Among Mando'ade

[Livgardist]

Pain...

Red, pulsating waves of agonizing pain... Flashing through his mind like burning cold shards of ice. Something warm seeped down his forehead. Blood. All over his face. Gradually, sounds began snaking their way back into his ears. A screaming, howling emergency signal. Flashing red lights. He coughed. Blood stained the dashboard as he did. Opening his eyes, he blinked hard, but all he could see was a fuzzy double image of the ruined cockpit of the Cydonian Claw. He tried to breathe, and coughed. The air was thin. As if there was no oxygen left, or very little of it at least. His lungs were burning.

Gutterson gradually became aware of the surroundings. There were dead bodies on the floor, wearing the camouflage painted armors and the unit insignia of Carrion Crow, the mercenary unit he had built with his own two hands. Limbs detached from their host bodies, blood staining the copper colored metal floor, the walls, the dashboard - even the windshield To his right side sat the sparking remains of what had been Jeeves, his bodyguard and assassination droid. There was a big crack in the windshield in front of him, and sparks were raining out from a broken piece of wall, where wires were hanging out. There was more smoke than oxygen in the air. A fire was burning somewhere. In front of him, a flashing display on the dashboard said;

[WARNING! LIFE SUPPORT SYSTEM FAILURE! WARNING!]​

Life...support system...failure?

Slowly, he began to truly grasp what it meant. As he did, his memories came flooding back. A mission to Mandalorian space. It was a ruse...a trap. There had been a bomb onboard the Claw. He could smell iron in the air - blood. Lots of it. He groaned as he tried to stand, but fell backwards to the floor when agonizing pain rushed through his right leg and his stomach, all the way up to his spine. As he fell backwards, he coughed up blood, and his hands wandered, and realized there was a piece of razor sharp shrapnel prodruding from the side of his torso. The pain hit him like a heavy fist right in the head.

"Ugh....caff...." He gritted his teeth, stained red with blood, and slowly managed to pull himself to his feet despite the burning pain. He slumped back into the chair, punching a button. Nothing happened. The world around him was getting darker and darker. The flashing red light died out as well when the last ounces of electricity onboard faded away. The howling signal continued. He wasn't sure how this was possible. He didn't care.

In the darkness, suddenly a tiny flame appeared, only to disappear again moments later, leaving behind a single circular, glowing piece of fire. Gutterson took a breath on the cigarette, and exhaled. He gritted his teeth as he did. Even breathing, even inhaling tobacco hurt like one would not believe. He looked down, and realized he was literally drenched in blood. He prayed it wasn't his own - but judging from the piece of metal sticking out his side, chances were it was. That was a lot of blood for a man to lose...

He leaned his head backwards and closed his eyes. The time had finally come. It was his turn. Throughout his career as a mercenary he had seen thousands of people die. Thousands of brothers in arms, fellow mercenaries, die in battle. He had always survived through skill or just sheer luck. He even survived the bloodbath on Coruscant. So many missions. But not this time. His time had finally come. He would die there today. He had come to terms with it. There was no way of escaping this time. His friends, and brothers in arms were dead anyway. It didn't matter anymore. Nothing did.

He took another breath on the cigarette, leaving it in his mouth, teeth gritted in pain.

Suddenly, he spotted something outside the window.

It was a ship.

A Mandalorian war ship.

Well, shit..., was the only thing he could think.

His hand managed to grasp the slugthrower in his leg holster, and pull it out. He wouldn't go down without a fight.

 

[Sisk_Renelo]

The bridge of the Darasuum Tor was a flurry of activity, the 86 Mandalorians that filled the crew stations a blur of motion. Firing solutions were being calculated, sensors were scanning at maximum range, constant status reports on systems were being shouted in between various stations. It was the perfect example of controlled chaos, a true embodiment of the Mandalorians. Above the choas, his hands placed on either side of his command plinth, Allit'alor Sisk Renelo stood as the calm in the center of the storm, the eye of the hurricane, the calm that held the chaos together. His eyes scanned the reports being fed to him, and began to calculate. The ship was small, not enough room for more than 6-8 sentients, and the layout was simple, but Sisk had learned over his long history of warfare that the simple jobs normally ended up the hardest.

"Tractor that ship and bring it into the aft bay. Prepare a full boarding team. Full assault armor." His sensor operator turned to him, a confused look on the young Devaronian's face.

"Sir? Sensors read only a single life form on board. Also indications of massive systems failure. A full team seems to be overkill." Sisk admired the words. After all, it took courage to speak out against him. he reminded himself to evaluate the young Mandalorian for a possible future promotion, but for now, he had more important matters to attend to.

"Ever heard of a battle droid? We have one below decks right now. So yes, a fully equipped boarding party." The young Mandalorian nodded, and pressed his hand to his ear, relaying the orders to whoever was on the other end. Sisk moved to the side, and as he did, nodded at Markus. "The bridge is yours, vod." Markus moved to the command plinth, and took over Sisk's place. "Links are open, comm me if something pops up." With these words, Sisk spun easily, and exited the bridge, making the short walk to the turbolift. As he entered the cylindrical lift, he pulled his buy'ce off of its clip on his belt, and slid it easily over his head.

The familiar snap-hiss as it sealed was welcome, as was his HUD springing to life. The familiar icons and data feeds popped up in front of him, and as he stopped, he voiced a command. "Aft Docking Bay." The lift sprung to life, moving quickly through the bowels of the ship, and as it did, Sisk checked his systems. Everything was in the green, except for one stubborn light that stayed amber. His targeting systems. As soon as he was done here, he would have to head down to the workshop and fix it. But for now, it wasn't really a problem. Sisk preferred to fight up close and personal anyway. He knocked his armored knuckles against the side of his helmet, centered over the computer core, and with a small beep, the light turned green. Sisk grunted in satisfaction. Sometimes the old solutions were still the best.

With a hydraulic whine, the lift slid to a stop, and the doors opened onto the hangar. The captured ship sat in the middle of the bay, resting haphazardly without its landing gear. 5 Mandalorians in Zakkeg assault armor stood nearby, a garish riot of colors marking them. Only one part of the gear was the same, and that was the right arm, painted black in remembrance and oath. At the sight of Sisk, the warriors gave him a respectful nod, but did not halt in their preparations. One of them jogged over to Sisk as he approached, his hands full, one carrying a cutting torch, and the other held a small lump of plastique. "Cut or breach?"

