AN: A revised Chapter 2 is done.
A woman tossed and turned on her bed, her face a mixture of pain and anguish. Her head squirmed on the hard pillow. Her hands roughly grabbed the sheets of her bed, twisting and turning and yanking as if the action could alieve the coming terror – but it was already there. Her eyes were clenched shut and small and short sounds grunted out of her mouth. Beads of sweat glistened on her dark brown brow and rolled, like a stream, down her sharp cheek bones, past her long smooth neck, down into the valley of her breasts, and gathered and drenched her bra.
The woman's body was covered in sweat, the sheets moist under her, soaked. She gave another grunt, her lips open. Another sharp shudder shot from her mouth. A rapturous torment inexplicably pulled at her conscious and acted as a barrier between the real world and her dream world.
The woman was dreaming and when she usually dreamed, her dreams were not normal. Indeed her dreams were visions of nightmares and countless deaths. Of familiar people she had met but she could not recall. Of familiar worlds she had visited but could not explain why she was there. Of familiar lovers in the acts of intimacy but their faces shadowed and the love intangible, hollow.
Sometimes she was a spectator in her dreams, watching worlds burn… or, she was the madness that sentenced countless men and women to their deaths, soaking in their sacrifice and blood. The dreams, at times, were sporadic, splitting into multiple segments with no correlation. When they happened, she lost all control of her senses and the world faded to black. That was the start and finish of her dreams: the encompassing darkness. The dreams were relentless, and they were not so easily broken.
Wisps of darkness moved like shadows and edged at the corners of her mind, patient and percolating. In the deep recesses of her conscious, the darkness embraced her once again, finally striking, and swallowed her completely. She waited for the imminent dream sequence to begin.
The darkness ebbed away like fog dispersing in the morning. The woman found herself on a bridge of a ship. Monitors flickered and blinked intermittently in the darkness of the bridge. Ship operators in blue and black uniforms had their heads turned, their mouths agape in fear and terror, as they watched something from a distance. She heard several low hums like a small hyperdrive echoing on the bridge. The woman's brown eyes looked to the left.
Two foes faced each other in silence, sizing and calculating each other's weak points. Only the sound of their lightsabers hummed in the loud silence. Facing away from the panoramic bay windows, a man with eyes as yellow as a serpent leered at his female opponent. Pure unadulterated anger saturated his eyes. They burned fiercely. He wore a black cowl that hid his hair and draped his light, armored-covered chest. A black mask covered his nose and mouth. His covered nostrils flared like a predator ready to attack.
The man's stance deepened and his heavy black boots pounded the metal floor in intimidation, like the beginning of war drums. His lightsaber, darker than a laigrek's red eye, sang the song of death. The man's black gloves clenched his hilt, a curved and cruel ebony weapon, as he slowly swayed the saber from left to right, the red light reflecting on his harsh features – pale, cracked and ashen skin, blue veins running across his forehead, bulging in rage. The dark side clung to him like dark shadows, molding and twisting him into death incarnate. The red light made him more menacing and fearsome. Any vestiges of humanity, before his corruption, were vacant and empty, desolate. Only hatred remained, and it poisoned and decayed his flesh.
However, his opponent was the opposite. She was stunningly beautiful, almost angelic. If he was the spawn of darkness then she was his mortal enemy, the radiant and benevolent light. Her brown bangs fell into the sides of her face. The other half was pulled into two tight ponytails but wisps and strands of hair were strewn out of place. A golden light shined on her rosy features, making her seem ethereal, divine; a divinity born from altruism – the essence of the Jedi Order. Her normally bluish-gray eyes were gray and hard, piercing, and stronger than duracrete steel.
Serenity glowed in her eyes and morphed into pure determination. She would not be defeated. Her pastel pink, full lips opened and her teeth bore in defiance. From her neck downwards she wore a tight and flexible orange body suit. A light brown tabard acted as armor decorating her shoulders and flowed down, past the swell of her breasts, past her sash, to her front and back of her boot-covered shins.
She held her shimmering golden lightsaber in front of her; the light emitted from the saber reflected off her brown arm braces and clothing like fire. She exhaled deeply, her eyes drinking in all of the Sith's form. The two glared at each other, one in hatred and passion and the other in calm and resolution. A bright light from an exploding fighter glared obstinately from the viewport of the bridge, where a dark figure gazed at a perpendicular Interdictor-class cruiser, oblivious to the battle before it. The light, briefly, enveloped and fell on their bodies before leaving the bridge in shadows, the dim lighting from the ceiling and monitors, and the stars bearing witness.
As if that was the call to battle, the Sith jumped forward, bringing his red saber overhead. The crimson saber cut the air and fell into nothing but floor, melting and burning thick durasteel. The woman had elegantly evaded the strike, her body spinning out of the way. Using her body's momentum from the evasion her saber came for the man's neck. He ducked the blow as her saber swung horizontally. His right gloved hand rose to her chest.
Stormy eyes widened and then narrowed as the woman brought her arms to guard. Kinetic energy burst from his hand and sent her flying. She skidded across the floor, her legs bracing and resisting the current of energy as if she was an immovable force trapped in the thick of a hurricane gust. The man blurred into existence, his speed inhuman, as his saber struck the woman. But she met him with her own resistance. The woman blocked each strike with equal fervor, and followed up with her own aggressive retaliation.
The blades in a whirling of dance and sparks connected and parried. The covered-man seethed in anger, his attempts to kill the Jedi faltering. The red saber swung diagonally like a wild rancor. And the woman's face remained calm as she met him and broke his guard with an elbow to his face. He staggered back as a trickle of blood dripped on his chest from his right temple.
