Cleansing Fire

[Rugs]

Captain Valara Kuolo scowled, not for the first time, as she peered at Af’El from the Regent’s command deck. The world had failed the Empire. It’d fallen to these vile Archeri — this so-called Chorus spreading chaos and death like the plague they were. To tear the Hutts apart was one thing, but that Af’El had failed in its duty to stand as a bulwark against threats to the Empire — it was sickening.

The remains of a small defense force — little more than some patrol frigates and destroyers — drifted listlessly in low orbit. They had, for all Kuolo knew, fought bravely. But they had failed.

Failure bore consequences, and now the world below would pay the price.

The titanic Regent lay at the heart of a massive Imperial fleet. All unauthorized travel to and from the system was unauthorized. Kuolo stood at the fore of the Regent’s command deck, posture knife-straight. A Nagai, her slender figure and gray skin fit well with her black Imperial uniform. Her jet black hair bore streaks of grey that started at the temples.

“Captain.” Her first mate approached from behind. Kuolo didn’t move. She saw his reflection bow his head slightly. “The ships are almost in position. We are on schedule to begin the cleansing in one hour, as anticipated.”

“Good,” Kuolo said. “Bring the Regent into position.” The younger officer’s reflection nodded. “Let the full weight of the Empire’s might remove this pestilence from our lands.”

“Of course, Ma’am.”

Oh, Af’El would suffer today. It was, in a way, the planet’s own fault. High gravity and a substandard atmosphere would make breaching the subterranean city of Quar’nah a difficult task, in the best of times. The Archeri presence on world ensured that these were not the best of times.

Things weren’t as bad as they could be for the world. I’d turn the whole surface to slag, Kuolo thought. The floor shifted slightly as the Regent’s giant subspace engines thrummed to life. But the Empress had ordered a strike on the city alone unless circumstances called for something more severe.

The Empire endures, Kuolo thought, grimly.

---

“I’m sorry, but there’s nothing more I can do.” Tsubasa sighed heavily, brow drawn down. “This... disease is not like any I’ve seen before.”

A Defel — strange creatures, they were — lay on the ground. He was dying. His fur was dull and matted, his flesh strangely soft. Even being near him, Tsubasa could feel something very wrong with his fading presence in the Force.

The same feeling of wrong cloaked the planet, as if Af’El itself were infected. It was very troubling--and that was before the Empire showed up.

After refusing an attempted payment and offering his sincerest apologies, Tsubasa slipped out of the old home and onto Quar’nuh’s streets. It was, compared to previous visits to Af’El, strangely quiet. The Imperial blockade was making it just about impossible for anyone to get out--even unlucky passers-by who just happened to be on world when they showed up.

Filter is holding up for now. Tsubasa wore a small respirator that covered his nose and mouth. It did well enough at blocking the strange pale powder that littered the place, as long as he regularly changed out the filters. A gift from Genthus when he told the oafish Mandalorian he was heading off to see if he could help the infirm.

I owe him something, he thought as he started to walk. If I ever get out of here.

”The cleansing of Af’El is scheduled to begin one hour hence,” an Imperial officer’s voice rang out over a speaker system they’d set up through the city. ”All persons still on world at this point are considered to be infected. It is with deep regret that we carry out this action, but your sacrifices in the Empire’s service will be forever remembered.”

“Yeah, right,” Tsubasa muttered. He walked to the city’s outskirts, rather than its crowded spaceports. The Imperial presence was slightly lesser there, and as more Imperial forces pulled back ahead of the orbital bombardment, Tsubasa figured it might open an opportunity to get the hell out of dodge.

Of course, the city’s outskirts were the more dangerous places, where some of the spiderlike Archeri still roamed...

[hugo]

       

Visarion was insane. Or suicidal. At least that's what his peers in the Cult of Mysteries must have thought when he volunteered for this mission. He couldn't really blame them for it either, as he wasn't entirely convinced that he'd make it back to Kaas City alive. But Visarion didn't join the Sith to entertain certainties. If certainties were his calling, he could have stayed on Coruscant and went on to become a mediocre Jedi with a head full of philosophy and powered by do-goodery and self-righteousness. No, he came to the Order for something entirely different. Something entirely different is exactly what he got whenever the Chorus arrived. Since Teth, the Cult of Mysteries had busied itself with understanding the Chorus' extraordinary connection to the Force. The Cult's sharpest minds were combing through the archives, desperately searching for some previously-untouched-upon tome with information about the Archeri. Visarion doubted such a thing existed. This...thing was like nothing else he'd heard of. Whole planets gone silent? Lost? Monstrous arachnids whose nature and origins remained mostly unknown? It was mind-boggling and so far unstoppable. Visarion, the probing intellect that he was, or at least thought himself to be, was eager to know more. Perhaps that eagerness was woefully misplaced, as Visarion was the first to volunteer when a communique distributed by the Grand Prophet's office called for a Knight of Mysteries to gather information about the Archeri on Af'El. It wasn't until he was fully briefed that Visarion realized how dangerous his task was to be. In order to better understand the Chorus, the Cult needed physical specimens. They were particularly interested in gathering the "crystals" the Archeri grow from their bodies and employ as weapons. He, with the assistance of six Imperial Marines, was to retrieve as many of these crystals as possible. As if the situation wasn't already difficult enough, he was also informed that orbital bombardment would begin shortly after his arrival. Great.

