Deals in Absolutes (Jaxton, Seydon)

[Jaxton Ravos]

Jaxton jolted as he came to land into a speeder. He looked over and expected to have to swing a fist, but was instead greeted by [member="Jorus Merrill"]. The Zeltron let out a deep breath of a relief as they passed another sign. Why let the Darkside take hold and inure? When you could be cleansed with Everpur! Drug commercial with implications Jaxton thought unpleasant.

"You slippery dog." Jaxton said with a smile that beamed from ear to ear. "Couldn't stay out of it hunh? I suppose that's my fault though, sorry bout that." His smile faded, an he let out another sigh. "Seydon and I got separated because I, well, made myself very public." Jaxton admitted, as he stretched out his mind. It was difficult to pinpoint his friend in the Force with all of Jedi on this planet. Though immersed in the lightside the planet had a quiet coldness about it. "I think he went west, though I don't know where." The Zeltron continued to focus on the Dunaan, trying to feel him. Trying to go deeper into the Force. Jorus would notice a lack of attention as he did.


~~~~~~~~~~


"No! No!" Screams from a female Rutian, clothed in torn burlap robes. She shook against her captors, but neither left nor right was fazed, both escorting her down a hallway of light brown. There were no windows, no vents, no doors save for one at both ends of the hall. Decoration was absent, no artistry to speak of. The hallway seemed less a living place and more of a requirement.

"Many think the Jedi beyond corruption Selva, but that is sadly not the case. Few know it but the Shrouds and the Grandmasters, but once every few decades or so a Jedi experiments with emotion. Fuels themselves with passion. Choose to learn how to harness this power rather than deny it, even as adults." The robe on her left spoke, in a cool tone absent of inflection.

"You mistake my emotion. I grieve for Master Toth yes, but I do not use that emotion in the Force. I stifle it because that is what we are called to do." The rutian protested, trying to reach them.

"There is no death Selva, Toth has merely left the Living Force to join the Cosmic Force. Your grievance should have ended long ago, your discipline is lacking, and your resolve grows. We have felt it. Your sorrow is a beacon to the Darkside, one we must extinguish before it can take form and spread." Her escort retorted, with the only sound discernible thing in his voice being hubris.

"Everpur does not work on Jedi. The Force gives us strength against it." The Rutian replied.

"Yes, so we must use an alternate method to deal with you. Until twelve hundred cycles ago the punishment was to be severed from the Force, but one rekindled his connection afterwards. The Force is in all living things, and it was callous to believe we could deny it's touch to a being. To murder you would be to give in to anger, or passion, so we must also let you live." The escort opened the door at the end of the hall. A single light clothed the room, revealing a stainless steel table with binding clamps, a smaller table with surgical tools, and a Zeltron kitted out in a lab coat.

"So Selva, your mind must be reshaped. Take comfort in knowing you will never feel again."


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Jaxton woke from his living dream and looked around to find that it wasn't instantaneous. They'd moved somewhere.

"I had a vision." Jaxton said, a modicum of fear slipping into his voice. "Jorus, we need to regroup and make a plan." The Zeltron continued, and steeled himself for what may come next. Between Jorus, [member="Seydon of Arda"] and himself they'd figure out something.

 

[Jorus Merrill]

[member="Seydon of Arda"] [member="Jaxton Ravos"]

For situational awareness, the Council of Infrastructure airspeeder relied on the driver's eyesight and basic collision avoidance sensors. Jorus flew by instinct and kept up a visual scan. Jaxton had been pursued, after all. No doubt some holocam had seen the aerial pickup. Jorus made a mental note to peel the insignia off this vehicle when he got back to the Hive.

Assuming he could pick up Seydon just as easily as he'd snagged Jaxton. His gut suggested flaws in that assumption.

“A vision?” Jorus glanced at the Zeltron, then resumed his visual scan. “Yeah, I don't doubt it. You don't keep hold of a dictatorship for thousands of years, even a well-intentioned one based on good principles, without a few serious problems. We definitely need to compare notes. Better believe the Force brought us here for a reason. Escape isn't my priority anymore.”

Satisfied that they'd evaded pursuit, he focused forward again and felt his eyes go wide.

“Think we just found Seydon.”

They'd descended farther than he'd thought, into the undercity. Red-and-blue lights reflected dully off the foundations of skyscrapers and hab arcologies - a few actual temples, not just architectural derivatives. Some burst pipe or miscalibrated weather had sluiced bilge into the interstitial spaces that served as roads down here. Enforcement vehicles’ lights danced on gray water.

Jorus pulled the speeder to a halt on a long grungy shelf, a recessed section of wall whose only purpose was to highlight titanic pillars. A pillar offered plenty of visual cover: he got out and checked his repulsor belt. He unslung his backpack and fished out his saber.

“Self-defense only. Grab Seydon and bail.”

He jogged to the end of the shelf, into sight of the square courtyard where Seydon and the Jedi police were embroiled. Regardless of the situation, Jorus took a flying leap. The repulsor softened the impact as he touched down beside Seydon. His blue sabre hummed to life.

