The intercom hissed like a dying breath. Commander Lorenzo. Bay 41. Immediately.I forced myself to move through the suffocating corridors, the walls pressing in like steel coffins. Each step echoed with the weight of duty, of blood already spilled. Bay 41 loomed ahead — wrapped in shadow and silence. My hands trembled, not from fear, but from something worse: recognition. And there he stood. Not a man. Not anymore. The Pale Father. His towering form was cloaked in folds of withered black, the very fabric of his robes whispering as if alive. His presence darkened the air around him, suffocating the light from the overheads. Even the cold metal beneath my boots seemed to groan in protest at his return.His voice — when it came — slithered through my mind like a knife coated in ice. Ah… my faithful warrior. His cracked obsidian mask tilted, eyes like dying suns flickering beneath. grow tired of this petty rebellion. Tired of whispers. Tired of… hope. As he stepped forward, something shifted behind him. The hiss of hydraulics, then silence. From the darkness of the ramp behind the Pale Father's ship emerged a second figure. Clad in obsidian armor lacquered with streaks of dried crimson, the Inquisitor moved with liquid purpose — not walking, but gliding, as if gravity dared not touch him. Two lightsabers hung at his sides — both curved, ancient, blackened. His mask was smooth, featureless, save for the jagged vertical split down the center, pulsing faintly with red light. The Pale Father gestured toward him without looking. This is the Blackened Death. He walks the corridors of death unbound by flesh or mercy. He will accompany you… should your conviction waver. The Blackened Death said nothing. He simply tilted his head, studying me with a predator's silence — as if measuring my usefulness, or calculating how I might scream. I met his gaze — or what I thought was his gaze — and felt something ancient twist behind that mask. Something hollow. Something hungry. The Pale Father continued. There is a Mandalorian outpost on Hoth. Infestations of weakness… Clinging to defiance. His hand twitched — not a gesture of command, but of disdain. You will burn them from the ice. Erase them. My voice, hoarse and mechanical through the vocoder, barely rose. Yes… Father. Then go. Kill them all, he whispered. And then, with the finality of prophecy: Let the screams remind the galaxy who its Rule truly is. The doors behind me hissed open as Trax emerged, his black cloak sweeping the floor, his face as unreadable as ever. Wordlessly, he fell in step beside me. The soldiers of the 117th — my legion — stood at attention in neat rows beyond the corridor, readying for war. We walked in silence toward them. But behind us, the Pale Father remained still. The air around him rippled — not with heat, but with unseen pressure, as if reality itself strained to hold him. At his side, The Blackened Death turned slightly, his head cocked toward the retreating form of Commander Lorenzo. His voice was cold metal wrapped in silk — quiet, yet razor-sharp. My lord… I sense it. The Pale Father's mask did not move, but his gaze lingered on Lorenzo like a guillotine waiting to fall. He is weak in the dark side. His soul trembles with doubt. Shall I… remove the defect? Before his loyalty… Decays. For a moment, silence. Then the Pale Father lifted one skeletal hand — not to command, but to pause. No, he said, his voice as ancient as a collapsing star. Let him live. Let him war. A slow hiss of breath escaped the mask. He is loyal… enough. And if he chooses to betray us… Let him satisfy his own death wish. We will watch from the fire. Blacken Dath bowed his head slightly, then turned his gaze back to the soldiers assembling.
Trax sat before us explaining the invasion plans eagerly, highlighting every possible outcome of attack. We have the blueprints of the Mandalorian outpost The enemy will expect a frontal assault. So I believe we'll cut off their supplies, sabotage their communications, and watch them stave to death then unravel from inside, attacking them when they least expect it. His voice was calm, but beneath it simmered a dangerous thrill. To Trax, this wasn't war, it was a game of chess, with soldiers as pawns and himself the ruthless queen. Everything had gone exactly as planned. Their food stores burned to ash. Their water poisoned into sludge. Their communications severed, leaving them deaf and blind in the ice. For seven days, we let them rot. We watched from the blizzards, silent as death itself. Now… the order had come. The sky tore open in fire. Snowships strafed our landing zones, bombarding us into chaos. Sirens screamed. Ice shattered beneath crashing transports. I dragged myself from the wreckage as Trax's cold voice spat through the holocom. Encampment located. Resistance expected. Wipe them out.
