A Disagreeance of Opinions [John Harrison]

[Sal Katarn]

The Praetor strode down the streets of Dromund Kaas. The crimson cloak hung limply around his shoulders. His brown eyes were lost in thought. Responsibilty seemed a heavy burden crushing down on him. Duty held the weight of death. He sighed. There was so much wrong with the Empire. And he was not sure how much of it, if any, he could fix.

Squish.

Seth froze. He looked down. Blood. A river of it. Eyes followed the trail back behind an alleyway. He heard screams. Shorn's face grew hard as stone. Fingers curled tight around the cortosis-weave double-ended glaive in his right hand. On this planet, he would bet a million credits as to what type of individual was the cause of those screams. Deliberate steps carried him around the corner, where he saw a sight of madness.

Shorn spat a curse.

"Sith."

@[member="John Harrison"]

 

[John Harrison]

John had woken up this morning with yet another one of his headaches. They were a chronic drumming that shook his skull, an infinite drumming. He felt nothing but irritation and anger during every waking moment he spent as the drumming lingered on. He wanted blood. He needed blood. That seemed to be all he could think about; the warm liquid as it spilled across his fingers, staining his hands a beautiful deep red. Glorious.

The screams of the people as he cut them down with his lightsaber would likely haunt him in his later years, once his conditioning broke down. He didn't care. He wasn't bothered that he had claimed the lives of innocents. Some begged for his mercy. He might have spared them, if he knew them. Most of them had never accomplished anything. Most of them would never accomplish anything.

He was showered in steaming hot blood as he cleaved through a fearful civilian, his blades whirling in an all-saving storm of salvation. Lightning shot from his fingers, corpses rolling across the street and horrific madness ensuing around him, his coat flapping gently in the wind.

The drumming never ceased.

The blood kept flowing.

 

[Sal Katarn]

"Stop!" Seth bellowed.

This massacre was an outrage! In the middle of Dromund Kaas! Seth would have asked for an explanation, a chance for the lightsaber wielder to explain himself, but nothing could excuse this slaughter. Grief poured through him as he stared at the fallen bodies. So many. So much death. What was the purpose of it all? The Sith killed mindlessly. And even in his position as Praetor, Seth could not prevent this from happening again. But he could stop it. Right here, right now. He could end this Sith, in the name of the fallen innocents, lost forever in death because a Sith decided it would be so. Death should not be so... so whimsical! There could be only one consequence for such actions. The retalation would be swift and decisive.

Shorn's adamantine gaze fixed the Sith. Righteous rage made those brown eyes seem to burn with intensity. Fury built within Seth. He raised a hand. A thin tendril of flame leapt from his index finger, hissing across the half dozen paces between him and the Sith. He willed the fire to burn, envisioning the flames licking around the murderer's scorched body, just as Shady had taught him.

"Murderer! By my Praetorship I pronounce your judgement death. May your burning continue in the nine hells."

 

[John Harrison]

Spinning on one heel to face Shorn, he responded to the fire with a massive blast of air, the force fully flowing through him as he let out three quick blasts of force push, in order to allow him to assess the situation. The fire was trapped within the rapid movement of air, dissipating into nothingness. "A praetor? How many Emperors have you backstabbed? How many of your superiors have you assassinated?" Drawing his lightsaber and igniting it, he snapped into a Soresu stance, letting out a quick gust of lightning to ward off the civilians he hadn't already felled.

 

[Sal Katarn]

Seth twirled his double-ended spear. The vibro glaive whirred, its vibration nearly silent. It did not hum incessantly like the lightsabers of the Sith. Yet in its silence waited death. The Sith mocked him with words that meant... well, nothing really. Shorn did not know what Emperors the man was referencing. Clearly, he was fishing. With a capital F. The words about assassinating superiors, however, yes, that was upsetting. His Guardsman training enabled his face to betray nothing beneath an stern veneer. Inside, Shorn winced as if slap. But he had come to terms with those deaths. It had been necessary. For the good of the Empire and the Galaxy. Sometimes, you had to take a life to save countless others. Like now.

"You waste air, Sith."

It would be a lie to say Seth was not taken aback by the ease with which the Sith seemed to dissipate his attack. Yet, for all that, Seth charged forward, knowing this battle could be the death of him. But he did not fight for himself or his own personal glory. He fought for the citizens of the Empire. He was a guardian. Time to act like it.

