#marcus trant

[incorrectstarwarslegendsquotes]

Jace Malcom: Marcus Trant: Satele Shan: Teff'ith: Gnost-Dural: Theron Shan: It seemed like a good idea at the time.

#Jace Malcom #Marcus Trant #Satele Shan #Teff'ith #Gnost Dural #Theron Shan #star wars: the old republic #swotor #star wars #star wars legends #incorrect star wars quotes #submission #magnetarbeam #original: unknown

[sullustangin]

Fluff Prompt 1: The News

This had been slightly delayed from Friday.  @frutepye stated they needed some cheering up around this time of year, so they sent in some prompts that I’m happy to fulfill.  (If you’re reading the Ziost fic, BOY HOWDY, you know why.)

So here’s the first one:  Jace finds out he’ll be a grandfather.  I wrote a snippet of this a few years ago, but this is considerably expanded. CW for mention of pregnant person (Eva). 

~~

Marcus Trant watched the steadily flashing light on Jace Malcom’s desk.  Someone was waiting on hold.

Specifically, it was the light used to indicate that the Alliance’s representative wanted to speak to Malcom. That varied, according to Malcom. In the days between the end of the Eternal Empire and the Iokath operation, it had been Aygo, and most days, it continued to be.  

After Iokath, once in a while, Theron Shan would call in.  Most of the time it was all business.  Jace was happy to acknowledge that there had been more personal lines of communication established, especially since the miracle that had been Theron getting married.

Trant had met and worked with Eva Corolastor a few times.  As a person, Trant could see how she suited Theron.  What didn’t track was the fact that, at the same time, she was the Voidhound, the leader of a third major faction in the galaxy, while still running the Voidfleet Cartel.

Trant supposed Theron had finally stopped running from those issues, a topic of contention between them… twenty years ago now.  The galaxy had changed since Theron had tracked down Ngani Zho and discovered the existence of the Sun Razer.  

Trant didn’t know if the galaxy was better, for all that it had endured.  He did know that Theron had finally permitted himself to have something that didn’t directly contribute to ‘the greater good.’

But apparently, ‘the greater good’ manifested in stranger ways that anyone could have anticipated: the Voidhound, her Alliance, the current status quo of the galaxy.

That explained pretty much all of Trant’s interest in that flashing light on Malcom’s desk.  It was his business to know about other governments in the galaxy. Theron’s life was absolutely none of his business, but that didn’t stop Trant from trying to follow it like one of the holodramas Mrs. Trant #4 liked to watch.

(Trant hated the fact that both Jace and Theron – completely independently of each other, at least a decade apart – had privately nicknamed his wives the exact same way so they could keep track of them.)

(And Trant really hated that he’d started to number them the same way as they did.  So maybe he had issues too.)

“Trying to follow” was the operative phrase here.  The pair were pretty slick in obscuring their whereabouts and activities.  Nothing personal; Theron was still her spymaster, active in the field.  His face was still unknown to the galaxy.  Trant knew that Theron had raced under an alias at Manaan recently, mostly through Jace who was conveniently there at the time on Republic business. Beyond that, Theron had lived in the shadows, and Eva had glided along the line of being famous and infamous, as usual.

Thus, Marcus Trant was very pleased to see Theron’s image flicker to life on the holocomm.  

The former SIS agent noticed his ex-boss immediately.  “You in the middle of something?”

“No, son,” Jace answered far too quickly to let Trant say otherwise.

Theron caught that.  “Right.”  He frowned slightly, looking down at a datapad.  “Well, I have no doubt you’d hear about this anyway, so I guess this saves us all time.”  

Trant saw the smile pass like a ghost across Theron’s face before he resumed his usual briefing style: brisk, slightly irreverent, unerringly accurate.

Trant noticed that the comm was suddenly secured at highest decryption levels, both ways.  

Malcom picked upon that too.

“The Captain wanted me to inform you…” Theron stopped, as if reconsidering the words and how he wanted to convey the message.  “We’ve --- ”  Again, that smile that didn’t linger, this time with the slightest worry.  “It’s still very early, but she wanted someone to know, regardless –”  

Malcom frowned.  “Theron, is Eva all right?”

The transit smile finally stopped and remained, even as Theron’s eyes dropped to his datapad.  

Trant knew that smile.  He’d worn it himself, twice, and he saw it after the fact in holos.  “I think she’s more than all right, currently.  Theron?” He wanted to get that confirmation…because he wanted to know he still had that investigator’s knack.  Being out of the field was hard for Trant – always had been.

Jace Malcom was a smart guy, but he could be utterly dense sometimes.  His gaze bounced between Theron and Trant, slightly irritated that he hadn’t been let in on the news yet.  Then again, Marcus Trant was not the Director of SIS just because he was cute and did the paperwork.  

“Yeah.”  Then, faintly, as if still absorbing the shock, yet undeniably happy: “She’s pregnant.”

Jace Malcom rose to his feet from behind his desk, staring at Theron’s image.  His expression was unreadable.

And then the world lurched.

So this is how I die, thought Trant as he watched the Supreme Commander spike his caf mug into his office desk, breaking both into pieces.  Then Jace let out a whoop still worthy of Havoc Squad.  Jace is going to bounce me off the desk next.  Or break all my ribs in a hug.

(Jace could still benchpress a speeder, probably.)

Then security burst through the door and swarmed the entry way.  The point men stared first at Trant, then at Malcom, then at the office furniture, then back at Malcom.

“I’m going to have a grandbaby!” he bellowed joyously. Security collectively blinked and backed out of the office, with all due haste.

The holo image flickered from its newfound position on the floor.  “Please don’t give yourself another heart attack or break anything….anything else.”  Theron ran a hand back through his hair as he amended the sentence.  “And don’t convert anything into a nursery – you’re not allowed to kidnap it.”

It seemed to finally register on Jace that he’d effectively trashed his office like some junior officer on a bender.  His hands flexed a few times as he shuffled around the debris to pick up the holo unit.  Once he had it in his hands, Jace’s words failed him as he looked at Theron. “I –it’s – such --  good job, son.”

All three men facepalmed at the same time at that one.  

“Congratulations, Theron,” Trant finally offered the obvious, saner alternative.

Theron nodded as his hand came away from his face.  “She – she still wants to celebrate it, but –”

“Risky.”  Jace seemed to gathered enough of his wits to analyze the situation; some people might have thought that Theron had received his analytical skills from Satele, but as far as Marcus Trant knew, that was not the case. It was public knowledge that Eva had spent considerable time in carbonite.  “But you two never were fully opposed to risk-tasking.”

Again, Theron’s smile flickered.  “No.  Never.”

~~

Hope this fit the bill, @frutepye!  More to come in the near future

#swtor #swtor fan fiction #theron shan #jace malcom #marcus trant #theron shan x smuggler #oc: eva corolastor

[captain-jim-kirk]

The Imperial Agent is, at one point, Republic's third most dangerous enemy. Who are the first two? (I'm thinking the Sith Warrior and the Sith Inquisitor, as that assessment was done after Vitiate's death, but I can't decide on which one is #1 and #2.)

What do y’all think?

#star wars #swtor #imperial agent #sith warrior #sith inquisitor #marcus trant

[inyri]

❛ their blood is on your hands. ❜

(I promised I'd get to these! This one's got a little bit of a throwback to another prompt fill from about a thousand years ago...)

She should have been watching him. 

She should have been watching him but instead, as the GEMINI unit sparks and collapses, she stands staring at the smoldering chambers as her stomach twists itself into knots. She knows those faces, locked now into open-mouthed rigor. She knows them. Knew them.

Theron was right. Of course he was right. You have no idea, he’d said on Copero, her hand on his mouth and her heart in his teeth, how deep this thing goes, Nine. No idea.

She hadn’t. She thought she had, but-

She should have been watching Atrius. He wasn’t dead and she knows that, knows better than to turn her back on a wounded enemy. Instead, she’s looking up at Marcus fucking Trant, may the Void devour him, when Lana screams out a warning; she turns, too late, as the tip of a Force pike rips through Theron from back to front. He drops like a stone, on hands and knees, crawling, and then his arms give way and she is running, running but not fast enough to catch him before he collapses. 

For a moment she thinks of Asylum and the memory of it alone staggers her mid-stride. Even with Valkorion still in her head then, even with all his power keeping her alive, it was agony. Theron doesn’t have that, doesn’t have anything but himself-  oh, stars, they were so close. So close to the end of this terrible year, so close to him finally, finally coming home. To lose him now-

Lana’s pulling him clear now, his head lolling to one side, a bright halo already coalescing around her before another, brighter light in the periphery of her vision finally forces her to look away from him. (She cannot. She cannot. If he stops breathing while she isn’t looking, if he dies-) 

“Their blood is on your hands, Commander.” Atrius gestures broadly around him, at the broken bodies that fueled Zildrog and upward, outward as she imagines the sky full of the pieces of what was once the Eternal Fleet. “His blood-” he points toward Theron (still breathing, still breathing, oh, please keep breathing, love, just a little longer)- “is on your hands.”

She racks her rifle and draws her blade. A blade did little against a machine-god, but he is no machine and no god and she will rip him to pieces for this. “No,” she says. “No. But yours is about to be.” 

#inyri writes #greyias #thanks for the prompt! #swtor #get rekt Vinn Atrius #nine/theron #equivalent exchange outtakes #prompt fills

[eorzeashan]

Conspiracy, Pt. 1

How he managed to discover his stint as a traitor early on, Theron didn’t know. 

Leave it up to the ex-Cipher to have skills far beyond his ken or the perception needed to see past his motives as only another Intelligence agent of his caliber could.

Disappointing as it was, Theron remained fully prepared to force his way out of the Alliance if needed; it would only serve his case as a traitor, and he was in too deep to back out now. He might’ve expected this, even. 

“Take me with you.”

What he did not expect Eight to have was the gall to ask him to come with. 

