Mephirium Is Trash

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Marcus had always been a friend. The Dreadguard had fought alongside Mephirium since the long forgotten days of the Ession Reformation, and Marcus had retained a spot on the Sith Lord's payroll. Of all the soldiers in the galaxy, Mephirium trusted Marcus to get whatever job needed to be done the most. It certainly did not hurt that he got along well with the soldier, though he wondered if Marcus would agree with his recent decisions. More importantly, he could not be sure whether the warrior would agree to his proposition.

Marcus had been called to Mephirium's private home in the isolated mountains of Naboo. It was here, in a land the Rades had dubbed the Reach, that the future would be discussed. None were within the home save for Mephirium himself, clad in a simple black T-shirt and running shorts. He was unarmed, as most would be in their own homes, and passed the time catching up on his favored reality holovision shows.

Currently, he was catching the season finale of his personal favorite, 'The Real Housewives of Bothuwai'. The home living room was entirely dark, save for the light of the holivision. Mephirium, or rather Cyril now, given his off-time, was leaned forward and watched as two Bothan women screamed at one another over a male. He was wrapped in a bantha-hide blanket, and stuffed mouthfuls of processed chips into his gaping maw.

He still had time to finish this episode. Marcus was supposed to come in a few hours, or was it in a few minutes. Meph placed his bets on the former. He had plenty of time to put on the Dark Lord persona before Marcus arrived, right?

[member="Marcus Itera"]

 

[Marcus Itera]

Good old Cyril had been his buddy ever since the beginning. Past his days of being some lowly infantryman and into the biological weapon fielded by the Republic, Cyril and Marcus had practically been molded into brothers over the tenure of their service in both war and peacetime. He wondered if he was still stuck in his old ways, being that overly social and loud man that always appeared to be at the center of attention no matter what he was doing. As for Marcus, he was the exact opposite. Reclusive, isolated, and solitary. Wasn't his fault he turned out this way.

Or, at least he liked to tell himself that.

"Heading over for a slumber party?" Miranda chirped in his earpiece, an ever present reminder that he was never really alone.

The mercenary grunted something of a reply as he slipped out of his armor and into something a little more comfortable - a black jacket along with similarly hued trousers and a shirt. Black was his color, but he tried his best not to look like one of those edgy guys off of the HoloNet. "Just going to see an old friend, Randa. Hoping he doesn't want me to put on that cold-blooded merc facade today, 'cause it ain't happenin'."

"Going unarmed?"

"Feth no." He grunted, patting his holster. "You know how I roll; long, tall, and dangerous."

[member="Darth Mephirium"]

 

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The Bothan women were throwing things now. Two of them were screaming like wailing banshees at one another, and a third was clinging to her one-time lover whom Mephirium had grown to positively abhor. The lover in question had been sleeping around with the three women, ruining their friendship and making Mephirium a rather unhappy camper. The relationships he had privately shipped were not coming to fruition, and the reality of thise had finally set in.

"Chit," he hissed, throwing a pillow up at the holovision. The characters on the screen did not react, of course, and Mephirium was left sitting awkwardly at the edge of his sofa, a handful of chips shoved in his mouth. It was only then that Mephirium felt the presence of another man outside his door, or rather the lack thereof it.

[member="Marcus Itera"] was one of the last legendary Dreadguard still alive. The force parted before him wherever he went, and the distinct lack of being had become something Mephirium was accustomed to.

Cursing, he changed the channel immediately, which took the holovision to a pay-per-view adult station revolving around elderly Twi'lek women and their young male friends. Mephirium, or rather Cyril for now, did not pay it any attention as he half jogged to the door. He opened it before Marcus could get a chance to knock ,the gust of cold air from outside raising goosebumps along Cyril's exposed skin.

"Hey Marcus," he grinned. "Glad you could make it. You know where everything is. Make yourself at home."

[member="Marcus Itera"]

 

[Marcus Itera]

He could hardly consider himself legendary.

Oh wait. He totally could.

"Sure has been quite a while since we've seen Cyril. Hope he hasn't changed for the worse," Miranda chirped, "Though he could hardly get any worse than he already is." Marcus could practically see her childish grin.

