Star Wars: Quinlan Vos D for Diatribe
Title: This Is Not A Debate
Author: helgaleena
helgaleenas@yahoo.com
Main characters: Quinlan Vos, Agen Kolar
prompt: diatribe 035: sixth sense
Rating: PG-13
wordcount: 1292
Summary: General Agen Kolar has been sent to capture fellow Jedi Master Quinlan Vos, on suspicion of treason. Vos is not coming quietly.
Warnings: not this time
Notes: vignette set during Star Wars: Clone Wars vol. 4, aka Star Wars: Republic # 59, by Ostrander and Duursema.
"Hold-- Vos is no longer aboard that vehicle."
The imposing Zabrak Master Agen Kolar gripped the shoulder of the driver, by way of signal. He could sense that the damaged speeder they were pursuing through the transport lanes of Nar Shadaa had lost its crucial passenger. The female accomplice, Hentz, was trying to lead them in another direction, pulling them away so that the Jedi fugitive could make good his escape.
Quinlan Vos had been working undercover, first on the space station The Wheel, now here, as an information smuggler. But the Order had been informed, by one of those Vos worked with, that this time, the codes he was selling were not outdated. This time he was dealing in the real thing. And sure enough, when they had burst in upon the transaction, it was true-- though Vos continued to vociferously protest that he was being framed.
The clones in civilian gear, with whom Master General Kolar was riding, had managed to make themselves appear slightly less identical, but still resembled a trio of sibling-smugglers. They were solid and honorable-- he regretted losing so many of their brothers when he was in command of the siege of Brentaal IV. And he was privately convinced that Vos had given them the bad intelligence data that had led to those losses. Now the driver turned his demi-helmeted profile to enquire, "Shall I break off pursuit, General?" as he slowed the speeder to a near-hover.
"No-- pursue and apprehend the female for later questioning. I will go after Vos." With that, the trim but massive commander leaped from the speeder, several stories straight down, his full length tan robes billowing upward, his long sable hair lifting in its separate plaits until it was nearly as vertical as the multiple horns upon his brown temples.
"Don't you love it when they pull a holovid stunt like that?" grinned one clone to another. Then they sped off on their separate errand to intercept the female, whose vehicle was leaving an unmistakable trail of smoke, hopefully before she crashed.
With the Force Kolar slowed his descent, as he neared pavement level. The vital signature of Quinlan Vos, distinct as a fingerprint, was nearby. As he extended his auditory range, also with the Force, he picked up splashing along a sewer conduit, only one level below. It was easy enough to discern the exit of the conduit and be there first, with a few well-chosen Force leaps. He then concealed all traces of himself and his vitality, and made ready, but did not ignite, his light-sabre, until his quarry arrived.
When the black-clad Kiffar burst through the broken screen at the end of the conduit, Kolar ignited his weapon, bathing the subterranean opening in its brilliant green light. Vos ground to a halt, bridling like a cornered prey animal, splashed with ordure, his reddish tattooed face perspiring freely beneath his matted locks.
"Running like this does not foster confidence in your innocence, Vos. The Council would surely sense it, if only you submit to their inquiry."
Vos had got his breath back during that speech, and had in hand his own light-sabre, which also glowed green. The light glinted off the remains of the Force cuffs from his earlier capture, still encircling his wrapped forearms. The irony of this was not lost on either Jedi.
"They're arresting me on the word of that rat-face Tookarti-- that does not inspire in me much confidence in the Council's wisdom. I'm not surrendering." And Quinlan sank into a bent-kneed, double-handed defensive posture that was basic to the Soresu combat style. He meant to fight it out.
Subtly, Agen Kolar shifted his hands, so that his light-sabre was no longer merely held up like a beacon, but was mirrored by his other hand, upraised in the classic first stance of Ataro. He made one last appeal to reason.
"As a Jedi, it is your duty to present yourself when the Council summons you. As it is my duty to make sure that you answer the summons, willing or unwilling--" But the only answer he received was a boot flying toward his face, as Quin unexpectedly went on the attack. Kolar had an answering kick, into which his side-step of avoidance flowed like the unfolding of a new leaf. It caught Vos squarely in the side of his head, with an audible crack.
As Vos subsequently struggled to his knees in the muck, Kolar stood over him, his green sabre momentarily the only source of illumination again. Quin's weapon had flown from his grasp into a puddle and gone out.
"Yield, Quinlan, for Force sake-- I don't want to harm a fellow Jedi." But Vos was silent, keeping his head down and his face hidden by the inky mass of his matted hair. Nor did he move.
