As it All Burns Down

[Rugs]

You got used to the smoke, after a while.

Io’an hardly noticed it now, as he dismounted his speeder at in the rear bay beneath the Blind Eye. He glanced over his shoulder as the durasteel-reinforced bay doors slid shut. A tremendous violet crystal, taller even than any mountain he’d ever seen, stretched into the sky. It dominated the skyline even from here, dozens of miles away.

He shook his head as the heavy doors closed with a thud that shook the floor. The Archeri had been working nonstop on the thing--the second Singing Spire. The original Spire still hung in orbit between Nar Shaddaa and Nal Hutta, glowing like a sun. The moon’s long nights had nearly ceased to exist since the invasion. Just long days and purple twilights.

Io’an pulled his mask up as he walked up a flight of stairs and into the Eye proper. The plague was so rampant on Nar Shaddaa now it didn’t matter if he kept the thing up while he was out, but the Eye was a sanctuary.

He started to jog--then stopped as throbbing in his head protested — down to the basement to clean up and get some of the soot and grime of fighting off an Archeri strike at one of the Exchange’s strongholds scattered across the moon’s surface. He’d made it back mostly in one piece, thought a scratch across his ribs ached mightily. It’d probably scar, even with Kolto.

Better than being dead, at least.

He emerged from the basement a few minutes later much fresher and in a clean, undamaged set of clothing. The sonic showers didn’t offer much in the way of relaxation or relief for a weary body, but they at least got the cleaning job done. Water tended to be a precious resource with the world under siege.

Io’an staggered up to the second level — the command center, as he’d come to see it in the weeks since the Archeri arrived. One of the bars had been converted into a briefing room of sorts, but the stock was, blessedly, kept fresh.

As Io’an entered, digging around in cabinets for a glass and some ice, he spotted Vance, hunched over a holopad. “Hey,” he said. He opted for some rum, imported from some Outer Rim world he’d never heard of. Io’an rarely drank liquor straight, but he didn’t add anything to the clear liquid in his glass.

It was that kind of day, really.

“So, here we are, at the world,” he said, sliding into a seat next to Vance. “How fucked are we?”

[Fromikeable]

Another three safe houses compromised. The one in Hell's Elbow had never finished its installation of the air scrubbers, so when the spores had come, the inhabitants had to confront a simple choice; leave or die. Most had selected the former, a precious few insisting that it was too late for that and that if they threw all hands on deck, they could finish the scrubbers before they ran out of air.

The group that left was killed in the initial wave of the ground invasion, caught out on the streets according to some camera footage. The group that had stayed went dead silent. Their last message had been a decision of execution; they would rather suffocate than remove their breathers and face infection.

In an awful sort of way, Vance could understand.

Sighing, his resolve to read the other two failure reports failed him, dropping the holopad on the table before him and sitting back. He hadn't had a chance yet to remove his suit, most of the air seals still done up. The plates in the armor still dripped from the make-shift scrubbing room they had gotten installed in the main door; powerful, scalding hot jets of antibiotic solution that were only just tolerable to life but, thankfully, very intolerable for spores. To say it was unpleasant was an understatement, especially to those that had to go through it without some form of protection, but it was worth it to have one building on the moon where one could breathe in peace.

Now if the exterior armor could just endure, they might live another week.

A familiar "Hey" made Vance look up from his well of bad news, giving Io'an a silent wave. Looking down at his armor, Vance began to undo the latches and seals on his gloves, each giving way with a hiss. Freed and a little damp with sweat, he finally took the chance to rub his eyes, his hair messy and disheveled, his skin dirty in some places and red in others.

He was a mess. Yet he still somehow looked better than Io'an.

"Let's put it this way." Finally sitting back, Vance motioned a hand at the holopad before him, a nudge of the Force sliding across the table's surface to Io'an.

"Our survival depends on an alliance between the Republic and the Empire." The holopad displayed an article saying as much, a large picture of the Chancellor and the Empress standing side by side at the top of a large, ornate staircase on Prazhi. The look on Vance's gave made his skepticism obvious.