The long march back to the ship was painfully silent. Not that this surprised Sever; they were all still in shock. Though 'shock' was too small and simple a word to encompass what they felt. He and his fellow clone troopers, his brothers, the whole Century, were still trying to wrap their heads around what had just happened.
They had killed him. The Centurion, who refused to be called "General." Jedi Master Methos. Basically, the only person who treated them as equals, as something more than just cannon fodder against the Separatists, the man who ensured they had a future and life beyond the Grand Army of the Republic. And they returned the favor by killing him.
Sever knew better, of course. They hadn't killed the Centurion. He had. Everyone else's shots went wild when Master Methos knocked them down with a Force push in a vain attempt to escape. But Sever's shot… Sever's hit home.
Even now, he could still see that moment clearly in his mind: both cloth and flesh sizzled and burned as the plasma bolt impacted Methos's chest. The Jedi's limp form tumbling through the air, clothes flapping around him like a collapsed parachute as he fell, already dead.
It had all made sense in that moment. The Jedi was a traitor. All the Jedi were traitors. And traitors had to die. Order 66 was clear. But as soon as the Jedi's body disappeared from sight into the canyon below, Sever and his brothers had frozen in shock and disbelief. The absolute certainty and clarity in their orders evaporated like mist in the sunlight.
And now, the Centurion's ghost hounded them mockingly. Not that Sever was particularly superstitious, but he could swear that he could almost glimpse him in the corner of his eye. Sever refused to look, to see the charred hole where the man's chest had been. Where he had killed him. The only ghosts were the ones people tortured themselves with.
It was a bitter relief when the Century finally made it back to Aletheia and they were able to distract themselves with the preparations for departure. None of them wanted to talk, even Gimbal, who normally no one could get to shut up. He silently disappeared into their small infirmary with a limping Humble to treat his injured ankle. Thing 1 and Thing 2 just sat next to each other, staring blankly in unaccustomed silence at the helmets in their hands. The entire Century, a hundred men, and none of them had any words. Were they simply expected to return to the fleet as if nothing had happened? We've killed our Jedi, what are our orders?
Sever entered the cockpit both grateful for and dreading the solitude it provided. For a moment, he gazed out the canopy. With magnification, he could just make out the cliff path they had taken, where it all happened.
Kriff it.
He pulled off his helmet and tossed it forcefully to the copilot's seat while he slid into the empty pilot's seat.
"Ow," Master Methos said flatly as the helmet bounced off his chest and clattered to the deck.
Sever's mind went blank. Jedi. Traitor. Kill the traitor. Good soldiers followed orders. He reached for his blaster. Kill the traitor, save the Republic. Good soldiers followed orders.
"Sorry, Sever, but you already killed me once today," the traitor said, holding up a hand. And then everything went black.
Sever blinked awake, completely disoriented. What the karking hells happened?
He tried to bring up a hand to rub his forehead and somehow sort out his jumbled thoughts, only to discover that he was quite thoroughly restrained.
The trooper grimaced and took stock of his surroundings. With some surprise, he realized that he was in Aletheia's infirmary. His armor had been removed, so he was able to feel the subtle vibrations that told him that the ship was in flight. But he also felt the familiar warm, oddly tingly sensation of bacta - on the side of his head.
Well, that couldn't be good.
"Oh, good. It's about time you woke up. I was making bets with myself on how long it would take, and I'll have you know I've already lost 50 credits!"
At the familiar, yet totally unexpected voice, Sever's breath caught in his throat, and his eyes stung with emotion. There, lounging in the doorway, stood Master Methos, the Centurion, as hale and whole as the day he'd stood up for two damaged young brothers on Kamino.
The clone tried to speak, tried to form some words, but nothing would emerge from his mouth as his brain short-circuited.
Apparently completely at his ease, the Jedi entered the room as if nothing had happened. As if he hadn't died. As if Sever hadn't killed him.
"How do you feel, Sever? Any lingering desires to kill me?" Methos asked mildly, like he was reading Sever's mind. He could, too. Jedi could do that. Methos never did, though, not to them.
There was long moment of silence, broken only by the faint hum of the ship and the infirmary equipment. Finally, Sever managed to speak.
"You were dead. You're not dead anymore."
"Ten out of ten for observation. Yes, I was dead. I got better," Methos matter-of-factly replied as he checked the readout on Sever's vital signs. "The other Jedi… weren't so lucky."
If all the clones throughout the galaxy had received the Order… if they had all turned on the Jedi as the Century had… Sever looked away from Methos, unable to meet his eyes as the horror fully dawned on him. The Jedi were dead, all of them, and his brothers were their executioners.
"You were a traitor. The Jedi turned on the Chancellor, on the Republic. We had to kill you. We received the order. Good soldiers follow orders." His shame made every word a bitter struggle. The Jedi had not been the traitors. Sever and his brothers were. A vast chasm opened up beneath him, a yawning abyss that threatened to consume not just Sever, but the entire galaxy. The Jedi were dead. All of them. "You taught us to resist mind tricks, Force manipulation, that sort of thing, but this… this was something else altogether. There was no way. No way."
"Sever, if you have ever listened to me in your life, listen to me now. It wasn't your fault. It was the inhibitor chips." Sever heard Methos sigh heavily. "The kriffing inhibitor chips. I knew there was something more to them than that. I warned that little green troll after I first found out they existed. But I couldn't exactly pop open your head to look, and I didn't want to risk killing you if I removed it. Brain surgery is still not something you do on a lark, even these days. But you rather forced my hand, so congratulations. You're now 100% inhibitor chip-free, and not dead."
Now that Sever had shaken free of the last vestiges of unconsciousness, he realized that his thoughts felt clearer. Crisper. Bright and sharp as the edge of a Jedi's lightsaber.
"It's strange," he admitted. "It's like my whole life I've been walking through fog. But now-"
"Yes." Methos carefully loosed the restraints; Sever reflexively rubbed his wrists as he gingerly sat up.
He spotted Gimbal and Humble unconscious on the floor by the bulkhead. Humble's injured ankle had been wrapped; Sever recognized the distinctive style as belonging to Methos himself, rather than Gimbal.
"What about the rest of the Century? My brothers?"
"I used Aletheia's anti-intruder defenses to incapacitate them after handling you. They're all still unconscious, probably for hours yet. Gimbal's next on the table, by the way, but since I can't fly the ship and perform delicate surgical procedures at the same time, and you know how much I trust autopilots, I figured I'd use you as a guinea pig."
"Always glad to be of service, sir," Sever drawled sardonically, then slapped himself internally for the ill-advised quip.
"You did shoot me. Count yourself lucky that wasn't my favorite shirt. So you were doubly qualified to serve as my test patient. Just be thankful that I've been brushing up on neurosurgery lately."
Sever frowned, finally gathering himself to meet the Centurion's hazel eyes again. There was something there, he realized. Something... old. Dark. Sad. Sever hadn't exactly met a vast number of Jedi over the course of his relatively short life, but none of them, even Master Yoda, seemed like Methos did at that moment. For the first time, Sever realized how little he and his brothers knew the man who had led them through so many missions.
"How aren't you dead?" he wondered aloud.
"That… is a story far longer and more complicated than we have time for at the moment. The short version is that I'm Immortal. Lucky me. Now, help me lug Gimbal up there, and then get up to the cockpit. We're heading for Mandalore."