They trekked through the jungle, relying on the early light of Xendrin's red suns to track their position.

Twined together by creeping vines, trees grew until they were almost inseparable, a living wall of bark and foliage. It was difficult to focus on one path or one objective amidst this tangle of life, the distant sound of birds intruding at the edge of one's hearing or the mechanical whirr of jewel-backed insects flitting from flower to flower. Branches snaked overhead or slanted down towards them, pointing accusing fingers, and with each step, Shira began to feel more and more dazed. It was as though she was seeing everything through a kaleidoscope and the colors were spinning, shifting, melting together like candle wax.

Far away, something dreadful was happening. She could sense it but she could not discern its nature and she could not stop it. Like the steady tramp of their feet against the forest floor, it would not cease, it was happening as they marched onward, as the birds sang in the trees and sunlight warmed her back…

"I've got to sit down and rest for a minute."

Revan sighed. Underneath the mask, Shira couldn't make out his expression, but she knew it was one of restless frustration.

"Alright, make it quick. But if my estimate is correct, it shouldn't be long until we reach the base. We don't have much time before the Sith patrols realize something is going on."

Shira sat down on a fallen tree trunk and pulled back the cloth mask covering her face. It felt wonderful to peel the damp fabric back from her skin. They had stolen the uniforms off the Sith patrol they'd killed and while they made for good disguises, the masks were hot and uncomfortable, obviously worn more out of custom than practicality.

She breathed slowly and deeply, trying to center herself, to quell the anxiety simmering under her skin. As angry as she was for what he'd done, she didn't want Atton to suffer and she knew that somewhere across the galaxy, he was in torment. More and more, she was coming around to Revan's point-of-view: no matter what the Jedi Code said, there were times when ignorance was better than knowledge. There were times when she wished that, like a droid, she could have her memory erased and re-enter the world pristine and new, unburdened by regret, anger, love.

Under a grove of twisted trees, Revan and Sandor were speaking Chiss in hushed tones. Every once in a while, Revan would dart a glance at her, just to make it even more apparent that she wasn't supposed to hear what they were saying.

She rubbed her eyes and tried to stop the world from twisting and blurring. Everything would be alright. She'd get up on her feet again and keep walking. She'd think about something good, something beautiful, the blue hills of Alderaan, the Ebon Hawk sailing over the clouds or the fishing boats that drifted along the night river, decked with tiny lanterns. If she focused hard enough, she hoped an image might transmit itself to Atton like a holo-image souvenir of another life, a world away, a time and a place where he could bury the pain.

Round Four. Or was it Five now? It was hard to keep track but when Atton divided it up into intervals, the pain was easier to take and seemed more likely to end.

He couldn't move, couldn't even blink. Most of the time, this was the least of his concerns, but during the brief interludes when he was able to push the visions away, it was excruciating. His eyeballs felt as though they had hardened into stones and his knees ached. His back pressed against the dark stone of the obelisk, a surface that radiated warmth and seemed to pulse with blue light.

Time was passing, although it was hard to know precisely how long the light lasted on a world like this. Dim daylight had turned into evening, a bloody red sky clotted by clouds of smoke and ash.

If there was any consolation, it was that he'd managed to beat the True Sith back for a little while longer. They had not succeeded in absorbing his mind yet, although their plans for him were becoming increasingly apparent, more vivid with each round of the game.

Their voices came in whispers, low murmurs, the sound of waves crashing onto a pebble beach and then slowly drawing back to the sea.

They made insinuations, never commands.

When you return to the Republic, the Jedi Order will still be weak, one voice said.

Yes, they are still divided under two leaders, two factions. A precarious balance. Should you kill one, the other would topple, another chimed in.

A civil war! the voices cried.

One against the other, one against the other, a voice chanted.

All believing that the Sith pretenders are at work, another said. When they look in one another's eyes, they will see their own terror reflected back at them.

Jedi hypocrites clothed in their own self-righteousness. They judge now, but they will be judged, a deeper voice intoned.

They manipulated you, turned you against yourself, but you can take vengeance, one said. You know their ways, their secrets, you can twist them.

We can teach you how, a voice assured him. We can help you to remember.

