OOC:

Objective summarized at the bottom. This is an interim story until we get the joint training mission going. Cameos are welcome, just talk to me first.

Notes: Can an NHC members please pin this mission and un-pin Tuk'ata's other mission? Thank you.

Drac looked around the simulator complex with an almost nostalgic feeling. He had fond, if painful, memories of the place, having trained there with Nazgul once upon a time. The central room housed the command and control center as well as benches for resting and dispensers for hydration. A hatch in one wall led to showers. The remainder of the wall space was mostly taken up by hatches leading to the many simulator rooms. One pilot would enter each room and, though he didn’t understand the technology, Drac knew that within each room that pilot would face a simulation of one of the others, or even himself, in a completely realistic and random environment. The simulators were so good, in fact, that you even felt the pain of your injuries, though you didn’t truly sustain any. The most remarkable feature they boasted, however, blew even that away. Each time you fought, the system analyzed and memorized each move and added that experience to the simulated doubles it created- thus, every round of combat your double got smarter and more skilled, no matter who it faced.

Making his way over to the command and control area, Drac began to discuss the day’s simulations with the tech who would run them. They downloaded the files for each pilot and the various environments, while the tech talked enthusiastically about the system’s abilities, “I see that several of you have done this before. The system will still remember what it learned about you, even after all this time. Your doubles will, because of that, start off as more dangerous opponents than the others’ doubles will be. Any pilots facing them should take care.”

Their conversation continued for a few minutes as pilots began to trickle in. Once most of the squadron had assembled, Drac stood and turned away from the console and approached his pilots. He stopped where they could all see him, but in an informal manner, nodding at Stewart Power as the other Mon Calamari entered the room and took a seat. A moment later, Drac began, “Good. Everyone’s here. Today we’ll be doing some melee combat training.” A chorus of groans and complaints emanated from the pilots in reply, mostly confirming their general opinion that hand to hand fighting was for the Army. “Quiet, please. I know it’s not the norm, but there are a variety of situations in which such training can come in handy. In my personal experience –experience several of you share- I’ve been in fights on the ground, in fights on space stations and ships, had to fight after being shot down, and participated in more bar fights than I care to mention. Melee combat skills are useful- if only for clearing out the local tavern. I’d like to note that this is a variation on similar training some of our senior pilots have done, in which any weapon was allowed. We may do a session of that at a later date, but today is melee only.”

At that moment the hatch swung open again, admitting a blonde haired human male wearing a smart uniform and a rather lopsided smile. Drac looked at him with his left eye, an expression of surprise, “Hunter. It’s good to see you, but why are you here? I had assumed your new duties would have dragged you off somewhere by now.”

The Chief Warrant Officer shrugged, his grin changing not at all, “Not yet. I heard about the training and wondered if I might sit in.”

Drac considered for a moment before nodding, “Sure. We’d be happy to have you.”

Resuming his briefing, the Mon Calamari pointed toward the line of hatches, “Each of us will go into one of the rooms spaced around this central chamber. Inside you will face a simulated opponent in a simulated environment. Both your opponent and your environment will be random in all but the first round of combat, but your opponents will all be duplicates of members of the squadron. The first round, the only one with a set opponent, will pit you against your own duplicate. Your objective in every round will be to defeat your given opponent using any means possible- but you will have no access to blasters, grenades, or any other sort of ranged weapon beyond any object you might find to throw. Be aware that you can be defeated, though, and you will feel simulated injuries.

“There is one more thing you all need to know: These simulated opponents will learn more with every round of combat. The system will analyze your performance and will add your capabilities to your duplicate’s. After a while, they will know pretty much everything you do- and that’s when things really get interesting. Any questions?”

There were several. Once they’d sorted through them, though, Drac directed everyone to check their weapons and enter the simulators. The pilots could carry any personal weapons they liked, with the exception of ranged weapons. A quick check of his own person assured the Warrant Officer that his weapons were all accounted for: two durasteel combat knives rested in their sheathes on his left wrist and ankle, while a Sat’skar sword hung from his belt. The sword was the weapon he used least often, though he thoroughly enjoyed using the sharp blade. Satisfied he was ready, he watched the last of Tuk’ata’s pilots enter their simulators and, with a nod to Hunter and the techs, entered his own.

