TOPIC: Trials of Transformation

Darth Vexing wrote:
Much appreciated, Vex! I'm happy to share it!

Kered wrote:
Same here, Kered, The Secret Jedi is coming along nicely!

Clang.

Clang.

Clang.

No, not again. Not already. Bor’om tried to relax, willing himself to remain unconscious. But the incessant clanging had already started to aggravate the throbbing buzz between his eyes. The pain continued to build as the clanging got louder. Soon would come—

“Riiiiise and shine, Jedi,” Like clockwork. The grating, taunting voice seemed to carry the essence of its owner as it reached Bor’om; no sooner did the words end then the pungent smell of strong drink and clothes that probably hadn't been cleaned since leaving the factory wreathed his head. He coughed, body arching beneath the cuffs that kept him suspended above the floor of his cell, his stiff feet barely able to brush it.

“Feeling hungry?”

Grimy eyelids cracking open, Bor’om silently met the yellow eyed gaze on the other side of the bars. The grizzled human man’s face stretched into a crude approximation of a smile.

“Still ornery, eh? Oooh, y’don’t have to put on such a front with old Anchor. I'm you're only friend here, I am,” the smile was replaced by a pained look that failed to hide the man’s glee, “I just want you to be ready for another long, long day of torture, and screamin’.”

Bor'om blinked blearily, while Anchor looked furtively back down the dingy corridor behind him.

“I mean,” the man went on a hushed tone, “who else is comin’ all the way down here to bring you food? C’mon, up and at ‘em.”

“Wai—!” Bor'om yelped, flailing to get his feet under him in time, Bor’om collapsed on the floor in a heap as Anchor slapped a button on the wall that slackened the chains. Bor’om didn't move right away. The frigid stone floor was almost welcome relief to his sore body. But a moment later the cell bars receded into the ground, and he sat up, pushing himself away from the doorway. Anchor chortled.

“Unaud must have done a number on you yesterday.”

Bor’om tried to remember it, but he couldn't recall anything concrete. Just impressions of whips and knives and electrodes. It had only been three, maybe four days. Or five? He wasn’t sure. And he wasn’t sure how much more could he could take. He had at least learned that he was being held in an underground complex, hidden beneath the very landing pad he and his master had tried to capture. His stomach twisted at the thought of Neah’s fate. And what he’d learned would mean nothing if he died here.

Anchor moved into the cell, crouching no more than a meter away, and produced a metal tray he had held behind his back.

“Special meal today. Maybe Unaud means to have done with you.”

The tray held a pile of shredded, burnt looking meat, and a gray crust that might have been bread. The contents spread across the tray as it clattered in the floor. Anchor stood up and went to lean against the inside of the cell door. Bor'om pulled the tray back with him and sat against the far wall, then picked tentatively at the meat. It smelled about as charred as it looked. Still, he popped it into his mouth and started to eat.

“‘At’s right. Gotta keep up your strength. And what better meal, eh?” Anchor said, smiling evilly, “Way I hear it, they recovered the meat from that old smuggler freighter just yesterday.” Bor'om froze. “Only two people in the whole complex get to taste it. You and the cook. Shistavanen, he is. Apparently has a taste for Togruta flesh, even burned,” Bor'om’s hands shook, his mouth hung open as Anchor went on nonchalantly, “Oh, nearly forgot. He told me to offer you this, to clean your teeth, he said,” the jailer pulled something from his pocket and held it out; a bone, its ends reduced to jagged edges by sharp teeth, “‘Course I told him humans don't go in for that kind of thing, but, well, he insisted.”

Bor'om leaned forward and wretched, while Anchor leaned back and laughed.

“Aahahahaha! Stroke of genius! Hahaha! Where does Unaud come with it?”

Spitting out the bile, Bor’om found his voice, “You...are monsters.”

Anchor only laughed harder.

The laughing pounded in Bor'om's head, and his heart pounded in his chest. His body still shook, but the horror had passed. Now it was rage. With a hoarse growl he charged the jailer. Anchor’s laughter was replaced by a snarl as he reached to slap the button that would retract the chains. But before he could touch it he was bodily dragged into the cell by unseen hands. He and the young Jedi collided in the air, and Bor’om seemed almost as surprised as Anchor when he toppled the man over, pinning him by the chest. But he recovered quickly and began using his chains to beat his tormentor into submission. The heavier man found himself struggling to keep up with Bor’om’s attacks.

“How’re you—? The torture should have—!” Anchor managed between blows.

“It’s like you said, old man,” Bor’om snarled. “I have to keep up my strength.”

