Author's Note: I have no idea where this came from (I'm usually a Light Side girl), but wherever it is, I like it. DSF Exile x Atton.
Knights of the Old Republic II and associated characters are the property of Obsidian and LucasArts.
Play
There is a game they play, he and the Exile.
He has always been good at breaking things- even when he was a child, he took his father's cutting torch to his brother's toys instead of simply banging them against the floor until they smashed. It seemed like art, somehow, watching all the little pieces go falling to the floor, watching his brother trying desperately to stick them back together with tear-filled eyes. She sees this artistry in him; it is his keenest skill. Where she is a hammer, he is a scalpel- she has power in spades but has never been subtle in wielding it. Those she wishes to break shatter like cheap glass against a scream, beautiful in the breaking but useless afterward. He is the whisper to her scream. He shapes and molds, cuts and pulls and tugs until the desired effect is reached in their playthings, even as he once did with his brother's toys.
The Exile's gift, on the other hand, has always been her charisma. She draws them in, their new toys, with words and promises. They trust her. They open themselves to her.
This is when the game begins.
It is easy to pretend to be jealous of their playthings. They sit with her, so close in her darkened chamber- she always manages to feign surprise when he steps from a shadowed corner to confront them, throwing power after power at the astonished other until their unconsciousness stays his hand. This, however, is not the part he truly enjoys.
They have a few cells in the Academy that they have set aside for this, with shadowed mirrors where she can watch him as he works. He is patient, paced, and deliberate in his methods; he has honed them over years, both in his past work with the old Sith and in his practice with the unique skills he has gained since that time. He wears them down, slowly and steadily, through pain and through persuasion.
It is a game that they play, her breath hot on his neck as he works to mold their playthings into suitable acolytes. She loves to distract him from his tasks and he allows himself to be distracted- it would be dangerous to refuse her, if he could ever bring himself to do so. He cannot think clearly when she is so close, cannot concentrate on anything except her... but no matter. There is time enough for the breaking, and they always break, in the end.
They will break. They will break or they will die.
He has played this game before, in part, but he enjoys it infinitely more now that she has shown him what it means to truly have power. It seems a lifetime ago that there was another woman who writhed beneath his hands after she had told him of the Force- but in her smile there was forgiveness, before she died. He no longer needs to be forgiven. He no longer needs gratitude. He needs only her, as she needs him.
It is a game made for two, and she is his perfect partner.
He remembers the first round.
He stands over Mical, poised to strike, when the Exile comes stalking back through the corridors of Trayus Academy with Kreia's blood on her hands.
"Master, please! Help me!" Mical stares up at her, desperate. "Atton... he's gone mad; he's trying to kill me. Kreia must have been able to-"
She glances past Mical and shakes her head at him, ever so slightly, and yet Jaq understands; he takes a step back. She holds out her hand to her Disciple. "Mical, come here. He's only testing you... your devotion, your commitment. You did exactly as I thought you would." Mical takes her hand as she draws him into her arms, murmuring comforts.
Over his shoulder, where the Disciple cannot see, she nods. Now- she mouths the word. His lightsaber hums to life as she draws the Force around her and pushes the boy away; Mical looks down, shocked even as he crumples nervelessly to the ground, at the blade protruding from his chest. "Master-"
"You failed." Her eyes flare, the irises shocking yellow. "Now you, on the other hand..."
There is something feral in her smile and the curve of her spine as she steps over Mical's body. He holds his breath and braces himself for the push, the shock, the searing pain he has seen her inflict on so many others. He has disobeyed, and to disobey is death.
His breath leaves him in the next moment, but there is no phantom hand on his throat; instead, there is only her mouth, hot and insistent against his. She pushes him to the floor and he loses himself there, in the warmth and weight and feel of her, until there is nothing else.
Afterward, she pulls her robes down from around her hips and stands, doing up the fastenings. "Atton Rand, Jedi killer." She smirks at him. "Not your real name, I think?"
"It's Jaq, actually." He takes her extended hand, rising to his feet beside her. They stand, side by side, looking over their handiwork.
"Jaq." She licks her lips, looks him up and down. "I like the sound of that."
They flock to her, as they always have. They seek many things: wisdom, power, damnation. These seekers he is forbidden to touch; they fall effortlessly. With them, his talents are not required. These are the acolytes, the foundation of their new army, spreading her message to the outermost regions of the galaxy.
Others come to her, too. They fancy themselves Jedi, these fragile creatures. These do not come to serve her, but to redeem her- we must drive the Sith from every world, they cry. Join us, Exile! It is not too late for you!
With these, they play.