Convergence

79 BBY

Coruscant

Jedi Temple

"It all feels so..."

"Hollow," Dooku confirmed with a sagely nod, shifting a glance over to his younger counterpart. Arms were stretched out wide, hardly noticeable in the dimly lit meditation chamber they both found themselves in. The single word echoed between them, bouncing from wall to wall, reverberating past its transparisteel encasings and out into the surrounding cityscape.

"That is the universe we live in, my Padawan. So vast in scope, so much of it brimming with life and potential, and yet in all its grandeur something still remains... off."

Qui-Gon furrowed his brow at the response, brown locks draping over his face. The teenager remained on the ground next to his mentor, the pair both seating criss-crossed, eyes remaining closed. A pinprick of confusion seemed to wedge its way between the duo, permeating their otherwise tranquil senses.

"What is it? What is off?"

"That," Dooku began again, stroking his beard, "Would be the shroud. Thinly woven as it is, it conceals the poisoned heart that remains at its center. This city that encompasses us both. Its towering structures are plagued by greed, drenched in the stench of corruption. It leaves us fruitless in our attempts to strive for the greater good, strangled by the actions of those around us."

The younger of the two brightened at the comment. His eyes seemed to brim with naivety, twelve years worth of Jedi teachings racketing his brain.

"But it still exists, doesn't it Master? This 'greater good'."

The elder smiled in turn. "Yes, somewhere in this world's traffic-laden bubble, between both muck and sheen, it remains. Binding us all together. Imprinting us with the knowledge we need."

"Well... That's a good thing, right? It means it'll help us... Even when we don't know it is."

The wiser man shook his head no in response, his solemn look suggesting he had expected the answer the whole time. "It only helps those who choose to listen."

The teenager's sense of confusion shifted now, Dooku noticed, a twinge of disappointment left in its wake.

"And when all is hollow..." He prodded again, watching as realization dawned on his student's face.

"Then... There's no one to listen."

32 BBY

Naboo

Theed Refinery Complex

The Force is a painting.

Naboo is its canvas.

Presently, four battles rage across its frontiers. Each rooted in our plane of existence, but bounded by something else, something deeper.

The first battle, one of angels and drones. It is a conflict of the Heavens, Deep Space presented as its backdrop. A hulking warship serving as the objective. In the distance, a feeble force of golden starfighters flits forward, hoping to find some opening in the carnage to lay waste to their target. They are united in their efforts by a leader who does not realize his destiny. A boy no older than nine. The same boy that unites us all.

One who was supposed to stay out of trouble.

The second battle, one of nature and technology. A lush field of green is its locale, one which will soon be bathed in crimson. For now, a bubble-like plasma enclosure plays host to its grounds. The warriors within huddle together, clinging to their mounts and archaic technology. They are despised by most, but serve as the perfect symbiosis of land and water, the ideal challenger to the tyrannical corporation that looms in the distance.

The third battle, one of reclaimers and banishers. A limestoned castle is its setting. Inside its confines, soldiers of metal collide with those of flesh. Both combatants are tethered by earth, but fight for principles that reach further than they can comprehend, culminating in the throne that rests at castle's end.

The final battle, one of philosophies, new against old, and both against unsavory. A trio of duelists champion these beliefs, clashing deep within the castle's recesses, where pillars of light mingle with craters of darkness, and timer-bound energy gates guard abyss-like melting cores.

If nothing else, Naboo excels in creating precariously situated decor.

Of the four, the final engagement may seem the least significant. And, indeed, for the millions that inhabit this world, it will prove to be so. In the short term, at least. In the long term, its ramifications far out weigh the others, both in scale and balance. But that is a concern for a different time.

For now, my focus is on the present, where it desperately needs to be. As much as I wish this dispute of philosophy could be handled civilly, this planet's Neimodian captors have made it all but impossible. Thus, it is dealt in the traditional way - with blood.

So we clash. On one side, Jedi Knight Qui-Gon Jinn and my Apprentice, Obi-Wan Kenobi, garbed in our traditional robes. We're pitted against a nameless opponent, one that's as demonic in appearance as he is in outlook. A darkened cloak conceals a body and face riddled in bloody tattoos.

The sight alone is enough for us to push him further back, forcing ourselves deeper into the palace's bottomless vault. To deliver our blows we use the traditional weapon - those touted of elegance. Blades of sapphire, emerald, and crimson, energized by crystals and our connections to the Force. All shades of color bloom as they meet, blending and showering into sparks. We're left breathless mere minutes into the duel, making the centuries since the last engagement between Jedi and Sith all the more clear.

No amount of schooling, of sixty years of honing my skills, has left me even remotely prepared for this. It becomes a matter of maintaining my composure, slipping into the familiar and well-practiced form of combat, and trusting my instincts.

The duel that follows begins like a game of Dejarik. A battle of wits, one which revolves around inputting commands - both counters and strikes. The goal is not to win, but to be a step ahead of the enemy. Ideally six or seven, and praying Obi-Wan can do the same. Only then will we fluster our opponent, only then will he make a mistake.

And with beams of light flailing in all directions, a mistake means death.

The thought comforts me as much as it alarms me. There is no going back in a duel, when a thought occurs, a move is made. Lunges and parries become lacerations and sweeping takedowns. Actions are taken at such a speed that it becomes impossible to conceal them from your opponent's senses. The only hope one can have is that they'll tire out before you do.

