The natives see it as an obstacle to their lifestyle, whilst outsiders perceive it as a diamond in the rough. Regardless of the opinion, Menat Ombo is the most technological settlement on New Tython. Crammed with tall and slim towers, alleys and market squares have randomly developed where the necessary room is. You might turn a corner and see a vendor selling smoked meat from the indigenous animals, and the next corner could be a home. The merchant stalls are almost always temporary, folding easily with several clippings or a really good show of strength. Above the awnings of the stalls, buildings of various shapes and sizes crafted of sand and stone and earth create a set of interconnecting rooftops in some parts with wide gaps in the others.

It is easy to get lost in the crowds of people. As you leave the central market, countless alleys splinter out and lead to quieter sections of the city. The streets are kept tidly by maintenance droids. and the air is clean. At night, the city and marketplace are well lit, and the lights from the scattered inns create a welcoming ambiance to the twilight air.

The chill of the twilight breeze against Selika’s exposed skin was a welcome change from the day’s heat. Now that Yhi, the system primary, had finally retreated below the horizon the cool of evening had begun to assert itself in the Menat Ombo marketplace district. Even with that, however, the stone that made up the closely packed buildings still radiated the day’s warmth. In many ways, the Visulu Marketplace resembled several similar bazaars from Selika’s homeworld of Empress Teta, at least superficially. Selika had never spent much time amidst the hustle and bustle of the markets herself, they weren’t a frequent destination for the aristocracy. The day she had spent amongst the populace of New Tython had been interesting, to say the least. But now, as the street lamps sprang to life, the crowds had finally thinned. Most of the merchants had packed away their unsold wares and closed their stalls, and the ones that remained were aimed at those seeking entertainment rather than trade goods. The ebb of the throng finally allowed her to better pick out her quarry’s presence, Turel Sorenn’s light no longer drowned out by the ocean of life-driven Force that had surrounded it.

The contradictions that Turel carried with him were the reason Selika was here. The man was something of an enigma, a follower of the light that had also served the Serpentine Throne. What information Selika had been able to acquire about his personality was just as contradictory. Most Jedi seemed to cultivate habitual serenity like everyone else habitually breathed, but Turel seemed to be a man that was far more willing to embrace his passions than most Jedi. Those facts alone would have left him a mere curiosity to Selika and the Dread Lord, but Turel wasn’t just another Jedi who had flirted with the darkness. He was now installed at the right hand of A'lora Kituri, just as Selika was to Teylas Ramar in Plagueis. Given that their diametrically opposed philosophies were the most extreme in the Brotherhood at their own chosen ends of the spectrum, knowing just how fair the stain of the dark side might go in Turel could be invaluable information for the future.

As a result Selika now waited for the councilor while leaning up against one of the vacant stalls, her face in shadow. The particular square she had chosen was near a few places where one could find drink and other pleasures in the evening, but was itself deserted as twilight was giving way to night. She could feel Turel’s attention center upon her own darkness in the Force, obviously the man had finally noticed her. He changed his course and quickened his pace, coming into view in short order across the small open area. His body language spoke to his caution, his saber hilt in his hand but inactive.

“Another one of Marick’s would-be assassins?” Turel asked, a somewhat jocular tone contrasting with his movements. “I’ve already sent a number of you back to the so-called Combat Master with their tails between their legs. Maybe he needs to teach his agents the art of combat a bit better. And tell them to get better at hiding”

“Come now, Sorenn. You assume I was trying to be stealthy, it isn’t my strong suit. And besides, don’t you think if the Arconans had one such as myself in their ranks,” Selika replied with a suggestively, “You would have noticed while you were there?”

Turel ran his eyes up and down her figure, his gaze lingering where her garment left tantalizing hints at what has hidden beneath, and gave her his honest appraisal. “I suppose I would have, at that,” he said. “So if you’re not one of his attack dogs, tell me who you really are, Sith.”

“Dog? I almost feel insulted,” Selika said, stepping out so that the light fell squarely on her features.

