{M} Star Wars: The Shadow Hand IC

[SikstaSlathalin]

Rated M for violence, language, drugs, alcohol, and possible sensual interactions.

Star Wars: The Shadow Hand

Peace and light are never without opposition.

Props to Naril for helping me get this IC up!


The OOC is here and still open.


“Hello, New Republic! This is Zyke Mozala from New Republic News! Today is a beautiful and supremely important day on Coruscant, as the Senate is scheduled to conclude discussions on the largest and most-extensive use of its post-Empire powers via the Integration Act this afternoon. Tensions are high in the Senate Chambers as representatives from dozens of systems throughout the Galaxy take their turn to speak before the assembled lawmakers. Some seek to make their case for entrance to the New Republic, but others are here to protest what they feel is unfair annexation of their resources for a government they may not trust. Deliberations and discussion are ongoing and, as always, NRN will bring you the latest on these stories and more as the stories develop.”

Zyke watched the camera with the bright, brittle smile of a reporter on the scene of a slow-moving story for far too long, his face being broadcast across the New Republic's Holonet to billions of watching eyes. Still, as soon as the camera-droid’s recording light flicked off he snatched the metal orb out of the air in front of him, his easy posture tightening into one of frustration. He turned, pointedly ignoring the Twi’lek newscaster from Galactic HoloNews a few meters away despite the fetching color of her skin, and turned his eyes to the huge Senate building. The city-world of Coruscant had been talking of little else save for the Integration Act for the past month, despite the official silence from the body itself. What word the newscasters did have came from ambushing less media-savvy Senators and Representatives on their way to or from the Senate chambers or, in increasing amounts, wild speculation disguised as easily-retracted fact. Whatever the actual state of affairs, the Senate had announced they would close discussion on the matter today, prior to the release of a formal statement. Zyke hoped that he wouldn’t have to read the entire thing in order to get off this planet. He hated Coruscant. Something about the smell got to him.

Half a kilometer away from the orbiting cloud of newscasters and political hopefuls, the Senate’s actual security perimeter stood with grim purpose. Mercenaries bolstered the ranks of the New Republic’s strained official military presence, their weapons and armor often rather nicer than those issued to the Republic staff. Mixed in the perimeter stood guards from one of Akbaal Khrodan’s more legitimate business ventures, with the sentient himself moving among them, his height and extra limbs making him easy to spot. On the roof, and hidden from all but the most careful observers, Daxos Alaran stood with the Antarian Rangers and watched for threats in the teeming crowds. High overhead, other Republic contractors stood watch in the darkness of space, including war hero Jacob Masse and his gunship, the Messeat. More than a few news organizations had received terse suggestions as to what they could do with camera drones that got too close to that ship, and one or two had gotten their media equipment back as a box of scorched and blackened shrapnel.

Inside the Senate chamber itself, six members of the Jedi Order stood in relaxed readiness, prepared to leave little to chance. The Grandmaster of the Order itself, Luke Skywalker, stood at Supreme Chancellor Orthelo’s right hand, his posture one of easy confidence despite the palpable anger and frustration all around him. High overhead, a handful of other Jedi moved on silent feet over catwalks and platforms, keeping watch on the proceedings below. Among them were two Miraluka, one Master and one Knight, along with a younger Juhani, who moved with a predatory stalk and strength the rest were a solid pair of Knights and a promising Padawan. They were some of the most remarkable members of the fledgling New Jedi Order, each unique and each a powerful statement of support for the New Republic. Their skills and senses formed another layer of defense, with luck keeping less conventional threats at bay.

As the Jedi walked, heated conversation bounced around the Senate chamber, raised voices cutting over one another in a flurry of half a dozen different languages. Even in these closing hours there seemed to be little actually being accomplished, as representatives waved their hands, shouted, and even a few threw their arms up as they threw themselves down to their chairs with frustration. The Chancellor held his hands up for quiet, which rippled around the chamber in slow, truculent waves as the Senators settled back into their seats or podiums. As Orthelo opened his mouth to speak, a piercing wail exploded from every speaker in the Senate chamber, and the lights went dark. Confused sounds textured the sudden quiet, then the chamber’s colossal main screen flickered to life, bathing the chamber in harsh white strobes.

