The Family (Brudnopis)

Corran

PROLOGUE

Alderaan. Year 21 ATC, ~3 years ago.

Deep beneath the pristine beauty and majestic splendor of noble Alderaan existed a world so dark and full of primeval dread, only the bravest or most desperate of men dared to delve into; lured by the prospect of facing the horrors that were told to dwell within since times immemorial. Underground tunnels dug by native Killiks sprawled endlessly at the very roots of ancient mountains. Within that murky abyss, the only source of dim light was bioluminescent fungal flora, which took different hideous shapes and sizes, often provoking images of podgy, throbbing grubs. Hues of green and blue barely illuminated arborescent roots twisted in ways curiously reminiscent of clawed hands reaching for their prey from beyond mossy walls. There, deep within the caverns long-forgotten, a lone figure clad in black loitered its body along rocky soil.

A man soaked with viscous red liquid; blood, grime and sweat obscuring his visage twisted into a grimace of pain and anger, as he tirelessly dug his way out of the mass grave of cold corpses on all fours. Each eager breath he took brought only more stench of omnipresent death and decay, and he could swear there were delicate whispers carried by foul, subterranean drafts reaching his ear. He shoved aside another set of monstrous extremities drenched in human blood and continued to climb through darkness, until his trembling limbs told him to rest, and so he rolled to his back and leaned against the closest rock. Breathing heavily out of exertion to catch a breath, he brought himself to look down the tunnel, witnessing a truly terrifying scene of gruesomely mutilated corpses of men and beasts alike; some nearly indistinguishable from each other. Even those bodies which still carried the brands of T.H.O.R.N. were subjected to cruelty of mutations that warped their humanoid appearances beyond all recognition - sickly pale, eyeless monstrosities with raws of dagger-like teeth, virus-ridden hooked claws and black protrusions covering their stoop-shouldered frames.

The lone survivor hadn't had long to contemplate the sickening view, for there was a clearly feminine voice buzzing unclearly through the static in his ear, which snatched him out of stupor. He pressed the comlink and answered in low, raspy voice

"This is Rotenfeld, I read you. Say again." More static in response. The man in black gritted his teeth and tried again, louder "This is Crisis Specialist Kitts Rotenfeld of Theta Squad. Does anyone read?"

Then there was only ominous silence, which felt like an eternity to the ragged Soldier. Listening intentely to the static, he made an effort to inspect his battered gear, or rather, what was left of it - several pneumatic syringes, a kolto pack, and his trusty sidearm model GR-10. He brought the latter for closer inspection and run his gloved hand along its black frame to wipe the filth off of it, enough to ensure firm grasp on the comfort grip. Power cell was nearly exhausted and the lense of the scope was shattered, but it appeared largely functional. Subsequently, Rotenfeld secured it back in the holster and produced a set of aforementioned syringes filled with combat adrenals which, without a moment of hesitation, he proceeded to pump into his veins. Pained hisses accompanied each injection and before long, he felt an overload of energy surging within his flesh; his heart now racing alarmingly fast and there were unsettling bloodshots in his eyes.

Revitalized, he effortlessly collected himself from the clammy soil, catching a glimpse of his own face mirrored in the visor of his colleague's helmet on the way up. He frowned at the reflection of an average-looking man in his late 30's, sporting dark-brown hair and eyes of the same color. His stubble-covered chin was crossed with a fresh scar, but beyond that he lacked any extraordinary features. He rolled his shoulders, producing a noise of cracking joints, before approaching the owner of seemingly serviceable helmet, and then knelt down before the corpse to scavenge the equipment, carefully so, exposing dreadfully deformed, pale visage.

"I can't wait to get my hands on that asshole." He murmured under his nose, then secured the helmet on his head with an audible click of magnetic seals.