 

[Seydon of Arda]

The Robes were engaged in a frenetic boil, combat their highly formalized seminary tiers and clean, almost ritual simulation drills left them unprepared for. Their prey included desperate citizenry reduced to animal instincts, or stoic rebels that nonetheless exercised little in way of battle training. A solid truncheon drubbing, grazing lightsaber caresses to major ligament and tendon groups, some neat stun-pole jabs, and the hardest work was yet figuring out logistics of prisoner transport afterwards. Already, their quarry was enveloped in a blood mist, snarling and felling their compatriots. One Robe screamed watching their squadmate have his torso severed at the shoulder down to the hip.

Seydon knew longsword fighting. Spent nearly six thousand hours in a single, black year in a disused dungeon, under Dromund Kaas’ frozen mantle, learning from Bassandra’s ragged codex. To him, it was a robust system favouring old-fashioned body-mechanics and blade control. Forward grip throttled up snug under the hilt, second hand clenched over the pommel, leading with the sword versus his arms, elbows kept tucked close, transitioning through each connected blow into a waiting overhead guard. He favoured a kind of hanging guard, called ‘unstable’ for its ability to mutate into counter-attack manoeuvres.

Surrounded as he was, harried from every angle, the Dunaan eschewed with defensive postures. He struck the first kill, batting a Robe’s plasma blade out of the line, drawing Razorlight across their throat. Whipped in a curt turn, chopped through the top of a charging skull, tripping the body into the crowd. Bodies surged in with a roar. He cut, sliced, battled for breathing room, shearing Razorlight through plastoid armour plates and the meat, rib bone, and soft lungs and spine beneath. Cut a combatant through their belly, turning on his toes, relieving them of both head and neck when they collapsed leaden on their knees, bowing over in dying pain. Reversed, thrusting through a face, ripping away to sunder another three bodies assaulting in a barely coordinated effort.

Noghri ‘stavi’ augmented the blade work. Forearm strikes broke femoral and radial-ulnar bones, the Dunaan gnashing from body to body like chaining lightning. Forced low, he broke someone’s knee, their left femur, collapsed their pelvic bone and ruptured the liver, in the span it took to stand and engage the next combatant. He wove close again, winding their lightsaber on Razorlight’s edge, stepping out of their line and bringing a foot behind their left boot heel. The pommel broke their face guard, simultaneously tripping them onto their back, and gripping Razorlight as a half-sword to plunge the point like he was operating a short lance.

The stun-clubs smarted. Some blows he couldn’t quite ward in time. Seydon was standing with a score of bleeds raddled across his torso trunk and limbs. A shoulder pad had been ripped clear; flesh below bruised dark as warm wine. The gloves were worn down to the knuckle. There was a mean welt already blistering from a half-cauterized saber glance he took against a hip. The bodies under their feet were dying the flooded courtyard a poppy crimson, and the ring of panting Robes were no longer diving in with want and abandon. They staggered their assaults. Two at the fore, three behind his right flank, another three on the left. The Dunaan fenced them back, breaking their rhythm with staccato blows. Five of the eight laid collapsed across water and blood wet concrete, dead or dying from severed carotid arteries, throats opened to the vertebrae.

He felt an impact land behind and listened to a fresh lightsaber light with an electric trill. Saw Jorus Merrill bristling five-o’clock shadow, his aquiline features and pointed chin. “Where the hell did you come from?”

[member="Jaxton Ravos"] [member="Jorus Merrill"]

 

[Jaxton Ravos]

As Jorus leaped out of the speeder and ignited his lightsaber Jaxton contemplated his options. He could make that jump without the Repulsor Belt with his talents in the Force lying elsewhere, but he had no lightsaber, and going without a lightsaber against multiple foes was not his specialty. He could have kept the speeder ready, but then there would be the awkwardness of changing spots with the real getaway driver. Looking to the sky Jaxton found a good way to help, and then made a Force powered leap.

He landed on one of three camera drones observing the scene. Not built with the idea of supporting another hundred or so kilos it began to sink in the air as Jaxton launched his prosthetic limb into it's durasteel frame, breaking through with a satisfying crunch. Pulling out his arm now devoid of Synthflesh he jumped for another drone, just barely landing atop it. With another satisfying punch he ended the second drone, and leapt for the third. By this time however the drone's programming had figured out what was going on and begun to speed away. Jaxton was fast, but not as fast as he was five or ten years ago. The jump ended up being short, and Jaxton fell a few stories to the ground.

Which ultimately was not that huge of a deal, with Jaxton reinforcing his muscles and lessening his fall. The Lightsabered Constable Brigade was already occupied with [member="Seydon of Arda"]'s glistening sword and the humm of [member="Jorus Merrill"]'s blade but when Jaxton reached groundlevel there was a shift of focus among some of the Jedi. Perhaps his name and face had gotten out. Two of the Jedi rushed him. A quick right fist met one of their chests, vaulting the Jedi backwards as one of them swung at his left. Jaxton was too slow to block after all the exertion he'd gone through that day, and opted for a different tactic, raising up his left forearm to block.

His prosthetic fell to the floor, and the look on the Jedi's face was priceless. Perhaps this wasn't the first time he'd sliced a limb, but it was the first time someone had a lost a limb without screaming and then came around for a punch. The face he made? This Jedi had never been in a real fight. Never fought with a reasonable chance of losing. Never looked in the face of an equal outside a sparring ring, let alone a superior.

