The door to the medical wing slid open with the same mechanical precision, but the environment beyond couldn't have been more different from the spartan corridors of the residential section. The medical facility was all clean lines and soft lighting, the walls a sterile white that seemed to absorb sound and create an atmosphere of enforced calm.
Before me stretched a reception area that wouldn't have looked out of place in any civilian medical facility, save for the Imperial insignia discretely placed on the wall behind the main desk. A nurse sat at the counter, her uniform crisp and professional white with gray trim that marked her as senior medical staff. She looked up as I entered, her expression shifting from neutral attention to professional welcome.
"I have an appointment at fourteen-thirty" I replied as I walked closer, checking my clock through the HUD. "Prescription refill and equipment pickup. Name's Ember Korrath."
The nurse's fingers danced across the holographic keys, pulling up information I couldn't see from my angle. Her eyes scanned the data, and I saw a slight nod of recognition. "Ah yes, Cadet. I have you right here. Prescription refill for medication, and..." she paused, reading further, "pickup of custom respiratory equipment. Is that correct?"
"That's correct" I confirmed.
"Excellent. I'll need you to fill out some routine paperwork before we can process your prescriptions. Just updating our records and confirming there haven't been any changes to your medical status since your last visit." She made a gesture at her terminal, and I felt a soft ping in my neural interface—a data transfer request hovering at the edge of my consciousness.
"I'm sending the forms to your link now" she continued, her tone suggesting this was perfectly routine. "You can complete them while you wait. There are a few other patients ahead of you, so it should be about fifteen to twenty minutes before we can see you."
The ping pulsed gently, waiting for my acknowledgment. "Thank you" I said already turning toward the waiting area.
I chose a seat in the corner, positioning myself where I could observe the room while maintaining some privacy. The gravity hammer's weight shifted as I sat, the magnetic mount adjusting automatically to prevent the weapon from hitting the chair back. Two seats over, a young Twi'lek cadet cradled his left arm against his chest, the limb clearly broken from some training accident. Across from me, an older human woman in maintenance coveralls had a bacta patch on her forehead.
I turned my attention to the pending data transfer, focusing on the ping that still waited patiently in my neural interface. Before accepting any external data, especially in a semi-public network like the medical wing's, basic security protocols were essential. The Academy had taught us that in our first week—never accept a data transfer without scanning it first.
Through my neural link, I activated a diagnostic subroutine, one of several security programs that came standard from the teacher during class. The program unfurled in my consciousness like a living thing, wrapping around the pending transfer and examining it from every angle. Lines of code scrolled past my mind's eye, the program checking for any hidden surprises.
Everything came back clean just standard medical forms with the appropriate Imperial security certificates, originating from the verified medical network terminal at the nurse's station. Satisfied that the transfer was safe, I accepted the ping and the forms materialized in my visual field. The first form was basic information confirmation—name, designation, quarters assignment, training track. The interface had already populated most of the fields from my existing medical records, requiring only that I verify their accuracy. I confirmed each with a thought, the neural link translating my intentions into digital checkmarks.
Name: Ember Korrath
Species: Sith Hybrid (classified)
Age: 17
Quarters: Residential Section E, Unit 847
Training Track: Intelligence - Specialization Pending
"Cadet Ember? We're ready for you now. Treatment room three, just down the corridor on your left."
The nurse's voice cut through my internal processing of the digital paperwork, bringing me back to the physical world. I stood, feeling the gravity hammer shift against my magnetic mount as my weight redistributed.
The corridor beyond the waiting room carried that distinctive medical facility atmosphere too clean, too bright, too carefully controlled. My footsteps seemed muffled by the specialized flooring as I made my way to treatment room three, the door already standing open in invitation.
________________________________
The door to the medical wing hissed closed behind me as I emerged back into the station's general corridors, the transition from sterile white to industrial gray almost jarring after the extended time inside. I immediately stepped to the side, out of the flow of foot traffic, needing a moment to process what I'd just acquired.
The bag in my left hand was heavier than expected it was medical-grade polymer designed to block any scanning attempts, its surface unmarked except for the small biometric lock keyed to my thumbprint. Inside, I could feel the weight of multiple containers shifting slightly: more of my cigarettes, their metal cases clicking softly against each other, and beneath those, the smaller pressurized canisters that held the modified reddish gas making my chest tighten with a mixture of anticipation.
