Across the galaxy's fractured expanse, within the scarred heart of Fortress Vader, ash sifted through cracks in the obsidian ceiling, fine as powdered bone, settling across a flickering console where blue schematics fought the crimson pulse of the lava moat below. Sulfur thickened the air, a bitter veil over the heat that pressed against the chamber's walls. Revan stood near the viewport, his mask a silver-gray visage etched with faded runes, catching the fiery glow as he gazed upon the molten plains. His violet and red lightsabers hung unlit at his hip, a dormant echo of his dual legacy, its silence as heavy as the ash drifting in slow curtains around him.
Before him stood Ezra Bridger, a Jedi elder dispatched from the New Jedi Order's bastion on Ossus, his weathered frame a testament to sixty-one years of survival and strife. Silver streaked his dark hair, framing the vivid yellow tattoos of his Kiffar lineage, while his blue lightsaber rested dormant at his side. At his feet sat Kesh, a Loth-wolf of shaggy black fur, its golden eyes fixed on the chamber's shadows, ears twitching as it guarded its master with unwavering vigilance. Beside Ezra, his padawan Tara stood poised, a teenage human tempered by purpose, her steady gaze reflecting the weight of their mission to this fiery stronghold. The air bore the gravity of unspoken stakes—warnings of Yavin 8's ruin lingered in the Jedi's presence, a cataclysm tied to an ancient shadow. Revan's hand brushed the mask's edge, a flicker of Yavin 4's collapse stirring in his mind, his silence a wall against the truce hovering unclaimed in the sulfurous haze.
Carried on the galaxy's restless currents, to the sterile depths of Lehon's Prime Echo Relay, where a cell of white-gold walls loomed cold and unyielding. Ahsoka Tano rose from the durasteel floor, a faint bruise shadowing her arm where biotic grips had wrested her strength. Her montrals stood taut, cutting through the recycled air's thinness, attuned to the void beyond. Across the cell, Tayra mirrored her resolve, amber eyes tracing the shimmering energy barrier that sealed their fate, her wrists marked by the same biotic scars, their lightsabers lost to their captors. Beyond the barrier stood Varnis, his lean frame cloaked in smug authority, a thin smirk curling his lips as he surveyed his prize. His victory carried a taunt of the Rakata shrine below, while Korrin's absence gnawed at the stillness—a mystery deepening the cell's chill grip on their battered forms.
The galaxy's tapestry shifted once more, descending through the smog-choked canyons of Coruscant's Level 1313. Towers clawed upward, their rusted spines draped in tattered syndicate banners swaying in the damp wind, while slick streets shimmered with effluent beneath the flicker of neon signs buzzing in the gloom. Talis Vorn emerged from the shadowed alley of his bolthole, his boots grinding glass into the duracrete, a cigarra's acrid smoke trailing from his lips to coil around his hungover squint. Behind him strode Commander Shepard, his N7 armor scarred and heavy, each step a measured defiance against the treacherous footing. Galen Marek followed, his hooded shroud dragging through the filth, stained with liquor and grief, his lightsabers silent at his belt.
The alley spat us into Neon Angels' maw, dawn's bruised grey barely clawing through the smog-choked towers overhead. A thudding bass slammed into me, each pulse a hammer against my temples—half-drunk, half-hungover, the rotgut from Talis's bolthole still sour in my gut. Why so early? Last night blurred—stale liquor, his cramped room, a tip about a girl and some group stealing Revan's good name—but the details drowned in the muck of my skull. Neon slashed pink through the haze ahead, a flickering sign screaming NEON ANGELS—a brothel, its glow a wound in 1313's grime. Talis didn't wait, his Twi'lek lekku twitching as he shoved through swinging doors, boots grinding glass into the duracrete. The stench hit harder inside—spice gone rancid, sweat-soaked flesh, cheap perfume failing to mask it. My stomach churned, disgust simmering slow, a father's bile at this pit of traded lives.
Talis beelined for a kiosk near the entrance, a wiry hostess perched there—polished, sharp-edged, her synth-velvet uniform frayed but clinging to some faded class. She tapped a datapad, eyes flicking up as he loomed, cigarra smoke curling from his lips. "Ryari—still here, or she crawl home yet?" His voice rasped, rough with last night's excess. The hostess smirked, a knowing glint—he was a regular. "You're late, Vorn. She's tipping out by the bar." She jerked her head toward the dim sprawl beyond, dismissing him. Talis grunted, boots scuffing as he turned, not waiting for us. My gaze lingered—flesh peddled under neon, lives bartered while Coruscant's spires pretended this level didn't fester. Rage licked at the edges, slow and hot, a father's disgust I couldn't drown.
