The Force Must Die

[Darth Odium]

The planet of the force was something he had searched for incessantly for many years now. It was said to be the birthplace of the creatures known as Midichlorians and as such the connection between the living and cosmic force. His theory was simple, kill the central connection of the force and the rest will die. There were doubts in his tortured mind, fears that it life would find a way to reconnect to the cosmic source of the force but he had try try. If he could rid the galaxy of the force itself then it would truly be free, he would be free.

The plan was a two pronged attack. He would siphon the force energy from the world, while also attacking the world with force drain from beyond shadows. For this he had worked tirelessly on a device, an alchemized device, that he had named the Force Siphon. Once activated it would rapidly rip the force out of the very matter that contained it leaving an empty husk and a gapping hole in the force. The midichlorians here would die from lack of energy and he would attempt to break the galaxy of it's misguided reliance on powers that it did not deserve.

He dropped out of hyperspace on board "Eternal Hate" his only remaining ship and the housing for the Force Siphon. His crew, an army of twisted clones that were created from the Mandalorian he had captured worked well. They had all been victims of his experimentation and training. Where the template had escaped to was no longer important, but Odium had what he needed.

The hold held thousands innocent slaves, bought and paid for across a dozen worlds. They would have to die simultaneously and in grievous pain to give him the needed psychic energy to create the wound in the force before it could be severed, but that was more or less the fun part wasn't it?

He nodded to his Ship's acting commander that he was ready to begin approach and the crew began moving the ship into position. He expected resistance, he had prepared for the guardians of this world but once he'd begun it would already be too late.

 

[Stardust Solus Skirae]

The firce called out, doing the odd thing it always did not giving a exact answer, always a dream of something or some weird thing that even stardust a master has had yet to understand why

This time it had been the sudden disconnection from the force in her dream, pain beyond words spoken worse then losing a limb, a spill ting headache that caused flashing in her eyes, then at the last part a green face with dark eye and a flash of the planet

She had bolted up, panting sweating before she swung out of her bed and grabbed her armor and blades, the two Sabers and nova on her sides as she quickly got into her fighter, she didn't even realize what she was doing, but soon she was in soace licked some coordinates in and then boom

Hyperspace met her

Wherever she was head

She hoped the force wasn't fucking with her
[member="Darth Odium"]

 

[Not Ordo]

[member="Stardust Raxis"]

It wasn't hard to follow the threads in the force. He had been doin it his whole life, he simply saw them, it just was. He had assumed that they would lead him to this, someday, but not so soon. The only truly difficult part had been getting onto the ship, but he had and he was, so that was that.

He walked calmly through the ship, it's grime caked walls and state of disrepair a testament to the being so focused on his goal that all else was not even an after thought. His staff clacked in the emptiness and he recalled a time when this had happened before and a dream that said it would happen again if it could be stopped. He wouldn't dwell on that though it was for a later time. For now he had to break the heart, that's all he needed to know.

 

[Seydon of Arda]

Centurion battlecruisers were extinct. They survived as heritage, seen in the lines of current Ship-of-the-Line destroyers, the 'tooth-wedge' profile made frightening by Palpatine's 'New Order'. A few dedication plaques salvaged from the Mandalorian Wars and subsequent 'Jedi Civil War' survived in naval museums, flight academies, and private collection curios wrapped in cellophane and paper. There was a story behind how the Eternal Hatred endured. A clue was in the name but only its master knew it whole.

The cargo holds had been stripped down to bare utility. Ration supplies and vessel amenities were crowded into crew quarters, left piled against bulkhead corridors and halls, or shared space with the hanger bays. A thousand-plus bodies now occupied the vaults. It was packed, congested with recycled air and physical odours. Every soul was required to stand at attention, until tension, aches, and exhaustion made some pass out across the decking. A chemical toilet was installed in a far corner. Conversation was muted to sibilant mewling and hoarse, scared whispers. Guard contingents patrolled the aisles and perched in overhead catwalks. They all wore the same face: a blunt slab of inexpressive meat, cracked and grey from overexposure to Dark Side energies, eyes hollow and dark with single-minded obedience.

One lot of sacrificial lambs had been taken from Saijo. Pale Nagai, whipcord thin but wiry, staring ahead in the partial light. He could have been mistaken for one: lack of pigmentation, hair shocked silver, dressed down to bare pants and laced with old scar tissue. But the eyes were wrong. Cat-like and bright in the shadow. When the same faced clones had come, he went limp and accepted their electro-prod lashings. When he woke, he was pushed onto his feet but left unrestrained. Palpable aura of hanging dread seemed to leave the slave-horde cowed enough. Save for him. The clones were recognized and he was onto the scent of something that was once encountered but eluded him, everyone, and disappeared into the galactic edge.

Seydon bided against the bulkhead walling, appearing suitably downtrodden. Hands locked together, eyes shrouded, glacial still. A half-awake meditative trance as he counted heartbeats and timed out his breathing. An itinerary was compiled: escape, locate an armoury or hopefully repossess what was left of his taken kit, disable shipwide propulsion, and then go face whomever was commanding from the bridge tower. A vacant clone-guard came through an aisle of scared slaves and turned to pass him by. Seydon came out of the trance. One hand reached and closed around the guard's nostrils and mouth, the other arm grappling the chest armour for purchase. The Dunaan's touch seemed to only twitch. The skull yanked around as sinew and bone tore and cracked. Dead weight staggered and dropped at his feet.

Sweat-lathered prisoners choked down their gasps and looked around rigidly. A few sidled close, attempting to disguise the fallen guard by way of nonchalant crowding. The air had gone pregnant with panic and dry, frail excitement. Naked feet and bare legs cordoned round, as Seydon quickly rifled the clone's webgear. A basic multi-tool, a bar ration, stun-cuffs, a collapsible electro-baton, a datapad, and a vibro-knife. Each were replaced into a filched pouch belt snagged off the body and rebound across his waist.

Previously, he'd spent the better part of an hour inching his way toward a duct vent. Still knelt, Seydon braced himself in front of the slant-grilled cover, catching his fingers into the framing. A shrug pulled it askew, tearing anchored thread-nuts free. No time for the subtlety of the multi-tool or the slow procedure of melting the vibro-knife along like a kind of make-shift cutting torch. Seydon crawled back, toes and heels first, gripping the felled clone by the ankles, pulling him into the creaking tunnel. A last gesture was nodding to the tiny prisoner crowd doing their utmost to appear simultaneously frightened and apathetic. He left the stun-baton on the decking. One softly squatted and tucked a fallen pistol in their waistband, another pushing the small blaster carbine up beneath their shirt. Body in tow, Seydon disappeared into the circulatory 'guts' of the 'Hatred.

[member="Darth Odium"]