Whispers of Industry

Posted on Sat Oct 18th, 2025 @ 10:39am by Reave & Thane & Bomoor Thort & Amare & Mentis & G2-O7

1,679 words; about a 8 minute read

Chapter: Chapter VIII: Broken Chains
Location: Cloud City, Bespin
Timeline: Week Two (Around a week after Irrikut)

OLD

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.”

NEW

Bathed in soft orange light filtering through a transparisteel ceiling window, a dissected spherical sculpture still proudly stood in place at the centre of the courtyard. Defiant against the clutter and the chaos that had encroached upon it over the years. The planters that surrounded the artistic installation had long since relinquished their greenery but this remaining icon of aesthetic pleasure spoke to the affluence of the civilisation that once called this place home.

This level of Cloud City was clearly where the people resided, relaxed and spent their earnings from the mountain of industry that lay below their feet. A millennia separated them, but now a new people set their eyes on that industry, not for pleasure, but for power.

The group from the Red Raptor slowed as they walked the perimeter of the courtyard; they had been loosely following their unusually-energetic astromech that appeared to have some sense of the direction they should be heading.

Mentis drifted to a halt, frustrating Reave, who had been following close behind and was forced to stop abruptly. The former cultist did not notice, his attention caught by a patch of wall bearing an esoteric symbol carved deeply into the outer layer. It seemed etched with heat: not the bubbled burn of lightsaber plasma, but rather superheated metal; rough edges but precise lines.

“I know this symbol,” Mentis declared, eyes wide as he reached for the memory it stirred. “This is not Axion’s mark, but I once saw him brand a disciple with it.”

Reflexively, his hand brushed the burn across his own face as he spoke more softly, “I was young. It is not the sort of thing one forgets.”

He turned back to the group, anger flickering in his mismatched eyes. “Apparently, it was an honour he bestowed.”

"The only mark worth bearing," Amare interjected in a relaxed tone, "is the Force burning its power into your soul." She closed her eyes, bowed her head slightly, and held forward an open palm. "And much has been burned here. I sense the dark side upon us, but it feels...distilled. Lacking. Nothing like it was on Korriban."

Bomoor had floated back to where Mentis and Amare stood by the symbol, a troubled expression growing on his face, perhaps at the multiple references to burning poking at psychological wounds not yet healed over.

"I tire of these fools trying to claim ownership over each other," he reached his fingers out so they felt the air just above the marks, without touching them directly, "Tired of letting others write our fate. Even the will of the Force..."

He stopped short of finishing his thought, tightening his fist and looking to Mentis.

"Don't close the memory off. If you remember the fear, you might just return to it," he instructed Mentis, his gaze becoming deeper as though peering deep into his informal apprentice, "Tell us what the symbol means. Who will we find here?"

Mentis shrugged uncomfortably, as though a chill had caught him and he stepped away from Bomoor and towards the light in the centre of the courtyard. He closed his eyes and thought again, while another hand fiddled for the leather wrap around his weapon's hilt.

"There was something else bestowed that day," he spoke with effort, "Something incredibly important. I think even the master was pained to part with it."

Thane,pulling back his hood, lingered at the rear of the group, the orange light crawling across his pallid features as if the dying sun itself strained to reveal the measure of him. He said nothing at first, only watched Bomoor move with deliberate calm and confidence - a steadiness born not of restraint, but of conviction. There was power in the Ithorian now, and not the timid, questioning light of old. It steadied Thane in turn, eased that quiet thread of isolation that had run through him since their return to Irrikut. Whatever else the Force had taken from them, it had left him a brother who no longer flinched from shadow.

His gaze drifted then to Mentis. The Rattataki’s words still hung in the air, brittle with remembered pain. Thane had no sympathy for the Cult’s former faithful, even this one who now claimed to fight against it. The line between victim and accomplice was always blurred, in Thane's mind, and Mentis carried that uncertainty like a stain beneath his scarred skin. Trust was a resource Thane had learned to ration long before even leaving the Jedi, and he had no intention of wasting it here. Yet he watched, and weighed, as one might a volatile reagent; dangerous, but perhaps still useful if handled with care.

