Show Yourself
The mask's seals crack open with a soft hiss, and cool air hits the skin of her cheeks. She lays the curved sheet of metal down on the brushed steel countertop, resisting the urge to wipe the sweat coating her face with her sleeve. The Inquisitor uniform is many things; absorbent is not one of them.
Then comes the lightsabers, one, two, three of them arranged in parallel beside the mask. Decorations. Tools for intimidation more than actual souvenirs. She holds on to the last hilt for a moment, scrutinizing its features before setting it down with a scowl. Pests do not deserve sentiment, but fear is too powerful an ally to pass up.
Her own weapon comes last, placed on the opposite side of her mask with the arc of the knuckle-guard facing away from her. She takes off her gloves, folding them neatly and laying them at the farthest end of the counter. Her pale fingers are a stark contrast against the black artificial leather.
Raising her eyes, she meets her own gaze in the thin strip of mirror along the wall. Cold blue eyes stare back at her from a face marred by faint scars, each cast into sharp relief by the sterile lights running the ceiling. She exhales quietly, brushing back the stray lock of hair hanging over her forehead.
It's been thirteen years. Thirteen years since the nine-hour war that wiped out her home. Thirteen years since that dark shadow, more machine than man, rescued her from the ruins of the royal castle. Thirteen years since the Jedi massacred her people.
Thirteen years since she last saw the Crocus of Arendelle.
Vader told her she was the only survivor. She didn't believe it at first. She refused to. Her kingdom, gone. Her parents, dead. Her sister, sweet, innocent Anna, never to see the light of day again. How could she accept that? But when Vader showed her firsthand the destruction from the orbital bombardment, there was no room for denial. The planet's crust was all but liquified, weeping rivers of molten lava that shone so brightly they could be seen from across the system. Nobody could have escaped that without a spacecraft, and growing up she'd never heard of a single Arendellian travelling off-world. She believed it then.
A small breath escapes her lips. The eyes in the reflection harden.
It's been a long time since she's had tears left to cry. The past is in the past. She's burned away every last drop of grief and sorrow to fuel her single-minded resolve. She can't bring back the dead. The best she can do is avenge them.
She was a princess once, but now she is a weapon—the sword that will cull the Jedi scourge from the galaxy once and for all.
She turns away from the mirror, moving to sit on the edge of her thin bed. Leaning forward with her elbows on her thighs, she supports her forehead upon tented fingers and closes her eyes.
Cal Kestis is a frustratingly elusive prey. He and his crew appear like poltergeists, taking out small groups of troops only to vanish again for weeks to months. It's been like this for years. Until now. Out of the blue, the Jedi launches an attack on a Legacy Databank—a facility so classified she herself didn't even know it existed until Admiral Weselton gave her the briefing. It just doesn't make sense. Why the sudden boldness?
And why is Cal Kestis looking for information on Arendelle?
A flash of hot rage flares at the thought. Her people are already destroyed. Is that Jedi looking to spit on their graves?
Frost crawls along her palms, crackling in the still air of the officer's quarters. Hissing through clenched teeth, she throws out her hands, sending a blast of frigid air that coalesces into waves of razor-sharp spines that leap up from the floor. The lights dim and flicker. She sits still for a moment, breathing heavily.
There was a time when her father would have told her to focus, to concentrate, to control her emotions. But control is limitation, and limitation is weakness. Her hatred is a weapon. That was Vader's first lesson.
The hum of the holoprojector in the middle of the room brings her attention back to the present. The image of an officer she doesn't recognize sputters to life in the air above her steaming icicles.
"Hans Westergaard has been transferred to the interrogation chamber as per your request, ma'am."
She stands and smooths out her uniform before she answers, even though the officer has no way of seeing her.
"Understood."
The officer bows as the transmission fades out.
The wall of icicles now stands between her and her equipment, so she wills it to shatter with a clench of her fist. Shards of crystal ice ricochet off the walls, tinkling like chimes. Her boots crunch over frozen granules as she walks back to the counter. She runs her fingers over the gouges in the metal surface of the mask before slipping on the gloves. Clipping her lightsaber onto her belt, she picks up the mask and presses it back over her face, feeling the latches click into place as the red-tinged interface spreads over her vision.
