The expansive, intricately-panelled Hall reverberated with the hum and buzz of a lightsabre and the quiet conversation between the two men circling each other at its centre.
One, the one wielding the sword-of-light, was old. Not decrepitly so, but many seasons had crossed the weathered face and each had left its mark. The eyes looking out from beneath greying brows were alert and calm at the same time. They radiated a peace from within; an absolute peace that few in the Universe ever find. He wore a flowing robe of coarse brown, its hood hanging limp from his shoulders. Beneath the robe, the beige of his tunic and breeches could be seen as he moved with a fluidity that belied his years. He manipulated the glowing sword as if it were an extension of his arm, with the casual grace which comes from many, many years practice.
His opponent, watching warily with the unfeeling eyes of a wolf, was young. He seemed to have shed his childhood less than a decade ago, and the path of manhood still stretch away before him. But his eyes held knowledge beyond his age. His face had a blank reserve; as if he felt no concern about the dangers of this battle. As if he felt nothing.
He was dressed in sombre black from head to toe, in stark contrast to the earthy colours preferred by his adversary; an emblem of his sober profession. His black jacket was long enough to sweep the floor and was cinched tight from neck to waist, obscuring most of what lay beneath. A gun lay in his hand as naturally as the sword did in his counterpart's.
Each man was dressed in his preferred style and each was armed, not only with his weapon of choice, but with his unwavering faith in a greater power. Each man strove to understand his opponent's dedication through conversation, even as he tried to gauge the others combative style and strategy through movement.
"Jedi." Said the younger man simply. His tone conveyed a distaste that was palpable.
"Grammaton Cleric." Replied his elder opponent, with just as much scorn in his voice. The older man's tone however implied a refusal to let his dislike manifest too openly.
"How is it…" The younger man began. "that you can persuade not only yourself, but others, that you are a better man through mastery your emotions? Don't you realise that the very nature of emotion gives the lie to any notion of control. Total emotional exorcism is the only way to avoid the dangerous sway of passion."
The older man smiled a smile of patient benediction and replied coolly:
"I do not deceive anyone, young one. Nor have I ever claimed to be a better man than any other. You project your own faults on me, Cleric. And you would do well to mind your manners with your elders." The Jedi's tone had the paternal benevolence of a teacher addressing a student.
The combatants continued to circle each other warily.
"Don't speak to me as if I was one of your Padawan acolytes, old man." warned the black-clad Cleric. "I have nothing to learn from you".
At this, the younger man raised his weapon and fired with a speed bordering on supernatural. His elder opponent, without so much as blinking, swept his lightsabre in a glowing blue arc, neatly intersecting the bullet's trajectory and using the thermal power of the blade vaporise the metal projectile.
The Jedi smiled at the hesitation this produced in his younger adversary. Had he been able to feel the emotion, the older man was sure the Grammaton Cleric would be shocked by what he had just seen. As it was, the only reaction produced by the feat was a slight frown as the younger man re-calculated his strategy.
"Well done, old man" conceded the young Cleric. Respect, albeit cold and considered, was not foreign to him.
"Thankyou" replied the Jedi, with a slight nod which conveyed a bow of appreciation. "but please, my name is Obiwan. Do stop calling me 'old man'."
"As you wish old man." Jibed the Grammaton, his face devoid of any trace of a smile to give humour to the taunt. "My name is Preston. John Preston. Grammaton Cleric, First Class." The seriousness of the younger man's demeanour was almost painful to watch. This was a man who could watch you suffer, watch you die, and not twitch an eyelid in remorse.
Prestons eyes narrowed as he gauged the movements of his opponent. Judging his moment to perfection, he dropped to one knee and snapped off two shots towards the older man's torso and head, creating a perfect line from the resting position of the lightsabre, up and away to the Jedi's right. Even as the Jedi began to bring his weapon up to meet the threat, Preston was dropping his gun for a lower shot.
The Cleric snapped off a single, lower shot aimed directly at the Jedi's left knee, knowing that the older man could not possibly eliminate the first two bullets and then manoeuvre his sword fast enough to counter the third.