The form he used was Shii-cho, but it was lacking. Unrefined. When a person never truly fought and then tried to they were unprepared for the reality of it. Their motions were slower, their form weaker, their resolve wavering. A man had to get used to something before he could do it with proficiency, and this one had never fought for his life. Even with an arm and a half this one Jedi was not a problem to evade and punish for overextending himself. A quick blow to the head and he was knocked out, and Jaxton had taken his hilt and given it a quick look over before igniting it and swinging at a blow coming from his left. Jaxton pushed the new opponent back and attempted to shuffle towards Seydon and Jorus. The three of them could probably take on these numbers, but it would probably be quicker to cut a path to escape. Who knew what reinforcements were coming.

 

[Jorus Merrill]

[member="Jaxton Ravos"] [member="Seydon of Arda"]

The situation impressed itself in one overwhelming moment, like an image too bright, with contrast too high and saturation too vivid. Like staring at a brilliant white mountain against a dull sky as your eyes fought to adjust to both extremes. Indecision imposed itself.

No one element gave the moment that intimidating weight. Several contributed.

The greywater refused to mix with blood. Red tendrils uncoiled from the dying and stained Jorus’ jumpsuit up to the shins. A torrential, stinking rain hammered down out of nowhere - a broken cistern, a pipe bursting, or just a glitch in the weather matrix. Fat drops broke the blood-patterns. The curtains of rain blotted out identity. The living and the dead became anonymous executors of orthodoxy. Perhaps they'd have preferred it that way.

Blasterfire winged off Jorus’ blade. Deflection monopolized his focus, or he'd have answered Seydon. Rather, he'd have tried to come up with a reply that encapsulated his suspicions: that he was here, all of them were here, to restore balance. That the Force had offered them an opportunity.

He gave ground awkwardly. Jaxton and Seydon had been renowned fighters back when Jorus was a pilot with a shotgun. Despite the better part of a decade as a Jedi Master, Jorus’ bladework didn't remotely measure up. Insofar as he had an edge over these enforcers who called themselves Jedi Knights, it lay in their unfamiliarity with lightsaber-armed opponents who were genuine enemies.

Well, not enemies. Kill yes; hate never. Ideally.

A telekinetic blast threw him away from Seydon and Jaxton; another caught him midair. He skidded through bilge. His saber caught water but stayed lit. Clouds of steam veiled him for the moment it took a pair of robed men to close the distance, pin him, and knock his saber away.
Both were Zeltron, with deep red skin. Both had a good thirty pounds on him. Both looked old and tired. Both were, at most, thirty.

“You're a Jedi,” said one. “What in the Force’s name are you doing, fighting Jedi alongside a Dark One?”

Later, Jorus wouldn't be able to describe the thought process behind what he said. The words had just come out unbidden as he lay there with a knee on his chest and bloody bilge tickling his ribs.

“The Dark Side is selfishness. The Light is compassion. That makes him a better man than most Jedi, and both of us'll defend someone who's attacked unjustly.”

The pressure eased on his chest, fractionally, as the two Zeltrons got a taste of his honesty. They glanced back at the ring of new arrivals surrounding Jaxton and Seydon. “Criminals-”

“Anywhere but here, a thought isn't a crime. A feeling isn't a crime. An action is.” Force, how was he staying so calm, with bilgewater sloshing in his ears and a green lightsaber at his throat? “The oldest holocrons taught me that. You could say they sent me to rescue you.”

 

[Seydon of Arda]

Rain dripped and peeled down Seydon’s brow, taking blood and grit, somehow rendering the pause in combat a strange element of cleanliness. Breath escaped in wintry clouds. With Jaxton to his back, they faced reinvigorated numbers, reinforcements that were awed at the dead silently wading in the slosh and bracken. The quiet was punctuated by siren rings still issuing from parked transport spinners and specially outfitted eye-drones pulsating holographic blue-reds off their shell-skin.

“...Surrender!” Someone found their voice. Enough to try calling them down. “You’ll only tire...!”

“Tried of you talking.” Seydon kept readied in his guard. He glanced about at Jaxton, noting his still smoking and amputated prosthetic attachment. Exposed servo articulation clicked and buzzed in the damp. “...You got a spare somewhere?”

“The House of Indication will show you no mercy!” Another barked.

It became a litany of similar chants, reinforcing notions concerning the omniscience of their authority, their unquestionable ability to find and mete punishment, how their every action and reaction only forestalled the inevitable. They would each kneel before the masters of Nibelungen and face their punishments for aiding, abetting, and committing wanton murder of appointed servants of the peace. One of them attempted punctuating their screed with a thrust. Seydon wound Razorlight against their plasma blade, sliding the edge in through and over their palm, forearm, piercing straight through a gap in their ribcage. The Robe fell with a lacerated sword arm and an open, profusely hemorrhaging pneumothorax wound.

“You want to keep dying?” The Dunaan growled. “Not scared of a bunch of crummy would-be acolytes. You, your Houses, your Iudices, can all go to hell. Seen what your ‘justice’ is.”

“You... And all ilk like you... Will face a righteous - “ Another Robe started. Seydon turned on him, snarling loud, enough vocal might to leave his words ringing up the arcology walls surrounding.

“Open your eyes! There are only murderers standing here!”

[member="Jaxton Ravos"] [member="Jorus Merrill"]

 

[Jaxton Ravos]

A weather fluctuation, water came pouring down in a torrential rainfall. The periodic sound of boiling filled the air as raindrops evaporated when they hit plasma blades. Though the scene would be considered grim by many, the local "Jedi" attempted to dissuade Jaxton and his peers.

