Fury

Jaesa closed her eyes, trying to close out the darkness that seemed to be seeping into her, pouring into the ship through nooks and crannies she was sure did not exist. But her attempt was in vain. It didn't matter how tightly she shielded herself. The darkness was in her mind.

She was startled by a blort from the door. In her frantic attempts to escape the residual darkness, she had stifled her senses; the Talz's arrival took her completely by surprise.

"Broonmark!" she said, turning. "I didn't notice you."

He gurgled in reply. He asked if she wanted to practice fighting with him.

She smiled a little sadly. "Not today, Broonmark."

He tilted his head at her. Then, his voice rising, he asked her if 'Sith cub' was feeling sick.

She laughed. "No, I'm not sick or injured. I just don't feel like fighting today, that's all." The lie twisted in her throat. The only thing she wanted to do was fight; to slash, to slaughter, to kill. It scared her.

To make matters worse, Pierce had followed Broonmark to the door of her quarters. Jaesa had been on edge around him for weeks, since he overheard her conversation with Ishtaa; the man might not be a scholar, but he wasn't stupid, and he was certainly smart enough to understand that a light-sided Sith was not only unusual, it was tantamount to treason.

She hurried to amend her posture and tone of voice. "It is not enough to simply fight," she said, ducking her head to imitate the hooded eyes of a corrupted Sith. "I need to savor it fully, relishing in the agony and the spilt blood of my enemies. Since I can't actually kill you, I need to meditate on the power of the dark side first…to regain the satisfaction I lose from fighting without killing."

Broonmark gurgled in a put-out sort of way, but he didn't push the matter.

Pierce, who had been standing by the doorway in silence, finally spoke. "C'mon, Broon," he said. "Go get the practice weapons ready. I'll go fight with you in a few minutes. It's been a while since I had a proper fight. My trigger finger's getting tense."

Broonmark nodded. Relieved, Jaesa returned to her meditation. Her fright at seeing Pierce had intensified the darkness, to the point where it had almost turned into a physical ache.

A minute into her meditation, Jaesa started growing frustrated. The darkness was not subsiding. She opened her eyes with a sigh—and realized that Pierce was still standing in the doorway. She narrowed her eyes accordingly. "Is there a reason you're staring at me, Imperial?" she sneered.

He rolled his eyes. "C'mon, love," he said, "you can drop the act."

Jaesa paled. He knew. She should have known that her cover-up the other day hadn't fooled him. She hoped against hope that she was wrong. This could jeopardize her entire mission. Scrambling to hide her mistake, she put on the fiercest face she could muster. "How dare you?" she said. "I'll teach you to insult a Sith," she said, trying to look as tall as possible. "By the sands of Korriban, I swear I'll…I'll…"

Pierce crossed his arms impatiently. "What, throw pillows at me?

Jaesa shrank back to her usual posture, her shoulders slumping slightly. "How did you know?" she asked in a small voice.

Pierce snorted. "I think the better question is how could I not know," he said. "No offense, pet, but I've seen baby tauntauns scarier than you." Jaesa trembled, her eyes wide and tearful. Pierce leaned against the wall. "Relax," he said, sounding bored. "I'm not going to rat you out."

Jaesa went weak with relief. "You're not?"

To her astonishment, Pierce started to laugh. "C'mon," he said. "Do I look like Captain Ponce to you? I don't give a womp rat's arse about Sith politics. To be completely honest, it's nice to have a Sith in charge who doesn't fry people for the hell of it. S'long as she lets me fight and don't piss off the Dark Council too bad, makes no difference to me if she's dark or light."

She instinctively threw her arms around him—or at least, as far as her small arms would reach around the man's enormous frame. "Thank you."

"Don't mention it," he said gruffly. Extricating himself from the hug, he added: "Seriously, don't. Last thing I need's people saying I've gone soft."

"I won't," she promised.

Pierce nodded. "Good," he said. "And one more thing: you probably shouldn't go around telling people you and Ishtaa are recruiting. I might not care. But I don't expect the Sith will be quite so understanding."

Jaesa smiled. "I'll bear that in mind. Thank you again."