She hates the mask. It's heavy and stifling, and her senses feel dulled within its opaque confines. Nevertheless, it's a necessary evil. Behind the mask, she's faceless, merciless, an emotionless force of nature. The mask makes her menacing, terrifying, and fear is a powerful ally.
The door to the hallway slides open at a wave of her hand. Two Purge Troopers stand flanking the doorway, immediately moving to follow as she strides out into the corridor.
"Stand down," she commands, gesturing over her shoulder. "I'll handle this alone."
"Understood, Twelfth Sister."
The troopers fall back to their positions as she continues down the hall. The corridors are quiet—the star destroyer is en route to a refuelling depot. The couple of officers she does pass on her way to the central elevator shoot her nervous glances before darting away down the nearest intersection as quickly as then can without breaking decorum. Technically, none of the officers on this vessel answer to her—only the Purge Troopers do—but they still treat her with the same barely contained nervousness as if they were in the presence of Lord Vader himself. Another benefit of the mask, no doubt. She prefers it this way. Helps to get things done in a timely manner.
Stepping into the elevator, she requests the lowest level on the keypad. The doors slide shut as the grated floor descends. When the doors open again, the previous slate grey of the corridor walls is replaced by the polished black of the detention level. Another officer in a freshly pressed uniform awaits her just outside the elevator.
"Inquisitor, I'm Lieutenant Adams," he greets with a stiff salute, his throat bobbing against a tight collar. With his eager eyes and clean-shaven face, he looks almost younger than she is. That's rare. "The prisoner is this way."
She answers with a single nod.
The Lieutenant turns smartly, his footsteps striking crisply off the glossy floor as he leads her down the hallway past smaller branching corridors with rows of holding cells. They make for a large hexagonal door at the end of the corridor flanked by two stormtroopers.
"Careful with this one," he stays conversationally. "We've stripped him of his weapons, of course, but the man is wired up with more cybernetics than most droids."
"Does he have any explosive devices embedded within his body?" she asks. From his performance at his estate, Hans Westergaard is certainly full of surprises—literally and figuratively.
"No, no! Not that we've been able to detect. The augmentation seems mostly just to allow him to remotely interface with droids and electronic devices and the like." Adams pauses. "No way to be certain without a biopsy, though."
"I see."
"The interrogation room is insulated from electronic signals, but once you're inside there's no telling what he's capable of."
"Thank you for the information, Lieutenant," she says pleasantly, letting a hint of firmness into her tone. The boy doesn't need to tell her to be cautious.
They come to a halt before the door. Adams fishes a code cylinder from his breast pocket, fiddling with it in his hands. His gaze darts back toward her.
"Inquisitor, if you don't mind me asking… is it true that you've killed Jedi? Not just rebels and sympathizers, but actual, real Jedi?"
"Four to date." She's getting the sense that this boy is quite new on the job.
"That's impressive. Lord Vader must be proud! You are doing the Empire a great service."
She silently studies Adams from behind the mask.
"Don't mistake me for a hero, Lieutenant," she finally says in a low voice. "I'm just performing my duty." She gestures toward the door. "My apologies, but you're not the one I'm here to talk to."
"Right, sorry!"
Adams slides the key into a port on the wall and the cell door splits apart in three panels, revealing a short staircase down into the chamber below. She strides through the doorway without a backward glance, hearing the door whirr shut behind her.
After descending the stairs, she finds a wide, circular room lit only by the spotlight at its center. Bathed in the glaring light is a standard-issue Imperial interrogation chair, where Hans Westergaard lies propped up at a 45-degree angle. The man's once-pristine hair is draped over his face in a sweaty mop, his wrists and ankles bound by thick metal manacles. Gone is the tailored suit and dress slacks, replaced with white prison garments that accentuate the bruises on his pale skin.
He raises his head off the seat with difficulty as she approaches. A thin smile crosses his lips, so out of place mixed in with the rest of his appearance.