He growled at being repelled by her strong defense. A sudden kick to the solar plexus caught him off-guard, and he landed roughly on his back, the metal floor thudding at the impact. The woman's furious assault ended as she stared down at him, her eyes declaring that he was beneath her, her saber pointed at his neck. The man gave another low growl.
"Jedi schutta," he growled lowly, brushing her saber away and standing once more. "I won't be defeated by -!"
Before he even had a chance to attack, the woman was on him. She swung relentlessly, her power growing stronger with each pounding strike. Fear replaced anger. The man stumbled backwards from each violent and swift swing from the brown-haired Jedi.
His breathing shortened becoming ragged and erratic as he tried to summon more energy. He would not be denied of this match, of killing this woman before his master. The woman's overhead was blocked by his ruby saber. She forcibly pushed down her saber, her arms tight, and her mouth clenched in concentration. The man's arms refused to waiver, and the sabers glowed white at the intersecting points.
The two opponents amongst the clashing sounds of their lightsabers refused to relent.
But... someone had to fall.
He leapt back for some breathing room, but his saber clashed once again with the woman's. The woman fell into a relentless barrage of diagonal swings, her opponent defensively trailing backwards, her ferocity building, fueling each consecutive strike. The man tried an overhead swing, but was too slow. The woman broke into his guard and, in a flash of yellow, and the sound of flesh burning, a guttural roar of agony piercing the air, from his left hip to his right shoulder, the saber sliced into his skin. The man crumpled to the floor dead. As for the Jedi, she paid no heed to the corpse but to the shadowy figure at the end of the bridge.
The interloper turned her brown eyes to the end of the bridge but jumped when something touched her shoulder, like a brush of a hand. She turned quickly, finding only darkness and laughter; a distorted laughter echoing around her. It was chilling, and she shivered. She was about to speak, but found her voice silent as the laughter continued unabated, its volume rising, then, suddenly, stopped.
Then: "Visions and dreams. Dreams and visions. Which one is real? In this twisted game fate has designed. Soon! Soon… these revelations will unfold and only then you will find your voice."
The woman wanted to ask who this person was, but still, her voice was greeted with silence. However, the laughter continued, as if the person understood her, and laughed at her muteness. The watching woman turned her head to the shadowy figure but the returning thick, black fog obstructed her view.
The woman opened her eyes groggily. She blinked several times, trying to remove the hand of Morpheus and her blurring vision. Her grip on the sheets slackened, and she exhaled softly. She stared at the pillow's end, not really seeing it.
What a weird dream, she thought worriedly, and what was the point of it? Finding her voice? She shook her head, puzzled.
The woman had been having strange dreams since her arrival on the Endar Spire. When she met the beautiful brown-haired Jedi, Bastila Shan, in passing, the Jedi woman from her recent dream, the woman recalled, that triggered more intense dreams. But why did encountering her trigger such visions, especially of Bastila? And what of the mysterious voice whose laughter mocked her silence? Her dreams or visions or whatever had never spoken to her nor noticed her watching them. What changed? She moaned. Her head was killing her.
She sat up and brought her hands to her temples, moving her fingers in a circular motion. Her braided hair shiny from sweat fell into her face like a curtain. The sweat from her body cooled her, but the added dampness, especially in her undergarments, was a mild annoyance. Taking another deep breath, she pushed her hair behind her head. Her dark brown eyes scanned the room.
She was in an unfamiliar room in what seemed to be an apartment. The floors were covered in a dark red carpet, dirtied and worn and tattered. Fringes popped out like blades of overgrown grass. Large black spots also decorated the carpet, as if a battle took place … or murder… the implications more dastardly and devious.
"Carbon-scoring," she muttered.
Around her metal frames rusted red held the building together. The fading metal plates, their pristine gone, from what would have been, in its time, a regal and grand apartment, appeared from the torn wallpaper and ceiling fixtures, and captured the dull light from the ceilings and outside the murky windows. The light made the apartment somehow dirtier. The room reminded the woman of a jail.
The furniture – a few couches, chairs and a table – were covered with so much dust that it was a surprise that they were not made of it. An open doorway on the left led to what would be the bedrooms, a small kitchen was in the center, and a spread of a couch and chairs were near the windows. The place was in disrepair and whoever was the landlord let the place deteriorate from the inside.
Movement by the windows caught her eye. She turned her head and saw a figure leaning casually against the frame of the window, by the workbench on his left. His body was shrouded in flickering shadows and a dim light shined on his white face, showing his dark and clouded brown eyes. Two strands of brown hair fell loosely into his right eye and the rest slicked back to his neck. A light beard covered his face. He wore a large, brown cloak over an orange vest that hanged and swayed to his waist; his pants were black, and burnt orange kneepads protected his knees. She thought the man looked ruggedly handsome, but in a distant-sort-of-way.
The man stared out the window, thoughtfully and suspiciously, eyes downward, looming over the city like a hawk watching for movement of its prey. Hovercrafts flew by on and on, continuously, past the golden spires that reflected the star that it orbited – but he ignored them. His mouth was tight and in a frown. He looked far older than his thirties; it was in his eyes and the lines, marked by stress and the terrors he had faced, in his attentive expression. The woman knew him by name and gossip only.
He was the legendary and famed pilot of the Mandalorian Wars. His skills and piloting ability were well-known feats amongst Republic soldiers, even among scouts such as her: news travelled fast when the galaxy was – and is - at war. Personal exploits were hard to come by, but if they made a huge splash in the galaxy one could bet that their name was muttered in almost every cantina. She remembered Trask speaking reverently of his exploits in the Mandalorian Wars and this current war, during the battle on the Endar Spire. He was her savior, the man that Trask sacrificed his life for so that she could save Bastila Shan.
