“So,” I said lightly as I leaned back in the chair, letting it creak under my weight, and folded my arms across my chest. “let’s walk through it again. You stumble across a Jedi with no preparation or backup, with no special gear available—just what you normally carry on a job as a Mandalorian bounty hunter. What do you do?”
Boba frowned, brows knitting together as his eyes drifted upward, the scenario I had just described playing out in his head. He took this very seriously—amusingly so. After a moment, he nodded to himself.
“I… throw a sonic grenade.” he said slowly, gaining more and more conviction as spoke, words coming more smoothly now. “Then I find cover. The loud noise should at the very least disturb their concentration and allow me to retreat. While I’m moving, I use a flamethrower to keep pressure on them. If I am lucky, I might burn them. If not, it still forces them to defend themselves rather than chasing me.”
I hummed approvingly.
“Good, that’s actually a decent start of the engagement.” I said, nodding my head. “Alright. You’ve made it to cover, but the Jedi’s still alive, probably pretty annoyed too. What’s next?”
Boba straightened a little, shoulders squaring. He was warming up now, momentum building.
“I throw explosives,” he said. “Not directly at them—around them. They will force them to react, having to deal with multiple threats at once. Then I use my jetpack to gain height and shoot them with my blaster—”
“No.” I shook my head, interrupting the boy before he could go any further.
Boba blinked, thrown off. “No?”
“No,” I repeated firmly, using my ‘teacher’ voice to cut through his excitement. “Do not use a blaster on a Jedi unless you absolutely have to.”
He winced as the realization hit him, lips pressing together. “Because… lightsabers.”
“Exactly.” I nodded once. “Blasters are flashy, not to mention predictable. Jedi are trained from childhood to react to bolts—more often than not, they are able to either deflect them or send them right back into your face.” I raised a finger. “That’s why you must always carry a slugthrower. They can’t be casually bounced away at a convenient angle. Jedi can still dodge them, sure. They can still stop them with the Force if they’re fast and focused enough. But now they have to think. You’ve dragged them out of their comfort zone, and that hesitation is where you kill them.”
Boba nodded, absorbing that, then scratched the back of his head.
“Okay… yeah, that makes sense.” His eyes lit up again almost immediately. “But what if I’m wearing cortosis armor? Then reflected bolts aren’t really a problem, right?”
I sighed.
“Even assuming you somehow get your hands on cortosis armor,” I said patiently, “it’s not the ultimate solution you think it is. First of all, reflected bolts are still bright. Bright enough to ruin your visibility, something you do not want to happen while fighting a Force user.”
He grimaced. “Right.”
“Second,” I continued, raising another finger, “Your armor might be protected, but your jetpack will not be made of cortosis. If a bolt hits it— and it might very well do if we take the Force into account— you will most likely get slammed into a wall at terminal velocity due to some very unlikely system malfunction. Because that’s how the Force works- it meddles with probability a lot.”
His expression visibly paled. “…Oh.”
“And third,” I said, leaning back again, voice calm. “Jedi don’t just deflect. They push and pull, even if they are too self-righteous to use those powers creatively. If you give them time to focus, cortosis or not, you’re dead.”
I let that sink in before finishing.
“That’s why you stick to threats they can’t casually respond to, such as slugthrowers, remotely triggered explosives or timed rockets. Multiple attack vectors. It will force them to multitask, giving you an opportunity to kill them.”
Boba was nodding slowly now, the earlier excitement tempered into something more grounded.
“…Right,” he said after a moment. “Sorry. I got ahead of myself.”
“Don’t worry about it.” I said, waving my hand dismissively. “You’re enthusiastic, not stupid. It’s a very big difference, something you will learn when you are older.” I glanced at him, a faint smirk tugging at my mouth. “Besides, I did agree to teach you. Correcting bad habits before they get you killed is kind of part of the deal.”
Why was I teaching Boba how to kill Jedi?
It started, as many things did, with a job well done and too much free time afterward.
After our little excursion with Aurra and Boba, we found no particularly compelling reason to immediately part ways. Nar Shaddaa was generous with bounty hunter work if you knew where to look, while I was still waiting on two unresolved matters: the Jedi Relics situation, which was stuck in bureaucratic limbo, and the increasingly theatrical antics of my stalkers, who seemed determined to turn my life into an elaborate scavenger hunt.
Since we had some time to spare and our contributions made Aurra’s job a breeze, we took a handful of local contracts together. It was all pleasant enough, but hunting lowlifes eventually lost its charm. As such, I eventually made the executive decision to hand Raksh over to Aurra’s supervision for a bit, mostly because a good minion needed to learn how to function without his master hovering nearby.