"You'll never best the Light!"

"You cannot hope to escape!"

"The Dark Side will consume you."

"You tire at each breath, but the Light restores us!"

"You blind yourself in your pursuit for power."

It was a chaotic cacophony of philosophical attacks. Interestingly enough, none of their chants included their skill. None of their chants spoke of Jaxton, Seydon, or even Jorus's lack of skill. It was odd, and most certainly not the sort of trashtalking Jaxton was used to hearing. It was like they were admitting none of them would best Jaxton or Seydon alone. That their victory would be one of attrition rather than skill. He doubted any of them had fully realized that, but Jaxton found it notable. This fight wasn't one they were ready for psychologically. They lacked swagger, to use a modern voice. Or courage, to use a classic one.

"Eh. It's not a fancy one. Shouldn't be too hard to replace." Jaxton said to [member="Seydon of Arda"], trying to lighten the mood. As Jaxton continued however he could tell they were getting to Seydon. Jaxton didn't blame him. This place was wrong. It's intentions were right, but it had lost itself somewhere. Seydon was quipping back at them, and [member="Jorus Merrill"] was getting cornered by a couple of Zeltrons. Things were deteriorating, and the problems they faced, save lethal opponents, weren't going to be solved in one fight. Jaxton screamed a battlecry, less to focus or tap into some energy and more to warrant the attention of the two Jedi that had Jorus on the ground now.

Jaxton swung at one of them, who twisted to block. His stance was off-balance, and as a result his parry weak. Even one-armed Jaxton pushed through it and sliced a cut into his chest perhaps a centimeter deep. It was enough for the man to recoil in pain, stumbling backwards. The one to his side came at Jaxton with a strong overhead strike, freeing Jorus from his bind. Jaxton parried with the weak of his blade, then clicked it as he took a step to the side. His foe overextended, and began to fall forward from the sudden lack of resistance. His reactions were quick enough to stop from falling over, but not quick enough to stop the punch to his gut. Winded he stood there a moment before Jaxton pulled his body in and pushed his fist out, knocking the foe back.

"Let's get outta here." Jaxton said to Jorus as he ignited his blade. It was time to trade notes.

 

[Jorus Merrill]

[member="Seydon of Arda"] [member="Jaxton Ravos"]

Jorus accepted Jaxton’s hand up gratefully. He fished in the bilge between the wounded Zeltrons, and came up with his lightsaber. “Sounds like a plan to me.”

He tossed Seydon his taozin amulet. No question about it, Jorus blended into the background noise of the Force more easily than Seydon did, here and now. And yet for all the dead men around, Jorus still fitness himself questioning whether Seydon actually followed the Dark Side, or just dabbled in its penumbra. A near-total lack of Force senses barred Jorus from convenient labeling of the Force-users he encountered. He had to judge by behavior, by words and expressions and actions. The Dark Side, at the most fundamental human level, came down to selfishness as opposed to compassion. In the end, Seydon's outrage spoke to the latter more than the former. Oh, he didn't hesitate to kill, or to speak in anger, but Jorus had known plenty of grandmasters with identical traits - including Darron Wraith, who'd attempted to mentor a much younger Seydon. Heck, Jorus had those traits too sometimes.

Was Seydon really a Darksider at all? He worked for money, for a living, but so did Jorus. He hunted monsters, a bloody trade, but one that Jedi followed everywhere - and he helped.more people in the process. He had a wife; Jorus did too. He’d accepted a partial transformation that some considered unnatural; so had Jorus and plenty of Jedi. He killed, but only when the situation demanded it, in self-defense or for vengeance against slavers or whatever. Jorus wouldn't have called him a murderer. He seemed totally devoid of self-aggrandizing ambition: Jorus recalled Rave saying she'd once offered him a kingdom or an army or something along those lines, and been turned down awkwardly. In an era when respected Jedi Masters controlled immense corporate and personal resources, and wielded political power over large fractions of the galaxy, Seydon seemed downright humble.

And then there'd been the time he helped Jorus save all the Jedi holocrons after Kiskla Grayson’s capture - a service for which Seydon had never sought an ounce of recognition.

No, insofar as Seydon of Arda embraced the Dark Side, he did so on his own terms and for his own reasons. Frustration, maybe: petty selfishness and wanton stupidity baffled and irritated him. Like Jorus, he'd seen too much of that within the Jedi over the years. And then there was the question of the Sith poison or equivalent that ran in his veins. Looking back at history, Jorus couldn't think of another Sith poison victim who'd kept a better lock on the unreasoning fury and megalomania. Most succumbed within days. Seydon still hadn't.

All things considered, though the label carried too many connotations for Seydon to accept, he might actually be a Jedi still. Wouldn't that be a kick in the pants.

“Seydon! Let's move!”

The repulsor belt had come from an old Iron Crown survival kit: its waterproofing held. He pressed a pattern in recessed buttons, and felt his feet leave the permacrete. The belt yanked him up at an angle and dropped him neatly on the shelf between the pillars.

