His breathing came quick and hard, the effort straining his already-overworked body. Despite his screaming muscles and gasping lungs, the boy pushed himself on. His limbs danced through the complicated routine as he willed his body to follow, shutting out the sounds and sensation of the blaster bolts passing harmlessly to either side. They moved with him, but he was too fast, always dodging in time, or moving the emerald-hued blade of his training lightsaber up to block the deadly bolts. The shock of the bolts connecting with his lightsaber blade made the boy wince every time it happened, rattling the joints of his arm as he absorbed the shock and tried his best to aim the deflecting bolts back to their origin. 

As the session continued, his arm began to weaken and the bolts flew askew, far from their intended destinations. He paused to wipe the sweat from his forehead with the back of his cotton tunic, a move that exacted a heavy price, the red lasers zeroed in on their target and unleashed a hailstorm of bolts. If the boy jumped, the bolts flew skyward. If he ran, they followed him. Through the dampened locks of hair that hung down across his eyes, their normal blond color darkened by heavy sweat, he could see the mechanisms firing the bolts, tracking him as he moved, slowly wearing him down while they, as machines, continued in perfect synchronization. 

Jerek Zenduu was well aware of just how quickly he needed to finish off his antagonists. The simple way, the easy way, would have been an attack of pure aggression. The blade of his lightsaber could easily cut through the automaton's motors, severing their link to the weapons, destroying their ability to wage war against him. Yet even as the beleaguered youth knew the ease at which this method would end it, he could not set himself upon that path. To do so would be to defy his master's instructions, instructions that Vor'loch gave quite seriously. 

Sending another blaster bolt straight back at one of the targets, causing it to hiss as it burst into a miniature explosion of smoke and flames, Jerek permitted himself to grin. He considered it a personal point of pride to achieve a successful score in this exercise, a point that would be greatly devalued by a bullheaded charge at the remaining targets. While his training as an initiate had never focused much on combat, his master Vor'loch, an adept combat specialist, was making up for Jerek's lost knowledge. 

Elias would have just charged, one part of the boy's mind pointed out. A small part, easy to ignore at first. He felt a twinge of guilt while doing so, but Jerek needed to devote his entire attention to the task at hand. He couldn't be distracted by the memory of a brother who had been dead for three years. The task before him required his utmost concentration. 

A wave of grief and pain suddenly overwhelmed the Padawan, causing him to utter a cry as he felt his knees giving out beneath him. Thudding onto the hard, marble floors, Jerek's body was overwhelmed by a series of stinging sensations burning into his arms, torso and head. The smell of singed flesh, burnt hair and smoldering cloth reached his nose as the stinging assaulted him, tiny darts of pain that drilled into his body. His concentration broken and focus just a distant memory, Jerek reached out with his mind, flinging out his hand as he called forth a wave of energy through the Force that pushed outward from his open palm. The stinging stopped, and the noise around him gave way to the sound of the quiet sobs emanating from his mouth. 

Jerek sat that way for a few moments, breathing deeply, allowing his mind to process. His heart pounded against his ribs as his chest heaved, each breath drawn painfully through aching lungs. When focus returned once more, the boy opened his eyes, drying them with the sweat-soaked cuff of his sleeve. The burns in the woven cloth caught his eye, and Jerek glanced over himself, counting dozens such marks over his skin and clothes. His gaze followed their path to its origin, a trio of toppled gatling blasters, their servo units quiet as they lay still. Without a target in their sights, the fallen machines were as good as dead. 

In an instant, the boy was on his feet. Having felt the touch of his master's mind in his, Jerek could not ignore the panicked thoughts that Vor'loch had sent him. Even the brief connection the two had shared was enough to give the Padawan an idea of what faced him. The Temple under seige, soldiers invading their sanctuary, death. He bolted towards the exit, blocking out the pain his lungs, the rivets of flesh and cloth chafing from the miniature burns and the aching muscles of his legs and arms. Vor'loch's message had burned the image of the lower cargo bays into the boy's mind, and so that was where Jerek turned to head. 

As he rounded a corner, however, the Jedi youth ran straight into a squad of white-armored soldiers. The instant they saw him, a dozen black rifles turned toward the sandy-haired boy. 

-to be continued-