=== Grievous the Reforged ===
The throne room of Zygerria reeked of incense and wealth, a cloying perfume of burning oils that masked the stench of sweat and chains from the slave pens below. Gold filigree lined the columns, and silken banners draped from the vaulted ceiling. Dozens of guards lined the edges of the hall, their armor lacquered and ornate, meant more for show than battle. Slaves scurried about the marble floor like vermin, carrying trays of fruit and wine, careful never to meet their masters' eyes.
And into this decadent display of power walked something utterly terrible.
The doors did not open smoothly when they were pushed open, they buckled, groaning under a force they had not been designed to withstand. A figure ducked beneath the gilded frame, a cloak of dark, tattered fabric pooling around armored clawed feet.
Grievous the Reforged was a towering monolith, nearly eight feet of necrodermis-encased death. Where once his skeletal frame had been a patchwork of Separatist cybernetics, he now bore the seamless, living metal of the Necrons. His form seemed carved from some forgotten tomb-world, polished in some places to a mirrored sheen, in others left dark, almost organic. The cloak hid much, but not the subtle shimmer of alien green light that pulsed from beneath the seams of his armor.
His voice, when he spoke, was far worse still.
"Your… shipment… is late."
The words reverberated across the chamber, not spoken so much as exhaled, metallic and hollow, like a sarcophagus that had groaned open and spat out words. Every guard stiffened. Even the queen, who lounged lazily upon her gilded throne, twitched her feline ears at the distortion in his tone.
Queen Miraj Scintel, draped in silks and jewels, leaned her chin upon one clawed hand and smirked at the towering figure. "Grievous," she purred, her voice smooth as poisoned honey. "You arrive unannounced and accuse me in my own hall? Do you think Zygerria's throne so weak?"
Grievous tilted his head, the cloak shifting just enough to reveal the glimmer of necrodermis plating beneath. His optical sensors flared, burning emerald in the incense haze.
"I have already… fulfilled my end of this bargain," he intoned, each syllable dragging like grinding stone. "Supplies. Weapons. Artifacts. All collected from the Imperium's trade routes. You have grown fat on my gifts… while I wait. And I do not… wait… well."
The queen's smirk wavered, but she masked it with a lazy laugh, reclining further into her throne. "You underestimate the difficulty of such work. You ask for thousands of slaves. Entire populations uprooted, processed, and then broken. That takes time. Even with my networks, gathering such a shipment without arousing suspicion from the Republic requires patience. Surely you, of all beings, can understand the necessity of patience?"
The throne room chuckled with her, sycophant nobles adding their laughter like a chorus of carrion birds.
Grievous did not laugh.
His cloak shifted again. His arm snapped upward impossibly fast.
The guard nearest him had no time to scream. One instant, he stood with spear in hand; the next, Grievous' forearm erupted in a surge of impossible technology, necrodermis shifting and splitting apart to form a blade of pure viridian energy. The phase blade whispered into existence, cutting through reality itself as it extended. With a single, effortless stroke, the weapon sheared the guard in half from hip to shoulder.
The bisected corpse collapsed in a wet thud, smoke rising from the impossibly clean cut. The scent of cooked flesh filled the air.
The hall fell into silence.
Slaves screamed. Guards surged forward, spears and blasters raised, only to freeze as Grievous turned, slowly, the unnatural glow of his eyes settling upon them. The green of the phase blade hummed, dripping necrotic energy as though reality itself were bleeding from its edge.
"Delays…" Grievous rasped, his voice rising now, cold and mechanical fury echoing through the chamber. "… are weakness. Weakness is… death. And I do not tolerate the weak."
He turned back toward the throne, the corpse of the guard smoking at his feet.
"Three days," he said, each word laced with venom. "You have three days, Queen of Chains. Deliver to me what you owe, or I will take your throne as… payment. I will whip your cities to the bone, put your people in chains, and pour your blood upon these golden floors."
The queen swallowed hard, her claws tightening against her throne's armrests. Yet she forced a smile, though her tail lashed behind her in agitation. "You dare threaten me in my own palace? With the Republic poised to strike? With the Imperium watching from above?"
Grievous' cloak billowed as he stepped forward, and for the first time, the full immensity of his form loomed beneath the torchlight. His torso gleamed with alien metal that seemed to shift of its own accord, tiny glyphs flickering faintly across the surface like living script. The necrodermis drank the light around it, making his form seem darker, more terrible.
"And what are you going to do about it? I have known of the Republic's… plans," he said, his voice dropping into a whisper that carried more menace than any shout. "And of the Imperium's involvement. That is why I need your slaves. And why you… need to fulfill your end of the deal. I cannot fight them all by myself."
He deactivated the blade with a hiss, the emerald edge collapsing into nothing. With an almost dismissive air, he turned his back on the throne, cloak sweeping across the blood-slick marble.
