Retrieval

by Firebirdie

An undercover Jedi and a reluctant Sith find themselves hunting the same quarry. RP/co-written with Mother Of Ducklings.

A/N: A spruced-up version of several very late nights' worth of RP with the inestimable Mother Of Ducklings. Contains vague spoilers for the Jedi Knight and Sith Warrior storylines.

Retrieval

o.O.o

Evren squints against the glare of the twin suns as they dip towards the distant plateaus. Of all the days for the outpost's speeders to break down . . . He sighs and continues his slog westward, the sand shushing underfoot. It's going to be miserable getting the grit out of his armor later.

When the Jawa at the outpost shows him the speeders, Ravaszhi has to remind himself not to gawk. He's supposed to be Sith. Sith don't gawk, he tells himself sternly. He folds his arms and lets the Jawa run on about the different models, instead. His stomach turns over when he hears the prices, but they're still tiny, tiny amounts compared to the contract. He chooses the fastest one; it'll cut his traveling time in half, and with any luck that will leave him time to explore. Ravaszhi leaves the outpost and mounts his new speeder, and when the heat haze swallows it behind him he allows himself to grin.

An ascending whine catches Evren's attention some indeterminate length of time into the trek to the cave system where, he hopes, his quarry is still holed up. He turns to face the approaching speeder. For a moment he debates the merits of jumping up and down and waving his arms like a fool in hopes of drawing them in his direction, and is sorely tempted to do so, but . . . dignity. Or something. He settles for a less frantic wave.

Ravaszhi feels it as soon as his hand is back on the handlebar from waving acknowledgement. A cold skitter up his backbone. The memory of pain searing through the back of his neck. Sith. Of all the barren stretches across all the dune seas on Tatooine and a Sith just had to . . . he's already waved, he has to stop. He does, at a safe distance, trying to wrestle down the conflicting instincts to offer a stranded stranger water and put as much distance between himself and the darksider as possible. He manages to put both aside, and force an appropriate modicum of courtesy into his voice. "Nice day out."

Evren comes to a halt a few meters from the pureblood and grins lopsidedly. "It just got much, much nicer. I, ah, couldn't help but notice that we appear to be traveling in the same direction. Could I trouble you for a ride? As striking as this desert is, I'd really rather avoid frying myself upon it." And if he sounds desperate, oh bloody well.

Give the Sith a ride. Let the Sith on the bike. He tries to give himself mental space from the idea, to approach it without emotion, but the air is too thin and the horizon tips dangerously and it's all Ravaszhi can do to cling to the speeder's handle bars to keep from falling off. His sand goggles are smothering him, but he can't let go of the speeder to wrench them off. He's going to black out right in front of a Sith and they're going to– Ravaszhi wants to laugh. He still can't breathe. He clenches the handlebar until his glove creaks and then finally, finally manages to pry his other hand off long enough to drag the goggles down. And then he can breathe. He fumbles for a canteen, throws it at the Sith. Maybe it'll keep it busy while he tries to think. What kind of fool would possibly let the Sith get on the bike? When he's breathing, Ravaszhi realizes he asked it out loud.

Evren clutches the canteen and gapes a bit. He did not expect such an extreme reaction, not from—but blood doesn't mean much, not really, and if he didn't know better he'd say the newcomer was . . . but that's ridiculous. "You don't have to let me anywhere," he says cautiously. "Are—are you all right?"

A probe for weakness? Not a very good one. What's a darksider doing out here alone in the middle of the desert, anyway? Sith were supposed to like dark, grim planets, not twin sunned deserts with horizons bright enough to blind you. Ravaszhi ignores the question, asks: "Where are you going?"

". . . Kenija Plateau. The caverns beneath it, that is," Evren says slowly. "There's a smuggler hiding in there, in possession of some sensitive information I've been ordered to retrieve."

They're after the same smuggler. Ravaszhi seriously considers kicking his bike back into full speed right then and there. The last thing he needs is to be out the credits the contract will bring in, but if the Empire has sent its own representative on this particular smuggler . . . He can always make up his fuel costs in scavenged metals, and walking away will mean he won't have to deal with this Sith. "I have a BBA contract on that smuggler. Don't tell me I've got competition."

Evren laughs sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck. "Not for the reward money, at least. Once I have the information, the smuggler is all yours." He hesitates, then glances down at the canteen in his hand. "Also, erm, I appreciate the offer, but I brought plenty of water myself, so . . ." He proffers the canteen and hopes that the other Sith—possibly Sith? he doesn't feel like a Sith; if anything his reactions and general Force aura seem more Light than not—won't simply bolt.

Ravaszhi takes the canteen, warily, not sure whether he should be disappointed. He still has the contract, but he also still has the Sith. And the idea of letting it ride behind him— it will have to hold onto him, put its hands on him—makes Ravaszhi want to scream. But…Intentionally stranding a "fellow" Sith is one thing, but intentionally stranding one on official business? Ravaszhi is supposed to be a loyal Sith, after all. Saying it's the hard part. He wants to swallow hard. Grits his teeth instead. Tries to grin. "You wanna drive?"

Evren eyes the speeder. The idea of someone clutching at him for any length of time is profoundly unappealing. But if it makes this . . . bounty hunter? If it makes this bounty hunter less skittish, so be it. "It's your choice," he says with a bright, unworried smile. "Thank you."

Ravaszhi hands the Sith his speeder's code cylinder, and goes through a line of the Code in his head. It helps. He can do this. "What do I call you?"

"Evren," he says, inclining his head in an almost-bow out of habit. "It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance."

There's nothing for it at this point but to take Evren's politeness- genuine or not- at face value. Or at least pretend to. For now. Ravaszhi returns the gesture, inclining his head. "Moloch."

Evren nods in acknowledgement. "All right, then, Moloch . . . I believe we have a smuggler to apprehend?" He drifts a step or two closer to the speeder, keeping his motions slow and careful. Moloch's skittishness is . . . familiar. And not in a good way.

Another line of the Code, and Ravaszhi manages to release the tension that had clenched his shoulders. He makes an elaborate sweeping gesture encompassing the speeder.

Evren settles into the forward seat and tries to focus on the engine noise, the heat of the suns, the solid weight of his armor. There is absolutely no reason to be so damn tense over contact that has not even happened yet. He forces a smile and turns to Moloch. "Shall we?" he says, just managing to keep his voice light and level.

The initial blind panic has receded, enough that Ravaszhi almost feels sheepish. He's Massassi. He's wearing the Imperial emblem on his chestplate. His blue lightsaber is safely stowed away, the red comforting weight at his hip, and there is no reason to panic. He settles onto the speeder behind Evren, the knot in his chest almost light again. "Permission to hang on for dear life?"

He can't help but laugh. "Granted, though I do hope I'm not that bad a speeder pilot," Evren says wryly.

"Fortunately for us, there aren't many things on Tattooine to crash into . . . aside from the odd bantha." And if they can't avoid a two ton bantha in broad daylight, they probably deserve to crash. Ravaszhi puts his sand goggles back on and places his hands on Evren's hips. "Ready when you are."

It's fine. He's fine. Moloch is not a threat. Calm down. Evren breathes through the tension crawling up his spine and takes off, accelerating to a respectable speed, keeping an eye on the surrounding dunes for any potentially hostile wildlife, or Tusken patrols.

