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| - -Three days. It's been three days of this chase, this cat and mouse. Neither has held the upper hand for more than a few hours. It's gone beyond a hunt. The other Marines have fallen behind, unable to keep up with their two leaders. Wrista's years of survival training have pitted themselves against Draelis' almost legendary stamina and tenacity. Neither has slept, or eaten more than what they can run and chew on. The chase has taken them by hoverbike into the forests around New Alderaan, where they spent a frigid day and night stalking one another in a driving rain. From there the chase led into the high mountains, into air so sparse and dry that each gasp seemed a last grasp at life. Sniper fire. Explosive traps. Draelis brings the full measure of his training against Ipex, who has thus far avoided the deadliest of his plans. It's a game of chess taken to the nth degree, each an expert in their own right beyond being friends. There is no trick they don't both know, no technique they have not perfected in combat. Even the increasingly desperate extemporizations Draelis employs are defeated. Now, the chase has led both of the Marines into the Industrial Park. Draelis' hovercar crashed several hundred yards back, shot down by a well-placed blaster round. On foot he fled into the massive underbelly of the industrial park, into the cavernous depths of the production lines themselves. With a few breaths of lead time on Wrista, Draelis has taken cover between two massive smelting pots. The shadows wrap around the Marine captain, and he keeps an A295 cradled in his arms, scope to one eye. He watches the main avenues of approach, letting his other, nastier surprises force Wrista into his choke point. -The twi'lek is beyond exhaustion. The grueling chase has kept her already-elevated metabolism running full-tilt, and she had had little time to eat on the run. Her ubiquitous sugarstick supply had run out on day two, and even now, she drives the last of her emergency syringes into her thigh while she considers her options and waits for the raw fuel to make its way through her bloodstream. With anyone else, this environment would be *hers*-- the low light and warren-like confines of the currently-silent production facility was ideal for ambush tactics and the kind of sneakery that had earned the twi'lek her reputation. But this was Vengan. Each knew the other nearly inside and out, having served together over numerous operations spanning dozens of worlds. He knew what she was good at, and she could tell he'd prepared carefully-- already she'd found several traps designed to cut off her options, which meant he was waiting. Where, exactly, was the question, Wrista reflects as she removes the last of her midnight-blue marine armor. It would only get in her way, now-- her opponent knew all the right places to shoot to bypass its protection anyway. But it would still serve to protect her well. Setting the helmet atop the makeshift framework holding the armor into a semblance of a crouching twi'lek, she draws her heavy blaster pistol, and carefully edges the armor around the corner. It's not perfect, but the armor is dark and the light is low, so it should do the job nicely. -There's a shocking *crack* and a sound like a bell being struck. The armor breaks clean in half. The blaster bolt is invisible- Draelis must have pushed it into the high x-ray range. And the burning sulphur smell indicates how hot the bolt is really cooked. There's a flicker of motion between two of the smelting pots and then the sounds of boots echoing around the refinery catwalks as Draelis swiftly relocates, obviously not falling for the entirety of the ruse. -Wrista would swear, if it wouldn't make a noise. As it is, the lekku do the talking for her, and the twi doesn't wait after the shot-- she knows Vengan will move to another vantage, and she's now on borrowed time. This *has* to be over before her final shot of blood sugar is up, or it's all been for nothing. The twi'lek is off like a rocket from a launcher, moving speedily and silently on lightweight feet, sharp eyes and ears tracking his motion as best she can. She takes advantage of her years of experience free-running the environs of Coruscant, and goes up and over the heavy industrial machinery. It's a risk, since she knows he knows her penchant for the pastime, but speed is of the essence here. She has to take out his weapon before he's moved to whatever secondary firing location he's no-doubt selected. -Draelis moves fast. Not as fast as Wrista- he's wearing his armor still and has shorter legs than the lissome twi'lek. But he's hustling, and stopping and starting with such precision that any kind of shooting is difficult at best. He leaps across a gap between two catwalks, his poncho flapping behind him in the hot air, and lands a bit loudly. The Marine suppresses a curse and is up and moving again, doubling back on his prior route and angling towards some loud printing machinery that should help conceal the sounds of his movement. -It's the leap and ensuing clatter that draw the twi'lek's senses into focus, and she corrects her path, treading along the arm of an inactive assembler. Once before in her life, she has experienced a moment of clarity-- a brief mental flash, where the branches of consequence, action and reactions, seemed to lay themselves before her. Once becomes twice, and the twi'lek abruptly sprints down the arm, angling her path to one side just... so, and takes a leap of faith, literally. Vengan *has* to be right here, her instinct screams, and her boots swing forward for what, if Destiny is with her, will be a very rough landing on her target. -"oooof!" The hit is solid. That's the one thing that no amount of training can anticipate- a