And this is where the real begins. The climax of the Yuuzhan invasion, the worst war ever experienced in the Star wars galaxy, where trillions on both sides were killed. Sad, but happy in the end. So, enjoi! ps, I own not a thing...


Tracyn Skylark looked up at the orange, setting sky, ruefully cursing those treacherous scarheads and their war fleet up in orbit. The Mandalorians' fleet did a good job of keeping them away, but then the Vong suicide charged, orbitally bombarding the planet as they swarmed down. While most were destroyed, a key few made it to the surface and released a brutal ground assault that even the bravest of the ancient Traung would think twice about counter-attacking. That, along with orbital reinforcements, left Mandalore in a dire situation. But Mandalorians fought worse battles and came out better some way or another, in the end, win or lose. If a 16 year-old aruetiise Jedi boy could take down countless scarheads and a queen hell-lizard on a planet that hated Jedi before dying, the Vong were nothing the Mandalorians couldn't handle. Now, Skylark wasn't stupid; he knew the odds were almost five to one, over the heads of normal people. But he, and his people wereMandalorians. It was a fair fight.

He took off down the dirt road. Keldabe was about three kilometers North, it's defenses slowly falling under the pressure put on by zooming coralskippers, swarming lizard slaves, and hulking rakamats pounding the city with their organic artillery. He had to do this, he simply had to do this suicide mission. For him, his wife, son, and vode. He sprinted off with a new determination.

The mission was clear; his squad was to set ten kilo mines in strategic places around and in the newly massing Yuuzhan Vong army's march path, if only to stem the bleeding of Keldabe's heart. The mines were set on remote detonation, not immediate, so the scarheads would be caught in the worst possible position. Then the Mandalorians would pounce, charging from their homes and trenches, and take back their world. It was the perfect plan on flimsi, but execution was a totally different matter of it's own and Tracyn knew it.

He had the farthest mine to set, half a kilometer into enemy territory. He scaled past trees and dove behind some brush as a squad of six or seven Yuuzhan Vong soldiers jogged past, down the beaten path heading into Keldabe. He knew he could take the shebs, but he didn't want take any chances; his kama's pack held a mine with enough baradium to smash thirty rancors into a bloody green pulp. They passed, and once out of sight, he moved on a little more stealthily, shoulders crouched and knees bent while walking on the balls of his feet.

He made good time, and he paused to check his map. He was in the vicinity of where the explosive were to be placed, so Tracyn looked about. He had a plethora of choices to hide his "welcome to the neighborhood" present. The rocks would dilute the blast radius, the fallen tree wasn't enough cover, the bodies would-"The bodies will donicely."

The bodies, too dis-figured to be able to tell the difference between human or Vong, were piled up off to the side of the road, those scarheads probably threw them there in their haste. He placed the explosive under the pile and turned to make a mad dash for Keldabe, and ended up getting Keldabe-kissed by a scarhead.

"Where the hell did you come from, di'kut?"

It didn't bother blathering a reply in it's native tongue, it simply swung it's snake-sword at his helmet. Tracyn ducked, spun to the left and twirled behind the Vong, putting one of his antiqued Mandalorian Rippers to the alien's heaving throat. There was no hesitation, no holovid-worthy one liners, just an invading alien with no morals, a man defending his planet, and a pulled trigger. The scarhead spasmed in his grip and Tracyn threw the now headless, jerking cadaver into the bushes.

Once satisfied that no other enemies where in the area, he made off for Keldabe.

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"Almost there, Trace," Tracyn gasped, mostly to himself. For the past twenty or so minutes, he'd ran from the bomb site. Now the sight of Keldabe had almost filled his vision. By his measure, he was another three or four kilometers out. Thing was, the Vong were right behind him. "Blow the bombs!" he all but screamed into his comm, just as the heavy artillery bombarded Keldabe. An affirmative crackled in his ear, and he was enshrouded in a rumble of thunder and a torrent of fire as over three hundred kilograms of baradium explosives fired off simultaneously. Screams of rage and suprise arose from the depths of the flames; none were from pain.

