"Sigh…"
Leon exhaled as he slid his empty tray into the recycling chute. The clink of metal echoed crisply near the mess hall entrance.
He glanced at his tactical wristwatch. According to Yavin IV's local time, this meal—something between breakfast and lunch—was likely the only proper break he'd get today.
The corridors aboard the Emperor-class battleship were forever bright as day, the deck beneath his combat boots thrummed with a constant vibration.
Leon strolled slowly down the passageway. Emergency indicators lining both walls blinked rhythmically—like countless crimson eyes silently watching.
Lately, he'd been feeling a persistent fatigue—not physical, as his genetically enhanced body remained sharp and strong—but something deeper.
A weariness of the spirit.
As he passed through three airlock doors, a flicker of blue light from the warp corridor outside the sealed portholes reminded him: ever since they crossed the dimensional gate and entered this "Universe 17," the Empire had been embroiled in battle for some time now.
Unlike previous swift and decisive unification campaigns, this universe was a tangled mess.
On the surface, it was the Galactic Empire versus the Rebel Alliance, light against dark in the eternal struggle of the Force. But in truth, it was far more complex than what the Inquisition or Intelligence Division had reported.
Leon paused briefly at a four-way junction before heading toward a frosted glass door at the end of the hallway.
Beside the door, a red indicator flickered: "Smoking Room," with a smaller notice underneath: "Time Limit: 15 minutes."
The glass parted with a hiss. A blend of tobacco and disinfectant filled his nostrils as he stepped inside.
The small room—less than thirty square meters—held three engineers in dark blue coveralls leaning against the window railings.
Each held a cigarette from different Imperial brands. One crouched to shield another's lighter flame, their movements practiced and casual.
They noticed Leon's entrance and nodded politely before resuming their quiet chat.
In the corner stood magnetic ashtrays and a compact air purifier.
Leon, no less familiar with the routine, pulled a half-empty pack of cigarettes and a bronze lighter from his pocket. This lighter, worn smooth from use, had been with him since the campaign in Universe 13 (DOOM/movie continuity).
Click.
The flame danced, casting light across his tired features.
The cigarette was standard Imperial issue, a small dragon emblem etched into the filter.
Leon wasn't a habitual smoker, but lately—with the missions piling up—these moments of calm had become rare indulgences.
The Empire had a pragmatic stance on tobacco. Not promoted, not banned—except for minors, where it was strictly prohibited.
Tobacco was a key tax source, and thanks to Atlas's medical tech and welfare system, cancer was no longer the terminal sentence it once was.
Of course, public hospitals still warned: while most conditions could be cured, accumulated toxic damage wasn't entirely reversible.
But for Leon—genetically enhanced—those warnings were meaningless. His metabolism ran three times faster than normal. Tar and nicotine barely had time to do harm before being broken down completely.
Thin smoke coiled into a vortex beneath the purifier's pull.
Leon held his cigarette with his left hand, while his right pulled out his custom agent's datapad.
With a successful fingerprint scan, a palm-sized holoscreen sprang to life above his hand, the ghostly blue glow staining the cigarette an eerie violet. Streams of intel scrolled rapidly across the display.
Outside the porthole, warp currents swept by, casting flickering shadows on the chamber floor.
The engineers' conversation trickled in:
"…Reactor B needs inspection…"
"…We'll get our ration coupons after this jump…"
Mundane chatter that reminded Leon of his early days with the Inquisition—those casual breaks between operations with fellow rookies.
Hssss…
He took a long drag, letting the bitter smoke spin in his lungs. Somehow, it helped flush away the clutter in his head.
And on the holoscreen, amidst mission reports and briefs, was a crude casualty estimate for Coruscant—
"At least 1.2 trillion."
That number pulsed ominously in blue, like an open wound that refused to heal.
It even surpassed the entire population of the Human Empire in the main universe.
And Darth Vader's sacrificial ritual was only the beginning—similar atrocities were unfolding across at least twenty-three star systems.
"They've gone insane…"
Flick.
He snuffed the cigarette into the ashtray, a trail of smoke rising like a twisted ghost.
Turning away, the automatic door sealed behind him, muffling the engineers' murmurs.
At the corner, a digital display board was scrolling updates—
"Death Star transferred to Engineering Department, Phase I militarized rebuild underway."
"Jedha system defenses complete Phase III reinforcement."
"First-round selection for Universe 17's Planetary Defense Force begins."
Every headline was built on sleepless nights and bloodshed.
Leon understood his Emperor's strategy—this wasn't conquest. It was digestion.
The Empire didn't want mere submission. It wanted total assimilation of this universe into its structure.
Ten years.
That number wouldn't leave Leon's mind. It was his private estimate for minimum integration time.
The Emperor hadn't stated when the next dimensional gate would open. But given the scope and complexity of this universe, it would take at least a decade to establish stable control.