Behind me, the troopers advanced in perfect formation, their crimson visors cutting through the blizzard. They marched without hesitation, without fear — machines of war, engines of slaughter. They did not bleed. They did not question. They obeyed. Open fire, I ordered. And they did. The night erupted. Gunfire shredded the silence, lighting the ice in hellish flashes. Barrages of laser fire melted craters into the tundra, drowning screams beneath the roar of engines and death. TIE Fighters howled overhead, raking the sky with fire. Below, rebels and Mandalorians scrambled in vain, dragged into ruin beneath the Empire's unstoppable machine. Through the chaos, my saber sang — carving through flesh and armor like fragile ghosts beneath the storm's teeth. Every swing blurred in crimson light and falling bodies. I had become the storm itself. A force of ruin. We breached the final door. Inside: ruin. Smoke. Blood. A Mandalorian, crawling, dragging a child behind shattered cover. His armor cracked, bleeding into the snow. Please… he's just a boy… please… spare him. For a moment… the storm faltered. Through the haze, I saw not this boy's face, but the child from Coruscant. The cries. The fear. The blood I'd spilled. My saber slipped from my grasp, useless. This is wrong, I whispered, breath shaking. "All of this is wrong. I looked up at the Mandalorian. I'm sorry. I'm sorry for what I've done. For what I've become. There's still time. There's still a choice. You can fight with me. Not against me. I retrieved my saber, but this time I didn't turn it on the innocent. I turned it on The Pale Father's will. On my own sins. Trax, I said. "Stand down. This slaughter ends here. The holocom snapped to life. Trax's voice burned like acid. What are you doing, Lorenzo? Have you lost your mind? You're killing your own men. Stop this now! No, Trax. I stared through the smoke at the survivors gathering behind me. "I'm fixing what I've broken. You're a traitor. The Pale Father will see you burned for this. You'll never leave this regret plant alive. And then, from the shadows — Trax stepped into view. Not with a blaster. Not with commands. But with a lightsaber. Blood-red. Burning. Humming with rage. You think we didn't see this coming? His smile was sharp, venomous. "The Pale Father knew you'd break eventually. That's why he trained me. In secret. While you played the Emperor's pet, I became his weapon. He ignited his blade with a hiss that seemed to cut the very air. "I was always meant to replace you. His first strike came fast — no warning, no mercy. A hammer blow meant to cleave me in two. I caught it, barely, sparks screaming between our blades. Teeth bared. Muscles straining. You were always jealous, I snarled. Jealous of the favor I earned. The power you couldn't touch. He shoved me back, his knee slamming into my gut. Breath left in a ragged gasp. Favor? He laughed, circling me like a predator. You were never favored. You were bait. A rabid dog sent to break itself against the galaxy. I am the future. We clashed again faster now, more vicious. Our sabers carved crimson scars through the smoke-choked air. His blows came heavier, fueled by years of bottled hatred. Mine grew sharper, colder, fueled by the sick weight of everything I'd done. You're broken, Lorenzo, Trax sneered, blade grinding against mine. "Fighting for scraps of guilt like they'll save your soul. At least I still have one,"I spat, slamming my boot into his chest, sending him skidding across the bloodstained floor. He rose slowly. Smiling now. You can't save them. You can't save yourself. And when I'm done… I'll drag your corpse to The Pale Father and show him how loyalty dies. He charged again. I met him halfway. Steel screamed against steel. Sparks lit the dark like falling stars. He scored a burn across my side. I split his gauntlet to bone. We circled. We bled. Finally, I found the opening. His arrogance gave it to me. I drove my saber through his side, searing armor, muscle, and spine in one brutal thrust. He gasped. Blood spilled from his mouth like ink. You… were never… worthy…Neither were you. I twisted the blade. His body convulsed, then crumpled to the ground. Smoke rose from the ruin of him. His helmet lay cracked beside his corpse that sneered frozen in death No more marching," I said. "No more orders. No more lies. Above, through the shattered ceiling, the sky burned with fire and war. Somewhere in the distance, Lara waited. Somewhere, the fight wasn't over. But this… this part was finished.
I looked back to see Subject X-113 stepping toward me through the smoke.
I always believed in you, Lorenzo. My real name… is Lara. We, Lara… I said, breathing heavily. We'll start over. Together.I believe we should" she said softly. "But we need to move. Now. Before he comes. If the Emperor finds this place, he won't show mercy. He'll kill everyone — you, me… everyone who breathes.
