Private A High Family Matter, Reflected in a City of Glass.

[Mr Black]

Echelon: The Outer Rim
Kynaron: The Second City
District 10: The Sky Yards
The Sky Ancestral Lounge.
Tag: Ironwraith

Fog rolled its way across the upper catwalks, brushing between mobile forges and artisan-carved alleys that spiraled upward through the clouds. Light neon calligraphy cut the mist, reflecting against starship hulls suspended on repulsor cranes. Hover-vendors sold fuel cells, antique tools, steaming food, and refurbished speeders from drifting platforms; the strange aroma of coolant and incense blended uniquely in Kynaron's Sky Yard. Engineers, coordinators, and the lifeblood of the transport networks worked hard at it.

Below, an ocean of Atrisian artistry met the severe blue-glass towers of Chiss precision, creating a cityscape of discipline, symmetry, and silent surveillance. The Sky Yard was a strange place for a corporate interview, perhaps, but then the Black family never held private meetings where anyone expected them to. Talen Var Black, his father, had believed that connection was king, that work should happen close to those with the tools, and that the office should be one elevator ride from a launchpad. The Sky Yard could put you onto any ship heading anywhere: Echelon's surface, Corporate Compact space, or halfway across the galaxy. Efficient, Grounded and Direct. Very Talen.

Sky Ancestral Lounge

An Atrisian cyber-lounge of drifting holosilk banners and low, dancing fish projections tracing patterns through the air. The lower floors catered to wealthy spacers, skybarge owners, and corporate execs. The top floor, the Apex Tier, belonged entirely to the Black family.

Black sat in a private four-seat booth, designed with blue-glass curves and artisan-painted wood, it's surface etched with mild illuminating strokes which subtly shifted. Opposite him, sleek corporate seats reclined to a wide view of the Sky Yard's most ambitious starships, elevated berths suspended over the great vertical gulf of Kynaron, like a cliff overlooking blue Chiss glass below.

Wearing a clean, dark corporate suit that hid most of his cybernetics. Today, he was interviewing for Executive Advisor for Security Operations, a significant position, with a significant budget allocated to its paycheck.

"Ironwraith. What do we know about him?"
Annasun, his Hapan assistant, didn't look up from her datapad. "Your father, Balen, they were good friends." Rarely did she use his first name. Balen blinked once.
"Oh," he said, then shifted in his seat, the corner of his mouth tensed upward, he missed his father . "No pressure, right? A job candidate who already has sentimental leverage."

He exhaled, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "Well. If he starts the meeting by calling me 'kiddo' or telling me how cute I was as a baby, we are docking his starting bonus." Annasun placed the datapad gently in front of him, her hand resting on his shoulder for a brief moment, grounding him, as she tended to when he drifted. Broca, the other larger olive-skinned assistant, set the black briefcase before him. Black surprised him with a shake of his head.

"Not tonight," he decided.

Broca instead placed the tech-case beside him. Black removed his reflective glasses, setting them down, letting the room and the moment breathe around him. Tonight, human interaction. No filters. Tonight was family. And that scared him beyond rational reason. Because his sister Talia Vel Black had walked into view, her raven-black hair swept into a precise knot that made her look every bit the heir she never wanted to be. "Balen. Do you remember the soldier he called his brother?" Straight to it then.

 

[Ironwraith]

The doors parted with a muted sigh as Ironwraith entered, the polished white and navy of his Republic dress uniform catching the crystalline glow of the room. The air inside felt still — poised — the way only wealthy halls of mourning could be. He paused a moment, letting the atmosphere settle around him before moving forward with the quiet confidence of a man raised on battlefields rather than marble floors.

"Mr. Black," he greeted first, voice steady, offering a firm nod. "You carry the family's burden with dignity. Your father would've approved."

Then his gaze shifted — drawn, inevitably, to Verin.

The memories hit fast and unbidden: late-night conversations on the balcony of the Black estate, shared glances that lingered too long, the warmth of almost-touching hands… all the things that could never be. All the things he had stepped back from after making a promise to her father during his recovery.

His expression softened — just slightly — the only breach in his otherwise disciplined composure.
"Verin," he said quietly. He dipped his head to her, a gesture of respect that carried something more intimate beneath it.
A small, private smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, and the wink he gave her was subtle, almost instinctive — familiar.

He took his seat opposite them, the uniform settling around his frame with crisp lines. He rested his gloved hands on the table, posture relaxed but unmistakably soldierly.

"I only received the news on my way in," he said, voice low, sincere. "Your father's passing… it struck deeper than I expected."
A breath, not quite a sigh.
"He was more than a mentor to me. More than a superior. We walked through fire together more than once. I owe him more than words."

As he spoke, his eyes caught the datapad lying open before Mr. Black. His own personnel file glowed back at him in cold, clinical summaries and impersonal statistics.

Ironwraith huffed a quiet, knowing breath — almost a laugh.
"They never get the stories right in those things," he remarked. "The reports always skip the human parts. The mistakes. The lessons."
He tilted his head slightly, gaze flicking toward Verin for a heartbeat.
"The things that matter."