Amidst the dead and dying, only one man immediately came to his feet. Tracyn Skylark crawled in the ashes and gathered the strength to rise to his feet. His vision swam, he was dizzy and nauseous. His right side field of vision was darkened by blood, and little "floaters" danced over his cornea. He was overall fine and uninjured, but the pain from his detached retina was almost unbearable. Noticing the cloud of dust that settled across the plain, he switched his visor over to night vision.

"You got'ba'kiddin'may," he breathed. There was a squad of scarheads, no further than twenty meters out, slowly limping there way towards the lonely Mandalorian.

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Klindrin Shai was not a happy Yuuzhan Vong. While it could be said that the the species as a whole were unhappy, be it the barbaric(to outsiders) culture, genotype, or divine intervention, the term "happy" applied to a Yuuzhan Vong who didn't just lose a battle by walking into an enemy trap blindly. No, he was the opposite. Angered, humiliated, and on the verge of what the Yuuzhan Vong would constitute as insanity, he lashed out at the nearest thing to him; the now headless Chazrach lizard-slave fell unceremoniously to the ground atop it's brothers in a twitching heap. Looking around the remnants of the battlefield, he managed to scrounge up twenty injured, shell shocked warriors. 'Twenty. Twenty out of almost nine thousand! Yun-Harla, what trickery is this, this assured victory lays as dead as the husk of Yun-Yuuzan!'

His secondary officer came to him. "What is it, fool?"

"Commander, we have to move up, into the city. We may not be legion, but we must take this city, or else the battle is lost."

"Don't you see," he motioned to the battlefield with a sweep of his hand. "The battle is already lost, Plenra. This battleforce was supposed to reinforce the units attacking the city. These Mandalorians are worthy adversaries, they already have retaken much of Keldabe. And, oh, whats the term they use? Ah, They are Keldabe Kisseding us out. Any plans in that head of yours, subaltern?"

"N-no, commander."

"Then prepare the men. We are going to fight to our deaths, and we're taking as manysacrifices as we can..."

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Ever since Jarren were a child, his mother told him him was special. His mother, a blonde-haired, blue-eyed beauty from Thyferra, was a loving and smothering kind, quick to tell him his differences didn't define me. His buir met and wooed her during a merc run for a rich bacta selling family. She and the elderly people who knew his family back during the Clone Wars both said it repetively, but it was obvious to even his nine year old mind that both meant it in different ways.

Those elderly folk first brought his comsetic appearances up when he was around four or five, amusing him with tales of his great-grandfather's courageous(if not exaggerated) exploits in trying to help rebuild Mandalore. His patriarchal side of the family was always born with black, curly hair and rich brown eyes. They told him how the son of a Skylark always resembled the father, and that his straight black hair and his brown in one eye, blue in the other wasn't in the family norm. They reminded him that these differences were only details; they didn't deter the Mando inside. But it did deem him especially special. Whatever that meant.

So when the bombs went off, he felt a whole lot of nothing vanish, if that made sense. He couldn't accurately describe it, but it felt like a blackhole was lifted from the face off Mandalore, a weight lifted off it's shoulders.

"Jar'ika? Are you alright?'' asked Gotab, one of the elders who told him stories of the wars, one who told him he was 'special'. "You felt it, didn't you?"

"Yes, it feels like a bunch of scarheads got what they deserved."

"Now, Jar'ika, that's not nice," admonished Gotab.

"But I heard Venku saying it. They come to kill us all, and they deserve to die for it. Right?"

"Yes, they deserve it. However, you should respect their abilities. Verbally bashing them behind their backs isn't going to kill them, it will cause you to become arrogant and hateful. When you become arrogant, you will lose your cool and get yourself killed. Also, if you hate your enemy, it will lead you to vengeance, and vengeance will grant you nothing but ghosts. Respect your enemies abilities, and exploit their weaknesses. Do you understand?"

