Return of the Light

House Odan-Urr
Return of the Light

Prologue

New Tython
Menat Ombo
Memit District
37 ABY

Fireworks lit up the evening sky of Menat Ombo as the military procession marched, their parade carefully orchestrated. Moving in unison, four hundred men escorted a huge, wood-and-straw mock-up of a Gand Jedi. Its robes, made of thick brown burlap and tan cloth, flowed in the wind as the soldiers to each side readied flamethrowers.

From atop his floating dais, King Thuron stood tall, his black robes as striking and ornate as the glittering crown atop his head. Below, General Alek Mirr pushed down the urge to walk away in disgust. All these credits later, He thought to himself, And we're dancing for a madman.

Mirr watched as the festival - the Burning of the Gand - commenced. The soldiers set flames to the robes of the effigy, which quickly lit up. A series of small charges inside went off, causing the structure to crumple in on itself as it burned, before fireworks exploded out of its hollow frame and into the sky. Alek watched as the soldiers stood and cheered, each happy to collect the ridiculously large paychecks they were getting and sing the King's tune.

He couldn't help but sneer; the lightsaber scar across his face twisted with the motion, making his deformity even worse than it truly was. The men had no idea how bad things were. Thuron was looking at the soldiers; Mirr was looking at the people, ragged and dirty, standing in forced rows behind the barricade. They had looked broken and destitute before; now, with rumours about the prison break spreading, they were getting disgruntled. Defiant.

Right on time, Cy's platform floated down and the King stepped down the ramp, careful to make his boot heels click. "General," He said, his tone ridiculously regal, "I assume you are enjoying the festivities?" He stepped on Alek's speeder, and the two set off toward the Palace.

"If I can be frank, my Lord," Alek replied, careful not to irritate the man, "I'm not sure I truly understand it. I get hating a Jedi, but this Ji must have really burned you."

"He did indeed, and he died for it. I set off the explosion myself." Cy smiled, the madness in his eyes glinting. He'd gone from a simple cult leader to full-blown insanity with every loss the Monarchy had suffered. "Hence the fireworks. Did you see how the people cheered?"

"I did." Alek replied carefully. The last one who'd pointed out the growing tempest had been cut in half by that damned lightsaber Thuron insisted on wearing. It wouldn't be a problem soon, though; Cy himself had ensured that. "Are you ready for the demonstration?"

"Indeed. Show me your Elite Guard." Cy replied, smiling. "Show me these 'Jedi-killers.'"

They disembarked at the dungeons, heading down the steps. Mirr looked around. This had been, before the hasty construction of the looming fortress above, the catacombs of Ooroo Abbey. Now, the addition of a few chains, rayshields, and torture instruments had made it into a place of horror. Mirr had heard that the Jedi could feel the past, and sense old pain; after what the bastard Morotheri had done to his face, he hoped that it was true.

Into the deepest levels they descended, into the arena that had been prepared. Cy took a stand beside Mirr at the edge of the balcony above, as a pair of armed guards forced a bound Kel Dor to his knees. His robes were filthy and his skin bruised and cut, but otherwise he was in perfect health - only shock cuffs and a collar kept him at bay. Carefully, they set the lightsaber they'd taken from him on the ground beside him, before retreating and closing the rayshields behind them. Alek nodded, and they pressed the button to deactivate his cuffs and collar.

Standing slowly, rubbing his wrists, Tur'el Sokar stood. He looked up at Cy, drawing his lightsaber to his clawed left hand with the Force; its blue blade lit up the chamber. "Thuron. I did not expect this." He said, his voice as hard and resilient as ever. The past year of torture hadn't broken his spirit; he was the perfect test subject. "Are you here to surrender?"

"Oh no, Jedi," He replied. "I am here to watch your fate."

Before Tur'el could reply, a pair of men in black uniforms entered the chamber. Each wore full body-gloves, complete with faceless helmets. Their armor was light except for thick metal gauntlets and greaves, strikingly Mandalorian in design, and each brandished a stun rod and a vibroblade. The Jedi reached out to their minds, only to be rebuffed and surprised; the minds of each were too fast, and too thick behind a cloud of deep fortitude. They had been trained... and altered.

Alek nodded to the men below. Their armor mirrored his; where their necks and faces were hidden, the back of his hair disguised the scars of implantation. "Begin."

For a moment, the three men stood in stillness. Then, the pair advanced as one, striking at Tur'el. The Jedi flawlessly dodged both, a rolling jump bringing him alongside them before he launched himself at the pair. His blade came in, thrumming and hungry, striking too fast for the human mind to keep up; impossibly, their gauntlets met the weapon each time, bouncing it back as if it were made of wood. Catching his weapon between the two, one of the men launched a boot into his gut, forcing him to roll back into a defensive crouch.

"Mandalorian iron," The Jedi said calmly, eyeing the two anew, "And impossible reflexes. What are you?"

"Living proof," One of the men hissed, his voice menacing behind the helmet's vocoder. "Jedi aren't the only ones who can fight."

The two rushed Tur'el again; he battered one back, each punch and knee deflecting saber blade with beskar. The second advanced as his comrade fell back, only to be gripped by the Force and hurled against the wall; before Sokar could wound him, the first attacker renewed his onslaught. The Jedi's blade sang and thrummed as it struck, again and again, Force-guided swiftness deflected by iron and reflex enhancements. He would attack, and they would dodge and feint; he would defend, and they would overwhelm him. He brought his blade down in a vicious strike, crashing against armguards again and again before pushing down on his foe, forcing the Jedi killer to his back. Sparks of Beskar, superheating with prolonged contact, began to fly.

Then, before Tur'el could react, he felt a sharp pain in his back; the vibrating knife tore muscle and tendon as his foe pulled it out, eliciting a grunt of pain from the Jedi. Slowly, he turned to face his foe, blood staining his dirtied robes.

"Weak," The Jedi killer said, no doubt grinning behind his mask. "You'll die today, Jedi."

"If I become one with the Force today," the Kel Dor responded, "I'm taking you with me."

Leaping at his foe, the Jedi struck and slashed, grazing the arms and sides of his foes. The second attacker struck, only to catch a telekinetic blast that hurled him into the wall; Tur'el was on him before he was ready, forcing him to stagger back and wait for assistance. Furiously, the trio danced, the Jedi holding his own against both; burning lines began to glow across the sides and limbs of the killers, as stunning strikes and slashes made muscle sieze and bloodstains grow on the Kel Dor.

Finally, the end neared; Tur'el's saber was pushed aside and a knife found his ribs, eliciting a growl of effort as he grabbed the man's neck and headbutted him. He cursed, rolling backward as his visor spiderwebbed with cracks and fissures, but his ally brought his baton across the Kel Dor's thigh and stabbed his own blade into his side. Tur'el brought his saber across, slicing the stun baton in half and delivering a slower kick to the man's knee; his peer threw his damaged helmet aside, ducking in to shove a blade up and into Tur'el's armpit. Choking on blood, watching it mist from his rebreather, the Kel Dor sank to his knees as a stun baton bashed him down, before being forced down to the ground. Panting, raggedly trying to breathe through bloody lungs, the fallen Jedi looked up through clouding vision.

Cy Thuron strode forth, his lightsaber coming to crimson life in his right hand. In his left, he pulled the Kel Dor's own blade up, igniting its blue glow. Crossing the two, their points digging in on either side of his neck, the Sith looked down on his fallen foe with a smile. "Any last words?"

"We will return," The Kel Dor rasped, coughing. "The Jedi are coming back."

"Don't you see?" The mad King replied, dragging the blades across the Jedi's neck. He placed a boot on the severed head, staring down at it as it smoked. "I'm counting on it."

Week One
Six Weeks after Purity Rock

New Tython
Sanulu Coast
Dac Compound
Prison Chambers

Solid, booted footsteps echoed through the durasteel walkway above, the soundwaves that announced them hitting the water and warping, their tone changing to muted, warbling tones. They went toward the doorway, and then halted; the guard above inspected the water, reading his heat scanner, before turning and heading back for the chambers. Bilghul stared up at his blurry, indistinct shape and mentally cursed the man; he didn't even care about the elderly down here, or the infirm. The Mon Cal were all just fish to him.

The Chairman of the Elder Council was just one of the thousands of Mon Calamari cooped up in these cells, held beneath the waters kept within. The prison chambers of the Compound were huge, round, and smooth; built of durasteel, each was filled halfway to the brim with water, with only a grated walkway above for guards and personnel to walk across. Tiny slits beside the walkway drained water from the chambers when the level grew too high, while pumps poured water out from the ceiling like waterfalls. The rounded doors each bore one thick transparisteel window, and were fitted with blast doors; even if the prisoners below escaped their cells and made it up onto the walkway, the bridge was too narrow for them to group together. Any escape attempt would have been futile; a handful of shooters on the other side could keep the entire host of Mon Cals at bay.