After a moment, the screen stabilized and darkened, a harsh sigil burning on a dark field. Two horns curved down either side of a stylized dagger, surmounted by a simple triangle pointing up, the edges crackling with red fire. It spoke of power and terror and strength, and of simple, dark purpose. As the figure stabilized, the speakers roared again, this time filled with a deep, furious voice. It shook the air like a roll of thunder, and came from everywhere at once.

“Fools!” The voice bellowed. “There is only one ruler of this galaxy! Did you think we would be so easily forgotten? Despair in the knowledge that you cannot defeat us, and watch as your world burns!”

Dark power bloomed through the Senate chambers, its icy spikes sending shivers up the Senators’ spines, and driving deep into the minds of the Jedi stationed around the building. The wave of Dark pressure obscured even the Force from the Jedi for the briefest moment, in an almost physical blow. When it passed, the lights in the chamber buzzed and snapped on one by one, the first several doing nothing more than casting manic shadows through the huge, silent space.

When they finally came up enough to view the chamber properly, the Chancellor was gone. Nearly two dozen delegates had vanished with him, as though they had all been made of smoke.

A long, tense moment filled the Senate chamber, filled only with the rustle of clothing as delegates and representatives roused themselves, looked around, and tried to gather their wits. Not a single person spoke, and several still stared at the burning sigil on the chamber’s view screen, unable to tear their attention away.

Then, shrieks came from outside, muffled by the thick chamber walls, punctuated by the basso rumble of explosions and the piercing cry of turbolasers. The dam of panic and fear broke loose, and suddenly the chamber filled with raised voices once again; the cries of aides, confused shouting, and the pounding of feet as they fled down corridors to private hangars, offices and safe rooms. Figures shoved at one another, each trying to be the first out of the building, tearing at formal dress and leaving a trail of data pads, notebooks, and other detritus in their wake.

“Jedi, assist the Senators then to me.” Came Skywalker’s voice over their communicators. “I’m outside, near the main entrance. We have visitors.” Obeying the Grandmaster the Jedi dodged around the fleeing bodies helping those they could moving them safely to the exits. Once they were secure they met with Luke lightsabers already drawn and ready.

Beyond the Senate chamber’s walls, pandemonium had broken out. As the Jedi made their way outside, a squadron of Imperial TIE fighters screamed overhead, their weapons blazing as they targeted anything in their path. As they watched, more than half of the mercenaries in the security perimeter took out their blasters and started firing at the rest in quick, merciless movements. What response had been mobilized was woefully inadequate, and when a concerted burst of fire from the Senate chamber’s roof sounded above the screams, a badly damaged a TIE attacker, its pilot turned the doomed ship into the crowd, spraying fire, shrapnel and destruction into the streets of Coruscant.

Citizens and watchers crammed the avenues and escape routes, jamming together in their flight, making themselves easy targets after the mercenaries finished their work with the Republic guardsmen. Zyke Mozaia watched, his mouth agape, camera drone filming, at an utter loss of what to do or even to say. When a huge, cloaked figure’s shadow fell across him, he barely managed to turn before the blade of a lightsaber pierced his body from behind, leaving him to slump with a shocked gasp away from the camera’s view. The cloaked figure stepped over the fallen newsman, his burning eyes luminous in the deep shadows of his hood as he leaned into the newscasters holocam.

“The Sith…have returned.” He said, the same thunderous voice from the Senate chamber making the air throb. “You will all bow to the Shadow Hand. We will not bow to the tyranny of the Light!” The figure raised a hand, and, with a motion that moved his entire body in a tiny convulsion, loosed at brilliant, crackling burst of lightning at the camera-droid until it crumpled to the ground, its recording light winking out.