Anchor tried to jab the youth from behind with the jagged bone, but Bor’om deftly avoided it, caught the back of Anchor’s hand and pushed it down, ramming the bone into Anchor’s throat. The dying man’s face flashed from anger to panic as he gurgled for breath, and then at last he was still. Bor’om got to his feet, pulling the bone with him. He stood for a moment, regarding the bloody end of it.

“You saved me again, Master,” he rasped, voice barely a whisper, “I will see them pay. I will bring you home.”

Reaching down he tugged Anchor’s keys from his belt and removed his shackles, wincing as cool air passed over the raw flesh for the first time in days. Retrieving Anchor’s blaster pistol from it’s holster, Bor’om stumbled doggedly down the corridor, further into the complex.

Borommakot, excellence again and again and again and again (four Parts read ).
Friday's (as I've mentioned before) are always a treat and your delivery hasn't disappointed.
I was saddened with the setting change, thrusting the story's Champion into a vulnerable circumstance. From first reading I had hoped it was another clever flashback but soon learnt that the eeriness and stench of the cell was the present. A small victory for the character Bor'om but at such a huge loss. Strength indeed has been preserved, by both you and he. Thank You. Great Work!

The pale, limestone tunnels of the complex seemed to double back and recross at every turn. Every intersection looked the same. The damp, musty walls seemed anxious to press in; seal him there forever. It didn’t help that it seemed as though most of the facility was holding cells. Bor’om paused at another corner, wondering if the maze of halls was just to confuse prisoners attempting to escape. He set his teeth and turned to the right. If they thought that was enough, they had never tried to hold a Jedi. Most of the cells were empty, and none of the occupied ones seemed to hold sentient species. Bor’om smiled. At the very least the battle on the landing pad had made sure they were short on slaves to fill their prison. But then he frowned, remembering the scene. Had any of the abducted settlers even escaped? Or had they all been blasted by the fighters as they tried to escape? Had everything that had happened—had they done more harm than good? His frown deepened; he needed his wits about him. This was a bad time to be dwelling on what went wrong.

At the end of another corridor, Bor’om began to hear voices from somewhere up ahead. Easing around the corner, he found the hall unoccupied, but could see an open doorway about halfway along. The voices were echoing through the opening. Bor’om crossed to the same side of the hall as the door and crept along the wall. Though his feet were stiff from the cold of the bare floor, he appreciated being able to move in silence. His knuckles grew pale as he squeezed the blaster’s grip.

“ —be weeks, months maybe, before we can bring in another shipment. Smuggler’s who’ll take live cargo aren’t cheap, either,” a gravelly voice was saying.

“You say that like the Court will hear excuses,” replied an atonal, electronically modulated voice, “They’ll have their slaves even if it means slapping shock collars on our necks.”

There was grunt of barely hidden distress in response.

“What’s taking Anchor so long?” Gravelly changed the topic.

Bor’om’s grip on his weapons redoubled.

“Probably entertaining himself. He’s always wanted Unaud’s job,” came the reply.

“He better wise up,” Gravelly mused, “If Unaud finds out, he’ll be in a cage himself.”

“Like I said, unless we get another shipment moving, we’ll all be in cages. Wasted enough time. We’ve got calls to make.”

Reaching out, Bor’om envisioned the room and its occupants, moving toward him. With the element of surprise, he could end it quickly. Breathing in sharply he wheeled into the doorway. A pale, hunched man in scuffed green armor stood just meters in front of him, roughly in the center of some sort of common room with a handful of tables and chairs, and at his shoulder, a dark skinned cyborg with prominent jaw and neck enhancements. The pale man barely had time to register surprise as Bor’om pulled the trigger. The blaster bolt punched a blackened hole into the chest of the man’s armor and he collapsed back onto his companion.

Bor’om tried to bring the blaster quickly to bear against the cyborg, but he hadn’t anticipated the kick of the weapon, and his second shot streaked over his targets shoulder as the cyborg dived into cover behind a table. With a crackling snarl the cyborg drew a long barreled pistol and leveled it at the Padawan. Bor’om swung back behind the door frame as blaster bolts pelted through the opening. He tried to calm himself, to center. Briefly he had a premonition of the cyborg calling for help using his cybernetics. Bor’om’s chances of escaping would evaporate if the whole compound came down on him. Calling on what little focus he had, he lowered himself and charged through the door with preternatural speed. Crashing into the side of a table, he and the cyborg both realized at the same time that they were looking right at each other. This time Bor’om was faster, leveling the pistol and sending a blaster bolt clean through the cyborg’s head. Both the Jedi and the lifeless cyborg slumped to the floor, Bor’om only faintly aware of the hissing sound left by the blaster marks scattered through the room.