"Cut. I want whoever is on that ship alive. I have questions, and they need answered. We cant risk killing them with the concussion." The warrior nodded, then moved to the door, setting up his equipment. As the others finished their prep, they lined up near the door in classic entry formation, and Sisk took his place as first in. "Stun rounds only. We need him alive." The men nodded, and to suit his words, Sisk drew the ripper on his left thigh, making an exaggerated movement as he flipped the switch to stun. With his other, he drew one of his Shock Sticks from their holders on his back. The Mandalorian with the torch lit it, and began to cut into the metal, the hot fire cutting away at the durasteel like a lightsaber through flesh. By the speed, it would be two minutes till they had an entrance. nothing to do now but wait.

 

[Livgardist]

He awoke again with a jerk, followed by a wave of pain, gritted teeth and a hiss as he tried to breathe through the agony. He had passed out. He wondered how long he had been unconscious. His vision was still blurry, and his entire body seemed to be on fire with pain. He looked out the windshield, confused. Instead of the blackness of space, he saw white walls, ships. A hangar bay. Soldiers... Mandalorians! His eyes cracked open. The hissing behind him suddenly made sense. As he began to realize what was going on, he tried to stand up. It took every ounce of strength he could muster to even sit up straight.

As he took a deep breath, he heaved himself onto his feet. Blood splurted out the sides of the wound, around the metal. He pressed his hand against it for a moment. Tears of pain lined his eyes, and every breath he tried to take was cut short halfway through the lungs by sharp, cutting pain. As he took a step, he wobbled, fell, and toppled a shelf with canisters, making a rattling noise as he hit the floor together with them. Crawling to his feet again, he groaned heavily in pain, using every muscle in his body to support him as he kept himself standing. The gun in his hand felt heavy, as if it weighed a hundred times what it really did. But he needed it.

Slowly, he moved through the corridor towards the ship's entry, leaning against one wall and clutching his bloody side with his free hand as he did. A long thick trail of blood on the wall marked his way. Sweat poured down his face from the exertion, and landed in his eyes, stinging and forcing him to blink hard. Finally, he reached the end of the barely two meter long corridor out into the ship's aft. He leaned against the wall with one hand, as the other arm tried to lift the heavy pistol towards the door. Sparks and a glowing orange trail around the edges of the airlock, the hissing sound of air leaking in, told him what was going on.

They were going to storm the ship.

"Ugh...argh..." Pain hit him suddenly in the stomach area, so violent that he keeled over, clutching his insides as if they were on fire. He coughed up blood, over and over again, and he saw darkness at the edges of his vision draw closer and closer to the center. But through great effort and mental discipline he managed to focus. He steadied his breathing, crawled back to his feet, ignored the searing pain eating away at his insides. Just as the door began to open, he managed to raise the pistol all the way. He saw light, and what could be a blurry silhouette in the opening. His eyes were blinded by the light.

He fired off several shots haphazardly, before he felt the trigger refuse to go back, signifying the gun being empty. He screwed up his eyes trying to see. His head was hurting like hell. Blood was seeping into his eyes. He pushed away the pain and focused on evaluating the effect of his shots. The armor of his opponent seemed to take the brunt of the impact, knocking the man back, but not penetrating. Dropping the slugthrower, Gutterson used his own bodyweight to propel him forward towards his enemy, in an almost stumbling motion, as he managed to get his curved karambit out. He lashed out at the enemy's throat, aiming for the area where the helmet and the cuirass met via armorweave. His opponent caught his arm at the last moment, gritting his teeth as he tried to keep the nasty looking knife away.

Gutterson saw nothing except his target. Teeth gritted, eyes burning with focus, he pushed harder towards his enemy's throat. Even as Mandalorians spilled in behind his target, even as fires licked the ripped apart remnants of the ship's interior, he saw nothing except his enemy. He was balancing on the edge of consciousness, and it would take but a slight gust of wind to make him fall. Capture meant death, but death was certain anyway. He had come to terms with his fate, but at least he'd go out fighting. Even then he could feel his legs on the verge of giving in, his body pushed to its very limit.

 

[Sisk_Renelo]

The cutter finished, and the Mandalorian took his spot on thew opposite side of the door. Sisk held up three fingers, and pulled them one by one into his palm. As the last digit hit his hand, the Mando directly opposite him spun out, kicked in the still cherry red hot metal, and then spun off, behind Sisk. Sisk entered, weapons ready, and scanned the interior as he and his men broke into a classic clear entrance, each of them heading for an opposite corner of the room. A slugthrower round whizzed past his head, and his vision snapped to the source, a man who looked to be on the brink of death. Several more slammed into the walls, and Sisk shook his head slowly inside his gear.

Then the man charged, moving slowly towards the Mandalorians. Sisk held up a closed fist, to signal the rest to stand down. He easily caught the man's arm on his left gauntlet, and then delivered a strong right hook into the man's jaw. The way he had been tottering, it would put him down. With a heavy thud, the man hit the floor, and Sisk took a moment to look around him. Bodies were strewn about, electronics hissed and sparked, and it was painfully obvious that this group had picked a fight, and had lost. Badly. With a wave of his hand, he sent the rest of the group forward, to clear the rest of the ship. It took less than thirty seconds. All clear.

"Take him to a cell, and send a medicae team to tend to his wounds. If he dies, I'll be very unhappy." Sisk made sure his last words were weighted with seriousness. He didn't want anyone to mistake his orders. "Then jettison this hulk, and blow it out of space. Just in case we missed something, I don't want them coming back." With this, Sisk turned on his heel and left, confident his orders would be followed.

 

[Livgardist]

He heard voices. They were loud, only to disappear completely moments later.

"...removing the shrapnel..."

"...acute hemorrhage..."

"He's going into shock!"

FOMP!

Pain shot through his chest.

FOMP!

Again...

"...stabilized... That was close..."

Silence...

A humming sound reached his ears. Slowly, slowly, it beckoned him out of his chaotic dreams of war and strife. Gradually, consciousness returned to his mind, and with it, a blazing flaring pain in his stomach and his head. He opened his mouth, and a groan escaped. As he slowly opened his eyes, sharp lights blinded him, and he had to put his hand up against his eyes to be able to see anything at all. In the distance, he saw a dark silhouette, but couldn't focus his eyes to see more clearly. He tried to sit up, but it felt immediately like somebody had reached inside him and twisted his guts. Again, he groaned.

"He's awake, finally. Send word to the Aliit'alor."