Theron had no intention of endangering someone else on such a risky mission, already excluding the glaring issues of how in Force’s name he’d swing it to the rest of the Order. The Alliance could live without Theron Shan, washed up spy, traitor to the cause, but its Outlander? Absolutely not. 

He flatly refused.

Eight hadn’t so much as budged. Take me with you, he’d repeated with not an ounce of doubt or uncertainty, I need to leave the Alliance. 

Now that had raised Theron’s brows past his hairline. 

They’d argued about it, if one could call quiet tenacity a type of arguing, until Eight interrupted his tirade about how he wasn’t going to smuggle him off Odessen no matter how bad this looked with a stern glance and tilt of his snow capped head towards Theron’s holocom buzzing in his pocket. 

“This is an SIS matter now,” He declared, and the statement knocked the wind out of Theron’s stomach. Their Eight, ever-so Imperial, loyal Eight, …was a double-agent for the Republic. Not that he had any right to call him out for it, being caught red-handed in the middle of traitorous activities.

“By whose authorization?” Theron asked testily.

-/-/-/-/-/-

ODESSEN, PRIVATE ROOM

“This is a surprise,” Theron said, schooling his features back into impenetrable stoicism. “Ardun Kothe.”

“In the flesh,” The former spymaster gave a professional smile- one that didn't reach past the crow’s feet of his wizened eyes. “Or not quite.” He chuckled, the flickering blue holo-figure of his form pacing back and forth in the palm of Theron’s hand. 

Theron observed him with thinly veiled wariness. 

SIS spymaster. Former Jedi. Failed leader of a resistance cell whose movements went mysteriously unchecked and wiped from the system. Theron had been well on his way to joining him in a similar fashion– then Ziost happened. 

All the less to trust the man before him. “So what's this about? I thought the SIS cut ties with me by now, but clearly-” He gesticulated around the bare room, shifting uncomfortably. “-that's not the case.”

Ardun nodded curtly to Eight in the background, who mirrored the same gesture to his former cell leader. He turned back to Theron. “Not a pleasure call, that's for certain.” He gave pause. “I take it you're familiar with the Empire's experiments in brainwashing– says here you've done a bit of work in attaining samples– and you've met our Cipher.”

A knot of unease formed above Theron’s brow. He glanced askance at Eight, who still masked his expression with the same unflappable look he always wore. “...Where are you going with this?” 

“I’m contacting you now because Director Trant believes in you.” Ardun continued, words rolling off the timbre of his steady voice. “Between the two of us, Agent Shan, all this talk of traitors and who’s betraying who- that's all a cover.” 

Theron’s jaw tightened. “It's really not.” The reply came out shorter than intended.

Kothe shrugged. “Maybe so. But can you say you're not acting in the best interests of the Republic even now? That you’ve left your old home behind for good? You're short of allies, and you’ve cut yourself loose. Don’t be afraid to know where help is– where it always was. You'll need it in the coming days. I’m offering you a way back in. Saresh is gone, and Marcus needs your skills back where they belong.”

The help doesn't usually punish me for trying to save lives, but sure, he mused bitterly, recalling Saresh’s interference and grounding of his work. 

So. The SIS was trying to make a back deal now that he’d exonerated himself from Alliance services officially. He couldn't say he didn't miss the Republic or the feeling of being on familiar ground, and he’d be lying if the prospect of returning to his old job and undoing all of the damage Saresh had done during her career didn't spark more than interest in him, but…

Theron fell silent. “No. This is something I have to do on my own.”

Ardun didn't seem surprised. “I understand. The SIS will respect whatever decision you choose, Agent. But this isn't just from the SIS; it comes from inside the house. Whatever you plan to do…we want you to succeed.” 

The old ex-Jedi winked over his shoulder at him. “We’re leaving you with a little favor, off the books and off-record; use it wisely.” Ardun clasped his hands behind his back, gaze flinty and uncompromising. “Keyword: Onomatophobia. Thesh protocol, phase one.”

Behind Theron, Eight fell to one knee. His expression looked like he’d been struck.

Theron whirled around. “Eight–? Whoa, what's wrong?” 

Eight failed to answer him. “Thesh protocol engaged. Shutting down.” He repeated robotically. The light faded from the other agent’s eyes– then nothing. 

“Eight?”

No answer. 

“Hey. Wake up.” He grabbed him by the shoulders, shaking him slightly. Eight didn't respond, limp in his arms like a lifeless doll. No. This was wrong. He needed to get Lana, Eight was–

Horror dawned on Theron’s features as he took a furtive step back, expression quickly morphing from confusion, to open shock, then finally to white hot anger. 

Eight had repeated Ardun’s words like a pre-programmed droid. Eight wasn't waking up. There was a keyword–

Brainwashing. Brainwashing. That was what he meant. That was what he’d been alluding to this entire time. The cold pit of his stomach opened up to icy bone-cutting dread, and he turned on Ardun with a blazing fury. 

“What have you done, Kothe?!” He shouted, voice echoing off the walls. 

The spymaster only smiled, wan and thin. “He’ll be susceptible to commands after he awakens. Use them wisely,” Ardun reminded him, his holo-figure warping as it lost connection.

“No,” He enunciated, hard and low and angry, “No! Don't you dare hang up- Kothe! KOTHE!” The holocall cut out. Theron yelled, slamming his fist where the holo had been. Crunch. 

His hand came back covered in broken communicator parts. He stared at it, then hung his head. Theron punched the table again, this time much weaker, all the fight having left his body with no one to direct it at it. 

Eight was still asleep, and he was alone, with no help coming and an ever-growing list of betrayals that he’d signed off on. 

“Dammit,” He covered his face with his hands. A slight tremor ran through them. “Damn it all to hell.”

-/-/-/-/-/-

The flight after was filled with stony silence. 

The first words Eight had uttered upon awakening had been “awaiting orders”. 

Theron promptly shut the pilot’s door on him. 

He felt bad about it, sure, but his head felt fit to burst with the conflicting emotions and sheer range of thoughts all coalescing into one throbbing headache that made him want to scream. He thanked the stars he still kept a spare bottle of n’etra gal around, a gift from his father around the time of the Ascendancy Spear, yet he never dreamed he’d be popping it open for reasons like this. 

It took about half of the bottle and their flight time for Theron to feel ready to address the bantha in the room again, and even then he wanted to avoid it like the rakghoul plague. 

Sure enough, on the other side of the cabin door was Eight, a deeply apologetic look on his face, hands fisted in the comforter as he meekly muttered “awaiting orders,” as if that were the only phrase in his vocabulary. 

The spy eyed him with condolences. “So,” Theron sighed, plopping down on the other side of the bed next to him, “How does this work? You can’t do anything until I tell you to, or…” He waved dismissively, letting his hands fall back down to his thighs. 

Eight considered this in deep thought. He shrugged. “Awaiting orders,” Eight said.

“Yeah… I got that part.”

Kothe hadn’t been lying about his instructions at the very least, but Theron wished he had. Gift my ass, he inwardly swore. You stuck both of us with a ticking time bomb and no way to defuse it except to take it far, far away. 

Who knew if Kothe had already pre-programmed Eight all this time to act as an unwilling mole? 

Either way, Theron couldn’t leave him behind in the Alliance. As long as Eight was compromised, he needed to be extracted. Any number of their enemies could take advantage of his fragile mental state, and Theron was not going to hand their best fighter to them on a silver platter… nor would he subject a long-time ally to something so heinous. 

He slid a hand down his unshaved face, half-expecting to feel stress wrinkles forming beneath his fingertips. Eight looked at him with worry across the bed.

This was the SIS’ game: saddle Theron with a liability he couldn’t get rid of so easily, and if he did, completely undermine the Alliance from within with it. Not a bad play, ruining their Outlander like that. 

But Theron wasn’t so easily done in; as far as he was concerned, nothing had changed save for a slight wrinkle in the plan. Vinn Atrius still needed to be stopped, and the Alliance was still in danger. Eight being his unintended and unwilling partner-in-crime didn’t steer them off course, although he had to make some serious adjustments.

He’d just have to wing the part about both of them joining the Order of Zildrog.

“Well, if I have to give you orders…”

-/-/-/-/-/-

NATHEMA

“We had a deal, Theron.” Vinn Atrius’ voice took on an edge– the man himself glared daggers at Theron, as if imagining crushing the other into a flattened pancake beneath his heel. 

“I know, I know, just–” Theron put his hands up placatingly. “Hear me out. He’s on our side. We both didn’t like how the Alliance was being run–”

“What sort of fool do you take me for, Shan?” Vinn hissed, the air around him crackling with suppressed fury. The hairs on Theron’s arm stood on end. “Did you really think I would believe two of the Alliance’s top founders would defect, much less their hunting dog?” He threw a disgusted glare at Eight, who feigned ignorance in the corner of the barren base.

Vinn crowded further into Theron’s space, a hulking mass of boiling rage. “Your arrogance knows no bounds; I should kill the both of you right here and now!” He shouted into the spy’s face, finger stabbing into his chest with each spat syllable. 

“Whoa, whoa, easy there, big guy,” Theron fought to maintain his composure, even as he backed up until his spine met the wall. Vinn’s massive frame loomed over him. “That hunting dog is tired of being under the Alliance’s yoke. You don’t know this, but it wasn’t his decision to fight for them. He owes them his life. Just as he owes me.” 

“And? Am I supposed to be convinced that he won’t slaughter us all in our sleep?” Vinn scowled. “You speak of disillusion, yet this man murdered our Emperor– our entire royal lineage without a second thought.” The knight slammed his fist into the moss-covered wall beside Theron’s head. “He is responsible for all of it!”

“If you want someone to blame, blame Arcann!” Theron rebutted, eyes flashing. He balled his fists. “He’s the one who started all this. The rest of us were caught in the crossfire of your family conflict, remember?” Theron straightened to his full height in the face of Vinn’s rage, unwilling to be cowed. “The Outlander was framed for everything Arcann did, including the assassination of your beloved Emperor. Arcann and the Alliance used him to eliminate their enemies. He has more reason than any of us to be here–!”

