following, before rocketting off into the distance. Vittore lingered for a moment longer, staring off over the rise, where the rising smoke from Amaros' rocket assault was slowly rising. Good luck, dad, he wished, before jumping on the bike, and screaming off after his uncle.

* * *

The vibroblade hummed and sang as it cut through targets that strayed too close, the blaster in his other hand ringing out a staccato rhythm in the background. Crimson and blue leapt back and forth between the parties, but in the close-quarters combat that had errupted since they'd broken through the doors into the hangar, the lack of cover and clear lines of fire made everyone reluctant to shoot. Well, made the mercenaries reluctant to shoot at least: the Montegues and Iakonas - or Koines, Amos supposed - didn't have any such trepedations.

The main discouragement to return fire came from Amaros, striding confidently down the corridor with a Z-6 rotary blaster cannon slung over his shoulder, spitting out a rain of indigo towards anything and everything ahead of them that moved. Beside him, Amos picked off the stragglers with blaster and vibroblade; Hugo paced on the far side with a rifle that seemed to hurl bolts magnetically attracted to the heads of mercenary targets; Cambrio was covering their rear and, while he had seemed near enough useless from what Amos had seen of him earlier, had managed to chalk up a respectable body count of his own as well, despite the reduced availability of targets.

The group moved as a fluid unit, advancing through the bowels of the structure, and eventually bursting into the main hanger itself. Mercenaries unleashed fire from all directions; the hunters shifted for cover, taking up position behind storage crates just inside the entrance. Slowly they worked their way around, precious cargo providing cover, until they found themselves with their backs against the prize they had come for. A glance upwards between return fire allowed Amos' eyes to settle on a heavy set of reinforced durasteel doors. They showed signs of damage from the Headhunter's fly-by, but fortunately didn't seem like they were about to collapse on them all. Lets hope they still open, he mused.

Covering fire provided by the other three, Cambrio broke out from his concealed position, and sprinted off towards the control room that would allow them to retract the roof. One of the mercenaries poised himself for a well-aimed shot, but a timely grenade hurled by Hugo scattered chunks of the container he was hiding behind - and chunks of him - across several square meters of deck.

A trio of shots burst from Amos' blaster. "They have fighters," he said in a low voice, a carefully-aimed shot cutting out the legs of someone trying to use the wing of one as cover.

"There's not much we can do about that," Hugo's reply came, though Amos had to strain to hear it over the firefight.

Amaros' reply came in a different form - namely a roar, a twist, and then a ceaseless barrage of blaster fire directed towards a fuel container, strapped to the far wall behind the planes in question. Fire burst out of the container, and leapt towards the fighters: secondary explosions ripped through them as their own fuel and atmosphere reserves were ignited. The ships were hardly unsalvagable - most starfighters were built to handle pretty tough hits - but it was enough to keep them grounded for now, and did make for some pretty explosions.

A clanking groan echoed from above as the hangar doors began to open. Amos muttered a silent recindment of some of the negative things he'd thought about Cambrio earlier; thankfully, the comlink didn't pick up that particular admission. "Move, now!" Hugo's voice instructed in his ear; following orders, Amos rose to his feet and, snapping off a few shots to drive off pursuit, followed Hugo through the open hatch into his ship.

"I'll hold the door!" Amaros shouted. It was strange how quickly the sound of the firefight died, stepping inside the heavy-hulled ship.

Hugo nodded, but didn't allow his momentum to slow, leaping up the stairs that provided access to the upper level two at a time. "Lock her up as soon as Cambrio is onboard."

Amos hesitated in the doorway, torn between helping his father, and helping prep the ship. "Go," his father urged, with a nod. "There's too many switches for him to flip them all on his own."

Without another thought, Amos set off at a run, jamming his blaster back into the holster on his hip as he moved. Reaching the top of the stairs, he had no clue where to go, but the gantry fortunately provided few options. His frantic pace closed the gap between him and Hugo; enough for the man to hear him coming, at least. "Bridge," he instructed, pointing a hand down the appropriate corridor. "Start the pre-flights; I'll warm the engines. Cambrio will take over as soon as he gets here."

"You got it," Amos aknowledged, setting off down the indicated corridor with renewed purpose. More stairs appeared; he practically leapt up them, throwing himself onto the bridge, and into the left of its apparently twin consoles. He stared at the controls, momentarily bemused by the unfamiliar design; a moment of concentration however picked out a few familiar similarities with the Astral Queen, and a few switch-flips later, things started coming to life.

Cambrio appeared, a minute or two later. "Did they open properly?" he asked, a little frantic, running past the help to peer out of the bridge's vast viewport. The Lok sky loomed above. He let out a sigh of relief.

Amos glanced up from his console. "I really have no idea what I'm doing."

"Right," Cambrio muttered, stepping over and seating himself in the right-hand seat. His eyes flicked over the status display, reading aloud what steps had already been completed. "Air seals are good," he stated. "Sublights are green, and repulsorlifts are -" He cut himself off, activating a few more systems, and gripping the controls. "We have what we need; we can worry about the rest once people aren't shooting at us."

The deck plates rumbled beneath them as the grav plating and inertial compensators fought to negate the force of take-off. The view of the hanger outside the main viewport pitched downwards, and the Coromon Headhunter began to climb towards the sky. The deck slightly tilted as the artificial fought against the planet's natural gravity, Hugo climbed into view with a little effort. "Head for orbit," he instructed, heading straight for a bank of computer hardware in the port-aft corner. "The hyperdrive is spooling up; we should be good to head for the rendezvous as soon as we break atmo."

With evident relief, Cambrio relaxed a little in his seat. Amos felt himself doing the same. Amaros however clambered into the hatchway with a broad grin on his face. "I saw some really cool stuff back there. Can we go back and steal that as well?"

Coromon Headhunter, Tythe

By comparison to the Headhunter II, the old Coromon Headhunter looked outdated and antiquated. She lacked the sleek lines and aerodynamic surfaces. She didn't have that aggressive, predatory look. Didn't look fast and formidable; hell, she looked like a lumbering, fat-bellied space dragon, to be honest. That she managed to fly at all was more a feat of miracle than a feat of engineering. But Hugo didn't care. The Coromon was more than just a ship. She was home, and had been for most of his life; and most of his son's lives as well. Her deckplates and her bulkheads had soaked up every precious memory; as he paced along the corridor that ran down her spine, he smiled as his fingertips traced along the walls. He could feel everything that he had lost slowly seeping from her back into him; as if through force of will, the ship was repairing the damage that the Empire had wrought on his mind.

