My world was a neon smear, a pulsing void where rotgut scalded my throat and memory bled. Slumped on the couch, its torn synth-leather clawing my shroud, I clutched the bottle—cracked, heavy, my tether to the now. Its glass bit scarred fingers, a cold sting under 1313's violet glow. The safe house was a festering wound: peeling plasteel wept rust, a jury-rigged power converter sparked in the corner, and a mildewed mattress reeked of days spent rotting here. Crusted dishes piled in the sink, ash from Talis's cigars dusted the floor, and ration packs festered in heaps, proof of our decay. Outside, Level 1313 roared—a swoop gang's engines screamed, a holo-billboard hawked illegal neural mods, refugees huddled under neon awnings, their shouts mingling with blaster pops. The Old Med-Tech Facility loomed beyond the grime-smeared viewport, its rusted gantries and blinking turret lights a durasteel corpse defying decades of neglect.
Smoke caught me, curling from Talis's cigar, its ember flaring red in the gloom. The acrid burn stung my nose, dragging me from the haze like a vibroblade. Juno's breath had been softer, warm against my cheek before Fett's blaster tore her apart. Uscru District flashed—neon alleys where faces blended, a sabacc game turned deadly when a Rodian pulled a disruptor, my saber humming before his scream faded. 1313 was worse, its chaos a living beast, choking me tighter than Uscru's dives ever had. The holo-drama screen flickered, a woman's tinny plea—"Don't leave me, Jara…"—clashing with the weight in my chest.
Talis's voice sliced through, raw as a street brawl. "You're gonna torch half the slums, Shepard!" He paced, cigar puffing clouds that danced in the viewport's glow, his jacket flapping, stained with 1313's filth. "Thirty-plus Legion, E-Webs, maybe a kriffing Force-user. You'll bury civvies—spice runners, families, my people! I've got a name here, damn it!"
Shepard leaned over the table, N7 armor scuffed from 1313's alleys. The holo-feed glowed, Legion sentries pacing the facility's gantries, turrets sweeping. "We've cased it, Talis," he said, voice cold as durasteel. "South grid's weak at 0200, patrols thin out. We hit tonight, or they spread, and your slums bleed worse. You want them to become your problem then?"
Talis jabbed his cigar, ash falling. "You don't get it! Those camps down there—refugees, kids—they'll burn in your 'hit.' I've spent years keeping this level from eating itself. You'll leave a crater and walk away!"
I slurred, head swimming, "Let it burn, Vorn. They're all ghosts already." My voice was gravel, the bottle's weight pulling me down.
Talis glared, smoke curling. "Easy for you, Marek, drowning in that swill. You're no rebel, just a drunk."
Shepard shot me a look, green eyes sharp. "He's right about one thing, Talis. We end this, or 1313's is in more trouble than usual. We've got the schedules, the weak points. It's now or never."
The argument faded, my legs moving on instinct, swaying as I lurched to the kitchen. The floor stuck to my boots, littered with ash and scrawled Legion patrol notes—Shift change, 0415, south gate. This shithole was a grave, worse than Uscru's neon dives, where I'd dodged bounties among blurred faces, their anonymity a shield. Here, 1313's stink—sweat, spice, despair—clung like a second skin. The kitchen was a ruin: grimy counter, sink clogged with rancid sludge, one bottle of rotgut glinting like a cursed relic. My hand closed around it, glass biting scars, and I steadied, the haze parting just enough to keep me from falling.
Shepard's voice cut in, half-jest, half-worry. "You know you've got a problem, right, Galen?" He leaned back, his glowing scars tight under neon.
I slumped onto the couch, bottle sloshing, a grin cracking. "What else is there, Shepard? Rot in this pit, wait for the blasters to start. Last week, some sleemo tried selling me a spiked batch outside. 1313's a disease." My laugh was bitter.
Talis threw up his hands, cigar ash scattering like dead hopes. "Useless, Marek! You're all kriffing useless!" He ground the cigar into the table, smoke lingering like a specter, and stormed out, the door slamming, its echo swallowed by the holo-drama's drone—Jara's plea fading to static.
