Ascension: Hearts of Ice

[Aran Finn]

OA THIS IS 737C, POSITION FIVE HUNDRED, OVER.

The silence of space was deafening; so much so that some sentients were known to fall into the depths of madness if exposed to "the void" for too long. In ancient history, before the miracle of faster-than-light travel, all military vessels were rumoured to have a crew of at least two by law. Still, some still sank into insanity if they stayed out in deep space too long ... there were rumours ... tales of broken men who lived on the reaches of Fringe space. They were ravagers and madmen who preyed on any craft that ventured too far from civilization; criminals that even the Fringe High Command feared to touch. But they were just rumours. The powers that were dealt only in facts and verified truths, and did not have the resources or the patience to search for the monsters of old wives' tales. So rumours they remained.

737C THIS IS OA, APPROACH THREE HUNDRED, OVER.

Except for a blinking white light that resembled a winking star amongst the starscape, the small vessel was almost invisible to the naked eye. It was a Furian clawcraft, closely resembling the original Chiss model that it was designed from, and painted black to comply with the Furian military custom. It had been over a full year since the Furians had been rapidly uplifted by a certain Sith Lord, and the change had been swiftly facilitated. The dedicated, disciplined Furian military was quickly adapting to the complex nature of space warfare, and more and more ships, facilities and weapons were being pumped into the system daily. A vested interest was being taken in Furia, and as such the Furian economy could be described as a rapidly expanding bubble. Care was being taken to ensure that it did not burst, but at this stage everything was up in the air. For the military, however, it was all systems go. The Furian clawcraft was a top tier starfighter and on the shiny end of new. This particular clawcraft was no different.

OA, ROGER, OVER.

The man behind the controls did not speak. Instead, his eyes flitted impassively to the comms unit as he removed his finger from the code transmitter, briefly looking through his front viewport to take in the scene in front of him. Nothing about the pilot could identify him in any specific way. Clad in rough spacer gear, his face was obscured by a combination of goggles, helmet and scrim meshing ... he sat in his seat as a drill sergeant might, erect and alert. But it was his eyes that might give an observer pause ... there was no light in them. None at all, not even in the light blue of his iris. One might feel that they could get lost in his thousand-yard-stare and never return ... his eyes were an abyss of unsettling feelings. And he was alone. Silent. Ready.

OA, POSITION TWO HUNDRED, OVER.

The clawcraft continued on its forward trajectory, spiraling towards its objective with its identifying white light blinking with a monotonous pulse. The silence seemed to grow in both its deafening roar and claustrophobic nature, but the pilot showed no outwards emotion. He remained fixated on the scene in front of him. Giant battlecruisers, cruisers, frigates and corvettes moved in not entirely-seamless formation, but with distinct military efficiency. The First Furian Fleet awaited in all its glory, shining and untested. Even in the vast expanse of deep space, it was an impressive sight.

737C, YOU ARE CLEARED TO APPROACH AND BE IDENTIFIED, OVER.

ROGER, OUT.

The man behind the controls started on his approach trajectory, but once again his eyes did not change. They blinked on occasion, but for the moment they were set on the fleet in front of him with an unflinching gaze. They were the eyes of a man who was prepared to die.

 

[Aran Finn]

ABOARD THE FURIAN BATTLECRUISER - FSV PRINCEPS MAJOR

"Sir.."

Captain Actus Felurian Virilus' facial expression did not flicker. Furian faces were not particularly expressive to start off with, with tough leathery skin and fragments of armoured exoskeleton covering from the corner of their mouths to their ears. Captain Virilus was a notably stoic Furian. Even others of his species found him difficult to read, which made him an excellent pazaak partner and had earned him a reputation for being a cunning bastard. Whatever the case, Virilus' military bearing was at a high standard, and his discipline extended down to those under his command. The men on board the Princeps Major were efficient, brisque and knew their doctrine well. That was down to their harsh training and the short leash that Virilus kept them under. That was how ships of the Furian Navy functioned. All of that was reflected in the unflinching face of the CO ... Furians were determined, unrelenting and had the will to win. They were unfazed by changes to the environment and the battlespace ... they knew they could overcome anything. They were the strongest, they were numerous, and they were disciplined. Being a member of the Furian military could only inculcate a sense of pride in oneself. Captain Virilus embodied that to the letter.

"Maintain," was all he said in reply. Mandibles twitched slightly as he noted the holo-display, before turning to move on further down the bridge.

"But sir-" The young sub-lieutenant's protest was cut short; Virilus' head snapped around to stare at the young officer, his eyes with a hint of steel to them initially before softening. His initial annoyance seemed to dissipate quickly. For a brief moment, the sub-lieutenant wondered what had quieted the storm, but that short burst of curiosity was eclipsed by the nerves that flowed through his body. Those nerves were enough to shadow all of his ability to judge, and would likely hang around until he got promoted once or twice. Most sub-lieutenants only existed to amuse the operations chiefs and other NCOs, it was said. It was also said that most officers didn't develop any common sense until they made lieutenant commander. The young sub-lieutenant was one of the sort who seemed to prove that point.

