Jedi Insurgency 167

As soon as the door opened up, a flash of pale white light met them. Corvus-who had prepared himself to the utmost-had used Pause buffering, and had acted a fraction of a second before he was struck. What he saw inside the room was indeed an advanced looking machine, and besides it, there was the famous Mind Box! Just like the one Revan escaped from in KOTOR! 

Once that light strikes someone, they'll have their consciousness trapped inside! Fortunately, he had hypothesized such an event may come to pass, and had reacted quick enough. 

[Shadow Hopping] forward, and behind the Mind Box, he began to hack into the device with his high Computer skill. 

~~~~~~~~~

Once the light met his eyes, A’Sharad Hett felt himself transported to another realm. A jungle, much like the one that surrounded the oasis, came into view. However, unlike the quiet, cool serenity of that Lightside Nexus, this one hummed with the steady buzz of danger. 

Intense heat pressed against his skin, different from the dry deserts he called home. Sweat accumulated at his brow, and pressed his robes into his back with the same sticky mess of a used tissue paper. The air hummed with an alien pressure, it thrummed with the weight of eons, coiling around his thoughts like barbed wire. Vines thicker than starship cables hung from towering trees whose canopies blotted out the sky, their leaves pulsing faintly with bioluminescent veins. 

Hett had suspected something was amiss when he had questions about the Kumumgah people, and was told that he would be told ‘all in good time.’ 

Unfortunately, he had walked straight into the trap. And his senses were not doing much better, as he had been at the heart of a Nexus. The Force recoiled around him, distorted and screaming, as though it were a baby dragged prematurely from its mothers womb. A’Sharad steadied his breathing, grounding himself in the present. Anakin had been his only friend in the Order, and his betrayal had rocked his understanding of what it meant to be a Jedi. They had mocked him for his tattoos, and the Tuskens never treated him as their own. Hett knew he was on the cusp of a mental breakdown, that this trip to Tatooine was a spiritual journey to find himself. Ordinarily, this setback may have thrown him into a spiral of depression…and yet, there was hope. Revan, the man of myth was real. He had brought the Jedi back from the brink of disaster, and was here once more during their darkest hour. 

Recalling the power with which the masked man had vaporized those enhanced wardroids, Hett knew what he wanted. What he needed. To change the galaxy, he needed power. To alter his fate, he needed power. Following that man for a day had opened his eyes to more than nearly three decades in the Order ever had. 

The Force of the future and past echoed around Hett, as destiny seemed to be within his grasp. A horned mask flashed in his mindseye, and his kyber crystal pulsed with acceptance. Holding out a hand, the wisp of the mask faded away, like smoke on the wind. And yet, a fraction of future strength yet to be manifested trickled into his veins. 

Reaching out towards the dissipated smoke, Hett clenched his fist, and breathed in the few remaining motes with a burning hunger. 

A vision came to being, where he saw himself crucified upon a cactus. The twin suns of Tatooine bore upon his flesh, baking his spirit. Wind unrelenting dried out his flesh until it was but a husk. His eyeballs had been plucked by a bird of prey, and shifting within the sands, a dragon snorted. 

Krayt. 

The universe seemed to whisper. 

That very second that this imagery from his possible future was at its height, the jungle erupted with motion, and the vision ended. Leaves were pushed aside, branches snapped, and vines collapsed under the weight of marching boots. 

Figures burst from the undergrowth with inhuman shrieks. Rakatan slave soldiers, wielding both blasters and melee weapons, ran at him from all sides. Their bodies were scarred with control sigils and ritual brands, eyes glowing with Force enforced obedience. Wearing gas masks, and equipped with heavy flak jackets, they were the standard infantry of the Rakatan Empire, and were every bit as savage as the legends had depicted them as being. 

A’Sharad ignited his lightsaber, coating his figure in an emerald glow. Emboldened by the visions of what may be, and the experience he had accumulated during his descent in the Tho Yor, Hett was at the height of his powers. 

Green light slashed through the shadows, the familiar hum of his bound kyber crystal was a steadying mantra that sang in the Force. The glow of the blade cast reflections across wet leaves and the glistening gas masks as the first wave charged.

Unlike other Jedi, who might prefer to wait for the enemy, Hett decided to take matters into his own hands, and countercharged into the encirclement. 

Form VI-Nimen-flowed through him water from a faucet. He slashed through a spear thrust with a short swipe, pivoted to the left to shove an enemy into another covering his back, and then struck low, his lightsaber shearing through the legs of half a dozen men within seconds. A jump kick followed, Teräs Käsi-the martial art of the Tusken Raiders-was precise and devastating, shattering a soldier's sternum with a crack that echoed through the trees. Integrating Force techniques into his saberplay-as was typical of Nimen practitioners-the kick continued as a [Force Push], shoving the next wave back into one another, making them stumble on top of themselves like drunkards walking themselves home on a snowy morning. 

Hett pressed into the mess, never allowing a blaster shot to come close, as he stuck close to the enemy like glue. Tossing his lightsaber out in a toss, it deflected a dozen bolts, and bisected a dozen more men. For that brief second that he was weaponless, Hett barred his fists, legs, knees, and elbows. Brutal Force empowered melee attacks tore away flesh with the same ease with which a man could tear apart a loaf of bread. Flesh, blood, and organs spilled upon the trees, only to be washed away as a gentle rain began to pick up. 