This may be the best opportunity Ravaszhi get to fish for information. Evren's not going anywhere, and he doesn't quite seem like a Sith Padawan. A Knight? All the Sith Masters he's come across have been blood-eyed and practically purple with dark side corruption. The ride is going to be too long not to try to satisfy his curiosity, and it would be helpful to know who Evren is working for, at least. "So who in the Empire did our Smuggler friend piss off?" he shouts over the wind.

"The Emperor, apparently," Evren shouts back, putting a bit of sing-song into the words. Tell the truth, play it like a lie. It's not as if the truth is particularly believable, anyway. Why, yes, I'm the Emperor's Wrath, I answer only to his Hand and the man—or whatever—himself, Servant One seems to think this smuggler possesses secrets of interest to our master, I'm just here to do the messy legwork because the Hand is busy being creepy and cryptic and uncommunicative. It sounds mad, and it is.

Ravaszhi laughs. He's pretty sure the Sith Emperor is really just a collection of lords, like the Republic Senate, not that anyone has outright said as much– at least, not to him. "Better you than me!" he shouts.

A flare of amusement from Moloch—Evren holds onto that brightness, shimmering through the Force. Whatever Moloch really is, he lacks the vicious edge of the Sith Evren is used to dealing with. Thank the stars. "Suppose I'm just lucky," he says. "How did you wind up with a BBA contract, then?" He winces internally even as the words leave his mouth. How much more obvious a deflection could he have come up with?

He doesn't even have to lie to tell the story: he was on the Fleet trying to find a rare metal to build T7 a new motor– sticking to the levels more popular with contractors and soldiers then Sith, though he left that part out– when he accidentally bumped into a pair of bounty hunters delivering a mark in carbon freeze. "The contracts are practically free for the asking," he finishes.

"I'll have to point a friend or two in their direction, then," Evren says. "So is this for sport, or money, or . . .?"

Sport is a strong word, seeing as it's the least of all available evils open to him while he's undercover, but Ravaszhi does genuinely enjoy talking to the Jawas and scavenging the oceans of sand, and the lie comes easily. "All of the above! What no mixing business with pleasure for the Emperor's—" he fumbles a moment, only just realizing he has no idea what the Emperor's personal agents are even called, and then seizes on a different word instead: "finest?"

Evren hesitates. He shouldn't engage, shouldn't speak his mind, not with a complete stranger—except. Except. Moloch doesn't seem like—and if there's even a chance . . . Jaesa would take it. Vette would take it. He draws in a breath and says, "Only if you find pleasure in bloodshed. All things considered I'd rather avoid it, and find other means of entertainment."

"What, don't—" Ravaszhi snaps his mouth shut on the question as soon as he realizes he's talking. Didn't all Sith . . . ? But of course he can't ask that; it'd be a dead giveaway. Didn't they though? Ravaszhi casts about for a way to phrase around the question. "Must make you popular with the soldiers, at least. You'd think they were a renewable resource the way—" Shuts his mouth. Again. Talking was a bad idea.

Confusion, not hostility, not hate. Fumbling through the motions of a proper Sith Lord. Evren tries and fails to squash the hope clawing at his insides. Please, please, please let this not be his last and most foolish mistake . . . "The way we throw their lives away? Hardly an admirable or even useful habit in a commanding officer, so I must wonder why we're allowed to get away with it."

They're the same—or similar—to some of the last Ravaszhi had had with his old master before leaving Coruscant on this assignment. There were so many soldiers dying in the capital's underbelly on an hourly basis . . . but sometimes sacrifices have to be made for the greater good. Everyone has their part to play, in life or in death. That was what he'd been told, anyway. Ravaszhi can't be so certain anymore, not after seeing how many Republic soldiers died trying– failing– to do what he could have done for them. Sometimes he suspects . . . no, it's disloyal, but . . . there's no way it'll get back to the Order from Evren, is there? "It's probably someone's idea of a test."

"To what purpose? What gives us the right to—" he snaps, then catches himself. Focus. This isn't a philosophical debate. "Apologies. I, er . . . my mother was an officer, and felt . . . very strongly, about the way the rank and file are treated." A clumsy peace offering if ever there was one, and a convenient partial truth, but—all he can do is keep Moloch talking, try to puzzle out what he is and why the longer Evren is near him the more certain he is that he's no Sith.

The vocal anger startles Ravaszhi into remembering just who it is he's talking to. Sith, Ravaszhi reminds himself. He's said way too much, but now that he takes a moment to actually think about the words that have been coming out of his mouth . . . Evren is nothing like the Sith Ravaszhi has known. Because he's not Sith. He's human. The only true Sith here is– Ravaszhi flinches from the intrusive thought, and pulls himself back to the conversation at hand. "I'm sure she was a very formidable officer," he offers.

"She was." Moloch's discomfort itches at the back of his mind despite the bland response. He presses his lips together for a moment. Family is a line of inquiry he'd really rather not pursue. Perhaps the direct approach. It's worked before. Occasionally. With people who weren't predisposed to cut him down where he stood . . . all right, so it rarely ever works; it's still preferable to dancing around indefinitely. "This is not a threat, all right? But you are terrible at obfuscating yourself in the Force. And I could not help but notice that you aren't exactly . . . Dark."

Obfuscate? He's never heard the word before, how—what does Evren mean he isn't "Dark?"? A sharp bark of hysterical laughter forces its way up his throat. Not a threat? He's on the back of a speeder with nowhere to—

It's over. It's all over. Ravaszhi feels the laugh to start to crack at the edges and grinds his jaw closed before he has to hear his own voice break. No. No, again, not this time. He lets go of Evren with his left hand and calls his lightsaber—his real lightsaber—and shoots the blade just under Evren's throat. "Unless you plan on dying in a blaze of inglory in about ten seconds I suggest you explain yourself, Sith."

Evren freezes. Shit. Fuck. Shit. He has to fight down every instinct screaming at him to wrench the lightsaber out of Moloch's hand with the Force and then turn around and—no. No. Breathe, and breathe, and keep breathing. He eases off the accelerator, lets the speeder begin to slow from air resistance alone. Projecting calm is somewhat beyond him at the moment; he doesn't bother to try.

"You feel Light," he says carefully. "Frightened and wary, but Light. You don't broadcast it but it's there if you know what to look for. I do." Then the color of the lightsaber humming at his neck registers, and he nearly bursts out laughing. "You're a Jedi, aren't you."

Ravaszhi doesn't dare move an inch. A second ago a wrong move would've sent them both spinning into a fiery trail of wreckage across the dunes. Now that they're stopped—idiot, Ravaszhi berates himself, did you forget the pilot controls the speeder?—it's a question of whether Ravaszhi can sever Evren's head before the Sith can electrocute him. "Clearly you already suspected. Why haven't you made a move? What exactly are you playing at?"

They're too close and he can feel the heat of the plasma blade against his neck and past the hysterics Evren wants to scream. "I mean you no harm," he rasps. "If—if you really are after this bounty then there's still no reason our objectives should conflict, and I've no interest in exposing you, you've done nothing to me and you wouldn't deserve what they'd to do you anyway . . ."