Her memory banks had helped as well. The journey from Lok to Tythe had been relatively short, but he'd had enough time to read through his Journals. Much of his mind still felt full of holes, and while the records had helped to patch over some of them, he had still struggled to decipher Cambria's cryptic instructions; then a literal approach had sprung to mind. He had started from the beginning. Not on Coruscant, nor on Cularin: those had been at the end of his old life. His new life had begun somewhere completely different: on a world called Ord Anor.

It was vague. It was a stretch. But it was the best he had; and he knew in his gut that it was the right next step. The only challenge that remained was convincing everyone else, without making them think he was crazy.

Elroy's voice assaulted him, the moment he stepped into the ship's mess. "Well?" he urged, his tone posessing an anxious edge; Hugo couldn't be sure if he was from desire to continue with their mission, or from a desire to find out that Hugo had found nothing, so he'd abandon this fools quest and take them all home. "What happens now?"

Hugo breathed out a hint of a sigh, a shred of reluctance toying with his brow as he turned his gaze on Elroy. "What happens is that you go home," he said, his voice gentle but with a forceful trace that warned against argument. Elroy's mouth moved in preparation to issue protest. Hugo cut in before the words had left him. "Lok was already asking too much of you. What happens next is -" He struggled for the right words. "Its personal. And its dangerous. I can't ask anyone else to take that risk." He hesitated, and forced himself to confront the disappointment in Elroy's eyes. He offered a brief glimmer of solace. "I need you to get Jo to safety."

"I can help!" she interjected, scorn in his voice. "I'm not afraid."

A chuckle fell from Hugo's lips. "I'm sure you aren't. But I am." A look of puzzlement swept across her features. "Specifically, I'm afraid of what your mother would do to me if I ever let anything happen to you." Jo hardly seemed satisfied with the answer, but reluctantly resigned to it; for now, at least, she offered no protest.

Hugo's eyes switched to the rest of the group, studying them each in turn. "This is about family," he said, with a hint of pride. His gaze took in Jaden, and Amos, and Amaros. "I hope you understand."

"My ship is on Cularin," Jaden stated simply, expertly dodging the awkwardness of trying to compete with such an emotionally resonant sentiment. He glanced in Elroy's direction. "I could use a ride to get back there."

Elroy grunted. "I'm sure we can arrange something, he assured."

Hugo let out a sigh, and nodded. He always hated goodbyes of any incarnation - not because they were emotionally difficult or anything, but purely because they usually wound up being awkward, and no one ever knew quite what to say. "We should make it fast," he went with; a blunt statement of fact. "If those mercenaries saw us leave, it won't be long before they find us here."

Taking their cue, the departing members rose, and slowly filed out of the room. Curiously, Amaros didn't budge from his seat, causing Amos and Jaden to halt in the doorway. Hugo frowned at him. "You heard what I said, right?"

"I did," Amaros stated gruffly. "But if you think a slight difference in genetics excludes me from being family, then I guess you don't know very much about Mandalorians."

Amos killed a smile of pride at his father's skill at crafting a watertight counterpoint. "I guess that means I'm coming with you as well."

"Amos -" Jaden warned, a nervous tone in his voice.

Turning towards his companion, Amos placed a reassuring hand on his shoulders. "I'll be fine," he assured, as best he could. "I'll find my way back to the Rebellion on my own."

Jaden sighed, and shook his head. "No you won't; I will find my way back on my own. The Queen will be on Cularin when you need her."

"You sure?"

The pilot shrugged. "Hey: worst case scenario, I stun the other two and take their ship." He chuckled, but the sound was a little forced. His own hand clapped on Amos' shoulder. "Watch out for yourself."

Hugo felt a twist in his gut as Jaden disappeared from sight, and Amos returned to the table. He wanted to protest, and order them away, but knew he couldn't. And frankly, he could probably use all the help he could get. Still, he couldn't take anyone's assistant for granted. His eyes turned to Victor. "I know things between us have been -"

"I live like a hermit, in the forest," Victor interrupted, before Hugo's sentence had a chance to finish. His tone was sarcastic, but Hugo knew this was the closest Victor would ever allow him to come to being sentimental. Their eyes met for a moment, before Victor glanced away, determined not to be caught engaged in any kind of mushy stuff. "Lets be honest here," he continued, throwing a wry grin in Vittore's direction. "This is the most fun I've had in years."

Cambrio cut in as well, before Hugo could speak again. "And you don't even have to ask us, dad."

The sentiments were almost overwhelming, and if it weren't so vital that Hugo maintain his composure in the interests of leadership, he might have allowed himself to succome. He managed not to, settling instead for a curt nod.

"Like Elroy said," Vittore chimed in, determined to divert an awkward silence before one formed. "What happens now?"

Hugo drew a breath, searching for the best way to reveal what was going on. "Your mother wasn't the only one who had Force abilities," he explained, focusing his attention directly on his sons. "Your aunt, Cambria, had them as well. Not long after I found out about your mother, we fled to Cularin. She followed us; your aunt stayed behind to hold her off, so that we could escape." There was a hint of disgust in his voice. He had forgotten so much at the hands of the Empire, and while before he had tortured himself over those actions for years, now he viewed them with renewed shame. "She died. But she isn't gone. She's somehow out there; her spirit is manifesting through the Force or something."

"Like, a ghost?" Vittore asked, confused.

Cambrio frowned with intregue. "Is that even possible?"

Hugo shrugged. "Apparently so. And she's trying to help, albeit in a very cryptic and Jedi style way." He reached out, activating a holo display at the center of the table they all surrounded. "She said that we should start looking at the beginning. Which, I think, means Ord Anor. That was the first time I tried to hunt something supernatural. I don't know how, but I think we may find some clues there."

Amaros turned uncharacteristically pale as he stared at the star map in front of him. Worry translated onto Hugo's face. "Something wrong?"

"Is," Amaros asked, reluctance in his voice, "There another planet in that system? One called Ord Ithil?"

Hugo manipulated the controls on the display, zooming in on the respective system. A slice through the system's equator magnified; several orbits out from Ord Anor, a new world appeared on the screen. Hugo glanced at the Mandalorian. "Is that significant?"

Nodding slowly, Amaros shared a significant glance with his son. "There is a legend about an old Republic world by that name. The settlement was abandoned after the entire population mysteriously died. Republic rescue parties tried to find them, but they never made it off the surface. Even the Mandalorians tried; the story goes that one of the warriors managed to tell the ship in orbit what had attacked them." He paused, either for dramatic effect, or purely due to reluctance. "He called it je'karta dar."

