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Dr_Worm
5 August 2003, 12:48 AM
Prologue:

The light in the old library was dim and yellow, provided by a large candle at the edge of a writing desk. The old man reading by the candle light squinted and strained as he translated the ancient text. The pages that he translated from were brittle and moldy, with horrid orange stains giving it a diseased look. However most of the words were clear enough, if you knew the language, and the old man knew the language. He knew many of the old languages, but this one few people still knew. As he cross-checked the last few words a satisfied smile grew on his wrinkled weary, wrinkled face.

“That’s it Boti,” the old man said to the silver bird that perched at the next desk, “That is the last of it. Now that I am finished young Master Yoda will have to listen to me. That incredulous little up start will have to listen to this old man.”

The bird squawked in reply.

“Well you have the leisure to be unconcerned with such petty matters such as dogma and jealousy, but we must fight them constantly. Don’t get me wrong, Yoda is a great Jedi and will some day make a wonderful member of the Counsel, but he is too stuck in the ways that he was trained in. For him it is all a mental exercise, anything else leads to the dark side. It doesn’t help that this text was written in Khashath, a old dialect of Sith. Not only that, but it is a translation from an even older text. I suppose that I have to thank the Sith for translating this for me at the time, because all record of the original language is lost. I tried to tell Master Yoda that the only reason that the Sith translated the document is because it provided them a chance to defend themselves; that they could never use this power for fear of being taken possessed completely. Now he will have to listen. When he sees the proof here, and when I show him myself, we will have one more weapon against the Sith.”

The old Jedi closed the book and blew out the candle and the room is plunged into darkness. However to one who is attuned to the force there is never darkness, and the Old Jedi reached out to find his way to the old Library door. As his senses flow through the room they fall upon a cold darkness standing in his way.

“You didn’t think you’d be allowed to keep that knowledge did you?” A cold voice oozed from the darkness like an oil spill,coating and fouling the world around him. The darkness in the room was broken by a shaft of red light that glowed with an evil glee, and the silence broken by the hum of a lightsaber. “You see, old man, we appreciate you translating this for us, but my master would be very displeased if you were allowed to keep the knowledge that you stole from us.”

“Knowledge belongs all beings!” Yelled the old man a he grabbed at anything around him with the force. He had left his Lightsaber in his chambers, and besides his old reflexes were no match for those of the Sith lord that stood before him. “If it is knowledge you want, it is knowledge you will get!” With that the Library exploded with books flying from the shadowed walls.

The Sith Lord parried many of the books easily and the rest he just shrugged off with some unsensed shield; a shield made by the force. A sneer crept across his face. “That was pitiful. If it were not for the book you guard I wouldn’t even bother killing you, but since I need the book...” with that the blade lashed out in two quick strokes, cutting the old Jedi neatly in three.

The Sith called the translation to his hand, but the library was too much a jumble now for him to find the original. That would have to wait for another day. He could feel the Jedi searching for the source of power that had flowed moments ago. He turned, doused his lightsaber, and fled to his ship. The translation was lost.

...But they never came back for the original. Though it is not known if anyone ever attempted to translate it ever again...

***

Chapter 1:

The room was a mess. Furniture was strewn all over in unnatural heaps; clothes, men’s and women’s, were draped over everything. The room looked as if a great hand had picked it up and shaken it like a dice cup. This was a mess of epic proportions. However the only thing really alarming about the room was the blood. It was splattered on the walls and was soaked in to some of the clothes and carpets. Blood, and the smell of blood, made this room a place of death and violence.

It was this vile soup of violence that Bydand Phyph sampled far too often. Tonight was no different, and his silent chant of focus kept his emotions from getting the better of him. He stepped gently in to the room, carful not to disturb anything. The Republic Crime Scene Investigators had yet to catalogue the room in their professional manner, and he was loath to make their job any harder. Phyph was not always this lucky, sometimes he did not have access to the crime scene until after it had been investigated by authorities. By then the scene would be muddled and confused. Not, of course, in the physical sense, as the investigators were very professional most of the time, but in other ways. Ways that few people understood, but that made Phyph's job much harder.

First he surveyed the room in general, noting the direction of overturned items, and the blood splatter patterns. He was only familiar with these physical manifestations because he was so often around them, but looking for them gave him a place to start. On the bed a rich purple silk blouse lay hanging on the edge. The fabric was fine, and seemed almost liquid like a pool of rich berry juice. It did not have any blood on it and appeared to be torn, so it was assumed that it was torn off in the struggle. Making his way carefully to the bed, he knelt by it and gently placed his hand on the blouse and instantly was assaulted.

She was standing at the mirror touching the fabric...she was happy...excited...she her head turned to make sure the room was spotless...he would be here soon...he promised...she put the blouse over her head and looked back in the mirror...he was late, but that was okay...she adjusted the blouse...his favorite blouse...she heard the door open and knew it was him...she knew his scent so well...a figure approached behind her...the room light was low and romantic, but she knew it was him...the figure rased an arm and threw something...her eyes were terrified instantly and she ducked her head causing what ever was thrown to shatter the mirror...terror...betrayal...pain...fear...fear...fear...he slapped her...the pain...he threw her violently on the bed...the betrayal...he tore her blouse...the fear...the fear...

Phyph's hand jerked away as if it had been bitten by a viper. It stung like the wound was really there, but no wound marred his coppery skin. He looked around the room with a new perspective. Keeping the image of the room perfectly clean and romanticly lit in his minds eye he overalyed that on the scene his visual eyes fed him. The table, that had once been layed out for two to enjoy drinks, was now covered in shards of broken crystal and small pools of Coriean Whiskey. His vision then took in the mirror, or what was left of it. In the center of the mirror shards, now on the ground, was a heavy statuette of a Twi'lek god. He stepped lightly to it and laid his hand on the base.

it was on a table...not a table, a pedistal...placed gently there...the first thing she put in her new apartment so many months ago...then touched...each time she entered the room, for good luck...then, months later...hours ago...grabbed by a large caucasion hand...rage...betrayal...thrown...

Now it lay amongst the shards, now it wasn't good luck for anyone. It was not, however the murder weapon. That was was gone with the man, still attached to his wrists, and probably still aching from the beating it had just given.

Phyph knew that, as surely as he knew the man's face. The victom had given him that, through her eyes, as the blouse was ripped off. It was her last gift, the last thing she gave. Now Bydand Phyph could give her spirit one last gift as well. The gift of peace, and the gift of justice. The peace, he believed, that only justice could bring a lost soul. The investigators would have to develop the physical evidence, but at least his identification and the guidance of the force could send them down the right path.

He stood and left the room, and as he did, Phyph tried to cleanse his mind of the violence and fear that lingered. His Jedi techniques helped, but the counsel was right. This kind of touch could never fully be cleansed from a sensitive Jedi mind such as his. It left a scar. Small but tender. With each new scar building on the rest.

BRodgers
5 August 2003, 04:29 AM
Nice job Dr!

Looking forward to more!

Kanner Ra'an
27 August 2003, 11:39 AM
Ditto. Anticipating #2.

Dr_Worm
27 August 2003, 02:06 PM
An edit of this and a second chapter will be in the next OJ. I think I will issue them in OJ as a serial. Thanks for reading.