Episode 9.1 - Tyson vs. Darth Malak

Stardate: 41173.2

Earth Standard Date: March 04, 2364.

Galactic Date: 23rd Day of the Second Month, 3956 BBY

Location: Detention Area, Leviathan, Orbiting Taris

Tyson and Darth Malak circled each other, their lightsabers casting an eerie glow across the detention area. Tyson kept his feet shoulder-width apart, his knees slightly bent, ready to spring into action. Malak's stance was more aggressive, his body leaning forward, his metallic jaw clenched in a snarl of rage. He held his lightsaber in a two-handed grip, the blade angled towards the ground. Suddenly, Malak lunged forward, his lightsaber slashing through the air in a diagonal cut aimed at Tyson's torso. Tyson's blades moved to intercept, his lightsaber catching Malak's attack and deflecting it to the side with a shower of sparks.

Tyson counterattacked, his laser sword thrusting forward in a quick, stabbing motion towards Malak's chest. The dark lord twisted to the side, his lightsaber coming up to parry the blow, the two blades clashing with a hiss of energy.

They broke apart, circling each other once more, their eyes locked in a battle of wills. Tyson feinted to the left, his lightsaber slashing in a wide, sweeping arc towards Malak's legs. The dark lord leaped over the attack, his blade coming down in a vicious overhead chop that Tyson barely managed to block with his laser sword.

The two men traded blows back and forth, their blades moving in a dizzying blur of light and energy. Tyson's feet constantly shifted as he sought to maintain his balance and keep Malak off-guard. He varied his attacks, mixing quick, darting thrusts with wide, sweeping slashes, his blades humming and crackling with each impact. Malak, on the other hand, fought with a brutal, relentless fury, his lightsaber hammering against Tyson's defenses with Force-enhanced strength. His blade slashed down from above in a series of devastating overhead chops that forced Tyson to constantly backpedal and defend.

With a savage blow, their blades locked together, the energy crackling and sputtering as they strained against each other. Tyson's arms trembled with the effort of holding Malak back, his teeth gritted in a snarl of determination. Tyson was far stronger than any man had a right to be. Yet with the Force bending to Malak's will, enhancing him, it drove him beyond even Tyson's strength.

For a moment, they stood frozen as they each sought to gain the upper hand. But then, with a final, shuddering clash, they broke apart, staggering back from each other.

Malak's metallic jaw clenched and unclenched as he regarded Tyson with respect. "You are strong," he grudgingly admitted, his voice a deep, mechanical growl. "But you are not yet a match for the true power of the dark side."

Tyson only smiled, his confidence unshaken by Malak's words. "This is still the warmup," he replied, his voice low and menacing. "We'll see what happens when we get serious… unless this is all you've got."

And with that, they began to circle each other once more as they prepared to resume their deadly dance of lightsabers and wills.

Tyson could feel Malak's presence growing stronger, more focused as if he were drawing upon some deep, hidden reserve of strength. Suddenly, the Sith Lord's movements became a blur, his lightsaber flashing through the air at an impossible speed. His attacks came from every angle in a dizzying barrage of slashes and thrusts.

Tyson's eyes widened in surprise, his mind racing to keep up with the sudden increase in Malak's speed and ferocity. He could feel the dark lord channeling the Force into himself, his body moving with a supernatural agility that was almost terrifying to behold.

But Tyson was not afraid.

Instead, he felt a thrill of excitement coursing through his veins, his heart pounding with the rush of adrenaline and the thrill of the fight. This was a chance to test himself against a truly worthy opponent, to push his skills and his powers to their very limits. He brought his weapons up to meet Malak's assault. He relied on the guidance of the Force, his enhanced reflexes, and the Snakeskin Perk allowing him to twist and dodge and weave around Malak's attacks with a fluid, almost serpentine grace.

Tyson's feet danced across the floor, his body constantly in motion as he sought to stay one step ahead of Malak. He parried and blocked and deflected, his blades humming and crackling with each impact, the energy fields sparking and sputtering as they strained against each other.

But even with all his skill and all his power, Tyson found himself slowly being driven back, his defenses tested to their very limits by the sheer speed and ferocity of Malak's attacks. And yet, despite the mounting pressure, Tyson refused to give ground. He met each of Malak's attacks with a counter of his own. He could feel the Force flowing through him, guiding his movements and sharpening his reflexes, allowing him to stay just a hairsbreadth ahead of Malak's relentless assault.

