“'Cause when something makes you shook
‘Cause there’s no way in and there’s no way out
There’s no getting off this hook
My life’s just a western, you’re born to fight
No luck all night, can you make it till sunset?”
-Nilüfer Yanya
Contruum
Moon Base
The Inquisitors are formidable.
Involis comes down hard on Feraas, impressed they took Adubell’s words so plainly and set out to do her bidding. It is not vision they lack. It is patience. Something the Voss-Ra and even the Sith Order believe is the key to their ultimate success. Adubell had pushed them to act but it was not the way. The Sith have risen before and would rise again…with the victor and leader to show them the way. Abudell was not that leader, of that he is certain, and she would not see victory in this.
They are also mistaken.
Barrett Trevaithan shares his own connection to the Force, one that makes him more dangerous than either of them realizes. Schrag saw the threat in him. As does Erinbol. The only difference is that Schrag took action to control him through Princess Dahlia and the Imperial Control Serum which proved…unwise. He would not have taken such an action had fear not served a convincing motive.
As parents of the past would likely attest – if any were still around to do so – controlling The Four was far more difficult than it appears. He knows because he watched from afar as Alexander, Monica, Celeste, Henrick, Blair, Kyri, and Lilandra lost complete control of everything they ever loved – their children spiraling into bloodshed and madness and they went down right along with them.
One way or another.
Players, pawns. Heroes, villains. Sinners, sacrifices.
Sorcerers weaved webs while opportunists took full advantage along the way. Erinbol knows better than that because he, like the Voss-Ra, is playing the long game. The Corellian doctor, the Republic liaison, the Corporate Sector hero, the last remaining Inquisitors – all reek of Abudell’s intention to undermine the Voss-Ra’s foretold future to claim it all for herself. They have once again allowed someone to capitalize on the power it offers. An easy proposition with such a sinister sway but in the end they all grasp for something that they would never have. Something that was never meant for them. So much nuance in prophecy, divinations, and interpretations leads some to see what they want to see.
Until one wins, dark or light
Repeat, repeat eternal fight
Yet it has always ended the same, at least to this point – with everyone in the grave. He had even come to accept that he might wind up there as well in service of it. Lost to the legend of it all. Until Winton prevails. The central tenant of The Covenant. Dark or light is practically irrelevant, the methods through which Winton wins, and it is only that they triumph while the others perish. The concept, convoluted and mysterious, was not something many understood – obviously - as the Voss-Ra only came to understand its meaning and value a few generations before. The Voss-Ra could stage the scene but they could not be the ones to take action directly. They could not win for the Winton, the Winton had to win on their own. But it was do or die this time for the sorcerers in the shadows.
In their blood rituals, they saw The Four’s potential for peace – if left to live out their lives as they were set, undoing the strides the previous cycle had made. It has been drilled into him after Centerpoint, after all that planning and work destroyed. They would be set back decades and seek to sow instability, conceal themselves in glamours to whisper just the right things to just the right people for them to then take steps that would bring The Four back together and push everyone to the precipice of a galactic confrontation. A crisis to solve, a path to glory, immortalization across the ages. And so, here they are.
Dahlia was right and if they were not careful, this base would become their tomb and their blood would christen a new age.
The Age of Adubell.
Never.
While he takes on Feraas, D’Cera engages Allom. She and Involis keep a distance between them, always the other at their back. D’Cera does not disappoint and in this moment she is suddenly grateful for Erinbol’s training. Pushing her harder than she thought possible, preparing her for the worst possible scenarios. They may believe her their savior but that did not mean she would not have to fight for it. They never lied about that, at least. She channels her radiating hatred for Adubell’s attempt to hijack her main character arc into every tactical strike and evasive spin. That monster has some real nerve! Allom views D’Cera as merely an obstacle and wields his saber as an instrument of destruction. After all their hunting and slaying, the possible targets naturally thinned out and the Inquisitors had become complacent, bored. It reflects in his movements. Performing yet another task – although this had the promise of a far more lucrative payoff. An end to their frustration and stagnation as they rose with the Sith to power once more. It is that complacency that D’Cera uses against him. She is light, graceful, but vicious as she batters him back against the crates of supplies tucked neatly into the corners of the platform.
He leaps onto one and then another, narrowly missing a swipe to his legs. She attempts to counter his high ground with a push of the crate beneath him, a quick gesture as he aims to leap again, causing him to stumble and drop to her level. Seizing the moment, she springs forward, bringing the saber across horizontally but he recovers, jerking back quickly as the tip of the weapon hisses across the front of his chest plate. Allom uses the movement against her, swinging his gloved fist up and across her mask in a dastardly backhand. She staggers, feeling herself caught in his Force-grip, chest aching from the pressure, and is pitched mercilessly toward the edge. The tumble is righted on the second roll but it takes a desperate tug at the larger crate to keep her from toppling out into the space beyond. He leaps high to land beside her and brings his saber down ruthlessly. She jams her own between them and they connect, fighting the sickening screech and bending toward her mask.