Trusting Seydon and Jaxton to follow, he bolted down the space between the wall and the pillars. The speeder remained where he'd left it, not a Jedi or monitor droid in sight. He slid in and fired it up in three seconds flat

 

[Seydon of Arda]

They negotiated their way through a breach in the body ring, suffering stun-club burns, cutting aside anyone reaching to try and impede them. The voltage-weaponry held particular sting, augmented through the heavy moisture and flood overflow washing up their shins. Seydon watched Jaxton slam-punch a youth, an acolyte maybe, squarely in the sternum, plowing them back in a bend of bracken and slosh. One Robe had broke with formation and was sprinting tip-toed through the slop on Jorus’ heels. Seydon turned, slicing through backbone to spinal gristle, dropping the pursuer. Again, momentum slowed, trying to wade through environmental hurdles while fending off flanking attacks. Seydon felt Jaxton’s hand round his waist, pulling with due urgency, as he parried and stroked Razorlight through a Stabuli’s facial bone. The dull ache in his blackened shoulder was beginning to smart. The Dunaan snarled something coarse under his breath and ripped a cord-wired ceramic ‘cup’ away from a still intact torso harness, chucking it high with a snap-throw. Over and into the Robe’s crowding in too close.

The palm-grenade was a rare alchemical variation on the popular and mercenary Cryoban mine. Midvinter Wind; product of the D'oemir workshops, cooked in thought over long ice-storms, weather that inspired its particular function. Seydon had cooked its fuse through a pyromantic burst from his fingertips. Smoking, cracking as it flew and dipped over head, the burning charge met and cooked its primer. A blast of frosty light, a half-bowl of crackling ice-lightning and induced sub-zero air, broke over the bow of the chasing Robes. They seized in place, caught in sudden glacial ice and hoarfrost rime, posed like frigid mines constricted with rictus expressions of pinched, blue faces slowly suffocating under the wintry coating. There was a low sound; panicked moans. Rain drops frozen in mid-fall dashed and thawed off their skin.

It was distraction, enough to horrify and pause. Seydon loosed his spare skinning knife, hurling and pinning it through an unguarded throat, killing again as if to underpin the moment's shallow victory and his own conflicted rage. Questions stewed and roiled with self-doubt, wondering just how earned his killing seethe had been. He kept astride with Jaxton and ran through downpour. Jorus' commandeered speeder was already warm and purring repulsor-ascension motors under its matte hood. The Zeltron needed no aid leaping into the seating. The Dunaan landed in the back of the open cabin, boots and knees splayed over the solid door. All of them smelled odorously of sweat, blood, and stagnant water. Seydon slapped the back of Jorus' headrest.

"Punch it!"

[member="Jorus Merrill"] [member="Jaxton Ravos"]

 

[Jaxton Ravos]

The three 'arguably' jedi had all managed to get to into the commandeered speeder, and they were off the races. While Seydon and Jaxton might have been demons on the battlefield, [member="Jorus Merrill"] was a demon behind the wheel. They ducked and weaved through ecumenopolis traffic, the speeder moving with a purpose and clout he hadn't seen before. He certainly hadn't felt these kind of G's on a vehicle like this before. Jaxton held on with a single hand and the Force, looking for any trace of followers.

"Monitor four o'clock." Jaxton said, and Jorus pulled into a new airlane, cutting off the vision of the drone. "Eight o'clock." Jaxton continued. Another swerve. [member="Seydon of Arda"] called out a flipped on siren, his hearing finding a vessel Jaxton hadn't yet, and wouldn't for another minute or so. The Dunaan trials had molded Seydon into a powerful creature of innumerable senses, but had done nothing to change his heart or mind. Jaxton hadn't met any other Dunaan, but if the rest were half the man Seydon was the galaxy needed more of them.

"Drone, five o'clock." Jaxton called, and the vehicle banked before accelerating. After that Jaxton didn't spot any drones, nor did he hear any sirens. Jorus had found a path that, at least for now, was safe. Jaxton began to breath a little easier. He wasn't the navigator @orus was, and had lost positioning a bit with all the fervor of the chase, but thy couldn't be that far from the Wretched Hive. The Hive hadn't sent any messages either, so presumably the locals hadn't found it yet.

"I'm sorry for a making a mess of things guys. I know we were trying to keep quiet but . . . kark I couldn't. I needed to do something." Jaxton admitted.

 

[Jorus Merrill]

[member="Jaxton Ravos"] [member="Seydon of Arda"]

High-speed low-altitude maneuvers through a dense environment: an unusual area of expertise, but one that Jorus had honed everywhere from the Coruscant foundations to the Kashyyyk Shadowlands. In due course, after using random vectors and occasional security cams to mislead pursuit, Jorus pulled the speeder into the Wretched Hive. The simple curtain of sensor-baffle netting over the main hangar felt like a genuine refuge. That feeling might offer a false sense of security, but perfect security was an illusion anywhere.

As Shenna and Darr did a quick job on the speeder, Jorus gave them an equally quick overview. He ushered Seydon and Jaxton to a secondary hangar choked with components and crates. Saggy whirred in with a pack of nutrient drinks and some food. Jorus flopped down on a low crate and cracked a bottlecap.

They compared notes then, sharing the strangeness they'd encountered. Darr and Shenna joined them after turning the speeder over to a crew. The data tap had turned up new details: that different orders or groups of orders handled different functions and social services; that each order and its Council and Grandmaster were considered equal; that orders hesitated to interfere with how others operated. The sentencing that Seydon had witnessed, and the enforcers they'd fought, pertained to one or two of the stricter clades. The tattoo-branded convicts had been Force-sensitives, maybe even Jedi, who'd used the Dark Side more than once for selfish ends. Once deemed irreparable, they were executed, their spirits returned to the Force and their bodies to the great molecular furnaces that clothed and fed the system.

