Author's Note: Warning! Up ahead we got swearing, more swearing, drug use(sort of), groping, implied 'indignities', first-person narratives,murder,masturbation, drinking, smoking, hero-worship, still more swearing, more groping too, and finally,of course, angst. That should cover everything and still it's onlya T rating, I promise.
Discaimer: Don't own it, wish I did, don't sue.
Enjoy.
Chapter 37
Jaq
Atton felt as though his body had been turned inside out, set on fire, his limbs pulled apart and then put back together again with all the grace of a blind, one-armed Wookiee who had only a dubious grasp of human anatomy. He was lying on the floor of the prison room, his face pressed against the cold durasteel, trying his damnedest not to whimper. Lirik Thrakill stood over him.
"Hurts…"Atton said on behalf of his entire body for there was no part of him that wasn't in pain. And the part of his brain that wasn't preoccupied with the hurt was only now recovering from the images Lirik had sent him through the Force Terror.
His vision was limited to Lirik's boot and the metal-gray floor, but in his mind's eye, the yawning gorge of his future was before him again. It was as though he were dangling off the lip of that precipice and no matter how many times Lirik stomped on his fingers, he wouldn't let go of the edge.
What am I waiting for? he thought. Let go and get this over with.
His tortured body ached for it, his battered psyche demanded it, but something in Atton could not let go. And so he lay on the cold, snow-smelling floor of the prison room while Lirik prepared to assault him yet again with that detested blue shock. Atton steeled himself for what was to come; he squeezed his eyes shut and gritted his teeth…but the Force power never came.
Atton heard a sharp intake of breath and a moan of pain, and was mildly surprised to discover that neither had come from him. He peeked one eye open in time to see Lirik crumple to his knees, clutching his stomach and murmuring the name 'Lanik', over and over again.
This is new, Atton thought, and allowed himself a small sigh of relief.
Atton watched as the Jedi woman—Jude, he'd heard her called—stepped forward and angrily demanded to know what was happening.
"Lanik…oh, gods," Lirik moaned. His hands grabbed handfuls of the soft material of his robes at his midsection and his eyes took on a glazed quality, as though he were watching some horrible holovid that he could not tear his gaze from.
"What is it?" Jude demanded. Apparently not used to being ignored, she grabbed Lirik by the collar of his robe and yanked his head toward her. "What is happening? Tell me!"
Atton viewed the scene before him with a morbid fascination while quietly mustering his strength. The torture had left him drained but for now he was all but forgotten, and he lay perfectly still, watching as Lirik Thrakill unraveled right before his eyes.
"Tell me!" Jude shrieked, and Atton flinched at the sudden sound as it reverberated off the metallic walls. She reminded him of Raff O'Bannon—quick to anger and volatile. She slapped Lirik across the face but the young man hardly flinched. A red, hand-shaped mark colored his cheek but still he stared, gaping at nothing, his face a perfect mask of horror. Jude seemed at a loss when suddenly Lirik tore from her grip so violently, the woman was sent sprawling to the ground. He tried to get to his feet, but it was as though some unseen hand forced him down, and he could only crawl along the floor with a startling lack of his usual easy grace and decorum.
"Lanik, what is happening? Brother…?" he whimpered, louder and louder with every word, demanding the same question Jude had only moments before…only Lirik's words were filled with desperation and something else, something that Atton had never heard in the dark Jedi's tone before.
He sounds like I did when the Exchange took Dane that morning on Nar Shaddaa, Atton thought. The possibility that Lirik might be capable of an emotion other than sadistic glee was a farfetched one but watching the young man now, Atton had little doubt. So…the tables turn, he thought dully. I'm glad, you sick bastard. But Atton had a hard time aligning his emotions to his harsh thoughts and he found himself, against his will, feeling sorry for Lirik.
The dark Jedi was now on his knees again, his head thrown back as he made his demands to the empty air around him. "What is happening? Lanik! Answer me! Answer me!" he screamed, raising his voice until the room echoed with the howl of his anguished words. And then suddenly, swiftly, Lirik's ceased his clamoring.
There was a moment of utter quiet and then he said in an astonished whisper, "He's gone."
The room was silent. The Sith guards who lined it made not a sound. Jude forgot to be incensed for having been roughly shoved away; Atton saw her flinch in shock and her face softened imperceptibly for a moment. Lirik looked around at Jude.
"He's gone," he said to her in that dumbfounded tone. "Where is he, Jude? Where is Lanik? I can't feel him…he's not there."
Jude shrank away from Lirik's reaching arms, the cold, hard expression reappearing on her face. She got to her feet and murmured something to two of the Sith guard while Lirik turned to Atton.
