Khendon Sevon
Feb 16th, 2003, 09:22:59 AM
Khendon focused on his crushing emotional fatigue, the day had been long and strenuous, reports had been filled in triplet, meetings had run hours in length, and this all compounded with an immense feeling of weakness that ravaged his body. The image of Imperialism, Khendon was wearing his black uniform, hair neatly combed, though still slightly wild with jets of amber and golden red clashing under the bright light of the room.
Khendon walked into the square room fully, unbuttoning his uniform top and throwing it aside, revealing an Imperial College sleeveless shirt underneath. His clothing was comfortable, and allowed some movement, though his pants were a little tight for his liking, much too formal.
The dark leader clasped his wrists flexing his forearm, his face scrunched up as he looked down, Just pains from not having worked out in so long, he told himself. The former Vice Diktat began stretching, starting with his calves then moving to his quads then hamstring and continuing up until he had stretched every finger on his hand, and all muscles he was about to use were limber and ready.
The Federalist looked around the room, taking in the utter simplicity. The room was bare, white, and harsh on his eyes. The overhead lighting bounced off the whiteness and refracted, broke, curved, creating the feeling of a doctor’s office.
He cursed at himself for a moment, remember how battered he had gotten the last time he tried to do something physical. Sitting in a desk all day had begun to take its toll on the young leader, his spine would scream in the night, he had trouble sleeping from both that and the dreams of his youth. Khendon, in his lifetime, had probably killed several thousand people, very few directly, most had been done by his vocal commands of, “Fire!”, “Now we have her, bring us about and give her a broadside!”, or “Launch the final barrage, make them bleed.” These moments now would come rushing back to him, as if he were in some sort of fancy time warp, he would relive the moments, but also, he would see the faces of those that died, faces he had not known in life, he would see their bodies burn like incandescent light bulbs then turn to ice and float off into space, it was graphical, but nothing compared to the dreams he remembered of his youth.
In his youth, Khendon had been a special forces officer working for his father’s research firm, his main job being to remove threats or recon a test area. As he had matured, he gave up this line of work, especially since his father was interested in mainly bioengineering and the missions Khendon had taken had exposed him to all sorts of gruesome sights. Sometimes, late at night, when his bed was cold and he felt empty, he would think about what being exposed to those chemical agents could have done to him, but, as usual, he shrugs that off and thinks about work, after all, he’s in charge of an entire Empire in the absence of his master, Viscera.
“Begin,” he says under his breath, and suddenly the scene is a blur. Electronics power up and scream in delight, they smell blood. The room begins to spin and Khendon’s center of balance is thrown about, but he quickly adjusts, allowing a trickle of the force to flow from the mighty dam of stored energy, preparing his reflexes. The former Vice Diktat jumps to one of the walls, now made the floor, and then does a forward flip. Turrets fall from the ceiling and the ground begins to separate, square blocks lifting and falling back into place spontaneously, even more little lasers sparkling out.
From the Federacy’s premier’s hands spring two devices, his silver sabers. The beams come to life with a recognizable snap his and begin dancing, enjoying their freedom from their container. It had been a while since Khendon activated his blades, favoring a blaster strapped to his thigh, showing that he was going away from the old ways, not towards them, to his people.
Khendon flipped again, dodging a barrage of laser fire that collided with the wall and bounced back. The room was quickly filling with energy, and Khendon was batting wildly at the blasts, calling upon more of the force, demanding it to bend to his will, using his frustration to power him, using his tension to relax his thoughts and become one with his inner evil.
Then it all happened so quickly. Khendon was struck by several blasts at once, but not because they were from the turrets. The room shook, the lights went out, and Khendon’s blades fell to the ground, sliding along the floor, deactivated.
The former Vice Diktat hit the ground hard, a warm trickle washing down his forehead. The room shook again, outside, sounds erupted, lasers. His own lasers. The defensive turrets. He reached up and opened his mouth to speak, to call for help, to find some way to stay… his arm fell limp, his eyes closed and the scene went static.
“Well, men,” said the admiral, “as you can see… we’re in a situation. The Imperator was conducting training exercises in the remote D78 sector in a box space-training unit. The automated defenses, four quad turrets and a single defensive battery, an older version one, were the reason that we didn’t provide an escort of heavy craft… that, and he ordered us not to.
