Thank you, I'm glad you enjoyed it. ^_^ And yes, Helljumpers inspired me a great deal. Well I wrote the first draft of this around the time ODST came out and I always thought that Helljumpers were awesome. So this is my ode to them, but I gave them the ability to charge through sitting up because it seemed much more regal to attack while mounted nobly on a steel steed. Keeping it more in line with space operas and not science fiction. I just hope that one day I'll get around to finishing this story and the thirteen other series it links to. Maybe I'll get them all up, but as for now I'm still writing away, still modifying(hopefully for the better), and extremely expanding this story and all those others. Sadly this installment might get edited too, so it better fits and meets my expectations. Either way there are nine more chapters to this story that I still have yet to post. Working as my own editor both speeds and slows my progress. So one day you just might see a complete Soldier's Journey. ^_^

Well for a short answer... But for a more in-depth answer I can elaborate. I show up in fragments in each of my characters, my protagonists mainly. For my Trooper Teran Malor he's professional, friendly, dedicated, and honor-centric. He got a great deal of my views on honor which made those parts easier to write. And also explore from a critical standpoint. For my Knight Waran S'Tarn he's random, eccentric, intelligent, inquisitive, and unyielding. For Waran I put in a great deal of how I behave. In that I found it easier to let people think I'm not very intelligent than see them get threatened and try to "take me on". For Waran he's had to operate much the same. But he sometimes gives the impression of insanity. For my Smuggler Jak Rishum he's charming, dashing, bumbling, and constantly cool. It's hard to get a reaction from him that is shocking. He's shocked often, but it doesn't show. This character got a lot of my ego. For my other Smuggler Bourne "Jet" Williams he's much more a ladies man... and this might cost him his life. He got a great deal of my romantic side. For my Bounty Hunter Spectre I gave a great deal of my detachment, professionalism, calculating observation and things like that. His cold murderous drive if a variant of my determination. I won't let anything stand in the way of my goals I want to accomplish. So modify that for a contract and you have a rather severe contractor. I found that my supporting cast is drawn from everywhere in my life. All without being people per-say.

I'm primarily free-flow apparently. All I do is write so when I sit down to actually type I tend to get headaches because no matter how fast I move all of the story wants to get out at once so... it hurts. When I write something I really care about I can get too caught up in the story so it leads me to disassociate with my real life. I call that one method writing. I figure it's due to my method acting. I must become the part to portray the part. Anyway when I disassociate with my life and come back I tend to be quite out of it for a few minutes, then shock, then acceptance. So because I have about four original book series I'm working on, re-writes for two major fictional universes, four pilots that I'm working on, ten or so plays, fifteen screenplays (most of which have sequels), and I won't even get into the poetry and lyrics I write... I tend to jump from series to series. This gives me the freedom I need, but it hinders the progress of my collective works. I'm going to college for writing. I'm looking into careers in writing. I spend most of my time writing in my head. The rest of the time is dedicating everything I do and learn and feel to material for writing. You ask of me my process and I must tell you that I am my process. ^_^

I got it, in light of the fact that we have some really cool new writers 'round here that I don't really know I'll go with an oldie but a goodie- Question! What does writing mean for you?

Haha... not really a necro... you're looking at one of the oldest community staples of these boards. Started by some really cool and dedicated community members, way back in TerminalPleasure's time. Aye, I remember a time when Walsh would argue with Alyx and Niarc until they were blue in the font. Or when Slaine would point out some great bit of unknown fiction on here. Even the rare times TheBBP would show up and he and I would bring some Trooper pride to the Corner. This was once a glorious hub of debate, discussion, and camaraderie among some of the greatest writers(namely me) to come through these boards. And I want them back! I've been going through a bout of nostalgia with these boards for a few days now. So yeah, don't mind an old timer like me... someone who's followed and played this game since the start... I've followed this game since it was nothing but a site saying that something was coming and you could sign up for a newsletter. Oh the old days... ^_^

So... is everyone gone from here or what? ^_^

A Soldier's Journey Link! General_Malor Trooper

