Fear
The force, normally so loud and omnipresent in his senses, had suddenly cooled, grown quiet. Darkhawk sneered under his helmet, converting the emotion into something useful, something abrasive, a weapon for his own use. Knuckles cracked as fingers strained against the hilt of his weapon. No, fear was for the enemy. Fear…and violence.
The dark shape slowly came into focus as he led the small team closer to Sarthis’ position, the Noghri tracker almost blurry in the dark. His broad head turned slightly, acknowledging their approach, eyes darting back to watch his target. Their target.
They were hard to see. A few humanoid shapes seemed to scuttle around a few dozen feet ahead, the other side of a fallen ceiling panel and damaged ducting that half obscured the prefabricated corridor. Darkhawk strained his eyes, then engaged the MFTAS system on his helmet, a few light taps on his gauntlet shifting sensor arrays hidden away in the kit. A faint outline twitched into his heads up display, flickering as they lurked ahead of them in the dark. He bit back a curse, wishing he had put in the thermal pod earlier instead. They would have been more obvious to him then. Silence was his ally now, watching them. It seemed to be three of them, huddled back there, moving with nothing short of gravelike quiet.
It was hard to make out at this distance in the dark, but one seemed to stand and look their way every so often. He was grateful for the reflec he had applied so many times to the armor. It had served him well to hide his presense in the field, and today it seemed more than necessary. The human seemed to squint, like he thought he had seen him. Darkhawk held his breath, freezing in place as they considered. He seemed to be dressed in little more than rags, wearing the dust as a second skin. Wonder drifted through the consul’s mind. A hand signal went up to his comrades. Alive.
There was too much to this story that he did not yet know.
Yet.
Tytus crouched low behind a stack of collapsed ducting, his hands flying over the small datapad tethered to the Gonks. The two droids whirred softly, their power cores fluctuating as they fed his systems. The Harrower’s ancient databanks resisted his efforts, but with a triumphant beep, the slicer broke through. Lines of code flooded his screen, and data began to stream—schematics, logs, encrypted communiques. Every byte he could salvage might be the key to understanding what happened here.
“DarkHawk,” Tytus whispered over the comms, “She was a stubborn ol’ lass, but I’m in. Pulling what I can now, but it’ll take time. Give me a tick and I may be able to put some light on the subject for us.”
As the data flowed, Tytus diverted a portion of the Gonks’ power reserves. Gradually, the hangar’s emergency lighting flickered to life. A harsh, pale glow outlined the space in fits and starts: emergency exit lights cast dim pools around blast doors; low-location strips revealed the jagged edges of shattered plating; a few flickering spotlights illuminated scattered debris. Only a fraction of the system responded—most circuits were dead, corroded beyond use.
From the periphery of his helmet’s HUD, DarkHawk caught the faint glimmer of navigation lights outside the hangar. Through one of the hangar’s large viewports, he spotted a signal—a brief pulse visible to the fleet holding position beyond. He turned, scanning the newly illuminated hangar.
Shapes darted into view and then retreated into shadow, humanoids shielding their eyes from the rare brightness. Their movements were hesitant, unnatural, as if the light itself was an adversary. DarkHawk clenched his jaw beneath his helmet. How long had they been down here? How much of themselves had they lost to the dark?
His hand rested on the hilt of his weapon, but he did not draw it. Instead, he muttered, “This complicates things.”
Switching to the fleet channel, his voice was steady. “Perdition, this is Sepros One. Scramble a medivac crew, we have survivors…”
Warlord Hades stood aboard the Victory Star Destroyer Light of Orian, a towering silhouette against the backdrop of the bustling bridge. The rhythmic hum of the ship’s systems was interrupted by a crackle from the comm station. Hades turned sharply, his cold gaze narrowing as he processed the message.
“Ensign,” he barked, “Have Sepros One repeat last message.”
The junior officer nodded and relayed the order. Moments later, DarkHawk’s voice filled the room, steady yet laced with urgency. “We have found survivors on board. Need medevac team.”
Hades frowned, the implications gnawing at him. Survivors. Here, of all places. “Request permission from Perdition to have us launch the medivac,” Hades commanded. His tone brokered no argument.
Moments later, Vice General Simonetti’s voice filtered through the comm. “Request acknowledged, Warlord Hades. The Perdition is continuing its deep orbit comm scans. We’ll maintain coverage while you dispatch the medivac.”
