=== Obi-Wan ===
The ship drifted quietly through the traffic lanes above Coruscant, its outer hull scorched and marked with carbon scoring.
Obi-Wan stood at the helm, eyes focused on the planetary customs interface, though his mind was far elsewhere. Satine sat behind him, wrapped in a simple shawl, her once-immaculate hair tousled and frayed. She looked tired. But more than that, she looked hollowed out. War and exile were starting to take its toll.
And still, she had smiled when Coruscant appeared in the viewport.
A moment passed before she spoke. Her voice was soft, wistful.
"Funny… I never thought I'd feel relieved to see these city-lights again."
Obi-Wan turned, offering her the faintest smile. "They do have a way of growing on you. Like mold."
Satine chuckled, though it faded quickly.
The Jedi's gaze returned to the controls. His fingers danced over the panel, transmitting clearance codes. It felt strange being back here after so long.
The ship landed smoothly on one of the private landing pads adjacent to the Senate Residential District. The hangar bay doors closed behind them with a hydraulic hiss. Before they could even disembark, the blast doors parted, and two familiar figures approached from the far corridor.
Padmé Amidala was already moving with a grace born of diplomacy and urgency, flanked by her protocol droid, who kept a respectful distance. The senator's expression shifted from surprise to concern the moment she laid eyes on Satine.
"Satine…" Padmé said, reaching out. "By the stars, you're safe."
Satine descended the ramp slowly, and for a moment the two women embraced like old friends reunited by fate rather than design.
"You've been missed," Padmé said gently. "Come, I've prepared rooms in my suite. You'll be safe there, no politics, no titles. Just rest."
Satine hesitated. "Are you sure? I—"
"I insist," Padmé replied, glancing meaningfully at Obi-Wan.
He stepped forward now, standing before both of them. The setting sun cast long shadows across the floor, and for a moment, the orange light danced on the ship behind them.
"I need to go to the Temple," Obi-Wan said, voice steady. "There's something… something I must speak with the Council about. It cannot wait."
Satine searched his eyes. "This is about Vulkan, isn't it?"
Obi-Wan nodded. "Yes."
She touched his arm gently. "Be careful, Obi-Wan."
He managed a small smile. "Always."
Padmé placed a hand on Satine's back and began leading her inside. As they disappeared into the lift, Obi-Wan watched them go, standing there long after the doors closed.
He sighed quietly, and turned toward the speeder that awaited him.
===
The sun had dipped low by the time Obi-Wan approached the Temple, casting Coruscant's skyline in a golden veil. But the Temple itself remained aloof and shadowed, timeless in its sacred solemnity.
As he walked the hallowed halls, Jedi younglings passed by in hushed murmurs. Some looked up at him with curiosity. Others with awe at a Knight.
He entered the turbolift alone. The ascent was silent save for the soft hum of machinery.
The doors opened at the High Council Chamber. Already, he could sense their presence. Yoda, seated in silence, Mace Windu, stoic and newly appointed Grandmaster; Plo Koon, Shaak Ti, Ki-Adi-Mundi, and the rest, gathered in a solemn ring.
The doors parted. Obi-Wan entered, cloak trailing behind him.
"Obi-Wan," Mace said, rising slightly. "We had not expected your return so soon."
"I had no choice," Obi-Wan said, his voice calm but edged with quiet anger as he stepped into the center of the Council chamber. He bowed low, his cloak trailing across the marble floor like a shadow. "Mandalore burns. Its people are subjugated. And the Council watched—did nothing. But what I have to say now… can no longer be delayed."
The room fell quiet at the insult save for the distant hum of Coruscant's ever-churning sky traffic far beyond the tower's high walls and Mace's mechanical hand tightening in quiet anger.
Yoda stirred first. Though aged and small, his presence was immense.
"Troubled, you are," he said, his voice soft but grave. "Deeply, about the Primarch… Vulkan."
Even the name sent a ripple through the Council. Mace Windu's brow furrowed. Ki-Adi-Mundi leaned forward. Shaak Ti blinked, slowly, her hands folding in her lap.
Windu's eyes narrowed. "Primarch?"
Obi-Wan turned his gaze toward Yoda, as if seeking something unspoken. The ancient Master met his eyes and gave a slow, deliberate nod.