He wove through the thinning crowd—bleary stragglers stumbling out, dealers trading in shadowed booths. Chiss in sleek coats watched from alcoves, eyes cold as durasteel, while a pair of Weequay leaned on a pillar, slugthrowers scarred and heavy, their flat stares tracking us. Bass thudded through my bones, rattling the ache in my head. Talis paused, lekku twitching, and pointed toward a curved bar along the far wall. "There." Then he drifted off—muttering "Head's a kriffin' mess. Time to let someone else do the thinking—and maybe a bit more." He peeled off toward the dancers, grin crooked, chasing a distraction. Ryari perched on a stool, back to us, counting a thin stack of credits on the stained bartop—dark hair spilling over a slight frame, shoulders hunched with exhaustion. Young—too young—close to Sera when... No. The thought stabbed, disgust flaring hotter—her trapped here, this grime coating her like it coated everything. Rage built, molten and slow, projecting her into Sera's stolen life. Shepard stepped up beside me, N7 armor scarred and steady—his calm grated against the storm churning inside. He moved toward her, boots quiet on the duracrete.
She stiffened as he stopped short of the bar. "Ryari." His voice cut through the thrum, clipped and steady. "We're here about some loudmouth—the one ranting about a Revan's Legion." Her hand froze on the credits, shoulders bracing—a shield of weariness, a wall of defiance. "Shift's done." she snapped, not turning, her tone sharp as a vibroblade. Shepard didn't flinch. "He's trouble—more than you're letting on." Soldier's patience, blunt and unyielding, pressed against her guard. I leaned on a pillar, watching—her defiance a mirror to Sera's, my jaw tight. Words felt thick, slurred in my throat—rage and rotgut choking them—better Shepard handle it. She flicked a glance toward the entrance, jittery, then snatched a glass from the bar—dregs of cheap liquor, same as mine—and downed it fast, a grimace twisting her face. "Who's going to care about something that old... damn fool," she muttered, barely there, the sip slipping it out—eyes snapped wide, clamping shut. Too late—old, big, tied to her dodge. My rage simmered, a low burn.
A beaded curtain crashed open—boots thudded moments before, a muffled shout leaking through—and a spacer burst in, wild-eyed, spice-dust crusting his flushed face, synth-leather coat flapping. Three Weequay trailed, blasters loose at their hips, coats stained and mean. He zeroed on Ryari, lurching toward the bar, shoving a stumbling Twi'lek aside. "There you are!" His bellow sliced the haze, hoarse and frantic—panic sweat glistened as he slammed a hand on the bartop, credits scattering. She spun on her stool, brushing us off with a sharp flick of her hand—focus locking on him, defiance flaring over fear. "Where were you last night—you took something, didn't you!?" he roared, leaning close, breath reeking. "Legion'll skin me slow if I don't get it back!" He grabbed her arm, yanking hard—fingers clawing her chest, a sleazy grip—her flinch cracked me open. Sera's face flickered over hers, dark hair blurring—rage roared, white-hot, drowning the haze—his bellows stoked my storm. Shepard's hand hovered near his pistol, steady—I shoved off the pillar, boots slamming.
His grip tightened—Ryari recoiling, defiance buckling—my haze shattered, storm spilling as Sera's ghost flinched in her place. I forced between them, towering, shrouded—sabers silent, trembling. "Hands... off her, filth," I snarled, rough, jagged—grief and liquor exploding, a father's fury facing him down. Shepard tensed, pistol ready—Talis paused, lekku twitching—the moment teetered, Neon Angels' pink glow bathing the storm.