---

From the moment he arrived in orbit, Visarion felt strange. The blockade left its own mark on the city of Quar’nah, but there was a disturbing tone to the Force, like a low guttural groan that never ended. There was a foulness to it that Visarion had never felt before. The fear and despair that was swirling through the doomed city felt light in comparison. Even so, the streets were quiet. Scattered Imperial patrols stepped over the bodies of the dead and dying and the muted sobs of the survivors could be heard on every street. No one could see Visarion grimace behind the opaque visor of his power suit. He was flanked by two columns of three soldiers each, similarly clad in protective suits. Apparently this plague, or chorus, or whatever the hell it was, spread through the air, and respirators could only do so much. Once he had finally gotten his mop of a haircut into the cramped helmet, Visarion was convinced the discomfort of wearing what was basically an armored spacesuit was well worth avoiding the risk of exposure. They were on the outskirts of the city, en route to the last known location of a three man patrol that had recently gone dark after a series of distressed calls for backup. As grim as it was, Visarion actually perked up a little when he learned of this. If there were still Archeri lurking about, this was the best clue he had to their whereabouts. The further they drew from the city center, the more desolate the situation appeared. Here, the dead and few surviving stragglers were virtually abandoned. Left to their own devices. It was cruel really, and all very sad. More than once, the Sith passed the chitinous remains of slain Archeri, some so recently killed that they still oozed foul, tar-like fluid. The dead soldiers and civilians didn't bother the Hapan nearly so much as that. He had seen and done many horrible things before, but seeing the twisted and deformed bodies of the infected was visceral. Even so, they had an objective. Visarion ordered his men to go about the grizzly and difficult task of extracting any crystals from the dead Archeri. This proved to be difficult, as the crystals were nearly impossible to remove from the ends of their arms. Growing in frustration and painfully wary of the timetable, Visarion ignited his crimson lightsaber and severed the small, spiky arms. This method was quicker, and soon they had gathered a few small crystals. They went on in this way for some time, moving from what appeared to be a working class suburb to a derelict industrial park. Here, the Force was distorted. The low groan that had irritated him when he first arrived had grown steadily worse. There was something deeply malevolent about its presence, something far exceeding even the most bizarre and perverted episodes in Sith Lore. The entourage advanced a little into the park, when their leader stopped suddenly. Visarion jerked his head quickly to the left, then to the right, as if he heard something. Won't you come.... won't you come... and sing... with me  Suddenly, what was no more than an eerie ambience became a rush of voices, in many languages and of every variety. What the fuck. Do not resist, you will join us in our beautiful song.  Whatever he heard about the Chorus before, nothing prepared the Sith for such a sudden, invasive presence. Behind him, the Marines were perplexed at their sudden halt. Of course, they were Force blind, unaffected by the cacophony of song. Gradually, the song became louder and clearer. The sickening feeling grew unbearable. All around them, the still gray carcasses of the surrounding buildings began to stir. Here and there, Visarion caught fleeting glimpses of creastures, crawling or climbing like insects. Once the initial shock of the Song wore off, adrenaline sprang him into action. "Find cover, now!" he ordered the men, who instantly adopted a sense of urgency upon spotting the approaching Archeri themselves. Visarion ignited his lightsaber and tried to center himself in spite of the constant din of voices and song in his head. This was what this mission was going to come down to all along, he knew. As more Archeri came into view, it became clear that they were outnumbered and surrounded. There were at least two dozen Archeri in sight and he supposed there were countless more in the area. It seemed odd to Visarion, but the Archeri did not charge or attack, they merely milled around, climbing in and out of the shattered windows of the surrounding buildings. "Milord, what are they doing?" the Sergeant asked. Visarion's cold eyes narrowed invisibly behind his visor. "They want us to surrender." "Sir?" "Sergeant, failure is not an option. We will have to fight our way out." With that, Visarion ignited his lightsaber and assessed the unnatural spawn that was surrounding them. Taking a deep breath, he reached out with the Force and lifted up a nearby storage container. Sensing this, the Archeri began to charge them from all directions. With the jerk of his arm, the container tumbled to the right, smashing two Archeri against the wall of a building. Behind him, the Marines were firing from cover and trying to maintain a perimeter, which proved impossible as more and more Archeri appeared to charge their position. A larger Archeri, this one bristling with sharp crystals, charged him now, quickly darting from side to side and firing crystal projectiles. Throwing up a barrier to block the crystals, the Sith took advantage of the power suit's superior agility and leaped towards the beast, slicing off one of it's major arms with a hiss. He quickly spun around to parry a surprisingly strong and persistent barrage of jabs from the creatures many arms. It began to push him back, isolating him from the squadron. The next few minutes were a blur for Visarion, as a combination of the Chorus' incessant goading, building rage, and sheer desperation lead to a fevered flurry of parries, jabs, and slashes parsed with occasional telekinetic bursts to avoid being surrounded. His desperation only multiplied when force lightning, an undeniable forte, proved largely ineffectual against the beasts. Even as he cut down one Archeri after another, there appeared no end in sight, and he was tiring. This cannot go on. As he dueled a pair of smaller opponents, Visarion reached at them with the Force and siphoned what energy he could. Using the resulting, if fleeting, burst of energy and Force power, he cut one of them down at the waist and the other down its middle. The Sith then darted through the gap to join three surviving Marines behind an overturned speeder. Their constant barrage of fire had worn down the Archeri ranks, but depleted their ammunition. Worse, three were dead and another likely to join them if he didn't get medical attention soon. Visarion wasn't in good shape either. He was sure a rib was broken after taking a tough blow to his left side and he was coughing blood. Things went from bad to worse. Their position was pelted with a barrage of crystals, killing the Corporal and finishing off another, leaving Visarion and a single soldier. It was kind of funny in a morbid way. They had come here for crystals, and now they had more than they could carry. Visarion's mind was racing as he contemplated escape. They would have to run. "Let's go." Before they sprinted from behind cover, he was sure to recover the crystals they had gathered from one of the fallen marines. Throwing up a barrier to shield them from the initial crystal onslaught, Visarion bolted out of cover, heading to where the Archeri mass seemed the thinnest. He yelled a primal yell as he charged into them, swinging savagely in an attempt to carve a path back to the city proper. As his last comrade was cut down in their escape, Visarion prepared to make his last stand. He could no longer feel his arms or his legs, but somehow kept fighting, perhaps out of sheer will to survive. He fended off several before they knocked him down, swatting his lightsaber out of reach and and smashing his left leg. There, staring oblivion in the face, Visarion let go. He was just too tired of fighting it. The hulking figures of his demonic foes loomed over the battered and defeated Hapan. It was then that the Archeri stood up straight, as if listening for some faint, approaching sound. After an eerie five seconds, they suddenly bolted, away from the city in such a frenzied fashion that Visarion could hardly believe his eyes. Wha- Was he delirious? Oh. Right. The orbital bombardment. Great. Perhaps the Archeri sensed the impending destruction and were trying to get as far away from it as possible. Hardly mattered at this point, he supposed. Dead by Archeri, dead by turbolaser, dead was dead. Sitting up, Visarion tried to stand. Blinding pain shot up his injured leg, and every breath a reminder of a cracked rib. The situation was looking quite grim.  He was covered in blood and grime, and it smelled foul.  As best he could tell, there was nobody on this side of the city that could or would help him, and he didn't think he would make it far on foot. I guess this is the end of the road.

[Rugs]

Quar’nuh grew ever quieter the further Tsubasa drifted from its core. As the cramped space of the urban center gave way to less developed, rougher areas cut into the rocky underground, signs of the Empire’s presence faded. In its stead were reminders of the Archeri invasion. Large crystals — some as thick around as tree trunks — protruded from the sides of buildings.

The pale powder, still visible in spots the Imperial cleanup effort hadn’t quite reached in the city center, blanketed the ground in places here. A door left ajar to an abandoned residence gave Tsubasa more insight to the terrible price of Archeri conquest than he’d ever wanted — decaying bodies piled into a small living room with a thick coat of pale mold growing atop them. A strange growth, like a tree, was sprouting amidst it all, with white, twisting roots spreading all throughout the building.

Even his breath filter couldn't block out the stench of death. The Force itself felt diseased out here. Ifrit, gregarious and with an attitude as that was as flammable as the chemical stored in his tail, even seemed put off by it all.

I shouldn’t have come here, Tsubasa thought, mind heavy with regret. There’s nothing I can do for these people. What had he expected? That he alone could make a difference where millions — no, billions of others had failed?

Arrogance, he told himself. Foolish arrogance. And yet, was he to ignore the calling that pulled him here? The desire to do something to help?

Those were questions to answer later, he finally decided as he pressed on, carefully stepping around a dark, noxious-smelling pool of dark liquid that oozed out into the street beneath a closed door. Perhaps something learned from the trip to Af’El could be of use later.

If he could get off Af’El before the Empire burned everything down around him.

He looked suddenly to his side at a tremor in the Force. It was faint, at this distance and clouded by the Archeri presence, but repetitive. “Someone’s in trouble,” he muttered. He took off, dashing through the dust-coated streets as Ifrit launched into the sky from his shoulder.

The fight was over by the time Tsubasa arrived. Imperial soldiers lay dead, their armor — some with crystals jutting out of their armor, and others who had clearly been beaten to death. But for all the fresh death, one presence stood above the others. It was dark and twisted, but it wasn’t Archeri.

“You don’t seem to be doing well,” Tsubasa said to the armored man as he approached him. Ifrit circled overhead, scanning for signs of the Archeri. Bloodied, battered, and seemingly in pain, though Tsubasa kept his presence to himself. “Are you Sith?” He glanced back over his shoulder toward the inner city. “I don’t think you’ll be going very far in that condition.”

[hugo]

Visarion pawed aimlessly in the pollen and dirt.  Here he was, a mighty Sith Knight, once proud and magnificent, broken and defeated.  He was one to mope, and there was perhaps no time as justified for moping.  There was also resentment.  He let out a sigh, and blood speckled the inside of his visor. 

