A Lesson in Humility

[Lúka Jibral]

Life is change. Lúka wasn't sure who had first uttered that adage; it was something that sounded profound at first, but consideration quickly stripped it bare and revealed the pointless redundancy that lay beneath. Entropy, that was all it was: the steady, irreversible decline of a system in order to a system in chaos. Life was a descent, a hill that everyone tumbled down at various rates, all ultimately reaching the same conclusion at the foot of the mountain.

Lúka's path had brought him here: the Academy where the Imperial Knights forged raw cadets into agents of the Empire. At first it had felt like positive change, a chance to serve the Empire beyond the lonely isolation of the Maw and the Archives; a chance to be more than a mere custodian of forgotten prototypes and abandoned experiments. Now, he understood that he was a custodian of a different sort, the only variation being that some of the faulty units under his care came with the possibility of correction; the opportunity to perhaps do more than merely gather dust.

"That's enough, class."

He watched with calm detachment as the cadets disentangled themselves from sparring practice. This was his contribution, the application of all his years of study: instructing an assortment of children to defend themselves against the Jedi arts and other Force techniques they might encounter as Knights of the Empire. His pupils were a mixture, some Sensitive, some not; and some who lay somewhere between, truthfully one while pretending to be the other.

His gaze settled upon Cadet Redsun. His file was already committed to memory, but his face told the more fascinating story, marked by the colourful remnants of the incident that had brought him to Lúka's attention: an altercation with fellow students that seemed ordinary enough at first glance, but Lúka could feel the hidden reality lurking somewhere beneath.

"Cadet Redsun, you will remain behind. The rest of you are dismissed."

[Jeryd Redsun]

Jeryd lifted himself off the great sweaty man-mountain that was Terk Wombley, heady from an overwhelming cocktail of equal parts satisfaction and revulsion. Down there, the tang of body odour had been so potent, he could practically taste it. He was certain some of his opponent's fetid stench had rubbed off in the melee, and he gave himself a discreet sniff upon rising. It had been a tough exchange, trying to muscle his way around his opponent's thick rubbery limbs, while Wombley utilised every inch of his considerable girth advantage to resist him. On more than one occasion, upon losing his balance, Jeryd had been convinced he was about to be suffocated, buried, as he was, under myriad folds of flesh. In the end, it had been the careful application of his knowledge of pressure points that had brought Wombley, first, to his knees, and then, his face. And, with a knee dug into the kidney just so, Wombley remained still long enough to catch his breath, and yield.

That was when all the old aches came back, flooding into his muscles, and hardening like duracrete. Everywhere hurt, and, with each pang of discomfort, a story was told. He rolled his shoulders, and took solace in the fact that at least he was a fast healer. That was just good genes, he told himself, over and over again. But he hadn't healed fast enough to erase the discoloration on his face, the swelling around his eye, or his split lip. No-one bothered to ask questions, of course. They knew better than to bother him, or perhaps, they didn't even care. It's not like Jeryd gave his fellow cadets reason to be concerned about his well-being, after all. Whatever. He was fine.

The summons, when it came, wasn't a complete surprise. Knight Jibral remained an unknown quantity to him, unlike Lady Vissica and Baron Ketterzau - those he understood, for better or worse. If he had to guess, Jibral probably fell in the middle, between them on the instructor scale of cruel taskmaster and fracking legend. If only the Baron could helm every class he was in, he thought idly, as he gathered his things. Slowly, he approached Knight Jibral at the front of the room, taking long enough for all the nosy stragglers to finally vanish. Whatever he had in mind for him, it couldn't be that bad: Jibral's focus was on martial skills, and Jeryd always aced that dren. If more PT was in order - tedious, though it may be - at least he was dressed for it. He wiped the sheen of sweat from his brow, and snapped at attention before his superior.

"Sir. You wanted to see me, sir?"

[Lúka Jibral]

Lúka regarded the display of military protocol with mostly veiled amusement. It had been beaten into him from a young age, he expected; not just at Carida or in the Sub-Adult Group, but perhaps at home as well. Lúka had learned through observation and study that a family such as Cadet Redsun's often led to children prefabricated for the service themselves: his parents were not so high in the hierarchy as to instill their son with rebellious entitlement, but seemed to have earned through hard work and dedication enough prestige to negate the kind of cynicism and resentment that spawned from parents in the lower ranks. Such a pliable candidate for officer status must have had quite the potential career ahead of him, had certain revelations not placed him on a different path.

"I did."

Knight Jibral chose to echo the clipped and official manner that Redsun adopted. Clearly this was the manner in which he was programmed to interact with figures of authority, and so acting in accordance with that pattern was of course the most expedient path. He let his brows knit together for a moment in quiet consideration, studying the young man, hoping to understand what was going on behind those eyes.

