First Reply The Price of Youth

[Braze]

Braze stood at the entrance of the war room, his hands folded behind his back in a stance that was meant to appear composed, though the unease in his chest was weighing on him.

But he had long since schooled himself to keep his mental shields ironclad. He'd always hated the idea of others sensing his emotions, so over time, he'd built a fortress around his mind, making it nearly impenetrable.

At just 15, he had earned the title of Jedi Knight, an achievement that few his age throughout Jedi history had ever attained. But with that achievement came expectation. The weight of it pressed on him like a stone, and as he glanced around the room at the faces of the older Jedi, those who had earned their stripes over years of service, he could feel their eyes upon him. Some were filled with mild admiration, others with great skepticism.

The mission briefing was simple: a recon and retrieval operation on a remote world ravaged by internal war, a place too dangerous for a Jedi Knight of his youth, some would say. But not Braze. He was eager to prove that he could handle any challenge, even if the task called for the steady hand of an older Knight.

Braze volunteered for this mission. The skeptical glances from the older Jedi were turned his way. They saw him as a child—too young for such a dangerous mission. But Braze had heard enough of their doubts. He'd trained hard for this moment, and despite the risks, he couldn't stand by idle. He had to prove that he was worthy of this position Jasper Kai'el had bestowed upon him.

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As Braze's shuttle descended into the war-torn wasteland of Tethar, the once-thriving world's now shattered landscape of ruined cities and smoldering craters came into view.

The constant sounds of gunfire and explosions echoed in the distance far below. This was a dangerous place, caught between two warring factions: the Argent Vanguard, a group striving for peace and order, and the Night Watch, bent on domination through brute force.

Braze's point of contact, Commander Rian Velor, was stationed in the ruins of Emberfall, a once-proud city now reduced to rubble. Braze had volunteered for this mission despite the risks, determined to prove himself.


As he stepped off the shuttle, he took a moment to take in the air, sights, and sounds—What might he find in this unstable warzone?

 

[Maple Harte]

Wearing: HH Sniper Armor

Armed With: Maple's Staff, Civil Defense Laser Disruptor

Arrived in: The Silent Erika


It was over.

House Io was mortally wounded by the civil war. In Laertia Io's arrogance, she had assumed there was nothing she couldn't get away with. The Model 0 had caused a massive war ...

...and Darth Strelok had gotten so disgusted upon discovery of Laertia's cybernetic shadow slaves that she had finally gotten sick and helped bring it all down.

And now she was alone. Adrift. A master assassin wanted by The Alliance, The Jedi--

--all because she didn't know when to stop and get off the ride.

No...

...not quite true...

... Maple had feared wasting away alone in madness. In the end, misery had loved company just too much.

And now she was alone, a Sister to that thing that had once been a traveling magician no longer.

In the end, it had not been Io, her own twisted family or even Amy that had doomed her experiment.

It was her simple inability to stop trying to make constant war with the Jedi, to be constantly cruel, that had done her in, done her house in.

And the woman who had once been Maple Harte was adrift once more, her madness halted from progression only through constant channeling of the Dark Side, which also allowed her to use her otherwise broken and crippled hands.

She had not gone with the Defectors.

Darth Strelok only wanted to be alone now. Like she had been at the very start of it. The hunt for Amy. Her own cowardness and madness constantly hindering her.

She had never beaten Amy except at the very end of it. Where there was no point in triumph. Amy had gotten almost everything she wanted. Phyre's will had come to pass in spite of everything...

Strelok lay on the bed of her quarters. The Silent Erika had been her earliest and now final refuge. The vast resources House Io commanded were gone from her. It was just her, whatever she could scavenge in her journey that no longer had a destination, and the few safehouses she had managed to keep to herself.

She had once been a bounty hunter. Once. She fell back on old tactics. Strelok, unlike most Sith, didn't aspire to any particular goal. The fascination of using the Dark Side had long worn off. Strelok was as disillusioned as a Sith as she had been as a Jedi. Now all that mattered was the day to day survival. Trying to forget House Io. Trying to forget The Brain Demon, The Battalion, Amy, Laertia...

Trying to forget her own dismal failure at stopping any of it. At getting through to a woman who had thrown out the will to listen the moment she thought she might actually be able to do something.

Sev Tok would have been a perfect death for Laertia, the Sith Assassin mused. It would have been the perfect time to go out.

And then she was once more reminded of the Model 0.

There would never have been a perfect time to die. The Model 0 would have been discovered that much sooner. And her memory would have been tarnished all the same...

Laertia had never wanted to be a hero.

Laertia just wanted to win. At something. Anything.

At all costs, even to morality and dignity. In some ways, Laertia had been more craven and petulant in this respect than some of the worst Dark Lords.

Now neither of them had a future. They would both go down. Something would get Laertia. Even before the Civil War, Maple noticed Laertia had been getting sloppier and sloppier...

Strelok, needing Money, had volunteered to fight for the Night Watch as a Sniper. She might have taken money from the other side once, but a part of her just absolutely hated the supposed 'good guys' for reasons that had nothing to do with Sith Philosophy or even The Dark Side.

She had seen their hypocrisy during The Bryn'adul Wars. She had no further interest in working for the forces of light, so concerned with feeling good over doing good they happily let billions get murdered to avoid working with The Sith...and all they got for their trouble was the same result they had tried to avoid.

Served them right, Strelok had thought after landing, strapping on her antique sniping armor.

Twenty years, and what did you accomplish? a small voice within asked.

Nothing. You're not the hero of this story. You're not the main character. You never were. You're just a selfish, delusional woman roped into the journey of another. You've never gotten one true win. It was all a quickly spiraling disaster from the word go. the voice said more insisting.

You were never anything more than a decoy protagonist. Something designed to be forgotten, left in the background as more significant threats revealed themselves. With you just along for the ride, useless at avenging the Marksmen, useless at avenging your master, useless at stopping Laertia from going insane. Shall I go on?

Strelok was too broken to even have the energy to reply as she loaded her rifle after landing. It was fitted with a high power scope. A fragment of House Io's ambition.

She was well busy sniping Vanguard forces when she sensed Braze landing. She shifted her view from her concealed position in a skyscraper to get a view of him as he stepped off the shuttle...

