4Star Wars belongs to George Lucas, LucasArts, and the game was produced by Obsidian.
Author's Notes: this is just a short story, more like a character sketch, for Jaq of KOTOR2: The Sith Lords. It all takes place pre-campaign (as implied by not calling him Atton). It's a very up-close third person, so as people think in fragments, there will be a lot of sentence fragments. I've also borrowed heavily in several places from Atton's KOTOR2 dialog file. Most of you will recognize where.
There is also a reference (a small one) to the Jedi Exile. Here, her last name is Ayers, and she served as a Sentinel. This piece assumes the popular opinion is that Ayers is dead, killed in action or during the Jedi Civil War. I see the Exile as having been swept under the mat as far as the Republic is concerned.
Just a little explanation.
-Fracture-
Someone standing in the hall of the dingy apartment block might have guessed at what went on in the tiny cubical of a room—usually rented by the hour.
When a Sith said he wanted a room for an indefinite amount of time, no one would argue—doubly so if he paid hard credits. The fact remained that Sith had needs too—or so the proprietress concluded. It was not in her best interests to argue. The Sith was scary enough on his own, despite the crooked smile and overly charming airs. The way his presence filled a room kept questions down to zero, and comments on the state of the woman leaning on his shoulder also at zero.
It was something in the eyes, in the wicked little tilt of the mouth, as though daring her to ask a question and give him an excuse to show her how scary he could be with a little effort.
She would not want to see 'scary with a lot of effort'.
It was why she stood in the narrow space between the rooms, where the walls were thin—a necessity, when running a business like this. Some people brought their own partners. Others chose from the local stock, and one needed to keep an eye on (or at least, an ear out for) their employees.
She opted not to stick her nose into Sith business until three days later, with no sign of either the man, or the woman. The proprietress entered the small walkway in time to hear a masculine grunt as of triumph, and a stifled sound from the woman, as of cry and a gasp mingled, followed by what might have been a soft exhale.
Silence for a moment, and heavy breathing, before something heavy hit the ground. Two somethings, if she had any judge for what objects falling sounded like.
It was Sith business. Apparently business was slow. She withdrew quickly, her mind eased in knowing there was nothing too horrible going on in her place of business.
She was wrong.
…
His breathing sounded loud in his ears. It was the only thing he felt certain of, as his world continued to distort around him, despite his determination it should do nothing of the sort. The last moment of her life might have elapsed, but the aftermath certainly had not.
Closing his eyes did not help. Being unable to see the darkened ceiling above, with its water stains, and the diffused neon lights pouring through the dingy curtains made things much, much worse. Because when he could not see his real surrounding…it was there. A gaping void trying to suck him in, swallow him up.
He should be angry. Furious, even, for letting her do that. He could not manage it, could not muster the effort it took to shove everything currently over-filling his mind out of the way so the anger could bubble to the surface.
What if the damage to his perceptions never wore off? There was certainly something wrong with them. Trust a Jedi to mess things up, but the thought lacked a great deal of bite. With it came a reprehensible, shameful desire to cry.
Him. Crying. On any other day, he would have laughed, and asked what kind of spice the one who suggested such a phenomenon was chewing. Then tell the idiot to lay off it. Now, it took a lot of effort not to. The pain was too real. It was not his pain, he wanted no part of it, but he could not get rid of it. He swallowed hard, his brain telling him the muscles of his throat and neck protested.
But he was not the one with ligature marks.
Clumsily, shakily, he groped for her. They collapsed together, crumpling to the floor just after the moment in which he got what he wanted, as she uttered a half-strangled cry of defeat and pain.
Before she died, before she gave that final instinctive effort to fight for life, before he succeeded in squeezing said life out of her, before her last breath, she looked at him with something he hated and could not then identify.
Then she cracked his mind open like a ripe melon, and made him see things. Know things. He felt her die, as if it was his life ending…
Then they collapsed, she landing on top of him. Her hair, pale in the darkness, hung loose in tangled disarray.
And now…now…
He closed his eyes, for the first time ashamed, disgusted by his life's work. He made his hand move again, settling it atop her head, as though holding her to his heart. A lot of good it did either of them. It was easy to lie here, with her still-warm weight sprawled over him, providing something like an anchor. But she was a corpse, nothing more, nothing could change that. She would soon grow cold. Then grow stiff. Bloated. Discolored.
She was pretty, when she had first walked up to him. She knew what he was, he knew what she was. Yet she still walked into the trap like a lamb to the slaughter…
…the word made him nauseous. Jedi don't kill their prisoners.
He'd heard it, but now he knew it. From her.
Her hair slipped beneath his hand, delicate strands to match the delicate color. It was disconcerting, almost frightening, the conclusion to which he came as he tried to force his world to resolve itself, to separate himself from the imprint she had left. Like a cheap helmet crumpling around a well-placed strike. Not a perfect replica, but it had the basic shape of the blow.
No, the conclusion unsettling him was this: he had killed her, because it was something he would have loved to do. He was not used to ignoring things he would love to do. Now it was all over, now he could not take it back, or make it right—how often did that sentiment cross his mind? Was it contamination from that stunt she'd pulled?—he knew why he really killed her.
Because, there at the very end, he loved her. As strange as that sounded. He was not sure if the clumsy wording conveyed the idea accurately. She was pretty, but not in the same direction as his tastes. She was a little too…classy. To tastes or not, he could not deny part of him, even when he would have loved to kill her, would have infinitely preferred to see her dead rather than turned over to Revan's tender mercies.
Better dead than warped. Broken.
Broken…he'd done a lot of it. Now in a twist of irony, it was his turn.
His pressed a hand against the bones in one temple, which felt so fragile. He once had the misfortune to get too close to a concussion grenade. The aftereffects of that were the closest thing he could find to describe his current state—disoriented, with nothing working right, even if things still worked. He was not sure he could stand up, let alone walk.