"Jaq, he's gone. Where is he?" Lirik demanded, his voice rising again.
Atton slowly and painfully sat up, for suddenly he had a sense that it wasn't too safe to remain lying prostrate on the ground beside the dark Jedi.
"I don't know, man," Atton replied.
That wasn't the answer Lirik was looking for, apparently, for he got to his feet, his face an ugly shade of red and tears standing out in his eyes. "Where is he?" he demanded. "Do you understand me? I… I can't feel him."
Atton got to his feet, swaying as a wave of dizziness crashed over him. "I don't know what you mean," he said, his throat still tight from the shock.
"Damn you!" Lirik screamed and delivered a sudden kick to Atton's midsection. "Help me! Why won't somebody help me, and tell me where he is? Where is my brother? Where…?"
Atton, on his knees again and winded, could only put up his hands to hope to block the next blow… but there wouldn't be another. Two Sith guards, on Jude's orders, took Lirik by the arms and began dragging him out of the room. Lirik kicked and screamed, tears streaming down his cheeks, voicing the same anguished plea again and again as he was taken away.
Atton coughed and sputtered and tried to catch his breath when rough hands hauled him to standing. Jude was standing before him, watching him intently, her expression calm, as though a man hadn't just thrown an agonized fit not one standard minute ago.
"Status report, please," Jude said and lit a cigarra.
"Come again?" Atton asked, eyeing the cigarra jealously. What I wouldn't do…
A twisted smile appeared on Jude's face and she handed over her cigarra to him. He accepted it gratefully and took a long drag.
"I said, 'status report', Jaq," Jude replied. "I want to know how Lirik's work is progressing." Her gaze went up and down and Atton could feel her crawling around in his mind, studying him with the Force as surely as she did with her eyes.
"Hmm, no, not quite there yet." She gave a small toss of her head and two Sith guards took hold of Atton's arms.
"This makes smoking rather difficult," Atton remarked.
Jude sauntered close to him—very close—and took the cigarra from his mouth. She pressed her body against his, her brown eyes locked on his gray-green ones. She was short, Atton thought, only reaching his chest in height. But she carried herself as if she towered over him and Atton could feel her dark side power, could smell it like a noxious perfume. With one hand she lifted the cigarra to her own lips and took a long, slow drag. The other she let trail over Atton's chest, his stomach, and down to his groin where it lingered over the coarse material of his pants. Atton tried to shift away from her touch and Jude responded by gripping tighter.
Jude smiled lazily. "I've read the files on you, Jaq. Impressive." She squeezed her hand a final time before letting go. "Very impressive."
"Glad you think so," Atton said dully.
"Yes, you will make a fine Sith…again," she said and winked at him through her cigarra smoke.
"One to replace that Lanik person?" Atton couldn't help but remark snidely. "Sounds like he came to a bad end. And did you have Lirik killed? 'Cause if you did, you're now down two dark Jedi—"
Faster than his tired mind could imagine, Jude's hand shot out and slapped him full across the face. His cheek was on fire and his ears were ringing but he managed a crooked, defiant smile.
Jude's anger fled as quickly as it had come and she returned his smile. "Lanik was an unfortunate loss, but you shall more than make up for him…in every way possible," she said and moistened her lips with her tongue.
"And Lirik?" Atton asked, more to distract her from her insinuations then because he cared.
"And Lirik…" Jude said and sighed. "As much as I detest that little imbecile, I have further use for him. I have not had him killed, if that's what you think. Only sedated until he gets over the loss of his brother. They were…close."
"I'm crying over here, really," Atton muttered without energy.
Jude studied him. "Hmm, no not now. But you were…and you will be. You see, I have given Darth Tertius the files on you as well, and our Dark Lord has, shall we say, a real facility for absorbing data."
"I'll bet he does," Atton remarked. "Just tell me, lady, where do you insert the datacards? I have a guess—"
Atton was silenced by Jude's hand whipping out a second time and slapping him with the speed of a striking viper. Fury marked her face for an instant and then was replaced by a pout. Her stinging hand became gentle as she caressed his cheek.
"Don't make me do that, Jaq," she crooned. "You've already scratched up your handsome face enough…although I must say it makes you look more feral…more dangerous." She smiled playfully and then withdrew.
"Come. It is time to finish what Lirik has begun."
Jude made a motion and the Sith guards followed her out of the prison room, two of them hauling Atton between them.
As they moved through the silvery interior of the Academy, Atton felt as though he were sitting in back of his body, watching the whole thing with a morbid curiosity. His heart thudded dully with fear but he offered no resistance and when they got to the door of the rearmost chamber in the facility, Atton could only stand frozen as the Sith released him. They backed away from that door with noticeable trepidation.
