It was a special day for Chiriosh—a rather tall Advozjek of extraordinary coloring, with snow-white skin and a horn of the same hue, traits that had set him apart from the crowd of his peers since childhood. And it was special because, on this very day, he had resolved to do something he had dreamed of his entire life: to attempt to change things... or, at the very least, to simply listen to what those Separatist were promising. He had heard their hawkers before—they invariably posed as drunkards or beggars, muttering nonsense—yet he always possessed the knack for hearing what truly needed to be heard. That was precisely how he had learned of this gathering—the first of its kind—and he had immediately decided to attend and listen, despite the potential punishment from the authorities—a threat he and his colleagues had been repeatedly warned about during special workplace briefings.
Generally speaking, life on Riflor was not easy. The absence of races other than the Advozjek was not due to terrible weather—for the planet was warmed by no fewer than three suns, though constant volcanic eruptions meant their light rarely reached the surface—nor was it due to the planet's teeming fauna, which contributed to the perpetually high humidity. No; it simply required a very specific temperament to live here without losing one's mind. The locals possessed it; newcomers, however...
One had to be genuinely prepared to burn alive, or to be buried beneath the rubble of one's own home. Every month, every day, every hour... for disaster could strike at any moment, triggered by yet another "whim" of the planet—events that could not always be predicted in advance due to the complex orbital mechanics of the celestial bodies surrounding it, particularly its moons and suns. Even the most sophisticated computers could not always predict the exact moment when one of the satellites would gravitationally "snag" something within the planet's crust, triggering yet another mini-apocalypse.
One might wonder: why hadn't they simply fled to a more habitable planet? But... one does not choose one's homeland. The Advoszecs were originally natives of Riflor, and not a single one of them—even in their worst nightmares—could ever conceive of abandoning their "cradle" to be torn apart by corporations. Those corporations would have swarmed in instantly, like flies to a dead bantha; for despite its many flaws, their planet also possessed significant reserves of mineral resources—with "heavy metals" thrown in as a bonus—the sale of which allowed their race to maintain their customary way of life, rebuilding their cities time and again after every fresh earthquake.
"Thank you—thank you for coming!" A voice with a faint Neimoidian lilt snapped Chiriosha out of his reverie.
Curiously enough, the speaker was one of their own kind. That subtle accent—so slight that less attentive listeners might easily have missed it—clearly revealed with whom the speaker spent the majority of his time; yet even so, Chiriosha felt no sense of aversion toward him. Quite the opposite, in fact: he prepared himself to listen to what this representative of the Confederacy had to say.
Truth be told, ever since the "betrayal" of Senator Donte—who had attempted to withdraw their planet from the Republic—oversight of their system had been temporarily tightened. A detachment of the 19th Sector Army had even been deployed there; however, given the fluctuating fortunes on the front lines, virtually nothing remained of those forces now.
Personally, Chiriosha hadn't seen a single clone trooper in over a month; indeed, some were even whispering that there were no Republic forces left on the planet at all. The veracity of these rumors seemed hinted at by the graffiti supporting the Confederacy—which no one ever bothered to scrub away—emblazoned on practically every other building.
Meanwhile, an Advozsec of average build and height—who had yet to introduce himself, and who sported the familiar green skin and medium-sized horn typical of his species—held forth from atop a crate:
"The Republic has abandoned us, and only the Confederacy is capable of helping Riflor finally live a normal life! While the Senate refuses to allocate even a single credit to aid in earthquake relief, the Confederacy will have a vested interest in helping our planet! And yet, here we are—diligently paying our taxes to the Senate—forced to constantly rebuild our homes with our own hard-earned money every six months, all while the Republic questions our right to independence, denying us the choice to side with the power that actually possesses the funds and resources to help us!" he railed, his voice rising to a strained shout by the end.
The crowd of gathered Advozse buzzed with approval, murmuring in sync with his words. Surprisingly, there were no fewer than a hundred sentient beings present—and that was far from the full turnout. Those in attendance were streaming and recording the event to show their less courageous comrades later; consequently, within a couple of days, the entire city would know of this speech, and within a week—the entire planet.