And there was pain. Not just the pain she passed on to him, as though to make the lesson stick, but something completely independent of her, even though she was the cause. The pain had to come from her forcing such a strong mind open like that, similar to what happened when someone shoved a jammed window fully open. It was not a physical ache, which meant there was no comfort for it. Not enough painkillers or drinks in the galaxy.
…
I know who you are, Jaq, she murmured, her gray eyes fixed upon his. She gave him the smile of someone who saw death looking back at her, but chose not to fight it. Here's to your health. She downed the drugged juma like a pro, leaning on the bar, as the drug took effect. I think you should take me home now…
He never knew if she meant to say it aloud, or not. He could not understand why she wanted to make things so easy.
…
He should have known she had some trick up her sleeve.
He caught sight of the bed, and a glimpse past the blanket thrown carelessly over it. He did not want to know what lay past that ragged textile. This was not a place where you ever looked under the bed. It was not his sort of place to begin with, but business was business.
He shivered as suddenly he found his wide-open, vulnerable mind—the sheer vulnerability of it nearly made him physically sick—suddenly ripped apart by two strong, conflicting emotions. On one hand he hated her, hated her more than he could ever imagine hating anyone. He hated her, the Jedi, Jedi lies, arrogance, hypocrisy…
He hated every nasty little thing they did under the guise of 'the right thing to do' when it was so painfully obvious to those who could look that it all went back to the right thing to do for them. All that swirling, revolving hatred centered itself on the nearest scapegoat to hand. Her.
Yet the other half of him reacted as violently, remembering the initial burst of the attack that had left his mind in this condition. He could not put it into words. It was love, but that seemed like a cheap word—especially considering his usual context for the word. She did not know him. He only knew her as a notch in the doorframe of his room back at the academy. One more dead Jedi.
But she searched him out. Found him. Weakened herself, knowing he would kill her, knowing she would suffer before the end…and she let him.
…
One day…you'll know why…why you feel it so necessary to force others to feel your pain…she looked up at him, bleeding from the mouth, you are in pain…aren't you?
…
He pursed his lips. He had not thought so until she asked—yet another reason he'd been so brutal. He was glad he could not see her face, even if he could feel the blood oozing into his shirt. Now he had to wonder. A big part of you died when Mandalorians slaughtered your friends in droves.
And the great 'why' for the slaughter continuing as it had?
Because those blasted Jedi would not get off their thumbs, get themselves motivated.
But that wasn't true. Revan had. Her second, Malak, had. They survived to the end of the war, and now ran the purging or breaking of every Jedi in the galaxy…
Moreover, everyone knew there was a third major player to those bold, Council-defiant Jedi. She appealed to his sense of subtlety. The one who made Mandalore's food turn to ash in his mouth, harassing and nipping at his heels until he had to change tactics. She forced his hand, but Mandalore could not hit her. He could only lash out erratically, only finding Revan and Malak waiting for him.
Revan won the war, so it people said. Malak too, carried many laurels. Yet the one who really changed the tides took a back seat, barely remembered since live heroes were most visible than dead ones. It was a pity Ayers was dead.
He shook his head, immediately regretting it. It made the world spin. Where was he?
Revan, Malak, and Ayers…no, before that…
He shuddered again. The battle between love and hate had diminished, but still raged in the background of his mind. Someone once said it was a fine line between the two. Now he believed it.
…
He waited until the drugs wore off. You're going to die here, you know. Why'd you walk into it? The question plagued him. Now curiosity refused to be contained.
She blinked bleary eyes, nauseous from the after-effects of the drugs. I walked into it…because I'm here to save you.
You should worry about saving yourself. It's a little late, but…he shrugged, getting to his feet, returning the chair upon which he sat to its original position. He could not figure out why there was one chair—the bondage harness hooks on the ceiling, he could understand, but not the chair.
Unless someone was into having a friend come in to watch.
She laughed bitterly. I'm a Jedi, Jaq. Our lives are lives of service…she ignored the darkening of his expression, the clear danger signs, it was too late for me when I walked into that bar with you. It's not too late for you, though…
…
That was when the beating started, because she gave every indication of really, truly believing that claptrap. It was claptrap, too…wasn't it? It had to be.
He shivered, keenly aware of something previously lurking at the bottom of the mist and mire in his head. It welled up like cold water from a spring, gushing and glugging to fill in his restoring mind…
…he knew what it was, because it was that, not the pain and the death, she wanted to show him.
…
You're crazy, Jedi. He sat back on the chair, watching her struggle to breathe. Oh yes, she was in pain, a great deal of it, but she was nowhere near dying yet. It was a matter of pride with him, running them close to the line between life and death until that last gut instinct to survive kicked in.
He knew some of the tactics his contemporaries used. Some of them undoubtedly worked in the breaking, but he found most of those lacking finesse. On Korriban breaking was easier. It was amusing, watching a Jedi struggle like a pinned moth against physical torment and Korriban's influences. He knew it was a bad place for them, but that was as much as he knew about it.
Moths. Jedi always reminded him of moths in those brown or earthy-toned robes.
You-you're the one with your head in the rancor's maw…you'll kill me…but she won't…and the Jedi laughed. Laughed, although it obviously hurt her to do so. Broken ribs were nothing to laugh about.
He got up, glowering. What was this rubbish? He crouched before her, grabbing her chin to make her look at him, dispassionately ignoring the bruises and bleeding. We could take this party back to Korriban. I just want to hear you ask. He was not sure if he wanted to humor her, or just see the fear that inevitably showed itself when Korriban was mentioned to a Jedi.
…
Korriban…he had to go back, to check in…
She was a Jedi. Just a Jedi, and Jedi lied. The manipulated. They pulled strings.
