Reaching Personal Potential

[Baracc Olra'en]

Being a wilder isn't all fun and games, vous savez. There's plenty of time for it, naturally, without a schedule or a teacher to obey. And don't get me wrong; I'm quite happy as I am, learning at my own pace.

But there is one tiny little downside. My abilities are pretty much what you'd expect of someone who's training himself from the ground up in the ways of the Force. It's a nuisance, but nothing I can't handle. I'm pretty sure that with time I'll be able to match one of the lower-level graduates of any institution you could name. Pretty sure. If something I try doesn't blow up in my face.

Oh, yeah. The other downside. Accidents.

It all started right after Jeeg left. He and I had kinda gotten used to the odd things that happened around him, and then we'd had to get used to the little man who dropped by day-to-day to share lunch with us and tell my big brother out of the blue that he seriously needed to become a Jedi. You'd think I was used to bizarre. No, no, nononono. 'Bizarre' is watching every appliance in your apartment simultaneously decide to dance a telekinetic jig, with you as the unwitting puppetmaster. And doing things you can't control ain't pleasant. Like the public pool deciding to siphon down a firmly sealed valve. That's what really got me started on this whole thing.

Yeah...accidents. I don't like to talk about that much. People ask me what I do, I mutter something about shipping and clam up. There's no point in admitting you're a Forcer. They always want to see a demonstration, and while thankfully I've got most of the inadvertant stuff under control, the things I actually try to do don't always go as planned. I've even got a little ratio ticking away in my head, for how many of my attempts I get right. Right now it's nine out of eleven. Not bad but hardly dependable.

It's a matter of pride, I guess, that just in case I someday have to actually do something important, I want to be able to do it. Since the Force seems to be taking a while, I've signed up for every class I can get my hands on. I can use a blaster tolerably well, I can defend myself with melee weapons from knives to polearms - don't ask how, don't ask why - I can meditate, I can pilot anything up to a bulk freighter and I'm decent with a first-aid kit. All that in the last six months. I ask myself why. No answer as yet.

And I'm a 'chef' (read: glorified patty-flipper and dishwasher) at the Bantha Burger, nine-to-five, five days a week. If I had any hints of a social life before this insanity started, it's gone completely and utterly down the tubes.

I try to tell myself that a Darksider doesn't need friends. That's kind of a lie. Darksiders need people to manipulate and control, and everyone's gotta start somewhere. I've known people who I'm sure would be flattered to be my underlings. Heck, forget minions, I'd definitely settle for a few neighbours I can get along with.

Take Mauriss. Barabel. Male. Three hundred pounds. Took second to Jeeg in Sectors for Teras Kasi. Not a pleasant fellow, and on a planet as small as Varunda he's hard to avoid. Runs a bit of a gang - "just a few friends who like to swoop-race" - and about thirty percent of the crime in our capital. One of his operations is on the floor right under my apartment. There's nothing quite like hearing the banter that goes on with spicerunning at one AM, as one tries to get to sleep. Some of the more spectacular screams are all that wake me up for a supposedly honest day's work.

Word of warning. Never eat at Bantha Burger.

This particular morning I woke up, practically worshipped an alarm-chrono which read 11 in the morning, and began to stretch. I absolutely love my weekends. Before I dropped out of school I didn't really appreciate'em like I do now. Now, I'm family-less, and I work for my keep. Trust me. A free weekend is more precious than what passes through the downstairs apartment in a month.

I'm planning to go swimming. They haven't forgotten me at the nearer of our city's two rec centres, so I'm going to bike almost sixteen kilometres to the other one and I will, I will, enjoy the trip.

[Minion Alghieri]

It had taken over a year of effort, but the rival gangs had gotten together and pushed local law enforcement entirely out of certain sectors of downtown Bijeuse. For a very, very brief time this had been paradise.

It still was. To an undertaker.

Minion Alghieri surveyed the filthy, bloodstained alley from the top of a dumpster. His hand hovered on the edge of trembling where it gripped a heavy blaster. Misshapen, gray-skinned features pulled back into a snarl that looked almost like a habit.

"When?"

"Two hours ago, boss. They jumped our courier from that fire escape, there." Hux, a lank human with a pattern of severe blaster burns across his upper body, pointed to the escape from his place beside the dumpster. "Jitfer saw it all. He got out minus a pair of fingers." The gangster shrugged fluidly, belying the number of injuries he'd taken over the years.

"Losses?"

Hux almost twitched. Alghieri had a reputation for not shooting the messenger, but this was bad...

"The Twenst run."

"Whole thing?" The giant mongrel's face and voice were perfectly calm.

"Yeah, boss. Whole thing."

"Tell the men." Alghieri still hadn't moved in the slightest from his position atop the dumpster. "Any blackcoat they see, they kill."

Hux didn't dare speak; in truth, pretty much anything he could have conceived of saying would have overpaid a blaster bolt. He nodded, twitched again, and ran.

[Baracc Olra'en]

My speeder bike wasn't state-of-the-art by a long shot, but it should have been enough to send me through the more dangerous areas of town in just a handful of seconds, assuming I crossed at the thinnest point between Hiji Way and Macombrian Boulevard.

What I hadn't counted on was my coat. See, coats like that are worn by Varundana DEA when they're not undercover. Mauriss laughed when he saw me in it, but I'd always kinda liked the resemblance.

Not any more. Wearing that, here was possibly the stupidest thing I've ever done. And from my abortive first attempts at getting a date, 'way back in the ninth grade, until the Monday I was having trouble with telekinetic explosions and walked into work...

Suffice it to say, ladies and gents, that I can kill off gray matter at will.

I realized this where Hiji intersected Volt Avenue, and a bolt from a portable ion cannon struck my bike quite cleanly. In an instant I'd lost antigrav and steering, plus the shot's impact threw the little bike against a lamppost that it would have been quite easy to avoid.

My brain clicked and I threw myself off. That's luck for ya. My reflexes have never been too good. I landed hard and tried to roll, but a ferrocrete wall got in the way.

And then the blasters started to fire. A few motley figures had appeared in the windows across from me, each hefting a ranged weapon. I pulled myself up, wincing with a vengeace, and tried to sprint.

Nope. They weren't having none of that. A tiny ball of flaming plasma - from a repeater, I later learned, hardwired to single-shot to save ammo - got me squarely in the leg where the coat ended. I was ducking like mad already, but something just snapped, and suddenly I was a dervish. Despite the throbbing, oozing hole in my leg-

Wait. Pause here. I don't think you understand the significance of this. There was a hole. In my leg. And it hurt.

-, I was moving far faster than I could ever recall moving. My hands shot out, and their blasters joined me in the alley, joined me in that insane dance. I felt some resistance and pulled harder, like really pulled, and the shoulder-mounted ion cannon came too. Along with the gangster it was perched on. He fell hard, but got up and grinned rather nastily. The cannon was sparking. I guess it had been damaged by the fall, or else it was just so old that actually using it fried ever bit of circuitry there.

Great. They weren't shooting at me anymore, a plus. This guy was about four times my size and armed. Minus, about half-way to infinity.

I tried to knock him over with the Force as he unbuckled the cannon and dropped it. He flinched but kept coming, a knife in each hand. I tried to disarm him. Nope. I swear this guy's fists were the size of my head, and he wasn't letting go. It was like one of those last walks you read about, where the hall just keeps going and going and going, and at the end an enclision grid. It took an eternity of numbing terror for him to get within striking distance of me, his helpless prey.

Why didn't I run, you ask? No sooner had the thought entered my head than I realized that his grip was designed for throwing. He wanted me to run.

I'd like to say that this was the only reason I didn't move.

He struck, moving fast for a big - big, BIG - guy, but somehow or other when I dodged he missed. I concentrated, tried clearing my mind but thought better of it, and focused instead on anger. They were trying to kill me. Good enough.

He struck again, and tripped as I yanked his foot out ahead of him. I'd tried for both feet, really, but one grip slipped.

I ran, albeit not very fast, while he was down. And moments later, felt pain that was only eclipsed in my short life by that repeater shot. He'd thrown a knife, and it had taken me in the shoulder. I stumbled and fell. The second knife whistled above me to ricochet off another lamp-post. My numbed brain realized that it wouldn't take him long to pick up one of those blasters. I ducked around the nearest corner, limping at top speed, took another few corners-

And snap. I was out of the danger zone, minus a bike and plus a knife sticking out of my shoulder. I didn't take it out; the bleeding would get very bad, very fast. Instead I continued on.

The more respectable area of downtown Bijeuse contained very few 'good Samarans'. Everybody who saw me steered well clear. I got the feeling that a messed-up soul such as myself was pretty common. These people could certainly use some backbone.

By this point the pain wasn't so bad. It still hurt more than anything, but at least now I could think clearly. I knew that there was a police station within about six blocks. I hoped and prayed that I could make it.

Long story short? They took at least a bit of sympathy on someone who'd almost died being mistaken for one of them, and I got bandaged up with a ride home guaranteed. This despite my own stupidity in wearing that coat. Looks like the universe isn't all down the tubes.

