Veelo Spaceport
Raul leans against a rusted support beam at Veelo’s dilapidated spaceport, watching as Bossk circles his Z-95 Headhunter in the distance. The Trandoshan bounty hunter is as menacing as the stories make him out to be—hulking, cold-blooded, and lethal. Raul had already confirmed it was him, but seeing the infamous hunter in person makes his stomach tighten.
You’re just a hauler, Raul tells himself. Keep it cool. You’ve got to find out why he’s here.
Still, he can’t shake the nagging thought that Bossk might already know something. Taking a steadying breath, Raul steps out, heading toward the Trandoshan. His boots squelch against the damp ground. Once his soles knock against the metal grating encircling the landing zone, Bossk’s reptilian eyes snap toward him.
"You’re a bold one, approaching me," Bossk growls, his voice a low hiss. He hefts his rifle, pointing it loosely in Raul’s direction.
"Relax," Raul says, raising his hands. "I saw your ship and figured I’d come to take a look. I don’t get to see these too often."
Bossk’s lips curl into a toothy sneer. "That your ship?" He motions toward the Interlude with the barrel of his gun. "What’s a hauler of that size doing out here? Looks like you're supplying an army."
Raul hesitates, his mind racing. "Like I said, just wanted to check out the Z-95. Didn’t mean to bother you."
Bossk isn’t buying it. He steps closer, his towering frame casting a shadow over Raul. "I think you’re lying. How about I take a look in your ship to verify," he snarls, "Now."
Raul doesn’t argue. A few nearby port attendees drop their tools and run off.
As the pair approach the ship, Raul uses his comm discreetly, "Graves, Fargo," he says under his breath, "Get ready. We’ve got company."
The main boarding ramp lowers with a groan, and the interior of the Interlude comes into view far above their heads. Fargo and Graves are both standing at the entrance.
"Who’s the lizard?" Fargo yells down, gripping a wrench.
"Some Trandosian who misunderstood my approach," Raul says grimly.
Bossk and Raul board the ship. Bossk's gaze sweeps over the ship’s interior, his nostrils flaring as if he can smell the tension in the air. His grin widens. The ramp closes behind him.
"Haulers, huh?" he says mockingly. "This isn’t a cargo ship. This is a hunter’s den. You thought you could take me in? Who hired you?"
"Nobody’s here for you," Raul insists. "We’re just passing through. I swear to you."
Bossk isn’t listening. He raises his rifle fully, leveling it at Raul. "Drop the act."
That’s when Graves makes his move. He lunges from the side, activating a stun baton he keeps on his belt, and jabs it into Bossk’s midsection. The Trandoshan snarls in pain as the electric charge crackles across his scales, but he recovers almost instantly, swinging his rifle like a club and knocking Graves to the ground.
Fargo follows up with a wild swing of his wrench, Bossk catches it in a clawed hand throwing it to the side. The would-be blow makes the Trandoshan roar. Bossk spins, slashing at Fargo with his claws, leaving a nasty gash across his arm.
Raul draws his blaster. He fires, hitting Bossk square in the chest. The Trandoshan staggers, but his armor absorbs most of the shot.
Bossk turns on Raul, his yellow eyes blazing with fury. The fight devolves into chaos. Bossk’s strength and durability are unmatched. He begins to overwhelm them one by one. Graves doesn't manage to get another jab in with his baton, as Bossk disarms him with a brutal swipe. Raul keeps firing, his shots only seem to find armor and scaled hide.
Finally, Fargo makes a desperate move. He grabs a metal pipe and swings it at Bossk’s head with all his might. The impact rings out like a gong, and Bossk stumbles forward a few paces, blood dripping from a crack in his head. With a guttural roar, Bossk twists around and fires his rifle into Fargo’s chest.
Fargo falls, his pipe clattering to the floor beside him. A smoking hole in his chest.
Bossk levels his rifle at Graves and Raul, now with a few paces between them. Graves lets out a stiffled cry for help as he winces from the pain. Raul grabs him, pulling him back before he can do anything reckless. Bossk staggers, clearly injured. His gaze sweeps over the surviving crew, his rifle still raised.
"You’re lucky I’m feeling merciful, I’ll take the noisy one, sell him to some slavers," he growls, his voice dripping with venom. "The ship’s mine now too. Payment for your stupidity. I’ll be back for my fighter once I drop this one off. Don’t get any ideas."
