"Who are you!?" she cries.

I love it when they cry. An animal feeling of satisfaction burns in my spine to see one so high and mighty reduced to tearful terror. People don't like to cry and they hate it when others see them cry. It's so embarrassing to let others see you reduced to a state which should only exist in childhood.

Tears stream down flushed cheeks from the well-spring of wide, bloodshot eyes. Her lips quiver in agony, stained with blood from the hole I put in her lung. I wonder if she can smell the cooked meat scent coming from her chest. She's crippled and backed against a wall. Death is near at hand and I hold its leash.

My eyes drink in her terror. My soul consumes hers.

She can't see my face through the cowl. It's an affect I cultivate on purpose. I am an empty shell of wrath from her nightmares.

"I am known by many names, Jedi." I keep my voice a low rumble, but project it with the force so that it surrounds her ears. I begin a slow predatory approach.

"I am called Wrath."

Step.

"I am called Terror."

Step.

"I am called Darkness."

Step.

"I am called Doom."

Step.

Her eyes flicker for a heartbeat to her saber which lies well out of reach, but she is a Jedi. In desperation, she reaches out in the force and calls the weapon to her trembling hand. My saber-staff roars into life and I cut her weapon into useless scrap. Far too easy. A shame really, it was the same green as her eyes.

With a flick of my hand I crack her head against the rain-slicked alley wall.

"You, my young Jedi, may call me Death."

She wants to scream but the breath won't come, denied even that small release in the end. Her eyes reflect the blazing red of my saber as it comes down on her head.

---

Just a little Star Wars scene I wrote the other day.

Maybe it'll become something more.