The Rat
At many points in history, the Iskalloni of Iskadrell were known to send slave raids to other systems. The order that the Galactic Alliance brought to their region of space hampered such raids, but with the Galactic Empire now ruling the core those who remembered the old ways were eager to resume their raiding where they had left off. One freighter made the first journey into the war-torn remnants of what had been Alliance space, the first raid in years. It now rested in a snow-crested clearing, surrounded by trees. What they returned to wasn't an eager band of savvy businessmen looking to profit. Instead what they were met with was death.
Roten had grown to detest the ilk he had been raised by, alongside a healthy resentment for his own actions. He couldn't simply excuse it by the fact that he had been a child. Even so, he still distinctly remembered being told he would never be a Sith by
Lord Kalrath
. The ancient being was frustrated, particularly by the way Roten chose his battles. He wanted those he killed to give him a good fight and die with honor. Kalrath called it weakness. Told him he had a softness in his soul that could not be removed. And idea instilled. The Jedi had shown him that he may actually be what Kalrath had stated. Roten was certain he wasn't, and yet there was a strange urge in him he could not deny. What had given him such a weakness when he was raised by those who gave others no quarter? Why hadn't he been able to senselessly slaughter like his mother had?
Why could he only take life when they held a weapon in their hands?
The walls of the slave freighter were coated in streaks of blood. A trail of blue-skinned cyborg corpses were left in the wake of his blades, strewn about the ship haphazardly. Methodical randomness, systematically performed to ensure total annihilation. Roten had no pause with these men. They carried weapons and fought back. That was the life of a warrior. When the crew had been dismantled, Roten opened the door to the frieghter's cargohold. There must have been twelve or thirteen individuals. Several elderly, a few young women, two wookiee brothers in binds... and children. The Bursantian looked on at them with his piercing red eyes, his fur spotted with blood. Some still dripped freshly off his blades. When he saw their fear, he was angry at himself. It was that weakness again, the thing in his stomach making him feel guilty. Why did he have to have that thing in him?
Roten threw out an EMP grenade. The shockwave fried the slave's bindings in an instant, releasing them.
"I hotwired the control pannel," he told them in a blunt, cold tone. "Fly yourselves to safety. I left coordinates in the Navi-computer for the nearest High Republic planet."
The Republic was close enough to the safe space the Galactic Alliance used to be. That was probably their best option. Roten didn't give any of them a chance to say a word before he turned away and departed the vessel. He couldn't talk to them.
The Bursantian didn't have the heart to hear the voices of the children.
The former pirate sat himself down outside the vessel, leaning back against a tree. It took a few minutes for them to actually get it started, no doubt due to being in shock. Before long the freighter picked itself up and raced towards the planet's upper atmosphere. Roten let out a sigh, his gaze shifting back to the ground.
"The hell am I doing with my life..." Roten muttered to himself.
And why couldn't he stop himself from acting this way? That weakness Kalrath saw in his heart lingered, wrapped around his chest like the roots of a tree around a stone. He was supposed to be a survivor. That wasn't survival. That was charity. Why should he care if others couldn't fight their own battles?
Yet, he did care. It contradicted everything he had ever known. He shouldn't want this. Why couldn't he just act the way he had been raised to?
That would have made everything so much easier...
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