Kyr'bes - King of Crowns

Sol'yc

(This is more or less an introduction, a little warmup, if you will.) 

You have not really expected much survival wise.

You watched, in horror and in awe at the Death Star was destroyed. Over five years ago, the rebellion won. While you had been stationed on the Death Star previously, you had been placed elsewhere, and not a moment too late. If you had been on that ship, you've surely would not see this day. You were lucky to make it off that weapon. 

That was why your allies and friends, the closest acquaintances you had here, called you Lucky. Your real name, though, TK-689, was the only thing you really held onto when the Empire crumbled. Lucky, your nickname, was given to you because you happened to survive any encounter with the rebellion, wannabe marauders or any post your commander stationed you in.

It was no known fact that you survived every battle, with a new scar, a new wound, or a new memory. While you put your loyalty into the Empire, the Empire and its leaders had none in you. That probably explained how you got so lucky to get here. Standing in this cold room, facing this Doctor Pershing.

Your orders were simple. Guard the commander, who gave you no name or rank, collect the asset, wash and repeat. You have been demoted to guard duty after the Empire fell, and your armor had seen more battles since. They worked in the shadows now, barely held together by strings with no funds, but you were still here.

That was why you were called Lucky.

The commander, the Client, more or less, handed out tracking fobs for this asset like candy, giving them to anyone who seemed competent. Some less than, even. Staring you down past your emotionless visor, watching their hands tick in either anger, confusion or shock as they see who you worked for, knowing that the Empire was still here, yet saying nothing.

The most competent, it seemed, was this strange Mandalorian, who you have seen once or twice stalking behind the walls of Navarro. You could recognize that red armor anywhere, but he walked into the base, sat down across the table from the Client and took the fob. Just like that. No questions. No concerns. Just their age.

And, a few days later, he came back.

He was the only one in the entire bunch who gave the asset over, with moderate success. Sure, he looked worse for wear when he did, his once tidy, cared for armor dented and busted, but he collected his reward.

"What are you going to do with it?" His voice broke, once he passed his bounty to your hands.

His head followed the strange asset to the back room, where the Doctor would be waiting, where you would be posted, and you heard the client respond with malice before the door closed, shutting you off from the outside world once again.

You thought it was strange, to say the least.

Bounty hunters, Mandalorian bounty hunters, were hard and steady folk who completed their job, without a word, or even a care. They were hard to sway, and even harder to kill. Any Mandalorian who turned into a bounty hunter was worth their salt, but this Mandalorian, was different.

He reminded you of someone you could not quite place.

His care for this bounty was off. The way he snapped at the other trooper for manhandling the carriage set him off, his concern evident underneath thickly modulated words.

His words, mostly, drove a stake through your chest and made your pulse quicken whenever he spoke.

He unnerved you. He terrified you, but...you were afraid of his voice. Shame washed over you whenever he spoke, some familiar baritone you never picked up causing you to tremble under his gaze when he glanced at you. If he could see your face, he would see it was twisted into one of fear.