Private Compromise

[Brandyn Sal-Soren]

Tag: Lysander von Ascania
Attire: Link​

The floor beneath Brandyn began to break apart, disintegrating in jagged fragments beneath his boots. He twisted back, his knee flaring with pain from the earlier collision with the wall, just as the durasteel plating gave way to the abyss below. For a fleeting second, there was nothing but open dark beneath him.

The smell hit immediately. The hallway filled with the putrid stench of the undercity, rot, chemicals, and something far worse that clung to the air like some dying thing. It burned at the edges of his senses, but Brandyn did not falter. The pain, the filth, the decay...all of it...these were constants now. Mere background noise. His focus remained fixed on the figure ahead.

Metal screamed as it tore free from the collapsing floor, wrenched upward by an unseen force. Shards and splintered plating twisted through the air, drawn toward the figure at the far end of the corridor. The Soulbound.

It rose slowly, framed by a flickering, dying light that cast its form into a shifting silhouette. What had once been a man stood there still, but only just. The gauntlet fused to his arm pulsed with a sickening life of its own, drinking in the debris around it. Atomised fragments wove together in writhing streams, coiling and reforming into jagged armour that crawled across his body.

Brandyn exhaled slowly, steadying himself.

The man before him was a nobody, most likely. Some gutter rat or desperate soul plucked from obscurity and remade into this. The Unblessed had always favored the expendable. But the weapon…the weapon made him something else entirely.

Tendrils of metal lashed and recoiled from the gauntlet, shifting between blade and shield with unnatural fluidity, as though guided by a mind separate from its host. The Soulbound tilted his head, as if studying Brandyn. Then, without warning, the metal surged forward.

Brandyn reacted in half a heartbeat. He pivoted on instinct, ignoring the protest in his knee as a spike of reforged durasteel screamed past his shoulder and shattered against the wall behind him. Another followed, then a storm, shards hurled with lethal precision, each one guided, each one alive murderous intent.

Brandyn did not advance. Instead, he gave ground. It retreat a calculated risk. Each step backward drew the creature further down the corridor. Brandyn's breathing remained steady, though sweat gathered beneath the edge of his faceplate. The faint hiss of microinjected bacta filled his ears, barely dulling the ever-present burn that gnawed at his skin.

He could end this. A single decisive strike. A moment's surrender to instinct, to anger, to the part of him that whispered how easy it would be. But that was not why he was here.

Another volley came. He deflected what he could, dodged the rest, letting the barrage drive him further back, closer to his goal.

Almost there.

The Soulbound relentlessly advanced, feeding on the very structure around them. Walls peeled apart, the corridor unraveling in its wake as more material was consumed and repurposed. It was growing stronger.

Good. Let it commit.

Brandyn's gaze flicked, just once, to the barely visible seam in the wall behind him. The trap, hidden and awaiting the moment.

"Come on," he murmured under his breath, voice ragged.

The Soulbound stepped forward, Brandyn reached for the device on his wrist, pressed the button and the trap was sprung. A single, targeted tranq-dart hit the Soulbound on the neck. The beast roared in anger, but did not even stagger.

Brandyn's eyes widened. Stepping back towards the edge, the floor behind him being missing from earlier in the fight. He pressed the button again. The Soulbound swatted the dart away with acrimonious contempt.

The monster charged, a spike growing from the gauntlet as it directed a blow straight for Brandyn's neck.

