In case nobody has realized this yet, I like writing strange things. The ideas that haven't been done before (or at least, not well) are ideas that excite the creative spirit inside my mind. They make me want to write grand epics of phenomenal length.

This is one such idea. A single scene sparked the idea, and once I had seen it, I knew I had to write it. This is the first scene of the story, and one I hope all of you enjoy as much as I do.

I do not own any of the properties mentioned in this story. I'd tell you what they were, but that would spoil all the fun!

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The silver holo-disk sat on the table, and a shimmering blue hooded figure appeared on it. His voice was raspy and weak, as if he had just been through a horrific experience… Or taken several thousand volts to the face. Either or.

Behind the disk, a pair of Red-Robed honor guard. Pristine warriors in service to Emperor Palpatine himself. They were there to ensure the message was followed. On a frontier planet like this, the clones were less loyal to their programming. The Jedi master serving here was unorthodox in the highest degree, he may even be capable of stopping the Emperor's plan, were he allowed to survive the coming event.

"Execute Order, Sixty-Six." The hologram said, before fizzing out. With the order delivered, the clone commander who had received it, knew he had only five minutes before the emperor attacked the Jedi at their deepest level. That would be the perfect time to strike.

Clone Commander Ves had… Misgivings about this mission. He looked at the Honor guards, and their sleek face plates. "This is a mistake." Their fingers twitched on their ceremonial steel fighting staves, and he knew that if they deemed him a traitor he would not be leaving this tent alive.

He held up his hands, begging for a chance to explain his words. "Please! Just listen to me. This is dangerous. The other Jedi are nothing compared to him. You haven't seen him fight. You haven't seen him around the clones. He doesn't trust any of us! There will be no chance to defeat him! But if we can wait… Somehow lure him off-world, then we can flush him out of an air lock! We have to wait."

The lead guard stepped forward, tapping his fighting stave on the ground. "Your orders are given Captain. Will you reject them? What is your one and only purpose?"

Ves looked at his feet, and closed his eyes. They would not listen. They would make him take up arms against the General. They could never understand, how could they? The General was not a being that could be understood, only avoided. That man was a force of nature.

Finally he looked up, staring straight at the Honor Guard. There was only one option here, and he knew it. Perhaps some of his men would survive. "My duty is to the Republic! I have sworn to defend it with all I have, protecting it until my dying breath! Never shall I falter in this. Never shall I fail. And by my hand, I will do all that I can, even if it means death." He said the words with nothing less than the utmost conviction, slapping a hand to the side of his blaster. For a moment he felt a flush of pride, before he yanked the blaster pistol out of its sheath and raised it.

The Royal Guard rushed forward, going for disabling strikes before he could fire, sidestepping the path of the blaster with the practiced precision of elite soldiers.

But his gun swept upwards, finally stopping beneath his chin. "FOR THE REPUBLIC!" Commander Ves cheered loudly, before he fired the blaster through the thin film of armor beneath the helmet, scrambling his brains.

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Outside the command tent, a man sat in the grass. In one hand he held a sword of dark black metal, it's edge barely there, more of a slope in the metal than an honest point. Silver script travelled down the blade, the name of the sword that struck terror through a dozen different cultures. Twin lightsaber emitters lay next to either edge.

The "Mercenary" A blade to be feared by any who saw it. The only more fearsome sight was it's wielder, Mot Fesif. A name unknown in the civilized worlds, but feared throughout the Separatist worlds. The World Devouring Blade. The Monster of the Jedi Order. The Dark Side of the Force. The most feared man in the history of the republic had obtained many monikers. Not that someone like Palpatine ever paid any attention to such trivial details. Not that he was even allowed to hear about the secret shame of the Jedi order.

Mot lay back on blue-grey grass, taking in the alien world. He chewed a stick of some kind, and each chew softened the bark, releasing pleasantly sweet sap. A clone's yell broke the silence, and a single blaster shot brought the silence back.

He gave the branch another curious chew, then spat it out, tired of the overly sweet sap. One hand on his sword and the other on the set of daggers he kept on his hip, Mot stood up and decided that he had better investigate.

Truth was, he had grown bored of the war. The Separatists were proving too easy to defeat. You could only smash so many battle droids before it all just grew… Boring. None of the Separatists could match him in combat, they lacked the professional fighters to even slow him down.

For the first time in his life. Gut's was tired of war. He only wished he could feel the thrill of cutting through meat and bone again. In a justified war. Something with clear-cut good and bad sides. Where one side wouldn't simply surrender the second they saw him.

Two red-robed warriors left the nearest tent, running towards him with the loping grace of skilled fighters. Their weapons were held opposite each other, one in a left handed high grip, the other in a right handed low to the ground stance. These men had clearly trained side by side for years to achieve this grace in combat. Most warriors would be instantly overwhelmed by the opposing fighting stances, unable to block an attack from the upper right and the lower left simultaneously.

Guts smiled, now this was more like it! He didn't know who these guys were, but this was a fight he could get excited about! Fortunately, his strategy had always revolved around "The best defense is a crushing offense" and he swung the flat of his sword in a sweeping forward arc.

The Guard on the right, the left-handed one, blocked with expert precision as his partner moved in for a killing blow. It was a move that could kill any opponent, the perfect defense, and the perfect offense. A block, and a parry at the same time. Together, they had killed assassins, bounty hunters, even a Dark Jedi.

Except… They had never fought Mot Fesis before. They had heard of him, through a few scattered channels, but no major news. They thought he was just another Jedi. A skilled swordsmaster, easily overwhelmed If he could not tap into the force. An easy target.

Then his sword shattered the blocking staff into six separate pieces, slamming into the Red Guard a moment later and sending him skipping off the ground like a demented rag doll, his chest armor violently caved in and blood oozing from every crack in the solid red chestplate. Mot Fesis… Guts… Felt a furor run through his blood. It was magnificent.

Guts stepped forward, taking a solid hit to the ribs from the base of the fighting staff. Yowch. That was gonna bruise. Even though he had stepped in, dodging the tip of the heavy metal stick, the sheer power this Guardsman brought to bear was impressive. Against a normal man, the blow would have fractured a rib or two. But again, it was only a strike from the first inch of two of metal past the grip.

Guts replied by dropping his sword, and grabbing the thin metal stick in one hand, and the head of the Royal Guard in his other. "It's been too long since I got to fight all-out. Whoever you are… Well, I'd say thanks for giving me a whole new fight to play with, but honestly I don't think you'll care in a second."

He shook the mans head back and forth, violently tossing his head around inside the hard metal case. When he threw him to the floor, the Guard had to pause to catch his breath. But Guts was already holding the metal staff. He swung it, and this time the hard metal tip connected with its target. There was a crash, and a snap, pretty much at the same time as momentum broke the face-screen of the helmet -throwing glass into unprotected eyes- and the force of the impact jarred the head backwards, snapping the neck instantly.

How the man died was anyone's guess. Guts didn't really care. He had more entertaining concerns. His clones were coming out, looking over the fight. Some had sad eyes, knowing what must have happened. Others looked angry. Guts just picked up his sword and grinned.

The lightsaber along each blade flared to life, and he looked over the assembled troops. "One of two things are going to happen here. You're going to tell me who these fuckers are. Or I'm going to carve you into itty-bitty pieces until somebody tells me." His grin curled into a feral sneer, "Which poor bastard is first?"

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Yes, you have read that right! BERZERK meets Star Wars! Woot woot!