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Tales of the Old Republic is the place to post stories you have written about your character or others, either based upon roleplay that has occurred, or an entire side-story to events in-game which shed light on other parts of your character's life.

TOPIC: Kento's Collection of Creepies

Kento's Collection of Creepies 1 year 1 month ago #16665

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excerpts from the Journal of Kento Roku.

Month 7, 17 AT (or thereabouts)

Two years after the Zakuulan Conquest

So, here’s the deal; this galaxy has become a real shitty place ever since those assholes with their unstoppable droid army rolled in. Sure, things were bad before - what with the whole Galactic War and all - but we’ve always had good people who were willing to do what was necessary to keep everything from unraveling.

Case in point: Master Cedral Gend of the Jedi devoted his life in researching and hunting down dark side Force nexuses and artifacts. I have no doubt in my mind that his work alone has saved this galaxy dozens of time from descending into madness. Hell, even the new-appointed ‘Sith Empress’, Darth Acina, stepped up that one time when the Dread Masters were rampaging through the galaxy.

The point is, ever since our Zakuulan masters set out to murder every Sith and Jedi they found, we’ve kind of lost sight of our monsters. There are hundreds, if not thousands of really dark shit out there that could ruin an entire civilization's day if left unchecked.

For example, I know for a fact the Dread Masters’ toys have not all been recovered, as fragments of Dread Seeds still show up on the black market to this day! Not to mention the occasional sighting of freakin’ Sithspawn from the frontier colonies!

So, obviously I thought there’s a market gap, as no one seems to care about these things anymore! The Jedi seem to be hell-bent on removing themselves from the greater galaxy for the foreseeable future. Hell, I doubt Master Gend is still alive!

The Sith are too busy trying to keep their Empire from falling apart and the Republic is probably one leak away from drowning in a quagmire of corrupt filth that’s been piling up over the years.

And Zakuul? Hell, they only care about worlds outside their Eternal Empire when there’s tributes to collect.

So, I guess I’m getting into the paranormal business. There’s plenty of folks out there who are harassed by forces they don’t understand. And I’m sure they’ll pay a mighty fine price for anyone who understands and can relieve them of such curses. If this piracy business works out, this might be a very stable source of secondary income. Might as well put that archaeology training to use.


Month 10, 18 AT (or thereabouts)

Three years after the Zakuulan Conquest

Initially, I scoured the galactic underworld for stories about abnormal, or inexplicable events in recent years. I now have a respectable collection of folk tales, urban legends, and spacer myths. Some are more promising than others and hopefully in time they will lead me to some lucrative contracts.
Last Edit: 1 year 1 month ago by Kento.
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Kento's Collection of Creepies 1 year 1 month ago #16666

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The Tale of Mad Hectys

A spacer story told along the Perlemian Trade Route.

Mad Hectys was a hermit who lived alone in a decrepit mansion at the edge of the Settlement. Rumours were rife about the wild-eyed man. Some folks said that he was a Force-weaver who called upon the powers of the Dark Side to wreck havoc upon his neighbours. Others called him a mad doctor, a master of the taboo sciences, who could restore life to foul corpses from the local cemetery. No respectable citizen in the Settlement had anything to do with Mad Hectys.

Then one year a new family moved to town with a lovely daughter, Lyra, who caught Mad Hectys’ eye. He showered the maiden with gifts — statues of pure Mythra, precious jewellery from distant worlds, and flowers that not even the Settlement Elder could name. Despite the gifts, Lyra fell in love with another, Locke, a handsome young man training to become a Protector. A week after meeting they eloped, leaving behind a stunned Mad Hectys.

When Lyra and Locke returned from the elopement, the Settlement rejoiced and threw a big ball, inviting everyone. While Lyra was waltzing with her father, she heard a clap of thunder. Lightning flashed again and again. Suddenly, the double doors blew open and a breeze whirled in, bringing with it the smell of dead, decaying things. Mad Hectys loomed in the doorway, pupils gleaming red with anger. He was followed by the grotesque figures of the dead, who came marching two by two into the room. Their eye sockets glowed with dark fire as they surrounded the room.
Two of the corpses captured Locke and threw him down at the feet of their lord. Eyes gleaming, Mad Hectys drew a blood-red blade of pure light and casually cut the bridegroom’s throat from ear to ear. Lyra screamed and ran forward, pushing through the foul, stinking corpses of the dead, and flung herself upon her dying husband.