But it was the object in my right hand that held my complete attention.
The mask sat heavy in my palm, its weight familiar yet foreign. I turned it slowly, examining it from every angle. The dual filters protruding from either side like metallic horns, designed to process and mix the various gases I wanted to breathe. The rigid faceplate molded from materials that could withstand significant impact. The adjustable straps made from synthetic fabric that wouldn't degrade when exposed to the chemical compounds.
It looked exactly like the one from the labs.
I hated that I'd done it but those bastards did good work. Hated that some part of me craved that familiar confinement, that barrier between myself and the world. But as I lifted the mask toward my face, I couldn't deny the relief that flooded through me at the prospect of wearing it again.
The mask settled against my skin with a soft seal, the materials warming immediately to match my body temperature. I felt the magnetic locks engage—not the harsh, inescapable binding of the lab version, but gentler holds that I could release at will. The filters activated with a soft hiss, and suddenly the first wash of processed air flowed into my lungs.
The Clouzon-36 was barely detectable in the mix, just a faint tang that made my sinuses tingle. But I could feel it working almost immediately as the gas seemed to flow not just into my lungs but through my entire respiratory system, spreading out in cool tendrils that traced paths along my nerves.
I breathed deeply, drawing in a full lungful of the treated air. The sensation was indescribable like drinking water after days in a desert, like finally scratching an itch that had been building for weeks. The gas swirled around the front of my mouth in the area where the mask sealed, visible to the sides a faint blue-green wisps that clung to the mask's exhaust ports before dissipating into the station's recycled atmosphere.
As the compounds reached full saturation in my system, something deep in my chest relaxed. Without thinking, without meaning to, I made a sound soft, involuntary, almost musical. It emerged from somewhere below my vocal cords, a low harmonic that resonated through my chest cavity and out through the mask's filters.
It sounded exactly like a whale calf calling for its mother.
The realization of what I'd just done hit me instantly, and heat flooded my face beneath the mask. I glanced around quickly, mortified, but the corridor was relatively empty. A maintenance worker twenty meters away might have heard something, but he showed no sign of it. A pair of junior officers passing in the opposite direction were too absorbed in their conversation to notice.
I adjusted the bag's strap, threading my arm through it so it hung securely from my shoulder as embarrassment burned through me like acid. The weight settled against my hip, opposite from where my cigarette case rested in my pocket. Between the mask, the computer spikes hidden beneath my sleeves, and the gravity hammer magnetically locked to my back, I was carrying enough equipment to outfit a small infiltration team.
Time to move. I had an appointment in the commercial sector a job interview at one of the station's gun ranges. The whole thing was probably a formality given my enrollment in the Academy, but the protocols had to be observed. The route to the tram platform was familiar enough that I could navigate it while pulling up files on my HUD. The neural interface responded to my thoughts, overlaying my vision with translucent documents that i requested.
The tram platform was busier than usual when I arrived, the afternoon shift change creating a minor surge in traffic. I found a position near the edge of the platform, where I could board quickly but wouldn't be caught in the initial crush. The tram arrived with barely a sound, the repulsor systems bringing the vehicle to a stop without so much as a vibration through the platform. The doors opened, releasing a wave of passengers before the boarding process began.
As the tram began to move, I accessed my HUD again, pulling up the interview preparation notes I'd compiled over the past week. I realized oddly enough that this wasn't something I trained for before I came to the academy.
[Talon Arms & Range - Interview Strategy Position: Range Safety Officer / Sales Associate Manager: Dex Harron - Former Imperial Navy, runs strict operation Key Points: Emphasize Academy training, weapons familiarity, safety protocols Potential Issues: Age (17), medical equipment, species status]
I scrolled through my notes, trying to memorize every detail. Working at a gunstore wasn't about the credits but about access. Legal access to weapons, ammunition, and most importantly, the connections that came with being part of the station's arms trade community. It would complement my training perfectly.
Prepared Responses: Q: "Why does a student want to work here?" A: "Hands-on experience with weapon systems outside Academy parameters. Understanding civilian market dynamics, maintenance protocols, customer service skills."
Q: "Can you work with that... equipment on your face?" A: "Medical requirement, doesn't impair function. Enhanced situational awareness, no impact on weapon handling or customer interaction."