For several seconds Bor’om just lay there, panting. When the pounding in his ears had receded a little he pushed himself to his feet.

“We made it,” he whispered hoarsely, barely aware of his own words. He bent over the pale man and unbuckled his holster. He had to tighten it quite a bit to fit, but when it was comfortable he wedged the bloody bone into the belt and drew the other pistol. He hadn’t gone two steps toward the opposite door when he felt a familiar, loathsome presence, and heard a familiar voice echo through from the exterior hall.

“I swear, if one of you shot someone over another game of pazaak, I will end you all.”

Bor’om’s stomach turned as images of crackling whips, and the sounds of his own screams flashed through his mind. He leveled the blasters at the open door, hands shaking. He could see, moments ahead, the silhouette stepping into sight, himself, pulling the triggers again and again, and the charred, smoking figure that would be left behind. He tried to reign in the fury coursing in his veins, but not all of it was his. Bor’om could no longer control his empathic reach, and was increasingly losing track of himself amid the waves of intention and emotion that flowed through the base. He gritted his teeth as the figure who owned the voice filled the doorway. It was a pale, wiry man clad in a black tunic and fitted trousers of the same material, and polished black boots. Long, gray dreadlocks hung down past his armpits, and his face was covered with pockmarks and thin scars. His torturer. Unaud. The annoyed expression that had been on his face was immediately replaced by shock. For a moment, the two of them stared at each other, Bor’om’s every instinct screaming to shoot. He started to believe he could resist the urge, but then the shock began to fade from Unaud’s face, slowly replaced by a smug grin.

“Well—” he began, only to be promptly interrupted by the twang of a blaster bolt going through his right leg, “AAAGH!” Unaud crumpled, gripping his leg. When he looked up, Bor’om was there, holding the still smoking blaster over his head. Grimacing, Unaud held up a plaintive hand.

“Don’t do anything stupid, boy! Think about this!” He exclaimed, gripping his leg, “You’re going to try take on this whole facility alone?” He paused, grunting against the pain of his injury, “Say you get out, where can you go in your condition? But if you had help…someone who knows the way out, someone with authority…”

“Not even bleeding to death and with no other choice would I accept your help,” Bor’om growled.

Unaud’s face contorted into a mask of hatred, “Cruach will scour the core worlds, and leave your beloved Order in ashes! The Court will roll across the st—” Bor’om lunged down, slamming a knee down on Unaud’s right arm and jamming the blaster he held in his left hand between Unaud’s teeth. The barrel of the second blaster he put in the crook of Unaud’s left elbow.

“You deserve oblivion for what you did to my master,” Bor’om hissed between his teeth.

Unaud gurgled defiantly, but concern flashed in his eyes.

For a moment Bor’om relished Unaud’s fear, but then he seemed to compose himself, “Fortunately for you, I believed in her and she believed in our mission, which I intend to finish.” Unaud’s arm made a slight movement, and Bor’om fired the blaster into his elbow.

“No calling for help,” he said evenly over Unaud’s muffled cry, “I hope for your sake that we never meet again,” Keeping the man gagged with the blaster barrel, Bor’om rose, lowered the second blaster, and shot him through the knee and the other elbow. Unaud’s eyes widened, but he made no sound…and then, it seemed, the pain overwhelmed him and he passed out. Straightening up, Bor’om stood and stared at him for several moments. How easy it would be to take revenge. But that wasn’t the path his master had set him on. Stepping over the unconscious man, he passed into the opposite hall and pressed on.

As he moved through the complex, he encountered a number of small, isolated rooms, but also several larger rooms and branching corridors, where more mercenary-looking personnel loitered. There were several close calls, but he managed to slip by each situation undetected. As he rounded another corner, he began to smell something smoky in the air. He slowed as the hall became hazier, and he started to hear the sounds of light machinery and he saw the hall end with an open doorway. The light from the other side was dim and pulsed weakly. Bor’om slipped quietly through the doorway, and found himself in a large, low ceilinged room. He sniffed at the unpleasant, burned and filthy smell. Like something rotting in the sun. The wall to his right was lined with shelves, stocked with rations and supplies. On the left, built into the wall was a long, red-hot element about waist high. This seemed to be the source of the light, and the smell. A chill rolled up his spine.

Suddenly an indistinct shape arched into his vision and slapped wetly against the heating element, and began to sizzle. Bor’om whirled around only to see a massive, hairy, and clawed hand filling his vision. He felt it close tight around his neck and lift him bodily off the floor. A long face covered in fur emerged from the shadows, a bored look in its eyes as the Shistavanen carried him toward the cooking element.