Yet he did not roughly shove her off him. He simply wriggled free, as though escaping a pinning roofing beam. It had happened on Duro, finding himself trapped in a collapsed building. It had saved his life. Rumor always put it about even General Ayers found herself trapped on the surface, when the Duros were slaughtering the Republic forces in hopes of appeasing the Mandalorians, so the invaders would cease fire and go away.
Neckless ingrates. Massive space battles overhead, the citizenry outnumbering the Mandalorians, and they chose to fold like cheap cards. He did not think he would ever get over his disgust for the bug-eyed greenies.
He got loose of the corpse's weight, but lay on the floor awhile longer, nauseated. At least his ability to move around was coming back, even if the nausea remained strong. The room continued chilling, as deeper night settled. The guttering pink light outside, filtered by the curtains began to flicker.
He closed his eyes rather than look at the blinking light. Closed eyes were worse than having his eyes open. He could see her, just as he had first met her. Such a pretty thing. Too young to die…and she'd done it for…for what?
…
She did not panic, or acquiesce at the mention of that dark world. In fact, she looked as though she was steeling herself for something. I don't think that would be good for you.
Whack. The blow snapped her head to one side. Sorry. Thought I'd just help your brain settle back into place. The sarcasm did not cut as deeply as he wanted it to. Make no mistakes, he wanted it to cut. He hated people like her. Idealists. Zealots. If he could get her back to Korriban—if he wanted the trouble of it—he would see her break. He would make sure she did.
Except for the idle notion of transporting her, she was already dead. Her body just had not figured it out yet.
She struggled with pain for a moment, before giving him a look of uncanny shrewdness. In the back of his mind, he continued counting cards. Something in that look put him on edge. You're not blind…surely you've noticed…noticed people in the ranks who disappear and don't come back…? He backhanded her again, this time because she stumbled onto a piece of data he knew about, but chose to write off. Or they come back…come back changed, she finished, almost spitefully, blood and spit leaking from her mouth, discoloring her teeth.
She seemed to draw on some hidden reservoir of strength, even if it that strength dwindled by the minute. So clever, she murmured, almost fondly. This angered him even more, though he squished the impulse to let that interfere with his methodology. It was unprofessional. So clever…and so blind.
You want to talk blind, sister? He produced a small knife from the sheath in his boot. It was the best thing to use when sneaking up on someone. Just punch the blade into the soft spot where skull and neck met. It was over before anyone realized what was happening. It was messy, but it was over.
He grabbed her chin again, tracing the knife tip around the orbital of one eye, letting her feel the sharp but without nicking the skin. I can arrange that.
…
How long before the old bat running this place got curious?
He could not take the flickering light, it reminded him too much of those frantic last moments, when he heard her heartbeat flutter before she died. Strange how hers sped up as his seemed to nearly stopped. As though he was the one really dying.
He managed to sit up, aware he would have to shower and change his clothes before he could even think about leaving. Before he could think about showering, he had to get his brain to gel and settle back where it belonged.
He had never felt so…strangely aware. It was fading—he hoped it was fading—like a blown flourolamp. For a moment, brightness unparalleled, then it slowly darkened to nothing. Was that what would happen to him? Her ultimate revenge?
Somehow…he did not think it would be so easy. He knew before now that when a Jedi spared you, it was only so you could suffer more.
They were merciless in their mercies. More so than any Sith and far less straightforward.
Sith killed the prisoners they could not convert.
Jedi made them live. During the Wars, he'd admired Ayers for that particular brutality. It was not so admirable when applied to himself.
…
You never wondered why? Why you're so good at what you do? She coughed up blood. Hmm. But her question had caught him off guard. What kind of Jedi wanted to call him good at what he did? Though, make no mistakes, he was good. Even Revan, once or twice, on inspections of the Academy, commented on it. I'll have to find good use for you. Just hang tight until I do. You never knew if she was smiling under that mask, but it would not be a friendly smile if she was.
The Jedi took advantage of him listening to his pride talk. You never wondered…why no one seems to know you're there, she rasped, her breathing labored, when you're standing by a wall, so quiet…why you're so good at picking us out…and getting behind us with that, she flicked her eyes to the knife.
He pressed his lips together. The fact she knew about that unsettled him, and he did not want to be unsettled. He meant to start carving up her face—the ultimate insult in his arsenal for a woman, to ruin her face—when she spoke up quickly. It's because you're like me, like us. The Force touches you…it moves in you…like attracts like…and everything you've done to me, to others…Revan will do to you. Sooner or later.
The thought stopped him. Even if she was lying, he had to sift the words. Unfortunately for him, the words made sense. It explained a great deal. His survivor's instinct. His 'bad feelings'. Why even Force Sensitive Sith so often did not realize he was there.
Why no one, no one ever got inside his head.
…
He knew he was in trouble when he realized his breathing was ragged again. Her last words, her last coherent sentiment before she went out like a candle still rang in his ears. Save yourself. She died, so sure she had done what she could…
Shuddering yet again, wondering if it was nerve damage to make him do it so often, he scrambled to his feet. He never made it, collapsing sideways against the foot of the bed. He worked his way to sit on the thin mattress, covered in who knew what from who knew how many people.
Normally he would grimace at the thought (and refuse to come in contact with the article) but now…it was different. It couldn't be any more filthy, any more dirty, unclean, than he was himself.
It was her fault. Why couldn't she just have screamed and clung to that stupid Code like all the others? Or begged for mercy?
Mercy. He'd always shown them mercy. He'd prefer to let them live, broken into Dark Jedi—or whatever. Letting a prisoner live wasn't so 'merciful' when it came back at them, now was it?
…
You're lying. It was all he could think of.
She laughed weakly, but knowingly. Do you really think so? Then fin-finish me off…go back to Korriban. If they don't already know what you are, if they haven't been cultivating it, bringing it out to make it stronger, then they'll know sooner or later. Sooner if you keep up like you've been doing.
