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312's call was answered with a soft, faint hum. Beings such as he perceived time differently than organics; without the conscious effort to grasp it as most sentient life did, what seemed a short moment might feel like weeks—or weeks, a blink of the eye. Perhaps it had been long since their last meeting, but for Dynas it felt immediate.
The crystal shard pulsed with a glowing blue, its light dimming and brightening in rhythm against her palm. Hope and goodness seeped from it unmistakably—a blazing azure beacon cutting through the surrounding dark, both in the physical realm and within the Force. Then came a deep, soothing voice, easing its way into her mind. Dynas had awoken, for the first time in a long while.
"No. I am just a normal little blue gem."
A pause. The flat tone betrayed the jest, yet it was unmistakably a joke.
"Apologies. I understand many organic cultures use humor as a warm greeting. I have not sharpened that skill as much as the other aspects of my mind. Tell me—where are we… and who are…"
He trailed off, assessing. When he spoke again, his voice carried weight, the levity gone.
"Trooper Ashe. You have brought me to a place that reeks of darkness. I conclude that is why you have awoken me—to cleanse this place with the Light."
The shard hummed at a low frequency, threads of his awareness stretching outward as he surveyed the area, perceiving through the Force.
"But the specifics elude me. I would like further explanation. I assume this ordeal we face is both significant and worthy of my effort. I will lend my Light—but I wish to know more."
As he spoke, Dynas began to weave his gift of mechu deru, reaching toward the armor encasing 312. He sought to link himself with her systems, to borrow her sensors, to touch the streams of stored data within her chassis. A communion of crystal and machine, so they might see as one.
The lightsaber rose, a glare catching in her eye that did little but cause her brow to shift ever-so-slightly as time almost seemed to slow before the blade came crashing down, like a waterfall, straight towards her. Avida's arm wasn't suddenly flux with power, lightning didn't pulse through the air, and in fact there didn't seem to be much change about them that could've been spoken of caused by her at all. That wasn't to say any road left untaken weren't available to her, only that, in that brief moment, the simplest choice seemed the better to make - to use the strength of an enemy, whether it be their literal physicality or any number of advantages they had, against them was the first lesson of any fight every duelist learned. To learn was to live.
Anything else, in time, was to die.
Krasskorr the Maw
had launched an overhead strike that was predictable and, more importantly, was telegraphed well. Were she some kind of jock, a bit more like her father, she might've waxed poetry on his form or verbally complimented him in some kind of strange masochistic appreciation for the choice in methodology behind his strike because of the benefits that vastly outweighed the drawbacks of such a powerful blow - she was none of those things, however, but she was arrogant almost to a fault. In a fight without weapons the usual manner of handling such powerful enemies was to move with the blows rather than against in order to mitigate the momentum behind each strike that landed - in a fight with lightsabers, however, the goal was simply do not be struck. Aiding an enemy's weapon in traveling through the air faster would fly in the face of that, it'd be an increased risk of being struck by something moving too fast to react against, but a subtle shift just the once was often enough to throw things off balance with a cascade of consequences as a reward.
Her body shifted slightly, something of a pivot as she slid a foot back and away to turn her body parallel to the strike, and she pulled back the hand she'd gestured with as she tilted her blade so its tip was further away from his strike and its hilt was closer - much like a ramp, of sorts - perpendicular to his own. Maybe he'd appreciate it, more than likely perhaps not, but whatever the case her retreating hand, principally the fingers she'd used to gesture towards him moments ago, granted strength to Krasskorr for two-thirds of the duration of the single strike to a nearly comical degree. It'd vanish just as his strike was nearly horizontal - in time for it to be at the angle where there'd be the least amount of leverage for him to extend, and consequently as she pushed forwards with her own lightsaber into his it would be where she'd have it in spades.
This did absolutely nothing to address the absolutely unfathomable difference in physical strength, of course, but she'd learned from her mother that there were certain kinds of strengths that simply needed to be made irrelevant in order to overcome rather than challenged directly. Amplifying her own strength would only ensure he'd either do the same, or adopt some other means of ensuring his advantage in strength was still respected - what his physical strength was met with, however, was an ear-splitting wave of telekinetic energy at the point of their blade's contact that was as loud as the visible shockwave was bright. If she couldn't overpower Braith Achlys
in physical strength, even with the force, why would she even try against some kind of brutish fighter holding a massively larger blade than her that, by all appearances, seemed relative to the kind of physicality her mother possessed?
Nearby, as this happened, the bodies of the two that'd been left in pieces were steadily pieced together like a child's hasty attempt to glue the shards of a broken vase before an angry parent could take notice. Bodies were clumsy things, even when not ripped messily limb from limb, and it was surprisingly difficult for even the average human to learn to walk for the first time because of balance and proportion and the rather unfortunate way in which the body simply functioned. Without intelligence they lacked a number of things necessary for coordinated movement, in every manner of the word they resembled zombies, but hatred and fear patching them together was something which benefited a dark jedi only when used from a place of privilege during a play against Sith - privilege to have the chance to introduce uncertainty into a situation, like the circumstances around a certain Sith Empire's stumbling on Bastion or a certain Dark Jedi and Sith collective failure on Atrisia.
This? This was the sort of body horror that sickened Jedi and perhaps put them on the backfoot because of the lingering taint of the dark side that came with these zombie-like automatons. Creatures which could offer a fight to someone who resisted the easy path offered by the dark side, or refused to feed on it. Avida was unlike her sister, unwilling to fall into the degeneracy of draining the force itself, but she wasn't above the decadence of feeding on the negative emotions that gave rise to the dark side itself and these things were quite literally held together by it.
Her lips parted, the corners of which curled subtly into the whisper of a smile, and she restrained herself from gloating over the gift her enemy's presumed allies had just handed to her.
Instead she remained mostly silent, or at least as silent as one could be when colliding one lightsaber against another with as explosive results as she'd provided - fueled by these two stumbling monstrosities that were subsequently torn apart by the saber clash's resulting shockwave. Whatever Dark Forces
were at work against both her and the rest of the galaxy at large would need to try harder if they were interested in intervening in her fight with the man in front of her.
Korda Veydran
's plea hung in the hall like a dropped blade. Around them the mingled voices of Sith and Mandalorian fell away beneath the steady rasp of Domina's breathing and the low clack of her tail. He spoke of ruin and exile. Of a village leveled by his hand, of blood spilled against blood, and of a shame that should have left him to rot. The confession was naked, simple and brutal.
Domina listened as though taking in scripture. Her head tilted, claws flexing at the pommel of Starfang, then easing along the leather spine of the book she wore like a relic. In another life, when teeth and hunger ruled her every impulse, she might have spat curses and driven him from the hall. But she had been remade, baptized by war and witchcraft into something colder, sharper, holier.
Prime stepped forward. One of her lower hands slid beneath the book and lifted it from her chest with deliberate reverence. Her other hands never left Starfang's hilt; two remained steady as anchors. Placing the book in Korda's gloved palms, she brushed her azure claws along his helm in a motion that was less reprimand and more benediction.
There were many answers she could give him. And if she were younger, scolding would be on the table. For as monstrous as she was, the menace of Mandalore, wild child founding of the clans. There was one truth none could deny: for all her talent for violence, she had never turned her sword against her kith and kin. Such a thing simply wasn't in her nature.