Moments later the empty chamber disappeared, replaced with a small courtyard. The flowing architecture seemed to indicate the fight was taking place in one of Dac’s many floating cities. His opponent, a perfect copy of himself right down to the cross shaped scar and birthmark, stood silently opposite him, equipped with matching weaponry from all appearances. Drac knelt, tightening the laces of his combat boots, and stood, having palmed one of his combat knives during the intentional distraction. Turning his head left, so that his right eye regarded his opponent in a blatant challenge, he smiled, “Let’s dance.”

OOC:

Word Count: 1008

Your orders are all there in the post, but here’s a summary so no one gets confused:

-Your first opponent is yourself
--All subsequent opponents are random- in other words, they’re your choice as a writer.
-All combat is melee aside from any object you can throw (no grenades).
-Just like in space combat, make it a challenge. Your opponents will become more skilled as you go, so choose a pilot or two to lose against.
--Also, be as descriptive as you can.
--Try to make each post a full story if you can- in other words, one complete fight per post.
--Hunter, Slasher, and I have done this before (if I missed anyone, let me know). Our duplicates should be the most dangerous.

IF you have the time to write more, I will NOT penalize anyone for double posting on this story. There's little to no interaction between PCs, so there's no reason for that restriction this time.

Here’s the link to the first story this was done in, Nazgul - Interim

OOC:

Just as clarification, this will take place 10 days before my post on Onderonian Liberation.  Just so you guys (especially Stewart) don't think I'm making a rookie mistake, cause I'm not.

Cayden stepped in to the simulator and readied himself, drawing his vibroblade.  He expected the deck plating of a ship, but instead felt the unmistakable softness of grass.  He looked around, and noticed that he was in a small clearing in the forests of Onderon.  Well now... this should be interesting... he thought as his opponent walked out of the trees.  He saw himself, except there was one distinguishable difference: his duplicate was wearing an Onderonian Imperialist uniform instead of a Royalist uniform.  Even got my history right... give me something to hate and fear... my fighting for the enemy.

Cayden stood there, watching his opponent, studying him.  His opponent was obviously doing the same.

"Hey, can you speak?" Cayden asked.

The duplicate didn't say a word, instead he raised his blade to his face, then moved into a combat ready stance.

I guess he's not in the talking mood he thought as he dropped into his stance, shifting his weight onto his right leg as he leaned back, blade pointed towards his enemy by his face.  The duplicate charged and swung down violently, and Cayden quickly jumped to the right, rolling on the ground.  He came up just in time to deflect another swing.  Their blades clashed, the ringing of metal resounding through the forest.  Okay, now I'm going to have fun he thought as he punched his opponent in the gut with his left hand, propelling the duplicate back a few feet.  Cayden stook up and brushed the grass from his uniform and fell back into his combat ready stance.

This time, though, he charged, swinging his blade up from the ground, catching his duplicate off-guard.  He barely deflected the blow before Cayden began raining blows repeatedly down on the duplicates blade, forcing him to give up plenty of ground.  The duplicate broke away suddenly and began running around the ring.  Cayden began chasing after him.  He reached down, picked up a rock, and chucked it at his opponent.  It hit him square in the back, knocking him to the ground.

Cayden stood over his fallen opponent, a feeling of victory rushing through him.  Just as he was about to deliver the final blow, the duplicate instead flipped over and knocked the blade clean from Cayden's hands, forcing him to back away before the duplicate could begin attacking.  Cayden began searching for another rock, but realized the only one was by the other's feet.  his opponent began walking towards him, his blade held high.  Just as he was about to strike, Cayden quickly ripped a branch from a nearby tree and clubbed the duplicate in the stomach, knocking the wind out of him.  Cayden ran up and grabbed the blade out of his hands and knocked him to the ground.  Helpless, the duplicate began waving his arms, as if he was surrendering.  Instead of finishing him off, Cayden handed him his vibroblade.  He walked over and grabbed his own and fell back into his combat ready stance.  The duplicate stood up, a look of bewilderment on his face.

"If I defeat you, I want to do it honorably.  I will not kill a helpless opponent," he said, sweat falling down his smiling face.

His opponent nodded, then fell into a similar stance.