Chapter Four: Busted Out Brat hung on a corner, watching the hallway before him. Bully moved slowly down the corridor in the opposite direction Brat watched. Bully moved on two guards, his knife unsheathed and ready. While the whole base may be at high alert, fully aware of the assault taking place, it didn’t mean that they had to announce their position left and right. Bully dispatched the men quickly, not worrying about noise with the alarms blaring. Brat made his way over to him, looking behind him every few seconds to watch his back. Brat kept watch as Bully wiped the blood off his knife using the men’s clothes. Without a word, only a nod, they continued down the hallways towards their mark. Being arguably the closest it wasn’t long before they started noticing more and more hostiles in the halls around them. Men and women moving to the armory seeking out weapons and gear for the attack. Dozens of Imps crowed the ways as they got closer and closer to the armory, and though they were the ambushers it was far from an ideal situation. A proper ambush has two key factors; the element of surprise, which was more or less gone, and superior hitting power. It want to have the advantages of ordnance, position, and preparation for an ambush to have an acceptable outcome. They waited for less than a minute, watching people file into the armory, waiting for their moment. When the amount of people in the room reached a critical point they made their move. Brat held four grenades in his hands, Bully holding a pair of stun grenades. Brat waited until Bully slid one of his stun grenades across the floor. With everyone moving it was nothing short of miraculous that it made it into the room, and not kicked aside. He then slide the second one to the crowd in front of the door, getting close enough to the center of the mob. Once they were gone Brat threw him two grenades and they waited for the four second fuse to expire. There was ear splitting noise and light everywhere, Brat and Bully’s equipment minimizing any discomfort. At the apex of the flash they threw the grenades into the disoriented mass of people that stood trying to get their composure back. Without the chance of someone throwing the grenades back or moving away from them the frag grenades achieved maximum effect on the Imps. Within seconds dozens of men and women lay dead near the entrance to the armory, and more than a few inside the armory itself. The armory was a large room and they were both keenly aware that they didn’t remove all possible threats, but now they had the best chance they would have. They screamed and roared as they broke from their covered position and charged into the doorway. The voice modulators of their helmets twisting their screams into something terrible and inhuman. The simple act of screaming dates back to ancient cultures warfare, and the primal impact is still as strong then as it is now. There was something about it that imbued the one bellowing the fury and power to demolish foes like they were naught but minor things. It was a kind of wrath that summoned a viciousness that war naturally fed upon. The altered voices of them tested the Imps courage. Though they might be professional soldiers they still felt fear, and without the courage to overcome it they broke as anyone would in their situation. Blaster bolts rained on their targets, not accurately but in vast majorities. It was a madman’s dash into the door way as the hostiles near the back organized and focused their fire on the chokepoint. They weren’t quick enough though, as Brat and Bully cleared the doorway and took up defensive positions. For a moment the situation seemed comical to them. They were attacking a hostile force in their own armory with them having the ability to be dug in. It was a morbid humor surely, but enough for a chuckle. The only thing keeping them from being victim to dozens of pounds of explosives was the still confined spaces they were in. There was no way to unleash that much ordnance on them and be free of friendly fire. Even though they were Imps they didn’t want to scorch each other, mostly because they would prefer it if no one did the same to them. They got enough of that when Sith were in charge. They took a tactical assessment of the room, noting the lines of lockers, shelves, and armor racks. Brat looked over to Bully and with a nod conveyed his message. Bully broke from his cover and unleashed his chain-repeater on the still reorganizing Imps. The sound of it’s whirling barrels filled the room, while the sounds of blind fire shooting from Imperials seemed insignificant before it. As Bully moved slowly with his heavy canon Brat began to flank their position. He moved up a row of lockers while keeping low, just in case. Once he reached the first line he instantly began to deal out quick death to all in front of him. They were too distracted from Bully’s canon to notice how swiftly Brat fell on them. With his rifle on full auto Brat marched on the Imps, his cold visor masking his face so it would be the last thing any of the Imps would see in this life. The Imperial soldiers were well trained, devoted, willing, and driven. Each man and woman fighting their own war in their own story, but this day was where it ended. These weren’t mindless drones with no survival drive, with no dreams for themselves. Each one had a lifetime of work and moments and here in this span of time too short to measure against all the years they’d lived there cut down. Violent lives end violently, and with the Wraith Corps this was more than a true statement, it was a mission directive. Brat and Bully knew exactly what they were doing when they took a life, they appreciated the weight and severity of murder. The acknowledgement of their terrible deeds were what set them apart from brutish psychopaths and demented Sith. But even knowing that each man and woman probably wasn’t so different from them they slaughtered all they could. Their morals and ethics had no place for what they were doing, if their conscience kept them up at night it was a insignificant thing stacked against the alternative. More than their selves were at risk when they entered combat, an entire government that protected and kept trillions beyond counting stood behind them as they held the line. And the only thing that mattered