Sap's resinous scent washes over me, moss and earth drowning the metallic bite. I blink, and I'm standing under a wroshyr tree, its bark warm under my scarred hands, Kashyyyk's canopy weaving sunlight through emerald leaves. Sera's laughter rings, sharp and bright, and I'm home.
She's barely five, dark curls bouncing as she grips a training saber, its green blade humming soft, casting flickers on the roots beneath us. Her eyes—Juno's eyes—sparkle, fierce but unsteady, her stance too eager. I kneel, my gaunt frame creaking, bones heavy with years of war and whiskey, and adjust her small fingers on the hilt.
"Feet apart, little star," I say, my voice rough but soft, the growl of Starkiller buried under love. "Feel the Force, not just the blade."
She pouts, then flashes a grin, swinging the saber in a wild arc. "Like this, Papa?"
I chuckle, a sound I thought I'd lost, my chest warming despite the faint burn lingering, like a wound I can't place. "Close. Watch."
I rise, igniting one of my white-blue sabers. I flow through Juyo, slow for her, the blade cutting air thick with sap. Sera mimics me, her saber wobbling, earnest. A kath hound roars in the distance, too sharp, like a blaster's crack, and my fingers trembled, a chill seeping in, blood's tang creeped past the sap. The canopy sways, a flicker of neon-red bleeding through green, gone when I blink.
"Your progeny's form is… passable, for a meatbag," PROXY chimes, his silver frame glinting at the clearing's edge, photoreceptors glowing blue, smug. "Shall I elevate the challenge?"
Sera hops, giggling. "Yes! Make a Jedi, PROXY!"
The droid's projectors hum, and Obi-Wan Kenobi flickers into being, blue-tinted, saber raised in Soresu. "Hello there, young one," PROXY's mimicry purrs. "Test your skill."
Sera squeals, lunging, her saber clashing, sparks dancing on roots. I watch, pride swelling, but my chest burned sharper, and her blade flickered red, wrong, like something I've fought. A swoop bike's screech twisted into a branch's snap, and my hands shake, cold now. "Focus, Sera," I rasp, throat tight, her laughter drowning the unease, but it's louder, metallic, not hers.
Her giggle fades, blending into a soft hum, and I'm standing by the Rogue Shadow, its scorched hull a relic of Kamino, of rebellion. Juno kneels on the ramp, her tan coat clean, her hands deft as she guides Sera through a holo-projector's wires. Sera pokes at it, tongue out, focused, the projector sputtering like my heart. The wroshyr canopy arches, sunlight dappled, but a faint airspeeder's screech warp into a creak, and my chest tightened, blood's tang stronger.
"This relay," Juno says, voice warm as a Tatooine dawn, "too much power, and it fries. Gentle, like the Force."
Sera nods, twisting a wire. The projector flickers, a shaky Death Star blooming. "Like Papa's lightning?"
Juno laughs, ruffling her curls. "Less chaotic, I hope."
I lean against a trunk, arms crossed, love cutting deeper than any saber. Juno's smile is sunlight, but her coat pulses, a blaster burn blooming, red as blood. My hands tremble, whiskey's burn in my throat, and I step forward, boots sinking into moss that feels hard, like durasteel. "Galen, join us," she calls, eyes locking with mine, but her voice echoes, a comm breaking, and the projector's Death Star fractures, static hissing like Pyke shouts. Pain lanced my ribs, blood's heat spreaded, and the canopy flickers, Nar Shaddaa's towers clawed through.
"I'm here," I choke, kneeling beside them, my chest screaming, but Sera's projector sparks, and Juno's touch is warm, fleeting. The burn on her coat spreads, blood-red, and a blaster's crack echoes, muffled, louder now, like it's chasing me.
Juno's hum lingers, softening into a stillness, and we're sitting under a wroshyr, legs crossed, hands on knees. The Force weaves us together, Sera's joy a star, burning through my scars, Juno's calm anchoring me, her love a pulse I'd die for. My power, raw and broken, binds us, the light side singing, Kashyyyk's heart alive in the leaves' rustle. My chest burns, heavier, but I push it down, focusing on Sera's small chest rising.
"Breathe, Sera," I murmur, gravel in my voice. "Feel us, not just you."
Her eyes close. "I feel… warm. Like stars."
Juno's lips curve, her presence glowing. "That's family, love."