"And that means?" Cambrio asked.

Another hesitation, before the younger Amos provided the answer. "It means 'vengeful dark'."

Silence fell across the room as they pondered the implications of something that the mighty Mandalorians might be fearful of. Ordinarily, Hugo would dismiss such mythology out of hand, but over the years he had discovered that there was some truth in everything; and when the Force became involved, who knew what something as abstract as darkness might be capable of?

Victor was the one who chose to speak next. A grimace flashed across his features. "Is it too late to back out, and run away like a coward?"

Coromon Headhunter, Ord Ithil

As they reverted from hyperspace, everyone clustered in the cockpit to witness the world that was their destination. Instantly, Vittore wished they hadn't; or at least, he wished someone else had been piloting, so that he could not be there. What was apparently once a habitable world looked more like a nightmare version of Kessel; and that planet was pretty grim to start with. Ominous dark clouds swam around the upper atmosphere, broken only in places by patches of deep, crimson red where the sunlight from the system's star managed to penetrate. Lightning sparked in flashes below, explosions of light rippling across the surface.

Yeah, Vittore mused, piloting the craft along the course his father had indicated. I definately wish I was somewhere else right now.

Hugo had appropriated the co-pilot's seat - a mirror reflection of the terminal at which Vittore now sat - and was studying the sensor telemetry from the planet below with a great deal of intregue. He'd already announced that he was having trouble penetrating beneath the cloud cover with his scans; that didn't exactly fill the elder son with confidence. Still, they'd managed to dredge up a map from an old Republic topographical survey, and with the help of a geostationary satellite that the rescue expedition had placed - ominously warning away anyone approaching the planet - they'd come up with a rough estimation of the colony's probable location. Of course, no one had asked what they'd do if she wasn't there. No one had asked what they'd do if Hugo turned out to just have been driven crazy by captivity, either. But Vittore didn't need to ask. Didn't need to question the plan. He'd been ordered to fly the ship through those creepy looking clouds, and land her in a settlement that was probably - hopefully - there.

"Well, its official," Hugo revealed from his terminal, shooting a glance over his shoulder to his own brother. "The Galactic Republic has been informed of a breach of the Ord Ithil quarantine perimeter."

Victor grunted. "That's reassuring. Think they'll send a Senate Commando to sort out whatever is going on?"

"I was thinking more of a Sector Ranger." Hugo cracked a hint of a smile, but a proximity alert from the console killed it. He frowned, gruffly, eyes turning back in its direction. "We're approaching the upper atmosphere," he advised. "You guys might wanna head back mid-ship and buckle up. We might experience some slight turbulence."

"This is why I hate flying," Amaros grumbled, leading the way out of the cockpit with Amos, Victor, and Cambrio in tow.

Hugo's eyes flicked across to settle on Vittore. The son glanced into his gaze. "You sure you don't want to take her down yourself, dad?"

The smile returned to Hugo's features. "I have faith in you, son. Take us in."

* * *

Though the clouds glowed with their own inner light, it wasn't bright enough to illuminate anything: not this far down, at any rate. Even so, as the figure wandered the surface, he percieved everything. Each surface - every building, every roadway, every statue, bench, withered husk of a tree - was saturated with darkness; with fear, anger, hate and death. He felt every ounce of it in his mind, and it tugged at all his senses. It was like the rancid scent of the planet's rotting carcass.

He stared down at his gut, and the jagged tear through his clothing where hours before - or perhaps days, or weeks; time had lost all meaning here - a great spear of metal had lodged itself in his chest. Now all that remained where the wound should have been was smooth, unmarred and unscarred skin. Through their collective, malevolant power, the clouds had manipulated the Force, and once again torn the sweet release of death from his groping fingers.

Inyos Aamoran had lost track of the passage of time while on Ord Ithil; and it appeared that the passage of time had lost track of him as well. Despite his decade trapped on the lifeless world, his features showed no more signs of age than they had on the day he had arrived. Through their power over the Dark Side, the clouds that kept him trapped here had held him preserved. He did not hunger, or thirst; had no need for sleep; and despite his efforts every day since, they would not allow him liberty. What he had done to warrant such punishment, he could not fathom, and yet he was forced to endure it, unceasing.

Something of his perception of the skies above shifted; a ripple in the disposition of the clouds. Something new - something distinctive, free of the imprint that marked everything else on this world - appeared. A ship; perhaps six souls onboard. A memory triggered from inside his mind. He recalled his first days here; how he had not been alone. How he had been twisted by the Dark Side; and had slain the only other souls on the planet. How had they died, and yet he had not? Was that the first step of his punishment: forced to live with the knowledge of the murders he had comitted? Or was there more to it than that? Were the clouds merely indifferent as to who incurred their punishment, provided it was one person, alone? Or was he simply not allowed to kill himself?

His eyes narrowed. Six souls. If one of them was made to die, then he would know it was possible. Then, he would allow their retaliation to end his own life. And finally he would have the freedom he craved.

* * *

Whether it was through force of will, or will of Force, Vittore couldn't be sure. He'd been flying purely on instruments, and frankly they weren't giving him all that much help. But somehow, they'd managed to settle safely on the surface. As he stared out at the blackness that had painted itself across the viewport, he felt a chill down his spine. This place seemed impossible; the sooner they left, the better.

Controls locked down, he abandoned the bridge to join the rest of the family, assembled in the cargo bay beside the airlock. Victor seemed to be once again scrutinising the colony blueprints they'd obtained, and trying to match up the skyline to the sketchy telemetry they'd managed to scrape off the sensors during their approach. Amaros appeared busy, attempting to work out how to strap as many guns to himself as possible. A much more familiar sight was provided by his brother and father.

"What do you mean, 'stay here'?" Cambrio threw back, a familiar mix of outrage and whine lacing his voice.

By comparison, Hugo's voice was calm; stern, with a slight edge of frustration perhaps, but mostly calm. "I need someone to stay here who can fly the ship. Just in case."

"Amos can fly the ship," Cambrio threw back.

Looking up at the sound of his name, Amos winced. "Uh... I really can't," he offered.

"Son," Hugo cut in, more force in his tone this time. "I need you to do this. Please."

Cambrio's lip quivvered in frustration as he prepped another argument, but with a surge of willpower, he managed to beat it down and silence his intended words. "Fine," he sighed.

