Michael, Gabriel, Azrael, Sariel, Raphael,Jeremiel, Seraphim
[Any text in brackets signifies comm-link usage and not face to face conversation]
The dust of Woostri swirled, a crimson haze under the twin suns. The air crackled with the energy of blaster fire, the acrid scent of burning metal stinging the nostrils. At the southern entrance of the Galactic Alliance data center, a desperate battle raged. The 305th Special Forces Unit, Omega Squad, stood as a bulwark against the relentless tide of the Sith Order and their brutal Death Brigadiers.
Lieutenant Commander Bren Alazar, “Michael”, his face grim, roared commands over the din. He moved with a predator’s grace, blaster pistol spitting bolts of crimson energy, each shot precise, each kill efficient. Raphael, their Corpsman, had fallen only moments ago, a gaping hole burned through his chest by a cannon shot from one of the Brigadiers. The loss had been a blow, but it had ignited a fire in Michael, a cold, burning determination.
Hold the line! They will not pass! Michael shouted, his voice amplified by his helmet comm. He saw the fury in Gabriel’s eyes, the righteous zeal that fueled him, but also the grief of losing Barachiel.
Gabriel, "Team Tech", was a whirlwind of controlled fury. His fingers danced across his wrist-mounted console, cycling through shield configurations, jamming enemy comms, and rerouting power to their defenses. But his weapon arm was relentless, precise, each shot a prayer for vengeance as it brought down another Death Brigadier.
For Barachiel! he yelled, his voice cracking with emotion.
They will pay for what they've done!
Azrael, the demolitions expert, weaved through the chaos, a manic grin plastered on his face despite the carnage. He was a paradox, a joker in the face of death, but also a master of controlled destruction.
Need a bigger hole, anyone? I’ve got just the thing! he cackled, planting detpacks on a crumbling barricade. With a flick of his wrist, he detonated them, sending a shower of debris and enemy soldiers flying.
Sariel, the sniper, remained a silent, deadly shadow. Perched atop a partially destroyed transport vehicle, he was a Nexu in human form, his movements fluid and lethal. Each shot from his modified sniper rifle was carefully placed, surgically removing key targets – a Sith officer directing troops, a Death Brigadier wielding a heavy repeating blaster, a sniper attempting to outflank their position. He didn't speak, didn't waste energy on emotion. Only the soft
thump of her rifle and the sickening
splatter of her targets punctuated the chaos.
Raphael, now manning the heavy repeating blaster that Barachiel had used, was a portrait of serene calm amidst the storm. His movements were slow, deliberate, almost meditative. He was an extension of the weapon, a conduit for its destructive power. Each pull of the trigger was a breath, each burst of energy a whisper of destruction. His face was impassive, his eyes focused, his mind a tranquil lake reflecting the fury around him.
The Force flows through all things, he murmured, as the heavy blaster ripped through a squad of Death Brigadiers.
Even destruction can be a form of balance.
Jeremiel, the all-around warrior, was a whirlwind of motion. He was everywhere, plugging gaps in the line, patching up wounded allies, delivering precisely aimed blaster fire. He was the glue that held the squad together, his hard-nosed pragmatism keeping them focused on the mission.
Keep your heads down! Watch your flanks! he barked, his voice rough but reassuring.
We're not losing this damn datacenter.
They were outnumbered, outgunned, but not outmatched. Not today. A wave of energy washed over them, bolstering their resolve, sharpening their senses. It was a battle meditation, emanating from the Galactic Alliance cruiser overhead.
Iris Arani
and
Zaiya Ceti
, two of the most powerful Jedi healers, were lending their strength to the weary soldiers below. The fatigue that had been creeping into their limbs vanished, replaced by a surge of renewed vigor.
The tide was beginning to turn. Jedi Shadow Connel Vanagor, a blur of blue lightsaber energy, carved a path through the Sith ranks, his blade a beacon of hope in the darkness.
Shan Pavond
, a formidable warrior in his own right, fought alongside him, his vibroblade a whirlwind of steel.