“Understood General,” Hades replied before turning his focus back to the unfolding situation.
Onboard the Harrower, the air was tense. DarkHawk continued to process how and why these feral beings are still here? Were they what is left of the crew? The feral humans cowered in the dim light, their ragged forms trembling as the Consul spoke.
“This is an option I am not dismissing,” DarkHawk began, his voice calm but firm. “However, before all the killing commences, I’d like to extract whatever information we can from them.”
Malisane’s lips curled in distaste. Malisane is unapologetically loyal to the Clan and DarkHawk could feel the former Quaestor’s bloodlust. “I see no reason to keep these wretches around. I doubt they can even speak. We’d be wasting time interrogating this lot.“
DarkHawk held up a gloved finger,. DarkHawk’s gaze swept the room, settling on the Twi'lek assassin lurking in the shadows. A subtle nod was exchanged.
Reaching out with the Force, DarkHawk’s mind entwined with its dark tendrils. He gripped one of the feral humans telekinetically. The creature writhed and screeched, its movements erratic as it clawed at an invisible hold, desperate to break free. DarkHawk pulled the struggling figure closer.
"We don’t need to waste time making them talk, Malisane,” he said coldly. “I have a more expedient method.”
DarkHawk turned toward Tasha and gave another nod, a devilish grin crossed the assassin’s lips. “Search its mind—or what remains of it. There must be fragments of memory that may possibly answer our questions.”
Tasha stepped forward, her eyes glinting with the promise of discovery as the tendrils of her telekinetic power coiled around her arm.
“Well isn’t this quite a method.” She pursed her lips as she concentrated thinking back on a time when she felt helpless. The rage and hatred at being powerless fueled her energy as she reached out to a few of the others feral humans with her hands, the Force striking outwards as a deadly snake wrapping around three more and lifting them into the air. As she twirled her hands, they began to spin about as she drew them nearer to the party. “Now if you have some interrogation to do, it would be a great time to do it. I can hold them for a bit, but not for a long length of time.”
DarkHawk extended his gloved hand toward the feral human, drawing upon the Force to probe the creature’s fractured mind. Invisible tendrils of power reached out, seeking to penetrate the chaotic maelstrom that was its consciousness. The feral human twisted and jerked violently in his grip, guttural sounds escaping its lips as it resisted.
To DarkHawk’s astonishment, the connection faltered. The fragmented mind of the human, though feral and broken, was an impenetrable storm of primal fear and madness. The first attempt yielded nothing, as if his tendrils of thought had been cast into a void.
Determined, DarkHawk adjusted his focus and redoubled his efforts. The second attempt was far more deliberate, his mental energy pushing against the swirling vortex of the human’s psyche. It felt like trying to pierce a wall of steel with a blunt blade. He gritted his teeth, his breathing growing labored as he delved deeper into the chaos. Sweat beaded beneath his helmet as his own thoughts seemed to reverberate back at him, threatening to overwhelm his control.
Then, narrowing his focus further, he poured all his energy into a final push. The feral human screamed, a guttural cry that echoed through the hangar. Suddenly, a release of psychic energy detonated outward. The backlash hurled DarkHawk backward with violent force, sending him careening across the cold, metallic hangar floor. He landed hard, sliding several meters before coming to a painful stop.
DarkHawk groaned, his muscles quivering as he pushed himself to his knees. His limbs felt leaden, his mind pulsing with residual waves of psychic feedback. His voice, barely audible, escaped his lips: “That… did not work out the way I planned.”
The others exchanged uneasy glances, the charged air still crackling faintly with residual energy.
Malisane looked down at the fallen Consul, and then back at the enemy that had apparently knocked him back. For a second an unease and confusion passed through him. For all his time in the Brotherhood he had distrusted and despised the more ‘subtle’ powers, which he referred to as the Decadent Arts of The Krath. Though he had been given a basic training in them at the Academy on Lyspair he saw the force as a weapon to enhance his abilities and strike directly at his foes. He had not been happy about the course of action and he had been proven right. He felt the familiar fury rise through him at the enemies that threatened his Clan, and had attacked the Clan Leader. Any other considerations left his head.