Cayden then did something he knew he had little chance of succeeding with: he threw his vibroblade at his opponent.  The duplicate was caught offguard, and dropped to the ground.  Cayden ran at his opponent and body slammed him, knocking the wind out of both of them.  Cayden slowly got back up and grabbed his vibroblade.  He took two steps back as his opponent stood up and brushed the grass and dirt off of himself.  Cayden then began raining blows down on him hard, his opponent flaaing backwards with every blow.  His opponent then dropped his vibroblade, and one of Cayden's blows fell deep into his shoulder, lodging itself in his scapula.  His opponent cried out in pain, then kicked Cayden away.  He grabbed Cayden's vibroblade and tossed it into the trees, then tacked Cayden to the ground.

Cayden attempted to draw a knife out of his boot, but instead was punched hard in the stomach by the duplicate.  The duplicate began raining punches down on Cayden's chest and face, forcing him to protect his face with his arms.  He rained blows capable of making holes in walls, then unexpectedly stopped.  Cayden took this moment to throw his opponent off himself and grab his knife.  He then tackled his opponent down and stabbed him through in the stomach, spilling blood and bile everywhere.  The duplicate began to flicker from solid composure to semi-transparent.  He attempted to throw Cayden off, but his arms instead fell to the ground.  Cayden then shoved his knife deep into the duplicate's chest, ending the fight then and there.

He stood up and watched as the body of his duplicate disappeared and the room returned to its normal state.  Cayden walked out of the simulator and saw that Stewart was already in the lounge area.  He decided to walk over, sit on the couch, and rest... before Drac decided to throw a rancor, or worse, at them.

OOC:

WC: 865
Not as classy as Stewart's, yet gets the job done.  I just hope the next one goes great.

Hunter walked towards the sim room with his hands shoved in his pockets, slightly hunched over. He really couldn't quite comprehend what he was feeling at the moment, now that he was no longer in the Star Fighter Corps. It was astonishing mix of hurt, slight anger, sadness, and . . . relief, among others. The hurt was because he had been in the SFC for so long and now knew that he wouldn't be seeing all those friends he had made on a daily basis. Sighing, he looked up and saw a sign designating the sim room that Tuk'ata was in. The slight anger was because of the previous reason. Most everything that he had come to know, would have to be left behind. Seeing the sign, he straightened up and made a beeline for it. The sadness was easy, not too many days went by where he wasn't sad in one way or another. He plastered a grin on his face, hoping it didn't look too cheesy or fake. The relief was not so easy.

Maybe it was because of the same exact reason that he felt those other feelings; he was leaving. It would be a change of routine, not temporary, but permanent. This would open up new opportunities for Hunter that he hadn't had before. With that thought, everything washed away and he felt satisfaction. Content, the grin on his face grew and actually reached his eyes, giving him the look that he usually had when happy. It felt good to be like this. He was free.

Punching a button beside the door, he stepped in as it whooshed open. It was so dark that he could barely see, but then he realized that it was just the fact that his eyes hadn't become accustomed to the dim lights yet, as opposed to the bright light outside. He blinked a moment, then kept his grin up as he recognized all of the beings seated before him.

Drac, being the Mon Cal he was, swiveled an eye in Hunter's direction, “Hunter. It’s good to see you, but why are you here? I had assumed your new duties would have dragged you off somewhere by now.”

Shrugging, Hunter responded, “Not yet. I heard about the training and wondered if I might sit in.”

Drac paused for a few seconds and then nodded, “Sure. We’d be happy to have you.”

Choosing a seat behind everybody else, he studied them as Drac continued with the briefing, though he still kept an ear on what Drac was saying. All of them he knew to differing degrees. He was actually quite surprised to see a face he hadn't seen in a long time. Fulfiller sat a few rows ahead of him, staring fixedly at Drac. How long had it been since they were in Kaph together? Too long.