They had been utterly wiped out.  There was simply no other way of putting it.  Every breath was a sharp reminder of how badly the Archeri had beaten them. His talents, which had won the praise of so many on Korriban and Dromund Kaas, proved useless against them.  Even more relentless than the endless mass of warped husks was the deafening assault the Chorus launched against his senses.  It spoke to him with what seemed like a billion voices that was at once repulsive and foreign and sweet and familiar.  

The Archeri told him many things, mostly belittlements and propaganda, but it didn’t tell him why he had been spared.  It was a moot point.

Prone and pathetic was hardly the way Visarion wanted to die.  Slowly and with every fiber of his now very battered being protesting, he was able to prop himself upright.  Things didn’t look much better from up here.  The strange white pollen, disturbed by all the commotion of battle, had been scattered and was now falling from the sky like ash.  The whole galaxy was on fire, after all.  There was no stopping the Archeri.  Not unless the Sith were willing to carpet bomb every planet tainted by this sick plague to oblivion.  Either way, they were all going to die.

But how and when he, Visarion, would die became less certain when he felt a shift in the Force: a ripple here, another there. He was no seer, but whatever was out there was getting closer.  It wasn’t the Archeri.  They had left him to die once, he didn’t see why they would come back to kill a man who was already dead. No, this was an adept of some kind, neither Sith nor Archeri as best as he could tell.

It wasn't like he was in any shape to fight back.  He managed to sit himself up and lean against some rubble, but soon gave up on trying to stand.  He was exhausted and his arms, though relatively intact compared to his mangled leg.  His lightsaber was well out of reach, but he could see it among the rubble.  

When the newcomer finally came into view, Visarion looked at him boredly, as if his appearance changed nothing.  It didn’t.  They were still all going to die.  He was an Epicanthix, well built, if small.  He pulsed with the energy of those who could see the Force, and he had the stride of a fighter.  There was no telling how this unfortunate ended up on Af’El, though Visarion guessed that he wasn’t there to rescue wounded Dark Jedi. Whatever his motivations, they weren’t immediately hostile.  He always could have shot him.  

But instead of shooting him, the Epicanthix simply strode over and tried to strike up conversation.  The stranger couldn’t see the icy blue glare that met him from behind the faceless visor.  

“Just fine.” he hissed.  Why he was resentful to this perfect stranger he had no idea.  Maybe he had the right to be as resentful as he pleased on the doorstep of death.  He ignored the question.  It was obvious he was a Sith and even more obvious that whether Sith or not, he would soon be melted into the planet’s crust, like every other living thing in this god-forsaken hole in the dirt.  

Just then, as if to crown that thought, a faint sound rumbled far above and the ground shook, as if some great celestial titan had struck the planet with a hammer.  
 

[Rugs]

“Yes, I can see that,” Tsubasa said flatly at the Sith’s less-than-friendly greeting. “Far be it from me to offer help to a stranger in need, then.” Whatever pity Tsubasa might have felt for the man — or boy? he sounded young — threatened to evaporate as the Sith’s attitude came into focus.

Tsubasa could hazard a guess, from the corpses strewn about, that a Sith party had encountered a group of Archeri. He could also hazard, from the Sith’s battered appearance and petulance, that it hadn’t gone well.

Yet the Sith was alive. He should be thankful for that — the Archeri, from what little Tsubasa knew — did not seem to often leave survivors in their wake.

And while Tsubasa’s healing prowess was wasted against the Plague, he could heal physical wounds.

But only when wounded pride isn’t in the way, he thought.

Before he could say more, the ground above shuddered and rumbled with a distant thunder that sent a spear of cold dread through Tsu’s gut. Had the bombardment begun already?

“Well,” he said, looking at the beaten Knight from the corner of his eye, “Sith or no, it appears the Sith are now trying to kill you and everything else down here.”

He turned to look at the armored man, arms crossed over his chest as if sizing him up. “I don’t know about you, but plan to be turned to slag.” He paused, considering how best to stir the sulking Sith to action until a thought struck him.

“I could use your help. I can help you too, you know.” Tsubasa shrugged and looked the Sith right in the mask, where he thought the eyes should be. “Unless you’ve lost your balls. If that’s the case, maybe the Empire won’t miss you, anyway.”

[hugo]

Pain and resentment streaked his bright blue eyes sickly golden. Invisible to the world, his scowl hardened, stretching the thin white scar on the left side of his face down to his jaw. The pain remained, but the bleeding, wherever it was, had mostly stopped, and now he only tasted iron in the back of his mouth. The blood that speckled his HUD now had mostly dried with only a few long steaks obscuring parts of his view.

The Epicanthix’s tone was insolent and Visarion hated him for it. His hatred began to fester further as the reality of the situation began to set in: the stranger was the only one who could save his life.

With a battered ego and a broken body, Visarion was forced to admit that he needed help. For Sith, this was the ultimate sin. Visarion had been roundly whipped by the Archeri and allowed all the men under his command to die. He was now at the complete mercy of a strange adept whose motivations seemed friendly enough, but whose quality remained largely untested. This, not the leg or ribs, was the real cause of his agony.

But pouting was the behavior of children, and Visarion, at least after sufficiently sulking, was very much in the business of survival. This man, whatever his motivations might have been, was offering a helping hand and chance, albeit a very slim one, to escape oblivion. He’d best play nice with the other boys for once.

“You have a point,” he said, dryly but with less prejudice. “We need a plan.” After a moment of discomfort he remembered to give his name. “I am called Visarion.”

Even if he agreed that an effort to survive should at least be made, Visarion was immediately discouraged by the mounting obstacles that lay between them and the safety of space. First and foremost, the wounded Hapan still had a hard time moving his left leg, and when he did it felt his femur had been replaced with an active vibrosword. The pain was no trouble; he would use it to give him strength. Walking would be impossible without some kind of immediate attention, however.

They also needed a ship. Visarion had no idea why the Epicanthix come to Af’El— or why he himself had volunteered to do the same— but he guessed if the stranger had arrived in the last few days, it had to have been on his own ship. It was probably at one of the city’s spaceports, which were under strict lockdown by what remained of the Imperial garrison. That would be the second hurdle.

Finally, if he managed to limp to a working ship and get it out from under the surface, they would still have to contend with the full might of the Sith blockade force, who would regard them as hostile no matter what the transponder codes or their impassioned pleas claimed.

The duo were also on a time limit. Within hours, the Sith guns would punch through the planets surface and melt everything there into the ground. This was going to be a tall order, and he wasn’t getting his hopes up.

“I need a splint, or something.” He motioned to his leg. “Besides that, I can probably get as far as we need to.”

“I’m guessing you have a way off this rock?”

[Rugs]

”You have a point,” the Sith said, after some quiet moments.

”I know,” Tsubasa was tempted to say. But it had taken more prodding than it should’ve to convince the Sith boy he needed Tsubasa’s help. Superior as he might have felt, he knew when to hold his tongue.

“I’m Tsubasa,” he said with short, simple nod. “That’s Ifrit.” He pointed to the droid, still circling above them as the thunder echoed again and again overhead.

Visarion was right in that they needed a plan. Tsubasa had some preliminary ideas rolling around in his head, but none had progressed beyond the point of almost-panicked mulling for any opportunity to get off the doomed rock.

None had taken into account a Sith ally. No matter how temporary this agreement between Visarion and himself, it might open doors that would otherwise be shut, were the Matukai to attempt escape on his own.

“I do have a ship,” he said, kneeling by Visarion. “It’s back in the city, though. What of you? Did you come here on a vessel you still have access to or... Do you have codes we could use to slip through?”