"I presume you know what this is about."

It was a rhetorical question; the Cadet had no doubt been waiting for the other shoe to drop in the wake of his little altercation with fellow students. Such a thing would have been a serious matter at a military academy, but here among the Imperial Knights things were regarded in a different light. Violence was the weapon that all Knights were trained to wield: if it was the most effective means to a desired end, then so be it. If Cadets chose to fight each other, then congratulations to the victor.

Lúka found the monochromatic thinking irksome. Force was a perfectly viable tool, yes, but it was often better implemented at the point of a scalpel than at the flat of a hammer, and was thoroughly wasted when it was used blindly. The Cadet had engaged with some of his fellow students, and lost. Why? What was his motivation? What end had he sought to achieve through those means? Why had such a promising and adept student failed? Most instructors dismissed failure as failure, but to Jibral it was merely data. Intelligence. Insight.

He paced away from the Cadet slowly, leaving him to stand as he was, seeking out a more comfortable perch for himself. Settling into his chair, he reclined backwards, offering a faint shrug as he made himself comfortable.

"Consider this a debriefing, Cadet. Talk me through the engagement. Objective. Opposition. Tactics."

[Jeryd Redsun]

"Sir..."

The word trickled out, sounding too much like a question. Jeryd couldn't help it, couldn't stop himself from speaking in his state of surprise. His words had struck him like jabs: fast, relentless, and unavoidable. In truth, Jeryd didn't quite know what to say, and it bothered him that he'd made it so blatantly obvious with a moment of hesitation that was being drawn out into one long pronounced pause. Shit.

"Sir, the enemy had superior numbers, sir." His eyes remained fixed on the wall behind Knight Jibral, "Three in total, sir."

It felt like he'd just taken a step off the edge of a cliff, and his insides were in free fall. Jeryd had sworn to himself he would not tell a soul about what had happened in the fresher. He went in, looking good in his newly-pressed jumpsuit, and came out, covered in blood. His own blood. No questions were asked, then. Why was he answering them, now? He reconsidered the man opposite him. With his implication, Knight Jibral had given Jeryd the option to come clean, or act clueless. The latter was an unacceptable retreat from the truth, given the black eye he was sporting. And, so, the evidence had been placed into his hands, and an explanation was expected of him. It had explicitly not been a question. Shit.

"I attempted to eliminate the threat with blows intended to disable the enemy: minimum force for maximum effect. The most significant threat was indeed disabled, but, together, they also had the advantage of experience, and... and..." Another damning pause. He had been told to consider it a debriefing, and there was something about the way Knight Jibral had spoken that had put him at ease, and had made him forthcoming - when the words allowed.

"Unconventional weaponry," he finished, with reluctance.

[Lúka Jibral]

Unconventional weaponry. An interesting choice of phrase. It sounded like something the Imperial Security Bureau might hold a presentation on at a security and tactics seminar; veiled code for what the Imperial hierarchy had always been reluctant to admit was a widespread concern: Force users.

Lúka supposed the Empire's attitude made sense in a way; and of course Cadet Redsun was on the exact same wavelength. At the fall of the Republic, the Jedi had been branded as traitors, an entire order of protectors who had turned against the government they served. They had been executed in short order, and the Empire had become the galaxy's saviour from such an insidious danger. That status was entirely dependent on the Jedi being gone, and for two decades the Empire had, for the most part, maintained that appearance, relying on a secret cadre of Inquisitors to seek out and extinguish even the faintest potential for a resurgence. But then Skywalker had happened, and everything had changed. The Jedi were back, and allied with the Rebellion no less. For some that had cemented their status as traitors, falling in with the same treacherous aliens whose Jedi-led crusade had helped kill the Republic in the first place. For others though, it added credence to the idea of an Alliance to Restore the Republic; and the more Jedi that crept out from under rocks and within shadows, the more dangerous that fate appeared.

And so here they were. Imperial Knights. Jedi, in all but role and philosophy. The Empire's Force-wielding enforcers. And here Cadet Redsun was, refusing to arm himself as such.

"I've seen your file, Cadet." It was hardly something that needed pointing out: he was an instructor, of course he had. The ramifications thereof however, apparently needed a little jostling before they fully sank in. "I know the reason you were transferred here from Carida."

A moment of silence followed, a moment for Redsun to process; and then Lúka's arm lashed out, a wave of Force rippling out from him like a whip, sweeping the Cadet's legs out from beneath him and depositing firmly on the training room floor.

