Revan sat motionlessly in his transport, gazing at the wall, his eyes subconsciously taking in all of the stats and information on his HUD.
Ten minutes. That was all he would spare to deal with this spineless dog.
There was a soft lurch as the transport landed and the Dark Lord stood smoothly, cape flowing like liquid obsidian behind him. The Czerka employees quickly scrambled out of the way to let him pass, their fear palpable. Pollard Seario looked up sharply from his desk as his door whooshed open and the heavy thuds of Revan's boots demanded his attention. He swallowed quickly, sitting up straight, stiff.
"L-lord Revan," he stammered. "What can I do for you?"
Pollard blinked as he felt wetness on his face, and he stared at his fingertips in wonder when they came away slick with blood.
"Betraying me is hazardous to your health, Pollard," Revan rumbled. It was the last thing the Czerka man's brain registered before his body slumped forward, head thwacking dully on the desk in front of him. The Dark Lord exited, leaving Pollard's cooling body to be discovered by someone else. Seario's successor was already in place; the only thing in the way was his corpse.
"No..." Carth Onasi breathed as his eyes read the aurebesh captioning that scrolled across the holo-screen.
'Republic forces patrolling along the edges of Unknown Space were engaged today by Sith Interdictor-class ships. The attack was described by a survivor as an 'ambush' that caught the Republic forces completely off guard. Ensign Jarvik: 'It was an ambush that there was no way to see coming - the Sith forces appeared out of nowhere, right on top of us. There was nothing we could do.' Jarvik was one of only a few survivors. It is believed that this most recent Sith attack was performed in retaliation to their defeat days ago at the hands of the same Republic ships.'
Carth gritted his teeth together in anger, his eyes still reading.
'No statement was issued by the Sith; motives and reasons for this sudden attack cannot be confirmed, though analysts have noted that it does not follow the typical behavior of the Sith thus far in this conflict. A top analyst had this to say:
'The type of attack is nothing new. Darth Revan has always used stealth and shock tactics to keep his battles swift, utterly devastating to the Republic, and minimally detrimental to his own forces. It's the fact that it seems to be a retaliatory attack that doesn't mesh with his usual M.O. Revan has never singled out a specific group of Republic ships to destroy out of anger or spite, or out of retribution. His attacks are clinical, by the numbers, performed where they will weaken our military the most - this wasn't a large number of ships. It wasn't a critical patrol. It wasn't a decorated, veteran outfit. There was no real reason for the attack by Revan's own logic - which is why I think he didn't order the attack. I think it was someone else inside the empire. Maybe Malak, maybe someone else, but this did not come from Darth Revan - at least not the Darth Revan we know.'
Rumors speculate that the analyst, who asked to remain unnamed, is correct, which raises the question: Who did order the attack? Is there a power struggle among the Sith? It remains to be seen. Those who hope for a power struggle have pointed out that it may prevent Darth Revan from embroiling the galaxy in another war; skeptics of this theory assert that we are already in a war, it just hasn't been openly declared yet.'
"Dammit!" the soldier cursed, smacking his fist against the table. His anger seethed, thinking of all the ways he was personally connected to this ongoing war. He had served under Revan while the young man was still a Jedi, and Carth had thought him to be the most brilliant tactician he had ever seen. His sagging faith that the Mandalorian Wars would be won had been vigorously renewed when the charismatic Jedi Knight had joined the bloody fray. Revan had changed though, during the course of the war; Carth had watched him become more and more like the enemy they were fighting. Still, it had come as a crushing blow when Revan, the vaunted Jedi Knight who had snatched the Republic from the brink of destruction at the hands of the Mandalorians, had returned as the freshly christened Dark Lord of the Sith. It had seemed incomprehensible to the entire Republic - save for the Jedi, of course. They had an explanation for everything, all the time. Revan had fallen to the dark side during the war, they said. Had succumbed to the desire for power, they said. We told him he'd fall, they said.
Carth snorted. Pretentious asses, the lot of them. So what if they could explain away Revan's betrayal? What about all those who followed him? Karath, for example. That man was his mentor, the epitome of a brave, loyal soldier to Carth, and he had heeded Revan's call. The soldier shook, gripping his glass hard, his knuckles white. Traitorous bastard, he snarled in his head. He sighed and stood from the bar he was at, shaking his head. It didn't matter. He was going to see his wife and son soon, his family whom he had been away from for...so long.