That can't be good—if the bad guys are afraid of the bad guys, Atton thought. Only Jude seemed unperturbed as she activated the door. It slid open to reveal another round chamber—Atris' old chamber— much like the previous, only the walls of this one were lined with glittering red prisms that whispered and growled in a language Atton didn't understand. But he wasn't paying attention to the holocrons. At the rear of the chamber, sitting on a tri-throned dais and shrouded in black was that Dark Lord of the Sith that had stripped him of his lightsaber on the street of Coruscant with the flick of the wrist. Atton felt his mouth go dry and he took an involuntary step back.
"It's all right, Jaq," Jude purred from somewhere at his side. "It is almost over. Darth Tertius will do for you what Lirik could not. Go, and when you come out, everything will be as it should."
Atton looked round at her. "You're not coming in with me?" he asked, all of his swagger and sarcasm erased by the fear that gripped him at the sight of those three hooded figures.
Jude stood on her toes and placed a slow, lingering kiss on his cheek. "I'll be waiting for you when you come out," she whispered, her lips brushing his ear, and then Atton was shoved into the chamber and the door slid shut behind him.
"Step forward."
Atton was shocked at the sound of a human voice coming from one of the three hooded figures—the one in the center, he guessed. The voice did little do assuage the fear that had turned his legs to rubber and his stomach inside out, however. But despite the fear, Atton did not move. A reckless defiance came over him and he decided, unconsciously, that if he was going to go down, it wouldn't be without a fight.
"No thanks, I'm good right here," he said, wishing his voice didn't sound so tremulous in the vast, echoing chamber.
"Insolent, this one is," remarked the figure left of center, in a voice of the same quality of the first.
"Let us break him of it now," spoke the third, right of center, its voice a touch harder and colder than the first two. Atton decided immediately he liked that one the least.
"Patience," spoke the center, and although all three wore hoods that covered most of their faces, Atton had the distinct notion that the center figure had turned its gaze to him and was regarding him intently. "Your defiant spirit is commendable—as it will serve us well—but do not toy with us, fool."
Atton suddenly felt an unseen force begin to drag him forward and he had no choice but to walk or fall over. As he was pulled—or pushed, Atton didn't know which—toward the three, they spoke in perfect concert, their words falling on each other's heels.
"Often you have been called the fool."
"Often you have been the fool, failing in your loyalties."
"You've lost your way."
"But we can show you the path you have strayed from."
"You will serve us again."
"Or you will die."
Atton was now at the foot of the raised dais upon which the three sat and that unseen force pressed down on him so that he went to his knees.
"Look at us," said the center.
Atton raised his head only because he thought they might sweep it from his neck with one of the three lightsabers that rested on the arms of their chairs if he didn't. With that same perfect, eerie unison, the three figures raised their arms to the hoods of their robes.
"You have forgotten much," said the center.
"Blinded by what…love?"
"You betrayed us, traitor!"
"And now it is time to go back."
Atton swallowed hard, thinking he could never, ever have been scared in all his life, because he had never felt anything like the terror that raged through him now. I don't want this. I've made a terrible mistake. How could I ever have agreed to this? Dane…Oh gods, Dane, I'm sorry… so sorry…Please, it's not too late to take it back. Let it not be too late…
The three hands, with a perfect sameness of motion, withdrew their hoods and then Atton couldn't think anymore. He couldn't move or breathe or blink. His world, the entirety of his life and experience, became three pairs of blood-red, flashing eyes and the words of the Dark Lord of the Sith…and Atton Rand started to become a memory. He saw nothing but those eyes and every word uttered was a command that he had no choice but to obey. He slipped into the trance, into the trap they had laid for him, and the lesson Lirik had begun so long ago—lifetimes ago—came to its conclusion.
"The way toward redemption in our eyes is to become what you once were," said Darth Tertius.
"You have forgotten."
"But we will make you remember…"
"Remember when you learned who your real enemies were…"
"Remember when you tasted the power that comes with striking them down…"
"Remember why you hate…"
"Now tell us why you fell, Jaq…"
"Tell us how you found the glory …"
"Tell us how Jaq the Assassin came to be."
"Tell us."
"Tell us."
"Tell us everything, traitor. Everything."
And so Atton did.
I heard the screams long before I made it to my home. Smoke choked the air and obscured my vision and I became vaguely aware that a fire was consuming the small, four-room shack I shared with my older sister and father. The village had been ransacked while I was at work, piloting a freighter for a local merchant. The Mandalorians had struck hard and fast, and most of the corpses I passed as I raced by were people I recognized. But I hardly saw them…I could think only of my home, my family.