was that these people, regardless of who they were as individuals, were trying to cross their line. It was an unacceptable thought, a scenario they would never see come to fruition. Death would be the only way they would stop their war, and neither planned to die to the multitudes of Imps trying to kill them in return. They had far too much to live for, too much weight rested on their shoulders for them to falter here. Even with the dozens of men and women in their own armory, even with their superior numbers no amount of training or luck could stop Bully and Brat as they continued their death march. Some of the veterans in the room seemed to notice it, it wasn’t a submission, but an acceptance of what was to be. If any of the more green among them knew what was coming they seemed to respond with wild yelling and firing. Most seemed to relegate themselves to a false hope that they might rise the victors. With this grim task still at hand Brat couldn’t fight off a morbid smile as he kept killing, there was something just obscenely funny about the whole dirty business. And better to smile at the sickness of murder than to mentally break before it’s pressure. After mere minutes that equated to so much fatality it was clear that their target was further in the back. The shouting of the word “Go!” and the following fully armored and ready charge for soldiers into the front room was all the indication they needed. Diving for cover from the rebuking surge of Imps Brat knew that being separated would either make or break their offensive. Before he could formulate a plan he heard Bully’s twisted and altered voice yelling out loudly as he fired his chain-repeater. Bully was the only person, save for maybe Teran, Brat knew that could run while firing one of those heavy canon like weapons. The thing could pour out fifty rounds every three seconds when set loose, so there was naught but concentrated death on the counter-strike the Imps mustered. It was risk over tactics that day for Bully, and it seemed that it was paying off. Brat looked above him to spot a window leading to the further back room, a space he could fit through while they were distracted. The Imps had far too much to handle with Bully tearing through their lines. The Imps had only two wide paths to get out of the back room to them, with no side exits. Bully covered them both like a figure of death incarnate. Brat shot the thin glass that blurred and separated the rooms, with only two steps he vaulted the nearly seven foot space, placing his hand on the sill where the window had been to swing his legs over. He swung his rifle from his back to his hands once more as he moved through the space. It was mayhem in the back as they tried to rally against Bully, with their numbers thinning far too quickly they knew it was only a matter of time, and so did their commander. Brat spotted him grabbing heavy ordnance. It would seem he was choosing risk over caution. He picked up the rocket launcher and aimed it through the clear alley to Bully. The next moment was too quick. Bully spotted the man and begun to swing his chain-repeater towards him, but it wouldn’t cut through the bodies of the Imps between them quickly enough. Brat sprinted to the man, each step seeming to take ages as the commander aimed. Brat was mildly aware of the men who spotted him who begun to aim at him and open fire. They were secondary, ensuring Bully was okay was primary. Bully saw Brat enter his line of fire and he maneuvered his canon to shoot around him with expertise. Keeping those bolts firing in such an accurate manner was something that only Bully could pull off. The bolts from his canon flew by Brat with only and inch or more to spare, but Brat wasn’t concerned at all. Bully was snuffing out the lives of the Imps that aimed at Brat, Brat was so close to the commander now. Brat slide to a halt to the commander’s side before he could react to the whole scene. There was no time for him to drop the launcher and get to cover, Brat was too damned fast. With his rifle fully raised, his right eye aiming down the top mounted sights Brat paused gaining most of the commander’s attention in the form on his eye turned to see him barely. “Still not good enough,” was all Brat said before he pulled the trigger. The statement wasn’t meant to the commander he just killed, more of a general statement as if he was speaking to the fates themselves. The bolt tore through the man’s head and made his body go limp, the launcher falling harmlessly to the ground. The remaining Imps seemed dismayed as their leader fell dead, though they didn’t seem that way for long as Bully finished his slaughter. Brat bent down and picked off everything that indicated the man’s title and rank. Then the two men, both tired but still alert, looked at each other and with a faint nod walked out of the armory and to the rest of the building. “Bully and Brat reporting,” Bully said into his radio. “Target down, object secured, moving to plant now.” They would their way through the building, not expecting a response. There was still death waiting to be dealt out by them. Stitch was outside of the room holding her two targets. She steadied herself and readied her body for combat. She didn’t shake when battle was near, didn’t get jittery. No, she achieved a calm and presence of mind that most can’t reach while surrounded by total peace and tranquility. It was her iron-clad control and will that made her so able. She wasn’t the most boisterous of the Wild Bunch, but potentially the deadliest. With a slow and deep exhalation she pressed the door switch, sliding it open. She had six seconds, maybe an extra half if they were slow. She