Gutterson tried again to sit up. Slowly, his body responded, allowing him to sit up in what revealed itself to be a simple metal bunk in a cell sealed off from a corridor by a red energy field. On the other side he saw a soldier wearing a typical Mandalorian armor. His eyes drifted to his own body, naked from the waist up, where firm, tightly wrapped bandages covered his muscular and scarred torso. His arms were also wrapped in bandages, and a thick piece of gauze had been taped to his forehead, he realized upon touching it.

Slowly, every single move a herculean task, he stood up on naked feet. He stumbled slightly, leaning with a hand against the wall, and the other clutching his forehead to dampen the hammering pain in his brain, as he moved up towards the energy wall. The Mandalorian looked coldly at him from behind a helmet complete with a T-shaped visor, giving the man an emotionless appearance. Gutterson stared coldly right into the black visor until the man turned around and walked away. His eyes turned to the cell opposite his in the corridor, where another man was sitting down, meditating.

He tried to remember what had happened. He had expected them to shoot him on the spot. Clearly that had not happened. Instead, the man he had attacked had knocked him out with a strong punch. Very strong, Gutterson realized - though part of the blame for that could lie with the fact he himself was near death at the time (something that seemed to have gotten better since...). No doubt, they wanted to interrogate him, perhaps torture him. His future was not looking bright. Escaping would be difficult too, he realized as his hand touched the energy field, only to retract instinctively when a jolt of energy nibbled at his finger tip. The Mandalorian guard walked back calmly, shooting him another glance. Gutterson opened his mouth, and spoke with a rough, dry voice, in fluent Mando'a:

"Aran... Where am I, burc'ya?"

The guard gave him another glance. The slight change in stance told Gutterson his fluent grasp of Mandalorian surprised the man.
"Darasuum Tor of Clan Renelo." The man replied. Gutterson nodded. His stomach growled.

"Kai'tome?" He asked. The guard shook his head.

"I have orders not to open your cell."

As the guard walked away, Gutterson slammed a fist into the wall in lazy frustration. His eyes searched the cell, and he realized some of his things were still there - most notably a pack of cigarettes. He picked one out, placed it in his mouth, and with a wry smile, placed the tip of it against the energy field. Moments later, he exhaled a cloud of smoke as the tip was lit by the force field's energy. Taking another breath, he slowly moved back over to the bunk, and sat down in it, leaning against the wall to wait for somebody to come talk to him, or for something to happen.

"Osik..." He muttered under his breath.

The irony that followed with the realization that he was thinking and speaking in Mando'a all of a sudden wasn't lost on him, and he allowed himself a dry chuckle.

 

[Sisk_Renelo]

Sisk entered the holding block, dressed in full armor, and made his way down the row of cells. The medics on board had told him they had made sure the man wouldn't die, but Sisk wouldn't allow bacta to be used. It was needed for vode, not some aruetii. The man's injuries would take a while to heal, and until then, it would be easier to get answers while the man was in pain. When he reached the last cell, he looked inside, and a sneer came across his face inside the helmet. They were in an enclosed oxygen environment, what the hell was he thinking? He made a small motion with his hand. "Put it out, now."

 

[Livgardist]

Gutterson looked up at the comment. Instantly, the look in his eyes changed from humorous to coldly reserved. He scoffed as he took the cigarette out of his mouth and flicked it towards the man's face. The only thing stopping it from hitting him right in his buy'ce's T-shaped visor was the energy wall, which disintegrated the cigarette with a hissing sound. Gutterson stood up and walked up to the wall, studying the man in front of him. He wore full beskar'gam, including a helmet disguising his facial features. The only part that differed from its color scheme was the right arm, which was black. There was a symbolism in it, Gutterson was certain.

He began to speak in fluent Mando'a:
"I'm Gutterson, Alliance contractor - no rank. Contract number 93579230YS45A. Date of Birth...unknown. Formerly of the mercenary unit Carrion Crow." This was the information each of his men had been instructed to give up if captured, accordingly with an old political document dictating codes of conduct in war, called the Alderaan Convention. Few soldiers truly followed it to this day - Imperials did not, and he doubted Mandalorians did either - but Gutterson did, as did his men. He raised an eyebrow, closing his right fist in his left behind his back in a typical military stance. The movement caused a severe sting of pain in his torso, and a muscle in his face twitched - the only sign of his pain. "You are...?" He asked dryly, only half expecting the man to actually answer his question.

 

[Sisk_Renelo]

Sisk listened to the man, an eyebrow cocked in surprise that the man knew Mando'a. Apparently he had learned a bit, but not enough to know not to insult the Mandalorians. The cigarette tossed at him was a plain insult. Sisk would let it slide. For now. When he spoke back, his voice was cold, filtered as it was through the myriad range of air purifiers and amplification systems. "You will not speak my tongue here, aruetii. It is not meant for a mouth such as yours." He smirked slightly. "Besides, your pronunciation is off. You accentuate where you do not need to." His buy'ce was cold, unfeeling.

"Who I am will be learned in time. For now, I'm the one who kept you from dying on the hulk you were adrift in." Sisk took a step forward, and traced his gauntleted fingers across the force field, drawing sparks, his beskar insuring that none of the energy reached his skin. "I don't care who you are. I don't care who you work for. What I care about is a violation of the sovereign space of Mandalor. Our borders are not to be crossed, by anyone. The beacons and transmissions disclose as much. By crossing that line, you gave me the right to execute you." His time was menacing, quiet yet captivating.

"Give me one good reason why I shouldn't put a bolt in your Alliance skull."

 

[Livgardist]

Gutterson scoffed openly at the other man's words, his face turning into a scowl. His voice was sharp when he replied, but he still showed the man enough respect to switch to Galactic Basic rather than continue speaking in Mando'a:

"I am a professional soldier. I may not be listed among the service records of the Alliance military, and they may not think of me as one - but I am nonetheless in their employment. I knew the risks of this assignment when I took it. If you think I will beg you to spare my life, or give up vital information about my employers to save it, you are sorely mistaken. We violated Mandalorian space because it was our mission. That is all. If you will execute me because of it, you will hear no objections from my mouth. I knew the risks; I will face the consequences of my own actions. I am a soldier, not some cowardly Sith worm snivelling to save his own hide."