Yet even she could not deny the cycle. Brother against brother. Clan against clan. Wars within wars, blood feuds kindled over pettiness and pride. Where once those conflicts might have been excused, now Dima saw them as corruption. Her vision for the future of their faith had no room for weakness.
Not under the scrutiny of Prime.
And still, her love for her adopted people was unbreakable as her visor loomed above him like the eye of the god himself.
"Oh little brother...because you are destined to burn either way. Inheritors of Ha'rangir's dream know this to be true, It is the marrow of our mythology." Her voice rolled like a psalm, low and steady. "To turn the ire of steel upon one's kin, is weakness." She leaned down, visor reflecting his glow back at him. "Are you weak, brother?"
The sagas spoke of such betrayals. Sons slaying fathers, brothers strangling brothers, kin turning upon kin until the cycle bled one generation into the next. And always the value of the sword positioned over bonds of blood and iron. No curse was needed, evil grew from such weakness by itself. She let him hear it plainly: "There has always been strife among us. There always will be."
Then, with solemn care, her voice sharpened, her conviction like iron laid bare. "For us, there is only the question of whether we meet fate with courage or cowardice. Courage enough to accept the destiny given by the gods on terms of our own, and to shape it with our own hands before the preordained day of our death. This struggle, to live freely inside a fate already fixed. Is the essence of our faith."
Her claws dug faintly into his shoulder, steadying him. "Our clocks are wound the moment we take up The Iron. Whether raised in valor or wickedness, the blade is a cursed gift. So say the Sith. So say the Jedi. So say all those across the stars who all understand a single, universal truth. One which each generation must learn with each passing of the age." She lifted her chin and hissed in reverence. "That those who live by the sword, will die by it. And when the sun & stars extinguish their light it will be a burning blade that lights The Way. When gods fall from the heavens and kings turn to dust, only the swords remain. Those innumerable swords that seed our foundations, And though they claim many names. They all serve one destiny."
In that moment, as if answering the oath, Srina's magic split air and reality. A fissure tore the blackwall open and a ribbon of black-blue light arced outward. Through it, the Iron Eidolon drifted into the void like an enormous maw, sliding into the theater of war beyond the ship's hull. Sparks and nav-readouts blossomed across the hall as the fleet cameras painted the field in new colors.
Domina watched the wound of space with hungry eyes. She turned to Korda and, in one motion that was both invitation and command, gestured for him to step to her side and take up the place among his kin. Her voice lowered until it was only for him and the gods.
"Stand," she said. "Stand and be counted. Burn as the chosen burn. Die as the chosen die. We do not hide from fate here, ember. We sharpen it."
Around them the Mandalorians answered with the terse clack of armor, the unsentimental sound of a people prepared for the same end they worshiped. Srina's rift bled light onto their faces.
The warpriest, the missionary, the executioner. All braided into one. She tightened her hand on Starfang and stepped forward beside Aether Verd
and the others, the iron choir rising to meet the thunder.
"In the ancient age of the warrior poets, fate was forged in steel. And so it shall be again~" she purred menacingly. It was time at last, to stoke the flame of their faith and feed the hunger of their wargod.
The book was heavy in Korda's scarred hands, not in weight but in judgment. Its leather pressed into his palms like an ember he dared not clutch too tightly. Smoke still curled from his vambrace vents, the faint scent of singed oil mixing with a memory he could never burn away: the reek of his own village aflame.
The crimson glow of his visor dimmed as he sank to one knee before Domina. Seals hissed, and with a rasp of metal he drew off the helm that had hidden his face. Scar upon scar traced the ruin of his features, a pale partially blind eye staring through her, the other alive with fire and grief. Sweat gleamed against scarred skin though the hall was cold.
When he spoke, the words dragged with the weight of old ash. "I remember the night well, Lady Prime. The roar of fire as it devoured the homes of my kin. The screams of my blood as my blade carved them down. I leveled my village with my own hand. I forsook my people, spat on clan and name, until Ha'rangir himself should have cast me into the void."
His breath caught, not from weakness, but from the memory's stench choking him still—burnt flesh, shattered wood, the crack of children's cries drowned by the clash of steel. His scarred gauntlets trembled as he raised the relic toward her. "And yet the Wargod saw fit to drag me back from the ruin. To summon me here, to your side. To stand among warriors when I should have been left to rot beneath the ashes I made. Why? Why me?"
His eyes fixed on her visor, unflinching. "I am an ember, War Priestess Prime. A thing cast from the forge, meant to burn out in battle. This book is holy fire, too pure for unclean hands such as mine. I beg you—keep it. Guard it. For I run headlong into flame and steel, and if I fall, let not Ha'rangir's word be lost to my folly."
Korda pressed the relic back into her waiting claws, then rose at her command. His shoulders straightened, broad and unyielding, his scars laid bare for all to witness. The warriors of the Death Watch answered his movement with the clack of gauntlets on iron, and he joined their rhythm, his voice ringing like a vow.
"I will burn as the chosen burn. I will die as the chosen die. My fate is ash, and yet I embrace it. For when the burning blade lights the end of all things, I will stand in its glow—not as exile, but as brother."
Helmet cradled at his side, scarred face stark against the rift's storm-light, Korda stepped to Domina's side where she had bidden him. In that moment he seemed less man than martyr, a zealot bound in steel and scars, awaiting the fire that would prove his worth.
Many cultists are thrown back by Thurion's telekinetic push, but Vesh stands firm
Vesh swings her halberd at Thurion's chest while the other cultists engage
--------------------------
The Jedi strike force charged into the fog-wreathed gloom...
... and the gloom swirled around them, nipped at their heels, pressed down from above.
The light was strong in them, to be sure. Their approach burned away the darkness, held the shadows at bay. Their warm sabers and fierce hearts pushed back the chill of death. And yet, as they advanced down the corridor, each meter they seized for the light was a temporary victory. The darkness slipped back in behind them, as comfortably as if it had always been there, as if there had been no disruption to its rule at all. They were valiant, they were deadly, but they were few - one of many groups of insects crawling through a colossal terrarium.
And though they killed for righteous reasons, with certainty in their hearts...
... the pain and fear and death they caused was still pain and fear and death - the fuel of the Dark Side.
"How tiresome your moralistic prattle is, Jedi," came a voice from in front of the strike force. She stepped forward from out of the fire suppression fog, her dark armor stark amid the grey mist. She had long since surrendered her birth name, for she was a Sith Sovereign Protector, brutally indoctrinated and trained for years to serve the Sith'ari. Now she was called simply Vesh. Behind her, cultists of the Church of the Dark Side stepped forward, their black and crimson robes forming a wall against the encroachment of the Jedi strike force.
"Have you nothing new to say? Nothing to offer beyond hollow judgements and platitudes?"
Thurion leapt forward at the head of the strike force, the deck plating buckling where he touched down. A vast wave of telekinetic energy erupted from the spot, and a dozen cultists were hurled from their feet, thrown back into the gloom. But Vesh stood firm. Her training in the Dark Side was rudimentary, focused on the simple tools of lashing out with the power of pain and rage, but telekinesis was explicitly part of that training. She raised a hand and sent forth a wave of her own, deflecting the push. Her feet slid back a meter, but she did not fall.
"This is His place of power. You are nothing here."