Even if he did, the Sith garrison was supposed to be letting no one out, with the blockade still in effect. If they challenged the blockade, they’d have to fight, and that’d be tough with Visarion hobbled — to say nothing of whatever Archeri might be lurking in the shadows.

A thin piece of broken metal — debris from the battle that’d raged before—lay nearby. Tsubas pulled it to him with a tug of the Force and inspected it to make sure the ends wouldn’t pierce skin and that it didn’t carry any of the Archeri dust. He removed some gauze from his supplies.

“This may work,” he said, voice trailing off to thought. After looking at Visarion for a long, considering moment, he offered another idea.

“I can heal you, if you accept it. It’s better than taking the time to get you out of that suit and set a splint against your leg. And time is against us.” Tsubasa quieted a churning in his stomach. He wans’t in the habit of offering healing to Dark-siders.

But neither was he in the habit of dying over philosophical disputes.

[hugo]

That this Tsubasa was a healer was the first bit of good news Visarion had since landing in the system.

He nodded to the Epicanthix as he knelt. Visarion hated strangers and loved being touched even less, but present circumstances demanded some degree of pragmatism.

“I feared as much.” The stranger had a ship, which was something, but the point was rather moot considering that the Her Radiance’s fleet would make short work of any ship that made it out of the stratosphere. Even before that, they would have to get past the garrison, which had almost certainly locked down the central spaceport.

“There’s at least one Imperial transport with a hyperdrive at the main port, but the whole place is on lockdown.” He paused to consider it.

“We could try and get past the guards, though you should know they have strict orders from on high to deny everyone access, including myself. I doubt I’d get in with Darth Keres herself in tow, much less with you.” He coughed and a sharp pain went up his side.

The broken Hapan weighed what their options would be at the spaceport if they made it that far. Beyond stealth, their most obvious choice was to cut their way through the guards. If their ranks were as thin as they had been that morning and Tsubasa managed to get him in some form of fighting order, that would be feasible. He didn’t relish the thought of killing Imperial soldiers, especially after seeing six good ones die for no reason at all. But everyone here was going to die, and unless he and Tsubasa wanted to join them, they would have to get morally creative.

“Orbit is where we’re going to get fucked. Depending on how...extra-judicial you’re willing to be with whoever stands in our way, we can probably get to your ship or get our hands on another one. The problem is that they’ll melt anything that manages to get off-world, Imperial or not.”

Now that he was thinking rationally, Visarion’s disposition improved a little. They were still staring death in the face, but at least now there were options. Whatever his bruised ego may have dictated, Visarion was relieved that Tsubasa had come along. The Sith resented the fact that he needed aid, but he reasoned that the alternative was grim.

Visarion felt the adept’s work through his leg armor. There was a queer sensation up and down his skeleton, and he could only guess at what mysteries the Force was employing to mend his cracked bone.

His other injuries would have to wait. They were more painful than prohibitive, and pain was not always a liability for those that served darkness. The rib was a minor concern, but something was definitely wrong with at least one of his lungs. That must have been where the blood had come from earlier, he hypothesized hopefully.

Some time passed before the feeling in his leg ceased, and what had been severe pain was reduced to a persistent throb. In thanks, Tsubasa was rewarded with a curt but appreciative nod. He didn’t know if the fracture had been mended, or if this was some sort of temporary fix, but there would be time for a full consultation later, if doc and patient made it to later.

Visarion tried to stand, but stumbled. Gripping a mangled piece of durasteel rebar, he tried again, this time slowly, and was able to come to a shaky but relatively upright posture. He clung to the rebar as he made his first step forward on his good leg, followed by a gentler step with the left one. As he gradually transferred weight to the newly mended leg, the throbbing got somewhat worse, but the shooting pains were mostly gone. After a few more cautionary steps, he let go of the rubble and limped to the middle of the street, sizing himself up.

The Hapan was not in prime condition, but he could walk and, best he could tell, swing a lightsaber, a preferable situation to wallowing in self-pity while awaiting certain death. After a moment he turned to Tsubasa and jerked his armored head towards the city center. “To the port then?”

[Rugs]

Tsubas had never come to Af’El with the intention of helping a Sith. While he didn’t hate them, as many others did — they’d given him no reason to, personally — he knew their work and was hardly a fan. Yet as the Force flowed through him and into the wounded dark warrior, he found himself doing the first bit of real good he’d been able to accomplish since landing on the plague-riddled planet.

“I don’t like to kill,” he said simply. “But I can if it’s the difference between survival or death. My companion,” he nodded toward Ifrit, still circling overhead, “is more prone to causing chaos when given the chance. I don’t know your Darth Keres, but I suspect we can get in if we approach this right.”

And after that? Well, they could figure out escaping the system in one (non-molten) piece once they reached that point. One step at a time.

Healing Visarion’s leg to the point that he could walk was quick enough work. Fully mending, and bringing the Sith up to full strength, would take time and energy neither of them had to spare.

“That will have to do for now,” Tsubasa said as a pale glow faded from beneath his hand. He remained crouched as Visarion took his first wobbling, cautious steps and nodded when he was confident the Sith could move without injuring himself further.

“Yes, we don’t have time to waste,” he said, standing. Ifrit, noticing the commotion, alighted on Tsubasa’s shoulder. As the Sith and Matukai started to walk back toward the city proper, Tsubasa turned his attention to the droid. “How’re things looking.”

“The immediate area is clear, Tsubasa,” Ifrit said. “However, I have detected two life signatures a few hundred meters ahead attempting to flee the city.” The droid paused heavily, tilting his draconic head. “I do not believe they are regular life forms.”

Tsubasa frowned. “Archeri?”

“That is likely, yes.”

A sigh. In all his time on the doomed world, Tsubasa had never actually encountered an Archeri. He was, however, plenty familiar with their handiwork — the latest example of which walked a few paces in front of him. “You’ve fought them,” he said, leaving silent the fact that the fight had apparently gone quite poorly. “How much of a problem will two pose?”

[hugo]

Under his visor, the Sith almost grinned.  No, he didn't suppose the Matukai did like killing.  His less cerebral colleagues in the Cult of Strife were the real killers, but that didn't mean Visarion wouldn't get his hands dirty.  Fortunately, most people feared the Sith, and often fear was enough.  The silver glint of a hanging lightsaber had been plenty disincentive to foes past, but Visarion somehow doubted that intimidation would make much of a difference in their situation.

As for this Ifrit, the Hapan was intrigued.  He'd never quite seen a droid like it.  Its tactical uses were obvious, and Visarion made a mental note to ask more about it later under more relaxed circumstances.  Curiosity aside, he appreciated it being here.  Visibility would be king in getting back to the spaceport, as the crowded structures on either side of the street largely obstructed their less immediate surroundings.  

Despite a slight limp, Visarion was getting on surprisingly well.  There was soreness, but the sharpest pains were dulled.  Their progress through the working class outskirts of the city was steady.  The streets were distressingly calm.  On the way in, most of the locals had cleared out, but a few had remained.  There were widows hunched over their lost loves and babies crying.  There were the hurried voices about, spreading word of the impending bombardment.  But now? Silence.

At the mention of Archeri, Visarion had his lightsaber in hand, ready to ignite.  Two of them.  He couldn't say how many he'd cut down before. It had been far more than two.  Even so, Visarion had learned his lesson when it came to underestimating the Archeri. They were relentless, almost unstoppable.  They were either unaware of or indifferent to pain, as his force lightning had only marginal effect.   Some of them fought on with only half a torso and two arms attached.

What kind of threat were a pair of them? "Enough."