Across the Republic, the image burned on holoscreens. Peace has once more died, and war has come back to a galaxy barely walking after its wounds from the past.

[Naril]

Seris picked herself up from the catwalk, shaking her head. Her heart pounded, her arms shook, and sounds seemed as though they came through a meter of cotton wool. She shook her head, trying to clear away dizziness and a urgent nausea brought on by the pulse of darkness that tore through the Senate chamber. All around her, the Force seethed and swirled in turmoil, fed by thousands of terrified minds and wills as people ran to get anywhere but where they were. Seris’ long, strong fingers wrapped around the catwalk’s cool metal railing, and she pulled in a long, slow breath, willing calmness into herself, pulling her senses back where they were supposed to be. By degrees, with each breath, the dull roar in her ears resolved into the shouts and calls of a thousand voices, the Force became something she could make sense of, and her hands stopped shaking, though they were still slick with sweat. The meditation took only moments, but even that seemed like far, far too long. On feet growing more steady with each stride, Seris made her way to a ladder, clambering down toward the river of dignitaries and aides, her head turning this way and that as she gathered in the world around her.

She was relieved to hear the warm, smooth sounds of the Grandmaster’s voice come across her communicator. She spent a few moments barking orders to the handful of bewildered Republic guards, the flash of her lightsaber’s handle all the authority she needed. White-armored guards began directing the chaos, a couple pulling one confused Senator away from a door that led only to a decommissioned hangar pad and a three-thousand-meter drop. Seris turned and bolted toward the Senate building’s exterior, knowing that even the tiniest start of order could crystallize into something stronger. She hoped one of the guards would have enough sense or, failing that, a desire for a promotion, to continue the work. Still, that would have to do for now.

Coruscant’s sun warmed her face as she shoved through the main doors and into utter chaos. Before she took a step past the doors, Seris felt the pressure of a blaster being aimed in her direction. She spun in a whirl of fabric, one hand darting into her robe, her hand finding the familiar contours of her lightsaber. In the skin of an instant the blade snapped out, a bright, crackling splinter in the Force, and she batted a pair of bolts harmlessly into the air. One of the mercenaries the Republic had hired to guard the Senate looked back at her, a shocked expression on her face, before she shouldered the blaster again. Again, a bolt flew into the sky, and Seris threw her arm out, and a coiled burst of energy knocked the mercenary against the Senate building’s exterior with more than enough force to make her reconsider her actions. Or, at least, Seris hoped so. She seemed to be doing a lot of hoping in the last few minutes.

She flew down the steps and toward the incandescent flare of power and strength that was the Grandmaster, her saber hilt clutched in one hand. Overhead, she heard a pair of Imperial fighters scream, their engines tearing the air as they swept over the crowd. Turbolasers split the air as one fighter spat emerald fire into the crowd before pulling up to take another pass. Not far away, another fighter crashed, burning, into a block of shops, explosions throbbing through the air. Seris flowed around bodies, over debris and rubble, even rolling under a hail of blaster fire as she made her way to the Grandmaster. She felt the panic, the terror, the fear in the air, felt it in a way that made every part of it some tiny part of her own awareness, but still she ran on. She couldn’t help everyone - and those she could help could only be served better with the Jedi together. The knowledge hurt, somewhere deep in her soul, and she felt a flare of anger at whoever might be behind this attack.

The thump of heavy weaponry added another layer to the cacophony all around, and Seris looked up to see one of the fighters struck by a heavy gun emplacement on the Senate building. The blast blew a two-meter-wide hole in the fighter’s hull, and it wavered drunkenly as its pilot tried to control the damaged ship. A moment later, it began to sink like a stone through water, and the remains of its engines flared as it angled on a trajectory toward another group of fleeing civilians and bystanders, almost directly toward Seris. She could see a violent, malevolent twist to the Force as the fighter hurtled toward her, but as it came closer and closer, time seemed to a honey-slow crawl as what she had to do surged through her mind.

