Shards of a Sith Forge Past

[Darth Fett]

Darkside Amulet
[Wayfinder]
More than 700, less than 3568

PART I


Axl, Varonat, Modern Sithlore Era, A Few Years Ago


In the dense jungle of Varonat, hidden deep within his secluded compound, Fett stood before his custom-built forge, unlike any found in a sane galaxy, a creation that fused technology with the arcane, fitting the man who wielded it. It was encased in dense, reinforced undefined and patchworked alloy, designed to contain the unimaginable heat that would soon rage within its belly. The structure was hulking, a square behemoth with walls that looked capable of withstanding the wrath of a suborbital strike.


Around the forge, four X-Wing engines loomed, their deconstructed wings still attached, splayed out like the limbs of a crucified, drawn and quartered winged beast. Thick chains, blackened and scarred from previous test runs, held the engines in place, binding them to towering stone pillars that flanked the forge on each side.
The engines had been stripped of their previous purpose and safeties, their thrusters rewired and angled inward, their flames set to converge at the heart of the forge. Fett moved with practiced precision as he checked each chain, ensuring that every link was secure, that every component was in perfect alignment.
The sublight engines, once the lifeblood of rebel fighters, would now serve as the catalyst for something far more ancient.


Fett’s hands moved methodically, a stark contrast to the savage intensity of the ritual he was about to conduct. He was older now, the scars of countless battles etched into his flesh, the weight of his experiences heavy on his shoulders. But his movements were as precise as ever, the result of a lifetime of discipline and focus. Each movement was deliberate, each action carried out with the calm assurance of a man who had long since mastered the tools of his trade. Or perhaps it was the calming liberty of reckless abandon. How often those could be conflated when it came to the wayward Dark Lord.


Satisfied that everything was in place, Fett turned his attention to the mold that would shape the raw materials into the amulet he envisioned. The mold was a work of art in itself, a thick, intricately etched construct consisting of four interlocking quadrant trays. Fett had designed it himself, spending days hunched over schematics, calculating every angle, every line of the latticework that now adorned its surface. The latticework was a complex pattern of interwoven symbols and glyphs, each one carved with a precision that bordered on the obsessive. The design was a fusion of Sith runes and Mandalorian iconography, wrapped by an intricate weave of Nagai patterns and knots, a representation of the conflicting worlds that had directly and less directly shaped Fett into the man he was.


The quadrants fit together like the pieces of a puzzle, locking into place with a satisfying click as Fett slid the trays into the bottom of the forge. The mold rested at the heart of the inferno that would soon be unleashed, waiting to receive the molten metal that would fill its intricately carved channels.
Fett’s eyes lingered on the mold for a moment, his gaze tracing the lines of the design, the symbols that carried so much meaning, before he stepped back to begin the next phase of the ritual.


The engines roared to life with a deafening blast, the chains holding them taut as they pulled against their restraints. The flames burst forth, converging at the center of the forge, their heat so intense that the air around them shimmered with a distorted haze. The steel walls of the forge began to glow almost immediately, the heat penetrating the thick metal, causing it to warp and twist under the strain. The forge itself came alive, its outer casing groaning as it absorbed the heat, the intense energy turning the dense steel into a malleable, glowing mass.


For three days, the engines burned, their flames never relenting, never waning in intensity. Fett remained vigilant, his eyes never straying for long from the forge, his senses attuned to the changes in the metal, the subtle shifts in the atmosphere around him. The smell of burning fuel and scorched metal filled the air, mingling with the earthy scent of the jungle that lay just beyond the compound’s walls. The heat was oppressive, a suffocating blanket that pressed down on Fett, soaking his clothes with sweat, but he endured it, his mind focused solely on the task at hand.


On the third day, when the forge had reached its peak, Fett retrieved a hefty sack from the corner of the chamber, the sound of metal clanking against metal echoing through the space as he dropped it onto the cobblestone floor. The sack, stained with dark, dried blood, spilled its contents as it unfurled, revealing pieces of Mandalorian armor, battered and worn from years of battle. The armor was unmistakable, its once-pristine surface’s paint job now pockmarked with blaster scars, the symbols of the Mandalorian creed barely visible beneath the grime. Yet the skeleton of the armor, its form remained as strong as ever. Fett knelt beside the plating, his hands moving with a professional reverence that spoke to the respect he held for the history embedded in the metal, but less so for its blustering braggart former owner that Fett had slaughtered in his quest for the raw material. He began to strip the armor of its machinery and circuitry, the pieces clattering to the ground in a pile of discarded technology. As he worked, a shard of jagged metal sliced across his palm, the pain sharp and immediate. Fett hissed through gritted teeth, watching as blood welled up from the wound, spilling over his fingers. Without hesitation, he tore a strip of fabric from the silk poncho that had been bundled with the armor, wrapping it tightly around his hand, the makeshift bandage quickly soaking through with blood.


The visor from the helmet was the last piece to be removed, its once-reflective surface now cracked and dulled by time. Fett yanked it free, tossing the stripped metal frame onto the pile of armor.
One by one, he lifted the pieces of armor and tossed them into the mouth of the forge, the metal clanging against the inner walls as they were swallowed by the flames. The heat was so intense that the metal glowed from within immediately, the armor plates warping and fusing together as they were consumed by the inferno.


As the metal melted, merging with the molten mass within the forge, Fett turned his attention to the final component of the amulet—the kyber crystals. He retrieved a small, ornate box from his belt, opening it to reveal a collection of precious crystals, each one carefully selected for its unique properties. The crystals were of various colors—white, red, orange, yellow, green, blue, purple, and black—a spectrum that represented the full range of the Force’s power.


Fett began to grind and cut the crystals with a precision tool, the device humming softly as it sliced through the crystalline structure. The process was meticulous, each shard cut to interlock with the others, creating a mosaic of color that would channel the Force in its purest form. The white crystal had been purified by his Miraluka associate Ayame Ruya, its clarity a testament to the light that had been drawn from within it. In contrast, the red crystal had once been blue, its hue corrupted by Fett himself, “bled” by exposing it to his darkest instincts, infusing it with the raw, malevolent power of the Dark Side.


As Fett worked, he could feel the energy of the crystals resonating through the Force, a subtle vibration that pulsed in time with his heartbeat. The crystals were more than just physical objects—they were conduits for the Force, amplifying its power, bending it to Fett’s will. Each shard held a piece of the galaxy’s essence, a fragment of the energy that bound all living things together, now shaped and molded to serve Fett’s purpose.


The air around him was charged with the power of the crystals, the Force swirling in an invisible vortex with the same intensity as the forge. The smell of burning metal and the acrid stench of superheated fuel filled the chamber, mixing with the heady scent of Fett’s blood, which still dripped from his palm despite the bandage. The combination of smells was almost intoxicating, a potent reminder of the power he was wielding, the forces he was bending to his will.


When the crystals were ready, Fett carefully placed them into a rigid formation, aligning each shard with what would soon be the intricate latticework that would channel their energy. The crystals fit together perfectly, their colors blending in a radiant display that shimmered with an inner light, precision with which Fett had shaped them.


As the metal continued to melt and flow within the forge, Fett stood back, his eyes fixed on the glowing mass of molten steel. The flames roared around him, the heat so intense that it felt as though the very air was burning, searing his lungs with every breath.
But Fett did not waver, his focus unyielding as he channeled the energy of the Force into the mold, guiding the molten metal into the latticework of the design.


The process was agonizingly slow, the molten metal seeping into every crevice of the mold, filling the channels that would shape it into the amulet. Fett’s hands moved with a steady precision, his mind attuned to the slightest shifts in the metal, the smallest changes in the temperature. He could feel the power of the crystals resonating within the mold, their energy infusing the metal, binding it to the will of the Force.
The forge groaned under the strain, its outer casing warping and cracking as the temperature reached its peak. The metal was now a seething mass of molten energy, a living, breathing entity that pulsed with the power of the Force. The flames licked at the edges of the mold, their heat causing the steel to glow with an intense, white-hot light that illuminated the entire chamber.
As the next stage of the forging process approached, Fett could feel the energy of the amulet building, the power of the crystals next to him crying out to join the newly forged casing, creating a conduit for the Force that would amplify his path moving forward.



Fett reached over his workbench and uncovered a pyramid device that had had a cloth draped over it. He carefully placed the holocron next to the spectrum gem. His hand hovered momentarily over the structure, a careful arrangement of interlocked white, red, orange, yellow, green, blue, purple, and black kyber crystals, each one meticulously sanded and refined. The impurities that had once clouded the crystals were long gone, purged through countless hours of work, leaving behind a perfect, crystalline lattice capable of harnessing power far beyond its apparent size.


The gem rested on a smooth stone pedestal, its facets catching the low light and reflecting it in a spectrum of colors that seemed to shift and twist in ways that defied natural perception. Fett's hand brushed lightly over the surface of the gem, feeling the barely perceptible hum of energy that lay dormant within it. The interlocked crystals were not just a beautiful arrangement—they were a masterpiece of design, a complex network of channels and pathways carved with precision, each slice of the gem a deliberate part of the structure, each connection acting as a node in an artificial neural network built to house and process information.


At the center of this network lay a chamber, a small hollow space within the gem where the real magic would happen. This chamber was not empty—it contained every modern and ancient star chart and hyperspace route Fett had gathered over years of study and research. It was a collection of knowledge, of data and maps that represented 12,000 years of spacefaring advancements, the most cutting-edge understanding of the galaxy and the cosmos.


Fett had designed the gem with a specific purpose in mind: to house the remnant of Markeshh Tevitar, an ancient Sith Wayfinder whose understanding of the spaces between space was unmatched in his time. The holocron of Tevitar, or rather a duplicate Fett had painstakingly created, sat nearby, its pyramidal shape now glowing faintly as Fett’s mind reached out toward it, seeking a connection with the essence housed within.


Fett had done this before, communicated telepathically with the remnants of knowledge locked within holocrons. It was a delicate process, one that required immense focus. He wasn’t merely speaking to the ancient Sith Wayfinder’s knowledge; he was inviting the fragmented essence of Tevitar himself to leave the confines of the holocron and merge with the kyber gem. He could feel the holocron stirring, a faint ripple of consciousness as the essence within began to awaken, sensing Fett’s presence, his intent.


“Markeshh Tevitar,” Fett projected through the Force, his physical voice silent but his astral voice firm in the mental landscape between them. “You have yearned to travel the stars once again, to know the void as you once did. I offer you this vessel, this new form, to carry your knowledge and essence across the galaxy once more. Work with me to transfer what exists of you to this new home. There, you’ll find more than the confines of this holocron—you will find the entire galaxy waiting for you. We have work to do, friend.”