“Men, the situation is grave. The Imperator has been kidnapped.”
Khendon walked into the square room fully, unbuttoning his uniform top and throwing it aside, revealing an Imperial College sleeveless shirt underneath. His clothing was comfortable, and allowed some movement, though his pants were a little tight for his liking, much too formal.
The dark leader clasped his wrists flexing his forearm, his face scrunched up as he looked down, Just pains from not having worked out in so long, he told himself. The former Vice Diktat began stretching, starting with his calves then moving to his quads then hamstring and continuing up until he had stretched every finger on his hand, and all muscles he was about to use were limber and ready.
The Federalist looked around the room, taking in the utter simplicity. The room was bare, white, and harsh on his eyes. The overhead lighting bounced off the whiteness and refracted, broke, curved, creating the feeling of a doctor’s office.
He cursed at himself for a moment, remember how battered he had gotten the last time he tried to do something physical. Sitting in a desk all day had begun to take its toll on the young leader, his spine would scream in the night, he had trouble sleeping from both that and the dreams of his youth. Khendon, in his lifetime, had probably killed several thousand people, very few directly, most had been done by his vocal commands of, “Fire!”, “Now we have her, bring us about and give her a broadside!”, or “Launch the final barrage, make them bleed.” These moments now would come rushing back to him, as if he were in some sort of fancy time warp, he would relive the moments, but also, he would see the faces of those that died, faces he had not known in life, he would see their bodies burn like incandescent light bulbs then turn to ice and float off into space, it was graphical, but nothing compared to the dreams he remembered of his youth.
In his youth, Khendon had been a special forces officer working for his father’s research firm, his main job being to remove threats or recon a test area. As he had matured, he gave up this line of work, especially since his father was interested in mainly bioengineering and the missions Khendon had taken had exposed him to all sorts of gruesome sights. Sometimes, late at night, when his bed was cold and he felt empty, he would think about what being exposed to those chemical agents could have done to him, but, as usual, he shrugs that off and thinks about work, after all, he’s in charge of an entire Empire in the absence of his master, Viscera.
“Begin,” he says under his breath, and suddenly the scene is a blur. Electronics power up and scream in delight, they smell blood. The room begins to spin and Khendon’s center of balance is thrown about, but he quickly adjusts, allowing a trickle of the force to flow from the mighty dam of stored energy, preparing his reflexes. The former Vice Diktat jumps to one of the walls, now made the floor, and then does a forward flip. Turrets fall from the ceiling and the ground begins to separate, square blocks lifting and falling back into place spontaneously, even more little lasers sparkling out.
From the Federacy’s premier’s hands spring two devices, his silver sabers. The beams come to life with a recognizable snap his and begin dancing, enjoying their freedom from their container. It had been a while since Khendon activated his blades, favoring a blaster strapped to his thigh, showing that he was going away from the old ways, not towards them, to his people.
Khendon flipped again, dodging a barrage of laser fire that collided with the wall and bounced back. The room was quickly filling with energy, and Khendon was batting wildly at the blasts, calling upon more of the force, demanding it to bend to his will, using his frustration to power him, using his tension to relax his thoughts and become one with his inner evil.
Then it all happened so quickly. Khendon was struck by several blasts at once, but not because they were from the turrets. The room shook, the lights went out, and Khendon’s blades fell to the ground, sliding along the floor, deactivated.
The former Vice Diktat hit the ground hard, a warm trickle washing down his forehead. The room shook again, outside, sounds erupted, lasers. His own lasers. The defensive turrets. He reached up and opened his mouth to speak, to call for help, to find some way to stay… his arm fell limp, his eyes closed and the scene went static.
“Well, men,” said the admiral, “as you can see… we’re in a situation. The Imperator was conducting training exercises in the remote D78 sector in a box space-training unit. The automated defenses, four quad turrets and a single defensive battery, an older version one, were the reason that we didn’t provide an escort of heavy craft… that, and he ordered us not to.
“Men, the situation is grave. The Imperator has been kidnapped.”