“Know your place, fool!” Vinn roared, igniting his polesaber. 

Theron fell silent, realizing he’d gone a step too far. 

“If you remain so intent on proving his innocence…” 

Vinn suddenly faced Eight, who reacted with alarm; the knight formed a claw with his dominant hand and pulled. Eight dug his heels into the ground and resisted, but he was no match for the Force without a shield. He zipped to the knight unceremoniously. 

As soon as he was in reach, Vinn caught him by the wrist and violently yanked it upward. Surprise morphed into one of pain as Vinn hyperextended his arm well above his head, gripping hard enough to bruise. His feet dangled; Atrius was a much larger opponent in both width and height. Even in such a position, Eight withheld a cry of pain, unwilling to give Vinn the satisfaction of sadism. He bared his teeth at the knight. 

Vinn decided he didn’t like the look, and tightened his grip on Eight’s wrist, hard enough to purple the skin. His polesaber ignited beside them with a hum, bathing Eight’s pained expression in a militant blue. Theron’s eyes widened to saucers as Vinn raised his saber hand to strike.

“WAIT!”

Theron hadn’t realized the shout came from his own throat, desperate as it was. 

Vinn’s saber stopped inches away from contact. Eight didn’t move.

“Wait,” He repeated, this time, far hoarser, “You don’t have to hurt him. There’s collateral.” A trickle of sweat rolled down his cheek. 

“Speak,” Vinn said imperiously.

He swallowed the lump in his throat. His eyes met with Eight’s, who appeared as unsteady as he felt. And yet, the other operative must have read his intentions, for the light of understanding entered the void of his gaze. Hesitant, yet barely noticeable, he nodded to Theron.

He wet his parched and cracked lips.

Vinn’s lightsaber still hovered, pulsing with blue light.

“We took...countermeasures. Insurance. There’s…a codeword that ensures obedience.” Vinn frowned, but Theron noticed the gleam of ambition in his gaze. He quickened the pace. “If I tell him not to betray us, he has to obey. He’s not a threat. I promise.” 

Sure enough, Eight hung uselessly in Vinn’s hold, not a hint of hostility to be found. Were this any other situation, the ex-Cipher would have attacked him by now– had Theron not taken that into account.

Perfectly aware of his record for lethality, Theron had briefed him prior to the meeting to let him handle the Order at all costs. Granted, it left the other unable to defend himself, but Eight understood that the matter was too delicate to do it the usual asskicking way, and Theron had been working this case for months. It had sounded like common sense at the time.

Now he slightly regretted that decision, knowing what it sowed.

The fact that he trusted him still even at the current threat of injury…Theron had to spare him any amount of suffering. Yet sharing the secret of Eight’s susceptibility was playing exactly into their hands, and he didn’t know how to stop the sinking feeling that he was trading one evil for another, staining his tarnished record black– except it would be Eight paying the price, not him. His skin turned clammy.

“A codeword,” Vinn echoed, almost reverent. He de-ignited his polesaber.  “How very like you outlanders, to be as backstabbing and manipulative as you claim.”

“Yeah.” Theron pressed his lips together into a thin, bloodless line. “So let go of him.”

The Zakuulan arched an unimpressed brow.

“Please.” He added, quieter.

Vinn examined Eight with a newfound curiosity, then released him from his grasp. 

Eight rubbed his wrist and glanced upwards at Vinn with a mixed expression. Theron didn’t let him entertain any vengeful thoughts of violence, as much as he himself wanted to blast Vinn to bits. He lunged forward and yanked the other spy to his side well out of Vinn’s reach. The knight’s eyes tracked him all the way behind Theron.

“If we’re done chopping arms off, can we get back to business?” Theron asked tentatively, hiding the sheer discomfort he felt lingering in the air like a caustic smog. His fingers tapped nervously on Eight’s wrist, still holding onto where Vinn had squeezed dark bruising into his skin. 

Eight peered warily over his shoulder at the Zakuulan knight, though Theron could feel his eyes boring a questioning look into his back every few glances. 

Vinn Atrius folded his impressive arms over his chestplate. “...Very well.” He turned with a dramatic swish of his cape. “The Adegan crystals. You know what to do.” 

“They’re yours,” Theron answered all-too quickly, wanting nothing more than to put a close to this disastrous meeting. 

“One last thing, Shan.”

“One last–?” 

“Leave the Outlander here.”

Theron tensed. “No.”

“I am not so foolish as to allow both of you in the field. He will be monitored.” Vinn stared at him with disdain through his nose. Theron glared back. 

Vinn scoffed. “It’s that or the codeword. Unlike you savage outlanders, I can spare your friend the humiliation of what Lady Vaylin suffered–” He looked balefully upon Eight. “--though he deserves it. Make your priorities clear, Theron, or I’ll make all your decisions for you and him.”

Theron floundered for a mental foothold. A thousand bad scenarios raced through his mind. Neither of these were options, they were ultimatums. Ones he had no control over, no guarantee of safety. Leaving Eight alone with the enemy was tantamount to killing him with his own hands. Giving him the codeword even moreso. 

Atrius tapped his foot impatiently.

He doubted his intentions enough as it was, but Theron couldn’t give him leverage. A hostage, of all things. Who was playing who? Now Theron was caught by the tail in both the Order and the SIS. There was no winning if he agreed. Yet the longer he let hesitation take hold, the more he could sense the suspicion growing from the former Horizon Guard, who looked ready to take Eight away from him by force any second now. 

A sharp tug on his sleeve pulled him out of his anxiety-riddled thoughts. Eight wore a non-expression that gave little away, irises as dark as the black sand beaches of Rishi. 

Theron’s brows steepled quizzically. He felt his heart rate lowering looking at the serene canvas that Eight’s countenance was. Always unflappable, calm, strong. How many times had they come to rely on his detachedness? His ability to face any threat with nigh a hint of fear in him? His eternal resilience, with the scars to prove it?

Theron gripped his chest. The fabric crumpled between his fingers. He’d promised him he wouldn’t have to bear their burdens anymore, and he was already failing.

Eight let the silence hang between them until the panic in Theron’s chest subsided to a dull ache. Then, like a gust of fresh wind clearing the unbreathable miasma from the air, he spoke. 

“It’s alright.” He released his sleeve. “I can stay.”

Theron blinked at him, not comprehending. He shook his head vigorously. “I can’t let you-”

“He’s made his decision,” Vinn brusquely interrupted, muscling between them. Theron was shoved aside, tripping backwards on his heels as Vinn obscured Eight behind the curtain of his humongous cape.  “Now make yours.” He glowered. “I have no time for dogs who come to lick the scraps from my heels.” 

Theron grit his teeth. They ground against each other. He felt like a wounded hound who’d just been thrown out of the ring after a knockout. Screw you, asshole. 

“Wait. Just… let me say goodbye, at least.” He said quickly, clinging to the last chance they’d have at communication. 

The corner of Vinn’s lip curled upwards. Theron took his lack of objection as a yes. 

He scrambled to remove his jacket, internally apologizing to Eight for not washing it sooner and praying that it didn’t smell too bad. Eight’s gaze was bright and curious as Theron draped the classic red jacket over his shoulders.

“Keep it with you,” Theron ordered, hand stopping to rest over the familiar worn leather that now rested on Eight’s smaller frame, “Whatever you do, don’t lose it. Okay?”

Eight seemed to get the memo. He nodded, short and sharp.

Theron gave him a small pat, hand hovering for a moment before falling to his side. He stepped back. 

He was sure Eight was lost on why Theron was fawning over him like a lover– they were never what one could call “close” in the first place, and anything between them was more business than personal. Even the few moments they shared as partners in crime were distant at best, and Theron wasn’t going to lie about the emotional unavailability of their relationship. 

But staring at Eight now, he mostly felt regret. He knew next to nothing still about the ex-Imperial. Even yelled at him a couple times for actions he didn’t approve of (which he wished he could rescind, as Eight no longer ambushed his quieter moments out of mischief and had taken to interacting with him purely out of necessity after). But that didn’t mean he wanted the last time he ever saw him alive to be…like this. Theron drooped. 

No one had ever asked Eight’s reasons for fighting for them as their Outlander, him included. Turned out it wasn’t fair of them to ask everything of one person and give nothing in return but scathing remarks and more demands for the sake of their own lofty ideals.

When Eight killed the royal family of Zakuul, finally did the dirty deed and shed blood in their name, no one had been there. They’d turned their backs on him. A little bit of darkness, and the Alliance abandoned him completely in order to keep their shiny coats clean.

He had been their scapegoat, their hero, their alibi, and their sacrificial lamb all in one. 

Theron couldn’t even call him a friend. 

“We will contact you as soon as you have the crystals. Be ready by sundown.” Vinn carelessly tossed him a burner holocomm. “But know this: make one wrong move, and you forfeit your friend’s freedom. Betray us, and it will be his life. Is that clear?” Vinn’s voice was low, simmering with the threat. Eight, still in his grasp, flicked his uncertain gaze to the SIS agent. 

“...I understand.” He flexed his hands reflexively, wanting to act, do more than gawk like a moron while Vinn had his way. 

Vinn hauled Eight away by the bicep, the other forced to stumble awkwardly along due to the sheer height difference. He stopped just outside the entryway to the temporary hideout. “See that you do, Shan.” Eight’s pitying look followed him all the way until he and Atrius disappeared around the corner. Yet Vinn’s arrogant voice floated to him until they were out of earshot, ringing hollowly in his ears. “...See that you do.”

-/-/-/-/-/-

UMBARA

“The traitor’s just beyond that door.” 

Lana doggedly marched ahead of Theron, anticipation and eagerness rolling off her demeanor. 