Shepard exhaled, a dry spark. "We need him to do this. Whether he wants to or not."
I rasped a chuckle, sinking deeper, the couch creaking. "He'll be back. I haven't paid his sorry ass yet." Talis's loyalty was a constant, like the bottle's burn.
Shepard's face tightened, a flicker of annoyance. "Vicrul and Zeht land tonight, Galen. For the assault. You gonna be ready, or just mouthing off?" His tone was steady, but his eyes held a brother's weight.
I raised the bottle, neon glinting off its cracks. "Everyone's tagging along, Shepard. Lucky bastards, riding my coattails. Even those Ren rejects should thank me." My grin was sharp, but the haze crept back, Uscru's neon fading to 1313's rot.
Shepard stood, voice low. "Sleep it off, Galen. We need you sharp tonight." He snatched the bottle, his grip firm but not cruel, and set it on the table, beyond my reach. I grumbled, eyes drifting to the viewport, where the facility squatted under 1313's neon sky, its turret lights blinking like a hunter's gaze. The holo-drama hummed, static swallowing Jara's voice, and the streets below roared—swoop engines, refugee cries, a distant crash—a countdown to blood.
Hours bled into the neon haze, then a sharp knock at the door shattered the silence.
My eyes snapped open, heart hammering like a misfired slug, the safe house's stench—rotgut, ash, and rancid rations—flooding my lungs. The mildewed mattress sagged under me, its springs biting through my N7 armor's padding, scuffed from 1313's alleys. For a split second, the Indoctrination whispers clawed back: Harbinger's static hiss, "You cannot resist," green light swallowing Liara's face, Garrus's laugh, the Normandy's hull splintering. Synthesis was my call—uniting flesh and machine—but it left me stranded, my universe gone, everyone I loved maybe ash, their ghosts screaming I'd failed them. I blinked, the dream's grip loosening, 1313's neon glow seeping through the cracked viewport, casting jagged shadows on peeling plasteel. The knock came again, hard, urgent. Vicrul. Zeht. The Knights. Game time.
I rolled to my feet, boots crunching ash and spilled ration packs, the safe house a tomb of our days here: a jury-rigged power converter sparked in the corner, a holo-drama screen flickered with Jara's tinny plea seemingly on repeat—"Don't leave me…"—and a sink overflowed with crusted dishes. Galen sprawled on the couch, bleary from the rotgut earlier, his shroud stained with 1313's grime. Outside, Level 1313 roared—swoop gangs revving, a holo-billboard hawking neural mods, refugees shouting under neon awnings. The Old Med-Tech Facility loomed beyond the viewport, its rusted gantries and turret lights blinking like predator eyes, a durasteel husk defying decades of decay.
I crossed to the door, omni-tool flickering as it wrestled with Coruscant's junk circuits. The knock rattled again, and I punched the access panel, the door hissing open. Vicrul stood there, his obsidian armor glinting, mask's angular slits growling with his breath. Zeht flanked him, twin axes strapped to her back, her yellow eyes sharp. Three Knights followed: Dorn, a wiry sniper with a scarred visor; Syln, a demolitions expert hefting a satchel of charges; and Tarsk, a hulking Force-sensitive brawler, his knuckles tattooed with Sith runes. No Talis. My gut tightened—his storm-out last night was a bluff, but he hadn't shown.
"About time," Vicrul snarled, voice a guttural rasp through the mask. "We're here to burn these imposters to cinders."
I stepped aside, letting them in, the safe house's air thickening with their presence. "Welcome to the war room," I said, nodding to the cluttered table, holo-feeds looping Legion patrols. "Galen, get up. Try Talis on the comm. We need him here."
Galen stirred, eyes bloodshot, a faint rotgut tang clinging to him. He pushed off the couch, swaying, and tossed a mock salute. "Aye, aye, Commander, don't court-martial me yet." His grin was sharp, but his voice rasped with last night's haze.
PROXY's photoreceptors gleamed from the corner, his battered frame whirring. "Master Marek, your efficiency is, as always, inspiring," he chirped, sarcasm dripping, a holo of a Legion sentry flickering across his chassis.