[Minion Alghieri]

"...it had to be a Dark Jedi, boss," Hux stated, scratching at his gun hand as if to scrape away something filthy that had touched him. "I've seen guys pull tricks with grapplers and sonics that make'em look like it, but this was the real deal. We shot at him, but he started, I dunno, dancing, and I think only one bolt hit him. He was limping pretty bad when Moruus went down."

"A Dark Jedi." Alghieri sighed. "How about casualties?"

"None. Might have been if Mor hadn't put a knife through him."

"A knife wound and a blaster bolt, and an old speeder bike ionized. That's all the damage this guy took from an ambush that would have-" Alghieri bit his tongue, carefully, with those front teeth that weren't fangs.

"And how old would you say he was?"

"A kid, boss. 'Bout sixteen, seventeen tops."

Alghieri nodded; he trusted Hux's eyes, if little else about the man who was fast becoming his de facto carrier of bad news. And oh, but this news was bad.

"Think you could recognize him again?"

"Probably."

"Good. Next time he comes through here, I want him unconscious and well-bound within thirty seconds. There are two keys with Dark Jedi, Hux." The giant turned to face his subordinate. "If you can act faster than they can, or if you can out-think them, they're yours. Most are too arrogant to bother with logical thought."

He'd expected it, and now the sharp scent of curiosity assailed his nostrils. Hux just nodded, though, and stepped back through the door, leaving the larger man to think.

Possibilities spun within Alghieri's mind; he began toying with a very large, very sharp letter-opener. A Darksider was more trouble than he was worth. Usually. In this case, he was a youth, easily manipulated and more or less helpless aside from the Force. The chance existed that he could be used. As difficult to handle as such people were, the benefits could be incredible.

Though he didn't look it, the gangster was fond of reading, the more archaic the book the better. He knew the signs of Force-sensitivity, and by a careful watch he'd nailed down two of his men for sure, and another one who might have potential, or might just be incredibly lucky. The lucky man and one of the others could definitely be trusted. The third...maybe. Torentin had a reputation for arrogance.

But Merchall as a Force-wielder... The thought brought a smile to Alghieri's face. The man was already superb at what he did. Having a bonus like this could tip the scales. Qem, too, could be an asset if he possessed the potential.

Oh yes...this mysterious Forcer-youth could turn out very handy.

[Baracc Olra'en]

I was woken at about midnight. The boys downstairs weren't entirely happy with my mode of return, and they felt like asking some very pointed questions. My leg screamed as I was dragged down off the bed and onto the floor, and only by literally biting my lip did I prevent myself from following in my appendage's footsteps - no pun intended. A glowstick powered up, and I was treated to the sight of several large imposing hoodlums towering over me. My neighbours, like I've mentioned. At the moment being neighbourly seemed the absolute last thing on their minds.

"Vhay do you come here with zshee polissche?" Mauriss has a horrible, nearly unintelligible accent.

"They gave me a ride home after I was beaten up," I tried to say, but all that came out was "urk." Not a good sign. It came out right the second time, but they didn't look mollified.

"Whossche beetth you up?"

"Just some guys. I don't think any of them were friends of yours. I think they-URK!" My second such sound of the evening, the result of a foot planted on my chest.

"Why?"

"I wore my black coat when I went into town."

The Barabel face above me contorted, then burst into laughter. Coming from someone else that might have helped make me feel better about the situation.

On the other hand...

As abruptly as I'd been woken, I was picked up and tossed back onto my bunk. The door slammed and any vestige of energy I had left in me faded. Looked like I'd survived another night. The trick, it seemed, was to just be a stupid kid.

A stupid harmless kid.

Now that's annoying.

I didn't get a whole lot of sleep that night; it took a solid hour for my eyes to close. All that while, though, I was thinking and thinking hard.

Other Forcers don't get slammed around like that. Why? I asked myself as I lay there. For one of two reasons: they have serious power with the Force, or else they've got underlings around to protect them. Since the first one was likely to take a while, in a fit of insanity I decided I wanted some minions. And I knew just where to get them. Who better than ruthless killers, armed and dangerous and wealthy?

Who better, my crazed mind concluded, than the guys who'd mistaken me for DEA?

*** *** ***

This was all-or-nothing, so I called in in the morning to quit my job. I spent the rest of the weekend practicing the necessary skills until my eyelids were about ready to fall off. My ratio went up, though. I was quite happy with myself.

The first day of the work week, I set off. Oh yes, I felt quite the evil mastermind in the back seat of a bus. Already my ardor for this plan had dampened to a sort of soggy determination. I was armed, nothing spectacular, a pair of knives and a small billy-club. Hopefully enough so that I'd survive past noon.

My stop was about four blocks south of where I'd lost the bike. I walked slowly, trying to stretch out and feel anything important. Before he left, Jeeg had talked about a 'nose for danger' that he sometimes had. I sincerely hoped that this was one of the more instinctive uses of the Force, i.e. one I'd be able to pull off. So far, though, I felt nothing besides the glow I'd come to equate with a sentient mind - and no matter how hard I tried, I couldn't separate it, couldn't feel anything about the number of minds were present. At least I knew people lived around here. That was a plus.

The street was deserted. Not that I'd expected much else, but something in the way of hope curled up and died when blaster muzzles didn't instantly protrude from the windows. I started for the doors to the building from which I'd been attacked, one hand on the hilt of a knife in my pocket.

The door opened before I could knock, and I glimpsed a blaster's muzzle. A fiery light flashed from it, and only by the tiniest hair - and by something I'd felt just before, that I couldn't quite define - did I get out of the way. My knife came free and I threw it blind into the doorway. A muffled shriek told me that my luck held true.

More blasterfire; someone used to pain, which I doubted from the tone of that yell, or a second man. I tried to back up, but the door was set on a ferrocrete block with an iron railing, and the railing caught me just above the waist.

Something snapped. Again. Guess it's a life-or-death thing. Suddenly a blaster rifle flew past me into the street, and at the deepest levels of my mind I instantly knew how short a time I had to work with. I spun, semi-graceful, right through the door, slashing viciously with the second knife.

And felt it plucked from my hand as something very heavy came down on my skull with a whoosh.

Ooh. Pretty colours.

[Minion Alghieri]

Alghieri didn't look up from his book as the boy stirred.

"You've been awake for the past four minutes. You're very bad at deception."

"It's not...what I do," the boy explained, voice parched and not entirely lucid. "I'm stupid that way. Do you have any wa-" His eyes finally opened all the way, and he got a good look at what he was facing.

Alghieri grinned coldly and placed the book on his desk, spine-up. His eyes moved over the boy's face before settling into a locked gaze.

"Yes." He snapped his fingers, and a tiny droid in severe disrepair wheeled itself in. Its claws brandished a bottle and glass in the boy's face. Groggily, he accepted, poured himself a drink and settled back to stare warily at Alghieri.

"Let me be blunt," the gangster said as his captive sipped noisily. "I know what you are capable of; you escaped from an alert detachment that could have taken on a similar number of our world's finest. You put a valuable man and a yet-more-valuable ion cannon out of commission. I also know by what power you do these things."

"The Force."

"Yes, the Force. Now, I happen to know that a few of my men possess the potential to do similar things. Would you be willing to accept a place in my organization?"

[Baracc Olra'en]

"What are my options?" I coughed once, filled the glass half-way, and drank it down, still staring at the monstrosity sitting across from me.

"Take the job, or go free. It's that simple."

I seriously doubted that, but good sense kicked in before cynicism had fully engaged. "What's the pay like?"

Oh, he really laughed at that one. Wonderful.

"Room and board, plus access to the necessary facilities and equipment. As for money-" He spread his hands. "You get a full share, same as any member of the gang."

"Sounds fair. What's my place in the chain of command?"

A chuckle wheezed out from between some seriously scary teeth. "Under me and my messengers, above your students, on a level with everybody else. Still sound fair?"

Oh, he was being patronizing. I really detested that. "Definitely." I cleared my throat. "You, um, are aware that a Forcer of my age and experience isn't necessarily the best teacher?"

He leaned forward, scraping the book off to the side and giving me a strong whiff of halitosis. "Boy, you think I'd let a Knight or Master live if I got'em like I got you, let alone make them a job offer? You're being offered this because you're relatively easy to control. Someone with actual power, now, would be entirely too dangerous to live."

I refrained from any deep analysis of his implications, instead relishing the fact that he was talking to me as if he took me seriously. This notwithstanding his actual words.

"Am I free to keep teaching myself until I become a Knight or Master?"

"If you can prove that you'll be loyal when you get to that level, yes."

"And this is done..." I motioned vaguely for words. His, mine, whatever; so long as they worked.

"You'll find out."

"I'm in."

[Minion Alghieri]

TIME JUMP - TWO WEEKS

The kid seemed to be doing pretty well, at least in Alghieri's opinion. He'd actually went and cleared things up with the guy he'd yanked out the window, and the other guy, the one he'd hit with a throwing knife. Neither bore him any hard feelings.