He went silent for a moment as he suddenly thought of something, and then asked with a low voice:
"Did any of my men survive? If so... I would ask that you take into consideration that they unlike me were only following orders. Mercenaries or no, they are soldiers, following orders of a superior officer. The responsibility of the violation of Mandalorian space lies with me, not with them." He gritted his teeth slightly as he felt a wave of sudden pain in his abdomen. Tiny stains of red seeped through his bandages. He forced it away, staring into the T-shaped visor, his face a mask void of emotion.

 

[Sisk_Renelo]

Sisk sneered. This man was uppity, and Sisk knew he would have to humble him. "Everyone else on board was dead. We jettisoned the remains, and blew them out of space. After I saw the patches, I ran a holonet search. The Carrion Crows were wiped out to a man 3 days ago in a battle with a Sith fleet. You are all that remains." He took a step back, and his eyes flicked up the soldier, studying him. He knew the pain he was feeling, but he remained cold, passionless. With a blink, his comm system paged the medical team, and the small team of armored Mandalorians ghosted into existence near the door.

With a wave at the soldier in the cell"Patch him up, and when his strength is back, let me know. I have to decide what to do with him." Sisk spun on his heel, and began to walk down the hall. But, he paused, and looked over his shoulder. "Keep him passive, and post a guard. No risks."

 

[Livgardist]

Gutterson's face remained completely emotionless as the Mandalorian left. As soon as he did, Gutterson gritted his teeth. The medics sported weapons pointed at him as they entered the cell. He placed his hands on his head in a non-aggression gesture, with no intentions of resisting or trying to fight his way out. His brain was mauling things over quietly, too busy thinking about the news to plan an escape. He knew instantly what had happened to his former unit. It was a victim of divided leadership.

When Gutterson first envisioned the unit, he envisioned a special infantry unit, designed for special operations on company level - search and destroy missions, but also hit and run tactics - shadowy operations behind enemy lines - but never recklessly so, and never, ever in the open. A unit scattered yet bound together, but never in one place. A unit that could never be ambushed. But not all of the unit's leaders had seen things his way, or embraced his tactics. A strong faction had existed that had grown more and more impatient with his way of operating, men who wanted to simplify the unit's operations to simpler methods of battle.

Essentially, relegating the deadly Crows to nothing more than cannon fodder.

And cannon fodder was what they had become. They had become a victim of their own leadership's foolish relutance to fully embrace their special operations tactics, no matter how successful. With Gutterson gone, it seemed they had been led into an ambush in a battle where they were never supposed to have participated in the first place. And now, they were all dead. Rage boiled within the mercenary, but he kept his cool, knowing these Mandalorians were not to blame for the unit's demise, though there were many others who were (and who would answer to him for it when the time came...)

"Sit down." One of the medics instructed him, waking him from his thoughts. He took a deep, calming breath, and then nodded as he sat down on the stretcher in the cell. The man removed the taped cotton pad from his forehead to inspect the wound there. It was fresh, but clean, and didn't bleed. It was only a scraped wound, though a concussion was likely to have followed. The Mandalorian used a hand scanner to get a scan of his brain to evaluate if it had taken any damage. "No sign of a concussion." The man muttered to the other medics, who kept their weapons at the ready despite the prisoner's passive behavior. "I need to check your wound." He added, gesturing towards Gutterson's torso.

Gutterson held up his arms without a word, grimacing when the man cut and began to remove the bandages, revealing a ghastly looking, crooked, and thin gray set of stiches running in an almost parodiying zigzag pattern from his lower rightside rib, down towards his hip bone. It was easy to tell it would leave a grisly scar. Blood seeped out in tiny droplets as the bandages were removed, but the stitches themselves remained intact.

"You need to stay still so as to not tear up the stitches." The man instructed Gutterson, who resisted the urge to let out a "No shit". Instead, he simply offered a short nod. The medic gave him a glance before taking out a fresh padded bandage dressing, that he taped over the stitches to protect them. Finally, he stood up, and studied Gutterson for a moment before asking: "How's your legs?"

"I can still kick people, if that's what you're asking, pal." Gutterson replied. The man ignored his dripping sarcasm and turned around, addressing his comrades in Mando'a:

"Give him 5cc of darmakade."

Gutterson sighed as one of the medics approached with an injection needle, knowing full well what was about to come, though he did not know exactly what drug "darmakade" was, if indeed it even had a name in Galactic Basic. The medic that approached stabbed the needle carefully into his shoulder, and injected it quickly. As expected, moments later, Gutterson's world began to grow blurry, and his extremities began to feel heavy as lead. He didn't try to stand up. The Mandalorians watched him until his vision faded completely, and he fell into unconsciousness.

"Keep him sedated for another week on a combination of darmakade and bacta substitute." The medic instructed his peers. "By then, he should be ready to have his stitches removed. And ready for whatever the Aliit'alor decides will be his fate."

Ten days later​

Gutterson gritted his teeth while breathing hard, sweat dropping from his forehead as pain rushed through his veins.

197... 198... 199... 200...

Finally, on 200, he allowed himself to bend his arms and fall from his pushup stance flat to the floor. His side jabbed with pain, and he grunted in agony as he slowly crawled to his feet, dizzy. He was still not in the shape he had been a few weeks before, prior to the bombing of his ship. Wiping sweat from his forehead, he grabbed the blanket on his bunk that he had forgone as blanket to use as a towel, and wiped his body clean. Still... He thought to himself as he began punching the air in shadow boxing. ...two hundred pushups is damn good.

He added a kick or two to his regimen (and his side subsequently told him to stop such silliness by means of shooting pain), as he went through the many hand-to-hand combat techniques his former Mandalorian instructor had once taught him when he was a mere kid. Even to this day he still retained every last one of the skills the man had taught him - simply because every last one of them had saved his life on more than one occasion. It was also this man that had taught him Mando'a - though since he rarely got a chance to use it, as the Mandalorian leader had so subtley pointed out, his grasp of it was somewhat less than perfect.

Suddenly, he lashed backwards, planting a backward kick at the energy wall. It crackled, shooting an electric bolt through his foot and up into his knee. He welcomed the pain, reminding him he had almost entirely recuperated from his wounds. The guard outside shot him a glare: "Hey! Don't do that again!" Gutterson made a sloppy and sarcastic salute in reply. He then, suddenly, darted up against the opposite wall. He kicked off from it roughly halfway up to the ceiling, shooting himself towards the wall. As he did, his right foot slammed into the energy wall right by the guard's head in a violent roundhouse kick. A loud bang was heard as the electric energy shot through his leg. The guard jumped back in surprise.