The Force surges, my sabers' kyber humming, but a comm's crackled splits the light, static wrong, like Pykes shouting. My chest tightened, blood pooling in my lungs, and Sera's warmth flickers, her presence dimming. Juno's face blurs, a hologram failing, and neon spires pierced the canopy, Nar Shaddaa's hell creeping in. My heartbeat slows, too soft, and the light frays, darkness clawing. "Stay with me," I whisper, reaching for Sera, but her fingers slip, cold as durasteel, and a swoop bike's roar drowns the breeze, louder, chasing.
The warmth of her hand carries me, and I'm carving a wroshyr charm, wood smooth under my knife, etched with a Wookiee rune for protection. Sera watches, perched on a root, her training saber at her side, her giggle sharp, echoing. Juno hums a Rebel anthem, her voice threading through the clearing, sap thick in the air. My chest burned, blood's tang choking the sap, but I carve, shavings curling like Sera's hair, my heart too full.
"For you," I say, handing her the charm, her smile sunlight. The knife slips, blood welling, hot, too real, and my chest screamed, ribs grinding. Juno's anthem falters, her voice a plea—"Stay with us, Galen."
"Thanks, Papa!" Sera ties the charm to her belt, skipping toward Juno, and we walk, the canopy arching, sunlight golden. Her giggle echoes, metallic, like a Pyke's shout, and the ground trembles, Nar Shaddaa's towers looming. My blood pools, heavy, and the canopy splits, neon-red flooding. A blaster's crack ringed out, close now, and a swoop bike's screech roared, drowning her voice. Juno's hand fades, cold, and my heartbeat's a faint thud, the wroshyr's sap whiskey's burn.
Sera's voice turns sharp, metallic, a scream not hers, and Juno's touch is gone, neon flooding my eyes, Nar Shaddaa's spires roaring. Blasters cracked, swoop bikes screeched, and blood choked my lungs, my chest a fire I can't name. The wroshyr's gone, the Force fracturing, and I'm nowhere, darkness swallowing me, pain all there is.
I snapped awake, gasping, my chest screaming, a cold fire burning through me. I was on a swoop bike, wind tearing past, Nar Shaddaa's neon a blur. Vren had me hunched over his seat, his face a haze, like a flashbang's ring, his voice lost in the roar. Something had stung, not bacta, not Force—a glowing blue sludge, alien, sealing my chest, clotting blood, knitting flesh faster than any Force heal I had seen. I remembered, medi-gel, as Shepard had called it, his voice cutting through—"Better than your Jedi tricks, Marek." It was a miracle, this other galaxy's potion, pulling me from death's edge, my ribs still grinding but alive, air flooding my lungs. I gagged, blood in my throat, the gel's sting a bite I hadn't known, but it had saved me, a marvel no bacta tank could match.
Zevra's lekku flashed on another bike, Sylis hunched, weaving through neon-choked skylanes. Pyke blasters had sparked, airspeeders screaming, their wails the sound that fractured my peace. Vren's datapad flickered, coordinates a ghost in the smog, the Spire long gone. Nar Shaddaa's hell had swallowed us. Pykes chased us, and I clung to the bike, pain and life roaring.
The medi-gel's fire started to fade, a cold sting in my chest, blood's bitter tang still coating my throat. Nar Shaddaa's neon screamed, skylanes alive with airspeeders and Hutt freighters, their repulsors humming, no jets to churn the smog. I was still slumped on Vren's flitknot swoop bike, its frame rattling my bones, the throttle's growl a beast I hadn't tamed. My hand had dropped to my belt—nothing. My sabers were gone, clattered to the penthouse floor when Fett's vibroblade had bit me, his smirk a blade I hadn't shaken. Rage ignited, a furnace in my gut, hotter than the whiskey I drowned in for years. Those sabers would not be his trophy. I gripped Vren's shoulder, my voice a snarl. "Fall in, follow my lead."
Vren's nod was sharp, his DC-15x sniper rifle slung across his back, two lightdaggers glinting at his belt like vibroblade shivs. Zevra and Sylis, on their own bike, matched him, Zevra's lekku twitching under her hood, Sylis's lean frame taut, his rifle and daggers ready. Their bikes banked through a skylane, repulsors keeping us aloft, dodging a lumbering freighter scarred with Hutt sigils, its autonav droning to avoid a crash. Nar Shaddaa's chaos engulfed us—billboards flickered, Twi'lek dancers glowing in holographic ads, airspeeders weaving in unidirectional streams, rules the Pykes hadn't given a damn about. Six swoop bikes darted in, vibroblades sparking, comms crackling with tactics. "Eliminate the Starkiller!" a rider barked, his scarred helmet catching a neon glint, eyes bloodshot under the visor.