He grunted. "I'd better go join Broonmark before he starts using 2V as a training dummy again. As much as I'd love to have that thing shut up, I don't much fancy having to fix him."

"Alright, I'll see you around."

Pierce bobbed his head and left.

Jaesa smiled as she watched him leave. Sometimes light could be found in the most unusual of places.


Ishtaa sighed as she returned to the ship, pausing to brace herself against the hull. She had a gash in her side, a cut on her forehead, and more bruises than she cared to count, but she was alive. More importantly, her enemies were dead; she had slain them all, cutting down anyone who dared to stand in her way.

She stopped again when she had reached the door of the ship, this time more out of annoyance than exhaustion: something was touching her lip. She swiped across her lips with the tips of her fingers to find the annoyance. They came away red and sticky.

She was just about to look in the nearest reflective surface—was it her blood from the cut on her forehead, or the blood of her enemies?—when she heard a noise behind her. She flew into a battle stance and raised her saber to strike.

Vette threw her hands up. "Whoa, whoa, whoa!" Ishtaa shushed her. Vette complied, but stared at Ishtaa's lightsaber uneasily. "It's me," she hissed. "Can you please put that thing away?"

With a pang of reluctance, Ishtaa put her saber away. She had been primed for the thrill of battle; to have it snatched from her grasp left her edgy and craving more. She tried to swallow the bitter taste in her mouth.

"Jeez," whispered Vette exasperatedly. She crossed her arms. "Where were you anyway?"

Ishtaa scowled. "I told you. I had business to attend to."

"All day?"

"That's my business." She was in no mood for conversation. Nodding her head at Vette brusquely, she made her way towards her quarters.

Vette stopped her with a gasp. "Oh my stars, what happened to your face?" Ishtaa tensed as Vette grabbed her upper arm to spin her around. The Twi'lek looked Ishtaa up and down with a horrified expression, seeing her properly for the first time now that she had stepped out of the shadows and under the auxiliary light. "You look like a rancor chewed you up and spat you out."

Ishtaa yanked out of Vette's unguarded grip with ease. She curled her lip. "You don't look too bad yourself," she said in a monotone. "Good night."

"Oh, no you don't." Vette stopped her again.

Ishtaa gave Vette a dark look. "Let go of my arm," she said quietly.

"No way," said Vette, "I'm going to wake Quinn. You need a doctor."

"My injuries are my fault and my responsibility. Let go of my arm."

"What has gotten into you?" Vette asked. "First you refuse to let any of us come with you and help, then you refuse to let Quinn heal you?"

Ishtaa broke free and Force-gripped her arm. Vette cringed, eyes widening as Ishtaa's hold began to leave darkened patches on her skin.

"Ouch—Ishtaa, what are you doing?!"

She bared her teeth. "I said," she growled, "let go of my arm."

"Ishtaa."

Ishtaa released her grip as if she had been scalded. Vette's mouth was moving, Ishtaa could see that, but the words didn't match up with the sounds she was hearing, nor was the voice Vette's. The sound didn't even seem to be coming from an external source: it was coming from her head. She could feel it, something other pressing against the inside of her skull. She had only felt a voice like this once before: the voice in the cave, the sourceless sound that had awoken her.

"Ishtaa!"

This time it was Vette's voice. She could scarcely hear her, individual sounds muddled by a thick, distorted sound as if she were surfacing from deep water. She also got the impression that Vette had been trying to talk to her for a few seconds.

"Hey," she said, tilting her head, "you okay? You went all Sith-y for a minute there, but now you just look sick." Her hand twitched as if she were resisting the impulse to reach out and touch Ishtaa's arm. "You sure you don't need some kolto?"

Ishtaa rubbed her temples. She suddenly felt very tired now that her anger had lessened. "My wounds are a lesson," she said hoarsely. "If I don't learn to cope with my weakness, I'll never…" She swallowed. "I'll never be strong enough."

"Strong enough? To what? Beat Baras?"

She didn't answer.

Vette kept her face and posture defensive, but her concern bled through. "You don't have to do this alone."

Ishtaa's scowl returned as abruptly as it had faded. "I don't need your help."

"No, you don't need it, but it'd sure make things a hell of a lot easier," Vette snapped.

Ishtaa struck the wall with the flat of her palm. "This isn't about what's easy."