Built-in combat software automatically kicked in, greeting the man with GSI logo, before arranging tactical information on the Heads-Up Display. He took a long, deep inhale when the rebreather freed his breath from the fetid odor of this place and biological hazards polluting the air. After that, he appropriated discarded blaster rifle and left, marching his way through the tunnel; rifle trained ahead, eyes scanning the surroundings with murderous intent through the green tint of helmet's Night Vision.

On he walked, blazing the trail through the unknown, until his software eventually picked up an active Navigation Beacon in the vicinity. Neutralizer smirked triumphantly under his helmet; T.H.O.R.N. used these devices to scan the tunnels for expeditionary use.

He linked into the network and tried comlink again "This is Crisis Specialist Rotenfeld. Does anyone read?" He spoke with urgency, remaining vigilant and acutely aware of his surroundings.

This time, a reply came from the same feminine voice rich with professional calmness and clarity "Signal's strong. You're coming in loud and clear, Kitts."

Rotenfeld cast a long exhale out of sheer relief before producing an answer "Finally! Is that you, Klara?"

She confirmed "The One and only! What's your status?"

Here, he took a moment to gnash his teeth, before speaking in a voice thick with enmity "We were sent to investigate after losing contact with Alpha and Delta. There were no survivors left in their last known locations, so we picked up where they left it and went after Thul to complete the mission. I led my men straight into a trap." He paused to compose himself "So far, only I made it out alive. Currently in pursuit of our target. What's the sitrep?"

The woman didn't bother with reactions to these news, simply answering the man in a dry, matter-of-fact tone "Chief ordered full-scale retreat from the tunnels. Rakghouls are swarming the streets of House Thul. We do what we can to organize defense perimeters around the Castle, but the situation is getting worse all the time. Numerous casualties among civilian and military personnel. We're talking three-digit numbers, Kitts."

In response, he unleashed his fury upon the wall, making it crack with a forceful slam of his fist, seemingly unfazed with several fractured bones. The woman simply continued her report "Glassman spoke with representative of an Imperial branch called Bureau of Research. Lord Ravioli, I think? Weird guy, but he felt like having interest in our Operation. In any case, help is on the way and I need you back on the surface ASAP. Let the Imperials handle our Traitor."

Rotenfeld listened close, taking this time to familiarize himself with the map of the subterranean caverns, in effort to locate any signals coming from remaining survivors. His eyes narrowed at faint bio-signature emanating from what was described as 'Central Cavern' and not a second later, he was already jogging his way to the objective "Out of the question, Doc. That asshole just made it personal. I'm not leaving until the job's done."

Arztin didn't relent, adding a hint of concern to her appeal "Kitts, your bio-readings are way off the charts. It's possible you've been compromised. Withdraw while you still can, that's an order."

Irritated, he countered with sharp "Cry me a river." And the connection was cut short, leaving the man alone in the dark, with feverish dreams of vengeance guiding his steps.

Rest of the journey was largely uneventful, aside from a few random encounters with rakghouls met along the way to the Central Cavern. Alone or in small packs, they posed relatively little threat to a seasoned Neutralizer, like Rotenfeld, and so he dispatched them with extreme prejudice, making each shot count to conserve power cells. And yet, he couldn't shake off the dreaded feeling that something or someone stalked his every move ever since he left his would-be early grave. There was something skulking in the shadows, as if he needed more reasons to stay alert at any given time during his stay in the tunnels. He chalked up these feelings to fear-induced paranoia and moved on, thrilled with anticipation of the upcoming encounter with the Resident he sought after.

Corran

CHAPTER ONE

T.H.O.R.N. HeadQuarters. Year 24 ATC, Present Day.

Morning sunshine was seeping through the blinds into Glassman's office. Plumptious man dressed in black T-shirt stood in front of the window, scouting the horizon with his weary eyes hidden behind a pair of wire-framed round reading glasses. The air around him was filled with aroma of freshly brewed caf steaming from a hefty mug clamped tightly by man's chubby fingers. Other hand was slowly stroking his scruffy beard, as he enjoyed these rare moments of idyllic silence, when suddenly there came assertive knocking.

