So like, a mailman?

[Phodrius]

The many inches of plascrete and durasteel that kept Phodrius from the snowstorm raging outside did very little to protect him from the cold, a constant companion in his incarceration. Was this part of his punishment or did his jailors assume that he had the technology to cope? Even with his processors on overclock and his cooling systems shut off Phodrius shivered all the same, running his metal fingers on the walls, knocking on them up and down, trying to find a weak point. He felt nothing. Either the whole thing was solidly built top to bottom or just one big weak point, he wasn't sure now that his hearing paled to even that of a baseline human - most sounds were little more than thuds now. He gave one last knock, hopeful. Then, hopeless, he punched it, he slammed it, kicked it, kept pummeling this cursed, immovable barrier until he gave up with a roaring shout. The result? A digit broke off his hand, and there now was a very faint crack on the wall where once was none. At this rate he'd only need a dozen more hands to shatter against the wall and maybe then he'd have a hole big enough to pop his head through. Perhaps the building would collapse before then, or the system's star fade out.

Defeated, he dropped on his slab of a bed, covering himself with a sheet thin as paper. The only thing worse than the cold was the boredom. Seconds felt like hours and hours passed like seconds after a short while. Most of his time was served in this barren cell, the monotony broken only by meals as lively as the tundric wasteland around the prison and the hard work that soon enough became a routine of itself. Mopping the floor? Breaking rocks? Scrapping blood off the walls? He could name hundreds of budget droids capable of such tasks, and he was no droid, he was a Sith! Powerful, proud, and very, very cold. He seethed in silent anger, wishing for a lightwhip, warmth, new parts! He didn't want to die here, in some backwater world, alone and forgotten in a cell barely big enough for him to stretch his arms. No, he'd make a run for it, the next person to enter his cell would be torn limb from limb and then... then he'd have to wing it, he supposed. Blast it all, it was a plan as good as any!

 

[Centiro]

His heels clicked as he crossed the highly secure corridors. Saluting as he passed by the Blackwatch guards, they scrambled to get themselves presentable, never expecting to see a Blackwatch General walking in a prison facility. No one questioned his passage—they were aware that this visit was going to happen. It had been on the schedule for 48 hours. A Blackwatch General was making a routine visit to see all prisoners who had life in prison, but the reasoning was classified. Such visits were not uncommon…but the visitor was—because he was no Blackwatch General.

For Centiro Kusher, the Emissary of Unit 404, this was business. It was a matter of him slipping into the disguise, the role and the credentials of a General that existed in the Eternal Empire databanks, but was rarely seen. He was rarely seen because this general did not actually exist. It was one of hundreds of identities that the Emissary used in his work for the Eternal Empire. His existence was virtually unknown, a ghost among men.

In the short time that Darth Tacitus and Centiro Kusher put this organization together, it had been very active. One condition that Centiro made in agreeing to run this unit was that he would be able to handpick his Envoys. Gerard Butler was his first, who was in a bad spot when he found him—and he was an exceptional Envoy. It was just the two of them. This team was never going to get to big—the more people involved, the less of a chance they would maintain anonymity. But here he was, in the Kalidan Maximum Security Penitentiary (KMSP). It was not too long ago that he was here with Gerard, but it was a different wing, he was in a different guise, and this was a different prospect…

Phodrius. Centiro felt like he knew him even though the two of them had never met. Because Centiro handpicked all the Envoys, he did extensive research on any possible candidates. Dozens of potential candidates were investigated by him every week, but he always found a flaw or weakness that would not make them a good candidate. They were serving another master, too influenced by credits, mental instability, not a team player, can’t take criticism, unable to learn new things, careless…the list went on as to why eventually a candidate was never considered. But then he started investing Phodrius...

