| abstract
| - Landing Pad 26 - Nar Shaddaa The moon of Nar Shaddaa is a world encased in layers upon layers of buildings - one vast city encompassing nearly the entire landscape. Communication spires and holosigns stick up like spikes and lurid graffiti from the welter of architecture. There is a large and diverse mass of ships and beings from around the galaxy milling about here - all different shapes, sizes, colors, and reputations. The only thing they all seem to have in common is the appearance of being seasoned, rugged, and not to be trifled with. The city about you is a mix of buildings, towers, glidewalks, and landing pads. It is a dirty, seedy, permacrete forest "decorated" with garish advertising holosigns and pungent odors. There are several glidewalks available from this landing pad, each heading in a different direction. Probably one of the most annoying things about getting from one place to another is that often you can -see- your destination mere meters away, and yet to -get- to it directly would require a jet pack. If you're on foot, it's long and convoluted paths you must follow till you intersect with the walkways that lead to your destination. The expression, "Can't get there from here," must have come from Nar Shaddaa. Orson Too short, not handsome, and a little too old. What's lacking in looks is made up for by a sense of determination and presence about the man, a certain grit evident in the look sent by his slate gray eyes. Hard lines outline this otherwise young man's face, telling perhaps of difficult and trying times in his past. His skin is tanned and leathered, dark hair kept in a very short and utility-conscious style. More than a few gray hairs sweep away from his temples. He has a larger nose on a face that is occasionally brooding and distant but usually quick with an honest, soft grin. The human male wears very long but close-trimmed sideburns, the things reaching for his gray-flecked goatee but stopping about two centimeters short. The man is smaller framed but stout, in good physical shape with broad shoulders, strong arms, and massive, calloused hands. A billowing white shirt open at the neck covers this man's torso, some thin fabric draped evenly over a broad shoulders and a strong chest. A loose waist-length cloak hangs to his trousers, the cloak a heavy cloth but a dark, almost black, royal blue. Workman's trousers complete the outfit, multiple pockets and pouches clean but of a simple design. A broad belt of gray, about ten centimeters wide, covers the space where his pants and shirt join. Heavy boots of a non-unique style protect his feet. -=-=-=-=-=-=<>=-=-=-=-=-=- => Lightsaber Simon Before you is a young human male of average height and narrow build. His hair is a deep brown, parted and cut short. A strong jawline and deepset eyes of blue-gray look out over high cheekbones, which are accentuated by dark gray horns of bone. The horns are shaped almost like teeth, curved inward like a spider's mandibles. A goatee and mustache decorates the lower half of his face. All in all, the man's appearance and presence could be summed up in a word: fierce. Simon is dressed in earth tones. Light tan, loose fitting trousers are tucked into soft leather boots that come up to just under his knees, and are tied tight with brown, leather cords. Tucked into the top of his pants is a simple shirt of a matching color. Over this is a loose wool tunic of dark brown, covering his arms completely and hanging down below his waist. It's comfortable clothing, suitable for most climates and cultures. Strapped diagnolly across his chest and back is what appears to be some sort of harness. It's worn in the way some people wear a bandolier, yet there is nothing attached to the device. A long shaft of cylinder rises over his left shoulder, a rod sheathed where some warriors sling their sword. -=-=-=-=-=-=<>=-=-=-=-=-=- => Staff Toss one more thing onto the pile of a million things that Orson has to remember. Looking around for his semi-personal ship, the Sea Anenome Anrun, after someone in the group has moved it was not how he wanted to spend a Nar Shaddaa... morning? Afternoon? This confounded diffuse light made it hard to tell. After some checking about and a few credits in the right places, he's located his old ship on Landing Pad 26... exactly the location of CSA affair, apparently. And if he didn't already know Simon had been behind it, that IGN story was running... and blamed it all on a Jedi, anyway. Despite Orson's recent breakthroughs, it's still sometimes a struggle to keep his mind on what he's doing, and the Jedi Mechanic has to take a deep breath to steady his mind as he steps off of the Glidewalk. He's alone, for now, garbed simply but in characteristic fashionable dress, his cloak fluttering on a stale wind. The skin around his eyes crease into a little networking of ravines as he gives the area a cursory once over. "Bring me the clues, Merrimon!" Orson recites under his breath, plucking an obscure theatre line from the depths of his mind. Chaos and pandemoneum. Simon hadn't been able to find