I'd rehearsed these answers dozens of times, but they still felt weak but I was running out of time.
The tram began decelerating as we approached the commercial sector platform. I closed the notes with a thought, the documents vanishing from my vision. Through the windows, I could see the platform approaching busier than the residential areas, with shops and businesses visible beyond the transit station.
The doors hissed open, and I moved with the crowd onto the platform. The commercial sector had a different energy than the rest of the station—more chaotic, less regimented. Neon signs advertised everything from exotic foods to modifications, though the latter were carefully worded to avoid Imperial censure. The air smelled of cooking oil, ozone, and the distinctive tang of lubricants from the district's numerous dealers.
I paused briefly to adjust my outfit, smoothing down the burgundy tunic and ensuring the gravity hammer was secure but not too prominent. First impressions mattered, especially when you were already fighting an uphill battle.
Talon Arms & Range occupied a corner unit with reinforced walls and multiple security cameras. The storefront window displayed an array of weapons mostly training models and civilian-legal variants, though I could spot a few military-grade pieces that required special permits. A holographic sign proclaimed "IMPERIAL CERTIFIED - TRAINING - SALES - MODIFICATIONS."
I took one last breath and pushed through the door.
The interior was exactly what you'd expect from an ex-military operation: everything in its place, weapons secured in locked displays, ammunition stored in clearly marked containers. Behind the counter stood Dex Harron himself a mountain of a man with graying hair cut in military fashion and arms that suggested he could bench-press a speeder bike.
His eyes found me immediately, taking in every detail in a single sweep. The mask, the hammer on my back, my age, my red skin. I saw his expression shift from professional interest to skepticism in less than a second.
"Help you?" His voice was gravelly, the tone suggesting he already knew the answer.
"Mr. Harron? I'm Ember. I have an interview scheduled for this time."
He glanced at a datapad on the counter, then back at me. "Right. The Academy student." He said it like an accusation. "How old are you?"
"Seventeen."
"And that thing on your face?"
"It just helps me breath it won't impair my abilities."
He snorted. "Doesn't impair... Look, kid, I'll save us both some time. You seem eager, and I'm sure the Academy's teaching you all sorts of fancy things, but this is a serious business. My customers are military, law enforcement, people who need to trust the person selling them equipment that might save their lives."
"I understand that—"
"Do you? Because what I see is a teenager with medical issues who probably can't even legally handle half the inventory. That hammer on your back you have permits for that?"
"Academy training authorization covers—"
"In Academy spaces. This is civilian sector. Different rules." He leaned forward, his bulk making the counter creak. "Besides, I need someone who can work full shifts without needing... whatever that gas is you're breathing. What happens if your mask breaks? If you run out of medication? I can't have employees collapsing on the range."
The dismissal was clear in his tone, but I tried once more. "My condition is fully managed. I've never missed training due to—"
"Application denied." He turned back to his datapad, effectively dismissing me. "Try the tourist shops near the promenade. They might not care what you look like."
The insult burned, but I kept my expression neutral behind the mask. "Thank you for your time."
I left without another word, the door chiming as it closed behind me. One down.
The next three shops were variations on the same theme. Korbin's Armaments took one look at me and said they weren't hiring. Stellar Defense Systems let me fill out an application before the manager informed me they had a "pure human employment policy" for customer-facing positions. The Range Master didn't even let me in the door the Rodian bouncer simply shook his head and pointed to a sign: "No masks, No helmets, No concealed faces."
By the fifth shop, Havoc Supplies my patience was wearing thin. The owner, a thin human with cybernetic eyes, at least had the courtesy to conduct a brief interview. We sat in his back office, surrounded by weapon crates and the acrid smell of gun oil.
"So," he said, scrolling through my application on his datapad, "Academy student. Impressive. But I have to ask what are you really?"
"Excuse me?"
"Your species designation says 'Classified.' That's bureaucrat speak for 'we don't know what the hell it is.' Red skin could be Zeltron, could be some Sith hybrid, could be..." he paused, his cybernetic eyes whirring as they focused on me, "something else entirely."
"My heritage doesn't affect my ability to—"
"Doesn't it? You need special gas to breathe. You're wearing a mask that probably costs more than most people make in a month. What else don't you work right with? Can you even touch standard triggers with whatever's going on with your hands?"
