Zero Day

[Otho Rendoro]

Malachor V :: Spheres of Ash :: Hotel District​

The naked, turquoise Rodian made a soapy, slick impact against the tile, the momentum cracking the expensive and imported material. His shoulder made the gristly sound of meat tearing as he tumbled to the ground. The lumbering form of Otho Rendoro shambled over him at a surprising pace for his bulk. The Rodian made a frightened squeak as the Ithorian’s right hand lashed out at his neck, wrapping around swiftly.

“And here you are, Chepa,” said Otho, his voice a curt grumble in stereo. “You’re late with your payment. Our friend doesn’t appreci-“ He stopped as the Rodian’s saliva connected with his face, the debtor looking as shocked at his own boldness as the Ithorian. Otho could not see the saliva but Otho felt his rage flare as it began to slide down the blind spot between his eyes. As far as negotiation tactics were concerned, there was no need for translation modules or interpreters to understand that. This fool would regret not bending to Otho’s will. If this was the language Chepa chose, Otho was more than happy to speak the same language, only his lexicon was far larger than the writhing Rodian knew.

Otho stepped backward towards the tub, Chepa’s scaly form sliding across wet tile. The Ithorian hauled up one of his bulky legs, swaying like a tree before he planted it behind the Rodian. The light, effervescent blue foam of the Rodian’s bathtub crested like the waves of a great ocean as Otho applied pressure to the Rodian’s back with his knee. Chepa struggled like a caught fish in Otho’s grasp before the statuesque alien sank on his knees, the angles driving the scaly head inexorably into the warm water. Arms thrashed, agitating the water violently, but Otho’s right hand gripped an antenna on Chepa’s head, keeping firm pressure. One second became five and Otho pulled the Rodian’s head from the water.

“Are you done yet?” he growled into the pointed ear of the sputtering wretch.

In between great gasping heaves of his chest, the Rodian managed to speak:

“Space…yourself!”

Be that way then.

Otho submerged Chepa’s cerulean, scaled head below the water once again, grinning nastily as he heard a tremendous sucking sound. Chepa’s thrashing grew more urgent, his tapered hands beating futilely against Otho and the tile of the tub. The Ithorian did not relent as easily this time. It was time for this fool to learn a lesson in respect and paying one’s debts on time. One second became ten, and Chepa’s furious scrabbling became more erratic but sluggish.

He hauled Chepa up and out, releasing him and letting him fall to the ground. There was a dull, wet thud as Otho’s foot met the Rodian’s chest. Chepa doubled over instantly, a torrent of inhaled and swallowed liquid spewing over the bone white. Otho noted with no small measure of relish as some of the clear liquid ran a delicate blue.

For a moment, Otho let the Rodian cower, his chest rising and falling in great peaks as his lungs desperately tried to restore blood flow. When Chepa’s breathing had slowed, Otho leaned down quickly and Chepa flinched.

“No more!” He cried, his eyes fluttering from soap and minerals in the water as his thin hands covered his face. “No more, you maniac!” Chepa took a moment to breathe before sighing in resignation. “The chips -- the chips are in a satchel under the bed. Take them and get out of here.” Otho grunted and turned to leave before turning an eye to the Rodian.

“Next time, don’t make me drown you, you blue streak of grease.”

The credits were exactly where Chepa said they would be, and as he stepped into the dreary air of the Spheres of Ash, he looked down at his left wrist instinctively, changing over to the other arm. The chrono told him that he had finished penetrating the hotel’s security system and “negotiating” in just over six minutes’ time. At least, he would get ruddy some answers.

Malachor V :: Firewall :: Slums​

Insects were a treasure on Malachor and Otho’s information had not come cheap. Instead, he had scraped some credits together for a pack of “herbivore food supplies” that would have to do until tomorrow. The bulky Ithorian was busy, typing furiously with his hand. Practice had improved his impaired speed but it still took him hours to examine what used to only tie him up for minutes and his patience had suffered greatly in the time it had taken to retrain himself. His fingers tapped a thunderstorm into the wee hours of his night, his terminal glowing and illuminating the strange module he had retrieved from the Blight Lounge.

