-Hella-
I strode into the warehouse, found Nomen Karr, in the flesh and alone, kneeling on a mat, apparently meditating.
"I felt the deaths of Zylixx and Ulldin. It is a pity they failed," he declared, in lieu of greeting.
"I would have thought you'd feel more pity that they are dead—and that Zylixx broke before dying," I responded as Nomen Karr got to his feet. "A rather callous attitude for a Jedi."
His aura was calm, controlled, not easily read. I didn't expect it to be—Masters are like that. However, it wasn't the nauseatingly flat aura of Master Yonlach, which seemed to me a good sign.
"And your master shows himself a coward," the Jedi retorted sourly, extending his arms to indicate the building in general. "Here I am, true to my word, alone and ready to face him. And he…sends his apprentice."
Pot, meet kettle. I smirked at him, ignoring the snub. "You sound upset, Master Karr." Then, with a pause for emphasis, "Angry, even."
Nomen Karr frowned at me, aura giving one minute, spiky pulse before flattening out. "I am not Zylixx. Don't try that garbage on me."
"Much what I said to Master Yonlach. Funny how these things come full circle." I didn't expect the personal remarks or flippancy to have any effect, so I wasn't disappointed. Still, a faint sense of anger began to drift off him, like heat from duracrete once night has fallen.
There was a protracted silence during which I found Quinn's shivery aura of jittery apprehension irritating. I don't blame him for being apprehensive or jittery—I'm braced through force of will alone—but it was the shivery quality of it that bothered me.
"I'll admit it, Sith, your crusade has affected me. I'm not blind to that. But I've wandered the line between Light and Dark before. I walked among your master and the Sith; my connection to the light survived."
"That may be true," I agreed amiably, but with a touch of malice. "One drop of ink in a cup of water might not alter the color much. But two drops? Three? Sooner or later the water reaches saturation…and then all turns to black."
"Very poetic," came the flat retort. Nomen Karr whipped out his lightsaber. I had mine out in a trice, but neither of us jumped to the attack. "I will put an end to you, Sith. And then it will be Baras' turn."
"You seem to truly hate my master. You certainly have no regard for me—though I sense a growing dislike. As how many drops of ink do those equate to, Master Karr? And how dark is the water already?"
Nomen Karr took a deep breath. "I have no choice but to put an end to you. And then all will be calm again."
"An interesting theory, to be sure."
Nomen Karr thought that, by running my mouth, I wasn't ready for him, that I was prey to Sith tendency of running my mouth and not my mind. He discovered the error in this thinking when he found me ready to deflect his offensive spring.
Nomen Karr was a fierce opponent, but the longer the fight dragged out, the more angry he became. Remembering my mistakes with Zylixx—and not trusting myself to try corrupting a Jedi Master—I kept silent, met blow for blow, tried not to rely on Force tactics.
Poor Quinn: he couldn't seem to get a shot in, the Jedi kept the pair of us moving around so much. Every now and again I caught a hint of irritation mixing increasingly with resignation…and a muffled enjoyment of the spectacle.
Suddenly, though, I got a lucky swing in, my lightsaber skittering across Nomen Karr's belly. He staggered back, dropped to his knees, sweating and shaking. His aura fluxed, suddenly saturated with anger and pain. "The Force…is very…strong with you…" he gritted out, checking the wound to see how bad it was.
I knew what he was doing by instinct but, again, held my tongue—I waited, patient, poised. Hatred, acid-spicy and foul, seeped slowly into his aura, like blood blossoming into a cloth. I've pushed him hard. He has no reserves left except the ones he's supposedly forbidden to use. He'll be more dangerous than ever, fiercer…this isn't a matter of seducing him towards the Dark Side—this is a matter of letting him build up a head of steam and letting him stumble over something, send him falling headlong into the darkness.
And this time there will be no return. Wouldn't that impress Baras? Truss up his old enemy and send him back as Sith material? Not that I expect Baras will let him live, it would simply be irony that, on this spot where a Sith was revealed as a Jedi…a Jedi would be revealed to be Sith.
Or something like that.
I wasn't wrong but I wasn't completely right, either. Nomen Karr still had some tentative grip on his anger, but it wasn't something he was used to using in combat, and it strained against his control. I could feel it, tugging like an overeager akk dog fitted with a choke collar. "I'm still winning, Karr," I hissed when battle brought us close enough for me not to have to raise my voice. "A mere apprentice is besting you. There's only one way to beat me and you know it."
That being, of course, to reach into that anger, reach in deep and scrape the bottom of the reservoir of it.
The fight continued, wearing us down, forcing me to draw on the Force more actively as my physical stamina began to wane. The passive pull that augments my fighting was no longer enough.