The heat of the jungle remained, and a sticky, foul smelling air permeated the battlefield. Bodies started to pile up enmass, clogging the Rakatan Imperial army's advance, and creating many snags on the ground, tripping the reinforcements up. 

And yet, these slaves were undeterred, and came in an endless wave. Hett knew something was wrong, and was beginning to suspect that he hadn't been teleported to this jungle by the Force. However, he had no room to take a break, or even think. Every ounce of his mental capacity was devoted to fighting for his life. 

The masked men pressed in from all sides, fearless in their advance. A’Sharad leapt, twisting through the air as blaster fire scorched the space he had occupied. He landed amid them like a storm, elbow and knee strikes flowing seamlessly into saber arcs. Teräs Käsi, coupled with timely [Force Pulls] were brutal and direct. Open palms crushed throats, joint locks snapping limbs, and his saber cut through wave after wave. 

The jungle seemed to come alive, and the roots writhed like serpents beneath his feet, trying to trip him up. Leaves fell down with the speed of bullets, and the sharpness of a razor. The Force here was heavy, oppressive, whispering into his mind to give in, to surrender. Putting his all into his defense, Hett ran behind trees, cut with all his might, and used the soldiers as living shields. 

It wasn't enough. 

Blood streamed down his tattooed face from multiple lacerations, and his damp, sticky robe quickly became nothing more than shreds, clinging to his scarred flesh like wet tissue paper. 

Fury unrelenting gripped his heart as his form became sloppier, and his speed declined. Several troopers wielding shock prods struck his back, yet he refused to cry out in pain. Collapsing to the floor, jungle vines lashed him to the trunk of a tree, and the men repeatedly shocked him over and over again. Hett dry heaved, but was unable to vomit. His eyes saw white, and the lightsaber he had been so proud of lay on the ground lifeless, crushed beneath the boot of despotism. 

Images of that crab-like mask flashed in his minds eye, memories of Revan's instruction surfaced, and an unceasing, unwilling rage gripped his heart. 

Hett would not fall, no…he would die! And in his place…Krayt would rise! 

The Darkside answered instantly.

It surged up from the depths of his soul, fierce and intoxicating, promising strength enough to burn this false world to ash. Krayt welcomed this stinging pain-filled grace with the same desperation of a drowning man grasping for a pool noodle in the middle of the ocean. Power flooded his limbs, sharpening his senses, and a sickly sweet feeling, like poison going down his throat permeated his very being all at once. 

It was such an intense, deep feeling, that he almost felt himself lost, like a boy falling down the darkest of wells. Yet a burning flame of Revan's mask pulsed in his psyche, and a lash of shadows pulled him out of that well, forcing him to face the sunshine. 

“Ahhhhh!” Krayt wordlessly shouted up into the sky. 

The dreary grey clouds parted, and a beam of pure solar power crashed down upon him in a circular fashion. Everything within a 10ft radius of Krayt-the branches, leaves, vines, men, bodies, and flesh-all of it was vaporized in a flash. The Light met the Dark in a stunning display of awe inspiring destruction. 

Krayt stood, chest heaving, and kept his head bowed. 

With another roar, he spread this power outward. The ground buckled forth in a controlled shockwave, hurling Rakatan slave soldiers through the air like broken dolls. Trees cracked and splintered, leaves raining down as Krayt strode forward. He felt as if his mind had never been clearer before, that the air on his lips had never tasted crisper, or that the colors he experienced had never been so vibrant. 

He drew upon his passion without drowning in it, on his aggression without cruelty. This act of rebellion against nature was tempered by his countless meditation sessions at the Temple, and due to his iron will. 

The last of the slave soldiers fell amid steaming undergrowth, and the jungle settling into an uneasy stillness. Krayt stood alone, chest rising and falling. Within his grasp, the broken fragments of his lightsaber intertwined with the Force, and forged themselves anew. 

“You have proven yourself worthy, slave.” A voice came from Krayt's left. 

There, in a clearing, a golden-plate armored, red skinned, lobster headed alien took several heavy steps towards him. In his hands was a heavy staff-like weapon ending in a thick D-shape at the tip. The Force screamed of his supremacy. A pressure came down upon Krayt's back, but he refused to kneel. 

“You are the one responsible for the destruction of the Kumumgah.” Krayt icily stated. 

“I am Dashar, soon to be Over Praetor of this system, slave. Brand yourself willingly, and you shall be my Primus, first among my forces.” The Rakatan ignored Krayt, and slowly prowled towards him, oozing menace. 

Krayt ignited his lightsaber, and the still somewhat broken fragments of the kyber crystal screamed out to him in agony, fueling him with the Darkside. 

“Do not be foolish, slave. The Infinite Empire is due to revive soon. Those who had escaped the plague shall emerge from their cocoons to scourge the galaxy once more. You native son of Tatooine may fancy yourself a Krayt Dragon amongst men, but you are nothing. Kneel.” 

The psychic command pulsed all around Krayt like a maelstrom, and just as his knee was about to hit the jungle mud, a pair of hands held him up from behind. 

“I. Am. Krayt.” Krayt growled out, as he defiantly stood to his feet. 

Revan glanced at him for a second, and then flourished his lightsabers, gesturing towards the alien. 

“Your era is over, Rakatan. The Je'daii boiled you lobster heads once, we shall do so again.” Revan confidently stated. 

“Arrogant loach.” Dashar disdained, then lifted his weapon, and held it aloft. 

Tendrils of darkness left the staff, and headed straight for them. 

“Heh.” Revan chuckled, and raised his hand. 

Minty green energy coated the black miasma, undoing it from the source, causing it to evaporate like ice on a warm summer's day. 

Staring at the masked man's flapping cloak, and strong stature, Krayt reaffirmed his decision. 

He would follow this man to hell and back if he had to.