The detention area echoed with the clash of their blades. The air grew thick with the scent of ozone. But through it all, Tyson remained focused, his mind locked in a battle of wills with Malak, his determination unshakable. He knew that he was being pushed to his limits, that he was fighting a battle that few could even hope to survive. And yet, as he parried another of Malak's blows, Tyson found himself grinning a fierce, feral smile that spoke of the pure, unadulterated joy of the fight.

"Is that all you've got, Malak?" he taunted.

Malak's eyes flashed with rage, his metallic jaw clenching in a snarl of fury. "You will regret those words, Typhon," he spat, his voice dripping with venom. "I will make you suffer for your insolence."

Tyson varied his grip on the hilts of his weapons, switching from a standard two-handed grip to a reverse grip and back again, each change in technique designed to keep Malak off-balance and guessing. The two men moved across the floor in a series of intricate steps, their feet constantly shifting and adjusting to maintain their balance and positioning. Malak pressed forward, his blade slashing down in a vicious overhead chop that Tyson barely managed to deflect with a quick, upward flick of his laser sword.

Tyson countered with a spinning slash of his own, his lightsaber humming in a wide, horizontal arc that forced Malak to leap back to avoid being bisected. The dark lord landed in a crouch, his blade held high above his head, ready to strike at a moment's notice. But Tyson was already moving, his feet carrying him forward in a quick, darting step that brought him inside Malak's guard. His laser sword flashed up in a stabbing motion aimed directly at Malak's chest.

The dark lord's crimson lightsaber swept down in a wide arc to intercept Tyson's attack, the two energy blades clashing with a sizzling shower of sparks and an electric hiss. For a brief moment, the two men strained against each other, muscles taut, teeth gritted from the effort. This time Tyson broke the stalemate by executing a swift spin maneuver. The dark lord's weapon was dragged downward as he momentarily lost his balance, stumbling forward a half-step. Seizing the opening, Tyson completed his spin by lashing out with a powerful hook kick that caught Malak in the back, further throwing the Sith Lord off-balance.

Malak felt the toll of the intense duel, his metal jaw clenched tightly in frustration. But his eyes remained fixed on Tyson, blazing with a swirling mix of hatred and grudging respect for his apprentice's skills. Tyson pressed his momentary advantage, leaping forward and raining down quick blows from his lightsaber. Malak retreated steadily, using his crimson blade to barely deflect the flurry of strikes. The dark lord's expression was strained, his movements growing more erratic as he struggled to withstand Tyson.

"You are strong, Typhon," he admitted, his voice a deep, mechanical growl. "But you cannot hope to defeat me. I am the true master of the dark side, and I will not be denied my destiny."

Tyson only smiled, his confidence unshaken by Malak's words. "We'll see about that, Malak," he replied.

The dark lord stepped back, his lightsaber held defensively in front of him, his metallic jaw clenching and unclenching as he regarded his opponent with equal parts grudging respect and contempt.

"Your strength is in combat, Typhon," Malak growled, "But you are not strong with the Force. Not like I am."

Suddenly, Malak's hand shot out, his fingers splayed. Tyson felt an invisible force wrap around his throat, squeezing the air from his lungs and lifting him off the ground. He gasped and choked, his hands scrabbling at his neck, trying desperately to break free of Malak's grip. But the dark lord was relentless, his eyes blazing with a fierce, malevolent light as he tightened his hold on Tyson's throat. With a flick of his wrist, he sent Tyson hurtling through the air, his body slamming against the walls of the detention area.

Tyson's Gray Goo Suit reacted instinctively, sprouting thicker armor around his body to protect him from the impact. He hit the wall with a bone-jarring impact, the breath driven from his lungs in a harsh gasp. His suit absorbed much of the force, but he could still feel the sting of bruises blossoming across his back and shoulders. For a moment, he hung there, suspended against the durasteel bulkhead. As Malak released his hold, Tyson dropped to the ground, his body battered and bruised but still intact.

He staggered to his feet, his breath coming in ragged gasps. But then Tyson reached out to the Force. He tapped into that wellspring of power, that connection to the cosmic energies that bound all life together. He could feel the Force flowing through him, its currents swirling and eddying around him.