In a blur of movement, Seth bounded forward, he struck out with his glaive spinning it to cleave through the murderer's chest.

 

[John Harrison]

"There's a lot of it. I'm probably not a massive drain on your precious reserves of air." Striking downwards with his saber to hit the shaft of the glaive and navigate the glaive downwards between his legs in a motion that would allow him to then hop backwards, giving him precious distance. He would be unable to defeat the man in melee combat, but it was possible that he could beat him through distance; that was of course relying on him not carrying a blaster.

 

[Sal Katarn]

You are drain enough, thought Seth.

The glaive was driven with force in a slash as Seth's right arm extended, his left snapping close to his chest. In many ways, wielding a glaive was a lot like fighting with a quarterstaff. If quarterstaffs had razor sharp ends. The glaive's blade glittered as it swung. Harrison moved to counter, bringing his lightsaber down on the glaive. He would have been successful in his attempt to do whatever it was he was trying to do, except he did not know one crucial detail. Seth's glaive was manufactured of cortosis-weave. The Sith's blade burned through the outer wrapping of leather on the haft, then it touched the cortosis. The lightsaber fizzled out.

The tip of one end of his double-ended glaive was centimeters away from striking. And closing fast. The Sith had made a mistake and it would cost him dearly. Or at least, it should.

 

[John Harrison]

His eyes opening in shock as his lightsaber fizzled out, John windmilled his arms as he fell back in a dodge, but nonetheless the blade tore through his jet-black shirt, deep claret blood spilling out. John was furious. Stepping backwards, his balance regained, he reached out with both hands. The force was swirling through his mind and body, the headaches a low pulse that only stirred the darkness within him into a greater frenzy.

In his mind he saw Seth consumed by a titanic tornado of lightning, the very though filling John with glee. Summoning the force, he let out the lightning using all of his fury, a massive maelstrom of electricity almost twice as wide and tall as Seth shooting forwards, all of John's energy and pain centered on the storm.

 

[Sal Katarn]

Shorn finished executing the sweeping blow with all the precision of a Royal Guard. As Praetor, he held head office in one of the most elite units in the Galaxy. Their legacy was a long one and each and every one of them did justice to it. He watched the Sith's blood spray into the air in crimson cartwheels with grim satisfaction. The pools of blood upon the ground cried out for vengeance. Seth would give it to them. This Sith deserved to die for what he had done.

Dark brown eyes of adamant watched as John stumbled backward. But the Sith was not out of tricks. A storm of lightning shot forth. Seth watched the crackling tendrils in horror, their flashing light reflected in his eyes. Lightning engulfed him in a sea of agony. Seth screamed.

The blast hit him full force and sent him hurtling through the air. He hit the ground with an audible crack. Sparks leaped across his body. His cloak was in tatters. His armor was a charred mess, in some places it was seared entirely through by the bolts of lightning, revealing reddened raw flesh, swelling with third degree burns. Utter pain ripped through Seth. It felt as if his entire body was on fire. His muscles spasmed uncontrollably, twitching and contorting until he curled in on himself. Smoke steamed off of him as he lay shuddering.

Seth was blinded by the pain. It ran like a red hot iron through every nerve in his body. He felt himself giving in to defeat. He wanted so desperately to lie there in the alleyway. The pain was unbearable. Why couldn't he just give up? What was the Sith to him anyway? Sightless faces popped into Seth's head: the bodies of those the Sith had murdered lay scattered in the street, their expressions of terror frozen up ghastly pale features. So many. Shorn's body began to move. He slowly, dreadfully, pushed himself to his knees. He swayed. First he lifted one foot up, then the other. Those faces urged him onward. The faces of the slain innocent. A man who fought selflessly, risking his own life for the sake of others, was someone to be feared.

Shorn tottered to his feet before standing erect. His face was a mask of twisted pain, his body a wreck. Yet he would fight on, because he had a duty to the Empire. To protect and serve. And furthermore, it was simply the right thing to do. One of Seth's hands moved to the blaster pistol at his hip, which he unclipped and with deliberate motions, raised, aimed, and fired four successive shots from the DeathHammer pistol at John. The power of a rifle in the size of a pistol.

