Author's note: I wrote this character study on a whim and posted it for a friend (who prefers anonymity) who thought I should. You know who you are: it's late in going up, but it is up. ^_^ This story is complete, and will be posted over time in nine parts based on scene change.
Obviously, I don't own The Old Republic, that's Lucas Arts and Bioware.
ZZZ
The chambers on Korriban were spacious, but dull. They were also too sparse, too masculine, and too his for her refined, delicate tastes. Why hadn't anyone cleared out all this…garbage…before her arrival? Wasn't it clear that she didn't want his things in her chambers?
It should be.
Darth Zhorrid huffed softly as she settled daintily behind her big desk, frowning at her charming bodyguards. She loved the way they said 'yes, my lord' when she wanted something and the way they never said 'no, my lord'—why would they? It would be stupid. Monumentally. She could feel them through the Force, little tremors of life, like little floating candles.
She glanced around the late Darth Jadus' chambers again, her little mouth twisting in distaste. She never really thought of him as 'Father'—'Father' was just a footnote on her long list of reasons why she hated him. The old monster. But he was dead and she wasn't, and she had no intention of sharing his hardly lamentable fate. None.
She pursed her mouth as the pain and anger swirled, picking at them as if at a wound to keep the emotions fresh, bleeding, painful. Pain inspired anger. Anger inspired strength. She'd learned it well on Korriban. She'd learned it first and best from that monster Jadus.
She wished she could have seen his mangled face in the instant before he died.
She shifted in her too-big chair, squelching the feeling of being a small girl pretending that her father's office was her own, dwarfed in a chair from which Decisions—with a capital D—were made.
It was her own office. The office, the chair, the bodyguards, the right to make Decisions. All of it. They didn't let fools who got themselves blown up by Force-deaf rabble make Decisions. And he wasn't even strong enough to come back, as some powerful lords were said to do. Which just went to show he was a fool and not nearly as clever and powerful as everyone always said.
The thought caused her a vague sense of unease which, in turn, stoked the low-burning fires of resentment she had felt towards Jadus since…hmm. She couldn't really remember how far back the resentment went. It had been tended like a flower, she knew that now. Now it and feelings like it could grow like weeds, giving her sources of strength previously held in check.
She frowned at her bodyguards, wondering whether she should destroy them here and now. Hadn't they failed to protect Jadus by being absent? What if they failed to protect her? She smoothed her fingertips across the desk's smooth, work-worn surface, its gloss of newness long gone, satiny smooth with the weight of Decisions mingled with the accumulation and consolidation of power.
Maybe she would keep the desk. But not the chair.
Then she reminded herself that, as a lord on the Dark Council, bodyguards were just for show. They were decorations. Accessories. Something de rigueur displayed for the Force-deaf masses of minions that filled the Empire. Maybe she should invest in some pretty ones, then. Something it wasn't a chore to look at when she had to speak to them.
Blowing up Jadus' cruiser. It was…simple. So simple. Simple enough that no one ever considered the idea in relation to other Dark Lords. The simplicity left her deeply uneasy, niggling doubt that came from knowing Jadus as she did nibbling at her consciousness. What if he'd escaped, somehow? What if he was just drifting in space waiting to be rescued? He'd be furious for being made to wait.
But no. No, if he was there he would have been found by now. Lords of the Dark Council weren't left to float around in orbit like space junk, to be incinerated upon re-entry. Imperial Intelligence was like a stirred-up anthill right now, and the Minister of Intelligence knew that heads would literally roll if the bottom of this mess wasn't found accurately and efficiently.
That Keeper person actually running Operations knew it, too. He looked young for an old man, she thought musingly. What a shame it would be to have to evidence her displeasure.
She closed her eyes, reached out in the Force, but found no trace of Jadus. They had never been close, but she thought she, at least, could be counted upon to sense him. She was, by some definitions, his daughter. Sith were only expendable as far as other Sith were concerned; such things were beyond the scope of the masses. They cared that Sith stay alive. They had to care, otherwise, there were nasty power struggles, vicious ones outside the norm that disrupted their tiny day-to-day lives…
He was surely dead. Dead and gone and if there was a grave she'd have danced on it.
She had bigger problems, lovelier prospects, now, so she closed the Book of Darth Jadus and opened the Book of the Future within her mind. She was Darth Zhorrid, member of the Dark Council. And she hadn't even had to kill Jadus, herself. Wasn't that wonderful?
Wasn't it?
No, it wasn't.
She should have been the one to do it: the other Darths might think her weak, since she simply moved up into his place, might think her unable to have killed him herself. It didn't usually work like that, a Sith being promoted to such a position merely because one of their parents held it first. This made her nervous. Sith politics were complicated. They weren't like those of the military, where you could kill one of the little grey men and another popped up, almost magically, in his place ready to answer your whims quickly and efficiently.
She liked them, really, liked the way they scuttled and shook in the face of a Sith's power. Like little mice.
Mice were adorable. Rats, less so.
She smoothed her hands along the desk. "Get the Imperial Intelligence fellow on holo, please," she declared, her voice quiet and soft. Most people didn't realize the soft, quiet tone was less a product of good breeding and more a result of her ruined vocal cords. But the softly sweet tones, which rarely rose above a murmur, were just another lie: if she raised her voice, the damage showed, like cheap speakers playing music, static-riddled and unpleasant.