Shepard tensed beside me, his hand a steady blur near the Predator pistol at his thigh. Talis froze mid-drift across the room, lekku twitching sharp, his hungover squint snapping wide—caught off-guard in Neon Angels' neon-drenched sprawl. The air thrummed thick—spice rot, sweat, desperation—bass thudding relentless, a heartbeat under the chaos. Pink glow pulsed through the grime, bathing the storm. The client didn't see it—didn't care. His grip clamped Ryari's arm, yanking her hard—fingers clawed her chest, tunic tearing, skin bared—a sleazy, dominating grab. "Answer me, where were you last night—where is it!?" His roar split the haze, wild-eyed, spice-dust crusting his flushed face—panic sweat glistened. "Legion'll will set you straight, you thief!" Ryari flinched—sharp, raw—defiance buckling, a choked gasp escaping her lips. Sera. Her face burned through my haze—dark hair blurring into Ryari's, that flinch hers under Fett's blade. The dam shattered—rage, grief, rotgut—a storm I couldn't hold. Starkiller woke—a name I'd buried, a killer clawing free. The client spun, sensing me late—"Who the kri-"—too late.
My hand snapped up—palm out—instinct, not thought. The Force roared—a wave crashing with the world slowing to a crawl. Bass warped into a low, grinding throb—neon flickered sluggish, pink streaks bleeding into haze. The client's curse stretched—a grotesque groan—his eyes bulged, spice-addled shock frozen mid-turn. Furniture splintered—tables, stools—drifting in jagged arcs, caught in my storm. Dust motes hung, glinting in the slowed light—time bent, not broke—rage shaped it, the Force my leash. Juno's laugh whispered—soft, fleeting—Sera's tiny grip tightened in my mind—Vader's shadow loomed, cold and sharp—"Focus, boy." Starkiller's edge—droids shattering, blood singing—surged white-hot through the liquor muck. My other hand moved—deliberate, precise—fingers brushing Juno's WESTAR-34 under my shroud. Pulling it free—scarred grip a lifeline—sighted his forehead—crack—a bolt flashed, deliberate, searing—red mist bloomed slow behind his skull, a lazy spray in the pink glow. Chest—crack—second shot slammed his sternum, synth-leather tearing—his rag-doll frame trembled mid-flight, lifeless, inevitable. Time snapped—bone-break sharp—client's body smashed the durasteel wall, a wet thud, sliding down in a smear—twin holes stark against neon's flicker.
Ryari broke, now freed—bolted over the bar, credits scattering like ash—scrambled behind it, human frame hunching low, dark hair a curtain over her fear. The brothel gaped—patrons froze, mouths slack—dancers ducked under flimsy tables—bass thudded on, indifferent, a grim pulse through the haze. My blaster smoked—rage burned slow, a white-hot core—sabers trembled at my belt, silent, always a last resort. Shepard snapped—Predator pistol drawn—crack—one Weequay's skull split, blood and bone spraying—crack—another staggered, gut ripped open, blaster clattering as he crumpled, gurgling—soldier's calm fractured into lethal steel. Syndicate bouncers—Chiss in sleek coats, Weequay tanks—shifted on the balconies, eyes sharp, blasters poised—business stalled, anger simmering cold, alert but unshocked in 1313's churn.
Talis jerked—"Not again, Marek," he rasped, dry and weary, a Twi'lek's sigh from too many brawls—blaster yanked from his belt, hungover aim sloppy—crack—grazed the last Weequay's shoulder, thug yelping, dropping his piece. "Don't shoot—please!"—hands up, sliding down the wall, pleading through panic—surrender teetering as bass thudded on—music pulsed eerie over the blood, a twisted calm settling thick. I loomed—blaster hot, Juno's grip trembling—Ryari hid, barely a shadow behind the bar—Shepard's pistol trained steady on the gut-shot Weequay, Talis glared at the pleading thug, lekku stiff. Bouncers watched—blasters gleaming, waiting—blood pooled slow, stark against pink neon. Chaos teetered—next move a thread in Neon Angels' storm.
The client's corpse stayed slumped against the wall, leaving a wet smear of blood that glowed neon-pink under the club's flickering signs. His body sagged, lifeless, the two holes I'd blasted through him—stark against the durasteel, oozing slow in the haze. Juno's blaster hung heavy in my grip, the barrel still hot, wisps of smoke curling upward into the thick air. I didn't recall pulling it—just the kick of the shots, the storm inside me roaring, then fading. Now it cooled into something hollow, a dull ache settling deep in my chest, mixing with the rotgut that still burned my throat from Talis's bolthole stash. A flicker of bronze caught the corner of my eye—smooth, low to the ground—PROXY gliding in from the shadows near the entrance, his cold photoreceptors scanning the scene with mechanical precision. "Haven't practiced in years—terrible aim, sir," he said, his voice a dry, synthesized drawl—his metal arm gestured wide at the client's slumped form. The irony bit sharp, cutting through the thudding bass, relentless and constant, a hollow pulse that hammered against my skull like a heartbeat that wouldn't quit—each beat vibrating the duracrete floor, rattling the shattered glass and blood beneath my boots. The air reeked—ozone sharp from blaster fire, blood metallic and fresh, blending with the stale stench of spilled liquor, sweat, and the cheap perfume that clung to every corner of Neon Angels. Dust floated down from the rafters, catching the erratic pink strobe light, drifting lazy over the chaos—credits scattered near the bar like forgotten promises, glinting faintly in the glow. Patrons stood frozen around us, their faces a mix of shock and morbid fascination—mouths open, eyes wide—caught in the aftermath, too scared or too curious to move.