moved into the open door space with her rifle raised. Her closest hostile was to her right, and he seemed quick. His blaster pistol was already gripped in his hand, but still in its holster. She aimed down her rifle and took the man’s hands first. He was about to scream in pain but she cut him off immediately by taking out his right knee, as he was dropping she placed two bolts into his chest. The second man in the room to her complete left had his blaster half raised before she spun and planted three bolts near his hip. The pain caused the man to bend at the waist just enough to provide a clear shot to his head. She fired one round just slightly left of the center of the man’s head and he fell over, dead before he knew it. She spun once more and did the same to the first man who was almost to his knees when she looked back at him. One round clear through the head and he was certainly not a threat any more. There were two men left in the room, and they were her targets. One closer to at desk seemed terrified, while the other took up an ugly snarl on his face as he tried to lift his rifle into his hands. While he lifted Stitch put one bolt into the man’s left elbow making him move slightly, but he only dropped the rifle when she put another into his right shoulder. His arms hung limply at his sides, the rifle on its way to the ground. Before he could twist that snarl of rage into one of terror Stitch put a round through his throat. Even with the cauterizing effects of blaster bolts the soft tissue meant that the man would either die from pain, shock, or more likely drowning. She then trained her rifle on the last man who was on his knees with his hands high and an expression of begging. Stitch finally let her awareness of time speed up. He level of focus wasn’t easy to maintain but it’s rewards were great indeed. She’d allotted herself six whole seconds to kill all her targets, and she dropped three in nearly three seconds. She would round up to four whole seconds to ensure she didn’t feel like she was cheating. Now what her target was saying finally was coherent. “… and I mean it, I’ll tell you whatever you want to know, just don’t kill me!” the man screamed, trying to gain her attention and hopefully her mercy. “Quiet,” Stitch said through her helmet, the speaker altering her voice. She didn’t say it loudly or aggressively, merely with authority. The man cowered and shrunk at her word. She went over to him, slinging her rifle. She wasn’t worried about him making a move, if he thought he could he would have when the numbers where in his favor. From the slight softness at his midsection, the lack of muscle on his arms and shoulders, the way his clothes hung on him, and mostly the look in his eye she could tell this man was no fighter. But fighter or no, he was the one who doled out kill orders, making his hands as bloody as any other Imp. She went over to him, hauled him up with her surprising strength and made him stare at himself in her visor. “Tell me you’re terrified,” Stitch ordered the man. “…What? Wh-…” “Now. Say it,” Stitch told him again with more firmness. “I’m terrified… okay… I’m scared out of my mind!” the man said. “Admit that the Empire is done here,” she told him again. “I… I… we’re done… why…” “Why are they done here… say it,” Stitch told him, leaning him back further. “Because… we got sloppy?” at his answer Stitch hit him, just an opened hand slap. “Because the Wraith Corps is here now, and you can’t hope to stand against us,” Stitch told him. The man’s eyes widened at the name. The Empire had been buzzing with rampant reports of a black ops unit that was tearing through the contested territory, calling themselves the Wraith Corps. Soon they reached infamy with the Empire and its soldiers. To be standing in a secure command post, on a contested world that was one of the closest to the empire of any contested planet, and have a Wraith stare him in the face cemented the fear he felt in solid fact. The fear on the man’s face was a reward to Stitch. “Oh my… wha-what do you want… I’ll give you anything… just don’t kill me…” the man said, shaken to his core. “That was about it,” Stitch said turning off her helmet mounted camera. “Now let’s talk about that intel.” “I’ll give you complete access to our secure network here… even these terminals are isolated, only way to get to them is from this room… I’ll give you it all,” he said to her, begging more and more. “Do it,” was all she said as she pushed him to the terminal to access it. The man looked away from her as he worked to access everything, it was clear he was a coward. Stitch recognized the man from intel photos. She readied her sidearm as he worked. “There you’re…” the man said with a hopeful smile that died when he saw her blaster. “What are you doing? I got you in… I’ll tell you anything, I swear.” “Terrance Cayd, rank Lieutenant, labeled “The Mad Bomber” by locals on the planets he served on. Intelligence and irregular warfare listed as specialties. How many civies have you bombed on this planet alone?” Stitch asked him as he shook. “I did what I had-” was all he managed to say before the bolt tore through his head. She kicked the corpse away from the terminal as she moved closer to work. Should have got the execution on camera too she thought to herself. She began to download the files on the terminal to her protected datapad. While the hundreds and thousands of files transferred to her datapad she read through some of it. All of it was fairly bland or incredibly disturbing. One of the files nearly caught her eye when she heard something outside the door. She readied her rifle and waited for a moment, making sure that nothing lurked