He was back in Interrogation Room 2-B. His forearms were strapped to the metal chair, a Force-restricting visor pressed down uncomfortably on his head. He was wearing a ripped Jedi robe. Its coarse fibers rubbed his arms raw and scratched against his neck.

The one of the old Sith operatives was in the room with him, dressed in the black uniform that they wore on base. An executioner's mask was pulled down over the agent's face, the stitching in the leather making the head look like a lumpy, dented smashball.

Atton squinted up at the figure through the blinding light and tried to distinguish whether it was a stranger or one of his former 'colleagues'. Such a clean professional word to describe those schuttas. Sure they used to crack jokes in the barracks and swill juma together in the cantina, but he'd always known that any of one of them would turn on him, given half the chance. They were all very good at their jobs. They had to be.

He could almost discern the agent's eyes through the slits cut out of the mask. Two murky eyes trained on him, looking at him and looking through him with one glance. There was a gash in the mask for the agent's mouth. Whoever he was, he was smiling. He had teeth like tombstones.

"I bet you wish you were back in my position now," the agent said. "After everything we've been through, I never thought you'd become one of them. Jedi."

Whoever it was, the guy was modifying his voice with an implant. It was unnaturally deep, the kind of thing a two-bit kidnapper would use if he was making threats for a ransom.

"I'm not one of them," Atton answered. "But I'm not one of you either."

"Let's not make things unnecessarily complicated. If you're not with us, then you're against us. You remember that, right? You know how this story is going to end."

"I'm guessing it's not happily ever after?"

There was a bare bulb dangling from the ceiling, a pitiful stand-in for the sun.

A black gloved fist descended and eclipsed its light. It smashed against the side of his mouth. He hacked up blood, felt it dribble down his chin.

"Ugh. That's revolting. Don't you have any pride?" the operative said. "It makes me sad to see you reduced to this. You've seen better days, my friend. You used to be in control. Now you're nobody, just a pathetic drunk looking for another escape, another cheap fix."

Atton laughed. "If I've got to choose between being a pathetic drunk and being a sadistic schutta like you, then I say bring on the juma."

The operative sighed and shook his head. "That's not the choice we're giving you, Atton. You've got two options: being a 'sadistic schutta', as you put it, or being an ugly corpse. It isn't a hard decision. We're offering you some power back and a chance to have a little fun. The Jedi, they played you, but you don't have to be their fool anymore."

The agent leaned over and looked him hard in the face. It was then that Atton recognized those dull eyes and that crooked smile.

Welcome back, Jaq.

The gloved hand lashed out as if to hit him again, but instead just patted him gently on the cheek.

Jaq reached into the back of his mouth and removed the voice modulator implant. He snickered and dropped it on the floor, then peeled back his mask.

"Okay, you got me. You're a little slow on the uptake, aren't you? Who else did you think it'd be?"

"Yeah, you're right. As soon as I saw a coward in a mask I should have put two and two together."

"Aw, Atton, that hurts. Cuts like a knife. But it's okay. I can forgive you."

Atton didn't answer - just spit a mouthful of blood back in Jaq's face.

Jaq paused and wiped his face with his gloves, putting on an expression of offended dignity. "Didn't your parents teach you any manners? Okay, yeah, I know they didn't, but that's still no excuse."

Jaq circled Atton slowly, seeming to evaluate him from all angles. It was an old trick he used to make the prisoners nervous.

"Look, I know you, kid. I know what you're capable of," he said. "So you got a little scared and you ran away. No big deal. You might have changed your name but you can't deny blood. You and I, Atton, we understand each other. Hell, we share the same body – and it's a pretty damn good-looking one, too. I admit that sometimes I get a little angry with you when I see you making stupid, rookie mistakes, but in the end, it's in our best interests to get along. I want to help you out."

"There's a reason why I cut you loose," Atton said. "You need me, but I don't need you."

"You don't need me? Who are you kidding? Look around you. You got us into this mess. The only way we get out of it is if we cooperate, if we work with these True Sith schuttas. You don't have to like it - you just have to do it. Trust me, it's a hell of a lot better than dying."

"Maybe I can do it, Jaq. Maybe I'm alright with dying now. If I die, you go too."