Galen snorted, grabbing a comm from the table. "Keep talking, rustbucket. I'll scrap you yet." He shuffled to the viewport, keying the comm, his shroud trailing ash.
I turned to the Knights, spreading my hands over the holo-feed, the facility's layout glowing. "Here's the plan. Thirty-plus Legion, E-Webs at the north and east gates, automated turrets on the gantries. Surveillance gives us shift change at 0200, patrols thin at the south entrance until 0415. We split up, use the night. I take Dorn and Syln, slip in, thin their numbers while they sleep, and sabotage the turrets. Quiet, clean. Then you—" I nodded to Vicrul, Zeht, Galen, Tarsk—"hit the front, full assault, once I signal."
Vicrul slammed his vibro-scythe's haft on the floor, the clang echoing. "No sneaking! These filth dare wear Revan's name. We storm in, rip their spines out, burn their kriffing outpost to slag!" His helmet mask's growl amplified his rage, crimson runes flaring.
I raised an eyebrow, a grin tugging. "Love the enthusiasm, Vicrul, but let's not die before we start. Thirty against seven's bad math, even with your scythe. They've got heavy blasters, maybe a Force-user or two. We thin them first, or we're done." My tone was light, but my eyes held his, steady.
Zeht's axes glinted as she shifted, voice low. "He's right. We hit smart, we hit hard. Patience, Vicrul." Her discipline cut through his fire.
Galen trudged back, tossing the comm on the table. "No dice on Talis. Either he's dodging or his comm's slag." His voice was rough, but clearer, the haze lifting.
I frowned, Talis's absence gnawing. "Keep trying. He's one of us, even if he's pissed." I tapped the holo-feed, zooming on the south entrance. "Dorn, your rifle's for stragglers. Syln, charges on the turret relays—quiet blasts, no alarms. I'll clear the barracks with my omni-blade. Galen, Vicrul, Zeht, Tarsk, you wait for my signal. Then you charge. No heroes, no mistakes."
Vicrul growled, leaning forward. "I lead the charge. These dogs'll know Revan's wrath." His scythe gleamed, hungry.
Galen stepped up, eyes narrowing. "Like hell. I've been gutting scum like this since you were swinging practice blades, Vicrul." His hand hovered near his sabers, tension crackling.
I raised a hand, voice firm. "Enough with the pissing match. I don't care who swings first, but you wait for my signal. Squabble later, or we're all dead." My glare silenced them, though Vicrul's mask hissed.
Dorn nodded, visor glinting. "Understood, Commander. South gate, 0200." Syln checked her charges, Tarsk cracked his knuckles, and Zeht gave a curt nod. Galen shrugged, a faint grin. "Your funeral, Shepard."
"We're all agreed," I said, shutting off the holo-feed. "We move at 0200. Rest up, check your gear. No screw-ups." The Knights dispersed, Vicrul muttering, Zeht sharpening her axes, the safe house's air heavy with their resolve.
I sank onto the couch, the synth-leather creaking, 1313's din filtering through—speeders roaring, a drunk's slurred curse, a distant crash. Hours stretched, the wait a familiar weight, heavier than Earth's fall, the Citadel's collapse. I'd sat through too many nights like this, faces flashing—Kaidan, Ashley, Tali—some gone, some maybe alive, their eyes haunting me across galaxies. Vicrul's scowl, Zeht's focus, Dorn's calm, Syln's precision, Tarsk's bulk, Galen's grin: they might not see dawn. I might not. The facility's turrets, its thirty guns, loomed in my mind, a gauntlet we'd run blind. My omni-tool flickered as I triple checked my notes. Another mission, another gamble. I'd played worse odds.
0200 hit, the holo-drama's static fading to silence. I stood, Dorn and Syln at my back, their steps ninja-silent, sniper rifle and charges ready. We slipped out, 1313's neon haze cloaking us, the facility's south gate a shadow in the night. Surveillance held—patrols thinned, shift change leaving gaps. I crouched, omni-tool scanning for alarms, Dorn covering, Syln planting a charge. We breached the gate, a rusted hatch yielding under my blade. Corridors stretched, dark, littered with med-pods and flickering med-screens, the air thick with coolant and sweat.