“I don’t imagine they sent you up here for cooking,” said the Shistavanen slowly, revealing a mouth full of long, yellow teeth, “But I’m sure they won’t mind if I eat you all the same.”

Struggling to breath, Bor’om craned his head and saw the raw meat already blackening on the heater, as the Shistavanen growled in his ear.

“Welcome to the kitchen.”

Hot dog, it would appear that Bor'om has gone out of the frying pan and into the fire!

Epic part as always, Borom! Can't wait to see more!

Much appreciated, Eddlyss! Looking forward to delivering more.

Fantastic Borom! The story keeps getting better and better. I am really enjoying this.

Happy to hear you enjoyed it, MHM!

Borommakot,
Nice update by subtle insertion of the scrolling text in Part I. Authentic and nicely done.
Reading Part V, I found the perpetual rhythm consistent in the first four parts, staggered and had elements of interruption and disoriented displacement. If that was the intention by the Author to mirror the fatigue of the tales protagonist, disregard this comment. Noting the four basic ranks of The Jedi Order: Youngling, Padawan, Knight, Master, with Padawan also known as a Jedi Apprentice. I noticed that this status reference to the character Bor'om changed often from Padawan to Jedi (and back again) to the tune of virtual reference of a Jedi's presence (2nd person)in same company. It is just Bor'om in an unaided escape driven by his own determination and fuelled by mourning of his fallen Master, right?

There was also the descriptive detail during the introduction referencing Complex and then (after the immobilising of Unaud) it became a Facility. A minor detail yes, I interpreted this as an immediate location change rather a different area within the same Complex.
An effective New Character name drop with the mention of Cruach. This leaves me asking questions for identity with who this character is and how the role is tied in. One small pocket of a Teaser, Very clever.

The part immediately after Bor'om navigates his way through the tunnels and approaches the open doorway hearing the voices, I interpret there to be two talking to each other. One unidentified, the other (later known as), a dark skinned Cyborg. You describe one as having a gravelly voice but later was known to actually be called 'Gravelly'. Did I miss something here?
The ensuing confrontation. Is 'Gravelly' now the pale hunched man in scuffed green armour, if not where did 'Gravelly' go? When the pale hunched man was taken down and collapsed onto his companion, the companion is the Cyborg and not 'Gravelly' right? 'Gravelly' with the gravelly voice doesn't get mentioned again, so between him and the Cyborg it seems like a third person is introduced- the pale hunched man.

I found myself reading Part V several times repeatedly only with my difficulty with comprehending the occurrence of events. A Good Effort. I have likely shared too much. If you disagree with above and my read interpretation is incorrect of my own inability, advise and I shall remove it.

OvrcAHst wrote: Heh, thanks. It's actually been quietly sitting up there since Part II XD
Good catch, thanks
Jedi here is used in the colloquial sense of one belonging to the order, rather than ranking. He's a lone Padawan, and so also a Jedi. Sorry for the confusion.
Facility is simply a synonym for complex.
Glad to hear it was effective!
Gravelly is the pale man. I made a gambit referring to him as gravelly; it's not his name, rather the way Bor'om distinguished him as he overheard the conversation. He hears a gravelly voice, then the cyborg voice, and then "ah, that's gravelly again." He just doesn't get a chance to talk again before Bor'om shoots him.
I appreciate the feedback, as always, Ovrcahst, and I'll look into editing this section for more clarity

@Borommakot, Thank you for being easy-going and understanding of my admittedly OTT critique of your work. I've mention it before, there's talent with what you do and is something beyond my capabilities. Really? apparently I'm not that observant. I decided for the umpteenth time to read from the beginning (as I usually do with the release of each Part) and noticed an edit from 8 hours earlier (that wasn't noticed prior) and concluded it was a recent addition.
Apologies should stem from me. The confusion was mine as the Reader by interpretation and not set forth from you with delivery as the Writer. Thank you for the explanation and with having to 'dumb-it-down' for me. This much I knew. Synonyms for actions and trait descriptions are understandable. When used specific to locations, I personally, was a non-sentient species pacing in circles trying to navigate the confusing passages and corridors. Likely the Shistavanen's Menu would have me on it and Bor'om would have had clear passage through
Again, Thank you for the 'Dumb-down'. It's apparent the Writer here does so at a higher reading level than this particular underachieving, ignoramus of a Reader.
You should leave it as is and not edit based on the feedback of one. My difficulty with reading isn't something that needs to be accommodated. The clarity as you have explained is justified and consistent to your Writing style and formula used.