Force, he was looking forward to going home.
(Three days later)
Darth Revan's masked face appeared to Malak on the large view screen, impassive and cold as always.
"You requested contact with me, Malak?" Revan's voice asked through the speakers.
"Yes, master. We will be arriving at Telos IV in a day. Your orders?" the apprentice asked, knowing that Revan had specific plans for the planet.
"Admiral Saul Karath is to head the fleet, subordinate only to you. Make sure that is clear to the entire fleet. As for Telos IV…" Revan paused, thinking. "Karath is to demand their surrender. If they do not comply, order him to bomb the planet into glass. Understood? I want the Jedi to know there will be no place they can hide from me in this galaxy, no place they can run to for refuge," the Dark Lord said, a malicious venom in his words. "This war has not yet begun, Malak. Not by my standards. The Jedi have only two choices: join me, or die. If you capture any, keep them alive until I arrive, is that clear? I doubt you will encounter any over Telos, but be prepared. They may reveal a preference for ambush, or, if by some miracle of the Force they grow spines, confront you. Do not disappoint me."
Darth Revan shut off his end of the transmission and Malak was left with a blank screen and clear orders. The apprentice made his way to the bridge of the ship and found Admiral Saul Karath there.
"Lord Malak," Karath said with a small bow as Malak approached. The Admiral was irked that Malak was aboard the Leviathan. It meant Revan had departed for another ship. The Dark Lord made it a point to keep himself and Malak separated if possible.
"Admiral," Malak growled in reply, making the greeting mutual, though the small bow - a slight to him - made his temper broil. "I have just spoken with Lord Revan."
Karath, almost cutting the apprentice off: "His orders for Telos?"
"You are to demand the planet's surrender. If they refuse, we will bombard them until they are a lifeless and barren rock. Do not commence the bombing until I give the order, clear?" Malak told him, yellow-grey eyes narrowed in anger, reasserting his authority with his last words.
"Affirmative. Standard procedure, Lord Malak. We will have no difficulties."
"Good. Keep an eye out for Republic ambushes. I do not want to be caught by surprise."
Rest assured you will not be, Karath's thoughts growled. I am well aware that if you suffer, those under you suffer. "Sir," Admiral Karath saluted, turning back to his ship's crew.
Malak left the bridge of the ship to gather a squadron of recon fighters to send out and probe the space around Telos. Both he and Revan knew that the Jedi and Republic were weary of warring; their strikes were becoming increasingly desperate, as evidenced by the most recent attack on Revan's flagship. A sick thrill had flashed through him when word had reached of his master's precarious health. Malak had seen Revan's demise as an opportunity for himself, an opportunity to become the Dark Lord of the Sith. But, as the days dragged on, Malak had found himself vacillating between wishing for his master's death and wanting him to live. The apprentice felt the empire they were building was still too fragile to change hands of leadership. Revan, if Malak knew him at all, had a plan, and the plan would work. Of that, he had very little doubt. He would let Revan lay the groundwork of their empire - his empire one day - and take the mantle for himself when he perceived that Revan was no longer fit to be Dark Lord of the Sith. Malak was no fool. Revan was still the rightful leader of this fledgling empire, still the one who could foster its growth best. It would be some time before he would obtain the power needed to overthrow him, in any case, and Malak would not act until he was ready. He wasn't above using subterfuge to get what he wanted, but now was not the time. He would wait for the right moment, and until then bide his time, gather strength and followers, and exploit what he could.
Bastila involuntarily flinched as she heard the cell block door slide open. The sound had become synonymous with increased pain and degradation. Bastila felt that she had conducted enough electricity through her body to power a small city for years at this point. Gingerly scooting back to the furthest corner of her cell just to buy even a fraction of a second more of peace, she expected to hear Karath's voice, or see some nameless face - if male, leering, if female, features drawn in contempt. She had never been quite so openly loathed in her lifetime, though she was used to the feeling. Her gift had kept her isolated from her peers, prevented her from having any friends. Training, her masters, and her own thoughts were the only constants in her life. How much she had resented it then, but now...now it looked like paradise.
