Private Willow

[Cato Fett]

-THE POMOJEMA-
-ABROAD-
-ABOARD-

It was one of a dozen similar chambers arranged along the starboard ventral floors, an oblong gymnasium plated in scarred, pitted phrik. Armoured glowlamps strips were recessed where floor and bulkhead met. The light levels cycled on a randomizer, pallid as watery milk in places, stringently harsh and caustic elsewhere, tearing and stitching together planes of oblique shadow. There was a chemically acidic odour, powerful anti-septic residues that were impossible to wash out of the decking. The gym was, like virtually every piece of the Pomojema’s design, brutal and spare.

A single, uncomfortable length of wroshyyr wood bench had been installed for seating. Cato sat posed with his legs crossed under heel and knee, a wooden bokken sword resting on his lap. The training blade was unfurnished save for a cortosis iridescence, a basic mineral rinse that warded off laser-sword strokes but wasn’t powerful enough to short the offending lightsaber out. He was garbed in Asahian tradition, loose hakama pants girded over a sleeve-tied kimono, the lower pant-legs secured with tightly bound cotton strips, his feet socked and sandaled. A t-bar mask was fixed over his face. Kote armoured sleeves dressed his arms.

One of Ashin Varanin’s stipulations in taking him on as a learner was that he, in turn, was required and expected to field training sessions himself. So far, none of the crew or student body had deigned for instruction. The exception being a Ms. Darth Daiara , a young human of indeterminate system provenance, whose request for formal tutelage read both as both petition and demand. Cato was honour-bound to fulfill his obligation. He waited in light meditation, running breathing exercises while slowly contracting and flexing individual muscle packs across his frame.

 

[Darth Daiara]

It had taken a considerable number of lies to get her into this room, all of which could unravel within a single moment if she could not measure up. She didn't shy away from the risk. She was out of options.

"Master Fett," came her soft-spoken tone, her arrival into the chamber done without any flair. Was he a master? She wasn't actually sure. Master, lord, knight. It was all the same in her book of people who were above her skill level. It was best just to bow your head and pay your respect. She did so, bringing herself to sit besides from him so he could finish his session at his own pace.

Her eyes skimmed the sparse expanse of the training space, none of the familiar flair of the empire dotting its large walls. She let out a heavy breath, every effort made to bite back a respectable level of nerves. She would be an idiot not to feel them. Or just cocky. Though cocky people were often idiots.

Sitting left too much space for unwelcome stress. "Thank you-- for agreeing to instruct me today," she interjected.

Cato Fett

 

[Cato Fett]

After a beat, Cato finished with his seated exercise and rose. He uncoiled, planting his weight into the balls of his feet and his attentions on the immediate moment, adjusting the straps of his sparring helm and regarding the still seated girl. Slender as a marsh reed and lean, ivory complexion, starkly blue eyes that drove attention away from the knots of ribbed scar tissue ringing the base of her throat, a curtain of tabby-orange hair framing a waifish face. Young, he noted. Very young. Adolescent trepidation tinged her voice. Her nerves reminded him of when he’d been even younger, not yet out of boyhood and facing up against the sensei who would be his teachers. Cato allowed a little smile behind his helm and returned her bow perfunctorily.

“Mister Fett,” He corrected. “Or, just mister. Mando’ade have some protocols with rank but you are not Mando’ade. Hence, the protocols don’t apply. Now, stand. Come with me.”

He stalked to the rough centre of the gymnasium hall, stopping and turning on his hip and heel. His long bokken sword waited gripped in his hands, angled low and away. “You asked for training. Tell me then, what you wish to learn.”

Darth Daiara

 

[Darth Daiara]

"Everything," Aradia breathed, half not intending to be heard. Her eyes trailed to his weapon held out casually to his side, a second set of words coming easier to her then.

"That. My guard. ... When people get past it, things never go well," she clarified, shifting uncomfortably between her feet. She hadn't shied away from a training room in years. This one felt particularly large. Like every mistake had room to echo and reverberate back to you. Her posture grew a little more rigid, her jaw flexing.

"Can you help me hold ground against bigger opponents? Or-... the Force. Anything to do with the force."

"Mister Fett," she added on, cutting straight back to the formal.