outside. When she finally looked back to the terminal the download was finished, the screen telling her she can remove her portable console. She tucked the datapad away in her armored rucksack before she took any identifiers of the officers she was ordered to remove. She left the room feeling fairly good about her day so far. “This is Stitch, target down, object secure, moving to plant now,” she called over her radio. Watcher and Joker stacked on the doorway out of the stair well they were in. Watcher waved Joker forward and the man quickly took up a new position out in the hall. There were few men stationed at the prison level with the attack fully underway. Given the level of security that was already present, the shielded windows, armored doors and doorways, locks, cameras and alert systems it wasn’t all too unreasonable to think that a skeleton crew could safely watch the prison. But that was dependant on the attack being a standard affair. With the Wraith Corps around nothing was the SOP. The first checkpoint had a guard in a booth, with ray shield windows. Teran didn’t pause as he overcharged his rifle and blasted clear through the wall beneath the ray shield. The man’s legs were torn from under him as he fell to the ground, his reach safely away from any radio or device that would warn his fellows further down. Teran stuck his rifle through the hole in the wall and fired once more, ending the man quickly. Joker walked up to the hole as Teran moved away, leaning down to see through it. He sighted the control console and threw a small device that was maybe big enough to fit in the center of his palm. It magnetically landed on the console and begun its close-range slice of the console. Within seconds full control was theirs. Joker pressed a button on the wrist mounted datapad and the door in front of them opened for them. As they moved through the space more and more functions became theirs to toy with. With their vision enhancing helmets their first move was to kill the lights. The world was dark for the briefest moment before it kicked on, then it took a dull green hue that mad things seem alien and off slightly. As they neared the second checkpoint the emergency lights had kicked on, just at the perfect moment. The two men who stood in the open next to their metal detector and handheld scanners weren’t ready for what they saw. Inches from their face, moving too fast to see, were two fully armed and armored men with blades racing towards their throats. Hot blood ran down their blades for a moment before they withdrew their knifes and let the bodies drop. They opened the next door and left the emergency lights on. Even with training the red light that was shining was disorienting and made things not entirely clear and also because it would give the impression that something might be going right for the Imps. Or at least not totally well for the attackers. Moving forward through the hall it was more and more claustrophobic and confining. Not in room or open space really, as the hall was wide enough for a tank with cells lining it, but in feel. It held the sense that no matter what there would be no escape. Truly no light from the outside was visible as they moved, and the dull gray of the walls cast a dreary air to the whole place. The air not frigid or outright cold, but just enough to be uncomfortable. Teran moved with the professionalism that only years of training could produce, every turn of his head, his rifle moved with it. Every step taken was one with purpose and dozens of evasion routes planned. Even his breathing was now at a level to keep him ready and not winded due to overly labored efforts. They were close now, the sign indicating their location told them that the next corner would lead them to Morena. Joker took up a spot on the corner, waving Teran forward into the next hall. Teran strode forward at a pace not rushed nor slow, but smooth and efficient. Then he heard it. The echoing from the cold, dead walls gave it a graveyard chill. It rung in Teran’s head like a bell signaling all his deepest fears. He could hear Morena screaming out in pain. In that moment too short to measure Teran paused. Brief though it was, it was all that mattered in the coming second. Imperial soldiers sprung from their hiding places and opened fire on Teran, throwing everything they had at the giant man. Teran dove into a roll that put him squarely in cover, but not before a bolt pegged his leg. The heat ate through his armor, but not the body-glove. Instead of a plasma charge eating through his leg, it only felt as if someone took an overly hot iron and pressed it to his skin until it cooled. Thankfully it wouldn’t scar, the body-glove took that brunt, it only left a tender red mark that would need seeing too when they got back. Teran steadied himself and held his rifle tightly as he wrestled back his control. Jones was firing back at the Imps already, but Teran didn’t notice. He needed perfection right now. Everything was counting on it. Morena was counting on it. Watcher stood from his cover and fired on the closest Imp, laying him down to his death in a moment, two followed immediately after. There was nothing else in Watcher’s world now, there was only the now and the here. Morena’s pain was put aside, Joker’s safety was secondary, and the mission was a distant memory. Watcher became the living embodiment of ideal combat prowess. His mind was quicker than light, his body a machination of blood and tissue that made the highest end war droids seem like scrap metal, and his soul was a steeled resolve that would bring only one thing. Death. He didn’t have time to think about anything, before him stood