The doors slid slowly open to reveal a dimly lit corridor, narrow and straight without any turns. Spaced incrementally along both sides, the cells were reinforced quadranium with energy fields in lieu of bars. The thrum of back up generators was low, but evident.

As the two Guardians, Bounty Hunter, and convict passed, they avoided eye contact with some of the worst scum in the galaxy. All of them except for Rilk, at least. "Welcome back, Greencheeks," a Devaronian smiled devilishly at him. "I've missed you."

"Kriff off, Kax," the Duros managed to puff up his chest, though he was far from intimidating. "Touch me and I'll have you Vaped, I swear it."

"Rawr," the horn headed alien replied with a wink.

"Lock it down, you two," one of the Kiffar growled. His green face tattoo contorted with his irritated expression before he glanced back to the Mandalorian. "As I was saying, the man in question-"

"Should be put down like a dog," replied the other Guardian, his eyes alight with contempt. "He slaughtered his own people, then went on to become one of the most violent criminals in recent history. He's beyond salvation, and in these lawless times, he has the potential to become much, much worse."

"That is not for us to decide, Kerpal," the first chided. "The Guardians are Keepers of the Prison and Protectors of the Kiffar people, not judge, jury, or executioner." His counterpart grunted acceptance.

All four men came to an abrupt half when they spotted five other men, gathered in front of a cell, this one far different from the others. Held aloft in a stasis field, a human man clad in dark clothes floated in a deep sleep.

"Sheyf," both Kiffar intoned respectfully. "We did not expect-"

The Sheyf held up a hand. "In the absence of a Republic, the fate of our criminals falls into the hands of our people," he explained, "and in matters of our people, it is my duty to make the difficult decisions."

"Of course, Sheyf," the first Guardian bowed his head. "Now, may I introduce the Bounty Hunter Faust, and his captive, Rilk?"

"Ah Rilk," the Sheyf said with a laugh. "Few men are lucky enough to leave this facility in their lifetime once sentenced, but it would appear you lost your taste for freedom."

Darkness swirled in the cerulean of his eyes as Alkor drank in the Mandalorian's bloodlust and coated his atrophic muscles in miasma. The Dark Side of the Force was a pathway to many abilities some considered to be unnatural, and the power to bolster strength was almost inherent to the precepts of its adherents. In several blinks of an eye, Alkor felt the ice around his bones thaw, and the blood in his veins begin to boil.

This stranger fed him like a doting grandmother, copious helpings of negativity to fill the void. Alkor spasmed again as gore splashed against the plasteel, and his body righted itself. He was fully aware now, if unable to break his restraints. That he could move at all was an act of pure defiance.

Faust held his beskad firmly, and he pointed to the cell. "O-open it?" the Kiffar stammered. "You're making a mistake," he said hurriedly.

His life was on the line, and in an act of cowardice, he caved. His hand wavered on the access key, then slid it across the controls quickly.

The chamber began to power down...

The light around him gave like water flowing out of a shattering glass. Alkor fell to the floor with a thud as the Mandalorian turned from the Sheyf to approach him. He managed to look up and see the weapon in front of him as the Priest brandished it, then accepted the murderous tool when it was placed in his grasp. He could feel warmth emanating from the metal, as if every drop of blood that had dripped along its edge left a trace of life behind. Such was the curse of senses enhanced by the Force- darkness and light, life and death, love and hate- irrational concepts made themselves manifest in the mind's eye.

He gripped the hilt tightly, to the point where his already white knuckles turned to porcelain. He felt his ragged knees shake as he fought like a toddler to stand, relearning basic skills that time had robbed him of. Killing, however, was like riding a bike.

When the bursts of energy erupted in the corridor and his emancipator ducked back inside, the Dark Jedi took his first step past the man, then his second. The world unraveled around him, wound down like a clock as it ran out of time. A blast of concentrated energy crawled past his cheek, heat close enough to brush against him like a pair of lusty lips, but he paid no heed.

To a master of the Force, time and space were playthings- that was what his teachers had maintained, and in some matters, there was truth to the words. When faced with impossible odds, it was an unparalleled equalizer.

When they saw the stain of black streaking toward them, the Guardians turned to fire at it. Uncertain of its nature, their only resolution was to "consider it a threat." None of them truly understood how right they were.

"Suppressing fire!" screamed one man, then "someone get an ID on that thing!"

A half second later, two deep blue eyes and a face pale as the moon were within inches of his own. Instead of greeting his attackers with courtesy, he afforded them the same treatment they offered to him. The knife raked across tanned flesh, and the Kiffar's throat lanced open. Splashes of crimson flecked his face as the body folded, and the more stoic Guardians managed to raise their weapons. "Fire!" a frantic voice cried out, "fire at will!"

The blade pierced padded armor and Alkor pressed his shoulder into the chest of the nearest Kiffar who had hesitated. Surprise flashed in the eyes of his victim as they went down together, and Alkor covered his body with the unfortunate form of his prone counterpart. O-zone and charred flesh tainted the room as a cacophony of blaster fire tore apart armor, then dermis, muscle, and organs. He tossed the body off when they ceased to let their weapons cool down.