He was wondering what he might find here.

He received his answer as Strelok, no feths given at the fact he was a teen --did something the old her would never have done--

--she sent a semi quiet, reduced glare bolt right for his face.

 

[Braze]

TAGS: Maple Harte

Braze could feel the weight of death in the air, thick and suffocating, clinging to the ruins like the last echoes of a dying scream. The desolation stretched before him like a festering wound, raw and open, and something inside him twisted at the sight. It reminded him too much of Ord Providence. Too much of the moment his world cracked apart when they took Jasper Kai'el from him.

The memory hit like a strike to the ribs, sharp and breathless. His mind wavered, unmoored from the present, dragged backward into the hollow ache of loss. His chest tightened, the grief swelling too fast, too sudden. A heated sting burned at the tip of his nose, spreading to his eyes before he could force it back down. No. No. He shouldn't be thinking about this. Not now. Not here.

But grief didn't listen. It bled through his control, seeping into the cracks despite how fiercely he tried to hold it back. His breath hitched, barely audible, as his shoulders tensed. He forced himself to shake it off, to focus. You are here. You are present. The past cannot help you now.

That was when the warning in the Force flickered—subtle, whispering—too little, too late.

He moved, just a fraction, a shift meant to dispel the weight pressing on his chest. And that slight movement, that split-second shift of his head, saved his life—at a cost.

The blaster bolt seared through flesh and bone, a burning-hot lance of agony ripping through his jaw. The impact sent him staggering, pain exploding like a nova behind his eyes. The taste of iron flooded his mouth, sharp and metallic, as the world tilted violently around him.

Braze barely had time to process it, the shock crashing through him even before the pain fully settled in. One moment lost in memory—one moment too long. And now, blood dripped from his chin in thick, stuttering droplets.
The blaster bolt had struck like a hammer blow. A flash of superheated plasma punched into his jaw, and for a fraction of a second, there was nothing—just raw, electric shock. Then the pain hit, a white-hot explosion that swallowed the world.

Bone splintered. Flesh charred. The force of the impact snapped his head sideways with a sickening, meaty crack, sending shattered teeth and seared muscle outward in a spray of blood and carbon-scored tissue. His legs buckled, vision fracturing as he hit the ground hard, the impact jarring through his spine like a seismic tremor.

The taste of blood—thick, coppery, wrong—flooded his mouth, mingling with something burnt and acrid. His jaw—his face—felt mangled, barely held together by tattered nerves screaming in protest.

Braze gasped, or tried to. Instead, a wet, gargling sound spilled from his throat, his airway half-choked on his own blood. His hands scrabbled weakly against the dirt, instincts fighting against the shock threatening to drag him under.

One moment lost in memory—one moment too long.

And now, his world was painted red... fading to ... black.

​

 

[Maple Harte]

He went down.

Just like that.

It was not the first time she had seen it. Countless people by this point had dropped from her turning the scope to focus on them.

But it was the first time she had seen it happen to a teen because of her.

She blew the heads off any who tried to help him. Soon, everyone in the general area around him had been sniped dead. It wouldn't do to pop him again at this distance...the kill would have to be confirmed up close.

She got out of her sniping position and got on an old slipknot speeder bike she had bought, racing like mad off the top of the skyscraper and across a ruined battlefield, drive by shooting Vanguard forces as she sped by to reach Braze , not certain what she would do when she reached him. Kill him? Likely.

She finally reached the boy, rifle pointed right at his chest as he struggled to live. Probably needed intubation at this point. Wouldn't last long. Blood everywhere.

"Stupid, walking into a battlefield without protection. Standing all heroic. No master with you...promoted early, I imagine, due to your promise..." Maple mused, getting on one knee over a boy who had been all but mortally wounded.

"I know all about promise..." she muttered, stripping him of his weapons so he couldn't resist her. "And how often people failed to live up to it...I was surrounded by people who ultimately didn't live up to their true potential. But this...here, now, with someone like you bleeding out at my feet...maybe this is the only potential I have. To be the last one standing, in spite of it all..."

She peered closer to examine the vicious wound.

"The potential to remember...and bear witness..." she trailed, dispassionately examining the wound. "You're gonna need a new jaw, I think. Lookin' like I gave you a Darth Malak to remember me by... provided you live past today..."

She considered it, pointed the rifle at his struggling, heaving chest.

If only someone had been there to do this for Laertia, and put her out of her misery back then.

If only she could have been so lucky as Braze, being given the opportunity to check out early.

Slowly, though, the barrel fell away from his chest.

"Sending children into conflict zones...that is exactly how I started out..." Strelok said. "Some things never change with the Jedi. Fethin' disgusting, really. But then again, this business is always an ugly one, even when you play by your bosses rules...even when you do everything right...it's still ugly..."

Strelok stood up. Decision time. The boy was fading.

"I am Darth Strelok, boy..." Strelok said. "And if you want to survive this profession to something resembling old age, you need to shed your naivety yesterday..."

Her telekinesis, sharp, powerful, and precise, stopped the blood loss. An old Mandragora spell hissed shut the deadly wound, but would likely leave him permanently disfigured. Even her spells couldn't help his jaw. Far away, her will made her ship power up and start flying to her location, the black, J-Type 327 Nubian with crimson viewports glittering black as it reflected everything below, flocked to her location.

She picked the boy up, not sure why she was sparing him. Perhaps she didn't want to start being Amy. She was not beholden to Sith ideology in any case. At least not so much she couldn't think for herself.

Strelok did as Strelok pleased, and needed no further justification beyond that.

The ship landed, and she lifted him up precisely with her telekinesis to bring him aboard for medical treatment, floating him stiffly into the vessel to avoid injuring him further, and set him on the medical gurney in her bay, lifting off soon after...

 

[Braze]

TAGS: Maple Harte

The world spun in a blur as he lay in his own blood, the coldness creeping up his limbs like an inevitable tide he could not stave off. His breath came in shallow, shaky gasps, his body convulsing violently in shock. But it was his hands that betrayed him the most. The helmet he had once gripped so tightly now lay forgotten at his side, sinking into the growing pool of blood. Its cold, silent visor reflected his mangled face, showing him the horrific damage done as if mocking him. His fingers, slick with blood, trembled as they reached out in a desperate bid for stability, searching for the only thing that still held meaning to him—the Eshan Charm, its Slate and Jade hues fading in his blurred vision. He could no longer feel its warmth...