Lúka was on his feet again, effortlessly, pacing calmly towards Redsun with his hands clasped behind his back.

"What I don't know is why you choose to handicap yourself, when we both know you have the potential for so much more."

[Jeryd Redsun]

"Nrgh!"

The surprise of having the floor pulled away from under his feet lasted only long enough for him to register the fresh blossom of pain in his arse. The judder sent a shockwave through his body that shook all the sore spots from their slumber, each one a sharp exclamation point to punctuate his instructor's words. Jeryd hissed in response, and rose with telling lethargy. In his mind, he was transported back to the cold fresher floor, to the sound of harsh jeering voices, and the taste of blood. If Knight Jibral knew so much about him, he found himself wondering just how much of the altercation he already knew, and how much of this was just a test. He would not name names. He would not.

"Sir," he said, regaining his composure. His heart was racing, "I... I'm not sure I follow, sir."

[Lúka Jibral]

Much as his arms urged to be folded across his chest, Lúka kept them clasped behind his back. It made the sigh that followed slightly harder to execute, but he achieved it none the less.

"You have a lot of potential, Cadet."

Another urge, to pace back and forth like a predatory animal before cornered prey. Another impulse ignored, boots remaining gently planted in place. He knew the sensations, new their origin. The eagerness. The impulse. The desire to capitalise on this opportunity to act and unleash. But that was not the strategy here. That impatient eagerness would not serve him well; nor the Cadet. He bundled the urges into a tight knot, and crunched them into nothingness between momentarily clenched teeth.

"Your performance and your test scores at Carida were quite adequate. Perhaps you might one day have found your way here on merit alone. But that is not the case. You are here for one simple reason. You are here because of a positive result during our screening process."

A faint edge crept into Lúka's voice: not quite threat, more of an insistence to be heard; perhaps with a dash of bitterness at the familiar sentiment.

"Your value to the Empire is now singular. Beyond that potential, little else matters. For better or worse, your career in the Imperial service depends entirely on the ability of your instructors to hone you into an effective weapon. We cannot do that, I cannot do that, if you refuse to admit to yourself what you are."

The Knight's eyes had turned piercing, staring into Jeryd's psyche searching for a flicker, a glimmer, a spark of something that could be capitalised on.

"Why did you lose, Cadet?"

[Jeryd Redsun]

Though he remained as still as stone, there was something about the way Knight Jibral spoke that gave Jeryd the distinct impression he was being stalked by a hungry wolf. Each statement, a sniff at the air, or a change in direction, drawing him ever closer to the secret buried deep inside. Jeryd wanted to close his eyes, he wanted to turn around, anything to shut him out and pretend he was somewhere else. Instead, he was rooted to the spot, snared in a trap of his own design.

When Knight Jibral described his test scores as 'adequate,' Jeryd felt his posture inflate a fraction: a lift in the shoulders, a swelling of the chest. Imperial officers were not known for their generosity, and were discouraged from showering cadets with praise, lest they become complacent - there was always room to improve. Jeryd knew this because, first, he believed in it, and, secondly, because his test scores were outstanding and he had been fast-tracked for officer training himself. He had been ready for that. He had been ready his whole life. But there was no preparing for this...

"Your value to the Empire is now singular."

The words pierced him like a shard of ice to the stomach. It was the same sentiment that Lady Vissica had expressed to him on his first day, and she had made his position abundantly clear. He was an Imperial soldier, he reminded himself, a tool of the Galactic Empire to be used however required. What was required of him, however, was unthinkable. He couldn't. And yet, he had to. How many more superior officers would it take before he accepted this? How many more would it take before it was too late? If he didn't soon accept... No. No.

Under Knight Jibral's piercing gaze, he felt the contents of his stomach churning like the tide of a stormy sea, and there was a tension in his legs that ached to be released, either in a pitiful state of collapse, or in an equally pitiful sprint out of the door. If his father could see him now: a fractured shell of what he once was. Frack, he felt sick. Ahead, he could see the threshold of his own fight-or-flight instinct bearing down on him at speed. He took a breath, ready to react, when his instructor pitched him a soft ball question that left him deflated with relief.

"Sir. I lost because my opponent had a tactical advantage I had not anticipated, sir."

[Lúka Jibral]

"Why? You know the kind of student this Academy attracts. You possess that same advantage yourself. Why are you blind to it?"

Lúka fought to keep the frustration from his voice. Had he been like this? This how his Master had felt, contending with his own stubbornness? Would his efforts to help Redsun see the truth be as futile as Aamoran's had been with him? He cringed a little at the remembered name, and the memories that came with it. And yet -

His demeanour changed, attention drifting away from the Cadet, gazing almost wistfully into the distance. "I trained not far from here," he mused aloud, trying to find his bearings within the superstructure of the Citadel, and in Coruscant's greater geography. "It's little more than a fractured ruin these days, of course, but I still remember my days as a Padawan at the Jedi Temple."

