In My Time of Need

[Ysmir]

---

"Eyes up, Captain. We've almost arrived."

From his position at the front of the drop shuttle full of Republic Commandos, Macen stood resolute. Gripped in his right hand was the weatherworn, leather wrapped hilt of the weapon that had seen him through countless conflicts, though this one, he thought, may certainly end up being his most memorable. Unlike the Commandos, who wore plated combat armor head to toe and hard sealed helmets, Macen adorned himself in nothing more than his combat suit and an armored respirator for protection from the spores. Captain Jigen rose from his seat and placed his helmet on, sealing the hardpoints and turning to the other men sitting within the dropship which rumbled back and forth from the fighting outside.

"Alright, men! On your feet! Drop down in less than thirty seconds!"

When he barked his order, the Commandos stood and began checking their weapons. Ammo. Spare ammo. Firing chambers clear. Triggers ready. Safeties disengaged when the drop down counter fell to twenty seconds. This was a moment that had been several months in the making, and Macen fell to his knees. He closed his eyes and felt the Force flowing, but it didn't flow on this world; Nar Shaddaa, now, was more of a maelstrom. He could feel it swirling about in utter chaos and somewhere on the edge, fleetingly, he could feel them; the Chorus echoed within the walls of his skull like an ever-present headache that had absolutely zero intention of fading. However, Macen shoved these instrusive thoughts out of his mind through sheer willpower. He gripped the hilt of his saber tightly, and as the dropship approached the ground, and the bay doors open, he stood and ignited it.

The valor of the Force coursed through his veins with all its might as the yellow glow of his blade washed over the ground before him when he leapt out of the dropship before it even hit the ground. In the courtyard they landed in, several Archeri had gathered in anticipation of their arrival; and Macen was ready. The Commandos fired from the drop shuttle as he acrobatically positioned himself behind one, and with three well-placed strikes cleaved two of its legs and its mid-section. The wretched thing screamed, and he could feel its connection to the Force scream at him in kind.

Behind him, two more approached, and he spun round to hack one of their arms off. As the blade sizzled through the Archeri's chitinous body, Macen stuck his free hand out to blow it back with a gust of telekinetic force which sent it flying into one of the nearby pits of Nar Shaddaa. With a flying twirl, he cut bisectionally through the other standing Archeri, and the two halves of its body twitched on the ground as it died.

Even centered as he was, and in the rush of battle that he usually lost himself in, Macen could sense the distress coming from all around. Several miles away, the Sith would be fighting to reclaim the Kalai Ri' Biro spaceport. Just over the horizon of skyscraping neon towers, the Republic and the Jedi would be infiltrating the Cerbozz Pit.

In his focus, he blindly blocked behind his head as an Archeri arm came slicing at it. Then, he spun, and cleaved clean through three of its spindly legs, before twirling his blade and stabbing it downward through the fallen creature's chest, holding it until it stopped moving. He stood and looked around the clearing they had landed in as the Commandos finished driving off the creatures.

"Captain Jigen, have your men conduct a sweep of the outskirts of the sector. I want every survivor brought back to this location for extraction." Macen spoke with authority and confidence as he disabled his saber, clipping it onto his belt. He blinked as he gazed around himself at the spores filling the air, and the ominous purple glow coming from the now-clouded skies, thick with the fog of battle.

"Affirmative. And what will you do?" responded the Captain while the Commandos broke off into squadrons of no more than three.

"Conduct my own sweep." And with that, Macen crouched and launched from his position on the ground with a Force-assisted leap, up to a nearby rooftop where he could see much clearer; a sight that he, perhaps, was not very happy to see. Far away, he witnessed fires raging without end, blaster fire going off into the skies, and explosions that shook the foundation of the Smuggler's moon. Never before in the planet's history had it seen conflict on this scale, a war that the former residents would not soon forget. Macen set off across the rooftops, seldom contested by Archeri that he would cut a blood swath through on his way. They were sentient, but held no respect for other life, and thus Macen felt he need not carry any guilt for destroying them.

Each and every building he scanned for life as he went along was utterly devoid, save for the Force-sensitive fungi who tried and failed many times to probe his mind with corrupting thoughts. About half a mile from the courtyard clearing that he had landed in earlier, however, he entered the entertainment promenade. There, he felt another mind amidst the chaos. It was troubled, resigned to its fate. Macen wasted no time in coming to a graceful landing on the ground nearby.

Just as soon as he landed, the familiar screech of the Archeri pierced his ears, disabling him for just a moment as another three surrounded him. He soon regained his senses and his focus, throwing his hands outward with a burst of telekinetic force that sent them skidding back. He leapt toward one, utilizing his knowledge of Ataru and of the creature's height to perfectly strike along the top half of its body as he sailed overhead. Then, he spun as he landed in a crouch, similarly bisecting it at the waist. He charged forward to the other two, throwing his saber forward and catching one in the stomach. He recalled it with the Force, causing the spinning blade to then slice back through its body and topple it to the ground. With a leaping catch, he jumped toward the last Archeri, slashing down through its shoulder and carrying through down to the ground. He stood and took a deep breath, spinning his saber away as the blade dispersed. He turned his head to the nearby bar.

