You could not hate it more.
At least with Kuylen, you had motive. You had a passion to devote yourself to. Now, it is only survival. Survival can be a goal in itself, but not in this case. The thrill of bounty hunting has long since faded; the Dark Side of the Force does not give a damn about money.
There are a few fresh bounties, Dak, but they're a waste of time. Not worth enough for your talents. Usually, Jango Fett manages to snare most of the good bounties. It's a nuisance.
Dak hisses in anger before leaning back. He applies a few choice words to Jango Fett. If only someone would take down Fett... He would himself, but a shrewd calculation told him the Force would have to favor him heavily to even have a chance, and even then such a feat would be difficult. Perhaps too difficult.
A difficult man to find, Fett. Rumor has it that he pulls back to the Outer Rim when he is not hunting, hidden. He kills those that try to follow him, whether they have a bounty or not.
The day has been long for you both. Even with the energizing quality of the Force and the rejuvenating fire of the Dark Side, your hunt for R4 and the skirmish has left you weary.
Wraith, while having a relaxing smoke on the edge of the hangar, sitting on the fuel lines, you start to nod off. Eventually, you cannot stave it off any longer, and you drift off to sleep...
Dak, you too begin to experience the fatigue. Your reptilian body protests the minor burns that R4 inflicted, desiring sleep to speed up the healing process. Your eyes close...
...and suddenly you are very, very cold.
Your lightsabers are not in your gauntlets, but lying in the snow. Instinctually, you return them to your hands with a slight Pull.
You will need those.
Your danger sense suddenly flares as, despite your deafened state, the roar of a heavy repeater slices through the soundlessness. When an Arnian throws himself in the way of the repeater, you sense his death almost immediately while witnessing his sacrifice.
For you, General.
Another Arnian comes from behind you, charging forwards with his blaster rifle. He guns down the Arnian behind the repeater, burning through his armor.
Another comes forward. Then another. Then another, until dozens of Arnians are barreling past you. One slaps you on the shoulder and, though you cannot hear him, you somehow understand that he is asking if you are okay. You do not have time to reply, as he takes a barrage to the back.
You must lead them, General.
The swell of eager soldiers pushes you forwards, into the enemy trenches. The shaded trenches become colder still. As you move through the trench, dodging laser fire, something whistles past your head and sinks into the snow with a crunch.
Take it, General. Take it and know who must die.
It is a knife, much like the ones you carry. However, these are far sharper, far more valuable.
They bear the crest of the Royal Family.
Look up, General.
You raise your eyes towards the walls of the greatest city of Arnia, the capitol. Without warning, they crumble, leaving the city vulnerable. The city follows, collapsing into dust. The Palace, too, is dust. All dust, blown away in the winds of the tundra. The battle fades away, leaving you alone in the snow.
Come home, General Kaliero. Your people wait.
And you awake, drooling over the scraps of R4-S6 at the workbench. It is nearly morning.
At some point during the night, Wraith, you came in and hopped into your cot.