Theron performed a simple sweep, carefully stalking behind the vulnerability of her open back. He had a wider area to cover today given the noticeable absence of their mutual friend, who ordinarily would be taking point adjacent to him. At the thought of Eight, a wrinkle formed in Theron’s brow.

Lana had chalked his missing status up to wanderlust, though it sparked no end to muttered threats about what an earful she would give him on his return. 

Theron knew better; Eight’s eccentric habits made it easy to spin a white lie about his whereabouts. The ex-Cipher had a tendency to avoid the Alliance and its “menial” tasks on his off-days, but as a result, made it difficult to locate him in order to avoid being saddled with the bureaucratic duties he and Lana shared simply because he had “no talent” for it, and only came into the base to head missions more relevant to his skills.

Ones that involved gratuitous amounts of violence, mostly. Any work past the bare listed minimum had Eight disappearing the moment their back was turned. Theron wished he could do that with his paperwork, but alas, he was not afforded such special treatment. 

“It’s as if he’s purposefully making our lives difficult,” Lana had thrown up her hands in frustration, paperwork scattering in the air as she slumped backwards in her chair when he gave her the news. “Just… tell me when he gets back. And no more of his excuses, do you hear me?”

It was almost cruel to obfuscate the truth from her.

The opening hiss of a pneumatic door signaled to him the trap was laid; Lana stepped inside, aghast. She lowered her lightsaber, glancing around the empty car with a muddled look on her ordinarily composed face. Not a soul inside. Her confident bloodlust dissipated into thin air, and with it, her only lead. The quarry was…gone?

“What-?” She asked aloud, failing to notice the traitor inching forward at her back.

It took a split-second. The Force screamed at her. She reacted, drawing her lightsaber in an instant. The blaster bolt deflected off the crimson edge and back at her attacker–

“Theron?!” She cried out, disbelieving. Yet she could only confirm the sordid truth as rayshielded walls fell around her, the blaster bolt dissipating uselessly against it. Theron Shan, her trusted ally turned traitor. Her golden eyes fell to the smoking blaster in his hand, pointed straight ahead. Her face fell. He’d attempted to shoot her. In the back. 

She forced down the humiliation that welled up in her for falling for something so obvious, even as he stared at her from the other side of the rayshield with a grim expression, his aura tainted with a nebulous feeling that twisted and roiled in the Force. 

How could he–? After all they’d been through…no, no– this made no sense. Lana controlled her breathing. She knew Theron. 

She needed an explanation, and she needed one now. 

“What in the blazes are you doing?” Lana hissed at him, saber thrumming with the anger that pulsed in her chest like a fractured kyber heart. Her tone bordered on electric, dancing with the imminent danger of her withheld wrath. 

Theron sighed and lowered his blaster. “Stalling you,” He explained, as if faced with an unsavory chore. “I’m sorry, Lana. I should’ve done this long ago. It’s past time we ended this.” He set his wrist comp’s internal clock. “In a few minutes, this train will collide with the side of the mountain, and I’ll be gone. For what it’s worth…” His expression grew sympathetic. “It's been an honor to fight by your side.” 

Lana stuttered. “I don’t– I don’t understand.” Hurt colored her pallid cheeks. “Theron, tell me what’s going on. We can talk about this.” 

Theron appeared pained at her words. He looked away, shifting uncomfortably. When he lifted his eyes to meet hers again, they were filled with an uncountable tiredness to them that Lana had not seen before. “...The Alliance, Lana. We can’t do this anymore. It has to end. That starts,” He narrowed his embittered eyes, “with you.”

Theron took Lana’s speechlessness as a cue to continue, a sudden zeal replacing the deep melancholy that had previously dominated his features. His tone picked up. 

“Our goal was Zakuul, but now that the real threat is gone, we’ve lost sight of who we are–and that isn’t the next galactic superpower.” He paced in front of her, the angry red of the rayshield casting him in a harsher light than Lana had ever seen before. “I won’t stand by and watch it turn into the next Empire, Lana. We’ve sacrificed too much to go on like this, and if the Alliance is another tool for grinding good men and women into dust…then it needs to be torn down.” 

“That’s not-”

“And with the way things are going, we’re destined to return to the status quo by the next cycle.” Theron pierced her with his steely gaze. “Am I wrong?”

Lana froze, grip tightening on the hilt of her uselessly hanging blade. Theron’s eyes bore into hers. She could sense no regret, no point of return from his words. Yet the longer he spoke, the colder the tendrils of despair seemed to become, winding themselves around her veins, chilling her to the bone with this sinking feeling. Betrayal. 

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Lana tried, failing to understand. For all her eloquence, in this moment she was truly at a loss for words. It was as if her tongue weighed duracrete, locked down by an invisible force that choked her very lungs. 

Lana Beniko had never been trusting in the traditional sense, but it was Theron whom she shared more than one battle with. More than one war with. She’d thought…

Theron’s eyes widened, then lowered. “I…” He turned away, facing his back to her. Lana could see the visible slump in his broad shoulders, the way they hung like he carried the weight of the world. 

She’d seen that same back working tirelessly on those nights when they burned the midnight oil together monitoring operations, Lana’s other bastion within the Alliance besides Koth and their errant swordsman, the one who had brought them together in the first place. The irony was almost laughable. 

Theron a traitor, Eight a distant specter in their Alliance, and herself, saddled with the immeasurable burden of leadership…their little group was falling apart by the seams. 

Perhaps that was her own fault, for trusting them through shared history alone. How could she have been so foolish to assume they were anything but enemies waiting for their chance to strike once the specter of Zakuul had been removed? 

It was then Lana realized she’d overlooked a vital detail. A huge, glaring mistake, that she should have noticed sooner. 

“Theron,” She spoke slowly, hesitantly, yet impossible to ignore with its underlying edge,  “Where is Eight?”

#title much creative so wow #um. #swtor #swtor fanfiction #traitor arc #theron shan #vinn atrius #lana beniko #oc: orradiz #kotfeet #admin writes #ardun kothe #cw brainwashing #rishi trio #theron's no good very bad horrible day #if it's not exactly like the in game dialogue DONT LOOK AT ME. IM TIRED. IM TIRED #IM TIRED!!!!!!!!!!!

[ospreyeamon]

theron background headcanons

Theron is Force-blind in somewhat of a more legally-blind than totally-blind way. Low-key environmental ambience doesn’t register to him at all, but he can tell when somebody is doing the equivalent of waving a strobe-light in his face. It’s nowhere near enough for the subtle senses Jedi skills require, but the Sith tend to be louder in the Force – consciously bombastic where Jedi are naturalistic – so Theron can occasionally sense when one of them is doing something especially melodramatic.

Theron gained an impressive variety of skills and experiences during his itinerant childhood but no lasting close social connections apart from Ngani Zho – not even among the Jedi. The longer Theron failed to exhibit any signs of being Force-sensitive the more obvious it became that it was the result of Theron not actually being Force-sensitive and other Jedi began to point that out to Zho. Zho was heavily in denial about Theron’s Force-blindness because of what it would mean and started actively avoiding the Order so nobody could challenge his delusion.

Theron spent a lot of time thinking about what he would say to Zho if they ever met again after Zho sent him away on Haashimut. In the end Theron never said any of it because when he finally met Zho again it was to discover that the man who had raised him was living in a fantasy where Theron was totally Force-sensitive, had absolutely become a Jedi Knight, and had spent the decade Zho had disappeared for palling around with his mother on Jedi adventures.

After a few weeks being housed with the Jedi Initiates while the Masters on Haashimut settled on what to do with him, Theron was passed off into foster care. The Galactic Republic doesn’t have anything close to a unified foster system; the variance as to what constitutes appropriate child-rearing practices and unnecessary administrative burden of trying to run a unified system make it far more practical to handle it at a local level. However, in the aftermath of the Great Galactic War virtually all of local care organisations were underfunded and overwhelmed with war orphans and child refugees. Theron slipped away before he aged out and spent the next couple of years drifting. When he was sixteen, he stumbled into a SIS operation and saved an agent from a mutated Orpali dragon which brought him to the attention of the then Mid-Rim Director Marcus Trant.

Theron consciously worked to strip himself of obviously Jedi ticks after joining the SIS. The casual references to the Force, the bowing, the falling into the base stances of Shi-Cho. They were potentially dangerous identifying tells, but he also just wanted to stop people asking about it.

#Meanwhile in a Galaxy Far Far Away #swtor meta #Theron Shan #star wars the old republic #a wild headcanon appeared

[ainyan]

Back to Work

Three months. It had been three months. Three months, sixteen days, ten hours since Satele Shan and Risha Drayen had come to tell him that Darth Marr’s flagship had been destroyed in the first meeting with the Eternal Empire. Since that day, Arcann’s forces had rained fire and destruction upon both the Republic and the Sith Empire.

At first, Theron had been in shock - unable to do anything even as everything crumbled around them. Finally, however, he’d come out of his fugue and tried to pick up the pieces - not only of his own life, but of the shattered galaxy he found himself in. He had tried to bury himself in his work, but Saresh had pushed back, refusing to rescind his ‘administrative leave’. 

Just today, he’d nearly gotten himself tossed out on his ear - and likely blacklisted - when she’d made a cutting remark that had laid blame on his shoulders for the initial debacle in Wild Space, and only Satele’s quick intervention had spared him. The Jedi Grandmaster spirited him away before he was able to gain control of his tongue long enough to tell the Supreme Chancellor exactly what he thought of her - or to pull the blaster hanging at his side.

As they passed by the Supreme Commander’s office, a hand shot out and caught Theron’s wrist, dragging him and Satele into the room. The door slid shut behind them as Theron grappled belatedly at his blaster, staring wildly at their assailant. Marcus Trant raised an eyebrow. “Gonna shoot me, Agent Shan?” In the background, Jace Malcom looked mildly surprised at his son’s disheveled appearance.