The mysteries of Malachor had consumed a great deal of his time and thought. When he wasn’t strong-arming a gambler who needed just a bit more credit in the Spheres of Ash, he had been investigating the strange silver device. He had dissected it and reassembled it multiple times, impressed by its sleek design and the burnished steel of its casing. It carried no mark whatsoever to his eyes and the code within it had vexed him for days. What little Otho did sleep was invaded by paranoid dreams of pursuit by bounty hunters into the outstretched arms of dark figures, crowned in shadows armed with swords of rage. The planet’s seething turmoil weighed heavily on him and an obsessive fiber of his being was convinced that if he could ply the silver module for its secrets he might gain some measure of satisfaction.

Chepa’s creditor and the human who had offered some insight into the module was an unctuous, oily fellow by the name of Thrisk, who had promised Otho a small card in exchange for a trivial exercise in Otho’s skills in asset reclamation. The fruit of his labor was set on the desk in front of the terminal, taunting him viciously with its secrets. He had come so far through hours of examination and his trepidation wouldn’t stop him now. He shoved the card into the port on his terminal. For a moment, nothing. And then, a simple message: attach device. His eye darted to the slender, bladelike device and his hand, trembling slightly, reached for it to expose the attachment port. Otho pushed the device onto the stud protruding from the terminal as he had countless times to mine the administrative rights to the small machine. Small file vulnerabilities combined with delicate circuit bending had booted the device into a maintenance mode after considerable experimentation.

When prompted, Otho confirmed “his” identity by implementing the harvested credentials. What greeted him was a plain interface that enraptured his attention. In the backline a process generated a tiny file and dispersed it to a server, happy to fulfill its purpose with the simple message of “Authentication token sent.”

| [member="Krest"] |

 

[Darth Ferus]

"Has there been any reports of unauthorized access to the mainframe?"

"None yet, sir. Have you found him?"

In a small ruined room in the Slums stood a man dressed in a dark red and tattered cloak. The 'home' had been overturned and mostly destroyed in a quest to find a card that held access to the Sith's mainframe. The owner of this humble abode, a man by the name of Thrisk, hung in the air by his throat, clawing and gasping for air. The cloaked man continued his search, scrounging through a dresser.

"Still nothing here. I feel as if it's gone."

"Have you questioned the owner?"

"He seems hung up over the situation, but I'll ask him."

All at once the man's throat stopped crushing. Thrisk fell to the ground, landing on his hands and knees gasping for air. "I.. I gave it to an Ithorian. He has one hand.. L.. Leave me alone.. Please.." The man was practically in tears. Begging for his life. With a frown the hooded man stared down to the pitiful being. With a simple wave of his hand a sickening crack was heard, and Thrisk's head was turned completely around.

"He had some good intel. Ithorian, one hand, hacker. Find me someone with that description."

"On it. Just a sec.. Got it. He's close by, in fact I'm getting a registered user logging in. It seems he was able to pass if off without giving it away."

"Clever. Radio silence for now, I'll deal with him quickly."

With that, the cloaked man made his way from the desolate home of one scum, and down the street to another. It didn't take long, with the precise location known, and he stopped just outside the door. Unceremoniously he suddenly kicked the door in, and with a snap hiss his lightsaber came to life, filling the entrance with a glow of red. "I'm here looking for a one handed hacker. Someone here got any ideas?"

 

[Otho Rendoro]

Otho’s eyes flickered over every page available to him, narrowing as his curiosity was both satiated and agitated at the same time. Whatever the silver module was, it allowed connection to this mainframe in conjunction with the card from the Thrisk. The communications server Otho connected to contained all manner of links to dossiers, patrol routes, dead drop locations operations schedules all across Malachor. Furthermore, he had gained access to high priority messages about information gathered in the local region of space. Firewall, the Spheres and the Tainted City were all included. There wasn’t an inch of Malachor’s surface free from their vigilance. As he scrolled and tapped, familiar and unfamiliar names of places and planets were revealed.

