05-05-2017, 07:23 AM
The base commander slowly surveyed the scene around him, his helmeted gaze providing no insight into what he was thinking. But even a fool would have realized the situation he was in was a losing one: five against one was seldom good odds. They were terrible. Slowly, ever so slowly, the posture of the man took a less hostile edge. The point of his glowing blade dipped, just an inch or two, his head turning back to face front, toward Zedd. And he lowered his gaze toward the ground, his blade dropping another half foot, his free hand going limp, arm falling to his side.
It was the posture of a defeated man.
...the sound he made, however. Was not the sound of a defeated man.
A horrible, artificially modulated and regulated tone, spat out from the muffled, corrupted speakers and projectors of the full-face helmet he wore. Crackling, and full of static, and in impossibly deep, reverberating bass tone. A cackling noise, warbling and shifting in pitch, higher and lower with each successive iteration of the sound. It was not a noise of mirth, or the arrogant laugh of someone who still had more cards to play. It was the last, wordless chortle of a dead man walking.
Mid-laugh, he went dead quiet, and it was a blur of movement. His lightsaber flung out of his hand. Spinning into a bright, scarlet disc, it whirred and buzzed, like a great sawblade as it rocketed toward the redcoat wearing devil hunter. A momentary distraction only.
A gesture of the opposite hand picked up a dozen chunks and shards of his own broken underlings, all sharp edges, sparking wires and black oozing hunks of unidentifiable meat, and flung them at Morene. Disgusting, amateur, easily avoided. But messy, and a good distraction.
A sweep of the leg, throwing up a cloud of dust, and a wave of the hand to launch the airborne grit and particulate into the face of the eco warrior. Debilitating, painful, and unequivocally distracting.
And a swift, powerful stomp from his last remaining limb, sending a rippling shockwave and an eruption of earthen spears and spires, battering and forcing the little robot, Desman, into a defensive retreat to occupy his time.
It all took barely a second, the blink of an eye, and suddenly the theatrics of the 'surrender' and the long, insane laugh became apparent. All a ruse, to buy time to plan out and formulate his last ditch attack. And it had been effective, four out of the five Liberators now soundly distracted, if only for a moment. Leaving him time to launch his true assault on the remaining, fifth one: the ringleader, the one so arrogant and who dared to give him orders.
Baleful red eyes glared from the visor of the base commander's helmet, the lenses seeming to bubble and roil at the heat of rage and darkness brewing up within him. A mangled, distorted snarl screeched from his helmet's speakers, and he lurched forward, the ground at his feet exploding in his wake. Each step was like a thunderbolt, throwing up a huge cloud of dust and ash, gouging out a small crater in the ground, as he made a headlong dash, for the dark conqueror. Dark, viscous flames flared up around his body at the third step, and the air around him rippled and shimmered. An emblem on his chest appeared: the same as had been on the radars of the group's liberator aides. It shifted, rotating ninety degrees and a sharp click-hiss sounded.
He reached Zedd next second, the galactic warlord ready for him and meeting the charge head-on. The impact was monumental, and they both went rolling into the dirt and dust. Zedd's staff was seen spinning away, spinning end over end in a metallic arc to have the sharp point embed itself in the chest of a darkling still clinging to life, ending its existence for good. From the dust cloud, a series of blows could be heard exchanged. No grace, no finesse or fanfare. Just brutal, bone-crunching blows, traded back and forth. The once-great tyrant was unquestionably the tougher of the two fighters, able to take each hit in turn and dish out another in kind. But the base commander, in his frenzied, berserker state, was much faster, his own blows coming in faster, landing three for every two the tyrant struck him for.
For several seconds they went at it, until it was all over as suddenly as it began.
The other liberators, freed of their momentary distractions, regrouped and rallied together. In a series of surprise attacks, staggering the lone nebula soldier, he was pushed this way and that, knocked to and fro by a series of blows and weapons and strikes, leaving him to collapse on the ground, on his knees. "You...will never...best us...Nebula is darkness itself. It has many heads...this is but one of them..." A wet, rasping chuckle came up from the commander. "...but go on...continue your fight..." His entire body burst into flame, and in the blink of an eye, went off in a cacophonous explosion, throwing the entire group flying. It did little damage, but the blast left a dreadful ringing in the ears of them all.
Seared into the ground, where he had been sitting, was a message. 'Our leader will be waiting.'
And hovering above it, just a foot off the ground, was another dark chip.
It was the posture of a defeated man.
...the sound he made, however. Was not the sound of a defeated man.