It was an ingenious design, simple, elegant, and effective. That made it all the worse for Chairman Bilghul, as that ingenious design now held his people.

Some had been spared imprisonment; many had been beaten, coerced into servitude, while the vast majority of the Mon Calamari had been forced to surrender. They were a sensible people; the Elder Council knew as well as the average Calamari did that if they had resisted, their people would have been massacred. It was better to live a slave than to die for nothing, and had they done so, the entire Compound likely would have been reduced to flotsam. Weeks later, a contingent of fifty thousand mercenary soldiers had arrived, calling themselves "Thuronians" and turning the Compound into an oceanic base of operations. With it under their control, and forces deployed here, they effectively had a strategic reinforcement point for the entire planet.

"We should have let the Jedi in," Bilghul growled, his voice echoing but comprehensible; unlike Basic, the Mon Calamari tongue was perfect for acquatic speech.

"Come now, Chairman," The echoing voice of Mughim Viik echoed from behind him; a Quarren, one of the minority population on the Compound, he'd defied the odds by rising to become the Council's General. "We agreed not to let them in. The Jedi would have positioned soldiers here, the same as Thuron."

"At least they wouldn't have garrisoned the entire damned Compound!" The Chairman retorted, looking up at the walkway. "We would have had a chance, then. Our warriors might not have been caught off-guard."

He gazed out, past the rayshield and into the murky depths before him. Hope had all but left him; his people had chosen to ignore the outside world, rather than to deal with it. It had cost them dearly, and now, no Tythonian Mon Calamari would ever again be free.

His musings were cut off, as a spike of glowing blue light tore up through the durasteel with a bubbling hiss. Drawing around in a wide circle, the edges so hot they glowed for a moment even below water, the blade carved an opening before - without even a wave - the durasteel circle blasted forward. Dark shapes poured up and into the chambers, foremost among them the one with the glowing weapon. A lightsaber.

The blade deactivated, silent below the waves, as his dark form shot upward and out of the water; the guard above's footsteps became erratic, stopping for a moment before his armored body fell into the water, a knife of bone jammed through his visor. Blood poured into the water, leaving a trail of red away from his sinking body.

The Jedi leapt back into the water, backflipping into a perfect dive; quickly, the Gungan swam up to Bilghul's cell, as his comrades did the same with his peers. "Come on," Kah's deep voice echoed through the water. "Wesa takin' this city."

"Seems you'll get to prove your point, Chairman," Mughim chuckled, as they swam behind the gungan. Bilghul smiled; for all their brilliance, the chamber's designers had never expected a Jedi.

Dac Compound
Command Center

Loud blasts echoed from outside the walls as the door slid open, as Morris Neer ran in; clad in his bathrobe, he looked to his command staff, three humans and a Mon Cal, and snapped at them. "What in the blazes is going on out there? I demand-,"

The blast cut his words off short, as a bomb from a passing fighter blasted a hole into the Command Center's walls. The blast hurled Neer backward into the wall, smoke pouring into the domed room and filling his lungs. Coughing, he looked up to the hole, as a TIE fighter roared past - tailed by a pair of X-Wings. Outside the window, only one word described what he saw: War.

An Assassin-class corvette floated in the sky above the Compound, as starfighters whizzed back and forth overhead; the domed buildings and landing pads of the Compound came under fire as bombers turned defense towers and Thuronian garrisons to ruin, the soldiers within firing back with all that they had. Smoke rose over rounded towers and floating platforms, as on the beach below, a storm of soldiers and armored vehicles swarmed toward the central Compound. It was impossible; there had to be hundreds of thousands of them down there.

Some of them ran in disciplined ranks, their leaders' glowing weapons identifying them as King Thuron's hated enemies, the Jedi; the rest of them were, to a man, Harakoan. The escaped prisoners. How many of them did Thuron have?!

Before he could finish his thought, several robed mean leapt up, landing within the chamber; Revak's lightsaber blazed to life in his hand, its blue glow thrumming angrily in his hand. "Morris Neer," He said, pointing the blade at him as his Jedi strode toward the command staff, "You are under arrest. Come quietly, and this all ends in peace."

Neer yelped in terror, his face going pale as he ran for the door. Slapping the console on the way out, he heard the blast door thud, running for his life as Revak's blade punched through it; deep down, he knew he'd already lost.

Only one thing remained - escape.

Odanite Beachhead
LAAT/i Landing Craft
Odan-Urr Summit

Engines thundering, the landing craft swept overtop of the city, and A'lora had only one reaction to what she saw. Her heart filled with sorrow, and righteous anger.

The domed buildings and arching bridges of the Dac Compound rose from the oceans off Sanulu's coast, marred by the installation of landing pads and turret weapons that now smoldered and burned. Everywhere, on streets and within buildings, Thuronian forces threw up beachheads and navigated repulsortanks to defend; aesthetic gardens and coral formations fell victim, as the thoughtless occupiers tore them down or blasted them aside. Running to face them, Kotahitanga-Unity Defense Force units established order ahead of mobs of Harakoan tribesmen, armed and armored in a mismatch of gear taken from pirates, oppressors, and Brotherhood units in the past year. She knew the cause of this battle, knew that this station was vital to Thuron.

Still, she wished there was another way. Looking toward her, Liam smiled, his hand clasping her shoulder. "Be at peace, Aedile," He said to her, an ancient wisdom to his eyes. "There is no death; there is the Force."

"Yes, Quaestor," She replied, nodding. Her wrist comlink beeped; holding it upward, she saw Revak's holographic shape appear in glowing relief, four inches tall. "What's the situation?"

"We've captured the command staff; one of their number went rogue as we entered, and joined us." The Sentinel replied. "Ooroo is seeking him and going after Compound's defenses. I've recieved word from Kah; the Council is free, and the Disciples are now moving to arm the rest of the people."

"Good. Maintain com silence unless absolutely necessary," Kituri replied, shutting hers off. Their dropship lurched to a halt, its doors opening to reveal the scenes of war before her; Harakoan positions and KUDF armor fought their way up the beach, inch by inch, as Thuron's forces amassed behind the wall.

Her green blade came to life, as did Liam's; the soldiers on either side of them ziplined down, and the two Jedi shared a nod as they leapt into the fray.

Week Two

Dac Compound
Odanite Command Tent

Mon Calamari and Harakoan soldiers walked through the streets, as Compound warriors once again patrolled the streets and oversaw clean-up efforts. Those Thuronian soldiers who'd surrendered, rather than fleeing or dying, were being marched away; they'd be held in ruined buildings, pending trial and sentencing. Bodies were being dragged from the streets, as civilians began to join in the clean-up efforts. For the first time in weeks, the people moved about, unafraid of the men outside.

Liam smiled a weary smile, as he looked upon the clean-up efforts; much of the Compound had been damaged, or destroyed, but they were free again. He looked to the Quarren across the table. "Do you accept our terms?"

Muughim Viik's mouth-tendrils shook as he warbled a reply. "The late Chairman, rest his soul, may have trusted you," He said, cold and impersonal, "But I do not. How do I know this is not some act?"

"It is peace," A'lora said harshly, looking on the man. "Are we not at war?"

"We are," The Quarren replied, "And we continue to do our part. But we will not be servants to some puppet government in Menat Ombo. We are free, and will fight for that freedom."

"Quaestah," Kah's deep, baritone voice interrupted, "Dere be annudah' way. Dey wantin' independence? I say, we be givin' it to 'em." The Gungan Rollmaster's blade and bone knives hung at his sides; the hilt was spotless, the knives stained red with blood. Liam knew it to be a cultural thing. "Let 'em speak fah demselves, and support dah Treaty on dey own."

"Perhaps," Torun replied, an interested look on his face. "And should they violate the Treaty, they would know that the other signatories would put them back into line? They would accept these terms?"

The Quarren thought for but a moment; a strategist, he was as decisive as he was dedicated. "We would. We will sign your Treaty... provided these terms be presented to every colony."

Already, making allies. And people wonder how he climbed so far. The aging Jedi extended a hand, which the Quarren shook; with a smile, he looked upon the Quarren, respect in his brown eyes. "You'll make a fine Chairman indeed."

"That," Viik replied, "Is for the Council to decide."

Liam nodded, before turning from the table and looking over the taken city. The sun was setting, its red light casting a beautiful sheen over city and ocean alike; even in ruins, the Compound had its own sort of beauty. The beauty of freedom. Turning, he went to attend to his Jedi, to debrief them.

The day was theirs; the war was still far from done.

Menat Ombo
Palace of Thuron
Courtyard

The messenger screamed as he was hurled backward against the courtyard wall, his spine cracking at the bottom of his ten-foot fall. Looking up toward Thuron, shaking, his voice quavered as he screamed. "N-no... No!" The red blade slashed his head in half, as the seething King turned to face his servants.

"Bring me my General!" He snarled, saber still lit. "Now!"

