The gore nest pulsed and throbbed, rooted in place and lit by the scarlet globe between its pincers.
It whispered and distorted the air around it.
The raw, wet totem was adorned by ropy intestines, jagged canine teeth, and glowing yellow pus sacs.
One of them was large enough to enclose the nest’s beating heart.
Suddenly, though no one was near it, the heart was telekinetically wrenched out of the gore nest and tossed aside.
The nest wailed inhumanly before it imploded into meaty chunks.
Obi-Wan and Kit Fisto leaped out of the hallway, lightsabers ablaze, and dashed across the lobby to the doors of the elevator just as more flashes flared up around the circular room.
Both Jedi began cutting down imps just as they spawned.
Blasterfire from startled Z-secs was redirected into them and up into the ceiling, shattering in sparks.
And HK-47 entered the lobby soon afterwards, quickly priming his heavy repeater before unleashing it in wide arcs wherever the Jedi were not.
The remaining fodder demons were herded into the back of the lobby and into the entrance of the hallway– where every trooper was waiting, silently, in rows of formation.
But they did not fire– not just yet.
Obi-Wan, Fisto, and HK-47 had soon cut down 75% of the available fodder demons.
But it was at that point where a new flash flared up, and this one was far bigger than usual.
Obi-Wan’s attention was on it in an instant.
When it died down, Obi-Wan recoiled.
The new type of demon was naked and enormous: twice as wide from side to side and front to back as Obi-Wan was.
It was the color of vomit and had sunken yellow eyes, rotting boar fangs, and a long stitch up its bulging obese stomach.
But what grabbed Obi-Wan’s attention the most were its disproportionately large cannons made of chitin and rusty iron, growing out of its arms.
The gruff ogre-thing banged them together before bellowing like a wounded reek.
Obi-Wan remembered the name when he had perused the influx of files from the records hall.
Mancubus.
Obi-Wan and Kit Fisto had nothing to say at the shocking new type of demon.
But HK-47 did.
“Insult: You have a face that could blow off manhole covers,” the droid stated matter-of-factly.
And its Z-6 blazed to life, showering the demon in blasterfire.
The demon’s skin began getting scorched, but seemed to absorb the blasterfire, not unlike a Droideka’s deflector shield generator.
The Mancubus’s face twisted in a hateful snarl, and thin streams of blinding orange flame suddenly burst forth from both arm cannons.
Being in his direct path, Obi-Wan had to leap over them.
He flipped and landed on his feet, cutting an imp in two as he came down.
He turned and blasted a wave of Force at three Z-secs instinctually, and they all tumbled to the ground.
Fisto had created a shield with the Force, in contrast, which the Mancubus’ flames surged uselessly against.
Fisto’s usual smiley demeanor was gone, replaced by strain and determination.
Once the flamethrower attack died down, Kit Fisto fired the shield of Force at the Mancubus, which only briefly faltered it, but allowed Fisto the time he needed to close in.
He jumped.
Fisto’s boot stomped on the upper curve of the Mancubus’ obese belly.
Then on the Mancubus’ shoulder.
Now fully atop the monstrous thing, Fisto raised his saber, ready to plunge it into his skull.
The enraged Mancubus bellowed and slammed its blazing cannons on the ground.
The lobby quaked, and a pool of Argent napalm pooled around the monster.
Fisto was thrown backwards into the wall, made a pained sound, and slid down it, but landed on his feet.
The imps, Z-secs, and zombies in the hallway had gone so far down that the clones lying in wait at the far end began firing in constant barrages of blinding blue blasterfire.
It was only wide enough for three troopers at a time side by side, but with one set of troopers on their padded knees, another set crouching, and another standing upright with another set behind them firing over their shoulders, the demons fleeing the lobby found themselves being torn to shreds by combined, sustained blasterfire from twelve separate points from the bottleneck’s far end.
Bodies began to accumulate in the hall that they had to start crawling over, making their task even tougher.
HK-47, meanwhile, was taking care of the fodder demons that were not crowding into the lobby’s exit hallway.
The Z-6 spat pitter-patters of blue blasterfire all over the lobby that scorched the walls and felled the Z-secs right in their path.
HK-47 seemed to understand, without words, that the Jedi would take care of the Mancubus.
Obi-Wan took a few precious seconds to examine the Mancubus as it trudged slowly for Fisto, who brandished his lightsaber in tight swishes.
Obi-Wan’s eyes roamed all over the disgusting Mancubus.
It was big, but also slow.
It was tough, but likely nothing a lightsaber couldn’t handle.
It had a large blind spot from behind, but you couldn’t get too close to it in case its napalm pool activated.
If the cannons were disabled, it was just a sitting bantha.
With that in mind, Obi-Wan maneuvered behind the Mancubus, dashed in close, and sunk his lightsaber deep into the demon’s spinal column.
Even though it was a lightsaber, Obi-Wan still had trouble with jiggling his blade inside the demon’s back.
So he deactivated it, and the demon slouched in place; with a cut spine, he was paralyzed from his pierced lungs down.
Three more flashes from around the room drew Obi-Wan’s attention, and they, too, were larger than usual.
Obi-Wan got away from the crippled Mancubus before the other three flashes died down, revealing three more Mancubi.
They, too, began flooding the elevator lobby with gouts of flame that Obi-Wan backflipped and twisted around to get distant from.
He was faintly aware that the end of his cloak was aflame.
Meanwhile, Kit Fisto had leaped at a sufficient height beside the paralyzed Mancubus for him to behead it with a hard swipe of his green saber.
Fisto landed with a skid, then reached for something on his belt.
He ignited a second lightsaber, this time a rich blue, and swirled both blades before he hurled both in colorful pinwheels at the shoulders of the second Mancubus.
Both arms clattered to the ground at the same time, disarming him, and the Mancubus bellowed, but could do nothing but angrily waddle in place.
Both blades returned to Kit Fisto’s hands.
He sped in close, into the amputated Mancubus’ melee range, before disemboweling the obese thing with a hard, heavy slash of both sabers.
Burned, thick organs spilled out.
This keeled the demon forward as its knees finally buckled, and Fisto swirled his green saber twice before slamming it down and precisely piercing the back of its head.
HK-47, meanwhile, was drawing the fire of the second to last Mancubus, who was just out of range of the flamethrowers.
The minigun’s fire was directed, not at the Mancubus’ obese stomach, but at one of its cannons.
The brittle chitin and iron that comprised the cannons was not nearly as durable as the rest of the Mancubus, and after a few concentrated seconds of sustained fire, it just exploded off the Mancubus’ arm, faltering it.
This permitted Obi-Wan to leap at the demon from that unprotected side, and the demon was slow to turn to meet him.
Obi-Wan’s saber stuck firmly in its head in midair, wrenching Obi-Wan’s momentum and making him roll onto the ground, which had also dragged his lightsaber all the way through the Mancubus diagonally.
Obi-Wan got to his feet quickly enough to see both uneven halves slough onto the ground.
That left just one, who was right in front of one of the elevator doors they weren’t planning on using.
Obi-Wan spun to see it launch two sun-orange fireballs from its cannons directly at him.
Obi-Wan dodged one hot sphere and deflected another– the projectiles had some kind of plasma property that allowed them to be parried like imp fireballs.
After deflecting yet another fireball from the furious, panicking monster, Obi-Wan parried the next fireball directly back at the Mancubus, which struck him dead in the chest and made him stagger back.
His weight made the turbolift doors behind him buckle, and the Mancubus found himself wobbling wildly on the edge of the turbolift shaft.
Obi-Wan, seeing it off balance, swiped his arm, and a thin blade of Force slashed the Mancubus on the forehead, snapping it backwards and toppling him into the shaft.