Tears stung his eyes, spilling free without restraint, burning his skin as they tumbled down his cheeks. His heart pounded, not from fear of death, but from the unbearable weight of his loss. He wanted Jasper Kai'el here, wanted him to make it stop, to pull him from the suffocating despair that closed in from all around. But all he could do was reach for the charm, his fingers fumbling, as if grasping for the last thread of a life he knew was slipping away.

Even since he had been dropped off atthe temple he had consoled him self with the dream of being a knight—of earning the title and the honor. But now, it all felt hollow. He was just a boy, alone and terrified, wishing for one last glimpse of his father, one final moment with papa. So much left unsaid. So many moments lost. His knighthood—a fleeting thing, overshadowed by the gaping emptiness left by the man he had lost. The legacy he had longed to carry, to honor, now seemed meaningless in the face of his father's absence as he came face to face with death, teetering on the precipice.

The pain in his chest tightened around his heart, suffocating, the weight of the galaxy pressing down, heavy and infinite. He thought of everything undone, everything stolen, and felt the terrible finality of it all. His dream of standing as a knight, of sharing that triumph with his father, had been ripped away. All he could do now was wish for the impossible—for one last embrace, one last chance to hear the voice of the man who had shaped him.

But there would be no more moments. No more time. The world around him grew dimmer, quieter, and he was left with nothing but the pain and the sheer lonelyness of the void. His mind drifted to the thought of how far he had come, how much he had hoped for. And in the end, how he had fallen, with no one there to catch him.

As Maple Harte drew closer, she could make out just how diminutive the boy was. He was practically a waif, garbed in a mismatched collection of weapons and battle-worn armor, proving to be a harsh reality in contrast to the force he had been known to wield on the battlefield. His form was fragile and small as it lay before her offering a tragic sight—barely more than a boy, and barely alive.

The wound on his face twitched unnaturally, the slow, erratic pulse of self-healing evident, though the pain was overwhelming. His body was doing what it could to stave off the inevitable, but the effort was weak, faltering, drowning under the weight of the agony. There was a clear attempt at mending, but the pain was too great for him to focus fully. The wound convulsed in a grotesque dance of attempted healing, and it only seemed to drain him more.

Somber jade-green eyes, clouded with confusion and exhaustion, slowly shifted toward the woman leaning over him. His pupils, pale and dilated, tried to focus, but the effort was fleeting, as if his consciousness was fraying at the edges and fading away. He didn't fight as she removed his weapons, too disoriented to resist, teetering dangerously on the precipice of unconsciousness. His hands—covered in blood—moved feebly, desperately clutching at the small charm, the only thing he seemed to be able to hold onto.

Tears, unbidden and raw, fell freely from his eyes as he cried openly, the sounds a mixture of pain and hopelessness. He clutched the charm to his chest, as if it were the last tether to his fractured world. But slowly, his body grew still beneath her, his breath ragged and labored, each one becoming more fragile than the last. It was hard to say if he truly understood the words she spoke, or if he even heard them at all. Consciousness had slipped from his grasp, leaving only a barely conscious shell behind.

He was alive, but barely. A small, broken Jedi—one with a reputation as a force to be reckoned with on the battlefield. It was difficult to reconcile this image of him with the mighty figure that had once dominated the field of battle. The tabard of his armor, emblazoned with the blue Phoenix motif, had become a terrifying symbol of destruction and force. It was hard to believe that someone so small, so seemingly fragile, could wreak such havoc. And even harder to accept that someone so skilled, so capable of causing such chaos, had been felled so easily, reduced to a bloody mess, crying in his final moments.

It was a cruel irony: the boy who had been unstoppable, now barely clinging to life, his once-proud spirit crushed beneath the weight of his own mortality.

Current Gear

Sabers:
Gauntlet Shield [Katar + Shield] |
Sentry [Parrying Dagger] |
Requiem [Light Foil] |
Nightshade [Throwing Knives]
Thowing :
E.G.G.S. x3 |
Neck: Lightveil Circlet | Charms x3
Chest: Light Armor [Integrated in to armor | Boots | Gauntlets | Mask/Helm | ]
Belt: FFS- Utility Belt
Left Hand: Compass Ring | BCA - Solid State Hologram Tool Band
Other Items:
Trauma Kit
Ships:
Ashwing - Starfighters

 

[Maple Harte]

Strelok worked round the clock to save him, not certain why she was bothering too. She had killed everyone else there. They were adults.

But he--

He was just a boy.

Strelok's sulphur eyes stared at the wounded boy and her telekinesis and dark magic combined with her knowledge of field medicine kept him alive, kept his heart going, not sure what she would do if he survived.

What's the point? You think this changes a thing? You are GOING. TO. DIE. ALONE.

And you'll deserve it, too.

Strelok worked on the most serious areas of the wound, treating the plasma burns and cranial wounds with a Sith Medical Kit. The Civil Defense Laser Disruptor had done exactly as it had been designed to. If his head hadn't twitched, it likely would have lanced right through his brain.

She had watched as his hand clutched the charm, the death grip like his will to live.

How many times had she been in his position? Clinging to life? She lost count. It was all a haze of gunfire and lightsabers in her skull.

Strelok found herself silently wishing for him to live. And hating his teachers for just pumping his head full of propaganda and sending him out on his happy go lucky way. He had been in some scrapes, clearly.

But everyone is a badass until they get shot in the face.

"Look at it this way, boy..." Strelok muttered darkly as she stabilized him.

"If you live...you'll never walk off a ramp without armoring your face ever again...the gift, of course, is pain. And with pain comes experience..."

Strelok continued treating his wounds.

"You should leave, you know...the business, I mean. Most people would take surviving something like this as a sign to quit. Otherwise...the business has a very good chance of doing to you..."

Her eyes drooped low.

