Sleep was a good thing, something that he enjoyed greatly, but this dream was perplexing. It was of happy times, times before he found the dark side of the Force. Over the years, his dreams, and nightmares, had kept him from getting any rest, which had started to cause him to question the reality of things around him. So he developed a way to shield his mind against dreaming altogether. Why he was dreaming now was very alarming. Panicking himself awake, Armad jumped up off his bunk and immediately tried to call upon the Force to….but it wasn’t there. He couldn’t feel the Force at all.

He knew that he’d spent his younger and adolescent years without using the Force, so he knew that he wouldn’t be completely helpless as some of his fellow Clan members, who’ve been using the Force from an early age. While he gets dressed, Armad contact his Battleteam Leader to see what is going on. Aexod informs him that he now has the ability to touch the Force, and that he’s having a difficult time controlling his new found power. Armad suggests that he seek out his second, as if what he suspects has happened, DarkHawk will have lost his connection to the Force and together, they would be able to help each other until this situation resolves itself.

Ending that conversation, Armad had an eerie realization drift up from memory. His Master, Macron, had been a product of others and self Sith experimentation for his entire life, and was definitely unsure how his old Master would react to not having access to the Force. Hurriedly getting dressed, Armad tried to get ahold Vicious, Macron’s current apprentice. Armad found that Vicious was slightly perturbed that he couldn’t access the Force, but that he was coping the best he could and that he hadn’t heard from Macron in a few days. Which was not unheard of, as he was prone to disappearing into his experiments for days on end. Telling Vicious to make his way to his Master’s quarters to check to see if he was there, then head to his lab on level 13. Grabbing his wrist controller, and tapping a few commands to send a couple of his droids to the level 13 lab, Armad headed himself towards his Master’s alchemaic lab.

Finally arriving on level 13, very tired, Armad forgot how exhausting it was to hurriedly walk somewhere without the aid of the Force. Thought about making a mental note to work on his physical strength and stamina, but chuckled that thought away. Though if this wasn’t resolved fairly quickly, then he might have to revisit that line of thought. Armad could see Vicious arriving from the other direction, when he he noticed him, Vicious smirked and shook his head in the negative, indicating that Macron hadn’t been back to his quarters in a while. Which was fairly known, that their Master could generally be found in his lab doing some experiment of one kind or another. As they neared the entrance to the lab itself, they started to hear loud piercing screaming coming from within. Sharing a quick fearful concerned look between them, both rushed in to see their Master writhing on the floor, in what appeared to be severe pain, as several nearby objects had either been destroyed or crushed while flailed about in his battle armor. It was just as he had thought, Macron’s Sith alchemy was starting to reject the implants and enhancements that he’d performed on himself over the years, and now that he could no longer use the Force to compel what he’d done to be accepted, it was literally biting him in the arse.

Knowing that they should probably get him to the infirmary, but not seeing an easy way to do it, both of them knew that the only other option would be to just put him out of his misery. But they both knew that if they failed and he came back, which would be just like him, that he would remind them both of whom the Master was, or he would just kill them both. Either way, not something they wanted to find out. Luckily at that moment, the droids that Armad had called for had arrived. Not wanting to subject his droids to too much damage, Armad looked around for anything that would subdue the Adept for his transport to the infirmary, which would by no means be easy. Looking around for anything that might help, Armad spotted a couple of syringes laying on the workbench, and recalling from his past, that Macron had said that those were filled with a powerful sedative, but never really explained why he had them or what they were for. Typing in a couple of commands into his wrist controller, Armad’s droids came forward to pick up the writhing Adept, three to each side. As soon as each droid had gained purchase on an appendage or piece of armor, Armad stepped in and injected one of the syringes into Macron’s neck. Almost immediately the Sith Alchemist calmed down and stopped flailing about. Giving a sigh of relief, Armad instructed the droids to make their way to the infirmary, while he commed ahead to let them know what to expect.