"Carth Onasi," she said in a soft whisper.
His ears perked, and his face turned, swiftly, to her. A glint of worry shined in his orbs before they became neutral, then slightly warm. Perhaps the change of thought was brought on by seeing her in practically nothing, or as a fellow comrade worried for her condition. The woman couldn't decipher his look. He peered at her, his lips curving into a smirk at the edge of his mouth. He moved his shoulders as if to walk to her but stayed by the window awkwardly, unsure if he should. He chose to remain by the window.
"It's good to see you're awake instead of thrashing in your sleep," Carth spoke. He had a soft raspy tone, as if he spoke in a loud whisper, and concern flowed in his words.
"It's good to be awake. Those nightmares were something terrible," the dark-skinned woman replied.
"Nightmares? I believe we all had our share with them." She nodded her head in agreement. She looked out the windows and then to him, sureness set on her face. The city had reminded her, immediately, of their position.
"Taris, right? In the Taris System of the Ojoster sector?"
"You would be correct. You've been slipping in and out of consciousness these last few days after you hit your head on the ceiling of the escape pod. I thought you would never awaken."
That would explain the horrible headache. How in the Kriffing hell did I hit my head? she wondered. She tried to recall the incident but was met with striking pain. "Upper City, Taris," she finally grounded out. She took a few deep breaths to try and alieve the sudden headaches but they continued to pound however. After a few moments, the pain lessened to dull and incessant aches.
Carth blinked before his eyes roamed her face, searchingly. "You've been here before." It was not a question.
"Yeah, though, it's been so long. I don't remember much, except for the snooty nobility." She had to smirk at that comment. The nobility here did get on her nerves. Most aristocracies and bureaucrats were on her short list. Besides their haughty arrogance, they took too long on matters, such as the Mandalorian Wars. And all their drivel and constant arguments, their partisan rigidness, left the galaxy, and the Republic, in turmoil.
"My head hurts, so could you give me a brief rundown? I need something to focus on."
"Sure thing." He crossed his arms over his chest, his gold cuffs showing through the sleeves of his brown cloak.
"We're in the Upper City, as you know, hiding from the Sith. After the Endar Spire's destruction we crashed on one of the platforms, and during the ensuing chaos, I managed to pull you out of the escape pod and found this nearly abandoned apartment building. A few aliens live in this building. We should be safe here." His hand glided across the room, for its vacancy, and its seediness.
"The Sith landed after we crashed and quickly declared martial law. No ships can get in or out without the Sith passcodes and confirmation. Their orbital fleet, three Interdictor-class vessels, is keeping a close eye on the situation on Taris. We're stuck here, and it's only going to get worse."
"Worse? I thought landing in Sith-infested, humanocentric, and classist society was the worst," she scoffed.
"Not quite. Recently, I've heard news of Sith detaining Republic soldiers and Tarisians. They're pulling out all the stops in order to find Bastila Shan. Their oppressive hand has really come down here. Their thuggery and ruthlessness is certainly a sight to see. They closed a Republic outpost and embassy set up during the Mandalorian Wars by Revan and arrested their soldiers and diplomats. Public execution on public Holofeed channels has been a daily occurrence to lure Bastila from hiding."
"Bastila Shan, huh. That Jedi woman. Doesn't she have that Battle Meditation gift or something? Some sort of magic?"
"It seems you've taken more damaged to your head than I thought." The woman's eyebrows rose, begging for Carth to explain.
He didn't disappoint. "Bastila has the rare gift of Battle Meditation. She can use the Force to turn battles, bolster soldiers' confidence and make enemies lose their will to fight. Sometimes that's all that's needed to win. From what I know her power requires a great deal of meditation and focus, but the Sith caught us off-guard; and by the time we realized our situation it was already too late."
The woman leaned forward, interest shining in her eyes. "Such a valuable gem… no wonder Malak's plundering the galaxy for her," the woman said. She gave Carth a smirk. Carth frowned at her answer. He uncrossed his arms.
"Let's just hope there is a galaxy left saving. We have to find her, or else the Republic will lose their main advantage against the Sith."
"And if she's dead?"
"For the Republic war effort, we need her alive; and I'd rather go on the assumption that her pod survived the landing on Taris. I mean… if she's dead the Republic has lost the war, and we would all be under Sith domination."
"Don't you think the Republic's too dependent on the Jedi?" the woman asked.
Carth gave her a hard stare. He closed his eyes as he exhaled a long breath, as if unburdening an imagined weight. He opened his eyes - and there was something haunted in his look - and answered:
"As much as I would like to agree, we need them. Their abilities with the Force are unimaginable. They can take life brutally, or save it. The Force can even wipe away a person's very identity. I've seen Jedi from the Mandalorian Wars use their Mind Trick to suggest and reprogram enemies or passersby. All it takes is a simple suggestion to manipulate the weak-willed and the unguarded."
"Damn and I thought I was cool," the woman muttered to herself. Carth's ears twitched and a low chuckle reverberated from the man's mouth. The laugh relieved some of the previous tension in the air. The woman felt her shoulders droop a little, relaxed.
"How's your head…" Carth inquired, stepping forward, asking for her name.
The woman gazed at him. He should damn know who she was. He was the Captain of the ship. "Ina, Captain Carth. Ina Anor. It should be in your my records on your complimentary datapad. And my head is feeling a bit better."
"Good to know," Carth said, smirking, "And it's just Carth. No need to get into military formalities. We're all in the same boat here."
"You mean shipwrecked on a hostile world, here," Ina added.