"Why, so you can kill me, too?" Mirr sneered, leaning against the wall nearby. He'd been training with his men for months, ready to take down a Force user; with them positioned on the walls, he felt safe dropping the lapdog routine. "The last thing you need is one less Officer."

"Damn you!" He roared. "You said the Jedi were weak. Now, my prison and my island are theirs. I demand an answer!"

"You're in no position to demand anything." Alek smirked. "The Jedi have obviously rallied forces to their side over the past year. This changes nothing; we still have the upper hand." And for the record, he thought to himself, it was you who said they were weak. "The Governors have been alerted, and their defenses are ready; they will not surprise us this time."

"Good. Destroy them." Cy snapped, stalking away, blade still ablaze. He had a bad habit of carrying it when enraged. "And General... do not fail me again."

The General couldn't help but snarl at the madman as he strode off. No credits are worth this.

Vard Mislu
Call of Freedom Squadron
Bombing Run - Thuronian Entrenchments

The shadows of Y-wings swept the broken ground, and Turel Sorren looked down upon hell.

Below, the colony of Vard Mislu smoked, wreathed in flame and blood; always a colony infamous for being singular and independent, the people had been quietly resisting Thuron for months. With the arrival of the Jedi, that resistance had become full-blown rebellion. The streets that Turel looked upon were filled with corpses, some of them colonist, others Thuronian. Entire blocks had been levelled, as repulsor tanks and light walkers roved between them; in other places, houses, squares, and other architecture had been turned into garrisons and gun emplacements for both sides. Even now, tanks ripped apart houses on one side of the street, only to have people from the other side set off makeshift mines beneath them.

"Form up, Freedom, He said into the comm. "We've got to take out that artillery column. Be ready; anti-air ahead."

"Roger that, Freedom Leader," The voice of Edgar Drachen - Freedom Two - replied to him. He grinned; the pair had been like brothers since their Initiation. "Standby to-...,"

A loud blast cut them both off, and Turel watched a flak round pierce Freedom Five like a knive through he belly, blasting up through the floor of his cockpit and ejecting flames and viscera out through the top. The Y-wing went down, spiraling, exploding into an abandoned home; more blasts followed, as the remaining bombers began to tuck and weave, the two Jedi performing maneuvers that should never have been possible. Up ahead, the enemy artillery cannons began to open up, belching mortar fire down on rebel positions.

"Steady," Turel said, as Three's nose exploded in a violent plume and Eight's left engine split off from its hull, sending the pilot spinning away and sending a shrill scream through their headsets. Turel flicked a switch, disabling his comm. channel - the men didn't need to hear that. "Steady..."

The ships raced overtop of shattered rooftop and broken street, their bulk straining and screeching against the forces put against them by their pilots; twisting, turning, rolling in ways no bomber was ever meant to, the craft strained against the bolts and riveting holding them together. Blasters and missiles rocketed up from below, as Thuronians turned to try and bring the weapons down; at the artillery column, guns swivelled, desperately trying to aim at their oncoming doom. It was no use; as a blaster bolt cracked through his viewport, fragmenting the glass around him, Turel's eyes narrowed. The time had come.

"On my mark," He said, counting down in his head. 3... 2..., "Fire!"

Proton bombs rained from above, following Freedom Six to the ground as a flak round took him out from below; seconds later, the ground turned to fire, men screaming as machines blew apart like so many leaves in the wind. A cheer sounded below them; smiling, Sorenn turned his ship around, heading for the LZ. "Bring them in, boys," He said, to a chorus of cheers and congratulations. "We're needed down below."

He did his best to hide his fear, and the quaver in his voice; this fight had only just begun.

Tanduran Settlement
Fields of Tanduran
Odanite Advance

The flight of the LAAT/i shuttle swept over the battlefield, the ship not even slowing down as it passed overhead; only the most astute soldiers saw the metal forms above detach, their magnetics disengaging as they unfolded in mid-air.

Solari hit the ground alongside the Legion of Steel, rolling to a landing as his crimson blade shot to life. BX-series commando droids littered the ground around the Thuronian soldiers, twisting and leaping as they knocked their foes to the ground and broke their necks. Their leader was quick to join in the fray, the Shard's lightsaber twirling as it battered aside blaster bolts, extending his mechanical hand toward the enemy; a blast of the Force swept three of them aside, as several rolling Droidekas unfolded, their shields coming to life.

At the center of the enemy positions, a T4-B tank turned toward the fray, ready to turn its cannons on the Odanite droids. Solari was in the air before it could react, Jedi robes flowing around his droid body, his lightsaber carving into the hull of the tank before he dropped into its controls. The machine sputtered and died, its left side falling to drag through the dirt as the Jedi carved his way through its bottom, rolling to safety before the engine of war caught fire.

The Thuronian Sergeant - the highest-ranking soldier left, as the Droidekas pummelled their positions - threw his hands up and dropped his gun. "We surrender! Call off your droids!"

Solari nodded, looking to the BX droids, his tiny silicate body sending messages wirelessly to the machines on a network. Ceasefire; detain enemy soldiers for processing. As one, faster than any spoken command, they snapped to obey; before the humans were even done putting their guns down, the droids had them in shackles.

Their leader looked at Solari, incredulous, staring into the green lights of his photoreceptors. "What kind of droid are you?"

Solari responded shortly, but effectively. "I am no droid; I am a Jedi." Climbing atop the ruined tank, he surveyed the battlefield; what he saw sent signals of sorrow through his body's crystal passageways.

Tanduran, the central colony once called a Hospice for travellers, had been growing for years; since Thuron's arrival, it had seen a wall erected, its buildings supplemented with hastily-built metal structures that loomed overhead. Now, from the center of town, the transparent dome of a shield generator covered the buildings and control structures of the town proper; aerial attacks were impossible, and AT-AA walkers - probably sold off by some disgruntled Imperial colonel after Endor - patrolled the outer perimeter. To go in by air, or to approach too near, would have been suicide for Jedi and soldier alike; and so, they now fought in the fields, the stretches of farmland that surrounded the central town.

Solari's droid eyes looked upon the scarred landscape, acres of land turned into trenches and craters, littered with enemy and Odanite positions locked in deadly combat; no matter who won this war, the land would bear these scars for many a year.

All around them, in impressive numbers, soldiers ran in regimented ranks; Odanite repulsor tanks and the looming form of an AT-AT, nigh indestructible, guarded militiamen and huge columns of Harakoan warriors as they descended toward the city on foot. Before them, huge divisions of enemy armor, weapon emplacements, trenches, and traps had torn the very ground apart; a column of Odanite tanks was kept back as Thuronian mortars blasted craters into the ground. Far away, a wing of Jedi bombers blasted apart a Monarchist advance, sending bodies scattering to the wind.

All around, there were no true winners; death came for everyone. Solari's comm sensor beeped; answering it, he spoke quickly. "This is Solari."

"Jedi units are ordered back to the command center," The voice of Liam Torun echoed, static muddling some of his words. "We're trying a new approach."

"It's about time," The Shard replied, his mechanical voice inflected with relief. Looking to his droids, he sent another command. Cover my retreat, and hold the line.

Vard Mislu
Town Square
Rebel Meeting

"We should just kill him now!" The soldier's voice was hushed, afraid; the blasts nearby explained why. Portions of the shattered roof fell near them, as a mortar hit ground across the street. "Be done with it!"

"No!" Tiigu Vash roared at the man; big, ugly, and wrapped in black robes, he was one of Cy Thuron's so-called Force students. "I'm making an example of this rebel scum! Put him on his knees!"

Three men wrestled with the bound form of Tanner Vord to the ground, one placing a boot against his back; harshly, he pushed the Mayor of Vard Mislu down, his ribs cracking against the concrete block. Vash looked down at him, taking a firm two-footed stance before igniting his red lightsaber; the weapon snapped to life, Vash lifting it carefully in a two-handed grip, as if it were too fierce for him to wield with one. Lining it up with Vord's neck, he lifted it high; a snarl took his face, as he readied himself to kill this rebel leader.

And in the rafters, a shadowy shape spoke into a headset. "We've found him," Jonuss said into the comm. "There are too many for me; send reinforcements."

"Confirmed, The female voice on the comm. replied. "Stand by for titanfall.

A shadow swept overhead, as a dark form leapt from it; hurtling toward the ground, he hit fist-first, the shockwave of his impact hurling Vash backward like a sack of ch'por roots. Standing, he lit his powder-blue weapon, his left hand lashing out past the assembled soldiers, still picking themselves up - to the wooden support strut holding what was left of the roof together above them.

With a sharp motion, he pulled; the men screamed as shingle and wood toppled down on them, and the Titan leapt into action, Rai fast behind him.

The pair moved like fluid; Jonuss knocked aside a pair of bolts before taking a man's legs out, as Mirus rolled across his back and slashed a man across the chest. Vash was up, running at them both, shouting; Jonuss knocked his strike wide, sending him sprawling aside, only to find Hi'ija atop him; the burly man's boot crushed his skull against the stone beneath with an ugly squish. Stomping on the end of the man's weapon hilt, he activated it, locking its red blade on before hurling it like a spear at the doorway; it pierced the chest of a soldier running in, knocking him backward and killing the three men behind him.