This meant at least two generations of Astartes recruits would complete gene-seed implantation and transformation.
It meant two generations would grow under the banner of the Empire.
"Ten years."
He sighed again.
His boots echoed in the corridor's silence.
What would he be in ten years? Still fighting on the front lines? Would he still have the stamina for this work?
Maybe he'd still be bouncing between warzones. Maybe he'd be recovering in a medbay after a botched op and organ replacement.
Or perhaps his name would be etched on the Inquisition's memorial wall—just another story for cadets in training.
Beyond the window, the warp corridor twisted like a river of stars. Its blue vortices mocked mankind's fragility and brevity.
The conference room loomed ahead. The identity scanner glowed red, awaiting verification.
Leon inhaled deeply and pushed aside useless thoughts. Now was not the time for sentiment. There was real work to do.
He stepped in precisely on time. The doors closed behind him without a sound.
The tactical briefing chamber was elliptical, the central U-shaped table matte black, embedded with multiple holoprojectors.
Ceiling lights bathed the space in cold white.
"Sir!"
David and Lucy leapt to their feet simultaneously, boots clicking in sync.
Their salutes were textbook—classic signs of young Inquisition agents trained by the academy.
…
Chirrut and Baze reacted a beat slower and said nothing.
As former Rebels, they simply stood up. Baze even casually adjusted his blaster at his hip.
Leon noted Chirrut's blind gaze nevertheless locking on his position. As always, the Force-sensitive man needed no eyes to locate others.
"At ease."
Leon gestured. As he took the lead seat, the chair's hydraulics sighed under his weight.
The central holotable activated. Blue light particles formed a 3D image of Kamino.
The ocean world rotated slowly. Tipoca City's clone facility pulsed red.
"The mission is simple." Leon swiped the interface, switching the projection to a Kaminoan biological schematic.
"We'll represent the Inquisition and the Empire to initiate contact with the Prime Minister of Kamino and lay the groundwork for cooperation."
A second file opened in mid-air. Gene maps and data streams poured like a waterfall.
This was a record labeled "Generation VI: Decommissioned" with a red "For Reference Only" stamp.
"The Bio Division gave us this—our bargaining chip."
He tapped the file.
"We're proposing an initial purchase of 100,000 improved clones. If their product surpasses our current clone soldiers, the Empire will fully bind them through deeper cooperation."
His gaze swept the four agents.
"I'll lead negotiations. David, Lucy—"
The two straightened instinctively.
"You'll collect all tech details from Tipoca City—especially their genetic editing algorithms.
But don't go overboard. Avoid unnecessary theft or provocation. We can be… diplomatic."
"Yes, sir."
David replied crisply. Lucy had already begun logging notes.
"Good."
Leon turned to the other two.
"Chirrut, Baze—your job remains as guides."
He tapped the table, and star system projections appeared.
"Kamino is only the start. We have twelve more targets. Your local knowledge will help us understand their customs."
"Glad to help, Agent Kennedy. The Force guided us here for a reason."
Chirrut smiled, his hand brushing the lightsaber at his side—crafted from Force-sensitive wood, its engravings catching the light.
"As long as the pay's right…"
Baze kicked his boots onto the table, jarring a water cup.
He tossed a credit chip with a wink.
"My blaster's at your service."
The chip spun on the tabletop with a soft hum.
Chirrut, nearing Jedi-level skill, had been given a lightsaber by the Empire's technicians after they studied his organization's sample and used kyber crystals.
Though they had no official rank, both had long since leaned toward the Empire.
Especially Baze Malbus. Few could resist the perks and salary.
"Alright."
Leon, unfazed by Baze's antics, pulled up a classified Inquisition file.
A fully armored warrior rotated in 3D before them.
The beskar helmet gleamed, the T-shaped visor like a beast's eyes.
"Mandalorians." Leon zoomed in on the armor, its details enlarged.
"Flagged as high-priority contacts."
Red-lettered notes appeared:
Tribal Society Structure
Martial Culture
Demolition Experts
Open to Cross-Species Integration
"During the Galactic Empire era, most clans refused to bow to Sheev Palpatine."
He played a rebel-obtained battle recording.
A Mandalorian squad soared through flaming ruins, jetpacks igniting, bringing down two TIEs with precision.
Baze whistled and nudged the projection.
"Gear's better than anything we had."
"Exactly."
Leon shut the feed. The room dimmed again.
"They're ideal for... 'special contracting.'"
He emphasized the last words.
"Missions that require distance and discretion need pros like them."
Lucy scribbled the note, then asked:
"What's their price?"
Leon met her eyes.
"Whatever it is—they won't refuse the Empire's offer. Now let's review the other targets."
He opened more files, diving back into the briefing.
(End of Chapter)
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