There was a pause, a moment of stillness in which Fett could sense the essence of Tevitar considering the invitation. The remnant within the holocron was not a living being, but it carried the echoes of the desires, the ambitions, and the intellect of the Sith Wayfinder. Tevitar had lost the use of his body to a wasting disease in life, bound to his chambers as his physical form deteriorated while his mind remained sharp, driven by an unquenchable desire to travel beyond the stars, to see and map the unknown. Even in death, that fragment of him carried the same yearning, the same craving to move freely through the stars.


“Of course,” Fett spoke, this time physically, his breath fogging the crystalline counterfeit holocron, “if you hesitate, I have 12 duplicates of you to extend this offer to instead.”


The essence stirred once more, this time with more purpose, as if realizing the potential of the offer. Fett watched as the holocron glowed brighter, a faint hum rising from its core. Slowly, the glow extended outward, the light seeping from the holocron toward the spectrum gem, like tendrils of energy seeking out the carefully prepared structure.


The kyber crystals responded immediately, their faceted surfaces catching the light and amplifying it. The alignment of the crystals was precise, designed to harness and amplify the power and consciousness of what was being transferred. Fett had carved and tuned the gem to act as more than just a vessel—it was an amplifier, a system that could process and channel the fragmented thoughts and energy of Tevitar in a way that the holocron never could. Each crystal, carefully chosen for its unique properties, worked in harmony with the others to form a network that would support and magnify the essence of the ancient Sith.


The rigid slices and interlocked connections between the crystals acted as nodes in this artificial neural network, each one carefully aligned to process the influx of information and energy. Fett had created this network to house more than just the essence of Tevitar; it would act as a repository for the ancient Wayfinder’s sorcerous methods, his ability to manipulate the spaces between space and time, to open pathways that few could even comprehend. The chamber at the heart of the gem, preloaded with every star chart and hyperspace route Fett had gathered, would serve as a library for the fragmented essence to integrate itself with. It was designed to combine the ancient knowledge with the advances of 12,000 years of spacefaring and mathematical progress, giving Tevitar’s mind access to data and concepts that would have been unimaginable in his time.


The transfer began in earnest now. The light from the holocron moved like liquid, pouring into the gem, filling the spaces between the crystals, seeping into the channels and pathways Fett had carved with such precision. The interlocking shards of kyber crystals glowed brighter and brighter as they absorbed the energy, their colors shifting and blending in ways that were both mesmerizing and unsettling. The rigid structure of the gem began to vibrate slightly, the energy flowing through it like blood through veins, each crystal pulsing in time with the others, amplifying the remnants of Tevitar’s thoughts and abilities.


As the essence of Tevitar entered the kyber structure, Fett could feel the ancient Sith’s presence beginning to take hold. The gem, tuned to respond to both energy and knowledge, began to hum with a new life, the fragments of Tevitar’s consciousness merging with the vast repository of information housed within the chamber at its core. There, the ancient Sith’s knowledge of spacetime manipulation, his ability to open rifts and travel through the hidden pathways of the galaxy, would integrate with the modern star charts and hyperspace routes.


Fett could feel the power of the crystals magnifying Tevitar’s abilities, allowing the ancient Wayfinder’s essence to once again access the stars, to move between the gaps in space and time. The energy within the gem surged, flowing through the intricate latticework, amplifying the fragmented thoughts and desires of the Sith remnant. Tevitar, once confined to a holocron, could now reach out beyond the physical world, using the crystals as a conduit to once again explore the galaxy.


Fett could feel the weight of the knowledge being transferred, the ancient Sith’s understanding of the hidden spaces between the stars, of the sorcerous methods he had used to bend spacetime to his will. It was a knowledge that had been lost for millennia, a skill that few had ever truly mastered, and now it was being brought back to life, amplified by the kyber structure Fett had so carefully designed.


Tevitar’s essence, though fragmented, retained its deep desire for exploration, for the freedom of the stars. In life, the Sith Wayfinder had been confined to his chambers, his body wasting away as disease ravaged him, but his mind had remained sharp, always yearning to escape, to travel the void. That desire, that insatiable need to move freely between the stars, was still present in the remnants of his consciousness. And now, with the kyber gem amplifying his abilities, he could do just that—he could once again feel the stars, the pathways, the hidden corridors of space that only he could open.


The essence of Tevitar swirled within the gem, filling every corner of the crystalline structure, flowing through the interconnected pathways like a river of energy. Fett could feel the Wayfinder’s fragmented thoughts coalescing, the ancient knowledge merging with the modern data in the heart of the gem’s matrices. The crystals, each tuned to a specific frequency, amplified the Sith remnant’s abilities, allowing him to once again travel through the void, to manipulate spacetime in ways that had long been forgotten. Fett remained focused, his mind attuned to the flow of energy, guiding the process with a steady hand. The kyber crystals, their surfaces gleaming with an inner light, continued to amplify the essence of Tevitar, allowing the Sith Wayfinder’s consciousness to expand beyond the confines of the holocron. The knowledge of ancient hyperspace routes, of hidden corridors between the stars, of the sorcerous methods Tevitar had used to bend spacetime, flowed through the gem, integrating with the modern star charts housed within the chamber at its heart.


The essence of Tevitar stirred within the gem, the ancient Sith’s thoughts amplified by the kyber crystals, his abilities magnified to a level he had never achieved in life.


Fett could feel the power building, the energy flowing through the gem like a river of light, surging through the interlocked crystals, through the rigid slices and connections that made up the artificial neural network.


He approached the forge once again and pulled a series of levers. The tray and mold shot forth, and the beskar framework sprung forth, birthed from its carved womb. He used delicate tongs which hissed as they touched the still barely malleable form. Fett gingerly but confidently used another tool to weave the kyber gem into its beskar frame, weaving it into the casing he had fitted only for this purpose. Two elements, destined to, meant to penetrate and house one another, respectively.



Completing the fitting and wiping his brow, Fett winked at the newly completed Wayfinder amulet. He would keep his promise to the semi-consciousness housed inside, but the aforementioned Sith runes hewn into the beskar lining the gem's housing would ensure compliance and prevent any escape. It had been infused with a sorcery spell that would break any deception or malicious intent from within the gem.



He held the amulet up to the light, the colors of the kyber crystals reflecting off the walls of the chamber, casting strange, shifting patterns across the stone. The symbols and glyphs carved into the metal glowed faintly.


Fett stretched, expectantly before several joints popped. The forge was still awake and the remaining bulk of molten beskar in its belly had a use in store for it.


(cont'd...)

[Darth Fett]

Sith Sword
[Wayfinder]
More than 1250, less than 3434

Part II
(cont'd)

Axl, Varonat, Modern Sithlore Era, A Few Years Ago (Continued)



Fett stood in the glow of the forge, his eyes reflecting the blazing heat that filled the room as he worked methodically on the next phase of his creation. His hands moved with deliberate precision, etching deep into the dark metal of a new mold laid out on the stone slab before him. Each stroke of the tool carved into the mold sharp angles and complex lines that would eventually form the heart of his next alchemic mastercraft– a sith sword.


The mold was substantial, long and intricate, its design broken into several interlocking sections. The weapon Fett envisioned wasn’t a simple blade. It was a modular weapon, each layer building upon the next, designed to be interlocked and reconfigured for different purposes.
The angles were crisp and defined, jutting outward in a series of geometric shapes that would later fit together with a precision few artisans could hope to match.
At its heart was an empty chamber, designed to hold something far more important than the metal itself—a space where Fett’s power, his will, and the dark energies of the Force would coalesce, infusing the blade with more than just sharpness, with purpose.
The core mode of the weapon would start as a dagger, a sharp, brutal tool of close combat. From there, it could be extended– first into a long blade that could function as a spear or staff, then into a sword, and finally into a greatsword. Each stage more powerful, more impressive, more laden with intricate glyphs and arcane symbols that connected the weapon not only to its user but to the stars themselves.


Fett worked in silence, the only sounds the sharp scrape of his tool as it carved lines into the dense metal and the roar of the forge behind him. The blade would be segmented in its creation, each part molded separately and later pieced together. His hands traced over the crossguard, which jutted out on both sides, designed to hold twin daggers at precisely 45-degree angles from the center. These weren't just ornamental pieces; they were functional, and each element of the weapon was both a symbol and a tool, shaped by Fett’s meticulous mind.


Every centimeter of the mold was inscribed with glyphs– sorcerous sith markings that carried power in their design. The glyphs weren’t random; Fett had placed them with purpose, forming maps of constellations, ancient star charts encoded into the very essence of the blade. Each glyph, each star map, was a point of power, a nexus of the Dark Side, carved into the surface with the intention of unlocking that power when the blade was wielded. The Dark Lord collected this knowledge over time, using -Force Comprehension- techniques to absorb the arcane language and astrogation from ancient tomes, in addition to all the holocrons, navicomputers, black market protocol droids, and navigation droids he had happened across over the last two decades. He had even encountered a Rakatan Star Map which had proven positively invaluable in his preparation. As Fett worked, he could feel the energy building in the room around him, the dark currents of the Force responding to his touch, as if the very metal understood what it was being shaped into.


His palm, still dripping blood from the wound he had incurred earlier, left dark stains on the mold. The blood fell into the etched lines of the glyphs, sizzling and hissing as it met the cooling metal. Fett paid the injury no mind. He knew it was necessary. His blood, mixed with the energy of the Force, would further bind the weapon to him, fusing his will and life force into the creation.


The etching continued. Fett’s tool scratched deeper into the metal, carving a long, central piece that would become the core of the weapon– the dagger. The blade was sharp, angular, its edges designed not just to cut but to channel energy, to focus the power that would flow through it.
The dagger blade itself could split with the press of a particular inlay, splaying into three blades. When and if subsequent extensions were attached to the sword, the two side blades remained extended from the crossguard, at 45 degree angled, and the center blade served as an anchor on which to lock the next layers.
From there, the mold extended outward into longer sections, each segment a new piece of the weapon that would stack on top of the dagger, building it into something far more powerful.


The second section of the mold was for the spear– a long, tapered blade that would lock into the dagger, transforming the weapon into something that could be used for distance and control. It was lean, almost elegant in its design, yet every inch of it was still inscribed with the same arcane glyphs, their patterns growing more intricate as the weapon became more powerful. The etchings here mirrored constellations Fett had studied long ago– hidden star charts, forgotten by most but still potent with the knowledge of the ancients.


