Social Call

by Firebirdie

Jedi and Sith probably shouldn't be this invested in each other's well-being. Whoops. RP/co-written with Mother of Ducklings; sequel to "Retrieval."

A/N: Another RP-turned-fic, again cowritten with Mother of Ducklings. Evren and Ravaszhi Flail At Each Other, Part 2. Takes place a few weeks after "Retrieval."

Social Call

o.O.o

Vaiken Spacedock hums with activity at all hours, but even massive space stations have downtime. Ship's night brings a certain calm if not true quiet as the frenzy slows to a crawl.

Evren leans against the railing overlooking the fleet cantina, gaze sliding over the scattered, subdued patrons below without registering any details. The Maelstrom's repairs and refueling will take another few hours—he's at loose ends until then, and intent upon enjoying every last second of relative peace.

Ravaszhi is almost disappointed when he reaches the top of the broad stairway. He could have been wrong about the presence he sensed, but there's no mistaking Evren's profile. So many mistakes. He should turn around and leave before Evren sees him, but—Ravaszhi already knows he isn't going to do that at all.

He approaches at a wide angle, not wanting to startle Evren from behind, and bows. "My lord Wrath. I came to pay my respects." It sounds Sith enough. He hopes.

Evren turns, inhales sharply. "Moloch," he says. "I—" I'm so glad you're alive. He schools his expression of naked relief into a coolly polite smile. Too many eyes on them, even now. But thank the stars, Ravaszhi is safe, the disaster that was their first meeting didn't cost him his life or his freedom.

"Always a pleasure," he says, and hopes the Jedi can read everything he can't say aloud.

If Ravaszhi had blinked, he would've missed it, but the brief, honest flash of emotion across Evren's face before it disappeared—

It's what he came over for. That, and to see that Evren was . . . unharmed. Something to take back with him. "I'm glad to've had the opportunity before I leave the system." What did Sith say in parting, again? Ah. "For the Empire." He inclines his head, unable to keep the smile entirely suppressed.

And that should be it, they should go back to their business, but—it's been weeks, and Evren had no way of knowing what happened, no means of contacting Ravaszhi even if he'd had the courage to do so—

"A moment," he says. "I may have need of your expertise on certain, ah, sensitive matters. How might I contact you, should it become necessary?"

Surprised, Ravaszhi says, "Not by holocomm," before he can think better of it. Well, there are hundreds of reasons why a person might be unreachable that way, especially since the range of his personal unit is only planetwide. There really isn't a way he can think of once he leaves Sith space, unless . . .

"I can give you the frequency my datapad links with." It's the favored workaround for SIS to get orders to their deep cover operatives on short notice, but it takes a bit of slicing. And it's no good if the operative is in a location where they can't access the holonet, but at least it's secure.

"That will do. My thanks," says Evren. He'll have to ask Vette to take a look at the encryption, just in case, but—it's a start.

He did promise his help, after all. He intends to keep that promise.

o.O.o

Relatively speaking, there aren't a lot of humans on Nar Shaddaa. In any given area Ravaszhi might be one of only a handful of humanoid species, and the fact that no one thinks anything of the red alien with facial bone ridges is . . . nice. They only see the white armor and lightsaber.

He thinks he can feel the Colicoid across the bar eyeing the weapon, but there's no sense of distress or malevolence accompanying the feeling, so Ravaszhi ignores it, and continues scrolling the map of the Industrial Sector on his datapad.

. . .

Evren has composed, deleted, and rewritten this message at least a dozen times. He has been staring at the "send" button for a good quarter of an hour. And still he hesitates.

Pathetic.

He asked for Ravaszhi's frequency. What is the point if he never actually makes contact? Except—what could he possibly say? How is a Sith Lord supposed to initiate a friendly conversation with a Jedi Knight for no other purpose but to talk?

Evren mutters a curse, sets his jaw, and pushes the button.

::Still alive, Jedi?

There. Short, informal without being overly familiar, nonthreatening. He's quite proud.

. . .

Ravaszhi startles when the screen blanks, and then grins as the line of text scrolls into place.

::I'm drinking the local poison in a Hutt bar. No promises.

Then, after a brief internal debate, the question he's wanted to ask since Tatooine:

::How are you?