He heaved a long sigh of chagrin followed by a long slurp of caf, before slowly turning around to settle himself behind the enormous, wooden office desk. High-back leather chair creaked under his weight in protest, still holding its ground despite years of constant trials, wear and tear. He released the mug from his grasp, placing it next to the rectangular, gilded nameplate and, with some deferment in his moves, Glassman started to peruse through plentiful sheets of flimsiplast littering otherwise elegantly crafted desk. Before long, he's found two peculiar letters adorned with the Imperial and Republic insignia, respectively, and cast a minute frown at the documents before finally setting his attention on the door and replied "Come in, Rotenfeld."

Door opened at an instant, letting two men cross the threshold and enter Glassman's humbly furnished office. First entered the marred man; wearing grey, simplistic vestiture of a prisoner. The man's hands were cuffed behind his back and he carried an eerie tranquil look in his keen, blue eyes. Glassman couldn't help but grimace at the sight of rather unpleasant burn scars covering his visage, but he didn't express his thoughts on the matter; patiently waiting for his subordinate. The man in black followed, announcing his arrival with heavy, military steps while keeping the prisoner at close distance and under constant scrutiny. Without a word, he slammed the door impatiently and pushed his prey further into the office, forcefully helping him take a seat in front of Glassman.

The prisoner offered no resistance against his captor's violence, seemingly unfazed with this display of deeply-seated enmity and choose to examine the man behind the desk himself, while Rotenfeld spoke "This is the Imperial that surrendered to us, although he denies all allegiances." At these words, he made a step towards his boss and reached out with his gloved hand, presenting a small, metal cylinder secured in his iron grip, then added "He was armed only with this, Sir."

Glassman retrieved the item with his stubby fingers and conducted its thorough inspection, crumpling something in his mouth when he saw biohazard seals adorning the container. He dismissed the man with a brief nod and returned the item with some aversion in the gesture "Very good, Captain. Show it to Arztin for analysis and give me full report in, uh..." He took a moment to eye up the prisoner and compose his answer before turning back to THORN Operative, addressing him in hoarse, weary voice "... about an hour, give or take. Then you'll take this man to detention center for observation." He reached for the mug of caf with renewed interest and added, having no response from his subordinate "That's all, you may go now."

Rotenfeld tensed up and stood there. Still. Frozen. Clenching his hand around biohazard container, he looked fixedly at Glassman, as if preparing to stare him out with his hazel eyes "Observation?" He repeated with pretense clear in his thick voice, taking a step back "After what he's done to us?" He gritted his teeth in silent fury and pointed his accusatory finger at the Prisoner. However, it had little to no effect on the man in charge, and so, he pressed on with barely contained anger "How many of our men are dead because of that THING!?"

Glassman took his glasses off to rub weary eyes, offering a sigh in return and spoke with resignation "You know I'm right there with you, Captain, but your personal vendetta isn't going to get us anywhere." He treated himself to a large sip of caf, then folded both hands helplessly upon the desk. "We'll talk more in private, but until then, you have your orders. Dismissed."

At this, stalwart operative only nodded in acknowledgement, breathing heavily through his nostrils "This is nerfshit and you know it, Boss" before turning on his heel to leave, but after making few steps, he leaned over the prisoner and started breathing hot air down his neck "We're not done yet." He promised with venom and promptly shew himself out, causing the room to shake in foundations when he slammed the door once again.

A moment of silence set in, as Glassman wiped his spectacles clean with a cloth and put those back on his nose. He dived into documents, seemingly ignoring his strangely mute guest who now developed interest in the gilded plaque set on the desk, which informed with engraved letters: Chief of Special Operations, Gaben Glassman. Sensing prisoner's knowing stare upon himself, he put the plaque down with irritation and produced an inconspicuous sheet of flimsi, clearing his throat before demanding "State your name for the record."

