Become the Hunted

Posted on Wed Jun 8th, 2022 @ 9:41pm by Bomoor Thort & Amare & Reave
Edited on on Wed Jun 8th, 2022 @ 9:41pm

1,923 words; about a 10 minute read

Chapter: Chapter VI: The Last Bastion
Location: Near to Shuttle Crash Site, Woodland, Bastion
Timeline: Late Afternoon (Day Three, Week Four)

OLD

Reave reached the pair and took a long drag from his cigarra, his golden eyes glittering casually and his manner giving no sign that he had just been embroiled in combat against much larger and more heavily armed foes.

"Ibana?" He demanded of Bomoor.

Without fully understanding the Jawa’s query, the Ithorian knew what their small companion would be wanting next.

“Don’t worry, he won’t have made it far,” Bomoor squinted at the distance, following the tracks where his armoured transport had slipped away from the combat zone, “That man will finally suffer some consequences this time, believe me.”

NEW

Thendleton tripped over the unseen, thick branch. The momentum incurred from his frantic escape flung him with great force forwards and then hard into the thick leaf litter, twigs and earth covering the forest ground. The middle-aged Human grunted loudly as his face collided with and scraped against the coarse material, grazing his mottled features as his rifle spun away, out of reach, along with his braided game-hunter's cap.

He scrabbled about with little precision to both stand himself up again and reclaim the gun, but as well as the leaves giving the intendant little grip on the ground, his boot had been caught around another low-lying branch, and he cursed loudly as he failed to work it loose.

Even over his own growling and complaining, and in spite of how frantic he had become in his attempt to escape from the nearby conflict, the loud snapping of a twig silenced Thendleton and focused his attention back the way he came. His pale but sharp eyes flitted this way and that, searching between the trees for any sign of danger. As he failed to sight anything, he continued working at his boot, tugging with increasing aggression, spit dripping from his gritted, bared teeth.

His eyes widened as he felt the weight of the branch on his foot become significantly greater, pinning his foot even more firmly in place.

"Honestly Thendleton," a deep voices echoed through the trees, a short way behind him, "How can you call yourself a hunter, when you are so dreadfully easy to hunt down yourself."

As the large figure came into view, Thendleton could confirm that the voice was that of the hammer-headed alien from before that had claimed to know him. He certainly knew his name, but his time with the company had taught him not to be taken in by ploys to create false personal connections.

Thendleton’s eyes flitted to the man’s outstretched hand, which was clearly the source of the power that was pinning down the branch. They then flicked again in response to the sound of more approaching figures. One set of slower, measured footsteps accompanied by a more furious pitter patter that sounded as though it kicked up more leaves than the lumbering Ithorian before him. On cue, he caught sight of the blue Nautolan and the strangely-adorned Jawa that had also been at the crash site.

So, the droids had utterly failed to eliminate even one of his foes. An unacceptable performance from some of the supposedly top GalactaWerks heavy combat models.

“You have several questions to answer Intendant,” the Ithorian continued, his dark eyes calm but piercing as he stared towards Marius, “About why GalactaWerks is here on Bastion, what their involvement is with the disappearing Mandalorian iron and, most pressingly, how they knew enough to go shooting down the ship carrying us aboard. That last one has a particular personal relevance to me but, don’t worry, you’ll get to answering all my questions soon enough one way or another.”

Thendleton looked up at the alien with hate-filled eyes, barely concealing the primal fear behind them. Marius was a proud man; he had served the Company loyally for years, deployed across the galaxy on innumerable worlds, chiefly responsible for the overseeing of GW Marines and their installations, and he had faced down many foes of many species. He had never been afraid to raise his weapons against them, nor to address them directly, but he also knew when to avoid a fight - when it was unwinnable.

He knew himself to be a typically unflappable man, of great bearing and distinctive breeding, so whilst he was great and capable, he would never surrender, nor ever allow himself to be killed - and certainly not by terrorists or Non-Humans.

"I do not recognise your authority," Thendleton said stiffly to the familiar Ithorian, scowling at him beneath his bushy eyebrows. He recognised these beings to be dangerous, but they had only overcome simple machines that have no true mind (otherwise, droids would be the masters of the galaxy, and not the Company), and he doubted they would have any command in a true game of wits.

He reached out and recovered his big game hat, perched it promptly on his head, and, now, feigning a degree of composure, as the chase was no longer afoot, began to remove his tangled leg from the undergrowth. "You will treat m-"

The Jawa interrupted Thendleton mid-sentence, smashing a thick log straight into his face. There was an audible crack as the cartilage in his nose crunched from the force, and he could not help but yell in agony. As one gloved hand grasped his face, blood gushing between the fingers and obscuring his vision, he stretched out with his other to grasp the small sentient, swinging this way and that to exact his terrible revenge on the horrendous creature.

Crack.