Finally, as the speaker broke into a fit of coughing following such an impassioned address, a voice rang out during the ensuing silence. It belonged to one of the Advozse standing near Chiriosh—a short, squat individual with reddish-brown skin—who exclaimed:
"And just *how* are these Separatists supposed to help us? They're at war with the Republic; do you really think they give a damn about our little backwater world?" The unknown individual had voiced the very question that had been brewing in Chiriosh's own mind. The "agitator" immediately seized upon this new opening, turning toward the questioner and gesturing confidently as he resumed his speech:
"Precisely *because* the Confederacy is at war with the Republic, they will provide our planet with everything it needs!" "We are literally sitting atop a mountain of the very materials they need! So as soon as they arrive—not only will they establish proper trade routes, replacing these current ones leading deeper into the Ring that are constantly being raided by pirates—but they'll also do something about these incessant earthquakes! Do you really think they'll enjoy having to rebuild their factories once a month? I certainly don't! And that means they'll help our planet and tackle this tectonic activity—if only because, in doing so, they'll be helping themselves! Or at the very least, given their need for our resources, they'll surely deploy their droids to help rebuild your homes after the next cataclysm!" —Chiriosh harbored grave doubts regarding the agitator's words, but the crowd's satisfied murmur made it abundantly clear that he was in the minority.
Just as the *advozsec* standing at the podium was about to continue, a cold, distinctly synthesized voice cut through the roar of the crowd, instantly seizing everyone's attention. Surprisingly, the speaker was a human. Chirios had never seen him before—had he, he surely would have remembered such a foreigner. And although the man was dressed like an ordinary local laborer, his peculiar gaze gave him away completely. It was a look one simply didn't find in laborers; yet there was nothing off-putting about it—on the contrary, his eyes burned with an unseen fire, fixed somewhere above the heads of the crowd.
It was as if he were gazing into a bright future visible only to him—a vision that immediately captivated Chirios and compelled him to listen intently to the man who possessed it. As he scrutinized the speaker's face, Chirios paused for a split second, for he suddenly sensed an echo of the man's emotions—his true motives—and instantly realized that he was speaking the truth. The sensation was so fleeting that it felt more like a vision than anything else, yet it was all the more compelling for it. Judging by the crowd, which had fallen silent almost immediately, Chirios was not the only one who felt this way. The stranger, standing somewhere in the front rows yet clearly visible to all, spoke with evident skepticism:
"You say interesting things, but for some reason, you forget to mention the most important part: what happens when the war ends? Let's assume the Separatists win. Do you truly believe that, having established such power here—owning a multitude of factories and, presumably, a garrison—they will actually care about the local inhabitants? Their factories will be staffed by droids, creating no jobs for the locals; and they will be owned by bankers—bankers who don't even live on this planet—meaning that none of the money generated will ever flow back into the local economy." "All you offer the residents of Riflor is a colorful wrapper—a mere candy foil..." As he reached this point in his speech, he gave a light push with his feet, leaping a meter into the air and landing nimbly right beside the suddenly flustered agitator.
The latter seemed to visibly shrink before the man standing before him, his mouth opening and closing spasmodically. Scrutinizing him closely, Chiriosh realized that the man was terrified—scared out of his wits—of this strange stranger standing before him without the slightest hint of aggression, as if he knew something that the others did not.
Religion had never been particularly widespread among the Advozjek; nevertheless, Chiriosh was familiar with a couple of ancient chronicles in which one of the abilities attributed to their Priests was the power to instill a strange, irrational terror in anyone they conversed with. At the time, he had dismissed such tales as mere folklore, but now that very comparison sprang to mind. After all, one certainly wouldn't be able to frighten a seemingly spirited Advozjek merely through a menacing appearance or even outright threats.