As for his students, things were going splendidly. The only thorn had come through when, after two entire days devoted to the task, Baracc had concluded that Qem possessed either no potential at all, or else far too little for his limited teaching skills to get any hold on. All for the better, then, that he was dropped for the 'program'; now the little Darksider could focus more on the two who possessed useful Force-sensitivity.

And useful it would most certainly be; off-hand, Alghieri could come up with a dozen schemes that a trained Forcer could make much more lucrative. It had been handy indeed when those two had gotten together on practically anything and odd things had happened. Now...

Now, they could very easily put Alghieri at the top of the food chain. A few commands, a few suggestions, and things were put in motion. The gangster considered the probability of pet Forcers safe enough to bet on, and that was what he was about to do.

For all, or for nothing.

[Baracc Olra'en]

Day fourteen of Intensive Training 101 began with a bit of a jolt. I walked into the little gym we'd set up, drew a pair of knives, and threw one of them at each of my students. Torentin snagged it out of the air, but held it rather than throwing it back. Merchall, a hulking crossbreed of lineage similar to Alghieri's, wasn't fast enough to catch the knife, and knew it. Instead, he thrust out a hand and the spinning weapon stopped dead. Neither acted surprised in the slightest.

I chuckled inside as its fall was arrested, pleased with the larger man's instinctive response. It had taken the last couple of days to make sure that his reflexes were wired to the Force rather than to physical violence. He was coming along fast; far, far faster than I had. Not only that, impromptu attacks like this had become common everywhere; I'd gotten Alghieri's permission to get the drop on them even when they were on the less important assignments. They were both ready at all times to respond with maximum force, and you have no idea how easy that is to do with gangsters. The sole difference was that their current definition of 'maximum force' capitalized the second word. Not that their abilities were much at all.

Torentin, in contrast to his fellow, was going slowly, half because his potential was so much lower than either mine or Merchall's, and half because I wanted his arrogance to cook off. And yes, he was arrogant. This man thought himself superior to everything that had ever drawn breath. The slower I made his training, the more frustrated and angry he would become, and the better he'd be able to draw on the Dark Side. Oh, he'd figure it out sooner or later - neither of my students were stupid - but that, too, should help.

Merchall didn't need it. Merchall seemed born for this. Constantly furious, he had actually been forced to take some meditation and anger management classes as a kid, so he caught on fast to self-examination and embracing the Force. From then on - just the last few days, really - the strides that he'd taken were phenomenal. He'd gone from meditation to centering in literally hours.

Since I'd gotten them both to feel the Force, we'd been working on the most basic of the things I'd taught myself; telekinesis. Again, Merchall excelled, though Torentin was pretty decent. They could both handle things like lifting blocks and weights - Torentin up to five kilos, Merchall up to eight - and Merchall could handle tricks like stopping that knife. Seeing them improve made me wonder what I could do with a teacher to guide me. The thought almost succeeded in depressing me.

I'd established that they were beginning to have the necessary strength, at least by my admittedly low standards. They could disarm an opponent at fifty paces, a skill useful in and of itself. Today we'd work on technique.

"Torentin, throw that knife at me." He nodded and his arm cocked back. I stopped him with a gesture.

"The target."

The crude bulls'-eye was directly behind him. He hesitated and started to turn; a cleared throat stopped him again. "No, Torentin. Throw at me, hit the target. Can you do it?"

Pomposity flared up around him, strong enough for me to feel it. He squinted dangerously at me, then threw. If I hadn't known better, I would have thought that he actually did mean it to hit me. I stayed within the Force, just in case he didn't turn its path, but relaxed as his grip began to take effect. The blade flashed in a semicircular path around him, and embedded itself in the target.

"Off-centre, but not bad. Again."

And again, and again. Then, half-despairing, I got Merchall into it, hoping he would be better. Nope. They were both possibly the worst examples of...Palpatine's bones, I'm not sure what to call it: whatever they were practising - that I could imagine. About three in four of their attempts left nicks on the ferrocrete walls. Keep in mind, this was with them turning their heads to follow the knife visually. Before long I got the distinct feeling that Torentin's accuracy had been beginner's luck.

The morning's youth notwithstanding, I put my lunch plans on hold and ran through a sort of improvised mental 'limbering-up', then began lifting weights from across the room. I usually bottomed out around ten kilos. This morning I had managed fifteen. It was with an unobtrusive attitude and a deep hope that my pupils were engrossed in their work, that I gently lowered a combined weight of seven kilograms to the floor and kept going with my mental exercises.

Let me share something with you. I'm not cut out for teaching.

[Baracc Olra'en]

"Ah, Olra'en. Come in."

The gang boss exchanged cordial nods with his subordinate. One hand, displaying nails so thick as to be clawlike, gestured to the only other seat in the room. It's soft leather and thick padding belied the number of men who had died in it, victims of the mongrel's displeasure. Olra'en, oblivious, took the proffered seat and looked to Alghieri for the next word.

It was uncharacteristic, but Alghieri hesitated. He almost felt unsure of how to proceed. It was a simple enough matter to send men to their deaths, but this seemed strange for some reason. His head shook, imperceptably.

"How ready are my men?"

The young Forcer was taken aback, and for good reason. He'd had them for a slim two weeks. Any progress was good progress, but so far there had been no need for any report but a 'satisfactory' notice every three or four days. Alghieri desperately hoped that that meant Torentin and Merchall would be useful in their new capacity.

"Ready for what, boss?" Olra'en's voice was cautious.

"To use in an offworld scheme that will get us much more than we have now. Minimum standard, they need to be able to take on a few armed men and win."

"That's a tall order, boss."

"You did it."

Baracc's youth-pitched voice became wooden. "Even accepting that as a 'win', I've had close to six months to teach myself. I may be inefficient and prone to mistakes and strange phenomena, but I have experience. Merchall and Torentin don't. They aren't used to, mm, being one with the Force yet. Almost there, though...give me another month and I'll have it."

Alghieri caught his gaze and held it.

"Two weeks, no more."

The Forcer came half out of his chair. "That's suicide."

"That's necessary. Trust me. Or don't. I don't care as long as you follow my orders."

For a long moment neither of them moved. Then Baracc nodded and resumed his seat. "Two weeks," he said slowly. "I'll do what I can."

"And that's all I ask." Alghieri made his voice amiable. "Your very best, Master Olra'en." His face and indeed his sense were clean from amusement at the way the young man puffed up at being called a 'Master'. "I have every confidence in you."

Baracc pursed his lips. "If you don't mind me asking, what's this scheme about?"

Ah, whatever. "Partially monopolizing the protection aspect of our operations, on a world called Falycin."

"Falycin...that's not too far away."

"Twelve hours down the Perlemian. I'll be sending you, your two pupils, and five other men to recon the local gangs and authourities. Such as they are, naturally...my sources tell me that there won't be any real resistance. Your team will be well-equipped. If you feel that the eight of you can take out any minor gang you see fit, by all means you're free to do so. Try not to lose my men."

"Are you saying...I'm in charge?"

"Indeed."

Happiness was replaced by concern. "So...you want me to take seven men through every gang and copshop on an entire world, without losing one, getting maximum intelligence and taking out any group or person we feel we can or should. Is that about the size of it?"

"I did say fully equipped, Master Olra'en. Railguns, repeaters and demolitions gear for the five men, and whatever gadgets you and your pupils require. Grapplers, tightbeam sonics, meditation aids..."

"Meditation aids!?!?"

"Focus-objects. Some of my men looked around the black market. We've got wands, staffs, totems and-"

Abruptly Baracc burst out laughing. "Excuse me," he said, wiping his eyes. "I'm sorry, it's just that..." He snorted viciously. "I've never heard of anything like that being useful, not once since I first started learning about the Force.

"Bah, who knows...they might come in handy, especially with Torentin. I think he needs something to focus on." Then he lapsed into thought. Sensing this, Alghieri refrained from interrupting him for several minutes.

"Will that be all you need, Master Olra'en?"

"Demolitions gear...sonics..." the boy mumbled, nodding and preparing to leave. "Focus objects..."

[Baracc Olra'en]

I had to admit, the idea intrigued me. See, Torentin couldn't focus...but to some extent, neither could Merchall or myself. It was one of the big problems with my method of using the Force. Or perhaps it was just that there was some special focusing technique, and we didn't know it. More and more, I could see how objects could be useful. And based on my theory of their being a specific technique, that would explain why I'd never heard of it.

I went straight to my quarters and began testing the theory using a stick as a focus object. I was stumped at first, however, by how. Never, not once, had I used anything outside myself as a focus, and it took many tries before I achieved anything worthwhile. A simple sensing technique, even by my standards. And though I'd had issues with it in the past, now it seemed...easier. Somewhat. This would take practice.

*** *** ***

Several hours later, and well over an hour late, I entered the training room and dumped a load of slim wooden wands on the floor. My two pupils just stared.

"And...what are we supposed to do with these?"

"They're wands, Torentin. Focus points."

"That approaches being the stupidest thing I've ever heard." This from Merchall. The monster was regarding the things with naked contempt.