He disappeared.
That left only three imps that were rushing for HK-47, sensing that he was the only one in the room that did not have a lightsaber.
But this worked out well for HK-47.
He had tossed his Z-6 aside and was now meeting the lunging imps in hand-to-hand combat.
The assassin droid decked one imp in the face so hard, he flipped in midair to land hard on the nape of his neck.
HK-47 snagged the swiping claw of another imp and slammed him into the ground headfirst before flinging his corpse away callously.
HK-47 snatched the final imp in both hands and lifted him in the air in an iron grip.
The monster’s limbs were thrashing and dangling in futility.
“Request: Die, meatbag!” the droid cried jubilantly.
And HK-47 spread his arms.
The imp was loudly torn in half like a loaf of bread, gushing a torrent of rust-red blood all over HK-47.
It dripped off like he had just gotten out of the shower.
After a second of holding the dripping halves above his head, HK-47 hurled one half of the imp to the floor.
Then the other.
They sounded like soaked towels.
Suddenly sick to his stomach, Obi-Wan and Fisto exchanged silent glances and wisely stayed back from the droid.
“Demonic presence eliminated. Turbolift lockdown disengaged,” came a calm announcer over the loudspeaker.
Now that it was clear, Obi-Wan was finally able to push the button of the correct turbolift as the rest of their forces were emerging into the lobby.
As they waited for the turbolift, the troopers were taking in the fresh carnage and fiery ruins.
Some were drawn instantly to the new demon corpses.
But Doctor Aphra rushed for HK-47 first.
He carefully avoided the pieces of demons littering the floor and reached out for the blood-soaked droid, who slowly turned to him.
“Hey, er, buddy. How, uh, how’re you feeling?”
HK-47 bent down, picked up his weapon, and hoisted the heavy blaster in both hands.
“Exultation: So many meatbags that leak and scream all over the place, with no moral compunction over their demise! Oh, Master, you do take me to the nicest places. Query: What new types of disposable filth await us at the portal site?”
“At this point?” Aphra’s face pulled.
“Anything goes. I just hope you can handle it, Kay. I don’t want you to go in too deep over your head. Don’t want your programming to become a problem.”
The bloodstained droid stared Doctor Aphra dead in the eyes.
“Statement: Master, I am a droid. That means I solve problems. Practical problems. Hypothetical: What am I to do if disgusting demonic sub-sentient redskins are barreling right at me, intent on tearing me limb from superior metal limb? Answer: Use a blaster. And if that does not work, use explosives. And if that does not work, use even more explosives. Dealing with meatbag problems can be shockingly simple at times.”
Aphra reached into his shoulderbag and withdrew a small white rag, which he began using to clear HK-47’s photoreceptors and joints of blood before they dried up.
“You solve problems, huh? So what’s the meaning of love?”
HK-47 was still as Aphra cleaned him up.
“Disclaimer: That falls within the purview of your conundrums of philosophy. But I shall give the best approximation I am capable of. Definition: Love is making a shot to the knees of a target 120 kilometers away using an Aratech sniper rifle with a tri-light scope. Not just anyone can pull that off. It requires skill, dedication, and intentionality.”
“That is…” Aphra seemed lost for words.
He cleared his throat and resumed cleaning the droid.
“…the best definition I’ve ever heard. So, wait… would that mean you make love all the time?”
“Lamentation: Less often than I would like to, Master.”
“You and me both,” Aphra muttered.
As this was happening, several of the 212th clone troopers had gathered around the decapitated Mancubus, the first one to die.
Longshot, Barlex, and Trapper were staring at it with equal parts horror and fascination.
Until Trapper broke the silence.
“Hey, Barlex, look,” Trapper said, gesturing at the sprawled Mancubus.
“It’s your mom.”
Barlex just affixed Trapper with a blank stare from under his helmet.
“Wouldn’t that make her your mom too?”
“The closest thing we had to a mom on Kamino was Nala Se,” Longshot contributed from behind.
“And she was as thin as a toothpick. Are you really gonna say she’s like this hamplanet?”
“Well, no,” Trapper admitted, a sheepish hand on the back of his neck.
“Just thought it’d be funny.”
“That thing’s nothing like my mom. Like your mom,” Barlex said firmly.
Then he tapped Trapper’s shoulder.
“Your mom was twice as big.”
“Okay,” Trapper sourly relented.
“It’s Obese-Wan Kenobi,” Longshot joked, and the three troopers sniggered.
“I knew it,” came the only female voice in the group, and the three clone troopers turned tiredly around to see the stout, square Ellanda Sheyl standing with her hands on her wide hips.
“Internalized misogyny in men and the institutions of the military. Listen. Sweeties. I’d appreciate it if you stopped making jokes at the expense of plus-size individuals, women, and mothers.”
All three troopers gave each other glances before Trapper spoke up again.
“No.”
“Begging your, uh, pardon, ma’am, but weren’t you the one saying motherhood would only slow you down?” Longshot quickly followed up to distract from Trapper.
“Slow me down,” Ellanda clarified, and she adjusted her square glasses with a finger.
“But women and mothers rule the galaxy. We give birth to all the influential males who go on to make a difference, without getting thanked for it, so it’s really thanks to us that anything gets done in this galaxy. But in a way, I appreciate you clones. I really do! Made by women without being raped by men and not turned into a parasite in the womb. You’re the blueprint of how life should be.”
The three clones, after a silent moment, swiftly turned their backs and left Ellanda.
Korin Aphra, having seen all this, finished up cleaning HK-47 and came beside her, his hands fiddling with his shoulderbag.
After an awkward moment, he spoke.
“Let’s… not, ma’am. They aren’t in the mood for a lecture.”
“They need to understand the true nature of the universe!” Ellanda hissed quietly.
“Feminine energy, tolerance, the power of inclusivity? The sooner the better.”
Aphra made a pained sound.
“Perhaps,” he said simply.
Unfortunately, HK-47 heard it all too, and he came over with a clank on every step.
“Query: Female, what information do you have that is so important to share sooner than later?”
Ellanda seemed relieved that someone was interested.
“Oh, nothing much. Just the secrets of freedom. Emotional transcendence. Little things like that. Hmph. But…” Ellanda shrugged sadly.
“I’m not sure you’d get it. You machines always think in binaries. Ones and zeroes, male and female, good and evil, cause and effect. You wouldn’t understand emotional transcendence.”
HK-47’s deep but polite tone was unchanged.
“Clarification: I understand emotional transcendence to be the abandonment of logic in favor of hormone-driven hallucinations.”
Ellanda’s demeanor turned very passive-aggressive as her head tilted up with her hands on her hips.
“Oh, is that right? Hormonal hallucinations? Go on. You have something to say, droid?”
If HK-47 understood the dangerous tone in her words, he did not show it.
“Hypothesis: You may be undergoing hormonal destabilization consistent with early- to mid-stage human pregnancy. Those many additional fluids noisily sloshing about inside your womb and mammary glands would explain your emotional volatility.”
“I am not pregnant!” Ellanda snapped.
“And I’m not emotionally volatile. I would never subject myself to such… parasite worship. You don’t get paid for it, so bearing children is literally slavery. I’ve evolved beyond it.”
“Counterpoint: Pregnancy is a biologically inevitable function of your meatbag reproductive cycle. Elaboration: It involves elevated estrogen in your bloodstream, progesterone, rapid weight gain, increased blood volume, severe uterine distension, bouts of irritation, sluggish movement, rapid fluctuations in appetite, swollen mammaries, and the audible voiding of bodily contents. This condition also curiously induces a tendency to decorate.”