"... exactly what it did to me..." she said. "This is part of the reason I just hate your side. They're gonna burn you out before you're forty. Hell...you'll probably be a burn out before you hit thirty... you're better off not getting sniped by...by losers..." Strelok admitted under her breath as she labored over the broken form of Braze

 

[Braze]

TAGS: Maple Harte

It was true—his body had seen better days. A plethora of scars marred his skin, accumulated over the past two years. Some were particularly severe, one even appearing as though it had nearly cleaved him in half. His torso and hands bore the remnants of burns, their healed-over ridges a testament to the fire he had once braved to save others. His small frame was riddled with the marks of past battles, each one a silent record of the struggles he had endured.

Throughout her treatment, he remained largely unresponsive. Then, faintly, his pale lashes fluttered open at the sound of her voice.

A heavy dizziness clouded his mind, trapping him in a dreamlike state of drowsiness. Pain wracked his body, unbearable yet distant, and his eyelids drooped shut again. His breath was slow, measured, as he surrendered to stillness.

For a fleeting moment, a small hand reached out, brushing against the woman's—perhaps in an attempt to stroke the back of it or hold on. But the effort was short-lived. His fingers went slack, his arm falling limply to his side as unconsciousness claimed him once more.

For now, she could treat him or end his life at her leisure. Either way, it seemed the boy, so close to death, had decided this was a good place to rest—and let the waking world slip away again.

​

 

[Maple Harte]

Strelok frozen as his hand brushed her face in his half conscious state.

Why didn't I just finish him? I shot everyone else without a second thought. I've killed Jedi before...

But they had been adults. At least, her schizophrenia currently didn't disagree with her in that.

She had thought it would be no different, shooting a naive teenager.

She had been wrong.

And now she was feverishly trying to salvage whatever was left of her soul to save his life.

She could feel his pain. Why was this affecting her so badly?

She whispered a spell to dull at least some of the pain. Not all of it. A complete lack of pain could be just as deadly to him in this state as too much of it.

Finally, she managed to stop the bleeding, removing bone fragments from torn tissue, suturing and cauterized what she could.

She saw the mangled mess his face was. He was on a breath tube and nutrient and bacta drip. All of her Bacta Supplies would be devoted to keeping him alive and healing.

The savage wounds were whips on her back. Chastisements in her mind. Her broken hands hurt and she lost the focus of the Dark Side, momentarily overwhelmed by guilt at what she had done to the boy. Her hands returned to their own, broken, mangled state as she collapsed against a wall, covering her guilt stricken face with both broken hands, rocking back and forth in silence for a while, lost inside the horrors of her own skull, feeling covered in and smelling blood everywhere.

PTSD and Schizophrenic Sith Assassins do not mix.

Strelok eventually focused on her inner pain and fixed her broken hands with the Dark Side once more before rising. He was too weak for more emergency surgery, though by all accounts, while he was still in critical condition, he was starting to improve.

Strelok kept his blood flowing properly. Her magic kept his organs from failing. Applications of drugs from her stolen Sith Medical Kit stabilized his condition further.

She tried to speak to him with telepathy, hoping he might be coherent enough to respond.

You'll need a new jaw. That's the bad news. You're alive. That's the good news. she said simply, deeply terrified he would have Brain Damage she couldn't treat, but too addled in the brain, and too proud in some ways to show it, even to a wounded boy who was at literal death's door.

I can only do so much. You have to 'want' to live, boy. I...I am Uri... she said, using her real name for the first time in a decade...

You have to 'want' to live. she emphasized to Braze

 

[Braze]

TAGS: Maple Harte

​

She did what she could. He had been rather handsome once, all things considered. Now, though, he was a hard sight to look at. His body was still, save for the subtle flutter of his white eyelashes as they slowly closed.

Surprisingly, it was oddly easy to make a mental connection with him. He was surprisingly simple to tether through the Force, and each time her hands made contact with his body, it seemed to deepen. It was as if his presence in the Force had a strange stickiness to it, clinging to hers with an almost magnetic pull.

You'll need a new jaw. That's the bad news. You're alive. That's the good news. she said simply, deeply terrified he would have Brain Damage she couldn't treat, but too addled in the brain, and too proud in some ways to show it, even to a wounded boy who was at literal death's door.

I can only do so much. You have to 'want' to live, boy. I...I am Uri... she said, using her real name for the first time in a decade...

His mind flared, the mental connection sparking a faint echo, the edges of his consciousness brushing against hers in a chaotic swirl. His thoughts were disjointed at first, like fragments of his fractured self trying to make sense of the words.

...I... want to live... The thought was fleeting, almost a whisper lost in the Force. It was more than a simple declaration—it was a plea, a desperate grasp at survival.

His chest tightened with a weight he could barely understand. His body was broken, his will still struggling to fight. But in that fleeting moment, an overwhelming thought surged forward—he had something he had to prove.

I have to live. Who else will bring Papa home? His heart ached with the thought of his father— Jasper Kai'el —who was still missing, still a source of so much pain. He had promised he would return, that he could carry his father's legacy, but now, all of that seemed like a distant dream.

Marissa Shoda … she's pregnant… I'm the man of the house now. Phy Wasn't there. She's hurt too... The words struck him like a punch to the gut. At just 15, he had been thrust into a role that no boy should have to bear. He was responsible now—not just for himself, but for her and the family. For the promise that no matter what happened, no matter how broken he might become, he would return.

He needed to do this. He needed to prove he could be capable. That's why he's here. To help the conflict come to a peaceful resolution. To bring an end to this nightmare and to help create negotiations—because if he didn't, no one else would. No one else could. His mind clung to that purpose, desperate to make it through this battle, to find his contact on Tethar. He needed to finish the mission. He couldn't fail. I have to do this. I have to survive...I have so much more I have to do...

Another thought pierced the fog of his pain—clearer, more defined:

You don't have to say anything. I can hear it… feel it… just—stay. Don't leave me alone with this.... I'm terrified... His thoughts had the rawness of someone on the edge, trying to hold onto the fleeting grasp of something familiar, something that kept him tethered.

His desire to survive wasn't just to escape death—it was a commitment to a cause. He needed to bring his father home, to protect his family, to fulfill a promise... to prove his worth. His resolve firmed in that moment, even as his physical form threatened to betray him.