Hunter looked back to Drac as he finished speaking and starting motioning everyone towards their own sims. Thinking back to what Drac had said, Hunter made sure he knew what was to come. So this is another sim like the one Drac, Slasher, and I participated in back in Nazgul. That particular one was fun, and I imagine this one will be too. And we have to have our weapons with us when we go into the sim? I don't remember that. Hmm. At the moment, the only weapons Hunter had on him was a FSK-7 combat knife and two sets of Flyhigh throwing knives, eight in all. Sighing, he got up and walked over to his chosen sim, pausing to return a nod to Drac, who then entered his own sim. Again, he checked his knives and made sure that they were in easy reach, his combat knife in its sheath on his right shin and the throwing knives strapped to his belt. Pulling his combat knife out, his flipped it in the air, twisting his wrist as he did so to make it spin in the air. As it fell, he reached out and deftly picked it out of the air. Satisfied, he stepped into the dark sim.

OOC:

WC: 690. Yeah, sorry Drac. I promised it was going to be a long post, but frankly, I got all the way to this part and then I got distracted and I only got back to it at like 11:30 PM. I have church in the morning so I'm probably going to have to go to bed in a little bit, hence why I went on and posted this. I'll try and post the rest of it (as a seperate post, not as an addition to this one) tomorrow.

OOC:

WC: 1809. Be warned, its a doozy

Everything was black. Nothing could be heard, felt, or seen. Then, abruptly, it all hit him at once. The wind whipped at him, sending snowflakes whirling at his hair and down the back of his jacket. Wait. When did I get a jacket? Looking down at himself, he did indeed have on a jacket, one that looked to be made out of some kind of heat-retaining material. It did his job well, excluding parts of his face, he didn't feel cold anywhere. Then he realized he had on goggles and a face mask. Woah. Where did these come from? Checking himself out, he noticed that the jacket and pants he wore were both a snug fit, tight enough to keep his body heat from leaking out, but loose enough where it wouldn't restrict his motion. Thats good. I'm going to need it for the fight ahead. He also wore small gloves that were apparently fitted to his hand because they weren't loose anywhere and looked almost like his exact hand. Also good. I don't need anything that will inhibit my dexterity. I need it for my knives.

Satisfied that he would be able to fight properly, Hunter studied his surroundings. He was standing in what looked to be a small depression in the ground, which was covered with snow and ice. Hmm. Where could I be . . . oh. Rhen Var. Duh. That was a stupid question. Mentally hitting himself, Hunter climbed out of the depression and looked over the rim. All around him was a white plain. You have got to be kidding me. How the frak am I going to find the clone? Wait. Might as well refer to him as Not-Hunter, because its a cool name to call someone and it actually makes it a lot less impersonal. Sighing, he climbed up out of the depression and stood up, looking around. Pissed off at whatever tech decided to put him in here, he began to walk.

It had been no more than a few minutes. Hunter was grumbling to himself when he stumbled and fell into another depression similar to the one he had climbed out of minutes earlier. Rolling down the slope, he came to stop in a heap at the bottom. Standing up, he brushed himself off and cursed himself for not watching where he was stepping. He could have broken a leg or an arm or some other body part. The cursing stopped when he turned around and saw what was occupying the bottom of the depression with him.

"No. Frakking. Way. How in - What the - Huh?!?!" Hunter could barely form coherent sentences, much less comprehend what was in front of him.

Stepping forward - or more like stumbling - Hunter just gaped at the extremely familiar sight. It was a vehicle, a dune buggy to be exact, modified for use in the snow and ice. It the very buggy that Hunter himself had built on Rhen Var out of scrap and spare parts that he managed to find, right down to the thruster on the back that had been taken from a crashed starfighter. He gazed in disbelief at it as he walked forward and scrutinized it. After a bit, he stood up and climbed inside. The controls were the same too. Amazed, he started it up and hit the accelerator. The buggy immediately zoomed forward and up the slope and over the top.

"Wow. Just wow." Hunter said to himself.

The buggy was even more powerful than he had remembered. Shaking his head in silent amusement, he started off, searching for the Not-Hunter.