My father was already dead when I pushed open the front door. The man who stood over the corpse was not a Mandalorian, but one of the scavengers of war—the poor and desperate lowlifes who picked over the spoils of what they were too weak and cowardly to conquer themselves.
Another of the scum was bent over my sister.
A blind rage overcame me. "Nima!" I screamed, and raced forward without thought as to what I would do when I reached the man…something horrible…something violent…
"Jaq, no!" Nima cried. "Run!"
But it was too late. A third thug, one I hadn't seen, stepped forward and swung something heavy and hard at me. A club maybe. All I saw was black.
When I awoke, my house was a smoldering ruin, my father was still murdered, and my sister violated and killed. The scavengers were gone, having left me for dead, I suppose. I lay down beside Nima's body and cried, wishing I had never woken up. I had come too late, I hadn't saved them. I cried until I was empty and then I stopped crying. I haven't cried since.
So, what next? I had no family, no home, no planet, even. Not really. It was destroyed and even if I had any love for that shit heap (which I didn't) there was little point in staying to rebuild. It was a tiny backwater hole and I was a backwater rat whose big claim to fame was being able to fly a ship since before I could walk. Well, maybe not that early, but early enough. But that's it. Even in a tiny pisshole village people couldn't remember my name. I was "Rand's boy", or "Nima's little brother." They all thought I was stupid or slow, 'cause I said the wrong things sometimes and they laughed at me. No, I wasn't about to cry over the village. But that doesn't mean that someone had the right to wipe it off the face of the planet like they were wiping their ass. I hated myself for letting my family down, but I was no fool like the others thought I was. I was smart enough to know there were others who had made this happen.
The scavengers burned and looted what the Mandalorians left behind. The Mandalorians destroyed and killed until the village was declared defeated. The village was left unprotected and alone to face that threat…because the Jedi would not act. So this is what I did:
I wiped my tears and covered Nima's face with a blanket. I closed my father's staring eyes and silently promised both of them that I would destroy every last Mandalorian who had attacked the defenseless village…and then the Jedi who had let it happen.
I was nineteen years old.
"And what happened next, Jaq?"
"Tell us about the war."
"Tell us about how good you were at killing."
Killing Mandalorians was easy. They were the bad guys and I had been wronged—grievously wronged in an epic proportion kind of way, by them. But I had this bad feeling in me, like a hole that just kept getting bigger and bigger. I thought killing the Mandalorian bastards would fill it up, but it never did. I had nightmares too. Always the same, always me rushing in to save my sister and father and me being too late. Always too late. So I kept killing Mandalorians. I was the real bad guy, I knew, but I couldn't bring myself to turn my blasters on myself. Instead, I sought relief and I filled up that hole with as much death and hate and anger as I could. And still it grew bigger.
My superior officers eyed me more and more warily. I could feel their eyes on my back as I walked to my fighters. I heard their whispered words; they thought I was likely a Section Eight. I couldn't care less what a bunch of stiff-shirted assholes thought of me, just so long as they let me keep fighting. I made them eat their words with confirmed kill after confirmed kill, because what the Republic really needed was dead Mandalorians, and I delivered, man. Oh yes, I did.
I liked piloting okay, but I wanted—I needed— the immediacy of face-to-face combat. I wanted to see the faces of my enemies as I killed them. I met up with some Echani warrior and I studied the Echani method with him in my spare time. He thought I was full of honor and respected the craft of battle. What a crock. I studied it because the thought of extinguishing the life out of my enemy with nothing but my bare hands excited me. By the time I had finished my training, I was a finely honed killing machine, an ideal soldier…in theory.
Confirmed kills or not, my superior officers didn't trust me at all. Fine by me. I didn't trust them either. I was glad that someone was trying to stop those bastard Mandalorians from running loose all over the damn galaxy but that didn't mean I had to like the Republic. They didn't like me, so what? The feeling was mutual.
Their solution was to send me out on increasingly dangerous assignments. They told themselves it was because I wanted those assignments. And that was true. I actually demanded to be placed as close to the worst of the fighting as possible. But the officers complied, really, because each secretly hoped maybe this time I wouldn't come back. Har, har, the joke's on them…I was hoping for the same damn thing.
Anyway, the fighting did get real bad. The Mandalorians were winning and there wasn't a damn thing we were able to do about it. It was like the galaxy was this body that kept spurting blood. We'd tie a tourniquet around one part and then another would spout out somewhere else. We were always playing catch up and our forces were getting spread real thin. Hell, I wasn't an officer but even I could read the writing on the wall. We were knee deep in it… until she came.