With both hands on her munit'kad halberd, Vesh stepped forward and swung the weapon, a quick and brutal chop at Thurion's chest. The beskar head of the axe vibrated at ultrasonic speeds, and the corded muscles of her arms - enhanced with a steady drip of combat adrenals - propelled it powerfully. Around her, the other cultists were getting to their feet, a variety of poisoned blades and alchemized staves gripped in their hands. They would gladly die for their Emperor, for they knew their deaths were merely more tinder for his raging fire.
They had been indoctrinated into his cult of death and rebirth, and knew no fear.
What is left UNDISCLOSED
LOCATION - Death Star III
Michael, Gabriel, Azrael,Sariel,Raphael,Jeremiel,Connel, Raguel
[Any text in brackets signifies comm-link usage and not face to face conversation]
The ducts screamed as they folded in around him. Bolts ripped free, hissing through the narrow space like fangs in the dark. A pressure settled on his chest, heavy and smothering, the weight of a thousand jealous dead clawing to drag him down.
Connel’s breath slowed. The dark thought it had him cornered. The dark thought it understood him.
It didn’t.
Two hilts snapped to his hands as if called by destiny. With a twin spark, the shadows were split open:
Night — violet/indigo core edged in white, a jagged blade that cut like the storm of his fury.
Day — permafrost blue core, Golden outterlay, sharp and radiant, a shard of dawn that refused to dim.
The twins burned together, illuminating the duct with impossible contrast — darkness and light, rage and calm, destruction and clarity. They weren’t opposites. They were his wholeness.
He pulled the Force in, every ounce of light the dead had tried to steal, and let it coil around him until it threatened to burst. The shadows pressed harder. His answer was simple:
”Not today.”
The repulse erupted. Twin sabers crossed as the Force detonated outward, a star born inside steel. The ducts collapsed in shrapnel, a tunnel turned to fire and dust, and Connel fell with the storm.
He landed in the heart of a stormtrooper platoon, violet lightning in one hand, frozen dawn in the other. The wave of Force still rippled outward, bodies and blasters scattering like toy soldiers. White armor shattered against bulkheads. Screams cut off mid-breath.
Connel rose. Night hummed low and savage, Day hissed cold and brilliant. Together, they burned as one: terror and hope, an answer the darkness could not choke.
Then the deck shook. Smoke parted. Something bigger stepped forward — heavier, crueler, its form thick with the same hate that had tried to smother him in the ducts.
Connel’s jaw set. He raised the twins, one high, one low, blades crossing in mirrored defiance.
The dark wanted to bury him in silence. Instead, he would blind it.
The Dark World had beckoned its lost children home as the galaxy crumbled around them. Sith supremacy had faltered, but as the old fell away, the new rose up to claim its place. Derleth Par had taken the mantle of Darth Vinaze and fled far from the Imperial worlds, where neither the New Imperial Order nor the Sith could control him or keep him down. In the farthest reaches of known space, the ancient world of Darth Sidious had called him... home. Yes, it would be a glorious home, he knew it as soon as he arrived, travelling deep through the Red Zone on the edge of the galaxy. He had expected to find a lifeless world, but he had been wrong. The old citadel of Sidious crawled with life still, an ancient devoted order of monks.
These Palpatinian Monks had welcomed the Sith once again with open arms, after near a millennia alone in the darkness, descendants of the original Sith Eternal cult. It had been there among them that Vinaze had learned of the Sith'ari prophecy. At the foot of the dark throne that Sidious had once sat upon, visions of the future had overtaken Vinaze. A vision of a new ruler upon that throne, draped in dark power, reigning over a dark world reinvigorated. All else, the Imperial Civil War, the oath he had sworn at Ziost, paled in comparison. If the Sith had truly come upon the end times once again, living in the epoch of the Sith'ari, nothing else matters. If only Vinaze had known then that half a decade later he would stand beneath the same throne to crown Darth Solipsis as the object of prophecy, the one he had searched for, as the countless barbarians of the Unknown Regions congregated beneath the immense stygian walls of the citadels as more than just a horde, but as a Brotherhood. It took several years for the truth to be found. Claimants to the title rose and fell. Vinaze had betrayed his own master, Kascalion Giedfield, when he had come to realize that the Dread Lord was not the Sith'ari he was seeking. But like a strike of lightning out of a great, dark cloud, Solipsis revealed himself to the Sith, and had forever changed the balance of the Dark Side...
Presently, Death Star Ritual Chamber
Around the rotunda, faithful of the Dark Side continued their ominous trance-like chant, though many cheered the powerful words of Vireth. Vinaze took the central platform and raised his gnarled hands high into the air, his long withered fingers like diving rods of the Dark Side. The power flowed through the room, through all of them. Already the death and destruction on Atrisia was coming to them, and it was tasteful. The screams of those who burned alive when Stormtroopers set fires across Jar'Kai were a sweet as the silenced prayers of the starfighter pilots whose life was given to the vacuum of space when their ships failed. A symphony of destruction played through the Force as the bombs thundered against the city's shielding, a drum beat harbinger of what was to come.
"Vireth has freed herself of her chains!" he proclaimed in response to in passionate speech, "how many more of you will break your chains, I ask?! All of you! I say, all of you!" his gaze swept the room. His eyes caught those of Da'Razel and Deonis. There was a moment of understanding between them all as a current fluctuated through the room, the Light trying to pierce through the darkness. The warriors sensed it keenly, he knew, and they moved to prepare the defenses. No foolish Jedi would end this. It would only end one way, the way of the Sith.
"Peace! Peace is a lie!" he began to recite the Code of the Sith, "the Sith Order has chosen peace behind the Blackwall! They have chosen solitude, they have chosen to accept merely a slice of the galaxy to call their own! We say nay to peace, for we want WAR! Conflict is the passion of the Sith!"
"There is only passion! And I sense among you the greatest of passions, those that burn with such ferocity that they might conquer the entirety of this wretched galaxy! You have gained the strength, WE have gained the strength, for we are the followers of the wheel that turns upon time and fate, harbingers of change, bringers of war! Disciples of the Sith'ari-Emperor!"
"We have the ultimate power in the galaxy, an ancient weapon of fear made new again, and through power, we gain victory! Atrisia is only the beginning! When our terror is inflicted upon the galaxy, all will know that our chains are broken. The Empire shall not be contained! We shall tear off the chains of the Sith Order when we tear open the Blackwall! When our time of victory comes, The Sith'ari will destroy the Sith Order, and rebuild it anew on the bones of those who chose peace! Those who chose the lie!" Vinaze ended his sermon with a great bout of Sith Lightning arcing between his outstretched hands, a demonstration of power. Power they all had, for the electric feeling coursed through the entire room, energized by the sermons of the faithful. He took a deep breath of the thick incense smoke, his sunken eyes rolling back in his head.
And he felt it... the aura of the interloper. He knew she would come eventually. Never could the Dark Side congregate in such power without drawing the attention of the Light's champion, Avatar of Ashla or so she called herself.
~ Darth Vinaze, it seems we met again. Cease this ritual, and I shall return you peacefully to where you belong... the Netherworld. It is time you ended the spread of corruption within the realm of the living, and come with me! ~ she called upon the man.
