PRINCE
By Sapadu
A/N: Remember, remember the Fifth of November, the gunpowder treason and plot.
Chapter 6:
A few hours, and the boy had passed out. Gornash supposed that was more than they'd ever expected – he'd really thought it would only be a matter of minutes. Of course, Gornash hadn't thought any of several other things would happen, either. Things like his very blatant attempt to win Gornash over, and how baldly he'd tried to lie and...
Maybe it made more sense, this way – to just say that sweet, innocent little face had just been an act was a better explanation for how long and how enduring he'd been under torture than to try and chalk it up to being a kid who was good, brave, and selfless. Nobody was that good.
Nobody.
"If the point of torture is to cause as much pain as possible, why're we taking breaks?" Noma groused, out loud. He wasn't cursing as much as he usually did. Observant as he was, Gornash could only assume this meant something was bothering the normally fire-spitting Prophet.
"For one thing, torture's only effective if the subject is conscious enough to be aware of his condition." For whatever reason, Gornash wasn't surprised that Asmod was the one who knew this information, "For another, the point isn't to kill him, but that'll happen if he doesn't have a chance to recover between sessions. That's why Copy-Cat over there was told to patch him up, right?"
And now, all eyes in the room were on Gornash. He simply shrugged.
"He's awake and not in physical shock, but not responding to stimuli." Was all he said. And, speaking of shock, he could see some very obvious tells on the other Prophets. Noma wasn't swearing or cursing or making any amount of effort to clear the silence – in fact, he was rather quiet. They had all been waiting here for fifteen minutes for the Devil's Duo to show up, and that one question was all Gornash had heard out of him.
"...Anyone think that maybe we won't have to do that again, if the runt's not even really lucid?" Tilus asked. He was sitting on the floor, not even bothering to try and support his own weight, and distractedly chewing on his thumb. Sitting back to back with him was Barnaby, curled up into a fetal position and breathing in a rhythmic manner that seemed too strong to be anything but intentional. The only one who didn't seem to be even the tiniest bit perturbed was Asmod... and even then, for all Gornash knew, it was just because, not having spent much time around the unsavory character, Gornash didn't know his tells.
Gornash just kept his chin tucked to his chest and his hands folded into the sleeves of his robe. He wasn't going to let this disturb him. They were doing the right thing – or, if what they were doing couldn't be called exactly the right thing, they were doing it for the right reasons.
And even if they weren't, at the very least, they were...
"Stop it! Please! Stop!"
Well, at any rate, Gornash refused to be disturbed. To be upset by what they were doing would be admitting that they were wrong. To admit they were wrong would be admitting the Empire had been in the right. And to admit that would...
"Gentlemen, I assume everyone's had a proper amount of time to breathe before the second round." Kadann and Jedgar were back. For once, Gornash was... somewhat relieved... that they decided to show up. Almost immediately, Tilus put his hand up – a habit, Gornash realized, that he'd never understood where, nor why, Tilus had gotten so attached to it.
"Copy-Cat over there says the kid's still kinda out of it. Maybe we should wait a little longer." He said, sounding like he either wanted to whine or throw up, or both. Gornash said nothing, and was the tiniest bit more relieved when Kadann decided to focus his attention on Tilus, "...We could use the time to try and feed them. Y'know... 'cuz they're our guests..."
As opposed to prisoners. That sounded ludicrous to Gornash's ears, but he knew why Tilus said it – because 'Guests' was always the word Kadann used to describe the two.
"Why, we've hardly had them for twelve hours. Surely, they won't starve in so short a time." Kadann reasoned. Tilus chewed a little on his thumb.
"...Still..."
"Mister Tilus, you sound rather anxious to postpone the ritual."
That was all he said, but, to Gornash's conditioned ears, Kadann might as well have just finished the statement he'd been hinting at: Surely, you're not having second thoughts.
"I do not!" Tilus snapped, far too viciously for the otherwise benign statement. Kadann held up his hands, as though offended.
"Now, now. I'm sure you have your reasons." Again, leaving it hanging with an unspoken accusation that everyone in the room heard, anyway, "And there are plenty of good reasons for us to proceed with caution. Don't you agree, Prophet Barnaby?"
Barnaby hadn't met anyone's eyes since the start of this. Now, he made it even more painfully obvious he was uncomfortable with this setup – specifically, the moment Kadann put him on the spot, Barnaby pulled the hood of his robe up and over his head and mumbled something.
"I'm sorry, I don't think anyone caught that." Kadann was acting even more like he was trying to be comforting. Who did this runt think he was fooling?
Runt. Runt. Runt.
Gornash felt like that might mean something more later. But, for the present, Kadann – the runt – was pestering Barnaby into admitting, basically, that he was starting to get cold feet. It was so blatant, it made Gornash even more disgusted. That, if nothing else, made Gornash feel quite justified in what he'd done – Kadann was just playing these games to manipulate them. To show them all that he had control over them. But not him. Gornash was not going to be used as a pawn, and he'd just proven that.
"Just..." Barnaby finally snapped, not quite shouting but definitely bordering on it, "...If this is gonna be the effect every time, maybe we should figure out some different ways of doing it."
Different ways. Gornash kept his posture straight and did his utmost not to look at any of the other Prophets.
"Different? You're not comfortable with our current methods?" Kadann prodded.
"I didn't SAY that." Barnaby snapped back, "It's just... just..."
Just that Gornash knew they were all squeamish over shooting about a dozen people in cold blood. This, he would concede, was fair game to be uneasy about. Even he would admit that it had unnerved him when Kadann had announced they'd be taking hostages, months ago, and then when, just before they started the ritual, he told them the whole point behind the hostages was to just kill them.
"Please, I don't want to die."
"Momma. Don't let them..."
"What do you want? Is this about money or..."
"Stop them! Somebody, stop them!"
"I've never done anything..."
Gornash kept his chin tucked to stop himself from feeling too ill – his nerves were starting to get the better of him.
"Just that our guest might develop a tolerance?" Kadann suggested, "Just that it might be enough of a risk that we should try reaching beyond what we're FAMILIAR with? Isn't that what you were about to say?"
And that was the sound of Gornash realizing that the other Prophets, for whatever reason, were also having some trouble disassociating what they were doing with what had happened to each of them in the Mines.
But that was stupid – for one thing, it wasn't even close to the same magnitude. They'd been just seven out of god knew how many. The boy who was their prisoner now? Just one. And the only one, at that. Everything they were doing was actually really tame – the boy wasn't going to lose his eyes or half his brain, or whatever other procedures they'd been through. And it was only temporary – it's not like they planned on keeping him until he died, either at their hands or just from natural causes.
'Though, granted, little Darth Mammon or whatever his codename was over here has been pretty vague on if this boy will be released, at all.' Gornash noted to himself.
But the most critical difference was that they'd been all interred from prejudices – because the Empire had determined their existence was a wrong, in and of itself. They hadn't done anything. And, maybe this boy hadn't done anything, but he WAS guilty. He was descended from the Empire, a part of it. They might have been used as pawns, and were now using that same Empire for their own gain, but they weren't a part of it. That evil wasn't in their blood, like it was for this boy.
Yes. That's why Gornash was doing this. So, maybe he wasn't perfect. He could live with that, just so long as he got to strike back – maybe take a little bit of his own enemy down with him.
"Yeah." Barnaby mumbled, obviously not really meaning it – or, possibly, understanding Kadann's second meaning and also trying to hold down any food in his stomach at the implication.
"Well then, since our dear Darth's Beelz and Phegor are so concerned with our means, they shall start preparing the tools for the next round – simply sterilizing the old ones seems too high a risk, so giving everyone a chance to be creative with the methods will solve two problems with one solution." Kadann straightened, giving Tilus and Barnaby each a friendly pat on their shoulders.
Gornash could see the two assigned with this task – which, in all honesty, was in rather poor taste, even in the extreme circumstances – squirming with disgust. It was visible in their eyes. Tilus was quaking, every centimeter of his flabby body sending ripples through the area around it, as though his flesh would slide off his bones at any minute. Barnaby's shoulder shuddered like the mere touch from Kadann had sent a shockwave through his bones.
Regardless, both of them shuffled to their feet and disappeared through the door, obviously wanting to be as far away from Kadann as they could.
"Prophets Mammar and Eris -" He turned to Noma and Asmod, whom were considerably calmer, but both jumped to hear their false identities, as though it were an alarm that awoke them to a fire that was just breaths from engulfing them, "Your task will be to select the next batch of tributes. Up the number to one and a half times as many."
Tributes. Such a neat, little word. What did it even mean? It was small and innocuous, saying nothing about how many, or what they would mean, or even the fact that it might refer so something that might have been a person, once. Something that would cease to be a person with so much as a slice from the carotid to the jugular, or with the simple press of a finger on a blaster pistol whose barrel was rested against the base of their skull. Tribute needn't be a man or woman, girl or boy, Human or non-Human.
But... when he thought about it, those same words had described them, once. They had been, for all intents and purposes, tributes, once.
"And Mister Gornash." Gornash's head jerked up. The top of his head, the portion of his scalp hidden by his hair and hood, tingled with cold. He felt each hair stand, then the sensation faded into numbness as the cold traveled down the sides of his head to his ears, then cheeks, then the skin hidden under this unclean, beastly beard, "If you would be so good as to fetch our guest of honor."