The footsteps came closer, heavier than normal. She had never heard them before, so this was someone new. She defiantly stiffened her spine and squared her jaw, determined to face whoever was coming her way with no hint of cowardice. Bastila felt her resolve weaken fractionally as a dark, imposing figure materialized outside the energy field of her cell: Darth Revan. She recognized that cold, lifeless mask.
"Come to pay a personal visit? How very thoughtful of you," she snapped irritably, concealing fear. Karath and all the others that had tormented her were underlings, kept on a leash. Revan was not. He was the alpha, the one giving all the orders and following none. He had no restraints imposed upon himself, no penalties if he overstepped his bounds, no threat of punishment if he went too far with her because there was no limit, no line for him, no boundary to overstep - it was whatever he made it to be.
Revan's chuckle seemed hollow to her. "Yes, how very thoughtful - if you consider the growing impatience with your stubborn refusal to talk that brought me here thoughtful." Reaching out past her cell towards something she couldn't see, Bastila felt her mouth flood and her stomach snarl in painful hunger as his gloved hand reappeared holding a plate of steaming, freshly cooked food. "Do you want this?" he asked, amusement fringing his words. Her anger burned at him for finding humor in this sort of childish torture, and she crossed her arms.
"Not in the least. You've probably drugged it and plan on doing horrid things to me once I pass out."
The Dark Lord laughed now, shaking his masked and hooded face after a few moments of apparent mirth. Such a naïve view of torture."Bastila, what good are you to me unconscious? It is a simple question: Do you want this?" he prompted again, waiting.
Faltering a little, the Jedi looked at the plate of food. Meat, potatoes, vegetables...tendrils of smoke curling up from the food, the smell so very tempting...Eyes flashing in a hard glare at him, she frowned. "Of course I want food - you've starved me for what, over a week now? But it isn't as if you're going to hand over the plate of food just because I said so." Bastila could practically see his smile behind that mask as he held out the plate of food towards her and deactivated the energy field that blocked her in the cell. Eyes narrowing warily, she inched towards the plate before she realized what she was doing and stopped herself. "What's the catch?"
"Dinner."
Bastila blinked, grunting her words out tetchily. "Yes, you're holding the first one I've seen in more than a week."
"And the only way you'll get it is if you eat it with me. We have things to discuss, you and I," Revan said, waiting impatiently through the silence that followed his words.
"I have nothing to discuss with you," the Jedi returned, her voice frigid.
"Then you'll have nothing to eat. Farewell, Bastila."
She stood quickly, a wave of dizziness sending her to the floor again. "I will eat dinner with you!" she said hurriedly in an effort to make him stop. It worked. "If," she added once she was sure he wasn't going anywhere, "all it includes is talking."
"You think you are in a position to negotiate, Bastila?" he returned, his voice devoid of any warmth or life. "You are not. You will starve tonight. I offered you food and the conditions under which you could have it, and you were too slow to act. I suggest you choose differently the next time around." He reactivated the energy shield at the mouth of her cell and, to her horror and fury, dumped the plate of food into a trash receptacle. Trembling, she nearly doubled over as a wash of debilitating pain knotted her middle.
"Rev..an..." she forced out, breath coming in tight, short gasps. Bastila was glaring hatefully at him, but he could tell she was giving in. The odium in her gaze was satisfying. "I will...eat dinner with you. Just give me...food..." She paused for a moment to grit her teeth and forcibly inhale more deeply than she wanted to - Force it hurt to do that. "I'm...no good to you...this weak, and...you know it."
Bastila was right, in a way. She really was no good to him this painfully pathetic - if he were seeking to use her in battle. Right now, he was seeking to break her, to render her submissive, thus her weakness was desirable. Revan remembered the plan he had formulated earlier to deal with her but decided that showing her too much mercy would imply weakness of his own. "Very good," he purred. "A prisoner should always know how to barter her worth to her captor." His voice became hard. "However, you have already earned yourself another night without food. I will return tomorrow at this time, and we shall see if your impertinence remains."
Staring in disbelief as he left, no words escaped Bastila's mouth in protest. He truly was going to let her starve another night. The rhythmic, pulsing hum of her cell's energy field was the only sound that reached her ears for a long time.
No footsteps.
No rustle of life.
No breathing but her own.
There were no outward signs of the frothing, boiling fury that the Jedi was unable to control, no hint on her blank expression of the volatile anger within.
