Hey guys! Wow, I really haven't updated in a while, and I apologize for that! I've been really busy with schoolwork and college research and taekwondo training, so I haven't had much time for fun writing. I'll try to get back on top of my Galactic War schedule (Yes, I have a schedule, but lately I haven't been very good at keeping at it! :D). In the meantime, I hope you all like this! For those who were creeped out by the interrogation scene in the last section, this chapter is a bit more redeeming for Kan.
As usual, many thanks to all those who show their support for Galactic War!
Chapter 13
"There is no emotion, there is peace.
There is no ignorance, there is knowledge.
There is no passion, there is serenity.
There is no chaos, there is harmony.
There is no death, there is the Force."
– The Jedi Code
✶ Kuat city Hotel, 0200, 406 days ABG ✶
"Okay, it's official now: the Pyronite is bonkers," Ammo said into his squad's private link.
"If leading us on a wild bantha chase through the city in the middle of the night indicates insanity," Cor answered.
"Remember your place, men!" Ember broke in. "He's not in charge of any contingent, but the Pyronite still outranks us all."
"All because of his genetics," Storm muttered sourly, referring to midichlorians, the microscopic lifeforms which lived in the cells of all living creatures, affecting their host with the ability to feel the Force.
"Hey, don't ever complain about genetics," Nano said. "Because our 'superior' genetics is the only reason we're all here."
"Don't remind me," Cor muttered.
"Weird how genetics determine a person's status in life," Onor commented.
"At least in these times," Lance pointed out.
"What are you guys talking about?" A girl's strident voice ––– Marya's ––– intruded upon the squad's private conversation. Hacking into a squad link was considered an indelicate breach of etiquette within the clone ranks, but none of the ELF Commandos expected Marya to know that.
"We're debating whether Pyronites can become lunatics or not," Ammo said lightly.
"Well, I think Heatrian is the answer incarnate," Marya replied. "We've been crawling through sewers and evading the cops for hours, and no one except Heatrian has seen any cultists."
"Maybe he's trying to delay us," Storm suggested. The clone had never had a very high opinion of Jedi. Adriaan and Kay were the only two he respected, because they showed a mutual deference to him.
"Why would he do that?" Marya asked. The idea was too shocking even for her warped, suspicious mind.
"Because Aedan's throwing a party and none of us are invited?" Ammo asked.
"Uh, hell-oh? How could I be GOODLY throwing a WICKED dance party in the hotel if I've been outside digging through WICKED dumpsters all night?" Aedan demanded, hacking into the link.
"Well, I don't know. You're WICKED, which means you're invincible, so I'm sure you'd be able to figure something out," Andre said loyally.
"Why do you think the cultists are hiding in dumpsters?" Ember asked suspiciously.
"Cultists? Man, you're so naïve," Aedan chortled. "Cultists in WICKED dumpsters…hah! Ehl-oh-ehl!"
"Ehl-oh-ehl?" Ember asked, confused.
"Again, another WICKED example of your naïveté," Nic commented.
"It's an acronym which stands for 'Laugh Out Loud'" Andre said with a supercilious air.
"Don't interrupt, Andre!" Aedan snapped. "Anyway, as any half-witted GOOD would know, the dumpster is the treasure-trove of all WICKEDS who have sophisticated palates."
"You mean you eat trash –––" Ammo began.
"Aedan, if you have any respect for the dignity of sane lifeforms, you'd do your poor Master a favor by listening to orders, for once," Ember said.
"Bah! What's the WICKED of living if you don't act like a lunatic every once and a while?"
"I agree; the problem with you, however, is that your fits of lunacy don't happen 'every once and a while'"
Ammo, Marya, and Andre had stopped in the middle of the alleyway several minutes back, and they had carried on this conversation as they waited for the culprit of their fruitless search to catch up with them. After Ember's remark, Heatrian oozed into view, bubbles of lava rising and popping out of his chest as he paused to regain his breath…if that was what it could be called. Ammo wasn't entirely sure that what the Pyronite had qualified as a respiratory system.
The lava-being halted, his yellow orbs widening and deliquescing into his cheeks as he scrutinized them. Ammo resisted the urge to throw up by looking away, his iron gut unable to withstand the sight of a melting face. To his chagrin, his Jedi companions seemed unaffected by the constantly changing features on the creature's "face"
"What the GOOD are you lard butts doing?" Heatrian demanded. Never mind that he was the one slowing them up.
"Waiting for you, what do you think?" Andre snapped.
"Well, I'm here, so move it!"
"Why don't you lead us, since you're the only one who senses the people we are pursuing?" Marya remarked cattily.
"What, are you losing steam already?" he demanded. "And you GOOD organics are always crowing about how WICKEDLY tough you all are."
"There's a difference between a geriatric and a fool who follows an even bigger fool," the Zabrak hissed. Heatrian, who was actually quite intelligent ––– the one and true genius in the entire Wicked Club ––– caught the acerbity in her voice.
"It's not my fault you aren't powerful enough to sense anything."
"Now, in all my life, I have never had this exceptional of a snag sensing whether danger is close or not. So I find it more likely that there isn't any crisis here."
"Are you guys calling me a GOOD liar?" Heatrian demanded.
"Oh, no, not at all!" Andre hastened to defend. "We just think you're…UNWICKEDLY misinterpreting the Force signal."
The Pyronite's eyes suddenly solidified and popped back into his face as he stared at Andre incredulously. "But, following Marya's own GOOD logic, it's more likely that I'm not misinterpreting the signal because I have also never in my life GOODLY done so. What's your answer to that, O great philosophers?" He grinned when they all remained silent.
"Please, WICKED Heatrian, we're way overdue for the WICKED shift change," Nic pleaded over comlink.
The Pyronite suddenly reared his head, his nostrils flaring and spitting out black smoke. The clone and Padawans jumped back in alarm as he started forward, his eyes flaming. Ammo automatically loosened his machete from its sheath, recalling what his training commander had said about exotic species. "Bear in mind that you are to treat them with the same degree of respect as any other lifeform, but remember that they may or may not react in the same way as humans do. All species are equal, yet unique; a Wookiee could take serious offense at things humans may consider to be compliments. Some aliens won't even show that they're indignant, so they may seemingly randomly try to rip your arms out of your sockets. Never rely on facial expressions to gauge the situation; too many people are too good at putting on an impenetrable sabacc face. Just watch out for those random attacks, and be prepared when they come." Ammo looked at the metal weapon for a moment, wondering if it would have any effect on the lava being. Recalling that the nemesis of Pyronites was water, he let go of the machete hilt and reached for his water canteen instead.
"Uh, remember what Aedan WICKEDLY said about personal space…" Andre said, backing up slowly.
"Yep: there's no such GOOD thing," Aedan declared unhelpfully. Andre cursed and cut the king off the audio feed.
"Do you mnaug that?" The Pyronite whispered. Ammo watched Heatrian's body language closely; he couldn't pick up any vexation or outrage in the Pyronite's posture. Nevertheless, his hand remained on the water bottle cap.
"Excuse me?" Andre quavered.
"What is a mnaug?" Ammo asked, more curious than afraid now. He took his hand off his weapon, certain now that the Pyronite's sudden explosion into movement was because Heatrian had been alerted, not angered.
Heatrian shook his head, licking his "lips" with a long tendril of magma. "You humans have eyes and noses. Pyronites have different ways of perceiving the world. While you have senses of sight and smell, we have senses of mnauging. My na speaks to me of a great many roots…sorry, 'feet' is your word…leaving the WICKED ground and entering Hzyla… 'sky' I think it is called. The cultists have become afraid and are fleeing to a different place."