Agen Kolar had been in Temple training at the same time as Quinlan; though they had only been acquaintances, their Knightings had come just a few months apart. "I don't know what happened to you, Quin... Maybe you have been in the shadows too long, and don't remember the feel of the Light. We should not be enemies. Come back with me-- back to the way of the Light--" Agen found that he had run out of words to try. He really could not understand. He only wished for Quin to see Truth, what had always seemed to him, in his straightforward Zabrak view, too simple to even question.
From under the screen of matted hair where Quin still crouched, his voice emerged, low but distinct. "Every single thing I have done, every scheme I've arranged for the last three karkin' years, has been for the Council. For the Republic. I've betrayed, told lies, sabotaged, sacrificed lives, from Fondor to Corellia, including your precious Brentaal IV-- where you blame your troop losses on me, Kolar; you know you do--" He lifted his eyes, and they were like vacant pits beneath his heavy brow, over the yellow stripe.
"And for what?" Suddenly there were raging fires in the black eyes, and the blocky teeth were flashing between snarling lips, in their setting of dark stubble. "They take the word of a sneak like Tookarti, ruin six months of preparation for this op, and send you to preach to me? Too late! We are nothing but enemies now." In a flash his sabre was flying into his hand, and was once again lit.
And once again the green blades crashed and sparked against one another. Their sparring shifted them through the level of storage and drainage, until Quin found himself backed up against a battery of rycrit cages, as he narrowly avoided one of Kolar's slashing ripostes, which cost him a lock of hair, and a score in his shoulder armor. When he paused, Kolar paused too, still unwilling to do him damage.
"This is not a debate, Quin. You must yield. That could have been your arm. Surrender."
"No!"
With a sweeping flash of green, Vos cut open the cages, then vaulted over the top as rycrits spilled in every direction, inundating Kolar, who was forced to delay while deflecting the flood of creatures.
Quin was headed for the closest cantina, and the crowds. It was his best chance. He knew that Kolar didn't want to attract the attention of the Hutts who ran this smuggler's moon. Behind him, he heard the Zabrak bellow.
"Vos-- you are making this harder than necessary!"
His own orders, which he was sticking with for as long as he could, were to be seen getting away and to keep trying to infiltrate the Confederacy's underground-- and above all, not to harm Kolar as he did it.
He didn't slow down.
end
Author: helgaleena
helgaleenas@yahoo.com
Main characters: Quinlan Vos, Agen Kolar
prompt: diatribe 035: sixth sense
Rating: PG-13
wordcount: 1292
Summary: General Agen Kolar has been sent to capture fellow Jedi Master Quinlan Vos, on suspicion of treason. Vos is not coming quietly.
Warnings: not this time
Notes: vignette set during Star Wars: Clone Wars vol. 4, aka Star Wars: Republic # 59, by Ostrander and Duursema.
"Hold-- Vos is no longer aboard that vehicle."
The imposing Zabrak Master Agen Kolar gripped the shoulder of the driver, by way of signal. He could sense that the damaged speeder they were pursuing through the transport lanes of Nar Shadaa had lost its crucial passenger. The female accomplice, Hentz, was trying to lead them in another direction, pulling them away so that the Jedi fugitive could make good his escape.
Quinlan Vos had been working undercover, first on the space station The Wheel, now here, as an information smuggler. But the Order had been informed, by one of those Vos worked with, that this time, the codes he was selling were not outdated. This time he was dealing in the real thing. And sure enough, when they had burst in upon the transaction, it was true-- though Vos continued to vociferously protest that he was being framed.
The clones in civilian gear, with whom Master General Kolar was riding, had managed to make themselves appear slightly less identical, but still resembled a trio of sibling-smugglers. They were solid and honorable-- he regretted losing so many of their brothers when he was in command of the siege of Brentaal IV. And he was privately convinced that Vos had given them the bad intelligence data that had led to those losses. Now the driver turned his demi-helmeted profile to enquire, "Shall I break off pursuit, General?" as he slowed the speeder to a near-hover.
"No-- pursue and apprehend the female for later questioning. I will go after Vos." With that, the trim but massive commander leaped from the speeder, several stories straight down, his full length tan robes billowing upward, his long sable hair lifting in its separate plaits until it was nearly as vertical as the multiple horns upon his brown temples.
"Don't you love it when they pull a holovid stunt like that?" grinned one clone to another. Then they sped off on their separate errand to intercept the female, whose vehicle was leaving an unmistakable trail of smoke, hopefully before she crashed.