Her voice grew stronger, fueled by conviction. Her words crept into his ears as he would creep up behind a target. A dark shadow impossible to get rid of. There'll be no escape…no turning back… She was nearly in tears, struggling to maintain the momentary grip on her deteriorating physical condition. You'll end up an instrument of the dark side…and it will destroy the best of you…it will forever dominate you...
He hated the tears. He'd seen tears before…but not on his behalf. He wanted to belt her in the face again, but somehow could not bring himself to do it.
Blast her.
And one day, you'll look in the mirror and wonder why your face finally matches the inside. Her eyes blazing behind the tears. It's not too late for you. The lingering sentiment of 'as it is for me' did not go unnoticed by either of them.
He had not felt this way since he turned up to tell…he could not even remember who…he was sick of the Republic, and if Revan needed another blaster in her army, tell him where to stand by.
Don't let them do this to you.
As if anyone could, but the dismissal was just that, a dismissal. Or should have been. Why not? Maybe it'd be more fun to choke the life out of you people from a safe distance.
She straightened as best she could, defiant. She knew or suspected something…but she was not telling. And she held her silence over the next hour. The best he got out of her was one little whimper. The lack of success wholly soured his mood.
…
His eyes lit on the exposed pipes about which he'd cuffed her by the wrists. These places always had exposed plumbing. He did not know why. They simply did. He successfully got to his feet, rubbing his arms to stop the persistent shivers.
For a moment, before she died, was so aware of her living that when that life ended, it was like dying himself. And now, even now, with the sensations growing cold, like the room, like her body, he could still feel it, still hear it. Faint echoes of people, like whispers on the edge of hearing, but only if he listened. He forced the sounds out, or tried to. The harder he tried not to hear, the louder they got, invasive. Intrusive.
Painful.
Strange how, now he could sense people around him, he felt isolated. Alone. As though standing in the middle of a boxing ring, surrounded by people…but protected by six inches of plastiglass. It was something new, and it shook him.
Or had he?
The half-remembered nights of too much juma, suffused with the slow burn of too many cigarettes paraded through his mind. Or maybe it was remembering nights when he walked out of a hotel room—his—around midnight, not to come back, leaving the other occupant sound asleep.
Did he want to be alone, or didn't he? The question began to pound with his pulse.
He put his face in his hands, eyes aching with strain. Blast these Jedi.
…
He did not know one person could take so much abuse. The Jedi surpassed all expectations, to the point that he had to hand it to her, she was one tough piece of work. But she was running out of that. What is it with you women? He asked rhetorically, pulling up the chair again sitting wrong-ways on it. You think you can help guys like me. He lit up, the first time in days, but the smoke tasted stale. Maybe that accounted for his headache. Nicotine withdrawal. You think you can save guys like me. Sister, he leaned towards her, resting one arm on the back of the chair, do I look like I want or need saving?
Her answer was low, so slurred he almost did not catch it. Look in a mirror.
He puffed the cigarette as if thoughtful, tapping the ash free of the end when he thought to do so. He only asked questions like that, or looked for those answers, when he was not quite plastered. Usually he kept himself out of that dangerous sort of sentimental philosophy.
You never answered my question, so I'll not answer yours and just ask you another one. Why do you people, this time Jedi, not women in general, think everyone can be redeemed? It's worse coupled with when you women think you're the only ones who can do it. He rolled his eyes, taking another long drag of his cigarette before dropping it, squishing it under his boot.
He'd exploited this delusion of being able to 'put the bad boy right' more than once. It worked, too.
But only for a little while, and then he was gone, leaving a mess of tangles for the girl to sort out. Kind of makes you wonder, he added vaguely, lighting up again, whether it's the guy or the image you're really interested in. He was inclined to believe it was the image.
They were idealists. If there was one thing he hated, it was an idealist.
He never asked himself why he hated them so much, but the insidious question came to him now. I thought you Jedi didn't engage in that sort of entangling mess. The finer things of life.
A faint, crooked smile graced her battered mouth. You don't have to screw someone to love them.
…
He answered that one flippantly, almost instantaneously, but the retort fell short of the mark. It did not phase her; she had passed out.
He wobbled towards the cheap shower, suddenly glad to get the filthy clothes off. Maybe he could scrub the feeling of being unclean, contaminated, off…
But if it was simply psychological—and all her fault—then no amount of scrubbing and cleansing could help. He turned the settings as hot as they would go, and bore the burning water until his skin refused to do so anymore. Only then did he back the heat off, leaning heavily on the wall. His own skin was uncomfortable, like wearing a uniform that was all at once too tight and too lose. Unfamiliar.
Or wearing someone else's uniform, that was both too tight and too loose.
Gooseflesh spread virulently across his skin, despite the lung-clogging steam and skin-scorching water. Again his emotions began to roil and rise up, bringing with it the tightening of vocal cords and a strange sting to eyes.
It was ridiculous.
Even more ridiculous was the sinister sentiment regarding this Jedi. That it was possible, really, truly possible—even plausible—she really did want to help…even if it was after the Jedi fashion.
To help him hear himself, as if he'd gone deaf to his own voice.
There. The realization made him stagger back, slipping on the wet floor to slam into the opposing wall. Thank goodness these units were small. He had finally identified where this stupid urge to vent something not anger came from.
It was the weight of lives. Too many lives. He could see nameless, often faceless Jedi suddenly parade before him, gray specters in bloody brown robes. He never allowed himself to be bothered, either drinking it away, or putting himself to work.
Now, he could not seem to avoid it, to close them out.
It frightened him, in a way no grown person, no Sith assassin should be frightened. He killed Jedi for a living…
…but the pronouncement no longer brought the feeling of superiority or haughty scorn at being a glorified garbage man.
Garbage was right, he thought, leaning against the wall. Only the term did not apply to them anymore.
