The damned converter was dead. Blasted bucket-head had done a number on it with Kenobi's laser sword; it was lodged straight into the mechanism. The man had pretty good aim, Han had to admit; not to mention a killer arm. The throw had stuck the kriffing relic so deep there was no way Han was pulling it out.
Trying to ignore the fight between Vader and the crazy Jedi (they were all crazy, going up against Vader like that), Han inched up along the Falcon's port mandible, using his legs to crawl over the upper lip. The power converter, one of many that channeled the ship's energy output to the systems that needed it, was completely severed; it couldn't be repaired, only replaced, and now was not the time for that. However, this wasn't the first time a converter had shorted out. The ship's other converters could handle the power requirements, but the connections needed to be rerouted first. He needed to adjust the connections at this converter and reroute them by jury-rigging temporary connections and piggy-backing off pre-existing power flows. Then, he'd then need to recalibrate each remaining converter to accept the new power load. It wasn't going to be difficult - he'd done it before countless times - but it would be time-consuming, and time was not something they looked to have much of.
Han allowed himself a single look at the fight. A mistake; a tremendous horizontal swing missed the crazy Jedi girl by a hairbreadth as a one-handed cartwheel saved her from decapitation. He nearly saw his own life flash before his eyes and let out a sigh of frustration. As much as he hated to admit it, his life was tied to hers. if Vader killed her the rest of them would follow.
Well, if the Falcon was dead they wouldn't be going anywhere, even if Darth Helmet over there kicked the bucket. Best work quickly, then. He pulled out a hydrospanner, an electrostatic drill, and as an afterthought three rolls of high-density mag-tape. Then he set to it.
The duel between Sith and Jedi quickly dissolved into a whirl of color and motion.
Luke had to strain his eyes to even get an idea of what was going on, and he suspected he still missed much of it. The two combatants were blurs as they spun round in a deadly dance. Their sabers spat sparks as they clashed, shrieking through the air at speeds faster than a normal being could react and with strength far greater than that same life-form could ever muster.
The Jedi was everywhere, airborne as often as not, robes whirling and hair flapping wildly with the speed of her movements. Never stationary even for a second, her body flowed easily through empty space. Her lightsaber struck so quickly the blade became a cyan haze; it seemed as if the Sith Lord stood within a whirlwind of blue lightning. Vader was a bulwark of shadow upon which the storm of light broke; his inability to match his opponent's agility made him the eye of a crimson hurricane. Every strike was deflected, every blow turned aside before it could touch.
Then Vader turned a sudden riposte into a slash so fast his blade flickered. The Jedi's body seemed to flow aside from the blow into an upward leap, and then Vader thrust, the angle of his crimson blade set to enter his enemy from below and burn its way through to her spinal cord. Caught in the air and with no way to dodge, the Jedi was trapped, and Luke almost cried out in horror.
The Jedi's hand flashed out and suddenly she was hurtling sideways so Vader's saber pierced only air. Then she was back on the ground, rolling past him. It seemed her trajectory would carry her far away from her opponent, but then she twisted and abruptly reversed direction, momentum carrying her back towards Vader in a smooth forward thrust that aimed to impale the Sith Lord's back. Vader pivoted on his feet, folds of black armorweave billowing out behind him, and his blade knocked aside another flickering stab of cyan light. Sabers shrieked as they met again, grinding against each other, their lethal intentions thwarted. The air grew heavy with the tang of ozone and burnt air.
With a sudden screech, Vader's blade no longer had any opposition. It carved a two-handed arc of red death through the space where the Jedi's throat should have been, but said Jedi was gone, rolling deftly under the executioner's saber to spring to her feet behind him; she aimed a short flurry of thrusts that were smashed brutally aside as Vader spun, swinging his saber out in a long horizontal slash. He followed through with a series of powerful downward blows, pressing forward relentlessly until his foe vaulted through the air to land at his back again and start the entire cycle of battle over.