“Kill us both,” she cried desperately.

But Mad Hectys plucked the lass out of the pool of blood surrounding her dead husband and carried her out into the thundering night. Behind him, the army of the dead turned from the grizzly scene and followed their master. The sounds of thunder and lightning faded away as the sorcerer and his dead companions disappeared into the dark night.

Locke’s father and Lyra’s father gathered a small mob and followed the evil hermit, intent upon saving Lyra. When they searched Mad Hectys’ house, they found it completely empty save for a light, which shone from a series of mysterious globes that bobbed near the ceiling of each room. Mad Hectys had vanished.

Search parties scoured the fields for days, but turned up nothing. Locke was buried in the local cemetery, and the dance hall was torn down. No one in the Settlement spoke about what had happened, and no one dared imagine what had become of poor Lyra.

A year to the day after the ball, a timid knock sounded upon the door of Lyra’s parents’ home. When her father opened it, he saw a gaunt, gray figure on the stoop. Her eyes were dull with exhaustion and pain. It was Lyra! Her tongue had been cut out so she couldn’t speak. But when she produced a hilt from her tattered garments — the hilt of the blade that they had last seen in the hands of Mad Hectys — the gleam of satisfaction in Lyra’s eyes told them that the streaks of blood that coated the hilt were those of Mad Hectys. That night, Lyra died in her sleep with a peaceful smile upon her ravaged face.

Kento’s analysis:

This one sounds like a run-of-the-mill ghost story to scare little spacers into eating their vegetables. But, over time I heard variations of the same story told alongside the Perlemian. The names always change, and the location rarely has a name other than “the Settlement”, but the certain elements - crazy hermit, the Dark Side, an army of the dead, a blood-red blade of light, and a reclaimed hilt – remain the same.

It might be just a crazy Sith recluse looking for simple-minded folk to lord over, but the necromancy angle is always a red flag. I’ve never heard of a Sith capable of raising corpses to do his bidding, but if there’s someone out there who wields Sith sorcery to such a degree, he must be stopped. Even if he’s dead, as the story suggests, he might have left artifacts behind soaked in the Dark Side (like that lightsaber). I wonder if the Praxeum still has an outstanding bounty on them...
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Kento's Collection of Creepies 1 year 1 month ago #16667

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The Recluse

When the shaman was old, he left his apprentice to tend the tribe and he went alone into the woods. There he built a lodge and his apprentice and the grateful tribesman would bring him food, as thanks for his years of service to the tribe.

As the days grew shorter, the old man became strange, snapping at the ones who brought him tribute and demanding only fresh meat be brought. He ate with the blood running down his chin and he did not wash the stains away, so that his visage became frightful with the blood of many kills.

When the winter came, the old witch died, but he had instructed his apprentice to enshrine him in the loft of the lodge, an old Rylothy custom. His corpse was placed in a coffin fashioned out of the wood of the sacred trees and left in the loft.

The seasons turned and the tribe grew, for the winter was not harsh and the spring was prosperous.

A man with a wife and a newborn babe was looking for a new place to live when he found the hut in the woods.

"This is a good hunting area and this lodge is sound” he told his wife. “We can live here.” his wife was nervous. Wasn’t this the place where the old hermit was enshrined?
“He is dead. We will warm his home with our presence. He will be grateful.”
The woman felt disquieted, but she did not argue with her husband.

On the day they moved into the hut, she went gathering berries and roots with her baby on her back in a sling. The husband was hunting all day, and when they returned home as the sun was setting, they were both exhausted.

She began to prepare the meal, mixing a stew in a great pot while the baby lay by the fire. Her husband, weary from his day went up to the loft to rest.

