Bolt From The Black
VICONDOR
"I think the enclave already gave them that choice. We just happen to be playing the part of the consequences for making the wrong one," Drystan muttered in response to Caelan's question.
He watched as the trespassers sprang their ambush. Six blasters, maybe more hidden — the enclave riddled with their presence. They would be cleansed, one way or another. Drystan made it a solemn promise.
The sound of blaster fire was permission. Sure, he would have followed standard Jedi protocol and refrained from striking first — but with them shooting first, what he had to do became all the easier.
From his cloaked position, Drystan revealed himself — golden sparks of lightning arcing across his form as he charged toward the mercenaries firing at them.
His prosthetic hand snapped into a spear shape, fingers rigid and outstretched. He thrust it into a duracrete barricade, piercing through it like chalk despite its intended sturdiness. Reaching through, he seized a mercenary and yanked him forward, the barricade eroding under the force.
Behind the helmet's visor, Drystan could see the shift — defiance flashing into fear. The rapid, uneven heartbeat. The mist of sweat beading beneath the armor. Pure and absolute terror.
A Jedi should refrain from instilling such emotions in his enemies, and Drystan ensured it was brief. He brought his head down hard against the mercenary's helmet — crack — crushing it, shards of visor glass spraying outward. The merc slumped unconscious, and Drystan tossed the limp body aside like discarded trash.
On to the next one.
Valery Noble
Kahlil Noble
Caelan Valoren
The Rewrite