In The Mouth of a Sarlacc

In the Mouth of a Sarlacc

Mos Eisley murmur with dispute. The bustle of the largest Tatooine city garner tourist of all kind. Voyagers dropped in from numerous routes and backgrounds, with objectives that commonly intermingled. The adjacent goals could quickly turn into a fatal intersection. Life on the planet was harsh, but also rash near all the large spaceport city docking bays.

The roar of entertainment, conversation bore from the cantina's and nearby businesses. Small shops litter the pathways from the enormous spaceport, while the marketers farmed outside, awaiting the herd. Confusion brew in the melting pot of the various sentients, leaving more misunderstanding than comprehension with all the many languages and cultures. The allure of lavish ornaments and jewels sprinkled some men, while beggars crouched in corners with the hot, sandy grounds to call home.

Everyone wrote in different pages, but the series remained the same. The tragic poem was scribed by many hands, yet remained so dramatic. Simple lines found origin in the savvy or hateful natives. Jawas riddle the streets with forgotten gear, and shining eyes staring from their customary hoods. The little figures meddled with old droid parts, and ship wrecks in search for prosperity amidst the harden streets. The other natives rarely were found in the muddled culture of the uncaring city, but the occurrence was always dreaded. On the outskirts tales spelled of death and kidnappings that many avoided.

All the contrast left little room for stability. Hopelessness fit the city quite well, with so few objecting to the style in their mischievous daily affairs. Morality was a forgotten word, a long with loyalty and having a heart - Tatooine wasn't the world of love. Yet, the red-painted logos of a rebellious band sought change in the unstable world. The Hutts deadly grip had loosened with the lost of Jabba, and strength returned to some as the slave tread dwindled with the feared Jabba Palace disowned.

The stench had not be washed away completely with the Hutt's bloodshed, but it was smelling a lot better than before.

"The ceiling is reserved for you."

The Whipid's groggy language created an awkward accent, but the Caamasi understood. The Lucky Despot was an unsuspecting place for a meeting, and would work perfection for the Rebellion's expansion. Private, public shuttle flights from Anchordhead, Mos Eisley and even Bestine had been heavily managed for the secret meeting. Over the previous years the development of the Tatooine base had turn tumultuous in raging battles and small scrimmages between the Imperial presence.

Yet, Jabba and the Emperor had fallen with an affect all too purposeful to avoid the moment. The power over the instrumental planet could had already shifted to the public displays of Rebel affiliation. Although the showcases were quite subtle, the Galactic Empire had a loose hold on Tatooine since the Battle of Yavin and First Battle of Tatooine, opening more stabilization to democratic ends. Political figures align themselves to the cause in small villages, Mos Entha and Mos Espa.

The closing circle affect had been planned for months as of now, and the progress was encouraging. Slowly the capitol would be conquer with the pressure of the surrounding cities, leaving the city another face of the Alliance. The Outer Rim had always been grounds hard for the Empire to hold onto, but the lost of the Emperor had made it definite for Rebel growth.

Alif Selelsh was one of the few head operatives to plant the seeds for that growth, and Tatooine was the subject on this occasion. He was pleased to be stationed on the dust-ball, despite all the odds, and he could only smile was he was lifted to the ceiling for the meeting.

Alif felt confident. He should, all the meetings before hand had fallen in his favor. The control was pointed toward him, and eventually the council would look upon him as a prized figure to appoint as the official driving force for the assignment.

No one held the ideals and sense to uphold the morale as he. Experience rested on his side, and there was nothing else that made him more content than doing his job right.

An excited breath was smoothly exhaled as his nerves calmed. The door opened, finding the familiar walkway onto the roof. The council had already collected from the sounds heard....

Mos Eisley Cantina

Silence.

The shallow love of silence brought chills. The touch was heartless, absent of the precious warmth. Splendor couldn't be found in silence; it was a symbol of everything lifeless. No perception could be developed from the soundless state. A void is constructed with the wordless ingredients, cooked with true terror. The power of abscence rest in having, therefore the strength of any void sustains against the marvelous lost hold. True silence bids no hush, no muse, no murmur - it is absolute.

No one can handle silence...