 

[John Harrison]

Grinning in pleasure, John watched as four shots suddenly flew at him. The man should be dead. Without moving for shock, the first of the shots slammed into his shoulder, shredding his flesh in a storm of blood. The sheer force sent him backwards, the remainder of the shots flying overhead as he lay on the street. It hurt... ridiculously. John couldn't believe the pain. The shot had sent cracks through his collarbone, scorched his flesh.

He felt nothing but fury and pain as he lay on the ground, screaming in agony. Reaching out for some kind of comfort, he watched as blood leaked out of his shoulder, the agony unbearable. He writhed in helplessness, the maelstrom dissipating in his distraction. Then he felt it. Salvation. The force wrapped its numbing presence around him. Comforted him. He was its instrument. Rising from the floor in a clumsy fashion, John hoped the blaster wouldn't leave a scar. It probably would, but he could at least hope.

"You could have crawled away- but you did not. You could have saved yourself a universe of pain- But you did not. Regret is an emotion you will become acquainted with." Lunging forwards, teeth gritted in fury, he planted both hands on Shorn's shoulder, digging his nails in as he slammed his knee into the man's groin, lifting his hands up to whack his ears in a way that would disorient him, both hands crashing into each side of Shorn's skull.

"You shall pay for your sins." He rasped.

 

[Sal Katarn]

The knee drove into Seth's groin with force. Sharp pain drove through him like hot iron. His eyes widened and he gasped in shock. He doubled over in agony. The Sith slapped both ears. Sudden stars burst to life before his eyes, clouding his vision. The world seemed to upend itself as Seth reeled, spatial disorientation taking its toll. Blood leaked from his ruptured eardrums. The world went silent. Nausea leapt into his stomach as he felt the after effects of being kneed in the groin. He puked.

Projectile vomit splashed across @[member="John Harrison"]'s face. Seth could not hear his own violent retching. It frightened him. Bruised, bloodied, and burned, but not yet beaten Seth felt determination well within him. He would not give in to the fear. The Sith's last words to him - for now Shorn could hear naught through his perforated eardrums - had the opposite effect of their original intent. The words spurred Seth on. Sins. Yes. The law demanded restitution for the Sith's crimes. Death would suffice.

Through blurred vision Shorn struck. Training in the Echani martial arts gave him an advantage in hand to hand combat. There were few in the galaxy who could stand toe to toe with Royal Guards and come out better for it. The two stood nearly toe-to-toe. The next movements occurred in fluid succession. He rammed an armored elbow toward the Sith's cheek in a vicious cut, twisting his body until it stood sideways and carrying his elbow through before bringing it back in a second strike with the same elbow; this time a jab toward the Sith's nose. He pushed his elbow through and to the right, opening up the left side of his body. He swung his left gauntleted fist toward the Sith's face. Pain flared to life as his burnt skin stretched, but adrenaline and rage fueled his will to fight. For the moment, his pain disappeared beneath blinding hate. The two opponents battled each other savagely. One burnt and charred, with smoke still rising from his body fighting in grim silence. The other with blood pouring from open wounds and covered in vomit. Two nightmares. But only one would be victor.

 

[John Harrison]

Gritting his teeth as he was showered in vomit, he had barely wiped it from his chest as he was punched in the nose and cheek, blood spurting out of what remained of his nose as he flew backwards, windmilling his arms to regain balance half a meter backwards. Hissing, he jabbed forwards with one foot, sending it flying towards Seth's gut before raising both hands, willing his hatred for the man before him to summon the force.

The fury possessed him. Taking up a stable position he willed his anger upon Seth, his eyes turning a deep red in sheer rage. Shaking in anger, he released the furious pain, and within seconds he had sent forth a tsunami of icy-cold air, a tornado of pain swirling towards Seth at massive speed, the bodies by John's sides flying in all directions, the blood on the floor dribbling across the floor. Stepping forth with conviction, he didn't let up with the constant blasts of air. This man would pay for his insolence. For his humiliation.

 

[Sal Katarn]

Shorn stumbled backward as the kick connected with his breastplate. However, the plastoid armor rebuffed the blow and absorbed the majority of the impact, despite its charred state.

Before he had a chance to recover, he felt himself picked up and hurled through the air by an invisible force. The icy wind ran cool over his burns as it chucked him backward, but it did little to relieve his pain as he once more slammed into the ground. Blasts of air swept just above him.

Shorn grimaced and raised the arm holding his blaster. He'd lost his glaive in the lightning attack. No time to find it now. His vision was still blurred and he could barely see the outline of the man before him. He couldn't hear either. Blood dripped from his ears.