"Certainly." Gornash nodded his head, then turned to leave. The cold and numbness that had rested on his skin was starting to seep through, into his bones and skull and brain.
"I trust you have no complaints." Kadann prodded, "You were auspiciously silent through this discussion."
Well, of course Gornash had been. That had been his role from day one, among this group comprised of freaks, obnoxious protestors, and inflated egos. He had always been quiet and calm, in control. And that wasn't going to change – Kadann couldn't make him say anything he didn't want to, and he wasn't going to let this manipulative creep put words into his mouth like he had the other prophets.
"None." He said, shortly.
"That's good." It sounded so pleasant, almost agreeable, "And yet, I worry that perhaps you might be enjoying this, just a little too much."
Gornash's eyes crawled back in their sockets, of their own accord. What was that supposed to mean? That almost sounded like Kadann... knew. There was no way he could know. And, anyway, what did Gornash care? He wasn't a part of this scheme, he wasn't just a pawn in this pathetic grab for power. He didn't need approval or Kadann to order him... but it did bring up the question, if Kadann could know about this, what else was he able to do?
"There's no need to worry." Was all Gornash said.
Kadann said nothing and Gornash didn't dare turn around to see what kind of look Kadann was giving him. He could feel the man's eyes boring into his back, waiting for a further response. Looking for something... just looking...
So, Gornash didn't wait for him to answer, and walked out the door. He wasn't going to be controlled – he was in control, and if he couldn't keep that... then...
It was funny how bizarre things could look if you weren't paying that much attention. For example, Ken noticed, there was a blur of black and gray that seemed to be moving, but not in motion. It spun and bobbed up and down, and from side to side, then seemed to split into two and danced around each other.
"I told you. It would have been so easy to just get it over with." The creature was back, but Ken couldn't see him. For that matter, he couldn't really see anything. He had images that were going past him, but nothing that actually looked like it was something – rather like dreaming.
What was seeing, anyway? It was a function of the brain to build an interpretation of the physical world in response to reception of visible light, a function conducted by the eyes, the optic nerves connected to them, and the visual cortex of the brain. It also had some functions in psychology, such as interpreting objects to be one thing that they were not, or associating shapes and images with different images.
"And the pain would have been so quick, too." One such case was optical illusions – visually perceiving objects differently than they were defined by objective reality. There were both physiological explanations and cognitive explanations, but Ken didn't know what those were because the texts were a different level of study and he hadn't had the chance to read them, yet.
"But you were so sure you knew better. So sure that things would be okay. And look what's happened because of you." Maybe that's what he was seeing – maybe there was really only one shade of gray in the room, but the lighting made it appear like there was more than one. Ken felt his eyes moving in his skull – like the bulbs had thousands of tiny strings, holding them tightly to the insides of their sockets, and he felt each one strain and tug, both at itself and the inside of his eyelids as they moved.
"First there was what happened on Tatooine. Then, there was that woman on Bespin. And on Duro. And now, this. Just because you're here." Feeling – that was another sensation. The perception of the brain receiving tactile information about the outside world, caused by the reception of nerve endings in the skin sending messages to the brain. There were other kinds of feelings, such as being able to feel pain, which could be superficial or have deeper sensations from different locations of the nerves.
Ken let his eyes blink and tried to think about the science behind the sensations. Right now, there wasn't much. He could feel a distinct pattern of a grid pressing on his face, and one of his shoulders, and down his arm, side, and leg, and there was a strange warmth spreading from the pattern it etched on his skin. The rest of him was so cold, he didn't feel a thing.
"More people are going to die, you know. They aren't going to stop. You can't stop them, you can't even save yourself." Why was he so cold? The typical explanation would mean that the atmosphere around him was too cold – Humans were an endothermic organism, so he would generally be warm, even if he felt cold. But he didn't. He felt cold, but it went beyond just skin feeling the chill in the air – it permeated him, filled him, sunk through every cell in his body, like every cell in his bloodstream was filled with ice and was carrying the chill to every part of him.
Ken focused on his fingers, and made one of them bend. Moving parts of his body was a science, too – a contraction of muscles, pulling on his bones, to make the various pieces flex.
If he didn't think about the science – the cold, clinical, logic and reason, the facts, the detached and unemotional side of an equation – if Ken couldn't focus on that...
"Why are you doing this?"
"Let us go!"
"I have a child to care for, you sick freaks!"
"Help us! Please, save us..."
"No, please... stop!"
If he didn't think about all the technicals... Ken thought he'd go crazy.
There was a humming that resonated from the floor, like a little voice that was whispering directly into his ear, hissing out everything about the station. Ken could hear a faint, semi-rhythmic clicking in the hum – that could only come from a... a... what was the word for it? Ken forgot. The blurry images started to melt together, the cold numbness in his skin started to recede and the spots that burned on it started to throb.
And... and... how he'd gotten those... what had happened... and after...
Ken shut his eyes, breathing out and trying not to breathe back in, hoping it would knock him back out. He had to think about something else. He had to think...
"You're not going to last here – it's just a matter of time, and the longer it takes, the more people you'll take with you. Why not just make it easier?" What made up a Human body? Oxygen, atomic weight 15.999; carbon, atomic weight 12.011; hydrogen, atomic weight 1.008; nitrogen, atomic weight 14.007; calcium, atomic weight 40.078... calcium... calcium... what was the next element? What came next, in terms of percentage?
Ken found himself taking in a gulp of air – the element that made the largest percentage in a Human body, oxygen – and there was a stab that ran through his lungs, like a needle had pierced into his chest and injected the alveoli with liquid nitrogen and it burned everything it touched, and everything that touched that. His whole chest screamed with a searing pain. It made him cough, trying to will it away.
"It's only going to get worse – and what you're going through is nothing. Think of what Skywalker's going through, having to experience this like all Jedi do!"
Luke. Ken opened his eyes, and could see, just barely out of focus, his own hand, pressed so firmly into the grating on the floor that his skin might have been melded to it. Luke was still alive. Luke was able to feel this. Luke was...
"Skywalker's here because YOU are."
There was a new sound – one that was closer, more immediate than anything. Closer and louder than the humming of the space station, stronger and sharper than the creature's voice. It was a click, then the swish of something metallic scraping smoothly against something else. Ken felt, more by the way his hair ruffled than on his skin, the push of air that came.
Door. That was the sound, and feeling, of a door opening. Then, the thudding tap that made the floor shudder. Footsteps.
"There's somebody else in here." He could still hear the creature's voice, but that didn't seem nearly as important anymore. Especially when he felt something grab him by the hair, prying him wholly off the floor so forcefully that it honestly felt as though his skin was being torn clean off. Ken's eyes moved on their own, following the increasingly sharp lines outlining the figure holding him. It was like looking up a pillar, trying to see the top when you had no idea where it was. There was the hood, overshadowing the Prophet's face, but his eyes – green as envy – bored out and seemed to connect directly into Ken's brain.
The numbness – the coldness – dropped away so rapidly that it made Ken dizzy. Every centimeter of his skin, each spot that had felt a needle or brand or electrode, the places that had felt detached and nonexistent, sprung back into their full, real, shocking pain.
It wasn't even the reminder of how he'd fallen into this nightmare, nor the reality dropping back on his head. It was...
"You're not sorry enough."
"You couldn't even save your own sorry hide." This Prophet, more than any of the others, had shown him how weak he was. He'd taken Ken's own uselessness, his own helplessness, and thrown it so heavily into Ken's face, imprinted it onto his brain like the scar left by a burn, that it couldn't be denied anymore.
More than anything, this Prophet had exposed Ken to the most brutal, harsh reality – that he knew nothing, and there was nothing he could do, and no amount of training, effort, or anything could have prepared him for this. That he had no power over any of this.
More than any of the others, Ken was afraid of this man.
"...No..." The words came out, beyond his control. He was begging, pleading, and he didn't even know what for, "Please, don't..."
The hand that had him gripped by the hair shoved his face against the wall. Ken felt a special, unique ache in his back – one that screamed from his spine that his body wasn't meant to be bent like this. With his nose pressed into the wall, Ken couldn't see what came next, but he did hear the metallic buzz of a tiny contraption. It grew louder, and finally loudest as Ken felt something vibrate against the skin of his scalp. A stripe of cold air breezed over his ear, growing wider as the vibrating tool moved back and forth over his head. Even though it was harmless – painless even – Ken couldn't stop himself from sobbing, loudly, out of sheer terror.
"Shut up." The hand clinging onto the remainder of his hair shook him, pressing his face even flatter against the cold metal of the wall. Ken's breath hitched, but silenced. And, when it was over, the Prophet's large, long fingered hand secured around his arm and pulled. Ken's limbs jerked, as though they were all aware that he was supposed to be fighting, but none of them could find the strength to fight back. His arms were too limp and useless, and his legs couldn't find the way to bend properly. Even his toes flexed, trying to hook into the grate on the floor as he was half-dragged, half-led down the hall.
"One more time, now." He could hear the creature's voice taunting him. Could the Prophet hear it, too? Or was Ken finally going insane? Or was this all not real?