While in a turbolift, about half way there, Macron came out of his sedation. Coming to, he grabbed hold of the two nearest droids and crushed them in his gauntlets. The other four couldn’t handle the weight of the armored Juggernaut, and dropped him. Seeing the pain and anger swell in his eyes, Armad jumped back and up into the corner of the turbolift, narrowly avoiding getting swept onto his back. Vicious was not so lucky and received an armored boot to the shin, dropping him to one knee. The four remaining droids fared the worst of the damage, taking several kicks or arm bashes that they, either got ripped apart or damaged beyond use. Dropping back down, Armad pulled out another of the syringes and injected it into Macron again. “He burned through the sedation?” Vicious asked incredulously.

“His enhanced body and poison resistances make it hard for things like that to work for very long.” Armad replied. “Looks like we’re going to have to drag him ourselves, and we’ll have to be quick about it, as I’ve only got one more syringe left.” Each grabbing a leg, they continued on towards the infirmary, but it was slow going, plus they figured out about how much time they had before their Master burned through that sedative and wanted to be ready to administer the last dose before he woke up.

Finally limping into the infirmary, both Vicious and Armad looked like they’d both been put through the wringer. Vicious was favoring his right leg and holding his right arm against his ribs, while Armad had his right arm in a sling and the left side of his face was swollen with blood trickling out his nose. When the medics got over their initial shock, they asked what had happened. Armad recanted what had happened since finding their Master in a slurred voice, as Vicious was having trouble breathing. He finished by stating that about ten minutes ago, Macron had burned through his second injection of sedative, and proceeded to kick and punch his apprentices, until Vicious was about to control his arms long enough to administer the last syringe. “You probably have about three or four minutes until he wakes up again. Don’t know how long it’ll take this time.” Armad stated as they dropped his legs in front of the gathering medics.

“Let’s get him into one of the stasis chambers before that happens!” The medic barked. He must have been on the receiving end of a Macron punishment before, or seen the results of one.

Vicious managed to hobble his way over to an empty chair and plopped down in it, wincing in pain from the jolt of the sudden stop. Armad dropped to his knees and started to fall over as he started to see blackness coming in from the edges of his vision. The last thing he remembered was hearing someone say, “oh crap” as he watched the floor greet him.

Attached is the PDF of my entry for the Polarity Shift competition.

-- Atra Ventus #11708

*__ACC Absolution__*
*__Command deck__*

Marcus woke up feeling groggy, as if he hadn’t had enough rest for the night. In and of itself this wasn’t surprising, his workload had been increasing. He’d been given assignments by the Headmaster, the digital pile of exams was ever-increasing, and to top it off, Cethgus had left for the Dark Council. Just when he thought his work couldn’t get much worse, they had heard from Odan-Urr. The Grandmaster, Pravus, had descended upon the planet and burnt its surface to a crisp.

When he went to bed his head swam with questions, and it was probably because of them that he had been unable to rest properly. Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, he swung his legs from the bed and tried to stand up, only to end up on the floor as his legs completely gave way. His mind raced, *What the hell?* He tried to push himself up, but found himself faced with great difficulty, he couldn’t even push his own upper body from the floor. It was as if he had completely forgotten how to use his muscles. Instinctively he reached for the Force, to lean on it as a crutch. But instead of finding the power of the omnipresent energy field, he found nothing. He could not hear its whisper, nor grasp its strands, and straining to sense it caused him a splitting headache. What had happened? Why could he no longer sense the Force? His mind racing again, and he had to focus inward to calm himself. His breathing calm, he focused solely on getting to his feet. Slowly but surely his muscles reacted as he wanted them to, even though it took him great effort. Shambling over to the chair where his clothes lay he began to get dressed. Just as he had finished, an explosion rocked the ship. Alarms started blaring, and someone in the hall was screaming.

Hurrying outside, as best as he could with wobbly knees, the Mystic was unprepared for what he saw next. Several administrative aids were held suspended against the ceiling, like pieces of paper sticking to a sheet of plastic. As he spun around, looking for the source of the telekinetic display of power, but saw no other Jedi. What he did see were several troopers kneeling on the floor, their heads between their hands, muttering to themselves.

“H-help,” one of the suspended crewmen chokes. Panicking slightly, Marcus reaches for the Force again, to help them down, but was quickly rewarded with a stabbing pain to the temples. Cursing loudly, he motions for them to stay put, ridiculous as it was. They were obviously not going anywhere.