The prisoner wore a neutral expression void of any emotions when he answered in calm voice rich with Alderaanian accent "Sander Thul."

Upon hearing the name, The Chief gave a disdainful snort and spoke in monotonne voice "Treason, sabotage, espionage, forgery, numerous crimes against the Galaxy, including genocide. You've got a long list of crimes to answer for, Thul." He made a brief pause, settling himself deeper into the creaky chair and studying his interlocutor "There are people in high places who'd want me to go easy on you, but after brief consideration period, I really see no reason to." He reached for the letter with Imperial insignia on it and waved it irreverently "Friends of yours or just another act of forgery? Don't answer. In any case, -these- have no power here." At this, the sheet of flimsiplast went into the shredder, which turned it into fine particles at an instant. Gaben casually repeated the process with the Republic equivalent of the written message and took another pause, steepling his hands before making a statement "I do."

The Prisoner remained at utter peace and silence through the monologue, allowing a faint smile to cross his marred features when he was finally given a chance to address his captor "I only ask to say what I've come here to say. After that, do as you please and I won't try to stop you."

In confirmation, Gaben gave a quick shrug, drilling his subject with indifferent stare "Out with it, Son. Indulge me."

Thul moderated his mien and spoke, low and calm with precise diction "Czerka Corporation has developed an airborne Trigger Virus derived from late Professor Spiel G. Berg's experiments with the Rakghoul Plague. Once released into the atmosphere, it will achieve complete global saturation within the next 48 hours. As a result, entire nation of Alderaan will be effectively enthralled to Lady Alessia Thul and her secret organization coloquially known as The Family." He leaned forward in his chair, as far as his restraints would allow for and took into Glassman's aweary features "They must not be allowed to grow beyond our control, else soon they will spread throughout the Galaxy. I cannot stop them alone." He lowered the tone of his voice to theatrical whisper "But you can."

What happened next has left Sander utterly consternated; THORN administrator let out a giant belly laugh, quivering all over his corpulent frame. He'd struggle to catch a breath and there were tears of sheer hilarity gathering in his eyes “Ah, yes, The Family!" He exclaimed, banging the desk with an open palm "Race of genetically engineered hybrids allegedly waiting in dark corners of Alderaan." Glassman shook his head and looked into Thul's bored expression while working on steadying his own breath "You serious? And let me guess - you are going to help us stop them? That's why you're here?" but after seeing no apparent change in his captive's mien, so did he force himself to adopt more earnest demeanor "Alright, listen - Rotenfeld conducted numerous investigations and interrogations based on previous reports. We have dismissed this claim, Son." A pitiful smile played upon his lips, as he stated with malice "You're the only thing left of Berg's experiments and we'll make sure it stays that way."

In response to that, Thul cast a vicious glare across the desk and clenched his jaw before addressing his narrow-minded opponent; seemingly unaware or uncaring about the heavy tapping of military boots behind him "Then Alderaan is truly lost. You were our only hope."

In this moment, a pair of strong arms yanked the prisoner out of chair and he was pulled out of the room by an anonymous man in black uniform. Another one held the door for them to exit, as Glassman watched the scene with indifference apparent in his mien and tone of "Maybe" he cast at the convict right before the door closed for the last time; finally leaving the man to his own devices. Chief of Special Operations went to set the gilded plaque straight and pouted his lips for a second, considering an elusive thought, only to shake it off moments later when the scent of caf getting colder prompted him to finish now bitter brew.

Corran

CHAPTER TWO

Alderaan. Year 21 ATC, ~3 years ago.

Motion detector ceaselessly warned Rotenfeld of the unseen assailants prowling in the pitch-black darkness of the underworld. His heart seemed to race increasingly faster with each prompt of the software whenever there was a slightest hint of movement caught in a net of 15 meter detection radius around him. His eyes moved frantically in futile attempts at discerning shady silhouettes of monsters lurking about. The closer he got to his final destination, the more their numbers grew, but the lonesome soldier wouldn't halt his restless march. With a rifle raised he braved through, and the ravenous horde followed.