more than a few minutes peace since he'd come to this wretched place. Clinging to the offered by a stack of crates waiting a short distance away from the main glidewalks, Simon leans casually against a box full of food stuffs along with a string of other vagrants and broken spacers down on their luck. Like the others, his clothes are grimy and soiled where they aren't simply torn or blaster burned from his recent battles with ESPO soldiers. With his arms folded across his chest, he looks up towards the nearest Corporate Sector Authority henchman, Simon's face covered and obscurred by the shadows of his raised hood. He could see Daana's ship, the _Blue Breeze_ from here. He could also see the now worthless _Profiteer_, with its jagged hole making it no longer space worthy. Daana Roon and Mailyn Raines would have to come back this way, some time. And then they could try to leave and regroup. Rethink what all had gone wrong since coming here. Simon's thoughts up giving up melt away as a familiar voice carries across the way. Drawing in a quick breath, Simon turns his head quickly in the direction he'd heard the sound, straightening from where he was leaning. His arms unfold, and his eyes start to dry and sting as he forgets to blink, looking for Orson Tighe. He had heard him. He was near. But where? There is a faint annoyed sigh just beside Simon as Jessica realizes she wasn't heard or else was and is being ignored. She stands to the other side of Simon... the opposite direction that he now looks. Her own attire is covered in a borrowed brownish cloak with its own hood pulled up. She feels warm yet comfortable although others may consider it stifling. Her face as well as the tiny shell she has taken to wearing in her hair can both be seen easily enough under the hood. Otherwise, there is little to see, which seems the point of the attire. It was a 'gift' from Simon and Jessica's latest host, and with no where else go to, Jessica followed Simon like a lost puppy (feeling just as lost too). "You're not even listening to me," she whispers behind Simon, complaining to herself more than trying to get Simon's attention. Lifting her voice a little louder while keeping it hushed, she queries, "What now?" There is a hint of dread to the question. Considering everything Jessica has been forced to endure in the last 24 hours, it's a wonder Jessica is still trying to anticipate and brace for whatever wave the ocean of life rolls over her. Though he doesn't realize it, Orson is an actor in a dramatic piece, the author and director of the work none other than the living Force.The story is one of a half-hearted crooked old man turning into a Jedi -- a fledgling Jedi but a Jedi nonetheless -- pulled from comfortable anonymity and *inaction* and placed on the front lines of nothing less than the battle of good and evil. Like a reluctant understudy thrust into the spotlight, it was all the man could do to keep from murdering his lines or plunging off the front lip of the stage into the dark. Enter stage right. The man has gone a dozen meters before he feels a *mind* on him. Orson has believed himself to be caught in an ever-tightening spiral these last few weeks, as if sitting in the middle of a burgeoning electrical storm, charged particles filling the air around him. Something big was building. He could almost smell it! He reaches to his belt to extract a weapon; in his hand is a miniaturized plate with a trigger on it. A comlink of sorts, a rigged-device built from scratch during his days aboard his newest friend's ship. He holds it up in the air, hidden partly in his palm and facing him, the mechanic's finger hovering over a switch. Though he's about ninety degrees in the wrong direction, Orson's stance spreads and he lifts his chin, unsure where precisely to look. So he addresses the air. "I've been waiting for you Simon." Letting out a breath that he hadn't realized he'd been holding, Simon blinks moisture back into his eyes and raises a hand to signal a warning or to call for silence from Jessica. It could mean either or both. Without turning his head from the direction he was looking, he says in a hushed tone to Jessica, "The Jedi. He is here." It's then that his eyes find the figure that had slowed to a stop and turned. It's then that his ears hear that voice again. Simon's nostrils flare, as if he were trying to draw in the scent of the man that he hunted, now before him. Would he smell the sickly sweet stench of fear? His eyes remain fixed on the Jedi, refusing to recognize the man for all the effort that Simon put into seeing him. Clenching his teeth, Simon steps takes a step forward, setting himself apart from the other riff-raff and Jessica. A tension begins to feel the air, thick and heavy. The sort of person that could survive for any length of time on the streets and in the rough of Nar Shaddaa learns to be sensitive to that feeling of tension, for death almost always followed in its wake. Without a word, the vagrants begin to put distance between themselves and the trio of Jessica, Simon, and Orson. Jessica's mind swirls