"They fight like machines.  Seems like they don't feel, and even without arms or legs, they will keep fighting.  I can see why you wouldn't take my word for it, considering, but try to cut them in half, or crush them if you can."

Here, the street was wide.  Stone edifices, now abandoned and their windows smashed, lined what had been an avenue of sorts.  Some sort of ornamental fungus grew in the center of a wide median.  Speeders and other objects in the street appeared to be mostly undamaged, save for the smoldering remains of a police speeder at an intersection about 50 meters ahead.  Visarion would have been near blind in the dim city with this natural eyes, but zooming in with his HUD, he noticed the charred and bloodied carcasses of several Defel policemen.  

"They have projectiles, crystals that come out of their arms.  At a distance, we should stay in cover.  I can throw up a barrier if we need to move, but they'll close the distance quick."  He stopped speaking then.  The now familiar stench of the approaching Archeri wafted through the Force so strongly that Visarion scowled.

As if on cue, the Archeri came bounding around the intersection, charging towards the men.  Visarion was able to extend his crimson blade and throw up a thin wall of energy just in time to shield he and Tsubasa from a barrage of exploding crystals.  Spores clouded the air around the invisible barrier, and Visarion dashed to the right, into the stone alcove of what was once an Yves St. Coruscant boutique.  Peeping from behind cover, he saw that the chitinous abominations had closed the distance to 20 meters, slowly advancing as they peppered their position with exploding projectiles.  

Visarion cred out to Tsubasa, "I'll take the one on the right."

Using a series of weak barriers to slow the crystals to a dodgeable velocity, he covered his advance over the shrinking distance.  He couldn't   quite run, but was able to manage a brisk pace.  Before long he was close enough for the Archeri to lunge at him in a leap, attacking more from above than from in front.  Just in time, Visarion dropped to the ground low enough to miss its massive body.  He turned around in an instant, slashing wildly and lopping the crystalline tips off several of its greater limbs.  He parried a vicious volley of jabs from the surviving limbs.  

Even as he cut deeply into its torso, the Archeri pushed on.  Visarion was on the defense an steadily losing ground, his aching body failing to keep up with the creature.  These creatures were relentless and unforgiving.  They had humiliated him before.  Like the violent tide, they kept pushing until they had broken him.  He had failed, committed the ultimate sin for the Sith.  Like before, it sang to him incessantly.  It sang sweetly, constantly inviting him to surrender.  Even as the world before him erupted into a flurry of violence and struggle, the Chorus serenaded him as if he was a little child, lost in the great emptiness of the galaxy and it was his parent, urgently but lovingly calling for his return. 

This was too much for Visarion.  The constant psychological assault, coupled with the unrelenting force of the beast, enraged him.   With a guttural cry and fueled by his pain and resentment, the Sith lashed out with the Force, taking hold of a nearby swoopbike and spinning it towards the Archeri from behind.  It sensed this a moment too late, and Visarion leaped to his left to avoid the collision.  The Archeri tried to evade it, but before it could do so the bike wrecked through its bottom legs and toppled it to the ground with a loud crack.  

Knocked clear off the ground and smashed into the median's curb, the Archeri appeared lopsided, as if it had been cracked on its right side.  It rose with some difficulty, never crying out in pain, but Visarion pressed his advantage and used his glowing red blade to chop its broken torso into two.

Even then, it fought on, both sections vainly trying to strike at him.  He quickly severed its remaining fighting limbs, and placed his good foot on its chest.  With another great cry he separated its head with a final arc.

Visarion took little time to gloat over his victory, and pivoted to aid his newfound ally.

[Rugs]

Tsubasa regarded the Sith’s warning with silent thought. He, admittedly, knew little of the Sith Order as a whole and only what a few minutes’ interaction could show of this particular member. Even so, the Sith were a proud order, and any foe that made one genuinely wary was a foe worth taking seriously.

Any foe, he thought with a sidelong glance at Visarion, is worth taking seriously. To do so otherwise would be to endanger himself and, by proxy, his strange ally.

“Very well,” he said quietly, peering through the dim light at the two shadow figures approaching. They were large — taller than Tsubasa or the Sith — and lumbered along with surprising grace for their mass.

Tsubasa could only surmise their many legs helped with that.

As they attacked, the Sith launched to action, throwing up a barrier to stop the crystals. Tsubasa made note of the lingering dust that hung in the air after the crystals shattered.

Visarion peeled off to take the Archeri on the right, leaving Tsubasa with the other. Ifrit took to the air as Tsubasa lurched forward, drawing on the Force to close the gap between the Archeri and himself. He ran erratically, darting this way and that to avoid the violet crystals the creature hurled at him as it hissed through the Force.

As the last meters between them closed to nothing, Tsubasa grabbed his wan-shen, extending and locking it to its full length with a flourish and twist. The motion gave way to an arching sweep that cut through one of the Archeri’s many limbs and the front of its chest as Tsubasa.

If the thing noticed the blow, it gave no indication as it lurched suddenly forward, clawing at him with long, point-ended limbs that he didn’t doubt could pierce him from one side of the other. He dodged, left, right, and ducked under a swipe that would’ve taken him off his feet.

A blast of the Force suddenly rippled out from the creature, in all directions, blowing Tsubasa backward and into the side of a building. He grunted from the impact, head momentarily foggy, but rolled out of the way of a trio of crystalline blasts that would’ve pierced his face from chin to forehead.

The Force returned to him and a moment later he was in front of the creature again. His wan-shen cut more of its limbs away, and the heavy counterweight slammed against the side of its pockmarked head with a wet chrunch. It staggered back, reeling from the force of the blow as Tsubas followed with more strikes that cut it, but didn’t kill it.

A blur of silver caught his eye and he jumped back, landing in a crouch as a burst of flame from Ifrit’s tail lit the beast aflame.

It struggled and writhed, but even it succame to the fire as it fell to the ground, burning.

“I can see how these would be a problem,” he said, glancing over his shoulder as Visarion approached. How many had that Sith endured before he fell? Perhaps he was more of a warrior than Tsubasa had initially given credit for.

He stepped forward, closer to the Archeri’s burning corpse. It stank, sweetly foul like rotting flesh. “It would be best, I think, to avoid them as much as we can.” He looked upward, where the distant rumble of the Empire’s bombardment continued unabated. “We don’t have the time to spare.”

[hugo]

Through a combination of guile and fortune, the pair managed to arrive at the spaceport.  After their run-in with the Archeri, Visarion and his new-found companion pressed on with as much haste as could be managed.  Their steady approach through central districts of the city were framed by scenes of increasing chaos.  The Sith garrison, it appeared, had fully retreated to the primary spaceport.  All semblance of order was lost.  Pillars of black smoke rose above the low skyline of the underground city, collecting beneath the earthen dome that was Quar’nah's sky.

The situation was far more desperate nearer the city center.  The streets were packed with the city's desperate.  Individuals darted about, vainly searching for their loved ones.  Families, many with small children, crowded nervously towards the spaceport.  Visarion saw more than a few of their number trampled to death.  He wondered if being trampled would be so much worse than being buried under a million tons of the planet's crust. 

A wide avenue lead to the main entrance, which was barricaded by sharp durasteel wire coils hastily deployed by the remaining garrison.  Behind it, a half dozen armed sentries shifted about anxiously as they peered out over a mass of malcontent civilians, desperate to escape the doomed city.  The assembled wept, threw insults at the soldiers, or begged.  Above the entrance, across a smokers' terrace, a pair of repeating laser turrets were being set up to deter the growing crowd, which by now surrounded the circular building.  They were reduced to a sickly silence with every reminder of the ongoing bombardment.  The shudders were becoming more violent, and Visarion guessed that the Sith hard pierced the upper layer of earth.  Already Visarion had noticed small rocks and debris falling from the sky through the corner of his vision.  They didn't have long.