The main question, in the end, was how things could have gotten so twisted.

“I've got a theory,” said Jorus. “Making holocrons is a rare skill. Takes a lot of special learning. Something like that could easily have been lost along the way; might not even have come along with the first settlers. Without holocrons, we're talking data files and hard copy records: easy to alter, lose,bury, reinterpret, retranslate, miscode, deface, or straight-up twist. Thousands of years of change, with the old authorities lost and forgotten, especially when they got inconvenient. It's a pretty common pattern, apostasy. Without the true records as reference, there's no real way to correct bent ones, not for everyone. From what Darr was saying, all the Jedi records are kept in a variant of Old High Galactic, and only Jedi are taught that here.

“Far as I'm concerned, translating the better parts of the local records, and restoring the lost ones from offworld - making them available to the public, so they know how Jedi are supposed to act - could make real change. Now, to do that we'd need to get word offworld, and steal a copy of the local canon, complete as possible.”

 

[Seydon of Arda]

Seydon turned his plastic spoon through a can of nutrient chowder, chewing between hard tack and some fresher rolls buttered with a brand of vitamin butter. Appetite eluded him. A mechanical need for sustenance willed him through the motions, and the tack was at least salted. Between a low lantern hooked off the near ceiling, threads of wan light punctuating the lower twilight dark, the lunar-concrete and old, stained durasteel, everything was grey and morose. The world’s severe character permeated virtually ever mote and atom. The Dunaan glanced at a gerbil-rat cross trying to gnaw on his boot leather, tossing it a handful of buttered crumbs, watching it snack hoggishly, scampering back into the rodent maze.

Listening to Jaxton’s account and Jorus’ data mining, he kept gingerly applying a bacta rag to his shoulder. Tissue regeneration was already in a heady swing, a half hour the sub-dermal damages would be sluiced and reinvigorated with replacement muscle. For the moment, the site was livid and pink as raw-rubbed skin. An empty potion vial clinked when his boots scuffed the old plate flooring. Seydon imbibed an additional ogroid decoction, hastening the process. Feverish warmth swam throughout his circulatory system and briefly he staunched an unbidden nose bleed with a dusty napkin.

Nibelungen. That’s what someone, perhaps that Iudex, called the world, it’s sister moons, perhaps the system at large. Like a foetid cauldron, boiling its inhabitants into an unrecognizable but uniform broth, spooning off any excess or lingering dross. His witnessed court proceeding operated with weary piety. The function of the whole ‘House’ seemed almost arbitrary, in place for legality’s own sake, weighty but nonetheless unwieldy when every case brought before the olympian bench had already been stamped for punishment. He couldn’t forget the raised groaning, how the prisoners whimpered with holy terror at their pronouncement. The most jarring episode out of a long day piled high with encounters and notes marking Nibelungen’s overbearing police networks, scheduled public reminders and jumbo-tron proclamations. A figure on a pulpit at virtually every street corner slathering passing crowds with calls for reproachful corrections of ‘insidious’ behaviour.

No celebration. No passion. Nar Shaddaa, for all it’s faults and broken character, was more lively and enriched than this planetary detention hall. Seydon wagered if he supplanted any one local denizen onto Zeltros for a single hour of jubilation, they’d keel over from sheer unbridled and criminally unfamiliar joy. Every face he’d peered into seemed on the verge of tears. A nameless woe clung over work hours crowds in fugues and hazes. Above all, Seydon couldn’t shake the fear in that shop owner’s face when she looked up and noticed his eyes. The Dunaan was glad for the amulet. He hoped it blocked out his mood. It was swelling blacker and blacker by every quarter of the hour. Wanted an enemy to grind to dust, not the invisible matrix of institution and power spheres soaring over and through them.

“I have never seen... So many people,” He said after a while, softly. “Starving so badly... For a reason to smile. If we go for it, Jor, hope you’ve already figured how much blood’s gonna run.”

[member="Jaxton Ravos"] [member="Jorus Merrill"]

 

[Jaxton Ravos]

It was nice to get to the Wretched Hive. The streets may have been filled with people, but the atmosphere was almost choking in a quiet combination of obedience and fear. Shenna and Dingo came quickly, giving Jorus a brief and giving the speeder a look over, figuring out what could be cannibalized and whether it should have been. Jaxton lingered for a second as Jorus escorted them and talked to the two techs.

"Hey, I know comms and stuff are important, but if y'all get a spare minute or man do you think one of you could, well." Jaxton fumbled to explain it, but got a happy smirk from the Twi'lek.

"Give you a hand?" Shenna finished, and the Krevaki chuckled as Jaxton gave an awkward smile.

"If y'all have the time and parts. I don't mean to bother." Jaxton replied.

"We'll see what we can do." Darr responded and shoo-ed the Zeltron to the other room. He joined [member="Seydon of Arda"] and [member="Jorus Merrill"] and three traded stories of what Jorus had heard on the holomail, what Seydon had observed in the shop, what Jaxton had stopped in the streets. They discussed Jorus's encounter at the House of Dignity. Dissected Seydon's observation of Recirculation. Interpreted Jaxton's vision of what they did with an errant Force User. It was one of the heaviest conversations Jaxton had been a part of. He'd learned a while ago that things weren't as simple as Light and Dark. An enemy with the trappings of a friend was far more dangerous than one who attacked in the open. Finally Jorus came with a plan. The jist of it was to find the "old" or "true" teachings of the Jedi and let the world see them. Show them what a Jedi was supposed to be.