He walked past the guards, past the corpse he had made of their comrade, without sparing them a glance. None dared move, none dared breathe, until the titanic figure had crossed the hall. The doors groaned open once more, and Grievous' heavy steps echoed into the distance until silence swallowed them.
Only then did the queen exhale, her claws digging gouges into the throne's arms. The smell of blood lingered, sharp and acrid, as the nobles muttered among themselves and the guards exchanged fearful glances.
===
The heavy doors of the subterranean chamber slid open with a grinding hiss of servos. Grievous, cloaked in his shroud of shadowed fabric, stepped inside. His long stride echoed against the metallic flooring, each impact of his cybernetic feet reverberating like a hollow drumbeat across the cavernous space.
The air was thick with the sound of machinery, the whir of drills, the hiss of cauterizers, and the rhythmic clank of mechanized arms at work. Layered atop this mechanical chorus were the cries and shouts of thousands of throats, the voices of Zygerrian captives and others dragged from countless corners of the galaxy. They filled the endless rows of cold steel tables, their bodies pinned by restraints as cyborg attendants worked on them.
The attendants were neither droids nor entirely organic. They were crude amalgamations of both, twisted figures of chrome plating, cybernetic limbs, and half-exposed faces where flesh met steel. Their movements were precise, efficient, devoid of mercy or hesitation. Each one knew its task: to strip weakness away and replace it with obedience, durability, and war-making potential.
Grievous paused at the threshold, letting his predatory gaze sweep over the vastness of his creation. The chamber stretched farther than the eye could see, lit by harsh green luminescence that bled from the walls and workstations. Tier upon tier of tables rose into the darkness above, while conveyor-like tracks carried new bodies in and carried "finished" ones out.
Every scream, every plea for mercy, every desperate cry of confusion, to him was nothing more than background noise. He had heard such things before. He had once been the one on the table, his body broken, reforged, and remade into something greater. He knew their fear intimately, and he dismissed it as weakness.
"You waste your breath," Grievous murmured, his distorted voice rasping under the cloak. "It will not save you. It never saved me."
The attendants continued their work without pause. Sparks flared as limbs were replaced with gleaming prosthetics. Muscles were stitched to alloy. Neural implants were fused into place, locking loyalty and subservience into unwilling minds. The screams would rise, then fade into silence as sedatives were pumped into veins, or as voices were simply… overwritten.
Grievous walked between the rows, his cloak brushing against the sides of tables as he passed. He examined the "progress" with a warlord's eye, measuring the strength of his growing army. He saw a Wookiee being fitted with reinforced spinal supports and cybernetic arms powerful enough to bend durasteel. A Rodian convulsing as his nervous system was rewired. A line of human captives having their eyes replaced with glowing optics that fed tactical data directly into their brains.
Some struggled violently against their restraints, shouting curses and vowing vengeance. Others whimpered, broken already. A few lay eerily still, their minds retreating far from the torment, their bodies pliant for transformation.
At the far end of the hall, a massive viewport displayed the fruits of the labor, ranks of completed soldiers standing at attention. Dozens, then hundreds, their forms clad in alloy and armor, their eyes glowing faintly with implanted obedience.
Grievous' gaze lingered on them, satisfaction flickering through his fractured mind. Where once he had commanded raiders and warriors as a Warlord, now he would command something far more terrible, living weapons stripped of weakness, enhanced with Necron science, and bent to his own will.
He clenched a clawed hand, the cloak shifting as metal scraped against metal beneath. Soon, he thought, the Republic and the Imperium alike would come to understand the scale of his work. The slaves he had demanded were not simply for trade, nor for profit. They were raw material. They were the future of war.
Without a word, he turned and stalked deeper into the labyrinth of his lab, the screams fading behind him into the symphony of machinery and agony.
=== Sebastian ===
Sebastian's boots struck the deck as he stepped into the Republic command chamber on the Zygerrian moon once more. The door hissed open, and the air shifted, as though the temperature itself dropped when the Black Templar entered.
Inside, gathered around the holotable, Anakin, Ahsoka, and Captain Rex were mid-discussion. Their words were low, but heated, the kind of conversation born from frustration and unease.
"...he's reckless," Rex muttered, his voice tight. "If we fight like that, my men would be slaughtered in minutes. He doesn't care who pays the price."
Ahsoka's arms were folded, her brow furrowed. "He isn't a warrior, he's a monster. No one should revel in violence the way he does. It's… wrong. It's… unnatural."
Anakin leaned against the table, eyes clouded. He didn't disagree. "I've seen plenty of men fight wars, Ahsoka. Soldiers, generals. But Sebastian, he's different. There's no line for him. Nothing he wouldn't do."
The trio fell silent as they sensed the presence looming behind them.
Sebastian chuckled. A low, guttural sound that rolled through the chamber like thunder. "Monster?" he repeated, his voice carrying the weight of a cathedral bell. "Yes. I am. Because someone must be."
The three turned, Anakin immediately straightening, his hand brushing his saber hilt. Ahsoka's eyes narrowed, as she regarded him warily. Rex, silent now, stood rigid, his jaw tightening as if bracing for what was to come.