. . .

Evren shoots to his feet, one hand covering his grin, the other gripping the datapad. He bounces slightly on his heels, then coughs and sits down again. Which is altogether ridiculous; he's alone in his cabin and he just checked for bugs, but—

He can't stop smiling.

::I'm fine. Do be careful with that stuff. One hears stories . . .

. . .

::Rumor has it this stuff is the best way to get a spice problem and an unwanted career in table dancing, but I'm not worried. I don't have the figure for it, and Jedi aren't known for their sense of rhythm.

. . .

::Probably not an ideal career, then, though it could be a viable fallback option.

Evren winces immediately after the message flies forth into the ether—insensitive idiot, don't imply Ravaszhi's position with the Jedi is in question, do you want to give the impression you're trying to seduce him to the dark side—

. . . Damn it.

::Are you all right? he says after a moment's dithering. ::Generally, I mean?

. . .

Ravaszhi cocks his head at the message. It's a weird compliment, unless Evren is joking. Probably joking, he decides. Ravaszhi was the one who brought up table dancing, after all.

Then the other messages come through, and he responds to those instead.

::I'm well. The Order has been very understanding.

. . .

Evren lets out a breath. Not particularly illustrative as responses go, but then, neither was his.

::Glad to hear it.

And . . . this is the part where he always, always stumbles, the balance of conversational give and take, question and answer. Where to go from here? Press the issue out of concern, risk becoming invasive—or back off, change the subject, and risk seeming dismissive? And all this when he brushed off Ravaszhi's own inquiry into his well-being . . . Stars, he's bad at this. Spectacularly bad.

. . .

In reality, Ravaszhi's report to the Council had been a complete disaster from start to finish, culminating in a forced month of "sabbatical," but it could have gone worse.

So much worse. And the lull had given him time for more developmental pursuits, a personal luxury he hadn't had since before arriving on Tython the first time.

::I've started to learn how to use mental shields, he writes. ::I know I asked for your help; I hope you don't mind.

. . .

::No, not at all, I'd be more than happy to help.

Evren pauses, then says, ::Given our respective positions, I'm not sure whether or not meeting in person is a good idea, but it might be easier that way. Or I can simply offer advice via holomessage. Whichever you prefer.

. . .

Ravaszhi doesn't even have to think about that one.

::Can you meet?

. . .

::Name the time and place. Fates willing, I'll be there. Which on reflection sounds horrendously overdramatic, so he adds, ::Unless the place is, say, Coruscant. I suspect that would end poorly.

. . .

Ravaszhi knows he'll be given a real assignment soon, but there's no way of knowing where that will be. He could find a way to put off for a bit longer, though. There will always be a need for Jedi on a planet like this.

::Can you come to Nar Shadaa? I can extend my time here for at least another month, if you have the time.

. . .

The Hand's gone quiet again—alarmingly so. But ominous silence aside, he has time.

::It shouldn't take more than a few days to reach Nar Shaddaa. Where do you want to meet?

. . .

Nowhere the violence between their two factions has spilled into, that's for sure. Nowhere someone can interrupt them, either. Ideally Evren could just meet him where he's staying planetside, but Ravaszhi can't exactly bring the Emperor's Wrath back to his quarters in a Republic safehouse.

That really just leaves the ship.

::Hangar 498M-003.

. . .

Evren scribbles the number down on the corner of a lightsaber schematic on his desk.

::Deucalon Spaceport, yes?

The Republic has not officially taken possession of the place—the Hutt Cartel owns the entire moon—but they've certainly established a firm presence at Deucalon, just as the Empire has at Mezenti. It won't be a problem. The Cartel's employees run both, and they don't give a damn about the war except insofar as it affects their profits.

. . .

::Yes. Theoretically it's possible to use the transportation hubs at the lower levels of the city between spaceports and then take the elevators instead of the main plazas, and no one will ever notice you.

::. . . Not that I've done that.

. . .

Evren snickers.

::You? Sneaky? Surely not.

He drums his fingers against the edge of the datapad.

::I'll let you know when I reach Hutt space.

. . .

Ravaszhi covers his laugh with his hand. That's fair. Nothing quite says subtlety like a Massassi with a lightsaber.

::It'll be good to see you. Travel safe.