Ken felt everything around him spinning. He couldn't even properly see, anymore. It was all going back to that blurry, surreal, nonexistent mess of grays. He was only barely aware that he could hear any of the voices around his head, anymore.
"Mister Gornash, I thought we agreed not to be too extreme?" He was dreaming. This all had to be a long, impossible dream. After all, he'd met famed heroes of the Alliance, flown with Captain Solo, trained with Luke Skywalker, lived with, ate meals with, shared bunks with the soldiers... he was just a kid, and that was just a childish fantasy.
"The scalp is a sensitive part of the body we couldn't access before. This is perfectly within reason." How else did any of this make sense? He'd seen things that simply weren't possible – done things that weren't possible.
"They're going to torture you! Wake up, at least realize what you're in for!" He was hallucinating a talking ape creature that only he could see and hear. How was that NOT a dream?
"Shouldn't we at least have a prisoner's smock waiting for once we're done? You all know he's gonna go into shock, sooner or later."
Dee-Jay and HC had always said his imagination was overactive.
Luke had been trying to meditate, hopefully formulate a plan. It was already difficult enough, with every minute adding to his mounting unease, both to his and Ken's fates. Being consistently pulled into a dreamscape like this was not making it any easier, especially with what Luke was seeing now.
"This's been happening on and off for a while now." The other version of Triclops pointed out, as the real Triclops was bent over a figure on the floor, examining it with a cold, clinical precision.
What made Luke particularly anxious was that, when Triclops sat up, Luke could see very clearly that the figure was Ken – or, he assumed, some representation of Ken's mind, or something, as the boy was not reacting to any of the three of them.
"As far as I can tell..." Triclops mused, a distinct wrinkle appearing directly between his eyes, "He has gone into shock... but then..." Luke extended a hand, unsure how safe it would be to try and touch Ken – especially given the strange logic that seemed to work in all of Triclops' dreams, if maybe Luke trying to help would cause more damage than he could undo, or if it just wouldn't work at all.
"...Then again?" He prodded. Triclops kept flexing his fingers, as though he wanted to clench them into fists.
"...My knowledge of physiology and psychology is strictly informal, and incomplete at best. This might be Kendal's physical status being translated into the mind for our benefit, it might be metaphorical, or it might be his mental state that, in turn, is causing physiological symptoms..." He honestly looked and sounded quite distressed at being so uncertain – more so than even Luke was, "...And, in any case, I am not a professional, in either instance..."
Luke cast Triclops a glance – one long enough to see a hardened look in his eyes, one which might have been resignation, anger, nostalgia, or some combination of the three. So, Luke did the one thing he knew he could do well, and forced himself to relax. Even if he couldn't solve the problem in it's entirety, now, it would give him insight as to what he could do – if he could reach Ken like this, or if he could protect him, directly, or how he was supposed to stop the Prophets if that was the only way.
"It'll be alright." He murmured, partly to himself, and partly to reassure the silently fretting Triclops. If Triclops had this ability – perhaps he could use that, in his own way, to help, but that would only work if he wasn't panicking.
"That's nice and all, but I think I've got us another problem." Luke's attention was diverted, yet again, and he and the real Triclops found themselves beholding the most surreal image Luke ever thought he'd see: The sight of the second Triclops off in the background with yet a third version of Triclops in a headlock, pinned to the floor. It was such a bizarre image that, had the circumstances not been so dire, Luke was quite sure he would have found it amusing.
It also simultaneously shocked him and didn't surprise him in the least – after all, he was already sitting in a pliable space inside a dream and had had two conversations with a person called Triclops, whom was Ken's biological father, as well as an alternative personality to that man. One didn't see much stranger things than that, so a third personality was honestly not all that surprising.
But it did stun Luke how utterly and completely different this personality was. The real Triclops was quiet and polite, if curt and standoffish, but still well-intentioned. The other version of him was rude and uncouth, but also with a standard of decency and principles he followed – rather like Han in that aspect.
This one, though – Luke could sense the malice rolling off of him. It was dark and twisted, and even if Luke didn't probe into the Force, he could still see an arrogance to this persona, a wickedness that hung on his face like it was woven into his skin. Even though this third version was literally being restrained by the second Triclops, he was still smirking up at his captive audience, clearly enjoying their reactions.
"Don't look so surprised – didn't the two of you used to refer to me as Mister Personality?" He snapped, sending the original Triclops a look, "You'd even had it all figured out – that I was doing all the hard work for you while you two kept trying to get us in trouble."
Luke glanced between the three different incarnations of Triclops' – what was he talking about? What kind of background was there that Luke wasn't seeing? What was he still too naïve to understand?
"Yes, yes – we know. You were the one who told his High and Wrinkled-ness about all the things we saw, and all those dreams we had, and we're oh so grateful for all you did that kept us from being harassed... y'know, even more than we already were, with all the torture and experiments and shit." The other Triclops snarled, which elicited a bark from the third.
"Harassed? I was the only reason we were left ALIVE, you realize! We were put in the Mines – the place the Empire sent the people who were 'undesirable', sent people there for no other reason than to have them killed off. It would only be a matter of time before our number came up – and if we were gonna have any shot of staying alive, we had to give HIM a reason to keep us around. And I was the one who did that. Get it? We were the ranats in the maze – the ranats do something wrong and they get a shock. The ranats do something right and they get the cheese. You guys got us the shocks. I got us out of there alive. Who do you think was doing it right?"
Luke felt his eyes widen without his permission. Triclops' eyes did the same, going as wide and round as perfect circles. The second Triclops responded with a very different approach.
"You think that just barely getting by is the same as doing it right?" He demanded, and when this new Triclops just smirked, the other wrenched his arm, "Alright then, Shit-for-Brains, why don't you tell us how you're doing it right THIS time?"
The third Triclops sneered, then grimaced when the Triclops restraining him twisted him by the elbow.
"Alright, alright – I'm helping the Prophets. Once they've gotten their ducks in a row, then I'll be able to get back on track and get us back to good." This was unsettling to hear – maybe because Luke could guess what that 'track' would entail. But even worse was how the other Triclops responded, still.
"And how, pray tell, are you 'helping' them? And, while we're at it, you don't really need this arm, do you?" Luke saw Triclops' jaw drop open – rather as though he intended on saying something, but no words came out. The other two wrestled as the second Triclops twisted the third's arm at the shoulder, as though to wrench the limb out of it's socket, but any threat of harm or injury was obviously a bluff – this third Triclops was still smirking and took his time answering, very aware that all present weren't about to let him off until he'd answered their questions.
"Well, first off, they needed prisoners – so, I helped them to intersect a passenger ship. And now, they've got the sacrifices they need."
Even though it was just a dream – even though he wasn't really there, didn't even really have a body to feel, pain or pleasure – Luke really did feel dizzy, like all the blood was draining out of his head and straight into the pit of his stomach.
"...Sacrifices..."
It wasn't being called a freak that bothered Tilus – he'd been called worse. He'd been called a punk, son-of-a-traitor, a pig, a Red Pig... and that was before the Mines. He'd been called so much worse – if he'd even been addressed, at all. So, really, being cursed and sworn at was nothing new.
No, the real hard part was, no matter what pretty words Kadann used to excuse it away, that they were basically doing the same thing. The people they'd captured had done nothing wrong, and the only reason they were here was to die. The only difference was it would be quick, almost immediate. There was no prolonging the pain or humiliation, but that only made it worse for them.
It also didn't help that Gornash – what had that old Copy-Cat been thinking – just had to shave the boy's head. What's next – were they going to tattoo him with a number, too?
Tilus sent a glance over his shoulder, hoping it was quick enough that none of the others saw it. Why'd they have to have this setup, like some kind of altar you'd find in an ancient temple where they'd... he didn't know, cut out their brains or burn them alive or something? And the boy... he was just laying there, not moving, not responding to anything – just like Copy-Cat Gornash had said he might, because he was still so out of it – no screams, no twitching, not even any blinking. Even the boy's breathing was shallow.
Of course, even the shallow breaths were very visible, with how skinny this kid was. And he was skinny – barely more than skin and bones. Not as skinny as THEY'D ever gotten, of course, not like he'd been starved for weeks on end...
But still...
Every inch of Tilus' skin and insides crawled – he still ached with the hunger. No matter how much he ate, no matter what, no matter how he tried to forget, the hollowness inside him seemed to grow with each second, as though that emptiness was gobbling up everything around it and expanding like a black hole.
Tilus loaded another charge into his blaster and dropped another one – this one a hefty male Human with quite dark skin. Even if Kadann – the Supreme Low Prophet, that was a better title – was right and this got the Emperor back and they were all able to rule the whole galaxy by having him wrapped around their fingers, it would never fill the emptiness.
"It's like a beacon – Skywalker, you know how Jedi can feel those things through the Force, right?" The new Triclops went on, as though disgusted with their unimpressed reaction. Unimpressed was hardly the word to describe Luke's emotions, but this was also considering that being impressed was not always a good thing, "It's the same thing. Enough people die, and it resounds to any Sith Lord who wants to crawl their way back over."
