From space, Malachor seems no more than a lifeless ball of ash. In the center of an open crater, however, lies the ancient Sith Temple. This colossal pyramid of black stone is the relic of a disastrous battle between the forces of darkness and light thousands of years ago.

Though the surface of Malachor has a breathable atmosphere, the air is dead still, and there is no sign of life. The caldera housing the Temple is a tableau of the terrible struggle that took place here so many millennia ago. Scattered through the causeways and crumbling boulders are the petrified figures of the foregone combatants, their hands raised eternally against whatever cataclysm took the life from their bodies. Some still grasp their Jedi weapons, though most likely the life is gone from them too. The pallid white light of the sun spreads unhindered through the crater, but it does little to illumine the intrinsic darkness of the stones.

The Sith Temple is not a place of the light side. It is said the very stones react to the touch of the dark side. The pyramid itself is seemingly inaccessible, though its blocked entrance is associated with an old saying: “Two must lift these stones, no more, no less.” Despite its undeniable age, the crater is littered with signs of a more recent calamity; ash and debris, columns toppled outwards from the Temple, broken arches. It is as though the millennial dust stirred, briefly, then returned to its repose under the sun.

Dralin Fortea sat cross legged on the ground on the top terrace of the once great Sith Temple, letting the Force wash over him. Recently Dralin had been questioning the Force, searching for a further understanding of it, which is what brought the Dark Jedi to this cold and lifeless planet.

The Savant had been in this position for what may have been hours, days, or perhaps only mere minutes had passed. Dralin became lost to the concept of time, the world around him simply melted away as he steeped in the power of the Dark Side. The Force here was palpable, almost intoxicating in its strength in this once sacred place. All the while, R3-D9 rolled back and forth, pacing past a tray of cold tea, standing guard for his master.

A ringing sound echoed throughout the still air of the massive underground cavern, raising Dralin from his meditation. A look of confusion formed on his face as his eyes opened and he took in his surroundings.

“Well then, what is that infernal racket?” Dralin stood and straightened his tattered formal wear.

“Beep boop whistle whistle bloop,” D9 replied with a hint of an almost sinister agenda.

“Well, I am getting hungry,” the Human retorted. “You wait here, I’ll go check it out.”

---

A Few Minutes Earlier

TuQ’uan Varick made his way through the maze of stone walls leading to the Sith Temple. A shiver went down his spine as he passed the frozen tableau of a battle fought long ago, petrified statues of Force Users were stuck in an eternal war. This was definitely one of the creepiest places he had ever visited. Oh, the things he did for credits.

Further and further the Kel Dor trudged on in silence. It felt like he had been walking forever. On the positive side, the temple grew larger and larger with every step he took. This was actually his second time making the trek today; he forgot his tools aboard his ship the first time.

It took awhile but he eventually reached the base of the intimidating temple. He stared at what he assumed was a door, when in actuality, it looked more like a duracrete slab recessed in the wall. It was unlike anything he had ever seen before. There were no access panels that he could see and no handle to open the door, only a script in a language that he had seen somewhere before but couldn’t understand.

TuQ’uan removed a hammer and chisel from his jacket.

I better find something good in there, he thought to himself as he set to work.

The tenacious mercenary wedged the chisel into the edge of the apparent entrance to the Sith Temple and swung his small hammer, the sound of metal striking metal rang out in the cavern with a high pitched ting.

TuQ’uan spent the next few minutes trying to chisel his way into the temple using various spots on the door, one way or another he was going to get into this karking temple.

He was about to make his eleventh attempt when a sound off to his right caught his attention. Dropping his hammer and chisel, TuQ’uan spun to see Dralin Fortea sauntering in his direction.

Their eyes locked.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Dralin cried across the distance.

“Minmin Bey Ihn perti turisho, plachi helpi?” the infiltrator replied with a pleading tone.

Having spent a great deal of time wandering the galaxy, Dralin had picked up enough Corellian to pick out words here and there.

“A tourist? On Malachor?”

TuQ’uan cursed inwardly, he really needed to learn what he was saying in these situations. The distance between the two had closed, through the dim light the mercenary was finally able to get a good look at the Human who had so rudely interrupted his work. There was something about the shaggy dark red hair and ragged suit that struck the Kel Dor as oddly familiar.

“Wait a second, didn’t I see you on Dagobah?” TuQ’uan asked the man.

“Huh, so you’re that Kel Dor. You know, my Quaestor would love your head right? Well, figuratively, or not. I guess I’ll have a present to bring back for her.”

The mercenary let out a sigh and wondered why trouble always liked to find him.

TuQ’uan’s hand dropped to the holstered DL-44 on his hip, in a fluid movement the blaster was drawn and the safety off. Shooting from his hip, the Kel Dor fired a series of shots at the Human. What should have been accurate shots somehow missed their target as Dralin spun to the side, narrowly dodging the attack. A growl rose from behind the mercenary’s antiox mask.

Continuing to fire on his fellow Plagueian, TuQ’uan moved away from the temple looking for more cover. The crimson bolts shot across the space between the two opponents, TuQ’uan was less concerned with accuracy now, instead he just wanted to keep the Force user at a distance.