Next came the mold for the sword– a broad, formidable blade that would interlock onto the previous segments. This part of the weapon was designed for pure, devastating strength, its edges honed to a lethal sharpness. The glyphs here were larger, bolder, their lines intersecting and crossing each other in complex, swirling patterns that seemed to draw power from every angle. Fett’s blood continued to drip into the mold, now running through the grooves of the glyphs, imbuing the metal with an almost supernatural energy.


The final mold was for the greatsword– a massive piece of the weapon that would turn it into something monstrous. The greatsword was heavy, its size and weight demanding respect. Its surface was covered in the most complex etchings yet, entire star systems encoded into the lines of the blade, constellations intertwined with arcane symbols that pulsed with dark energy. The hilt was designed to bear the full force of the wielder’s power, every glyph reinforcing the strength of the blade, the interlocking layers of the sword forming a latticework of power and precision.


Fett’s hands moved over the surface of the molds one final time, checking the alignment of each piece. The crossguard, jutting out with its twin daggers, was aligned perfectly. The dagger at the core of the weapon was sharp and precise, the layers of the spear, sword, and greatsword fitting together in perfect harmony. The glyphs, now filled with his blood, glowed faintly as the energy of the Force pulsed through them, waiting to be activated.


Once satisfied with his work, Fett carefully slid the two trays of the mold together, the metal clicking into place with a series of mechanical sounds. He locked the trays with heavy clamps, securing the pieces so that nothing would shift during the next stage of the process. Each section of the mold was now aligned and ready to be transformed by the heat of the forge.


Fett moved to the control panel beside the forge, his fingers moving deftly over the levers and switches. He had designed this forge himself, custom-built to channel the extreme heat needed to work with the materials he was using. The molten beskar, still swirling within the forge, was nearly ready. He manipulated the controls, pulling several levers that opened the vents of the forge, allowing the molten metal to flow into the mold.


The heat from the forge was almost unbearable, even for Fett and his sadomasochistic tendancies. The air itself seemed to ripple with the intensity of it, waves of scorching heat rolling off the glowing metal as it moved through the pipes. The molten beskar poured into the mold, filling every corner, every groove, with liquid metal that shimmered like the surface of a sun. The metal moved with purpose, flooding the intricate glyphs Fett had etched into the mold, filling each sharp angle and curve until the entire form was submerged beneath the glowing surface.


As the molten beskar filled the mold, Fett could hear it resonate with the energy of the room. It was not a dull, lifeless sound—it was sharp, almost melodic, the metal singing as it formed within the mold. The sound echoed through the chamber, a chorus of creation as the blade took shape, each component coming together in perfect harmony. The song of the metal was clear, pure, a sign that the beskar was bonding with the sorcerous glyphs etched into its surface.


Fett stepped back from the forge, his hands raised as he began to chant in an arcane language. The words were ancient, their meaning lost to most, but merely obscured, cloudy to him. The words spilled from his lips in a low, guttural tone, each syllable resonating with the power of the Dark Side. The language was one he had learned long ago, its purest unbastardized meaning obscure, known only to the most ancient of the Sith, but its power was undeniable.
Each syllable fell from his lips like a drop of water into a still pond, creating ripples of power that spread through the chamber. The chant resonated with the chorus of the metal, the two sounds blending together into something primal, something that spoke to the very nature of creation itself.


The chant was a spell of binding, a way to connect his will to the metal, to infuse the blade not only with his power but with the intent of the Sith who had come before him. His voice grew louder, the words tumbling from his throat like a torrent, echoing off the walls of the forge chamber. The air around him seemed to grow heavier, thick with the power of the ritual, as if the very fabric of reality were bending to his will, the Dark Side swirling in the atmosphere as the blade cooled within the mold. His voice grew louder, more commanding, as he chanted the final words of the spell. The metal responded, cooling slowly, the molten beskar solidifying into its final form. The glyphs, now fully bonded to the metal, glowed with a faint light, their power trapped within the blade, waiting to be unleashed.


The heat of the forge began to settle, the molten beskar now fully cooled and formed within the mold. But the energy in the room remained, lingering in the air as Fett completed his chant. The blade, still hidden within the mold, was alive with power, the sorcerous symbols and constellations etched into its surface humming with the energy of the Dark Side.


Fett lowered his hands, his breathing steady, his eyes fixed on the mold before him. The process was complete. The blade had been forged, its power sealed within the metal, its shape perfected by the heat of the forge and the strength of the Force.


The weapon would soon be revealed. But for now, it rested within the mold, waiting for Fett to take the next step, to release it from its form and bring it into the world as the tool of darkness it was meant to be.


The waiting.


A day passed, allowing the metal to settle. The forge had since died, like a tavern at dawn after the final stragglers had stumbled home and their mess was exposed to the coming sun.


Fett lowered his hands, his breath steady, his heart rate controlled. The metal had cooled enough for the process to be completed. He released the locking mechanisms of the mold, slowly pulling the two trays apart to reveal the components of the Sith Sword.


Each piece was flawless.


The hilt, shaped as a dagger with a substantial crossguard, was deadly enough, its edges sharp enough to cut through the air with ease. The blade gleamed in the inconsistent light, the glyphs and constellations inscribed upon it shimmering faintly with the residual power of the ritual. Fett could feel the weight of it in his hand as he lifted the piece from the mold, the perfect balance of the weapon as it spoke to him.


He set the hilt aside and reached for the next piece: the long blade that would convert the dagger into a spear or a staff. It was an elegant piece, its sharp angles interlocking perfectly with the hilt, the two pieces coming together to form a larger, more powerful weapon. The etchings on this blade were even more intricate than those on the dagger, the constellations forming patterns that seemed to shift and change as the light caught them.


Next came the third layer: the attachment that would turn the weapon into a sword. The blade was longer, heavier, but no less precise. The interlocking mechanism was flawless, each piece fitting together with a pleasing click as Fett assembled the weapon. The glyphs on this piece were larger, more prominent, their meaning more obscure, but their power unmistakable.


Finally, Fett reached for the last piece: the greatsword blade. This was the largest, most impressive piece of the weapon, its edges honed to a razor-sharp finish, its surface gleaming with the power that had been forged into it. The constellations on this blade were vast, covering the entire surface, each one meticulously etched with the same care and precision that had gone into every other part of the weapon.


Fett assembled the greatsword with a final, deliberate motion, the pieces locking together without any wiggle or intense effort needed. It was seamless and instantaneous. The blade shimmered in the light, the constellations and glyphs glowing faintly with the energy of the Dark Side, their power still resonating within the metal.


The sword was nearly complete.


Fett stood over the weapon, his eyes drawn to the dark chamber at the heart of the sword, the empty space waiting for its final, essential piece. The dramatic sunlight flickered across the room, casting long shadows that stretched and contracted with the intensity of the task at hand. In his palm, the amulet pulsed faintly with energy, the spectrum of the interlocked kyber crystals– white, red, orange, yellow, green, blue, purple, and black– catching the light in mesmerizing, fluid waves. Each facet of the amulet seemed alive, refracting colors and darkness alike, every impurity purged from the crystal structure.


His breath was steady, controlled, as Fett raised the amulet toward the sword. The amulet, forged and designed to channel the dark side and act as a wayfinder across space, fit perfectly into the sword’s hollow chamber, carved with painstaking precision for this very moment. As the gem locked into place with a satisfying click, the blade itself responded immediately, as though it had been waiting for this final integration.


The light from the kyber crystals scattered across the surface of the blade, catching and dancing along the length of the sword’s edge, reflecting off the etched sorcerous glyphs. The inscriptions, designed to amplify the amulet’s power, glowed faintly in response, the star maps and constellations engraved into the metal coming to life, their purpose clear now that the amulet had been installed. The blade hummed with power, a low vibration that Fett could feel in his bones, a resonance that made the air around him feel heavier, charged with unseen energy.


Fett placed both hands on the hilt, his fingers tightening around the cold, dark metal. The response was immediate. The blade didn’t just hum. it sang, a clear, high-pitched note that cut through the silence of the room, vibrating with a force that seemed almost alive. The sound was sharp, pure, echoing through the chamber like the cry of a creature that had been awakened after centuries of slumber. Fett could feel the sword vibrating in his grip, the energy flowing from the amulet within, coursing through the blade and into his body. His connection to the dark side deepened, the power of the sword amplifying his presence, focusing his intent.


It wasn’t a weapon that simply moved through space. It was something much more profound. As Fett tested the weight of the sword in his hands, he could feel it warping reality around it, as though space itself bent and twisted in response to the blade. When he swung the sword, there was no friction, no resistance, but the air didn’t part around the sword as much as space itself moved through it, shifting and bending to accommodate the blade’s existence. The sensation was alien, unlike any weapon Fett had ever wielded. There was a vacuum around the sword, a strange stillness in the atmosphere that accompanied every movement.


With a deep breath, Fett turned his focus toward the ceiling, his gaze locking onto a single point above him. He extended his awareness, channeling the Force through his body, and into the sword, drawing on the dark side like an old, familiar companion.


-Create Darkness, channeled by Wayfinder Amulet powered Sith Sword-


An obsidian shadow flickered at the edges of his vision, a dark pulse of energy that surged from his mind and bled into the room. He pushed the shadow toward the sword, feeding it through the blade, watching as the weapon responded with a rainbow-hued glow from the amulet inside the hilt.


The shadow exploded outward, a large, black mass appearing against the ceiling. The contrast between the darkness and the rainbow-hued illumination from the amulet was sharp, the spectrum of colors barely cutting through the deep, inky blackness of the shadow. The sword vibrated in Fett’s grip, responding to the tension between light and dark, the shadow and the energy of the kyber crystals pushing against one another like two opposing forces.


Fett lowered his gaze, focusing now on the cobblestone floor beneath his stool. He cast another shadow, this time on the stones themselves, the dark energy creeping across the ground like a living thing. His grip on the hilt tightened, and with a flick of his wrist, the sword shifted, the shadow under the stool shifting with it.


-Shadow Walk, enhanced by Wayfinder Amulet powered Sith Sword-


The stool shuddered for a brief moment, then disappeared entirely, vanishing into the black void on the floor. Fett’s eyes flicked upward in time to see the stool reappear, falling from the ceiling, plummeting back through the floor in a disorienting loop.


For a heartbeat, the stool was caught in an endless cycle, falling through space and time, as if the sword had torn a hole in reality itself. Fett could feel the tension in the air around him, the warping of space growing stronger as the loop continued. His grip on the sword remained steady, but he could feel the strain on the fabric of the room, the tension between the forces he was manipulating.


