II. Damaged
"Do you know why you have been called before this council, Padawan Bastila?" Master Vash spoke, her voice soft but carrying the ring of cold authority.
Bastila was beyond anxiety, she handled herself with stiffly practiced grace and allowed no hesitation on her part. "Yes, Masters. I overstepped my bounds during the mission to capture Revan."
"Not only did you disobey, Padawan," Vrook was now speaking, "your rash actions allowed the Dark Lord to escape. A search of the planet is already underway, but the realistic chances of finding Revan shrink as we speak."
Bastila nodded. "I know," she admitted.
"Anything to say in your defense, have you, Padawan?" asked Master Vandar.
"Esteemed Masters," Bastila began, "I know what I did was foolish, ill-advised, even arrogant. I departed from my Jedi discipline and let passions rule me, and I will accept the consequences of my actions, for they are suitably deserved whatever they may be. I only ask you to understand that I acted to save the life of another Jedi."
Bastila was unable to keep from taking a fleeting glance at Vash at her last statement. Sitting motionless, the Jedi Master avoided looking her in the eye.
"Be that as it may, the life of one Jedi is unimportant when compared to the survival of the Order," Master Kavar declared. "Though your actions may have saved one Jedi, in allowing Revan to escape, the rest of the Order is still in jeopardy."
"Though Malak has now taken control of the Sith forces, Revan loose in the galaxy is still capable of causing untold death and destruction. Until captured, he is a constant danger to anyone he comes into contact with, because the only thing more dangerous than a Sith Lord is one who is unpredictable and fanatically devoted. Revan is both, and is roaming free," Vrook declared, narrowing his eyes at her. "This is the peril you have brought upon the galaxy, Padawan Bastila. For a crime such as this, what would you think appropriate punishment?"
For the first time in the interrogation - and Bastila was surprised it hadn't happened sooner - she felt her knees go weak, her stomach flutter with dread, and she ached to dash from the Council Chamber as fast as she could. Bastila closed her eyes and tried to summon the inner peace that she knew was always there, but it remained frustratingly out of reach.
Her heart hammered in her chest as she answered. "I suppose the only fair punishment would be expulsion from the Order."
Her mind screamed in horror at what she'd said, the terrible possibility of being expelled almost more than she could bear. The Jedi were her life, without them she didn't know how she would go on. There was nothing for her outside the walls of the Jedi Academy or the Jedi Temple.
But for the mistake she'd made, it would only be a fair punishment.
"Indeed it would," Vrook agreed. Bastila suppressed the urge to break out in sobs. He gave her a look that suddenly made her doubtful again, and his next words made her heart leap with unexpected hope. "But that decision has been withheld."
"May I ask, then, what my punishment is to be?" She wondered if she dared to hope.
"These are fragile times for the Jedi Order, and thus the danger of allowing one such as you out of the supervision of the Jedi is too great to justify the loss of your unique contributions to our cause," Kavar solemnly declared. "Were you let loose from the Jedi, how long would it take for Malak to find you and exploit your powers for his own use? This is a risk we Jedi cannot afford, Padawan Bastila."
"I trust in your wisdom, Masters," Bastila said, not really knowing what else she could say. She'd been given a second chance no one else would have.
"Do not think, however, that simply because we cannot expel you means there will be no consequences for your brash actions, Padawan," Vrook sternly reminded her.
"Yes, of course, Masters," Bastila replied, too relieved by her deliverance from banishment to be worried about her actual punishment.
"It is the judgment of this council that you are to be assigned to the effort of finding our errant Jedi, Revan, and bringing him back to the Light." Those words, coming from Master Vash, were like the sweet sound of salvation to Bastila. She didn't care how long it might take or how difficult it would be; to be given the chance to set right what she had done wrong was more than Bastila could ever have hoped for. She would put her every effort into the task.
"Yes, Masters," she responded, bowing in respect. Straightening, she caught the slightest of approving smiles from Vash.
"I am interested to know exactly what it was you did to the Dark Lord, Padawan Bastila." Master Atris spoke for the first time. She had been silent throughout, her only contribution to the proceedings being a cold glare at the disobedient Padawan.
Bastila's mind raced; she couldn't remember! She'd been so reckless and so full of adrenaline that she acted totally without thinking. The Force powers had simply come to her as she threw them at Revan in her desperate attempts to stop him from killing Vash.
Her pulse quickening, Bastila took several deep breaths, drawing forth serenity from within herself, the peace finally coming. Gradually, her mind cleared, and she concentrated on remembering everything, down the tiniest detail. Soon she was reciting to the Masters everything she could remember about the experience. She described as best she could the amalgam of Force powers she'd thrown at Revan, all to none effect until she targeted his mind.
When Bastila was finished, Atris let out a small sigh of comprehension.