What they'd do to him anyway. The words hammer against the inside of Ravaszhi's skull and his hand starts to shake. Not now, he thinks, Force, not now, but it's no use, the smell of lightning is clogging his nostrils and he has seconds to decide whether he's really going to kill an unarmed— unresisting— sentient. He should do it. He has to; he can't go back there. He already knows what they'd do to him, he can still feel the nerve collar being drilled into his neck, he can still smell it burning him alive, he can—he can't. The lightaber tumbles from his nerveless hand. Ravaszhi sees it in slow motion, and then the tremors fully take hold. He can't even uncurl his other hand from Evren's hip, can't breathe, can't form the words to beg even if he tries, but what's the use? It's over. It's over.

Oh Force. Evren winces as the lightsaber hits the sand, shutting off automatically with a hiss. 'Moloch' is a knot of old pain and fear behind him.

Evren places his hand over Moloch's, gently tugging it away from his side as he slides off the speeder and faces the Jedi. He keeps hold of his hand. "Breathe," he says softly. "It's all right, you're safe. I swear to you, Jedi, you are safe here." He still can't project serenity, or whatever it is that Jedi do to their distressed fellows, but he can try to help.

Ravaszhi flinches hard at the touch, but the pain never comes. He doesn't actually hear what Evren says, but the tone is soft, and the softness hurts. He ought to be ashamed for taking compassion at the hands of a Sith, should hate himself for being this weak, but he can't, and he's so grateful it makes him sick. He means to say thank you, at least, but it comes out: "Who are you?"

"Lord Evren Straik, Emperor's Wrath, and very bad at it," Evren replies with a crooked smile, trying for levity. No point in glossing over the truth. "And you?"

Ravaszhi laughs, and doesn't even try to swallow the note of hysteria. "Ravaszhi. No last name. Jedi Knight, and also very bad at it." And, well, at least now he can ask: "Is there really a Sith Emperor?"

". . . Yeah. He's an arse."

A kind Sith Lord who takes his orders from the Sith Emperor. It's too surreal, and Ravaszhi is suddenly exhausted. "So, you're like . . . a nice Wrath, then?"

"Something like that," Evren says, pulling a face. Sobering, he says, "I'm sorry for causing you such distress."

The worst part…the worst part is that Ravaszhi believes him. Dangerous, desperate, foolish…and he doesn't know how to respond, but he fumbles through it anyway. "I—don't what to do with that. You weren't the one who—I'm not—Thank you?"

Dimly, Evren wonders who thought it would be a good idea to send a traumatized barely-adult with a tenuous grasp of Sith politics and etiquette on some mission that demanded in-depth knowledge of both these things. Not the time, though. He can be disgusted with the Jedi Order's treatment of its most vulnerable members later.

But—stars, it's hard to keep his anger in check, tamp down the burning gold threatening to swallow his eyes. Ravaszhi was terrified, hurting and drowning in it, and whoever did that to him is—

Warmth. He can offer that, warmth if not true calm, and he lets that float to the surface as he says, "Do you need more time? There's no hurry."

It's too easy to believe the offered warmth is real, too easy to trust when he shouldn't. The Order has warned Ravaszhi against the dangers of being manipulated through emotions but—he's so tired. He's been tired for almost two years, ever since he left Tython and boarded that ship. "Thank you," he says again. "You're . . . really very kind." He knows it's probably pushing it, but: "That thing you can do, where you can sense Light—will you teach me?"

"If you want." He clears his throat. "Shielding your mind from outside scrutiny would also probably be a good idea. I don't know what you're doing wearing Imperial colors, and it's probably best if I remain ignorant, but orthodox Sith who pry too deeply are going to see straight through you, and that's . . . not a fantastic outcome."

" . . . It's possible to do that?"

Evren blinks. "You—what? That's—mental shields are—" He drops Ravaszhi's hand and drags both of his down his face, boggled. "What in the nine hells have they been teaching you, anyway?"

"My trials were . . . practical exercises." Ravaszhi's face heats up, and catches himself from rubbing his forehead. Nothing's quite the same kind of embarrassing as realizing you don't even know what you don't know. "Before I had a Master I mostly learned Jedi history and lightsaber forms."

But the Sith probably don't have younglings raised together in a crèche until they're old enough to travel to Korriban. "It's . . . common for us to be apprenticed to a Master early on, but I wasn't until just before I faced my knighthood trials."

". . . Oh. Well, then." Evren shakes his head. It still seems wrong, to set a pureblood Jedi loose in the Empire without even knowing that defending one's mind is a possibility. "I can, er, also help you with that. The shielding. If you want."

Ravaszhi has a hundred questions he could ask right then, but a pale brown tinge to the skyline keeps him in check. Staying out in the open too long will come at the risk of getting caught in a sandstorm. "Maybe we should move on for now," he suggests. "But . . . after we grab this smuggler, if you're still willing, I'd– I'd like to learn from you."

"Right, yes, of course," Evren says, stepping back. "Er, do you want to pilot from here, or should I . . .?"

More kindness. Ravaszhi tugs up the back of his cloak self-consciously, where he can feel the heat of the sun on his neck. It's . . . almost embarrassingly considerate of Evren to ask. "I think I can manage. Unless you prefer to . . . ?" he waves vaguely at the pilot seat.

"All yours." He waits for Ravaszhi to mount up, then sits behind him, careful to move deliberately and trying to keep contact to the bare minimum. He huffs out a laugh. "When will they install decent handholds on these things for passengers . . ."

There's a rough joke in there somewhere, but the situation is awkward enough. "Never, probably," Ravaszhi says instead, and rearranges the back of his hood once more. He starts the speeder up again, and relaxes into it as it picks up speed. He tells himself that it's fine, that everything's fine, and almost believes it.

o.O.o

The sandstorm on the horizon creeps closer, and the suns sink lower in the western sky. They reach the base of the plateau as the wind begins to pick up, fitful gusts that promise worse to come. Evren spots a likely-looking cave entrance not too far out of their way. "Shelter," he calls out, pointing at it.

Ravaszhi sees where Evren is pointing and adjusts their course. He brings them to a slow stop just past the first curve, where the wind won't find them if it changes direction. Outside, the sky has turned brown, and it won't be long before visibility is reduced to scant meters.

He dismounts and looks up and around, taking in the cave system. "Home sweet home," he jokes.

"Love the decor. Earthy yet minimalist," Evren says airily. He reaches out through the Force but can't sense anyone—or anything—occupying the cave. "Seems empty. We should be all right in here until this mess passes over."

"Right." After what feels like an awkward amount of time failing to be interested in the cave, Ravaszhi's curiosity gets the better of him. "Is Korriban like this?"

"It's . . . colder. Less sand, more dust and rock. Air's a bit thinner, I think, and the wildlife is somewhat more universally hostile. And it sort of . . . weighs on you. The history. The entire planet is tangled up in the Force, but especially the Academy, as if there's something watching you. All the time." He sighs. "Or that could just be paranoia talking; it's a bit hard to tell sometimes."

The picture of Korriban Ravaszhi has in his mind is still the first one he ever saw: there's a long line of people who look like him (more than he's seen cumulatively in his life) dressed in gold and blue and black, and all the buildings are ancient, mammoth things. When people talk about Korriban in the Empire, they talk about like it's their Tython.