As the smell of roasting meat filled the hut, she thought she heard a cry of pain.
“Husband, is that you?” She asked.

“Just the wind” he called down from the loft. “Let me rest.”

She continued to sort through the berries and roots when she heard a crunching noise, like bones being ground together.

“Husband, what is that noise?” she asked.

“Just the trees brushing against the hut.” He called down. “Let me rest”

She cut the roots and berries and added them to the stew. Now there came a drip, drip sound of water splashing on the floor. The woman turned to ask her husband if he heard the noise when she noticed the red drops of blood coming from the roof above her. She froze in horror, not daring to move for a few moments. Then, moving silently toward where she would have a view into the loft, she called up a final time.

"Husband, do you hear that dripping sound?”

She came to where she could see and held down a scream! A beast, with glowing red eyes was crouched above the body of her dead husband, gorging itself on mouthfuls of his flesh. The jaw of the creature was covered in blood.

At her call, the beast lifted itself from the body and spoke, perfectly mimicking the sound of her husband’s voice.

“It is the rain” it called. “Let me rest”

Moving swiftly and quietly the woman grabbed the baby and put her in the sling on her back.
“I need more water for the stew” the woman cried, pushing out the door. She walked away from the house and then began to run, stumbling and crying on the uneven ground.
From behind her came a terrible howl as the creature realized her deception and then she heard it coming after her, crashing through the undergrowth.

On her back the baby began to wail and cry as she trashed through the undergrowth, desperately trying to escape the beast. She heard it breathing as it came after her through the trees and she gave out a desperate cry for help.

Luckily for her, some warriors from the village were passing by and they came to her call. They were carrying torches which they thrust at the creature that had eaten her husband. it fled, howling into the night, and they pursued it back to the hut and burned it to the ground.

However, the warriors say that they saw a Gizka burst from the hut and escape into the night. The old shaman is still out there, looking for another place to rest. And to feast.

Kento’s analysis:

I first heard this story many years ago from the Twi’lek pilgrims on Tython. I didn’t think much of it at the time, but I have been reminded of it during my quest for strange stories. Recurring themes in many tribal tales throughout the galaxy are sentient beings reduced to animalistic urges, or elderly spiritual leaders abandoning their tribe to become one with nature. The morale is usually pretty obvious: the natural order of things triumphs over sentient meddling, and some things should be left undisturbed.

But if I compare the depictions of these monstrous creatures to Jedi records on Sithspawn, I find more similarities that I am comfortable with. The creature described in this story would fit the picture of a Sithspawn Clawdite to a tee. I wonder how many reports on Sithspawn have been ignored throughout the years, just because they were incorporated into the folklore of colonies they have been terrorising...
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Kento's Collection of Creepies 1 year 1 month ago #16668

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The Journal

In the beginning, the family wasn’t sure that they wanted to remain in Asylum.

“It’s cold” complained the youngest girl, Lenya. “Papa, it is too cold.”

“It’s lonely” complained the mother, Kezia. “Husband, it is too isolated.”

“It’s dark” complained the older brother, Onas. “Papa is too dark.”

Dorma, who was a good father and did his best to make his family happy, considered their words carefully. His mother, Elderia, spoke quietly. “Clouds shelter this place and the Force flows through its crevices. We will find peace here.”

Elderia was a seer and her predictions always came true. Dorma weighed his mothers words before making his decision.

“We are Ryn, Lenya. Our fires drive away the cold. We are Ryn, Kezia. Our family will drive away the loneliness. We are Ryn, Onas, our hearts bring the light wherever we travel. Mother is right, there is a great future here for us all.”

So they settled in the port and, in time, grew to love it as their home.

A year later Elderia fell sick and, on her deathbed, she called for the girl Lenya. Pulling the girl closer to her, she produced an old holo-journal from beneath the covers.

“The Force has distorted this journal in time. Every morning of your life, when you check the journal, it will tell you the events of that day. Every night, its memories will be blank and you will need to record exactly what happened.”

Lenya took the diary, running her fingers over the shiny surface in wonder.