Luke closed his eyes – again, a feat that he wasn't sure how he managed, given that he didn't even have a body or eyes to close – but it was just as useful as trying to block an image out of his mind's eye. The other Triclops kept talking, his voice inescapable, penetrating, poisonous, this persona speaking with such slow delight that he was clearly relishing it.
"And the second part is the kid – once they've got the attention of a Dark Jedi, they need a place for him to reside. Of course, they can't just straight up kill him – a body that doesn't work is no better than none at all. So, you take a person who's pliable enough, open to being persuaded, and... unseat them."
Killing people actually wasn't too hard. It was really quite easy, to be honest. And, for someone like Barnaby, who rather wanted to just get this over so he could skulk away and take a nap – or, at least, lay down and pretend he wasn't awake – that suited him just fine. It was a very simple, very mechanical process. Certain parts of the body were necessary for it to work, so all they had to do was block them, cut off the communication between the body and it's necessary parts, and the rest was taken care of for them.
It also wasn't too bad dealing with all of the screaming. The prisoners would beg, plead, ask what they'd done wrong, cry, try to fight, try to buy their way out, try to argue or reason their way out. Oh, it had a familiarity to it – one that would have bothered Barnaby if he'd stopped to think about it. If he'd thought about it, he would have heard a similarity to the screaming he'd heard in the Mines. The cries he'd hear from adults who'd been separated from their children, or children separated from their parents. The groans of other prisoners who were so overburdened with their pains – some who lost their nails and teeth from the scurvy, some whose bones would break at the lightest touch, some who couldn't breathe from the smog in the air. The ravings of those who wanted escape so badly, they were willing to sell their sanity for it.
It was those horrors – the sounds, the smells, and his own misery – that had kept him awake, every second of every day in those Mines. He would lay awake on his cot, next to the four other prisoners – it had turned to three, one day – listening, smelling, tasting the awfulness of the place on his tongue. And it was the memories that stole even a single night of peaceful sleep from him, since. It was as though the Mines were determined to rob him of even the simple pleasure of oblivion.
That's why he didn't think about the similarities of the others. Thinking was too hard. Thinking hurt too much. Apathy and melancholy were easier – not fun, or pleasant by any means, but they helped. He could get by. He didn't need to care. He didn't need to hurt – he just had to let everything go without a thought.
No, what bothered Barnaby was the boy. He wasn't reacting at all, and he was the closest to anything that Barnaby remembered. He wasn't screaming or pleading or anything, anymore. He was perfectly silent – just the way Barnaby was. The way he HAD been.
He was so weak and pathetic. Not even aware of what was going on – or, maybe he was aware, but just didn't care. Maybe he was just locked up inside his own head, or maybe there was just nothing there to react, anymore. He found himself hating him.
He wanted a reaction. He wanted this to be horrific, for it to imprint itself like a scar, for it to never leave, even in dreams. He wanted to make this so permanent that he could never escape, no matter how far he ran away.
"Oh god... oh god, whatever I did... please, I'm sorry!" This was from a female of a very Humanoid species – maybe not full Human, but close enough. She was crying. Her breasts were far too swollen for her frame – she'd probably become a mother recently.
Barnaby shot through her spine. And kept shooting, the marks blackening any inch of her skin that he could see.
"All the incoming Sith Lord has to do is get in and take over. It should be child's play for any Sith worth his salt." The third Triclops went on. Luke willed himself to think – if he couldn't block this out, there had to be a way to fight back. To silence this horrible speech. Or to overcome it, if he couldn't stop this Triclops.
"So, you plan to do what with this?" He finally managed to ask. If this was still a form of Triclops, it was still also a version of the man who was Ken's father. There had to be some humanity still left – something that still felt compassion...
...That still loved his son. There had to be.
"If this works, then Ken will die." He reasoned, hoping that he didn't sound as terrified as he felt – hoping that the words came out with urgent pathos, a desperation that called for rational, reasonable response.
The real Triclops shook – apparently, this concept was not a recent revelation to him – and the second Triclops grimaced, also seeming familiar with this possibility. Neither seemed terribly pleased to acknowledge it. The third Triclops, however, seemed both aware and accepting of this.
"You don't GET it, do you?" He snapped.
Thinking back on it, he supposed this shouldn't have surprised him. His codename had been Darth Noma, and he was told to assume the identity of a Prophet called 'Eris'. He'd never minded shouting or arguing, he'd learned that the freakish time he'd spent in the Mines had elevated his body temperature, to the point that he could actually channel it to cause combustion in other things, and he'd learned how to do that, and, of course, he never had any problems with swearing until blood gushed from the ears of whoever he was shouting at.
Eris had started off being disturbed at the idea of having to kill people. Killing them – no, slaughtering them, like they were just animals. It was the same thing, all over again. It was seeing that – seeing it, and being powerless to stop it, being powerless to protect himself, or his wife, or even being able to see her before they'd dragged her away, at being unable to stop the doctor that had strapped him down, being unable to do a SINGLE, GOD-DAMN thing – that had made him so furious, back in the Mines. And, they were supposed to do it, themselves, now? And that runt, Kadann, had smiled and whispered and twisted words until he didn't know up from down to make him – FUCKING MAKE HIM – do it, against his will?
Eris had thought that he might scream from how infuriating it was.
But then, he'd bashed open the first. He hadn't even bothered with the blaster charge – just used the butt of the handle to smash the prisoner's head open. The blood had come out, gloriously, like the debris and flames in an explosion, the sparks in fireworks, the droplets in a fountain spraying water, in a wonderful, burning crimson. He could see the pure white of their bone as it poked out – but stained red from the color of the emergency lights they had, lighting up the room. The mass of their brain, soft and pliable, almost seemed to resemble the shape of a cloud in an explosion. It was all so red, either like the red of a burning flame or the red of molten alloys or the red of glowing embers.
It felt... good...
He'd savored it. To be able to move, to DO something. For his arms to swing so openly, for him to smash something with so much force. It was like Eris was tasting some food that he'd never known existed – some miracle pill that had everything he needed, that he ever would need – and the taste melting wonderfully on his tongue and the feeling electrifying him as it went down.
He didn't want to like it. He'd been better than this – this was what moral people called 'being sick'. He hadn't been sick when he went in. He was a good person. He was, he was, he WAS...
But... he was so enraged. It still burned his insides to be so powerless, to having been so helpless, to be unable to refuse Kadann and being wrangled, like a bird with it's wings cut off, but still being fed to grow fat, by the same Empire who'd taken everything else away from him... So, his arms and hands moved, the stab that ran through his muscles as he felt the impact of the beatings invigorating him, making the fire in his stomach churn and burn higher.
The boy had come in, fighting. He'd started off, trying to shout and scare them. Of course, Kadann had threatened Skywalker, and the fight had gone right out of him, like the boy had no spine – no spirit – at all. Eris had wanted to scream at him to have more balls than just give up from minute one.
But he couldn't. So, he let his hands and arms scream for him, wailing on the prisoners, and letting their blood run all the faster to urge his own on.
A/N: I feel so unclean after writing that passage.
"How, exactly, has looking out for that kid done any of you – EVEN you, Skywalker – any good? For every step of the way, every precaution each of you were taking to protect him, it did nothing but bring you trouble. He's too helpless to take care of himself, too weak to watch your back in a fight, too stupid to tell what's going on or see trouble before it comes to get him... tell me, where were YOU going to draw the line of 'Not worth it'?" The third Triclops no longer sounded amused or pleased with himself. In fact, he sounded impatient – as though this should have been very obvious.
Luke felt something in his stomach churn. He felt sick. He wanted to shout, or to react out and choke this freakish apparition.
"Nobody is 'not worth it'." He managed to reply, still with his eyes closed as though that would somehow give him a greater insight in how to argue with this version of Triclops. He heard a scoff.
"I'm going to call you on that – there are some people who are stronger, some who are smarter, some who can be useful in a war or just normal life, and some who you'd be better off just cutting your losses. And all of those people's lives aren't created equal."
"That's not true!" Luke's eyes snapped open, and for the first time in quite a few years, he felt a kind of fury unseating itself from deep in his soul and springing into full force. Peace? Calm? No, now was not the time to be rational, "All people's lives are precious, no matter what!" He reached out to put his hands round the new persona's neck, only stopped when the second version of Triclops pulled him back, still restraining, and shaking his head. It was a clear enough command for Luke to stand down that he almost immediately felt his anger die.
Almost.
"Oh, really? You're a soldier – you've seen people get shot down for no good reason except be in the wrong place at the wrong time. People who needed to keep living – who others were depending on, even if it was just to do their jobs, and all it takes is a little blaster bolt and, suddenly, a whole mission would get screwed up and everyone gets blown to hell. You're seriously going to tell me that people's lives are ALL worth something? That's only as true as the people who assign value to it." The third Triclops rebutted, "Boy, remember when the kid was born?"
Luke cast the original Triclops a look – he was sitting quite stiffly, and his eyes seemed to have frozen in their wideness.
"Just by being born, that kid made such a big stir in the Mines that his mother was executed, and he almost dragged us down, with her. In fact, if it weren't for that woman fooling the Kommandant into thinking it was HIS kid, all of us would've been offed before you could blink. And you remember what happened to the Medic who'd also had some bad luck in those Mines! How can you seriously tell me that all people's lives are equal when you saw THAT? And you're... what? You're trying to SAVE him? What's WRONG with you? Why not just ask for a nice glass of poison with your next meal? It'll be quicker – and that's where we're headed anyway, if you try to keep this up!"