"I think I imagined it being warmer. Did you . . . were you trained there?"

"Yes, eventually. Most of my training was on Dromund Kaas, though, where I grew up. Korriban was more of a testing ground, at least for me. Running errands for the Overseers in hopes of a high-ranking Dark Lord taking an interest and offering an apprenticeship." 'Offering' is probably too passive a word; it was more a matter of demanding the cutthroat competition draw to a close as quickly and bloodily as possible, with the victor—survivor—moving on to direct service.

Ravaszhi remembers Evren mentioning his mother, but . . . surely Sith didn't . . . ? Yet again, but he's never seen or heard of anything like a crèche in the Empire, limited as his experience here are. "Did you…grow up with your family?"

He laughs, bitter. "Technically speaking. I take it you did not? You were raised by the Jedi from the start?"

"Yes. Almost all of us are." It's hard to wrap his mind around the concept of things being so different, but then . . . why wouldn't they be entirely different? This is the Empire they're talking about.

"Younglings are usually brought into the crèche by two to four standard years old. Contact with family is . . . discouraged." Not a problem for him; all Ravaszhi knows of his family is what he's been told: his parents died in the attack on Coruscant, and he was rescued from the wreckage of their ship as a baby. He suspects he wouldn't like his parents even if he did remember them, and he can't even imagine being raised by them.

"Then, families don't apprentice their own children?"

Evren exhales slowly. "Some do, some don't. It depends on whether or not any older family members are Sith to begin with, and willing to take on an apprentice. My first master was my mother's sister, until she sent me to Korriban." And for all his dislike of Korriban, at the very least Meliah couldn't reach him there.

Ravaszhi pictures a family of Evren Straiks, with the same laugh and the same kindness. He's not quite sure what the feeling it gives him is, and he veers away from it. "So the titles aren't hereditary, I take it? Your parents weren't . . . Wraths?"

He tries to imagine his father wielding a lightsaber, much less being addressed as "Wrath," and very nearly giggles. "No, they were not. They weren't Force-sensitive, so . . . And 'Wrath' is a, er, unique position. I'm the only one to hold that title." Anymore, he doesn't add, but that's not relevant right now. "The lordship is roughly equivalent to your knighthood, as far as I know."

Ravaszhi's mental picture of the Straiks adjusts, and the feeling clicks into place. He's jealous. He takes a deep breath and tries to put it aside. Jedi don't want. The Force is supposed to be enough for them. "Then are masters Darths?"

"Not always. It's a great honor," he says, sneering, "to be hailed as a Darth by the Dark Council—they're the only ones who can bestow the title—but it's relatively rare. Most Sith are either lords or apprentices, though they—we—are all addressed as 'my lord' by ordinary Imperials and subordinate Sith. We do love our hierarchies. And confusing modes of address."

If only more of the Sith shared Evren's views. It's too bad Evren isn't—Ravaszhi pauses. Evren is a Sith Lord and close to the Emperor. His family were (are?) Imperial citizens. It's probably a bad idea, but… Cautiously, Ravaszhi asks, "Have you ever considered the Order?"

". . . I don't think I'd be a very good Jedi," Evren says quietly. "And if I leave . . . It's not that simple. There are people I have to—I can't."

"But, um, for you . . . never under any circumstances convert to the Sith, all right? There is a light in you and the Empire will do everything it can to destroy it. Destroy you."

Ravaszhi tries to ignore the last bit, and can't. At this point, he probably owes Evren some sort of explanation. "I—know. I was a . . ." The only accurate words in basic are ones Ravaszhi can't bring himself to use. ". . . hostage. On a Sith battlecruiser." He hopes that's enough. He can't make himself sorry for jumping to the wrong conclusion about Evren, so he doesn't say he is. But— "Your people are lucky to have you."

Oh. Oh, stars. "I'm sorry," Evren says, a bit helplessly. He can imagine what happened and still fall short of the reality. No wonder Ravaszhi panicked, earlier. A pureblood Jedi, captured by the Sith, trained to fight but not how to bend just far enough—No one deserves that.

And it's probably not something Ravaszhi wants to discuss in depth, either. Evren clears his throat. "And . . . thank you. It's—I'm not certain how much good I'm doing, but thank you nevertheless."

If Evren treats his own people half as well as he treats complete strangers . . . but Evren seems embarrassed, and Ravaszhi doesn't want to make to him uncomfortable. Still, he holds up his hands, fending off the thanks. "Please, it's . . . the least I can say. And, if you're game for an inartful change of subject—" he nods at the storage packs strapped to his speeder, "—dinner?"

Evren brightens. "Very well. I have—let's see . . . some delightfully tasteless field rations, a few protein bars—bland, of course—and water. Fantastic."

Ravaszhi huffs a small laugh. "You're going to think I'm ridiculous. After I learned how to feed on dark side energy like other Massassi I—well—" he starts opening the different compartments and pulling out the palm-sized storage cases. T7 isn't there to laugh at him, but he still hear the warbling beeps. " . . . I might have overcompensated."

He hands over one of the containers with spiced meat and flatbread. "A small meal every hour on the hour keeps the dark side away, or something."

Evren's jaw drops. He accepts the container with a delighted laugh. "Jedi, you are now my favorite person in the galaxy. Thank you. Where did you get these? Do you cook?"

"Everyone needs a hobby, right?" Or an elaborate coping mechanism, but, semantics.

Evren cracks the container open and sniffs its contents. "Nerf with Talravian pepper, yes? You have good taste."

Ravaszhi grins at the compliment. He loves T7, but the little guy doesn't exactly appreciate the concept of food. "I'm going to introduce you to my droid friend so you can tell him so. I tried to explain food grades in terms of oil grades once and he asked what good it was if you couldn't take a bath in it."

"Pffft. My ship's droid tries, but its understanding of organics' tastes is . . . limited at best. We had to ban it from the galley after my apprentice nearly combusted—it noticed how spicy most of the food was and decided that pure capsaicin would be the perfect sauce." Evren shrugs. "Too much of a good thing, and all."

He can't help but laugh. Too much indeed. Then: "Wait—you have an apprentice?"

"Ish?" Evren waves a hand vaguely. "It's a somewhat informal arrangement. She operates independently, most of the time, and I really need to check to see if I have the right to raise her to lordship, because she's more than earned it. But technically yes."

Evren almost makes it sound like Ravaszhi's relationship with Kira—at least the "ish," part. He knows she can't be serious when she calls him "Master." They're more like . . . a loose knit team than anything else. "Is that common?"

"No, it is not. In part because it started immediately after my own apprenticeship ended. It's never felt very official. There's no real experience gap, no age gap, nothing like that. But it's worked so far." He gestures at the tattoos over his mouth and throat. "Privilege has its, well, privileges, I suppose."

Ravaszhi cocks his head, confused. "I don't quite follow."

Evren blinks. "I—it's doubtful we could have gotten away with such an arrangement if I weren't from an established, respected family, or if my own Master at the time hadn't been so powerful." He frowns slightly. "How comprehensive was your briefing, before being sent out here undercover, anyway? The Sith cultural aspects, I mean."

