[Outpost 213, Lykans Sector]
There were more than a few things running through the hooded figure's mind as he left the tavern behind. Leaving the coin was less so a necessity and more a formality on his part. The Brotherhood of Starcrow was not a particularly aggressively expanding organisation, content to hide away in their hidden worlds, so it was understood that he was simply visiting 'on business'.
Even if said business involved freeing people from their expired lease on that thing called life. Well, morality was a luxury that those in this chaotic era could hardly afford. It had never fed his starving mouth, had never granted him strength in his times of need.
He had seen those who, out of generosity, gave away their scraps of mouldy bread. And when they died, he saw what those who lived off of his charity did to his body.
Hunger makes beasts of man.
He had never suffered from such a misconception as morality. He took what he had, clawed it from tightly gripped hands no less desperate than himself. Many had died so that he could live, but what of it? A drop in an ocean's worth of death and suffering.
And now, having long left those times behind, he still continued his work. He had no particular motivation either, nothing more than a lingering attachment to the place that found him. And, of course, a fervent longing for that sharp, euphoric sensation of snuffing out the spark of life.
The dome of the outpost stretched overhead, far larger than it seemed, the only protection against the harsh vacuum of space.
It is starry tonight. Good.
He had long since proven himself capable, but this mission Father Hux had entrusted him with was critical beyond compare. The stakes exceeded anything he had ever done, there would not be a margin for error. He could not fail, he would not fail.
Father Hux had granted him unprecedented access to their archives, even unsealing the knowledge that had remained forbidden. The gravity of his demeanour had instilled in him a similar seriousness which, upon learning what it is he truly faced, only compounded.
The Beacon...if that about his Pact is true, he may be even more of a threat than the Godling Zahto Zen. Well, we killed him too, we can kill his little protege.
Even an Astrozyx falls from a needle into the brain, there is no need for a contest of strength. All are equal in death, and Starcrow heralds only a single outcome:
The Beacon's light will be extinguished from the galaxy.
The hooded figure had taken a few turns into the shifting, maze-like back-alleys. Here, the limited electricity of the Outpost was cut off, rendering the entire area cloaked under an almost impenetrable darkness.
Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.
Almost being the operative word.
The hooded figure could still see as clear as day, so long as the stars shone overhead.
A starry night bodes well, after all.
"I see you."
His voice split the silence like a blade, but only a slight gust of wind blew in response. Sighing, he motioned lazily with his hand, conjuring a spike of flowing darkness that embedded into one of the walls.
"I'm just here to talk, that's all."
At last, a squeaky voice finally replied, slightly out of breath but noticeably relieved.
"Talk? Oh, is that all? That's fine then you can-"
It paused mid sentence, continuing wryly.
"Waait a minute...is 'talk' another euphemism for 'kill'? You sly dog, you almost got me!"
"Ah well," the hooded figure sighed. "It was worth a try."
The squeaky voice split into a chorus, laughing as they scattered.
"Well, since you've made your move, The Rules Dictate: it is my turn now!"
Ignoring the nonsense, the hooded figure clenched his fist, expecting to drive the spike home and end it in one blow. Instead, as he did so, the spike simply dissolved back into formless shadow, causing the hooded figure to grit his teeth.
I can't move!
The chorus of high-pitched voices spoke up in a condescending tone.
"Now, now. No cheating allowed! Only one person can move at a time, that's basic rules!"
"Rules?" the hooded figure groused out. "If that's how it is, then so be it. This way is better anyways."
"Ohhhh," the voices taunted. "A confident one we have here? We'll see how he fares after we relieve him of the burden of living!"
***
Back in the tavern, the bartender put down his now empty glass of namango juice. Picking up a decrepit looking dial phone, he searched around before finding a piece of scrap paper in the register. Inputting the numbers scrawled onto it in the phone, he let it ring.
It only took a few before the call was picked up, the bartender speaking into the receiver in a low tone without waiting.
"Just got a tip, Starcrow are doing a job here tonight. It won't interfere with the plans, right?"
There was static before a masked voice replied.
"No, this is good. A distraction is exactly what we need. With the Hive Confederacy in shambles, we won't get a better opportunity than this."
The bartender opened his mouth and closed it again. After a bit of deliberation, he finally made up his mind.
"You certain about this forecast? We all saw what happened to their last fleet, even with their Lostech."
The masked voice spoke in a chilling tone.
"Certain? Certainty is as much of a myth as peace and serenity. You know this. Our goal is liberation, do you understand? Do you think such a thing falls from the skies? No, we must wrench it from their revolting grasp. To do this, there is not a risk I am not willing to take, not a life I am not willing to give."
The bartender sighed, replying in a tired voice.
"Of course I understand, how can you question such a thing? It's just...exhausting, is all."
The voice on the phone was quiet for a while, static filling the silence.
"We will rest when it is done."
Closing his eyes and leaning back in his chair the bartender listened with an expression of grim acceptance as the voice continued.
"I will relay the message, then. Have a good sleep tonight, for it may be your last."
With that, the line cut and the bartender put the phone down. He glanced at the empty glass, unknown thoughts swirling behind his eyes. Eventually, he tore his gaze away, leaving it on the bar and turned to leave.
Pocketing that coin, he took a final look over that familiar place before turning out the last lamp and locking the door, leaving without another backwards glance.
His eyes were glazed, as though what he saw was not the present, but some point far in the future. Or perhaps the past. The two are, more often than not, the same after all.