Foreword: This is an original story featuring original characters set in the universe of Bioware's 'Star Wars: The Old Republic'. Events depicted take place a decade prior to events in-game. Rated 'T' for depictions of violence and violent themes, as well as minor romantic scenes. (This is a followup to 'The Academy: Acolyte Ascension', but follows a new group of characters. Reading the first story is not necessary to enjoy this one, but references are made to past characters and events). Feedback is welcomed and appreciated.

Chapter One

0 ATC. Dromund Kaas.

The Sith Empire was adapting to the new galactic climate. One of peace. The Great War had ended and, in their minds, they had won. All their years of planning, all their years of waiting to reveal themselves, and in a few short decades, the Empire brought the Republic to its knees. Coruscant burned, and would have been reduced to nothing had their conditions not been met. The Republic's capital was in ruins and the Jedi Order had no place to call home. There were celebrations to be had, but also preparations to be made.

The Empire's borders and holdings had rapidly expanded as a result of the Treaty of Coruscant, the once-tucked away and hidden nation now controlling roughly half the galaxy. But even in victory, their forces had waned, and were stretched perilously thin. It was the fear they had stricken into the hearts and minds of the Republic and the Jedi that protected them. But that fear would not last, especially without a war to propagate it. Thus, it fell to the Empire and its leaders to rebuild, to strengthen, to cement the ideal of superiority in their every facet.

But whilst the Dark Councilors and Ministers planned for the future in the halls of the capital world's Citadel, the common man saw fit to indulge in a bit of revelry. Within a cantina deep in the heart of Kaas City, those who had fought, those who had shed blood, sweat, and tears in their crusade against the Republic finally found a moment of reprieve. Far were the treacherous jungles that surrounded the walled metropolis. Absent were the perpetually dark and storming skies, replaced by gray ceilings and red neon. Distant were the memories and wounds of battle. They were victors, each and every one of them. Lowly grunts who had marched on their enemies in the name of their Lords now celebrated with a hearty drink with their comrades. The decorum and cold efficiency associated with the Imperial Army had been promptly shed. These were men and women whose sacrifices had finally been validated by means other than duty and obligation. They won the war. If that wasn't a good enough excuse to get drunk, there would never be one.

Amidst the loud banter and clacking glasses, the soldiers gathered and boasted to one another, dominating the room and setting the atmosphere. Despite the rigid and gray architecture of the cantina fitting in with the rest of the capital city, the inhabitants and their spirits instilled a sense of extravagance amidst the usual Imperial conformity and rigidity. The calls and cheers shared amongst the citizenry were enough to challenge the perpetual storms that filled the dark planet's skies.

But amidst the revelry was a lone figure, a Human, cut off from the celebration as he sat on a stool at the bar. The majority of the cantina's occupants wore loosened uniforms and fatigues, but the lone man looked more like a spacer than a soldier. Thick trousers and a jacket covered his body, both pieces of black attire lined with pockets and pouches. Despite his rather civilian garb, however, the man appeared to have gone through more than any of the gathered soldiers.

He possessed a rough countenance, not through age but conflict. Scars graced practically every inch of the man's tanned skin, ranging from small cuts to gashes that stretched across his entire face. His hair was unkempt, dark, and short. A thin layer of stubble covered the lower half of his face. As he sat upon his stool, he leaned forward with a blank, deadened stare, gloved hand firmly gripped around his drink.

Slowly raising his glass, the man was about to bring it to his lips when one of the celebrating soldiers bumped against his back. There was enough force behind the blow to just knock the glass free of the loner's mouth, sending a few droplets splashing upon his chest. The standing man staggered for a moment before righting his stance, placing a steadying hand upon the loner's broad shoulder.

"Whoa, sorry about that, buddy," he said with a slight slur in his voice.

The loner offered the gentle wave of his free hand, signaling no harm done, maintaining his perpetual forward stare.

"Hey buddy, what's the matter?" the man asked with drunken concern. "Why you moping over here by yourself? It's a time for celebration. We freakin' won, man! We beat those Republic bastards!"

With each word, the soldier's hand tightened on the loner's shoulder, slightly shaking him. But the loner remained stilled, unmoving, unshakable. With a calm hand, he gripped the drunkard's and politely removed it from his shoulder. The loner was now free to enjoy his drink. But not for long.

"Me and my squad, we were on Coruscant," said the soldier, taking a seat on the empty stool next to the loner. "Some of the first with our boots on the ground. And man did they put up a fight. We woulda been dead if not for Hesker. You heard of 'im? Guy took charge. Rallied us to victory. Saved our asses. Now we all got commendations. Hah!"

