NOTE: This was one of the earliest segments I wrote, back when I still thought I'd somehow be able to do a whole story in present tense. I didn't realize that I hadn't updated its tense to match the rest until I went to post it, so please forgive me if I failed to catch and correct everything. I flatter myself to imagine that you'd all rather have more bits posted sooner than have me squander time that could be better spent writing new scenes on fiddling around too much on the old ones, and will thus excuse any resulting tense errors/leftovers! (If I'm wrong don't tell me. Shh.)


ABOARD THE MALACHOR, 40 YEARS ABE:

The massive hanger bay still showed scorching from where Breha had detonated her X-Wing, and its polished floor bore many scratches and dents from the equipment (and personnel) that had tumbled loose in the resulting decompression. Maintenance staff worked hurriedly to finish their repairs while deck officers and droids directed TIEs and shuttles to their berths.

Revan watched it all from behind an opaque faceplate and impassive mien. Those soldiers and workers who felt the Dark Lord's eyes on them ducked their heads and scuttled about their assigned tasks with hasty efficiency. The young officer in charge of preparing a shuttle to transport Revan down to the planet moved in particular haste, sweat beading on his temples. His voice cracked as he snapped orders at the obedient regiment of stormtroopers filing inside. The only one involved in the process who seemed unphased was the bulbous-eyed black protocol droid waiting beside the ramp with the implacable patience of programming.

Commander Phasma possessed none of that, although only one who knew her as well as Revan would have noticed. She did not shift or fidget, but the way she stood in front of her detachment of stormtroopers, her blaster cradled close, telegraphed her anxiety to the Dark Lord-as did her presence in the Force, of course.

Revan ignored her, facing forward towards the restored magcon shield and the stars beyond.

The one fortunate thing about Organa-Solo's explosive timing was that, with nearly a third of the Malachor's starfighter screen deployed as a show of force, very few of the snubfighters that usually docked in this bay were damaged. Revan was glad of that; while the forces of the Imperial Remnant were massive, they were not inexhaustible, and needless waste grated on the new Emperor.

So did needless fretting, but Revan had learned to live with a certain amount of that. It was the tradeoff one had to accept in exchange for absolute devotion.

"I should go with you, my lord," Phasma said.

"No." The answer came easily to Revan's concealed lips.

Arguing with her master did not come nearly as easily to Phasma-save for those times when that aforementioned loyalty caused her protectiveness to overrule her obedience.

"Coruscant is not yet pacified," she protested. "It might be dangerous."

Revan laughed (not at Phasma; never at Phasma, foremost of all servants) the sound echoing sepulchrally from that ancient, venerable helmet that had once cut such a swath across the galaxy-and soon would again. "Your concern is touching, commander, but I can handle a mob or an insurrection or two. No, it is much more important that you stay on the ship to remind everyone here who their Emperor is now." Revan turned to survey the obedient little troopers and mechanics and deck-officers and droids scurrying around the beautiful, stately grimness of the Malachor. "Not everyone is thrilled with my new galactic order...not on Coruscant, no, and not up here either." Light gleamed off that mythic T-shaped visor, sharp and thin as a lightsaber blade, as Revan tilted back to look up at the much taller trooper. "Your loyalty I know, however, will never waver."

Phasma straightened her already parade-ground straight posture still more under the scrutiny, chest puffing-out with pride and helmeted chin raising. Her voice came out loud and fast, heavy with admiration and a desperate longing for approval alike. "I'd die a thousand times before I betrayed or failed you, lord!"

"My dear Phasma." Revan reached up to pat her silver cheek absently. "Of course you will."

The praise had Phasma near to bursting with delight beneath her armor, but Revan didn't notice; just strode off briskly towards the shuttle that waited to carry the Imperial delegation down to the planet below. The vanishing flicker of the Dark Lord's black cloak left Phasma-despite her imposing stature and gleaming armor and patient squadron of stormtroopers-looking somehow, oddly, small and alone.