Such power.
Vader's breath rang loudly in his own ears, as it always did, but he had long since inured himself to the sound.
The Jedi was a master of Ataru; he'd needed only the first seconds of the duel to gauge that. Even now, as she spun and flipped and slashed every which way like a hurricane, she exemplified the central tenets of the style: strike fast, move faster, and outmaneuver your opponent.
It was strange; though he recognized the style, it was different than any other practitioner he'd seen. There was something archaic about its movements, an almost regal cast to the way she moved, both on ground and in the air. Despite any deviances, she was a true master of the form.
Cyan and crimson slammed together once more as hisspin intercepted her saber's flurry. The Jedi twirled elegantly, slipping free of the blade lock before his overwhelming strength forced her down and once again shot skyward.
A mistake. Vader gathered the Force and hit her with it as he would swing a mining hammer. The Jedi vanished in a swirl of brown robes, acrobatics turning to a clumsy tumble as the Force seemed to rebel against her. Her small body fell to the floor with an audible thump but she was up in a flash, lightsaber still lit and ready.
Impressive.
"You are powerful, Jedi," His vocabulator stole any trace of emotion that might have been present, leaving the words monotone and mechanical. The woman rose, sweeping stray tufts of hair out of her eyes with the back of her hand. Her eyes never wavered.
"The Jedi Council is no more, but you were not among their ranks and because they are all dead, you could not have been trained by one. A most intriguing state of affairs." The dark lord began to circle his prey, boots thumping against the deck in a steady rhythm. Instead of circling with him, the Jedi merely pivoted as he strode around her. Those grey eyes tracked him. Watching him, analyzing him. Giving nothing away. There was something almost Sith about the way she looked at him, waiting for him to slip, to reveal a weakness...and then strike.
This was no ordinary Jedi.
Not only that, but the way his words seemed to flow off her, failing to stoke her anger or stimulate her fear. The way of the Jedi was detachment; when connected to the Force through serenity and focus, they were formidable. It was not an easy thing to contend with; blinded by rage, he'd tried that on Mustafar. He had never forgotten the lessons he'd learned there.
But only the greatest of Jedi could master their emotions like that. Yes, he thought with a snort, Obi-Wan had been one of them. Though all trace of the love and friendship between them had shriveled to black malice in the flames of Mustafar, his old Master had truly been a Jedi to fear and respect. Most Jedi did not have his composure or fortitude, and it was a simple matter to play with their emotions and shatter their concentration. Their serenity was only a thin veneer; when shattered, they fought like Sith. Unused to harnessing their emotions, they then fell easily.
It was still worth attempting Dun Moch to see if she had a shatterpoint, and where it would be.
"Do you know where you are, Jedi?"
Again, no answer. He didn't need one; of course she didn't. Though he'd not had enough time to closely examine the pod, it was clearly a Force-empowered device projecting some kind of stasis field. It shone like a beacon of light in the Force, making it clear that its purpose was to nurture its occupant instead of simply containing them.
A thought came quickly to him, born of deduction and speculation. The design of the pod had been archaic, a far cry from modern examples of stasis devices. With the Jedi before him wearing robes in an outdated style he'd never seen before, she was clearly from another age. All this, if true, meant that the girl had been interred long ago, and in some misguided attempt to preserve her from time's ravaging touch. Then, she wouldn't know of the events that had occurred during her long slumber.
Beneath his mask, Darth Vader's burnt lips curled into a horrific sneer.
"You have slept too long, Jedi. Your order has failed, and once more the Sith rule the galaxy."
Ren Olharr was not having a good day.
First she'd been shot down on an unknown world and forced to play diplomat to a bunch of hostile aliens. Then she'd fought through a temple full of Sith to disable the energy projector defending the Star Forge, confronted her best friend who'd turned to the dark side despite a stint as the galaxy's most sanctimonious Jedi, and then launched a suicidal assault on an alien superweapon with the fate of the galaxy hanging in the balance. That had ended badly; the last thing she remembered was stabbing Malak in the chest before collapsing from a massive gut wound.
