Claim of Ownership
They came at their surprised victims like a swarm of black locusts, eager to devour and consume their prey in a torrent of crimson energy.
The Republic fleet continued to hammer out energy at their opponents, successfully claiming a few kills as few sparse tufts of flame ignited all around the scene.
The sad truth of it all, however, was that for every one Sith fighter eliminated, three more took its place.
The Republic was hard-pressed to keep up the assault, as their numbers continued to whittle away at a constant pace.
Carth could only shake his head, hearing only the indistinct screams of pilots, as they were burned alive in their cockpits. The sounds of entire cruisers and frigates tearing apart at the bulkheads seemed to add to the cacophony of the battle that raged around his quickly battered fleet. How did they get the drop on us? He couldn't help but wonder, as the Sojourn shook and rattled with explosive fire that struck the oblong cruiser.
Several officers were sent flying back from their consoles, as the machines detonated in showers of sparks and explosions.
Carth bit his lower lip, running a shaking hand through his hair. Something wasn't right—this seemed too coordinated and Erik's fleet appeared too well equipped. The handful of battleships had somehow gotten the drop on Carth's fleet, and now the Republic was being beaten into submission—rather brutally.
General Scrimshaw was doing insurmountable damage against the Republic, and only in a manner fitting of a true Sith.
"Order our picket ships back!" Carth ordered through gritted teeth. "I want all available squadrons to fall back to defensive positions—call any and all available ships from Muscave and Stentate to aid us! I am not going to lose Coruscant—and we're not going to have another Telos!"
Immediately, almost as if taking the challenge Carth presented, an explosion rang across the port side of the Sojourn, sending the ship tilting towards the starboard section. Only the bodies of those who had already been killed flew to the starboard, along with Carth, who was sadly standing as he barked his orders.
Rising—with the aid of two officers—, Carth rubbed his brow and noticed a dark red streak across his forearm. He had a cut on his forehead. Great timing, he thought bitterly.
"Sir!" One of his remaining officers on the bridge called out. "We have an incoming troop vessel hailing us—it's the Jedi!"
"About time," he muttered. "Tell them to dock and get to the bridge immediately! I want to see them!" The ship lurched again, almost as if it warned him not to take the Jedi aboard.
Before the officer to acknowledge, another blip occurred on the sensors of the Republic flagship. In fact, that blip had turned to several more that were growing rapidly. "Sir," the officer drawled, "we've got incoming!"
"Oh great," Carth said, putting a hand on the officer's shoulder. "Who do we have now?"
"Sith decanting from hyperspace, sir," the officer gulped.
Carth's face paled considerably. "We don't have enough numbers. This just keeps on getting worse."
"Sir," the officer said quietly, not sure how his superior officer would take this next warning.
Carth looked at the young woman.
"They're being led by the Leviathan."
Atris paced across the black floor of her bridge, fuming with rage towards Horn and Torn. "What do you mean that she said I ordered you to kill Tamar!"
"She said that you had ordered her to kill the Senators, Mistress."
Atris turned to face Horn, her putrid breath hot on Horn's face. "And did she, Horn?"
The assassin shook his head.
"And where's your brother Deus?"
"He is not here, Mistress," Torn replied.
Atris was fuming and her dark, venomous eyes glared at the other assassin. "I can very well see that, Torn. Perhaps I should have had the lot of you killed on Corellia when I ordered that place to be destroyed! You're all failures! Every last one of you!" Her spittle flew across the assassin's face as she yelled. She turned around and continued to pace, her footsteps echoed throughout the throne room, joining in the hum of the warship's hyperdrive engines.
"Mistress," Horn began, only to be cut off by the daring and dangerous twinkle in Traya's eyes.
"Speak—I dare you," she threatened.
Horn closed his mouth.
It would be wise not to anger the Mistress further, brother, Torn sent via telepathically.
Agreed—but she does pose a wise question: where is our brother?
Torn had no answer.
"I thought so," Traya spat, completely oblivious to the telepathic conversation between the two. She brought a hand to her left temple, rubbing it in a circular pattern. "Leave me—I'll see to tying up the Senators."
Both of the assassins bowed, turned and left, eager not to cross her path again. The mere thought of their power was nothing compared to the fact that she was the one who had them created. If she so willed it, they could be destroyed in a moment's notice. They were completely loyal to her, however, they found it most curious that Deus—seemingly having no will of his own—had disappeared, along with Lotus Xa.