“J-just stay put,” he calls to them. “I’ll get help.” Limping through the corridor he passes by the set of troopers, whose muttering he could now hear.

“The voices, the voices, make them stop, stop the voices,” one of them says. Marcus flops down in front of him, not having the strength in his legs to properly kneel. He takes the head of the trooper in his hands and looks him dead in the eye, intending to reassure the soldier, but was instead faced with a screaming man.

“AAAAAAH!” the trooper yells. “I see your past, I can feel your future. You are surrounded by death.” The trooper begins rambling and eventually faints. *What in the blazes is going on?!* Marcus thought to himself. Working himself up to his feet again, Marcus starts down the corridor again, intending to find the bridge and see if any more sense could be made of this. As he rounded a corner, instead of being faced with the access door to the bridge, he was hit squarely in the chest by something invisible. It knocked him backwards and sent him flying into the bulkhead behind him. Dazed he saw the XO of the ship, Commander Walas Sedaya, run towards him, apologizing profusely.

“Oh no, I’m sorry sir. So sorry, I-I can’t control it. I meant to wave at you, and instead you were slammed against the bulkhead. That’s twice now it happened and I just can’t expla-,” she was cut short in her ramblings by Marcus holding up his hand. His head felt like it had split open and released several rancors onto his back who were now beating it into submission.

“Ow,” he managed weakly. “Keep your hands down will you.” It was beginning to dawn on him what had happened here, and if he was right, they were in dire straights. He pushed himself to his feet for the third time that morning, and continued down the corridor, ignoring the apologizing Commander. Keying in his access code, the doors to the bridge opened, and he was met with utter chaos. Deckplates were flying around, consoles ripped from the walls, crackling electricity shot through the air, and flashes of blinding light were going off every few meters down in the pits. The upper walkways were mostly fine, and he could see the Captain standing at the end near the observatory window.

Slowly limping on, he made his way to the commanding officer standing looking out into space. But as he got closer, he could see that something was wrong. The Captain was breathing heavily, labored as if unable to catch his breath. Marcus approached further, curious to see what was happening to the woman standing there. When he got close enough, he reached out and grabbed her by the shoulder, intending to spin her around and lean on her, but when she faced him and he could see her eyes, he knew he had made a fatal mistake. Her eyes burned red in rage, the energy of the dark side clearly visible through he visage, ready to unleash the terrible power that was inherent in the Force.

Marcus merely stood there, and whispered softly. “Don’t do it. You’ll end us all.” The Captain, Madhi Jeisel, trembled in utter restraint as she choked out the two words that would seal their fates. “I-I can’t.”

With a terrible scream, her last strength slipping away over the emotional torrent that had resided in her over the years which had been born of comrades lost, caused by insane orders by mystical superiors, and the grueling rigors of war, the power of dark side came to bear. A violent storm of energy erupted from her being, shredding her body in an instant, clashed against the deckplates and tore them asunder. The plastiglass in the windows shattered and the harshness of space sucked out the atmosphere in seconds. The torrential violence of the Force-storm ripped through Marcus’ body, and he could feel himself dissolving in hatred and anger. It expanded rapidly, ripping holes in consoles, conduits and the rest of the bridge. Nothing was left whole, and eventually it reached the reactors of the massive ship. From afar, it looked like the ship was dotted with tiny pins of light, before lighting up like a match being struck.

In the end, Marcus had realized that everyone on the ship who had had no Force sensitivity had suddenly become aware of the Force and was able to wield it. It had all been outside of their control, and left powerless, Marcus had not been able to do anything to stop the destruction.

-Fin-

Mactire stood in the reception hall looking at all the faces of everyone entering the building. He studied them in anticipation of the big day for two of his comrades in arms. Tasha, and Bentre. This was the day before their wedding and it couldn’t have been any better of a day. It was a simple day of peace, for once in Naga Sadows history, this day was going well. The human leaned against the wall looking up at the ceiling watching the lights flicker as people danced on the floor laughing and having fun. Atra was singing a random song and butchering it, with his usual don’t give a care attitude.

“Mac? Wow you came. Didn’t think you would.” A blue Twi’lek said appearing right in front of him.