My hands clenched involuntarily. They were normal hands, five fingers each, nothing unusual except for the slightly darker red of my palms. "My hands work fine."
"And your customers? How do you think they'll react to being served by someone who looks like they escaped from a medical experiment?"
The words hit like a physical blow. I stood abruptly, the chair scraping against the floor. "I think we're done here."
"I think so too. Don't let the door hit your mixed-breed ass on the way out."
The sixth shop was the worst. Ironside Weapons, run by a human veteran named Garrick who still wore his Imperial service pins despite obviously being discharged years ago. He took one look at me and laughed.
"You're joking, right? Academy sends the freaks now as some kind of diversity program?"
"I'm qualified—"
"You're a walking liability. That mask probably has you hooked on stims or worse." He laughed again, ugly and harsh. "And that skin what did daddy do, fuck a Sith whore? Or was mommy the one who couldn't keep her legs closed for her own species?"
The rage built slowly, starting in my chest and spreading outward like fire. Through my Force sight, I could see his energy signature ugly, twisted with prejudice and his own failures. This man who'd washed out of military service, who ran a third-rate gun shop in the worst part of the commercial sector, had the audacity to judge me.
"At least" I said, my voice deadly quiet through the mask's filters, "I didn't get dishonorably discharged for stealing from my unit's armory."
His face went purple. I'd guessed right the way he'd flinched when I mentioned the Academy, the too-proud display of service pins, the inventory that seemed too good for such a shabby shop.
"Get out" he snarled. "Get the fuck out before I call security."
"Gladly." I turned toward the door, then stopped. I spun back around, raised my hand, and extended my middle finger in the universal gesture of contempt.
The door slammed behind me with enough force to rattle the windows. As I stormed away from the shop, I felt my gear beginning to shift. The bag of medical supplies had slipped during my dramatic exit, now hanging awkwardly against my hip and threatening to swing forward with each angry step. The gravity hammer's magnetic mount had held firm, but its weight distribution felt off, pulling more to the left than it should. I stopped in the middle of the commercial sector's main walkway, ignoring the curious looks from passersby. With a few movements, I adjusted the bag's strap threading it properly through the shoulder loops so it would sit flush against my body. The hammer required more attention—I reached back, feeling for the adjustment toggles on the holster's magnetic panels. A few quick presses and the weight centered properly along my spine again.
Better. Now I could think.
I pulled up my notes through the HUD, the neural interface responding to my frustrated mental state with slight delays. Deep breath. The list of potential employers materialized in my vision, most now crossed off with angry red strikes.
There was one option left, sitting at the bottom of the list like an afterthought: Jekk's Salvage - Lower Level 47, Scrap District. I'd added it reluctantly after hearing another student mention that the old Rodian who ran the place sometimes hired Academy students for inventory work. It wasn't a gunstore, wasn't even weapons-adjacent really, but it was employment.
The location made me grimace behind the mask. Level 47 was deep in the station's bowels, where maintenance gave way to salvage operations and the Empire's control became more theoretical than practical. The only way down from the commercial sector was the emergency stairwells the trams didn't run that deep for "safety reasons."
I sighed, the sound distorting through the mask's filters into something almost mechanical. With a thought, I activated the GPS function in my HUD, inputting the salvage yard's coordinates. The route materialized as a glowing blue line overlaying my vision, leading away from the commercial district's bright lights toward a service corridor I'd never noticed before.
[ROUTE CALCULATED: 2.3 KILOMETERS HORIZONTAL, 847 METERS VERTICAL DESCENT ESTIMATED TRAVEL TIME: 42 MINUTES WARNING: ROUTE PASSES THROUGH SECTORS WITH LIMITED IMPERIAL SECURITY COVERAGE]
Of course it did.
I started walking, following the blue line as it led me away from the shops and crowds. The service corridor was marked with yellow and black striping, a sign reading "AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY - MAINTENANCE ACCESS." I pushed through anyway. I was authorized enough.
The stairwell entrance loomed at the corridor's end a heavy blast door with "EMERGENCY STAIRS - LEVELS 20-50" stenciled in fading paint. The access panel accepted my Academy credentials after a long pause, as if surprised a student would want to go this deep. The door ground open with a mechanical groan that suggested irregular maintenance.
