The low, gut-deep groan of the Rogue Shadow's engines sank into the scarred deck plating beneath my boots, a sound that rattled up my spine and settled in my chest as the star-streaked blur beyond the cockpit viewport snapped back into the vast, uncaring black. Hyperspace fell away with a jolt, the ship trembling like a beast too stubborn to die, its hull creaking under the strain of a thousand patched-up escapes I'd never hear the full story of. And there it was—Coruscant. It didn't just fill the frame; it swelled, an impossible sprawl of steel and light welded onto a planet's corpse, a megalopolis that devoured its own skin. Towers rose like jagged fangs, luminous and cruel, clawing through the atmospheric haze until their peaks bled into the orbital twilight, a shimmering shroud against the void that seemed to pulse with a life of its own. Far below, hugging the curve of the planet, the underlayers flickered—a chaotic wound of light and shadow, veins of neon threading through grime and decay, a heartbeat that thrummed louder than the engines straining to keep us aloft. The scale wasn't just a sight; it was a weight, a fist around my chest that squeezed until my breath caught, my fists clenching against the sheer, impossible sprawl staring me down—a leviathan I couldn't fight, couldn't map, its presence sinking into my gut like a cold blade.
I leaned a shoulder against the cool transparisteel, arms crossed tight over my N7 chest plate, the city-world pressing in like a living thing—ancient, rapacious, ready to grind me into dust if I blinked wrong. The Citadel's sterile order flickered in my mind, a clean grid I could trace blind; this dwarfed it, mocked it with a chaos that made my jaw tighten, my knuckles whitening against the frame. "Hell of a sight," I muttered, the words rough, scraping out like gravel under my boots, tasting small against the beast glaring through the glass.
A clipped, synthesized voice cut through the engine's growl, dry with a glint of mischief. "Well, it's not exactly tourist-friendly, Commander." PROXY drifted beside Galen's station, his photoreceptors—dull orange pools flickering in the cockpit's emergency glow—whirring with a cheeky click that bounced off the scarred walls. Scorch marks and pitted dents marred his bronze chassis, souvenirs from battles I'd never dig into, but his tone carried a spark—a lifeline, a jab to keep the air from choking on itself. He was Galen's tether to the world, the humor that kept the man from drowning in his own head, and I caught the glint of it even through the scars.
Galen didn't flinch. He sat hunched over the controls, hands clamped on the console's edges, knuckles stark against the worn metal. A tremor ran through his fingers, faint but steady—the liquor's grip, a haze he couldn't shake, burning through him like a slow fuse I'd seen flare over Mustafar's red dust. His eyes were distant, locked somewhere beyond the viewport, and I'd clocked that look before—late nights on that fiery shithole we'd made our base, bottles clinking between us on his first night there. He was a man teetering, chasing something I couldn't name, and it gnawed at me to figure out what drove him when the haze took hold.
The Shadow shuddered hard, a long, protesting groan as it grazed the upper edge of Coruscant's atmosphere, buffeted by forces it was never meant to charm. Durasteel plates creaked—scarred, patched, re-patched from escapes I'd never hear the full of—shifting like the timbers of a ship caught in a storm's teeth, the sound grinding through the hull like a dying animal's cry. Gravity tugged, pulling my boots harder against the deck, the vibration climbing from a hum to a roar that sank into my marrow and rattled my teeth. Outside, the city rushed up—not just towers now, but canyons of permacrete and tarnished chrome, veined with rivers of light from swooping traffic, a steel jungle flexing its jaws around us. This wasn't finesse; it was hammered grit, desperation's weld holding it together—same as the man flying it.
"Think she'll hold?" The question came out flat, a soldier's nudge, testing the edge of a trust built on Mustafar's dust.
Galen didn't turn. His eyes stayed fixed on the spiraling cityscape mirrored in the viewport, hands gripping the console tighter, a faint twitch in his fingers. "She's a stubborn bitch," he muttered, voice flat and worn, a blade dulled by use. "Always comes through." He didn't look at me, but I caught the flicker—a shadow passing through his stare, a weight I couldn't crack.