The real Triclops' jaw dropped open, as though to argue, but no sound came out. It was as though his whole concept of language and vocabulary had been sucked right out of him. Even angry as he was, Luke couldn't find words to appropriately react to this speech – even some of his coarser swear words seemed too tame.
The second Triclops' response was...
"I think you need to shut up." More brutal, as he accompanied these words with seizing the third Triclops by his forehead and, calmly and effectively, twisted his head clean off. Luke thought there would be blood or gore of some sort, but all that happened was the dissolution of the other persona, like seeing a computer program dissolving, byte by byte.
This was also when the original Triclops started to scream. It shocked Luke back to his senses – the reasonable, rational senses that said to stay calm. Even when Triclops bent over and started to claw his head with his hands. Even when the second Triclops jumped, in alarm. Even when the floor started to warp and come apart.
"Boy! Boy, cut it out. Seriously, this isn't funny!" The second Triclops tried shaking his original persona, sounding well and truly panicked. Luke forced himself to focus and observe precisely what was happening – as far as he could see, it was rather like the dreamscape was starting to... well, crumble.
"Skywalker!" The second Triclops shouted – it seemed like it wouldn't matter, but for some reason, it sounded like it was necessary, "Get out of here! I'll handle this – just get out!"
Luke pondered how he was supposed to do that, for just a moment, but...
He found himself blinking up at the ceiling of the cell he'd been put in. Frustrated, Luke kicked the wall – the only thing close enough that he was free to abuse – and tried to sit back up. He'd been so close – he could have figured something out, if he hadn't been pushed out of that dream; he could have helped Triclops protect Ken, if he hadn't been cut off; he could have...
Luke forced himself to breathe and calm down. Being angry or having a temper fit wouldn't help. He wanted to do it, but he knew it wouldn't help. What would help was if he relaxed. If he put himself at peace, if he could think, if he could feel.
This was also made difficult by the fact that, now that he was awake, he very much felt the shock that was obviously coming from the deaths of those people – complete strangers, whom he couldn't even see and never would. He'd never be able to put names to faces, know who they had been, and what kinds of lives they'd lived.
Breathe in.
All he'd ever know is how frightened they were in these last few moments, how much they agonized at the reality that their time was coming to an end, and how quickly they disappeared. It rung through his skull like the tolling of a bell that, for no apparent reason, fell silent before each ring could be complete.
Breathe out.
This had to end. That was all Luke could think. He had to end this. He reached out, looking for something to grasp, and found himself presented with an image – a pair of eyes, green as sin, with scars just under the lower corners. He pulled, drawing in whatever had brought that image in closer – if he was right, then whatever was on the other end was their only chance.
With the session over, Kadann subtly dismissed each of the other Prophets to go about their own business for a good half-hour before their next move could be brought to fruition. It hadn't been a good round – the boy hadn't responded to any of the measures they took, and Jedgar would have blamed it on the others for being lackluster in their efforts, except that, an hour into the session, there was distinct evidence of the boy having a stroke. It had taken some work, but they'd managed to get the boy's heart started again, and a quick scan to be sure his brain was still functioning properly. Still, it had been enough that Kadann had concluded they wouldn't be able to have much of an effect for a while.
The chubby one and the one with the lazy eye had skittered all too gladly out of the room, the one with the braided beard and the fire-spitter disappeared more casually, and the only other tall prophet carried the boy back to his cell.
Which left Jedgar and Kadann alone. That was fine with him – Jedgar didn't like those other Prophets, not since the beginning.
At best, they were stupid and blundering. At worst... well, Jedgar had plenty of suspicions. Kadann was too trusting, too blind. He just didn't see what they were doing – the shifty looks the two stupid, lazy ones were wearing, or how they were slinking around with their tails between their legs. They were up to something, thinking about trying to double-cross them, about trying to undermine Kadann and everything he was doing. Or the two over-enthusiastic ones. Jedgar knew what they were about – they were probably plotting how best to take control for themselves, how to ruin everything else that he and Kadann had worked for.
And especially that green-eyed one. Whether he was trying to screw the plan up just for the sake of stopping them from getting what they wanted – what they deserved – or if he was going to make a bid for the power, himself, Jedgar wasn't sure. But he didn't like him. He couldn't say why, but he did – something about that upstart's face and attitude just rubbed him the wrong way.
Jedgar knew what he was doing. He wasn't like the others. In the Mines, there had been two types of prisoners – those who were being tried and those who were being punished. Jedgar knew what he was – before the Mines, he'd been a leader in his community. Everyone knew that, if they had any kind of problem or question, he was the minister to come to. There was nothing he couldn't do, no problem he couldn't fix. He wasn't sure if he would call it the Force, but there was definitely something else out there, a higher power that nobody could see that was looking out for him, and because of that, he was able to do things no mere mortal could ever hope.
And then, the round-ups had come. Anyone and everyone within the community had been herded into the transports and taken them to the Mines. And, really, Jedgar could see why. He knew what had been wrong with those other people – every little detailed crime or offense. There were other people, too – half-breeds, heretics, cripples, gyps, homosexuals... all disgusting, disease-ridden degenerates. They'd been what had brought the fall of the economy, brought the Clone Wars, brought the Empire. The Mines had been their punishment.
But not he – no, HE had been sent there as a trial. The galaxy was testing him, waiting to see if he faltered, if he was strong enough. And he had been – he was here to prove it, because he'd been strong enough, worthy enough, and the real Jedgar had appeared, one day, and selected him.
He'd been chosen. He was superior.
Of course, Jedgar knew this. But still...
"You do realize that they're planning something." He pointed out to Kadann. He was just a Bimm – probably too dim-witted to see what was going on right over his nose – but did have a gift for managing and manipulating. Jedgar could have done it himself, but he hadn't felt like it. And, anyway, the important part was to keep everything running smoothly until he was ready.
"Now, I think that might be a little harsh." The midget murmured, tapping his forefingers together. Jedgar grunted, disdainfully.
"They've been acting strangely – you've seen it, right? You say it's harsh when you know they're at the very least, getting cold feet?" He pushed. Kadann shrugged, carelessly. How could he be so unconcerned when they were risking being sabotaged by the least competent people on this ship?
"Even if that is true, it's of no consequence." Ah, yes – as much as Jedgar wanted to believe that, there was always the chance something would go wrong. Just a chance, but if that was all it came down to, he'd need to do everything he could to prevent it, "Besides, Mister Jedgar..."
Where did this dwarf get off addressing him by name? Even if it was a fake one... well, it's not like it mattered – he was good enough to be put out as the real one. Given a chance, he could probably defeat the real Sith he was substituting for.
"...Our guest is obviously in no state to continue with this method. Perhaps, now is the time to apply some subtlety."
Jedgar wondered, just for a moment, what the little runt meant by that, but Kadann was already shuffling off.
"When I come back, I'll have coordinates for the Lost City. We can discuss the commitment of the other Prophets while en route."
After leaving their still unresponsive prisoner in his cell, Gornash found himself following his feet to where they lead him. It was increasingly unnerving how little control he had over his own body. It was all the more unnerving when he stopped walking and found himself facing the cell door, behind which they had stashed Skywalker.
Granted, Gornash knew that he wasn't a Jedi – he wasn't even naturally Force-sensitive. He could even remember, however vaguely, hearing once that the Jedi were like a kind of sorcerer, and thus, unclean. Just standing here, he felt like his skin was crawling. He'd aided Skywalker, at first. Mostly because he wanted to bait Jedgar and Kadann – because he didn't want them to get what they wanted. Kadann was a little kriffer who hadn't felt any consequence for the things he'd done, and Jedgar was so full of himself that Gornash suspected that the taller man could vomit and a second version of himself would rise from it. But that didn't mean he was going to just help Skywalker out, for no reason at all. It would rub off on him.
Gornash let a hand reach up and feel the mass of hair growing from his chin.
"May none of my people adorn their faces with hair. That is for the beasts."
And from that, to his eyes, running a finger over the scars extending from his lower eyelids. To the eyes that gave him such freakish abilities.
The mask, the dark cloak and cape, the sound of harsh, mechanized breathing. And the absolutely chilling presence of a force more powerful than he could ever hope to be.
Well... really... how much further to go?
Gornash lifted a hand and let it hover over the door's switch. He wasn't a Jedi – at least, not of his own will. But, if one were to talk about will, was it possible to have the powers like a Jedi and not believe in their Force? To be forced to be unclean? But he wasn't – he WASN'T. And, for that matter, what did he care about such things – even his mother hadn't been terribly strict about attending synagogue, he'd been too young for him to remember all of it, and it had been more than twenty years since he'd been free enough...
Was he having doubts... because this was, without all the excuses and justifications and rationalizations, he knew this was wrong? That he was in the wrong to do this?
...Maybe he really was a bad person. For willingly ignoring it. For continuing and justifying it. For... for what he'd REALLY done. Maybe he was already unclean.
In that case... what could it really hurt?
Gornash pushed the button. The door slid open.
