Ooroo Abbey
Observation Post
New Tython
Peace and tranquility had found its home on New Tython. Ushered in by the members of House Odan-Urr, the people had almost forgotten what oppression and tyranny felt like. The memories and scars of conflict had almost healed, only to be ripped open once more. Wind gusted gently, the warmth of the breeze caressing Cy Thuron's face gently. The view from the highest towers of the Ooroo Abbey was a magnificent one, being able to view the whole city once perched on the terrace. He gazed upon his glorious success, his prize jewel laid out before him. The city was his.
Smoke and flames rose upward to the sky, dancing and skipping to an incomprehensible rhythm. The It'kla District was torn apart by the inferno set by his mercenaries, the raw heat wrecking havoc upon the housing and architecture. Windows melted, plants burst into flames, and the terrified shrieks of citizens burst forth. Thuron smiled, his black robe billowing in the wind, his training as a Sith aiding him in this campaign. Burned to his memories were the doctrines and edicts of his order, his Master thoroughly indoctrinating the importance of strength and power.
His carefully laid out and masterfully executed plan bore fruit, he himself seeing this as he watched his mercenaries corralling his enemies into the Memit district, the seedier criminals slipping into the chaos and capitalizing on the fearful citizens. He smiled as his mercenaries laughed at the whimpering cowards who fell prey to the criminals of the Memit district. Villainous pride exuded from every pore as he observed fences being welded together to detain the newly made refugees. Victory, and it tasted sweet.
He gazed upon his army, the various mercenaries fulfilling their duties quickly and efficiently. The city was under his control, which made the Sith almost gleeful. He waved his hands like a maestro, the various chaotic sounds erupting into the air like sweet music. Flames burped up as a gas line ruptured, sending orange light high into the sky. New Tython had fallen, and it fell without a sound. No cry for help, no distress signal that brought aid. Cy Thuron had the city by its throat, and there was nothing anyone could do to stop him. His plan and tactics made sure they would not be able to. He and his men only marched at night, when darkness would cover them like a blanket, completely hidden from prying eyes. Within the shadows, he and his men had congregated on the outskirts of native villages and waited.
Methodically, slowly, the assaulted the Harakoans and caught their chiefs. Those who resisted were butchered. Cy found himself smiling at the memory, him and his mercenaries slicing in the meat of the cerulean skinned savages. The warmth of their blood spraying into the air as vibroblade tore into the muscles, the sweet sensations that came with life slowly leaving a body. The resistance, the tug of a vibroblade, there was nothing more exhilarating. His lightsaber, however, did not have that euphoric feel, instead offering a more delicate decapitation, an art form that Cy was intent to master. Those that were smart and gave in quickly were brought to camps he had ordered his men to create on the outskirts of Menat Ombo. Every now and then a blaster shot could be heard, followed by the sound of a fallen Harakoan.
The flames spread even further within the It'kla district, roaring fires that tore through the residential area and ate up anything it could. The intensity of the inferno grew and grew, some structures collapsing as their interiors were gutted by the flames. Cy Thuron had caused all of this, the wondrous chaos that sprang from the inability of those in power to hear the peoples demands. He watched his mercenaries work, a blood red sky hanging over them. As he watched and reflected upon his sweet tasting victory, his eyes couldn't help but catch jumps of light, sparkles that twinkled to life in the distance. His smile only grew, knowing these arrivals would only further please his master.
X-Wing Cockpit
New Tython Space
New Tython
The abyss of space was infinite, embracing any and everything that found itself within it. Liam Torun found himself inside a cockput of an X-Wing, the humming sound of his engines almost silent in the void of space. Behind him was a large formation of Jedi snub fighters, House Odan-Urr following their leader. Something felt wrong, Liam's stomach churned with uneasiness and his mind reeled with pain and misery, sensing the emotions of those on the planet below. He reached out with his mind, trying to calm his nerves and focus. He felt a powerful disturbance, as if life was being scorched away on New Tython. He felt the living energy of its denizens being scrubbed away by a malicious entity, but he wasn't sure if these were feelings of what is to come or what has come. He could sense a large population centralized around Menat Ombo, and he felt as if that was were the disturbance was at its strongest. He began to open up comm channels, fingers flicking various signals and buttons, alerting his team to their new heading.