Carth chuckled. "Only too right. Good. Go get dressed. The refresher is on my left. Your clothes are by the table chairs. Once you're dressed we'll scout Taris for any information on Bastila. There's a Cantina I had my eye on, we should start there. I've heard from various sources that two escape pods crashed into the Under City. One also crashed in the Upper City but the Tarisian Security Forces got there before I had a chance to investigate it. Luckily, it wasn't Bastila's. Someone else had got there before TSF. Nonetheless, we need to find some way down to the Under City."
A look of disbelief flashed in Ina's eyes. "The Under City?! That's even more dangerous than I suspected – what with the Rakghouls and all! Those blasted things are contagious monsters!"
"I know, I know, that's why we need to leave as soon as possible."
Ina nodded in understanding. Rakghouls, vicious and contagious creatures, were the bane of the Under City; and if they did not get there in time, whatever hope of getting to Bastila could be extinguished. Thinking of those slimy creatures made Ina's skin crawl rather uncomfortably. They needed to be put down immediately.
Ina rose from her cot, and Carth had the decency to turn his head. "What's the matter flyboy, I'd thought you were more used to this, considering all the hoopla for you over the years?"
"I know what you're thinking, but don't believe the hype. Rumors and gossip love to travel," Carth muttered, his face still turned though, she could his cheeks reddening.
The woman chuckled at Carth's retort and grabbed her clothes and went to the fresher. She came out not too long after, smiling pleasantly, which highlighted her cheek bones. The shower relieved a lot of stress from the dream and their current predicament. She felt rejuvenated. She was fully dressed now, a white long sleeve shirt covered by a large brown vest with two parallel pockets at the sides and dark charcoal pants with shiny, knee-length boots.
Ina walked to her backpack by the table chair, opened it and pulled out her equipment; her modified vibroblade and her most trusted blaster – another weapon she had modified after she had "won" it in an after-fight pazaak game in one of Coruscant's seedy cantinas. Some Gamorrean loser felt that she was cheating and threatened to kill her or, the less savory and worst possible outcome, for she would take a blaster bolt to the head than endure the harsh reality of her servitude, sell her into slavery to the Exchange. Before he pulled the trigger, Ina drew her own blaster and shot him between his large piggy eyes. She left the body in a rush, but not before looting for spoils. Those were the days before she was pressured to join the Republic's war effort when they needed jobs for scouts who knew the Outer Rim territories. Looking back, maybe, if she could, would have said No to their offer, but she needed the credits. Credits made survival in her occupation necessary.
She knew most of the Outer Rim territories like she knew the back of her hand. She had been a scout for years, since her teens, traversing the vast and starlit galaxy, mapping new hyperspace routes and searching for new planets. She lived for exploration ever since she was a little girl, when she gazed at the stars from afar from her home planet Deralia. The stars called to her, and she emphatically answered.
Outfitted and equipped, hair in an intricate bun, she was ready. Ina stretched for a few seconds, feeling the strain from her tight muscles loosen. To her amusement Carth tried but failed to busy himself with his own attire as his eyes kept drifting her form. When she was ready, she gave a nod to Carth, who checked his cloak. He had his two blaster pistols tucked away in their holsters on his hips. Carth ushered Ina to the door, and the two left their room into a well-lit corridor. They walked a few paces but halted when they heard a loud booming voice further down the hallway.
"This is a raid! I want all you filthy alien scum against the wall. Now! Or so help me I'm going blow your disgusting heads off!"
"Please stop this, you've already came three time's today! We have nothing! Stop this madness!" an alien voice countered in Durese, his reply pleading and exasperated.
The Republic duo rounded the corner to see, in their shock, a wide spectrum of aliens – two Duros, three Twi'leks, two Togrutas, a Rodian, and a family of Quarren huddled together– lined against the wall. Their bodies shook with fear, faces in pain and torment; and the one perpetuating that fear was the light brown-skinned human male with a trim military haircut. The man dressed in a deep blue uniform with large black shoulder boards and a strap connecting from his left shoulder to his belt, gazed at the aliens in cruel fascination.
The Sith hovered over a kneeled body on the floor. He had just assaulted one of the Duros, a blue-skinned alien with red eyes and a large hairless head, whom was holding his right eye. His two droid bodyguards flanked him, their weapons trained on the aliens' backs. If they turned, the droids would mercilessly cut them down. Fear reeked in the corridor, and the man, whose eyes delightfully watched his captives, was spurred on from their looks of terror. He reveled in his power and the aliens' fear.
He kicked the Duros in the face. The male Duros let out a horrible wail and fell on his back, holding his new wound. Then the Sith stepped on his throat, pressing his boot on his esophagus. He laughed cruelly, a heartless and vengeful laugh that rang in the hallway, causing Ina to shiver in anger, as the blue alien tried but failed to remove it, his hand slumping against the Sith's black boot. He guffawed some more at the futility.
His eyes gleamed with power awakened by the scared and desperate looks of his audience. Violent lust glinted in his eyes, his cruel face euphoric. "The Sith Empire does not take too kindly to lies. Especially lies from your kind. Now this is what we do with foul-mouthed alien scum."
He pointed his blaster carbine into the face of the wide-eyed Duros, his face slackening from the exerted pressure on his throat. He pulled the trigger and blasted the Duros's head. Black carbon scoring marred the floor, and the remains of the Duro's face plastered onto his black boots. The human stared as his boots in disgust before threatening his whimpering audience.
"See what you did!" he roared in indignation. "Now one of you is going to pay for damaging my new boots."