The agitator, meanwhile, finally managed to find his voice—though it sounded hoarse, cracking frequently into high-pitched squeaks, and sounding utterly pathetic when contrasted with the measured, calm voice of the man standing before him:
"Get... Get back! Who gave you the right to come up here!?" However, seeing that his interlocutor had no intention of leaving, he gave a slight shiver but then straightened his posture—as if having somehow found the strength to stand up against someone vastly more powerful—and spoke again, this time with a touch more confidence:
"And anyway—what? Do you support the Republic? How much did the Senate pay you for this little performance!?" "And if that is the case, then go ahead—tell us: what do you offer *us*—the inhabitants of this ruthless planet—for whose welfare your 'dear' Republic allocates fewer funds than it spends on paying for services to smear the Confederation!" At these words, a wave of uncertain whispers rippled through the crowd, bolstering the Agitator's confidence; indeed, he was just about to press on, refusing to let his opponent get a word in edgewise, when suddenly the other man began to speak. And despite his obvious desire to do so, the Confederation agent found himself unable to even attempt to interrupt him—instantly clutching at his own throat instead—while the man standing before him continued to speak with perfect composure.
I have no ties to either the Republic or the Confederacy. Oh no, citizens of Riflor—I am an adversary to both, just as you are. And I chose my words carefully just now; you did not mishear me. For your true adversaries lie hidden far deeper than one could ever imagine. At that very moment, the Agitator—as Chirios mentally decided to henceforth dub the Separatist-sympathizing *advozzeck*—suddenly dropped to his knees before the speaker. With a muffled gasp, he finally released his grip on his throat and sucked in a breath, while the speaker continued to speak as if he hadn't noticed a thing. The man swept his unusual, "burning" gaze across the crowd—frozen in anticipation of what would come next—where not a single person made a move to rush to the aid of their "fellow man," who had nearly suffocated for some unknown reason:
"Your true adversary—and mine, I make no secret of it—is everywhere. It is scattered across the entire galaxy: not only within the Senate and the leadership of the Confederacy, but right here, on your own homeworld. Everywhere. What appears normal to you is, in reality, anything but." His voice suddenly dropped, fading almost to a whisper; yet within the small warehouse where the gathering was taking place, a deathly silence reigned—so profound that every person present could hear him with ease:
"The State—it is that which exists everywhere. It is the inevitable outcome of any society's development; yet, it is also that society's dead end—a path that culminates in ever-deepening contradictions. We currently live in a society that has become hopelessly entangled within itself. Judge for yourselves: equality does not exist—no matter how loudly those well-fed senators on Coruscant may try to proclaim otherwise from their gilded seats." There are slaves; there are the "golden" sons born into wealthy families; and there are the wretches who perish in earthquakes while the world's elite live aboard a space station, in absolute comfort and abundance. They hold sums in their hands with which they could literally build dozens of earthquake-proof cities—yet they will never spend them on such a "trifle," choosing instead to hoard and multiply them. With every passing year, they will grow richer while you grow poorer; it is an inevitable process. And now, I will tell you where the fundamental contradiction of the State lies. Its primary function is to control you. It alone possesses the right to exercise "violence"; it alone "decides" who is good and who is bad, and who deserves punishment. And since the beings sitting at the helm of this State prioritize profit above all else—well, you could swap a Republic for a Confederation ten times over, or even a hundred—and nothing would change. You would still be the ones supplying them at your own expense. At this moment, he pointed a finger upward—presumably alluding to that very space station of which Chiriosh himself, truth be told, had never actually heard—and continued:
"All your lives, toiling for pittance, you have surrendered the lion's share of the profits to *them*—to those 'at the top,' your true enemies. To those I sum up in a single word: 'capitalists'—derived from the word 'capital'—a term that encapsulates their very essence. You hand over to them the vast majority of the surplus value generated by *your* labor. And they exploit your toil solely for their own enrichment. And now, I ask you... Does it truly matter who rules your planet? The Republic? Or the Separatists? If, in either case, the reins of power are held by those who grow fat at your expense?" —at this moment, the Agitator finally managed to scramble to his feet. Looking utterly bewildered, he nevertheless managed to force out a retort in a venomous tone:
"And what exactly are you proposing, outsider!? There are only two 'players' in this galaxy, and regardless of your personal whims, we are forced to choose one side or the other. And it is surely wiser to choose the side that offers us the greater advantage! People of Riflor!" —the Advozsec agitator threw up his arms like a fire-and-brimstone preacher, poised to continue his tirade, but suddenly fell silent the instant a hand—belonging to a man who had materialized from the crowd just moments before—landed firmly on his shoulder. Flinching, the Agitator spun around to face him; their eyes met, and for a frozen instant, he recoiled in shock. He immediately lowered his head, shaking it slightly—as if dispelling some powerful illusion, or perhaps simply conceding defeat—before turning away and stumbling toward the exit with a weak, unsteady gait, like a drunkard. All the while, the stranger spoke his final words—words that left everyone present gasping for breath, for each syllable he uttered seemed to reverberate within their minds, as if being indelibly etched into their very consciousness. As the man spoke, everyone understood that something historic was unfolding right before their eyes; and almost in unison, they were seized by an invisible surge of sympathy for the speaker.