As he was dragged across the room, Bor’om struggled to keep his airway open, using one hand to support his weight, while the other sought for the blaster still holstered at his side. Finally he felt his hand close around the grip and he tugged it free. No sooner had he done so than the Shistavanen’s closed fist struck him full in the face. Lights popped before his eyes, and the blaster clattered across the floor. Both hands went to the cook’s wrist as Bor’om struggled to hold himself up so he could breathe.

“Don’t waste your effort,” the furred sentient growled shortly, stopping in front of the heating element, “The administrator will thank me for getting you out of his hair. It’s no secret that Unaud’s been looking for a reason to bury you. Had to keep you alive in case more Jedi came. But it looks like the Senate’s leash is too tight for that, hahaha.” The gruff chuckle gave Bor’om a faceful of the cook’s awful breath, but he remained defiant.

“Unaud won’t be able—to save you from me,” he managed to choke out.

The Shistavanen paused.

“Already got to the administrator, have you? Guess he won’t be sending for any more fancy dishes, then. He always appreciated my work. Not like the rest of these louts. All the more reason to eat you alive,” and with that he slammed the human down onto the cooking element by his shoulders. A moment later, he felt the heat. A scream forced its way out of his throat as his skin was seared through the tattered material of his tunic, and he writhed, trying to pull away from the burning metal.

“Try not to struggle. You’re stringy enough without making the meat all tough,” the cook advised, the boredom returning to his voice.

Bor’om managed to stop flailing by digging his fingers into the cook’s arm, though if the Shistavanen felt it, he gave no sign. As Bor’om screamed himself hoarse, he reached out with his mind for anything that might help. But it was so hard to focus on anything except the burning. He knew his own flesh would be blackening like the slab of meat cooking next to him…the slab! Mustering all his strength and fueled by a bellow of both rage and pain, he sent the charred cut of meat flying into the cook’s face. It slapped across the humanoid’s eyes and hissed as it burned. The Shistavanen recoiled with a howl of pain, releasing Bor’om and clawing at his face to dislodge hot grease and bubbling fat.

Bor’om managed to quickly right himself. There was no immediate relief from the searing sensation that was his back and shoulders, but with adrenaline coursing through his veins, he maintained his senses, and looking around, spotted his captured blasters. He called both to his hands, and they responded instantly. Catching the grips, he leveled them at the enraged cook and opened fire. This time, he didn’t restrain himself, pulling the triggers over and over. The Shistavanen endured several shots to the body, swinging an arm blindly as he continued trying to relieve his eyes, but after a few more blasts the cook collapsed and lay still.

Gasping and gritting his teeth against the hissing coming from his back, Bor’om stumbled around the room, trying to find anything that could dull the pain. He quickly found that there was nothing. He suddenly became aware of a ringing in his ears, and had the impression that it came from his side. He looked down, but saw only the bone, still jammed in the belt. His master…she had taught him how to handle this; the Force could dull the pain, keep him conscious, keep him alive. He stood still, trying not to aggravate the wounds any more, and focused on them. Quieting his mind, he began to quell the pain and inflammation. The stinging and throbbing slowly faded, and it took all his concentration to keep it that way. But after a couple of long, tense minutes, he had it more or less under control.

“Thank you, Master,” he whispered, wiping the sweat and grime and tears from his face. It made little difference as he continued to sweat from the exertion. Giving himself a moment to rest, he finally found enough strength to continue. Slowly, tentatively, he moved, walking shakily toward the door in the other corner of the room. The corridor outside was still dim, but the light grew stronger as he moved away from the kitchen. The smell still followed him, and he wondered if his nostrils would ever stop burning. But he couldn’t let it distract him. This corridor didn’t turn at all, and he noticed that there weren’t any doors in the walls. Was he close to an exit? Or was this going to lead him to a dead end? He doubted he’d be able to make it back through the complex a second time. The light finally shone on a door at the end of the corridor. Leaning against the frame, Bor’om thumbed the most likely button, and the door hissed open.

Stepping through, he found himself in well furnished living quarters. Some of the interior walls were actual metal plating. They were all still bare, yet even the stone had been painted white to look less dingy. Immediately in front of him was a long table covered with an assortment of bowls and plates, piled with exotic looking foods. To the right was what looked like small study, with a desk and a terminal, and to the left he saw what looked like a washroom. He lurched toward it, but paused as something glinted in the corner of his eye.

Turning around, he stepped toward the study. There on the other side of the terminal, laying in a tray of some kind of silvery solution, was a familiar weapon. The once smooth, reflective hilt was now pitted and scarred, the emitter cracked clean through its windows in a couple of places.

“Master,” Bor’om said haltingly, reaching out and plucking it with care from the silvery bath, “Your lightsaber.”