The first barracks was a small, dark cave in the Old Med-Tech Facility's durasteel belly, air thick with sweat, stale rations, and the faint copper of unwashed gear. Four Legion troops sprawled on cots, snoring, unaware, their blasters and pendants with some ancient symbols like the ones I've seen back on Mustafar, glinting on rusted lockers. Two stood guard at the far end, awake, their silhouettes blocking the corridor to the next wing, vibro-knives at their belts, eyes scanning the gloom. Level 1313's chaos—swoop engines snarling, a refugee's slurred curse, a crate splintering in the slums—bled through the walls, cloaking our steps. My pulse hammered, adrenaline a live wire. Dorn crouched to my left, his sniper rifle's scope a cold glint under a flickering med-screen, Syln a shadow on my right, her vibro-blades poised like claws. The facility's decay pressed in—coolant pipes hissing, rusted med-pods leaning like tombstones, med-screens casting green flickers across cracked floors.
I signaled Dorn, a sharp flick of my wrist, my breath tight. He steadied, rifle coughing a silenced shot, the round punching through the first guard's skull, bone shattering with a wet crack, blood misting in a brief, crimson haze before his body crumpled, vibro-knife clattering. The second guard flinched, hand reaching for his comm, but my omni-blade flared, its hard-light blade snapping out, a 60 cm monomolecular edge glowing orange. I lunged, silent, driving it into his neck, the sizzle of seared flesh sharp, the stench of charred tissue. His eyes bulged, hands clawing air, then he slumped, a scorched ruin staining the floor. Syln darted to a sleeping trooper, her vibro-blades diving into his chest, her movements a predator's dance.
Three left, still asleep. My biotics surged, I grabbed a trooper's throat with my thought, cartilage snapping like brittle wood, his gasp choked off as his windpipe collapsed. A trick I had learned from Galen. Dorn's second shot tore through a sleeper's temple, a dull thud as the body rolled. Syln's blade slit the last's throat, her twist clean, leaving the cot soaked. No alarms, no cries, just 1313's roar—speeders whining, a blaster pop, neon's hum—our shield. I exhaled, sweat beading under my armor, heart pounding, the barracks a charnel house, the air heavy with blood's copper tang and burnt flesh.
We slipped to the second barracks, larger, six troops sleeping on double-stacked cots, two patrolling a narrow corridor beyond, their boots scuffing, blocking our path to the turret relays. The facility's gloom deepened—flickering med-screens, coolant leaks hissing, a rusted gurney tipped in a corner, its wheels frozen in grime. My chest tightened, the plan a tightrope, every shadow a threat. I crouched, signaling Dorn, his rifle steady. The first patroller turned, eyes narrowing, but Dorn's shot punched through his forehead, skull caving, his body hitting the floor with a wet slap. The second spun, comm raised, but my biotics snapped his neck, vertebrae crunching like gravel, his head lolling as he collapsed, comm skittering.
Syln moved, blades carving a sleeper's chest, her eyes cold, precise. My omni-blade flared, searing into a trooper's sternum, his scream cut short as I twisted. Another stirred, half-awake, but my blade caught his jaw, carving upward. Dorn's rifle dropped two sleepers, blood pooling under green flickers. Syln's final blade plunged into a spine, her charge for the turret relays ready, fingers deft as she planted it. No alarms, 1313's chaos—refugee cries, a swoop's roar—our cloak. I steadied, the facility's weight suffocating, my breath ragged.
A side cell loomed, durasteel bars glinting under a stuttering light, the air reeking of blood, piss, and despair. I froze, breath catching, the Wraith slipping in my grip. Talis—chained to the wall, a shattered husk, his left hand gone, a ragged stump oozing blood, pooling in a viscous, crimson lake. His face was a nightmare: one eye gouged, burns crisscrossing his cheeks, flesh charred; cuts slicing his jaw, red and raw, his jacket shredded, ribs cracked. Each breath was a shallow rasp, barely alive, defiance a flicker in his remaining eye, but broken, carved to ruin by the Legion's savagery. Shock slammed me like a slug, nausea rising, guilt burning—how the hell did they get him? Rage flared, my fist clenching, knuckles white. No answers, no time. The mission hung by a thread, Talis's life with it, 1313's neon pulse a distant, mocking roar.