Aurra was competent, ruthless, and had a very clear understanding of what a heavily armored Flesh Raider could and could not do, so it was a good learning environment.
And while Raksh and Aurra began taking jobs together, I enjoyed my stay on Nar Shaddaa. The casinos were happy to take—and required to reluctantly give—credits, pleasure dens were as varied as ever, and the Moon-City remained gloriously indifferent to one’s identity, history, or crimes, so long as payment was prompt. I reacquainted myself thoroughly with all of the Smuggler’s Moon’s vices.
As for Boba—
Well…after our first successful job, Aurra and I discovered that we worked quite well together off the battlefield too. Apparently, watching a Sith dismantle an entire criminal operation with savage brutality did wonders for her libido, something rather common when it came to Dark Siders.
One thing led to another, as it often does, and I found myself spending a respectable number of nights at her place. Partly because of pleasure—that woman was like a feral Nexu under the sheets—but also because her bed was, objectively, far superior to mine.
After one such night, I found myself in her kitchen the following morning, eating something that might generously be described as breakfast, only to be approached by Boba. He watched me for a moment, then took a breath and asked me—very directly—for advice on how to fight Jedi.
I won’t lie— It tugged at my heartstrings to see such earnest sincerity when it came to murder.
So, naturally, I agreed immediately.
We kept our lessons theoretical, of course. After all, siccing a child on Force-users would have been very irresponsible of me…that, and kidnapping Padawans for live demonstrations would have required a level of effort I simply wasn’t willing to invest.
So instead, I taught him theory—both what I had learned personally and what I had learned from people who made a very respectable living killing Jedi.
We talked about disruption, ambushes and layered contingencies, about hostages as weapons against a Jedi’s priorities. We discussed what traps worked best and what to never rely on. I even told him how to push Jedi emotionally—with anger, fear and desperation—so that they leaned on the Dark Side without realizing it, losing their focus.
All the usual stuff.
In the process, I learned a few things about Boba too. Things that, in hindsight, explained rather a lot about the boy and his ambitions.
He told me—very matter-of-factly—that he was a clone. That his father had been the genetic template for the Empire’s slave army and that said father had been killed by Mace Windu at the outbreak of the war.
He also told me that said father had been a Mandalorian, a famous bounty hunter and—depending on how much faith one placed in the testimony of an understandably biased child—either a Mand’alor, a near-Mand’alor, or something so close that the distinction barely mattered. Apparently some internal schism had driven him away from Mandalorian society before his death.
It was all very interesting. Largely useless to me, practically speaking—every clone possessed their own distinct presence in the Force, so it would be impossible to control them through Boba by using some suitably powerful ritual—but interesting nonetheless.
Still, Boba’s lineage did provide us with some additional avenues when it came to Jedi-killing.
“You know,” I said casually. “there is another way you could get your revenge. At least If you’re willing to wait a few years.”
That was already a strike against the idea, judging by his expression, but I continued.
“You’re Mandalorian,” I said, giving him a look. “Or close enough that no one who matters would argue the point. And according to your stories, your father had influence there once. Something quite valuable, as legacy matters to Mandalorians. Probably more than it should, if I’m being honest.”
Boba frowned, suspicion flickering behind his eyes. “What are you saying?”
“I’m saying,” I replied evenly. “that instead of hunting Jedi with only your mother for support, you could aim higher. Much higher. When you become an adult, you can try to unite Mandalorians—claim the title your father walked away from.”
His eyes widened despite himself. “…You say I should become Mand’alor.”
“Exactly.” I nodded. “With the army of Mandalorians at your side, hunting one Jedi master would be a breeze. And even if it won’t be, you can simply declare a Mandalorian crusade. They have an impressive track record of drastically reducing Jedi numbers.”
Boba went quiet, clearly turning the idea over in his head. Then his expression hardened again.
“Even if I was to succeed, that would take years.” he said, frustration creeping into his voice. “Windu might not even be alive by then. And I want Windu dead now.”
“Perfectly understandable,” I said mildly, raising my hands in mock-surrender. “I’m not suggesting you abandon your current plan. By all means—pursue it. Give it everything you’ve got.”
I shrugged.
“But if it fails,” I added, “and you survive… you’ll still have options. Heavily armored, organized options full of very violent people who hate Jedi.”
Boba stared down at the table, silent now, clearly giving the idea a thought.
“…I’ll think about it,” he muttered at last.
I smiled to myself—helping a young, confused Mandalorian rediscover his roots felt quite nice.
***
After Aurra and Raksh returned from their latest job, I took my minion back to the Second Talon, suspecting Aurra wanted to spend some time with her son.