At first glance, he looked like a horrible candidate. He was once a Sith and barely arkanian anymore due to the extensive cybernetic modifications that had been done to him. For these reasons alone, that was enough to toss his data file to the junk heap…but something spurred Centiro to look a little deeper. What he began to see from this arkanian was a strong force-user, highly intelligent, physically imposing, skilled combatant…these were attributes he could work with. However, there was one problem with Phodrius—he was consigned to life and prison—and he was dying. It was the dark side of the force and circuitry keeping him alive, but it was failing. But in addition to that, there was a safeguard—a built in “kill switch” that would end him if tampered with and it was in their possession. In truth, the “kill switch” safeguard had nothing to do with Centiro’s interest in him…he would have looked at him as a candidate regardless. Something about his desire to do a good job and his dedication appealed to Centrio.

When he began doing research about what was keeping him alive and why he was dying, Centiro went to the vaults of the Wardens of the Shroud, seeking their lore on a condition like this…what he discovered there was encouraging—there was a handcrafted part that could help Phodrius. This would be part of this whole endeavor.

Centiro strode around the corner with a pair of guards flanking the blast door, leading to the cell that contained Phodrius. He heard pounding on the wall within. The small voice changer lodged in his throat activated and with an imperceptible charge to his larynx, his voice came out a bit deeper, but the rest of the change in his voice was from Centiro’s expertise on how to change style, tone, inflection and voice patterns, needing no technology.

“Sergeants…stand aside. I wish to speak with Prisoner 63424 in private.”

The two Deathwatch guards looked at each other with hesitance.

Hesitance was what Centiro was looking for. His tone became dangerous, “Perhaps I was not clear enough. Stand aside.”

As they gazed upon the General’s uniform and authorized badge he wore that enabled him to be here, they both dropped any doubt they carried and backed away from the blast door.

“Umm sir, he is a known hostile. For your safety, he recommend—“

“Your recommendation is noted…and summarily discarded. Close the blast door behind me.”

The Sergeant on the left activated the blast door, shooting the door up. Phodrius would not have adequate time to prepare an ambush due the sound muffling material outside the cells. Seeing him at the back of the cell, Centiro stepped in and the blast door closed behind him. As soon as it did so, Centiro activated a sound bubble that blocked out all electronic means of listening to their conversation within a 3 meter bubble.

He stared for many moments at the cyborg and said calmly, “Hello Phodrius. I have come here to make you a offer…”

[member="Phodrius"]

 

[Phodrius]

Phodrius felt strange. An exhaustion, of sorts, but not of the body or machine, although those were certainly worn. Rather, it was as if something inside him was shutting off, dimming, a system that would never again spark to life. There was no denying it now, he was dying, or close to it, escape was impossible and holding on to life would only bring him more pain, more misery. A cold taloned finger cut through the seam in his chest, where old and withered skin met a pallid lab-grown imitation. Just to the side of his sternum, inches below all those layers of metal, circuits and flesh was his target, his software node... It would take time, it would most certainly hurt, but at least he would go out in his own terms. He took a deep breath.

The blast door opened. Immediately Phodrius jumped to his feet, tearing his sheet in half and holding to a string as a man in military fatigues more ceremonial than any he had seen so far stepped in. This human was not simple rank and file, was he? It mattered little. He could kill him, take his weapons, make a run for it and... die? No that wouldn't do, he needed a distraction. Perhaps instead of strangling him, Phodrius could take him as an hostage, spark a riot among the other prisoners, escape amidst the chaos with this official as a bargaining chip! With haste, now, before the blast door clo- The blast door closed. Without command or a key press from the official, whoever was manning the doors was outside, away from the Sith's reach. He sat back on his bet, running his fingers down his helmet, paying little attention to his hemorrhaging wound. This man came with an offer? More interesting yet, he did not call him that jumble of numbers, but his name. One he hadn't used since came to this frozen hellhole of a planet.

"An offer?" he parroted, with no spite being lost in his highly synthetized growl "Why, you come here unannounced and jump straight to business, with no care over me nor to make your name known. 'Hello Phodrius, how do you do? I am this one or that one, and I am a fool for entering your abode unguarded and unarmed'." the Sith stood up, the whirring of his muscles echoing on the sterile walls "And what a fool you are indeed. Out with your offer, then. Make it a good one, lest I take you with me."