Talis stepped forward, his boots crunching over the splintered remains of a stool, the sound sharp against the bass's thudding drone. His lekku twitched, a flicker of irritation cutting through his hungover squint as he surveyed the wreckage—three bodies sprawled across the floor, blood pooling slow and dark, staining the duracrete in spreading patches. He kicked aside a chunk of broken glass, the piece skittering across the floor to rest near the dead spacer's limp hand. "This was my favorite dive—thanks, Marek," he muttered, his voice dry as a desert wind, rough with the weight of too much liquor and too little sleep. The quip hung there, weary and flat—a Twi'lek's gripe from too many messes I'd dragged him through, his fix with those shadowed dancers lost in the chaos now. I didn't answer—couldn't—the haze still clung too thick, my tongue too leaden with grief and booze to form words.
Ryari stayed low behind the bar, her dark hair plastered to her cheek with sweat—human, slight—her eyes peeked out, wide but flat, no trace of panic, just a steady breath. She'd seen this before—too many times—her gaze flicked quick to the back of the club, past the beaded curtains, toward the lockers. Shepard stood tall over the wounded Weequay, the alien groaned low, hand pressed to a leaking gut wound, blood slicking his mottled skin—Shepard's Predator pistol held firm, barrel locked on the thug's chest, ready to end it if he twitched wrong. Talis gripped the other Weequay—uninjured arm twisted hard—his blaster lay abandoned on the floor, and soft whimpers spilled from his throat as he begged.
Syndicate bouncers loomed on the balconies, watching with still, predatory calm, their blasters poised, catching glints of pink and green from the strobes overhead. They'd seen worse—lived it—this was just another day in 1313's churn. A heavy figure pushed through the crowd then—broad shoulders, synth-leather coat patched and faded from years of wear—the manager of this pit, his boots grinding glass into the floor like it was routine. He stopped beside Talis, a regular he knew too well—barely glanced at the dead spacer leaking crimson against his wall, just a quick kick to the corpse's leg like he was checking spoiled goods. "Vorn," he growled, his voice rough as unfiltered stims, thick with the kind of anger that came from interrupted profits, "this is gonna cost you more than your tab can handle." The bass thudded on, eerie and constant, pulsing under his words—his hand snapped up, a sharp flick toward the balconies—"Stand down"—and the bouncers eased a fraction, their weapons still live, still poised, eyes sharp as they watched the mess unfold. He barked again, louder, over his shoulder—"Janitors, sector three"—and grey-uniformed grunts shuffled in from the back, mops and buckets in hand, scraping blood and glass with slow, practiced sweeps—business ticking on, even through the gore.
He paused then—nudged the corpse once more with his boot—his eyes tightened, recognition flickering through the cynicism carved into his face. "These slum bags've been plaguing our fine place for months," he muttered, his voice gruff, half to himself. He spat near the dead spacer, a wet splat against the duracrete, then turned to Talis—softer now, rough gratitude seeping through—"Pay for the furniture, we're square." Janitors scraped—their mops smeared crimson in slow arcs, dragging the chaos into something manageable. My haze thickened—the storm inside cooling to a hollow burn. I stepped forward, my boots sticking on wet patches—blood or liquor, didn't matter—reached into my belt and pulled a chit, tossing it low. It clinked near his feet, sharp against the tile. "Little extra for a quiet spot with our pals," I rasped—my voice jagged, throat raw—my eyes flicked to the Weequay. He stared at the chit—then up at me—then sideways at Talis, wide-eyed, his gruff mask slipping slow—"Never pegged you for this kind of trouble, Vorn"—his voice lingered, incredulous—I pulled another chit, thinner, and tossed it—harder—credits hit the floor—"Double." Greed flashed in his eyes—he grunted, short and curt—"Back room—another cleanup will cost you extra."