After what felt like an epoch, he stood at the orifice of a cavernous grotto as far, high and wide as the blood-shotted eyes could see through the curtain of red. Here bioluminescent fungal flora grew plentifully, eagerly catching every bit of prehistoric stone and primeval roots; twisting and contorting at strangest angles around fang-like stalagtites. Rotenfeld's HUD was going haywire out of sheer number of predators acting as his shadows through the journey into the depths. The distress signal he followed thus far led him here, yet there were no signs of other survivors; no cries for help, nor pleas for mercy could be heard echoing through the abyssmal halls.

The man of T.H.O.R.N. dismissed his motion detector the moment he spotted dense movement of vaguely humanoid shapes creeping through these ghoulish formations; his stalkers finally revealed themselves. Wherever he dared to set his gaze at, vicious hisses and rumors of craving for human flesh welcomed him, bringing a cold breath of fate upon his nape.

In an act of valiance, Rotenfeld stood tall and spoke to his stalkers with unadulterated fury "Back off! I've got a score to settle with that son of a bitch! Where's he at!?"

Teeming mass of mutated flesh replied with dead silence, as they began to crawl in unison down the cavern in a continuous, endless stream of body horror. Slithering the walls and ceilings, they guided the vengeful one into the grotto and the man followed without hesitation. Before long, he saw the unmistakable signs of enemy's presence in the tunnels. Technology, or rather, what he came to recognize as a scientific equipment formed into makeshift research laboratory. It was overgrown with the fungal flora, while still appearing somewhat fully functional.

Rotenfeld came to a slower pace and hanged his rifle down after noticing that the rakghouls have vanished out of sight again for some inexplicable reason, leaving him free to sate curiosity with closer inspection of the illicit experiments therein conducted. However, he choose to largely disregard the scungy apparatus, in favor of tracking down his colleague's fading biosignature broadcasted from the very heart of the facility. Until rather peculiar scene called for his immediate attention.

There was a set of kolto tanks composed neatly in the vague center of the laboratory and they oozed with bizzare, sour green coloration. With great deliberation, he navigated through the maze of chaotically arranged computer terminals displaying enigmatic data he couldn't even hope to fathom. Meager glance at the contents of those tanks had Specialist feel his intestines writhe in revulsion at the sight of mutated fetuses floating in the putrid liquid; eyeless and genderless infants deprived of humanity.

"Gestation chambers. You sick fuck..." He stated in a hushed tone, barely able to vocalize his consternation before his jaws clasped instantly to keep the guts from sudden expulsion.

"Magnificent. Aren't they?" Deep, robotic voice echoed. Spoken with true Alderaanian accent.

Muscle memory engaged, making Rotenfeld's body move on its own accord, and before he even knew it, his rifle was locked on target. Stepping out of shadows with a heavy thud to its steps was a cloaked figure clad in jaded armor; imposing structures of bio-synthetic muscles weaved into alloy of sturdy metal were covered by grey, tattered cape ridden with fungi. Under the ragged cowl, an anonymous mask of a T-visor silently judged the Neutralizer. A small herd of impish raklings was merrily frolicking around at the man's feet. One of them nimbly climbed the muscular arm and perched down on its master's shoulder, demanding attention with a sequence of high-pitched cries and playful clawing at the helmet.

"You will find they are immensely superior to your human brethren." The tyrant began his soliloquy, speaking with distinct pride and accomplishment in the tone of his distorted voice; diction precise, whilst he grazed the rakling affectionately. He then gestured at the tanks behind the man in black with his heavily-armored arm "This batch was conceived merely several days ago. Modifying their genetic structure, in order to make them more independent in comparison to original designs was almost an insurmountable task."