He paused for a moment, observing how the Cadet reacted to the admission. It took all kinds to form the ranks of the Imperial Knights. Some were adepts with freshly woken abilities. Some were relics of the old Inquisitors, gentrified and dressed up nice so they could mix with the civilized folk. Some were captured fugitives, a generation of sons, daughters, and students running around claiming to be Jedi. A rare handful could make that claim legitimately. Lúka wasn't sure how many of the Knights had evaded the Temple's destruction; he didn't much care. They were all Knights now. All unified and the same, regardless of where they had originated. With luck, that was something the Cadet might one day accept for himself.

"I served with the Inquisitors since the Purge, of course. I've been an Imperial longer than you've been alive. Even so, there are certain things I recall."

His hands parted from each other for a moment, and he turned, reaching out with an arm and the Force to drag his chair over towards him. He positioned himself differently this time, perched on the edge of his seat, elbows resting atop his knees as he leaned forward to continue his passive scrutiny of the Cadet.

"There was an Instructor who taught me when I was young. He had this phrase he repeated, over and over. Do or do not: there is no try. It infuriated me. It meant nothing; and every Jedi I asked, every Instructor, every fellow student, they gave the same non-answer. It was a truth that I would have to discover for myself."

A quiet breath breathed out a cloud of residual frustration that he didn't quite realise he was still holding on to.

"It has stuck with me, all this time. I've considered every angle, and I believe it comes down to this: Confidence is Key. If you doubt, if you hold back, if you do not dedicate yourself fully to the success that you can - nay, must - achieve, then you will fail. Whether you die, others die, or the enemy wins is irrelevant: what matters is that you will have failed. You will have failed yourself. You will have failed the Knights. You will have failed the Empire."

He leaned back a little, squaring his shoulders, a little more formality creeping into his words.

"Do, or do not, Cadet. Be the weapon the Empire needs, or do not. Embrace yourself, embrace your tactical advantage; or get the hell out of this Academy. The Knights do not have time for students who do not; nor for those who merely try. Success is all that matters, and you will not achieve it if you do not commit with every fibre."

[Jeryd Redsun]

The quiet revelation of Knight Jibral's past rocked the foundations of Jeryd's perfect posture. In an uncommon lapse of protocol, he made eye contact with his superior, just a flicker of a glance, but one loaded with surprise and alarm. And, born of some innate defensive reflex, every muscle in his body tensed in unison at the mere mention of the Jedi. His mistake was corrected immediately, and while, outwardly, he appeared a model of discipline, on in the inside, his thoughts were in free fall. Another Jedi walked the halls of the Imperial Citadel. It wasn't right!

With considerable effort, Jeryd tempered his revulsion. Lashing out was a one-way ticket to court martial, or worse. There was nothing to be gained down that path, whereas the path that took him in Knight Jibral's direction, also led to answers. Answers to questions like: "How old are you, Knight Jibral?" and "Do you moisturise in the tears of infant children?" As impulse gave way to reason, Jeryd reconsidered his superior officer, and the 30 years that had transpired since the Great Jedi Purge. It was a struggle to reconcile those two, almost incompatible, pieces of information, and while he tried, Jeryd dismissed the old Jedi teachings as superstitious drivel. He had no patience for heresy.

It was when Knight Jibral related those strange and abstract words to his role as an Imperial Knight Cadet that Jeryd started paying attention. Then, there was something that his instructor said that turned him rigid, as if struck by lightning; a throwaway remark that shone like a beacon, illuminating possibilities he'd never seem before. It kindled just a spark of hope, but it was enough to make him bold, and snatch at one last tantalising thread of opportunity. His tongue rolled over his lips like a sandcrawler climbing the highest dune.

"Sir," he began, careful to remain eyes-front, "Are you saying I have a choice? That I... don't have to become an Imperial Knight, sir?"

[Lúka Jibral]

An unexpected interpretation. A faint whisper of an aborted laugh crept from Lúka's nose, the corner of his mouth tugging into a faint ghost of a smile. The Cadet was nothing if not unflinchingly dedicated to his entrenched position; and while for some that may have been a source of frustration, Lúka found it oddly reassuring. The stubbornly opinionated often made the best allies and assets, once you'd found the right angle and leverage to realign their beliefs.

"Of course you have a choice."

