The news was undeniably, tragically bad. The war between the Brotherhood of Darkness and the Jedi Order had escalated dramatically, increasing in raw ferociousness. The two opposing forces were tearing at each other's throats with such reckless abandon that every single battle inevitably incorporated everyone around them, including personnel loosely connected to the conflict. This, of course, included the Service Corps, the Medical Corps, and, most importantly, me.
I had been drafted. My assignment was a nasty, localized planet-wide battle, serving as a combat medic. I cannot express how unhappy this development made me. In fact, I came within a hair's breadth of telling the commanding officer to stick the assignment right up his self-righteous, meditative ass. However, I restrained myself. There have been disturbing, quiet stories circulating about the Jedi quietly imprisoning or "retraining" any Jedi who openly defies the core teachings. Imagine, then, what they would do to a supposed failure like me, a supposed weak Force user who doesn't strictly adhere to the light side's dogma or fully trust the Masters who teach it.
The assignment was totally unfair and strategically idiotic. I had to endure a brisk, unwelcome conversation with the logistics officer just before boarding.
"Initiate Bailo," the officer, a stern human female, snapped, not looking up from her datapad. "Your deployment is confirmed. You are assigned to the 71st Forward Detachment. You are their designated Force Healer."
"With all due respect, Commander," I replied, keeping my tone perfectly respectful despite the raging fury inside, "what defense do I have against a committed Dark Sider? My training emphasizes mending, not fighting. Shouldn't a valuable asset like a Healer be positioned behind a proper, experienced protective element?"
The Commander finally looked up, her expression utterly dismissive. "The Force will protect you, Initiate. And your security detachment will follow your orders. You are under their protection. Your value is in keeping the fighting strength effective. Now, move out."
What idiot thought it was a good idea to deploy the Force healer, the valuable resource, into a direct fight against dark side Force users who specialized in nothing but efficient killing?
A dark side user who actively bends the Force to their own will to inflict damage and kill is inherently stronger in a straight-up fight than most light-side opponents. Yet, the Jedi still deemed it appropriate to send me into the thick of battle with a team of grunts who could literally be one-shotted by any enemy blaster. At least I was technically in command of the disposable unit, but that merely meant I could now pick the precise spot of my own death.
All of this and more I pondered with profound cynicism as the transport ship sped toward the front line. Suddenly, my mind was violently jolted out of its daydream of telling the entire Jedi Council to collectively stuff it, courtesy of a concussive explosion that shook the entire ship.
A damned Brotherhood of Darkness transport ship had rammed its way directly into our vessel's docking port. Now, hundreds of laser-firing, aggressive warriors were pouring out of the wrecked hull, quickly followed by a couple of red lightsaber-wielding Brotherhood of Darkness members.
Instead of the person in charge immediately cycling the airlock and sucking all of the invading darksiders out into the cold, dead vacuum of space a tactically sound move that would save countless lives the person in charge met the attacking force with a wall of bodies, and one of those bodies just so happened to be mine.
I entered the fight and instantly, one of my so-called bodyguards was wasted by a lucky, targeted shot.
"Healer down!" someone screamed nearby, though their voice was quickly lost to the chaos.
I dove instantly to the ground, where a flurry of hot plasma bolts passed by where my head had been just a second before. Someone was absolutely targeting me, and judging by how fast and accurate the laser shots were, they were likely Force-sensitive. The Force is used by both sides to predict what is going to happen, making it possible to redirect blaster fire and fire back into the opponent. I swore under my breath; I had been seriously slacking on my lightsaber training, prioritizing my business and healing arts. I had never, for a single moment, thought a valuable asset like a combat healer would be put into this kind of frontline situation.
I was poorly equipped to fight back. I had my barely used, orange-bladed lightsaber and a standard issue blaster borrowed from the now-dead guard.
I didn't dare raise my head above the cover, just in case that previous lucky shot was, in fact, professional skill. Instead, I used the highly polished chrome surface of the dead guard's blaster casing to peer over my barricade.
Whoever was targeting me had a wickedly good shot. Despite the fact that blasters are notoriously inaccurate, a focused bolt of hot plasma hit my weapon.
Pzzzzzt! The sound was sickeningly final as the plasma hit the casing, causing the gun to fizzle and instantly rendering it unable to fire.
