THE SKIES ABOVE CORUSCANT, 40 YEARS ABE:
Shuttles and snubfighters streamed from the hangers of the various Imperial capital ships: ferrying personnel and equipment to and from the planet, repairing the damage from the skirmish with Rogue Squadron, collecting debris and the dead, and dispatching troops and technicians to take control of Coruscant's satellites and defense systems.
BB-8 watched in lonesome silence from The Malachor's hull. His magnetic lock on the ship would keep him attached under all but the most extreme of interstellar maneuvers and his own sensor profile was too small to register in any scan against the backdrop of that massive vessel. He was safe, but he was also alone. Worse than that, his pilot was in trouble.
(Poe was always getting in trouble whenever he didn't have BB-8 around to watch him.)
Spiraling his head around on his base like a human shaking out their muscles before a feat of strength, BB-8 girded his metaphorical loins and rolled forward across the hull. He ignored the ships passing overhead. The BB series was the smallest astromech yet designed and even the old, blocky Clone Wars-era models would have seemed like little more than a dustmote against the great pale bulk of a Super Star Destroyer.
Undetected, he rolled to the edge of the nearest hanger and leaned forward to peer inside. His head dome swiveled back and forth, tracking the passage of ships in and out of The Malachor's cavernous maw. The little droid crept closer, wobbling on the very lip of the abyss-and then, as a squadron of TIE fighters screamed past with a wail, he rolled over the edge and disappeared within.
ABOARD THE MALACHOR, 40 YEARS ABE:
At a mere 1.6 meters and 140 pounds, Darth Revan did not have a naturally imposing stature. Nonetheless, menace radiated off the lithe black-clad figure striding up the corridor of the Super Star Destroyer, bootheels ringing against the deckplates. In addition to the plated boots, Revan was dressed in layers of black robes and segments of metal armor supplemented with heavy belts criss-crossed in front of a red taberd. Two lightsaber hilts dangled from those belts along with a number of other, more sinister-looking objects. Revan's face was concealed by a visored mask that looked oddly reminiscent of the helmets worn by Mandalorian warriors, as though those had been a predecessor to its design-or perhaps the other way around; the red and black surface was heavily weathered and it was easy to believe that the mask was decades (or even centuries) old.
Revan moved with the ease and assurance of a young athlete however, setting a pace that the escort of the six taller stormtroopers trailing the Dark Lord were hard-pressed to match. Ignoring them, Revan waved a black-gloved hand at one of the matte-black doors-Cell 3827-that lined the narrow hallway. The slick black panel swooshed up, revealing a cramped room in which Breha Organa-Solo lay strapped to a torture couch.
The moment she saw Revan, Breha launched into a litany of uncomplimentary Huttese, Rodian, Devaronian, and Nikto. The young Jedi gave the impression that the only thing stopping her from adding Shyriiwook to the diatribe was the fact that her human voicebox was ill-equipped to make the necessary growls and yips. Revan tolerated the insults equanainably for several moments and then slashed a hand through the air.
"Enough."
Breha went silent, gasping. Her brown eyes widened with fear but the scowl she gave the Dark Lord was pure outrage.
"I commend your vocabulary," Revan continued, hand lowering again, "but I've lived too long to be moved by such petty barbs. Your insults waste both our time."
"I do have an urgent appointment elsewhere," Breha quipped. "So if you'll just undo these straps, we can both be on our way…"
"Regrettably, I fear you'll be delayed," said Revan, sounding amused. "But my associates and I will do our best to keep you entertained during your time here." Bootheels clicked again as Revan stepped forward, letting the door slide closed between the two Force users and the cluster of stormtroopers.
"Good, I hate being bored," Breha snapped, turning back and forth as best as her restraints would allow in an attempt to track that fluttering black cloak and opaque black visor as Revan circled her.
"Are Jedi allowed to hate now?" Revan asked lightly. "I have been away some time, perhaps things have changed."
"You think you're scaring me with this Dark Lord Revan act?" Breha retorted. "Because I know it's bantha poodu. Revan died centuries ago."
"Indeed?" said Revan, running an idle finger along the edge of the torture couch near Breha's arm. "At whose hand?"
Breha blinked, nonplussed. "I don't know," she admitted. "I'm not an historian."
"And yet you know of Revan."
"It's one of the stories they tell us in training, about the Jedi hero who fell to the Dark Side after getting too strong a taste for war." Breha arched an eyebrow. "It's a cautionary tale," she added, in case the Dark Lord was too obtuse to get the point. "Nobody wants to end up like Revan."
Revan laughed. "I think I'm flattered," was the chuckled response. "But if you remember the story, doesn't it 'end' with Revan venturing into the Unknown Regions to face some threat even more dire than that of the Mandalorian Wars? Why so unwilling to believe that I might be back?"
Breha snorted, unimpressed. "That was centuries ago. Whether by a lightsaber, a blaster bolt in the back, or simple old age there's no way Revan could still be alive today."
"The Dark Side is a pathway to many abilities that some consider...unnatural," Revan said cheerfully.
Breha frowned. "Well you'd better hope you've got a whole armory full of those," she said sharply. "It's the only way you're going to survive the beating that's coming your way as soon as the fleet gets here."
"And you, little Jedi?" Revan asked softly, leaning in so closely that Breha could see herself reflected in that cold black visor. "How are you going to survive what's coming to you next?"
Banter finally deserting her, Breha swallowed. "I trust in the Force," she whispered.
Revan laughed and reached for the controls of the torture couch. Waves of sharp blue lightning lashed across Breha's body as she thrashed, screaming.
NORULAC, 40 YEARS ABE:
"Yeah, okay," said Lando, his voice a mixture of reluctance and resignation as he turned and let the others to a hanger. "Follow me. You sure about leaving the Falcon, though?" he asked. "We have excellent repair facilities here, it won't take that long to put her back in flying order…"
"A minute ago you couldn't kick us off-world fast enough," Han retorted as Chewbacca grumbled above him. "Suddenly now that your name might be on the ship we take instead, you're all happy to wait while we get our ship fixed-up, huh?"
"You've got a lot of nerve-"
Suddenly Bail gave a little cry and doubled over. Han caught his son before the young Jedi could fall all the way to the permacrete underfoot and held him up, staggering slightly under the unexpected weight. Leia gasped and pressed both hands to her mouth, heedless of bacta patches or bandages. Instinctively, Lando reached out to steady her.
"Breha," Leia whispered.