"Congratulations," the loner muttered, utterly stoic.

"What about you, where'd you serve?" the soldier asked.

The loner took a slow sip of his drink. "I'm not military."

"Well that explains it!" the soldier bellowed. The drunkard gave the loner a hearty slap on the back. "Don't worry, not everyone's got the stones for military duty. I'm sure you served the Empire in your own way. What's your field? Production? Transit? You look like a pilot."

"You make it a point to bother people trying to have a drink?" the loner bluntly asked.

"Whoa, I'm just trying to strike up conversation, buddy," the soldier shot back, noticeably insulted. "Unlike you, I was out there fightin' for the Empire. The least you could do is show me a little respect."

"Respect ought to be earned," the loner muttered. "Somehow I doubt we'd suffer without your gracious contribution."

The drunkard's face churned before finally settling on a harsh scowl. The loner's gaze permanently set forward, he didn't notice the man reach behind the counter, retrieving a glass bottle. Hand firmly gripped around the bottle's neck, the soldier brought it down upon the loner's head with a mighty swing, shattering the glass into countless tiny shards.

The loner didn't even flinch as the alcohol contained within washed over him. The instigator however, released a harsh yelp as he clutched at his bloodied hand, glass shards embedded in his palm. Though the loner showed no emotional response, he was not unaffected, bits of broken glass buried in his scalp, streams of blood flowing down the back of his head.

Preoccupied with his own injury, the drunkard didn't notice the gloved fist heading straight for his face. With a firm left hook, the loner sent the man tumbling to the cantina floor. By now, all eyes were drawn toward the altercation. The floored soldier's comrades had already removed themselves from their seats on the other side of the room, quickly making their way toward the loner with inebriated pride in their eyes.

Taking a single step away from the counter, the loner patiently waited for the soldiers to bridge the gap. One of the uniformed men released a wide swing of his fist, aptly blocked by the loner's raised forearm. Replying with a single strike, now two men found themselves squirming on the floor. The rest of the group tried to swarm the indomitable man, lashing out with a myriad of sloppy punches. Their fists bounced ineffectually off the loner's tough hide, not eliciting a single ounce of pain in the recipient.

Slowly but surely, he dealt with the attackers, whittling them down one by one, as the rest of the cantina watched from a distance, not impeding the brawling space. No effort made against the scarred man proved effective, and the attackers slowly realized they were trapped in a losing battle. Some tried to scurry away, others thought to bring the implacable man down however they could.

Gripping one of the attackers by the collar, the loner threw the man to the ground before delivering a quick blow to the head, knocking him out cold. Straightening out his stance, he turned just in time to see another bottle flying toward his head. A moment before impact, the bottle simply stopped, as if suspended in time, floating loftily in front of the scarred man's face. Near the counter, the thrower stared at his target with wide eyes, frozen with fright.

"Damn…" he muttered, before finding the bottle thrown right back. Not with an arm, but with the Force. The glass bottle remained intact as it struck its original thrower in the head. A loud thud rang out at the first impact, and another when the attacker collapsed onto the floor.

The final aggressor dealt with, the scarred man began patting himself down, wiping off whatever traces of alcohol he could. Panning his gaze across the distant witnesses, the loner gently prodded the back of his head. Seeing blood on his fingertips, the man let out a low sigh.

"Graves!" a voice called out from the cantina entrance. The loner turned toward the source, spotting an impeccably dressed officer standing in the doorway. "You've been summoned."

"The hell is that supposed to mean?" the loner muttered.

Deep within the black halls of the Citadel, home of the Empire's various governmental bodies and organizations, the scarred man sat in a compact, suffocating chamber. Occupied by a single desk, a single chair, and a single light hanging overhead, the loner sat in the dim glow, still stained with blood and alcohol. His back to the room's entrance, he didn't budge when he heard the door move into its recess. What followed was the heavy sound of boots against the floor, carried with an uneven gait.

"Mr. Graves," a low, raspy voice spoke up.

His gaze still forward, the scarred man watched as a tall figure walked into view. Clad in black robes, the alien was cloaked in the dim lighting of the room, but his features were easily distinguishable. He had rough, leathery orange skin, and two large horns sprouting from his cranium. Curving downward, one came to an end with its tip beneath his chin, the other stopped short with a flat stump, its tip having been severed.

"Welcome to Logistics."