fourteen dug in men with superior firepower and position. He was fighting a battle that would take at least ten men and a grenade launcher to win, only equipped with what he had. His rifle, and that was more then enough. He fired a duet of bolts to each man, one through the heart, the other tearing at their heads. They seemed so still now, as if stuck or stilled by something. Teran felt something of exhilaration as colors raced past him. They looked so vivid and hot that he dare not touch them despite their odd beauty. He felled two more men before he finally saw her. A woman in tattered clothes, with flaming red hair, and shear willpower burning in her eyes. Something about her seemed familiar and Teran wanted to move faster so he did. More and more the men died and the world finally seemed to resume its normal speed. With his last moment of heightened awareness Teran saw the man near the redheaded woman and fired at the arm he extended to her. She dropped as the bolt tore into his muscle and bone, giving the man more pain than his mind could physically process. But enough to fuel his inhuman powers. He turned and loosed a wall of invisible force towards Watcher and Joker. Joker took less of the hit, as he was a good ways behind Watcher. The force of the wave ripped them from the ground. The armor was designed for rough landings, taking away a great deal of the pain from crashing loosely on the hard cement floor. Watcher couldn’t keep the grimace off his face as he looked up at the man. His yellow eyes seemed to blaze with rage and hate. And power. Joker stood first and blitzed towards the man, blind with fury. The man jumped out of the way in a series of acrobatic maneuvers that weren’t possible with standard human physiology. When the man finally landed with conviction enough to fight off Joker Watcher made his move. Both of the soldiers knew the score when it came to Sith. You needed to control where they went, how they moved, what they were going to do. If you lost one of these then it was all over. Most important was keep their sabers away from them at all costs. With the Force powering their bodies they were dangerous. With their sabers they were death in a black robe. And for now this one didn’t have time to grab his weapon. Watcher and Joker kept moving, constantly changing their position to avoid becoming a static target. It was working. This mad man’s dash of theirs was paying off as the Sith kept getting moved about how they saw fit, and as much as the small space would allow. When the Sith once more flew through the air, trying to stay mobile, Joker threw a remote mine against the wall he would soon land by. The moment his foot touched the ground once more, and well before he could react the mine went off. It was truly deafening, to their preparation the earpieces they and their helmets cancelled almost all of the sound. They didn’t waste a moment once the explosion hit. Firing wildly into the smoke they didn’t know if anyone was standing to actually shoot, it didn’t matter. Looking into the illuminated cloud of dust Watcher felt as though something was wrong. Before he could move he was thrown off his feet and into a wall. Even with his armor it hurt as the force that hurled him still pressed against him. Joker wasn’t better off as a moment later he was thrown into the high ceiling and suspended a few feet above the ground. Watcher tried to move but nothing happened, aside from a severe ache in his muscles. The Sith strode out of the darkness, only faint debris soiling his robes. There was a fevered look to his face, and his eyes yellow blazed with hate. More than any other Sith Watcher had seen. His power, quickness, and his avoidance of using his saber meant he was strong. But not stronger than Watcher had predicted. When going into battle against any Sith Watcher made it a priority to treat them as if they were the Emperor himself. Now getting a gauge on how strong he is gave Watcher yet another advantage. At the moment it didn’t seem as though he was in a good position, which is just what he wanted his foe to think. And even with how quick the Sith was moving the sweat that had formed on his forehead, most likely mixed with the pain from his arm, spoke to the fact that Joker and Watcher’s tactics were working. It was all just a matter of time now and waiting for the right moment. “You small, weak, little armored dogs!…” the Sith started to monologue but was cut short as rubble fell. The rubble aided by Morena’s hands found the Sith squarely on the head. Instantly Joker and Watcher dropped down and raised their weapons. The Sith reeled back from the hit and seemed dazed. When he turned to see Morena a faint recognition hit his wide eyes. Morena didn’t wait any longer and smashed the rock into his face, bringing blood spurting out towards her. As the Sith fell Morena jumped on him, taking the rock in one hand and proceeded beat him until it was sure there was nothing left. She tore a bit of his robes off and wiped off her face. For a moment she just stared at the man before turning to look at the two men who rescued her. The rubble rock fell from her hands and she seemed to relax. “Found you…” was all Teran could say as he took off his helmet. “Yes you did,” Morena said as she ran to his arms. For a while she didn’t move, didn’t make a sound. Teran wasn’t even sure she was breathing. Then it was over and she regained herself. She looked up to Teran, face to face, and he saw past her current state and beheld the woman he loved. She gave him the most impish smile. “That is you found me after I told you where to go. Don’t worry your pretty head dear, I’ll resume doing all the thinking for the