All of a sudden, a series of small explosions rang in the chamber, and the toady rakling blew up right into tyrant's helmet; its hideous intestines splattered all over the T-visor. Rotenfeld habitually inspected the empty clip and discarded now useless weapon; right hand immediately went for the sidearm neatly secured on his hip and brought it up to line on next targets, deftly so. Remaining raklings threw themselves at the Neutralizer in a fit of primal fury to avenge their kin, but before their razor-sharp claws could rend human flesh apart, he effortlessly vaporized them with precise plasma bolts fired in quick succession. Smoking gun immediately sought out their Master, searching for weak spots in his impressive armor.

"Your point being?" He challenged his opponent through clenched teeth in display of unrivaled defiance.

Primary target offered merely a derisive cackle in response to the bold threat "Brave, yet foolish, my friend. You are severly outnumbered." and raised his arms into the high ceiling, like a chaplain beseeching help from the Heavens above.

His minions have answered the call. With chatter of their needle-like fangs and aggressive, guttural howls intent on quenching a thirst for blood, the swarm of rakghouls quickly blotted out the dim subterranean lights, as they converged on the lone hunter from every possible angle and direction. Voracious deformities came in all kinds of different shapes and sizes, impatiently demanding with violent motions to be unleashed upon their promised prey, but their master kept them at bay with simple, commanding gestures. Rotenfeld looked around, without breaking line of sight with the target, quickly assessing the situation in development, and summarized his odds of surviving the encounter with brief, yet accurate "Shit!"

Thul simply carried on with his overly elaborate rhetoric, expertly modulating tone of his theatrical voice and complementing it with subtle, dramatic gesticulation for enhanced viewer's experience "Gaze upon what merely a small fraction of my research has yielded and despair!"

At this, Rotenfeld felt his eyes involuntarly rolling back into the head in defensive reflex, but he forced them to stay firm and cast a deadpan look at the self-absorbed elocutionist, giving way to his utter disbelief with the homely performance. His mouth muttered a quiet commentary "This is taking the piss..."

Bio-synthetic armor allowed for astonishingly wide array of movements, as the Tyrant slowly concluded his churching. A fact that hasn't escaped Neutralizer's attention "You have no idea the hardship to make just one such embryo come to life! I had to capture and infect countless subjects, to harness their genetic material and improve upon the formula." Speaker made a slight pause to look straight at Rotenfeld "It proved sufficient..." in anticipation of his reaction.

"If you're gonna kill me, just kill me, but for the love of Gods, shut the fuck up!"

"Soon you will be my next subject of experimentation, so that I can learn a little something from you and that special blood you carry."

"Look who's talking, jackass." Rotenfeld's voice cut halfway through Thul's monologue, as he aimed his sidearm at the nearest gestation pod and unsecured it with a familiar click. "Here's an idea - you hand over my men and I won't have to send your ugly bastards straight to Hell. It's your call, pal!"

Corran

CHAPTER THREE

Alderaan. Year 24 ATC, Present Day.

'Section Zero' was a primary containment facility located deep within the bowels of THORN Headquarters, where only the strict elite of research and security personnel was granted access to. The air of mystery surrounding this place birthed countless unearthly speculations regarding secrets housed within these relatively empty halls among those less privileged. Every other day, there were new rumors of freshly promoted employees entering these halls only to never return again to the outside world. Official statements regarding whereabouts of these vanished individuals were always vague and unconvincing, which only reinforced the infamous reputation that instilled apprehension within hearts of uninitiated. But Specialist Kitts Rotenfeld was counted among those initiated. Breathing cold air enhanced with deceptively strong scent of anti-septic, he carried himself as if he owned this place; confidence and discipline emanating from his gait and posture, as he marched through silent, sterile-clean dark corridors. He braved the final mile of one particularly long corridor that terminated at the heavy durasteel door devoid of any notable features. There was a writing engraved into the wall just above the door-frame. 'Ward AA-23' It read.