With a grunt of effort, Tyson extended his hand, his fingers splayed wide. A wave of energy rippled outward from his palm, slamming into Malak with the force of a tidal wave. The dark lord was hurled backward, crashing to the deck in a tangle of limbs and robes. But Tyson was not done. As Malak struggled to regain his footing, Tyson called upon the Force once more, this time channeling its energies inward.

The bruises that had blossomed across his skin faded and vanished.

Tyson could feel the Force flowing through him, restoring him to full health.

The Gray Goo Suit began to shift and change. The nanites that composed the armor receded, reconfiguring themselves. The armored Jedi robes, which had sprouted to protect Tyson when he was flung into the wall, melted away. The plates and mesh that had covered him from head to toe peeled back, revealing the armor plates and sparse covering. In mere moments, the Suit had returned to the minimalist form it had borne at the start of the fight.

Malak's eyes widened in surprise as he watched the transformation take place, his lightsaber lowering slightly as he tried to make sense of what he was seeing. "What are you?" he demanded, his voice tinged with uncertainty.

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Tyson smiled. "What I am," he said, his voice low and menacing, "is done playing around."

With a roar of defiance, Tyson charged forward. He channeled the force to grant him speed. His mastery over the ability couldn't match Malak's, but Tyson at baseline was far faster and stronger than Malak, and now boosted, he was physically greater than the Sith Lord. He moved with a speed and agility that defied belief, his feet barely seeming to touch the ground as he closed the distance between them.

Malak brought his crimson blade up, barely in time to meet Tyson's attack. His eyes narrowed, focusing intently as he tried to read the other man's moves. But Tyson was a blur of motion, too fast and unpredictable for Malak to fully track.

Tyson's twin swords flashed and whirled in a hypnotizing dance. He pressed forward aggressively, raining down blows from all angles. Malak parried desperately, giving ground beneath the onslaught. Try as he might, he could not keep up.

One of Tyson's blades slipped past his guard, leaving a burning gash along his forearm.

Malak stumbled back with a hiss, adjusting his stance to protect the new injury. Tyson pressed forward relentlessly, his twin weapons striking again and again, seeking to overwhelm Malak's weakening defenses. The Sith Lord found himself being driven back, his defenses tested to their very limits by the sheer ferocity of Tyson's assault.

Malak could feel a sense of unease growing within him as he parried and blocked and deflected. Tyson was relentless, his twin blades striking again and again, seeking to overwhelm Malak's weakening defenses. The Sith Lord found himself being driven back, his defenses tested to their very limits by the sheer ferocity of Tyson's assault.

Since using the Force had been where Malak was most successful in the fight thus far, that was what he fell back on.

As Tyson charged towards Darth Malak, the Sith's hand shot out once more, his fingers curling into a claw-like grip as he attempted to use the Force to choke the life from his opponent.

But Tyson was ready.

His energy shield flared to life, dispersing Malak's attack. The Force choke dissipated harmlessly, leaving Tyson unaffected and still bearing down on the Sith.

"We're not doing that again," Tyson growled.

Malak's eyes narrowed, a flicker of frustration crossing his face as he tried again, his hand thrusting forward with even greater force. But once more, Tyson's shield held firm, the energy field absorbing the brunt of the attack and leaving him unscathed.

"Your shield won't last forever," Malak taunted, his metallic jaw clenching in a sneer of contempt.

But Tyson only smiled, his confidence unshaken. "I don't need my shield," he replied, his voice filled with a quiet, unwavering determination.

Tyson charged forward once more, his lightsaber and laser sword blazing with deadly promise. Malak brought his blade up to meet the attack, his eyes narrowing in concentration as he prepared to unleash the full power of the Force against his opponent.

But as Malak reached out with his mind, seeking to grasp hold of the invisible threads of energy that flowed through the universe, he felt a sudden, jarring emptiness. It was as if the Force itself had been ripped away from him, leaving him hollowed out and vulnerable.

Tyson used Force Sever.

He cut off Malak's connection to the very power that had allowed him to fight at Tyson's level. The Sith Lord staggered back, his eyes wide with shock and disbelief, his lightsaber wavering in his grip. Without the guidance of the Force, Malak was a far inferior combatant. His movements were sluggish and clumsy, his reflexes dulled by the sudden absence of the power that had flowed through his moments earlier. He tried to fight on, his lightsaber slashing through the air in a series of desperate, uncoordinated strikes.