He wasn't surprised – not in the least, in fact – to find that Skywalker had regained consciousness and had wriggled his way into a sitting position. Also, not much to his surprise, that exact sitting position was one of a meditative kind of stance, back straight and legs folded. He hardly looked like anyone whom was restrained and imprisoned. He looked calm. He looked...
'Just like I am... Just like I'm not...'
Controlled.
This was stupid. Skywalker was the prisoner. Unarmed. Limited. Helpless. He was at Gornash's mercy. If Gornash wanted to, he could shoot him, or slice his head off with a lightsaber – the envy-colored one that he'd built after the Emperor's death, just like the others, purely for the sake of being able to look like real masters of the Dark Side.
'Just like the boy is. Like he was – able to see me, able to control me. That's why...'
"You did this, didn't you?" He demanded. He could just see it – he could imagine how Skywalker's Jedi powers had the ability to force people to do what he willed them to do. Force-forced. Just like Kadann had done. Just like the Emperor had been able to do. No wonder he'd come to this cell, even though he wanted nothing more than to just get this over with.
Skywalker was still looking at him, calm and collected. It was unnerving. It was infuriating – nobody in a position like the one Skywalker was in should have the right to look so undisturbed, as though controlled by something more than just simple, Human will.
"I brought you here, you mean?" Skywalker asked, probably just to clarify, but to Gornash's ears, it bit like the stab of a blade, and when Gornash didn't deign to respond, Skywalker shook his head, "I'm not unhappy you came, but it was entirely up to you to come or not."
Gornash had heard rumors that Skywalker, before his fame as a Rebel pilot and hero, had come from a moisture farm on some backwater planet in the Outer Rim. From the man's simple way of speaking, Gornash believed it.
'He's a farmer boy, too.'
"You're lying." Gornash spat, "You made me come here – you were pulling on me, I FELT it."
"I reached out to you through the Force, and nothing more. I didn't control your actions, anymore than if I offered you a hand would I be controlling you to take it." Skywalker replied, voice seeming to grow calmer and his words growing more logical.
"Ha." But what did logic matter? This was obviously some kind of trick. It had to be, because if it wasn't...
Skywalker's gaze remained steady for another second, before he closed his eyes and lowered his chin. It was a small gesture, but enough that Gornash immediately felt relief upon the broken stare. Not much, but enough that he could tell the difference.
"I have something to ask you." Skywalker said, and it was truly unbelievable how his voice could grow even more calm, "But I won't demand that you hear me out. If you want, you may leave at any time. I won't force you to do anything."
Of course he could. After all, Gornash was the one that had the power in this scenario – it was so easy to forget, but Skywalker was the captive, and Gornash was the captor... except for the utter arrogance hanging over Skywalker. No, not arrogance, but it was SOMEthing. Whatever it was, it was as though it hadn't even occurred to Skywalker that they weren't comrades having a civil discussion with a mediator. One of them had power. The other one didn't.
...One of them...
"Like you didn't FORCE me to come here?" He demanded. Skywalker's eyes opened, briefly fixed on him, then shut again, "What else do you want me to do for you? What other Jedi-mind powers will you use on me if I don't? I don't want to hear it!"
Something fell in Skywalker's expression – rather like Gornash could see a sigh bubbling up, behind that face – before he shrugged. So casually. So relaxed. One would think he was just a guest, or that he'd graciously allowed himself to be taken prisoner.
It... aggravated Gornash. This wasn't how prisoners were supposed to be. It was supposed to be the other way around.
"I could tell you what I did to the boy." Gornash found himself saying, just trying to get a reaction out of this man. Anything – anything at all – be it disgust, anger, surprise, "He's got a whole line of scars up his spine now – along every nerve point on that boney body of his. There's burns on his ankles and wrists from the restraints we strapped him down with." What else... there had to be a more specific injury that would... oh, wait, "Kadann has a ring with the Imperial insignia on it. We heated it and branded that boy's forehead with it. He'll go around for the rest of his life, marked for it." Still, nothing. Then again, Skywalker's eyes were still closed and, as far as Gornash could tell, he was the kind of man whose emotions showed through his eyes. Maybe that's what kept them masked, "I made him scream. I made him cry and beg for mercy. I made him fear me."
Skywalker slowly, but still calmly, shook his head. It was almost as though to say 'Oh, you poor, sad, delusional man'. It made Gornash's blood boil that someone could deny him his control with something so simple.
"I could do the same thing to you – force you to do as I wanted, make you scream, make you fear me!"
Skywalker's eyes opened. And, instead of anger or disgust, or even contempt, Gornash saw something gentler – sympathy. His own captive was feeling SORRY for him.
"I must respectfully disagree." He said, "I don't doubt that you could hurt me, but I still have the freedom to choose how I react to it." That hurt – more than Gornash ever thought words could ever do, it cut into his gut, "All people do."
If Gornash had been feeling really sadistic – or, perhaps, if he were like Jedgar and too full of himself to care about good and evil – he would have taken this opportunity to spite back how weak that just made the boy. But now, Skywalker's words cut deeper. It stung like a personal insult, as though Skywalker were mocking him, as though he were taunting him with the unspoken accusation that, unlike Skywalker, he was weak and helpless.
And not in control.
"So, it's MY fault, then?" He demanded. Skywalker didn't respond, simply continued to watch him, politely puzzled, "You're saying I could have had control over what THEY made me? That it was my CHOICE to be this FREAK?"
Skywalker leveled his gaze. Gornash knew he'd been right – Skywalker was the kind of man to let his thoughts show through his eyes. And Gornash saw a very serious, very relaxed, but tightly controlled kindness in there. It terrified him, so much so that he stopped shouting.
"I don't pretend to understand what you've been through, but I can tell you that you're being used, now. Do you have control over what whoever's using you is doing? No. But you do have control over yourself – you can chose to let whatever happened to you shape you, or you can chose to be your own man." Used. Yes, that was a very good word for what Kadann was doing – to all of them, in fact. Not just Gornash, but each of the other Prophets. Gornash looked away, shaking. It really had changed, over the last few months, as though none of them existed as separate Prophets, but just members of the whole group – the organization, the systematic set of persons known as the First Church of the Dark Side.
He'd been used. And being used had made him into this creature – this unclean man – that had done such unforgivable things.
"I think you want to have control over who you are." Skywalker was still talking, but the words didn't sting anymore. Then again, Gornash wasn't looking, so maybe not meeting the calm gaze was what was affecting him. "I think you want to be a better person than this."
'What if I don't?' The thought arose in his mind before he could check himself, 'What if I can't? What if I'm so far gone that I'm not even able to want to be better, that all I want to be is THIS?'
He opened his mouth and scowled in Skywalker's direction, fully intending on telling him this – partly to spite him, partly out of real fear – and the words died in his throat. Skywalker's gaze hadn't budged, so much so that Gornash wondered if the man had even blinked, and he could see a sincerity that was so far gone, he'd almost forgotten what that was. The words weren't just a ploy for Skywalker to gain his trust, not just pretty words to loosen his guard, but something deeper, something more real.
Gornash looked away again. It had been so long since he'd heard anything quite like this – and here, it was coming from a complete stranger, from someone he was helping to hold captive, no less.
"Don't let me go."
He wasn't panicking – Gornash was sure of that because, when one panicked, they couldn't breathe and felt faint. He was still breathing normally and he wasn't faint...
"They won't separate us. I won't let them."
But he also couldn't think. How was he supposed to make a decision over what to do – control himself – when he couldn't even think?
"...I'm... I'm not..." He struggled to find the right words to snap out – the right way to regain control. But, oddly enough, he almost didn't want to. After all, being able to control himself, as Skywalker had suggested – well, not really, but he might as well have – also made it his fault. Not being able to control this... whatever this was... that meant he wasn't to blame for what he did.
Or for what choices he made. Or for what it made him.
"I think you are." Skywalker pointed out, before Gornash could complete the thought, "I know you're a better person than this."
Was he? Was that really possible, even after this?
"Does that change your opinion over this boy you've taken as an apprentice?"
Come to think of it, Skywalker had been rather rooted in his belief about the boy. Gornash wondered – was this just because Skywalker was just the type to hand out blind faith, or was there something to it?
"Make you uneasy knowing that it's in his blood to turn, one day or another?"
Had Gornash been wrong? Was there a reason behind Skywalker's belief in that boy? And, if that was true, did that mean there was something more to the boy? Had Gornash misjudged him, too?
Skywalker hadn't spoken for several minutes by the time Gornash cast him another look. At last, the calm and collected expression slipped from his face, turning into a very tired, almost resigned look. Or was that Gornash's imagination? He supposed it could be either, and he understood perfectly well why with Skywalker's next words.
"But what I think has nothing to do with what you choose to do." What he CHOSE, according to Skywalker. It felt hollow, but in the same way a poison dart was hollow on the inside – only to be filled with something potent that infused into it's victim. And infused, those words were, indeed – infused with a power that might either ruin him or revive him, "If you want to trust me, that's up to you. I can't force you to believe me – if you think I'm full of it, then..."
Gornash knew very well how he reacted to people who were trying to jerk him around.
Rather like Kadann. And Jedgar. So, what if, he considered, Skywalker was just like them?