"The time has come for us—for those of us who have been plundered all this while by rulers of every stripe; for those who have suffered in others' wars for influence and resources; for those who have always, everywhere, been left holding the bag and footing the bill for their 'masters'—to declare the founding of our own state! Not a state like the Republic, or the Empire that once was, but a state where *we*—you and I—will stand at the helm. No, those who lead will not become new oligarchs; it is far simpler than that. I will tell you more about this later. We all have a long road ahead of us, my... Comrades." At that moment, Chiriosh sensed that the speaker had imbued this word with a meaning yet unknown to them, before continuing—now louder:
"However, if you place your trust in me, I will help you see it through to the very end! For the truth lies with..." He was just about to finally conclude his lengthy speech when, suddenly, the double-leafed barn doors shuddered from an explosion that thundered outside. Moments later, one of the doors tore inward with a loud screech, left hanging precariously from a single hinge; and in the gap that appeared—despite the blinding light streaming in from outside—everyone saw the silhouette of a duty officer, gripping a blaster with both hands and aiming it at the nearest target: the very man who, until that instant, had stood with his back to the now-shattered door. Close on the heels of the first officer, two dozen more armed representatives of the law stormed into the room, while on the periphery, the pale-white armor of clone troopers loomed into view. As they entered, the first officer activated a compact loudspeaker built into his chest plate and bellowed:
"On the floor! Now!" "On suspicion of organizing an armed rebellion against the Republic, everyone present is under arrest! I said—get on the floor!"—thrusting his weapon at a man who stood impassively towering over the crowd, the policeman was clearly straining with every ounce of his strength to keep from firing.
However, no one stirred. Everyone continued to watch the man, who showed no signs of agitation—a composure that, in some strange way, served to calm the crowd. The words he spoke to them had imprinted themselves deep within their hearts. None of them had ever heard anything quite like it before. Of course, the history of the Galaxy was vast, and surely similar ideas had surfaced in the past; yet here, standing before them now, was this strange man with "burning" eyes—a figure who had captivated everyone present and compelled them to believe in the truth of his words.
"Do you require backup?" Seeing that the crowd remained unresponsive—neither reacting nor attempting to storm the police cordon—a Clone Commander stepped inside. He did so less out of any actual need to personally approach and confer with the officer—such matters were typically discussed over a secure comm channel—and more simply to make his presence known to the potential protesters, thereby quelling any urge they might have had to attack.
