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| - The onslaught continues, and Simon twists and turns and moves, jumping out of the path of glowing red blades of death as much as bringing his staff up to deflect. It is readily apparent to the trained warrior that Simon is skilled. It is also readily apparent that he is not presently fighting at a level that could match the attacks brought to bear by Cort. As his arms twist the staff through the air, beads of sweat form on his brown and run rivulets through the dust and grime on his face that he'd acquired from the sewers and the escape from Fountain Square. The hum and buzz of the light weapons as they collide and cut through the night air is loud in Simon's ears, and the sickly sweet stench of the much that permeates the alley fills Simon's nose, twisting his stomach even as he fights for his life. Other distractions and stumbling blocks surround the two as they fight, but they are nothing next to the chilling thought that runs through Simon's head. The thought that this man before him was about to kill him. The thought turns to ice in Simon's mind as the actual truth of the matter becomes abundantly clear. With his hand still incomplete, a twisting manuever of the staff is fumbled, and his guard on his right flank fails. The lightsaber coming in from that side is given the fullest opening it could have, with Simon's lightstaff turned in such a way as to allow no defense, and his body in such a position that shifting would be too slow. Yet, Cort holds back. A heartbeat's hesitation is given, long enough for Simon to shift his weight and retreat further into defense. An angry frown mars Simon's countenance as the realization of Cort's "mercy" hits home. The man was toying with Simon, playing with him as if he were a boychild that had donned his father's clothing. The image burns through Simon's mind, and a redoubled effort is applied toward the fight. Cort may beat him, but Simon was not going to be shamed in combat. Cort realizes that this apparently new Jedi on the block could be a great asset to the Empire, not to mention the Sith. He seems intelligent, well trained, and seems to have somewhat of a good attitude. But none of that really matters to the so-called baby of the Sith; the only thing that matters to him right now is that this man needs to be taught a lesson in true power. The red blades seem to follow Simon relentlessly, each blade coming down just after the last. Cort's teeth clench together, in his head, he can hear the slight, but sickening sound of the enamel rubbing itself away. Somewhere during the fight, he realizes that he must have accidently bit his tongue, as the irony taste of blood begins to dance across his taste buds. As he spins around, his blades arcing with him like a deadly pinwheel, he once again catches notice of the approaching, vibrowielding, guys. His eyes glare at them for the split second he faces them, wondering just how these two men will die today for deciding to stick their nose in his business. Hell, they're dead already, he muses to himself. They just don't know it yet. As Cort had suspected, Simon was a powerful adversary. Not nearly as powerful as himself, but a capable warrior just as well. Capable warrior's could be just as deadly as the best trained. Chance and luck had a funny way of working sometimes. The blade in Cort's left hand flies towards Simon's shoulder, only to stop just as Simon moves to block it with his own weapon. Almost simultaneously, a well timed snap-kick from the apprentice's booted heel threatens to nail Simon's midsection... The twisting and turning of the Force as the two men fight is really disagreeing with Mira's stomach, which is twisting and turning right in tune with the flow of the Dark Side as it is wielded by Cort. Mira, however, blames it on that chicken leg she found before descending into the sewers. It hadn't looked quite fresh, but she had eaten it anyway. That, coupled with the smell of sewage still clinging to her clothes, was probably enough to make even the heartiest of stomachs unwell. "I think I'm going to be sick," Mira comments, fumbling at the door of the hovercar to find a window lowerer, just in case. Meanwhile, the men wielding vibroblades approach the pair of fighting men. Though they are indeed quite adept with their weapons, they can't help but realize, somewhere in the back of their minds, that the lightsabers could easily take them out and that this situation must be handled cleverly. They split off in pairs, each circling around the duelers, looking for an opening to attack, creeping closer and closer. The blade in Cort's left hand, aimed toward Simon's shoulder, had been stopped, but not without pain. As Simon's emerald weapon meets with Cort's crimson, a sound like a small thunderclap reverberates through the stone walls, and a brief shower of sparks errupt from where the weapons met. With Simon's face in close proximity, one of the sparks scalds the skin beneath his right eye, raising a welt and blurring half his vision. Whether or not it would have helped him against Cort's follow up attack is hard to say, as Cort's foot strikes home. Half twisted away from his attacker, Simon's midsection caves under the strike, and with a crack, one of his lower ribs gives way. Pain errupts