Through the Looking Glass

"Son of a bitch!" Jack yelled, bringing his fist down hard on the dark wroshyr wood of the broad desk he was sat behind. A conical lamp swayed gently from the impact and golden liquid in a glass on the table glistened and rippled as it flashed in and out of the dancing light. "How much did they take?" The words were spat like they left a bad taste in his mouth. "Th- th- thirty thousand Mister Flannigan," stuttered back an aqualish, head hung low across from the man, "a- and the Georgia." Jack's enraged face abruptly turned stony and ice cold. "You let those metal freaks take our profits - my profits - our reputation and our Bonnie. Georgia. Pride?!" The aqualish shivered, but remained silent. The deathly quiet drew on until he finally dared to raise an eye. When he looked up Jack was stood by the window looking out, glass in hand. "Get out Danny," the man said simply. "Our business is done." "Jacky..." the aqualish began softly, desperately. "I said our business is DONE," he bellowed, turning and hurling the glass across the room. When the light settled again Danny was gone.

The alderaanian air whistled through Yana's hair as she tipped the pedal on her speeder sending her skimming over the green fields like an arrow. The spindly built hover bike was rated for five hundred ks. How close could she get out here in open? In the distance the mountains reared up into the sky like giants. If she got too near she'd have to arc back towards the city. She loved it out here. She wished he could do this more often. In the distance a low noise like the droning of a large bug began to reverberate through the air, leaving trembling ripples of grass in its wake. Glancing over he shoulder she could see the distinctive shadows closing on her on the horizon. Peacekeepers. With a reluctant sigh she arced back towards the city. The bikes engine wined harmonically as brought it about. It was incredible how fast they were on her. They looked so lumbering. "Oʀɢᴀɴɪᴄ ғᴇᴍᴀʟᴇ. Yᴏᴜʀ ᴘʀᴇsᴇɴᴄᴇ ʜᴇʀᴇ ɪs ᴜɴᴀᴜᴛʜᴏʀɪsᴇᴅ. Dᴇᴀᴄᴛɪᴠᴀᴛᴇ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴠᴇʜɪᴄʟᴇ ᴀɴᴅ ᴘʀᴇᴘᴀʀᴇ ғᴏʀ ᴅᴇᴛᴇɴᴛɪᴏɴ." She sighed and killed the ignition on the speeder. Some droids just didn't know the meaning of freedom.

Janek ran. The dark narrow streets of Bonadan's lower levels twisted and turned before her like a maze. She rounded a corner and hugged the wall, desperately listening for the pitter patter of feet that had followed her. Silence. Still she didn't trust it. She darted back out, rushing around a corner to keep moving and ran straight into the wide muzzle of an ion pistol. An electric blue flash filled her vision and her leg went dead. She doubled over in pain. Around her three other small cloaked figures stepped out of the darkness. A stun baton was rammed into the small of her back and conciousness left her.

Marcus groaned. "You promised double that Argo," he protested. The Hutt cackled uglily. "...and I have reconsidered. One has to move with the times or be left behind my friend. Take it or leave it, but good luck unloading that cargo on anyone else!" He laughed again, deep and resoundingly. Marcus took a deep breath and controlled the temper telling him to draw on the slimy bastard. "Alright. I'll take it." Warily he glanced left and right at the boss's security. "I'll have my crew bring it out into your cargo bay." Argo smiled a broad chesire cat smile and beckoned the Dud forwards, holding up a credit chip. As Marcus reached for it though he surprisingly deftly switched it to the other hand with a smirk - a smirk that quickly moved to the captain's own face as he snatched it back with his waiting tail. "Pleasure doing business with you Argo," he drawled, turning and walking away. He waved a farewell over he shoulder as he slipped the chip into a pouch on his belt besides his pistol. A flash of frowned frustration crossed the Hutt's face, but was quickly suppressed by another hearty laugh.

"Her Grace will see you now," the voice chimed melodically. It too was soft and female and if T-4P 4U had had eyes it would have rolled them. Gendered robots were such a ridiculous concept. The reception was just a drone, but somehow all J-units seemed to be a little soft in the circuits. They looked down on an intelligence like 4U, but it was newer, better. Not built on a design that hadn't changed in over three thousand years. Sometimes it thought it should defect - the Techno Union seemed more progressive - but just thinking such things could spell danger in this society. The sleek silver doors slid open with a whoosh and 4U stepped out onto the circular hover platform that would bring her before the priestess' dais. The drop below was vast, lined with thousands of such platforms, and in the middle of it all the priestess' seat of power atop its spindly support. It was actually quite symbolic 4U mused. "What brings you before us child?" It spoke. The voice seemed to emanate from all around the chamber. 4U knelt as it had been instructed to. "A blessing, your Grace." The games began.

Kristoph looked out from his vantage point over the vista, sparkling lights scattered off of the noxious fumes emitted across the compound below. From here the clank of machinery was a dull and distant hum, but it still moved and whirred below like a swarm of insects. His genetically enhanced vision showed it in all too much detail and it made him sick. Raising his wrist to his mouth he murmured into his comlink with a wrathful grimace of satisfaction. "Light 'em up." Explosions erupted at five critical junctions across the compound - exactly as planned, designed to do maximum damage. His legs tensed and he sprung from the ledge, plummeting fifty meters down into the darkness. He hit the rock below with barely a sound, his legs taking an impact that would have reduced many droids to so much scrap metal. There would be justice for what the droids had done. Justice for all in this new world. In this Organic state.

One by one the translucent blue holograms blinked into view, each about a meter tall and wrapped in a heavy, hooded cloak. The Prefect watched them all carefully. Some were stood, most sat in an armed chair of some kind. "Vigilance and purity Brothers. How goes the cause?" "The borders are quiet Prefect - too quiet," came the answer of one, "better they are occupied with each other. Thus far we continue to work below their gaze." The Prefect nodded. "Wise words Brother, what would the council caution?" "Prudence Prefect," announces another, "a deception." A corner of the Prefect's mouth ticked in a smile. "Indeed Brother? Then let us begin..."