Marya bent down to restrap her boots. "Then we must move with all haste and catch them before they are gone," she said briskly. Ammo looked at the Pyronite sharply ––– was that a relieved grin that lighted Heatrian's lava features? It was hard to tell; emotions were near impossible to guess in a face made entirely of fire.
"Do you know where they are going?" Ammo asked.
Heatrian suddenly stiffened, his skin pulsing to a bright cherry color. Then he collapsed into a pool in the alleyway, reshaping and forming into a gray pillar of rock. "No," he said, his voice sounding distant, preoccupied.
"What? How can you know they are going somewhere if you don't even know where they are going in the first place?" Marya demanded impatiently.
"It is too late; they have left," Heatrian said solemnly, almost as if he were rehearsing a part.
"But you just said –––"
"Forget what I said!" Heatrian snapped, all fire and verve now. "They are gone!" He paused, then continued in a much quieter tone. "It appears we have been led on a wild bantha chase."
"I told you!" Cor said to Ember over the private link.
"There's trouble back at the hotel. We need to report there immediately," Heatrian said, turning around and retracing his steps. Slightly put off by the alien's random flaring and cooling of temper, Ammo darted forward so that he was walking alongside the Pyronite.
"But how do you know this?" he asked. "Who contacted you? What's going on?"
"Klamin told me the cultists attempted to kidnap our ex-Padawan friend," Heatrian said grimly.
She ducked and swung out with her arm, aiming for his chest as his fist whistled over her head. His other arm came down to block hers, so she spun on her toes and brought her leg up in a spin hook to his head. I've got him now! She thought triumphantly.
Whack!
A foot came crashing into her face as her toes grazed the short stubble on his head. She yelped but did not fall ––– she had earned enough bruises to learn never to fall when fighting her Master ––– dropping into a crouch and rolling under his legs instead. She twisted in the second roll and leaped nimbly to her feet, sliding her right foot a shoulder width behind and a little to the right as she brought her fists up into a fighting stance, 'kiyahing' spunkily despite the numb, burning feeling in her nose as fluid trickled out of her nostrils.
"Keep your hands up!" Jacen hollered, grinning as he lunged forward and sent her prancing back a few meters.
She glared at him ferociously, wanting to retort that it was his fault she had dropped into the habit of fighting with hands down. He fought with his arms jerking and swinging by his thighs as he bounced lightly on his toes, looking more like he was dancing to some catchy glimmik beat rather than fighting. He lunged forward again, and she brought her knee up in self-defense as she hopped back and slightly to the left. Her blood boiled as he smirked even wider. "See? You're getting tired," he crowed.
"Am not!" she retorted, popping a quick front leg axe kick to make the point. She felt a small amount of satisfaction as he retreated away from the punt. Both of them knew she was quite capable of kicking him in the head.
She took advantage of his pseudo-retreat by using her forehand to wipe the sweat off her lips. Her hand came away pinkish-red, and she bared her teeth at him accusingly. "Thanks a lot; you broke my nose!"
He stopped bouncing for a moment, his volatile gaze scrutinizing her face for a moment. He shrugged. "It doesn't look broken."
"Okay, bloodied. Now I've got bloodstains all over my nice new tunic. Thanks a lot."
"Welcome." He resumed gyrating and suddenly swung at her with a backfist. She parried and push-kicked him back, but he only grabbed her by the wrist and yanked her close, shoving his knee under her upraised leg so that she was left hopping on one foot and unable to kick. She glared and held still ––– glad for the strong muscles in her legs ––– and started to machine-gun kick to try to get her leg free. His other arm dropped to cover his chest guard, opening up his head for attack. She whooped as her left hand came up and scored him in the temple, but her victory was short-lived as he suddenly leaped in the air and hook-kicked her with his base foot, sending the two of them flying apart. She staggered a little but kept her fighting stance, shaking her head so that the blood droplets that had somehow gotten into her eyes went flying off her face and spattered all across the front of Jacen's clean white tunic. She wiped the heel of her hand across her nose and laughed at the angry expression that briefly darkened his sharp features, then gasped as he darted forward and shoved a nasty pop-up back kick straight in her gut…
"MURDER!"
Suddenly a scream shattered the dreamworld, distorting Adriaan's contact with Kay Lee's consciousness as the rolling ocean became a great tsunami and threatened to crush her for life, maim her mind till it was as witless as a worm's, leaving her to claw at the dirt and…
She perceived herself as a stooped figure of an old woman who swiftly rose, casting aside her withered shroud and becoming a great shield maiden, a warrior with a beam of blue light extending from her right fist.
"Master, why have you abandoned us? We have been attacked!" Klamin shrieked.
Attacked? Good Force, is there no sanctuary for us?" Adriaan thought. "Will I never be saved? Curse you, Haak! I wish I had ripped the heart of your very body the day I fought you! Was not the blood of Jacen enough to satisfy your craving? You got what you wanted! Now why don't you leave me alone?
"Who is Jacen?" Adriaan halted as she felt a flicker of Kay's thought briefly touch her own dark and shadowy ruminations. The Padawan was still unconscious, but her essence exuded a keen curiosity, eager to learn the nature of her Master's reflections. Not willing to share such precious and painful memories even with her best friend, Adriaan abruptly broke contact, rising from her place at the bedside and rushing into the next room, leaving Kay alone on the cold bunk, her chest heaving up and down like the waves of the sea.
She rushed into the room, staggered as an arm ––– Wolf's ––– held her back, shielding her eyes from the bright, bright blood on the carpet, the white sheets, the walls, the boys…
My boys. My kids. My Padawans. No, this isn't right; it's me he wants, not them, not them…
"Who dared to do this?" Adriaan yelled.
"Please, Master, don't go after them! Save us!" Klamin screamed through pink spittle.
She only saw the darkened socket of Darc's eye, hollow yet gazing emptily up at her accusatorially.
"You never came…" His voiceless, broken lips seemed to say. She heard the sharp voice of her Master screaming through her mind.
"Keep your hands up!" His foot came crashing down on her head…
She brought her hands up automatically, the adrenaline rushing through her system at the vivid memory. "I will avenge this!" she roared.
"But they have left without a trace!" Klamin argued, debating even while he was thrashing in torment, his face contorted and shapeshifting uncontrollably as he clutched the wound in his gut.
"I am the Darkhawk's fledgling! I am the hunter's child! There is no sanctuary for my enemies!" She thundered, and she thought it was her Master who spoke, her tone was laced with such power.
"There is no emotion, there is overconfidence…wait, no, it was 'There is no reaction, there is tranquility. There is no illiteracy, there is is no agony…but how can that be true? For there is…but never mind. There is no agony, there is quietus. There is no freedom, there is equality. There is no escape, there is coercion,'" the broken mouth burbled.
"Darc, can you hear me? What's happened?" Adriaan asked, her voice growing shrill.
"Nothing, my dear, just…I've just misplaced a few things, that's all. Can't find my big toes…or the Jedi Code." He seemed oddly at peace, not feeling any pain. She reached out to him in the Force, only to encounter an alien mind, frighteningly devoid of the confidence, the cocky self-assurance, the jolly disposition of her friend…
The Jedi Code was: There is no emotion, there is peace. There is no ignorance, there is knowledge. There is no passion, there is serenity. There is no chaos, there is harmony. There is no death, there is the Force. Darc's brain must have short-circuited, causing his memory to be distorted, exchanging similar words in place of the others. Thus his perception of the code became distorted.
