I wrote this a while ago. I had it published on a different writing site, but hey, I thought I'd upload the first chapter, see the response, maybe continue it (after I write a new chapter to my SA story)
The crew of the battered Ebon Hawk was quiet, collectively letting the weight of what they had just accomplished drift off of their shoulders and fade away behind them. Silence settled on the ship's occupants like a cloak, stifling them as they processed the truth. They had defeated the Sith threat. Against all odds, they had emerged victorious in a battle against what remained of the Sith. And in the midst of their contemplating, the worse-for-wear Ebon Hawk drifted, slowly but surely, out into space, away from the unfurling wreckage that was once Malachor V.
Fala Pace was in the Medbay, motionless in the medical room's white light. Her brown hair hang, lank around her face as she gazed at the bandage wrapped around her arm and shoulder. She had come to the isolated room, not only to dress her wounds which she had acquired in a tense, breathless fight with Darth Traya, but seeking recluse. But for a Jedi woman so in tune with the Force, isolation was hard to find.
Her own thoughts were not passing through her mind, though. It was inhabited instead by the thoughts and worries of the life around her, the conflicting emotions that she could feel in her state of such tranquility. No emotions stood out stronger, however, than that of Bao-Dur's, for his was the emotion of loss. Fala Pace could feel his emptiness in her self, and felt pity, as she tied her hair into her usual ponytail.
The numbness that was consuming her was fading in the wake of her pity. Fala, scared, secured the bandage around her arm where Traya - Kreia - had cut her with one of her three lightsabers, and left the Medbay hurriedly to check on Bao-Dur. She was much more inclined to face other people's emotions than to let her own consume her, let her calm leave her, let the dread sink in.
The Zabrak was hunched over the workbench when Fala entered the room. He had trained under Fala himself in the ways of the Jedi, and felt her presence, turning around quickly. Fala could see chunks of metal on the workbench, but their purpose was indiscernable.
"Hello, General," Bao-Dur said in his quiet voice - which, to Fala, now sounded especially weak. "Are you feeling alright?" His eyes were resting on the bandages which bound Fala's arm.
"I'm fine," she muttered dismissively, approaching Bao-Dur. Her eyes caught the parts on the workbench, and she surmised that he was building a new droid. Probably one to replace his recently destroyed one. "I'm sorry about your Remote. . . ." The Iridonian put on a sad smile, and turned back to the parts on the workbench.
"I grew too attatched to it," he mumbled, his practiced hands gripping the workbench's edge. "I've had it for such a long time, I guess, since I was a child. . . . It helped out a lot, you know, with repairs and such." He paused, absently drumming his fingers on the table. "I was going to build a new remote, but it just wouldn't be . . . the same."
He turned away from the workbench, abandoning his work. "It'll be different without it, but I'll survive."
Fala simply nodded, but she was processing his words, and she knew that he was unsuccessfully hiding a flow of hurt. He spoke of the Remote as a tool, but Fala knew that his attatchment was more than the attatchment of a tech specialist and a tool - no, he had a stronger bond with his droid, strong like a Jedi's attatchment to her lightsaber. . . .
"Are you sure you're alright, General?" Bao-Dur asked lightly, eyes fixed on Fala's. "You should rest. You're confrontation with her couldn't have been easy." His concern touched her some, but it couldn't block the rush of thoughts and worries that were now flooding her. She nodded again. Rest sounded like a good idea, she realised, as her exhaustion began to sink in.
But then, on second thought, how could she block the fear that was waiting to consume her if she was allowing her mind to rest? No, she didn't want to think about that now. . . . In the wake of the crew's (and especially her) triumph against the Sith lords, she should be celebrating. The journey was finally over. . . for now.
Her boots padded gently against the metal flooring, as Fala took the long way to the cockpit. She didn't want to go through the main hold where so much of the crew was waiting. Waiting to ask what their next move was. . . . No, right now, she didn't want to be a leader.
