168 HOURS
The news sent ripples through the Galaxy.
Despite the rampages of the Bryn'adul and the appearance of the Maw, easily the conflict most followed in the cosmos was the battle of Father and Son. Born from the Sith Empire's bosom, the New Imperials took a sickle to their creator. Rebellion turned into Conquest. And for many months, the bloody battles were headline news. Yet, in one final blow, the father was unseated. The killing blow struck - The Empire had fallen. Long live the Empire.
For most, the destruction of the Sith regime was a cause for celebration. Yet for others, their demise brought restless nights and worry. Within the political circles of the South, for example, whispers began to circulate. Hushed concerns and veiled thoughts - all of which grew louder by the moment. Already the Confederacy faced a monumental refugee crisis. Now, with the Empire's fall, who could say who was flocking to their borders? Were the refugee vessels truly displaced families? Or were they Sith seeking fertile soil for fresh roots.
Suspicions led to suspicions.
Suspicions led to action.
At 168 Hours, the representatives of Ra'Katha and Thyferra began to work together.
96 HOURS
Three days.
By the time three standard rotations concluded, plans were put into action. The resolution was simple - they would not suffer the fallen Empire's ilk to breach their borders. They would not see the sanctity of their great nation soiled by their schemes. They would not become the plaything of the Sith. Thus, they formed committees within the Viceroyalty. Appealed to like-minded souls. Appealed to democracy. What had begun to take shape was a dedicated effort to vet every refugee which attempted to enter. A comprehensive investigation into who they were - and most importantly - who was tied to them.
These measures - albeit hotly contested on the Viceroyal floor - passed. A narrow margin saw their ambitions become law. Federal assets began to descend upon the border. But of course, this was only the beginning. In essence, Ra'Katha and Thyferra asked but a single question: why stop there? Why stop at the obvious influx when rooting out the threats to their democracy should be global? Should not they all face the very same?
The push to see this question become law almost immediately died.
Yet the question - the action - poured fuels upon the flames. Suspicions grew as a mighty wave. And when flames were ferried by a fresh breeze, oh how far they could spread.
72 HOURS
I am a Patriot.
Four words accompanied the admission of guilt. A federal agent overstepped the boundaries of their position. The trust vested in them. The power granted to them. All was turned against their leadership in the name of rooting out the threats. With one wielding access to the nation's intelligence, old skeletons were dragged into the light. Realities of the past, which may not have defined the men of the present, were paraded for their peers to see. In mere moments, it mattered not how long one had devoted themselves to the South. It mattered not how much they bled for their ideals. The past was louder than the present.
"The patriot" would pay the price for their treason. But their actions would have far reaching ramifications. There were many in notable positions who were implicated. Businessmen. Military personnel. Politicians. Yet none was as jarring as the literal face of their nation. None was as damning. He has spent years gaining the trust of the people. Years building a community removed from the cycle of light and dark. Yet this called into question - just how removed was he?
For the Vicelord himself was once wed to the daughter of the Sith Emperor. The Vicelord himself had fathered the grandchildren of the one responsible for so much suffering. In the wake of the Empire's fall, could any trust that he would not let them in? Could any trust that he was truly removed from the binds of literal family?
The Office of the Vicelord attempted to dispel the talk as hearsay. As a truth from a literal lifetime ago. But oh, how far the flames spread.
Oh how quickly allies turned into adversaries.
24 HOURS
A single piece of paper.
At their moment of triumph, the representatives of Ra'Katha and Thyferra stood before the resolute desk. They set before the sable-skinned man a single slice of writing. It was not a lengthy demand. Yet the horde of signatures beneath were quite telling. The overwhelming majority of the Viceroyalty had turned - the overwhelming majority of the South had turned. And though there was no formal proceedings for forcing the Vicelord from his seat, they would do their absolute best.
A vote had been held.
No confidence had been found.
Isley tapped his pen upon the desk.
This was not the first time that he had felt this way. Not the first time that he had been here. A lifetime ago, when he was a far younger man, crimes that were not his were pinned to his name. Salem Norongachi had painted him a traitor to this very nation and ran him out of his home. Then, he returned to Mandalore. Returned to the warrior culture that had reared him. He served them well. Devoted his life. But then, Mand'alor the Undying turned his back upon him. Upon his family.