I couldn't hear a single goddamn thing clearly over the cacophony. There was a continuous roar of blaster fire, the echoing screams of the dying, and the distinct, chilling sound of lightsabers cutting down everything they touched.
I simply could not understand what the Jedi wanted me to do. One swipe of a lightsaber, and that was it, no coming back from that kind of terminal trauma. "What the hell do they expect a healer to do about that?" I muttered to myself, the question lost even to my own ears. The stupid Jedi clearly don't know how to properly utilize their own army and assets. I should have been held back, safely fixing what I could fix, not facing down dark-side assassins.
My squad of guards were gone. Some were dead because they lacked the crucial precognitive abilities of Force users, and some had simply run away, their morale shattered. I wished I could do the same, but the persistent shithead with the blaster was clearly, patiently targeting my location.
I had little to work with, but I had to "man up" and do something active. Doing absolutely nothing would certainly get me killed. I tore the broken blaster apart using my enhanced telekinesis and began melding parts together, performing a complex field bodge job. It was crude, but it would have to suffice. I punted the cobbled-together blaster over my cover, and marveled at the amazing shot my nemesis pulled off, hitting the thrown weapon with a single shot and causing it to fly off at a strange angle.
I closed my eyes tightly, instantly focusing all my Force Control.
Blasters are plasma-based weapons, and each cell contains a massive amount of stored, volatile energy. When released all at once, the energy spills out like a highly reactive mixture of fire and water, causing a violent, compact explosion.
Fragments of metal rushed from the now-destroyed blaster, tearing through the air. And yet, that wasn't the main objective. It was the secondary attack: the incredibly bright light. I had successfully created a flash grenade. It didn't matter that my improvised bomb didn't make it close to my attacker; the blinding light would certainly do its job on anyone reliant on sight and instant reaction time.
I began to move away from the cover, utilizing the instant confusion, only to receive a violent inkling from the Force to pick up a torn slab of plating. This immediate, precognitive response saved me. As I darted out of cover, my attacker somehow managed to pull off a once-in-a-lifetime shot that was intercepted and blocked by the thick slab of metal.
"Not today, you son of a Hutt," I hissed, a mix of adrenaline and dark humor fueling my escape.
I've been enhancing my body through medicine and the Force for many years now, and with the help of some extra directed Force augmentation, I sprinted as fast as a fox with its tail on fire, zig-zagging wildly across the battlefield. I grabbed anything I could get my hands on that would serve to defend me. The amazing accuracy of my attacker's shots had noticeably decreased, but that didn't mean I was going to stop. Staying here was not the answer. I dove into a side hallway, a narrow choke point, and waited for my pursuers.
The amount of pistol-wielding normies that came rushing into my choke point hallway, only to find that their weapons suddenly wouldn't fire, was immensely satisfying. A quick, subtle bit of telekinesis was all it took to switch the safety on their weapons, causing great confusion to spread across their faces and an enormous, grim smile to spread across mine.
"What the kark is this? My pistol is jammed!" one yelled, frantically shaking his weapon.
"Get out of the way, you fool!" another shouted, trying to shove past.
I didn't spare them a second thought. They were here to kill, and leaving them alive would only cause difficulties later. Each normie dropped to the floor, lifeless, with only a burnt blaster hole visible on them. Aiming with a blaster was normally problematic, but when you have this many attackers trying their hardest to squeeze past a chokepoint, you literally cannot miss.
A telltale red lightsaber appeared in the smoke, letting me know that a Brotherhood of Darkness warrior had arrived. He was quickly dispatched. Using my stealth telekinesis, I pulled the pins on several thermal grenades that had fallen with the dead normies. The resulting explosion took the dark side user out instantly.
"Stay down, you glorious bastard," I whispered, pulling the pin on a third grenade.
The final explosion wiped out all the remaining enemies and turned the already dead into blood porridge. They didn't see it coming.
Through the mass of choking smoke and raining gore sprinted a new Brotherhood of Darkness warrior. I fired a shot from one of the many blasters I'd picked up, and when that single shot predictably didn't work, I threw the gun, just like before. I didn't stay to see what the ensuing plasma explosion and resulting light show did. Instead, I ducked into a nearby turbo-lift and got the hell out of there, leaving the entire area engulfed in fire and confusion.