“You’ll get Graves over my dead body Bossk!” Raul shouts.
“I don’t think you meant those words,” Bossk chuckles. He waves his rifle showing Graves to take a step towards him.
“Raul, don’t,” Graves raises a hand, the other covering a wound on his chest.
Raul keeps his mouth shut. He begins walking backward towards the ramp. As he exits, he palms a small data chip from his pocket and plugs it into an auxiliary ship control panel behind the ramp controls, a hidden port he had installed for this very purpose. The chip’s program wipes the Interlude’s database—every log, every piece of data ever entered, gone—a type of deadman's switch.
Bossk doesn’t notice. He’s too busy eyeing his unforeseen prize, sealing the hatch behind him. As the Interlude’s engines roar to life, Raul stands at the edge of the swampy spaceport, watching helplessly as it lifts off.
Sylar Saris’ Hideout
Mirage stumbles forward, her boots sinking slightly into the muck with each step, the damp earth pulling at her as if trying to drag her down. Her movements are unsteady, wavering like a leaf caught in the wind, but there’s an odd elegance to it. Each misstep flows into the next, an almost rhythmic, drunken dance that keeps her upright despite the odds.
The drinks are catching up to her now. Four solid pulls from her flask before leaving, and the burn of them still sits heavy in her gut. Her head swims, her vision blurs at the edges, but she presses on, her breath rasping against the inside of her mask. The air here is thick with invisible killers—swamp gases that would choke her lungs in an instant if not for the protection the mask provides.
She swallows hard, her throat dry and coarse yearning for the damp air of the swamp. Her pulse pounds in her ears, and for a moment, a sharp craving for the solace of another drink creeps into her mind. It’s a siren’s call, beckoning her to drown out the pain, the exhaustion, and the gnawing self-loathing that bubbles under her skin.
But then comes the rage. White-hot and consuming. A flame so bright she can feel it scorching the edges of her thoughts. Her lips curl into a snarl, teeth bared beneath her mask.
Not now. Not here. I wish I brought more.
She stops and leans against a twisted tree, catching herself just before she topples over. The world seems to sway around her, but she breathes through it, trying to steady her focus. She can feel the weight of the relic on her hip beneath the wrappings of her robes, its familiar presence grounding her. On her opposite hip, the cold weight of her A-180 blaster pistol rests snugly in its holster. She brushes her fingers over the weapon absentmindedly, drawing a faint sense of reassurance from its solidity.
She closes her eyes and exhales through her nose, letting the rage simmer and dissolve, leaving only the embers of focused determination. Her mind loosens as if slipping from a clenched fist. She feels the shift, the lightness of letting go, and her breathing slows. In through her nose. Out through her mouth.
The scent is still there—faint but persistent. Saris. Mirage’s lips twitch into a faint smirk beneath the mask. The trail winds through the undergrowth, leading her closer to her target.
Her footing falters again as she follows the path, her knee dipping into a patch of mud that nearly takes her down. She stumbles but flows with the movement, letting it carry her forward without a pause. She moves like water, adapting to the instability, her body loose and pliable despite the alcohol clouding her senses.
The scent trail ends at a dense wall of vines, their dark green tendrils draping down like curtains. Mirage pauses, tilting her head as she studies them. There’s something intentional about the way the vines fall, too uniform to be natural. She reaches out, brushing the foliage aside to reveal the outline of a doorway beneath.
A keypad is set into the metal frame, its dull surface smeared with grime. Mirage frowns, her gaze lingering on the numbers. She takes a step back, letting the vines fall back into place. This is it—Saris’s hideout.
Her fingers twitch at her side, brushing over the relic briefly before settling on the hilt of her pistol. The alcohol hums through her veins, dulling her body but sharpening her emotions. Anger, determination, and something else—a simmering excitement—boil just beneath the surface. She breathes deeply, feeling the mask’s filtered air fill her lungs. Saris is close. Mirage can feel it. Her blood buzzes with anticipation. She leans into the keypad, studying it. The buttons are grimy, nearly illegible beneath the buildup of years spent in the swamp’s humid grip.
That’s fine. She only needs the differences. Six keys stand out, their surfaces worn smooth from frequent use.
I can work with that.
Her fingers hover over the panel as she runs through the possibilities. Six keys meant… far too many combinations to guess on instinct alone. Mirage exhales sharply, frustration bubbling up before she tamps it down.