A harsh, short laugh scraped out of me, rough against the cockpit's stale air. Right. That was Galen. Good enough. For now. The silence thickened, heavy with the strain of engines and the hiss of recycled air—stale, metallic, stinging my nose with ozone and old grease. We angled lower, and through the haze, a ruin loomed—a massive dome, its spires cracked and blackened, half-swallowed by newer towers that clawed over its bones. "Place looked important?" I grunted, squinting at the wreckage, my curiosity tugging at the edges of what a guest to an entire universe would ponder.
Galen's voice broke the quiet, gruff and low, eyes still on the controls. "That's where the Jedi fell. Sith tore it down, turned it into their playground 'til the Empire ate itself." His eyes didn't leave the controls, but the words carried weight—a history I'd only caught scraps of from Revan, now this. Jedi. Sith. Titles that meant power, blood, and not much else to me yet. I leaned closer to the viewport, squinting at the wreckage, a soldier's curiosity sparking—Revan claimed one, Galen another, Vicrul hovering somewhere near. What the hell did it mean? Another structure slid into view—a sprawling rotunda, its grandeur chipped and shadowed. "That one looks it was even more important." I pressed, leaning closer to the viewport.
"Senate," Galen muttered, barely a breath. "Same story." His jaw tightened, a tell I'd clocked, but he offered nothing more—just enough to spark the itch in me, Jedi and Sith weaving into the haze of this galaxy I was still piecing together.
PROXY chimed in, dry with a sarcastic bite. "Level 1313's next, Commander—syndicate paradise, where credits buy blades and charm buys you a quick death." His photoreceptors whirred, a glint of mischief under the scars, tossing me the intel with a jab. "Keep that charm dialed up," I shot back, a grin tugging my lips despite the weight. "Might need it to talk our way out of this mess." The aristocratic spires faded behind us, sinking toward layers where the light turned thick and dirty, neon bleeding through grime. Level 1313—a lawless sprawl that made Omega's chaos look tame, a predator's den my instincts couldn't map yet.
The comm crackled, spitting static like a wounded beast before a voice punched through, rough with a Twi'lek rasp. "Marek? Stars, I thought you were dead. Rumors said you bought it years back."
"Still breathing," Galen said, voice flat and crisp, cutting through whatever haze clung to him. "Landing bay, Talis—for old times' sake."
Talis's laugh ground out, rough but warm, a friend's edge under the grit. "Old times? You owe me from Dantooine—two crates of nova crystals, never paid. Krayt Claws nearly took my head for it."
Dantooine. That snagged my attention—a Rebel life I hadn't pried into. Who leaves a favor like that hanging? I leaned in, eyes narrowing, curiosity burning—the N7 itch for intel on the guy I'd tied myself to.
Galen straightened, voice sharp. "Let's settle it. Bay number?"
Static hissed long and heavy, Talis weighing it—old debts against old friendship. "Fine," he sighed, a gruff chuckle underneath. "Bay 56, you know the spot. Don't ditch me again, Galen, you bastard." The line snapped dead, a fond jab echoing in the silence.
Galen gave a fractional shrug, eyes tracing the descent path. "Old contact. Older debts."
PROXY drifted closer, photoreceptors glinting. "Master, your negotiation skills remain... impeccable." A dry jab, laced with the spark that kept Galen from sinking.
The hum deepened, a groan threading through the silence, as the scarred ship begun to wind down.
The deep groan of the Rogue Shadow's engines finally choked out, settling into a low, guttural thrum that rattled the scarred deck plating under my boots and bounced off the cockpit's pitted walls. The beast was still alive, barely—its hull a patchwork of durasteel plates, scorched and re-welded from a thousand desperate runs, creaking like it might split open any second. Beyond the transparisteel viewport, Landing Bay 56 pulsed—a sickly neon haze bleeding through layers of grime and damp, glinting off oil-slicked permacrete that shimmered like a wet wound. The air inside was thick, stale with the tang of ozone, hot metal, and the sour bite of spilled rotgut that clung to the corners—a ghost of nights I couldn't shake. Flickering orange emergency lights cast jagged shadows across the console, the glow catching on scratches and dents, turning the familiar space into something alien, worn down to its bones.