“Menat Ombo is where we're headed. Prepare for anything, something is not right down there. Something dark.” said Torun as he prepared to approach The Sanctuary, New Tython's space station.
Before he could even open a comm channel, however, The Sanctuary began to open fire. Plasma burped forth from sme turrets, ion being slung from others. Torun and his team reacted quickly, the Force allowing them to dart to and fro and dodge the onslaught. Orange light splashed against the blackness of space, bathing fighters in the aftermath of an exploding snub fighter. Torun used the Force to enhance his flying, dodging one blast to barrel roll away from another. Banking hard, he could smell the stench of ozone as a bolt of plasma skinned his underbelly. From his peripheral vision he saw the maneuvering of his teammates, feeling the Force working through them all. As one, they dodged the volley of fire from the station, finally breaking away into the depths of space.
As they left the firing range of the station, Torun and his fighters had barely enough time to catch their breath as Thuron's fleet of mercenary frigates and cruisers made their way into view. The sinking feeling of having hope crushed began to swirl within Liam, who was trying his best to stay calm and focused.
“Out of the frying pan and into the fire.” Sight's voice was tense as he whirled around, his B-wing straining against the sudden cut-back of its engines.
“No way we'd survive an encounter against that. Straight down is where we are headed. Head for the planet, there was a distress beacon that was deactivated near a military outpost just before our communications with the planet were silenced. That's where we'll head.” said Torun.
New Tython
Far outskirts of Menat Ombo
Planetary Midnight
Traveling as fast as their speeder bikes could carry them, the Summit led a swarm of Jedi towards their city. Their bikes moaned and squealed as they whizzed along the planet's surface, clouds of dust kicked up into the blanket of night. Their arrival was hidden by the night sky, the light of the moon shrouded in clouds, the stars practically absent. Elleron, Morotheri, and Liam kept their eyes on the prize, trying their best to make sure their city was safe. Pits lay at all their stomach, fearful of what may have happened to those that were in the city if something terrible did happen. Hope still shone in their hearts, as the fate of the city was uncertain to them all. Jedi never gave up hope when there was still a shred of hope left, and Jedi is what they were.
“It doesn't look good. Think we'll make it?” asked Morotheri, slaloming out of the way of a rock, the mechanics of the bike whirring as it adjusted its course.
Liam looked him the eyes but could say nothing. The ability to speak had left Torun, his features instead doing his talking for him. He could only return a sorrowful stare at his friend before he accelerated further. Morotheri began to feel as if they're already too late. That last shred of hope may have just left.
Menat Ombo
It'kla District Ruins
His eyes were but vestigial sockets, dry hollows wrapped by cloth. That didn't stop the tear from leaking down Morotheri's cheek.
He had seen destruction before, during the Brotherhood's invasion and the conflicts to follow. He had seen the eddies of the Force as they curled across scarred plains and broken vistas, watched as life criss-crossed them and died. This was different; this was nothingness, absence. Thuron's mercenaries had set to work with propellant and flame, blasting apart building and structure and superheating it until brick turned to liquid and vapour. The ambient Force energy flowed over and through, but collected in nothing; no flickers from the bacteria that might collect on surfaces, no faint pulse of seed or living cell.
Cy Thuron had managed to kill everything, down to the very last microbe, in the It'kla District.
Morotheri's feet strode through what had once been a street, heat and ash buffetting his face. The Force's whispery glow usually flowed about like air currents; here, they seemed to swirl and twist, the echoes of the wrongs committed here bending them into horror and strife. The twisted frames of what had been people could be seen here and there, burnt until their flesh turned to char and their bones snapped and popped from the heat. He could feel the horror; here, a man had been beaten into submission and forced to endure horrific pain. There, a woman had been dragged away to the shadows, her dignity taken alongside her innocence by the wickedness of guns for hire.
He stopped, a piercing shiver cascading through him. Here, the Force told him, a little girl had refused to give up. She'd been beaten to death by riflemen, screaming for help until she could no longer talk.
The calm control of a Jedi shuddered within Morotheri; he felt ripples of anger pulse through him, the Force flowing into him and twisting under the inevitable hatred. The sound of a nearby shout, of boots approaching, send embers into a wildfire within him.
"There's another one!" The mercenary cried out. "Soldiers, engage him no- Agh!!" His voice turned into a scream as the Force smashed into his chest like a wrecking ball, turning ribs into shattered glass.