Since Raksh’s armor was covered with drying blood, bits of viscera clinging stubbornly to the plating, I hosed him down on the landing pad, streams of water sluicing gore from durasteel and flesh. He protested briefly when the water was cold, then relaxed once it warmed, eye-stalks drooping.
After that we entered the ship. Since it was late, I began to tell him some stories about my dark reign, describing various planets that burned in my name. At first Raksh listened raptly, but eventually his breathing had deepened into a steady, thunderous rhythm.
By the time I reached the part about Voss, he was snoring. I draped a heavy blanket over him—custom-fitted, of course—gave his muscular shoulder a final pat, and left him to dream of carnage.
With my minion taken care of, I left the Second Talon behind, deciding it was finally time to address the matter of my stalkers, who had been following me since my arrival at Nar Shaddaa.
Of course, “addressing” them was easier said than done. I couldn’t simply seize one of the beggars, slaves, or half-mad scavengers admiring me from afar and demand answers. That would be just crude, not to mention boring.
Worse—it would break the game. After all, whatever handsome genius was responsible for designing the trail I was being expected to follow, he had clearly made a considerable effort to build a sense of satisfying progression for the player, with challenging yet fair rules behind the whole thing.
No, it was only proper to properly finish the trial, if only out of respect for the amazing creator.
The previous clue, one that had been hidden in the meal I was having when negotiating with Aurra, led me to a run-down clinic in one of the moon’s lower levels, so I began there.
As it so conveniently happened, the place was in crisis. A strange plague had broken out among the patients—something aggressive, fast-spreading, and deeply resistant to conventional medicine. I cured it in under an hour, with no casualties no less, as Sith Alchemy, when applied correctly, was brutally efficient.
It earned me a surge of gratitude from the nameless masses and another clue, hidden within a surgical log.
From there, I was led to the residence of some random slave trader, predictably expected to kill the man. Since the entire place reeked of suffering, both fresh and old, I found no reason to refuse, reducing him to the smear on the wall. I took a vial of his blood and left the residence, only to find a datapad with the riddle on the threshold.
It directed me to a garbage processing sector. I freed some slaves there, which, in turn, led me to the lair of a serial killer—someone who had been murdering the poor for sport. Another sign awaited me there, etched into rusted plating with care.
And so it went for a while, every task leading to another.
Predictably, the theme of every activity, if you gave it some thought, was ‘cleaning the rot.’ A bit unsubtle, perhaps—but then again, It was one of the organization’s core tenets and the amazing creator was, in the end, bound by those tenets when designing the game.
By the time I reached the promenade, I was smiling openly beneath my helmet.
The hunt had been well-constructed. After all, it provided a respectable balance of investigation and violence, mixing thought and action in the correct ratio. It was also quite a novel feeling to experience the game from the player’s perspective, especially with the game’s latter stages being almost identical to the framework I remembered.
It was all quite nostalgic, really.
My target, an old bench, sat at the edge of a wide pedestrian thoroughfare, one of those strange spaces that were neither destination nor transit point, just a place where bodies flowed endlessly past one another.
The bench itself was old, scarred by decades of neglect and casual vandalism, bolted firmly into the deck plating as if someone had feared it might be stolen. And carved neatly into the backrest was the sigil—symbol of a jagged blade that I instantly recognized.
Since there was no longer any need to hurry, I leisurely sat on the bench. There, I folded my hands, closed my eyes, and let the city wash over me, patiently waiting for the woman who had been following me from the shadows to reveal herself. Vendors shouted prices. Speeders roared overhead. Somewhere nearby, someone laughed Somewhere else, someone cried. Two levels down, someone was stabbed.
Then, almost imperceptibly, the air beside me shifted.
It was not a dramatic change—there was no sudden ripple in the Force, no displacement of pressure. One moment, the bench beside me was empty. The next, it wasn’t, as someone was sitting there.
She had taken the seat with casual precision, posture relaxed, shoulders loose—perfectly synchronized with the rhythm of passing pedestrians. It was as if she had always been there, and reality had simply corrected itself to acknowledge the fact.
It was, in its own way, very impressive, especially because she had done it the hard way.
There was no Force technique at work here—in fact, she wasn’t Force-sensitive at all. The effect had been achieved through mundane acrobatics, impeccable timing, and a practiced understanding of how crowds flowed.
More likely than not, the woman was a very skilled assassin.
I had felt her long before she appeared through the Force, as I could sense a tight, trembling coil of anticipation and reverence wrapped around cold, ceremonial purpose and shadow of doubt. But it wasn’t really a point against her—I was quite certain she could mask her emotions far more skillfully if her target were anyone else.