"There . . . wasn't exactly a briefing." Ravaszhi puts a hand through his hair. The apparent depth of his ignorance is mortifying. "The temple library's histories on the Treaty, the conflicts between Jedi and Sith, and everything they know about Sith combat forms was downloaded to my ship. The rest was supposed to come from a—contact." Nowhere to be found. All his leads suggest the Empire has had them vanished. He's been managing, but . . . not well, apparently. "Then your tattoos are . . . a family crest?"

Evren wants to beat his head against the nearest wall. Negligent, foolish, stupid Jedi, sending their fledgeling Knights out into the larger galaxy without a bloody clue what to expect . . . "Stars, are your masters trying to get you killed?" he mutters. Shaking his head, he says, "All right. Some human or human-passing families do have a signature tattoo design; some, like mine, do not.

"They're . . . sort of rite of passage. Or the reward for completing one." Not that he particularly wanted to be held immobile while someone stabbed ink into scar tissue, but—stop. "If a Sith has these, of whatever design, chances are, they are or are related to someone important, and should be treated with respect."

Ravaszhi flinches a little. His sense of justice nudges him to speak in the absent Masters' defense: "I should have thought to research Sith cultural norms myself. It's really not their fault."

"Your job is to complete your mission, whatever it might be. Theirs is to ensure that you are as well-prepared to do it as possible—" He cuts himself off. "Sorry. Just—I've met other Jedi who were . . . ill-served by their masters. Used and discarded. It's . . . never mind."

Either the subject is off limits, or Ravaszhi has frustrated Evren by being too dense. He holds up his hands. "I'm sorry; I'm asking too much. If you don't mind I think I'll meditate for a while."

"What? You're—it's fine, you've done nothing wrong . . ." Evren rubs at his eyes. There's no itching burn; small mercies. "I'm not angry with you, Ravaszhi."

"I know," he lies, "but I need—this is—" he makes a vague encompassing hand gesture— "there's a lot I need to meditate on." And that is true.

Hells, he's scared the Jedi. Evren nods, drifting away a few paces and perching on a broken stalagmite near the cave entrance. "I'll keep watch," he says.

Ravaszhi finds a likely spot and settles onto his knees. He's edgy and restless and stilling his thoughts takes longer than it should. He wants to ask if Sith meditate. He focuses on his breathing instead, until the cave around him starts to recede.

It occurs to Evren that being stuck a few meters away from a Sith is hardly ideal for Jedi meditation. At least, his very fuzzy grasp of what it entails. He can't blank himself out entirely for more than a few moments at a time, but . . . Evren focuses on the sparks of anger and fear and draws his shields over them. Imperfect, but better than nothing. He hopes.

Evren starts to recede along with the stress and worry of the mission, and the life around Ravaszhi flares across his senses, bright in the Force. There's a profogg colony a meter out and two down. Everything else that way is wild and static in the storm. There are sand bats down a branching corridor to his left, best avoided. And somewhere . . . there—a humanoid. A humanoid?

Ravaszhi falls out of his trance, and shakes his head to clear the mild disorientation. He turns towards the cave entrance. "Evren? I think I know where our smuggler is."

"Really? Excellent—where?"

Ravaszhi points— "It goes and then it forks. They're a few kilometers own the right path, in another open cave."

"Go now, or wait for the storm to pass, ensure a clear getaway if it comes to that?" Evren asks. He pulls a face. "Granted, the same could be said for our elusive friend, so perhaps sooner is better."

"I'm for sooner. I'd just as soon get this over with."

Evren stands, cracks his neck, and flashes a toothy grin. "Let's hunt, then. Lead on, Jedi."

Ravaszhi returns the grin and starts into the caves. He doesn't need to crack his saber to see in the dark—at least, not yet—and he's confident in the direction he remembers. He's not sure when he starts to feel uneasy. Maybe after half an hour, though it's hard to tell. They're getting close, but the closer they get the stronger the sense that something's wrong grows, until Ravaszhi can't write it off as nerves any longer.

Finally, he puts his arm out to stop Evren. He keeps his voice low, mindful of the high cave ceilings. "I have a bad feeling about this. Can you . . . sense anything?"

Evren closes his eyes, centers himself, and reaches out, careful and quiet. Their quarry's presence is a gleaming flicker in the Force, close but near-impossible to pin down precisely. He holds very still. Waits. Watches.

Then it flares for an instant as their control slips, recovers—cool and bright and clean and—and—

Waiting for them.

"Shit," Evren breathes. His eyes snap open, and he glances at Ravaszhi. "Did the BBA mention that this smuggler was Force-sensitive, by any chance?"

The back of Ravaszhi's neck prickles. Force-sensitive as in . . . ? Except he's pretty sure there are only two pertinent as in's. He drops his voice another notch. "Not a word from the BBA. If your sources didn't know anything either, does that mean they're . . . ?"

"In all likelihood, yes," Evren says dully. "Hells. This will be a fun encounter . . ." He'd planned to retrieve the stolen datacron and let the smuggler flee with a warning to stay under the Imperial radar or else, but if he's a Jedi, that's . . . It complicates matters. The number of times an attempted conversation has ended in a duel to the death—hells, hells, HELLS.

The Order's protocol on encountering fellow undercover Jedi is to either avoid contact or offer assistance. Ravaszhi can walk away, but that would leave the door open for every other bounty hunter to pick up where he drops it. It'd also leave Evren. Here, alone, with the Jedi he's been sent to . . .

"Retrieve information" from.

Ravaszhi puts a hand through his hair. "I still have a bad feeling about it." True. "Maybe we should try talking to him." False. Bad. "It's not like we can walk away at this point," he tries, and winces a little at how hopeful it sounds.

He really, really can't. Evren is on thin ice with the Hand anyway, after Makeb—if he reports back with nothing to show for it, again . . . He throws Ravaszhi a dubious look. "If you think he will listen to a Sith and an undercover Massassi Jedi . . ."

Ravaszhi had almost hoped Evren would take the opening and leave. He can't exactly warn Tiyel without breaking his own cover, and if he does that in front of a Sith . . . "Well," he says with false, forced brightness, "this will be awkward."

He squares his shoulders, and starts forward again. Going off memory, but unless he's wrong—

Ravaszhi comes to a stop at what ought to be the mouth of the other large cave. A few stray points of light from an old cave-in make it marginally brighter, but he still can't see . . . "Olest Tiyel?"

There's a faint scuffing noise, a brief flash of movement from the gloom, and then an emergency lamp of some kind snaps on, flooding the cavern with harsh blue-white. Evren flinches, blinks the afterimages from his eyes, squints against the glare.

An absolute mountain of a man watches him and Ravaszhi from the far side of the lamp on the floor, his arms folded, face impassive. Zabrak, dressed in dusty traveling clothes, no lightsabers or Jedi gear apparent—but the Force is strong with him, glittering cool and clear like sunlight through water.

"I should have known the Empire would find me eventually," Tiyel says, voice rich and deep. "It doesn't matter, though—I will not allow you to interfere with my mission."

If Ravaszhi can just get through this without blowing his cover—He has to be aggressive enough to sell it, but not aggressive enough that Tiyel resorts to self-defense. And he has to warn him about the other bounty hunters. No pressure.

