Alkor opened his eyes slowly as consciousness returned to him. The meditative trance he woke from was a far cry from true sleep: it offered none of the comfort, the dreams, or the sensation of being well-rested. Unfortunately for Alkor, it was the only respite he got from wakefulness. For a man forged in hellfire and tempered in human blood, it was a difficult thing to find any real respite in a galaxy savaged by constant warfare. The moments he did sleep, he woke from terrible nightmares of his own life ending, or of lives he had ended himself reaching back from beyond to stifle him. It was a form of self-preservation, the trance. A Sith he knew once upon a time spoke of how men of the darkness would never again lead normal lives, and thus sought comfort in the paranormal nature of the dark side to sustain themselves.
It was the lure and trap that created men like those. Drink deep from the font of slaughter and its waters will run through you forever. For Alkor, it had never been a choice. At first, he killed because it was easy. Then he learned to kill marks of increasing difficulty, until the day came where he got caught in the act. Once he had hit the roadblock, the point at which he could no longer advance, killing became more difficult. He was at a full stop. That may have been the point at which the choice died.
Instead of a death sentence, he found himself on another world. It was a new process to learn. Killing stayed the same, but the people became more complex. The thoughts differed. The reasons changed. He changed.
Alkor stared out into open space and his gaze hardened on the transparisteel. "This," he murmured, "is not hyperspace." He rose slowly and turned his gaze to a droid sentry posted at the door behind him. "You," he snapped, "where is this? Where are we?"
"This is Void Station," the cracking voice responded with nonchalance.
"Along the bloody Mara Corridor?" Alkor asked skeptically. "This is a far cry from Republic Space. Where are those ships? The Libita class, and the other Republic vessels from the Sekalus debacle?" Alkor glanced between the ships collected there. A Shinigami class, a Widow class, and the ship he was on, the Nimix class. "Miles' ships," he muttered, "we split from the Republic fleet and flew out to this remote edge of the galaxy?"
"Ah, Master Sin and Nikias went along with those vessels to ensure their safe return and assure the Republic of our continued good faith," the machine tittered. "Master Miles decided that it would be in his best interest not to go along, as the process of dealing with refugees and politics is not his forte. Our troupe does have a reputation of piracy, you see."
"Nonsense," Alkor hissed. "But I concede the point. I prefer to leave politicking to the more inclined. Prime a shuttle, I will be heading for the Dragon's Folly immediately."
"One has been prepared for you, Master Centaris. Master Miles instructed us to ready it for your use the moment you awoke."
"Smart man," Alkor replied simply. "Inform him that I am en route to his position."
With a nod in the affirmative, the droid scurried off to radio Aedan that Alkor was in transit. Alkor strode through the hallways of the Nimix class toward the hangar and the shuttle that awaited him. Within minutes, he embarked on the short journey between the smaller vessel and the Star Destroyer of Aedan's flotilla.
[member="Aedan Miles"]