The mercenary was walking backwards now, he was almost back into the maze of walls he had already explored three times today. Something caught the Kel Dor’s attention, distracting him from his tactical retreat. An object then suddenly shot towards TuQ’uan.

Dropping his line of attack, the Kel Dor dove to the side into a somersault that narrowly avoided a piece of debris aimed at his face. Dralin used the lapse in projectiles headed his way as an opportunity to advance on his quarry.

TuQ’uan stood back up, looked down the sights of his blaster and fired. Dralin wasn’t as quick this time in avoiding the crimson bolt which hit him right in the left bicep, it burned right through the well-worn suit and left a scorched wound on his flesh.

There was a flash of anger in Dralin’s cybernetic eyes when he, with a clenched fist, stepped forward and swung at the air in front of him. The invisible force behind his blow struck TuQ’uan across the side of his face, knocking him from his feet. As the Kel Dor’s feet left the ground, time seemed to slow down; he felt almost weightless while the world around him slowly turned on its side.

Suddenly his head struck the ground with a dull thud and time returned to normal.

Dralin watched the gunslinger hit the floor with some amount of satisfaction, but he couldn't rest on his laurels.

The space between the maze and the pyramid had once contained a path lined with ominous, obelisk-like columns, whose decline over the ages had created the debris scattered about. Once upon a time, they had been carved with Ancient Sith ramblings, but time had proven unkind to their lasting place in literature. As the Kel Dor landed next to one of the few ruined columns still standing, Dralin lifted his hands and clenched his teeth. A grunt of effort turned into a growl as the well-worn stone slowly began to lean perilously toward TuQ'uan, as if concerned for the dazed alien.

The Quaestor steadied himself on his hands and knees, then shook his hatless head before looking up. As the pillar gained momentum, TuQ'uan snapped into a crouch on both feet at once before rolling out of the way. He snatched his hat from the ground mid-somersault, and settled it neatly on his crown as the column smashed into segments in the dust behind him.

Dralin's nose flared as he tried to catch his breath after that stunt, but he hardly had time before he felt a mental tug to his left, tinged with the smell of burning and the impression of red light. He sprang to his right just as TuQ'uan's blaster bolts flashed by, but the alarms in his head hadn't faded as he expected.

The realization hit him at the same time the sonic grenade detonated at his feet; the blaster fire had been a distraction. The shock wave tore through Dralin, and he fell back a step with his hands clutching his ears.

The world swam about him as the Coruscanti tried to keep the horizon level, but the silence pressing in on him, suffocating him, made the effort seem like more trouble than it was worth. The scuffle had kicked up centuries of dust, making the air hazier by the moment. Dralin felt warmth tickle near his ear, and he forced his shaking hand still before gingerly brushing at it. Ash and blood stood out on his fingertips, and he stared at them in a daze. How many times has he tasted ash and blood? How many of his days had their canvases painted with their pigments? The rogue Plagueian blinked hard; it was a decent hit to have inspired poetry.

TuQ'uan lined up a perfect shot: it should have taken out both of Dralin's knees with a kick from the DL-44's emitter. As he squeezed the trigger, the handcannon gave only a small cough. His goggles didn’t usually betray much in the way of expression, but confusion was written clearly across the lenses as he looked at his blaster. Thick, chalky dust caked the battery pack, which caused it to overheat considerably during his last volley.

Before Dralin could fully recover, the mercenary Quaestor rushed toward him, pistol in-hand. TuQ'uan threw his fist at Dralin's jaw, and the DL-44 added its considerable heft to the swing. As the blow connected, however, the deafened Human twisted with the punch, deflecting the strike away. TuQ’uan, committed as he was to the attack, stumbled forward as a result of the unexpected lack of resistance. Dralin tried to use the miscalculation to earn some breathing room, but he barely cleared two paces before stumbling in the opposite direction.

Dralin stopped, steadied himself, and gave his head a shake in an attempt to steady the world around him before the Kel Dor had a chance to recuperate. Squeezing his eyes shut and taking a deep breath, the Human pushed as much of the pain that rang throughout his head away. Feeling not perfect, but better, the Human’s eyes opened with nary a moment to spare. Dralin took a half step to the side narrowly avoiding a Kel Dor hand to the throat.

Dralin stepped back with his left foot, widening his stance, and raised the open palm of his right hand to meet TuQ’uan in the armpit of his outstretched right arm. The mercenary twisted with the blow, allowing the Force user’s inertia to carry him forward.

As the Human began to pass by, TuQ’uan clenched his fist and hammered it down on the fresh wound in Dralin’s shoulder, forcing out a grunt of pain. The two combatants separated.

Karking hell, the Kel Dor cursed inwardly, his shoulder didn’t feel quite right. He was giving his all here, and aside from a lucky strike, his opponent seemed to be dancing around him. TuQ’uan was starting to get tired, meanwhile Dralin just looked angry.

“Is that all you got?” the mercenary panted. Dralin only growled in return, rage apparent in the red glow of his cybernetic eyes.

TuQ’uan pulled his double-bladed dagger from inside his jacket and readied himself. One way or another, he knew this would be over soon.