Ellanda’s face was contorted in shock and outrage.
“You’re disgusting.”
HK-47’s tone was as neutral as always.
“Statement: I am merely thorough. It is also entirely possible that you may simply be past menopause.”
That made Ellanda visibly uncomfortable, and after some shifting of her eyes, Ellanda chose to stomp angrily away.
“Let’s tone it down a notch,” Aphra hissed once she was out of earshot.
“She still needs to escape this place too.”
“Resignation: If you insist, Master,” HK-47 sadly acknowledged.
As all this was going on, Obi-Wan and Kit Fisto were silently overlooking their troopers from either side of the closed turbolift doors, waiting as the lift was coming.
Obi-Wan’s mind was replaying the events of the fight.
The smell of the Mancubus was still in the air from his carcass, and Obi-Wan could not forget the sheer resistance of the Mancubus’ flesh to his lightsaber.
The Hell Knight had the same problem.
The fodder demons didn’t have that kind of resistance.
So it was the heavier demons that concerned Obi-Wan.
How much worse would things get?
Obi-Wan’s eyes glanced over to Kit Fisto, and he gestured at the second lightsaber on his belt.
“That’s new.”
“Oh, this?” Fisto nudged it with his hand.
“It’s actually quite old. Goes back to the time of my old apprentice.”
“Nahdar Vebb,” Obi-Wan remembered.
And his tone grew more somber as he figured it out.
“That’s his weapon.”
Fisto nodded, his black eyes downcast.
“Vassek III still sticks with me. And the lair of Grievous. I’ve carried Vebb’s weapon ever since, as a backup saber, but also to remind me of him. To not be too impatient, too vengeful and quick to anger. This mission, though, is sorely, sorely tempting.” Kit’s eyes suddenly widened, and he turned to the turbolift doors, his hand on his saber.
“Something’s coming. I can sense it.”
Indeed, a few seconds later, the elevator doors finally slid open with a soft chime.
And a full dozen Z-secs were inside, who instantly opened fire.
It caught one kneeling 333rd trooper and one 212th trooper by surprise, who were both pierced by blasterfire and collapsed backwards.
This made Commander Nyx scream in fury, who began pouring blasterfire of his own into the elevator.
Several zombified troopers fell.
But Kit Fisto had a plan of his own.
He seized all remaining nine Z-secs and yanked, sending all of them toppling out of the elevator and sprawling to the floor in the lobby.
Three seconds later, all of them had been shot to pieces.
As the troopers scrounged the fallen Z-secs for tibanna gas and power packs, Nyx knelt beside his fallen trooper and put an ear to his chest.
He finally shook his head.
“Cherry’s gone. Whoever has the least ammo, take his.”
Obi-Wan glanced inside the turbolift.
“Only enough room for twelve, maybe,” he noted.
“One division at a time,” Fisto decided.
“I can go first and take Ellanda. I’ll keep an eye on her, promise. You go second with the doctor and…” Fisto’s eyes drifted over to HK-47.
“Murder-Bot 5000.”
Obi-Wan huffed with amusement, then indicated the doors.
“Don’t let me stop you.”
It only took half a minute for all the 333rd troopers to gather in the turbolift.
Ellanda, much shorter than the others, was near the doors and looking visibly cranky.
Fisto stood beside her.
As the doors shut, both Jedi gave two-fingered salutes to each other.
And Obi-Wan was left alone with his nine sole troopers, Korin Aphra, and HK-47.
Obi-Wan took the time to slow his breathing down and open his mind and senses to the Force, despite how poisoned his surroundings were to it.
For what was a Jedi without the Force?
A painter gone blind, a composer gone deaf.
The Force best came to Jedi if they were at peace despite the violence raging all around them.
It wasn’t as if the Jedi were unaware of the nature of the universe.
Of course it was chaotic, daunting, and scary.
But there was beauty to be found, too.
Like a submarine in the ocean, or a star cruiser in hyperspace.
Perhaps the outside world was terrifying and suffocating.
But as long as everything was all right on the inside, there was no need to fear.
Obi-Wan could sense the current of electricity in the elevators and the whirrs of the gears.
He could sense the slick blood still coating the stone floors of the turbolift lobby, and the beating of the hearts of himself and the clones.
He could sense the micro-attenuators and servos inside HK-47, and the datapad photograph of Korin Aphra’s family inside his shoulderbag.
Obi-Wan became one with his surroundings.
Obi-Wan could sense the intentions and thoughts of anyone in the lobby, and Obi-Wan chose to sense around his Commander.
Cody was sitting on an overturned crate near the elevator door, with HK-47 standing like a sentinel beside him.
Cody’s long blaster rifle was loose in his orange gauntlets, but his gaze was steadfastly forward.
“Keep an eye out for demons, Kay,” Cody finally muttered without prompting.
It was out of compulsion, Obi-Wan noticed.
“Even though we cleared out the route here, zombies and imps can appear out of nowhere.”
“Exclamation: Oh, gee, golly gosh, the undead. Rarely does one get to kill meatbags a second time.”
“…About your skills, Kay. I was wondering…”
“Query: Is there someone you need killed?”
Commander Cody took a second before he was able to get it out.
“I was wondering… about ways to kill demons. I usually deal with battle droids. But you had access to the base records and held the demons off for three days. You know their weaknesses better than anyone. If we’re all gonna make it out, we need your help.”
HK-47 turned to look down on Cody.
“Declaration: First, Commander, I must ask that if there are demonic meatbags to destroy, that you allow me to take care of those hideous, cowardly, abominable sado-masochistic filthy sub-sentient meatbags for you. But I agree that, in the event that we are separated, we must determine strategies besides, ‘shoot it until it dies.’ While effective and simple, demon killing is far more multifaceted.”
Initially taken aback by the droid’s fervor, Cody gave an allowing shrug.
“All right. So what would you recommend?”
HK-47’s tone was simple and businesslike as he readjusted beside Cody with two clanking steps.
“Answer: Select lightsabers, thermal detonators, cluster rockets, plasma charges, anti-material rifles, seeking missiles, close-range slugthrowers, and heavy blasters with a high fire rate.
Demons they may be, but these ones can bleed, and the heavier your armament, the easier your battle will be.
“Continuation: The demons have senses which can be assaulted and disabled.
They can be blinded, deafened, and cut off from sensing your location via smell.
Their limbs can be hobbled, broken, pierced, crushed, severed, tied up, or locked in place.
“Addendum: Gas attacks, whether by inhalation or skin contact, are not effective at killing demons. They are best used as a distraction or cover for another avenue of attack. Laughing gas, tear gas, freezing gas, and napalm work the best, and airborne and liquid sedatives alike have been used to subdue the demons before. And do not forget to leverage the ground, no matter what types of terrain you are in. Mines, traps, and environmental hazards can be very effective at disrupting demons, since they will often charge right at you with no concern for their own safety. You simply need to remember where the mines are yourself.”
“Yeah,” Cody mumbled, kicking a fallen piece of rubble.
“That happened to a few men of mine.”
“Commentary: It sounds like you have been fighting for quite some time now, Commander. An admirable trait.”
“Just over a year and a half now,” Cody revealed, looking over his blaster rifle and inspecting it for damage.
“I know that doesn’t mean much to you, but I’ve seen a lot. And lost a lot more. It’s given me a… mixed feeling about war. We’re already at war, so we may as well make the most of it. But on the other hand…” Cody took a second.
“You start to wonder what it’s all for. If all the blood is worth the end goal.”
“Lamentation: Ah, meatbag sentiments. Laws of morality rarely apply to droids. We simply require direction and a good Master, though I hate the term.”