As the liquid continued to drip from the hilt, Bor’om tentatively thumbed the activator, heart leaping with hope to see that blue blade again. But the hilt produced only a small spark, and then refused to respond further. Eyes never leaving the saber, Bor’om crossed over to the bathroom in a daze. He managed to pull his attention away from it once inside, taking stock of the room.

Inside was a sonics shower, several small containers, a sink and a mirrored cabinet. Hanging Neah’s saber carefully on his looted holster, Bor’om crouched gingerly and began rifling through the containers, searching for anything he could use on his back, and moaned with relief when he discovered a sealed box of bacta bandages. He quickly tore it open, and went to the mirror, turning his back to it. Reinforcing his focus on his injuries, he slowly began to peel off the shredded tunic. Unaud’s whip had done some good in that regard, as many of the hanging strips had managed to keep from getting grilled into his back. When the last of the tunic was off, Bor’om examined the wound in the mirror. It was a splotchy mass of shining black and red that covered almost every inch of skin from his shoulders to the small of his back. Then he caught sight of his face.

Turning slowly on the spot, he stared at himself. The gaunt face, framed by matted, damp hair, was barely recognizable to him. A shaky hand passed across the shadows under his eyes. Almost of it’s own accord, his hand drew the damaged lightsaber again, and he looked several times between it and his own haggard reflection. Finally, he tightened his fist around the hilt, and set his jaw. After all that had happened, nothing was going to stop him from completing this mission. Reholstering the saber, he pulled the first of the bandages from the kit.

Trying to reach behind himself to apply it was painful, but as soon as the bandage was in place, he started to feel the numbing and soothing effects of the bacta. He worked feverishly, sometimes having to simply toss the bandage on over his shoulder when he couldn’t quite reach a spot. He had only half finished, with a bandage raised to go across his other shoulder, when he started to hear shouts.

Dropping the bandage, he darted into the entryway. Down the corridor, somewhere on the other side of the kitchen, he could hear the ruckus, and it was moving quickly his way. He pivoted on the spot. This was it; if he didn’t get out now, he was done for. He noticed for the first time the recessed plating in the wall behind the table. It had to be an opening! He skirted the table and began to run his hand along the gap in the metal plates, but they didn’t budge. He searched along the wall to each side for a button, but it was perfectly smooth. Turning to look at the room again, he felt despair setting in. He grabbed a black robe hanging on the chair at the head of table, thinking maybe he could use it to hide, when the answer presented itself, right there at the head of the table where he stood; a small control panel built into one corner of the polished surface. Pressing the button closest to the wall, Bor’om was rewarded by a sudden hiss.

Whirling back to the wall, he saw the door-shaped panel recede and then rise out of site. On the other side was a simple lift pad. Bor’om lunged in and toggled the elevator to rise. It responded promptly, and not a moment too soon; he was sure he had caught a glimpse of shadows from down the corridor. Bor’om’s eyes fixed on the growing light at the top of the shaft, until the brightness of the source made him turn away. Moments later, the lift stopped in a small, enclosed bay hardly large enough for two people. A door sprang open in front of Bor’om and he was hit by a gust of air. At first it felt frigid, and made his wounds sting, but after a small gasp, a grin spread across his face. It was real, fresh, surface air. Shrugging the robe onto his shoulders he stepped out of the shaft. It appeared the elevator was recessed into a rocky face along one of the valley walls. A thin band of green-barked trees stretched away to the left, and Bor’om hurried instinctively toward them. As he scanned the valley, he quickly spotted a dark mass five or six hundred meters back to the right; the husk of the destroyed freighter. The place of their failure. The sight of it helped him get his bearings, though, and from the treeline, he turned toward the nearest settlement and set off at an unsteady jog.

Borommakot, Great writing, composition and structure. I need to extend a Thanks to you also for introducing the Title scrawl from Part I. Mimicked its use recently in Something New Thread (tagged Something Different) after Phil paid the Forum a visit.

It was exciting reading the mood change that Bo'rom experienced with his (seemingly) endless waves of adversity. I even managed a little celebratory cheer with Bo'rom emerging as victor during his struggle with the Shistavanen. Nice mention with creating the melancholic nostalgia with being reunited with a 'past acquaintance'. The description of medical remedy was executed effectively. I could virtually feel the stings and fatigue as Bo'rom centred himself as he dressed his wounds. The panic and anxiety was real and met with a huge sigh of relief through emergence from the underground pits of hell. Thank you.

Forgive me, my only observation (am 'anal' that way): I'd suggest either an inclusion of 'to' between not & aggravate or "He paused, lessening further aggravation to his wounds".

