Private A Story Created By Oneself

[Bartyl Tarkorr]

Reigning Champion of the Slice
" Nᴏ ʙᴇɪɴɢ ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ɢᴀʟᴀxʏ ᴄᴀɴ ᴅᴇꜰᴇᴀᴛ Tᴀʀᴋᴏʀʀ "
Remowa

Omenon stepped off the ramp of her latest acquired shuttle, her boots clicking against the cracked permacrete of a landing pad that had seen better centuries even if G'wenee had been a wealthy Imperial Tradeworld. She refrained from glancing back at the Duros in the pilot's seat; he was well aware of the partnership they had made.

If she didn't return before the planet's sun completed a full rotation, he was instructed to start the engines and not look back. Sentimentalism was a luxury she had long since abandoned when she chose the path of a smuggler. She raised her hood, the dark material creating a shadow over her tattooed features.

Her golden eyes swept the area, searching not only for physical dangers but also for the subtle shifts within the Force. In this place, the Dark Side seemed to be starved due to the lack of attention from the major powers.

The facility loomed ahead on the outskirts of the Capital City, a lengthy monolith of corrugated durasteel and stained ferro-concrete. It had once produced high-grade cooling units for the planet's wealthy but now it produced nothing but silence. A faded sign dangled by the entrance, creaking in the wind accompanied by a soft metallic sound when forced to slam into the structure behind it.

"Target-rich environment for a ghost," Omenon muttered, her voice muffled by the collar of her robes. She reached the primary loading bay. The heavy blast doors had been pried open just enough for a humanoid to slip through, the metal curled back like a peeled lip. As she crossed the threshold, the temperature plummeted.

The interior was filled with the odor of old grease, a smell that nearly made her gag. Holding a hand up to her nose, she could not find a source of power for the lights so opted to use a gentle application of the force to survey the surroundings, from the rows of still assembly droids caught in mid-action to the skeletal conveyor belts with cooling units at different stages of production.

And there, at the far end of the assembly floor, she felt a cold, steady pulse.

"You're late," a voice echoed through the cavernous space, distorted by the rebounding of the empty hall. Omenon's hand remained still, not reaching for her blaster, yet her fingers twitched. She opened her eyes, the golden hue of her irises reflecting a stray beam of light filtering through a gap in the roof.

"The hyperlanes have changed, and so has the company I keep," she said, her voice laced with a bored malice. She began to walk, her cloak sweeping through the dust of a dead economy. "I hope for your sake that whatever you've brought me is worth the smell of this place."

 

[Remowa]

Abandoned Factory - G'wenee
The Chiss Woman vol. 1 |:| Issue #4: A Story with Oneself w/ Bartyl Tarkorr

The cold felt by Bartyl Tarkorr radiated from the center of the assembly floor where the former Dark Side Elite sat atop a rusted shipping crate. Her posture was unnerving still in contrast to the tones of grease and decay around the pair, holding within her hand a small circular polishing stone, drawing it across the obsidian plating of her forearm guard.

She didn't look up as the Mirialan approached, her glowing red eyes remaining fixed on maintaining the shine and sharpness of her armored plate. The Galactic Empire might have fallen but the Imperial conditioning would never fade from her mind, even under the most torturous of conditions.

"The hyperlanes are fickle, but fortunately for you. I am a patient woman" Remowa replied, her voice a dry, melodic rasp that seemed to vibrate through the floorboards. She finally stilled her hand, the polishing stone vanishing into a hidden fold of her armor.

"Though, I suppose a smuggler's definition of worth is as fluid as her loyalties." She stood up, her movements fluid and devoid of the instability she often displayed in the heat of a duel. On the crate beside her sat a localized stasis canister, its frost-rimmed surface etched with the jagged, unmistakable seal of the Imperial Intelligence.

It was a relic of a collapsed world, a piece of a puzzle that had been shattered on Coruscant. "You worry about the smell of dead grease," Remowa mused, stepping down with a predatory grace, her boots making no sound on the dust-thick floor.

"I worry about a galaxy that seems to not need troubled souls such as us. The Eleventh Sith Empire and the Sith Covenant, both sides of the same coin and equally ready to terminate rogue elements with access to the Dark Side of the Force." She came to a halt a few paces from Omenon, her gaze finally lifting to meet the smuggler's golden eyes. There was no warmth in the Chiss's expression, only a detached curiosity.