Cody nodded at his blaster rifle and raised it again to point into the darkness experimentally.
“I’d agree with that. You got any more tips for demon-killing?”
“Recitation: Nearly all demons need to know that you are physically there, and nearly all have easily-telegraphed projectile attacks to reach you. Thus, keeping your distance, sniping weak points, disabling primary attacks, and using cover are always effective. Pre-emptive strikes, ambushes, and actions typically classified as silly things called ‘war crimes’ work shockingly well at converting these threats into subatomic particles, punctured organs, and dark stains on the walls.”
“So weaponry won’t be hard to understand. But is there anything we should know about how their minds work?” Cody followed up.
Obi-Wan could sense that it was that second part that concerned him more, since they were dealing with demons and not unthinking droids.
So he and Cody both listened intently as HK-47 spoke more.
“Commentary: In addition to traps, mines, and orbital bombardment, attacking their minds works wonders for sowing discord. Unfortunately, demons, while still bleed-able meatbags, do not possess many of the qualities of ordinary meatbags. If their allies are killed or put in jeopardy, they will not surrender, retreat, or adapt. Demons will fight to the last miserable specimen. They cannot be bribed or rehabilitated. All that drives them is fear and pain.”
“What do you suggest instead?” Cody asked, and Obi-Wan knew Cody was already suspecting the answer.
HK-47’s photoreceptors gleamed, and if he was capable of smiling, HK-47 would be.
“Answer: Taunt them into reckless actions, or bait them with something they value.
Demons rarely possess battlefield strengths such as patience, adaptability, critical thinking, and creativity.
Values such as cruelty, selfishness, impulsivity, and betrayal abound instead, and the demons do not present any threat as an organized fighting force unless an especially charismatic demon lord is commanding them.
Many demons find themselves fighting other demons as much as or more than they fight normal meatbags, and according to the Hell texts Master Aphra translated, vast amounts of resources have been wasted in petty squabbles.
When everything is demonic, what else is there to fight?
“Declaration: Therefore, since demons are of a choleric temper, we must irritate them.
Pretend you are weak, so as to draw them into traps and favorable terrain.
Hold out baits to entice the demons, confuse them, and crush them.
If the demon’s forces are concentrated, either separate or evade them and prudently attack where they are weak.
The circumstances of defeating the demons come from the demons themselves, and we must be flexible and use proper judgment whether to fight or to retreat in favor of a better opportunity.
“Reminder: While the demons possess the numerical advantage more often than not, this can be mitigated by using bottlenecks, large-area weapons, and high ground. And the more mobile you are, the less likely the demons will lock onto you and back you into a corner. So be fast and on the move unless you physically cannot.”
Both Obi-Wan and Cody found themselves getting more engrossed than they wanted to admit.
“Anything else we should know?” Cody asked.
“Analysis: Due to their aforementioned emotional immaturity, demons possess a grave lack of foresight, meaning planned incidents are far more likely to succeed in combat than spontaneous actions.
The more calculations you make before encountering them, the better.
But what the demons lack in critical thinking, they make up for in durability.
Typically a severing of the spinal cord is enough to stop any one of them.
But demons, like snow-kivers, can refuse to die and simply carry on despite the visible damage you deal to them.
You must be thoroughly sure that the demons you terminate actually are terminated.
“Evaluation: The UAC research indicates that pain empowers a demon, and I do not know if that is true, but it seems that the more cruel emotions you impose, the higher in the ranks of Hell you ascend.
Aside from the higher-ranking, truly cunning entities, most demons are simply sub-sentient; on the level of beasts.
Since demons are ontologically evil, and there is no action one can take against them that the demons would not be more willing to take against you, no act against them is wrong.
“Conclusion: You therefore have permission to be creative with demon killing that other meatbags simply do not offer. This is because you do not see them as ‘sentient.’ Dehumanization is a very good thing in warfare. It provides loopholes around silly notions like sympathy for the enemy, making tactical decisions and brutality far easier to carry out. Brutal finishers and disproportionate retribution contribute to their fear. Only then will their spirits and battle resolve be truly broken, and then any idiot with a blaster pistol can put them out of their misery.”
“So in summary,” Commander Cody said, looking up briefly at the droid towering over him.
“Keep your distance, stay on the move, use heavy weaponry, leverage the environment, distract and disable them, taunt them into reckless actions, bottleneck them, be brutal, don’t be scared, and make sure they’re dead.”
HK-47 gave an appreciative nod.
“Compliment: A remarkably succinct interpretation, Commander.”
“So let’s say we kill all the demons,” Cody proposed, keeping his eyes forward on the halls with apprehension.
“Now there isn’t an enemy to slay. What would you do now? Because I’m a soldier, and when my war ends, what’ll happen to me?”
“Statement: As a droid, I am simply powered down until the next meatbag requires termination. Examination: Your nervousness about how the Republic you fight for may treat you in the future belies a half-loyalty. It is clear to me that this current war was not your choice to fight.”
Cody craned his head to regard HK-47.
Then it went back forward again.
“…You’re right. Perhaps not.”
HK-47 shifted slightly to look down on Cody.
“Query: So why must you remain a willing piece on the Dejarik board, as something to be acted upon and not as an independent agent?”
“…Peace. Peace is what all true warriors strive for,” he reasoned with a shrug.
Cody was subdued as he said it, though.
“The purpose I have is a good one. What, am I gonna not protect the Republic, my brothers, my friends? It doesn’t make sense to cause trouble for no reason.”
“Objection: But peace is boring.”
“So is endless violence,” Cody rebutted.
“It starts to become a dull chore the longer things go on. Surely you of all droids should know that.”
“Analysis: Your words admittedly have merit. A break from the massacres is always needed. Suggestion: Perhaps watching medical anatomy holovids so I can more accurately butcher meatbags. Perhaps watching informative documentaries on hostile alien cultures so I can disrespect them deliberately instead of inadvertently.”
Cody laughed briefly.
“It’s in your programming,” Cody soon pointed out.
“The only reason we ‘meatbags’ even fight wars in the first place is because we tried to have peace, but it was impossible. There’s something about peace that we inherently all crave. But not you, I guess. You’re an assassin droid, you were programmed that way.”
“Counterpoint: And you weren’t?”
Cody was silent, thinking through his words.
“…I’m still figuring that part out. Let’s just set that on the back burner, Kay.”
Obi-Wan, despite listening in, had deliberately chosen to stay silent throughout the entire exchange.
It wasn’t his place to intervene, and he had nothing to say anyway.
It wasn’t very long after that when the turbolift door chimed open again.
Obi-Wan, the 212th troopers, Doctor Aphra, and HK-47 strode into the turbolift, and Obi-Wan hit the button for the subterranean level.
It was quiet, but warm in the well-lit turbolift.
It would have ordinarily smelled of pine and varnish, but for the carnage that had ruined the interior.
And there was a splatter of fresher blood on the back wall of the elevator that wasn’t there before.
It was impossible for the troopers to evade it, and they made little uncomfortable sounds as they brushed against the stain.
The turbolift hummed softly, and the white noise was distracting enough to Obi-Wan that it made him snap out of his meditation.
He glanced around, reaching out with the Force.
Nothing bad was in the elevator, sure.
But…
Only halfway down, the elevator ground to a sudden halt.
“Did you press the stop button?” Doctor Aphra asked.
“No, did you?” Obi-Wan asked back.
“No.”
Obi-Wan glanced up once again.
“I have a bad feeling about this.”
And sure enough, a dent appeared in the roof of the turbolift, making it shake.
Obi-Wan drew his lightsaber and pierced the ceiling in the source of the dent.