With another twist of his wrist, Fett cut off the flow of energy, the shadows vanishing in an instant. The stool, no longer caught in the loop, smashed into the cobblestone floor at terminal velocity, splintering into pieces with a sharp, resonating crack. Fett’s eyes followed the remains of the stool, his expression unreadable as he lowered the sword.


The air around the blade still felt different. There was a vacuum, a stillness that persisted, making the sword feel almost otherworldly in his grasp. The way it interacted with the atmosphere was strange, unlike any weapon he had ever forged or wielded. The blade seemed to lock into position with whatever it touched, its movements not bound by the usual physics of weight or gravity.


Fett tilted his head, instinctively running his thumb along the hilt as he considered the sword’s unique properties. His hand shifted, slinging the blade around to his back, more out of habit than anything else. But the moment the sword touched his back, it snapped into place, locking into position without the need for a sheath or straps. The vacuum around the blade held it firm, a connection that required no visible means of support, the weapon adhering to his back as if drawn by some unseen force.


Fett stood still for a moment, his body rigid as he adjusted to the sensation. The weight of the sword was there, but it was strange, almost as if the blade had become an extension of him. There was no need for a harness or sheath, the sword had found its place, locking into his back as if it had always belonged there.


He took a deep breath, letting the tension in his muscles ease as he adjusted to the sword’s presence. The air around him was still, charged with the lingering energy of the dark side, the faint hum of the amulet echoing in the silence.


And then, without hesitation, Fett moved.

[Darth Fett]

Meditation of Immersion
More than 1000 words, less than… *checks notes and groans* 7000

Axl, Somewhere, Modern Sithlore Era

Preamble

Fett floated in the kolto tank, suspended in the heavy, viscous liquid that pressed in from all sides, trying to swallow him whole. The shackles on his wrists and ankles held him in place, his limbs splayed out unnaturally, his body stretched out, a marionette in the hands of a mad puppeteer. Caught between the pull of gravity and the weightlessness of the thick fluid. The liquid clung to his skin like mud, seeping into every cut, every burn, every wound. It was a cycle: pain, then the cool balm of healing, and then pain again, fresh and sharp, cutting through the relief just as it began to settle.

The oxygen mask strapped crooked across his face dug into his skin, the harsh, jagged mouthpiece jammed between his teeth, tasting of organic rot and artificial precision, stale having had been used too many times before. The hose connected to it fed him just enough air to keep him conscious, but not enough to satisfy the deep, aching hunger for breath that burned in his chest. Each inhale felt as sucking on the embers of a dying fire, heat curling down his throat and igniting the panic in his lungs. It wasn’t enough. The air was too thin, too starved of life. His lungs screamed for more, but each breath came slow, shallow, rasping through the mask, dragging him closer to unconsciousness but never letting him reach it.

The artificial suspension, the weightlessness combatted the intense downward pressure from his burdensome shackles and the heft of the headpiece, truly the heaviest of crowns.

His vision wavered, distorted by the greenish tint of the kolto and the fog clouding his mind. Beyond the glass of the tank, shadows moved, slow and deliberate, their elongated faces blurred by the thick liquid. He could feel them watching him, their presence a weight in the room, pressing down on him, even though they never touched him. They didn’t need to. The mechanical arms inside the tank did their work for them, their movements precise, calculated, inhuman.

A sudden jolt of heat seared through his shoulder as one of the arms lowered a cauterizing tool to his skin. The pain was immediate, sharp and burning, a spike of fire that shot through his nerves, setting every muscle alight. He could feel the heat spread, radiating outward from the point of contact, his body instinctively jerking against the restraints, but the kolto slowed his movements, the liquid dragging him back, holding him in place. Before the pain could settle, before he could even catch his breath, the kolto rushed over the wound, stinging at first, then cooling, soothing. The relief was brief, too brief, just a moment of calm before the next blade descended, cutting into his side with surgical precision.

His flesh parted under the scalpel, a fine line of blood spilling into the liquid, mixing with the greenish hue of the kolto. The sting was cold this time, sharp but distant, as if his body had grown tired of registering the pain. The healing liquid surged over the wound, knitting the skin together, dulling the ache just as another arm moved in, this time carving a line along his forearm. His body trembled, muscles spasming as the pain rolled through him, but the kolto wouldn’t let him move. It wouldn’t let him escape. The liquid wrapped arou: a shroud, both holding him and betraying him, its soothing touch always followed by more pain, more damage.

The device strapped to his head buzzed softly, a faint hum that vibrated through his skull, sending waves of static across his mind. His thoughts were disjointed, fragmented, slipping away before he could fully grasp them. The electrodes pressed against his scalp, their constant hum scrambling his senses, making it impossible to focus, to think. His mind felt distant, like it wasn’t his own, as if someone had reached inside and twisted everything, leaving behind only fragments. Memories flickered in and out, distorted and warped, slipping away, sand through his fingers. He tried to grab hold of something-- anything-- but every time he came close, the device jolted him again, severing the connection, leaving him adrift.

His muscles ached from the tension, the constant pull of the shackles, but the weightlessness of the kolto kept him suspended, caught between two opposing forces. His body floated, heavy and light all at once, the sensation disorienting, nauseating. His skin tingled where the liquid seeped into his wounds, its cool touch both a balm and a torment. He could feel the healing begin, but it was slow, deliberate, as if the kolto was teasing him with relief only to strip it away again as the next blade bit into his flesh.

The air in the tank was suffocating, thick with the scent of chemicals and decay. Every breath tasted of the mask itself-- plasteel, rusted alloy, something old and dirty. The air that managed to reach him was stale, too thin, leaving his brain starved for oxygen. His thoughts grew sluggish, heavy, as if weighed down by the lack of air. His heart pounded in his chest, a slow, steady beat that echoed in his ears, each thud a reminder that he was still alive, still conscious, but barely.

The world beyond the tank was a blur of shapes and shadows, the reptilian captors moving in the background, their faces obscured by the thickness of the liquid. They were methodical, indifferent to his suffering. He could hear their faint voices, muffled through the liquid, but the words were lost, distorted by the bubbling of the kolto and the noise in his own head. He couldn’t focus on them. Couldn’t focus on anything except the pain and the relief, the constant cycle of suffering that kept him anchored to the present.

Another cauterizing tool pressed against his chest, the heat searing through his skin, burning deep into the muscle. The pain was white-hot, blinding. Despite Fett’s masochistic joy in pain, the crossed wires of his deviant mind, it all taken together, the lack of clarity that accompanied oxygen deprivation, he writhed in pleasure, only to be jolted back into an animalistic response to being wounded. In one such state, his body convulsed against the restraints, but there was nowhere to go, nowhere to escape. The kolto rushed in, its cool touch a mockery of comfort, numbing the burn before it could even fully register. The sensation was maddening, a constant dance between agony and relief, his nerves caught in a loop, never knowing whether to scream or sigh.

His breathing grew more labored, the mask sucking at his face with each shallow inhale, the oxygen deprivation tightening its grip on his mind. His vision dimmed, the edges of his sight blurring, darkening, but the electrodes kept him awake, kept him conscious, buzzing through his brain, scrambling his senses every time he got too close to passing out. There was no escape, no release.

The kolto stung again, filling the newest wound, stitching the flesh together before another cut could be made. He could feel his body healing, feel the liquid working its way into his skin, mending what had been broken, but the relief was always temporary. The pain always came back. Always worse.

He hung there, suspended in the liquid, caught in the endless rhythm of pain and healing, pain and healing, his mind drifting, lost in the haze of the device and the suffocating air. The scientists moved in the background, their presence a constant weight, but distant, blurred. They didn’t matter. Nothing mattered except the next breath, the next wave of pain, the next fleeting moment of relief.

Time surely had no meaning here. Only the cycle. Only the pain.

The captors outside the tank continued their work, indifferent to his suffering. To them, he was just a body-- something to experiment on, something to control.

And he let them believe it.

Most Relevant

Fett’s breath came shallow through the crooked mask, his lungs barely managing to grasp what little oxygen filtered through the hose, each rasp growing weaker. His body, held in limbo by the shackles and the murky kolto, floated between worlds-- pain and numbness, heat and cold, anguish and nothingness. The captors moved around the tank, their tall, reptilian forms blurred through the liquid, but Fett’s eyes didn’t follow them anymore. They were irrelevant, spectres cast on the wall of his mind. They had done their work, and now the real battle raged inside him, where their scalpel couldn’t reach.

The neural inhibitor strapped to his skull, however, could reach deeper. Fett could feel it scrambling his thoughts, sending static through his neurons, breaking his mind into a thousand pieces. The Force had always come to him when he was in pain, had always surged through him in those moments when agony tore him apart, only to rebuild him stronger. But now, every time he reached for it, the buzzing in his skull swarmed in like insects, driving the thought away, shattering the connection before it could form.

Pain was supposed to be a conduit for power. He had learned that long ago-- pain sharpened the senses, heightened his connection to the Force. But now the pain was dulled, twisted by the kolto, numbed before it could fuel him. The rhythmic stabs of the mechanical arms, the sudden burning of cauterization, the slicing blades-- each one flared, then dissipated before the energy could be harnessed, swallowed by the soothing waves of the liquid. It was a cycle without end, a rhythm that made it impossible to focus. His body was at war with itself, and his mind was drowning.

But Fett was not one to surrender easily.

He tried again, reaching out, his thoughts clawing for the Force, willing it to come to him, to break through the haze that clouded his senses. But the buzzing in his head intensified, the static thickening until his mind felt as if it was splitting apart. His vision blurred further, the edges of the captors’ shapes dissolving into the greenish liquid, and for a moment, he thought he might lose himself entirely.

Control it. He had always controlled it. The Force bent to his will, not the other way around. But here, in the suffocating kolto, with his mind torn apart by the neural inhibitor, control was slipping away from him, inch by inch. His heartbeat, steady and slow, pounded in his ears. It felt distant, removed from his body, as if the rhythm belonged to someone else.

He had to let go

Fett closed his eyes, the flickering images of the captors dissolving into darkness. He stopped trying to reach out. The pain, the blades, the kolto-- he let them fade, let them blend into the shadows. His mind stilled, not in the way a Jedi might still themselves, not in the peaceful silence of harmony and balance. No, this was different. He could feel itnow, the emptiness, cold and vast, like standing in the ruins of a village long since abandoned. The echoes of life were still there, faint and distant, but they were only memories. What had once thrived was now nothing more than a shell.

Fett let his mind drift, pulling away from the pain, from the tightness in his chest, from the mechanical arms that carved into his flesh. He let it all slip into the background, a distant hum that didn’t matter. The pain was just another noise. He had to let go. He had to stop reaching.

