Citadel of Rust
Posted on Fri Oct 10th, 2025 @ 9:39pm by Bomoor Thort & Mentis & Thane & Amare & Reave & Kalen "Rex" Vickers & G2-O7
Edited on on Fri Oct 10th, 2025 @ 10:18pm
2,741 words; about a 14 minute read
Chapter:
Chapter VIII: Broken Chains
Location: Mid-atmosphere layer of Bespin
Timeline: Week Two (Around a week after Irrikut)
Dropping through the thick upper cloud layer of Bespin, the Red Raptor’s viewports flashed white momentarily before being bathed in a swell of orange light reflected off the vast swells of orange and gold gas that rolled and folded like a living ocean. The air currents here were unpredictable, shifting and violent, but in spite of its age, the old ship slipped smoothly down through the turbulence until it reached the calmer strata of atmosphere where floating facilities could safely be built.
The co-ordinates Kip’s data ghost had provided them pointed to a drifting installation, its name recorded only as 'Cloud City'. From a distance, it appeared little more than a ruined shell: its giant disk-like structure was still intact, although with huge sectors of its outer structure collapsed inwards, its metal surfaces dulled with age and corrosion. At its base, a long probe-like protrusion stretched downwards, disappearing entirely into the thick tibanna fog below.
From within the cockpit, Bomoor’s deep eyes reflected the orange glow as he peered out at the ancient station before flicking down to the console in front of him.
“No comm signals. No life signs. No transponder beacons,” he stated, tapping the readout panel with firm frustration.
The wind softly howled outside against the Raptor’s hull as they drew closer, rocking slightly as they manually aimed for one of the docking platforms on the intact side of the station. Rex sat concentrating in the pilot’s chair, while G4-3K provided moment-by-moment stabilisation corrections to their pitch and roll to prevent an unhappy landing.
Rex’s hands hovered over the controls a few moments longer than necessary, as though he half-expected the ship to lurch away of its own accord. The readouts stayed flat. No movement. No signals. Just the muted hiss of the Bespin wind seeping through the hull’s insulation.
“Right,” he muttered, exhaling through his nose. “Quiet as a grave. You sure this is the right set of clouds?” His tone wavered between irritation and apprehension, the usual cynicism masking something closer to superstition.
From beneath the console, a soft series of clicks and guttural chirps answered — Reave’s contribution. The Jawa’s gloved hands emerged, tapping twice against the console before retreating again, the gesture clear enough: Right place. Bad feeling.
“Yeah, yeah, I know,” Rex said, leaning back in the chair. “You always get bad feelings.” He rubbed at his chin, then glanced out through the viewport. The dark silhouette of the ruined city floated before them, its once-proud spires bowed under centuries of neglect. “Still… you might be onto something this time.”
He turned slightly in his seat, lowering his voice. “Tell you what, pal - you stay sharp. Last thing I need is another karkin’ ghost story turnin’ real on me.”
Reave’s only answer was a brief, scratchy huff - annoyance, most likely - before the little scavenger scurried off, cloak fluttering as he went to prepare gear for the descent. Cigarra smoke wafted back into the cockpit within a few seconds. Rex concluded the landing.
Even with corrections, the ship had juddered harder as they slowed to match the platform’s own movement, forcing Bomoor to widen his stance.
“And no active guidance systems either,” he murmured. “If anyone’s here, they’re not interested in being found.”
The ship touched down with a hiss of pressure equalisation. The docking clamps engaged, echoing dully through the hull. Outside now was an empty platform and a walkway that led to the station, devoid of life and sound besides the wind and the occasional groan of the ancient structure under strain.
Thane stood behind them, silent until now. His reflection stretched thin across the glass - pale skin, golden eyes, and the dark cowl he slowly pulled up over his head. The gesture was deliberate, almost ritualistic.
He stepped closer to the viewport, watching the battered form of Cloud City looming and stretching through the haze. What had once been the shining jewel of the OldnEmpire’s industrial ambitions - a bastion of tibanna refinement and political indulgence - now drifted like a carcass above a sea of gold. Its underbelly had been torn open in places, leaking faint wisps of vapour that curled into the storm below.
“This place was once called a paradise,” he said at length, voice low and even. “Luxury, profit, civility... all suspended above a world of storms.” His gaze flicked toward the dead towers. “But the Force still slips through the rotting cracks," he said, glancing at Bomoor, knowing his friend must sense the same." "Destiny was woven into this city’s bones once. Every triumph and betrayal, every death and deal, echoing still."
He let the silence linger. The Raptor creaked softly as it settled fully in its resting spot.
“Yes, not abandoned...” he murmured, half to himself. His eyes narrowed. “Something surely still breathes in there. Waiting.”