In the mouth of the dead tongue sits the breeding grounds for such pain. The anguish expressed only by the true silence can be found in the eyes I see every morning. Lost took captive of the world I knew, as change spun me into the present. This new life was attuned to demise, unrivaled by the Stormtrooper's gait. Years with a heavy-assault blaster in a clone's hand left no room for sorrow amongst the fleet. Clones didn't feel like the real sentient; experience manifested that as a truth to me.

Days dripped into time's pot, flowing into months that had passed since the fateful first...drip. Every time the memorized the event, I could feel the flow of the months shove at my eyes. Restraint contain the cry, but there was always a moment that the internal blockade was breached for a single tear to trickle. The shame didn't build the woeful roadblock, it was pride. I never whipped the droplet away.

Interrogation damaged my heart, and my work was a portrait of the torment.

I no longer walk my days garnish in Imperial officer garbs, with medals or adorn in Stormtrooper armor. The life as a trooper had been killed in the torment, as I was refurbish to be the me of Imperial Intelligence demand. Freedom jointed with justice in this new era I had come to call my own. Seeds of deceit, defection and disregarded were to be destroyed from operative "Starworth" - me.

Tatooine called for my presence, and the cantina beacon my attention. The developments innovated absurd tactics, applicable to other worlds. The very fabric of the culture had been ripped apart by unexpected ends to formidable tyrants, allowing new hands to sow together a new ornament for revolting barves.

No one was pleased on the black team.

"So...?"

Clamor distorted my words, but I could hear my voice. Time had even given me an exotic, declarative, intimate and charmed voice. I felt unlike myself even when I spoke, the accent a speedy islander drawl in compassion with the Tatooine pronunciations. It was funny how analytical I had become, but it was required. All the acquired ticks and traits assembled a decent agent, which I had to be to survive.

Also, I needed associates. Personally, I've always preferred woman. Two hired hands, perfect for any combination of troubles I faced. Jiad and Angilass came from different backgrounds, but always got a long. It was rare that they saw eye-to-eye on me, it didn't matter though, they were getting paid. Most of the operations details were kept from their pretty little minds too, keeping the secrecy well within my grasp.

"Follow us..."

----------------

Silence...

Again, it was deadly...but there was a muse. Life rumbled and hissed as demise swept across the surface. The divinity of existence was conquered in the disgust. Disdain swallowed every breath the grouping could muster and fester in the air.

Affliction lifted their bodies, slump them over in the corners and crumpled by chairs. Triumph tumbled at the hands of only three. Four blasters had been pulled, and one single, ancient, lit blade rested in my hand as I could smell the remorse steaming from my essence. Before I could proceed, hatred killed the whimpers of my soul. I had reaped, and painted another sorrowed picture with the flesh of revolting fools.

The rebellion had stumbled once more. Nothing within their horrid ranks would remain stable with my hands at the foot of the ladder. Yet, an echo eased into my ears to halt my focus. Resistance had grown futile, but a few decided it'd be best to defend themselves. Blaster fire sparked behind me as I glanced off to the entrance.

Another was coming...

The vented floors were reminiscent of factory or mechanical engineering. Alif had almost forgotten with all the excitement exactly where he was. The Last Despot was an old ship, reformed to be a hotel, then small business place. Much had made the place fitting for a meeting, but somehow...someway, something was wrong. Before he could walk any further, the tremor of pain echo with a war-cry. The scream was only followed with a hard thud that sent a shockwave through the Caamasi.

Impulse sent the operative to the side, his back pressed nearby the door as he flattened himself to the wall. The movements were carried out with practiced precision, and carefulness. Beyond the wall ached the sounds of unexpected turmoil.

The cloak on his body sway with the coming of the breeze. A lull flap whip at his ears, the uneasiness building as he listened attentively. The declarative screams, yelps and agonizing strains crafted a scene that his eyes dare not see. Seconds before all his senses were attuned, prepared to meet his friends, his comrades, his fellow rebels - only to capture the signs for distraught.

Battle raged in his mind as his motions became conflicted. Emotion overtook his body as he was flushed in a combination of feelings, yet all too unknowing of the danger. The operative position had trained his body to be a fortress of combat, expecting and knowing of all the accolades of engagement. The advantage wasn't in his hand as it had been with the operation. The magnitude of the situation undid all his shifting of power, leaving him helpless.

He was a mouse, and so he had to attack as one.