“Should I open it? Should I know?” She asked. But Elderia was dead and the question went unanswered.

Time passed, and the journal came to be everything to Lenya. She listened to the recording each morning and prepared herself for the events of the day. She knew what she was supposed to do and she followed the script of her life. Every night she dutifully recorded everything that would happen.

When the journal told her that her brother would break his leg, she didn’t warn him and she didn’t flinch at the news when it happened. The journal told her that he didn’t want to know.

But when she came home that day, she found her parents gathered around her brother. His leg was broken, and his pelvis and his hips. He had been beaten, and sodomized, by a gang from the lower levels. Written across his chest in blood was the epithet “TRAVELLER SCUM”.
“If you knew what was going to happen, would you have told yourself? Sent a letter to yourself in the past? Even if you couldn’t change it?” Lenya asked her brother, tears streaming at his pain.

Onas shook his head.

“The man I was this morning was a happier man. Knowing this… this pain was coming would just have robbed him of his happiness. I would never tell.”

That night, Lenya recorded only that her brother would break his leg and that he didn’t want to know.

Sometime later, Onas met the love of his life while getting a medical checkup.
Life continued, until the day that Lenya was performing her regular ritual of listening to the journal to prepare for the events of the day. When she listened to the recording of the current date she gasped, shocked by the words she heard.

“Today, mother and father died in the fire that burned down our flat. This is the saddest day of my life.”

Distraught, Lenya ran immediately to warn her father.

Confronted by his hysterical daughter, Dorma listened to her ramblings about his imminent death. Being a kind father, he humored her and spoke to his wife. Together, they made sure that no fire or spark was lit in the flat that day or night. All the while, Lenya clung to them, convinced that they would somehow find a way to burn and die before her very eyes.

The night came and they both still lived. Relieved, Lenya returned to record in the journal. But she hesitated. What if she said that nothing had happened? Wouldn’t the fire actually happen then? Had she prevented the fire by warning herself about it? Was the only way to prevent her parents from dying to, in fact, lie and record that they were going to die?
She recorded in the entry exactly as she had seen it that morning.

But as time passed, Lenya began to lose trust in the diary. What was she leaving out at the end of each day? What were the things that she wasn’t telling herself?

These worries weighed on her and she began to live her days in constant fear of the details she didn’t know. Any surprise was not to be trusted. She began to keep herself in the flat, preferring to stay inside where it was safe.

She grew listless, only checking her journal in the morning and at night, recording the same safe phrase day after day.

“You stayed home. All was well. You are safe and you are still beautiful.”

A black depression seized her and her parents brought in several doctors to examine her. But there was nothing that could be done, Lenya had simply given up on living her life.

It was almost a relief for her, on the day she opened the journal and listened to the very last entry. She smiled as the journal read the events of that day in her own voice.

“Today you are going to die. You will walk to the edge of the port throw yourself off. You will always be beautiful.”

Humming, she dressed herself in the best clothing she had that still fit, bade goodbye to her parents and walked along the street towards the port.

And there, she threw herself off.

And as she fell, the last thought that passed through her mind was:

“Who recorded that?”



Kento’s analysis:

The existence of Force ghosts are well-documented. Ancient legends speak of Jedi who became true masters of the Light and found ways to retain their individuality after becoming one with the Force. The Sith, being the creepy little shits they are, have perverted this technique and found ways through Sith alchemy and the Dark Side to bind their spirit to locations or objects, and remain on the physical plane even after death.

I haven’t heard of Sith spirits manipulating time, and if it were possible, I think I would have by now. Still, this story’s as good as any other to indicate the existence of a Sith-bound artifact. In my experience the spirits’ ambitions go further than making teenagers commit suicide, but hey, they’re Sith. It’s not a career you choose if you have all your screws in place.
Last Edit: 1 year 1 month ago by Kento.
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Kento's Collection of Creepies 1 year 1 month ago #16669

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Company Man

Camdus sighed. It was Benduday, and he hated having to go into the office on weekends.
Why now, of all times? It was his daughter's birthday. There was a party that afternoon, one where he'd be the master of ceremonies for Sally. He had to be there.