"You bastard! You bloody fucking bastard!" Bastila screamed, breaking the deafening silence and smashing a closed fist against the wall near her, crying out when a sharp lance of pain knifed through her hand. The injury quelled her overflowing rage and she fell silent, cradling her throbbing appendage, nostrils flared as she breathed deeply, struggling to regain a proper, Jedi-like calm. This was not good. He knew exactly how to shatter her serenity, how to get beneath her skin and set off her short-fused temper. Bastila frowned. Was this how he turned so many Jedi with seeming effortlessness: the ability to discern and manipulate their weaknesses this effectively against them?
She grunted, muttering beneath her breath, "You will not break me so easily, Darth Revan."
Again, she flinched when she heard a door open, wondering if she was going to be subject to more torture now because of her 'impertinence.' The footsteps came closer but stopped short of her cell. Bastila was confused. Scooting to the other end of her cell and dragging her trembling form as close to the energy barrier as she could, she could only make out three bodies - two Sith and what she assumed was another prisoner. The Sith left, her surroundings falling silent again. Who was in the cell next to her? Was it a man? A woman? Another Jedi? A Sith soldier being punished? A traitor? These questions rattled around in her head until her curiosity became too great.
"Hello? Is anyone there?" Silence. She sighed, berating herself for even bothering to feel hope. She was in the midst of her enemy; she would find no allies here.
"This is Admiral Saul Karath, commander of the Sith fleet I have no doubt you've noticed orbiting your planet. Our terms are simple: surrender completely and we will spare you."
"And if we don't?" the response came back over the speakers.
Karath's smile was brief, almost concealed. "Then there won't be a planet left to defend."
There was no hesitance in the given reply. "If you think that we're going to roll over and surrender to you bastards, you've got another thing coming!"
Karath looked at his superior officer, Malak, awaiting his orders. Malak stared at the planet below through the bridge's massive viewing windows, eyes lit with a cruel glint, and Karath speculated that if Malak had still retained a mouth it would have been twisted into a malicious grin.
"Wipe this planet's pathetic existence from the face of the galaxy," Malak ordered in his gruff mechanical voice. Karath nodded and raised his right arm, holding it high above his head and all of his men readied themselves, prepping the turboblaster batteries and quad laser cannons for firing.
"Have we obtained a solution?"
The bridge was bustling with life, men sprinting from terminal to terminal, a low cacophony of voices like the building rumble of an ancient train still running on strips of metal rails. A few seconds of this swallowed everything before a voice rose above the rest. "Yes sir!"
"Fire!" the Admiral boomed, dropping his arm like a hammer. The ship shook as the quad laser cannons and turboblasters from the entire fleet began to let loose with volley after volley of withering laser fire, reducing the planet to a mass of rubble and death within minutes.
Malak watched the carnage with a cold air of satisfaction. Revan would be most pleased at this outcome.
The chasm in his chest cracked further apart as he frantically scrambled through the rubble and saw death all around, heart pounding so loud in his ears, his mouth bone dry from fear.
They were alive. They had to be.
He wouldn't find his home destroyed. He wouldn't join the growing wail of lament that mingled with the snarl of the crumbling rubble, the crackle of the fires, the blare of sirens and barks of rescue and medical teams.
He would find his wife and son alive. They were Onasis.
Onasis survived.
Carth pushed aside more broken pieces of buildings, ignoring the hot lance of pain in his hand as he sliced it open on jagged glass. His wife's name pushed its way out of his throat. "Morgana!" It was a plea, desperate, demanding. The strong, comforting silhouette of his home was gone, obliterated, the churning red sky in its place.
"Morgana!" More desperation now. He didn't see her. Where was she? She had to be here!
A limb. A pale leg, jutting out from beneath fallen rubble.
"Morgana!"
His hands frantically ripped at the remains of his crumbled home, shredding his fingers. The dread he felt filled the chasm and overflowed, threatening to shut his body down, but he held the devastating pain at bay, wispy, lace-fringed caresses of the threatening agony making him gasp for breath while his world swam and burned in his eyes.
It was her dress. Her hand.
Her wedding band.
"NO! Morgana!"
The soldier and husband uncovered his wife's face, finally, and with trembling arms, incoherent murmurings spilling from his lips, he scooped her up and held her close while sobs wracked his body.