for a bit at the mention of 'The Jedi'. That term seems so vague to her, and she still isn't used to it. She supposes Simon probably means Orson or the Broken Avatar as she's been thinking of him. Her eyes flicker around, trying to look past Simon to see where the man is, but she doesn't see anyone that would fit the memories she has of the man. At least not right now. Her head turns slightly as her eyes enlarge their area of search. Whether Simon meant the signal for silence... or as a warning, Jessica only takes it as a warning and not a very serious one at that. After all, Simon said there was some grander part for her to play since she was no longer the bait. She had a more important role. She is just about to take a step forward to follow Simon and remind him that she is still here to do as she promised (although she seems uncertain what she promised) when something odd about his stance warns her that perhaps she should hold back for now. Remembering all the times that Simon told Jessica to hold her peace when she tried to help him, the signal seems similar as she misreads the tension that she didn't notice at first. With reluctance and another sigh of annoyance, she folds her arms miserably and leans back against the crates, grumbling in her mind about how easily and quickly Simon continually tosses her willingness to help by the curb. The little device in Orson's hand is lowered again, a silent red indicator light pulsing every few seconds. The second, then the first silver clasp is undone on the man's cloak, the finely wrought hook-like buttons undone and leaving the royal blue cloth more hanging on his body than wrapping around it to constrict his arms. He reorients himself to Simon, tries to glance briefly behind the Selas, and tucks the comlink into his sash. "I've come to realize, Simon -- that you will never change. That to plead with you is wasted breath and that to give you time only feeds your anger instead of stilling it." Now his other weapon, the longer-than-normal green-silver metal tube, the weapon of a Jedi, is resting in his hand. A swath of blue is carved out of the Nar Shaddaa gloom and Orson's lightsaber comes alive, blade angled downward. He is in full sight of a number of beings, but not completely exposed to the starport proper. The light from the azure blade splashes against the underside of his face. "Let us end it then. Come to me..." Orson says above the hum of his weapon as he slides into a simple stance. "And I will release you from your curse, Fallen One." Mailyn turns to look at Pallando as he addresses her. His words sting, as though he had slapped her. He has given her, inadvertantly perhaps, new pieces in the puzzle and the crazy threads that connect them all in an evertightening web. The only question: who was the spider and who the fly. She couldn't tell him what had happened on Marama's ship, and she couldn't tell him WHY she couldn't tell him. As to the clones, well if the Republic was involved, why would he want to tell Arands what surely he already knew. She knew nothing of that, but what he says makes a certain sense in terms of other things she already knew. "It isn't your job to save me" she says tightly. (Ed: Pallando's pose.) "What my job is doesnt matter. What would you have me do use you take what I can and then leave you for the sith to devour?" He snaps at her. "Mai, you know where my loyalties lay and I have never failed to give you truthful answer to any of your qeustions. What has happned? Where is my friend that I left on Correlia so we could work together on this puzzle. We agreed to be a team. Why now do you act as if that never happened like we are mere strangers that pass un carring on this bandit moon? If you want to alter the past you can't but I think yo uowe me at least an explanation as to why?" Gritting his teeth, Simon stares across the distance at Orson as he gives his speech. The device in the Jedi's hand was obviously some technological thing. Perhaps a weapon. Perhaps a bomb. It didn't matter. If Simon had his way, it'd be destroyed a few heartbeats after Orson's body was broken. His eyes do not stray from Orson's countenance as the Jedi speaks. The words themselves are weapons, Simon realizes. Orson's voice sounded sincere, carrying with it what Simon was probably supposed to believe was resignation. He couldn't let himself be affected by Orson's words. It had to be part of some cunning act or plot on the Jedi's part. Neither Orson nor the Jedi ever cared for Simon in truth. They wanted to use him until he was one of them. It had been proven to him in the mind of Jessalyn Valios, the day he had allowed himself to be damned by her. As the weapon in Orson's hand comes to life, Simon's right hand moves slowly beneath his robes to the silver and black cylinder of his own weapon. As he does this, he says, his voice cold, "I told you and your whore that I would never change and become a Jedi like you. I have learned that to listen to the pleas of a Jedi is to listen to lies, and to risk falling into a trap. And yes, I have become angrier over time, because