“Might make me feel better,” Theron replied, unamused, but he dropped his hand away from his blaster and tugged his wrist free of Trant’s grasp. “Should you be talking to me? The Supreme Chancellor has made her position on my position in the SIS abundantly clear.”

The SIS Director gave Theron a patient look. “Desperate times call for desperate measures, but if it makes you feel better, Saresh and I have been arguing about your displacement since Ziost, and we will continue to do so. Grounding one of my top agents at a time like this is tantamount to suicide.” He sighed. “I can’t override her - not exactly, but I can tell you that Zarek Antilles is still working for us. Maybe he’ll be able to help until I can get you back in the system.”

Theron froze, staring at his old boss. “That’s… good to know. At least the SIS is in good hands until Saresh comes to her senses.”

Jace gave Marcus a suspicious look, but the SIS director never even glanced in his direction. His dark eyes rested on his agent, a faint smile hovering about his lips. “I heard you invested in a place on Rishi after you were there chasing traitors,” he remarked. “Maybe you should go there, lay low for a little bit - long enough for Saresh to forget about you. A few more weeks of this,” and he gestured skyward, indicating the Eternal Empire ships in aggressive orbit about the planet, “and she’s sure to understand the value of reinstating you.”

Trant hadn’t meant to reopen old wounds. He certainly hadn’t meant to rip Theron’s heart from his chest, but the spy closed his eyes against the unexpected stab of pain in his belly, pressing his hand to his stomach as he bent over from the shock.

Rishi. 

Theron stared down into Cip'rys’s glowing scarlet eyes, mirroring the wicked smile that danced within them. “Working with you has made all of this madness worthwhile,” he’d murmured.

Her response came not in words, but in the bright grin she flashed him, even as she reached up to lock her arms around his neck, dragging him down for a hard, hungry kiss. Her mouth was warm and firm against his and she tasted of whiskey and spice and the hard candies he knew she kept in one pocket - just to his taste. He’d never felt such a powerful urge to just take before.

It had been she who had pulled back, her breath ragged, her cheeks flushed. “The feeling’s mutual.” He barely resisted pulling her back in. He’d only wanted the kiss. Now he wanted so much more. But the fleet was waiting, and there was no time to spare. Not now. But soon… soon.

Stepping back, he dusted his hands together to keep them from snatching her against him. “Glad we’re on the same page,” he grinned, trying to hide his need behind a joke. From the glint in her eyes, he had a feeling they were more in sync than he’d thought, and he eased back another step. “Come on. Let’s go see what Yavin has in store for us.”

“Theron?” It was Jace, his eyes concerned as he reached out to steady his son. At his side, Satele watched him, her angular blue eyes filled with sympathy - she, at least, understood. She could feel it.

The Director knew too; Theron was unsurprised. No doubt both he and the smuggler had been closely watched, and they hadn’t exactly been discreet these past several months. For once, Theron saw something human in Marcus Trant - a compassion he’d never expected. “I wasn’t thinking. If Rishi won’t do, I’m sure I can lend you an unused safehouse somewhere…”

The spy shook his head, straightening up and patting his father’s arm awkwardly as the giant released him. “No. No, Rishi is fine. I’ve got the house set up with all my creature comforts; it would be a shame to let it go to waste. Better than brooding here on Coruscant.” Where the ghost of his lost lover haunted his apartment. “Give Zarek my best, Director.”

The three watched as he turned and walked out, his gait a little unsteady, his shoulders hunched. “I missed something,” Jace remarked as he watched his son leave with worried eyes.

“Probably,” Trant replied mildly, without censure. “I’m sure the Grandmaster can explain. I need to go make sure everything is in place. Thanks for letting me use your office, Jace.”

The Supreme Commander waved his friend off, his attention already centered on the tall, slim woman he’d once loved enough to conceive a child with. “What have I missed?” he asked the Jedi as he settled down in one of the office chairs, careful not to put too much weight on it.

Satele sighed, rubbing her forehead. “You missed your son sliding down that slippery slope into love, Jace,” she replied, and he gaped at her. “Do you pay any attention to things outside of the military these days? It hasn’t exactly been a secret that Theron Shan had been spending time with the infamous smuggler Cip’rys.”

Malcom blanched. “I hadn’t heard. Not exactly the kind of gossip that reaches my ears these days,” he admitted. “But things have been screwed up since Ziost - since Yavin, really,” he sighed. “She worked with him there, didn’t she?”

“And on Rishi,” Satele murmured, staring at the door through which her son had so recently exited. “I believe this all began there. He’s been a shadow of himself since word came. Arcann broadcasting about executing her hasn’t helped,” she added dourly, “and Saresh hasn’t exactly been kind. She all but accused him of being responsible for all of this.”

Jace closed his eyes. “She’s a menace, Satele,” he growled, his voice lowered to prevent anyone outside the room from hearing. “A bloodthirsty warmonger who is more interested in power than in the survival of the Republic or her people.”

The Grandmaster sighed. “I know. But she’s also the duly elected Supreme Chancellor. There’s nothing we can do until her term comes up. And even then… she’s incredibly popular, Jace. To the average citizen, she gives them exactly what they want - a fight against the tyranny and oppression of the Sith.” She chafed her hands together, turning back to the leader of the Republic’s armed forces. “I have a feeling we won’t be done with her for a while.”

Jace gazed into her face. “Is that a feeling, or a feeling?” he asked, emphasizing the repetition of the word. 

Satele grimaced. “I’d love to say the latter, but right now, I think it’s just my own anxiety over this invasion and how she’s handling it - and how she’s handling Theron,” she admitted in a low voice.

Jace studied his one-time lover and shook his head. “I thought you Jedi weren’t supposed to form attachments.” At her sour look, he held up his hands. “Don’t get mad at me. I care for the boy, too. We made a good one, Satele, one that even a Jedi can be proud of.”

Her expression softened as she gazed towards the door. “Yes,” she murmured. “He is definitely a good one. Let us hope that these latest events do nothing to change that.” Turning back to her ex-lover, she frowned at him. “Keep an eye on him, Jace. Don’t let him stray too far into the dark. I have a feeling that this is only the beginning of his trials.”

The big man raised an eyebrow in acknowledgement of the impossibility of the request, but spread his hands. “I’ll do my best, Satele,” he rumbled.

“Thank you,” she sighed, before offering him a distracted bow and turning, walking swiftly from his office.

He remained standing behind his desk, frowning thoughtfully after her.

It was dusty, and empty of anything resembling food, but it was livable, and he could make it more so. He’d bought the place on a whim after the operation on Rishi, and hadn’t given it more than an occasional thought since then. He’d intended it to be a hideaway, somewhere off the grid and off the books that he and Ciprys could disappear for weeks on end. Nothing to occupy them but each other…

Recognizing the danger of the impending cloud of grief, he gritted his teeth and palmed on the lights, studying the cloth covered furniture scattered about the room. Months of accumulated grime, damage from the local rodents and insects, some mild mildew… nothing he couldn’t handle. And at least cleaning it would keep him too preoccupied to think.

Think about…

Gritting his teeth, he shoved the past aside and tugged off his jacket and gloves. A quick hunt found his stash of cleaning supplies. He grimaced at them, then at the room, then sighed, slipped on the protective gloves, and got to work.

Little more than an hour later, and the place was fit for habitation. With the dust chased away, the mildew scoured, and the damage from the tiny invaders cleaned and patched, Theron was able to stock the cooler and pantry with the food he’d brought. In the bedroom, he stowed away his gear, then grabbed the compact bag that contained his special kit.

The small office held a secret, one he doubted even Trant was aware of. Oh, the director no doubt had suspicions - but the spy doubted even his boss knew exactly how to access the old smuggling holdout buried beneath the floor. Scans of the room would turn up no anomalies; like many smuggling compartments in freighters, the walls were lined with sheets of metal designed to break up and refract scan pings, showing up as solid spaces rather than holes. Add in the best locking mechanisms he could get his hands on and added cybersecurity built by a master, and no one was getting into his hideaway he didn’t want there.

Clearing his way through the passcodes and biometrics, Theron squeezed through the narrow opening that appeared in his floor and down into the sparsely appointed cavern of computerized delights that awaited him below. He ran his hands across the consoles and monitors he’d installed months prior, checking for any sign of use or abuse of either the sentient or rodentia kind.

Nothing. As clean and as unused as when he’d last been here. Satisfied, he booted up the system and engaged the redirects and misdirects that would send any incoming and outgoing signals bouncing around between galactic buoys before finding their way to him. It would slow things down considerably - but it would also make him all but impossible to find. When the system login for the Republic SIS finally appeared on the monitor, he hesitated a moment, then tapped in his credentials.

Acknowledged. Welcome, Agent Zarek Antilles.

Satisfied, Theron settled down in his chair and cracked his knuckles. It was time to get back to work.

#swtor #theron shan #cip'rys #mid-KOTET

[reconstructionlegacy]

marcus trant's fourth wife

#art #r #jace malcolm #swtor #braigwen art #*

[ulavii]

Everytime the Director of the SIS calls Theron Shan

Marcus Trant: Theron (derogatory)

#theron shan #marcus trant #swtor #star wars the old republic #wrong quotes #star wars #the old republic

[keldae]

Fictober 2021 -- Day 28

“So, this is it, is it?”

Theron froze, one boot on the Serenity’s boarding ramp at the voice echoing in the military hangar the ship had been stowed in. When he looked to the entrance to the hangar, he could see a very familiar figure standing in the doorway, arms crossed and eyebrow raised. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he lied.

“Banthashit.” Marcus Trant took a step forward into the hangar, becoming more visible in the dim evening light to Theron’s enhanced eyes. “You’re a damn good spy, Theron, but you can’t lie to me about what you’re doing. Unless you’re going to tell me that this isn’t what it looks like?”

“... I don’t have to explain myself.” Theron muttered, not stepping back from the ship’s ramp. 

