A/N: Might continue this, might not. Theron needs hugs, though. ;_;
Cavalry
o.O.o
Sith don't have friends. Sith have allies of convenience, and they'll stab you in the back the second they see an advantage in it.
Theron knows this. He knows, he's a spy, trust no one is the first rule of the job and it goes double for Sith—the enemy, they're the enemy, he should never have forgotten it—
But he wanted to.
Because for a few days he thought there was . . . something, between the three of them. Camaraderie, maybe. Or—they could have been more than allies of convenience. They could have been—stars, it sounds juvenile, but there it is—friends. He would've liked that. Figuring out how to make Lana's eyes crinkle up at the corners because she might be able to stifle her laughter but she can't hide it all the way. Getting Straik to open up, coaxing out a grin—
He would have liked to know them, these weird Imperials, in another life.
One where they didn't leave him to get captured and tortured by Revanites.
Theron ducks under the descending blast door at a sprint. He can't afford to think about the cuts and bruises on his face, or the cracked ribs, or the prickling numbness around the injection sites, or the way his throat is raw from screaming. He keeps running.
Barely into the next room, he lurches and trips to a halt.
It's . . . carnage. Broken droids—no, not broken, ripped to pieces—litter the floor. Revanites in Republic and Imperial uniform lie in pieces, too. Some of the wounds are cauterized, the edges of their armor still smoldering with residual heat. Some aren't. There is a lot of blood.
And in the middle of it all, finishing off the last few Revanite guards in a whirl of red light, is the Emperor's Wrath.
His lightsabers buzz in either hand, gore and dirt streaking his black armor. His eyes glow like molten metal. He stands taller now, moves with lethal grace, a dancer at home on a bloodstained stage.
It hurts to breathe. Everything's been hurting for a while but this is different, this is the worst kind of hurt of all, ugly pitiful hope clawing at Theron's insides.
The Wrath's eyes lock on him and widen. "Theron," he says, voice nearly breaking. And that's—he lowers his sabers and Evren takes a halting step towards him—
Theron stays still. He remembers his training. He remembers Master Zho, his SIS instructors, long experience: don't let your personal feelings get in the way of doing your job. He squares his shoulders, drags in a breath, and does not wince at the pain. He says, "I know what Revan's planning." Mission accomplished. Lana will be thrilled.
Evren stops. "That's lovely, but are you all right?"
"Yeah, I'm fine, now let's get out of here before more of them show up."
"Try to stay in one piece," Evren says, all soft and teasing with an undercurrent of actual, genuine concern. And that—that hurts, too. Worry. For Theron. Not his intel. At least that's what Theron wants to believe.
He's been played like a fucking amateur—and the worst part is that he should've known, should've seen it coming, and he didn't because he was too busy thinking that maybe this time it'd be different, maybe this time—
"Theron." Nobody splattered in other people's blood should be able to sound like that, say his name like he matters more than the mission. Nobody so deep in the dark side that their eyes are literally glowing should radiate a feeling like a hand on his shoulder, just for a second or two, just long enough to register it and know it was deliberate.
Sith. Sith lie and manipulate, same as Jedi, same as spies. They're all the fucking same. He asks anyway. "Did you know?"
"No. Theron—I'm so sorry."
". . . Come on," Theron says brusquely, turning away. He wants to believe it. And that's exactly why he shouldn't.
o.O.o