I drew Juno's WESTAR-34 from its back holster, the silver grip fitting my hand, steady as her voice had once been, a ghost of her Rebel fire. The lead Pyke bike surged, vibroblade raised, his bike's repulsors screaming. Time slowed, the Force pulsing, rage sharpening my senses like a blade. His sweat streaked his face, blaster bolt sizzling past my ear, red plasma glowing. I aimed—crack—the bolt seared his forehead, flesh sizzling, cauterized, his bike spiraling into a freighter's hull, sparks raining like kyber dust. Vren banked hard, dodging another Pyke's blaster, bolts grazing our bike, metal screeching, the skylane's flow disrupted as airspeeders swerved.
"Close the gap!" I roared, leaning into Vren's turn. He wove through a casino's holographic ad. Zevra and Sylis followed, their bike a shadow, Sylis's lightdagger glinting, ready for an excuse. Another Pyke dived in, blaster spitting red bolts, his comm barking, "Other side!" I was done riding passenger. I snapped, standing, boots gripping the bike's frame, the Force humming through my scarred hands. Vren swerved, giving me the angle, and I leaped, Force Push surging, sending me soaring. Time crawled, the Pyke's blaster bolt frozen mid-air, his throat exposed, sweat gleaming under neon. Crack—the WESTAR's bolt seared through, flesh smoking, his body lolling, lifeless, eyes wide in death. My boot slammed his corpse free, and I landed hard, mounting the swoop bike, its controls slick with his sweat, throttle roaring under my grip. I gunned it, neon blurring, Zevra and Sylis flanking, their repulsors steady in the skylane's chaotic stream.
A third Pyke swung in, vibroblade high, a predator's snarl. He aimed for my head, blade whistling, and I dodged right, the Force screaming, time slowing once more. The blade grazed my shoulder, blood welling, hot and sharp, a sting that fueled my rage. I reversed, skylanes spinning, dodging a Hutt freighter's bulk, its repulsors shaking the air, autonav droning to avoid us. The Pyke overshot, his comm cursing with only one voice I could recognize—Fett. I vowed to end him, burn his name to ash, by any means, till Nar Shaddaa choked on his defeat.
"Form up!" I bellowed, voice raw, and the Shades obeyed, bikes surging into a wedge, Vren to my left, Zevra and Sylis right. Vren unslung his DC-15x, a red bolt cracking, searing a Pyke's chest, the rider slumping, bike crashing through a billboard's sparks, Twi'lek ads flickering in the smog. Zevra's lightdagger flew, a silver arc searing another Pyke's throat, his body tumbling into the depths, bike a twisted wreck. Sylis wove right, his lightdagger slashing, cauterizing a Pyke's arm, the scream lost in the skylanes' roar. Two Pykes were left, their tactics fraying, bikes breaking off, chaotic, no match for my Shades' precision.
One Pyke veered, desperate, but Zevra's sniper shot was faster, a bolt through his spine, the Pyke's body slumping, bike plummeting into Nar Shaddaa's neon-choked abyss. Sylis rushes ahead, his second lightdagger cauterizing flesh as he slashes the last Pyke's throat, the rider's bike spiraling, crashing through a neon ad's sparks. The skylanes quiet, our repulsors' hum the only sound, the Spire came closer into view, its durasteel promise all I see. Zevra's bike steadied, her lekku still under her hood, Vren's nod unflinching, his rifle slung again. Nar Shaddaa's neon hell burned, but I'm the fire, speeding toward destiny, rage my only light, the Black Nebula Spire looming.
I gunned the throttle, the swoop bike's repulsors screaming, leading my Shades into the Spire's airspace, neon pulsing below. A horde of Pykes swarmed in a full frontal assault—swoop bikes and airspeeders, a scattered storm of vibroblades and blasters, their comms a chaotic buzz, no focus, just syndicate filth. I drew Juno's WESTAR-34 again, its silver grip steady in my scarred hand. A swoop bike dove, Pyke's vibroblade glinting, and I fired, blaster bolt splitting his forehead as it met its target, his bike smashing into a Hutt pleasure yacht's hull, its turrets spitting red bolts that lit the smog. Another Pyke's airspeeder banked, blaster firing plasma, and I had aimed—crack—the bolt seared his chest, flesh sizzling, cauterized, his speeder spiraling through a billboard, Twi'lek ads flickering in the neon haze. A third Pyke lunged, vibroblade grazing my arm, a shallow sting, blood trickling, but I had blasted him with lightning, his scream lost as he crashed into a freighter's repulsors, sparks raining like kyber dust. The skylanes churned, Pyke chaos fading to a dull roar, my Shades' lightdaggers flashing, their DC-15x rifles scorching flesh, Vren's shots precise, Zevra's lekku twitching, Sylis's scarred face grim under his hood.