But the call had been insistent: extra work had been sent in from head office. His second in command, falling ill with a cold, had begged off sick and told Camdus that he'd have to leave soon, and then who'd be in charge?

Ah, the joys of being the boss. It was nice having a team who had to listen to you, do as you said, but it came with a price at times. If he didn't step in and make sure the order was dealt with promptly, it’d be his head that HQ would want. They were always prompt and efficient, and they expected branch offices to be the same.

He started up his hover car and gently eased up onto the skylane. The autonavigated lane carried him forward smoothly as it always did, albeit with fewer vehicles cluttering it. Traffic was always light on a weekend.

It was going to be a lovely day for a birthday party. The sun was out, the early afternoon warm but not too hot. It was already getting on past lunch time, and Sally's guests, mostly her friends from school and her guarlara club, would be arriving soon. What a waste, to be stuck inside.

Camdus checked the navicomputer for the hundredth time, staring at the bright screen, displaying his current route. It didn’t get him any faster to the office, but at least it gave him the chance to distract him from his frustration.

He sighed as the car began its descent, joining a lesser skylane leading to his office. Camdus drove on and it gradually came into sight: an ugly building with thick walls, few windows and no particular distinguishing features, sitting in the middle of a big empty lot, just part of one more industrial sector. He'd seen plenty of these in the course of his career.

He thought once more about his daughter. Sally was a lovely kid, just about to turn twelve. A little too talkative at times, usually polite and quietly spoken, but just starting to grow up - to realise what the world was really like, and, occasionally, to question what was going on around her and ask why it was so.

She idolized him, and he her. She'd be disappointed if her father wasn't there for such a big day.

Still, work was work. A Czerka job was a good one in these times: stable, safe, well paid, and generally regular hours. Without it, he'd never been able to afford to give his wife her long lunches, or his daughter her riding lessons and expensive private school education.
And besides, he noted wryly, he'd had the chance to meet a lot of people from many different walks of life, talk to them and hear their stories.

Camdus stepped into the office. As was to be expected, the building was largely quiet, which always made his job easier. He spoke briefly to his deputy and gave him some lozenges for his throat; they jointly signed the necessary paperwork, and then Camdus told him to go home and rest up. He stepped into the reception area and introduced himself to the newly arrived delivery parcel.

It was the usual contractor, accompanied by a little girl. According to the reports she had been showing signs of potential lately. The contractor was fortunate enough to find her before other interested parties could intervene. So here she stood now, facing Camdus, confusion and the first elements of some panic creeping into her face.

He tried to calm her down. "If you co-operate with us, follow instructions, answer all our questions, then I'm sure we can get this finished for you soon enough." He'd found over the years that a quiet, calm tone was often more effective than any threats or bluster.
"What's your name?"

"Amee, sir," she said quietly, looking down at the ground, a little shy and certainly scared.

"And how old are you?"

"I’ve just turned twelve, sir." She looked up hopefully. "It was my birthday this week."
He smiled warmly at her. “That must have been nice for you.” She nodded back, warily.
Twelve. Just starting to grow up - to realise what the world was really like, and, occasionally, to question what was going on around her and ask why it was so.
He'd have to make sure she learnt not to ask too many questions.

Camdus felt a surge of pity for her as he picked up the electrodes and ordered her handcuffed.

"Well, I'll make this quick for you, then."

He looked on benignly as his staff marched her to a nearby cell, and hoped she’d not try to outlast the pain that was coming. She certainly didn’t look like the resistant type.

Early Benduday afternoon, and he was back in the office, once more at work. At least he was getting some overtime – and maybe, just maybe, he thought, I might still get back in time for the party.

Kento’s analysis:

The Czerka Corporation. Just another proof that you don’t need to be Sith to be neck-deep in evil shit. I swear these guys have come closer to ruining the galaxy more times than the Empire. And no matter how many times they get knocked down, they always find a way to creep back, like cockroaches.