And there she was in the cockpit behind the pilot's chair, her eyes gazing thoughtlessly into the stars of the space around her. Fala settled herself in the seat beside Atton's, still staring aimlessly. She really was feeling quite tired. Emotional overload does that to you.
"Where're we headed?" she asked Atton. "Or are we just drifting until we hit Wild Space?"
She could see that the Hawk was moving sluggishly through space, so slowly that it was plausible that the ship wasn't being piloted at all, and was simply left to it's own devices as it drifted carelessly along.
"We're enroute to Telos," Atton said, almost as dogged as Fala felt.
"Could we pick it up a bit?" grumbled Fala irritably. Were they planning on reaching Telos some time this year?
"Sorry, ma'am," he drawled sarcastically, "but the hyperdrive kinda took a knock when the ship fell off a cliff."
"'Fell off a cliff'?" Fala asked, frowning at his grouchiness and trying to be more polite. She shouldn't be taking out her on-edge emotions on him.
"What, you haven't figured it out yet?" he said. Fala decided that his irritation had a lot to do with the exhaustion settling on him. "Maybe you haven't noticed, but the ship's a little banged up." Fala sighed.
"Alright, I'll have T3 try and fix the hyperdrive," she mumbled, getting up.
"Don't worry about it, the scrap's already working on it."
Fala settled back into the chair and fixed her eyes on him, slightly frowning. "You should get some sleep, Atton. You look horrible."
"Me?" he grunted, pushing some buttons in the control panel. "I'm fine, don't worry about me." His nonchalance bothered Fala some. "Besides, I can't really abandon the controls or we'd end up in Wild Space. And then even your Jedi tricks won't be putting us back on course."
There was silence. Fala let her tense muscles relax in the comfort of the seat, listening to the hum of the Ebon Hawk and the sound of T3's lasers on the other side of the ship.
"You should probably be getting some rest, though," Atton said after a while. He was pouring on the apathy, but Fala thought she could detect some gruffness under the nonchalance. "You look dead."
Fala shook her head, but still looked at her reflection in the glass of the window. It was vague, but even so, the Exile could tell that she looked about as bad as she felt. Her face was pale, eyes sunken, and there was a hollow, exhausted look in her eyes. Her skin was almost as white as her plain jedi robes under the brown cloak.
"I don't want you crashing while I'm unresponsive," she said feebly, as she had a very different reason for not wanting to relax her mind.
"I'll be fine," he grumbled again. "And anyway, you really wouldn't be much help if I did lose control of the ship. Go meditate, or whatever you Jedi do."
Fala smiled lightly. "You're a Jedi too, you know." Atton shrugged.
"Call it what you want, I say I'm more of a smart alec with a lightsaber."
Fala rolled her eyes and stood up, heading for the East dormitories. She passed through the main hold this time, where the quiet crew was all standing around, collectively dozing, even in the wake of their victories.
Mical, who seemed to be in an even brighter mood than usual, and more energetic than the rest, smiled at Fala as she passed.
"Is your arm feeling alright?" he asked gently, concern painting his tone.
"Trust me, I'm fine," Fala said, growing weary of the constant concern. Her voice was sharper than she intended, maybe because she was so tired and seeking the comfort of sleep. Mical seemed to sense her distress and coldness, and simply nodded. Mira, however, scanned Fala, piqued.
"You sure? You don't look so good," she said, looking Fala in the eyes. Fala could sense all of the eyes of the crew on her, and sincerely wanted to be out of the spotlight.
"I'm going to go get some sleep," she muttered, and quickly left the main hold before they could question her further.
She was quick to the dormitory, and she sank into her bunk, her eyes unfocused, looking at the metalic ceiling. The Exile was suddenly feeling quite overwhelmed.
Just about a an hour before, she had defeated and killed Kreia, thus supressing the Sith threat. She could sense the feelings aroung the ship, the collective unrest. Their journey was over. They seeked to know their next move, to find their place in an easier life. Their trials were over for all, except for Fala Pace.
