Battles blur; action numbs. Three years of war have turned the fighting, the running, the slashing, the killing, into a haze of screams and blasts and adrenaline. By the time smoke and flame billows over the Besadii base on Sleheyron and Anjiliac dropships descend on their defeated Hutt rivals, Anakin feels as if he has no idea how he has gotten here. He is victorious again, but what did he achieve? One battle is another is another. No difference between Separatist droids and Hutt enforcers where his will and his lightsaber are concerned. Tunnels of rocks and darkness and hardened lava; hallways of smoke and fire and shouts. How many bodies has he left in his wake? How many Hutt thugs did he just cut down? What all did he destroy and cull to get here? He does not know. He does not even care to know. Sleheyron itself is just another obstacle. These Hutt rivalries window dressing on the house of war. With the battle winding down around him, the base smoldering, and the Besadii defense in tatters, Anakin finds it hard to feel anything at all.

But there are two thousand slaves still held captive here, according to the Weequay lieutenant from before the battle. He's freed them by cutting through these gangsters, hasn't he? He's done some good here. Right?

Ahsoka emerges out of the smoking base behind him with her lightsabers lit and soot staining her face. Exhaustion tugs at the corners of her eyes. Her breath comes fast and hot and hard. "They're surrendering," she says, deactivating her lightsabers and bending over to catch her breath. "I searched through their computer databases in the command center, but I didn't see any mention of slaves still being held in the base."

"Neither did I," growls Anakin.

"Think we just missed them?" says Ahsoka. "It was a hard fight."

Heat is building inside Anakin. "Not that hard," he murmurs.

"Whatever," Ahsoka says, rolling her eyes. "I'd rather not go another round."

Anakin doesn't reply, for the Weequay from before the battle now separates from a gaggle of Anjiliac soldiers and heads their way. He barks commands at four of his guards dragging a trio of Besadii prisoners out from behind rubble, spits, and then laughs when he sees Anakin. "Jedi," he says. "Fight went better than I woulda thought. Got those Besadii turds crying."

"I don't care about them. Where's your boss? Where's Disu Miin?" says Anakin. "We have some things to discuss."

The Weequay nods. "Yeah, Miin touched down in a shuttle a couple minutes ago. He's gone into the base's audience chamber to sort some things out. He was askin' for you, actually."

"Bet he was," Anakin murmurs. "Take me to him. Now."

Within the haze-dimmed, amphitheatrical audience chamber inside the Besadii base are three dozen victorious Anjiliac soldiers chanting, swearing, and firing guns in the air haphazardly in a show of noise and stink and pride. Chest-beating and boasting. Fire and victory swirling in the veins of so many young men of a dozen different races who, in all their years under Hutt employ, may never see another triumph like this. May never experience this moment again. But Anakin floats around the crowd as if it is not there; as if he has yet to fight any battle at all: He is unsatisfied, still restless. Find his man. Free the slaves. Not necessarily in that order. And he has yet to achieve either objective.

Disu Miin emerges from the raucous ring of soldiers and points to Anakin, his face lit up by a grin bolstered by a victory drink or two. "Ah! Jedi," he slurs, strolling up the audience chamber's seating to where Anakin and Ahsoka enter. "You live up to your reputation. These pests were no match for your Force, eh?"

"They weren't much of a match for anything. Now what about our deal?" says Anakin, dispensing with any formality. He does not care for such trivialities now: He wants only to get off of this rock as soon as possible. However possible.

The Ishi Tib nods. "My boys found Arraton in a Besadii holding cell. We're bringing him up now. But come, come. A drink? A smoke? We have spice to spare, as you might imagine."

"No."

"You sure? You'll never find it this pure. Not like that Pyke crap out of Kessel. Second-rate cuts of—"

Anakin glares at him. "Was I unclear?"

Miin chuckles, although there is a darkness in his laugh. As if he senses the breeze turning, knows that more than just triumph is in the air. "All right, Jedi, all right. Just a minute, and we'll have your man here."