Turning to Vord, Jonuss cut his bonds, helping him to his feet. "You're free," He said, reassuringly. "You're safe, now."

"Of course I'm safe, damn it." The older man snapped, standing and rubbing his neck. His face softened as he sighed. "Sorry. Thanks for the assist." He extended his hand. "The rebels are with you. Now, what's this I hear about a treaty?"

Jonuss shook his hand, and opened his mouth to reply; his words were lost as a mortar sailed into the room, landing squarely on Tanner. The blast hurled the Jedi against the wall, bits of blood and bone coating his body, still clenching the man's bloody stump of a hand. It was all that was left of him.

Mirus was there in an instant, shaking him; his ears rang, as his vision came back from a hazy blur. In moments, the man's words faded in from the squeal of his eardrums. "Jonuss! Are you alright? Come on, we've got to go!" He pulled on the man, trying to lift his stunned form. "Come on!"

Rai nodded, sense returning to him, stumbling to his feet. He sought out his saber as he ran; unable to find it, he grabbed Vash's blade up from the corpse of the soldier, sprinting after the Titan. The pair rushed and ran, leaping over obstacles, striking down Thuronian soldiers and aiding those who fought them. They flowed over the chaos, dodging rounds from turret guns; Mirus' hands lashed out as he hurled bodies and debris, taking out soldiers and knocking tank guns aside. Jonuss' blade lashed out again and again, his own Force attack dropping a roof on top of a gun emplacement; the men holding it crumpled, as the barrel tilted upward, its trigger locked into the on position.

Finally, they were free of the enemy; panting, they stopped for a moment, looking around at the surrounding alleyway. A shadow flickered over Mirus's vision, and he snapped back to awareness. "What was that?" The dark figure dropped behind him; before Jonuss could yell, he reacted, sending a reverse kick for the man's pelvis.

His determination turned to surprise as the man caught it with black, gloved hands, twisting the Jedi's foot and sending his whole body into a spin.

Rolling aside and getting back to his feet, Mirus looked on the newcomer, as another dropped from the roof above; black armor and body-glove covered his body, a faceless metal helm covering his face. A stun baton crackled to life in his left hand; a long vibroknife hummed to life in his right. "What's this?" Hi'ija asked, raising an eyebrow.

"No idea," Jonuss replied, "But they don't look friendly, and we don't have time."

Mirus nodded, before rushing toward the man, saber flashing; his strikes crashed against gauntlets with beskar inlay, sparking off again and again as the foe backpedaled. Flipping, rolling, and turning, the foe was like water; he dodged every strike, flawlessly, before sending a cross-slash toward the Titan's midriff.

The blade screeched off of his armor, and the human stepped back; that strike was too fast, too perfect. And the man wasn't using the Force. "Any ideas?" He shouted, looking back to Rai.

"One," Jonuss replied, as he dueled with his foe. The Jedi killer before him caught his blade in a cross-guard, his gauntlets sparking and snarling at the contact; Rai's boot met his stomach, sending him stumbling backward. Before he could recover, Jonuss' hand lashed out, the Force blasting his enemy backward with a cry.

The man went through the wall of the adjacent shop, sprawling into the debris. "Good call," Mirus replied, launching his own Force blast. His opponent, now wise to the tactic, dodged the attack. "Must have boosted reflexes. Come on, help me with this!"

Jonuss turned to aid his ally, just as the wall across from the fallen Jedi killer imploded, blasting apart with rubble; Thuronian soldiers spilled through the hole, firing at both of them, as the Jedi turned to face the new threat. Dodging past, the standing Jedi killer sped through the crowd, ignoring the well-armored Titan - and going for the gore-spattered Jonuss.

Rai smirked. "Last mistake," He shouted at the man, before leaping into action against him.

Hi'ija's blade knocked aside blast after blast, carving through rifle and armor alike as he sprinted forward, channelling his determination; his weapon turned flesh, bone, and steel into plasma as it carved into each opponent, dropping them. An enemy's stock strike jarred him, and his saber flew from his hands; ducking, he grabbed the man's ankles, roaring as he channelled the Force's strength, feeling his muscles swell. The soldier screamed as he flew from the ground, the Titan swinging him like a bat to crash into his foes, levelling them. Calling his blade back to his hand, he turned to see the other Jedi, shouting to him.

Jonuss' blade, weaving and bobbing, knocked aside strike after strike; seamlessly, it knocked aside the foe's attacks, a strike going for his neck. The foe dodged, too fast, too smoothly; his elbow came up, smashing into Rai's head, jarring him. Twisting and spinning, he drove his blade up, straight and true.

Rai's eyes went wide with shock and pain, as blood trickled from his lips; the thrumming durasteel drove up, past his ribs, tearing a hole through lung and heart. "Jonuss," Mirus breathed, disbelief turning to emotion as the man tore his weapon free; the Jedi crumpled, his weapon deactivating as it rolled away.

The Titan's words became a cry, as perseverance gave way to rage. "Jonuss!" He screamed, his voice ragged and strained.

The second Jedi killer stumbled from the ruins of the shop, joining his ally in a combat crouch; both were thrown yards backward as Mirus cried out, the Force blasting from his hands to hit them like a wrecking ball. Sprinting toward them, his march was halted as the blast of a tank ripped into the environs, soldiers rushing in and blasting at the Titan. Cursing, shouting, he knocked their blasts back at them; hurling debris, bodies, anything at them with the Force, he fought like a demon to hold them back.

It was useless; with a snarl, he fell back, helpless to resist. The fight was lost; Jonuss Rai was dead. Retreating, tears hot on his soot-stained cheeks, he cursed Cy Thuron.

The False King would pay for this. By the Force, by the lives of all the Jedi - he would pay.

Week 3

Vard Mislu
Town Hall Ruins
Odanite Command

The Summit gathered across the street, stepping into the command tent with rebel and Harakoan leaders; rain spattered down atop the tent, and atop Mirus' robes. He didn't care.

Water mixed with blood and mud to run down the sides of ruined streets, pooling in craters and sweeping away the grime of war. Countless houses, once of simple and yet effective design, now saw their ruined interiors soaked; markets, neighborhoods, and centers of industry - the latter largely holding the remains of Thuron's factories - sat in ruins. Initial estimates had put over fifty percent of buildings in disrepair, maybe even beyond saving. Later totals had been closer to eighty. They called him Titan, and yet, he couldn't even save half a colony. None of them could.

Nearby, soldiers carried a series of bodies away, blankets covering those that they could. The sight brought a frown to Mirus' face; Jonuss had been carried away in similar fashion, not one hour ago.

"Looks like they'll be signing after all," Turel's voice echoed from behind him. Like Hi'ija, the newly-minted Knight was covered in mud and worse. "You okay?"

"Jonuss was a friend," Mirus replied. "He deserved better. They all deserved better. This war has to end."

Turel nodded, a solemn silence replacing his words. He looked around, seeing the smouldering ruins of the colony, the broken lives here. Looking beyond, however, he saw something new; ragtag colonists, once armed with simple hunting rifles and resolve, spray-painted symbols and names over the gear of their fallen enemies. A troop of Harakoans led a huge creature, some sort of quadruped, that dragged a wagon; inside, the munitions and medical supplies they'd taken from local caches. The rebels, the natives, and even KUDF soldiers shared jokes and congratulations for their feats on the fight. It was tiny, yes; but it was there. A glimmer of hope.

Turel clapped his friend on the shoulder. "Yes, it has to end," He said, smiling at the armored Jedi. "And that's why we're here."

Up ahead, Rhiann - her hair still a mess - waved the pair over. Mirus nodded, offering Turel a quick smile. "I just wish there weren't so many dead."

"Yeah. But you know what the old man always says," The younger man replied. "There is no death."

"Right," Mirus replied, chuckling. "There is the Force. Come on, we're falling behind."

Tanduran Settlement
Field Hospital Bacta
Trade Quarter, South-East

Monitors beeped, their numbers monitored by a number of droids, medics, and Harakoan healers. One Jedi moved beside them, her cloak set aside, the sleeves of her tunic rolled up. Kaira placed her hands in the disinfectant basin, washing blood from them with a calm precision. She looked back, to the various wounded - some of them militiamen, or Harakoans, some rebels, and even a few of them Thuronian survivors - and made a quick mental note of their progress.

"Hey," One of the mercenaries coughed, leaning upward. His legs now ended in stumps above the knee, his pantlegs cut away to make room for bandages and bacta. His face was half-black, with cracks of red flesh exposed underneath the burnt skin; a bandage hid where his eye used to be. "Jedi. Got a minute?"

"Of course." Kaira replied, no hostility in her tone. On the battlefield, tension and fear wrestled with anger; performing medicine, she became serene, as a Jedi ought to. "What do you need?"