calculated gamble that just comes up sevens. Draelis is knocked flying over the side of the ledge, landing hard on the ground a good twenty feet below. His rifle goes flying to the side, skittering into the shadows out of reach. The Marine starts trying to crawl, weakly, undoing his armor with one hand and gasping desperately for air as he sheds the chest piece that seems to be choking him. -Wrista wishes she had time to be relieved it worked, but she has other thoughts on her mind-- like the fall. She doesn't actually want to inflict lasting damage, so she separates from him in the air rather than riding him to the floor, landing with a crisp shoulder roll that springs her to her feet, and she pauses, breathing heavily. "Give it up, Vengan," she says, with a slight plea in her voice as she settles into a ready stance, light on her feet. "We don't have to do this. *You* don't have to." -A blaster bolt whistles across the gap between Draelis and Wrista, tearing through the darkness. The stocky Marine gets to his feet a bit shakily, tossing the one-shot holdout pistol to the side. He reaches to his hip and crouching, unsheathes a long vibro-knife from his right calf. The ugly Sith prosthetic starts glowing a murky, disgusting purple color, tiny metallic plates flexing and rattling as if the arm has a mind of its own. "You're interfering with my mission, Ipex. Get out of my way or I'll kill you, too." There's no cruelty or malice in Draelis' tone. He sounds amazingly lucid, albeit exhausted. But there's a certainty best described as 'chilling' lurking in the back as well- a readiness to kill if he thinks Wrista won't get out of his path. -It's the glimmer of the blaster's barrel that the observant twi'lek spots, twisting out of the way in an attempt to anticipate the shot. It's mostly successful-- the bolt misses by the narrowest of margins, burning through the edge of the New Republic crest decorating the shoulder of her sleeve before wasting itself on the machinery behind her, venting some sort of thickly white coolant vapor across the floor. Wrista hisses in pain briefly, as the close call gives her a burn to enjoy later, but she straightens and eyes her friend... or at least what has taken him over. She has no doubt he's serious-- but she's not convinced the words are really his. "Not YOUR mission, Vengan," she replies, using his first name despite his disinclination to use hers. She moves, stepping into a clear portion of the floor in a silent confirmation that she WILL bar his path. "This is someone else's task you've been coerced into, and you know it. Deep down, this pisses you right off. It's not too late to scrub it and come back to us, Vengan." She reaches behind her, and there's a steely whisper as she draws her shortsword, the same one that has seen her through so many fights. It stings to turn the lethal, trustworthy companion on a friend, and it shows in her eyes, but she's also determined to see this through, and settles into a graceful stance eyes watching his. "But if it's going to be this way, at least it won't be a stranger, Vengan. I will do what I must." -"You can try." And like a juggernaut, Draelis goes ripping forward towards Wrista. He opens with a vicious slash with the knife towards Wrista's abdomen, then smoothly flips the blade over in his hand and brings it cutting down in an outside circular strike. He turns his body sideways, presenting his prosthetic arm as a burly, moving shield and maneuvering adroitly to keep as much of himself behind the heavy limb as possible. -Wrista sees it in his eyes-- the commission to the attack that happens a split-second before the actual action commences. The Echani-trained marine moves in response, the glittering blade of her sword flickering and dancing-- but she's like water to Vengan's aggressive assault, parting, flowing and deflecting his strikes in turn, relying on her speed and precision to keep her unharmed. "Is this what you are now? Killing your brothers and sisters for some maniac with delusions of grandeur? He's turned your loyalty, but we're your *family*, Vengan. They'll never understand that," she bites out, the effort of defending herself and trying to open a fresh dialogue. This can't end with a kill. It just can't. -"We all make sacrifices," Draelis says grimly. He anticipates her sideways step, moves to intercept and keep her addressed in his line of attack. He brings his arm down to bat the sword away and steps in close, bringing a boot up in a kick at Wrista's belly, then lifting the prosthetic arm upwards to follow with a slow-moving jab at her skull. "I have a mission and I'm going to follow through with it. Collateral damage is part of the job." -The twi'lek has to move quickly to intercept the strikes and avoid the kick, but there's a limit to how much of a well-coordinated attack can be parried, and Vengan's every bit the master Wrista is. The jab connects, hitting hard enough that she reels backward briefly against some of the machinery, but she drops to avoid a follow-up, rolling to the side and coming back up, shaking the blow off and coming to the offensive, physically and verbally. Her blade spins and flickers, blurring through a rapid series of disabling strikes to Vengan's limbs as she dances forward, threatening to slide inside his longer reach. "You make sacrifices with reason! To protect innocents and defend those who cannot! Is this what you want your life to come to? Sacrificing your friends, your family, and everything you've done on the word of a man that has given you nothing but torture and treachery? And for what? To what end? What good is a meaningless mission, Vengan?" -"I serve the people!" the Marine declares. "Malign serves the people! I serve Malign!" He grimaces and backpedals, stopping four of the strikes but missing the