the more time I spend in this polluted civilization, the more I see of the Jedi's evil at work. You wish to release me of my curse, Jedi? Do it. When you fail, I will hunt down the witch that you loved next, and make complete your failure." The anger does not fuel his action, though to his body, the sour mix of bitterness and resolve tastes much the same. If Simon were to have been the one that forced Orson's hand in this moment, the one that made him angry and drew him toward the decision to strike first, then the dark would have had its opening and the mechanic would hurtle, lost, down into the dark. But Orson's mind was made up before the meeting occured. He and his Jedi witch had agreed, arriving at their decisions while at rest, at peace: Simon Sezirok must be destroyed. "Then you will die your second death." The only hint of movement is the slight flex in Orson's knees, legs tensing like overtightened springs and releasing suddenly. The soft-spoken Jedi leaps, the Force carrying him across the distance of ten meters or so in a gentle, quick, and lethal arc. His dark blue cape is swept back from him in the sudden wind, cyan highlights of color accenting its ripples. Orson's lightsaber turns in his hands, and then is whipping down with blinding speed at an angle across the Selas' body. Throwing his left arm back toward Jessica, Simon draws heavily upon the True Source, sending an invisible wave of force in the young woman's direction. He had begun the act well before he decided that Jessica needed to be kept from this fight, kept safe and whole. As Orson takes flight, Jessica Marama also is lifted into the air, sent soaring back and colliding with the row of boxes that they'd been leaning on. Even before her body stops sliding across the cold stone underfoot, Simon's attention has left her. She would be safe out of the way. He had protected her from herself. And then, the azure blade is nearly upon him. The still unignited lightstaff Simon had grabbed is brought forth from the folds of his cloak. Rather than igniting it, Simon chooses a different tactic. Diving forward, ducking below the swing of the airborne Jedi, Simon somersaults quickly toward where the Jedi had begun his leap, rolling across the ground twice before kicking himself up to his feet. He turns to face Orson as he regains his footing, his lightstaff held only in his right hand, swill silent. "Was she worth it, Orson Tighe?" Simon calls out, sneering. "You had a life of honor with Talon Karrde, did you not? How many times did you betray Talon Karrde because of her?" As decisive as the strike seemed, Orson's lightsaber finds no purchase, no sickly-sweet Selas flesh to slide through. Orson's heavy-lunge has a cost, and as he lands, he carves out a molten line of metal from the starport pad decking. He sees Jessica. What treachery has Simon done now? Filling the woman with ideas of his own, making her his follower. Making himself a god, even, in her eyes! The mechanic had heard every bit of Simon's standard speech, knew by heart his claims about the Jedi but couldn't understand it at all. It made no sense to him, but it would resound deeply with Jessica. The Selas simply didn't understand Orson's heart. Simon didn't understand Jessalyn's true love for him, too blinded by his own strange ideas to allow himself to enter into Jessalyn's most intimate embrace. The two men are not entirely different at that point, though the mechanic could not enter the heart of the Jedi woman for other reasons. Not good enough, tainted by an earlier life, burdened by too many past mistakes... Orson is carried forward by his own moment but touches only a foot to the floor, kicking upwards against the loose-stacked crates and coming about, still mostly in the air. "Liar! You leave Karrde out of this!" With a one-handed sweep, the mechanic comes at Simon again, this time snarling, his mask of composure shattered. You give 5 Standard Galactic Credits to Tarba. This time, as Orson comes about, defying gravity and bringing his blazing blue death to bear once more, Simon does engage his weapon. The sound of his lightstaff engaging is an angry sound as the twin emerald beams of energy emerge from each end of the cylinder in Simon's hand. He launches himself up into the air, jumping backwards to keep some distance between himself and the Jedi still. Whipping his lightstaff in front of him, he pounces against the blue blade in Orson's hand, the sound of the energy weapons crackling and emitting sparks that shower down upon the concrete below the two airborne men. Shifting the weapon to his left hand, Simon whips the weapon around a second time, to continue to pound on the azure blade and keep it from his skin. Soaring through the air, well aware that both he and Orson have now captured the full attention of those sharing the starport with them, Simon tucks his legs to his chest and pushes himself through a backflip, spinning his weapon defensively before him. As his feet come to touch the ground once more, he twirls the weapon once again with both hands, the green light of his