Thank you, Ovrcahst! I'll apply that fix asap! Your regular responses have been great motivation

Seriously fantastic read Borom! It keeps getting better. I am really enjoying the story so far. Keep up the awesome work.

Many thanks, MHM! There's definitely quite a bit more to come

Sorry folks, it's Wednesday and I haven't had a moment to spare for free writing. I'm going to have to postpone Trials, hopefully just this week, but possibly next as well.

And, we're back

It was the cool air of a morning breeze, biting through the bandages, that woke him. Blearily opening his eyes, Bor’om’s mind went immediately to suppressing the sensation of his burns. He didn’t want another morning like the first. He groaned softly as he pushed himself up, and settled on his knees. The tall grass that surrounded him bent softly as the breeze picked up, and he felt like it was ushering him on. He couldn’t delay. Hastily he pulled the dampened robe off the ground and draped it gingerly over his shoulders. He stood slowly, keeping low, and peered just over the top of the grass. The field stretched off in all directions; he had left the smugglers’ valley far behind. Still he scanned in every direction; they had pursued him hard for the first few days after his escape, both on foot and on speeders. Laying out a few false trails had diverted them in all directions, but the bulk of the resistance still lay on the path he needed to follow: the shortest route to the nearest settlement. Taking time to skirt the many search parties along the way had slowed him down considerably, but the further he got, the fewer there were. He wondered if it was because they hadn’t expected their prisoner to make it this far, or if they didn’t want to risk exposure to the locals.

Once he was satisfied that there were no searchers nearby, he set off again. His gait was still a little unsteady, but now it was simply the result of fatigue rather than the lingering effects of torture. Chewing foraged roots while on the go had helped keep him moving, but done little to forestall hunger. He hoped not to need any more, though. Another day and a night, he estimated, and he would reach the small port he and his Master had investigated before finding the valley. There was something more, to the fatigue, though, something worrying. His consciousness felt drained, stretched; he hadn’t been able to reign in his empathic senses since escaping his cell, and the overwhelming and dense mixture of emotions and instincts from countless sources weighed on him like a hydraulic press. It was like an open flood gate he just couldn’t seal. He couldn’t even tell how far he was reaching, and it was increasingly difficult to distinguish his own mental state from others. But he assured himself that if he could just make it back to the temple, it would be all right. Everything would.

Pushing through the grass at a steady pace, his movements and breathing became regular. He found he could avoid the tumult of emotional feedback by letting his mind wander, and he entered a sort of meditation as he ran. He concentrated on the moist, crisp smell of the grass, the seemingly individual wisps of wind that reached his face, and the subtle variations in the ground under his feet. Despite all that had happened, the rhythmic thud of his footfalls was no different now than it was on any of the worlds he had been to before.

He listened to the metal reverberate with each step as he rounded the palace hall at a run. Bor’om had expected to be more nervous on his first mission as a Padawan. But between Master Tenei’s assurances and their meditations, he found himself strangely at peace. Turning the corner, he saw the infiltrator fleeing the other way, and surprised himself again by smiling. Reaching both outward and inward, he felt the Force bending around him and a moment later he was running twice as fast, gaining quickly on his target.

Expecting to see the assailant turn at the next corner, Bor’om was confused to see his target skid to a stop. All became clear a moment later when he heard his master’s lightsaber ignite, and saw the blue glow it cast on the walls. Bor’om caught up, and once clear of the wall beside him, could see his teacher facing down the infiltrator. The figure, clad all in black wrappings, hesitated, trying to see a way out. Finding none, the figure lunged toward Bor’om, a pair of vibroknives appearing in its hands. Bor’om’s heart caught in his throat as his reflexes kicked in, but in the next moment the assassin was lifted into the air and flung bodily against the wall, before slumping to the floor, the weapons in its hands clattering away. Bor’om had barely removed his lightsaber from his belt, but now looked numbly between the infiltrator and his master, who had hardly appeared to move. Suddenly the figure on the floor stirred, prompting Bor’om to hurriedly thumb the activation on his hilt, leveling the emerald blade at their quarry, but the assassin remained still.

“What now, Master?” Bor’om asked in a low voice, “Should this killer be repaid in kind?”

“No, Bor’om. We do not take the law into our own hands, and our responsibility is to the preservation of life, not the taking of it. We have prevented what would have been a bloody civil war, and completed our mission. The Soranins will handle matters from here.”

The Padawan’s brow furrowed, but he nodded. More footsteps rang down the hall behind his master, and he craned his neck to better see the palace guard in their glittering armor arrive, trailed by the gray-skinned Duke, still in his regal garb, despite the hour. A look of pure disgust spread on his face, accented by the fleshy tendrils that hung down by the sides of his mouth. Neah lowered her saber and addressed him.

