Asajj had been watching her target for fifteen minutes, clinging to a maintenance ledge just beneath the apartment ceiling. Brutus hadn't moved. He sat before three glowing terminals, and in the dim light his massive, armored frame looked almost like part of the room itself.
Unlike most Sith she had known, there was no nervous, pulsing rage radiating from him. Instead, in the Force, he felt… unusual.
Warm. Bright. Alive.
Not like the Jedi, with their dull, cold serenity. And not like her master either—whose coldness ran deeper still, like the touch of an icy blade pressed against the throat. No. This was different. This Sith carried a fire within him. In the right hands, it could offer warmth. In the wrong moment, it could consume the world.
She knew exactly where this "ancient relic" had come from. The Count had told her himself—she had been the one who thawed him out in orbit over Tatooine, the same operation meant to shake Jabba's mercenaries off their trail. He had done well to conceal his identity too; even she hadn't recognized him at first glance. The helmet had been an effective disguise.
But that was irrelevant now. The Count had ordered her to observe this "guest from the past," and Asajj intended to carry out that order with absolute precision. She would not fail him.
Still… he irritated her. The way he sat—too straight, too composed, too confident for someone with no fleet and no real power in this era. Just like her.
Ventress didn't attempt a dramatic drop into the center of the room. That would have been a good way to earn a bolt of lightning to the face. Instead, she slid silently along the wall, moving like a shadow until she stood a few meters behind him.
"You're wasting too much time reading," she said flatly, her voice stripped of emotion. "The Count didn't send you here to take inventory."
And yet, contrary to her expectations, Brutus didn't even flinch.
He calmly pressed a save command on his terminal, then slowly turned his chair. His respirator hissed softly.
"Accounting is the foundation of any war, Ventress," he said evenly. "While you're busy swinging blades, someone has to make sure our ships don't run out of fuel halfway to the objective."
Asajj grimaced. That patronizing, mentor-like tone only made her more irritated.
"The Count is not pleased with your… softness," she said, stepping closer and deliberately invading his space. "You play at being a spy, you flirt with the Senate, and yet you haven't spilled a single drop of blood on those who actually deserve it. You're breeding democracy here, Brutus."
"I'm strengthening our position among our allies," he replied calmly. "Isn't that obvious to the Count?"
That response made her falter for a fraction of a second. She pushed on anyway.
"You're corrupting them with impunity. That won't give you control over them. Only fear can increase efficiency. Fear of us. But you're undermining that."
She pulled a holoprojector from her belt.
"Here. Minister Vorn, supply officer. Your precious Bonteri trusts him completely. According to my data, he 'loses' two containers of detonators every week. Where they end up—draw your own conclusions."
Brutus studied the hologram of the frail official. His gaze behind the mask remained cold and analytical.
"Do you have proof," he asked, "or do you just want someone to kill?"
"We don't need proof," she snapped, then forced herself to steady her tone. "The Count wants to see which side you're on. And restore the Sith's reputation in the eyes of these nobodies. Vorn is at a reception in the Bonteri gardens. Go. Eliminate him."
A triumphant smile flickered across her face—she had finally landed a blow.
But then it faded.
A moment later, every instinct she had screamed danger. Death, right behind her. Yet before she could react, Brutus's calm, vocoder-distorted voice cut through the air.
"Stop eating my guests, Kem. How many times have I told you? Even if they are… this ignorant."
Something massive moved behind her.
Asajj spun instantly—too late.
A towering figure loomed where there had been nothing before. A Dashade. She recognized it from classified archives. It reeked of fresh blood and something far worse.
Her spine tightened.
She was the Count's best assassin.
And she hadn't sensed it.
"Your pet is poorly trained, Brutus," she said through clenched teeth.
Brutus tilted his head slightly—an unmistakable gesture of amusement.
He didn't apologize. He didn't need to. It was clear her life in this room had always been conditional.
"It simply doesn't like uninvited guests," he said, rising from his chair. Now he towered over her, not by Force presence, but sheer physical dominance. "Go to the gardens. I'll be there in ten minutes. And try not to sneak in here again… Kem might decide you're part of the menu. I've tried to teach him that girls should be 'eaten' metaphorically, not literally, but he refuses to learn."
Asajj turned sharply. Her cloak snapped through the air.
At the doorway, she stopped. Her anger finally overtook her restraint.
"I think I understand now why your kind are kept in breeding pens on Dathomir," she said venomously, eyes flicking between Kem and Brutus. "You're just animals who think they're masters. In the end… you're both slaves rattling your chains far too loudly. Know your place."
She spat the words like poison, as if trying to convince herself more than him.
She knew slavery intimately—through chains, collars, and invisible leashes held by Count Dooku himself. And yet this man—this thing—stood here completely unbound, acting as if control was something he simply assumed rather than earned.
It was unbearable.
She stepped into the corridor, satisfied she had left with the final word.
Then Brutus's voice followed her, lazy and distorted through the vocoder:
"If you're offering to make me your slave, Asajj, you should probably define a safe word. Otherwise, I decline the game. The Korriban Academy already had enough of that sort of thing for me."