Hugo held his gaze for a moment longer, a hand coming to rest on his shoulder to offer a thankful squeeze. It fell away as Hugo turned back to the bay, pacing towards the cargo container where his own gear was stored. "Amaros; Victor; Vittore, with me. Lets gear up and get this done, so we can get off this damned rock."

Four sets of booted footfalls made their way through the blackness. Hugo had decided to think of it as that instead of an eternal night. At night, sounds were amplified; hearing enhanced. But the blackness seemed to absorb noise just as readily as it swallowed light. His fingers gripped tighter around the rifle clutched in his hands. Hopefully it wouldn't have the same effect on the blaster bolts he planned on hurling at anything ahead of them that moved.

Victor had worked out roughly where they were, based on the few buildings in the immediate proximity of the ship that sensors had been able to resolve. That didn't help much: the colony was practically an infinite, invisible haystack, and they had no way of finding their proverbial needle save for stumbling around blindly in the dark.

Well, not blindly. The quartet were relying on thermographics to navigate their way around. Optics designed to convert the infra-red light emitted as body heat were worn over their eyes; torches either carried in hand or mounted to weapons lanced out beams of the same stuff. Mostly those beams were swallowed by the darkness, like trying to shine a lantern through fog, but occasionally they'd catch a glimpse of something: debris, mostly; abandoned speeders; broken shop-fronts; occasional humanoid remains. Something had happened here, all those centuries ago when the stories had first began. But what it might have been, Hugo couldn't begin to fathom.

The only other guide they had was Hugo's gut. Something in the back of his mind drew him in the direction they were currently walking. It could have been anything - nerves; fluke; psychosis; gas - but he liked to think that it was Cambria, somehow. Nudging him in the right direction. Helping him along. It was illogical. It was desperate. But if nothing else, at least it gave him a sense of purpose, and a sense of hope.

You have to save her. Pull her back from the brink of the Dark Side.

Cambria's instructions echoed in his mind, as cryptic and incomprehensible to him now as they had been when she had issued them. How am I supposed to save her from something I don't even understand?

Hugo caught sight of a flash of movement beside him; his eyes translated the synthesised image into Victor's fist, calling for the group to halt. He replicated the gesture for the duo behind him; after a brief five-count to be sure it was recieved, his hand returned to the rifle, holding it ready to fire. "What is it, Vic?" he asked, keeping his voice low and relying on the microphone strapped to his throat to transmit the rest.

"Movement," the response came back. "Dead ahead."

Hugo peered, willing his eyes to pierce the veil of darkness ahead, and afford him a glimpse of whatever Victor had seen. He heard it before that wish was answered: a sound he'd hoped never to hear again; a robotic sigh, tainted with static, undercut by the ominous hum of an insect swarm. A slash of light carved through the blackness ahead. Hugo felt his chest twist at the sight before them: for years after the Clone Wars, it had taken entire squads to track them down, and bring them to what the Emperor described as "justice". But just the four of them?

"Guys," he said softly, throat reluctant to release the words. "Its a Jedi. Run."

* * *

Cambrio's fist slammed into the metal of the locker door; he felt it buckle slightly under the impact, though the material was apparently tougher than it looked, and his hand took most of the damage. The pain was welcome though: it cut through his frustration, allowing him a few moments of clarity. His father clearly had reasons; and for once he'd even made an attempt at explaining them, though the effort had been somewhat half-hearted. Still, that didn't mean Cambrio needed to agree, or even feel any better for it. His fury pounded its way through his feet into the deck as he paced back and forth. A hand snatched something from the cabinet beside him. "Damn it!" he roared, hurling the object groundwards; watching it rebound off the deck plates and impact the bulkhead before deflecting off into some dark corner or other.

A chime cut in; the audio indicator for an incoming message. He snatched the comlink from his belt. "Yes?" he snapped, through clenched teeth. It took a breath to calm himself enough to speak again. "Go ahead."

Amos' voice cut in; the gruff almost monotone somehow conveying the purr of a predatory cat. For a moment, Cambrio wondered at the irony of being aboard a ship named after such a creature. "I don't know what all the banging and breathlessness is about," Amos spoke, "But you might wanna put your pants back on and get back here."

Letting the verbal jab slide with narrowed eyes, Cambrio reached for the controls that would open the hatch of his bunkroom, and began to scramble up the ladder. "Is something wrong?"

"Well," Amos replied, carefully, "I certainly wouldn't describe the two see-through glowing people standing in the cargo bay as 'normal'."

Cambrio blinked, completely at a loss for a response to that revelation. His pace quickened, hand falling to his blaster. "I'm on my way." Cambrio wrenched it free as he cut right, racing around the trio of corners and down the stairs that deposited him on the cargo deck floor. His pistol held ready, Cambrio's eyes flicked briefly upwards, and settled on Amos, on the gantry platform above. He was staring intently at the heart of the bay; Cambrio followed his line of sight.

Amos' description had been accurate: there were indeed two figures standing in front of him, seemingly translucent, and emitting some sort of faint blue light. He took a cautious step closer, searching his mind for any reference in the stories from his father, or the logs he had read, that might identify what they were dealing with. The nearest figure's features shifted; Cambrio felt a tug of recognition in his gut, though he couldn't quite place it. A smile broke onto her face. "Hello, Cambrio."

His eyes widened in surprise. "Mom?"

While he had been perfectly happy adopting a no-to-questions, yes-to-guns approach to this entire situation, Amos found that last statement ramped up his curiousity much more than he was comfortable with. Edging carefully towards the stairs that would lead him down to Cambrio's level, he kept his gun trained on the strange arrivals as best he could. "Mom, as in Emaryn Montegue?" he asked, drawing alongside Cambrio. "Or some other ghostly step-mom type person that nobody has bothered to mention up until now?"

The other figure aimed himself directly towards Amos' eyes, and regarded the pistol aimed at him. "I'm incorporeal," he stated, simply. "Your blaster isn't going to help you."

Amos' eyes narrowed, but confliction darted behind his eyes; recognition, too. His mind searched for the source; settled on the image he had looked at back on Naboo; the man whose face he didn't recognise. "I don't know what that word means," he admitted, "But the gun makes me feel better. Who the hell are you, and why is there a picture of you in my house?"

"You have your mothers eyes." The figure smiled. "My sister's eyes," he added, by way of clarification.

A grunt escaped Amos. "That would make you my uncle. If you were, why haven't I heard of you?"