. . .

::Likewise.

o.O.o

Ravaszhi leans against his hangar's blast door, keeping half an eye on the walkways and half on the elevator. He can't pinpoint Evren, but he knows he's close.

He has enough of a handle on his mental shields by now to keep from projecting his feelings, but at the moment he isn't bothering. Who knows how often the Emperor's Wrath gets to sense a warm welcome?

Evren tugs at his scarf and presses closer to the wall of the lift. The gaggle of spacers sharing this elevator seem unconcerned with the cramped capsule, elbows thrown every which way, laughing loudly at a lewd comment from one of their number. There's barely enough room to breathe, much less gesture, and yet somehow they manage. It would be impressive if it weren't overwhelming.

Then, finally, the lift grinds to a halt on the right level, and the doors hiss open. Evren slithers out between the spacers. Clear air. Thank goodness. And there's something—someone—

Welcome. Evren's throat abruptly aches. He swallows, composes himself, and sends a faint flare out through the Force, acknowledgement-greeting-happiness. He sets off down the docking bay access corridor and lets himself grin beneath the cloth obscuring his lower face.

Ravaszhi breaks into a broad grin at the return greeting. He strains his senses, filtering through the different life forms until he picks out—Evren. In the scarf.

Like the echo of a warm, desert wind under a blinding horizon.

Ravaszhi bumps the blast doors' access panel with his shoulder and pushes off the wall. He extends his hand, letting his relief and gladness bleed out into the Force. "Welcome, my friend. It's good to see you."

Friend. Evren comes to a halt in front of Ravaszhi as the word settles somewhere in his chest and ignites like a firework. "Thank you," he says, accepting the handshake, managing not to stutter. "It's . . . very good to see you again as well."

"You look well," Ravaszhi says, ushering Evren into the hangar. "Are you hungry after your trip?"

Offering food before anything else. It's what Evren would do. He follows Ravaszhi towards the ship. "If it means more of your cooking? Yes."

Ravaszhi leads Evren into the galley, pointing out the various parts of the ship on the way— " I'm sure making it back to your ship safely isn't a concern for you, but you're welcome to the extra crew cabin for as long as you'd like."

He hands Evren a plate, gestures to the dishes of food. "Please, help yourself. How have you been?"

The ship's interior is so Republic that it's almost funny. Granted, the Maelstrom is so Imperial that it's practically a caricature of itself, but the difference is . . . arresting. The white-gold lights leave Evren exposed and tense, even more so as he hurriedly unwinds the scarf—finally, damn thing is practically begging to be used as a weapon—and accepts the plate and just . . . stares.

Ravaszhi made this. And he's . . . here, on a Jedi starship, being offered food, and for all he's in civilian clothing he still feels as if the entire moon is pointing at him and screaming Sith, invader, you don't belong here.

Breathe. "Well enough," he says. Think, think, something innocuous, anything besides blurting out the creeping terror of reporting back to Servant One—

"Had a minor spat with an associate who seems to be trying to steal my apprentice with promises of ancient knowledge and quality tea, but I'm fairly sure it's all in good fun," Evren says instead. "What about you?"

Something is wrong, but Ravaszhi can't tell what it is. His senses aren't that finely attuned. He decides to leave it alone, let Evren tell him if he wants to.

"Well, better than the first time we met." He immediately winces at the way it sounds, and rubs the back of his neck. "That sounded terrible. I wasn't well when I first met you. I'm much better now." He flashes Evren a quick, hopefully disarming smile. "I still worry about you though."

"I'm not dead yet, so let's count it as a win," Evren says. "And it's—good to know. That you're doing better." Breathe. "The—my masters, they, ah, they were pleased about the holocron. Earned a bit of lenience from them, for once. Did—how did things go on your end? I haven't heard anything about Imperial infiltrators being exposed, so . . . "

The vocal breaks—the stuttering—set off alarm klaxons in Ravaszhi's head. Something is wrong. He puts his arm out, putting himself between Evren and the door, and casts his senses out for whatever it is as he reaches for his lightsaber.

But there's nothing. No sentient life in the hangar other than them, nothing . . . nothing malevolent that he can sense. "It's safe." Unless . . . orbital weapons? No, that's ridiculous. Nar Shadaa is too lucrative to both sides, plus the Hutts.