"No, no..." I said soothingly. A small selection of staffs floated out from the doorway, and I snagged them out of the air. "These are acceptable, too."

He didn't look mollified, and for that matter neither did Torentin. The whole idea of magic wands and wizards' staffs wasn't going over very well.

"Look," I stated. "It works. Trust me. Or better yet..." I slipped a thin wand from my sleeve and pointed at the weights, half-way across the room. "You've seen me lift fifteen kilos as a maximum, right?" I gestured with the wand, focusing the lifting technique through it...and five, five-kilo weights began to hover. By their faces, they knew it. This was more than simply personal improvement could achieve, within twenty-four hours. I hid a smile, and gestured for them to choose a focus object from the pile on the floor.

No great surprises were in store. They both chose staffs right off the bat, but at my prodding they each chose a smaller wand. Their success rate, once they began practising the external focus, was pretty decent, though they got better results with the staffs. Probably just bias, I'd bet. I insisted, however, that they train equally with the two. It's always good to have a backup.

Merchall, as always, was doing better. Torentin had noticed quite a while ago. He wasn't pleased. Predictable enough, really. He hates anyone doing anything better than him - even me, his teacher. Mindful of his growing Sense abilities, I tend to suppress my increased awareness that this is a peeved assassin.

They've both progressed far enough that, running little experiments and the like, I've begun to get a feel for their talents. Merchall is going to be very good at sensing things, anything really. The proper way to do something, or danger, or life. Though Torentin's TK limit is lower than Merchall's, it's the closest he approaches the larger man in anything, and I think with practice he just may surpass him where telekinesis is concerned.

One of them just put his wand through the wall.

This is going to take work.

[Baracc Olra'en]

We were a pretty cheerful crowd getting off the shuttle, with the sole exception of me. The mission, by their standards, had gone really, really well. No deaths on our side, a few on the others, plus a fairly accurate runthrough of all the big gangs. It had taken under a month to cover everything.

And in that month, my students and I had accomplished nothing at all. Oh, sure, we'd used some TK and messed around a bit with new ideas, but there hadn't been any real progress. Alghieri wasn't going to be pleased.

"First thing tomorrow," I said, cutting off their conversations, "we start training hard."

First thing tomorrow it was. They bustled off, Merchall and Torentin giving a little salute each, and abruptly I was all by myself in the docking bay.

I turned around, looking out past the shuttle at the cloudy sky. The jungle suddenly had new appeal. You're not cut out for this... a voice said sinuously as it settled in beside my insecurities. And responsibility isn't cut out for you...

Maybe it wasn't. Maybe I could just leave now and head out into the jungle that covered Varunda's ninth moon. Leave it all...

Reality set in. I was a sixteen year old kid with marginal Force and combat abilities. I couldn't survive a day in the jungle. First I'd run out of food, then water, and finally - or possibly before any of that happened - some hungry critter would gobble me up like the prepacked meals I'd been consuming for the past month.

I leaned on my staff and sighed. This wasn't going well, and I wasn't sure how to make it go better. I couldn't just dump what I'd set out to do, that much was clear.

"Well, then..." No clue why I said that. I certainly didn't have any thoughts on the subject, none that were worthwhile. "Maybe..." No. A shred of thought, gone as quickly as it had arrived.

It was possible that I couldn't do any of this. To the best of my knowledge, few if any Forcers train themselves without any input from more experienced people. I could go to Jeeg and the Sith, true...but to do that would be to admit that I'd failed. If there's one weakness I have, it's ego. I don't like to fail at anything.

Snap.

A crazy thought. Completely and utterly insane. Makes no sense whatsoever. Offers no advantage to anything remotely connected to my present situation.

Sure, I'll try it. Couldn't hurt.

[Minion Alghieri]

"A what?"

"Leave of absence."

The gangster cleared out his ears, absolutely convinced that he'd heard wrong.

"A leave of absence," Olra'en continued cheerfully. "Merchall and Torentin can teach themselves the basics while I'm gone. They're already-" he gritted his teeth "-they're already nearly as strong as I am. In telekinesis anyways."

"And you plan to do in this time...what?" Alghieri was still incredulous, but for the moment he was listening.

"Recruiting." Oh, how off-hand the little Forcer could sound when he wanted to. For a split second, Alghieri considered violence as one way to pound some harsh truths into Olra'en's skull.

"Two problems with that," he replied, trying to sound just as nonchalant. "One, people notice when you try to recruit for a gang. Two, I don't bring people in unless they prove that they're worth something. Just being Force-sensitive doesn't count."

"Got it covered." An image of wringing Olra'en's neck flittered across Alghieri's vision. Oblivious, the little Forcer continued. "I'm a kid. I dropped out of school a while back, but I know my way around. I'll just blend in."

"With a staff." That still didn't cover the second point, but Alghieri was willing to give the kid a little rope.

"With a wand. That's more than enough."

"Even that'll get noticed."

"Not when it's strapped to my forearm under my sleeve."

"And this...works?"

"Not quite as well as holding it," Olra'en admitted, "but if things get really hairy it's a breeze to get it out of the straps."

"What'll you be disguising this recruiting run as?"

"Conversation. Normal, everyday teenage conversation. Piece of cake."

"About gangs. And the Force."

The boy spread his hands. "Yeah, I guess so. Guess you don't realize it, but you people are big news on this little world." He cringed instantly. "That...came out wrong."

"Don't worry. Keep talking."

"The Force is always big, too, or it was back when I was in school as opposed to out here. Of course, that was just after Jeeg graduated. He made quite a splash."

"Naturally." From all he'd heard of the orphan-turned-Sith, that might have been an understatement.

"Now, I'd probably be recognized. Some of my own little episodes were pretty widespread."

"Enough so that you'd be known at a school on the other side of town?"

"Maybe. There was this one time at a science fair..." He stopped and got himself back on track.

"I'd be guessing that you wouldn't trust any test I could set for them?"

"You'd be guessing right."

"What about Merchall?"

"D'ac. Just say the word and he's on assignment to help you however you need."

The kid was poleaxed. "You serious? Boss?" he tacked on.

"You've got the job. Just make sure you can bring a few in: Force-sensitive people are few and far between, and it's even rarer to find a teenager you can trust. What are you going to need?"

Olra'en's list, it turned out, was highly unsurprising. A midsized wardrobe, a used (but not over-used) speeder, and the various other accoutrements of a typical teenager. Forged records, too, which impressed Alghieri; he wouldn't have thought that the kid could think that far ahead. Or maybe he was just becoming more the gangster and less the teenager. None of it would be difficult to supply. Alghieri's band wasn't the biggest by far, but it had connections to all levels of the Varundana underworld. The speeder would come from a town several dozen klicks away, well outside the school's district. The records would be possibly the easiest of all; the gang maintained a small forging parlor. Anything else, Olra'en would have to pay with from his own pocket, which had gotten a bit deeper over the past while. There had been some good deals made. The kid made no objection.

"Thanks, boss," Olra'en said warmly.

"Just make sure you get me some Forcers."

"Will do."

[Baracc Olra'en]

I took a single step through the front door and was immediately collared by a pair of seniors in sports-team jackets. Belatedly, I remembered that school discipline wasn't exactly up to galactic par on Varunda. A student could get away with a lot.

"G'morning," I mumbled, trying desperately to both push past them and to avoid showing anything approaching an ego. That had always been my survival strategy before. It had usually worked.

Today, it didn't. Either this school was worse than my former one, or I was just bad at duplicity. The two recognized me as a newbie and commenced an indoctrination session. Politespeak, naturally, for beating the tar out of me. All the while I was trying to summon at least something of the Force, either to soften the blows or to do something a little more impressive, but it wasn't working. Despite a fully armed bodyguard operating within a hundred metres or so, the great Dark Jedi Baracc Olra'en was getting pummelled.

I had several excruciating minutes to ponder the indignity. Then the bell rang, and they dropped me with a few cautionary words in Francais. I hit the floor rather hard, eliciting glances both sympathetic and otherwise from passers-by. In an environment this rough, it was survival of the fittest, Dhar'wan at his best. The years since I'd dropped out had taken the edge off my instincts - really ironic considering where and how I'd spent the last few months. Gang wars had nothing on a Varundana high school.

The second bell rang, and I picked myself up to the tune of a nasty crack. Somehow or other, my wand had slipped half-way out of the containing sleeve, and the leverage of pushing myself upright had snapped it clean in two. I grimaced and tossed the smaller piece into a trash can on my way to first period socials. I don't mean to say it was my first period socials class. It was by luck alone, in fact, that the class was even senior-level. I glanced through the fogged window only long enough to verify that the teacher was writing on the board, then slipped through the door and took an empty desk.

Qui sait celui qui l'est?

The teacher was doing well, remarkably so in fact judging by the overall mood and size of the class. Also devoted entirely to his subject. I wasn't noticed by anyone save the students. A bit of a danger-tingle told of hostility; not surprising considering that I'd somehow taken a seat very near the two Aryan jocks who'd accosted me earlier. They grimaced and flexed. In return, I waved cheerily, decided right then and there that I wasn't going to take this, and levitated a textbook through a flawless uppercut while they were distracted. Oh, the satisfaction of seeing that mug knocked to the floor.