In the quiet of his mind, something stirred.

It began at the base of his spine, a cold, creeping sensation that slithered up his back, wrapping itself around his vertebrae. It was slow, deliberate, coiling through his body like a predator sizing up its prey. The Dark Side, but not as he had known it. This was no surge of power, no violent flood of energy. This was different. It moved like a shadow, silent, patient, wrapping itself around his bones, threading through his muscles, tightening as it rose.

It was no longer the familiar surge of power that he was used to, no longer the blaze of fire that had fueled him battle. This was something else-- something quieter.


Fett didn’t reach for it. He let it come to him.

The stillness that settled over his mind wasn’t the calm of the light. It wasn’t peace or serenity. It was a void, cold and absolute. It was the kind of silence you found in a graveyard, where the air hung thick with the weight of things long forgotten, where even the wind dared not stir. There was no life here, only echoes of things that had once lived, now reduced to dust. The Dark Side coiled within him, pulling him deeper into that stillness, into that graveyard of his own mind.

And then, from the depths of that silence, something else erupted.

A blinding light, sudden and violent, ripped through the darkness, cutting through the void like a blade. Fett flinched, instinctively recoiling, but the light didn’t fade. It expanded, flooding his mind with a brightness that was as alien to him as it was overwhelming. It wasn’t the light of the Jedi, not the blinding clarity of the Light Side. This was something older, more primal. It wasn’t tied to the light or the dark-- it was something beyond them both. Something fundamental.

The White Current.

Fett had never known light could feel like this. Not like warmth, not like illumination. It wasn’t the searing heat of a sun or the raging radiance of a lightsaber blade. This light-- it didn’t shine. It consumed. It didn’t reveal. It eradicated.

It started as a pinprick, a star, distant, unapproachable. But as it crept into his awareness, it grew, expanding until it swallowed the darkness inside him, and then kept expanding until it seemed to stretch beyond the edges of reality itself. It wasn’t blinding in the way light typically was. It didn’t force his eyes shut or burn the back of his retinas. No, it was blinding in its utter completeness, in its refusal to give shape to anything. Everything he had known to define light-- contrast, shadow, depth-- had been erased. His senses, finely honed to the darkness and the tension between light and shadow, were drowning in it.

But it wasn’t white. Not really. White was something he could understand, could quantify in his mind. This was beyond color, beyond spectrum. It was more the ghost of light-- the echo of brightness long after it had been removed from the universe, an afterimage that refused to fade. His vision felt scorched by it, not because it was too bright, but because it was too pure, too complete. The colors that danced at the edges of his mind when he tried to focus-- blues and reds and purples-- they weren’t part of the Current itself. They were just his mind’s desperate attempt to make sense of something that had no sense. His retinas burned with them, shapes and patterns etched into his sight like scars, but none of it was real. It was all an illusion, a product of his brain grasping at straws, trying to impose meaning on something that resisted all forms of definition.

It was akin to trying to touch smoke that refused to dissipate. The harder you grasped, the more it slipped through your fingers, and yet you could feel it. It was there, but not in any way you could hold onto. Fett’s mind stretched out to it, but it was like reaching into a void, where the moment you thought you had a grip on something, it wasn’t there at all. He could feel it, not as a tangible thing, but as an absence-- a hole where something ought to be, but wasn’t.

There was a pressure to it, though. It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t gentle. The White Current pressed against him like a wave, the kind that leaves you flattened on the shore, gasping for air, your chest constricted from the sheer force of it. Except this wave didn’t crash. It just kept moving, pulling him in deeper, dragging him under, and there was no shore to wash up on. There was no surface. Just the endless pressure of something he could never push back against.

It burned, but not like fire, not like heat. It was more like the burn of cold, the kind that numbs you at first, lulling you into thinking you’re fine, and then suddenly your nerves are screaming, begging for warmth that will never come. The White Current moved through him like that-- cold at first, too distant to feel, and then suddenly it was everywhere, crawling through his veins, seeping into the marrow of his bones. There was no relief from it, no way to shake it off. The light was inside him now, filling every crevice of his mind and body. And yet, it wasn’t something he could purge. It was as if the light was purging him, stripping away everything that wasn’t essential, burning through the very fabric of his being and leaving only the core behind.

It was being hollowed out from the inside, but not in a way that left emptiness. Instead, it filled him, but not with something he could comprehend. It filled him with its own vastness, its own incomprehensibility. He wasn’t just overwhelmed by it. He was lost in it. It was walking into a city where every building was too tall, too grand, too alien to understand. He could see the outlines, the structures, but they didn’t make sense. His mind tried to give them shape, tried to find patterns, but there were none to be found. The Current didn’t operate on the same rules as the universe he knew.

The brightness filled his mind, turning the darkness into something ethereal, something vast and unknowable. It wasn’t the Force as he knew it-- it was something that ran beneath the Force, the undercurrent of a river, something that shaped reality in ways that were too fundamental to comprehend. It was primal, raw, and utterly sublime.

There was no sound, not really. But there was a hum, a vibration that wasn’t external, wasn’t something he could hear with his ears. It was inside him, a resonance that shook the very core of his being. It felt like the deep bass of a subsonic instrument, not the kind you hear, but the kind you feel in your chest, in your bones. Except this hum wasn’t music. It wasn’t even rhythm. It was a fundamental vibration, the kind that underscored everything in existence, but that you were never meant to be aware of. It was the heartbeat of the universe, but without the comfort of a pulse, without the familiar rise and fall. It was constant, unyielding, a vibration that reminded him that this was beyond him, beyond anything he could ever hope to control.

Touching the White Current was touching something that had no business being touched. Grasping at the sky and expecting it to give way. It wasn’t air, wasn’t substance. It was there and not there. It was everywhere and nowhere. And yet, when his mind brushed against it, there was a sense of contact, but not in the way he had known before. His fingers tingled, not because they touched anything physical, but because his body remembered touching something. The sensation was there, but it was a phantom limb-- a memory of touch, a ghost of sensation that lingered long after the contact had ended.

Philosophically, the White Current was a contradiction. It existed outside of everything he knew, outside of light and dark, outside of power and balance. It wasn’t part of the Force as he understood it, and yet, it was connected to it in ways that defied explanation. It was before the Force, beyond it. It wasn’t about control, wasn’t about will. It simply was.

And in the face of that vastness, in the face of something so utterly alien, Fett felt small. Not in the way a man feels small before a storm, but in the way a single grain of sand feels insignificant in the vastness of a desert. The White Current didn’t care about him. It didn’t recognize him. He was just another piece of the universe to it, no different from a stone or a leaf or a star. It wasn’t hostile. It wasn’t benevolent. It was indifferent.

And yet, there was a strange comfort in that indifference. In the face of something so vast, so unknowable, there was no expectation. No burden of control. No need to dominate or bend it to his will. There was only the flow, the movement, the constant pressure of something that had always been and would always be.

And Fett? He was along for the ride.

He reached for it, cautiously, his mind brushing against the Current, and for a moment, he felt the flow of it, the way it surged and ebbed, the way it carried him along, weightless and free. But the light was blinding, too much, too fast. It burned in his skull, not like the Dark Side’s cold grip, but with a searing intensity that made his thoughts scatter.

The sensation of it was indescribable, as if his very cells were unraveling and reforming in its presence, as if the very structure of his mind was being rewritten by its touch. It was neither pleasant nor painful. It just was. Pure and unrelenting in its existence, the Current moved in ways that defied understanding.

Fett could feel his body again, the weight of the kolto, the sting of the mechanical arms as they cut into his skin. But the pain was distant now, muted by the radiance of the Current. The device strapped to his skull buzzed again, trying to scramble his thoughts, but the Current remained, flowing beneath the surface of his mind, untouched by the static.

It was as if the world around him had shifted, as if the very fabric of reality had been altered by the presence of the Current. The Dark Side still coiled within him, but it was quieter now, waiting in the shadows, watching as the Current moved through him, around him, beyond him.

He was caught between two forces, one that he had known his entire life and one that was beyond his understanding. The Current wasn’t a tool, wasn’t something to be wielded. It was something to be witnessed, something to be felt, but never held.

And for the first time in a long time, Fett let go.

He tried to pull back, to retreat into the darkness, but the Current pulled him along, tugging at him, dragging him deeper into its radiance. He was drowning in light, each breath harder to take, each second heavier than the last. He could feel it filling his lungs, his chest, pushing against the edges of his mind until there was nowhere left to go. His muscles tensed, his body rigid against the force of it.

The stillness he had found was gone, replaced by a torrent of energy that he couldn’t control, couldn’t contain. The Force was no longer his to actively command. It flowed through him, around him, pulling him under, deeper into the Current, deeper into its light.

In the depths of his mind, the Dark Side pulsed, waiting, watching. The cold tendrils tightened their grip, but the light pushed back, radiating outward, filling the space with its intensity. Then it cowered, averting its gaze.

The neural inhibitor buzzed again, static crackling through his thoughts, but the Current remained, unaffected. It was too powerful, too vast to be contained by the device. Fett could feel the Force shifting, twisting around him, pulling him in two directions at once.

His senses, dulled by the kolto, flared and fizzled like dying embers. The mechanical arms at the side of the tank moved in a rhythm, slicing, searing. The scalpel bit into his flesh, thin lines of blood diffusing into the greenish liquid, but the kolto was quick, too quick, stinging the wounds before the pain had fully blossomed. Each cut, each burn, was like a flicker of fire across his nerves-- there and gone, a momentary flash before the numbing balm took hold again.

But the real battle raged inside his skull. The device fastened to his head was the true tormentor, buzzing like a swarm of vermin burrowing into his brain, scrambling everything it touched. His thoughts were torn apart before they could fully form, leaving only fragments-- shards of ideas that cut at the edges of his consciousness. Reaching out for the Force had become an act of futility. It was there, just beyond his grasp, but every time he tried to pull it toward him, the static would rise, thickening, turning his mind into a fractured, chaotic mess.

It had always come to him in moments such as these. The pain had been a conduit, a fuel that ignited his connection to the Dark Side. His body would scream, and the Force would answer, surging through him, turning agony into power. But now, with the electrodes buzzing in his brain, that connection was broken. Every time he reached out, it slipped away, dissipating into the static that crowded his thoughts.

He couldn’t control it.

The realization came like a cold weight settling in his gut, dragging him down. The Force, which had always bent to his will, was beyond his reach now, severed by the device that bound him. His chest tightened, and his breath hitched in his throat, the mask sucking at his face as he fought for air. He could feel the edges of panic creeping in, threatening to swallow him.

But panic was a luxury he couldn’t afford.