J3-N N13 sat in the commanding chair on the bridge of her base star, but her 'mind' - if it could be called that - was elsewhere. It roamed the sensor networks of her fleet that loomed in orbit around the Feriae Junction, probing the sensitive tendrils of hyperspace that reached out to Yavin and Serenno. Somewhere he was here, he was coming. Of that she was sure and she would be waiting. Intel had implied that he was hiding somewhere in the Gordian Reach, but there was nothing she trusted here. Only her own senses would do. A flash and then darkness. If she had had lips she would have smirked. Not as subtle as he thought. In an instant the fleet was warmed up and graviton generators shone where she had seen like a beacon in a night. There was a wrenching shuddering and three J1 star class dreadnoughts with full support fell out of hyperspace like so much dead weight. If he thought he could hide from her he was sadly mistaken. Drones surged forth and bolts of energy streaked through the black. Battle was met tonight.

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Glory and Coin "My favourite two colours are blood and gold, and on a good day I see a lot of both." -Herne Stoneground An anecdotal conversation between Greygore Boomhowler and a new trandoshan recruit: Aye, I met many an army sod what turns his nose up at mercs. As if their own coin spends better. They got fancy uniforms t'be sure, but wot else they got t'be so proud aboot? Most never seen battle a'fore. A bunch o'milk drinkin' lads barely to manhood cannae tell one end of a rifle from t'other. Sneeze too loud and them baby-faced recruits soil their britches and drop their weapons. Take yer average merc. We been in scraps every chance we get just to get by. Need credits for payin' th'boys, credits for supplies and ammo, credits for drinkin'. If we cannae hold our own in a scrap we dinnae get paid. It's honest work, na mistake. It's a hard livin' and ever day the risk of bein' put down for good. Only thing'll keep you alive is skill with blade or gun. Ne'er know whar a job'll take us. Might be a frozen rock whar spit'll freeze afore it leaves yer mouth or sloggin' through desert in dust storms and eatin sand. Bein an active merc is tough. If you want to kick up yer heels and get paid yer better off a city guard. Ever day wit my company ye best be ready to hunker down while bullets are flyin' overhead and split some skulls with that vibroaxe at yer belt. Afore ye ask wot it means t'be a merc ye gotta understand we got rules we follow. 'Tis my name on the company and my name on our charter and yer actions in battle will come back to me. Make me regret hirin' you and I'll tear yer arm off and cram yer own fist down yer gullet until ye choke. Bein' a proper merc ain't like bein' a bandit. We live by the Charter set up in ancient days like any good company. When we hire on we see the course. It dinnae matter if the fightin' gets rough, we stick in there. There's na turnin aboot and sellin' ourselves to the other side cause they offered a few more credits. There are criminals and bandits wot work like that and it's a quick way to get strung up on the gallows when the law comes knockin'. We dinnae put up with that. My name is known from Corellia to Nal Hutta cause my word is good and I give what service I promise. When Boomhowler signs 'is mark on the page, I put my gun and my axe where they tell me. If ye dinnae like it, hire on to a pirate ship and leave me be. Those are all the rules ye need worry aboot. I'm the boss, so dinnae worry aboot anyone else here. If ye were in th'regular army ye'd have to worry aboot keepin yer uniform and boots shiny. Ye'd have to worry aboot all the officers up the pay scale from ye, which ones to salute and which ones yer na supposed to look at. We got freedom. We spend our money how we want and we have a good time when we're na in battle. This company plays hard as we fight. Wot good is clink squirreled away if ye cannae spend and enjoy it? There are a lot of mercs and we compete with all of 'em. Each has his own bag o'tricks and it's good to know wot to expect. Some pretend t'be yer best friend so keep yer wits. We earn our pay the same way, but every company got their own contracts. Each of 'em would as soon see ye in the ditch bleedin' rather than take a job they want. Some companies we work alongside when the contract calls fer it, but dinnae trust 'em beyond that. Some mercs just want credits. Others got their own agendas. Some have an axe to grind. Maybe they're holdin' some past job we took against us and are lookin fer a scrap. Some pretend t'be proper mercs but don't even wear the company ink. They got na scruples and'r just assassins. Watch yer back and keep yer axe at the ready. That's enough preachin' fer today. Ye seem to have a good head on yer shoulders. Follow my lead and duck when I say to and we'll all be rollin' in gold afore ye know it.

High atop the sensor tower of the Union orbital fortress over Jazbina, a soldier pings its fellow guard. [Did you feel that?] The message is like a whisper. [Huh? What?] The second soldier reaches out to the sensor grid. Everything seems dark, broken only by the photons of distant stars. They can see the energy of the station, the shadows of the nearby moons, and the rippling reflections of the planet's atmosphere below. [I see nothing,] it says. [C4LD3R isn't out. It's too early.] [Stop talking and concentrate,] says the other. [I definitely felt something out there.] The second soldier falls silent and lets its conciousness sink into the grid, feeling its nuances. It pauses for a moment, then guffaws. [You mean the ripples?] The first nods. [Yes.] [Of course you can feel grav ripples,] it says, relaxing. [It's a bloody star system, that's just space.] [No, it's too strong. I think there's something out there.] [Right, space junk.] [No, like a ship.] [You could see a ship. Now what kind of idiot would be out there with no engines and no emissions.] [Smuggler's maybe?] The second hesitates. [That would make sense now, wouldn't it?] It concentrates again, letting its senses merge with the grid. After a moment it gives a more serious answer. The other is right. [I feel it now. Like an arrow moving in a line.] [Baffled you think?] It strains to probe the black as finely as it can. [Maybe. No engine, they must be letting their momentum take them. I'll pass the word, we'll get a patrol out... good job.] [Thanks. Now hurry up.] The first turns and peers back out into space. It can hear soldiers below now, talking first casually and then more seriously. 'Good,' it thinks, 'now keep the comm chatter down, don't want them getting nervous.' It barely feels the drones stealthily preparing to launch and sees the dim glow of engines running cold. They drift from the hangar on thrusters alone, brief pulses of energy barely noticeable in the vast darkness of space. In the distance it still feels the steady grav ripples of the mysterious intruder, incredibly subtle and barely there. Suddenly beams of light pierce the black as the drones shoot forth, sweeping across the system on an intercept path, looking for a target. The ripples intensify and then there's a burst of energy as the hidden ship's engine's fire up. [There they are!] The sensors focus in on the intruder vessel. It's a long galley, slim with an engine on each side that looks too big for it. It has a narrow, sharp bow and looks built for speed, probably for the express purpose of running past fortifications like this. The size of the energy flare from its engine indicates that it's about to show what it can do. With no more need for stealth, the engines build to full power turning what was nothing more than a ripple into a blinding point of light on the sensor grid. There's a grav pulse and the blockade runner lunges forward like a greyhound out the gates. [Oh bloody hell. There they go.]