Before I could answer, the air itself seemed to vanish. Not grow cold — vanish. The walls no longer pressed close. The ceiling no longer loomed above. Instead, the world peeled itself apart, swallowed by a suffocating void. Shadows stretched like fingers, twisting unnaturally across the cracked ice. Light thinned into fragile strands, flickering as if unsure whether it belonged here anymore. The snowstorm outside fell silent. No wind. No sound. Only his presence. Lorenzo… He stood ahead. No footsteps. No grand entrance. Simply there. A silhouette of rot and power wrapped in tattered black and crimson robes, shifting like smoke beneath water. His mask, pale bone-cracked beneath the frost, seemed to bleed darkness from the fractures. And beneath that mask — something smiled. Not with lips. With hunger. What a delightful little betrayal. His words were oil sliding into my ears. Do you think you can "Outrun me? Outfight me? Escape me? You know how this ends. You've always known." The Pale Father's voice was a poison blade, cold and merciless as he tilted his head, eyes burning like dying stars. "And I… oh, I will enjoy killing you. From the shadows, a second presence emerged — the Inquisitor, the Black Death, clad in jagged black armor, a cruel grin hidden beneath his helmet. His crimson saber snapped to life with a hiss, thirsting for blood. His voice was a low growl, razor-sharp: "You've become weak, Lorenzo. I will finish what the master has begun. I glanced at Lara. "Run. Go. Warn the others. Tell them… there's still hope." She hesitated — a breath — then vanished into the choking smoke and swirling storm. I ignited my own blade, its hum a fragile song against the crushing weight of their presence. The Pale Father stepped forward, voice slithering like venom: "I shaped you. I broke you. I taught you how to bleed for power." His saber burst into a searing red flame, a scream brighter than the dying sun in this colorless nightmare. The Black Death mirrored him, a shadow dancing alongside the storm. We collided — red on red on red. Fury on fury on fury. The frozen ground cracked beneath us, ice splintering like shattered glass. Sparks screamed into the void as our blades met again and again, a brutal symphony of death. The Pale Father's strikes bore the weight of centuries — relentless, crushing — aiming to shatter my body and soul. The Inquisitor was a whirlwind of precision and rage, relentless and merciless. My blade cracked beneath the crushing pressure of guilt, exhaustion, and doubt. You've grown weak, Lorenzo, the Pale Father spat, voice like shattered bones. "Like your brother." His words cut deeper than his saber's edge. You didn't kill him. He killed himself — because of you. Pain coiled around my ribs as the Pale Father lifted me with unseen force, bones cracking in protest. Empathy. Regret. Such fragile things, he whispered, savoring my weakness. The Inquisitor lunged, a blade aiming for my throat — but I was faster. With a desperate slash, I sliced through his gauntlet, severing his hand. His scream was a cruel symphony of rage and pain. Before he could recover, I spun, raking my blade across the Pale Father's face. Ceramic shattered. Bone splintered. Beneath the cracked mask was worse than flesh — pale, waxen skin slick with sweat under a sunless sky. A corpse's face burned in eternal fire. Black veins pulsed beneath translucent skin. Eyes hollow and glowing faintly from a rot within. Steam hissed from the wound, the raw flesh sizzling like it was burning under a scorching sun. His mouth twisted into a grin of raw meat and too-white, too-sharp teeth. The shadows around him recoiled, twisting like living darkness. The very ground moaned in agony. Ah… There it is. His voice dropped low, savoring every word. Your defiance. Your hate. Your little spark. He stepped back, the shadows folding tighter around him, swallowing the fading light inch by inch. His voice softened, a whisper that burrowed deep. This is not the end, Lorenzo. This is not even the beginning. You'll see me again. When the stars burn black and your hope is ash… I will come for you." You cannot kill what was never truly alive. And with that, the Pale Father vanished, swallowed by darkness, leaving only the scent of burning bone and the promise of return. The Black Death, clutching his bleeding stump, snarled through gritted teeth: "This isn't over. The cold claimed me. His laughter — the Pale Father's echo — followed me down into the abyss.
The cold claimed me… but not yet. I dragged myself from the ruin, from the darkness, from the weight of his words. Lara found me. Together, we vanished into the storm. The Pale Father would hunt me. The Emperor would curse my name. The Empire would paint me as a traitor, a monster, a ghost. So be it. I was no longer their weapon. No longer their pawn. From this day forward, I fight for something else. For those I couldn't save. For those I still can. For the boy on Coruscant. For my brother. For myself.