"MEDIC! MEDIC!" he screamed again and again, though his subconscious knew it was already too late. He didn't stop, couldn't stop. The word was his one lifeline, the one thing he was clinging to, the last shred of sanity he had left. His last hope. Carth knew he could do nothing for his wife; she was slipping. He saw the glaze that was filming her eyes, beautiful eyes that had smiled and lit up at him so many times, eyes that had mourned with him when he was sad, rejoiced with him when he was glad, patiently endured his faults, praised his successes...
After a while, he forgot who was yelling for the medics. Was it him? He couldn't tell. Was it just an echo in his head? Was it someone else in the chaos? He was numb by the time the medics arrived, tears still falling from his face, slipping from brown eyes that were equally as dull as his deceased wife's, vacant, empty. Carth still clutched her in his arms as if his sheer grip would return life to her body, bring her soul back. He mechanically obeyed what they said, feebly letting go of Morgana's body so the paramedics could work. Standing, Carth aimlessly stumbled through the rubble around his house, calling for his son, Dustil, his search lifeless and without hope.
His wife and son. His entire family. His entire life.
Gone.
The Republic soldier returned to the paramedics only to see them closing his wife's eyes, covering her body with a tarp. She was dead. Carth knew that. She had died in his arms. He had seen the life leave her eyes. Silently, face ashen and drawn, he knelt, removed Morgana's wedding band from her finger, and put it in the breast pocket of his orange military jacket. More rumbles filled the air, signaling more collapsing buildings. But for Carth, the sounds began to fade. The wailing and crying of loved ones mourning loss slipped into nothing, the gutted and collapsing structures had no effect.
"It has been confirmed that the bombing of Telos IV was carried out by the Sith fleet headed by ex-Republic Admiral Saul Karath, executed by Darth Malak who was operating under direct orders from Darth Revan."
The radio of a passing rescue worker gurgled out those words and Carth nearly crumbled like one of the precariously standing buildings around him. Karath? Saul Karath, his mentor, was the man who had presided over this destruction and death? The soldier and widower could take no more - Saul's betrayal was tangible now, and responsible for part of his loss. Grief mingled with rage, rage at the people responsible for his pain and loss. Eyes roving around, Carth knew that whatever he had left of his life was worthless now. His home and family were gone, his planet uninhabitable; he had nothing to live for.
Nothing except the black hole inside that was consuming every part of him and demanding he exact vengeance for his murdered family.
(Location: M4-78 Time: 1349 hours)
HK's brightly burning visual sensors cut red swathes through the darkness, creating eerie trails of crimson light against the black backdrop of his surroundings. His initial scans had yielded no trace of organics; however, he was 99.98 percent certain this was where his quarry had landed. The 0.02 percent error was likely just statistical noise, his processors had determined. The radiation levels around him were lethal for organics. A possible problem, the assassin droid realized. It would be most frustrating if his mark had succumbed to death already. He could not make such an assumption, though, and as such continued his search.
This was how a planet should be, HK thought – devoid of pathetic meatbags. Originally only colonized by droids, M4-78 had been occupied by the Sith for a very brief period. That occupation had now ended, what with the radiation that was annoyingly sending his sensors into a frenzy. A very interesting and clever place for an organic to go – a planet full of droids. An intelligent move, but not one that had thrown the Hunter-Killer unit off his prey's tracks. Stepping over more lifeless bodies, HK paused at a terminal and took time to sync with it, observing what commands had been and were being issued. The radiation had been purposefully released, and the order given from a terminal located in the Archon I Behavior Core. The order did not seem to come from the Archon itself, ES-05. Curious.
Pinpointing the terminal that had issued the order, HK plotted the shortest course to it and once again picked his way through dead bodies, grip on his blaster rifle sure. If his mark was still on this planet, the droid would find him.
He always did.
Master Zhar sighed as a Knight approached him. "Any word?"
"No, master," the Knight replied. "Nothing. No chatter at all on the lines. It's...eerily quiet."
The master rubbed his face wearily. "Very well. You may return to your duties." He turned to Master Vandar, defeat hovering in his eyes. "Nothing, Vandar. It's as if she disappeared."