He shrugged. "I was sent to the Jedi Temple on Coruscant when I was very young; and when you were old enough to know, the Emperor had ordered the Jedi hunted and killed. It was no doubt a secret that your mother felt she could not share with you." He hesitated, seeming almost saddened by that notion. His voice remained calm and confident. "I am Mandan Hidatsa, and I give you my assurance: I speak truly."

Still not convinced, Amos' aim with his blaster wavered only slightly. He shot a sidelong glance towards Cambrio. "What are we dealing with here? Shapeshifters? Psychic projections? Something like that, right?"

Cambrio's brows wrinkled with confusion and contemplation, but his eyes never broke from his mothers face. There was almost wonder in his expression as he considered the possibilities. "Dad said that my aunt was manifesting through the Force, but wasn't able to appear to him in anything but his unconscious state. What if this -" He hesitated, not entirely sure what it would mean. "- is the next step?"

The smile on Emaryn's face grew broader, pride in her eyes. "You're even smarter than I could have wished for, Cambrio."

"Wait," Amos interjected. "What you're describing sounds an awful lot like ghosts." He scowled. "The creepy lifeless, lightless planet with ominous black clouds, and a darkness that sweeps about the place and kills everything in its path isn't allowed to have ghosts. That's just too much." His expression mutated into a frown. "And also; if this is your mother, then doesn't it mean she's the dangerous, Dark Side sister-killing thing that your father and the others left the ship to find?"

Despite having no physical form, Emaryn's mind still conjured the sensation of her heart leaping in her chest. "Hugo is here?"

Reluctantly, Cambrio's blaster rose in response to Amos' words. He's right, his mind whispered, battling against his emotions. She could be dangerous. We have to stop her. Get dad here. Have to -

Mandan stepped forward, ever so slightly interposing himself into Cambrio's line of fire. "The grip that the Dark Side had on her has been broken: I can assure you of that. However -" His voice trailed off, and he cast an ominous glance between the two corporeal men. "If people are already outside the ship, then they are in mortal danger. There is still a Dark Jedi on this planet, and he -" There was sadness in his eyes; his brows contorted into a frown. "When Emaryn was gripped by the darkness, the emotion she clung onto was rage. It made her violent, and dangerous. Inyos on the other hand has clung on to despair. He will not rest until he has provoked your compatriots into killing him."

Amos frowned. "Is that a bad thing?"

"Yes," Emaryn replied, her voice grave as well. "Especially if any of you hope to make it off this planet alive."

Resolve set on Cambrio's face. "We have to find them; bring them back."

"No." Mandan's voice was firm. "Inyos will kill you, if that's what it takes to provoke your retaliation."

"Then what can we do?" A note of panic rose in Cambrio's voice.

Mandan and Emaryn shared a knowing look. "There is something," Emaryn said softly; reluctantly. "But we are going to need your help."

Whatever fluke of fate had compelled Vittore and Victor to arm themselves with a slugthrower and a 'caster respectively had probably saved their sorry hides. While lightsabers were notorious for deflecting blaster bolts - sometimes away; sometimes back towards the person that had fired them - solid matter projectiles didn't suffer from that flaw. Worst case scenario, the Jedi blocked the bolts and bullets with their blade, and was treated to a shower of melted metal. The downside was that such ammunition took up far more space, and as a consequence were able to provide a person with far fewer shots than a trusty blaster would allow for.

Mostly as a means of making him feel better about their retreat, Amaros was bowling grenades in the Jedi's direction, landing them far enough away that his lightsaber couldn't intercept, but close enough to slow his pace. He didn't even bother to deflect them, though Hugo was sure he was able; he just marched forward, his pace unbroken. What the hell is with this guy? Hugo wondered, glancing at the datapad that Victor had hurled at him, to ensure they were heading in the right direction. Hugo wasn't sure what they'd do once they reached the Coromon; hopefully her hull was thick enough that the Jedi wouldn't be able to slice his way inside. The more he pondered that notion however, the more unlikely it became.

Hugo heard something behind him; he collided with it before he could stop himself. He turned; felt a hand on his shoulder; looked up into Cambrio's face. No, no! his mind screamed. Get the hell out of here! Something felt different, though. He couldn't make out his son's eyes, distorted as they were by the optics that allowed him to see in this place, but something felt different. Familiar, yet different. Cambrio's gaze seemed steadfast; calming. For a moment, Hugo felt his panic fall away.

"Its okay, Hugo." Cambrio's voice sounded strange as well; muffled by the darkness, maybe; softer, gentler. There was no confrontation. No edge. Hugo couldn't for the life of him think why, but the second those words drifted from Cambrio's mouth, he believed them; agreed with them. Stepping past, Cambrio approached Victor; a similar exchange passed between them. Hugo spotted Amos as well, calming Amaros and Vittore into dumfounded, stationary silence. Then, in unison, Cambrio and Amos stepped forward, forming a barrier between them and the Jedi.

The sound came again, in stereo this time. Hugo ripped the optics from his face, and watched as blades of crimson and viridian manifested in the hands of Cambrio and Amos. What the hell? Where did they get -

"Inyos Aamoran." The voice that left Amos' lips was recognisably his, and yet twisted and different. The words sounded more formal and elloquent somehow, and the usual undertone of animal growl had faded. "I am Mandan Hidatsa. I am sorry, old friend, but I will not allow you to harm these people."

Mandan - what?

The Jedi sounded equally skeptical, though at least his advance had halted. His voice was laced with bitterness, when he finally unleashed it from his throat. It was cracked and broken; atrophied and strained from lack of use. "Mandan Hidatsa is dead. I killed him."

Cambrio spoke next. "Indeed you did. You also ended my corporeal existance. But we have both returned through the Force, and stand before you now with an offer: renounce the Dark Side, return to the Light, and together we can free ourselves from this world."

Inyos' lip curled in a snarl. "I have a better idea," he bit back. His neck worked from side to side. "I have been waiting an age for the sweet release of death to take me. Think you could help me with that?"

The Jedi surged, leaping in one mighty bound that seemed to eat up the distance between them in the blink of an eye. Hugo's heart leapt in panic as Inyos descended, weapon held high, ready to strike in a blow that Cambrio couldn't hope to parry, no matter how fancy a weapon he'd managed to stumble upon. Disbelief wrapped around his chest as Amos reached out with his free hand, and some invisible force plucked Inyos from the sky, hurling him to the ground. Amos and Cambrio both advanced, lightsabers held ready, to where the Jedi lay. He growled; leapt to his feet, an outstretched hand summoning his lightsaber back to his grip. He swung, yelling with fury; Cambrio's blocks were a little crude, but effective; Amos weilded his as if it were a fluid extension of his body.