"You can't tell me all this came cheap." The man said to her, raising his sensor-strapped hand and waving at the med bay. "Why not just kill me, save a few extra medpacs?"

"That isn't our way." She replied, looking over his vitals on the datapad. "Once you're healthy and this war's over, you'll get a trial with the colonists."

"Oh, joy. Don't suppose taking pay-offs is your way either?" Kaira's lack of response made him chuckle. "Didn't think so."

Kaira stepped to the edge of the tent, looking to the nearby hole in the wall. The bombers had swept in pretty quickly once the shields were down, especially after Kah and Solari had got done with the anti-air. Once the battle's outcome was clear, the Thuronians reminded the Jedi of what they were - mercenaries, cut-throats, and lackeys - and largely jumped ship. Some divisions had retreated to Menat Ombo; others had surrendered, or made for the woods.

Against all odds, she felt bad for the latter groups that got caught; colonist courts might have cut them deals for intel, or support. Harakoan tribesmen, while fair in their rulings, weren't likely to be so lenient.

Her eyes crossed over the fields and farmlands that surrounded the town, and she sighed; craters pockmarked the land, whole acres turned to slag or soiled with blood, fuel, and lubricants. The ruin of tanks and other armor emplacements still poured black smoke into the sky. The clean-up here would take at least half a year, probably longer, but at least now it could begin. She closed her eyes, briefly meditating; she had to remember their purpose here. Behind her, she saw a human child, calling for his mother; fear briefly gripped her, as two Harakoans approached, fully armed.

The fear turned to surprise, as they took the boy's hand and helped him look. She couldn't help but feel relief, and a sensation she hadn't felt in literal months. Joy.

Her eyes turned to the distance, toward the hills to the North. They only had a week or two more before that fight, while they regrouped and cleaned themselves up; she didn't have long to wait now. She hoped Kystal was alright, that her daughter had found her guardian safely and made it to cover.

If not - well, she didn't have time to think about that now. Turning, she went back to her patients.

Fields of Menat Ombo
Harakoan Staging Point
2 Weeks after Liberation of Tanduran

Loud war-horns announced the arrival of yet more riders, their weapons and armor bearing tribal stripes and feathered adornments. Whenua smiled at them, looking to his own weapon with mixed feelings; the pistol was accurate, deadly even, but part of him still rejected the concept. Part of him thought a warrior should train with the bow, learn the spear, rather than using some weapon any fool could handle.

These feelings had once ruled him; now, they tempered his resolve. "Gideon," He shouted, watching the human approach. The man was a ragged shell of his former self, gaunt and thin, not unlike many of the Harakoans themselves; even now, he looked awkward in a saddle. "Are you sure you wish to be here with us?"

"Chieftan," The former governor replied, a fire in his sunken eyes, "I wouldn't miss it. Not for the world." He looked over the forces, nodding in approval as he spoke. "Il-Zaw and the others are in position."

"Good," The once-thick accent of Whenua's speech had dimmed somewhat, with he and Gideon speaking more over the years. "I tell you, Varos, we were in the Rock together; I know that you are strong." He looked to the Thuronian forces, just starting to crest the hill. "But this... this will be worse."

"I know," Varos replied, checking his rifle. "That's why I'm here. Your people have been alone long enough."

The pair looked over the formations, seeing as tribesmen dug trenches, setting up walls and fortifications. Some of it was done in the old way; some of it, learned from the Jedi. Alone they sat, waiting, watching as hovertanks and soldier platoons marched toward them; they all knew that many lives would be lost this day. They knew that the fighting would kill many of them, hundreds, thousands, perhaps tens of thousands.

Perhaps that was why, among the volunteers, many of the elderly and sick had gathered; many of these men had gathered to die a good death, rather than one of pain and wasting sickness. "Here they come," Whenua said, his tone grim and confident all at once, "Like poison from the wound."

"So it seems," Varos replied, his own determination apparent. "Now, let's hope our cure is in place."

Thuron had taken the bait; a million Harakoans, blue and proud, had gathered before him - the largest army he had ever seen. But the King had made far more enemies than he knew; apparently, no one had told him that the Tribal Army alone numbered eight million, and only three of that kept the colonies under control.

Menat Ombo
Memit District - Alleyways
Thuronian Patrol


Fighters zipped through the sky, back toward Ordain Vonoro; the spaceport had seen more and more traffic since the colonies had fallen. Soldiers patrolled the streets, joined by tanks in each district; the enemy had tried to hush it all up, to lie to the people once more, but it hadn't worked. Eli had seen to that personally. He and his group of rebels - all of them dressed in at least one piece of stolen gear, some of them bearing clubs rather than rifles - slunk through the alleys, evading as the soldiers as they moved through the streets.

"Eli," The voice in his earbud was welcome. "Did you find her?"

"Not yet, Aerwin" Denan replied, checking the sights on his weapon. It was bulker than most of the Thuronian gear; Eli had chosen it for its reliability, its excellent craftsmanship. The under-slung thermal launcher helped, too. "Still- wait. I hear something."

The sound of a girl crying entered his ears, and Eli rushed for the edge of the alleyway in time to see Kystal sprinting for cover, hiding in vain beside a pile of trash. A pair of armored soldiers walked behind her, chuckling to one another as they approached her. In the far corner, an old beggar hugged his knees, rocking back and forth; his expression was vacant behind his thick, white beard, the cloak that kept him warm stained and worn from use.

"What have we here?" One of the guardsmen said, his voice lecherous and cocky. "It's pretty late for a such a pretty girl to be wandering the city."

"Might be a little spy," His friend replied. "We'd better take her in. See what an interrogation brings out."

Eli felt his stomach turn; looking back to his squad, he spoke quickly and quietly. "We've got to stop them. On my mark."

"Sir," One of them asked, looking around in confusion, "Where'd the old man go?"

Eli's eyes wandered to the corner, just as a blur moved in the corner of his vision, looking back, he saw the old man - alert, focused, and fast - hit the ground, before springing upward with a sharp knife-fist to the throat of a guard. Spinning, he threw a kick into the other man's gut before grabbing his rifle, twisting it from his hands, and smashing him in the temple; the impact cracked the man's visor, sending him reeling. Slowly, the old man stood up, letting his cloak fall open; a metallic glint came from his belt, and the weapons hanging there.

"Jedi," Eli said, elation filling him as he sprinted from the alley. "We heard rumors of an army outside. You're back?"

"We are," Liam replied, smiling. In the distance, a thunderous bang shook the stones, dust spilling from them, "And I brought company. Rally your people, and help us get into the city."

"I will," Eli replied, turning before pausing in his stride. "What about you?"

He turned, to find Torun already gone; not even Kystal had seen where he went.

Menat Ombo
Eastern Wall
It'kla District Ruins - Security Tower


The first blast threw Vorlem Tytis out of his bed, sending him sprawling; the Blue Butcher, New Tython's most prolific Harakoan murderer, landed in a heap on the floor. "What's going on out there?!"

"Sir, we're under attack!" He yelled. "Enemy forces, outside the walls!"

Tytis snarled at the man, scrambling to his feet, snatching up his rifle. "A covert group? A strike team? How many are there?!"

"Sir," The man's face was pale. "There are too many to-," His words were cut off as the Butcher put a blast into his face; the man was halfway over his body when the next blasts hit the wall, sending him sprawling out the door.

A shadow crossed over his form, her lightsaber flashing to orange life. "Vorlem Tytis," V'yr's voice echoed, looking down on the man with amber eyes; the leaves of her hair were amber and red, reflections of her inner turmoil. "Surrender, or die."

The man squealed, firing a burst of rounds at her and running for his life.

[center]* * *[/center]

"Fire it all!" A'lora shouted, her lightsaber pointed to the wall. Behind her, artillery units, tanks, and the hulk of an AT-AT poured fire at the wall. The stone and steel, built to aid the colonists against Harakoan raiders years ago, crumpled and weakened.

"Call of Freedom, now!" She bellowed into her comms, watching as the Y-wings thundered overhead, too low for anti-air inside the city. They swooped upward at the last second, proton bombs tearing through the ruined structure, dropping it to the ground. With a cheer, she joined the charge.

Behind her, the KUDF, Dac Compound volunteers, colonist rebels, and four million Harakoans took up the cry. Their footsteps shook the ground, as they poured fire into the few men on the walls.

Above her, LAAT/i craft poured into the opening, dispensing Jedi and their militiamen as they went. A Thuronian hovertank wheeled into the ruins, only to give off a metallic clang as Solari landed atop of it, his blade carving through the hold and into the men within. Around him, droids leapt into the fray, their joints twisting and turning at bizarre angles as they delivered flying kicks and roundhouses into the nearest men. Rolling in-between them, thirty-two Droideka units formed a wall, their shields overlapping to form an impenetrable wall as their cannons tore a ragged hole in enemy squads. The foot soldiers before them didn't even try to resist, turning and running. More of them fell than made it out, sprinting to get out of the District.

