Lord Scourge—former Wrath of the Emperor, veteran of three hundred years of Sith politics, and participant in two different campaigns to kill the Sith Emperor—was not one to waste time. As soon as the Jedi lay in the medbay, as soon as he was certain her care could be left to the inexpert hands of her student and her idiot doctor, he withdrew to the holoterminal, punching in the frequency for the Jedi Council. Or was it that Shan woman's personal frequency? He'd never been certain. Then again, he didn't care.

The fact was that Rhiabe was in no state to let the woman know that the mission was over. If it was up to him, he wouldn't have bothered, but he knew Rhiabe might just be angry enough to send him away forever if he let her precious Republic take such unnecessary damages as allowing them to figure out when the mission was over on their own might result in.

So he swallowed his habitual disdain for Jedi in the face of a less pleasant possibility.

"Where is Rhiabe?" Shan demanded, upon seeing, not the grim features of a Jedi, but the austere features of a Pureblood Sith.

If the situation weren't what it was, he might have baited her a little. However, Rhiabe had taken her sweet time getting to the rendezvous point. "In the medbay. The Emperor is dead. Your forces may depart at will." With that, he severed the call, striding up to the cockpit before remembering that he was locked out of the systems. Not even Rhiabe trusted him to pilot her ship. Of course she denied this, but despite her penchant for keeping those few promises she made, she had so far forgotten every time she promised to get him entered into the system. It was annoying, but he would not have been any more trusting had their positions been reversed.

The droid, however, waited there. It looked a little the worse for wear, but should count itself lucky that the Emperor considered Rhiabe the real danger and the droid itself a sideshow or distraction. Otherwise, it would have ended up a melted heap of slag.

"We should go," he declared. "The sooner, the better." He turned on his heel as the droid twittered and whistled at him, but a moment later the ship shimmied as it dropped into hyperspace.

It wasn't over, not exactly. But the outcome was the desirable one: the Emperor was finally forced out of his entrenched position. Scourge knew, for all the cataclysmic shockwaves in the Force, that the Emperor was no more dead than he was. However, the Emperor was diminished, weakened, forced to retreat, to lay low, until something could be done—something large-scale, and done by his followers—to revitalize him. Rhiabe's success against him bought time, which was all assailing the Voice could ever do.

But the simple fact that she had slain the Voice and left the Emperor in a state of retreat just went to show she really was the one, the only one, who could truly destroy him.

He looked forward to it.

Next time though, she would need better backup than that which she brought this time. He knew she had stopped, gone back even, on behalf of one of her minions. She'd wasted time, effort, and energy in doing so. Perhaps if she had not, she wouldn't be in such a weakened state, herself.

She didn't need the kolto tank, though. That was a mercy.

She looked strangely small, diminished, as she lay on the padded table in her drugged state of repose.

The doctor sat nearby, reading on a datapad. Although the man didn't move, he did stop reading to regard Scourge discreetly.

Scourge ignored the scrutiny as he picked up the lightsaber lying near Rhiabe's inert form, a form now decorated with bruises and the telltale net-like welts of Force lightning improperly deflected. He knew it would be a terrible battle. But she didn't need the tank. She got out of the Dark Temple on her own. She was doing well, making good use of her strength.

He knew the weapon well, and had to give Rhiabe points for sheer cheek. Tearing the Emperor's lightsaber from his dying Voice's hand? Well, better if the Emperor didn't revitalize himself. He would want this back—this, and the hands that took it from him. And the head of the one who took it, for good measure.

He couldn't tell what colors the article was, nor was he sufficiently skilled to know composition by touch. But the lightsaber was elegant, meant for a man's hand—if that man wasn't Scourge himself—detailed and ornamented to be a thing of beauty.

Scourge couldn't appreciate the aesthetic, so he didn't bother trying.

He prodded Rhiabe, felt anxiety and weariness lapping about her like water around a stone. She knew it wasn't over. And beneath the anxiety and weariness… anger. Cold resolution. A solid determination.

Good. She would need those. He hoped the anxiety and weariness would wear off quickly—those she could live without.

He could feel his connection to the Emperor… not slipping, in no way lessening… but he felt the Emperor diminishing against his senses. Like a giant motor suddenly turned off. The empty silence where the motor's rumble should be would have made him edgy, had he been capable of such a sensation.

What was it about Rhiabe that was capable of weakening the Emperor so much, just by depriving him of his Voice? It was a question he had pondered for centuries: what made this Jedi of his vision so special, so uniquely suitable to this task? He still didn't have an answer, unless it was that Rhiabe simply did not give up. Ever. She was the type to take a bite and die with her jaws locked around her opponent's throat if need be.

Well, for his own selfish reasons, he would much prefer she survive.