weapon casting eerie shadows across his face. "The mention of Talon Karrde draws more passion from you than Jessalyn Valios," Simon says as he twirls his weapon cockily in front of him. "You loved the woman less than the smuggler chief?" Orson's huge swings are quickly shortened as he closes on Simon, and as they trade blows, his own saber barks in an electronic squelch against the other man's green. It almost looks prearranged, the dazzling speed with which they strike at each other. There is only one place to strike, one place to parry, and each of them find it without thinking. As Simon backs once more, Orson holds his ground, face flushed from his own anger. "The rough edges have been worn away from your tongue, Simon," Orson calls from behind his blade in the brief pause, smiling thinly. "I can tell. It has only gotten smoother since we last exchanged blows." He lowers his saber, walking forward, head lowered but staring intently at Simon. "Can't you see yourself, Simon... see the changes your hate has brought about? Your guile is endless. No longer the look of a monster but a monster just... the SAME!" And the Jedi is upon Simon again, drawing him to the side with a series of saber blows and thrusting a low-strong kick at his gut. The continuing onslaught of Orson's weapon is met by a fierce defense on Simon's part. As the blue blade comes sizzling through the air towards Simon's neck, one end of the green staff twirls about to block it, remaining held in vertically. Orson's weapon bounces immediately from the block to slash low at the legs. Simon jumps into the air, flipping his staff over his shoulder to block at his back as Orson carries through with his slash to strike toward Simon's backside. It's like a terrible, deadly dance, happening swiftly, the sounds of their weapons clash echoing throughout the hangar, the buzz of their weapons of light drowning out thought. The kick comes as something of a surprise to Simon. Given the choice of lowering his defense against the blue lightsaber or taking the kick full in the gut, Simon chooses to roll with the blow, bracing himself even as the Jedi's foot makes its mark. As his wind leaves him, Simon brings his lightstaff about, whipping it through the air to defend against another slash of the azure blade, even as he is sent hurtling backwards. As Simon's backslide comes to a halt, he kicks himself further backwards, rolling to his feet. As he stands once more and looks upon Orson, a light seems to fill his eyes. His mouth opens into what might be a maniacal, terrible smile, or perhaps the beginnings of a painful scream. Drawing upon the True Source fiercely as he had upon the beach of Corellia, Simon's face changes. The bones of his cheeks extend, sharpening and piercing his flesh. Two trickles of blood run down the flesh of his cheeks like tears from the appearance of the facial horns. Horns also sprout out from the back of his hands above the knuckles, which have gone white in their angry hold of his weapon. A painful groan is pulled from Simon as his body is twisted in his terrible hold of the True Source, his body made misshapen by what the Jedi and Sith call the Dark Side. "Is this a better face?" Simon growls at Orson, taking a step toward the Jedi once more. "This is what your whore made me, Jedi. I have become a monster because of her. The face of the man that destroys you will be that of a monster's. My face." Orson grits his teeth, jaw clenched in empathetic pain, frozen in horror at the change Simon goes through voluntarily. It is not part of the effort, but Simon has firmly rooted Orson to the spot that he currently stands. The mechanic winces as the sound of bones popping and cracking call from across the way. "You made yourself that way, Simon," he says quietly, hesitant to meet Simon's direct gaze. "Do you know what? You haven't changed at all since I first met you." He frowns and starts walking forward again. "You were afraid then to look inward, to face yourself or another, to meet another mind honestly. Openly. You're still afraid. Blind." Orson's words are quiet, pleading even now, though they don't carry the conviction they once did. Orson's eyelids flutter as he closes on Simon and he calls, this time with his mind. *Feel it now, Simon! Once you would have been comforted by it, but now it burns...