Chapter Two

Spartan 117, aka Master Chief emerged from his crash pod, and found the strangest sight in front of him. Men in white armor where fighting droids. Cocking his head, he looked around and soon found the apparent leader, a man in robes with a sword of blue light.

The man, with shaggy hair and a brown beard looked at him. “You must be one of the new clones. We need some help. The Separatists are stronger here than I thought.”

Looking back at his pod, all his guns had fallen down into the abyss. “I need a weapon.”

Running forward, he found a droid, punched it in the face, and took the rifle it was carrying. Firing the weapon, he found that he enjoyed the rate of fire, and how it did not over heat. But he didn’t like the color. Running by a white armored soldier, he socked it in the face, like he would with one of the marines, and took the awesome, blue bolt blaster. “Alliteration - For The Win.” He thought as he went back to shooting.

He glanced over a few seconds into the melee and saw a man in a black coat, long hair flying, wielding two curved metal blades that cut through every droid. He seemed to stop for a second, then smiled, and turned, ramming into the soldiers that he was fight alongside moments before. Curious, the Chief looked over to where the bearded man was and saw the clones firing on him.

Suddenly, both men using sword, whether metal or light vanished, leaving him in a space with all the clones and droids. He smiled inside his helmet…a challenge. Taking his two weapons, he started dual wielding, hoping the battle would never end.

--

Virvel looked down into the observation room, filled with various people. Zif stood next to her, shaking his head and mouthing Why? Virvel smiled and walked down the stairs and entered the room, finally seeing who all was in there.

Captain James T. Kirk stood there, and ripped off his shirt, killed some redshirt cannon fodder in the next room with the awesomeness of his flab. “Please, show me – to…you leader.” And he gave her a boyish smile.

Commander William T. Riker stroked his beard, “Call me Will. Care for a game of poker, some wine? How about dinner?”

Doctor Julian Bashier grinned. “Hello. I’m a genetically modified human. Care for a historical reenactment of many battles in earth’s history?”

Lieutenant Tom Paris looked at her, “I have my own ship. Good at racing. Want to give it a try?”

Finally Commander Trip Tucker waked up and used his smooth southern accent. “Well hello. I’m new to this sector. Can you give me a look around? Perhaps we can have an exchange of technology.”

Shaking her head at all of them, Virv looked around and saw another group.

“Is she fast? Made the Kessel run in twenty parsecs!” Han Solo was bragging to Corran Horn, Jacen Solo, Obi-Wan Kenobi and various others.

Clearing her throat Virvel spoke up, “You do realize that a parsec is a measure of distance, not time.”

“Er….um…” with that he lost his audience.

Feeling a tap on her shoulder, she turned around and saw a tall man with shay hair, and a boyish grin, the look of age only around his wizened eyes. “Hi. I’m Captain Jack Harkness. Want to go somewhere else?”

“No thank you.” Virvel turned back and saw Jack O’Neill and Daniel Jackson. Arguing as usual. Now I know what Data is talking about. They do bicker like an old couple.

Finally, she saw him again after breaking Han’s ego. Grabbing the young version of Obi-Wan Kenobi, she ran out with him….Zif running dejectedly behind.

Tilting his head about how she would pass up him, Jack Harkness looked around at the rest of the group. “Hello. I’m Captain Jack Harkness, former Time Agent. Who want to go somewhere.”

--

Sergeant Major Avery Johnson turned rapidly as a tall building was thrown into his view, struggling to control the pelican through the rain and oncoming traffic. ON COMING TRAFFIC! Johnson knew this when he caused a few fist shakes from many different aliens, many he had not seen before, but humans were among them. He paused for second, taking a second for breathing. He looked up when he heard a thud against the windshield. A bald black man lay across the shield, sparks of electricity jumping between his fingers and sizzling his brown robes, one had was missing, a burnt stub where it should have been.

“What the hell are you doing on my shield?” Johnson cried at the interloper.

“I need….I need…” the man struggled for breath. Johnson cursed and opened an emergency hatch on the shield, pulling the man inside. The fierce eyes of a warrior stared back at him. “Take me to the temple. We must stop Anakin.”

Anakin? What kind of stupid name is Anakin? Johnson looked at the man, who was concentrating one something. “You alright son?”

“I am healing myself right now. You may talk if you wish.”