Ahsoka touches Anakin's shoulder as Miin walks off. "You sure it's a good idea to provoke them, Master? Last thing we need's another fight on our hands."

"It's not provocation, Ahsoka. We struck a deal with them. I'm just holding them to it."

"Yes, but if they're living up to their end of the bargain—"

"If."

"Yes, if. If they are, then why don't we just play nice? Slaves are freed, we get our guy, everyone goes home."

Anakin grumbles. It's a nice ideal his Padawan has—how has she maintained that optimism after all this time?—but he has a bad feeling about this. Hutts and honor do not mix. The if is now all that matters. And there is just the two of them. They are horribly outnumbered. Disu Miin and the Anjiliac troops have no reason except for honor to abide by their deal.

It would be easier to play along. But among the probabilities sprawling before them, that outcome rests on slim odds.

Strikingly, however, several Weequay troops emerge from a hall off of the audience chamber dragging a ragged-looking Nikto between them. The unfortunate prisoner is a shell of a man: Hands bound, face scarred, bloodied, and bruised, his clothes torn and revealing most of his sullied torso. Looking closer to death than to revealing any useful information. Miin claps when he sees the prisoner. "The man of the hour," he chortles. "Jedi, your payment. Garrako Arraton." He grabs the Nikto's chin and forces his head up. "That's your name, isn't it?"

The prisoner nods weakly, and the Ishi Tib shoves him to the ground. He coughs, wheezes. Spits up blood. Anakin eyes him without moving. "He's half dead," Ahsoka says. "Did the Besadii do this to him?"

"They are not kind with their prisoners," Miin says, shrugging. "Neither are we, frankly. And for traitors like Arraton here, who cares? Take him, interrogate him, kill him, sell him. Do whatever you want with him. Enjoy. That should conclude our business, yes?"

Anakin turns to Ahsoka. "Take him outside," he murmurs. After she nods, he pulls her closer and whispers, "and fire up the Twilight's remote drive. Get the ship over here. Just in case we need a quick evac."

Ahsoka's eyes widen. "What're you thinking?"

"Just do it, Ahsoka."

She hesitates, but after a moment's pause she grabs Arraton by the arm and leads him out. Miin looks on, amused. "More to say, Jedi? Decide to stay for the afterparty after all?"

"Our deal's not done yet," Anakin says.

"Hm? You got your man, we got our base. That was our arrangement."

But Anakin is past listening to this man's words. He can feel it: Disu Miin—and everyone in this room; heck, everyone he has just fought against and fought alongside—is Hutt filth. Liars and cheats and schemers. They have no intention of releasing the slaves. They want him to forget all about it, to satisfy himself with securing his target. But he will not forget. He is not in any mood to forget. Nor to forgive.

"You said," he says, speaking slowly, his eyes narrowing, "ten thousand slaves. We found no record of any slaves in the base's computers. Where are they?"

Miin laughs, but he takes a step back and glances at his celebrating men. "Do your people not teach you to be content with your spoils, Jedi? This is a victory for us all. The Hutts are not inclined to work with Jedi, and yet here we are. Why ruin a good thing?"

"Because I asked. I want those slaves released. Immediately."

The Ishi Tib's smile fades. He lowers his head, his arms tensing. He snaps at his soldiers in Huttese and the party stills. The room falls silent. Three dozen pairs of eyes dart Anakin's way. "Jedi, you have to understand," Miin says. His expression darkens. Phantoms loom in his gaze. "We had to have this base cleared. By any means. The Mighty Steno made his orders clear. The Anjiliac clan themselves made the orders clear."

"And?"

"And one doesn't just ignore that kind of order. One especially doesn't ignore a Jedi or two walking in to solve the problem," Miin says. He paces back and forth before Anakin. Wiry. Fired up. They both know that this talk dangles on a tightrope.

Anakin scowls. "You used us."