The captors stood before the tank, their scaled faces twisted in confusion, sharp eyes scanning the nearly opaque liquid swirling within. Fett was gone. His body, which had been floating mere moments ago, submerged in the thick kolto and restrained by shackles, had vanished. The liquid still churned, but there was no sign of his form.

They exchanged glances, murmuring in their guttural tongue, a language of hisses and clicks that echoed off the metal walls of the dimly lit chamber. Their technology was flawless, their methods tested. They did not understand the intricacies of the Force, not truly, but they knew enough of its reputation. Enough to have developed tools to suppress it, to scramble the minds of its users. The helmet had been their most reliable, basic piece of equipment, designed to sever the connection between the brain and the mysticism that so many species leaned on. But this-- this defied all logic, all their precise engineering.


One of them, taller than the others, with thicker scales around its neck, stepped forward, talons clicking against the grated floor as it approached the tank cautiously. Its narrow, reptilian eyes scanned the liquid, searching for any sign-- any ripple or distortion-- that might indicate Fett’s presence. But the liquid was still now, calm, save for the faint current created by the mechanical arms still humming as they hung poised to continue their work.

Fett was not hiding, not in the way they imagined. He was simply gone from their sight, his connection to the White Current rendering his form invisible, not by any traditional means, but by existing outside the perception of these creatures, outside their reality. The White Current flowed through him, past him, blending him into the fabric of the universe in ways they could never understand. But these creatures-- these captors-- were not steeped in the mysteries of the Force. They were beings of flesh and technology, claws and circuits.

The taller one hissed something to the others, its talons curling as it approached the control panel beside the tank, glancing at the monitor with a growing sense of frustration. It tapped the screen, its brow furrowing, but the data made no sense. Fett's vitals had flatlined, as if he no longer existed, and yet the machinery had recorded no disruption, no sign of escape. There was no breach in the seals, no indication that anything had happened to the tank at all.

The others hesitated, lingering at the edges of the chamber, their own claws flexing nervously. They could feel the tension growing, the creeping sense that something was horribly wrong.

Suddenly, the tank erupted.

A deafening crack split the air as the glass shattered, jagged shards exploding outward like shrapnel. The kolto, once a sluggish tide confined to the tank, surged forth in a tidal wave of thick, viscous liquid, pouring across the floor in a flood. It rushed over the captors’ talons, splashing against their scaled feet, and they scrambled to hold their ground, their claws digging into the metal floor for purchase. Their instincts kicked in-- predatory and fierce-- but their confusion overwhelmed them. The liquid was everywhere, soaking the room, and the scent of it filled the air, thick and pungent.
Amidst the chaos, the mechanical arms that had once tortured Fett convulsed, their metal joints screeching before they too shattered. Pieces of them rained down, showering the lab with sparks as the machinery exploded from within. The whirr of the blades ceased abruptly, their rotating limbs now scattered, useless, among the debris.

Fett moved through the liquid a shadow, unseen, the White Current still wrapping around him, shrouding his form in the same nothingness that had protected him in the tank. But the captors, now blinded by panic, didn’t know this. All they knew was that their prize had somehow escaped, and they had no explanation.

One of them, smaller but faster, lurched forward to inspect the wreckage, its talons clicking frantically across the slick floor. It didn’t get far. Fett was on it before it could react, his movements swift and silent. He seized the neural disruption helmet from the nearby console, its wires dangling and sparking, and in one brutal motion, slammed it onto the creature’s skull.

The captor screeched, its claws flailing as the device locked into place. Its body spasmed, convulsing as the helmet’s electrical currents coursed through its brain, scrambling its neural pathways just as it had done to Fett. The creature’s shrieks were cut short as its body went rigid, its eyes rolling back into its head before it collapsed, its twitching form crumpling to the floor.

Fett didn’t pause. With a flick of his wrist, he redirected the shattered remains of the mechanical arms, the jagged blades still attached to their ruined frames. They shot through the air with deadly precision, impaling two of the remaining captors before they could react. The sound of metal slicing through flesh was followed by the thud of their bodies hitting the floor, their blood mixing with the kolto in dark, swirling pools.

Still invisible, Fett moved toward the exit, his feet leaving bloody, wet footprints behind him as he slipped out of the lab. The corridor beyond stretched out in front of him, a maze of dimly lit passageways and steel doors, each one leading to other labs, other horrors. The air was cold here, sterile, the smell of chemicals and blood clinging to his senses.

But there was no time for reflection. His body, though still coated in the healing residue of the kolto, was battered, his skin raw and torn where the mechanical arms had done their work. The pain was distant now, muted by the adrenaline coursing through him, but it was still there, a constant reminder of the torture he had endured.

He ran, his breath ragged, the White Current still cloaking him, though he could feel its hold beginning to wane. His connection to it was tenuous at best, and the strain of maintaining it was taking its toll. His feet slipped on the slick floor, his blood leaving a trail behind him, but he pressed on, knowing that he couldn’t afford to be caught. Not now.

The grand junction appeared ahead of him, a wide, open space where several corridors converged. Lab doors lined the walls, and Fett could hear the hum of machinery and the faint murmur of voices from within. He slowed his pace, his eyes scanning the area for any sign of pursuit. The captors-- Ssi-Ruuk, his mind supplied now, as if the name had been lurking there all along but had been temporarily erased by the scrambling of his neurons paired with the searing disorientation caused by the Current -- were likely in disarray, but it wouldn’t be long before they regrouped.

The sound of footsteps echoed down one of the corridors behind him, and Fett ducked into the shadows, his form still invisible, but the trail of blood he had left behind was a glaring clue. He had to move, had to find a way out before the Ssi-Ruuk discovered his trail.

He had in fact allowed himself to be taken, spent months scouting the Ssi-Ruuk through Wild Space and the Uncharted Territories, observing their abduction patterns, and placing himself in their path, making himself as easy and desirable prey as he could, to no avail. He finally had taken more drastic measures, attacking a convoy and allowing himself defeat. Or at least that was an account his pride would weave. Though it was his intent, once he had come into their orbit, the Ssi-Ruuvi technology was exceptionally formidable.

Now, he rushed to achieve his objective, to gather his prizes. He counted down.

An enormous blast overwhelmed the air from the lab he had escaped. Fire and screeching from those he'd left barely alive assaulted the complex. Alarms blared, and reptiles of assorted color emerged from every direction and flooded the disaster area.

The hallway was a blur of movement as Ssi-Ruuk scientists and security guards rushed past, their talons clicking against the metal floors, unaware of the invisible figure slipping through their midst. Fett, naked and drenched in the remnants of kolto, sidestepped one of the guards, his muscles tensing with each narrow miss. The guard’s scaled arm swung just inches from his chest as it gestured urgently, oblivious to how close he had come to the fugitive. Fett flattened himself against the cold wall, feeling the residual warmth of the emergency lighting system pulsing through the metal as alarms blared in the distance.

Ahead, the doorway to the lab he had escaped from was thrown open. A blazing fire erupted within, consuming the remnants of the kolto tank and the shattered machinery. The flames licked at the walls, casting long, flickering shadows across the rushing Ssi-Ruuk, who shouted commands in their guttural language, frantically attempting to contain the inferno. Fett moved like a wraith, weaving between them, his skin prickling with the heat radiating from the blaze as it intensified, but he couldn’t afford to slow down. His footsteps were silent, barely perceptible against the symphony of chaos, as he slipped into the darkness of a side corridor, leaving the flaming laboratory behind him.

The Ssi-Ruuk moved with an eerie precision that belied their size, their heavy, scaled forms slicing through the air with the grace of a predator on the hunt. Fett, invisible and unnoticed, watched them scramble in their confusion, each movement betraying a monstrous blend of flesh and machine. Their bodies were massive, hulking figures wrapped in layers of thick, pebbled scales, their natural armor glistening under the artificial lights of the lab. The scales shifted as they moved, rigid yet flexible, reflecting a sheen of dark green and crimson hues. It was hard to tell where the flesh ended and the technology began.

End Most Relevant though effects of power are still active

Their taloned feet, long and hooked, dug into the metallic floor with every step, producing sharp clicks that reverberated off the walls. These creatures weren’t quiet, and yet their movements were precise-- calculated. Fett could hear the soft hiss of hydraulics, the faint whirring of servo motors partial hidden beneath their scales. Every joint, every motion, was augmented by the cybernetic enhancements grafted into their skeletal systems, giving them an unnatural fluidity that made their towering forms seem lighter than they should be. Their claws-- three-fingered and cruelly curved-- moved with a purpose, both sharp and dexterous, more suited to tearing apart metal and flesh than delicate operations.

Wires ran like veins beneath their thick hides, the black tendrils snaking up their muscular arms and connecting to ports embedded along their spines. Fett could see the cybernetic implants flashing as the creatures passed, small bursts of light flickering in sync with their movements, signaling the seamless connection between their bodies and the machines embedded within them. Plates of metal, sometimes visible through gashes in their natural armor, glinted under the harsh lights. Their mechanical elements were far from subtle-- obvious, brutal, and efficient, merging with their organic form like a weapon built to endure and adapt.

Their faces, long and reptilian, were framed by rows of serrated teeth that occasionally bared in not so silent frustration. The Ssi-Ruuk’s black, soulless eyes darted from side to side, their slitted pupils narrowing in the light, searching for something they could no longer see. Fett could tell they were agitated, their nostrils flaring as they hissed commands to each other, the guttural clicks of their language distorted by the sound of hydraulic muscles pulling taut beneath their scales. The small ports along their spines pulsed with energy, each connecting to external devices-- tools, weapons, anything to further augment their power. Their tails-- long, prehensile, and ending in bladelike tips-- snapped through the air, twitching with agitation. Each tail moved with an independent life of its own, acting as a counterbalance to their massive upper bodies.

One of them, slightly shorter but bulkier than the others, paused near the shattered remains of the kolto tank, crouching down to study the mess. Fett could see the Ssi-Ruuk’s talons flex as it scraped the floor, its head swiveling back and forth in search of something-- him. He could feel the weight of their attention, the animalistic intelligence in their gaze, their confusion slowly curdling into something more dangerous. The smaller one raised a clawed hand, and Fett caught a glimpse of a jagged metal apparatus grafted onto its forearm, the machinery shifting as the Ssi-Ruuk adjusted its stance. It was part creature, part machine, the two fused into a monstrous hybrid that gave no quarter to weakness or uncertainty.