Suddenly, a wave of darkness crashed over the battle. The air grew colder, the battle meditation weakened. A tall, imposing figure strode into the fray, cloaked in shadows, his presence radiating malevolent power. It was Lord Vorlag, a high ranking Sith Lord, and a master of dark side powers.
Michael felt a surge of rage, hotter and more potent than anything he had ever experienced. Barachiel’s death echoed in his mind, fueling his fury. He charged forward, his blaster pistol blazing, ignoring the hail of blaster fire around him.
Gabriel, shields up! Azrael, clear a path! Sariel, take out their support! Raphael, suppressive fire! Jeremiel, with me! Michael roared, his voice filled with a raw power that resonated with his squad.
Gabriel, fueled by hatred and grief, pushed his technology to its limits. He rerouted power from the perimeter defenses, creating localized energy shields that deflected the enemy fire, allowing Michael and Jeremiel to advance.
Azrael, like a wild animal, launched a series of strategically placed explosives, creating a corridor through the enemy ranks, scattering the Death Brigadiers and disrupting their formation.
Sariel, unwavering in his focus, picked off the Sith Lord's guards, eliminating the immediate threat and creating an opening for Michael.
Raphael, a pillar of strength, unleashed a torrent of suppressive fire from the heavy repeating blaster, pinning down the remaining enemy soldiers and preventing them from flanking Michael.
Jeremiel, his face grim, fought at Michael's side, his vibroblade a blur of silver as he deflected blaster bolts and engaged the Death Brigadiers in close combat.
Michael faced Lord Vorlag. The Sith Lord sneered, igniting his crimson lightsaber. The two warriors clashed, their blades meeting in a shower of sparks(Michael’s blade being made of Phrik). Michael was a skilled fighter, but Lord Vorlag was a master of the dark side. The Sith Lord's attacks were relentless, imbued with the power of the dark side.
But Michael was not alone. He drew upon the strength of his squad, the memory of Barachiel, the unwavering resolve of the Galactic Alliance. He channeled his rage, his grief, his determination into each strike, pushing himself to the limit.
The battle was a dance of death, a whirlwind of energy and steel. Michael fought with the fury of a man possessed, his blaster pistol blazing, his vibroblade a deadly extension of his will. Lord Vorlag parried each strike, his crimson lightsaber a wall of defense.
Finally, Michael saw an opening. He feinted left, then lunged right, his vibroblade aimed at the Sith Lord's exposed side. Lord Vorlag reacted, but he was too slow, because he did not know that Connel, the
other member of Omega Squad had ran by him, hitting the Sith Lord’s weapon and arm with his shortsaber in a Force Speed assisted blur. Michael's blade pierced the Sith Lord's armor, drawing a hiss of pain.
Lord Vorlag staggered back, his eyes wide with disbelief. Michael didn't hesitate. He unleashed a final burst of energy from his blaster pistol, striking the Sith Lord in the chest.
Lord Vorlag crumpled to the ground, his lightsaber clattering beside him. The darkness that had shrouded the battlefield lifted, replaced by a renewed sense of hope.
The Death Brigadiers were faltering. Connel Vanagor pressed their advantage, driving the remaining Sith forces back.
The Southern entrance was secured. The 305th Special Forces Unit, Omega Squad, had prevailed. But the cost had been high. Barachiel was gone, irreplaceable. Others were wounded, their bodies battered, their spirits weary.
Michael stood over the fallen Sith Lord, his chest heaving, his body aching. Victory had come at a price, but they had held the line. They had protected the data center. They had honored Barachiel's memory.
He knew that the war was far from over. The Sith Order would return, and the fight would continue. But for now, they had earned a moment of respite. He looked at his squad, his brothers and sister in arms, their faces etched with exhaustion, their eyes filled with determination.
We mourn our fallen brother, Michael said, his voice rough but filled with pride.
But we do not break. We do not yield. We are Omega Squad. And we will NOT fail.
Forgotten Clanker
|
C1-1347