Surprisingly, it didn't take long to find him. Another surprise was in store also. Hunter could barely hear it over the roar of his own engine, but there was another roar as well. It slowly drew closer until it was almost on the unsuspecting Hunter. Somehow, Hunter sensed something was wrong and hit the brakes. Immediately, a buggy very similar to his own -no, an exact duplicate of mine- raced by. If Hunter hadn't of slowed down, the other buggy would have slammed into him, most likely killing him instantly. Hunter took note of that fact and turned the wheel, maneuvering his own buggy behind the Not-Hunter's. He had closed the distance to somewhere around seven meters when he saw the Not-Hunter shoot a quick glance behind him. Abruptly, the Not-Hunter's buggy skidded to a halt and Hunter was forced to swerve to avoid him. Even with his quick reaction time born out of years of piloting, he wasn't quite fast enough to fully avoid a collision. And quick flick of the wrist and he was shooting to the right. Unfortunately, if there had be even just a meter more between the two buggies, there might have been enough time to put a little space between them, but alas, there wasn't. With a sickening crunch, the back end of Hunter's buggy hit the Not-Hunter's, which sent Hunter into an uncontrollable set of flips and simply spun the Not-Hunter's buggy onto its side.

Twelve seconds later, and it was all over. Both vehicles had settled down and were still. The Not-Hunter's buggy was lying on its side with the Not-Hunter still in it, while Hunter's was surprisingly upright. However, Hunter had been thrown from it during one of the initial flips. He was lying a few meters away from the wreckage of the destroyed buggy, spread-eagled. Slowly, he began to rise, clutching his stomach as he did so. Getting on his feet, he winced as a incredibly sharp pain shot through his side. Must have broken a rib or something. Possibly even internal injuries. Though, I'm lucky I came away with just this. He spit on the ground and recoiled when he saw blood mixed in with it. Oh frak. Either I busted something in my mouth or I do have internal injuries. Grr. Probing the inside of his mouth with his tounge, he found no ginger spots nor did he find any taste of blood. Ok then. Definitely some kind of internal injury, though it will be impossible to tell how bad. Either way, I need to end this now.

Hunter looked over to the Not-Hunter's buggy and saw movement. Knowing that there was no way he would be able to reach the buggy in time to intercept the Not-Hunter before he got to his feet, Hunter drew two of his throwing knives and weighed them in his palms, quickly calculating the distance between the two, so that he would know precisely how much power to put behind his throw. Unfortunately for him, he lacked the necessary dexterity in his left hand to be able to throw a knife with any kind of accuracy, meaning that after throwing one knife, he'd have to take a few seconds to switch the other knife over to his right hand. A few seconds could mean either life or death.

He watched as the Not-Hunter stood up and cocked his arm behind his head, ready to loose the knife. The Not-Hunter was fully standing now and was holding his head. Maybe he was injured too. Serves him right. Though, now that I think about it, that was something I would have done. Wait a minute . . . Hunter then realized what the Not-Hunter was about to do, because it was something he himself would have done. For starters, Hunter knew that his buggy came with a blaster pistol, just in case, located in a pouch on the side of the seat. What the Not-Hunter didn't know, was that Hunter had his throwing knives. Quickly, he aimed and threw the first knife at the Not-Hunter, just as the Not-Hunter turned around and fired the blaster pistol. Knowing that he wouldn't be fast enough to avoid the blaster shot, he just sidestepped and caught the blaster shot that was meant for his chest, on his shoulder, spinning him around and onto the snowy ground. Clenching his teeth in pain and trying not to cry out, he gripped his shoulder. Lucky enough for him, he had subconsciously stepped to the right, bring his left shoulder into the line of fire.

Immediately after the blaster shot hit him, he heard a cry of pain and it took him a few seconds to work out that it hadn't come from him. Crawling over to the side of his wrecked buggy, he peeked out around it and saw the Not-Hunter kneeling in the snow, clutching the right side of his neck while blood gushed down his neck and stained the ground. Instantly, Hunter knew what had happened. It had been a stroke of luck, but the knife had hit the Not-Hunter apparently right below his jaw on the right side of his neck, nicking his jugular vein. Then its over.

Standing up, he walked over to the kneeling figure.

"You've won. Good job." the Not-Hunter said, gasping slightly as he did, "I know I'm close to death. Just do me a favor and let me die fighting."

Pausing for a moment, Hunter spoke, "Its the least I can do. You are, after all, me."