"I don't understand various aspects of our Order's code, Ree," Jacen began.
And then the truth of her Master's words were suddenly revealed to her as she looked down on the broken man who had once been her friend, who seemed at peace but was not, who simply appeared so because he felt no empathy, no emotion, no thought of anything, no love, no memory of his life…
Fierfek, we can't gain peace through apathy. Some passions are vices, but not all of them. What about the passion for liberty, for justice, for peace? The greatest passion of all ––– Compassion ––– is an emotion as well. Why are we allowed to feel compassion and not any other response? If our Order allows us to feel compassion, why doesn't our code say, "There is no emotion except compassion" or something? And what about courage? That is an emotion, too. All the best Jedi are brave. We pride ourselves on being "free" from the bonds of sentiment; but without courage, compassion, and an ardor for peace and justice, can we truly call ourselves Jedi?
The broken lips turned and spat out red bile, murmuring even through the retching. Alarmed, she took him by the hand. "Darc, what's wrong with you? Answer me!"
"I have answered, my dear," he coughed.
"Stop calling me that! Remember the deal we made? Do not torture me!"
"I would never do such a thing to you, though I myself have been put through agony because of you."
"I assure you, it was not in my least intention to make you suffer. I would rather die…"
"And I can find nothing better than dying for you, my dear, my precious, my love."
That stopped her dead in her tracks, voices and faces skittering across her mind like leaves blown in the wind. "You are a Jedi, Adriaan," She heard Darc say, "and to be a member of that Order is to be is part of the reason I chose to leave. I found that I had become too attached to certain Jedi in my life, and it was only fair that I separate myself from them, because even though I was not destined to lead a solitary life, those people were, and who was I to stand in their way?" She watched Klamin's face crumpling, his gaze resentful as she lectured him on attachment. "We're Jedi, and fighting a war; we don't have time for romantic intrigue. My students are all my children; I can't have favorites, and love some of them more than others. We can be friends, but nothing more." And Wolf ––– poor Wolf, the young, dark face red with humiliation as Klamin taunted him…
"Good Force, he's mad," she shrieked. "They did something to his mind. Snap out of it, Darc! Awake! Arise!"
"It's too late; he is gone," Klamin blubbered. He looked comically like some clown who had a fit of stage fright and suddenly forgot most of his lines. "They stole up on us in our sleep and blinded us with glowlamps. We shouted for help, but no one came. They grabbed Darc and tried to make off with him, but we attacked. They stabbed us both and were about to kill us, but Darc…"
The Knight whirled as she heard a heavy tread right outside the door. "Kay!" Adriaan shouted, interrupting Klamin's hysterical explanation. The Padawan, gray-faced and haggard, fell through the door as she opened it and sprawled facedown on the carpet, moaning feebly. Adriaan, worried for Kay, reached her in half a step and knelt down, hauling her friend up. "What are you doing up?"
"You said to awaken, so I did," Kay mumbled. Adriaan came to a dead halt, looking at the Padawan strangely, wondering what the girl meant. Who am I to compel the wounded to rise from their beds? But Darc had not heeded her call, so she quickly dismissed the thought. She knew she was no miracle-worker, no Chosen One.
"I was speaking to Darc. Get back into bed!" She ordered finally, hauling Kay to her feet. The Padawan staggered, leaning against the wall. "Never mind, I'll carry you back. Wolf! My kit, please." Adriaan gripped Kay Lee under the armpits and half-dragged, half-carried her out of the room. Part of her was surprised at how quickly and effortlessly she moved the Padawan, despite the fact they were nearly the same size.
Adriaan lay her quickly and a little ungently back on her bunk. "Padawans, I'm going to need you to continue working on her while I'm gone," she rapped out. "Where's the other shifts? They were supposed to report back at…" She glanced at her chrono. "Holy fierfek, they were supposed to be back here hours ago!"
"It's all right, ma'am; they detected something in Elsil's hotel room and are conducting a citywide investigation," Wolf informed her.
"What did they find?"
"Elsil's dead body."
There was a brief hiatus. Then, "There will be blood payment tonight for this."
"Ma'am, I must request that you ease off the throttle and listen –––"
Her adrenaline spiked, raw power coursing through her so poignantly that she felt a sudden urge and conviction that she was quite capable of conquering the galaxy. She didn't want to waste such priceless energy. "There's no time for listening! Those guys have gone too far; they've hurt too many of my kids. It's time they got bitten."
"Ma'am, please, you're hysterical –––"
"Hysterical? Perhaps I am; who wouldn't be if they found one of their oldest friends maimed and vacuous after having been attacked in his own bedroom?"
"I understand your distress –––"
She laughed harshly. "No, Wolf, you do not. You cannot; you do not know what it is like to watch your children get hurt while you must continue on unmolested. Now, my kit, Wolf. Kan!" The Padawan snapped to attention, looking strangely guilty. "I want a minute ––– as in brief yet concise ––– description of the attackers. What did they look like and where did they go?"
Kan hesitated longer than he should have, his gaze darting suddenly towards the Shi'Odo. "I…I do not remember," he said, his voice distant.
"Why do you look so guilty? What's wrong with you?" Adriaan stepped toward her Padawan, who shrank back in alarm. "Kan?"
"Ma'am, really, he's hurt. He's not in any condition for an interrogation session," Vyto said, bravely stepping in between. Adriaan, in her adrenaline-fueled fury, almost struck the man down, but she restrained herself, nodding curtly and stepping back. She was determined to save all her ferocity to unleash on the enemy.
"Very well. I will have to do the best I can with what has been given to me," she said. She sat on the bunk and began strapping on her boots. "Wolf, where's my kit?"
"Ma'am, will you please consider –––"
She didn't hear the rest of his sentence; it was drowned out by the words he had said hours earlier. Was it really only hours ago? It seemed years.
"Yes, sir, it was gross.I had to eat the soap, otherwise I would have thrown up."
"I thank you for your opinion, but I did not ask for it. I find I do not much like your opinions anyway," she said dryly.
"Please do not turn deaf ears to my counsel just because I have dented your pride," Wolf pleaded. "Listen to me. What do you expect to gain by pursuing these attackers? Do you think that by tracking them down and slitting their throats in some dark alleyway you will somehow heal the wounds inflicted on your friends?"
"I vowed I would rather die than have them hurt because of me!"
"Come to your senses! Is this how a good officer would react?"
That stopped her in her tracks. She paused in the middle of lacing her boot, her mind suddenly blank and expressionless. Slowly, she lowered her foot and reached up to pass a hand over her eyes, and it seemed a cloud was brushed away from her vision, which she did not realize had been obscured before. "You're right, Wolf; I'm sorry," she said. "Put the wounded onto the bunks. My duty now is to…tend to them."
Wolf nodded, his facial muscles screwed up in an effort to remain calm. He reached out and placed a hand on her shoulder. "You will have a chance to even out the score another time," he said quietly. "And I swear that when the time comes, I will be at your side."
She bobbed her head coldly and turned to the patients. She didn't need his reassurances. She knew such an opportunity for vengeance would come again, for the cultists were hunting her, were they not? And when that time came, she would prefer to face her foes alone. Adriaan in beast mode was a frightening sight even for her allies. "Alert me when the other teams come back," she murmured as she placed a hand over Darc's wounded face.
