Disclaimer: If I owned Star Wars, Shadow Warrior would never have happened. Halo . . . I'd probably throw the multiplayer portion under the metaphorical bus.

A/N: Well, I'm back after almost a year. In addition to ostensibly finishing this chapter, I've done some work on the Prologue and Chapter 1; nothing fundamental has been changed, but they both should be much better now (Jon Harper, if you followed the links I gave you over PM a while ago, I've added a little more to both of them).

Responses to reviews:

[Old Reviews]

Just a Crazy-Man, MrEmperor, Random Occurance—Thank you, I strive to be accurate.

Kaprikorn - Ancient Storm Lord—I don't hate the setting, I hate that it's almost uniformly the shitty TV show. How many people need to write a fic where their self-insert OC wants to get down and dirty with the Mary Sue of Padawans?

Deadpool949—See above.

Dusel, unnamed anon—Yeah . . . I did that just because I could.

SeanHicks4—EXACTLY! And guess what I'm going to try to do in the sequels.

Bobbish—Mendez trained the SPARTANs. He is awesome by default.

Anonymous—Until someone else writes a fic in a similar vein to mine I shall adhere to my "write when I feel like it schedule."

Hammerchuckery—Thank you. On your technical question . . . those aspects can be rather vague. Let's just sweep the issue under the rug and say the repulsorlifts compensated.

Biosyn—As I replied to you personally, this is for anyone else who is wondering:

-Sequel.
-Sequel.
-Possibly, but not likely.
-Chances are they will at least make a brief appearance.
-This falls more into the sequel's realm. Details haven't all been finalized.

ZecoreZecron—1) EXACTLY! 2) It is not that far-fetched. I remember my gunners in Halo: Reach quoting ANH, but doing so now would probably paradox the universe out of existence. 3) Thank you.

[New Reviews]

Rydan Fall—*scribbles notes*

Chuckles1188—Really? The same language? The same alphabet, yes, but that probably has to do with how making a new language is more work than necessary. That Basic and English could develop separately from each other (or even Basic being accidently imported to Earth via handwave of some sort, since English has changed a lot in 300 years, let alone however far back an actual linguist could trace it) and be almost exactly the same, despite Basic being the primary language of the SW galaxy and used by species with radically different physiology from humans, is beyond ludicrous.

Kelana-ti—Thanks for the compliments; the Mandos and SPARTANs should also share a general air of 'I know a thousand ways to kill you right now, and 991 of them hurt.' beyond superficial the aesthetics.

I believe I responded to everyone else via PM.

Word Count: 2249

54:4 GRS (18 ABY)

"Well, Colonel . . . I understand we may have another qualified recruit for our cause." stated the somewhat heavy set, bearded man at the head of the table.

Colonel Vak Somoril, formerly of the late (and wholly unlamented by the rest of the galaxy) Imperial Security Bureau, nodded. The norm for recruitment was to bring in prospects, make certain they had no glaring physical or mental deficiencies (or service to the Rebellion), then give them a uniform and some ale. Normal procedure, of course, was for thugs off the street. In the event someone with actual military experience was found, the Hidden Leader (1) required that they be brought to his attention. He was paranoid that they would be Rebel infiltrators trying to bring him down.

To an extent, he was right. New Republic Intelligence had made numerous attempts at inserting operatives to gather data on what they euphemistically referred to as "The Corellian Situation." Unfortunately for the Rebels, the League's own spy network had compromised NRI to an extent and in ways only a few seated at the conference table knew of.

Somoril pulled out a small personal holo-projector, thumbed it on, and slid it down the table to rest in front of the Hidden Leader. A low resolution image of the man in question flickered to life.

"Identified himself as a 'James Bond.' Besides that, all I can say definitively is that no one has heard his accent before—I'd wager Basic isn't his first language, but he can carry a conversation well enough. My contacts on Coruscant haven't been able to identify him, nor have they been able to confirm any more attempts to insert operatives since we shot that freighter down. He's a backwater drifter who knows how to fight." the Colonel summarized.

"And he was willing to join?"

Somoril smiled, "As long as we pay him."

The Hidden Leader relaxed, at least temporarily satisfied that the man was not a spy or an assassin.

"Very well," he said, "bring him into the fold. Standard procedure."

The Colonel gave a brief acknowledgement and left as the Hidden Leader received reports and complaints from the other officers.