Slowly he rose, blade spinning between his fingers. He took a step, and one Guardian dropped his blaster rifle in favor of a stun baton. Alkor caught his wrist and his angered grip sent a crackle from forearm to palm.

The Kiffar wailed in agony.

Alkor drove the blade into his throat, then turned to address another man with a stun baton who thought to charge while his back was turned. The Corellian Exile turned to the side as the man looked over him, and the swing went wide of Alkor as he passed beneath his assailant. Like a striking serpent, the Dark Jedi lashed out a hand and caught the forearm of the unwary man, and using himself as a fulcrum, sent him sprawling to his back.

He ripped the blade from his long dead victim, turned, and slammed it downward into the heart of the dazed Guardian.

In a flash, six became three, and the odds were evened.

Alkor withdrew the blade, rose to a standing position, and looked between the remaining warriors. They stank of terror, and he relished the flavor of their weakness. They were food for creatures like him, those who deserved to stand on the broken backs of those beneath them.

"You let them die." There was no question in his words, nor any accusation. Instead, Alkor merely stated what they resigned themselves to as truth. "Now," he said softly as he raised a hand toward the closest of them. All of the three Kiffar raised their guns shakily. Three blasts fired. None of them connected.

The Guardian swiftly became aware of the pressure around his torso, and his arms. "What the he-"

His words evolved into screams of torment as air was forced from his lungs. Alkor sighed. Not one of them was a worthy enemy. He had know that, though.

Alkor ripped his arm from one side to the other, and the Kiffu flew through the air like a rag doll. He impacted the Guardian closest to him, and both men clattered to the floor. Alkor clenched his fist and punched toward the floor, and tremendous unseen pressure fell on both men like a hammer on metal at a forge.

The screaming lasted for nearly ten seconds before they were visibly driven into a mishmash of flesh, bone, and cloth armor- utterly unidentifiable.

The final Guardian watched all of the proceedings, and his pants were drenched in short order. "P-please," he murmured. "I have a wife! Children! I'll do anything-"

"Countless times, I've heard the same," Alkor replied in a quiet drawl. "Do you know how tedious it is, hearing the same thing over and over?"

He took a step toward the Kiffar, and the tattooed man fell to the floor blubbering inanely.

"Not to worry," he assured the Guardian. "Your life is meaningless to me."

The Kiffar exhaled, visibly relieved.

Alkor tossed the dagger toward Faust, now that the path was clear. "I can't say he feels the same, though."

"I have no interest in remaining," Alkor answered as he kicked aside a smoking body and stepped into the turbolift. "I don't recall coming to this place to begin with, so I find your conditions more than acceptable."

No one left him a ship of his own, after all.

Outside, he watched as a wicked storm roiled overhead, and streaks of red electricity danced between clouds, struck at the ground, and richocheted off of the prison walls. Alkor ran his tongue across his teeth idly, watching the sky writhe. His eyes searched for any part where the clouds seemed less thick, but his search availed him nothing.

"I barely got out of here the last time," Rilk revealed to the two men at last, his voice laced with desperation. "The storm only subsides for a few days out of the year, and we're woefully out of season."

"For a normal pilot, with a normal navigator," Alkor agreed. "But we can make it out. You made it in, after all."

"On one of the reinforced skiffs," the Duros protested. "And those don't remain for long. There's a schedule. The next one isn't due until late tomorrow." His blue skin crawled when the Dark Jedi regarded him with an amused smirk.

"You piloting us out of this place is the only chance you have at surviving," the Exile remarked. "If we don't need you, you're dead weight. Do you understand what I'm saying?"

"...there is a hangar, on the far side of the Installation," Roll admitted, finally. He hung his head in resignation. "The ships are small, and they're intended for only evacuation, if something happened like an attack, or a prison break."

"Perfect," Alkor replied. "Because this is a prison break. Now, lead the way. If you attempt to run..."

Alkor gestured toward Faust's hip, where the weapon rested.

Silently, he wondered whether the Mandalorian was aware of the chaotic aura that permeated his blade. Alkor glanced it over only once, but the hunger that irradiated the Beskar edge buffeted the Dark Jedi's senses like gale force wind. It lacked the inanate qualities of a weapon formed through Sith Alchemy, and so, in the Force it was little more than a trinket.

No, the power there lay in the blood it had spilled and the bodies it had left behind.

He took the weapon in hand and images danced through his psyche, disjointed reflections of the beskad's lifetime. It whispered in his ear a tale of murder and atrocity, and he felt for the first time a kindred spirit. The relatable sensation between them was that neither felt anything about their actions, and neither sought to judge the other.

The weapon's owner was not of a similar mind, however. His words about bloodying the beskad, of doubt and absolution stirred a banshee scream from the past. Alkor saw the faces of those who called him Brother to his faced, but sneered at his back. He saw them, and he gripped the blade tighter.

The Bounty Hunter disappeared with the Duros, and Alkor turned toward his grim task.

Just like old times.