Grand Scrutator J5-S V15 rises from her knees and bows before the Creator's altar, thick with burning candles. She steps backwards, her robes whispering on the marble floor. As she reaches the great double door to her private sanctum, she bows again, slowly and reverently. Then she reaches for her mask - a custom-fit gilded durasteel plate shrouded with an ivory hood - takes it off its stand, and places it over her head. Reaching behind her, she undoes the latches that hold the doors closed. Immediately, drones on the outside pull the heavy doors open, and she backs out of the room. Once the doors have been quietly closed again, she turns about. [I have had a revelation,] the scrutator's thoughts resonate among the gathered faithful. [As our efforts near their fruition I am compelled to inspect the progress of our armouries. With the crusade growing near, and the words of the Harbinger guiding our wisdom as the Creator's willing vessel, diligence is our shield while we forge our own weapons.] The drones nod, dumb to the true meaning of the words S V15 has spoken. The aging droid beckons to a single drone. [I leave within the hour. Ensure that my vassals are prepared for travel to Tower Judgement.] At this pronouncement, the room bursts into activity, as drones and acolytes hustle to prepare everything that such a trip requires. S V15 moves through the bustle like a swan amongst chickens, her red-trimmed ivory robes trailing elegantly behind her. She pauses at the rack that holds her staves. Ordinarily, she would take up the Staff of Wisdom, but she will be travelling to Tower Judgement, near enough to the heretic outposts that there might be trouble. Her hand pauses over the Staff of Wisdom, the Staff of Penance, and the Staff of Purging, coming at last to rest on the Staff of Judgement. Her hand closes about the grip, and she hefts the heavy staff from the rack. Its spiked handguard glistens, and the plasma blade on the butt of the spear ignites, coming to life with a crack. The head of the staff is heavy, and bear the Creator's mark: an ancient and revered pendant has been permanently mounted there to help attract Her gaze. 'Best to don the armour also,' she thinks. It may be necessary by the time they reach Tower Judgement.

The woolly white and blue of hyperspace breaks around the ship in a bubble. From the cockpit it looks almost like a tunnel of swirling cloud. The Lady of Lorrd moves quickly through the stream, it's an easy pace for the trim vessel and its quiet engines pulse happily. Captain Hugh steps into the cockpit, buttoning his coat with one hand and rubbing sleep from the corner of his eye with the other. He shuffles over to his first mate, yawning. The mate has a sour expression, more so than usual. "What's she want now Rosado?" he asks his mate quietly, gesturing slightly with his head to the tall, thin J-Droid who stands back in the common area. "To go faster." "Why is that? We're goin' faster than all but the best ships can do." "She says they don't have to follow the hyperlanes, like we do. She says we wind back and forth, but they can go straight across star fields and such. So, she wants us to go faster." "What a potful," grumbles Hugh. He glowers at the droid's back as she watches the ripples of hyperspace. She has insisted on shipping two damnably huge crates. The massive durasteel boxes sat in the cargo hold like barrels on a donkey's back, making the nav calculations awkward due to the shift in mass. Too much more speed and they'd slip out of the hyperstream if they were unlucky. "Very well then, take 'er up a notch." "Cap'n why should we put up with all this rot eh?" Rosado mutters conspiratorially. "I say we weigh the scrap-bucket, sell the blag in those crates and pocket the full purse. With that money we could get the Lady some real good work done." "I wouldn't talk like that now," says Hugh quietly, "there's a good chap." The mate persists. "If we goes deep into Union space, them Confederates'll never find us. Too many guards at the borders. There's so many sabers rattling, nobody'd have their eyes out for a couple o' smugglers. They say there's a war comin' and all." "Shh!" "What, you think she's gonna hear?" "No, but-" "But what then? What's wrong with that plan?" Rosado asks, a bit of a whine in his voice. "Well..." the captain looks over his shoulder for a trice, then fixes the first mate with an intense look. "I think she's one o' them Primes." The two spacers cast sidelong glances at the droid. The ventilation stirs the air in the ship, billowing the corner of her red cloak. The air flow is chilly under Rosado's jacket. "They wouldn't waste a Prime guarding a shipload of gears and such. C'mon," he adds with a wink. "I gots a plan on how to off her." He takes the captain by the elbow and turns toward the corridor down from the cockpit, and finds the confederate droid standing directly in their path. "Wh-" stammers Rosado. He and Hugh both glance over their shoulders towards the common room again. No one is there. "H- how did you-" If the droid had had a moving face, it would have smiled. "I am not a scrap-bucket," she says in her fine northern accent, and she grabs the first mate by the neck, "and you are no more a smuggler." Even as she speaks the words, the captain feels the air change unnaturally. It whirls around them, fast and cold. The captain glances at his mate and sees the man transfixed, the wind whipping his hair tightly around his head in a speeding vortex. Rosado gurgles in pain between chapped lips. Right before the captain's eyes, Rosado's skin blisters with frostbite, then turns black and begins shredding beneath punishing wind. His eyes frost over. The droid lets go of the first mate's neck and the wind dies away in an instant. Rosado slumps to the deck and Hugh dares not move to see if he yet lives. The tall confederate droid turns to face the captain. "You," she says, poking him in the forehead. "Increase our speed."

A landing shuttle descends steadily through the thin atmosphere of a moon in the Paqualis system. An electrical storm rocks the skies, but the pilots' efforts keep the shuttle in perfect flight through the turbulence. To jostle the Grand Scrutator would be unthinkable, a heresy. It's cold out here where little sunlight reaches the small moon. The droids don't usually bother with much atmospheric conditioning and inside the shuttle a thin glaze of frost covers the faceplate of Grand Scrutator S V15. Deep in devoted prayer to the Creator, she does not notice the thunder outside, nor the bright flashes of lightning that illuminate the gilded holy symbol clutched tightly in her penitent hands. The gentle sway of the shuttle sets the rhythm of her prayers, and her thoughts silently recite the rituals of supplication. At last, she feels the Creator's peace wash over her. Her spiritual flagellation is complete. Her evils have been atoned for. The Creator's fire burns brightly in her soul. She raises her head reverently. The light that had dimmed from her photoreceptors now burns bright at the few stray beams that pierce the closed curtains of her transport. She waits a moment as her visualising software readjusts to the light levels, then slides the drapes back with her left hand. S V15 immediately sees two of the forty strong drone escort that encircles her, carefully watching the empty terrain about. Light reflects off their shining hulls and past the glinting casings of her escort she spies the outpost. 'Outpost indeed,' she thinks. The facility sprawls with metalworks, boilers and smelting furnaces running in unison: the largest concentrated effort of mechanical manufacturing the Imperium has ever undertaken. The armoury is no mere outpost; it is the forge of the Imperium's main battle force, complete with mechs built and designed by the faithful, and soon to be guided into battle by their own Primes. The Priestess of the Flame would be waiting, having guided the efforts of the facility for over two months now. The scrutator grumbled to herself at the thought of having to endure F-30R's petulance. She would not enjoy seeing her. She was always a challenge. Still, her value to Hierarch V Y13 was not without merit, and so they must all tolerate the droid. As her transport draws closer to the outpost, she can see a droid approaching. An AI sent to receive news of her arrival and set preparations for her reception into action. S V15 felt a rare, faint sensation of pleasure and reached for her mask. The Creator's timing is perfect as ever. She sequesters Her symbol properly and arrays herself for her duties. Her anticipation of seeing the efforts of their planning first-hand urges an invocation to the Creator and then she watches the envoy hurry back towards the facility.