He leaned back, fingers tracing the edge of his cuff as he continued.

"Your father helped me once — during a rough patch after an escort mission went bad. I wasn't at my best, and the Republic legal office was circling like hungry hounds. He cut through it all and stood beside me when he didn't have to."
A faint smile — fond, sad, loyal.
"After that, we were bound in ways papers don't express."

His voice lowered just a hairsbreadth, deepening with something personal.

"I made him a promise. That if anything ever happened to him, I'd look after the two of you. Didn't think I'd have to honor it so soon."
He straightened, gaze settling on both siblings with quiet resolve.
"So here I am. Whatever you need — clarity, support, or someone who speaks without hiding behind etiquette — I'm yours for as long as you ask."

Mr Black

 

[Mr Black]

A wink. Verin. A name only the family called his sister, it drew Black's eyes to her as she almost blushed. Ironwraith knew a lot about their family, his father, the things that mattered to them. It shut down Balen's swagger, punching through for a heartbeat.

On cue, Broca and Annasun excused themselves to a nearby booth, a shift from formality to family.

Verin inhaled softly, her voice barely above a whisper. "You were there for him in ways we never could be. He trusted you." She touched the rim of her empty glass with a smile.

"Dad… sometimes didn't share," Balen said, voice lower. "Names, details. He kept those close." He let out a slow breath. "He was kind. Protective. But he spent a lifetime building a legacy, and he didn't want us carrying too much weight. " Protective but It built walls too, only now did he understand the full weight of the decisions here.

His eyes dropped to the table, "By the time he got sick, he didn't want anyone worrying. Didn't tell the company, or me, not really." He shut the datapad, the click on that too final. "I asked. He just… " putting the pad beside the glasses. "Forget the file. Just… tell me one thing he'd want me to know about you. Something real, not the battlefield stats."

Then he looked up, gaze locking toward the window as if he could see the whole planet through it. "And tell me this, Ironwraith, after seeing this place what do you think of Echelon? Not the holo-brochure version. The real place. I need honesty; this world's allergic to it."

Ironwraith

 

[Ironwraith]

For a moment, Ironwraith let the silence settle — soft, warm, real. The kind of silence only families could make, even fractured ones.

When Verin spoke, his eyes shifted toward her. That whisper wasn't meant for a soldier; it was something closer, something he had once been dangerously close to reaching for.
"He trusted you."
He exhaled slowly, the kind of breath someone takes when an old promise pulls tight.
"He trusted me because I saw him at his lowest," Ironwraith said gently. "On missions, in the aftermath… and in those months before he got sick."

Balen looked up sharply, but Ironwraith continued.

"I could tell. Before he admitted anything. He carried pain the way soldiers do — in silence, in stiffness, in excuses that don't quite land. He didn't want you burdened by it. He was proud of the two of you. Too proud. And too protective for his own good."

A faint, wry smile creased his features.

"I helped where I could — supply access, medical routing, quiet favors that broke more protocols than I should ever confess. If a quartermaster ever realized what was missing off those manifests, I'd have been court-martialed twice over."
A soft glance toward Verin.
"Not that I regret a single infraction."

Balen's datapad clicked shut. Final. Heavy.
"Something real," Balen said. "Not stats."
Ironwraith folded his hands, elbows resting lightly on the table.

"Then this is what your father would want you to know about me… I don't leave people behind. Not squads. Not allies. Not family — chosen or otherwise."
His voice deepened, steadied.
"Your father wasn't just a superior to me. He became a brother. And that makes the two of you… under my protection, whether you want it or not."

He let that truth land, not as dominance, but as loyalty. As the same promise he'd made long ago.

When Balen asked about Echelon, Ironwraith leaned back, gaze shifting briefly to the window as if retracing his steps through the city made of glass and ambition.

"You want honesty? Fine."
His tone didn't sharpen, but it did solidify.
"Echelon is beautiful. Carefully curated. Impressive from a distance."
A beat.
"But it's soft in all the wrong places."

He lifted one hand, counting off quietly:
"Your outer perimeter scanners are twenty-eight seconds out of sync with their internal checks. That's long enough for a smuggler or slicer to ghost the system."

Second finger.

"The transit corridor between the private pads and the main atrium has only two visible officers. Both distracted. I walked past them without a single ID challenge."

Third finger.

"And your upper-tier commercial plazas? Too many reflective surfaces, not enough coverage angles. Snipers would have a holiday."
He lowered his hand, expression calm.
"Echelon's real problem isn't security gaps. It's that people believe the brochure more than the ground truth."

Then his eyes settled back on Balen — direct, honest.
"Your father ran this place with eyes open. He didn't trust pretty words. He trusted people who told him where the cracks were… and then helped him fix them."
His gaze shifted between the siblings one more time — steady, unwavering, protective.

"If you want that legacy to stand, Balen… you're going to need more people who aren't afraid to speak the truth. Even when it's uncomfortable."
A softer glance toward Verin again — warm, restrained.
"And I'll speak it, for as long as you ask."

