From Past Experience

[Lúka Jibral]

The Jedi Purge


Everything blurred. Lúka watched a trail stretch out behind his indigo lightsaber as it carved through the air in slow motion, striking the bolt of blaster energy and deflecting it harmlessly aside. Another, and then another; this time deflected back in the direction of the blue-clad soldiers who had been relentlessly pursuing them. He felt the focus and intent of the commandos hammering into him; through the haze of adrenaline and Force focus, he heard a call of his name; watched in horror as one of the commandos aimed instead at the source, a blast of blue lancing it's way into his Master's chest.

No! he heard himself cry, but the words were dull and distant. Another knight, wrapped all in green, leapt into the fray and sent the next volley of blaster fire racing back towards the commando who'd originated it. Lúka's name again. Shouted instructions. Lúka didn't quite hear. Didn't quite remember. Go! he half commanded, half pleaded. I'm right behind you.

And he was; for the next few moments at least. He was right behind as his companions staggered into the buildings, heading for the stairways and tunnels that would lead them into the utility catacombs. He was right behind them as they disappeared from view, just a few seconds ahead. He was right behind them when blaster fire began to rain down the tunnel; right behind as the moment of intent, to stand and fight and buy them time to reach safety, formed in his mind.

He was right behind them when, a mere instant before he could turn and act, a blaster bolt slammed into the small of his back, searing hot pain flooding his body, overwhelming almost anything.

He was right behind them when the lightsaber clattered from his fingers, extinguishing as it fell to the ground. He was right behind them when his grip wrapped around the thermal detonator on his belt instead, tugging it free, hurling it towards the utility ingress just a few meters ahead.

He was right behind when the blast went off, tearing the tunnel before him into ribbons and shrapnel, sealing off the catacombs. He heard the shouts of panic, and of pain, as the blast wave slammed into him and his pursuers. He barely felt it; barely felt the ground as he impacted; but the Senate Commandos sure as hell did.

He felt himself smile as his consciousness began to fade, and as darkness consumed him. Serves you right, you backstabbing bastards, he remembered thinking; and then nothing but black.


* * *

The Citadel
Now

Lúka's eyes opened slowly, peering up into the almost-darkness above him. He waited in patient silence as his eyes slowly adjusted, the black fading into strange shadows and patterns as light crept in from here and there. There was probably some deep metaphor about life and the Force that could be drawn from such things, that his old Master would have found a way to speak on for hours. Lúka had no patience for such things; not then, and certainly not now.

Easing himself from the mattress, Lúka's hands fell to the small of his back, massaging the dull ache of phantom pain that his subconscious had left him with. He frowned at himself, and at the fragmented echoes of the dream that lingered in his mind in their fading moments. It was wrong. Different. Twisted somehow from what he knew to be reality. His Master had abandoned him. Left him there to die. The Empire had plucked him from the rubble. Repaired him. Drawn him into their Inquisition. They had been fugitives on the run; and the others had betrayed him, never returned, never so much as attempted to ascertain if he was still alive. True to form, he supposed: it had never been on the curriculum at the Temple, but betrayal of everything they knew and everything they claimed to stand for was clearly something that came naturally to the Jedi Order.

Lúka paced barefoot across the room, turning his eyes on the dimly illuminated chrono display on his desk. Still the middle of the night. Barely a few hours of sleep. It would be enough. Lúka had spent too long sleeping, too long isolated from the galaxy, too long training and preparing. Now was the time to balance that equation; to act, to be, to prove that the Empire's faith and investment in him was not misplaced. No more lurking in shadows. No more acting in secret for the Inquisition.

The Force reached out, wrapping around the hilt of the new lightsaber that the Imperial Knights had issued him with, drawing it into his hand. He paused to think over that for a moment. Knight. That word was just a symbol, an illusion of continuation and legitimacy meant for the sake of the public and politics more than anything else; but still, it felt nice to say. An abandoned aspiration finally satisfied, in one form or another.

A tug of a frown disturbed the shape of Lúka's brow. "I wonder if you would have been proud, Master," he wondered aloud, addressing his question to the darkness.

It doesn't matter, he forced himself to remember as he attached the lightsaber to his belt, and readied himself to stride off into the early morning corridors of the Citadel. But, with the relics of the dream still lingering in his mind, he only half believed it.

[Lúka Jibral]

Lúka counted silently in his mind, barely even paying attention to the sensory input from his eyes. He didn't need it; he could feel all that mattered, the urge to strike, the impulse, the hesitance, the attempts to throw him off balance. He ignored them all, focusing on the moment when his opponent spurred his body into action. One fluid motion brought his lightsaber up to parry, his reversed Shien grip angling the blade along the outer edge of his arm, relying on precision and practised skill to counteract the brute force of his opponent's two-handed swing. He could feel the strain from the other adept as he tried to push back; but also the restraint, the desire not to push too hard and accidentally lop off a limb. Therein lay his weakness: Lúka knew his own strengths and capabilities in a way that his opponent clearly did not.

With a surge of Force-infused strength, Lúka shoved against his opponent's blade and then instantly retreated, snapping off the power to his blade and stepping cleanly aside. Caught off guard and off balance, the younger student staggered forward; with an almost disinterested casual flourish, Lúka plucked a holdout blaster from the holster on his belt, and discharged a stun blast into the small of the Knight's back. In an instant he crumpled, electrical discharged scrambling the nerve impulses throughout the young man's body.