"We made a deal, and you got your end of it."

"You said those slaves—"

Miin holds up a hand. "The Besadii moved all of their merchandise off-world months ago. They did it as soon as they started losing this world to us. There haven't been slaves here in a long time. Yes, I stretched the truth to win you over. It's in the past, is it not?"

"You filthy snake," snarls Anakin. "You tricked us. You said we'd be freeing people, not just doing your dirty work. You liar!"

"I said—"

"I don't give a damn about Garrako Arraton or whatever his name is right now."

"Jedi, for the last time, you got your end of—"

"Shut up!"

Without thinking, Anakin pulls his lightsaber to his hand. Three dozen blasters rise in response. Miin straightens, his face grave. "I won't tolerate your disrespect," he growls. "Jedi or not. Whine about slaves all you want, but you got your man. You aren't leaving here empty-handed if you walk away now. Push it any further and you'll be leaving as a corpse. You want that?"

Thunderclouds billow inside Anakin. He knows Miin has a point: He and Ahsoka came here for Arraton alone. He has what he needed. But this game has changed: Anger has unseated understanding. This isn't stretching the truth anymore; it's betrayal. And all Anakin can see is three dozen and one liars and backstabbers standing before him with weapons drawn, ready to fire. Master Windu would preach caution. Master Yoda would tell him to listen. Obi-Wan's advice would be clear: Patience. Patience.

But none of them are here. Anakin is. Right now he has no tolerance for caution and no interest in listening. And he certainly does not feel patient.

Hutt slugs. They used him, just as they did back then. Back on Tatooine. Back as a boy. Back with his mother. Back when he was powerless to do anything about it. Well, he isn't powerless now. And now he will make them pay.

The time has come. Anger boils over. A long-buried, deep-seated hatred burns. A lifetime of resentment rises and swings its sword.

"Oh, I know what I want," Anakin rumbles.

His lightsaber flares to life.

Outside of the base, Ahsoka leads Arraton out step by stumbling step as the Twilight's automated navigation computer guides the ship in for a landing. She feels torn: All the soldiers on this ripped-up battlefield are Hutt goons, sure, but they've been supportive so far. The battle is won. They have their mark. Doesn't Anakin get that? It's time to leave Sleheyron for good, and as fast as possible. She doesn't want to spend any more time on this lava-stripped dump than necessary.

But she felt the other side pulling her, as well. Trouble is plaguing Anakin. If she might call it so: Darkness. She felt it as she paused inside that audience chamber, felt it as, for a moment, she wanted to protest and tell him to come with her and leave. But her confidence faltered in the face of that look on Anakin's face, that shadow crossing his eyes.

Too late now. She lets out a tired breath and tugs on Arraton's shoulder as the Twilight's boarding ramp lowers. "Come on," she says. "Don't die on me just yet."

"Wha—" the Nikto pants, "what d'you want?"

"You're Garrako Arraton, right?"

"Y-yeah. What d'you want?"

"We've just got some questions. Play along and things'll be just fine," says Ahsoka. "Up you go."

Once she's pulled him aboard and restrained him in the ship's hold, she heads back down the ramp, searching for Anakin. A dozen or so Hutt soldiers stand about, victory drinks in hand, several laughing, several lounging, one so giddy he fires shot after shot from his blaster rifle into the air. Violence and victory and vise all swimming together in the celebratory air.

Then comes something else. Like a gale, like a katabatic wind slaloming down a glacier, frozen, hellish. Darkness and rage. The feeling slams Ahsoka as if it were physical, a tremor in the Force so strong and so vicious she takes a step back and grabs one of the boarding ramp's support struts for balance. Then she looks to the base. It came from there. Something horrible is going on inside.

Anakin.

She pulls her lightsabers off of her belt just as a new soldier runs up, screaming, his rifle in hands. The joyous atmosphere dies at once. The Hutt troops drop their cups and sprint towards the base's nearest door.

