Trophies (Tondry)

[Two-Blades]

Somewhere out in the farthest reaches of the Outer Rim, there is a planet. It is mostly undeveloped, which would matter little even if it wasn't. Those who live there eke out a primitive existence from the earth and surrounding nature. It isn't a horrid way of life, but it isn't the best, either. Superstition and ancient tradition rule those who call this world home, and those they seek leadership from are no more than shamans and witch doctors to any who come from those places more civilized.

But, none of this matters.

It is Two-Blades' time.

He is set out by his clan to hunt the rich forests and swamps of this world in search of a trophy that would bring him honor and glory among those who hold status over him. He is no veteran by any means, but he is wise enough in the ways of the hunt.

Normally there would be a hunting party, and the honor of first blood would be great indeed, but excursions of that nature were only done on more populated planets. This planet, though certainly full of life and danger, did not warrant but a single hunter. A single hunter that was to prove himself worthy.

The honor of the first kill is his, as well as the trophy he would take home with him.

It is difficult to find a prize worthy of his energies however; the village that he has been watching is full of those who would not be suitable. High in the limbs of a tall tree, the hunter watches with growing frustration. These are simple ones who trust the magiks of their local priests more than the air they breath. It is disheartening.

But this hunt is still his, and he must have a worthy trophy by the time his clan returns.

It is Two-Blades' time.

[Pierce Tondry]

Two Months Later

The Lambda-class shuttle broke hyperspace over the Outer Rim world of Maraan. As it left hyperspace, Pierce Tondry left the pilot's compartment; the cadre of troopers in the lounge needed checking on and autopilot could easily get them to the Imperial observation post. He got as far as the entryway and stopped upon hearing "Ghosts? We're here to hunt ghosts?"

The troopers around the card table let loose a variety of groans. "Sarge I can't shoot a ghost. There's nothin t' hit."

The Sargeant, a burly man who dwarfed everyone else in the room, shifted the cigarra in his mouth with his lips. "Hold yer tongue, Private," he said, letting smoke waft from his mouth and nose. "Ain't no such things 's ghosts."

"I heard there was, Sarge," another trooper started. "I heard when Jedi die they become ghosts and they can take people over and-"

'Sarge' slammed a fist into the table so hard the chips rattled. "I don' care if-"

"Not caring gets you dead."

The perfect Tondry-ism and yet Pierce's lips remained shut. "You miss anything," the soft voice continued from inside the lounge. "Even the smallest detail and you die."

"In any line of work involving bombs, biologicals, or black holes" Pierce added dryly, making his formal entry to the room. "You need to know what you're dealing with."

Everyone looked his way, but Pierce sought out only one face among the heads. "And we're not dealing with a ghost."

"Probably." A dark-haired man with sharp eyes, lounging-but-not, turned out to be his target. "Only intel available suggests we're dealing with a very stealthy hunting beast. Some kind of predator."

"So why're Spooks along?" Sarge jabbed a meaty finger at Tondry. "Don't think I can't spot yer kind a' bulls from th' herd."

"Imptel Head thinks these beasts are being trained to pick warriors out of a crowd." Pierce held up three fingers and pointed to the index one to mime the process. "They figure anything like that's especially useful for tracking and killing Rebel terrorists."

"For what it's worth, the big trick here is just going to be figuring out what it is and how it does what it does." 'Dark hair' threw the sentence in with a deferential nod at Pierce.

Pierce mentally noted the man as Four and continued. "Plan is, we go planetside, flush it out, trap it, and take it back for study."

"Agent, sir." The pilot spoke on shipwide comm, which meant something had gone very, very right or its complete opposite.

Pierce keyed the lounge channel on. "Go ahead."

"I'm picking up a distress call from the post. Comm officer says they're under attack by the wind."

[Two-Blades]

They were not worthy. None of these creatures were worthy. But they tried to fight, and because of that each one died. None of them would be given trophy status, but at least they offered some amount of practice; allowed him to hone his own skills.

Two-Blades moved past his first two kills, wrenching the long-spear from the chest of one while raking the back of his blood drenched sword across the back of the second. There were only seven to contend with, but it was enough for him. They could not see him. They could only see the result of his deadly movements. It sent them all into a panic that he cared nothing for.

Unlike the primitive tribal people, these he had thought to be far more challenging.

They weren't, but he'd committed himself, and he would finish what he began. Perhaps he could use their skulls for... something.

Another was stumbling along the ground just before him, crying something in some language that Two-Blades found amusing. He hissed a long breath from behind his helmet, and with a throaty voice, mimicked the panic-stricken words he'd heard.


"hhhhhThhiisssssss -"

The long-spear was lifted up.

"- issssn'tt -"

Two-Blades tightened his hand on the leather-wrapped grip.

"- rrreeeaallllll... "

The long-spear came down without a sound. The thin, double-edged blade tip drove into the back of the skull and out through the left eye before going further into the ground, killing the man instantly.

[Pierce Tondry]

post pulled on request