Mr Black

 

[Mr Black]

A quiet moment settled over the table as Black let himself indulge in a memory he rarely allowed, one of his father actually being a man, not the monolith Apex or Echelon turned him into. The whole reason Balen rarely used his first name.

"Getting supplies to people who needed them," he said, almost to himself. "That part he did talk about. Once or twice." A sharp exhale, part laugh, and ache. "He'd say bureaucracy was the cushion of worlds… but it'd be the death of him. I think he hoped for the first and absolutely expected the last." Balen shook his head, not sure if he'd ever understood the man who understood everyone else. Larger than life, fathers were.

Verin smiled softly at both of them, an expression of old affection but new restraint. Her fingers almost patted Ironwraith's arm, the way they used to when they were younger, before decorum and position became her distance.

Black drew himself back to the conversation just as Ironwraith's critique finished, calculated in his own mind. "Frighteningly accurate" were the two words that stood out. Not what he'd expected him to say, critiquing the planet—a true security analyst, not a reformist moralizer or corpoate opportunist. He was impressed.

Balen tapped the table twice, weighing up his response. "There are a lot of soft targets here," he admitted. "Too many." A faint smirk tugged at the corners of his mouth, ego sharpened by uncertainty. "I fill the gaps with brochures," he said dryly, "but being honest, most days I'm pretty sure I'm just juggling chaos and hoping it mistakes me for management."

Verin's gaze turned his way. "You need good people, Balen. People who stay but not the credits." She glanced toward the assistants at the far booth, immaculate, competent, and very corporate. "They're here for a paycheck. What happens when someone offers a bigger one?"

A pause for thought. A waiter walked over, trained to fill the silence, with the perfect Atrisian service tone: "May I refresh anyone's drink?"

Verin ordered a light white wine. Black ordered a Zetaline double stimcaf, the choice of a man who worked his way past exhaustion every other night. He wanted to say it… Everyone's here for a paycheck. But across from him, Ironwraith's heart rate and body language, every reading on his ocular implant said he was sincere.

Black leaned forward, hands in a triangle, voice low and honest.

"Sure," he said, that dry smirk returning. "Someone out there might offer a bigger paycheck, or think they can." A quiet pause. "But legacies aren't built on salaries." His eyes met Ironwraith's directly, grateful for the honesty and then challenging in his question.

"So tell me, Ironwraith…"
Another pause.
"What keeps men and women at the table, when a better offer comes along. In position, morals, or just a fortune?" Because security wasn't just the line of sight to the target, "how do you know when a man or woman's got your back outside of the battlefield?"

The test in moving from one role to the other.
Ironwraith

 

[Ironwraith]

Ironwraith didn't answer immediately.

Balen's question hung in the air like a pressure change — subtle but deep — and as Ironwraith watched the man across from him, something old stirred in the back of his mind.

A voice.
A remembered one.
Rough at the edges, warm at the center, always carrying more weight than volume.

"Legacy isn't what you leave behind, son.
It's who stands when the storms hit."
The words landed in Ironwraith's thoughts with the same authority they had the day they'd been spoken.

He blinked once, returning to the present.
The waiter hovered, poised in impeccable silence.
"Something strong," Ironwraith said simply, his tone low enough to imply stronger than what's on the menu. The waiter nodded sharply and vanished.

Only then did Ironwraith lean forward, mirroring Balen's posture with a quiet, deliberate confidence.
"You're asking the right question," he said. "Your father asked it his whole life."
His gaze softened — not vulnerable, but grounded.

"What keeps people at the table when the galaxy waves a fortune under their nose?"
A beat.
"Conviction."
Not said like a sermon — said like a fact.

"I didn't come here for credits. If credits were my motivator, I'd have retired on some quiet moon years ago."
A faint smirk ghosted across his face.
"I came because I helped your father lift this legacy off the ground. Brick by brick. Call by call. Favor by favor — some I'll take to the grave because military command still doesn't know about them."
A brief glance to Verin — soft, restrained, familiar — before his eyes returned to Balen fully.

"And I stay because I won't let the man I fought beside… the man who trusted me with more than just battlefield roles… have his work crumble like some forgotten ruin."
His voice deepened, not in volume but in finality.
"I stay because your father believed in people, not paychecks. Because he saw something in me worth keeping around. Because he asked me to look after the two of you — whether you ever knew or not."

He didn't add that he had once cared for Verin in a way he'd forced himself to bury.
But it flickered in the glance they shared before she looked down at her wine.
"And more than all of that…" Ironwraith continued, fingers tapping once on the table, "…I stay because this place still has something worth protecting. Even if the rest of the galaxy can't see it."

He held Balen's gaze, unreadable but honest.
"You want to know when you can trust someone? When they stay after every practical reason says they shouldn't."
His tone lowered further — steady, certain.

"That's who has your back off the battlefield."
The drink arrived — dark, potent, poured in a short glass designed for someone who didn't need refinement to feel impressive. Ironwraith lifted it slightly in their father's memory before taking a slow sip.
"Legacy isn't salary," he murmured, echoing the man who had shaped them all.
"It's endurance."