Ahsoka is off of the ship and on their tail in a flash, her lightsabers lit. Two of them spot her, call out to their fellows. The whole host turns. Rifles rise.

The first blaster shot her way misses by a mile. The second is on point: She raises her blades and sends the bolt flying away. Ahsoka drops into a runner's stance. Outnumbered, and badly: She needs to drive them apart, stay quick, stay nimble. And she needs to do it quickly: There's no telling what's going on in the base, or how much time her master has.

But that last question answers itself the moment she has thought it. The base door opens and a shadowy figure emerges with blue lightsaber in hand. The rearmost Weequay in the pack sees him, shouts, and turns—and gets no further. He rises in the air, dropping his weapon and grabbing at his throat, choking, squirming, gasping.

Then Anakin pulls him close and guts him.

"Master!" shouts Ahsoka.

But he does not hear. He marches forward, intercepting blaster bolt after blaster bolt with each step. It is effortless. It is brutal. It is nothing like the Jedi way.

Four of the Weequays die from reflected blaster bolts before Anakin even reaches the first foe with his blade. As he cuts the man down he reaches out with his off hand and telekinetically grabs one of the others, raising the unfortunate victim off of the ground and slamming him back to earth with enough force to splinter bone. Slash. Slice. Hutt soldiers falling as if cut from paper. When there are only two of the original thirteen left, one of the Weequays drops his rifle, pull a vibroknife, bellows a war cry, and charges.

Anakin grabs him before the man makes it three steps. He squeezes his fist. The Weequay grabs his throat. Anakin crushes the life out of him.

For a moment Ahsoka cannot move. The display of lethality and ruthlessness overwhelms her, like a lightning bolt from some fallen heaven striking her and rooting her to the spot. This is not the Light unfolding before her. Then she rouses from her stupor as Anakin advances on the last soldier. She turns and runs up the ramp to start the ship's launching sequence. It's going to be another hot exit, and they need every second they can get to escape before the rest of the Anjiliac forces catch on to what's happened and turn their guns on them.

Besides, she does not need to watch anymore. She hears the scream, anyway. She knows.

Obi-Wan has just returned to Coruscant from Tatooine when he feels it.

He has only finished giving his report to the Council an hour ago. Now, in a shady, silent meditation chamber deep within the Jedi Temple, he searches for guidance from the Force. A path forward. Maul, Savage, the Hutts. Mandalore. Death Watch. Satine. All these points are converging, and he knows not what to do next. Master Windu preaches the need for more information. Master Yoda preaches patience. The solution will unveil itself. No need to rush into things and risk another powerful neutral world falling like Taris did.

This is not, Taris, however. Mandalore is personal. Obi-Wan cannot tell the Council that: Only the Force can show him the way.

But as he closes his eyes to meditate, he does not see Mandalore. He does not see Maul. He does not even see Tatooine.

He sees rocks and lava and flame. Bodies. Carnage. And he feels a rage, a rush, a burning so intense and hot that the meditation room itself may as well have caught fire.

Through the Force he sees an Ishi Tib bisected from shoulder to hip. Weequays scattered about a cavernous chamber, limp and broken like abandoned dolls. Smoke so thick he can almost smell it. And pain. Old pain. Locked-away pain and horrors and bitterness and resentment so deep and so ingrained that once unleashed it cannot be stopped.

Obi-Wan's eyes snap open. His heart races. His chest tightens.

Anakin.

It is not until they escape from Sleheyron and enter hyperspace that Ahsoka dares ask the question: "Master?"

"Did you interrogate Arraton yet?" Anakin asks before she can press him. His voice is hollow, empty, as if the life has fled and some vacuous sprite has taken up residence inside him. There is no emotion. But neither is there peace.

"Not yet. I was waiting for—"

"Let's go have a chat."

Ahsoka hurries to get up from the piloting station. "Master, wait."

"What?"

"Are we gonna talk about what happened back there? I got the ship and waited, and all the sudden everyone was running and shooting. What did you do?"