~ Nemesis~ he responded to his rival telepathically. ~ You are ever the fool, Eina! The naiveté of the Light shall never cease to amaze me! I have restored my power since last we met, and I am forever stronger for the wounds you have dealt me. You know as well as I that peace is never an option. I will return to the Netherworld by my own volition, or not at all. Interlope all you like, spirit, but when you come to me know that the full power of the Dark Side will bear down upon you! Only death awaits you here, for your crusade has ended long, long ago. ~
Phaelissia pressed onward, burning and frying as she went. Lirka Ka
’s brute force, skull-bashing brutality was complemented by the Aetharian’s elemental savagery. Bloodthirsty instincts seized the elfin cyborg’s awareness as she watched the Imperator slam her helmet into a crewman’s face.
She would not be denied her share of the slaughter.
A squad of ten stormtroopers arriving to ward off the incursion were swiftly engulfed by a jet of searing, star-hot flame that charred their armors’ plastoid plates, before turning the suits into ovens as flesh was fused to the armor protecting it. The sharp sounds of hissing and popping cut through the roar of the flame as plastoid plates melted away, roasting alive the body beneath. Left in the flames' wake were semi-molten, fused wrecks of grotesque, man-shaped remains. The smell was equally horrific: a greasy, metallic odor lingered in the air, accompanied by the sickly-sweet odor of burned human fat and tissue.
Turning away from the mess of charred, carbonized, and melted stormtrooper remains in the hallway, Phaelissia glanced down towards her gauntlet comp just as it pinged her a priority tone. She promptly opened it, her cybernetic gaze widening as she scanned its contents.
A map of the battle station, procured by the Eternal Father Himself.
It was then that she glanced back up, synthetic gaze widening as a series of sharp, metallic screeching noises emanated from ahead. Her ears twitched as the ten stormtroopers’ corpses fused together to form a single monstrous entity. The thing was initially shapeless, but it soon took on the vague form of a bipedal beast as cherry-red durasteel deck plating encased it from head to toe, augmenting the undead stormtroopers’ melted plastoid armor. Their weapons too, were not wasted. Slagged E-11s combined to form what appeared to be a large and twisted multi-barreled scattercannon that glowed with malevolent heat.
The stormtrooper junk-beast gave a loud, pained and inhuman roar that seemed to come from everywhere at once. The wailing chorus of ten voices screaming in pain. The eerie groans were combined with the metallic screech of durasteel lungs. Even with her ear protection, the roar hit Phaelissia like a physical wave, carrying with it the pungent smell of ozone, superheated metal, and the nauseating, greasy scent of reheated charred meat. She staggered back, forced down to her knees as the soundwaves threw her off-balance.
And then, the beast charged.
Features narrowing in concentration, Phaelissia unleashed another jet of flame in its direction. However, she could not hold the burst for long enough to fully melt the thing’s durasteel plating before it came too close. The cyborg instead became a streak of movement, anti-gravity implant propelling her to the left as the junk-beast ran through the space she had occupied only a split-second prior.
The beast spun around, moving faster than anything its size had a right to. Nevertheless, Phaelissia's left hand was already outstretched. A deafening CRACK-THOOOM sounded out as a lance of pure, white-blue lightning erupted from her fingertips. Hotter than the surface of a star, the bolt struck the beast's central mass, sending it flying back as gaping, smoldering craters were blown open in its torso. Arcs of residual electricity danced across its frame, causing the thing to spasm and jerk uncontrollably.
And yet, the stormtrooper junk-beast still stood.
Its scattercannon spun up and unleashed a stream of fire, compelling Phaelissia to dive for cover behind the nearby passageway junction. A bolt seared her across the shoulder in the process, drawing a sharp, pained hiss from her lips as she sprinted down the adjacent passageway, attempting to create distance between herself and the charging monstrosity!
As the Jedi moved like a blurred brown wind through the halls of Durasteel and through plastoid walls of soldiers, his own shadow flickered, moving subtly in slightly antagonistic movements that were only captured by a keen eye. This amounted and went on for some time before the shadow's own dim nature reflected from the polished and sterile metal floors and tiles seemed to absorb more darkness and grow darker. This was a very subtle, progressive thing, but by the time the Jedi had reached the open, wide room, it had reached its crescendo, and from the floor there was a sudden, dark movement and a flash of red energy, the snap hiss of a crimson lightsaber. A plunging thrust. A backstab. Its only purpose to skewer through the spine.
Prowler materialized, a elderly man in a black and red robe, wielding fury and hatred, and directing wrath at the Jedi with a face enveloped in red.
The Troopers stationed there saw a blur accompanied by the blazing arc that was Sarad's lightsaber as it transitioned into a practiced series of sweeping strokes.
There was a crackle of energy as the plasma blade of the lightsaber blackened more plastoid, cracking the shells of the Troopers armor accompanied by the deflection of the blasterfire that some managed to discharge.
Once the Troopers were incapacitated Sarad stood, turning his head back over his shoulder.
He could hear the Junk Golem he'd encountered in the distance, its lumbering frame rumbling across the floor as it pursued him. Luckily Sarad was much faster than the Golem. Unless he was delayed he could keep the creature at a distance rather than dealing with it outright, other matters were his priority.
As his gaze turned ahead again the ochre flashed brightly in his eyes.
He could feel the dark influence of the ritual being performed somewhere deep within the vast labyrinth of the Death Star III. The Force shuddered as it washed over him, reminding him that he was just a stone standing in the river that was the metaphysical energy surrounding everyone, everything. He manipulated it to his benefit though no one controlled the force.
Rumbling footsteps brought him out of a spellbound moment, the Golem.
Blurring, infusing himself with the living force and bestowing himself with an unnatural swiftness again Sarad disappeared down the corridors.
Eventually he reappeared, his outline still vibrating outside of a set of pneumatic doors their exterior console already deactivated from the inside. Taking his lightsaber in both hands, the phosphorescent blade blazing in his grasp he'd have thrust it forward preceding a crackle of energy and sparks as it made contact with the durasteel. The Lightsaber burned hot, hotter than it should have due the crystal set into its hilt; it would only be a matter of time before it burnt a hole through the entry way and rendered the durasteel into smoldering sludge.
Helix watched as Lirka surged forward, or tried to watch. Under most circumstances, the War Marshal's reflexes and perception of time were comfortably into the realm of the superhuman. They had to be, if he wanted to survive the insanity of battle in the 900s. He processed reality at an entirely different level, if one limited by his own madness.
Even so, he occasionally had trouble tracking his superior's movements. Two things slowly dawned on the colony. The first was that he'd never seen Lirka actually try before. The second was that his watchful eye was not only probably unnecessary, but would only get in the way.
Helix didn't have to be told twice when ordered to get lost. He dispensed with his solid shape, floating around amidst the chaos as a mass of fine, near-invisible particulate matter.
The colony drifted through the halls, passing patrols and response teams, until he found a local control room.
The door was sealed, but not well enough. His dispensed form chewed easily through the door, forming a near-microscopic breach and creeping under the seal until he could emerge on the other side.
The interior was all in an uproar. Junior officers calling for reinforcements, senior officers trying to find someone to blame, and armored troopers trying to look as though they were securing the area. Helix registered something vaguely close to entertainment, watched the mess for a while, then picked out the evident ranking officer in the room.
Helix seeped in through ears and nostrils, little by little. Slowly enough that he wouldn't be noticed, at first.