"Something to share, have you, Atris?" Vandar asked the pale, white-haired Jedi Archivist.
"I believe it quite possible our lovely Bastila has destroyed Revan's mind," Atris answered simply.
No one in the Council Chamber was prepared for that answer.
"Dear Force..."
Three months later...
He heard voices drifting through the cargo hold, lifted his aching head off his pillowed hands and looked up, blinking uncomfortably at the light that had so suddenly ravaged his night vision. Between the tall stacks of boxes and crates, he could see men descending the rusty staircase that led down into the bowels of the cargo hold filled to capacity.
Rolling over, he clutched the torn fabric of what had once been some kind of cloak closer to himself in an effort to keep as warm as he could and shut out the unwelcome light. He wondered what the fuss was about; the men were jabbering incessantly as they descended the noisy steps, conversing in a guttural language that was at once strangely familiar and completely alien to him. Two men had reached the bottom of the hold and were probing around with a torch when one of them said a few words he could almost understand. He heard the word 'Taris' spoken insistently.
Taris meant something to him, he knew, he just couldn't remember what. With great effort, he recalled that it was the name of a planet, but nothing else came to him; just the squeezing, knifing pain of another headache.
A hiss escaped his mouth as he clutched his temples, trying to banish the pain as if by sheer willpower alone. Everything he did only intensified the pain. He thrashed about on the makeshift sleep rug he'd laid out in the narrow space between two slightly ajar stacks of cargo crates, making an inconvenient amount of noise.
The voices rose in pitch and volume and he knew he'd been discovered. The sudden onset of the headache left him breathless, and helpless to the two burly men - a grease-covered Twi'lek and a rugged Human - who set upon him with infuriated vigor. A flying boot hit the side of his head, accompanied by more shouting and followed by more blows. With his hands and arms he feebly covered his face, protecting the weak scar tissue on a horrific wound that ran from his forehead to his chin, fearing to let it be torn open again.
He could do nothing but take the beating as the two men pummeled him ruthlessly.
When the Twi'lek and Human saw him making no move to fight back, just lie there shaking with pain ever more spasmodically the more they hit him, their voices changed, and the blows became laid hands grabbing him roughly by the shoulders. They casually hauled him upright and started dragging. Blood ran from his mouth and shaggy hair tossed over his face as his head hung limply from his shoulders, he didn't even try to keep to his feet, just let them drag him.
He didn't know how long or how far the two men hauled him, only that eventually he found himself no longer in the cargo freighter on which he'd stowed himself away in his endless flight from phantom pursuers he no longer even remembered. When he found the ship, it's bay doors wide open, beckoning, he didn't care where it took him, only that it was his escape from the one who was coming to kill him. Where the ship had actually taken him, he still didn't care.
The sight of soaring buildings towering high above him, covering everything with their shadows, jolted an unexpected memory, forming a connection he could fathom. It was Taris. Somehow he knew that. Taris. If only he knew what Taris was...
The two men let go of his burning shoulders, let him drop heavily onto the hard duracrete street that represented the beginning of a never-ending system of gloomy alleys, shadowed roads and plazas, and the general twilight of Lower City Taris. How he knew that he had no idea.
"Tristek! Namenlos huersk ficht geun! Geun, trisek!" Again, he did not recognize the words themselves, but their meaning was unmistakable: "Be gone!"
One word did resonate in his mind. Namenlos. He knew that was a name being attributed to him. It made sense, actually; he was namenlos, nameless. That was who he was. The burly Twi'lek had no idea how appropriate his derogatory insult had been.
Namenlos. It was about time he had a name.
After he'd been given a final kick in the back of the head, the two men backed away from Namenlos, satisfied by their eviction of him from their ship. Licking at the blood on his broken lips, he clawed forward with his hands and found a curb, worn smooth from countless feet, and painfully levered himself into a sitting position.
He ached and stung all over from the beating he'd received, but the pain in his head had suddenly faded, leaving him remarkably lucid for the first time in days. Namenlos was pleased with himself for deciding on a name, even if that name was nameless. It somehow made him more of a person to himself, instead of just flesh and never-ending pain.
He had just started to get to his feet when he felt a boot hit him in the back. He fell back to the ground painfully, anger building instead of pain.
"Yeah, this is my street, chump! My street!" More kicks. The voice alone told Namenlos his newest tormentor was Human. "Worthless piece of Bantha poodoo! Cathar scum!"
Enraged, Namenlos snapped. He surged upright, avoiding a kick aimed at his head, and shoved the heavy boot aside, red eyes glaring with hatred at the squat Human standing in front of him. The bully's face twisted into a scowl of disgust and he threw a fist at him. In the blink of an eye, Namenlos skirted out of the way of the plunging knuckles and seized the delinquent's arm. Roaring, he stepped under and around his assailant's shoulder, twisting the arm all the way around until he heard the fulfilling sound of bone popping.