It was bad for his conscience to suddenly roused itself to full awareness. It was worse because he could hear it, quite clearly. And it screamed.
Screamed and screamed until once more, he could no longer hear it. But he still perceived it.
'Frightened' turned into something cold, something he could not name. That was worst of all.
…
She stuck to that line with such persistence he finally lost patience. This 'interview' was over, all that remained was cleanup. He could have done it quick and painless, but she had irritated him. Even now, in such a pitiable condition—the fact he could call it a pitiable condition irritated him still further—she refused to give up, refused to stop trying to save him.
He should drag her by the hair back to Korriban and introduce her to real pain. Real torment. She deserved it, trying turning him against himself. Wasn't that a Jedi tactic, if ever there was one? He uncuffed her, and did drag her to her feet by the hair, wrapping the bloody blonde mass around his fist several times.
She could barely stand, but that did not matter. A swift slam against the wall stunned her. He closed one about her slender throat, the bruised column fitting neatly between his thumb and forefinger. Say goodnight. A little melodramatic, but he was in a bad mood. He squeezed, freeing his other hand from her hair, expecting her to struggle. He wanted her to see the futility of it all before she stopped breathing.
She did grip at his wrists, but not as though to try dislodging them. In fact, she seemed to be rallying for something…
…he did not capable of anything effective, having taken so much abuse.
In a split-second of brutal efficiency, she was there, invading his mind. Remorselessly as he had beat her, she dredged every repressed emotion, every scrap of conscience denied to the surface. She forced him to see it, to hear it all…and then shoved it back, as though in doing so she could push his physical self back.
He felt his grip waver, but redoubled his efforts, desperate to finish her off before she could do more damage…
…but it was too late for that. He was suddenly pain, all pain…not an echo of her pain, but as though it was his. All his. He was vulnerable…exposed…and he saw, as though through her eyes, what it was to have the dark side watching you, like a predator from under a bush, to have it stalk your every step, waiting for its chance to spring and gobble you up, to warp and twist and corrupt.
He saw, as a light shining from behind some obstacle…
He knew what it was without anyone telling him, and recoiled from it. He didn't want that. It would change him…and he didn't want to be changed. It was his life, his business…
But is it really? The words were soft, but she might as well have shouted, they way they seared his thoughts.
He still reeled from the coherent words, the very solidity of them as she wrenched at the spark of the Force. She struggled to do it, as he struggled to stop her, but he might as well have tried to push a planet out of orbit. She seemed to be uprooting a weed only to find she had pulled on a taproot, finally pulling up the leafy side of the tree.
Suddenly, through the pain, the roil of harrowed up thought and emotion. He felt life, life in a way he could not articulate, pulsing around him, made vivid with her dwindling light as a counterbalance.
Then he knew what he was doing, everything he had done, was detrimental to this…this thing. He was not helping kill it, but something important, some balance was rapidly breaking down. The balance always righted itself in time, but it was always costly, and not only to those who felt it.
He tried to shut it away, kick himself loose, to forget what he now knew indelibly as he knew his own name. He tried to fight it off, as he first wanted her to fight strangling hands. He could no longer explain what he felt.
A moment later, he realized he was not just sweating. Hot liquid slipped slowly down his face to mingle with the sweat. It was horror at discovering which boosted his resolve.
The Jedi had to die. She had to, even if she took him with her.
For a moment, he forced himself to see her physical face, as it was, even as he continued shuddering at the alien presence in his mind. She looked desperate, but not the sort of desperation he expected. Her mouth worked, but he heard the sentiment in his mind.
Save yourself.
With a feeble attempt to force his hands off her throat, that last-minute survival instinct all sentients had, she was gone. It felt a gaping hole in his mind, as she went limp. He caught her, tumbling backwards as he did, dazed and disoriented by the sudden severance.
…
…she could have stopped him. In those last moments, if she had not tried to help him she could have saved herself. But she had not. She let him kill her…knowing it would be, in many ways, worse for him if she escaped, or if he permitted to do so.
If anyone else found her, they could—might—force out the secret of his Sensitivity. She died to keep his secret just that, a secret. She died for him…not because he'd killed her, but because once he knew the truth, once he could not brush it off as Jedi babble, she would be a liability.
A liability jeopardizing anything she had done, all the good she hoped to do. He knew that was it: she hoped her life would alter his for some unseen end.
He covered his eyes with one hand. Even though the water was hot, the steam thick in the air, he did not feel a bit cleaner. He felt worse, with his conscience screaming again, as though it somehow shaved off reasons to scream, in order to decrease the volume to an audible level. To give its shouts clarity, coherent words rather than the overwhelming garble.
It was almost comforting to have it shouting abuse at him. Deep down, for the first time in ages, he could admit to himself if to no one else…he deserved it. Deserved this. All of it.
He could not say 'blast Jedi' this time. Nor could he bring himself to look at her broken body as he left, though he stood at the closed door for a long time, painfully aware of it. Another girl, left in a hotel room sound asleep.
But this time it was the sleep of the dead. The thought shattered reverie, and sped him on his way.
…
He arrived back on Korriban late at night, so the place was quiet, though the Valley of Sith Lords below would be crawling with activity. It was hard working by flourolamp, but easier than working under the blistering sun.
Not that he knew anything about that. He was a killer, not a digger.
He had thought this a million times, if he had once. Never before now had it made him sick to his stomach.
He began to wonder if he was just plain sick. Being sick could blow things out of proportion…in the few days it took him to get back to Korriban, he noticed changes. The necessities of keeping alive—barring breathing—were almost unimportant. Eating regularly, drinking things not alcoholic, even sleep seemed to fail to be important until he was starving, dying of thirst, or crashed because he had no choice.
A hard drinker only by spells, he knew there was a problem when the first thing he did upon landing was to purchase enough to put himself and two friends under the table.