Gutterson landed in a crouch, breath ragged and his side (and foot!) burning. But there was no blood. He was good to go.

Apparently, the guard thought so as well, shooting him a glare, because he suddenly spoke in his helmet's communicator.
"The aruetii seems to have regained much of his strength. The Aliit'alor will want to know."

Gutterson walked up to the wall, catching the guard's eyes. He lowered his head in an apologetic gesture.
"My apologies for that. It was unnecessary." He said with a polite tone. The guard muttered something inaudible but made a dismissive gesture. Gutterson couldn't tell if it meant "Forget about it" or, "The Aliit'alor will deal with you". Perhaps it was the endorphines and adrenaline released from his workout, but Gutterson allowed himself a wry smile.

Despite the constant threat of impending doom or execution by the Mandalorians, and the news of his mercenary band's demise at the hands of incompetent leaders, he was feeling good. He decided to make an effort to treat the Mandalorian a bit more politely whenever he decided to show up again. Making even more of enemies of your captors was, after all, not a very intelligent approach for somebody who was planning to live a long life. (Then again, neither was working as a mercenary in the first place.)

Besides, Gutterson needed to survive to exact revenge on those that deserved it, for the death of his men. Blood would spill. Maybe the next day, maybe ten years from that day. But sooner or later, it would...

 

[Sisk_Renelo]

Sisk sat at his desk, several piles of flimsiplast spread out in front of him. Preparations had been underway for weeks, supplies being moved, personnel transferred, but there was still several months work to do before he could launch his grand plan. With Mand'alor dead, the Mandalorians were free to function as they saw fit, and Sisk had been pushing for expeditionary and expansion efforts into the outer rim for quite some time. And now, with the Mandalorians at the height of their strength, it was the perfect time to send a fleet. He would announce it soon, but until then, he had plans to lay.

His comm beeped on his desk, and with some annoyance, he tapped it with a gloved finger. "Elek?" Caleb's voice came back, tinny over the speaker.

"The aruetii is awake, Alor. What should we do with him?" Sisk sighed, and checked his computer readout out of the corner of his eye. Most of the rooms were taken by members of Renelo in training exercises, but there was one on the foredeck that wasn't occupied or reserved.

"Take him to training room 38, foredeck. I'll meet you there." The acknowledgment came back, and Sisk hit the terminate button. Just another pull on his time. He stood slowly, and moved to his armory rack. Since he already wore almost his full suit, it was a matter of seconds to pull on his crushgaunts and helmet, and activate the HUD. He had fixed his targeting computer, and now all of his lights burned a steady green as it ran its system checks. With a small grunt of satisfaction, he left his quarters, his red armor becoming nothing but another suit in the sea of color that flowed through the halls. Over 40,000 warriors roamed these halls, and the Darasuum Tor was a hive of activity. His size set him apart from many of the Mandalorians, his two meters in armor making him tower over most of the crew.

He reached the turbolift, and waited patiently while the lift moved from where it was to his deck. When the door opened, he stepped inside, and voiced his destination, then sat back and began to scroll through files that were being broadcast to his buy'ce. His information officer had found files on the mercenary below, and had compiled them from every known database, giving Sisk access to every recorded action the man had taken for years. It was an invaluable tool. Being able to surprise a subject with information that was thought to be unknown was always helpful in finding out unknown information. The subject was put on a back foot, making it easier to dig. And Sisk also had the Force, and although it would only be surface thoughts and impressions, but it would be enough.

The turbolift slowed to a halt, and Sisk stepped out, moving down the hallway towards the room he had designated. The sensors built into his armor opened the door, and he stepped into the training room. Dressed as a Mandalorian training chamber of old, the walls seemed to be made of stone, and the wall sconces held simulated torches, providing the only source of light. It was hot, and muggy, the environment controls dialed to a setting that made it feel like the jungles of Mando'yaim, where Sisk himself had trained. Even though it was on board a ship, in some small way, it felt like coming home. A blink click opened his visor, and Sisk took in a deep breath, allowing the humidity and heat to caress his nostrils and lungs, before closing the visor with a sharp click.

He stood in the middle of the room, his arms crossed behind his back, his back pointed at the door. Here he would wait. He stretched out with his senses, and felt a presence that wasn't the structured chaos of a Mandalorian, held in between two familiar signatures. The aruetii was coming.

 

[Livgardist]

Gutterson stepped back up to the rear wall of the cell when the guard turned off the energy field. Several blasters were pointed at him, and he raised his hands to put them on his head when the men approached, to show that he had no plans of fighting. One of the guards muttered: "Turn around and face the wall." He did so. The man pulled down his hands and placed a pair of handcuffs on them, locking his arms behind his back. Not until that moment did the guards lower their blasters and relax slightly - as much as any Mandalorian could actually physically relax.

"Aliit'alor Renelo wishes to see you." One of the guards muttered, intentionally or unintentionally giving the name of his captors - Renelo. A Mandalorian clan perhaps?

He was pushed out of the cell, through the detention block towards the exit out into the massive ship. And it was massive, truly, Gutterson came to realize as he ws led through it towards the foredeck. After roughly fifteen minutes of walking, they entered an area containing training rooms, some with open blastdoors that revealed Mandalorians inside in beskar'gam, sparring. Gutterson frowned. Why was he being taken to a training area? An interrogation area would have been a more standard operating procedure. He took a deep breath, preparing himself mentally for the uncertainty of what was to come.

Finally they reached a closed blast door with the stenciled number 38 printed on it. As the doors opened, Gutterson was pushed inside. Immediately a muggy heat surrounded him, like the moist hot temperature of a jungle. He literally felt drops of water merge with the naked skin on his naked upper body, only to moments later reform as droplets and begin to travel down towards the ground. He took a deep breath. It was hard to breathe in there, though not too hard. Gutterson had worked on many jungle planets in the past, especially before his time with the Galactic Alliance. He adapted quickly.

Stepping inside, he felt the two Mandalorians behind him follow him. In the center of the room stood a single, tall Mandalorian, that beskar'gam he had learnt to recognize as the armor of a leader, in all probability the Alliit'alor of the ship and of Clan Renelo. The man was waiting for him. The two guards took a step back, but Gutterson's hands remained locked behind his back. He sent a piercing, though not hateful, stare through the black visor of the Mandalorian's buy'ce. Sweat was pouring down his body.