"Maybe. Or maybe you die and I keep on kicking," Jaq said. "But there's no reason to do anything too hasty. You're feeling confused right now. I can straighten you out, turn you back into the man you're supposed to be. No more chasing after Jedi skirts, no apologizing for who you are, no more pretending to be somebody you're never gonna be. You're better than that. You still have talent, kid, and you've learned a few new tricks along the way."

Atton squinted at the bare lightbulb dangling from the exposed wires, the white light blurring, streaming down and becoming a hazy halo before his watery eyes. There was someone standing behind his chair, someone Jaq couldn't see although she stood in plain sight.

Tahet leaned over Atton, a strand of her dark blonde hair brushing gently across his neck.

"You can do it. I'll be here with you. I'll stay," she whispered. "You asked me once why I wanted to save you. I'll tell you now. I saved you because I knew that you would save her."

"Save who?" he murmured. "I'm nobody's hero."

Jaq slammed Atton's head against the back of the chair. He punctuated every question by pounding his prisoner's skull against the metal headrest. "What are you talking about? Who you talking to? Huh? Answer me, idiot!"

Atton gripped the arms of the chair as though he was bracing himself for a fall. He didn't want this burden, not any of it, didn't want to have to make the choice that was coming.

Tahet, Prisoner 164, watched him with earnest eyes. There was not a trace of contempt or pity in her gaze, just the calm acceptance of one who had already passed her test.

"She believed that she was meant to help you," she said, "but it is you who will save her in the end."

Jaq spoke over Tahet, his mouth fixed in a smile but his eyes glowering. He didn't like to be ignored. "You've got to quit it with that spice, Atton. You're starting to make me wonder about you."

Atton kept his eyes trained on Tahet's care-worn face. "So what am I supposed to do?"

Jaq gave a loud, theatrical sigh, jerking Atton's neck around so that he had to look at his interrogator. "You're more trouble than you're worth, you know that? I'll bet I could make a deal with these Sith without you. I bet I could kill you and it wouldn't make a lick of difference."

Tahet's voice was slow and patient, her breath faint against Atton's ear. "When it's time, when you find her, you'll know what to do. Right now, you need to get through this trial, to overcome these last few obstacles. It isn't as difficult as you believe."

"Come on, Atton, what's it going to be?" Jaq said, wrapping an arm around his shoulder. "Are we going to be a team again? Just like old times? You missed me, I know you did. Don't play hard to get. We work well together, you and I."

Atton stared into the bright white light, trying to anticipate how it was going to feel. He knew what Tahet wanted him to do, the escape she had plotted for him from this metal chair, this dingy room. He gritted his teeth together, the bitter taste of blood still lingering in his mouth.

"No deal, Jaq. I'm done with you. For good."

"Aw, now that's a shame. The end of a beautiful friendship," Jaq said.

The arm that had snaked around Atton's shoulder crept up towards his neck.

"But, look," Jaq continued, "I know you understand where I'm coming from here. I like to live and, hey, if you're not willing to tag along for the ride, then I've got to take my chances without you."

Jaq's gloved hands wrapped around Atton's throat, his thumbs pressing down upon his windpipe, gently, experimentally at first, as though it was a joke, and then harder. Much harder.

"It was fun while it lasted, old buddy, but the truth is you're a bit of a dead-weight now. I've always done my best work alone."

The hands loosened a little, adjusting their grip, toying with him, and then they tightened around Atton's neck with crushing force. The room, the harsh white light, the rough black gloves, they were all spinning around him, scummy water swirling down the drain.

Jaq kept talking, incessantly talking. He could never shut up, he couldn't stand the silence and so he filled up the room with words, words, words, meaningless sound really, a tongue clacking against teeth.

Atton's dry lips had parted and he knew the low, agonized sounds of gurgling and choking were coming from his own throat, as Jaq squeezed and squeezed, smiling down at him with an expression of manic good humor.

Balloon-bloated, Atton's head felt ready to float up to the concrete ceiling. His glazed eyes were just two mounds of jelly. His body no longer belonged to his mind, it was only a system of dying cells, deflated organs, brittle bones, limbs frantically flailing for life.

Something in his throat snapped but it didn't matter anymore. Now every surface was flattening out, every line converging, every color radiating into the darkness under his eyelids, sparking, sending up flares. He blinked and light flooded into his astounded eyes: a moment of unbearable elation, and then nothing.

Nothing at all.

