They’d nearly pulled it off, been but a breath away from disappearing into the void, only for hope to combust in sparks of metal and flame. Dead in the water, with iminent infiltration. It’d not mattered in the end, his efforts. Overwhelmed and brought low, there was a sudden and cold realisation. Something now fell into the hands of the Hutts that had icy tendrils coiling around his throat. There had to be something he could do, some way to get ahead of this situation and turn it around into a victory of some sort. Desperation, familiar and feral, suffocated him. What really could be done? There would be no real reinforcements coming for them. Volk reached out, motionless and quiet, a blade in the shadows that no one would expect. Everything would be okay, they would return home, they would-- a wall, reinforced by something he’d never felt before. Anxiety gave way to curiosity, and it was then that futility reasserted itself, or perhaps, futility had always been there… and he’d been too afraid to acknowledge it. As quiet as he’d reached out, he’d pulled back, shocked as much as he was intrigued, while equally discouraged. A mercy to him, in the end. One that he would soon get a chance to reflect upon.
An ultimatum. Stay aboard the derelict freighter or join them aboard their ship, and be brought into the folds of the unwillingly employed. With a subtle glance he’d weighted the options. We can make it work, Marshal, he remembered saying, all while the options laid out before him continued to tug at the edges of his mind. One final glance cast to the side from behind his visor. The remaining team of the broken Czerka freighter were in the capable hands of Ara’novor’s Tinkerer. They would be fine. Likely. Time was not a luxury afforded, no chance for him to agonise over the options before him. Drogga was within reach. Foolish. Reckless. There was no time to think about it, to sift out the finer details, the variables. It was simple. Action. Or inaction.
Vol’kari stood and quietly joined the Marshal aboard the Cartel’s ship, and suddenly the Mandalorian had plenty of time to think. To reflect. To well and truly remember. In resistanceless silence, breaths would come in a rhythmic cycle, ever aware of those around him even as he dove into himself. Slowly the anxiety he’d felt upon the derelict ship had finally cooled, and it was then that a sickness washed over him. What had he almost done? What would have happened had he not been taken aback by what stood in defense? What was it to take the easy path beyond destruction? Had he forgotten what it was like to face the thrill of a challenge, having grown so arrogant with his own victories that being faced with loss had truly been a shock? An intricate web had weaved itself across his thoughts, and it had started to wrap around his eyes, hiding from himself the truth of his own feelings. And now, surrounded by the Cartel, he would face his most recent reflection and tear the webbing away from his eyes.
What was there left of a former Mentor’s legacy if he could not look at the same fear in the eyes and deny it’s cruel whispers? All that would be left would be dust and ash, burnt away by the last remaining vestage of what had once been good in the galaxy. And what of the friend who had made him swear to never repeat history in the same fashion lest he bring justice to bear upon the wolf’s throat? After all, what good was a Mandalorian who did not keep their word?
Strands of tightly corded tension began to unravel, breaths deepening as he sought the lighthouse of his soul along the dark and stormy shores of his mind. What sort of Assassin was he if he could not keep his wits about him when the odds shifted against him and held a sword above his head? Be patient, a friend said not long ago. It was so simple to demand the instant gratification and action, it was easy to take the overt action. But rarely are the things worth fighting for ever easy. A mantra spoken to others, but cast aside from himself until now, where he reflected upon his own hypocrisy. The arrogance that had tied together with fear, a fear that he thought he could bare, a choice that had been pulling him deeper and deeper below the dark and cold surface.
What right did he have to claim the dark red of his true plates that now laid, waiting for him to return, back in Veles? What defiance did he have if he couldn’t stare down his own desperation and relentlessly deny it? Would he truly sit here and bow before Arasuum’s throne and offer him the repetition of history? Or would he shatter the past and forge something new from it’s shards in tribute to Kad Ha’rangir?
Vol’kari bowed his head slowly. In silent offering he would lift up his concessions and regrets, a humble apology for a stubborn arrogance and a soul that had nearly been so weak as to collapse in on itself. There would be no saving the legacy of Dax Fitzim to the galaxy, but he could redeem the legacy of his mentor to himself, through his own actions as one who had so briefly been a protege. And he could redeem himself. Vol’kari Kurs’kaded was a Mandalorian, and he would honour his word, he would keep the promises he made. And he would face the challenges that came with a renewed vigor, even as the unknown tried to close in around him like a noose.
A quiet breath filled him to the brim as his head lifted once more, as the reality around him clicked once more into a sharp focus. A protector. A hunter. A brother. A friend. A warrior. He would not be the reason those close to him suffered the same pain he’d endured. Together they would see this through. He was not alone. He was never alone, even now as he sat amongst the likes of the Cartel and a Marshal who hated him so viscerally. They would come. And until then, he had work to do.