* And an onslaught is released, Orson force feeding as much as he can to the Selas, a thousand images of Jessalyn, the group of four and their friendship, training on Myrkr, the close call with the Emperor, even the meaning of compassion and love, turned on its end and shaped into a spike and thrown at Simon with all the bitterness and sadness in the Jedi's heart. The tossing around of the force draws the attention of Morganna, and beckons her to the landing pad. The calling is strong, like a sweet song floating through the darkness and slime of the Smuggler's moon. When she enters the pad, morganna climbs onto a stack of crates, overlooking the battle with a, insane grin on her face. She closes her eyes and follows the battle with her mind for a moment. not interfering, but observing. "it appears that much has changed." she murmurs to herself, and her hand slips under her dark cloak, itching. Simon himself had learned to touch the minds of others. The lesson had begun as an incomplete warning in the forest of Telgosse. He was still very young in his apprenticeship when his teacher had taken him to the darkest parts of the woods, where Simon could be led through the rudimentary steps of reaching into another's soul. The lesson had gone well, in that Simon survived it. Had he shown too much strength, his teacher would have been forced to end his life, there and then, as a protection to not only Simon, but to the rest of the Selas brotherhood. The lesson was picked up later, when Jessalyn Valios took it upon herself to try and convert Simon to the ways of the Jedi. She brought him the rest of the way down a road he'd learned long ago never to follow, which ultimately showed him the truth. She had proclaimed to love Simon, but it was the Jedi Master he saw in her heart. He could not unlearn what she had taught him, anymore than he could disconnect himself from the True Source and break his terrible curse. Simon somehow knew that this would be Orson's next attack. Luke Skywalker, Ethan Katana, Jessalyn Valios... all the Jedi attacked the mind and soul in front of Simon. Why should Orson be any different? As prepared as he thought he might be, the Jedi's weapon finds its mark, and a scream is ripped from Simon's lips. Slashing wildly with his weapon, Simon staggers about blindly, as if he could destroy the mental images plaguing him. An echo of the feelings he'd once felt for Jessalyn burns in his chest like a white hot poker. A memory of the hope and respect he'd felt for Orson chills his blood until he feels as if ice was flowing through his veins. He continues to scream and slash about, his staff cutting thick grooves in the concrete at his feet. Finally, taking hold of his senses, he turns a dark gaze upon Orson. "You are a true Jedi, Orson Tighe. Only a Jedi would attack the soul of another. Only a true Jedi could use memories of compassion and love as a weapon." Anything that came before was simply a precursor, a warm-up, an overture to the main piece. The Jedi comes alive, more cunning and speed present in his older form than would appear possible. There is no time for words now, no need for them, the matter decided. If it were two men, there would be other means: negotiation, compromise, or even retreat. They are not men, not merely so, but instruments of something much larger. He's transcended this place, but is completely here at the same time. Orson's other hand is clamped down on his weapon and he becomes a piece of moving artwork now, totally absorbed in it. Every parry is a stroke of paint across the blank canvas, every feint a selection of hue and tone. After a few moments, it's clear that this competitive artwork is one of the most awesome and terrible sights in all the galaxy. The relentless strikes are a flurry of azure, precisely placed, working madly to beat back the double ends of Simon's staff. And all of it within the span of twenty or thirty seconds. A break in the exchange, sheer muscle against muscle, Orson pressing in on Simon, edging him backward, trying to break his stance... and the smaller mechanic is thrown backwards. And suddenly he's on the defensive, body shifting one way and then the other as if it's all being played in reverse. There was some relief for Simon as the fight turns back to the more physical strokes of two titans trying to smash each other with their differing weapons. The relief was short, however, as Orson's attack becomes more heated, his strokes more sure. Simon's calloused hands are barely able to work the lightstaff fast enough to keep Orson's azure blade at bay. Blue blade slashes toward face, neck, chest, then knees in rapid succession. It's met by the emerald ends of Simon's lightstaff as the weapon flips, turns and twirls in his hand, moving impossibly fast, moving impossibly close to his own flesh. It's then Simon's turn to become more one with the moment, to take on the offensive that Orson had claimed for himself. His parries become counterstrokes, the green blades bouncing off the blue to move toward the offense rather than the defense. Where before he'd spun about to guard his back, now he twists forward, his wrists rotating to bring the weapon to bear against the single bladed Jedi. As Simon begins to regain ground, his face takes on a look of utter concentration. He no longer has time or the breath to spare for words. The fight is all. Orson's feet shuffle, hands held together and turning as a unit to angle the longer-than-normal hilt of his saber to deflect with an ever-decreasing margin of error. He's getting worn, body strong but not strong enough. But still, it is less about being exhausted physically than it is mentally. His hands are a spigot, opened as far as it will go, a strong stream of himself and the Force flowing through the length of his weapon. But something is running dry within him. A deficiency