The Rebel Faction

"Discipline, Zerxes, discipline," Xireon chided, his cold white eyes narrowing. "An undisciplined Sith falls upon his own sword. Do not think I will be here to pick you off of it." Allowing one of his students a moment of enjoyment was not something he indulged in. Zerxes was to be kept on his toes, Xireon had long ago decided, or he -- and those around him -- would quickly find themselves dead.

Despite his having taken the time to crush what excitement he could from Zerxes, Xireon could not deny that the prospect of unmitigated slaughter held certain appeals. Not only for the prospect of causing death (which, in and of itself, in some ways had lost its appeal for a being which had nearly destroyed the Republic), but for the prospect of witnessing Zerxes' progress.

The black-armored Achrion -- one of the few hundred remaining, which still served Xireon -- glanced back, from where he sat at the controls of the small landing craft. "Planetary customs has been cleared. What is your desired landing zone, sire?"

"Observe, Zerxes Vondiranach, how easily we slip into the midst of these anarchists, this species which refuses to regulate its people. The commoners of this galaxy are fools; they require control by those powerful enough to wield it." Xireon faced the Achrion. "Somewhere in a highly populated city. Not an industrial area; a commercial one."

The Achrion nodded.

Minutes later, the vague clunk of touchdown could be heard throughout the vessel. With a hiss, the landing ramp lowered, and master and student emerged from the vessel into what seemed to be something of a public square. A number of Gotals -- perhaps one hundred -- had gathered around the vessel, curious as to why it had landed in the middle of a city street. Speeders whizzed around it, and the streets separating the moderately tall buildings around them teemed with life.

"However, Zerxes," Xireon commented as he observed the small crowd around or near the craft, "as you did ask so politely..."

Screams now echoed throughout the square, as the crowd looked on in horror at the brutal execution of the Gotal woman. It was said that the Gotal could sense the use of the Force in the form of a dull buzzing sensed through their horns. This seemed to only add to the sense of chaos now permeating the square, as many of the aliens ran away, towards speeders or other hovercraft. Others advanced towards the two, enraged.

Zerxes offered him the heart of the slain Gotal. "No, I think I will pass, Zerxes," he said. Without warning, a laster blast struck the the overhang of the shuttle's landing ramp. "Do bear in mind that this is not a game?"

Xireon descended the rest of the ramp with one, smooth motion, crossing the distance between himself and the crowd, and the one carrying the blaster pointed it at his head. With strength that visibly suprised the man, even despite what terrors he may have expected from the wraith, he grabbed the Gotal's arm with a clawed fist, crushing the bones to dust in seconds.

The blaster fell to the ground, discharging once. More screams echoed through the square. Smirking underneath his collar, Xireon deftly kicked it away, towards an illumination post. The sheer force of the impact caused the weapon to collapse in on itself, and then exploding outward. Blood sprayed as the metal fragments struck members of the crowd.

With demonic force, Xireon tore the Gotal's arm from him at the shoulder, bone cracking and flesh tearing as blood spilled onto the ground. Now, the crowd was certainly beginning to disperse. As the arm came loose, and the alien was finally able to step away. The look of shock on his gray face was matched only by the fear that permeated it. His eyes glanced toward the gaping wound, from which blood still poured.

And with that, Xireon struck him across the face with the severed limb, audibly cracking his jaw. Two more blows rained down on the Gotal's chest, crimson blood spraying across the scene. As he began to stagger backward and fall, the Sith grabbed the collar of his clothes, and, barely showing effort, hurled the brutally wounded creature towards the street behind him.

As if timed by the gods themselves, a speeder came by at precisely that moment, the Gotal impacting mightily into its side, the strike shattering transparisteel and crushing durasteel. The vehicle stuttered a few more meters, its repulsors failing and sending it crashing a few feet to the ground. After grinding along, a grating metallic sound filling the air, the speeder exploded brilliantly, sending metal shards flying into the screaming, running crowd that now filled the square.

Another speeder struck the burning hulk, and Xireon smiled. "And so it begins..."

He turned back and glanced at Zerxes.

Xireon nodded to himself.

