| Location | Hardlock Station, Thanos System, Taldot Sector
One hour earlier
Itzhal's footfalls hammered against the harsh metal surface, each step loud, like the beat of a consistent heartbeat. He stood alone in the lifeless stretch of thruster-burned steel and sprawled cables that stretched between abandoned vessels, their forms raised high on the pedestal of eroded landing gear, the surface layers peeled back, scratched and worn over centuries of use. A cold layer of frost lingered upon dull plates, barely illuminated by a dim flickering light above, creeping closer to the inevitable slumber of a final night.
The seals on his armour and the warmth of his bodysuit kept the gnawing cold from his skin, icy daggers scrabbling without purchase in a silent wind, undisturbed by the hazy sound of Itzhal's breath. Ghosts haunted his steps, disturbed by the sound of the living that even with all his training and experience, the Mandalorian could not stall. Not when death had rejected him. A revenant of the past, forever cursed with the duty of continuing onwards for all that would never see another sunset.
With a click that pushed the activator switch into place, Itzhal opened the door with a rattle not unlike the shaking of wary bones, forced to rise upon another day of hardship. His own body ached in shared remembrance, the wounds of a dozen memories sealed into skin. Itzhal stepped past, over the stalled lower plates, into the gaping maw of darkness that awaited him.
Absence was his greeter, and it was plentiful.
A lonely corridor stretched beyond the horizon, barely illuminated, even with the flicker of the low-light sensors in Itzhal's helmet, which turned the world a dull, bitter shade of grey. Above his head, turrets dangled without purpose, attached to their ports, yet inactive in the hollow death of unliving things. Wary of the silence, the Mandalorian prowled past them, watchful of the dire sentinels and their sightless gazes that, despite his fears, never once awoke from their slumber.
Minutes vanished in the endless darkness, undisturbed by the prisoners who should have hollered and screamed, their voices carried through the cramped ventilation shafts and the worn seals of doors branching off the corridor he found himself in. None of them did. Silence was his only companion.
As the corridor stretched towards its end, it culminated in an imposing wave of contorted steel that resembled a colossal blast door, its surface marred by the scars of time and shattered souls. Its towering presence loomed, a reminder of the insignificance of a single man and a celebration of the countless others that it had broken within these tortured walls. It cared not for Itzhal's presence, unshaken by his arrival; no power existed to rattle it open, nor would it bow to his strength, meagre as it was.
Yet, even titans could be bled, and as he looked upon the surface, he lingered upon the sharp tear of a corner, where pistons and hydraulics lay spread across the joint like exposed tendons, larger than a man. With only a quick look behind him, Itzhal stepped forward and slipped amongst the mechanisms, their crushing strength held back only by their inattention, as the lonesome Mandalorian found his way through to a gap on the other side.
An array of dusty terminals greeted him, untouched in what looked like years, yet should have been only weeks.