Send communication to Korriban re: subject codename Deviant

Ziost cells remain compromised

Reports of operations against Silvers in Beornskald system

His breath caught in his throat. The Sith!

Otho was too excited to do anything more than browse through the headers of communiques of all types but as he did so, he felt the feeling rise within him once again. A nauseating anticipation arose within him like a rampaging beast and the Ithorian felt the crushing weight of Malachor and its wretched history bearing down upon him. He felt a clamminess rise within him and an acrid taste filled his mouth. As his ears began to ring and his eyesight became fuzzy and unfocused, Otho thought he could hear the clear sound of footsteps, heavy with the burden of years of command, blood and pain. In an instant, he had a realization and the pendulum of his awareness swung in the other direction, his senses keener than ever.

They are here.

Moving without thought, the Otho stood up abruptly. He spun on his heels, his back to the terminal as the tiny flat was filled entirely with noise as the door yielded. What he heard next filled him with a sense of dread. It was a sound that Otho had not had the misfortune to hear render aloud before him until this point, but that he recognized instantly as a crimson light burned in the threshold.

In the contrast and the shadow, the figure speaking and brandishing its impressive, deadly weapon was all cloak and hood.

“What in the ruddy blazes do you want?” Otho squared his shoulders and his feet defensively, narrowing his eyes in flippancy.

 

[Darth Ferus]

"What do I want?" The cloaked figure asked as he stepped forward. Red eyes glowed underneath the hood, the only distinguishing feature the shadow of the cowl would permit to be seen. It was a tactic of the Sith of course. Fear and uncertainty was an emotion the hooded being was more than willing to take advantage of. Those burning red eyes fell upon [member="Otho Rendoro"] for only a moment, long enough to see his missing hand, then to the terminal behind him.

The familiar screen of information, about the Sith, was what he saw. The red gazed narrowed as he turned to look back at Otho, pointing the burning red blade at him. "Been siteseeing a bit too much, haven't you? Who have you sold this information to?" As he spoke, the Force slowly began to crush down the monitor behind the Ithorion, screeching and cracking as the display would die and the terminal would begin to fade. No, Krest was not happy.

 

[Otho Rendoro]

The insult, the slander of it! Maybe the Sith had only dealt with mercenaries before; Otho was a higher class of operator and he felt the sting of pride well up like bitter bile in his chest, stinging his being and forcing a growl from his throat. Lightsaber or not, how dare he speak to him like that? Phantom pain, burning like the wound on Taris in the gang’s hovel, flashed as he clenched his right fist, his muscles trying to do the same on the other side. Otho barked out a quick laugh, strong and free, grinning viciously in defiance towards the shadow of malice that threatened him.

“I slashed your network to shreds for myself, Sith.” The strength of his voice surprised himself and he furrowed his brows, tensing himself with determination in the face of this engine of destruction. The terminal sparked and flashed violently and Otho could hear something like the rushing of blood in his ears, that reminded Otho of the Blight Lounge and the sight of the Citadel in the Tainted City. For a moment he was taken back to a time when the priest looked over him and he felt small, smaller than he had in years. “I felt something wrong about this rotten rock from the moment I saw it in orbit and I didn’t rest until I knew what it was. I smelled you out.” His voice lost strength, tapering to a dull growl as Otho tried to steady his breathing. If he was going to die here by the weeping jungle he was going to die fearless and fierce and not as the prey the Sith expected.

 

[Darth Ferus]

"Felt? Hmm.." The Zabrak frowned as his own thoughts began to spin. He could feel something in [member="Otho Rendoro"] . With a casual raise of his hand Krest would bend the Force to wrap around the Ithorians throat, simply to silence him so the Sith could think. Something was odd about Otho, the sort of odd one would find in a budding Force user. Perhaps.. His red gaze found it's way back to the being.

"Slash all the pointless data you'd like. Malachor is far from the central hub. However, what did you mean by feel?" If the grip had succeeded, it would have been dropped so the being could answer.