1716 HOURS, JANUARY 13, 2553 (MILITARY CALENDER)/ CORELLIA

The SPARTANs, as per usual, had arrived at the meeting place before anyone else. The Lieutenant had put Tom in tactical command and sent him with Mark (who, while a sniper, was no slouch in close quarters) and Olivia to provide backup for Chief Mendez if the need arose. It went without saying that 'provide backup' was a euphemism for 'silence any Leaguer witnesses.'

The order was not a problem for Tom—in addition to the counter insurgency training Beta Company had received; his reluctance to kill other Humans had left him when Insurrectionists were trying to kill him and everyone else he cared about. Gamma though, had neither the training nor such experiences. The youngest SPARTANs had already been on an accelerated schedule because of the Covenant's merciless advance; Commander Ambrose had had to cut it and hope that the guerilla and urban warfare training would be enough to compensate. Team Saber's only combat action had been the running battle through Onyx. Tom trusted them with his life, but he could not help but worry they would freeze on the trigger (it was also the only reason he could think of as to why he had been sent instead of Ash). He hoped they never had to find out.

SPARTANs were generally not prone to waxing philosophic—they were usually too busy with tasks more important than pondering abstracts such as morality. Tasks like keeping themselves and those around them alive. Such prerogatives had not existed back on Onyx and the two Pegasi Delta survivors would often (when they were not so tired they fell asleep they moment they hit their cots) be up late into the night mulling over what they were doing. In the present though, they pulled him out of his thoughts and back to reality. Glancing at the mission clock on his HUD, he knew Mendez was supposed to arrive in just under an hour. The Leaguers would likely show up earlier.

He did not expect Section III level paranoia, but Tom felt that an organization as inclined to making enemies as the Human League would understand the value of reconnaissance. The SPARTANs had done so thoroughly—Olivia had checked out the building and given a detailed description to Mark, himself, and Mendez back at their rudimentary base. The three commandos had then located hiding spots with the best combination of cover, lines of fire, and the ability to storm the building if they had to before taking up watch positions further away from the rendezvous point, where they would hopefully not be detected (or at least ignored) by the Leaguers. They had also determined a fallback position and four different escape routes. They were SPARTANs; nothing was left to chance if they could help it.

"Speeder on approach." Mark's voice was calm. They had only been on Corellia for a few days and they were all adapting to the situation.

Sure enough, the speeder, burnt orange in color with tinted windows and looking far too heavily armored to be civilian, came to a stop against the building; four human men exited the vehicle. Tom increased his helmets magnification to 2x; three of them never bothered to so much as look down the street, while the fourth made a cursory scan of the rooftops before going in himself. The trio of supersoldiers remained deathly still as they had been trained.

Sloppy, Tom thought, very sloppy. Mendez would chew us out for that kind of incompetence. They must be absolutely sure of their own superiority.

Tom flashed his status light twice and began to make his careful way back to his station.

54:4 GRS (18 ABY)

Colonel Somoril's three subordinates had moved to positions roughly evenly spaced around the room they were to recruit "James Bond" in. The Colonel himself stood a good distance from the center to avoid fire from the Imperial Army rejects he had to work with. At the ranges the room dictated, it should have been impossible to miss a man-sized target, but trying to covertly mold a group of thugs and petty criminals into a fighting force with only a handful of experienced personnel and an overabundance of bureaucrats looking over his shoulder—often literally—had left him with great confidence in their ability to fail. The difficulties were the primary reason he wanted to recruit the man from the bar—they had enough sympathizers in CorSec and the other defense agencies to take Corellia, but holding it, especially when there was a Rebel fleet in orbit, would be far harder.

It did not help that Corellia was one of the last worlds he would want to defend on short notice, even at the height of the Empire. Now, with such limited forces, it was an unending list of problems. Much like Kuat, Dac, and other worlds renowned for starship construction, Corellia's facilities were in orbit; local culture had led to most of the other heavy industry being located there as well—the planet itself was still mostly agrarian with large cities scattered across it. It would be easy enough to maintain a large military (which the League did not have), but all those orbital assets required heavier defenses than an equivalent groundside installation. The only consolation was that the Rebels would be extremely reluctant to damage the yards—and if they wanted them, they would have to board them. Procuring enough vacuum rated suits and fodder to slow them down would be trivial, getting them all up there just slightly less so.

Add to that how much of the orbital defenses and anti-air capabilities—optimized for the fighters and light ships the Rebellion had restricted to for most of the War—had fallen into disrepair since the collapse of Imperial rule, and Somoril was glad he still had several false identities to work with.

