The Zygerrians were infamous for their long history of violence, warfare, and slave trading—traditions they considered not crimes, but the natural order of existence. Feared and despised across the galaxy, they embraced that reputation without hesitation.
Two decades earlier, powerful figures among them had formed a vast slave-trading network spanning the Outer Rim. Among its leaders was Sar Longstar, father of Damassa. That empire had been shattered by the Jedi Order, forcing the Zygerrians into hiding. But they had not forgotten.
They had rebuilt.
Quietly.
Patiently.
And when the Clone Wars erupted, Queen Miraj Scintel aligned her people with Count Dooku and the Confederacy. Revenge and profit became one and the same.
Now, their fleets hunted.
Republic convoys.
Supply routes.
Anything valuable.
And anything living.
---
Damassa Longstar sat at ease on the bridge of her cruiser, one leg draped casually over the armrest, golden eyes scanning the wreckage drifting outside.
The void was littered with disabled Republic transports—six of them—surrounded by her raiders. Tractor beams pulled cargo containers free like scavengers tearing meat from bone. Boarding crews moved efficiently, stripping anything worth taking.
"Move it, you worthless slugs! Time is short—grab everything you can!" she snapped, her tail flicking in irritation.
A hologram flickered to life.
"Captain, all this won't fit in our holds," said Antrath Ryoku, tension clear in his voice.
Damassa didn't even hesitate.
"Then destroy whatever we can't take."
Another hologram appeared—Niva Moorhert.
"Damassa. What about the prisoners?"
Damassa leaned forward slightly, a cruel smile forming.
"Any worthwhile specimens? Twi'leks? Women?"
"No, boss. Just Republic officers, some droids, and a handful of civilians."
Her expression darkened.
"Then you already know what to do."
A pause.
"Toss them out the airlock."
"As you say, boss…"
---
"Boss—incoming signal!"
Damassa frowned.
"What now?"
The comm officer turned, unease clear.
"Massive ship approaching—no, multiple—"
The bridge lights flickered as something tore into realspace.
Space itself seemed to ripple—
—and then it arrived.
---
The Terminus.
It didn't emerge quietly.
It *dominated*.
Flanked by Acclamators, cruisers, and escort vessels, the fleet appeared like a wall of durasteel and firepower, instantly surrounding the slaver ships before they could react.
For a single moment—
Silence.
Then panic.
---
### **Dagon's POV**
So.
That was the enemy.
My eyes moved across the tactical display, analyzing instantly.
The central vessel—a Diamond-class cruiser. Multifunctional. Transport, escort, and droid deployment platform. Modified variant—enhanced weapons, reinforced shielding.
And—
There.
A gravity well projector.
Of course.
They didn't want anything escaping.
The other ships were less impressive. Freighters converted for combat. Improvised weapon platforms. Nothing that couldn't be handled.
But the fighters—
I narrowed my eyes slightly.
Scarab-class.
Old.
Efficient.
And—
Piloted.
Interesting.
---
The slavers hesitated.
Just long enough.
That was all I needed.
"Fire."
The Terminus responded instantly.
Ion cannons surged—brilliant arcs of blue-white energy lashing out across the void.
The smaller ships didn't stand a chance.
Their systems died instantly.
Engines.
Weapons.
Power.
Gone.
They drifted, helpless.
---
Then—
Sumeragi's voice echoed across the command deck.
"All enemy starfighters have been eliminated."
Clean.
Efficient.
Total.
---
I didn't smile.
But I did feel it.
Control.
"Good."
My gaze remained fixed ahead.
"Commander Zilo—prepare boarding operations."
A pause.
"Devil—take the marines. Secure the transports. Rescue all survivors."
My voice lowered slightly.
"And eliminate any resistance."
---
Outside, the battlefield had already shifted.
What had been a hunt…
Had become a trap.
---
### **On Damassa's Bridge**
The silence was gone.
Replaced by chaos.
"Shields are down!"
"Engines unresponsive!"
"Starfighters—gone!"
Damassa's claws dug into her chair as she stared at the massive warship looming before them.
"…What is that thing?"
No one answered.
Because they already knew.
This wasn't a convoy escort.
This wasn't a patrol.
This was something else.
Something far worse.
---
### **Dagon's POV (End)**
I watched the disabled ships drift.
The remains of the Republic convoy still intact—for now.
They had been seconds away from execution.
Seconds.
My jaw tightened slightly.
Not anger.
Focus.
"This ends here," I said quietly.
Not to anyone in particular.
Just—
A statement.
The boarding craft launched.
The war continued.