Private I am Listening || Michael Hightower

[Aether Verd]

Assets: Beskar'gam | Basilisk
Darksaber | Resolute Dawn​

EDGE OF MANDALORIAN SPACE

Aether Verd stood beneath the steel crest of his warship, arms folded, gaze fixed on the stars beyond.

The Resolute Dawn drifted at the edge of Mandalorian space like a blade at rest — unraised, but sharp all the same. Its dark hull was flanked by Kom'rk-class fighters, distant and patient in their escort patterns. This was not a warfleet. This was a message:

We are listening. But we are not blind.

Rumors had reached him. Not from spies or slicers, but from the tired voices that carried through backchannels and battlefield debris. Whispers of an admiral — sharp, seasoned, and sick of watching good men be thrown like ash into the void for the amusement of mad kings in red robes. A man with discipline. With principle. With enough fire left to care what all this meant.

That kind of fire was rare. Aether wasn’t about to let it go to waste.

He nodded to the comms officer. “Send it.”

The channel opened — encrypted, tight, and unmistakably Mandalorian.

“Admiral Hightower. This is Mand’alor the Iron, aboard the Resolute Dawn. If you’re the man I’ve heard about, then you’re not here by accident. I’m offering you a seat across from me — not as enemy, not as spy, but as a commander who knows the weight of lives and the ache of purpose. You want your men to be more than fuel for another fool’s fire. Come aboard. Let's speak plainly.”

There was no flourish. No veiled threat. Just the steel certainty of a man who built nations with blood and armor — and had no patience left for ceremony.

Aether turned from the viewport, the faintest smirk tugging at his face.

Now it was up to Hightower.​

Michael Hightower​

 

[Michael Hightower]

It wasn't the attraction of a moth to a flame that drew Michael across the galaxy, that fatal attraction that you couldn't turn away from despite knowing better. It was more like the was being pushed on a tide of blood that provided that inexorable force that drove you forward. It was the blood of the soldiers who had died under his command.

It was one thing to die when you expected it, ever soldier knew that death was an inevitable companion, stalking your every waking moment. You learned to live with the spectre of not just your death, but also the death of those around you. They chose the life, chose to stand as shield and sword for those who couldn't face the dark by themselves. Chose to die for them if needed

Those that deaths though, they needed to have a reason, needed to have some justification. It was that need that had drawn the man across the galaxy, he'd seen too many soldiers sacrificed by those in power for nothing more than a tantrum. Sacrificed as mere distractions, or fodder in a ritual, cast aside by uncaring masters who saw no value in those without the force, those who had sworn to serve.

Men cast aside while Michael was unable to protect them. For all his years of experience, his leadership, he'd been unable to carry out the most basic duty of a military commander, to shepherd his men and when their lives had to be spent, to make it mean something.

It was that failure that had drawn him halfway across the galaxy, it was the promise that the message received from the new Mand'alor held. A promise of loyalty that cut both ways, of a leader who saw soldiers as more than cogs in a machine, or tools to be used and discarded. It had brought the man here, following a young officer through the halls of a clean ship. It was impressive, but Michael was all too aware how easy it was to look good.

No, the truth would be found in the measure of the man he was here to meet. To see if he was everything that he had promised.

Aether Verd

 

[Aether Verd]

Assets: Beskar'gam | Basilisk
Darksaber | Resolute Dawn​

EDGE OF MANDALORIAN SPACE

The hangar hissed as pressure normalized, and the ramp of the arriving shuttle touched durasteel.

Two Supercommandos stepped forward — not ornamental guards, but veterans in burnished beskar, their visors locked onto the figure descending the ramp. They spoke no words as they fell in on either side of Admiral Michael Hightower. Their silent escort guided him through the belly of the Resolute Dawn — past hangar crews moving in quiet precision, past warriors training in low gravity chambers, past sigils of iron and flame engraved on the walls.

No pomp. No parade. Just purpose.

The doors to the bridge parted with a hydraulic shhhk, revealing the heart of the ship — and at its center, the Mand’alor.

Aether Verd sat on the raised throne at the rear of the command deck. A predator’s perch. His armor caught the glow of the starfield beyond, black and burnished crimson. As Hightower approached, Aether stood — slow, steady — and stepped down from the dais.

He removed his helmet, tucking it beneath one arm, and extended his right hand.

“Welcome aboard.” he said.

No title. No pretense. Just the greeting of one commander to another.

He let the moment breathe before continuing, his voice calm, deliberate.

“Out here, we do things differently. Bloodline doesn’t buy loyalty. The Force doesn’t grant command. What matters is merit — the will to build something that lasts, and the discipline to see it through.”

He stepped to the viewport, gazing out at the black. The Kom’rks continued their slow patrol. The stars remained indifferent.

“You and your men could have that. A place where your lives aren’t gambled by cowards in velvet cloaks. A safe harbor. A new standard. But before I make you that offer… I need to know you.”

He turned to face the Admiral again, the steel of his tone now sharpened.

“You’ve seen the worst of men with power. You’ve buried soldiers who deserved better. So tell me, Admiral — in your own words — why should Mandalore place its trust in you? Why should I welcome you among our ranks, knowing the firestorm your old masters might bring in your wake?”

Aether didn’t ask to intimidate.

He asked to understand.​

Michael Hightower