 

[Otho Rendoro]

Once when he was young, after he had grown limbs all those years ago, young Otho on the Jungle Spirit swallowed a glut of roots and shoots and flies clogging his throat. He remembered the sucking feeling in his developing lungs as he tried to dislodge the mass clogging his airway. Now he felt that sensation once more but it was a crushing from the outside, wrapping around the powerful muscles in his throat and constricting them as he stopped to ponder. The Ithorian’s senses were dazzled and again he felt the rushing in his ears. Otho felt his pulse beat in his head, his head beginning to grow unfocused as oxygen left but the menacing figure bearing the weapon of the Sith released him before too long. Otho composed himself. He wouldn’t be cowed so easily and he took deep measured breaths.

“This world is diseased. A cosmic tragedy took place here an eon ago and yet the dying screams of the planet call to me.” The words tumbled out of him haphazardly and Otho’s pulse quickened, sweat beading on his brow as he let the hatred of Malachor surge through him. The hammerheaded being reached out with his perceptions and could sense the burden of lives taken by the shrouded man. “I can smell the war on you. Death…it rolls off you.” Otho narrowed his eyes with a sparkle of cunning, the light of the saber starting to leave bright white traces in his eyes. He refused to bow his eyes away and they stung with salty tears as he stared the Sith down.

 

[Darth Ferus]

"You are correct, on both accounts. Interesting.." The Zabrak pondered quietly to himself for a moment after speaking, simply staring up and down over [member="Otho Rendoro"] . An Ithorian with hate, and a sensitivity to the Force. "What is your name, and tell me, have you ever considered becoming Sith?" This was a trick question. Otho had broken into Sith Intelligence, a crime punishable by death. As he brought around his saber in a single motion, it would be clear what the punishment was. The dangerous weapon arced to simply remove the only had the being had left.

 

[Otho Rendoro]

“Otho,” he rumbled as his anxiety increased. The moment seemed to slip by faster than the Ithorian could react. Me? A fragging Sith? The Priests…he tried not to think of the way the High Priest had begged him not to leave. Hands on his slim shoulders, so small compared to him now. The spiritual leader had seemed so large as he implored Otho to give up this foolish quest, that following his father into exile would only bring him pain and suffering. Instead, she wished him to stay with his mother and siblings and train to learn the ways of the priests. As he turned away, she grabbed his right hand.

There was a flash of pink, vaporized blood. The Sith and his blade moved faster than Otho could perceive. Otho smelled a sizzling and looked down, his eyes growing wide and open, bulging on their stalks and nearly becoming spheres of exposed brown and yellow. The breath caught in his throats and he looked up at the Sith. What rose in him he could not control; it was Taris, it was Malachor, it was him and the Sith and Ithor. It was wars that he could not name and deaths of forgotten, nameless folks and it raged through him like a typhoon that threatened to tear him apart but…there was the promise of power if he would only take it. He took a gargantuan breath and his rage became sound. It was like Taris but it was Malachor and Taris, pain and the memory of pain conjugating in his tortured awareness. Imperceptibly high overtones that made metal and glass sing buzzed as bass undertones that distorted the air reverberated crushingly in the small apartment.

 

[Darth Ferus]

The Zabrak had a speech planned. After he removed [member="Otho Rendoro"] 's only hand, he was going to invite him to join the Sith, or die. Krest was going to use intimidation and fear to manipulate this being to his will. And yet, all of that quickly changed as the Force screamed its dangers, and Otho himself did the same. Everything shook. He could feel the room around him simply begin to break from sound, and his saber shut off simply so if it did break, it wouldn't blow up.

Whats more, both his arm and leg began to vibrate from the noise. A growl formed in his throat as he tried to figure out what to do, to stop himself from being blown apart from vibration. The only thing that came to mind was to silence his screams. With a desperation he commanded the Force to close around the Ithorians throat, to silence this scream before it got any stronger, and any worse.