"I see you didn't forget your armor." He muttered, sarcastically. "What do you expect me to do, headbutt you to death?" He yanked his cuffs a little as he spoke. One of the guards ran the butt of his weapon into his back in response to his sarcasm.

"Show some respect, aruetii. You're speaking to the Aliit'alor." The man growled. Gutterson almost fell on his knees, but managed to stand up straight again, groaning.

"My apologies, asshole." He muttered.

What happened to playing nice?, he berated himself silently for succumbing to his sarcastic nature.

 

[Sisk_Renelo]

Sisk stayed silent for a few moments, his back still turned to the mercenary. While he heard the words, he chose to ignore them, instead allowing the silence to speak his disapproval. For many, it would be unsettling, but he wasn't sure how this mercenary would react. His fingers twitched slightly behind his back, Mandalorian battle cant developed by the Protectors, and the two guards stepped back and exited the room, their boots making hardly any sound in the thick air. As the door slid closed, Sisk did not move, the muscles in his body absolutely still. This lasted for several minutes, until Sisk finally deigned to turn around.

"I am Mandalorian, and a Mandalorian on a war footing. My armor is not removed for anything." The words were harsh, mechanical, filtered as they were through the filters and modulators. He was in a balanced, stance, his feet shoulder width apart, and his hands clasped behind his back. His blood red armor reflected the torchlight dully, and his visor hid his features. "Can you feel the air, mercenary? It's invigorating, refreshing, and exactly what is needed." His grip finally broke, and he motioned around the room.

"This is what I fight for, mercenary. A way of life not found anywhere else in the galaxy. A tradition and lifestyle that extends back over 15000 years, to the very founding of the great empires." His hands went to his sides, and his thumbs hooked through the belt around his waist. "Not that I would expect you to understand. After all, a mercenaries life is short and painful, with no true place to call home."

 

[Livgardist]

Gutterson listened in silence to the man speak. His teeth gritted when the man spoke of the mercenary's lifestyle. His first instinct was to deny it. After all, he was a contractor for the Alliance, and the Alliance was his home. It was true that his life had been painful - far too many battles, starting at far too young an age, with far too little choices in the matter. But he had found a home with the Galactic Alliance. Or...had he? Gutterson remembered all the good men that had died on callously planned missions, mercenaries like himself, their lives casually discarded by the Galactic Alliance for the sake of military gains.

Was the Galactic Alliance really his home? Or was he just fooling himself into believing it? He had always been loyal to the Alliance. But the Alliance had never acknowledged his actions with anything but money. Was he merely another mercenary to them? A dog of war to be unleashed on their enemies, and to be put down like all mad dogs once the conflict was won? Could he truly call such a place home? He gritted his teeth harder. It was true. The Alliance was not a home to him. It had never had the safety, the warmth, and the friendship towards him and his Crows, that a man associated with home.

The truth of the matter was, Gutterson was a case of one-sided loyalty. He was loyal to the Alliance, but the Alliance was not loyal to him. To them he was no soldier, merely a hireling. And this made him little more than the dog of war they saw him as. A nomad, a homeless stray wandering from battlefield to battlefield, searching for a master that would take him in, offer him comfort and shelter - as long as he fought for their side. It was true. Gutterson had made many friends throughout his career, but he was still alone, and without a place to call home.

Unlike the Mandalorian, who spoke of a dream, an ideal, backed up by hundreds of thousands of likeminded brothers and sisters, known as Mando'ade. A feeling of envy was boiling in the pit of Gutterson's stomach. Aside from the Carrion Crows, who were now all but wiped out, such a sense of brotherhood, of comradery, was nowhere to be found among Alliance contractors - and the one found in the Alliance military was exclusive to them, a brotherhood men like Gutterson were not allowed to partake in, as they were despised by any Galactic Alliance military as guns for hire. They truly were dogs of war.

Yet even with the jealousy boiling in the pit of his stomach, Gutterson wanted to deny the Mandalorian's words - but any denial he could voice would ring hollow, empty, in the face of the harsh truth of the Mandalorian's. Instead, he spat annoyed on the ground, and muttered:

"Not all of us had a choice in how to live our lives, Mandalorian. If you want to insult mine, you better be prepared to defend yours." He yanked the cuffs holding his wrists on his back, wondering if he could break them with sheer strength. He doubted it.

 

[Sisk_Renelo]

Sisk shook his head slowly. "Everyone has a choice, mercenary. Although it may not always be obvious, we all have a choice." It was not like Sisk to wax philosophical, but right now, he was feeling contemplative. "I want to tell you a story. A story that is known to every child in the galaxy. Although it is considered to be nothing but a cautionary tale by many, when one looks at it as an adult, it takes on a whole different meaning." He gestured to a bench against the wall. "Please, sit. but first, let me remove those cuffs." A quick blink click sent a signal to the bindings, and with a click, they disengaged, and fell to the floor with a clatter. "There, that's better."

Since coming to the Mandalorians, Sisk had learned the value of a good story. Not only did they hold valuable lessons, but they preserved history, they preserved culture. It took a practiced mind, and a great personality to hold an groups attention, and Sisk possessed both. "Over 5000 years ago, the Republic was under attack. System after system fell like dominoes to the Mandalorians, who had embarked on a great crusade to bring the galaxy under the rule of leaders who did not bicker over gains, who did not spend hours debating on whether or not they would stand in the face of oppression. Trillions of sentients lived and died underneath the Republic's banner, all of them represented by elected officials who cared more about lining their own pockets then ensuring that their people lived a good life." The torchlight flickered on Sisk's visor, evoking the feeling in him of a Mandalorian storyteller of old. "Then the Mandalorians came. Led by Te Ani'la Mand'alor, they swept through the Republic's defenses, fighting ever closer to Coruscant. Millions of Republic troops fell, and world after world burned. And during this time, the Jedi watched." When he mentioned his old order, a bitterness came into his voice, noticeable even through his filters.

"The Jedi watched, and waited, unwilling to enter the conflict against one of the greatest threats that their precious Republic had ever known. Until the Jedi Revan stepped forth, and publicly challenged the council. Thousands of Jedi responded to his call, and they set forth to stop the inexorable advance. It took 4 long years. 4 years of more bloodshed and death. And through all of this, the Jedi Council sat back and watched. They even went so far as to condemn the Revanchist's actions, and urge the Jedi to not follow him into what they considered a war that was not their concern." Sisk moved slowly about the room, using his hands and body language to punctuate his important points. "You know the rest. Revan defeated the Mandalorians, killed Mandalore the Ultimate, and returned to the Republic he had saved as a conqueror. But this story is not about Revan. The true lesson lies in the Council."