He was not a chain smoker…until now. He knew he was not smoking them all. Half of them were simply something to fiddle with, to give his hands something to do. He had never been so edgy, so jumpy.
It was bad form for someone in his position. A jerky trigger finger was lethal, and not to the person on the business end of the blaster. Impatience belonged in the same family, but before now, it was always mind-clogging background noise, to keep them out of his head.
The very thought dredged up those few moments when she wreaked such havoc in his mind.
See? Case and point for keeping those Force Adepts, regardless of 'sides', out. Mind-molesting schutta.
"Hey! Juggernaut!" He barely registered this really was his nickname. Normally he would have grinned with pride. That was him, Jaq the Juggernaut, the best at what he did. The guy who didn't go down. Who wouldn't stay down. That faculty alone brought both envy from so-called peers and attention from the higher-ups.
Unfortunately, today was not a normal day.
He ought to know the voice, but it came through a haze of painful memory. Resentment roiled as he concluded the slur on The Jedi was spite and not something he meant. He did not really register anything pas dispassionate assessment until a hand clapped him on the shoulder.
Then he came back to himself, slamming the man bodily into a wall. There was something satisfying to the sound of soft sentient hitting solid stone.
He did not hiss whatever nastiness was on the tip of his tongue, as his mind caught up with his reaction. "Oh…sorry man…" he let Graft up, stepping back quickly in case the Twi'lek wanted to hit him back.
He was not sorry enough to take a blow like that. Graft knew better than to sneak up on people, the idiot. Resentment increased, redirecting itself at the Graft. Live people made better targets for such things.
Didn't they?
The Twi'lek adjusted his gray uniform, taking in the fact Jaq was not wearing one. "If you weren't just coming back out of the field, I'd clock you a good one."
"I'd like to see you try." Jaq gave himself a shake, holding up a hand. "Sorry…rough trip, I'm dead on my feet." Partly true.
"Yeah, well, get over it before someone takes something personal." Graft turned sharply, striding off, grumbling to himself.
Jaq snorted, continuing down the hall, grievously disturbed at the sudden outburst. It was not like him. Anger was another mind-clogging emotion, and not one he liked to rely on in a fight.
He was a professional. So why was he acting with such rank stupidity?
His room lit up as he pushed his way into it, locking the door behind him. Most of these rooms had locks. The first thing he did was open the bottle. Normally he would retrieve a glass for the booze, but tonight he heathened it, taking one long pull from the bottle.
He was just tired—so he told himself—and of course, his mind was still reeling. Gray matter was so delicate. He lit up, aware he hated smoking in his own room. He smoked when he wanted to smoke. When he did not, he did not want his surrounding smelling like an ashtray.
Unless, like a pazaak parlor, they were supposed to smell.
He walked into the refresher and nearly dropped the bottle. He did not look like himself. He looked like he had lived rough for several weeks, though it was less than a standard week since everything happened. He put the cigarette out in the sink and took another pull on the booze, before closing it. He set it down too hard on the counter, but ignored the noise.
For the whole trip back, he wanted nothing more than a hot bath to soak away the mission, and the 'extra credit'—a Jedi who was not strictly a mission in and of themselves.
It did not help. He found himself showering after trying to soak, scrubbing with a vigor he did not understand. It left red scratch marks on his skin, and the harder he scrubbed, the filthier he felt.
Back to the bottle, as red spots appeared, tiny droplets of blood pooling crimson beneath his skin, a product of too much scrubbing, and the unconscious clawing in an attempt to slough the feeling of filthiness.
…
If he thought some down time would put things back together, he knew by the third day—when he all but kicked a girl out of his room—he was deluding himself. And he hated deluding himself.
In fairness, she was the one cultivating him. He knew it both before and after this last mission. When things started to get—to use his usual word—interesting…he couldn't do it. He was not sure what disgusted him more: Amberleah, himself…or the fact that it all boiled down to the moment The Jedi forced his mind open and showed him a love so alien to him it seemed to corrupt everything it touched.
He wanted Amberleah —at first—she wanted him, it should have been short and sweet. Nothing complicated. He was not even sure what happened to shatter the encounter. He could not seem to keep himself together, constantly running hot and cold.
Without the opportunity to do so fully—he having shoved her out the door, before locking it behind her—she called him every name in the book when he ran into her the next day. In front of a crowd. And he'd answered back without thinking, without hesitation, or regard for subtlety. Anger at her, or maybe just anger in general looking for a scapegoat, exploded.
It was not common, per se, for Sith to simply start fighting. Usually it remained a mix of threat and animosity, which rarely boiled over into outright violence. Sabotage remained the preferred method of dealing with someone. Unfortunately, his mouth again said the wrong thing—or the right thing, depending on how one looked at it—and the fight was on.
Amberleah slapped him, which was not unexpected. Even he admitted, in a split-second of retrospect, no personage with even pretensions of being well bred would have said that to a woman, lady or otherwise. However, introspection was what took up the faculty usually devoted not to letting this sort of insult irritate him.
It was the wrong day, and again he lashed out irrationally, knowing it was irrational. He hauled back, remorselessly landed a blow, which would have knocked another man stumbling back. It knocked her to the floor. He towered over her, that look of superiority and distaste for a lesser mortal etched on every line of his face—a face seriously showing the strain of the past few days.
To his surprise, she came at him again, this time angry as well as insulted, with a stiletto in hand. It might not intimidate someone who did not understand a Sith with a stiletto used it because he or she could get close enough to use it effectively.
He danced back as she slashed at his midsection. She was taking this far too personally. Wasn't that like a Sith? Getting all bent out of shape over the littlest things. So every guy did not want her. Big deal. She should learn to live with rejection.
She lunged. He purposely let it connect, taking a flesh wound to the side. Her triumph at drawing first blood was short-lived. The attack brought her close enough for him to take the knife from her. He slammed his forearm into her face, before giving her a bodily shove, sending her to the floor. A moment later, she lay on the ground, one of his hands over her throat, her stiletto still in his other hand.