through Simon's torso like a geyser, and as Simon is knocked back with the blow, he stretches out for the True Source, drawing it in like a man dying of thirst drinks water. He applies it to his midsection, he stretches out with it to sense the coming attacks, he lets it guide his arms to bring his weapon into a defensive position, even as he flies throught the air backward and slides on his back across the concrete. When his backslide has ended, he quickly scrambles to his feet, rolling to his left. Pain floated on the other side of his consciousness, buffered and held at bay by the True Source rushing through him. His right eye was closing from the close proximity of the welt. Readying himself, he moves once more into a defensive stance, watching and waiting and hoping for a chance to pay back some of what he'd been just given. Cort just smiles as his adversary is momentarily knocked down. His eyes flicker towards one of the other armed men, apparently threatening him in some way. Cort doesn't like this at all. One of his sabers is deactivated and appears to slide against gravity back up his sleeve, a slight tremor in the Force accompanying it. Though, to those that can sense It's presence, the tremor is only followed by a much heavier quake. "Now watch," the Dark Jedi says. "Watch and learn the true power of the Force." His empty hand reaches towards one of the armed men, a transparent, ruby orb of energy beginning to form there. From nowhere, raw, electrical energy begins to dance around it, it's blue mini-lightning twisting and contorting within it like a heartbeat. "Die," is the only word Cort growls to the man, as the orb shreaks towards him at blinding speeds. So caught up with the window controls is Mira that she totally misses seeing Cort's pretty fireball. It does, however, grab the attention of her stomach, which, as the weapon of the dark side finds its mark, promptly decides to empty itself of its contents. All over the floor of the hover car. Now that was going to leave a mess for someone to clean up. But worse still is the mess left by Bazil's NRI agent as the Bolt of Hatred hits him right in the torso. Now _that_ was messy. The other agents, seeing their comrade absorb the blast of energy, pause in their approach to gawk at the Sith and reconsider their attack before beginning to move once again, this time with more caution. Meanwhile, Mira finds herself feeling only a tad bit better, but is most embarassed about the mess she has left in the hovercar. If it weren't for the agent left to guard her, she would have happily ran away to hide somewhere. But instead she just says, "Oops." A cold like the most cutting wind after a hard rain forms at the base of Simon's spine and moves through the rest of his body with the blood in his veins as Cort presents his attack. His left eye widens with disbelief and horror as the bolt of raw hatred is formed and flung mercilessly at the unsuspecting agent. Simon's stomach twists much as Mira's had, but morbid curiosity and horror keep Simon from sicking up as the attack hits home. For a series of heartbeats, Simon's mouth works, trying to form words. The man before him was a butcher, with the power to cut down a man with the same ease and detachment as a hunter uses when cleaning its prey. It was horrifying, yet Simon felt intrigued on a level that he couldn't quite put his finger on. It was as though he were looking upon a newly opened wound, where pain and infection had not yet had a chance to set in. "No more lessons!" Simon yells, as he finds his voice. Bringing his right hand from his blade, he makes a backhanded gesture towards the agent that had been closest to the one destroyed by Cort. With the gesture, the man is picked up bodily and thrown back and away, back toward the car where Mira had run. Simon continues, directing his words to Cort, "Your fight is with me, not these men, Butcher." Cort watches as the second armed man flies past him with a slight smile of pleasure. He deactivates his blade and walks towards Simon slowly, with just a bit of caution. Who knows what this man may be capable of when backed into a corner? "They stuck their nose in a place where it should not have been," Cort says, trying to justify his actions to not only Simon, but himself as well. Sometimes, he can feel that sting of conscience nipping at him every so often. He stops about three or four meters from Simon, a slight grin on his lips. "I've decided I will let you and your friend live," he says in a matter-of-fact sort of tone. The fact that he just killed one of the armed men without a conventional weapon, but with a gift from whatever God's ruled this universe, only makes this statement all the more confusing. "But, your lives will come not without a price though..." Cort's second saber slides back up his sleeve, leaving no sabers in his hands, but at this point one could theorize that this sabers might be useless to him already. "You have to make me a promise." Slowly, slowly, Mira is starting to feel better as the fighting outside dies down. She feels well enough that she even peeks curiously out the window to see what is going on with Simon and Cort. While the tension hanging in the air was rather obvious, that outright belligerance appeared to have died down. At least the stranger had put away