Revan.
I saw her one day up close and I'm sure my bunkmate didn't get any sleep that night for all the jerking off I did. Then again, he'd seen her too, so maybe he did the same thing. Everyone had a hard-on for Revan.
She was a tall, thin woman with short blond hair and a hard expression always on her face. And her face…damn she was beautiful. She was like a statue, a goddess, something far removed from us mortal nerf-herders. From the moment she opened her mouth, she was in charge and it was kind of funny to see the Republic stiff-shirts fall all over themselves in gratitude to her—her and that creep Malak she kept around. But charisma and beauty will only get you so far. We were in the shit and if she couldn't bail us out, our newfound loyalty wasn't going to last. Fortunately, she delivered what she promised. Her military strategy was incredible, her tactics ingenious. I don't know the finer points of it; I just flew where she told me to fly and we started winning.
But winning doesn't mean war is easy. I was at Socorro when the crystal cities came crashing down, shattered by the Mandalorian forces. I watched on the holovids the news of the Iridonian worlds falling one after the other, like dominoes…and then came Malachor V.
Malachor V was the worst. Just being on that planet was like being in that shack with my dead sister and father all over again. It was like the whole planet was made up of all the horrible shit that can happen in your life and you're just sitting in it, day after day, absorbing it like some poison gas. It was a planet made of nightmares instead of rock and earth and I think it started to change Revan.
She killed Mandalore the Ultimate and that was supposed to be the end. But it wasn't. Something was happening…something was left unfinished. And that's when it all came apart.
Revan gave the command. Some other Jedi, some general in Revan's service, saw it carried out. The mass shadow generator was activated. The planet was nearly destroyed.
And then Revan fell.
She had been on her way, the rumors had it, but soon all the people spreading the rumors—the Republic soldiers— were turning Sith too. And so did the Jedi under her command, but for one. The general who had pushed the button on the mass shadow generator had defected. But a lot didn't. Most didn't. I didn't.
I couldn't. Revan was the only person who had given my life meaning and purpose—who had fed my need for revenge. I sure as shit wasn't about to abandon her now. I would do anything for her. I would die for her…I would kill for her.
And so I did.
And I was good at it.
"Tell us about your first kill, Jaq."
"Tell us how you kept your vow to your sister."
"Tell us how you fulfilled your destiny."
I was more scared than I had ever been in all my twenty-five years of life as I watched my team circle the Jedi. They were like a pack of kath hounds, my team, surrounding a helpless ronto. But this ronto wasn't altogether helpless and I gripped the handle of my vibrodagger tightly. Stupid, puny knife. It seemed so small and useless compared to the blue lightsaber the Jedi was using to keep the Sith at bay, but it was all I had. It was all my commanding officer had allowed me to have on this, my first hunt.
"This is your test, Jaq," the Sith officer had told me on the transport. "One vibrodagger is all you get." I hardly knew the guy, but I'll remember his words until my dying day—they were the best piece of advice I had ever gotten concerning the killing of Jedi.
"Jedi are wily and will try to outsmart you. The second you think you're going to overpower one with your weapon is the same second they'll pull some Force trick on you and then you're dead. Get used to using your wits against them…they're gullible and weak. They see a poorly armed opponent and are likely to feel sorry for you. So take just this tiny blade, Jaq, and show me what you got."
Pure Pazaak, those words. They got me out of more jams than I care to count. But at the time, I thought he was full of shit. I thought those words were empty and stupid and no shield against the Jedi we now faced, even if we did outnumber him twelve to one. The Jedi's countenance was grim and he didn't appear as though he'd hesitate to kill all of us right then and there. Nope, no Jedi mercy here. Not that I could blame him. If I were him, I'd want to kill all of us too. We were up to no good…no good at all.
I watched this Jedi, this, my first victim. I studied him, trying to find what it was in him I hated so much. I had to hate him, didn't I? He let my family die. Well, his Order did. His Order did a whole lot of nothing and sometimes that's just as bad as a whole lot of something.
But watching the Jedi, I felt really afraid, and it was a new kind of fear, one I hadn't felt during the war. And that's saying something. Mandalorians' war cries alone could make a brave man piss his pants, but this Jedi must have been working some kind of Force power on me. It was the kind of fear one had when facing an enemy who would just as soon shake your hand as kill you, if you gave him the chance. The kind of enemy who wasn't an enemy at all if you didn't want him to be, and the fear wasn't for the pain you might suffer at his hands, but for the pain you would feel for his suffering.
