A Lesson in Restraint

[Lúka Jibral]

Lúka prowled back and forth like some kind of predator, circling the edge of the sparring ring that had been crudely drawn out on the training room floor. Today's session was almost over, most of the Cadets already dispersing to collect their belongings and make themselves presentable for their next lesson; but two Cadets were still hard at it, trading blows with the makeshift weapons that had been the subject of Lúka's teaching today.

There were plenty of instructors who were capable and willing to train the next class of Imperial Knights how to hold their own with a lightsaber, a staff, a blaster, a starfighter; everyone received training to some degree in those basic skills. Lúka had a somewhat more ambiguous mandate: his classes were about application; about taking those skills and applying them to the kinds of situations that an Imperial Knight might find themselves in. All the technique in the world couldn't help you in a fight against an opponent who refused to fight fair; and so Lúka trained his students to take that initiative first, to bend and break the rules to their advantage. His classes weren't about finesse or skill, they were about achieving results even though you lacked both.

Two female Cadets clashed fearlessly and tirelessly with crude weapons that they had selected from the assortment of viable options that Lúka had scattered around the training room; items that an Imperial Knight might find available if they were ever disarmed during a mission. This like-minded pair had both raided the janitorial cart that Lúka had strategically tucked away in the back corner of the training room: one armed with a wooden broom handle, the other with the metallic handle of a mop. Despite the surface logic making the metal object seem like the preferable choice, the mop handle was metal and narrower, and now pockmarked with dents from the broom's thicker, solid, and heftier impacts. The two had been going back and forth for minutes now, long after the other Cadets had defeated each other; their skills were a testament to whomever had instructed them, and if they had both been armed the same, Lúka would have had a hard time predicting a victor between the two.

The crunch of splintering wood confirmed his suspicions, however. Conscious of the damage her own weapon was taking, the mop Cadet had begun concentrating her strikes, not attempting to hit her rival directly, but rather targeting the same spot on the broom handle, again and again. Whether the broom Cadet was unaware, or was simply trying to brute force her way to victory before her weapon lost integrity, Lúka wasn't sure; but now it was irrelevant. A moment of surprised and satisfied hesitation halted the mop Cadet's onslaught, leaving the broom Cadet standing with two broken halves in her hands.

What happened next could have easily been missed if Lúka had blinked too many times. A punch was thrown, legs were swept out, and suddenly the sparring ring devolved into chaos and carnage as the Cadets tore at each other in a tangle of limbs, blows, and swearing. If Lúka had been armed with a whistle, he would have unleashed it furiously; instead he was forced to act directly, surging into the fray and tearing the two Cadets apart from each other with a little assistance from the Force. The Cadet with the now-broken nose was compelled to stay on the ground by a firm hand against her shoulder; the other needed a little extra convincing, shoved backwards a few paces and held in place for a moment by a thrust of Force from Lúka's outstretched hand.

"Hey! Hey!" Lúka snapped, a rare outburst of emotion and anger thrown out into the room in the hopes of shocking a little obedience out of the two Cadets. He mustered a scowl to throw at the Cadet in temporary stasis. "Walk it off," he instructed sternly, releasing the Force's grip on her and waiting a moment to be sure that she complied. His attention turned back to the more damaged Cadet, tilting her head back and side to side with a finger under her chin, inspecting the severity of the damage.

[Firenne Khapst]

It was not enough.

It was never enough.

Her body moved as if it were on automatic pilot, movements that could perhaps best be described as efficient. There was nothing of grace or beauty being employed, but then, for all of her so-called abilities, she'd not learned to employ such arts. Firenne had simply learned to survive, and spending years alone on Korriban in exile had whittled her down past the once artificial woman she'd been. The one focused on such simple matters of artifice as cosmetics and luxury clothing had been left behind.

Now she was simply brutal, focused only on the tremors of pain strong enough to sense through the Force.

On Korriban, with it's millennia of history steeped in darkness and conquest, she was suffused in such vast amounts of dark and painful sensations that it had become like a drug. Which meant that leaving the planet and her red sandstone haven was akin to the severest form of withdrawal.

Having her Force connection ripped out would have been kinder than learning to live again outside the comfortable flood that was the former Sith homeworld. She did what she had always done, however - she'd survived.