Metres were crossed in seconds. The button on Brandyn's wrist was pressed twice in quick succession. He closed his eyes...and hoped.

~~~~~~~​

The light of the distant sun reflected off the polished hull of the Nubian luxury yacht as it cut cleanly through the void, its silhouette elegant and unmistakably opulent against the darkness. Not a Jedi vessel, but a family ship, quietly requisitioned from extensive reserves on Hapes. It would be harder for the family to trace, harder for questions to be asked.

Briana, at least, would not be looking here. She kept her distance from Hapes these days, and she was the one most likely to start digging.

As the yacht angled toward the planet below, its engines shifted to a low, controlled burn. The stars stretched and bent across the viewport before giving way to the growing curve of atmosphere. A moment later, the ship slipped into descent.

Atmospheric friction kissed the hull in a faint shimmer of heat, the reflective surface now dancing with streaks of gold and ember as clouds parted beneath its path. Inside, Brandyn did not share in that calm that was the vessel's soothing hum. The carbonite slab stood secured behind him, locked into place within the hold. The silhouette frozen within was twisted, unnatural even in stillness, the gauntlet's grotesque shape preserved mid-contortion, as though it might yet reach out and grasp at something unseen.

Capturing the Unblessed agent, securing both the man and his abhorrent weapon, had only ever been the first step. Extraction of intelligence was another matter entirely.

Brandyn's jaw tightened beneath the faceplate as he reached toward the console. For a moment, his hand hovered there, hesitation threading through the ever-present pain that pulsed beneath his skin. The soft hiss of bacta injection answered nothing. Then he made his choice. A private transponder flickered to life, its signal narrow, encrypted, old codes. It pulsed once into the void ahead, a quiet beacon directed toward a single recipient.

Lysander.

Brandyn lowered his hand slowly, gaze drifting back toward the viewport as the ship continued its descent, vanishing deeper into cloud and shadow.

Desperate times, indeed, called for desperate measures.

 

[Lysander von Ascania]

Brandyn Sal-Soren​

The signal had been surprising and not surprising at all. Almost everything tied to the Mid Rim belonged to another life.. one he had folded away like a robe. Never truly forgotten. Just.. archived. When he left, he had not looked back; Korriban had made certain of that. The trials endured burned away all nostalgia like dead tissue.

When the old code came across the narrow band his hand had moved to the console.

Brandyn.

Near the edge of the marked landing zone, Lysander waited. Hands loosely clasped behind his back. The hangar doors remained sealed. Beyond them, Empress Teta hung in the Deep Core's black fist.. a smoldering coal that had been burning for a very long time.

He could still feel the energy of Byss.. even here. The Dark of the Deep Core seeped. And Byss bled through everything nearby. Enough to make pilots sweat and Jedi uneasy. But he felt calm. Rather than a storm, it'd become a constant, somehow matching the cadence of his own thoughts.

Coordinates to this hangar had been a risk, yes, even if Sith control around the Core's borders tightened considerably in recent months; traffic in and out was constantly monitored, every lane was monitored. No matter what vessel the man was piloting, if the transponder data was to be believed.. It would not pass unnoticed.

The net here was tight enough now that the Deep Core was less a secret and more a gated estate. And so he lived inside the gate. Besides.. of all the things that could be a trap, Brandyn was not one of them. Relationships had been left behind in the Mid Rim. Alliances. Attachments. Things that had never quite settled right in the chest. Some were regrettable. Most were not. The one with the former Jedi Master had simply.. never resolved.

The story told most often to himself was an easy one: he'd fled, and never looked back. The truth was less flattering, to be sure, and they'd surfaced in many quiet moments during the years which followed, during that gradual descent into the Dark. Those moments where he was alone with nothing but his own thoughts. Two questions, really, that circled back now. Whether Brandyn hated him, or blamed himself for the fallout.

Once, this place had been part of a network of neutral waystations used by Jedi operating in the Core.. a spot to refuel, regroup even. Reacquiring access to a handful of them had been among the first practical steps taken upon arriving as Point Emissary.

A soft vibration moved through the deck. The station's ancient sensors registered an incoming vessel.

And now the real questions that gave no tactical answers. Would Brandyn arrive and be exactly as he remembered? Or would that version be gone entirely? Both possibilities carried their own particular discomfort. Mildly annoying, to discover that it still mattered which..

 

[Brandyn Sal-Soren]

Tag: Lysander von Ascania
Attire: Link​

The yacht settled into the hangar with all the grace expected of Naboo craftsmanship, landing struts kissing the deck in a soft hydraulic sigh. Beyond the viewport, the hangar remained dim and cavernous, its old Republic architecture buried beneath layers of shadow and quiet Sith occupation. What little light existed came in thin amber bands across the deck plating, occasionally catching drifting dust and steam.

Brandyn stood motionless for a moment beside the carbonite slab as the engines wound down around him.

The Soulbound's frozen expression remained twisted in silent agony beneath the frost, the gauntlet half-formed around one arm like a parasitic growth trying to claw free even in stasis. The thing unsettled him in a way he disliked admitting. Not fear exactly. Familiarity, perhaps. That would have scared him, should he have dwelt on it.

A soft hiss came from beneath his faceplate. Then another. Microscopic doses of bacta threaded through the injector lattice built into the mask, momentarily dulling the raw burn beneath. The relief barely registered anymore. Under the synthskin and phrik weave, the wound continued its slow decay unabated, flesh that refused to heal properly no matter what the healers attempted. The Force held it together as much as medicine did now. Perhaps more.

Brandyn rolled his jaw once against the discomfort and turned toward the ramp. The ship opened itself with a low mechanical groan.

Cold air spilled inward immediately, a dry and metallic scent that offended his senses.

And there he was. Lysander.

Time had certainly changed him. As had the dark side. Though Brandyn could not tell how much of that perception belonged to genuine corruption, and how much belonged to Jedi conditioning. Either way, there was power in him now that did not bother concealing itself. The fact this occurred to Brandyn was another itch in the back of his skull.

Brandyn stopped several paces from the foot of the ramp. Was he friend? Foe? Opportunist? Brandyn genuinely did not know.

And perhaps worse, he did not know what Lysander saw standing before him either. Jedi? Broken father? Or just a problem to resolve. The thought lingered unpleasantly as the carbonite slab settled into place behind him with a low repulsor hum.

This was a line. Brandyn knew it. Not because he had come here. That part had been decided long before the ship entered the Deep Core. No, the line was subtler than that. He was here because some part of him had already decided Lysander was what Brandyn himself was unwilling to openly become, but still needed in order to save the people he loved.

Brandyn studied him for another long second before finally speaking through the distorted rasp of the mask.

"You look terrible."

Lysander von Ascania​

 

[Lysander von Ascania]

Brandyn Sal-Soren​

He'd spent years learning how to read faces, and now the absence of one so to speak produced a sensation he did not particularly care to examine. Staring at that unforgiving faceplate during the silence pressed against Lysander's composure; the curated mask of the Emissary he'd grown to wear nearly shattered into a thousand jagged pieces.

Everything about the proximity of this arrival, dared to drag him down into a quagmire of doubt where influence and even his position at the apex of the Core's hierarchy meant.. absolutely nothing.. feeling small inside his own authority.

Muscle coiled in his abdomen, a knot which tightened with every breath. Without quite deciding to, a thumb was found grazing the curved hilt of his lightsaber, though it'd been known for offering solidity to the mind he desperately craved, like a tongue finding a sore tooth. The impulse was finally noted with displeasure, and so he withdrew.

"You know," he began, stripped of usual oratorical grandeur, "I spent years imagining what you'd say if we ever crossed paths again." Twin emeralds narrowed as he swept his gaze over the yacht before returning to his former Jedi Master. "Insulting my complexion not among your opening remarks in any of them."

Almost painfully, the left corner of Lysander's mouth hitched upward. A little tremor of mirth.. like a door against the wind. "Though I must say, you aren't exactly a vision of health yourself. What, after all this time, have you brought me? And what is it you're hoping the Emissary of the Covenant can do about it, Brandyn?"