The Republic has fallen.
In the final days of the Clone Wars, Chancellor Palpatine died under mysterious circumstances. With the Senate struggling to retain a sense of unity, it was the perfect time for the Separatists to strike. And strike they did...
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The vista from the roof of the Kyzeron Royal Auction House was an appealing one – or as appealing as anything could be in a city that reeked of fear. Looking down over Kyzeron to the temporary outer wall and the killing field beyond – a cleared patch of land to protect the city's ever-changing border from roving jungle creatures – one could almost forget the agony and exhaustion pressed into the foundations of every stately building.
As usual, though, Darth Vader barely saw it. Situating himself this way merely gave his body something to do that wouldn't make his subordinates ask questions. Beneath his mask, beneath his suit, beneath his carefully measured breaths, he was too busy seething to focus on something as pedestrian as a view.
It had been three weeks since his arrival. Rigorous search protocols and the suffering of innocents should've drawn the instigator of the riot into the open – the same tactic had always worked well enough on Anakin Skywalker – but Vader's mystery Jedi refused to be found. He was starting to think they had fled the system altogether just after the incident.
That, or they'd chosen their friends very, very carefully, because it wasn't like his plans weren't having an effect; even after a short three weeks, the tension was mounting. He'd read dozens of Elite reports of hoaxed Jedi powers with holograms and antigrav tech, and desperate ambushes to ransom Imperial personnel for food stamps or credits. A few of the more insightful conspirators had even tried to banish Vader from the system entirely in exchange for the safe return of the officers.
A bold ploy, he had to admit, but a foolhardy one. It lacked incentive. In his mind, anyone short of the rank of general was easily replaced.
So where had the Jedi gone? Somehow they kept themself just beyond Vader's line of sight in the Force. His senses scraped at a bright, fluctuating barrier every time he meditated on his quarry, but he did not know if that was the product of a lengthening distance in time and space – or if it was somehow the Jedi's doing.
The more Vader turned it over in his mind, the more the auction house riot felt... improvised. But it didn't feel like a hit and run, either; it was still wholly possible the Jedi's silence meant they were gearing up for another assault. This first attack was the product of an emotional response, not a comprehensive battle plan; he was certain of little else, but that piece of the puzzle was solid and real to him.
There was much here that Vader didn't understand, and the Force refused to bow to his will and provide answers. Sith Lords were the epitome of the dark side's might, carefully selected so their teachings could only pass from one wise Master to one powerful student and keep the lineage strong. What did this failure make him, then, he who had once been called the Chosen One? An impotent apprentice who would be discarded before he could take his rightful place as Dark Lord of the Sith?
The Force became a storm around him, sucking passing breezes into the fray and leaving impressions of where they'd been. One thrashing current whispered of a familiar presence that was fast approaching, and as Zakhan Noreino walked up the last few steps to the roof of the auction house, Vader turned to meet him.