Traya walked along the floor, as her eyes continued to shift towards the blue swirl of hyperspace. How could they have been so foolish? She brought a hand up to her face, and with her index and thumb, she closed her eyes and rubbed them.
"They're nothing more than mere machines, my Lady," a warm, comforting voice whispered from the shadows.
"Machines would have carried out the order to the letter," she replied, feeling her anger dissipate greatly. "And need I remind you that the droids have an ability to adapt—unlike these shadows of Revan."
The figure chuckled, his deep, palpable voice stirring some deep longing for companionship within her bosom. "Perhaps, my Lady, but nonetheless, you shall rectify their mistake—as you always do."
She allowed herself the briefest of smiles. "Perhaps," she replied, turning to face the shadow within the shadow. "But I still find good help trying in this day and age." She continued to peer through the shadows, seeing nothing—not even the glint of his warm, red, inviting eyes. "Where are you? Come out—I want to see your face."
"And so you shall, my Lady," the voice replied. The figure walked out, the slight jingle of his armour shaking, along with any of his buckles or plates. The figure was clad in black, revealing black shin pads and his formfitting breeches. The clothing on his torso, however, was much more unique. He wore a black tunic, revealing only armour from his left shoulder, stretching down to envelope his left arm and hand in black metallic gauntlets. It jingled ever so slightly, revealing that this was a light, durable and metallic material. His right side, however, carried no such trace of the armour; as it ended from the left shoulder and stretched down to cover his midsection. Instead, his right side was covered in the black tunic he wore underneath, revealing his black glove that covered his right hand.
Atris breathed in deeply, taken in his sight alluringly, as she had done so on more than one occasion.
His long, black, silky hair ran over his eyes, splitting into a peak on his left-most side, hiding much of the man. His features were not unhandsome; in fact, it made him all the more enticing to her. Somehow, he maintained a rich, exuberant and youthful countenance—something Atris found exceptionally enticing. Despite his square-shaped head and slightly more than medium build on his body, the one factor that he always kept shrouded in mystery was his eyes. Redder than a laigrek's eyes, they still retained the shape and form of normal eyes, revealing the iris, pupil and other traits associated with the eye.
Atris continued to take in the sight with more than keen interest. Her hand moving slowly to her breast, as she eyed him, it had been a long time since anyone had made her feel this way. Loathe to admit it, Atris kept a deeper and darker secret for her hatred of the Exile—and it entailed something much more baser than thinking of Theresa Falcus as a mere sister. No, Atris felt more carnal desires in her beloved and tragic Exile. It was her desire that when Theresa tried to redeem the woman, that instead of calling the fallen Jedi her sister, the Exile would have called Atris her beloved.
That was why she found her hatred grow raw and felt it fester and burrow within her, almost as if it were nothing more than a malignant tumour—never to be removed from her. That was why Atris knew that it was Theresa's fault to pity her and spare her life.
That was why Atris turned her back on the Jedi and would only find peace and true happiness as she sought to dance in the embers of the Galaxy.
That was why Atris couldn't accept the fact that Mical felt the same way about the Exile—and that was why she had corrupted him.
That was why she continued to seek causing the Exile more pain and suffering as she burned the Galaxy, to forever imprint that the Exile had faltered in her moment of preventing the Galaxy's fall.
Kreia was right to open Atris' eyes. It showed the woman the futility in what she really sought—and it allowed her to exact an old teaching to the much-hated Exile: for every action, even slight and minuscule, there was a reaction—a consequence.
But the figure before her had helped her realize more of her potential—more of the things she so desperately sought for. That was why she sought to burn the Galaxy. For him and for her—for ways to prove that while the rest of the Galaxy had turned its back on them, they would triumph in the end.
Her mind returned to the spectacle before her.
The figure bowed deeply, his long hair flowing away from his eyes as he acknowledged, "are you satisfied my Lady?"
His words made her body tingle.
He spoke in a coy, yet teasing manner.
"Very," she replied, gasping for air wildly.
He rose and smiled, revealing a set of sharp teeth. "Good." He moved closer to her, wrapping his hands around her waist, causing her to breathe deeply, as he groped her body, and brought his lips close to hers. It shall begin once more—we shall rise from the ashes and I shall take my rightful place again. He had been there since the beginning of her journey and he would see hers end at his ascension. Once more, the Sith would purify the Galaxy, purging the Force and all life from the Light. Once more, catharsis would begin—and then he would become a God. His vengeance would be complete.