He was right. Obiwan knew, as soon as he sensed the third bullet, that he was too committed to his parry to be able to intercept it. Instead he used his fluency and control of the Force to find the infinitesimal second between destroying the first and second bullets and the impact of the third. He leapt, somersaulting, high over the young Cleric.
The third bullet, ploughed harmlessly through the space Obiwan's left knee had occupied less than a millisecond before, and thudded into the far wall of the vacuous hall.
Landing behind the still kneeling Cleric, Obiwan brought his sabre down in a slashing stoke towards the unprotected back of the younger man's head. Only Preston's honed martial arts instincts allowed him to roll away in time to escape the killing blow.
Coming to his feet at a safe distance, Preston assimilated this new information about his opponent's abilities and began devising a variance of his Gun Kata to counter it.
Obiwan smiled. "Not bad for an, old man, was it?" he said, his aristocratic accent conveying his sarcasm beautifully. "It is my emotions," he explained, again falling into the speech mode of a teacher "which you distain so heartily, that allows me to 'feel' changes in the world around me and react to them. Having excised your emotions, you are left to rely solely on your intellect and cold logic. Tell me Preston, could your logic have allowed you to evade that third bullet?"
"No" replied Preston with the flat, objective honesty only someone habitually dosing on Prozium could muster.
"I thought not" mused Obiwan.
Then, faster than Preston would've thought possible, the Jedi went on the offensive, closing the distance between them and bringing his Lightsabre to bear with deadly accuracy. Preston, realising that his only chance lay in close proximity combat, moved inside the sweeping range of the sword. He used his unparalleled skill in Gun Sau to counteract Obiwan's every attempt to utilise his weapons killing ferocity; keeping the blade at bay by blocking the older man's wrists and forearms. The melee ended only when Preston was able to manoeuvre Obiwan into a compromised position. A sharp strike with his pistol-grip sent the older mans weapon skittering away across the floor, its automatic safeguard extinguishing the iridescent blade to avoid uncontrolled damage.
With the barrel of Prestons Cleric-issue modified Beretta inches from his forehead, Obiwan flicked his eyes to where his fallen weapon lay. Moving slowly, in the universal manner of one trying not to cause alarm, Obiwan took two paces back and away from the combat primed Cleric and the cold triumph in his eyes.
"We could, of course," began Obiwan, conversationally "continue this for hours and hours." he stretched his hand toward his Lightsabre, lying several meters away and instantly the weapon leapt into his grip, as though it had been waiting for his permission to return to him. A distinctive rush and hum sounded in the silence as Obiwan re-activated his sword's lethal blade. He watched the Grammaton through the shimmering blue glow of his weapon and continued: "Or we could agree to disagree on the finer points of belief and human nature and leave it at that."
Preston's eyes involuntarily widened in surprise at this newest development and he reviewed his Kata knowledge for something with which to counter it. He was dismayed to find he knew of nothing which would allow him to best the man before him.
The Jedi was too accurate with his lightsabre, too quick in reacting and able to easily counter being disarmed. Preston was stymied and he knew it. He might be able to keep himself alive, but as Obiwan had said, all that would accomplish was a drawn out fight that neither of them could win.
Besides, he had begun to see the Jedi in a new light. The skills possessed by the old man would be of inestimable value to him in his secret war against the Libran doctrine. Should he lose this battle with the Jedi Master, he would die. Should he win, he would have to kill the only man he knew who could teach him these wondrous new skills.
As Preston's mind was racing, Obiwan was watching the young Grammaton intently and knew without doubt where the Cleric was going in his mind…
"Yes." The old Jedi said.
Preston looked at him sharply.
"Yes" Obiwan said again. "I will teach you; if you will learn. But first you must turn your back on the poison you use. You will need your emotions in the trials to come. You must learn to battle them and you must master them if you are to become stronger."
Preston was speechless. He had not asked, and yet this man had answered the question anyway. There was no option for him, not really. He reached into the pocket of his jacket and removed the small black case he kept there, the one that protected his vials of Prozium and his injector. He looked down at it, nestled in the palm of his hand where it had been most of his life, and then cast it away. It landed at Obiwan's feet and the Jedi smiled at his new apprentice.
"Come then. Let us begin" he said and closed the distance between them, crushing the black case underfoot as he did.