All these years, all this blood, and where had it brought him? Back here, to Coruscant. Back
home.
The Mongrel started out of the rusted cruiser's viewport, looking down on the bright jewel at the center of known space as it came closer and closer. So many people, so much teeming traffic and commerce and
life. At its height, Coruscant had been home to a
trillion people. Even now, after so many wars and invasions and genocidal regimes, it was not so far from that number. It was still full of beings drawn from hundreds of species and cultures, all connected by the thrumming currents of trade, labor, politics, and recreation that drove life here.
The warlord could remember Coruscant only faintly, though that was no surprise; he only ever got hazy flashes of memory from back then. The Scripture of the Hidden Maw preached of the Galaxy To Come, the perfect paradise into which all who died in the Brotherhood's name would be reborn once all the corrupt regimes of the current era were burned down and ground into the dust. The Mongrel was caught between the Galaxy To Come and the Time Before, that time when he had not yet
been The Mongrel.
A time that had largely been plucked from his mind. The Mawite torturers had made certain of that.
But even then, the marauder-turned-warlord felt a stirring somewhere deep in his blood, a faint sense of recognition. His family had fled this place when he'd been young, escaping the One Sith invasion to seek refuge at the furthest edge of the galaxy. They'd failed, of course. War was an Avatar, one of the three guiding principles of the universe, and there was no escaping it. The proof was in the irony of that very moment: the boy who would become The Mongrel had fled Coruscant to escape the Sith, and now he'd returned to aid the next Sith attack.
The warlord was not given to introspection, but he found these thoughts difficult to shed. Half-remembered fragments continued to dance through his mind: the smell of artificial rain in a concrete hab block; the hum of a speeder bus engine, waiting to take him to school; proud smiles his parents wore when they read his report card. It was that last one that bothered him most, for he found that he could
only remember the smiles. The faces themselves were utterly lost to him; he could not have picked his own family out of a crowd.
Why did that bother him? It'd ceased to matter long ago.
The Mongrel finally shook off these distractions; there was no use dwelling on his own lost childhood when he was poised to make a hundred thousand fresh orphans. They had come to Coruscant not to conquer it, but to see it burn. They would teach the people of the Galactic Alliance that their corrupt, self-serving government was not so powerful as they believed. It could not protect them; only faith in the Maw could do that, delivering them into the coming paradise. At the same time, they would break the hated Jedi, crushing the very heart and soul of their order.
Well,
one of their orders. The first one to face them.
But the Jedi were not The Mongrel's concern, not in this particular battle. They would meet their fate at the hands of the Dark Voice and his secret order. The Warlord would instead ensure that Coruscant itself was ravaged to an extent that its people would never forget. It was time to crush infrastructure, pillage markets, and burn residential districts to the ground. Already his agents had scouted key locations throughout Galactic City for his marauders to target. Now, with the aid of their speeder trucks, they would rapidly destroy those targets.
After all, no one
walked anywhere on Coruscant.
"We're nearly there, suh," the man called Rotgut told him, breaking him out of his strategic considerations and melancholy alike. The Mongrel inclined his head, following the mangled marauder back to where the LuchsHai technicals were being prepped in the cargo bay. The warlord's burning gaze swept across the assembled slave-soldiers who would be his crew for this particular attack, sizing them up, judging their capabilities. He knew better than to dismiss any of the grubby, ragged-looking warriors; he had once been much like them.
The Mongrel's crimson visor lingered on the one called Iggy, the driver. He remembered this particular auxiliary, and he was surprised when it occurred to him
where he remembered the man
from: Port Sorrow, back on Rhand. Few of those who'd been on the ground there, amid the crashing station and colossal orbital bombardment, had managed to survive. The Mongrel had marked this man as one to watch back then, as he'd organized the loading of slaves from the port, and his survival meant that he was all the more interesting.
If he survived
this battle, they would have words.
"We ‘ave ‘bout two minutes till show time!” Rotgut said, and The Mongrel nodded in his direction. The man was perfect Scar Hound material, replacing his mangled physical form with unyielding metal, and the warlord was pleased with the crew Rotgut had chosen for him. Perhaps there was a place for him in the tribe proper. Again, if he survived. Turning to address his LuchsHai crew, The Mongrel pumped a mechanical fist over his head.
"This is the heart of 'civilized' decadence," he told them.
"Today, we make them bleed. When we've finished with them, they will never forget our wrath."
Sliding into the seat of the technical, The Mongrel prepared himself to drop into the fray. He was eager to feel the rush of wind against what little remained of his organic skin... and the rush in his blood that came with slaughter and plunder. But first, strategy. He opened a secure channel to one of his agents on the surface.
"Mercy," he said into his wrist comm, contacting the savage personality now inhabiting
Keilara Kala'myr
's body,
"report. Have you identified our key targets?" Mercy's scouting would be a key element in their attack.
As he sat, the warlord glanced over at "Iggy"... and spotted a sheaf of paper sticking slightly out of his breast pocket.
"A prayer?" he asked, wondering if it was some fanatical religious wish inscribed on the document. It was not uncommon among marauders to carry a scrap of parchment inscribed with curses upon their enemies, or requesting deliverance into paradise, with them into battle. Blood, they believed, would activate such an inscription, bringing vengeance upon their killers and ensuring passage for their souls into the Galaxy To Come.