Mr Black

 

[Mr Black]

A quiet moment settled between them, the kind Balen usually ran past in favor of bravado or a distraction, but tonight he let it sit, to feel the space his father used to occupy.

Loyalty like this… he wasn't used to it. Not the kind that didn't come etched to a contract, a credit figure, or a clause someone would quote back at him later. So the idea that Ironwraith was here out of respect… honor… old debts…
It hit him sideways, unfamiliar territory for a man who thought he'd mapped the whole galaxy twice.

Part of him wondered if he should've bought half the Outer Rim just to get the same sentiment from anyone else.
Part of him wondered whether this was all some clever ploy from a competitor playing the long game.
Every file he'd ever read carried that possibility.

But something annoyingly human inside him hoped it wasn't.

"I hear it in your voice," Balen said quietly. He blinked and shut off the feed in his ocular mod, letting the world still. "The way you sit… you cared."
His usual duracrete composure cracked if only for a time. "You mean what you say."

Harder than he expected, talking about this.
Old ties with old soldiers. A life he knew of but never had.
Old wounds he wasn't sure had the right to be there.

Black swallowed. "Dad always said it came down to people in the end." He let out a breath, low, disbelieving. "I never knew if he really believed that. There were just… so many of them out there. Nameless faces in a crowd nobody ever sees. Numbers on a file someone else updates. Easy to ignore."

He frowned. Really. He did sound like his father now.

The drinks arrived. His Zetaline double stimcaf delivered in a polished crystal cup, with enough poignant caffeinated aroma to threaten to banish any tired eye. Balen took a sip like it was water.

He didn't say a word again for a moment. The swagger had stopped, replaced by something that looked suspiciously like grief.

Verin spoke into the quiet with a soft smile. "Do you remember that time on Dac?" she asked Ironwraith. "When he bought the boat?" She gave a small laugh, real and honest. "And he told us, 'A ship only listens to the captain who respects the waves.' She smiled. "What do you think he meant?"

Balen huffed out a breath, not quite a laugh or a sigh. He'd had his head in a datapad or terminal, even back then. He lifted his gaze back to Ironwraith as the weight of the man's last words settled heavily. Legacy isn't salary. It's endurance.

A long minute passed.
Then.
"Ironwraith… what do I even call you?"
He gestured, as if searching the air for the right label.
"Friend? Mentor? Soldier? Something else I haven't figured out yet?"

For once, he didn't have a plan. Rare and unnerving. He pressed his cufflink, and Broca approached with a sleek matte-black case. Balen took it and set it on the table between them both. A biometric pad glowed faintly on the front.

"If you press that," Balen said, "you've got the job. One year contract. Executive Advisor for Security Operations."

He angled his head, challenging and courteous. "Before you sign it, tell me what benefits you want. Apartment? Suite? Car? Ship? Limo? Security team? Weapons? AI access? Name it." The smirk crept back, quiet but confident, regaining some of himself. "And don't be shy. If someone out there ever thinks they can outbid me… well." A shrug. Same old routine, easy corporate confidence. "They're cute." It wasn't about money, but money was all he knew.

He placed his hands around the stimcaf, the way his father used to hold a memory for a time, and took another drink.

Ironwraith

 

[Ironwraith]

Ironwraith turned slightly toward Verin when she spoke, and for a heartbeat his expression shifted — softer, older, touched by a memory he'd kept locked behind service protocol and discipline.

"Your father said a lot of things I didn't pretend to understand at the time," he murmured, thumb running once along the rim of his glass. "But that one… I figured out eventually."

He looked past her, out toward the window as though he could see the Dac tide rolling in.
"A ship only listens to a captain who respects the waves," he repeated quietly. "Means a dozen things, depending on who hears it."
His eyes returned to hers, a flicker of the closeness they once shared, almost too familiar, but restrained by the promise he'd kept.

"But to him? It meant you can steer your life… only when you stop pretending you control the storm. You respect uncertainty. You respect the danger. You respect the people who keep the vessel afloat with you."
A faint breath left him.
"And if you don't? The sea will teach you humility faster than any enemy can."

Verin's smile deepened, quiet and warm.
Ironwraith looked away only when it lingered too long.
Balen's question what do I even call you? drew Ironwraith back fully.
He studied the man for a moment. The cracks in his armor. The echo of grief he was trying to hold steady. The faint flicker of his father's posture in the way he held the stimcaf.

"You call me whatever feels honest," Ironwraith said at last. "Soldier fits. Advisor fits. Friend…" A subtle shift in his shoulders. "Your father used that one a few times. I didn't argue then. I won't argue now."

He didn't force sentiment. He let it sit, real and unpolished.
When the case clicked open and Balen presented the offer, Ironwraith didn't look surprised — but he did look… deliberate. Weighing the weight of the moment, not the credits behind it.