The silence was absolute. It was, the part of his mind cataloguing events noted, the first time he ever lost control like this. This explosion of violence and unchecked emotion would damage his reputation as one of the best non-Sensitives in the ranks of the Sith.
This was not what had the bulk of his mental powers. When he first knelt to pin her by the throat, he truly meant to end this fight permanently. He was the winner. Killing her was practically a safety protocol, so she could not come back at him later. No one would reproach him for it, in fact, it would probably restore his reputation as one brutal person.
It was not the word brutal echoing in his head, bringing a sense of pain with it as it pinged around his mind, which stopped execution of safety measures. It was a slender throat, a woman's throat, pinned by one inescapable hand.
And the look in Amberleah eyes was the same look The Jedi gave him, just before she let go, to…to go wherever Jedi went after they died. It was fear, the last vestige of the will to live, which no one could cancel, even with the most steadfast resolution to follow through with a thing. At the last minute, everyone struggled, however feebly. This was not the last minute, and she would fight. And lose. She was not even on the point of death yet, and already had that look.
It was disgusting to show such fear before…
'Fear'. The word stopped him cold, before giving way to a barrage of other words connected to painful memory. Helplessness-terror-pain-dying light-vulnerability-anguish. They crowded one another, flickering like strobe lights in his mind, all slamming against something painful in his mind. The pain clung to memories of The Jedi, which intensified it, made it sharp and clear. He wrestled with himself for a moment, in reality only seconds, before he let go. "Stay out of my way."
The room seemed to take in a deep breath, the occupants all taking a step back, as if the threat extended to them as well. He dropped the stiletto on the ground. It clanked, the metallic sound mingled with Amberleah's coughs and gasps, now she could breathe properly.
He half-expected the stiletto to come flying at him, considered for a moment that maybe it would not be so bad to let go of this…travesty he called a life. Ever since The Jedi raked her claws through his mind, he could not call his life anything but a travesty.
Not without lying to himself, and he was done with that. It took too much energy. Energy he did not have.
Worse, the more the moment of trauma slipped into the past, the more he knew it was not a cheap parting shot. In his line of work, one generally got knocked around. Sometimes the doctors had to make it hurt before they could make it stop hurting. More and more…that was what this seemed like. She had to break him…
He shook his head irritably. Ridiculous. And weak. Weak people did not last long around here.
"Are you crazy?" Graft demanded, catching up with him.
Jaq neither turned, nor stopped walking. "Not today."
Graft did not think for a second that this was an answer to his question. It was what Jaq told Amberleah: stay out of my way. "You're cracking, man."
Jaq turned, watching Graft's pale skin go pasty. "So what? You want front row seats?"
Graft recovered quickly, giving Jaq an ugly look, before shaking his head disgustedly and striding off.
Did it really matter? There was little of 'friendship' in any Sith. Anything remotely resembling friendship meant people banding together for safety reasons. If one advanced, the other would, until treachery finally won out.
…was that really any way to live?
He checked to make sure the hall was empty. It was, so he permitted himself to lean on the wall and shiver. It was The Jedi's fault, but the anger directed at her was cooling, leaving him feeling even more…exposed. While he was angry, he could put something before him like a shield.
She had fractured his mind, left it susceptible to these questions. He should hate her. Should be ready to go track down a couple more, put in extra 'extra credit' to get the anger out of his system.
But he could not. The thought made him sick. The face he felt sick over business as usual made him sicker. He was barely holding it together. How long could he continue doing so, while he was at war with himself?
Not long.
As if taking this moment to order his thoughts, to sift the new ones springing up like weeds in spring, he realized the source of his general discomfort. At first, he thought it only a side-effect of traumatic insult to his mind—he would not tell anyone about that—but he knew, now, it was no such thing. Yes, a lot of it had to do with The Jedi, with her parting shot, but he could not blame the new problem on her.
She had left him open to it, yes, but she also gave warning of it. The old maxim them that don't listen have to feel came back in full force. He wished he could remember who said it, but did not try to remember. Not when he stopped to listen, and found he could hear, like little whispers just beyond hearing, nasty little hisses, wordless impulses.
He knew what it was, realized it had always been there, feeding the pride, the ruthlessness, every nasty thing about his personality, his mentality. Oh, the seeds for it were always there…but Korriban could not be fooled like people. It knew Sensitives when they set foot on its surface, and set to work on them immediately.
Maybe that was even why he felt so strong here, compared to other places.
He forced himself to stop, to think and consider, comparing himself now with himself just after the Wars ended.
And he was playing along, because of his inability to hold himself together. It was already winning. It would not be an experience of being gobbled up…it would be like she said: one day you'll look in the mirror and wonder why your face finally matches the inside.
He touched his face, the dark shadow of stubble around his chin rasping his fingertips. He knew he looked ragged, worn out, as though he was sick. He also knew through various reports that Force Sensitive Sith did seem to rot and decay. Anyone could see it in Malak, his skin turning pale and papery, eyes sometimes glowing strangely in the dim corridors of Korriban.
He knew the why of it—great power exacted a great toll, put a great strain on the vessel conducting it—but still. It did look like someone rotting…and if his inner rot was to start surfacing…
He shivered again, swallowing thickly, before vanishing back to his room. He took along pull from the half-full bottle, but the booze tasted so bad, he almost spat it back out. Instead, irritated and with shaky hands, he poured the last half of that big bottle down the refresher sink.
He could not shut her out. He could not shut Korriban out. He had never felt so hunted, so pursued. He wanted to scream, even clenched his teeth so he would not give way to that particular impulse. It was a battle, but one he won.