At about 0330 in the morning, Kan was pronounced fit by Andora Kenobi and Sai'wer, his healers. Fit, perhaps, in body, he thought humorlessly as he crouched over the refresher as his headache spiked and sent a fresh wave of nausea through his entire body, disrupting the delicate balance of his digestive system, but that was only because the wounds were deliberate; luckily Klamin is precise enough with the lightsaber blade to be able to cut without harming any vital areas of the body. But one thing is for certain; Andora and Jahn Pal obviously did not examine my mental condition, otherwise I'd still be bedridden.
And they were too busy with the other wounded to even take notice of how he had immediately staggered into the refresher. They perhaps could not even hear the sound of bile being expelled from his body, though he was careful to keep the sound of his violent retching relatively subdued.
He threw up until there was nothing left, but still he kept up the regurgitating, miserably standing over the refresher as he waited for the agonizing dry heaves to subside. Adriaan had not been joking when she had said dry heaves hurt like haran. But like all suffering, they did not last forever, and finally he was able to stand up straight without the pain in his head making him double over. He still had a headache, and now his throat was all swollen and raw from the dry retching, and when he coughed, he felt as though he was about to burst his esophagus. But other than that, he was ready for action.
He washed his hands carefully, rubbing his skin liberally with the strong-smelling soap which had been the cause of great embarrassment and discord several hours ago. His nose crinkled at the overbearing smell of star-mist blossoms, but he had to use it to disguise the pungent stench of bile. When he was finished, he stuck his head under the faucet and let the cool water wash over him. Then he ran his fingers through his short hair, making it stand up on end, and toweled it off. He gazed at his reflection dismally. No matter how hard he tried, he always looked as if he had just rolled out of bed. He had a naturally unkempt appearance, even though he maintained excellent hygiene. Of course, some things he just couldn't help: the dark circles under his eyes were attributed to many sleepless nights, his eyelids were puffed up and heavy because he was sick yet trying to stay on his feet for a few more hours, the shading on his upper lip ––– his crowning glory, for not many fourteen-year-olds were graced with facial hair, the epitome of ultimate masculinity ––– was handsome enough, but it was getting to be in dire need of a trim; and his hands were still bloody, covered with Darc's gore…
But I just washed my hands, he thought as he put his hands under the tap for the second time. He scrubbed his palms vigorously, trying to get the sticky sensation off his skin, but plain old water and stinky soap did little to wash the stain, but that was only because it wasn't really on his hands ––– his beautiful, golden-brown fingers, his clean nails –––– it was on his soul.
But I didn't harm him, he reasoned. The physical abuse had all been done by the Mirrorskin's hand. He had only stood by to make sure Klamin hadn't done any serious damage to the prisoner. Sure, he had forced himself into Darc's mind, but he had been gentle, and hadn't joined in the mental torture Klamin had taken such delight in…
"It is not hate that is the opposite of love, but indifference," Ruru had said. "What you must fear most is not all-consuming hatred, but an all-consuming mentality devoid of any feeling. Hate is a love, in a sort of way, for when the object of your hatred is taken away by someone else, the passion in your life seems to recede as well, and you feel as though you are left with no purpose. We feel the same when we lose someone whom we love. But indifference is when you do not care whether the object of your indifference lives or dies, or is killed by a hand other than yours. In fact, when you are indifferent to someone, you feel it beneath you to harm the person, just as you would not condescend to help him. Love is tossing the stone over your shoulder; hate is savagely flinging the stone forward; but indifference is when you leave the rock sitting at your feet and allow others to pick it up to hurl at the condemned."
In Ruru's words, Kan was just as guilty as Klamin. He had not harmed Darc, but neither had he helped him. He had not protested when Mirrorskin had cut the ex-Apprentice's toes off, he did not object when Klamin had mutilated an innocent man's face, and he had not stopped the Shi'Odo when he had tortured Darc without any reason other than to humiliate him. In a way, he was even more to blame than Klamin was, for Klamin had been driven by a bloodlust and passion, and such feelings desensitized and blinded a person. Klamin probably did not even realize how horrible he had been. But Kan…Kan had not been so blinded. He had seen the evil in what they had been doing, but he had not stopped it. He had encouraged it.
A sudden shock sparked through his index finger and went tingling up his arm, jerking the muscles back with a start. He twitched, puzzled, and looked down to see what had caused the shock. Oh. His finger had grazed the metal hilt of his lightsaber, and he had gotten jolted. He hadn't realized he had been fingering it. Vaguely Kan wondered what his subconscious self had been attempting, but quickly dismissed the incident from his mind as coincidental when his brain started to get macabre ideas about his subliminal motives, and decided it would be best that he remove the weapon from his person until he had gotten out of such a depressing state of mind.
So with swollen, numb fingers, he unclipped his lightsaber hilt ––– his life, his most prized possession, the one thing he had fashioned all by himself ––– and tried without success to walk out of the refresher without tripping over his own feet. He somehow made it to his bunk, and he promptly lifted the mattress up and stuffed the lightsaber underneath. Letting the mattress fall back into place, he sat dismally on top of it all and contented himself with staring vacuously into space. He tried to keep his mind clear, but he couldn't stop berating himself, so although on the outside his face was as blank as a new sheet of flimsy, inside he was going through an even greater mental turmoil than he had allowed Klamin to torture Darc with.
It was all my fault. Fierfek, I want to lay down and go to sleep, but these sheets are all dirty. They're soaked with his blood…
His eyes waved the sharp evidence of pristine white sheets before his mind, but he was not appeased. He was convinced that he was sitting in a pool of blood; he could feel it seeping into the seat of his pants, his hands were all damp…
Water. I need water. I need to wash my hands.
His headache spiked, sending his head snapping back against the joint. But he didn't flop onto his back; he remained upright, trying to keep his empty stomach from twisting. He had nothing else to puke out. He was positive that any more retching would rupture his esophagus.
They were made for each other. No Master and Padawan team could have been more compatible. It was a miracle of sorts that they had gotten together. Through Darc's eyes, through the ex-Padawan's memories, he watched as a lean, well-built woman with long blond hair pulled up into a high, flirty ponytail imitated the long, purposeful stride of a dark man in dark robes stalking a few paces in front of her.
Jacen, at twenty-three, had a lean, streamlined runner's body. He wasn't particularly short, but was on the threshold of being described as so. His dark hair was shaved close to his head, though he allowed some masculine stubble to thrive above his mouth and on his chin. His face was clean-cut, his features sharp, crisp, and noble; his nose was perfection, neither drooping like a hawk's nor turning up saucily; his firm mouth had a tendency to turn up at the corners in a mocking, sardonic grin. His eyes were perhaps his most distinguishing quality; they were frankly mesmerizing, the irises being a deep chocolate amber color, constantly aflame with a passion that showed even in his step. His eyelashes were perhaps his only attribute that could be ridiculed; Ree liked to tease him about his "Long, curly lashes which any girl would kill for."
His Apprentice, eight years his junior, was a blossom beginning to unfurl at the peak of her beauty. She had been rather slow to leave adolescence, but after going into puberty well into her fourteenth year, it did not take her body long to finish its evolution from girl to woman. She would always appear pale, and the babyish, light brown freckles speckling her nose were hers forever. If she maintained her athletic lifestyle, her broad shoulders and toned body would also remain. But what had once been skinny was now filled out, and she now walked with a slight swaying of the hips. Whether she was just in the mood to be sultry, or she was doing it subconsciously, was another matter. Whatever the reason, she definitely had the appearance of a woman now. She was lean like her Master, and for a woman, of medium height. She was just an inch or two shorter than Jacen, and very likely nearly or even equal his match in strength. He had trained her too well for her to be any weaker.
