Grumbling awake, something was taking him out of unconsciousness. It wasn't himself; it wasn't the presence of another person in the pitch black room. It was nagging him like an invisible pinch that steadily became unbearable.

"Ah!"

When he sat up, he realized that the Force was charring his mind, encasing his senses. It was unbearable. He sprung up from his shadowed cot, and collapsed to the ground, cradling his head. Like an explosion, a gunshot, deafened ears, his blood thundered.

One word could sum it up: Fear.

It was a detonating horror which made the hairs on his body stand in unison, at attention. It was one of the most overpowering feelings he had ever encountered, and it encroached upon him, virus. In response, his own heartbeat fluttered, his flesh went clammy and cold.

Closing his eyes, Obi-wan steadied himself—it wasn't his terror.

Not mine. Not mine.

Whose was it then?

It was clear that he was well connected to this person, or else he wouldn't notice, so the only logical conclusion was…

"Satine," he whispered.

Instantly, he stood, ignoring the migraine, the sting of the air against his cheeks, his jaw, and his entire body really.

Limping to the door, he leaned heavily against it, knowing he could never get closer than this. Centering himself, he concentrated on the paralyzing fear, tried to submerge and find a reason for it. A growing part of his brain worried—she might be dying.

The larger, Jedi side retorted that if that was the case, the fright would be lessening as her life force slipped away, not increasing.

It showed no signs of fading.

Detaching from the physical, from his body, he waited for the stoic Force to reveal itself. Without realizing, he sat upon the ground, legs crossed in the familiar position.

For what seemed like an inordinate amount of time, he remained still in soul and mind. Then, completely removed from all sensation, he began seeing images.

Satine sat, keeled over, breathing hard, and whispering inaudible prayers. Suppressing his desire to jump into action, he waited for more information. It came seconds later, when Maul came into view. Compassion was replaced by a rising fury; it threatened to ruin his concentration. Steady, he watched as passively as he could as the Sith engulfed the Duchess, and all went black.

But the Force was not finished.

It continued.

New, strange pictures emerged. Straining to understand, he recognized colors of red and blue clashing against one another in an eternal dance. Then, a flash of white broke through the fight, separating the two.

Divided against their will, the opposing colors converged on one another once again, destroying the white, and their battle became far more ruthless. In the beginning, it seemed relatively equal with one sometimes having predominance and sometimes becoming the minority.

However, the red was now threatening to swallow the blue. By the end of the vision, only a speck of it remained. Everything went dark.

Coming back into himself, he pondered what he had seen, foreboding.

Satine was certainly in trouble, but it was more of a S.O.S. than anything. She knew better than to give into any strong feeling with Sith around. Hell, she made damn well sure to keep her emotions blocked from him at all times since the war began.

Despite himself, he gave a smirk, reminiscing about their days spent in a cave, barely surviving but truly living.

Shaking his head, he returned to mulling over the other aspects of the revelation. Clearly, the red and blue represented the Jedi and the Sith. He was concerned that the Darkside had been on equal standing, but he supposed that was the nature of things—yin and yang.

The white was far more perplexing. What was this third party? Moreover, it was clear that after its appearance, the Sith would practically wipe out the Jedi.

He had had prophecies before, but none of this kind of importance. It was even more imperative that he return to the Temple, to his masters.

Frustration built. He longed to blast through these petty panels and make one of his grand escapes, he knew he could do it, but it left Satine to the wolves.

He couldn't ignore the fact that she was in terrible danger. He couldn't be sure, but there was an off-ness to Maul that was becoming a larger problem.

More than a few times over, the Duchess should have died by his double-edged, glowing red blade. Obi could not deny this.

Why did the Sith keep her alive? Was there a larger plan at work? There was no way she would buy him any headway with his former Lords.

All of his past action suggested that he should have murdered her from the offset. So what was this new strategy? Was he simply trying to drive the Jedi insane with worry?

Probably, and it was working relatively well so far. Nonetheless, there was an evolution in the making, and his feelings told him that rescuing Satine was of first importance, even though his mind, his training demanded otherwise.

It had been only a day, maybe a day and a half, and his patience, his calm was withering away like sand in the wind. He should have expected it—similar feelings always appeared with the former Duchess involved.

Like an impossible itch, a puzzle left unsolved, a missing piece, he couldn't shake the image of Satine out of his head. She was afraid, humiliated, on the verge of disaster, and what was he doing? Sitting here, pondering vacantly. Boiling, the pull to act was steaming under his skin.

He had to expunge it. So, he began pacing furiously, ignoring the spongy kneecaps. Around and around he went, no solution in sight. Each path led to turmoil—he would not leave here without her, which meant that he had to defeat Maul, which was practically impossible at this point.

The incorrigible Sith was a watchdog on steroids. Not to mention an entire legion of belligerent Death Watch soldiers also stood in his way, as well as the brutish Savage.

Groaning, he felt his way to the bed and sat on it with a depressed huff. What could he do but wait for death?

His noble spirit was waning, he had to do something!

Stereotypical prisoner, he laid upon the floor, elbows perpendicular, and began doing pushups. Doing one set was agony, so he settled for crunches. Impatient, he wished he could repair himself over night, could snap his fingers and be back to his normal, athletic self.

Mindlessly, the endorphins began to ease his fluttering, scattered mind. In the moment he only focused on his breath, on his back pushing off the ground, of the crunch of his abdomen, and the repetition. It was obvious that he had a nasty shiner, throbbing as blood rushed in and out of his head.

Pain is universal…pain is universal…just a scratch…he chanted to himself.