It mattered not how much he did for them. It mattered not how much he built, bled, suffered, and fought for them. Somehow, someway, it always ended up here. Ended up with daggers in the back and sorrow in the soul. His face did not betray the whirlwind beneath the surface. The boiling blood. The crack in his heart. All he could do to keep composure was go tap tap tap the pen upon the wood.
He knew how this would end. They all did.
And so, an accord was struck. And ink ran like blood upon the dotted line.
ZERO HOUR
This was the one thing he would not miss.
The gaggle of reporters clamoring for a statement. The flash of lenses burning into his vision. Frankly, he would much rather have faced down a snarling Rancor than deal with the press. Nonetheless, this was his cross to bear. Reaching, his hands found the sides of the podium. His fingers coiled, hard, as if to steel himself. He leaned forward, taking that precious moment to bury himself deep. To bury the wrath, the pain, all of it as deep as it would go.
My fellow Confederates...
He had said these words countless times. And each time before, they were followed by a message of strength. Of unity. Of the promise that they could weather any storm together. He said these words before every conflict. Before aiding the old Alliance. Before aiding the Silvers. Before aiding the Coalition. Before battling the Galactic Empire. And the Jen'ari. And the Mandalorians. He said these words when the nation was at its lowest. He said these words when celebrating their heights. But today, this would be the last.
What came next was exactly what they had founded the nation upon. They were removed from the cycle of Darkness and Light. They did not exist for, nor base their policies, upon religionous beliefs. And though Isley endeavored to keep his beliefs where they belonged - within his home and nothing more - the past would have its due. He did not deny his children. He did not deny his former love. He did not deny who he was. Never once did he hide this fact from his people. From the Silver Jedi to the Viceroyalty floor, all knew that he was a Darth. Yet he so believed that religion was irrelevant. They all did.
Until today. Until the Fall. Until the wildfire swept the Viceroyalty. Until the people changed what they demanded; and he, faithfully, complied.
What would come on the horizon? Those they chose to represent their nations would confer to chose another. One better suited for the perfectly secular image they now craved. His administration? They would see their term to completion - and then the people themselves would have their say during the next formal election cycle. They could choose to retain some of his memory, or they could choose to eliminate it all.
And as the speech drew to a close, one truth would become abundantly clear:
If they were willing to excommunicate the one who had brought them together, imagine what they would do to evils attempting to sneak into their borders.
The news sent ripples through the Galaxy.
Despite the rampages of the Bryn'adul and the appearance of the Maw, easily the conflict most followed in the cosmos was the battle of Father and Son. Born from the Sith Empire's bosom, the New Imperials took a sickle to their creator. Rebellion turned into Conquest. And for many months, the bloody battles were headline news. Yet, in one final blow, the father was unseated. The killing blow struck - The Empire had fallen. Long live the Empire.
For most, the destruction of the Sith regime was a cause for celebration. Yet for others, their demise brought restless nights and worry. Within the political circles of the South, for example, whispers began to circulate. Hushed concerns and veiled thoughts - all of which grew louder by the moment. Already the Confederacy faced a monumental refugee crisis. Now, with the Empire's fall, who could say who was flocking to their borders? Were the refugee vessels truly displaced families? Or were they Sith seeking fertile soil for fresh roots.
Suspicions led to suspicions.
Suspicions led to action.
At 168 Hours, the representatives of Ra'Katha and Thyferra began to work together.
96 HOURS
Three days.
By the time three standard rotations concluded, plans were put into action. The resolution was simple - they would not suffer the fallen Empire's ilk to breach their borders. They would not see the sanctity of their great nation soiled by their schemes. They would not become the plaything of the Sith. Thus, they formed committees within the Viceroyalty. Appealed to like-minded souls. Appealed to democracy. What had begun to take shape was a dedicated effort to vet every refugee which attempted to enter. A comprehensive investigation into who they were - and most importantly - who was tied to them.
These measures - albeit hotly contested on the Viceroyal floor - passed. A narrow margin saw their ambitions become law. Federal assets began to descend upon the border. But of course, this was only the beginning. In essence, Ra'Katha and Thyferra asked but a single question: why stop there? Why stop at the obvious influx when rooting out the threats to their democracy should be global? Should not they all face the very same?
The push to see this question become law almost immediately died.
Yet the question - the action - poured fuels upon the flames. Suspicions grew as a mighty wave. And when flames were ferried by a fresh breeze, oh how far they could spread.
72 HOURS
I am a Patriot.