"If your mission was to get famous with the Bounty Brokers' Association, then we're too late to interfere anyway. Mission success." Ravaszhi folds his arms. "Seems like a good note to end your smuggling career on. Why don't you retire?"

Tiyel shakes his head. "You might draw satisfaction from the hunt, or from wanton slaughter, but I am devoted to a higher calling. One that cannot be denied, even at the cost of my own life."

"There's no need for this to end in violence," Evren says rapidly.

Tiyel raises an eyebrow. "Is that so?"

"We're not here to kill you, Tiyel." At least, he hopes not. And he hopes that Ravaszhi's hunter persona is not, either. "The artifact you stole from Yavin IV—"

"I will not relinquish an item of such potential danger back into the hands of evil," Tiyel says coolly. He looks at Ravaszhi, eyes narrowing. "And you, bounty hunter? Or are you Sith as well, slumming it for credits out of greed . . ."

It stings. Ravaszhi had exhausted every option before stooping to this, and for another Jedi to think—

Backpedal, or dig in his heels? One option is as chancy as the other.

Neither, Ravaszhi finally decides. Deflect and keep moving.

He cracks a smile. "I thought Jedi could sense that kind of thing about a person. I don't want to fight you. I just want to tell my employers you're not going to be their problem anymore."

The Jedi's face could be carved from stone, for all his expression moves. "I can sense much about you. There is blood on your hands, and your soul is consumed with fear."

He rises, and Ravaszhi takes a half step back before he can stop himself.

"The Dark Side has taken root in you, whoever you are. And you, Sith—" he looks at Evren, weighing. "You make no secret of your love for slaughter. How many innocents have you already killed for the artifact?"

"You presume much, Master Jedi," Evren says. But—Tiyel's not entirely wrong. About him. Not wrong enough—stop, no, just stop. Stop feeling sorry for yourself, and do better this time.

He half-raises his hands, palms out, well away from the saber hilts at his sides. "No one has to die today. Give me the artifact, and my masters need never know you survived. The BBA will not bother you again if you lie low for a while, as my friend here said. We can all return to our lives—"

"I don't think so." The Jedi takes a step forward. Evren has seen Houks who were shorter and slighter. Still no lightsaber in sight but there's some kind of weapon slung across Tiyel's back, a large one. Large even for oversized Zabrak. "You know who and what I am, and yet you're still foolish enough to believe that empty promises would sway me? A Jedi's life is sacrifice. I would sooner die than make a deal with Sith." His gaze flicks from Evren to Ravaszhi, and his lip curls slightly before his expression settles into stoic impassivity once more.

Ravaszhi had started to mirror Evren's raised hands as soon as the Jedi stepped forward. The weapon— the vibroaxe? Oh, Force— is as long as his leg from hip to heel. This is going so very wrong.

If Ravaszhi tells Tiyel he's a Jedi, here, now, then it'll get back to the Order that the Emperor's Wrath already knew his cover. The mission will be over, and he hasn't even met his contact yet.

He can still walk away.

Except, no, he can't walk away, not with Evren still here. Ravaszhi doesn't want to think he'd kill Tiyel for the artifact, but on the other hand—Evren is the Emperor's Wrath, isn't he? He doesn't want to think Tiyel would kill Evren, either, for that matter, but if it came down to it . . .

Ravaszhi shifts his weight, just enough so that his shoulder is forward of Evren and he is between the two. "You wouldn't be cutting a deal with Sith. You'd be returning a stolen artifact to its rightful owners and avoiding a pointless fight. Where's the conflict with your code in that?"

"This is a peaceful solution, Master Jedi," Evren adds.

Tiyel shakes his head. "You twist the truths of the Jedi way for your own purposes—but none of you understand them. You never can, not with the dark side rotting you from within. We are not pacifists, Sith. We do whatever is necessary to protect the galaxy from people like you."

. . . Someone is going to die. Evren feels sick. Not again, not like this—and Ravaszhi still hasn't revealed his true allegiances, so Evren will remain silent on that count, but—please, no, not another Jedi too stubborn, too blinded by their precious Light, to even listen—

"Please," he says hoarsely.

For a heartbeat he dares to hope. For a heartbeat, Tiyel frowns, as if in consideration.

Then the Jedi raises his chin. "People like you," he says, eyeing Evren and Ravaszhi, "endanger the galaxy by your very existence. I have stood alone, a single light in the darkness, for years." He reaches behind him, draws the vibroaxe, shifts his stance in preparation to strike or defend.

"But if I must risk that light for the sake of banishing a few of the shadows that prey on the innocent . . . I will do it, gladly."

Ravaszhi throws his arm out in front of Evren instinctively, before he reacts to Tiyel's bared weapon. There's nothing else for it. He's never heard of a Knight busted back to Padawan before, but there's a first time for everything. They'll probably have his lightsaber for this, but if it saves a life . . . .

Is the mission worth more than a life?

No.

No, nothing is. "We're not the evil you think. I am Knight Ravaszhi of the Jedi Order." Not a name anyone would recognize, not one Tiyel can trust— "I was trained by Master Orgus Din on Tython, and sent here on a covert mission." His other hand is still raised. He extends it to Tiyel, fingers spread, palm out: don't. "Please. You have nothing to fear from us, you or the innocent. We're not your enemy."

There was a sensation, there and gone, of an invasive inspection: quick and clinical and utterly dissatisfied.

"So they did train a pureblood. A Sith—" Tiyel points his axe at Evren, then at Ravaszhi— "and a fallen Jedi."

Then he's flying at Ravaszhi's head, and he barely raises his lightsaber in time. "Get your artifact!" he shouts at Evren.

Evren slides clear of the avalanche of whining axeblade and unstoppable Jedi. He'd just love to get the artifact, grab Ravaszhi, and run like hell, but the first step of that process requires knowing where it IS, which he does not, and Tiyel is attempting to dismember Ravaszhi, his fellow Jedi, one of his own, with a bloody vibroaxe—

Evren's lightsabers snap to hand, igniting with twinned hisses in a burst of red light, and he bares his teeth and lunges forward, blades whirling towards Tiyel's exposed side.

Without disengaging, the Jedi flings a hand out and shoves, throwing Evren aside, staggering him, as he continues to hack at Ravaszhi's raised saber. Brutal chopping attacks, all strength, no finesse. Relentless. Not angry or afraid, though. Evren can sense nothing but conviction from Tiyel.

Dun moch's out, then.

Why isn't Evren looking for the artifact? Their best chance is to get out of here and lose Tiyel in the tunnels before he overpowers them. Ravaszhi catches another blow before it bites into the juncture between his shoulder and neck. His forearms start to burn with the strain of forcing the weight back.

"Evren," he grinds out, "I can't hold him off forever; I need you to find your—Evren look out!"

The ground pitches under him as Tiyel brings rock cascading down from the cave ceiling.

Evren takes the memory of terror and rock dust in his lungs and trappedcan'tmoveitHURTS and kicks it into rage, into power, eyes stinging as he deflects the falling rocks away with a sweep of his off hand. He spins with it, whirling onto the offensive. "You'll get us all killed, you fool!" he snarls at Tiyel.

The Jedi shoves Ravaszhi back and away, manages to bring the shaft of his axe up in time to block the assault in a shower of sparks. In the flickering light Evren spots a small, cube-shaped distortion in Tiyel's coat pocket. The holocron.