Seris skidded to a halt, looked up at the fighter, and clipped her saber into its place at her side in the same movement as she raised her arms, as though she were getting ready to catch something tossed at her from a tall building. She took a deep, quick breath, closed her eyes, and let her mind reach all around her, touching on the falling fighter and the people around her, each person’s mind a bright spark in a suddenly frozen constellation, their paths perfectly laid out with crystalline precision. She felt the pilot’s mind, a jagged, burning brand of terrible purpose, filled with rage and fear. Even the billions and billions of people who had walked on the patch of ground she stood on made a fog of purpose and will, every ghost of a being in the present and past a wispy brush against her suddenly raw senses as they stretched into the Force. Around Seris, the Force itself pulled itself into tendrils of energy and will, slowly at first but with the gathering speed of an avalanche, the unstoppability of a rockslide. She cocked one wrist in a small motion, the fingers of her hand moving into a different position, and the tendrils spun together into a vast column of strength, rooted not just through the huge building she stood on, but through the planet - and perhaps much farther than that.

With a sweeping movement of her arm, Seris pulled the power she’d gathered into falling fighter’s path. Her will fought with gravity, with momentum and broken engines, with damaged hull and the flare of fierce hatred at its centre, and for a time it gave way, each broken strand of power robbing the durasteel meteor of a little more inertia, a little more speed. Seris felt when the pilot noticed his fall slowing, when he tried to coax more power out of the engines, but by then there was little he could do. The fighter slowed more, and the structure of Seris’ power wrapped around the ship instead of breaking out of the way, slowing the would-be suicidal crash into something not quite as gentle as a falling leaf, but still more than enough for people to get out of the way. Several moments later, the fighter skidded along the avenue outside the Senate building, the screech deafening but still nothing like a bloom of fire and death. As the fighter came to a stop, Seris lowered her arms, her breath leaving her in a long, slow sigh as she let the power she’d gathered flow back into the world around her.

She pulled in another long, slow breath, pressing the air back through her lips in a slow stream as she focused on the fighter. Inside, the pilot seemed stunned, but the flare of fury burned inside the cockpit still, not quiescent. With a quick motion, Seris wrapped her fingers into a fist, a bright nova of power directed at the pilot’s restraint harness, crushing it into something that would require powered equipment to extricate him from. The pilot’s mind twisted the Force around him as he scrabbled at the distorted release buckles, though without any of the strength that would suggest he might be trained in its application. She left the pilot tearing at his harness, shook her head again to clear it, and resumed her run toward the Order’s leader.

“Grandmaster Skywalker,” Seris said, plucking her saber handle from her side, “Do we have a plan?”

[SikstaSlathalin]

Master Izaak Orn stood at his post at the entrance to the upper levels of the council chamber. He stood straight back with his arms crossed over his chest as he studied the many auras that were gathered here. So many gray auras in one place, the Light is lessoning everyday. It was almost painful to the Miraluka to see so little Light in a place where it should've been nearly overwhelming. He sighed knowing there isn't much he or any Jedi could do to change them if they didn't want to change.
He contented himself with using the Force to constantly scan the area, hoping to catch the earliest hint of danger and act before it gets it's foot in the door.
He had only been half paying attention to the talks, politics were never a favorite thing of his and he tried to avoid them if he could. His duty was to the Order and the Force, sure he serves the Republic, but his only true allegiance was to Grandmaster Skywalker and his fellow Jedi. Stretching his arms over his head he let out a slight yawn before going on a patrol to check on his fellow guardians. After the Grandmaster, Izaak is in charge here. While Luke is keeping his eyes roaming the actual council members Master Orn was making sure everything ran smoothly in the back.