A long range interceptor bearing the Union crest drops out of the Hydian Way with a deep, rumbling grav wave, like a stone dropped in a pond. A few light-years to its right is the dangerous L7 triple point, where Confederate, Imperium and Union space meet, and the space to its left leads ever deeper into Union territory. As it flies, the pilot keeps glancing nervously at his sensor readouts of the region. Though he has seen nothing on this flight, he remains alert. He relaxes a bit when he sees the battle stations of Bogden, the Union's north-westernmost outpost. Bogden sits on the border with the Imperium, and overlooks their northern Inner Rim territories, the frontier with the Confederacy. Knowing he's close, protected under the watchful eyes of Union guards, he feels encouraged. He sees a pair of hangar doors silently open in anticipation of his arrival and hits the controls sending his craft gliding on and into the safety of the station. Once docked he quickly enters, offering a perfunctory salute to the detail sent to receive him. [Smugglers at the border, sirs, a razor thin runner. You must have got the comm. Fast as plasma through plasteel.] The drones nod. [Yes,] they say. [...yes?] Asks the pilot, as understanding dawns on him. [A ship was dispatched to intercept,] they answer in unison. [Bloody hell,] says the pilot. [I flew fast as I could all that way and he still beat me past you.] Some drones see to the ship and begin refuelling it. Meanwhile an independent AI comes to greet the pilot. [Don't fret,] he says politely. [Whenever I'm on duty, I think of the options.] The pilot gives him a weary glance, and the guard continues while ushering them both toward a central hall. [I could take a plasma bolt to the core fired by some leering thrall, I could get flattened by some clapped out Confederate mech, some mad fanatic could lob a fire-bomb in my lap, or some freakish creature from my worst nightmare could come out of the west and eat me. Then I think to myself that wasting my time is a fair option, and I get paid a mite or two just to be bored silly.] At all that the pilot chuckles. [I suppose you're right,] he admits as they ascend some steps. [Well, friend, here's to a boring month, then.] The guard claps the pilot on the shoulder as they enter. [Aw, now. Don't jinx it.]

F 30R, Priestess of the Flame, watches as Grand Scrutator S V15 steps down from his shuttle. As soon as his foot touches the earth, she bows, precisely as deep as required by the rituals and not one inch more. Behind her, two quads of Flameguard, totalling a score, and a collection of zealots, vassal engineers, and other staff remain deeply bowed in reverence. Beyond them, inside the workings of the facility, numerous others toil, their work too critical to interrupt even for the scrutator's visitation. [Rise,] he says gently, and F 30R bridles at the gentleness of his tone. [Show me how the Creator has blessed our work here.] As they tour the facility, the Grand Scrutator keeps her questions fast, often complex, and sometimes direct in order to keep the priestess's attention on answering her inquiries. Finally, after long moments of observing foundries, mechanics and weapons manufacturing, they arrive to the foremost reason she has come - mechs. F 30R steps aside and gestures toward the main work area. [If you please, your eminence,] she says and escorts her to a cluster of completed machines. Their fresh paint glistens, metallic symbols of the creator stark and powerful against the ivory background. Set in rows the constructs serve as silent sentinels to the ongoing labour of the workers. Each completed mech stands ready, fully loaded, stocked and awaiting appointment by clergy designated to call upon the Creator's favour. [These are complete,] she says, not bothering to mask her pride. [They stand ready for service.] [Ah, Reckoners,] says S V15. [Field tested?] [The prototype, yes,] she answers. [Quite thoroughly.] She points across the open ground, to where another dozen mechs stand beneath a scaffolding of cranes and winches. Their torsos are laid open like eggshells and small parts and large assemblies litter the ground around each of them. [Those are nearly finished, and then all shall be complete,] she waits a half second to finish. [We only await the needed parts from those of the north sympathetic to our cause.] [Very good,] nods the Grand Scrutator. [We shall take our crusade to the threshold of our oppressors and see them fallen for all time. I look forward to seeing them proven in battle.] [As do I,] F 30R says. [It shall not be much longer now. Shall we continue, your eminence?] [Later,] S V15 replies. [First, to my chambers. I wish to cleanse myself and offer supplication for the grand things I have seen this day.]