Static hissed through the shadows, a desperate signal slicing the facility's gloom like a blade through 1313's neon roar.
The comm's buzz grated like a buzzsaw, Shepard's voice a faint crackle in the haze of Level 1313's din—swoop engines snarling, a holo-billboard's hum, refugees screaming in the slums below. I ignored it, my breath hot, the Old Med-Tech Facility's front doors looming, a durasteel slab scarred by blaster burns, E-Web turrets silent on rusted gantries. Vicrul's masked growl cut closer, his obsidian armor glinting under neon. "You're a drunk fool, Marek," he snarled, vibro-scythe tapping the ground. "Revan's name isn't yours to shame." Zeht and Tarsk flanked him, her axes strapped tight, his tattooed knuckles flexing, both watching like hawks. The air stank of coolant and 1313's spice-laced rot, the facility's decay pressing in—med-pods crumbling, med-screens flickering beyond the gate.
I grinned, bitter, rotgut's aftertaste lingering from the safe house. "Revan's lapdog, barking for scraps," I said, voice low, egging him on. "Keep whining, Vicrul. Mission's waiting." His mask hissed, eyes unseen but burning, a schoolyard brat too stubborn to quit. The comm buzzed again, Shepard's signal premature—too early for the turrets to be down. What the hell did he want? I let it go, my sabers heavy at my belt, their kyber humming faintly, hungry.
Vicrul stepped closer, scythe's haft scraping durasteel. "You think you're above us? A washed-up relic, stinking of liquor." His voice was a child's taunt, mission stakes the only leash holding us back. Zeht's yellow eyes flicked between us, Tarsk's Force presence a low thrum. 1313's chaos roared—a blaster pop, a speeder's whine, neon's pulse—drowning our words.
"Relic?" I laughed, sharp. "You're a cultist playing dress-up, Vicrul. Revan'd spit on your mask." My hand twitched, not for sabers but to shove his smug face, though I held back. The comm crackled again, louder, Shepard's voice insistent. I sighed, keying it, my voice clipped. "What, Shepard? There's no way you've cleared your way to the command center."
His reply was somber, heavy, cutting through 1313's din like a vibroblade. "It's Talis… he's here... and uh, not looking so good." The words hit like a slug, my breath catching, the safe house flashing—Talis's cigar curling, his gruff laugh as we shared rotgut years back, Juno's smile lighting the room, hope in our Rebel hearts before Fett's blaster stole her. Talis, a shadow from that past, a brother on the edge of comradery, now on the verge of becoming an unknown. Another one, lost while this universe took everything—Juno, Sera, now him. Rage boiled, a red haze drowning Vicrul's taunts, his mask a blur, an annoyance I didn't need.
My sabers snapped to life, white-blue blades flaring unstable kyber plasma in an underhand grip, their hum a scream in the dark. "Kriff waiting," I growled, shoving past Vicrul, my shoulder slamming his armor. I strode to the doors, boots crunching ash, authority in every step, destiny in my glare, 1313's neon roar fading. The universe owed me blood, and I'd carve it from the Legion's bones.
A sniper's shot cracked, a blaster bolt searing my cheek, the flesh charring, pain a hot knife inches from peace—another theft by this cursed galaxy. I didn't flinch, sabers humming, the burn a fuel to my rage. Alarms wailed, red lights strobing, the facility waking like a beast. Vicrul roared, rushing in, his scythe swinging, Zeht's axes glinting, Tarsk's Force choke crushing a guard's throat, cartilage snapping. The doors shuddered, PROXY's comm chirping, "Master, your subtlety is, as ever, unmatched—I'm accelerating the facility hack!" The gate groaned open, revealing the main hall—a durasteel slaughterhouse, med-pods shattered, med-screens flickering, coolant vapor hissing.