 

[Cato Fett]

He observed her stride her tightrope act between supplication and youthful eagerness. Cato stood stilled, immobile, eyes half-hooded in thought behind his helm’s visor bars, the swirl of pallid then inky shadows roiling over his shoulders. Another beat, he paced aside for a handful of steps and regarded the long ribs of the gymnasium bulkheads. Where to begin? It’d been preferable schooling an uninitiate, where the clay was unformed and supple, easier to properly mould versus tending to a half-complete form. Ahh, he thought, but what if it’s all simply show? Can you trust against potential deception?

“…Swordplay techniques are often compiled to try and answer two questions: angle and leverage. There’s a myriad range of ways to deflect, reflect, counter, and defeat your opponent’s intent. …If we’re going to improve your fighting mien, there’s one thing you can begin with,” Cato said, turning and addressing her. There was something sharp in the lights glancing off his Mandalorian visor. “Forget any inclination about ‘winning’. Or ‘victory’. Those are words built with games in mind. Your concern and only concern is survival, even if that means withdrawing. Do not approach an engagement with a thought to ‘winning’. You want to live. That means disabling your opponent from being able to inflict harm on you; crippling them, killing them, taking away their means to fight and leaving you with sole control over the immediate environ and scenario. How you go about that is up to you and your fighting preferences; weaponry, etcetra.”

He gestured to the gymnasium floor, taking another step back. “Show me a kata. Or a technique flow. Demonstrate what you find comfortable. You’re like an ink painting left half-finished and discarded in the dark; you have to enlighten me where your brushstrokes begin and end, Student Pavanos.”

Darth Daiara

 

[Darth Daiara]

The title felt weird, even now. Of all the lies she told to end up here, the name was not one. It made her uncomfortable. She shoved this from her mind, trying to concentrate on his request.

"Any?" She confirmed, eyes leaving the empty space he had imparted her with. Right. Simple. Nothing limit testing with that. She let out a long, deep breath, slowing her own heart rate as she sank into a stance. She gave the space one last tense glance as she drew her saber, its energy a warm friend as it hissed to life.

Forms were easy. She closed her eyes, using the force for guidance as she fell in a serious of strikes and offensive advances. To her credit, it was strong work. Kaalia was an excellent duelist, and she expected the same of her apprentice. The fault lied not in her form, but how she used it-- always forward and never back. He wanted her to learn how to run, but her style condemned her to fully committing, odds be damned.

Even in the demonstration, she didn't know when to call it quits. She just went on. And on. And on. Unaware that he might be waiting for the end.

Cato Fett

 

[Cato Fett]

“Good,” Cato said, bringing her to a halt. “Excellent footwork, control of the line, command of the rhythm.”

He strode a circuit around Aradia as she paused and eased into a more relaxed stance, his bokken tucked under his armpit like a baton. She’d been demonstrating her various attack vectors for the better part of a quarter of an hour, with Cato laconically observing. Sith swordsmanship boasted its unique variations on the Jedi canon, with an emphasis on aggressive, almost staccato strokes and exerting offensive pressure, opting to physically and psychologically shatter the opponents guard and resolve. Difficult to dissect. Little to critique. He scowled behind his training mask, gripping his wood-sword and absently tapping its blunt edge against his palm.

“But you tend to push into the flow too forcefully, too hard,” He finally said, offering up his own preferences. “So long as you hold the correct distance, yes, you may hold control over their blade. Yet – Stand here, bring your sword into strike – Perfect,” Cato took up an opposing guard and brought his bokken up into Aradia’s slowed blow, suddenly throttling forward until his wood-sword’s point-of-percussion was jammed low on the neck of her lightsaber. His blunted sword-point now harried her face, her throat, his off-hand pressed on the spine of his practice blade for added control.

“You see?” He paced back and offered a curt nod. “But there’s counters for that sort of neutralization as well. You saw how close I stood? You could have simply angled your blade round and made me slip aside, knocked your hilt into my eye, my jaw, my neck. Or if you possessed… what is it, a shoto? A simple lance-strike to my heart, contest ended and you live. But there’s even more effective ways.

“When you attack,” Cato went on, his voice quiet over the hum of her laser-sword, posture somewhat subdued. “You push out with your spirit. A powerful opponent can utilize that against you and destroy you with your own energy. Not by countering or blocking your effort but by harmonizing with your intent, blending with your abilities and intent and technique until they have control over you and thus power over the encounter. You must be wary not to hand over your life to your enemy so, Student Pavanos.”