The small alien nodded sagely. "Disappear she has, but that does not mean she is dead, Zhar. I do not believe Revan would so quickly execute such a skilled Padawan as Bastila. Her Battle Meditation would be far too useful for him to ignore."
"And we put her right in his hands," Vrook grunted. "She can't last forever. It's been weeks - if she hasn't already broken, she will soon, and then we will be responsible for our own undoing!"
"You believe Bastila will fall so quickly, Vrook?" Vandar inquired calmly, though the admonishment was obvious.
The human glared. "You know as well as I do, Vandar, that Bastila was far too stubborn, and flirted with the dark side often. She had a double bladed lightsaber, for Force's sake!"
"And she resisted the call when Revan gathered up the Padawans and Knights and Masters for his faction that supported fighting in the Mandalorian War," Zhar pointed out. "She wasn't foolish. Stubborn, a bit prideful with a temper...does that sound familiar, Vrook?"
The Jedi Master's eyes narrowed, but Vandar cut them off. "Infighting will solve nothing!" he snapped. "Cease this pointless spat. We have more important things to worry about - like what to do about the continuing threat Darth Revan poses to our Order. I believe it has become very apparent that Revan takes a special pleasure in taking ours and turning them against us. We are losing numbers rapidly, either to death or defection. What can be done about this?"
There was silence. Dorak spoke for the first time. "Historically speaking, there is nothing to be done." The others looked his way, expecting his extrapolation. "It will not matter what we do. Those who wish to stay will stay, and those who wish to go will go - history has proven that time and time again. Adding incentives will only cheapen our cause."
"Dorak is right, Vandar. If we seek to win loyalty with incentives, it will be a weak loyalty, not the kind we want or need."
Vandar looked at Zhar as he spoke, nodding. "You are both right, my friends. All we can do is remind those who are still with us why they stay and what it is they fight for." He sighed quietly. "Let us pray they find our cause worth dying for."
"Are we simply going to leave Bastila in Revan's hands?" Dorak inquired.
"No, we cannot. We must devote every effort to getting her back before the damage he does is irreparable," the small alien answered. "Yes, Vrook, I know manpower is short, but we must dispatch every available Knight and Padawan to search for her. We cannot simply throw Bastila to the wolves," he added when the balding human began to speak up.
"Where should we begin looking?" Zhar asked.
"Anywhere. Everywhere. Send out teams to attempt to discern her location, station a few on each planetary hub of information - we need to become sieves of information."
"Agreed," Dorak murmured. "I will gather some of my Padawans now and impress upon them the importance of this task."
The Dantooine Council split then, Dorak, Zhar and Vrook going their separate ways. Only Vandar remained in the Council room, silent. The knowledge that he was responsible for putting Bastila in Darth Revan's hands crushed him, and his shoulders sagged under the guilt; the knowledge that they had vastly underestimated Revan's power and skill in the Force shamed him. How blind they had been, believing that five young Jedi could capture a single Sith Lord! How foolish to think that Bastila's Battle Meditation might be able to protect her! He sighed, shaking his head. Bastila had been chosen because she was unfailingly devoted to the Code. Only a Jedi exhibiting that quality could possibly survive an encounter with a powerful Sith mentally unscathed. She was well trained, and decently strong in combat - they had hoped that with a reinforcement of four other more experienced Jedi, she would be able to succeed. It would have been her test of Knighthood; she was given charge of the mission, given a Republic ship with which to capture the Sith Lord. In hindsight, it was all too much for her. Perhaps in a year or so she would have been ready; but this was war. It either killed you or made you stronger.
The small Master exhaled slowly, eyes falling to the floor. It appeared as though Bastila might already be dead to them.
Pulsing. Always pulsing.
Always pulsing, but no release.
He could gain no purchase here.
Rage filled him for the tiniest of moments before the megalith of a man slammed shut the vault on his emotions, keeping the anger suffocated inside. Malak's eyes betrayed him, however, burning a wolfish mix of yellow and grey as he gazed at the holocron in front of him, triangular object throbbing with a tantalizing glow.
That was all it ever did. That was all this holocron ever fucking did: tempt him. Mock him; mock his inability to open it and access its knowledge. Telling him he was unworthy.
Unworthy. Always unworthy. Never as good as his master.
Never like Revan.