But Tyson was relentless. He pressed his advantage, driving Malak back.

Malak's defense crumbled. His lightsaber was unable to keep pace with the sheer speed and ferocity of Tyson's attacks. With a final, devastating blow, Tyson's blade sliced through Malak's forearm, severing the limb and sending the Sith's lightsaber clattering to the ground.

Malak staggered back, his eyes wide with pain and shock, his remaining hand clutching at the smoking stump of his arm. He looked up at Tyson, his gaze filled with a mixture of hatred and fear, the realization of his mortality dawning upon him like a cold, creeping dread.

But Tyson showed no mercy, his blades hovering mere inches from Malak's throat, the energy fields humming with deadly promise. "It's over, Malak," he said, his voice low and menacing. "You've lost."

Behind them, Vicky stirred. The Force Stasis that had held her immobile dissolved as Tyson's Sever Force ability took hold.

"You could've done that from the start," she said, her voice tinged with annoyance. "I could've helped."

Tyson turned to face her with a rueful smile. "I know," he admitted, his voice low and apologetic. "But it's my first Sith Lord. I wanted to try on my own... Sorry."

Vicky rolled her eyes, her frustration evident in the set of her shoulders. "What now?" she asked, her gaze shifting to the fallen form of Malak.

Malak was not begging. The Sith Lord thought that such a display of weakness was what Darth Typhon wanted, and he refused to give him the satisfaction. With a final, defiant effort, Malak pushed himself up on his remaining arm, his eyes blazing with hatred and contempt.

"I will not beg for my life," he spat, his metallic jaw clenching with each word. "I am Darth Malak, the true Lord of the Sith. If you seek to end my life, then do so, but know that you will never defeat the true power of the dark side. There will always be another to take my place, another to carry on the legacy of the Sith."

Tyson shrugged, his expression nonchalant. "Never say never," he replied. Vicky approached, dual-blaster pistols trained on the Sith Lord. With a final, dismissive glance at the fallen Sith, Tyson turned and made his way towards the door of the detention area. He reached into his pocket and withdrew his Access Key.

As he held the key up, the door opened revealing the entrance to his Personal Reality. Together, they approached Malak keeping their weapons trained on the fallen Sith. Vicky kept her blaster pistols at the ready, her eyes never leaving Malak's face as Tyson hauled him to his feet.

With a threatening gesture, Tyson forced Malak through the door and into the Warehouse beyond. The vast space remained mostly empty, save a few of Tyson's acquisitions. In the corner nearest the entrance sat a transparent chamber that Tyson had never used or even acknowledged since its sudden appearance.

The Agony Booth.

Tyson had never brought himself to consider using the diabolical torture device that had come as a free item when he'd selected the Bad Guy Origin. The Booth had sat dormant all this time, but now, with the defeated Sith Lord Malak before him, Tyson felt a shift in perspective. Malak represented a genuine form of evil; if Tyson hadn't intervened when he did, at this very moment Malak would be in the process of killing billions in his relentless pursuit of Bastila.

Tyson seemed to sense Malak's trepidation as he regarded the transparent chamber. A small, cruel smile played at the corners of Tyson's mouth, his earlier lightheartedness replaced by cold callousness.

"Get in," he ordered.

Malak hesitated for a moment, his eyes darting from the chamber to Tyson's face and back again. But he complied, his steps heavy as he made his way toward the waiting cell.

As the door sealed shut behind him, Malak turned to face his captors, his expression defiant. "You think this simple cell can hold me?" he sneered, his metallic jaw twisting in an approximation of a smile. "I am the Dark Lord of the Sith. No prison can contain my power."

But Tyson only smiled, "Remember when you said that there would always be a Sith to take your place?" Malak squinted, his brow furrowing. But Tyson continued, his tone almost amused. "You were right, of course. The Sith will never truly be defeated. There will always be another to take up the mantle of the dark side, to carry on the legacy of the Sith."

He turned to Vicky, who still wore the guise of Bastila Shan. "Show him who the new Sith Lord is going to be," he said, his voice filled with a quiet, unwavering confidence.

Vicky stared at him for a moment before her mouth opened in a surprised "O," her eyes widened with sudden understanding. "So that's your plan," she said, a slow smile spread across her face. "I like it."

With a ripple of quicksilver running through her skin, Vicky's form began to shift and change. Her features melted and reformed, her body growing taller and more muscular as the guise of Bastila Shan fell away.

