Peckham Vyre returns to his junkyard home in his utility speeder, and pulling his goggles back across his greasy grey dreadlocks to take in the hazy twilight sky, walks to his ramshackle, rusted hut carrying a bag of supplies and a walking stick. His clothing is aged and distressed from the difficulty of his self imposed exile in the polluted junkyard, and protective wraps tied about him serve as a minimal attempt to keep the radiation out. His countenance is dirty and unkempt, and he calls for his ever present junkyard dogs, who did not come snarling to greet him at the gate as per usual.
“Scizer! Hey! Scizer! ‘Ere boy!”
He walks inside, past his malfunctioning door, grumbling “Damn door…” as he does so, and makes his way to one of the few relatively clear counters; a basin sink set against a junk laden wall. He calls again for his junkyard companion, this time a bit of concern betraying itself in his voice.
“Scizer? Found an ol’ minkkrat carcass out there, full a stinkin’ bones for yeh! …Where is that mangy beast?“
The dull sound of a drop of liquid on his head his him reaching up to wipe the blue droplet from his forehead, sliding it between his fingers, clearly puzzled.
His pondering are cut off when his gaze follows the next droplet’s path back up to one of the cluttered and rusty metal mesh storage racks above his head, and in his shocked horror his hands involuntarily let go their burdens, dropping his cargo loudly to the grimy floor.
His guard dog and companion hangs crumpled and slung amid the junk, blue slightly luminescent liquid dripping from it’s limp jaw and clouded eyes..
“AAH! SCIZER!” He screams, while unknown to him a terrifying visage suspends itself upside down from the ceiling behind him like a waking mynock, it’s absolutely pale, leering face partially obscured by strands of matted black hair, it’s eyes aglow and face splattered with the same gore that drips from Peckham’s dog, now dried to black. It snares it’s arms around the unwitting Peckham like a wanting spider, and leaps in a twisting, acrobatic spin, launching itself and the captive Peckham across the room, repositioning itself midair to smash it’s helpless victim halfway up a wall in a Force aided assault. It lands on the wall with him, as though the impacted adobe were the floor beneath them.. Peckham, stunned and held by the monster’s considerable strength and innate Force ability, can only attempt to scream, the air forced from his lungs by the impact & blood spattering his lips. The horrifying man crouches over him, apparently unfazed by gravitational impossibility of his position over his prey, pinning Peckham to the wall. It’s black tattered clothing appears slick with pitch, giving it the countenance of a revenant, and it screams in a primal, terrible way directly into Peckham’s face.
The specter looks over the captive Peckham, and hints of blue fluid appear in the corners of Peckham’s eyes, the accompanying pain lost to him amid his complete shock. Coming to it‘s conclusion, the creature speaks;
“Kkhhyou’re not hhim! You’re not JEDI…”
Peckham, terrified and desperate, looks past the terrible thing’s gaze, it’s black grimed fingers clamped around his jaw. Over it’s shoulder, his swimming vision lands upon his Lightsaber staff, still out among the junk from the Jedi Sha Feng’s recent visit. He lets his eyes snap back to the creatures…
Summoning what remains of his decayed will, Peckham strikes out an arm, and reaches out with the force. At his mental command his Yari Lightsaber ignites it’s yellow blade and comes arcing horizontally through the air toward his foe, a humming, spinning, desperate hope.
In an instant the hissing creature pivots out of the way with sick speed and agility before reaching out with the dark side and grabbing the spinning saber, halting it mid-air before force-plunging it past Peckham’s waiting grasp, and into his chest.
Peckham sputters as the creature slowly, still upside down and supernaturally sticking to the wall, crawls forward to admire his work and Peckham’s dying face with a morbid curiosity akin to an animalistic child.
“hhhhYou are not him…but he has been here…rahh…tell me…Where has the Jedi gone?”
Peckham’s agonized face feigns a smile, and forces out his reply.
“*Hrack*…You killed me, cough You killed m’dog. You can go to Hell! Now leave me to die in peace, you wretched, sith-spawned abomination! kaff-kaff”
The man pivots to properly face Peckham, one of it’s clawed hands gripping and twisting the sparking lightsaber’s shaft, while it brings it’s face eerily close to the dying Jedi’s, black veins beginning to rise to surface of it’s pale skin. Sputtering in pain, Peckham begins to shake violently from the effect of the creature‘s presence; the midichlorian fluid in his body being forcibly reaved from his blood as it begins to pour from his eyes, his nose, his mouth, even his pores. The streams of blue liquid begin to almost reach out for the monster.
“…No, Jedi…You will die, but it will not be in peace. ” it hissed, and slowly opens wide it’s terrible black stained mouth, revealing rows of needle sharp teeth, and something that might be akin to the tendrils of a sarrlac begin to writhe hungrily in the darkness of the back of it’s maw.
Peckham’s screams resound through the junkyard, through space itself, and in it’s final moments, reach the mind of Sha Feng, meditating in his chamber aboard the Heavenly Fire, attempting to reconstruct his lightsaber which hovers in pieces before him. The mental shockwave washes over him, and the parts of his saber fall, clattering to the floor. He swoons, nearly collapsing atop the now scattered components. In his final, tortured moments, Peckham’s scream carries across the force and serves it’s dire purpose.
It serves as a warning.
The creature steps away from the charnel scene, stepping over the toppled obstructions inside the dead man’s home. It moves with satisfied purpose before stopping abruptly just inside the door , as though from some sound only faintly heard, and turns, extending it’s clawed hand back to pinned body on the wall. The lightsaber snaps free from the chest of it’s former wielder, and flies to the commanding black grip of it‘s new master, the carcass husk of Peckham Vyre collapsing in a heap to the grimy floor.
It’s hunger sated for but a moment, the creature considers the weapon, the memories afforded to it by feeding on the old man…but only for a moment, and then the creature is gone, the force itself wounded by his passage.