"Do you believe that's true for everyone?" Gornash asked, slowly, and then, before Skywalker could answer, he hurriedly amended the question into a new one – which was much more specific, and more important, "Do you believe that's true for that boy? Do you think he's a better person – that he choses to control himself over that?"
Skywalker blinked, then relaxed.
"I know he is. I can promise you that."
Gornash's gaze averted itself, this time as he needed to think. He wasn't looking for a promise – he needed proof. And what better proof, better test, better way to determine if Skywalker was right, if his unwavering faith was well-placed or just naivete, than to test the boy? If the boy was, as Skywalker asserted, able to mold himself into a good person, then he would have to be correct – the story of Alderaan's destruction would have to be true, not a lie. And if that was true, then Skywalker was right about him...
Gornash turned, pressed the door's button, and strode out. Now, how to get this proof?
He wasn't sure what to think of the High Prophet, Jedgar. On one hand, he was offering freedom, power, and a more or less guarantee that he would live – or, if he died, it wouldn't be in the Showers or behind the chemical sheds. But, on the other, he was an extension of the systematic government that had made these Mines into internment camps for 'undesirable' citizens.
He knew better – just like these Mines had been the place that stripped him of his name, home, family, and anything that might have identified him beyond the number on his arm and the badge on his shoulder, it was also the perfect place for people to disappear and nobody would blink, twice.
But, for the moment – and, really, the moment was all that he had, all that he ever had, and all he ever would, from this point on – Jedgar was something like a personal guard. Walking behind him was the perfect insurance that no guards bothered him. He didn't need to blink, not once, when a stormtrooper passed and didn't even notice him. It was as though he were invisible, and that was almost liberating, itself.
But he wasn't invisible – he was insubstantial. He had always been unimportant, but this was almost as though he'd already been gassed and was on his way to be incinerated.
That thought passed through his mind as Jedgar signaled to a trooper standing at the door to a building. It was dark, formidable, and industrial – not like the barracks, which were flimsy and temporary, nor the mining shafts, which were ever changing. This building, he could tell, was where the Imps did their real work. All he could see from the ground was the streams of smoke and fire, issuing out of the towers on the building's roof.
The guard pressed a code and the doors opened. Jedgar gestured for him to enter. Inside was choking hot and the air was so thick, he felt it pressing on his face and into his nose. He couldn't see anything, until he realized that the building was nothing but a giant furnace – no floor, no ceiling, just the iron cast shell that contained the flames and enough space in there for either a mechanic to worm in for repairs, or vents that fuel could be pushed into while soot expelled out.
"Your brother is in here. Look for him if you want to."
He couldn't remember what he said. He hadn't been able to speak – he hadn't even been able to breathe.
Ken didn't see, nor hear, the creature, now. That didn't stop him from remembering the creature's voice, as the memory of it rang in his head. This time, he was perfectly awake – his muscles were twitching, uncontrollably, and he couldn't stop shaking. He was now unbearably, undeniably cold, and very aware that it was more than just the room or the floor.
How long had this been going on? It felt like days – weeks, even. It felt like each breath he took in moved so slowly that whole hours could pass before he needed to exhale. And then another few hours. And that was only assuming this was real. He still wasn't even sure.
Ken remembered, vaguely, reading somewhere once that the sleeping brain processed things much quicker than an awakened one – as a result, relatively brief periods of time went by with the compact number of events as far longer ones. Adjusting for that possibility, maybe he'd been like this for just a few hours. Or maybe this felt like hours when it had only been minutes.
And, again, Ken wondered about the possibility that he was imagining all of this. Was there a time-lapse phenomena that applied to hallucinations, or did those take place in real time? Was it possible to hallucinate other sensations, such as pain and exhaustion? There was a word for the hallucination of smelling foul odors: Dysosmia. If there could be medical terms for something so specific as that, surely there had to be terms for believing yourself to be injured and experiencing the sensation as though it were real.
Maybe there was a term for hallucinating emotions. Or for hallucinating the experience of seeing a dozen and a half people murdered in cold blood before...
Ken heard something like tapping. No, it was a clicking. No, not that... it was a rapping noise, like metal being drummed on. Ken raised his head – a task all the more laborious when his neck felt like it might snap under the weight of his skull – and let his gaze travel in the direction of the door. Someone was knocking on the door. He found himself blinking at it.
There was a click and a slot in the door opened – probably traditionally used for food to be passed through – enough that Ken could see a set of eyes. Black. And they glittered like granules of broken, black glass.
"I trust you're awake, now?" It was the voice of the short one – the one that had wanted the location of the Lost City, before, the one that had instructed the other Prophets, the one that had sliced his own hand open and...
What was his name? Ken felt like he should know, but couldn't, for the life of him, think of it.
"First, let's not have this discussion be hostile. Allow me to introduce myself: I am called Kadann. I already know you go by the name 'Ken the Jedi Prince'." The Prophet said, calmly, soothingly. And mockingly, as 'Jedi Prince' were the last words Ken would have used to describe himself, especially now.
"What do you want?" He heard a voice asking – weak, small, and shaking – and he felt his own throat shaking. Somehow, though, he just couldn't believe that it was him speaking.
Kadann sighed, as though sympathetic to Ken's plight. It didn't sound in the least bit convincing, but at the same time, whether it was convincing or not didn't matter because Ken wasn't really listening.
"I've already told you what I want." The location – or, Ken supposed, it would be more accurate to say, the coordinates – of the Lost City of the Jedi, "But, if our last conversation was any indicator, I suspect you might not be willing to let me have them, will you?"
Ken stopped craning his neck to watch the eyes, and promptly curled back up into a ball. Someone – he didn't know whom – had encased him in a kind of smock. It felt like plasti-coated burlap, smelled like starch, and was the color of mud with a lot of clay in it. It made a noise like flimsiplast being crumpled as Ken bent and pressed his head against his knees – left bare because of how short the smock was.
"I thought not. So, then – what shall we talk about?" Kadann asked, sounding so pleasant. In fact, it sounded rather as though he wanted to make Ken feel welcome, contrary to the real circumstances, "Let's see... I know – how have the lodgings been? I realize that the activity between these rest periods must be strenuous, but hopefully the time spent in the interim has been agreeable?"
Time spent in the interim... Ken didn't answer, but he could feel the skin on his back pebble with terror. The skin on his scalp. The skin on the backs of his legs.
"Oh, I see." Kadann mused, quietly. It was rather as though he was trying to remain calm, but silently furious at the notion of what Ken's silence implied, only further impressed when he continued, "Which one of the others was it? I'll need to know which of my affiliates can be relied on and which ones are not above more uncivilized treatment of guests such as yourself."
Ken still didn't respond.
"Hmm... well, I think I can guess it wasn't Jedgar – he hasn't been out of my sight for a moment until just now. And I obviously had no hand in this, you must trust." Yes, Ken was quite sure of that – he remembered the look on the green-eyed Prophet's face, how angry, how suddenly aggravated Ken's words had made him, how quickly it had come – but he also had no doubt that, on some level, Kadann approved of the action. How could he not – it was giving him this chance to badger Ken about it?
"And I also somewhat doubt it was Barnaby – heaven knows he would like nothing more than to laze about the ship all day. Whatever could he have done to you? Torment you with boredom? I think not."
At this point, Ken was becoming quite convinced that Kadann not only knew, but also knew whom it had been. He mostly believed this because he also didn't know any of the names of the Prophets. Save for Kadann, himself, Ken couldn't put any names to any of the faces. The fact that Kadann was listing them off by names that Ken wouldn't know could only mean Kadann was just dragging this out for his own delight.
"Mister Tilus... no, no... if Mister Tilus had decided to invest in a little unapproved time with you, there'd hardly be anything left for me to examine – that, and he's been left on clean-up duty in between the sessions. At the very least, it would have sated his hunger, just a little. He would have had no reason to so much as take a bite out of you." Kadann mused, detachedly enough to sound like he was just thinking out loud, but clearly enough that Ken knew this was being said for his benefit. It made Ken wonder, rather, what would have been different had any of these other Prophets been left in charge of him during the in-between moments.
"And, I suppose, the same thing could be said of Prophet Eris – his chosen motif is fire. Had he done anything to you, I would be examining the dental portions of your identity rather than having this conversation."
Ken rather wanted to cover his ears, but, oddly enough, his arms just wouldn't listen to him.
"That leaves us with Prophet Mammar... and our own Mister Gornash." Ken wondered – or, at least, the part of him that had been cold and analytical through out all of this, the part of him that had somehow made curious, almost comedic observations about the dire situation – why Kadann kept switching between 'Prophet' and 'Mister'. Was it how Kadann thought of these people, was it supposed to be some kind of subtle manipulation of words, was it just habit or coincidence?
"To be fair, Prophet Mammar was always rather interested in... meeting you, personally. I wouldn't be terribly surprised if he'd managed to secure a moment. But, that being said, I would also think, if he had, that he would be significantly different. Less irritable, or more satisfied – one of the two."
Ken felt his shoulders shivering. Of all things to be thinking about, he really wanted to not be thinking about this. Well, he didn't want to be thinking about any of this, really. He flexed a finger. What were the muscles in the Human hand? The thumb; extensor pollicis longus, flexor pollicis longus, extensor pollicis brevis, abductor pollicis longus...