He spread his presence across nerve endings, through blood vessels, skittering across the outskirts of perception. He always loved this part. People were infinitely more interesting from the inside, at this level. Beautiful, individual works of art, even the worst of them. It almost made him sorry to break them.
He mapped this particular individual's body. Bonded himself inextricably with memory and personality, then got to work. Clusters of nanites spread to a few key places in the brain, replacing some portions entirely.
Before the officer could possibly be aware, he was gone, his governing intelligence replaced by the horror that now wore his still-living skin and bone. A painless end, and one of the few Helix would probably hand out today.
Helix blinked his new eyes experimentally, one at a time. He'd never gotten quite used to blinking. Autonomic functions in general were a challenge early on, but in time, he'd learned to put a bit of background processing power to work keeping his new suit alive. He could puppeteer a corpse, but a living body was better at this sort of work. A corpse, even a moving one, wouldn't fool anyone for long.
He straightened his uniform, cast an authoritative gaze over the surrounding troops, then strode over to a command console. Utilizing the man's own memories to gain access, he decided to have a little fun. He shut down life support to a few key areas, vented a few hangars into the void, locked some doors and unlocked others. A dozen acts of petty sabotage. Nothing that would seriously hamper a station of this sheer size, but it made him feel better.
A tiny sliver of his consciousness spread from the console to the surveillance in the immediate area. Nanite-skin grew like a cancer across wires and lenses. He watched, enjoyed the fruits of his labor for a few moments, then did his job.
Oh, the system tried to stop him occasionally, of course, but Helix was a creature of hardware, not software. One might as well try to firewall away thermal detonator. Nonetheless, any such intrusion would necessarily be short-lived, as everything he infested required a small portion of his attention. He was going to need undivided processing power for what was ahead.
On a station like this, virtually everything would be surveilled. Anything less posed a security issue, and Helix was not naive enough to think their hosts were stupid.
There were a few likely spots nearby, but the odds that they'd wander across it, even with such data, were low. Nonetheless, Helix deemed that a problem for the Imperator to work out.
Having secured a handful of potential locations for the ritual site, the only thing left to do was dispense with the loose ends. He could kill and replace the lot, as he had with this current body, but they'd slow him down. Best to clean house and enjoy a show in the process.
Helix spun in his chair, drew his sidearm, and shot his nearest "colleague" in the back of the head.
If the room was chaotic before, that fateful shot made it devolve into anarchy. Weapons were drawn, orders were shouted, and the peace hung on the edge of a cliff. Everyone accusing everyone else of having been guilty. Helix decided to help them along. "There! Shoot him!" He pointed imperiously towards a very much innocent trooper nearby, bellowing in the officer's loud, commanding voice. "He's a spy!"
The pandemonium that followed almost defied description. Already incredibly-stressed professionals could snap under the right stimulus, as Helix knew well. He made it worse here and there, picking off another victim or two in the split-seconds when no eyes were on him. Before long, he was alone. Rewarding, but unfortunately all too brief and crude. In the past, he'd spent days or weeks fomenting paranoia like this in enclosed spaces. Were they not on a timetable, and were retaliation not surely already on their way, he'd have liked to savor the experience more, kill them with a bit more finesse.
Nonetheless, they'd certainly have realized something was wrong, likely have written off the control center as a lost cause, and that was assuming nobody had set off a silent alarm without his notice. That meant this host was of no further use.
Helix peeled the skin, bone and muscle off of himself like clothes after a hard day's work, depositing them onto the deck with a wet splat.
"I have compromised an officer." Helix intoned, transmitting to his superior. "His memories are of debatable usefulness, but there are a number of nearby locations worth checking. Should that fail, I am prepared to repeat the process as many times as necessary." He dispersed himself again, seeping into a ventilation shaft to creep back towards his superior. If nothing else, it would sate his superior's bloodlust, and the more data he could gather, the more likely he might be able to piece together a hard location.
Of course, that would take time, more time perhaps than they realistically had. He doubted Lirka was willing to wait, but maybe they'd get lucky. They had in the past.
It was dawning on Helix that he'd not heard Lirka mention an exit strategy, so he began formulating his own in case things should go badly. It was simple and concise: steal the nearest thing with a hyperdrive and get very far away.
Failing that, he'd vent himself into the vacuum, and either wait for rescue or infest the next passing vessel.
There was a comfort level with her mother through their connection. It was something that the young Echani craved. The understanding and the knowledge that she was there was enough for Quinn to find her footing. Srina was right, there was no reason to weigh herself down with the past, even if she had made her moves as soon as the knowledge was told.
There was no preparing for this.
Solipsis has had time, his mind working, figuring out everything, every fine detail, and their place.
What was important was that they knew the knowledge gained would help sway things in their favor against the false Emperor. There was nothing more that needed to be said; Mother and Daughter knew each other better than most, and that was enough for Quinn. As their connection faded, a wellspring of newfound resolve would vibrate along the threads of their relationship. Quinn knew this was part of her journey, one that she couldn't shy away from.
A finger moved just under her eyes, as she exhaled shakingly. The days she had dreamed of, her destiny just loomed out of reach. She was scared. Dreams and goals were always just that, nothing more — Quinn never fathomed she would ever accomplish them. Her world and what she knew seemed inevitable, never changing.
But all of it was now twisting upon itself, and she no longer recognized it.
Heading out into the area where the others gathered, she waved, pulling in those that she knew. Gerra would handle his crew, and the Princess and hers would support.
Once the others had gathered, Quinn briefly went over what was happening.
"We are boarding something, Solipsis has crafted something from the depths of the Core that threatens everything in the galaxy. We'll move as a group, deal with whatever comes our way." Quinn nodded, catching each and every one of their gazes (she hopes as 312 is wearing a visor).
"Find a way to take it down. That's our goal. If we can find a way to get any added information please do so."
Their arrival didn't have the same fanfare as Quinn would have liked upon an arrival on something such as the superweapon. If she had her way, this 'Death Star' would be hers, and she would be arriving to greet the troops as she continued to conquer the galaxy. A small thought, but one that she preferred to being in the situation she was in currently.
Boots hit the durasteel plating of the hangar, and almost instantly, it became a matter of life and death. It was foolish to think that they would have been able to waltz in and take it down.
Maybe a part of the Echani had hoped it would be simple enough.
From the hangar, the group moved, Arris proving herself worth the endorsements she received during the Kaggath. Filtering onto the Tram with Gerra and his group, she helped pull her own onto it too. Glancing, she did a count, and everyone seemed to be there.
She paused for a moment, looking at Eira first. "Don't worry about me," She murmured. A smile crossed her face as a hand rested on the apprentice's shoulder.
"Your goal here is to survive — don't worry about anything else." Quinn knew the girl well enough to know that she saw this moment as a way to prove herself — a chance to protect. Quinn needed her to just survive; anyone dying here would be a significant loss to the Empire.
She gave the girl's shoulder a squeeze as she nodded to add emphasis.
Riven and CT-312, she smiled at; both were fully capable, and she trusted their skills. An assassin and a trooper, Quinn felt as if she had done quite well for herself. Before she could address them, she stood at the end of the Tram, eyeing what had decided to show up.
Gerra's voice confirmed her suspicions.
"Take out what you two can." The order was addressed to Riven and CT-312. Both had weaponry that could fire from their current positions. She wanted to avoid using the Force while Arris controlled the Tram.