Four words accompanied the admission of guilt. A federal agent overstepped the boundaries of their position. The trust vested in them. The power granted to them. All was turned against their leadership in the name of rooting out the threats. With one wielding access to the nation's intelligence, old skeletons were dragged into the light. Realities of the past, which may not have defined the men of the present, were paraded for their peers to see. In mere moments, it mattered not how long one had devoted themselves to the South. It mattered not how much they bled for their ideals. The past was louder than the present.
"The patriot" would pay the price for their treason. But their actions would have far reaching ramifications. There were many in notable positions who were implicated. Businessmen. Military personnel. Politicians. Yet none was as jarring as the literal face of their nation. None was as damning. He has spent years gaining the trust of the people. Years building a community removed from the cycle of light and dark. Yet this called into question - just how removed was he?
For the Vicelord himself was once wed to the daughter of the Sith Emperor. The Vicelord himself had fathered the grandchildren of the one responsible for so much suffering. In the wake of the Empire's fall, could any trust that he would not let them in? Could any trust that he was truly removed from the binds of literal family?
The Office of the Vicelord attempted to dispel the talk as hearsay. As a truth from a literal lifetime ago. But oh, how far the flames spread.
Oh how quickly allies turned into adversaries.
24 HOURS
A single piece of paper.
At their moment of triumph, the representatives of Ra'Katha and Thyferra stood before the resolute desk. They set before the sable-skinned man a single slice of writing. It was not a lengthy demand. Yet the horde of signatures beneath were quite telling. The overwhelming majority of the Viceroyalty had turned - the overwhelming majority of the South had turned. And though there was no formal proceedings for forcing the Vicelord from his seat, they would do their absolute best.
A vote had been held.
No confidence had been found.
Isley tapped his pen upon the desk.
This was not the first time that he had felt this way. Not the first time that he had been here. A lifetime ago, when he was a far younger man, crimes that were not his were pinned to his name. Salem Norongachi had painted him a traitor to this very nation and ran him out of his home. Then, he returned to Mandalore. Returned to the warrior culture that had reared him. He served them well. Devoted his life. But then, Mand'alor the Undying turned his back upon him. Upon his family.
It mattered not how much he did for them. It mattered not how much he built, bled, suffered, and fought for them. Somehow, someway, it always ended up here. Ended up with daggers in the back and sorrow in the soul. His face did not betray the whirlwind beneath the surface. The boiling blood. The crack in his heart. All he could do to keep composure was go tap tap tap the pen upon the wood.
He knew how this would end. They all did.
And so, an accord was struck. And ink ran like blood upon the dotted line.
ZERO HOUR
This was the one thing he would not miss.
The gaggle of reporters clamoring for a statement. The flash of lenses burning into his vision. Frankly, he would much rather have faced down a snarling Rancor than deal with the press. Nonetheless, this was his cross to bear. Reaching, his hands found the sides of the podium. His fingers coiled, hard, as if to steel himself. He leaned forward, taking that precious moment to bury himself deep. To bury the wrath, the pain, all of it as deep as it would go.
My fellow Confederates...
He had said these words countless times. And each time before, they were followed by a message of strength. Of unity. Of the promise that they could weather any storm together. He said these words before every conflict. Before aiding the old Alliance. Before aiding the Silvers. Before aiding the Coalition. Before battling the Galactic Empire. And the Jen'ari. And the Mandalorians. He said these words when the nation was at its lowest. He said these words when celebrating their heights. But today, this would be the last.
What came next was exactly what they had founded the nation upon. They were removed from the cycle of Darkness and Light. They did not exist for, nor base their policies, upon religionous beliefs. And though Isley endeavored to keep his beliefs where they belonged - within his home and nothing more - the past would have its due. He did not deny his children. He did not deny his former love. He did not deny who he was. Never once did he hide this fact from his people. From the Silver Jedi to the Viceroyalty floor, all knew that he was a Darth. Yet he so believed that religion was irrelevant. They all did.
Until today. Until the Fall. Until the wildfire swept the Viceroyalty. Until the people changed what they demanded; and he, faithfully, complied.
What would come on the horizon? Those they chose to represent their nations would confer to chose another. One better suited for the perfectly secular image they now craved. His administration? They would see their term to completion - and then the people themselves would have their say during the next formal election cycle. They could choose to retain some of his memory, or they could choose to eliminate it all.
And as the speech drew to a close, one truth would become abundantly clear:
If they were willing to excommunicate the one who had brought them together, imagine what they would do to evils attempting to sneak into their borders.