I need something else.
Closing her eyes, she presses her palm against the keypad. Her thoughts stretch outward, probing the doorway’s mechanisms. The tangle of electronics and physical locks becomes clear in her mind’s eye—a hybrid system with a physical tumbler working in tandem with an electronic passcode.
Brute-forcing this would take months. Picking it wouldn’t work either; there was no physical keyhole to exploit. But Mirage wasn’t limited by ordinary methods.
She focuses, letting the tendrils of her will seep from her fingertips, threading into the keypad and beyond to the tumblers nestled behind it. Carefully, she nudges them, one by one.
CLICK.
One down.
CLICK.
Another.
CLICK CLICK CLICK
The last tumblers fall into place, and the keypad beeps softly in submission. The door hisses open, stale air rushing out to meet her. Mirage takes a deep breath through her mask, the scent of Saris unmistakable inside.
The doorway reveals a narrow stairwell leading down into the cliffside. The walls are reinforced with metal, but time and environment have begun to reclaim the structure, a thin film of moss clinging to the edges. Immediately inside, she spots a thin thread stretched across the entrance at ankle height.
Smart, Saris. A decoy.
Mirage tilts her head lazily, her sharp eyes tracing upward. Just as she suspected, a second wire at head height, nearly invisible, glints faintly in the dim light.
Not as smart as me.
She ducks under the top tripwire and steps carefully over the lower, her movements careful and calculated despite the alcohol muddling her system.
This is going to be a nightmare down here, isn’t it?
Her foot touches the first step, but her balance betrays her. She misjudges the height, stumbling forward, her boots skidding against the slick surface. The next thing she knows, she’s tumbling head over heels, down a dozen steps, landing flat on her back with a painful thud.
For a long moment, she lies there, staring up at the ceiling. The light above reveals the odd texture of the room—an unnatural combination of metallic plating and exposed, carved-out dirt that melds together like a strange, inverted tunnel.
"Gross," Mirage mutters under her breath, her voice thick with disdain. "He really is an insect," she thinks of his overgrown mantis form. A huge insect no doubt.
With a groan, she rolls to her feet, brushing dirt and grime from her wrappings. Her eyes scan the dimly lit space. It’s more organized than she expected. Metallic walls with sprouts of plant life pushing out of each crevice. Dirt piling up on the ground underneath each ceiling tunnel from constant use. Crates of supplies are stacked neatly along the walls, and the floor is swept clean of debris, except the soft landing zones from the tunnels. Three doors lead deeper into the hideout, each marked with scuffs and scratches, but otherwise intact.
It wasn’t the filth-ridden pit she’d imagined for a Yam’rii warrior’s lair. No, Sylar Saris was clearly more professional than the brutish Yam'rii she’d heard about.
Her hand brushes the hilt of the relic under her robes as her gaze sharpens. Mirage draws her A-180 from its holster, the cold weight in her hand a comforting contrast to the haze clouding her senses. Her footsteps, while unsteady, carry her with purpose toward a metal table piled high with documents.
She sifts through the jumble of physical sheets, her fingers brushing over the edges of contracts marked with Saris’ signature. A newly minted, empty ledger catches her eye, its pristine pages waiting for records yet to be written. Among the clutter lies something far more intriguing: a series of blueprints.
Mirage pushes the rest of the papers aside and leans closer, her eyes scanning the intricate lines and annotations. It’s a schematic for a prototype starship, a courier, Slayn & Korpil CV-18 Convor Type II—a heavily modified design. This one is designated as an LR2, simply named Convor. Her brow furrows as she takes in a few details. Long-range recon and heavy fighter. There's more to this thing but she'll have to delve deeper into it later.
This has to be Saris’ planned bounty ship, she thinks, her mind racing to piece it together. She checks the margins. Many of the notations crisscrossed from the original blueprints to the new, modified version.
These will fetch a heavy price.
Mirage rolls the blueprint into a tight cylinder and slips it beneath her robes, hiding it alongside the relic. She turns toward the three doorways leading deeper into the hideout. Her gaze narrows as she takes them in one by one.
The first door is ajar, revealing what appears to be a supply closet, cluttered with tools and spare parts. The second has deployable bars, set to block off a holding cell. That leaves one option: a set of stairs descending into shadowy depths.