The sound of a shrieking imp could be heard.
“Demonic presence detected. Turbolift lockdown in effect,” came a prerecorded female announcer on the overhead speakers.
“Stay here,” Obi-Wan commanded his troops.
“I’ll take care of them.”
And with a swirl of his wrist, he cut a large enough hole in the ceiling for him to leap through.
He blasted the disk of metal out with the Force, and Obi-Wan saw another imp body go flying; his head had been right in the way.
Obi-Wan wasted no more time.
He put his arms to his sides and leaped out through the hole, landing with a clink on the roof of the car.
It was dark in the elevator shaft; the only lights came from the interior light of the elevator and his humming lightsaber that Obi-Wan swiftly drew.
But Obi-Wan could sense all around him with the Force.
And he could sense the absences in the Force that were the presence of demons.
Obi-Wan swiftly decapitated three imps clinging to the sides, then looked up.
Gargoyles were flapping in the air, imps were hanging near the motorized track in the wall, and one of those Revenants that Anakin had reported seeing was standing on a small ledge on the shaft.
Upon spotting Obi-Wan, the Revenant shrieked and fired a flurry of micro-missiles from its twin launchers on its shoulders.
Alarmed, Obi-Wan’s hand came up, and the missiles spiraled all over the elevator shaft, blasting imps off the walls and falling to their dooms, impacting gargoyles and turning them into mist.
Two of them spiraled back around to the Revenant’s MRLBs, blasting them off in a burst of fire and making the Revenant stagger off its perch and fall into the abyss.
The sudden bursts of light from the explosions helped illuminate Obi-Wan’s surroundings some more.
But they also made the turbolift car stagger some more.
Obi-Wan spread his legs for balance.
He swirled his saber, just in time to cut through another Revenant that landed behind him.
Obi-Wan hurled his upper half away from the turbolift car to then explode against the wall.
This loosened the locks on the car, dropping it about a foot.
Obi-Wan stumbled, and a flapping gargoyle took the chance to spit a glob of acid.
Obi-Wan saved himself by leaping backwards off the car, planting his feet on the vertical shaft wall, and leaping up to slash the gargoyle in two.
When Obi-Wan landed on the car again, he sent the two halves of the demon in the way of the other gargoyles in the shaft, who spat and disintegrated the halves before they could get knocked out.
But this just gave Obi-Wan the time to grab the other hovering gargoyles through the Force and knock them together.
The stunned demons plunged like stones into the darkness.
Obi-Wan spun, and he cut through yet another imp.
But a second one was at the hole in the roof of the turbolift, poking his head in.
He was shot in the face the instant he did, however, and his body toppled to the side.
A creaking organic groan sounded from above him, and Obi-Wan looked up.
And for a brief second, Obi-Wan was taken completely by surprise.
There was a monster hovering in the air with no means of locomotion, floating like a balloon.
It was indeed an enormous lumpy ball: red, leathery, and horned, with nothing but one large green slitted eye and a wide, gaping, fanged mouth.
Useless stunted arms no longer than a foot dangled from its underside.
The monster opened wide, and three balls of violet plasma blasted out.
They sailed past Obi-Wan, and he was only able to deflect one before the others impacted the motorized track in the wall and blew it to bits.
The car dropped, and Obi-Wan fell with it, leaving the strange demon behind as he plummeted along with the others.
It wasn’t exactly free-fall speed, but it was close, and Obi-Wan only had enough time to use the Force to grab onto the turbolift’s side and coat the car with a bubble of Force, slowing it.
The result was that the turbolift traveled down like a drop tower of sorts, slowing down just as it reached the very bottom of the elevator shaft.
It finally dropped about a foot, and clanged onto the earth.
Only then did Obi-Wan let go.
His boots touched the ground, and it was then that Obi-Wan noticed his knees were shaking.
It was a mix of gravel and metal structural beams beneath him.
It was quiet, and dark.
Only two meters separated the turbolift car from the walls.
The strange floating demon was gone from sight.
Obi-Wan glanced down as he ignited his lightsaber.
Cool blue light flooded his vision and lit his surroundings.
And it wasn’t pretty.
Charred body parts, human and demon alike, littered the ground.
One severed hand lying on the ground was holding something in rigor mortis, and Obi-Wan stooped a bit to see.
It was another Obsidian Edition clone trooper action figure, flecked with blood and with its arms at unnatural angles.
It was orange all over, marking it as a Bomb Squad trooper.
Remembering how Boil took one, and how Doctor Aphra had one, Obi-Wan shifted the toy out of the severed hand with the Force and held it loosely in his hand.
He used the Force to adjust one of its arms.
He deactivated his saber.
A simple leap up top and a drop down into the turbolift got him back among his troops.
From their stances and demeanors, Obi-Wan could tell they were all shaken and banged-up.
Doctor Aphra certainly was.
He was leaning with one hand on the wall, his knees quivering.
Only HK-47’s attitude was a mystery.
But that only lasted for about one second.
“Regret: I could not see your handiwork, Master Jedi. A crying shame.”
Obi-Wan ignored him, instead tossing the little trooper toy at Boil, who caught it with a juggle and held it up to admire it.
Obi-Wan drew his lightsaber again and cut a choppy hole in the turbolift’s crumpled doors.
The metal slabs fell out, and Obi-Wan struggled through.
Obi-Wan found himself in a rocky tunnel, barely ten feet high, with some rudimentary metal flooring.
The walls and ceiling were roughly hewn out of the rock and full of little uneven protrusions.
Tiny yellow lights embedded in the ceiling illuminated the tunnel, and made it clear that there was dust floating in specks in the entire cramped space.
There were still bodies sprawled all around the tunnel floor, however, and one of them was a mangled trooper in the maroon colors of the 333rd.
Kit Fisto, Ellanda, and the rest of the 333rd were waiting just outside the turbolift doors.
Upon seeing Obi-Wan emerge, the readied troopers relaxed their blasters, and Fisto jutted his jaw at Obi-Wan.
“Technical difficulties?”
“Well, if you consider an ambush a technical difficulty,” Obi-Wan replied, shrugging.
The rest of the 212th troopers were emerging from the turbolift doors as well.
Obi-Wan pointed his lightsaber at the dead trooper.
“What happened to him?”
“A Hell Knight got him,” Fisto related.
“We tried to inform you, but I suppose our signal didn’t reach you.”
“Which means we shouldn’t stay down here for long,” Obi-Wan deduced.
He ushered his troopers on, the troopers turned on their tiny high-powered headlamps, and the party of 22 began trudging through the hallways.
Doctor Aphra, HK-47, and Obi-Wan led the way, along with the rest of the 212th battalion.
The 333rd troopers made up the rear, and Kit Fisto and Ellanda Sheyl were at the rear.
________________________________________________________________
The subterranean caverns were quiet save for the clattering of plastoid armor pieces and the bootstomps of the troopers.
Cones of white pierced the darkness and illuminated the wet rock walls.
The caverns seemed awfully devoid of demons and bodies, even though residual traces of blood stained the walls and ground.
And more of those awful circular runes were carved roughly into the walls.
Kit Fisto stayed on high alert.
His Nautolan senses could smell the residual pheromones amid the dust, rot, and blood.
And even though they hadn’t encountered any more demons so far, Fisto kept glancing behind occasionally, as if hoping to spot a shadow lurking way back.
Because the demons were unlike anything he had ever seen before, there was an element of him that just hated to see them.
Who could reason with the undead?
Who could barter with the forces of Hell?
Apparently the UAC thought they could.
Up ahead, Obi-Wan passed by a holoprojector in an intersection, sending blue light gleaming off the walls as it sprang to life.