And with this particular foe, that's almost out of the question. He's a blur of shadows, flips and rolls giving way to an endless onslaught of charges, each crashing down like girders of durasteel. Even working as a tandem Obi-Wan and I are less a match for him and more a passing exchange, just another in a slew of lives his staff-like blade has already taken.

His physicality is our true undoing, the horned brute acts in exactly the way that his appearance would suggest. As we lay perched over a rafter-like passage, the Sith shoves a Force-amplified kick Obi-Wan's way. It elicits a retched cough from the boy, sending him flailing downward, off to crumple onto another strut some twenty meters below.

I greet my opponent's resulting sneer with a snarl of my own, striking out at the opening his attack has left. But fear quickly overrides my anger. Now I too, am alone. With only bruises and staggered breathing left to accompany me on this slender platform.

He seems to realize this at the same time, and becomes all the more enthused as result - more foolish, I can only hope. He senses my alarm, and like a cancer, he feeds on it, revels in the dismay. In the midst of meeting blow with blow, I can't stop him as he wrenches inward, pulling back my mind's barriers, reeling forth all that I had tried to keep tucked away.

I lash out in turn, a daring jab to his throat, one that sends him plunging to the nearest platform. Intent to keep my sudden advantage, I dive downward to meet him, boots slamming against metal and nose with his gloved fist. As blood wells up, the thoughts come back.

The Jedi have fallen...

I realize, flinching as our blades merge into spark-flailing contact.

Instincts have given way to idleness...

Another smashing of blows, this one enough to force the brute back a step.

Wisdom to simplicity...

A cleaving thrust is held at bay, blocked by a show of strength I didn't know I had. One that forces my assailant to spin on a dial, twirling backwards to recompose himself. We're left meters apart now, enough time for all those feelings to bombard me again as I charge back into the fray.

It took a cellular count on a data scanner for me to convince the Council of the boy's power. The once time-honored tradition of seeking out those gifted in the Force has been reduced to a stock-like attraction, judged in numbers and not in feeling. Predicated more on maintaining good standing with the Senate and its people than doing what is right for the Order.

And this Sith - this monster, is what has spawned as a result of our unwillingness to act, to address all the corruption that has billowed around us.

Our swords collide again upon the thought, drilling me back, legs threatening to buckle beneath his immense strength. His once artful style of swordplay is no longer to be seen. He's dragged out my skeletons and pushes for the upper hand as a result, speed turning to power, power to dominance. All the while I can feel him tugging at my mind again, digging deeper, more personal.

Xanatos...

This time his machinations have had the opposite effect. No longer does doubt plague my mind, a sudden ripple of rage surges past it. The failures aren't of those around me, but my own. Criticisms have turned to degradation, concern to disbelief. Like my opponent, I too have broken away from my initial stances of defense. Unbridled aggression is my ally now, amplifying my movements, and leaving me unquestioned in my motives.

Fatigue seems to set in just as fast. If it weren't for the resounding ignition of a familiar cerulean saber somewhere behind me, I likely would have given in on the spot, unable to couple further strength to willpower. Instead I'm left thanking the Force, not daring to offer my Padawan a backwards glance, knowing that my focus can't be anymore distracted than it already is. As if the architects themselves realize this, I spy a lull in the chaos - barriers of energized plasma, activating at intervals in the tunnel that lays meters away.

In its searing reflection I see an opportunity.

So I power onward, leaving Obi-Wan to sprint towards our receding forms, denying my demon-like combatant's advances at every turn. With his momentum careening backwards, I keep on the offensive, trading chops at the knees for lashes at his hellish face. Further and further I drive him, until we're left standing in the midst of the tunnel's maw. Brick-like laser emitters begin crackling to life on either side of the passage, quickly locking themselves into place. Realizing the trap I've brought him into, he offers a snarl in return, dropping back a step before the sudden field of crimson energy can incinerate him.

As if to confirm the obvious, he runs his blade along its radiating glow, a waft of smoke surging upwards. His seething look reaffirms my suspicion - we have been separated.

I shutter my weapon off in the next instant, grateful for the respite. Crashing to a halt behind me is Obi-Wan, sectioned off by another barrier several meters back. For a long moment we're all trapped this way - both the brute and my Apprentice pacing back and forth, ready to pounce the moment the energy gates on either side give way. Stuck in the middle, I remain passive, resigning myself to the moment of peace.

My adversary continues striding to and fro, his yellowed gaze scouring mine. I do not return the favor.

Instead, I begin peering inwards. Lowering myself to my knees, I open myself to that same familiar hollowness. Allowing my focus to move away from sight, I press outward, rippling my gaze into all that encompasses me. First through the artificial: the saber hilt at my side, the plasma cyclers on either wall, and the melting core that rests at tunnel's end. Then further, out through the living: the Royal Guard that lay surrounded in the throne room, the Gungans retreating on the fields below, and the adrenaline-riddled pilots far overhead.

Finally, I stitch my perceptions through the fabric of the planet itself, through its core, where the Force ebbs and flows. As if on cue, the shroud returns, showering over that which should be pure. But as its cold grip again blankets over me, I decide not to find what it covers, but why it covers it.

Why does it stretch out? For what reason would it choose to rest here and between here? As if pulsating from the enemy that paces before me.

Perhaps that in itself is a question worth asking. There has been a reason for our meeting with this Sith, as there was when I met that seemingly-hapless Gungan, or the slave boy on that backwater planet. In all things there is a reason, a worth for being.

My goal now is to hear it out.

And with the laser emitters priming themselves to recede on either side, I know that I don't have long to get the answer.

End