In a familiar movement his left hand came up ripping his hood from his head, revealing his ravaged features, and his right hand brought up his saber, the azure blade igniting in his hand. With an imcomprehensive roar he charged forward, his blade arching at the enemy that had attacked a Sadow. The saber cut through the torso of the feral human, easily slicing through flesh and bone under the strength of the elder.
Sarthis, not entirely understanding the actions of the force users, had taken the opportunity to get behind some cover and assemble his rifle. He had watched in fascination as the invisible struggle took place, and seeing the force users leader fall he brought the rifle up, tensed for action. Then seeing the enraged jedi charge forward and hack down an opponent, he sighted the next nearest target and fired, the heavy blaster shot scorching through the air past the Sith blasting into the chest of the next enemy. As both enemies fell dead Malisane moved forward to massacre the next enemy and the noghri adjusted his sights to pick off another.
DarkHawk groaned as he forced himself back to his feet, his vision clearing just enough to take in the chaos unfolding around him. Malisane’s saber burned with ferocious intent, cutting through one opponent with ease, while Sarthis’s heavy blaster cracked through the air, claiming another. The hangar teetered on the edge of a complete bloodbath.
“Stand Down!” DarkHawk bellowed, his voice cutting through the din like a thunderclap. His tone brooked no argument, and the team hesitated before pulling back. Malisane froze mid-swing, his azure blade still humming ominously. The elder’s rage-filled gaze turned to his Consul, momentarily questioning but ultimately compliant. Sarthis lowered his rifle reluctantly, retreating from his vantage point with a sharp exhale.
The feral attackers, or what remained of them, shifted uneasily. Some snarled, baring jagged teeth, while others appeared confused, their predatory instincts seemingly dulled by the sudden halt in hostilities. DarkHawk’s mind raced.
“We need one alive,” he declared firmly, his gaze sweeping across his allies. “I want answers, not a massacre, at least not yet.”
The elder Sith frowned but extinguished his saber with a snap-hiss, stepping back reluctantly. “Are you sure on this,” he muttered? DarkHawk nodded. Sarthis gave a small shrug, his expression unreadable but his weapon still at the ready.
DarkHawk stepped closer to one of the less frenzied attackers, his instincts warning him of the danger yet urging him forward. When connected to the feral creature earlier, for a fleeting moment, he sensed something.
“I don’t believe this being was the cause of my assault,” he admitted, his voice low but urgent. “These are but pawns for something far more dangerous.”
Malisane frowned, his tone skeptical. “For what?”
DarkHawk didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he glanced toward Sarthis. “We need a deeper probe. Someone who can reach further into that void than I can. These things—whatever they’re serving—are a piece of a much larger puzzle.”
The silence that followed was thick with tension. DarkHawk looked around the scene, his voice firm as he continued. “This is no longer a Search and Recovery operation. We’re on a Direct Action mission now. Whatever’s behind this isn’t just a threat to us—it’s a threat to the Clan.”
Enough time had passed. Bentre didn’t dare to follow Tasha'Vel too closely. She was still sore about the poison lekku idea. He was sure that Darkhawk would keep her in line. So he set off.
The halls were dark. He started to rummage in his pack, fishing out a glow rod. It would hurt his ability to seek unseen. It became a game of a moment of light, followed by a stalking in complete darkness based on what he had seen.
He could sense his wife. He could sense the Consul. He could sense Muz. What he couldn’t sense though, that is what was starting to bother him. The Force was oddly flaccid. He crept forward carefully.
He reached into the Force, touching at the edge of Tasha'Vel’s mind. He considered his words as he stalked for what felt like minutes stretching into hours.
Light. Darkness. Creeping. Light. Darkness Creeping.
He could sense Tasha'Vel much closer now.
I am coming for you. He projected into the Force as he focused on his wife.
Tasha'Vel’s face scowled at the word in her mind. “Bastard, about time you actually stopped hiding.” Her face curled into a sneer as she then looked at the Consul on the floor. Her mind snapped back onto the current battlefield. Analyzing the situation, she went into action. Flicking her wrist,the lightsaber appeared into her hand and a violet hued blade lit the darkened hold.Her eyes shifted to the one left she held in her telekinetic grasp, the message from Bentre was enough to fuel her rage. Swiftly, she leapt forward and cut one in half before moving to one that was running away, sliding her blade diagonally through it, cutting it down. Being in a rage from trying to protect the consul, his words to keep them alive had been ignored for now.Her green eyes blazed as she began to spin her purple blade of death in a deadly whirl, challenging the other humanoids that dared to step between her and the Consul.