What the hell is going on?

The blades clashed, their combined colours sending flashes of white light across the combatants. Amos and Cambrio parried every blow; neither counterstruck. The Jedi's fury only grew, his exhursions more vocal. He lashed out with the force himself; sent Amos staggering back; a sly kick knocked Cambrio off-balance; he tripped; fell; lightsaber rolling away across the ground. Inyos loomed, hunger in his eyes as he poised to strike.

Hugo's rifle rose to his shoulder in one fluid motion. "Back the fuck off," he growled under his breath; his finger sqeezed on the trigger, and a blaster bolt lept forth. Casually, Inyos batted it aside; to his surprise, sharp reflexes snapped out Amos' hand, and deflected it back. He staggered as the bolt cut into his leg. From the ground, Cambrio lashed out with his powers, and threw Inyos away.

Amos leapt forward as Inyos had, the green of Amos' his blade clashing against the blue of the one in Inyos' hands. The superior height and strength of Amos drove the Jedi back, forcing him up against the fire-scorched wall of the nearest building. Amos pressed further, forcing their crossed blades closer to Inyos' face. A sour expression contorted his features; horror flashed in Amos' eyes, and he barely leapt back in time as a snap and a hiss saw Inyos' blade disappear into nothingness.

"Let me die!" Inyos yelled, straining against the Force that Amos held him pinned with.

He shook his head. "No," Amos replied. "You were a good man, once. You can be that man again. Put the lightsaber away; I need your help to save these people."

Amos' and Inyos' eyes met. Something in the former pair sparked something in the latter; recognition, perhaps. Belief swept across the face of Inyos, and his resolve wavered. Eyes that had been twisted amber - though it appeared an eerie green under the light of the 'saber - faded into a more natural hue. His own lightsaber tumbled from his grip. "Let me die," he pleaded; tears glistened at the corners of his eyes. "I can't live with what I have done anymore."

A sigh of sympathy sounded in Amos' chest. He stepped closer, his Force grip releasing, allowing Inyos to slump against the wall, and slide to the floor. Extinguishing his lightsaber, and dropping to a crouch beside him, he placed a hand gently on Inyos' shoulder. "We came here, all those years ago, to save a young woman. We have another chance to succeed where we failed before." The hand tightened; a reassuring squeeze. "Just hold out a little while longer, old friend."

The ramp was open, spilling light from the bowels of the Coromon onto what was left of Ord Ithil's surface. The motley ensemble clambered up its slope and into the main hold, tiredness and confusion spread amongst them in equal measure. They had walked in silence all this way, hastened by cryptic warnings from Amos and Cambrio that there was still more danger lurking on the planet's surface. From inside, the hatch seemed like a maw into nothingness; inside the brightly lit interior however, they could at least experience a modicombe of normality.

As the last of the group stepped into the ship, Vittore fired the opening salvo of whatever discussion was to follow. "So," he said, rounding on Cambrio. "Is someone going to explain what is going on?"

Whatever he expected, the sight of a woman stepping out from within Cambrio's body, as if the two had somehow been superimposed, was certainly not it. A similar sight was afforded to those with their attention directed towards Amos, as Mandan Hidatsa appeared from within him. Cambrio's voice was shakey, but he met his brother's gaze with a confident one of his own. "Vittore," he said, with a tremble of emotion in his voice. "This is mom."

The harshness in Vittore's features softened in an instant, as the spark of recognition triggered in him as well. He'd never had enough fragments of memory relating to his mother to drag together anything coherant and yet, as his eyes studied her face, he knew that what Cambrio said was true. His eyes shimmered slightly. "Mom?"

Emaryn smiled, stepping gracefully towards her elder son. "You've grown so handsome," she said gently. Her voice was like music to Vittore's ears; a recital of the lullabies that had accompanied him to sleep each night. The smile took on a wry edge. "I'm sure the fighting skills your father taught you come in handy when you're trying to keep the ladies away."

A chuckle escaped from Cambrio. "Usually, he doesn't try very hard."

"I've watched you," she revealed, gaze returning to Cambrio. "Not always, but often; through the Force. I am so proud of who you have become."

A stray tear broke free from Cambrio; both boys ached to embrace their mother, but knew - or, in Vittore's case, merely assumed - that doing so was an impossibility. Amaros cleared his throat, the noise slicing the moment in half like a vibroblade. "I'm sorry," he grunted, "But that actually raises a bunch of new questions, rather than answering any. For starters -" His eyes narrowed into a scowl, aimed at Mandan. "- what the hell are you people?"

A look passed between Mandan and his nephew. "My sister married this?" he asked, eyebrow arching.

"Dad," Amos interrupted, before Mandan could say anymore. "This is my uncle. He is - was - a Jedi. He and Emaryn are -" He trained off, wincing at being forced to use the term. "- ghosts."

Silence came in response to that, except from Vittore. "And the lightsaber stuff earlier - which was cool by the way -" He shot a kudos glance in his brother's direction. "- what was all that about?"

Emaryn flashed a look of discomfort, brow furrowing as she searched for a way to phrase it in a manner that would seem less distasteful. "Though we are manifestations of the Force, there is a limit to how much we can interact on this plane of existance. In order to do the -" She borrowed Vittore's terminology. "- 'lightsaber stuff', we unfortunately needed to borrow someone else's hands."

Vittore arched an eyebrow, and made a point of mentally logging all of the potential "Dude, you had our mom inside you," jokes that he could aim at Cambrio for later reference. For now, there were more pressing - and confusing - issues. "Creepiness of that notion aside, and going back to the ghosts thing. You're, like, Aunt Cambria, except you're good enough at what you do to conjure yourself a little glowing body?"

"Actually," Mandan explained, "Its more fluke than anything else. This planet is tainted by the Dark Side; so strongly in fact that it is effectively a black hole, as far as the Force is concerned. The entire population was twisted by evil, and they turned on each other. The clouds you see above you are the side-effects of those deaths: imprints of the attrocities they comitted against each other. Every rescue party and expedition that has visited here, has only added to its numbers."

"The 'vengeful dark'," Victor speculated, accurately.