He looked beyond them, to the courtyard’s bones. The sculpture at its centre gleamed faintly through the dust - a sphere dissected, its segments spread apart like a thing half-dissembled and left unfinished. The place was wrong. The Cult has always given him the impression that their chosen retreats would bear the marks of decadence; opulent halls and shrines to indulgence masquerading as enlightenment.

But this? This was austerity. Neglect as statement.

This place and it's manner felt chosen, deliberate. It was a hollow space repurposed to house something quieter, colder. Cloud City was not a temple; it was a machine, and he suspected the machinery still turned.

His eyes, ever glowing faintly gold with the deep stain of corruption, swept across the decay. His dark 'affliction' had not disfigured him, but it illuminated him in a way that made him seem carved from the same ruin they L observed. He could feel the weight of unseen eyes pressing from the dark, now - watchers who understood they were not yet discovered, but soon would be. They were outnumbered, he was certain. This was no derelict ruin left to the wind; it was an occupied shell - a nest. Something of value was hidden here, if Mentis spoke truly - something Axion had cared to protect. Whatever was being forged in the depths of this husk, he had deemed it precious to demand some manner of calculated sacrifice of his own, and those entrusted to guard it must be the truest of his disciples. The kind who believed in his gospel without comfort or ornament.

Thane’s lips curved slightly, the faintest ghost of a grim half-smile. “Then we are close to the heart,” he said at last, his voice low, the words carrying easily in the still air. “Let us not give them the luxury of waiting too long for us."

He turned toward one of the central corridor ahead, cloak rippling faintly with the stale currents of air. “We should press on, and separate only if needed. These outer areas, as we suspected, are largely abandoned. There is likely little to find here, but rot, pointless trinkets and the graffiti of lunatics."

G2-O7's warble echoed back from a short distance ahead, echoing Thane's desire to press on with some robotic irritation before aptly spinning on its wheels and continuing along.

Mentis sighed and turned back, "I'm sorry Bomoor. There's more, but I just cannot remember."

"No matter," the Ithorian replied, gesturing for him to move onwards with the group, "Just keep yourself open to more signs and stop shying away from your memories. The past is not a prison unless you make it one."

As they began to move off, Bomoor sidled closer to Amare as they walked. He retrieved the fabricant data crystal from his belt pack and held it out to her.

"Since you are here, I'm not sure I properly showed you the data crystal that set this all in motion. This one came from the ancient droid from Korriban. If there really is a crystal foundry here, this may be one of the only places in the galaxy we might find a suitable replacement."

He glanced back at Reave, meeting his glowing eyes and responding in turn with a nod, "Perhaps between Reave and yourself, you can help me find something that would work in the droid. After that, we can tear the place apart."

Reave gave a low grunt in reply to Bomoor’s suggestion, the sound halfway between agreement and indifference. He drew the half-smoked cigarra from between his teeth, pinched out its ember with a gloved hand, and flicked it neatly over nearby hollow in the flooring.

He muttered something that was not even necessarily Jawaese, smoke-rough voice only a moderately lower than his kin, carrying no particular enthusiasm - but it carried some degree of acknowledgement to the Ithorian he seemed to begrudgingly approve of since Öetrago.

He dug another cigarra from the bandolier across his chest and struck a match against the brim of his broad hat; the flare lit his gold eyes for a heartbeat before a faint breeze took it. The Jawa tucked the match away, puffed once, then started after the others at his own unhurried pace, boots tapping a lazy rhythm on the durasteel.

Temptation crossed Amare's thoughts as she briefly gazed at the relaxed mercenary Jawa's smoke break, feeling a bit of a craving for just one smooth drag on a cigarra. She shook her head from her recreational desires and focused on their objectives. There would be time for smokes and tea later.

"We'll keep our eyes peeled," she promised Bomoor as her mind felt something different about Bomoor. He had indeed changed losing his mother. Amare understood that kind of heavy loss all too well, and, by extension, so did her master.

TBC

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