Too Stubborn To Die
Weapons: Lightsaber
Tag: Open to a Jedi
Gatz was back home on Naboo, and he wasn't particularly thrilled about it.
Well, he supposed that wasn't entirely true: home was Theed. Once, anyways. Not Lake Country. He'd grown up in the city, civilized and urban, not the rural farms that dotted Naboo's most isolated locale. Lake Country was supposed to be an idyllic paradise, mirroring the rest of the planet he'd grown up on—cataclysms and the odd kidnapping not withstanding. It was sparsely populated, peaceful, beautiful, and a safe place to live.
The bruises that dotted his face, cuts that marred his arms, and blood that stained his collar suggested otherwise.
Utopia or not (it wasn't, he'd grown up starving on this world), even Naboo had problems. The farmers were being harassed by a group of miscreants: their harvests being pilfered, their livestock being stolen, and most recently—a young farmhand had lost his life at the end of a vibrosword. Naboo took care of its people (they didn't), but launching an investigation into a few tons of grain going missing, and the odd farm animal being killed didn't exactly make the list of priorities.
Killing a teen though? That had attracted some attention. His. Gatz had sent word back to the Order, requesting help for his world, but he couldn't bring himself to just wait around for it.
He'd spent the last three nights running his borrowed speeder from farm to farm, trying to catch whoever was doing this in the act. The first night had turned up nothing. On the second night, a farm East of him had been hit, but Gatz had been too late to see anything other than the scorched remains of a barnhouse. Last night, however, he'd gotten the drop on a dozen men in the middle of a raid.
He... hadn't expected a dozen armed and trained men. Hence the bruises, cuts, and general beating he'd taken. It was his own fault for refusing to carry a lightsaber, thinking he could end the conflict without violence just this once. Still, after he'd chased them off—and coughing up a liberal amount of blood—Gatz had managed to track them to the lake, where any prints or evidence of their passing had promptly vanished.
And so, on the fourth night, Gatz waited. He sat under a beech tree near the shore line, legs crossed, eyes closed, and his breathing slow. Gatz had often found meditation difficult. His mind had never been one for being quiet, and peace simply wasn't attainable for him most of the time. But with everything going on as of late—Midvintir, Tython, Ithor, Nar Shaddaa and the rest—he was afraid that if he didn't try, he'd lose himself in the violence the Jedi Way had forced him into as of late.
Even now, with his lightsaber sitting on the ground in front of him, Gatz desperately hoped he wouldn't have to draw his weapon. He'd killed more people in his half year as a Jedi than he had during the span of his seven year smuggling career.
The sun began to fall behind the mountains. And still Gatz sat—battered, bruised, but unmoving—simply waiting for the enemy to appear once more.