in his training? A flaw in his character? Or something else, perhaps some doubt creeping in... It was only recently that Orson Tighe had decided that the path of a Jedi was a path of no return. He had denied that he could do it, that he could become such a different person, until only a few standard months ago. Not until he met Jessica Marama on Tatooine was he convinced, when he found his own sense of goodness and compassion demanding of him that he take action to help her. With no other ideas, he ended up on the Gold Beach, where this all began, reconciling with Luke Skywalker not only their differences but his hesitation with accepting the Jedi ideal. With the acceptance came a clicking of all the pieces, the ability to see himself as a Jedi and know that it was his only destiny. There is only a meter to go before his back is pressed against the stacked crates. Orson quickly reverses his stroke and moves into a purely defensive posture, pinning Simon's staff against his body, face flushed. His fine cloak has been cut to rags, his composure shredded surely as much when he lost control. There was no Karrde to shoot ion beams, no Drew to drag him off. Orson's hands twist, turning the perfectly shaped gear inside of his lightsaber. The moment was now, and as the handle turns about itself inside of Orson's hands, the blue crystal is lowered and aligned with a second. The blue in his lightsaber sputters, cracks, and explodes outward. A thick shaft of energy is extended, almost one and half times the length of the original blade and exceedingly bright. It almost drips plasma. And it is blue-green, the color of the weapon of Jessalyn Valios. Now wielding his light-lance, Orson sweeps it in huge roaring arcs over Simon's body, battering him back. In a moment, it turns and superheats the air in front of the Selas' face, dividing Simon's lightstaff precisely in the center. Overconfidence had been Simon's downfall so many times when he'd faced the Jedi. It had nearly undone him when he'd fought Orson and Jessalyn before. He was not going to die of his overconfidence on this wretched moon. He could taste victory and he felt a certain euphoria coming on him as he presses Orson back up against the crates. He can see Jessica's small frame lying on the ground not too far from them out of the corner of his eyes. For her, and for every other true soul left in the galaxy, he would end Orson Tighe's life and free the True Source of all Souls from one more threat. It's than that surprise, not overconfidence, plays its trump card. Just before Simon was about to twist about with a finishing stroke, Orson's weapon changes. The sound of the weapon itself is the first thing Simon notices, giving him pause, staying his hand. Then the length and color of the Jedi's weapon fills Simon's eyes, and shock takes him. Before he knows what has happened, his right hand and left hand go out to either side of him, a broken ended lightsaber cupped in each palm as his lightstaff is split in two. Pain fills Simon's being as Orson is afforded the opportunity that he needed. Made virtually weaponless, with his gut exposed, it is a simple stroke for the Jedi to step forward and run Simon through. The blue-green weapon of light burns through Simon's flesh easily, ripping through his gut and protruding the rest of its length out Simon's back. His eyes go wide from the pain and the shock of it. He had met his end after all. Or had he? The half of Simon's weapon that was in his left hand clatters to the ground as Simon takes a step close, impaling himself further on Orson's weapon. That hand reaches clickly forward, latching with an iron grip upon Orson's wrist, holding the light-lance motionless. Blood soaks Simon's robes, running freely down his body. But life remains in his eyes, and strength stays with him, given freely by the True Source. "You will see," Simon says, hoarsely, "what it is... I'm willing to pay... to stop you all." From the top of the crates, morganna grows even more enthralled by the fight, as the tables have turned. Although she just wants to leap down and ignite fury upon those, and join in, the beast does have a shred of honour.. this is their battle, and the fight is not yet over. Her senses bristle and she grips the silver shaft beneath her cloak, for comfort, just as she is completely engrossed in the battle. Orson knows it is finished before the blow is struck, knows that his saber will find its spot some three strikes before it is done. Were it not for the sound and his nearly perfect feel for the weapon, he would not even have felt the tip of the lightsaber pass through Simon's wool tunic... through skin... through muscle... and into his spirit. Orson's hands are pinned beneath Simon's suddenly as the Selas comes forward, gouging out centimeters from his own belly to take hold of Orson's weapon. A gutteral cry issues forth from the Jedi's throat. "It is... over... Simon..." he says, fighting the deathly strong grip of the Selas. He cries: "You are beaten!" With every tiny tremor, more of Simon is vaporized; even the steady beating