“No… like I said, you’re a good spy, but I know you too well.” Marcus shook his head -- probably disappointed with his old ward’s actions. “You’ve been acting off since the Zakuulans invaded -- ever since we received the word of Darth Marr’s fleet being destroyed. You lost someone on that coalition fleet. You’ve been angry and grieving ever since, and now, you’re in a secured military hangar at close to midnight -- conveniently, the same hangar being used to store Master Taerich’s ship, which hasn’t been used since her Padawan and crew escaped from Marr’s fleet while she died on the flagship. If I didn’t know you better, I would say you’re planning on leaving in the dead of night.” He sighed, for once looking old and weary. “Couldn’t think of a better way to grieve for everything you’ve lost besides cutting ties and running?”

“... Who said I was running?” Theron looked back up at the Serenity and bitterly snorted. “She flies better than she runs.”

“Dammit, Theron.” Marcus sighed again, this time in frustration. “You know what this will do to your standing here, with the SIS, and with your father. If you leave like this…”

“It’s better than staying here and bowing to our new overlords,” Theron snapped.

“Do you think I’m happy with the outcome of the siege? I lost people I cared about too, damn it -- but I have a duty to the Republic and the SIS. The same duty you have!” Marcus shook his head. “Where do you even think you’re going to go? Even the Hutts are caving to Zakuul. There’s nowhere for you to go besides staying here.”

“That’s not true,” Theron growled, even if part of him railed in despair at what Marcus was saying. “I can’t make any sort of a difference staying here when the Senate crumpled like a house of sabaac cards.”

“Again -- where are you going to go? The Empire? Empress Acina bowed as quickly as the Senate did.”

“I’m sure as fuck not going to the Empire,” Theron spat. The thoughts of Lana and Darth Imperius crossed his mind, and were banished. Even if rumour did have it that Imperius had fought hard against the treaty with Zakuul and had only bowed to protect Imperial civilians… “I still don’t have to explain myself. I’ll… I’ll make my own way.”

“And is this the way Master Taerich would want you to do it?” Marcus gestured to the Serenity. “By stealing her ship and flying off in the dead of night to Force-only-knows where, because I rather doubt you know where you’re going, and sulking at Zakuul from a position where you can’t do anything?”

“I’m effective in the field,” Theron muttered. “I know what I’m doing, and I can work better alone than I can here.”

“And what, pray tell, is one solitary rogue agent going to accomplish that the entire SIS can’t do?” Marcus sighed. “Theron, beyond the fact that this is illegal and will get you strung up for treason, this is a suicide mission. You’re still young -- you have more to live for.”

Theron paused for a long moment, looking back at the Serenity, then shook his head. “There’s nothing left for me here,” he quietly said. “Xa-- Master Taerich would do the same thing if it had been me who died on that ship.”

“Really? The Jedi Master, throwing it all away on an attachment she wasn’t supposed to have?” Marcus snorted. “I suppose she wouldn’t have been the first.” He took another cautious step into the hangar. “Theron, just think about this for a minute. You’re rash and headstrong, but you’re smarter than this -- I know you are. Do you really think Master Taerich would have you throw away your life like this? If she was here--”

“If she was here, none of this would be happening,” Theron snapped. “Or, she would have already left, and brought me along with her.” That, he had to admit, was the more likely scenario. Not even Xaja by herself could have held off all of Zakuul, but she would be the best person to seek justice for the galaxy. And if that meant sneaking onto Zakuul and taking down Arcann directly, then so be it. Force knew she’d been talented enough and headstrong enough to pull it off, too.

Another heavy sigh echoed through the hangar before Marcus quietly spoke again. “There’s nothing I can say that will change your mind, is there?”

“You’ve known me long enough to know that answer.” Theron took a step up the ramp, then paused. “Tell my… tell Jace I’m sorry, but I’m doing what needs to be done.” Oh, wouldn’t his father be furious with this update… but Theron couldn’t bring himself to care enough to change his plan.

“Make me the messenger to get shot, why don’t you,” Marcus muttered. “Just… try to be careful.” 

His throat suddenly tight with emotions he refused to give voice to, Theron just nodded, knowing his old mentor would see the gesture; then he hurried up the ramp and into the ship where Tee-Seven was patiently waiting for him. “Let’s go, buddy,” he said as he threw himself into the pilot’s seat and tried not to think about what Xaja would do if she knew he was stealing her ship. “We’d better get out of here before Coruscant Security comes down on our asses.”

Tee-Seven beeped his agreement, and a minute later, the Serenity was flying out of the hangar and vanishing into Coruscant’s night sky, leaving Marcus to stand in the empty hangar and watch the disappearing ship with worried eyes.

#fictober21 #SWTOR #Theron Shan #Marcus Trant #indirect Theron/Xaja #KOTFE #timeskip #annnnngst! #the incident in which Theron becomes an official ship thief #why yes he did steal Xaja's ship when he left Coruscant #that's my headcanon and I'm sticking to it

[andveryginger]

Fictober 2021, Day 5: “Asset Management” (1/1) (SWTOR; Mairen/Reanden)

Title:  “Asset Management”

Prompt:  5. “I’m not saying I told you so….”

Fandom:   Star Wars: The Old Republic (RPverse)

Rating:   Teen

Warnings/Tags:   Adult Situations Implied

Notes: Real life keeps interfering mightily with my writing time. So these are going to get done when they get done, and posted in completely random order, I suspect.

Anyone interested in the back story should take a peek at “A Dick in Knight’s Clothing,” “Deja New,” “Breaking the Ice,” and “Falling Action," all of which cover the first meeting and subsequent stumble into a relationship of these two super-spy dorks. This story would seem to fall into the timeline shortly after “Falling Action.”

Posted without beta. All mistakes are my own.

Club Vertica Nar Shaddaa 3640 BBY | 13 ATC

Club Vertica had been a fixture on Nar Shaddaa since well before the time Marcus Trant served as SIS bureau chief. Back then, it had been the spot for the elite – the celebrities, politicians, and other wealthy socialites of the galaxy to see and be seen. Somewhere along the way, however, the standards for entry had been relaxed, while maintaining private suites for their previous clients. The result was a bit more casual atmosphere… and more diluted drinks.

Sauntering into the main lounge, Marcus allowed his trained eyes to take in the room. It was, as always, cavernous, shielded ceiling glowing purple against the night sky. At center was a round stage, taking up perhaps a third of the room. The generator for the complex stood in the middle, reaching up toward the stars, and providing a brilliant light show of its own. Sometimes, there were live bands; in this instance, blue holographic dancers were spaced around the edge, equidistant. They stood out in stark contrast to the gaudy neon that flickered around them and blanketed the room in an orange glow.

There were fewer slot machines than he remembered, and the card tables were spaced farther apart. Still, the machines trilled constantly, punctuated by the occasional siren call of a win, and an accompanying shout; at the tables the occasional rattle of dice or the clatter of credit chips could be heard. Low levels of conversation added to the atmospheric din, with only the Huttese announcements on the public address system clearly understood.

Shoving his hands into his pockets, Marcus wandered clockwise around the room. He knew from long experience where each of the exits were; the bouncers lurked in their usual places, with particular attention to the passages leading to the elite lounges. His gaze also swept over the other, more technical security measures: Biometric locks could be seen to the side of some doors, while cameras kept an eye on the patrons – and their cards.

As he continued his trek, he spotted his quarry standing by one of the card tables. A man of moderate height, he wore a fitted tunic, belted at the waist. His hair, usually dark with streaks of silver, had been temporarily replaced with what Marcus could only assume was a wig – an odd shade of darker red, made worse by the flickering neon. The profile had been altered slightly, too, likely a trick of prosthetics and make-up – just enough to confound the scanners. A half-finished drink sat on the gold metallic edge, a small stack of chips on the green felt before it. He held a few chips in his left hand, fingers of his right fidgeting over the edges.

To his left, seated on the stool, was a Twi’lek male, tchun curled around his neck. A club escort hovered at his side, wearing the metallic bra and foiled scarves that barely concealed anything. Her fingers trailed absently along his lek, surely in an effort to keep him distracted from the game. Given the way the tail of his tchin twitched, Trant suspected she was succeeding.

Marcus stepped up as the attendant began the next deal and tossed a few chips of his own onto the table. Cards slid toward him on the soft surface, one at a time, until he had a full hand. “Minimum still ten credits?” he asked.

The attendant, a wiry blond male he knew to be an informant, nodded once. “Ten to play, and ten more at the flop.”

Pursing his lips, Trant nodded and produced the initial bet. He then picked up his cards, holding them close to his chest as he offered a polite nod first to the man whom he had been looking for, and then the Twi’lek and finally the escort.

Conversation was light; focus was on the cards. Through four hands, Marcus held his own, while his contact and the Twi’lek lost heavily. He watched as the escort finally leaned down, speaking quietly into the ear cone. Greenish lips curled backward, revealing sharp, feral teeth as the Twi’lek offered a grin. He barely offered a nod as the escort slipped her arm in his and they began wandering toward the private rooms.

Shaking his head, Marcus turned to the dealer. “Count me out,” he said. He looked to his contact. “You staying in?”

The faux redhead shook his head. “Time to change tables,” he muttered with a grimace. His accent was almost Imperial, save for the drawling vowels. “And more than past time for a drink.”

“How about a round on me? It’s the least I can do for cleaning you out.”

“You’re on, mate,” the man replied. He gestured toward the lounge. “Lay on.”

Gathering his chips, Marcus shoved them into his pocket. The two men fell into step, weaving their way up the stairs and toward the lounge. It would be quieter – a better place for conversation – and much easier to deploy their usual countermeasures against eavesdropping.

The court lounge had also changed very little in the intervening years. A rock fountain still stood at center, veins of gold folded through the dark mineral. The purple energy ceiling was in place here, too, less overwhelmed by yellow and orange neon. Red and gold carpets padded the walkways – carpets that reminded him strangely of the Senate Tower. The half-naked Nautolan female dancing on the fountain, however, ensured there was no confusion about where he was.