Revan…he thought with a growl. You promised, but you never meant it, did you? Your promise was hollow. I believed you, like a fool – and that's exactly what you've taken me for. Malak rested a hand on the holocron, no reaction outwardly given to the electricity that flowed through his hand, the device rejecting his touch. I will be your fool no longer, Master, he snarled, the last word dripping with disdain, cape whipping around in response to his sharp turn. The Unknown Regions called to him, beckoning his return. A return to a time where he still knew his master's thoughts and motives more often than he did not, a time when Revan was still his comrade in their fight against all they did not believe in or would not stand for.
You lost him during the Wars – don't lie to yourself. Neurons in his brain fired that would have formed a dark smile on his lips had that part of his face still been present. Yes, this was true. Revan had slipped away from him far before their venture into the Unknown Regions, drawing far more within himself than Malak had ever thought possible.
It was all her fault…
Her. Malak's eyes narrowed. He had watched Revan crumble like the ruined planet of Malachor V after the Mass Shadow Generator because of her, watched him isolate himself and become an insular entity. Ironic, he thought as he snorted, that he didn't even dare think her name for fear of Revan knowing. Speaking it was inconceivable. Likely punishable by torture. Then again…if Malak knew Revan at all, he wouldn't let it show that the woman had ever meant anything to him; that would be showing weakness, and Revan did not show such weakness. The apprentice did have to give his master credit for that.
Malak wondered why he did not use this as leverage against Revan, to dislodge him from his seemingly impenetrable fortress of power. Perhaps because he did not know with any certainty that use of this knowledge would gain him anything. It might weaken Revan, or it might incite him to ensconce himself further in his armor and retaliate viciously.
A memory did not hold much power, in any case, with nothing tangible attached to it – not as a bartering tool.
Bastila involuntarily held her breath as she saw Revan's figure materialize outside of her cell again. She said nothing; she desperately wanted food, needed food. Her body was beginning to shut down without it. Self-preservation was stronger than her stubborn will. The energy field dissolved and the Dark Lord stepped inside the parameters of her cell.
"Your answer now?" That voice – how many times had she heard it in her head since he had last spoken? How many echoed repetitions ricocheting around her skull…
"Yes," she whispered.
"Yes what?" he demanded.
"Yes, I…will eat…din-ner with you…"
"Excellent. Stand," the Dark Lord ordered.
She stared at him angrily for a few moments before grudgingly obeying and struggling to her feet. Trembling racked her limbs and her balance was unsteady at best, her world swimming with the effort required to become upright.
"Follow me." Revan turned and walked away at a brisk pace – a pace Bastila could never keep up with in her state. She knew this, but willful pride forced her to try anyway, gritting her teeth and groaning as the walking caused her calves to cramp, collapsing with a cry of pain as they seized violently after only a few steps. Bastila looked up to see Revan had not slowed. Tears brimming in her eyes from fury, shame and the agony her body was in, she took to crawling, but even that could not be sustained for very long. She was finally spent as she reached the doorway that exited the cell block. With nothing left in her reserves to push on physically, Bastila collapsed, her cheek hitting the cold metal of the smooth floor, every part of her twitching and cramping painfully. Every breath was agony, comfort not to be found no matter what she attempted.
"I…I can't…" she whispered, tears slipping from her eyes. She was weak. Pathetically weak. Bastila had heard stories of horrific Sith tortures, of men and women losing limbs and still fending off their captors in an escape, of endless months of unspeakable electrocutions and ravaging, and she was physically broken by such a simple thing as starvation and 'shock therapy'?
This whisper was as loud as a yell to Revan, a pleased smile curving his lips before vanishing as he halted and turned around. "Yes you can," he spoke in return, not approaching her, but not leaving her any further behind.
The female Jedi was consumed with rage at him. "No I can't!" she yelled, whimpering from the tearing sensation in her calves. The muscles were utterly locked; no matter how she tried to stretch them, they would not release. She was beginning to think they would rip themselves apart if they did not unclench soon.
Such strong emotions, yet very uncontrolled. Perhaps that is what I should exploit? "Yes, you can," the Dark Lord answered evenly. She could push further, she simply hadn't found the proper motivation. When she didn't answer, he crossed his arms. "I will leave you here. When you make it out of that door, go left. You will reach an elevator at the end of the hall. Take it to the topmost level." He came back to where she was and knelt down, looking over her. Her clothes were loose, attesting to the weight she had lost. He could see how weak she was, see her twitching; the salty smell of sweat dried on her skin mixed with tears reached his nose. For an errant moment, the smell aroused him. Leaning down further, he murmured, "I thought you were stronger than this, Bastila," and was gone down the hallway, the elevator doors closing on him seconds later.