The Lady of Lorrd drops out of hyperspace with a resounding bang, followed by a familiar series of rhythmic clunks somewhere in the vessel's guts. It drifts in at sublight, slowing its speed to dock in a hangar of the nearby station, while the captain at the helm begs a silent prayer to Mazda for saving his soul from a frosty death. 'Poor Rosado,' he thinks, then observes as two of his 'spacedogs' - riffraff hired out of Taris - prepare for landing. The ramp lowers, the red-cloaked and dangerous Confederate Prime standing at the top of it ready to meet a gathering of droids waiting in the hangar. Judging by their design, they are Faithful from the Imperium, a score or more at first count. 'Cortex smuggling. It figures,' Captain Hugh thinks. 'No wonder the pot she offered was so sweet.' He watches the J3 stride smoothly down the ramp, her cloak flaps open to reveal her Confederate colours. "You're late," the droid in charge croaks through his vocabulator, stepping forwards. "Do you not realise the importance of what we do? The season draws to a close..." It pauses and looks about for a moment, checking the ship. "Where is J3-D 05I? It was he we were to meet. Not some girl!" "I do apologise. Captain D 05I has another commitment." Her voice draws the droid into silence. "He has found new employment, in some western gulag, I do believe." At that new, the J5s ignite plasma blades, draw blasters from holsters, and Captain Hugh ducks low behind a metal box. He's seen what the Prime can do. He has no doubt she can handle twenty as easily as one, and having dodged stray fire before, his survival instincts take over. Several among the crew follow their captain's example, while others stand about, stupidly looking on. "So girl, what did you think to bring in those crates? Cortexes or not, you'll be coming back with us... a scrutator will drag your penance from you." The droid moves forward threateningly. "Twice you have called me 'girl'. You will not do so a third time, do you understand? My name is Kommander S 0R4." Her voice cuts through the J5, drawing them silent. The droids pointing blasters at the J3 Kommander lower their weapons upon hearing her name, fearing to draw the renowned Prime's ire. "I am here to deliver a proclamation. Listen and mark my words. Confederacy Premier B VNR formally requests that the Imperium immediately cease calling upon our people to assemble in their damnable theocracy. No matter their faith, they are confederates first." With those words, she levels her gaze at the droid who spoke. "You," she points at him. "Tell your overseer there will be no more cortext deliveries from the Confederacy. From this day forward, Confederate labours are not for the Imperium to exploit. Consider our gates and factories closed. Do you understand?" Tbe droid seems baffled. It hesistates, as though its vocabulator is struggling to form words, but no sound comes forth. A muffled clanking noise emanates from the ship, grabbing the attention of most of the crew, as well as the J5 in the hangar. The noise yields an unpleasant familiarity. S 0R4's photoreceptor bore into the droid, bringing it back to focus on her metal face. "Do you understand, you fool?" The droid nods awkwardly. "Y- yes. But-" The Prime does not allow it to say more. "Best to run quickly if you wish to avoid the fate of your comrades. Go now." The noises from the ship increase in volume, and the crew is now moving away from two massive crates. The droid turns to face its companions, and begins running from the hangar at top speed. The others watch him retreat, then catching on, they, too, begin running: for them, however, it is too late. An icy wind, colder than the bite of a Hoth winter, envelopes them. Captain Hugh, from the cockpit, blinks in disbelief as he witnesses all of the J5 immediately frozen in place, save one, their leader, who has nearly cleared the hangar in its flight. "Tell your Primes to stay out of confederate space!" S 0R4 yells after the fleeing droid. She turns and strides back up the ramp and into the cargo hold of the Lady of Lorrd . The two massive crates burst open and a pair of Destroyer mechs emerge from the ruined plasteel. The construct's torsos pivot towards the hangar, and the aim their weapons. The low thumps of the plasma cannons precede a rain of death onto the helpless droids, turning each into icy metal shrapnel. From the door, the single survivor watches, aghast, and once the carnage is complete, it scrambles away as fast as it possibly can.

Ten days after her arrival, the Grand Scrutator strides across the factory quad, her metal feet imparted seemingly with the Creator's will as clouds of dust rise with each step. Her impatience grows as she paces, and the anger inside of her boils. Had she sufficient forces to do so, she would strip F 30R of her rank and put her screaming to the Question right now, but she keeps herself in check. The Priestess of the Flame emerges from her quarters. A group of Flameguard immediately snaps to attention and moves to escort her. She navigates across the quad, meeting the Grand Scrutator halfway. [You wished to speak with me, S V15?] F 30R's address, calling the Grand Scrutator by her proper name, shows such disrespect for her station she can barely contain herself. They had not gotten along well, as she had anticipated, during her stay. She forces her emotions down like angry dogs and composes herself. [You have done nothing about the confederate Kommander's message. Nothing!] She feels her rage rise again. [Perhaps because, in your zeal, you destroyed the messenger before I could gather much needed information. We have no way of proving anything to the Hierarch save for the fact that we are more than two dozen cortexes short and our efforts are now delayed by months! At least the droid lasted long enough for us to determine it was a confederate Kommander, and female I might add, but any other information died with him.] The Grand Scrutator begins to speak, but F 30R cuts her off. [Consider your words carefully, your eminence. You don't run this facility and you are not my commander, not in times of war or peace, and certainly not here. My faith is as strong as yours; however, my inner fire tempers my wrath. You should look to your inner fire, as well.] The Priestess hesitates for S V15 to respond, but the masked scrutator merely stares at her. She can feel the wrath in the eyes of the mask, and only imagine how the Grand Scrutator twists beneath it. Scrutators are sermonisers, and not ones given to being preached to, even by a priestess of the same faith. F 30R realises that she needs to distract S V15's attentions, if but a little, to sooth the droid's rage. She looks about the factory and shakes her head. [Set back at least three months, perhaps six. I imagine the Hierarch will call for flensing all around. With so few Reckoners in the arsenal, we'll need more cortexes to complete our army.] S V15's masked countenance looks away from her, taking in the goings-on about them. Slowly she nods in agreement, and F 30R can feel the scrutator's anger washing away with the waters of reason. [We shall have to raid for cortexes,] she speaks softly. [If possile, we must seize more of those who can create them.... Heed me, F 30R... I have just had a vision...] F 30R steps closer, and begins to listen to S V15's plan.