 

[Otho Rendoro]

He was on fire. Or maybe every nerve in his body was electrified by raw power – he could feel the connection of all things around him even as his throat contorted and the enormous expression of rage died after struggling against the pressure that gripped it. Otho’s awareness soared in the pain, was sharpened by it and he could sense the walls, still ringing with sound. A child’s cry two doors down. An alarm bell going off. And the way that blood did not flow to several parts of the Sith whose otherworldly powers now held him in his grip. Instead it was cold metal that had been surgically attached. Even as his throats were held, the trapped Ithorian’s fierce eyes looked the cloaked figure of [member="Krest'] in the face, and his mouths began a weak chuckle, a small and hooting defiance against the puissant being that had rent him of his dexterity.

Otho resisted the compression of his throat with his powerful neck muscles, straining against the impulse closing his throat. The stumps of both his arms, mismatched in their length, beat futilely against his neck, lightning bolts of agony soaring up his arm, his shoulders muscles locking as they were overloaded with sensation.

“You…made me…like you,” he said slowly, struggling to choke out even a short sentence.

 

[Darth Ferus]

As the vibrations died down the Zabrak let out a shaky breath, and released [member="Otho Rendoro"] from the hold around his neck. A glare was all he could give the Ithorian in response to what was said as he tried to regain his own breath from that terrible scream. Krest had underestimated how connected to the Force Otho was, but that only gave the Sith more reason to keep this hacker alive.

"Yes.." He said through deep breaths. "I did. But the punishment for hacking into intelligence is death. Loosing your only hand, that's a much better alternative, no?" One final deep breath, and Krest had regained his composure. The lightsaber was set against his thigh, hanging from the belt underneath the red tattered cloak before the blood colored folds hid it from view again.

"I have a proposition for you. You are strong in the Force, strong in a way few are. But it is untapped, uncontrolled. I can teach you how to control it, give you back your hands, and show you a path to a freedom you would never get if I hadn't found you. The other choice is death. I cannot let someone such as you live after hacking into my systems. So, join or die. Perhaps in another situation it wouldn't have to be this way." The Zabrak had pulled down his hood as he spoke. His once blood eyes faded back to blue, and Krest simply stared down Otho with a hint of reluctance. No, he did not want to have to kill this man, but only because of the uses he imagined. A slicer, and a Sith, not a common combination.

 

[Otho Rendoro]

When the Iridonian released him, Otho sank to the crown, his curved head lowered and his tan eyes fixed on the mismatched stumps of his arms. The Ithorian’s chest heaved mightily as he gulped in air, the world reforming around him, his eyes showing him the many-spiked head of the Zabrak who had taken his remaining appendage. The pain of fire welled within him once again, stinging his eyes in regret and sadness, horrible and rattling sighs of defeat and discomfort rasping their way out of the humbled Ithorian. The light sparked above them erratically, live charge fed to the damaged assembly, rent by the thunderous tempest of his voice.

Otho took in [member="Krest"]’s words carefully – and now the priests' interest in him made sense, fact and experience conjugating into perfect crystalline conclusion. They hadn’t been interested in him. No. They had wanted the hunger, elusive energy within him; they had wanted his talent to command the universe around him and a sick, spiteful bile rose his throats as he silently cursed those who had urged him to stay all those years ago. He sullenly gazed up at the Zabrak, meeting the imperceptible pits of shadow that were the Sith Lord’s eyes with his own mud-colored irises, yellow pupils catching the spark of the light.

“I…” he began, but his voice trailed off into an uncertain whisper. Otho sighed once and steeled his resolve.

“Whom do…I serve?” The words were anathema to his proud being and he felt the sting in them and he supposed that was the first lesson the Sith had to offer him.

 

[Darth Ferus]

A sigh escaped the lips of the Sith as he crouched before [member="Otho Rendoro"] . Rather casually the Lord reached out with his metal arm, patting the Ithorian on the shoulder. "They call me Krest. Don't be getting formal with me though, I've never been a fan of it." Krest flashed a grin before reaching to grasp one of Otho's arms to help him stand. Unlike most other Sith, the Zabrak did not feel that hate and anger were the only paths to power. They were distracting in a young Sith, and he had no time to simply force an acolyte to control such powerful emotions.