She chooses the stairs.
Mirage steps lightly, her sharp eyes catching another set of tripwires stretched across the stairwell. She ducks and weaves, her movements fluid and instinctive, avoiding the traps with an almost casual grace. Her buzz starts to wane and her cheeks get hot. She feels the anger of the situation. Her wet clothes, her destroyed speeder and her sore body. What she would give for a shower on the Interlude right now.
The dim light grows fainter as she moves downward, her heart steady despite the strain. The smell of damp earth and cold metal fills the air, a silent testament to how deeply this lair has burrowed into the cliffside. She tightens her grip on her blaster, her body coiled like a spring.
She approaches a softly lit railed landing at the base of the stairs. The room opens into a large warehouse with crates piled up meters tall along the walls and a large tarp covering a huge object in the center. It must be forty meters long. She pauses and listens. It’s dark in here. The landing lights only stretch so far.
Chreee-chreee-chrrr-tktktk
Without hesitation, she jumps over the railing into a somersault landing on her feet and stumbling forwards. Mirage whips her blaster up and fires two shots at the Yam’rii scurrying on the ceiling.
Ch-ch-ch-ch-tchk-kreee-kreee
The sounds of Sylar Saris as he scuttles into the shadows. Mirage levels her gun and stays light on her feet as she moves quietly through the underground warehouse. Her eyes constantly scanning the darkness.
“Saris!” she shouts, “I’m tired, wet and sore. I don’t want to do this all night.”
A vibro-knife whips through the air end over end as Mirage dodges out of the way, but not quick enough to avoid all damage. The knife slices through her left bicep. She instinctually covers it with her right hand that’s holding the blaster.
Saris leaps down from above, landing on Mirage and knocking her down. His clawed manipulator arms and pincer mandibles trying to find a weak point on her squishy human body. Mirage slams her head into his emerald multifaceted eye. Saris screeches a sickening high-pitched noise and leaps off her again into the shadows.
Mirage touches her forehead, a green goo covering her from whatever came out of Saris’ eye. It starts to lightly burn whatever skin is in contact. She wipes it off with her sleeve.
“That’s nasty Saris. I understand you are an assassin and bounty hunter. I’d prefer if we could settle this like gentlemen. You come down here, we square up and last man standing wins.”
Mirage looks around, her eye catching on an open crate near the landing, her senses tingling. She slowly strides over and peeks inside.
Corellian wine.
Another vibro-knife whips through the air at her back, she senses it this time with her focus honed in on the bottle. She moves out of the way with a quick stumble. The knife slams into the side of another crate. Mirage uses the stuck knife to quickly pop the cork, with deftness you would only develop through muscle memory. Blaster in one hand, bottle of wine in the other.
She pulls down her rebreather for a second and sighs, taking a swig.
The room lightens up with her senses. Her shallow anger washes away. Her sight gets clearer and more blurry at the same time. She pulls the mask back up.
The Force opens up within her. Three knives fly at her in quick succession. She tumbles away. Four more knives chase after her, slamming into crates and walls as she ducks and weaves.
I can’t keep this up. I can barely find his location when he’s moving through those tunnels.
Only then does she notice the many cuts that found her. Blood seeps from her arms and legs. One knife still buried in her side, the alcohol keeping the pain at bay. She pulls the short blade out.
Ouch. Alright, he’s moving through those tunnels, so I need to get him away from those or make the tunnels go away.
Using her senses she reaches out towards the many exit holes and feels a stable point above a pillar off center of the room. A thin beam put there to support the odd system being dug. Without it, the fragile dirt system should collapse.
Mirage stands up with her hand outstretched. She feels the grasp of the force wrap around the support beam as she clenches her fist and pulls towards her. The beam breaks free and the tunnels start to break down, raining dirt throughout the warehouse. The main structure of the facility is compromised but doesn’t seem to be failing. The tunnels are another story.
Dirt falls mercilessly until the Yam’rii assassin comes tumbling down in the center of the room. Sylar’s manipulator arms holding two vibroblades. He stands up to his full two meter height snapping his mandibles at Mirage.
“You are -kch-ch-tch- miserable. Disgusting creature. -chk-tchk- I’ll end you’re suffering. Your life is -ch-tc-ch-thk- worthless,” Sylar Saris clicks at Mirage, one eye pouring green goo from being popped by Mirages headbutt.