Ravaszhi turns back to Evren, lowering his arm. "It's all right," he repeats. "What's wrong?"

Evren would hide his face if he had a hand free to do so. As it is, he bows his head and crosses the arm with the scarf over his body, drawing the one with the plate in close. Defensive posture. Utterly transparent. It's safe enough for that, here. Ravaszhi . . . he trusts Ravaszhi.

One of these days it's going to get him killed. "That's not—I'm—sorry. Stars, fuck, I'm sorry. I'm being stupid. There's no danger. Just—with, with Jedi, things usually don't—they don't go well." Mashallon. Yonlach. Yul-Li. Zylixx. Nomen Karr. Xerender. Wyellett. Tiyel. "And now we're here and talking and everything is fine and would it be all right if we sat down?"

Oh. Oh. Ravaszhi invited a Sith Lord onto a Jedi starship. Of course Evren doesn't feel safe. Feeling a complete idiot, Ravaszhi draws the knowledge that there's no one else aboard close, no one who doesn't wish Evren well, and tries to project that, gently, without it being overbearing.

"I'm not your average Jedi," he says lightly, pulling out one of the chairs for Evren to sit. "Everything's going to go fine. Unless I accidentally poisoned us, that is."

Evren laughs. You're supposed to laugh in response to a quip, so he does. He drops into the chair, sets the empty plate on the tabletop laden with food, and twists at the damned scarf. "Not too worried on that count. Force-enhanced constitution's a marvelous thing," he says. Humor is armor, humor buys time to unsnarl the words tangled up in each other.

And Ravaszhi's promising, and projecting, safety. For his sake.

For Ravaszhi's sake, he can try. "Thank you. For . . . all of this. The invitation, and everything else."

Ravaszhi holds up his hands, fending off the thanks. Sharing food and a sense of peace hardly warrant it, after all Evren's done for him. "Please, Evren, that's– not necessary. Is there anything I can do?"

Evren exhales. "Nothing you're not already doing. I'll be fine." He will be. Always is, in the end. He forces himself to put down the scarf, draping it over the back of the chair. "So, erm. Your shields. They have most definitely improved since Tatooine."

Ravaszhi lets it drop. "Thank you. I've been practicing."

"What do you want, out of your mental defenses? Protection against outside scrutiny, minimizing your presence in others' awareness, projecting something other than what you truly are . . . ?"

"The first thing," Ravaszhi says, too quickly. He doesn't bother trying to cover for it. "Anything you can teach me that I can use to defend against mental attacks, I would appreciate. In theory, couldn't I project volatile emotions to disguise my presence and appear to be something else?"

Evren smiles ruefully and spreads his hands. "Three guesses how I've survived this long, and the first two don't count."

Ravaszhi feels faintly lightheaded. It's really that simple. It can't actually be that simple."Could I try it?"

"Please do. It takes a bit of practice, and it has to become second nature to be effective for encounters longer than a few moments, but—go ahead."

It's comforting to know Ravaszhi will likely be bad at it at first. He's has never actually reached for those memories intentionally. There's…darkness, hatred and the cold hunger for pain coloring the memories of when the Sith was inside his mind.

His to use, now. Drawing the blood-hot rage out, wrapping it around himself, makes Ravaszhi's vision grey slightly at the edges, but he ignores it. The revulsion he feels at what he's doing . . .

Race traitor.

It isn't out of place for the persona he's trying to recreate.

Ravaszhi lets himself adjust a moment, and then lets what he's crafted flare out. "How do I look?"

Evren stares for a moment. "Well done," he says, a bit hoarsely. "That's . . . very effective." It's protection. It's survival. It shouldn't be necessary for someone like Ravaszhi to use this.

He shakes it off. Necessity is rarely pretty, or pleasant. "One advantage of broadcasting rage is that it's a wonderful deterrent for closer investigation. An angry Sith is hardly noteworthy. You become generic, unremarkable, part of the background of the Empire. It should be sufficient for most interactions, as long as you can maintain the facade. And that goes for ordinary Imperials as well as Sith—they may not be able to sense the Force, but they do recognize a threat, even subconsciously."

Apex predators. Meliah did love her melodrama, but . . . she wasn't wrong, about that.