He hadn't expected to be asked what he wanted.
He rested both hands lightly on the table, posture straightening just a fraction.
"Then I'll tell you plainly."
No swagger. No theatrics. Just truth.

"I want weapons access — restricted tier. Enough to do the job right, not enough to start a war."
A nod.
"A small office and quarters inside the main building. Doesn't have to be large. Just close."
Another pause — almost a smile.
"And minimum wage."

Balen blinked.
Ironwraith continued before he could respond.
"You asked what keeps people at the table. It isn't money." His fingers tapped the table once. "Pay me the least you legally can. It'll remind you every day I'm not here for credits. I'm here because your father trusted you… and trusted me."

He lifted his glass, swirling the dark liquor inside.

"And keep the supply of good whiskey flowing. Not luxury. Not rare. Just honest."
He tilted the glass in a tiny salute.
"That's all I want."

Finally, he reached out and pressed his thumb to the biometric pad.

The case clicked shut with a soft, definitive finality.
"I accept."
He leaned back slightly, steady and grounded, voice lowering with simple certainty.
"Let's get to work."

Mr Black

 

[Kas Varad]

Mispost

 

[Mr Black]

Verin seemed to brighten as Ironwraith answered, finger tapping the edge of her wine glass, a familiar fondness warming her features as she ran through memories of their father, and the way he used to describe this man sitting across from them.

Black, meanwhile, had a question primed, one that had been forming since Verin first spoke of storms and who stands through them.

"What if the storms were the point?" Thoughtful. Not challenging but curious. The kind of question his father used to ask when he wanted the truth, not the comfortable version.

The biometric pad aligned between them with Ironwraith's acceptance. Let's get to work cued him ready. Balen nodded once, taking one final stimcaf swallow to quieten the tightness the conversation on his father brought.

"Weapons," he began, clearing his throat. "Understandable. You'll have the best in the catalogue."
"And office quarters in the Apex? Done. They'll have everything you need."

Then, "Min..."
Black was stopped.

Balen Var Black, corporate exec, inheritor of a galactic holding, and runner of three different departments by age twenty, blinked like someone had hit him over the head with the datapad.

"Minimum?" he repeated.
Verin almost laughed at his expression.
The Apex minimum wasn't low. Not in this cityworld, or any cityworld, which notoriously had higher costs of living depending on which level or district you lived on.

Balen rubbed his temple. "The minimum in Apex is..." He pulled up the datapad, scrolling. "Sixty thousand credits annually." He looked up. "Your staff will earn more than you." Because of course Ironwraith would have a team. This role required it, lieutenants, analysts, security personnel in the ASF or A-TRD and field tacticians. All of whom expected pay.

"Look, I get what you're trying to prove, but..."

"Balen." Verin's gaze caught his. "Try it."

He let out a quiet breath and raised both hands in surrender.
A gesture their father used to make when he'd just lost an argument he respected.

"Alright. Fine. We'll run with minimum."
He leaned forward, hands triangled. "But I'm insisting on giving you a secure apartment, a starship, armored transportation, and a team. Because you can't run all this solo. Not when this planet is held together by loose cables, news coverage, reputation, and the hope nobody takes a shot at you to get to me."

He reached down and pulled out a stack of files, well over a dozen, sliding them across the table like a man dealing cards, but he wasn't a gambling man.

"Some of these are suit types, some are field types, some are… works in progress. But you choose. Your team."

He tapped the first file.

"Thalen Elaeko."
"Former Republic. Now advanced tactical response division. Not much of a conversationalist, but reliable. Gets results."

He slid another.

"Kas Varad."
"Bit rough around the edges. Drinks a little too much. But he's resourceful and doesn't quit. Ever."

Another.

"Uriel."
"We're reengineering a new HRD chassis , AXS-4, built off the older AXS-3 design. Two weeks until rollout."
He smirked. "Assuming no one blows up the lab. Again." Which fire for effect competitors within Apex Holdings might have just with the last one. Job number one?

Next file.

"Vertigo." Rox Dex.
"Ex-Rangers, SJC. Surprisingly reasonable for a Houk. Lots of street connections, command potential."

Another.

"Sheb Lavross."
"Ex-SSC, SJO, Antarian Rangers. Specialty in armored mobility. Recently moved to private security. Calm under pressure. Enthusiastic. Focused"

And so on, Black walked him through several more, each with a small comment, a comment tempered by the moment, or a note of truth pulled directly from memory. When he finished, he settled back, stimcaf in hand, the steam rising on up toward the holo-fish projections. He studied Ironwraith, not with corporate scrutiny this time, but something closer to home, and how his father used to look at people he trusted.

"You know," Balen said, voice dipped down, "when you talk about storms… part of me wonders if that's exactly what my father meant. That the storms weren't obstacles. They were the test. The measure."

He toyed with the stimcaf cup, the way his father used to when deep in thought.

"And you stayed standing."
His gaze drifted between Ironwraith and the files.

"So let's see who stands with you."

A small, tired smile, well worn at the edges. Lifting his cup in salute.
"To endurance."