"The thing that concerns me is getting the information out. We can raid their Archives and import our older ones, but what keeps it in the people's hands? How much control do the Temples have on the local holonet? Would the people even read it if it was deemed a 'black book'?" Jaxton asked, thinking it through. "I'm sure there's pockets of rebellion here and there, but this society may not know to want more yet. I think we need to get in touch with some of the locals. Establish a network." Jaxton said, though he didn't quite know where to start.

"If I may interrupt?" Shenna's voice entered the room. "One commission for Darth Olympus." She said, and showed Jaxton a hastily put-together prosthesis. It wasn't pretty, but it was functional. Jaxton wanted to smile but, what did she say?

"Darth Olympus?" Jaxton asked, and the Twi'lek showed him a holopic of himself on a datapad with the caption.

"Feth." He cursed, and the mechanic chuckled a bit before heading back to work.

 

[Jorus Merrill]

[member="Seydon of Arda"] [member="Jaxton Ravos"]

“You're right, Seydon. Blood’s inevitable. A people that's not used to freedom takes a while to settle in. Kids moving out. Guillotines. You know what I mean.

“And you're right too, Jax. There'll be those who’ll be scared to leave their cages after we open the doors. Think of how many people must have swept their consciences under the rug for the greater good. They'll want to cling to the way things are to feel like what they did was worth it. You can't live long or well in a place like this without getting to be some kind of collaborator, and that's not judgment, that's figuring what proportion of'em have some guilt they might or might not be willing to face.

“Any place like this, though, there's always a few with the guts to do something. I'd imagine the angry ones and the adrenaline kids get spotted quick. That probably leaves us with the quiet ones, and not as many as there could be. Now that said, I'm wondering how those folks might get painted - eh, Darth Olympus? Find the bogeyman, we might find us a local Yoda.”

 

[Seydon of Arda]

“So they gotta have detentions somewhere,” Seydon reasoned, cracking the last of the hard tack. “A billion on billion inhabitants, that’s gonna require hefty criminal justice systems. Wager dimes to dollars, if we can identify wherever the... ‘state’... is incarcerating the little glitches in their pristine order, might happen on the ones that need our materials most.

“Specially the kids. Can you fathom it? Turn sixteen, you either take medication to cool hormonal upsurges or risk being read as a disturbance. Act out, pissed off because your chances are dictated by a Grandmaster you’ve never met, and probably never will, angry because the future is a sexless greyed out beige of assembly line drudgery, give off any indication that you’re feeling a want to rage like dying light... Suddenly, you’re black-bagged in the back of a House cruiser, sent to weather a spell under behaviour mods until you learn. Or die. ...Or repurposed into whatever the Jedi houses require.”

He paused in thought, taking Jaxton’s dataslate. The Zeltrons likeness was spun into an exaggerated caricature. Higher, arched eyebrows, longer chin tapering to a knife point, sharper cheekbones, blue dreadlocks recoloured to steely wool, the eyes comically set ablaze. Darth Olympus. Nibelungen’s most notorious character. Described in a short aside as a foreign-born invader, arrived on-world to wreak destruction and sedition. Subsequent charges for Olympus’ arrest followed, next with ancillary punishments for anyone caught or suspected of acting in collusion with the Sith’s nefarious cell. Related news feeds blurted about public services to be eventually held to honour the fallen in his – their – wake. A weight fell in Seydon’s sternum and hung off his heart-strings.

“We need comms offworld. We need access to as much secreted materials the local clades have locked up. We got the jailed and disowned. We got angry kids. And maybe even a local resistance. ...Gonna have to parse our efforts. Who tackles what?”

[member="Jaxton Ravos"] [member="Jorus Merrill"]

 

[Jaxton Ravos]

Jaxton attached the new prosthesis and played with it for a moment as he listened to Jorus and Seydon. The fingers were more akin to claws, and they didn't quite more with equal speed and precision. The fourth finger was just a hair slower than the others, but for a rush job in maybe in an hour off of spare parts? Jaxton could have been a heck of a lot worse off. As Jorus and Seydon spoke the rumblings of a plan came together. The multi-faceted problems of this society would obviously require a multi-faceted solution.

"Another thing to think about is that drug. Everpur or some such tripe." Jaxton replied. "I'd imagine pharmaceuticals are state secrets here, taking out a production factory or two might really change the population's outlook. Though, I suppose if they're too dependent on it." Jaxton shuddered, thinking about how the population might negatively react to it. Feth.

"I guess I'll stay here. My face'll make me some infamy with the locals, but maybe any resistance or would-be resistance would reach out to me." Jaxton said. It was risky no doubt, but it was possibly their best option.

[member="Jorus Merrill"] [member="Seydon of Arda"]

 

[Jorus Merrill]

[member="Seydon of Arda"] [member="Jaxton Ravos"]

"You've all got some solid points." Jorus looked around at each of their faces in turn - Seydon, Jaxton, Shenna'vala, and Dingo Darr. "And we've got a lot of promising but risky options, and a lot of work to be split up among us. Let's see what we can get up to."

He shoved a couple of crates aside, revealing a broad stretch of a shipping container's sidewall. Darr tossed him a grease pencil and he started writing.