The teacher turned, a bit puzzled, and briefly instructed the student on staying in his seat. The class laughed at their fellow's misfortune - apparently not seeing anything out of the ordinary - but I abstained. I was a bit distracted myself. The other big guy was staring at me and he didn't look pleased.

I sat out the rest of the class before making for the gym. Just my luck that there was a gym class actually present, juniors this time. One of the few instances in my life I've been grateful to be small for my age - I would have stuck out like a sore thumb had I possessed anything like the body mass of my erstwhile tormentors. As before, the large class size meant that the teachers noticed little of my arrival. Also as before, I sensed hostility from the student body. Not that it particularly mattered.

Enemies everywhere, and not an effective authourity figure in sight. This was going to be an interesting day.

[Baracc Olra'en]

I took a moment to size up the juniors. Being small suddenly didn't seem too great. Then again, maybe I was just being paranoid.

Life as a gangster should do that to you. Maybe. Just a guess. I'd only been part of Alghieri's organization for a few months.

This teacher actually noticed me. I tried to fade off into the woodwork, but to no avail. The fellow marched up to me practically steaming at the ears.

"You should be in class, young man, not visiting your friends in here. The bell went ten minutes ago."

I swallowed anything I possessed that resembled pride and took the hard way out. "Sorry," I muttered.

"Well, I should hope so. Now get to class!"

Pride threatened to break free, but I nodded in what I hoped was a chastened manner and headed for the gym door twirling a certain twig between my fingers. Along the way I examined my options - oh, how simple after life out of school. I could go to the senior lounge, I could drop in on another class...

The possibilities were endless.

[Baracc Olra'en]

I emphasize were. You see, when one's walking nonchalantly in the hallway of a high school ten minutes after one should be in class, one becomes pretty conspicuous.

The teacher was just stepping out of the copy room. I didn't look at his face, merely tried to increased my stride and even went so far as to enhance the musculature of my legs via the Force. I thought I'd made it until he threw out an arm.

"Proud of you, kid."

And if you don't think that threw me for a loop...

"Chaos take you!" I practically shouted. "Jeeg-"

[Je'gan Olra'en]

"Don't you dare use that kind of language with me, kid!" Je'gan bellowed in Francais. "You're going straight to Amplire!" This being the headmaster. "I don't know how you thought you could get away with this..."

The tirade lasted all the way to the back door, at which point Je'gan took a moment to take in his brother's appearance.

"Like I said," he continued, as if he hadn't uttered a word in the past few seconds. "I'm proud of you. To tell the truth, I figured you'd never go back to school on your own."

[Baracc Olra'en]

By this time I'd had a bit of time to collect my thoughts, and my grin could have encircled an ISD.

"I didn't."

The look on his face was priceless.

"I'm recruiting kids with Force potential for Alghieri-urk!"

[Je'gan Olra'en]

"Alghieri." The Sith Knight's face was an expressionless mask, betrayed only by the tension in the hand clamped around Baracc's collar. "Alghieri the gangster?"

[Baracc Olra'en]

"Yes, that's right." I decided for practical reasons not to try breaking his grip. The jacket's collar would yield first. There was a reason my big brother had won sectors for unarmed combat.

"Minion S. Alghieri, the guy who owns a quarter of this city." I did my best to meet his gaze squarely. This close, I could feel the eddies he made in the Force, and it scared me like not much could. It wasn't just power, it was evil.

"A good boss."

[Je'gan Olra'en]

Je'gan was about to comment, but cut himself off with a grimace. He couldn't really condemn working for someone merely as unpredictable as a gang boss, when he himself had sworn loyalty to such luminaries as Lord and Lady Vader, and Moriarty the Warlock.

With this in mind, he shifted to his next subject: the Force, and more specifically Baracc's usage of it. He was almost ready to open his mouth when a huge figure appeared around the corner of the school, easily one of the biggest Varundana mongrels he'd ever seen.

Brandishing the Force. Not a lot, but enough to make his danger-sense ping.

"And you are?"

[Minion Alghieri]

"Merchall. Is this fellow giving you any trouble, Master Olra'en?"

[Baracc Olra'en]

I couldn't stop the wince from passing over my face. I mean, the title my apprentices addressed me by was all well and good, but I had the distinct feeling that Jeeg wasn't going to be too thrilled at my calling myself 'Master'.

Or maybe he'd be amused. There was always that.

[Je'gan Olra'en]

"Depends on what you mean by trouble. I don't particularly like it that my brother works in a gang..." He picked up Baracc's surface thoughts and wheeled on Olra'en the Younger. "Your apprentices?!?"

[Baracc Olra'en]

I sighed as he began to talk. Maybe he'd missed that title.

The relief didn't last long.

"Yes, my apprentices. I've got two so far, Merchall and Torentin. They work for Alghieri too."

[Minion Alghieri]

So this was the infamous Je'gan Olra'en. Merchall wasn't overly impressed, but the boy carried himself well, and there was at least one weapon under that utalitarian tunic.

Et puis il a le Force.

Beaucoup.

Trop.

"I'm running backup for your brother. Just in case, y'see. We don't let our men work with anything as unpredictable as the Force without someone on their six."

[Je'gan Olra'en]

Je'gan snorted heavily, taking Baracc's arm and heading out into the parking lot towards a midsize, plain speeder.

"Gotcha. Merchall, you can tell Alghieri that my brother's taking a leave of absence from his recruitment and training duties. Training..." He shook his head vigorously. "Where'd you get that idea, little bro?"

[Minion Alghieri]

It wasn't much as Force-grips went, but anyone'll take notice if they've got an invisible hand clamped about their windpipe.

And pleased as he was about the success of his wand-woven technique, Merchall was probably about to discover this the hard way.

[Je'gan Olra'en]

A complex if not highly powerful incorporeal blast in the vicinity of his throat shattered the grip. Freed, the Sith Knight spun to face the mongrel, giving a single incredulous glance to the wooden dowel clutched in his talons before blasting the man's shields and motor control to the point where Merchall wouldn't be able to twitch a finger. He ached to go farther, rip out sanity, perhaps even use this gangster as a testbed for shattering the soul-to-body connection...

"I take it you're not too happy about my brother's upcoming desertion from the ranks of your gang."

[Baracc Olra'en]

"I'm going nowhere, Jeeg." Surprising, really, that I could get my voice to stay that calm. "Nowhere. This is my job, and I'm doing it well. Merchall's come from basic meditation within only a few months, and Tremannic's not far behind." I'd been freed when he spun, and now I readjusted my balance and my stance, respect with challenge. "I can and will teach. Where do you think you're going to take me anyways?"

I felt sorry for Merchall, who was getting utterly wasted; my star pupil was grievously outmatched. My attention, though, had to stay on my big bro.

[Minion Alghieri]

Utter paralysis, Merchall realized, wasn't fun. Not in the slightest. Try as he might, he couldn't even manage a twitch to help divert the impact of the pavement on his nose and protruding teeth. His eyes blinked occasionally, for the sole reason that that was an involuntary function, and Je'gan hadn't cut those off. If he had, Merchall would be dead by now.

For now, as much as he hated it, the mongrel was forced to remain face-down in the parking lot with blood pouring from his nose and a curiously loose feeling in his canines.

[Je'gan Olra'en]

The facts penetrated after a moment, as well as the confirmation from the familiarity of Baracc's mind. Je'gan tossed aside the last question as irrelevant and began reining in his anger.

The Sith Knight was shaking, literally trembling in his boots. He never got that infuriated. Never.

He reactivated Merchall's motor control centres, and - still a bit befuddled - waited for the mongrel to rise.

"You've done well, Baracc. Very well indeed. But that still doesn't mean I'm happy about your allegiance."

[Baracc Olra'en]

Abruptly, Je'gan found a thin stick - the splintered end surreptitiously rubbed down against the brick wall behind me - shoved into the centre of his chest. If my bro was shaking, I was a Ric'taar Ten. Something, I wasn't sure what, but something had snapped.

"Who are you," I managed venomously, "to come back after a year and tell me if you're happy or not with what I'm doing with my life!"

[Je'gan Olra'en]

"I'm your brother and your legal guardian." The shaking hadn't gotten any better. "In point of fact, I'm also your gene donor. You've got no more right to defy me than any other clone."

[Minion Alghieri]

"His what?"

Merchall was up now, and had approached the pair, albeit cautiously.

"Your what?"

[Baracc Olra'en]

My first instinct was to deny that this was my brother. He'd never said anything like that before with the intent to hurt, not once. It was inconceivable to me.

Perhaps it shouldn't have been.

I blasted him right in the solar plexus, giving no thought to success or failure. My ratio wasn't doing terribly well, but that somehow never came to mind. All I did was channel my unthinking rage through the remains of my wand and blow my brother to oblivion.

[Je'gan Olra'en]

Je'gan had a few ways to deal with Force-blasts, and they worked and worked well. Something this focused, though, and with a blast epicentre less than a millimetre from his skin - not a chance.