Knowing that Hunter could trust him, Hunter held out a hand for the Not-Hunter, who let go of his neck and pulled with one bloody hand. Leaning down, Hunter picked up the fallen blaster and offered it to the Not-Hunter, who took it. Stepping back, Hunter drew his combat knife and settled into a stance. Both waited until the unspoken count of three before lifted their respective weapons. The Not-Hunter had his blaster at nearly chest-level, when Hunter's attack ended. Flicking his wrist, Hunter brought the knife up and let go of it as he did so, letting its own momentum carry itself up . . . straight into the skull of the Not-Hunter. It left an inch-deep incision, nearly invisible to the naked eye. The Not-Hunter offered one last lopsided grin, before sinking down to his knees and falling backwards. Leaning down, Hunter used his index and middle finger to close the Not-Hunter's eyelids.

"Rest in peace."

A moment later, the snowy world around him dissolved into a dim room. Backing out, he exited and stood still for a moment. Hunter spit into his hand and noticed no blood. Nodding to himself, he wiped the saliva on his pant's leg and walked over to where Tuk'ata was seated before the monitors, watching the few fights that were still ongoing. Hunter sighed and leaned against the wall, sliding down onto the ground after a few moments. Closing his eyes, he forced down a sudden wave of nausea.

Ain't nothing gonna give you nightmares like murdering yourself.

===== CPO "Thel" Stewart-Power =====

Stewart-Power sniffed the simulated air, it was dry. Accompanyinbg the dry smell was the smell of duracrete. A visual confirmation agreed. He was standing on the edge of what appeared to be an indoor martial artist dojo. A red painted ring ran the circumference of the room. Standing at the other end of the room was Amacuse. Which confused Th-el until he spotted the blade sticking out of his chest. A vicious kick from behind revealed Senior Crewman LorrantJacobs as the wielder of the blade.

"Well that was unnecessary." Thel muttered to himself, nodding his head imperceptibly.

The crewman then taunted, "And you are next, amphibian..." spitting out the last word.

"Let's just see about that shall we, hmm?" Thel responded calmly.

The blade that the Crewman held was a ceremonial blade, refined steel shaped into a blade just as deadly a a vibro-blade, if less durable. Even still, it was more deadly then Thel's hunting knife, which he slowly, but crisply, drew from it's holster on his right calve. Holding the knife up-side down in his right hand, he took a five steps forward before stopping, and motioning the Crewman forward with his left.

With his five, relatively large, steps, he had closed about a quarter of the distance between him and the smirking crewman. The crewman now took the chance to confidently march towards the center. With about seven feet between them, Thel took a step forward quickly, hoping to catch the still smirking crewman off-guard. Thel followed this up with another feint, and another, until he was doing a quaint dance of feinting leading in a slow circle around the crewman. The smirk on the crewman's face grew into a full-blown smile as the confidence visibly rose on his face.

Without warning, Thel began a strike downward, but instead of following through, he released the knife. The large, ungainly, serrated knife in no way looked good as it awkwardly sliced through the air. At any reasonable distance the knife wouldn't be reasonable threat. But since the knife was launched only two feet away, it was inside of the crewman's defensive perimeter. Very suddenly, Lorrant found himself starting the fight with a knife embedded in his arm and a quickly draining confidence. Thel watched the relatively young Crewman's arm go limp, and his sword clatter to the ground. Fear flashed across the face of the crewman as he looked pleadingly at the impassive face of the Mon Calamari pilot not three feet away.

The young crewman fell to floor after a solid kick from the imposing Mon Cal now above him. Thel watched the crewman scurry backwards across the floor, leaving a trail of blood on the ground. Thel walked forward slowly, pausing only to pick up the sword from its resting place at the beginning of the trail of blood. The cowering form of the crewman shivered and babbled as he made his way awkwardly across the ground. The Mon Cal walked up to the human reduced to a pitiful state, sword raised.

"No, no, no, no, please no... oh, no, no, no..." The pleading of the crewman momentarily rose high enough to be clearly audible, only to all but stop as the towering Flight Leader raised the sword, blade facing down. Thel brought the blade down upon the crewman, eliciting a final gasp of pain, and then an oddly prolonged gurgling from the now still shape laying on the ground. Realizing that he was more unfamiliar with the human anatomy then he thought. Thel, still holding the sword, drew it out of the chest, and redirecting it to the shapes neck. With a quick swing, Thel lopped off the crewman's head.