She hated it, and hated Jadus for doing it to her. Hate was valuable. It was a good resource to hoard, and hadn't Jadus given her troves of it?
As far as the ruined voice, it was probably a small price to pay for power. She didn't dare show such weakness to anyone; it might be exploited. So she coupled a sweet voice with very nice manners and, if the rumors about her were true (she hoped they were!), scared the shit out of people. She loved the idea of inspiring such fear without making a great effort to do it. That was the mark of a good Sith, after all, the ability to keep the maximum number of people in line with a minimal amount of effort.
One of the aides lurking in the corner hurriedly brought a holocommunicator for her, placed it on her desk, while another placed the call, then transferred it over. It was a good guess: she didn't feel like standing in front of the holoterminal. Lackeys stood. Sith surveyed from a comfortable position.
"This is Keeper, Lord Zhorrid." He bowed at the waist, giving the impression he expected her to call sooner or later.
Here was another little grey mouse of a man. Jadus had particularly valued Imperial Intelligence. He said they were his, that they had always been his. Well, they were hers, now. All of them. Every last one. And they'd better get used to it.
Here they were, her own army of little grey mice. Maze-bright mice, some of them, but mostly little grey mice, that squeaked and shuffled in the shadows.
"Keeper. How charming," Zhorrid declared, reaching out through the Force.
He was a starched, staid little man, aware of the Sith ability to detect emotion and adept at covering his own. He was cloudy to her perceptions, giving off an impression of being dusty, musty, and cobwebby. Did they teach all agents such things, or was it the product of a life handling secrets and knowing there were people who could sense things—an ambiguous turn of phrase—and considering only the deepest recesses of the mind a place of 'safekeeping?' The layman's view of the Force and those who used it was often prone to overestimation and oversimplification. But both kept the masses in line.
"I take it you are investigating Lord Jadus' death?"
He didn't miss the hint: be concise. "We are deploying an agent your father fav—"
"His name is Jadus! Was Jadus! You'll use that!" Zhorrid snapped, hating the words 'your father.' Jadus might have sired her, but that didn't make him a father. The old monster. She trembled with hatred at the very thought, clawed at the pain it caused, and sank into the smug sense of being alive.
She was alive. He wasn't. She had the power, now, and what did he have? Nothing! He wasn't even a Force ghost. He couldn't even reach out from beyond the grave to bother her. She'd won. She was alive. She'd outlived him. For all his cleverness, she'd outlived him.
And now, she could reap the benefits.
The Keeper, utterly unperturbed by her outburst, inclined his head. "I beg your pardon, my lord. We are deploying an agent Lord Jadus had particular hopes for."
Hopes for. The Keeper was a fool. Jadus didn't have hopes for anyone but himself. And the polite, bland way the Keeper excused himself…it irritated her. He played the sycophant fairly well, but she knew his type: say what she wanted to hear then do just as he pleased. She wouldn't have it. And she wouldn't leave an important matter, any important matter but particularly this one, in the hands of some inept pick of Jadus'. Him and his preference for Force-deaf pawns instead of proper help. How he'd been so successful for so long was beyond her comprehension…
Though she knew, deep down, that if Jadus held any sort of interest for this agent, the agent had to be…something. Something of note. He might prefer the aid of the Force-deaf, but he was still selective, still careful. The perfect tool for each task.
"Keeper. You will send this agent to me and see whether I approve of him. Imperial Intelligence belonged to Jadus. Now, you belong to me, and I will not trust such a delicate mission to anyone I haven't examined myself." She knew better than to trust blindly: there was a reason for everything Jadus did. She doubted he went to the refresher with only 'call of nature' in mind. She didn't want some unknown with unknown potential serving her.
That would be stupid. And she was not a stupid woman, whatever anyone else might think. And if they were thinking it, she was a member of the Dark Council, now, one of the most powerful Darths in the Empire. If they were thinking that about her, they wouldn't be thinking it for long.
"Of course, Lord Zhorrid. I'll redirect him immediately. Shall it be to Korriban or will you be taking Lord Jadus' chambers here?"
"On Korriban. It's only fitting that he should come to me, don't you agree?" she asked sweetly. Imagine her going to Dromund Kaas just to meet some lackey. It was ridiculous. And Dromund Kaas was stifling. Depressing. Stymieing.
Give her the rage, the arid climate, and the sand of Korriban. Korriban smothered, but it was something that could be fought.
Keeper agreed with her. Of course he agreed, the aggravating little mouse. She would have liked to crush him right there for being so damnably agreeable…but that would be stupid. Wasteful. He wouldn't be Keeper if Jadus hadn't thought him capable of handling the post. Everyone knew what had happened to the Minister of Intelligence the last time Jadus spoke with him.
He wouldn't be Minister much longer. She'd find someone. Someone better. She just wasn't sure she wanted this little grey mouse overseeing the day-to-day affairs of her lovely little cadre of assassins, sneaks, and spies.
She let the Keeper sign off and found herself scowling at her desk as she tried to clear her mind. One needed a certain open lack of expectations when dealing with Force-deaf minions. Otherwise, their potential was compromised and, if Jadus 'had hopes' for this one, he might be an instrument best left unblunted. Maybe even in play, if he was nice to her. Polite to her.
Not wishy-washy and accommodating like that fool Keeper.