Ironwraith

 

[Ironwraith]

Ironwraith listened through Balen's rundown, expression steady, fingertips pressed lightly together in a habit born from too many operations briefings and too many lives on the line. He didn't interrupt. Didn't rush. Just absorbed — the way old soldiers do when every detail might matter later.

When Black finally fell quiet, Ironwraith reached forward and drew the four files he had already known, instinctively, were his.

Kas Varad.
Thalen Elaeko.
Sheb "Mad Dog" Lavross.
Vertigo.


He set each one down in a slow, deliberate stack.

"I'll take these four," he said, voice low but sure. "Kas first — I've fought beside Mandalorians longer than most folks in this sector have been alive. Good men, good warriors. If he drinks too much, that just means he'll keep pace with me."

A faint flicker of humor passed through his eyes. The kind that appeared and vanished like an old memory.

"Thalen Elaeko… he's the kind we used to trust to watch our flank without having to look back. Former Republic means he knows the difference between orders and principles. I can work with that."

He tapped Sheb's file next.
"Sheb Lavross. Calm when it counts, focused, and knows armored transit better than half the convoys I've ever sat in. Every unit needs a spine. He'll do."

Last came Vertigo.
"And a Houk with Ranger instincts and street sense? That's a man who's seen the galaxy from both sides — top down and bottom up. He'll tell us what the cameras don't catch."

He slid the chosen files back toward Balen, marked now with the silent weight of commitment.

When he spoke again, it was to Verin — to answer the question she'd posed earlier.

"Your father bought that boat on Dac because he knew something most people don't." Ironwraith's voice softened with memory, gravel smoothing to something close to reverence. "When he said a ship only listens to the captain who respects the waves… he meant life doesn't bend just because you want it to. You steer by understanding the dangers, not ignoring them. Storms aren't obstacles." His eyes shifted to Balen. "They're where you learn whether you're actually fit to hold the helm."

He leaned back, posture relaxed but never unguarded.

"As for what you call me," he added, answering the younger man directly, "that's your choice. Ironwraith, Wraith… hell, call me 'old man' if you want. I've earned it. Respect isn't in the name. It's in the work."
No apology. No self-effacing humor. Just truth.
He closed the last holo-file and looked between the Black siblings with the calm certainty of a man who had walked through more storms than he had clear skies.

"Your father was right. Legacy isn't salary. It's endurance."
A nod — old, respectful, resolute.
"So let's begin."

Mr Black

 

[Mr Black]

Four it was. Black signaled toward Broca. The broad-shouldered man strode over immediately. "Have Kas, Elaeko, Lavross, and Dex meet us downstairs." Broca nodded sharply, efficient and equally silent, striding off to fulfill the order.

"Right to it then, old man." Black smiled and let the words settle, satisfied. "Good." He'd think on that wave metaphor long and hard.

Annasun, prompt as ever, stepped forward and placed three datapads in front of him, aligned perfectly, as though she'd done this a hundred times, she had. Files files files he'd need a staff to carry them!

"I don't want to start with the worst," Balen said, fingers drumming lightly against the first file. "So let's start with something cleaner." He tapped the display, a line of holographic data expanding outward to full view… the Dataway.

"The Dataway," Black began. "A hyperspace scar in Echelons system big enough to pipe half the galaxy's information through it." He leaned back, rubbing his jaw. "And apparently some at the galaxy's edges have decided the best way to copy it is to… steal the idea first." A dry, sharp laugh, carrying old exhaustion and fresh irritations. "You'd think people would just come to me and ask to collaborate. But no." He tapped the datapad with his finger. "Everyone wants the discount version. People always get cheap when something's priceless or original."

His eyes sharpened down "It's a target. And so is our Blackglass operation sitting planetside." He slid the pad toward Ironwraith. "Recommendations to keep it secure?"

Black lifted the next file. "Cartel City," Balen gave a sideways sigh that carried over twenty years of inherited corporate headache. "A blight, technically. But a contractually obligated blight."

Verin's brow lifted knowingly and somewhat concerned.

"The Hutts helped the first salvagers build this world, so we're stuck with them in the details. And normally that'd be fine. Organising crime under control on a planet of a trillion can serve its purpose." He rotated the pad to show surveillance images. "But lately Cartel City's been getting riots, overt sabotage, and some fringe group preaching 'data freedom' stirring up trouble. Potentially tied into the Dataway." Always an easy target the cartel.

He passed the file over. Next came the last datapad, smaller and obscure but no less odd.

"And then there's the Uos." His tone flattened down. "Mafia types. Insignificant, usually. Their leadership never recovered from the Kerrigan incident." He gave a small shrug, Dark Jedi decapitation of their families leader saw to that. "But they've been smuggling High Republic DNA into our ecosystem for a year now."

His gaze met Ironwraith's, deliberate and measured.

"Not subtle, or random, and not cheap." He pushed the datapad forward with his palm. "We're starting to see a pattern of their operations and it troubles me what they are assembling, with DNA and their augmented reality tech." He let the files settle in front of Ironwraith, each one a potential point of stress and test of Echelons system, or his ability to secure Apex's own interests.