The man in black approached access terminal inconspicuously built into the wall and removed a glove out of his right hand. Fingers were cracked and knuckles were popped before the hot-blooded soldier slammed his palm against hand geometry reader. After that, he entered staring contest with retinal screening system to definitely and absolutely confirm his identity to the vigilant machines guarding these facilities. Metal wall parted in half before him with a soft hiss, allowing him to enter into pristine domain that welcomed him with a flash of blinding-white light. A wince spread through his chiselled face when he resisted the instinctual response to shield his hazel eyes from the irritation. The wall closed behind his back with hushed elegance and he marched on towards slim silhouette that stood against the windowpane stretching through the whole width of the room shaped into semi-circle.

Eye accommodation eventually allowed him to discern details about the human-shaped silhouette which turned out to be a human female in her late 30's dressed in plain and simple white laboratory coat decorated with a name plaque pinned to her breast. A pair of half-closed eyes smiled at him and he returned the favor with intense, penetrating stare. She was leaning against the wall of glass separating them from a large circular and brightly illuminated room; arms casually hanging down her frame with palms hidden in the spacious pockets of the coat.

"Arztin. What have you got?" The soldier demanded to know, standing rigidly right next to her.

She rolled her eyes, casting a sigh at the hunky man towering over her like a grim shadow. "All you, Kitts. No time for chit-chat, just getting right to the point."

Rotenfeld clenched his jaws and gave the woman a scornful look, lowering the tone of his voice to menacing whisper. "Gimme a break. Population of an entire world may be in danger and you want to talk about the weather?"

Arztin wrinkled her nose and shook her head dismissively. "No, you're right. What else did he tell you?" She motioned with her head at the cylinder-shaped room behind the windowpane.

Rotenfeld slowly approached the vantage point, placing his arm against the glass with a dull thud and looked down to see the object of his hatred. "Same old nerfshit." He summed up with eerie calmness to his tone. "That there's more freaks like it running around Alderaan. That they've got not one, but two viruses that turn people into monsters and anybody who lived down there in the past 30 years is screwed. And that Czerka is behind all this. Something about Aldeia Village being a potential source of contagion. Says it wants to help us stop them."

"You don't believe him, do you?" She stated more than asked an actual question.

"It, Doc." He corrected her sternly, taking his eyes off the prisoner. "And why the hell would I trust a word it says? You've found something in that data Thrass gave us?"

The scholar flipped her dark hair before answering with hints of pride in her words. "Well, if my research is correct - and I'm fairly sure it is - then our friendly fiend appears to be telling the truth! At least regarding what we've learned about the Trigger Virus from the samples provided by your Chiss associate. We still lack the data to confirm the Latent Virus."

The Soldier pressed on. "How so?"

At this, Arztin pulled out a datapad from flaps of her coat and woke up the display for her colleague to see the data. An incomprehensible mess of chemical equations flooded the screen in the colors of green. "See this? This is a prototype inactivated vaccine designed to target and destroy viral pathogens derived from the Trigger Virus."

Rotenfeld narrowed his brow at the display in vain attempt to comprehend the data. "So? Doesn't prove anything."

She snorted at his words and threw her arms, seemingly forgetting about the device held in her hand. "Kitts, do you have any idea how much does it normally take to develop something like this? Plenty. Just look at THORN - 5 years gone and we're still barely scratching the surface in development of an effective cure. He's literally done the impossible. Why? How? Aren't you curious what else we can learn from him?"

"Beats me." Shoulders were shrugged in display of indifference. "All I care about is to put an end to this pandemic. If it gave us the weapon we need, works for us. Even better if that means we don't have to keep that thing under our roof anymore."

"No." She shook her head energetically, raising her voice at the man and pointing at him with accusatory finger. "You're not listening to me, Kitts! Forget about your damn ego for one second and hear me out, okay? This vaccine won't magically solve all of our problems with the plague. It's meant to fight only a specific strain of the virus. If there really are people out there weaponizing it for mind-control, we're going to need more than a single vial. A lot more."