Bentre, hearing the sound of lightsaber and what he could have sworn was a growl he recognized, abandoned his sneaking the moment. If there was battle, he wasn’t about to let his fellow Sadowans to face it alone, caution be damned.
Hopefully he wouldn’t get stabbed when he first showed his face.
Twi'leks can take a bit of ribbing, right?
Sarthis stood off to one side quietly disembling his sniper rifle and clipping the component parts to the catches on the catches on the back of his uniform. He was still feeling unsure about events. The sudden stop in the violence had surprised him, especially at the orders of the apparent victim of the attack but privately he was satisfied. He had no thirst for violence and whatever was the matter with these strange inhabitants on the ship they did not appear a threat unless attacked by whatever the Jedi had invisibly done to them. His gaze turned from the leader who was quietly talking on a communicator, to the familar moody jedi he had come with, who had replaced his hood and mask to cover his damaged features and was leaning against a wall.
Sarthis walked over to him. “What is happening Jedi?” he asked. The blue eyes turned to him from the holes in the mask. “Matters are being taken care of,” Malisane replied, “that is all you need know.” The noghri nodded, “You do not understand either then.” “Do not try my patience mercenary,” the Sith replied, “this is the wrong time.” Sarthis looked down as he heard a slight beeping noise. “Something on your belt is flashing.” The Sith looked down, and then took a small device from his belt, a light blinking on and off and the beeping becoming louder. He studied it silently. “It should not be doing that.”
Then they both turned as a large object passed through the hangar atmospheric shielding, hitting the ground hard and bouncing across the deck, giving off showers of sparks. The confused scruffy inhabitants cowered in fear as Sadowans grabbed their weapons and prepared against a threat. Finally the mercenary and the Sith leapt aside as the object crashed into the wall next to them, heavily denting the bulkhead. Hands at weapons, they watched for a few seconds as the object gave off plumes of smokes and flashes of small explosions.
Then there was a louder explosion as the side of the object blew open and crashed to the floor. Malisane and Sarthis looked into the open interior, smoke billowing out from it, and then a short black droid wheeled out, spun on the spot, and then faced them, and gave off a triumphant boom. Malisane looked in weary disgust and shook his head. “Sometimes it is more resourceful than I give it credit for.”
As the humanoids ran away, Tasha'vel lowered and sheathed her lightsaber as Malisane’s droid came crashing out. She gave it a sideways glance before turning her gaze to Malisane and Sarthis while shaking her head. “Loud, but effective.” Vance arrived with his slugthrower ready after hearing her lightsaber activate. Seeing the droid, he smirked. “That one’s got spunk. I like it.”
As smoke dissipated, heartbeats slowed to their usual pace and eyes grew adjusted to the dark again, the dread returned anew. Three dead lay between them all, a ruin of bulkhead, ducting and conduit strewn about the corridor.
Darkhawk knelt near one of the fallen, the Sith’s mask regarding the cooling corpse with a curiousity not seen in some time. The body was frail, slight. He could count rib bones through thin stretched skin that peeked from behind scraps of cloth dusty with age and wear. He nudged one over with the hilt of his weapon, the body rolling with ease. Scars littered the arms, ragged lines of wounds that healed slowly over time. The face was gaunt, like the rest of the body, eyes sunken and hollow, the irises pale and cloudy. All three were like this.
The curse that left the Consul’s lips might not have made it through his vocoder, containing the vitriol within his own ears. None left to question. To prod. His initial probe into their mind went abyssmally. Was it some inbuilt defense, a natural protection against intrusion, or was it a function of the residual energies aboard this ancient ship? The Force had felt….off since arriving here, and answers were not forthcoming. And reading the dead was harder yet. Beneath the helmet, Darkhawk sneered.
Muz watched the readout on the datapad. The scanners had served the clan well. Holoscanners with precise calibration and overpowered repulsors, the drones screamed through the recesses of the ancient ship, measuring every corridor, every nook and cranny. They took notes of every bit of damage, every exposed wire. It would take some time, but between the scans and whatever they would manage to get from the ship’‘s computers, they would have what they needed. Then it was just a matter of reaching out to his contacts, and construction could begin. They had already requisitioned the materials, and the slip was manned. He had made arrangements for that once Mick had gotten them a reasonable image confirming the wreckage.