The mercenary responded with something of a chuckle, tucking his hands away into his pockets to stave off the chill of the late evening air. The man hurried his pace a little more as the sun slowly began to drift beneath the horizon, throwing elongated shadows across the Naboo plains and the ancient architecture. These Nabooians sure did like their olden style, though it offered no defensive advantages in modern war, something the Trade Federation had surely taken advantage of.

Just as the mercenary made it to the doorway, raising a hand to rap his knuckles against the metal surface, it slid open to reveal an older and withered Cyril, though not as bad as Marcus had expected.

A grin curled his lips. "Cyril! How're you, man?" He stepped into the doorway, catching the man in a manly bro-hug before curtly releasing him to peer over his shoulder into his abode. "Nice place. Pay a pretty penny for it?"

[member="Darth Mephirium"]

 

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Cyril snorted a laugh as his old friend embraced him. He returned the gesture with aslap to Marcus' back and gestured toward the interior of his home. "It was my mom's. She gave it to me when she passed on. It's out of the way, and most people just assume I'm some kind of rich hermit, so I have my privacy. It;'s not cheap to maintain, though."

He cracked a wide grin and clapped Marcus on the shoulder as he led the man inside. The main holovision was still showing the elderly Twi'lek women with their young male companions. Cyril balked at the display, muttering a curse under his breath as he turned the channel to something more mundane.

It had been some time since he'd seen Marcus. His old friend was a mercenary of sorts -- a soldier of fortune that had a tendency to put his competition to shame. It was hard to get any time with the man lately, and coupled with Cyril's increasingly busy schedule, more akin to impossible.

With a quiet sigh, he settled down on the sofa, offering Marcus his bowl of chips as he reclined. "I'm alright. Just plotting my conquest of the galaxy," he joked, "Is Miranda in there?" He asked, gesturing toward his temple to indicate what he meant.

[member="Marcus Itera"]

 

[Marcus Itera]

The mercenary nodded as he entered the man's home, his mechanical eyes surveying the interior with something of a robotic fascination. He was becoming more of a machine each and every day, but at least he hadn't noticed any particular alterations to his train of thought or mental patterns. As far as he and the rest of the galaxy knew, he was still just a man with metal inside of him. And lots of it. Be that as it may, he felt a natural tendency to note all forms of escape. Just habit.

"I see." Marcus almost wanted to comment about his mother, but held his tongue. No need to pick at old scars. "Sure beats my place. I'm still living on the Better Off." He named it that way for a reason. He was better off there than anywhere else. Couldn't be tied down to a single place lest he get too lax and let his guard down. He may've been a dangerous man but there were even more dangerous beings out there.

He grinned as Cyril changed the Holochannel, to something more of their speed. Some action-thriller movie that spoke of heroism and sacrifice - typical cinematics.

The man trailed his friend, plopping down on the sofa next to him before reclining back into the plush cushion with a weathered sigh. "Yeah, she's with me. Say hi."

He reached up to flick a switch on his earpiece. "Hi, Cyril. It's been a while. What've you been up to, besides getting into trouble?"

[member="Darth Mephirium"]

 

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Cyril gave a snort of derision as he spoke of the Better Off. He knew the vessel by name, though he'd never been aboard. He would have to peruse Marcus' current hovel some time around and judge whether or not to buy the man a better vessel. He would not tell his old friend that such was the purpose, of course, but he could not allow Marcus to continue flying around in a deathtrap if that were the case.

"Hi Miranda," he said pleasantly, nodding in agreement to something unspoken as Marcus turned the channel. "I'm alright. I actually may need your help." He continued, his eyes straying from the program to meet his old friend's. He had asked a dozen favors of Marcus over the years, and Marcus had asked the same in turn. What he had to say now was far greater than anything he ha had ever asked of the Dreadguard. Despite his usual confidence, he found that he was reluctant to do so. It would not do the old soldier justice to drag him into another war, but then there was no one Cyril trusted more for this.

"This isn't just a social call," he sighed, offering the bag of chips to Marcus. "It's out of concern as a friend, and need as a politician." With a wave of his hand, the volume on the holovision lowered.