A horrible, artificially modulated and regulated tone, spat out from the muffled, corrupted speakers and projectors of the full-face helmet he wore. Crackling, and full of static, and in impossibly deep, reverberating bass tone. A cackling noise, warbling and shifting in pitch, higher and lower with each successive iteration of the sound. It was not a noise of mirth, or the arrogant laugh of someone who still had more cards to play. It was the last, wordless chortle of a dead man walking.
Mid-laugh, he went dead quiet, and it was a blur of movement. His lightsaber flung out of his hand. Spinning into a bright, scarlet disc, it whirred and buzzed, like a great sawblade as it rocketed toward the redcoat wearing devil hunter. A momentary distraction only.
A gesture of the opposite hand picked up a dozen chunks and shards of his own broken underlings, all sharp edges, sparking wires and black oozing hunks of unidentifiable meat, and flung them at Morene. Disgusting, amateur, easily avoided. But messy, and a good distraction.
A sweep of the leg, throwing up a cloud of dust, and a wave of the hand to launch the airborne grit and particulate into the face of the eco warrior. Debilitating, painful, and unequivocally distracting.
And a swift, powerful stomp from his last remaining limb, sending a rippling shockwave and an eruption of earthen spears and spires, battering and forcing the little robot, Desman, into a defensive retreat to occupy his time.
It all took barely a second, the blink of an eye, and suddenly the theatrics of the 'surrender' and the long, insane laugh became apparent. All a ruse, to buy time to plan out and formulate his last ditch attack. And it had been effective, four out of the five Liberators now soundly distracted, if only for a moment. Leaving him time to launch his true assault on the remaining, fifth one: the ringleader, the one so arrogant and who dared to give him orders.
Baleful red eyes glared from the visor of the base commander's helmet, the lenses seeming to bubble and roil at the heat of rage and darkness brewing up within him. A mangled, distorted snarl screeched from his helmet's speakers, and he lurched forward, the ground at his feet exploding in his wake. Each step was like a thunderbolt, throwing up a huge cloud of dust and ash, gouging out a small crater in the ground, as he made a headlong dash, for the dark conqueror. Dark, viscous flames flared up around his body at the third step, and the air around him rippled and shimmered. An emblem on his chest appeared: the same as had been on the radars of the group's liberator aides. It shifted, rotating ninety degrees and a sharp click-hiss sounded.
He reached Zedd next second, the galactic warlord ready for him and meeting the charge head-on. The impact was monumental, and they both went rolling into the dirt and dust. Zedd's staff was seen spinning away, spinning end over end in a metallic arc to have the sharp point embed itself in the chest of a darkling still clinging to life, ending its existence for good. From the dust cloud, a series of blows could be heard exchanged. No grace, no finesse or fanfare. Just brutal, bone-crunching blows, traded back and forth. The once-great tyrant was unquestionably the tougher of the two fighters, able to take each hit in turn and dish out another in kind. But the base commander, in his frenzied, berserker state, was much faster, his own blows coming in faster, landing three for every two the tyrant struck him for.
For several seconds they went at it, until it was all over as suddenly as it began.
The other liberators, freed of their momentary distractions, regrouped and rallied together. In a series of surprise attacks, staggering the lone nebula soldier, he was pushed this way and that, knocked to and fro by a series of blows and weapons and strikes, leaving him to collapse on the ground, on his knees. "You...will never...best us...Nebula is darkness itself. It has many heads...this is but one of them..." A wet, rasping chuckle came up from the commander. "...but go on...continue your fight..." His entire body burst into flame, and in the blink of an eye, went off in a cacophonous explosion, throwing the entire group flying. It did little damage, but the blast left a dreadful ringing in the ears of them all.
Seared into the ground, where he had been sitting, was a message. 'Our leader will be waiting.'
And hovering above it, just a foot off the ground, was another dark chip.
Quote:Encounter complete! You have access to the Nebula headquarters in Coruscant, and to the final step of your mission in this verse.
Everyone involved suffers 4 damage, and the following additional effects:
-- Jak suffers an additional 2 damage
-- Desman suffers an additional 3 damage
-- Dante suffers a Minor Injury: Scorched
-- Morene suffers an additional 1 damage
-- Zedd suffers several Minor Injuries: Pummeled
The injuries do not add additional damage, merely explanations for the damage sustained.
There is a dark chip left over, from the remains of the base commander. You may deal with it as you all see fit. The factory headquarters, and the portal to Nebula Space, lay open and waiting for you. Everyone has three days and 600 words to decide the fate of the dark chip and to progress onward. Best of luck.