Darth Defias
power
Imperial Listening Outpost Dorn Esk,
Kampe, Deep Core
Major Lan Derith glared at the outpost below from his command room with a look of disgust. His men, his stormtroopers, forced to operate with the subsentient Mawites. Shoulder next to shoulder with the same mongrels he’d put down decades ago during the Second Hyperspace War.
Their ingenuity when it came to tech though was undeniable, given they were mostly made of half-flesh, half-metal as a testament to their belief in some looney Tech God. In the wake of the Empire’s fall, splintered into a hundred warlord factions, it had been a challenge finding a consistent flow of technicians and engineers from the ruptured academies. He hardly had a choice but to utilize the Scar Hound dredges for the maintenance of the listening outpost on this wretched, arid world.
Yet, not long ago, the veteran had been given the freedom of choice — continue resisting the Dark Empire’s inevitable gorging on the Empire’s remains and dying in the process, or kneel to his new masters in a quest to right an old wrong against the Alliance; the famed Starbird that had flown off in a cowardly retreat from Ziost when the New Imperials needed their support the most. Lan Derith had been a mere corporal then, part of the 8th All Imperial Stormtrooper Legion, that was decimated at the final advance on Ziost against the Sith Empire.
He had decided to strike a deal with the devil.
The choice he’d made — to serve the Sith, those same lunarics he’d once fought — often plagued him with sleepless nights. Only the thought of avenging his comrades needless deaths on Ziost cleared his conscience and lulled him to a dreamless sleep.
But now his conscience would be burdened and his resolve tested once more. His eyes fell on its source: the large, dark robed figure hunched down at a cooling unit. A Sith by the name of Defias.
—
“It’s one of the pipes. That’s the sixth unit out here not getting any water. Those over there seem to be working just fine.” Defias tipped his head to the side. “These six are right above the ones not working at the server room.”
“Then we’ll take a look at the well, Dark One. See where the pressure’s going bust.” the Scar Hound replied, then scurried away.
Dark One.
After two weeks on this outpost, Defias had eventually gotten used to the strange honorific. Apparently it tracked back to the Hyperspace War when the Sith had led the Brotherhood of the Maw into a bloody and violent crusade through the stars, carving an unhealable scar in their wake.
He hadn’t pressed the Mawites for more information. Since his arrival, Defias had spent most his time meditating in his private chamber – an unused storage room – and reading an ancient Sith manuscript he had snatched from the Academy on Carlac’s dusty archives. The antiquated knowledge far more sating his learning apetite than the daily trainings.
Occasionally, he’d busy his mind with tasks that had been engraved in his muscle memory: repairing and salvaging tech. The listening outpost was set up in the confines of a time-worn fortress, its data center situated at the bottom of the structure – as close as possible to the well pumping water into the fortress. This deep into the Core, and not long after the Dark Empire’s defeat on Coruscant, the flow of information was heating up the repository that had already been cursed with its own setup on a barren, sunbaked world.
But as they say - misery loves company. The cooling issue subsided in priority the moment the outpost’s sirens began to blare, accompanied by the sound of hurried stormtrooper boots.
“Get to your posts, you filthy maggots!” a voice barked from above. Defias looked up to see the outpost’s commanding officer - Major Derith. A furious grimace contorted his face, his voice reeking with disgust. The Major had no love for the Mawites under his command, even less so for Defias. Though he’d dared nothing so far, the Sith remained wary. He still vividly recalled the fate that had befallen Lord Mor’zhul by the hand of
Kroeger
.
The familiar screech of TIE fighters piercing the air took his attention to the skies. A dozen or more dots grew larger and larger until their shapes became recognizeable: X-wings and a few small dropships huddled within the fighter’s escort ring.
An efficient strikeforce.
Defias placed a hand on the hilt of his Sith sword, nose wrinkled in contempt at the assailants. Heat began to warm up within his gut as the flames of the dark side began to churn, fanned by his emotions.
