MISSION REPORT: Feet First Into Hell
Operative: Sable Varro
Mission Classification: [Confidential]
- Primary Target Zone: D'Qar
Amid the chaos of blasterfire and screaming engines, Sable moved like a shadow through the wreckage-strewn outskirts of the war-torn city. Smoke billowed from a half-collapsed tower behind her, the air thick with ash and the scent of scorched durasteel. Fire teams darted across ruined alleys, explosions painting the sky orange with every impact.
Sable's eyes swept the battlefield as she perched atop a shattered column, surveying the burning ruins below. She was already calculating the next strike—where she could place charges to cut off supply lines, collapse forward command posts, destabilize morale.
Then, her gaze froze.
A figure emerged through the haze, backlit by flame and ruin. A long coat swept with each step, the outline of a slung thrower rifle catching the glint of firelight. A wide-brimmed hat sat low over her face, familiar in a way that made Sable's blood turn cold.
That stance. That rifle. That walk.
It was her.
A̵̭̔̾l̴̢̻̣̖͛̎͒a̵̟̖̠͠n̶̠͉͠a̷̩͌̈̃ ̶̱̫͂̈́̚C̷͓̤̄ȃ̶̹̯͋͗ḽ̵̒̔̅l̴̙̩̻̑̓ȍ̵̠͉͉̼w̶̥̌ą̷̍̒y̴̳̾͑͗̃
Her heart slammed into her ribs. No time to think—she raised her weapon and fired. A burst of crimson bolts cut through the smoke, striking the rubble where the woman had stood—only for her to vanish, moving fast, repositioning with the same uncanny sharpness Sable remembered.
A return shot clipped the edge of the wall beside her. Sable ducked low, heart pounding, adrenaline roaring. She rolled behind cover, firing again, tracking the shadow with frantic precision.
Had she followed her all the way here? Had she been watching from the smoke this whole time, waiting for a moment to strike?
But the longer she fought, the more
wrong it all felt.
C̷͓̤̄ȃ̶̹̯͋͗ḽ̵̒̔̅l̴̙̩̻̑̓ȍ̵̠͉͉̼w̶̥̌ą̷̍̒y̴̳̾͑͗̃’s outline flickered in the smoke, warping in the haze. The sound of her boots was muffled, uneven. The shots came at strange intervals, their direction distorted. And that face—when she caught a glimpse—it was her, and it
wasn't.
But Sable didn't stop.
She
couldn't.
Because she knew, just knew, it was ̶̱̫͂̈́̚C̷͓̤̄ȃ̶̹̯͋͗ḽ̵̒̔̅l̴̙̩̻̑̓ȍ̵̠͉͉̼w̶̥̌ą̷̍̒y̴̳̾͑͗̃ standing in the wreckage.
Some poor soul rose up from behind a section of wrecked metal, and was rewarded by a single shot to the side of the head.
Sable fixated on finding this Echani, and ensuring she was wiped out-
Movement—there.
A flicker of shadow beyond the bent rebar and fractured towers. A silhouette leaned from cover with uncanny stillness, steady hands lifting a long rifle of her own. The wide-brimmed hat, the glint of metal, the unmistakable stance—it was
her.
Sable's finger curled against the trigger, pulse spiking. A breath—steady. A shot cracked out, slicing through the fog and flame.
The figure didn't flinch. It vanished.
A return shot screamed past her head, slamming into the pillar just inches from her cheek. Dust and splinters erupted as Sable dove, rolling to the next cover position, recalibrating. The duel had begun.
She was fast, so fast—C̷͓̤̄ȃ̶̹̯͋͗ḽ̵̒̔̅l̴̙̩̻̑̓ȍ̵̠͉͉̼w̶̥̌ą̷̍̒y̴̳̾͑͗̃'s form moved more like a shadow, the moment Sable could read the movements, the woman was either firing or just-gone.
"You didn’t leave me on Rakatan Prime, you know that?" A voice echoed faintly through her comms. It was
her voice. The voice of a dead woman.
Focus.
Sable set up again, found a new angle. Her target was waiting—poised, mirrored. Same elevation. Same stance. A perfect counter. It felt rehearsed. Like the battlefield had folded in on itself to replay a memory she'd buried.
Another shot rang out. This one grazed her shoulder, tearing a streak through armor plating. She hissed, ducking back. Her fingers trembled—but not from pain. From recognition. From something deeper, something ancient.
A flicker across her scope—Calloway again, tilting her hat just slightly, lips curling around a whisper Sable couldn't hear but
knew.
Her name.
"Sable."
Another blast. Another shift. The figure blurred at the edges now, less person and more silhouette, as if the warzone itself were pulling it apart. But it still stood. Still aimed.
Still watching.
Sable pressed her cheek to the scope again, eyes wide, breath shallow.
A sharp
crack rang out across the wreckage—and the world tilted.
The impact hit Sable like a thunderclap, her head snapping back as her helmet cracked under the force of the round. Light exploded behind her eyes—white-hot, blinding—before everything went dark for a second too long.
She hit the ground hard, her weapon skittering beside her, her vision smeared with blood and static. Her ears rang, drowning out everything but the thundering of her pulse and the echo of that voice still coiled somewhere in her skull.