===== Simulation Room =====

Exiting the sim, Thel walked over to where the viewing screen, almost sub-consciously wiping his knife off on his uniform. He went to where the view-screen for his sim was, and was surprised to find Lorrant Jacobs and a mechanic watching it. Lorrant saw Thel as he approached, and didn't change his gape-mouthed expression. Thel simply delivered the astonished crewman a Mon Calamari wink, and continued walking towards the Simulation room's lounge.

OOC:

694 Words. I usually aim to get over 700 words in a post, and I promise not to aim to have Amacuse killed in actual missions... as much...

**Simulation Room**

Byorninn walked into the empty room. He looked around and noticed a bunch of closed simulator pods. From what he gathered from the message he recieved, he was to face as many foes as he could in single melee combat. Out of the corner of his eye he noticed a table full of melee weapons including his favorites, a vibro-staff and ryyk blades. He walked over to the table and started to arm himself. on the belt of his kilt, he hung two ryyk blades. he then proceeded to pick up the staff weapon. Byorninn walked over to an empty pod and stepped inside. The door shut with a whoosh.

**Simulator Pod**

There he stood in the pitch black. then in a blink of an eye, the pod came to life. It was midday, the wind was blowing lightly and he could smell the familiar smells of Kashyyk's treetops. Though the platforms were empty, Byorninn could tell he was not alone. Byorninn walked around the treetops looking for the one who he had come to challenge, but when they finnaly met, Byorninn was caught off guard. He stood face to face with a man he knew all to well. He was looking at Byorninn. This byorninn had on the same clothes as the original: A green and purple tartan kilt he mad a few years after his mother had passed and a white long baggy sleeved shirt. he had the same weapons as well.

OOC:

just to make things not confusing the simulated Byrorninn will no be called anti-byorninn

Anti-Byorninn dropped to a fighting stance. Byorninn followed suit. Byorninn swung his staff in a butter fly motion around his body, using it as a defensive shield. Anti-Byorninn probed the lengths of its defensive abilities witha multitude of attacks, starting with an over head swing.followed by an arcing swing to Byorninns right side. each of the attacks were harmlessly thrown aside. Byorninn stopped and tried to sweep Anti-Byorninns feet out from under him. Anit- Byorninn jumped and came down with a down ward smash to the top of Byorninns head. Byorninn didn't have a chance to block and it connected solidly causing Byorninn to drop his weapon and stumble back. When he regained his footing he looked up expecting another blow to follow the first but nothing came. Anti-Byorninn was no longer there.

"Come out and face me you dirty son of a kath hound!" Byorninn yelled into the trees. He chuckled to himself. This whole scenario reminded him of something his father had told him: "you must first conquer yourself, before you can begin to fathom your enemies."

Byorninn drew his ryyk blades. The few wookies he could call friends, taught him how to use them with deadly efficiency. "And the hunt begins." he said out loud as he started to walk the pathways again.

It wasnt long before Anti-Byorninn once again showed himself. Byorninn didn't waste anytime. he rushed in, with the full fury of his blades, Stabbing down, slashing across, swinging up, kicking, ducking, weaving, and bobbing. back and forth he came, and every swing he swung, Anti-Byorninn blocked but had no time to counter. he had to back peddle to stay enough away to avoid being wounded. Byorninn Feinted with a left hook, and was pleased to see Anti-Byorninn fall for the ploy. As Anti-Byorninn moved to block the swing to his face, Byorninn dropped to a knee and sliced the inside thigh of his enemy. Anti Byorninn fell to one knee as Byorninn sliced the other leg. He stood up and faced his enemy.

"It was an honor to have faced you." He said, as he stabbed the ryyk blades into Anti Byorninn's neck on both sides of his head. The blades were angled at his heart. He pulled out his blades and wiped them on his kilt before kicking the body over. As it thudded on the wooden planks, The pod went dark. Breathing hard, and trying to forget about his splitting head ache, Byorninn opened the door and walked out.

**Simulation Room**

He saw a Mon Calimari Watching his view screen. The man turned and looked Byorninn over before saying "good fight Crewmember Byorninn. I'm Warrant Officer Drac. When your ready head back in for another round." He told Byorninn.

"Thank you sir." Byorninn replied before stepping away.

