The Protectorate's victory has restored order, but the cost weighs heavily on him. Too many civilians were caught in the crossfire. Too many municipal officers died defending Sector House Aurek. The reports never stop coming.

So, without an escort and wearing simple clothing instead of his dress uniform, Rheiker walks into one of Tirac Munda's most reputable establishments.

The Lucky Rancor.

Unlike the glittering casinos downtown, the Lucky Rancor is comfortable rather than luxurious. Brass light fixtures cast a warm amber glow across shelves filled with bottles collected from every corner of the Outer Rim. Veterans, freighter captains, customs inspectors, and the occasional bounty hunter all know the unwritten rules.

Leave your blaster at the door.

Leave your politics outside.

Everyone drinks in peace.

Behind the polished counter stands Toreya Buran.

She notices him immediately. "Rough week, Lieutenant?" Rheiker allows himself the faintest smile. "You've been watching the holonet." She pours his usual drink before he even sits. "Didn't need the holonet. Half my regulars were there." 

Their conversations have become something of a ritual over the past several months. Rheiker never pushes for information, and Toreya never asks questions she doesn't want answered. It is an understanding built on mutual respect rather than official business.

Tonight, however, something is different. Toreya keeps glancing toward the door. After ensuring no one is listening, she quietly slides a datapad beneath Rheiker's glass.

"A shipment manifest." He doesn't touch it. "Should I ask where it came from?" She smirks. "No." Rheiker studies her expression. She isn't joking.

The manifest appears ordinary. Agricultural machinery. Medical supplies. Luxury textiles. Yet every shipment follows the same pattern. The cargo leaves Tirac Munda legally. Somewhere along established hyperspace routes, pirate attacks occur. Insurance claims are filed. The merchant houses recover their losses. Weeks later, identical cargo quietly appears on black markets throughout the sector. Someone is arranging both sides of the transaction.

Toreya leans closer. "You remember Captain Vern? Used to drink here every month." Rheiker nods. The aging freighter captain disappeared nearly a year earlier. "He wasn't robbed." She pauses. "He was paid." Another pause. "The pirates only attack ships they're told to attack." Rheiker finally picks up the datapad. The names begin repeating. House Varris. House Canto. The Belnar Shipping Combine. All respectable merchant families. All pillars of Tirac Munda's economy. None with criminal records.

"Why tell me?" For the first time since they've met, Toreya hesitates. "Because good people died in the Ember District while the ones who caused all this were drinking imported wine from their rooftop gardens." Silence settles between them. Outside, speeders drift through the rain. The city appears peaceful once more. But Rheiker now sees the pattern. The riots weren't merely the result of gang violence. The syndicates had funding. Professional funding. Someone with immense wealth had been quietly financing piracy, destabilizing neighborhoods, and profiting from the ensuing chaos.

He closes the datapad. "If this is real..." Toreya finishes his sentence. "Then your war isn't in the streets anymore." She looks toward the distant skyline where the elegant towers of Golden Heights rise above the smog. "It's up there."

As he starts to leave, Toreya reaches across the counter. Just enough to touch his hand. "You'll be careful?" He smiles. "I always am." She laughs. "No." "You aren't." A beat passes. Neither lets go immediately. Finally, he turns toward the door. Without looking back, "I'll see you after this is over." She watches him disappear into the rain. Quietly hoping he'll keep that promise.

Zordo Greeb is a humble, hardworking Nikto. His cafleaf farm has been stewarded by generations of Greebs, and now the duty has passed to him. While he hasn't been lucky enough to find a partner yet, he takes pride in his work and looks forward to teaching the next generation the responsibilities of farming.

Zordo's home is a prefab "box house", a simple cube dropped from a carrier hovercraft. Zordo added an HVAC and water filtration system, among other amenities, with an exterior control box visible on the back of the house.

Zordo is a Nikto of few wants, and his sparse home reflects this. A fan above the stovetop redirects steam toward the side window and keeps Zordo cool on the warm Kyrska days.

The fridge under the stovetop contains a jar of blue milk, a favorite drink of Zordo's. Luckily, another farm nearby produces plenty.

Despite the recent pirate attacks, Zordo feels lucky to be a Protectorate citizen. From what he's seen on the news, the "New Republic" hasn't been able to offer the security the old Empire guaranteed. Of all the places in the vast galaxy, Kyrska is surely one of the safest.