The two men ordered drinks from the passing attendant droid and settled in to an empty sofa. In his hand, Marcus slid his finger over one of his personal credit chips. The action activated a small jammer, embedded in the chip. It would serve to confound any electronic devices listening in – at least for a few minutes.

Trant regarded his contact with a lopsided grin. Now that he was closer, he could note fully the cosmetic alterations, spotting a faux scar and a few extra shadows. “Always such a fun place, Nar Shaddaa,” he said, starting the identification.

“A regular neon playground,” his contact said. He took a sip of his drink. There was an amused gleam in hazel eyes as he regarded the SIS director. “As a friend once said, it hides a multitude of sins.”

“That and a good bribe.” Marcus laughed and took a sip of his drink. “I hope that’s a wig, ‘cause red is not your color, old man.”

The old man – agent Reanden Taerich, codename Duathion, late of Imperial Intelligence – smirked. “Been out of the field too long,” he drawled, maintaining the accent. Marcus recognized it now as something closer to his native voice, one which he used rarely. “It’s dulling your already questionable tradecraft.”

The Director of SIS narrowed his eyes. “Questionable tradecraft didn’t keep me as bureau chief for four years. Or get me promoted.”

A familiar impish twinkle lit the hazel eyes. “That’s what they do to get people out of the way, isn’t it? Promote ‘em to the highest level of incompetence?”

“Keep talking like that, Duathion,” Marcus replied, maintaining his glare, “and I’ll leave you to twist in that cesspit. Now… do you have your report, or are you wasting my time?”

“What are old friends for?” Grin widening, Reanden withdrew a credit chip from his pocket, flipping it through the air. “Wanna call it?” It landed in his palm before Marcus could respond, and he slapped it onto the back of his hand. “Too late. Tails.”

Tossing his head back with a theatrical laugh, he gestured with his drink, sloshing the amber liquid all over himself and Marcus. The chip fell to the floor, where Marcus then smoothly picked it up, palming it, even as Reanden produced another from… somewhere. He made sure it was seen in his hand before returning it to his pocket.

Shaking his head, Trant sighed. “Why in the Nine Hells did I ever promote you to station chief?”

Reanden sipped his drink, grimacing as he lowered the glass back to rest on his thigh. “You didn’t have much choice,” he said. “Letar is too junior, and you needed someone more senior to run her and Cardinal.”

“Speaking of – how are things with Cardinal?”

There was the slightest hesitation as Taerich raised his glass and took a sip – a hesitation so brief that anyone other than Marcus would have missed it. The director also noted that the drink served as something of a delaying action. His expression, however, revealed nothing, and, other than raising and lowering his arm, he did not shift his position. ���She’s proven more than capable,” he replied smoothly.

Marcus regarded his old friend with a sideways glance, a hint of amusement in his brown eyes. He hid his grin behind his glass as he took a sip of his own drink. “I was under the impression that the two of you did not get on well?”

Here, Reanden did shift his position, cocking his head to the side as he studied Marcus for a long moment. “We’ve come to an… understanding,” he said. He took another draw from his whiskey, again considering the director for a beat. “But you already knew that.”

“Suspected,” Trant corrected. “I knew from previous reports that the two of you had a rather explosive meeting a number of years ago, and were known to be – how did the analyst phrase it? – ‘openly acrimonious.’ It was enough to catch the attention of a few informants. And now, through those same informants, we’re starting to hear rumors – well, that she’s adopted you as her ‘pet agent.’”

Duathion snorted. “We needed an excuse. The rumor mills and fascination with… dynamics… made it an easy choice for a cover.”

“Lots of time together, probably late at night,” Marcus drawled, “alternating between your place and hers? Makes sense. For a cover.”

Reanden narrowed his eyes. “What else would it be?”

In response, Marcus cut him another sideways glance. “That would be entirely up to you, Duathion,” he replied. “Far be it from me to suggest that intense, devoted relationships can sometimes emerge from equally intense, undercover operational situations… as I know you are familiar.”

The corners of the agent’s mouth tipped significantly downward, a crease in his brow deepening. “We may be old friends –”

The remainder of his thought was cut short, however, by a distinctive female voice. “There you are, darling,” she called, drawing out the syllables in a perfect mimic of Taerich’s accent. Looking up, Marcus watched the shapely form of a relatively tall, human female sauntering their way. A long black dress draped elegantly over her, the fit revealing much while leaving more to the imagination. It fluttered around her ankles as she walked, hips swaying in an almost mesmerizing fashion. Dark hair was piled elegantly on her head, eyes shadowed dramatically. An impish glint lit green eyes, however, as she regarded first Marcus, then Reanden. “You’ve not gambled our fortunes away, have you?”

“That’d take longer than we have… darling,” Reanden replied. He did his best to bite back the flare of temper, but it was still eminently visible in his eyes, and the set of his jaw… until, in what appeared to be an instinctive movement, her slender fingers swept over the bare skin at the base of his neck. There was a sharp inhale, nostrils flaring slightly, even as he straightened. Marcus noted the shift in his intensity immediately.

For her part, Cardinal – known to most only as Mairen Bel Iblis – appeared not to notice the effect that she had on her counterpart. Marcus suspected it was entirely intentional, however. Damn Jedi, he thought. Still playing the part of the socialite, she fluttered her eyelashes at the director. “I hope I’m not interrupting,” she said.

“Oh, not at all,” Marcus replied. “Matter of fact…” He paused, downing the last of his drink. “I was just about to head back to my hotel.”

Bel Iblis, looking odd without her signature red hair, tilted her head to the side. Her other hand came to rest on Taerich’s shoulder, fingers still casually draped at his neck. “Please don’t let me rush you,” she said.

Marcus found he couldn’t quite smother the smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. He stood, smoothing his own tunic and recentering the belt at his waist. “Not at all,” he said. “And I might suggest you do the same… before Duathion blows a gasket.” The smirk widened, and he shared a knowing glance with Cardinal. “Until next time, you two.”

He turned and headed toward the exit before Taerich could form another response. It was fairly clear that Cardinal understood all too well how to deal with his fits of temper, Force help her. Trant was almost to the door as he keyed up his comms. “Ardun? It’s Marcus,” he began. “I’m not saying I told you so, but… I told you so. That’s a hundred credits you owe me…”

#fictober 2021 #swtor fic #mairen bel iblis #reanden taerich #marcus trant #ardun kothe #mairen x reanden #shadow x agent #undercover spy stuff #totally a cover story #not just a river in egypt

[legacyofabsolutewalnuts]

I avoided doing the Nathema arc bc I just wanted Bel to be happy and then I was like “well I have to write it eventually” so I played it, and honestly Marcus Trant’s lines hit me the hardest of all bc 1. The idea of “sinking his claws into Theron and not letting go” as Marcus implies a spy of Nine’s caliber could obviously do would be a concern moving forward in their relationship for Bel and 2. WHO THE FUCK ARE THE TWO THREATS TO THE REPUBLIC AHEAD OF ME TRANT. i AM JUST ASKING. WHO ARE THEY

Im definitely not going to murder them for the sake of my pride so I can be number one. I would never do that

#swtor #the nathema conspiracy #swtor thought #Cipher Nine #Marcus Trant #imperial agent

[sullustangin]

Last Line Meme

Tagged by @califrey and @starknstarwars and @reliciron (i just found your tag too!)--it's been sitting in the mentions for over a month-- sorry for the late reply!

tagging (no pressure, can be any fandom): @commander-krios @kaosstar @outcastcommander @rinskiroo @mr-jaybird @shabre-legacy @admiralprawn @buckybarnesss @certified-anakinfucker @cinlat

Rules: In a new post, show the last line you wrote and tag as many people as there are words.

"Apparently, a widower wanted to talk to him and Trant."

#writing fan fiction #writing meme #swtor fan fiction #marcus trant #theron shan #mystery widower number ???? of ??????????????

[lonewolfel]

Fictober 2020, Day 25

Prompt: 25 - “sometimes you can even see”

Fandom: SWTOR (Star Wars the Old Republic)

Rating: G (mentions of death) 

Paring: mentions of Theron/Sith Inquisitor

Jace was never exactly close to Theron. That was something he had always regretted. He may not always agree with his son's choices (Darth Imperius), but he still cared about him. Satele's and Theron's disappearance was something that hit Jace hard. The last time Jace saw Theron they talked about his relationship with Darth Imperius. Now the Sith Lord is dead by Emperor Arcann’s hand and there was a fragile peace between the Zakuulan Empire and the Republic. 

Jace walked into the office of the Director of the SIS Marcus Trant. He sat down in front of the Director.As much as Jace hated to admit it he was jealous of the man. Trant knew far more about Theron than Jace ever did. After all Trant has no Theron for almost twenty years and Jace has known him for a couple years. Though Jace had tried, it was harder than he thought. As much as Theron probably didn't want to admit it  sometimes you can even see Theron’s similarities to Satele and Jace. 

"I'm glad you can make it." Trant said and Jace nodded.

"You had information on Theron." Jace said and Trant nodded. Though he seemed to be hesitating. 

"How much do you know about what happened on Yavin?" Trant asked and Jace frowned.

"I know that the Grandmaster's fleet went there along with the forces of Darth Imperius and Darth Marr to defeat the false Revan. Grandmaster Satele had a theory that Theron was into Darth Imperius." Jace said

"The Grandmaster may be more right than she thought." Trant muttered and Jace looked at him in confusion. "When I briefed Theron I could tell that he knew far more than he was letting on in regards to Darth Imperius. He spent months with her and yet claimed to know nothing that the Republic didn't already know." 

"You didn't consider it a security risk?" Jace asked in confusion. 

"I did until I got this from one of my agents inside the Empire." Trant said and he pulled out a recording. 

"Master, I have looked in all Imperial databases. Theron Shan is not mentioned in anything." Jace recognized the voice as the Jedi traitor Ashara Zavros. One of the apprentices of Darth Imperius.