"What is it about, then? Why are you doing this? Deliberately making things hard on yourself, working yourself to the bone, shutting all of us out—"

"I HAVE TO DO THIS, VETTE!" She regretted shouting as soon as she had done it. Embarrassed, she ducked her head aside. "I have to. I wouldn't expect you to understand."

Vette gave a bitter laugh halfway between a scoff and a breath. "Yeah? Well, you're right about that," she said. "I don't understand." She turned to leave, shaking her head. "I'm going to bed. Let me know if you decide to start acting like a human being."

Ishtaa let her leave, her passions churning and mingling with the blood streaked across her face.


Quinn couldn't sleep. Imperial High Command had finally responded to his requests to have Moff Broysc dealt with. They had refused. He had retired early after reading the transmission; he was too angry to think straight. A good night's sleep, he had told himself in an attempt to remain calm, and then tomorrow morning you can decide what to do about Broysc. But he had failed to account for what he was capable of, and falling asleep in his current state had proved impossible. The hours slipped past with Quinn tossing and turning in his bed—first one way then the other, trying every configuration of pillow, sheet, and blanket imaginable.

Not for the first time that night—or morning, rather; he remembered that 'tomorrow morning' had technically arrived a few hours ago—he had to refrain from growling into the darkness of his quarters. Broysc. The arrogant, self-serving, disloyal bastard. No, he corrected himself, that would be an insult to bastards. The man…the thing was a disgrace to the Imperial military. No, he was worse; he was a disgrace to the galaxy, the lowest of low, the essence of filth. Quinn would rather die at the hands of the Republic than serve Moff Broysc ever again. Damn it all, he would rather serve the Republic, if it meant he could ruin Broysc. At least the Republic—wretched as they might be—at least they fought for something. A hypocritical, backstabbing something with no sense of order or integrity, but something. Broysc was a child, the worst sort of child without any of the redeeming qualities: vicious, obnoxious, and aimlessly tyrannical.

He finally disentangled himself from the sheets and sat up, flinging his pillow away. He sat on the edge of the bed with his back hunched over, his fingers knotted into a blanket. It was no wonder that he couldn't sleep. The trappings of his bed were a dull replacement for what he really craved: a body to hold and press against him, hands to clutch at his back and tear apart the knotted muscles, to provide him some relief from his unbearable tension. He wanted to bury himself and tear himself apart, and hope that when he was put back together everything would be right.

He glowered at the wall. She was right there, just across the hall. He could hear the siren song through the soundproof walls, beckoning him to give in and release everything he had pent up.

No, he told himself firmly. She was forbidden to him. There were protocols.

Protocol, he repeated to himself angrily. It was always protocol, wasn't it, getting in the way of success? It wasn't enough to expect men to discipline themselves, was it? There always had to be red tape in the way, mucking things up, encouraging the complacent and the ordinary while crushing greatness into the dust.

On Balmorra, ensuring that mediocre officers kept their comfortable salaries while soldiers with ideas and courage were denied aid and reinforcements.

Here, keeping his feelings for Ishtaa a secret when he wanted the whole galaxy to know that she was more than his lord, making do with brushed fingertips and stolen kisses when he wanted to show her how he felt in the fullest sense, doing—no, even now, in the privacy of his room, he dared not go down that road. Which left…

Druckenwell…

He stood up suddenly, his jaw set. Something had changed within him. He had a distinct feeling of weight in his chest, but it no longer weighed him down, tensing into a pit in his stomach; instead it pulled him forward, as if a magnet or a tether were drawing him towards his destination.

It wasn't a decision. No, that would imply a choice, an argument with pros and cons, considered and weighed with much consideration. This was certainty—the revolution of moons and stars, the passing of time, the pull of a trigger.

He would kill Moff Broysc.

AN: They didn't collide quite yet. Sorry, I needed to stretch this out. I want the, uh, "collision" to work perfectly, for plot reasons.

Also, quick poll of readers: how many of you would be interested in seeing this story stretched out into a trilogy? Because I have stories in mind, an arc, everything, but I don't want to exert the effort if I'm the only one who's going to read it.

Anyway, thanks for reading! Reviews are love!