Darth Daiara

 

[Darth Daiara]

She did see. Vaguely. She understood the concept of distancing and disengaging to keep her guard protected, but understanding and applying were two different skill sets. She liked chasing the hit far too much. Thinking past it was not yet an ability she could demonstrate.

He wasn't wrong, it would be better if she was new. She gave him a slight nod, prepared to sink into whatever series of practices he'd would follow up next to reinforce the lesson, until his final words left her pausing.

She straightened in obvious confusion, her expression crinkled. "Wait. What? Are you saying I should keep my energy inwards when I fight? But that would mean not using the Force. Isn't that just as dangerous? We use its strength for a reason." Said the sithing to the mando, a touch of snuffing tude to words.

What could he know about it?


Cato Fett

 

[Cato Fett]

“Where will that strength be when you blunder into your enemy’s snare?” Cato proffered, rankled at the slight acidity of arrogance tilting her questioning. He kept his immobile stance, bokken lowered in a casual, open guard, though the jut of his helm and shoulders betrayed a mote of agitation. “When your power is used against you? Will you have the clarity of mind to intercept their intentions, the automnic reflexes to reply with your own strategy, all near instantaneously? A skilled fighter needn’t even trade parries. A Jedi or Sith with the proper coordination could defeat you without ever lighting their blade. All through their manipulation of your own strengths.”

He rotated the grip of his wood-sword round until the blade trailed behind him, cocking and folding its spine against the long flat of his straightened arm. Stepping back, he offered her room to engage. “You wanted methods of dealing with physically superior foes? Come. Strike at me like you’ve all the power in the world.”

Darth Daiara

 

[Darth Daiara]

That was bait if there ever was one. She took it regardless, always subtly eager for a chance to flex and prove she was being misjudged.

Problem was, she wasn't.

She charged him, her energy flaring as she sucked in a breath of force-aided strength. Her footing shifted--dug in, then pushed off. She soared through the air, a stream of red as she brought her saber crashing down in a powerful over-head strike.

Cato Fett

 

[Cato Fett]

The Asahi termed it ‘coordinated mind’ or ‘harmonious spirit’. A key takeaway being the utilization of an opponent’s own strengths in achieving their subjugation. The concept had larger implications and some of the most eldest sensei described the art as a way of not only connecting with a given enemy, but with harmonizing the inner factors with one’s outer reality. A method of attaining completeness. It was not Cato’s favoured method. His approach was styled on kineticism, brutal, precise application of force in a blinding whirlwind of strikes, projections, locks, breaks, dislocations, in tune with his Heaven-And-Earth and Two-Heavens-As-One schools of classical swordsmanship. But, for Aradia, an idea was beginning to coalesce.

Her vertical slice was a perfect arcing fan-blow and, privately, Cato admired Aradia’s lithe athleticism. Her form with the Force was strong and with added layers of pertinent discipline, would see her through her most difficult hours. Was that Juyo, or Ataru? Ahh, he’d know later.

Cato moved simply. He pivoted on one foot and stepped just slightly out of her attack line, at once snapping out and seizing swinging her wrist with a single hand-hold. Suddenly, her momentum was in his control. With a pull and a twist, turning his body to flow with her tempo, he tossed her over her heels and threw her onto her back and shoulders, Aradia’s own ferocity propelling her inertia. Before her hair had yet settled, suddenly the point of his blunted bokken fell and stopped a thumbs-breadth over the hollow of her throat. The gymnasium grew very, very quiet.

Darth Daiara

 

[Darth Daiara]

Aradia's lips parted in unspoken shock, her chest wheezing for the air that had been knocked out of her. Her figure reflected back at her in the planes of his visor-- splayed out and vulnerable.

Dead. In any other world, that would have been death.

Just like that.

She swallowed hard, fighting to get back her breath as she pushed up with sweaty palms. "How did you do that?" She asked, the attitude fading into hushed interest. "I was moving too fast-- how did you know?"

He was just a dude in armor. Not even force sensitive. .... Right?