I pushed up from the pilot's seat, planting a hand flat on the console's cool edge to steady the tremor creeping through my fingers. The haze swam at my vision's edges, a familiar shadow curling in, liquor's pull gnawing at the back of my skull. Habit took over—a soldier's ritual frayed by too many nights on Mustafar's red dust. I reached for my twin sabers, their grips rough and worn under my palms, silent kyber heavy as a dead star. Clipped them to my belt, the weight settling like an old scar. My hand brushed the pouch at my hip—Juno's Rebel insignia, a scratched metal disc softened by years, and Sera's bead, a smooth river stone from Kashyyyk's banks. Trinkets. Remnants. My fingers lingered, the tremor flaring—Juno's sharp laugh, Sera's small hand—then stilled as I balled my fist, shoving it down. I checked the blaster at my back—a WESTAR-34, Juno's once, its surface scratched from battles I couldn't name, cool and solid against my palm, another quiet ache I carried.
Beside me, Shepard moved with a soldier's snap. His M-3 Predator whirred softly—folding tight with a mechanical hum, snapping to his thigh armor with a muted click that barely stirred the stale air. He tapped his wrist, and the omni-tool flared—orange light washing his face, hard lines softening for a breath as a photo flickered up—a woman, dark hair framing a sharp face, eyes piercing even in the grainy glow.. his thumb hovered, jaw clenching, eyes narrowing—a raw ache spilling out, separation's sting carving a shadow across his face. I caught it, mid-motion—the despair, the hollow of losing what tethered you. My gut twisted, Juno's echo staring back at me. He didn't see me watching, or didn't care. A low grunt rumbled out—"Whenever you're ready"—his gaze flicking forward. I nodded, sharp, turning away.
The ramp ground down with a screech that clawed the air, metal grinding on metal, opening onto Bay 56's cavernous sprawl. The heat hit first—a thick wave laced with burnt fuel, stale sweat, and a sour tang that stung my throat, the bay's breath rolling over me like a slap. Neon holos flickered—cheap mods and shadier deals flashing in garish reds and greens, casting jagged light across the permacrete, slick with oil and grime that pooled in cracks. Shadows loomed deeper than they should—figures slouched against crates, eyes glinting under hoods, syndicate goons tracking us with lazy menace. My boots hit the floor hard, the thud echoing in the vast, humming space, cutting through the buzz of a bay that never slept. My eyes scanned slow, slicing through the murk—then locked on him. Talis Vorn, halfway across, leaned on a corroded crate, lekku twitching, blaster loose at his hip—a smuggler's ease masking the steel of a vet who'd outrun his share of blasters. I grunted low, rough with recognition—"Knew he'd be here"—debt's call dragging him out of the past, same as always on these lower levels.
Shepard stepped down behind me, boots heavy, Predator at his side—posture tight, eyes narrowing at the goons' shadows, missing nothing. PROXY hovered at his flank, photoreceptors glinting red in the neon wash, his usual jab simmering under the scars, held back but sharp. My gut tightened—Talis wasn't just a smuggler; he was a shard of a life I'd buried, Rebel runs and Dantooine dust, here for blood owed, not just crystals. The haze clawed, liquor's whisper curling in—flask heavy in my coat—but I shoved it down, hard. Focus. Talis was a mirror I'd have to face, whether I wanted to or not.
He pushed off the crate, boots scuffing through dust and grime, swaggering toward us with a grin that flashed wide—rough, warm, a Twi'lek rasp cutting through the bay's hum. "Stars, Marek, you look like bantha shit warmed over," he barked, lekku twitching. "Word is that mess on Kashyyyk was you and Juno's end."
My jaw locked, haze flaring hot at her name. "Rumors lie," I bit out, voice low, gravel scraping my throat.