"Do you recall the 501st?"

[member="Marcus Itera"]

 

[Marcus Itera]

It felt good, to just sit here and catch up on old times. Work hadn't been hard to come by lately, but he was looking for some more high-profile and high income jobs. Lots of stuff for dignitaries, underlords of the black markets, and whoever was willing to pay him big bucks to crack some skulls or put slugs into peoples' heads. Easy stuff, really. Some beings just didn't deserve to exist and Marcus was more than happy to expedite their departure prematurely.

"Oh man." Marcus grimaced. "What is it this time?" Time and time before he'd answered the call of duty to aid his friend in whatever he was doing over the course of a decade, but he was getting tired of wars. He wasn't a guy to shove into some massive battle - his infantry days had long since been over. He was a professional soldier now, one who typically worked alone and reaped all of the profit. Those poor boys who worked for planetary governments didn't make a fraction of what he made in one job. It was definitely more than enough to put food on the table, that was for sure.

The mercenary accepted the bag of chips, reaching inside before depositing a handful into his mouth, chewing thoughtfully. "Politics, huh?"

"I always hated politics," Miranda added.

Then he mentioned the 501st. That old legendary legion originally led by Darth Vader and his several successors. "I do. What of it?"

[member="Darth Mephirium"]

 

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Oh, Cyril knew how much Marcus hated this sort of thing. He'd been a leaf in the wind since the Dreadguard. Everything was temporary, nothing was home. Cyril had tried a number of times to convince his friend to settle down, find a nice woman and start a family. At the very least, he'd tried to convince Marcus to pick a port for home. The mercenary, of course, had refused his advice at every turn. He was a free spirit, but now Cyril needed him to be something else.

"You're not gonna like it," he said straight away. "You know what I've always been about. From Ession to the Republic, I've always been consistent, or at least I've tried to be. You know who I am, and why I do what I do. I like to think I know the same of you," he snickered, "Though Miranda probably has that over me."

His smile was genuine, but there was a sadness to it. "Things haven't been the same since Balmoraa, Marcus. I miss my kids. I miss my wife. Sometimes I can't deal with it," he shook his head, "So what I'm doing for now -- well, it's for them. So no one else has to deal with what I do every day. I know you understand that much."

His expression shifted with grief. It was a fleeting look, it was there for the moment all the same. "The 501st is under my command from the coup. I need to bring something to the core. Safety, order, I don't know, but you and I are men of conscience. We can't just sit back and watch the world burn."

"I need you to lead them. I can't trust anyone else in the galaxy with this. Just you and Miranda."

[member="Marcus Itera"]

 

[Marcus Itera]

Cyril had a point. The man had truly attempted to stay consistent with his behavior and requests. The motivation behind his musings in politics and whatnot were known to both Marcus and Miranda, who oftentimes begrudgingly accepted the difficult tasks he asked of them. Of course there was always compensation, but the principle was still there. Maybe Marcus needed to be part of something big again? Life was getting too easy, too boring. Miranda had said something about him getting soft a few days prior and he threw a fit, pouted, and had been venting his anger in the gym ever since.

After a few more moments of listening intently, still scarfing down chips, he immediately stopped. Him leading the 501st? What the frell?

"Whoa, that's a pretty big request, man." He whistled through his teeth. "A tall order; me being the leader of the famed legion that nearly wiped out the Jedi centuries ago. You know me, I'm no leader and I can hardly stand to be around other people as it is."

He waited for Miranda to chime in but she didn't. Marcus could only wonder what was going through her mind.

[member="Darth Mephirium"]

 

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Cyril made a noise that might have been a laugh. He leaned back in his chair, looking at Marcus as if the man had just told him that a third arm was growing out of his forehead. Though he could not hear it, he felt the distinct silence of Miranda. He could always tell when his old friend was reacting to the AI's words. It didn't show much -- a simple flexing of his jaw, a shifting of his eyes, but there was always a sign. So far as Cyil could tell, the talkative woman was silent.