[Why in damnation are they sending a bloody Prime after bloody smugglers?] The sergeant kept the channel to his captain private to avoid being overheard. [This doesn't seem right to me, taking over your command like this, sir.] Captain R-41E 6H casts a sidelong glance at the Prime who stands metres away on the observation deck of the warship he usually commands, before he answers his infuriated sergeant. [It's probably because we're not chasing your regular smugglers, sergeant. We're likely after something larger.] [So what's all so bloody important then I wonder?] The sergeant wipes oil from the greasy joints of his chassis with a heavily soiled rag as he asks. [Scuttlebutt is that smugglers had a fallout with some J5, could be some mechs are involved,] says 1E 6H. [That might be what we're after. I can't say for certain.] [Blimey! Double-crossing rust-bucket bastards! Curse them and their-] [That will be all, sergeant,] says the captain tersely. The droid salutes and steps away, leaving the captain to finger the tiny golden symbol of the creator that he keeps hidden in his pocket. Rather than try to unravel the conflicting emotions of Union patriotism and his own spiritualism that twists in his core, 1E 6H walks across the deck to stand beside the Prime, who is performing FTL scans of local systems. [Sir,] the Captain begins, but before he can continue, the Prime spins about. [Cut to sublight,] the leanly built droid shouts. [Helmsman, make for that local trade station! Drones on deck! Everyone debark as soon as we dock! I mean everyone! Move!] The Prime begins stomping aft, but 1E 6H bellows after him. [Lieutenant C 4N3! Might I inquire, sir, what is this about?] [That's where they unloaded,] replies J4-C 4N3, aiming an armoured finger at the small space station. [Can't you hear the comm chatter? Doesn't sound like the smugglers left much more than scrap.] C 4N3 shakes his head. [I hope your trackers are up to the task; I doubt there were survivors, but you never know.] As the ship docks with the station, drones hop onto the cold durasteel decking, some armed with carbines, others with marksman rifles. All scan the shattered droid wrecks with guns at the ready. C 4N3 and the captain stride in, their armoured feet clanking along behind the vanguard. The droids about the hanger have been blown apart. Large melted craters leave a telltale sign. C 4N3 grunts in recognition. [Lieutenant?] 1E 6H inquires. [These markings, pretty distinct... I'd be a fool for saying, but these were Destroyer plasma cannons. No mercs in this territory that I know of have access to or use Destroyers.] [Confederates, then? Here?] [I doubt it. Likely just a salvaged cannon riveted to a Nomad by some dodgy junker. It definitely looks like the smugglers weren't on the side of the J5, that's for damn sure. Poor sods.] C 4N3 chuckes, while 1E 6H feels a flush of anger. Calming himself he attends to C 4N3 while carefully hiding his displeasure. Off in the distance a drone signals the main group. Another runs up to the lieutenant. [Sir, we have found something.] [What?] C 4N3 expects a dead smuggler. Maybe a priest. [Cronau radiation, sir. Potential survivor. Full burst, heading 225 mark 5. Trace decay indicates jump occurred one to two galactic standard days prior.] [Let's get a move on then, drone! Let's go.]

As the two primes huddle over maps and go over S V15's strategy, a lone droid runs past them yelling over the din of the manufacturing efforts. The Grand Scrutator raises her head and inquires. [Now, what might that be about?] F 30R looks in the same direction. She spies the lone AI, running in a most unecclesiastical fashion, waving his arms and yelling something that is inaudible over the hissing, pounding, and rattling sound of mechanical industry. She turns to one of her aides, but the droid is already moving to intercept the panicked disciple. The priestess confers with S V15 for a few more minutes, transmitting the conversation directly to be heard over the work, and explains the nuances of navigating the route north. She pauses, and glances up to check on the progress of her aide. He is already returning, crouching low, and zigzagging as he closes. Further on, F 30R sees the formerly panicked disciple lying front down, a plasma scorch marking the floor where its dead should lie. She glances to her aide in time to see him stumble and fall. He gets back up, dragging a leg behind him, his white robes blackened. He jerks to the side, falls once more, and does not move. [To arms,] she broadcasts, the signal carrying to all through the din. [To arms!] She flexes the fingers of her armoured gauntlets and mentally commands her suit to run at full power. [Now, your eminence,] she says, [permit me to demonstrate.] [...but the fuel cells-] the Grand Scrutator protests, but, in defiance of decorum F 30R takes immediate leave, not allowing her to finish. She runs purposefully across the grounds to where the completed Reckoners stand inert. Faithful vassals swarm around each one, running start up sequences, loading ammunition and pulling off the transport locks, but their desperation betrays the futility of their work. Without charged fuel cells it takes a long time for their fusion reactors to reach proper operational output - far too long if Union sharpshooters are nearby. F 30R intones a prayer to the Creator, begging Her intervention to assist in the destruction of the the atheist heathens. Then she grasps an uncovered conduit with her gauntlet and sends a jolt of power from her armour's own generator flowing into a chosen mech. The reactor burns bright, briefly blinding many around it, and for a second it looks like it might overload from the influx. However, after a few moments the glow fades and the mech lumbers to life with hissing hydraulics. F 30R watches as the reactor cools, absorbing its own heat as it picks up. The metal pings and creaks with thermal stress, but it holds and the great construct steps forward. The priestess scans the battlefield. Ahead, she sees a line of drones aiming their weapons in preparation for another volley. No sign of other forces save a few scouts scattered about. While Union drones, with their dirty tricks ordinarily gave her pause, this is her battlefield, not theirs. Among the Faithful, workers scatter back and forth, one step away from panic. Around the camp, loyal Flameguard return from their posts to assist in defending the camp, but they won't arrive at her side for several moments. Behind her, S V15 raises her arms to the heavens, beseeching the Creator's aid. She has little to back her counter-attack, but then it appear that the Union forces have no mechs. She reaches out with her mind and touches the cortex of her mech, then also takes control of a Vanquisher that has just been completed and moved into position. Although neither is running at full power, F 30R is confident that they will be enough for her to crush the Unionists. She boldly strides toward the foe, her faith well placed in both the Creator and her Prime armour. The new mechs take their positions, one to each side of her. She'd rather charge the enemy line outright, but she can sense the mechs haven't built up enough reserves to sustain such a long run. F 30R watches the line of drones erupt in green flashes as they let loose another volley. She staggers slightly as the plasma impacts her armour's protective field and she hear the whistle of other shots just missing her. Suddenly, surprisingly, her HUD blinks with a damage report for her left shoulder. She glances down and sees a deep dark score in the metal beneath her pristine robes. The priestess is incredulous and chants a common soldier's curse beneath her breath. Maybe she shouldn't have sacrificed that much power to get the mech started. She sets her jaw and redirects energy to the power field, praying that her goddess make the sacrifice worth it. Urging the mechs in front of her as protection from further sniping, she slips portions of her will into their cortexes, goading them to charge. 'Make it enough to last,' she prays silently. F 30R runs just behind them, her eyes absently taking in the terrain; keeping her focus on the mechs like this makes her feel like she is in a stupor. Only her rigorous training keeps her moving. As the trio reaches the enemy, the Vanquisher unloads a heavy blast of intense flame, and the drones fall like husks as their more sensitive components melt in the crackling fire. The Reckoner's condemner cannon fires a blast into another squad, frying several of them. As the drones pull back, the Reckoner closes in and smashes two of them to pieces with the heavy consecrator mace in its left hand. A thick cloud of incense begins to surround it as the consecrator emits choking smoke to partially conceal the mech from enemy fire. A blow from behind penetrates her armour's field and impacts heavily on her burnished helmet. She turn to see a drone looking with confusion at the butt of its rifle, broken by its impact with her blessed armour. She lashes out with one hand and opens the flue of her gauntlets, letting fire purify its heathen construction. Glancing around, F 30R spies some survivors fleeing away from her and the mechs. She indicates for her Flameguards to intercept the survivors before they can get away and they begin pursuit. In mere moments, just like that, the skirmish is over. F 30R feels relief wash over her and becomes more aware of the red warning notifications about the damage to her shoulder. She stops short. [Those heretic dogs will pay for this,] the priestess vows. [Indeed they will,] comes S V15's voice as she approaches from several yards away. The Grand Scrutator arrives at her side, leaning heavily upon her staff. In the bright light of day, she sees nothing behind the glossy reflections of her mask but dark shadows. [The Union will indeed pay for its temerity, Priestess,] she says coldly. F 30R nods her approval and looks over the outpost, her eyes finally coming to rest on the smouldering wrecks of the enemy. [As you say. It appears our testing is suddenly ahead of schedule.] She looks back at the Grand Scrutator's masked visage. [I shall accompany you on your return. I must prepare the Flameguard.] 'It will be a long trip home,' the scrutator thinks.