Ironwraith

 

[Ironwraith]

Ironwraith rested his elbows on the table, pulling the three datapads toward him one by one. His expression didn't change, but his entire posture shifted — the quiet, practiced focus of a man who had spent a lifetime dismantling threats before they ever grew teeth.

When he finally spoke, it was with the steady certainty of someone who saw the shape of a battlefield long before the fighting ever began.


"The Dataway."
He tapped the holoprojection once.

"This isn't a security breach. It's an arms race."
His tone dropped low.
"First thing I do is choke the angles. Not the traffic — the angles."
He held up a finger for each step.

1. "I'd seal every external entry point behind a second gate. Not shut down — just make every outsider knock twice, even the ones who think they're already inside."
2. "Then I build ghosts." A faint tilt of his head.
   "Decoy nodes. False packets. Something that looks just real enough to lure anyone trying to reverse-engineer your design into my trap instead of your system."
3. "Once they bite, I follow the teeth back to the throat. Every slicer leaves a fingerprint. Every stolen packet has a signature. I'll find out who's trying to copy your life's work, and who's paying them."

He paused, rubbing the back of one knuckle as old memories flickered behind his eyes.

"Last step… I harden it from the inside out. Quiet. Clean. No announcements.
By the time they realize the door is locked, they'll already be staring at a wall they can't climb."


"Cartel City."

A humorless breath left him — not quite a laugh, not quite a sigh.
"A riot isn't the problem. A riot is a symptom."
He shifted the datapad aside.
"People don't burn their own city unless someone's whispering in their ear — or unless they think no one's listening."

He leaned forward slightly.
"Here's what I'd do."

1. "First, I cut the head off the snake.
   Not with blasters — with truth."
   His tone sharpened.
   "Find the people stirring this 'data freedom' line and expose them for what they are. Paid mouths. Foreign hands. Ideologues who don't live with the damage they cause."
2. "Then I stabilize the streets. Efficiently. Measured presence. No heavy-handed sweeps that make martyrs."
3. "And while that's happening, I go deeper."
   He tapped the table slowly.
   "Find who benefits from a destabilized Cartel City. Hutts? Corporate rivals? Same group stealing your tech? Someone is trying to make noise so you miss the real attack."

His eyes lifted to meet Balen's directly.
"I've seen this tactic on half a dozen worlds. Chaos is camouflage. I remove the camouflage — the chaos dies with it."


"The Uos."
He rested his thumb against the edge of the pad.

"Smuggling High Republic DNA…"
A slow exhale.
"…that isn't petty crime. That's someone building something."

He didn't raise his voice, but the weight behind it darkened.

"First thing I do: I shut every port they use for biological transport. Everything. If it breathes, bleeds, or needs temperature regulation, it doesn't move without my eyes on it."

Then:

"Second, I watch their augmented reality systems more closely than their guns."
A dry, old soldier's half-smile.
"People think AR is entertainment. It's not. It's a delivery system."

He tapped the datapad.
"If they're overlaying biotech markers, coded instructions, or hidden access points, I'll see it first. I know the signs."

Finally, his voice lowered.

"And then I dismantle the operation at the joints — never the edges.
You hit couriers, they hire new ones.
You hit lieutenants, the real planners burrow deeper."

A beat of silence.

"But you break the lab network…
the financiers…
the geneticists…
and the one technician who actually knows how to apply the DNA to the AR systems…"

He made a small, final gesture — a quiet chopping motion.
"…the whole machine collapses, because the only people left won't know how to rebuild it."
Ironwraith closed all three datapads, pushing them gently back toward Black with both hands.

No bravado.
No theatrics.
Just a veteran's certainty.


"That's how I handle them. Clean. Quiet. Final."

Mr Black

 

[Mr Black]

Black nodded, rolling his stimcaf cup between his palms, the way a man listens when he's trying not to show he's impressed.

"So you'd double security and lure the thieves into revealing themselves," he said, a low huff escaping him. "Classic. Build a mousetrap and let the galaxy's opportunists volunteer as the cheese." A Smirk, small but definitely there.

"Cartel City...." The words pressed at the edges of his composure. "Cartel City," he repeated, as though testing the weight of his patience. "Any one of a dozen syndicates or groups would celebrate the Hutts' last bit of influence collapsing." He tapped his datapad, a short, irritated motion.

"Too many enemies, with many understandable motives. Makes narrowing the real cause down a nightmare." His jaw tensed. "And I'm not ruling out that this is a play by the cartel themselves… or one of the survivors still clinging to relevance."

When Ironwraith suggested shutting down every port the Uos used, Black lifted a brow. "Shut down every port they could use on Echelon? Possible but painful. Every logistics officer alive would curse my name, the other megacorps would seize on it." He paused. "But focusing on biological transport routes only, that, I can do." He nodded. "And going after the Uos power players directly has… appeal." No one would cry for their loss.