And now she was in some kind of hangar with no memory of getting there, wearing robes she didn't remember donning and fighting a black-armored Sith to protect people she'd never seen before.
She was fine now - still no idea how that had happened - but during the entire duel she'd been nursing a stabbing headache which was eating at her concentration.
Disoriented was putting it lightly.
And then the Sith had to go and drop either the biggest lie she'd ever heard or the most terrifying truth she never wanted to know. She stretched out with the Force, hoping that he was lying-
The Force pulsed, and in the grip of its current she felt nothing but truth, which made the situation even worse. Still, why was he talking so much anyway? Of course the Sith on Korriban were a talkative lot, but for them it was usually inventive death threats or ridiculous bragging -
"Detachment is the tool of a Jedi. They shut themselves off from passion and create a false serenity, but it is a fragile thing. The walls they throw up around their emotions are weak, and with choice words or acts you can easily shatter them. Then they will fight like wild animals, all passion and fury, but then they are fighting on our terms. I trust I don't need to tell you the result of that?"
"No, Lord Revan!"
Ren hated those flashbacks. That cold voice, unmistakably hers but oily and tinged with some special malice. It made her cringe, but this time, at least, the remembrance imparted some useful information.
It wasn't her style to banter during battles, like she knew a lot of Jedi did. But, seeing as she was apparently missing something big, it was probably worth letting out some feelers.
"How did it happen this time?" She injected a little sarcasm, some aggravation, and a healthy bit of irritation. It helped to shield against the sudden panic that threatened to overwhelm her shaky calm.
How had the Sith won? For Force's sake, the crew of the Hawk had practically handed the Republic their victory on a platter! She'd killed Malak herself by sticking her lightsaber through his chest! There shouldn't have been many Dark Jedi or Sith acolytes left on the Star Forge, if any, not after that final showdown on the command deck.
Well, that would be something to make fun of Bastila about. If she could find her.
The Sith Lord interrupted her reverie, that toneless mechanical voice cutting into her thoughts. There was a hint of confusion, of contemplation in his words; if she wasn't imagining it.
"Your comrades rebelled against the Republic, and paid for it with their lives. Their weakness and their treachery saw them fall, and the galaxy is better off without their feeble influence."
Ren was only half-listening; the Force whispered Lies, lies into her ears, and honestly there were better things to do, like flip through the air halfway through his sentence and try a Hawk-Bat Swoop on that helmet.
She had to give him credit; the Sith Lord finished his sentence with nary a hitch in that mechanical speech while snapping his blade up in a move that not only blocked her slash but also forced her to flip again to dodge a precisely-aimed thrust.
"Impressive," the Sith remarked. "Your style is quite intricate; I recognize Ataru when I see it. But Cin Drallig's variant was much less...dynamic."
The name meant nothing to her. Was he talking about a lightsaber instructor? Why would a Sith care about that, unless he was a former Jedi? Granted, thanks to Revan most of them were, but they weren't usually interested in the past training and education of their foes.
Maybe some banter would help her get more information. She tried to think of something.
"You look like you've been learning Makashi from a bantha. I mean, please. Your footwork is all wrong, you're too slow and you keep acting like you want to use Form V. If this is the state of the mighty Sith Empire now it doesn't matter if you still have the Star Forge, or even if Malak's still alive. A youngling could dance rings around all of you!"
There. That was good banter, right? Mission would be proud.
Apparently it was very good, because the Sith Lord's guard dropped a fraction; whether from surprise or disdain she couldn't tell because of his armored face and body. Strike, her instincts said, so she did. Ren called upon the Force and swept forward, driving the long point of her saber towards the Sith's neck.