"Titan!" She shouted into the mic, "Get after them! We want them confused for as long as possible!"

"On it," He replied, over the roar of his dropship. It took a rocket, spinning out of control; Mirus leapt from it before it could get near the ground, his saber coming to life in his hand as he landed on his first foe. He ran the man through, as the wing of his dropship smashed into the ground before him. "Come on!"

Leaping into action, he sprinted past what used to be a row of buildings, rounding a corner to see a column of troops and a tank on approach. Bellowing, he leapt for them, landing atop the tank and taking a grip of its spinning gun. With a mighty pull, he tore it free from its base, leaping into the air to smash it down atop the enemy troops like a club. Turning, he saw the approach of a Jedi killer, leading a column of soldiers.

"Not this time!" He shouted, sweeping his hand forward; righteous anger hurled the bulk of the tank forward, its pilot screaming, the Elite Guardsman crushed under its rolling weight before he could get away. "They're regrouping! Seal off the arches!"

"Roger that," Nathan called into his earpiece, sprinting at a group of enemies behind cover. Their weapons pulsed blasts at him; his spinning staff battered them aside, and he swept into the air.

For a moment, the men were disoriented; then, as he hit the ground, they were terrified.

Rolling, spinning, Deciarus' blade flashed and weaved, crashing down like a waterfall upon the bodies of the Thuronians. Spinning like a whirlwind, it raked through the chests of two, three, four bodies; twisting with dance-like grace, he stabbed with his second blade, the weapon lancing up through a man's throat. Beside him, the tattooed red-and-black skin of Gon Doru flashed past, Telghar's scaled bulk on the opposite side; their sabers flashed, battering back the enemy's assault and diving into the open husks of houses. Blasting back the one remaining soldier with the Force, he heard the man's head crack as he went through the column of an arch, the bulk of the entryway collapsing upon him.

The men taking cover along the sides of the street didn't know what had hit them; Gon's blade carved and ripped through them, the foes having nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. The very avatar of death, the Sith Weapon, was upon them; but he was Sith no more. With every strike, he slew a villain; every parry, every thrust, saved a man or a woman. Every kill saved a child; he was no longer the instrument of Vengeance. Now, he was the tool of Justice, the lightsaber of Liberty.

Looking across the street, he watched a man scream as Telghar threw him from a building with a roar, landing on the ground with a sickening thud. The Trandoshan was there, roaring, his eyes glinting in the evening light as he hit the man, claws and teeth raking him. Taking to all-fours, hissing at the few men left, he snarled at them like a beast; they couldn't run fast enough as he loped after them, leaping into the air, his saber coming to violent life in his hands.

If Gon still possessed a mouth, he would have smiled. "Shock and awe indeed," His vocabulator echoed, mirth rumbling through his artificial vocal chords.

[center]* * *[/center]

"Where in the blazes are our reinforcements?!" Garsen Mills snapped to his men. His lightsaber - he was one of the few who could actually swing the damned things, among Thuron's Sith hopefuls - thrummed in his hand. "I thought we had this city locked down!"

"We did!" His subordinate, clearly past discipline, shouted back. "Then the Royal Idiot sent our men into the field, after a bunch of blue apes!" He looked to his men. "Scatter mines; we need to keep them here for now."

"How dare you?!" The false Sith snarled, before he spotted movement out of the corner of his eye. His rage was drowned out by a chorus of roars, warbling and terrible, as the Chosen leapt from the building ruins.

Ryyk Kerarrthor blades punched through men, as bowcaster bolts punched holes in the chests and backs of foes present and fleeing. The Acolyte lifted his blade, ready to fight the beasts; he was met by their leader, howling, his green lightsabers slurping to life as he rolled through the air. Their blades clashed again and again, the Wookiee coming on too fiercely as his blades struck and weaved, knocking back parry after parry.

Finally, he knocked the man's blade away; the Sith could only shriek in terror, as two blades scissored through his neck. "Secure the passageway!" He howled to his men, the rumbling tones of Shyriiwook relaying his orders as he spoke. Shouting into the comlink on his wrist, he let the translator implant in his throat shout basic. "I think we just found our ticket to controlling this place - there's a cache of mines here!"

"Excellent," The Rollmaster's deep voice echoed through it. "Gatha deysa an' bring dem to us. We will use 'em wisely."

[center]* * *[/center]

Thuronian aircraft swept through the sky, a column of TIE craft and pirate fighters, wide and vast. Bombers followed inside the formation, no fewer than fifty ships in the sky, ready to purge the Jedi aggressors. In the anti-air towers below, a Thuronian merc smirked up at them, ready to hear their payload hit the ground.

His smirk turned into a look of horror as Revak's blade burst through his chest, its smouldering length setting small fires on the edges of his clothes. The leader of Ooroo kicked him aside, taking the controls and swivelling the turret into position. "Ready?"

A howl sounded from Edgar's comm, and then from Turel's; almost in unision, they both shouted, "Ready!" Along the comm, Rhiann, Mar, and Sa Ool also gave a shout. Adeodatus and Seridan merely clicked theirs; others did the same.

As one, fifteen anti-air towers swivelled to position, aiming at the oncoming craft. "Wait for it..." Revak said. "Wait... fire!"

The craft overhead, majestic and proud, flew the colors of Thuron; their pilots knew the city was theirs. It caught them at a complete loss, then, when their own turrets began firing on them. Blasting upward, shattering wings and punching through fuselages, the flak rounds took fighter after fighter out of the sky; precognition and premonition guided each perfect shot, as snubfighters began to drop like flies, fuel tanks exploding and engines disintegrating. Pilots ejected, only to be vaporized by the very guns that had ruined their craft; in seconds, six ships alone made it out, wheeling to escape.

Revak leapt from his seat, snatching up his rocket launcher; free-running up the tower's side, he took position, quieting his mind. The rocket flew true, spinning to smash through the round hull of a TIE Avenger. The craft's gutted hulk spiralled down, collapsing into Thuronian-controlled streets far beyond.

Above him, A-wings raced after the stragglers, turning back only when they escaped the Odanite fire zone. Revak grinned, flipping backward to land on the ground, a Harakoan soldier running to take over the turret for him. "Mission accomplished, Aedile," He whooped into the comm. "Air superiority is ours!"

"Perfect! Fall back to the center position," A'lora shouted. "We'll have this district soon, but this fight has just begun."

Nodding, Kur sprinted along, his Jedi in tow. In the distance, a tower fell, its base blown out; the rebels in the city were alive and well. On the hill, the Thuronian Palace loomed, dark and massive.

Revak blinked; for the briefest moment, he could have sworn that he'd seen a brown speck leaping toward the wall. He dismissed it, focusing his mind on the present.

Menat Ombo
Palace of Thuron
Throne Room - Balcony

Smoke rose from the Southern Gate, as Jedi ships flitted toward the Eastern and Western Gates - and the False King's eyes grew narrow. "Deploy all of our firepower."

The two Elite Guardsmen beside him looked to him in surprise. "But, my Lord... that could level the city."

"I don't care!" Cy bellowed at the man, his eyes stained yellow. He'd been drawing on the Dark Side all day, demanding strength from it, ordering his nerves to settle - and its effects were on display. He strode toward his Throne. "I want it done! Do you hear me? Get it done!"

His response was a cry, as a Guardsman went hurtling past him to smash into one of the many statues of the King that littered the room, the bronzium rod that made its lightsaber punching through the man's chest. The second Guardsman was next, crying out as he was hurled sideways into a window, smashing through it and toppling awkwardly from the tower's heights.

Thuron turned, watching as the Jedi dropped his weather-stained cloak to the ground. Robes in tan and brown, stitched together to help camouflage and disguise the man, wrapped Liam as he stood before the mad King. His hands were placed on his hips; smiling, he looked to Thuron, malice absent from his voice.

"Cy Thuron," He said, his tone almost smug, "You are under arrest."

"Ah. The Jedi leader," Thuron snarled, taking his lightsaber hilt in his hand. It thrummed to life in his palm, its crimson blade casting an odd palor over the polished black floor. "I was expecting someone younger. More capable."

"Indeed?" Liam asked, his own weapon flipping off of his belt and into his hand. It hissed to life, its emerald glow seeming to fill his white beard; he dropped into a defensive stance. "Best you surrender now, then. I'd hate to see your men's faces when I beat you."

The two stared one another down, circling, Cy's facial expressions erratic and furious as he stared at Liam's serene eyes, seeing no hint of fear. For a moment, they sized one another up; then, moving faster than any normal human could, Cy struck. His blade darted in, striking for the thighs, the ribs, aimed for his enemy's neck. Like a rolling waterfall, Liam caught each strike, batting it aside before bringing in a series of his own, testing and gauging his foe. Cy's rebuttal was quick; he brought his weapon down hard, smashing it against the Jedi's defenses again and again, ferocity in every vicious movement.