Talis chuckled, a rough grind of rocks, and slapped my shoulder—hard, familiar, a war buddy's touch that landed heavier than it should. "Dantooine, you bastard," he said, grin widening. "You iced that Krayt Claw thug, left me swinging—two crates gone, nearly got spaced for your mess."
A ghost of a laugh rasped out, rusty and unexpected, war's echo cutting through the haze. "Corellia," I shot back, meeting his gaze. "That Hutt run—you ditched me with Tabarith's goons closing in. Barely got out."
Talis roared, laughter bouncing off the bay's walls, lekku swaying. "Fair point, you son of a bitch! Always said you'd start a fight and leave me to finish it." The warmth hung fragile, a thread from a life I'd lost. Shepard shifted behind me, silent, eyes steady—watching, not judging.
Talis's grin faded, eyes raking me—catching the tremor, the hollow stare I couldn't hide. He jerked a thumb at my ship. "So where's Juno? Figured she'd have your hide for letting the Shadow rot like this—thing's a damn disgrace."
The words hit like a slug round. I froze—air thinning, neon dimming, the bay's hum swallowed by a roar in my ears. My hand twitched toward the flask, brushing glass, then clenched—dropped. Silence stretched, thick, suffocating. "She's gone, Talis," I rasped, voice tearing out like broken metal, "Guess the rumors weren't all lies." muttering out low and jagged under Talis's familiar gaze, haze splitting wide.
Talis's grin vanished, shock slamming into his face—eyes widening, lekku stilling. "What?" he breathed, then louder, rougher—"What the kriff?" His hand fell limp, dangling at his side, the smuggler gone, just a man staring at a ghost.
He searched me, hunting for a lie—found none. "You two were..." he started, voice dropping, faltering. I cut him off, words ripping free, broken—"We had a daughter—Sera." My voice cracked—halting mid-breath, dropping to a whisper—"A vibroblade... ended her." My gaze dropped to the permacrete—grime blurring, hand falling heavy—Shepard's boots steady in my periphery, a silent wall.
Talis stared, gutted—face slack, a horror too big for words. "Stars, Galen," he whispered, voice thick, raw. "You're drowning in that shit, aren't you?" His eyes flicked to the coat, flask's outline stark.
"Keeps me moving," I rasped, barely audible—a truth scraped from the haze, Revan's shadow burning under it. Shepard's stare held, unblinking—filing it, the cost sinking in.
Talis grinned faintly and slapped a hand against his thigh. Dust puffed off his worn pants. "You're not dragging this crew through shadows tonight, Marek. Crash at my place with walls thicker than this slime pit. We'll sort the debt tomorrow." PROXY hummed—photoreceptors glinting—"Indeed, Master, a respite might refine your... negotiation finesse." His dry jab cut through the crush still hanging over us. Talis snorted quick and gruff, a spark of war-buddy humor lighting the bay's murk for a breath. He stood there with his eyes locked on mine, waiting for my nod like a squad mate holding a line. I gave it, slow and stiff. Acceptance sank into my bones like damp rotgut settling in my gut. Talis's offer was solid ground, a war buddy's rope tossed across years of murk I couldn't shake alone. Shepard grunted low. "Your call." His voice stayed steady, boots planted firm on the permacrete.
I stepped to the Shadow's console with my fingers brushing the scratched edge. The haze tugged at me, but I punched the lock. A low hum kicked up, grinding through the cockpit's bones. The ramp screeched shut with a groan loud enough to shake the bay's stagnant air. Talis watched with his arms crossed and boots scuffing the permacrete. "Don't worry, my pad, my rules," he grunted, voice rough but warm. "Runs under an old friend's name. No one's sniffing around. She'll be fine" His eyes flicked to the Shadow, its bulk sealed tight under the neon glow, then back to me. It was a smuggler's assurance carved from years of ducking syndicates and Imps.