There was a holorecorder in her hand and she was smiling as her eyes sparkled and lit up with joy at seeing all her friends together under one roof not trying to kill each other. She’s wearing a silver dress, and looks like one of the Twi’lek goddess form ancient legends.

“You look amazing Tasha. How’s Bentre doing?” I say turning my eyes and looking back into the crowd.

“He’s good. I was actually wondering if you have any words of wisdom for us in the future since I know somethings of your
past.” She says with a slight sorrow in her voice.

“Yeah I do. Be happy, be well. Treat each other with respect and always talk things out, don’t hold things in. It never works out when you try to figure things out yourself in a marriage. There are two of you together for a reason.” I say slowly drifting off into the past.

“O.K. Thanks Mac, enjoy the party and see you tomorrow at the ceremony.” She says smiling running off to interview others for their opinions.

I slowly lean off the wall and start to walk down the hallway, away from the reception area. Clearing my head in these matters always helps me focus on things that truly matter to me. Also I really don’t like crowds much but I never will tell anyone I work with that. The mission always comes first. Always has and always will.

I stop and look up at the vast sky and wonder what the real meaning behind everything is. The stars twinkle slightly as the laughter and music becomes louder and more sounds of joy dance down the station.

“Everyone is enjoying the party it seems.” I mutter to myself.

I slowly turn and start to head back towards everyone. The walls with their shadows slowly seem to move against my movements. As if they are teaming with a life of their own. I slowly move my hand to my Armory Saber and keep walking slowly staying on high alert. The hairs on the back of my neck slowly start to stand up as a creature leaps out of the shadows.
I leap back and dodge their attack. I hear a faint laugh coming from behind a mask. I growl low looking at my opponent.

“Who in the Sith Lords names are you?” I say in a low demanding voice.

“Oh Mactire you are so easy to rile up.” A female voice says as the mask comes off.

Qyreia stands there laughing. Her red skin looks like a larenks eye. Her eyes are the color of cold steel which contrast her black hair. I shake my head, only a Zeltron would do this at a wedding. Well only Qyreia would.

“Thanks for the reminder of why I’m always on guard.” I mutter and focus for a minute.

She looks at me quizingly and then falls to the floor as if an unseen force has just tripped her. Her hands slowly go for her blaster and I shake my head looking at her.

“Don’t you did deserve that and you know it.” I say walking away back towards the crowd

When I enter Bentre is standing in the center of the room holding Tasha in his arms dancing slowly with each other. I sigh and smile lightly in the knowledge that these two will be happy together. Qyreia walks in muttering to herself and walks past me and heads towards Atra laughing as he is still singing poorly and everyone is still having fun.

This is a party for now I think but tomorrow old wounds will reopen and then we will all be back ware we started. Oh well for now it is a blessing.

Parties were not Quo-Wing-Tzun’s natural habitat. Looking around the reception for his Master’s nuptials he could see a lot of smiling faces, and more than a few of them were glassy eyed with the excesses of alcohol, or possibly emotion, although he was favouring the former. Quo was watchful, eyeing across the crowds of people, forever on his guard. This was a throng, he estimated some 1000 people were in attendance, with more expected as the night wore on.

The venue itself was bedecked in flora of many hues, ice sculptures depicting both the bride and groom’s emblems, the wolf for Bentre, the dragon for Tasha’Vel. Every person’s dining place had been depicted by beautifully wrought, golden name plates, all adorned with both the crests. Quo had his secreted away in one of his carrying pouches.

Many of the revellers had been dressed in specially designed outfits for the occasion, the extravagance of the some of them being overwhelming to the senses. Most of the men were wearing some form of military uniforms, designating their standing within the Clan, and indeed within the Brotherhood in some cases. Quo, however, had worn the same thing he wore all the time, black. His Master would not have expected anything less. It suited him, and it contained all his weapons, one just never knew when they would be needed.

Making his way around the massive dance floor his eyes took in the sound system that had been installed for the evening, providing and audible backdrop to the celebrations. Currently there was a pianist playing instrumental background music for the post meal lull in exuberances. Quo made his way behind the speakers, checking for anything unusual as he went.