Anakin does not look at her. He does not so much as flinch. "Let's go talk to him."

She sighs, but again her persistence falters. They do need to talk to their captive while they have the chance. It's what they came to Sleheyron for. It's what matters. Isn't it?

Arraton shudders when they enter the hold. He tugs in vain at his binders securing him to a jumpseat, shying away at Anakin's approach. "I got nothin'," the Nikto murmurs, his voice barely loud enough to hear even with the only ambiance the thrum-thrum-thrum of the hyperdrive as they churn away from Hutt Space.

"You better have something," Anakin snarls. He kneels down and, without giving Arraton a chance to reply, grabs him around the neck with his cybernetic hand. "We didn't just go through all of that to give you a free ride."

Ahsoka waits, her eyes flitting between Arraton and Anakin. The Nikto gasps. "What d'you want?"

Anakin pushes him against the wall. "You were a contact for a noble family out of Taris called the Taths. Weren't you?"

"The who?" Arraton says. When Anakin scowls, the Nikto coughs and adds, "Wait, wait. Okay, names're startin' to sound a little familiar. Tath. Tath. Like Ternon Tath?"

"Ternon? From Empress Teta?" says Ahsoka. "That might be a little hard to follow up on."

Anakin growls. "Shoot. Of course it's the dead guy. How did you know him?"

"I was just a middleman. Swear it."

"I need something better than that."

"Please, I just—"

Anakin strikes him in the stomach. The Nikto doubles over, wincing in pain. "Not good enough," snaps Anakin.

Finally Ahsoka protests. "Master, stop," she says.

"Ahsoka, I know what I'm doing. Calm down."

"He's half dead already, Master. We're not going to learn anything if you beat him all the way to the grave! Just use the Force on him already, blast it. We're Jedi, not gangsters. You don't need to kill him."

"I'm not killing anyone, I'm—" Anakin starts. He looks up at her, opens his mouth to say more, and then stops. Their eyes locked, tension like a live wire electrified in the dead space between their stares.

Then, all of the sudden, Anakin seems to deflate. Like a balloon emptying. As if that vengeful spirit in residence has finally dug its way to the surface and crawled free. Only a gaping hole left behind, with nothing to fill it but silence and reflection. Anakin closes his mouth and looks away from Ahsoka, away from Arraton. "I'm going to go check and make sure we're still on course," he murmurs, his voice tired, exhaustion leaning on every syllable. "See what you can learn, Ahsoka."

And then he is gone. Ahsoka lets out a low sigh of relief. Her master has his demons. He will never be like Master Kenobi or the others on the Council. But, at least for now, he is still in there. Still Anakin. Not anything or anyone else.

She pivots back to Arraton. "Look, if you just cooperate and tell me a few simple things, this'll be way smoother," she says. "It looks like the Hutts beat you up pretty bad. That doesn't have to happen with us."

The Nikto sneers, as if the break in the interrogation has boosted his confidence. "Now you want to act nice? Jedi, huh? I said all I got to say."

"We'll see, sleemo," she says. She concentrates, focuses, reaches deep into the Force. Calm. Patience. There is no emotion, there is peace. "Ternon Tath," she says, waving her hand. "You will tell me what you know about him."

Arraton shakes his head, and for a moment she believes he'll resist her. But then his head droops, his eyes unfocus, and he says. "I will tell you what I know."

"What was your connection with the Taths? How do you know them?"

Arraton sighs. "Ternon shipped me slaves. From Taris. Taris to Sleheyron. Then it dried up once the Anjiliacs took control of most of the planet."

"Ternon Tath shipped you slaves from Taris?"

"Yeah. It's what the cargo manifests said."