Nomen Karr, too, found the physical toll difficult to bear—more so than I, for as his strength flagged, his rage and frustration, already feeding on his inability to gain the upper hand, surged. He was close, so close to giving in to a blind rage and I could sense that this was what it would take to start the process of eroding away that righteous Jedi persona in earnest: a blind rage.
It all starts with rage, rage which robs one of reason.
It happened in an instant, as these things always do. His rage broke, he sprang at me, one final, powerful volley which would decide all things. I let him have two good blows before I pulled my trump card.
He yelped as my lightsaber flicked off, then on again, the beam of light punching into his guts as I bypassed his block with a single stroke.
Trakata is not something that's often seen, which is why I usually save it for finishing moves, when I can be sure of its effectiveness, if I use it at all. A trick loses its efficacy if one overindulges.
Nomen Karr rolled onto his back, hands over the cauterized wound as I stood over him, using the Force to pull his lightsaber away. "Go on, Sith…the wound is mortal…" he shuddered with pain, from which I recoiled. "At least I die knowing you will never find…Jaesa…"
I put my heel on the wound and ground down, causing Nomen Karr to scream. It took effort to keep my nausea at the pain rolling off him in sheets down, but I managed. "You must think I'm supremely stupid." I looked up for Quinn. With the fight so intense I hadn't noticed when he actually dropped out of it—not that I blame him. Again, Nomen Karr was an excellent fighter and knew how to keep my second at bay without engaging him.
Quinn now stood with a unit of soldiers, all armored and with weapons leveled. Clearly, if I went down everyone would open up with everything they had and would cut Nomen Karr to pieces in the crossfire. Inelegant but, really, his only option and even then it's questionable as to whether it would work.
Within moments Quinn was in command of the situation, having two medics stabilize Nomen Karr (while three more kept weapons ready), setting sentries, briefing them on how things would continue. "He's stable, my lord," one of the soldiers reported, "anything in particular you want done with him?"
"Fetch a chair and place it there," I pointed to the center of the room in which we stood, "and secure him. We're not finished yet, he and I. I expect two guards outside the door—Quinn may pass, the girl we're expecting may pass, you," I pointed to one, "may remain to ensure Karr doesn't die on me. But no others are to be privy to what follows. I don't want the place cluttered." Not when I have to drag Jaesa out of hiding. I'll have to find a way to insulate myself against Nomen Karr's pain. I'm no good at torture, but I'll have to make myself be good at it today.
The prospect was deeply unpleasant.
I waited for Quinn to check in with me, taking the time to pull myself together. I don't think Nomen Karr brought Jaesa with him, but she's spunky: I'm sure she followed. Or will follow, soon.
I'd found a letter from her in amongst my messages when I check them prior to setting down on Hutta. She mourns Ulldin, is in agony over Zylixx…and apparently she found out that I shattered him before killing him. And I thought I read, between the lines, a faint interest, curiosity, about this.
In the end, keeping Nomen Karr in enough discomfort to draw out Jaesa proved to be a valuable experience: he broke within the third hour under a combination of pain (that elicited rage) and the application of carefully chosen psychological attacks—verbal, of course. I felt the break, laughed at the change, at the inversion of everything he was, which only incensed him the more.
It turned out that, the more I realized that I had time to break him down, the less I cared about the discomfort. The fascination of dismantling a Jedi took precedence and gave me protection.
In fact, I learned very easily through his ranting and in between threats and demands, that Jaesa is in an emotional turmoil that might make her susceptible to a fall as well. Nothing definite, that was simply the impression I had.
-Jaesa-
I couldn't take it anymore. I knew it would come to this: if Master Karr didn't overpower The Sith, she would overpower him…and I'd have to come rescue him. I couldn't very well leave him to die…
…and the more I thought about it, the more I had time to think about it, the more it seemed I'd put off this confrontation for far too long. If I was honest with myself, I didn't expect him to best her. He wouldn't even name her—that had to mean something more than non-recognition in an attempt to reduce her to a non-entity.
I wasn't stupid: if he couldn't stop her, what chance did I have? But what choice did I have? Just keep sitting here and waiting for her to corner me someday? It was a hundred, a thousand times better to just go, see what could be done and do it.
I won't lie to myself: the idea of relying on the Force in face of an enemy like this left me feeling like I was wearing a gown. Unprotected. Vulnerable.
And then I felt it: a strange slip and slide in my perceptions. I never connected to Master Karr the way I connected to Master Yonlach, but even so, I could tell there was something horribly, terribly wrong with him. And the more I felt I didn't want to know what had gone wrong the more I felt certain I had to face my fears and deal with them.
He saved me from a life that was smothering me. I had to remember that, and be grateful for it. I owe it to him to try to help him, whatever's happened.
That was the knot of attitude and belief I carried when I hiked out into the Hutta swamps to the place that Master Karr went to go duel Darth Baras.