Liam diverted the assault, backpedalling away. "Ah, so it's to be Juyo, then. And something... older." He smiled at his foe. "Your Master has taught you well."

Cy grinned, rushing at his foe and bringing a series of brutal strikes down upon the Jedi. The fight morphed into a sort of dance, clashes and snarls of each blade sending pulses of light throughout the corridors. Cy's assault went for the throat; Liam's defense turned it aside. Thuron's blade made for the ribcage, looking to impale; Torun replied with a quick parry and a shunt, knocking the King back a few steps. Growling, Cy leapt into the air, his blade poised for a downward stroke. Liam's weapon came up in a cross-guard, just as the Force sang words of warning to the back of his mind.

At the last second, Cy's blade shut down, before coming back to life in a stab as he dodged the Jedi's defenses. Liam span backward, his second blade coming to his free hand as he did, activating in a cross-guard. "Ah," He said, sizing up his foe. "Something much older, then. I'm impressed."

"Just wait, Jedi," The Sith growled, his voice beginning to take a dark undertone. The last light of sanity left his eyes. "I'm full of surprises!"

Epilogue

Menat Ombo
Palace of Thuron
Throne Room

Their blades met, Torun's cross-guard blocking Cy's vicious overhead strike. Sparks flew from the two blades, singing at the edges of the old man's beard. "Do you hear the sound?!" The madman roared, blasts and explosions sounding in the distance. "Can you hear the Jedi screaming?"

With a groan of effort, Liam hurled back the assault, weaving and striking at his foe. Back and forth they attacked, their weapons carving through statue and stone, blasts of the Force tearing the Throne Room apart. White-hot bolts tore from Cy's fingertips, only to be dispelled upon the Jedi's blades; a telekinetic wave hurled the False King backward, into the wall. There, he seemed to cling, holding on unnaturally with the Force and snarling at his foe.

"Give up," Liam commanded, his voice booming and authoritative. He stood tall, singed robes flowing, brown eyes agleam beneath his bushy brows. "You will not triumph."

"I have already won!" Thuron roared back, leaping toward his foe. He spiralled forward, his lightsaber aimed for Liam's heart like a spear.

The Jedi flowed away from the assault, his twin swords curving and thrumming as their emerald light battered back the foe. His footwork was flawless and smooth, worn boots flowing and dancing along broken stone, his foe's regal black robes stained with dust and whipped around as he leapt and charged forward. Cy moved like a maddened beast, his steps unnatural, his balance impossible as he darted from side to side; his crimson blade snaked in and out of its hilt, Trakata strikes aimed again and again for the Jedi's body. On the last, the blade bit white beard, a few strands falling to the ground. The Jedi backpedalled, retaking a defensive stance.

"Why won't you die?!" Thuron roared, his voice croaking with Dark Side corruption as he shouted. His eyes were nearly black with thickened veins, their yellowed irises corrupted and wrong. "I am a Sith!" His saber slunk back into its hilt, both hands coming up to blast forth lightning. "I am a master of the Dark Side!"

With a growl, Liam caught the onslaught on his blades, sliding backward with the force of the attack. Convection fields began to heat the air, the sweat on both brows turning to steam; the shockwave hurled dust and debris out of the tower, through windows and holes torn by the Force. First the nails, and then the fingertips, of the Sith blackened; the heat spread, the skin of his hands drying, crackling, and beginning to blister. He felt his last reserves expend, his power ebb and wane; a sea of lightning became a few small prongs, until only sparks and crackles of static lit the air. The Mad King slumped to his knees, his hands shaking, ruined by forces beyond his control.

Shakily, he looked up, his mad eyes taking in the impossible; the Jedi stood tall, his blades humming, his face untouched by the lightning's wrath. The light of dawn shone through the wall behind him, into the ragged edges of what had been the balcony. "Tell me, my King," He asked, the air suddenly far too still, "Do you hear the sound?"

Slowly, horror dawning in his mind, Cy turned to the window behind him; stumbling, nearly crawling, he looked out as the last few bangs of war went still. For a few moments, all was silent; men who had fought now stood still, or turned their weapons over. Then, slowly, a new sound built on the air. It was a hiss, at first, repeating over and over. It grew in strength; a word, cheered to the sky, again and again. The Harakoans, the Tythonians, the Jedi, even the aliens; all of them chanted it to the sky, after their kind.

"Freedom," Cy whispered. Looking back to the Jedi, he shook his head, frothing at the corners of his twisted mouth. "No," He hissed. "No... no, you cannot win!"

"It is over!" Liam's voice was stern and commanding; it carried a heavy truth. "Surrender, and come quietly!"

"No!" Cy howled, rage washing through his veins, bending the Force to strengthen his tired limbs. His lightsaber flipped upward, into his hands, as he barrelled for the Jedi; he brought his blade across in a vicious throat strike, looking to take the head.

Liam's weapons knocked the blade aside; he extended his boot, catching the ankle of the Mad King. Rage turned to panic; stone turned to air, and without so much as a scream, he fell. Wind rushed by his ears, his lightsaber spinning from his grasp as flowing black and red robes fluttered around him, suddenly far too long. Blackened hands flailed before him, as pain shot through a body ravaged by the Dark Side; terror poisoned a mind given over to corruption and madness.

For an instant that lasted a lifetime, he saw clarity; his lies were laid bare, the strength of the people made real and evident, the error of his ways presented to a mind clouded far too long. Then, with a wet smack, he hit the ground.

"H-help... me..." Cy whispered, limbs mangled and bent, his back broken. Ribs punched through the front of his robes, broken and gory, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth. Blurring vision looked up to the shattered tower, up to the tan-robed figure staring down at him. Yellow eyes faded back to brown, flicking left as he saw a new figure emerge from the darkness, armored fists balled tight, bloody face contorted in a scowl.

"This is for the dead." Mirus said slowly, his voice deadly calm. "For the Harakoans. For the Tythonians. For Jonuss Rai." Lifting his boot, he glared down at the foe. "For Ji."

Liam turned away, and the Titan's boot came down.

Menat Ombo
Palace Steps
2 Days after the Liberation

Cheering crowds filled the streets of Menat Ombo, as KUDF bombers swept overhead, dumping loads of flower petals and confetti onto the streets below. Banners, stitched together haphazardly and painted with symbols of freedom, hung from ruined buildings and the balconies of the building behind. Out in the courtyard, torn down atop the elaborate gardens that Thuron had kept, statues of the fallen King lay in ruins. Men, women, and children filled those gardens now, trampling upon the flowers and shrubs paid for in their blood, feasting and drinking with joy. Atop the steps, a small group of people stood, ready for the ceremonial signing.

At each side of the Courtyard, Militiamen, rebels, and Harakoan soldiers stood guard, their peers still out in the city assisting with clean-up. It was amazing what several million hands working together could accomplish, especially with Jedi and KUDF assistance; streets that had been rubble and corpses two nights hence were now clear of debris, and were being swept and washed clean. Blood that had splattered on walls was being washed away; even a few Thuronian units, disarmed, bare of armor, and under scornful eye, helped the clean-up as part of a leniency deal. Some had fled to the wilds, while others had surrendered; just as mercenaries always would, they had chosen life over duty. Slowly, quietly, peace had seeped back into he city.

"People of Menat Ombo!" The booming voice of Liam Torun echoed across the courtyard; the revellers paused, turning to see them, dirty faces smiling that had once only known scorn. "We have come to an agreement!"

Slowly, his arm in a sling, Gideon Varos strode forward. Behind him, the de facto leaders of the Tanduran Settlement and Vard Mislu followed, each of them beaten and battered. Varos' hand was thin as he took up the pen, looking to the people. His gaunt cheeks and thin profile reflected his time in the Rock; and yet, some hope remained, some life returned to his sunken eyes.

"For too long, our colonies have been stubborn, willful, and even cruel. That cruelty cost us the loyalty of the native peoples, and because of that disunity, we fell." He looked to the Harakoan delegation, offering them a respectful nod; Whenua and the others returned it, a smile on the Chieftan's face. "But no longer. We will stand by our friends; we will stand together. We, the Tythonian Colonies of New Tython, sign the Treaty of Menat Ombo."

Cheers followed his words; they quieted slightly as the next delegation stepped forward. Mughim Viik led the group, followed by the Wookiee leaders of the Chosen and the Bothans of the Fey'lya's Last Stand. "We represent the outsiders; those who have lived alone, refusing the rest of the world. Some of us turned away help; others are newcomers, fleeing a Galaxy that has stepped on our throats. Together," He said, his mandibles clicking around the words, "We, the Independent Colonies of New Tython, sign the Treaty of Menat Ombo."

The Quarren's hand twisted out a tight, neat script; he gave the other parties a level stare and a curt nod, before turning and striding for the exit. "Well," A'lora mumbled to Liam, looking the Quarren over, "I guess that's a start."