With a few, quick steps, he returned to the Crimson Tide II's landing ramp. One of the Gotal's approached him, raising a vibroblade. Without hesitation, Xireon grabbed the man's wrist and snapped the arm backwards on itself, and guided the vibroblade into the alien's neck. The vibration of the weapon sent blood spraying into the air, and nearly severed its holder's head.

Stepping up the ramp, Xireon called into the vessel. "I believe you know the standard protocol. We will call when necessary."

"Yes, sir," came the reply.

A moment later, Xireon was back on the ground, rushing away from the vessel as its repulsorlifts screamed, and it took off. Another terrified Gotal ran past, this one bearing no weapon. Immediately, one of the wraith's blue, clawed hands lanced out, grabbing the creature by the throat and pulling it towards his other fist. Under the strike, he felt the thing's rib cage crush against his lungs, before he tossed it away.

A vague buzzing in the back of his mind told Xireon that yet another speeder was bearing down on him, its driver panicking. He turned, reaching out in the dark side, and with his hand, in the physical world. For the scantest of seconds, his eyes locked with those of the speeder's driver, and he smiled.

And the speeder stopped, dead, in mid air.

With a simple gesture, the speeder was hurled away, striking and instantly killing several Gotals before colliding with the duracrete side of a building. Crushing half of the super-strong concrete in, it exploded spectacularly, shrapnel slaying the surrounding civilians.

"Anarchists don't have a military," Xireon answered. With a low utterance and a moment of concentration, fire -- golden and raging -- burst from one of his outstretched hands, in the form of a pillar as wide as a human being. The constant beam enveloped a nearby speeder, resulting in a massive blast that hurled several nearby civilians away.

Turning the pillar of flame without, seemingly, significant effort, Xireon used it to ignite several of the nearby buildings, even their hard duracrete and durasteel ignited and so obliterated by the all-consuming fire. The once-peaceful square was now consumed with flame, wreckage, blood and the bodies of the dead and dying. Only a few, fearful civilians remained either in hiding or fleeing in terror.

Suddenly, he jerked his head around, reacting to some unseen stimulus. "But, that would be the local security force."

And, surely enough, several speeders approached from around the corner of the nearest building. Blaring from loudspeakers was a garbled message in the strange dialect of the Gotal. "Drop your weapons and surrender," Xireon translated, beginning to smirk under the collar he wore about his face.

"Well, I suppose we could do one of the two, just to be good sports," Xireon said, grabbing the lightsabers from his belt and dropping them to the ground. "Why not?" He asked Zerxes.

The group of security officers now approached the two unarmed men, slowly inching towards them with rifles trained on their heads. Well, one man, and one demi-human thing, to paraphrase their thoughts. Xireon found it somewhat amusing to read their expressions and feelings as they viewed him with no small amount of trepidation.

With the newfound strength the dark ritual on Ziost had granted him had come a freakish, ghoulish appearance. At first, the reactions that his appearance had been met with had been profoundly rejecting -- particularly for someone with enough Force affinity to read feelings and thoughts easily. Over time, it had become more of an amusement than anything else.

Without moving a muscle, Xireon shot a glance at one of the closest Gotals. As if a titanic force had struck him, the alien was thrown violently back, his weapon spiralling away. His flight stopped in the forward viewport of the nearest police speeder, the sound of breaking transparisteel echoing through the square.

Dumbstruck, the other officers stared, now white-knuckling on their own blasters. Finally, whether by nerves or by actual intent, one of them shot.

Reaching out, Xireon allowed it to strike his hand, the energy dissipating and disappearing. With a wave of that same hand, the Gotal's weapon was torn from his grasp and, slowly but surely, turned back upon its owner, leaving him staring down the barrel.

"I would take him hostage and make threats," Xireon said, "but that would be a waste of your time, and mine."

With that, the rifle fired one last time, squarely blasting the Gotal's head from his neck, leaving only a bloodied stump. At this point, the message had finally become apparent in the mind of each of the Siths' aggressors; the only way out of this situation was combat.

"And it's on, then."

With that, the group began firing with abandon at the two, hoping to overwhelm them and blow them away before more damage could be done.