"Better to die for a righteous cause than surrender to evil!" Tiyel shouts.

Evren darts in under his guard, nearly lands a hit—Tiyel jinks back out of range, damnably agile. And then Evren's on the defensive himself as the Jedi begins swinging the axe at his neck and arms and shoulders, too strong to match—Evren bats each blow aside and tries to riposte with his other blade, but Tiyel is too damn fast, blocking with apparent ease.

Fine. They can't win like this, but they don't need to defeat Tiyel at all. Evren screams, the sound ripping its way out of his throat, and in the brief instant of distraction the Force attack provides he reaches out and pulls, tugging the holocron free of Tiyel's jacket—

And promptly losing concentration and dropping it as Tiyel brings the axe down hard enough to split the stone underfoot as Evren skitters aside.

Ravaszhi sees the small object as it flies through the air, first towards Evren and then in a wild arc across the room, and reaches for it with the Force. It flies into his hand, and he holds it in the air. "Tiyel!" he shouts.

The other Jedi turns his attention back to Ravaszhi, straightening out of his swing with all the finesse of a Mandallian Giant. "You seek to destroy the Order, and yet you have claimed to serve the Light. Do you even know what is you hold?"

Tiyel steps left, and Ravaszhi moves with him, desperate to keep him talking as long as possible, to end this madness. "I do serve the Light," he insists. Tiyel says nothing as they circle each other, but he's drawing closer to his little campsite, where they found him. If only Ravaszhi could get through to him— "There's more to the Light than banishing the darkness, Tiyel. There's also mercy, and compassion, and peace. This can end here."

"Yes," Tiyel agrees. He stretches out his hand, and the cave plunges into darkness.

In the time it takes for Ravaszhi's vision to readjust, the light off his blade is almost blinding.

He doesn't see Tiyel until the giant is right on top of him, and a Force-powered blow to his side sends Ravaszhi flying across the cave until unyielding rock slams him to a halt. The air goes out of him in a sick grunt. He lies there stunned and gasping, trying to blink the spinning darkness to a halt before calling his lightsaber and staggering to his feet.

An opening, and Evren can't take it, it's a killing blow and there must be another way out of this, there has to be—

Tiyel seizes the second of hesitation. Rushes forward, sweeping the haft of his vibroaxe to connect with Evren's offhand saber—it jars the hilt out of his hand and the blade deactivates as it hits the ground. Evren retreats a step, hissing out a breath through his teeth as he parries an overhand strike. Too strong to halt it—twist aside, let the blow slip on the diagonal, keep moving, keep retreating, think, THINK—

Tiyel reverses the axe and thwacks Evren in the gut with the blunt end. Gasping, Evren doubles over. A blast of Force slams him into the wall. The back of his head hits the stone. Stars burst across his vision. Tiyel surges forward, twists his right wrist until the tendons scream and his remaining lightsaber falls uselessly.

Then Tiyel switches the axe to his newly-freed hand and seizes Evren by the throat.

It's a foolish move. So very many ways to break the hold. So many. But rationality crumbles under blank staticky terror. He can't breathe. He can't breathe and there's—he's—

There's nothing to go on now but the searing red of Ravaszhi's own lightsaber, but it's enough– enough to see Evren's last weapon hit the ground, enough to see the look on Evren's face when Tiyel starts to squeeze.

Ravaszhi lets out a shout and sends his blade spinning for Tiyel's back.

He doesn't wait to watch. He doesn't have to. The cold certainty that he isn't going to get there in time gnaws at his insides, a white-cold counterpoint to the blaze of red that streaks across the room—Tiyel turning and batting Ravaszhi's lightsaber away.

It's an opening. Ravaszhi throws himself into the space between Tiyel and Evren, scoops up Evren's lightsaber from where it fell in the last second before Tiyel turns and—and—

The ozone crack of the blade and the sweet stink of charred meat register after the weight.

Ravaszhi stumbles as Tiyel's body folds into his arms.

Evren sucks in lungful after lungful of plasma-scorched air. Half-raises his left hand to his own throat but doesn't touch it, curls the fingers into a fist, forces it down. Eyes screwed shut, he leans hard against the cavern wall for stability. "Did he—are you all right?" he rasps. "Ravaszhi . . .?"

He can hear Evren, but the words—

The sheer weight of Tiyel's body bears Ravaszhi to the ground, and he lets it. There's a clatter, something falling, and he curls his arms around the other Knight's head. He had— he should—

Ravaszhi tries to swallow around the hard knot in his throat. He should say something. To Evren. Make sure he's alright, or . . .

The first sob punches him behind the breastbone. And then there's no stopping it, the claw of ugly, wet pain working up Ravaszhi's throat, the tears burning his eyes, and there's nothing to do but cradle Tiyel's head while it happens.

Evren flinches as Ravaszhi begins to weep. There's something cold and heavy tangled in his ribs, and the Jedi's grief pulses like a dying heartbeat.

If he'd been faster, if he'd been able to—and even if there were no other way wouldn't it have been kinder to just get it over with? Gods, he's killed more Jedi than he can remember, and for far less reason than Tiyel gave—what's one more against Ravaszhi, who is too young and too hurt and too kind for this—and he forced Ravaszhi into this position by his incompetence, his weakness.

Try to save a life and watch a boy become a Jedi-killer.

Ravaszhi is breaking in front of him and it's his—damn—fault.

Evren kneels beside Jedi and fallen Jedi, reaches out to tug gently on the corpse's jacket. "It's done," he says scratchily. "You have to let go of him, Ravaszhi, come on . . ."

He wants to. He has to. Ravaszhi did this, and now he needs to deal with the aftermath. He tries to swallow the grief, but his voice comes out weak and wet and shaken anyway. "I need to bury him. And— and report to the Council." He looks up at Evren helplessly. He couldn't be there when Ravaszhi made the call. "You should go."

The cold, constricting heaviness pulls tighter. Evren runs his tongue over his lips. "I—" He breaks off. I'm sorry? Sorry won't change anything. Won't help anyone.

And it's. He can't—what can he even do, how can he possibly help now, when his involvement, his selfish insistence on continuing the mission out of fear, pure pitiful fear, led to this?

"The holocron," he blurts out. "You had it—" He clamps his mouth shut, drags a hand down his face. Stop talking, stop, just stop, just go, leave, get up and leave before you hurt him any more, haven't you done enough damage already?

Ravaszhi stares.

The holocron. Of course the holocron. Tiyel's burial can wait, Ravaszhi's confession to the Council can wait, getting himself safely out of the way, out of the picture, while Ravaszhi makes his report can wait for Evren because-

Because Ravaszhi will just hand the holocron over to him. While everything else waits. Because Evren was kind to him.

That's unfair. Ravaszhi had known what Evren was and forced himself into his business anyway, thinking he could save him from a fatal confrontation. He had no one to blame but himself, and for what?

Slowly, Ravaszhi extricates himself from under Tiyel's body, and stands up. Evren's lightsaber is still on the ground where Ravaszhi dropped it. He stoops, and picks it up, and tosses it to Evren. Why not? It doesn't matter now. Then he takes the holocron out from the inner pocket of his cloak where he had stashed it, feeling its weight his hand, considering. He could break it.