"We'll get you hands, and I'll show you how to be Sith."

 

[Otho Rendoro]

As he felt the brief, metallic embrace of the Zabrak’s hand on his shoulder and Otho felt a great sense of foreboding. Life was now different – Otho had submitted to someone other than his own order and his pride stung, but perhaps if he devoted himself to this dread purpose he would glean the power to mold the destinies of others as his had been molded. His senses swirled briefly as a universe of possibility unfolded before him: planets of sentient beings paying their obeisance to Otho through blood or money, the currencies that he had accepted as payment and paid others with his whole life. If he committed himself, Otho felt like he could have entire systems under his own thumb, for his own exploitation or for the Sith.

Otho pulled himself up using Krest has counterweight against his forearms, slowly rising before the Sith Lord. His deference to the aged warrior changed Otho’s scrutiny, and he noticed just how many scars were cut, carved and scored into the red skin. A lifetime of war personified stood before him and a grudging part of Otho recognized that strength, and respect mixed with his resentment to create a nauseating melange of emotion within him.

“What happened to Ziost?” Otho motioned to the wreck of the terminal behind him, the sliced silver module still whirring merrily as if there had not been a vicious battle of otherworldly power here moments before. “Said some Ziost cells was compromised. Ain’t that the Sith crownworld?” His voice had lost some of the challenging tone, taking a smaller and more helpful timbre as he asked his questions of [member="Krest"].

 

[Darth Ferus]

Zoist?

[member="Otho Rendoro"] would receive a peculiar stare from the Zabrak as he thought on it. Of course, it didn't take long for Krest to figure out the document the Ithorian was talking about. So he chuckled as he helped the taller being walk. "Zoist was where all of the Sith were to meet and plan for the future. To unite and rule the galaxy. But some uppity young'uns wanted it all for themselves. They now rule Zoist, and my operations there ceased to prevent a loosing war between the Sith where only the Sith would loose." The general idea of what had happened on Zoist, at least to Krest's informants and spies. Speaking of. While his overwatch had gone silent, he had not, and his words were heard by his agents. As the pair made it to the door, they would find a tall and broad shouldered man waiting.

"Sir, we took the liberty to get a medical speeder here for your new apprentice. Shall we get going?" Very formal, very serious. Such was the life of Intelligence, at least until a roll called for something else. Krest nodded to the man, and would lead Otho to the speeder. "I do have to say this however. As a Sith, pain is our weapon. We use it when we fight and we use it to focus. To do that however, comes trials of pain. You must master your pain to make it serve you. You will get new hands, but they will be attached while you're awake, and you will feel all of it. Steel your mind now. Until you control it, it will be you're only company." A warning, and a truth. At the speeder the Zabrak would of course assist the hand-less man to his seat and plop down beside him. "And, should you have any questions, ask them now. You might be unable to for a couple days."

 

[Otho Rendoro]

His awareness swam and Otho felt the dread of the operation rise within him briefly, but it was quickly steeled by new resolve and discipline. He had two of his hands removed brutally – their cybernetic restoration could not possibly hurt as much, although he suspected the attachment of metallic fibers to his nervous system would rank among one of the more unpleasant feelings he would be set to endure under [member="Krest"]’s teaching. The Ithorian walked with him slowly, clambering awkwardly into the medical speeder. Otho put his useless arms on a table as the Sith Lord followed him. The tight space of the medical speeder enveloped him and his nostrils perceived the overwhelming, vaporous odor of various antiseptics. The medical suite of tools available in this transport were more extensive than that of the slow, old freighter he had arrived in, to this blighted world that would forever hold a dark, yet almost holy significance for Otho.

“This planet…” he began, ruminating as he spoke, “how can I…remember what happened here? I never want forget the pain of a whole world.” As Otho spoke, the words tumbled out of him. “Everything from the oppressive fear to the aggressive desire for freedom – there is so very much to learn from this place!” He felt that strange power rise up within him and his perceptions touched beings and places his eyes could not see, his ears could not hear. He heard a man berating his wife for burning dinner for the third night in a row and could hear the wife’s sobs as she apologized desperately, her lips trembling as they were wet with tears. He felt the salacious and sleazy desires of men, transacting with purveyors of human and alien flesh even in the droid city of Firewall. And he felt the hatred grow, this whole planet a tangled knot of experience that threatened to strangle him.