Barroom brawlers, refitted landspeeders, and law enforcement starfighters against professional marines, tanks, and Star Destroyers; it would have been amusing if he were commanding the latter group.

Still, he knew the man whose alias was the Hidden Leader was who he claimed to be. The man was arrogant, vindictive, and cruel—the last being something of a virtue in the Colonel's line of work, the other two not so much so—as well as ardently pro-Imperial and unwilling to put himself at risk if he was not sure to get what he wanted. The paranoid part of his mind railed against not knowing every detail of the plan, but if he ever showed up in Imperial space after being AWOL for years with nothing to show for it . . .

The door chimed and Bond came into sight. He was early—enough to make a good impression, but not so much as to seem paranoid. He was either an at least semi-competent intelligence operative or a wandering blaster-for-hire who knew what he was doing. The man had a sabacc face like a career politician, but he could not quite hide the movements of his eyes as he took stock of his surroundings.

Somoril took a moment to clear his throat. "Greetings," he said, affecting the mix of friendliness and professionalism that he had long ago learned was best at lulling the unwary into a false sense of security, "Let us get down to business."

Bond nodded in agreement. "What, exactly, do you need me to do?"

The Colonel took a moment to analyze the man's voice again. As before, he did not recognize the accent, and the way he stressed each syllable confirmed that not only was Basic not his first language, but that he had learned it later in life and from a poor instructor. In that light, being a drifter made a certain amount of sense—career options for someone who was not fluent in the primary language of the galaxy were few indeed.

"Nothing much," he replied smoothly, "I merely seek your services to prepare for when the so-called New Republic decides to crack down on our little protest group. If you except, you'll be paid sixteen hundred in untraceable credits per standard month, alongside food and living quarters. Naturally, I want you to assist us personally if and when fighting breaks out, but it's more important that you teach what skills you can to the League's less . . . capable members."

Somoril could see each of the other men narrow their eyes; the three he had brought with him at the insult, Bond as he seemingly ran the numbers through his head.

"Seems . . . generous." The man stumbled over the second word, but was at least understandable.

Whatever he paid to learn Basic was too much. Still, he's right, Somoril thought, Corellia's economy is going out the airlock and what I've just offered him would be a windfall to a great many people. Of course, once he's seen what he has to work with, he won't hold that opinion long.

The colonel did not let those thoughts show through his façade; rather, he offered a conspiratorial smile and said "Many of my colleagues believe the New Republic's puppet government will move against us very soon. They want us all to be prepared."

Bond was silent for a few seconds, eyes shifting about, before he nodded. "Right, where do I sign?"

Somoril's smile widened. "Nowhere. Simply return to wherever it is you're staying, gather whatever you plan to take with you, and return to the Mynock's Haven within three standard hours. One of my men will be there to pick you up."

"Deal." The other man said and, with a respectful nod, turned to leave.

"Ah . . . I almost forgot. One final question, Mr. Bond: do you have any associates who would be interested in our offer?" Somoril queried. Clumsy, he thought, but the man isn't enough of a conversationalist to leave many openings.

The man had turned upon being spoken to and the colonel closely watched the mercenary's eyes as he asked the question. In the brief time before he responded—a firm negative—they never went to the left. Since each side of a Human's brain controlled the opposite side of their body, and the right hemisphere was the one used to lie, Bond was recalling information and not fabricating it. Somoril knew that it was trivial for most spies to pass of almost any falsehood as the truth, but hiding a basic physiological reflex was much more difficult. He had met very few individuals whom he knew could do that.

The man was alone and while that meant there was no one else with something akin to his obvious experience to recruit, it also further supported the assumption that he was not a New Republic Intelligence agent.

"A pity," he replied, "but not unexpected. Carry on."

Bond's response was a non-committal grunt and to continue on his way. Every instinct screamed at him to have someone tail the man, but none of his subordinates were skilled to do so successfully and there was no point alienating him now that the Human League had secured his services. If he was genuine.

He would have the Coruscant cell go through the NRI's database once more though, just to be sure.

(1)—While the Hidden Leader's real name would be easily found by reading the Corellian Trilogy or looking it up on Wookieepedia, those who aren't familiar with the SW EU (ie, all of you) wouldn't appreciate the ramifications at present.

A/N: I'm not entirely happy with the dialog, but I'm going through them all and revising them, so I'll fix it in due time (Chapter 2 was supposed to be done as well, but then I started changing Q9-X2's lines . . .).