 

[Maple Harte]

He was coherent... barely...

Strelok felt the images of his family race by. Difficult to sort out. So many connections.

She had wanted a family. Once. Had thought herself part of one...

Once.

Now it was just her and an old antique yacht, the flying mausoleum of a broken woman lost in a haze of death and silent regrets.

I'll stay... she answered back quietly, continuing to stabilize him.

Why are you bothering? You. Are. DOOMED.

Strelok ignored the nagging voice.

Can you tell me your name? she asked, fighting her own schizophrenia. The gunfire she heard in her sleep. Amy's laughter. Batty's whispers.

Laertia's deception.

Her failure with Laertia would haunt her to the last second of consciousness before expiration.

She didn't want the failure to save this boy to be alongside it.

It would change nothing in the long run. But Strelok did as Strelok wished.

She feverishly kept his vitals steady with telekinesis. This implied a certain mastery of it. At the disposal of the one mind that probably shouldn't have it...

She poured more of her telekinesis into his very flesh, making sure nothing slipped into a super critical, basically functioning as a living life support machine to keep him stabilized, ease systems stressed past their limits, give them a breather to start recovering naturally. Her command of telekinesis had always been her absolute strongest Force Power. It had only gotten better as she honed it over the years, to the point she could snipe someone at three hundred meters with a steel ball bearing, but this was difficult.

I can keep you steady for a while. The rest must be your affair. she told him. You will need major facial reconstruction surgery. You were hit with a special form of laser disruptor that only destroys tissue in a relatively small radius. Commando Units sometimes use it for the reduced noise and glare of the bolt. I may need to perform emergency cybernetic surgery... she explained to Braze

Most don't survive a headshot from one of those. You must have received a glancing wound, just at the edge of survivability.

Strelok hid her guilt from him.

As far as I know... you're the first to survive a headshot from one unprotected.

 

[Braze]

TAGS: Maple Harte

Braze's thoughts faded, dipping in and out of clarity, but through the haze of pain and exhaustion, he caught the question. Yet one that felt monumental in the wake of what had just happened.

His name.

His mind clung to it, a tether in the storm.

My name? I'm Braze... Braze Kai'el.

There was a soft, quiet sort of demure mousiness to his presence in the Force. His subconscious was not the facade he put on. It was unfiltered and raw—emotions unbridled and yet… fragile. Beneath all the hardened training, the determination, the unwavering resolve to prove himself, there was something else. A quietness. A vulnerability. Something too young to have been thrown into a warzone like this.

He could feel her presence now... Darth Strelok, as she had called herself in the briefest of moments. Her presence was a strange thing, rough yet steady, like the jagged edge of a blade that had been dulled by war, yet somehow still cut sharper than others. He didn't understand why she had spared him, why she had been so quick to end others but kept him breathing.

Maybe she didn't understand either.

He could still taste blood. Still feel the heat of seared flesh and the open void where his jaw used to be. The idea of cybernetics, of becoming something less whole, sent a fresh pulse of unease through his battered mind, but there was no room to reject the reality of it. If he wanted to live, if he wanted to fight, he would have to accept whatever it took to survive.

You should have finished me. His voice in the Force was weary, but there was no accusation in it, only quiet resignation. You were right. I was naive. I thought I was ready.

The memory of the shot flashed through his mind—the moment of carelessness, the split-second mistake that had nearly cost him everything. He'd trained his whole life, fought through battles others twice his age hadn't survived. And yet, it had taken just one moment to bring him here.

Pain spiked through his chest, but he forced the next thought through the fog.

But I can't die yet. His presence flickered, like a flame struggling against the wind. There's just too much left to do to rest now...

He hesitated before reaching out through the Force again, weaker this time, almost reluctant.

...thank you for not leaving me alone.

It would seem his body was receptive to the assistance, and there was a sort of Force-healing factor at work within him—slow but sure. His body, though battered and broken, seemed to align with the aid she offered, as if instinctively drawing upon the energy around him. It wasn't rapid, nor miraculous, but steady, a quiet resilience woven into his very being.

His wounds remained grievous, his breath still labored, yet something within him refused to surrender. The way his body responded to her stabilizing touch, the way the Force hummed faintly around him—it was as if he had been built to survive, even when the odds dictated otherwise.

He had stabilized.

His Force presence shifted, still weak, still tethered to the precipice, but no longer teetering on the edge of death. Though unconscious, the storm of pain that had threatened to consume him had dulled to a simmer. His body was no longer fighting just to hold on; it was healing, slowly, deliberately.

Braze, would live for now.
Braze would live.

For now.

His mind drifted, caught somewhere between consciousness and the void, his thoughts spilling unfiltered, untethered. The pain had dulled, but not disappeared. It lurked in the background, a low hum beneath the tangled thoughts unraveling in his subconscious.

Why… why did you shoot me?

The question wasn't laced with anger, nor accusation, only confusion. A raw, bewildered ache.

I came to help…

The thought swam through the fog, distant, almost detached. Hadn't that been the point? Hadn't that always been the point? He wasn't here as a warrior. He wasn't here to take lives. He had come to try and stop the fighting, to bring peace, to mediate, to—

I have to meet with…

His mind flashed, grasping at the fractured pieces of his mission, of his purpose. It felt distant now, slipping through his fingers like sand. Tethar. Commander Rian Velor. The Argent Vanguard. The Night Watch. The war that had consumed this place like an unquenchable fire.

He had been sent here to bring stability. To find the path forward. To end the cycle of destruction.

And yet, here he was—bleeding, broken, stripped of his weapons, barely breathing in the presence of the one who had nearly ended his life.

Is this what it's always going to be?

The thought came unbidden, slipping past the carefully constructed walls he had spent years building around his mind. Was this all he was? All he would ever be? A child trying to hold back the tide with bare hands? Trying to stand against the inevitable?

What would they say when they found him like this? The Jedi? The ones who had doubted him, who had watched him with skepticism in their eyes?

Would they be surprised?

Would they say they had expected it?

Would they be right?

Braze's fingers twitched against the fabric beneath him, the last remnants of a reflexive urge to fight, to push forward, to prove that this wasn't the end. His mind rebelled against the weakness in his body, against the stillness forced upon him.