Contrary to the belief of many, Darth Vader was not simply the iron hand of the Emperor. Many years of studying both the dark side and secular, military matters had honed his mind to a fine edge, capable of making rapid-fire deductions in split-seconds.
Most of the banter the Jedi hurled at him was a pathetically-transparent attempt to distract him. His burnt lips curled in a contemptuous sneer, then he paused. The Sith Empire? There had been no such thing since the remnants of Darth Ruin's New Empire had been replaced by Kaan's Brotherhood of Darkness, thousands of years ago.
The Star Forge...Palpatine had insisted that he study the histories of the Sith rigorously, and so he knew of the ancient Rakatan space station, vaguely. According to the histories, it had been a powerful war machine destroyed almost four thousand years ago, during the climactic last battle of the Jedi Civil War. The battle had also claimed the life of Darth Malak, where he'd been slain by his former master, the redeemed Sith Lord Revan.
So this Jedi was four thousand years old, as old as Celeste Morne. The sheer magnitude of that revelation would have stopped his breath, if he could still control it. A Jedi who fought in the Old Sith Wars with an unmatched connection to the Force. Such possibilities existed, if she could be turned.
And in that moment where Vader's great intellect was contemplating the potential of this unnamed Jedi, it was not focusing on how best to defend against that same Jedi.
Suddenly a blade of plasma was there, surging towards him; caught off-guard, he stepped sideways in an attempt to bypass the blade but the Jedi stutter-stepped forward, slid her feet in the same movement and pushed off, bringing the blazing cyan point back towards his chest. Still, he'd bought himself some time; with a flick of his blade he slid the lunge aside, altering its angle and striking for her stomach.
Again, with the same deft speed she'd displayed throughout the duel, the Jedi followed her blade by throwing herself forward. Her free hand touched the ground; at the same time her lower torso catapulted sideways. The red blade hissed by harmlessly. Vader pivoted, preparing to defend -
And then he was staggering backwards, helmet ringing and head throbbing. He cast around, saw the Jedi's leg pull back from the kick that had landed on his temple, and then she was back on her feet, swinging at him with wild abandon.
Vader deflected the blow, anger contorting his features beneath the mask. This farce had gone on long enough; now was the time to end it. With nary a thought, the other lightsaber on his belt snapped free and hurtled into his hand. Its viridian blade ignited with a satisfying thrum of energy.
For a moment, Ren wasn't sure what she was looking at, or why it had caught her intention. True, it was strange to see a Sith Lord wield a blade of any color besides red, but there was really no reason that second lightsaber should catch her attention.
Wait. That hilt looked familiar. Her temples pulsed with agony; she could feel the flashback coming on -
"Rionach!"
"Huh?" The black-haired girl, until now engrossed in a datapad, snapped her head up and was promptly tackled into the wall behind her.
"Sorry!"
"S'okay..." Rionach ruffled her surprise guest's white hair as she disentangled herself. "What's the big rush about?"
Meetra beamed as she stood up; Rionach noted with displeasure how much taller the girl already was than her. "I built it!"
"Really?" The older Padawan threw the datapad aside, to land forgotten on the seat. "That's great!"
The white-haired Padawan, fresh out of the creche, shoved something at her. Rionach backpedaled, hands held in the air. "Wait, Meetra! That's your life now! You don't just hand it to anybody!"
Meetra cocked an eyebrow at her, somewhat bemused. "You're not just anybody. Just take it." With another shove, she pressed it into her friend's hands.
It was, of course, a lightsaber. Rionach swelled with pride as she examined it; the hilt made of standard-issue durasteel components but shaped in elegant curves that emulated a living organism. Though the lightsaber itself was of the usual design, there were just enough hints in its make to determine the wielder's preferred style. It was the older girl's turn to cock an eyebrow as she looked back at her junior.
"You've chosen Makashi? This early? If I remember correctly, your dueling skills leave something to be desired."