She stumbled.
Her foot caught the threshold, and she nearly hit the opposite wall. She straightened instantly, face flushed with fury but did not turn back.
And then she was gone.
Brutus watched her leave, a faint smile forming beneath his mask.
"Master?" Kem rumbled from behind him. "Do I pursue her? She is still alive."
Brutus leaned slightly back in his chair.
"No," he said calmly. "Let her go. We're going after her anyway."
A pause.
"And Kem?"
"Yes, Master?"
"Try not to eat anyone important before we arrive."
Kem grunted, disappointed.
"As you wish."
XXXXXXXX
I walked along the gravel path, aware of Ventress's silent presence behind me. The air in the Bonteri gardens was, as always, heavy with the scent of unfamiliar flowers. So concentrated, in fact, that if I had even the slightest allergy, I'd probably have collapsed within seconds.
The "witch," now visibly calmer and pretending nothing had happened, kept her distance. Still, the tension in her stride never fully left her—she looked ready to draw her blades and cut me in half at a moment's notice.
Mina Bonteri stood with a small group of officials. When she noticed me, she offered a polite smile—one that vanished the moment her eyes landed on Asajj. Minister Vorn, a short man with restless eyes, was gesturing animatedly with a glass of deep red drink, clearly in the middle of an enthusiastic conversation.
"Lord Brutus," Mina said as she stepped forward, her voice slightly strained. "What's going on? Your companion looks… unsettled."
"More like disappointed," Ventress cut in, stepping forward. Her lightsabers hung at her hips, drawing immediate attention. "Minister Vorn, you are accused of treason and the sabotage of Confederate supply lines."
Vorn went pale. The glass slipped from his fingers and shattered against the stone.
"This is… a mistake! Senator Bonteri, tell them! I've always been loyal!" he stammered, turning desperately toward the others—but no one met his gaze.
"Well," Ventress said coldly, stepping aside as if making space for me, "your accounts in Outer Rim banking institutions say otherwise."
Her eyes locked onto mine.
"Go on, Brutus," she said with a sharp edge. "Show me what you're good for besides talking. Finish it—or I'll gut the pig myself."
It was such an obvious provocation that it almost felt insulting. She wasn't just testing me—this was Dooku's test, too. If I hesitated, I'd be dismissed as weak. If I complied too eagerly, I'd be something else entirely.
Vorn was useful, even competent in logistics—but he had known the game he was playing when he entered politics. His life had simply become a bargaining chip, thrown onto the table to see whether my hand would tremble.
And the worst part was that I couldn't afford to refuse it.
I stepped forward.
Mina Bonteri grabbed my arm. "Brutus, no! He deserves a trial!"
I gently but firmly removed her hand.
"In wartime, trials are a luxury, Mina. And we are at war."
Vorn backed away, babbling incoherently until he hit the stone balustrade. There was no dignity in him now—only fear. Just another official who had taken one risk too many.
I activated my lightsaber.
The orange-black blade hissed into existence, cutting through the air with a sharp crack. Ventress watched closely, almost eagerly—waiting for theatrics, for cruelty, for the spectacle Sith were expected to deliver.
She would be disappointed.
A quick step forward. A precise strike.
The blade passed cleanly through him. No flourish. No hesitation. No lingering moment.
He didn't even manage a scream.
I deactivated the saber. His body slid to the ground with a dull thud.
For a moment, the garden was so silent I could hear an insect buzzing near a lantern.
"Efficient," Ventress said after a beat, sounding almost bored. "But painfully dull. There's no passion in you."
I slowly turned toward her, reattaching the saber to my belt.
She was digging her own grave with this one. And yet—somehow—I couldn't resist.
"Trust me," I said lightly, "I've got plenty of passion. Just not for this. Though I'll make an exception for attractive company. Grow your hair out, maybe we'll talk again. And next time, try to come up with a safeword. Dathomir hospitality isn't always my area of expertise."
For a moment, Ventress simply froze.
Then her face shifted—subtle at first, then unmistakably flushed, a stark contrast to her usual pale composure. She looked like she might explode with rage, or possibly deliver a tirade capable of leveling the entire garden.
Instead, she turned sharply on her heel and stormed away, cloak snapping behind her.
"Mission accomplished," I called after her. "Tell the Count there's one less thief on Raxus."
I turned to Mina.
She stood frozen, hand over her mouth. Horror and disgust warred in her eyes. The other officials had already begun to retreat, trying to disappear into the scenery.
"You… you just killed him," she whispered. "And for what? There's no trial. No proof…"
"I saved your lives, Mina."
I stepped closer, lowering my voice so only she could hear.
"If Ventress had done it, you would've been next. 'Negligence.' 'Complicity.' Something would've been invented. She doesn't need a reason—only a target."
Her breath caught slightly.
"Tomorrow you'll receive a list of replacements. My… assistant is very efficient at filtering candidates. Choose someone less corrupt."
