Mind Freeze

[Khendon Sevon]

It didn’t exactly make sense for the Galaxy’s most wicked Imperial to take a stroll through a moonlit grove in the middle of a battlefield. In fact, Khendon was certain the more formal military officers of the Empire would erupt in spasms if they saw him trudging through mud in his damp naval uniform.

A crisp grin slipped leisurely onto the devil’s face and stuck. The painted expression remained as cold, thick drops of lightly green water began to pummel the soldier’s black cloak. Visions of the always pristine Telan Desaria being carried over the rigors of the field danced in the man’s mind and warmed the cockles of his icy heart. There was a certain pleasure in mocking military men—even if some considered him one.

The constant suction of mud created sounds akin to vacuum seals failing on space armor. A memory worked its acrid way into Khendon’s whimsical pallet and a bad taste ensued. The Executor shook the horrible thought from his head and let a held breath go—he was here to clear his mind, not mull on past disasters.

A flare filled the nearby sky with grain-colored light. The sizzling sound of the burning chemicals snapped the Imperial back to reality. Frell, his eyes turned to sharp gems focused with incredible intent, how far have I walked? Where are the—

Red energy tore through the brush and smacked into a nearby tree. The scent of incinerated bark nearly caused the Executor to gag. In a moment of clairvoyance, Khendon’s intuition sent him rolling forward. Just dodging the fragments of a directed claymore, the Imperial pushed himself to his feet and took off into the denser forest.

[Khendon Sevon]

The Imperial threw himself under a low tree branch and shot forward like a blaster bolt. His eyes looked from path to path, haphazardly discerning the route that would, hopefully, take the Executor back to his command.

A drum welled in the officer’s chest as he continued to dodge aimed shot after aimed shot. Panic threatened to seize control of the Sith’s limbs. A shocked, corned look remained etched in the details of his face.

Then, as the changing of seasons, a coolness rolled over Khendon’s pink visage. His pace slowed and he finally came to a stop in a small clearing. Shadows played on his stoic face and the sounds of his panting ceased to exist. Only the rolling guffaws of a jolly brook broke the stillness of the air.

From behind, shouts came. The voices were quickly followed by crimson waves of deadly particles. The Executor turned on his heel and watched as the incinerating stretches of light nearly singed his flesh. He felt the warmth as each blast barely veered away from his pale skin.

As if taking the Imperial’s lack of motion and weapons for a sign of capitulation, the commandoes approached. At first they were cautious, weapons scanning the tree line, always making sure at least one rifle was leveled at the Executor.

“On your knees,” spoke a female voice. She was attractive, a bit thin, but she had a worn way about her—as if she had experienced all the galaxy had to offer. Khendon instantly felt sorry for her. Women, after all, were his true weakness.

“I said, on your knees!” The barrel of a rifle fit snuggly into the space between collarbone and throat.

Khendon’s voice was low, barely audible, and raspy, “I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

“Yeah,” defiance rolled from her stance, “well, I’m not you. Now, down!”

Three men, clearly subordinates. They wore proper forest camouflage and were busy looking for the snare to this trap. The fools, they never checked the badge under the man’s coat.

Khendon eyed the ground and began to fall to his knees.

In a blur of animal speed, the officer grabbed the barrel of the rifle, twisted it skyward, and used the momentum of his spring-like legs to drive a palm into the woman’s temple—no need killing her. She’d be having a nasty headache for the rest of the day, that was all.

[Khendon Sevon]

The Force lofted the rifle through the air and smacked it, stock first, into the head of a slow trooper. Like a bag of bricks, the man slumped to the ground. A trickle of scarlet started from his broken brow.

Snap, hiss. In an instant everything was bathed in silver light as both of Khendon’s sabers flew through the air, ignited, and cleanly lobbed off the heads of the other two rebel commandos as they raised their weapons towards the Executor.

So much for resistance. “What a lot of blundering brigands.” The Imperial sneered as he looked at the decapitated, the unconscious. “What to do, what to do,” adrenalin subsided and his body returned to calm on command. Focus and control would save the day, not brute force.

A single, oversized drop of water fell squarely on the Sith’s nose. He frowned heavily and stuffed the two deactivated hilts into individual holsters. The sky was a whitish-gray and threatened to turn darkish-black with impending doom and destruction.