Stopping a few hundred feet from the bulk of the crowd, Visarion peered at Tsubasa.  "We may meet our ends sooner rather than later trying to get through this mess."  He scanned the morass, biting his bottom lip as he thought.  They needed a distraction to get past that barrier.  He was sure there were side entrances, though he doubted they were any less obstructed than the one ahead. 

Another shudder.  This time a speeder sized stalactite fell, crashing a half kilo to the west.

"Tsubasa, what do you think of a little . . . civil unrest?"

[Rugs]

The push from the outskirts to the urban center was harrowing, even without more Archeri confronting Tsubasa and his unlikely ally. As they moved ever onward, the signs of the failed battle against the Archeri faded, with destroyed buildings and giant crystals giving way to minor damage and dusty coatings of that pale powder.

For all that the fading signs of battle should have been a relief, it only brought the gravity of their situation into crystal focus. The Defel--the short, broad, furry natives to the world--were in a panic, along with whatever unfortunate offworlders happened to be stranded, like Tsubasa and Visarion.

Tsubasa’s spirit hurt to see such turmoil — to know that most of the giant knot of people they approached from behind was going to die. He’d join them, if they didn’t find somway through.

He looked at Visarion from the corner of his eye as the Sith spoke. Though he’d seemed a whiny child at first blush, Visarion had held up well after the healing and more than carried his weight.

“I do not know that I like the sound of that,” he said flatly. Another rumble shook the earthen sky over the city, again knocking loose a chunk of rock that collapsed on a distant household. “However, I don’t see that I have many other options.” They could try to push through. Even with the Force at their call, they might get bogged down in the press of people trying to gain entry past the Imperial barricade.

That was to say nothing of the barricade itself.

“What do you have in mind?” He asked. “Though you’re one of them, aren’t you?” He motioned at the blockade. “Can’t you demand they let us through?”

[hugo]

The adept was worried about the innocents.  Visarion all but scoffed.  It was what disgusted him about the Jedi and the various light side-aligned spin-offs thereof.  They were cults of sacrifice.  Their adherents were nothing more than self-righteous drunkards in Visarion's opinion.  They were intoxicated by selflessness, addicted to the gratifying sensation of altruism.  It blinded them, and made them say and do foolish things.  For Visarion, this was a perversion of the Force; using its gifts to gratify the self by adhering to a manufactured virtue was vain and wasteful and depraved.  What real difference did their proselytizing and warm sentiments make?  Were these Defel any better off due to his sympathy? They were dead the moment the bombardment began.  How exactly they expired was of little consequence, particularly when one manner afforded them a much better chance of survival themselves.  

Visarion couldn't much fault his new collaborator for asking about the barricade though.  In a logical world, his uniform, credentials, and lightsaber, perhaps mixed in with subtle threats, would have probably gotten them anything they needed from the garrison.  Af'El, and the wider galaxy it seemed, was not a logical place at present.  Fear and destruction abounded, not from the alien threat that was on the precipice of overwhelming the galaxy at-large, or from the numerous foreign enemies of the Empire, but from above, from Imperial ships.  It was absurd.

Moreover, if the garrison was allowed to let anyone off the planet, he was sure they would have themselves fled long before bantha-sized boulders began falling from the sky.  No, not even Sith were going to be let through.  And that was assuming they could get there in one piece.   Minding the size and state of the crowd, he checked the bottom of his boot to ensure no gorey remains of the yet trampled had stuck to it.  If they were trying to cross the mass when the Fisto hit the Shan, then they were likely to end up pasty slush as well.

"I'm afraid not.  Even if we were to make it through unflattened, I doubt these men would provide exception on our behalf to the blockade."  Visarion closed his eyes, all the same to the world behind his battered helmet, and steadied his breathing.  The Force was alive in this place.  The stench of the Archeri was still there, if fainter than before, and the despair of the assembled sounded through the Force like the baying of hounds.  He shifted his focus to the soldiers.  They were not without despair themselves--they would certainly meet the same fate as the unfortunates opposite the barrier--but there was something more.  They were men of duty, of loyalty.  They feared for their lives as all feeling men do, yet remained steady as could be at the behest of their Empress.  Almost touching.  Their blind indulgence in duty was not much better than the willful blindness of the Jedi and their analogues.  And in this case, their patriotic hearts were an obstacle.

"No, they are under orders, and seeing as they've already forfeited their lives in service of such orders, I am doubtful they would succumb to the coercion normally so persuasive of my rank.  We will have to seize a ship by guile or force and, " peering at the now oscillating laser turrets, "it seems the opportunity for success by the latter has passed us."

He continued to scan the increasingly unruly crowd.  It would be nothing to provoke them to violence.  He didn't know if the Defel were a violent people, but they were a people, and all such were capable of horrendous savagery on behalf of either their own survival and that of those they love.  There were hundreds of them.  Surely many among their number, desperate for an t iota of hope for their young ones to make it off the planet, would leap at the chance to riot and seize one of the several starships within the port and attempt to flee.  

A distraction, in his view, would be the simplest and most effective way to get past the defenses.  He took no pleasure in the prospect of cutting down loyal Sith soldiers, but he was forcibly reminded by another shudder, more violent than before, that their ends would come regardless of his concern.  The starport terrace was not more than 20ft off the ground, and across the side street from it to their right was a three story motel.  If the crowd could be provoked so as to rush the barricade and draw the fire of the turrets and sentries, perhaps he and Tsubasa could call upon the Force to vault themselves from the third-story balcony of the motel onto the terrace and disable the turrets from behind.  This could allow the crowd to storm the spaceport and further distract the garrison within.  Amid the chaos, the pair could make it to one of the several transports Visarion hoped still remained and at least get out from under the crumbling sky.  

The blockade was another matter altogether, though perhaps the success of some of the Defel in getting off world could provide some distraction for the doubtless vigilant Sith blockade.  It was perhaps not the best plan, but it was the most direct in his imagination.  Sharing this plan with his counterpart, he asked,

"What do you say, Tsubasa?"

[Rugs]

Tsubasa had expected the Sith would see no help from his fellows, but he still felt his heart sink at Visarion’s confirmation. He wondered, momentarily, whether the young Sith would continue to show loyalty to an empire that would bury him under a pile of ash and rubble as readily as the rest of the people in the doomed city.

That is a question only he can answer, he thought squatting in the street as Visarion spoke on.

His plan was to sow discord and overwhelm the barricade’s defenders. In the chaos, they might slip through into the space port and get away before the subterranean roof caved in around them. “I see,” Tsubasa said grimly, frowning slightly. It could work; they only needed an opening. But more people would die, needlessly, in the chaos. That they would die anyway once the Imperial bombardment broke through the planet’s crust did little to soothe Tsubasa’s conscience.

“My ship is in there, if we can get through,” he said with a motion at the spaceport. “That’s better than hoping we can find some shuttle or open ship ready for use before the surface fails.” As if to emphasize their ever-closing window, the rocks above shook again with a thunder so forceful that Tsubasa felt the ground shudder beneath them.

“I do not like this option,” he said flatly. “But I do not know that we have time for another.”

They could attack the barricade outright. And probably die. Even that might be spark enough to light the powder keg and stir the Defel to a fervor. Tsubasa looked at Visarion for a long moment, weighing the battered Sith thoughtfully. At last, he sighed ,and nodded.

“Let us be about it,” he said wearily as he stood. “Time is against us. How do you intend to set this in motion?”

He only hoped he could find some way to repent for what was about to happen.