So, it comes as no surprise that Czerka would be involved in playing with powers they don’t understand. I briefly considered charging them for cleaning up their own messes, but who are we kidding? Czerka didn’t become a galactic conglomerate by paying its contractors.
Last Edit: 1 year 1 month ago by Kento.
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Kento's Collection of Creepies 1 year 1 month ago #16670

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The Organ Smugglers

Regaled to me as a confession of an old friend in the SIS.

Nar Shaddaa has always been a cursed place. I don’t care much for mystical nonsense - I let the Jedi worry about that – but the Smuggler’s Moon always had a wrongness about it that defied explanation. It’s the violence and the history, the crowding people, and the dead. So many dead.

This was during the Festival of Splendor and the Promenade was full of drunk tourists, drowning their desperate lives in liquor, squandering what little they had to their names at the tables. In the alleyways, shadows shaped like men preyed on the drunk and gullible, relieving them of creds, IDs, and consciousness, not necessarily in that order.

My small team had been sent down from Coruscant – fresh out of training - to get some "underworld field experience”. I didn’t know anyone in the group, except Mikal Pikes, a forensic biologist like myself. The others were from all over the various departments. And our chaperone on this little field trip was a Gran called Poj Dreas. He was also from some part of the SIS that I’d never visited. Some sort of specialist.

None of us really had a clue what we were doing there, though there were whispers that we might be investigating the spread of a new type of spice on the market.

Dreas let us get settled into our lodgings, a dingy little safe house in the Red Light Sector, and then he briefed us in the entry hall about the real work we were supposed to be doing there.

“The Hutts are concerned. You may or may not have heard the rumour about this supposed organ smuggling ring operating out of Nar Shaddaa. Maybe you’ve seen the Holo messages?” He waited, but nobody had.

“Our mission here is purely reconnaissance. Stolen organs are a niche market and we couldn’t yet tie this ring to any of the big gangs. But the Director believes that if the Cartel is worried, the SIS should be too. We need to learn more about this threat and assess how dangerous it is. The last thing we need is for them to start showing up in Republic space.”
“We’ll be patrolling in plain clothes. Keep an eye out for anything suspicious, and keep your identification handy in case the Cartel Security find something. They have been given order to expect our presence.”

“Any questions?”

Pikes raised his hand.

“Alone, sir, or...?”

“You can partner up. It’ll probably be the best way of stopping you getting too wasted, Pikes” Dreas said. Pikes winked at me and I rolled my eyes. I knew where this was going.

Six hours and uncountable shots later, Pikes was a mess. I wasn’t drinking, figuring that one of us had to stay sober in case we saw any random kidney harvesting going on.

We were holed up in a bar on the lower level of the Promenade, trying to avoid the crush of the crowd and holding a shouted conversation over the racket.

“I’m telling you she was into me!” Pikes was shouting.

“She was a prostitute. She was into your wallet” I yelled back.

“Bah!” Pikes sprayed his derision. “You’re just jealous!”

“Of a hooker? Oh yeah.”

“Seen anything yet?” It was Dreas, elbowing his way through the crowd to our table. He was carrying three glasses of beer, which he slammed down on the table. “We’ve seen a lot of tits. And the bottom of a few glasses. But no kidney smuggling, sir!” Pikes reported loudly. Dreas swore and looked around, but nobody seemed to have heard Pikes over the din. “Weren’t you supposed to keep him sober?” Dreas asked me. I cocked an eyebrow.

“Him? I’m not sure a Jedi Master could manage that, sir.” Dreas pushed the drinks across the table. Pikes grabbed his immediately, upending it. Dreas gave him a disgusted look, then raised his glass to me. I raised mine in polite reply.

“To field work” he said. We drank deeply. Afterwards, we dragged Pikes out of the bar and kept walking the streets.

“It doesn’t make sense, sir!” Gasping, I wiped my mouth. The contents of my stomach lay splattered across the metal floor in front of me. It was later, much later, and I was dizzy and sick, but still not drunk.