 

[Centiro]

If there was one thing that Phodrius could be sure of, this human in front of him was confident and without a shred of fear for his current predicament. With a small smile, he responded, “You have already made five assumptions regarding your situation without proper assessment. This type of untrained threat analysis could get you killed in the field. First, you assume I truly have an offer for you, when in fact it could simply be a ruse to prevent an initial reaction of violence. Second, you have assumed that my offer had to do with business. Coincidentally, you are correct, but it is possible I could have been here with an offer that had nothing to do with business. Third, you have made the assumption that I am unguarded, when in fact there are two Blackwatch guards that I have at my beck and call within seconds. Fourth, you have assumed that based on my appearance that I am unarmed. I am in fact armed with weaponry that can be brought to bare in under a second. Fifth, you have taken a look at me and assumed that you would best me in combat within this confined space. I have purposely changed my walk, my attitude and my demeanor to appear as an unskilled combatant, when in fact an engagement between the two of us may or may not go your way. While confidence has its merits, it can also get you killed…”

Pause.

His golden eyes met Phodrius’ and he said quietly, “Alas, I did not come here to fight you or lecture you. My offer…”

Centiro crossed his arms and began, “I want to offer you a new lease on life. A second chance to belong to something that can make a difference. While many see you as one who needs to sit rot, and die in this cell, Phodrius...that is not what I see. I see tremendous potential in you to become something great. I represent an organization within the Eternal Empire…that does not exist. I chose to extend this offer to you because I have researched you, studied you and I think you can help our small team that serves the Eternal Empire in very real ways…”

[member="Phodrius"]

 

[Phodrius]

Phodrius had to admit, for a man facing a killing machine, even one grown dull and frostbitten, this human really showed an admirable strength of character. He dared to smile, something that the acolyte didn't know how to feel about. Fortunately, hidden as his carved face was under the helmet, so too was his confusion concealed under the chipped alchemized plasteel.

"Confidence? No... It is simple fact. You are here alone, and armed with weapons you may unleash in a second against a man who can kill in less than one. Why, I'd relish the opportunity." Phodrius rasped a laugh, honing the taloned tips of the few fingers he had left, sending sparks flying over the officer "And now, who is making the assumptions, my good sir? I want freedom, I want to breathe air that is not thrice-recycled, I want the respirator filters to do so... And yet, I assume," he stressed with clear vexation "this offer of yours is the simple promise to break my shackles and in turn replace them with a leash, an illusion of freedom... And what am I to do with this illusion? Fight for a nation that is not mine, serve men to whom I owe nothing to? Ideals are all well and good, I am sure your Empire is bloated with them, but I am a man of more practical inclinations."

Phodrius stopped, giving his hands some rest as the tendons in his wrists throbbed in anguish "You have studied me, you know my name, perhaps you even have had a glimmer of my true power, but how well do you know me?" he wondered, drumming his fingers on the wall, the implication clear "Sweeten the deal."

 

[Centiro]

Intelligent as advertised. Confident. Discerning. Adapts well. Good…

Centiro nodded, “Fair enough. This nation was not mine either, but it gave me a home. It will give you a home as well, along with freedom. Yes, it is my Empire now, I suppose, but the practical inclinations were hard to turn down…”

Pause. His head tilted slightly.

“How well do I know you? Not well enough yet, but that will change if we work together. I am afraid I could only create an understanding of who you are based on files, reports, and testimonies from others. In truth, you are do not do the files they have on you justice. But I will get to the sweetening part…”

Centiro shows open palms and slowly puts one hand in his pocket and withdraws a small holo projector. With a flick of his wrist, the holo projector comes to life and displays a cybernetic part that looks like a spur from cowboy boots. It revolved slowly on the projection. The Emissary explained, “This is a unique converter module. This device is a prototype. It was custom built for a Sith Lord in the Sith Empire as a commission. It is designed to efficiently convert the dark side energy within you into efficient electrical impulse. I am no technology scientist, but I am told how this device is applied and what it is meant to do. Based on your medical records, I think this device could save your life—but there is only one of them in the galaxy, that I am aware of…”

He powered off the small hologram and slid the projector back in his pocket.