This time, the log impacted the hand covering his face, but the force knocked the intendant backwards, his leg still trapped and his hand also in pain from the assaults.

"You vile beast!" Thendleton exclaimed, looking aghast at his blood-covered hand, which he then used to point at the Jawa. "I'll have your entire dustbowl planet glassed for this!"

"A very dramatic threat and I don't doubt GalactaWerks power to decimate a planet, given what I saw on Onderon," the Ithorian did not flinch at the Jawa's violent assault, "But I think someone beat you to that a long time ago."

The large alien drew closer so that his foot itself was upon the branch, dropping his hand, no longer needing to utilise his Force powers, "You do remember Onderon, don't you? Or do you forget every mess you make with the start of the next?"

The older Human glared up at the leather-skinned Ithorian. His blood-soaked gloved hand was once again cradling his face, as the nearby Jawa clearly looked ready to strike at him again, as realisation finally dawned on him. In truth, he thought there was something familiar about this young beast and his remarkable powers, but he had met many so-called Force users with their parlour tricks during his excursions along Alliance-soft worlds, and many more Ithorians with an attitude problem with him or the Company and their fine work. They had all meant nothing, and he had dismissed this monster, as well.

“You!” He finally said, eyes growing wider. “You were at… Jedi! The Rift-lover. You and that ridiculous fish-man!” Thendleton tried again to rise, but the branches entwined around him seemed to become tighter, and he growled at the pain that was growing in his leg. It did not dampen his rage, however. “Poor show, traitor!” He hollered, once again pointing an angry finger at an opponent, as memories flooded to him of his decade of disgrace and that preposterous 'Avalan Crisis' on Onderon. “Your antics, your refusal to do your duty, ‘Master Jedi’, cost me my reputation!” With his other hand, he was jabbing his uniformed chest proudly, as spittle launched from his mouth into his thick mutton chops and moustache.

The Ithorian released his foot slightly but held on enough pressure to make sure the Human stayed put, “Oh, so you do remember,” his voice somewhat patronising towards the older man, “I’m glad you remember what a disastrous situation that was, even if you won’t acknowledge your part in that. Whatever reputation you lost, I can assure you, it was well deserved.”

He crossed his leathery arms, “I was a Jedi apprentice at that time, but I no longer serve the Order. I am ‘Bomoor Thort’ and perhaps you will remember me better this time around. Now, you can start answering my questions, unless you want another whack from Reave here.”

He craned around to look at his Nautolan companion, “Or perhaps Amare wants to have a go in return for nasty break she suffered from your missile attack?”

The Sith apprentice made no move nor spoke a word, but she did wince from pain emanating from her left abdomen where she had a guarding hand placed over the wound. Amare wondered just how deep the object was and how much blood she had lost since the crash. She was starting to feel tingling in her lower extremities and fingertips.

"Scum!" Thendleton hissed, and threw his head forward and spat at Bomoor's face. For his efforts, he was rewarded with the promised smack across the face with Reave's weapon again, and the Jawa launched into a tirade of squawking expletives. Although the intendant shouted out in pain, his rage seemed to overcome the discomfort quickly, even as fresh blood gushed down his front, dark bruises already appearing across his sallow skin.

"I will tell you nothing," he said between coughs, the blood getting into his mouth. "Mosquith will send more droids - more soldiers. An army of stormtroopers will fall upon you and you will curse the day you ever heard the name Marius Thendleton, boy!"

“Droids?” Bomoor’s tone was inquisitive, “And Stormtroopers? Why, I know that the Grand Moff would only be sending his troopers for the purpose of aiding us, unless…”

He leaned in again, once again pressing down on Thendleton’s foot and soliciting a hiss of pain from the Human, “Unless there are Imperials out there acting against the wishes of their grand leader in favour of GalactaWerk’s interests?”

Thendleton gave him a steely stare while still panting and gasping as each pulse of his heart reminded him of the many bruises and sores now appearing upon him.

Holding the gaze, the Ithorian eventually continued, “Whether or not you speak the words or not, and whether or not you understand the grander designs of your overseers, whatever knowledge is in your cranium will soon be mine.”

Strangely, the hulking alien then let out an almost melodic chuckle, “You know, I’m not all that well practiced in this ability,” he started rolling up the white sleeves that protruded from his hooded vest, “So, I cannot at all guarantee the condition of your mind at the conclusion of all this, but I promise it won’t kill you.”

His expression dropped and his voice became a shade darker, “Unlike you, I have certain standards.”

Amare looked on with fascination at Bomoor's employment of his telepathic power. Seconds passed when she started to feel faint as the Ithorian committed his focus to his dark technique and she dropped to one knee, catching Reave's attention. Amare focused on her own recovery as her body started to grow colder.

It was then, with a thrust of Bomoor's tendril like fingers forwards, Thendleton felt as though his essence was thrust out of him and the scene in front of him peeled away into pure white nothingness as his mind was invaded.

TBC

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