He turned slow, boots grinding dust into the slick floor, and started toward a dark passage snaking deep into 1313's guts. "Move it, you bastards," he barked, warmth rough and real, a war buddy's call ringing off the crates. We followed with his silhouette cutting through the neon's bleed. The bay's glow dimmed behind us, flickering lights swallowed by the grime closing in around the Shadow's sealed husk, steady under Talis's ghost-name claim.
The neon's hum sharpened, a jagged pulse threading through the dark as the passage swallowed their steps.
As Talis turned, his silhouette cutting through the neon bleed of the Landing Bay like a blade through smoke. I followed, boots sinking into the oil-slicked permacrete with a faint squelch that echoed in the cavernous hum. The air hit thick and heavy, a rancid stew of burnt fuel, stale sweat, and a sour tang that clawed at my throat, older than Omega's pits, deeper than any ward I'd prowled. Neon holos buzzed overhead, garish reds and greens flashing cheap mods and shadier deals. 'Synth-Skin Upgrades!' 'Blaster Tune-Ups!' Their jittery glow glinted off the wet floor like blood under a dying sun. Syndicate goons slouched in the shadows, eyes glinting under hoods, tracking us with lazy menace. Blasters hung loose at their hips, hands still for now. My gut tightened, soldier's instinct ticking, hand hovering near the Predator clipped to my thigh. Galen trudged ahead, haze clinging to his steps, bottle's weight tugging at his coat. PROXY hovered at my flank, photoreceptors glowing red, silent but scanning the dark.
We plunged into 1313's guts, streets twisting tight between massive support towers, Coruscant's bones slick with grime and fungal rot that glistened black in the flickering light. Duracrete crumbled underfoot, jagged edges snagging my boots, while pipes hissed steam, rust and decay stinking up the air, sticking to my lungs like wet ash. Neon signs buzzed fitful over cramped dens and cantinas, reds bleeding into greens, casting sharp glows on Twi'leks with wary eyes, hulking Besalisks shoving through the throng, and rag-draped figures I couldn't name slinking into alleys. Cam droids whirred overhead, skeletal husks of a Coruscant Security Force that didn't give a damn down here, while blasters glinted openly, hands twitching near triggers, eyes following us from shadowed doorways. The hum of desperation thrummed through the stones, 1,313 levels from the core, a dungeon the surface forgot, festering in its own filth. My chest tightened. This wasn't a battlefield I could map, darker than Omega, messier than anything I'd fought through. Soldier's routine kept me steady, but 1313's weight pressed hard.
Talis led us to a nondescript durasteel door, triple-locked, scarred with blaster burns, shoving it open into a cramped bolthole. Air inside hung thick with stale cigarra smoke and spilled ale, walls scratched with Rebel starbirds and crude tags, blaster burns pitting the metal like old wounds. A holo flickered static in the corner, casting weak light over crates stacked with smuggled spice, unlabeled, humming faint, and a battered game-looking table ringed with burns. Slatted blinds leaked 1313's neon glow, reds and greens bleeding through grime, while Talis flopped onto a bunk piled with stained flight jackets, grabbing a scarred bottle and three chipped glasses from a crate. "Best rotgut this side of 1000," he grunted, pouring deep. Sharp, cheap stink hit my nose. He shoved a glass my way, then Galen's.
Galen took his, hand trembling as he raised it. "To Talis," he slurred, voice rough, meeting the Twi'lek's gaze. "Bastard who stuck." His eyes slid to me, bleary but warm. "To Shepard, and new alliances." He downed it in one, grin wide—the happiest I'd seen him. I smirked, soldier's nod, and lifted mine. "To unlikely fights," I said, keeping it tight. Talis roared, lekku swaying. "Drink up, soldier!" He refilled Galen's glass, topped his own. I sipped, burned like hell, warmth cutting through.
Silence settled rough, 1313's hum seeping in, Talis spinning half-tales of smuggling runs gone sour, no names, no dates. Galen nursed his second, haze blurring his edges. I waited, letting the rotgut loosen them.