 

[Darth Ferus]

"When a strong sensation of pain and suffering is inflicted upon a planet by a large event, such as a mass murder, leaves echos and corrupts the planet. Here, the Dark is strong. Every sense of pain and suffering on this planet is amplified. To those like us, we will feel it. And with that we as Sith can control it. Use it to gain strength and power. But to learn all, that is too much." The Zabrak spoke softly to [member="Otho Rendoro"] , letting his gaze trail out to the passing city. There was much the Ithorian had to learn about the Force, and Krest would show him. Not yet, but soon. Now? Now he was going to have to face pain.

Soon enough the pair had made it to the medical facility Krest had 'cleared out' by his agents. Not a single living soul was left in there asides from his agents and doctors. Krest would lead the way for the handless alien, once more shouldering him to help him along. Soon enough, his operation would begin.

 

[Otho Rendoro]

The Sith field hospital was a squat building of milky grey, a nondescript blip on the map of Firewall that Otho had passed more than once since his time on the blighted rock. As he reflected upon the words of [member="Krest"] and the wounds inflicted upon a planet he was greeted to plainly dressed Sith Intelligence officers and the smell of blood and antiseptic hanging gaudily on the air, like streamers left out for some long-forgotten, macabre dance. The stone of the walls was undecorated, as if it were freshly washed.

Must have been some paint from vandals. Firewall was less chaotic than, say, the City of the Unchained but it still had its fair share of street artists. The walls of the hospital looked bare without their former ornamentation, like the identity of the building and those who had occupied previously had been erased with no proper substitute. The footfalls of the party echoed dully as they approached a small operating theater, a medical table set jauntily in the center. It was long, long enough even for his bulky build, with restraints for legs and arms. Heavy ones, for the most powerful of muscles.

Otho had a slightly revolting feeling as if the room had been used for torture before this impromptu operation.

“Hello!”

The voice was one of the cheerier things Otho had heard since coming to this planet of pain. A droid approached Otho from the right side, its upper limbs a mess of medical tools. Over the unit’s head, there was a surgical mask spattered with blood and a purposefully crude drawing of a toothy smile, missing a canine and a molar in the back. The droid’s casing was dented in several places but its function did not look to be impaired overall.

“I’m OP1-AT3 and I’m gonna be taking care of you today!” Otho grumbled wordlessly as his heart began to race slightly. That was nothing but normal, considering the circumstances. “Would you kindly allow me to strap you tightly to this table? It’s so you don’t struggle and scream too much when I’m slicing one of your arms down to size!” The droid gestured manically at the stump Krest had granted to him, several inches longer than the stump given to him weeks ago by Deng. Otho sighed mightily and clambered his bulk into the massive chamber. Straps fastened themselves around his arms at OP1-AT3’s bidding, affixing themselves to his legs as well before a hidden restraint pulled itself over his waist. Otho was well and properly held and the Ithorian steadied his breathing, trying not to struggle against being restrained in such unfamiliar territory.

A mote of panic entered his awareness as the table shuddered, actuators leaning him back and allowing the droid access to the sensitive areas that needed attention.
“Now, I’m seeing here on your chart that you’re- “the droid paused for a moment before the chipper vocal programming was momentarily replaced; its voice became distorted and played several octaves lower, “going to stick this out like a real Sith! G-g-g-good for you!” A mass of medical instruments on sinuous tendrils formed themselves into what was basically a thumbs-up, the galaxy’s sign language that everything was going to be OK if you had thumbs.

Or something to that effect.

