ACTIONS HAVE CONSEQUENCES
ORD MANTELL
UNDISCLOSED LOCATION
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Michael, Gabriel, Azrael, Sariel, Raphael, Jeremiel, Connel, Raguel
[Any text in brackets signifies comm-link usage and not face to face conversation]
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SURGICAL - CRYBERNETIC IMPLANTS
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Shadow Sanctuary - Enterprise
The Vigilant Reaper, the sun flaring behind it, making it look like a falling blade, was circling high over what looked to be little more than an open field, but was being used as a staging ground for the pirates. Shuttles were off-loading mechanized weaponry and equipment. They believed they would be able to do so with impunity.
Their belief was baseless.
Its cannons spin up. The targeting lighting blink red, the Reaper had her targets. SERAPHIM, the ship AI spoke in a calm, flat tone.
“Firing solution optimal.”
WHOOOOM.
WHOOOOM.
WHOOOOM.
Three pillars of kinetic devastation punch the field.
The hovertanks detonated upward, hulls shredded like paper, turrets launching skyward spinning like coins. Shockwaves ripped across the plains, tearing apart pirate shuttles mid-takeoff, flipping cargo skiffs, turning the entire staging zone into a gargantuan crater spewing black smoke.
Crewmen ran. They didn’t get far.
A Fourth strike dropped out of the sky, creating a lake of flame out of duracrete. Pirate comms were clouding the air. “TURN BACK—TURN BACK—THAT’S A GALACTIC ALLIANCE—NO, THAT CAN’T—THEY’RE SUPPOSED TO BE GONE—”
Just as quickly as she lined up for the shots, The Vigilant Reaper banks away, trailing fire-light behind her.
Omega Squad moved into what looked to be a makeshift bunker that was commandeered by pirates.
Down the long hallway shot, amid the flickering emergency lights. The squad advanced with terrifying precision. Azrael placed charges on load-bearing walls without slowing. Gabriel stole the bunker’s security codes mid-step. Jeremiel tagged medics, command elements, engineers for prioritized elimination. Raphael in front of the wedge, heavy repeater chewing through barricades. Sariel found Overwatch from catwalks, single shots like punctuation marks. The few who had a shot on any of them were being taken out by Raguel who was shifting forms repeatedly to disappear in plain sight. Michael, in between taking down thugs, was directing angles and velocity like a conductor of violence.
Then—A blast door slammed shut. The squad halted behind it.
Why are we stopping?
Really?
Seriously?
I walked into that.
It’s like you wanted the attention.
I know, right?
Cut the chatter.,
Only one man kept walking. Connel.
He walked into a room of dim lights. Weapons crates everywhere. Fifteen—maybe twenty—pirate gunners encircled the Shadow. Half a dozen heavy blasters. Three missile packs. Two miniguns pointed at him.
They screamed over each other:
“Drop your weapons!”
“Mask off!”
“Get on your knees, Jedi!”
“You ain’t walking out of this room!”
“THIS AIN’T CORUSCANT!”
Connel stood perfectly still. Hands down. Head slightly tilted, like he’s listening to something only he can hear. A quiet moment. If there was a camera poised close in on the visor of his mask. It would reflect every weapon pointed at him.
A pirate commander steps forward, vibro-axe crackling.
“You hear me? I said—”
Connel then spoke, low and cold:
If arrogance was a weapon, you might actually be dangerous.
A beat.
One pirate whispered: “Is that supposed to mean somethi—” … and it began.
In a blur, he drew “Night”, one of his shortsabers. With a slash in an arc to the left—two gunners lost arms before they knew they'd been hit. In a rear strike cut—three blasters sliced in half; bolts exploded backward into their owners.
Simultaneously he threw a Lightknife that corkscrewed through the air, carving a spiral trail of permafrost light as four pirates dropped clutching necks and chests.
One of the missile packs did get a shot off only to be deflected—diverted back at the squad firing it.
BOOM.
The Pirate Commander was close so Connel grabbed his vibro-axe mid-swing, cracked it across his helmet like breaking a bone, then headbutted him hard enough to dent phrik plating.
In moments, the room is silent. Bodies everywhere. Weapons sizzling. Air full of dust and the smell of scorched armor. Connel stood alone in the center. Breathing calm and even. A door behind him opened. Omega Squad entered, having dispatched their own ambush. Michael surveyed the carnage.
Clear?
Connel just nodded.
Clear.
Michael just muttered:
Remind me never to make you mad.
Too late.
Outside the bunker, the crater from the Reaper strikes is still smoking. Omega Squad stepped out of the bunker onto higher ground. Behind them, the Vigilant Reaper descended lower, shadow engulfing the battlefield. Pirates began scattering like ants who’ve realized the boot isn’t lifting. Connel stood at the ledge, mask glowing under drifting ash.
He said nothing. None of Omega said anything. The world said nothing. Because the city was finally beginning to understand:
Help didn’t arrive today.
Judgment did.
If anyone would find it, one of the pirate commanders had a helmet cam recording. It was a POV style HUD, glitching, heart-rate monitor dead. The video started with the pirate running, breathing hard. Gunfire ahead. Screams behind.
He and several others skidded into the bunker loading chamber.
He turned the camera toward the center.
One man stood there. Mask of black steel. No lightsaber drawn. None really needed. One of his compatriots yelling “We got him! We GOT HIM! Light him up!”
Weapons cock. Twenty pirates shouting over each other. The pirate wearing the camera aims shakily. Connel didn’t move. The camera zoomed slightly—fear-triggered autofocus.
His visor reflected everyone in the room like shadows waiting to die.
“Drop your gear! You hear me?! DROP IT!”
“You ain’t walkin’ out—!”
Connel tilts his head… and spoke:
If arrogance was a weapon, you might actually be dangerous.
The pirate wearing the camera whispered: “What… what does that even—”
FLASH.
The footage distorts—sudden vibration from wind velocity and close-range kinetic impact.
Connel moved. He’s gone from the center of the screen. The camera jolted left. Something warm splashed across the visor. Not water. One pirate fell in front of the lens, clutching a severed arm.
Metal screech. Blade hiss. Wet impacts. The wearer fired wildly—shots ricocheting.
The camera whipped around just in time to see: A pirate thrown into metal crates so hard his spine folded. Another bisected at the waist. A lightknife carving through two men with a cold white trail. The vibro-axe captain lifted by the helmet, visor crushed inward like a soda can.
And then—
Connel turned toward the camera.
Slowly. Deliberately.
The pirate wearing the camera makes a choked sound. The HUD showed a heartbeat spike… then flatline. Connel’s visor filled the frame. He reaches forward.
Static.
Then it began again.
Same carnage.
Same scream.
Same line.
Looping every twelve seconds.
The helmet resting in the dust projected the footage in a wavering blue hologram.