[hugo]

Now how exactly they would provoke a riot was unclear to Visarion. Option One was the most direct: he and Tsubasa could simply rush the barricade and draw their fire, perhaps emboldening the gathered Defel to join them. He didn't like that option. It left them exposed. Sure he could probably shield them from blaster bolts with his lightsaber, but the turrets worried him. The adept wasn't incapable, but Visarion doubted he would be much better off if the scene descended into a energy bolt deathscape. No, they needed to be clever if they wanted even the slimmest chance of making it to the ship and offworld.

He preferred to provoke the crowd into action and draw the fire of the sentries. The entrance area and surrounding streets were a powder keg. A stray blaster bolt from either side might just set it off and create the distraction they needed to get through. He relayed his prior observation of the motel balcony and terrace to Tsubasa. That would be the safest avenue inside in his estimation.

As for the provocation, the Sith had something in mind, though he knew his companion wouldn't like it. One of the arts of the Sith was manipulating the emotions of others through the Force. He didn't imagine Tsubasa was versed in what some viewed as a perverse art, though he himself had learned quite a lot from the Jedi and Lady Eltrixa about reading and influencing the thoughts of others. On Korriban, Visarion gained access to a treasure trove of teachings on using similar techniques to sow discord or provoke violence in hearts and minds of others. As he considered how he would actually pull this off, however, an obvious realization struck him. The droid. He'd nearly forgotten about the droid.

"The droid, er ... Ifrit? Is he equipped with weaponry? Perhaps we could perch up there," he motioned again to the motel balcony," and it can deceive the sentries into believing they are under attack? From there, we could jump across the street to the terrace. From there we can disable those laser cannons give these wretches something of a fighting chance. We'll need them to break the perimeter anyway to distract the sentries that are doubtlessly inside."

This was, with the exception of his Archeri encounter hours earlier, perhaps the direst situation Visarion had yet experienced. He was highly aware of the fact that he and Tsubasa, his unlikely ally, would join the millions of Af'EL in their earthen grave. Of course he was afraid to die, to be suffocated slowly or smashed quickly by the collapsing sky, but Visarion had faith in the Force. If he were to die on this strange planet with his strange companion, at the hand of his own country while in its service, then so be it. But this faith also gave him something like hope. Fearful and driven by a primal urge to survive, Visarion felt the rawness of the Force, not just in the pit of his chest where it usually manifested, but throughout his body. Even as his wounded leg throbbed and shattered ribs ached with every breath, the agony only drove him.

He motioned to the nearest apparent entrance to the multi-story motel. "Unless you have any better ideas, I suggest we act now."

[Rugs]

“Ifrit?” Tsubasa looked cautiously at the droid on the shoulder. “Yes, he’s armed.”

Ifrit’s holographic dragon wings, shifting in color from neutral white to vibrant crimson, rustled in excitement. Tsubasa gulped. “Why yes, Visarion,” the droid said preeningly as he sat more erect on Tsubasa’s shoulder. “I can distribute a chemical compound that burns with exceptional intensity and activates on contact with most known atmospheric compositions.”

“We already know it works here,” Tsubasa cut in. He dispatched on the Archeri that attacked earlier. “It would create a distraction but...” He put a hand to his chin in thought. The ‘Flames of Rebirth,’ as Project Familiar called Ifrit’s unique weapon, were as volatile as Ifrit’s attitude. “The fire is very difficult to extinguish, once started. If it spreads, it could hinder us as much as the garrison.

Again, the earthen sky above them shuddered. The ground below rumbled as more chunks of rock broke loose and crashed to the city below. A swell of urgency rippled through the Defel crowd. Tsubasa acknowledged, wearily, that the masses might force the issue unprompted as the final hammer blow drew ever nearer.

Tsubasa sighed. No other choices, and it was as good a plan of attack as any, on such short notice. “Very well. Go, Ifrit.” The droid flew off from his shoulder, following Tsubasa’s pointed gesture to the motel balcony.

From there, the matukai leapt up to the balcony; it was a simple matter, with the Force aiding him. Once they were set up, he gave Ifrit the go ahead--and told the droid to target sentry turrets, if possible.

As Ifrit flew off to engage, Tsubasa took a deep breath. He entered, for a few fleeting moments, a sort of waking meditation as the Force filled him with light and strength. It felt as though he was aware of every cell in his body at once, and in tune with every bit of life around him, from the Sith Knight a few feet away to the scared, angry Defel filling the street below and the grimly-dedicated Imperial soldiers standing guard at the barricade.

Then, as soon as the moment of hyper-awareness came, it passed. Tsubasa’s focus remained — he felt a clarity that could not come unaided. As he exhaled a long breath, he felt more at peace than he had since arriving on the doomed world.

“Let us hope this works,” he told Visarion quietly, “or we will not live to see the Empire’s rain of fire come down on us.”

As if prompted, a lone cheer rang out over the barricade. Tsubasa recognized Ifrit’s voice as the droid zipped down out of the air toward a manned sentry gun that stared down the middle of the broad street. Ifrit was a flash of silver in the subterranean light, red holographic wings outspread. As he banked out of his dive, peeling a way from the barricade, a geyser of liquid fire erupted from his tail. It clung to everything it touched, from the makeshift metal barriers to the bun, to the soldier manning it, whose screams echoed over the sudden silence.

Then all hell broke loose. The crowd surged forward as one toward the gate. Panicked soldiers opened fire — at Ifrit, at the Defel, at anything they could get a shot on. “Come,” Tsubasa said to Visarion as he stood. “The die is cast.”

He crouched low, as Ifrit again strafed the barricade, and exploded forward with the Force propelling him. He landed gracefully on the terrace across from the balcony and took his wan-shen from his waist. As a Sith guard rushed at him with a shock baton, Tsubas extended the weapon in a smooth, spinning strike. The weighted end smashed into the Sith’s thin armor with a crunch, and Tsubasa reversed the blow, letting the weapon spin ‘round him with his shoulders a fulcrum for the haft, and hit the soldier’s neck with the far end, just below the curved blade that tipped it.

More Sith took notice. Tsubasa extended his arms and a shield of shimmering blue energy sprang to life around him and Visarion. “Lead on,” told the Sith as blaster fire rippled against his shield. “Once we are through, I’ll show the way to my ship.”

Above them, the ground rumbled anew as Imperial judgement grew ever nearer.

[hugo]

Visarion braced for pain as the Force propelled him from the air. Athletics were not his forte, particularly with the aching in his leg growing with every step. But the Dark Side was potent when fed with the right emotions. The more primal, the better, and few ambitions were more primal than the drive to stay alive. With a terrible screech, he leaped after Tsubasa, his crimson blade coming to life as he sailed through the air with unnatural grace. Even as he skidded across the metal surface on his good leg to minimize the impact, the jolt of agony that raced up his battered femur made him sick. His bright blue eyes were flecked with a sallow amber, and what they saw was chaos.

Below, the Defel were in such a furor that the sentries, some of them aflame and writhing in agony, were losing control of the barricade. As Tsubasa fought the unfortunates upon the terrace, Visarion noticed a pair of soldiers, each with light repeaters, advancing from the interior towards them. Tsubasa's barrier came just in time as they unleashed a barrage of blaster bolts he doubted he could cover with his lightsaber alone. Seizing the opportunity, he steadied himself for a moment in the Force. That same, raw power that propelled him above the hellscape, seethed beneath his skin. It had been so long since his life has been in such danger, that such immediate power was available to him, and he had nearly forgotten the violently intoxicating sensation of ancient, dark power.