I throttled up, the bike soaring above the penthouse, neon and smog blurring below, Nar Shaddaa's lawless skylanes a maze of airspeeders and freighters, repulsors humming to keep them aloft. Through the penthouse's shattered transparisteel, I could see him—Fett, his beskar glinting, visor locking on me, a predator's gaze. My heart pounded, rage a blade sharper than any saber. I rose, one foot on the bike's seat, the Force humming, and leaped backward, flipping through the air, wind tearing at my shroud. My saber's symphony called out, their kyber crystals pulsing in my mind, a heartbeat of white-blue energy syncing with my rage, unstable, alive. I reached out for them, the Force roaring, and they answered—two hilts ripped through the penthouse ceiling, twin fractures splitting durasteel, a crescendo of power that shook the Spire's frame. Mid-air, I pushed through the force, repulse surging, massive, unbound, amplifying the fractures. The ceiling collapsed in a cataclysmic roar, glass shattering, durasteel buckling, holo-tables sparking, a maelstrom crushing Pykes below, their screams drowned by debris, glitterstim vials bursting blue, ryll powder clouding, death sticks' red liquid pooling in the ruin.
My sabers snapped to my hands, igniting in reverse grip, white-blue plasma crackling, unstable as my soul. I landed, one knee down, one hand braced, sabers angled, my silhouette framed by dust and neon, the penthouse a tomb—shattered crates, exposed wires spitting sparks, Pyke bodies seared, a few crawling, gasping, their vibroblades useless. I rose, slashing, blades searing throats, chests, cauterizing flesh, leaving behind charred ruin. Glass dust choked the air, ryll's tang stinging my nose, glitterstim glowing faintly amid the wreckage, but my rage was clear, a storm no Pyke could outrun. Three survivors lunged, blasters firing, and I used the Force, hurling them into rubble, their bones snapping, screams fading as my sabers burned through their hearts.
Fett had stood, dusting his beskar, cybernetics whirring, his frame a horror of implants—servos grinding, eyes glowing faintly behind his visor, a machine more than man in twisted tech. "Thought I killed you already, Starkiller," he snarled, venom dripping, mocking my chest wound, the kick that sent me plummeting from this very penthouse. "Guess I'll make it stick." I stayed silent, rage honing, then Juno's voice calling, "You're stronger than rage, Galen," resonating throughout, a resolved warmth from that Kashyyyk vision flooding my chest, not forceful, balancing the dark storm in me. My eyes lit ablaze white-blue, kyber energy pulsing, flowing through me like my sabers' unstable plasma, and Fett's stance had faltered, a flicker of doubt through his helmet.
He rocketed upward, jetpack flaring, a missile streaking from his gauntlet, its red trail cutting the neon air. I caught it with the Force, gazing into Fett's direction I hurled it back as flak, the explosion showering shrapnel that pinged his armor. He snarled, whipcord lashing, snaring my arm, yanking me forward, but I sliced it with a saber, plasma sizzling through fibercord. Knee darts fired, venom-tipped needles glinting, I counted with another Force push, deflecting them into a sparking holo-table, its glow fading. Fett dived, vibroblade slashing, grazing my thigh, a shallow burn, blood trickling, stinging like ryll in the air. I countered, lightning sparking from my fists, scorching his gauntlet, beskar cracking under the surge. He roared, flamethrower igniting, pressurized fuel spraying in a fiery arc, I swung one saber in a toss, targeting the fuel canister, the saber meeting its target, igniting the fuel in a blaze. The backfire engulfed his arm, flames searing cybernetics, beskar warping, his jetpack sputtering, useless. He tumbled, crashing amid debris, durasteel shards and death stick vials crunching under his weight. I yanked my saber back, the Force pulling it to my hand, plasma humming.
