If you need a label for me, then you don't know me
Lothal
Abandoned Rebel Base
-
Michael, Gabriel, Azrael, Sariel, Raphael, Jeremiel, Connel, Raguel
[Any text in brackets signifies comm-link usage and not face to face conversation] -
- Gear/Armor
- Nano-Tech Armor (For Emergencies)
- Headset Microphone Comm-Link
- Mobile "Bodycam" Datapad
- Lightblaster
- Shortsabers (“Night” and “Day”)
- Throwing Lightknives
- Force Blinding Flashbangs
- Repli Implants that would be for the limbs
- Bonemer enhancements to strengthen structure of the body
- Muscle enhancements.
- Hemo enhancements for blood flow
- Hawkeye implants for eyes
- Advanced Medical Implant
- Scentzy
- Injected Nanotech upgrades
- Shadow Sanctuary - Enterprise
The rafters hadn’t been meant for men.
They were skeletal durasteel ribs, remnants of an old Rebel logistics bay, built fast and cheap and never meant to be quiet. Connel clung to them anyway, boots wedged into gaps where wiring once ran, one hand braced, the other resting lightly on the hilt at his back. He didn’t breathe deeply. He didn’t need to. Below him, the cult gathered.
Too many.
Dozens at least. Maybe more spilling into adjoining tunnels, voices overlapping in low, fervent murmurs. They wore scavenged armor plates, ritual wrappings, symbols carved too deeply into metal and flesh alike. Blades, slugthrowers, jury-rigged explosives. Traps everywhere, he could feel them like cold teeth waiting to snap, and underneath it all… hunger.
Not rage. Not fear.
Devotion.
That was the dangerous part. They hadn’t sensed him. Not even a flicker. His presence was folded in on itself, tucked away like a blade sheathed in shadow. The Dark Side brushed the room in thick strokes, but it slid past him without purchase, like smoke curling around stone. Somewhere, far off through the tunnels, he felt the other Jedi ignite. Not her blade, but her intent. Clean. Focused. Loud in the way combat always was.
Good. They were busy. Below, one of the cultists raised their voice.
“The false Jedi will come,” the speaker rasped. “They always do. The traps will bleed them. The darkness will—”
The sentence never finished.
Connel let go.
Not of the rafters. Of restraint. He dropped straight down into the center of them. No shout. No warning. No theatrical descent. Just gravity and intent, his cloak snapping once before he landed in a crouch that cracked the deck plating beneath his boots.
For half a heartbeat, no one moved.
Confusion rippled outward like a shockwave hitting water. Then the mask came down. His aura unfolded. Not flared. Unfolded. Cold pressure filled the chamber, the sensation of standing at the edge of something vast and inevitable. The Dark Side cultists recoiled as one, not because they suddenly sensed a Jedi, but because they sensed judgment. Not righteous. Not angry.
Certain.
Connel rose slowly, every movement economical, deliberate. His hand closed around the hilt behind his shoulder.
A voice whispered, “There—there wasn’t anyone there—”
Ignition. Permafrost blue of “Dawn’s Light” tore through the darkness, the light catching on widened eyes, on trembling hands, on tripwires and sigils and carefully prepared death suddenly rendered meaningless.
Connel didn’t look at the exits. He didn’t look at the traps. He looked at them.
This was a Rebel base, he said calmly, voice carrying without effort. People died here believing the galaxy could be better.
He tilted his head, just slightly. You’re standing on their bones. A few of them screamed and charged. Brave. Stupid. Faith without discipline.
Connel moved.
He didn’t rush.
He stepped.
A blade turned aside a blaster bolt into a trap trigger, the resulting explosion collapsing a side tunnel full of cultists who hadn’t even seen him yet. He flowed through the crowd like a closing door, every strike precise, disabling, ending threats before they understood they’d begun. A chain snare whipped toward him from the shadows. He caught it mid-air without looking and yanked.