Ord Vaxal had worn many faces throughout its history. Once an ordnance depot of the Old Republic, it later became synonymous with imprisonment under Imperial rule. Though the Empire had fallen, its watchtowers and detention facilities still stood across the capital of Tof Soren, repurposed by the New Republic in the pursuit of a new future rather than fear.

Ghost Squadron had been assigned what appeared to be a simple escort mission. Brina Harp, once held and questioned in connection with the Reytha sabotage conspiracy, had been approved for transfer out of New Republic custody. The request had come from the mysterious Wanderers of the Whills.

Ghost Squadron had heard whispers of the group before. Nomads devoted to the Living Force, they traveled the galaxy helping those in need and preserving stories worth telling. They claimed no territory, sought no political influence, and built no armies of their own. What they wanted with Brina Harp, however, remained a mystery.

Escorted by Ghost Squadron to an outpost on the outskirts of Tof Soren, Brina came face to face with the Wanderers sent to receive her. Clad in simple robes, they offered warm smiles as they stepped forward to greet her.

"Hello, Brina. We have come a long way to find you."

"Who are you?" Brina asked cautiously. "And why do you know who I am?"

The Kel Dor Wanderer lowered his head respectfully before answering.

"We are followers of the Living Force, and it has guided us to you. We do not know where this path will lead, only that your story is not yet finished."

Brina glanced between the Wanderers and the veterans of Ghost Squadron who had escorted her across Ord Vaxal. For a long moment, no one spoke. Then Axton Jett gave a small nod.

"Come, Brina," the Kel Dor said. "The Force opens many paths before us. You need only decide which one to walk."

For the first time since her arrest, Brina Harp was free to choose her own future.

Nodding once to the Republic soldiers she had come to know, Brina turned and followed the Wanderers into the aquamarine plains beyond Tof Soren, uncertain of where this new path would lead, but willing to discover where it might take her.

This was probably my favorite build I've done so far because it allowed me to challenge myself both creatively and as a storyteller. I wanted to recreate Ord Vaxal as accurately as possible based on its description while also continuing Brina Harp's story in a meaningful way. I was especially happy with how the aquamarine grass turned out, as it helped capture the unique identity of the planet and bring the scene to life.

ISB had taken custody of the Baron shortly after his capture, and were holding him aboard the Modular Taskforce Cruiser Inquest for interrogation. It was standard procedure for a prisoner of his caliber, or so the Protectorate had been informed. They couldn’t tell anyone the real reason, though perhaps some had already guessed, and maybe others would find out. It wouldn’t matter, in the end.

The Baron had been waiting in his cell for some time; he had considered removing his cuffs–he had managed to unlock them shortly after being transferred–but he knew ISB was watching, they always were. What he didn’t know was the reason ISB had gotten involved. He had some ideas, but he hoped they were wrong. If this was the same group from before…

Ultimately, there was nothing he could do at this point. Nothing except waiting.

When the door finally slid open, the man who entered was not the typical ISB interrogator. He had the same hardened, expressionless look but also an air of importance that couldn’t quite be explained. The Baron had seen him once before, if he was here then that meant–

“Alan Hastion, Baron of Tauve, I apologize sincerely for the delay. I hope you’ve enjoyed your stay aboard the Inquest,” the man said, in an almost mocking tone.

“Joshua Neimo, have you really come all this way to steal my glory?” the Baron asked.

“What glory? From what I can tell there is none to take, besides which I’ve come all this way to kill, not steal.” 

“You can’t do this to me! We had a deal!” the Baron protested. He should have expected it, they would never let him spend time in a Protectorate prison, not with the information he knew.

“Your deal was with Prophetess, not us. We’re just here to finish the job.”

“I had it under control.”

“Really? From what I heard, you went off script chasing doonium instead of focusing on the objective.”

“I was looking out for my sector, but I’d imagine you don’t care about that.”

“You’re right. I only care for results, which you have failed to produce, and you know what the cost of failure is.” With that, Colonel Neimo departed, leaving the Baron to wait alone once more.

As he sat in silence he began to feel cold. A heavy sensation of dread settled on him and his gaze wandered to the door. Time seemed to slow as it opened, and into the room stepped a figure clad in dark armor.