Ryari rose from behind the bar—slow, deliberate—human, slight—dusting off her torn sleeves, her hands steady despite the mess. Her dark hair hung loose, framing a face gone numb—her eyes didn't flinch, didn't soften—just watched, measured me cold. They flicked quick to the back—past the beaded curtains, toward the employee back room. "Got it... for a price—seen your kind before," she said—voice tight, flat—a steel edge cutting through the bass's drone—no fear, no gratitude—just math, another knight in shining armor out of a long line she'd outlast. Shepard moved—grabbed the wounded Weequay by the collar—the thug groaned low, begging soft as Shepard dragged him slow toward the curtains, his pistol steady on the alien's back. Talis yanked the pleading one—twisting his arm—"Seriously, last time Marek," he muttered, voice rough—whimpers broke free as he shoved the thug forward, boots dragging on glass—bass thudded on, relentless.
The manager stepped aside—waved a hand toward a durasteel door beyond swaying beaded curtains—the back room loomed, dark and quiet—Shepard hauled his groaning captive—groans stretched into begging—Talis shoved his whimpering thug—pleading faded into the thudding haze. Ryari's price hung heavy—her eyes sharp on my credits, the bass thudded eerie over blood drying slow—janitors scraped on.
The door hissed shut, sealing the haze as the bass sank deeper, a pulse threading through the dark.
The heavy durasteel door hissed shut behind us, muffling the relentless thump of bass from Neon Angels' main floor. It pulsed up through the corroded deck plating, a low vibration sinking into my bones, like 1313's own twisted heartbeat. The back room closed in tight, suffocating, lit by a flickering red emergency light overhead that threw jagged shadows across rusted pipes dripping dark condensation onto the floor. Blood hit my nose sharp, metallic and fresh, cutting through the stale reek of sweat, machine oil, and despair baked into the walls. I shoved the wounded Weequay against the far bulkhead, his gut wound oozing slow, staining his tunic black, blood pooling in a sticky puddle under him. He groaned, a wet rasp tearing from his chest, head lolling as I pulled heavy binder cuffs from my belt. I clamped one around his wrist, looped the chain through a thick mooring ring bolted to the wall, his arm jerking limp but held fast. "Stay still," I said, voice flat. He moaned again, no fight left. I turned to the second thug, Talis's catch, shaking where he stood, eyes wide with terror, uninjured arm bound tight behind him with a strap Talis had scrounged. Whimpers spilled soft and constant, I checked the binding, secure, no slack. He wasn't moving either.
PROXY drifted near the door, a bronze shadow, photoreceptor glowing red, unblinking. "One twitch, organics, and recalculating your remaining lifespan becomes purely academic," he said, voice cold and flat, stripped of its usual dry sass, pure menace now, a droid's promise of death. I nodded, then caught Galen moving slow out of the corner of my eye. He snagged a half-empty bottle of whiskey from a cluttered shelf near the cuffs, glass clinking hard against metal, muttered "Kriff it" low and rough under his breath. Booze sloshed as he turned, stalking toward the prisoners, his shroud dragging, rage simmering on his edges, a storm barely held back. His shadow stretched long, warped in the red light. I pushed back through the beaded curtain to the bar, needed Ryari dealt with fast.
The main floor haze thickened, neon pulsed pink and green, swirling over the bar where Ryari stood alone, clutching a jagged black slab. The Artifact, etched glyphs dim across its surface, dormant, no hum, just dead weight. Janitors scraped blood nearby, mops dragging crimson into streaks, patrons whispered, drinks trembling in their hands. I stepped up, pulled credits from my belt, Galen's chits plus my own stash, let them clink loud onto the scarred counter. "Enough to get you out of this pit," I said, voice steady, wanted her gone, far from this hellhole. She didn't count, just nodded, eyes cold, numb, "A long vacation's a start." Her fingers released the slab, pushed it across, scooped the credits quick, stuffing them into a pocket. Deal done, fast, clean, Galen's low grunt echoed from the back, a grunt of assent, I slid the cold slab into my N7 armor pouch, felt its weight settle. Bass thudded on.