"Yes, Sub-Lieutenant Gegovax?" Virilus' voice was calm and measured; he turned a strode calmly to stand beside Gegovax's chair, his arms folded behind his back.

"Sir.." The young sub-lieutenant composed himself carefully. "That clawcraft isn't coming in on a designated infil trajectory. Isn't that-"

"And I'm sure that the Gunnery Officer down on his flight deck will instruct him to unfrak himself at his earliest convenience. Is that all, Gegovax?"

"Yes, sir ... but-"

"If we chased up every little thing that the grunts messed up, we'd never get anywhere. Good looking out, Mr. Gegovax, but don't sweat the small stuff."

"Ahh yessir."

"Outstanding. Maintain." With a brief, crisp nod at his young staff officer, the Captain moved to the viewport. Beyond the Princeps Major was the Black Prince, then the Vindex, then the Dark Aster, then the Iron Duke ... all brand new ships-of-the-line. All ships that Virilus would never have dreamed that he would have seen in his lifetime. He never thought he'd see space in his lifetime, thinking that even attaining orbit might be a step too far for the Furian species. But now, in a year, they were here ... and the stars were far more beautiful in the null G of space than they were even in the Gallian wilderness back on the mother-world. He never thought the Furians would unite as a species ... they had. He never thought he'd meet an alien ... he had. That alien, that human, was the man responsible for this. He had been impressed by him. He was ugly and soft, as most aliens were, but there was a savage lethality to him that Virilus, like most Furians, was deeply impressed by. A good man, yet a savage ...

His gaze once again touched on the Furian formation that stretched out before him, and all the Captain felt was pride. It was glorious. His species advanced, and so did he, and now they would become part of the larger galaxy and leave their mark. That was all he could hope for. And that was when it started. There was no sound, no shockwave ... nothing at all, except for the slowly expanding, purplish ball that slowly grew in front of him.

Time and space began to stretch and warp in front of him as he looked on in horror, watching as the most glorious endeavour in Furian history began to unravel by the molecule. Detaching and disassembling in miniscule cubes, battlecruisers, frigates and destroyers simply ceased to exist, and Virilus was forced to watch it all. His last thoughts were not verbose or profound ... it was just pure, undecipherable horror, a perpetual state of disbelief that only ceased to exist when he, like the rest of the First Furian Fleet, ceased to exist as well. Within thirty seconds, nothing remained except for the space that the fleet had occupied. Displacement returned to normal, space ceased to bend around where the ships had been and returned to the normal, straight-line structure to which it was accustomed.

There was silence.

Somewhere in the Fringe Confederacy, a particular Sith Lord felt a disturbance in the Force ...

 

[Aran Finn]

Annaj, Gardens District​

AltaVista Apartment Complex - Penthouse Suite​

​

0500h

The slow, gentle rate of breathing, barely audible in the silence of the dark bedroom, suggested that Alen Na'Varro was safe within the embrace of deep slumber. Lying flat on his back, orientated slightly towards the warmth of the woman sleeping next to him with an arm draped loosely over her, the Sith Lord was the picture of serenity. The fierce tempest that interrupted his dreamscape was not, however. The only indication of his distress was the haphazard flickering of his eyelids as his eyes moved to and fro beneath them, taking in a scene that only he would ever be privy to. And in the shadows of early morning, a miniscule detail such as the flickering of eyelids would not be easily seen. So on the outset, Na'Varro was a placid lake. On the inside, however, the man's thoughts were a raging torrent of confused emotions.

At first, all he could see was a purple-black ball, partially translucent. It was mesmerising in its beauty, but beyond that beauty there was a sense of terrible dread that left the Sith Lord in awe. There were still things in this universe that even an experienced Force Master such as Na'Varro could not fathom, and this was one of them. It was beautiful, perfect, yet more sinister than any being he had ever encountered. More sinister than his Master's Master, the man who had made him fall. More sinister than the man who had brought the monster that had always lingered inside him closer to the personality that had grown to encompass his every day activities. There was no telling who was the mask and who was the man anymore. The two were now forever interlinked. Maybe not forever. Na'Varro had learned that nothing was permanent except time, and that time was the catalyst for change in all things. Maybe some day he would conquer the monster forever, but the fact was ... every day, every minute, even when he was with Kitt and at his happiest, he still yearned to come to grips with a strong enemy and utterly destroy him. Na'Varro saw himself now amongst his dreamscape ... he and the ball were now symbiotic, with no clear indication of where one stopped and the other began. He and the ball were omni-present now, wholly unstoppable.