I really didn't expect Darth Baras to show up. Master Karr had no right to expect Darth Baras, after swapping me out for Zylixx and Ulldin. Fair was fair, and maybe The Sith truly believed I had the right to face my attacker. If I was brave enough to assert it.
Master Karr was alive. I could feel it. But he was also…distorted…unfamiliar…in pain. The sense of unfamiliarity I felt—as if I were sensing a different person, like his brother or an uncle—might have blunted the pain, but it might have been his strength of mind. He has, after all, always tried to protect me, to keep me safe…even when that protection ended up causing me harm…
Well. That ends today. One way or another.
I was met at the entrance to the warehouse by the Imperial who had accompanied The Sith on the station, the one where Hirosho was killed. When he regarded me he glanced at my eyes just for a moment, before redirecting his gaze to mouth-level—a quirk I could only assume came from being an Imperial with Sith breathing down his neck.
He didn't seem surprised to see me. When he spoke his tones, clipped and accented in the Imperial fashion, were polite and almost deferential, as if he were addressing The Sith herself…or any Sith, really. Or maybe not 'any Sith.' There wasn't an ounce of the groveling, sniveling servility I'd have expected in an Imperial officer attached to a Sith. I thought the Sith liked their people—especially the non-Sensitives—cowed.
"You're expected…Padawan." He seemed a little unsure of the honorific he should use—why would he know?—but he made the attempt, nonetheless.
"I am here to rescue my master. Tell yours that I'm here," I declared stiffly, aware that I sounded almost petulant in my demand.
"Her Lordship has left strict instructions that you are to be conveyed to your master upon your arrival. Conveyed and shown every possible respect—you may keep your lightsaber." He stepped aside, motioned me to start walking, and fell in at my shoulder.
He was polite and precise, saying no more or less than was courteous and needful. It was weird, hearing this grey suit behave like any other solider I'd ever encountered. Well, that's not true: I didn't feel a drop of interest ore curiosity at my being a Jedi. Or a pretty one. It was as disconcerting as it was reassuring: I wasn't going to have to fight my way in and then worry about the Sith.
I didn't like him looming over me as we walked, but he conducted me where I was to go with all possible courtesy. I didn't know what to think about The Sith's apparent orders. I'd expected to have to fight my way in, or to sneak on only to be ambushed. All this smacked of fair and open dealing. It was surreal in a way I couldn't articulate.
"My orders are to wait here," the Imperial declared, once we reached a doorway that led into a large open space. "This is a meeting between Her Lordship, your master, and yourself. Force-user business." His tone suggested 'and none of mine.'
As if I wanted him following me around. "Thank you." The words were curt, but what did he expect?
"You're welcome. My lord?" he called.
The way he called her 'Her Lordship' was odd, as if he was trying to put distance between them even while not being particularly desirous of doing so. I couldn't take the time to look—and even if had the time, Master Karr wouldn't approve of me using my gift for such a petty curiosity—but I'd have liked to know what that was all about. If I had to guess…he liked her and was eager not to like her too much.
"Yes?" For the first time the voice was not faintly distorted by long-distance holocommunciations, or the faint fuzziness of recorded messages. The tone was calm, imperious, implacable, but utterly calm, a low velvety purr. If I felt though the Force, I could sense her, a solid lump of contained, constrained power, like a hot coal radiating heat while minding its own business. If it was disturbed by an unwary foot, it was hardly the coal's fault.
"She's here, my lord," the officer called, "Through here, Miss Willsaam."
He forgot to call me Padawan, but I found I didn't mind too much. I'm not exactly behaving like one today, since my master was explicit: stay put until I come back for you. A good Padawan would have stayed put or called for help.
I strode forward. As soon as I was out of the doorway, I found Master Karr on a simple chair, heavily restrained, but hissing and spitting incoherently at The Sith, who stood with her back half to the doorway through which I entered.
"Sith!" I barked.
She straightened from an attitude of having been listening to Master Karr, then turned slowly to face me. Her makeup was as heavy and fierce as ever, contrasting with her composed bearing. I couldn't help but noticing, growing up as I did, that her posture was excellent.
"Your lackey let me pass, so I assume I'm expected. Cease your sadistic attacks on my Master. Now." The words sounded horribly childish as I threw them at her. Thankfully, she didn't comment on the fact.
"There's no need for them to continue," The Sith answered, but Master Karr cut in as I moved cautiously forward. I had to gape at him: his appearance gave truth to the Sith's words. My mouth dropped open, though I wasn't sure what I should say.
Author's Note:
Paraphrasing the Wookiepedia (where you can find the full article): Trakata is a form of lightsaber combat, a supplementary style, that involved turning the blade of one's lightsaber on and off, often in quick succession.
To that end, Hella's main-hand weapon uses a very sensitive kind of dead man's switch. As Hella was home-schooled (so to speak) she learned whatever her father taught her and this was one of those 'little bag of tricks.'