A tiny move of something sharper passed through him, the kind of dangerous curiosity Talen Var Black once carried like second nature. "They have a habit of bouncing back from the dead. Might be time to make sure they stay down long enough to mean something."

Broca's suited silhouette appeared behind him, a calm giant awaiting a word. "Sir, the team are arriving."

Black drank the last of his stimcaf, set the cup down, and rose from the table with a decision already made. "Verin. Ironwraith." He buttoned his suit closed with a firm, simple motion. "Alright. Field trip. Let's go make some very dangerous introductions."

Downstairs, one small navy-blue elevator ride later, Black, Verin, Ironwraith if he came, and his two assistants stepped into the polished lobby. The desk clerk nodded respectfully, opening the front doors with a switch. Outside, a circular speederlane gleamed beneath evening lights at the entrance, The team Ironwraith had selected arrived one by one.

Thalen Elaeko, the Chiss, already waiting beside a sleek silver Apex-branded speeder. His suit immaculate, posture straightened, and expression composed. He gave a short nod, all business.

Then Sheb Lavross, the Sullustan, thundered in with a hovertransport that looked like it wanted to be a tank when it grew up. He stepped out, lit a curled pipe, and puffed calmly while he banged the side twice.

A deep low rumble followed, one huge foot then another. Vertigo, the towering Houk, stomped out of the transport. He moved toward the group with the steady confidence of a building given permission to walk. "Evening." His base voice rolled over them.

Finally, fashionably last, Kas Varad pulled up in a black speeder tuned with muscle. He popped the top, leaned against it with arms crossed and glasses on, and gave them a nod. It looked like style, but the glasses hid the hangover.

Black slid his hands into his pockets, a faint smile.

"Well," he said, "this should be interesting. Your play now, your team, which problem are we tackling first?" He'd tag along and make sure things went smoothly. Could be tonight, could be tomorrow, or next week, he wanted to see how Ironwraith led them and made his introductions or plans, from start to finish. This team could be a critical piece of Echelon that had been missing till now.

Ironwraith

 

[Ironwraith]

Ironwraith stepped out into the cooling evening air, hands sliding into the pockets of his long coat as he took in the four figures arrayed before him. He didn't size them up — he already had back when he chose their files. Now he simply confirmed what his instincts had known.
He approached Thalen Elaeko first.


"Commander Elaeko."
A firm clasp to the forearm — soldier to soldier, equals in the ways that mattered.
"Glad to have a Republic-trained head on this team. You and I will be talking logistics first chance we get."


Thalen inclined his head, precise and crisp. That one would never waste a word he didn't have to.
Next was Sheb. Ironwraith stepped right up to him, eyeing the hovertransport like a man assessing an old beast.


"Sheb 'Mad Dog' Lavross," he said with a small nod of respect.
"Good machine you've brought. Probably louder than half the ground troops I've commanded."
Sheb puffed once on his curled pipe and grinned. Ironwraith clapped him on the shoulder.

"You're our armored spine. Don't let it get bored."
Then he turned to the mountain of muscle and discipline that was Vertigo. The Houk's shadow fell over him before the man did.
Ironwraith looked up only slightly — not intimidated, just acknowledging scale.


"Vertigo."
A single nod, returned with one just as solid.
"I've fought beside Houks who could lift a tank. You've got that same look — the one that says you won't move unless you choose to. We'll put that to use."


Finally, he stopped in front of Kas Varad.
Kas leaned back, glasses on, casual as a veteran lounging through a hangover. Ironwraith didn't bother hiding the faint tug of his mouth — half amusement, half nostalgia.


He reached into his coat, pulled out a small metal flask, and tossed it lightly.
Kas caught it one-handed.


"You've got two choices," Ironwraith said.
"Drink that now and fix the headache… or admit those glasses aren't for fashion."
Kas smirked, popping the top.


Ironwraith nodded.
"Good. Mandalorians fight best when they can see straight."
He stepped back so he could address all four at once.


His voice carried the tone of a briefing given in a dozen warzones, steady and unforced, the kind men listened to without being told to.
"Alright. Here's the order of march."
He pointed toward the cityline where Cartel City simmered under neon haze.

"We deal with the riots first. They're the most immediate threat — and the kind that can spiral before sunrise if handled wrong."
Then toward the upper districts, where the Dataway pulsed like a living artery.


"After that, we secure the Dataway. That's precision work. We'll need to be rested, equipped, and operating like a unit before we pull that thread."
Finally, he tapped the datapad still in Balen's hand.


"The Uos come last — but make no mistake, they're the deepest cut. We'll hit them hard once we've got momentum."
He looked at Balen and Verin both, expression steady but respectful.


"I'll need to stop at the transport hub I arrived through. My gear's still in lockdown there — armor, weapons, and a few tools the quartermasters here wouldn't recognize."
He turned back to his four recruits.


"We pick up my kit. Then we head straight to Cartel City."
A pause.
"Riots end tonight."
Ironwraith adjusted the strap of his old coat, glancing once at the skyline like a man reading weather he'd survived a hundred times.
"Mount up."

Mr Black