Obi-Wan straightened. "Ten years ago, after I was lost in the Warp, I was in a coma. But in truth… I was very much alive, adrift, and caught in the grip of forces beyond comprehension. It was there… that I met him."
The chamber darkened as the sun dipped behind a cloud. Shadows stretched along the floor like quiet fingers reaching for truth.
"His name is Vulkan. One of the Emperor of Mankind's Primarchs. A demi-god to the Imperium. A giant clad in fire and fury. But… also a protector. A smith. A teacher." Obi-Wan paused, eyes distant. "While I was unconscious, trapped in that liminal realm, he kept me alive. He showed me the horrors of the galaxy, but also its strength. We became… close."
He let that hang in the air for a moment.
"Before he entered a regenerative slumber, he asked one thing of me. That, when the time came, I return his body to the Imperium."
A long silence followed. No one spoke, until Mace Windu did.
"You withheld this from the Council?" he said, voice like iron. "You kept a living weapon of the Imperium hidden?"
Obi-Wan's jaw clenched, but he remained composed. "I fulfilled my oath to him. But I also withheld the truth because I was uncertain what it meant, what he would mean to us. And now… with the galaxy as it is, I bring the question before you."
Shaak Ti spoke next, her voice quiet but edged with steel. "You wish to return him to the Imperium?"
Obi-Wan shook his head. "I'm unsure. That is why I am here. I need to know if keeping him hidden is the right path, or if handing him over might buy us something, anything, resembling peace."
"I disagree," Windu said immediately. "We should kill him."
That stunned the chamber. Even the subtle creak of Yoda's chair as he shifted was loud in the silence that followed.
"Master Windu," Ki-Adi-Mundi said, raising a hand. "That seems… extreme."
"No," Windu insisted, standing now. "It is not. If what Knight Kenobi says is true, then Vulkan is one of the most powerful beings in the galaxy. A symbol, a warrior, a force of nature. If the Imperium gets their hands on him, even in stasis, it will tip the balance. Entire systems will fall just hearing of his return."
Several Masters murmured in agreement.
"Perhaps," Plo Koon said, voice filtered through his breather. "But perhaps we could use his return to negotiate. A gesture of good will. The Imperium may despise us, but with Vulkan, perhaps they would pause."
Obi-Wan shook his head slowly. "Pause, yes. But only briefly. A few years of peace, perhaps. A treaty, a ceasefire. But the Imperium does not negotiate in good faith. Not truly. They see us as a perversion of mankind's destiny. Our Jedi Code, our democracy, our very existence, is offensive to them."
He looked around the circle, eyes hardening.
"Giving them Vulkan would be like arming a volcano and hoping it doesn't erupt."
Windu crossed his arms. "So we hide him? Keep him locked away forever? That isn't justice. That's cowardice."
"It's pragmatism," Obi-Wan replied.
"From you?" Windu sneered.
Obi-Wan didn't rise to the bait. He looked to Yoda now.
"Master… I seek no control over the Primarch. I simply believe that awakening him, or giving him to the Imperium, will not bring balance. It will bring fire. Death. They will use him as a banner, a symbol of divine right. We cannot match that. Not yet."
Yoda's ears lowered slightly, eyes closing.
"Much risk, there is," he murmured. "Truth, hard to see. Heart and mind… divided."
Shaak Ti spoke again. "We could isolate him further. Seal him in the Temple vaults. Deep beneath the core of the planet, even the Imperium couldn't reach him there."
"And when the war reaches Coruscant?" Obi-Wan asked. "When they come in force, as they surely will?"
Again, silence.
Obi-Wan took a deep breath. "The safest course for the Republic, for the Jedi, is to keep him hidden. Forever. Let Vulkan sleep, and the Imperium never know."
Windu turned to Yoda. "Master?"
But Yoda did not answer immediately. He looked old, older than ever. And weighed down by the magnitude of the decision.
"Advice, I will give. On Tython, we will leave him. Slumber, he will."
At the mention of the planet, a ripple of shock went through the Council.
"Tython?" Windu repeated.
"Just how much have you been hiding from us?" He said, slight anger in his voice.
Yoda just sighed, knowing this would happen. Like the Jedi of old, the order now was bogged down by bureaucracy.
"Many things still, I have to teach you."