“Selika Roh?” Turel hissed through nearly clenched teeth, igniting his saber and holding it before him in a guard position. “So the Dread Lord’s Wrath comes spoiling for a fight?”

“Nothing so pedestrian,” Selika said, injecting a healthy hint of disdain into her voice. “I was here pursuing other business when I felt your presence. I was simply… curious.”

Turel mulled it over, still holding his weapon at the ready.

“I think it would only be hospitable for you to put your saber away, as I’m not even carrying mine,” Selika said with a mischievous smile, gesturing to indicating her own lack of weapon. “You seem to have me at a disadvantage.”

The last was accompanied by a subtle push from the Force upon his mind, her only exercise of power up to this point. Gone nearly as quickly, the gentle urging went unnoticed by the Guardian.

Turel nodded, clipping his weapon back to his belt. “I suppose if you’d meant trouble, you’d have made some by now. So, if I might ask, what form does your curiosity take? Wondering how I’d look in one of your slave costumes?”

Selika crossed the distance that separated them, moving to stand quite close to the slightly taller Jedi. “Not just yet,” Selika said as she ran her hand along his arm. “I might not be that sort of girl.”

“I wouldn’t take that bet,” Turel said.

“I’m just looking for an evening’s entertainment,” Selika said.

---

“Another!” Turel barked out as he slammed his now-empty tumbler back to the inn’s table. Not all of the whiskey had made it into the Guardian's mouth, as some was now beginning to seep into the shirt under his open jacket.

Selika slammed her glass down with equal force, her own mannerisms, including drops of her own beverage now sliding their way down between her breasts, making her appear to be a few sheets to the wind herself. It was all an act, however, as after her first shot of whiskey she had been instead served a local fruit concoction that bore a physical resemblance to the alcoholic drink. A few credits slipped to the innkeeper’s hands earlier in the day had assured that Selika would remain clear-headed The ever-growing flock of empty, upturned glasses on the table at Turel’s side spoke to just how far past sober the councilor had gone.

The innkeeper returned to drop off another pair drinks, the barely disguised disdain evident in his eyes. The boisterous pair had driven out many of the other customers, but his frustration was directed solely at Turel. Not all of Menat Ombo’s citizens had forgiven him his past misdeeds, and that fact had made the man all the more receptive to Selika’s bribe.

“You know,” Turel said to Selika, slurring his words slightly, “You Sith women aren’t all bad.”

“We’re not slavery and universal domination every minute of every day,” Selika responded in a similarly messy manner.

“Now, I didn’t say that a little domination here or there was a bad thing!” Turel exclaimed.

Selika smiled and raised her glass. “To domination, then!”

Both threw back their drinks, and then Selika grabbed Turel by the collar and pulled him to her. Their lips met, though Turel would have planted his kiss on her nose without a bit of guidance. His foul, drunken breath nearly forced Selika to push him away, but she endured. Then his hand was moving under the front of her robes, awkwardly pawing at what lay beneath. She let him continue, focused instead on her own task.

Selika’s free hand moved down to the place on Turel’s thigh where his primitive slug thrower was holstered. Distracted by his own lecherous thoughts and his mind clouded by drink, Turel failed to notice when Selika slipped the weapon free. Moving her hand so the weapon was now behind her, she broke the kiss with Turel as they both gasped for breath once more.

“Another!” Selika called to the innkeeper, presenting a look that signaled her receptiveness as she kept her eyes locked with Turel.

The innkeeper returned once again, and as he set the drinks down on the table between them Selika gestured for him to lean in closer to her. She sensed his puzzlement, knowing it would be the last emotion he would feel. Raising the hand that had been between her back, she placed the barrel of the weapon against the man’s temple in one quick motion. Before the man could flinch, she pulled the trigger.

The thunderous crack that accompanied the weapon discharge was enough to leave Selika’s ears ringing, and it was only a bit of telekinesis steadying her hand that prevented the weapon from kicking back and hitting her own face. Still, the force of the shot wrenched her arm and left her quite sore.

The innkeeper did not fare nearly as well. The slug ripped through his skull, blowing the rear of the man’s head open as the projectile made it’s exit. A spray of blood and brain matter, accompanied by shards of bone, went with it, Turel catching the edge of it across his face. As his eyes widened at the senseless barbarism that he had witnessed, Selika pushed out violently with the Force to topple him over backwards out of his chair. He landed sharply, but was alert enough to avoid smacking his head into the hardwood floor.

Selika was already heading out the door, tossing the gun into an open storm drain as she sprinted across the street, pushing a few quizzical onlookers aside that had heard the shot within. It was time to see just how far down the darkness in Turel Sorenn really went. Not through cliched marital conflict. Even her tried and true method of directly warping a mind with her power would not suffice alone here, Turel’s mental defenses were too strong. No, this would take a bit more direct application of mental stress to see where his breaking point might be.

Quickly making her way towards her previously hidden lightsaber, she reached out to Turel with her mind. “That was the first, but it won’t be the last.”

Selika’s parting taunt reverberated in Turel’s mind as he sat up and blinked in vain to try to correct his vision. He didn’t think he had downed enough whiskey to cause his perception to blur and double like it was. The Jedi placed both palms on the ground as he attempted to stand, his lack of equilibrium nearly causing him to topple over. Turel leaned on a nearby table for support and carefully propped himself upright.

The reality of the past few minutes quickly caught up with the Guardian as he noticed the entire room staring at him in a mixture of shock, disbelief and anticipation. A blonde-haired, fair-skinned waitress who couldn’t have been past her mid-twenties screeched in abject horror as she got a closer look at the innkeeper's lifeless body on the floor, in the middle of a ever growing puddle of blood, interspersed with bits of bone and cranial tissue.

“By the Force, Keth,” the Guardian muttered absently as the sobering image of the once gruff innkeeper seared itself into his mind. Turel knew Keth Walsh mostly by reputation: Tythonian born and raised, enlisted in the militia and later the K.U.D.F., got a medical discharge after the fall of Thuron’s regime. He, and his inn, were something of a local legend. He was hospitable enough as an innkeeper, but his military background would often shine through in his no-nonsense demeanor. Keth was one of those Tythonians who viewed Turel with suspicion and contempt for not only joining Arcona but fighting against Odan-Urr forces on Korriban. His senseless death still shocked the Guardian. He was a good man who didn’t deserve this fate.

A young man with raven hair, wearing a cook’s apron over stained work clothes, came rushing out of the kitchen in a panic. He couldn’t have been over nineteen years old. “What’s going on? I was on a smoke break out back. Was that a scattergun I heard? Is everyone alri—”

He froze in his tracks. “Dad?” he whispered in mute shock. The youth fell to his knees into a puddle of his father’s blood, stunned silence building to cries. “No. No. NO!” He grabbed both of Keth’s shoulders and shook the limp torso frantically, tears streaming down his face as grief and anguish overtook him. The boy’s mournful, almost inhuman cries resonated through every soul present in that room. The image of a son losing his father in such a gruesome way would follow them for the rest of their lives.

”That was the first, but it won’t be the last,” Turel remembered Selika’s parting words and took off toward the front door, nearly stumbling over stools and tables on the way. Moments ago he could barely stand, but adrenaline seemed to focus his mind and spur his legs into motion. He had to catch the Plagueian before any other innocents suffered because of her madness. The Odanite unclipped his saber from his belt with his right hand and reached for the door with his left.

"You, you're a Jedi right?" Keth’s young man inquired, his voice breaking as he looked up at the Guardian.

Turel stopped and turned around. Precious seconds were ticking away but he could not bring himself to turn his back on the boy. "Yes, yes I am."

"How could this happen? Right in front of you? You Jedi are supposed to protect us." The boy's voice trailed off into a sorrowful whisper, "Why couldn't you save him?" His pale sapphire eyes were half-pleading and half-accusing as he inquired.

The young man's questions struck the Guardian more deeply and more surely than any blow or Force power Selika could conjure. He had no reply. After all, what could one say?

Turel absently rubbed his left palm across his face. For a moment he was dumbstruck as he stared at the crimson liquid smeared on his hand. It struck him, then, that he had had Keth Walsh's blood splattered on his face this whole time. The blood-stained palm clinched into a fist as a Krayt dragon roared to life inside the Jedi's heart, breaking the psychic chains holding down the avatar of his fury. Anger rose within him: anger at himself for being so reckless and so blind, but mostly a righteous wrath against the soulless monster with the pleasing form who perpetrated this barbaric act.

“I have to catch her before she harms anyone else,” was all he manage to spit out before leaving a tavern full of traumatized and dumbfounded people. No quips, no sassy remarks, no bravado, only a nearly muttered statement of purpose. He couldn’t bare to face the grieving son for another second. The flames of anger brought focus, searing away the fog of intoxication. Turel took off into the Tythonian night with vengeance in his heart.

A small throng of onlookers had started to gather outside the inn to see what the commotion was all about. The Jedi nearly ran over an amber-furred male Bothan as he fought to break away from the crowd to continue his pursuit. He pulled out his communicator as he rounded the corner into the relatively deserted marketplace. With a few clicks the unit was set to the city watch frequency. “Dispatch, this is Councilor Sorenn.” Turel’s eyes darted from stall to stall, scouring the shadows of the market square for his target while he waited for a response.

The tiny communicator unit crackled to life in the Jedi’s left hand. “Councilor, this is Capital Region Dispatch, go ahead.”

“Dispatch, I need an emergency lockdown of the spaceport and every available patrolman on the streets in the vicinity of the market district. There is a A-class Force-user on the loose, Human female, roughly 1.75 meters, 50 kilos, olive skin, black hair with a streak of purple on the left side. Subject is extremely dangerous, approach with caution.”

“Good copy, Councilor Sorenn. What is your current position?”

“I am currently in the market square in pursuit,” he remarked while slowly traversing the outer ring of the market square. The Plagueian was close: he could feel her dark presence nearby.

“Unit 267 is in your immediate vicinity and will be routed to you. Shadow Company assets are en route. Dispatch out.”

That was good news. Selika wouldn’t be able to evade a full squad of Sentinel Network agents. Still, he hoped to reach her first.

---

Minutes felt like hours as Turel combed the back alleys of the market district. Selika was so close he could almost smell her intoxicating perfume, but every time he thought he was closing in on her, the trail kept going. The frustration only served as fuel on the inferno of his anger. She made no attempt to mask her presence through the Force, but his senses were not precise enough to pinpoint her in the maze of building and fixtures.

A woman in the duty uniform of the city watch approached. “Councilor Sorenn, you requested backup?”

Turel immediately recognized the young officer: her tight body under that tailored uniform, short cropped blonde hair and intense brown eyes were hard to forget. The fact she subdued him and threw stun cuffs on him when he had previously made a pass at her made the woman impossible to forget. He had a soft spot for a strong woman in uniform. “Sergeant Connor, I’m glad you’re here. I believe I have the target cornered in this warehouse.”

Connor drew her service DL-44 blaster. “I can go around to the other side and cover the other entrance.”

“No, stay close to me and watch my back.” The Sergeant nodded in affirmation as she fell in behind Turel. The Jedi noticed the lock that should have been on the warehouse door was in pieces on the ground, still glowing red from where a lightsaber had sheared through it. “The target is definitely here,” he whispered to Connor as he opened the door with a slight creak and crept inside.

The warehouse was a cooperatively owned space for the various market vendors to keep their stock. The space was divided between an open floor and four rows of shelves which nearly reached the ceiling. Moonlight and the ambient glow of streetlights outside poured in from high windows. All the lights were out in the building save one set in the back office, which coincidentally had its door wide open. “Stay here and cover the door, I’m going to have a look around,” Turel ordered as he started toward the back office. He could feel Selika in the warehouse with them, he just wasn’t sure where.

The Jedi crept closer and closer to the open office door, silently weaving his way through crates of produce. He held his saber tight, ready to ignite it at a moment’s notice. It was time for Selika to pay for what she had done. "You’re getting warmer," he heard Selika’s voice echo in his mind, which only added fuel to the fire. As he peered around the corner he saw what appeared to be a security guard sitting at a desk, only his head had been cleanly severed from his body and was lying on the desk in a pool of fresh blood.

Turel didn’t have time to process the scene of the grotesque tableau before him. He heard a saber hum to life in the warehouse behind him and spun around to see Selika standing two meters in front of Sergeant Connor. “Drop the weapon, I’m warning you!” Connor commanded.

The Sith laughed, “Or you’ll what, peasant? Are you going to arrest me?” She turned toward Turel with a taunting smile. “Mundanes should know to show deference to their betters, don’t you agree?” Selika lowered her saber so it pointed directly at Connor then made a gesture with her free left hand as if she was beckoning the Sergeant closer. An invisible current of the Force pulled Connor toward the purple blade with such force that her feet nearly left the ground. The Guardian could only watch in horror as he tried to leap over boxes of fruit to intervene.

He was too late.

Selika seemed almost gleeful as she watched the light fade from Connor’s beautiful brown eyes. The once intrepid watch officer’s body went limp, impaled upon the Plagueian’s lavender blade. The Sith savored every emotion of Connor’s final moments: the surprise, the fear, the powerlessness. Selika deactivated her saber and pushed the Sergeant’s lifeless form away from her, watching with elation as it collapsed on the cold duracrete floor like a sack of potatoes.

Sensing imminent danger, the Sith spun around to face her Jedi attacker. She had no time to mount a defense before feeling an invisible hand lift her up by her throat. Her fingers instinctively clawed at her windpipe as she gasped for air. Turel stood in front of Selika, blazing saber in his right hand with his left outstretched. The cold, focused look in his eyes was like a pair of cut emeralds piercing her very being. It was not the look of a Jedi, it was the look of an enforcer dispensing street justice.

“Monsters like you don’t deserve to live.” Turel seethed as his anger flowed through the Force took crystalline focus around Selika’s neck.

For a moment panic overwhelmed Selika as she fought against the grip that had closed around her neck. Her lungs cried out for air as darkness began to intrude on the edges of her vision. Struggling, she forced her mind back towards reason.

No, this is what you wanted, she thought to herself.

The primal need for breath was then pushed back by the more rational, calculating part of her mind. Unable to draw in air, she was still able to draw on the Force. Imposing what limited control over her body she possessed allowed Selika to push the burning sensation down below the level of conscious awareness, freeing her to channel a torrent of Force energy through her body. The energy centered itself on her empty left hand, palm open and facing towards her opponent. With as much focus as Turel was devoting to squeezing the life out of her, he was too slow to react to the bolt of purple-tinged electricity that leapt from her palm to strike him square in the chest.

The force of the blast ripped through the Jedi, scorching the front of his shirt and igniting momentary flare-ups as the alcohol that had soaked his clothing burned away quickly. The electricity spasmed through his muscles, dropping him to the ground as his legs were momentarily unable to support him. Just as quickly, the pressure holding Selika in the air evaporated and she dropped awkwardly to her knees, her free hand on the ground to give her support. Pushing herself to her feet, Selika coughed as she gulped air into her lungs.

“Even when you let the anger out, you’re still focused,” she croaked, moving to stand over Turel.

The Jedi moaned quietly, his left hand twitching near where his lightsaber had fallen to the ground. If Selika’s goal had been killing the Jedi, she could have easily done so now. That was not the point of the exercise, though, just as she could have killed him with his weapon earlier at the inn.

“Sergeant Connor? Connor, come in!” an electronically filtered voice issued forth from the body of the slain constable.

Selika stepped over to where the woman had fallen, her strides becoming more sure as she regained more and more strength. The blonde member of the local watch laid face down on the dusty floor, and Selika pushed her over onto her back with a foot. The commlink clipped to the woman’s belt continued to project the dispatcher's voice, still demanding a status report. Selika bent down and pulled the commlink from her belt.

“Your Sergeant is dead,” Selika reported coldly.

“What? Who is this?” the controller spat back.

Not inclined to provide an answer, Selika tossed the commlink over to where Turel was beginning to pull himself together. Looking around, she headed for the sturdy shelving units on the other side of the warehouse floor that rose nearly eight meters to the ceiling above. A short climb found her at the top of the shelves where she ignited her lightsaber with a snap-hiss. A trio of cuts slashed a triangular opening through the roof, moonlight pouring in through the hole. Sparing a quick glance over her shoulder, Selika saw that Turel was now pulling himself to his feet, his lightsaber once again in his hand. A Force-aided leap carried her up through the newly carved ceiling exit and dropped her a bit unevenly on the roof. Knowing that Turel would be quick to follow, Selika moved away from the opening into the warehouse below.

Pushing her sphere of Force awareness out as far as she could, she momentarily struggled to sense what she sought. Then, just barely, she felt it. They were approaching from the west, low along the horizon. Knowing that they would be here shortly, Selika smiled. Now she just needed to buy some time with Turel.

As if summoned by her thoughts, Turel leapt into view. His jump was a big higher, his landing far more steady than what Selika had managed. It seemed like the anger and pain that were flowing through the dark haired Jedi had not dulled his connection with the Force.

“I’m not going to let you get away,” Turel growled. “Yours will be the only other death tonight.”

“Then I guess we’ll have to settle this this the messy way,” Selika said, sighing theatrically.

Before Turel could speak again, Selika lashed out with a telekinetic blow that caught Turel across the face in the same manner as a backhand fist. His head snapped to the side, but returned to glare at Selika with even more animosity than had been present a moment before.

Spitting blood to the ground from a split lip, the Jedi smiled. “That’s what I was hoping for.”

He exploded into motion, charging across the roof with his saber swinging at Selika’s head. Moving quickly, Selika deflected the blow away with her own weapon. The ferocity of Turel’s assault was not served well by his chosen form, the more tentative attacks of Soresu’s defense-minded school left him unable to fully exploit the strength and power behind his wild attacks. Playing for time herself, Selika was content to play right into Form III’s preference for survival over quick victory. Passing up chances to take the initiative and attack, Selika was quite content to play to a stalemate. The mounting anger in Turel’s eyes showed his frustration with his apparent impotence, unable to exploit mistakes in aggressive attacks to break through his enemies defenses.

“Do you plan to fight here forever?” Turel asked mockingly.

“No,” Selika said as their blades came together and locked once more. “I was just waiting for another player to join our little game.”

Turel’s eyes narrowed with suspicion a mere heartbeat before the air was filled with the whine of repulsors. The two combatants were bathed in a wash of near blinding light as the police gunship caught them both in the beam of its searchlights. The markings on the side of the craft were not those of Shadow Company; they were instead those of the local watch. As local law enforcement more experienced with breaking up bar fights than dealing with rampaging Sith, the watch were unprepared to deal with a threat of this magnitude.

The momentary distraction allowed Selika to push Turel away with the Force as she retreated across the rooftop to place some distance between her and the Guardian. Selika smiled wickedly as she saw the light of realization dawning on Turel’s face. Clawing at his belt, Turel raised the police commlink to his lips.

“Air unit 714, withdraw! This is a Jedi matter, withdraw from the area!” Turel screamed.

Selika could just make out the sound of the response over the sound of the hovering craft and the wind kicked up by its arrival. “Negative, Councilor. We have authority here.”

Selika smiled. The local law enforcement had reacted as predictably as ever to the death of one of their own. They weren’t going to allow some Jedi to stand between them and bringing the murderer to justice. Clipping her saber to her belt, she began to call the Force to her, holding its tendrils firmly. She wove it just as she had earlier, before she had thrown electricity at the Jedi that still stood against her.

She now saw that Turel knew exactly what she was doing, ready to toss her power not against him but at the police craft hovering above them. “Go on, Jedi. You know the only way to stop me,” she taunted. “You’ll have to kill me.”

Once again, Turel moved towards her. Once again, he raised his blade to strike. Selika raised no weapon to block his blow, the electricity that seemed nearly ready to leap from her hands held in check. Instead, she shifted the Force and projected some of that energy into the mind of her foe. Now, with Turel’s head clouded by rage and drink, Selika finally pushed her way in.

You’ll have to kill me, just like you did him

The words were accompanied by fear, a fear that clawed at the darkest reaches of Turel’s soul. Unbidden, his mind conjured up the image of the Odanite Padawan he had slain on the sands of Korriban, the look of betrayal forever frozen on his face as the lightsaber pierced his chest.

You call me a monster, Turel. But aren’t you a monster too?

The debilitating terror that clutched Turel’s heart stopped him dead for just a moment, but it was enough. Selika reached out with both hands and Force-driven electricity leapt from them to rip into the underside of the police speeder. Holding the torrent of energy for a number of seconds, Selika knew she was taxing herself. The results, however, were worth the effort.

The massive amount of electricity that ran through the repulsor systems on the vehicle’s underside rode the power conduits throughout the craft. Half of the repulsors failed as one of the craft’s generator impellers overloaded and seized. Smoke burst forth from the tail and the vehicle began to spin slowly and fall from the sky. Turel immediately dropped his weapon and reached out with the Force, trying to hold the gunship in the sky. Unable to focus, and without enough time, it was a futile effort. The gunship’s tail clipped the side of a building across the street, and it rolled over before violently slamming the transparisteel nose into the street. In less time than it would take to describe it, the vehicle’s sides expanded outward and burst as the aircraft dissolved into a fireball.

Turel dropped to his knees as he felt the violent death of all eight men the police gunship carried wash over him. Selika continued to exploit the opening she had found into his mind, stoking the twin fires of fear and rage that were warring within him.

“You thought that Keth Walsh distrusted you because of your betrayal?” Selika spoke softly, moving to stand just behind Turel. “He hated you because you dropped a shuttlecraft onto his cousin’s wife. You were a monster long before you joined with the Shadow Clan. You pretend to protect these people, to care. But all you bring is sorrow, pain, and death.”

The fire inside Turel was finally burning out of control, his rage and fear fueling it. Selika was quite pleased with herself for just a moment, but then Turel’s fist shot out and backhanded her across her face as her telekinetic blow had earlier. Unprepared for the force of the blow, Selika was driven back a number of steps. Standing, Turel turned to face Selika and what she now saw in his eyes made her realize that she had perhaps gone a bit too far with this one.

Eyes tinged with the hint of darkness, Turel lashed out with the Force. Her head still ringing, Selika was unable to deflect the push of energy away from herself. Taking it fully across her chest, Selika found herself hurtling out into open air, falling down into the side alley below.

---

Lieutenant Sabin, leader of Shadow Company Unit 267, had gotten his team into position across from the warehouse, but it had been too late. Just as he had reached the top of the stairs leading to the roof, the police speeder had hit the street and exploded. He had seen Councilor Turel hurl the target from the roof, and was getting ready to deploy his men to follow her when his comlink chirped to life.

“Lieutenant,” Turel spoke over the link.

Sabin looked out across the roof to where Turel stood across the way, his form indistinct and blurred in the smoke and heat of the fire on the street below. “Councilor,” he replied.

“Take your men and withdraw,” Turel ordered, “This one is mine.”

The line clicked off before Sabin could form a reply, but there was something in the pit of his stomach that left him glad he hadn’t needed to speak further with the Councilor. The voice had been that of Turel Sorenn, but there had been something different. His appearance bathed in smoke and fire, he had almost seemed like some night-demon from the stories of Sabin’s youth. Haunted by what he had heard, Lieutenant Sabin ordered his men to beat a hasty retreat.

Selika Roh had known the smell of rotting produce very few times in her privileged life. Now her every pore was saturated with the putrid juices of the warehouse's less-than-fresh refuse. Still, she was alive and from what she could tell only slightly injured. The landing had been exceptionally fortutious as she did not have the time or focus while falling to utilize the Force in any way to soften the impact.

"I'm coming for you witch!" Turel's voice echoed in her mind. Sensing the Guardian's raw, seething, fury would have normally given the Krath a degree of satisfaction. Pushing a sworn Jedi into so flagrantly violating their precious code was a rare pleasure for her. Instead, she regretted not killing the Odanite when she had the chance. Selika had pushed Turel too far, and if she wasn't careful she would end up a victim of her own success.

The Plagueian crawled out of the dumpster she landed in and plopped onto the cold pavement like a fish, splashing foul fruit juices on the ground from her soiled garments. The descendant of the Empress Teta line could not stop herself from dry-heaving a few times at the indescribably repugnant smell that permeated her clothes and skin. Regaining composure, she started to dash toward the corner of the alleyway when a sharp pain shot up her left leg. Every step brought the agony back in earnest. Selika lacked the medical training to ascertain the full extent of her injury but judging from the pain she felt in her ankle, it was a hairline fracture. She did not escape the fall unscathed after all.

Sounds of shouting and sirens emanated from a few blocks over as residents and first responders began to contain the blaze of the nearby crash site. Smoke from the blazing inferno had already seeped its way into the alleyway. "Excellent," Selika thought as she hobbled away from the alley onto a side street. The chaos and smoke from the fire would provide excellent cover as she made her escape. The odor of burning fuel in the air provided her momentary relief from the stench of rancid produce residue that clung to her like a mynock.

Selika moved closer and closer to the crash site trying to worm her way into the confusion. She could feel Turel drawing near with his blazing rage fixated on her. The Krath smiled for a moment at her own success; she had come to New Tython to see how far the darkness in her Odanite counterpart's heart went and found his commitment to the Jedi path to be a flimsy facade at best. He would make an excellent Sith if he would embrace his nature instead of running from it. She changed her mind about killing the Jedi as she thought about it. Having someone as unstable as Turel in a position of power in Odan-Urr was a critical weak link in the clan's leadership. He needed to stay alive and stay where he was in the Odanite power structure so she could press that advantage at a time when it really mattered to Clan Plagueis.

A figure emerged from the smoke in front of the fleeing Krath. "You can't hide from me." The snap-hiss of an azure blade coming to life echoed through the street as the blazing light peirced the haze.

How did the Jedi get in front of her? It didn't make any sense. Selika ignited her own lavender saber in response. She could feel his burning presence nearby, but not in front of her. Once she focused her attention on the visage of her opponent, the ruse fell apart. An illusion? Did he seriously expect such an amaeuter trick to work on her? "See how your hate has made your strong? Why do you run from your emotions?" She inquired, buying time to fixate Turel's true position. "Pretending to be a Jedi is a lie that fools no one."

The image before Selika began to fade and his voice grew softer. Her mind was resisting the intrusion, yet kept the connection open to trace it back to its source.

The doppleganger rotated his saber with an elaborate florish. "You can talk all you want, you won't make it off this planet alive. I'm sending you back the Anchorage in pieces!"

Selika smiled as she realized the real Turel was approaching from behind. The Plagueian knew she couldn't go on the offensive with her injured leg, she had to wait for him to get within striking distance. The false image continued to approach while brandishing its saber. The Krath held her saber at the ready as if she were defending from the front assailant while plotting to strike the real threat from the rear. She waited until he was just outside of striking distance.

"What would Vorsa say if she saw you now?"

The illusion faded and Selika knew she had distrupted Turel's concentration. She spun around with as much speed as she could muster and slashed at her dumbfounded opponent's thighs. Her sharp words and his arrangance caused the Jedi to drop his guard. It was all the opportunity the Krath needed. She bypassed his stationary saber and found her mark. Turel callopsed to the ground with a howl of pain, his thighs slashed just enough to cause him to fall. Victory was hers, there would be no pursuit now.

Selika took two steps foward and kicked his saber away with her good leg. "Give my regards to the Herald, I'll deal with her soon enough." She blew Turel a mocking kiss. "We shall meet again." The Plagueian hobbled off into the night, fading into the growing crowd around the crash site.