“Your majesty, the culprit has been apprehended,” she gestured at the crumpled form on the floor, “The law can take its course.” The infiltrator stirred again, waking and looking weakly around. The guards immediately raised their weapons. The Duke drew his attention away from the assassin to give the Jedi an unfeeling look, followed after a moment by a pronounced sneer.

“Yes, Master Jedi,” he said through the sneer, “The law.” He gestured for his gaurds’ attention, then pointed at the limp figure, “Shoot this traitor.”

Neah barely had time to cry out in protest, and Bor’om simply gaped as the guards’ weapons flashed, and a round of blue bolts perforated the assassin, the smoking body going limp once more.

“Duke Moreal!” Neah exclaimed, “That was murder! Your laws dictate the treatment of prison—”

“I am the law here, Master Jedi,” The Duke spoke over her, “And the execution of our laws is none of your concern. Your job was to prevent an assassination. You succeeded, now you may leave! If you have need to discuss the matter further, I suggest you speak to our Senator the next time you see him.”

“You are trampling Republic statute’s, Moreal,” She replied slowly, any pretense of respect gone. The Duke stared her down for a moment, and then took a step closer.

“Are you going to arrest me, Jedi?” He let the question hang in silence for several seconds, holding Neah’s icy glare with his own, bored look. When she said nothing, he went on, “No, of course not. The Jedi are servants in the Republic and little more. A position so delicate,” A small smile flashed across the Duke’s face, “I can’t help but be amused at how you all bend at every wind. Or perhaps even more amusing, that you continue to hold on, as though you serve the greater good. No, Jedi. You serve us,” He finished sharply, pointing at himself, “Now be on your way. I’m sure your council has other errands for you.”

After another heavy pause, Neah turned and set off down the hall, Bor’om following close behind.

“But...Master, surely—” Bor’om began as they strode down the corridor at Neah’s long-legged pace.

“There is nothing more we can do, Padawan,” She said, soft spoken, though he could sense her outrage. She was always careful to direct her feelings only at their sources. Bor’om knew better than to pry further, but he also knew his teacher owed him an explanation.

“Master I can accept what happened—” He started again. She stopped and turned to him, hand falling firmly on his shoulder.

“No, Bor’om.” She said, a sense of urgency in her voice. He hadn’t expected her to reprove him, but then, as she went on, he realized that she wasn’t reproving, “Never accept that wrong is done in the galaxy. Doing so condemns us to tyranny, it enables the rise of people like Duke Moreal. We are protectors of the Republic, not its slaves. While there are legal limitations to our reach, a Jedi who thinks creatively will find alternatives for protecting.” She began walking again, withdrawing a holodisc from her belt as she went, “Evidence of Moreal’s corrupt dealings.”

Bor’om’s eyes widened, then narrowed again as he smiled mischievously, “And all that about not taking the law into our own hands?”

“We haven’t,” She answered with a shrug, “Our mandate was to prevent civil war. Preventing the assassination of the royal house is one way to do that, and preventing the system’s leaders from taking advantage of its people is another.”

“Will the Council see it that way?”

“The Council has entrusted the mission to us. Were the Duke to be arrested by the Jedi, he would try to implicate us for exposing him, and legal procedure against him would be bogged down so much that he would go unpunished. No, we will deliver this to the Senate through anonymous channels. His crimes will be brought to light by his own people.”

“I’m impressed, Master.”

“Don’t be, Bor’om. I expect you to do the same.”
He stumbled, hands spreading to catch himself, and fell on the ground. Shaking the ringing sensation out of his ears, he started to rise, only to hear voices in the distance. Crouching back down, he strained to hear where they were coming from. It sounded as though they were up ahead. Slowly, he peeked over the top of the grass. Not far off was a sparse stand of trees where the grass thinned, at the edge of which were parked a pair of speeder bikes. Bor’om could just barely make out the shadows moving between the trees; at least four of slavers were waiting there. It was the first time he’d come across any of them dismounted from their speeders. This was his chance to secure his escape. He drew one of the blasters he had gotten away with, trying to think how he would take on four smugglers at once, but glancing down, he saw the blaster shaking in his hand. Going in blaster’s blazing might not be the best plan. Holstering the pistol, he turned away from the trees and headed off to the right, a plan taking shape in his mind.


Regular entries will continue this Thursday Thanks for reading!

Borom, Had to check my Calendar as Trials ordinarily features on Fridays with today being Tuesday. Nice writing, pleasure reading. A great continuation from where you left off and was easily picked-up again. Thank you.

Nice as always you keep me hooked another great entry to a great story I'll keep my eyes open for more