Lúka shrugged, treating the statement as abundantly obvious. So many people clung to the notion that they were left without choices; that life, or the galaxy, or the Force left them with no options but the path ahead. It was a fallacy. Everyone had a choice. Perhaps not all of the options were created equal. Perhaps the alternative was so deeply unpalatable that one could not bear to take it. The choice though was always there. Live, or die. Kill, or be killed. Fight, or flee. Accept the consequences, or run from them.

Do, or do not.

"If you so choose, you can withdraw yourself from training at this Academy. You can abandon the prospect of becoming an Imperial Knight. But as I said, your value to the Empire is now singular. Your receptiveness to the Force is the only thing the Empire cares about. As a member of the Knights, you have value. You have purpose. As an officer, or an administrator, your singular value is meaningless. Worse, it poses a potential risk. How can you serve your Empire safely, when a stray thought or accidental application of your gifts might strip thoughts from the minds of your superiors, and compromise operational security? What happens the next time you fight with your comrades and, lacking the training to properly control and channel your potential, you subconsciously lash out with the Force, killing your fellow soldiers and costing the Empire millions of credits in wasted training expense?"

He fell silent for a moment, studying Jeryd's features. He could feel the conflict within the Cadet. He could perceive how off balance he had become. He watched the way Jeryd's thoughts swirled through his mind from notion to notion, a kaleidoscope of suppressed and repressed emotions.

"Force users are dangerous. We are a risk to those around us. In the Knights, the Empire has a purpose for us. We can still serve the greater good despite what we are. But I think we both know -"

Lúka allowed a hint of sadness to tug at the edge of his expression.

"- that the Empire will not suffer a Force user to live among them. So that is your choice, Cadet. Do serve the Empire. Do have a purpose. Do make your situation mean something. Save lives. Protect those you care for. Or, do not. Walk away from this Academy, and wait for the Knight you could have been to come and protect the Empire from you."

[Jeryd Redsun]

Piece by piece, Jeryd felt the hope, that he'd guarded so jealously, slip in broken shards through his fingers. Regardless of however Knight Jibral dressed it up, the truth was that there was no choice, and it hit him like body blows. His jaw clenched, biting down on imagined pain, and he sucked shallow desperate breaths through his nose to keep his emotions in check. If he stared at the wall any harder, he was convinced he'd burn holes in it. And, considering everything that he'd just been told, he had to wonder if that was actually a possibility.

When the punches ceased, Knight Jibral said something that twisted in him like a vibroblade. Had the floor fallen away from his feet? His heart set off at a gallop, to race from the landslide of comprehension that bore down on him at breakneck speed, and his brow furrowed to hold back a deluge of thoughts from pouring out. To his credit, he kept his footing. He was still. It only seemed like the world was crashing down around him. So he took a deep breath to calm himself.

"Sir..."

The words became lodged in his throat. What else was there to say? He could become an Imperial Knight, and spend the rest of his grotesque existence in service of the Empire, or he could just vanish, forever. There was no value to be gained from a life cut short. No-one deserved that. His whole body felt like it was sculpted from lead, about to collapse under its own weight at any moment. Another deep breath.

"Sir, I want to serve the Empire, sir." Just saying it aloud returned the proud lift to his shoulders and chest, "That is all I have ever wanted, sir."

[Lúka Jibral]

"Well then."

Lúka rose once again, something that almost seemed lika a satisfied smile gracing his features. He was too calculated for that, of course: too much a student of human and non-human nature to mistake this situation for a victory yet. A hand slowly raised, flicking almost dismissively through the air in the Cadet's direction. The Force complied with the impulse, a shove of pressure directed at the Cadet's shoulder.

"Serving the Empire is easy. All you have to do -"

Jibral's arms twisted beside him, wrapping themselves around thin air as if twisting for purchase on a large rope. He drew them towards him and then thrust forward, adding a single step, whole body channelling a cascading wave of Force, sending it surging towards Redsun.

"- is be what you are, and push back. Show me what you're made of!"

He thumped his chest and then flung his arms wide, making himself an open target. Jibral's eyes studied the Cadet, wide and daring, thick with scrutiny and judgement. All the while, four words repeated in his mind, in the same raspy voice of that Jedi Instructor. Fear leads to anger."

"Show me you're not the disappointing failure that you seem."

[Jeryd Redsun]

The initial shove came as such a surprise that Jeryd forgot to regain his posture. His brow knitted, studying the spot where he believed he'd been struck, but nothing had been thrown. Nothing physical, at least. It was an unnerving sensation, and one that was only too fresh in his mind from his unfortunate skirmish, the night previous. Wary, he sought out Knight Jibral, to make sense of the renewed aggression. Was that a smile!?

"Sir, I..."