As the barrier fell, the soldiers were powerless to stop the sudden barrage of white lightning that crackled explosively from Visarion's outstretched hands. They were lifted off the ground, nearly to the ceiling of the exposed corridor from which they were firing. Pausing his onslaught, Visarion dropped them to the ground, where they fell, writhing as remnants of the dark energy left their prone bodies. Visarion advanced, drawn to their fear, their pain. He lifted on of them, this one barely alive, and drew him closer with the Force.

"No, no milord, please, we had ord-" the sentry was cut off abruptly as Visarion reached out to grab his neck, supporting his heft with the force as his arm trembled. He felt the man's presence, flickering as it was, and reached out with his mind to touch the soldier's. There was no longer fear, but dread. All hope was lost. The Hapan's grip tightened around the neck, which suddenly seemed more brittle than ever, and wrapped the man's fading presence with his own, probing at first, and then devouring him through the Force. Lightning, this time tinged with noxious violet, arced from his ever-tightening grip and jolted up through his arm. The man, youthful if battered, suddenly began to decay, falling to the ground as a mere emaciated husk within a man's armor when the invigorated Sith had his fill.

All pain and disability seemed to leave Visarion, and the ravenous presence delighted as it swelled within him. His bone, mended as it was by the care of Tsubasa, seemed to become whole, the jabbing pain in his torso muffled to a light throb. This was power, and he'd be damned if he'd see it buried under a heap of alien rubble.

The survivor had crawled to a wall, where he was propped up and observed incredulously as the Sith's sorcery manifested. Striding toward the soldier, he raised the crimson tip of his blade to the man's neck.

"You will lead us to our ship if you want to live." Visarion hissed, brushing the tender skin under his prisoner's chin with the burning end of his lightsaber to belabor the point. Before the soldier spoke, Visarion knew he would comply. The fear in his eyes was unlike the despair in his companion's: he still had hope. Perhaps that hope could get them through to Tsubasa's ship.

"A- as you wish, milord." Once the man struggled to his feet, he and Tsu followed suit, taking the corridor deeper within the spaceport.

As if he hadn't just invoked an ancient, malevolent magic to steal the lifeforce of a more or less innocent man, he looked to Tsubasa expectantly. "Where is the ship?"

[Rugs]

Tsubasa furrowed his brow at the barrage of blaster fire. Even for all his skill in the defensive teachings of the Force, he couldn’t hold out forever against a barrage of repeater blaster fire. Mobility was their greatest asset now, with chaos swirling around them. Remaining stationary would only allow more Sith to move up from within the barricade and surround them. It would only lose time as the Imperial fleet battered away at the crust above.

Remaining stationary was death.

He glanced at Visarion as power surged within the Sith that he’d not felt since meeting him. The barrier dropped and erupted from Visarion’s fingers ith as one. Ifrit zipped overhead, back toward the barricade’s front for another strafing run.

Tsubasa, sensing danger, turned to confront a Sith soldier charging them from behind while Visarion dealt with the two Sith who’d taken the brunt of his lightning.

The soldier appeared to an officer of some sort--he wore a crisp black uniform, instead of the more traditional armor of the regular troops. He lifted a slender pistol at Tsubas and unleashed trio of blasts as he realized he’d been spotted. Tsubasa advanced, undeterred. He threw up his hand, meeting each blast and knocked them away with confident, precise applications of the Force to protect them.

For all that the blaster bolts left charred glowing spots where they met earth or metal, it felt to Tsubasa like he was knocking away warm handballs.

The officer’s face blanched as Tsubasa drew ever nearer, wan-shen whirling for a strike. He tried to fire his handgun again but it was too late. A quick slash of the weapon’s weighted end to his side had him hunched over in pain. A follow up downward thrust to his back put him on his ground. Tsubasa kicked the gun away. It clattered over the terrace’s edge, to the raging throng of Defel on the street below.

With the officer dispatched, Tsubas returned his attention to Visarion, only to see the Sith with one of the soldiers in his grasp, draining the very life essence from his withering body. No longer focused on defending himself as he was, Tsubasa could feel the darkness radiating from Visarion; it cast a shadow on the Force around him, sending chills down his spine.

He’d heard tell of the power, known to practitioners of the Dark Side as a way to siphon the life from another to feed their own strength. It was an inversion of the healing Tsubasa practiced, that he’d lent Visarion shortly after meeting him.

A perversion, he thought grimly, like a parasite. Tsubasa gave Visarion a look that could have bent durasteel. It didn’t fade by the time the Sith looked at him, hostage soldier in hand.

They needed each other to survive; that did not mean he had to approve of the Sith’s methods.

“My ship is not far,” he said, with a harder voice than he meant. “It’s in one of the spaceport’s first bays once we’re on the other side of the barricade.”

A distant rumbling, starting low and growing in fervor, shook the city. The ground rumbled with such intensity that Tsubasa felt the building beneath them tremble and shutter as windows shattered and spilled to the street.

Far away, at the city’s edge, a massive slab of the earthen ceiling gave way and crashed to the ground in an avalanche of dust and smoke. Tsubasa’s stomach twisted around itself at the sight. The Defel rioting below screamed with renewed vigor.

If there was any blessing, it was that he could see no fire, no burning plasma following the cave in. Not yet.

“We must hurry,” he said. Ifrit passed overhead and alighted on Tsubasa’s shoulder at a signal from the Matukai, as the group pressed in toward the ship.

On the street, the Sith line broke and the Defel spilled through like frenzied ants.

[hugo]

Perhaps the sudden indulgence in the direct energies of the Force had made him drunk, but Visarion felt an almost pleasant sense of conviction. The Matukai would be perhaps surprised to find that he, and many Sith in fact, placed every bit as much faith in the Force as their light side counterparts. They did not place the same importance on self-limiting dogma or blind indignation, but instead embraced the Force for what it was: both dark and light. What the haughty ideologues of Coruscant or the other Jedi-oriented Force orders painted as heresy, he absorbed as enlightenment, as power.

"Excellent," the suddenly sanguine Sith said, letting his philosophical ruminations rest and ignoring the pointed disgust of his companion. There would be time to talk religion later. Hopefully.

He hoped the ship was close. Below the din of discontent only grew stronger. It wouldn't be long before the throng of petrified survivors forced their way into the main docking bay, at which point it would become a gory hell-scape. The skeletal garrison was struggling to maintain order even before they arrived, so Visarion wagered they would not be able to hold the perimeter for long. They would have to be swift.

Visarion's main concern shifted from finding the ship to the increasingly proximate orbital bombardment. They were more or less secure from falling debris in the spaceport, but the Hapan feared a collapse at the wrong place could cut off the main portal to the surface and thus their only hope of escape.

From the terrace, the duo followed their unwilling guide inward toward the central docking area. It was not a terribly complex layout, but they did pass several small groups of soldiers, undoubtedly rushing toward a vain defense of the compromised perimeter. Yet now they passed more or less unmolested. Signs of battle all over their bodies notwithstanding, the troopers either didn't notice them as intruders or made the calculated decision not to interfere with the lightsaber wielder in Sith armor and his companion. Whatever the reason, Visarion was relieved not to be delayed by more slaughter, even if the darkness now churning wildly within him craved greater destruction.

It didn't take them long to reach the central port's upper level observation deck. From there they could see the sizeable, circular docking area. It housed a number of ships, mostly Imperial shuttles or troop carriers, but also several freighters of apparently civilian origin. Directly across from them on the deck, a group of soldiers were preparing to make a last stand, their rifles trained on a point below where Visarion and company were standing. From that he surmised the Defel had broken through, and were likely slogging their way through the entrance area into the spaceport proper.

Perhaps it was the opportune distraction they would need to get off the ground. "Which is your ship?"