He had just finished checking everything and everyone, when he felt it. The burst of Dark Energy smashed into him like a Rancor, he almost dropped the Master to his knees with just the raw power of it let alone the pain it sent roaring through his mind. Every aura in the room shuddered and shank back against the power. The man was leaning against the wall for a number of seconds before his Sight cleared and he looked up at the big screen. There was a physically tangible wave of panic and sheer terror coming off the aura's of each person assembled. Izaak found himself gripping his lightsaber in a white knuckle grip as he listened to the voice pouring from every speaker.
They have returned. May the Force watch over us. The Mialuka thought as he moved sluggishly to the Grandmaster's side. The dark force had taken more out of him then he had expected, by the time he reached Luke the message was over, Delegates were missing, and pandemonium had broken out beyond the hollowed walls of the Capital building. The Grandmaster's message across the comms reached his ears and sent him and the other Jedi to help the remaining civilians exit the building safely.
Feeling the power return to his limbs and the quickness return to his mind. Already drawing his lightsaber he used it as a guide to point the panicky Politicians out the nearest exit. He followed the last Delegate out and immediately found himself in the middle of death and betrayal. Life Signatures were being distinguished all around him. It was nearing a pain equal to that which he felt in the Council Chamber. The only difference was he could do something about the cause of this despair, focusing on the auras heavily tainted by the Dark Side, the Jedi Master dove into the fray around him.

His saber spun and deflected fired blaster bolts, only to send them back at the shooter. Using the Force to keep track of the enemies he was an unending twister of flashing lightsaber and dust kicking feet. His weapon never actually struck an enemy, but his deflections were enough to clear a path around him and freeing some of the terrified people from certain death. All around him was a chaotic torrent of pulsating auras and daggers of the Dark Side trying to penetrate his mind, but it would find an immovable opponent in him. His mental defenses were kept up as well as his physical as he cut through a few more Mercs moving towards the beacons of Light that represented Grandmaster Skywalker and Seris amongst the sea of death.
He cut down his last opponent then ran to his old friend's side.
"It seems the Force was right to bring us all here."

Grandmaster Skywalker nodded to both the Miraluka's.
"Indeed friends, now as for a plan. Gather what allies you can, help what civilians you can, then move to the ship hanger. There isn't enough of us here to fend off a surprise attack like this, even with our still loyal mercenary comrades. I will do what I can and meet you at the Hanger." With that the elder Jedi drew his own lightsaber and went to the aid of some Mercs being pinned down by their betrayers.

Izaak watched Luke go his pure aura giving comfort to a troubled world. The man nodded to the Grandmaster's words before taking a breath and pressing the button on his comm and related the orders to the other Jedi.
"All Jedi, Grandmaster Skywalker's orders are to gather what allies we have amongst the still loyal auxiliary guards, save what civilians we can, then move towards the Hangers. He will meet us there and the next batch of orders will most likely be a full retreat. There isn't enough of us here to fight this toe-to-toe." With another deep sigh he spun his lightsaber around his hand then looked towards the inquisitive and glowing aura of his fellow Miraluka.
"So much for an easy day huh Seris?" It was a very rare joke on the Master's behalf, but sometimes humor helps in a stressful situation.

[Imperial1917]

Masse strode the deck, the metal beneath his boots ringing with his passing. All around him, the Matani sat at their stations, pounding furiously at input boards as icons strobed across their holographic displays. The reworked interior of the bridge was put to use as data streams fed into a central display around which the most senior officers had gathered, awaiting his arrival.

“Sitrep!” he shouted as he reached the display. The holographic display was a mess. The view as centered on the Messeat’s current location among the orbiting stations and uncounted thousands of starships. Hundreds of thousands; millions. The planet played the foreboding backdrop to the sudden panic as ships began moving away in what Masse knew was not proper procedure.