Thousands of thoughts flooded his mind, all vying to be considered. Was this course of action wise? Was it too much of a risk? Would it be effective at all? Was he a fool to treat her differently than the other Jedi prisoners? The Dark Lord frowned. All of his research on her told him this was the way to approach the situation. Why was he doubting his intel? You will fail this if you approach it like a tactical maneuver, he advised himself. You must reach her, whatever makes up her essence. Reach it, conquer it, make it yours.
If this was to succeed, Bastila had to be undyingly loyal to him. Nothing else could supersede her devotion to him – not the Jedi Code, not her own beliefs, nothing.
A delicate and dangerous process stood before him, but it was necessary. She was necessary.
The elevator gave a soft bing as it reached its destination, door lifting to reveal a loft area that Revan rarely had time to utilize. It was the only room on the allotted level on this side of the ship, something he had made sure of. When he wanted solitude, he demanded it be true solitude. A huge viewport made up the entire far wall, closed currently. To the left, near the viewport, was a lush leather couch and footrests; to the far right, parallel with the viewport, was a king sized bed. Behind it, along the back wall, was a mini bar area and roughly in the back-middle of the spacious room was a dining table. Back left was filled with bookshelves that housed various tomes, holocrons and datapads, and two comfortable, worn reading chairs. It was somewhat sparsely furnished on purpose. The front middle was directly in the middle of the viewport and where Revan meditated when blessed with the free time to do so. Unclipping his cape and draping it across one of the reading chairs Revan also deposited his mask on the seat of the piece of furniture. Going to the middle of the room, he sat lotus style on the floor and closed his eyes, clearing his mind and meditating on his choices and the paths presented before him.
Bastila, meanwhile, was still collapsed on the floor, Revan's last words to her repeating like a broken holotape over and over in her head, her anger at him building with each run through of the message: You're weak. 'I thought you were stronger than this, Bastila' – you're a disappointment. Her eyes, which had been closed, snapped open, burning brightly with indomitable determination.
"Stronger than this? I will show you how strong I am, Sith," she spat, gritting her teeth, her will set and immovable. Every nerve ending protested as she moved, pushing herself up onto her elbows, then, slowly, rising on all fours. Bastila was not satisfied to crawl to the Dark Lord of the Sith. If she was going to go to him him, she would meet him standing under her own power and she would walk every damn step of the way. Minutes crawled by as the Jedi inched her way along the wall, lifting one leg, then the other, one step at a time. There was nothing but that single step. Lift, move, set down. Another victory, proving her stronger than Revan assumed her to be. Somehow she had reached the elevator and Bastila didn't dare look back to mark her progress; she feared that if she did, she would collapse. Angrily smacking the panel to take her up to the top level, she gripped the railing and groaned as weight was pushed down on her shoulders, even the laws of the universe conspiring to bring her down to her knees once more. Thrusting a leg against the opposite wall and locking her knee was the only way to stay standing. The weightlessness of slowing velocity let her know she had reached her destination and a feeling of triumph began to swell in Bastila's throat, making it hard to swallow.
"How strong am I now?" she said under her breath with utter satisfaction as the elevator door slid up. Revan was sitting on the floor in front of a breathtaking view of the vast expanse of space, the viewport open and awe-inspiring. His hooded head turned slightly when she took a violently trembling step inside and summoned all her strength to stand under her own power for as long as it took for him to witness her accomplishment.
Revan was mildly surprised she had managed to make it up to his loft so quickly, and legitimately pleased to see her standing without aid outside the elevator once he turned and laid eyes on her. "I told you you were capable, you simply had not found the proper motivation," he spoke as he ordered droids to bring dinner for two up to his loft. "How does it feel?"
Bastila's eyes were narrowed slits of blue-grey. "Satisfying beyond measure to prove your assumption of me incorrect," she answered, voice shaking, but the truth in her words was unmistakable.
From behind his hood, Revan grinned. "Excellent."