Mandan nodded. "The clouds aren't sentient, but they do have a collective will, and a control over the Force. They long to punish the person responsible for what happened to them, but he was killed by Emaryn twenty years ago. Ever since, the clouds make do with whoever they can; but they know that there should only be one victim. They manipulate anyone who arrives on this planet into killing each other, until only one remains. Then, they keep them alive, to suffer for eternity."

A chuckle escaped from Hugo's throat. "Something funny?" Mandan asked, with a frown.

Hugo's gaze rounded on him, eyes flashing with amber. "Several things, actually," he revealed, his voice deeper and more callous, venom spitting behind his words. "That you honestly believe someone as insignificant and powerless as 'Aunt Cambria' could possibly claw her way out of the ebb and tide of the Force to commune with beings on your plane of existance is perhaps the most so." His lips upturned into a smile of lustful satisfaction. "I'm afraid dear Hugo was manipulated; just as you were, Emaryn; and you, Mandan."

Amaros had already had his blaster aimed and ready to fire. "What the hell are you on about?"

"I am je'karta dar," he explained, rolling the Mando'a words around on his tongue with obvious pleasure. "Centuries ago, I arrived on this world; through my efforts alone, every citizen of Ord Ithil was either dead, or completely consumed with darkness and hate. Little did I know I had constructed my own prison." His words turned bitter at that notion, lip curling in a snarl. "After a seemingly endless wait, I stumbled across Emaryn: someone succeptable enough to the Force for me to manipulate; someone to aid me in my escape. I whispered into her mind, and bent her to my will. She was to come here; become my queen; but first, I needed a vessel: a new form to sustain me in case this one whithered once the darkness was no longer there to sustain it." His eyes turned to Cambrio. "You always wondered what your mother could have done to incur your father's hatred. In truth, she did nothing; I turned her against your father, and willed her to convert you into that vessel."

Cambrio swallowed against his suddenly parched throat. "Convert?" he echoed.

"Unfortunately, you were not as receptive to the Force as was necessary." He cocked his head to one side, disappointment thick in his voice. "When you were still an infant, I had your mother inject you with a transfusion of her own blood. Therein lies the secret to manipulation of the Force; and I needed you to have that ability, so that I would posess it when I came to inhabit you."

Hugo advanced; Amaros' blaster rose, ready to fire. Hugo merely laughed. "You take me for a fool? Why do you think I chose to inhabit this man? None of you will strike against me; not when any action you take would risk harming your beloved Hugo. Your family bond, or backwards code of honour would not allow it." His eyes narrowed. "If my demands are not met, I will allow your Hugo to die."

"Excuse me." Seemingly from nowhere, Inyos appeared, a Force-charged leap landing him mere inches behind Hugo's body. A hand wrapped around Hugo's throat, the other jamming the emitter of his lightsaber into the small of Hugo's back. A flick of his thumb, and a lance of brilliant blue lept out from within Hugo's gut. Inyos' voice was low, and bitter. "I think you forgot someone."

Darkness poured from Hugo's body like a fog, as his body slumped to the floor. Inyos retreated; the darkness became manifest, swirling together until it formed the shape of a man: one intimately familiar to Emaryn in particular. The laughter resumed; a different voice this time. "Well, this is a fun game. Shall we see how many of your shipmates you are willing to slaughter needlessly, or are you finally willing to follow my instructions? I can assure you: there is nothing you can do that will harm me."

Emaryn tensed, poised to advance, but Mandan reached out with a spectral arm to stop her. A look passed between them. "No -" she said, softly.

"Inyos and I came here all those years ago in order to rescue you." A smile tugged at Mandan's lips. "Don't make that mission a failure."

Without another word, Mandan stepped forward, squaring off confidently with the man born of darkness. "They may not be able to do anything to you, but I can." His eyes narrowed; he drew another step closer. "I don't know your name; but ultimately it doesn't matter. I am Mandan Hidatsa, Knight of the Jedi Order, an I am placing you under arrest."

The figure's expression went from confusion to surprise, and then to horror as Mandan broke into a run, charging towards him. As he passed, the Force manipulated the controls for the cargo ramp as he passed. Motor servos whirred into life, raising the ramp towards its airtight seal with the hull. Mandan's ghostly body collided - shoulder first - with the other man, momentum carrying them both up the slowly rising ramp, and toppling them over the edge.

As the ramp closed, Emaryn ran to Hugo; fell to her knees beside him. "Hugo," she whispered; voice snatched.

A flicker of a smile came on Hugo's face, as he looked up into her eyes. "Emaryn," he whispered back. "I found you."

She mirrored his expression. "You took your sweet time about it, though."

Hugo's expression flickered into a frown; a cough rose from within him, sending spasms of pain across his gut. "Watch over the boys," he requested, struggling to keep his eyes open.

"Oh no you don't," she bit back, resolve creeping into her expression and tone. Her eyes turned to Cambrio who, with Vittore and Victor, had clustered around. Words didn't pass between them as her eyes met with Cambrio's; a moment later, she was gone, and Cambrio knelt beside his father. His palm came to rest over Hugo's stomach; his eyes flickered closed as a bright light radiated from his fingers. He strained; a moment of effort later and his hand fell away. Though still evidently a nasty wound, much of the tissue within it had knitted back together, and the internal damage had been mostly repaired. Hugo was stable, and would recover; now however, there were more pressing concerns.

Emaryn rose to her feet; Cambrio remained kneeling, beneath her. "Vittore," she instructed, taking charge. "I need you to get us airborne. Don't approach the cloud layer just yet; circle around if you have to, but wait for my signal." Her eyes turned to Amaros; she searched for a name, but couldn't find one in her memory. "Help him as best you can," she added. She glanced at her brother in law. "Victor -"

"I took a few months of Field Medic training," he assured. "I'll do what I can."

She sought out Inyos, retreated to a corner of the bay. Her words were dark as she spoke to him; necessity, rather than choice. "Mandan seemed to think you would help us. Was he right?" Inyos nodded slowly, rising numbly to his feet. Emaryn turned to Amos and Cambrio. "We left an imprint of what needs to be done in your minds. It should activate, like instinct."

Amos frowned. "What are we doing?"

"We are going to surround the ship in a bubble, of sorts. If it is strong enough, we can negate the clouds' effect on us, and hopefully punch through."

He cringed. "I don't like that 'hopefully' being in there."

"Have faith," was all Emaryn could offer.

Leading them to the center of the hold, she deposited the Force Sensitives into a triangle, seating herself at the center. "Just clear your mind, and focus on me," she instructed, her eyes sweeping around them with as much reassurance as she could muster. "I will do the rest."