Fourth glass, Galen slurred "Corellia, kriffing Hutts," Talis chuckled, I sipped, watching. I leaned in, voice low. "This level's crawling, any trouble lately? Sith Eternal whispers maybe?" Talis swirled his glass, sipping slow. "Not them. Some First Order washouts been poking, old troopers, scavengers. We don't cross paths, so we pay each other no mind." His lekku twitched, eyes glinting. I filed it away. Fifth glass, Galen's head hit the table, a dull thud, bottle tipping, ale pooling sticky on the floor—grin still plastered on his face, out cold. Talis grunted "Lightweight."
Sixth pour, I pressed, casual but firm. "Those troopers, First Order ties?" Talis swayed, glass sloshing, eyes flicking to Galen, then me. "Ain't saying much, soldier. Something's off, more than I'd poke at." His grin tightened, hinting, holding. I clocked it, gut twisting.
Seventh glass, I leaned closer, voice steady. "Come on, Talis, what's off? For Marek, give me something." We both glanced at Galen, sprawled out, grinning like a damn fool. Talis chuckled soft, then sighed, rough. "Alright, for Marek. There's a girl I know, works a joint I know. She's got a client that's been ranting, throwing around some dead Sith's name the First Order used, 'Revan something,' I think." My gut lurched, shock spiking through the haze like a live wire. "Revan!?" I kept it low, but it slipped out sharp, soldier's instinct kicking, Revan's name twisted in some drunk's slobber. Talis squinted, bleary. "That hit a nerve?" I locked it down, voice flat. "She worth talking to?" He nodded slow, slumping back. "Yeah, I'll set her up tomorrow. Time for me to sleep this rotgut off." I grunted "That works," mind racing, haze thick, intel burning. I settled on the couch facing the entrance, sleep tugging but restless.
What sleep I did get hit jagged, then the dream jolted me into a wakeful-sleep state that was all too familiar. Oily shadows curled tight around me, air thick with static, Reaper voices hissing low "Shepard, you're ours, eternity waits." Miranda loomed through the murk, dark hair matted with blood, eyes blank, reaching slow "Why'd you leave me?" Her voice cracked, soft, pleading, fingers brushing my chest—cold, real—then fading as the shadows swallowed her. I thrashed, gut twisting, sweat cold, I bolted into an alert state from the nightmare, chest heaving. 1313's hum seeped through the blinds, dawn still dark outside. My boots hit the floor quiet, soldier's instinct pulling me upright, cracking a ration pack, heating water on a busted stove, coffee's bitter tang cutting the haze. I woke up my omni-tool, vid flickering, Miranda and me, last party before the Reapers hit, her laugh sharp, my arm around her, Citadel lights behind us, ache gnawed deep, raw, her voice echoing "You promised we'd make it."
Comm buzzed, cutting her laugh mid-breath, Revan's voice crackled through "Shepard, status." I kept it low "1313, we have a lead, some girl's client ranting 'Revan something,' First Order washouts it sounds like." Galen stumbled in, boots dragging on the floor, haze thick in his eyes, locking onto me mid-call. Revan's voice sharpened "Thanks Shepard. There's a New Jedi Council ambassador the landed on Mustafar yesterday. I'm on my way to a meeting to find out their intent now, will update later." Static cut, no goodbye, Galen grunted "Jedi on Mustafar?" Voice rough, waking slow.
I turned, coffee cold in my hand. "Talis spilled last night after you went down. The girl I was telling Revan about, he knows where we can find her." Galen's jaw tightened, eyes narrowing through the haze. "Well, guess we'll have to wait." Hours crawled, Talis's snores rumbling through the pad until the bunk creaked loud. He stumbled in, lekku drooping. "Kriff me, Marek," voice gravel, thick with hangover. Galen snapped up "That girl, where's she at?" An Old Rebellion edge cutting sharp, fire flaring through the haze. Talis waved a hand "Same old bullhead, ain't changed a bit. Easy Marek, I'll take you," smirk twitching, warm under the grog. He stretched, wincing "Let me grab some coffee and a smoke—kriffing head's splitting, then we'll move." I nodded, we waited as Talis shuffled to the stove, 1313's intrusive shadow waiting beyond the door.