As they moved, Fett saw the subtle tremors in their bodies, the way their augmented muscles twitched beneath their scaled hides, betraying a quiet tension that hung heavy in the air. They were predators, bred and engineered for war, and their bodies bore the marks of that life. Scars, both organic and metallic, traced across their limbs. These creatures were not to be underestimated, each motion calculated and enhanced by the technology they had embedded into their very bones.

Fett watched, unseen, as one of the Ssi-Ruu approached another, the two exchanging words in their strange, guttural language. The taller of the two flexed its claws, the metal tips clicking softly against its arm as its head swiveled, scanning the room with eyes that glittered like polished obsidian. Fett could see the muscles in its neck tense beneath the smooth metal plating that covered its back, the cables connecting its skull to the rest of its body pulsing faintly with energy.

They were grotesque in their efficiency, these creatures-- an evolutionary dead end turned into something new by the cold hand of technology. Their limbs moved in unison with the machines grafted into them, turning flesh and steel into something terrible and relentless. And as Fett observed, invisible and silent, he realized that these creatures, for all their enhancements and technological prowess, were trapped in their own limitations.

Fett slipped back through the opposite direction, toward a lab which had all the entechment gear he had so preciously sought and for which he had sacrificed more of his flesh.


Now out of accidental reach, Fett focused on the task ahead. Reaching the hangar, he spotted his cargo transport, its ramp lowered and waiting. He moved quickly, his body still slick with a thin layer of healing liquid as he began loading equipment back onto the ship.

It was a matter of using a turbolift to take them back onto the vessel from which they had been freshly delivered. A vast array of stolen machinery and weaponry-- pieces of high tech armor, crates filled with advanced equipment-- were stacked onto repulsor lifts. His hands, still aching from the earlier torture, gripped the edges of a large, sealed crate. He heaved it up the ramp, every movement deliberate, efficient.

The transport groaned under the weight as he secured each item, fastening them into place with practiced precision. Fett wiped the sweat from his brow, his breathing steady but sharp, as the cargo bay began to fill. His mind was focused, methodical, counting each crate as he locked them down. The hum of the ship's systems activated around him, engines warming up, lights flickering dimly as he loaded the last of the crates. He paused briefly, glancing over the bay, double checking the equipment before sealing the cargo hold. It was all in place. His hands, still slick with blood and kolto, rested briefly on the control panel as the transport door slid shut with a heavy hiss, sealing the cargo within.

From there, he made his way to the unmanned cockpit. The seats were not made with his anatomy in mind, and even worse, or better he would argue, he was still naked.

He pulled levers, though his digits were ill formed for their design, and as the transport hovered and detached, the current's hold on him dissipated, his nude form snapping fully back into reality.

It wasn’t the first time he let out a beleaguered sigh at not having a tail. This would be a long trip, albeit a lucrative one.

[Darth Fett]

Their taloned feet, long and hooked, dug into the metallic floor with every step, producing sharp clicks that reverberated off the walls. These creatures weren’t quiet, and yet their movements were precise-- calculated. Fett could hear the soft hiss of hydraulics, the faint whirring of servo motors partial hidden beneath their scales. Every joint, every motion, was augmented by the cybernetic enhancements grafted into their skeletal systems, giving them an unnatural fluidity that made their towering forms seem lighter than they should be. Their claws-- three-fingered and cruelly curved-- moved with a purpose, both sharp and dexterous, more suited to tearing apart metal and flesh than delicate operations.

Wires ran like veins beneath their thick hides, the black tendrils snaking up their muscular arms and connecting to ports embedded along their spines. Fett could see the cybernetic implants flashing as the creatures passed, small bursts of light flickering in sync with their movements, signaling the seamless connection between their bodies and the machines embedded within them. Plates of metal, sometimes visible through gashes in their natural armor, glinted under the harsh lights. Their mechanical elements were far from subtle-- obvious, brutal, and efficient, merging with their organic form like a weapon built to endure and adapt.

Their faces, long and reptilian, were framed by rows of serrated teeth that occasionally bared in not so silent frustration. The Ssi-Ruuk’s black, soulless eyes darted from side to side, their slitted pupils narrowing in the light, searching for something they could no longer see. Fett could tell they were agitated, their nostrils flaring as they hissed commands to each other, the guttural clicks of their language distorted by the sound of hydraulic muscles pulling taut beneath their scales. The small ports along their spines pulsed with energy, each connecting to external devices-- tools, weapons, anything to further augment their power. Their tails-- long, prehensile, and ending in bladelike tips-- snapped through the air, twitching with agitation. Each tail moved with an independent life of its own, acting as a counterbalance to their massive upper bodies.

One of them, slightly shorter but bulkier than the others, paused near the shattered remains of the kolto tank, crouching down to study the mess. Fett could see the Ssi-Ruuk’s talons flex as it scraped the floor, its head swiveling back and forth in search of something-- him. He could feel the weight of their attention, the animalistic intelligence in their gaze, their confusion slowly curdling into something more dangerous. The smaller one raised a clawed hand, and Fett caught a glimpse of a jagged metal apparatus grafted onto its forearm, the machinery shifting as the Ssi-Ruuk adjusted its stance. It was part creature, part machine, the two fused into a monstrous hybrid that gave no quarter to weakness or uncertainty.

As they moved, Fett saw the subtle tremors in their bodies, the way their augmented muscles twitched beneath their scaled hides, betraying a quiet tension that hung heavy in the air. They were predators, bred and engineered for war, and their bodies bore the marks of that life. Scars, both organic and metallic, traced across their limbs. These creatures were not to be underestimated, each motion calculated and enhanced by the technology they had embedded into their very bones.

Fett watched, unseen, as one of the Ssi-Ruu approached another, the two exchanging words in their strange, guttural language. The taller of the two flexed its claws, the metal tips clicking softly against its arm as its head swiveled, scanning the room with eyes that glittered like polished obsidian. Fett could see the muscles in its neck tense beneath the smooth metal plating that covered its back, the cables connecting its skull to the rest of its body pulsing faintly with energy.

They were grotesque in their efficiency, these creatures-- an evolutionary dead end turned into something new by the cold hand of technology. Their limbs moved in unison with the machines grafted into them, turning flesh and steel into something terrible and relentless. And as Fett observed, invisible and silent, he realized that these creatures, for all their enhancements and technological prowess, were trapped in their own limitations.

Fett slipped back through the opposite direction, toward a lab which had all the entechment gear he had so preciously sought and for which he had sacrificed more of his flesh.


Now out of accidental reach, Fett focused on the task ahead. Reaching the hangar, he spotted his cargo transport, its ramp lowered and waiting. He moved quickly, his body still slick with a thin layer of healing liquid as he began loading equipment back onto the ship.

It was a matter of using a turbolift to take them back onto the vessel from which they had been freshly delivered. A vast array of stolen machinery and weaponry-- pieces of high tech armor, crates filled with advanced equipment-- were stacked onto repulsor lifts. His hands, still aching from the earlier torture, gripped the edges of a large, sealed crate. He heaved it up the ramp, every movement deliberate, efficient.

The transport groaned under the weight as he secured each item, fastening them into place with practiced precision. Fett wiped the sweat from his brow, his breathing steady but sharp, as the cargo bay began to fill. His mind was focused, methodical, counting each crate as he locked them down. The hum of the ship's systems activated around him, engines warming up, lights flickering dimly as he loaded the last of the crates. He paused briefly, glancing over the bay, double checking the equipment before sealing the cargo hold. It was all in place. His hands, still slick with blood and kolto, rested briefly on the control panel as the transport door slid shut with a heavy hiss, sealing the cargo within.

From there, he made his way to the unmanned cockpit. The seats were not made with his anatomy in mind, and even worse, or better he would argue, he was still naked.

He pulled levers, though his digits were ill formed for their design, and as the transport hovered and detached, the current's hold on him dissipated, his nude form snapping fully back into reality.

It wasn’t the first time he let out a beleaguered sigh at not having a tail. This would be a long trip, albeit a lucrative one.

Axl, The Forge, Varonat, Modern Sithlore Era

Development, Entechment Gear, Part I
2678+ words

The entechment machine loomed, a dark monolith against the sterile lights, its structure layered in sheets of blackened alloy and intricate coils. Fett stood silent before it, the machine’s presence filling the space like a held breath. There was an energy within it-- a latent ferocity-- that rippled outward, tangible in the stillness, saturating the room with something electric. Here, in its shadow, the air tasted faintly metallic, the scent of charged circuits lingering like the residue of ozone after a lightning strike.

Thick cables hung down, tethered to the rafters above, coiling toward the machine's main frame with a tense and deliberate purpose. Encased in opaque sheaths, they concealed only a fraction of the energy flickering beneath their surfaces. A pulse of light ran through one cable, then another, tracing an uneven path across the room before dimming into the machine’s core, disappearing like veins feeding some enormous, unseen organ. Their presence formed a web around the entechment apparatus, an exoskeleton of power, thick and unyielding, tethering it to the ceiling as if it held the structure of the very room in place.

Metal panels, embossed with unfamiliar, jagged etchings, covered the machine’s exterior, each line crossing another with obsessive precision, like circuitry woven into metal, implying a language that Fett could neither read nor ignore. Beneath the panels, the machine’s inner mechanisms stirred, humming with a barely contained hunger that reached out and receded with each subtle shift in the air. Vents lined these panels, and at unpredictable intervals, each would release a hiss of vapor, a faint but stinging scent emanating from it-- a scent that lingered in the sinuses long after it vanished.

Fett adjusted a dial, his fingers grazing over the surface of the machine’s control panel, feeling a muted vibration against his gloves. Each knob and button was a part of a larger rhythm, and as he twisted one lever, he could feel the core of the machine respond, its energy gathering inward before spilling outward in pulsing waves. When he stepped back, he noticed the walls themselves had absorbed the resonance, their surfaces reverberating with a sound so deep it wasn’t heard so much as felt, spreading through the floor and crawling up his spine.

Several arms jutted out from the sides of the machine, poised like a predator’s waiting limbs. Each arm carried an array of tools-- a gleaming scalpel, a small drill, a thick needle. The arms were disturbingly precise, each tool fixed in place with a mechanical anticipation, as if waiting for the exact moment to strike. Fett could feel their potential, the way each joint and hinge braced itself, ready to twist and extend at any instant. There was no softness to them; every edge was sharpened, every surface unforgiving, imbued with an alien perfection that whispered of meticulous, brutal intent.

Around the center, a massive, flat plate was bolted into the machine’s frame. Its surface was matte and somehow devoured the light, a void amid the gleam and glare of surrounding metal. Even Fett, despite all his encounters with the arcane and alien, found something unsettling in the way that plate absorbed everything it touched, refusing to reflect even the smallest flicker. It was a black mirror that revealed nothing, a plane designed not to give, only to consume.