both of us,” Morena told him with a fake sympathetic pat on his arm before she walked over to Jones. “And you little brother,” Morena said as she put a hand on his chin, making him look her directly in the eyes. “You need to practice more, you’re aim is still as attractive as a Hutt in a… well I guess just a Hutt works.” Teran didn’t laugh at her joke sent his way, but was more than happy to laugh at Jones. Jones didn’t seem to mind though, he just hugged his sister with a wide smile as he set her down. “Are you ready to move Lieutenant?” Teran asked her as he put his helmet back on. “Yes, for the love of the Gods, get me out of here. But first we have to let all these people out too,” She told them as she started looking around for a weapon on the fallen Imperials. Watcher nodded to Joker, and with a touch of his wrist mounted datapad he let everyone with an override code. They all flew out of their cells, barely able to control themselves. But they listened well once they saw Watcher by the exit and he told them to get out. There weren’t many of them, maybe near a hundred about, and with their haste it didn’t take long for them all to get out. More than a few slowed when they saw their dead torturer, though they left him alone when Watcher told them to keep moving. Watcher moved over and relieved his body of the lightsaber there. As he looked at the Sith and then to Morena, he could barely control himself. All the things he wanted to say to her, to do with her. The urge to take her somewhere safe and far away that the Republic or Empire could never find. He felt like he wanted to butcher every Sith and Imp all the more, as if in some kind of offering to his goddess. Even more he just wanted to hold her and beg her forgiveness for ever losing her. He watched her for a moment before her eyes found his visor. She had picked up the largest Imp weapon she could find, and to him she was the vision of perfection. There was the briefest flash across her face that said she wanted everything Watcher wanted. He looked away first, not sure what would happen if they let themselves think on it too much. All of that could wait until they were on the ship, safely away from this place. Still plenty of Imps about, and more than enough danger. “Watcher and Joker reporting, package secure, moving to plant,” was all he said into his radio. They ran at a mid pace out of the facility, planting charges every few halls. Structure didn’t matter much, given that they were in the lowest level, and they planted enough controlled ordnance to level a city block. The only Imps they seen while they ran out were gunned down instantly by Morena and her large stolen canon. It wasn’t as if they let her, she was just that quick. Soon enough they were beneath open sky. They ran to meet the rest of their waiting team, who were more than a little bit animated than the three of them had been in the base. Bully smiled a wide smile and picked her up over his head by her waist as if she was a small child. Stitch gave her a quick hug, before starting a once over of her condition. Brat gave her a long hug, once he let her go though he gave her an exact detailing of how bad she looked. Morena would typically have a bit of a back and forth with him but this time she just smiled at him and mussed his hair. Watcher was on his radio the whole while, standing by the large windows of the building they were in. Outside of them the base sat with a few plumes of smoke coming out, though largely intact. “Valkyrie, as our returning squad mate we have a gift for you. Look out the windows, and be ready, it’s all we could think that you’d really want,” Teran said as he flipped the switch in his hands. The command center exploded with much fanfare, a blinding light, and a shockwave that felt like a rancor best kicked you. They didn’t flinch from any of it though. They all just watched with warm smiles as the place was laid to waste. “Oh you guys, it’s just what I wanted… how’d you know?” Morena said with fake sobs of joy. “Honestly sis, you’ve always been easy to shop for,” Jones said to her as he put an arm around her. “Let’s get off this rock, and get you back to the ship, I’d like to give you a proper exam” Stitch said as she called in for extraction. “Hey Stitch, you got to get in line behind Watcher,” Brat said with a large laugh at his own joke. “No lines, he can watch… if he’s into that sort of thing,” Morena joked, making the whole group laugh. Teran laughed loudest before abruptly stopping, his face completely serious, saying yes to the offer. Stitch pushed him away playfully, and got protective of Morena. Jests and quips flew about as they waited for their extraction. Around them a war could be heard, with ships flying to take back the skies for the Republic’s allies. It mattered little, now that they were a family again. There was a lot that wasn’t being said that they could all feel. But now wasn’t the time, on the ship, when they were safe, that was the time. Watcher was amazed, even as noticeably shaken and scared as she was Morena wasn’t breaking down, no matter how much she seemed to want to. As the shuttle back to the ship landed, Teran was happy now, thinking he might get a good night’s sleep for the first time in months.

I definitely have a theme in mind as far as growth of characters, overall feel, artistic slant, subtext, and meaning. But other than that not really.

Will elaborate further to the other questions. For this one I'd say I'd think it would generally fall under good literature if the reader is improved, better than before in some way. If they learn a negative behavior from a piece then I feel it's counter productive. Sound fair?