She wore dark robes just like her mentor, but unlike his baggy tunic and pants, she had hers cut so that it fit snugly against her body. Her yellow-blue eyes held the same expression as her Master's, and indeed, if they had been dark brown they would have looked exactly like Jacen's. The only thing about her that pronounced frailty of any sort was the Padawan braid enmeshed within her bouncy ponytail, but she had neutralized any weakness it might have presented by weaving durasteel beads armed with barbed hooks into the braid. Darc had seen her many a time ruin her opponent's good looks with a simple flick of her hair.
Adriaan, why did you lie to me about your Master? Why haven't you told us about Jacen? Kan thought, brushing the stolen memory away as if it were no more than a gray leaf in the wind.
His eyelids drooped, and he felt himself slipping; the ground was rising up swiftly towards his eyes, the hard floor was eager to smash his face in…
A hand clapped on his back, and Kan started upright, his eyes snapping open and his nerves sending sharp pulses through his system. But he hadn't fallen; he sat as stiffly as before, his feet planted firmly on the ground. He must have dozed off where he had been sitting.
"You're okay," Klamin said firmly, the hand on Kan's shoulder turning into iron-hard talons.
"But she's not," Kan murmured. "I wonder how he died…"
The Shi'Odo yawned, morphing into a feline and stretching his spine luxuriously. The former Padawan of Ruru felt the dry heaves coming on as he gazed at the shapeshifter, who, after several hours of relentlessly torturing an innocent citizen, looked as innocuous and as content as if he had just woken up after ten solid hours of elysium-filled sleep. Klamin's apparent nonchalance to Darc's fate was so repulsive to Kan that if he had had his lightsaber still clipped to his belt, he would not have hesitated to gouge the Shi'Odo's eyes out then and there.
"How who died?" Klamin yawned, rolling his head from side to side, making the tendons in his neck crack.
"Jacen. They seemed to be such good friends, but Adriaan hasn't breathed a word to us about him. She even lied to us about her Master being Netari Ptosoy or something like that. Remember?"
"Like yesterday." The changeling proceeded to crack his knuckles. "Well, since he's dead or killed or whatever, I think she just finds it really hard to talk about. Independent people like her are often withdrawn, I've observed. They feel it a sort of weakness to need to ask someone for help. They'd much rather suffer silently and alone."
"But it was uncalled for her to downright deny who her Master was. It's almost…I don't know, faithless to her mentor's memory. I don't understand why she would go to such lengths to hide his identity from us."
Klamin flexed his fingers, growing and unsheathing claws as he did so. "We're men, Kan; we aren't expected to understand women, especially a female like Adriaan." He paused and bent to examine one of his claws. He muttered something unintelligible under his breath.
"What?"
"Hands are dirty," Klamin mumbled. "Need to wash them again." He suddenly seemed to recollect himself. "Wolf gave me some painkillers because he noticed you weren't quite able to walk your injury off. You need to get your act together, or they're going to get suspicious."
"I'm just tired, that's all," Kan lied.
"Well, the painkiller should knock you out pretty quick." He tossed Kan a syringe filled with bluish fluid and took out another for himself as well. After injecting the substance into the vein, his tense features melted into the mellow, furred face of a Lurmen. "I'm going to take a shower," he said indistinctly, his voice a little slurred. His eyelids drooped heavily, concealing his pupils, which had quickly contracted into mere slits. The sedative must have had an immediate effect.
"You just took some painkiller," Kan reminded the Shi'Odo. "I think you should wait for it to wear off before you take a shower. You look a little drowsy."
"I feel fine," Klamin snapped, suddenly getting angry. "I don't need you to babysit me, so why don't you mind your own business?"
Kan blinked. "Well, sorry, I was just trying to look out for the guy watching my six, you know. Isn't that what friends are for?"
"Oh, right," Klamin agreed drowsily. "Friends help each other. You're a good kid, Kan." He patted Kan clumsily on the head. "Now do yourself a favor and take that painkiller so you can sleep this all off. You'll feel better in the morning."
Kan wanted to argue that it was morning already, and that Klamin really shouldn't take a shower while on sedatives, but he was so tired he just gave up. "That's a good idea," he said weakly, clumsily probing for the brachial artery and stabbing the needle into his flesh. He yelped as a sharp burn tore through his lungs, then inhaled with relief as a cool sensation pulled through his veins, leaving him with a feeling of fleeting bliss. I really should lay down and get some sleep. There's no reason for me to be sitting up like some paranoid freak…what am I afraid of, anyway?
"I will kill whoever did this!"
Kan sat bolt upright, his muscles cold and quivering.
"What?" Klamin mumbled, leaning on the bed for support.
"Why aren't we scared?" Kan asked. "She threatened to kill us, and you'll know she's going to do it, no matter who the killers turn out to be."
"She won't," Klamin said. "Find out, I mean."
"But she's the hunter's child," Kan protested. "Jacen's student. You've seen her in action; you know that once she puts her mind to it, not even a duracrete wall will present a problem to her. She's unstoppable. And don't forget she can practically read everyone's mind."
"Well, as long as I don't think about this ––– as long as I refuse to feel fear ––– she will have no reason to suspect. And therefore, since she won't find out if I am not scared, there is no reason for me to feel afraid in the first place." Klamin sidled off towards the refresher. "I think you should follow my example."
"Yes," Kan said, falling back the same instant and feeling his head hit the soft yield of the bunk. Within two seconds, he was asleep.
He was roughly shaken awake from a dreamless sleep at 0500 by Marya, who put a finger to her lips and jerked her chin towards the "medical center" Kan, a twisted knot forming in his stomach, slid out of bed and followed the Zabrak into the room, which was oddly void of clones and Padawans. Kan looked around for the Shi'Odo uneasily, and found the changeling standing near a bed. He exhaled with relief. He had feared that Klamin had drowned in the shower.
Klamin was talking quietly to the person lying on the bunk. His eyes darted up when Kan entered the room, his gaze meeting his companion's briefly before returning to the subject which held his interest.
Kay was sitting up in bed, her hand on her chest as she inhaled and exhaled slowly, as if she couldn't believe she could breathe. Faithful Andora crouched at the bedside, clutching a bowl of what looked like noodle soup and feeding the patient carefully with a small metal spoon. She looked up when Marya and Kan approached, and quietly rose to her feet, swaying a little in enervation.
"You're on sleep shift now, Andora. Kan and I will take over from here," Marya said, prying the girl's thin hands from the bowl with uncharacteristic gentleness. Andora nodded mutely, for once not coming back with a preachy quip. Kan could see why; she was dead-tired. There were dark circles under her eyes, and her skin was ashy white. He wondered how long she had been kneeling by Kay, and began to feel selfish. While poor Andora had been spending hours healing a wounded Jedi, Kan had been ruthlessly interrogating an innocent citizen, cutting into everyone else's sleeping time because the debriefing had ended up taking longer than expected.
"I hope that idiot Pyronite sees what he's done to her," Marya muttered. "The poor kid looks like most of the life was sucked out of her. She was on the healing shift for way too long, and it's all Heatrian's fault for leading us on that wild bantha chase."
Kan felt Klamin's gaze bore into him, but he didn't dare return the look. He was sure his face was bright red with shame, for it had been his fault that Andora had gotten an unfair shift, and Marya was blaming it all on Heatrian because she didn't know better.