Meetra flushed, ivory skin reddening. "That's why I've chosen it, though." Rionach observed with approval that her words remained steady despite her agitated features. "If I can master it, I can master any form. Discipline is important."
"There is no chaos, there is harmony." Rionach recited, grinning. "I like it." She made as if to hand it back, then paused. "What color is it?"
Green eyes sparkled. "Try it and find out."
Rionach snorted, but held out the weapon and depressed the activation stud. With a robust snap-hiss, a blade of pure emerald light emerged from the emitter, flashing into beautiful existence. The same color as Meetra's eyes.
"Heh," the older girl chuckled as she extinguished the weapon, "it suits you."
The memory passed swiftly, and once again she was back in her body opposite the Sith Lord. As far as appearances went, nothing had changed.
"I'll give you one chance, Sith. Give it back."
To this ridiculous request, the Sith Lord only wheezed a mechanical, bitter laugh. He lifted the green blade, twirling it mockingly.
"Come take it, Jedi."
Luke watched, stunned, as the calm scene exploded once more into violent combat. But this time was different.
Once again the Jedi was a whirlwind of motion, slashing furiously at her enemy who stood within a tempest of crimson and viridian light. The blades came together again and again, sending up flares of light that cast the entire hangar bay in weird shades of purple and green. Vader was a shadow, cape billowing behind him as he struck with his twin weapons again and again. There was something more frenetic about his motions, though; an air of desperation heretofore absent.
And the Jedi...gone were the acrobatic moves, the graceful elegance of momentary flight. Now, with her feet planted firmly on the ground, she struck again and again, relentlessly inexorable. The cyan blade was a violent dervish that danced unpredictably back and forth but smashed against Vader's blades with the force of a bull krayt dragon's charge. Sidesteps and dodges were used only when necessary, and ground regained as quickly as was lost.
She was fighting, Luke realized belatedly, like Vader.
Perhaps the monster realized it, for he changed tactics. The crimson blade in his right hand slid her overhand blow aside; a short stab from the other saber forced her back for a moment. In that crucial second, the man in black deactivated his own saber and clipped it to his belt. Then, hand free, he made a fist.
The effect was immediate; the Jedi dropped her saber, which extinguished itself and rolled forlornly away. Her hands, now empty, went to her throat, clutching at a phantom threat. What was happening?
Leia got it first. "He's choking her!" she shouted, and raised her blaster. Before she could shoot, a howl came from beside her. Chewbacca aimed his long rifle and opened up, the barrel blazing with ruby light. Leia fired a few seconds after, working the trigger as fast as she could.
Vader simply turned, maintaining the choke. The fusillade of blasterfire simply impacted on the single green blade; with an elegant flourish he sent the bolts back. There was a howl of pain, and Chewbacca fell, hairy paws clutching at his smoking leg.
The Jedi was on her knees now, gasping for air that wouldn't come. One hand outstretched itself at Vader and his tall frame staggered back but the choke remained unbroken. Leia fired again, and again Vader batted the bolt away.
Was there nothing they could do?
Luke reached instinctively for his blaster, but instead his hand encountered the lightsaber at his waist. His father's weapon, given to him by Ben. He knew what his father would have done, but could he do it too?
The dark side of the Force surged through Vader's body, filling him with unimaginable hatred, such as had caused thousands of wars and uncounted billions of deaths. He enjoyed every second of it, watching the Jedi struggle for her last breaths as her life slowly slipped away.
All thoughts of strategy, of turning her considerable power to his cause fled his mind.
For while he focused the blinding power of his anger upon his enemy, he could forget for a moment - too short and already slipping away - that no Jedi could ever elicit even a fraction of the inferno of loathing he reserved for himself.
But for this moment, no matter how short it might be, he would revel in the satisfaction of watching another Jedi die.
Then, a lightsaber activated with its distinctive hiss.