Legion troops poured out, numbers halved by Shepard's efforts, E-Webs blazing, bolts scorching durasteel. A guard's Force push slamming Tarsk back. A commander emerged, vibro-spear sparking, his Force push a gale, eyes glowing with Sith zeal. I charged, sabers searing flesh, a trooper's arm charred, his scream cut short as my blade carved his chest, cauterized ruin steaming. Vicrul's scythe sprayed blood, cleaving a neck. Zeht's axes hacked limbs, her force push tossing a guard into a med-pod nearby. Tarsk's choke crushed another, eyes bulging, throat collapsing.
Shepard's comm roared, "Marek, what the hell!" His voice was fury, edged with desperation—Talis's life on the line. I ignored it, sabers a blur, another trooper's gut seared, his body crumpling. 1313's din—swoop gangs, refugee screams—faded, the facility's chaos my world. Blood slicked the floor, durasteel buckled under E-Web blasts, another Force-user's debris grazed my arm, pain fueling rage. I advanced, seek and destroy, the Knights at my back, Vicrul's scythe a whirlwind, Zeht's axes relentless.
Rage burned, Talis's face—cigar curling, Juno laughing, hope long dead—driving each swing. Another trooper fell, my saber searing his spine, steam rising. The commander lunged, vibro-spear sparking, his Force push shoving me back, durasteel screeching. I countered, hurling a med-pod with the Force, crushing his leg, blood pooling. Zeht's axe took his arm, Vicrul's scythe his head. The Legion faltered, but more came, Force-users tossing debris, E-Webs roaring.
Deep in the facility, corridors narrowing, destruction and carnage in my wake, my rage cooled, a flicker of clarity piercing the haze. Shepard's comm crackled again, his voice sharp, "Marek, get your head in the game!" I paused, sabers humming, blood and ash thick, 1313's neon pulse faint through shattered walls. Vicrul panted, scythe dripping, Zeht's axes red, Tarsk's knuckles bruised. The Legion's remnants rallied, but we'd carved deep, seek and destroy our only truth. Talis's ghost lingered, another loss, but Shepard's voice grounded me, the mission not yet done.
A trembling hand hit the comm, its buzz buried in the stench of blood and ash, slaughter's truth heavy as 1313's neon roar.
My breath caught, the cell's stench—blood, piss, despair—choking my lungs as I crouched over Talis, his broken form chained to the durasteel wall. Alarms wailed, red strobes pulsing through the Old Med-Tech Facility's gloom, Legion patrols stirring in the corridors. Talis's left hand was gone, a ragged stump oozing, his face a nightmare: one eye a blackened socket, burns peeling his cheeks, cuts weeping red, ribs cracked, each gasp a rasp. His jacket hung in shreds, blood pooling under flickering med-screens. 1313's chaos—swoop engines snarling, refugee shouts, a blaster pop—bled through breached walls, masking our steps but not the dread in my gut. Dorn flanked left, sniper rifle steady, Syln right, vibro-blades gleaming, their eyes sharp as we braced for the waking beast.
"You're one of them," Talis croaked, voice raw, barely conscious, his good eye wild. "Just end it already!" His plea was a knife, real, carved from torture's depths, his body trembling against the chains.
"No chance, Talis," I growled, omni-tool flaring. I ripped a medi-gel canister from my N7 armor, its blue nanites hissing as I sprayed it over his stump and burns. The gel foamed, clotting blood, nanites glowing faintly, his pain spiking with a choked scream. "You're not dying on me." My hands shook, alarms deafening, the gel's anesthetic dulling his gasps, stabilizing enough to move.
Talis thrashed, chains rattling, mistaking me for a Legion torturer. "Get off!" he rasped, until his eye locked on my N7 insignia, the red-white glinting in the strobe. His trembling eased, trust flickering, voice a whisper. "Shepard… kriff, it's you." He sagged, lucid but fading, my arm hauling him up as I cut the chains with my omni-blade, its orange edge sizzling through durasteel.