A long, low hiss that lingered somewhere beyond mere pain escaped her lips, as the Cadet with the hefty broom handle cracked a blow across the knuckles of her left hand. Firenne clasped her fingers around the metal mop handle a bit tighter, savoring the pain and letting it serve as fuel for the now blazing fire in her mind. The Force skittered through her veins, like so many insects seeking solace in the darkness, and her movements became more fluid. Eyes narrowed and darkened as she focused, focusing each sharp strike on a single point of the broom handle.

She shifted across the crudely marked out circle, alternately pushing the other Cadet and letting herself be moved in turn. It served it's purpose as the wood soon splintered and the other Cadet let the surprise register across her features and still her body for a moment.

It was finally enough.

Limbs became entangled as blows were traded, the frames tumbling back and forth as the bout degenerated into a simple fight. When the moment presented itself, she seized it, slamming her head forward into the other Cadet's face, and given the reward of the sweetly sickening crunch of her nose and the warm, coppery scent of blood. Firenne would have continued the assault had she not been Pushed back and Held tightly in place.

The set of his features and the delivery of his words said volumes in and of themselves. As soon as he released her she merely nodded and did as she was bid, pacing the far side of the room as he inspected the other girl's face. It gave her time enough to place a tenuous grasp on her rage and the let the Force slip slowly through her fingers. Deep breaths and measured exhalations served in place of forming any words, until some few minutes had passed and she stopped in her trek across the floor and simply waited.

Perhaps it had been too much.

[Lúka Jibral]

With the Force, his eyes, and a few half-remembered first aid training sessions from long ago, Lúka evaluated the fallen Cadet for indications of concussion and other trauma. Her mental processes felt dazed, but not sluggish; probably safe, but Jibral's role as an instructor demanded a certain amount of prudence and caution.

"You," he called, gesturing towards two of the closest Cadets, who had converted themselves into members of an audience. "Help her to the medical bay. The rest of you are dismissed."

Lúka waited, still crouching as the Cadets followed his instructions. There was a little protesting and squirming as the Cadet was helped to her feet, adamant that she didn't need two men to help her walk the few hundred yards to the nearest doctor. On that front she was certainly correct; her assistance was there more as an escort, to discourage any potential retaliation against Cadet Khapst.

Cadet Khapst.

The Knight let out a slow sigh as he eased himself back to his feet. There was so much potential among the Cadets training here at the Citadel; but so much of it was wasted and unrealised, buried between layers of self-sabotage by the Cadets themselves. With some, Lúka sought to break them of the misconceptions that shackled their inner potential; and with a few he had even succeeded. Firenne Khapst however was complicated. His knowledge of her background was sketchy at best, but you did not need a comprehensive personnel file to sense the blazing inferno of dark, hot, hateful potential that seethed within her like a molten core. Not that anyone would realise it to look at her. Khapst carried herself with coldness, a tectonic crust floating atop the lava flows, peaceful and benign until something aggravated the cracks and unleashed the volcanic fury within.

That fury she wielded with staggering precision. Lúka did not entirely recognise the style and tactics she displayed, but someone at some point had clearly gone to lengths to hone her into a viable weapon. That weapon was a sniper rifle: intensely accurate, and devastatingly powerful. Her obstacle, the shackles that kept her potential from walking free and serving the Empress, was the fact that she was only a sniper rifle. There was no alternative. No stun setting. No moderation or restraint. She received an objective, and she achieved it with ruthless efficiency; and then as the echo of gunshot faded, she would reload ready for the next.

It was a scenario that Knight Jibral understood all too well. People were complicated. Diplomacy was complicated. Peace. Protocol. Complications that seemed easily understood by so many, but not for people like Khapst and he. They thrived in solitude, and wilted when forced into the light of day. Perhaps that understanding should have made it easier to offer Khapst the kind of aid and encouragement he had already used to manipulate Cadet Redsun into exploiting his potential more fully; but it did not. Emotions, social connections, personality - all malleable, all strings that could be pulled and plucked as needed. People like Khapst and he did not have such things. You could poke at the fault lines until you triggered an earthquake, but there was no means to affect the result you provoked.

"You broke Cadet Phina's nose," he stated in a cool, calculated tone, advancing towards Cadet Khapst with his hands clasped behind his back. "Possibly concussed one of your fellow students. Alienated yourself from Sera, and any of your peers with any fondness for her. That is the collateral that your tactics have yielded."

His voice paused as he came to a halt, head tilting to the side in contemplation as he appraised Firenne from a few strides away.

"What was the purpose of this sparring session, Cadet?"