“It has the signs of gastro. I know you haven’t been drinking, Shen.” Dreas said, supporting me. Nearby Pikes was curled into a fetal position, snoring loudly.

“No, I mean these organ thieves. We’ve been able to clone organic tissue for millennia. Why go through all this much trouble for something that has virtually no value on the black market? Who would do such a thing? It doesn’t make sense.” I collapsed to my knees again. Vaguely I could see Dreas moving over to check on Pikes.

“You’re right. It makes no sense. Who would do such a thing?”

I passed out.

When I came to, my head was aching and my arm was numb, presumably because I had been lying on it. I was lying on a metal bench in what was quite clearly an operating theatre. Gathered around the operating table in the center of the room was a small group, dressed in jet-black, hooded robes.

As I watched, unmoving, I saw a glistening organ rise, as if moved by an invisible hand, from an incision in the back of the patient who lay face down on the operating table. The nearby machines sounded their tones steadily to indicate all was well.

Carefully the organ was lifted and floated over to the bench where I lay. It was lifted into an stone box, engraved with intricate, alien designs, down near by feet. I must have recoiled or made some other movement because one of the hooded figures looked up from the operating table.

“She’s awake!” his voice sounded like nails scratching on a chalkboard.

“Secure the cargo! Don’t worry about her.” It was Dreas. He pulled back his hood and his three dark eyes bored into me. “Easy now, Shen, just lie there. We’ll finish harvesting Pikes and then we’ll be on our way.”

“What is this? Who are you? You’re not with the SIS!”

“We work *with* the SIS. How do you think we knew that Pikes had the right attributes?”
Dreas gestured. “How do you think we got to borrow such an excellent hideout such as this?”
“I don’t understand.”

“And you won’t. We’re interested in only one thing, Pikes. He has what we need. You were just…in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

“But I’ll tell the SIS. I’ll tell them about you!”

“About who? Dreas? That was a fiction. This field trip? Also a fiction. As far as the SIS is concerned, you and Pikes ran off without permission for a week of Festival of Splendour. And even if they didn’t…we have people at the SIS. We have people in the Cartel.”

“Now, here is what happens next…”

I woke up in a seedy hotel room, and it was just like Dreas, or the man who I knew as Dreas, had said. My pack and everything I had brought with me to Nar Shaddaa was near the door. I crept into the bathroom.

Pikes was lying, heavily sedated, in a bathtub full of ice. The blood was slowly seeping from the incisions on his back. In the fitful flickering of the neon light, he looked pale, but peaceful.

I turned to the sink, where a tube of lipstick lay open on the bathroom counter. I picked up the lipstick and, with trembling hand, began to write, just as I had been instructed.

DO NOT MOVE OR YOU WILL DIE. TAKE THE COMMUNICATOR NEXT TO THE BATHTUB AND CALL SECURITY. YOUR LIFE DEPENDS UPON IT.

And then I left the hotel and returned to my life. Just as I had been instructed.


Kento’s analysis:

“This all happened. This is all true. Consider it my confession.” These were the words of Marlene Shen, an old friend of mine from her days with the Strategic Information Service. Talk about a baptism by fire…

At least her story did not leave too many questions as to the nature of her attackers. This mysterious organ smuggling ring was clearly run by Force sensitives. But to what end? All the evidence points towards Sith alchemy, but the Sith usually don’t keep their victims alive after using them. Unless they need their subjects alive for future use…?

There are too many unanswered questions in this story, but a good start for nosing around. It’s been a while since I’ve been to the Smuggler’s Moon…
Last Edit: 1 year 1 month ago by Kento.
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Kento's Collection of Creepies 1 year 1 month ago #16684

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((OOC References & Credit)):

"The Tale of Mad Hectys" - "Black Magic" by American Folklore Stories

"The Recluse", "The Journal", "The Organ Smugglers" - "Spooky Stories of Solomon Island" by Funcom's The Secret World

"Company Man" - "Another Day at the Office" by Michael T. Schaper on short-story.me
Last Edit: 1 year 1 month ago by Kento.
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