I advanced, sabers humming, Juno's calm flowing, light and dark fused as one, a balance clicking into place, my eyes glowing white-blue, kyber energy alive. Fett lunged, vibroblade thrusting, his implants grinding, but I parried, blades searing his armor, sparks flying as servos failed. He stumbled, his helmet rolled off, revealing a tech-ravaged face—108 years old, cybernetic scars, optic implants flickering, barely human, a relic of war and greed. Weaponless, defenseless, his vibroblade lost in the rubble from my parry, jetpack dead. I extinguished my sabers, the Force returning them to my belt in a fluid motion as I raised both hands, reaching for his throat with the Force, lifting him, eyes wide with terror. I closed my hands into a fist—the Force erupting. His skull imploding in a spray of grey matter and sparking cybernetics, beskar crumpling, his body thudding, a lifeless husk amid the penthouse's ruin. Silence had fallen, heavy, the air thick with glass dust, ryll's tang, and the faint glow of glitterstim.
A quivering mumble broken it, faint, broken. Druun, pinned under a durasteel slab, his eyes wide, hope fading, voice too weak to beg, a gasp of despair. A red wrist comm blinked, pulsing, Pyke backup coming. I ignited one saber, its white-blue hum cold, and stepped to him, my eyes glow starting to fade, kyber energy calming. "Told you, I'd be by for a visit," I said flat, plunging the blade through his chest, searing flesh, cauterized, his body limp, lifeless. The comm's beep cut the silence, a warning of what was coming. Outside, the Shades' blaster fire echoed, swoop bikes screeching, airspeeders roaring through Nar Shaddaa's neon-choked skylanes. I yanked my second saber from my belt, white-blue plasma snarling, my stance wide, daring the Pykes to come. I looked skyward, the Spire's neon hell alive, my sabers humming, death had spit me out again, this time felt different.
Beneath Nar Shaddaa's haze, hushed rumors drove unseen steps toward a spire's hidden truth.
I held my Strato-Hauler 66's thrusters at full throttle, the wannabe skycar's repulsors snarling like a cornered varren as I tore through the Refugee Sector's smog-choked skylanes. Nar Shaddaa's neon skyline bled crimson and violet, a jagged wound against the night, the casino district's glitz a fading smear in my rear viewport. The two guard's chatter from the Twin Falls Palace echoed in my skull—Fett's vibroblade gutting Galen, Pykes crowing over his corpse. Bullshit, I'd bet my last thermal clip, but something pulled me on enough to want to see the Black Nebula Spire for myself. My N7 armor's kinetic barriers primed, the M-3 Predator pistol heavy in the seat next to me, its coils humming like a reaper's drone. Months in this galaxy hadn't dulled my Spectre edge, and my gut screamed the fight was far from over.
As I approached, smoke coiled from the Spire's crown, a firefight's glow pulsing through shattered transparisteel like a dying star. Blaster bolts streaked, red and white-hot, swoop bikes screeched through the haze, airspeeders roared—a war zone tearing itself apart. Pykes swarmed, a horde of vibroblades and blasters, their comms crackling with frantic curses, but figures in hooded robes held the line, their lightdaggers slashing with surgical precision. I squinted through the HUD, my visor cutting through the neon glare. Those weren't Pyke thugs—too disciplined, too lethal. At the center, a lone figure spun, dual plasma blades crackling white-blue, carving Pykes like a thresher through chaff. Galen Marek. Alive, and raising hell.
I snapped the Predator to life, thermal clips locked, and banked the Strato-Hauler into the chaos, repulsors groaning under the airspeeder's boxy, reinforced frame. A Pyke swoop bike dove, blaster spitting red bolts, and I fired—crack—the shot seared his forehead, flesh sizzling, cauterized, his bike spiraling into a Hutt billboard, Twi'lek dancers flickering in a shower of sparks. Another Pyke airspeeder swung in, vibroblade glinting like a batarian's shank, but I unleashed a warp, an energy surge ripping its hull apart like a reaper's armor buckling under a Cain blast. The wreck crashed into a skylane freighter, repulsors whining, and I wove through the debris, the Strato-Hauler's overtaxed thrusters shaking the hull.
The robed fighters glanced my way as his swoop bike came starboard, wary as krogan in a blood rage. One, scarred face half-hidden under his hood, flashed a lightdagger, its edge glowing like a promise, ready to gut me if I twitched wrong. I didn't take it personal; an alien in sleek armor dropping into their fight wasn't exactly a Nar Shaddaa welcome mat. But when I rammed a Pyke with my ride, the Shade hesitated, lightdagger dipping, his eyes narrowing through the haze as we watched the Pyke be obliterated by the oncoming skytraffic. Good enough for now. I wasn't here to swap stories, backing up Galen was now my only focus.