In an explosion of anger, combined with calculated maneuvering, he dashed into the grounds. Gruesome remains grope the air in a unbearable smell, but he ignored his senses. Adrenaline fuel his every motion, turning his hand speed into a blur. One swift swipe to his hip armed him with a scout blaster for fire, and thermal detonator to explode.

Before the three could act, the detonator was flying toward them. The landing wouldn't be pretty - nor would it be allowed, as a belated shot was aimed for a sudden explosion. Alif would take the time needed for a quick retreat, bagging the victory as he sped down the steps in flee.

"Die!" He screamed, turning about as he stepped out of the roof area, back to the hall. The Caamasi would survive to report this, he had to.

The motions were coordinated, but not smooth.

The flare was in his words, not his moves.

The scream echoed, yet was completely hollow.

No one would die, but him.

Light sparked with a fiery that lava could barley compare to. Anguish twisted into madness as I fueled the engines within, my eyes parting from the world into the fabrics of an unseen tool. The Force had become a servant over time, useful at many ends and powerless without the bounds of my hold. The archaic utensil of the Jedi settled in my hand as a torch in the night, while the strength of the forgotten sect nestled in my other palm. I stood motionless, only for a second, a true symbol of the truth.

The power of the truth last forever, lies simply die.

False threats are nothing but angered lies - and surely the owner of such lies would perish along with all the other destructed objects against the truth. Darkness dwindled about the torching flame, sharpened as a lit blade while I dashed forward. In the lull of the night I could hear my partners feet follow my rhythm as I motion, their maneuvers hitting the same sequence. Missions had forced the duo to become accustom to my awkward, yet agile motions. All my battle tactics were intertwine in concepts of experience and the dynamics of the Jedi style. I stood as an unique blend of totally different combatants, a forgotten remnant of incomparable cultures.

The savage and passive notions lifted my blade in offense, while the detonator was thrown aside by an invisible hand. The despicable hatred that spilled from the Caamasi's mouth would soon find it's way back into his stomach. A rush sent my team and I onward, following the fury critter as he dashed away, back to the hall.

Escape was futile...

In all the motions, not a word had been spat. Commands were meaningless when everyone was already on the same page.

The stairs captured the Caamasi's steps in hollow bangs. Fear could be heard in the rapid moves. Anxiety pounced the very air as the Rebel operatives clothes shuffled with the change of motions. Even the slightest shift of the body was forged with chaos.

Images flashed through his mind. The man's face, the hate, the pain, the anguish, was so evident as he it reign over his mind. Terror pressed him onward as he stumbled down the steps in a jumbling heap to safety. One misstep pushed him off the last step, banging against the wall, while adrenaline prepared his strong legs to push forward.

There was so little room for mistake, and he knew it. Perfection was the only desired goal in his escape, and survival encompass his soul as the absolutes came into evaluation once more. There was no way he would live with so many decimated before him - he had to keep going. Alif could hear the muddled sounds of chase behind him, forcing his steps to push beyond his limits.

The streets were soon printed with his feet, the dust kicking up after every jagged and rushed step. Sand left the trail necessary, but he was made certain to ignore the possibility of being caught as he focused on life. The fearful excitement was all that fueled him, and he was running high as he sped through the night's alleyways of the roughest city on the dust ball.

Tatooine was the last place anyone wanted to be lost or stranded on. People weren't kind, especially if they found out the recent affairs with the Rebel operation.

"Move!" He screamed, splitting like a hair between a group as he moved through a group by a market place. Even in the darkness of night people had to eat, but why did they have to be in his way?

Frell!

Everybody says when people die that their children are the ones the person lives through. It's interesting, because it's so true. A lot of people don't grasp how truthful it really is. None of it is placed on the visual; not simply how the child and parent look alike or anything of that sort. An imprint of Love goes far deeper than the eyes can see - it's there even in the sight of the blind.

It's a feeling...yaknow?

Well, I'm just a bit off topic - but thoughts like that always go through my mind in the face of death. Even when I attempt to conquer the fearful sting that warps my heart as I raise my blade for a painful, yet sudden end to a foe I can capture the horror for a moment. Every time, every single time, I can feel it...parts of my soul are leaving me and I simply have to deal. After the first shot on the battlefield back in the earlier days, dressed in Stormtrooper wear, it was far easier. All the abo, and enemies were adorn in helmets or too far to gaze on and feel the connection.