Letting his eyes flutter closed, Amos tried to do as instructed, but it seemed impossible - inconcievable, even - that he could have any kind of aptitude for the Force. The Jedi were meant to be noble warriors; sworn protectors of the galaxy. Amos was just a guy, who let himself get caught up in too many other people's adventures. Then again, he mused, I am descended from the Mandalorians; and if my father is any example, they are certainly noble warriors. And I dedicated my life to protecting the innocent on Naboo; and I joined the Rebellion to continue my fight for justice. His brow contorted into a frown. Is this what I was destined to be all along?

Amos felt the Force build like a wave inside him, flooding over him like a storm tide. It was a disconcerting sensation, and he tried to resist, but quickly it overwhelmed him; spilled over his mental barriers, and poured from him like a torrent.

Emaryn's eyes met with Victor, as similar streams of energy channelled into her from the others. She flashed him the briefest of nods; he grabbed for his comlink. "Vittore: go now!"

* * *

Turbulance rocked the ship as they dove upwards into the cloud cover; Vittore wrestled with the controls as they were tossed and thrown about by air currents, updrafts, and bolts of that creepy lightning. Warnings flared from around him, but he ignored them; zoned them out as he concentrated on his instruments, no longer sure by other means which direction constituted 'up'.

A lightning bolt crashed into their port flank; Vittore turned hard against it, arresting the momentum that threatened to throw them clean across the sky. He pushed on, straining the engines as hard as he could, fighting against the recoil of the controls in his grip --

The clouds gave way to a new kind of blackness; one filled with a swarm of tiny pinpricks of light. The rumbling of the ship stopped, and the controls turned limp beneath his grip. Heaving a sigh, Vittore slumped back in his seat.

"Nice flying, kid," Amaros muttered from beside him, equal relief in his own voice.

A sigh escaped from Vittore. "Plot us a hyperspace course," he requested, eyes returning to the sky, and gently easing the Coromon away from the planet.

"Where to?" the Mandalorian asked.

Vittore merely shrugged. "Doesn't matter," he replied. "Anywhere that isn't here."

Epilogue

Hugo's eyes flickered open; he smiled as Emaryn looked down upon him. Her current apparition was disconcerting at first, but it didn't matter. After all these long years, he had finally found her; his life-long search was over.

Even so, something in his gut told Hugo that this wasn't to last; and he was fairly certain it wasn't residual damage from the lightsaber. "You're leaving, aren't you?" It was more of a statement than a question.

She nodded, a hint of sadness in her eyes. "I died twenty-two years ago, Hugo," she said softly. "Its time to let me go."

"I can't." His eyes pleaded at her; his hand reached to hers for comfort, but found nothing but air. "I need you, Emaryn. Our sons need you."

A flicker of a smile crept back onto her face. "I've waited a very long time for you to call them that." She leant down, face a mere breath away from his, and yet he felt no such thing against his skin. She summoned all the Force she could muster, and placed a gentle kiss on his lips; the sensation lingered like a memory: vivid, but ever so slightly out of reach.

Hugo let out a breath of contentment, eyes closed to relish the sensation; but when they opened again, she was gone. His eyes fell to the wedding band on his finger; and for the first time, the hate, and fear, and anger had all faded away. All that remained was sadness, and the ache of his lost love. Tears welled up in his eyes; he didn't fight them. For the first time since she had been taken from him, Hugo cried: not because of what Emaryn had become, but because of what she had been; and what he had lost.

* * *

Inyos lay on his bunk, staring at the ceiling. The irony was not lost on him - ten years ago, apparently, he had arrived at Ord Ithil aboard a ship very much like this one. Much had changed in the time between; he hardly recognised himself as the same person. A decade of attempting to end your miserable existance on a daily basis would do that to a person.

His eyes flickered closed, tired with the view. He reached out gently, searching for the Force with his mind, but it was gone. He'd felt it as it was torn away from him, moments after they'd left Ord Ithil. Perhaps it was Emaryn; some contingency to stop him harming the rest of the crew. Or perhaps it was the Force himself, fleeing from him to prevent him from slipping back into that dark place again. It didn't matter. Either way, it was probably for the best.

A dull knock came from the entrance of the room he had been provided. He almost didn't bother to answer. He wasn't sure what compelled him to, eventually; yet, he found himself summoning his visitor in.

The door slid aside, and Amos stood in the entrance. There was confliction behind his eyes; confusion no doubt, about the remorse he felt for the loss of a relative he had never known he posessed. Inyos' memories were scattered after so long, but he vaguely remembered having met the boy before, when they had travelled to Naboo by chance. Mandan had visited his sister, and a pair of pictures had been taken; one for each sibling. Inyos dug into his clothes, and pulled Mandan's copy free: as one of his friend's most prized posessions, it had seemed appropriate to carry it with him, after -

Ah. Perhaps a more realistic reason behind Amos' confliction: a visit to the man that had killed said relative in the first place. This was bound to be awkward; Inyos was unsure which of them was expected to speak first.

Amos broke the silence, his brow heavy as he spoke. "When Mandan was -" He rummaged for a suitable euphamism. "- inside my mind," he settled upon, failing. "He left memories behind. Not much - just scraps - but I know a few things that he knew. Stuff that was on his mind at the time, I guess." His frown deepened; his arm extended, presenting a thick, metal cylinder towards Inyos. "Mandan has a son. He wanted you to find him; make sure he was safe; and give him this."

Inyos accepted the lightsaber with reverence. A son? With Oa, clearly. Had Mandan known before, or had he discovered it since becoming one with the Force? And why did he want Inyos - his murderer, of all people - to seek his son out? Why not leave the burden on his nephew?

"He thought of you as family," Amos stated simply, not sure what else to say.

Amos faltered, torn between remaining idle, and fleeing. He motioned towards the exit; wordlessly, Inyos extended the photograph, in exchange for the 'saber. "Mandan had a family," he explained. "He loved it very much; and never let go of it, no matter how strongly the Jedi Order urged him to. They thought it was his greatest weakness; but I think now, it may have been his truest strength."

"I think he'd be glad you finally understand that."

Amos' brows conflicted one last time, but there was nothing more he could say. Without another word, he departed, leaving Inyos alone with the lightsaber, and his thoughts. Finding one solitary soul in all the galaxy - especially one likely in hiding from Imperial persecution, if the Empire even existed by now - would be nigh impossible. But Inyos felt something inside him that he hadn't experienced in a very long time. He had a purpose. He had hope.