The automatic announcement was delivered by the representative, still as cheery and corporate as ever.
“Per UAC guidelines, all employees must maintain a professional demeanor when encountering demons. Screaming is a Class-3 violation and will be noted in your performance review.”
As the hologram dissolved, Fisto glanced at Ellanda, who looked unconsciously away.
Fisto knew that Ellanda and Aphra were two fundamentally different individuals, and had ever since he first met them.
But Aphra had been generally open and friendly.
Ellanda, however, seemed reclusive, bitter, and misunderstood.
What was going on?
Fisto passed by the hologram, and it chimed to life cheerily again.
“Friendly reminder: All UAC assets, you included, remain government property, even if retrieved posthumously. Please ensure your corpse is easily identifiable for documentation purposes.”
“…Did you think it would ever come to this?” Fisto asked quietly.
“Surely you knew what the UAC was doing, Ellanda. Vice President of the BFG Division.”
Ellanda’s lips tightened before she answered curtly.
“What I thought about the business strategy was irrelevant. Not up to me to decide. So I figured that we’d at least be doing it for a good cause. Argent Energy is a powerful and unlimited resource. If things just went a little better, the Republic would win the war in a matter of weeks.”
“And the fact that it came from Hell itself didn’t raise any alarm bells? The wellspring of evil?”
“Master Fisto,” Ellanda slowly and condescendingly said.
“This isn’t about binary, oppressive systems of good and evil. This is about power, and who is allowed to wield it.”
Fisto huffed in amusement.
“I have never met a person who said that who wasn’t in the wrong.”
Ellanda narrowed her eyes.
“You have no idea what’s necessary to push civilization forward.”
“Maybe not,” he mused.
“But I do know that the Jedi don’t open portals to Hell to keep the lights on.”
The pair turned a corner in the dark hallways.
“When humanity was still in its infancy,” Ellanda said quietly but determinedly, “we could have given up at any stage of development. Could have decided to remain conservative all our lives and never move forward. But despite the challenges and accidents, we remain. This is no different.”
“But this time, you’re meddling with something beyond your ability to control!” Fisto insisted.
“The UAC was so preoccupied with whether they could, they never considered whether or not they should.”
“Oh, you Jedi are always harping on about control,” Ellanda grumbled, folding her arms as they walked.
“Abstinence, holding back, never showing emotions, bridling passions. Same way you’d like to control everyone else. If you and the other religious fanatics had your way, we’d still be stuck on rocky islands in the middle of nowhere without even inventing the hyperdrive!”
Fisto turned to affix her with a sincere look in his solid black eyes.
“Surely that isn’t all you want to say. I can sense you’re the one holding back. So tell me, Ellanda. What, precisely, is your problem with the Jedi?”
Ellanda Sheyl looked incredibly smug at the opportunity.
“I think the Jedi are a massive system of unchecked power posing as a religion. A delusional cult that claims to control the uncontrollable: your emotions. You project an image of goodness and restraint, but it’s only a matter of time before one of you snaps. And when, not if, that happens, who will be strong enough to stop him?”
Fisto’s expression curdled.
He had had enough.
“Amazing,” Fisto said dryly.
“Every word of you just said was wrong.”
Ellanda Sheyl gaped at Fisto with visible incredulity.
Fisto began to hold up pale green fingers.
“We were never a massive system, nor had unchecked power.
For over a thousand generations, there were never more than ten thousand Jedi Knights or Masters in the galaxy at one time.
And we’re not unchecked; we answer to the Senate.
We hold no sovereignty or executive authority over any population.
Unlike the Trade Federation and the InterGalactic Banking Clan.
“You also used the word cult, though, which to you just means, ‘any religion I don’t like.’ But let’s work with it.
One exclusive feature of cults is to insulate their members from outsiders.
But the Jedi work extensively with the Senate, and we have done innumerable charitable outreach programs, eased the pressure on interplanetary relations, and prevented suffering on massive scales.
The only reason we’re as small and niche as we are is because most people are not Force-sensitive.
“And you say emotions cannot be controlled?” Fisto openly laughed at that.
“I could not imagine living in your shoes, friend.
I have known Jedi with patience and anger issues which they have learned to control– and watched the death of my Padawan who couldn’t.
I have personally rehabilitated spice addicts, which can and have controlled their emotions.
I have learned for myself that there is a time for restraint, and for being unleashed.
A time to mask my anger, a time to fight, and times to joke, remain calm, and mock bad ideas.
Like how we ‘project an image of goodness.’
“That image isn’t intentionally projected from us.
Despite our obvious power, we have willingly submitted to the control of the Republic.
If people look up to us, it is a natural consequence of our actions.
Do we demand the galaxy idolize Master Yoda?
Do we develop a cult of personality around him?
If you believe we socially engineer the galaxy, where are our advertisements, our federal lobbyists, and our organized protests?
“The ancient Sith Empire, however, idolized Darth Malgus. You are so morally backward that you genuinely believe we are the equivalent of a tyrannical empire. Which means you do not believe in objective morality. You view power as something that can only be achieved through oppression, which means the Jedi must have also achieved such power through oppression. So tell me, Ellanda. Who have you oppressed to gain your power?”
Ellanda had, naturally, been making little sounds of protest as Fisto relentlessly continued, but she had never seemed to get her word in.
Not until Fisto had finished, at least.
Ellanda folded her arms tightly again, her brow furrowed like an overheating metal beam.
“That was… a very long-winded way of saying, ‘nuh-uh.'”
Fisto chuckled, and his signature smile appeared for a brief moment.
“That was a very short-sighted way of avoiding accountability.”
“You didn’t refute my central point,” she fired back.
“All it takes is one Jedi going rogue. One. With your powers, one person could topple entire star systems. We’ve seen it happen. The Jedi are a ticking time bomb, and you act like you’re immune to corruption.”
“We never claimed to be immune,” Kit said quietly.
“That’s the point of discipline, of control. To acknowledge that no being, no matter how powerful, is beyond the temptation of indulgence. That’s why we train. Meditate. Serve.”
“And yet here you are instead, propagating the cycle of violence,” she snapped.
“Ironic, isn’t it? Peacekeepers in war.”
“We’re here,” Fisto said gently, “because your company opened a gate to literal Hell.”
Ellanda opened her mouth—then closed it again.
Her eyes boiled in place, and her fingers twitched reflexively against the folded sleeves of her coat.
“You fear us,” Kit continued, “because you don’t understand us. You believe emotion is to never be repressed. We believe it’s a current to be channeled. Compassion and justice fuels our duty. Serenity and education guide our hand. But fear, lust, hate, and pride are the essence of impulsivity, which is the path to chaos and enslavement to your emotions, which I suppose you would prefer over discipline.”
Ellanda’s jaw worked, searching for a retort.
Fisto knew she was smart enough to know she was on the edge of a losing argument, but too proud to concede.
“But the galaxy doesn’t need warrior monks. It needs logic. Progress.”
“Progress?” Fisto mildly repeated, gesturing at the gory, charred tunnel.
“If the road you followed led to this… of what use was the road?”
And with that, he turned from her and rejoined the clone strike team moving down the corridor.
They were close to the turbolift leading up to the Nihilus Labs now.
Fisto still had no idea what he might find.
Ellanda followed after him, fists clenched, lips drawn thin.
Fisto could sense her intentions, her anger.
And he had a bad feeling that, far from opening up, Ellanda’s heart had hardened.
________________________________________________________________
Before Cal Kestis even entered the comms array building, he could tell what the problem was.
Looking out the window of the tram, he could see in the distance a titanic fleshy red tentacle wrapped and writhing around the main satellite dish.