And at that very moment, the man finally spoke:
"And so, Fate—or perhaps the Force—has ordained our circumstances in this peculiar manner. You see what the agents of the State are doing: employing force against a man who is merely voicing thoughts that diverge from the accepted norms. Now, we are branded as criminals, though all we have done is come to grasp the true nature of things." Ordinarily, the people might have bristled at such presumptuousness—at this man so readily counting them among his own adherents—but in this moment, the situation was fundamentally different. Not only were they still reeling from the shock of his words, but the government's "timely" intervention—along with the clones—had also played a significant role. The local populace harbored far less trust in the Republic than they did in this previously unknown stranger, whose words resonated so deeply within their souls. Moreover, many of those present had clearly already realized that, regardless of the "agitator on the podium"—be it a "separatist" or this man—today's demonstration would have ended the same way for them regardless: either in prison or, if they were truly unlucky, in penal servitude. This realization mingled strangely with the words spoken by the man who had yet to reveal his name—a combination that caused many in the crowd to clench their fists in fury, while a few even muttered quiet curses in the direction of the police.
As if he had been waiting for this very moment, the man suddenly raised his hands, drawing everyone's attention. They remained empty of any weapons, so the policeman did not rush to fire; evidently, he still harbored the hope that this "hapless preacher," seeing the utter hopelessness of his situation, would now attempt to calm the crowd.
Unfortunately for the officer, the man's words conveyed a meaning entirely contrary to that hope; yet, before anyone could fully process what he had said, he sprang into action:
"Comrades, I trust you will stand with me! Only together can we build a New Order, and shatter the old one!"—no sooner had he uttered these words than every policeman and clone within his line of sight was suddenly flung violently upward, as if struck by a massive, sharp jolt. They were sent hurtling outward, instantly losing consciousness from the sheer force of the impact, while a heavy iron shutter slammed back into place with a deafening clang, instantly blocking the "stabbing" hail of fire that had just begun to pour inward from the clones remaining outside. The stunned crowd stared at their newly minted leader until he spoke briefly:
"Their weapons... are now... yours..." Chiriosh could hear how painfully those words were wrenched from the speaker—a fact that confirmed his complicity in the events that had just transpired. Unable to hold back any longer, Chiriosh was the first to spring into action, snatching up the nearest blaster; he then turned to the man and, for the first time during the entire ordeal, spoke:
"So... What should we call you?"
xxxx
The luxurious villa felt particularly cozy today, so many of the officials gathered there—most holding rather high-ranking positions—were letting loose and enjoying themselves to the fullest. For the inhabitants of Riflor, celebrating significant events with great fanfare was nothing unusual; indeed, the motto "live for today" was practically etched into the local psyche, as no one could ever be certain of tomorrow—save, perhaps, for the heads of the planet's largest cartels, who, for the most part, were the ones who truly held power.
And the officials gathered at the villa of one of the local mafia bosses served as a vivid illustration of this very fact. In truth, the inhabitants of Riflor were arguably even more dangerous than their planet itself, and they could certainly hold their own should the need arise.
At this moment, the planet's newly elected Senator—who also served as its *de facto* ruler—was engaged in a private conversation with the *nominal* ruler: the very individual who owned this mansion. His name was Tarri Gorr, and despite his outward courtesy and polite compliments, he absolutely loathed the sentient being seated across from him. In truth, he viewed himself—and himself alone—as the rightful occupant of the senatorial seat; however, the two remaining cartels that had carved up the planet would, naturally, never have permitted such a thing.
They were currently discussing a clandestine shipment of ore bound for the Confederacy, as well as the possibility of simultaneously securing concessions from the Senate—specifically by citing a recent surge in piracy. Of course, the only vessels actually being "wrecked"—and not without the cartels' own assistance—were cargo ships transporting goods destined for sale to the Separatists. The owner of these ships was—unsurprisingly—the Senator himself; and Gorr's men, much like those of his colleagues, would naturally return the vessels to their rightful owner. They had pulled off this particular scheme on numerous occasions and were now celebrating yet another profitable "exchange" that had taken place just the day before. And so, just as Gorr had risen—lifting his glass and offering a toast in a tradition he had picked up from the humans—a guard belonging to the Senator (a man Gorr would never, under any circumstances, deign to address by name) burst unceremoniously into their small, secluded corner. The guard immediately leaned in close to the Senator and began whispering something; after all, one of the standing rules of such dinner parties was the complete prohibition of any electronic devices—including radio communicators of any kind. Intrigued by the commotion, yet deeming it beneath his dignity to actually *ask* the Senator for an explanation, Gorr—who, unlike his guests, possessed network access via his compact personal communicator—quickly scanned the recent news feeds.