The stairs beyond were industrial gray metal, each step perforated with drainage holes. Emergency lighting cast everything in a harsh white that made shadows sharp and unforgiving. The air smelled of rust, lubricants, and something else—decay, maybe, or just the accumulated grime of decades.
I started descending.
The first ten levels passed quickly enough. My legs fell into a steady rhythm, the gravity hammer's weight actually helping with balance as I navigated the switchback landings. Other people passed occasionally maintenance workers heading to shifts, a few individuals whose purposes were less clear. Most avoided eye contact, hurrying past the masked figure with the weapon on her back.
By level 30, my legs were beginning to protest. I stopped at a landing to stretch, pulling my heel to my backside and feeling the burn in my quadriceps. Through my Force sight, I could sense the station's structure around me the massive support beams, the power conduits running through the walls, the ventilation systems that grew less sophisticated the deeper I went.
The environment was changing too. The pristine industrial gray of the upper stairs gave way to small piles of dust and garbage. Graffiti appeared on the walls gang tags, crude drawings, messages in languages I didn't recognize. The emergency lighting became intermittent, some sections completely dark except for my Force sight's perception of the structure.
Level 35. The paint on the walls was peeling, revealing older layers beneath, I passed fewer people now, and those I did encounter moved with the particular wariness.
Level 45. I was alone now, or thought I was. But through my Force sight, I could sense movement below—multiple signatures, at least six, moving with purpose rather than casual movement.
An ambush.
I slowed my descent, hand moving instinctively to the hammer's release mechanism. The weapon would be awkward in the confined stairwell, but its impact might be worth more than its practical use.
Level 46. The signatures were clearer now seven individuals, spread across two landings below. They were waiting, letting me come to them. I could hear them now, the subtle sounds of movement, whispered communications.
The landing for Level 47 stretched before me, larger than the others a junction where multiple stairwells met. As I stepped onto it, they moved.
They emerged from shadows and doorways with practiced coordination, forming a loose circle that cut off all exits. Through my Force sight, I could see their weapons makeshift clubs, a few knives, two slug-throwers, and one energy pistol that looked like it hadn't been serviced in years.
I shifted my stance, reaching up to grasp the hammer's handle. My thumb found the activation switch, and with a soft click, the gravity manipulators came online. The weapon hummed, the sound filling the landing with an ominous resonance.
"Well, well" the apparent leader said, stepping forward. He was human, mid-thirties, with scars that suggested a history of violence and cybernetic implants along his jaw that gleamed dully in the poor light. "Looks like we've got ourselves a lost little brat."
I remained silent, adjusting my grip on the hammer. Through my Force sight, I could see the others behind me tensing, preparing for violence.
The leader tilted his head, studying me with an expression I couldn't quite read. "So what's it going to be? Option one you hand over that fancy gear and we let you crawl back up those stairs. Option two we take it anyway and leave you bleeding. Or..." he paused, a strange smile crossing his face, "option three."
I finally spoke, my voice muffled but clear through the mask. "What's option three?"
He stared at me for a long moment, then his entire posture changed relaxing, the aggression draining away like water. "Wait. Are you a first-year?"
The question was so unexpected that I almost lowered the hammer. "What?"
"Academy. You're a first-year Academy student, aren't you?" His tone had shifted completely, from threatening to almost... bureaucratic?
I hesitated, then nodded slowly. "Yes."
He sighed deeply, running a hand through his hair. "For fuck's sake. Is this your first run-in with a registered gang?"
"Registered?" The word came out before I could stop it. "Registered gang?"
Now he looked genuinely exasperated. He snapped his fingers, and the circle of gang members shifted weapons lowering, stances relaxing. One of them, a young woman with elaborate facial tattoos, actually laughed.
"First timer" she said. "Boss, we've got a first timer."
"I can see that" the leader replied, then raised his voice. "Marcus! Get over here with the orientation packet!"
Another gang member emerged from a doorway from behind the rest a skinny human teenager, probably not much older than me, carrying what looked like a metal briefcase. He approached carefully, opened it, and extracted something that made me blink in surprise.
A data shard. Slim, translucent, about the length of my thumb, with connection pins at one end designed to interface with neural ports.