By now high command, or whatever they wanted to call themselves, would be wondering where the Executor had gone. In fact, they might be chuckling and joking about his death, maybe even jockeying for position to gain his coveted Death Advocate and her secrets.

A grunt escaped Khendon’s throat and a smile broke on his pale face. He finished off the unconscious man and sat down on an already wet rock to contemplate the fate of the woman.

Soon enough, the heavens opened up and the pattering of heavy rain filled the silence of thought.

Red pools caught the remnants of the clouded moonlight.

Someone was watching.

[Khendon Sevon]

The sensation of sudden stillness tingled in the peripheral extraordinary senses of the Executor. A muddled feeling of warmth and the beating of a heart combined with an emotional pang and concentrated hatred. The anger in the nearby sentient made him strong.

It was that same contempt that saved the Sith’s life as he responded to the new presence. Within a breath from detecting the alien, Khendon’s saber cleared its holster and hissed to life with the wrath of a hell spawned serpent.

The weightless blade snapped with skill to a high guard and deflected a bolt of crimson death towards its origin. A scent, like that of burning flesh and plastics, lofted into the clearing almost instantly. The sound of body meeting mud broke the din of falling rain.

Trails of heaven’s tears rolled down the tight muscles of Khendon’s clenched jaw. His pale, cloudy eyes examined the uniform of the fallen assailant—a man of around twenty breathing heavily in white armor.

The blanch protective shell seemed to laugh at the Imperial. Its uniformity and malicious lines were not the work of some unorganized riffraff, some haphazard terrorist organization. No, this armor was not the design of the so-called Rebellion. It was more sinister.

An expensive boot with single, muddy steel clasp nudged the dying body and drew a sharp breath from the mass of limbs. “Who sent you,” came Khendon’s cold, cutting voice from somewhere behind his clenched teeth.

Something like a laugh escaped the masked face and it shook, or rather rolled to one side. “Don’t you dare die on me,” it was a command from one Imperial to another. The elite stormtrooper’s mask only returned a distorted reflection of the Sith.

Wickedness boiled to the brim in Khendon’s chest and found an outlet, “SPREAK!” His voice boomed through the clearing, across the forested land, and reverberated in the hills. The hands of the Force reached out for the dying man and pushed on his aching wound, constricted his windpipe, twisted his limbs, and sent chilling imagery into the troopers unprotected mind.

“You will speak!” There was more than just a verbal and emotional component in the command. There was a power that welled from deep inside the Executor.

“I will speak!” It was gasped and hurried, pained, brought about by both suffering and coercion.

“Good. Now, who sent you.”

“That bitch,” the term didn’t seem right coming from the bland mask’s external speaker, “Admiral—“

“You traitor.” It wasn’t the soldier’s voice, it was far too feminine. Khendon had focused too much on one individual, his senses had failed him.

[Khendon Sevon]

A blaster bolt ripped through flesh and instantly seared the meat high on Khendon’s left shoulder. The red demon tongue had blown a hole large enough to shove three fingers into and just barely missed the upper portion of his trapezium.

Shock made the Executor grow cold and detached. His mind began to slip from its solid connection to the world and blackness brought him into gravity’s hands. Fight. It was a single word—one he had lived by for years. In the confines of Khendon’s ever diminishing conscious mind, he exploded.

The world came back into sharp contrast and perfect resolution. The Imperial tucked his unwounded shoulder and, in a fluid roll and firm push off soggy ground, brought himself back to his feet.

Light saber stuck in the mud, its blade gone as soon as its master’s shocked hand had released its steadfast grip, he was “weapon”-less. A sly smirk rolled onto the warrior’s face as his left arm limply lay at his side.

“Admiral Talla, so good to see you.”

A heavy, black blaster remained leveled at Khendon’s forehead. From behind the anti-glare sight rails peered two enormous jade orbs. They were contorted in beautiful contempt. There was hatred seething from the curvaceous woman, it dripped with the stink of pure abhorrence.

“You are anathema to our cause, Executor.” Two perfectly molded lips of scarlet perked in a victorious smile. Her nose wrinkled as she narrowed her eyes in what anyone else would’ve taken as an ice stare. “Look at you now, brought down by a blaster, where is your Sith magic? Just parlor games.”

Khendon grunted, “Sith magic, that’s a good one, Admiral. Hardly. What are you going to do? Kill me!” He took a testing step forward, their eyes locked in a battling gaze.

Another blaster bolt flew through the space between them.