Ravaszhi nods and lets it all go, shaken but . . . glad he made the effort. "Unremarkable is the bright ideal. May I . . . ask you something? About your using projection?"

"Of course," Evren says, more confidently than he feels.

"Were you projecting when I first met you?"

" . . . No." Evren wishes the scarf were in hand again; at least then he'd have something to focus on. "It's . . . not as much of a leap, for me, between the facade and—and what I am."

"You're a good man, and a good friend," Ravaszhi says immediately. "I was just that afraid, then." The weeks he had spent under the care of Jedi healers after making his report had helped—like lancing an infected wound, draining the pain and the emotion and harsh sting of memory off—but he can't afford to let that fear fester or return. "So, repelling mental attacks; is just a matter of willpower?"

The fireworks in Evren's ribcage explode again. His eyes sting. Oh. A kindness. One he doesn't deserve, but—and though Ravaszhi was afraid he was also brave, and that's—he asked a question. Evren pulls himself together. "To a degree, yes," he says. "Some shielding techniques demand raw strength of will, or strength in the Force; others trick the attacker into chasing ghosts. Bit like lightsaber forms in that respect, actually. I was taught the brute-force method, but in practice I prefer misdirection."

It sounds to Ravaszhi like tricking the attacker into chasing ghosts would require letting the attacker in. Not something he wants to repeat, but as a last line of defense . . . "I'd like to learn both, if you're willing to teach me."

"I'd be happy to." Then sense catches up to enthusiasm, and Evren grimaces. "Erm. The brute strength route as I know it . . . It's heavily dependent upon the dark side. You may need to, er, adapt it a bit." Or a lot. Forging hate and fear into a near-impenetrable barrier doesn't exactly lend itself to minor adaptation.

It really shouldn't come as a surprise. Ravaszhi knows Evren uses the dark side, so of course his techniques rely on using the dark side as well. But how exactly that works in practice seems . . . too far to reach. "How does that work, exactly? Drawing on the dark side of the Force for strength?"

Curiosity, not revulsion. Evren wonders if Ravaszhi even knows what it means to him, that he's just—asking, not recoiling.

He takes a breath. "I think of the Force—the dark side—as a fire. Feed it, with whatever you're feeling—rage, terror, grief, love, pain—and it grows stronger. Turning that power into a shield . . . If you'll forgive the mixing of metaphors, you sort of—forge the flames into something solid. Push back against whatever's attacking you. If you're lucky, that's enough to deter them."

Ravaszhi leans forward into the discussion. Evren makes it sound so simple. Trying to understand the nature of the dark side is—had been—heavily discouraged to the point of being impossible when Ravaszhi was an apprentice. Sith use the dark side for destruction. Jedi see past their emotions and are in tune with the true Force. And even that—what that is—is the subject of debate among different masters. "Isn't that a distraction? When I draw on the Force it takes focus and a clear mind. It's more like . . . navigating a current than feeding a fire. You can swim or dive or float, but if you lose control you can drown."

"Oh, yes, it's a distraction," Evren says, with no small amount of bitterness. "Many if not most Sith don't bother tempering their impulses, and will quite happily let everyone and everything around them burn. Dangerous, yes, but unfocused. The greatest Sith are those who embrace their passions, but do not let them rule, who remain in control of themselves and their power."

He tilts his head to the side. And there's an odd discrepancy that's bothered him since his apprenticeship. "Some of the Jedi I've spoken to—" fought, killed "—have mentioned that you're meant to . . . surrender to the will of the Force? What does that entail?"

Ravaszhi can't even imagine, living in a system where the quest for power takes precedence to all other life. Evren must be incredibly strong.

Aloud, he says, "That's actually something not all Jedi agree on. For many Jedi, the light side of the Force is the Force, all of the Force, and the dark side is . . . a corruption that the user brings with them. But there's also a strong belief that the Force—the Living Force—is made up of the interconection between all life forms, and it takes relying on instinct to submit to its will. For those views, submitting to the will of the Force is just a matter of doing the right thing. At least, the way I see it, Mas—uh, I mean—"

Ravaszhi's hand goes for the back of his neck, but he catches it at the last second in an abortive, awkward gesture. He can feel his face heating up, but at least his biology prevents him blushing. He coughs into his hand. "There's also a . . . less accepted view, that the Force is sentient. The Unifying Force, I've also heard it called Ashla, and it's neither light nor dark. Supposedly it shows Force users their possible futures and calls them to fulfill their destiny but," Ravaszhi shrugged, "learning about it was frowned upon."