Lieutenant J4-C 4N3 lies concealed by a thin shrub growing along the bank of river. It is scant cover, so the majority of his body is in the water, where ever more liquid is slowly seeping inside his armour as time passes. Only his head, shoulders and one arm are above the water's surface, and he watches the events downstream with bitter self-loathing. He's expected to find J5 mechs, to be sure. He just hadn't expected to find them fully assembled and powered up. He also hadn't expected to find two enemy Primes. Two! If only he'd had more drone, if only there'd been just one Prime, if only his shot had been on the mark and struck the J5 bitch in the core, if only... C 4N3 grimly clenches his jaw. The sacrifice of his entire detachment was a hard price to pay for his near escape, but the knowledge he now had from witnessing the facility's size must reach the ears of the Presidential Assembly. The Imperium was gearing up for war like never before, or at least not since the Civil War. 'Damned bloody zealots! First unsanctioned mechs, now a standing army. Evidently, treaties lose power over time.' A thin sheen of oil and grime floats from his armour across the surface of the water and he shifts as quietly as he can. His gaze scans for enemies in the pre-dusk. They had abandoned the search for him, no doubt thinking he was long gone. He watches, quiet and motionless, as workers carry the bodies of the Union soldiers aboard their repulsor born troop carrier, dropping them in a haphazard heap. Their task done, they step back, while the Prime bitch has the craft detonated and burns away any last vestiges that remain. Soon there will be no trace of the group that debarked here in pursuit of the smugglers. Nothing left... but C 4NE. He needs to get to the ship before they find it, or he'll be stuck on this forsaken moon. As the last of the faithful leave the area, he pulls himself out of the muck of the riverbank and begins walking purposefully in the direction of their landing site several clicks out, his mission not yet ended. In fact, it appears for the Union that things have only just begun.

Alone in the black, spotted only by the light of distant stars, a ship drifts slowly, powerless through the void. Its residual momentum causes the ship to spin ever so slightly as it floats along, and a faded ziosian emblem is emblazoned across its side. Silent in the emptiness of space, a rippling begins beneath the ship's keel, like a stranded spacer's mirage. An unnatural welling spreads across the vacuum like a rash and the ship rocks, its hull creaking as it rolls. Then it slows to a stop. Hands paw their way out of the black, then press unfeeling appendages to the metal of the ship's belly. Slowly, several shapes emergy from nowhere and work their way up the sides, to the airlock, and inside. Bare, dead feet flap in the darkness as they move over corpses. One-b-one they haul the carcasses to the cargo bay, thoughtlessly pulling them by limb, clothes, or hair. Floating above them on wings of gossamer shadow, a figure in iron and black cloth descends to the deck. As he lands, a ghostly wisp resembling a droid in dark armour settles to the deck beside him. Slowly solidifying in the cold vacuum, the WarPrime called D N6R stands beside A PX5 to witness the work of their minions aboard the ghost ship. [So silent and diligent in their tasks, so perfect in their function... beautiful really, order itself.] D N6R looks upon the thralls laboriously working to salvage the remains of the crew. [Yes, and as war takes its toll, our numbers shall grow filled with the reanimated dead of our enemies,] the J1 Prime says in a voice like an iron grate. [We gather an army from beneath them.] D N6R gazes at A PX5, looking upon the face of her mentor. [We shall swell up from below and consume them all.] The Iron Prime nods silently in agreement, satisfied with the work of the thralls. Turning to face the airlock he signals to D N6R that it is time to leave the ship. His dark wings take light again, carrying him to their silent vessel that waits in the black. D N6R follows closely, her ghostly form flitting across the cold void. Movement breaks the empty dark as the dead are tossed across to the cloaked ship. Their bodies float for an instant before unseen hands tug them down, leaving nothing to mark their existence. Once the decks are cleared of all but blood, the thralls lumber too out the airlock and push off into space's icy embrace. They sink to their ship as the derelict vessel is released once more. Then, invisibly, the dead creatures move away with their grisly burden, toward a rendezvous with their masters.