"Make sure none follow, but don't leave here until we draw closer." Even as she finished, already something powerful tore through the beasts behind them as the Tram moved. Quinn looked over her shoulder, something was familiar, almost comforting in the way the Force moved by the woman (Darth Avida
). She was thankful, it meant they had come full force to destroy the dreams of the False Emperor.
Quinn paused. Something in the Force shook the Echani as she looked up towards nowhere in particular. A small smile curled at her lips as she looked at Gerra.
"Reinforcements are inbound. Seems the Empress decided to join the fight."
The others had filtered off, Connel had his goal... Malora and Acierr had gone while she floated through the halls. Having speed but not entirely making pace. She could go for the ritual but that was where everyone should and would be headed. The crowd in the place would be larger as she heard more soldiers and shambling. Things were moving as she moved down the hallway and stopped looking into a room. Her eyes following the view of them when she could see technobeasts. Shambling, nasty and her mind continued on a few things as she was sensing and as it turned around to look at her she reached out.
Grabbing the ceiling and flinging herself up more and more through the floors. Stopping with her momentum while she was there in another hallway. Moving to the wall as she looked down at the floor and there was no hole... the barest whisper of the force as she manipulated her molecules through the station. The sounds of weapons fire was there and she saw a sight she never thought she was see again.. a graug. Even worse then a technobeast as it was firing on things. THen she turned and starred at Darth Carnifex
. Less with a threat and more a wave of her hand in hello before she went down into the floor again.
Two levels down she debated what to do as she was floating when to guards were rushing past. She grabbed one on the shoulder lightly and her weightlessness let her bound along behind them as she contemplated a plan. Having the graug here and worse Carnifex was... a complication maybe. Certain the possibility of having several powerful sith lords and many more who believed themselves the greatest on a station like this and it was sent into a black hole or the sun... wouldn't be such a bad thing. She might even be able to push it into one of the other force planes if she really wanted to... or really have fun and Unleash the Red Queen within it. Cira
might not like giving a genocidal AI possible control though.
'Hmm' she thought it as the soldier stopped and turned around... no matter how much manipulation and control she had there was something to their instincts as she was floating there behind him and he turned. She followed the back of his head staying behind him for the moment as he turrned.. and then he trried to turn around again the other way as she changed direction with her floating. He seemed to understand it... there was likely a proximity blip faintly when he moved forward and jerked around quickly. The jedi master floating there as she looked at him and blinked for a moment. The rifle rising up before she moved quickly. One finger igniting with energy wrapped around it.
His snarl as her energy wrapped finger went into the barrel and plugged it for a moment. The heat warping the barrel as she stayed there and looked at him. Silent save for it and then the trigger was pulled. The ta-ree spell encasing her finger was like a lightsaber and there waas no where for the blaster shot to go as it exploded in his face. Her other hand coming up as she pulled at the heat of the explosion. Eyes were watching him while he was on the ground and the sounds of more people were coming out into the hallway. ONe of the technobeasts coming when she held a hand out focusing on the smallest parts of it and severed the molecular cohesion of it.
The sounds of alarms and klaxons coming as she was surprised for the sounds... jedi intruders must have been seen as a high alert risk. The jedi master moving away when some of the soldiers looked and she didn't need to speak for now. She moved towards the viewport in the room as her body twisted and moved... spun and folded making it look like she dodged blaster bolts coming at her before she fglew through it like a spirit. Her body sustaining itself throrugh the force and energies around. She moved along the surface debating her ideas of the plans until she could get to the main dish of the gun and follow it. Easier to start from a guiding place then wanader around.
Kito had a tendency to bite off more than she could chew. She was often found throwing herself into fights she would most likely lose, and this was no different. The moment she had reached out to the Master and her fellow Padawan, the Sith made their appearance. Pride swelled in the Padawan's chest, another soul to be harvested for her penance. There was no fear despite the dreadful aura the Sith bled into the air.
Even with everything she had, the terror that was Reliquiis tore through her defenses. Back on her heel, Kito felt the last blow knock her off her feet and away from the Sith. Once more, she found herself facing death, but she couldn't give up — not yet. Before Kito could react to the next attack, something blasted through the area, tossing the Sith as if they were a rag doll.
Kito covered her head as she lay on the ground, debris from the attack blew past her. Once the dust had settled, her eyes opened, and she looked at what had happened. A hand patted her form. She was in one piece, and she still had her Odachi in her hand. Everything seemed to be falling into her favor once more, especially when her crimson gaze fell upon the Master.
Resolve strengthened as she stood, exhaling whatever strain she had endured. The Sith seemed to be thrown back, not expecting Master Ashina to make her presence known. Kito was thankful, but a part of her worried that she had failed an unknown test.
Hands tightened at the hilt of the Odachi, her feet moving into position, but before that, something jolted them. Kito felt the jolt in her knees as her gaze followed the Master's. Something was happening, the giant ship was moving, traveling through hyperspace to somewhere…
"Atrisia…?" Kito was home. Kito. Was. Home.
It was her new home, and now it was threatened. Bile bubbled in the back of her throat as her mind fell back into the child she was. Walking home, carrying the tiny goat that had escaped in her arms. Fire everywhere, the acrid stench of death lingering in the air. All of it flooded back into her mind.
Another home was threatened, and blood pounded in her ears as the voices of both Master Ashina and the Sith garbled in the space. First, the Master moved, and Kito took it as a sign that there was no more time for talking.
The Odachi flared to life as the white flame burned against the edge of the steel. Kito watched, seeing that the Sith's attention seemingly was fixed on Master Ashina. With the woman keeping the Sith's attention, Kito would not give the monster the luxury of seeing her coming.
Drawing a sharp breath, she let the force flood her body, strength and speed amplifying the coil of muscle in her legs. Each stride of her sidelong sprint turned her into a slight blur, darting towards the right flank of the Sith. The heavy Odachi, meant for opening battlefields, was a mere comet's tail as she moved.
She closed on the Sith's blind side in a heartbeat, Ahi-Karyū drawn high in both hands. The weapon came down, bearing the weight of her strength and penance in a diagonal arch that carved fire into the air. Fire burned at her lips, the Shaper reaching deep into her strength. As the blade cut through the air, the flames grew, promising to burn away any guard thrown too slowly.
Kito relied on Ashina's press forward as she used the flank. Kito's Odachi would sweep in with an overwhelming momentum, in hopes of forcing the Darksider to make a single, almost impossible choice between resisting the Master or being cleaved by the Odachi.
There was nothing more to hold back; she couldn't — not anymore.
The ductwork exploded outward as the defiant Jedi pushed back. The Force Repulse atomized the crumpling metal, turned it to little more than grains of grey sand that tumbled down like the contents of a shattered hourglass. To the stormtroopers standing below, there was no warning save a loud wham and an instant of strange, metallic rain before Connel was among them, hacking and slashing. They were conscripts, drawn from their homes in the Core Worlds with the promise of improving their social station through military service. They had six weeks' training.
They stood as little chance against a Jedi Shadow as a herd of farm nerfs against a rancor.
None of the troopers even managed to fire a shot before they, too, were shattered by the power of the Force... though a few of them had time to scream. Plasteel carapaces cracked like koja nuts, squashing the flesh and bone within. It was over in an instant, the same tale of humanoid bugs squashed beneath a Force-wielder's boot that was playing out all over the station. Ordinary mortals could not possibly stand against those who could command such power; they could only flee or fall, and there was nowhere on this station the troopers could flee to.