fifth as it nicks his rib. "I have sacrificed my arm for the people, and I will even give my life if it is called for!" he declares. "The Dark Lord is the Way, and he will give this Republic the destiny it deserves!" The arm waves through the air, and with a brutal *snikt* sound, inch-long claws that look entirely razor emerge from the fingertips of the gauntlet. "And I will defend the Consti- I will defend Darth Malign!" he declares venomously. "Against all enemies, both fo... all enemies!" He roars and lunges forward, suddenly clumsy but just as brutal as before, his knife going up and over to try and pull the short sword out of the way and open the path for a palm-strike with his arm. -Bingo. There he is, but clearly the Sith influence is fighting to maintain its grip, and Wrista is forced back under the sudden brutality. It's only the clumsiness as Vengan's cool professionalism cracks under the strain that keeps her from harm, and even then, she manages to take a nasty cut on the abdomen as she twists out of the way. She attempt to trip him to gain some time, and distance while her mind races. This is a terrible gamble, a horrible idea. Many lives hang in the balance of her actions, and she's practically inviting disaster. She comes to a stop some distance away. "If you truly believe that, Vengan..." she says with a tone of sadness, bringing the sword up in front of her, between her eyes, which gaze back at him. It isn't a guard position-- it more like a meditative salute, the blade vertical, held in both hands at bust height, tip just inches from the center of her brow. "You have saved my life more times than I can count. It is yours to take, but you will not complete this mission without it." That seems to be the end of it, but then, in a quiet, strong voice, she begins to recite the same words Vengan started to: "I, Wrista Ipex, swear that I will support and defend the Constitution of this Republic of free peoples against all enemies, foreign and domestic... that I will bear true faith and allegiance to the same; that I will obey the orders of officers appointed over me; that I will act with Justice, Equality and Compassion for the diverse peoples of the Galaxy regardless of creed and stand for those who cannot or will not against those that would see them destroyed. To this and to my brother and sister officers I pledge my life." -"...for those who cannot or will not against those who..." "to my brothers and sisters..." Draelis' lips move but no words come out. "I pledge my life." The arm lowers, then lowers more, until it hangs limp at his side. The plates rattle, feebly- but the purple glow seems to fade, until the arm itself seems to whimper and twitch with dying motions. "Help me." Suddenly he's moving forward, arms out, no guard, no weapon, no deflection. He hurls himself at Wrista with knife held high. The only expression in his eyes is one of resignation as he launches himself recklessly at the diminutive Twi'lek female. -Wrista holds his gaze, not only to watch the reaction-- if he *is* going to take her life, he's going to look her in the eye when he does it. But that all changes as the arm lowers, and his pleas seals the deal. She drops her sword at nearly the last moment, rolling forward and to one side, and as she comes to a kneel, her ace in the hole flips up from a strap across her back into a firing position. Stokhli Spraysticks are very unusual weapons to see on a civilized planet-- where Wrista got one is a question that few aside from the Marine herself will be able to answer. The firing trigger is depressed, and the weapon bucks, a thick spray of quick-drying adhesive with enough stun juice to drop a gundark arcing through the air as she holds the trigger down, intent on hosing her friend down before the Sith influence can reassert itself. Vengan may have won the battle, but the war may very well be another story, and Wrista is disinclined to take any more chances. -"The fu-?!" Resignation goes to surprise as Wrista doesn't kill him on the spot. He stumbles, trying to catch his balance, and then the stohkli SPLATS against his back. The force of the goop slaps him into a nearby shipping container with a startled thud. The claws of his gauntlet tear into the container as he tries to push away, but the material keeps expanding and thickening- with each strand that breaks away, more seem to grow up and pull him in closer. The Marine struggles, more and more, but only serves to become more entangled. His knife falls from his hand and dangles by a few threads before the foam overwhelms it. The stun effect wracks his body, again and again, until he sags backwards- unable to move or even collapse. The Marine tilts his head backwards and manages to spy Wrista out of the corner of his eye. "...good one." An almost feeble smile appears on his lips for a moment. Then he sags forward as the stun juice overwhelms his system and the Marine is out for the count. -Vengan gets a wry, twitchy, relieved return smirk just before he goes unconscious, and Wrista drags herself to her feet, exhausted and battered despite the victory. She fumbles for her com, adrenaline still spiking through her system, and keys for the command channel. "Solo Base, this is Captain Ipex. Mission accomplished. I need a medevac at my locator beacon to the Jedi Temple-- affirmative. Confirmed capture. Captain Draelis is coming home." She clicks it off, half-collapsing next to Vengan to check his vitals in case the stun had complications, and then tousles his mussed hair with an odd, manic grin. "Good work, soldier. Sleep well." Then she settles in to wait for the medics, tilting her head back to gaze upward through a skylight at the sunset-stained sky overhead. "'oo-rah Marines," she says quietly.
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