"[This is suicide,]" Sandor said, grimly eyeing one of the enormous statues erected in front of the Xendrin base.

It was the image of a fearsome creature, part man and part serpent, with a sleek, flat-nosed face and a snarling mouth full of needle teeth. It was crushing the heads of two terrified men under its clawed feet.

"[It could be worse,]" Revan replied. "[It could be murder.]"

He adjusted the Sith mask on his face and moved ahead on the wide path to the base doors. Shira and Sandor followed him, passing the looming statues of krayt dragons and terentatek, stone tableaus of men groveling before dark shrines, and grotesque scenes of massacre laid out in intricate mosaics.

Revan glanced back at Shira, who was wending her way along the path in her own sweet time. Through the disguise she wore, her eyes were misty-colored, distant. She was a cipher sometimes, that infamous Exile, although he wasn't sure she was a mystery he really wanted to solve.

"What's happening? It's like you're sleepwalking."

She snapped to attention. "Sorry."

"Keep your wits about you, alright?"

"I've got it, Rev. Just worry about taking care of yourself. I can manage."

"If you say so," he said, shaking his head. Hopefully she'd wake up once a few Sith started whirling lightsabers in her direction.

They passed under a black archway and start walking up a long flight of crooked steps. The twisted body of a Sith trooper sprawled across four of the bottom stairs. Her head had been dashed against the stones and blood cascaded down the edge of the nearest step, pooling on the one beneath it.

Revan stooped over the body to see if there was anything to salvage. He'd determined that there was nothing of value, when he felt something close around his ankle and realized with a sickening wrench of his stomach that it was the Sith's hand. She was desperate and digging her fingernails into his skin.

He grunted with disgust and kicked off the putty-colored hand, then kept walking up the stairs.

Shira spoke to him from the stairs below. "Force, when I see their bodies discarded like this…it's strange. They murder one another. They seem incapable of fighting as a unit. It's -"

Revan continued his ascent. "Inefficient. Yes, I know."

"I was going to say 'brutal'."

She paused a moment and he knew she was putting the Sith woman out of her misery. He didn't bother to look back down and see how she did it.

"But it's disorganized as well," she continued. "Kreia told me that the True Sith would be different from anything I'd ever imagined, but they're the same, just the same as all the others. Don't you think that's odd?"

"I just think it's odd that you listen to Kreia. She's a liar and she'll mess with your head any chance she gets. Seems to think it's educational."

He scaled the last of the stairs and scanned the base entrance, an ornate set of double doors surrounded by marble columns veined with grey and red. A handprint recognition system was set on the left hand side of the doors.

Sandor and Shira trudged up the last steps behind him.

"[I can take care of the door myself,]" Sandor said, shying away from Revan.

Revan chuckled, almost enjoying the impertinence. "[Go ahead. I won't stand in your way. Are you excited to be back home with old Sith friends?]"

Sandor didn't answer him. He placed his hand into the detection imprint. The lights encircling the system flashed red and then green.

The doors slowly ground apart, revealing the inside of the Xendrin base, a lavish main hallway decked with red curtains. Chandeliers hung from the high-arched ceilings. They were carved out of polished bone.

As they entered the base, an officer approached Revan and began issuing orders and reprimands in the guttural language these Sith used among themselves. The officer jabbed him in the chest with his index finger and bellowed out his disapproval.

Revan couldn't understand a word of it, but he stood up straight and kept nodding submissively, attentively, as Shira withdrew her lightsaber and Sandor readied his vibroblade. They fell upon the officer before he could even grab his 'saber and then dragged the body behind a set of curtains, a notably convenient place for hiding corpses.

There were holo-vid screens implanted in the stone walls. Revan watched one of them as it flashed through a few moments of carnage, a team of white-clad Sith massacring a group decked out in yellow. It seemed to be sporting event, like stadium dueling, except without the safety measures. Spattered with blood and dusted with sand, the victors towered over their victims with a sort of purposelessness, waiting only for the next slaughter.

Revan turned away, revolted. He'd seen enough of these beasts to think that the end of their civilization would not be a great loss to the galaxy. If these were the True Sith, then there was nothing in their philosophy but the instinct of a crazed predator to kill and kill and kill, even when its stomach was full, if only for thrills, the spurt and dazzle of blood. He'd take them down with pleasure, even if he had to die for it.