He wasn't supposed to be lying here. He was supposed to be moving. Supposed to be fighting—not with a saber, but with words, with diplomacy, with the will to make something better than this endless cycle of war and death.

And yet, all he could do was bleed.

Did I fail already?

The thought was quiet, buried beneath the weight of his fractured awareness.

Was I ever going to succeed at all?

The thoughts swirled as typical his mind speed fast in tangents every which way.

She saved me.

Why?

She shot me. Almost killed me.

Why didn't she finish it?

Pain. Heavy. Pressing. Like drowning in heat, but not fire. Cold heat. The kind that lingers.

She's still here.

She could have left. Let me bleed out. She didn't.

Why?

Strelok… Uri… who are you?

Why did you stop? Why did you look at me and decide I was worth saving?

I wasn't a challenge. I wasn't a threat. Just a kid standing in the wrong place.

Would you have done it if I was older? If I looked like the others you killed?

Would you have hesitated if I wasn't just… me?

Didn't you just put me on the ground like every other soldier?

So what does that make you?

A killer? A hypocrite?

…Or something else?

Did you regret it?

Did it make you sick?

Did you see yourself in me?

Or did you see someone else?

Am I just a ghost to you? Some reflection of something you lost?

Or was it just that I cried?

That I bled.

That I was small.

That I wasn't what you expected when you looked through the scope.

Would you have shot again if I hadn't looked so… breakable?

If I hadn't—

No.

It doesn't matter.

I should be dead.

But I'm not.

You saved me.

Why?

 

[Maple Harte]

Ah. The question. She didn't answer it at first.

The Argent Vanguard's gonna need a new Knight in shining armor, I'm afraid. I'm taking you back to Coruscant after I get your face...in a different state.

She felt his fear and doubt about himself. His complexes about his own adequacy.

This is how it always was. A shot ringing out, a sword of light being swung...and bodies dropping...most Jedi...most Sith... don't reach old age. she replied, stabilizing him further, damaged mind struggling to keep itself coherent enough to respond.

Sometimes, however...succeeding too much, being TOO good at what you do for your own good...that is just as bad as failing ignominiously.

Who am I? I am a RELIC.

A holdover from wars long past, slinking in the shadows with delusions of a destiny I never reached, and never could.

Strelok averted her gaze, unable to look anymore at his face.

Once, I did the Order's bidding... from your age in fact. No doubt you were here to talk everybody to death. My path in the Order required me to acquire a ...very particular set of skills. Skills I acquired over a long and difficult career.

Skills that make me a nightmare for people like you. (If you let my daughter go, that'll be the end of it: 7000 XP)

I am the Dark Lady of Gunfire. A meaningless title, as all Sith Titles are, inherently. Beyond what meaning you choose to assign it, of course...

As to why you are alive...

Normally, I need no reason. Strelok's will is the only law Strelok abides by. My will be that you live. Strelok replied with a mental snort.

Besides, when you shoot someone in the face, fully intending to kill them, and they 'live'...well...best to think of this as a professional courtesy. From someone who's been at this too long to someone who's been at it just long enough to start entertaining the idea they were hot chit--

--You'll never have a better excuse to get out of the business than 'now'. Do the smart thing. They got a thousand more where you came from, all eager to burn the best years of their lives out in a religious crusade that was here before their oldest ancestors were born, and will be here long after the corpse of their last remaining descendants have turned to less than dust, after the very tombs housing them have crumbled back into the soil.

I...I wish I had someone back then to tell me that; to tell me to run. And not look back. I've decided to be that for you.

When you recover...run. Don't walk. RUN.

And don't look back. The Business destroys EVERYONE eventually. Light or Dark, it doesn't matter. Strelok told him.

Save yourself from what will eventually become a hell of your own making. The feuds that drag on pointlessly for years with your individual counterparts in the rival group. Planet after planet piling up the dead buried beneath from each successful or failed invasion. You'd have looked forty five before you were even twenty nine if it had gone on like it usually does.

You'll never have a better reason. A better excuse to run away than now. It is not so bad, the life of a civilian... Strelok thought to Braze

At least you won't have creepy burned out psychos shooting you and dispatching life advice afterwards.

 

[Braze]

TAGS: Maple Harte


Who hurt you so?

That was the first thought that slipped through, unbidden.

It wasn't sarcasm. It wasn't meant to be sharp or cutting. It was quiet. Almost reverent and filled with empathetic sorrow and concern.

She spoke like someone who had seen everything burn and had stopped trying to put out the fire. Someone who had learned. Not from wisdom, but from wounds, from scars so deep they had never fully closed.

She told him to run. To walk away. To live as a civilian.

But what is a civilian, really?

A life without war. Without orders. Without enemies lurking in every shadow.

It sounds easy. Simpler.

But isn't it also harder?

A civilian doesn't fight. They don't wield a blade. They don't shoulder the burden of the galaxy's endless battles.

But I do.

I can.

And that means something.

It has to.

A civilian gets to live without expectation. Without responsibility. They get to exist for themselves.

I will never be that.

Like it or not, I have been given a gift—and a curse.

The Force does not let me live only for myself.

I did not ask for it. I did not choose it.

But it is mine.

And that comes with something more than power.

It comes with responsibility.

If I walk away, if I leave it behind—am I not just shirking that responsibility?

I would not fit among them. Not truly. I would be a measuring stick... more than I am now...

Not when I have seen what I have seen. Not when I know what is out there.

What happens when the war follows me?

Because it will.

Someone will always come along to destroy.

Someone will always come along to ruin.

And when that happens, the civilians suffer first. They always do.

They are the ones crushed beneath the boots of those who would conquer. They are the ones exploited, manipulated, left defenseless when someone stronger decides their lives are currency.

Wouldn't I be just as guilty if I turned away?

If I let it happen when I could have done something?

If I chose comfort over conviction?

That is not peace.

Peace is real. I know it is.

But it is fleeting. Temporary. A delicate thing, too fragile to last forever.

And maybe that is how it is meant to be.

Maybe we are not supposed to live in endless peace.

Maybe it is the struggle that gives peace its meaning.

Without pain, how would we ever understand joy?