With the Force Kolar slowed his descent, as he neared pavement level. The vital signature of Quinlan Vos, distinct as a fingerprint, was nearby. As he extended his auditory range, also with the Force, he picked up splashing along a sewer conduit, only one level below. It was easy enough to discern the exit of the conduit and be there first, with a few well-chosen Force leaps. He then concealed all traces of himself and his vitality, and made ready, but did not ignite, his light-sabre, until his quarry arrived.
When the black-clad Kiffar burst through the broken screen at the end of the conduit, Kolar ignited his weapon, bathing the subterranean opening in its brilliant green light. Vos ground to a halt, bridling like a cornered prey animal, splashed with ordure, his reddish tattooed face perspiring freely beneath his matted locks.
"Running like this does not foster confidence in your innocence, Vos. The Council would surely sense it, if only you submit to their inquiry."
Vos had got his breath back during that speech, and had in hand his own light-sabre, which also glowed green. The light glinted off the remains of the Force cuffs from his earlier capture, still encircling his wrapped forearms. The irony of this was not lost on either Jedi.
"They're arresting me on the word of that rat-face Tookarti-- that does not inspire in me much confidence in the Council's wisdom. I'm not surrendering." And Quinlan sank into a bent-kneed, double-handed defensive posture that was basic to the Soresu combat style. He meant to fight it out.
Subtly, Agen Kolar shifted his hands, so that his light-sabre was no longer merely held up like a beacon, but was mirrored by his other hand, upraised in the classic first stance of Ataro. He made one last appeal to reason.
"As a Jedi, it is your duty to present yourself when the Council summons you. As it is my duty to make sure that you answer the summons, willing or unwilling--" But the only answer he received was a boot flying toward his face, as Quin unexpectedly went on the attack. Kolar had an answering kick, into which his side-step of avoidance flowed like the unfolding of a new leaf. It caught Vos squarely in the side of his head, with an audible crack.
As Vos subsequently struggled to his knees in the muck, Kolar stood over him, his green sabre momentarily the only source of illumination again. Quin's weapon had flown from his grasp into a puddle and gone out.
"Yield, Quinlan, for Force sake-- I don't want to harm a fellow Jedi." But Vos was silent, keeping his head down and his face hidden by the inky mass of his matted hair. Nor did he move.
Agen Kolar had been in Temple training at the same time as Quinlan; though they had only been acquaintances, their Knightings had come just a few months apart. "I don't know what happened to you, Quin... Maybe you have been in the shadows too long, and don't remember the feel of the Light. We should not be enemies. Come back with me-- back to the way of the Light--" Agen found that he had run out of words to try. He really could not understand. He only wished for Quin to see Truth, what had always seemed to him, in his straightforward Zabrak view, too simple to even question.
From under the screen of matted hair where Quin still crouched, his voice emerged, low but distinct. "Every single thing I have done, every scheme I've arranged for the last three karkin' years, has been for the Council. For the Republic. I've betrayed, told lies, sabotaged, sacrificed lives, from Fondor to Corellia, including your precious Brentaal IV-- where you blame your troop losses on me, Kolar; you know you do--" He lifted his eyes, and they were like vacant pits beneath his heavy brow, over the yellow stripe.
"And for what?" Suddenly there were raging fires in the black eyes, and the blocky teeth were flashing between snarling lips, in their setting of dark stubble. "They take the word of a sneak like Tookarti, ruin six months of preparation for this op, and send you to preach to me? Too late! We are nothing but enemies now." In a flash his sabre was flying into his hand, and was once again lit.
And once again the green blades crashed and sparked against one another. Their sparring shifted them through the level of storage and drainage, until Quin found himself backed up against a battery of rycrit cages, as he narrowly avoided one of Kolar's slashing ripostes, which cost him a lock of hair, and a score in his shoulder armor. When he paused, Kolar paused too, still unwilling to do him damage.
"This is not a debate, Quin. You must yield. That could have been your arm. Surrender."
"No!"
With a sweeping flash of green, Vos cut open the cages, then vaulted over the top as rycrits spilled in every direction, inundating Kolar, who was forced to delay while deflecting the flood of creatures.
Quin was headed for the closest cantina, and the crowds. It was his best chance. He knew that Kolar didn't want to attract the attention of the Hutts who ran this smuggler's moon. Behind him, he heard the Zabrak bellow.
"Vos-- you are making this harder than necessary!"
His own orders, which he was sticking with for as long as he could, were to be seen getting away and to keep trying to infiltrate the Confederacy's underground-- and above all, not to harm Kolar as he did it.
He didn't slow down.
end