Muz let out a breath as he watched the progress bar fill. 71%. They had hoped for a more intact wreckage, but that was a prayer to dead gods. The old empire had fallen five milennia ago, and it was nearly a miracle to find one at all, let alone one with atmosphere on it that hadn’t rotted into sand. Muz turned, watching Tytus navigate computer subsystems and swearing. The architecture was foreign, older than old. Because of course it was. At least it wasn’t all in ur-Kittat. Muz paused, a flicker of recognition blooming behind black eyes as his head turned back to the drone control panel.
Teeth and tusks, then static filled one of the screens.
His mind reached out instinctively, the cold gravel tones of his mental voice rattling the others minds.
Near the bridge. Something ate a drone.
Bentre strode into the room just as Darkhawk knelt by one the fallen. His lightsaber was in hand and lit, ready for action. He lowered it slightly as he surveyed the scene before him.
He felt largely out of place, slowing his pace down as he approached the now-Overlord. He glanced at the other Sadowans, his gaze settling on Tasha'Vel for notably longer before he looked back at the Consul.
“Well it looks like I missed something fun.”
“Not really Dear, just making sure our Consul was protected.” She remarked as she looked back at her husband. “Nice to have you back though.”
It felt wrong. There was surely love lost between the pair. He had not seen his daughter in a year at this point. He didn’t think that Tasha'Vel would be so quick to forgive.
She was still Sith, after all.
“Good to see you have not lost your edge as a Black Guard.” His tone was friendly, but there was an edge to his words. “I would expect if you couldn’t deal with threats on your own we are dealing with something pretty significant.” He motioned at one of the corpses with his lightsaber pointedly.
I haven’t forgotten how we parted, offspring of Mora'Tel.
The voice, so long faded to the back of his mind practically cooed. Old Sith had a way of holding grudges pretty hard. He tried to shake off the dark thoughts of the old ghost.
“So since Takagari is in the big, uncomfortable seat I presume he will want to deploy me somewhere outside of backstabbing range?”
His posture stiffened as the tension in the hangar coiled tighter. The exchange between Tasha and Bentre, though amusing under different circumstances, was a distraction to the mission. There was little time to entertain the simmering animosity between them. Grievances—those could wait. Here, in the belly of the beast, they had one goal: secure the Harrower and bring it home to Sepros.
DarkHawk’s vocoder crackled to life, his voice carrying the weight of barely restrained patience. “Alright, that’s enough foreplay! You two can kill each other later—after we get this ship back on its feet of course.”
Before either of them could retort, his head jerked slightly. A whisper—not a sound, but a presence—threaded its way into his mind and of the others. The cold, gravel-edged voice of Lord Keibatsu coiled through their thoughts.
Near the bridge. Something ate a drone.
DarkHawk exhaled sharply, his focus sharpening to a blade’s edge. The ancient ship had been eerily quiet, but now? Something was stirring, as if the ship was responding to their arrival. His gloved fingers flexed at his sides before he activated his commlink.
“VP,” he ordered, his tone clipped and precise, “get to the bridge. Now. I want a full diagnostic and a report on any anomalies. Search for movement, structural instability—anything out of place.”
A confirming beep crackled through the channel before the transmission cut out. The droid would do its work, but DarkHawk wasn’t one to sit back and wait for a report.
He turned to the others. “We move. Now.”
As the group began assembling, Master Stahoes smirked, his voice laced with that ever-present blend of wit and cynicism. “So since Takagari is in the big, uncomfortable seat, I presume he will want to deploy me somewhere outside of backstabbing range?”
DarkHawk turned, regarding his Elder with an unreadable expression beneath his mask. Then, a dark chuckle—a rare, almost unsettling sound—filtered through his vocoder. He dipped his head slightly, enough not to make a mockery of the formality.
“I recall giving you my word regarding the continuation of the Black Guard, and as I give you my word now,” he intoned, voice laced with dark amusement. “As Consul Emeritus, you will be extended every courtesy I can grant.” He paused, letting the moment stretch just long enough to let the weight of his next words settle. “However, keeping you outside of backstabbing range would not be for my refuge. It’s less about protecting me and more about keeping you from ending up as your wife’s next ‘training exercise.'… at least for the time being.”
His gaze flicked toward Tasha, her expression unreadable but the fire in her eyes unmistakable. The tension remained, but it was now harnessed, focused. They had a mission. They had a target.
