During the Awakenings conflict, you have been sent to intercept a member of another faction. Your objective is to delay or neutralize them, but you are not to kill them. Will you succeed or fail? Capture or convert? The choice is yours.
Macron Sadow & Muz Ashen Keibatsu
Rules:
28 ABY
Temple of Sorrow
Sepros
Macron watched the viewscreen, reading the information yet again, flicking the screen to see the head’s-up display from the Onyx platform. He slammed his hand down on the desk, seeing the digital representation of the Dark Council shuttle taking a few of the clan’s best away from him, to help some upstart cabal of dark jedi. He sneered at it, slamming the display until the holo turned off.
He sat for a moment, self-doubt blooming somewhere deep in him, if there was something else that could have been handled better. If there was another outcome, somewhere along the threads that spun out of control in the entire kriffed mess. He shook his head, slowly at first, then fast enough that spit flew from his mouth, his vision blurring as his neck cracked like arthritic knuckles.
He stopped, his head spinning as he cradled his head with arms propped up on the desk. One hand slipped down, feeling along the side of his robes to the injector he had jury rigged to his ribcage. The chemicals he had synthesized a few days ago bubbled in the contraption beneath his touch. There was some comfort there, even without his second skin. The armor lay stories below him, in his quarters, half disassembled, new bits of duroplast substrate and alloys he had came up with attached if only barely. He let his finger caress the activation stud, the metal warm to his touch, urging him to pull it, to release the toxins into his bloodstream, powerful enough to kill a normal man, but just enough barely overpower his synthetic liver. His head would drop into a haze, his heart would race, then calm. And then he could put this all into perspective.
No.
Willpower scorched through him, burning nerves and doubt aside as it gritted his teeth. Something triggered deep in the primordial parts of his brain demanded more from him. Expected more from him, and would not be sated with half measures and promises. He drew his hand away from the injector, closed it into a fist and slammed it into the desk, the crimson rimmed gold of his eyes staring at it as fingernails dug into the soft flesh of his palm. He didn’t need this weakness. He was better than this, stronger. He had perspective enough.
The damage was done. Half of his family was gone, leaving him. They weren’t blood, after all. He spat, as if there was a sympathetic connection between his anger and the saliva that flew from his mouth. He stared at it for a moment, sizzling on the cold floor. None of it mattered now.
All that mattered now was the Clan.
39 ABY
The Fragments of Dentavii
Orian System
Macron supressed the shudder he felt when the lion’s claws were bared. Crimson and Amethyst, he knew these blades well. He looked up at the man, seeing only the sable of his helmet glinting back at him. Solar winds tossed the Grand Master’s warcoat and the mane of hair that decorated his helm. He brought his own weapon forward, muscle memory recalling the velocities of his beloved Makashi.
Bittersweet, he raised the blade to his brow, then swept it downward in salute.
There weren’t any words because there was no need for them.
36 ABY
Codei Prison
Antei
Macron ran between the tables, a laugh born deep within his chest worming its way through his throat and rattling his teeth. The condensers bubbled, the fluids changing color as he exposed them to the heat of a burning adegan. There was too much going on here, and yet not enough. He watched the coils change the green fog into a purple liquid, then again shifting to a sickly orange as the drops collected at the bottom of the cooling array.
There was study, and then there was application. This would be his finest hour since he discovered the Violator. He let another laugh erupt from him even as he scrambled his hands across the battered and abused codex, filling in his recipes and findings, adding to the antique with a fervor he hadn’t felt in ages.
It was good to have purpose again, unchained by politick.
The holo screamed at him, alerting him that the blue mist of the projector would soon take shape. He lifted his head for a moment, seeing the closely cropped hair of the Wolf staring down at him. There was a coldness there, always a coldness since back then.
He shoved it aside in his mind. They were the ones who left, after all. Left for the Council, leaving him there to fight for them, rather than do it themselves. Part of him envied their ambitions, to seek out the power, even if clouded by the intrigues of the Council. But a larger part of him loathed them for it, despite the access it sometimes afforded him. Like now.
“How goes it?” The Herald’s voice was informal, yet stern.
“Still washing.” He looked back to his boiler, stripped a glove off of his hand and reached into the goop. “Clinicals now.”
The Herald nodded, then severed the connection. They both understood the situation well enough.
More words were unneccessary.