Looking into the mirror above the sink, he forced himself to count the new lines appearing on his face. Even if they were not new, he would not have thought to discount them. The brown eyes looking back at him unnerved him further. He might have conquered the wish to scream, to vent the emotions building up like pressure inside him, but the desire was not really gone. He could see the scream huddled behind those eyes.
The irony did not escape him. After killing so many Jedi, one had finally killed him—in a manner of speaking.
After breaking so many Jedi, one finally broke him. He could see it looking back at him. He could try to go back to the way things were before she came into his life…but it would not be the same. Not even close.
He was caught, like a gizka in a trap. Crushed between trying to go back to a life of killing Jedi…and knowing he would have to fight what The Jedi showed him, tooth and nail. The fight itself would wear him down to nothing. There was no option of pretending it would not.
The emptiness left by the hatred previously aimed at her raised more questions. On the trip back, he had convinced himself the moment in which he though he 'loved' her was a product of shock, of unsettled mental state. Now he had to question this idea, and the original thoughts.
He sat down on the floor, leaning against the cabinet supporting the sink, pressing the heels of his hands against his ears to block the whispers, gripping his hair as thought he little pain might help block more painful memories.
He felt…lost. Cut free from everything he knew. Cut off from everything that ever mattered. Severed from his old life.
Neither helped. The sinister influences of Korriban went right on being sinister and the memories went right on being sharp, like words carved into a wall with a ferrocrete-cutter. He could never really be rid of them, never be rid of her.
Part of him, part of him he did not understand, really, truly did not want to be rid of her memory. It was all so ridiculous…but it was true. Writing her off, forgetting her, seemed a bigger crime than having killed her in the first place. And he remembered what he had felt, for a brief moment before pain and horror clouded it all over.
A form of love with which he had no experience, no warning. It was…perfect. It had nothing to do with comfort, for he could call it that. It had nothing to do with anything like that. It was not something one set aside for family, either—not that he had one himself.
It simply was. Something she chose to give to a low-class scumbag she didn't even know. Not really. The realizations continued cutting deep onto his psyche, as persistent as a rancor was hungry. It was this 'love' that gave way to…to what?
…remorse. That was the word. It was something he never felt towards any target, any mission, any 'extra credit'…about anyone, really. But that was what it was. If he could go back, fix it…he would. The cost of doing so, of saving her when he had the chance, could not be as painful as knowing there was no way to undo it.
Which was why he knew he would live. More suffering that way. There was no denying, not even in blind arrogance, that he deserved to suffer, as he made others suffer. Just as he believed they deserved it at the time—they still did, but she was the exception—he felt he deserved it now.
He got to his feet and staggered to bed, praying blindly that he could find an hour, half an hour, of undisturbed rest.
Having attached a name to that feeling of 'love'—there had to be a better word—somehow made it more real. But it was out of reach. He knew there had to be strength there…but not for him. For him, it could only be something to drive him along. Otherwise, he would spend his entire life fruitlessly trying to get at it, knowing there was no way to do so.
…
There was no rest. He could see them as he slept, bloodstained ghosts parading slowly towards him, treading him underfoot, somehow drowning him in their unceasing march.
It was worse when she was there, meters away, but separated by the moving tide of dead Jedi. It was worst when she was not whole, as she was when he first met her, but appeared as a specter in the grips of rigor mortis, bloody and battered. No words, no recrimination, just silence. Not even accusing silence, but a sad sort of disappointment, as though her plan had somehow got a twist in it, had not gone as she hoped.
He shivered convulsively, before getting to his feet.
In a way, it no longer mattered what he did. There was no good alternative. If he kept this up it would attract the wrong sort of attention. He snorted bitterly at the stupidity of the statement. It already had attracted the wrong sort of attention.
Ineffectiveness invariably did, and then he would be in real hot water.
Instability would attract worse. It made keeping him firmly under control necessary.
If The Jedi was right, if she had told him the truth…
…
He knew something was wrong. He could feel someone following him, watching him. He could not see anything amiss, but he knew as certainly as he knew night followed day on Korriban, someone was following him. Once or twice he thought he felt hands sneaking towards him…
…but there was never anything visible, just cold, spine-tingling perceptions. The stories about people 'disappearing' took on more uncomfortable tones. If possible, he would have written it off, but it was not situational awareness making him sure someone was waiting for the chance to snag him. Through that beckoning hole, where that spark of the Force lurked, refusing to be wholly silent, he knew there were dangerous things in close proximity.
More dangerous than he was, obviously. Before the first day of this shadowy parody of cat and mouse was over, he had reached a decision. If one could call it a decision. It was certainly not a solution.
It was time to get out. It did not matter who was right, or who wrong. Who was telling the truth, or who lying. Who cared or didn't. Love, hate, Sith, Jedi, Dark Jedi, Masters, Apprentices, the dead or the living…
The only thing left was to run. To run and keep running because that was what he did. It was what he was good at. Running. Abandoning causes. Deserting.
Betrayal.
He simply could not do it anymore. Could not stay here, with shadows stalking him, and Korriban whispering, always whispering. It would drive him crazy, if he was not already there. He would be wholly broken before the lurkers ever got their unseen mitts on him.
As he moved through the populated part of the Academy, keeping himself in the crowd so he could not vanish without someone noticing, his mind turned over plans, plans that would get him off Korriban and somewhere in which he could get lost.
Someone noticing, he mentally backpedalled. Who would care if he did? It was one more slot higher up that some lower-ranked Sith could fill. No one would miss him, either. He was not a person one could miss. He forced his mind off this unpleasant reality, though it had never bothered him before. It was once a point of pride.
Nar Shaddaa. Nar Shaddaa sounded good. People moved through there in droves every single day. More than enough sentients for one human to get himself lost in.
Whatever he did, however he did it, he had to do it fast.
Jaq looked around the Academy. Could it really be as simple as throwing his Sith weight around, and scaring a few people half to death?
Maybe. He was good at that, too.