That had to be a trick. Some Jedi Force shit to make me feel sorry for him. But I remembered the blood on his sister's clothes and the grimace of pain on the face of my father's corpse. It was because of Jedi, like this one that my team and me had cornered, that the Mandalorians butchered my family. I owed this Jedi nothing, but he owed me plenty. And so I gripped my tiny little vibrodagger and vowed I'd find a way to put it to use. Turned out that guy on the transport was right. I didn't use the dagger after all.
Three of my assassin team members struck first.
I like that word, assassins. It sounds clean and deadly, like we were.
The three jabbed at the Jedi with their long shock sticks, making certain to keep out of range of the humming lightsaber. One guy lost his arm for the effort—the Jedi just sliced it right off—but another assassin managed to strike the Jedi's hands. The shock numbed his grip and he dropped his weapon on the ground. Big mistake. The assassin unit converged on him like the hounds we were and I was right there with them.
The Jedi was a young man, younger than me, even, and not terribly experienced. After he lost his lightsaber, the poor bastard never had a chance. The guys in my unit—except for the guy with one arm, he was still screaming bloody murder— pinned down the Jedi's thrashing legs and arms, some delivering swift kicks to his stomach and ribs. I found himself at the Jedi's head, crowded in between two of my teammates. I knelt on the ground, close to the struggling Jedi but not touching him. I couldn't touch him, and suddenly I felt sick. I watched as an assassin—Harlen, I think his name was—pulled a syringe from out of his jacket and made to jab it into the Jedi. Another man stopped him.
"Wait, Harl, let Jaq do it. It's his first."
"Yeah," laughed another, "let Jaq pop his cherry."
Harlen smirked and the syringe was passed to me.
I recognized the milky yellow liquid inside for what it was—an awful substance that left its victims helpless by cramping the muscles so badly oftentimes their bones would snap. I had seen it used only one time, but once was enough to know that shit was brutal. I held the syringe to the Jedi's neck but did not depress the plunger.
"Hurry up, man!" Harlen spat, but I couldn't move. It was as though time had slowed down and I had become frozen. I don't know why that happened…but I just couldn't do it.
The Jedi took advantage of the delay and whipped one arm free. Before anyone could react, he summoned the Force and sent five of the team flying backward with a wave of energy.
A small flurry of chaos ensued when it looked as though the Jedi was going to break free…but then, all in one second, I saw my sister, helpless and afraid. The last moments of her life came to me and, as always, I was reminded of my own failure to save her. And how the Jedi failed too…
"You did not help her," I heard myself say to the Jedi. He was sitting up, his back to me and getting ready to stand.
Without thinking, I reached up and took hold of the Jedi's head with my hands. One snaked around his head to grab the Jedi's forehead, the other to his chin. With a quick twist and a snap it was over, and the Jedi's body—empty now—crumpled into my lap.
The assassin unit, to a man, froze in whatever act of defense or offense they had been preparing to take against the Jedi. There was a brief silence and then a cheering as they realized what had happened. I was hauled to my feet and they pounded me on the back and barked congratulations in my ears.
"One down, thousands to go, Jaq," one guy laughed.
"Yep, Jaq's one of us," said another. "There's no turning back now."
There's no turning back now. That's for damn sure. I had killed that Jedi good and clean…turned out I had a knack for it.
I nodded and gave the corpse of the Jedi a final glance before my team took me out to celebrate, to drink booze and get laid.
Now I was a Sith. Now I was worthy to serve Revan again, and that was all that mattered.
Nima's face came to my mind throughout the night…as I drank himself into a stupor, as I played Pazaak, as I fumbled drunkenly in bed with the prostitute…and each time Nima appeared, she looked sad and she was crying.
I thought that meant I had more work to do, more Jedi to kill to avenge her. But as the years passed and as I rose in the ranks of the Sith to become one of their most successful elite Jedi killers, Nima never did stop crying, and I began to suspect she was crying for me, for what I had become.
"Stupid," I told her. "I do this for you."
But still she cried and so finally I had to forget her.
I was different now. I was no longer the fool who said the wrong things and people laughed. Now I was sharp and clever and people laughed when I wanted them to. The dumb, poor kid from a no-name village was now the elite of the elite. I was a somebody--famous even—for my skills were unmatched. And Revan loved me. I was the favorite assassin of the greatest military genius in galactic history. I was a hero… a goddamn star. The Jedi I murdered would never know my identity, but the Sith did. Oh yeah, they all knew who I was.
Everyone knew the name Jaq Rand.
"You remember now, what you were," intoned the center.
"You remember that you were the best of the best," remarked the left.