I don't think a lesson should be only in morals. Philosophical, spiritual, social, political... okay basically if it gets you thinking, and hopefully about the world around you. But that also ties into expanding view points. When I said expanding the view and comprehension of what is possible I meant, more or less, just broadening horizons. It may sound kind of cheesy, but something that takes people out of their box and places them somewhere they didn't know they could go. Or something that takes an established real world object or norm and twist them so that people will have to reexamine what they've held on to. Things like that I think make good fiction. But they also don't have to be that drastic, they could be little things that just stick with you. Like how the hero will overcome the villain in some cunning way, or how these people will repair their relationship by growing both as a couple and individuals. Basically something unique and intriguing. Hopefully to make it reach a status akin to art hopefully there will be a very real and present emotional connection to it. Something that engages the mind and rouses the soul. A book that makes you weep with joy, cry from sorrow, cheer at victories, laugh at a great one liner. A good book, in my opinion, should engage a person on every level. Regardless of the amount of impact it might have on each level. It should be an experience, not just something you did. I mean I read a lot of books, but I wouldn't say I've experienced many. I wouldn't say they've all impacted my life, but I cherish the ones that have. I hope that clears up how I define a good bit of literature. ^_^

No no, Valkuu, thank you. ^_^ Who has the next question?

"Can possibly be considered"? Please tell me this is a joke, because it's ridiculous. The Lord of the Rings trilogy is loaded with metaphors and hidden meanings, not to mention that its very nature brought/kept folklore and myths in people's minds for years after it was published. Tolkien's works have inspired, altered and impacted countless lives, giving them something different each time, and opening their minds to fantasy and adventure. His works helped set the stage for the continuation and return of epic fantasy tales. I mean you do realize that so much of what we deal with in the fantasy world is inspired by him to some extent? No? Thought not. You completely and utterly disregard everything that Tolkien has done for the fantasy world at large because of what... you think Twilight is better? Is on the same level with it? Is as artful? I'm sorry if you think that Twilight is the bee's knees and where it's at, and that I offended you by slandering one of your favored fictions. But if you follow your logic of sales equals quality then Justin Bieber is a bigger star than Fredric Chopin and Franz Liszt. Lil' Wayne is more important, by your definition, than Robert Johnson. And Twilight surpasses The Lord of the Rings. And for that, for your argument depending and current popular trends, for the fact that you hold sales above artistry, for the sheer nerve that you would think to devalue what Tolkien did for the fantasy genre, for all of that... I am sorry. Now if I could only figure a way to type out a sigh of flippancy and boredom I would, but I don't think I could accurate capture the tone... oh well. Slaine... come yell at me for being difficult or ask a new question... I think I may have upset Kharnis... he no likey da General no more.

Yeah, what's art matter against currency. You know what!? Let's base our whole view of the world on how much we sell... for everything, decency at a price, morals at a bargain, scruples that must go, go, GO!!! I get it... all most people care about is how much it sells... next question please, this one is depressing... oh god! Now I'm turning into Bella with all the depression!

I've noticed a lot of people think they've made a point when they say something I've said to punctuate their point. Just sayin'... Are you asking me specifically? No? Thought not, I'll answer anyway though... To your first part I think we can judge a work of literature by its impact not only on current popular media but how greatly it can change/redefine/bolster/improve the world of written words in general. Basically by judging what it adds to everything. Sales have nothing to do with quality, how fine of a work it is has to do with quality. I would say the goal of literature is to add something, to carry a lesson to its readers and expand their view of what is possible. By that I feel Twilight is garbage in that it actually bastardizes a lot of its inspiration(folklore, vampire lore, fae lore) and really gives a half hearted representation. As for what it does I think it really does paint a viciously unhealthy portrait for how a loving relationship should be. And I really don't hate to say it but a whole heap of idiots out there will think that that's romantic relationships are and how one should behave while in a serious one to boot. Not to mention that it promotes people marrying early, nothing wrong with that, I just think its a right stupid idea. That's a personal issue that. Also the books have a terribly shallow character development, by the middle of the second book I was cheering for Bella to just off herself already and have the series follow Jacob and his wild Wolf Pack cohorts. Basically Bella's whole attitude for the first three books and most of the fourth is one of psychological self-loathing and contempt, until she's magically turned into a beautiful creature thanks completely to her boyfriend, thus another example of pop culture reinforcing that women aren't good enough as they are and need to change to please their mate. And also that a man is the only way they will be good enough. All in all there were a lot of things about the books I didn't like... like anything to do with Bella and Edward. Now Alice, Jasper and Jacob, they are damn fine characters and interesting to boot. I would read a book about the three of them, or just Alice and Jasper or just Jacob, even if it was by Stephany Moyer. I think that's how you spell her name. Honestly though she should have just made the Cullens fairies like they were supposed to be and not vampires. The being in sunlight, the sparkling, the sweet breath, the golden eyes... all of it screams fae. But young women want to the bad boy with the heart of gold, so vampires they became. Must be a nice fantasy because in the real world the bad boy has a mean right hook, no heart of gold to be found.