Chapter Text
The comm woke Ibov from his sleep, and he slowly sat up. The room was dark and metal, with no windows or discernible features except the bed, a small table, and a sink. A sterile light flickered near the door. The Captain's quarters of his Munificent-class star frigate were generally just a box of space, the only place on the ship that wasn't devoted to holding, or charging droids.
His shoulders ached from sleeping on the hard surface, but Ibov was happy to get the rest. It had been many hard days of training before Count Dooku finally sent him on a mission.
“What is it?” He called out, voice quiet and rough from sleep.
“We are approaching our destination, sir,” a battle droid said, from a speaker above his head.
“Thank you,” Ibov responded. He sat in his bed for as long as he thought was acceptable, waking his sore lungs with the stale air. Ibov contemplated his hands, tracing over each diamond that was tattooed onto his fingers, representing a form of lightsaber he had mastered. All but one, his right pinky, had the dark tattoo, almost blending into his olive green skin. The last form he needed, form VII was considered the hardest lightsaber form to master, specifically for its use of the balance between the dark and light side of the force. Ibov had never been good at using the force, he just wanted to understand the physical aspect of it, where to put his feet, and how to hold his saber.
After almost a minute of sitting there, Ibov stood and stretched, his joints cracking from years of abuse. He flicked the lights on which showered the small room with a sickly fluorescent glow, and walked over to the sink, looking at his reflection in the mirror above it. The lights brought out the purple under his eyes and enhanced the divots at his cheeks and temples. He looked tired, he felt tired. Ibov turned his face from one side to the other, analyzing his features. He tried to avoid looking at his reflection and only did so when cutting his hair, which he realized needed to be done. His dark locks were kept long at the top and back of his hair, and shaved at the sides of his head, it made it easier to fit under his helmet.
Ibov turned on the sink and cupped his hands under the cold, processed water, splashing his face, and rubbing the sleep from his eyes. He dipped his hands under the water again and ran his fingers through his oily hair, brushing it back and away from his face, but no matter how wet he got it, there was always a strand at his temple that fell over his eyebrow. It annoyed him, but he had gotten used to it.
Ibov rested his weight on the sink and leaned closer to the mirror. He stared into his eyes, which he realized were lighter than he remembered. He used to have dark eyes that matched the black geometric tattoos on his nose and chin, but since he started to train with Dooku, a ring of gold appeared at the iris of his eyes, and the longer he used the dark side of the force, the bigger the ring got. While slightly scared of what his eye’s changing color meant, Ibov was pleased that his appearance was changing. He tried to think of his body only as a tool, and not a representation of who he was, and he kept it completely covered as much as he could. Ibov didn't want people to judge him based on the skin he lived in.
Ibov stepped to the table near the bed and started to put on his armor. He sat down on the bed to put on his boots and shin guard, as well as his gloves and bracers. Ibov then stood to put on his belt which carried multiple pouches of various medicines, tools, and communication devices. The belt also had a half cape connected to its back, made of two lengths of fabric that fell almost to Ibov’s ankles, the outer fabric matched the dark gray of his body suit and the inner fabric was a rich green. Ibov put on his chest piece which connected to its matching back piece with a click, and a soft hiss, activating the electronic components that regulated his body temperature.
Lastly, he put on his helmet, which was made of the same plastiod material as his armor, with a visor in the shape of a V where he could see out of, and had a decorative diamond above the V at his forehead. It glowed the same green as the inside of his cape. Ibov tucked his hair into his helmet and grabbed the last object on the table, his lightsabers.
He had two silver hilts, one slightly longer than the other, that were not as decorated as other lightsabers he had seen. Ibov kept his hilts as simple to work with as possible; they were two basic silver cylinders with divots near the blade that made it easier to hold onto with his thumb and forefinger. What made Ibov’s lightsabers unique is that they could connect at the pommel and become a double-bladed lightsaber, or if he only activated one blade, a single-bladed lightsaber with a longer hilt for two handed grip. This versatility made it so that Ibov could use any form of lightsaber that was needed at the moment, different fighting situations called for different types of lightsabers, which Ibov could connect or disconnect at any time.
The lightsaber hilts connected with a soft sound of metal rubbing together, and clicked into place. Ibov put his saber onto its holster on the left side of his belt and looked around the room for a moment. He didn't know why he did so, everything he owned was currently on his body, but he wanted to make sure he didn't forget anything before heading to the bridge of the Separatist ship.
The halls of the ship were dark, and strung with loud pipes and panels, Separatist ships were made for droids and were therefore devoid of any humanoid decorations. No need to have windows, or walls covering the innards of the ship. The hallways were simply built to the size of the biggest droid in the battalion and let the droids get from one side of the ship to the other, no opportunity to get lost in the vastness of the space around them, no personality in the architecture, and no culture.
Ibov passed through these halls with an unfitting silence. He was by far the quietest creature on the ship, when droids move hundreds of mechanical parts engage or disengage and when thousands of droids march on the battlefield, the sound could be very intimidating. The republic had taken to calling the separatist forces “clankers” for this very reason. When Ibov moved all that could be heard was the soft tap of his footsteps, and if you listened closely a slight swish of his cape behind him.