"Dorn, Syln, clear the way," I snapped, slinging Talis's arm over my shoulder, his weight dragging, blood slicking my armor. Dorn's rifle coughed, a patrol's skull crunching, blood misting the corridor. Syln's blades carved a throat, blood spraying, her movements a ghost's. 1313's din—speeders whining, neon holo-billboards humming—covered their kills, but more boots echoed, the facility waking. We moved, Talis stumbling, his gasps ragged, Dorn and Syln shadows at my back, blasters and blades bloodied as we pushed to the command center.
The center loomed, a makeshift Legion's hub, durasteel walls lined with Sith looking relics—kyber altars pulsing red, runed consoles flickering, E-Web wreckage smoldering from Galen's slaughter. Bodies littered the floor, med-pods shattered, coolant pipes hissing vapor. Talis, clearer now, snatched a blaster from a Legion trooper Dorn had executed. "Time I get off the bench," Talis rasped, gripping the blaster, his eye burning with defiance, joined whether he liked it or not.
I knelt at a holo-terminal, omni-tool blazing, its ultra-high tech slicing through Sith Eternal encryption like a hot knife. The system yielded, turrets offline, defenses dead. A scan pinpointed the Legion's remnants—Around 10 troops, General Aorran, Force-sensitive, holed up in a sublevel. I keyed the comm. "Galen, it's Shepard. Turrets down, last of the Legion is at sublevel three, their general advancing with 'em. Move in, I'd like a word with him."
A crimson saber flared, piercing Syln's chest, blood bubbling, her charge pack sparking as she crumpled, dead before she hit the floor. A Sith Eternal Darth loomed, draped in the blackest robes of obsidian, scarred visage twisted, Sith tattoos across his face glowing under his hood, his presence thick with venom. Dorn spun, rifle raised, but the Darth's Force push hurled him through a viewport, glass shattering, his scream fading into 1313's neon wail. Talis roared, "You took my hand, you bastard!" his blaster firing, shots wild, his broken body lurching, fueled by torture's raw trauma. The Darth's Force choke lifted him, neck bones cracking, Talis's blaster clattering on the ground.
My biotics surged, a shockwave crashing like a tidal wave, slamming the Darth against a kyber altar, Talis dropping, gasping. My omni-blade snapping to life, its edge glowing orange. "Bad day to be a Sith, huh?" voice dry, defiance masking the dread. The Darth rose, crimson saber humming, yellow eyes blazing. "Insects like you will be crushed by the Emperor," he spat, venom dripping.
The duel erupted, his saber a red blur, my omni-blade clashing, sparks flying, its monomolecular edge resisting briefly. A graze seared my chest, armor smoking, pain lancing as I ducked another swing, the saber inches from my throat. 1313's din—swoop gangs, refugee cries—faded, the command center a battlefield of blood and durasteel. I was on the defensive, biotics flaring to block a Force push, my Wraith's thermal slugs were useless against someone that could easily toss them aside like dirt pellets. The Darth's saber slashed, my omni-blade parrying, sparks burning my arm, his strength overwhelming.
Jack's voice echoed, Normandy's training deck, her biotic fury raw: "Power's in your gut, Shepard, not your head!" Instincts flared, my omni-tool snapping, eezo fabricators weaving a monomolecular blade, its orange edge flaring as a biotic warp surged, blue energy crackling like liquid lightning, folding over the blade in a shimmering veil, amplifying its hum to rival the saber's fury. I blocked his strike, blades locking, sparks exploding, vibrations rattling my bones, equal footing, the warp's pulse a living force. The Darth's eyes widened, my shockwave slamming him back, durasteel buckling, a runed console sparking.
The warp flickered, my arm trembling, biotics untested, fading fast. The Darth recovered, Force push straining my stance, saber grazing my shoulder, armor searing, pain a white-hot spike. I countered, biotics crushing his wrist, saber faltering, blood trickling from his nose. He lunged, saber arcing, but I poured everything into a stasis field, biotics screaming, sweat streaming, vision blurring as I held him rigid. His Force resistance pushed back, a gale against my mind, muscles burning, bones aching, every ounce of will locking his scarred form, eyes burning hate. Talis coughed, blaster raised, but I couldn't break focus, stasis trembling, my breath ragged.