The blade made the person far to familiar - mêlée wasn't my preference at all, at least not my heart's content. I never smiled when the blade devour the blade as the other's did; I just closed my eyes as I dived into the arms of death only to unhappily return to life.

It felt...weird.

It felt like it was going to happened again.

The ground beat with a rhythm of terror as I paced myself to shorten the separation. The fury critter was moving through the crowds and I could barley decipher his movements as the jumble of pedestrians hid his escape. One glance to my fellow hunters sent them into a spread, spinning about the crowd in search and scrutiny. The shuffle of life left me in the folds, as my presence disappeared amidst the profusion. I was completely still as the bundle of folk built about.

Soon, he'd come to me. He'd find himself in the mouths of this sarlaac...

Children's prates...

Alien languages...

The crowd was a hive of sounds. Far too many were foreign to Alif's ears, and sounded like a buzz. Distraught and fearful, the Caamasi danced amongst the bustling people, eyes searching for the slightest fault in his step. One misstep could lead to death, even on a normal day, but it was far worst with the breath from stormtrooper vents on someone's back. A fragile frown slit his lips under the profound snout as he leaned against a wall.

A bundle of faces shroud his being in mystique behind their council. The four women had got into a discussion about the recent litter act in the city, and how it was related to some smuggling operation off of Lok. It was interesting conversation, and normally Alif would observe only to interject - but his mind was elsewhere.

The foreboding danger of the night had spilled into the air, and his sensitive nose could smell the pain. Anguish still seeped from the ceiling atop the Rebellion council, and he wonder exactly what would happened if he would have stayed. One shake of his head washed the assumption away, leaving his eyes to recognize the now. There was no room for possibilities, and chances - he had to survive and there was no other choice.

No other choice, at all.

Hunched against the wall, his hand thumbed his weapons along his belt, hidden by his poncho. The desert sand kicked at his feet as he tapped away. Annoyed by the vile presence, he could barley wrap his mind around all the sounds and sights he was capturing. There was no room to leave, and no safety outside of the night life. He would die if he left, and was vunerable amidst the people.

There was no chance cube to throw on this one...he was in deep poodoo.

Deep Poodoo, indeed...

---------------

The night had died, and retribution of the sun gazed from the distance. A pleasant hum eased over. Bustle could be heard in the east and west, while the skies were painted with shimmering metal, scrap colored grays, and the splendor of the clouds. No one took the time to look up, anyway, so they wouldn't know. One did, though. One person decided it was time to exchange the mundane for the artistics. Aesthetics weren't prized in cultures that cultivated moisture from the sandy dunes, or shot before they ask questions. Tatooine wasn't the artsy Coruscant that this one knew.

Amidst the roar of daylight, I, the one, could hear better things. A quiet beat of my heart reminded me I was alive. For a minute, just for a solitary minute, I had forgotten I actually existed. Such times were necessary for a person. Moments of stress, pain and anguish required the polarize opposite for a return to balance. Every action does have a reaction, and the best retort is the opposite. My opposite was simply being...just breathing and not even noticing it, while the world spun about with all the activity. Basically, it was my break from the day, and it was worthwhile.

Calls disturbed the moment of silence. In a flash of my glance, and opening of my ears I discern the difference of the humming engine and loud girls. The two had turned into pest everytime I wasn't in a hurry. Truth be told, I didn't feel like we were heading anywhere in paticular. The present was the best...present I ever had. All the ills and quills of existence just whithered away with a sit-down, or meditation of sorts. Somehow I had attracted the two magets, and all they did was bug me to death. I didn't mind too much, it was better than being alone...I guess.

"I'm coming."

I could feel my voice from the rear of my throat. A rasp had developed. Time had seemed so endless between the last I spoke, and the grunge and gunk in my unused vocal cords became hardy the soil below my feat. A snort shifted my body as I muster some energy from my post. One, slight, push threw my body off the side of the ship.

The meditation resort had been the docking bay, and on this day we had some new cargo. A yank of my hand lifted the pile of fur, and sticky crimson. The mangled object foolishly tried to feature some of it's former traits, such as a nose, teeth and eyes, but the contortion was too apparant to find the obvious soul underneath. Damage had long been done, and the last remaining figure known to the assassinated crew was no more.

Mission Accomplished...