After a second to confirm that he was indeed seeing it correctly, he turned up to Jaro Tapal.
“I can take care of that,” he said quietly so as to not bother the other troopers in the tram.
“I can climb around the outside and cut it off.”
“Something tells me this will prove more troublesome than we think,” Tapal rumbled.
His hand absently scratched the bandaged burn on his upper left arm.
“Study the codex for now, Padawan. Learn of the demon’s weaknesses.”
Cal nodded obediently, drew out a small datapad, and began scrolling through it.
But it wasn’t long before the tram trundled to a gradual halt on the outside platform.
When the tram doors opened, Cal flinched as a Z-sec’s surprise blaster bolt went past his head and scorched the inner wall.
The rest of the troopers began opening fire and filing out, and Cal found himself on the platform soon enough.
There had been about a dozen Z-secs and a dozen more normal zombies on the platform, which had mostly been downed by sustained blasterfire.
But out of the sliding doors waddled a new type of demon.
Cal recognized it from his brief look through the codex.
Fat, ugly, mean, and heavily armed, the Mancubus soon got within range of the troopers and began spraying flame from his cannons.
“Target its guns!” Cal yelled over the roar of battle.
His saber sprang to life, and he waved it wildly to get the Mancubus’ attention.
Split between six different Jedi targets, the Mancubus just swept his arms in wide arcs to get them in his streams of flame, which didn’t work.
Meanwhile, the rest of the clone troopers took up firing positions from further away and began hosing the Mancubus down with suppressing fire.
Two thermal detonators flew through the air and landed at the Mancubus’ feet.
Another two landed in one of his arm cannons.
They all erupted in spews of flame that disabled one of its cannons and faltered, but did not stagger, the Mancubus.
But it was all that was needed for Ahsoka to leap into the air and nimbly land atop his dazed head.
Ahsoka stabbed directly down through his skull with considerable effort, and the monster swayed before toppling forward.
Ahsoka rolled to her feet.
“Vigilance, men!” Tapal cried, swirling his blue saberstaff.
“We are not done yet!”
For indeed, two more Mancubi appeared atop the archway of the door leading into the comms array, along with half a dozen more imps and three hovering spherical monstrosities with one beady green eye apiece and wide, fanged grins.
These, too, were familiar sights from the codex.
Cacodemons, Cal thought, taking several instinctual steps back at the sight.
The Mancubi let loose several heavy, slow fireballs.
The imps hurled their own smaller fireballs.
The Cacodemons spewed several pulses of purple plasma from their mouths.
The Jedi began dashing about to evade the projectiles.
The clones scattered, finding cover on the edges of the platform.
One yellow 13th trooper couldn’t get out of the blast radius of one of the explosive fireballs, and he was sent tumbling, limp and charred, over the edge of the tram platform.
He was never seen again.
Several of the purple plasma orbs melted clean through the tram’s front control car.
Little explosions sounded forth from it.
But the ruined transport was of little importance in the here and now.
Concentrated blaster fire from four different angles was sent into one of the thick-skinned Cacodemon’s eyeballs– its most obvious weak spot.
The eyeball must have been protected by some kind of natural saline gel, however, because most of the blasterfire dissipated on impact.
The leering Cacodemon in question never lost its awful grin.
It got so close, in fact, to one of the 41st Elite Corps troopers that Master Luminara blasted him aside from its snapping bite just in time.
The green trooper was sent stumbling and rolling, but he was alive.
He got to his butt and began firing up at the Cacodemon as it drifted closer again, but this time, some blaster shots passed between his awful teeth and scorched the sensitive inner gums.
The monster wailed angrily and shook its entire being.
Yet another trooper saw the weakness– and the opportunity.
He got right behind the fallen trooper, easily within snapping range, and hurled his thermal detonator into the Cacodemon’s soft mouth.
A comical gulping sound could be heard as the Cacodemon instinctually snapped the small explosive up.
After a horrified moment of realization, the bomb went off, the Cacodemon bloated up, and it hovered aimlessly in the air, stunned.
This permitted Master Luminara to come around to its proper side and pierce the Cacodemon directly through the eye, lightsaber buried all the way to the hilt.
As Luminara was busy, however, a second Cacodemon was silently hovering behind the trooper who had thrown the detonator.
He was subject to a terrible surprise– a bite that took him, screaming, into the air.
With an awful crunch, his lower half fell down, bloodied and limp.
His upper half stayed in the Cacodemon’s smug mouth.
He began to chew.
Unfortunately for the demon, Anakin spotted this happen.
Anakin leaped clear across the landing platform and impacted the Cacodemon so hard, it spun in the air like a bonked probe droid.
Anakin clung to it the entire time, his lightsaber in his left hand, and though Anakin was comparatively small on the Cacodemon’s large frame, Anakin was clearly the worse monster.
Anakin bellowed in the Cacodemon’s face, drew his hand back, and plunged his right arm elbow-deep into the Cacodemon’s eye.
Rich blue blood flooded from the awful wound, gushing out.
Both combatants were screaming now, and Anakin spread his mechanical fingers wide while inside the thick mush of the demon’s eye.
Then he clenched his fist, as tight as he could, around the mush.
Blind, in shock, and overwhelmed with pain, the Cacodemon fell to the floor, taking Anakin with it.
He tumbled away from the twitching monster, with his arm and robes discolored with blue stains.
He managed to get to his feet and reignite his lightsaber just before a Mancubus’ fireball impacted him.
With a heavy swipe, the fireball was redirected uselessly up into the sky.
The fireballs must have been covered in some kind of thin energy shell that made them susceptible to redirection.
Cal’s mind was racing as he parried another imp’s fireball attack.
Indeed, it followed the same principle.
So when the next Mancubus fireball attack came, Cal decided in a split second to deflect it instead.
The fireball was the size of a watermelon, drifting closer and closer, and Cal felt his grip on his lightsaber grow looser and sweatier.
But he brought it up, like a batter about to swing.
When it was within range, Cal parried it, and the effort involved in it made him shout and almost lose his grip– he couldn’t do that for extended periods of time.
But the fireball was drifting back towards the Mancubus who fired it– just a bit too low.
It exploded on the ledge the Mancubus was standing on, which blasted the metal and crumbled the concrete beneath its feet.
The Mancubus slipped and toppled down a full twelve feet, and as he fell, he rotated.
The Mancubus’ neck snapped when its head impacted the tram platform.
The broken head accordioned into its fat body as its body weight landed atop it, then sprawled all over the place.
Cal took the opportunity.
He began leaping and double-jumping up the rubble and metal wreckage, and soon he was atop the comms center too.
The Mancubus turned its beady, piggy eyes to stare in hate at Cal, then slammed its arms down and created a pool of liquid Argent napalm that drooled over the edge and onto the tram platform.
This prevented Cal from getting too close.
But Cal had succeeded in getting the demon’s attention.
The Mancubus let out another roar and raised its enormous iron-and-chitin cannons at Cal.
But a deafening crack shattered the air, and the Mancubus’ brains, blood, and skull fragments spewed out of its temple.
The shocked demon leaked a river of thick blood out of its head, teetered for a second, then slumped down, never to move again.
Veggie and the anti-material rifle he had picked up from the Argent refinery were both relaxing now.
He let out a deep breath and lowered it.
The rest of the demons had been taken care of by now, and the tram platform was in shambles.
“Sound off!” Anakin yelled.
“Everyone report in!”
Cal dropped down and rushed to Jaro Tapal’s side.
Another one of the 13th troopers had fallen as well, and Cal felt a twist in his gut looking at the six remaining troopers under his jurisdiction.