Surprisingly, the event in question turned out not to be the death of yet another geriatric millionaire—some industrialist owning factories the Senator considered it his "sacred mission" to immediately seize—but rather something far more vexing to Gorr than the Senator himself: an uprising.
Those very same filthy paupers and shopkeepers—the ones his crew had been "protecting" from the encroachments of rival cartels—had suddenly rebelled. And not merely against the authorities, as was usually the case—oh no! They had dared to rebel against *him* as well! And, for that matter, against the other cartels, too. Smirking at the thought that crossed his mind, Gorr immediately projected a holographic link onto the tabletop, placing a call to his—in a manner of speaking—"colleagues." The Senator noticed this as well, realizing that his dinner companion had already figured everything out without the need for any explanation on his part; consequently, he simply picked up his glass in silence, took a sip, and continued to observe the actions of his—to some extent—drinking buddy.
A few moments later, the sleep-deprived mug of one of the underworld's cartel bosses materialized above the table, followed a few seconds later by that of a second. Now that the trio was assembled—or rather, the quartet, though no one seemed to mind the slight "excess"—they could finally begin discussing their next course of action. But first, Gorr sought clarification:
"Esteemed Senator, could you please tell us about the scope of our latest... *ahem*... calamity?" He had been forced to address the Senator after all, causing his spirits to sink a couple of notches immediately. The Senator, however—blithely lifting a goblet filled with some potent spirits, saluting those present, and taking a brief sip—proceeded to enlighten them in a soft, "velvet" voice utterly atypical of his race:
"Practically the entire planet. Some sort of recording—the original of which we have yet to locate—is circulating 'from hand to hand' across the local networks. Meanwhile, the adversary has moved with remarkable speed to establish a unified command structure and organize the rebels into combat units. I do not know who exactly we are dealing with, but he certainly has charisma in spades. Although, from what I hear, it wasn't an Advozzek at all, but a human..." he was saying, until he was cut off by the first hologram:
"That comes as no surprise. Humans are 'a cork in every bottle,' as they themselves are fond of saying... Why, look at us—we've even started unconsciously adopting their idioms ourselves..." the second hologram remarked with an overly dismissive shrug, thereby conveying that—despite the touch of irony in her tone—she certainly did not underestimate the human race.
"And so, my esteemed colleagues... How do you suggest I proceed?" the Senator inquired in a slightly bored tone. Gorr, snapping instantly to attention, put forward an idea that had long been brewing in his mind:
"This is our chance! Admittedly, turning the planet into a battlefield was never part of our plans; however, if that outcome is now inevitable, we could use our 'acquiescence' to bait the Confederation..." he said conspiratorially, until the Senator interrupted him with a shout:
"Please—just not like last time! Let's handle this quietly; I have no desire to share the fate of my predecessor!" he pleaded, and for a fleeting moment, Gorr actually felt a pang of sympathy for him. Just for a moment. Then he continued:
"There are still far too many enterprises on Riflora owned by other Senators—which is precisely why they are so quick to push the Republic toward 'liberating' our planet at the slightest provocation. I believe that, in the course of this little revolution, we could hand over some of those facilities to the protesters without a fight; then, during the subsequent 'liberation,' we should ideally raze them to the ground—after which we can buy up that very land, now practically free, from those brazen politicians. In any case, regardless of who wins this war, we come out ahead." He smirked, omitting the fact that if the rebels were to win, everyone would likely lose—though, in truth, that was precisely *why* he left it unsaid. The rebels stood no chance against even a single one of the vested interests involved, making them entirely expendable—mere pawns to be utilized in the "game." A skilled politician is one who knows how to turn circumstances to his own advantage. And Gorr considered himself exactly that kind of man...