He moved to the female yellow Twi'lek, his eyes dressing her up and down. He licked his lips. However, another pair of boots caught his attention. "I thought I told you not to mo –!" his voice stopped dramatically. His baleful eyes widened in surprise.
"Humans? Living with aliens?" he mused aloud, his tone incredulous. "State your business, citizens." He brought his carbine up, looking between the two humans.
Ina walked forward slowly, ignoring the man's order. Carth, startled by Ina's behavior, looked at her unsurely. "I said state your…" he paused, recognition brightening his eyes like a brilliant nova. "You're Republic fugitives! Attack!"
A barrage of blaster bolts sailed at Ina who dodged them with ease. She ran forward – and the captive aliens ran back – faster than humanly possible. She brought her sword out as the Sith fumbled for his, and clashed, steel against steel, of his longsword. Ina swung for the head, but the Sith ducked and before he rose, Ina grabbed the back of his head and kneed him in his face, feeling bone break at the impact. The man tumbled over. She then dodged a blaster bolt to her head from the droid on her left.
"Carth!" Ina called in urgency.
"I'm on it," Carth responded, his already out blasters firing with deadly precision at the droid on Ina's left.
The bolts smashed into the droid's head, causing a rain of sparks to descend on the combatants. Ina, with fierce determination, attacked the other armored droid, her sword slashing its blaster-rifle. She leaned forward to stab the droid's chest, but a warning, like a distant wind reaching its destination, came suddenly. Everything slowed.
She heard - no! - she felt the heartbeats of the world around her. She felt her own; she felt Carth's; the Sith's; the electricity flowing in the building and the droid before her; and the energy behind her. It was the same energy she felt on the Endar Spire when her life was in danger; the same feeling that announced itself when she felt the dark aura of the Sith behind the closed blast doors. It felt like a distant friend. She grabbed ahold of the feeling or whatever it was around her.
She glanced to her right, eyes widening as the deadly red beam neared her head. And, in that instant, she ducked. The world returned to normal. The blaster bolt crashed into the droid behind her, while Carth sent a torrent more into the machine. The droid collapsed to the ground. In mid-turn Ina's left hand grabbed her blaster from its holster and fired, only once, at the blaster-wielding Sith.
A look of complete horror filled his eyes, and a wave of self-preservation swept him. Blaster be damned, the Sith used his blaster-carbine as a shield against the blaster bolt. The bolt connected harshly with the blaster's battery, exploding and burning the Sith's hands in effect. A deep cry escaped the man's lips as he rolled on his stomach, his hands tucked protectively under him.
The man moaned pitifully, his face pained, his nose bloodied. Ina stared at the wounded man in anger. He was going to pay for taking an innocent's life, and spreading, in his brutality, terror to the people living here. She walked slowly, each step purposed. The Sith turned his head from the floor, his face scrunched, but a sneer curled his lips.
"Kriffing Republic scum! I hope Lord Malak oblit—!"a blaster bolt to the head silenced him forever.
Nonchalantly, Ina walked to the smoking body and began looting it, claiming two frag grenades and some spare credits. She tucked them neatly into her small pouch on her belt. She faced Carth, whom, now, was watching her in awe and somewhat suspicion. There was something indescribable on his face that Ina, searchingly, could not point. He seemed stunned, swept up in wonder: his mouth agape, his brown eyes frozen on her, narrowed. His expression left her wary of her superior.
"Anything wrong, Carth," Ina asked, curiously. Carth lightly shook his head. He scanned over the bodies cautiously.
"We need to hide the bodies before more Sith come," Carth said. A Duros came from the hallway, his head lowered in sadness. He bent down and examined the mutilated victim, lightly touching the chest with his hand. He regarded his saviors in relief, but terrible grief shined in his large red eyes.
"Poor Xichil. He should never have talked back against the Sith. Thank you for the help, offworlders. Your secrets are safe with us." Two more aliens, a green Twi'lek with a plain face and another Duros, came with large black bags and started to insert the Sith and the droids in them.
"Don't worry about the bodies; we'll take care of it. This will be our debt to you."
"Are you sure, I mean, they are Sith…" Carth said.
The Duros chuckled and a mischievous smile spread on to his thin lips. "We have the means to make them completely disappear."
Another person was waking up to the world, although, in his state, his eyes remained closed, slightly quivering from his stirring. Heero did not open his eyes, but he stretched out with his senses. He could feel the light linen sheets against his body, a cool draft breeze caressing his skin. Using his ears Heero observed his position. He heard the sound and beeps of machines', the whizzing and humming of something in the air, the strident brzzing of the air conditioning, and voices – two voices. The voices were engaged in a deep conversation, and Heero listened attentively to what they were saying.
"So, this planet is called Taris?" a voice asked.
"That is correct," answered an unknown, baritone voice.
"Interesting." The voice paused as if thinking then continued, "I knew there were other planets past my planet's solar system, but I'm amazed at how progressive this society is. Turns out Earthlings aren't the only ones in this universe."
That voice, unmistakably, was Wufei's. His tone was light and thoughtful, however, there was a trace of aloofness in the undertone as if his mind was distracted, or, merely, weighing the presented information.
"Humph. Progressive isn't the right term for this city, offworlder. You're in the Upper City, where the wealthy and aristocrats live," the cultured and baritone said.
The distinct voice expounded. "Taris is an ecumenopolis, a planet-wide metropolis, built on top of each other, from millennia of construction. There are three distinct cities: The Upper City, the Lower City, and the Under City." The man said the last words with a slight shudder, his voice quivering, in what seemed to be pity and fear. Heero was sure Wufei had picked up on that subtlety.