Without loss, would we cherish what we have?

If nothing bad ever happened—would we even recognize the good?

It is balance. The way of the universe.

Predators do not hunt only for sport. They kill to survive.

And the hunted run not because they enjoy fear—but because they must.

It is not cruel. It is not evil. It simply is.

We cannot stop it.

We can only decide what role we play within it.

And if I must play a role…

Then let it be one that matters.

Because if I were to run—

Wouldn't the war simply follow?

Wouldn't I become the very thing I swore to protect others from?

A bystander.

A man who could have helped—should have helped—

But didn't.

Is that really the better choice?

Is that really… living?


It sounds like…

You weren't given love.

Not enough love.

Not the kind you needed.

I can feel it. It's in everything you say. In the way you talk about war, about running, about losing yourself in all of it.

Like the galaxy never gave you a reason to believe in anything else.

Like no one ever reached out their hand when you needed it most.

Did no one fight for you?

Did no one stay?

I'm sorry.

I'm sorry you weren't given the love that you needed.

Because love matters.

It holds everything together.

Even in the darkest places. Even in war. Even when everything hurts.

It's what keeps us from turning into something… else.

Something empty.

Something that only knows how to destroy.

Did you ever have a friend?

Someone who saw you—truly saw you—and thought, "They matter."

Someone who stayed.

I don't think you did.

Or if you did…

They must have left.

Or died.

Or became something you couldn't follow.

Because you sound like someone who had love once—

But it was taken from you.

Or maybe you let it go.

Maybe you thought you had to.

Maybe the war made you think it was weakness.

That it was something you couldn't afford.

But that's not true.

Love is what makes us strong.

Love is what keeps us going.

Friendship.

Family.

The people who look at you and say, "I won't leave."

The people who believe in you.

That's what makes everything worth it.

That's what saves us.

I believe that.

Even now.

Even after everything.

And maybe—maybe if someone had said this to you before—

You wouldn't be here now.

You wouldn't be telling me to run.

Maybe you'd still believe in something more.

Maybe you'd know that there's still good in this galaxy.

That love isn't just something that gets burned away.

That it lasts.

That it matters.

I don't think you know that anymore.

And that…

That might be the saddest thing of all.

 

[Maple Harte]

It hurt.

Strelok hadn't expected that as she stabilized him.

The civilian might occasionally buy it, but that is a MERCY compared to the Business.

You owe this Galaxy and it's Civilians nothing.

Your fate in the Business will be infinitely worse than almost any death you could suffer in an invasion...

You want creepy nutcases plotting to destroy you constantly? Plotting to break you down? Willing to go to absurd lengths just to try and drive you mad? she asked him.

You want love to be used as a means to drive you crazier and crazier? I knew someone like you once. She was an idealist...

So great at the blade. So perfect a destiny ... until her capacity to love was...used in a very horrible way against her.

Even now, the thoughts of Laertia Io sent knife like pain through her. Seeing her morph into that hideous degenerate known as The Parliament...

Strelok would never have anything that even looked like a family ever again...

It's not worth it. I'm in it only because there is nowhere else to go at this point. Can't reintegrate into society. Too crazy. she admitted. Too violent.

It will happen to you, if you stay. Eventually the concept of normal will seem so utterly foreign to you that you'll run from it.

That or you'll die painfully and pointlessly at the hands of someone like me, but who won't feel a sting of pity at the last second. she said to Braze .

 

[Braze]

Maple Harte
A breath, ragged, and unsteady — leaked past bloodied lips. Braze's fingers twitched against the fabric beneath him, his body's last, stubborn defiance against the weight pressing him down. His muscles tensed, a raw instinct pushing him to move, to do something.

The pain stopped him almost immediately, sharp and blinding, but the feeling remained. Restlessness, deep in his bones, in his soul. He had never been one to stay still. Even now, when the world wanted nothing more than to pull him under, something in him fought.

Mayybe... maybe you're just... just looking in all the wrong places.

His words were slurred, barely a whisper, but there was something steady beneath them. Something warm, despite the cold washing through his limbs.

His mind drifted, half-dreaming, caught somewhere between consciousness and the void. And then—

Something reached back.

A whisper in the Force, distant but familiar. A voice he hadn't heard in years. It wasn't clear, not yet, just the faintest thread of something long lost. A presence, a warmth, a memory lingering just beyond reach.

His chest clenched. He didn't know if it was real or just the feverish haze of his breaking mind, but for a fleeting moment, it didn't matter. It was there. A tether. A hand stretched across time and distance, unseen but felt.

A flicker of something old and quiet passed through him—something Strelok might catch, if she was paying attention.

You don't have to be alone, you know.

Soft. Unassuming.

His eyelids fluttered, his body too weak to hold on to the vague depth of subconscious thought much longer, but his presence in the Force lingered. A warmth against the cold. Even in the darkest places, even in war, even here—Not everything had to be lost.

It was true—Strelok was not alone within the depths of Braze's subconscious. There was another presence here, one steeped in warmth and love, drawn forth by the Force itself.

Who was it?

The gentle attention of that unseen presence settled Braze's restless, anxious mind, like a parent tucking a frightened child into bed, soothing away his fear of the monsters lurking in the dark. It was steady, unwavering, and familiar—an anchor against the abyss.

Then, it turned.

Strelok could feel it now, its awareness shifting, settling on her.

It regarded her—not with hostility, not with judgment, but with quiet understanding. A presence that saw her, truly saw her, in a way she had not been seen in a very long time.

 

[Maple Harte]

Who is this? Strelok asked. The boy is under my protection, however little that's actually worth.

Strelok was already nervous. Anybody who had the kind of strength needed to reach them was already pre-established. It was like the way The Amalgam had haunted her nightmares and the back of her head through their perverse bond...a bond that still wasn't dead even though the original monster that had started the avalanche was long gone, eaten and assimilated by a remnant of Darth Phyre...who had then become so much like the Amalgam at the end it was difficult to argue whether or not the Amalgam had actually died. Who had absorbed who that day?