The Baron meets his end here, but Colonel Neimo and this mysterious newcomer will be showing up again.

Capital of Corrdair

Moff Erask: “I think you’ll find Corrdair is a shining example of the New Order’s success, certainly a good fit for your men.”

Colonel Neimo: “I’m familiar.”

Erask: “Are you now?”

Neimo: “I’ve been following the Protectorate’s endeavors since Jakku. After all, it is my job to keep an eye on things. This world once rebelled against the Empire, did it not?”

Erask: "It did, and it was COMPNOR that rebuilt it afterwards."

Neimo: "Indeed."

Erask: “Tell me this, Colonel, if you’ve known about us for so long, why did you wait to join?”

Neimo: “We thought we could hold our sectors together, maintain peace and order, but it turns out CompForce isn’t a valid substitute for a military. The New Republic was closing in and there was nothing we could do, so we came here.”

Erask: “Which sectors would those be?”

Neimo: “Chommel, Lambda, and a few others; COMPNOR is everywhere.”

Erask: “I heard about Lambda; it’s a shame Lankin didn’t have more support. I’m glad you’re here though, I could use the help.”

Neimo: “Is that so?”

Erask: “I feel I’m losing control of the sector. The people respect me but my officers, even my most trusted, continually go behind my back. All I’m trying to do is keep the sector safe, but they don’t seem to understand that.”

Neimo: “I understand, and you can trust ISB to protect your sector from threats, external and internal.”

Erask: “Thank you.”

Neimo: “It’s no problem, I only wish we could have been here sooner.”

Erask: “To be honest, your timing couldn’t be any more–”

Rear Admiral Otten: “–convenient, too convenient if you ask me.”

Grand Admiral Rooke: “Exactly, such a large contingent of ISB personnel show up right after we have a major security crisis. That can’t just be a coincidence.”

Otten: “I’d be more concerned by the CompForce troopers patrolling the streets, it's like we’ve been invaded.”

Rooke: “Maybe we have.”

Otten: “We should speak with Erask, I have a rather bad feeling about this.”

On the streets of Vakeyya...

The streets of Vakeyya were alive in the way only frontier towns could be.

Vendors called out from beneath faded awnings, peddling Socorro's famous spiced tea to weary travelers. Merchants haggled over cargo prices with the desperation of folk living one bad season away from ruin. Nomads passed through the dusty avenues beside settlers who'd traded wandering for walls long ago.

There was real life here, and Carm drank it in.

After so much recycled air on Farstine, breathing beneath an open sky felt almost foreign. Warm sunlight rested on his skin. The dry desert wind carried with it the smell of spice, dust, and burning fuel.

For the first time in a long while, he felt at ease. At least for the moment.

Lady Pria's orders had been clear. The Flame was consolidating operations on Socorro, and the upcoming summit between the galaxy's underworld powers promised opportunity, or disaster.

That was why Carm had called in his slicer. They needed information before going into danger.

"So what's the job, Carm the One Arm?" the slicer asked with a crooked grin. Carm still wasn't used to the nickname.

"Lady Pria's meeting with the Hutts, the Pykes, and anyone else with enough credits and blasters to set up a criminal enterprise. I want us knowing exactly what we're getting into."

He lowered his voice. "I want you inside their networks. Find whatever you can on their financials, their weapons shipments, any new territories they're expanding into. Anything they don't want found."

The slicer's expression tightened. "You're asking me to spy on some dangerous people."

"I know." Carm acknowledged, and reached into his coat and handed over a credstick. "I'll double your pay."

Her eyes widened. "And if things go sideways?"

Carm gave a small shrug. "You call me. Nobody working for me gets left behind."

For a moment, she studied him, then she nodded. "It'll be done." She disappeared into the crowd, swallowed whole by the bustling street. Carm watched her go.

The future of Socorro felt uncertain. Things were simpler when he had the one mission of taking out Drego. This was uncharted territory, and he wanted steadier footing before taking the next step.

"Hey! Offworlder!" The voice cut through his thoughts. Three armed thugs stood across the street, and they looked like trouble.

Their leader strode forward with all the swagger of a man used to winning fights he started. Scarred armor hung from his frame- Imperial by design, though time and hard living had nearly worn the Empire out of it. Nearly.