=== Unknown ===
The sky above the dead world was a roiling sea of black clouds and lightning. Jagged, unnatural mountains formed a ring around the massive obsidian vessel that had landed silently weeks before. No name adorned its surface, for the Necrons had no need for such things. Only the dull thrum of arcane engines and the low pulse of impossible technologies echoed across the desolate plains.
Inside, a chamber bathed in unnatural green light pulsed with a low-frequency hum that seemed to reverberate through the bones of reality itself. Black-metal walls glistened with streams of glowing hieroglyphs, moving and rearranging themselves like living text.
Suspended at the center of the chamber, a figure twitched violently, held still on a black slab by hundreds of spidery tendrils and surgical arms. It was the cyborg, or what remained of him. What flesh he had left had been carved apart and flayed down to its core. His once-proud kaleesh skull-mask was shattered, revealing torn sinew and nerve endings that sparked as alien instruments probed deeper into his body.
He screamed, a sound not of agony alone, but fury. His voice echoed like shattering glass against the high-vaulted chamber.
"RAAAAGHHHHH!"
Around him, Necron Crypteks moved like priests of a cult. Clad in nanometal strands, they did not flinch at the howls. They stood at obsidian consoles, fingers of light dancing across holographic glyphs, their skeletal faces fixed in cold detachment.
"Biotransference process: 36% complete," one intoned, its voice a droning chorus of mechanical echoes.
"Organic core resists compliance. Neural feedback exceeds projected thresholds," said another. "Suggesting application of temporal stasis slicing."
A third, taller Cryptek stepped forward. Its cloak billowed like shadow smoke, and its staff glowed with runes that had not been spoken aloud in millions of years.
"Resistance is irrelevant," it hissed. "The subject is a failed imitation of our perfection. He will be made pure. Entirely."
They turned their gaze back to the Cyborg.
What had begun as "augmentation" in Separatist labs was now something far darker, the unmaking of everything he was. They were not simply rebuilding him. They were rewriting him, stripping away anything… unnecessary. He was being drawn into the ancient rite of biotransference, the same ancient ritual that had turned the Necrontyr into what they now were.
One of the mechanical arms pierced into the beings spinal cluster, and a flood of green energy surged through his broken body.
The Cyborgs' back arched as he continued screaming.
His fingers, or what was left of them, snapped violently, servos collapsing as liquid metal began to ooze into his nervous system. Tendrils of living necrodermis coiled around his bones, fusing into his systems, overwriting his mechanical components with Necron alloys. They were replacing every part of him, not with technology as he had once known it, but with something far more ancient and impossible as he was lifted into the air.
In his mind, something screamed louder than he ever could, a war for identity.
He saw visions.
Not of his life, not of his time as a warlord but of stars dying. Of entire empires burning before beings made of living starlight and hate. Of black pyramids descending upon uncountable worlds.
In the back of his consciousness, a voice spoke.
"YOU ARE BROKEN. YOU WILL BE REFORGED."
"YOUR PAIN IS THE GATEWAY TO PURPOSE."
"SUBMIT, EMBRACE THE INEVITABLE."
The green lightning coursed through him again, this time not only pain, but cold, gnawing clarity. His mind tried to retreat. Back to who he was, a Kaleesh warrior, a proud Warlord, a tactician.
But it was all fading.
Bit by bit.
Strip by strip.
Until only rage remained.
Then… silence.
The arms withdrew. The chamber's glow dimmed to a low pulse. The Crypteks stepped back, as the stasis field around the Cyborg's body collapsed.
He fell to the floor with a heavy clang, landing on new limbs, not of durasteel and Separatist engineering, but smooth, dark metal etched with green veins of energy. His body was leaner, faster, adorned with angular Necron geometry. His back was crowned with four folding limbs like scythes, and his clawed feet gripped the metallic floor.
Slowly, his head lifted. A new mask, sleeker, more alien, settled into place with a hiss. Two burning green eyes ignited beneath it. Cold, calculating, but still furious.
The Crypteks watched silently.
Then, he spoke, his voice deeper, slowed by layered audio distortions.
"You tried to remake me…"
"But I was never yours to shape."
His arms snapped open, two, then four, then six, unfolding from his back as if from the wings of some techno-daemon. Green phase blades hummed to life from hidden ports in his wrists.
The Crypteks took a step back.
The Cyborg looked down at his hands, the curved claws of living metal.
"You thought to enslave me… but all you have done… is make me unstoppable."
===
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