“L-l-let’s even up my canvas,” said OP1-AT3. One of his tendrils produced what looked like a sick star with many rays of light radiating from it – it was one of the crueler saws Otho had ever seen. Of course, Krest couldn’t have cut his hand off easily, that would have been way too bleedin’ convenient. Instead Otho had to take the hard way, the only way he had ever known how to muscle his headstrong way through. His muscles tensed and his stomach lurched anxiously, his mouths filling with saliva at the anticipation of being on the razor’s edge. The restraint at his arm tightened to the point of tourniquet.

The droid did not give him warning and he preferred it that way as tool began its job of making his mismatched stumps even for the fitting of cybernetics. Four lips were anxiously bitten down on and hard – Otho felt an acrid zest in his mouths as blood touched his tongues as the droid hummed tunelessly and happily above the high frequency buzz of the surgical saw.
As the saw cut, Otho tried hard not to fidget and was very successful, even as a sadistic droid of ill repute carved into his flesh. His eyes were solidly closed and he tried desperately to focus himself inside the pain. The Ithorian felt sweat bead up on his curved head, the forehead space between eyestalks dribbling with moisture as the machine did its work. His head swam as the silent song of Malachor filled his being, the throbbing of ache and sparks of pain reverberating out into the twisted world around him, adding to the cacophonous chorus that was five millennia of pain.

After some time, it was as if a plateau of new experience had been reached because the ministrations of the robot no longer seemed to irk the Ithorian. That is not to say that he was not being racked by agony at the behest of a Sith Lord, but Otho was minding it less and less. What was disturbing him most of all, now, was the sick sounds that came out from the darkness, of bone and muscle shearing under the rotating blade. The droid supported the weight of the useless flesh, remaining perfectly still as it worked, until with a sickening peel he felt the wrecked meat drop away from the remainder of his limb.

Otho panted woozily, risking his own sanity as he cracked his right eye. The droid was still humming, but the blackened flesh from Krest’s lightsaber attack and about two more inches of his forearm had been removed. Two of OP1-AT3’s tendrils were now raising and adjusting a cuff of metal; lining the inside was innumerable needle-like protrusions that reminded him dimly of the central processing core of a computer. As OP1 raised the cuff to his arm, Otho scrunched his eyes tight once more as liquid fire surged through his veins, crying out to the strange power that Krest had shown surrounded everything. The otherworldly potential dared Otho to reach for greater heights and he would. The pain-drunk Ithorian took comfort in the pain of the planet around him as the cuff run a number of automatic protocols, the tiny prongs within finding nervous tissue to which it would attach and interface. Satisfied that its work was proceeding nominally, OP1-AT3 shifted its mechanical bulk to the other side. The saw returned but compared to the hacking and tearing of the other arm, it made quick work of the ruined flesh of the other arm. Both sets of Ithorian jaws began to ache from clenching, the muscles sore from absorbing the brunt of his agony.

Another nerve cuff set to work, applying an instrument to Otho’s heaving chest as it took numerous measurements.

“Your vitals seem to be within acceptable limits,” the droid began in its dulcet tone before the other, more abrasive voice took over, “to have had your k-karkin’ arm cut off in one session!” Otho wordlessly studied the ends of his arms and the thick band of black metal that covered them, interface devices protruding from the ends, forming ersatz armbones that would transmit data to a set of Otho-sized prosthetic hands that waited for the opportunity to join their new owner’s arms. OP1-AT3 minced cheerfully and procured the limbs, gingerly setting one on the interface spikes and twisting it into place. Circuits and false nerves connected and the limb came to life, falling flat from perceived disuse. Otho felt a strange emotion rise in his chest and it took every ounce of restraint within him to stop the small tear in his right eye from falling softly on his massive chest.

 

[Darth Ferus]

Krest had been in the room the entire time, watching, waiting, just in case [member="Otho Rendoro"] did as he had before, screamed and broke everything. Thankfully, no such thing had happened. The surgery went on successfully, and a sigh escaped the Zabrak as he saw the hands finally being attached. At least the danger of the war scream had passed. He moved over to the Ithorian as his hands were attached, studying him. Was there a tear? No.

"Once he's finished tuning your hands we'll be moving on to begin your training. Hopefully you're a quick learner, as you'll be learning those hands and what I have to teach you."