Hm. Ahsoka thinks. It could be why they found him dead on Empress Teta: Using Ternon to sell and ship slaves would keep Hosha and Solan Tath's names away from possible incrimination. Employ the lesser family member to carry out the dirty work. And if Ternon got himself into trouble—as he had seemed to, given that the Jedi Order had intelligence connecting him to Count Dooku—Hosha and Solan could always just get rid of him and clean their hands of the whole affair. They could even dump Ternon's contact list after the fact to further throw off pursuers and reroute suspicion. And maybe that's exactly what happened back at the comm tower on Taris, she thinks. "Did you pay Ternon for the slaves? What was your business arrangement with him?" she presses.

Arraton's head lolls. "I, uh," he stammers, "nah."

"No? Come on. Tell me."

"Nah. Didn't pay him directly. I sent credits to a different account. He sent slaves to Sleheyron and I sent credits to Thyferra."

"Thyferra? The bacta planet? Why?"

The Nikto shakes his head. "I don't know."

"Really?" says Ahsoka. She waves her hand again. "You will tell me if you do know."

"I will tell you. I don't know. It was a credit account with the Zaltin Bacta Corporation. Not affiliated with any single Tath family member. Just a corporate account."

Ahsoka closes her eyes. Frustrating. The Taths knew how to launder their money, if nothing else: Slaves plucked from Taris, routed through a man who had nothing to do with Taris, credits sent to an off-world source. Even before the war that involved money and goods moving back and forth between Republic systems and Hutt Space; now with neutral systems and Separatist territory it got even messier. Only skilled intelligence operatives and police agents would've tracked that line down, and Ahsoka imagines that Arraton's information isn't even half of the whole trail. "What else? What happened on Thyferra after you sent your credits there?"

Arraton blinks rapidly. "I went there once. Went to Thyferra. Had to arrange a deal in person. They had a base there, the Taths. Run by white hair people. Echani, I think. Lots of 'em. No Taths in sight. Just a buncha Echani."

Yet another dot on the line. Ahsoka clenches her teeth. Thyferra is no Sleheyron: It's the galaxy's point of origin for bacta, the miracle healing fluid that everyone from the Outer Rim to the Core Worlds relies upon. And, worse, it's controlled by the Separatists. As far as she knows, they have a massive fleet there to protect the Rimma Trade Route. Infiltrating Thyferra to follow up on this would involve much more subterfuge than Taris, let alone Sleheyron. That or an armada and several clone legions.

"One more thing," says Ahsoka. "Did Ternon Tath ever tell you anything about what he wanted? What did his family want?"

The Nikto closes his eyes. "He talked to me once. Met me on Sleheyron. Got him drunk. Wanted more credits. He paid me but he also just talked."

"What did he say?"

Arraton stumbles over his words. Perhaps Ahsoka's overdoing it with the mind trick, but she's so close to unearthing something truly valuable. "He got a sister."

"Hosha?"

"Maybe. Started with an H."

"What did he say about her?"

"That she wanted everything. And that he was afraid of her."

Ahsoka breathes out. "Thank you for your honesty," she says, standing. "If you're being honest. Maybe I'll come talk to you later. Maybe I'll wait until we get back to Coruscant."

"Yeah. Talk," mumbles Arraton as he nods off.

In the cockpit, Anakin slumps over the piloting console. It is the opposite of how he arrived at Sleheyron: He looks empty, drained, ready to push aside that whole experience. As if a demon has been exorcised. When Ahsoka enters he doesn't look up. "Did he say anything?"

"Some. We can get more later," she says. She sits at the copilot's station, and for a minute neither talks. There is only the soft spiraling of hyperspace, only them and their ship and the great beyond. Nothing is said. Nothing needs to be said.

But Anakin, at last, clears his throat and says, "What happened back on Sleheyron—"

"We can talk about it later," Ahsoka says quickly.

Anakin glances at her. Glances away. "Yeah. Later," he says. "You did a good job."

Ahsoka grins. Of course she did. But that doesn't matter so much. They're still here, the two of them, whole and intact and alive and themselves, even if Sleheyron left scars. That blasted planet didn't beat them. Nothing will.