I hesitated, then added more quietly:
"And make sure the others understand what happened here. Not everything can be fought openly. Some wars don't leave witnesses."
I straightened.
"My reputation will take the blame. That's fine."
I turned away from the garden, walking toward the exit without looking back.
My hands were clean.
That didn't make anything feel cleaner.
Once I was far enough away, I exhaled slowly and sat down on a bench, staring ahead.
Great. Next on the list—Tusken raids? A canonical step in the "becoming a Sith" checklist.
I rubbed my temples and let out a quiet breath.
I needed to calm down.
XXXXXXXXXX
The basement assigned to my quarters was stifling. Server racks hummed steadily, the air thick with the smell of overheated plastic and cheap snacks that somehow managed to combine cheese and chips into something almost offensive. Elara sat on a crate of spare parts, staring at the monitor. When she heard my footsteps, she didn't turn around, her expression fixed in something distant and thoughtful.
"I saw the recording," she said quietly. "From the garden camera."
I dropped onto the nearest crate and set my respirator on the workbench. Without the mask, my face felt oddly exposed under the cold, artificial light.
"And what exactly did you see, Elara?"
"You killed the man who helped us bypass the Techno Union quotas. Vorn was a coward, but he was useful."
"He was already dead the moment Ventress marked him," I said, rubbing the bridge of my nose. "If I hadn't acted, she would've slaughtered everyone in that garden. We had a choice: one minister, or the entire operation. Unfortunate, but we're not ready for a direct confrontation yet."
Elara finally turned to me. Her face was pale.
"You promised you'd explain what E.G.A. is, and why we're doing all this… I mean, I've figured out parts of it, but not the full picture. Right now it just looks like I'm helping one monster devour others."
I exhaled slowly. Time to drop the half-truths.
"Listen carefully—I won't repeat this. 'E.R.G.A.' isn't a charity, and it isn't a mercenary gang. It's the Revolutionary Alliance. My objective isn't to save the Confederacy—it's already doomed. Dooku is a fanatic who doesn't realize he's being used, and the Separatist Council is just a collection of profiteers who would sell their own mother for a margin increase. And somewhere out there, beyond all of this, there's a puppeteer pulling both sides' strings."
Elara frowned.
"Who are you talking about?"
"Doesn't matter. What matters is this: this war ends with the Confederacy collapsing. I'm not going down with the profiteers, and I'm not going to 'lose my head' like the Count eventually will. The R.G.A. will take what remains of the Confederacy and reshape it. We recruit senators with enough conscience left, we secure old shipyards, we build droid forces that answer to us—not to Mustafar's control systems. A parallel army. A parallel structure."
I leaned slightly closer.
"Let's make something clear. I'm not a savior. I'm not here to deliver peace and justice on a silver speeder. If that's what you were hoping for, you picked the wrong man. Think of me as a surgeon. This Confederacy is a dying body—rotting from within. If I don't cut deep enough, the patient dies anyway. There will be blood. It will be ugly. And yes, sometimes I'll eliminate people I don't even dislike. Because sentimentality gets you thrown out of the operating room before the job is done."
"And if I'm next?" she asked quietly, not finishing the sentence, but I heard it anyway.
The question hung in the hum of the servers. Elara's fingers crumbled the edge of a snack wrapper, her gaze fixed anywhere but on me. Fear was sharp in the Force—controlled, but present.
"The answer is no," I said flatly. "You're not next. You're my eyes and hands down here. I'm not foolish enough to sabotage my own work. As long as you keep doing your job and don't decide to play both sides, you're safe. I need someone who can think, not just obey—and who's tied to this enough not to disappear halfway through."
She nodded slowly, some of the tension easing from her shoulders. Pragmatism tended to do that better than reassurance ever could.
"Alright… fine. I hope that's true. Let's get back to the shipyards."
She pulled up a star map on the main monitor. "I've decoded the coordinates and cross-referenced them, but… this is the Unknown Regions, right on the edge. It's a void. Navigation beacons haven't been updated since the Old Republic, and I doubt half the systems out there still function. If we go there, we'll need more than a single dashade and… well, even a Sith. And there's a high chance of pirates."
I stepped closer, studying the pulsing marker on the hologram.
"We'll have a fleet, Elara. Eventually. For now, extract everything you can from those coordinates. Ventress will be off-world soon, and we need to use this window. What you've already pulled has been useful—some of those facilities are still operational."
I stood, putting the respirator back on. Clean air hissed back into place through the filters.
"Master," Kem Val's voice came from the corner, where he had been silently watching. "I sense battle ahead. Are we finally leaving this planet? Should we cause some carnage before we go? If we hurry, we might still catch that insolent girl. It would be quite the feast."
"Quiet, Kem," I said as I headed for the stairs. "We've got too much work to waste time on your culinary ambitions. And seriously—do you ever understand my humor?"
There was work to do. If I wanted to outmaneuver Dooku—and whoever else was moving behind him—I needed far more than a handful of nervous senators and a fragile, barely-formed R.G.A. It was time to build something that could actually survive what was coming.