He was ready.
Kampe, Deep Core
Major Lan Derith glared at the outpost below from his command room with a look of disgust. His men, his stormtroopers, forced to operate with the subsentient Mawites. Shoulder next to shoulder with the same mongrels he’d put down decades ago during the Second Hyperspace War.
Their ingenuity when it came to tech though was undeniable, given they were mostly made of half-flesh, half-metal as a testament to their belief in some looney Tech God. In the wake of the Empire’s fall, splintered into a hundred warlord factions, it had been a challenge finding a consistent flow of technicians and engineers from the ruptured academies. He hardly had a choice but to utilize the Scar Hound dredges for the maintenance of the listening outpost on this wretched, arid world.
Yet, not long ago, the veteran had been given the freedom of choice — continue resisting the Dark Empire’s inevitable gorging on the Empire’s remains and dying in the process, or kneel to his new masters in a quest to right an old wrong against the Alliance; the famed Starbird that had flown off in a cowardly retreat from Ziost when the New Imperials needed their support the most. Lan Derith had been a mere corporal then, part of the 8th All Imperial Stormtrooper Legion, that was decimated at the final advance on Ziost against the Sith Empire.
He had decided to strike a deal with the devil.
The choice he’d made — to serve the Sith, those same lunarics he’d once fought — often plagued him with sleepless nights. Only the thought of avenging his comrades needless deaths on Ziost cleared his conscience and lulled him to a dreamless sleep.
But now his conscience would be burdened and his resolve tested once more. His eyes fell on its source: the large, dark robed figure hunched down at a cooling unit. A Sith by the name of Defias.
—
“It’s one of the pipes. That’s the sixth unit out here not getting any water. Those over there seem to be working just fine.” Defias tipped his head to the side. “These six are right above the ones not working at the server room.”
“Then we’ll take a look at the well, Dark One. See where the pressure’s going bust.” the Scar Hound replied, then scurried away.
Dark One.
After two weeks on this outpost, Defias had eventually gotten used to the strange honorific. Apparently it tracked back to the Hyperspace War when the Sith had led the Brotherhood of the Maw into a bloody and violent crusade through the stars, carving an unhealable scar in their wake.
He hadn’t pressed the Mawites for more information. Since his arrival, Defias had spent most his time meditating in his private chamber – an unused storage room – and reading an ancient Sith manuscript he had snatched from the Academy on Carlac’s dusty archives. The antiquated knowledge far more sating his learning apetite than the daily trainings.
Occasionally, he’d busy his mind with tasks that had been engraved in his muscle memory: repairing and salvaging tech. The listening outpost was set up in the confines of a time-worn fortress, its data center situated at the bottom of the structure – as close as possible to the well pumping water into the fortress. This deep into the Core, and not long after the Dark Empire’s defeat on Coruscant, the flow of information was heating up the repository that had already been cursed with its own setup on a barren, sunbaked world.
But as they say - misery loves company. The cooling issue subsided in priority the moment the outpost’s sirens began to blare, accompanied by the sound of hurried stormtrooper boots.
“Get to your posts, you filthy maggots!” a voice barked from above. Defias looked up to see the outpost’s commanding officer - Major Derith. A furious grimace contorted his face, his voice reeking with disgust. The Major had no love for the Mawites under his command, even less so for Defias. Though he’d dared nothing so far, the Sith remained wary. He still vividly recalled the fate that had befallen Lord Mor’zhul by the hand of

The familiar screech of TIE fighters piercing the air took his attention to the skies. A dozen or more dots grew larger and larger until their shapes became recognizeable: X-wings and a few small dropships huddled within the fighter’s escort ring.
An efficient strikeforce.
Defias placed a hand on the hilt of his Sith sword, nose wrinkled in contempt at the assailants. Heat began to warm up within his gut as the flames of the dark side began to churn, fanned by his emotions.
He was ready.
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