The blast lifted him off his feet and threw him head-first into a lightpost. His last thought was one of sincere regret...

And, inexplicably, a splash of equally sincere hatred.

[Minion Alghieri]

Merchall spun as the elder Olra'en blew past him, raising his wand just in case that marvellous blast hadn't incapacitated the Sith, but the danger was over.

He turned back to his Master, angry and a bit scared, both emotions easily sensed by someone as close to him as the boy was.

"D'you realize what you just did?!? You knocked out a Sith! You idiot!"

[Baracc Olra'en]

"Maybe you need a little help with RESPECT, Merchall!"

I raised my wand again to blow my apprentice away as I just had my brother-

My brother.

Je'gan!

The wand dropped to the pavement; the anger dissipated. Merchall's impudence ceased to matter. Within a second I was by his side, checking his heartbeat and breathing. I'm a qualified medic, but it should have taken a bit longer for me to pull myself together. I guess I acted on some sort of instinct.

I sighed and leaned back. "Take him," I said tiredly. "Put him in the speeder and let's get out of here."

[Minion Alghieri]

The mongrel took a step back, readying his own defences as he watched Baracc's wand warily. He sensed the change in the boy's emotional state, though, and when he rushed to his brother Merchall was right there beside him.

"Take him. Put him in the speeder and let's get out of here."

Merchall picked up Je'gan easily, but hesitated on the verge of moving.

"I'll take him to Alghieri. You've got a job to do here." He cut off the boy's spluttering with a wave of a hand. "Think of how easy it'll be to find anyone who's interested, hm?"

[Baracc Olra'en]

"Yeah..."

It only now dawned on me by what gross amount I'd blown my cover. Ridiculous. Alghieri would have my head.

"Go, then. Get the heck out of here. I'll be back for dinner and a training session. If he wakes up, be as nice as you can."

[Minion Alghieri]

"That may be the most obvious thing I have ever heard, Master."

With that last bit of impertinence, the mongrel left to deposit his cargo. The speeder was parked a few blocks away; fortunate, then, that Je'gan Olra'en was so easy to carry.

[Baracc Olra'en]

I stared helplessly at the horizon until Merchall was gone. All energy seemed drained from my body. I was dead tired.

I sat down beside the door and leant against the wall, harsh red brick biting into my back. Now that the more visible reminder of my service to Alghieri had left, my mind drifted back to what Je'gan had said.

To tell the truth, it wasn't a very nice thing to say. I'm just as human as anyone. I've got a soul. I'm no clone.

My parents had a great deal of trouble having kids. After quite a few years, they opted for in vitro. One of the embryos survived...or rather two. Jeeg and I are twins. It was just that at the time my parents were going through financial difficulties, so they decided to wait a few years to have me.

Technically, I'm his brother. But on a world where genetic variety is a good thing, and where the Clone Wars were distasteful for more reasons than the rest of the galaxy thinks of, there's a certain something against cloning. I doubt anyone else really knows - except for Merchall, now - but I've always carried that. It's a bit disheartening to be called a clone by your brother.

[Choir Aztaroth]

There was a window right above the parking lot, looking out on the entire incident with perfect happenstance. The window was large and panelled, with blinds that almost totally obscured the outside world. Unless one was standing right beside them, the view was uniformly beige, and even then the only vista in sight was the parking lot. This was, of course, perfect for seeing the entire incident.

It took a certain amount of talent to wind up consigned to the detention area before noon. Choir was used to it by now. She'd even acquired something of an idol position among the resident slackers. It had taken effort, as well as a generous dose of pheromones, but she was close to the top of, well, the bottom.

Choir was a purebred Zeltron, but other than skin colour and the ability to produce pheromones at will, a Zeltron is visually indistinguishable from a human - and Choir was albino. Her hair was dyed an uncompromising light brown, and was long enough to often cover her eyes; nevertheless, she wore shades outside and inside alike. She never told anyone her species nor her abilities, which made for a potent weapon indeed. If unsuspecting, any humanoid could be swayed by Zeltron pheromones.

It was unfortunate that they couldn't penetrate anything as solid as glass. A quick dose to the boy sitting below, and when she happened to run into him next she'd give him another - which he'd recognize. Beyond doubt he'd recognize.

Choir turned and surveyed the room. She was alone; the teacher had stepped out for caf, and nobody else landed in here this early in the day. Her options presented themselves, and running was looking better and better. Choir, as it happened, knew what had taken place out in that lot, and by what power those things had been done. She'd been a kid of six at the time, but even a decade wasn't enough to erase those memories.

Any memory involving the deaths of one's parents was pretty much guaranteed to stay fresh.

Abruptly, she made a decision. In a few quick movements, she cleared a path straight through the room's array of desks, took a running start, and launched herself straight through the window.

[Baracc Olra'en]

Glass broke overhead; instinctively, I raised my wand and channelled the Force, trying to make a sort of blast-slash-shield to keep the fragments off of me. I didn't have time to look up, to identify the object that had caused what sounded like an entire panel of windows to explode. I assumed it was something normal, like a textbook.

Imagine my surprise, then, when a body hit my shield, drove right through, and landed on my feet. A yell escaped me, more from shock than from pain, and I scooted back, trying to extricate my legs.

It was then that I realized that the body was alive. Stupid thing to have ignored, really. For some reason I'd assumed that any body falling like that was already dead. Not this one, apparently.

"You, uh, d'accord?"

[Choir Aztaroth]

"Oui, je suis d'ac."

Choir picked herself up, refraining from dusting her clothes off: there were still fragments of glass embedded in the seams. The shirt under her short jacket was armourweave, incredibly tough. No damage to her or to the highly expensive ensemble.

[Baracc Olra'en]

Attracted as I was to to the speaker, I had no idea what she'd seen or how she'd react if she had. Maybe getting thrown into a window had been part of that.

"Why'd you just fall out of a window?"

It sounded stupid, but I couldn't think of anything else terribly relevant.

[Choir Aztaroth]

Choir turned and regarded Baracc intently for a long moment.

"Parceque I jumped."

[Baracc Olra'en]

"And why'd the...

"Why'd you jump, kid?" He softened his voice and let the anger drain away. It wasn't her fault that he was, just now, capable of snapping at a Sith Master.

[Choir Aztaroth]

In a literal blur, a very recognizable mettalic cylinder was pressed up against Baracc's chest, in brutal parody of his previous actions with the wand now clutched tightly by his side.

"I'm not a kid, Olra'en."

[Baracc Olra'en]

And that explained that, more or less. Baracc eased a bit farther away from the menacing hilt. Even though this conversation had gotten interesting, there were still a few people in this universe who didn't like him a whole lot.

"I'm afraid I don't know your name."

[Choir Aztaroth]

"I'll tell you when I tell Alghieri. I might also tell you how I know yours. Let's move."

[Minion Alghieri]

Warehouse
The Alghieri district
Varunda IX

It had been a tough day, and it wasn't getting any better. A six-man squad had tangled with twenty system patrollers on the gas giant's main processing platform, and the repercussions had taken all morning to hammer out of the political scene. Two of those patrolmen had been Twenst's, and Twenst was on the take. The crooked commissioner wasn't happy.

And now a priority message from Merchall.

<center>Sith Knight Je'gan Olra'en present at BD High. Incapacitated.

Bringing him in.</center>

Oh, joy.

Alghieri did not want to know how a Sith Knight came to be 'incapacitated'.

*** *** ***

The mongrel Adept hauled the body in through the back door and dumped it on a convenient table. Alghieri was not amused.

"What exactly happened out there?"

"He tried to take the kid, and Master Olra'en blasted him into a light-pole head first." Merchall didn't seem to note the incongruity of referring to the same person as both 'Master' and 'the kid'.

"Vitals good?"

"Yep. Olra'en said we should take good care of him."

The gang boss tapped his chin with a talon, thinking. The doubt in Merchall's eyes shone through with perfect clarity. "Or we could just kill him now," Alghieri finally offered, and had the pleasure of seeing his subordinate wince.

"Master Olra'en-"

"We've got ourselves a comatose Sith Knight on our hands. Do you have any idea how dangerous this could be?"

Merchall winced again, for more reasons than one perhaps. Alghieri couldn't tell.

"Plus," the gang boss continued, "there have been some fascinating new developments. I've gotten a transmission from somebody named Dantarno, who's interested in coordinating fringe groups for anti-Imperial action. There's money in it, and there's legitimacy. It's backed by an interstellar corporation and possibly by the Republic as well." He turned his gaze to Je'gan. "A Sith Knight's head on a pike could be the perfect gift."

"Not a chance, boss. The kid may have blown him into next week, but he was pretty morose afterwards. No matter how mad he was at his brother, he wouldn't like him dead or handed over to the Republic. You'd lose your best Forcer, and probably Torentin or I as well in taking him out."

"Pity. It would solve so much."

"Mm. Then what do we do with him?"

"Patch him up, let him go. Hopefully with as few memories of whatever he learnt at that school as possible."