The minutes became hours, his body was covered in sweat. When splatters of salty water began splashing back up at him, he stopped his wild workout. It was probably unwise to have done such a thing when he still hadn't received a meal, but it had accomplished the task of steadying his nerves.

Weary, he tore a small piece, or what he thought was small, of his ragged tunic and searched for the water bucket. He was getting accustomed to his pitch black den, and found the wooden thing easily. It had not fallen over once since his stay. Dipping the cloth, he wiped his face, exhausted. He would be sore tomorrow.

Crawling into the thin bed, he turned and faced the unseen wall that brushed against his legs. The heartache became a dull pang, and he fell fast asleep.

Eager, Maul counted the days until he could truly enrage the Jedi. It wasn't enough to destroy him physically and mentally, but he sorely wished to see the self-righteous Obi stumble, to give into his demons.

He was positive that the Duchess would be the last straw. Yet, he was patient, for he wanted Kenobi nice and weak before he made his display of power. It had been a week since he had last seen his prized prisoner. After all, black markets didn't just create themselves; he had more important things to attend to.

There were threats to be issued, shady alliances to be made, and double-crosses to plan. The Death Watch acted as a ruthless police force—arresting any potential foe, keeping the people terrified and homebound, out of the way while gangsters ascended.

Arms of all sorts were shipped in, traffickers were welcomed with open arms, Mandalore would soon be a hive of scum and villainy unparalleled.

Of courses, miniature crises would pop up: a petty revolt would need to be crushed, a challenging competitor capped, and of course the usual worthless reprimands of the Senate.

Neutral in name only, it was a perfect, momentary disguise. Moreover, the more he became entrenched within the underground, the harder it would be to resist his empire. Everyone in the Republic had a price—only a few idealists remained, too small to be of any threat.

Even the oh-so honorable Obi-wan had one.

Once in a while he would spot a monitor that was trained on the Jedi's cell. A grin would light up his devilish face, for Kenobi was going insane. No amount of meditation could save him from the reality of his predicament.

The Duchess was doing her job; his nemesis could never retain concentration. Maul saw it. The bearded man would sit, close his eyes, breathe, and then give up a moment later. He would walk around the room in frenzy, but true love was inescapable—like a terminal diagnosis.

He wished he could sit and watch all day, his sadistic itch begging to be scratched.

But he would remind himself that the best was yet to come, he only need another week or so until his harvest was ready to be reaped. Pondering what else he had to do for the day as he walked down the familiar corridor toward the throne room from his own quarters, he noted that he was passing a certain Duchess's panels.

She had an even busier schedule of remaining by his side at all times, especially during official meetings which took place in less conspicuous places—Maul did not trust the Death Watch as far as he could throw them, after all.

Everyone certainly got a hoot out of seeing her in her present condition. More aggressive clientele, usually of the Hutt variety, would get a bit too hand-sy for his tastes, trying to snag a piece of her hair, or caressing her while his back was turned.

Of course, reprimands would have to be made. Not a few of his partners lost their hands. It had the dual effect of making her a symbol and bolstering his bloodthirsty reputation. It was also a lovely way to end negotiations. Snatching her restraints he would turn his back and leave the room, Savage chuckling as he followed after, screams like victorious trumpets.

Now she was waiting by the usual place, the throne, watched over by his apprentice and Drack. The first days, she had a proud expression, spine straight, chin lifted. It had taken a few stinging slaps to knock some respect into her thick skull.

But with each passing day, with each embarrassment, each hit, she learned her place.

Happily, he noticed how she had that glazed expression, shoulders hunched, usually staring at the ground. Whenever he raised his hand, she cringed, well-oiled to his whims.

A few times he had to actually remind her to show her pretty face to the guests. Hollowly, like a windup doll, she would comply without thinking, without any emotion. The aggression that was tangible at first was decaying into profound apathy.

And, just to top it off, every night he would force himself upon her at the door, her personal escort. Only a single kiss, but it was so much more. Her lips and neck testified to his intensity, and were constantly raw and bloody, punctures visible either from his teeth or nails.

Scratches marred her collarbone, stretching around her throat, but he had no intention of letting up. In fact, it was practice. Soon, he would put on the quintessential performance.

He could taste the sorrow of Obi-wan, could imagine as his bright blue eyes alighted with hatred and then descended into earthshattering despair.

With a smirk he approached the panels to the throne.

Walking regally through the opening doors, the room went dead silent. Thick curtains had been made to cover the obscene windows, creating a perpetual dimness. Any pathetic icon made in the image of the Duchess had been burned, replaced with stained, black and red, tattered banners.

Murmuring had been buzzing but then ceased, he saw Satine visibly leap in fright from her seated position on the filthy marble.

Delicious…he thought, giddy.

"Sit down," he snapped without looking and she sank down, her skirts creating a burgundy ring, like a wilting rose. Per usual, Savage could barely keep his bark of laughter in as he stood at the right hand of the faded cathedra, Maul appraised him with an approving glance. His ruthlessness was coming along nicely.

Drack was stone cold, for he truly despised the woman he stood next to, but Maul sensed he had a deep pleasure at seeing her this way.

The Sith had a few more meetings, formalities more than anything, and he would be all that much closer to the establishment of his criminal empire.

Death Watch sentries saluted as he passed, but he paid them no mind as he glided up the steps.

Sitting with a flourish, he absently reached out and traced the former Duchess's cheek with a cruelly sharpened nail. He knew he broke skin when she winced, another brand to add to the collection. Kenobi would be spitting fire when he saw her—he would surely fall from his conceited pedestal.

Crossing his legs, Maul had never felt more than alive as he looked upon his weeding regime.