"The Upper City, as I said, is where the wealthy live in decadence and haughtiness, for the Tarisian government keeps them well protected and bubbled in their singular world, of course. Besides its grand spires, the Upper City's citizens declare themselves Taris's rulers, banishing anyone for crimes, even petty thefts, to the Under City. The laws here are incredibly rigid."
"What do you mean by banishing criminals to the Under City," Wufei asked. "What would incite such harsh justice?"
"The aristocracy abuses their power. Taris, millennia back, was amidst in a brutal civil war. The great planet that it once was, a jewel of great pride, decayed, stagnating under new and improved hyperspace routes. It soon became obsolete. As Taris dimmed, Tarisian industrialists hoping to make a quick credit using cheap power sources poisoned Taris's pristine oceans, nearly killing all aquatic and marine life. Tarisians are dependent on our oceans for food, and as a result, it inflamed class tensions. A great famine swept the world, and the lower classes rebelled when the Tarisian nobles horded most of the food and wealth for themselves."
The voice paused, giving a loud aggravated sigh. "Unfortunately, the lower class was defeated, and, with finesse and cruelty, a cruelty that persists and only worsens the problem, the nobles punished them. When the Upper City prisons became filled to capacity, the practice of banishment to the Under City became law."
"Humanity has declared themselves supreme overlords over all sentient species, then," Wufei said distastefully. "Even on my planet, humanity hasn't change. That's not just. Have the aliens rebelled against such draconian measures? To tolerate such conditions only exacerbates the animosity."
"They have but not in the way one would think. A large demographic of aliens reside in the lower class. They were permanently banished to the Lower City, where, horribly, violence and chaos are prevalent. They receive no help, so they solve their problems through vigilante justice. Those with special permits can access the Upper City, to escape the violence, but those permits don't guarantee their safety on arrival.
"Still, human prejudices run deep in our society and a great many agree that aliens should be exterminated. Physical assaults by the damn Tarisian aristocrats are common, and most of the time, as a result, they come here for treatment – because most of them aren't accepted in other clinics. I do what I can, and it is usually sufficient, but the work is constant! A growing xenophobic movement, harbored from centuries of humanocentrism, is gaining traction with the elites, and I'm afraid it's only a matter of time before the situation erupts in more bloodshed."
"Why is no one protecting the weak?" Wufei demanded, his tone frustrated by such travesties. "This encouragement and ignorance only rouses more violence."
"The Sith encourage such a development, as long as the Tarisians are cooperating with them, they'll expose their prejudices without restraint. The Sith have no love for aliens, either – unless their Force users or proven themselves for the Empire. In the Lower City, people are afraid. They can't trust anyone but the gangs that would shelter them, or maybe avenge their crimes. The Lower City Tarisian Security Forces have proven ineffective, even corrupt, as they colluded with the Lower City Swoop gangs. For the Upper City, you can imagine a populace so out of touch with reality, and imbedded in their ways, that they ignore such occurrences – maybe provoke them, as well. Society crumbles when we forget our compassion and heart."
"It's only a matter of time before civil war," Wufei posited.
Heero agreed. There was only so much oppression one could take before the lower class, unsurprisingly, rebel against their forced conditions, and overthrow the system. He knew this from experience: being a freedom fighter/terrorist for the colonies created such an experience: justice and revenge were intertwined; they had to be personal. Freedom meant revenge. Revenge meant freedom, for the colonial revolutionaries. One could not extricate one's self from years of oppression so easily without sudden retribution.
"That is what I'm afraid of. The tension is rife in xenophobia, and it's getting much worse."
Wufei hummed, his usual, when he was deep in thought. "Speaking of classism, what's it like in the Lower City? Explain the gangs."
"There are two rival swoop-bike gangs, the Black Vulkars and Hidden Beks. They are competing, ruthlessly, for territory. They'll fire on anyone and everyone that they deem to be a threat. Violence is rampant. I have a clinic down there that's always full – kids gravely injured and more dead bodies of innocents and fighters. The place has become a nightmare and many can't flee because of the rigid laws enforced by the Tarisian government." Zelka cursed loudly, anger flowing in his voice, growing, like a fast stream transforming into a raging torrent.
"And the damn nobles just keep their arrogant noses in the air and blame them for their own misfortune and birth! My clinic is a neutral zone – I heal all, not just one side – so I get less harassment from the gangs, but…"
Zelka paused suddenly. He seemed to be waiting for something to happen.
"But," Wufei continued, still patient.
"I haven't heard much from my clinic and that's bothering me. It's as if all has grown completely silent. Kaz, my subordinate, hasn't returned any of my calls, neither have the protocol droids."
"The gangs swept in?" Wufei said.
"Hopefully not! As of right now I'm unsure. But if they did...? Well, I can't afford protection if it does happen - I won't hire men such as Davik's for bodyguards, either."
"He sounds influential, though; the wrong type of individual?"
Zelka chuckled humorlessly, even spitefully, as his voice lowered. Heero had to strain his ears to hear every word.
"Let me enlighten you offworlder on a little open secret. Davik Kang is an unscrupulous and dangerous crime lord of Taris. He has men everywhere, listening and waiting to do his bidding. His line of trade as a representative and crime boss for the Exchange on Taris: slavery, bribery, extortion, contraband, kidnapping, assassinations - the works. His infamous hands are soaked in everything that goes on in Taris. I guess I'm lucky. Since my medical facilities does not turn profit he doesn't bother me – but I can't say the same for the other shops on Taris, who, fearfully, pay him protection money, less they be harass by his thugs. He's nothing but a thug!"
"Men like him will meet their end through methods that equal their cruelty," said Wufei.
"I'm hoping for his end quickly, if it gives the people of Taris reprieve from his slimy influences."