The cowl shadowed his face fully now, leaving only the faint glimmer of his eyes. He turned from the viewport, the robe’s fabric whispering against itself as he moved to prepare himself.
Rex swivelled the pilot’s chair around halfway, his boots squeaking against the deck plating. He watched the others for a moment before clearing his throat.
“Y’know,” he started, tone carefully casual, “someone oughta stay behind. Keep the engines warm. Just in case.” He gestured vaguely toward the viewport, where the orange clouds churned. “Place like this? Air currents shift, pressure drops, all that fun stuff. Last thing we need is the Raptor getting peeled off the platform while you lot are poking around.”
The excuse came easily, but his hands betrayed him; they lingered too long on the console, fingers drumming against its edge as if to keep rhythm with his nerves. “Besides,” he added, “if things go sideways - and let’s face it, they usually do with you guys - I can bring her round. Quick pickup, some covering fire if needed. You’ll thank me later.”
Bomoor glanced at the Human only briefly before answering, "Reasonable enough."
He then leaned in towards Mentis, who had curled himself into the seat behind Rex, with one foot up on the seat as he observed he scene.
"You, however, will be joining us," the Ithorian nodded firmly, "Even if you have no knowledge of this place, it is still a cult operation and you might spy something we might otherwise disregard."
The Rattataki allowed his leg to fall to meet the other on the floor.
"Of course," he nodded, "Everything in that data packet aligns with how my old master operates: unassuming and harmless on the surface, but great power and threat beneath. I'm ready to strike back at them. Let's make them bleed."
Bomoor felt a bump on the back of his leg and he turned to see G2-O7 staring up at him with it's round red optical lens.
"You too, eh?" he queried, "Are you sure? I thought you hate leaving the ship, particularly after Korriban."
G2 backed off slightly, shaking its orb-like chassis and whirring low binary beeps before straightening up again to look at the towering Ithorian. It buzzed out a pair of short, confident chirps.
Bomoor hummed, allowing himself some amusement at the usually-nervous little droid, "I imagine all that newly surfaced data from Kip is weighing you down. Probably feel there's something you have to do in there? Very well, it may be wise to have a droid along to slice some of the old circuits in there."
He turned to Thane, "I don't quite know what to expect, but I'm ready to head in if you are."
Thane’s gaze flicked toward G2 as the astromech gave its determined little chirps. His expression thinned into something between disapproval and resignation.
“Of course,” he muttered. “Every crusade needs a loyal robot.” The word was bitten off with his usual distaste. “Just see that it doesn’t roll itself off the catwalk.” Still, despite the dry tone, his eyes lingered on the droid a moment longer. “Though… I suppose an extra interface may save us time. These old systems won’t open to us willingly.”
He straightened, drawing his hood tighter around his face as he turned toward Bomoor. “Very well. Let's go in as quietly as we can. No reliable schematics survived the centuries, and what records the archives had were inconsistent - reconfigurations, private expansions, sabotage.” He gestured toward the viewport where the ragged spires of Cloud City loomed. “We’re on the outer ring, away from the central hub. Safer, for now. But close enough that if anything still moves in there, it will not take long to notice us.”
He gave one last glance at Rex, who was feigning nonchalance as he double-checked the sensors. “Keep the comms clear, Vickers. If we’re not back within six hours, you lift off and circle until contact.”
Without waiting for a reply, Thane turned and led the way to the passenger ramp, which began its mechanical descent from beneath the cockpit. The dull hiss of hydraulics filled the chamber as the ramp extended into the storm. The moment it sealed against the platform, the Bespin wind howled through the opening — cold, metallic, carrying the scent of ozone and rust.
The group stepped out into it one by one. Cloaks whipped violently around them, G2’s frame humming as it compensated against the gusts. Reave followed behind, the butt of his colossal BlasTech repeating rifle clanging against the ramp as he waddled down, cigarra glowing faintly under his wide hat.
Thane paused at the threshold, the storm tugging at his robes. He looked sidelong at Bomoor — his oldest companion, his unlikely mirror in the Force. The Ithorian stood solid against the gale, steady and composed despite the howling chaos around them.
“It is good to have you here,” Thane said quietly, the words almost lost to the wind, just audible enough for him to hear. “When we chose this path, I thought perhaps I had doomed you to it. But now…” He glanced outward, toward the vast, broken city drifting in the storm. “Now I see I was perhaps more afraid of walking it without you.”
He stepped down onto the platform, the metal reverberating beneath his boots.
The catwalk stretched ahead, narrow and trembling underfoot. Each step sent a hollow clang into the open void below, the sound swallowed by the endless expanse of orange storm clouds that churned like a living sea. Far above, lightning traced faint veins through the sky, their glow illuminating the city — rusted durasteel, sagging conduits, the glint of ancient repulsor arrays still holding their vigil after centuries of neglect.