In her place stood a figure that was all too familiar to Malak, a figure that he had seen every day in the mirror. Vicky had taken on the appearance of Darth Malak himself, her face and body a perfect replica of the fallen Sith Lord's own.

Malak stared in shock, his eyes wide with disbelief and horror. "What is this?" he demanded, his voice hoarse and ragged. "What trickery is this?"

But Tyson only smiled, his expression filled with amusement. "Meet the next Lord of the Sith," he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "Darth Malak."

He chuckled, the sound of his laughter echoing through the Warehouse like the tolling of a funeral bell. He turned to the Agony Booth, his hand hovering over the control panel.

"You're right, Malak," he said, his voice low and menacing. "The Sith need a strong Lord to lead them and keep them in line. You made me your apprentice, but if you disappeared so soon afterward, no one would respect my legitimacy. Since your reputation keeps the entire Sith military in line, we'll just keep using it. Well, Vicky will be... you'll just be here screaming."

With a final, cruel smile, Tyson's hand moved to rest on a small, innocuous-looking control panel set into the wall beside the chamber. He activated the Agony Booth, the device humming to life with a soft, menacing hiss.

Instantly, Malak screamed, his body convulsing in agony as the energy fields within the chamber tore at his flesh and mind. He writhed and thrashed, his remaining hand clawing desperately at the transparent walls of his prison, his eyes wide with horror and despair.

The Booth hummed and crackled, releasing twisting arcs of lightning that sent Malak into tortured spasms. After long minutes that felt like hours, Tyson powered down the device to its minimum setting, leaving a weakened, gasping Malak to collapse limply to the floor.

Tyson watched impassively, his expression unreadable as he observed the fallen Sith's torment. Beside him, Vicky shifted uneasily.

"Is this really necessary?" she asked uncertainly. "We've already defeated him. Surely there's no need for... this."

Tyson only shook his head in response. "I tried to show mercy to Bendak Starkiller, and he tried to kill me again," he said, his voice hard and unflinching. "Malak turned against his master and friend, and would have slaughtered billions. He does not deserve such kindness." As if it were an afterthought, Tyson added, "The energies generated by the Booth should also serve to disrupt his connection to the Force. As long as it remains active, he will be unable to call upon his powers to escape. It's one of the few ways I could reliably detain a Jedi."

She knew that Tyson was right, but still, a part of her couldn't help but feel a twinge of pity for the fallen Sith.

— Star Jumper —

Vicky stepped onto the bridge of the Leviathan and strode towards Admiral Karath. The crew snapped to attention as she passed, their eyes wide with fear at the sight of the Dark Lord of the Sith. But it was not Darth Malak who walked among them, not truly.

"Admiral," she said, her voice a perfect imitation of Malak's deep, metallic rasp. "I have finished interrogating the Jedi Padawan, Bastila Shan."

"And what did you learn, my lord?" Karath asked, his tone carefully neutral.

"Sadly, she did not survive the questioning." Vicky said, "Shame, she would've made an excellent acolyte."

Karath's jaw tightened, his eyes narrowing as he processed the news. But he knew better than to question the Dark Lord's methods, knew that to do so would be to invite his destruction.

Vicky continued, "But there is no reason for us to remain in this backwater. We will relocate our fleet to the Allanteen system."

Karath nodded, his expression thoughtful. "Do you plan to make another push for Osarian, my lord?" he asked.

But Vicky shook her head, her gaze hardening with resolve. "Not yet," she said, her words sharp and decisive. "We will draw a line in the sand, and see if the Republic crosses it. Without Bastila, they may not take the offensive. We hold our position and see how they react."

Karath bowed his head, his voice filled with respect and obedience. "I understand, my lord," he said. He turned to face the crew of the Leviathan, his voice ringing out across the bridge with the force of a command. "You all heard Lord Malak's orders. Get to it. Contact the fleet, I want to be out of this system within the hour."

The crew leaped into action. The bridge hummed with activity, but amidst the bustle and the noise, Vicky stood apart. With a final, resolute nod, she turned away from the viewport, her gaze sweeping across the bridge of the Leviathan. She could feel the eyes of the crew upon her, but she paid them no heed.

And so, with a final, imperious gesture, Vicky strode from the bridge. Behind her, the crew of the Leviathan worked to carry out her orders.