“A valiant effort, your Highness, but this is where you exit the production.”
Her laugh is dry but deep, “You underestimate many things, Inquisitor Allom. Adubell. Me. Only one of us leads to resurrection, the other to ruin. You may want to reevaluate your choices.”
“Overestimating yourself, as always.”
“Let us find out,” she snarls, a flare of hatred pulsing darkness through her to push him up and away just enough to allow her to snap to her feet. Their sabers are still crossed but he does not waver. Finally, they break, twisting and striking at each other as they angle back toward the shifted and scattered tower of crates full of service equipment meant to be transported throughout the base. D’Cera forces him into a makeshift corridor, keeping him attentive to prevent an aerial escape. His truncated swing catches the side of her suit, searing pain lancing through her shoulder. She screams, bringing down her own weapon against the storage case beside them. Sparks blinding him. D’Cera forces him away from her, recalibrating herself before advancing and leaping to strike.
He uses his free hand to snare her ankle with a coil of wire, dragging her down roughly against the floor. She gasps for breath, Allom striding toward her, and channels energy into a fist that she slams down against the durasteel beneath her, creating a concussive ripple that throws his balance. She pulls herself into a crouch and vaults forward, using both momentum and the gatherings of the Force to bring a fist into the center of his chest to send him crashing through a palate. Raising her saber, she stalks forward. Allom’s blade cuts upward, slashing through the cargo around him. There are more coils of thick wire that he steps through before charging. Their sabers clash once again, a tighter, more controlled confrontation in the narrower space. He clenches his open hand, pulling her legs out from under her, and cuts down. She blocks and tries to slide away but he is determined now, relentlessly pushing down. Her shoulder is screaming, her arm giving way as his humming blade edges toward her mask.
Reaching out, she unloops the wire behind them up and around his neck. She wills it tighter, wrenching him away, freeing space between them. She knocks his saber arm out and swipes upward, taking it off with a sickening hiss. He growls as her boots find purchase and finally allows her to slide back, rising slowly before him. The pink saber reflected in his mask. She has no mercy to give, swiping off his head at the base of the neck. His helmet hits the scuffed durasteel floor with a dull thud as his body goes limp, slipping out from under the wire, across the smooth, smoldering stump of his neck, and falling flat. The thrill of the act simmers across the surface of her skin and D’Cera tilts her mask back to appraise her work.
Play to win, bitch.
On the other side of the platform, Involis has locked Faraas in a battle of endurance, movement within the armor limited but more powerful. He counters Feraas evenly but neither has taken nor ceded much ground. He considers, briefly, combining his and Dahlia’s powers as they had on Hesperidium – using it against the other Inquisitors to gain a decisive victory – but decides against it, wisely. It is untested and the results unpredictable – neither he nor Dahlia could have known what would happen. Both could just as easily wind up teleporting into the bowels of the base.
“Your faith in them is admirable, Involis, but unfounded. Why wait when the chance for victory is so near?”
“That it is, and yet your faith is misplaced.”
“Is it?” he sneers, saber in front of him. “Or it is you who have placed faith where it should not exist? The sorcerers have not told you everything.”
“Not everything is for them to tell. They are the stewards of the prophecy, not its architects.”
“Yet it seems they conceal truth even to its most ardent enforcers, as was, it seems, the case with your mother.”
He tenses, willing himself to shield his mind from these lies, “No. She has been dead for years.”
“Lady Adubell told us differently. She knows what the Jedi and the Gellar clone have been up to, a visit to Naboo where Elle Greyson had been stashed away in the throes of madness for all these years. They kept you separated from your family to keep you under control, never allowing enough of a connection with insane Alexia or a spoiled Karen to sever your service to them. Their struggles were separate from your mission and you maintained your dutiful distance. Your father may have been long dead but your mother? That would have been something to shake your confidence in them and make you question your loyalty. Even liars can be lied to.”
No. No. But Involis is shaken and he stumbles, leaving enough of an opening for Faraas to slash at his elbow and knee, armor taking most of the damage but getting a little too close. The Voss-Ra would not have kept this from him, would they? Why? How? He considers the source yet it is such a specific and targeted deception. A revelation that would only mean something to him. Distraction and doubt pull his mind in too many directions. Feraas lands a kick at the side of his helmet. Involis’s returns are weakened by his shock and Feraas takes every opportunity to strike, catching the top of his armored glove where his saber is mounted into, shorting it, a green glow winking out. He catches and grips him tightly with the Force, pressing in on the armor so it begins to crush the man beneath. His heavy boots grate against the floor as he is dragged toward the edge. With a brisk stabbing motion, Feraas punctures the casing in the center of the armor, exposing the Etheralis fragment which he then plucks out. It glows brightly in his hand.
“Such a fool,” Faraas spits venomously. “A waste. Winton may be your last mistake but I will be sure to cherish it.”
With that, he releases him – D’Cera sprinting toward them with an arm outstretched.
Inquisitor Involis disappears over the side of the platform.
-TBC