Black uniform stood there impassively, staring at the grey-haired prisoner with longing gaze, failing to find words to form a reply. The frustrated scientist could only watch the muscles of his jawline flexing in complete silence between the two.

"Kitts, It is a capital mistake to theorize before one has data. Insensibly one begins to twist facts to suit theories, instead of theories to suit facts. Go to that village. Get us the data we need to either confirm or deny our theories."

To this Rotenfeld reacted by pushing himself away from the windowpane having sated his eyes with the view. "Spare me the lecture, Klara." He took a pause, pacing around the room with slow, cumbersome steps. "Alright, let's say I'm up for it. Too many lives are on the line and if we start losing people because of these assholes, that's on you and me." He held onto his belt with both hands, drilling Arztin with his empty eyes. "Glassman won't condone to this. Thoughts?"

Good doctor pursed her lips and started rocking on her feet back and forth; her expression constantly shifting, as if she couldn't decide what to feel. Eventually she settled for a shy smile and apologetic tone. "Glassman doesn't have to know about everything?"

"You hear what you're saying?" Rotenfeld raised his brow, keeping his features stern and voice sharp. "He'll catch the wind of this sooner or later. And then it will be my ass, not yours."

"Well, what choice do we have?" She asked helplessly and let the question hang in the air for what felt like eternity. Feeling the heavy weight of Rotenfeld's judgement on herself, she was compelled to continue with arguements. "Look, Kitts - like it or not, we -need- this data to confirm the Latent Virus. In the meantime, I'll extract additional blood and tissue samples from the prisoner to see if we can replicate his antibodies for future use. It may turn out that we don't need him alive to synthesize the vaccine, after all."

The soldier eventually spoke up, freeing belt from iron grasp of his dominant hand to gesticulate and accentuate his solid statements. "I don't like it. I don't agree with it. But I accept it." He didn't wait for her reply, instantly turning on his heel to march out of the humble room, stopping only for a moment while the metal wall opened before him. He looked over his broad shoulder, addressing a slim figure in the corner of his eye. "You do your science while I kill stuff. Keep me posted."

Corran

THE FINAL CHAPTER

Czerka HQ, Alderaan. Year 24 ATC, Present Day.

Sander is making it through the labs to confront his Mother. Sterile-clean corridors welcome him, as he inspects the high-tech architecture of his Father's top research facility. Armed with a blaster and prepared to face any threat coming his way, he is greeted by a soothing voice of Alessia Thul, which guides him through the facility. Corridor after corridor he watches as Czerka employees work tirelessly on new projects to sell and distribute world-wide. Alessia is giving him a tour and they exchange some heartfelt words with the former giving her 'Son' a promise of answers waiting at the end of the route.

He reaches semi-transparent glass door to Executive Office where Alessia, wearing red with a ruby broche on her neck and grey hair tied up in a topknot, sits in her comfy leather chair with crossed legs and awaits his arrival patiently. She does indeed sits like a Queen, playing with a glass of best Whiskey in her hand. Classical music is playing in the background. Holographic images surround her desk and she swipes them all away with a single motion to have a good look at Sander.

Conversation between them happens and first she mocks him and then she reveals the truth backed up with evidence, that Berg isn't her son, but indeed, a monster disguised as Sander Thul. She says that there's no evil scheme to take over Alderaan, because Czerka is already in control of its resources and rips benefits from the Civil War. Moreover, no such thing as The Family exists and Heizen fought for naught all this time. This cognitive dissonance shatters the man to the core and lives him empty and hopeless. He's giving up on the notion of vengeance or justice. He's losing it completely and breaks into maniacal laughter at the revelations. She continues to mock him, but seeing no response, comes an offer of false hope, a direction, an objective to follow - to kill Ada Blackfield and in exchange Red Queen will grant Heizen mercy and wipe out his memory completely.