Strelok knew she would never have that answer. The creature that had taken her over claimed Amy was just a mask for her, a favored one, but still just a mask. But Maple had observed Force Spawn long enough to question it. Such beings got trapped in the roleplay, so to speak. Detractors named it 'Force Cosplay', refusing to recognize the horrific threat the creatures actually represented; it wasn't so much cosplay but weaponized Split Personality Disorder/Schizophrenia

In the end, it hadn't even mattered if she was the original Amy or not...the result was the same. Laertia had been drawn irrevocably to the Dark Side, partly due to secretly harboring feelings towards the sadistic creature, REGARDLESS of whether she was the real Amy or not.

Strelok refused to see a repeat of the same evil play out on Braze . If there was even a one percent chance this contact was like The Amalgam...it had to be taken as an absolute certainty. (WHY DID YOU SAY THAT NAME?!: 90 XP)

She could not watch it again. Could not watch it happen again.

Why did Braze remind her of Laertia so much?

Strelok began whispering protective spells to shield the boy's mind. Mandragora stuff she had not called upon in years...

She would not watch it happen again...

Leave the boy be. He's been shot. You want to attack someone, attack me.

But leave the boy out of it. Show a little...'professional courtesy '...

 

[Braze]

TAGS: Maple Harte

The presence that stirred in the Force wasn't a gentle thing. It was no longer a whisper, but a storm.

Not violent, nor wild in nature but controlled and steady as the presence pressing against the edges of Strelok's mind with the weight of something deeply personal.

For the first few moments, it didn't speak.

Then, at last a low voice woven with all the strength of mandolorian steel yet steeped with grief.

He's my son.

The words rippled through the Force like a declaration of war.

Strelok was face to face with an entity not too dissimilar to an angry Rancor den mother.

Not the mindless kind that could be baited into a trap, nor the ones that could be bested through brute strength alone. No, this was the other kind.

The kind that waited with cold calculation.

The kind that knew exactly how much force was needed to crush whatever threatened its young—and wouldn't hesitate to use it.

So tell me—what do you want in return for my son's life?

Because even if he had no idea where here was yet, it didn't matter.

At first, Braze's subconscious recoiled.

The Force had played tricks on him before—hadn't it?

He had felt this before. Once. A whisper in the void. A voice that sounded like his father. But that had been a hallucination, hadn't it? A dying boy's desperate wish. A ghost conjured by grief.

This can't be real.

And yet....The Force didn't lie.

Braze, deep in the haze of his subconscious, trembled beneath the weight of the truth.

If this was real—then he had been wrong.
If this was real—then his father had been alive all this time.
If this was real—And he hadn't come back for him....

The thought cut through him like a blade.

His mind flared, unsteady, caught between the raw, childlike urge to reach for him and the instinctive recoil of a wound that had never fully healed. He wanted to reject it. Wanted to tell himself that it was just another illusion, another cruel game played by the universe. But the Force did not waver. His mind cracking open; a foundation trembling beneath the weight of something too big, too much, too impossible to understand and handle.

​

 

[Maple Harte]

His father.

Oh, that's just perfect. You're here NOW?! The boy needed you when he was born! Strelok hissed back at the voice, even though she knew that it was insane for the person who had shot Braze to be giving a lecture to the father of the person she had shot, and she was fully aware that he was likely also aware of her awareness of the insanity of her response.

I want nothing. I'm taking him to Coruscant to get him treated. You want to seek him out on your own after that, take it up with him. I have no intention of killing him. I did at first. Things changed. Not that it helps.

She could feel Braze's confusion.

Just rest and focus on staying alive. You don't really have the stamina for life shaking conversations with a parent. she cautioned.

She then called out to the strange voice.

Look, he doesn't need this chit right now. You need to talk to or threaten anyone, I'm the one who probably has it coming. Just let him rest. she requested.

He's been through enough today. He came within a hair's width of dying. Strelok explained, not sure what he knew already.

I should know. But I'm also the only one really keeping him stable. He's still in critical condition.

She felt a fresh wave of revulsion at herself, remembering how his face had exploded, basically. Even if he lived, she would live with that until she died.

After I drop him off...if you are still sore about it. You can look for me then... Strelok told the voice.






Braze

 

[Braze]

TAGS: Maple Harte

Before the presence of the man could reply further, there was a shift, an unseen pull dragging his attention elsewhere. A flicker of something unreadable lingered in the air, simmering with quiet indignation, restrained caution, and a reluctance to fully sever his focus from Maple.

Very well… The words carried the weight of a blade sheathed, not forgotten. Then, a pause...too deliberate to be hesitation, too quiet to be dismissal.

Pray that the next time our paths cross, it's as strangers. Because if he dies... his voice dipped, low and measured, I may not be feeling merciful.

And then, like a shadow at dusk, his presence receded, leaving behind only the cold echo of his words.
Braze's subconscious was already frayed, teetering on the edge between pain-induced delirium and half-formed thought. His mind, weakened but still fighting, struggled to hold onto the weight of what had just happened.

That presence in the Force—it had been real. Not a hallucination. Not a dying boy's desperate wish. Not a cruel trick played by grief. Real. His father was out there, alive, breathing, speaking, watching. And yet, just as quickly as he had appeared, he was leaving. Again.
Why hadn't he said his name?

His fingers clenched weakly against the fabric at his side. His subconscious spun in tangents, torn between the haze of exhaustion and the gnawing, aching questions clawing at the back of his mind. Had he always been this close? Had his father been watching this whole time? If he had, why hadn't he come back? Why hadn't he been there? Why hadn't he stopped this before Braze had almost died?

Or worse....had he chosen not to?

A creeping unease slithered up his spine, even through the numbness of his wounds. Had he done something wrong? Had he failed in some way that made his father hesitate?

And then, the ugliest thought of them all: Did he ever plan on coming back at all?

Pain bit into his chest, an unbearable weight pressing into the hollow space where certainty should have been.

Then, all at once, his mental shields slammed into place, a sudden, violent snap that forced Maple out of his thoughts. A defense mechanism that was automatic, and uncompromising—triggered by something too deep, too raw to be touched. It was how it had always been when he was overwhelmed. He closed every one and everything out. This would remain the case for a while as he started to recover. Any further attempts would find a sorrowful sulking sentiment from a child uncertain how to deal with their thoughts and feelings.