"Now let's get to the Under City. You don't sound too fond of it," Wufei said, redirecting the conversation.
Wufei did notice the tremoring, thought Heero.
Zelka snorted. "The Under City's nothing but a wasteland where the unforgiven souls and their descendants live a bleak and desolate existence, trying to carve out nothing from something."
Zelka's tone became lower and graver, "However, the Under City is swarmed by dangerous beasts called Rakghouls. I don't know how they got here but they've been a deadly plague for generations. Living in prolonged exposure in the Under City breeds the disease, and a cut or bite can trigger the infection, thus, horrendously, transforming you into a mindless, diseased beast."
He paused once again, and Heero was unsure if he was being dramatic or there was something even more unnerving on his mind. People transforming into monsters? Heero frowned inwardly at this revelation. Heero came from a world where fairytales and fables, unscientifically proven from an age without technology, where cold, hard reality and fact met fantasy deconstructed and eviscerated them.
Zelka's voice turned into pure disgust, even revulsion. "Recently, I heard the Tarisian military with aid from the Republic was developing a cure - and they might have as well found one! - but with the Sith controlling the military bases, they'll reserve it for themselves. If I can only get a sample of the serum I can produce enough to wipe out the Rakghoul disease forever."
Though optimistic, Zelka chuckled solemnly. "The serum is likely in the hands of the Sith patrolling the Under City for the Republic escape pods. It would be pure suicide to attack them or break into the military base. I'll have to make do with what I have and provide free healing to anyone who needs it."
"I'm incredibly grateful for your hospitality," Wufei thanked politely. "But are you sure there isn't anything we can do for you. Your people rescued us from our crash, so there has to be something."
"Not exactly my people, offworlder, just some Republic sympathizers," Zelka admitted, "but helping people, especially those that need it, I could never turn away from such instances."
Silence overtook the room until Wufei's voice broke it. "Did you get all that, Heero?" called Wufei, loudly, "You can end the charade. It's time to plan our next move."
"Your friend cannot hear you. He's…" his words died on his lips as Prussian blue eyes flashed open.
Heero sat up, eyes alert. He looked around the room. Besides lying on a comfortable hospital bed, he was in a medical room that was clearly unfamiliar to any medical facility he'd ever been in. Familiar yet different medical instruments measured his pulse, and strange, small droids hovered around him, quickly taking in his health through their holographic transparent scanners, and transmitting the information to the wall of monitors beside him.
He found Wufei leaning against the wall parallel to him. His arms were crossed and his face was expressionless besides his dark eyes which looked thoughtful. He wore a dark blue tank top over his lean form, tucked inside high, loose-fitting, white pants, wrapped tight by a black sash, a utility belt overlaying the sash, two black armbands, and black slippers.
"This all sounds like an inconvenient obstacle," Heero muttered, checking his body, and then the room.
Wufei smirked. "Glad you agree."
In the far corner, three vats full of a strange green liquid housed three bodies. They did not move and seemed, for certainty, dead, as the liquid floated their bodies. Two were human males, and the other, Heero wasn't sure what she was. She was a humanoid woman. Heero noted her contained breasts and no male genitalia behind her undergarments. However, what he found strange – and alien – was her yellow phenotype and the two head tails protruding from her hairless head, coiling around her neck.
His eyes moved to the three cylinder containers by the vats, then back to Zelka, a dark-skinned human male, with balding curly hair, peppered from age, and large dark round eyes that looked as perplexed by the situation as he felt. He wore a modest green robe and nicely threaded beige pants.
Zelka's brown eyes were wide as saucers, staring at him in disbelief. He glanced at the monitors and then back to him, repeatedly. He tried to reason Heero's pulse remaining stable, eluding detection, his words escaping frenetically.
"But you were unconscious! How is – how were you able to listen to us? I've heard only Jedi were able to manipulate their bodies to be in a complete stasis, to fend off poisons and other chemical threats."
Zelka was referring to regaining consciousness without increasing one's pulse or brainwaves. It was a defensive move, in case he was captured. Doctor J was very thorough in his training. If he was captured he had to feign unconsciousness until he came up with an escape plan, a precautionary tactic devised by Doctor J and his colleagues. It was luring the enemy into false complacency.
Heero gazed at Zelka's dark face impassively. "That's not in important." He looked at Wufei, nodding in confirmation. "And yeah, I got it."
"How long was I out?" Heero said, feeling very restful… and good? There were no immediate pains, no healing abrasions nor swelling of the skin. It was as if he had never been injured at all.
"About three days. Your ship was detained and confiscated. It's most likely dismantled. You suffered minor injuries and I was able to treat you with some kolto packs," Zelka informed, still looking a scant uncomfortable with the situation. His furrowed brows seemed permanently stuck together into one long, black line.
Heero gave him a perplexed look. "Ah. I'm sorry if you're unfamiliar with the term, offworlder. Kolto packs are healing agents from Manaan. They're very much in demand by the Republic and the Sith."
Heero gave his hand a reflexive squeeze feeling his muscles quiver and tighten. Whatever kolto was it felt very good. He could feel no pain in his body. He removed the sheet, revealing his tone and muscled upper body and his underwear.
Even after two years, he never ceased his conditioning; he couldn't afford to. Relena needed him, and so did the Earth and the outlying colonies. Like his mind his body had to be as sharp and durable for any conflict that arose against Relena's ideals.
He looked for his clothes and Zelka pointed to a locker below his bed. He opened the locker and quickly dressed in his green tank top, blue jeans, blue jacket, and brown military boots.
"Who are they?" Heero inclined his head to the three vats.
"Do I have your trust that you won't tell a soul?"