The man jabbed a finger into Carm's chest. "Not sure what business you got on my planet, but I think it'd be wise if you packed up and left."

Carm raised his hands slightly. "Easy there, friend. We're just passing through."

The thug sneered. "I'm no friend of yours." His gaze drifted to Carm's clothing and  shining cybernetic arm. "Syndicate folk. Always trouble. Almost as bad as the nomads."

Carm slowly took a step back. "Alright. No trouble. I'll be on my way." He turned.

"Not so fast, offworlder." Carm froze. "No one turns their back on me." A blaster whined to life behind him.

Then a crack rang out. The street erupted into chaos as merchants dove for cover, the sound of shattered glass and commotion everywhere. 

Carm instinctively checked himself for a wound. Nothing. He turned to find the thug laying dead in the dust, a smoking hole emenating from him. His companions stared in stunned silence.

Then they ran. Cowards always did.

The street slowly fell quiet. Carm grabbed the blaster from the fallen thug and looked up.

Beneath the great arch overlooking the avenue stood a lone figure.

Wide brimmed hat disguising his features. A beskar breastplate bolted to his chest. A long rifle pointed at Carm, clasped in steady hands.

The stranger lowered the rifle first. Not because he had to, but because he chose to.

The measured clink of beskar echoed through the silence as he approached.

"The name's Kellan Varo." His voice was low and dry as the Socorran desert. "I've been tracking that Imp for weeks. Was hoping to bring him in warm." He glanced down at the corpse. "But I don't much care for them who shoot folks in the back."

Carm lowered his blaster. "You're a bounty hunter?"

Kellan checked the rifle's charge pack. "Pays better than farming."

Carm's eyes drifted toward the beskar breastplate. "A Mandalorian bounty hunter?"

For the first time, something flickered across Kellan's face. Carm couldn't make anything of it. "There are no Mandalorians left." The words carried the weight of something greater. "I'm just a man trying to make a living on the edge of the galaxy."

Carm looked between the body and the stranger. "Whoever you are, that was one hell of a shot."

Kellan shrugged. "It's a long rifle, and it wasn't much of a distance." He slung the weapon lazily to his side. "Word of advice, outsider." His gaze swept over Vakeyya's crowded streets. "On Socorro, never turn your back on a man you haven't buried."

Carm gave a small laugh. "I'll remember that." His expression darkened. "I didn't know there were Remnant out here."

Kellan snorted. "There aren't." Then he nudged the corpse lightly with his boot. "But vermin always find dark places to hide."

Carm extended his hand. "I'm Carm."

Kellan looked at it for a moment before taking it. A firm grip. The sort folks used when words weren't enough.

"If you're looking for work," Carm said, "the Flame always pays its debts. Sounds like we share a dislike of the Empire."

Kellan considered that. The desert wind stirred dust between them. At last, he nodded. "If your credits spend, we'll get along just fine."

Carm smiled. "Maybe someday we'll even make a syndicate man out of you."

Kellan barked a dry laugh. "Wouldn't count on it." He turned toward the fallen Imperial and sighed. "Now come on."

He jerked a thumb toward the sheriff's office at the end of the street. "Dead men don't walk themselves to the marshal."

Together, the two men lifted the body and began the long walk down Vakeyya's dusty street.

Above them, the sun began to dip below the black mountains of Socorro.

Somewhere beyond that scorching horizon, trouble was brewing.

---

Better angle showing the full build:

As always, I'd love any comments, critiques, suggestions for how to improve!

Turlokk Brann landed his ship at the New Republic outpost on Socorro. Workers busily hauled crates of cargo across the deck while pilots lightheartedly laughed with one another near a set of Y-Wings.

"If it isn't Turlokk Brann." said a fellow from behind. Turlokk turned around.

"Bayani Espola." said Turlokk in a deep voice. "Long time no see."

Bayani grinned and shook hands. "What brings you all the way out here to Socorro?"

Turlokk glanced around. He locked eyes with Bayani.

"I came to see if the New Republic had any bounties listed. My supplies are running low, and I'm short on credits."

"You're in luck. You came to the right outpost," said Bayani with a smirk. 

Light freighter modified to increase operational range and deter pirates with twin laser cannons beneath the cockpit. The MOTT is used for routine transfer of cargo for the Flame as it blends into any spaceport. 

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