"He is a good agent." The mechanical voice of Darth Imperius said

"But Master surely he has done something against the Empire." Zavros said

"How much do you know about Technoplague?" Darth Imperius asked

"Technoplague is an unknown Republic agent that is responsible for the death of two Dark Council members; Darth Mekhis and Darth Karrid of the Sphere of Technology." Zavros said "You think Theron is Technoplague."

"I know he is." Darth Imperius said

"He told you?" Zavros asked

"No, when he hacked into my ship the technique was practically Technoplague's MO. Also, Theron mentioned Master Zho a known accomplice to Technoplague's killing of Darth Mekhis." Darth Imperius said

"Shouldn't you tell Acina and the Dark Council?" Zavros asked

"No." Darth Imperius said

"Master, with all do respect, he has killed Dark Council members he could kill you." Zavros said and Darth Imperius started to laugh. Jace's frown deepened at the fact that she thought it was laughable at the idea that Theron could kill her. "Master, this is serious." Zavros seemed annoyed at her master.

"If he succeeds then I'm sure Zash and Thanaton will send him a fruit basket from beyond the grave." Darth Imperius said

"We need to find you people that won't try to kill you." Zavros said

"That's what you, Talos, Oculus, and Khem are for." Darth Imperius said

"Master..." Zavros started

"Trust me, Ashara." Darth Imperius said

"Yes, Master." Zavros said and the recording ended.

Darth Imperius knew exactly who Theron was, yet she made no move to defeat him. She allowed the Empire to sit in its ignorance. 

"The bug was destroyed soon after the recording." Trant said

"Do you think Darth Imperius wanted us to hear this?" Jace asked and Trant shrugged.

"I won't pretend to understand the mind of a Sith, but I doubt this was accidental. She did remain true to her word the Empire still has no clue who Technoplague really is." Trant said 

"Do you think they were in a relationship?" Jace asked

"There was no proof that Theron ever met with Imperius, but he did meet with her apprentice." Trant said and he pulled out another recording. This one had video. He saw Theron sitting at a table in a cantina alone with a cloaked figure walking towards him. "This was about a week after the Barsen'thor's capture." Trant hit play on the recording. 

Jace could hear the cantina music coming from the holo. The cloaked figure got closer to Theron.

"Ashara." Theron said and Jace could barely make it out.

"I came to give you this." Zavros said and she handed Theron something.

"What is happening?" Theron asked as he looked at the object.

"My Master and Lord Beniko have a plan." Zavros said

"What are they?" Theron asked

"My Master's plan I don't know, but she claims that both the Empire and Republic won't make it two more months fighting Zakuul." Zavros said and Jace huffed at how accurate that was.

"You're joking, that would only be a year." Theron said and Zavros shook her head. This revealed part of her face to the camera.

"That's what my Master says and she is rarely wrong." Zavros said

"What is Lana's plan?" Theron asked 

"It's in the datapad. I need to go. May the Force be with you, Theron." Zavros said and she turned away. She walked away and the video ended, remaining on the last scene. 

May the Force be with you was something Jace had heard from Jedi not Sith. This confused him. Why hadn't she adapted to the Sith sayings?

"Do you think he went to the Empire?" Jace asked fearing the answer.

"According to my agent in the Empire, Theron never joined with any Imperial. In fact Minister Lana Beniko has left the Empire and has not been seen since." Trant said

"What do you think they are up to?" Jace asked

"I don't know it was clearly about something in that datapad." Trant said

#fanfic #fan fiction #fictober20 #swtor #star wars the old republic #theron shan #theron shan x sith inquisitor #female sith inquisitor #light side sith inquisitor #f!sith inquisitor #meva ebon #jace malcom #ashara zavros #marcus trant

[inyri]

A few side takes from the last chapter:

1) This entire piece of plot came out of a question I couldn’t shake that’s completely Imperial Agent specific. If you’re playing an IA who stayed allied with the Empire, the Order of Zildrog member who confronts you on Nathema is Marcus Trant. But what exactly did Cipher Nine do that would make Trant, Director of the SIS since she was a literal child, quit the Republic complete and join an apocalypse cult focused on killing her?

This was my answer to that question.

2) What happened at the end? We’ll get to that. But Garza learned something from Eclipse’s failure- they didn’t have a failsafe. She had to send Havoc to hunt them down, and she’s not one to repeat mistakes. The people for that new project came from Belsavis. The failsafe came from another prison entirely.

Do you remember Shadow Town?

#inyri writes #equivalent exchange outtakes #I suppose since there are so few enemies from the vanilla IA story guaranteed to be alive by Nathema #using Trant does make sense as a Republic foil to a loyal IA #but he was barely on Nine’s radar at that point in her life since she’d been away from ImpInt so long #and on the second point i also wanted a way to wrap that up that didn’t involve Nine having to kill that guy after all #that seemed anticlimactic #so instead: kaboom

[eorzeashan]

WIP WEDNESDAY

i've missed 6 billion wip wednesdays by now, rip. currently bored out of my mind flying back and forth so have a sneak peek of more traitor arc shenanigans, ohoho.

The SIS calls looking for opportunity. Theron answers. This is part is probably after he's left the Alliance? saying maybe, bc wips are finicky things bound to change.

“This is a surprise,” Theron said, schooling his features back into impenetrable stoicism. “Ardun Kothe.”

“In the flesh,” The former spymaster gave a professional smile- one that didn't reach past the crow’s feet of his wizened eyes. “Or not quite.” He chuckled, the flickering blue holo-figure of his form pacing back and forth in the palm of Theron’s hand.

Theron observed him with thinly veiled wariness.

SIS spymaster. Former Jedi. Failed leader of a resistance cell whose movements went mysteriously unchecked and wiped from the system. Theron had been well on his way to joining him in a similar fashion– then Ziost happened.

All the less to trust the man before him. “So what's this about? I thought the SIS cut ties with me by now, but clearly-” He gesticulated around the bare room, shifting uncomfortably. “-that's not the case.”

Ardun nodded curtly to Eight in the background, who mirrored the same gesture to his former cell leader. He turned back to Theron. “Not a pleasure call, that's for certain.” He gave pause. “I take it you're familiar with the Empire's experiments in brainwashing– says here you've done a bit of work in attaining samples– and you've met our Cipher.”

A knot of unease formed above Theron’s brow. He glanced askance at Eight, who still masked his expression with the same unflappable look he always wore. “...Where are you going with this?”

“I’m contacting you now because Director Trant believes in you.” Ardun continued, words rolling off the timbre of his steady voice. “Between the two of us, Agent Shan, all this talk of traitors and who’s betraying who- that's all a cover.”

Theron’s jaw tightened. “It's really not.” The reply came out shorter than intended.

Kothe shrugged. “Maybe so. But can you say you're not acting in the best interests of the Republic even now? That you’ve left your old home behind for good? You're short of allies, and you’ve cut yourself loose. Don’t be afraid to know where help is– where it always was. You'll need it in the coming days. I’m offering you a way back in. Saresh is gone, and Marcus needs your skills back where they belong.”

The help doesn't usually punish me for trying to save lives, but sure, he mused bitterly, recalling Saresh’s interference and grounding of his work.

So. The SIS was trying to make a back deal now that he’d exonerated himself from Alliance services officially. He couldn't say he didn't miss the Republic or the feeling of being on familiar ground, and he’d be lying if the prospect of returning to his old job and undoing all of the damage Saresh had done during her career didn't spark more than interest in him, but…

Theron fell silent. “No. This is something I have to do on my own.”

Ardun didn't seem surprised. “I understand. The SIS will respect whatever decision you choose, Agent. But this isn't just from the SIS; it comes from inside the house. Whatever you plan to do…we want you to succeed.”

The old ex-Jedi winked over his shoulder at him. “We’re leaving you with a little favor, off the books and off-record; use it wisely.” Ardun clasped his hands behind his back, gaze flinty and uncompromising. “Keyword: Onomatophobia. Thesh protocol, phase one.”

Behind Theron, Eight fell to one knee. His expression looked like he’d been struck.

Theron whirled around. “Eight–? Whoa, what's wrong?”

Eight failed to answer him. “Thesh protocol engaged. Shutting down.” He repeated robotically. The light faded from the other agent’s eyes, and he became still.

“Eight?”

No answer.

“Hey. Wake up.” He grabbed him by the shoulders, shaking him slightly. Eight didn't respond, limp in his arms like a lifeless doll. No. This was wrong. He needed to get Lana, Eight was–

Horror dawned on Theron’s features as he took a furtive step back, expression quickly morphing from confusion, to open shock, then finally to white hot anger.

Eight had repeated Ardun’s words like a pre-programmed droid. Eight wasn't waking up. There was a keyword–

Brainwashing. Brainwashing. That was what he meant. That was what he’d been alluding to this entire time. The cold pit of his stomach opened up to icy bone-cutting dread, and he turned on Ardun with a blazing fury.

“What have you done, Kothe?!” He shouted, voice echoing off the walls.

The spymaster only smiled, wan and thin. “He’ll be susceptible to commands after he awakens. Use them wisely,” Ardun reminded him, his holo-figure warping as it lost connection.

“No,” He enunciated, hard and low and angry, “No! Don't you dare hang up- Kothe! KOTHE!” The holocall cut out. Theron yelled, slamming his fist where the holo had been. Crunch.

His hand came back covered in broken communicator parts. He stared at it, then hung his head. Theron punched the table again, this time much weaker, all the fight having left his body with no one to direct it at it.

Eight was still asleep, and he was alone, with no help coming and an ever-growing list of betrayals that he’d signed off on.

“Dammit,” He covered his face with his hands. A slight tremor ran through them. “Damn it all to hell.”

#swtor #swtor fanfiction #wip wednesday #theron shan #oc: orradiz #bleh idk how to feel about this section and it's been like. millennia since i wrote theron #traitor arc #ardun kothe #admin writes