Lúka sighed a little, offering the slightest of apologetic shrugs to the student's now prone form, before turning away; towards the small gathering of other Knights and Cadets that were here to observe.

"Can anyone tell me the mistakes that Cadet Baz made?" he asked, opening the floor to contributions.

He hesitated for a moment, glancing back to the unblinking eyes of his defeated opponent.

"There were several."

[Halajiin Rabeak]

Introduction to Lightsaber Combat. It had been the course that all the cadets were buzzing about, each one eager in their own way. Hal could see the joy in their eyes at the mere thought of it, and that joy had been almost infectious.

Almost.

Infiltrating the Imperial Cadets had been easier than Hal had imagined. Act like an idiot, demand things, and then settle for what's given you while you pretend to be a good boy and wait for your demands to be given to you as rewards for no longer being an idiot. Such was the way of all totalitarian regimes, and part of the time Hal wondered if he was in some strange sort of comic book. Not the Scintillating Scorpion-Man, that was for sure, but maybe one of those edgy indie comics that expose the grit and reality of life, and can never find decent colorists. Whatever he was in, he played his part well, even going so far as to understand how his age factored into the mix.

At twenty four years of age, Halajiin Rabeak, excuse me, "Kyle Rayner," was easily one of the oldest in the entire current crop of cadets. Most were in their teens to perhaps twenty, and almost all of them had grown up in Empire doctrine. Hal's age allowed him to command respect in some things, but also enabled him to be "out of touch" with modern things, and in that he played the fool, often gaining a friend out of pity as he appeared to try his best, and still fail because he was not grasping the subject in the manner they understood it. Age, race, everything about him gave him perfect cover as the try-hard, and he let himself move near to the top of the class, but never was the best at anything, holding back as not to truly shine. The brighter one shined, the more scrutiny they came under - true for both underworld infiltration, and for a true Jedi Knight masquerading as a half-trained nobody in the Imperial Knight cadet program. There was little he had seen of Luka so far that he did not already know, and know how to counter, but if he were to excel in his first go with saber, things would certainly be suspect. He could, however, at least appear to understand the weapon, as it was known that he was captured in the possession of one.

Hal didn't raise his paw before he spoke, as he had been discouraged from doing so in past lectures. Instead he just spoke up, loud and clear.

"Well, his first mistake is that he sucked." A small chorus of laughter greeted his ice-breaking remark, and Hal smiled, glad to have lightened the mood. "But, specifically, his stance was poor, and he was overextending himself, hoping to lay a big blow instead of being smart with his energy consumption. He also continued to fight two-handed when it was clear his opponent was readily handling the slow, clumsy strikes, and he should have switched his own style in order to find an edge. That, and he doesn't understand his weapon, he thinks there's weight to it when there isn't, and he's attempting to swing it as if it has mass which will amplify in energy the harder he swings it. Lightsabers don't work that way."

The room was quiet after Hal's dissection of Baz's performance, and the yellow-furred Nehantite couldn't help but smirk and add, "And to top it all off, it looks like he learned how to swordfight from watching bad holofilms. He's a terrible fencer."

[Lúka Jibral]

Interesting. Cadet Rayner spoke as if he knew what he was saying; a critical analysis of stances, of the other Cadet's faults and failings, the strategies he should have used. It was the kind of answer that a precocious young Lúka would have given back at the Temple, back when he was trying to show off. Interesting that it came from the Cadet that, from what Lúka had researched, had possessed a lightsaber of his own when he had arrived.

More curious still was the phrasing of that final jab. If not holofilms, Mister Rayner, Lúka mused, Then where did you learn to become such an expert?

Lúka didn't voice that curiosity, filing it away instead for later contemplation. "A good answer," he conceded, bowing his head slightly to acknowledge the shrewdness of the Cadet's analysis, "But not the one I was looking for."

His eyes scanned the crowd, looking for indications of anyone else planning to contribute. He saw reluctance; he saw Cadets struggling to think of a more complex answer, when the reality was far more simple. No one spoke. Lúka kept his posture and expression neutral. They were wary of embarrassing themselves in front of the others. Regrettable, but understandable. He'd cure them of that in due time.

"He expected me to fight fair."

He let that sentiment linger for a moment, his hands clasping behind his back - more to prevent them from folding across his chest than anything else. If he was to instruct, if he was to make himself someone whose lessons these Cadets took to heart and committed to memory, he needed to present himself as an ally, not an adversary. Anger and spite might fuel the darker sides of the Force, and provide a source of power, but they also bred ignorance and rebellion. Better a class of cadets trying to prove themselves to an instructor thry respected, than trying to prove him wrong.

"Honour is a virtue, but it is also a liability. When you are out in the field clashing with a Force adept, there is no guarantee that they will adhere to the same rules and morals that you do. When you fight them, you are not sparring for points, you are fighting to win: because you have been ordered to, and because the Empire needs you to. Whether it is fealty to your Empress or service to the greater good, victory is all that matters. Victory is life."

He gestured back to the fallen Cadet behind him. "I cheated. Because I did, a potential danger to the Empire is entirely subdued with minimal effort. It didn't matter that my skill was superior; my actions were."

His gaze settled on Rayner in particular.

"There is a very real possibility that you will find youself facing opponents more skilled than you are. The knowledge of that will serve you little, if you cannot find a way to win regardless."