I aimed the Strato-Hauler at the penthouse ruin, its durasteel skeleton gaping like a gutted frigate, glass shards and glitterstim dust clouding the air like eezo mist. The repulsors groaned as I landed hard, skidding through rubble—shattered holo-tables sparking, ryll powder stinging my lungs, death stick vials crunching under my boots. Galen stood at the center, dual sabers blazing white-blue, slashing through Pyke reinforcements with the precision of a turian sniper. His eyes flicked to me, shock flashing, a subtle relief in the way his shoulders eased, but he didn't miss a beat, a saber searing a Pyke's throat, cauterized flesh steaming.
I charged in, omni-blade flaring, its glowing edge slashing a Pyke's arm, the cut cauterized in a hiss of red mist. "Heard rumors you were dead," I jabbed, while snapping off a shot with my pistol, another Pyke dropping, his chest a ruin. "Knew they were bullshit."
Galen's lips twitched, dry as a Tuchanka dust storm. "Half true." He spun, sabers deflecting a volley of blaster bolts, a Pyke's torso burning under his plasma from the bounce back, the air thick with the acrid tang of charred flesh.
We fought back-to-back, my barrier pulsing, its shield pulse shrugging off a vibroblade's swing like a batarian's cheap shot, his lightning crackling, frying a Pyke's armor into slag. Galen's robed warriors held the perimeter, their lightdaggers and blaster shots flashing through the haze, but the Pykes kept coming, a relentless swarm of swoop bikes and airspeeders flooding the Spire's airspace. Their blasters lit the ruin, bolts pinging off durasteel, ryll dust swirling, and I ducked a vibroblade's arc, my omni-blade parrying, severing the Pyke's head, his left over gurgling lost in the chaos.
A low hum cut through the din, menacing, like a thresher maw's rumble. Two droidekas rolled from the penthouse's shattered core, their Pyke sigils gleaming, shields shimmering blue, twin blaster cannons spitting red death. The air crackled, bolts chewing rubble, and I cursed under my breath. These weren't standard clankers—modified, heavy, built to break entire divisions let alone two veterans. Galen's sabers flared, deflecting a barrage, but the shields held, cannons roaring. My HUD flashed red, kinetic barriers straining, and I knew we were pinned.
"Galen, I'll be your Chauffeur for the evening." I quipped, dodging a cannon blast, my barrier flaring like a Normandy hull under fire. "Are you ready to blow this joint?"
He snorted, lightning surging from his fists, shorting one droideka's shield in a shower of sparks. "Ready when you are, Shepard!" I let another thermal bolt loose, its shot pinging the droid's armor, then unleashed a massive warp, the energy surge buckling its frame like a geth colossus crumbling. Galen's saber slashed the second, plasma melting its cannons into slag, but the Pykes pressed harder, blasters and vibroblades closing the gap. We sprinted for the Strato-Hauler, my omni-blade carving a Pyke's chest as I dodge his pursuit, his armor smoking, Galen's lightning frying another, the air heavy with ozone and glitterstim.
I dove into the driver's seat, fingers slamming the controls, Galen vaulting in beside me, sabers clipped to his belt, his WESTAR blaster drawn. The repulsors screamed as I gunned it, the Strato-Hauler lurching into the skyline, its reinforced hull shuddering under blaster fire. Pyke swoop bikes and airspeeders swarmed, bolts streaking, one grazing the airspeeder's flank, sparks erupting like a breached reactor. The robed rider's bikes surged in behind us, a wedge of hooded fury, their lightdaggers glinting as they continued to slash through Pyke stragglers. I wove through a casino's holographic ad, then banked hard, dodging a Hutt freighter's bulk, its repulsors shaking the air.
The Pykes' pursuit faltered all of a sudden, bikes peeling off, airspeeders banking away into the smog—nobody left to bark orders. I didn't question the breather, just kept the thrusters maxed, Nar Shaddaa's neon blurring into streaks of crimson and violet. Galen gripped the seat, his face grim but steady, a faint relief in his eyes, like a soldier spotting backup after a suicide run.