"Sounds like you guys have been having one heck of a time while I've been out," Kay croaked as Marya scooped the spoon into the bowl.
"Don't even talk about it," the Zabrak muttered, jamming the spoon into the woman's mouth. "Believe it or not, you're actually in better shape than Adriaan is right now."
"Why? What happened?" Kay asked.
Klamin cleared his throat awkwardly. The two girls turned to stare venomously at him. "Pardon me, but what are our orders?" he asked in a clipped tone.
"I'm glad you asked." Kay kicked the white sheets off of her and raised a bare foot up into the Shi'Odo's face. "Massage my feet!" She commanded.
The Shi'Odo flushed, morphed into a bright-red Twi'lek, and angrily swatted her foot away. "They smell like the backend of a bantha carcass," he snarled impolitely.
"Well, of course they would, because my feet are on the dirty dang ground all day. What do you expect?" Kay asked with equal fieriness. "Anyway, I was joking; did you flush your sense of humor down the refresher this morning or something?"
Marya snickered appreciatively. Witty, acerbic comebacks were like food and drink to her.
"I'm still recovering from my injuries," Klamin protested. "I'm walking wounded; give me a break."
Kay looked at him through narrowed eyes. Being bedridden certainly hadn't improved her volatile temper. "You don't look it," she said.
"Insanity can be hard to detect," the Zabrak remarked drily. "But even if you're not fully recovered, changeling, you can at least sit here and feed Kay the rest of this broth so that I can do your dirty work."
Neither Kay nor Klamin looked pleased at this arrangement, but unfortunately this wasn't the time to be picky. Sure, Klamin spoon-feeding Kay was awkward, but they didn't have time to be harboring any weird qualms about cooties. Only a spoiled baby would make such a fuss.
The Shi'Odo reached out for the bowl, and almost fell right on top of Kay in the process. Fortunately, Marya snatched away the soup before he spilled it. He mumbled an apology as she gave him a glaring scrutiny as she passed back the broth. "Are you high? Your eyes are out of focus," she said, pointing to her eyes to demonstrate her point.
"I'm on stims," Klamin mumbled. "Trying to counteract the sleeping pill I took a couple of hours ago."
"How many fingers am I holding up?" Kay asked, shoving three digits in front of his face.
The Shi'Odo blinked, trying to focus. "Um, six?" he asked.
Marya and Kay exchanged a meaningful look. Then the Zabrak straightened abruptly and said in an unnaturally casual voice, "Well, it's not like feeding someone is the same as driving a speeder, is it?"
Kay was mortified. "I'm sorry, but I don't think I want to be put in the care of an inebriated kid, thank you."
"Oh, shut up; this is no time to be picky," Marya said briskly. "Look, all he has to do is dip the spoon in the bowl, and make sure the liquid stays on the spoon as he shoves it into your mouth. What could he possibly do wrong?"
"Well, he could miscalculate the angle of the spoon's trajectory and shove it up my nose instead…"
"I'm sure you'll be able to handle it," the Zabrak said unsympathetically. Then, before Kay could protest further, she rose and strode away, beckoning for Kan to follow. She led him to a relatively secluded area of the room and stopped a few meters short of a bunk upon which the victim of Klamin's and Kan's malice lay. Adriaan knelt at the bedside, bending over the patient with her back to the Padawans, her dark-clothed, lean form so motionless she seemed to blend into the somber aura of the room.
Marya cleared her throat, calling his attention away from Adriaan by pulling on his sleeve with a firm yet gentle tug. The situation was serious indeed if the Zabrak had shed her idiosyncratic catty temper.
"She's been like this for hours, and though she's healed a great extent of the damage, there's still a lot more which needs to be done," Marya said in a low voice. "I'm not worried that Darc won't recover ––– it's her I'm concerned about. She's been running on stims all night, but I don't know how much longer they're going to keep her on her feet."
"If her legs give out, she'll just kneel," Kan pointed out. "I've seen her do it before. She'll keep working even if her legs won't hold her up." And it was true; he well remembered the defense of Hai last year, when the Seppies had overrun the GAR's fortifications and stormed the walls of the city. Adriaan had leapt out and held the enemy at the bridge for six straight hours while the soldiers hastened to bolster their defenses. And when shrapnel from an exploding larty had broken one of her legs, she had just gotten down on one knee and leaned against the wall to keep herself supported while she held back the tide of battle droids. Kan remembered that one of the clones ––– Rez or Ammo, no doubt ––– had jokingly given her the amputated leg of a battle droid to use as a crutch after the battle.
"She's due for a shift switch," Marya muttered. "One would think that with thirty some people on the team that there'd be more hands on deck…"
"Can I get a briefing on the situation?" Kan asked, trying to look eager to help, and not dealing with severe mental trauma.
"No problem." Marya ran her fingers through her ragged hair. "We found Elsil's corpse in her apartment last night, and then Heatrian apparently sensed that her murderers were still around, and so he led us on this completely pointless chase through the city. Then around 0200 the Pyronite suddenly stopped looking and informed us that there was trouble at the hotel, so we came back here to find you guys like this. Adriaan sent a group of clones out about an hour ago to conduct an autopsy on Elsil, to determine the cause of her death. The others are positioned in different areas of the street and inside the building itself, just in case the cultists return to attack again."
Kan felt another surge of guilt. They don't know it was just Klamin and I; now, because of our lie, they're tightening up security and working overtime while I've been snoozing like a fibbing, corpulent Hutt. Marya hasn't gotten any rest at all; that surly Zabrak has been working her butt off all night healing wounds that Klamin and I inflicted on ourselves to sell the whole kriffing deception. That cantankerous brat is a better person than I am.
"My batteries are fully charged; what can I do to help?" He asked, trying to make light of a serious situation.
She glanced over at Adriaan. "On a scale from one to ten, how would you grade your Force-healing abilities?"
Kan scratched his head, trying to get the mechanisms in his brain to work. The question was harder than he expected. He had healed before, of course ––– injuries were inevitable in war ––– but he had never been entrusted with anything more serious than first-degree burns, and even those left his mind muscles feeling a little sore. He wasn't quite sure if he was a healing proficient.
"I've never healed serious injuries before, but I do have experience in the art, so I'll grade it a four or a five," he answered.
Marya's tired face brightened with relief. "Mediocre is better than nothing," she said. "We could definitely use your help in that area. Come with me." She strode bravely over to Darc's bed and tapped her Master on the shoulder. Adriaan's head jerked up immediately, her yellow-blue eyes darting towards Marya apoplectically.
"Sitrep!" she barked, so forcibly that Kan took a cautious step back. But the Zabrak remained unruffled, gazing fearlessly back into Adriaan's eyes, which were narrowed into dark slits. The purple shadows under her eyelids lent an extra element of ferocity to her expression, and the smoldering carnelian ochre that burned in her normally blue irises gave her an altogether desperate and terrifying appearance. Kan found he couldn't look at her face for more than a few seconds, her expression was so tense.
"Kan's awake, so he's available to take over your shift," the Zabrak informed her.
Adriaan stared at her for a moment in stony silence, her lips pressed together in a thin line. Abruptly, she turned back to the bed, the stiffness in her shoulders communicating her dismissal. "I can handle this for a few more hours. Have him take over your duties instead. You look tired."