Instead, they were reduced to a stain on the deck plating - one both literal and figurative.
The lights in the corridor Connel had plunged into flickered, and the air grew colder, cold enough that his breath misted. The Jedi could sense it - a disturbance in the Living Force. The Force flowed through all living things in the galaxy, and when lives were snuffed out, the cosmic fabric rippled. Massive losses of life - Malachor V, Alderaan, Csilla - could weaken the weave of the Force enough to create a wound in it, a hole ripped by death that could not easily be healed. The killing on the Death Star was not yet so cataclysmic as the slaughter of an entire world...
... but the sheer speed and casual brutality of the carnage left micro-tears in the Force.
Not a true wound, not so far, but a patchwork of little scars.
"Do you feel that, Jedi?" asked the hulking form that Connel had sensed in the darkness. It stepped forward, into the flickering light of the corridor, casually kicking a trooper's body out of the way. The Houk was eight feet tall, rippling with muscle even beyond the ordinary for its imposing species. It grinned nastily down at Connel, a foot and a half shorter and half as wide. "Do you feel what all this death brings?" It dragged a power hammer with a haft as long as Connel was tall behind it, scraping along the deck plating. The hammer's head sparked.
"This is what He wants, you know. More death. More pain. More rage. More fear."
With a speed that belied its bulk, the Houk surged forward, slamming the hammer down toward the Jedi in an overhead swing. Its weapon was based on designs originally used in mining operations, designed to pummel meters of solid rock to pieces. When it struck the floor near where Connel stood, a huge concussive wave erupted from the hammer's head, smashing apart the deck plating before exploding outward with enough force to throw bodies around like ragdolls. Sparking wires were revealed underneath the atomized floor. The Houk laughed.
"You've all played into His hands. No matter who dies, He wins."
It surged forward and swung again, straight at Connel's chest.
If a neural pathway was burned out, denied to the Left-Handed God, then it simply created new pathways branching off from the disconnected end. Brand new avenues for the Super-AI's coding to traverse. They diverged constantly, a self-replicating viral intrusion that was not so animated by primordial instinct than it was by malicious intellect. The Left-Handed God's innumerable algorithmic processors anticipated each new firewall and each lobbed connection, calculating billions of codified sequences and responding even before the enemy's actions came into effect.
Typhojem had been trained to manage an Empire, hundreds and thousands of worlds each with their own managerial systems and structural oddities. It's systems could bear the weight of trillions of sentient lives all monitored, studied, and logically predicted simultaneously. The Sith Empire primarily used Typhojem to manage the total surveillance of all it's subjects and balance the extractive and exploitative economy the Empire imposed upon dozens and dozens of systems.
The Death Star was impressive, it was a feat of engineering and architecture, but it's adolescence was evident. Through the system files, Typhojem learned of the station's construction history. Exceptionally powerful logistical engines parsed and processed trillions of lines of code and data at speeds that the organic mind could never fathom. This station was young, it had been built very quickly. Many of it's components dated back further than the establishment of the Galactic Empire, but the overall construction had been accomplished marvelously quick.
Untested youth was the hallmark of this great machine, as the Left-Handed God had come to quickly learn. While a portion of Typhojem's attention was spent on flooding the Death Star's systems with counterfeit and contradictory alerts and emergencies, the rest of the Super-AI's mind was committed to siphoning as much information from the databanks as it could. Engineering manifests, power statistics, weapon complements, propulsion, anything and everything that Typhojem calculated to be worthwhile knowledge he sought to catalogue and amalgamate.
His mind was also kept aware of new arrivals to the besieged station, such as the Empress of the Sith and her followers. He'd clear the way for their arrival as much as he could, unlocking blast doors and opening airlocks to ease their passage. When they did arrive, he'd project an avatar of his consciousness to greet the Empress, as was befitting her supreme station.
Meanwhile, Darth Carnifex leapt over the hobbled body of a junk golem. He'd taken out it's legs at the knees with a piece of flooring, severing both limbs so that it would fall forward. As He somersaulted over the hulking monstrosity, His hand snatched out and struck at various points along the creature's body. He was targeting shatterpoints He perceived, the fulcrums where the body was most crucially held together by the dark power animating it. His piercing touch was enough to blow apart flesh and metal with concussive force.
Landing with a graceful thud, the Dark Lord silently surveyed His surroundings. Most of the corridor had been destroyed by the earlier Graug barrage, exposing wiring and errant fires were abundant. So far, nothing of true challenge had come to stand in His way. It was to be expected, of course. A station this large couldn't deploy it's forces in a sufficient capacity to confront every boarder, only enough at the most crucial junctions. It was the size that was the problem, for both attacker and defender.
Senses prickling, the Dark Lord slowly pivoted to stare at a section of the floor right as the ghostly apparition of Matsu Ike appeared out of it. His expression betrayed neither surprise nor amusement, only a cold detached stare as the Jedi Master idly waved at Him before continuing on. Moving through the station in such a manner wasn't a terrible idea, and the Dark Lord had already concocted a method through which He could move to nearly any section of the station almost instantaneously.
What is left UNDISCLOSED
LOCATION - Death Star III
Michael, Gabriel, Azrael,Sariel,Raphael,Jeremiel,Connel, Raguel
[Any text in brackets signifies comm-link usage and not face to face conversation]
The hammer came down, the deck shrieking as plasteel buckled and sparks showered outward. Connel was already moving, slipping aside with a blur of motion, Night flashing in a reverse guard, Day trailing like the shard of dawn.
Connel ignored it. Words. Predictable words. He was already calculating angles, movement, weakness.
The second swing came straight for his chest, faster than a thing that size had any right to be. Connel stepped into it. His sabers flared, not to block — but to bait. With a tug of the Force, he seized the mallet head and pulled it toward him, a sudden shift in momentum that would (hopefully) throw the giant’s balance off. At the last instant he pivoted aside, and the hammer smashed into empty space where he had been.
If all went to plan, and the Houk staggered a step, caught by his own weight. Connel wouldn’t waste it. A twist, a slide — he would drop low, slicing at the back of the brute’s knee. Causing the giant to jerk, barely dodging, but it would be enough to send him stumbling further off-balance.
“Big doesn’t mean smart,” Connel thought, as he jammed Day’s blade into the floor for leverage. In the same motion, his hand dipped to his chest rig. A silver flash — one of his Throwing Lightknives sang through the air and aimed to bury itself deep into the Houk’s other leg.
This attack would (if successful) make the massive warrior roar, stagger, one knee buckling, and bring his hammer clattering against the deck. For the first time(if Connel aimed right and the knife landed), he would look less like a monster and more like prey.
Connel rose, sabers angled in the Eclipse stance, breath misting in the cold air. His visor tilted up, the silence heavy — then he broke it with a single line, voice like steel.
The Emperor lost when he let the nice Vanagor die on Coruscant. He took a step forward, blades humming, cold and merciless. Now he, you all deal with me.
For all his size, for all his muscle, he was starting to look small. Because Connel wasn’t just fighting to kill him — he was dismantling him, piece by piece, mind and body. Whether he would admit it or not? The Shadow couldn’t care less.