Below this plate, a large cavity sat open like a maw, waiting. Fett could see faint grooves etched into its inner walls, traces of past cycles hidden in the depths of its chamber. Scorch marks and thin films of charred material lined its edges, remnants of whatever it had processed before, absorbed, and left nothing of. It bore no signs of life, yet every mark within that space hinted at lives taken, reduced to traces on metal. Fett’s fingers brushed against the panel again, a shiver running through him as the machine stirred in response, its frame releasing a deep, vibrating note, low and ominous.

Small lights, scattered across the device, blinked at unpredictable intervals, each one marking a shift in the machine’s invisible rhythm. Some flared briefly, a spark of life in the cold steel, only to wink out just as suddenly. Others pulsed in an unrelenting sequence, so regular they felt like markers of time itself, a countdown to something just beyond Fett’s understanding. Together, these lights created an illusion of breathing, each blink a heartbeat that sent subtle pulses through the machine, imbuing it with an awareness that felt almost sentient.

Fett adjusted a second dial, and the machine responded immediately. The lights intensified, casting sharper shadows along the walls. Shadows rippled and stretched in time with the energy flowing through the cables, drawing patterns on the walls that Fett nearly recognized but could never name. As the lights grew brighter, the shadows twisted into sharper angles, abstract shapes that hinted at something both alien and familiar, as if the machine had stored away memories in darkness, memories that now began to flicker into form.

A cluster of intricate, metallic needles extended from one of the machine’s arms, hovering just above an empty platform before retracting with a faint click. Fett could see that the arms responded to his presence, angling themselves in his direction even as he moved subtly to the side. The machine was aware of him, in its own way, each movement of its components acknowledging the disturbance in the room.

Within the main body of the machine, Fett could hear something shift, the deep grind of metal grating against metal as internal mechanisms aligned, slotting into place like pieces in an enormous, deadly puzzle. The walls themselves seemed to lean inward, their acoustics amplifying the machine’s low drone until it filled every corner of the room. He felt the vibration in his teeth, the steady beat syncing with his pulse until it was difficult to distinguish one from the other. There was an odd warmth growing in his chest, a creeping sense that something immense, ancient, and indifferent watched him from the machine’s depths, observing, waiting.

In the room’s center, the machine cast a wide, empty circle on the floor, a perimeter devoid of light, as if some invisible force held back even the ambient glow from reaching that space. Fett stepped into it, and for a brief moment, he felt as though he had crossed a boundary, an invisible threshold that separated him from everything outside the machine’s influence. The air thickened around him, every breath pulling in the metallic tang of charged circuits and something darker, something almost alive, curling into his lungs like smoke.

He could feel the energy in the floor beneath him, rising in waves from the entechment device, subtle currents that traveled through his boots, leaving his skin prickling. What this machine had been built for, it wasn’t merely for creation or destruction; it was for the extraction, for enhancing by force, tearing something from one place and embedding it in another. It was a device that imposed will, one that drew out fragments of something essential and forced it to serve, to obey.


Like all hells he would stand on the platform any longer.

The Ssi-Ruuvi scientist had constructed this tech to augment and enslave biological subjects. Obviously Fett had heisted the substantial loadout of gear at great cost to himself, to that end. If, however, he were to quickly study the function and diversity as to its process and what entechment truly offered, he considered offering it an intermediary prior to creatures. Something purely as mechanical as itself, interfacing easily assessed and weighed in value 1:1. A living creature, while ideal, would have too many variables and be excessively squishy and messy to pull back apart.

He pressed a button and the Reana entered, rolling the first subject to the forefront. The cobblestone floor rocked and rattled the subject as the wheels creaked beneath it.

Reana unstrapped the subject and nudged it forward.

It complied.

Reana, rarely showing herself so uneasy, swiftly stepped away from the machine, never taking her eyes off of it, although its sensors were not immediately apparent, if they existed as such.

The Tactical Droid, outdated and weathered from battles fought in service to The Techno Union, stood rigid within the entechment machine's grip, its metal frame groaning under the weight of years spent in action. Its sensors flickered as it assessed the machinery surrounding it, every calculation laced with an underlying tension it couldn’t shake, though it told itself that its logic circuits required no emotion, only precision.

Above, the entechment machine’s cables pulsed, energy flickering down the lines like the heartbeat of a predator closing in on its prey. With a sharp click, clamps locked around the droid’s shoulders and wrists, pinning it firmly against the metallic platform. It noted the pressure with a chill pragmatism, running through potential contingencies, pathways, escape vectors. But the machine’s grip held, unyielding, and it accepted its limited options, narrowing its focus to a meticulous observation of the process unfolding.

A high pitched whine pierced the stillness as a mechanical arm descended, its clawed fingers extending toward the droid’s head. It angled downward, targeting the back of the cranium, where a dull glow from the droid’s processing core flickered beneath chipped plating. The droid registered the move with a faint surge of apprehension, but filed it away, processing the arm’s motion with a detached efficiency even as its visual feed displayed the looming metal limb with unnerving clarity.

The arm paused, positioning itself above the droid’s central processor. A thin, laserlike tool emerged from its tip, firing in controlled pulses that seared through the droid’s plating. The droid’s sensors flared in response, registering the sensation as a dull ache echoing through its circuits-- a calculated pain, not physical but real enough to demand attention. The laser cut a clean, circular path, exposing the inner workings of the processor, and the Tactical Droid noted each step, analyzing, absorbing, preparing for whatever function the machine would impose.

Fett had previously installed processors in the droid to simulate pain in a roundabout way. If not pain exactly, discomfort. Or perhaps the register that it was MEANT to feel discomfort.

Then, another appendage came into play, armed with a thick coil of conductive metal. With clinical precision, it inserted the coil into the exposed processor, winding it through the droid’s neural pathways, rerouting its primary circuits with a deliberate slowness that felt torturous even to its electronic mind. A spark jolted through the droid’s core as the coil connected, flooding its neural map with raw energy that burned, searing its pathways into a state of heightened responsiveness. Information began streaming faster, the droid’s processing power expanding as the entechment machine carved new paths through its circuits, enhancing its data flow in ways both exhilarating and alarming.

An alert flickered in its mind: foreign components detected. It assessed, recalculated, then adjusted, bending to accommodate the new pathways rather than resisting. Logic dictated compliance, but some fragment of its code registered this forced augmentation as intrusive. Yet the power flooding through it was undeniable, reinforcing pathways it thought long deteriorated, amplifying its computing speed tenfold. Analysis modules that had once lagged with decay now flashed sharp and efficient, the droid’s synthetic intelligence stretching into new territories it hadn’t thought possible.

A third arm descended, tipped with a small, cylindrical device that pulsed with an internal light. It connected itself to the droid’s ocular sensors, welding into place over the original lenses with a fine layer of solder. The droid watched as its vision fractured, then sharpened, the world taking on a hyper-clarity that it found disorienting at first. Each detail within the machine’s darkened chamber leapt into focus: the microscopic etchings on the metal arms, the faint reflections in the surrounding machinery, the dust particles suspended in the faint beam of light leaking from the ceiling. It adjusted its visual processors to adapt, cataloging this new sensory input with relentless precision.

At that moment, the droid’s scanners blinked to life, enhanced by a range of new frequencies it had never accessed before. Heat signatures began to overlay its vision, tracing invisible networks of temperature and motion within the room. Ultrasonic waves pinged off walls, feeding it a three dimensional map that reconstructed the environment with exquisite accuracy, mapping contours and surfaces down to the smallest detail. The droid sensed itself expanding into this data, merging with it, its tactical prowess fusing with an amplified awareness that bordered on overwhelming.

A mechanical saw clicked into place, hovering near the droid’s left arm. The droid computed the odds of escape in the face of this impending dismemberment and found them statistically insignificant. The saw began its cut, the teeth biting into the droid’s forearm with a methodical, grinding sound. Sparks danced along the metal as the saw sliced through, severing the joint with the precision of a surgeon wielding a scalpel. With the limb detached, the machine’s appendage retracted, holding up the severed arm like a trophy before casting it aside.

Immediately, another arm descended, carrying a sleek, multijointed appendage that was markedly different from the droid’s original design. The machine welded it in place, soldering the connection with rapid bursts of heat that registered as a deep, radiating ache in the droid’s circuits. As the new limb integrated, the droid felt the subtle hum of micro-servos within, responding to its neural commands before it had even completed the thought. It tested the arm experimentally, flexing the fingers, feeling the increased dexterity and strength that pulsed through its grip.

The entechment machine was not finished. Another device-- a blunt, silver cylinder-- lowered toward the droid’s chest. It plunged into the core of its chassis, embedding itself near its central power unit, a cold metallic presence that began to emit a subtle throb, in sync with the droid’s internal rhythms. The device pulsed, sending waves of energy directly into its power unit, amplifying its reserves in a way that bordered on the euphoric. Sensors flared, registering this augmentation as it deepened, altering the droid’s power supply and allowing it to process at higher frequencies for sustained periods.

Then came the weaponry. A slim, retractable blade extended from the droid’s right arm, snapping into place with a satisfying click. The droid observed its reflection in the blade’s surface, noting the faint vibrations that traced along its edge, designed to tear through armor with brutal efficiency. An energy emitter affixed to its shoulder hummed to life, its compact structure housing a powerful concussive force. The droid could feel its systems connecting with this new arsenal, merging weaponry with tactical programming, calculations streaming in its mind at speeds it hadn’t achieved since the height of the Clone Wars.

And yet, beneath the cold pragmatism that drove its analytical core, a hint of anxiety simmered. It could not identify the source, could not attribute this feeling to any logical construct within its programming. But it was there, a latent apprehension woven into its circuits as the machine layered augmentation upon augmentation. This anxiety coiled tight, somewhere in the depths of its processors, even as its mind calculated and adapted to the changes.

Finally, the machine’s hum softened, its enhancements complete. The droid flexed its new limbs, adjusted to the clarity of its senses, and cataloged the information streaming through its mind with an unsettling lucidity. Every sensor, every weapon, every limb was now honed to lethal precision. It was more than it had been, but the feeling that crept through its circuits was not pride. Instead, it was a flicker of disquiet, a premonition that whispered to it through the hum of its processors.

It was changed-- but for all it had gained, it was also trapped within the design imposed upon it by this machine. And yet, as it processed this reality, it could find no fault in the machine's purpose, no logical reason to resist the power it had been given.

“Excellent,” Fett reached forward, draping his forearm along its shoulder, welcoming it into his brotherhood and tugging it forward.