"Sable."
She groaned, dragging herself upright, staggering toward her rifle with a snarl. Her vision swam—fractured glass and bleeding light, shapes twitching at the edge of focus. Her fingers clutched the weapon tight, the taste of blood sharp in her mouth.
Rage burned behind her eyes. A raw, fevered fury—not just at being struck, but at
her. That damned silhouette in the hat. That ghost in the smoke.
A̵̭̔̾l̴̢̻̣̖͛̎͒a̵̟̖̠͠n̶̠͉͠a̷̩͌̈̃ ̶̱̫͂̈́̚C̷͓̤̄ȃ̶̹̯͋͗ḽ̵̒̔̅l̴̙̩̻̑̓ȍ̵̠͉͉̼w̶̥̌ą̷̍̒y̴̳̾͑͗̃.
Sable rose like a storm breaking over the battlefield, firing wildly into the ruin where the figure had last moved. Her shots screamed across broken stone and shattered barricades, scattering dust and debris.
But then—
Return fire. Multiple angles.
More muzzles flared in the rubble. Not just the phantom.
Others. Survivors. Militant scavengers, entrenched fighters—flesh-and-blood enemies, real threats—but all of them became the same in her distorted eyes: shadows with Calloway's face. Echoes of her voice. Reflections of
her.
They were everywhere.
And through them, A̵̭̔̾l̴̢̻̣̖͛̎͒a̵̟̖̠͠n̶̠͉͠a̷̩͌̈̃ ̶̱̫͂̈́ seemed to appear and disappear. Moving like smoke between bodies, behind cover, her rifle flashing fire as if conducting the battle like a symphony. Every time Sable aimed, she was gone. Every time she thought she had her in her sights—just another soldier dropped instead.
They were surrounding her now, taking positions, laying suppressing fire. She felt rounds whip past her armor, felt the ground quake beneath the pressure of their aggression—but she didn't fall back.
She
charged.
Screaming, seething, Sable leapt from cover and returned fire with a wrath born of cold blooded fury, her shots cutting down anyone who dared resemble the ghost. She didn't see soldiers anymore—only ̶̱̫͂̈́̚C̷͓̤̄ȃ̶̹̯͋͗ḽ̵̒̔̅l̴̙̩̻̑̓ȍ̵̠͉͉̼w̶̥̌ą̷̍̒y̴̳̾͑͗̃
‘s eyes in every gunner, ̶̱̫͂̈́̚C̷͓̤̄ȃ̶̹̯͋͗ḽ̵̒̔̅l̴̙̩̻̑̓ȍ̵̠͉͉̼w̶̥̌ą̷̍̒y̴̳̾͑͗̃’s
smirk in every dying face.
She didn't know she was outnumbered.
She didn't care.
The battlefield blurred into a kaleidoscope of blood, dust, and hallucinated hatred—and at the center of it, always just out of reach, was that hat, that rifle, that woman.
Another crack—
this one closer, sharper.
Sable's rifle jerked violently as the shot struck it dead-on, the weapon torn from her grasp in a shower of sparks and twisted alloy. It clattered into the mud, a ruined heap of scorched metal. Her arm went numb from the impact, but she didn't stop to feel it.
She
screamed—not in pain, but in fury.
“I am going to bury you here."
Her blast pistol was already in her hand, the vibro-sword drawn in the same fluid motion. The air around her trembled—the Force surged, raw and volatile, feeding on her rage, turning it into a storm that pushed her faster, harder.
And then she was
moving.
Not just running—
charging, tearing across the battlefield like a wrathful wraith, eyes glowing with the storm boiling inside her. The gathered soldiers saw her coming too late—too slow to comprehend the sheer
fury that was bearing down on them.
Blaster bolts lit the air around her, but she didn't flinch. The Force guided her steps, twisted her movements through the chaos—every shot grazing, missing, deflecting as she twisted her way through the fire.
The first soldier barely had time to scream before her blade tore through him, vibro-edge cleaving armor and flesh alike.
The second—cut down mid-turn, pistol rounds punching through his chest as she moved past him.
She was a blur now, twisting, slashing, firing in tandem. A blaster bolt snapped into a soldier's knee—he dropped—and she finished him with a savage upward strike that left bone and blood in the air.
Another moved to flank—Sable turned on instinct, firing a snap-shot right into his throat, before her sword met the next one's gut with a hiss of parting viscera.
They weren't people anymore.
They were obstacles. Obstructions to her true target.
Through it all—she saw
her. Still there. Still moving. Still slipping between bodies like smoke.
Sable bellowed, slamming one soldier into the mud with brute strength, blade punching through his chest as she searched the chaos for the Echani who seemed to be making a game of her now. Every shot, every twitch, every breath.
The information poured in, pounded against the walls of Sable’s skull.
Reality seemed to distort, she was no longer fighting people, she was breaking down barriers, removing hiding places for this damned woman that seemed intent on mocking her.
More shapes moved toward her. More blood splattered against her armor. She didn't feel it. She didn't care.
All Sable knew was that
she was still breathing, and Sable wouldn't stop until
she was dead.
And she couldn't stop fighting.
Not until that Echani was dead.