Evren sits back. "Huh," he says. "That . . . would explain a great deal, actually." Two sects, each operating off completely different fundamental assumptions about the nature of the Force and their roles as its wielders . . . No wonder Jedi and Sith waste so much breath talking past each other, playing to the same damn script rather than actually communicating.

When Evren doesn't react to Ravaszhi's slip he relaxes, cracking a smile. "Too bad there isn't exactly a primer. 'Force Theory Across the Galaxy 101.'"

From the sound of it, adapting Evren's mental shield wouldn't exactly be complicated, per se. It's just a question of remaining calm enough to call upon the Force to repel an attack of that magnitude. That, in itself, would be the most difficult part: not giving in to fear in the face of another violation.

Maybe not the best place to start. "So for misdirection . . . ? Is it anything like projecting a false aura?"

"It is indeed. The false aura is sort of the . . . external version, I suppose, whereas misdirecting an attacker is internal. I've found that focusing on something inoccuous to the exclusion of all else, and projecting fear at the prospect of its discovery, can keep the attacker busy and distracted long enough to interrupt their attempt. Force or lightsabers, your choice." Evren smiles crookedly. "It's apparently quite difficult to concentrate on prying out secrets while being thrown through a wall."

Ravaszhi returns the smile. "I'll keep that in mind. So—" and here is the difficult part— "to learn it takes practical experience, I'm guessing."

"Yes." Like hell is he going to do to Ravaszhi what Meliah did to him. For all that it worked, he's not putting anyone through that. "Practice in safety is a bit complicated by the fact that your . . . sparring partner, for lack of a better term, knows that it's a ruse. But learning how to maintain a solid shield, how to handle any backlash if and when it breaks, how to keep your wits about you when someone's riffling about in your head—that's doable."

Sparring partner. Ravaszhi tells himself that it's fine, thatit's no different than asking Evren to teach him how to deflect Force lightning with a lightsaber and he's not asking for . . . for anything he shouldn't.

Still, he doesn't want to assume—"Are you willing to walk me through it?"

Evren managed with Jaesa. But then, Jaesa was never a prisoner of war. "Only if you're all right with it," he says after a moment's hesitation. "I mean—with me. In your head. I won't pry, you have my word, but . . . " He trails off.

Ravaszhi is not all right with it. He isn't all right with it at all, but it's a defense, one he can use to make sure it didn't happen—

Wrong. Breathe.

Nothing happened to him. It was done with intention, and this is a defense Ravaszhi can use to fight off the same kind of attack.

At least Evren seems to be picking up on what he's feeling. Ravaszhi isn't sure he can put it into words, but Evren at least deserves to know that this is . . . unsteady ground. "I trust you," he says. "I'm not concerned about you prying, just—" but it isn't even the pain that he's not ready for, not really. It's the . . . the mute horror of another mind forcing its way inside.

This is Evren, though. It wouldn't be like that. "—just go lightly. Try not to break anything."

Evren nods. Instinct cries for levity, anything to lessen the weight of Ravaszhi's trust—no. This is not a joke. This is a—a friend, who has been hurt, and should never have to endure that again. "I won't," he says. "Are you ready?"

It takes a moment, and Ravaszhi can't entirely banish his unease, but he can acknowledge it and where it comes from. He can still move forward.

Ravaszhi nods. "Ready."

Evren closes his eyes for a moment. Ravaszhi shines cool and bright in front of him, shot through with anxieties but unwavering. Evren reaches out to that brightness. Out—and then in, for the mental equivalent of a tap on the shoulder. "Feel that?"

Ravaszhi was waiting for something much worse. It lets him relax that last bit more, and quit staring at Evren waiting for something to happen. He closes his eyes. "Yes."

"All right. Try to shield your mind, now."

Ravaszhi fumbles at first, unsure of the best way to adapt a Sith mental shield, and then decides it isn't so much a question of withdrawing into a fortress so much as one of reaching out. He's on Nar Shadaa. The Force is like an explosion of life and sound and color, just waiting to be drawn on.