The cultist flew. Hard. Silent. Someone tried to chant. Tried to draw deeper, darker power. Connel was already there. His free hand closed around the cultist’s throat, lifting them just enough for their feet to scrape the floor.
This isn’t power, he said quietly. It’s a shortcut. He released them. The body didn’t hit the ground. It slid.
Around him, the fight collapsed into panic. Traps were triggered blindly. Blades dropped. Faith cracked under the weight of something worse than a Jedi. A Jedi who had chosen to be here. Somewhere in the tunnels, the other Knight would feel it and hopefully smile grimly, knowing she wasn’t alone in the dark.
And above the din, over the ruins of fanatic certainty, Connel Vanagor stood in the blue glow of his blade, unmoved, unhurried. The cult had wanted shadows. They found one that watched back.
They broke.
Not all at once, not cleanly, but the moment his blade came up and the first bodies hit the deck, the cult’s cohesion shattered like bad glass. Shouts overlapped. Orders contradicted one another. Someone screamed Misti’s name like a curse, like a warning.
That was the problem. They weren’t trying to kill him anymore. They were trying to leave.
Connel felt it before he saw it. A sudden surge of intent, sharp and directional, bodies peeling off in clusters toward the tunnel mouths. Reinforcements. A flood headed straight for Misti’s position.
No, he said quietly.
He moved faster now.
Not reckless. Focused.
He hurled his saber, the permafrost blade spinning end over end and carving through a knot of runners before snapping back into his hand. He vaulted onto a cargo crate, using the height to rake a line of blaster fire across detonators someone had been desperately trying to arm.
The explosion was contained. Barely.
The deck buckled. Smoke filled the chamber. Screams echoed.
Still, they kept coming.
So did he.
Too many angles. Too many exits. Cultists slipping through gaps he physically couldn’t reach without abandoning the center. He felt the strain creep in, the cold edge of attrition. This wasn’t a duel. This was triage.
And then—
A sharp, familiar presence brushed his awareness. Not Force. Discipline. Precision.
Omega Squad.
A runner burst into a side corridor, gasping, weapon half-raised— The lights went out.
Not the base power. The people lights. Muzzle flashes erupted in staccato bursts, short, brutal, surgical. The cultist dropped before the echo finished bouncing. Another group rounded a bend at a dead sprint. A shape stepped out of the dark and didn’t bother aiming long.
Contact.
The word was calm. Almost bored.
Connel felt it then, that subtle shift in the battlefield where panic becomes inevitability. Those he couldn’t reach were being harvested cleanly, efficiently, without drama. No Force. No glow. Just professionals closing accounts. Back in the chamber, a cult leader(at least of the group that was there) realized the truth too late.
“This isn’t one Jedi,” they shouted, voice cracking. “It’s a trap!”
Connel advanced on them through the smoke.
... and you’re standing in it.
A heavy slug round slammed into his shoulder plate, spinning him half a step. Pain flared. Real. Immediate. He growled once, low, angry at himself for letting it happen.
Not perfect.
He repaid it by driving forward, Force-shoving a cluster of attackers into their own ritual array. Dark energy lashed out wildly, consuming its own creators in a screaming implosion. The chamber finally fell quiet. Bodies. Smoke. Flickering lights.
Connel stood still for a moment, listening through the Force, counting heartbeats, measuring distance. Misti was still fighting, but the pressure on her flank eased. The surge had been blunted. Broken.
Handled.
His comm clicked once.
[North tunnels clear,] came Michael’s voice. Controlled. Steady. [They ran hard.]
[COLOR=DARKORAMGE[Copy,][/COLOR] Connel replied. [Appreciate you.]
He deactivated his saber and exhaled slowly, feeling the tremor in his arm, the ache setting in. He wasn’t untouched. He wasn’t invincible. But the line had held. He glanced toward the tunnel that led to Misti, then turned back to the wreckage of the cult.
They had wanted to overwhelm her with numbers. They had learned something old instead.
Numbers only matter if they can move.
And today—
They couldn’t.