"Hello again, Inquisitor. So nice of you to pay me another visit."
She moves to the control panel at the side of the room, pressing a button to tilt the chair forward until Hans is vertical to the ground.
"This room is fancy," Hans continues, as if he were a guest she was giving a tour to. "I don't suppose you have more than one of these on a star destroyer. I'm honoured you reserved it for me." He pulls lazily on his restraints.
She studies him carefully, walking forward until she's face to face with the man. The strip of metal along Hans's scalp glints from beneath his hair. Without the gloves, the thin metallic veins running down the fingers of his right hand are easily visible. Grotesque. She turns her attention back to his face.
"How did you get the location of the databank station?"
"Please, be reasonable." Hans returns her gaze, eyes glimmering with soft amusement. "Information is my livelihood—asking for my sources is like asking a magician to explain his tricks."
She grits her teeth behind the mask. At the raise of her hand, the needle-tipped arms attached to the sides of the chair fold toward Hans's arms like the legs of a pouncing spider.
"You misunderstand your situation," she states flatly.
"No, the situation is quite clear to me." Hans's tone is abruptly serious, businesslike. He still shows no trace of fear. "You need me to help you find your Jedi. Unfortunately for me, it's clear you're willing to resort to torture to get what you want."
He leans forward toward her as much as his restraints allow.
"Here's where I stand, Inquisitor. My tolerance for pain isn't anything extraordinary, and I would very much prefer not to experience the effects of your infamous Imperial truth serum firsthand. After all, from what I've heard, the pain is such that I may wish for the release of death." Red lights flash along the implant in his scalp as his mouth lifts in a sly smile. "Fortunately for me, I can arrange that on my own terms."
She lowers her hand, lips curling in contempt. The needle-arms slowly unfold as the force pushing them forward eases off.
"Are you threatening suicide, Mister Westergaard? Is your own life worth so little to you?"
"Hardly." Hans leans back into the chair. "I'm merely making a case for more civil negotiation strategies. Now please, may we try a different line of inquiry?"
"Where is Cal Kestis?"
"I'm afraid I don't know."
Her hands clench into fists. Hans's breath fogs in the air.
"I'm beginning to believe my efforts may be better spent elsewhere, Mister Westergaard."
"Such little patience?" Hans chuckles dryly. "That is a neat trick, by the way. You've built quite a reputation for yourself out there. The galaxy hasn't seen anything the likes of you before, Twelfth Sister. Do you know the names they call you in the Outer Rim? The Cold Hand, the Ice Witch, the Sorceress… quite the decorated list. I'm envious."
She stays silent. Hans keeps talking. He leans forward again, his eyes seeming to lock onto hers with pinpoint precision even through the mask's opaque visor.
"Truth be told, I've had a professional interest in you for quite a while now. What's behind that mask, I wonder? Do you wear it because of some physical disfigurement? A respiratory condition, perhaps?"
He pauses, tilting his head.
"You know what I think? I think behind that mask is just a girl. A girl who's let herself become a tool of the Empire because, deep down, she's just as scared as the rest of us."
She doesn't know exactly what compels her to do it. Maybe it's the need to prove Hans wrong. Maybe it's the simple urge to wipe that damnable smile off his face. Lifting her hands to her mask, she unclasps it, staring coldly into Hans's green eyes as she lowers it from her face.
"I am many things, Mister Westergaard. Afraid is not one of them." The words are as cold as ice.
The man contemplates her for a moment, his expression unreadable. For the first time, she catches a flicker of genuine fear in his eyes, and she allows herself a small thrill of satisfaction. Finally, he raises an eyebrow, leaning back until he's pressed into the chair.
"I can't point you to where the Jedi is, Inquisitor. But I might have something better for you. In light of this… present circumstance, I'll even offer it free of charge."
She watches a mischievous glint appear in Hans's eyes, watches the sly smile return.
"What if I told you the Empire already has in custody a former member of the Mantis's crew?"
Finally, the perspective I'm sure a number of you have been waiting for. How do you like this Elsa? Lots more to come ;)