It's easier, to find the calm to open himself fully to the Force in the face of so much life. Struggling, often desperate life, but life. With so much potential.

And then it's simple: drawing that power around his thoughts like a shield. "Alright, try again."

Evren grins as he encounters a wall of chaos and noise and tangled, brilliant life. "That's the idea," he murmurs, and pokes at it, hard enough to register but nowhere near enough to break it.

It's more like feeling an energy-ripple across the surface of a body field than an actual blow. Enough power brought to bear could still break it, unless reinforced or redirected to attack. But then, every technique and ability has its uses. Ravaszhi can't expect this one to be an all-powerful trump card. "Do you mind if I try the misdirection approach?"

"Not at all. Word of warning, though, you'll have little to no time to prepare your shields before an attack, so, er, for future reference, you'll want to practice pulling them up near-instantaneously or keeping them up more or less constantly. But—yes. Misdirection. Focus on an image, or a feeling, and try to guide me to that. Make it an appealing target."

An appealing target?

There'd be a gamble involved, in actual practice, unless Ravszhi knew his enemy well enough to predict what sort of weakness they would go after. Anxiety over a hidden weakness, protectiveness towards a vulnerable group, fear of a potential outcome . . .

But Evren? Evren is good, and kind, and thinks too little of himself despite all sense. Ravaszhi has no idea what he considers an appealing target.

Well. Maybe he does have one guess.

He lets his shields down and calls up the memory of his debriefing on Tython, after he made his report about Tiyel. He feels the eyes of the Jedi Council on him, Grandmaster Shan's mental probe, the unsteadiness of the floor under his feet. Kira's hand on his shoulder when he swayed.

Background noise. Ravaszhi focuses, very intently, on the words of the first Master who spoke. "I agree with Ravaszhi, my friends. There is still good in this Sith."

Not closure, but . . . aftermath. "There is still good in this Sith." A target, and a taut string of fear-guilt-heartache leading right up to it.

Well. Ravaszhi's idea of bait is . . . painfully accurate. Evren follows the thread gamely enough, for all that part of him dreads whatever waits at the other end. Which is absurd; Ravaszhi chose the decoy secret himself. It won't be anything he doesn't want Evren knowing—

The thread leads to a memory.

For a moment, Evren wants to tear the Jedi Council apart with his bare hands. There is still good in this Sith? Of all the condescending, backhanded reassurances to throw at Ravaszhi after he tried and tried to talk Tiyel down only to be ignored and dismissed and mocked for it—and all that earned him was an admission that he wasn't irredeemable in their eyes? How dare they—

Except. Except—

The Sith in question isn't Ravaszhi.

Evren recoils from the memory, eyes snapping open, his own shields slamming down. For all the good that'll do.

It's over in almost the same instant Ravaszhi tastes bile. The sudden silence of being the only occupant of his mind leaves his ears ringing. "Evren?" Ravaszhi reaches out, thinks better of it—lets his hand drop to the table between them.

He felt Evren's trepidation what had to have been moments ago, felt his presence in the memory he had focused on, the blossom of rage that turned his stomach over and then—?

Suddenly only silence.

"Are you all right? Did I . . . are you hurt?"

Evren stares at the tabletop. He can't make himself meet Ravaszhi's eyes. "I—they said that?" he says, voice very small. "About me. Not—that wasn't about you, was it? Because if it was I may need to compose a very strongly-worded message for them—"

"Me? I—oh."

Sith.

Ravaszhi's hand glares stark red against the tabletop. He pulls it back, and folds his hands into his robes, avoiding looking at the smooth, human face across from him.

Sith.

Of course.

Ravaszhi's eyes sting and he blinks, suddenly hyperaware of their color. "Yes, they . . . saw everything, Evren. Exactly the way I perceived it. They're right."

Evren can feel the edges of Ravaszhi's discomfort—shame?—bleeding out through the Force. He can feel the snapped thread of remembered pain, frayed and drifting between them.