"Now, Mister Gornash, on the other hand..." Kadann continued, oblivious to Ken's attempts to distract himself – the second to fifth digits; extensor digitorum, extensor indicis, extensor digiti minimi – "He has been behaving quite unusually since the beginning of this whole ordeal. He's been quiet when I would have thought he'd have some protest to make, unusually cooperative... not to mention, he's been quite enthusiastic about capturing yourself and Commander Skywalker, despite the fact that he, at first, attempted to assist the two of you."
Wrist flexors of the second to fifth digits; flexor digitorum superficialis, flexor digitorum profundus... wait, what had Kadann just said?
"Oh, you didn't know that? Yes – he thinks he's so clever to keep secrets. One would think he'd know better. But he tried. And, yet, despite trying to protect you at first, he's been the most willing to go through all of the necessary procedures. And, of all things, I left him in charge of your care – medical and otherwise – between the necessary proceedings..." Kadann's voice dropped off. Oddly enough, Ken was fairly confident that Kadann would have said 'maintenance' rather than 'care'.
"Oh, my poor boy." His voice turned quiet and pained – so much so that, had Ken really been invested in listening, he almost would have believed it. As he was, though... "Mea culpa, my child – mea culpa."
(A/N: Just as a translation note: 'Mea culpa' is a Latin phrase that, translated, means 'My fault'. It also has some religious connotations – Google the phrase, I'm not in the mood to explain – and, yes, I realize that Latin isn't terribly canonical for Star Wars, but... I just had Ken reciting the Latin names for the muscles in his fingers in his head, so...)
"I was the one who assigned him such a duty. Forgive me – if only I hadn't..." Ken closed his eyes as tightly as they would go, trying to ignore Kadann, and trying to not focus on the very fresh memory...
the hand
the fingers – long and thin and powerful
the pressure as they gripped his cheeks
sealing his mouth shut
"You're not sorry enough."
"But, please... You mustn't judge them so harshly." Kadann followed up, "While I don't try to make excuses, even I will say they have lived some horrific extremes... I might even say, it would be enough to twist even the most tranquil of minds to violence. Perhaps if I explain, you could at least forgive them..."
Forgive... There was part of Ken that wondered how anyone, least of all Kadann, could beg that for anyone... but Ken could also think of someone else who might beg that of even these Prophets of the Dark Side...
Ken...
Ken wrapped his arms around his head – the cold seemed to pierce his skull and go into his brain. What would Luke say if he could see him, right now? Ken remembered, all too well, the look on Luke's face when Ken had failed all those times before. He'd failed to live up as an apprentice, failed to improve when Luke had tried to hard to train him, failed to grow, failed to be strong – he'd even failed to, at least, stay out of the way and not burden Luke.
And now... he'd failed to protect even himself. He'd failed to be brave. He'd failed to be strong enough to, at the very least, not cry and scream like a baby.
The thought of the disappointment in Luke's eyes... it shook Ken to the core.
"Perhaps you are too young to know this, but the Empire had a very strict standard for what an ideal citizen would be. An ideal people, you might say. And anyone who failed to fit that standard was... undesirable... for the society the Empire sought to build. So, many years ago, there was a project put into effect that would not only rid the galaxy of its undesirables, but ensure the purity of the remnants. For the good of all society to come, you understand."
Ken tried to swallow, but his mouth was too dry and it felt rather like his stomach was fighting to crawl up and into his throat.
"And, as a part of that project, various samples of populations whom were undesirable were used in experiments – either to undo whatever had corrupted them, or to see if they could be stopped from breeding and spreading into the collective." Kadann continued, talking over Ken's now quite labored breathing, "And, oh, what experiments they were... Mister Tilus, for example – one of the key problems for any country is the spread of hunger among it's populace. So, the project took a sample of two-hundred tributes and altered their digestive systems – making a type of absorption that could break down and pull nutrients from any form of material, as well as the implantation of multiple tracts of digestive tubing throughout the subject's body, hands, feet, you name it. Unfortunately, while the subject will never starve to death, a distressing side effect also prevents them from ever feeling the sensation of fullness – in it's own way, the relief from starvation is the curse of unending hunger. And, from that sample of two-hundred tributes... Mister Tilus is the only surviving sample."
The twitching was back. Ken wasn't sure if he'd ever stopped, but now, he was very aware of the crawling sensation that shocked through almost every muscle in his body.
"And Prophet Jedgar... I'm unsure of what you might say about him, but you will find he is rather... thick-skinned, shall we say? This cause, I believe, was to create a type of person whom could withstand any form of physical assault and walk away, unharmed – perfect, I suspect you're imagining, for soldiers, but imagine what it could do for just the common civilian. A whole society with no fear of assaults or injury, with no need of a majority of medical supplies, with no need for defensive technology to spare citizens from warfare or even casual accidents." Kadann was still talking. Ken's skin was still crawling, "And they did manage... for him. The other one-hundred and thirteen subjects placed in the project with him... not so lucky."
Why could Ken still hear him? What he wouldn't give to clasp his hands over his ears and never have to hear this voice, again, but his hands – his arms, even – just wouldn't listen to him.
"Or even Mister Gornash..." Kadann insisted, "Those aren't his natural eyes, as I'm sure you deduced from the scars around them. The objective of that project, while undefined, was achieved with the transplant of the subject's eyeballs with some... altered... creations. Would you like to know how many others underwent the procedure, including Mister Gornash?"
Ken didn't answer, but he had no doubt it was a very high number.
"Three-hundred and twenty-seven." Was the answer after a pause so long that Ken wondered if Kadann was honestly waiting for him to reply, or was just stretching it out, "Long odds. Very long, indeed. And yet, for all the experiments, for all the others whom perished in the name of forging a path for the ideal, the seven of us still remain."
Kadann fell silent and Ken couldn't think, anymore. His mind had gone very blank – well, no, actually. He did find himself pondering the probability, the physiology, the medicine, the science. What kinds of things must the Empire have done? How much suffering must these men have gone through? Whatever they'd done to him, Ken had the distinct impression that it paled in comparison to what the Empire had done to them. And for what? What had any of them done?
For the Prophets, Ken had the distinct impression that none of them had really done anything – he knew all too well of the Empire's history of bigotry and blind discrimination. He'd read far too many docs and written out far too many large numbers, for far too many homework assignments. And really understood far too little of it until now.
"Actually, we were especially lucky, given that none of us were even Force-sensitive." Kadann suddenly mentioned, "...But I do wonder... how much better would one who WAS powerful in the Force fare?"
In just that second, Ken felt the gears in his brain freeze – from panic, probably, because the alternative was he was just incredibly slow on the uptake and he didn't want to be – before that statement processed.
"Perhaps we should see... how much better do you anticipate the odds would be if we attempted the procedures on, say... Commander Skywalker?"
His brain started to fire off the probabilities as quickly as it could. The probability of the gastrointestinal procedure, one in two-hundred; the probability of the skin procedure, one in one-hundred and thirteen; the probability of the eye procedure, one in three-hundred and twenty-seven. What was the probability of surviving all three procedures? That was... already, less than one percent probability... unless he'd done the math wrong... And what about four other procedures that Ken didn't know the odds for?
"Would he have a better chance?" Kadann mused, then paused, as though honestly waiting for Ken's response, "...Or would he be incredibly unlucky?"
Ken couldn't breathe. His mouth opened and he gulped the air, but it just wouldn't go in, as though it had become stubbornly solid and was clogging his airways, filling them, puncturing them with any sharp corners...
"Well, since the opportunity has presented itself..." Ken didn't see it at the moment, but Kadann's eyes disappeared from the slot, and tiny, clacking footsteps followed.
They were going to torture Luke. For whatever reason, this jumped to the forefront of Ken's mind – more than any aches that ran up and down his body, more than the screams of innocent people that still echoed in his mind as they were killed, more than any thought of what this was all about, or why they were doing this. The whole world seemed to narrow down to this one, tiny, pinprick of a fact, and it burned so horribly, as if hearing this suggestion was akin to a white-hot needle the width of a Human hair being thrust between his eyes.
The twitching in Ken's muscles suddenly turned into jolts, as though powered by electricity. Ken found himself lurching forward, torso lifting off the floor and his fingers clutching at the open slot in the door.
"NO!" It felt like his voice, but at the same time, Ken found himself screaming with a kind of force as though he'd drawn his breath up from his feet. Kadann's footsteps stopped and in a moment, Ken could see the tiny face – perfectly on level with his – peering through the slot in the door. He was smiling, calmly, waiting, "Whatever you want, I shall do it! Please! What do you want?"
Kadann didn't even blink. Ken knew – he'd already said what he wanted. Why he wanted it, what he planned to do – none of that mattered. All Ken had to do was cooperate, and Luke...
Luke would be spared...
Ken ducked his head, gulping in the air. It was the only way he could stop himself from being sick, from fainting...
"The coordinates..." He choked, "...Are..."
A/N: And that's it for this chapter. I found myself learning so much about the Human body as I wrote this. I also found out that, for the entire month of August, so far, more people have visited and read 'Love Knows No Circuits' than this fic or 'CMC'. ...I don't get you people.