He rushes at Mirage behind the crates. She weaves between his knives in a buzzed sway, dropping the bottle of wine. A few cuts find their mark spouting new lines of blood. Mirage picks up her foot and extends her leg in a roundhouse Force kick to Sylar’s midsection. Sylar flings backwards as if hit by a freighter. Mirage falls, her head spinning from the wine. She picks herself up. Fists clenched. Blaster is nowhere to be found. She must’ve dropped that too.
Sylar stands up and clacks out more green ooze from his mandibles.
“You can’t keep this up with me. -tch-tkh- I do not tire like you humans,” he spits.
Mirage’s sides burn with the deep cuts and air she’s pulling through her rebreather. Her head swirls with wine. Her hand reaches for the relic. The cool hilt hits her palm and instantly warms. She draws the relic and tosses her head back making her hood fall. The white strawlike hair wispy falling down her back. With her other hand she removes the rebreather and spits blood, then reseats her mask.
Mirage’s hand wraps firmly around the hilt, steady despite the tension thrumming through her body. She holds it out in front of her, its polished surface gleaming even in the dim light. The coppery gold-bronze finish catches the faint glow of the room, the etched patterns along its length shimmering like veins of ore. This wasn’t just a weapon—it was a masterpiece, her crowning achievement, crafted with relentless precision and care. The hilt is long and balanced, designed not just for her, but for the reunion she dreams of: a weapon meant to be split and shared. She runs her thumb over one of the hidden seams, feeling the delicate perfection of its construction. Her fingers tighten slightly.
A single press of her thumb ignites the relic.
From both ends of the hilt, twin beams erupt with a searing hum, golden yellow and vibrant like molten glass brought to life. The light dances off the polished hilt, illuminating her face in a warm glow, her eyes reflecting the brilliance. The blades glisten like the edge of a window pane during a sunset, their cores pure and steady, while their edges ripple faintly, casting refracted shards of light into the space around her.
The air around the weapon hums with power, a deep resonance that fills the silence. She shifts the hilt slightly, the sound of the blades cutting through the air like a sharp breath. Mirage stares past the weapon, its brilliance casting her shadow across the walls behind her, and for a brief moment, all the pain, the exhaustion, and the alcohol clouding her mind are eclipsed by the clarity of the moment.
This is hers. Her craft. Her legacy.
She twirls the saber once, the golden blades forming a radiant arc, their hum crescendoing before settling into a steady thrum. Mirage lowers it slightly into a guard position, the weapon casting twin halos of golden light on the floor as she locks eyes with Saris. Her lip curls in rage.
Saris readies himself.
Mirage launches herself at him, a streak of speed that defies human limits, her twin blades spinning in a golden whirlwind of thrumming energy. The air cracks with the force of each rotation, the hum of the lightsabers rising into a crescendo as they cut through the space around her.
Saris stumbles back, his vibroblades snapping into a defensive dance. Sparks erupt as he meets the relentless assault, the beskar edges of his weapons deflecting one strike, then another, then another. Each impact sends shockwaves up his arms, the ferocity of her attacks forcing him further off balance. The beskar holding up to the heat of the blade. Mirage notes these dangerous weapons.
She doesn’t slow. Her movements are wild yet precise, a storm of rage and precision woven together. The uneven stumbles of her intoxication transform into a deadly rhythm, each unsteady step becoming a lethal flourish. Saris struggles to anticipate her strikes, but there’s no logic to her attacks—only raw emotion and the relentless drive to destroy. She spins low, the golden blades trailing arcs of light, and suddenly tumbles into a roll. The strike is perfectly timed. One of Saris’ legs gives out with a sharp hiss of flesh. He collapses, his vibroblades flailing in a desperate attempt to fend her off.
Another sweep. Sparks fly. A manipulator arm falls to the floor with a heavy clang.
A third strike. He’s too slow.
Silence.
Saris’ head tumbles to the ground, rolling to a stop as the rest of his body crumples. His expression, frozen in death, is twisted in a grimace of fear and defiance.
Mirage stands over him, her chest heaving, her golden blades casting long, flickering shadows across the room. Her face is a mask of cold fury, her scowl sharper than the weapon in her hands. The golden glow of the relic fills the space, its warmth the only light in the aftermath of her storm.
With a flick of her wrist, the twin blades snap off, plunging the room into darkness.
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