The two Gundam pilots nodded. He told them they were Republic soldiers rescued by some Republic sympathizers. The Republic, Zelka said, was a democracy composed of numerous star systems, worlds, and sectors. They were at war with the Sith Empire, led by Darth Malak, a Dark Jedi. There was a battle above Taris, and many escape pods crashed to the planet. The three bodies in the vats were some of them. And yet, according to Zelka, they would not last too long: their injuries were fatal. Nevertheless, he did the best he could. Before putting them into the kolto vats, the Twi'lek, the yellow-skinned woman with head-tails, he recalled, whispered something important.
"She said," his tone becoming reflective, "something about protecting and finding Bastila Shan." Zelka started to pace restlessly, his lips twitching as he recalled the woman's last words before fading into oblivion.
"Who is this Bastila Shan?" Wufei asked. His eyes were on the vats. "She must be deemed of importance if it was the woman's last words."
"She's the key and the reason for the Sith on Taris. Offworlders, if you've been following the Holofeed religiously as I have, then you would know Bastila Shan's powers are crucial for the Republic. And I think," his face becoming more determined as he intently gazed at them, emboldened by a burgeoning hope, "this is why the Sith are adamant at finding her. Malak won't rest until she's captured. You can't leave the planet. The Sith blockade will obliterate your ship before you even take off."
"Sounds somewhat challenging," Heero commented. He'd been in rougher situations. There was never a mission he could not, and would not, do. All obstacles were calculated and performed with suicidal temerity.
Zelka stared at him for a moment, and then shook his head, sighing. "I'll leave to give you two some space. I'm off to the front of my facility. You may leave and comeback anytime for any healing or services that I can provide." With that, the green-robed man vanished behind the blast doors.
Heero turned to a gray footlocker at the foot of one of the empty beds, near the comatose Republic soldiers. Opening it he found a blaster, a longsword, some sort of cylindrical weapon with two openings at the top and bottom, three medpacs, and two comlinks.
Their possessions, he thought sadly. He gave a brief nod to the nearly-dead, as if asking for their respect and permission before, without remorse - because the necessity to live outweighed any moral obligation - plundered their remaining assets.
"We can use these," he remarked quietly, taking the items and distributing them amongst the two of them. Heero kept a blaster and the longsword placing them on his hip. Not knowing what to do with the unknown weapon, he tossed to Wufei, who caught it with a raised eyebrow.
Wufei's hand roamed the weapon, his onyx eyes studying the shape and contours. There was a white button in the middle that he depressed. The cylindrical weapon expanded in length. Two sharp and tapered blades that glinted dangerously in the light sprung from the holes.
Heero looked at Wufei as he gave a few practice twirls of his new weapon. A subtle deadliness and familiarity rocked Heero when Wufei practiced expertly with his new sword. It was like looking at the embodiment of the Altron Gundam. Each twirl, back and forth, downward and upward, in twirling figure eights, that turned the weapon into a mass of blurring gray, had a beautiful finesse, and an aggressive edge. Wufei was an extension of his Gundam's aggressive style – a style practiced with the grace of a warrior. It came to him naturally, and it made Heero realize why Gundam 05 was so dangerous – because the pilot was even more so, too. Wufei detracted the blades and clipped it to his belt.
The two congregated together, standing ready, in the center of the room. They went over a brief plan calling the operation Freedom. Wufei suggested infiltrating the Sith base by posing as Sith soldiers, or creating a mass diversion, and sweep in during the prevailing chaos. It was the expedient and efficient method of stealing the launch codes, he argued. Heero readily agreed with him; they would save time rather than searching thoroughly for this Bastila Shan. Like Wufei, he would go for their throats immediately.
However, he also countered with the dangers of the aftermath. If the Sith identified their presence, spaceport security would tighten. And if their escape ship was not fast enough, they'll just die by the blockade's turbolasers before they even reached the atmosphere.
Heero offered another suggestion. By searching for Bastila Shan while attaining information needed for their escape, they could both capture her and possibly coordinate a plan with her should she prove valuable and informative on encounter. Their success depended on the dividends if she was seeking an escape, too.
From what he learned from Zelka, this Darth Malak was absolutely relentless in his quest for Bastila, so that would buy them time. In addition, breaking into the military base would shorten their time on the planet and, consequently, gain the attention of the Dark Lord. Darth Malak wanted Bastila dead or alive, and if his forces could not subdue her in the allotted time… Heero shuddered at the thought. He had inkling that this Bastila Shan would be pertinent to their eventual escape. He didn't know why but he felt sure about it: it was the same clarity he felt in Zero. Something was drawing him to this encounter. He knew to always follow and trust his emotions – that was only way for him to live – and he would do so on his own volition.
Heero pondered both options, weighing each lengthily. He chose his decision. The best option was, for all of them, much to Wufei's chagrin, patience, cunning, and concealment. Heero was to-the-point type of guy, but in this instance the guise of normalcy while moving in a foreign environment provided the best alternative and cover. Not that it mattered too much, because, indeed, his skills in secrecy and infiltration were top – like any Gundam pilot trained for Operation Meteor. And: he wanted to see the abilities of these Jedi.
The Gundam pilots discussed a course of action. They would infiltrate the Lower City and start their search from there. The pilots met with a concerned Zelka who, quite persistently, wanted them to continue resting. However, he relented and offered them something that took them by surprise: he gave some stimulants. The pilots offered, for his hospitality and kindness, to search for his missing assistant. Zelka was ecstatic. He readily gave them the access datapads for the Lower City. The Gundam pilots left Zelka's medical facility to the dimming skylight of Taris.
AN: Chapter three is underway.