"Give him time," The old man said, smiling. "Peace can't be forced. It has to grow."

A hush settled over the courtyard, as the Harakoan delegation approached. Whenua's gaze was level as he looked over the people assembled; Tythonian colonists looked on with uncertain eyes, old tensions and guilt mingling with gratitude. The Harakoans in the crowd looked on with unsure gazes as well; for them, acceptance was a new thing, and intolerance the old standard.

Taking a breath, the Chieftan spoke.

"Of all those who have suffered," He began, his accented words fluent and perfect, "None have paid as dearly as my people. We are the natives of Harakoa; this world was our birthplace, and is still our home." He looked to the masses, his face showing no hostility as he spoke. "We have since been pushed around many times. Blood has been spilled, by colonist and Harakoan alike. Fathers, mothers, brothers, sisters, daughters, and sons, have all been claimed by our conflicts. But," He said, an air of command in his voice, "We have always found peace. Today will be no different."

The crowd began to nod, hopeful, and he spoke again. "This is our world - and our world it remains. However, since your people made their homes here, we have battled many enemies. We faced terrorists and murderers; we battled conquerors and invaders. Pirates, hired guns, and Sith - the Harakoan people have faced all of them. And, all of them, time and again, have been faced down and defeated. Because of you; because we rose to face our enemies, and you stood beside us. Peace will not grow overnight. Old hatreds need time to die. However," He said, standing tall, "There will be peace."

He smiled, looking to the people. "This is our world; but you, our allies, have helped us. It is your world, too. And because of this, we, the Harakoan Tribes of New Tython, will sign the Treaty of Menat Ombo!" A chorus of cheers erupted, Harakoans and colonists who had looked uncertain before smiling, shaking hands, and embracing.

Liam smiled, stepping toward the podium. "I suppose there is only one speech left to give," He said, looking over the crowd.

"When this planet was found by outsiders, it was us who found it first - we, the Jedi of Odan-Urr. We made our home here, and aided in securing peace between colonist and native. At times, we yielded great success. Other times," He said, nodding to Whenua, "We made mistakes."

The Chieftan considered the words, before returning the nod.

"At times, we have chosen to avoid the rest of the world; unrest rose up in our absence." The crowd looked around, slowly nodding, uncertain. "Other times, we demanded a role in government, even at the uppermost levels. In those times, we saw rebellion, promoted distaste amongst the radicals of the city. Because of this... we have realized a simple truth."

"What do you mean?" A voice called out from the crowd.

"We are meant to be here, and will help to keep the peace." Liam said, smiling. "But Jedi were never meant to rule. We did not come to conquer our world; we came to free it."

A few cheers broke out from the crowd, and the Jedi continued. "As per the Treaty, each body will decide upon its own leaders, after its own fashions. The tribes will govern themselves," He said, extending a hand to the Harakoans. The tribals in the crowd cheered. "The Tythonians will work together, and elect new leaders," He said, leading to a few more cheers. "The Independents, our friends from afar, will choose their own leaders and commanders." Cheers, starting from the alien populace but joined in by the others, rose up.

"We, the Jedi, will remain on this world; we will protect it, we will defend it. New Tython will never fall again!" The cheer at those words rose high, before one final silence. "The Jedi of Odan-Urr will sign the Treaty of Menat Ombo," He said, his hand signing the document with a neat script.

Placing down the pen, he looked up at the people, raising his hands. "New Tython is free!" The chorus of cheers was deafening; the old man smiled, before turning. Striding toward the other Jedi, he was joined by his Aedile, her voice holding a note of worry.

"You do realize," A'lora's words said, "Someone is going to break this peace."

"Of course they will; they're sapient beings. And when they do," Liam replied, "We will be there." He glanced at the other Treaty signatories, all of whom offered him nods. He smiled.

"We will all be there."

Spaceport District
Prisoner Transfer
Crew of the Ruination

"Great friends you have here, Captain," The Devaronian chuckled, looking toward Izanami. "Real welcoming sort."

"Shut up, Loxus." Izanami replied, rolling her eyes.

"I mean, we help 'em fight a war; we turn our coats, right proper-like, and they clap us in binders. So friendly." He grinned over at her. As usual, the prospect of a bad situation brought out his bad side.

"I said-...," She began, looking up as a ship with fighter escort came flying overhead. "Wait a minute. That was..." An idea bloomed in her head. Looking to the others, she whispered quietly, "On my mark, get down. Got it?"

"You got it, Captain," Zirk replied, the Balosar's twin nodding.

A few seconds passed; their escort, a quartet of Harakoans, blaster rifles decorated with feathers, turned the corner. She counted the seconds until the nearest soldiers were gone. She reached to the Force; her binders clicked open, clattering to the ground. "Mark!"

Snapping into action, the crew lunged; Izanami delivered a sharp elbow to a man's head before twisting into a roundhouse kick, knocking the man on her left out. Kicking the rifle up to her hands, she flicked on the stun setting before firing a bolt at each of the remaining soldiers. She didn't need any more bad blood with the Jedi. Moving quickly, she used the Force to release the binders of her crew, handing them the weapons of the fallen.

"Okay - quick and quiet," She said, looking to them all. "Alleyways and stun bolts, people - we've got to get to that spaceport."

"What's the plan, Captain?" Ak-Tav asked, the Weequay's craggy eyebrow raised.

"That was the Arthos that just landed," Kurai replied, smiling, "And we need a ship."

Taking off, they wove their way through the alleys, stealth tactics carrying them far and stun shots disabling the few that saw them. Slipping into the spaceport, they watched as the crew refuelled it, KUDF soldiers disembarking down the ship's landing ramp.

"You deleted it?" A soldier asked, disbelief in his voice. "He had us fly them all there... and delete it?"

"General Torun's orders," The pilot replied, as surprised as his peer. "Took the people who wanted out of all this to Haven, and wiped the navicomputer. No one's finding that rock now."

"Yeah, maybe." He replied. "Come on - let's hit the cantina."

As the pair departed, the pirates waited, watching as binary loadlifters replaced consumed cargo and astromech droids oversaw the maintenance of the ship. Izanami was counting, going over all the processes in her head; years ago, when she'd gone by the name Akhera, she'd been an Aedile to these Jedi. She remembered that ship, right down to the fuelling time.

Predictably, the fuelling hose detached, sliding away from the craft; Kurai smiled. "Move!"

Running quietly, the pirates made it to the landing ramp, sprinting up; the droids below had no idea what to do, either too busy or too simple to relay instructions. Stun bolts fired as the pair of troops on the ship raised their guns, before they were rolled off the ramp and Ak-Tav slammed the button to shut it.

Running into the cockpit, Izanami slammed herself down into the seat, keying up the controls. "Standby for take-off, we're leaving hot! Get ready to-...," A pair of lightsabers snapped to life, forming a scissor-shape around her throat. Slumping back into her seat, she looked up. "Son of a Kath Hound. How are you, Sang?" She asked, an eyebrow raised. "And Kairus. Didn't realize you were here."

"It's Izanami now, right?" Sanguinius asked, his look grim. "What do you think you're doing?"

She pondered lying, before letting out a sigh; two Jedi would be able to tell, especially two who knew her. "Well, my plan was to steal this ship, make for hyperspace, and steal anything that wasn't nailed down between here and there." She held her wrists out. "Arrest me."

"Arthos, what is your situation?" A voice sounded; no doubt an alarm had been triggered by now. "Repeat, what is your situation?"

Sang looked to Kairus; the two shared a look, before Kairus cracked a grin, nodding. Deactivating their blades, the second Jedi stepped back while Tsucyra leaned over to the controls, keying the respond button. "This is Sanguinius. Situation normal, we just had a weapons malfunction. Key code 003-Aurek."

A few seconds passed. "Roger that, Arthos. We'll send a clean-up crew to assist."

Izanami had no words; she looked up at Sang. "What the kriff was that?"

"That," Sang replied, smiling, "Was us giving you about ten, fifteen seconds to get off this rock. We're coming with you."

Surprise became outright shock; then, she laughed, keying up the controls. "Hold on tight, boys," She said, chuckling. "It's gonna be a bumpy ride."

"Captain," Loxus' voice echoed through as he shuffled someone into the doorway; they wore a clean uniform, almost too clean, pressed to perfection. "We've got ourselves a stowaway."

The woman gave him a dirty look, before wiping off her sleeves. "Greetings. I am-...,"

"Save it. You're not human," Kurai said bluntly. The newcomer had no Force presence; had no presence at all, besides a few energy pulses. "You're a droid. What's your function here?"

"I am responsible for maintaining the Arthos," She replied, "And for monitoring-...,"

"Really? You belong to the ship?" Kurai grinned, as the ship took off. Turning back to the controls, she gunned it for orbit, knowing that within a few seconds the fighters would be after her. "Look at that, boys. I just got me one of them Human Replica Droids!"

Laughing, she broke orbit, headed for hyperspace. The X-wings tailing her never had a chance.