39 ABY
The Fragments of Dentavii
Orian System
His blades were the sunrise, amber and bloodshine. He crossed them overhead as the blows came raining down, the sunset hues of the Grand Master battering away at him, amethyst and crimson. Fluid motions carried his weapons along currents of the Force, seeking for an opening in the Madman’s guard, seething along the outline of his pattern.
Macron felt something he hadn’t felt in a long time. It itched beneath his skin, slick and viscous. He set his teeth as he bounded backwards, trying to afford himself some time. It was futile. The Lion’s Mastery of Sokan kept him right at his throat, moving with him in a seamless blur of parries, guards, slices and strokes. Macron pushed harder, pure willpower pushing himself further against the grain.
He watched as the dark armor contorted away from his harried attempts at attacks, the seething blades finding no purchase before getting batted away as if he was a mere child. The itch crawled from his skin, and he resisted the urge to pick at it, to throw his saber down and tear at his flesh to soothe it.
He spun on his heel, bringing both sabers together in a great strike, seeking to dismember the man. The blades fell upon empty air, the Lion moving with an alacrity learned only from decades on the battlefield.
He felt moisture at his brow and it occured to him what the itch was.
Macron was sweating.
It had been so long since the man had a true challenge, that he had felt outclassed, that he felt that he had something to learn from the combat rather than just being the avatar of righteousness, the god of madness and pain. That there was a chance, even a likelihood that he might die. He felt the sweat drip into his eyes, irritating the implant. There was nothing to say, but everything to feel. It had been too long, indeed.
Macron let the laughter come.
39 ABY
The Fragments of Dentavii
Orian System
“HahahahahaAAA!” The madman laughed in adroit joy. There was only one thing he really enjoyed and that was pain, whether his or someone else’s. To feel it on his flesh or deal it out reminded the Sith that he was actually alive. Long meditations in the Dark Side guts of the Tombs of Orian had clarified his visions of self-existence and reason. By the hoary Lords of the Sith, this time he felt life in his synthetic veins! The joy of risk and uncertainty!
However, even raw Death in this hopeless battle would be better than his current life. Better than living as a freak, a monster, unable to eat, reproduce, taste, or enjoy living like most beings. The chance of Death was very real here. Almost a certainty in fact. Living apart from the Force as a shade of darkness was something that actually appealed to the madman. No more would his fracked up excuse of a body ruin his life. No more would people see him as a monster unless he chose for them to see. No more pain, no more uncertainty. Just… nothingness. Oblivion.
Darth Ashen was indeed the most formidable person the Alchemist had faced in personal combat. Before that, his old Sith Master Vexatus or the Prophet Kaine Maandala had been the pinnacle. Neither had shown him the full might of their power, intending to keep him around as a useful tool for their own hidden purposes. Ironically Kaine had perhaps treated him better than Vexatus before Mandaala had disappeared into the Unknown regions though their bond had not been as deep. Of course, Macron hadn’t tried to poison Kaine either… the thought of watching Vexatus’s body nearly die made him smile in the split second as his fractured mind swam with gruesome images. “You thought me innocent.”
Macron touched the seething core of his inner being and sought deep within himself for more power. Like most Sith, power was to be found within from passion and emotion. Now he brought everything he could muster to the forefront. Every bit of rage, strength, alacrity, everything that he was rippled into his form. The tangerine and scarlet blade moved in with precision borne of a deep connection to the Dark Side of the Force. He was a pure master of the form of Makashi and it showed. No effort was wasted, no movement lost, and precision was maintained at every stroke. Any lesser Dark Jedi would have fallen before the onslaught.
But as his sunrise weapons clashed with the beautiful sunset blades of the Grandmaster’s, it STILL was not enough. The Keibatsu simply controlled the field of battle expertly. He barely broke a sweat as he pushed Macron back with hammering, swift and twisting Sokan blows. One set of attacks pushed the madman almost to the brink of oblivion as Ashen expertly drove him back across a slight rise in the asteroid’s terrain strewn with rubble. The Alchemist almost stumbled, hesitated, and instead of a killing blow the Grandmaster’s amethyst blade severed Macron’s red type-II hilt at the emitter. The Phrikite alloy plating briefly resisted the blow for microseconds, too fast for the eye to see but still rent asunder in the face of the pure refined energy of Muz’s beam.