I banked the Strato-Hauler 66's repulsors as we entered the Corellian Sector, the airspeeder's thrusters snarling as Nar Shaddaa's neon skyline blurred into streaks of crimson and violet. Galen leaned forward, his breath ragged, sabers clipped, his WESTAR-34 back in its holster. "Skirt the smelter stacks," he directed, voice rough, "third vent shaft on the left, then dive for the shadowed dock. Don't overshoot, or we'll miss it." I nodded, fingers tight on the controls, the boxy airspeeder shuddering through the haze. This was his turf, not mine—his hidden hidey-hole, tucked away like a Cerberus black site. Months in this galaxy, and I still hadn't cracked how guys like Galen kept places like this off the grid let alone found them.
The warehouse loomed—a nondescript slab of duracrete scarred by vibroblade gouges and carbon scoring, its facade a lie hiding a shipping container base within. Flickering holo-screens cast ghostly Twi'lek silhouettes across rusted coolant pipes, their leaks hissing, the air thick with ozone and the sour tang of spilled ryll. Smuggled crates, some glowing faintly with kyber's hum, lined the perimeter, half-covered by tarps marked with Hutt sigils. A concealed container door, camouflaged as a rusted panel, glinted under the screens' glow, its edges worn but unyielding. Galen raised his wrist, a coded holo-pulse flashing—three short bursts, one long—and one of his robbed men, stepped from the shadows, heavy blaster rifle slung, one of those mini-glowsticks on his belt. His hooded eyes narrowed, scanning me, then softened as Galen nodded. The hooded figure then lowered his rifle, stepping aside, the door grinding open with a low, mechanical groan.
I eased the Strato-Hauler inside, repulsors hissing as I set it down on a durasteel platform, the airspeeder's hull creaking, still warm from blaster grazes. The container base unfolded—a labyrinth of stacked crates, vibroblade racks, and holo-maps flickering with patrol routes from all over the moon, their red lines pulsing like veins. Blaster scorch marks scarred the walls, relics of past raids, and the faint hum of kyber vibrated through the humid air, prickling my skin like an overcharged eezo core. Two swoop bikes roared in behind us, their repulsors kicking up ryll dust. The solo rider, dismounted first, his DC-15x rifle slung across his back, lightdagger glinting as he scanned the warehouse, his scarred face grim under his hood. Two other riders, paired on the second bike, moved in sync, one sheathing her lightdagger with a flourish, her lekku twitching under her hood, the other slinging a rifle with practiced ease. They formed up around us in the airspeeder like a batarian syndicate guarding their warlord, a tight wedge of hooded menace, weapons at their hips, their silence louder than the city's chaos outside. The door sealed with a thud, muffling Nar Shaddaa's neon wail, leaving only the warehouse's hum and the crackle of a distant holo-screen.
I leaned back in the driver's seat, my hand shaking slightly, the Predator still hot from the Spire's firefight, its thermal clips spent but warm at my hip. Adrenaline burned through me, the kind that came after staring down a thresher maw and walking away. Galen climbed out, his boots crunching on durasteel, his face etched with exhaustion but a flicker of relief in his eyes, like a soldier spotting backup after a suicide run. He turned, one hand on his saber hilt, the other brushing ash from his shroud, his smirk dry as a smuggler's lie.
"Where the kriff you been, Shepard?" he asked, voice rough, the question carrying the weight of my 1313's disappearance. "Revan and his Ren reject think you're stuck on some ancient rock halfway across the galaxy."
I grinned, cracking my neck. "One hell of a tale for later," I said, my mind flashing to the Twin Falls heist, that Rakata trinket still tucked in my armor, its weight heavier than the Pykes' blaster fire or the casino's glitz. "Let's just say I've been dodging all sorts of lovely folks looking to kill me while you played syndicate boss. Who the hell are all these people who follow you?"
He snorted, the sound half-laugh, half-growl, his eyes softening for a split second before hardening again, the Spire's bloodbath still fresh. "They are my Shades, Shepard, and I, their Shadow." His followers shifted, their formation tightening around him, Sylis's rifle glinting, Zevra's right hand twitching, ready for anything. The warehouse's shadows danced, holo-maps casting red veins across the crates, the kyber's hum a low pulse in the air. "A lot has happened since that Rakata teleporter grabbed you. Let's head to the Rogue Shadow and I'll let you the Herald tell you himself." Galen brushed off as he dismissed his Shades in passing. "Herald? Mask man now has an official title, color me surprised. Lead the way."