There hadn’t been a lot of troopers to begin with, and they were dropping a bit too quickly for Cal’s liking.
His gaze naturally drifted over to Barriss Offee, then to the other troopers.
Barriss was kneeling over one of the verdant 41st troopers, her hands hovering over his twisted ankle.
After a few agonizing moments, his foot returned to normal, and Barriss and the trooper both let out a deep sigh of relief.
He patted Barriss’ shoulder.
“Thanks, Commander. Glad you’re here.”
“It’s all right, Drift,” Barriss quietly accepted, her hands clasped.
“Thank you for letting me heal you.”
Drift pointed.
“I think Vex, Choke, and Click need some healing too. I saw ’em–”
But Barriss was already going over, and Drift made a satisfied sound, then got to his feet.
Cal turned to Jaro Tapal and pointed at Barriss.
“Master, was that–”
“Force Healing,” Tapal finished.
“It’s a rare gift, like your psychometry. It can also be learned, but it takes quite a bit of study and time.”
Cal nodded in understanding, looking over at Barriss again as she squatted down and began to heal another trooper.
Unique gifts, huh?
Perhaps that’d be a good connection point.
“Padawan.”
Cal snapped to attention, looking up.
“Yes, Master?”
And incredibly, Jaro Tapal was smiling.
“You have a crush.”
Cal took a startled step back, his hands up, and babbled, “Buh-guh–”
But Tapal held his own large purple hand up.
“It’s all right. I’m not mad. It’s natural for children at your stage of development.”
The other clones were snickering.
When Cal found his voice again, there was irritation in it.
“So why even bring it up?”
“Because I have been there before,” Tapal said solemnly.
“If your intentions stem from a good place, then I have no objections. But beware, Padawan, of possessiveness. It is fear and greed wearing a mask.”
Cal looked down, ashamed.
“I just thought… maybe she’d like me.”
“There is nothing wrong with wanting to be liked,” Tapal said, his voice steady and even.
“Especially for a growing boy. But you must ask yourself—would you still care for her if she never returned your feelings? Would you still want what’s best for her if that means someone else?”
Cal grimaced as he thought for a brief moment.
He didn’t like that mental image, but… “I… I think so.”
Tapal’s smile deepened, proud but faintly sad.
“Then you are on the right path. Love is not forbidden, Cal. But possessiveness and pride—the fear of loss, the desire to control others—is the root of suffering. You must be willing to let her go, even now, if your feelings grow beyond your control.”
The clones nearby, still snickering, were elbowing each other.
“Sounds like someone’s got it bad,” Veggie teased.
Tapal’s voice raised, but he didn’t even turn to look at them.
“And you—that helps nothing.”
The six clones stiffened, all pretending to find something very interesting on the ground.
Tapal returned his attention to Cal.
“Watch yourself, Padawan. You are young. You are strong. And you are kind. Your heart may one day become your greatest weakness—or your greatest strength.”
Cal exhaled, trying to steady his racing thoughts.
“What about you, Master? Have you ever… you know…”
Tapal’s brow lifted, and for a moment, there was a rare flicker of nostalgia in his demeanor.
“Once.”
Cal’s eyes widened.
“Really? What happened?”
“I let her go for the sake of my duty,” Tapal said simply, releasing Cal’s shoulder and turning to join the others.
“And I have never stopped loving her for accepting it.”
Cal stood there, alone, for a few moments, processing the weight of the conversation.
He looked back over at Barriss, who was laughing softly with Vex and Click as she finished mending their wounds.
But there was another listener.
Anakin Skywalker, just twenty feet away, had overheard everything.
And there was an odd look in his eyes, a strange hunch in his countenance.
He spotted Cal, and for a second, it looked like he wanted to say something.
But he relented and turned back to his own troops.
________________________________________________________________
The blue swirls of hyperspace were visible from the Unbreakable’s bridge, but the Doomslayer was not looking at it.
The un-helmeted Slayer was instead scrolling a little datapad in his hands, creating a playlist for VEGA to play in the background.
It was a way to kill time as they were en route to Tatooine.
So far, the Slayer was proud of his choices.
In addition to translating the deep, powerful heavy metal from the chaos in his head, VEGA had had access to most Earth media back on Mars, and it carried over to this galaxy as well.
The Slayer reviewed the playlist of Earth music so far.
RELAXING BEATS TO RIP AND TEAR TO
Snakes for the Divine (High on Fire)
The Trooper (Iron Maiden)
Kickstart My Heart (Mötley Crüe)
Warrior (Disturbed)
Throne (Bring Me The Horizon)
Hero (Skillet)
Touch Me And I’ll Break Your Face (Mick Gordon)
Faint (Linkin Park)
Wherever I May Roam (Metallica)
The Rumbling (SiM)
Indestructible (Disturbed)
Quad Machine (Sonic Mayhem)
Army of the Night (Powerwolf)
Shock (Fear Factory)
Bleed (Meshuggah)
Caramelldansen (Caramell)
Hell To Pay (Miracle of Sound)
Fight Like Hell (JT Music)
Those last two especially had seemed oddly familiar to his recent circumstances.
And so VEGA had explained: After he had driven off the demonic invasion of Earth and had chosen to remain in Hell to hold back the horde, Earth had seen him as a mythical hero.
They had erected monuments, offered medals in memoriam, and paid tribute to him in Earth culture for years and years.
In movies, TV, books, and, indeed, music.
Most of the rest of the songs the Slayer remembered liking back on earth, so long ago.
Others were new ones that VEGA had introduced him to.
And as for Caramelldansen, he just thought it would be fun.
The Slayer set aside his datapad for now, plodded over to the main bridge deck holoprojector, and squinted at the main holographic display of the maps of Tatooine.
He singled out Jabba’s palace and zoomed into a view of the outside.
Nothing too fancy, nothing he couldn’t handle.
“It is highly unlikely that the Jedi will intervene in this attack,” VEGA noted from the holomap.
“Considering the last interaction you had with them on Concordia.”
Even Anakin?
From the last the Slayer knew of him, Anakin had regarded him as a strange aberration in the natural order.
Anakin would do anything to meet him again, and the Slayer was confident he had leaked his route to every bounty hunter in the galaxy.
Why couldn’t Anakin meet up with him again?
“It appears that Anakin Skywalker is busy with a mission of his own,” VEGA said, and a rapid beeping came from the holoprojector as VEGA began running a hack into the Republic Command broadband network.
A few seconds passed.
“…Oh. Oh, dear.”
The Slayer drew his head up at VEGA’s concern.
“Anakin has just been sent to investigate a facility,” VEGA informed, shifting the views of the Tatooine maps to a government logo.
“Owned by the Unified Agency of Colonization.”
The Slayer made a visibly startled step backwards.
He was still for a few moments, looking at the logo of the UAC slowly rotating on the holoprojector.
Silent as the grave.
Then the Slayer’s fists clenched with an audible creaking of leather.
His eyes started to shake as they boiled hot in rage.
“I understand. Setting new target coordinates,” VEGA said.
But the Slayer barely even heard it.
He drew the Super Shotgun out of hammerspace and gripped the wooden handle so tightly, he was scared he’d crack it in half.
It helped to ground him, keep him in the moment.
What was going on?!
The UAC, here?
But it wasn’t the same UAC.
But there was no doubt in his mind what was going on.
Hell was resurfacing.
Kit Fisto’s rebuttal of Ellanda’s claim was adapted from The Despot of Antrim’s video essay on The Acolyte.
Which terrible Star Wars director is Ellanda Sheyl an anagram for (Minus one E and one D)?
Leslye Headland.
Make of that whatever you will.