Lightning…the sound of rolling thunder, on this artificial world, where everything is false, every turn is a lie, and each spec of a person on this street is either a virus infecting the foolish to commit atrocities, or those too weak to kill and survive. Those born here are forced to do just that, abandon the childish notions of right and wrong, it doesn’t exist here, there is only blood and profit, no innocence, no peace. The lightning is blaster fire, and the screams of the victims is the thunder, the rain is the blood of the weak or foolish who don’t learn how to kill quick enough. A pair of brothers, hair as drenched in red as their hands at the age of only eight, it is kill or be killed, steal or do not eat, fight or be cast aside in the trash with the victim. They cannot accept that, even if they did not know it the impossibly stubborn blood of Sith ran in their veins, bright yellow fire burning in their eyes, a coldness for death unnatural for children, perfect for the Empire. A black feather sweeps through the streets of Narshadaa, four stand outside of a known spice den, where women were dragged and broken, and the powerful and greedy were allowed to play with them as if they were dolls, a 5th strides towards the door, same bloodied hair, same eyes that cut like the daggers under his red cloak, pulled up to his mouth as the others do the same.

Tick…tick…tick..boom! The explosion takes some of the bodies in the way by surprise, some never even feel the blaster bolts whizz through their skulls, Screams and scrambling corpses attempt to flee, only to be gunned down or sliced through by a slender form, blades spinning and slicing limbs off. Each of these black dawned  figures wear a mark, the large figure with an assault cannon as black as their armor wears a biohazard symbol on his arm-plate, the shotgun wielding bruiser blowing a hole in another spicer trying to fight back wearing a Blade sign on his back. Another corner rounded and the crimson path continues, The slender blade dancer wearing a skeletal face on her chest, covering her ample cleavage, The fourth picking off a fleeing Republic commander, getting his vices tended to, leaving the poor girl he was cutting to flee behind them, reloading his pistol before turning to unleash a torrent of flames down the next hall, scattering the burning scum, a black bird spread across his helmet. The leader walks calmly, picking off charging gangsters with his twins, slicing a bold one hiding behind the door with a blade slinking out from his gun, letting them gurgle with blood before dropping, slowly they clear the place, the slaves and addicts scream and bolt from the den as fast as their legs could take them, others crawling when their feet failed them. 

They come to the last door, blood smeared hand prints cover the outside as the leader draws out a data-pad, with a few swipes he nods, the shot-gunner blasting the door open as the rest rush into the room, a large table hosting a hutt, a republic official, as well as a few senators. The other side of Imperial dignitaries and at the head, a freshly minted General, shaking in his well polished boots, the guards jump into action, only to be cast aside like fodder, poor fools stood no chance, the leader moving to the center of the room, surrounded by the gathered hypocrites. The door slowly closes as each man begins to plead for their life, before the screaming beings, and the blood flows from under the door. One by one the five exit the den, looking to each-other they simply nod, turning their own way and disappearing into the endless neon night.

Xin stumbles into the Stronghold, drunk after the splendid game of “never have i ever”, the best game of telling more of yourself without telling them a damn thing, splendid game indeed. He tosses off his red scarf, and uses it to tie back his long red hair, sitting before a shipment of brand new rifles he picked up, unable to play with them since the kiddo had been there, he unhooks his jacket and hangs it over his chair, his white muscle shirt drenched in sweat and faded bloodstains. He smiles as he begins piecing them apart, learning the new tech developing in the galaxy. For those looking to him at his work would notice something they might not have about his normal attire, a symbol on the back of his gear, a White Crown.

Author Scond
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