Cato Fett

 

[Cato Fett]

Cato waited a beat, until the moment’s adrenal rush had bled through her sweat and her homeostatic equilibrium righted itself. He pulled her to her feet by her shoulder, trying to parse at once a dozen thought processes, understanding the noetics of the technique were difficult to illustrate and even more so to transmit verbally. He absently flourished his bokken and slid it away into his waist-sash, pacing aside.

“To answer the how, I synced with your intent. Rather than guard or riposte or parry, I redirected your energies and guided them where I wished. …To answer your broader question,” Cato paused, arms laced akimbo under his sternum. “I am Force sensitive. I wouldn’t have been offered tutelage or a teaching post otherwise.”

Darth Daiara

 

[Darth Daiara]

Her cheeks flushed red as he brought her to her feet. "I'm sorry," she uttered. "I didn't mean to suggest--" Yes she did. But as fast as she was to make judgments, she was just as quick to notice their flaws. Her eyes peeled back over him, searching for a piece of his identity that had been missed before. There wasn't much to gleam beyond the armor, which was likely the point. Making assumptions like that on the battlefield was costly. It just hadn't been obvious, she had assumed-- she caught her own tongue, her nose crinkling.

"Can we try that again?" She asked, her energy more subdued. Her chin tilted down ever so slightly, a sign of remorse on an otherwise frustrated expression.

Cato Fett

 

[Cato Fett]

“Yes. Again,” Cato said, sliding his bokken free and gesturing to the phrik decking. At his instruction they reset their positioning and stances, Aradia once again tackling the offensive measure with her instructor answering her attack with his chosen counter. For the sake of illustration, of demonstration, their pacing was purposefully hobbled, slowed to just an eighth of combat speed, as Cato deconstructed the counter-attack’s mechanisms for his student’s benefit.

He opted for simplicity, deciding to emphasize characteristics of physical leverage and the means to utilize an opponent’s physicality and kinetic energies against them. Gradual layers of additional complexity were superimposed atop each other, at times returning to reiterate a handful of key basics: evasion, centralization, projection, immobilization, and the ever important ‘harmonious spirit.’ Sword-work was doubtlessly crucial but, as Aradia so wished, if she wished to improve her chances against foes possessing superior physicality, additional avenues of killing strategy needed to be created. He allowed himself to be tossed and thrown and dashed across the decking as Aradia practiced grasping and ‘steering’ his attack strokes. Stiffening aches rocked up the bone and gristle of his spine and shoulder-blades. Necessary. She needed to feel the effects of a proper shoulder or hip projection to the ground, understand the innumerable strategies that could be composed once she mastered the basics and melded them to her Sith-styled fencing.

“Combat has a kind of alchemy,” Cato said, again coaching her through a velocity for the umpteenth time. The gymnasium was rank with sour body odour and the salt of sweat. “With the proper elements, you can achieve almost anything. Now, again. …Again. …Again. Again. Repetition. We’ll repeat as often as it takes. Muscle memory in combination with automnic responses will take the guess-work out of counter-attacks and battle strategy. Your responses will become immediate, appropriate, innate, cut down or outright eliminate telegraph. And with the Force? Apply its power at just the right fulcrum and that throw you just performed will shatter every bone in your opponent’s body. Or toss their off-balance weight through a wall and the wall behind it. Better yet, as I said, meld your energies with theirs and their own power becomes yours to command. Their weight, their kineticism, their inertia, even their own Force well. …How do you feel now?”

Darth Daiara

 

[Darth Daiara]

Aradia bent over, hands on her knees as she pulled in heavy breaths. Sweat dripped from her limbs, her outer layers discarded to reveal the scarred planes of her figure. She had nothing to hide in the training room, which made his heavily armored figure all that much more of an enigma to her as she panted, unhindered and sweating before him.

"Better," she admitted, as she straighten and offered a hand. She had taken a little too easily to tuning into his energy. Even now, as their palms touched, a slight tug on his reserves would be felt. She didn't recognize the draw. She rolled her stiff shoulders out and tried to lift him.

When he went to lift himself the girl's energy suddenly flared. Her grip tightened, her heel went to the soft part of his knee. She tried to redirect his energy back to the ground, grinning wildly as she moved to fall with him.

Perhaps to pin him under her knee for a final time? It was a real attempt at his softened lesson.

Cato Fett