Thane stopped halfway across, the wind tearing at his cloak. He stared out across the vast, broken city. Whole sectors hung open to the air, their support frames exposed like ribs jutting through old flesh. Faded banners clung limply to cracked durasteel towers, whispering the last breaths of forgotten commerce.
“This was the height of civilisation once,” he said with a grimace. “A triumph of will and wealth. Sentients built paradise on a storm and called it security.” His voice was low, but the others could hear the current beneath it - that familiar blend of admiration and disdain. “Now it floats like a relic… a monument to the same illusions that consumed the Old Republic. The same that the Third tries to resurrect.”
He turned slightly, his golden eyes reflecting the dim lightning flicker. “The Cult will fit right in.”
The wind rose again, snapping the edges of his cloak. He looked ahead, toward the shadowed archway that marked the station’s entrance. “Come,” he said at last, his tone firm, purposeful, knowing he was the one dallying.
The wind shrieked like a living thing as the group made their way across the trembling catwalk. Behind them, the Red Raptor’s passenger ramp retracted with a metallic groan, the hiss of the pressure seal lost in the storm’s cry. For a fleeting moment, the ship’s running lights flared across the metal Expanse, then winked out, leaving only the diffuse glow of Bespin’s burning clouds around them.
Reave trudged along near the rear, his small frame nearly swallowed by the massive blaster slung across his shoulder. The weapon looked absurdly large in his gloved hands, the long barrel glinting orange in the light of the gas storms. The Jawa’s cloak whipped violently about him, revealing flashes of bandoliers and jury-rigged power cells as he waddled forward with stubborn purpose. The smoke of his cigarra whipped sideways in the wind. Through the shadows of his hat, his twin golden eyes burned like coals - restless, watchful, predatory.
Ahead, the first entryway loomed through the haze: a set of heavy blast doors half-sunk into the platform’s side, their surface scarred with centuries of corrosion. The group slowed as they approached, their boots clanging dully against the deck. Reave actually raised a hand, motioning for silence. Only the groan of stressed durasteel and the distant rumble of thunder answered.
G2 rolled forward, his dome swivelling in brief acknowledgement. The little droid extended his scomp link and drove it into the rusted terminal beside the door. Sparks crackled from the ancient interface as he began to work, his low chirps and whistles echoing off the metal walls. Old lights flickered reluctantly to life - first amber, then blue - as dust cascaded down from the frame.
“Make it quick,” Thane murmured, his voice low under the wind’s roar. “If there’s power, there may be eyes.”
A final chime from G2, and the first of the doors shuddered open, exhaling a stale, cold draft that smelled of metal and decay. Beyond lay only shadow.
Nearby, something stirred.
Beneath a neighbouring platform, where the wind screamed through broken girders and lengths of snapped conduit hung like entrails, a shape shifted in the gloom. A figure dangled amid the tangle of cabling, its limbs unnaturally long, its silhouette twitching as though testing forgotten joints. Slow, deliberate movements betrayed a disturbing grace, the being's fingers coiling around the cables like a spider reclaiming its web.
Through the stormlight, a faint glimmer caught on something beneath its hood: metal, wet and irregular, a reflection not of flesh but of something fashioned. Its head tilted at an angle too sharp to be natural, observing the small line of figures crossing the outer walkway.
When the Raptor’s ramp sealed and the party vanished into the waiting structure, the figure remained still for several seconds — a shadow suspended in the storm. Then, with a wet creak of muscle and metal, it twisted itself upward and began to climb.
The cabling trembled. The wind carried a hiss, too faint to be words, but heavy with hunger.
The interlopers were not alone.
"Predator or prey?" came softly the feminine voice of Thane's dark Sith heir as her oily solid black eyes followed the strange being's ascent. When she caught Thane's grim attention, Amare smirked at him, pulling back her black hood. "What? You didn't think I would skip out on this little excursion, did you?"
She was flushed with pride that no one on the ship had appeared to have noticed her departure, but she knew her master could feel her presence even if she were a straw in a haystack miles away.
The group slowed to a halt at Amare’s voice before the narrow doorway leading from the landing platform into the city proper. G2 whirred faintly hoping to usher them quickly inside. For a few moments, no one spoke, only listened. The only sounds were the groan of settling metal and the soft hiss of air moving through the cracks in the structure.
Bomoor’s brow furrowed as he glanced into the shadows beyond. “There may still be ancient droids or mechanisms operating here,” he said evenly. “If so, that’s a good sign that the cult is around, keeping the place from completely collapsing.”
He turned back toward Amare, eyeing the eager young woman with a knowing nod. “I’d have been surprised if you’d missed a chance for a fight. Good. Because this time, we are most definitely the predators.”
TBC
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