Marya bristled. Accusing her of physical exhaustion was tantamount to calling her Gardulla the Hutt. "I'm not tired," she said indignantly. "I'm just trying to look after you, you know; can't have you dying on us…"
Adriaan looked up briefly and shot Marya a strange smile. "You know, for a moment there you sounded just like me when I was your age." She turned back to the patient. "Take it as a compliment or an insult ––– whichever you prefer."
"I'll take it as an insult, thank you!" Marya snapped.
"Sorry to have offended you." Adriaan closed her eyes and placed her hand palm side down over Darc's empty eye socket. Without opening her eyes, she asked, "Any word from the pathologist group?"
Marya was about to open her mouth to answer when Adriaan's comlink chirped. She tapped the bead link, turning on the live audio feed. "Sitrep," she asked calmly, much more politely than she had inquired of Marya a few moments before.
"Analysis finished. Packing up and moving back to HQ," a clone's voice answered.
"Cause of death?"
"A smoking hole in her chest, ma'am. Looked like a pusillanimous pansy ninja's handy-work to me, if I might venture an opinion."
This time, the clone's lingo was incomprehensible even to Adriaan. "'Pusillanimous pansy ninja'?" she inquired.
"Sith-wanna-be spook," Another clone translated for her.
"Interesting term of endearment," Adriaan commented, but there was no mirth in her tone. "So there was an UCT ––– a Universal Cutting Tool ––– involved?"
"Jedi glowstick? Yeah. Not your handiwork, I'm assuming."
"I wouldn't take credit for it, no," she replied lightly.
"But maybe that's what the GOOD murderers were aiming for," Aedan said, tearing into the room just then.
His Master turned to him half-curiously, a nearly invisible blond eyebrow raised in inquiry. "A theory, Padawan?"
"No. A proof." He tapped into his bead comlink so that his line was connected to the other end. "Hey, UNWICKED clone, do you know if there are any WICKED security cameras set up in this building?"
"There's one set up right outside the door of her room, sir," the clone answered after the briefest of pauses.
"Do you know where the WICKED cam transmits the monitor holos to?"
There was another interlude as the clone calculated. "I would guess they would be saved in the hotel computer mainframe," he answered.
"Mind elaborating?" Marya and Adriaan said at the same time. The Zabrak's purple facial markings flushed bright fuchsia. "I do not talk like you…" She muttered as she caught the Jedi Knight's sly smirk.
"Well, I was thinking that it was a GOOD choice for the murderers to kill Elsil with such a distinguishing weapon ––– although a lightsaber does have the characteristic quality of disposing of people quietly and with minimum WICKED goriness ––– because leaving that sort of WICKED evidence narrows down the list of suspects considerably. And then I thought, 'If I was a GOOD cultist and needed to dispose of a loudmouth compatriot, the WICKEDEST way to do it would be to make the death look like it was caused by a lightsaber user.' Because most beings in the galaxy are only aware of one sect of beings ––– WICKED Jedi ––– who use such weapons, the natural conclusion would be that a Jedi killed the girl. Why have the cultists been using lightsabers to damage ships and murder people? At first I thought it was a ruse to strike WICKED terror into the hearts of these GOOD, cowardly people, and make them think the Jedi had turned against them or something. But then I WICKEDLY thought, 'What if the real point is to pin the blame on the Jedi?'"
Adriaan frowned in concentration, her attention caught. Kan personally didn't see what was so interesting; even though Aedan had refrained from adding the usual "wickeds" and "goods" to every sentence, he still talked too fast for Kan's brain to process."So to put it all in brief, you think there was a dual purpose in the murder of Elsil by a lightsaber, as well as the vandalism of the prototypes at KDY."
Aedan nodded in affirmation. "WICKED."
"But why kill a member of their own party?" Marya asked. "Wouldn't an innocent hotel guest have suited better as a victim?"
Adriaan opened her mouth to answer, but Aedan cut her off. "Are you stupid?" he demanded. "If so, that would make two of the female sex who have demonstrated their idiocy within the past forty-eight hours or so. Who was the moron who tipped GOOD old Adriaan off about some sort of planned cultist meeting? Did it ever occur to you that maybe her WICKED male ––– I say male because they obviously don't act like clueless, GOOD old women ––– associates discovered that she spilled the WICKED beans?"
Marya roared with indignation at having her gender thus disparaged, but Adriaan held up a hand to silence the offended Zabrak before she went full throttle into a lecture filled with colorful language. "What did you mean by asking if there were any security cameras on the floor?"
"Well, GOOD, perhaps the camera captured a video of the murderers entering and leaving the room."
"These people aren't entirely stupid; they would have found a way to erase the evidence from the tape," Marya objected. "Or, even better, they probably entered through an angle the hallway camera doesn't cover, such as the bedroom window. They did it last night, remember?"
"As I was saying before I was so GOODLY interrupted," Aedan interrupted with a dirty glance at the Zabrak. "Perhaps the cultists didn't feel like they had to erase the datatape; after all, they didn't bother to erase the one holo of the GOOD guy walking in and stealing the schematics to the WICKED Firespray prototype."
"You've got something there," Kan said, trying to look like he was engaging in the conversation.
Aedan glared at Kan for the interruption, though in truth it was only to hide the pleased grin that rose to his lips at the compliment paid to him. "AS I WAS SAYING," he repeated, "even if the GOODS did bother to erase the data, there's incriminating evidence that suggests certain guests at this hotel committed the murder. Unless one of the people downstairs bothered to jam the security camera, the hotel computer mainframe has a holo of you GOOD idiots entering the hotel room. Those holos would be easy enough for the cultists to export from the mainframe. My guess is they're planning to leak the holos out and so warrant a police investigation of our apartment. And if an investigation takes place, the GOOD Kuati are going to figure out pretty quick that a detachment of GAR officers are here. The cultists want our identities to be revealed so that the morale of the citizens will plummet, thus increasing the terrorists' chances for taking over the planet from the inside."
They were all speechless. Even Adriaan's normally passive face registered astonishment as she gaped at Aedan, whom she had long ago labeled as an illogical kid with "special needs"
"Marya, I think I'll take you up on your offer for a chance to get some sleep," Adriaan said finally, "because I think I'm hallucinating."
Aedan was offended. "I don't see what's so amazing about what I just said," he said stiffly. "And I can prove to you that you're not hallucinating, you GOOD. Can you smell things that only exist in your dreams?"
"I suppose not."
Aedan suddenly emitted a loud, ripping sound of air escaping from his behind, effectively silencing everyone as they stared at him in horror at his inelegance. The ill-mannered Padawan grinned as a foul odor pervaded the room, making them all double over and gag. "For a dream fart, it seems to have a pretty strong smell," he commented, ambling off into the sleeping quarters.
When everyone had sufficiently recovered, Adriaan gasped out, "Ember, take Nano and couple other of your guys to go hack into the computer mainframe and wipe the holos from the security cam."
"Right away, ma'am. What do you want us to do with the luggage our 'pansy ninja' friends left down here?"
She was quiet for a moment, examining her fingertips as she splayed her hand across the bedsheet. "Do any of you know how to doctor the scene to make it look convincingly like she…you know, took her life?"
"Lightsaber wounds can be hard to disguise, ma'am."
"Then vape the body."
There was a pregnant interlude on the other end. "Ma'am, the proprietor may be slow, but I'm sure he'll notice if one of his customers disappeared without paying her bills."
"Then one of you go down to the front desk and check out of her room for her," she said. "Pay in dataries, because I don't want to leave a bank account number that someone can trace back to us."
"Got it."