"That's where I disagree with you Marcus," he began. "You are, and have always been a natural leader. There's a reason you're still alive when most of the other Dreadguard aren't. You're smart, you have experience, and you can talk your way out of things if you can't shoot your way out. The younger boys followed you, and others would to. You're an inspiring man, my friend; someone whom would make for a fine face of the legion."

Shaking his head, Cyril handed the whole bag over to Marcus. "I need you here with me. I can't do this alone; I need someone I can trust by my side. You and Miranda fit the bill. Can I count on you?"

[member="Marcus Itera"]

 

[Marcus Itera]

Perplexion. That was the only word Marcus could use to describe how he felt that very moment. Granted, it was a momentous occasion and being offered such a noble position was flattering in the extreme. But Marcus was not a noble man, he did not get along with others, and he hadn't been much of a team player ever since he'd gotten out of the Republic military. He looked out for his own sheb and there wasn't anything that could change that. Watching young men die on the battlefield once again because of orders he'd given was just something he couldn't do again. That was something you couldn't put a price tag on.

"I think we should do it."

Probably the worst time to chime in, Miranda. "Why in the frak should we? I'm tired of scraping brothers off the battlefield. They're all just boys. Husbands, brothers, sons. You've been there with me the entire way and now you want me to go back into that hell?" Marcus ground his teeth, his jaw growing taut as he squeezed the bag of chips. Metallic eyes turned back towards Cyril. "What do you plan on doing with these men?"

[member="Darth Mephirium"]

 

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"I am." Cyril replied, his gaze unwavering. In the past, he had shirked away from trying to get people to do what they did not want to. He excelled at it, but it had always left him feleing a bit disgusted with himself afterword. Now, though, he understood its necessity. Marcus was crucial, if not as a soldier than as confidant. He had no connection to the force -- he could rein Cyril in if he fell to far from sanity. No other man could do that without risking pain of death from the Sith Lord during his fits.

Besides, Marcus had killed Jedi before. His entire purpose for a time was to hunt down force sensitives, be it for the Confederacy, the Ession Reformation, the Republic, or whomever was pulling the strings at any given time. There was no one more suited to the task, and Mephirium would not have asked it of him if he did not think him capable.

"We are soldiers, Marcus. It's as much our duty to retake the core as it is in our blood," he sighed, "I intend to bring some semblance of order back to the disparate worlds; establish a successor state to the Republic and the One Sith -- with us calling the shots. Once we secure the core, we can let the wheels of democracy take hold once more."

[member="Marcus Itera"]

 

[Marcus Itera]

"Dammit," Marcus huffed. He couldn't let Cyril down like this. His ideals were always true and his actions tended to be more valiant than not, so this cause he was describing was definitely true. He was a man oft true to his word and it made the Dreadguard's gut wrench in guilt as he contemplated just telling his friend no and being done with the whole thing. It wasn't his fight anymore. The galaxy never needed he and his brothers before, so what made them change their mind all of a sudden?

"Yes. We'll do it."

The mercenary sighed once again, the veins in his temple throbbing. "There's your answer, I guess."

Miranda would never let him live with himself if he backed out from making history once again. At least it was for a good cause. And there'd better be nice compensation for getting him off his sheb to save the galaxy once again. It was starting to become a regular job, this was.

[member="Darth Mephirium"]

 

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Despite all his certainty, Mephirium felt a weight leave his shoulder. Having Marcus on his side was a huge boon, not to mention that he simply missed his old friend's company. He clapped a strong hand on his friend's shoulder and pulled him into a man-hug. "Good man! Thank you. I knew you wouldn't let me down. Besides, maybe now I can get you into a proper house. You'll love the pay, too." He smiled, drawing back from his old friend.

"Good call, Miranda," Cyril snickered, turning to tune up the volume on the holo-vision. "We'll discuss all this later. For now, I just want to relax. You can tell me all about your recent ventures, and when you plan on proposing to Miranda." He snorted, sinking back into the fabric of the leather couch without a care in the world.

His biggest worry had been assuaged. With Marcus by his side, the 501st would be as formidable as it had been during the days of the clone wars. He grinned.

"You know it's legal know; cyborg marriage, I mean."

[member="Marcus Itera"]