Triumph soured and morphed into annoyance immediately; it must be the youth, attempting a desperate rescue. How pathetic, if admirably courageous. It would be a simple matter to dispatch him. After all, what was one half-trained apprentice against the scourge of the Jedi? Vader turned back towards the ramp - and stopped, his thoughts screeching to a halt.
How had he not recognized that hilt? It was practically a twin to the one on his belt. The youth who held it was trembling noticeably, his eyes wide with fear...but his grip was good, if unsteady and inexperienced. The Force surrounded him in wisps and clouds, thin and immaterial. It spoke of power, of potential, of promise. And of something more...but before Vader could ponder it the boy charged forward with a wild cry, swinging his blade equally savagely. It was clumsy and unpracticed, but a surprisingly good rendition of a Shi-Cho maneuver.
Vader crossed his blades before him, catching sapphire flame in prongs of emerald and crimson. Then, with a smooth motion he pushed his blades down, neatly pulling the youth's weapon out of his hands. As he twisted, the viridan blade fell from his hand, extinguishing itself and clattering on the durasteel deck. He reached out, the Force sang, and the boy's blade hurtled into his empty fist.
It felt like coming home.
Darth Vader faced the defenseless boy, Jedi legacy and Sith symbol in his hands, and felt the rage return to him once more. Who was Obi-Wan to give this untrained peasant his weapon? This affront would have earned the Jedi Master untold agonies and torments, had he not already been consigned to the depths of the Force. He was beyond Vader's reach, damn him -
But his student was not.
"Obi-Wan should have trained you better, young one," Vader rumbled. Through the Force he saw the black cloud of fear engulf his young foe, even as he faced the Dark Lord and refused to step back. Wait - the cloud coiled in on itself instead of expanding to engulf the boy; it still threatened to paralyze and sap his will, but somehow he was keeping it in check - barely.
The boy had potential. Perhaps it would not be so conducive to dispatch him. Vader dismissed his rage, felt it retreat back to the molten furnace of his heart.
"You do not need to die here," the Dark Lord said. "You have power, child; swear to serve the Empire and not only will I spare you, I will complete your training. You will become more powerful than Obi-Wan ever was; I can sense it."
The boy's eyes widened; so did Vader's under his helmet, as the Force roiled with the suddenly-released poison of hatred, black and bitter within the currents of life.
"Join you?! Never!" the boy spat, eyes the color of the summer sky suddenly narrowing with implacable odium. "You killed my father!"
So then he was of Jedi lineage; unsurprising given his power. But this was perfect; already he boiled with the potency of the dark side. Fear, anger, despair fought for control within him. As precariously balanced as he was, it would only take the slightest push to topple him into the darkness' eager embrace.
"Oh?" He would ask the youth his sire's name; perhaps he would even recognize it. "And who was that?"
Finally, it was done. Han shoved the spanner and the drill back into his toolbox; he'd used up all the tape because some of the cables wouldn't stay put. Still, at least they were all connected, the power converters were recalibrated, and he was fairly sure none of it would blow up.
But as he tugged one last time at the old man's laser sword and failed to get it out, the ruckus on the ground caught his attention: the Jedi girl was facedown on the floor, twitching pathetically. The kid had somehow gotten away from the ramp like the naive idiot he was, and now was standing directly in front of Vader - Darth Vader! - with fists clenched looking like he was about to throw a punch. As for Dark Helmet himself, he'd somehow switched out his green laser sword for a blue one - where were all these things coming from, anyway? - and might have been contemplating leaving Luke in two pieces on the deck.
Kriff that. Han knew he lied to himself about a lot of things, and one of those was how much he liked the kid. He wasn't going to let tall, black, and nasty waste that farmboy if he could help it. His hand crept to the DL-44 still holstered at his waist; Vader might be able to manage fancy tricks with those miniature light shows, but Han Solo was still the best shot this side of Kessel. A single shot through that overlarge helmet should do the trick.
He never got the chance.
