Rhiabe clutched the Emperor's lightsaber, wrenched from his corpse's fingers, as she staggered away from the rubble and the great, sucking void that was the Emperor's death throes. Her brain felt shell-shocked, as if she'd been too close to exploding ordinance, or some other great catastrophe.
Perhaps the reason she hadn't felt the kind of compressions in the Force she expected from the death of the Emperor was because she was too close to them… or maybe that was why she felt so shell-shocked.
She could feel him slipping away, trying to drag anyone close enough with him… but he couldn't reach her. And yet, something felt wrong. This wasn't death the way she was accustomed to feeling it. Death was like a bubble popping in a gelatinous medium: the gel would eventually fill the void. This, though… this felt like ooze finding a crack to slink through.
Rhiabe landed face-down on the floor, only vaguely aware of T7's hooting, twittering concern. She hadn't fallen as the result of a physical blow, but because of something in the Force.
Suddenly, her senses were full of… of everything… and then, a second later, before her brain could overload from it, there was the sense of sheer nothingness, every bit as profound and staggering as the overload.
Weakly, she struggled to her feet, leaning on T7's domed head for balance as he led her forward. The droid moved almost faster than she could, but Rhiabe didn't dare ask him to slow down. For all she knew, the roof could be coming down; she wouldn't put it past Vitiate to try dragging her into death with him.
The Emperor was gone. But rather than the sense of resolution she usually felt after killing an enemy, she felt only unease. The kind of unease she felt when she knew something hunted her, something that had slipped off into the shadows, to watch and wait for a better opportunity to strike. It was the same feeling she'd had in the Nightmare Lands of Voss.
It wasn't over. She might have dispelled the Emperor, but it wasn't over. She'd felt Sel-Makor's death, sensed its departure and dissolution. But with the Emperor? No. He wasn't dead, just gone. His foulness lingered like old perfume or cigarra smoke after the source left the room.
Rhiabe wanted to scream, to collapse the Dark Temple with her still in it. As long as it wasn't over, she was obliged to remain involved. And now, she had no idea where the sick freak was. No doubt Scourge would have plenty to say on the matter. It was enough to make her want to grab her ears and rip herself in half…
…but she didn't. Rather, she promised herself that she was done letting other people govern this conflict. If it was to be Emperor Vitiate vs. Rhiabe Jaralla, if she was truly the only torpedo the Jedi and Republic had to launch at Vitiate… then it was time for Rhiabe to be the one deciding how to wage this war…
She felt almost deaf and blind, senses strangely numb, limbs shaking. Part of her wondered if she wasn't passing out and coming to. Suddenly, she and T7 were out of the Dark Temple, out into the cold Dromund Kaas night.
Suddenly, the world lurched and spun. She was heaved over a negligent shoulder, black fog creeping across her vision as a cacophony of voices pressed against her muffled senses. She recognized Scourge because of how broad his shoulders were. She recognized Doc because no one else would think shining a bright light in her eyes until she saw spots counted as being helpful. She recognized Kira through the Force, the fox fur feel of her—sometimes soft, sometimes a little prickly, always decidedly red—concern and fear radiating from the young Knight.
She couldn't find her mouth, so Rhiabe flailed through the Force, trying to communicate that she was alive. She didn't think she was fine, though.
The world spun and pitched again, a padded surface sinking gently to take her weight. Abruptly, Scourge was pushing against her, probing at her, trying to assess her condition because while Doc could stop any bleeding, he was non-Sensitive, unable to treat that faculty that made Rhiabe different.
"He's not dead," she managed numbly, her vision suddenly focusing for a moment to reveal Scourge and a scowling Kira leaning over her.
"But he is gone. Diminished," Scourge answered.
"Wow. That was almost reassuring," Kira quipped. "Are you okay?"
Scourge rolled his eyes.
The answer was no. It was supposed to be over… but it wasn't. "Just shell-shocked."
Absently, without real intent to comfort, Scourge put a hand over her eyes. The darkness, the lack of visual stimuli, made Rhiabe realize her head hurt fit to split down the middle.
A sharp sting and a cool sensation flooding her arm spoke of painkillers introduced via hypo. "Thanks."
"Get some sleep, huh?" Doc asked, fingers prying the lightsaber out of her grip.
Rhiabe tightened her fist, but lost the battle to keep the weapon. There seemed to have been a sedative in the drugs, because she felt her world shrinking, narrowing, collapsing in on her. "How's T7?"
The droid beeped and whirred, but for once the binary language made no sense to her. She lacked the mental fortitude to draw on the Force for a translation. But the fact that the little fella was there, was making noise like that, suggested he wasn't badly hurt.
Good. That was… good.
"Get some rest, Boss," Kira suggested, gentle fingers picking sweaty hair away from Rhiabe's forehead. "He might not be dead, but he's fading. I don't feel him anymore. He'll need help coming back from this. And we'll get him before anyone can do anything that stupid."
She wanted to believe Kira, but found she couldn't. In fact, Kira's plain Basic soon dissolved into so many meaningless syllables.
It wasn't oblivion, but it meant not having to think.