Golbah Hill, Confederate Capital

Dull echoes filled the room.

Typically, the vibrant offices of Polaris Court were a place of professional conduct. As the standing residence of the Confederacy's leader, it was often the locale of many vital occasions. Diplomatic ventures were hosted in its gardens or the daily operations of executive governance were carried out here. Today, however, a divine contradiction took place. Today, a battle had broken out - one that Darth Metus would never lose.

With collidar on head and broomstick in hand, he waited. Crouched behind the very desk he would direct the Southern Systems from. His heart pounded away in his chest, grip tightening upon his weapon or choice. "Do your worse!" he bellowed, challenging his assailants. With boldness, they answered. A trinity of young voices raised at once - a visceral roar as tiny footsteps charged across the office. Darth Metus sprang to his feet and bounded atop the desk, brandishing his weapon defensively.

Before him charged the future - three of his grandchildren. And they were adamant on claiming victory, and thus earning the right to consume confections for the rest of the weekend. Fail? And it was a balanced diet until their mother returned. Darth Metus stood for order...and for not drawing the unmitigated ire of Amaya for letting the youth drink sugar for seventy-two hours. (Again). To this end, his broomstick parried and poked, whirled and smited. He would not be denied! Their tiny brooms had no chance against decades of training.

That is, until the outside intervened.

Without so much as a courtesy knock, the door to his office swung open. In stepped the Speaker of the Confederacy, an aging Twi'lek...who at this point was not in the least bit surprised to see his superior fighting to the death. Culinary-wise. By now, the battle had progressed to the center of the room, and the Speaker bellowed: "Go for his legs!" Surprised, Darth Metus looked up, grinning wide. "I thought you were on my side!" he exclaimed, frantically attempting to stave off the new tactic. However, despite his best efforts, one broomstick struck right above his knee.

His leg was forfeit, and down the man tumbled. His weapon flew out of his hand, arms raised in surrender. "I submit, the treasure is yours." It was hard not to give up when there were three deadly broomsticks prodding one's chest. In victory, the trio immediately raided the man's desk for every ounce of chocolate they could find. Then, they scampered past the Speaker. As they scurried, one could faintly hear their next mission - avoiding the cupcakes of Srina Talon like the plague.

Having almost broken a tooth on one of those dasterdly confections, Darth Metus couldn't blame them. He looked up at the Speaker, amusement in his expression. "I had them this time. And you just had to pop in." The two shared a chuckle whilst the Vicelord rose to his feet. "So, what's up? Aren't you supposed to be headed home for the anniversary?"

"Oh I'm all packed and heading out after this. Just needed to collect my fifty credits and I'll be off." The man had a smug "I win" written all over his face.

"Is that so? And you're collecting on which one?"

"Guess." Smug.exe certainly launched.

"Hmm...Ra'Katha just suggested something expensive. Again."


"Really? I always lose that one. Is it the Gerwald one or the other one?"

"Other one."

A scoff thundered from Darth Metus. "My ass! The Alliance was just fighting them the New Imperials the other day. There's no fething way." It was then that the Speaker reached into his pocket, producing his personal datapad. With a few exaggerated taps, a transmission was summoned from the Chancellor herself. After her voice, the Speaker returned the device to his jacket pocket. "My friend, that fight? Is what we call foreplay." The Vicelord gawked for but a moment before reaching for his wallet.

"So they're fething fething huh?" he grumbled, counting out the credits. "Y'know, this money could be going to a good cause."

"What better cause is there than a bottle of Idlewil on a beach?"

"You got me there, now get outta here before your wife kills us both."

The men embraced and quiet returned to the office. Now fifty credits lighter, there was no better time than now to return to work. The Vicelord settled into his seat, taking but a moment to organize the chaos that the battle unleashed upon his desk. His own personal datapad was roused from its slumber. The draft of the next proposal to the Viceroyalty hummed into being before his gaze. At the top were two posters - cries for action against the genocides of the Bryn. Fourteen sentient species were now extinct. Trillions dead. All in his backyard.

And they kept inching closer. Barab I had just fallen.

How much longer until they reached the southern systems? How much longer until his grandchildren were advised to stay at their mother's - for fear of being literally ripped apart. No. That was one bet that Darth Metus wouldn't lose. One battle that he wouldn't lose. The peace of the Southern Systems was all that mattered, even if it meant temporarily putting aside old grudges. His fingers began to fly on the keyboard, his thoughts rampaging across the screen like a mighty tide.

So long as they lived, they would fight.​