The Human fell to the ground, howling. Namenlos stood over him, panting in fury. A hiss escaped his throat as he bared his teeth at the writhing thug before him. Choking sounds came from the Human and he started desperately clutching at his throat.
Namenlos brushed scraggly hair from his eyes as he stared at Human choking on nothing at his feet. While he was mystified as to what was wrong, he couldn't say he was the least bit sorry.
Suddenly, a fresh wave of nauseating, dizzying pain rolled through his head. Namenlos forgot his would-be attacker and stumbled into the nearest, darkest alley he could find. Small, multi-legged things in the dank place scuttled away from him as he fell heavily against a wall, slowly sliding down into a loose sitting position. The dampness of the alley seeped into his ragged clothes, the stink invaded his nostrils.
For hours he simply sat there, too numbed by the pounding ache in his skull to do more than rest his arms on his knees and stare vacantly at the filthy wall opposite him, until the gloomy alleyway was almost completely subsumed by falling darkness.
Lower City Taris, being the mid- to bottom levels of the enormous, continent-spanning city, plenty dark in full daylight, was tomb-like in the evening and after nightfall, especially the section Namenlos found himself in; a dirty slum behind a fourth-rate private dock. Sewer dwellers and other vagabond city creatures stared at him curiously through the darkness with luminescent eyes as they scurried about on their way. Seeing them clearly through his keen night vision, Namenlos stared back at them, feeling a sense of kinship with the animals.
His headache finally lessened, but he didn't know what, if anything, he should do. He'd escaped from the woman and that was all that mattered to him. She couldn't possibly know where he was; even he had been unsure where he was going when he first stowed aboard the outward-bound cargo ship. He was safe for the time being, at least from the woman.
But he did have troubles on the street, he realized. One could not expect to be left alone in Lower City Taris, as his encounter with the street thug had demonstrated. He would have to find some place he could make shelter, maybe even call home. A sharp pain in his stomach reminded him of how long it had been since he'd eaten anything.
Stretching stiff limbs, Namenlos got to his feet and surveyed his immediate area. The filthy alley offered little more than stink and rot. The pavement was damp with everything from simple condensation to toxic oil and fluids from the nearby dock, trash collected in little heaps randomly spaced along the walls, here and there were scraps of junk metal and broken appliances, some covered in cobwebs and other unidentifiable substances. One thing he did find that would be useful; one half of a tattered, stained, but relatively dry, mud-brown cloak hanging from a broken trellis leaning up against one of the walls. He gave it a few shakes and draped it over his head to wear as a deep hood to cover the dirty hair that grew in wide streaks on his scalp and mostly conceal his battered, scarred visage.
Stepping cautiously back onto the street, Namenlos left the alley in search of a cantina, or anywhere he could be sure he would find scraps. As hungry as he was, anything he could find in their dumpster was likely to satisfy him.
The container was open.
Namenlos had spent the better part of the night scouring every halfway-inhabitable alleyway and rundown, abandoned lot he could find. It had been a few days since his deposition in the scummy underbelly of the city of Taris, and much of his time had been spent moving around, either avoiding roving thugs or rooting around in trash heaps for what food and clothing he could find. Nights were spent in fitful sleep curled up in the corners of alleys, or even occasionally just a simple gutter. More than once, he'd been woken with hard knuckles or boots to his face, or the sudden onset of one of his headaches.
When a headache seized him, there was nothing he could do but sit or lie where he was and endure the suffocating agony. When and if it relented, he could never go back to his sleep, and so would be on the move again. That was the case this morning, but the discomfort had borne unexpected fruit; he'd stumbled across a long-abandoned storage lot, with a few containers still left. Most had been carted away or stolen by industrious looters, but a few had been so rusted and warped that not even looters were enticed by them.
The decrepit storage container lying invitingly open before him was just what Namenlos needed--as close to a permanent home as he could expect to find. For the first time in his memory, he was almost grateful.
After he'd chased a few city creatures from their cobbled dwellings inside the steel box and swept the worst of the dust and crud from the bare floor, he quickly lay what served as a sleeping rug in one corner. It was merely the conglomeration of a few discarded coats and a mostly-intact cloak laid over them, but it had kept Namenlos warm several nights in a row, and that was all he asked of it. Arranged in a rough circle, it was the most welcoming sight he'd seen in months.
Too tired to do much else, Namenlos hung a string of noise-making metal scraps over the entrance to his sanctuary to warn him of intruders, and snuggled into the rug. Before he fell asleep, he bit a shallow cut in one finger, and in blood drew a long, twisting glyph on the bare steel next to him.
This was his home now.