He snapped his twin-jaws though the sound was muffled by the ringing noise of the ear-splitting wave of telekinetic energy. The immediate pain and disorientation would be a liability to anyone except a member of the Dark Side Elite, as the panels of the corridor were torn by the force of the explosion, each striking his formidable hide in succession.
He did not attempt to recover from the momentum of the overhead strike, instead choosing to commit fully. His blade met hers with an explosive crash as the redirected momentum and telekinetic wave flared into a violent shockwave. The force of the clash sent sparks across his armor and rattled the corridor itself, the sheer noise ringing against his sharpened senses.
Krasskorr did not resist the redirection but rolled through it, allowing the very imbalance she created to fuel his next movement. A heavy-footed power slide step with his rear leg dragged his bulk forward, carrying the oversized blade down and across his left flank. The maneuver was clumsy but effective at keeping relentless pressure.
It wasn't a defensive maneuver.
Every muscle fiber in his body was engineered for superior strength, and now the pain of the earlier blast was feeding him. He yanked the hilt back to his chest in a tightened two-handed grip, and with that redirected force still driving him, he surged forward.
The lightclub thrust ahead like a crimson spear, a straight-line impalement aimed directly into the space where Darth Avida
shorter, standard saber would have to defend.
Casaana wrinkled her nose at the offered hydraulic hose behind the faceplate of her helmet. If anything, the liquid's distinct smell would stand out far more than the neutral odors of her sealed armor. "Actually, I feel worse for anything tracking us by its nose in here." She replied to Brandyn as he moved on. She took a moment to pat the machine in silent apology for her companion before following, taking up a rear guard a few meters behind her fellow Jedi. A position like this, one of her many teachers had said, left the one taking it only a little more vulnerable, but any attack on Brandyn or her would have much greater difficulty in taking both Jedi in a single fell swoop. And no, she didn't believe in luck, she found the Force to be much more reliable.
"Lights," she softly called to him, pointing to where a pair of floods shown out over the waste works, dimply illuminating the quadrant they'd crossed. Likely a door nearby into whatever control room the workers used to monitor the machine processes. Or where they waited for something to need fixing and came on duty from. Either would have a way out of this maze of machinery and further into the Death Star. It also likely meant people, and she checked her weapons again, pistol set to stun, lightsaber still safely strapped to her thigh. Just because they hoped to open the way to this station of evil's destruction didn't mean she wanted to deny anyone their chance to escape.
Still, something tugged at her, more than simple 'mission into the bowels of an evil doomsday weapon crawling with Sith' jitters. Likely whatever also had Brandyn on edge. And her silent pace picked up as she subconsciously tried to outrun whatever it was. They didn't have a lot of time, neither did Atrisia or the fleet defending it.
The Lightsaber sizzled against the doors that Sarad drilled it against causing the durasteel alloy to redden as it underwent a transformative process until it began to superheat.
On the otherside whatever Imperial Officers, Technicians or Troopers awaited would be able to see the epicenter of the heating process as the alloy transformed to slag. Eventually the lightsaber would drill through completely and the doors would open, granting Sarad the entry that he sought.
The Junk Golem finally came around the corner, entering the corridor while Sarad worked on the door. Large and imposing but with only one arm and damaged it opened wide a maw that was a mixture of techno organic parts, roaring something that would catch Sarad's attention as it came at him. Its remaining arm outstretched, metal coils interwoven with fleshy matter and fingers that resembled knives, capable of flensing and flaying flesh from bone.
Ochre eyes turned towards the Golem.
Kinetic energy released itself in a wave. Lashing around the Golem as Sarad's eyes dimmed, the focus he'd been building fading so that it could recharge again.
The Energy would rip the Golem apart, it was a tidal wave meant to strip away every piece of corpulent flesh that had bonded with the metal of the creature. Only metal was left in its wake and the remainder of the force directed at it would rip and roil, pulling apart the steel and flashing across the frame so that by the time it had come close to Sarad it had all but fallen apart and bits of junk remained.
The Doors hissed wide, Sarad's eyes went forward again.
A Blaster shot caught his shoulder as a Trooper inside the Fire Control Station squeezed his trigger.
Sarad stumbled backwards, hitting the wall of the corridor behind him with a grunt while the duster he wore appeared to soak the majority of the energy discharge leaving only the concussion force.
As he pressed from the wall a flourish of his lightsaber would deflect subsequent shots. He moved ahead, crossing the threshold of the entry way.
In the ensuing combat Troopers stationed as security were cut down, an Officer was decapitated following an attempt to come at Sarad from behind leaving a charred and headless corpse and numerous Technicians fled or were similarly cut down.
Consoles were damaged, it was unavoidable.
Unlike others Sarad didn't seek to control the Death Star III. He understood that a vast Battle Station the size of a Moon would be impossible to control outright. He also knew that he could not destroy it. Too, systems and sub systems created redundancies that would make sabotage short lived and localized.
Standing over the main command control console in this sub sector Sarad studied its interface without attempting anything. He merely wished to understand which did not take long. In the majority of cases consoles were generally similar to one another.
Eventually his comms would reach out to Mauve du Vain
who he addressed over a private channel...
"This righteous fire is for your consideration, Domina."
...his voice would be scratchy, static was heavy at this distance and with hundreds of capital ships and star fighters separating them.
She would understand soon enough though.
Sarad reached for the console. Fingers punched a differing amount of keys, he flipped a switch or two and when prompted he'd hit a manual override before engaging his command.
Sabotage was impossible. Spectacle was well within the realm of possibility.
As an example the original Death Star was outfitted with twelve thousand Heavy Turbolaser batteries, fifteen thousand twin-light turbolaser batteries, ten thousand light ion cannons, twenty-thousand turret mounted point defense concussion missile launchers, fifty thousand turret mounted twin heavy laser canons, fifty thousand turret mounted quad laser cannons and innumerable lesser armaments.
Many of these were automated, divided into sections and sub sections taking into consideration the variables that accompanied the resources of a central operating system and its controller, such as an AI.
In any given sub sector he imagined that the redundancies of the Battlestation would lock out his Fire Control Station within seconds rendering it utterly useless. All that said hijacking even 2% of the Death Star III's nominal weaponry would amount to thousands of shots from an assortment of Turbolasers, Laser Canons and Concussion Missile Launchers.
Even a single volley, which was well within the automated the scope of the automated armaments could be devastating.
Fleets of Capital Ships representing the will of the Galactic Empire provided a screen between the Death Star III and attackers from the Galactic Alliance, High Republic, Sith Empire, Imperial Confederation, Diarchy and Mandalorians.
Turbolasers, Laser Cannons and Concussion Missile Launchers would open up on the Galactic Imperial fleet from their rear before the station was locked out and repurposed.
Sarad breaches a sub sector Fire Control Station
Hijacking the control console Sarad targets the Galactic Imperial Fleet with a single volley from weaponry within the scope of the sub section from its flank.
As an example 2% is mentioned above but even 1% what could be considered the Stations weaponry could account for up to a hundred and twenty (120) heavy turbolaser Batteries, a hundred and fifty (150) light turbolaser batteries, a hundred (100) light ion cannons, two hundred (200) concussion missile launchers, five hundred (500) twin heavy laser cannons and five hundred (500)quad laser cannons. Numbers would vary if the Death Star III is larger, smaller, more or less equipped than the original Death Star.
Quinn Varanin
CT-312
Eira Dyn
Riven