Luke screamed something at the masked lunatic -were those tears?. He gestured, he raged. He even stomped his foot once. And then, fury vented and grief released, his small frame seemed to shrink even more as he collapsed in on himself, sobbing quietly.
Vader's reaction was...a total non-reaction. At least at first. He stared forward, blades humming in his fists. Maybe he just didn't care, and was letting the kid humiliate himself to get his kicks. Kriff, that would be just like him. Han nearly tried a shot right then, except something utterly, bafflingly strange happened. Again. Vader's lightsabers went off.
Then, the most terrible being Han had ever had the displeasure of seeing put away his weapons and stepped forward. One black gauntlet reached out towards Luke's trembling form, and Han yanked the pistol from his side.
He didn't get a shot off that time either.
Something rattled next to him; he turned to see Kenobi's laser sword vibrating inside the converter, shaking wildly, but only for a moment - in a flash it was gone. He pivoted to follow its path but couldn't see it clearly until it ignited and drove itself into Vader's outstretched arm.
The man screamed, a howl of distorted static more machine than anything organic. Han could have sworn the scream itself had power; it nearly knocked him from his perch. He reeled back, clutching at the humming blade that was now embedded in his arm.
Then the Jedi leaped upward from the floor. She seemed to flow through the air, so easily did she navigate the empty space. Her trajectory landed her right next to Vader; her leg snapped out and took him in the chest, causing the much-taller man to double over. As he did so, she took hold of the still-burning lightsaber in his arm and yanked.
Metal shrieked and parted and sparked, and one half of Vader's arm fell to the floor. The Jedi girl gestured, and Vader flew backwards as if he'd been hit by a speeder doing ninety kph. He smashed into the wall, helmet flying backwards to impact with a nasty thump that looked like it might have broken something.
Well, that was probably his cue. The smuggler slid down off the freighter and onto the hangar deck; his ankles protested at the landing. Eh, he'd have time to complain once they blew this joint.
As Vader's massive body smashed into the far side of the hangar with enough force to rattle the deck, Luke's only thought was How am I not dead yet?
Actually, the better question was, why did Vader put out his lightsabers? The monster had killed his father and was taunting him about it; he'd killed so many Jedi he might not even remember Luke's father's name!
Wait...that wasn't right...he'd put away his sabers in response to the name of Anakin Skywalker and reached out. Did he regret killing Anakin Skywalker? Ben had said they were friends; maybe even Vader could feel?
As if.
Han's voice bellowed out from the ramp, "Come on, kid! We gotta go!"
Before he could get up, a hand gripped the back of his tunic and yanked him backwards. He caught a glimpse of dark hair and grey eyes, before the Jedi turned and ran for the ship's ramp, bearing him along like he was nothing.
Stormtroopers began to pour out the doors, - really, after all this time? - firing ceaselessly. Most of the bolts went wild, as Luke had come to expect from stormtroopers. Those that would have left uncomfortable souvenirs, the Jedi batted aside with Ben's blade. Somehow every bolt found its way back to its originator, and more white-armored bodies fell to litter the hangar.
Then they were on the ramp. He saw Han punch the control and then run to the cockpit. The Jedi let go of him and followed. Only Luke remained at the ramp, and as it hissed shut, he saw the black figure at the other side of the hangar rise painfully to his feet and begin a slow shuffle towards them.
Then, the ship jolted, engines thrummed, and they were off.
A/N: Thanks for reading! I thought I'd ask a favor from the scarce amount of people who take the time to review; your thoughts are much appreciated, and of course they give me an incentive to continue writing. Musn't discount the power of a good ego-stroke. :) Anyway, I've been trying to pin down a way to write fight scenes but both my beta and I are dissatisfied with them: he thinks they lack viscerality and don't have that edge that hooks people into wanting to know the ending, while I think they're too cerebral and read like a script. If anyone has any thoughts, I'd love to hear them!
Thanks again! I hope you keep reading!