That was when he and the ball began to expand at the same rate as the universe, and lives began to extinguish like flames in the wind. First they went in ones and twos, then dozens, then hundreds, then thousands ... millions, billions, trillions of voices crying out before ceasing forever. Worlds began to unravel and come apart at the seams. Na'Varro watched as the very thread of life began to weaken and snap-

The bearded man was awake. Looking around, he noticed that he was sitting upright now, drenched in sweat. The man ran a hand through his thick reddish hair, mopping his fringe away from his face. He needed a damn haircut. Na'Varro sat there for what felt like an eternity, contemplating what he had seen. It was the Force nudging him, not so subtly, in a direction that he could not comprehend. He scowled, briefly wishing that the Force would feth off and nudge someone else for a change. He wasn't a mystery solver. He wasn't all that good of a mystery maker either. The man was a warrior, pure and simple. There was little complexity to him, except for the way in which he fought, and he rarely had time to come up with a cunning plan. He usually just showed up with a lightsaber and fought his way to the truth, but that required finding the right place to go. This dream was all about destruction, there was no location or indication of a general direction in which to head. The man was lost.

Na'Varro looked over to his right, where [member="Kitt Solo"] lay sleeping, or at least pretending to. His nightmare might have woken the young empath/bounty hunter/High Councilor/whateverman who had ended up being the love of his life. Na'Varro no longer felt lame giving a woman that kind of hold over him. It was true, and he owned it. The bearded man smiled, a tinge of worry still floating around in his mind, and stroked the hair away from her face a couple of times. Then he decided to get up and put some damn caf on. He wouldn't be sleeping again this morning.

As he padded around the kitchen, trying to be as quiet as possible, his thoughts kept straying to his dream. He was troubled, if only because he did not have the answers and had no way of finding out where and what they were. For all he knew, the answer was forty-two. You can't afford to care, you can't afford to care. He kept repeating that mantra to himself, but at the end of the day he did and would continue to until he got to the bottom of this. Being a single-minded, stubborn piece of work was hard going.

 

[Kitt Solo]

The feelings of apprehension-not of her own-interrupted her unusual, peaceful sleep. But the sudden lack of warmth in the bed was what truly woke her. Eyes snapped open as she mentally tracked Alen through the emotional-bond they shared, cemented since Lipsec.

Worry, dread, restlessness.

It didn't take her long to shuffle into the kitchen, wearing one of the bearded man's larger shirts, the hem stopping just at her upper thighs. She groggily pushed the bedhead-hair away from her face as she leaned over the kitchen counter to face-off with her lover, yes, the label was defined: her love.

"Must've been one helluva dream," she paused and regarded him quietly. She had enough intuition to know he wouldn't stay even if she didn't yet know the details of where, why, and what. "When do we leave?"



[member="Alen Na'Varro"]

 

[Aran Finn]

Na'Varro felt Kitt get up and make her way to the kitchen before he saw or heard her. He knew she'd come, having gained a deep understanding of her intuitive abilities that was only cemented by their deep emotional connection. She could always tell how he was feeling, and somehow through their connection her feelings flowed back down the pipeline towards him. Dating an empath was a much more symbiotic experience than the usual. Alen turned around to see her shuffle into the room, her hair askew and dressed in one of his shirts. The bearded man smiled in spite of himself. She looked like a mess, but for some reason he preferred her like this. When she dressed up she was stunning, but somehow, for some reason, this was better.

"Must've been one helluva dream," she said softly. "When do we leave?"

He couldn't tell that she wasn't coming with him. Not yet, though she could likely sense that he intended to do this alone. There were so many reasons why not, but none would be good enough for Kitt if he said them out loud. None would stop her from following him into the gates of hell itself, but with silence ... perhaps that lack of confirmation would buy him time to leave. The possibility of death was so real; he could feel its touch hanging over him even now. Na'Varro could not let her follow him, especially into a situation where he might be truly out of his depth. He already had one dead wife and two dead children. Losing Kitt would be too much.

"I don't know," he said, moving over to the other side of the kitchen counter and leaning over it as well, slightly to her left. "There are some questions I need answered first."

There was silence for a bit as they regarded each other. Na'Varro could feel the sharp pain in his heart as his chest tightened, worrying thoughts slipping once more into his thought stream before-

Ding!

The toast popped up, and the caf machine emptied itself into the mug. Kitt's mug. Lazily, the powerful Sith Lord, General, conqueror of worlds, deadliest swordsman in the universe and tank extraordinaire drew on years and years of experience using the Dark Side of the Force ... and fetched Kitt's toast and caf, floating it from across the room to the counter in front of her. The touchdown was perfect. Na'Varro was that good.

"Breakfast is served," he said with a cheeky grin. "Also, good morning."

In his mind, the blackish-purple translucent energy ball expanded, consuming and destroying all in its path.

[member="Kitt Solo"]

 

[Kitt Solo]

[member="Alen Na'Varro"]

"It's good to see all those years and years and years of force training going to some use," she quipped sleepily and gently nudged her shoulder into the bearded-sith lord. Her bearded-sith lord. She opted for the caf first.

She had her priorities.

"What's going on with you? I know you don't need me to tell you that I know you're holding something back. But what can you tell me. Talk to me." She leveled him with a stare and offered him her cup of caf. "I mean, after some caffeine, of course."