Amos Iakona
Jun 27th, 2016, 02:57:53 PM
A string of curses tumbled from Amos' lips as he felt the energy blast bite into his bare arm like an angry gnat, the violet blade of his lightsaber carving through the air about half a second too slow. He heard the subtle hiss of air as the training remote's thrusters shifted it's orientation; Amos had come to think of it as the device's equivalent of mocking laughter. They told him that he was improving, that his reaction times were far shorter than they had been when his training has first begun: but while half a second was better than a full second, late was still late. Another dart of energy lanced out and struck Amos' leg, as if trying to prove the point. Pit him against someone with a real blaster - or worse, someone with a lightsaber and deadly intent - and no amount of subtle improvement would be enough.
His brow deepened into a scowl, jaw clenching as he tried to focus. That was what the instructors always said. Clear your mind. Focus. Listen to the whispers of the Force. As if it was simple. Effortless. Maybe for them it was. Maybe there was something wrong with him, something inferior. After all, some Jedi were stronger than others, and some were weaker. He remembered a lesson from Master Aamoran about how initiates became padawans in the days of the old order; about how some didn't master the skills or the teachings quickly enough, and found themselves in the Service Corps when they came of age. They became healers. Educators. Explorers. Perhaps that was more his speed. Perhaps he was destined for lesser things. Perhaps even trying to become a Jedi Knight was -
Another wincing curse escaped as the remote fired again, striking him in the leg this time. Frustration lashed out, a snapping motion of his arm flinging out a shockwave through the Force. Most Jedi could use such things to push objects; for Amos it was more of a gentle nudge, but against the hovering remote it was enough to disrupt it's balance, and throw off it's aim. Immediately Amos launched himself into a dive, letting the Force help spring him into motion, dodging clear just in time to evade a needle of energy clashing into the stonework he had just been standing upon. The dive became a roll, and progressed into a crouch; the remote became more frantic, responding to each failure to strike a valid target by shortening the interval between each discharge. It was a mechanism designed to increase the difficulty the more adept a Padawan became; for Amos it felt more like the remote getting agitated, trying harder to hit him. It span, wobbling on it's repulsorlifts, struggling to track the target that insisted on remaining in motion. Amos dove again, a glancing blow stinging across a shoulder and bicep; what had begun as mere evasion rapidly transformed into a need for escape - or at least a need for something, some way to give up on this pointless exercise and spare himself further humiliation.
Amos' eyes searched, surveying his surroundings; instinct drew his eyes to an open storage container across the way. A few more barely successful evasions carried him closer, but not fast enough - the remote struck his calf, the zap of energy enough to make it spasm, and throw him into a tumble. Instinct took hold again, reaching for the container; the Force wrapped itself around the discarded lid, whipping it back towards where he had fallen. Grasping one of the handles, he planted it firmly against the ground, perpendicular to the stonework as a crude barrier between him and remote. He felt the vibrations of each impact, but the haphazard shield held firm; Amos found his feet, staying low and swift as he approached, tiny whiffs of heated plastisteel assaulting his nostrils as shot after shot continued to harass his defenses. Advancement became a charge, strides becoming longer; mustering the Force once again he thrust himself upwards, springing from the ground into the air, arm lashing out towards the remote with a satisfying and resounding thwack that sent the infuriating device tumbling and spiralling into the distance. As it stopped and sought him out again, Amos held out his lightsaber in plain view, killing the power to the blade - the remote's signal to stop firing.
"I hate those damned things," Amos muttered, offering the container lid a casual appraising glance before tossing it aside.
His brow deepened into a scowl, jaw clenching as he tried to focus. That was what the instructors always said. Clear your mind. Focus. Listen to the whispers of the Force. As if it was simple. Effortless. Maybe for them it was. Maybe there was something wrong with him, something inferior. After all, some Jedi were stronger than others, and some were weaker. He remembered a lesson from Master Aamoran about how initiates became padawans in the days of the old order; about how some didn't master the skills or the teachings quickly enough, and found themselves in the Service Corps when they came of age. They became healers. Educators. Explorers. Perhaps that was more his speed. Perhaps he was destined for lesser things. Perhaps even trying to become a Jedi Knight was -
Another wincing curse escaped as the remote fired again, striking him in the leg this time. Frustration lashed out, a snapping motion of his arm flinging out a shockwave through the Force. Most Jedi could use such things to push objects; for Amos it was more of a gentle nudge, but against the hovering remote it was enough to disrupt it's balance, and throw off it's aim. Immediately Amos launched himself into a dive, letting the Force help spring him into motion, dodging clear just in time to evade a needle of energy clashing into the stonework he had just been standing upon. The dive became a roll, and progressed into a crouch; the remote became more frantic, responding to each failure to strike a valid target by shortening the interval between each discharge. It was a mechanism designed to increase the difficulty the more adept a Padawan became; for Amos it felt more like the remote getting agitated, trying harder to hit him. It span, wobbling on it's repulsorlifts, struggling to track the target that insisted on remaining in motion. Amos dove again, a glancing blow stinging across a shoulder and bicep; what had begun as mere evasion rapidly transformed into a need for escape - or at least a need for something, some way to give up on this pointless exercise and spare himself further humiliation.
Amos' eyes searched, surveying his surroundings; instinct drew his eyes to an open storage container across the way. A few more barely successful evasions carried him closer, but not fast enough - the remote struck his calf, the zap of energy enough to make it spasm, and throw him into a tumble. Instinct took hold again, reaching for the container; the Force wrapped itself around the discarded lid, whipping it back towards where he had fallen. Grasping one of the handles, he planted it firmly against the ground, perpendicular to the stonework as a crude barrier between him and remote. He felt the vibrations of each impact, but the haphazard shield held firm; Amos found his feet, staying low and swift as he approached, tiny whiffs of heated plastisteel assaulting his nostrils as shot after shot continued to harass his defenses. Advancement became a charge, strides becoming longer; mustering the Force once again he thrust himself upwards, springing from the ground into the air, arm lashing out towards the remote with a satisfying and resounding thwack that sent the infuriating device tumbling and spiralling into the distance. As it stopped and sought him out again, Amos held out his lightsaber in plain view, killing the power to the blade - the remote's signal to stop firing.
"I hate those damned things," Amos muttered, offering the container lid a casual appraising glance before tossing it aside.