While his body was still sore, and tired, moving as smoothly as possible had been something he was practicing for years, it was how he now moved through the halls. He was like a snake, a snake that the droids were programmed to respect, while he could have easily walked around and between the other droids in the hallway, when they saw him coming every droid would stop and stand to the side to let him pass. This created a bubble of quiet that followed Ibov all the way to the bridge.
“Report” Ibov demanded as the door slid open to the bridge, his voice sounded dark and mechanical though his mask.
“We have two minutes and 39 seconds until we drop out of hyperspace, which there is a 73.87 percent chance that the enemy will already be at the destination.” A T-series tactical droid stood from the captain's chair, standing half a foot taller than Ibov. Tactical droids were thin and lanky, built to process data and evaluate possibilities to be given to the general, not built to fight.
Ibov cursed under his breath, two minutes was not enough time to come up with a plan. He regretted sitting in bed for so long.
“Drop out of hyperspace.” Ibov demanded, trying to buy some time to think
“Sir?” The tactical droid questioned “Our orders were to-”
“I know what our orders are.” Ibov raised his hand to cut off the droid, then turning to the droids at the helm “Drop out of hyperspace. Now.”
“aye sir.” The much smaller B-1 battle droid responded. The view screen at the front of the bridge wrapped around half of the room, and was the only window on the entire ship. While it still looked undecorated and completely mechanical, it allowed natural light into the otherwise stagnant room.
The hypnotizing blur of hyperspace faded away as they approached a normal speed, and Ibov scanned over what he could see though the window, looking for planets or outposts or any sign of civilization, but there was only the void speckled with stars, they must have stopped within a dead zone.
Ibov turned around and approached the captain's chair, hard, metal, and boxy like the rest of the ship. The tactical droid was still standing halfway in front of the chair and Ibov looked up at it until it moved out of the way.
He took an arrogant, slouched posture when sitting, the droids had been built by rude, and impatient people, and he found that the nicer he was to the droids the less likely they would follow his orders, so he put on the guise of the other Separatist generals; rude, impatient, and unsympathetic.
The tactical droid moved to speak again, but Ibov but him off
“How likely is it that the Republic forces are already at the destination?”
“As stated before sir, there is a 73.87 percent chance, but the longer we wait here-”
“No, how likely is it that they are already on the surface?” The droid took a couple seconds to calculate
“I predict by now a 43.02 percent chance that the-”
“And the longer we wait here?” Ibov looked up at the droid standing next to him
“For every minute we stay out of hyperspace, that percentage goes up by 3 percent. But we cannot be sure that they will not call in reinforcements, and in my opinion sir dropping out of hyperspace is a breach of protocol and does not reflect…” Ibov looked back to the view screen, drowning out the sound of the tactical droid going on about percentages and lack of protocol.
He knew this assignment would be tricky when he took it, or rather was assigned it. Despite how good the percentages were in his favor, there was one factor that the droid couldn't consider. Ibov was instructed to locate and capture the Jedi General Anakin Skywalker, who was renownd for being unpredictable. If it was any other Jedi, Ibov would stick to the possibilities the tactical droid gave him, but for Skywalker, Ibov wanted the opposite. Make him think he was winning, and wait for the opportunity to strike. Something Ibov had seen Skywalker use many times on his own troops.
“... which gives us a greater chance to victory sir.” Ibov stood, silencing the tactical droid.
“I want assignment six to take shuttles and go to the… surface” Ibov wasn't exactly sure where they were going, but he knew that there was a ground to fight on, which is where he wanted Skywalker.
“This is recon only. Get in, analyze and get back here. I want to know if Skywalker is on the surface or not.” Ibov nodded to a couple of battle droids to his left, which issued the order. A couple seconds later Ibov could see four little pods leave the ship and jump into hyperspace.
He turned back to the tactical droid, which couldn't make expressions but still looked annoyed.
“If we battle them on the surface, what are our chances of success?”
“Very low sir,” The droid responded, shifting its weight in pre-programmed gestures of displeasure. “Considering the number of clones to droids, the Jedi’s force ability, and terrain, I conclude that our best bet is to capture the target before he reaches the surface.”
“Terrain… What is the terrain on the surface?”
“Well sir it is a Jungle m-”
“Jungle, great,” Ibov waved away the droid, heading to the door leading away from the bridge.
“Get all the troops except Assignment twelve ready for a ground assault, and keep me updated. I want to know the second Assignment six learns anything.” Ibov left the bridge, the tactical droid called after him but was cut off by the doors to the bridge closing, and Ibov started walking again in his bubble of silence.
He wasn't sure where he would go, there wasn't anywhere meant for lifeforms on a droid ship other than his quarters and the bridge, but Ibov couldn't stand the tactical droid, and always enjoyed a dramatic exit, so he walked back to his tiny quarters.