his weapons. The NRI agents continued to stand around, their vibroblades poised for attack in case Cort should make any suspicious or threatening movements. At this point, so much as gesturing in their general direction counted as a threatening movement, based on what they had seen so far. "What's going on?" Mira asks the agent left to guard her, who was currently wrapped up in the mess his charge's stomach had made on his fine Sullustan loafers. "How should I know?" comes his snippy reply, lifting his eyes to glance out the window to see if anything had changed. Changed it had. Perhaps this battle wouldn't end in the death of all of his fellow agents. "Prepare to move out," he order the driver of the hovercar, his ruined loafers all but forgotten. "A promise?" Simon replies, incredulous. He takes a step back from Cort, and does not extinguish his weapon. It's been a defensive stance he's been forced to take throughout the encounter, and it's a defensive stance he continues to hold, both in form and in words. "What hook would you put in my mouth, Butcher?" Cort laughs slightly when he is called a butcher once again. If Simon thought what he did to the guard was bad, he had a lot to learn about Cort's nature. The Dark Jedi makes no threatening moves though, as his taste for fighting has grown stale for the moment. Those glaring eyes of his do not leave Simon's for a moment though, as he begins to parley the details of his promise. "When you decide you want to stop toying around with the power you possess and learn your true potential, you come to me..." He looks back towards the car for a moment, then turns back to Simon. "In our brief encounter, I've grown to respect, even admire your strength. I'm willing to teach you, when you feel that you're ready to learn something useful." He takes a few steps backwards, allowing the words to settle and leaving Simon enough time to either keep the promise or enough time to tell him where he can shove it. Even the few steps backwards by Cort are enough to send the NRI agents holding the vibroblade ascurry as they rearrange their positions so that they have at least somewhat of a tactical advantage should he attack. They were clearly greatly outmatched in weaponry and strength. They might as well milk anything they can out of their position. Happily enough for those still alive, it seemed that this was drawing to a close. Thanks to their presence, of course. Yes. Meanwhile, Mira continues to peer out of the car window, waiting for everything to end. Her patience was waning. Watching people talk was not horribly interesting, especially when one could not hear the words. It was like listening to the radio, but backwards. And even the radio was more interesting than this. It was madness. Sheer folly. First was the offer to suckle to the sour tit of the Jedi, where good intentions were mixed with horrific sin and blended with self righteousness and lies. Now an offer to train with this warrior where there were no good intentions, and there were no lies. A self deceiving path toward the destruction of the soul, or a direct road toward corruption and an embrace of the night. Simon's gaze fixes on Cort, cold and twisted with the wound high on his right cheek pushing that eye closed. His voice is also cold, as he says ambiguously, "Let me go this night, and you have my promise that we will meet again." Cort nods, still walking backwards to further the distance between the two Jedi. "As you wish," he says. Then he stops for a moment, giving Simon the details should he decide to come join him. "You can meet me in a number of places, but most notably is the Imperial Palace on Dreven. I live there, for now, until my needs are met. You can ask for.. Etrigan at the gates." He stumbles over his name for a moment, as if he was about to say something different. But he leaves it at that, turning and pulling his hood over his face, he begins to walk off into the Casparian night. As Cort begins to walk off casually, the remaining NRI guards close in on Simon, surrounding him protectively and herding him in the direction of the hovercar. Ah yes, all in a day's work. Their "saving" of Simon would look very good on today's report to their superiors. Meanwhile, back in the car, Mira looks happily out the window, her boredom diminishing slightly as the scenery outside changes. The stranger leaving. Good. And Simon being safely brought along. Perhaps now they could get off of this planet. The planet which had been nothing but trouble. And she hadn't even gotten the chance to see if Markus's ship had been in the spaceport. How irksome. The twin beams of green light extended from the shaft of Simon's lightstaff move as if sliding back into the weapon as he shuts it down and watches Cort move off. As the agents flanking him guide him away, his gaze continues to look off into the shadows of the night in the direction Cort had gone, with his frown deepening with each step. The name Etrigan is filed away in the back of his mind... but also the inescapable feeling that yet another piece of his destiny was revealed to him. Whatever other choices he the fates allowed him to make, his life was destined to be intertwined with the life of this mysterious warrior, whether he liked it or not.
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