There's nothing to die for. (Sarge)

[Avicus DuSang]

Fondor - OmegaPyre Training Facility

It was early in the morning, dawn barely peeking over the horizon. Deep inside the facility, the Colonel began his morning routine. Wearing only his uniform pants and a pair of boots, he turned on two small droids. Green hilts flew to his hands as the white lava blades sprang to life with a pop and a hiss.

Slow at first, the droids began to circle the Dark God. Yellow eyes closed, the calm before the storm. Faster, the droids began to dart all around him, their elevation raising and dropping as if they wrre trying to get a feel for the Rogue Master. Finally, the droids shot off a volley of laser blasts toward him. A spectacle of white began to dance around him as each bolt was met with the plasma blade.

His chest was decorated with three scars he received many decades ago. His shoulder held a scar that was clearly an old saber burn. And his back was shredded with scars from what appeared to be fingernail marks. This dance continued, the droids trying to get a clear shot, but never finding one.

Outside the room, spectators had gathered. Most people in OmegaPyre knew Avicus was a former Sith. This caused quite a stir among the troops. All they knew was his reputation. They knew nothing of the man.

 

[Sarge Potteiger]

There was one more figure in the room, that was neither droid nor man. It was the vaguest notion of a humanoid figure at the corner of the eye, the subtle touch of darkness that lingered at the outlying edges of illumination. It was, and wasn't.

It was shadow, and it was death.

It's name was Sarge.

But Avicus probably didn't know that, and Avicus, this new Colonel who had come to join OmegaPyre, likely didn't even realize he had company so close. Cira, the Prex, had Sarge as company almost 24/7 and still wasn't sure when he was there and when he wasn't.

This was attributed not only to the camo-cloak he wore that blended him in with his surroundings, and not just because he was the undisputed master of stealth among the rank and file. It was because he didn't exist in the Force.

Like a stalwart stone in a river, the Force flowed around him, battering him, but never able to penetrate or sweep him away.

It was this quality, combined with his other skills, that gave him the qualities of ghost. He was nothing more than a whisper on the wind, a shadow within a shadow.

And he wasn't too keen on this Sith in his home.

 

[Avicus DuSang]

As abruptly as it begun, the laser spectacle came to an end. One saber was deactivated, and a cigarette was placed in his lips. His other saber was brought up, lighting the smoke. Being deactivated thereafter, and also placed on his belt. A glass of wine was poured and sipped, and then there was silence. The silence so powerful you can clearly hear a cigarette burning during a drag.

But, then he heard something else, an echo in the Force.

The Force was a lot like water. The crash sent a shockwave that was barely noticed. But in the silence, it was just loud enough to grab his attention. Yellow eyes snapped to the location of the forve obstruction and adrenaline began coursing through his veins. As he set down his glass of wine, he came to realization of an awful truth.

He wasn't alone in here, and whoever was with him was eluding his senses.

As the cigarette was tossed out of his lips, his eyes stayed glued on the spot. Sarge could have moved, and Avicus wouldn't have been the wiser. Adrenaline was overtaking his senses. He couldn't hear the ping. The shadows of the room began to creep towards the Dark God. They creeped up his legs, slowly consuming him. Once he was engulfed, the shadows rolled back, and Avicus was gone.

Many members of the Sith saw him a traitor. Death was the punishment for many crimes in the Emoire. Treason was certainly one of them. This assassin would have to be dealt with. But, even cloaked in darkness, he couldn't hear the ping. So, he created a larger wave.

Quickly, it filled the room, no more power behind then the lightest breeze. But the ping would be much more noticable. The moment he heard it, he locked onto the location. And like a cobra, he struck.

From the shadows, a green hilt came flying towards Sarge, the white lava blade springing to life with a snap and a hiss.

 

[Sarge Potteiger]

A slow smirk creased the lips hidden beneath a hood of photoreactive fiber, the assassin's amusement piqued by the fact the man was drinking wine at the asscrack of dawn. Most perturbatory.

With exactly the terrifying speed of someone having the most horrifying of epiphanies, the man's eyes locked onto where Sarge was.

The smirk only grew.

As the man readied whatever it was he was doing with those shadows... Sarge pulled his signature double-edged bayonet from his belt with practiced, hidden movements and slid it into it's place at the end of his blaster rifle.

From under a cowl of mimicry a pair of brown eyes watched the air around him for what was surely an incoming strike. There.

Glowing plasma met the finely honed point of a duraplast and cortosis weave bayonet, twenty five centimeters in length. The saber shorted, briefly, and that was all the time it would take for Avicus to make a sudden realization - the rifle wasn't being held as a rifle.

It was being used as a quarterstaff and he was about to receive the business end of a buttstock to the face, propelled onward by finely honed reflexes and adrenaline.

 

[Avicus DuSang]

The deflection of the attack was sudden. The counterattack would follow shortly. And swiftly it came. Not in the form of blaster fire, but of melee. With his assassin in motion, he was much easier to track. With fluid grace, his head dropped back as his knees dropped. The rifle grazed his goatee. The intensity of the moment crept a smile upon his lips.