"They sat and did nothing, when a clear choice was presented to them. Although it seemed the them that they must study and observe before they committed, if they had made a simple choice, not only could they have prevented the Mandalorian advance, they could have prevented the centuries of bloodshed that followed. Choices are given to you every day, mercenary. It is the choices you make that create you, that mold you into the man you become. Your choices, no matter how small, have an effect that you may never see, but the effect still happens." He stopped his movement, and turned to face Gutterson. "You had a choice, mercenary. You made the choices that led you to where you are today. You made the decisions that brought you into your line of work, which brought you into my space, and through that, into my custody." Sisk was an implacable force, overwhelming the room with his very presence. "I defend my way of life every day. I defend it with my blood and sweat. I defend it with my life and the lives of my vode. That is true dedication, mercenary. The willingness and the belief to die for something you believe in. If everything was stripped from me, I would still be Mando'ade. I will die Mando'ade. Can you say the same?"

 

[Livgardist]

Gutterson rubbed his wrists when the shackles fell off of him. He joined the man on the bench, sitting down and crossing his arms and legs as he listened to the story the man began to tell. He knew of it from before, it was true. And he could not deny that what the man was saying made sense. Right up until the point where he suggested that Gutterson had had an actual choice in what kind of life to live. Was it true? Was he right? Gutterson wasn't sure. He could barely remember that far back anymore. Barely remember the days as a child gladiator in the tutelage of Yolo the Hutt's Mandalorian chief of security. The fights, the blood, and then, the wars that followed. He didn't know. But he knew one thing. The mercenary lifestyle was the only one he knew. As far as choices went, he had chosen never to try anything else.

So...he was right after all, this giant of a Mandalorian, whose face he hadn't even seen yet. This man whose intuition infuriated him so. As if he thought he knew everything about Gutterson and his past. An impressive man, but Gutterson didn't see it. He gritted his teeth at the man's pointed question. Inside of him, rage was boiling. But he wasn't certain the rage was directed at the imposing Mandalorian in front of him. It was hard to tell. He stood up, fists clenched, as he spoke in a low, barely controlled voice.

"I fought on Tython. Brental IV, Anaxes - Alsakan. Waded through rivers of blood, knee deep in gore. I risked my life to protect innocent civilians, soldiers, even the very Chief of State himself during the Battle of Coruscant. Protect them from people like you, and your Sith friends. I nearly died more times than I care to remember. And I lost a lot of good friends in those battles. And let me tell you something, Mandalorian. I sure as hell didn't do it for the credits." He looked away, a complicated look in his eyes. "I believe in the Alliance and what it stands for. Or at least I used to..." He muttered, his voice lower, when he remembered that final moment in the Battle of Coruscant, when Nathanaeu Bastele had slapped every soldier he had fought side by side with in the battle, in the face, by his final speech. He closed his eyes for a moment.

Shaking his head, he dismissed the memory and looked back at the man.
"Yet you seem to be under the impression I'm some kind of dog of war with no ethics, no ideals. That credits is the only thing I believe in and fight for. I'll tell you right now, that I'm nobody's dog. I may be a mercenary, but I've always fought for what I believed in. I've never killed for credits. Never fought for the sake of profit. People only assumed that was it. When it came to me, and my carrion crows. Everything they ever saw in us were paid killers. Our ideals be damned, as long as we fought." He gritted his teeth in anger at the thought. Emotions he'd never before voiced began to surface. "Even the Alliance."

His fists clenched hard in anger.

 

[Sisk_Renelo]

"You were not the only one there. The Mandalorians led the charges, and I led the Mandalorians." Sisk finally sat down, and allowed his hands to rest on his knees. "I lost brothers and sisters, warriors who fought because that's what they were told to do. Armor was rendered, bones broken, skin torn, and yet still we charged. I fought and killed thousands, both Alliance and Jedi, and even the Battlemaster ran from me. But I didn't do it for pay, I didn't do it for some ideal brought on by the Sith. I did it for glory, for honor, for remembrance. Although I will die someday, my name will live forever. The Mandalorian who led the ground forces that brought the Alliance to its knees. The Warrior who conquered planets in a blitz. The Protector who forced the greatest Jedi warrior to flee before him." Sisk took a deep breath, and then reached up for his helmet seals.

His deft fingers worked quickly, and a sharp hiss sounded as the environment seals broke. A quick twist and lift, and the buy'ce lifted clear of his head. His hair was just starting to grow back, at Xotomi's insistence, and his dark beard was trimmed and defined. Hazel eyes, alight with intelligence and certainty, were set above a patrician nose and cheekbones. A strong, defined jaw was a clear demarcation between his neck and cheeks, and although his left eye was artificial, the craftsmanship was so remarkable that for one who didn't know, the only sign would be a slight variation in color between the artificial and organic eye. Sisk was the very image of a cultured warrior, strong and quick, yet reserved and thoughtful. He prided himself not only in his combat and leadership skills, but the ability to bring entire planets and armies into the fold through nothing but his words. He shook his head slightly, and continued.

"While you may have believed in what you fought for, there was always a payday, was there not? Along with an extra fee for every man lost, every ship destroyed, every confirmed kill. Your financials were easy enough to look in to, and the Crow's coffers grew almost exponentially after those battles. Those who survived got a hefty payday, and more men were eager to join the chaff, lured by the promise of large sums and undeterred by the threat of death. After all, the young believe that they are invincible." He sat his buy'ce down next to him, and raised his right hand, sheathed in his crushgaunt, and in it, he held a small stone sphere. He rolled it around between his fingers, and across the palm and back of his hand.

"Ideals are wonderful things, mercenary. But to truly believe in something, one must have faith. I have faith in my people and my cause. I have faith that the Mandalorians are truly the last bastion of true warriors. I had faith that the Alliance was corrupt, and it was time to cut off the head and let the body grow anew. Do I agree with the Sith? No. In fact, I have made my opposition to them known from the very beginning. I've heard that Darth Vereor himself has a wish for my head." He chuckled, a good-natured sound, and his real eye sparkled in amusement. "But ideals are nothing without the faith and willingness to fight for them, even without the promise of compensation."