"We could have Master Olra'en erase his memories."

Alghieri snorted. "If Olra'en could erase memories, that'd be one thing. But it's not. You know perfectly well that he can't."

"But I can."

The two mongrels wheeled to the body, whose black eyes were now open and staring up into the ceiling. Their hearts were racing. That hoarse whisper was plain unnerving.

"I'm a master of the mind," Je'gan continued. "I can make anyone think or be anything. I can pluck thoughts from the depths of a man's heart. I can make that heart stop beating." His eyes focused, converged on Alghieri. "I can turn a living soul into a puppet. I can re-order and re-form his psyche"

The gangsters could find no answer, and after a moment, the teenage Sith's gaze unfocused again. Alghieri had the unsettling feeling that Je'gan was staring at the wall behind his head.

"Am I not become death?"

The door flew open, crashing on the warehouse wall. Baracc and a girl entered at full speed, the latter with a lightsaber pressed against the Dark Adept's gut. Alghieri and Merchall wheeled, each going for their weapon of choice: blaster and wand. Je'gan, however, was faster, sitting bolt upright and holding the girl's eye. He screamed a word in some unknown tongue, a word that sounded different to each who heard it. Apparently it was very different for the intruder, who froze, unable to move, and slowly fell back through the doorway with the inactivated lightsaber in her grip. Baracc let out a huge breath. His eyes darted from Je'gan to the paralyzed girl once, twice. Alghieri's focus, however, remained on the frozen figure in the door.

"Aztaroth..."

"I'm sorry, Jeeg," Baracc finally managed with an air of both penitence and rehearsal. Owning up to your mistakes to someone who could do that, and someone who you had recently knocked unconscious, was tough. In some other part of his mind, Alghieri found that he approved.

But now to other things.

"Merchall," the gang boss snapped. "How is she?"

"Shields blown to splinters, sir. Her heart and lungs have stopped. Something weird's been done to her mind, ah..."

"In the areas of conscious and subconscious motor control," Je'gan said tiredly. "Would you like me to undo it before she dies?"

"Of course, man!" Alghieri bellowed.

Je'gan nodded, considering, and then mumbled a phrase that instilled a feeling of comfort and wellness in the others. Aztaroth snapped back to life with a long gasp. Alghieri let out a breath in counterpoint. Je’gan turned back to Baracc and nodded once, slowly. “I’m sorry, too.”

The albino girl stood shakily and leaned against the doorframe. “Hello, Alghieri,” she said thickly. “It’s been a long time.”

“I’m surprised you remember.”

“How could I not?”

“True.”

Baracc obviously wanted an explanation; Merchall, knowing the name Aztaroth but not much more, was with his immediate superior on this. Je’gan was propped up on his elbows indifferently. Aztaroth was leaning against the wall, staring across at Je’gan. Alghieri felt a certain sympathy: she hadn’t seen or felt anything like that these ten years past.

“Here it is,” he said with a sigh. “A simple story but a sad one.

“Several years ago a businessman named Cuulvaer tried to muscle in on Varundana soil. I was trusted enough then to lead a few of my gang’s people against him in covert warfare. As it turned out, he was a Dark Jedi with at least one disciple, and I lost most of my team, including a couple of Zeltron saboteurs named Lencha and Reya...Aztaroth.” He spread his hands. “That’s the story. He killed them in their home after they'd ensured he wouldn't come back here, broke through my cordon and killed them in front of their daughter, Choir Aztaroth. I took all blame. At the time, she didn’t care.” He locked gazes with the albino girl. “At the time, I thought she’d get over it.”

“Y’know what?’ Je’gan’s voice interrupted the dark silence. “I’m in the mood for all to be right with the world. So, without further ado-“

He did nothing visibly, yet every Forcer in the room instantly focused on the prone Sith. Whatever he was doing, it was big. Choir screamed and fell to the floor. Torentin started for Je’gan, anger written plainly on his face. Baracc and Merchall blew him into a stack of crates, hard. He wouldn’t be getting up for a little while.

Alghieri’s jaw was tight. There was nothing he could do; the weapons scanners at the door had picked up a lightsaber, and in any case this was the local Teras Kasi champion – weapon or not, he was deadly. And of course, the gang boss had nothing of the Force. When Choir started twitching, however, he rushed over and attempted to give her medical aid. Together, by brute strength, Baracc and Merchall held him back.

Her struggles faded inside of five minutes, and then Je’gan’s black gaze turned to Torentin. The procedure was repeated. At the end of the ordeal, the Sith Knight was visibly tired, but maintained enough energy to get up, thank Alghieri for his time, and leave. The gang boss, still in a bit of shock, gave the order for him not to be followed. His attention was riveted on the two unconscious forms disturbing the dust on his warehouse floor.

*** *** ***

It became clear over the next days that something very strange had happened to both Choir Aztaroth and to Michel Torentin. To Baracc, and to Alghieri, they were completely and utterly obedient. They hated it, but they did it.

The Force, it is said, works in mysterious ways…

[Choir Aztaroth]

The hall ended in front of Choir, a large metal door sliding up into the ceiling. She passed through into the sunlight unhindered.

This was not for lack of hardware present. On the contrary; two metres behind the walls of the passage were housed sensitive scanners and linked blasters, calibrated to compensate for the distance that kept them safe from a lightsabre. Cuulvaer's legacy, but it served just as well against the girl he'd orphaned.

Choir slipped the aged hilt from under her coat and spun it through her fingers, a tacit reminder to those who were undoubtedly watching her that she was far from average prey. Ten years with nothing to do but grieve her parents had yielded a vengeful teen with a penchant for the weapon that Cuulvaer's acolyte had left behind. She ached to stomp back into that buried complex under the warehouse and wreak destruction on everyone there. Alghieri, whose failure had killed her mother and father. Merchall and Torentin, whose efforts at sympathy seemed only petty annoyances. Even the latter, who was under the same curse as she, had merely bowed to Olra'en's will and accepted his fate. 'Master' Baracc, arrogant and sharp, an often dangerous taskmaster.

The one she genuinely wanted dead, though, was the one who was no longer present in Minion Alghieri's headquarters. Je'gan Olra'en. Sith Knight. He'd departed the headquarters for good not four hours ago, bound for Corellia and, no doubt, his precious Order. If there was any way she could follow him, she would. Even though her skill with the lightsabre she'd dubbed Conflagration was certainly no match for his Azubah - she'd gotten the name of the saucer-hilted weapon out of his brother in an unguarded moment - and the same could easily be said of her connection to the Force, she would have done her level best to kill him.

The reason she couldn't, naturally, was the reason she wanted to. She'd known what he was doing to her, oh yes, every agonizing moment of having compulsions placed deep in her psyche. That would be bad enough had not Alghieri caught on.

"Absolute loyalty," she cursed, punching the alley's wall and looking back to where the door had been among the perfectly laid bricks. It was invisible. One had to be let in; it would take demolitions gear or a lightsabre to gain entrance otherwise.

"Absolute...AARGH!"

She stepped out into the crowd passing through the plaza. Someone jostled her rudely from behind. On instinct and on anger, not recalling the compulsions for a critical instant, she spun and impaled the errant Ishi Tib with Conflagration's dull green blade. His death throes were ignored, however, as she raised the hilt to before her eyes and stared at it. Memories, recent and still sharp, cascaded through her.

Alghieri's eyes bored into hers. "Go outside and cool down," he rumbled. "Don't cause any trouble."

Absolute obedience...but only to the letter of the law. From a certain point of view, the commandment had not been broken: she hadn't been troubled at all by the slaughter of an innocent.

Reality snapped back. The crowd was running, the Ishi Tib was moaning, and the sun was hot. After a moment, her instincts forced her to seek shade. She ducked into a small tavern with the saber hidden and ordered a drink. The bartender was no idiot; Choir soon found herself back outside in the plaza.

With the Adepts. Olra'en, Torentin, Merchall; they were approaching from different directions, each with wand raised. Choir hefted her saber and contemplated running. She never got the chance. Something like a deep thrum, felt more than heard, passed through her, and as one they flicked their wands.

BANG!

The last sound Choir Aztaroth heard before darkness and flame took her.

[Baracc Olra'en]

To: Je'gan
From: Baracc

C.A. finding loopholes in contract. Return ASAP. M., T. and I are incapable of damage control.

[Je'gan Olra'en]

"Let's see what we have, boys."

Je'gan rubbed his hands and ducked into the cell, making sure his robe was clear of the frame before closing it behind him. Aztaroth lay in a pitiful heap on the floor, made less energetic and more approachable by Alghieri's confiscation of her lightsaber. She didn't react as he made his presence known with a light but obvious mental probe.

"Pathetic," he murmured. "Wake up, kid."

"...mmm...n..kk..."

Well, the way her face was pressed against her knees he should have expected her speech to be incoherent. Fortunately, he was already tapped into her speech centres, and that gave him the full text before anything even made it to the vocal cords.

"You've got three seconds, kid, before you're in trouble with me personally, on top of the problems you've got with Alghieri. Two...one...ah." A dark smile graced his lips. "At least you know what's good for you.

