Months before Evil gave birth; Marca sat on his throne and pondered. Legs crossed and right hand holding up his head, he gazed around the hall with a frown on his face. He had given up on wearing the helmet at all times, what was the point anymore? Most of his disciples had seen him without it while he was breeding Evil those few days. He had lost himself then, seriously slipping out of his Warlord façade he had worked so hard to retain. Shaking his head and standing, he began to pace the hall. Everything had fallen apart and didn't make any sense. What had gone wrong that day? Who or what had tipped Agba off? Why wasn't Jarron injured? And of course even though Evil had retrieved the disks and escaped, Agba had changed the coordinates the second she was gone. How did she get away from him in that state? Did he let her go? He had failed to question her before he sent her away. Marca sighed and rubbed his face, stopping to lean against the ships' window, and stared into space. He could see his army spaced among the stars, waiting for his decision on what to do next. Turning away he finally noticed his newly appointed Grand Moff and apprentice, right knee on the floor, left arm across his chest as a sign of heartlessness, awaiting recognition. Ciylo was young and eager to learn and his powers almost matched that of Evil's. Where she lacked the physical force, he made up for, and where he lacked the mental, she more than surpassed him. If and when Marca decided to bring Evil back the two of them under his command would make him untouchable.
He watched Ciylo shift his weight on his bent knee and ankle patiently awaiting permission to rise and address his warlord. Marca was content to just let him kneel there while he pondered but decided he was becoming a distraction and finally said, "Rise Ciylo, whatever do you need?"