EVERPUR - cripple facilities? sabotage/remix composition?-----------Together
PRISON - kids----------Seydon
OFFWORLD COMMS
Fix? Steal? Piggyback?---------------Shenna
OFFWORLD SMUGGLING - resources, people, good holocrons
Evaluate outsystem traffic - usable?--------------Darr
RESOURCE THEFT - supplies, weapons, local canon-----------Together
Translate local canon-----------Jorus
RESISTANCE CONTACT-------------Jaxton
SET UP HIDEYHOLE---------------Jorus
Can't keep coming/going from ship
Comms w/ ion scatter (no-trace)
Sensor stealth
Residence
Tools/machine shop
Datafeed tap
Speeder tweak/repaint shop
Interrogation
Training locals

"This look about right to you guys so far?"

 

[Seydon of Arda]

Seydon rose and bent past Jorus’ shoulder, skimming the itinerary, borrowing the grease pencil after a consulting glance. He annotated comments down the margins, underlining Everpur with especial vehemence. Deducing where local powers housed their refractory, defiant, or at least maladjusted elements would require careful reconnaissance and maybe an ‘in’: somebody willing to act as go-between the imprisoned and their potential supporters. Finding kids? A matter of following their dramatics, the stink of hormonal anger and stale sexual tension, submerge into the disused infrastructure just below the city’s mantle and smoke out their unruly nests.

“Gotta be careful if we’re gonna fool around with compound recombination. Get it wrong, might introduce a psychotropic or something just as bad. ...Wouldn’t be difficult getting our hands on samples. Even if we don’t have analysis stations, there’s always bush alchemy. Could break down the agents, tell us what we’re dealing with. ...Either way.

He stood, arms crossed and lost in brief thought. Heat and shadow roiled in the light behind his eyes. “Looks like we’re digging in. Just wanna say... We put the screws to this establishment, cracks will show. They’ll show fast. We put a contrarian voice out there and it’s gonna be something the general folk haven’t seen. ...I say we wanna be bold. Bold as we can afford to be. These people need brave gestures, so they know: they can save themselves. ...Gotta change, need to get to work.”

The Dunaan replaced the grease pencil back to Jorus and mounted up the Hive’s belly-ramp, disappearing around heavy bundles of tarp and securing binders.

[member="Jorus Merrill"] [member="Jaxton Ravos"]

 

[Jaxton Ravos]

Jaxton gave careful attention to [member="Jorus Merrill"]'s hastily constructed to do list. At a glance it was comprehensive on concepts but vague on details. A lot of what they did would be made up on the fly, hopefully achieving this objective or that. Initial thoughts put two "together" objectives with starkly different preparation requirements. Resource acquisition would come slowly and opportunistically, but a raid on Everpur would require scouting and planning. Hopefully any resistance elements Jaxton found would have more information.

"So we're going to need to bring in a doctor or a pharmacist then. Like you said samples shouldn't be hard to find, just need someone to analyze it. If we can't then we can always back up to destruction." Jaxton said, before [member="Seydon of Arda"] continued and was off. Jaxton likewise gave Jorus, Dingo, and Shenna a nod before heading off. He first badgered around for any spare supplies the Hive crew wasn't using, then headed off to his quarters. A couple of hours later and Jaxton had created a new lightsaber, albeit a training variant. Satisfied he clipped it unto his belt and headed off the ship and back into the undercity. What better place to meet those hiding from the 'law'?

 

[Jorus Merrill]

[member="Jaxton Ravos"] [member="Seydon of Arda"]

Between Jorus, Darr, Shenna'vala, and Alna Merrill, the undercity never stood a chance. Ground-penetrating scans identified interstitial spaces in the ferrocrete foundations. Sentries and perimeter holocams, little Underground spy gadgets, kept a watch while KUT-42 plasma torches carved out tunnels and doors. Choking clouds of disinfectant, sealant, metalworking catalysts, and press-foam prefab adhesives billowed out of those gaps -- where the Wretched Hive's crew trapped them in dense webbing. The last thing they needed was to send up chemical smoke signals.

These people knew their business. The Fringe and the One Sith had crushed dozens of hideyholes like this, and missed hundreds. By an hour after nightfall, the base was good to go. Half a kilometre from the Wretched Hive's hiding place, accessible by tunnel or a low-visibility walking route, the bunker looked like nothing at all. Spraycrete and starship primer made the doors blend in with the skyscraper foundations. Inside, you could have mistaken it for an old Vagrant Fleet watering hole on Nar Shaddaa or Ord Mantell. Soundproofing and sensor nets lined every surface. Speeder bays, tight-packed bunks, sniper nests, improvised sensor packages, machine shop stations, dedicated sensor consoles, datafeed tap monitors, omniconfigurable police scanners, rations, guns, traps, redoubts, and escape routes: the Underground was here to stay. Just being here, chewing protein bars with Alna and Darr, brought back so many fething memories. Not all of those memories were good, but even so, the place relaxed Jorus, helped him focus. He'd spent a couple decades of his life in rat-holes just like this one.

There'd be little reason to go back to the Wretched Hive and its skeleton crew, aside from emergencies and large-scale salvage/refit work. Basic Underground protocols mandated minimal transit between hideyholes. For the next howeverthefeth long, this base would be home.

Alna painted 'The Hawkbat Cave' above the inside of the main door.