"You remember you still have a job to do," growled the right.
The man before them raised his head, a dark glint in his eye. He got to his feet—for he had been lying on the floor; unseemly, for one of his rank and stature. His lip curled into a sneer—a wicked facsimile of a smile—and he bowed before the Dark Lord of the Sith.
"Yes, lord," Jaq said. "I remember everything."
Jaq sat in the small room that had been designated as his chambers. Although he was hazy on the details, he had the sense that he was important somehow. The Sith soldiers regarded him with a touch more respect now and hurried to assist him. At first he thought it was the dark Jedi robes he now wore, but he thought it more likely it was because he had been locked in the rearmost chamber of the Academy with Darth Tertius for hours… and had come out of it alive.
Now, he sat in his room alone. It consisted of a table, chair, bed, refresher and a locker to stash his old clothes. He had meant to throw those clothes away—his ribbed jacket, pants and gauntlets—or burn them in an incinerator. But word came from Jude that he would need them in order to complete her plans for destroying the Exile and the other Jedi. So Jaq had tossed them unceremoniously into the locker. He then sat at the small chair in front of the small table, chain-smoking cigarras and trying to put his memory back together.
Hours passed and he suspected it was well into night and still he was no closer to remembering what, exactly, had occurred in the chamber with Darth Tertius. Memories of his youth and life as a Sith assassin swam up at him but he failed to see their importance. They were memories only, but good ones, he thought with a thin smile. The glory days… and now he was back, ready to pick up where he had left off. But something was missing…
A rap at the door jarred him from his thoughts.
"Yeah," he said by way of greeting.
The door slid open and Jude Gracus stepped inside the dim room. Jaq had only one small lamp on and the light fell softly over the woman's dark sleeping robe and glittered on the glasses she held in her hand. She stopped in the door and regarded him.
"Oh Jaq, black is definitely your color," she purred.
Jaq smoothed down the front of his robes. "You like'em?" he asked. "Yeah, they're definitely an improvement."
"I should say so," Jude said and slid the door shut behind her. "Would you like some company?" she asked and came forward.
Jaq shrugged. "I guess." He eyed the bottle of wine she carried as well. "Didn't know Atris liked her booze," he remarked.
"Oh, honey, this wine is mine," Jude said, setting the glasses down on the table. As she bent over to pour the wine Jaq was afforded a generous view of her ample breasts, for she wore her robe loosely and with nothing underneath. "I never go anywhere without a carton of cigarras and a case of cheap wine," Jude continued with a laugh.
She handed Jaq one glass and sat on the edge of the table close to him. She crossed her legs to reveal an expanse of smooth thigh and held her glass to his in toast.
"To you, Jaq," she murmured. "I heard you were wonderful…"
Jaq snorted indelicately and loudly, in contrast to the woman's quiet, seductive tones. "I didn't do anything," he said, and drained half his glass. "In fact, I don't remember much…"
"Don't worry about that," Jude said. She took the cigarra from Jaq's hands and took a long, slow drag. "All that matters is that you're with us now," she continued.
"Of course," Jaq said. He stroked the front of his dark Jedi robes. "I gotta tell you, never thought I'd be doing my job as a Jedi, though. Part of the thrill before was that I wasn't one of them. I was just a regular guy and I still took them out. Now…" Jaq shrugged and finished off his wine. Jude poured him more.
"Think of it only as not letting your talents go to waste," Jude said. "You can use the Force now, as it was meant to be used. It can supplement your skills, not supplant them."
Jaq nodded. "Yeah, okay. I read you."
Jude narrowed her eyes. "Do you, Jaq?" she demanded and leaned towards him, her eyes glinting cold and harsh in the dim light. "Because tomorrow we set my plan in motion. I need to know you will not hesitate at the crucial moment."
Jaq snorted again and took back his cigarra. "Why would I? Of course, knowing the plan might be useful. I think I could offer a lot more if I knew, you know…what the hell it is I'm supposed to be doing."
"I'm going to use you as bait to bring the Exile and her Jedi friends here." Jude regarded him intently for a moment, studying his reaction.
Jaq took a drag off his cigarra. "As if she would come for me now," he said slowly, meeting her eyes.
"Of course she will come for you. She's in love with you. People in love always do foolish things." Jude smiled wickedly. "It is their defining characteristic."
"Maybe so. But one thing, Jude. What makes you think the Exile won't enlist the entire damn Republic fleet to join her little rescue party? I doubt the Admiral will think twice about bombing us into oblivion rather than have a Sith stronghold so close to his precious TSF station."