It was as he passed around the back of the towering monoliths of the speakers that his evening took a side step into the bizarre. Passing beneath the cables that powered the mighty speakers one of his horns snagged on it, its razor edged sharpness passing through the insulation, connecting both the negative and positive feeds through Quo’s head. The sudden flash, and subsequent shock, passed through his body making his muscles involuntarily contract, flinging him some thirty meters. His trajectory took him through the side of the temporary structure of the reception venue, depositing his slightly smoking form into the centre of the decorative fountain within the grounds of the Versea family seat. Picking himself up, he favoured the look of a drowned rat, and the water lilies stuck within his tunic did nothing to cement the look he had achieved.

Stepping out of the ornamental fountain, Quo shook himself, water running from him in streams. He made his way back up the slight incline towards the reception area, and the gap in the panel where he exitted the structure, backwards, in a sitting position. Already the repair droids were replacing the panel as he stepped back inside.

Bentre Stahoes was stood waiting for him when he stepped over the threshold. “¨Refreshed much?” He asked the dripping Zabrak. Quo shot him a look that most people would have run a mile from. Bentre chuckled to himself, turning away to rejoin the revelling.

Quo stepped forward, turning to his right, his right arm shooting out to his right from his shoulder. “What the....?” He turned around, circling to his left. His cybernetic implant made a right angle at the elbow joint, his forearm pointing upwards. He shook his head...... his arm was signalling to other travellers which way he was turning..... from state of the art machinery to an indicator in one easy move, could this get any worse?

He moved along the edge of the dance floor, towards the bar area. As he reached the corner and turned to his right his arm indicated his intention, promptly flattening an elderly couple who were dancing the military two step. In their supine position it was now a military excuse me. Quo carried on to the bar, this could become ridiculous, and there was nothing he could do about it here. Reaching the bar he ordered a Screwdriver. There was a curious clattering noise, and a spanner slid along the bar top towards him. A quizzical look crossed Quo’s face, he caught the spanner, and looked questioningly at the Bartender. “I never was any good with machinery,” he shrugged. The withering look Quo shot him made him pour a drink quickly, and send it along the same path as the tool had travelled. Quo downed it in one, slurping the last dregs with his drinking tube. Making his way over to the pianist he sat on the edge of the stool.

“Have you got a license to drive this piano?” he asked

“A...wuh.....the.....erm.......license?” Replied the bemused musician

“Yes, a license,” said Quo with a face like granite, “you can’t drive one alone if you haven’t got one”

“Er..... No,” came the stuttering reply

“Right, move up,” added the Zabrak as he shuffled the player down the stool. Looking at the music sheet propped on the piano’s stand he began tinkling the keys. The resultant sound was akin to a Steinway falling down a flight of stairs. Quo’s face frowned, confused, then the light of realisation dawned on him. Taking a knife from his belt he sliced the bottom part of the sheet from the manuscript. He took it and turned it upside down, his fingers again twiddling the keys, this time a lot more tunefully.

“Sorted.” He said, “Chinese arm, reads from right to left,” as if this was the most logical thing in the world.

Bentros, having watched all this from the bar looked baffled. “I’ll never understand you Quo,” was the only response he could find.

Leaving the piano seat Quo smirked, he made his way left, away from the piano, his arm making the left turn signal as he did so. Bentros found himself raising his own hand, immediately wondering why. That lunatic was catching!!

“Congratulations my Master, and yo u Bentros,” extending his prosthetic arm to the groom. Bentros hesitantly grasped the proffered handshake, unsure if the errant arm was about to fling him across the dance floor. “I must go and get this fixed,” he glanced at his right arm.

Tasha’Vel was watching from behind Bentros’ right shoulder, tears streaming down her face, her shoulders shaking as she laughed. “You sure know how to pick them, love.” Bentros chided her.

“I know darling,” said Tasha’Vel, “but he’s our idiot, and we wouldn’t have him any other way”

“No, you’re right, as always,” he replied, kissing her warmly. A crashing, cries, and a pair of thuds marked Quo’s progress from the room. Turning right towards the family House he almost decapitated a drinks waiter as his prosthesis continued to indicate his progress.

Tasha’Vel needed to pee, badly! And Quo needed more training, in more ways than one!!