The first thing he heard was a single gasp and then the sound of his own ragged breathing.

Atton tentatively opened one eye and then the other, surprised to see a grey sky churning with clouds.

He sat up, noting every ache and pain in his body. His throat hurt, his mouth hurt and the back of his head hurt like hell. In fact, he was pretty sure even his earlobes, his pinky toes and the follicles of his hair were in pain right now. He rubbed the back of his head and found a tender lump forming there, the approximate size and shape of a kinrath egg. Yet, in spite of the bruising and the blood matted in his hair, he felt relieved, almost grateful for the pain that reassured him he was alive.

Atton wasn't sure what had happened to Jaq. It might be that he was dead or it might be the True Sith had consumed him. Maybe the schutta was still lurking around, still clinging to life in the torture chamber he'd created for himself. Atton didn't care anymore. Wherever Jaq was buried, he wouldn't dig up that body. Nobody would mourn the loss.

Atton clambered to his feet and began to pick out a path across the circular rows of bones. They were just dead things now, without significance or terror, the refuse of the past washing up at his feet like driftwood.

He stepped on a finger-bone and listened to it crunch under his boot. The sound made him flinch a little the first time he heard it but after a while, he got to savor the desecration and stamped a few old bones to chalk. It felt good to take a little bit of revenge for what he'd suffered. He'd won. Even if the True Sith weren't gone, and even if the voices couldn't die, they wouldn't live on in him.

He pushed the black gates open and looked around for his old guardian pal. The little creature wasn't there.

Atton took a deep breath and managed draw enough strength from the Force to push his body into a run. He sprinted across the planet's dark surface, smoke singeing his nostrils and the thin air burning in his lungs. It felt good, almost as good as when the Ebon Hawk kicked into hyperdrive and streaked past the stars.

He was almost halfway back to The Direstar when he spotted HK wandering along the black rocks. He was surprised to realize that he'd actually missed the walking glitch factory. Compared to the True Sith, just about anyone else made for good company.

"Hey, HK! I thought I told you to stay with the ship!"

The blaster carbine fastened to HK's hands was raised, as if he were using it to wave hello.

"[Statement:] Indeed, Meatbag, I did process your request to stay with the ship. However, my master has given me more pressing orders to execute."

Atton stopped dead in his tracks. "What? Which master?"

"[Helpful Clarification:] I refer to my first legitimate master: the Dark Lord Revan. I have been programmed to give his directives precedence. [Confession:] It has taken me many planetary cycles to recover his orders. I expect that when I encounter him, he will take a most satisfying vengeance on me for this delay."

Atton reached a hand under his lapel, where he'd stowed his weapon. He might be a slow learner, but taking a few knocks on the skull was generally enough to educate him.

"HK, Revan is gone. Hell, he might be dead for all we know. His orders don't mean anything anymore."

"[Objection:] Even if Revan has suffered the pathetic end of all meatbags, his orders remain," HK said. "He is a good master and would be pleased to see me making efficient use of my weaponry. [Commentary:] Your mistake was to betray such a good master, defector."

The muzzle of HK's blaster carbine lined up with Atton's head. There could be no doubt about who he was referring to as 'defector'.

Atton scowled. So much for camaraderie. It served him right for entertaining even the most grudging hint of affection for a droid.

"I don't think you want to do this, HK. You may have taken my lightsaber but believe me, I can still think up a hundred ways to turn you into scrap."

HK's golden eyes glowed through a haze of smoke.

"[Recitation:] Jaq Rand, you have been cited for unauthorized elimination of a Jedi prisoner, failure to report for duty, and desertion," the droid intoned. "According to the fifth edition of the Revanchist Conversion Manual, these constitute Class 1 offences, the penalty for which is immediate death."

"Frack, it never ends, does it?" Atton sighed. He was bone weary.

The blaster carbine rattled off a round, illuminating the smoke and stirring the flakes of falling ash.

Atton dodged the first shots and launched forward, ready to attack.

As he bolted back from a particularly close call, he smiled to himself and enjoyed the joke. The droid might have him outgunned, but he'd been keeping a secret weapon in reserve, something HK's programmed logic could not anticipate. Atton had never expected it to come in so handy, but all too often the most useful things were the ones you stole.