“Its roots rot the city,” the woman intoned, head bowed beneath the deep hood of her cloak. Her voice was melodic and carefully measured, each syllable placed with ritual precision. “And rot must be—”
“Ah, right,” I interrupted mildly, lifting one hand in an apologetic gesture. “I remember writing that part, so we can probably save ourselves some time.”
She faltered slightly—just the slightest hitch in posture—but I felt it all the same. Her cadence wavered, momentum stalling as surprise punched clean through her composure.
“Rot must be purged, cleansed, and excised with righteous violence,” I continued helpfully. “Then there’s the part about the cradle drowning in blood. Followed by the bit about steel singing truth into flesh.”
Her presence in the Force spiked—confusion turning into shock, shock spiraling into dawning horror. She inhaled sharply, breath catching before she could stop it, the woman utterly unprepared for the sudden derailment.
“Then,” I went on conversationally, leaning back slightly, “you send me to enact the cleansing personally.”
I reached into my robe and withdrew a small vial of dark liquid, holding it up between two fingers. The blood inside caught the ambient neon glow of the promenade, glinting red as it shifted.
“But that would be tedious, not to mention it would derail the whole ordeal quite a bit, with me wandering through the streets in search of a correct blood donor.” I added lightly. “So here is a blood sample from the slaver you had me kill during the previous step.”
Her composure shattered as anticipation spiked violently into panic, discipline cracking as the whole script unravelled in her hands.
“W–wait—!” she stammered, voice pitching upward, cadence collapsing entirely. “That’s not— I mean—”
“And then,” I continued cheerfully, utterly unbothered, “you present me with the moral dilemma. There would be two captives— one wealthy, one and one poor. The correct answer, of course, is to kill both, because s they are both responsible for some metaphorical rot—”
“Lord Imperius, please stop!” she all but squeaked, the last word breaking entirely.
I paused at last, turning my helmet just enough to regard her properly.
Whatever carefully cultivated composure she’d carried into this encounter had completely collapsed. Her presence in the Force had gone completely haywire, mortification crashing headlong into reverence, embarrassment knotting itself around awe and devotion until the whole thing became a tangled mess. The neat, disciplined coil of anticipation she’d been holding unraveled into a frantic knot. I could practically hear the gears in her head grinding to a halt, the woman realizing she had broken her character in front of the being she had probably spent her entire life venerating.
Her shoulders sagged as the realization fully set in. Slowly, she lifted her hands and drew back her hood.
The neon glow of the promenade washed over her features. Red skin, deep crimson and smooth, caught the light, the color rich and vibrant against the surroundings, with stark black patterns tracing her cheekbones and temples. Twin lekku fell over her shoulders, similarly patterned, twitching faintly with barely restrained emotion.
Her eyes were a vivid, luminous red, bright with intensity and now wide with horror, framed by dark markings that gave her gaze a perpetually fierce intensity. A thin metal circlet rested against her forehead, inset with a small emblem I remembered designing. Her robes were dark and practical, layered with obvious care—cut to conceal weapons along her slender frame without restricting movement. Assassin’s attire, refined through both doctrine and experience.
She stared at me for exactly half a second, our eyes meeting for a heartbeat—
—and then she folded completely. Her hands flew up to her face, palms pressing hard against her features as she buried it completely, letting out a soft, agonized groan. Her lekku drooped in unmistakable misery, curling slightly inward like wilted leaves.
“I cannot believe this,” she lamented, voice muffled and thick with mortification. “I practiced that introduction for days. The cadence, the timing, the pauses—everything. And now I’ve embarrassed myself in front of you, Lord Imperius!”
“Don’t say that—you did great,” I said sincerely. Beneath my helmet, a genuine smile tugged at my lips. “The entrance was flawless—especially considering you didn’t use the Force. That takes real skill. And I recognized exactly where the speech was going. It would have looked beautiful.”
That, unfortunately, did not help.
If anything, she collapsed further in on herself, pressing her face more firmly into her hands as a small, wounded whimper escaped her. Her shoulders drew tight, posture stiffening as she struggled to square herself with the valiant dignity of someone desperately trying not to collapse into a screaming heap in the middle of a public promenade.
As I waited, indulgently, allowing my faithful to compose herself, I leaned back against the bench, folding my arms and smiling beneath my helmet.
Perhaps this wasn’t the reunion either of us had envisioned, but it was quite comforting to know that after more than three thousand years, the Cult of the Screaming Blade—the one I had taken from Paladius and reforged to serve my purposes—was still alive and well…
…Almost well, I amended silently, glancing at the despairing cultist beside me.
***
Twi'lek cultist: