GJW XI: Round 1: Fiction
By SBL Archangel
#7589
SBL Archangel (Sith) / PROF / Battle Team Dorimad Sol of House Scholae Palatinae [GMRG: IX] [SA: V] [ACC: Q]
Mind over Matter
“Clear!”
Though the explosive charge was muffled by the surrounding ancient stone and mortar, the concussive wave emanating from it staggered the team, pressing their bodies against the walls they’d taken shelter against. The droids were the first to react, of course. That’s what they were designed to do. Bugcruncher 1 and Bugcruncher 2, affectionately known as the Bees, raised their right arm fixtures, armed the weaponry housed there, and strode through the newly created hole in the doorway ahead of them.
Immediately, blaster fire began ranging the hole, searing dark patches into the sandstone and brick-coloured slabs around them. The incoming attack was not particularly well-aimed or focused, and was most likely suppressed by the sudden compressive force generated by the breaching charge. The Bees’ reply, however, had no such handicap. Their onboard computers picked out their targets from the haze and smoke, and they eliminated the enemy troopers with ease.
The troopers quickly followed droids, eager to taste the thrill of battle once more. The commandos of the legions of House Scholae Palatinae were some of the deadliest and most experienced in the Dark Brotherhood. Most of them had been through situations akin to this, fighting on a dozen different planets during the Grand Master’s campaign to retake Sith worlds. They were cool and focused, their eyes calmly scanning their entire surroundings, as they strode through the breach one at a time.
A huge dark form followed in their wake. With only a little discomfort, he pushed his heavy frame through the breach, splintered masonry tearing at his armor plating. He wore no helmet, discarding it for the ability to smell, hear and taste unimpeded. His hair was cut in a tight crop, thin enough to see the battle scars he had acquired on his scalp. He was an older man, but did not move as such, his steps powerful and determined. His icy white eyes stared through the ozone haze created during the firefight, and he nodded his head.
“Good,” he said, his voice a deep bass, and full of commanding power, “Let’s move.”
--
Colyn “Tusken” Skybender stared at the mirrored surface hung at an imprecise angle in front of him. He stared at the lines and wrinkles which criss-crossed his face. He was only 37, and yet he felt that he had aged a century in service of the Dark Jedi Brotherhood. A model of a career soldier, he had served his masters honourably and he received praise and promotions in response, in spite of his unfortunately weak connection to the Force.
But as he stared, his vision blurred slightly, and the voices started again. At first there at only been one, a silkenwhispering, trickling into his mind like honey. It spoke of glory and victory, of the blood of his enemies on the flagstones, of riches and the spoils of war. It purred as it described the sensations it could provide. And it was incredibly alluring.
Then the second voice began. It explained, in clinical and morbid detail, the worst that comes of war. The cries and lamentation of women as they find their children, broken and discarded below piles of rubble. The men begging as they are dragged from their homes, and shot like dogs in the street. The staring of orphans as they watch their mothers being buried. The rapes, the murders, the looting, all the worst that man can do.
He had wept for days, sequestering himself from his men as well as he could. He could not let him see him in such a state, a depression so deep that he could barely remember how to smile. Then the voices had told him to do things. Little things, like having him read the duty roster in a clear and loud voice. It was completely out of the ordinary for him, but he did it anyways. He didn’t want the voices to start telling him how the cats would eat the flesh of their owners who had been killed during artillery strikes.
Now the voices ask for so much more. He ran a calloused hand against his dry, stubbled cheek slowly, as if trying to remove an impenetrable stain. Though he could feel the sensation against his hand, as the stubble resisted his skin, the movement felt alien to him. Was he the one doing it? Were the voices controlling him in some way? Did he have control over his own actions?
“Sir?” said a voice behind him. It carried a worried, rushed tone, one employed when having to repeat oneself to be heard in an environment which did not warrant it. A young man stood at the doorway to his quarters, a musty, decrepit hovel of a room sequestered in the tunnels under the Academy. He’d been sent, no… left there to defend the Academy. The voices told him so.
“Sir?” the voice repeated, the man taking a step toward Colyn. There was a slight quiver in his voice, as he saw his commander staring unblinking at his own reflection in the mirror. Colyn turned abruptly, a mixture of anger and frustration on his face. He glared at the man who had disrupted his thoughts, and grunted.
“What is it, Private?” he replied, his voice rough, and dripping with barely suppressed venom. The younger man flinched slightly at the tone, but snapped to a neat semblance of attention.
“Sir, scouts have reported explosions in the lower reaches, indicative of entry charges. The squad in that area has not reported in for two hours.”
Colyn smiled, and nodded. So it begins, he thought, as he stepped up to the crate which served as his desk, and retrieved his helmet, blaster, and lightsaber. He clipped his lightsaber to his belt, his blaster rifle slung over his shoulder, and his helmet held firmly under one arm.
“Let us meet the enemy, Private”
--
A grenade clipped the corner’s edge and glanced away from the advancing force, coming to rest against a pile of rubble. The troopers to a man dropped to their bellies, the Bees stepping forward to cover the living members of their team. Archangel, however, strode forward, and with an almost negligent flick of his wrist, sent the grenade careening back the way it came. The explosion was muffled, the concussive shock wave dampened, but the effect was obvious, and the cries of surprise and fear were elixir on his lips.
He stabbed his thumb against the ignition tab of his lightsaber, its veridian blade springing to life. It cast an eerie glow over his blood red armor, a relic of his time in the Grand Master’s Royal Guard. He surged forward, armored boots crunching through the battlefield detritus. A roar rose from within him, his rage fueling his movements, his charge, his muscles, easily outpacing his troops. He rounded the corner, his lightsaber flicking back and forth as the hail of blaster bolts intended to cut him down were sent ricocheting away.
“Oh Sithspit!” shouted an officer, hiding behind a fallen pillar of masonry, an ancient column, now nothing more than debris. He raised his communicator to his mouth, and started to speak. He barely got a word or two out before his throat constricted, his eyes bulging out of their sockets. They stared in fear and shock at the behemoth, whose raised hand was held in a claw, slowly closing. With his air supply shut off, the man collapsed after only a few moments.
The troopers, unaware of their commander’s demise, continued their assault, blaster rifles firing as far as they could. Archangel’s lightsaber deftly batted the blaster bolts away, not aiming them in any direction, but simply keeping them from striking his body. The bolts burnt holes in the eons-old masonry, the sandstone which had stood the test of time as the building blocks of the Academy were now, once again, drenched with blood.
The Sith Battlelord pulled his outstretched fist up, and back towards his body, infusing the motion with his connection to the Force, dragging the body of the hapless officer up and away from his barricade. The corpse flailed as it piled into the rear of a trio of troopers, who screamed in revulsion and shock. A pair of them tumbled to the ground as they scrambled to escape the macabre missile, getting caught up in the randomly moving limbs. The third, a burly Sergeant dodged to the side, away from the other two, only to be cut down by a bolt fired by one of the Bees.
“Stand fast!” called a voice from the distant shadows, followed by the ignition hiss of a crimson bladed lightsaber. “Finally,” Archangel thought, “a challenge”, as his men moved up to take positions around the junction he had just taken almost single-handedly.
The men ahead of him had fallen back in a hurry, only to come up short before the newly arrived saber wielder. They moved to the side and away from the newcomer, taking up positions along a new defensive line. It stretched across the edge of a raised platform, jutting up from the floor of a large atrium, and ringed with stairs. It was clearly a prepared position, barricades and battlements in place, along with what looked like heavier weaponry.
“Bees to the fore! Grenades!” Archangel ordered, his voice rising to an urgent shout. He had no problem batting away aimed blaster fire, but a true E-Web emplaced weapon would be difficult, if only for the strain on his muscles. The attention and effort he would waste on blocking those bolts would drain him, and leave him vulnerable while he concentrated. For the first time in as long as he could remember, he was happy he had brought some droids along.
“FIRE!” ordered the enemy commander, his lightsaber raised, its tip aimed down at the Scholaen force. Stone and tile splintered under the sudden barrage, heat shattering the decorative ceramic shell on the columns around the entrance to the atrium. The Scholae troops fell back and away from the opening, attempting to take cover from the salvo of blaster bolts and the hail of shrapnel.
The Bugcruncher droids strode forward, ignoring the incoming fire. Their laminanium armor quickly became strained by the blaster bolts landing on it, heavy dark pock marks appearing almost everywhere over the droid’s chests. In reply, they raised their arm fixtures, toggled to their grenade launchers, and fired three volleys each.
The projectiles arced through the air, each describing a slightly different trajectory. The Bees had synchronized their attack, planning it out with precision and lethal aptitude. Each grenade landed apart from the others, so that the explosions could cover the maximum area, with very little overlap. The barricade erupted in a sudden rush of flame and cries of anguish.
“ON YOUR FEET!” Archangel bellowed, and charged, “FOR THE EMPIRE!”
He surged up the steps, taking three at a time in bounding strides. His chest puffed with the sudden heavy exertion, the armour he wore protecting him, but not from its encumberance. After five heavy strides, he leaped over the barricade, his movement aided by the Force, lightsaber raised above his head in a two-handed grip.
He landed in the midst of the soldiers as they reeled away from the explosive damage, falling over comrades and debris. His lightsaber swept side to side, scything through a pair of men with ease, before snapping up to block a lightsaber thrust. The purported Sith had waded in without reservation, seemingly unworried by the charging crimson juggernaut.
“Ha!” Archangel barked, his lightsaber moving with practiced ease, as the man before him maintained his attack, “No wonder I didn’t sense you! You are little more than an urchin!”
Anger flared in the man’s eyes as he sparred with the larger Sith, his lightsaber not faltering in any way, but unable to strike true . Though the battle raged around them, they focused only on each other. The Bees had waded in as well, drawing wicked bladed weapons from slings on their backs and attacking with vicious abandon, characteristic of their progenitor’s namesake, the Yuuzhan Vong. As they scythed through their enemies, they goaded each other with cries of “Maximum efficiency!”
In spite of the obvious flush of anger on the man’s face, he did not rise to the insult. He lashed out with measured, tempered attacks, mostly intended to keep the Sith Battlelord at bay, not necessarily to actually injure him. It was a moment or two later that Archangel finally realized the plan, the man’s ingenuity actually surprising him for once. He dove to the side, his bulky armor cushioning the roll, slamming his back against a barricade. The man reacted with a furious scowl, just as a pair of sniper bolts zipped through the air where his huge opponent had been.
“Well done!” Archangel taunted, a snarky grin spread across his features, “You are hereby promoted to whelp!”
The sniper bolts continued, targeting the newly arrived Scholaen troops, who took cover, but for little effect. Three men dropped almost instantly, and the armor on Bee 1 was nearly scrap. The lightsaber wielder retreated, his frustration evident in his wild motions. He waved his men back and away from the barricades, through a doorway on the far side of the atrium from the advancing Scholaen forces. What troops remained alive after the onslaught fled in good order, discarding equipment and their fallen comrades.
The snipers continued their volleys for a few more moments before disappearing into the dark recesses. Archangel stood slowly, and grimaced at a sudden sharp jolt of pain his shoulder. He glanced down, only now noticing the blackened armor plating, and the smell of burnt plastic and ozone. A medic appeared at his side, and began inspecting the wound. The medical staff always astonished him with their quick thinking and almost bottomless well of bravery in the face of danger.
“How bad is the damage?” he muttered to the medic, who was now poking at the burnt skin with a foam pad. The medic, a young woman, dark of skin, with bright, oval eyes, looked up at him with a slightly concerned look on her face.
“It may have damaged the ligament in the shoulder, sir. Maybe some bone damage, but I can’t be certain. You need to see a true doctor, or at the very least, do very little with that shoulder until you can.”
Archangel barked out a hearty belly laugh which echoed throughout the atrium. His troopers turned to regard him from their perimeter posts, and allowed a momentary smile to appear on their faces. Many of them at seen the sniper bolt hit their leader, and had feared the worst when he hadn’t risen immediately. The huge Sith Battlelord’s mirth was infectious, and smiles and grins began to spread quickly.
“I’m afraid, Corpsman, that the chances of either of those events occurring are quite small indeed” he replied, a wide smile on his face. The smile reached his eyes, crow’s feet and smile lines appearing around them in bunches. The Corpsman blushed slightly, and grinned, before retrieving a suture kit from her pouch, and set to work on the wound. Archangel turned away from the girl, and looked off in the direction his adversary had fled. The pain was a sideshow to the rage in his mind.
---
“My lord,” a voice said in the darkness. The holographic map of the Academy cast the room in a brilliant red hue, creating an almost demonic scene. The shadows seemed to lengthen around the individuals in the room, as if the darkness welled up around them. One figure at the head of the map table turned to regard the voice.
“Yes?” he asked, his voice cultured and tempered. He was no newcomer to such a situation, and war was second nature to him now.
“We have reports from Commander Skybender that he has been repulsed by an assault in the lower corridors. A Scholae Battlelord is at its head, and there are other units and groups in the area”
Lord Ashen turned to his advisors, and nodded to the shortest.
“Go. Destroy these ants, and return to me when you have done so. We have much still to accomplish.”
---
His fist slammed into the mirror, shattering it. Shards fell to the floor like jagged tears, but he paid them no heed. He had gambled, and lost a dozen men in the process. The enemy was more ferocious than he had expected. He had thought that he could cow them from a superior position, with heavy weaponry, but instead was driven away like a mewling kitten.
“Come now, Colyn,” a silky voice said, “No need for that”
His eyes shot open, staring at the fragmented reflection of himself with horror. The voice, the one he had feared and cowered from, was speaking to him again. Was there no way he could escape this torment? How could he live with such a fiend at his heels? It was after a moment or two when he realized that the voice was not in his head.
“Ah…” the voice continued, a mere inch from his ear, “He understands.”
The dagger slipped through his kidney, and up into his chest cavity. He died, without grace, without glory, and without honor. The Krath Pontifex cleaned her blade off on the dead man’s tunic, and let out a quiet sigh.
“Such a waste of a well-prepared puppet.”
---
“You look awful.”
The voice was warm, and genial, one filled with mirth and kinship. Archangel had heard the voice many times before, and had counted it among that of his friends, if not his allies. It was too bad that, in this conflict, the man was on the wrong side of the line.
“At least I don’t scare the ladies off like you, Korvyn,” he replied, looking down at the Jedi from the top of the perch he’d wrested from his last opponent. The Odan-Urr Sentinel had brought a little retinue of jungle fighters and natives with him, a paltry display of power which gave Archangel only the barest moment of worry. They did not compare to the battle hardened troops of House Scholae Palatinae, and Korvyn was easily his junior in power and skill.
“What are you doing here, Battlelord?” Korvyn said, looking up at Archangel, his eyes wary, his tone losing its joviality and slipping into one of suspicion. His arms were held tight across his chest, his hands in close proximity to his weapons.
“I could ask the same of you, boy,” Archangel replied, a stern smile set on his face. Korvyn’s eyes hardened, not appreciating the slight, but did not rise to it. So, he had learned something since deserting the Scholae Palatinae.
“I am here to take this facility in the name of Odan-Urr,” he replied, and gestured with his head, “You have been in a fight already, I see.”
“Aye, lad, I have. More than you at the very least. Shall I come down there and show you?” Archangel replied, his smile spreading into a grin. The natives behind Korvyn started getting restless and were muttering in a myriad of languages. Korvyn’s hand dropped to his lightsaber and drew it with obvious motion.
“Bring it on” he replied, and threw a grenade towards his former Housemate.
---
Her clipped footsteps echoed throughout the derelict halls of the Academy. She wore simple nerf leather boots, with sturdy heels which landed with a definitiveness she appreciated. It was the kind of woman she was, keen, intelligent, and always seeking the advantage. She had used her vast array of knowledge to make her way through the ranks of the Krath, often over the dead body of her ‘betters’. Now she stood along side only two others of similar power as the primary advisors to the Grand Master. There was no greater honor in the Dark Brotherhood, except for perhaps the Iron Throne itself.
She couldn’t let that kind of thought well up inside her mind too often. The Grand Master had an eerie intuition when it comes to treason, and did not respond well when found within the ranks. The last man who had come under his scrutiny was still nominally alive, though in that state he currently existed, perhaps death was his only escape.
Sounds of battle filtered down the hallway ahead of her, and she slowed her pace. She could hear blaster fire, and the dull thuds of grenades displaced ancient dust on the floor around her feet. It appeared that her quarry had found a friend to play with. She licked her lips in a predatory manner, and dropped to a couch, listening intently. She needed to wait for the most opportune moment to strike.
---
“Come on, boy!” Archangel jeered, his lightsaber holding Korvyn’s back from his face, the blue-green light gleaming off his grinning teeth, “Dante taught you better than that!”
The smaller man grimaced with exertion, under the pressure of the behemoth Battlelord’s strength. The biceps on the man’s arms bulge with strain as Archangel pressed the advantage. Korvyn pushed off, taking a few steps back and sweeping his blade across in front of him, a classic maneuver to keep an opponent at bay. It didn’t even slow the juggernaut in front of him, who blocked the sweep with one of his own, and slugged Korvyn across the face with an armored fist.
Korvyn staggered back, his lip split and swelling. He tripped over a severed leg, and rolled down the side of the rise, bouncing awkwardly on the steps. Archangel swatted down a lobbed grenade, and with a twist of his wrist, sent the severed leg down at the grenadier. The leg connected heel first into the man’s nose, toppling him out of sight behind his makeshift cover.
“Did you see that, Korvyn?” he shouted after the fallen Jedi, who lay dazed near the bottom of the staircase, “I bet he got a kick out of that one!”
Above the din of battle, a slow, rhythmic clapping rang out like the tolling of a church bell. It seemed to cut through the barrage of sound rising from the furor below, and each man seemed to slow in his actions, turning to face the new invasive sound. After a few moments, a small pool of shadows stirred, and a lightsaber, magenta and brilliant, burst to life. It illuminated a hooded figure, with a smile on her face.
“Touche, Battelord,” she said, her voice somehow cold and melodic at the same time. She was shorter than average height, certainly below that of the two Jedi combatants before her, but she stood with her head high, with determination which could only be borne from rigorous training and confidence in one’s own skills.
“Who are you?” Archangel replied, dropping his usual act of jabs and taunts. He’d learned long ago that the vanity of his opponents was always one of his greatest weapons. The right prod in the correct direction will push someone over the edge, sometimes literally. This newcomer immediately struck him as the kind of person such jeers would have little effect on. He decided to try the blunt and dumb approach. Never hurts to have the enemy underestimate him.
“I am Lord Ashen’s Pontifex,” she explained simply, with a slow flourish of her lightsaber and a deep bow at the waist. Her robes, though pulled tight around her, opened slightly as she moved, revealing her nudity below them. She’d come prepared to fight then, Archangel decided, not allowing his eyes to be distracted. She knew every trick in the book he did, and probably more besides. This was not looking good.
“You punched me…” murmured Korvyn groggily from below, being helped to his feet by one of his troopers. He still had a dazed expression on his face, but was slowly regaining his faculties as he began to note the change to the situation. He turned to the Pontifex, and bowed his head respectfully. Archangel did no such thing. Though he was not as high a rank as this woman, he was more than a match for any Krath in martial matters.
“Come now, Sith,” the Pontifex purred, stepping slowly into the dim light of the atrium, “You cannot best me. Take your little rabble, and leave this Jedi to me. You need not die by my hand this day”
“I should think not, Krath,” he replied, ignoring her rank and the status it provided her. But he had little in the way of leverage in this situation, and nothing to bluff with. If she jumped him, it’d be a massacre one way or another.
“A gallant Sith?” she quipped, her hand rising to beckon at Korvyn, whose eyes were glazed, and staring blankly at her, “Your Jedi friend here seems to have no compunction with me. Perhaps I can persuade you to join me in serving Lord Ashen’s will”
As she spoke, a searing pain ripped through his head, from temple to temple. HIs vision darkened and blurred, and his sense of balance faltered. He closed his eyes with a grimace, clenching them tight as he tried to orientate himself. And with his eyes closed and his senses focused inward to defend against the mental assault, he didn’t notice the block of masonry until it slammed into the center of his chest.
He toppled backward, like an ancient tree cut down. HIs armored back slammed into the paving, and his breath huffed out in one gust. The Scholan troops responded as quickly as they were able, firing their blasters at the newcomer and Odan-Urr troops, and falling back to cover their fallen leader. The Bees, battered and worn already, dropped their melee weapons and moved to protect Archangel with their bodies and what was left into the ammunition reserves.
The last thing Archangel heard before passing out was the Pontifex’s warm, bubbly laughter, twinged with glee and lustful victory.