"Here" the leader said, taking the shard and holding it out to me. "Imperial Statute 47-B, subsection 12. All registered criminal organizations operating in designated zones are required to provide orientation materials to citizens upon first contact."
I stared at the offered shard, my hammer still humming in my grip. "You're joking."
"Do I look like I'm joking?" He waggled the shard. "Look, kid, the Empire knows we exist. Hell, they want us to exist someone's got to run the black market, handle the dirty work, keep the real psychos in check. So we register, pay our taxes yes, we pay taxes and follow certain rules. One of which is not killing Academy students without prior authorization."
"That's..." I paused, trying to process this, "insane."
"That's bureaucracy. Now, are you going to take this so we can all get on with our day, or do I have to file an incident report about an uncooperative first-year?"
The woman with the facial tattoos added, "Trust me, you don't want him filing reports. He gets really petty with the descriptions."
"Fine" I said, taking the shard with my free hand. "But if this is some kind of trick—"
"It's not a trick" the leader interrupted. "It's orientation. Basic gang territories, neutral zones, protection rates, dispute resolution procedures. Everything a good little Imperial citizen needs to know about the criminal underworld they pretend doesn't exist."
I turned the shard over in my hand, noting the Imperial seal etched into one side. "This is official?"
"Official as it gets down here. Name's Krix, by the way. I run the Rust Runners we control levels 45 through 48, mainly salvage and smuggling. Nothing too violent unless someone makes it violent."
"Ember" I replied automatically.
"Nice hammer, Ember."
"Gang registration" I mumbled to myself, still trying to wrap my head around the concept. "The Empire registers gangs."
"Registers, monitors, taxes, and occasionally audits" Krix confirmed. "You should see the quarterly reports we have to file. Projected earnings, territory assessments, member health and welfare documentation"
"He's not joking about that last one," Marcus piped up. "We have to provide health insurance."
"Dental too" the woman with tattoos added proudly.
This was surreal. I was standing in a deteriorating stairwell, thirty levels below the commercial district, discussing bureaucracy with a registered gang that provided dental coverage to its members.
"So" I said slowly, "I can just... go?"
"That's generally how orientation works" Krix said. "Though if you're heading to Jekk's Salvage, watch yourself. Old bastard's paranoid as hell, and his security droids shoot first and don't bother with questions."
"How did you"
"Kid, there's exactly three reasons an Academy student comes down this deep: they're lost, they're looking for illegal goods, or they're trying to get a job at Jekk's because everywhere else turned them down." He looked pointedly at my mask. "And given that fancy breathing apparatus, I'm guessing option three."
Heat flooded my face behind the mask. Was I that obvious?
"Don't look so offended" Krix continued. "Jekk doesn't care what you look like as long as you can sort salvage and don't steal. Much. He expects a little stealing, actually considers it an employee benefit."
"This is all insane" I said.
"Welcome to the lower levels, kid. Normal rules stop applying around level 30."
I looked at the shard one more time, then reached up to the neural port at the base of my skull.
"I wouldn't plug that in here" the woman with tattoos advised. "Wait until you're somewhere with a chair. First time with orientation shards can be disorienting."
"Fair enough good point thanks." I said, lowering my hand. "I think."
"No problem. Oh, and kid?" Krix called as I started toward the door marked with Jekk's Salvage coordinates. "Tell Jekk that Krix says he still owes me twenty credits from that sabacc game. He'll know what you mean."
I nodded, adjusting my grip on the data shard. As I walked away, I heard them returning to their positions, casual conversation replacing the earlier tension.
"Think she'll survive Jekk's?" someone asked.
"Fifty-fifty" Krix replied. "But she's got that hammer. Jekk likes weapons that double as tools."
Their voices faded as I entered the corridor beyond, following the GPS line toward what I hoped would be, finally, employment. The data shard sat heavy in my hand, its surface warm from my grip.
Gang registration. Official orientation packets. Dental coverage.
The Empire was stranger than any of my Academy courses had suggested.
I paused at another intersection, checking the GPS. Two more turns, then I'd reach Jekk's. I lifted the shard again, examining the Imperial seal. Real or not, I'd find out soon enough. My other hand reached back, fingers finding the neural port's protective cover, flipping the cover open I ripped off the seal on the shard and inserted it.