“Do not worry on my behalf, Overlord. In any other circumstances I would say that Tasha'Vel would be welcome to try. But you are right, mind on the mission.
Bentre waved his activated weapon.
"Shall we?”
Malisane ignored the conversation between the Consul, the former Consul and his wife. As far as he was concerned the Clan had many leaders since he had joined from the academy. If the present Summit fell a new one would take its place and he doubted the members, military and civilians would notice the difference. A feeling was bothering him, it had been for some time. He closed his blue eyes and focused, his senses spreading out of the hangar to the surrounding area and beyond. He felt an unusual chill spread through him, he sensed hunger, fear, lust, anger. As an unemotional person he was used to feeling that amongst those he met, and yet this was more so. He began to sense much worse, stronger, more hungry and wrathful, something or somethings around them radiated it. He had felt it before, but of all the worlds he had visted there was only one. “Kangaras.”
“What?” he heard a voice ask, and his eyes opened to see the nogrhi mercenary looking at him curiously. “This place feels wrong,” the Sith replied, his voice echoing loudly across the hangar as he forgot his usual stoicism, “I have sensed it before, on a world called Kangaras. It is a former Sith world, where there are no prey and predators stalk and claw and tear at each other to the death and the stronger eats the weaker, where nothing outside the safe zone we created is safe for sentient inhabitants or explorers for even a few hours. I was born there, and there myself and the Brotherhood’s most accomplished alchemist bred and trained the most vicious, resilient and resouceful race we could conceive to keep the safe zone secure for us to inhabit. The world radiates feeling of anger and aggression I have seldom felt anywhere else but here.” Had Sarthis had hairs on his neck they would have risen. “You do not make further exploration an attractive prospect Jedi. We should depart.” “No,” the maurader replied, “this must be destroyed here and now.”
What is he talking about?
Bentre could already feel something in the Force. It felt off. He closed his eyes, probing more deeply in the Force. Normally he would fly by the seat of his pants but the way that Malisane spoke made him increasingly uneasy.
He brushed by presences in the Force. There was a hunger there. Something primal, something given to base desires. There wasn’t just one out there. There were many. These foes were a legion.
“They are just creatures.” He smiled, showing his teeth as he continued to probe in the Force. “We shouldn’t be too hard pressed to rout them out. If we press on, I am confident that we can overcome whatever…”
Then he felt it. There was something even bigger. It was…darker? Just more powerful? There was another emotion he hadn’t expected of mere animals.
He felt a sense of wrath mingled with the hunger. Below the hunger was a purpose. As he stretched out his senses he felt more of them. His heart dropped as he opened his eyes.
“Okay so maybe it isn’t as simple as that. Something like this doesn’t persist so long without being either powerful or…organized. Pack hunters maybe?”
He started to sift through his bag with purpose. “Did anybody else bring some explosives, by chance?”
If a show of force wouldn’t suffice, they would have to get creative.
Malisane studied the Tribune’s reaction, guessing that the other elder had sensed the same disturbing presence as he had. He listened to his question, and considered it, agreeing they did perhaps need an unconventional approach. From the reports they had received of what was going on outside it was unlikely they could call in a heavy weapons or engineering platoon to help. Then he looked down as he heard a familiar loud boom and the whirring of small wheels. He looked down as Zero sped away from him towards the Tribune, and stopped right in front of him.
There was a pause and then the panels in the droids body began to open. With a series of whirrs and clicks a blaster cannon emerged and expanded from it’s back, coming to rest over its head pointed at the former Consul. From it’s front panels an explosives launcher emerged, followed by an anti armour rifle, and with a click a small flame began to burn beneath the barrel, and finally there was a small burst of carbonite. Zero emitted another loud enthusiastic boom at the former Consul.
“Zero,” Malisane barked, “get back over here and stop showing off, or I will throw you back into space.” He looked at the Tribune as the droid reluctlantly retracted its weapons into it’s panels and returned. “He may not be what you had in mind, but he is useful as support or a distraction.”
Bentre smiled. “As long as he can hold his own he will be more than a welcome addition. I will make sure not to break anybody else’s toys.”
There was a use in people and droids alike. This one certainly had spunk. As much as he could be glib about it, he really wanted to be sure he didn’t catch Zero in the crossfire.