Jarren considered the old mans words, chewing them over in his mind. 'No wonder Dad respects Gotab. He's the wisest ever!' He looked Gotab in the eye and nodded. It wasn't his place to question him anyway; his mother held the man and his alleged son, Venku, in great respect, and to disregard them would surely land him a lecture and dire punishment he didn't need.

His mother walked into view from her and Jarren's fathers room, as a soldier came to her, and he grabbed her attention. "I'm sorry, but Ven'ikasaid you should know... Trac'ikahasn't come back yet, we lost his comm signal when we blew the mines. I'm sorry, Min'ika, I really am."

"Th-thank you, Drelyn," she whispered. She reached for Jarren and hugged him close.

"Dad ain't coming back, is he?"

"He'll find a way,Jar'ika. He'll find a way."

His mother left him alone with Gotab again, disapperaring back into the bedroom in a fit of sobs. 'I have to bring back Dad, or Mom'll be hurt forever.' He looked around the house, and found what he was looking for. He shuffled over to his father's armor chest and popped the seal. Inside was the armor of his ancestor Skylark, the ARC trooper plates remade with beskar. Painted jet black with forest green and sharp silver lining, it's graceful curves fitting for a man of lean build and tall stature. The only thing not resembling the armor of an ARC was the standard Mandalorian helmet, hand built by the patriarch Skylark himself. He pulled the visor over his head and attached the chest plate to his torso and clamored around the various items until he found a blaster to suit his little hands. Grasping a pair of silver colored pistols, he made for the door.

"Where are you going, Jar'ika?" inquired Gotab.

"Save Tra'buir." 'And this will do nicely.'

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The battlefield was covered in soot and ash, blood and bone. Jarren made his way past the dead bodies and Rakamat parts, wafting through the ash and dust of the baradium bombs fallout, until his visor's sensors picked up a group of survivors. They were surrounding what only could have been his father, the only moving being enshrouded in Madalorian armor.Tra'buir was a mesmerizing battle artist, even though it was blatantly obvious he was injured.

He moved with the grace of a Jedi Master, the speed of an Echani firedancer, and killed with the efficiency of an assassin droid. It didn't matter, however hard he fought, a Vong would nick him there, scratch him there, and the poisonous bites and blood loss were taking there toll.

As five of the aliens moved to surround him, he lashed out at the nearest one to his left, his wrist blade slicing the throat cleanly even as his flamethrower swarmed the two on his right. The Vong on his right flank thrust atTra'Buir's back, even as one of the aliens slashed at his back, thus igniting the exposed fuel in his pack. They all went up in a flash of fire and flames, and there was nothing Jarren could to help it.

"Dad!"

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Klindrin was not getting any happier. The troublesome human had nearly killed the entire platoon of survivors, and he was just beginning show signs of fatigue. They fought, and the battle raged; dead men seemingly fighting for the right for salvation, as if only the last man standing would be blessed.

They finally were able to surround and flank the crazed and dying Mandalorian. The human lunged left and spurted fiery hell to his right, exposing his back to the subaltern. Klindrin would have cursed if he had the time, but he stuck with "Don't cut his fire tubes!"

The subaltern didn't listen.

The next thing he knew, he was flying through the air in a swirling swarm of orange and red and blue tongues, licking at his skin and armor with stinging, acidic tongues. His life flashed before his eyes and was over and back to the present by the time he hit the dirt. He saw his mate, his sonsdie before his eyes as they were killed on a now nameless world, victims of infidel machine birds. And as he laid dying, he heard them calling to him from the heavens, beckoning him from the world of physical living. His eyesight darkened and faded to black, and for once he felt happy.

"Dad!"

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Jarren simply couldn't believe what he saw. His father, Tracyn, still gasping for air. Alive. Alive after suffering burns and poison and snake-swords.

"Tra'buir?"

"Jar'ika? Is that you, son?"

Jarren knelt at his fathers side. "Yeah, it's me, Dad." Tracyn took Jarren's hand, squeezed, and let go, never to squeeze again. And Jarren simply couldn't beleive it.