The link switched off, leaving Kan and Marya with their Master and the unconscious ex-Padawan. Adriaan didn't speak to them for some time, still concentrating on her fingers spread across the white sheet. Abruptly, she seemed to recollect herself, and as she looked around and noticed the two of them still standing there, she gave a short bark of a laugh, running her hands nervously through her hair. "Sorry, I'm still sort of in shock by what Aedan did," she said, her voice shaky. "Not his uh, uncultivated way of proving that we weren't dreaming, but his genius reasoning concerning Elsil's murder. I should be used to his eccentricities by now, but he always manages to surprise me."
"I think that's just part of who he is," Marya said.
Adriaan shook her head and giggled humorlessly. "I swear, the kid thinks like a criminal!" she chortled. "Who would have ever guessed that the cultists wanted me to send a team down into the hotel room? It's almost as if they know me so well they can predict my every move." Suddenly her mood darkened. "Well, of course that's why they've managed to stay one step ahead of me every time…"
"Master, would you like to get some rest?" Marya asked quietly.
Adriaan shook her head stubbornly. "No. No, I don't, and I can't. It's sweet of you to be concerned, Padawan, but I honestly wouldn't be capable of sleeping if I left Darc half-healed. This job must be finished before I can find any rest." She turned back to the patient.
"Then at least allow Kan to help you," the Zabrak suggested gently. "It'll make the job go by much faster if there's two working on him at once."
The Knight looked up, her yellowish gaze boring holes into Marya's golden-and-violet-toned face. "You're right," she said slowly. "I'll take your advice. Now go get some sleep. Kan and I will take over from here. Klamin will wake you up if we require your assistance."
This time, the bleary-eyed girl went without protest, leaving Kan alone with Adriaan. He stood by her awkwardly, the moment he had always wished for suddenly not so desirable, not with the stain of the horrible sin on his soul. He felt so guilty, he was sure he must transmit his shame as clearly as a beacon. But he needn't have worried; Adriaan was too tired, too preoccupied with Darc, too busy flagellating herself for not having been the great warrior to the rescue, that she was not aware of the surge of emotions that overcame Kan.
She knelt and placed her hand over Darc's damaged eye, and Kan went around to the other side of the bed and crouched likewise, observing what injuries she had already healed. The toe wounds had closed up, leaving ugly, gnarled knobs on Darc's feet. Kan grimaced as his gaze traveled up Darc's body. The gashes on his head had been stitched up, but his lips were still a bloody mess, as was his eye. Adriaan was tending to the eye, so Kan moved up and touched Darc's mouth, calling on the Force to aid in the healing process. How odd that he should be healed by the one who inflicted these disfiguring wounds, he thought as he watched the skin knit under his fingers and become whole, flawless lips again. But I didn't do it to be malicious, to disfigure him for life; I only wanted that information, and that was the quickest way to force it out of him. I'm sorry, Darc, but I'll do the best I can to make sure you will not be permanently damaged from this experience. As Adriaan's friend and our ally, you deserve that much.
After about half an hour, Kan crouched back on his heels and let the Force drain away from his exhausted body as he looked with satisfaction at his handiwork. There. At least he had corrected some of the wrongs he had done by healing what he had hurt ––– or what Klamin hurt, but Kan personally thought there was no difference between someone actually committing the deed and the person who stood by in approval.
"Love is tossing the stone over your shoulder; hate is savagely flinging the stone forward; but indifference is when you leave the rock sitting at your feet and allow others to pick it up to hurl at the condemned." How right his Master had been.
A quiet sob suddenly punctured the thick blanket of silence, and Kan's eyes darted toward the noise anxiously, fearing it was Darc or Kay or Klamin. Instead, he was shocked and grieved to find that the person crying was his own Master. She wept silently, the tears streaming down her cheeks and dripping onto Darc's pallid face. Her eyes were squeezed shut, and her lips colorless as they voicelessly mouthed the word "please" She knelt rigid, every muscle in her body flexed, the ropes in her neck standing out as she strained and heaved, pushing against an invisible force which would not yield. Just when Kan began to think he should intervene, she flung her hand back with a sharp Mando'a retort, breathing hard as she sat back on her heels, slouching in defeat. Enraged, she cried out again and began to let out a stream of imprecations in various languages. When her list of profanities began to grow thin, she switched to Basic and spoke out to no one in particular, "Master Yoda was right when he said, 'Wars not make one great' for all my fighting experience and training amounts to nothing, can do nothing to save even a single eye! Has my Master thus wasted my life, training me in the skill of destruction? There is no honor in killing, no art in war, no cause for admiration in a warrior; but a healer is held in high esteem indeed, for it is a gift to be able to save the ones you love. I may be the greatest warrior breathing, but I am only the best of the least, and less worthy than the worst of peacekeepers. And because of my weakness, Darc will spend the rest of his life disfigured, and his ugliness will damage his ego, and ruin his self-confidence."
Tears flooded Kan's eyes, and he wanted to rush over and sling his arm over her shoulder and mingle his tears with hers, and tell her that it was okay, that such a burden was not hers to bear, that someone else was guilty of the things she blamed herself for. But he had sworn to never reveal the truth of the incident to anyone, and his word bound him, and prevented any expressions of comfort to inspire his lips. So he went mutely to her and pushed her aside, placing his hand over the ex-Padawan's eyesocket. To his surprise, Adriaan yielded to him and stepped away, out of his line of sight.
He took a deep breath, trying to find his center. He wasn't going to attempt what his Master had failed to do by regenerating an entire eye, but he would at least speed up the healing process, and provide what comfort to his victim that he could. As he began the healing session, reflecting on the poetic justice of the transgressor binding wounds his own hands had inflicted, Wolf entered the room silently and saluted, patiently awaiting permission to continue with the report. When no request for the review came, Kan jerked a thumb backwards, indicating to Wolf that Adriaan was behind him. The Captain looked in the direction the Padawan pointed to, and the hard contours of Ruru's murderer's face suddenly softened into a look Kan couldn't fathom. It was the gaze of longing for something ––– someone ––– as unattainable as the stars, well knowing that what he most desired he could never possess, but loving and fostering a fool's hope for it nonetheless.
He may as well fall in love with the Queen of the Hapes Cluster,Kan thought, Adriaan's just too distant, too focused on being a good officer, too utterly fallen for a man who is dead. He felt no misgivings that Wolf was sweet on his Master, for any chance of a romantic relationship between the two was one in a trillion. Adriaan had already given her heart to another, and Kan knew well just how stubbornly she could stick to her decisions ––– even the bad ones ––– once she had made them.
Wolf stepped forward, and Kan raised an eyebrow in silent inquiry. The clone touched a finger to his lips and half-strode, half-tiptoed past Kan, who turned to watch the soldier's progress.
Adriaan, eyes closed, was on her knees, her forehead resting against a bedpost, her arms clasped around it. She looked strangely peaceful in such an uncomfortable position, her hands folded as if in prayer. Wolf genuflected beside her and tenderly scooped her into his arms, rising swiftly and stepping toward the door easily, as if she weighed no more than a feather. The Jedi Knight inhaled softly and suddenly wrapped her arms around the clone's neck, pressing her face contentedly against his shoulder. Wolf paused, stunned at the gesture made in subconsciousness, and a tiny, sad smile briefly touched his firmly set mouth. Adriaan murmured something incomprehensible, her lips muffled by the coarse fabric of Wolf's tunic.
Kan smiled despite his grief. Adriaan had finally fallen asleep.