Jude sighed and rose from her perch on the table. She walked the perimeter of the small room, her black, velvety robes trailing behind her. "Oh Jaq, you think I am as stupid as that? Dane Koren knows perfectly well that if she brings a mob of Republics with her, you're a dead man. Or at least, she'll know that tomorrow…after you tell her."
"If you think I'm going to be your sacrificial rong boar, you got another thing coming…"
"Silence, Jaq." Jude stopped her pacing and let her hand trail up and down the lapel of her robe. "Tomorrow you will contact the Exile and play the part of the tortured and pining lover. She will come to save you and she will come alone…but for the Jedi. This I know."
"She'll see I'm a fake."
"How?"
"We're bonded," Jaq spat the word.
"Who is?" Jude demanded, her seductive tone suddenly replaced by venom.
Jaq frowned, confused. "Me and her. The Exile."
"Say her name."
"What?"
"Say her name!" Jude cried and flew at him suddenly, gripping him by his collar. "Say it, Jaq. I want to see what happens in your eyes when you say the Exile's name. Tell me who you're bonded to."
Jaq leaned back in his chair and lazily took a drag off his cigarra. He met Jude's gaze and said unflinchingly, "I am bonded to Dane Koren."
A slow smile spread over Jude's features. "Nothing," she said softly. "Nothing at all…"
Jaq stubbed out his cigarra on a small plasteel lid he had been using for an ashtray and put his hands on Jude's hips. Roughly, he pulled her forward so that she was pressed against him. His eyes trailed up and down her body, lingering over her breast left exposed by her loosely tied garment.
"I can't remember her so well anymore," Jaq said huskily, "but I think you need some proof." His hands went to the ties at her waist and he pushed her robe open. "You want me to prove it to you, don't you?" he murmured and kissed the exposed skin of her abdomen.
Jude, her fingers entwined into his hair, moaned softly.
"Yes, Jaq. Prove it."
The effects of the sedation wore off slowly at first, and then faster as the time wore on. Lirik fought consciousness for as long as he could, but sometime, in the darkest of night, the drugs Jude had ordered he be given were gone and he was awake. Awake and more alone than he had ever been in his twenty-seven years of life.
Lanik…
He sent out the call every other second it seemed and he suspected he had been doing it in his sleep—even in the deepest part of his unconsciousness. He called to his brother, but there was nothing there.
Lirik sat up on the edge of the small bed in the small room and waited as a wave of dizziness passed.
Lanik…
Shut up, he's dead, he told himself. But it was automatic, him calling for his brother, his twin who had, since the womb, been in his mind and thoughts and soul. Now there was only an emptiness. A void of silence so loud Lirik thought he would go mad.
There would be no more sleeping this night, nor for many others, he suspected. He had to get up and move about; try to focus on something other than that void.
He left his room and wandered the silent, cold corridors of the Academy, his soft footfalls barely making a sound.
Lanik…
Lirik huddled into his robes and hunched over, walking like a man against a snowstorm. I need a distraction… Perhaps Jaq is awake. Maybe he'll play cards with me.
Lirik asked a Sith guard which room was Jaq's but when he got there, the sounds coming from the other side of the door told him that Jude had wanted to play with Jaq too.
Lirik felt a wave of anger wash over him and he fought not to kick the door in frustration.
Damn whore…Lanik dead for no more than a day and already…
Lanik dead…
Lanik was dead.
Suddenly Lirik was kneeling on the floor, his face pressed into the sleeve of his robes, trying to conceal the sound of his sobs. He cried for he felt as thought he were missing some part of himself. He was an amputee, half of a whole person and the ache of that hollowness tore at his heart.
A part of him hoped his sobbing, his weakness, would garner a reprimand from his brother, but there was nothing. Only silence. Lirik wiped his eyes on his sleeve and stood up.
He walked slowly back to his room, past the ranks of the Sith who had the night watch. None of them said anything to him, no word of greeting. He lay back down on his bed and stretched out his senses for some trace of Lanik. There were none. Instead, he felt the dark energies around him, like a fog of poison and pain. He felt the power in the rearmost chamber—emanating from the holocrons that whispered like demons in the dark. And the overwhelming darkness from Darth Tertius himself, undoubtedly sitting silent and still in the shadows.
Lirik shivered and hunched into the thin blanket of his small bed. He was awake for long hours as wild and volatile thoughts swam in his mind. He remembered his words to Jaq on the street of Coruscant…. "From over here, it is all so very beautiful."
Now, lying so terribly alone in his room, surrounded by the black energy of the dark side and the interminable silence of his brother's absence, Lirik Thrakill was beginning to think that none of it looked so very beautiful anymore.
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