Ship: The Red Night
Weapons: Lightsaber
Tag:
Valery Noble
Gatz couldn't see what Valery was doing, not under the pile of bodies pummeling him. It was all he could do to keep his arms over his head, preventing anyone from striking a blow that would knock him out cold. But they were still landing blow after blow to the rest of his body, and every now and again a punch would slip through his block and strike him in the head.
Relief was granted suddenly, however, as the collar around his neck shattered and the cultists on top of him were ejected via the Force. He heard the sickening snap of skulls cracking the stone ceiling, and necks cracking. Gatz rolled onto his hands and knees, coughing up globs of blood.
<Take their weapons if you must.>
<Wuhhh?> Was all the response his dazed mind could offer.
While Valery was busy dealing with the Dark Lord, he had a whole group of assholes to attend to. He stood up on shaky legs, dizzy and disoriented. His head was pounding, and his vision was blurry, and even sound wasn't right. No way he could fight like this, with his senses clouded and concussed. But he wasn't exactly given a choice—not when the surviving cultists stood to their feet and rushed him.
He was a dead man, with no way out. Too many of them, and he was just too hurt and out of it.
He closed his eyes, and delved into the Force.
The first one approached, stupidly jagged dagger in hand. Gatz caught the man's wrist, twisted it, and took him by the neck. He felt for the man's presence in the Force, as he often did when he tried (and failed) to heal someone. Master Serys-Organa had taught him to think of Force Healing as if he was guiding the Force as one would direct a river, passing through him into another, washing away their pains and injuries.
In his darkest moments, Gatz had often wondered if the reverse was possible—if he could pull the river through
them and into himself.
He found out.
It was like a rush of ice water in his veins: invigorating him, but leaving him frozen and hollow. It was energy in its rawest form: powerful but sickening, and it left him feeling nauseous even as it restored the bruises and contusions he'd just received. The man in front of him screamed and wailed, shriveling to a husk—and Gatz could hear him clearly as his vision and hearing returned to their proper states.
And when he was done, the man fell to the ground, nothing more than a dehydrated corpse. Gatz stood above him, not bruise left on his body, and brimming with power. The rest of his peers staggered to a stop, having watched their friend be killed by a
touch of his hands. He spied fear in their eyes, and in the way they shook.
It felt good. It felt wrong.
Then they regained whatever composure they had left, and lunged for Gatz again. Gatz charged into their ranks, with nothing more than a knife in his hands,
faster and
stronger than he'd ever been before.