"Every battle you fought, there was money involved. I have never received a payment for the wars I have waged for my people." He was still playing with the sphere, but after a few more moments, he caught it in his palm, and with a heavy hand, held it out. "The Alliance was bloated, keeping itself alive through the labor of people that they considered their inferiors. It was top heavy, with politicians fighting for their own personal gain, and not the good of the people. And the Jedi... Ah. The Jedi." A sense of melancholy was leaking into his voice as he brought up his old order. "Sworn Protectors of the Galaxy. Protectors who ran the second their survival was threatened, leaving the populace who depended on them to fend for themselves. They are the very definition of Hubris. A group so absorbed in themselves that they have forgotten who they truly are, and who they fight for. So arrogant that they are willing to let millions perish, because the few thousand Jedi they managed to save were more important." His eyes were locked on the sphere, almost hypnotically.

"You are a dog of war, mercenary. Although a thoughtful one. You fought with a single minded intensity for something you claim to have believed in. That is a dog of war. It is not a bad thing. Every true warrior can claim that title at one time or another. But you fought for a system that was so heavy and pressured that it eventually just..." He closed his fist around the sphere, and felt the stone crumble in his grip. He opened the fist, and let the mercenary see the shards. "Crumbled."

 

[Livgardist]

Gutterson thought bitterly on the jedi as the Mandalorian mentioned the Order. There had been a few fighting side by side with him in the Battle of Coruscant, men and women that he respected greatly. But for the most part it was as the Mandalorian said. Very few of the Order had stayed to defend the helpless. Very few had stayed to fight. While Jedi saved themselves, Gutterson and his kind had fought and died to do what they should have done. Protect the people of Coruscant from the invading armies. And the Alliance - a system of democracy, top-heavy with the lowest of low forms of human beings - politicians. Corrupt, selfish bastards who had fled the planet faster than anyone else when it became clear that war was coming to it. Again, with a few exceptions.

"You're not wrong about that, Mandalorian. I don't fight for politicians anymore, though; not for those who survived to lead the rebel movement." He said,his anger wearing off. "Since Coruscant, its become harder to tell which side is in the right in this war. The rebels use terrorist tactics to get to the Imperium military occupying their lands. They're led by the same corrupt swine who casually throw away the livesof men like me for their own gain, with no regard for the suffering it causes. Meanwhile, the Imperium use hearts & minds tactics to solidify their power over the territories they have conquered while the Sith frown in the shadows. Roles reversed. The line between good and evil has become very blurry, and I find it hard to tell which side is right, what cause is just. Does the end justify the means? Can you be a terrorist, and justify your actions with the end towards which you fight?" He closed his eyes for a moment.

"Perhaps I am disillusioned. Or perhaps just cynical. But I am tired of fighting for people like that. People who say one thing, and do another. Liars, and cowards, who use me and my brothers like pawns to spare their own from certain death." He opened his eyes again. "I decided on Coruscant, on the final day of the battle when Bastele decided to spit on the sacrifice made by hundreds of thousands of soldiers, that from then on, I would only ever again fight for what I believe is right. I fight for the rebels on occasion. But not lightly. As the galaxy becomes a more violent place, there are less and less ideals left alive worth fighting for. Less people fighting for them." There was bitterness in his voice as he spoke. "A galaxy full of would be warlords and shallow freedom fighters. Cowards and murderers, all of them."

He looked away.
"Perhaps you and your people are the only ones who still have ideals to fight for, not just power and the want of it." He had an urge to light a cigarette, but he resisted it. His hand pulled one out, and fiddled with it casually between his fingers, though not lighting it. He shrugged. "I'm not sure. Not about this, not about anything. Not anymore. With the Crows gone, so is my place in this galaxy. Now I have to find a new place for myself, or die a pointless death somewhere far off, fighting for something I do not believe in." He placed the cigarette unlit in his mouth. "I'm not some war junkie who can just pick up a weapon and a fight for no reason at all. But what else can I do? Fighting's the only thing I know how to do. The only thing I'm good at."

He sighed, and stood up, tossing the cigarette to the ground.
"I'm getting sentimental. I have no business burdening you with this, Mandalorian. My apologies." The permanent frown that usually decorated his face returned. "My ship violated Mandalorian airspace; I do not deny this. I expect you have decided on what my sentence is to be for this crime."

 

[Sisk_Renelo]

Sisk listened quietly, his buy'ce sitting on the bench next to him. There was a heavy silence in the air, and Sisk let it permeate for a moment, allowing it to accentuate his next words. "I am willing to allow this to be chalked up to random happenstance. After all, since when force is applied to an object in the void, it continues until it meets an opposing force." he stood slowly, and clipped his helmet to his belt. "However, I am not willing to allow you to return to the organization that I had a hand in destroying. While I believe in everyone's freedom of choice, I also do not believe in allowing assets that may be used against me or my people to walk away."

He paced slightly, his hands touching the walls and pillars as he moved, his nostrils breathing in the moist air. "Really, the choice is up to you. You have said yourself how you don't believe anymore, how you have become disillusioned. But a man like you would not be content with retiring to a farm somewhere, watching the galaxy pass you by. No true warrior would be." Sisk shook his head slightly. "Finding something to truly fight for is the most difficult thing in the universe. Loyalties change, governments fall, and people die. When all of those are removed, what is there for men such as us?" It was a rhetorical question, one he well knew the answer to. "We only have ourselves, and those we wish to protect." It was a truth older than time. The best, most capable warriors were those who fought for something close to them, not for a paycheck or someone else's ideals.

"I offer you a choice mercenary. I can drop you off at some planet out of the way of the galaxy, and leave you enough equipment to start a life for yourself. It's a dignified life, quiet and simple, albeit lacking anything like excitement." A life like that would have driven Sisk mad, as he was a man born of battle. His blood sang when he met an opponent on the field, his heart beat at a soldier's pace when his blade cleared its sheath. A simple farming life would bore him into an early grave. "Or..." He let the word hang.

"I can offer you something to fight for, mercenary. A true belief, born of millennium, instead of one dictated by politicians." Acid dripped from his voice at the mention of political leaders. True glory and leadership came through strength and conviction, not the ability to lie with the most effectiveness. "I will only offer this once, and then not speak of it again. I am a believer in second chances, a clean slate, cin vhetin. You are adrift mercenary, bereft of your adopted family, and of the government you once called home. I offer you a chance to fight for something greater than yurself, for a culture that has outlasted every opponent, who have challenged the Jedi and the Sith, who fight for glory and honor. I offer you the chance to become one of us, and reclaim the family and glory you lost long ago."