Galen barged in, sabers ablaze, reeking of blood and ash, his scarred face pale, eyes locking on Talis's broken form—severed hand, gouged eye, burns weeping under clotted gel. He rushed to Talis kneeling, saber's coming to a quiet stillness, fingers probing for a pulse, weak but there, grief raw in his tightening jaw. "Stay with us, damn it," Galen muttered, hand on Talis's shoulder, 1313's neon scream faint through shattered viewports. I held the stasis, the Darth's gaze a furnace, the command center's relics pulsing, the facility ours.
My boots crunched on blood-slick durasteel, the Old Med-Tech Facility's command center a graveyard of Revan Legion's ruin. Shattered med-pods leaned like broken tombs, coolant pipes hissed vapor, and Sith Eternal relics—kyber altars pulsing red, runed consoles flickering—cast jagged shadows under stuttering lights. The Sith Eternal Darth knelt, cortosis-laced cuffs snapping tight around his wrists, their dull fibers glinting, his crimson saber confiscated by Galen. Blood oozed from his scarred wrists, his tattooed face twisting with hate, yellow eyes burning as he strained, the cuffs' energy-dampening weight crushing his Force push to a faint tremor. I checked the restraints, my omni-tool's orange glow steady, its high-tech hum a stranger in this relic-strewn hell. Level 1313's din—holo-billboards humming, refugees screaming in the slums—filtered through breached walls, a fading echo as the battle's heat shimmered to ash.
Vicrul's voice cut through the comm, gritty, raw, no trace of his usual pomp. "Facility's locked down, Shepard. Their general in chains, bleeding but breathing." His words carried the weight of a man who'd carved his victory, another trophy in this blood-soaked war. I nodded, though he couldn't see, my chest tight from the cost—Syln's body cooling, Dorn's scream lost to 1313's neon wail, Talis's fading pulse.
I turned, fishing for intel, my Wraith shotgun slung, omni-tool scanning the command center's wreckage. E-Web scorch marks blackened the walls, bodies of Legion troops lay twisted, their pendants, now recognized as Sith Eternal, glinting like dead stars. Something caught my eye—a console, half-buried under a toppled kyber altar, its obsidian surface etched with red runes, pulsing faintly, unlike the dead tech around it. I stepped closer, boots slipping on blood, the air heavy with ozone and ash. My omni-tool flared, its sensors overloading, data streaming too fast—ancient, alien codes, fragmented coordinates, the display flickering before the screen glitched. The runes surged, a deep hum shaking the floor, and the console's platform—an obsidian slab—crackled with red light, like a heart waking.
I leaned in, omni-tool sparking, trying to parse the flood, when a flash of light seared my eyes, vertigo twisting my gut like a mass accelerator misfire. The hum swallowed me, my body yanked through a light of ozone and static. The platform's runes died behind me, the facility's blood and ash gone, 1313's neon roar silenced. Darkness pressed, then relented, my awareness creeping back, slow, heavy, like waking from another dream of the Reaper's grip.
The central chamber loomed like a royal vault, its white-and-gold durasteel soaring to a domed ceiling where holographic glyphs swirled like a captive sea, their tidal patterns shimmering like stormlight trapped in circuits. Arches of frosted durasteel rose like a throne room's spires, their gold conduits weaving tapestries, casting cold light that danced across the polished floor. The air was sterile, humming with a clean, electric pulse, not the spice-laced rot of 1313's slums. Consoles gleamed, their interfaces sleek, familiar, like the Citadel's Presidium, but wrong—conduits pulsed with an energy not quite eezo, glyphs sharper than Liara's shadow broker codes. My heart skipped, hope flickering, the tech singing of home, yet alien, a shadow of my universe.
"Not again," I muttered, voice dry, a dark laugh escaping, "but am I home?" The words hung, unanswered, the chamber's cold light swallowing them. A sharp pain seared the back of my neck, a jolt like a biotic sting, vision blurring, knees buckling. Blackness rushed in.