Morotheri's lightsaber raged to life, the Miraluka crying out as he knocked back the bolts of four men. This time, though, he did not stop; anger filled him, a dark strength blackening his mind the way crude oil might putrify a pool of water. The soldiers sprinted to fan out, as they'd been trained; it made no difference, one falling as one of his own bolts crashed through his eye. His peers, left and right, screamed as the lightsaber took one man at the waist, striking up to lop half of a skull away. Its owner fell to the ground, twitching and convulsing, his nervous system in irreparable shock.
Mithfaron's blade crashed through the metal of the last man's gun, turning it to scalding steam as the blade's tip carved a line up his cheek. He fell back with a scream, yanking off his sparking helmet and throwing it aside. Scurrying backward, his skin swelling up and blistered around the blackened wound, he hit the charred bricks of the walls he had helped to destroy.
"Please," He wept, tears pouring from his eyes. "It was just a job. I didn't even know these people!" The Miraluka growled, lifting his blade for the kill. "Please!"
He held it there, looking down on the being, seeing the darkness within cower back into the shimmering light of his essence; it always did, when bested by a being of Light. His grip tightened, but wavered; to kill men in the heat of battle, when they fought back? That was easy. What stood before him was a cold kill, retribution for destruction, horror, and death.
There is no Death, The words of Odan-Urr echoed through Morotheri's head, There is only the Force.
The Mercenary yelped feebly, covering his face and tensing up with dread; the slurp of Morotheri's blade deactivating made him look up slowly, disbelief on his face. "I... I thought you'd kill me." He said, whimpering. "I thought you hated us."
"I do," The Miraluka replied, a look of disgust on his face, "But I'm not the monster here." His leather boot made the soldier's world go back, as he was kicked out of consciousness.
Memit District
Abandoned Building
Jedi Rally Point
Liam's creased face got a look of displeasure to it as he drew his saber, its green blade illuminating the dim confines of the house. "I cannot save it. I must remove the arm."
The Harakoan, his blue face once proud but now haggard and pale, nodded. "Do it quickly," He said, his accent showing inflections of acceptance as he closed his eyes and gritted his teeth.
The old man nodded, drawing his blade up and through the sinews carefully, mitigating the damages. To his credit, the humanoid barely groaned as the pain of a thousand suns turned infected flesh into vapour. The Consular was quick to close down the blade, closing his eyes and clasping the stump as he poured the healing aura of the Force into the wound.
"Liam," Elleron's voice was at once boyish in sound and ancient in gravity. "Morotheri has returned."
The older man nodded, standing with a faint grimace as old knees creaked against a lifetime of weakened cartilage. The Jedi had infiltrated Memit District through hard-earned distractions, ones that still continued; here and there, Jedi operated to draw attention away from Memit, disabling machines and neutralizing soldiers. It was necessary, but it still saddened Liam; his fortitude was a product of age, of seeing and living through the Clone Wars. The Jedi had been tested, and many had fallen, if only briefly. Many had caressed the power of the Dark Side.
"What's the situation?" Liam asked his Aedile, striding up to the man. He was shaken, within and without.
"It's gone. They've burned it to the ground," Mithfaron said coldly, frowning with pain. "Every last microbe and cell within It'kla fell to the flames. Visulu Market has become a proper compound; even with our strikes, our attacks and interferences, a true garrison is in place. The city is theirs."
"Peace, my friend," Liam said, placing a calming hand on the younger's shoulder. "In time, life will return to the District. Cy Thuron follows darkness, the path of domination, and such tyrants can never last." His eyes conveyed the tested, steel-forged calm of a man in his twilight, a man who had seen truth. "What of the people? Can we get them out?"
"Not all of them, and not without earning it." Morotheri replied. "The spaceport's been fortified with the heaviest of cannons and forces; nothing's getting out of there without being blasted apart. The Arthos and the Gallofree transport are there, but they're locked down pretty heavily; our options are limited." Morotheri looked at Torun, his face almost begging. "We could flee to the wilds, take the people with us. We could fight the good fight and resist."
Liam shook his head. "That is a fool's course, Morotheri, and you know it. Everywhere the people went, these mercenaries would follow; we would draw down the full wrath of Thuron's guns, and if we succeeded, it would leave this world in ruins. All the while, the Brotherhood's dark power would grow unchecked, to descend where this tyrant had left off and finish us."
