The Aftermath | Post Abregado-rae Invasion

The shuttle bay of the Mythos was filled with the smell of machinery being fixed, but he found it much better than the decay of Abregado-rae. The planet had succumbed to the terrible plague unleashed by the Sith, a tactical failure caused by a battlefield that had descended into chaos and cheap tricks. As the landing ramp hissed down onto the deck, Vreegan stepped into the dim light of the hangar.

The younger vode were already forming small groups, their voices mixing in a swirl of frustration and hurried discussions. He walked past them in complete silence. It wasn't anger that kept him quiet under his T-visor, but a deep, heavy disappointment. They had let the illusions of the Force, the ghost armies, and the strange displays of their enemies cloud their judgment, forgetting the realities of warfare.

He turned left down the main corridor, his armored boots making a steady sound on the steel deck. As the noise of the hangar faded behind him, he headed to his quarters, entering the password with a simple press of his hand as he stepped inside and closed the door. Vreegan raised his gauntlets, unsealing his helmet with a sharp hiss of pressurized air. He lifted the golden dome off his head and placed it on the hard frame of his bunk.

He had no need for comfort, not now, especially not when getting ready for the next fight. Moving to the small metal basin in the corner, he splashed cold water on his weathered face. The water washed away the dirt and dried ash from the landing field, dripping down his jaw as he looked at his reflection. The Sith had won this invasion, snatching victory from biological filth and cowardice.