She breathed in through her nose and pressed her thin lips to his small lips, tasting a sweet fragrance, along with the metallic tint of blood in his mouth.
He moaned slightly as he felt her hands move to caress his cheeks, while his continued to grope along her back, almost as if he were claiming her as his own. He enjoyed every bit of her—his prize—and he felt the kindling of his animalistic desires. He began to move one hand away, coursing it up her body to unloose her outer robe.
She moaned slightly, feeling the warmth of his hand wind its way around her body.
Before they could proceed, however, the beeping of the console rang.
She pulled away, gasping and groaning, as he paused, staring intently at her and feeling his fists clench tightly as he forced his deeper desires deep into the back of his mind once more.
She moved towards the console quickly, tapping the console and speaking in an dour manner, "what is it?"
"Madam," came the voice of her trusted, thought obstinate captain, "we've arrived to Coruscant."
"Deploy all fighters—and find out if General Scrimshaw has prepared Stage Four."
"Yes, Mistress," he replied, not aware of how lucky he had been to have been spared his life.
She looked up at him, knowing that he receded back into the darkness. "I am sorry—it shall have to wait another time," she purred.
"Yes," he whispered. "The time has come. Let the Galaxy feel our power—let us rise above the weaklings."
A cheerful thought then occurred to her, reminding her of both something she had wanted to do and something she needed to do. "Captain," she said, hoping he hadn't closed the channel.
"Yes, Mistress?"
"Are the Senators aboard the transport?"
"Yes, milady."
"Good," she replied, "have your gunners target it."
"As you wish, milady," the gruff voice replied.
Her faced darkened, as she smiled mirthlessly. "Send them our regards."
"And what of the Republic fleet?" The figure asked bemusedly from the shadows, once more.
"Let's see how they react with a nightmare from their past," she replied.
"Bastila!" Carth yelled, as he hugged his son and nodded towards Atton. "I'm glad you're alive!"
She nodded professionally, glad that her old friend had remained alive from the seeming tempest that raged around them. "It's good to see you too, Carth," she said. "We don't have much time—but we're willing to lend you any aid we can."
"Good," Carth sniffed, "we're going to need it." He paused for a moment, glancing back at Atton, almost as if he recognized the young man from somewhere. "Who are you?"
Atton extended a hand. "Name's Rand. Atton Rand. I'm with the Jedi—we met on Telos after that Sith attack."
Carth nodded, remembering finally. "You're with the Exile."
Atton scoffed, "not quite."
The Sojourn rumbled slightly, almost as if a reminder to the Admiral of the fracas around them. He looked pleadingly towards Bastila. "Can you still commit to your Battle Meditation?"
She nodded. "It's been some time since I've last used it," she replied, chiding herself in her mind. The last time I had used it was during the Starforge. "I think I can give it a try."
Carth nodded, not entirely comfortable with the feeling that she might not be confident in her abilities to use it once more. "Any help is worth it," he said reassuringly.
"I'll need some room," she began, only to have Carth nod and cut her off.
"You can go to the briefing room—I'll have my personal guards escort you."
"Dustil will have to go with me," she said warningly.
The veteran bit his lip but nodded, albeit reluctantly. "All right," he replied, turning to Dustil. "Be safe."
The younger man nodded. "You too, father."
Atton looked at the trio in confusion and couldn't help but blurt, "and what am I supposed to do while I'm here? Play Pazaak?"
Carth looked at the young man. "Can you fly?"
Atton smiled. "I'm the best pilot in the Outer Rim."
"And a Jedi to boot too, I imagine," Carth replied. "All right, I'll have an officer take you to the hangar bay. We've got some fighters in the bay there—and you can get suited up."
Atton turned to leave with an officer that came by, ready to take the young man to the hangar. He paused and turned back to face the Admiral, knowing the danger of the ensuing battle. Even though he would normally duck and run, he knew he couldn't—Theresa was counting on him. He'd taken the oath for her. He'd see this through. "May the Force be with you," he said, turning to leave.
"May the Force save us all," the Admiral replied.
Author's Notes: Well, there is some good news after all--I've found a backup, though incomplete, of Catharsis. Unfortunately, I lost 35 pages of information, but rest assured, I will get those back with rewriting them. It will help me out for later, I presume. Anyway, as I said, for the next little while, Dante's taking a back seat while we see how the old gang reacts to the Battle of Coruscant, KOTOR style.