Ahsoka broke the silence, her voice sharp and demanding. "Why? Why choose that? Why embrace being… this?"
The Black Templar reached up and removed his helmet before handing it off to Jarek, revealing his horribly scarred pale face.
His expression didn't shift. He didn't look offended, nor even surprised by her question. Instead, his scarred lips twisted into something caught between a smirk and a grimace. Without answering her directly, he reached to his vox-bead, pressing a stud near his gorget.
"Battle Barge, transmit archive three-five-four-seven-eight. Now."
A hum filled the chamber as the holotable flickered to life, the faint blue light illuminating Sebastian's massive frame. The image resolved, grainy at first before sharpening into crystal clarity.
The holoprojector displayed a world under siege.
By the Tyranids.
Chitinous beasts the size of walkers surged across the surface of a doomed planet, their shrieks piercing even through the recording as millions of smaller ones swarmed around their feet. Endless waves of them flooded cities, devouring flesh, plants, everything organic. Planetary defenses rained fire down upon them, but it was like hurling pebbles at an ocean tide. The swarms did not break. They never broke.
Sebastian's voice rumbled over the scene. "That," he said, pacing slowly around the table, his eyes locked on Ahsoka. "That is a hunger without end. A devouring tide that does not negotiate, does not compromise. It consumes all."
The projection shifted. Necrons rose from the sand of a lifeless desert, their metallic forms gleaming under a black sun. Their green energy weapons cut down soldiers and tanks alike, the dead collapsing beside their comrades, evaporating into green particles.
"These," Sebastian continued, moving behind Rex now, his hand brushing across the holotable as though dismissing the galaxy on display. "Are the Necrons. A civilization of the dead, returned to claim existence itself as their birthright. To them, foreign life is an error that must be corrected. Though, you have already seen them"
He stopped behind Rex. The Captain's helmet rested on the table, its surface polished, scarred from battle yet kept with pride. Sebastian reached down, and in one massive hand, lifted it from the table. His gauntlets creaked against the plastoid, as though it were made of fragile clay.
"I have fought these things," Sebastian said, his voice low now, almost intimate, as he turned the helmet over in his hand. "Things your tiny minds could not comprehend. Things that laugh at the concept of mercy. Things that would rip apart your Republic and scatter its ashes across the void. Things that would devour this galaxy in mere days."
He started to pace again, circling the chamber slowly, letting the weight of his words fill the silence.
"And you wonder why I hate the alien," he said, his voice growing harder. "Why I look at your Republic, your people, and see only the seeds of weakness? My brothers have asked me to temper my wrath here, in this… galaxy. And for their sakes, I do. But never mistake my restraint for acceptance."
He stopped suddenly, looming before Ahsoka. The girl straightened, her breath caught in her throat. His shadow fell over her like a stormcloud, his height and armor making her seem impossibly small.
"Tell me, child," Sebastian rumbled, his voice low but sharp as a blade. "Is there anything you fear?"
Ahsoka's lips parted, but no sound came. Her eyes darted, searching for some defiance, some reply, but her voice betrayed her. Silence was her only answer.
Anakin stepped forward, hand half-raised. "That's enough."
Sebastian's storm shield came down between them like a closing gate, the massive slab of adamantium barring Anakin's path. Embedded into the shield's surface were bones. Not just decoration, but real bones, carefully inlaid and preserved in the metal. The centerpiece were the bleached remains of a Jedi holding a lightsaber, one the young Skywalker knew well… the lightsaber of Master Windu.
Sebastian's voice cut through the chamber like thunder. "The last Jedi who angered me rests here." His eyes flicked back to Anakin, cold and unyielding. "Remember that."
The hum of the holoprojector was the only sound, its grim images flickering over their faces.
Then Sebastian looked back to Ahsoka. His expression softened, though only slightly, as though pulling back a curtain to reveal a man behind the iron. "Do you know what I fear?"
She swallowed, but shook her head.
"The disappointment of my brothers," Sebastian said quietly. "Their judgment. Not the alien. Not the daemon. Not death. Only that."
For a moment, the chamber was still. The words hung in the air, heavy as stone.
Then, with a sudden motion, Sebastian clenched the helmet in his hand. The plastoid groaned, cracked, and with a single squeeze, crumpled. Fragments fell to the floor like broken glass.
Rex stiffened, his jaw tightening, but he said nothing.
Sebastian let the remains drop from his hand as they clattered against the deck. He turned then, slowly scanning the chamber, his gaze passing over each of them in turn.
"Ready yourselves," he said, his voice a command that brooked no argument. "War begins within the hour. Steel your hearts, for soon, you will see what true battle looks like."
Without another word, he reclaimed his shield, and strode from the chamber as he took his helmet back from Jarek. The door hissed shut behind him, leaving silence in his wake, save for the faint crackle of the holo's grim images still playing across the table.
===
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