It was too late. Already he was winding up a second attack, and this time it looked serious. Jeryd's heart started to pound against his chest as if it were trying to escape what was to follow, and, in sharing the sentiment, he ignored the advice of every combat instructor he'd ever had, and retreated a step. Invisible, the wave caught him off balance, it drove through him like water, pushing him backwards, even as he scrambled to regain his footing. He'd been made to look a fool, and it seemed his superior had only just begun. Stars! That look on his face...

"I don't know how, sir!" He blurted, strangled by the fear of what he asked, and of what he knew was to come. This time, he braced himself, "Sir, what do I do!?"

[Lúka Jibral]

"You know what to do."

More telekinetic thrusts were sent; pokes and jabs, nothing severe, just enough to keep the Cadet on edge and off balance. This was progress. This was a step in the right direction. Redsun was panicked. Panic was good. Panic stopped your mind from overthinking. It awoke your instincts. Fight or flight. For a mere mortal, that adrenaline could work wonders. For someone sensitive to the Force, it could do so much more.

"Deep down in your soul, you know how this works. It's an instinct. Stop thinking. Stop trying."

A shove aimed at an ankle this time. A shoulder. A knee. Pushing Redsun off balance was not an effect, it was direct action. A nudge here. A shove there. A stray object hoisted itself from the ground and catapulted in from the corner of Jeryd's vision. Each time the Cadet reached out to retaliate, copying Lúka's motions, the Force knocked the hand aside. Lúka could feel the Cadet's emotions growing more intense. Good. Good.

"Don't fight it, Jeryd. Fight me. Make me stop. Show me the Empire isn't wasting it's time on you."

[Jeryd Redsun]

"I'm not a waste of time!" Jeryd snapped, as he watched an airborne datapad sail overhead.

Something had changed. He was getting better at predicting Knight Jibral's attacks, perhaps there was a pattern, or perhaps he was just getting faster. Sometimes, he dodged and dived to avoid projectiles that he hadn't even seen. Of course, he couldn't be sure that wasn't just paranoia making him throw himself about the place, because Jibral's unrelenting assault didn't give him a moment to think. And, true to form, he felt a jab to the stomach that was just strong enough to make him double over. The air was getting thin; he could feel the blood throbbing in his ears like Iridonian dance music. Something rather insubstantial hit him on the back, and in his fever of panic and frustration, he couldn't tell if it had been another random object plucked from the room, or one of Jibral's invisible attacks. Mostly, the pain was just the echo of older, much harder blows, but the fear remained that he was going to catch the corner of some jagged object to the temple, and that would be the end of it.

"Stop!" he yelled, clawing at his incorporeal enemies, "I just need- shit! Just a minute to- ah! Stop fracking hitting me!!"

It rose up in him like a fire, the anger; burning in his chest, searing the inside of his throat, hissing and crackling like red hot molten rock that pumped through his veins, and pooled behind his eyes. Scalding white light encroached on the outskirts of his vision, blinding him to all but his singular tormentor: the bastard, Jibral. He stalked the tunnel towards him, slowly closing the distance, while ducking, dodging, and absorbing everything he had to throw at him. Who was he to say he was unworthy of the Empire? This... Jedi! He had offered the Empire his life: it had taken everything, and it still wasn't enough! What more could he give!? He could feel himself coming undone, like the very fibres that held him together had become frayed, and were about to snap. It would all be worth it if he could reach out and... and...

[Lúka Jibral]

Stop hitting me.

Lúka rewarded himself with a small smile, watching as painful moment by painful moment, Redsun pried open his potential. It was like watching a prisoner dig their way to freedom with their fingernails; achingly slow, yet inch by inch they advanced. And now Jeryd too was advancing, drawing closer to Jibral against the tide of what Lúka threw his way. Given enough time, he might eventually make it close enough to the Knight to do something. What, Lúka was not sure, was not convinced that even the Cadet was sure, and was almost curious enough for that answer to let it play out. But no, things would go differently.

"Very well."

As the words left him, the onslaught stopped, suddenly enough for Jeryd's ongoing efforts to add a stumble to his step. Lúka waited only a moment before mustering a sigh, reaching to the small of his back and pulling free a modest slugthrower pistol. He glanced at it for a moment, considering the stubby weapon with its extended barrel before aiming it directly at the Cadet. Most relevant was the amunition, however: solid projectiles yes, but more importantly, something that threatened far more hurt and halm than mere bullets.

Betrayal.

Lúka let a sigh of disappointment escape him, adding a shake of his head. "I had high hopes for you," he offered, "But I suppose in the end you chose do not, and I must respect that."