He walked across the courtyard to the doors, which opened as he approached them. He cautiously made his way inside, curious as to whom may be taking shelter in such a place during a literal war. There, sitting at the bar, was a rather sickly looking male.

"I understand if you've had a rough day. But now really isn't the time to be enjoying a drink." Macen said to the figure, his brow raised as he awaited a response.

[Neology]

[googlefont="News Cycle"]

Rough day? The weeks and months since Teth had been, without hyperbole, awful. Imago scratched his jaw, green painted nails rasping over a new growth of beard. His other hand counted, one finger for each element of his sorry condition. He was hurt. He was sick – terminally, as far as anyone knew. He had most likely lost his Imperial Lady’s favor during his long absence. The service here was terrible, nonexistent in fact … Imago tapped his thumb with each of his other fingers, unsure what to do with it. He turned his head just enough to snatch a glance at the stranger. And there was a master Jedi addressing snarky comments to his back. That did it. Imago smiled wryly and tossed back the last silty swallow of a particularly astringent Felucian black cider. It also could have been worse. He was still alive. So was Zarene, last he’d known. The Lord of Strife had received some kind of marching orders from the Pristine Heart herself and he … Had not. They had found unlikely allies among the moon’s criminal factions, most notably the Exchange. Was that the right term, he wondered. If all men are thieves ... It didn’t matter. He stood up and turned to regard the strange Jedi. ”Now’s the only time, my friend.” With difficulty, Imago pulled himself over the counter. He perused the shelves, stepping carefully over the shriveled corpse of the former proprietor. Whoever they were, the body was colonized by fruiting gray-and-purple fungus. Slender fellow, thankfully. The smell wasn’t too bad by now. Without a doubt, the best thing about today was that it would be over soon. All of it. One way or another. ”All you soldiers, running around with breath masks and all that kit … Didn’t help me much on Teth, you know? Do you really think you’ll have time to die from the plague?” Imago made an abortive, triumphant noise in his throat, having found a likely bottle. He cracked open the wax seal and poured a generous measure into the cleanest glass he could find. After a moment of thought, he set the second cleanest glass on the bar, along with the bottle. He didn’t expect the Jedi to drink, but manners were manners. Even at the end of the world. ”What do you want, anyway?”

[Ysmir]

Macen had seen firsthand the effects of the Archeri plague upon a biological host. The end results? Hardly pretty. In a certain point of view, the worst fate imagineable that could befall the infected, oddly, was not perfect attunement. Sure, one lost their consciousness, their sense of self, their individuality -- but what they gained was blissful ignorance of anything other than assimilation.

What he saw before him was decay, a slow and painful unmaking of one's body. It made perfect sense now -- the will to survive was a rare and difficult thing when only death was in your future. Macen stepped forth into the dilapidated remnants of the tavern. Dried blood clung to the southern wall and a crumpled body lay in a heap beneath it. Spores filled the air, which Macen filtered from his lungs through the use of the Force. Were they not hellbent on pulling every sentient which drew breath into their hivemind, these spores might have held a particular beauty the likes of which was very uncommon. The way they glinted in the air, under the soft but dull lighting from the ceiling, was reminiscent of snow.

Now's the only time, my friend.

When the individual stood, Macen got a far better look at him. Tall, slender; well over six feet. However, Macen inferred that this certainly wasn't what he always looked like. The man was gaunt and sickly pale, a side effect no doubt of the fungi that ravaged his immune system. Macen drew his lips in, eyes scanning every dark corner of the room for a sign of movement as he stepped toward the bar. He turned his attention to the man as he spoke once more.

Teth, Macen repeated in his mind. In the early days of the Archeri conflict, a great deal of time was spent investigating the creatures. He rested his hands on the bar.

"Personally, I don't intend to die any time soon," Macen said with a measured confidence in his voice. His eyes peered down to the glass placed before him; he never indulged, but he figured he'd at least humour the sullen man as they conversed. Macen lifted the bottle and tilted the neck against the glass, watching as it filled half of the container. He set the bottle aside after and lifted the drink, though he didn't sip it yet.

"My name is Macen. And it isn't about what I want," he said as he brought the glass to his lips, tipping a measured bit of the liquid between them. It had a harsh but semi-sweet taste. As quickly as his system registered the alcohol, the drug was washed away from it just as fast. From his position in front of the bar, Macen could just make out the withered corpse of the bartender just by his new companion's feet. It was a grim reminder of the fate that befell almost all of Nar Shadaa. He returned his gaze to the man.

"I can understand if you're comfortable spending your last days among the dead, but there might be a chance for you to be saved. That's my job here." Macen took another swig from the glass, almost enough to clear it entirely. His face remained neutral as he placed it back down onto the bar. "You can continue your confab with your friend, there, or you can come with me and get off this rock. Even if we win, Nar Shaddaa is lost. There's a transport less than ten blocks away."