“Chaos, sir.” said one of the officers at the display to his right. “We have confirmed reports of TIE fighters putting torch to an area near the Senate building. Of course, the damage that their handful is doing is nothing compared to the panic going on.” she pointed to the display, right at the Messeat. The ship’s holographic display was the only one not moving among the ships in the immediate area. “Ships are breaking orbit.”

That was the kind way of putting it. The Messeat had been paid out to take a position on the defensive line around the planet. This thin blue line stood between the low-orbit docks and the planet itself. The idea was that they could prevent anything in the shipyards from making it to the planet in one piece if necessary. It was a pretty idea, but difficult to implement. As a hub of trade among other things, the planet saw a great deal of traffic at all times. This meant that the defensive line had to be firm enough to keep out things, but porous enough to let in others. It was a ridiculous endeavor, to say the least.

The current situation proved how feeble the plans had been. There had been quite a few New Republic military vessels of capital-ship level in the defensive line. They were meant to be the underpinning anchors that would hold together the fabric of the formations. Looking at the display, Masse could see that this had disintegrated to a disturbing degree. The massive capital ships were struggling to hold their orbits as their attendant fleets closed ranks around them. The problem was that too many civilian ships were panicking and moving in and out of the line, breaking it up. For the moment, the New Republic military had restricted itself to strictly defensive actions. Masse spotted several drifting icons near the formations, the legacies of ion cannons. It couldn’t last.

“Get me New Republic Command on the horn now!” demanded Masse. “Before some fool…”

Too late. Even as he watched, the FF tag on the Messeat flared on the screen, signaling that the weapons free order had been given. It would help deflect allied guns from targeting the Matani ship, but the civilians too close to the fleets would not be so lucky. Apparently, someone higher up had decided to give his ship a bit of breathing room.

Streaks of light blazed silently across the void of space and ships began to light up like small suns.

[Atrum Daemon]

When it all fell apart, Daxos' rooftop was not spared any of the chaos. Lucky for him, the Rangers did not appear to be on the take and quickly took positions at the edge of the rooftop and began lining up targets on the ground while the heavier weapons targeted the TIE fighters screaming through the skies. Daxos joined the marksmen at the edge, sighting through the scope of his A280 rifle and lining up an armored mercenary below. With a squeeze of the trigger, a beam of red light tinged with blue at the middle cut through the air toward the ground below. The shot pierced straight through Daxos' target and sent him to the ground without another movement.

A series of carefully aimed blaster shots arced down from the rooftop, picking at the turncoat mercenaries. So focused were the Rangers, and Daxos, that they did not think to keep eyes on the lift that led up from the building to the roof. Blaster bolts cut through the air from the lift the moment the doors opened, putting several of the Rangers down. Daxos, with his enhanced reflexes, slid to one knee as he spun around and put a bolt through the chest of one of the attackers. After that, the roof became a mess of criss-crossing blaster fire as the Rangers tried to get their footing back.

Daxos needed breathing room, but jumping off the roof was not an option. His armor could take a lot of punishment and if the roof had been lower he might have taken the plunge. But, he did not like his survival odds with all the chaos around. Instead, he fought on alongside the dwindling Rangers. One of the attacking mercenaries managed to break through the blaster fire and made a line straight for Daxos.

Daxos let his rifle drop and hang from its shoulder strap, his hand shooting forth to grab the wrist of the man's outstretched and weapon-filled hand. With his grip in place and his other hand balled into a fist of metal and carbon fibre muscle, Daxos struck the man securely in his elbow. With a sickening noise of bone snapping, a jagged end tore through the skin of the arm and the fabric of the shirt. A sharp scream sprang from the mercenary's mouth just before his neck snapped under the force of Daxos's cybernetic arms.

The whole ordeal lasted only seconds and Daxos had his rifle back up once his foe lay dead at his feet. He needed off the roof, but the way was still blocked by a decent wall of bodies toting blaster rifles. What should have been a simple rooftop watchman gig had turned into a spectacle of madness and Daxos was strangely okay with that. A little excitement goes a long way.