Barely allowing the Cadet a moment for realisation to dawn, Lúka cocked back the hammer, and fired.

[Jeryd Redsun]

In the same instant, Knight Jibral's arm was wrenched aside, and his shot was sent off course. The phlegmy cough of the weapon was punctuated by the sound of shattered glass, and then, silence.

Jeryd stood, frozen in a state of shock. The appearance of the slugthrower had the effect of ice water on the glowing coals of his temper. And there, between blazing anger and icy fear, all of his senses sharpened to a point that was tangible, like a spear in his hands. Instinct had compelled him to act, in one desperate bid to save his own life, and it worked. His hand was trembling. He lowered it at last.

"You tried to kill me?"

It wasn't really a question. Knight Jibral's intentions had been abundantly clear. Jeryd stared at him, scrutinising for the missing piece of the puzzle. In his mind, he played it over: how casually Jibral had turned the weapon on him, how he'd looked at him, like he was just a faulty piece of machinery, how he hadn't hesitated to fire. So, that was how the Empire disposed of the detritus. His expression hardened. He would not be cast aside.

Before Knight Jibral could respond, Jeryd shoved at the air with both hands. In doing so, the fractured dam was rent asunder, unleashing the full force of every bottled fear, resentment, and regret he'd buried deep inside. And it crashed forth, towards his would-be murderer, with all the unrelenting force of a tsunami.

[Lúka Jibral]

Lúka had been prepared. Braced. Ready. Or at least, so he had believed. The reality however exceeded his expectations, the intendity of the wave of inertia that Redsun sent cascading his way catching the Knight genuinely by surprise. Razor sharp instincts urged him to act; to lean into the thrust; to place his fingertips obn the ground, forging a low and stable tripod - one hand free for a lightsaber of course - that Redsun could push harmlessly across the training room floor. He ignored those impulses, letting the impact catch him fully: the Cadet deserved the satisfaction, and needed to see the potential he'd just tapped into.

Jibral didn't rush to stand; a moment was taken to catch his breath, a smile and a chuckle breaching his emotional security cordon as the edge of a hand dabbed at his lip, trying to determine if the dampness was saliva or blood.

"Believe it or not," Lúka offered, extracting himself from his prone position, "You just made a choice. A split second, instinctive choice perhaps; but you chose to do, and look what happened. Look what you were capable of."

Rather than stand, Lúka settled himself into a comfortable meditative position, the antagonistic posture of moments ago replaced with an air of calm that was perhaps equally infuriating.

"You also just learned one of the most important lessons this Academy can teach. The Jedi in their day would have insisted that the best way to harness the Force is through serenity and control. The rest of us, we know that emotion is a far more potent source of focus. Clearing your mind of distractions is a losing battle; but flooding it with fear, pain, and anger, that offers a clarity and focus all of its own. You are afraid of what you are, and what you might be capable of: but look at what that fear has yielded; look at the strength you can now bring to bear on the Empire's behalf. You saved yourself; think of all the others you can now protect. Think of all the enemies of the Empire whose fear of you can now be earned."

He let silence fall, basking in the maelstrom of emotions that the Cadet slowly radiated into the Force around him, washing over Lúka like ripples on a pond. A glimpse of something. An opportunity. One final pressure point to exploit.

"I knew you had it in you, Jeryd. You should be proud. Just as I am."

[Jeryd Redsun]

At the sight of his instructor being upended and planted firmly on his arse, Jeryd's steely advance faltered mid-step, drawing from him a rather alarmed, "Oh, shit."

When it was revealed that his attack had done little more than knock the wind out of him, he felt a surge of relief that crashed against the walls of his indignant fury. In self-defence or not, if he'd killed a superior officer, he suspected that the outcome would've been all too similar to what would've happened, had he not acted in the first place. Still, he'd wanted to at least hurt the bastard. Rather than hurt, however, Knight Jibral seemed... pleased.

He sat like they were about to partake in morning tea, and deconstructed what had just happened like bullet points on a lesson plan. Jeryd could scarcely listen; adrenaline charged every muscle with electricity, and his mind was racing so fast, he only caught snippets of what Knight Jibral had to say. Who was this man? Where had the taunting bastard gone? Was he still there, buried just below the surface of civil tranquility? Jeryd felt the confusion twisting his face into something unflattering, and armed himself with a salvo of questions in desperate need of answers.

Then Jibral said something that cut through the fog of confusion like scalpel, and opened him up like a wound. His mouth fell open, and in that moment, he hated this man even more than he had when he wanted to wrap his fingers around his throat. Not for the pain he'd caused, no. But for the swell of warmth that had just rose to the surface, unbidden, and at odds with every other turbulent emotion that was pulling him apart. He had to recover, to speak, if nothing else but to save face.