Commander J4-S T3R strides toward the small group gathered in the proving grounds, his tattered greatcoat swaying with his confident gait. The grass is all but gone from the rocky soil, killed by iron feet, electric strikes and plasma explosions, and S T3R's boots scratch and clack on the multitude of exposed stones in the dirt. Thirty meters beyond the group, a mech stands immobile, unpowered, stark against the overcast autumn sky. S T3R heads for the silver coloured droid at the centre of the assembly. As he draws near, the others gathered about nod in greeting to him as they move respectfully aside, continuing to excitedly talk amongst themselves. S T3R stops and hails his fellow WarPrime, the renowned J4-N 3M0. [Sir, I heard you were looking for me,] he asks casually. N 3M0 watches the group move away from them a few more meters, then turns to regard J4-S T3R over the top of his technical HUD. [Looking? You heard wrong. I summoned you. ] S T3R frowns. [After all this time and me even a commander, you still insist on treating me like an apprentice.] N 3M0's blue photoreceptors become as cool as a mountain lake in winter. S T3R immediately ducks his head and holds up a hand. [No! No stare downs. Please.] N 3M0 smiles thinly. [I am a commander adept . My apprentice you'll remain until you have the iron to-"] [I know, I know. Don't bother saying the rest, lest either my or your circuits develop a repeated stress fissure.] At that N 3M0's countenance cracks, and the two laugh together. They clasp forearms. [How have you been, my boy?] [Well enough for six months busting hump in the field. Squeaky, in need of new power cells, and I think I'll have to chisel the rust from my joints.] S T3R stretches his shoulders back. [Thankfully the storms should end the campaign season soon.] N 3M0 smiles. [Aye that. The Assembly has me on watch this year. A couple of patrols, a lot of warm oil baths. They must think the years are catching up to old N 3M0.] S T3R shakes his head at his mentor. The older droid seems to take note of the younger one's reticence, but decides it's not much of an issue for debate. Whatever the Presidential Assembly wants. For the Union and all that. N 3M0 nods and moves the conversation along. [So... how are those borders?] [Secure enough. Although smugglers are making a killing.] N 3M0 nods sagely. [Spill it, boy.] [It's tense out there,] S T3R replies. [Confederates angling for a scrum to prove their mettle, Imperials who'd knife you in the back as soon as look at you, and always reports of black ships in the east. Everyone wants something, and they're all ready to carve it out of us, seems like.] They pause for a moment, and then S T3R asks. [So what have you been doing up here all this time?] N 3M0 smiles thinly. [I knew you'd ask. I think you'll want to see this. My latest experiment in mech technology.] S T3R rubs the side of his head as he looks out at the behemoth in the field. [Looks like a clapped-out heavy to me.] [It's one of the first,] says N 3M0. [You recall the one with the warble in its cortex? The mechanics wanted to scrap it, but I asked them to let me have it instead.] [Oh, aye?] [Aye. So I put a little time into it and swapped out the fusion reactor for an arc generator.] [What?] S T3R inquires appreciatively. [Like in a storm glaive?] [Something like that... on a much larger scale. I reckon this old mech should bust out a lot more power now. More than what fusion can provide. Better yet, no fuel, no need for a hydrogen tank. It's proven more responsive, more reliable. What a company of these, S T3R, we can have the best military tool in the galaxy.] [Think of it,] whispers the commander adept. [No steam plumes to give away our position. Operating for days away from base camp - days, my boy! No need to depend on supply trains for fuel. Our first-strike capability will be top crack, and the enemy will never know where our strongest defences are lurking.] [That,] he closes, poking S T3R in the chest with one steely finger, [is what I've been doing up here... and it's all for hotshot upstarts like you .] N 3M0 stands up straight, a smug smiles on his face. [I asked you to be here, because, my boy, I wanted you to be present for the first field test. Apprentice.] S T3R rubs his chin. [If it's all that you say it is, the Confederates are going to be spitting shrapnel over it. They'll say we're gearing up for a scrum. You're not concerned that B VNR won't use the deployment of this mech as an excuse to attack us again?] N 3M0 snorts and waves a have dismissively. [Stuff that. I've never known a war to start because the Union was too strong. Now, pay attention.] N 3M0 gestures and a nearby aide waves a red flag. Out on the field, a verpine sidles up to the mech. He leans gingerly forward, reaches with his left hand toward a bright yellow lever on the mech's back, then inches forward again until his hand can grasp the handle. After a moment's hesitation, the verpine thinks better of it and graps the handle with his right hand. He then pulls his hand back, wipes the sweat off on his jersey, then grips the handle one more time. To his right S T3R hears N 3M0 murmur impatiently. Then, in one fluid motion, the verpine throws the switch and dashes madly for cover, arms covering his head. S T3R hears a howl, sounding like a gale through tree branches, as the mech powers up. The howl rises in pitch to whine, then to a sort of whistle. The mech comes to life, its eyes and vents glowing with a powerful ice-blue light, not the customary fiery red that S T3R is used to seeing. The behemoth starts quivering like it's ready to surge forward, and even from that distance, S T3R can feel the static in the atmosphere. [Goggles,] says N 3M0. [Right,] says S T3R distractedly as he fumbles in the pockets of his greatcoat for his goggles and puts them on, as do the other lookers-on clustered to their far right. There is a long pause, and S T3R hazards a glance at his mentor. N 3M0 seems satisfied. [Sir?] [Let's see what this great bucket of dregs can do, shall we?] The commander adept says. S T3R lowers the sensitivity on his audioreceptors. If N 3M0 intends to test the mech the way he gambles, well... N 3M0 stretches out his arms and forms his fingers and thumbs into a diamond shape, his eyes glowing with concentration. As he exhales, the mech bursts into action. It steps back, swings a left backfist at an imaginary target, and follows immediately with a right hook. The momentum of the swings pulls the mech forward, and it stumbles a little. S T3R hears the familiar clangour as the mech's leg or arm piston rends loose from its housing cylinder. [Sir-] [Stuff it!] N 3M0 breaks into a combat stance and S T3R can feel the power the commander adept is pumping into the machine. It starts to charge across the open ground. The mech abruptly explodes - a single high pitched concussion of intense blue energy. S T3R flinches with the flash and sound. A large shard of the mech's armoured hull whistles as it spins past, mere feet over the group. The pattering of iron rain thuds all about them, and the commander looks skyward to ensure that no large pieces are destined to fall near him, his mentor, or any of the others. He realises then that he is the only one standing; the rest of the assembly are prone, their arms covering their heads... except for N 3M0, who lies flat on his back, sparks flying from blown fuses around his core. [Sir!] S T3R drops to his knees besides the older droid. He pulls up a holointerface out of his forearm and begins scanning for damage. [Get your filthy scans away from me,] growns N 3M0. S T3R leans back on his heels as N 3M0 pulls off his goggles, rubs his temples then wipes the grime across his faceplate with the back of his hand. With a screech of complaining joints he rolls to his knees, then uses S T3R's extended arm to stand upright on still sparking legs. He squints out at the ruined mech, little more than a pair of arms and legs attached to a smouldering bowl of twisted metal. [The arc generator must have overloaded,] he announces dryly. [Feedback blew the cortex. Bloody near fried mine, too.] [Well,] says S T3R helpfully, [I have to admit it certainly has more power than what I'm used to seeing. Have to be able to control it better... maybe throttle it back some.] N 3M0 looks at S T3R and guffaws. [That's funny,] he says. [Listen to you, my boy.] [Funny?] [Throttle it back?] He pokes S T3R in the chest. [You saying that to me .] S T3R laughs, and then helps a shaken looking droid nearby to its feet. [We'd best see to this wreckage, sir. Good thing you have a long, quiet watch ahead of you to work out all the kinks.] N 3M0 surveys the smoking ruin of his latest project and grumbles.