"This device is in the possession of one of the more powerful Hutts on Nal Hutta. His name is Volgachya. While Nal Hutta is overseen by Black Sun, the Hutts are for the most part left to their own devices. It seems that Volgachya the Hutt had his pirates raid a small Sith convoy and they came across this little jewel. Because it is unique technology and this Hutt is fascinated with technology. As such, it is being displayed among the Hutt’s personal collection…”

He eyes Phodrius, holding his eyes with his own for many moments before continuing…

“I am willing to help you obtain this item, for you to use, which will keep you alive. In return, I ask that you join the organization that I oversee, which will give you more freedom than you have ever had…”

[member="Phodrius"]

 

[Phodrius]

Home? Phodrius did not need a home, never had to. Survival was in staying mobile, always wandering, always adapting. Settling down so soon in his training would be suicide. Still, wasn't suicide something he had attempted but seconds ago? A rash decision, he thought, laying a hand on his wounded chest. Files, reports, testimonies, all of them had to come from somewhere, someone. His old crew was not particularly well established or connected, but word would get out, soon the galaxy's underworld would have him branded as a traitor, a snitch, a target, and worse... There was safety in serving the Empire, yet they had jailed him, left him to die, and would have let him do so if it weren't for this little, curious man.

The officer reached for his pocket - a weapon? His hand shot up, only to stop and recoil at the sight of a holo projector. "No sudden movements." Phodrius grumbled, arm still arched, ready to strike and tear the human's guts, a threat impossible to misinterpret. From the projector came an image, a revolving disk quite sharply tipped, of a function he could not discern. The answer came quickly, some sort of converted module, capable of turning the power of the Sith into electricity. Questions came rushing to Phodrius' head, but also a greed, a want. The promise of a normal life, or at least something resembling one, another step to take from which he could leave behind this alloyed body that had become his coffin. The arkanian could only stare in fascinated silence. And it was in the viscous hands of a tech-savvy hutt? And Phodrius would have help... and all he had to do was accept...

"No..." he whispered, the vision fading from his visor as the hologram was shut off "Until I have this artifact, I am neither for the Empire nor against it. And how am I to fight this slug? I am more dead than alive, more broken than whole... Why, I think you owe me some upgrades."

 

[Centiro]

Centiro studied Phodrius as he spoke, much like a scientist might examine a sample under a microscope. When he finished speaking, the operative said simply, “What I owe you…is nothing. That is what I owe you. You need to be clear on that point.”

He eyed the arkanian making sure he understood before continuing.

“I make this offer to you because I believe in you, not because I owe you. It is understandable that obtaining this device for your permanent use would be a part of this agreement…”

Pause.

“Come with me today. You will see how we operate, plan and execute our tasks. You will see the access to resources and equipment we have. In this case, obtaining this device is our goal. I have access to doctors who can make the transplant, and help you with upgrades, once we complete this mission.”

His eyes met Phodrius’, “Are you in or out?”

[member="Phodrius"]

 

[Phodrius]

"Bad..." he whispered with a mechanical hiss, venom practically oozing from his in-build vocabulator. Still, snooty as this human came off, Phodrius would have to had to have half his processors and neurons burnt away to refuse such an offer "I trust that you know better than to attempt to school a pirate in deceit, a Sith in combat, and an arkanian in precision. Why, the slaying of my captors-" he paused, his face scrunched behind the mask. No, they had caught to this ruse already, he could tell. "The slaying of my business associates came as a result of them treating me in a way not much different from what you are attempting. I'd advise caution." with a flick of his wrist, the talons in the cyborg's fingertips slid back.

He stepped around the man, brushing against the wall, and then leaning besides the door. "Well, I could do with a new life, along with a new body. Let us hope your nation is as welcoming to me as I am to it. After all the Empire is, among other things, the paragon state of tolerance, is it not?" he remarked, all thorough with a quite robotic lack of inflection "I am very much in. Now, if you will." with an exaggerated bow the acolyte gestured at the door, his metal frame creaking loudly from the spine and arms.