“Gaaarggh!” Macron screamed as he dropped the smoking ruined hilt and quickly grasped his other orange-bladed weapon with both hands. To his surprise as he raised it before him, Ashen stopped with both weapons in front of him.
“Mononoke,” the black-eyed Kyataran whispered in a voice that clearly penetrated the madman’s hallucinations. “You fought with me at Korriban. You know Marcus will be destroyed by the Shards. Artifacts are crutches, dangerous toys that mislead. I of all people know this best.”
The madman shouted in angry reply, spittle flying from his lips to spray the inside of his helm as he yelled. “Of course! NOBODY must have them! They must be DESTROYED! Vexatus betrayed me as any Sith Master would! Locke betrayed me, and YOU let it happen! No one is safe if ANY of them get those shards! They drove Trevarus insane! They destroyed Lord Orian himself! I’ve seen the writings in the Tombs…” The self-destructive hallucinations closed in again on his brain and he launched himself forward with a masterfully strong telekinetic blast preceding him. “Rrrraargh! DIE!”
39 ABY
The Fragments of Dentavii
Orian System
Time, some scholars believe, does not travel as a line. They postulate that it has to be more than just a linear effect, clearly transitioning from one thing to the other, that entropy shows that inherently more is happening than just movement.
Muz saw it all, before Macron even decided, if what he had done could be described as such. The possibilities unfolding from his battered psyche flung themselves in predictably unpredictable ways. The randomness of the Madman was anything but Chaos, but a system, an organization that most lacked the perception to comprehend.
As the blast of concentrated will struck where Muz once stood, Macron bellowed at him, throttling himself forward with rage on his tongue and emotions too complex for simple words in his eye. They swam beneath the burning golden crown, the remaining untampered window to his darkened soul unclouded by deception or dint of subterfuge.
Muz touched the world, let the universe tremble at his will, pouring itself at his command, seething into his muscles, his mind. The universe slowed, minutes seeming to pass between heartbeats as the Force drenched him.
All Macron saw was a blur, the Lion’s speed leaving a path of burning light to bounce across his own blade, batting the weapon away with almost a disregard for the Alchemist’s lethality. The twist of his blade spun the hilt away from him, the blade evaporating back into its hilt as it rocketed out of reach. Macron rolled away, finding the man keeping pace with him all too easily. Muz raised a hand, the congealed air of the Force sweeping his legs out from under him, knocking him to a knee, his armored fist grazing the dust for stability. It burned along his senses, leaving a trail of ruin in his heart as the rage cleared his mind for him.
Every step of the way, every setback, every advancement. Memories were brought forward by the voices, reminding him of every incident. Those cold and flat shark eyes, staring at him through it all. It all snapped into position, puzzle pieces snapping together to show him what he had been building all along. The chattering of their ever-moving maws snared against the inside of his skull, pleading for him to end. Predators and elevators, predilection for vacation or fornication. Hatred beneath it boils. Under the soil, never spoils.
“You didn’t let it happen.” Macron grimaced, his teeth glinting from behind the faceplate of his helmet. “You made it happen.” The words came almost as a whisper, his eyelid twitching as they came out, a direct path from his heart to his tongue.
Muz shifted his weight, raising the tip of his blade to regard the madman. No words came, just the electric hum of energized adegans casting purple light across the sith tattoos across his face.
“Admit it.” He set his teeth into a rictus of hatred. “It was your plan all along.”
Muz didn’t move, keeping the tip of his blade aimed at the man.
“Say it!” Macron screamed, bits of spittle flying from his mouth to the faceplate of the helmet. “I need to hear it!”
Moments stretched into lifetimes as he stared at the blackened helmet of the Krath Lord. Macron cursed himself internally, the voices chittering away about a good death, about standing up against fate, about the flavor of corellian whiskey if it were to be aged in wroshyr casks, about where the blood in his veins came from, about the smell of dawn on Tarthos. The noise had fear built up within. It feeds and grows behind his eyes. The fragile flesh and evil grin. Hello old man, come taste your lies.
“Because you know it’s not true.” The words came through the helmet almost gravelly, metallic. The helmet was new, not as broken in as the Lord’s dark armor, and Macron could almost feel the plans in his own head, the improvements he would make on the designs. His head spun with the words, the voices parroting them back at him in mocking tones. He blinked it off, rattling his head.