of Orson's own heart cuts more from Simon's body. Every muscle is urging the saber onward... suddenly, Orson looks up, gray eyes locked on Simon's. He extends his neck, putting his own face in front of the monster's. "The Jedi will never be stopped," he returns very quietly, the words braced with defiance, confidence and pride. The impudence and arrogance of the man was just beyond belief! Mai comes back into the spaceport at a run. She is so angry with Ernest Pallando that she can't think straight. She has one thought. Get off this moon, and Simon Daana and Jessica be damned. She has actually thought she will be able to get a shuttle out, completely forgetting about the lockdown. As she enters, she notices a large crowd giving wide berth to some commotion going on. The crowd is oddly silent. That is so unusual for this place, that it attracts Mai's attention even more. She is curious, and pushes her way, roughly at times, through the crowd. Suddenly she feels a sense of urgency. "Move, Move! Let me through! she snaps at the crowd, making her way to the clearing." She wishes she had not. Mai stops dead still at what is playing out before her. She is panting from the exertion of the run. She cannot believe what she sees. Her knees nearly give out from under her. She heaves wheezy breaths. "Oh STARS" she says in a voice that is a hoarse whisper. Simon and Orson are locked in mortal combat. But what has HAPPENED to Simon? Why is he so distorted? Where did those fangs come from? What has Orson done to him? What had he done to himself? She blinks back tears as the gravity of the situation overwhelms her senses. There had to have been another way. Another way? What possible other way could there have been? Mai had kept blinders and refused to believe Simon meant to do that which he claimed was his to do. She was so sure he was misguided, but what had happened to him. Who was this beast that wore his face. The lightsaber protruding through his back is almost more than she can take. She cannot bear to look at him. She sinks to the floor and only one word is ripped from her throat. "NOOOOOOOOOO!!" A trickle of blood runs out of the side of Simon's mouth as he looks back into the eyes of his enemy. The pain from Orson's weapon protruding through his stomach and back was no longer acknowledged, though it was felt. Simon could feel his spirit starting to disjoint itself from his flesh. The scent of the woods and trees that grew green on Telgosse fill his nostrils, his earliest memories embracing his tortured soul. The Last Embrace of the Allmother was near. She called for him, her voice soft and inviting. Icy resolve holds Simon to his goal. He continues to draw from the True Source, using it to give him the strength to hold onto to Orson's hand and weapon, using it to hold onto his own mortal frame. His thoughts are loud in his mind, though they seem to come slowly as time begins to slide along at a crawl. Kill, or be killed. Surrender and die now, his quest finished before it hardly had begun, or fight to the bitter end. "Goodbye... Jedi." Simon's right hand moves through the air, the still buzzing, remaining end of his lightstaff cutting through the air. There is no strength in that arm, all of it dedicated to keeping Orson's weapon from cutting him completely in half and spilling what was left of his guts on the ground. He didn't need strength for this. The emerald blade of energy carves its way through the air, then into Orson's flesh. A scream leaves Simon's lips as the pain of it all catches up to him. Perhaps it is a part of Orson's pain that he feels. His lightsaber continues its course, starting at the top of Orson's left shoulder and carving down and diagonally through the Jedi, moving toward his right hip. The remaining lightsaber falls from Simon's hand to clatter on the ground at his feet as it finishes its deadly work. Orson's lightsaber dies in its own way, the blue-green blade appearing to retreat back through Simon's flesh and into the cylinder where it had emerged from. All of Simon's remaining strength leaves him and he falls, a crumpled heap next to the devastation that his terrible quest had led him to. Orson doesn't even shrink from the blade. The thing is over and done before he can consider the ramifications of it. In a blink, it is finished. A ragged gasp passes through his lips and his body is vacated before it falls. All of it, the pain, the fatigue, the tension, the bitterness, melts away. His sight goes silver and the man finds his rest. Those few seconds are like forever for him, his time-slowed thoughts like a knot coming suddenly unraveled. Marina, his children, the allegiance to his Karrde family, his calling, and his true love, Jessalyn Valios. All of it makes sense, all of it is understood, all of it becomes so awfully small in his death. No longer the Or-son, no longer the second son of the Tighe family relegated to a meaningless role, the man has finally found a name... found a name written in the blue-silver expanse that awaits him: Jedi.
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