The others could finally breathe easy, but Fala had another adventure to go on. Revan was out there, in the Unknown Regions, seeking the true Sith. . . . It was only right that the Exile follow, find Revan and aide him in any way she could. A Jedi's life is a sacrifice.
But the Exile didn't want to leave. It wasn't the journey that she feared - she'd gone through too many perils to be completely hindered by fear. She knew, though, that in leaving, she would be alone again. . . . and she did not want to abandon the ties she'd formed in her latest, most life-altering adventure. HK-47, with his bloodthirsty, obnoxious sadism; Bao-Dur and his quiet respect; Mical and his child-like innocence; Visas and her cryptic loyalty; Mira's vehement nobility; Mandalore's twisted sense of honor; and Atton. Atton's apathy, his sarcasm. . . . Fala would miss it all dearly.
Because they couldn't follow her. Where she was going - wherever it was - Fala was sure that she would have to go there alone, leaving behind all that she loved. . . just as Revan had.
Fala grit her teeth and turned onto her side in her bed. Her childish inhibitions could not stop her from leaving. It was her duty to find Revan, even if it would come to no avail. . . . Kreia and Fala both understood that she had to try. There was really no option. It was what her destiney had foretold, had decided. With that pained thought, Fala hid her face in her hands and tried, unsuccessfully, to forget the world.
Atton was dozing in his seat in the cockpit, the hum of the newly-repaired hyperdrive buzzing in his ears. The rest of the crew had retired to the dormitories a few hours ago, but Atton had to man the controls while the hyperdrvie was being fixed. . . . And as soon as he heard T3-M4's triumphant beeping and the hyperdrive's pur, he let himself fall into the solace that sleep brought.
But one of the crew was awake, and had made her way to the cockpit.
"Hey, Atton," Mira said sharply. There were dark circles around her eyes, but she was all too aware - having led an almost nocturnal lifestyle on Nar Shaddaa, Mira coped well with little sleep. Atton woke with a start at the sound of her voice.
"Don't do that," Atton grumbled, rubbing his eyes. "Like I need more Jedi sneaking up on me when we've finally gotten rid of that witch." Atton checked the ship's progress. They would reach Telos IV in two or three hours.
"Oh, calm down," Mira grunted, taking a seat next to Atton, who started pressing more buttons in the control pannel. "I actually wanted to talk to you about the Exile."
Atton simply nodded, preoccupying himself with the ship's navigation, trying to look as careless as he could - but, as usual, there was no fooling Mira. "What about her?"
Mira leered at him. "You don't think she was acting kind of weird when she got back to the ship?" Atton shrugged.
"Well, the cryptic hag almost sliced her arm in half. That might be a little distracting." But Mira shook her head at his sarcasm.
"I don't think it was because of the pain. She looked . . . I dunno, sick or something."
"She was probably just tired from fighting two Sith Lords," Atton said dismissively.
"She's not even sleeping, though. I can tell she's just pretending," Mira pressed, glaring at the seemingly unconcerned pilot. "And Mical and Bao-Dur are a little worried, too. Mical noticed something was off about her, and when he talked to her, she got all irritated at him." Atton suppressed a smirk at this, but Mira didn't notice and continued.
"And before . . . she looked distracted or something. Don't play dumb, you noticed, too."
Atton didn't say anything, but continued checking the status of the Ebon Hawk. Mira crossed her arms and leaned back into the seat.
"Do you think Kreia said or did something to freak her out like that?" Mira asked quietly.
"Probably," mumbled Atton. "That crone did love to mess with people's heads." He said it with resentment. He always did hate Kreia, Sith lord or not, and Mira knew that he was glad for another excuse to loathe her. Mira nodded.
"Think she'll be okay?" Mira asked, her voice so low that the concern was hard to hear.
"I dunno," Atton said gruffly, his own concern unsuccessfully hidden. Mira sighed.
"I'm gonna try to get some sleep," she said, suppressing a yawn and rising from her seat. "You should get back to sleep, too. You really do look awful."
And with that, Mira left for the dormitory, leaving Atton to sink back into his chair. It took a while for him to fall back into his doze.