I ducked back through the curtain, the backroom air hit heavier, thick with blood and fear. Galen loomed over the prisoners, whiskey bottle swung loose in one hand, "Talk," he growled, voice thick with rage and booze, a snarl that filled the tight space. The Weequays flinched, pressed hard against his chair, terror stark in their eyes. Talis lingered near the door, caught my gaze, sighed deep, "Looks like your charming mess to manage now, Commander," dry, weary, his lekku twitching, "Find me later." He turned, slipped out, boots scuffed slow, chasing the dancers in the other room. PROXY hummed low, photoreceptor fixed, the prisoners glared, defiance warring with dread, bass thudded through, a constant pulse against my ribs. Time to work.
I knelt beside the wounded one, blood pooling warm near my knee. "Talk, and you get treatment, freedom," I said, voice calm and cold, offering a lifeline. His pupils rolled, dilated and sluggish. "No," he groaned, barely audible, clinging to defiance through the pain. The second thug shifted, bound tight, whimpering, "We're dead anyway." I pressed on, steady. "We have the artifact. Tell us about the Legion, and you walk." Galen growled, "They've got nothing," bottle clinking against his belt. I raised a hand. "Give them a chance." Silence stretched thin—then the wounded one spat blood, a wet glob hitting the floor, and the other smirked, "Kriff you." My jaw tightened. Galen's patience snapped.
His hand shot up, fingers curling like talons. "Legion's nothing compared to the name I've broken bone to burry," he roared, voice jagged, unleashing the Force. A sickening pop—the wounded thug's eyes ripped clean from their sockets, blood spraying in hot arcs across the wall. Screams tore through the room, high and piercing, clawing at the rusted pipes. The air turned sharp with copper as crimson streamed from his empty sockets. His head lolled, screams cracking into gurgles as Galen's invisible grip tightened, choking him. Bones starting to snap. "Who pays for the artifacts?" Galen bellowed. The second prisoner froze, terror drowning his defiance—Starkiller's aura undeniable. The choking thug convulsed, gasping, "V-Veiled... Covenant... pays... maps... Nar Shaddaa..." before slumping, alive but broken.
I stayed steady, old Reaper torture chambers flickering in my mind—screams, blood, void. The second thug clammed up, trembling, while the blinded one moaned, too shattered to grasp anything. We'd gotten something—the artifact was a map, tied to the Veiled Covenant—but not enough. I stood, pulling the Predator from my armor. The weight felt final. I aimed at the blinded thug and fired—a sharp crack, his skull bursting, brain matter splattering the wall. Mercy done. His body sagged, chains rattling soft. I swung the pistol to the last prisoner's head. "Negotiation's over," I said, voice ice. "Tell us where the Legion's at, and I'll make it quick. Or my friend here does worse than he did your buddy." His eyes flicked to Galen, then back. He spat, blood-streaked defiance hitting my boot.
Galen's fury erupted. His hand clenched, and the thug's tongue tore free, blood fountaining as it slapped the floor. Gurgles replaced screams as Galen plowed into his mind, raw and brutal, shredding every thought, every secret. Words spilled from his mouth—not his thoughts, but the thug's, ripped out and spoken aloud with surgical coldness. "Covenant pays for the artifacts... Legion's 1313 outpost... in an Old Med-Tech Facility... Sector Besh-7... the old Orbital Freight Elevator Junction 44... Covenant stronghold held up on Nar Shaddaa..." He blinked, focus snapping back as the man slumped in the cuffs, blood soaking the floor beneath him. The thug's eyes rolled white, madness taking hold. Galen raised a hand with an intent to kill—then paused. A flicker crossed his gaze, soft, fleeting—before hardening. He plunged into the thug's mind like a blade through armor. The man convulsed, limbs jerking against the binders, eyes rolling back as his thoughts were peeled apart. No words. No screams. Just a flood of ragged breaths, choked sobs—then laughter. High-pitched. Broken.
By the time Galen let go, the body was still breathing, but whatever had been inside was gone.
The bass thudded on. Intel secured—1313 base, Nar Shaddaa deliveries to a Veiled Covenant party. Enough. Blood pooled thick beneath my boots as I holstered my weapon. We moved to the main room, searching for the manager, I flicked credits his way after making eye contact. "Ended up needed that additional cleanup after all," I said, dark grit in my tone. "One's fresh, the other's breathing—maybe not for long." He grunted, pocketing the credits. "Seen Talis anywhere?"