“What’s your name?”

“Windu, Master Mace Windu. My ‘death’ will give me a distinct advantage. Take me to the temple. Now if possible.”

“Hold on to your butt then, I’ll push this baby to the edge of the flight envelope.”

Sitting back down, Johnson pushed the throttle forward, reaching a speed that was causing the frame to shake. He headed towards a large pyramid shaped building. He felt the pelican losing altitude. “We might not make it.”

“I’m ready.” Mace had stood back up. “Take some weapons, you may need them.” The Sergeant grabbed a battle rifle, and holstered a magnum. “Good, now hold on, we’re going to jump.”

“Wha?” Next thing he knew, Mace was holding onto the soldier, and standing at the open hatch. “Oh sh-…” Mace leaped, and seeming to bound on air, his good hand holding Johnson’s jacket. The trip was short, and they were standing on a balcony, a fire fight outside. People in robes like Mace’s were jumping around white armor beings, holding swords of different colors. Red blue and green bolts were being deflected by the jumpers, sometimes hitting them, sometimes being returned to sender. Mace reached out, and a saber was flung into his hand. He leapt out, crying, “I’m tired of the mother fracking Clones in this mother fracking temple!” He tore through them, leaving Johnson standing there, awed. Shaking himself off, he ran into the fray, firing the rifle, and removing the armored beings, plastic not providing much protection. Every bolt that his the Sargent was absorbed. Though he feared his immortality against, even the chief, may soon run out. Soon they were the only two standing in the room, all else having fled or died.

“Come on! We must find the others!” Mace ran off, then waited for Johnson. “Maybe we can stop Palpatine’s reign before it begins!”

“Yeah, sure. As long as we get to do some more ass-kicking.”

They turned the corner, and found a mess of clones, who looked around then donned white hoods.

Suddenly, they were thrown into the sky by some power, and smashed into the ceiling. A dark skinned man with a buzz cut and dog tags came down on smoky wings. “Now that…was messed up.”

He nodded at the Sergeant. “Good to work with you again.”

“Wah? I have never seen you before soldier.”

“That’s because I’m always under the helmet.” He pulled out a BFG and fired upon more clones, still wearing hoods. “And remind me, why did they use Jango again?”

Reloading his weapon, Johnson smiled, “Now let’s back to fighting boys.”

--

Else where, the new Dark Lord Vader stormed through the halls. He would learn how to save his wife. Even if he had to kill everybody else in the universe. He knew where the younglings were hiding, and he was to take out all of the Jedi. Entering the room, he found them standing there, looking to him as if he would save them. Pitiful. Igniting his blade he stared forward, the children moving back, then suddenly they smiled.

Anakin looked on wide eyed as they flooded over him, knocking his saber away, and beating him up. They pulled his hair and kicked him, tiny force pushes threw him around, each one like hitting a wall. He tried to scream, but tiny fists had punched him, leaving him breathless.

Palpatine looked on the fray from his office, watching his new Apprentice being beaten by children. “I should have kept the old guy.” He shook his head. “He could fight, AND he wasn’t an emo pansy.”

--

Hobo Joe looked around the cantina, he had raided the freezer, and drank all the Romulan Ale, knowing his cousin would be ticked afterwards. He looked around, and smiled. He hadn’t moved the mimes body yet.

Taking some robe from the counter, he flung it over a rafter and grabbed the other end, pulling it down and tying the body to it. He pulled, raising it to the rafters to hang with the bodies of others, a plumber, a dead Frenchman – his hand still on his sword, and a delivery boy. Smiling at a job well done, he sat in Teh Sacred Chair, and waited. Perhaps something interesting would happen.

Immediately, he was thrown violently from the chair, and he remembered; only JW could sit in the chair.

Grumbling, Joe stalked around the building. He was bored. Shrugging, he sat next to the window and looked out. Mimes were building and armada. Shaking his head he knew it was bound to happen, the cantinians leave, the mimes try to take over. Glancing around, he pulled an ever present Thermal Detonator from his bandolier and broke open the window, throwing the grenade and watching as a wave of heat incinerated the tiny armada. Mimes were fools, but if they knew somebody was left, they might not attack. If any did enter, he would kick them in the shins. Hobo Joe walked over and sat at the fire. Kicking a mime in the shins. He leaned back and began to remember his first mime to fight…