"You're proud?" he said, thick with disbelief. "Are you-!? You just tried to shoot me!"

Then, at last, he remembered himself, "...Sir."

[Lúka Jibral]

"I didn't try to do anything: I shot you." The shrug was invisible, inacted, but definitely there. "In doing so, I forced you into finally making your choice."

Lúka drew in a steady breath an released it slowly, eyes closed, reaching into the depths of his mind for old pain and unsatisfied anger. He mounded them beneath him, pressing down against the training floor like the impulse of a repulsorlift, a cushion of Force levitating him gradually upwards until he could place his legs beneath him. As before, Lúka's hands clasped behind him, and once his eyes snapped open the calm instructor of minutes before had fully returned.

"You think too much, Cadet. You entertain possibilities; hope for hidden alternatives. You want this to all be a mistake, a bad dream you can wake from and go back to being the officer candidate you once were." A tiny shake of Jibral's head interrupted his words. "There is no hope for that. The past is gone. You are what you are."

A contemplative furrow formed on his brow. "Those hopes and considerations, that indecision? It will get you killed. Worse, it will get others killed. But you are bullheaded and stubborn: this is not a lesson I could simply explain, and expect you to understand. You would listen, and then you would try: and we would gain nothing. You had to see for yourself, feel for yourself, the difference between the two. If this remained a classroom, if this remained a lesson, a test that you strove to achieve the best possible grades on, you would have continued to try. Survival meanwhile? A do or do not binary in its purest form."

[Jeryd Redsun]

The sight of Knight Jibral floating upwards on nothing but a bed of air struck him like something from a work of fiction. Indeed, he remembered a story from The Grand Adventures of Casper Moridian, in which Casper and his faithful companion, BOTO, discovered a settlement of droid monks that generated repulsor fields to levitate whenever they prayed. The smirk that attempted to betray his composure was immediately banished.

When Knight Jibral spoke, Jeryd found he recognised him again. This was the man who helmed lessons, a model of Imperial confidence and propriety. What he spoke of, however, was far more personal and cutting than Jeryd had anticipated. And it was all true. His dream of becoming an officer in the Imperial Army died the moment he was handed that hateful piece of flimsi. The results are positive. That was what they told him, in their woefully inadequate way. Now, thanks to Knight Jibral, his situation had been made abundantly clear. And, as he considered the space around him, and all that had just transpired within it, he realised they were terms he'd already accepted.

Nausea passed over him like a wave of rancid swamp water. He swallowed hard to stop himself from reeling. His eyes widened, a reflex, as he shook himself out of it; they darted, pinging over each of the new truths that had been revealed to him.

"I think I understand," he said. Then, with a sudden glance at his instructor, he amended his words, "I understand. I cannot serve the Empire on half-measures. If this is the duty that has been asked of me... I will perform it to the fullest."

A breath to steel his nerves.

"Thank you, sir."

[Lúka Jibral]

The smile found Lúka's expression again; but this time it was targeted, and the meaning behind it was deliberate. Satisfaction. Recognition. A non-verbal variation of the kind of praise and positive reinforcement that a young man like Jeryd Redsun craved.

Plan executed, and situation resolved, Lúka allowed himself to feel relieved. While he had been confident since the outset that his strategy was the best course of action, it's success had by no means been assured. At times, it had been just as likely that he would have been stood here talking to an emergency medical team as the Cadet: it had been why the slugthrower had been aimed at Redsun's shoulder and not center mass. A calculated risk. Extensively calculated. As much as he had encouraged Redsun to be decisive, and to react to the Force's impulses that he comprehended as his subconscious, Lúka was the exact opposite beneath the surface. Every situation was an equation. Every decision was measured, the alternatives weighed. That was what happened when you took a creature such as he from it's habitat of strategy and theory, and placed it in a situation such as this. Life became little more than a series of calculated encounters, and considered experiments; and Cadet Redsun was merely the latest successful test subject.

For a moment, Lúka envied the young man; envied the satisfaction that must come from the kind of praise that Lúka was deliberately providing. The more he considered himself, the more he wondered if he was the same type of individual, and wondered how different he might be if that appreciation ever stopped being denied to him. The Cadet's words offered him the tiniest sample.

"You are -"

Welcome. That was the word that wanted to follow. A moment of humanity. A moment of connection. The sentence began with more softness than was typical; Lúka forgot to modulate his tone properly, forgot to perform the words his mind scripted for him to speak. He rectified that oversight quickly.

"- dismissed, Cadet," he finished, barely skipping a beat.