Time seemed to slow as he dropped to the floor, his feet planting down as he behun to spin towards his left. Black tendrils of the Force pulled the still airborne saber towards him. The movement was fluid. The kind of fluidity that came with decades of life by the saber.

His right hand outstretched, the cool steel of the hilt grazed his palm. Olive fingers grasped the hilt as he had countless times beforehand. How natural it was to take a life. Turning 180°, his right hand directed the saber towards Sarge's midsection.

"I will not fall!" he roared.

 

[Sarge Potteiger]

Eyes wide, mouth open to pull in breaths of pure excitement and joy, Sarge felt himself begin to grin. It wasn't the normal, 'I just made a funny' grin, either. It was the 'someone's about to die' grin that few people ever truly saw.

Even now, at point blank range, Avicus likely wouldn't see it. Wrapped around his shoulders and curling up over his head into a makeshift hood was his cloak. There was also the matter of him dropping.

Avicus was a saber duelist, it seemed, and that meant a lot of finesse. Sarge was more of a street fighter than anything. So, mid-spin, Sarge did the most degrading thing he probably could at that point in time. He lifted his leg and launched a size ten and a half [wide] boot into the side of Avicus' head as he was mid-spin.

He had the benefit of a reflexive movement and Avicus being preoccupied finishing his own attack; it was time to knock him off balance and down a peg.

Sarge gave no reply.

Outside, the spectators who'd lined up earlier had figured out quite quickly what was going on. Credits were changing hands, if Avicus would care to note; that would be his first clue this wasn't an assassin.

 

[Avicus DuSang]

In his pride, he left himself exposed. In what should have been the sweet sound and smell of saber cutting through flesh, he instead got a boot to the face. There was no time to dodhe it. By the time the attack was noticed, he could only brace for the impact.

The boot caught him hard, sending him rolling back. Landing on his feet, he slowly stood. He felt a warm liquid trickle out of the corner of his mouth. He licked it, tasting his own blood. The spectators began taking bets. He paused, realizing the situation. His grin grew wider.

"Impressive, soldier."

The saber was held behind his back, left hand outstretched. A small trickle of sweat ran down his cheek. Or was it blood? It mattered little. "But are you worth anything outside the suit?" Blue lightning exploded from his outstretched hands, arching towards Sarge.

 

[Sarge Potteiger]

"What suit?", he asks in a conversational tone. He wasn't wearing a suit. What he was wearing, aside from the cloak that helped form a makeshift hood around his head, was matte black pieces of plasteel over black cloth.

Basically, standard issue armor for OmegaPyre.

"I gave up the suit awhile ago."

He grinned, taking the lightning and momentarily being thankful for the deadened nerves he had from burn damage across his chest.

"Are you anything without the Force?", he asks through grit teeth, taking slow, methodical
steps forward. But by the Gods was this excruciatingly painful where he could feel it.

 

[Avicus DuSang]

The moment was disappointing. It was downright anticlimactic. The question asked caused him to pause, the lightning stopped flowing. The saber deactivated, and both hilts were tossed aside.

Cracking his neck, he stretched his muscles out. He gave Sarge time to regain his composure. His stance changed to hand-to-hand. "Let's find out."

 

[Sarge Potteiger]

Of course this was anticlimactic. But there were several reasons for one, one of which actually made perfect sense; he'd developed a slight tolerance for Force Lightning. Sarge had met maybe three Jedi in his career, but closer to twenty Sith and he wasn't even counting neutrals or Dark Jedi. Almost every one of those Force users had decided it would be fun to shock him.

Some had actually tried to kill him with it.

The health affects were horrendous, but Ayden had helped to mitigate that with cutting edge medical procedures backed by his Force talents.

The other reason?

Sarge was a Sergeant, and NCO's existed to be feared and respected by the men below them... and the officers above them. By his very job description, he was to be a buzzkill.

Which brings us to what he was doing now.

A faint chuckle left Sarges lips before he disappeared from sight once more; the hatch slid open.

He'd left.

There was a chorus of laughter from the gamblers, who quickly realized it was in their best interest to make themselves scarce.

 

[Avicus DuSang]

A chuckle. A hatch opening. And then silnce. The soldier was gone. Running out into the hallway, the gambling spectators scattered, fearing the wrath of the former Sith Lord. "Pain in the ass!" he spat, slamming the door.

Sitting down, he picked up his glass of wine and coughed twice. He took a deep breath, sparking up another cigarette. The smoke soothed his cough, but irritated the cut inside his mouth. That boot he took to the face certainly woke him up. But, better the boot then a rifle stock.

Standing up, he picked up his shirt, packed up his droids and wine bottle and walked back to his quarters. There, he finished the.bottle between a shower and meditation. Black tendrils of the Force healing the damage caused by the boot.

Dressed in a fresh officer's uniform, he stepped out onto the grounds. Sparking up a fresh cigarette,he took a long drag. Yellow eyes surveyed the scene.

Col. DuSang was ready to face the day.