"What." Ravaszhi's voice still shakes. Not with grief. "What is this?"

Evren can feel sick laughter bubbling up in his throat. "I don't know," he says. "Fuck. Fuck, I don't know, this is—fuck them, keep it, I'm sorry, just—I'll go. I'm sorry."

Useless apologies, useless rationalizations. He keeps apologizing and it doesn't mean shit, not when he keeps hurting people anyway.

He stands, swaying a little as his head throbs where it hit the stone, and automatically clips his lightsabers to his belt. His right wrist is probably sprained. No further damage, though. Nothing time and kolto won't fix.

. . . Irony, irony, irony, and the monstrous laughter nearly escapes. He chokes it down. Breathes. "Tell them I killed him. They'll believe it. I'm—they know of me. They'll believe you. This wasn't your fault."

If only that were true. Ravaszhi looks down at Tiyel, the evidence and last testmanet to his own words.

I can sense much about you. There is blood on your hands, and your soul is consumed with fear. The Dark Side has taken root in you, whoever you are.

Tiyel had been right, not Evren. And the other Sith…they had been right, about him, too. They had all been right.

Ravaszhi looks at the holocron in his hand. Does it really matter, now?

"Wait," he says finally.

Evren stills. "Ravaszhi . . ."

Ravaszhi swallows again. His throat feels tight and sore and he is so, so tired. He can see Evren back through the cave system, at the very least. Evren followed him in here, after all. And then he can . . . he can collapse this cave. Make a cairn. T7 had made him a set of thermal charges, for emergency, just in case. They ought to be enough.

A small, craven part of him wants to stay when it happens. It would be over so quickly. But he has too much left to do, for that.

Ravaszhi holds the holocron out to Evren. "Please."

It's the only reason he's here. It's his ticket to another few weeks or months of lenience from the Hand. It's time, an inch or two of slack in his leash, and right now he wants nothing more than to crush the damned thing to dust.

He reaches for the holocron, then hesitates. Retracts his hand. "Take it," he says. "Whatever my masters want it for cannot be good for the Republic, and I doubt it will benefit anyone but the Emperor himself."

If only he could. Ravashi had been afraid to leave Evren alone with Tiyel bare hours ago. He'd been afraid to tell Tiyel the truth of what he was doing. He'd been afraid for Tiyel and afraid of the Order and afraid both of and for Evren, and he's still afraid for Evren. The Sith lord.

When had Ravaszhi fallen this far?

"Evren . . . what will happen if you don't bring it back with you?"

"Does it matter?" Evren says harshly. "I should never have insisted on accompanying you here in the first place—the Empire is broken, Jedi, it's broken to its heart and there are forces at work within it that will stop at nothing to keep it from healing or growing or changing, and I answer to the worst of them. Far better to invite a bit of chastisement with one failed mission than satisfy them with exactly what they want!"

And he's afraid, oh, he's deathly afraid, this is going to hurt, but—if it gives Ravaszhi even a fraction of a win out of this hysterical farce, if it keeps that coolly brilliant little spark alive a little longer, it's worth it. It's worth everything.

The harshness hurts. The fact that Ravaszhi did all this trying to help, trying to save Tiyel and Evren from each other, hurts more. He murdered Tiyel. He dragged Evren into his own guilt and shame. There is nothing he can do to make any of it right, but he can't do nothing, either. Walk away with the holocron? Stand here and argue pointlessly, trying to convince Evren to take it?

Paralyzed with indecision, Ravaszhi can't force himself to act until Evren's last words have grown stale. Then: "If you won't take it with you . . ." He closes his eyes and tries to focus, to Feel the metal seams at the cube's corners for the catch.

There.

He feels the holocron open without seeing it, nothing like the datacrons he'd unearthed on Tython that unfurled with a tangible glimmer in the Force that he could never quite describe. This one, with more like a fevered burn. It felt . . . wrong.

He doesn't even know what he's seeing when he opens his eyes. The script burning into his eyelids is aurebesh, but it . . . "Children of the Emperor . . . ?"

Names. Dates of birth. Planets. Associates. Razor blue against the gloom. Evren stares until the symbols smear across his vision when he glances past them, Ravaszhi's magma-bright eyes washed out by the cold glow.

He's a traitor already, a dozen times over. And this—this is—might as well go for broke. "I was never directly told of them," he says, "but—there are rumors. Whispers. Sleeper agents, answering directly to the Emperor himself. They have some kind of . . . connection to him, in the Force, more so than the Imperial Guard or even the Hand . . ."

No wonder Servant One was so adamant about recovering the holocron. And no wonder Tiyel was so intent upon keeping it.

Evren exhales shakily. "The Jedi need this intel."

They do. Some of the people . . . some of them Ravaszhi recognizes. A famous soldier's name here, a lesser known senator's name there. Some the names could even be—

Kira?

Everything's cold. "You're right." He has leave immediately. He has to call T7, back on the ship. He has to— Ravaszhi looks around the cave. He has to set the charges first. Make a tomb out of this place. And then he has another confrontation to make.

Another Sith to try to save. More Jedi to try to save from a Sith.

Ravaszhi rubs his forehead. He is afraid. He doesn't have time to be afraid. Nothing changed and nothing helped and he never should have made it off Kilran's warship alive. He doesn't have time to think about that, either. "I'm going to set charges in this cave and let the rock . . . I'm going to bury Tiyel. You should get going." One last bid. "I've seen the information. You can still have this back, Evren." You don't have to fall on my sword too, Evren.

". . . Thank you." There are so many names. So many cracks in the Republic's armor. And—and if Ravaszhi's treatment at the hands of his own Order is anything like Evren's suspicions, if it's anything like Yonlach and Yul-Li, or Nomen Karr and Jaesa—will his word be enough? Will memory be enough?

Jedi and Sith alike can twist it to their liking. Memory is vulnerable. And when no one can be trusted, not even your own mind . . .

"Copy everything to your datapad," Evren says. "Everything. And back it up, multiple locations, places only you'd think to look. When these Children are exposed then I can claim that—that Tiyel transmitted the information before I could reach him."

Ravaszhi nods, so sick with relief he could vomit. He doesn't know Evren's Master and he can't even say he knows Evren, not really, but Sith, failure . . . ? Thinking about it makes the scar on the back of his neck itch. Nothing good.

He can't save everyone. Not Tiyel. Not untold numbers of Coruscanti citizens he'd been too late to make a difference for. But if Evren walks away with his holocron, and he can get to Kira before anyone else, then it'll be enough.

It has to be. It's all there is.

"I'll give you a head start. Take the lamp with you; it's all for nothing if you stumble into the sand bat nest. And Evren—" Ravaszhi tosses the holocron, knowing the words might not mean anything to a Sith, but still— "may the Force be with you."

He catches it reflexively and flashes a brief smile as it deactivates, facets collapsing down smoothly in his hand. "May the Force be with you," he echoes.

Pocketing the holocron, he scoops up the lamp and switches it on again. The harsh white light returns color to the monochrome cavern, barely. A step towards the tunnel back to the surface, another. He hesitates, then says, "Take care of yourself, Ravaszhi. And—good hunting."

Step after step, victory weighing heavy as horror, onward into the dark.

o.O.o

end