The little astromech hadn't wanted to leave its master. It was perfectly happy serving the former Sith Lord's wishes, even if they were a little dangerous. Its once shiny exterior now had some dents in it, not to mention scratches, but Revan was fairly kind to it. Now the droid found itself searching for the one person to help, as per its orders. And no matter how dangerous, the astromech always followed orders. And so it searched—it had to, after all.

The Miraluka hadn't wanted to follow the Sith Lord she was in the service of. Not really. But being made to…to see had been so painful for her. Just pain and lifelessness and dread. It had been the worst, most shattering thing she could remember, being made to see in that manner. That's why she had followed him: with nothing else left but pain and the Force stripped away, what else could she do? She'd had to.

This new master was really quite galling, the assassin droid noted to itself in disgust as it went about its mission. The first master was worthy of the droid's service. That master was exquisitely bloodthirsty, and much better with an arc wrench. The current poor excuse for a master had barely managed to put the hunter-killer unit back together, it noted with extreme dissatisfaction. Still, the droid had to assassinate any meatbag assigned by the master. It had to; it was in its programming.

Also, it was entertaining.

Through the smoke, the Wookiee had choked out a pained roar at her, begging her to end his misery. His wild eyes had been desperate and crazed from pain and—well—insanity. His wounds had been pretty extensive and she knew he had to be in an enormous amount of agony, and while she knew he deserved it, she couldn't kill him. She knew her old family wouldn't have approved, but hell, they weren't around. So she had saved him, and regretted it ever since. But she still couldn't quite truly convince herself that it had been wrong. She'd just…had to do it.

He hadn't wanted to leave the Order, per se. The departure of the master he had hoped for certainly had given him his doubts, but there were still moments he wondered what it would have been like to become a Jedi. A protector of the galaxy. They were foolish fantasies, to be sure. He had still taken a perfectly respectable path by trying to preserve the Jedi teachings—his would-be master's teachings—for all history. And besides, there were none left to teach him. He'd had to leave, he'd had no choice.

The droid had found no other way about it: it had been broken by its own flawed programming. There was no way to reconcile the immense error, and so the droid had taken in its options and chosen the one that seemed, altogether, more important. Having made that decision, it had then proceeded to abandon all attempts at the second one, doing whatever was necessary to further its goal. After all, it had to—the Republic was in its hands. Or would be, if it had actual hands instead of holographic ones.

The Mandalorian warrior hadn't been sure what to do with himself after Revan had left. The redeemed Sith Lord had left him a changed man, uncertain of what he wanted anymore. Perhaps even of who he really was. For the first time in his life he had stopped hungering for the fierce glory of battle, and that was just as Revan had left him, leaving him no victorious former foe to follow. He'd been left with no purpose, with nothing more than a pathetic message for him and the rest of the crew, saying: 'I'm sorry. I had to.'

The Sith soldier wiped the blood away from his mouth with the back of his hand before gulping down a large swallow of particularly potent Corellian ale. The warm burn of the alcohol was a welcome sensation to numb the other things he'd been feeling. Regret, fear, pain, and guilt had been causing him to go half-mad, making him dangerous on missions. He couldn't trust himself out in the field anymore, because he'd either alert his prey or give his secret away to the other Sith. He had to do it, he reminded himself as he kicked the corpse in front of whim, that of an unfortunately nosy former comrade. "Atton's a nice name," he rasped to himself before taking another swig of ale and crouching to take the man's identification.

The old woman stood alone on Malachor, in the claw-like space where she meditated to herself on the new teachings that flooded her mind. At first she had resisted the sweet temptation of the new knowledge, the Sith whisperings that called out to her while she searched for the truth. But soon she saw the light—so to speak, anyway—and now she was…so much more. She hadn't wanted it at first, but now? Now she reveled in it. I didn't want to fall, if you can even call it such a thing. But I had to. There is only so long one can stay blindly ignorant…

The destruction swirling around the Zabrak technician was more than he could bear as the world of Malachor had experienced the full power of the Mass Shadow Generator—the weapon of his creation. He and the general both had climbed weakly to their feet in the following eerie silence, taking in the death, the death they had caused. When he had finally been able to tear his horrified gaze from the wreckage and death of both sides—of people they had known—he had looked at the Jedi next to him, supported by him as she seemed unable to find her balance. She had just stared out at the devastation, her face drained of color as blood stained her hairline. All she had been able to say was, "We had to do it. We had to."