Once again they closed the distance. TuQ’uan sliced through the air with the dagger in his right hand, he felt his entire shoulder shift as Dralin easily blocked the attack. The mercenary was getting desperate now. Pushing through the pain, TuQ’uan began slashing wildly. If he attacked unpredictably, maybe he could land another lucky blow.

For as unruly as TuQ’uan’s attacks were, Dralin’s blocks were the complete opposite. Where TuQ’uan’s attacks were choppy and instinctive, Dralin was smoothly swatting the blade away.

Twisting his wrist, the mercenary swung again. This time he hit his target, cutting a line across the Dark Jedi’s stomach, right through his tattered suit. Before TuQ’uan could enjoy landing a blow his wrist had been seized. Dralin crouched and twisted, throwing the Kel Dor’s body over his shoulder only to have him come crashing down, face up on the ground. All of the air escaped from the mercenary’s lungs at once.

Snap-hiss

Dralin stood over the prone mercenary, the blade of his lightsaber mere inches hung mere inches from TuQ’uan’s eyes casting an emerald glow over Kel Dor.

“It’s over,” Dralin spoke through heavy breaths. He activated his wrist link. “D9, I need you to go back to the Bad Idea and get something to restrain our guest.”

Sighing, TuQ’uan let his head rest on the dusty ancient stone. Letting the exhaustion from the fight take over, he simply laid there and awaited his fate.

Dralin closed his eyes as he fell to his knees. It was an artless recovery from his stumble, but he was more focused on thinking. The Coruscanti had tried to put together a plan on his way down, but his loss of hearing dominated his concerns. Before he could succeed at much else, he reasoned, he would have to take care of that.

Please don't be ruptured, he pleaded as he carefully held his open hands on either side of his head, hovering over his useless ears. He could feel the blood in his ear canals, and the dust beginning to coat the exterior, helping it congeal more quickly. As quickly as he dared try, Dralin sent in tiny, probing tendrils of power, and he scooped out the blood with a grimace. His ears were incredibly tender, and they burned as blood ran down the sides of his neck.

The first thing his body took note of with the return of sound was the approach of rapid footsteps. TuQ’uan charged Dralin from behind, but he ducked his head and rolled to the side just before the Kel Dor’s boot could connect with the back of his skull. The movement was not kind toward Dralin’s aching head, and the pain forced him back to the ground. His mind raced; he needed to escape if he wanted to survive this. Surviving is winning. If nothing else, always that.

TuQ’uan spun on his assailant. In a single, smooth motion he holstered his dust-choked pistol and drew his double-bladed dagger. He gave it a dextrous twirl as he advanced, and Dralin’s eye darted back and forth as he weighed his options. He shouldn’t have been this exhausted, but he hadn’t anticipated a sonic attack at point-blank range. A plan snapped together in the back of his mind, and he considered it a moment before summoning his will and raising his hand toward TuQ’uan.

“I’m an illusion,” Dralin insisted in a calm, steady voice. “The real Dralin ran after the grenade, and tricked you into fighting an illusion.”

The Coruscanti remembered his time as a Tarenti Deathdealer, undertaking missions of assassination and reconnaissance for the Sith King of Yridia. He had failed one particular mission when he let a Hutt-sponsored saboteur escape, and was made to report to his Quaestor to account for his failure like a child being rebuked for shirking his chores. He was so proud of that position and that work at the time, and it had burned him to fail his new family. With a mental push, he added that feeling of hurt pride and embarrassment to his implanted idea, giving it barbs to help it stick in his proud Kel Dor mind.

TuQ’uan froze for a moment, and started swearing in his native tongue. With a hurried motion, he holstered his weapon and started running in the direction his quarry had originally stumbled in the hopes of catching up. Of course, there had been no illusion, but Dralin only needed his mark to believe it long enough that the Human could get to his ship. He held absolutely still until the Kel Dor was out of sight, and then he scrambled up and hobbled away.

---

R3-D9 had just finished exterminating what he had hoped were terrified microorganisms in The Creator’s tea cup when his sensors detected movement at the camp’s perimeter. As the being approached, R3 dropped the cup and cleaning applicator, and he shook in place. The shaking increased in intensity and speed until, as the intruder rounded the temple corner, all of R3’s panels burst open, followed by an emphatic gesturing of every tool and gadget at his disposal. A flurry of beeps and screeches declared the droid’s reputed lethality, as well as a dire warning of demonstration should any dare trespass.

“It’s me, you useless can opener!” Dralin hissed as he limped closer, one hand to the side of his head. “We’re leaving, now!”

With an embarrassed squawk, R3 withdrew his instruments and snapped his panels shut before scurrying off to finish cleaning up the camp. Dralin kept one hand over his ear, while the other gestured toward the power generator. The generator leapt up the boarding ramp, and the injured Coruscanti and his droid followed.

Kelly won’t be pleased I missed the opportunity, he mused as his YT-2400 fired its engines and began to climb into the sky. I suppose she needn’t find out. After all, TuQ’uan won’t be admitting this encounter. Dralin smiled slightly, and looked forward to round two as he fled to the ever-welcoming stars.