He clenched his teeth, steadied his arm and squeezed off three shots from his Death Hammer. He started low and let the recoil carry his aim up as the weapon bucked. One at the Sith's legs, the other his torso, and finally his upper chest and head.

 

[John Harrison]

Steadily walking forwards, John suddenly stopped dead as a blaster shot slammed into his shin, more blood leaking across the floor as his flesh melted. He crashed to his knees as another shot hit his stomach, his black shirt now thoroughly stained with blood. Leaning back on his feet, he stared down on his wounds, clutching them tightly in fear. He was numb now. None of them hurt.

He wasn't looking forwards to the numbness wearing off. That was sure to hurt. More blood seeped through his fingers. Ugh. He gave up trying to stop the wounds. Staring up at Seth, he exhaled heavily in exasperation. "Just die, already." Raising his hand in a choking position, he stared down Seth, bringing his fingers together while channeling the force in such a way that would close his windpipe. A force choke.

 

[Sal Katarn]

Seth gripped his throat in alarm with one hand. His fingers scrabbled at his neck. An invisible force wrapped itself around his windpipe like a durasteel claw. He couldn't breath. His face grew hot with the constriction of his arteries. Such a restriction of his blood flow would knock him unconscious in seconds. Kill him in a few more. Cerebrial ischemia would set in and his brain would die from hypoxia.

His brows drew together in a dark scowl above adamantine eyes. He had to act now, or he would die. Of this, he was sure. Shorn raised the blaster pistol and fired. He pulled the trigger again and again sending hot plasma screaming toward the Sith. Five lancets of energy zipped toward the Sith who kneeled in a pool of his own blood.

 

[John Harrison]

Rolling to the side to dodge the blaster fire, John kept a firm force grip on Seth's throat, now circling the man at high speed to dodge any further blaster attacks. "You can give up now, if you want. You can walk... mostly unscathed. I don't have to kill you..." John brought his fingers closer together to increase the pain, now attempting to access the memories of the man in his near-incapacitated state through drain knowledge. Maybe this would be worthwhile after all.

"...But I sure as hell want to."

 

[Sal Katarn]

Seth screamed in silence as a mental talon ripped into his mind, clawing with imprecision through his memories. It seared into his brain, like a thousand fingernails upon boards of chalk.

His vision starting to blacken, Shorn's gaze was still fixed on the Sith. He could feel his consciousness slipping, but he refused to give up. This fight was about more than just bringing justice to a murderer. It represented the entire battle within the Empire to eliminate the corruption of the Sith and their wanton destruction. Shorn would not cease to fight. The oath of the Royal Guards shone bright in his mind. Like words written in flame. While I draw breath, while I hold life, both body and mind shall serve the Empire's might. With glaive and pike, with all weapons do I strike. In scarlet and black, I stand against attack.

The relentless determination of a Vornskr came into his eyes. He started pulling the trigger. And he didn't stop.

 

[John Harrison]

Sprinting ever faster as the shots grew more rapid, John leapt at Seth, slamming a fist with all his strength into Seth's nose before letting go of his almost lifeless body with the force to allow him to drop from his telekinetically raised position and launch a bicycle kick upon his face, his leather boots crashing down upon Seth's nose time and time again before John lost the height he had gained through his jump, hitting the ground with a low thud. The man would hopefully fall unconscious. Sweating heavily, John moved a strand of hair from his eyes, spitting upon Seth.

 

[Sal Katarn]

The punch struck Seth's nose with an audible crunch. Blindness swept over Seth to accompany his deafness. A tide of pain sheared through his nervous system. He could feel hot spurting blood fly from his shattered nose. Listless, he vaguely felt his body released from the invisible grasp on his neck. He didn't even get the chance to breath before something hard smashed into his face. Everything went black.

Seth's body crashed limply to the floor, where John spit on it. He lay there in his tattered and burned crimson armor. Blood smeared his face and his broken nose gave him a ghastly appearance. His eyes were closed. The silence of the air asked the unspoken question. Were his eyes closed in death or sleep? The barely perceptible rise and fall of his chest answered back. The fallen hero still lived, though he had failed. His failure would hurt him worse when he awoke than would any of his injuries. For this failure reached into his soul and tore a wound. Gaping and horrid. The wound of despair.