Lies. They had to be. Deception was their way, the way, the Final Way. Macron would have spat if his helmet were off.
Because you know it’s not true.
You know not true Because it’s.
Because it’s you, not know true.
Know you, because it’s not true.
Know true, it’s not because you.
The lightsaber powered off, the violet beam retreating back into its master’s hand. The voices cackled at him, offering advice and fear, ranting at nature, at their impotence to force him to listen. No tears, no sympathy. Must fear this symphony.
And were suddenly silenced. Macron curled his lip as he watched him reholster the hilt.
I have never moved against you, blood.
Emotions corrupted themselves in his heart, in his head, his eyes watering as he heard him, processing. Muz stepped forward, a hand reaching out to help him to his feet.
39 ABY
The Fragments of Dentavii
Orian System
The madman hesitantly accepted the proffered hand, wary of deception. None came as he stood with the Krath Lord’s help. The voices in his head tittered more than usual as he unsealed his helm to look directly into Ashen’s black eyes.
It’s a trap. Trippity-trap you up.
The Dark Side is not evil, and neither is the Light good.
From this truth we must sup.
All are a means to find truth in the Force, be as it should.
It Isn’t. Not now, the death cup.
“I see. I was… wrong.” The Alchemist winced, his scarred face and mismatched eyes crinkling in self-loathing. “And still the oblivion did not come.” His boots scraped on the rough stone of the asteroid as he stood and clipped his remaining lightsaber hilt to his belt. “Damn shame about the backup saber, but at least you spared my primary blade.” Blade almost made me a shade… or not.
Muz folded his arms, armor clicking as his war-coat flapped around him. “Oblivion, and the respite for such as you and I within it is yet another lie. The so-called Final Way is nothing more than eternal stagnation. Could you stomach that for all eternity?” His voice carried the ring of truth. “I doubt you can. Eternal, unblinking stagnation. I stared into it’s rotten stinking visage at Korriban, and it was not easy on the eyes. Imagine what torment beings like Exar Kun and Freedon Nadd endured after the death of their mortal forms. To be forever the same… it goes against everything the Sith stand for, really.”
Macron thought carefully as he looked across the asteroidal battlefield. His Clan-mates, all arrayed against themselves. Again. It was a tiresome situation and one that often seemed to perpetuate itself at the whims of those who moved in the shadows. “Truly. It would drive me… mad. Haha! Or maybe sane?" The Sith frowned in mock horror. “Bored? I’m not sure. But it would be a serious drag either way.” Drag… drag… drag you down.
“I figured as much, Mononoke. Look around you. Those Shards are wreaking havoc on this great Clan we both have fought and bled for, just like they did to Lord Orian. Can you feel it?” The Grandmaster had no need of simple gestures to focus his senses, but he nodded as the Adept closed his weird eyes and felt within the Force. “Your abilities are returned to you. Feel it. ” Ashen manipulated the aura around the madman, removing the blight of Sildrin’s suppression with but a glance.
“I can… see again, feel a possibility… something very bad will happen if the Shards fall into the right hands. We- Naga Sadow- are even now vulnerable with this infighting and our enemies close on us.” The Alchemist opened his strange eyes and looked into the distance towards the location of his former Sith Master. “I agree. Artifacts, while interesting, are useless tools in the end that lead to weakness and atrophy. The true way lies in personal self discovery in my minds. Perhaps this time, the Prophet does not lie. ”
“Perhaps,” chuckled the Krath Lord as the two began to find a route of descent along the high ground they had sought in their fight. “I wouldn’t count on it though. Our fight is ended and you take my point.” The Kyataran spoke confidently, not a question but rather a statement of fact and truth. “I expect you to do the right thing.”
“Indeed. I’ve lost too many friends over the years to see any more die, especially at the hands of those they call friend. Sith I may be, but I am neither stupid nor greedy. I will do what I can on my end to stop this madness. Heh heh. Madness.” The lunatic Adept bowed his head briefly. “Thank you for sparing me/us/them- bah! I think.”
Both Dark Jedi turned and moved towards their respective factions within the conflict with a gentleman’s understanding of true Brotherhood reached between them. One had recalled an old family member and aided his growth as an older tutor, and the other loathed himself just a little bit less with a noble purpose in mind.