It would have been easier, to be angry at the Jedi. Anger is easy. And purposeless, here and now. Because he's—this is what he wanted to hear. Coming from those who should know better, but still think he's somehow—

And why should he believe them, after everything, what gives them the right to decide what is good when their most revered Masters are a few mocking words away from snapping and their most vulnerable Knights—the best of them, the kindest, the ones who care—are expected to burn themselves alive for the sake of their Code?

. . . They don't matter. Their regard does not matter.

Ravaszhi's does. Ravaszhi matters.

Evren clears his throat. "Thank you. Coming from you . . . it means a lot."

It's only the truth, it shouldn't matter who it comes from. Ravaszhi tries to smile, to keep the bitter taste out of his throat, before that line of thinking can go any further. Evren has something kind. And he called up that memory on purpose, to tell Evren something, and Evren heard it. He can be happy for his friend. "Thank you. I'm glad I could tell you."

Evren forces his eyes up. Ravaszhi has shifted, hiding his hands, posture slipping onto the defensive; for all his valiant attempt at smiling, he's clearly upset. Shame. Why?

"Are you all right?" Evren asks, a bit uselessly, as the answer is obviously a resounding no. "If I offended, I apologize . . . "

Ravaszhi freezes, tenses, teetering on the edge of reaching for his crude mental shield and lying outright.

He's not. He's hurt, and he has no right to be. Massassi are predisposed to using the dark side of the Force. It has been scientifically proven by the most respected medical minds in the Republic. They were at the forefront of the attack on Coruscant. There's a reason they're known as Sith purebloods, and not just because they'd intermarried with exiled Force users who had gone to Korriban generations ago.

What can Ravaszhi say? That he doesn't want to be seen as what he is? That it hurts, knowing his friend, his Sith friend only sees the same thing as every other human in the Republic?

The most privileged places in the Empire's ruling class are accessible almost exclusively to his species.

He doesn't want to lie. He can't tell Evren the truth. Ravaszhi swallows. "It's not your fault."

Aren't we a matched pair. Deflect, always deflect rather than burden another person with one's own pain.

Vette would be far more adept at this, but—all he can do is try. Evren lets his shields dissolve, exhales. "Even so. You don't have to if you'd prefer not to, but if you wanted to talk . . . You're a friend. I want to help, if I can."

And Ravaszhi wants to, he wants to so badly his jaw aches from holding back the words he can't form. "I—" Race traitor. A Sith and a Jedi walk into a bar, and the bartender says: Ravaszhi, you haven't been kicked out of the Order yet? A Sith agent trying to kidnap a Jedi right off Carrick Station . . .

A hard knot of fear-hurt-shame-anger, and the echoes of the words themselves, and Ravaszhi projects it out in a tumbled rush.

It's like stepping into a downpour in Kaas City, a wave of miserable cold that slams anyone caught outside into the ground, forces them to bow under the weight before it crushes them.

. . . Pureblood. Jedi. Sith. Evren stares at him, and thinks himself a fool for not realizing.

"I'm sorry," he says softly. "Ravaszhi, you're—no one chooses their bloodline. We're a bit stuck with what we get. But what you choose to become, what you do with your legacy—that's what matters, in the end. And—and to hell with anyone who believes that blood is reason enough to place some lives above or below others in their worth.

"The Sith are wrong. But the people who see you as anything but yourself, who see the legacy without the man—they are dead wrong too."

No chastisement. No recrimination.

That alone, and then that—that Evren doesn't only see a Sith when he looks at him.

Ravaszhi's jaw creaks when he finally manages to open his mouth. "Thank you. That's—" it's so much, almost too much, and he has to swallow again to keep his voice steady "—I can't tell you what that means to me."

Evren smiles, half in relief that he hasn't misstepped again, half in reassurance. Vette would offer a hug but that's—he's not Vette.

Start smaller, then. He reaches out, cautious, and touches Ravaszhi's shoulder. "You're you, first and above all else. And I may be biased, but I like who you are."

For a horrifying moment, Ravaszhi thinks he's going cry after all.

If they were standing and not awkwardly seated across a table he would return the sentiment by pulling Evren into a hug. Instead he reaches out through the Force with his gratitude, his esteem of the friend he would've been proud to train under in another life, in the closest approximation he can make shy of actually brushing that kind, guarded presence.

Open arms.

And then he doesn't cry, and all is well.

o.O.o

end