"Past a certain limit. I don't think you comprehend just how easy Alghieri's being on you."

Choir stood convulsively, and in a moment was inches from his face. Her eyes were sparking. "I don't want that mongrel scum's mercy," she said venomously, and spat on the cell floor.

As fast as she was, though, Je'gan was faster, backhanding her into the wall. "Fermez la bouche", he hissed. "Vous ne savez rien de la vie, ou vous la detestez!" Shut your mouth. You know nothing of life, or you hate it.

Choir wiped a trickle of blood from her lip, sneering as she licked her fist clean. "Better. I was wondering how long it would take to make you lose your temper. Fifteen seconds, give or take a bit. Now that's pathetic."

The Sith Knight blurred into a backkick that lifted her off her feet and smashed her against the wall. Ribs cracked, and the Zeltron screamed. She dropped into a fetal ball.

"You understand the darkness," he railed. "Use it, you worthless urchin. Use it!"

A weak blast emanated from her outstretched hand. Je'gan swept it aside. "I said-"

i heard you Aztaroth's deep pink eyes took on a bit of a glow, maybe from reflected light, maybe not. Whatever it was, the sight of a pair of reddish orbs reminded the Sith Knight strongly of hunting animals that were larger, faster and stronger than he was. Those childhood trips had always been eventful.

But those eyes were where the similarities between Aztaroth and deadly animal ended. He knew that, and she did too. No matter the volume of the mindscream she was throwing at him, a simple shield extrusion stopped it like any other mentalic attack. Je'gan settled back on his heels, nonchalant and satisfied.

"Excellent."

and i'm mad

"I'm a Sith. I really doubt you're anywhere near as mad as I am." He hit her back with a fraction of his total power, causing her to hallucinate and strike out mentally at imaginary targets. It was amusing to watch her waste her resources so, but eventually he sighed and gave it up, instead paralyzing her and going to work on the compulsions he'd implanted mere hours before. By the time he was finished, his ears were numb from screams, but the construct was seamless and varied. It was impossible to contravene. Maybe another mentalist of his expertise could have undone it, but aside from that, the only way to remove it would be a total mindtwist, rebuilding her psyche from the ground up.

"Who are you?"

"I am Choir Aztaroth, loyal servant to Minion Alghieri."

And even though she hated it, him, and Alghieri with a passion that dwarfed her earlier rage, she was telling the truth. He'd really done a number on her brain, he mused. Total, unquestioning loyalty to Alghieri and to Baracc, the former over the latter as befitted the chain of command - and loyalty to himself, of course. Since that made her harmless, he felt no compunctions over implanting a quick-and-dirty lesson in basic mentalics, more or less what he'd taught Kes so far in that field. Shields up, shields down, attack (a bit more on the mindscream, and that headache trick) and counter. Simple stuff, but dangerous in the wrong hands. That wasn't all, though. As a follower to his brother, aside from her skills with a saber she was more or less useless until she really got started on her training, which probably wouldn't begin until she earned full trust. It would go a long way towards evening that up if she was capable of some things that were in his power to grant, but perhaps not in the others' to do. The main one was a mental routine, almost impossible to forget, that would trigger pain suppression and low-level physical enhancement; a 'combat mode.'

He nodded and, reaching into his robes, removed Conflagration. Her eyes followed the hilt manically.

"Here. Take it."

He tossed it to her end over end. Choir snagged it out of the air and stood, shakily, making use of that half-healed-in combat mode to fight the pain around her ribs.

"Use your weapon; I am unarmed. Strike me down with all of your hatred, and you shall become what you dream."

She tried, she honestly did, but the compulsion wouldn't allow it. Within seconds she was twitching on the floor. Conflagration hadn't even ignited.

"Olra'en the Elder to Alghieri."

"Results, Lord Olra'en?"

"Complete success, sir. Give her a weapon of her choice and you, me and my brother staked out, and not a hair of our heads will be touched - by her or anyone. Stake us out in the sun and she'll free us, and if she can't, she'll bring us whatever we need. Toss us in an escape pod in interstellar space and she'll find us if it takes her whole life. One hundred percent loyal, and it extends to your entire organization." He clicked off the comlink and surveyed Aztaroth's prone form.

"Ahahahahahahahahahah! Yessssss!"

[Choir Aztaroth]

They let her out with Olra'en, and she went undisturbed all the way to her new quarters. It was small but not uncomfortable, with a good bed and a built-in 'fresher. There was a holographic window - the complex was underground - with a forest view, and the selected display actually altered the air-conditioning settings. A rack held clothing of all descriptions, and a small selection of weapons sat beside it over her bed. There was a computer terminal with 'net access.

Everything was perfect, and she hated it. Not the room specifically, but the whole situation. Her bluff hadn't bought respect; it had gotten her made into a literal slave. Despair's claws raked up and down her soul, and she barely managed to take a seat on the bed before collapsing in tears.

*** *** ***

Some time later, she cast about with the Force, finding the dark spots of the three Adepts and the massive blotch of the Sith Knight. A quiet sigh of relief escaped her; Je'gan was still here.

"Computer."

/Yes, Ma'amselle?/

"What flight is Je'gan Olra'en listed for?"

/The six hundred/

"Thank you. Terminal off," she remembered belatedly.

So. He was staying the night.

olra'en...whenever you've got a moment...

[Je'gan Olra'en]

Je'gan hummed to himself, tapping his foot in time as he waited by Aztaroth's door. He'd received the telepathic request not long ago, and to put it bluntly was a bit nervous. He had no idea what to expect. His danger sense was telling him nothing, and unless there were ysalamiri involved, that meant unequivocally that there was no threat.

"Come in."

The door hissed open, and he stepped through.

Into a nightmare.

"You're indisposed," he managed, averting his eyes and weaving a blindness on himself while he struggled to reduce his body's autonomic responses. "I'll come back later."

But something was interfering. Those responses were going haywire, amplifying and oscillating and in general defying his control. His mentalics were enough to get them back down to normal levels, but that was all.

Making him an average, ordinary...male.

"Don't bother." He felt a twinge in the Force, and the door hissed again on its way back down. The air smelled faintly of something enticing. "Sssstay..."

"Look, Aztaroth," he managed as the last of the blindness wore off in his conflict with whatever was boosting his hormones. "I-"

"Choir. My name's Choir."

He swallowed and took a step back, ending up flat against the door. "Aztaroth, I-"

"You what?" Her voice maintained a tone that somehow fit perfectly with the smell and that - whatever it was, that was interfering with his mind's control over his body.

"I'm in love."

A chuckle. "I'm glad to hear it, darling."

"Oh, - No! Not with you!"

"Ohhh..." A pout, a knowing nod. Je'gan tried and failed to step back through the bulkhead-grade door.

"With a Jedi-"

"Fascinating..."

"Named Ceres Duvall-"

"A pretty name. Do you think I'm pretty, Je'gan?"

"- I killed her."

At last, something that threw her for a loop. Thank the Force. That smell and that - something - were getting more powerful.

"I killed the woman I love, and I'll always be faithful to her."

"Come, now." Choir's voice dripped scorn. "A dead woman? A dead woman can't-"

"I don't care!" Beads of sweat stood out on his forehead. Some inner part of him was wondering why he was putting up a fight. Something farther still, something he'd thought dead and buried, approved. "I'm happy as I am!"

"I can-"

"No, you can't! Now excuse me, mademoiselle!" Something snapped within him, and he stood tall, coming out of a cringing pose he didn't know he'd been in. He tried the door; locked. His voice blasted out at her in an actual countermove to whatever it was she was doing; Compulsion at its most refined. "Open this door or I will!" He could: he had Azubah. Alghieri wouldn't be pleased, but Alghieri owed him anyways.

"You're not leaving?" The smell and the feeling got stronger, and he almost crumpled. There was only so much a man could take. But for once, he used the arrogance of a Sith for something that that buried, atrophied inner fragment recognized as good and worthwhile.

"Watch me, Aztaroth." Blue-bladed Azubah slashed a hole in the door. Air rushed out and he realized that the temperature in her room had been getting steadily warmer. He thrust his head through the gap and took a deep breath of clean air.

And that smell was dissipating at last.

"Good night."

He stepped out into the hall and headed back to his own room. Two contingents of smashball fans were alternately cheering and booing in his brain. He wanted sleep.

[Choir Aztaroth]

Choir waited until three in the morning before leaving her room by the repaired door. She hadn't been ordered to stay there, and what she was about to do had nothing to do with protecting the Sith Knight, so she was very comfortably free of restriction.

How could he do that... she thought to herself as she tiptoed down the corridor. How could he resist the pheromones. How!?!?

But inexplicably, he had. The only logical explanation was that he actually was in love with a ghost - no guy could have that level of self-control on his own.

In which case, she knew this would be the absolutely perfect revenge. It would be difficult and uncomfortable for her, and he wouldn't know about it for nine months or so, but it would be worth it.

And thanks to those new mind-bridging techniques, he would think it was all just a dream...