OOC:

725 words. not bad for a first post

The sound of footsteps on the hard metallic floor echoed through the hallway as people hustled and bustled on their way to whichever assignment await them. Roth too was one of these, and that made him grimace.

He looked at his comm and cursed, “Frak. Not only am I  late, but I was also forced off at the wrong station.”

Stronger words filled his head as he checked his comm again. He’d missed the briefing by now, and will be singled out for sure for tardiness. Roth turned down another hall and stopped in front of a door which had the title “Simulations Facility“. He paused to make sure his uniform was spic and span. Which it was, except for one thing, his old Nazgul badge was sewed on right above his new Tuk’ata one. Roth’s grim frown turned a little less dour as he palmed open the door. He prepared to snap to attention,  but found it empty, as everyone was in their sim.

A cheerful tech waved to him, and with another heartfelt grumble, walked briskly over to him.

Roth sighed, he hated the techs, didn’t trust em as far as a child could throw em. He gruffly inquired, “Whaddya got for me?”

The techie, who seemed to only smile harder… if that was possible, “Melee sim, one on one, you versus you first round, take as many rounds as you want, though after the first one it could be any squad mate, including your commanding officers.”

After thinking about it for a while Roth asked, “I see a table of weapons over there, can I bring my own?”

Before the techie could say anything, Roth pulled his M32 combat knife out of his pocket and made sure it was securely fastened to his hip for easy access, then quickly stepped over to the nearest station and entered it. It wasn’t the TIE Interceptor sim he’d been in his earlier Navy days.

This one was just a small bare space, but it quickly transformed into a junky side alley in his home planet, Corellia. Roth nodded, he had expected this when he faced his duplicate. There was the usual detritus, over filled trash receptacles and the stench of vomit and alcohol. Roth looked around, and spotted the cantina’s rear entrance. He tried the door but found it locked.

“Oh sith spit, a Corellian Ale woulda been nice, despite the fact that this is a sim.”

“Tch, yer telling me,” Roth’s voice said, yet it wasn’t him.

That same moment a fist came flying toward his face, and it would have landed, except for the fact Roth caught it in the left peripheral of his eye. Roth leaned backwards, and watched the fist sail past his face for a split second before grabbing the arm with both hands and brought it down at the same time his knee came up, smashing through the elbow of the right arm of his doppelganger.

The imitator pulled his arm away from Roth before he could do any more damage. He sneered, “You’ve gotten better since your Nazgul days.” He spit on the ground, “You and that squadron where pathetic you know.”

Roth’s face grew red, and charged the fake, throwing a hasty, but powerfull hay maker at the sim Roth, who just laughed. The fake’s left hand met Roth’s fist, and held it firm. “Tch, weak idiot. You always fall for the same shit. When are you gunna learn?”

A sidekick to the ribs sent Roth onto his back, and as attempted to stand, was met with another kick to the face. This flipped Roth over, face down onto the dusty, dirty pavement. He wiped his face, blood streaming down, he now had a broken nose, again, and several lacerations. He let out a grunt as the clones foot found Roth’s rib cage, and this time, the clone smirked as he heard the sound of a rib cracking. He stood up slowly, this time the clone let him. By the time he gained his feet, he heard a roar, and turned just in time to be tackled by the doppelganger. Pain shot through his chest as he fell to the ground clone on top of him, and fresh blood splattered his uniform. Roth gave a pained smile, as the clone fell to the ground nest to him, Roth’s combat knife sticking through his rib cage and into the sim’s heart.

Roth laughed, then winced as the pain hit him. “Idiot, in your rush to attack me you forgot to watch what I was doing. I managed to pull that little beauty just when you hit me, your own attack’s force pushed it in.”

He spat on the dead clone, then leaned against the cantina wall, watching his world fade to white. He groaned as he bent down to pick up his now clean combat knife, and put it away. He slowly made his way to some nearby seats in front of a bank of monitors, and sat down, the pain from the sim throbbing in his chest.

“Frack, this hurts, lucky I don’t really have a broken rib…” he mumbled to no one in particular.

He looked up at the monitors and watched as he quickly brought the knife to bear as he was tackled, and grimaced a splash of blood was all that could be seen when his and the clone’s body hit pavement.

OOC:

WC 903