"And what difference does it make if we leave?" Morotheri asked, anger bubbling up in him again. "The mercenaries cover the world? Thuron's control becomes absolute?"
"Yes," The older man said, a note of finality in his voice. "His control becomes complete. He intends to rule these people, and though oppressed, they will survive under the dictat of a ruler. All other roads lead to the death of all that we could save."
Morotheri turned away, fury glowing inside of him; it faded to acceptance. Liam was right; the people were scattered and defeated, and the Jedi would only expend resources and power that they did not have to stay and fight. "What's our plan?"
Liam thought for a moment, before smiling to himself. "You mentioned that the spaceport was heavily guarded?"
"Yes," Morotheri replied, caution in his voice. "What are you thinking?"
"That it's time to hit back," Liam replied, his old face wrinkling with his grin. "Find Sight and Raiju, tell them to be ready. We're going to Ordain Vorono."
Ordain Vorono Spaceport
Surrounding District
Civilian Rooftop, Garrisoned
Mikkel yawned, stretching and leaning against the turret. "C'mon, Sym. One sip wouldn't hurt."
"Damnit, Mikkel," Sym replied from behind the weapons system, his hands coated in grease. The missile systems weren't cooperating. "You heard the Captain. We lose a day's pay if we're caught drinking. Two days if it's that Corellian slag you like."
"What?" It's good whiskey." Mikkel said, walking to the edge of the rooftop and leaning over the edge. "I don't care what the Captain says. We get this place locked down, I'm hitting the cups. You in?" No one answered. Slowly, lifting his rifle, he turned. "Sym?"
The man was gone; Mikkel hadn't heard a thing. His hand went for the radio mounted to his chest; a yellow blade growled as it punched through his ribs from behind, the man barely able to groan as the world went black. Raiju deactivated the weapon, catching his query before he could thud to the ground.
He hoisted a radio, looking to the adjacent rooftop. "Sight, do you copy?"
There was no reply; instead, the albino's blade flickered to life, carving through the mooring of the turret he'd attacked. The weapon disabled, Kang watched as he leapt from the rooftop, joining the mass of cloaked figures as they struck at fortifications and targets. No hesitation, no prisoners, and no mercy. What they did that night would be dangerously close to Darkness.
It was also necessary, the lives of a couple hundred mercenaries spent to save thousands of refugee lives. "Allusis, move in and engage," He said, before dropping back to the darkness of the alleyways below.
Ooroo Abbey
Former Council Chambers
Throne Room
"My lord!" The mercenary shouted, running into the Throne Room. Cy quickly snapped the holocommunicator shut, its blue figurine disappearing.
"What is it?" He snapped, a growl hidden within his voice. He would need to teach his subjects to announce themselves; his Master did not care to be seen.
The reports had been coming in for hours, ever since dawn; soldiers and patrols had gone missing, a few bodies even discovered. Vehicles, equipment, and supplies had been stolen or destroyed; small rations of food or weaponry were being stolen. The mercenaries had reassured him that there was nothing to worry about, that it was likely a handful of Harakoans or settlers acting up against the group. Thuron had his own theory.
It was vindicated with the soldier's report. "Our signal tower just went down, so we sent a lookout to the Spaceport district," He said, clearly out of breath. "All of our anti-air defenses are down. Our communications equipment has been crippled, and our guards there are captive or worse. We're under attack."
Cy stood up, his lightsaber flipping off of his belt to rest in the palm of his hand. "The Jedi are here. Rally your men, soldier; fortify our defenses on the walls for a full-scale assault, and send any soldiers you have left to Ordain Vorono." Strode toward the soldier as he spoke, limbering himself up for the coming assault. "Send word to Sanctuary, tell them Lord Thuron authorizes fighter and bomber support to be deployed here immediately. Position the fleet to prevent anything from taking off."
The soldier saluted. "Yes, my Lord." They'd learned not to question him awhile earlier, when he'd thrown a man from the Abbey's highest peak for arguing.
Abbey, He thought to himself, looking at his new chambers. Such a dull word. What a Lord deserves is a Palace.
Ordain Vorono Spaceport
Makeshift Evacuation Site
"Next," Sight called, his red eyes looking over the ragged survivors. He could remember a time when colonists and Harakoans had held bitterness toward one another; now, cold and hungry, all were equal. It crushed him that this was what it had taken. "Come along, now. We've got to get moving."
Glancing back, he saw Morotheri, Elleron, and Raiju all checking over other survivors, while Liam led the efforts of the Jedi healers in the group. The old man moved with the same speed as the Padawans in the group, bringing food and medicine to those that needed it. No one was fully treated; they just had to be stable for transport.
He turned to see to the next survivor, and the world turned to noise.
Gravity, solid ground, balance; these things became words, terms that meant less than nothing. Sight's skin burned and blistered, bits of screaming-hot steel burning his face and into his robes. He hit the ground hard and rolled, the only sound he could hear a dull ringing as bits of the survivor in front of him fell before his eyes. He sat up by reflex, his vision blurry as he saw lightsabers flare silently to life, battering back noiseless blaster bolts. Black-armored mercenaries poured over barricades built of anything the Jedi could find, bombs raining down from distant launchers.
Sound began to return as Raiju pulled him to his feet. "Sight, are you alright?!" He yelled. "Come on! We're under attack!"
Nortorshin nodded dully, fumbling for his blade and rushing toward the chaos.
CONCLUSION
Unknown Wild Planet
Status: Habitable
Harakoan Refugee Camp
36 ABY
"That's the last of them," Sight said tiredly, watching as yet another person departed the shuttle. Four thousand refugees had attempted to get to the evac site; two thousand and thirty three had made it. "Poor wretches."
Liam nodded, looking haggard for the first time since any had seen him. Normally, he gave the impression of a wise old oak tree; today, he was a worn-out robe. "Well, let's get to work; we need a secure camp and drills set up. We've only got until week's end."
Sight's crimson eyes snapped over to his Quaestor, his albino skin almost dark under soot, filth, and blood stains. "Until week's end? We're going back to Sith space?"
Liam nodded; Morotheri, Raiju, and Tur'el regarded him as he spoke, before hopping to duty. "The Brotherhood doesn't rest; neither can we. These people are safe, and some are warriors. With a bit of practice, they will be able to survive out here until we come back." He looked at the younger man, sending a wave of cooling thoughts toward his disbelief. "At peace, my friend. We will return, I promise you. But right now, we need the means to our end. We need the forces to retake the planet."
Sight sighed, but nodded, looking over the survivors. Even dressed in rags, bruised, battered, and filthy, they hopped to work. It was the power of hope in motion; these people had a goal. They had a job to do. "We'd better."
New Tython
The Wilderness, Undisclosed Location
"What do we do now?" The blue-skinned man asked his peers. Formerly, other Harakoans would have met his gaze; today, he sat in circle with two of his own kin, three humans, a Mon Cal, and a Wookiee. None had been spared.
"What can we do?" A human asked. "The Jedi are gone, the planet has fallen, and no Republic is coming to save us." His look of despair was complete. "Serving the Sith would have been better."
The Wookiee growled something, and the Mon Cal nodded his head. "Don't say that. The Sith would make us slaves, or worse. At least here, we are free."
"Free to do what?" A second human asked, looking around. "Maybe a couple thousand got out of the cities. Maybe. And we're scattered, no food or supplies, no tools to help us survive. The people we meet will likely do worse than the enemy."
"There is only one thing we can do, child," An elder Harakoan replied. The other two present bowed their heads as he spoke, a sign of respect. "Keep our strength, stay alive. And wait for them to come back." He gazed at the stars, and in that moment, the hope in his eyes spread to them all.
The Jedi would return. They had to.
New Tython
Ooroo Abbey Ruins
Cy Thuron's thrumming weapon painted the dark antechamber in a bloody haze, the bodies of mercenary captains and enemies alike strewn across the floor. He deactivated it, letting out a sigh of relief.
"You," He snapped, pointing to the man standing in the doorway. He bore no helmet. "You survived a Jedi attack, encountered one of them and lived. You will prove useful; consider yourself promoted." He looked to the man. "I appoint you High Guardsman of the New Dawn. Get my planet in order, and spare no one who rebels."
Alek stepped up; the bandages across his eye and face took the vision from his right eye, but luckily, the Miraluka had spared him. Lord Thuron, however, didn't need to know that part. "Sir," He said, grinning, "It would be my pleasure."